Lee!!

꧁22꧂ stained glass eyes & colorful tears ❢ requests are open!! pls don’t spam like <3

[i-love-ptv]

And I don’t care if you’re sick, I don’t care if you’re contagious

I would kiss you even if you were dead

｡ﾟﾟ･｡･ﾟﾟ｡ ﾟ。 lee, she/her, horror movie lover, new hyper-fixation every month, ptv’s biggest fan

　ﾟ･｡･ﾟ

masterlist ༺☆༻ I accept all requests and feedback <3

pure fluff - 🫀 fluff - 🤍 mild - 🩶 filth - 🖤 angst- 🌪️

Felix Catton - Saltburn (Masterlist)

JJ Maybank - OBX

I’m Cryin’ While I’m Cummin’ 🩶

(Coco) Nuts For You 🤍

Family Reunion Whenever I’m Home 🤍

Pope Heyward - OBX

All Mine, All Mine 🩶

Rafe Cameron - OBX (Masterlist)

Sarah Cameron - OBX

“Lana How I Hate Those Guys” 🌪️

Kiara Carrera - OBX

Melting 🤍

Steve Harrington - Stranger Things

You Know Me.. 🫀

I Think I Can See My Life In Your Eyes 🖤

Elias 'Stack' Moore - Sinners

Hand Prints and Good Grips...🖤

Are We Even Gonna Make It? 🖤🌪️

Toxic Stack Blurb 🩶🌪️

Remmick - Sinners

Your Forever is All That I Need 🩶

Soldier Boy - The Boys

Hanahaki Blurb 🌪️

Dean Winchester - Supernatural (Masterlist)

Sam Winchester - Supernatural

Thanksgiving with Sam 🫀

Santa Baby 🫀

Jack Abbot - The Pitt

Valentine’s Day Mishap 🤍🩶🌪️

Dennis Whitaker - The Pitt

Gimme Some Love 🤍🩶

Frank Langdon - The Pitt

'Till your bones feel embarrassed from all the attention

[puckmegirl]

THE BOY IS MINE (ft. John Logan)

blurb: briar’s hockey team hosts their annual fundraiser for the hurricanes at malone’s. the prize? a date with one of the four hottest hockey player heartthrobs. the problem? you lost the bidding war to win your own boyfriend.

warnings: fem!reader, established relationship, the whole gang is here yay power of friendship, lowk crack fic with a side of romance, light jealousy, mentions of deanallie hehe, BEAU MAXWELL IS A FLIRT

“Allie, I gave you one job!”

And really, you did.

You were swamped with final exams and endless group projects. On this particular Friday night—the evening of the hurricanes fundraiser—you had to meet up with your teammates to go over presentation slides.

Thus, you entrusted your beloved friend, Allie Hayes, to ensure your spot in the bidding war for…well, your boyfriend.

“Aw, you wanna win me over once again, gorgeous?” Logan had teased you.

You had rolled your eyes and nudged him, “It’s for a good cause.”

“You’re paying to go out on a date with your boyfriend.”

“I’m paying to fund a little cane’s hockey endeavors.”

Except you can’t do either of those things because your trusted friend turned out to not be so trustworthy.

“I’m sorry, babe! I really am,” Allie’s eyes shone with guilt. “Della had me working a table during Logan’s segment, and I lost the stupid auction paddle—”

You raised your hand up to cut her off. With a resigned sigh, you let any hard feelings flee from your system. Allie had been having a rough couple of days—with the Sean breakup, and her recent streak of suspicious disappearances that you still hadn’t confronted her about, you knew this was a genuine mistake.

“Did he at least sell for a good price?” You asked.

“$750, baby!”

The voice came from behind you, along with a strong arm draping over your shoulders. You turned your head and met your boyfriend’s handsome face. Logan wore a gleeful smile, probably elated that the fundraiser had gone so well despite the last minute arrangements.

“Wow, that’s a lot,” you noted in surprise.

Logan’s expression shifted to a subtle pout. “You don’t think I’m worth that much?”

You kissed his stubble placatingly. “I think you’re priceless, babe.”

That got him to grin again.

Tucker came up behind and clapped him on the back, “Your boy here got the second highest bid.”

You shared an unimpressed look with Allie, “Let me guess, the top bid was on—”

“Well, well, well, Mrs. Logan. You finally showed up,” Dean joined the circle with a smug smile.

“Speak of the devil,” Allie said spitefully.

Dean’s eyebrows furrowed, “You wound me, theatre kid.”

“I know you mean that as an insult, but I take it as a compliment.”

“You tell him, Al,” Beau popped up right behind Dean. He shot Allie a wink.

“How much did they get on you?” You redirected the conversation back into place.

The blond shrugged casually, peering down at his drink. “Nothing grand. A humble amount, really.”

Beau rolled his eyes and answered, “$1800.”

Your eyes widened, “You’re kidding.”

Dean’s mouth hung open, “Don’t stoop to their level, Mrs. Logan.” He pointed an accusing finger your way.

“I’m just shocked that somebody has that much money laying around,” you replied.

“We could’ve renovated the theatre department’s stage,” Allie noted bitterly.

“I could’ve gotten new car rims,” Logan added.

“Or that new gaming console,” Tucker said.

“Or my housing payment,” you continued.

“Or better toner for his hair,” Beau teased Dean.

“OKAY! WE GET IT!” Dean exclaimed, holding his hands up to stop the discussion.

Hannah and Garrett walked by, holding hands. The former shared a bright smile, “Hey, you made it!”

“How much was your boyfriend?” You asked her.

“5 bucks.”

“How.” You deadpanned. Garrett was a good looking guy, a very popular one at that. You’ve seen the herds of puck bunnies that worshipped him. A five dollar bid was ridiculous to even consider.

“Garrett stopped the auction once Wellsy placed her bid,” Tucker responded.

Smooth move, Graham.

And he knew it. Garrett had a shit-eating grin on his face like he knew he just won a million boyfriend points.

“That’s so cute,” you said before turning your head to eye your boyfriend. “Why didn’t you do that?”

The boys stifled their laughs at that.

Logan paused for a beat before he replied with: “I…wanted to make sure we raised enough money for the children.”

Smooth move, Logan.

Garrett dapped him up like his answer was ingenious. You hmphed and looked away. Logan squeezed your waist in an appeasing gesture.

“Well, when’s your date?” You asked.

Logan looked at his watch, which was on the wrist of the arm he had around you, so he charmingly pulled you closer to him to check the time. “In half an hour.”

You blinked. “What? Why so soon?”

Dean answered, “She requested it.”

“And is anyone gonna tell me who she is?”

“HIPAA,” Dean mimed zipping his lips closed.

“That’s for medical stuff, dingus,” Hannah told him.

“Is someone a sore loser?” Dean taunted.

Your gaze flew to Allie, “You placed a bid?”

“No,” she defended rather quickly. “Dean’s just…being stupid.” She muttered before rushing back into the staff kitchen.

You would’ve questioned their exchange more, but Logan’s arm returned to his side. “I should go too. You know, freshen up for my date.”

You flashed a faux smile, “Keep talking like that and you’ll have to go looking for a real date after this.”

The group dispersed—Garrett tugging Hannah along for their ‘fairly’-earned date, Dean and Tucker off to count up all the money they collected, Logan away to prepare for his mystery girl, and Beau gave your shoulder a reassuring rub and said, “If you give me $20 right now, I’ll go on a date with you” before you glared at him enough for him to bolt out.

You decided to stick around and help the group clean up the place once the festivities ended. Surely it wasn’t because you wanted to see the girl who spent hundreds of dollars to hang out with your boyfriend.

“Pop a fucking button, Logan. What is this, Sunday school?” Tucker was playing with Logan’s outfit to ensure he looked presentable for his date.

Logan’s eyebrows knitted together, “Relax, Law Roach. Are you forgetting she’s not actually my girlfriend?”

“For $750, you better start acting like she is.”

You cleared your throat loudly.

Tucker shot you an apologetic look.

“…John?”

The pair of them turned their attentions to the voice.

There stood a tall, stunning girl with beautiful deep tanned skin, hair down in luscious locs adorned in gold hair cuffs, and smooth legs peeking out from under her skirt. She looked like a model.

She looked between the two hockey players.

“You’re Amala,” Logan voiced.

She nodded with relief, “Yes. John, right?”

“We’re both John,” Tucker chimed in.

“Ohh,” Amala nodded.

“You can call me Logan,” your boyfriend said, stretching out a hand towards her.

“Logan,” she repeated the name, shaking his hand.

Tucker pushed Logan a step forward, “Have fun, you two.”

Logan looked over his shoulder to share one last look with you. He gave a reassuring smile, his eyes soft. Amala noticed and waved at you shyly. You waved back slowly.

Logan turned back to Amala, “Where would you like to go? You’re the boss.” He told her with a charming grin.

She shrugged with a smile, “Here is fine.”

“Here?” Logan raised a brow, surveying the post-function bar. “We could, though I thought of taking you out for ice cream—”

“Ice cream sounds great!”

“Yeah?” He smiled. “Perfect.”

Your eye twitched as you picked up discarded confetti off the floor.

Logan guided Amala out Malone’s with a hand hovering—not touching—over her lower back. The bell hanging over the door rang in a soft tune as they exited, marking their departure.

“Remind me again why I agreed to letting my boyfriend sell himself?” you queried as you picked up a broom.

Tucker raised a brow, “For charity?”

“Right,” you sighed.

Tucker looked around, “Hey, have you seen Dean? He was supposed to drive all this stuff back to the hockey house.”

You shook your head, “No. But he’s not the only unhelpful friend. Allie was supposed to clean up with me. She literally works here!”

“Huh.” Tucker licked his lips in thought.

He picked up a stack of boxes, “Well, I have to get these home myself. Do you need a ride?”

“I promised Della I’d clean up,” you replied.

“You sure you’ll be okay on your own?”

You shrugged, “I’ll be fine, Tuck. Drive safe.”

Tucker nodded and bid goodbye before leaving the diner.

By the time you finished fixing up the place, flipping chairs over tables, and mopping the floor clean, the bell chimed again.

“We’re closed,” you called out as you tied a garbage bag shut.

A pair of familiar arms wrapped around your torso from behind you. “No late night service?” Logan’s voice tickled your ear.

You stood up straight and leaned back into him before remembering you were supposed to be mad at him.

You pulled back and turned to him, “How was your date?”

Logan let out a wistful sigh, “Amazing. You know, I might need to ask her out again.”

You pinched his arm. He winced.

Logan leaned in and held your hips, “I’m kidding. You’re the only girl I want.” He murmured as he pressed a kiss against your forehead.

That soothed your jealousy a bit. “What did you two do?”

He hummed. “Took her to Spoons, got ice cream, sat at a table and talked about you, drove back—”

“Wait, wait,” you stopped him. “Talked about me?”

Logan’s lips tugged upwards, “Yeah, we talked about you. Like the whole time.”

“Why?” You were so perplexed.

He pushed a strand of hair behind your ear and responded, “Amala’s an exchange student. She shares a class with you. She’s been wanting to befriend you since the semester started but she didn’t know how to talk to you. So…she enlisted my help.”

You blinked a few times. “She went out with you…to ask you how she could be my friend?”

“Yeah. Sweet, right?”

“Oh my god, I feel like an asshole,” you breathed out.

Logan pulled you closer, “You’re not an asshole, baby.”

“I was cussing her out in my head for the past 2 hours!”

He chuckled, “I think that’s valid.”

“It’s not! I shouldn’t have judged so soon. Fuck, I feel so bad.” You started to spiral.

Before Logan could calm you down and reassure you, the bell rang again. You both turned to the door and saw Amala stepping in.

“Hey,” she shared a polite smile. “Logan, you left your wallet.” She handed it back to him.

“Oh, I didn’t even notice.” He took it from her hands. “Thanks, you’re a lifesaver.”

She smiled with a small nod. Her eyes flicked over to you. Amala mustered up some courage and said, “Logan said so many nice things about you. No wonder he loves you so much.”

Your guilt boiled over and settled into soft mush at that. “He’s…too kind.”

Logan rolled his eyes fondly and pulled you closer to him.

Amala smiled again then spoke, “We…we share an econ class together. The 10 am with Prof. Singh?”

You nodded, “Yeah, I’m in that class.” You didn’t want to tell her that you hadn’t noticed her before.

Amala nodded back, “Yeah…I think you’re pretty cool. And smart. Do you maybe wanna study together for the final exam this weekend?”

Your lips eased into a soft, genuine smile. “I’d love that, yeah.”

Amala’s eyes gleamed with excitement and relief. “Yeah? Great, that’s…” she cleared her throat to control herself and appear nonchalant. “Cool. Logan has my number, he can share that with you.”

“Will do,” Logan swore solemnly.

She waved goodbye and started heading towards the door, “Alright, text me! It was lovely meeting you both!”

And then she was gone.

You turned back to Logan. He had a smug, ‘I told you so’ smirk on his face. You rolled your eyes and shoved him. “Shut it.”

He buried his face in your hair, “Looks like you have an admirer.”

“Why, jealous?” You teased.

Logan’s brows lifted. “Me? Look who’s talking. You wanted to skin me alive a few hours ago.”

He wasn’t exactly wrong.

“God forbid a girl doesn’t want to see her boyfriend go out with someone else.”

Logan kissed your temple, “It was for a good cause,” he said softly.

“I know,” you squeezed his hand. You knew how much the hurricanes meant to Logan ever since he was a kid himself.

“So…” He brought you closer to him until your foreheads rested against one another. “How much for me to take you out on a date?”

Your eyes looked deep into his, “Hmm, how much have you got?”

Logan pretended to think about it. “If Amala didn’t rob me before returning my wallet, I should have 60 bucks and a punch card for free cheesy fries.”

You faked a delighted gasp, “How romantic!”

He chuckled at your comment before kissing you. His lips moved smoothly over yours, his kiss felt like a breath of relief after the long and busy evening. He held your chin in one hand, using the other to pull you even closer.

You separated for a moment to murmur, “Next year we’re sticking to signed hockey merch.”

Logan grinned, “Good luck trying to convince Dean of that.”

“He needs a girlfriend.”

He hummed, “And for $1800 and an hour, he might already have one.”

You laughed, taking his hand and tugging him out of Malone’s. “Come on, time for my own date with you.”

“You’re the boss,” he murmured with a kiss on your cheek.

And maybe it was best if you didn’t know that Logan purposely ‘forgot’ his wallet at the ice cream shop.

who remembers this trope from the movie ‘flipped’?

[blowingbarnes]

Mr. and Mrs.... Rogers?!

Pairing: Spy!Steve x Spy!Reader WC: 10.5k Warnings: enemies to lovers, loosely inspired by mr. and mrs. smith, the avengers are not super mainstream in this, sexual tension, shower scene, makeout, jealousy, mean!steve at times, brat!reader, eventual smut (dry humping, fingering, unprotected p in v, edging, creampie, steve eating you out within an inch of your life (munch steve come homeeeeeeee), doggy style, tonguefucking), mentions of voyeurism, surveillance, size kink, miscommunication, angst-ish with comfort. Summary: You and Steve are voluntold you're married for an undercover mission. Should be easy, except you hate each other. +fran: this is the opening showing of the Captain Americana Film Festival and my humble contribution to Steve's birthday!!! I cannot tell you how much it filled me with joy that I sat down to write this on the 4th and actually spat out 10k words. WE ARE SO BACK!!! Happy 108th to the man who will always have my heart, has been the gold standard against which I measure every man, (this is blond man propaganda) and also my astrological twin <3 no one gets me like he does fr. ⤷ you should go listen to the incredible playlist named "mr and mrs smith [john and jane]" by marybatz on spotify

"Absolutely not!"

Fury had the timing of a tax audit to a billionaire CEO. Of course, of course, you'd be stuck playing this mission with fucking Steve. 

One second you were minding your business, enjoying what was left of your coffee and your relatively peaceful morning, and the next Nick Fury was informing you that you would be spending the foreseeable future pretending to be happily married to Steve Rogers.

"You're going." Fury didn't even break stride. He rolled his eye and kept walking down the hallway toward the conference room, clearly done entertaining your complaints before you'd even finished making them, with you hot on his heel. 

Your footsteps echoed in the wide hallway as you walked backwards, facing Fury. "Can't I marry someone else for this?" You pondered. "What about Barnes?"

Fury stopped so suddenly you nearly tripped. "You want to pretend to be married to Barnes?"

You opened your mouth, immediately closed it, thought for a second and shrugged, squeezing your eyes shut. "That's not the point."

"That's what I thought."

The polished floors reflected the overhead lights as the two of you moved through the hallway. “Nat, maybe? Some of those married dudes would eat up girl-on-girl and spill the beans right away. Mission would be so quick!”

Fury walked with the patience of a man who'd dealt with far worse than you. The fact that he hadn't strangled you after years of working together was honestly kind of impressive, a little endearing almost.

Both of you quickly arrived at the conference room door, Fury stopping with his hand on the handle, turning his face to you and letting our a frustrated sigh. "Do you like working here?"

You rolled your eyes, "Yes, sir." What kind of question was that?

"And what's your title?" His brow quirked up.

A confused look plastered all over your face. "Agent."

He leaned down to talk to you closer, almost like explaining rules to a petulant child, "Then be an agent." and proceeded to push the door open and hold it for you, giving you full view of Steve Rogers sitting at the head of the table with a sour expression on his face, just as displeased to have to pretend to love you for the mission. 

The training room should've been empty half an hour ago, and technically, everyone was done for the day. 

It should’ve been quiet—mats wiped down, lights dimmed, everyone gone for the night.

Instead, the air was thick.

Heavy with sweat, heat, and something sharp enough to make the back of your neck prickle. The entire team and a couple recruits were watching you.

Well, you and Steve. 

At first not openly—no one was stupid enough to make it obvious—but they lingered. Leaned against walls, sat on benches, hovered just close enough to pretend they had somewhere else to be.

It started as any other training session did, you rotated partners, almost like shark bait: in and out, partner after partner cycling through you while you stayed planted on the mat, pushing your stamina, your endurance, your patience.

Until you ended up on the other side of the mat from Steve. 

Barefoot, sleeves rolled, skin already lightly sheened with the littlest bit of sweat that somehow made him look betterinstead of worse—which was deeply, personally offensive.

Here's the thing: he was a super soldier. He had endless stamina, super strength, reflexes that outmatched 99% of the population, and he had it all with perfect blond hair and barely breaking a sweat on his sculpted body.

It infuriated the hell out of you. 

He blocked every kick, every punch, and when he didn't he wasn't even phased. 

It made you go harder, to the point where you found yourselves now: almost trying to hurt each other. 

By then, no one was even preteding to be occupied by anything else, shamelessly staring at the two of you at the center of the mat like Oppenheimer waiting for a bomb to go off. 

Steve had stopped treating you with the same careful restraint he used with newer recruits. He'd throw you harder into the mats, knock the wind from your lungs, shove you back with enough force to remind you exactly how much stronger he was, and you'd borderline play dirty.

Every hit had a little more weight behind it. Neither willing to back down. Neither willing to lose.

Sam was sitting backwards in a chair, chin propped on his arms, watching like he had front row seats to the best show of his life; Natasha looked delighted; Bucky looked concerned, brows drawn, arms crossed tight over his chest, like he was trying to decide whether to step in or let you both learn your lesson the hard way.

Steve stood opposite of you, his feet staggered and his arms up, making a "come at me" motion with his fingers. His hair was slightly mussed, a damp strand falling forward over his forehead.

"Come to daddy."

The entire room held their breaths, and you saw red. 

In hindsight, you should've planned a better move than to just charge at him, the strength in your muscles and bones not being able to match his. You should've thought of something tactical, something smart. 

But also… you fucking hated his guts. 

Which is exactly how you ended up with your cheek and stomach pressed to the sweaty mat, with Steve's whole weight on your back, your wrists pinned between the two of you and his right arm laced under yours and up your back, hand holding your neck down. 

His hands caught you mid-motion, grip iron-tight as he twisted, using your momentum against you with terrifying ease, his grip locking your body in place, the angle just shy of painful.

"You need to work on your psyche. Mind over matter." His stupid voice right in your ear made goosebumps bloom up your spine, so you did what any reasonable person would do.

You flexed the knee that was between his spread legs hard enough that you hit him square in the balls, giving you the out you needed. 

You straightened on your feet, pushing damp hair back from your face, a breathless, borderline feral grin breaking across your lips as he winced on the mat in pain. 

"Who's your daddy now?" 

Your breathless laughter was cut short, Fury's booming voice breaking through any pain or enjoyment present in the room. "You do know domestic violence is not part of your cover story, no?"

Both of your heads whipped in the direction of his voice. 

He continued to walk in your direction, dropping two folders in front of your feet, and Steve, who was still kneeling down on the mat. "Shower this off. You leave in the morning, lovebirds."

The neighborhood looked like the kind of place where people complained to the HOA because their neighbor's hydrangeas were the wrong shade of blue.

Every lawn was trimmed within an inch of its life, sharp lines cutting through impossibly green grass like someone came out with a ruler every morning. 

The mailboxes all matched—sleek, black, expensive-looking—and every driveway held something polished and obscene:luxury SUV or a car that definitely cost more than your first apartment.

The houses themselves were enormous. White trim, brick facades, wraparound porches, massive windows that left little room for privacy on a street that looked like it loved to mind every business but its own. 

You sat in the passenger seat while Steve drove to your home, the undercover file open across your lap like a book while your bare feet rested on the dash. 

Because annyong Steve was free, and your favorite past time. "No feet on the dash."

You turned a page, ignoring him. "They're staying." You read more of the file. "It's more comfortable that way." Your light blue summer dress was bunched up higher across your thighs, and he did a double take before taking a right turn to your house block.

He sighed. "If we crash—"

"Just look at the road instead of me and we'll be fine." That made him shift in the driver's seat, straightening his posture and looking ahead, his Adam's apple bobbing in annoyance.

What irritated Steve about you was the fact that these comebacks never even seemed to make sense or be thought of, it just rolled off your tongue, almost just for the plot. And you didn't even care. 

He didn't even know why you hated him so much in the first place, but he reciprocated the feeling as soon as he saw how insubordinate and bratty you were. 

Steve sighed the long suffering sigh of a man questioning every life decision that had brought him to this moment. "You're impossible." Muttered under his breath. 

"You're a Senior Project Manager at your own company, honey!" Fake admiration and praise filled your voice. "Oh, you proposed quick! Only a year after our first date." You turned to him, your first real smile plastered on your face. "You're so down bad."

The car came to a stop in your driveway, and Steve turned it off, unclipping his seatbelt. "Put your shoes on, we're here and I feel eyes already." 

"Bossy." You muttered, doing exactly as he said. As you got out of the car, your voice went up an octave, carrying through the humid summer weather. 

“Ready, honey?” you asked, slipping the word out effortlessly, like you’d been saying it for years.

He opened the front door for you, making sure whoever was watching heard him just as well, possessive in a way that made your breath hitch before you could stop it.

“After you, sweetheart.”

You'd barely had enough time to figure out which bedroom closet was yours before the doorbell rang.

ding-dong. ding-dong.

You froze in the middle of the bedroom, one hand still gripping a hanger, Steve somewhere down the hall filling a modified cabinet with all sorts of concealed weapons.

You dropped the hanger onto the bed without another thought, smoothing your hands down your dress as you moved. Steve stepped out of the kitchen at the same time, wiping his hands on a dish towel like he’d been doing something domestic instead of checking sightlines and exits.

Ben and Julie Poindexter stood in your porch like they had been plucked straight out of a catalog. They were ones you hoped to make the acquaintance of quickly, as he was the right hand of the big druglord you and Steve were tasked with making an airtight case on.

Years of field work had taught you that monsters were rarely obvious, still, some primitive part of your brain always expected criminals to look like criminals.

Instead, Ben Poindexter looked like somebody who coached Little League and had multiple PTA moms undoing extra buttons in their cardigans to get his attention. Beside him, Julie beamed, already leaning slightly forward like she couldn’t wait to know everything about you.

“Oh my goodness,” she breathed, eyes lighting up. “You must be the Adlers!” You felt Steve shift beside you, his hand coming to rest warm on your back with an ease that shouldn't be there in the best of actors. 

He smiled, and it was a good one. The kind that made people relax immediately. The kind that five years ago made you—

“Guilty,” he said easily. “Frank.” Right. Frank Adler. 

He extended his hand and Ben took it immediately, introducing you then. “I’m Dex,” the shorter blond said in return, just as easy. “This is my wife, Julie.”

“Hi,” you said, stepping forward like you hadn’t been mentally preparing to dismantle her entire social circle for intel. “It’s so nice to meet you.”

She lit up.

“Oh, you are just adorable,” she gushed, reaching out to squeeze your arm like you were already best friends. “We saw the moving truck this morning and I told Ben, I said, ‘We have to go introduce ourselves before everyone else gets to them first.’”

You faked confusion. "Ben…?"

He chuckled lightly in response. "That's me, I… uh… Ben's really only for her and my parents. Friends call me Dex."

You smiled back in understanding. “We appreciate that,” he said smoothly. “It’s been a bit of a whirlwind getting settled.”

“So,” Dex cut in, tone casual but eyes observant, “what brings you two here?” There it was. The first test.

You felt Steve’s thumb twitch slightly against your back. A cue , or maybe just instinct. “Work, mostly,” he said, not missing a beat. “I just transferred to oversee a new branch out here.”

Julie gasped softly. “Oh! That’s right, you’re the project manager, right? We heard something about that—”

Of course they did.

You tilted your head toward Steve, letting your smile soften just a touch as you looked at him. Pride, affection… Just enough to sell it.

“He won’t say it, but he’s very good at what he does.” You interjected, turning your sweet smile to your nosy neighbors again. 

His hand pressed a little more firmly into your back before easing again. “Someone has to pay the bills,” he joked lightly, glancing down at you.

"It's a 50/50 relationship," you shot back, nudging his side with your elbow just enough to look playful. "You earn money, and I look pretty in the things it buys." Your hand reached up to scratch the freshly shaven skin of his chin.

“Wow,” Julie breathed, practically vibrating with delight. “You two are so cute.”

You laughed, soft, a little embarassed… and completely fake. Dex watched that exchange carefully. His smile stayed in place, but his eyes sharpened just a fraction.

“New couples usually take a while to settle in around here,” he said, tone still easy. “But I think you two will fit right in.”

“Well,” you said lightly, leaning just a little closer into Steve without thinking about it, “we’re counting on our neighbors to help with that.”

Julie clasped her hands together. “Oh, you have to come to dinner this weekend! Everyone’s going to be there—it’s kind of our thing.”

“We’d love to,” Steve said, lightly nodding.

Both of them smiled in satisfaction, briefly saying their goodbyes and we'll let you get settled. As they started to step back, Julie waved enthusiastically. “Welcome to the neighborhood!”

Integration happened faster and easier than either of you expected. Almost like… bait. 

It started with waves.

Small, polite acknowledgments from across driveways—neighbors watering already-perfect lawns, women in linen sets pausing mid-walk with their equally curated dogs. At first it was just smiles, quick introductions repeated twice because no one actually listened the first time, or maybe they expected you to slip up. 

Names, occupations, how long you planned to stay.

Somehow, without either of you saying much at all, your lives had already been filled in for you. Steve—Frank—was “the project manager from the city.” You were “so sweet” and “adjusting beautifully.”

It was unsettling.

Steve got pulled in first.

Dex made it look casual—leaning over the fence one late afternoon while Steve pretended to struggle with a hose attachment he absolutely knew how to fix.

“Couple of us head out to the club on Saturdays,” Dex had said, like it wasn’t a test. Like it wasn’t an invitation into something much bigger. “You golf?”

Steve had shrugged, wiping his hands on a towel like the answer didn’t matter. “Enough not to embarrass myself.”

Dex chuckled. “Good. Fisk hates losing.”

That was how Steve Rogers found himself in pressed polos and quiet greens, standing under the sun with a man who ran half the city from behind clean hands and cleaner money.

Wilson Fisk didn’t look like a monster either. They never did.

From the sidelines, it would’ve looked normal—three men talking shop, trading easy laughs, the soft crack of a golf ball slicing through the air.

But Steve came home with tension in his shoulders that hadn’t been there before, and eyes that thought too much.

You were integrated differently. Faster, deeper in a sense. If you wanna know a man, you need to know the woman in his life first. Julie took one look at you and decided you were hers.

Brunch turned into wine nights, which turned into yoga classes and impromptu shopping trips where you learned which women talked too much, which ones listened too closely, and which ones pretended not to notice everything while noticing everything.

You laughed when you were supposed to, touched arms at the right moments, let yourself be pulled into conversations about renovations and charity events and who was “having trouble in their marriage” this week.

You played the part. Perfectly.

But you also listened. And Julie talked, about Dex, about their marriage, about his schedule, the men he worked with, his "job".

About Fisk in a careful, vague way that told you she knew just enough to be useful and not enough to be dangerous.

Inside the house, however, nothing really changed. You were in bliss whenever Steve was anywhere outside of the five thousand square feet of the house. And in hell when you could hear his footsteps through the hallways. 

“Why are your shoes in the middle of the hallway?” “Because I took them off.”

“You put a gun in the cereal cabinet.” “It was concealed.”

And yet, somewhere in between the arguing and the slammed cabinets and the pointed silences, you moved around each other.

Steve adjusted the cuff of his polo as he stepped out onto the green, the sun warm against the back of his neck, the grass trimmed so perfectly it almost didn’t look real. Somewhere in the distance, a fountain trickled softly—controlled, decorative, intentional.

Everything here was curated, including the people. Dex stood a few feet ahead, already mid-conversation with a Fisk, Steve immediately recognizing his big frame.

“Frank,” Dex called easily, turning just enough to wave him over. “Glad you made it.” 

Steve walked up at an even pace, shoulders loose, posture relaxed, every movement deliberate in its lack of tension. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

Dex clapped his hands lightly. “Let’s see if you actually know how to swing that thing.”

The game itself was uneventful on the surface, small talk, a couple of drinks over a few holes, business talk, the kind of conversation that never said anything directly but still managed to reveal everything if you knew how to listen.

Steve pretending to be worse than Fisk at golf remembering what Dex said about him not liking losing. 

Well, who does? He thought.

He missed a shot he could’ve made here and there, fake grimace on his face to help sell the lie, burrow himself deeper in the web.

Dex talked the most—easy laughter, casual stories, the kind of man who filled silence before it could become uncomfortable.

Fisk didn’t, he was quieter, more measured. Almost amused. 

By the ninth hole, Steve could feel the shift, the attention settling more fully onto him. He was past the evaluation phase and onto something else. 

Fisk set his club aside after a clean shot, stepping back as one of the attendants moved to retrieve it. He didn’t look at Steve immediately, instead adjusting his cufflinks with slow, precise movements.

“Beautiful house you’ve got,” Fisk said finally.

Steve shrugged lightly, taking a swing of his beer. “Got lucky to swoop in right when it went on the market.”

Fisk hummed. “I find luck tends to favor the well-prepared.” Steve didn’t respond, Fisk’s gaze lifted then. “You and your wife settling in well?”

For some reason, hearing such a dangerous man mention you made him uneasy. And it shouldn't, because he hated you. Steve forced his expression to remain easy. “Yeah. She likes it here.” He paused for a second. “She’s… adjusting.”

Fisk’s lips curved slightly. “Is she?” Steve’s grip on the club in his hand tightened just a fraction.

Dex shifted beside them, glancing between the two, something quieter settling over his usual ease.

“You know,” Fisk continued, tone almost conversational, “I take a great interest in the people who choose to live in the neighborhood.”

Steve tilted his head slightly. “Seems like a lot of effort.”

Fisk chuckled softly. “It is if you don't have the… resources.”

Steve didn’t like the way he said that, didn’t like the weight behind it.

The back nine loosened things.

Or at least, that’s what it looked like.

Dex got louder, a little more relaxed with each hole, his posture easing into something casual as the game stretched on. Drinks appeared somewhere around the seventh—cold, expensive, handed off by staff who moved like ghosts—and by the tenth, the conversation had shifted.

Way less about business. 

Dex snorted at something one of the other men—some hedge fund name Steve hadn’t bothered to remember—had said, shaking his head as he lined up his shot.

“I’m telling you,” the man continued, grinning like he thought he was hilarious, “if you’re doing it right, she’s not walking straight the next morning.”

One of the others chimed in with something worse, cruder. The kind of joke that got easy agreement and knowing looks passed around like currency.

Steve didn’t react, just stood there, one hand resting loosely on his club, gaze fixed somewhere out over the green like he wasn’t listening.

“C’mon, Adler,” Dex called, nudging him lightly with his elbow. “You’ve been real quiet over there.”

Steve glanced over, trying to seem unbothered. Like he didn't want to roll his eyes at everything coming out of that prick's mouth. “Just listening.”

“That’s not how this works,” the hedge fund guy said with a smirk. “You gotta contribute. You’re married, right?”

“Familiarity,” Fisk continued, almost thoughtfully, like he was discussing market trends instead of people, “breeds a certain ease.”

“Guess some guys are just more private.” Steve chimed, moving as to redirect the conversation, walking a couple steps to the next hole. "I don’t feel the need to talk about my wife like that."

Silence fell upon the group for a second, Dex interjected to change the subject quickly, but the way Fisk looked at Steve the rest of the time made he hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

Steve unlocked the kitchen door, toeing his shoes off as soon as he stepped inside. The house was clean, marble countertops reflecting the golden light coming through the curtains.

A candle burned on the center island that made the house smell like a bouquet of fresh flowers, blooming in deepest winter.

The door clocked shit behind him with a soft, controlled click, as he called out "Babe?" while letting his keys rattle against the marble.

He stepped further into the kitchen, eyes sweeping automatically—back door locked, blinds angled just enough, nothing out of place. The cabinet he’d modified earlier sat closed, unassuming, hiding everything it needed to.

He called out for you again, "Sweetheart?", feet padding into the house and when he got to the bottom of the stairs, he heard the shower running on. 

Steve's mind kept replaying the interactions he'd had that day, how Fisk seemed to have too much knowledge of his dynamic with you to not have—

Of course.

A man like Fisk wouldn't just intentionally have a blind side. 

The motherfucker had surveillance on your house. 

In your house. 

The sound got clearer and clearer as he moved up the stairs. The hallway stretched ahead, quiet and sun-dimmed, and then right outside of the bathroom door, steam curling underneath it. Steve paused just outside it, his hand hovering near the frame, his head tilting slightly as he listened.

You were humming, soft and absentminded.

Like you weren’t in the middle of a mission that had just taken a very sharp turn.

He exhaled softly through his nose, dragging a hand down his face, fingers catching briefly on the tension sitting heavy there.

He should wait, he knew he should. Whatever he had to say could wait ten minutes.

Five.

Hell, two.

But the words Fisk had said—had implied—sat in his chest like a weight that refused to settle. So if Fisk had creepily put surveillance in your home like Steve was 98% sure he had, you were gonna have to roll with the punches.

Steam hit him immediately, warm and thick, fogging the edges of his vision for half a second before it cleared. 

Stripping his shirt, kicking off the rest of his clothes in a blur of motion that would’ve felt ridiculous under any other circumstance.

He walked into the shower, watching you let the water trickle over you, over your face, your neck, your chest, and he thanked every God he could think of that his body was cooperating and he did not have more than a half-hard on right then and there.

Which meant that you finished rinsing your shampoo off and opened your eyes to find a very, very naked Steve Rogers encapsulated by the shower stall glass around you. 

With you.

All naked, and very wet, and very naked, and—

"Ahh!" You shrieked in surprise, stumbling back half a step, water splashing over him as your hands came up instinctively. "What the f—" Steve put his index finger on his lips with one hand, the other motioning to his ear and out.

We're being listened to.

"Honey," You immediately switched into your undercover tone, "you scared the crap out of me!"

Steve stepped closer, couldn't risk his voice being any louder than absolutely necessary to get you the information right then and there. 

His frame in comparison to yours felt even bigger now, steam curling around him like vines. You'd blame the way your nipples hardened at the sight on the water. 

“Fisk,” he whispered, barely audible over the spray. “He knows something’s off. Pretty sure we’re wired. The house is.”

Your breath hitched.

Absolutely having nothing to do with the fact that you were trying very hard not to stare at his— "Where?"

"Everywhere." He confirmed. 

Water ran down both of you in steady streams, heat curling between your bodies, steam thickening the air until everything felt too close.

“Well,” you murmured, louder now, just enough for anyone listening to catch it, your tone dipping into something softer, more playful, “next time, maybe knock?”

Steve huffed out a quiet breath that could almost pass for a laugh, his forehead dipping closer to yours, but not touching, droplets of water falling from his hair onto you.

“Didn’t think you’d mind.” One of your hands braced lightly against his chest, the other gripping his arm as if for balance.

Your hand slid up to the nape of his neck, pulling the hair there enough to make him hiss. “Oh, I mind,” you said lightly, your fingers threading just a little deeper into the short hair at the nape of his neck. “You’re lucky I like you.”

You were pretty good at… faking it. 

Night settled over the house smoothly, the sun bleeding into deep indigo slowly and surely until stars littered the sky and you all you could hear was the fair sound of nature beyond the glass.

The neighborhood dimmed in stages—porch lights flicking on one by one, warm squares of yellow glowing through wide, uncovered windows. Somewhere down the street, laughter carried faintly. A dog barked once, then twice, then went quiet again.

As your brain processed the information Steve had given you, you moved through the motions anyway. 

Teeth brushed. Face washed. Lights turned off and on in the right order. The kind of routine that would look normal from the outside, mundane and unremarkable to anyone paying attention.

The thought sat in the back of your mind, somewhat panicked and loud, but also a constant, steady pressure. 

You dried your hands slowly on a towel, eyes flicking briefly to the mirror. Your reflection stared back—hair dried and silky, skin still warm from the shower, expression carefully neutral.

Steve stood near the dresser, back half-turned to you, pulling a t-shirt over his head. The fabric stretched sinf— normallyacross his shoulders before falling into place, softening the sharp lines of him into something more… domestic.

You watched him through the mirror without meaning to, picking up a book, turning on his bedside lamp, and crawling under the covers of your bed, letting the light comforter rest on his legs and hips while he flipped through the pages with his back resting against his pillows and the headboard.

You bit your lip, thoughts blooming fast and messy under your skull, and flicked the lights in the bathroom off, walking towards your side of the bed. 

Your short camisole shifted through the air as you moved, light and soft, brushing against your thighs. Steve's eyes immediately clocking your bare legs before he forced them onto the words in front of him. 

You laid onto your side and closed the distance between you in one smooth motion, your body fitting against his side like that's where it was always supposed to be. 

Your arm slid across his waist, your cheek pressed lightly against the plane of his pecs, and you felt the very warm, solid, real muscle of him under your face go completely still. 

Not in any subtle way, you could feel the exact moment his brain short-circuited.

He turned his face just enough to look down and meet your gaze. His expression screamed an unfiltered "what the hell?"while yours softly said "we have to sell it."

He shifted, turning just enough so he wasn’t facing away from you anymore, his arm coming up—hesitant for half a second—before settling around you, his hand resting on your forearm, thumb tracing soothing patterns on the soft, moisturized skin. 

As you laid there, the cogs in your brain turned. You bit the inside of your cheek lightly, the more he believes it, the quicker we get out. 

You moved forward, your hand pressed against his chest, using him for leverage as you pushed yourself up, swinging one leg over his hips in a smooth, deliberate motion until you were straddling him.

The poor book slid uselessly to rest on the mattress on the other side of his body. You nuzzled your face into his neck, pretending to pepper kisses on the skin there, and Steve stiffened up.

His hands instinctively came up, not grabbing or even stopping you, just hovering at your waist like he didn’t know where they were allowed to go.

Your mouth lingered by his pulse point just long enough to make it convincing before you spoke, your breath hot against his skin. "Play along." You whispered.

You felt the tension in him—every muscle coiled, controlled, restrained in a way that had nothing to do with the mission and everything to do with the position you’d just put him in.

“Sweetheart,” he said, louder now, his tone shifting seamlessly, to something warmer, rougher, like it belonged to someone else. “You trying to kill me?”

From the outside, it sounded like a joke. A husband amused by his wife.

You tilted your head, letting your lips ghost just below his ear. “You just been working so much lately,” you murmured, just loud enough to carry.

His grip on you flexed, and he leaned into it. 

“I know, baby, I know,” he said, voice dropping, threading something you hadn’t heard from him since he had your face pressed into a sparring mat through it as his hands settled more firmly at your hips, anchoring you there. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

Your stomach flipped, shameful heat pooling low in your core even though you tried to ignore it and call it by a different name. 

His fingers pressed just slightly, grounding, guiding, selling the illusion with an ease that made your pulse stutter.

Steve moved, fast as always, one second you were on top of him, the next your back hit the mattress, making it dip hard beneath you as he flipped you with practiced ease, your breath catching as his weight settled above you, caging you in without quite touching.

His face dipped toward yours, close enough that your noses almost brushed.

“What you’re doing,” he murmured against your ear, his breath warm, controlled, “is reckless.”

Your fingers curled slightly into his shirt, heart beating too fast, and you tilted your head just enough to whisper back, your tone soft and teasing, so low he almost didn't hear it. “So is getting caught.”

You tilted your neck up, and your lips connected with his.

It had been weeks of little pecks, prim and proper kisses in front of your neighbors, just enough to sell it on the outside. 

Holding his face in your hands and actually kissing Steve Rogers felt like a completely different experience. 

His tongue licked into your mouth with an intention you never really expected from Steve. Specially a Steve that was faking it. Your hands roamed the plane of his shoulders, trying to make it seem like the actual rustling of sheets one would expect of a couple who was going to—

He should really take this shirt off. 

And so your hands went to the hem of his white cotton shirt, pulling it up. Steve reluctantly let you take it off of him, leaving him only in the grey boxers that let you see he wasn't faking that much. 

"Oh my God," You whispered. "Are you serious?" That was more of a hiss. Was he seriously getting hard right now?

"I know," He whispered back, annoyed, frustrated, "I know. Just shut up about it."

Oh.

He wanted you to shut up about it. He wanted you to—

The petty part of your brain took over, and before you couldn't think of a less reckless thing to do, you squeezed your legs tighter around him, bringing his bulge flush against your clothed pussy. 

"O-oh—" Steve was surprised, not about the pettiness, but at the action itself. You bit your lip, almost proud of yourself, and tilted your hips up.

That earned you a scolding look. 

"Mmm," you breathed, just loud enough to carry, your voice shifting instantly to a soft, breathy, higher pitched version of yourself. "Fuck, baby, right there."

Steve's ears were ringing. Mostly because he didn't know what to do with his hard cock rubbing up and down against you. “Relax,” you murmured against his jaw, barely moving your lips. “You sound like you’re filing paperwork.”

He huffed softly, turning it into something that passed. “Maybe I like paperwork,” he muttered.

You scoffed. “You do not.”

“You don’t know that.” He whined softly against you. 

"You need to actually move your hips, Steve. Video needs to look like you're fucking your wife." You whispered in his ear. 

It's not like he couldn't feel how wet you were, slick pressing through the cotton of your panties and onto his underwear, darkening a spot there. 

“You’re unbelievable,” he breathed low, close to your ear.

“Say it louder,” you shot back quietly.

“You’re unbelievable,” he repeated, louder, tone shifting, like it meant something entirely different now.

Your heels dug into his ass cheeks, pulling him closer and closer to you, and closer and closer to the edge. 

You could feel the length of him twitch with each pass of his hips, and you pictured the leaking head of him making a mess out of the inside of his boxers, precum slicking him all over. 

“Okay—” he muttered quickly under his breath, breaking the moment before it could stretch too far. “We need a time frame. We can’t just—keep going forever.”

“Two minutes,” you whispered. “Make it believable.”

“Two minutes?” he echoed, actually offended. “That’s insulting.”

The thought of it sent heat down your core. His face was buried in your neck, your lips brushing the shell of his ear as your hands threaded through his hair. "Talk about me." Another perfectly placed thrust that nudged your clit. "'bout how I feel."

Steve grinded his teeth like he was fighting a mental battle between letting himself be consumed by this moment, and being proper. 

You nudged him again with your heel. 

"Nice and tight, sweetheart." He let his voice carry, surprisingly unwavering for how close he was. "Never get enough of your pussy."

What in the fuckity fuck?

Steve?

He almost said your name, your very real name, too lost in himself, letting his rhythm build up much too realistically, his thrusts deeper, the bulge now rubbing and nudging your clothed entrance as well. 

Your could hear the sound of wet fabric shifting, your panties getting caught and letting one lip slip out of safety and closer to Steve's leaking cock. 

"Frank," You said loudly, trying to catch his attention without success. "Frank." You tried again, more stern, being met with the same squeezed-shut eyes you tried to get an answer from. You dropped your voice low, hushed like a secret. "Steve."

That made him open his eyes, powder blue irises staring at you as his thursts hit a spot that had him moaning, stuttering over his own breath.

And spilling all inside his boxers, looking right into your eyes. 

His hips stuttered, almost as if his body wanted to milk itself dry, and his breathing slowed. 

You were speechless, big wide eyes looking up at him, genuinely not knowing what to say.

Both of you stared at each other in shock, horror, confusion as to why it felt so good to do that without someone who managed to get under your skin without even trying. 

You stayed like that until you felt the warm trickle of his seed seep through the cotton of his boxers and onto the front of your panties.

Steve dropped back to his side of the bed, and both of you avoided each other's gaze, just staring at the ceiling. 

"Are we—"

“…go to sleep,” you muttered.

Whatever Fisk needed proof of, seemingly he got it, since both you and Steve got invited the the biggest 4th of July bash of the neighborhood. 

Right at the belly of the beast. 

The whole backyard looked like something out of a magazine. 

String lights draped across the perimeter, glowing warm against the deep navy of the night sky, fireworks already starting to crackle faintly in the distance. 

The lawn stretched wide and immaculate, dotted with clusters of people holding drinks in delicate glasses, laughter spilling easily between them like nothing in the world could touch this place.

It was loud, busy, perfect, and underneath it all— wrong.

Steve had light wash jeans and a light blue polo on, you had a strapless summer dress and one of his linen shirts on, the shirt unbuttoned to give the air of a casual outing. 

You stood near one of the long tables, fingers loosely wrapped around a Moscow Mule you hadn’t touched, your eyes scanning without looking like you were scanning. Steve was across the yard, pulled into a circle of men near the grill, one of them mid-story, the others laughing at something you couldn’t quite hear from this distance.

And there she was.

Blonde, tall, and much too interested in your— Steve.

Her hand landed on his arm like she’d been waiting for an excuse, your eyes narrowed at her as you shoved a piece of salami and cheese into your mouth.

“That's Sharon.” Julie’s voice chimed in beside you, far too cheerful for how observant she actually was. “She's new. Came to stay with her aunt a bit, they live a few strees back. Divorced. Which means she’s—”

“—looking,” you finished lightly, before finally taking a sip of your drink like you hadn’t already clocked every detail.

Julie laughed. “Exactly.”

Your eyes flicked back to Steve. He hadn’t moved away, hadn’t stepped back, hadn’t even noticed.

Of course he hadn’t.

He was listening—really listening—to whatever the man next to him was saying, nodding slightly, relaxed in that effortless way that made people lean in closer without thinking about it.

“Oh, don’t worry,” she said, lowering her voice just enough to feel conspiratorial. “If he's anything like Dex, he's clueless. They don’t even realize when they’re being flirted with.”

You hummed softly. "He is clueless, alright."

“He’s very charming,” Julie added, watching you now instead of them. “Frank, I mean.”

Your lips curved. “He has his moments.”

Julie giggled, and you finished downing your drink, making your way to him, wrapping a hand around his perfectly sculped bicep and turning on your smile to the sweetest setting possible. 

His body reacted immediately, adjusting to your touch like it always belonged there. His gaze dropped to you, surprise flickering for half a second before smoothing into something softer.

“Hey,” he said, one hand coming up to rest at your hip without thinking about it.

“Hi,” you replied, tilting your head up toward him, your smile warm in a way that felt almost too real. “Sorry,” you said sweetly, not sounding sorry at all. “Am I interrupting?”

She blinked, then smiled tightly back at you. “Not at all.” Steve’s hand pressed slightly into your hip, a silent question that you answered it by leaning just a fraction closer into him.

“We were just talking about the neighborhood,” she continued.

“Were you?” you asked, your tone light, but your grip on Steve tightening just enough to be felt.

“Oh—yes,” she said, glancing briefly at him. “Frank was just telling us about his work.”

“Mm,” you hummed, eyes flicking up to his. “He works too much.”

Steve’s brows lifted slightly. “Oh, I do?”

“You do,” you said simply, sighing longingly, your fingers sliding absently against his side like it was second nature. “I barely see you anymore.”

Sharon laughed softly. “That’s a shame.” Steve lifted the beer up to his lips and took a swing.

“It is,” you agreed, smiling again. “But I make sure he makes up for it.”

Steve choked on his drink. Actually choked. Coughed once, quickly covering it with a laugh that didn’t quite hide the surprise.

His hand flexed at your hip. “Yeah,” he said, voice dropping just slightly as he looked down at you, something new threading through it. “I do.”

For a moment it didn't feel like pretending, but it also didn't feel real. It felt like a limbo much too similar to five years ago, when he first recruited you into SHIELD by accident. 

FIVE YEARS EARLIER

Colombia had been too hot. The humid, muggy weather made your skin sticky, a sheen coat of sweat all over your arms and legs, even though you were only wearing a white tanktop and a flowy, maxi floral skirt. 

Music was bleeding from open windows, people crowding narrow streets, making it the kind of place where mistakes didn’t just cost you the mission.

They cost you everything.

You’d been handling it just fine, up until you weren’t. The intel had been wrong. Or incomplete. Or leaked.

You didn’t know which yet—only that the second you stepped into that dim, crowded cantina, something in your gut twisted. Too many eyes, too many men pretending to drink, too many sharp ears and even sharper looks. 

You were planning an exit strategy, a way to get out of here with as few scratches and as many of these men killed. Mid counting how many thing you could use as a weapon, in walked a picture perfect specimen. 

Muscles everywhere, blond hair lightened even more by the sun, the faintest sunburn across his nose and cheeks making his blue eyes stand out more. 

You turned slightly, lifting your drink to your lips like you were just another woman trying to cool off, not someone seconds away from deciding how many people she might have to kill.

He clocked the men immediately. 

And then he clocked you. His broad frame faked a smile at you and stepped quickly to stand beside you at the bar, hand resting on your hip.

“Don’t,” he muttered under his breath, pretending to try to get the bartender's attention.

“Don’t what?” you shot back just as quietly, adjusting your sunglasses on your head like you were annoyed at them and happy to see him, not seconds away from being cornered.

“They’re looking for someone,” he said.

“I know.” A beat where he leaned down to whisper in your ear.

“They’re closing exits.”

And you responded through gritted teeth and a smile. “I noticed.” You let your body rest closer to his, feeling the heat radiating off of him.

Outside, thunder and lightning started, and a summer storm came pouring down. 

“Babe,” you said, loud enough to carry, tilting your head up at him like you were teasing. “You said one drink.”

He leaned into you, his hand sliding from your waist to your lower back, pulling you closer in a way that felt practiced.

“Yeah?” he shot back easily. “Thought you wanted to see more of the place.”

“Oh, I do,” you laughed lightly, fingers curling into his shirt. “Just… from inside a bedroom window right now." You leaned in closer, lowering your voice just enough to make it look intimate, like you were sharing something private instead of tracking his every movement.

“Relax your shoulders,” you murmured.

He huffed softly—almost a laugh, almost something else—and adjusted just slightly, his grip tightening at your lower back like he was settling into the role instead of fighting it.

A beat passed between you—quick, sharp, charged—and then he leaned in closer, his mouth ghosting just along your temple.

“Storm’s our out,” he whispered. “We gotta go.”

“Come on,” you said, tugging gently at his shirt, turning your body into his as thunder cracked loud enough to rattle the windows. “I am not ruining my hair for this.”

“Tragic,” he murmured, letting you pull him toward the back hallway.

The rain hit hard the second you stepped out of the main room—heavy, sudden, loud enough to drown out most of the noise behind you. The narrow corridor smelled like damp wood and cheap liquor, dimly lit and barely used.

Perfect.

Your hand stayed fisted in his shirt as you stumbled slightly—just enough to sell it—as he caught you, his arm tightening instinctively around your waist.

“Careful, sweetheart.” he said, louder now, for anyone who might still be listening. “You’re gonna slip.”

The back door burst open under his hand.

Rain poured down in sheets, warm and relentless, soaking the edges of your skirt instantly as you both stepped out into the alley behind the cantina.

Steve looked around to make sure no one followed, he kept you closer than necessary as you moved, your bodies angled into each other like you were shielding yourselves from the storm instead of disappearing into it.

One block, then another, until you were far away and safe in the back alley of the Sofitel. Your clothes were soaked, as were his, your shirt basically see through, you kept moving, pulling him down the short hallway and into the first unlocked door you found—some storage room or unused guest space, it didn’t matter.

The door shut behind you with a soft click. Steve walked in last, and you didn't put distance between you two, though right now looking at him through wet lashes you wish you did.

His eyes reflected the gloomy sky outside, his lips were pink and plump, and you felt yourself being drawn closer and closer to him, as did he. 

The storm outside cracked again, lightning flashing briefly through the thin curtains, illuminating the space in stark white for half a second, loud thunder taking you out of your trance, Steve jerking away like he was burned. 

"I, uh… I think we lost them." Your voice was shaky and unsure. 

“Not bad,” he added, quieter now, his eyes flicking over your face like he was reassessing something.

You scoffed lightly. “High praise.”

PRESENT

“Fireworks are about to start,” someone called from across the yard.

And just like that, the moment broke, and your attentions turned to the mission at hand: while everyone is distracted, get into Fisk's office and copy all of his intel. 

Steve leaned down slightly as people shifted away in the direction of the fireworks, his lips brushing near your ear, voice low. “You’re laying it on thick.”

“Am I?” you murmured back, sly smirk playing on your lips.

“A little.”

You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. "You should go for the office. I'll keep watch."

Steve looked at you like he wanted to say something, but nodded and snuck away, your eyes immediately making sure all persons of interest were accounted for and not in the office. 

The party swelled around you.

Fireworks cracked overhead in bursts of red and gold, laughter spilling across Fisk’s perfectly manicured lawn, glasses clinking, music humming low beneath it all.

Steve had been gone for about five minutes when you noticed Dex was gone mid conversation with Claire and her husband Matthew. You saw the little flop of blonde hair make its way into the house and your blood ran cold. 

Steve.

“I’m gonna grab another drink,” you said lightly, lifting your empty glass as proof, bee-lining up the stairs on the porch and to the kitchen. 

You moved like you weren’t tracking footsteps that weren’t yours, counting seconds, mapping distance in your head.

You slipped inside through the side door, heels soft against polished floors, your breath steady even as your pulse kicked harder.

You moved faster, turning the corner just in time to see the office door slightly ajar, light spilling out onto the hallway, and footsteps approaching from the opposite direction.

You pushed the door open and slipped inside, Steve standing by the big mahogany table with a thumbdrive pluggesd into the desktop, downloading everything.

“What—”

“Dex,” you cut him off, already crossing the room. “Coming.” His expression shifted instantly, worry, anxiety, combat. 

A shadow passed the crack of the door and you closed the distance between you, pushing yourself to sit on top of the table and pulled Steve to stand between your legs. Your hands grabbed his shirt, yanking him down toward you hard enough to make him stumble.

He exhaled harshly the second your lips touched, tasting the vanilla macadamia flavor of your lipgloss. Your tongue licked into his mouth and one of his hands found the plane of your back, the other bracing against the desk behind you as he backed you further into it, the impact soft but enough to sell it.

“Mm—” you exhaled softly, the sound slipping out before you could stop it.

Your fingers thread through his hair as you sighed against him, losing yourself in the cedarwood of his cologne, the taste of beer on his tongue, and— 

The door creaked open lgithly with someone's breathy "oh." coming through at the sight.

You didn't pull away, didn't even flinch. If anything, you leaned in more, your body pressing fully into his, your mouth lingering just long enough to make the moment undeniable.

You heard a the sound of someone clearing their throat, and that made both of you break apart. Your lips brushed his once more before you turned your head, like you’d just noticed her. “Oh—” you said, a little breathless, but smiling.

“Sharon,” your eyes widened slightly when you looked behind you, a flush creeping into your expression like you’d been caught.

Her gaze drifted from his hands on you to the hem of your summer dress, pulled up and draped high on your thighs, then up to your hands in his hair and Steve's face — his expression a mix of very confused, flustered, and fucked out. 

Steve cleared his throat, stepping back just slightly, like he was trying to recover something that had already slipped.

“We were just—”

“—busy,” you finished easily, sliding off the desk but not moving far from him.

“…right,” she said after a second, her lips pressing into something that wasn’t quite a smile. "Well, enjoy the, uh… the party."

You stifled a laugh, biting your lip, as she walked away leaving the door open behind her. You hopped off the desk as Steve got his brain working again. 

“What the hell was that?” His voice cut through it, low and sharp.

You shrugged. "Saved your ass, you're welcome." You smoothed the hem of your dress against your thighs and walked around the desk, making your way out the door as Steve hushedly called out for you, swiming the thumb drive into his pocket before following you out of the house. 

Your heels hit the pavement in sharp, even beats, your jaw locked, your eyes fixed straight ahead like if you didn’t look back, he wouldn’t follow.

Fuck him and his long legs that caught up to you as soon as you reached your lawn. 

You stormed into your kitchen, pushing the door closed quicky to slam it behind you, but making it hit Steve on the shoulder as he crowded the space behind you. “Hey—” he pushed still, stepping closer. “No, seriously. What was that?”

You still gave him nothing, your jaw tightened. You stood with your back to the kitchen island, fingers gripping the marble, biting your own cheek. Your gaze stayed anywhere but him.

“That wasn’t about getting caught,” he said. “You knew she—” Then it seemed to dawn on him.  “You kissed me to make her jealous.” His voice was incredulous, almost like he solved a decade long mystery right then and there. "You were jealous."

You scoffed, still not meeting his eye. "Jealous? Over you? Plea—"

He crowded you even more now, bending down to look for your gaze and force you to meet his, sly smile playing on his lips. "You were jealous."

You huffed, finally looking into his eyes, sunlight playing on his face making the blue just a tad lighter. Steve had his bottom lip trapped between his teeth, almost waiting for a response from you. 

For what it felt like a second and a day all at once, your brain went numb. 

And then your hands were on each side of his face, bringing his lips to crash into yours. 

Steve's lips were warm against your mouth in the same way they were minutes ago. He stepped forward, towering over you making you tilt your head up to keep the kiss going, his hands grabbing your hips as he pressed you against the counter. 

He licked into your mouth and your hands fell to the nape of his neck, his shoulders, and finally his arms.

Steve leaned over, pushing you back further, until you had no more oxygen to burn in your lungs and you broke the kiss, making him kiss your jaw, below your ear, and down your neck. "You had no reason to be jealous, you know."

He grinded his hips against yours, letting you feel the length of him hardening by the minute. "'M not jealous." You felt underwater, dizzy, borderline having fuzzies in your vision. 

Steve chuckled against your neck, the warm breath making shivers run down your spine, his hands dropping to graze outside of your thighs. "Mmhmm." His right hand brushed over your thigh and made it way to your core, tickling the skin of your inner thigh. 

His fingers quickly found the wet spot on the front of your underwear, kissing his way back towards your lips. When he pressed deep circled into it, he felt you sigh into his mouth.

"Steve… People might see…"

"Don't care" he pressed his fingers harder, until your hips were bucking to get more friction, and you were whining against him. Words came muffled against your mouth. "Not jealous, huh? Didn't want me a single bit, right?"

You scoffed despite youself, "You're the one that came into your pants the other day." 

That did it. 

Skin to skin. His rough fingers sliding through your soaked slit, dragging your arousal across your folds, teasing you right at the entrance. You broke off mid-sentence, a soft whimper catching in your throat.

His thumb easily found your clit, and one of your hands squeezed around his bicep while the other pulled at the hair at the nape of his neck, your moans getting breathier and breathier by the minute.

His fingers thrusted in and out of you bringing you to an edge so close you could taste it, letting out little pants by the crook of his neck, inflating Steve's ego, making more blood rush south. "Wanna try that again?"

He curled them just right, your slick coating his knuckles as your hips twitched against his hand.

Your head fell back, lips parting on a desperate moan. "N-not jealous…" through gritted teeth, making him click his tongue. 

"Suit yourself." And just like that, his fingers were gone, slick mess on your thighs and an unsatisfied beast inside of you.

"Steve, what the—"

He pulled away the slightest bit and bent down, lacing his arm around your legs and throwing you over his shoulder, walking away in the direction of the stairs.

Steve nudged your bedroom door open once you got upstairs and flopped you down on the bed, making you bounce on the mattress.

He hovered over you, settling between your legs and rubbing the heat of him against you, while one if his hands snuck to the back of your dress and pulled the zipper down. He pulled the clothing item down your body as he kissed the same path, and soon you were only in his shirt and a thong.

Your legs opened to accommodate him further, thighs falling to your sides, and he slotted himself chest to mattress, lips barely an inch away from your pussy. Steve kissed your inner thigh once, then again, and your fingers threaded through his hair. 

"She's wetter than that night," He spoke softly, but his voice had a dark tone to it, blue eyes staring up at you. "Can't blame me from coming in my boxers when," and a bite to your flesh. "you were grinding a wet spot onto me, honey."

Fuck him and that nickname. 

His middle finger came to curl beyond the hem, pulling the sticky wet fabric down your thighs, and both of his thumbs spread your lips, watching your hole clench around nothing. 

His gaze once again reached yours, almost asking for permission. 

You didn't seem to be able to find it in you to say anything, not a single word but a quiet "Please." leaving your lips. 

The second his tongue touched your slit, you were all the way back in that mission in Colombia. Wet, horny, and almost begging him.

At the first taste of you, one would think Steve got possessed, quickly settling further into the mattress and wrapping his arms around your thighs, holding them open. "F-fuck, Steve—"

He groaned against you, the vibration going through you like electricity through water. His tongue traced your entrance, nose nudging your clit, and your back arched off the bed slightly, pushing your hips closer to his face.

Steve's fingers pressed against the tops of your thighs with bruising strength, not that you minded. 

Not at all. 

He licked zigzag patterens up and down your slit, and then would circle your clit with his tongue, sucking the nerves into his mouth and flicking it. "O-oh my God."

He chuckled into you, "Stop squirming." 

Like you could help it. Like it was your damn fault he let Sharon touch him and flirt with him and all but forced you to make sure everyone bought this sham of a marriage. 

"Easier— fuck me, easier said than done, Rogers." Your nails scratched deeper into his scalp.

Steve angled his head differently so he could tense his tongue and fuck you while his thumb moved from your thigh to rub quick circles onto your clit. 

Your thighs closed around his head, eyes squeezing shut as you heard him breathe heavy against you. Steve's other hand landed on your breast, kneading the skin there, pinching and pulling a nipple drawing a mewl out of you. 

"Steve, Steve, I'm— fuck, I'm gonna—"

You really shouldn't have told him, though he'd know you were close judging by the little flutters of your walls around his tongue. 

He pulled away harshly, chin slick and lips swollen, his hair a mess from you running your fingers through it. 

He stood by the foot of the bed, stripping down to nothing watching your dumbfounded fucked out expression. Your hair was matted, your nipples were hard, and there was a wet spot on the white comforter under you. 

In front of you, though, stood 230lbs of pure, unadultered, perfectly sculped by God, blond 100% American Prime Steve Rogers. 

Standing naked, tall, thick and proud.

And hard.

Your mouth salivated at the sight, looking at the leaking head of him appear and disappear inside his fist with each slick stroke he gave himself. Steve caught your ankle with his other hand, and pulled you to the edge of the bed, your toes touching the soft carpet of the bedroom.

He turned you around, fingers gripping the linen of his shirt you had on, dragging it down your arms but not over your wrists, twisting the fabric around his own fist. 

And just like that, you were face and shoulders down on the mattress with your wrists tied behind you, feeling him rub the head of his cock up and down your puffy slit, coating himself in your wetness. 

Steve heard a muffled whine from you, any words being impacted by the fabric of the bedding, "What was that, sweetheart?" He leaned over you, the tip of him notching just a smidge further. 

You turned your head to the side. "Steve, please…"

He clicked his tongue again. "No, you didn't want me, remember? Think I shouldn't even be doing this to you."

He motioned to pull out and you whined louder. "She— she was all o-over you…" Tears pricked your eyes from the pressure in your chest, from the ache between your legs, from the desperation of being kept at the edge. 

“Steve, please put it in…”

"Yeah?" He gave you the cue to keep going, pushing in unbearably slow and barely any. 

You nodded against the mattress. "Pissed me off." You gulped. "Please, please don't leave me like this…"

"All you had to do was stop being such a brat about it."

And then he thrust in enough to knock the air out of your lungs. The squelch of his cock pushing into you was obscene. And in your mind every inch he pushed after that thrust had one though going through your head:

There's more?!

"Oh God…"

That made Steve chuckle. "Just me, baby."

"Is— is it all in?" Your voice trembled, and if you had a mirror you'd see Steve's evil smirk as he dragged your wrists down to where your bodies connected, arching your back and hurting you with the stretch, only to wrap your delicate hands around what was left of him.

"Barely half." He grunted.

You whimpered, both in fear and anticipation, and Steve took the queue to push the rest of the way through, until your hand was flat on his pelvis, and then he let you rest against the mattress again. 

"So fucking good." He gave a couple tentative thrusts. "Can feel you gripping me like you don't wanna let me go."

You moaned at the feel of him hitting that sweet spot inside of you, making your eyes roll. "So— hah! Good, Steve…"

After he felt your pussy get used to the size of him, that when he really stopped playing nice. 

You could feel every ridge of him, every vein, the length of him pulsing and pulsing inside of you, throbbing against the spongy spot that made you see stars.

“Steve, please, please let me—“

Another harsh thrust interrupted you. “Tell me the truth then.”

You whimpered. The bastard was really going to make you admit it.

As you tried to think through it, brainless as you were, he slowed down, and down, until you could feel the pulse of his cock inside of you just as he could feel your walls flutter around him.

You whimpered, cheeks blushing at the thought. “I was jealous! I was jealous, okay?!” You pushed your hips into him, chasing friction harder, deeper.

“She thought she could have you and— and—“ He picked up the pace, your brain mush as your neck strained to keep your voice from being muffled. “And you’re my— Oh— oh my God!”

“Yeah?” Steve leaned over you, fingers finding your clit with ease. “I’m your what?”

You could cry. You could cry right no— oh you had tears streaming from your eyes onto the bedding. “Steve…”

His eyes rolled to the back of his head.

“That’s right, I’m your Steve.” His fingers picked up speed as did his hips, lips kissing your shoulder blade. “Come for me, pretty girl. Come all over my cock.”

“Mmmmngghhh—“ your vision went white, your body clenching tight around him and pulsing, as your moans got drowned out outside by the fireworks still going.

Steve slammed his hips deeper into you, to the point of almost painful, muttering curse words in sequence of “fuck, fuck, fuck.” until you felt him spill thick ropes of cum inside of you, filling you up until it dripped onto the floor.

As you both caught your breaths, you heard the wet schlick of him pulling out, dropping himself on the bed with a bounce.

After a minute, you spoke. "There's gonna be so much paperwork to explain all this..."

He looked at an imaginary watch on his wrist, turning to you with that boyish smile of his, sheen coat of sweat on his chest and hairline. “Got time for a couple more rounds before all that. You tapped out?”

You smirked at him, using your arms to push yourself up, hands on his chest for leverage as you straddled him, slick pussy on top of his hardening cock.

“I could do this all day, Cap.”

final thoughts: this started as me and Maddie just thirsting over the shower scene, and then... yeah... heh

🥯 glazed donut taglist: @earthsmightiestbenders @love-stucky @epiphanyrogers @pinksplace @chateaubarnes @tw1sters @avgdestitute @allthingswickedpodcast @supercoolswagicornxd

[i-love-ptv]

this was a gift from heaven’s gates.

[80sfilmclub]

battle of the boyscouts.

summary on a professional level, superman respects steve rogers in a way any other hero would. on a personal level, clark would highly appreciate steve keeping away from you, his fiance. content warnings fluff. jealous!clark x meta-human!reader. steve is sweet but he loves causing drama, a habit he adopted from nat. avengers all call reader 'kid'. notes this is sososo impulsive, i don't know where i'm taking this but i hope you enjoy this 4th of july special!

—

"sweetheart, i got it."

"i know you do, honey, but the people of new york are observant. they'll either think you're another super soldier or—"

clark sets down the insane amount of luggage in his arms at your knowing gaze, arms crossed as the cab driver that had just dropped the both of you off at the cozy cabin near upstate new york gawks at your fiance.

the cab driver hedges forward. "is he...?"

you shake your head with a firm press of your lips. "nope. my fiance's just from kansas. farm boy muscles and all that." while it looks like the cabbie doesn't really believe you, you've got that edge that all new yorkers never really shed so the man nods and drives off.

with no witnesses, clark lifts all of your luggage to bring inside without breaking a sweat. you sigh as you contemplate the chaos that'll most likely ensue at the avengers compound for the fourth of july weekend.

—

a month ago, natasha romanoff had arrived in your tiny box of an apartment in metropolis without even a text of warning. it would've been something you appreciated since clark had you on your kitchen counter, gently pressing you with a hungry kiss against the overhead cabinets as dinner burned on the stove. his broad frame was settled nicely between your thighs, his lips gliding down your jaw and neck before the apartment door swings open as if the intruder had a key—

"whoops. didn't know you had company."

you gasped and peeked over clark's shoulder who instinctively tried to shield you from natasha in all her sardonic glory. "nat—?!" you had wriggled away despite clark's insistence, ducking beneath his strong arm to meet your friend in your living room. "what are you doing here? is everything okay—"

"everything's fine," nat had cut in, her sharp gaze taking in clark behind you who looks more like guard dog than protective fiance at the moment. "i just wanted to drop in. i should've called though, that was on me…"

warmth bleeds into your back when clark had stepped forward, a silent wall of support behind you. he's not unaware of your past, of your healing powers that pulled you into nick fury's orbit. while you were never made into an avenger, you were the support they all needed whether it was to be healed or just to be around someone normal. it was about a couple years ago that you finally left new york, starting fresh in metropolis as a nurse. steve had been kind enough to help the move in process a lot more smooth than it would've been alone.

"um— sorry. nat, this is clark kent, my fiance. clark, this is nat, one of my closest friends from new york although i'm rescinding that title after her break in tonight," you sigh as you wave a hand between both.

clark's still a gentleman through and through, even in the face of superspies that like to cross boundaries, and shakes nat's hand before his hand returns to your waist. "what's the occasion?"

"tony's throwing a fourth of july-slash-steve's-birthday weekend barbecue, thought our favorite nurse would like to come," nat smiles. "you can bring superman over here."

clark chokes on his spit. "i— what? i'm not— no, he's—"

you pat his chest. "honey, nat knows everything, it's literally her job. don't worry, your secret's safe with her. and i don't know, clark and i were gonna just stay in."

"sounds like fun," he cuts in and that little smile, dimple and all, knows you're about to lose this one. "i haven't gotten the chance to meet your friends, sweetheart."

every argument you have dies in the face of your fiance's eager expression and you sigh quietly to meet natasha's triumphant little grin. "yeah, okay. we'll be there. is it at the compound?"

"yeah, there's your usual room—"

"no, clark and i wouldn't wanna intrude. we'll find an airbnb or something." there's an edge to your tone that leaves no room for negotiation and natasha has enough sense to back off, nodding as she starts to head out.

when the door shuts, you groan into clark's chest who rumbles in sweet amusement as he rubs your back. "superman meeting the avengers… what can go wrong."

—

a lot of things went wrong upon entering the cabin. for one, there aren't any furniture. two, there isn't any running water. frustration begins to build but before it can erupt out of you, clark's cupping your cheek to kiss your forehead and your phone starts to ring.

"stark."

"hey, kid. don't be stubborn and bring supes on over to the compound, your room's all ready for you."

"i hate you, tony."

"no, you don't. although this confirmed my theory."

you pause. "what theory?"

"you got a thing for goody two shoes. tell me— does kent say 'language' during your rated-r rants?"

you hang up the call, cutting off tony's obnoxious laughter on the other end.

—

now that the both of you are on avengers' property, your privacy is all but secured against the general public so clark had seen no issue in just flying you and your luggage over. it's a bit unsettling to see him fly in his civilian clothes but you cling to him all the same, carried bridal style while the luggage hang from his hands. you aren't sure how he isn't losing his grip but you land in the open bay where natasha and steve is waiting to greet the both of you.

the luggage are set down first, clark still hovering and once his hands are free, his feet land with you still securely in his arms. "clark?" you prompt and your adorable, beefcake of a fiance startles as he reluctantly sets you down while nat and steve approach.

"miss romanoff," clark tips his head in polite greeting but then his voice drops slightly, taking on the 'superman' voice when he turns to steve. "captain, happy birthday."

"thank you, superman," steve greets as he offers his hand. clark takes it with a solid 'clap' and a firm shake. your eyes flitter between each of them in slight anticipation because in this moment, it isn't superman and captain america facing off.

it's clark kent and steve rogers with you caught right in the middle.

something lights up in natasha's eyes and you suddenly fear for the weekend ahead.

—

fortunately, the main living space of the compound is cleared of any superheroes in favor of setting up for the outside where the main party's happening. it leaves you and clark the space to settle in and when you step in your old room, nostalgia feels like a punch to the gut.

it's still the open space layout as before, patterned after a luxury studio apartment with your own mini kitchenette. cold and impersonal for the first few minutes of stepping in but then clark walks past you to set your luggage in, his large frame somehow bringing light to the place you could barely call home. when he turns to you, gives you that smile that you've fallen so hard for, it feels like you're back in metropolis. "what?"

you shake your head with a smile, step into clark's space and giggle at the blush that he never can tamp down when you're near, and kiss his dimple. "nothing. i just love you."

"love you too, honey."

—

after changing into something more comfortable (and doesn't smell like plane) over your bathing suits, you and clark walk hand in hand towards the noise that crests and wanes from the other side of the compound. where there had been an open field meant for training (specifically for any flight simulations or volatile powers that should not be indoors), it's been fashioned into an americana-esque backyard with an actual inlaid pool.

"what the— when did you guys install a pool?" you gape at the giant, bean-shaped pool complete with a patio and a giant cabana built above it. beside it is a familiar face manning the grill.

tony flicks his sunglasses down to peer at you above them. "a week ago. had to go all out for dear ol' cap's birthday. nice of you to join us, sweet cheeks. you gonna introduce us to your hunk of a man?"

your eyes roll but the pride in your smile is undeniable as you bring clark forward. "everyone, this is clark kent. my fiance."

an impressed whistle escapes from rhodey who tips a beer up in salute towards you. "nice rock, kid." he gives a nod to clark next. "you did good."

"gosh, thanks." clark says, rubs his neck in that sheepish way that you've found endearing every time you see it. however, it has the rest of the avengers staring in utter befuddlement. tony mouths 'gosh' in emphasis to bruce who waves his judgement away.

"cap, you got someone out for your title for boyscout," tony crows happily as he flips a patty with ease. steve, who has been lounging beneath the shade with his own lemonade, looks up from his conversation with clint and laura. when his eyes find yours then clark's, something unnameable passes through his eyes before he's striding to his feet. all six foot two of him.

clark straightens his posture. all six foot four of him.

immediately, your eyes roll. "i'm going to go say hi to the girls. you two? behave."

"honey—" clark splutters but his priority will always be you so he concedes, quietly takes the offered glass of lemonade from steve before he attempts to play nice. if he can keep civil with steve lombard at work, he can be the nicest guy in town for the super soldier that may as well be an ex with how his eyes follow you.

—

to his credit, clark gets along well with all of your friends from new york. tony's crass but he's got a heart of gold with his closest circle of friends. bruce and clint had teased him the least about his midwestern countenance while laura had been interested in his career as a journalist and as a superhero. natasha had been very impressed with his ability to juggle his secret identity on top of everything.

"so how'd she find out about your other identity?" rhodey asks later on as the two of them sit at the chaises by the pool. clark is polite but his eyes cut to you occasionally where you're splashing in the shallow end with laura and clint's kids, your laughter providing a soothing background to the chaos of tony and bruce arguing over what music to play.

"ah, well. i was fighting an imp with the justice gang, should've been an easy fight but it was evening and i'm not really at my strongest at that time. i fell on her roof and she was there reading. she… healed me." a besotted smile grows on his lips. "the day after that, she ran into me as clark but i didn't realize my biology had been something she could sense. she pulled me into an alley and just asked if i healed right."

rhodey laughs quietly. "she's a little spitfire, ain't she?"

"i wouldn't have it any other way," clark muses. the both of them turn their attention to you, nearly missing the way tony hits the top of the grill with his tongs to call out—

"soup's on!" he hollers as he gestures to the cheeseburgers laid out to the table beside him. clark gets to his feet, ready to serve you, except—

"got all your favorite fixin's," steve cuts in, that boyish half grin that's made nearly all of america swoon, as he offers you a plate. with clark's heightened vision, something ugly turns with indignance that steve did get all your favorites.

but clark will not be beat so he rushes over to the coolers, pulls out your favorite drink, and all but flies over to offer it to you. "can't forget your usual, honey," he smiles sweetly, popping the tab for you and everything. you're still halfway out the pool, one foot out and on the edge with the other still in the water, with both men offering you a plate and a drink.

"thanks, guys… mind if i dry off first?"

you carefully sidestep away from both of them, refusing to enable or participate this odd dick-measuring contest they've started. once you've dried off, you settle into an available chaise and nearly startles when steve and clark kneel on either side of you. you could barely get a word in as captain america himself carefully sets the plate down on the small table beside you and your darling fiance adds in a straw as well.

"okay, both of you shoo—" you wave them off. "seriously. i know both of you, you two can eat tony out of all of his homes so go. you must be starving."

when both men trudge off, natasha takes their place but she's got enough sense to at least wait for you to take a few bites of your food before she starts.

"you know, it's kinda cute."

"don't you start, nat."

"no, no. it is! you got america's heroes fighting for your attention like overgrown puppies. it's cute."

your eyes narrow. "… you know something."

she zips up her lips before she dives into the pool, effortless without making a splash.

you huff goodnaturedly. "show-off."

—

"come on, you two. nathan, lila, out of the pool." clint claps his hands to grab his two youngests' attention. the sun's setting behind him and even you can't deny there's a slight chill beginning to settle in.

you nod and raise your arms slightly with the intent to herd the little ones out. "you two heard your dad, let's head out. if the grown-ups say yes, we can get some s'mores started, maybe set up some lights like a campfire… what do you say?"

that gets them out and when clint gives you a thankful grin, you wave him off before padding out to clark where he's already got your towel out. "thanks, baby," you smile as he wraps it around you, bundling you into his arms to press a soft kiss to your lips.

behind your back, steve stands with a fresh towel and clark fights the urge to stick his tongue out at him. no, that'd be very immature of him.

—

despite the chill that's threatened to drive the party indoors, tony gets a bonfire started in a fire pit he had dug out from the giant warehouse storage along with some string lights from a box labeled 'christmas?'.

the kids are drawn up in a tizzy at the thought of having christmas in july, their little hands diving into the box with the sole intent of decorating the giant cabana. you're in the middle of it all, helping them all detangle the wires while tony's sent back inside to look for an extension cord of all things.

"hold on, sweetheart," you laugh as nathan tries to climb your back while you draw yourself back to your feet, watching as his little arms try to reach up and hook the lights up. in the corner of your eye, steve approaches your periphery, hands nearly raised as if he's got the intention to lift you by your hips but—

clark's hands find you first, his chest brushing against your back. "i got you, honey," he murmurs in your ear before giving nathan a little grin. you feel his strong grip brace your waist, firm but not uncomfortable, and lift you high.

then… lifts you higher.

you turn your head to see clark levitating to help you hook the lights up at eye-level. nathan gasps in excitement and nearly drops the lights in his own hand. "oops— careful, buddy," you chuckle as you hand back the wire.

"me next, me next!" lila squeals from below and you laugh as clark does as asked, nathan reluctantly set down for you to carry his older sister next while clark lifts you back up with ease.

by the time the entire cabana's decorated, the kids are returned safely to their parents.

"that was nice of you," steve hums to clark once the two of you are back on solid ground, offering two s'mores on a plate.

clark takes it, almost wary, but he sees something you don't and his spine relaxes imperceptibly. "thank you," he murmurs while he places a warm hand at the base of your spine. steve nods his head and when he turns to you, he ruffles your head.

"be good, kid," he tells you instead before he walks off.

—

although tony had intended steve's intention to be an absolute rager, it still turned out to be a family-friendly event. something that steve had been banking on.

"kid just landed," tony had remarked earlier, the both of them setting up the cabana after FRIDAY had updated him on your flight status. "you gonna say something?"

steve just chuckles to himself, readjusting the stability of the cabana's legs. "tony, i don't know how many times i have to say this. nothing ever happened between me and her."

tony's eyes roll. "i know. you two cost me $300 because of it, by the way."

"serves you right for betting on your friends' love lives, stark."

"yeah, yeah, whatever. but back to the question at hand— have you met her fiance?"

"superman? i don't know him personally, but he seems like a good man, someone good for her," steve shrugs, unsure of what tony's getting at.

"hm. sure, the media definitely paints him that way," tony says. "but as her closest friends and honestly— the closest thing she has to a family— we need to make sure he's good for her."

steve pauses for a moment, gives his friend a sidelong glance. "what do you have in mind?"

"easy." both men startle at the sudden appearance of one natasha romanoff. "make him jealous. see how he reacts when steve moves in on her, it'd be enough to see his true colors."

tony snaps his fingers. "operation: battle of the boyscouts is a go."

"… i resent that name."

—

on the morning of july fifth, the avengers compound is the ultimate postcard of serenity. sun's sitting high, a gentle breeze wafting through to carry in the scent of nature. a butterfly settles upon a blooming flower bud—

"ANTHONY EDWARD STARK."

your shrill voice cuts through the peace. the butterfly flies off.

"you tried making my fiance jealous for some inane dick-measuring contest for your own fucking entertainment—?!"

"language."

"language, sweetheart."

steve and clark share a surprised glance and right as they're about to exchange a little chuckle, maybe even bro it out with a fist bump in their matching flannel pajamas, you direct your glare to the both of them.

without a word, steve backs out with a sheepish grin while clark approaches to give you an apologetic kiss to your forehead.

"it's a habit, i'm sorry," he mutters against your hair and despite tony's stupid games, you melt in your fiance's arms. "i love you."

"i love you too, sweetie." tony takes the chance to inch away as you decompress in clark's arms but you huff against his chest. "clark, i'm gonna kill him."

"... it wouldn't be very 'superman' of me to let you get away with murder, honey."

thank you for reading! likes and reblogs and comments are highly appreciated!

[i-love-ptv]

this was so good i need 100 more

[i-love-ptv]

guys send john logan n dean di laurentis requests NEOW

[pucksandpower]

civic duty

Dean Di Laurentis x Reader

Summary: Dean has never met a problem he couldn’t charm his way out of or a woman he couldn’t leave completely satisfied. So when he overhears a football player publicly blame you for his own failures in bed, Dean does the only logical thing: he shows up at your doorstep with a duffel bag full of toys and a mission

Warnings: 18+ content

The crisp March wind whips across the Briar University quad, but Dean hardly feels the chill. He’s running on four hours of sleep, a triple-shot espresso, and the lingering high of a weekend well spent.

“I’m just saying,” Garrett says, adjusting the strap of his duffel bag over his shoulder. “If Coach makes us bag skate again tomorrow, I’m staging a full-team mutiny. I’m not doing it.”

Logan snorts. “You love bag skates.”

“I tolerate bag skates,” Garrett corrects him. “There’s a massive difference.”

“You’re both whining,” Tucker chimes in, his steady southern drawl a stark contrast to Garrett’s rapid-fire complaining. “Just put your heads down and skate.”

Dean grins, walking backward for a few steps so he can face his teammates. “Tuck’s right. It’s all about pacing, boys. Stamina. You can’t blow all your energy in the first period. You have to finesse it. Read the ice. Just like with a woman.”

Beau, walking beside Dean, rolls his eyes and shoves Dean’s shoulder. “Jesus, Di Laurentis. Does everything come back to your sex life?”

“When it’s as spectacular as mine?” Dean winks. “Yeah. It does.”

He isn’t trying to be an arrogant prick. It’s just the truth. Dean loves women. He loves the way they look, the way they smell, the way they sound when he’s doing things right. He grew up surrounded by affection — two powerhouse attorney parents who actually love each other, a sprawling maternal family with a business empire, and a childhood free of the usual rich-kid neuroses. He knows how lucky he is. And he believes in sharing the wealth. Specifically, by ensuring that any woman lucky enough to end up in his bed leaves it thoroughly, exhaustingly satisfied.

“Who was it this weekend?” Logan asks, kicking a stray pebble across the pavement. “Wait, don’t tell me. The blonde from the Gamma Gamma party?”

“Her name is Tori,” Dean says easily. “And she’s a delight. Highly recommend her taste in music. Terrible taste in breakfast food, though. Who orders egg whites and no bacon? It’s a crime against mornings.”

“You bought her breakfast?” Beau asks, raising an eyebrow.

“I always buy them breakfast.” Dean turns back around, matching his stride to the rest of the guys. “It’s called manners, Beau. You should try it sometime. Instead of just throwing a football at people.”

“I’m a quarterback,” Beau says defensively. “Throwing a football is literally my job description.”

“Yeah, well, my job description is making sure everyone leaves happy.”

They turn the corner near the student union. The quad is packed with bodies hurrying between afternoon classes, a sea of Briar U hoodies and overpriced coffee cups.

Up ahead, leaning against the low brick wall near the fountain, are two guys wearing Briar football jackets.

Beau groans under his breath. “Oh, great. It’s McMahon.”

“Who?” Tucker asks.

“Wide receiver,” Beau mutters. “Hands made of stone, ego the size of Rhode Island. Don’t look at him, or he’ll start complaining to me about his target share.”

Dean has no interest in football politics, so he keeps his eyes straight ahead. They’re about to walk past the two guys when McMahon’s voice carries over the noise of the quad. It’s loud. Too loud. The kind of loud a guy uses when he wants everyone around him to know he’s talking.

“I had to dump her, man,” McMahon is saying to his buddy, a sneer clear in his voice. “Total waste of my time.”

“Yeah?” The other guy asks.

“Oh, absolutely. I’m telling you, she’s a frigid bitch.”

Dean slows his steps. Next to him, Garrett stiffens.

McMahon laughs, a harsh, grating sound. “I put in the work, you know? But nothing. Swear to God, she just laid there. Something must genuinely be wrong with her. She can never cum.”

Dean stops walking completely.

Beau takes two more steps before realizing Dean isn’t beside him. He turns around. “Dean. Come on. Don’t.”

“Did you hear what he just said?” Dean asks, his voice dropping low. All the playful ease from a moment ago evaporates.

“I heard it,” Logan says, his expression tightening. “The guy’s a class-A douchebag. Let’s keep moving.”

“He just announced to half the quad that he couldn’t get a girl off,” Dean says, staring at the back of McMahon’s head. “And he blamed her.”

“Dean,” Tucker says, stepping into Dean’s line of sight. “Not our circus. Not our monkeys.”

“It is an insult to womankind,” Dean says. He isn’t joking. His chest actually feels tight with genuine indignation. “A crime. A travesty.”

“It’s a wide receiver with a fragile ego,” Beau says, grabbing Dean’s elbow. “Leave it alone.”

Dean shrugs off Beau’s hand. He isn’t going to start a brawl in the middle of the quad, he has no interest in getting suspended for the next five games. But the sheer audacity of it is ringing in his ears.

Something must genuinely be wrong with her.

No. Dean shakes his head. No, there is nothing wrong with you. He doesn’t even know who you are. He doesn’t know your face, or your laugh, or the way you look when you’re a mess in the sheets. But he knows, with absolute, unwavering certainty, that McMahon is an idiot.

“There’s no such thing as a frigid woman,” Dean says, his voice carrying just enough that McMahon’s conversation pauses. “Just lazy, incompetent guys who don’t know where the clit is.”

Silence drops over their immediate vicinity.

Garrett scrubs a hand over his face. “Jesus Christ.”

McMahon turns around, his face flushing dull red. He spots Beau first, then his eyes slide to Dean. “You got something to say, Di Laurentis?”

Dean slides his hands into the pockets of his jeans, rocking back on his heels. He gives McMahon a lazy, condescending smile. “Just offering some unsolicited biological facts, McMahon. Sounds like you need a tutor. Maybe a diagram.”

McMahon steps away from the brick wall, puffing his chest out. “Are you calling me incompetent?”

“I think you just called yourself incompetent, man,” Dean says smoothly. “Loudly. In public. I’m just agreeing with you.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” McMahon snaps. “You don’t know her.”

“I don’t need to know her,” Dean counters, his tone perfectly even. “I know anatomy. I know effort. If a girl doesn’t get off, it’s because you didn’t pay attention. You rushed it. You fumbled the play. Isn’t that what you guys call it? Fumbling?”

Beau winces. “Dean.”

McMahon takes a step forward, his fists clenching. “You think you’re so fucking funny.”

“I think I’m highly effective,” Dean corrects him. “And I think you should keep your bedroom failures to yourself instead of dragging a girl’s name through the mud because your fragile masculinity can’t handle the fact that you suck in bed.”

For a second, it looks like McMahon is going to swing. Dean shifts his weight, perfectly ready to slip the punch and drop the guy. He’s not a fighter by nature, but he’s a hockey player. It comes with the territory.

But Tucker steps in, his frame easily blocking McMahon’s path. “I think that’s about enough conversation for one afternoon,” Tucker says calmly. His tone is polite, but his eyes are flat.

McMahon glares at Tucker, then at Dean. He points a finger. “Watch your mouth, Di Laurentis.”

“Watch your form, McMahon,” Dean shoots back. “Maybe use two fingers next time. Or, God forbid, your tongue.”

Logan chokes on a laugh, quickly disguising it as a cough.

McMahon spits on the ground, turns, and shoves his way through the crowd, his buddy trailing awkwardly behind him.

Dean watches them go, his jaw tight.

“Well,” Garrett says after a moment. “That was diplomatic.”

“I hate guys like that,” Dean mutters, running a hand through his hair. “I really, genuinely hate them.”

“We know,” Beau sighs, clapping Dean on the back. “You’re the caped crusader of the female orgasm. We’re all very proud to know you. Can we go get food now? I’m starving.”

They resume their walk toward the dining hall, the tension slowly bleeding out of the group as Garrett and Logan pick up their argument about practice drills right where they left off.

But Dean is quiet. He tunes out the banter, his mind replaying McMahon’s harsh, dismissive words.

It’s just sloppy. It’s pathetic. Dean loves women too much to stand the thought of one being treated like a chore, or worse, a lost cause. Sex isn’t a race. It isn’t just about friction. It’s about connection, observation, communication. It’s about worshipping a body until it unravels for you.

He doesn’t know who you are. He doesn’t know what you’re doing right now. Maybe you’re sitting in a lecture, feeling insecure because some meathead wide receiver told you you were broken. Maybe you’re in your dorm room, crying over a guy who couldn’t even be bothered to figure out what you like.

Dean looks up at the crisp blue sky, mentally sending a prayer up to the universe.

“Dear Universe, please watch over this woman’s sadly neglected clitoris,” he thinks solemnly. “May it one day find someone who actually knows what they’re doing. Amen.”

He kicks a stray leaf on the sidewalk. It is a damn tragedy, that’s what it is. A tragedy that needs rectifying.

“Hey, Beau,” Dean says suddenly, interrupting whatever Tucker was saying.

Beau glances over. “Yeah?”

“Who did McMahon just break up with?”

Beau frowns, his steps slowing. “What? Why?”

“Just answer the question.”

“I don’t know, man. He dates around. I try not to keep track of his personal life. Why?” Beau squints at him. “Wait. No. Whatever you’re thinking, stop.”

“I’m not thinking anything,” Dean lies smoothly.

“You are. You have that look on your face.” Logan points a finger at him. “The ‘Dean is about to do something stupid’ look.”

“I resent that,” Dean says. “I don’t do stupid things.”

“You bought a jet ski on eBay at three in the morning last week,” Garrett points out.

“It was a steal, G. An absolute steal. You don’t understand economics.” Dean waves a hand dismissively. “Seriously, Beau. Does anyone know who she is?”

“Why do you care?” Tucker asks, amused.

“Because it’s an injustice,” Dean states flatly. “It is a cosmic wrong that needs to be righted. She’s probably out there right now, thinking she’s the problem, when the reality is she was just subjected to the sloppy, fumbling hands of a guy who treats sex like a two-minute drill.”

Beau groans, burying his face in his hands. “You’re not going to track this girl down, Dean.”

“I am absolutely going to track her down.”

“And do what?” Logan asks, laughing in disbelief.

Dean looks at his friends, entirely serious. “And give her the orgasm she’s been so cruelly denied. It’s my civic duty.”

“You’re insane,” Garrett says, though he’s grinning. “You are actually insane.”

“I’m a humanitarian,” Dean corrects him. “I’m giving back to the community.”

“You don’t even know her name,” Tucker says softly.

“I’ll find it out,” Dean promises. He glances back toward the direction McMahon disappeared.

He doesn’t know you yet. He doesn’t know if you’re blonde, brunette, tall, short, quiet, or loud. But he knows one thing for sure.

He is going to find you. He is going to ruin you for every other man on the planet. And he is going to make damn sure you never, ever think there is something wrong with you again.

***

The stale smell of pepperoni pizza and the frantic clicking of Xbox controllers fill the living room of the off-campus hockey house.

“Pass it, pass it, pass it,” Logan chants, mashing the buttons on his controller as he leans so far forward on the couch he’s practically sitting on the coffee table.

“I am passing it, you pylon,” Dean snaps back, his eyes glued to the television screen. “If you would get into position instead of skating around like a lost toddler-”

“I’m open!”

“You’re surrounded by both defensemen!”

“Shoot the damn puck!” Garrett yells from the armchair, throwing a piece of popcorn at Logan’s head. “You guys are an embarrassment to the sport. It’s a video game. It requires a fraction of the athletic ability we actually possess, and you’re still blowing it.”

“Shut up, Graham,” Dean and Logan say in unison.

On the screen, the buzzer blares. Game over. Logan groans and tosses his controller onto the cushions, dragging a hand down his face.

Dean exhales, leaning back and stretching his arms over his head. His shoulders pop. Normally, he’d be demanding a rematch, relentlessly trash-talking Logan until the guy agreed to play another round just to shut him up. But today, Dean isn’t feeling it. His head isn’t in the game. It hasn’t been in the game since they left the quad three hours ago.

He keeps replaying the conversation in his head. Or rather, the broadcast. That loudmouth wide receiver, McMahon, announcing to half the student body that the girl he was dating couldn’t get off.

It pisses Dean off. It genuinely, deeply aggravates him.

“You’re quiet,” Garrett notes, watching Dean from the armchair. “You won. Usually, you do a victory lap around the coffee table.”

“I’m conserving my energy,” Dean says, picking up his phone to check his notifications. Nothing interesting. Just a text from a girl in his sociology seminar and an email from his dad about spring break.

“He’s still thinking about his crusade,” Logan says, snagging a cold slice of pizza from the box on the table. “The caped crusader of the clitoris.”

“It’s not a crusade,” Dean says defensively. “It’s a matter of principle.”

“You don’t even know her,” Garrett points out, amused. “For all you know, McMahon was telling the truth.”

Dean glares at him. “Garrett. Look at me. Do I look like a man who accepts defeat in the bedroom?”

“You look like a man who spends too much time on his hair,” Garrett deadpans.

“My hair is flawless, and that is entirely besides the point,” Dean shoots back. “The point is, there is a fundamental lack of effort plaguing the male population of this campus. It’s an epidemic. Guys like McMahon treat sex like a race to the finish line, and then they have the audacity to blame the woman when she doesn’t cross it with them. It’s pathetic.”

Logan chews his pizza thoughtfully. “I mean, you’re not wrong. But you can’t save them all, man.”

“I don’t need to save them all,” Dean says, his voice dropping a fraction. “I just need to save this one.”

The front door swings open before Logan can reply, slamming against the wall with a loud thud.

Beau trudges into the house, looking like he just survived a minor war. He’s still wearing his gray Briar football sweatpants and a tight compression shirt that clings to his exhausted frame. He drops his massive gym bag onto the hardwood floor, kicks off his slides, and groans loudly.

“Practice?” Garrett asks sympathetically.

“Practice,” Beau confirms, shuffling into the living room and collapsing onto the empty space on the couch next to Dean. He smells faintly of artificial turf, sweat, and the sharp tang of Deep Relief muscle rub. “Coach made us run the stadium stairs. Twice. Because someone — who shall remain nameless, but his initials rhyme with DickMahon — kept dropping his routes during seven-on-sevens.”

Dean’s ears perk up. He turns to look at his best friend, his previous lethargy vanishing instantly. “McMahon?”

Beau closes his eyes and tips his head back against the couch cushions. “Don’t.”

“You were in the locker room with him,” Dean presses, shifting his body so he’s fully facing Beau. “Did you ask around?”

Beau keeps his eyes squeezed shut. “Dean, I am tired. My calves are screaming. I want a shower, a beer, and for you to stop looking at me with that deranged glint in your eye.”

“Tell me you found something out,” Dean says, ignoring every word Beau just said. “Tell me you didn’t spend two hours in a locker room full of gossiping linebackers and come back empty-handed.”

Beau sighs, a long, dramatic sound that ruffles his blonde hair. He slowly opens one eye, looking at Dean with a mixture of exhaustion and profound regret. “Do you want the good news or the bad news first?”

Dean’s heart actually kicks up a notch. He leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “Good news. Always start with the good news.”

Beau sits up a little, rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay. The good news is, I know who she is. I asked Howard, the backup tight end, because he knows everybody’s business. He told me who McMahon just dumped.”

“Who?” Dean demands.

“Her name is Y/N Y/L/N,” Beau says.

Dean processes the name. It suits you. It sounds smart, put-together. “And?”

“And,” Beau continues, “she’s not just some random girl. She’s a junior. Pre-law, I think. And she’s the president of the Delta Zeta sorority.”

Logan whistles low. “Delta Zeta? Those girls don’t mess around. That’s the house with the insane GPA requirement and the terrifying philanthropy events.”

Dean smiles, a slow, genuine curve of his lips. He likes this. He really likes this. A sorority president. That means you are organized. Driven. You probably walk around campus with a planner perfectly color-coded to match your outfits. You take charge, you handle responsibility, and you probably don’t take shit from anyone. Which makes it even more infuriating that a guy like McMahon made you feel inadequate.

“Y/N,” Dean says your name out loud, testing the syllables on his tongue. He likes the way it sounds. He likes the way it feels. “Okay. That’s excellent news. What’s the bad news?”

Beau hesitates. He looks away from Dean, glancing at Garrett and Logan, who are suddenly very invested in the conversation. Beau scrubs a hand over his jaw, looking distinctly uncomfortable.

“Spit it out, Beau,” Dean says, the smile fading from his face.

“The bad news,” Beau says slowly, “is that McMahon wasn’t the first guy to complain about her.”

The living room goes dead silent. The only sound is the low hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen.

Dean stares at him. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m just telling you what I heard,” Beau says defensively, holding his hands up in a placating gesture. “Howard started talking, and then a couple of the other guys chimed in. Apparently, she dated a guy on the lacrosse team last year. And before that, some dude from Kappa Sig.”

“And?” Dean prompts, his jaw tightening.

“And the grapevine says the same thing,” Beau mutters, looking at the floor. “Nobody has ever been able to make her cum. The lacrosse guy said she was completely unresponsive. The Kappa Sig guy said he tried for an hour and gave up. It’s … it’s a known thing, Dean. The guys in the locker room were joking that she’s cursed.”

Dean feels a cold, sharp spike of anger lodge itself right beneath his ribs.

He imagines you, standing in front of a mirror, wondering what’s wrong with you. He imagines the quiet humiliation of lying in bed while a guy sighs in frustration, rolls over, and goes to sleep. He imagines you carrying around a reputation you didn’t ask for, created by guys who are too incompetent to do their damn jobs.

It makes him want to punch a hole through the drywall.

“They were joking about it,” Dean repeats, his voice dangerously soft.

“Locker rooms are toxic,” Garrett says quietly from the armchair. “You know how it is, Dean. Guys talk. They exaggerate to protect their own egos.”

“It’s not an exaggeration if three different guys are saying the exact same thing,” Beau points out gently. He looks back at Dean, his expression softening into an apology. “Look, man. I know you’re on this crusade to prove McMahon wrong, but … maybe he isn’t. Maybe it’s not a lack of effort.”

Dean narrows his eyes. “What are you implying?”

Beau shifts uncomfortably. “I’m just saying … biology is weird. Some people have weird wiring. Maybe she really does have some sort of issue. You know? Like, a medical reason why she can’t get off. It happens.”

“No,” Dean says immediately.

“Dean, be reasonable,” Beau tries. “If multiple guys-”

“I don’t give a damn if the entire starting lineup of the New England Patriots tried and failed,” Dean snaps, pushing himself off the couch. He paces across the living room, running a hand aggressively through his hair. “I am shutting that theory down right now.”

“You can’t just shut down biology,” Logan argues reasonably.

“Watch me,” Dean shoots back. He turns to face his friends, pointing an accusatory finger at Beau. “Do you know what the common denominator is here? It’s not her. It’s the guys.”

“A lacrosse player, a frat bro, and a wide receiver,” Garrett lists, counting them off on his fingers.

“Exactly!” Dean throws his hands in the air. “The holy trinity of selfish lovers! What do they all have in common? Ego. They care more about their own performance than her pleasure. They probably pounded away for five minutes like jackrabbits, didn’t bother with foreplay, and then got offended when she didn’t magically explode.”

Beau sighs. “Dean-”

“I’m serious, Beau,” Dean interrupts, his voice hard. The anger is settling into something sharper, something far more resolute. “Do not sit there and tell me she’s broken. Do not tell me she has a physiological issue just because three frat-star idiots couldn’t find the clit with a flashlight and a map.”

The conviction in his voice fills the room. He isn’t laughing. He isn’t playing around. He means every single word.

“Women’s bodies aren’t slot machines,” Dean says, pacing back toward the television. “You don’t just put a coin in, pull a lever, and wait for the jackpot. It takes attention. It takes communication. You have to learn the body you’re touching. You have to figure out what she likes, what she hates, what she needs before she even knows she needs it.”

He stops pacing, planting his hands on his hips as he stares down his three friends.

“If she hasn’t come,” Dean states, absolute certainty ringing in his tone, “it is because nobody has bothered to learn her properly. Nobody has put in the work.”

Garrett raises an eyebrow. “And you think you’re the guy to put in the work?”

“I know I am,” Dean says without a second of hesitation.

“Dude.” Logan lets out a breath, shaking his head. “You’re talking about taking on a campus legend. If she really is, uh, un-finishable-”

“Stop calling her that,” Dean snaps. “She’s not a challenge on a bucket list. She is a girl who deserves to feel good.”

Beau looks at him for a long, quiet moment. He knows Dean better than anyone in the room. Beau knows when Dean is messing around, and he knows when Dean is dead serious.

Right now, Dean is dead serious.

“Okay,” Beau says softly, holding his hands up in surrender. “Okay. I hear you. But let’s look at this logically. What exactly is your plan here?”

Dean drops back onto the couch, resting his elbows on his knees. “My plan is simple. I’m going to find her. I’m going to get to know her. And then I’m going to help her.”

“Help her,” Beau repeats flatly.

“Yes. I am going to give her the release she has been denied. I am going to do what apparently no other incompetent man on this campus has managed to do.” Dean’s eyes gleam with a fierce, protective determination. “I am going to break the curse.”

Logan lets out a sudden, bark-like laugh. “You’re out of your mind.”

“I am a visionary,” Dean corrects him.

Beau rubs his temples, looking like he’s developing a severe migraine. “Dean, think about this for two seconds. You can’t just walk up to a girl — a sorority president, no less — and offer to give her an orgasm.”

“Why not?” Dean asks innocently.

“Because it’s insane!” Beau yells, finally losing his cool. “Because she doesn’t know you! You can’t just stroll up to her in the dining hall, tap her on the shoulder, and say, ‘Hey, I heard your ex-boyfriend has the sexual prowess of a wet sponge, let me fix that for you!’”

“Well, obviously I wouldn’t use those exact words,” Dean says, offended. “I have tact, Beau. I have charm. I know how to talk to women.”

“You’re going to get pepper-sprayed,” Garrett predicts, sounding entirely too cheerful about the prospect. “I’ll give you twenty bucks right now if you get it on video.”

“I am not going to get pepper-sprayed,” Dean says firmly. “I am going to be a gentleman.”

“A gentleman doesn’t solicit orgasms to strangers,” Tucker’s voice drawls from the doorway. He’s leaning against the frame, holding a massive protein shake in one hand, having apparently walked in through the kitchen halfway through the conversation.

“A true gentleman recognizes a woman in need and steps up to the plate,” Dean counters smoothly. “I’m going to do it. That’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

“Dean, please,” Beau begs, sounding genuinely distressed. “She’s a prominent figure on campus. If you go up to her and say something crazy, she’s going to ruin your reputation.”

“My reputation?” Dean laughs. It’s a bright, easy sound. “Beau, my reputation is already that of a shameless flirt who sleeps around. What’s she going to do? Tell people I offered to make her feel good? Oh, the horror.”

“She’s going to think you’re a creep,” Beau insists.

“She won’t,” Dean says confidently. “Because I’m not going to be creepy about it. I’m going to be honest. Completely, brutally honest. Women appreciate honesty.”

Garrett snorts. “Yeah, let me know how that honesty works out for you when she slaps you across the face.”

Dean ignores them. He tunes out Garrett’s laughter, Logan’s skepticism, and Beau’s frantic attempts to reason with him. His mind is already racing, piecing together a strategy.

He knows you are the president of Delta Zeta. That means you are busy. It means you are likely stressed, overworked, and constantly dealing with other people’s drama. You probably drink too much coffee, don’t get enough sleep, and carry the weight of your entire house on your shoulders.

And on top of all that, you have the baggage of guys like McMahon making you feel inadequate.

Dean feels that fierce, protective urge flare up again. It isn’t just about his ego anymore. It isn’t just about proving a point to the locker room. It’s about you. It’s about the fact that nobody has looked at you and decided you were worth the time it takes to figure out what you need.

He stands up again, suddenly too energized to sit still. “When does Delta Zeta usually hold their chapter meetings?”

Beau groans, throwing himself face-first into a couch pillow. “I’m not telling you.”

“Fridays,” Logan provides helpfully. “Usually around seven. I know because I hooked up with a DZ last semester, and she always made me leave by six-thirty so she could get ready.”

“Friday,” Dean repeats. Today is Wednesday. That gives him two days to figure out an approach. Two days to find you, study you, and plan his move.

“You’re really going through with this?” Beau asks, his voice muffled by the pillow.

“I am,” Dean says. He walks toward the hallway leading to his bedroom, pausing at the threshold to look back at his friends. “I’m going to find her. I’m going to look her in the eyes, and I’m going to offer my services.”

“Services,” Garrett echoes, shaking his head. “You make it sound like you’re an independent contractor.”

“I’m a specialist,” Dean corrects him with a wink. “And Y/N Y/L/N is about to become my top priority.”

He turns and walks down the hall, already mentally mapping out the campus to figure out where a pre-law sorority president is most likely to spend her Friday afternoon. The library? The student union? A coffee shop?

He’ll check them all. He doesn’t care how long it takes.

Because Dean loves a challenge. But more than that, he loves making things right. And making sure you finally understand that there is absolutely nothing wrong with you?

That is going to be the best thing he’s ever done.

***

Dean does not usually require props.

In fact, he prides himself on his natural abilities. He has spent years perfecting his technique, learning the exact amount of pressure, the perfect rhythm, the right things to whisper in the dark. He is a craftsman, and his hands and mouth are his chosen tools.

But as he stands in his bedroom on Friday afternoon, staring into the bottom drawer of his nightstand, he decides to make an exception.

Because you aren’t just a regular Friday night hookup. You are a mission. You are the final boss of Briar University’s dating pool, a girl who has allegedly stumped every self-serving idiot on this campus. And while Dean is completely, undeniably confident in his own mouth, he also believes in being prepared. A good lawyer — like his mother always says — never walks into a courtroom without covering all his bases.

So, he grabs a sleek, black duffel bag from his closet.

He tosses in a small, discreet bullet vibrator. Then a curved silicone toy that he knows for a fact works absolute miracles. He adds a bottle of premium, water-based lubricant, just to be safe. He zips the bag up, slinging it over his shoulder.

“Where are you going?” Garrett asks, looking up from the kitchen island as Dean walks out of his room. Garrett is eating cereal straight out of the box.

“I have an appointment,” Dean says, checking his reflection in the hallway mirror. He runs a hand through his hair, making sure it falls with just the right amount of effortless messiness. He’s wearing a fitted black long-sleeve henley that highlights his shoulders, and his favorite jeans. He looks good. Approachable. Trustworthy.

“An appointment,” Garrett repeats flatly. His eyes drop to the black duffel bag. “Are you going to the gym, or are you actually going through with this psychotic plan to accost McMahon’s ex-girlfriend?”

“Her name is Y/N,” Dean corrects him. “And I am not accosting anyone. I am offering a philanthropic service. I’m giving back to the community.”

“You’re going to get arrested,” Garrett says, tossing a piece of Cap’n Crunch at him.

Dean catches it mid-air and eats it. “Have a little faith, Graham. I’ll be back in a few hours. Victorious.”

He walks out the door before Garrett can say anything else.

The Delta Zeta house is a massive, sprawling brick mansion situated at the end of Sorority Row. It has white columns, a perfectly manicured lawn, and an intimidating aura of organized femininity. Dean walks up the pristine paved walkway, his heart doing a strange, unfamiliar flutter against his ribs.

He isn’t nervous. Dean Di Laurentis doesn’t get nervous around women. But he is acutely aware that he is operating without a net here. He doesn’t have an introduction. He doesn’t have a mutual friend paving the way. All he has is his charm, a bag of toys, and a burning desire to prove McMahon wrong.

He steps onto the porch and presses the doorbell. It chimes, a soft, melodic sound that echoes through the heavy oak door.

Dean takes a breath. He squares his shoulders. He prepares his opening line. He’s going to be suave. He’s going to introduce himself, ask if you have a minute to talk privately, and then gently, delicately broach the subject.

The lock clicks. The door swings open.

And Dean completely forgets how to speak.

You are standing there, holding a clipboard in one hand and a half-empty mug of coffee in the other. You are wearing a pair of faded gray sweatpants and an oversized Briar University sweatshirt that is slipping off one shoulder. Your hair is pulled up into a messy bun that looks like it’s barely surviving, held together by a single, desperate claw clip. You look exhausted, irritated, and absolutely, devastatingly beautiful.

He wasn’t expecting this. He expected a perfectly polished sorority president in a twinset and pearls. But you look real. You look like a girl who has been managing fifty different crises since six in the morning.

You blink at him, your eyes trailing from the toes of his boots, up his jeans, to his face. “Can I help you?”

Your voice is slightly raspy, like you’ve been talking all day. It sends a sudden, sharp jolt straight to Dean’s groin.

“Uh,” Dean says. The suave opening line evaporates from his brain. The delicate approach vanishes. He stares into your eyes, overwhelmed by the sudden, intense urge to drag you upstairs, lay you down, and spend the next six hours worshipping every single inch of you.

“Hello?” You prompt, arching a single, perfect eyebrow. “I’m in the middle of a budget crisis with my treasurer, so if you’re looking for one of the sisters, you need to tell me who, or I’m shutting this door.”

Dean’s brain short-circuits entirely. “I’m here to make you come.”

Silence.

Thick, heavy, suffocating silence drops over the porch.

You freeze. The hand holding the coffee mug tightens so hard your knuckles turn white. You stare at him, your eyes widening in sheer, unadulterated shock.

Dean realizes what he just said a fraction of a second too late. “Wait. No. I mean-”

The slap echoes across the porch like a gunshot. Your palm connects with Dean’s cheek with stunning, terrifying precision. It stings instantly, a hot flare of pain that snaps his head to the side.

Before he can even register the hit, you step back.

“Get the hell off my porch, you absolute creep!” You snap, and then you slam the heavy oak door directly in his face. The deadbolt clicks into place with a resounding finality.

Dean stands there, staring at the brass knocker. He slowly reaches up, pressing two fingers to his stinging cheek.

“Well,” he mutters to himself. “That could have gone better.”

He doesn’t leave. He can’t leave. If he leaves now, he’s just the lunatic who showed up and harassed you. He drops the duffel bag onto the porch mat, takes a deep breath, and knocks on the door. Firmly.

“Go away!” Your voice filters through the wood, muffled but furious. “Or I’m calling campus security!”

“Please!” Dean calls out, leaning closer to the door. “Just give me one minute! I swear to God, I didn’t mean it like that!”

“You literally said you were here to make me come!” You yell back.

“I know!” Dean winces. “I know I said it! My brain stopped working! I panicked! But I’m not a creep, I promise!”

The lock turns. The door cracks open just an inch, held securely in place by a heavy brass chain. Your eyes appear in the gap, glaring at him with a mixture of anger and deep suspicion.

“You have exactly ten seconds to explain yourself before I pepper-spray you,” you say sharply. “And yes, I have it in my hand.”

Dean immediately holds his hands up in surrender, stepping back so you can see he isn’t trying to force his way in. “Okay. Okay, fair. Listen to me. My name is Dean Di Laurentis-”

“I know who you are,” you interrupt, your voice dripping with disdain. “You play hockey. You’re Beau Maxwell’s best friend. And you have a reputation for sleeping with half the female population of this school.”

“Okay, half is an exaggeration,” Dean says defensively. “A third, maybe. But that’s exactly why I’m here! Listen, I’m a feminist. I love women. I genuinely, deeply respect women and their right to absolute satisfaction.”

You stare at him through the crack. “Are you on drugs?”

“No! Look, I overheard McMahon talking on the quad yesterday.”

The shift in your demeanor is instantaneous. The fiery anger in your eyes extinguishes, replaced by a sudden, protective wall of pure ice. Your jaw clenches, and Dean can practically see you putting your armor on.

“Oh,” you say softly. The word is hollow. “I see. You heard what he said.”

“I heard it,” Dean confirms, his voice dropping, softening. “And I heard what the other guys in the locker room have been saying, too. The lacrosse guy. The Kappa Sig guy.”

You close your eyes for a brief second. When you open them, the ice is thicker. “And you came here to what? Mock me? Place a bet with your friends to see if you can be the one to break the curse?”

“No!” Dean is genuinely horrified. “No, God, absolutely not. I came here because it pisses me off. It pisses me off that these lazy, incompetent assholes don’t know what they’re doing, and they’re making you feel like you’re the problem.”

You don’t say anything. You just watch him through the narrow gap in the door.

“I came here to right a wrong,” Dean pleads, leaning in slightly. “To redeem my gender. I brought toys, just in case, to cover all the bases! I can even give you references, if you want. Seriously. Call Leah from Beta. Call Kayla from the dance team. Call-”

“Stop naming girls you’ve slept with,” you hiss, glancing nervously past him.

Dean looks over his shoulder. A group of freshmen girls are walking down the sidewalk, staring openly at him standing on the Delta Zeta porch, talking to the door.

You let out a frustrated groan. “You are causing a scene. Di Laurentis, I swear to God, if you make this a spectacle …”

“I’ll stand here all day,” Dean threatens lightly, giving you a small, charming smile. “I’ll shout my references to the quad. I’ll sing them. I have a terrible singing voice, Y/N. It will be tragic for everyone involved.”

You glare at him, a muscle ticking in your jaw. Then, with a harsh sigh, you shut the door.

For a second, Dean thinks he’s lost. But then he hears the rattle of the chain sliding out of the lock. The door swings open wide enough for him to enter.

“Get in,” you snap. “Before someone takes a picture.”

Dean quickly grabs his duffel bag and slips past you into the foyer.

The inside of the house is beautiful — hardwood floors, a sweeping staircase, the faint smell of vanilla and expensive perfume. But Dean doesn’t look at any of it. He turns to look at you.

You shut the door behind him and lean against it, crossing your arms tightly over your chest. Without the door between you, Dean can see the exhaustion lining your eyes. You look incredibly guarded, like a cornered animal waiting for the strike.

“Okay,” you say, your voice flat. “You’re inside. You got your little heroic speech out of the way. Now let’s get one thing straight.”

“I’m listening,” Dean says, matching your serious tone. He drops the bag onto the floor.

“You think this is about them,” you say, gesturing vaguely toward the door, indicating the male population at large. “You think McMahon and the others are just selfish lovers who didn’t try hard enough. You think you can waltz in here with your magical hockey-player hands and fix the lazy mistakes of frat boys.”

“I do, actually,” Dean says without hesitation. “I know I can.”

You let out a harsh, humorless laugh. It lacks any real joy. “Your ego is astounding. Truly. But you’re wrong, Dean. It’s not them.”

Dean frowns, taking a half-step toward you. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, it’s me,” you say bluntly. You look him dead in the eyes, refusing to flinch, refusing to look away. “I have never come. Ever.”

Dean stops. “I know. The rumor-”

“No,” you cut him off, your voice slicing through the air. “Not just with guys. Never. Not with men. Not with women. Not with a vibrator. Not with my own hand in the privacy of my own bedroom.”

Dean stares at you. The cocky comeback dies in his throat. He literally doesn’t know what to say.

“It’s a dead end,” you continue, your voice terrifyingly calm. “I have tried everything. I have read the articles, I have bought the expensive toys, I have tried relaxing, I have tried not overthinking it. It doesn’t work. The wires don’t connect. I physically cannot achieve orgasm.”

Dean’s heart aches. It’s a strange, sudden pang right in the center of his chest. Because he can hear the resignation in your voice. He can hear the years of frustration, of quiet, lonely disappointment, all packed into those few clinical sentences.

“Y/N,” he starts softly.

“Don’t,” you say, holding a hand up. “Do not give me pity. I am perfectly fine with it. I have made my peace with my body. I still enjoy sex. I still like the intimacy. It’s the guys who can’t handle it. They take it as a personal insult to their masculinity. They throw tantrums, they call me frigid, and they whine about it to their friends in the locker room.”

You drop your hand, your posture stiffening.

“So, thank you for the valiant attempt to save me,” you say, your tone dripping in sarcasm. “But I don’t need your help. I don’t need a savior. And I certainly don’t need another guy treating my body like a puzzle he has to solve just to stroke his own ego. You can take your bag of toys and leave.”

You reach behind you, grabbing the doorknob.

“Wait,” Dean says, moving faster than he ever has on the ice. He closes the distance between you, stepping just close enough that you pause, but far enough away that he isn’t crowding you.

He looks down at you. You are breathing a little heavy, your eyes defiant, daring him to push.

This changes things. Beau was right. It wasn’t just lazy guys. It’s a deep-rooted wall. But the thing about Dean Di Laurentis is that he doesn’t back down from walls. He scales them. He dismantles them brick by brick.

“I’m not leaving,” Dean says quietly.

You frown, your grip on the doorknob tightening. “I just told you-”

“I heard what you told me,” Dean says, his voice steady, entirely stripped of the usual playful banter. “You think you’re broken. You think it’s impossible. And you’re sick of guys making it about them instead of about you.”

You swallow hard, your eyes flickering with something that looks dangerously like vulnerability. “Yes.”

“I am not them,” Dean says. He holds your gaze, pouring every ounce of sincerity he possesses into the look. “I don’t care about my ego. My ego is perfectly intact. I care about the fact that you have convinced yourself you aren’t allowed to feel the best feeling in the world.”

“It’s not that I’m not allowed-”

“It’s a mental block,” Dean interrupts gently. “Or a physical one. Or a combination of both. But it’s not permanent. Nothing is permanent.”

“You don’t know that,” you whisper, looking away. “You don’t know my body.”

“Then let me learn it,” Dean says.

You snap your eyes back to him, shocked.

“Give me one chance,” Dean pleads. He isn’t cocky anymore. He is practically begging. “One chance, Y/N. No expectations. No pressure. If nothing happens, I will walk away. I will never bother you again. I won’t throw a tantrum, I won’t blame you, and I sure as hell won’t talk about it to a locker room full of idiots.”

You stare at him, your chest rising and falling rapidly. You look genuinely torn, the exhaustion and the fear battling against the tiny, microscopic sliver of hope he just offered you.

But then the wall goes back up.

“No,” you say firmly. You shake your head, stepping away from the door and pointing toward it. “No. I am not doing this again. I am not getting my hopes up just to lie there and feel broken while you get frustrated. Out. Now.”

Dean’s mind races. He’s losing you. He can see the door closing on this entire crusade, and he refuses to let you push him away just because you’re scared.

He needs leverage. What does he know about you?

Sorority president. Pre-law. Busy. Philanthropy.

“What if we make a wager?” Dean blurts out.

You stop. “What?”

“A wager,” Dean repeats, the idea taking shape in his mind as he speaks. “A bet. To make it worth your while. If I try, and I fail — which I won’t, but let’s pretend for a second that I do — I will give you something you want.”

You look at him like he’s lost his mind. “There is nothing you have that I want, Di Laurentis.”

“Delta Zeta is hosting the Splash & Dash charity car wash next Saturday, right?” Dean asks, pointing a finger at you. “To raise money for the women’s shelter downtown?”

You blink, clearly thrown off by his knowledge of your sorority’s philanthropic schedule. “How do you know that?”

“I pay attention to things,” Dean says smoothly. “Now, traditionally, your sisters wash the cars in bikinis. It brings in decent money. The frat guys show up, they pay twenty bucks, they ogle your sisters. It’s a solid business model.”

“Where are you going with this?” You demand, your patience wearing thin.

Dean grins. The slow, devastating, million-dollar grin that has gotten him out of trouble more times than he can count.

“If I fail to give you an orgasm,” Dean says slowly, letting the words hang in the air, “I will personally guarantee that the entire Briar University hockey starting lineup will participate in your car wash.”

You stare at him.

“And,” Dean adds, leaning in just a fraction, “we will do it shirtless.”

Your mouth parts slightly. You don’t say anything, but Dean can practically see the gears turning in your head.

The Briar hockey team is campus royalty. They are the most popular, most sought-after guys at the university. Garrett, Logan, Tucker, himself — they draw crowds just by walking into the dining hall.

“Shirtless,” you repeat, your voice skeptical.

“Shirtless,” Dean confirms. “Washing cars in the blazing sun. flexing. Sweating. We will advertise it. We will bring in hundreds of girls. Sorority girls, townies, professors — they’ll all show up. You will triple your fundraising goal in two hours.”

You look at him, the logic warring with your defense mechanisms. “Garrett Graham would never agree to that.”

“I am very persuasive,” Dean promises. “I will make them do it. If I lose.”

“And if you win?” You ask, narrowing your eyes. “What’s in it for you?”

Dean looks at you. He looks at the dark circles under your eyes, the messy bun, the oversized sweatshirt that hides a body he is dying to uncover. He thinks about McMahon’s cruel words on the quad, and the quiet resignation in your voice when you told him you’ve never come.

“If I win,” Dean says, his voice dropping to a low, husky register, “then I get the satisfaction of knowing I made you feel as good as you deserve to feel. That’s it. That’s the prize.”

You search his face, looking for the catch. Looking for the punchline, or the arrogant smirk. But there is nothing there except absolute, unwavering sincerity.

The silence stretches out. The grandfather clock in the hallway ticks steadily.

Finally, you let out a long, slow breath. The tension bleeds out of your shoulders. You look down at the floor, then back up at him.

“Shirtless,” you say softly.

“Pants are non-negotiable sadly,” Dean says solemnly. “Tucker is very modest.”

The tiniest, most microscopic hint of a smile tugs at the corner of your mouth. It’s barely there, but Dean catches it, and it feels like he just won the Stanley Cup.

“One chance,” you say, your voice turning serious again. “You get one chance, Dean. When it doesn’t work, we stop. You leave. And you deliver your team on Saturday.”

“Deal,” Dean says instantly. He holds his hand out.

You look at his hand. You hesitate for a second, then reach out and shake it. Your hand is small, your skin soft, but your grip is firm.

“When?” You ask.

“Tomorrow night,” Dean says, unwilling to wait any longer than absolutely necessary. “Eight o’clock. My place.”

You drop his hand, pulling your sweatshirt tighter around yourself. “Fine. Tomorrow night.”

Dean picks up his duffel bag from the floor. He gives you one last look, memorizing the way you look standing in the foyer, the challenge clear in your eyes.

“Get some sleep, Y/N,” Dean says, stepping out the door onto the porch. “You’re going to need your energy tomorrow.”

He doesn’t wait for your response. He turns and walks down the paved path, his heart hammering a victorious rhythm against his ribs.

He got his foot in the door. He got the chance.

Now, he just has to do the impossible.

***

The house is completely, suspiciously silent when you knock on the front door at exactly eight o’clock on Saturday night.

Dean opens the door before you can even lower your hand. He’s wearing gray sweatpants that hang low on his hips and a plain white t-shirt. His hair is slightly damp, curled at the ends, and the faint, clean scent of his body wash drifts out into the cool evening air.

He looks entirely too calm. You, on the other hand, feel like you might throw up.

“You’re right on time,” Dean says, a slow, easy smile spreading across his face. He steps back, opening the door wider. “Come on in.”

You step into the foyer, clutching the strap of your purse like a lifeline. You’re wearing jeans and a simple black sweater, a deliberate choice to make this feel casual, even though your heart is currently hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.

“Where are your roommates?” You ask, your voice sounding a little too tight, a little too loud in the empty house.

“I bribed them to leave,” Dean says easily, shutting and locking the front door. “Logan and Tucker went to a movie. Garrett took his girlfriend out to dinner. The house is ours until at least midnight. I wanted zero distractions.”

He turns to look at you, and his smile softens. He can clearly see how rigid your shoulders are, how tightly you’re holding onto your bag.

“Hey,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “Relax. I’m not leading you to the gallows.”

“I know,” you say defensively. “I’m relaxed.”

“You look like you’re about to take the LSAT,” Dean counters. He reaches out, his large, warm hands gently curling over your shoulders. He rubs his thumbs in slow, soothing circles against your collarbones. “Look at me, Y/N.”

You lift your gaze from the center of his chest, meeting his eyes. They’re a warm, bright green, and completely devoid of the cocky arrogance you usually associate with him.

“Forget the bet,” Dean says quietly. “Forget the car wash, forget McMahon, forget the locker room. Tonight is just about you. And if you want to leave right now, or in ten minutes, or in an hour, you just say the word and I’ll walk you to the door. No questions asked. No pressure. Okay?”

You swallow hard, the tight knot of anxiety in your chest loosening just a fraction. “Okay.”

“Good.” Dean drops his hands, gesturing down the hallway. “My room is this way.”

Dean’s bedroom is surprisingly immaculate. You expected a stereotypical frat-boy disaster zone, but the bed is made with dark gray sheets, the floor is clear, and the only mess is a small stack of textbooks on his desk. The bedside lamp is on, casting a warm, dim glow over the room.

On the nightstand rests the black duffel bag from yesterday.

You stare at it, your stomach doing a complicated flip.

Dean catches your look. He tosses your purse onto his desk chair and turns to face you. “The bag is just backup. Honestly, I don’t think we’ll need it.”

“Your confidence is terrifying,” you mutter, crossing your arms over your chest.

“It’s not confidence. It’s just a fact.” Dean steps right into your personal space. He doesn’t ask permission to touch you this time, he simply lifts his hands and frames your face. His palms are slightly rough from handling a hockey stick, but his touch is incredibly gentle. “You think too much. I can practically hear the gears turning in your head.”

“I can’t help it,” you whisper, closing your eyes briefly as his thumbs brush over your cheekbones. “I’m waiting for the part where this doesn’t work, and you get annoyed, and I have to pretend I’m sorry.”

“That part isn’t coming.” Dean’s voice is a low, raspy murmur right against your mouth. “Open your eyes.”

You do. He is staring at your lips.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” Dean says, the warning a courtesy. “And you aren’t going to think about anything except how it feels.”

He closes the distance before you can argue. His mouth covers yours, warm and firm and demanding. You’ve been kissed a lot, but this is different. It isn’t rushed. He doesn’t shove his tongue down your throat or grope you aggressively. He simply takes his time, parting your lips, tasting you like he has all the time in the world.

A small, involuntary sigh escapes your throat, and Dean swallows it. His hands slide from your face, down your neck, tracing the line of your shoulders before sliding under the hem of your sweater. His warm palms flatten against the bare skin of your waist.

The shock of skin-on-skin contact makes you gasp, and Dean takes advantage, his tongue sliding against yours. He tastes like mint and something inherently dark and male.

“That’s it,” he murmurs against your mouth. “Just feel.”

He walks you backward, his hands pulling you flush against his chest, until the back of your knees hit the edge of the mattress. Dean breaks the kiss just long enough to pull your sweater up and over your head, tossing it blindly over his shoulder.

You reach for the hem of his t-shirt, suddenly desperate to feel his bare skin, but Dean catches your wrists.

“Uh-uh,” he says, a teasing lilt in his voice. “My clothes stay on for now. You don’t get to focus on me. Tonight is a one-way street.”

“Dean,” you protest, but he just smiles, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.

He unhooks your bra with terrifying efficiency, letting it drop to the floor. The cool air hits your bare breasts, making your nipples pebble instantly. Dean tracks the movement, his eyes darkening as they drag down your torso.

He pushes you gently down onto the edge of the bed. You’re sitting there in just your jeans, feeling exposed and hyper-aware of his gaze. But there is no judgment in his eyes, no impatient rush to get to the main event. He just looks at you like you are the most incredible thing he has ever seen.

Dean drops to his knees on the hardwood floor between your legs.

He reaches out, his hands wrapping around your waist, pulling you an inch closer to the edge. “You’re beautiful,” he says softly, pressing an open-mouthed kiss directly in the center of your chest.

You shiver, your hands instinctively tangling in the thick hair at the nape of his neck.

Dean unbuttons your jeans. He slides the zipper down, his knuckles brushing intentionally over the sensitive skin of your lower stomach. You suck in a sharp breath. He pulls the denim down your legs, taking your plain cotton underwear with them, until you are completely bare, sitting on the edge of his bed while he kneels between your thighs.

“Dean,” you whisper, your voice shaking slightly as the familiar, suffocating wave of performance anxiety begins to creep in. What if he realizes it’s hopeless? What if nothing happens?

“Stop,” Dean says instantly. He looks up at you, his eyes blazing. He knows exactly what you’re doing. “Stop thinking. Stop putting pressure on yourself. If you don’t cum tonight, you don’t cum. I don’t care. I’m perfectly happy just staying down here and tasting you for the next three hours regardless.”

The blunt, dirty honesty of his words sends a jolt of liquid heat straight between your legs.

Dean doesn’t give you time to overthink it again. He shifts closer, wrapping his strong hands around the backs of your thighs, and gently parts your legs wider.

He lowers his head.

The first touch of his tongue is a shock to your system. It’s a slow, broad, open-mouthed slide right up your center. You jerk instinctively, your hands gripping his shoulders.

“Easy,” Dean murmurs, his breath hot against your dripping core. “I’ve got you.”

He goes back in, and this time, there is no hesitation. Dean Di Laurentis is a master at this, and he proves it in seconds. He doesn’t dive right for the clit, pounding away like every other guy has. He takes his time. He kisses the soft skin of your inner thighs. He traces the delicate folds with the tip of his tongue, teasing, mapping out your body, figuring out exactly what makes your breath hitch and your muscles tighten.

“You taste so fucking sweet,” Dean groans, the vibration of his voice buzzing directly against your most sensitive flesh.

He finds the swollen bundle of nerves and swirls his tongue around it, light and teasing. You let out a soft, stuttering gasp, your head dropping back.

It feels good. It feels amazing. But the mental block is a heavy, leaden thing sitting in the back of your mind. You hit the plateau — the place you always hit, where the pleasure builds and builds but never actually crests. You feel yourself tensing, bracing for the inevitable disappointment.

Dean feels it. He stops immediately.

“Look at me,” he orders. His voice isn’t gentle anymore; it’s low, rough, and demanding.

You force your eyes open, looking down. Dean is kneeling between your legs, his lips wet and shining with your arousal, his green eyes locked onto yours. The sight is so intensely intimate, so totally raw, that it makes your chest ache.

“Tell me what you’re feeling right now,” Dean demands, his hands tightening on your thighs, his thumbs pressing firmly into your skin.

“I … I can’t,” you stutter, shaking your head. “Dean, it’s not going to-”

“I didn’t ask what’s not going to happen,” he interrupts sharply. “I asked what you’re feeling right now. Describe it to me.”

“It feels good,” you whisper, tears of frustration stinging the corners of your eyes. “But I’m stuck. I’m stuck.”

“You’re not stuck.” Dean leans in, kissing the inside of your thigh, his breath hot. “You’re in your head. So get out of it. Focus on my mouth. Focus on my fingers.”

He slides two thick fingers directly inside you. You gasp, your hips bucking up off the mattress as he stretches you open. You are incredibly wet, slick with your own arousal, and Dean uses it to his advantage. He curls his fingers upward, hitting a deep, heavy spot inside you with a firm, relentless rhythm.

“Tell me what that feels like,” Dean says, his eyes never leaving yours.

“It’s full,” you choke out, your fingers digging painfully into his shoulders. “It’s deep.”

“Good.” Dean lowers his head again. He replaces his mouth over your clit, but this time, he isn’t teasing. He sucks the sensitive nub directly into his mouth, applying a firm, steady suction while his tongue flickers against it relentlessly.

The combination of his fingers sliding deep inside you and his mouth pulling fiercely at your clit is a sensory overload.

“Dean,” you sob, the sound entirely involuntary.

He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t ask if you’re okay. He knows exactly what he’s doing. He keeps his eyes open, staring right up at you as his tongue lashes against you and his fingers pump in a rapid, demanding rhythm.

The pressure is building. It’s a hot, coiled spring in the center of your body, winding tighter and tighter. You try to pull away, terrified of failing again, terrified of hitting the wall, but Dean’s hands are like iron on your thighs. He holds you perfectly still, refusing to let you escape the pleasure.

“Come on,” Dean growls, pulling his mouth away for a fraction of a second. “Let go, Y/N. Give it to me. Let go.”

He goes back to sucking, harder this time, dragging his teeth lightly against the hood.

The sensation splinters through your entire body. The wall in your mind — the mental block that has haunted you for years — suddenly shatters under the sheer, overwhelming force of what he’s doing to you. You can’t think. You can’t analyze. You can only feel.

The coiled spring snaps.

A choked scream rips out of your throat as the climax hits you like a freight train. It explodes, radiating from your core out to your fingertips in violent, uncontrollable waves of pleasure. Your hips jerk up, grinding frantically against Dean’s mouth as your inner muscles clamp down brutally around his fingers.

Dean swallows your scream, his mouth sealed tightly against you, taking every single drop of your release. He doesn’t stop, even when you’re thrashing, even when you’re begging him to because it’s too sensitive. He forces you to ride out every single wave, his fingers continuing to pulse inside you until you are completely spent.

When he finally pulls his hand out and lifts his head, you collapse backward onto the mattress.

You are panting, staring blindly at the ceiling. Your entire body is trembling. Tears — actual, physical tears of sheer disbelief and overwhelming relief — are sliding down your temples into your hairline.

Dean stands up. He looks down at you, his chest heaving under his white t-shirt, his hair thoroughly wrecked from your hands. He reaches over, wiping the moisture from his chin with the back of his hand.

He doesn’t look cocky. He doesn’t look like he just won a bet. He just looks satisfied.

He climbs onto the bed, hovering over you, and gently wipes a tear from your cheek with his thumb.

“You see?” Dean whispers, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your slightly swollen lips. “You aren’t broken, Y/N. You just needed someone to actually pay attention.”

You let out a shaky, hysterical laugh, wrapping your arms around his neck and burying your face in his shoulder. “Oh my god. Oh my god, Dean.”

“I know,” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around your waist and holding you tight. He strokes your bare back, letting you ride out the aftershocks. “I know.”

You lie there for what feels like hours, just breathing him in. You feel light. You feel like a massive, suffocating weight has just been lifted off your chest. It wasn’t you. It was never you. You just needed a guy who cared more about your pleasure than his own ego.

“Thank you,” you whisper into his neck.

Dean pulls back slightly, looking down at you. His green eyes are dark, glittering with something dangerous. The tender, comforting moment shifts instantly, replaced by a heavy, palpable heat.

“Don’t thank me yet,” Dean says, a wicked, devastating smile curving his lips. “We have the house until midnight, Y/N. And I am far from finished.”

Your eyes widen. “Dean, I don’t think I can—I’m so sensitive-”

“I know,” he says smoothly. He reaches over to the nightstand, grabbing the black duffel bag and unzipping it. He pulls out the small, sleek bullet vibrator. “But you’re about to learn that the second time is always easier than the first. The wall is gone now. Now, we’re just playing.”

He turns it on. The low, electric hum fills the quiet room.

You swallow hard, your core clenching in anticipation.

Dean pushes you onto your back, his knees bracketing your hips. He finally grabs the hem of his t-shirt and pulls it over his head, tossing it onto the floor. His chest is broad, defined, covered in a light dusting of hair that trails down beneath the waistband of his sweatpants. You stare at the prominent V-lines pointing downward, suddenly incredibly desperate to see the rest of him.

But Dean isn’t rushing the main event. He reaches down, parting your folds with two fingers, and presses the buzzing toy directly against your swollen clit.

You arch completely off the bed, a loud, unabashed moan tearing from your lips.

It is instantaneous. Without the mental block holding you back, your body reacts with terrifying speed. Dean grins, watching your face as he manipulates the toy, circling the most sensitive nerves. He leans down, capturing your mouth in a deep, filthy kiss, his tongue mimicking the frantic circles of his hand.

You reach down, frantically grabbing at the waistband of his sweatpants, desperate to touch him, but Dean swats your hands away.

“Not yet,” he pants against your mouth. “Focus.”

It takes less than three minutes. The second orgasm crashes through you with even more ferocity than the first. You scream his name into his mouth, your nails digging crescent moons into his shoulders as your body bows off the mattress, shaking violently.

Dean pulls the toy away, tossing it onto the nightstand, and finally reaches for his own waistband.

He strips out of his sweatpants and boxers in one fluid motion. He is heavily, beautifully aroused, his thick erection jutting out, hot and ready. He grabs a condom from the nightstand drawer, ripping the foil open with his teeth, and rolls it on with quick, efficient movements.

You are still trembling from the second climax, your eyes hazy and completely blown out.

Dean settles himself between your legs, his hands gripping your hips to anchor you. He lines himself up with your wet, slick opening.

“Look at me,” he demands softly.

You meet his eyes.

“You’re perfect,” Dean whispers.

And then he pushes his hips forward, burying himself deep inside you in one long, smooth thrust.

You gasp loudly, the feeling of him filling you completely sending fresh sparks of pleasure racing through your overloaded system. Dean lets out a harsh groan, his head dropping back as he gives himself a second to adjust to the tight, wet heat of your body.

He begins to move. He doesn’t pound into you; he makes love to you. He pulls almost all the way out before driving deep again, grinding his hips firmly against yours so that the base of his shaft perfectly rubs against your clit with every single thrust.

It is a steady, relentless rhythm. You wrap your legs around his waist, locking your ankles together to pull him even deeper.

“Dean,” you pant, your head tossing back against the pillows. “Please.”

“I’m right here,” he answers, his voice strained. He reaches a hand down, slipping his thumb perfectly between your bodies to press firmly against your clit while he continues to thrust inside you.

The sensory overload is absolute. The deep, heavy stretching inside and the sharp, electric friction on the outside. You are unraveling, falling completely apart underneath him.

“Let it go again, baby,” Dean encourages, his thrusts getting faster, harder, completely losing his earlier restraint. “Come for me. Give it to me.”

You shatter for the third time. The orgasm rips through you so forcefully that your vision actually whites out for a second. You clamp down around his cock with brutal strength, crying out as the pleasure sweeps through you in violent, pulsing waves.

Your tight, milking climax is enough to send Dean right over the edge with you. He lets out a guttural shout, his hips driving into you one final, desperate time as he comes hard, his body rigid and shaking above yours.

He collapses heavily onto your chest, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his chest heaving as he fights to catch his breath.

You lie there, your arms wrapped tightly around his broad back, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his. The room is completely silent except for the sound of your combined, ragged breathing.

A full five minutes pass before Dean finally lifts his head. He props himself up on his elbows, looking down at you. His hair is a wild, sweaty mess, his eyes heavy with post-coital satisfaction.

He smiles. It’s a soft, genuine smile that makes your chest squeeze.

“So,” Dean rasps, tracing the line of your jaw with his finger. “I guess this means the hockey team is keeping their shirts on next weekend.”

You let out a weak, breathless laugh. “You’re a menace, Di Laurentis.”

“I’m a man of my word,” he corrects you, rolling off you and pulling you flush against his side. He drags the gray sheet up over your naked bodies, tucking you securely under his arm. “Though Logan is going to be incredibly disappointed. He’s been doing extra crunches all week just in case.”

You smile against his bare chest, tracing a lazy circle over his heart.

The bet is over. He proved his point. He did what no other guy could do, and he won.

But as Dean presses a lingering kiss to the top of your head, his arm tightening possessively around your waist, you get the overwhelming feeling that this is no longer just a mission for him.

And as you close your eyes, listening to the steady beat of his heart, you realize it’s definitely not just a bet for you, either.

***

The Delta Zeta front lawn looks like a chaotic, high-budget commercial for spring break.

The bass from the massive portable speakers is vibrating through the soles of your white sneakers, blasting a remix of a top-forty pop song that you’ve heard at least six times since nine o’clock this morning. Soapy water floods the driveway, running in iridescent little rivers toward the street drain. Everywhere you look, girls in bright bikinis and cut-off denim shorts are scrubbing windshields, spraying each other with the hose, and flagging down passing cars with neon pink cardboard signs.

“Y/N!” Jess, your vice president, jogs over to the cash box table where you’re currently organizing a stack of slightly damp twenty-dollar bills. She’s out of breath, her blonde hair plastered to her forehead. “We’re out of microfiber towels. And I think Brittany just accidentally sprayed a physics professor in the face.”

You sigh, dropping a twenty into the lockbox. “Check the garage for the backup towels. And tell Brittany to aim lower. Has the line of cars slowed down?”

“A little,” Jess admits, wiping her brow. “It’s barely noon, though. The frat guys won’t drag themselves out of bed for at least another hour.”

You look out at the street. She’s right. The morning rush of faculty and early-risers has died down, leaving an empty spot in the driveway. If you want to hit your fundraising goal for the women’s shelter, you need a second wave. A big one.

“We need a draw,” you mutter, tying your hair back up into a higher ponytail. “Something to get the foot traffic to stop.”

“I think your draw just arrived,” Jess says, her voice suddenly dropping an entire octave. She points toward the sidewalk.

You follow her gaze, and your breath catches in your throat.

Walking down Sorority Row, looking like a slow-motion shot from a movie, are four massive guys. Garrett looks annoyed, Logan is already grinning and waving at a group of sophomores, and Tucker is casually spinning a key ring around his finger.

And leading the pack is Dean.

He’s wearing a pair of faded board shorts, flip-flops, and a gray Briar Hockey t-shirt. Sunglasses hide his eyes, but the moment he spots you standing by the cash table, a slow, devastating smirk spreads across his face.

A collective gasp ripples through the sorority girls on the lawn. Two freshmen actually drop their hose. The hockey team doesn’t just show up to random philanthropy events unless there’s a camera crew involved.

You cross your arms over your bikini top, fighting the massive smile threatening to break across your face as Dean stops right in front of your table.

“Good morning, Madam President,” Dean says smoothly. He pulls his sunglasses down, resting them on the collar of his shirt. His green eyes travel down the length of your body, lingering on the exposed skin of your stomach before snapping back up to your face. The heat in his gaze is entirely inappropriate for a Saturday morning charity event.

“Di Laurentis,” you say, keeping your voice even despite the butterflies staging a full-scale riot in your stomach. “What are you doing here?”

“We’re here to wash cars,” Logan chimes in from behind Dean, dropping his bucket onto the grass. “Obviously. Show me to the nearest CR-V.”

“You don’t have to be here,” you say, looking back at Dean. You lower your voice so only he can hear. “You won the bet, Dean. You proved your point. Vigorously. Multiple times.”

Just the memory of last Saturday night sends a flush of heat up your neck. You haven’t seen him all week — midterms, chapter meetings, and his away games kept you completely separated. But you certainly haven’t forgotten. You haven’t been able to think about anything else.

“I know I won the bet,” Dean says, stepping a fraction closer. “And it was the most satisfying victory of my athletic career. But the guys and I took a vote. We decided we want to participate anyway.”

“Oh, really?” You raise an eyebrow. “Just out of the goodness of your hearts?”

“Not exactly,” Garrett grumbles, crossing his muscular arms. “Dean wouldn’t shut up about it. He threatened to hide my skates if I didn’t show up. Put me to work, Y/N, before I change my mind and go back to bed.”

You laugh, motioning toward the empty driveway. “Grab a hose, Graham. The sponges are in the buckets.”

Garrett, Logan, and Tucker disperse, immediately swarmed by a giggling flock of Delta Zetas who are suddenly very eager to demonstrate proper soap application techniques.

Dean doesn’t move. He stays right in front of your table, leaning his hip against the edge.

“The team’s participation comes with a new condition,” Dean says softly, his eyes locking onto yours.

“A condition?” You tilt your head. “I didn’t agree to any conditions.”

“You’re going to want to agree to this one,” Dean promises, that wicked smirk returning. “We wash cars today. We bring in the crowds. And in exchange, you agree to go on a real date with me tonight.”

Your heart does a stupid, happy little flip. “A date.”

“A real date,” Dean confirms. “No bets. No ulterior motives. Just you, me, a disgustingly expensive Italian restaurant downtown, and absolutely zero talk about hockey or sorority budgets.”

You bite your lower lip, trying to maintain a facade of careful consideration. “I don’t know, Dean. I’m pretty busy.”

“I am offering you free labor, Y/N. Look at them.” He gestures behind him.

You look. Garrett, Logan, and Tucker have already pulled their t-shirts over their heads, tossing them onto the grass. The reaction is instantaneous. Cars that were driving past suddenly hit their brakes. A group of girls walking on the opposite side of the street literally change direction and sprint toward your lawn.

“Well,” you say, trying to suppress your laughter. “If it’s for the good of the charity.”

“Exactly. You’re a humanitarian.” Dean reaches out, tracing a single finger over the back of your hand where it rests on the cash box. The light touch sends a jolt of electricity straight up your arm. “So. It’s a yes?”

“It’s a yes,” you agree.

“Perfect.” Dean takes a step back. “Now, where do you want me?”

“You’re a professional,” you tease. “I’m sure you can find a spot. Just make sure you follow the dress code.”

Dean’s grin widens. Without breaking eye contact, he grabs the hem of his gray t-shirt and pulls it smoothly over his head.

You actually forget how to breathe for a second. You saw him naked a week ago, but seeing him out here in the broad daylight is a completely different experience. His chest is broad, sculpted from years of brutal on-ice conditioning, the muscles in his stomach flexing as he tosses the shirt onto your table. The sunlight catches on the light dusting of hair trailing down his stomach, disappearing into the low waistband of his board shorts.

“How’s the dress code looking?” He asks innocently.

“Acceptable,” you manage to choke out.

“Glad to hear it.” Dean winks at you, grabs his bucket, and jogs over to join his teammates.

The next two hours are absolute pandemonium.

Word spreads across campus faster than a wildfire. The Briar hockey team is shirtless at the Delta Zeta house. The line of cars waiting to get washed stretches entirely down the block. Frat boys show up just to see what the commotion is about. Groups of girls from other sororities line the sidewalk, pulling out their phones to record videos of Garrett spraying Logan with the hose, or Tucker politely scrubbing the roof of a minivan for a local soccer mom.

And Dean.

Dean is putting on a show.

You sit on the hood of a dry, parked Jeep Cherokee near the edge of the lawn, taking your state-mandated break. Jess handed you a plastic cup of spiked pink lemonade ten minutes ago, and you are happily sipping it while watching the chaos unfold.

Dean is currently washing a sleek black Audi. He is entirely soaked. Water runs down the planes of his chest, catching the afternoon sun and making his skin glisten. Suds cling to his arms and the waistband of his shorts. He’s laughing at something Logan just said, his head thrown back, running a soapy sponge over the hood of the car with long, effortless strokes.

He looks unfairly sexy. It’s actually offensive to the general public.

Every few minutes, he glances over his shoulder, catching your eye through the crowd. He always gives you a quick smirk or a subtle wink, making sure you know exactly who he’s showing off for.

“I’m going to ask you a question,” Jess says, hopping up onto the hood of the Jeep next to you. She takes a sip of her own lemonade. “And as your sister, I demand absolute honesty.”

“Shoot,” you say, not taking your eyes off Dean.

“Did you sleep with Dean Di Laurentis?”

You choke on your lemonade, coughing as the sour liquid burns the back of your throat. “Excuse me?”

“Don’t play coy with me,” Jess says, bumping her shoulder against yours. “He has been staring at you like you’re his last meal on death row for two hours. And you keep looking at him like you want to drag him into the bushes.”

You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, feeling your face burn. “We’re … hanging out. It’s new.”

Jess lets out a low whistle. “Damn. Good for you. He’s gorgeous. A menace to society, but gorgeous.”

“He’s actually really sweet,” you defend him quietly.

“I’m sure he is.” Jess smirks, hopping off the car. “I’m going to go make sure Logan hasn’t flooded the neighbor’s flower bed. Enjoy the view.”

You smile into your cup. The view is indeed spectacular.

You watch Dean finish rinsing the Audi. He wipes his forehead with the back of his forearm, looking genuinely exhausted but incredibly happy. He tosses his sponge into the bucket, says something to Tucker, and then starts walking toward you.

Your heart does that stupid flip again.

He reaches the Jeep and stops right between your dangling legs, resting his wet, soapy hands on the metal on either side of your thighs. He is breathing hard, radiating heat. The smell of coconut-scented soap, clean sweat, and Dean completely overwhelms your senses.

“You’re working hard,” you note, reaching out to brush a stray, wet curl off his forehead.

Dean leans into your touch instantly. “I’m earning my keep. The lockbox looks full.”

“We broke our fundraising record an hour ago,” you smile. “The shelter is going to be thrilled. Thank you, Dean. Seriously.”

“I told you I’d deliver.” Dean steps closer, until his bare, wet chest is practically brushing against your knees. “Though I expect to be heavily compensated tonight. We’re talking appetizers, an entrée, and at least two desserts.”

“I think I can manage that.”

“Good.” Dean tilts his chin up, his eyes dropping to your lips. “Can I kiss you? I know we’re in public, but you look incredible in that bikini and I have zero self-control.”

You laugh, tangling your fingers into his damp hair at the nape of his neck. “Yes, you can kiss me.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. Dean leans up, capturing your mouth in a deep, wet, entirely distracting kiss. He tastes like lemonade and sunshine. You pull him closer with your knees, letting your eyes flutter shut as he hums in approval against your lips.

“Well, well, well. Isn’t this a touching scene.”

The loud, grating voice slices through the bubble of your perfect moment like a rusty knife.

You freeze. Dean pulls back, his body stiffening instantly.

You look over Dean’s shoulder. Standing on the sidewalk, holding a red solo cup and flanked by two of his giant, meathead friends, is McMahon. 

He looks you up and down, his lip curling into a condescending sneer. Then he looks at Dean.

“Slumming it, Di Laurentis?” McMahon asks loudly, making sure the people around them can hear. “I heard you were desperate for a date, but I didn’t think you’d settle for my sloppy seconds.”

A dead, heavy silence drops over your immediate vicinity. The music is still playing, the water is still running, but everyone within earshot has stopped what they’re doing. Even Garrett and Logan have dropped their hoses, their heads snapping toward the sidewalk.

Your stomach plummets. You instinctively pull your legs back, suddenly feeling entirely too exposed in your bikini, the old, familiar shame threatening to choke you.

But Dean doesn’t step back. He doesn’t let you pull away.

He stands exactly where he is, keeping his hands planted on the Jeep, shielding your body with his own massive frame. Slowly, he turns his head to look at McMahon.

All the playful, charming energy evaporates from Dean’s demeanor. His jaw tightens, the muscles in his back cording with tension. He looks terrifying. He looks like a guy who spends three hours a day slamming people into glass walls for a living.

“What did you just say?” Dean asks. His voice is eerily quiet. It doesn’t boom. It doesn’t yell. It just carries.

McMahon puffs his chest out, trying to look intimidating, but you can see the slight hesitation in his eyes. He clearly wasn’t expecting Dean to look quite so murderous. “I’m just saying, man. You could do better. I already warned you she’s a dead end in bed.”

Garrett takes a step forward, his hands balling into fists, but Dean throws a hand up, stopping his friend in his tracks.

“I don’t need you to fight my battles, Graham,” Dean says, never taking his eyes off McMahon.

Dean turns fully around, facing the wide receiver. He crosses his arms over his bare chest. He doesn’t look angry anymore. He looks amused. And somehow, that’s so much worse.

“You know, McMahon,” Dean says smoothly, his voice carrying perfectly over the background noise. “I actually owe you a thank you.”

McMahon frowns, clearly thrown off script. “What?”

“I said thank you,” Dean repeats, a sharp, patronizing smile touching his lips. “Because if you weren’t such a loudmouth, incompetent idiot, I never would have found her.”

McMahon’s face flushes a dark, ugly red. “Watch your mouth, Di Laurentis.”

“No, you watch mine,” Dean steps off the grass and onto the concrete, closing the distance until he is standing a foot away from McMahon. He has a solid two inches of height on the football player, and he uses every bit of it, looking down his nose with absolute disdain.

“I tried to give you the benefit of the doubt, man,” Dean says loudly, making sure the surrounding crowd can hear every single word. “I really did. I thought, ‘Hey, maybe he’s just new at this. Maybe he doesn’t know where the clit is.’ But then I spent some time with Y/N.”

You cover your mouth with your hand, your eyes widening as a few sorority girls in the background gasp.

“And let me tell you,” Dean continues, his tone conversational but his eyes lethal. “There is absolutely nothing wrong with her. In fact, she is perfectly, beautifully responsive. Explosive, actually.”

McMahon’s jaw drops. “You’re lying.”

“I don’t need to lie,” Dean laughs, a harsh, dismissive sound. “She came three times, McMahon. Three. In the span of an hour. And the only thing she needed was a guy who actually knows what the hell he’s doing.”

The silence on the lawn is absolute. A few frat guys in the back actually let out low whistles of impressed shock.

“So,” Dean concludes, leaning in so close that McMahon actually takes a half-step backward. “The fact that you couldn’t get her off? The fact that you blamed her in front of half the campus? That isn’t her failing, buddy. That is a pathetic testament to your own sexual inadequacy.”

McMahon opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. He looks completely, utterly humiliated. His two buddies have actually taken a step away from him, clearly not wanting to be associated with the collateral damage.

Dean isn’t finished.

He drops the amusement. The lethal seriousness returns, dark and unyielding.

“If I ever hear you talk about her again,” Dean says, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous gravel. “If I ever hear you say her name, or look at her, or breathe in her general direction … I will not use my words next time. I will put you on the ground. Are we clear?”

McMahon swallows hard. He looks around at the massive crowd staring at him, judging him, laughing at him. He looks back at Dean, the reality of the situation finally sinking in.

He doesn’t say a word. He just turns on his heel and stalks away down the sidewalk, his friends trailing awkwardly behind him.

The crowd immediately erupts into whispers and laughter. Someone starts a slow clap that ripples through the hockey team.

Dean completely ignores them. He turns his back on the crowd and walks straight back to you.

You are sitting on the hood of the Jeep, staring at him in absolute awe. The lingering anxiety that McMahon’s appearance had sparked is completely gone. In its place is a rush of pure, unadulterated affection.

No one has ever stood up for you like that. No one has ever publicly, unapologetically claimed you.

Dean stops between your knees again. He looks a little flushed, the tension slowly draining out of his shoulders. He looks up at you, suddenly looking a little unsure.

“Was that too much?” He asks quietly. “I know you don’t like a scene, but I couldn’t just let him-”

You cut him off by grabbing the sides of his face and kissing him.

It’s not a sweet kiss. It is desperate, hot, and entirely public. You pour every ounce of gratitude and desire you have into it, your tongue tangling with his. Dean lets out a rough sound of surprise before his arms wrap tightly around your waist, hauling you flush against his chest, lifting you slightly off the hood of the car.

The crowd around you actually cheers, but you barely hear them.

You pull back, resting your forehead against his. You are both breathing heavy, smiling like idiots.

“That was perfect,” you whisper.

“Yeah?” Dean’s green eyes shine with relief and happiness.

“Yeah. Though you just ruined that man’s reputation forever.”

“He ruined it himself. I just provided the facts.” Dean smirks, rubbing his thumb over your hip bone. “Besides. I told him the truth. You are explosive.”

You swat his shoulder, laughing as a blush covers your cheeks. “Shut up and go wash a car, Di Laurentis. You still have an hour on the clock.”

Dean groans dramatically, dropping his head onto your shoulder. “You are a cruel, demanding taskmaster. I’m being exploited for my body.”

“You love it,” you remind him.

“I do,” Dean admits softly, turning his head to press a lingering kiss to the bare skin of your neck. “I really, really do.”

He pulls back, giving you one last, breathtaking smile.

“I’ll pick you up at seven,” Dean promises. “Wear something that’s easy to take off.”

“Dean!”

He just laughs, a bright, booming sound that echoes over the noise of the car wash. He winks, turns around, and jogs back over to grab his sponge, immediately shoving Logan out of the way to take over a sports car.

You sit on the hood of the Jeep, watching him work.

You think about the girl you were a week ago — convinced you were broken, resigned to a life of quiet disappointment, carrying the weight of incompetent men on your shoulders.

And then you look at Dean. Arrogant, charming, relentless, and fiercely protective. The guy who saw a wall and decided to tear it down with his bare hands.

You take a sip of your lemonade, a soft, permanent smile etched onto your face.

Yeah. Seven o’clock can’t come fast enough.

[i-love-ptv]

[puckingcuckbunny]

𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐚 ✪

𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐞 : john logan x fem! chronic fainter! reader 𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐤 𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 : angst, mentions of fainting, breakup implied or atleast taking a break implied, dizziness, medical inaccuracies for the plot. 𝐞𝐯𝐚𝐥𝐮𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 : Being a chronic fainter was a little annoying. but you learnt how to manage and by junior year at Briar, everyone around you had adapted to it too; Hannah and Allie knew how to catch the signs before you hit the floor, Garrett keeps electrolyte packets in his backpack, and the hockey house has practically developed an emergency response system.

Everyone adapts except John Logan.

Because no matter how many times you wake back up smiling and insisting you’re okay, Logan never quite learns how to treat it like something ordinary. And when one particularly bad fainting spell leaves you unconscious long enough to genuinely terrify him, the careful balance the two of you have built between normalcy and fear finally begins to crack.

Or: two times John Logan watched you faint, and the one time he realised loving you meant learning how to be scared without letting it consume him.

𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐧 𝐢𝐜𝐞 : 5.7k words 𝐛𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐲’𝐬 𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐫 : First time fulfilling a request, I hope you like it anon, im sorry that it probably isn't the fluff you are looking for but I hope you like it nonetheless. thank you @mieluno & @kthice for the text dividers

fainting had always been a little bit inconvenient.

not dramatic enough to be cinematic, not predictable enough to properly prepare for - just inconvenient in the kind of way that slowly embeds itself into every aspect of your life until you stop noticing how abnormal it actually is. It all started in high school, the first time it happened was arguably horrifying- 3rd period math class, and your crush had just offered you a pen and flashed you a crooked smile. Your heart raced, like a hummingbird wild and erratic and before you knew it, one minute you were bashfully giggling at his jokes about quadratic equations- the next you were face first in your notebook. The doctors told you Vasovagal Syncope, which in your opinion sounded like a hard metal rock band, but you took their blood pressure medicines from that day onwards. 

Over time, you learnt how to live with it. Sometimes it was manageable. Sometimes it was just dizziness and blurry vision making you sit down on the nearest surface before your body decided to humble you publicly. Sometimes it was waking up to panicked faces hovering over you while you tried to convince everyone around you that no, seriously, this happened all the time.

which, unfortunately, was true.

Allie and Hannah learned the quickest, being roommates would do that to you. The boys learned soon after. By junior year, there was practically a system in place for it - water bottles shoved into your hands, someone grabbing your bag before you hit the floor, Garrett texting Logan before you were even fully conscious again.

Logan, however, never quite adjusted to it the way everyone else did.

he tried to.

God, he tried.

but there was something uniquely horrifying about loving someone whose body could go slack in your arms without warning. Something deeply unsettling about the way you always laughed it off afterwards, brushing it aside with flushed cheeks and a quiet, "I'm okay,” while his heart was still somewhere near his throat.

because to you, fainting was normal.

to John Logan, it never would be.

But here are the two times he dealt with it..somewhat normally. And the one time he didn’t

𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝟏

The library at Briar had a very specific kind of silence.

Not actual silence - that would’ve been impossible considering half the student population seemed physically incapable of existing without aggressively whispering every thought that crossed their mind - but the sort of hushed atmosphere that made every dropped pen sound like a gunshot.

You were currently trying very hard not to contribute to that atmosphere by murdering John Logan with a highlighter.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Logan muttered from across the table, long legs nudging yours beneath it.

You didn’t look up from your notes, underlining a sentence in your physiology textbook hard enough to nearly tear the page. “Because,” You whispered sharply, “you’ve tapped your foot against mine for the last fifteen minutes.”

“That’s because my feet are freezing.”

“That sounds like a you problem.”

“It became my problem when you shoved your icy ass converse under my legs.”

A snort came from beside you. Hannah quickly disguised it as a cough when you glared at her over your laptop screen.

Across from her, Garrett looked deeply unbothered by the entire interaction, lazily flipping a page in his philosophy textbook while Hannah slowly collapsed into silent laughter against his shoulder.

“You two are disgusting,” Allie informed you quietly from the end of the table.

You blinked. “We’re literally studying.”

Logan hummed, not even pretending to pay attention to the stats worksheet in front of him anymore, “Yeah baby, real filthy behaviour.”

Heat crawled up your neck instantly.

The word baby wasn’t exactly new. Logan had been throwing it around for months now, slipping it into conversations with such casual ease that you’d stopped reacting outwardly somewhere around week three, despite the fact every single time still felt like someone plugging your nervous system directly into a live wire.

“You’re staring again,” You muttered.

“I’m allowed to stare at my girlfriend.”

Allie gagged dramatically.

“Oh my god,” She whispered loudly, “he’s gotten even more annoying.”

“Impossible,” Hannah replied solemnly.

Garrett barely glanced up from his book. “Give it a week. They’ll become one organism.”

“We already basically are,” Logan said casually.

You finally looked up at him then.

That was the problem with Logan. The reason you’d fallen for him so spectacularly despite your better judgement.

He said things like that so easily. Like it was obvious.

obviously he’d started keeping protein bars in his backpack because you forgot to eat when you were stressed. obviously he waited outside your exam halls even when he had practice. obviously your legs ended up over his lap every time you sat together for longer than ten minutes.

Your chest tightened softly.

And because apparently the universe enjoyed humiliating you whenever you got too emotionally comfortable, your vision blurred slightly at the exact same moment.

You frowned. That was… inconvenient timing.

The words on your laptop screen swam for half a second before sharpening again. Your heartbeat fluttered unpleasantly.

Not enough to panic over yet. You subtly shifted in your seat, rolling your neck and readjusting your posture- hoping to god that it would be enough, trying to ignore the familiar lightheadedness curling at the edges of your body.

“Hey.”

Logan’s voice dropped quieter instantly.

You looked over.

His brows had pulled together slightly, eyes scanning your face with terrifying precision.

“How long?” He asked softly.

Damn him.

Most people didn’t notice until you were actively halfway unconscious.

“I’m okay,” You whispered automatically.

A look crossed his face. Because he knew that tone. Knew what it meant when you said I’m okay in that specific careful voice. Your boyfriend leaned back slightly in his chair, completely ignoring the fact that Garrett was now openly watching the interaction over the top of his textbook.

“When was the last time you ate?”

You blinked once.

Logan sighed immediately. “Baby.”

“I had coffee?”

Allie dropped her pen onto the table. “Oh my god.”

“You can’t survive on caffeine and academic validation,” Hannah hissed.

“I literally can though.”

“No,” Logan said flatly, “you literally cannot. That’s the whole issue.”

Despite yourself, you laughed quietly.

Wrong decision.

The movement sent dizziness crashing through you harder this time, your stomach dipping sharply as black spots burst across your vision. Logan was moving before you could even process it properly. One second you were upright, the next his hand was wrapped around your wrist while the other steadied your shoulder.

“Hey,” He said immediately, voice calm enough that someone who didn’t know him wouldn’t notice the tension underneath it, “look at me.”

Your body felt frustratingly floaty all of a sudden.

“I’m fine,” You murmured weakly.

“Yeah, sweetheart, that sentence is losing credibility.”

Garrett was already standing.

“I’ll get water.”

Hannah reached for your bag without needing to ask while Allie shoved your laptop aside to make room.

The horrifying thing was how practised everyone looked doing it.

Like this had become routine.

Which, unfortunately, it kind of had.

“I hate all of you,” You mumbled as Logan carefully crouched in front of your chair.

“You love us deeply,” Allie corrected.

“Stockholm syndrome maybe.”

“You literally chose to date one of them,” Hannah pointed out.

“That weakens your argument significantly,” Garrett called over his shoulder.

Logan ignored all of them.

His thumb pressed lightly against your pulse point while he watched your face with that same concentrated expression he got before hockey games. Like he could somehow prevent your body from betraying you if he paid enough attention.

Your chest ached.

“Hey,” You whispered softly once your vision finally started stabilising again.

Logan looked up immediately.

You reached out without thinking, fingers brushing against the crease between his eyebrows. The tension sitting there.

“I’m okay.”

He closed his eyes for half a second. Then he turned his head slightly and pressed a quick kiss into the centre of your palm before standing back up.

The library collectively chose that exact moment to become aware of the fact that the hockey team’s second line centre was looking at you like you personally held his heart hostage.

“Oh my god,” Allie whispered dramatically.

Hannah looked emotional.

Garrett looked disgusted.

“Suddenly we’re all trapped in a Nicholas Sparks novel,” he muttered.

Logan didn’t even glance away from you.

“Shut up,” He said absentmindedly, still watching your face carefully, “she almost passed out.”

“I did not almost pass out.”

“That’s not medically valid.” Logan shot.

You flicked his forehead, “You’re not medically valid,” 

You stared at him for two seconds before bursting into startled laughter.

And just like that, some of the fear eased out of his shoulders.

𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝟐

The thing about the hockey house was that it never really felt like anyone was visiting it.

It felt like everyone was always a part of this little ecosystem, even if half of them technically still had their own places and the other half only owned two plates and a concerning number of energy drinks that nobody could fully account for.

Tonight was one of those nights where everything blurred into something almost domestic in a way you loved. Garrett and Hannah were folded into each other on the armchair in the corner, Hannah scrolling absently while Garrett spoke over her shoulder in low, easy comments about something on his screen that she kept pretending not to care about but clearly did. 

Dean and Allie were on the floor near the coffee table, Allie leaning against him in that casual way that somehow always ended with her stealing his hoodies and Dean acting like he was personally offended by affection while still adjusting her position when she shifted too much.

And then there was Tucker, occupying the remaining space , talking at a volume that suggested he had forgotten walls existed.

You were on the couch.

Logan was on the couch too, your legs resting across his lap, your head resting on the back of the couch. His hand had found your ankle at some point during the evening and had simply stayed there, like it had decided that was where it belonged and saw no reason to reconsider.

“Have you eaten today?,” Logan murmured into your ear, not looking up from his phone.

You didn’t look away from the conversation Dean was having with Allie about whether cereal could be classified as a personality trait. “Hmm?”

“Did you eat today baby?” He dropped his phone into his lap and caressed your hair.

“I think so.”

A pause.

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“It does if you really think about it.”

Hannah glanced over from the armchair. “She’s lying.”

“I am not lying.”

Garrett didn’t look up. “You had toast and emotional distress.”

“I had toast and a very normal amount of stress.”

Logan’s thumb pressed lightly against your ankle once, absent and automatic, but his attention had shifted to you properly now. Not fully concerned yet, but already recalibrating the room around your answer the way he always did when he thought something might be off.

“Baby,” he said quietly, like it was a habit more than a warning.

You finally turned your head slightly toward him. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting anything.”

“You’re absolutely starting something.”

Across the room, Allie made a sound of exaggerated disgust without even looking up. “I can feel the health lecture forming.”

Dean nodded. “It’s in the air.”

Logan ignored them completely. “You said you had toast this morning.”

“I did.”

“And then what.”

You hesitated.

Which was apparently answered enough.

Hannah sighed. “Oh my god.”

“I had coffee,” you admitted finally, because there was no point pretending anymore.

Garrett closed his eyes briefly like he was praying for patience. “That’s not food.”

“It has beans in it.”

“That’s not how nutrition works,” Logan said, though his voice was still calm, still even, like he was trying very hard not to make it into a bigger thing than it already was.

You shifted your legs slightly on his lap, rolling your eyes. “You’re all obsessed with me.”

“Yes,” Allie said immediately.

“That’s not-”

“Yes,” Dean repeated, “we are.”

You opened your mouth to concede and hop to the kitchen, go grab whatever tucker had made and stored in the fridge, but the words didn’t come out as smoothly as they should have.

It wasn’t immediate. It never was, much to your annoyance. It was subtle in the way your body always was about these things, like it preferred to give you enough time to be pissed before it betrayed you properly.

A slight softening at the edges of your vision first, like the room had decided to lose definition without informing you. The low hum of conversation didn’t change, but it felt slightly further away, like you were listening to it through water.

You frowned. This was inconvenient.

You shifted your weight on the couch instinctively, trying to ground yourself without drawing attention to it, but Logan noticed anyway. Of course he did.

His hand tightened slightly around your ankle.

“You good?” he asked, quieter now.

You nodded automatically. “Yea,” pushing off the sofa, hoping the movement would reboot your brain,”... yeah im fine.”

It came out too fast. Logan’s expression changed imperceptibly, the way it always did when he didn’t believe you but hadn’t yet decided whether to challenge it in front of everyone.

“Hey,” he said again, softer, his hand wrapped around your wrist- following you away from your seat.

You tried to laugh it off, but it didn’t quite land properly even in your own ears. “I’m finally listening to you guys, just going to grab something to eat.”

You pushed yourself to step away.

That was when it hit properly. Your body simply decided that it was no longer participating in the conversation. The room loosened, like the edges stopped agreeing with each other and in between the gaps your brain filled with black spots.

You reached out without thinking, fingers brushing the back of the couch as your knees went weak in a way that didn’t feel like anything at first, until it did.

“Hey-”

Logan’s voice cut through immediately, sharper now, closer than it had been a second ago, but it was already too late for clarity.

There was so much movement all at once.

Someone swearing.

A water bottle being cracked open.

The shuffling of sneakers and socks against the floor.

Coming back was always the worst part.

Because there was always a moment where you could hear everything before you could properly exist inside it again. Voices layered over each other, closer this time, less casual.

“I’ve got her,” Logan’s voice said, low and controlled in a way that didn’t quite match the tension underneath it.

“She’s out cold?” Dean asked, like he was trying not to panic but also deeply failing.

“She’s not- don’t say it like that,” Allie snapped immediately.

“Water,” Garrett said somewhere to the side, already moving.

And then your vision finally returned in pieces.

Ceiling first.

Then faces.

Then Logan.

He was closest.

Crouched in front of you, one hand steadying your shoulder, the other still holding your wrist like he hadn’t fully decided whether letting go was allowed yet. His expression wasn’t dramatic in the way people expected panic to be.

He was focussed on you, in a way that made your chest tighten before you even fully remembered why. You blinked slowly.

“Oh,” you muttered. “That was annoying.”

Relief flickered across Allie’s face instantly. “She’s alive.”

“Barely,” Dean said.

“I heard that,” you murmured.

Logan didn’t smile, “you scared me,” he said finally. You swallowed, trying to sit up, but his hand immediately steadied you again, firmer now.

“Don’t,” he said softly.

“I’m fine,” you replied automatically, accepting the water from garrett with a smile, you reach over to your bag and search for an energy bar. You hated the nutty torture snacks, but Logan insisted on you carrying them around for emergencies.

Everyone around you had relaxed, Hannah, Garrett and Tucker went to the kitchen, animatedly chatting about dinner whereas Allie and Dean went back to their places on the floor, already scrolling through her phone. 

Logan hadn’t moved, his fingers drumming against your knee. Your fingers moved without thinking, brushing lightly against his sleeve.

“I’m okay,” you said again, softer this time, like it might mean something more if you said it gently enough.

Logan exhaled through his nose, eyes flicking briefly shut like he was trying to steady something in himself. He shook his head, as if the movie had been unpaused and he had momentarily lost the plot. 

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I know.”

𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝟑

Logan got the message in the middle of something he would not later be able to reconstruct properly, not because it wasn’t important, but because everything that happened immediately after replaced it so completely that the original context never stood a chance of surviving in his memory.

His phone buzzed incessantly on his desk breaking his concentration from whatever his professor was droning about ,to the group chat notifications exploding on his phone screen. It was Hannah’s name first, then Garrett’s, then Allie’s, all stacked on top of each other in a way  that made him unlock his phone and scroll through hurriedly. 

you fainted. properly. you're awake now. come back.

He read it once without reacting in any visible way, which was what made it worse in hindsight, everything else that he had been doing was irrelevant, as though the idea of continuing it belonged to someone else entirely, and he was no longer that person.

By the time he got back to the house, his hoodie was half-zipped because he had started putting it on properly and then stopped halfway through, his cap still backwards and slightly uneven like he had forgotten it was there at all and his hair underneath it flattened in places that suggested his hand had been through it more times than he had noticed.

Logan shut off his ignition and ran up the stairs, two at a time until he was bursting through the front door- his bag hanging from one shoulder as he scanned the scene in front of him. Garrett stood near the kitchen counter with a glass of water he had clearly forgotten to drink from, Hannah sat on the couch angled slightly forward in a posture that suggested she had not yet decided whether she was allowed to relax, Allie hovered somewhere between the hallway and the living room in a way that made it clear she had been going back and forth between checking on you and giving you space, and Dean existed in that familiar state of pretending not to be paying attention while absolutely paying attention.

And you were on the couch. Your eyes were open but not fully anchored yet, blinking slowly in that delayed way that made it clear your body was still catching up to where you were. Your shoulders were slightly hunched forward as if you were trying to find the correct posture for being awake again and your hands were loosely folded in your lap before you noticed him properly.

The moment you did, everything in you shifted in a way that was immediate and familiar, like muscle memory rather than thought. You sat up, twisting over the couch to meet his eyes and smile with your hand outstretched- that was when the collective inhale happened, like even the house was waiting to see what he would do.

His eyes stayed on you without breaking, taking in the fact that you were sitting there, awake, conscious, present, and yet his brain still hadn’t stopped running like a hamster on a wheel, rotating again and again through all the scenarios he had plagued himself with on the drive over- a broken movie reel that fluttered between bad, worse and catastrophic.

You saw him, the way his eyes darted all over your face, how his hand was tightening and loosening against his bag strap. 

“Hey,” you said, your voice slightly rough, but it jumpstarted him to begin slowly approaching you, like a wounded animal. Your first instinct whenever he looked like that, as if you could smooth the edges of his expression back into something manageable by making yourself smaller within it, which was something you did without hesitation, like it was part of a pattern you had both already agreed to without ever discussing it.

He let you. 

Let you intertwine your fingers with him and pull him closer next to you. Let you kiss his hands, then knuckles and then the side of his wrist. He let you ground him before he could process anything.

“I’m fine,” you said quickly, already aware of how the room was still holding itself slightly tense, and your voice tilted into something apologetic without fully meaning to, “I’m sorry guys, I must not have realised how stressed I was. I didn’t mean to scare anyone, I just didn’t eat properly and I got a bit dizzy and I didn’t realise it would turn into anything, it won’t happen again, I promise.”

Around you, the room began to release itself in pieces.

Garrett exhaled and shifted his weight like he had been waiting for permission to stop bracing, Hannah leaned back into the couch again as her shoulders loosened, Allie moved a step closer to you and immediately started talking in that half-joking, half-relieved tone about electrolytes and how she was “putting you on a schedule if this ever happens again,” and Dean, finally, contributed something about how he shouldn’t have asked about how your paper went, and he’ll let you run him over with his car to relieve stress next time, which was unhelpful but normal in a way that helped everyone else reset.

You leaned into Logan without thinking, still holding his hand, your body molding into his as you rubbed circles on his knuckles and pressed your hand into his thigh

You looked up at him, already softer, already slipping back into the version of the evening where everything was normal again. But what you couldn’t see was the way his emotions swirled thunderously in his mind, how he couldn’t begin to relax like everyone else did- in fact he was baffled they were so normal so quickly. He barely heard you ask about his class, or notice when you peppered soft kisses to his jaw and say that you missed him- how boring it was when he wasn’t there. As though the structure of his day mattered more than anything.

He tried to answer at first, his words bubbling to the tip of his tongue, but it didn’t take long for him to realise they wouldn’t come out in a smooth, caramelised way that would flow into the calm atmosphere of the room. He gently let go of your hand, in a decisive way that made you furrow your brows and scan his face.

“Logan?” you said, quieter now, not fully alarmed but already sensing the direction this was going.

He rubbed his hands together, throat working thickly as his adams apple bobbed. Everyone else had noticed the shift, conversations slowed. Dean stopped mid-sentence. Allie’s expression changed slightly as she looked between the two of you. Hannah went still in a way that suggested she was no longer sure whether to intervene or wait.

Logan turned to you, his hair falling in specks along his forehead, “I need a minute.” He got up and went upstairs, footsteps heavy along the ceiling of where you all stayed frozen until his bedroom door clicked closed; you blinked a few times, looking at your friends who met you with confused, concerned shrugs and shakes of their heads.

Your expression tightened and you pushed yourself up to follow him, ignoring whatever advice your friends were half-heartedly giving you. 

When the door creaked open under your hand, you found him sitting on the edge of his bed, hands braced on his knees and holding his head, as though he needed something solid to hold the weight of his thoughts. His cap lay discarded on the floor, shoulders slightly lifted in tension that he was not releasing, and when you entered the doorway he did not look immediately, as if he already knew what would happen if he looked at you too quickly.

When he did meet your eyes, it was not anger that you saw first, but something more difficult to place because it did not sit cleanly in any single emotion. It looked like a strain held in place for too long.

“You shouldn’t apologise like that,” he said, and you frowned slightly, stepping inside and shutting the door behind you. Trapping whatever conversation you were about to have within these four walls.

“I wasn’t- I just didn’t want everyone worrying,” you said, still trying to smooth it over in the same way you had in the other room, still trying to keep it within something manageable. The bedframe creaked under you, as if warning you from crossing your legs and sinking into this situation.

But he shook his head once, not dismissive but overwhelmed, and when he spoke again his voice had shifted into something quieter but sharper at the edges, “You were apologising for being unconscious.”

That made you stop, properly stop, because it didn’t match the version of the moment you had been holding onto, and he saw that in your face immediately.

“I wasn’t here,” he said, and there was something in the way he said it that made it clear that time had not been abstract for him in the same way it was for you. “You were just gone, and I found out from my phone blowing up, messages that had sat there for god knows how long because…” He grit his teeth, “I just had to turn it on silent for class. And I get back to everyone telling me it was fine, that you’re fine, like that changes anything.”

You try to re-anchor him in proximity the same way you always did, your hand finding his again, your voice softening as you said, “You can’t always be there Logan, I don’t want you to always be on edge. I’m okay.”

But when he looked at you this time, there was something in his expression that did not settle with that reassurance.

“I know,” he said quietly, and it came out with more restraint than anything he had said earlier, like it was something he had been holding back for a long time and could no longer keep contained in the same shape. “I just don’t know how to stop thinking about what it looked like when you weren’t.”

You cup his cheek, turning him towards you, “I’m right here baby,” You kiss him, imprinting the taste of you onto his mouth, the feel of your lips together as a way to tell him that you’re still there with him, “I’m not going anywhere.”

Logan held your wrists, his fingers shaking against your skin, “I..” his eyes were wide, pupils flicking between yours, “I never know when you aren’t going to be here.”

He tugged at your hands and you let him, nails digging into the bedsheet uselessly next to you. Your breath caught in your throat, face quaking and crumbling at the edges, eyelashes fluttering- beating away the bubbling tears forming on your lashline. 

“I think I’ll sleep at the dorm tonight,” you said eventually, and your voice was softer than it had been before, tired in a way that didn’t fully belong to the moment.

Logan looked up at that, but he didn’t stop you, just watched with a shattered look in his eyes, his lips pursed and pressed against his hands that were clasped together. You collected your things as seamlessly as possible, and given that you’d stayed over for the entire weekend, it was proving to be harder than you thought. But you huffed and puffed with each new article that got shoved into the shoulder bag until the room looked as if you’d never stepped foot in there. 

You’d already begun to calculate how many trips it would take to empty out the clothes from his dresser and toiletries from his bathroom. 

Logan still hadn’t said anything, his eyes widening by a fraction when he realised just how much you had erased from his space, but he stayed silent when your fingers hesitated against the door handle and didn’t dare to say anything when you turned back to him- eyes begging him to stop you, to cradle you in his arms and work it out. He ignored it all, looking through you and barely flinching when you shut the door harder than necessary. 

You adjusted your bag strap over your shoulder with careful hands, stilling when you realised everyone was staring at you as you emerged from the stairwell, “I’m heading home guys..” 

Your throat tightened but you shook your head and forced a smile onto your face, it felt plasticy and fake to force the expression over your eyebrows that tightened together and nose that burned with each deep breath you took. 

You added lightly, “I’ve got that test tomorrow anyway, and it’s probably better if I just- yeah. I’ll head back.”

Allie and Hannah both turned slightly, breaking out of the pitying trance when you grabbed your keys and headed for the door. 

Neither of them said anything at first, because there was a specific kind of silence that settles when two people are trying very hard to behave like nothing irreversible has happened only a floor above them.

“Okay,” Allie said finally, careful but not pushing, “Text us when you get in?”

You nodded quickly.

“Yeah, of course.”

Hannah’s eyes lingered on you a little longer, not interrogating, just observing, like she was storing away the way you were holding yourself more tightly than usual, the way Logan wasn’t following you to the door, barely letting you out of his hold with attacks of kisses and whispers in your ear. 

But neither of them asked.

Because to everyone else in the house, it still looked like something that could be explained away by stress and timing and too much noise and not enough food.

You said goodbye in a way that was deliberately light, stepping out with your usual version of composure stitched back together over something slightly less stable underneath it.

Back in the living room, the energy eventually returned in fragments, Logan had rejoined the group nearly an hour after the girls had left. 

Allie and Hannah left together not long after you, mumbled goodbyes were exchanged and worried whispers about Logan along with promises to update them over text had gotten them out the door, and back to you .

And once the door closed behind them, the house settled into a quieter version of itself.

Dean was the first to fully break the tension, dropping onto the couch with the kind of exaggerated movement that only made sense when someone was actively trying to remind a room how normal they were allowed to be. Tucker followed soon after, already halfway into a joke about how “Briar parties are medically unsafe environments” that no one really responded to but still helped reset the tone anyway.

Logan stayed silent for a moment too long in the doorway before eventually sitting down on the arm of the couch, not fully joining the group, just occupying space near it without integrating into it. The others kept talking for a while, but their volume softened slightly in the way it does when people unconsciously recognise that something heavier is still present in the room.

Eventually, Dean stretched and yawned in an overly theatrical way.

“Right,” he said, pushing himself up. “I’m calling it before I start thinking about my own mortality again.”

Tucker followed immediately, clapping Logan on the shoulder on his way past like nothing meaningful had just been discussed at all. “Don’t overthink it, man,” he added lightly, already heading upstairs. “She’s been doing that since high school apparently. She’s fine.”

Garrett didn’t follow them right away.

Logan just exhaled once, slow, like something had tightened in his chest at the phrasing.

Once the footsteps disappeared upstairs and the house settled properly, Garrett stayed behind in the spot next to Logan, leaning against the couch and pretended not to be boring holes into the side of his best friend's face. Logan was still on the arm, staring somewhere that wasn’t really the room.

For a while, neither of them spoke.

“I can’t imagine it,” Garrett broke the silence, voice quieter now, stripped of the earlier group energy, “loving someone and knowing that at any point they might just not respond.”

Logan’s jaw tightened slightly at that, but he didn’t interrupt.

Garrett looked down at his hands briefly before continuing, “I know everyone’s saying she’s used to it and it’s normal for her or whatever, but… that’s not really the part that sticks, is it?”

That landed differently.

Logan looked down finally, his hands loosely clasped together, and when he spoke his voice came out lower than before, less controlled in the way it had been earlier.

“I don’t know what to do,” he said, and there was no performance left in it now, no attempt to hold anything in place. “I love her so much it actually hurts, and I can’t… I can’t keep doing that thing where I pretend I’m okay when she’s-”

He stopped. Swallowed slightly and pressed his fingers to his eyes. Logan exhaled again, slower this time, like the words were physically difficult to keep forming.

“But I also can’t go on like this,” he finished, quieter.

That silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable in the way earlier ones had been. It was just heavy with the absence of an answer. Garrett nodded once, slowly, like he understood that there wasn’t a clean solution sitting anywhere in reach.

“I think,” Garrett said carefully after a moment, choosing each word like he was placing it somewhere fragile, “it might actually be harder to let her go than it is to keep reminding yourself she wakes up every time.”

Logan turned to Garrett, and nodded slowly- a row of tears fell from his chin and onto the soft cashmere beneath him, “I just don’t know how many times I can do it.”

𝐭𝐚𝐠 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭: @harls-sturn, @https-dandelion

[i-love-ptv]

[alierecss]

Don't let me down | John Logan

summary: You've been filming John Logan for many months. Forty seven saved clips, only eleven of them for work. You know his tells, his angles, his best light. You know him better than you probably should for someone who is just the social media girl. What you don't know is that the night he finally asked you out, there was a check involved. A thousand dollars. And three months of the most real thing you've ever felt sitting on top of a secret that was always going to cost someone.

notes: hii i'm back!! after a week of writing between breaks this one finally came to life and i really hope you guys enjoy it, also i've been informed that puck flying accidents are not very common but we're all going to pretend together, also may contain some hockey inaccuracies, i love the game but i'm definitely not a pro. as always thank you so much for reading and please let me know what you think, your comments genuinely keep me writing!!

warnings: swearing, a bet that was a terrible idea, one thousand dollars, dean being dean, forty seven saved clips, angst with a happy ending.

word count: 12.2k

When you started working on the social media position for the hockey team at Briar U, you didn't understand how it was possible for people to take you even less seriously than you already took yourself. But then there would come the moment that they needed you, and things would change, and you would think oh, how the tables have turned.

You understood this in the first week. The girl who came before you, Liana, had walked you through everything: cameras, angles, schedules, the way the athletics department liked their content formatted. But had failed to mention that the players would not look at you so much as look through you at first. Like you were part of the furniture. A tripod with a heartbeat.

In a way, that was fine. Being invisible was a perfectly good way to do the job. Players acted more naturally when they forgot the camera was there, and natural content was always better than posed content. This was something you had understood instinctively from the beginning.

You had been doing this job since the beginning of fall semester. It had come to you not accidentally but not exactly sought either, you had always followed the team, always been a genuine fan. Liana, the former social media girl, was a friend from a very boring Thursday morning class you had both suffered through together. When she came close to graduating she recommended you for the job. You had been working the library circulation desk before that. When the athletics department called it had seemed like a no-brainer.

A few months in, you knew the inner workings of the team the way you knew the layout of your own apartment. Their training schedule, their game schedule, the subtle social architecture of a group of people who spent most of their waking hours together. You knew which players were camera shy and which ones had a natural appeal and actively enjoyed being filmed — cough Dean cough — and by now you knew everyone's best angle, best light, best moment.

Which brought you to Logan.

You were also, which was a separate and entirely unrelated issue, completely down bad for one of the players.

It had not happened all at once.

You had known who John Logan was before you got the job, everyone who followed Briar hockey knew who he was, which was most of the campus, but knowing of someone and being in the same building as them four times a week were different things entirely.

You had known about his escapades too. His romantic history was the kind of thing that Olivia, your friend and a woman of genuinely exceptional gossip quality, had mentioned more than once with the relish of someone who considered this information a public service. Before the job, you had laughed about it the way you laughed about things that had nothing to do with you.

Now that you actually knew him, not knew knew him, but saw him daily, which was its own specific category, you thought about his former, and hopefully past, escapades and felt something uncomfortably close to jealousy.

The crush had consolidated gradually and against your will, the way water finds its way through things. A practice here. A post-game there. The specific way he looked when he was focused on something, the way he talked to his teammates, the way he sometimes looked directly into your camera with an expression that suggested he had briefly forgotten it was there and was just looking.

And then there was the other thing, which was honestly the worst part: he was so unfairly polite. He said good morning and good afternoon. He smiled when he caught you filming something. He said goodbye when he left and apologized if the puck flew in your direction, which it occasionally did, and each time he said sorry about that with the specific sincerity of someone who actually meant it.

You knew you had a crush on him. Obviously. That part was not new information.

What was new information was the following Tuesday, late after practice, the rink mostly empty, you sitting in the stands with your laptop open and the tiredness of someone who had been on their feet for three hours. The players were filtering out through the doors and you were reviewing footage on autopilot, not really watching, when you looked up without thinking about it.

You were looking for Logan before you had decided to look for him.

When you found him, he was at the boards, removing his helmet and pushing a hand through his hair.

Fuck me, you thought.

And then it seemed like he had heard you, because he lifted his eyes and looked straight at you across the empty rink and smiled.

You smiled back and closed your laptop.

Time to go home and think about John Logan in bed.

You reached for your camera on the tripod — force of habit, you always checked the last few shots before packing up — and opened the gallery.

Logan drinking water. Logan laughing at something Garrett said. Logan tying his skates. Logan high-fiving Tucker after a good drill. Logan making a face directly at the camera, having clearly just noticed you filming him, looking entirely unbothered about it.

You stared at the screen.

Oh.

Oh no.

The real problem came later.

The game was at Harvard, which meant the bus, which meant a situation you had been successfully avoiding for six months. You never took the team bus, too much male energy, too many large people occupying space in a way that made you feel like you had accidentally wandered into someone else's environment. You usually went with the student bus, which was fine, which was your preferred option.

The student bus had a mechanical issue and couldn't make the drive in time.

So you, along with the other team staff, boarded the team bus with approximately forty hockey players and the quiet resignation of someone who had lost a negotiation they hadn't known they were in.

The game itself went fine, nothing groundbreaking, but Briar won, which was all that mattered. You packed up your equipment and joined the line filing back onto the bus, looking for the same seat you'd had on the way there.

You were making your way down the aisle when you spotted Logan sitting alone.

You slowed down. Made the calculation. Gave yourself approximately four seconds of internal encouragement.

A freshman defenseman sat down next to him before you could finish the thought.

You did not pout. You were a professional.

"Aw, look who it is." Dean's voice came from the seat directly behind Logan. He was sitting in the aisle seat, legs stretched out, watching you with the expression of someone who had seen everything. "You can sit with me."

"Sure," you said.

"Geez, don't look so happy about it." He pulled his legs in so you could slide past. "I even let you have the window."

"What a gentleman," you said, settling in and pulling your laptop from your bag.

"Are we watching a movie?" Dean pointed at the laptop.

"No. I'm working."

"Bummer," he said, shifting in his seat to get comfortable. Dean was a broad person and the seats were not designed with broad people in mind, which meant that when you sat down you were immediately, unavoidably in contact, arms pressed together, shoulders touching. You had briefly considered putting the armrest down for some personal space, but Dean seemed completely unbothered by the proximity, which somehow made it easier to be unbothered yourself.

This was the thing about Dean that had surprised you most when you first started the job: there had never been an awkward phase. No stiff introductions, no careful professional distance, no period of working out who you were to each other. He had simply decided you were friends and proceeded accordingly, and somehow six months had passed and it felt like you had known each other much longer than that.

You connected your camera to the laptop and started pulling up photos from the game. Selected the best ones. Started uploading them to the shared drive.

"Uh oh," Dean said, leaning over. "That's not my best angle."

You looked at the photo. He was facing almost entirely away from the camera.

"Shut up," you said, lightly slapping his hand away from the screen. "What do you mean not your best angle? Are you not proud of your very nice backside?"

This was a callback, and Dean knew it. He had said something similarly direct about you at a party two months ago in the shameless way that Dean said most things, and you had decided that the only appropriate response was to give the same energy back.

 "I am," he said, "but the front is much better. You should check it out sometime."

"Are you referring to your face as the front of your backside?"

Dean repeated the question back to you in a mocking tone.

You opened the photos and started scrolling through them, and approximately three seconds later you noticed the pattern and began praying, quietly and sincerely, that Dean would not notice it too.

Too late.

"Why do you have so many pictures of Logan?" He was looking at the screen with his eyebrows raised. "There are like ten Logan pictures for every one of anyone else."

"Logan just photographs well."

"He photographs well."

"Yes."

"That's your explanation."

"That's my explanation."

Dean looked at you with the expression of someone assembling a conclusion. "You have the hots for Logan."

"The hots? Dean, what is this, a Disney Channel movie? And no. I don't."

"Yeah? Explain the hundred photos of him drinking water. Sorry, but you can't use those for Instagram." He paused. "Unless you're using them for something else. Like, I don't know. Your spank bank."

You gasped and punched his arm. "Shut up."

"Admit it."

"I plead the fifth."

"That's not how that works."

"I don't want to talk about it."

"You have to. I'm your best friend."

"No you're not. It's Olivia."

"On the team, I meant."

"It's probably Tucker."

"Tucker?" Dean looked genuinely wounded. "Tucker? Don't try to change the subject."

You closed the laptop.

"Go to sleep, Dean."

"This conversation is not over."

"Yes it is."

"No it's not."

"Yes it is."

"No it's not," he said, adjusting himself against the seat with the decisive energy of someone settling in for a nap. You let your head fall back against the window. A moment later his head dropped onto your shoulder with the comfortable weight of someone who had decided this was acceptable.

"Do not drool on me," you said.

"I bet if it was Logan you wouldn't mind," he said, eyes already closed. Of course not.

"Don't be disgusting."

"And by the way —" he opened one eye "— he has the hots for you too."

"Oh my god," you said. "Stop talking like this is iCarly."

He closed his eye again.

The bus moved through the dark and you sat there with Dean's head on your shoulder and the laptop closed on your knees and tried very hard not to look at the back of Logan's head in the row in front of you.

Oh no, you thought, again, for the second time that week.

A couple of weeks later, Dean found you setting up the tripod in the corner of the film room before pre-game interviews.

"So," he said, appearing at your elbow with the energy of someone who had been waiting for the right moment. "I saw that you didn't RSVP to the invitation for mine and Beau's birthday bash. And it's tomorrow."

You winced. You had been avoiding this topic.

"I have a thing," you said, very casually, adjusting the tripod height without looking at him.

"A thing." He repeated it back with the tone of someone who found this deeply insufficient. "What thing could possibly be more important than my birthday?"

"They painted a new wall in the hallway of my apartment so —"

"Shut up," he said, moving closer. "You're coming. Also —" he said it with the specific energy of someone deploying their strongest argument "— Logan is going to be there."

You kept your eyes on the tripod. "I would assume so. Since you live together."

"You know what I mean."

"I really don't."

"Yes you do."

"I'm working tomorrow night," you said.

"It's a Saturday."

"Content doesn't take weekends off."

"You literally schedule everything in advance and you know it." Dean leaned against the wall with his arms crossed. "Come to the party. Talk to him. He's going to be right there."

"I talk to him all the time. It's my job."

"Yeah, but when you talk to Logan you do the thing."

You looked up for the first time. "What thing."

"The thing." He gestured vaguely at your face. "The thing where you forget to be normal."

"I am always normal."

"You called his assist last Tuesday 'genuinely cinematic.'"

"It was a good play."

"To his face."

"As a professional observation —"

"He smiled about it for the rest of practice." Dean looked at you steadily. "Come to the party."

You turned back to the tripod.

"I don't think Logan has the hots for me, you know," you said. "He's like a hot athlete. And I'm like the social media nerd."

Dean stared at you with the expression of someone who had just heard something that offended him on multiple levels simultaneously.

"Geez," he said. "You're not the girl in every romcom who doesn't know she's pretty." He paused. "Also you may be a nerd but — with all due respect to you and to my buddy Logan — you're pretty hot."

You pushed his shoulder and muttered a low stop.

"I'm being sincere!" He caught himself on the wall, laughing. "Party. Tomorrow. Eight o'clock. Logan will be there." He pointed at you one more time. "You will also be there."

He walked away before you could respond.

You looked at the camera. The camera looked back at you.

Genuinely cinematic, you thought, mortified.

You were definitely not going to that party.

The thing about watching two people be completely oblivious to each other was that it was, at first, entertaining.

Dean had found it genuinely funny in the beginning, the way you would track Logan across a room without realizing you were doing it, the way Logan would find reasons to be wherever you were without announcing that was what he was doing. It was like watching a nature documentary.

It had been funny for approximately three weeks.

It was now week seven and Dean was losing his mind.

It was a Thursday practice, nothing special about it. Dean was on the ice going through drills with Tucker when he caught it, the peripheral awareness of someone who had been watching a situation develop for too long.

You were in your usual spot in the stands, laptop open, camera on the tripod, doing the thing you always did where you looked like you were reviewing footage but were actually, if you knew what to look for, tracking Logan across the ice without moving your head.

Logan, for his part, was doing the thing he always did where he skated past your section of the stands more than was strictly necessary for any drill that had been assigned.

"He's done that four times," Tucker said, appearing at Dean's elbow.

"Five," Dean said. "You missed one while you were talking to the coach."

Tucker watched Logan complete another unnecessary loop near the boards. "Are they ever going to do something about that?"

"Apparently not," Dean said.

On the ice Logan slowed near the boards not stopping, that would have been too obvious, just slowing and said something up toward the stands. You looked up from your laptop and said something back. Logan smiled. You looked back at your laptop immediately, in the specific way of someone using a screen as a shield.

Logan skated away looking slightly more cheerful than he had thirty seconds ago.

"It's painful," Tucker said.

"It's excruciating," Dean agreed.

"Wow, that's a big word" Tucker said mocking Dean and skating away.

After practice Dean was still thinking about it in the locker room.

He was unwrapping his tape when Garrett sat down across from him.

"You have a face," Garrett said.

"I'm thinking."

"About what."

"Logan and the social media girl, or as I call her, (Y/N)"

"So her name—" Garrett replied.

Garrett looked at him with the mild, steady expression he used when he was waiting for someone to either say something sensible or stop talking. "And?"

"And they've been doing this for like seven weeks and nothing is happening and I'm tired of watching it."

"So tell him to do something about it."

"I've told him." Dean had, in fact, told Logan approximately six times in varying tones of directness. "Telling doesn't work. Logan needs a push."

"A push," Garrett repeated.

"A significant push."

Garrett looked at him for a long moment. "What kind of push."

"A financial one," he said.

"Dean —"

"Hear me out."

"I don't think I want to."

"A thousand dollars," Dean said. "I bet him a thousand dollars that he won't ask her out. He needs the money, he likes her, this solves both problems simultaneously. It's elegant."

Garrett stared at him. "It's really not."

"It gets him to do the thing he already wants to do."

"By paying him."

"By incentivizing him."

"Those are the same thing."

"Garrett," Dean said, in the tone of someone who had considered the counterarguments and dismissed them. "They have been doing this for weeks. At this rate they'll still be doing it at graduation. I'm helping."

Garrett looked at the ceiling briefly. "You shouldn't do this," he said finally.

"Noted," Dean said.

He did not change his mind.

Logan came in from the showers to find Dean sitting on the bench across from his locker with an expression that meant something was coming.

Tucker was in the corner pretending to check his phone. Garrett was lacing his shoes with more focus than the task required.

"What," Logan said.

"I have a proposition," Dean said.

Logan looked at Tucker. Tucker looked at his phone. Logan looked at Garrett. Garrett looked at his shoes.

"What kind of proposition," Logan said.

"A thousand dollars," Dean said. "All you have to do is ask her out."

He didnt't have to specify who the her was.

The locker room was quiet.

Logan opened his locker. Got his jacket. "No."

"Logan —"

"No, Dean."

"You like her."

"That's not —"

"You've skated past her section of the stands five times today during drills that don't require you anywhere near the boards." Dean's voice was completely even. "I counted."

Logan said nothing.

"You check her posts before anyone else on the team," Dean continued. "You know her schedule better than your own. You said sorry to her last Tuesday when the puck went near her even though it didn't come close to actually hitting her." A pause. "You apologized preemptively."

"I was being polite."

"You were being in love with her," Dean said, simply. "Which is fine. Great, actually. And fixable. With one conversation and a thousand dollars."

Tucker made a small sound that was not quite disapproval and not quite agreement.

Garrett said nothing, which was its own kind of answer.

Logan looked at his jacket in his hands. He thought about the time that had passed, the practices and bus rides and the specific way you closed your laptop when you were trying to hide something. He thought about his bank account, which was having a difficult semester. He thought about the rent that was due. The equipment he needed.

He thought about asking you out, which he had been meaning to do, which he had been telling himself he was going to do, which he had not done.

I was going to do it anyway, he told himself. The money doesn't change what I was going to do anyway.

"Fine," he said.

Tucker made the sound again, slightly louder.

Garrett looked up from his shoes for the first time. His expression was not angry, not exactly. More like a person watching a decision being made and knowing already how it was going to cost someone.

Dean produced a check from somewhere — written on the back of a receipt, which was so Dean that Logan almost laughed — and held it out.

Logan took it.

He folded it once and put it in his jacket pocket and did not look at Garrett again.

I was going to do it anyway, he thought.

He almost believed it.

The subject of the party was a sore one.

Part of you wanted to go and part of you didn't, and the two parts had been arguing since Dean walked away from the tripod, and by the time you got back to your apartment you had resolved nothing except that you needed to talk to Olivia about it.

Olivia listened to the full recap of the Dean conversation with the focused attention of someone taking notes. When you finished she was quiet for approximately three seconds.

"We're going," she said.

"I said I wasn't sure —"

"I've made up my mind. You were invited so you need to go, and I'm coming with you because—." She looked at you with the expression of someone who had already decided the fun they were going to have and was simply waiting for logistics to catch up. "What's the theme?"

"Dynamic duo."

"Perfect for us." She was already opening her laptop. "I know exactly what we're wearing."

"I don't even know what to wear," you breathed out, dropping flat onto your bed and staring at the ceiling. "What kind of theme even is that? Dynamic duo? That's so vague."

"It's not vague, it's versatile." She turned the screen to face you. "Clueless. Cher and Dionne. The plaid."

You looked at the screen. You looked at Olivia.

"Obviously," you said.

You walked into the party in matching plaid ,short skirt, blazer, the whole thing and felt immediately, objectively, like you had made the right costume choice. Olivia walked in beside you with the confident energy of someone who had never had a bad entrance in her life.

The house was full and warm and smelled like every college party you had ever been to. You did a quick scan of the room in the completely professional way of someone who was not looking for anyone specific.

You found him in approximately four seconds.

Logan was in the kitchen with Dean, drink in hand, laughing at something. He was wearing a sleveless gray shirt with a pair of wings.

You gave a small wave in their direction. Dean spotted you first and his face did something immediately, and then he clapped a hand on Logan's back and pushed him in your direction with the subtlety of a person who had never heard the word subtle.

Logan crossed the room.

"Hey —" His eyes moved over you and something in his expression shifted slightly. "Clueless?"

"Yeah," you said, nodding perhaps a few more times than necessary.

Beside you, Olivia made a sound that she converted, barely, into a cough. She had been documenting your inability to form complete sentences in Logan's presence for approximately three months and found it genuinely hilarious.

"You look very pretty," Logan said.

"Oh — thanks." The blush arrived before you could do anything about it. Compose yourself.

Logan seemed to remember that you were not alone. "You too, Olivia."

"Yeah, right," Olivia laughed. "I'll go get a drink."

She disappeared into the crowd. As she passed behind Logan she turned to face you and mouthed make a move with the enormous unsubtle energy of someone who had been waiting three months to say it.

You looked back at Logan.

"I'm glad you came," he said. "Dean mentioned you weren't sure."

"I had some content to edit," you said.

"This is more important," he said, lightly, like a joke, but with something underneath it that wasn't entirely a joke.

"Yeah," you said.

And then you were both just standing there. Drinks in hand, the party moving around you, talking the way you had discovered you talked when you were alone together, which was easily, which was the specific ease of two people who had been in the same orbit long enough to have figured out each other's rhythms without officially acknowledging it.

"So what are you supposed to be anyway?" you asked, taking the opportunity to look at him properly. The gray shirt. The wings. The arms, which were — you looked at his face instead. "Jacob Elordi in Saltburn?"

Logan laughed — a real one, surprised and warm. "Bird and the bee. I'm the bird. Tuck's the bee."

"Oh," you said. "That tracks."

"Does it."

"The bee has better energy," you said. "No offense to you."

"I'll tell Tucker you said that."

"Please don't."

Dean chose this exact moment to appear between you.

"Hello, you two." He looked between you with barely concealed delight. "What are we talking about?"

"The birds and the bees," you said, and watched Dean's eyebrow go up in real time.

"Oh, I like where this is headed."

"No — I mean his costume," you said quickly. "What are you supposed to be?"

"Maverick." He pointed across the room to where Beau was talking to a very beautiful brunette. "Beau's Goose."

You considered this. "Was there not a dynamic duo where one of them didn't have a tragic ending? You could have been Ice."

"Ice and Maverick hated each other," Dean said.

"No they didn't! In your own words they had the hots for each other."

Dean opened his mouth. Closed it. Pointed at you. "That is actually a fair point."

"Thank you."

"You're insufferable," he said, smiling. He looked between you and Logan one more time. "I'm going to go find Beau. You two —" he gestured vaguely at the space between you "— continue."

He disappeared back into the crowd.

You looked at Logan. Logan looked at you.

"He's not subtle," you said.

"No," Logan agreed. "He really isn't."

The party continued around you. At some point you had moved slightly closer together. Neither of you had announced it. At some point his hand had found the small of your back, briefly, when someone pushed past in the crowd. It had stayed there a moment longer than strictly necessary. You had not moved away.

At some point Olivia had caught your eye from across the room and given you a look of such unrestrained triumph that you had been forced to look at the floor to keep from laughing.

"So —" Logan started. He stopped. Tried again. "I've been thinking. For a while actually." He looked at you with the expression of someone abandoning a rehearsed script entirely in favor of just saying the thing. "Would you like to go out? With me. On a date."

Inside your chest, something that had been very carefully managed for months made a sound like:

YESYESYESYESYESYESYESYES —

"Yes," you said, with great composure. "I'd like that."

Something settled in his expression warm and certain. "Good. I was hoping you were going to say that."

"I was hoping you were going to ask," you said.

He smiled. Not the polite one, not the team-photo one the real one, the one you had forty-seven saved clips of and only eleven of them were for work.

Across the room, completely uninvited into this moment, Dean let out a noise of triumph loud enough that Tucker turned around to look.

You and Logan both looked at Dean.

Dean pointed at both of you, then at himself, then gave two thumbs up with the energy of a man who had absolutely no shame about any of this.

"He planned this," you said.

"Obviously," Logan said.

You looked at Dean, who was now saying something to Beau that was making Beau look confused and Dean look extremely pleased with himself.

"I'm going to delete all his content," you said.

"Probably," Logan said. "But maybe tomorrow."

You looked back at him.

"Yeah," you said. "Maybe tomorrow."

What you did not know — what you would not know for three months — was what had happened two hours before that conversation.

The first date was a Tuesday.

Logan had asked on a Saturday and then spent the intervening three days being completely normal about it, which meant he had checked his phone approximately forty times and suggested three different restaurants to Dean who had not asked for his opinion and had given it anyway.

He picked you up at seven. You had worn something simple and he had looked at you the way he sometimes looked into the camera, direct, unhurried, like you were something worth paying attention t, and said you look great in the specific voice he used when he meant things, and you had said thanks, so do you and meant it, and the evening had been easy in the way that things were easy when they had been building for a long time and had finally found the right outlet.

You talked for three hours. Not about anything important about the team, about your job, about the things you had noticed about each other without ever saying so. He told you about the preemptive puck apology before you could bring it up and looked slightly embarrassed about it, which you found endearing in a way you did not make him aware of. You told him about the forty-seven saved clips and watched his expression do something warm and complicated.

He walked you back to your dorm. He kissed you at the door — soft and unhurried, the specific patience of someone who had been waiting a while and had decided that arriving was enough for now.

You went inside and stood in the hallway for a moment.

Oh, you thought. Not oh no this time. Just — oh.

What followed was three months that assembled themselves quietly and completely, the way good things tended to do when you stopped trying to manage them.

You learned the specific rhythm of being with Logan, which was different from the rhythm of being near Logan, which you had spent seven months memorizing from behind a camera. Being with him was easier. Less careful. The things you had noticed from a professional distance — the way he focused, the way he was with his teammates, the particular quality of his attention when he was genuinely listening were the same up close, just without the glass between you.

He remembered things. That was the detail that accumulated the most weight over three months small things you had said once, in passing, that he filed away and produced later in the specific way of someone who had been listening more carefully than you knew. The coffee order. The fact that you hated the overhead lights in the film room. The name of the professor whose class you had shared with Liana.

You told Olivia about the coffee order detail on a Thursday night and she looked at you with an expression that said everything she was choosing not to say out loud.

"Don't," you said.

"I'm not saying anything," she said.

"You have a face."

"I have my normal face."

"Olivia."

"I'm just glad," she said simply, and went back to whatever she was doing, and you sat with that for a moment and found that you were too.

Logan was also, three months in, still thinking about the check.

Not constantly. Not the way he had in the beginning, when it had surfaced at inconvenient moments, the first dinner, the first time you laughed at something he said, the first time you fell asleep on his shoulder watching something neither of you were paying attention to. Those early weeks it had been a persistent background noise, a low-level static of something he should have said and hadn't.

But the weeks had passed and the static had gotten quieter, the way noise does when you choose not to listen to it long enough. He had paid his rent. He had replaced the equipment. He had told himself, again and again, that he had been going to ask you out anyway, that the money had been incidental, that what they had built in the three months since was real regardless of how it started.

All of that was true.

The part that was also true, the part he didn't let himself look at too directly, was that you didn't know. And not knowing was its own kind of thing, a thing that existed in the space between you without you being aware of it, that he was aware of every time you said something honest to him, every time you looked at him the way you looked at him.

He had meant to tell you. In the beginning. There had been a window, early on, when it would have been a small thing — by the way, Dean made a bet, it's a whole thing, I was going to ask you anyway—. He had rehearsed it. He had not said it. The window had closed, and then it had been a week, and then a month, and then three months, and now saying it felt like dropping something large into a quiet room.

So he didn't say it.

He told himself it didn't matter because it hadn't changed anything real.

He was getting better at believing that.

It was a Saturday afternoon in February, the specific grey-white quality of a winter afternoon that had given up pretending it was going to improve, and you were in Logan's room doing nothing in particular.

This had become one of your favorite things — the doing nothing in particular. You had a tendency, left to your own devices, to fill time with productivity, with scheduled content and edited footage and the general sense that unoccupied time was time being wasted. Logan had, over three months, introduced you to the concept of lying on a bed on a Saturday afternoon and simply existing, which you had resisted and then accepted and now found genuinely necessary.

He was on his back, one arm behind his head, reading something on his phone. You were beside him, legs tangled, working your way through a Cosmopolitan from 2003 that you had found at the thrift store the previous weekend when you had gone with Allie. It had a younger Jennifer Lopez on the cover and approximately forty pages of advertisements for perfumes that no longer existed, and you had bought it for fifty cents because something about it felt like an artifact.

"Listen to this," you said.

"Mm."

"It's a quiz." You held up the magazine. "Is your relationship ready for the next level? I feel like we should take it."

"I feel like that magazine is older than some of our teammates."

"That's what makes it valuable." You turned back to the page. "Okay. Question one. When you picture your future, does your partner feature prominently? Options are: always, sometimes, or only when I'm feeling optimistic."

"Always," Logan said, without looking up from his phone.

You looked at him sideways. He was still reading, expression neutral, like he had answered a question about the weather.

"Okay," you said, and looked back at the magazine, and did not make anything of it, because making something of it would have required acknowledging that it had landed somewhere specific and stayed there.

You worked through several more questions — about communication, about conflict, about shared values — Logan answering in the same unhurried, matter-of-fact way, like the answers had already been decided and he was simply reporting them.

And then you got to the last one.

"Okay, last question." You shifted onto your side to face him. "If your partner made a serious mistake — something that hurt you — what would it take to make things right? Option A: a heartfelt conversation and genuine apology. Option B: time, space, and proof of change. Option C —" you paused, because option C was very 2003 "— a grand romantic gesture. Flowers, candlelight, the whole thing."

You said it like it was funny. You said it with the lightness of someone reading from an old magazine on a Saturday afternoon.

Logan put his phone down.

He looked at the ceiling for a moment. Then he turned his head and looked at you with an expression that was doing something complicated underneath the surface.

"What would you pick?" he said.

You considered it. "Honestly? C, but private. Like not in front of everyone. Just — showing up. With flowers, or peonies, they are my favorite. And meaning it." You paused. "The meaning it is the important part."

Logan looked at the ceiling again.

"Many flowers," he said. His voice was even. Carefully even.

"Like an unreasonable amount," you said. "Like someone made a decision about it."

"Right," he said.

He was quiet for a moment. You looked at him — at the careful evenness of his expression, the specific stillness of someone sitting with something — and almost asked what he was thinking about.

Then he turned back to you with the warm unhurried expression you knew, and kissed your temple.

"Good to know," he said.

You looked back at the magazine. Jennifer Lopez looked back at you, unbothered.

You did not know, lying there on a grey February Saturday, that you had just handed him the exact shape of something he was going to need.

Logan knew.

He stared at the ceiling after you looked away and thought about a check written on the back of a receipt and a conversation in a locker room and the specific, settling weight of something that had been waiting a long time to be said.

Too many flowers, he thought. Private. Meaning it.

He closed his eyes.

I have to tell her, he thought.

He did not tell her.

Allie had not been looking for information.

She had been in the kitchen at the off campus house on a Wednesday evening, waiting for Dean to finish getting ready so they could go to dinner, scrolling through her phone with the patience of someone accustomed to waiting for Dean to finish getting ready. She was not listening. She was not paying attention to anything except the particular injustice of being told seven-fifteen and it being seven-thirty-two.

And then Dean's phone rang on the counter.

She glanced at it automatically. Logan.

Dean came out of the bathroom still pulling on his jacket and picked it up. "Hey. What's up."

Allie went back to her phone.

"What do you mean you need to tell her." Dean's voice had shifted into something lower, more careful. "What's — Logan. Logan, have you not told her yet?"

Allie looked up.

Dean had his back to her, one hand pressed to the counter, the specific posture of someone having a conversation they hadn't prepared for. "It's been three months, man. How have you — okay. Okay, calm down. Just — tell me what happened."

A pause. Dean listening.

"So tell her," Dean said. "Just — tonight. Call her and tell her. It's been long enough, she'll —" another pause "— Logan, I know it's not going to be easy but you can't just — yes I know you actually love her, that's not the — okay, listen —"

Allie set her phone down on the counter very carefully.

"What," she said.

Dean turned around.

The expression on his face moved through several things in quick succession — surprise, recalibration, and then the specific, flattening look of someone who understood exactly what had just happened.

"Allie —"

"What did you do," she said. Not a question.

Dean lowered his phone slowly. On the other end Logan was saying something, unaware.

"Dean." Her voice was very even. "What did you do."

He told her.

He told her all of it — the bet, the thousand dollars, the locker room — and Allie stood in the kitchen and listened with the stillness of someone who was getting progressively more furious in a way that had not yet found its exit.

When he finished she said nothing for a moment.

"She's my friend," she said finally.

"I know —"

"She is my friend and you let her date him for three months without telling her."

"It wasn't supposed to —"

"Dean." She picked up her keys from the counter. "Do not follow me."

"Allie, please just —"

"I have to tell her," she said. "She's my friend. I'm not going to —"

"Please," Dean said, and his voice had lost all its usual confidence, stripped down to something that was just — asking. "Please just give me a chance to fix it. I'll tell Logan to tell her tonight. Just give me —"

"You had your chance to fix it three months ago," Allie said. "And two months ago. And last month." She looked at him for a long moment. "I love you. And you did something really wrong. And she needs to know."

She left.

Dean stood in the kitchen alone and listened to Logan's voice still coming from the phone in his hand.

He put the phone to his ear.

"She already knows," he said.

You were in your aparment when Allie knocked.

She told you everything standing in your doorway, quickly and directly, the way Allie did things — no preamble, no softening, just the facts arranged in order. The bet. The thousand dollars. The locker room. Three months.

You stood very still while she talked.

When she finished you said nothing for a long moment.

"Get your keys," you said.

"(Y/N) —"

"Get your keys, Allie."

The drive to the off campus house took four minutes. You did not speak. Allie drove and you looked at the road ahead and felt cold clarity of someone who had moved past the part where things hurt and into the part where they simply had to be dealt with.

The lights were on when you pulled up. Of course they were.

You didn't knock.

You walked in and Logan was already in the hallway, like he had heard the car, like some part of him had known — and the expression on his face when he saw you was the expression of someone who had been waiting for this and was still not ready for it.

Dean was behind him. Tucker and Garrett further back, in the doorway of the living room, with the expressions of people who understood the room and had decided to stay very still.

"Hey —" Logan started.

"Did you take a bet," you said, "to ask me out."

The hallway was very quiet.

"Yes," Logan said.

The word landed.

"How much," you said.

"A thousand dollars."

You looked at him. This person. This person whose coffee order you knew, whose preemptive apologies you had found endearing, whose smile you had forty-seven saved clips of and only eleven of them were for work.

"You had to be paid," you said. Your voice was very quiet. "Someone had to pay you. To ask me out."

"It wasn't —"

"A thousand dollars," you said. "That's what it cost. That's what asking me out was worth to you. A thousand dollars and someone else's idea."

"That's not —"

"I told you I loved you." The words came out steadier than you expected. "Three weeks ago. In your room. I told you I loved you and you said it back and the whole time —" you stopped. Started again. "The whole time there was a check. There was a check and you knew and you said it back anyway."

"I meant it," Logan said. "I mean it. I love you, that has nothing to do with —"

"It has everything to do with it." Your voice cracked slightly and you pushed past it. "Because maybe you do. Maybe you actually do love me. But I will never know that now. Do you understand that? I will never know which part was real and which part was a thousand dollars because you didn't tell me. You had three months to tell me and you didn't."

"I was going to —"

"When?" you said. "When were you going to tell me? After another month? After a year? Were you ever actually going to tell me or were you just going to keep it and hope I never found out?"

He said nothing.

"That's what I thought," you said.

You turned to Dean.

Dean was standing very still with an expression that had none of his usual ease in it, stripped down, uncomfortable, genuinely ashamed in a way that you recognized as real and that made it worse rather than better.

"I thought you were my friend," you said. Your voice was different now, not cold, something more broken than cold. "I thought — you were supposed to be my friend. I told you things. I told you how I felt about him and you used it. You turned it into a transaction and then you watched me fall in love with him and you said nothing."

"I know," Dean said. His voice was very quiet. "I know."

"I taught you how to use the camera," you said, which was not what you meant to say but came out anyway, and somehow it was the most honest thing — the small specific intimacy of it, the way you had shown him the angles and the settings and he had been genuinely interested and you had thought this is what a friend looks like. "I showed you everything. I thought you were —"

"I was," Dean said. "I am. I'm so sorry."

"Don't." You picked up your bag. "Don't apologize right now. I can't — I need you to not talk to me right now."

You looked at Logan one more time. He was standing in the hallway with his hands at his sides and the open, devastated expression of someone who had run out of words and knew it.

"Please," he said. Just that. Just the word, quiet and without any of the composure he usually wore like a second skin.

"I have to go," you said.

"Please just let me —"

"Logan." Your voice broke on his name, just slightly, and you steadied it. "I have to go."

You walked to the door. Behind you you heard him take a step.

You opened the door.

"You two fucking suck," you said, to the hallway, to both of them, to the three months of Tuesday practices and bus rides and magazine quizzes and I love you said and meant and received by someone who was keeping a check in his jacket pocket the whole time. "Never talk to me again."

You walked out.

Allie was waiting by the car. She took one look at your face and said nothing, just unlocked the doors, and you got in, and she drove, and the campus moved past the windows dark and quiet and entirely indifferent.

You did not cry until you got back to your aparment.

And then you did, for a while, with Olivia sitting beside you saying nothing because there was nothing to say, just being there the way people who actually loved you were there when things went wrong.

You had to be paid, you thought, in the dark.

A thousand dollars.

The house was very quiet after you left.

Tucker and Garrett had retreated to the living room. Nobody was saying anything.

Dean sat on the bottom step of the stairs and put his head in his hands.

Logan stood in the hallway where you had left him and looked at the closed door and thought about everything — the check, the locker room, the first dinner, the magazine quiz on a grey February Saturday, too many flowers, private, meaning it — and underneath all of it, constant and quiet, the thing he had known for three months and had managed to convince himself didn't matter:

You had deserved to know.

You had deserved to know from the beginning and he had chosen not to tell you and you stood in his hallway and said I will never know which part was real and he had had no answer because there was no answer that fixed that.

Garrett appeared in the doorway of the living room. He looked at Logan for a long moment.

"I told you not to," he said. Not unkindly. Just said.

"I know," Logan said.

"From the beginning. I told you."

"I know, Garrett."

Garrett looked at him for another moment. Then he went back to the living room without saying anything else, which was somehow the most devastating response available.

Logan sat down on the floor of the hallway with his back against the wall and stared at nothing.

I have to fix this, he thought.

He had absolutely no idea how.

The email to the athletics department went out the following morning.

It was professional and brief — you cited personal reasons, thanked them for the opportunity, offered to train your replacement, gave two weeks notice. You sent it before you could think about it too hard, before the part of you that loved the job could talk the other part out of it.

You were not going to sit in that rink anymore. You were not going to film those practices or those games or stand in that corridor outside the locker room with your tripod and your equipment bag and pretend that everything was the same as it had been before.

Your phone had messages from Logan and Dean by noon. You read none of them.

The football team's social media coordinator reached back out by the end of the day.

You started the following Monday.

The football team was different from the hockey team in ways that were both obvious and unexpected. Louder, in some ways. Different rhythms, different energy. The guys were nice and the work was interesting and you were good at it, because you were good at this, that had never been in question.

You were fine.

You were getting finer by the day, which was either progress or a very convincing impression of it.

Allie texted. Garrett texted — I'm sorry, for what it's worth I told him not to — which you appreciated more than you could say. Tucker sent a single text that just said I tried to talk him out of it and you believed him and told him so.

You did not respond to Logan.

Logan's days had a new shape to them and he hated it.

Practice was the same, same drills, same ice, same team, but the stands were wrong. The spot where you always sat, third row back on the left side, was empty now, and he knew it was empty without lookin. He looked anyway. Every practice, every morning skate, every film session, he looked, and the spot was empty, and he looked away.

Logan texted you every three days. Not long messages, just checking in, just your name sometimes, just I know you don't want to hear from me right now but I'm sorry. He did not expect responses. He sent them anyway because not sending them felt worse.

He watched your football content. Every post, every reel, every behind-the-scenes clip. He watched the way you filmed the new team — the same eye, the same instinct for the right moment, the same ability to make something look like something worth watching — and felt the specific, particular ache of someone who understood what they had lost because they had been paying attention to it the whole time.

He had always been paying attention.

That was the thing that made it so much worse.

Three weeks after you left, the hockey team got a new social media person.

Her name was Jade. She was a sophomore, enthusiastic, slightly overwhelmed, and she had asked you to walk her through the setup on a Tuesday morning when the team had a late practice, which meant you were in the rink, with your old equipment, showing someone else how to use the angles you had spent seven months learning, when the team came off the ice.

You had not planned for this. You had assumed they would be gone by the time you were done.

They were not gone.

You heard them before you saw them, he familiar noise of the team coming out of the locker room corridor and then Tucker saw you first and stopped walking so abruptly that Garrett walked into him.

"What —" Garrett looked up. Saw you. His expression did something complicated.

The rest of the team filtered out around them, and then Dean, and then Logan, and the corridor went through a specific collective recalibration.

You kept your face completely neutral. "Hey," you said, to the general group. "This is Jade. She's taking over the social media. I'm just showing her the setup."

Jade waved cheerfully, unaware of the atmospheric pressure of the corridor.

"Taking over?" Tucker said slowly.

"Yes," you said. "I moved to football." You said it simply, like it was information and not anything else. "Jade is great, she's going to do a really good job."

The team was looking at you with various expressions. Tucker looked pained. Garrett looked like he was doing math.

Dean was looking at the floor.

Logan was looking at you with the expression of someone watching something leave that they had already lost and were only now understanding the full shape of. You could feel it without looking directly at him. You had spent seven months learning the specific weight of his attention.

"You're actually leaving," Tucker said. "Like permanently."

"I already left," you said. "This is just the handover."

"But —" Tucker started.

"Tuck," you said, gently. "It's fine. Jade is great."

Jade smiled again.

"We kind of made you leave," Tucker said, in the specific tone of someone who had been holding something for three weeks and had finally said it out loud.

"Tucker —"

"No, like —" he stopped. Looked at Dean. Looked at Logan. Looked back at you. "We made you leave. That's what happened. And I just — I'm sorry. I don't know what else to say but I'm sorry."

The corridor was very quiet.

"You didn't make me leave," you said carefully. "You tried to talk him out of it. I know that."

Tucker nodded. Still pained.

"Right," Garrett said finally, in the tone of someone deciding to be graceful about something painful. "Good luck with football."

"Thanks," you said.

You turned back to Jade and kept going with the walkthrough, and the team filed past, and you did not look at Logan as he walked by even though you could feel him slowing down, even though you could feel him wanting to say something.

"Hey," Logan said. Very quietly. Just that.

You kept your eyes on the camera settings you were showing Jade.

He stood there for a moment. Then his footsteps continued down the corridor.

You exhaled very quietly and kept talking to Jade about angles.

Behind you, fading, you heard Dean say something low and urgent to Logan that you couldn't make out. And Logan's response, quieter still:

"I know."

Logan started showing up.

Not to you, he respected the never talk to me again enough not to push himself into your space. But he started showing up in the ways that were available to him.

He fixed the tripod mount in the storage room that had been broken since October — the one you had mentioned once, months ago, in passing, because it made the camera angle slightly off and you had learned to compensate for it. He left a note on it that said finally fixed it. sorry it took so long. No signature. He didn't need one.

He started showing up to the football team's games.

Not every game. Not in a way that was dramatic or obvious. Just there, in the stands, with the quiet patience of someone who had decided that if the mountain wouldn't come to him he would go to the mountain and sit in the stands and watch from a respectful distance.

Olivia told you the second time it happened.

"He was there again," she said carefully.

You said nothing.

"He's not doing anything," she said. "He's just — there. Watching."

You said nothing.

"I thought you should know," she said.

You knew.

You knew because you had clocked him the first time — third row back, left side,— and you had kept filming and not said anything and thought about it for three days.

He texted you after the third game.

logan: you got a good shot of the QB in the third quarter. the one right before the play call. it was good.

You stared at the message for a long time.

yn: how would you know

logan: i was there

A long pause.

logan: i'll keep coming if that's okay. i won't bother you. i just want to be there.

You put your phone down.

You picked it up.

yn: it's okay

Dean did not sleep the night you found out.

He lay in his bed and stared at the ceiling and thought about the specific expression on your face when you said I thought you were my friend — not angry, which would have been easier, but broken, which was not easier at all.

At four in the morning he picked up his phone.

dean: allie

allie: i'm awake

dean: i know i really messed up

allie: yes

dean: i don't know how to fix it

A long pause.

allie: you start by not trying to fix it. you start by just being sorry.

dean: i am

allie: i know. she needs to hear it from you. not a text. not through anyone else. you.

dean: she said never talk to her again

allie: i know what she said. give her time. and then go.

Dean put his phone down.

He stared at the ceiling until it got light outside.

You took your own sweet time.

Not to feel better, you were not operating under the illusion that time fixed everything, but to feel what you needed to feel without an audience. You went to classes. You went to work. You filmed the football team's Tuesday practice and focused on the angles and the light and the professional satisfaction of a job done well, and you did not think about hockey, and you did not look at your phone when certain names appeared on the screen, and you let Olivia bring you food and watch bad television with you without making you talk about it.

On the fourteenth day Dean was waiting outside your lecture hall.

He looked terrible. Not dramatically terrible — Dean was constitutionally incapable of looking terrible — but tired.

You stopped when you saw him.

He held up both hands. "I'm not here to make excuses," he said. "I know you said never talk to me again. I know. I just — five minutes. And then I'll go and I won't bother you again if that's what you want."

You looked at him for a long moment.

You stepped to the side of the path, out of the flow of people. He followed.

"Say what you have to say," you said.

Dean looked at you with the expression you had never seen on him before, no performance, no charm deployed at the right moment, nothing managed. Just a person who had done something wrong and knew it and was standing in front of the person he had done it to.

"I've never had a friend like you before," he said. "Like — actually. I have guy friends. I have girls I've hooked up, almost dated or whatever. But I've never had a girl who was just — a friend. Who I talked to and who talked to me and who I could be around without it being anything else." He paused. "And I took that and I made it into a scheme. And I told myself I was helping and maybe part of me was but part of me just — didn't think far enough ahead. Didn't think about what it would mean to you if you found out. Didn't think about you at all, honestly, which is the thing I'm most sorry about." He held your gaze. "I thought about Logan being in love with you and I thought about the bet being clever and I didn't think about you being a person who deserved to know the truth. And I should have. You should have been the first thing I thought about."

The path had mostly emptied. A bird somewhere was doing something aggressively cheerful.

"I miss my friend," Dean said. "I know I don't get to just say that. I know. I just needed you to know that it's real. You are actually my friend and I actually miss you and I'm actually sorry, not sorry like I feel bad, sorry like I understand what I did."

You looked at him.

You thought about the bus and his head on your shoulder and on the team, I meant and the way he had looked genuinely wounded when you said Tucker was probably your better friend on the team.

"It's going to take time," you said finally.

Something in his expression shifted — careful, not quite hope yet.

"I know," he said.

"You don't get to just be normal yet. We have to rebuild that."

"I know."

"And you have to actually be different," you said. "Not just sorry. Different."

"I will be," he said. "I already am. Or I'm trying to be." He paused. "Is that enough to start with?"

You looked at him for a long moment.

"It's enough to start with," you said.

The careful-not-quite-hope became something more than that.

"Thank you," he said quietly.

"Don't thank me yet," you said. "We have a long way to go."

"I know," he said. "I'll go as slow as you need."

You looked at the path ahead.

"I have class," you said.

"I know. Go."

You went.

It was a start.

Logan was harder.

Not because you were angrier at him — you were, if you were being honest, angry at both of them in equal measure, just differently. Dean had betrayed a friendship. Logan had betrayed something larger, something that had your name on it, something you had handed him on a grey February Saturday when you said I love you and meant it with everything you had.

You saw him at the football games. Third row back, left side, every time. Not looking at you directly, just there, present, with the quiet patience of someone who had decided that showing up was the only thing available to him and had committed to it without reservation.

He sent you a text after every game. Not about him, not about them, about your work. Good shot in the second half. The one where you caught the receiver right before the snap. The slow motion reel you posted was really good. The timing was perfect. Small specific things that said I was paying attention without saying anything else.

You read them all.

You responded to some of them.

Small things. Thanks. I almost didn't post that one. Nothing that opened a door, just acknowledgment. The acknowledgment of someone who was not ready and was not pretending to be and was also not entirely gone.

He was not pushing. That was the thing you noticed most. He had shown up to three football games and fixed a broken tripod mount and sent careful specific texts about your work and he had not once asked for anything in return. Had not once said I think we should talk or please give me a chance or any of the things that would have made it easier to keep the door closed.

He was just — there.

Being different.

The grand gesture arrived on a Thursday, five weeks after the fight.

You were in the football team's equipment room going through footage on your laptop when someone knocked on the door. One of the managers looked in.

"There's someone outside asking for you," he said, with the specific expression of someone who had seen something and found it notable.

You went outside.

The path outside the athletics building was where you found him — Logan, in the cold, with flowers. Not a bunch. Not a normal amount. An amount that represented a decision — sunflowers and peonies and something small and white, wrapped loosely in paper, assembled with the specific intention of being too many, more than one person could reasonably carry, held in both arms with the careful energy of someone who had thought about this and decided it was not enough and added more anyway.

You looked at the flowers. You looked at him.

He looked tired in the same way he had looked tired since the night you left — not dramatic, not performing it, just genuinely worn down in the way of someone who had been carrying something for five weeks without putting it down.

"You said private," he said. "Too many flowers. Someone made a decision." He paused. "I made a decision."

Your throat did something inconvenient.

"Logan —"

"I'm not asking you to forgive me today," he said. "I just you said meaning it was the important part. And I needed you to see that I mean it. That's all. I'm not asking for anything."

You looked at the flowers. Peonies. He had gotten peonies specifically.

"You remembered the peonies," you said.

"You mentioned them once," he said. "A long time ago."

"You were paying attention," you said.

"I was always paying attention," he said quietly. "That was never the problem."

You stood there in the cold outside the athletics building and thought about I will never know which part was real and the third row left side and the texts about your work and five weeks of him being different without being asked to prove it.

"This isn't enough," you said.

Something flickered in his expression.

"I know," he said.

"I need more than flowers."

"I know," he said again, steadily. "Tell me what you need. Whatever it is. I'll do it."

You looked at him for a long moment.

"I need time," you said. "Real time. Not rushing. Not us going back to how things were because it was comfortable and we missed each other. Actually starting over and doing it right."

"Okay," he said.

"I need you to keep showing up," you said. "Not just when it's easy. When it's hard and uncertain and you don't know if it's working. You keep showing up anyway."

"I will," he said.

"And I need you to understand that I might get angry again," you said. "Even after I've forgiven you. It might come back and I might need to say something and you have to let me say it without shutting down."

"I will," he said. "I'll listen. Every time."

You looked at him.

"The texts," you said. "About my work."

"Yeah."

"You were at every game."

"Yeah."

"Third row back. Left side."

He looked at you quietly.

"I know," you said. "I noticed."

Something in his expression shifted.

"I was always going to ask you out," he said. "I need you to know that. Not as an excuse. Just as a true thing. The money didn't change what I felt. It just — it gave me a reason I shouldn't have needed and I took it and I'm sorry. But what happened between us was real. Every single part of it was real."

"I know," you said, which surprised you slightly, because you hadn't known you knew until you said it. "I know it was real. That's what made it hurt so much."

He nodded.

"Give me the peonies," you said.

He carefully extracted the peonies from the arrangement and held them out. You took them.

"The rest you can take home," you said.

"Okay."

"And Logan —" you paused. "The showing up. Don't stop."

Something broke open in his expression — not dramatically, not loudly, just quietly and completely, the expression of someone who had been holding something for five weeks and had finally been given a place to put it down.

"I won't," he said. "I promise."

You looked at him for one more moment.

"Slow," you said.

"As slow as you need," he said. "I'm not going anywhere."

You went back inside.

You stood in the equipment room with the peonies and thought about everything — the check and the bet and the fight and five weeks of third row left side and too many flowers on a Thursday afternoon in the cold.

You were not okay yet.

But you were standing with peonies, which was somewhere.

It was enough to start with.

The getting back together did not happen all at once.

It happened the way the crush had happened — gradually, against nobody's will this time, the way things did when they had been building for a long time and had finally found the right conditions.

The first time you went back to the rink it was not for work.

It was a Saturday game, mid-March, the kind that mattered for standings, and you had told yourself you were going because Allie and Hannah were going and Olivia was going and it was a group thing and had nothing to do with anything else.

You brought your camera.

Not the work camera your personal one, the smaller one you used when you were filming for yourself rather than for a content schedule. You told yourself it was habit. You told yourself you just liked having it.

You sat third row left side.

The thing about watching hockey when you actually knew what you were looking at was that it was a completely different experience from watching hockey when you were just there for the atmosphere. You knew the plays. You knew the patterns. You knew which moments were about to become something before they became something, the specific pre-motion stillness that preceded a good play, the way certain players telegraphed their intentions without knowing they were doing it.

You knew Logan's tells better than anyone.

Which was why you had your camera up and ready when he got the puck in the second period the slight shift of his weight, the way his head came up a half second before anyone else's, and then the play unfolding exactly the way you had known it would, clean and fast and entirely worth watching.

You got the shot.

Forty-three seconds of it, actually.

You lowered the camera and looked at what you had captured and felt something settle in your chest that was warm and quiet and entirely familiar.

Genuinely cinematic, you thought, and smiled at the ice.

Briar won.

The team filtered out of the locker room in the usual way in ones and twos, loud and post-game, spilling into the corridor where the usual group had gathered. Allie found Dean. Hannah found Garrett. Tucker found someone to complain to about a call in the third period.

You were reviewing footage on your camera when you felt someone stop beside you.

You looked up.

Logan was still in half his gear, hair damp, and he was looking at you with the expression you had forty-seven saved clips of — the real one, the one that had nothing managed about it — except that now you were allowed to look at it directly, which was still something you were getting used to.

"You came," he said.

"I came," you confirmed.

"You brought your camera."

"I brought my camera."

He looked at it. He looked at you. "Did you get anything good?"

You turned the camera around and hit play. The second period play unfolded on the small screen — the weight shift, the half second of stillness, the clean fast movement of something that knew exactly where it was going.

Forty-three seconds of it.

Logan watched it. Something in his expression went soft in the specific way it did when he was actually feeling something and had decided not to manage it.

"That's —" he started.

"Genuinely cinematic," you said.

He looked at you.

You looked back at him.

And then he kissed you right there in the corridor.

It was warm and certain and tasted like relief of something that had been a long time coming and had finally, simply, arrived.

When you pulled back he was smiling the real one, the one you had been filming without quite admitting why for seven months.

"So," he said.

"Yeah," you said. "We're back together." You pointed at him. "Don't fuck up."

Logan laughed a real one, surprised and warm, the kind that carried down the corridor and made Tucker laugh too without knowing why.

"I won't," he said.

"I mean it."

"I know you mean it."

"Good." You tucked your camera back into your bag. "Buy me food. I've been at a hockey game for two hours and I'm starving."

"Done," he said immediately.

You started walking and everything was different from before, which was the whole point, which was exactly what you had asked for.

Better. Not the same. Better.

Behind you, fading, you heard Tucker say something to Garrett.

"Called it," Tucker said.

"You called nothing," Garrett said.

"I said they'd get back together —"

"You said that last week —"

"Which was a call —"

"Tucker —"

You and Logan kept walking.

"Do they ever stop?" you said.

"No," Logan said.

"Good," you said. "I missed it."

He looked at you sideways. That expression.

"Yeah," he said quietly. "Me too."

[seafoammm]

plowed down!

*⁀➷john logan x fem!reader

➷ summary: you’re the captain of the briar girl’s volleyball team, leading your team through the ncaa volleyball semifinals in the hopes of reaching the championship. and you do achieve that, but not after experiencing the most insane introduction with john logan, a man you hadn’t known to exist until now

➷ word count: 5464

➷ warnings: cursing, sexual references kind of (no smut), probably inaccurate volleyball because i literally have never played and don’t know anything about it (i was researching as i wrote this, so i'm genuinely so sorry if it’s completely wrong. also, for the sake of plot making sense, we’re gonna say the ncaa volleyball tournaments take place in march because i want hannah and garrett, and allie and dean to be together)

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

It was nearing the end of the 5th set, and yet, still, both Briar U and Harvard’s girl’s volleyball teams were tied. Fucking 24 points each, both having two winning sets beneath their belts. Meaning, whoever got the last two points– the points that both teams desperately needed– would get a ticket straight to the NCAA Championship.

And you, the libero on the team, the captain, were fucking livid.

Your team, as well as yourself, had been playing sloppy– or at least, it felt like you had– and you really had no clue why. You guys had been perfect during practice, together as one team. Hell, the first two sets had been great, too. Wipeouts. 

But then, of course, because it was fucking Harvard, they won the third set. And then the fourth.

And now you were on the fifth and final set of the NCAA Semifinals, tied 24 points each.

It had to be the most intense game you had ever played in your 15 years of volleyball. 

It didn’t help that Harvard was absolutely, 100%, targeting your ass. You guess it made sense– since your freshman year, you’d been talked about. A prospect that sports sites couldn’t stop talking about. Your name had been in their mouths since your first game at Briar U, and it hadn’t left since.

And that’s because you– to be totally, completely humble– were a really fucking amazing libero. 

Your defensive moves and tactics were the highlights of many games, the Briar U volleyball account literally reposting edits that fans have made of your best saves. You didn’t let it get to your head, of course. You couldn’t, even if you had tried. You weren’t like that– you could never be like that, because in all honesty, you knew the only reason you had gotten as good as you had was because of past coaches and teammates. As well as current ones.

So yeah, you were good, maybe even great as some of the sports sites put it, but it was all through the effort of others.

And, to be honest, right now, you didn’t feel great.

Or good.

You felt completely, utterly, horrible, because during this set– despite it being in the beginning– you had failed to save two hits, the spikes from the opposing team smacking the center of your side of the net. This meant that Harvard had earned two points because you couldn’t get your shit together, and it was driving you fucking nuts.

You felt like you had the pressure of this win on your shoulders, and it really didn’t help that the stands were filled to the brim with students. Harvard students, yes, but mostly Briar students, since it was ‘Briar Blackout’ tonight, a term coined for any sports event when they were wanting to fill the stands, especially now, since it was semifinals, which were held in an arena very close to campus. And boy, were they filled. Which made this all that much worse. God, did it feel like you were letting them down right now. It was embarrassing. Every time Harvard got a point, the disappointed groans of your supporters met your ears, and the usual smile that you wore on your face as you played had been completely wiped from your features during the third set. Because genuinely what the fuck?

This game had been disappointing on so many levels to the point that you were now actively listening to the chants from fellow students and supporters, something you never did. You always tried to block them out, to focus on yourself, but right now, you needed the support.

And it helped a bit, hearing the chants of your name, as well as the other names of girls on your team, shouting how you guys totally ‘got this’.

The people sitting in the courtside seats were the loudest.

In the chairs to your right sat people who had actually bought tickets, while the courtside seats to your left was the Briar boys volleyball team. And, in the courtside seats directly behind you sat the Briar U boys hockey team. Which was new.

You’re pretty sure it was because they had won nationals, so they were here to support the girls volleyball team as they fought for their place. Which you were dreading may be coming to a dead-end tonight.

But you couldn’t be thinking about the hockey boys right now– you couldn’t be thinking about any of this, not when you watched as Luisa Elliot, your best friend, your outside hitter, stumbled as her hands tapped the ball, sending it in the completely wrong direction. Instead of it going back over the net like it was meant to, it had been hit completely off course.

It flew over your head, and was heading straight for the stands directly behind. 

That was no good.

You sprint with not an ounce of hesitation towards the ball, following its movement with your eyes and legs, and you knew there was no way in hell you were going to make it– not when you were coming horribly close to the hockey boys. And, if you ran into them before you sent that ball back where it was meant to go, then you might not get the point, or, worse, Harvard could get the point.

And, fuck, you really couldn’t have that.

So you did what you always did– you leaped, quite literally throwing yourself forward in a dive, right arm pointed straight out, desperate to hit that ball back to your teammates. And you felt it, the ball smacking against the fleshy part of your hand below the knuckle of your thumb. 

You figured it went as planned, your eyes watching as the ball went back over your head– and, when a loud, collective, deafening cheer sounded from your side of the stands, you were positive that your play had gone perfectly, the ball going exactly where it was supposed to be.

However, you were not where you were supposed to be.

No, you were currently dangling over one of the Briar hockey boys.

In the save that may have kept Briar in the game, you had sacrificed your dignity, because here you were, body pressed against and over a man you had never once spoken to– hell, you didn’t even know which hockey player was beneath you. All you knew was that you could feel his face pressed into the fabric that covered your stomach, the rest of your upper body draped over the top of his head. The only reason why you hadn’t flipped completely over the man was because his right arm had instinctively secured itself around the back of your thighs, keeping you in place.

To your left, you heard the loud cackle from one of the boys, and to your right, you heard another one of the guys react with a shocked, “Oh, shit!”

You tried to move quickly, hearing the game continuing behind you as the ball was passed between the Harvard girls. Your hands, which had previously been held out in front of you, trying to balance yourself, now were being grabbed by the two other hockey players beside you, who helped tug you to an upright position as quickly as they could.

As they do this, you feel the arm of the guy that you are currently straddling slide away from your thighs, and he holds his hands back, palms facing you as if he was surrendering to something.

You only get a quick glance of the guy’s baffled– but heavily amused– eyes before your left hand quite literally presses against his face, using it as leverage to push yourself off him, where you start at a sprint back towards the game that had your entire focus. And, it’s lucky you did that, because just as you were about to make it back to the court, the middle hitter of the Harvard team had spiked the ball straight to the floor on your side of the court. 

Again, you dove to the ball, slamming your hand down on the polished wood floor just in time. Instead of the volleyball making contact with the planks of wood, it ricochets off the back of your right hand, moving upward where another one of your teammates– Liliana Amato– bumps it up and over to Louisa.

Louisa, the fucking amazing hitter that she is, spikes the ball with the palm of her hand, sending it straight to the back corner of Harvard’s side of the net. 

Their libero isn’t fast enough. 

No one on their team is fast enough, because the ball hits the wood with a loud smack, resulting in the entire room to vibrate with the loud cheers and screams of Briar students and fans.

You jump up quickly when you hear the whistle from the referee, and you swear you could cry from pure glee when the ref announces that, yes, the point did count, despite the Harvard team trying to claim that your pancake move hadn’t actually saved the ball. 

This causes another wave of loud cheers to erupt in the room, and you move to Louisa and Liliana, a giant grin on your face as you three high five, but not before each of you took a running headstart, jumping as you met in the middle, your shoulders colliding in a celebration of glee. It was something you always did, the three of you, because, as fate had it, you three were the ‘big three’. You guys moved with an efficiency like no other, and as it turned out, sports websites loved it.

All you needed now was one point.

One point, and you would be two points ahead, and then you’d win.

If you guys got this point, you’d make it to the NCAA Championship, something that Briar girls volleyball hasn’t been to in over ten years.

The arena gets quiet again as the two teams get ready, and from the corner of your eye you watch as Macey Cameron, your team's setter, tosses the ball up into the air, using her palm to serve it to Harvard.

And, like that, another intense battle ensues. You swear to God you’ve lost at least twenty pounds through this game because the Harvard girls really were putting you to work– the ball had gone over the net and back three times in the last thirty seconds, and each time, you’ve had to dive to save the ball from one of the girls' vicious spikes.

Like now.

You had just gotten to your feet again when Harvard’s middle hitter sent a completely fucking lethal spike your way. It was going down and over your head with a speed you didn’t even know was possible, and you tossed yourself backwards, right hand out to save the ball from hitting the floor. As it flies up, your body rolls on top of itself, and you’re pretty sure you’ve done some sort of fucking backward sumersault, because one second you’re on your back, and the next you’re on your knees, panting as you rise back to your feet, watching as Liliana sends the ball back over the net.

You watch as the ball flies near the back of the court, hitting the polished wood planks before any of the girls can get it.

But the room stays deathly silent because was that out?

It couldn’t be out.

There was no way you guys just did all that shit for the fucking ball to go out.

Everyone’s eyes are on the ref, who’s talking to the other referees. They’re huddled in a group, and after thirty seconds, they step apart. You watch, and you feel like it’s in slow motion as the man points to your team, nodding.

It had gone in.

The ball had gone in, meaning that Briar had just won the second point needed.

Meaning you were going to the fucking NCAA Championship.

In an instant, the room erupted in cheers so loud that it vibrated through the ground, reaching your feet as you and your team jumped up and down, your coaches– who have yelled at you more times than you could count this game– joining in. You’re so ecstatic that you don’t even think to apologize to the hockey boy that you had run down just minutes prior.

The hockey boy that is now watching you as he cheers, a soft, intrigued smile on his face.

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

Typically after volleyball games, you went straight home, where you would take a shower and then slump into bed, passing out before you could even question if you were comfortable. It was a ritual at this point; you play a game, you go home and sleep immediately after.

But tonight was different.

Tonight, you and your team had made it to the fucking NCAA Volleyball Championship, which Briar hadn’t done since you were still in elementary school. So, yes, you would fight through your exhaustion for one night, and head to Malone’s for a late night meal with three of your teammates– your best friends– and you would have a great time despite desperately wanting to get comfy in your bedsheets.

Which is how you found yourself now, at 10:30 p.m., entering Malone’s with Louisa, Lililiana, and another girl on the team, Jade, at your side, the four of you walking through the doors of the popular diner. 

You were chatting with Louisa who walked directly next to you, and you laughed at something she said, the soft sound carrying through the diner over the group you had yet to notice. The group you had yet to ever meet.

“Holy shit, it’s her!” Dean hissed, leaning across the table to nudge Logan in the shoulder from where he sat beside Garrett. “She’s literally right there–”

“Yeah, I have fucking eyes and ears, man,” Logan responded back quickly, voice terse as his eyes sideglanced you and your group, watching as the four of you walked past the table that currently held six people, including himself, without any knowledge that you were being watched. He looked back to Dean, eyes narrowed, “Can you be quiet?”

“Why?” Dean asked with a smirk, leaning back against the booth chair, his arm still hung comfortably around Allie, who was grinning with Hannah. “You’ve been aware of this girl for four hours now, and it’s obvious you already have a massive crush on her.”

“I don’t–”

“You’ve been stalking her Instagram since the game ended,” Garrett interrupted with a snort. “I’m pretty sure you’ve scrolled down to her sophomore year of high school.”

Hannah laughs into her drink at that, sharing a look with Tucker who had been snacking on the basket of fries that sat in the middle of the friend group. 

Logan feels his face heat up at that, and he promptly shuts off his phone, pressing it face down onto the table. Then, he picks up his drink, taking a large sip as he shrugs, speaking into the glass, “She’s interesting.”

“Yeah, interesting because she practically gave you a lap dance mid-game,” Tucker snickered, which, as a result, caused Hannah and Allie to erupt into fits of laughter. 

Logan glared harshly at Tucker, “That’s not why I find her interesting.”

“Sure,” Dean drawls out.

“Dude, I’m serious,” Logan huffs, taking a fry and chucking it at the blonde’s head. Then, he leans back against his seat, crossing his arms over himself, “She’s good at her sport. It's fun to watch."

“I think he’s so intrigued because she has no idea who he is,” Hannah butts in with a grin, laughing as Garrett nods along, his arm resting firmly around her, his fingers rubbing against the fabric of her cardigan. “And that’s new for any Briar hockey boy.”

“Oh, definitely,” Garrett agrees.

Logan only stays quiet with a sharp roll of his eyes. But he doesn’t deny it. He can’t deny it, because it’s true. 

Just hours ago, after your amazing win, you had been asked for a post-game interview by Briar’s sports media team. And you had said yes, because why would you not? It was better than having to deal with the glares and snarky comments from exiting Harvard fans.

Now, one thing about you was, you didn’t do hockey. Like, at all. You’ve never been to a game before. You didn’t understand how the stupid little ice game worked. Which, very fucking embarrassing for you, was discovered by the entire internet just hours prior.

It was discovered by John Logan hours prior.

The questions had been basic; they always were. Just repeats of the same things, such as certain plays, how you felt winning, yada, yada, yada. However, tonight, the last question had been different, directly tied to the man you had plowed down hours ago. The man who you didn’t know a fucking thing about, because you seriously didn’t do hockey.

“Alright,” the reporter, Sammy, had said, moving onto the next question. “Now, kinda venturing off… we actually wanted to talk about a specific save tonight.”

You smiled your practiced smile, the type that was sweet and polite and all the right ways, “Oh yeah?”

“John Logan. How are you feeling about that?” The reporter stated the question like you were supposed to know who the fuck that was. And maybe it was because your brain was practically mush from the brutal game, paired with the fact that you were running on pure adrenaline post game, but you couldn’t for the life of you connect that the guy you had run down was John Logan. Again, whoever the hell he was.

“Sorry, who?”

Yeah, you couldn’t have picked a worse fucking response.

But, in John Logan’s eyes, that was the perfect fucking response. When he watched the interview on the way to Malone’s after the game– because he was intrigued with volleyball, that was the only reason– he couldn’t help the amused but giddy smile that laced his face.

The reporter’s smile faltered, and she looked back to the camera that was videotaping the entire thing for the school’s media, before her gaze returned back to you like you guys were in an episode of The Office, “Uh… John Logan?”

“Yeah, um... I’m really sorry, I have no clue who that is.”

“The guy you ran into. When saving one of the passes.”

“Oh,” you respond. And because for some fucking reason you can’t help but embarrass yourself tonight, the situation finally clicks in your head, and you say the worst thing humanly possible: you smile, and say, “Hockey boy.”

Like a fucking idiot.

Or, in John Logan’s eyes, like a fucking angel.

“...Right. He plays right wing for Briar men’s hockey,” she explains. And then, she looks back at the camera as she asks, “You didn’t know the hockey team was behind you, watching tonight?”

And, of course, because for some reason your brain’s goal is to get you to make a complete fool out of yourself, you answer an even worse answer.

But, no, you weren’t a fool in Logan’s eyes. Not even close. You were the complete opposite and it had his heart going like a freight train was headed straight for him.

“I knew they were here. I just don’t have a clue who they are.”

“You don’t know Garrett Graham?”

“Uh… nope? I don’t think so.”

“Dean Di Laurentis?”

“Not ringing a bell, sorry.”

“John Tucker?”

“The guy I ran into?”

Logan had laughed at that, making up a quick excuse to Tucker, who had been sitting next to him in the car back when Logan had first seen the video.

“What? No– no, that was John Logan.”

“Right.” You shake your head and you laugh, “Too many John’s, am I right?”

The reporter was watching you like you had grown another head; she did not laugh. You felt a swell of embarrassment creep up in your chest, but you pushed it away, trying to finish the interview as quickly as possible. And you had.

Jesus Christ, Logan practically ate the thing up. He’d played it back, telling himself it was for educational volleyball purposes, when really it was to watch as your eyebrows furrowed in confusion when asked who he was.

And not caring when finding out who he was.

Which is how he ended up searching your name on Instagram, scrolling through your feed, post by post like some weird stalker, according to his friends. Who, presently, were watching him, because he had turned on his phone yet again, eyes flickering down to the screen, watching an old volleyball practice video you had posted.

“Just go talk to her, dude,” Garrett finally said after another thirty seconds of watching Logan silently yearn at your Instagram profile. “She’s two tables down.”

Logan followed Garrett’s gesture, his head turning a fraction, his eyes catching your form as you hovered over a laminated menu, talking pleasantly with the girl who sat beside you. You pointed at something on the menu, wiggled your eyebrows at the girl across from you, and then snorted at what you had said while your three friends gave you bored expressions.

God, he hadn’t even spoken to you and he was positive he was in love.

“No,” he finally says, twisting his head back to his friends.

“Okay, this is painful,” Dean finally said, throwing his hands up. “Give me that–”

Dean had reached forward, plucking Logan’s phone from his loose grip.

“What– dude, stop– give it back–” 

But Dean had stood in the booth, holding Logan’s phone out of reach, and he scrolled all the way back up to the top of your Instagram. He wasted no time, clicking the follow button with a sigh of content before shutting off the device and tossing it back to Logan.

And, oh, if looks could kill.

“Are you fucking–”

“Shhhh, thank me later.”

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

“No way.”

“What?” Louisa had said, smiling at the waitress as she brought out the four Cokes that you guys had ordered. She took a long sip, staring at you from over the rim, “What’s up?”

You silently turn your phone, showing your three best friends your most recent notification.

John Logan has requested to follow you.

“Holy fuck,” Jade gapes. Then, she snatches your phone from your grip, and you reach forward, trying to snatch it back. However, she’s already leaning far away from you, “Oh, we are accepting this right now–”

“No! No, we are not,” you respond, voice stern as you stand to try and reach for your phone again. “He literally just followed me. If I accept now, he’ll think me plowing into him was intentional or something, so give–”

“And, accepted! Alrightly, follow back… and look at that, he already approved it!”

“I hate you,” you groan.

“Bro,” Liliana said, gesturing to your phone, “he was the one who followed you first. Which means that after you ran him down, he looked you up on Instagram. Which means he has been debating following you for four hours now. Which means he has the hots for you.”

“You guys are all delusional,” you respond, but not before quickly thanking your waitress, who brings over the four burgers and fries you guys had ordered just a bit ago. The food had come quickly, and you know it’s because Malone’s is relatively empty tonight. Only three tables are taken, including the one that you and your friends occupy.

“I don’t think you’re grasping the severity of this situation.”

“‘The severity of the situation’?” You repeat Jade’s words. “The hell does that mean?’

“That you have one of the hottest guys at Briar, a hockey player, following you almost immediately after you straddled him–”

You feel your face burn, “I did not straddle him.”

“Babe,” Louisa interjects, “you absolutely straddled him. Wanna see a video?”

You groan, “They already posted it?”

“Girl, they posted it three minutes after it happened,” Liliana said. She grabbed her phone, typing quickly, and then slid her phone across the table. You steadied it in front of you, leaning over to watch. And, yeah, you definitely straddled the guy. But not after you fucking launched yourself at him like a rabid squirrel, nearly flinging over his shoulder– you only hadn’t because he had held you against him. 

“Oh,” Louisa says from beside you, pointing to the phone. “So that’s Garrett Graham,” she points to the guy who was on your right, the one who had vocalized his surprise when it had happened, “and that’s Dean Di Laurentis,” and then she points to the guy who had cackled. You watch as her finger points to the man next to Dean, “That’s John Tucker. The other John. They all live together. They throw the best parties, too, out of all the hockey boys.”

“How do you know all this?”

“Literally everyone does except you, apparently.”

“Okay, whatever.”

Jade groans loudly, “Can we return to the issue at hand here? John Logan thinks you’re hot.”

“No, he doesn’t.”

“Girl, look at his smile after you push your hand against his face.”

Jade leans over, using two fingers to zoom the video on the guy’s face, and sure enough, after you push off against his face, sprinting to save the volleyball once more, he watches you with what looks to be a dazed grin, his bottom lip tucked beneath his teeth.

Fuck, it was kinda hot.

“That doesn’t mean anything,” you choose to say instead.

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Jade groans. “Look, whatever. Do you at least find him attractive?”

You shrug, lying, “I dunno. Didn’t get a good look at him.”

“Alright, Liliana, pull up the edit.”

“What the fuck do you mean, ‘the edit’?” You question, absolutely baffled. “This guy has edits made for him?”

“He’s a college hockey player, and he’s fucking amazing. And really fucking hot. So, yeah, he’s got edits– but this one is like, top tier. Really gets you going, if you know what I mean–”

“You guys are disgusting.”

“Here,” Liliana says, clicking a video in her liked posts. She shifts her phone towards you, turning up the volume with the pad of her thumb, and you watch as the song “Do I Wanna Know?” by Arctic Monkeys sounds through her phone, an extremely well crafted edit of John Logan both on the ice and in interviews playing before you.

“Okay,” you say once the edit finishes, “he’s hot. I get it.”

“See!” Jade grins, “He’s hot, and he’s definitely interested in you after tonight, which means that–”

But you all pause. All four of you freeze, because two tables down, you hear the sound of your voice on full blast, coming from someone’s phone. It’s you answering a question after a relatively successful game, followed by a song. Meaning that somewhere in this fucking diner, someone was watching edits of you.

“Shit! Dean, turn it down–”

It was too late, though.

You and your friends’ heads snapped in the direction of the noise, only to be met with the eyes of six others– five who seemed absolutely thrilled that you had noticed, while the sixth definitely looked like a deer in headlights.

The sixth being John Logan.

You can’t even react accordingly, because Louisa is grinning like a madman, shaking your shoulder and pointing very obviously at the group that’s only two tables away, “Holy shit, he’s right there, oh my God–”

“I can see that, Louisa,” you hiss, pushing her hands off you. Then, you turn back to John Logan, watching as he whispers heated words to his friends before standing. And holy fuck, he’s making his way over to you. Before he even reaches the table, Liliana, Louisa, and Jade are standing, gathering their things and food, and your eyes widen with an alarmed expression, and you hurriedly whisper, “Where the fuck are you guys going?”

“To a different table so we don’t block his cock.”

“Oh my–”

You can’t even finish your words, because your friends are gone. And John Logan is standing right in front of you, a small, gentle smile on his face as he watches your friends scurry over to the table he had just come from. They shove themselves into the booth next to Logan’s friends, acting as if they knew the people they now sat with, which they did not.

Logan’s friends didn’t seem to care, though. They looked just as eager, making room so your three obnoxious teammates could sit comfortably.

You fight the urge to audibly sigh, looking back at the man in front of you. You match his smile, and you really don’t know what’s with your fucking head today, but the first words that leave your mouth aren’t something sweet. They aren't cute. They make you look like a dipshit.

“My victim.”

You immediately want to get up and leave, because genuinely what the fuck were you on today?

But you don’t leave, not when John’s smile widens, and you can see his pretty teeth. He looks thoroughly amused, excited even, and he nods along with your words as he responds, “My attacker.”

“I wouldn’t call it an attack–”

“What would you call it?” He asks with his gentle grin, and he pulls out the chair where Jade had just been, sitting directly across from you.

“A collision on the playing field,” you offer with a hint of playfulness, which he catches onto instantly. “I’m sure you’re used to those. With hockey and everything.”

“So you know who I am now?” He asks, his eyes sparkling with something exciting.

“Hard not to when our video is already making its way through social media. Have you seen it?”

“Absolutely,” he says with a nod, and his tone is serious in a joking way. He’s got his arms now on the table, leaning forward as he speaks to you. He’s still grinning, and you conclude now that this guy is insanely good at keeping eye contact. It's really hot. “You tackling me, me catching you–”

“Straight out of a sports romcom,” you conclude. Then, you shake your solemnly, “What a waste, am I right? If we had some good dialogue, we would’ve gotten a ticket straight to the Oscars!”

“Oh, I know,” he says, and he throws his hands up dramatically. “We’ve been snubbed.”

Fuck, he was fun to banter with.

All the nerves you felt when you first realized he was walking over had vanished into thin air, because you guys got along good. You clicked instantaneously, falling into an easy back and forth that had you leaning forward as you spoke to him, words playful as he nodded along, eyes wide in a way that showed he was having just as much fun as you were.

You guys had been so invested in your many conversations about literally whatever the fuck came up that you didn’t even realize when your friends left. Or when his friends left. Or when you two were the only people left in Malone’s, except for the staff.

And, through the long, witty, playful conversations you were having with John, you two somehow ended up staying at Malone’s until close. It was late out, just past 2 a.m., and John offered to walk you home, which you refused at first, worried about keeping him out too late. But the man pouts dramatically, a playful expression as he told you there's nothing else he'd rather do, and you can’t help but agree.

Which is where you found yourself now.

Pushed up against the front door of your apartment, lips pressed against his, hands threaded through his hair while his fingers held your waist, thumbs rubbing over your hipbones with the type of gentleness that made your heart ache. 

He presses more kisses to your lips. They’re firmer, eager, and it’s now that you know you have to break the news to him.

“Wanna know another thing about me, John?” You grin, tilting your head back as he presses kisses down your neck.

He hums against your skin, sucking gently at your pulse point before smoothing it over with his tongue, pressing once final kiss to the skin. He moves his way back up your neck and jaw with soft kisses, pressing one final kiss to the softness of your lips, “What?”

“I don’t do hook-ups. Or casual.”

You expect him to falter, to pull back with a face of disappointment. You figured that’s what would happen, but you didn’t necessarily care. Sure, it was going to suck, having to end this short-lived thing with the hottest guy you ever met, but you weren’t going to change your rules for a guy you had just met. 

But, no, Logan doesn’t react how you were expecting at all.

No frown, no hint of irritation. He does something else, something that catches you off guard in the best way possible.

He grins. 

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

[i-love-ptv]

john logannnnnnnn

[rr-after-dark]

Statistically Speaking - Dr. Brendon “The Shark” Park x Reader

Chapter One: Trinity Santos

Series Summary: After completing your residency, you join the staff at the Pitt, the hospital where your husband of nearly ten years (who you already have five kids with) works. With a common last name and radically different personalities, you make a bet on how long it'll take everyone to figure out that you're married.

Chapter Summary: You and Brendon celebrate your upcoming first shift at PTMC with a huge family bash and a hot night together.

Tags/Notes: wife!mom!doctor!reader, brendon and reader have five kids already, parties, family shenanigans, madly in love couple, smut, oral (f), fingering (f), unprotected piv, creampie, aftercare/sweetness

Content: near fatal birth complication in past (AFE) discussed in detail: to avoid, after “And Felix Park joined the family a little less than eight months later” skip to  “‘He’s perfect,’ Brendon assured.” 

A/N: local child-free gay trans guy continues to be unable to resist giving big men 4-6 children :// happy wip wednesdays my loves!

Word Count: 7.2k

How you ended up with five kids under ten at the party celebrating your upcoming first day as an emergency department attending is simple: Brendon Park is the single greatest husband and father you’ve ever seen. While your mother-in-law insists that you relax by the pool as she gets the place ready because it’s your party, Brendon watches the kids to keep them out of your hair and manages to be the sexiest man alive while he does it. It’s been unseasonably warm this summer, but you definitely aren’t complaining about soaking in a few poolside days before your job starts. Because of the heat, Brendon’s wearing one of those slutty white tank tops that clings to his sweaty muscles in the late-June heat. He’s got your two-year-old on one hip, your four-year-old holding onto his chest like a koala cub, and your six-year-old on his shoulders. All the while, he manages to play catch with your nine-year-old and help your seven-year-old practice her solo for the community theater musical she’s doing during summer break.

As the gorgeous setup takes shape around you – Brendon’s mother was an event planner before retirement, so every get-together turns into a whole shebang – you admire your husband expertly managing all of the kids. He looks so hot running around the yard with them, tan and sweaty and muscular, that you don’t even notice the mischievous glint in his eyes when he turns to you and catches your gaze. Then, a split second after he mutters something you can’t hear to the kids, the two oldest barrel toward you at top speed, yanking off their cover-ups and launching into the pool in front of you. Water splashes up onto your book and high-waisted-bikini-clad body while Brendon walks over nonchalantly.

You immediately turn to your husband and then to your laughing children. “Benji, Margot, be honest with me: Did your dad put you up to this?”

They make eye contact with each other, then their dad, and then each other again before pinching their noses shut and going under the water.

Setting your book aside, you stand up from your cozy lounger and meet Brendon at the edge of the pool, where he’s helping Nora and Theo into their life jackets since he’s a safety freak the first couple of summers between swim lessons. Once they’re in the water with their siblings, you shove Brendon on the chest and glare. “You are a menace, Bren. Such a bad influence on our poor children.”

“Oh, yeah?” Brendon takes Felix from his carrier, kisses him on the head, and hands him off to his grandmother, who’s floating by as she does final touches for the party. Then Brendon strips his shirt off and tugs you close to his body. You lean up onto your toes for a kiss and he happily gives it to you, arms wrapped protectively around your back. “Excited about your party?”

“Please, we both know this is for your mom and the kids,” you chuckle as you watch her greeting the first few guests, leading them through the house and into the backyard. It’s mostly people from the neighborhood, your kids’ friends and the other couples you hang out with. There was a strict ‘no coworkers’ rule as you and Brendon hadn’t yet decided how to navigate his wife joining his hospital. “My perfect celebration looks a lot more like when you passed your first boards.”

“Mmm.” He kisses you a bit deeper and remembers fondly, “The great Cancun fuck-fest.”

“Keep your voice down,” you giggle as one of Nora’s classmates passes by you to go for the nearby spread of fruit, “this place is crawling with children who don’t need to take the F-word to elementary school this fall.”

He nips your neck and replies, “You’re so lame for a MILF.”

Then, with his hand roving a little too low on your back for a family-friendly party, the one exception to the guest list rule taps you on the shoulder.

“Alright, pervert, it’s my turn with my new boss.”

“Trinity, you made it!” You wrap her up in a hug and squeal with delight. Trinity had been one of your closest friends during undergrad in Philadelphia. She took a gap year once you finished med school, so you had no idea her residency was at PTMC until she ran into Brendon during his first consult to the emergency department. “It’s so crazy that we’re gonna be working together after all this time. Kind of our twenty-year-old selves dream.”

“It’s gonna be fucking awesome,” she confirms with a grin as she pushes a White Claw into your right hand and clinks it with her own. “I’ll finally have someone to bitch with about all the assholes I have to deal with.”

Brendon balks before you can respond. “She gets to curse and I don’t?”

You squeeze his arm and comfort him, “Trin’s a cool aunt, not a dad.”

“An aunt to how many now, by the way?” She looks over the pool that’s now overrun with kids and tries to scan for ones that look like you and Brendon. “Last time I saw you in person, I think there were only two of them and one on the way.”

Pointing them out one by one, you tell her, “We have five now.”

It takes a while for the three of you to catch up on everything that’s happened the last few years, but it’s beautiful and fun to trade stories about the kids. Starting with the oldest, there’s Benji, who was totally unplanned when you were barely into undergrad at UPenn, having met his dad exactly nine months and two weeks before his birth at a mixer where pre-med students got to talk with MS1s about their experience. You were 19 after a gap year and he was 21 after whizzing through undergrad and MCATs at the top of his class. Even if he had sky-high dreams of being a double-board-certified surgeon by 30, Brendon wasn’t just going to abandon you or his kid, so he made an honest woman of you by the time you were showing in a tiny ceremony at the courthouse, promising to give you the wedding of your dreams once the two of you had the money. 

By the time you went into labor a few weeks after nailing your first-year finals, Brendon Park was sure of one thing: You were the woman of his dreams and marrying you was the best decision of his life. He never would’ve expected one random hookup to become the center of his universe, but it quickly became undeniable. It was your tenacity that got him. You never skipped a class because of morning sickness, never shied away from going toe-to-toe with a professor at 30-weeks large, and never questioned your own ability to stay at the top of your class with a newborn at home. You tackled the world with a hunger and enthusiasm that made his heart stammer in his chest. He’d never seen anything as sexy as you breastfeeding with one arm while the other you flipped through your organic chemistry textbook with the other, Brendon feeding you eggs and toast and fruit while quizzing you on test prep.

As soon as you were cleared and comfortable, Brendon couldn’t bear to keep his hands off you anytime you two were alone and you were beyond reciprocal; having a husband who not only loved his baby beyond belief and set an incredible example every day had your hormones going bonkers. Hell, he even stopped going to the gym in the morning to let you sleep and started doing his workouts in the living room with Benji strapped to his chest while he did bicep curls or sitting on his back giggling loudly as he did pushups. How’s a woman to resist when she wakes up to that?

Which meant Benji ended up with his first little sister, Margot, while you knocked out MCAT prerequisites and his father passed his USMLE Step 1 and prepared for his clinical work to start. With Brendon’s family being beyond supportive and Margot being a perfect angel as a baby, you jumped into med school headfirst and attended Brendon’s graduation seven months pregnant with Nora. 

And, yes, you had planned not to have any more babies until you were well established in your residency. But then you matched into UPSOM’s program, nabbing your spot at Allegheny General, and Brendon took up his orthopedic trauma surgery fellowship at PTMC, and his parents decided to relocate to be near their grandkids, too. In the middle of all the chaos of moving and settling and daycare and preschools, well, some birth control pills may have been missed sort-of-not-totally-on-accident-but-not-really-on purpose-either right around the time you were celebrating Brendon’s first board certification with expensive lingerie and champagne and a trip to Cancun on his sexy new salary. So Theo happened. 

Your track record with celebrations made the next one pretty clear, too. When Brendon finished his fellowship with another huge party, his mother, a saint of a woman, hugged you close and said, “Should we expect baby number five in about nine months?”

And that night, Brendon had you in bed once his parents had taken all the kids back to their house after the party. His thumbs brushed lovingly over your stomach’s layers of shiny stretchmarks as he asked gently, “What do you think, sweetheart?”

Knowing exactly what he meant, you raised an eyebrow and pushed, “About what?”

“We’ve got this big house with all these bedrooms now,” he purred as his fingers toyed with the waistband of your panties. “Seems like kind of a shame not to fill all of them up, doesn’t it?”

You helped him shimmy your underwear off and then turned onto your side, throwing one leg over his hip. “You know I always wanted an even number of kids, Bren. We’ve got two boys and two girls. You really want to disrupt the balance?”

“Think about it this way,” he mused as his hands roamed over your body, squeezing your ass and waist and thighs with the same greed he did when you were nineteen, “if we have five kids, then in a few years, we have a whole water polo team. We can have the Willards over and absolutely annihilate them. Establish dominance in the neighborhood.”

You press your forehead into his shoulder and laugh, “They only have four kids.”

His eyes glimmered with mischief. “Not for long. Nat’s pregnant. Jason told me this morning.”

“Well, shit, we’d better make sure their baby has a friend. Perfectly good reason to create another human being,” you replied with an eye roll, fully enjoying making him work for it even when you were already on board. You pursed your lips and pretended to think hard before suggesting, “Although, I believe ultimate frisbee needs seven, too, and that has some appeal for me.”

Brendon grinned wide then. He flipped you onto your back, pinned you between his biceps, and confirmed, “You wanna have an ultimate frisbee team with me, baby?”

As his right hand went between your legs, you sighed in pleasure, “It’s really the only sport I’ve ever taken seriously.”

And Felix Park joined the family a little less than nine months later.

This time, it wasn’t easy.

After four uncomplicated pregnancies and births, you were a pro. You showed up to L&D five centimeters dilated with your hair, nails, and makeup done, wearing your maroon velour tracksuit, Brendon shouldering your go bag and a brand new baby carrier right behind you. Only a few hours later, the baby was in his cot with Brendon standing over him like a hawk, the placenta had just been delivered, and everything should’ve continued into recovery as normal. But an overwhelming, all-consuming sense that something was wrong overcame you like a hurricane.

You reached out and grabbed Brendon’s hand, fingers bruising.

His eyes snapped to yours and he saw the terror in them immediately.

Before he could even open his mouth, your blood pressure tanked, your oxygen plummeted, and the bleeding started. Your eyelids fluttered back as you dropped out of consciousness in a matter of seconds. As the OB dropped down to check for potential causes and solutions while stopping the bleeding, Brendon’s brain lasered into doctor mode as a response to the panic that rose in his throat. Not listening in the slightest as a nurse urged him to stay calm, he violated every protocol in the book by yanking an intubation kit from the closest medical cart to expertly get you oxygen, shouting for transfusions of your blood type, and beginning CPR for blood flow. Nurses and staff fell in line rapidly, deferring to his authority because it was just so forceful and complete. Brendon Park is one of those men who’s impossible to doubt, no matter what he’s doing.

By the time an emergency specialist made it to your room three minutes later, Brendon had run the worst of the code and pretty much singlehandedly stopped you from dying right there on the L&D floor, sweat falling down his brow and onto your hospital gown as he continued compressions. It took three people to get him to step back from you. When the doctor took over on your heart, Brendon collapsed into a panic attack. He’d never felt anything like the tightness in his lungs. A separate nurse came in to give him oxygen while he went down, his eyes wide open and darting around like he was looking for something he couldn’t find. No words made it through the thick haze of his terror until he saw your vitals stabilizing again. Even then, he couldn’t function until you were conscious and tested and they confirmed that you wouldn’t have any lasting issues.

When you came to for real the next morning and they told you what happened, your mischievous eyes spent a second finding his and you teased, “Ooooh, you’re gonna be in so much trouble, pookie.”

He laughed, swatted a tear from his cheek, and kissed you on the top of the head. “Yeah, I got called up by the medical board for a review, but the hospital’s backing me up. Should be a slap on the wrist.”

You nodded, sleepy and accepting, and asked, “How’s the baby doing?”

“He’s perfect,” Brendon assured softly, almost scared to be too loud. “Ten pounds on the dot, 22 inches. Easily one of our top five cutest babies.”

“Another football player,” you laughed, sounding exhausted and delighted and maybe still a touch loopy on painkillers. Leaning your head on his arm, you smile against his skin. “We make very cute babies, even if your stupid genes make them all giants.”

He brushed your cheek with his thumb and murmured, “Your stupid genes didn’t have to keep procreating with my stupid genes.”

You rolled your eyes. “Shut up; you’re so annoying.”

He pouted and offered, “What if I told you that I brought you an Entenmann’s donut variety pack this morning? Powered, chocolate glaze, and crumble just how you like?”

With your weak arms, you reached up and pulled him into a hard kiss. He didn’t care about your unbrushed teeth or greasy skin. To him, you’re everything. He’d kiss you at the end of the world with two minutes left. You leveled him with loving eyes and said, “I lied about you being annoying. You’re the perfect man. Now gimme those donuts.”

All in all, by the time an attending position opened up in Brendon’s hospital right as you finished your residency with five under ten, you’re pretty damn sure you’re done having babies.

“I don’t know how you do it,” Trinity sighs as she sips her second or third drink. “I can barely keep myself and my roommate alive and here you are with five tiny humans and a husband.”

“Once they stop being attached to your boob, it gets easier,” you snicker while watching the kids screeching with laughter as they dive and splash at each other. With Brendon absently rubbing your back while keeping his eyes on the party, you add, “Honestly, at this point, it’ll be weird not being pregnant working at a hospital. I won’t have any excuses to take as many five-minute breaks as I want.”

“A fate worse than death,” Trinity agrees. Then she gestures between the two of you and asks, “Have you figured out how you’re gonna break it to the Pitt that their nice new attending is actually married to the scariest doctor in the hospital?”

You admire Brendon’s sharp side profile for a minute and then shrug. “I figure we’re not gonna keep it a secret but we’re not gonna bring it up. It’s not like Bren’s going to stop being the big bad ortho bro just because I’m there. I’m fully prepared to be on the receiving end of his mean little tirades.”

Brendon bites back a joke about how you like him being mean plenty when it’s just the two of you, instead saying, “And I’m fully prepared for you to stand on your tippy toes and scream in my face when we disagree about patient care.”

You scoff and shove him. “I did not yell at Dr. Torrence that day.”

Brendon gives Trinity a knowing look. “She made him cry over an appendicitis diagnosis.”

Throwing your hands up mock-defensively, you cut back, “Okay, well, god forbid I care if my patients live or die.”

Trinity cracks up at that and says, “The way you go back and forth with each other, you should place bets on how long it takes everyone to figure out that you’re married.”

Brendon tilts his beer toward her. “Now that could be fun.”

Before you can call them both children, your mother-in-law comes up behind you and leans in near your and Brendon’s ears. “The kids are getting antsy about the cake, my loves.”

Brendon nods, stands up, and shouts in his bellowing serious voice, “Everybody gather ‘round; I have to give my sappy speech about how proud of my wife I am now!”

From around the pool area and by the fire pitt and grill, all the partygoers circle the central table with its cake reading Congratulations, Dr. & Dr. Park! Even the kids reluctantly clamber out of the pool after a little coaxing from their grandparents.

Brendon lifts his arm for you to step into. With an eye roll, you do, head on his chest. He dramatically clears his throat and begins, “Honey, I’ve told you a million times already, but I’m never gonna get tired of saying it: I am so proud of you for finishing your residency and taking the next leap in your medical career. I know firsthand just how hard you’ve worked every step of the way to be the biggest know-it-all in the history of the world.”

“Absolutely right,” you cut in with a serious nod. Patting his well-defined pec, you nudge, “Wrap it up, you big sap, there’s a cake to eat.”

“Alright, alright,” he chuckles. Then he cups your cheek and says, “You are by far the most impressive person I’ve ever met. You continue to change my definition of what’s possible every day. I cannot wait to work with you so I can finally prove that someone actually likes me.” Brendon kisses you warmly as his friends laugh a little too knowingly. Then he hushes the crowd once more and says, “Of course, if you’ve come to a Park family summer house party before, you know that we always end our toasts with a particular tradition-”

With the kids already cheering and clapping from the anticipation, you try to squirrel out from under his arm with a wicked shriek of, “Brendon Alexander Park, you swore you wouldn’t do this tonight!”

“-before we can cut that cake and continue the evening’s festivities-”

You manage to get out of his grip and make a sprinting break for the yard, careful not to run by the pool area because you will never hear the end of it from Benji after several summers of yelling at him for the same. “You are so in for it, Bren!” 

“-my beautiful wife absolutely must get into the pool she insisted we put in-”

Brendon catches you easily since you aren’t really trying to evade him as all your friends and family clap. You hiss, “I will murder you after this.”

“-by any means necessary!” Brendon grabs you under your ass and hoists you above his head onto his shoulders with ease. Holding your legs tight to his chest while you balance above him, he walks to the edge of the water and you pretend to put up a fight by squirming just to annoy him. Brendon grabs his beer from the table and lifts it to the sky. “Everyone, please raise your glasses and join me in celebrating the love of my life, the mother of my five perfect spoiled children, who is way too good for me even on my best days, and now my fellow PTMC attending physician, Dr. Park!”

As everyone lifts their drinks and claps and whoops, Brendon takes one celebratory swig of his beer, sets it down, and then jumps into the deep end, plunging you both into the water. It’s the perfect temperature for swimming even without the heated feature turned on and you surface with mock offense on your face. Laughing and wiping water away, you push him on the chest and say, “I hate you. You’re by far the worst husband on the face of the planet.”

He nods in agreement as he pulls you toward him, able to touch the bottom of the pool several steps before you can. As you instinctively wrap your legs around his hips, he kisses you and murmurs, “I’m so fucking proud of you, baby. I know there was never any doubt you’d finish your residency-”

“Damn straight.”

“-but the fact that you did it all while being such an attentive mom and wife and-”

“Please don’t make me cry,” you whimper gently. You hug him tight. “Thank you so much for supporting me and us all these years. We really did it.”

“We really did,” he confirms with a laugh. Then he leans in close and murmurs, “By the way, I managed to pawn all the kids off to their friends’ places for sleepovers while you were mingling, so we have the house to ourselves tonight.”

“You’re joking,” you reply, mouth open in true shock. You cup his ear and giggle, “You’re telling me we get to fuck loud and uninterrupted tonight?”

With a shit-eating grin, he nods and kisses you hard. “That’s exactly what I’m telling you, angel.”

Then, having absolutely housed a corner piece of cake in a matter of milliseconds, Benji raises his pool noodle and proclaims, “No kissing in the pool! Get ‘em!”

You shriek and bury your face in Brendon’s neck as four of your kids cannonball in at once, spraying water everywhere and immediately latching onto your and Brendon’s backs.

Late that night, with the house and yard cleaned up and the kids at their friends’ or grandparents’ places, Brendon pulls you into the oversized shower and rubs your shoulders under the water. For a few minutes, he just lets you soak in the steam and the quiet as he greedily touches you, no shouting children running around or banging on the door. It’s been a while since the two of you have been able to shower together for more than practical time-saving reasons, so Brendon’s eager to hold you close even as he massages shampoo and conditioner through your hair. You can feel the pride and adoration in his every touch and in his content little groans when you return the favor, working him over with a sudsy loofah and following it with your hands.

Brendon trades off once he’s clean, cupping your soapy breasts and sighing happily into a slow kiss that you step onto your toes to give him. His fingers slip down your waist, over your thighs, through your pubic hair. He even drops down to his knees and lifts each of your feet to wash them, kissing your knees once the water’s washed away the suds. Standing up again, he murmurs gently, “Turn around, sweetheart.”

With a big yawn, you move so he can get your back, definitely not selfishly working your muscles with his hands too.

“Don’t tell me you’re too sleepy for sex,” he teases as you yawn again, leaning your weight against his chest as he rubs the loofah down your lower back.

You reach down and pinch his thigh vengefully. “Did I say that?”

“Ouch! Fuck, baby, I take it back,” he laughs, tightening his arms around you. He bites your shoulder playfully before saying, “Let’s get you out of here so you can prove it to me, hm?”

“I like the sound of that.”

You turn around slowly and give him one more kiss before reaching behind him and turning off the water. Brendon’s quick to grab your fluffy towel robe, wrapping you in it before your skin can even consider getting cold. Before he can turn away, you rest your arms around the back of his neck and tug him into another kiss. He holds your face between his large hands and lets out a soft, breathy sound close to a moan. You love the little noises he makes when he’s so perfectly content. Noises that only you have ever gotten to hear.

Murmuring into the kiss, you offer, “Take me to bed, handsome.”

But Brendon shakes his head no and picks up your moisturizer from the counter behind you, presenting it to you with a pointed look. “Do your post-shower routine first. You’ll be all cranky if your skin starts getting tight and I don’t want you thinking about anything that’ll distract you from feeling so fucking good you go brain-dead. Got it?”

You pout as you take the moisturizer and unscrew it, “To be loved is to be seen or whatever.” 

Brendon starts in on his own routine, too, opening up the medicine cabinet. “You’re almost out of the one you take in the morning – the modafinil,” he says as he collects your handful of bedtime pills the way he does every night, taking care of you in the small moments. “You have an appointment set up for that already?”

“Yes, I do, Dr. Micromanager,” you reply, all faux-huffy. With your skin care done, he hands off your pills and you take them with a few gulps of water from the sink. “I might ask to try something else, though. It’s been a month on them already and I don’t feel like they’re actually helping me feel less tired. Plus, now that I’m gonna be an attending, I’ll only be on day shift, so the whole Shift Work Sleep Disorder situation might resolve itself.”

“I hope so,” he sighs, softly rubbing your back. “I know we all go through it as doctors, but I hate watching you deal with something I can’t fix myself.”

“Mmm.” You give him a soft kiss on the cheek and smile. “My knight in shining armor.”

He kisses your temple. “And you’ll always be my princess.”

Then you toy with the tie on your robe, give him your most sultry eyes, and ask, “Now can you fuck me, Sir Brendon? Or are there any more tasks I have to complete first?”

“All you have to do for the rest of the night-” he slides your robe down your shoulders, returns it to its hook, and begins to push you backwards, into the bedroom “-is let me worship you.”

As the back of your knees hit the plush, high-thread-count comforter, you softly laugh, “I think I can do that for you.”

“That’s my girl,” he praises as he spreads you out on the bed, making sure you’re comfortably arranged among the pillows before he pushes your knees apart. When he sees your pussy, framed by those perfect dimpled thighs and your curls of hair, his cock throbs against the sheet and he groans, “Fuck, baby. Can’t believe you’re mine.”

You roll your eyes and smile down at him. “I’ve been yours since I was 19, Bren.”

“And you’re only getting better,” he purrs as he leans down and laps at your slit. With your tartness coating his tongue, he pulls back, nods solemnly, and groans like he’s just chugged a nice cold beer after a long day of work, “Yeah, that’s the stuff right there.”

You giggle and cover your face with your arm. “Stop being silly; you know it turns me on.”

“And the worst thing I’d ever want to do when I’m here between my wife’s legs,” he muses as he slides his two middle fingers inside of you agonizingly slowly, “is turn her on.”

Your back arches while you stretch around him. Once he’s touching you, there’s no more room in your brain for teasing or comebacks. All you can think about is him. His tongue makes familiar contact with your clit and you’re done for. You let yourself sink into the pleasure of being with a man who knows every centimeter of your body as well as his own. He eats you out the way he operates: Precise, practiced, self-assured, and with ten years of training under his belt.

Loose and warm from the night drinking and the hot shower with your hot husband, you’re easily enveloped by Brendon’s obvious desire. You slip into it as naturally as you breathe. His tongue pulses against your clit and his free hand travels upward until he can take your nipple between his thumb and forefinger. He pinches and rolls until he finds that combination of pressure and skill to make you moan loud and uninhibited.

Brendon’s got you right where he wants you once he’s using both his hands and his mouth to get you off. If he could use something else at the same time to heighten it for you, he would. When he feels your walls tightening slowly around his fingers, he slows way down and makes you work for it. You whine pathetically at the change in pace and grind your hips down against his fingers to get them deeper and faster the way you need.

Finally – it feels like finally even if it’s been thirty seconds because you’re so worked up – Brendon pushes you over the edge. You clamp down tight around his fingers, thighs tensing around his head, and bliss burns down the candle of your body. Brendon surges forward as you instinctively try to squirm away, his hand going to your hip to hold you against his mouth. He always insists on you riding out every single ounce of pleasure he can give you.

Your gasps turn to little hiccuping moans in the wake of your first orgasm – because, as Brendon makes it very clear, there will be a second. And likely a third if he can get you into the right loose headspace where you’ll go along with everything he says. He pulls off slightly, gently rubs your hip with his thumb, and asks, “Doing okay, baby?”

With half-lidded eyes, you giggle, “Very good, Bren. Gonna come fuck me now?”

“After you’ve only cum on my face once?” He wrinkles up his face in offense. “No fucking way.”

You fake-pout. “Maybe I want you to cum on my face for a change.”

Brendon rolls his eyes and gets back to your clit. You laugh for a second until the contact of his tongue turns it into a moan. He makes a knowing little sound and you grind down on his tongue to get at him, which only makes him more of a menace. He gets lost in it with your juices coating his hand and your pussy still fluttering greedily around his fingers. When he slips a third thick finger into you, the corresponding groan is music to his ears. You’re used to how ridiculous fat his cock is by now, but he’s always sure to stretch you out with fingers or toys beforehand no matter what. No way is he ever going to hurt his perfect girl, not even on accident.

As you get positively stupid, making high-pitched pathetic sounds like ah ah ah, your hands find their way into Brendon’s dark curls. When you tug against his scalp, he whimpers into your pussy, madly in love with your taste, your touch, your tenderness. Everything about you turns him on, but especially the way you totally stop thinking as you lose your inhibitions. Your hips start to roll and your fingers get greedy and Brendon is the happy recipient of each unconscious writhe and wail.

Your second orgasm is slower, looser, less a train barreling through and more a ship rising with the gentle tide, unnoticed at first but unrelenting. You chase his fingers and, this time, he doesn’t mess around with any teasing or slowing down. He stays the course, certain and steady as a compass, until he feels you burst around his fingers. Your moans turn to breathy coos as he eases you through the overstimulation and back down to earth. 

When he’s satisfied with his work, Brendon crawls on top of you and kisses your parted lips. You lean up into the kiss with a happy groan, tasting yourself on his tongue. He kisses you deeply for a minute, one hand needy on your breast as he rubs your nipples, and you feel his hard cock grinding against your thigh. You reach down and palm his length, breathily begging, “C’mon, Bren, I need you.”

He kisses your neck, his tongue and teeth worshipping the skin behind your ear, over your pulse, above your collarbone. Sounding too self-righteous for his own good, he rasps against your ear, “Yeah? Need to get fucked?”

You roll your eyes and groan at him, “I didn’t get married to beg for dick when I want it.”

“Possessive, much?”

You squeeze his bicep – hard, a little mean – and whine, “Holding out for absolutely zero reason because you want it as bad as I do, much?”

“Yeah, you’re right.” Brendon reaches down and pumps his cock a few times as you spread your legs wider to accommodate his thick thighs. As he lines himself up with you, feeling your warm wetness inviting him in, he murmurs, “You’re always right.”

You grin as he ever-so-slowly pushes inside of you. “God, you know how to talk dirty.”

He groans as your eyes roll back with the pleasure of him bottoming out inside of you, already looking so fuck-drunk from his time spent between your legs. This is his favorite thing in the world: Getting you off so well and so thoroughly that he can use you however the hell he wants and you’ll just be a crying, moaning mess as you happily take it. He bends so that he can hold you close, your clit bumping against his coarse happy trail. Gazing down lovingly at the way your slick, swollen pussy lips envelop his shaft, he croons, “There you go, baby. My pretty girl.”

Clutching his shoulders, you keen pathetically, “You feel so good.”

“You have no idea, baby.” He grips your ass hard, holding your body against his by the ample fat there. Grunting and trying to control himself, he breathes, “I swear you feel better every time I fuck you.”

You dig your fingernails into his shoulder blades and demand, “Then how about you stop chit-chatting and fuck me?”

“That’s what I like to hear,” he chuckles darkly, grabbing your hips to keep you locked in place, unable to do anything but take his cock. And he pounds you. He uses the full force of those sculpted thighs and ass and stomach to snap his cock forward, only pulling half of the way out before slamming back in. His blunt head punches against your cervix; it would be painful if you weren’t so perfectly molded to be his and his alone, your bodies knowing one another as well as your minds.

Once you’re whimpering and biting your lip and struggling to keep your eyes open from the unrelenting force, Brendon’s dominant hand travels away from your waist and between your legs. With a delicious roughness to his tone, he purrs, “I think you can give me one more, can’t you? A big one, too, maybe even get me nice and wet if I play my cards right.  What do you think, baby? Can you do that for me?”

When you can’t come up with a response, Brendon takes your face in one hand, pushing your cheeks in and forcing you to make eye contact. “Aw, sweetie, too fuck-drunk to speak? That’s okay; I think you can do it, so you’re gonna have to.”

Brendon’s rough thumb pad connects with your puffy, agonized clit and he rotates his hand so he can also press down on your mons, right where his cock is thrumming. Your hips buck from the sudden wave of intensity and he laughs at just how pathetic you look and sound. Immediately, you feel the head of his cock massaging your walls ten times as strongly.

The building pressure is enough to have you squirming and twitching and you cry out, barely able to speak, “I can’t, Bren, I- Fuck! It’s too much. I’m gonna- I can’t-”

“Aw, come on,” he coos, all condescending and achingly sexy, “my wife isn’t a quitter. Just get out of that big beautiful brain and let go.” He presses down more on the bulge at your lower abdomen where his cock is filling you, the pressure bordering on unbearable. His voice takes on a truly selfish darkness that brings turned-on tears to your eyes. “I can tell you’re gonna squirt, honey, and you’re doing that thing where you try not to because you’re all bashful and embarrassed.”

You whimper as your toes curl into the bed, head thrashing back and forth as, yes, you try and try to resist. “Brendon, I swear to god-”

“None of that,” he chastises. He pulls up the hood of your clit and puts more pressure on the exposed, swollen nerves below. Pressure, pressure, pressure. His voice lulls you into a softer, more open headspace as he assures. “You know there’s nothing to be embarrassed about with me. I want you to fucking soak me, baby. Let go. That’s all you have to do and you’re gonna sleep so good. Just let me take care of you. Let me take care of everything.”

Your eyes open and meet his, dominant blue, encapsulating as the open sea, holding you in the moment the way they always do. When you find his devoted, intimate expression just waiting for yours, your pussy starts to tighten. It comes with that overwhelming urge to pee that Brendon’s made you beyond familiar with over the years. Even though you know exactly what’s going on, your brain still tries to yank up a wall to stop you from bursting.

But Brendon knows exactly what you need. His guidance. His patience. His insistence. His voice is nothing short of a growl now as he talks you through it. “There you go. Just a little more, baby, and you’re gonna get there. Focus on my voice, not anything else. Let yourself relax and it’s gonna feel so fucking good for both. Gonna fill you up like you need.”

You’d be weeping if you could manage any sound above a whisper. With your nails cutting into his skin now, you squeak out, “Cum inside me?”

“That’s right, princess,” he grunts as he works hard to stave off his own orgasm. You’re just so gushing wet and perfectly tight and pulsing and everything he’s ever wanted and more. Losing track of his rhythm and falling apart in his love for you, he swears, “I need to fill your cunt. Need to feel you cum while I do it. C’mon, pretty girl, cum with me. Please. It’s all I need.”

And you have to obey. Your brain whites out as the orgasm thrashes through your entire body, back arching, toes curling, thighs clamping. Wetness floods from your body, soaking your husband’s hand and thighs. Brendon thrusts sharp and short through it, burying his forehead in your neck while your cunt milks him just right. He shudders as he spills inside of you, tasting your sweat on his lips and loving every moment of your orgasm that heightens his. While his cock softens inside of you, he plants kisses like a diamond necklace over your skin, murmuring sweetness and love until you’re completely, perfectly content.

You’re so loose and comfy that you hardly register him scooping you off the bed and carrying you to the bathroom, where he cleans you up and kisses over every place his fingers dug in hard enough to leave marks. He’s so strong he can’t help it. You come back into your body properly sitting on the countertop with Brendon in front of you, kissing your cheeks and studying your expression. 

After a moment of just gazing at you, he cups your cheek and drops his voice low and slow. “I love you, baby. You know that, right?”

You grin at the memory of his first ‘I love you,’ which came alongside your first ultrasound with Benji. Just as you said then, you tell him, “More and more every day.”

He kisses the tip of your nose and smiles, shaking his head boyishly like he did when he had a flop of lazy curls that he never put product in. “Let’s get some sleep.”

You glance at the clock on your bedside table and tease, “It’s barely ten, love. Are we that old?”

“I don’t know about you, but I just had my brains fucked out.” He once again lifts you up easily, this time bringing you into your walk-in closet and grabbing some of his favorite skimpy pajamas of yours and guiding them onto your body. “I’m gonna need a solid eight to ten to recover.”

You shimmy into your clothes and then hand him a particularly sexy pair of gray boxer briefs you like the feel of against your ass in the morning. “Does that mean I get wake-up sex?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he promises, nipping more kisses up your neck. He follows less than a step behind you back to the bed, arms around you and destabilizing you until you’re laughing. When he tugs you into his arms beneath the covers, he offers, “You know what I was thinking?”

Snuggling into his chest once he turns the lights out, you half-heartedly murmur, “Hm?”

“Once you’ve had your first day down at the Pitt,” he muses to your half-sleeping form, “we should come up with an order for who we think is gonna figure out we’re together when. Trinity can get in on it, too, so we can swear her to secrecy.”

“You’re such a menace.”

“Is that a yes?”

“Of course it’s a yes.”

Support me on ko-fi if you'd like!

[i-love-ptv]

[i-love-ptv]

imagine being loved by dex….but belonging to soldier boy 𓆩♡𓆪

✞ ★ ──

──★

[cursed-carmine]

✴︎ LACE DIVIDERS

ﾉ Please reblog & credit if you use!

For different colors just send me an ask please!

SUCCULENTS

FOREST

MOON BLUE

OCEAN

PURPLE HAZE

[love4pascal]

Lady, Lady.

Trinity Santos x Masc!reader

Warnings: absolute tooth rotting fluff, kissing (because wuh luh wuhh), reader is low-key a joker (as in very funny NOT the joker!).

A/n: I started writing this hours after making the mood board because how couldn't I resist writing about my wife. Olivia dean fueled this fic so let's all thank her. Enjoy lov

The sunlight peeked through your bedroom curtains, bright and warm, just like the weight on the right side of you.

Beautiful and bright, with dark hair and a softness about her you couldn't even begin to describe.

Today was Trin’s off day so you decided to let her take it easy, so with that you attempted to slip away from her warm body without her stirring awake.

To your surprise you found Dennis, “oh I didn't know you woke up this early huckleberry?” you tease him, opening up the fridge before searching for the eggs, bacon, and sausage.

“Yeah I normally don't.” he said causally before smirking “but I like to keep you guys on your toes.” he teased back.

Dennis was one of the many friends of Trinity's, that you enjoyed their company. 

He was helpful around the apartment, everyone got along, and now you guys had a built-in friend.

“Do you need breakfast?” setting the ingredients on the counter with a soft force, scared that the slightest noise would wake up your hard-working sleeping beauty.

“Nah, I'm actually about to head out, meet with Javadi and maybe Mel? I'm not really sure.” He looked puzzled at his plans, but you met him with a nod and continued to get a pan out to cook the eggs and bacon.

It wasn't too long into cooking that Dennis made it known he was leaving and wouldn't be out late.

You never really understood why he always added that last part in, it's not like you and trin would be mad if he was out late.

You were about to flip over the bacon when you felt a hand wrap around your waist, ”God, you're so quiet. Nearly gave me a heart attack baby.” you let out a quiet laugh.

“Good thing I'm a doctor.” she grumbled, her face resting on your back.

 “Very good thing, because you are sneaky.” you rest the spatula on a plate before turning around, meeting her beautiful green eyes. You move the fly-aways of her hair out of her face, “Good morning baby” you smiled at the sight of her face before cupping her jaw in your hand.

“Good morning,” she said with a shy smile, you loved it when she did that. Leaning down to capture her soft lips in a gentle kiss before releasing her lips and admiring her.

“Have I ever told you just how pretty you are?” you whispered, soaking in the quiet morning.

“You’ve mentioned it a few times.” a faint smirk playing on her plush lips.

“Yeah? Well let me just remind you how gorgeous you are, my pretty baby.” you said, wrapping your hands around her waist before pulling her up, she wraps her legs around you.

You walk over to your soft couch and sit her down, “Get comfortable baby, today is a relaxation day for this household.” you say as you walk back to the kitchen, “minus huckleberry!” you shout from the kitchen.

All you hear is her quiet laughter from the living room.

-

“Here you go, made by your masc-tor chef!” you say as you hand her the breakfast masterpiece you've made.

“Theres no way you just came up with that?” she laughed, taking the plate from you.

“I swear!” you throw your hands up in an exaggerated movement. “Just accept my greatness and we shall move on.” you try your best not to let out the laugh that's lingering.

“I accept all your greatness, I guess.” her voice full of a teasing tone.

“You guess? Oh baby I'm ride or die.” you laugh stealing a piece of bacon off her plate, you plop down right beside her.

“Hey! My breakfast.” she gasped dramatically, “Sorry, you had to be taxed after being unsure about my greatness.” you tease.

“Remote, please.” Trinity's hand rests in the air towards you. 

“Your remote, my lady.” You place the remote in the palm of her hand.

“Do you wanna watch this new medical show? I think it's on HBO max?”she asked, taking a bite of her toast.

“I’d love to beautiful.” You said as you snuggled up to her.

[i-love-ptv]

i read this before yall did 😛😛

[sweetjellytea]

back to the old house — miniseries masterlist

benjamin poindexter x f!reader

— synopsis a chance meeting on a flight and sharing headphones with a stranger somehow leads to building your (fairly unusual) lives around one another.

or, a series of connected oneshots that follow your atypical relationship with dex

— general tags some suggestive content (mdni), fluff, humor, hurt/comfort, awkward situations, slowburn, canon typical violence, stalking, ddba!dex, implied neurodivergent reader, references to music

01. don't dream it's over [1.7k]

02. keep your picture on the wall [2.0k]

03. all i need [2.7k]

04. everybody here wants you [4.8k]

05. kinky love [6.2k]

06. coming soon!

[i-love-ptv]

I NEED HIM

[youvebeenlivingfictional]

in retrospect

Pairing: Dr. John Shen x Reader

Rating: Mature

Length: 7.2K

Notes: Can I interest you in parentified eldest daughter falling in love with a man with some fucking whimsy

Warnings: Exes to lovers; Whump. Lots of whump; descriptions of Reader being sick multiple times (not super explicit); mentions of pregnancy (but no actual pregnancy); reader is a workaholic; cursing; flashbacks; complicated family dynamics; reader has named sisters - no physical descriptions; canon-typical medical situations; reader's age is unspecified, but she and her sisters are all adults

Summary: John’s hands hook onto the railing of the gurney, his eyes darting to your face every few seconds as your entourage of medical professionals steers you down the hall. 

“So,” He offers, “Fancy seeing you here.” 

And you so don’t want to let him make you smile, but you can’t help yourself. 

“This is a bit much,” He adds as you’re wheeled onto the elevator, “I mean, I told you you could call and you show up at my job instead? I appreciate the effort, but you're coming off a little desperate.”

When you propel yourself out of bed, you’re blindly guided by two things: your instinctual knowledge of where your en suite bathroom is, and your stomach violently rejecting its contents.

You drop to the floor, knees roughly smacking the cold tile as you fumble with the lid of your toilet. Your body shudders as you heave, fingers gripping the cool porcelain desperately. When the sickness finally lets up, you lean back, blinking the tears from your eyes. You swallow thickly, drawing in a deep breath, then wincing as your stomach threatens to revolt again. You lean back, closing the lid and flushing the toilet as you fight to steady your breathing. 

The knocking on your door makes you jump, and you raise a shaking hand to your chest, croaking, 

“Yeah?” 

“You okay in there?” 

You nod, though your youngest sister can’t see you, then manage, “‘M fine.” 

“Can I open the door?” 

“...Yeah.” 

It’s a moment before Lisa’s opening the door and peering inside, her brow furrowed at the sight of you where you’re still sitting on the floor.

“Are you okay?” 

“You already asked me that.” 

“Yeah, but that was before I saw you looking like…Well, this.” 

“Who taught you to be so sweet?” 

“You did.” 

You offer a wobbly smile, huffing softly as you push yourself up. “Asshole.” 

“Uh-huh.” Lisa folds her arms across her chest. “What the hell, by the way?” 

“I don’t know,” You grumble, pumping soap into your hands and scrubbing up along your arms where you were leaning against the toilet. “Probably something I ate last night.” 

“Could always call your doctor friend and make sure.” 

The mention of him has your stomach churning again. “Ha-ha.” 

“He should be getting off-shift soon,” Lisa adds as you rinse with mouth wash, “Could invite him over for a check-up.” 

You swish, spit, and shoot Lisa a glare couched in a sickly sweet smile. 

“Thanks for all of your help, Li.” 

Lisa snorts, pushing off of the door frame as she drawls, “Fiiine. I’m gonna get ready for class.” 

“You need a ride?” 

“No, Joey’s gonna come pick me up—don’t.” 

“Hm.” 

“Don’t start.” 

“I wouldn’t have to start if you weren’t making bad choices.” 

“You never like my boyfriends.” 

“That’s because all of your boyfriends—” You cut yourself off, raising a hand to staunch a nauseating belch, “Suck.” 

When Lisa doesn’t answer right away, you figure that she’s left—but as you straighten back up, you find her watching you in the mirror with a narrowed gaze. 

“Are you sure you’re gonna be okay?” 

“Yeah,” You nod, turning to face her. “I’m working from home today, anyway. We’ve got rice, we’ve got broth, we’ve got saltines. Honestly, that was probably it, nothing left in the tank. I’m fine.” 

Lisa hesitates before she closes the space between the two of you, raising her hand and pressing the back to your forehead. You force a poker face, doing your best not to lean into the coolness of her fingers. Her brow wrinkles, lips screwing to the side, then—

“I have no idea what your forehead is supposed to feel like.” 

“Go to class and learn.” 

Lisa scoffs, finally turning away and slouching back to her room. You wait until her footsteps have faded completely before reaching out, quietly pushing the bathroom door closed again. You swallow, wincing at the slight ache in your throat. 

You don’t feel like you’re going to throw up again, but there’s an pain in your side, one that you hadn’t noticed when you were stumbling your way to bed. You raise your hand, rubbing slightly over a spot on your right and wincing again. Christ, that hurts. Did you bang it when you were getting down to get to the toilet? That must be it. 

Of course, it couldn’t hurt to ask a professional. You didn’t block him, he said the door was still open if you ever wanted to talk, so maybe you could just send a quick little question—

No. No. 

You have broth, you have rice, you have Google. You can figure this out. Besides, it probably really was just something you ate. 

-- 

“This is John, the guy I’ve been telling you about!” 

The words were half-lost on the music being pumped through your best friend’s place, and the chatter of the other people crammed into her shared 450 square foot two-bedroom apartment. You had been tempted to dip out of the party nearly an hour ago, but your friend had sworn that not only was the guy she was setting you up with going to eventually be there (even though he was running late), but he was well worth waiting for. 

You turned to face the mystery man, and you were, admittedly, caught off-guard. It was a combination of things: the scrubs he was wearing, the Dunkin cup in hand, and the fact that the guy was really, really cute.

“Hi,” You said, offering your hand and your name in tandem. He took hold of your hand, dipping closer and requesting: 

“One more time?” 

You hesitated before leaning in and giving him your name again. 

“Nice to meet you!” He smiled before glancing around. “It’s a little loud in here. You wanna get some air?” 

It was cooler on your friend’s fire escape, and so much quieter. You curled your arms around yourself, toying with your little plastic cup of wine before glancing over at John. 

“Can I ask,” You nodded toward the Dunkin. 

“Oh—You want a sip?” 

“No, no,” You shook your head. “I was wondering why you brought a…Frankly massive Dunkin iced coffee to a housewarming. Seems like an odd choice.” 

“I could only stop by for a bit before I have to go to work.” 

“Jeez, what time do you start work?” 

“Shift starts at seven. Twelve hours.” 

“Explains how big the coffee is.” 

“Sure does.” He raised it again, giving it a little shake, the ice rattling against the plastic. “You sure you don’t want a sip?” 

“Uh—No. Thanks.” 

John just shrugged, raising the orange straw to his lips and taking a deep pull. 

“You know, I was curious about you,” He offered once he’d swallowed. 

“Oh?” 

“Mhm. Heard a lot.” 

“Good or bad?” 

“Good, I think.” 

“Like what?” 

“Like…You’re the oldest of three sisters, really family oriented. Have your life together, have very high expectations for yourself…And that you’re a stickler for punctuality.” His teasing smile made your belly flutter. “Even more surprised that you’re still here, considering I’m late for our little set-up.” 

And you could have told him that your friend had to talk you out of leaving twice, that you had nearly called it when her roommate’s sleazeball of a boyfriend tried to hit on you. All of that was true. But—

“Maybe I was curious about you, too.” 

John’s bright smile made staying all the more worth it.

-- 

According to Google, you have food poisoning, stage 4 stomach cancer, and your period all at once. 

And while you could waste your time speculating about something that’ll probably just pass, you choose instead to focus on your job. All you know for certain is that you have two reports due, three RFPs, and a presentation draft due by EoD, as well as a meeting with your manager for your annual review. All of that means only one thing: 

You do not have time to spend fucking around, half-asleep in bed, or throwing up the little bit of room-temperature water that you’ve been able to get down.  

But that doesn’t stop your body from revolting against you. 

You manage to get bits and pieces of your work done in five to ten minute intervals, with your belly betraying any little bit of liquid, nutrients, or hope that you manage to take in. You go through your recipes, your fridge—you just manage to stop yourself from going through your trash to double check the dates on the ingredients that you used to make dinner last night. But it couldn’t really be that, could it? You’d checked all of the dates before you’d cooked, even thrown out a couple of ingredients because they were just a day past their best-by. 

It’s your period, it has to be. This doesn’t feel anything like the last time you had food poisoning—at least, what you’re pretty sure was food poisoning. 

-- 

“How ya doin’ over there, champ?”

You glared down at your phone, lips twisted into a pout. “I feel like death.”

“You’re answering me, so definitely not death.” 

“I said I feel like death, not that I’m dying—ugh,” You groaned as your lower belly gurgled, shifting where you’d been sitting on your toilet for nearly ten minutes, “God.” 

“What are your symptoms?” 

“I really don’t want to disclose that to you.” 

“Oh, c’mon,” John chuckled, “I’m a professional.” 

“No!” 

“Why not?” 

“It’s embarrassing.” 

“It can’t be anywhere near what I see in the ED on the nightly.” 

“What’s the most embarrassing thing you’ve ever seen?”

“Honestly? Couple’a days ago, we had a guy came in with a Darth Vader figurine stuck up where it shouldn’t have been.” 

Your jaw dropped with a stunned laugh. “Are you serious?” 

“Oh yeah. He thought he’d be able to keep it from slipping in completely because the cape was triangular, but it went a little too far. He came in when he gave up reaching for the feet.” 

“...Okay, this is one step below that.” 

“Just one?” 

The slight smile in John’s tone had a grudging one pulling at your lips. “Maybe a couple.” 

“Uh-huh. Tell you what, I get off shift in twenty. I’ll swing by with a goodie bag.” 

“I can’t handle goodies right now, John.” 

“Not even if those goodies include animal crackers, broth, electrolytes, and pepto bismol?” 

“I’m not going to be much of a conversationalist.” 

“It’ll be a drive by. You buzz me up, I hand you the bag, I steal a couple of kisses, you go back inside.” 

“You have a suspicious amount of this interaction planned out.” 

“Well, this girl I’m dating has told me that she likes a man with a plan.” 

Your smile stretched into a full-blown, lovesick grin, and you raised your hand to scrub across your eyes. 

“Fine. Just…give me a five minute warning before you get here?” 

“Sure. Hey, you might even find a surprise Darth Vader figurine among your goodies—” 

“John!” 

-- 

By noon, you’ve managed to polish off your notes on the RFP, but the presentation and reports have barely been touched. You message your manager reluctantly, warning that you’re a little under the weather, but still in a good place to finish everything on your plate by EoD. 

And you do have every intention of finishing things off. You decide to take a half-hour nap, just give your body a little bit of a rest before getting back on the horse. 

It’s a good plan in theory—but your head hasn’t been down for two minutes before you’re clambering out of bed, hardly making it to the sink before the singular sip of gatorade you’d taken twenty minutes ago is making a bid for freedom. 

You groan, resting your forehead against the sink—and then whine when you hear your cell phone ringing. You straighten slowly, bracing your hand back against the wall and stepping back into your room, taking up the phone from your bedside table. Oh—god. Do you have the patience for this call right now? 

You lower yourself to your bed, swiping the call acceptance and sticking it on speaker. 

“What’s up, Lilah?” 

“Holy fuck, Lisa wasn’t kidding. You sound like shit.” 

You muster a weak smile, drawing your legs into the bed and pulling your blankets around your lap. 

“Mom and dad did a hell of a job curating your manners.” 

“Mm, but you’re the one who really honed them, generalissimo.” 

You roll your eyes, resting your pounding head back against the wall of decorative pillows that you’ve piled up, and have been using to keep yourself upright for the last few hours. Growing up as the middle child, Lilah had always been the one raging against your de facto parental machine, where Lisa tended to push back a touch, but ultimately fell in line. 

You pull in a steadying breath, catching on the sounds of school kids in the background on the other end of the phone. Must be recess. 

“Whaddaya want, bean?” 

“I can’t just wanna talk to my big sister?” 

“Willingly? It would be a first.” 

“Are you pregnant?” 

The thought nearly triggers another heave. 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” You snap. “Did Lisa tell you that?” 

“No, but—” 

“I’m on birth control, I have always used protection—” 

“Those things aren’t always 100%, accidents happen—” 

“And it’s been a while.” 

“...If you’re sure.” 

“John and I broke up months ago,” You remind her, “And even before that, we hadn’t been…” You wince. “Intimate.” 

“Blegh, okay, we get it.” 

“I’m just saying—” 

“God forbid the two of you pushed the beds together.” 

“Lilah, for godssake—” 

“I still don’t understand why you broke up with that man.” 

The comment stops you in your tracks, eyes unfocused on your dimming laptop screen. You’ve done your best not to think about John—your ‘how’s and ‘why’s and ‘what might’ve been’s. The closest you’ve gotten in the last few weeks is the brief flirtation with his contact in your phone that morning. 

“...Okay,” Lilah finally concedes, seeming to take your silence in the spirit with which it’s meant. “Not pregnant.” 

“It’s probably actually my period, anyway. You know I get queasy when I’m PMSing—and my cramps suck right now. I’ll be spotting by, like, 3pm at the latest.” 

“And if you’re not, your uterus will hear about it.” 

“Exactly.” 

A moment of slightly tense silence, punctuated only by the odd giggle and screech of children from her end. 

“Alright,” Lilah sighs, “The principal is giving me the stink eye, I should probably pay attention to the kids.” 

“Lilah—!”

“Kidding! Jesus. Feel better.” 

“Thanks.” 

Lilah’s grunt is her only sign off before the call cuts. You reach out, drawing your laptop close and squirting at the screen for a moment before squeezing your eyes shut at the throbbing of your headache. Christ. 

It isn’t as if you haven’t explained your break up to Lilah, because you have—at least twice. But you’ll tolerate her needling, her willful ignorance, it doesn’t matter. It’s not her relationship, it’s yours—was yours. 

-- 

“I don’t think I’m gonna get Christmas off.” 

“Aw, really?” You frowned, setting your planner down on the kitchen table and watching John reach for one of the two remaining Munchkins in the carton he brought over. “I thought you asked.” 

“I mean, I did, but it was a little slammed when it came up—more of an informal request.” He raised his fingers to suck the powder off of them, adding through a full mouth: “I put in for it, but it’s up in the air.” 

“Hmm. Well if you can’t, that’s alright. It’s just gonna be me and the girls.” 

“What about your parents?” 

You waved John off, shaking your head. “They’re going to be on a cruise.” 

“Oof,” John sighed, slouching back in his seat, “You think you felt bad when you had food poisoning—” 

“Okay.” 

“Those floating buffet-laden crap shows.”

“Okay!” 

“Nice scenery, though.” 

You rolled your eyes, propping your chin up on your hand as you considered him. 

“What’s your mom gonna do if you can’t get Christmas off?” 

John’s lips pressed into a thin line, and your eyes caught on the bob of his Adam’s apple, the fidget of his fingers toying with the strings on his hoodie. 

“...John?” 

Another moment before he shrugged. “What she does when I usually can’t get the holidays off, I guess.” 

You opened your mouth to ask, but he was sitting up before you could, shuffling his chair closer. “So what’d you get me?” 

Your confusion melted to fondness, mind flashing to the smart watch you’d spent weeks researching and comparison shopping for, and you scoffed, “As if I’d tell you.”

“C’mon, gimme a hint. Is it black? Red? Lacey?” 

-- 

Your manager only gets two minutes into your performance review before she ultimately cuts it short.

“You know what, why don’t we reschedule?” 

You try to tell her that you’re fine to go through with it, but she waves you off: “I’ll throw some time on for tomorrow. Take a break.” 

You manage a weak smile, an, “Okay,” and a, “Ping me if you need anything,” before you close out of the meeting. You lower the laptop lid with a sense of defeat, tears crowding your dry, tired eyes. When the urge to puke pops up again, you can’t make it all the way to the bathroom, instead lowering yourself to the floor and hunching over the trash bin by your bed. 

It’s nothing but bile that devolves into dry heaves, and by the time you’re through, your pounding head is spinning. You brace your hand on the floor, trying to ground yourself, but it doesn’t hold, and there’s nothing more you can do as your world tilts. 

-- 

The hand on your cheek, then your forehead, is so cold, and a distant, “Holy shit,” sounds so familiar. It’s chased by, “How long has she been like this,” and a frantic, “She wasn’t this bad this morning!” 

You groan as you’re turned onto your back, wincing at the onslaught of bright light. It takes a moment, but the face that swims into view is comforting.

“Li-Li,” You smile, raising a hand to cup Lisa’s cheek. “How was school?” 

“How long have you been on the floor?” 

“Did that boy drive you?” 

You hear a scoff, a grumble of, “On death’s fucking doorstep and still the captain of the morality police.” 

“Lilah, shut up—”

“Bean,” You struggle to crane your neck as you look for Lilah. “Lilah, what are you—” You try to sit up, flounder, flop back and whack your head roughly on the nightstand, “What’re—”

“Christ, Lilah, call a fucking ambulance!” Lisa snaps. 

“Where’s—” You raise your hand, patting along as much of your sheets as you can reach, “Where’s my work laptop?” 

“Okay,” Lisa soothes, easing you to lie down fully, “Just relax, okay? We’re gonna get you help.” 

Even in your confusion and fog, you can hear her panic, and you tut softly. “I’m okay, Li. Tell bean.” 

“Lilah—” 

“I’m on with the fucking operator—No, I won’t watch my language, we need a fucking ambulance here, like ten minutes ago!” -- 

You do your best to answer the EMTs, but they’re only a few questions in before they’re loading you onto a stretcher, telling your sisters that you’re being taken to Pittsburgh General. 

Lisa’s climbing into the back of the ambulance with you, and you only manage to request that someone grab your work laptop before the doors are being slammed shut and Lilah is out of sight. 

The ride is hellish, bumpy and painful, and far longer than it should be when you wind up rerouted to PTMC. 

-- 

“Can we talk about Thanksgiving?” 

“Sure. Are we rankin’ sides?” 

You shot a sidelong glance in John’s direction, eyes narrowed slightly. 

“Trying to make plans, actually.” 

“Ah,” He nodded. “Yeah, we can try.” 

“My parents are probably going to be in town for it this year,” You shifted in your seat, trying to settle your nerves. This was normal, this was something that couples dealt with all the time. So why were you bracing yourself? “And…I mean, we’ve been together for a while, almost a year now, so I wondered if you wanted to…Meet them, finally.” 

“You really think they’ll hold still long enough for me to make their acquaintance?”

And it was a fair question, but stacking that on top of your mounting nerves was nearly enough to send you over the edge. 

“It’s a yes or no question, J. I mean, I know some of it will hinge on whether you can get work off or not, but—” 

“If they’re the deep fried turkey type and I’m on shift, maybe you can bring them in. They can see me in action.” 

You closed your eyes, taking a steadying breath in and shaking your head. “Forget it.” 

“I’m kidding—” 

“Not everything is a joke, John.” 

-- 

There’s so much input at once. The ambulance was its own array of sound, but now you have doctors, nurses, EMTs chatting over you, underscored by the chatter and yelling of fellow patients—and somewhere, not far off, your sister’s panicked voice as you’re wheeled into a room.

“I'm gonna be okay, Lisa,” You mumble, but your promise is cut off by a surge of pain. You can’t help but cry out, trying to squirm away from the pressure that’s been applied to your right side. 

“We’ve got rebound tenderness.” 

“What’s that mean?” You hiss.

“That means,” A new voice in the room, but not a new voice to you, “That we’re looking at—” 

You lift your tearing eyes to that all-too familiar face as he finally registers that it’s you in the bed, as it stops him in his tracks. 

“Shen?” Someone urges, but he’s breathing out, “Shit,” eyes flitting to where Lisa is huddled nearby. 

“You know each other?” That same voice presses, and John manages, 

“I was—She’s my—” 

“Okay,” Someone else steps up to the bed, leaning over you, “Ma’am, I’m Dr. Abbot—” 

And you’re trying to listen, you are, but you’re also tracking where John is rounding over to Lisa, leaning in to ask questions, to talk, to reassure, you can’t tell—

“Do you understand?” Abbot tacks on, but no, you don’t. You didn’t catch a word, he said, so you shake your head. “Your appendix is on the verge of bursting, we need to get you up to surgery.” 

“Surgery?” Lisa pipes up, “Like, now?” 

“As soon as possible.” 

“Where’s Lilah?” You whimper. 

“Oh—Shit, she’s going to the wrong hospital!” Lisa’s out the door without a second glance, drawing her phone out of her pocket. 

“Listen,” Abbot leans closer to hold your attention, “If we don’t get your appendix out, it could cause some serious problems. It’s still intact, but we need to remove it before it can rupture and cause you any more problems.” 

“OR’s prepped,” Is mentioned somewhere behind you, and suddenly the bed is moving again. 

“I’ll go up with her.” John’s at your side in a second, and he and Abbot are sharing a look that you don’t understand over your gurney before Abbot drops away completely. John’s hands hook onto the railing of the gurney, his eyes darting to your face every few seconds as your entourage of medical professionals steers you down the hall. 

“So,” He offers, “Fancy seeing you here.” 

And you so don’t want to let him make you smile, but you can’t help yourself. 

“This is a bit much,” He adds as you’re wheeled onto the elevator, “I mean, I told you you could call and you show up at my job instead? I appreciate the effort, but you're coming off a little desperate.” 

“John.”

“Appendix, too, you overachiever. Couldn’t you have broken your wrist, gotten a concussion, something easier?” 

Your mental fog is melting to clarity, mingling with your panicked nerves, and the little laugh that leaves you makes the ache in your side twinge. 

“I mean, come on,” He’s leaning against the railing now, seemingly unaware or uncaring of the looks that the nurses are giving him, “All of this, just to get my attention?” 

“You’re so full of yourself.” 

“And you know what you’re gonna be full of if we don’t get that appendix out? Pus.” 

“Ugh,” You wrinkle your nose, closing your eyes, “Stop.” 

“Better pus than Darth Vader, though.” 

You laugh again, and the pain swells, worse. 

“Please stop making me laugh, it hurts,” You whimper, and he mutters, “Alright, alright,” as the elevator chimes. You pull in as deep a breath as you can, the full weight of panic weighing down your chest. You swallow roughly, mumble, “John?” 

“Yeah?” 

“Make sure they give me the good stuff.” When you open your eyes, take in the sweep of lights haloing him as you’re guided down another hall, you find him smiling softly. 

“For you? The best,” He promises. “I’ll tell them to check on your funny bone while they’re in there.” 

Your laugh turns to a muted sob, the sound half-stuck in your thickening throat as tears spill over. But he’s reaching out before one can slip to the gurney below, swiping it away. 

“I’m scared,” You whisper.

“I know. But it’s gonna be okay.” 

-- 

“I like him.” 

It was the last thing you expected to come out of Lilah’s mouth. You’d already known that she was miffed at you for taking so long to introduce you to John, doubly so when she found out that Lisa had met him nearly two weeks before she had (that had been an accident, though—Lisa had come home early from what was meant to be a romantic trip with her latest boyfriend, but had crashed and burned into a fight when she found out she was the other woman). 

You didn’t answer, just watched Lilah from your end of the couch as she picked her nails. When she glanced toward you, she scoffed, “What?”

“I’m waiting.” 

“For?” 

“The punchline.” 

Lilah rolled her eyes. “No punchline. I like him.” 

Your brows rose at the insistence. “That’s a first.” 

“Well,” She sighed, pushing herself up, “All of your other boyfriends sucked. I’m gonna raid your fridge now.” 

You watched her go, processing for a moment before you followed. “What do you mean, all of my other boyfriends sucked?” 

Lilah shrugged, eyes set on the inside of your fridge, scanning the shelves lazily. 

“Just what I said.” 

“They were all nice guys.” 

“No, they were all assholes.” 

You scoffed, “They were not all assholes.” 

“Fine. They were mostly dickheads, with one or two of them crossing firmly into asshole territory.” 

“They were all accomplished.” 

“Yeah,” Lilah laughed derisively, “Especially that dude that got nailed for insider trading. How’s his prison sentence going by the way?” 

You folded your arms tightly across your chest. “He was only fined and you know it.” 

“Right, right.” 

“Would you close the fridge door if you’re not gonna take anything? You’re letting all the cold out.” 

Lilah raised her hands in surrender, allowing the door to slowly swing shut before she turned to your cabinet. 

“As I was saying,” You added, “They were not all dickheads. I prefer to surround myself with ambitious people, and they can be…Difficult.” 

“If by ambitious you mean rich, then yeah, you’re usually all over ‘em.” 

“That is not what I mean—” 

“Hedge fund managers, healthtech douchebros, morons who insist that they’re practically liquid when their entire net worth is in crypto.” 

“That was one guy!”

“You know why I like John?” Lilah leaned back to face you, bag of chips in hand. “Cause it’s like you’re not dating with mom and dad in mind for once.” 

It was like a slap. It rendered you completely speechless, sending heat creeping across your face, down your neck. And you couldn’t tell if Lilah knew the effect the comment had, but she pushed on: 

“John’s ambitious, sure, he’s a doctor, but he’s also, like, genuinely a nice dude, you know. And you’re not trying to be perfect for him the way that you usually do for your dates, or for mom and dad. You’re not preening or constantly fixing your hair or checking your posture with him. You’re just, like…You. It’s good. Kinda freaky, but good.” She popped a couple of chips in her mouth, chewing slowly as you both mulled that over. 

“Anyway,” She shrugged, pushing off of the counter, “Only a matter of time before you fuck it up, so. Enjoy it while it lasts.” 

You rolled your eyes, following her back into the living room. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, bean.” 

“Anytime, generalissimo.” 

-- 

Coming to is slow, and uncomfortable. You’re propped up in bed, the room is bright, even with your eyes closed, and the beeping monitor beside you is starting to get annoying—but can you really begrudge something that reminds you that you’re alive? 

You open your eyes, wincing into the light and allowing your vision to adjust. You can see a duffel bag on the chairs across from you, spot coats laying over the back of those same chairs. And when you let yourself glance around, you find someone at your bedside. 

John is seated, folded over your bed with his head pillowed on his arms. His eyes are closed, and he’s breathing steadily. You can’t tell if it’s light outside with the shades closed, so you reach your IV-laden hand out, tapping on the face of the smart watch you got him a couple of Christmases ago. The screen flashes, but not in time for you to get a good look. You’re about to tap again, but—

“Are you snooping through my messages?” 

Groggy, soft, warm—there’s that sleep-roughened voice you’ve missed so much. You smile a little. 

“No. Trying to see what time it is.” 

“Mm,” John pushes himself to sit up and proffers his wrist, scrubbing his free hand across his eyes as you get a better look. Nearly half past eight. 

“Maybe a silly question, but is it AM or PM?”

“AM,” He chuckles, lowering his wrist.

“Shouldn’t you be home?” You ask. But before he can answer, the door to your hospital room opens, and Lisa and Lilah are trailing in with cups of coffee in hand. 

“You’re up!” Lisa screeches, hurrying forward so quickly that some coffee sloshes over the side of the little paper cup. Lilah’s joining her a moment later, crowding in against you with leans, hugs, and carefully placed hands. You begin to reach for them with both arms, but wince when your IV pulls slightly. Lisa steps back, allowing Lilah to lean into you more closely. 

“Did you grab my phone?” You ask, “And did you call…You know?” 

“We didn’t,” Lisa winces, “We weren’t sure—” 

“No, no. You did the right thing,” You soothe before glancing at Lilah. Her smile is watery, thin, and she seems to be opening her mouth to start to say something, but you have to ask: 

“Did you bring my work laptop?” 

That watery thin smile is gone in a second, mouth flat. Her eyes seem to glaze over, hands drawing back and curling into fists at her sides. 

“I—No.” 

“Lilah,” You groan, “That was, like, the one thing I asked you to bring—”

You barely get it out before she’s stomping out of your hospital room, Lisa hot on her heels, swearing, “I’ll get her.” 

You close your eyes, sinking back in your bed. “Shit.” 

“You shouldn’t be working right now, anyway,” John warns. You peek one eye open, frowning as he rounds the bed, pouring water from a pitcher on the bedside table. “Here.” 

You take the cup carefully, though John keeps a loose grasp on it as you take a sip. He sets it aside once you’re finished, offering, “You want some more?” 

“Nn-nn,” You shake your head. You perk up as the door opens again, but Lilah’s sweeping in and grabbing her coat without looking at you. 

“Bean, I’m sorry—Hey!” You call out as she turns away again, “I’m not mad at you!” But your protests seem to fall on deaf ears as she rounds back into the hall. You close your eyes, tipping your head back against the pillows. “Great.” 

“You want me to go get her?” 

“No. Lisa’s gonna try to do that, anyway. And when she’s pissed at me, Lilah needs time to just…Decompress. Trust me,” You huff a laugh, “I’ve pissed her off a lot.” You tip your head to the side, wiggling your fingers toward his hand. And you expect him to just take it and hold on, but John is climbing into bed with you, carefully nestling against you. You sigh softly, turning your head and nuzzling against his neck. Neither of you speak for a few moments, the room falling into quiet, save for the beep of the monitor beside your bed. 

“...Shouldn’t you be home?” You finally ask again. 

“Mm…You want me to go?” 

“No.” 

“Then I’m right where I should be.” 

And it’s so gentle, and firm, and certain. Your eyes well with tears again, and you try to squeeze tight against them, to hold them back, but they’re slipping before you can stop them. John doesn’t tut, tell you that it’s alright, that you’re okay. He just cuddles closer, intertwining your fingers. 

“When I’m, um,” You sniffle, “When I’m less of a mess, can you explain what happened? Like, properly?” 

“Using all of my big brain and science-y knowledge? Sure I can. Dr. Garcia will probably come to speak with you, too.” 

“Did they do the surgery?”

“No, Dr. Walsh did. Case got handed over to the day shift, though.” 

“Oh.” 

“...So next time you want my attention, I’m thinking a kidney stone could be the way to go.” He keeps on over your quiet giggles—“Getting rid of those is way more fun than an appendix. Hey, when’s the last time you were on a roller coaster?” 

--  

It’s nearly ten by the time John is leaving your room with a kiss on the forehead and a promise to check in with you over the next couple of days. Lisa is back, but the two of you are speaking little. She won’t tell you where Lilah is, or what she said when she stormed out. You fall asleep around noon. 

When you wake up around two, your work laptop is sitting on top of your duffel bag, and Lilah is nowhere to be seen.

-- 

You can’t remember the last time Lisa played nurse maid to you like this. You try to think of it, but you’re coming up with…Well, never. On the odd occasion you’ve gotten sick, you’ve always managed it yourself—but this isn’t just getting sick. 

You can get around on your own, but it’s not the most comfortable. Lisa emails her professors, lets them know what happened, gets a pass to skip a couple of her classes so that she can stay at home and look after you for a couple of days. She helps you clean and change your wound dressing so that you don’t have to twist, or look at the little laparoscopic scars any more than you have to. She even offers to help you inject the prescribed blood thinner, but you insist on doing that yourself. It’s a way of taking back just a little bit of control after you’ve spent so much of the last 72 hours feeling helpless. 

Besides, you’re usually the one doing the minding, so being minded makes you feel unbalanced.

Your manager gives you the week off to heal, tells you not to worry about the presentations and reports, commends you for the work that you were able to get done, and insists that if she sees your status active on your laptop, she’s going to have IT lock you out. 

You try texting Lilah a few times, and she doesn’t answer, save to react or send lone emojis. You don’t try to call, or FaceTime. You’re not sure where you’d start if you did. 

So when Lisa tells you the next day that Lilah’s at the apartment, and that she’s sitting on your unit’s balcony, it’s sort of a relief. 

-- 

You know those things are bad for you. 

It sits on your tongue, but you hold it there. The fact that Lilah is there at all is a boon, so you do your best to pointedly ignore the smoke curling from the end of her cigarette. 

“I thought you were gonna die, you know?” 

It cracks the air open, splits you down the middle, but Lilah doesn’t stop there: 

“I’d never seen you like that. My superhero of a sister, on the floor, just…Laid out. When Lisa was getting into the ambulance with you and I stayed to grab some stuff like you asked, I was just like, on autopilot. Clothes, medication, phone, keys. The important shit, you know? And then I got to the wrong hospital and Lisa called, and I was like ‘well, shit. I’m not gonna get to say goodbye.’ And then you were in surgery, and then you were out, and then you woke up,” Her voice lilts with a hysterical little laugh, “And your first question was where your fucking work laptop was, and that was when I remembered that you asked for it. And I was like ‘well fuck. I fucked up again.’” Lilah quiets as she takes another drag from the cigarette, but for all the comments buzzing against your lips, you wait.

“You know what I think?” She exhales, “What this was? God or the universe, or fucking whatever—it’s telling you to slow down.” She turns her head to look at you finally, bloodshot gaze pinning you in place. “Because your first question coming out of major surgery should be what happened, how long was I out, what are the next steps, not where your fucking work laptop is—”

“I know.” 

“Like that’s psychotic. And the worst part is you can’t even blame the meds, like, you’re just like that.” 

“I know.” You pull in a deep breath, just managing not to wrinkle your nose at the scent of smoke. “I’m sorry, bean. I shouldn’t have said that—and you’re right, I can’t even blame the anesthesia.” You shift your seat a little closer, nudging her knee with yours. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“...Well, you didn’t. Your bitch-ass appendix did.” 

You snort, looping your arm around Lilah’s shoulders and drawing her in. 

“I love you, bean.” 

Lilah sniffles as she huddles closer, tucking her head beneath your chin. 

“I love you, too, generalissimo.” 

-- 

“Saw Lilah on the way in.” 

“Yeah?” You sit against the mountain of pillows still against your headboard, watch John unpack a few things from his bag onto your bed—gloves, gauze, tape, small scissors, alcohol wipes.

“Everything okay?” 

“...Fine,” You concede, “She just has a shitty sister.” 

You can feel John glancing toward you as you carefully wriggle out of your loose shirt, leaving you in a sports bra. 

“Okay, let’s see what we have here.” 

You hold carefully still as John peels back your wound dressing, leaning in to get a better look at the scars. 

“How’s the pain been?” 

“Fine, I guess. The gas pain in my shoulders sucks, though.” 

“Yeah, that’s from the CO2 they use to inflate the abdominal cavity.” 

“Hate the use of ‘cavity’ there.” 

John’s lips quirk with a smile. “Wounds look good, no irritation or excessive redness.” 

“Lisa’s been a very good nurse.” 

“Mm.” John opens an alcohol wipe, carefully cleaning your wounds. “Has it been itchy at all?” 

“Not really.” 

“Good…A heating pad should help with those gas pains, by the way.” 

“Okay.” 

The two of you go quiet as he rebandages your wounds, then straightens. “No fever, chills?” 

“Nn-nn.”

“Appetite’s back?” 

“Mostly.” 

“Good.” John sits on the edge of the bed, removing his gloves and dropping the old dressing and alcohol wipe into the (now cleaned) bin by your bed. “When we were in the hospital, Lisa said you were sick all day. Why’d you wait so long to come in?” 

“Just…” You shrug. “I thought it was my period.” 

“Your cramps are that bad?” 

“They can be.” 

“Yeesh,” He mutters, tucking a few supplies into his bag. “When are you due back for your check-up, remind me?” 

“Friday.” 

“Okay.” 

The two of you fall into quiet, and when you reach out for John’s hand, he slips it warmly into yours. 

“...What’d your parents say?” 

You focus on the press of his palm, trace the length of a vein on the back of his hand. 

“I haven’t told them yet.” Your eyes flicker to his incredulous frown, and you shake your head. “It’s kinda too late now. I mean—I’ll tell them eventually. At this point they’ll just be upset that they weren’t invited.” 

“Invited?” He scoffs. “It wasn’t a birthday party.” 

“You know what I mean. I should’ve told them when I was on my way to the hospital, but I didn’t, and neither did the girls, so…Now this gets to be that funny story I tell them on New Year’s Eve in two year’s time, when they’re good and buzzed and less likely to get mad at me for not telling them right when it happened.” 

“Sounds like you already have it all planned out.” 

“I like a plan, remember?” 

John smiles, thumb sweeping across the soft of your wrist. “I remember.” It’s a moment before he hedges: “Remind me, is that why we broke up? Not enough plans?” 

You sigh softly, eyes dropping to your hands. “That was some of it. Other times, I just…I felt like you were making jokes of everything, all the time, or not taking things seriously. But honestly, after the whole,” You wave toward your abdomen, “You know, how chaotic it was, how scary…I kinda get it now. Why you’re so level.”

“...Doesn’t mean I should be doing it all the time. I’m sorry if I made you feel like we couldn’t just have a serious conversation.” 

You smile. “I’m sorry I was so rigid. I should’ve been more understanding.” 

“Hindsight’s 20/20, huh?” 

“Famously.” 

John gives your hand a little squeeze. “I should let you rest.” 

“Okay…Can I selfishly say that I don’t want you to leave yet?” 

“Yes,” He chuckles. “Tell you what. I’ll stick around for a bit, keep close. Make sure you don’t roll over in your sleep.” 

“Oh yeah? You do that for all your patients, Dr. Shen?” 

“Oh, all of them.” 

“You really know how to make a girl feel spesh.” John chuckles, nudging off the house shoes he’d worn inside and climbing into bed beside you, resting his hand on your hip. You tipped your head against him, relaxing into the warmth of his body as you had just a few days ago. 

“Would it be selfish of me to say that I missed you a lot?” You mumbled. 

“There’s that word again.” 

“Hmm?” 

“Selfish.” You feel John tip his head toward you. “Wanting things isn’t selfish. Neither is feeling things.” 

You gnaw on your lower lip, letting your gaze drop back to his chest. He smoothes his hand over your hair, drawing you carefully closer. 

“Tell you what,” He murmurs, “We’re gonna talk about this later—for now, you need your rest.” 

“When are we gonna talk about it?”

“This weekend.” 

“Oh?” 

“Mhm. You’re gonna get clearance from Walsh to resume normal food and activity on Friday, we’re gonna get coffee and go for a nice, easy walk on Saturday—” 

“I see—”

“And we’re gonna clear up all this selfish talk.” 

“And then what?” 

“Oh, just you wait.” 

“Do I get a hint?” 

John tips his head down toward you, lips brushing your forehead. 

“You thought that first go-around was something? I’m gonna date the crap out of you.” 

You smile. “I’d rather our dating not have anything to do with crap.” 

“Or cavities?” 

“Exactly—”

“Or Darth Vader—” 

“Okay, now you’re pushing it.” 

Tag list:

@missredherring ; @fantasticcopeaglepasta ; @massivecolorspygiant ; @blueeyesatnight ; @amneris21 ; 

@ew-erin ; @youngkenobilove ; @carbonated-beverage ;  @moonlightburned ; @milf-trinity ; 

@millllenniawrites ; @chattychell ; @dihra-vesa ; @videogamesandpoorlifechoices ; @missswriter ; 

@thembosapphicclown ; @brandyllyn ; @wildmoonflower ; @realwhoreforfictionalmen

 ; @mad-girl-without-a-box ; @winchestershiresauce ; @lorecraft ; @kmc1989

[i-love-ptv]

this was so good

[notmeolive]

⋆｡ ˚ pretty party trick

lowdown ☆ after homelander names you the seventh member of the seven, soldier boy learns exactly what your pretty little party trick can do. ride or die ☆ soldier boy x supe!reader ( f ) miles ☆ 9335 ride style ☆ smut !!! danger on the trail ☆ explicit sexual content, rough sex, dirty talk, soldier boy being soldier boy, power dynamics, canon-typical toxicity, vought/the seven toxicity, homelander being unsettling, emotional manipulation/power use, public humiliation, manhandling, thigh grabbing, light choking, mirror sex, semi-public risk/vought surveillance implications, praise/degradation, possessive behavior, no actual romance.

liv's log ☆ a little self indulgent because i couldn't get this scenario out of my head after doing my compound v manifestation report .ᐟ 𐚁

the elevator climbs so smoothly, you almost don’t feel it move. 

it’s intentional. vought doesn’t let important people feel machinery. it hides all the ugly effort behind glass, gold trim, soft lighting, clean mirrors, polished metals that do not dare show a fingerprint unless someone very rich has approved it. even the elevator is expensive—sterile and floral, some corporate interpretation fo calm sprayed into the vents so no one has a panic attack on the way to meet america’s most unstable collection of national assets. 

sage stands behind you with her hands folded in front of her, perfectly still, perfectly bored. 

she hasn’t looked at you once since the doors shut. you watch her reflection instead. 

“homelander likes symbols,” she says. her voice is flat enough that it could mean nothing. but she is the smartest woman on the planet, so it doesn’t. 

you tilt your head slightly, watching the numbers climb. “does he?”

“he likes completion. loyalty. visible gratitude. people who understand their place before he has to explain it to them.” 

you smile a little, because the cameras in the elevator don’t even pretend to be hidden. “good thing i’m very grateful.” 

sage’s reflection looks at you then. her posture doesn’t move entirely, just her eyes. “are you?”

“i’m here, aren’t i?”

that’s not the same thing. you know it. she knows it. somewhere above you, homelander probably knows that too. he chose you. that matters. not in the sweet way vought will sell it tomorrow morning, with your face lit gold on every screen in the lobby and some expensive headline about a new dawn for the seven. it matters because homelander is not making choices as a leader right now—he’s making them as a man trying to build a room where no one can leave him.

that makes you useful. that makes you dangerous. that makes you careful. 

“he wants the seven to have seven members,” sage continues. “the joke got old.” 

“must’ve been a very painful time for branding.” 

“branding survives pain better than people do.” 

you almost laugh, but you don’t. the elevator keeps climbing, and for a second, in the reflection of the doors, you catch yourself the way the world is going to catch you: clean hair, warm skin, mouth soft enough to trust, eyes bright enough to make people nervous if they look too long. 

the suit helps. vought has never met a woman it didn’t want to turn into a product first and a person never. yours is golden and cream and fitted close to the body without tipping into firecracker’s cheap little flag-bikini theater. elegant, they called it. aspirational. high-necked but not modest, with a sculpted bodice that catches the light when you breathe and a deep, curved line across the chest that makes a point without begging for one. the fabric hugs the waist, your hips, the tops of your thighs, tailored and expensive and just armored enough to pretend it’s practical. 

sage notices you looking at yourself. “don’t overplay it.” 

you drag your gaze back to the doors. “my face?”

“your devotion.”

that one lands. the bitch is smart. her words aren’t a warning, but they don’t land cruel, either. they’re just enough to remind you she didn’t get her place here by missing things.

you turn your smile into something smaller, sweeter, easier to swallow. “i would never.” 

“everyoen says that before they do.” 

the elevator dings and sage steps forward first. you follow. 

the hallway outside is colder, brighter—the kind of white that makes everyone look a little guilty. the seven’s meeting room waits at the end of it behind massive doors. 

homelander stands when you enter. that’s the first thing everyone notices. not you. not the suit. not sage’s hand gesturing lazily in your direction as if she’s presenting a weather update instead of the newest member of the most powerful team on earth. 

homelander stands, and the room changes around him. firecracker’s smile sharpens in a way that shows she’s trying to decide whether she hates you or wants to be photographed next to you. black noir says nothing, which makes ridiculous contrast with whatever the deep is thinking while his eyes briefly dip below your face. you let him look. then you meet his eyes. he looks away immediately, straightening up in his seat. 

soldier boy, seated with one boot braced against the base of the table, doesn’t move at all. he just looks you over with the bored entitlement of a man who has survived too many decades of being told he’s the prize. 

he’s bigger in person. uglier too—but not in the face. the face is unfortunately good. it’s the rest of him that’s ugly: the easy arrogance, the bored set of his mouth, the old-world confidence sitting on his shoulders like a coat he has never had to take off. 

homelander smiles warmly at you. 

“there she is,” he says, and the room listens because he says it like a benediction. “halo fever.” 

you dip your chin just enough. not a bow. not submission. appreciation wrapped humbly. “sir.” 

his smile deepens. “no, no, none of that.” he gestures you closer, palm open, inviting. “we’re family here.” 

you walk further into the room, heels quiet against the floor, and stop near the empty chair at the end of the table. the seventh seat. the one vought has probably been polishing for a press release before they knew what name would be attached to it. 

“everyone knows who you are,” homelander continues, still watching with that bright, hungry pride. “but i wanted to do this properly. after all the betrayal… after all the instability… after people treating this team like some kind of revolving door…” his jaw tightens for half a second—there and gone. “we are moving forward. together.” 

firecracker nods vigorously. “amen.” 

the deep nods a beat too late. 

sage continues watching the entire room. 

and soldier boy snorts. not loud, exactly. it doesn’t need to be; in a room trained around homelander’s breathing, even disrespect has a spotlight. 

everyone looks. homelander’s smile doesn’t drop, but something behind it tightens. so many daddy issues. 

soldier boy is either too stupid or too committed to being himself to care. his eyes remain on you, amused, unimpressed, dragging over the gold of your suit before landing on your face with a little curl of his mouth. 

“sorry,” he says, not sounding sorry at all. “just thought the seven was supposed to be superheroes, not a beauty pageant.” 

the room goes quiet. it honestly wasn’t the worst thing he could’ve said. and no one in the room is innocent enough for shock. but there is that pause people take around a loaded gun when someone taps the barrel for fun. 

you feel homelander’s attention shift to soldier boy first. then to you. waiting. measuring. the situation just turned into a fucking test. 

you could be offended. maybe you are, somewhere under the polished surface. maybe some part of you recoils at how casually he spits in your face—how easily men from his century and yours dress contempt up as charm and expect you to laugh because they smiled while cutting. but offense is not useful unless you know where to put it. 

so you smile. soft. lovely. almost forgiving. “that’s okay. i know it’s hard when new things happen.” 

the deep makes a noise that dies instantly when soldier boy’s eyes flick toward him. 

the cheaper version of captain america’s grin widens, meaner now. “new? sweetheart, i’ve seen plenty of girls with pretty lights.” 

“oh, i’m sure.” 

“most of ‘em didn’t need a cape to get attention.” 

firecracker’s mouth twitches. sage’s face doesn’t move. 

homelander is simply enjoying the spectacle. “halo fever,” he calls you. 

it’s not a warning, yet you turn immediately. you don’t ignore him. you don’t make him repeat himself. you look at him the second he calls; almost like his voice has weight in your body. here, it does. it has to. 

“yes, sir?”

his eyes search your face, pleased by your attention, curious about your restraint. “you alright?” 

“of course.” you let the warmth enter your expression before the room can mistake your calm for weakness. “i just think soldier boy might benefit from a demonstration. if you think that’s appropriate.” 

you ask. not because you need permission from a man to defend yourself, but because this room doesn’t belong to you. not yet. and because homelander chose you, and that means every public move you make in front of him has to confirm his choice—not compete with it. 

homelander’s gaze flicks between you and soldier boy. for one thin second, he looks almost boyish. a little kid, pocking with a wooden stick at the weird gooey thing he found on the floor. 

“a demonstration,” he repeats, tasting the idea. 

soldier boy scoffs and leans back in his chair. “oh, please.” 

homelander turns his smile on him now. “scared?” 

the word barely changes soldier boy’s face. it would be easy to miss if you weren’t already looking for the seam. you are always looking for the seam. 

“of her pretty party trick?” soldier boy laughs once. 

homelander looks back at you, lifting a hand in invitation. “go ahead.” 

your pulse answers before you do. the power awakes under your skin, golden and warm, sliding up through your chest, your throat, the backs of your hands. you keep it low.

the room brightens by half a shade, as if the sun has shifted closer to the windows, and the deep blinks too many times. noir tilts his head. firecracker’s fingers curl around the armrest of her chair. and soldier boy doesn’t move. 

his mistake. 

you take one step toward him. 

“that’s close enough,” he says.

“is it?”

his mouth opens, probably to say something filthy and outdated and deeply impressed with itself. you touch the air between you instead. not him. not his body. not even the edge of his chair. just the feeling sitting behind his ribs. 

it’s almost embarrassingly easy to find. 

soldier boy has been exposed in public too many times now. america knows his face, his legacy, his son, his failures. vought can polish the story all they want, but the wounds are not buried—they are barely even covered. a father returned to a world that no longer bends for him. a legend introduced as someone else’s bloodline. a weapon thawed out and placed beside the thing that replaced him. he has so much pride packed over the damage that all you have to do is press where it shines. 

the gold under your skin flares. 

soldier boy’s breath catches. it’s small… but oh, it’s everything. his boot drops from the table with a dull thud, one hand clamps around the armrest; the other curls into a fist so tight the leather of his glove creaks. for half a second, his face stays locked in that arrogant mask, jaw set, eyes hard, mouth ready to sneer. 

then his chest starts to glow. not the violent red everyone has seen on shaky footage and classified clips. not the nuclear burn. this is different. gold, faint at first, spreading beneath the dark green of his suit from the center of his sternum, warm and pulsing, like something inside him has been caught answering you before he could stop it. this is the party trick—the glow. the real show is about to present itself.

his pupils widen. you feel it spill up in him: anger first; humiliation right after it, sour and hot; then the thing underneath, the old bruised need to matter so badly it almost feels young. it hits the air between you in a rush he cannot hide from anyone in the room—not with your power wrapped gently around the truth and pulling.

his chair scrapes back an inch. “cut it out!” his voice is lower now, strained. 

you tilt your head, still smiling, still sweet enough for every camera in the room. “i thought it was a party trick.” 

his lips part. nothing comes out. that is it. not the glow. not the heat. not the way the deep stares with his mouth slightly open or the way firecracker’s expression flattens into something sharper, threatened despite herself. it’s soldier boy, america’s first great brute, suddenly silent because his body has betrayed him before his mouth can save him. 

you could push harder. that’s the ugly truth. you could make him choke on the rest of it. make him feel every scrap of envy, want, loneliness, resentment, make him burn gold from the inside out until the whole room understands exactly how much of his swagger is just exposed scar tissue. you could make him look at homelander and feel it—the son, the mirror, the replacement. 

your fingers twitch once. then you stop. the warmth snaps back into you so cleanly it almost hurts. 

soldier boy inhales hard through his nose. the glow in his chest fades under the suit, leaving nothing but the brutal rise and fall of his breathing and the furious look he pins to your face. 

You give him your prettiest smile. “cute party trick, huh?”

no one laughs except for homelander. just a pleased little breath, this private sound of satisfaction, and somehow it’s worse than the whole room mocking soldier boy. 

homelander looks around the table as if waiting for everyone else to understand what he already has: you’re not starlight. you’re not a trembling moral lesson in a white cape. you’re not here to cry under fluorescent lights and beg the machine to become kind. you are the machine’s newest favorite blade. 

“see?” homelander says, spreading his arms slightly. “that. that is what i’m talking about.” 

soldier boy says nothing. his stare promises several forms of retaliation. you look away first because you can afford it. 

homelander moves to the head of the table, energized now, shining with the glow of a man who has mistaken control for love and found a room willing to play along. “this is the team,” he says. “this is what we were missing. strength. loyalty. purpose.” 

sages watches him with the faintest turn of her mouth. firecracker nods again, but this time her eyes cut toward you with something new in them. wariness. 

soldier boy leans back slowly, recovering inch by inch, but you can still see it in the tightness around his mouth. he felt it. he knows you felt him feeling it. that is worse than pain for a man like him. 

homelander places a hand on the back of your chair. “sit.” he commands, gently enough for the word to sound like a gift. 

and you do. the seventh seat is cold beneath you. 

homelander keeps his hand there a second longer than necessary before pulling away, and you keep your face open, grateful and bright. you play the part because the part keeps you alive. because this whole building runs on performance and fear and the kind of devotion people offer when they’re smart enough to know worship is safer than honesty. 

“now,” homelander continues, smiling wide enough to make the room obey. “no more empty seats. no more betrayal. no more jokes.”

his eyes land on you again. chosen. that is what he wants ypu to feel. so you let the gold warm under your skin, just enough to make the room soften around him, just enough to make his smile stay beautiful and terrible. 

“the seven,” homelander murmurs. “is complete.”

the room empties in pieces. 

firecracker is the first to stand, heels clicking against the floor as she collects herself with that too-bright smile still stuck to her face, all gloss and teeth and badly disguised insecurity. she gives you one last look before she leaves—not hatred, not yet. this is thinner. something that says she understands attention as a limited resource, and you have just made a show of stealing some of hers. 

“welcome to the family,” she says, syrupy sweet. 

you smile back. “thank you.” 

her eyes flick toward homelander, then away again. “you’ll fit right in.” that one is not sweet. 

noir passes behind her without a word. the deep almost trips over his own chair because he’s still trying not to look at you and somehow making the effort more obvious than just looking would have been. homelander notices—he notices everything here. his mouth twitches with something between amusement and disdain before his attention returns to you. 

that’s the thing about homelander—when he looks at you, it feels less like being seen andn more like being selected from a shelf. “big day,” he says. 

you stand beside the seventh seat because staying seated after he rises feels stupid. “yes, sir.” 

his expression warms again at the title. he pretends to dislike it. you’re beginning to understand he likes pretending almost as much as he likes obedience. 

“you did well.” not good. not great. well. a measured thing. a reward, not a compliment. 

you lower your eyes just enough to make the gratitude visible without making it pathetic. “i’m glad you think so.” 

“i do.” he steps closer, and the whole room seems to tighten around the movement. “what you did with him—” his eyes cut toward soldier boy, who hasn’t moved from his chair. “that was impressive.” 

soldier boy gives a humorless little breath through his nose. 

homelander hearts it and lets it live. “controlled,” homelander looks back at you. “tasteful. strong.” 

“i didn’t want to overstep.” 

“no.” his smile brightens. “you didn’t.” 

and he shows it again—the pleasure. not because you were kind or harmless. because you understood the order of the room and acted inside it. because the show happened under his hand, with his blessing. because you asked. 

homelander likes loyalty, sage had said. you disagree. homelander likes proof. 

“your suite is already prepared,” he says. “sage will show you. anything you need, you can ask. we take care of our own here.” 

our own. you know better than to buy into the fantasy.

“thank you. that means a lot.” 

“it should.” 

and then he smiles like he has given you something sacred—a place in the seven, a family, a new beginning. like you are supposed to feel reborn because he decided you are useful enough to keep close. 

you let yourself glow. only a touch beneath the skin, a warmth that softens the air around him, gentle enough that it can pass for admiration if anyone in the room is foolish enough to believe in clean things. homelander’s shoulders ease by a fraction and his smile steadies. some deep, hungry part of him accepts the warmth and calls it devotion because that is what he needs it to be. 

sage watches from the doorway as homelander leaves, cape sweeping behind him in a ridiculous bright flash that would look stupid on anyone less terrifying. the room keeps his shape for a moment after he’s gone. then, sage speaks: 

“this way.” 

you turn from soldier boy without looking like you’re turning from soldier boy. he has been watching you since the glow faded from his chest. not speaking during the rest of the meeting. not moving. just sitting there with his jaw tight and his eyes ugly, furious in a way that feels almost clean compared to everyone else’s careful performance. anger is easy to read. anger tells you what door to open. 

you follow sage into the hallway. she doesn’t ask if you enjoyed yourself and you almost respect her for it. 

the walk to your suite takes longer than it needs to. vought tower has always been designed to make distance feel ceremonial. halls that shine too much, walls lined with screens, employees who glance up, recognize the suit, recognize sage, and immediately learn the floor again. 

your face is already on one of the monitors near the elevator bank, a still from an interview you gave, gold light washing across your cheekbones under the headline: halo fever joins the seven: a new dawn for america’s heroes.

you nearly laugh. they work fast. 

sage notices without looking at the screen. “they had drafts prepared.” 

“for me?” 

“for everyone.” she presses her thumb against a private access panel beside a set of double doors. “you were just the first one homelander wanted this week.” honest. cruel. useful.

the lock clicks open. 

your suite is beautiful. so much so that it becomes a problem—so beautiful that, for one second, your body wants to trust it completely. cream walls, gold accent, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city in glittering indifferent pieces. a pale sofa curved around a glass coffee table. fresh flowers on the sideboard. a vanity lit soft and warm, covered with unopened products in your colors, your shades, your approved scent profile. a garment rack waits near the bedroom door with press outfits steamed and arranged by occasion—daytime interviews, evening events, crisis appearances, charity softness, televised grief. 

they have made you a home out of costumes. 

your boxes sit near the far wall, ordinary and brown and almost embarrassing against all that glass. 

sage stops beside you. “security is internal. external press access is controlled. household staff comes through twice a day unless you request otherwise. anything private should not be assumed private.” 

your lips press together as you absorb the information. “sweet.”

“nothing about this is sweet.” 

“i didn’t mean it literally.” 

“i know.” 

you look at her then. sage’s eyes move over the suite with the same bored precision she gives everything else, but there is something almost human in the corner of her mouth. not kindness. that would be pushing it. maybe recognition. maybe the dull amusement of watching another woman learn the shape of her cage. 

“he’ll test you,” she says. 

“homelander?”

sage’s gaze shifts toward the hall behind you. “both of them.” 

you don’t answer, because nothing is private and she doesn’t look like someone you can trust fully. 

she turns to leave, then pauses at the threshold. “soldier boy doesn’t like being made small.” 

you glance toward her. “does anyone?”

“no. but most people don’t have decades of national mythology rotting under the skin.” her eyes settle on your face. “don’t confuse humiliation with victory. it’s noisy. victory is quieter.” 

“is that advice?”

“it’s information.” then she leaves. 

the doors shut behind her with a soft, expensive click.

for the first time since the elevator, you’re alone. 

you exhale and let your shoulders drop. not all the way. never all the way. but enough to feel the ache under the suit, the pinch fo the bodice, the place where the fabric presses too perfectly at your ribs. your reflection catches in the dark window, all gold and cream and vought-approved radiance, and for a second you stare at yourself the way you stared in the elevator. 

the world is going to love this version of you.

you start with the boxes. the first one has books, framed pictures wrapped in sweaters, a small ceramic dish you bought because it was pretty and useless and nobody at vought would have picked it for you. the second has clothes. actual clothes—soft ones; the kind no stylist has touched; folded shirts, worn jeans, a cardigan you have no business owning now that you are supposed to be a golden national asset; and three little perfume bottles stuffed inside socks so they wouldn’t break. you set one on the vanity and watch it look immediately out of place. 

the door opens behind you. you don’t even need to turn around. 

“didn’t hear a knock.” 

soldier boy steps inside anyway. his reflection appears in the window first: broad shoulders, dark suit, mouth set in that tired cruel line, eyes moving across the room with open judgment. he doesn’t look ashamed to be there—men like him rarely do—shame would require manners.

“door was open.” 

“no, it wasn’t.” 

“it wasn’t locked.” 

you glance back over your shoulder. “that’s not the same thing.” 

he closes the door behind him. slowly. the soft click sounds louder with him in the room. 

you go back to unpacking because reacting too fast would make him happy, and soldier boy looks like he has already had a difficult enough day without you handing him a present. 

“nice place.” 

he walks farther in, boots heavy against the polished floor. vought’s pretty little suite looks different with him inside it. he picks up the ceramic dish from the vanity, turns it over once in his hand, then puts it down in the wrong place. you correct it immediately. 

his mouth twitches. “you always this particular?”

“you always this invasive?”

“usually worse.” 

he moves to the garment rack next, flicking through the outfits with two fingers. cream dress. gold blazer. while silk blouse. fitted trousers. a gown with a slit cut high enough for vought to call it empowering in a press memo. 

he gives that one a second look. “they dress you up nice.” 

“that supposed to be a compliment?”

“depends on how sensitive you are.” 

you fold a shirt and place it into a drawer. “you came all the way here to find out?”

he looks at you then. not the way deep had done—not at the suit, or boobs, or your mouth. at you. it’s the first quiet thing he’s done.  for half a second, the air changes, and you understand sage’s warning differently. 

he’s not here because he thinks you’re pretty—though, he does. he’s here because, in that meeting room, you reached into him and found something he didn’t give you permission to touch. for soldier boy that wasn’t intimacy—it was trespassing. 

“what the hell did you do to me back there?” he asks. 

you keep folding. “a demonstration.” 

“don’t give me that shit,” he spits out. 

“then don’t ask questions you already know the answer to.” 

he steps closer. “you think because homelander let you play with your little light show that means you can do it again?”

you smile down at the drawer. “let me?” you repeat. 

“you heard me.” 

“i asked because he enjoys being asked. not because i need him to hold my hand.” 

his jaw shifts. 

you slide the drawer shut and turn to face him fully. “and i didn’t play with anything. if i had, you would’ve known.” 

soldier boy’s eyes narrow. he’s too close now. not touching yet—but close enough that you can smell him beneath the tower’s clean air: leather, smoke, whiskey buried under mint, something warm and metallic that might be his suit or his skin or the violence he carries without thinking. his anger has settled since the meeting, but not disappeared. it sits in him low and restless, circling the same bruised place you pressed.

you could touch it again. but you don’t. 

that restraint seems to irritate him more than the threat would. “you like doing that? digging around in people’s heads?”

“it’s not mind control.” you scoff. “i’m not in anyone’s heads.” 

“whatever.” 

“and no.” you pause. “not always.” 

“bullshit.” 

you lean back against the dresser, crossing your arms. “you’re very committed to having a bad time in my room.”

“your room.” he looks around, unimpressed. “you been here five minutes.” 

“still mine.” 

he lets out a low laugh. “everything in this building belongs to vought.” 

you smile. “careful. that includes you.” 

his expression goes flat and it’s beautiful and dangerous. then, he looks away. he’s choosing not to reach, which is different and somehow more telling.

he walks past you, deeper into the bedroom area, where the boxes are messier, where the suite begins to lose its showroom shine. he looks at the framed pictures waiting on the bed, the small pile of personal jewelry, the open suitcase with soft cotton and lace peeking through. 

“don’t touch my thing,” you warn. still, he picks up a framed photo. you sigh. “selective hearing. great.” 

he studies the picture longer than you expect. not because he cares who’s in it, maybe. more because he’s looking for something he can use. something normal. something soft. proof that the woman who made his chest glow in a room full of monsters still has people in frames and old sweaters in boxes. 

“this your boyfriend?” he asks. 

you cross the room and take the frame from his hand. “no.” 

he picks another one. “girlfriend?”

“no.”

“fan?”

“are you always this desperate for personal information?”

“are you always this defensive?” he argues back. 

“only when strange men walk into my bedroom and start touching my things.”

his eyes drop briefly to your hand on the frame. then to your face. “strange?”

“would you prefer elderly?”

his mouth curls. there he is again. meaner when amused. easier to deal with when he’s trying to insult you than when he’s trying to understand you. 

“you’ve got a mouth on you.” 

“and yet you keep inviting it.” 

the words land before you can decide whether you meant to say them exactly that way. soldier boy’s eyes darken a fraction. not much. but definitely enough. 

you turn away first this time. heat is useful until it starts making decisions for you. then it’s just stupid. “i have things to unpack. you can go brood somewhere else.” 

“brood?”

“sulk, then.” 

“i don’t sulk.” 

“you followed me across the tower because i embarrassed you in front of your son.” 

the silence after that is immediate and ugly. you definitely reached too far. maybe not far enough. you feel the room tighten around his body with a violence that doesn’t require performance because everyone’s seen what he’s capable of. 

when he speaks again, his voice is lower. “watch it.” 

you look back slowly. this is the line—where a joke stopes being a joke and becomes a hand near a trigger. 

you don’t apologize. you also don’t press. smart is knowing the difference between fear and timing. 

“then stop acting like i chased you here,” you say, and there’s a drop in your tone—softer now, almost bored. “you came into my room, soldier boy. not the other way around.” 

his stare holds yours. then, because he’s either incapable of leaving well enough alone or allergic to losing the last word, he turns and opens the nearest drawer. 

you move instantly. “hey!” too late. 

his hand disappears into lace. soldier boy looks down and then he smiles—slowly. “well.” 

“put it back.” 

he lifts a pair of panties from the drawer like he has discovered classified intelligence. they are pretty—pale gold with delicate lace at the edges, soft enough to look innocent if he wasn’t holding them in his big, careless hand. the sight of it does something irritating to your stomach—not embarrassment, exactly. 

you refuse to name it. 

“these vought-issued too?” he asks. fucker. 

“put. them. back.” 

he rubs the lace between his thumb and forefinger, inspecting it with the kind of obscene focus that makes your jaw tighten. “nah. i’m gonna keep ‘em.” 

you step toward him. “i’m not joking.” 

“neither am i.” 

“soldier boy—”

he looks up at your voice. “ben.” the correction is sudden enough to catch. 

you stop half a step away. 

he watches you register it, and his smile changes. smug again, but not only that—there’s something underneath it, too, now. a hook thrown into the water just to see what bites. 

“if you’re gonna threaten me in your underwear drawer,” he taunts, “you might as well use my name.” 

you hate that your pulse reacts. you hate it more that it’s so visible he sees it. 

“ben,” you say, clipped and sweet. “put them back.” 

his gaze drops to your mouth for one heavy second. then, he lifts the panties higher. you reach for them, which only causes him to raise his arm above his head—easy, lazy, infuriating—using every inch of height and strength. you step closer without thinking, hand catching at his wrist, and suddenly there’s no polite distance left between you. just him—solid and warm and too close.

his chest is right there. no longer glowing now, but you remember how it looked. gold blooming under the green. his breath catching. his silence. the place beneath his ribs where pride turned soft and furious when you touched it. 

he remembers, too. you can tell by the way his smile thins when your eyes flick down. “don’t you think about it.” 

“what?”

“using that little power of yours.” 

you look back up at him. “i’m not using it.” 

“sure about that?” the question is quieter than the rest. 

for all his arrogance, all his filthy little games, there is a piece of him that genuinely doesn’t know. not fully. he doesn’t know where your powers ends and his reaction begins. he doesn’t know whether the pull in the room belongs to you, to him, or to the ugly private thing you made visible in front of everyone. 

good. let him wonder. 

“i don’t need it for this.” 

his eyes hold yours and you see something shift across his face, almost imperceptible, like he likes the answer and resents you for giving it to him. 

your fingers tighten around his wrist. “last chance.” 

“or what?”

you lift your chin. the move brings you closer—close enough that the front of his suit brushes the sculpted gold of yours; close enough that you feel his breath warm against your cheek when he laughs under his breath. not much of a laugh. more of a dare learning how to stand on its own two feet. 

you keep your voice calm. “don’t make me ask again.” 

soldier boy looks at your hand on his wrist; then at the lace dangling above your head. his smile comes slow as his eyes finally meet yours—mean, curious, hungry in a way he probably thinks he’s hiding. 

“or what?” he asks again. “you gonna make glow, doll?”

you look at him for a second too long. his arm is still raised above your head, your panties caught in his fist, his body too close for this to be funny anymore. it stops being a game between his breath touching your cheek and your hand closing tighter around his wrist. the room is quiet around you, all cream walls and gold light and vought-approved luxury, but he has made the space feel less decorated. 

“no,” you breathe out, gaze flickering down to his mouth then back up. “i want you to know this is you.” 

his smile fades by a fraction. 

you reach higher, fingers tightening on his wrist, not really trying to win anymore. you both know you can’t overpower him that way. that’s not the point—it’s the way his pulse kicks under your fingers. it’s the way his eyes don’t leave your face. it’s that his body has already started answering, and there is no glow in the room expect the faint warmth under your skin. 

“put them down,” you tell him. 

for once, he does. the lace drops to the floor between your feet, soft and forgotten immediately, because his freed hand comes to your jaw before you can breathe. his palm is rough against your cheek, thumb pressing under your chin to tilt your face up, and the touch is not gentle. it’s too sure of itself. too familiar for someone who has no right. 

“tell me to leave,” his voice is lower now. still arrogant; still him—but stripped of the perfomance sitting around it before. no audience. no homelander smiling from the head of the table. no firecracker watching for weakness. no sage quietly filing away every reaction. just him. just you. just the bad idea already breathing between you. 

you hold his stare. “if i wanted you gone, you’d be.”

his jaw flexes once. then he kisses you. his mouth hits yours hard enough to make your back brush the dresser, his hand still on your jaw while the other catches your waist and pulls you into him. 

you make a sound against his mouth, sharp and surprised, and he swallows it before it can become anything useful and sane. 

soldier boy kisses like he fights—direct, hungry, impatient with anything that isn’t surrender. 

you don’t surrender. not in the way he’d want. you kiss him back with your fingers fisted in the front of his suit, dragging him closer even as every smart part of you starts listing reasons to why this is a terrible thing to let happen. he’s soldier boy. he’s homelander’s father. he’s angry because you exposed him, and you’re turned on because he came back anyway. there’s no soft moral angle to polish this with. no clean explanation. just his tongue in your mouth and your body going hot under his hands. 

his hand slides from your waist to your hip, gripping hard, testing the give of you through the fitted gold fabric. the suit is too tight. it looks made for cameras, not for the way his thigh presses between yours, breaking your breath when he forces your stance open. the edge of the dresser bites lightly into the backs of your legs. 

“all that control,” he murmurs against your mouth. “and this is all it takes?”

you bite his lower lip and he groans. you feel it in his chest where it presses against yours, and the sound goes straight through you, low and ugly and satisfying. 

“don’t talk.” 

his mouth drags to your jaw. “make me stop.” 

you tug at his hair hard enough to pull his head back. his eyes flash—dark and bright—furious that he likes it. you can feel the heat coming off him now, the hard press of him against your stomach. no power needed. no trick. no excuse left for him to hide behind. 

“you came to my room,” you remind him. “touched my things.” 

“mhm.” 

“you wanted this before i did.” 

his grip tightens on your hip and the gold under your skin flickers. his eyes drop to it. “there she is…” 

“i’m not using it.” 

“you’re glowing.” 

“because you’re pissing me off.” 

he leans close enough that his mouth brushes your ear. “then you’re gonna light up the whole damn tower.” 

your breath catches before you can stop it, and that gives him the opening he wants. his mouth finds your throat, teeth scraping over the sensitive place under your jaw, then lower—rough kisses pressed down the side of your neck while his hands start working at the back of your suit. 

he finds the zipper too fast. his knuckles graze your spine as he pulls it down, and the sound is obscene in the quiet room, the slow parting of fabric, the private little surrender of something designed to make you untouchable. 

cool air touches your back. then his mouth. you close your eyes. 

“look at that,” he murmurs, voice rougher now. 

you open them because there is a mirror above the dresser and he has turned you toward it, one hand spread against your stomach, the other peeling the suit down your shoulders. you see yourself flushed and bright-eyed, the gold fabric loosing over your body, your mouth swollen from him. you see him behind you—bigger, his face close to your neck, his eyes lifted to the reflection—watching you watch. 

the suit slips lower, catching at your waist, and your breasts spill free into his hands. 

his breath changes. that tiny break in him is better than a compliment. 

his palms cover you, heavy and warm, thumbs brushing over your nipples until your body arches despite every ounce of pride you still have left. 

“sensitive.” 

“you like it.” 

his hand closes more firmly around your breast—enough to make your head tip back against his shoulder. “i like this.” 

his other hand slides down your stomach in a slow treacherous pace. you grip the edge of the dresser as his fingers move under the loosened suit, beneath the lace at your hips, and when he touches you, when the rough pad of his finger drags through the wet heat of you, both of you go still. 

his forehead lowers briefly to your temple. “fuck.” 

you part your thighs without meaning to, and his fingers follow the invitation immediately, stroking you with a confidence that makes your knees loosen. your glow pulses brighter in the mirror, gold threading over your collarbones, down your arms, blooming where his hands touch you. 

“all this from a kiss?” he asks, but the arrogance is fraying at the edges. 

“don’t flatter yourself.” 

he pushes on finger into you. your answer breaks into a moan. 

his hand tightens on your breast. “say that again.” 

you can’t. not cleany. 

his finger works into you slow, then curls, and the pleasure lands low and sharp enough that your hips press back into him on instinct. he makes a rough sound against your neck, then adds a second finger, stretching you open while his thumb circles your clit with dirty, unhurried pressure. 

his name comes out before you can stop it, “ben—”

his mouth opens against your shoulder, teeth pressing there as if he needs somewhere to put the reaction. “again.” 

you shake your head once, stubborn even with his fingers buried inside you. he trusts them deeper. 

your fingers slip against the dresser. “ben.” 

“there you go,” his voice drops, thick and pleased. “knew you could ask nice.” 

“i’m not asking.”

“you will.”

you should hate him. you should shove him back, pull the suit over your chest, kick him out, and let him spend the rest of the night wondering if he imagined how close he came to losing himself in your room. 

instead, you reach behind you an grab the back of his neck, pulling his mouth to yours. the kiss turns filthy, all tongue and teeth and broken breath. his fingers are still moving between your legs, your hips rocking into his hand now. he groans into your mouth when you grind back against him, when your ass presses against the hard length of him throuhg his suit. 

he pulls his fingers out suddenly and you actually whine. 

“pretty,” his eyes sharpen. 

then he turns you around. your back hits the dresser again, and he’s on you before you can catch your balance, one hand gripping your thigh and hauling it up around his waist. his mouth drags down your chest—hot and rough—and when he takes one nipple into his mouth, you nearly unfold. his tongue works over you, teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp, while his hands keep your thigh high against his hip. 

the suit hangs around your waist now, half-off, ruined. your vought-approved armor turned into a mess of gold fabric bunched between your body and his. 

“this thing cost them a fortune,” you manage.

he lifts his head, mouth wet, eyes dark. “then they can buy you another.” 

his hand moves between you, fingers finding you again, slickinmg through the wetness he already pulled from you. you bite your lip hard, but not fast enough. the sound slips out anyway, and soldier boy looks at you with a satisfaction that makes heat twist through your stomach. 

“don’t hold back now,” he says. “room’s probably soundproof.” 

“probably?”

his smile is brief and wicked. “guess we’ll find out.” 

you pull at the front of his suit. “off.” 

that’s all you say. it works better than any long, clever line would have. 

something in him snaps into focus. he strips down only as much as he needs to—impatient and rough with the fastenings—his mouth finding yours between movements because apparently even underessing is too much distance. when his cock is finally in his hand, thick and hard and flushed at the head, your mouth goes dry. 

he tears open a condom with his teeth, rolls it on, and steps back between your thighs. one hand settles at your waist; the other grips your thigh higher, opening you for him. 

he pushes in slow enough that you feel every inch. the stretch is immediat and deep and almost too much—your body forced to open around him while your fingers dig into his shoulders. he curses under his breath, head dropping forward, mouth near yours but not kissing. not yet. he watches your face instead—watches the way your lips part, the way your brows pull together, the way your glow flares hot under your skin. 

“fuck,” he groans. “you’re tight.” 

you let out a shaky breath that turns into his name halfway through. 

he stills when he’s fully inside you. 

your leg tightens around his waist, pulling him closer even though there’s nowhere closer to go. the dresser presses into your back. his hand presses into your hip. the room narrows to the heavy fullness of him inside you and the sound of both of you breathing. 

“look at me,” he says. 

you do. which is a mistake. his face is wrecked in the most brutal way—jaw clenched, eyes blown dark, sweat starting at his temple, control held together by spite and not much else. you can feel him trying not to move; the restraint in the tremor of his hand on you. 

“ben,” you whisper. 

his hips snap forward and your head falls back with a cry. 

there's no gentle build after that. he fucks you hard agaisnt the dresser, one hand under your thigh, the other braced beside you, each thrust driving the air out of your lungs. bottles rattle behind you. the mirror shakes. your suit slides lower on your hips and he watches every inch of you come apart under him with a hunger that makes your skin burn. 

“take it,” he manages. 

you mean and his rhythm falters for half a second. enough for your power to answer. gold light spreads across your chest, down your stomach, over the hand he has on your thigh. his own chest flickers against yours, faint at first, hidden under the loosened suit, but you feel the heat of it. 

so does he. 

his mouth crashes back to yours before you can say anything. 

you kiss him through it, messy and desperate—fingers in his hair, nails scraping the back of his neck. he groans into your mouth when you clench around him, and the sound does something vicious to you. makes you tighten again just to hear it. 

“shit,” he breathes. “you feel that? squeezing me every time i make a noise.” 

“i’m the one making you—” 

he thrust deeper. you cry out. “me too, sweetheart.” 

his mouth moves over your throat, your collarbone, the top of your breast, leaving heat wherever he touches. one of his hands slides between your bodies, thumb finding your clit, and the pleasure spikes so sharply your nails bite into his shoulder. 

“oh, god.” 

he lifts his head, eyes on your face. “wrong guy.” 

you almost laugh, but his thumb presses harder and the laugh breaks into a moan. he watches it solemnly; watches you lose the shape of the response; watches your mouth open and your eyes go unfocused, and something about that seems to hit him harder than the glow ever did. 

“that’s it,” he murmurs. “that’s what you need.” 

“don’t get smug.”

“too late.” 

“ben—”

“i know,” his voice drops. “i can feel you.” 

he can. there’s no hiding it now, your body is tightening around him, pleasure building fast and hot, your glow bright enough to wash the room in soft gold. his chest answers more strongly this time, pulsing against yours with every deep thrust, and you feel a vicious little thrill at the evidence of it. he’s not untouched. he’s not above this. he’s not standing outside the fire making jokes about it. he’s burning too.

“you’re glowing again,” you whisper. 

his hand moves to your throat, applying just the right amount of pressure to hold your attention in place. “so are you.” 

your lashes flutter. he feels that too. 

“you like that?” he asks, voice darkening. “like my hand there?”

you don’t answer, holding onto the faintest shred of pride you’ve got left. 

his thumb strokes once along the side of your throat, almost tender if not for the way his hips keep driving into yours. “tell me.” 

“yes.” 

his exhale is rough. “good girl.” 

the words land low in your stomach. 

he kisses you again, and this time there’s less fight in it. his mouth stays on yours while his thumb works you faster, while his cock drags deep and thick inside you, while your leg starts to tremble around his waist. you’re close. too close. embarrassingly fast, maybe, but there’s nothing neat about this. he has a hand at your throat, his body between your thighs, his chest glowing because of you, and the entire rooms feels fever-warm from the power spilling off your skin. 

“come on,” he mutters against your mouth. “let me feel it.” 

you shake your head, breathless. it’s not because you don’t want to—but because the edge comes too fast and too bright.

“yes,” he squeezes once. “don’t pull away from me now.” 

your body obeys before your mouth agrees. pleasure snaps through you, sudden and blinding, your glow flaring so hard the mirror catches nothing but gold for one broken second. you come around him with a cry you can’t swallow, hips jerking, fingers locked in his hair, body clenching down until he curses and buries his face against your neck. 

“fuck,” he groans. “that’s it. that’s it.” 

he keeps moving through it, slower but deep, dragging the orgasm out until your legs shake and your breath turns thin. 

his control is worse now. you can feel it slipping in the roughness of his thrusts, the way his hand tightens on your hip, the way his mouth presses hot and open to your shoulder because he has stopped pretending he doesn’t need somewhere to put the sound. 

when your body softens, he pulls out just enough to turn you. you’re still half catching your breath when he spins you around with that same blunt strength that makes your pulse kick. your hands hit the dresser. the mirror steadies in front of you, reflecting your flushed face, your half-undone suit, the gold light still shimmering under your skin. 

one hand spreads between your shoulder blades, easing you down until your elbows press to the dresser. the other grips your hip. you see him in the mirror, big and tense and behind you, jaw tight, chest glowing faintly beneath the open front of his suit. 

“watch,” he commands before he pushes back inside. 

the angle steals whatever breath you had left. 

you moan, louder this time, fingers curling agains tthe polished surface as he fills you again from behind. he pauses when he bottoms out, just long enough for you to feel the full weight of him, the heat of his body curved over yours, his breath at your ear. 

“look at you,” he growls. “taking me so good.” 

your eyes close from please.

his hand catches your jaw immediately, turning your face toward the mirror. “no. watch.” 

you do. you watch him start to move. you watch his hips snap into yours, your own body jolt forward with every thrust, breasts brushing the cool dresser, mouth falling open as the pleasure builds again too soon. it’s filthy seeing it this way—him behidn you, his hands on you, your gold suit shoved around your waist, his cock disappearing int you over and over while the room glows warmer with every broken sound you make. 

“ben,” you gasp. 

his eyes lift to yours in the mirror. that does something to him. 

his rhythm roughens. “louder, doll.” 

“ben.” 

“again.” 

you say it again, and he fucks you harder, one hand gripping your hip while the other slides around your waist and down between your thighs. your body jerks when his finger find your clit again, still sensitive. 

“i can’t—”

“yes, you can.” 

“fuck, no—” 

“you can.” his voice is low at your ear. “give me another one.” 

you push back against him, helplessly chasing and resisting at once—your body split between too much and not enough. he feels it. he feels everything. every clench. every tremble. every time your breath catches instead of becoming a moan. his hand works you through it, his thrusts deep and relentless, his mouth pressing against the side of your neck. 

“that’s it. c’mon, baby. one more.” 

the words hit before you can brace for them. your body clamps down around him. his hips stutter and you see it in the mirror—the way his mouth opens, the way his brows draw tight, the way the gold in his chest flares bright enough to paint the edges of your reflection. 

he sees you seeing it and he doesn’t have the breath to deny it. “fuck.” 

“there you are,” you taunt. 

he grips your jaw tighter while he drives into you hard enough to make the dresser knock against the wall. “don’t start.” 

he’s falling apart now. you feel it in the shape of his body over yours. in the rough drag of his breath. in the way his dirty mouth is actually loosing it’s stamina. 

“so damn tight,” he mutters. “fuck. you feel so good. knew you would. knew you’d take it.”

your second orgasm builds meaner than the first—dragged out of an already-sensitive body. the gold under your skin pulses wildly. your reflection blurs with it. you’re glowing everywhere—chest, cheeks, throat, the backs of your hands braced on the dresser. he looks ruined behind you. 

“come for me.” 

it takes a couple more seconds before your body locks around him. the orgasm tears through you hot and hard, your cry spilling into the room with no attempt to soften it. soldier boy groans behind you, hips driving deep as you clench around him. 

he comes with your name half-buried in a curse. 

his body shudders over yours, one hand braced beside yours on the dresser. the other still grips your waist hard enough to leave memory if not bruises. you feel every pulse through the condom as he stays buried deep, breathing hot against your shoulder. 

his forehead lowers to your shoulder for one heavy second after the worst of it passes. neither of you moves. the suite hums quietly around you. 

your skin is damp. your thighs tremble. your suit is ruined around your hips, your hair mussed, your mouth swollen, your body still clenching faintly around him as the last waves roll through. 

his glow fades before yours does. 

he pulls out carefully. you straighten slowly, palms still on the dresser, trying to gather yourself into something that looks less thoroughly taken apart. 

behind you, he deals with the condom, tucks himself away, closes his suit enough to look almost respectable if someone ignores the mouth and the hair.

you turn around. 

your panties are still on the floor and you watch as he bends and picks them up. 

for one stupid second, you think he’s going to hand them to you. then, he puts them in his pocket instead. 

you stare at him, an incredulous laugh escaping you. “seriously?”

his eyes move over you, slower now, less performative. “yeah.” 

“give them back.” 

“no.” 

your body is too tired for the argument, but your mouth is not. “you’re unbelievable.” 

“you were saying my name a minute ago.” 

you step closer, still half-dressed, still glowing softly where his hands had been. “next time you walk into my room without knocking, i’ll make you cry.”

his gaze drops to your mouth. then back to your eyes. “next time?”

you hate that your pulse reacts. so you smile, pretty and warm and mean enough to be useful. “get out, ben.” 

he watches you for one more second, hand still in his pocket around stolen lace. then he turns toward the door. 

at the threshold, he pauses. “i’m keeping these.” 

you’re glad he didn’t turn around to face you. the smile is on your face, stupid and a little naive. as he keeps walking, the door shutting behind him with a heavy click. only then do you let the last of the gold fade from your skin. 

[i-love-ptv]

GIVE ME HIM NOW

[dearkeery]

rein me in | f. langdon (iii)

summary: Frank Langdon’s back in Pittsburgh ten months post-rehab, post-divorce, and post-moving into a one bedroom apartment with no wife, no kids, and more baggage. The pressure and anxiety coupled with his chronic back pain all happening on the eve of the fourth of July nearly causes him to relapse. A thing he knows could ultimately cost him his medical license and whatever semblance of a life he still had. Considering the magnitude of what he’s got to lose, he wills every strength he has left to resist the urge brought by his crippling addiction, one mocktail at a time.

alt. A revelation causes a minor setback in the remaining hours of her first shift at the PTMC. Time bleeds through everyone's hands. People are getting arrested. Patients seem to be dying left and right. Frank Langdon thinks he should have never returned. Michael Robinavitch believes he'd never get to leave. Will she be able to convince both of them to stay or will she finally realize she should have stayed away?

pairing: divorced frank langdon x fem!doc / robinavitch!reader

warnings: 18+ MDNI. sexual and suggestive themes, fluff, angst, canon-compliant (borrowed lines, particularly for medical procedures), alternating povs, divorced!mc, mentions of alcohol, addiction, drugs, rehab and relapse/drug-seeking behavior, mentions of divorce, therapy, and NA meetings, implied references to robby’s mental health issues, mentions of suicide, frank holding a p*nis for medical purposes.

word count: 19.1k; series masterlist

note: all i gotta say is: bear with me. it's more hurt but it's worth it!

Langdon didn’t think it was possible for a person to be so cruel. She insisted on staying for another fifteen minutes tending to patients in chairs despite Robby’s orders. In fact, she had  insisted so much, triage was practically running on way too many hands at a time with her, him and Donnie combined. 

Triage basically had a major manpower with Robby’s chief-resident, an R2, and a NP caring for patients who had so much as a cold or fake lash mishap that glued their eyes shut, barely counting as an emergency.

If it weren’t for Donnie leaving and working in the big ER—which seemed to have alerted Robby as to Langdon’s whereabouts, and prompted such visit—Langdon was sure she wouldn’t leave. Robby was barely trying to conceal the fact he was glaring at him for caging another resident against their will as if that had actually been the case. 

All that fuss for what? 

It wouldn’t be completely impossible for her to have known more about him than he knew about her considering recent developments.

She probably read his file or whatever primer Robby had given her that somehow still had Langdon’s name on it. She’d probably seen his picture in whatever personal data sheet Robby had shown her for preemptive measure. Worse, she’d probably already known about the drugs. The detail Langdon had somehow conveniently left in the myriad of confession he’d dumped on her last night. The truth of it all. All the ugliness that laid quietly beneath what fuelled his addiction. 

Has there been a time tonight where you weren’t being truthful? 

Shit. Perhaps, that was why she was so eager to stick around and be the one to treat Louie. Was it? Did she know? If she did, why didn’t she say something?

She did seem like the confrontational type. Surely, if she’d known, regardless of the reason she came to, she would’ve talked to Langdon. After all, talking was all she wanted to do with him last night up until his… apartment. 

Frank, could we talk about hand-offs?

Was that it? Could that have been the opening-salvo that would eventually lead him to confess to his crimes? 

He feels like he’s about to have a panic attack. 

The guilt coiled around his throat tighter, he could barely breathe. The thought of her knowing—its mere possibility—made Langdon’s hand shake; he nearly categorized it as something akin to a withdrawal.

Christ. What if she already knew?  

He couldn’t be more thrilled he’d decided to ignore her. He couldn’t bring himself to picture the conversation. The way her eyes would look so devastated and so betrayed as he confessed. He wouldn’t just come clean or atone his sins. Telling her the truth would shatter what little he may have started building with her. 

He wouldn’t just lose his license or be sent to jail. 

He’d also lose her. 

If she’d told Robby she knew him, how she came to know of him and the events of last night, he’d be done for. Robby wouldn’t spare him a second to explain. 

He’d ruin him. 

She’d let him. 

Langdon would be thrown out the door just like Robby had done ten months ago. This time, he wouldn’t be able to come back. He’d plummet to rock bottom and his life would be ruined forever. How could he be expected to actually let her expedite his demise? 

He had managed to escape a lot of things in the past. 

His neighbor’s dog who had always chased him down the street; The time he almost got caught sneaking out past his bedtime for a party some classmate from high school had thrown; Being late for Anatomy more times than he’s likely to admit because of frat parties whilst still managing to ace it. 

Escaping started quite easily. It didn’t register that he was actively choosing it. From skirting the lines of curfew and undergrad classes to the more dangerous dalliance with Fate it eventually came out to be. Langdon hadn’t realized the simple concept of escaping had turned into escaping the more dangerous things. 

He had unknowingly turned to sneaking dosages in orders that he’s confident he’d get away with; Stealing drugs he would stuff in his bag not worrying about having to conceal it; Diverting medicine; Risking the oath he’d taken in pursuit of his own care. 

Escaping had been easy because Langdon had managed to do it reflexively. All these years he didn’t have trouble doing it. Last night, escaping was all that he wanted. He wanted to get away from the noise of his now mediocre life. He wanted to escape the pain that’s tied to him forever. He wanted to give himself one night of doing the one thing he was instinctively good at—the one thing he’d always somehow actively chosen. 

Until he decided against it. 

He must’ve played with Fate and exhausted his chances because now he can’t seem to escape things no matter the lengths he’s actively gone through to deal with it. 

He couldn’t escape Robby who’d been hounding him all morning for roaming the same halls as him. He couldn’t escape his triage-sentence. And somehow, even when being put in exile actually worked out in his favor, it was in triage where he had the most trouble escaping. Regardless of the his efforts, he simply couldn’t escape her.

It was cruel, really. 

She was the one person Langdon actually looked forward to seeing after his shift. Now, he couldn’t even bear to look at her for a time longer than a minute. Seeing her felt as though he was being denied over and over again. Not only of his existence but of everything that happened. The bar, the mocktails, and the hundred-mile walk to his apartment. 

He felt confused more than angry. Anger was the one thing he knew he could easily muster to make thinking of her far more bearable. He wanted to be angry at the choices she’d made, regardless if it was for his sake. At least if he was angry, he wouldn’t have to feel the need of grieving the night she had with him and sulk at the thought of losing what he could’ve had before he had it. He almost had it. 

He used to be just Frank. 

Now, he’s nothing else but plain old Dr. Langdon. 

He’d never hated the fact that he was a doctor. He took pride in being one. The license he was holding and the oath he had taken was ingrained within him. He didn’t know he could hate himself for it. 

He wore the MD attached to his name like a badge of honor. Now, he’s sure he loathes its entire existence almost as much as he hated being an addict. (Recovering-addict.) 

He could’ve been working in finance, sentenced to a life grovelling his way up the corporate ladder. He could’ve been a lawyer. Not that he ever entertained the idea at all considering the choices he’d made prior to his ten month-pseudo sabbatical. Maybe it was good he didn’t wind up becoming a lawyer. But then, maybe if he did, he probably got better at hiding his addiction. 

He shook the thought off. It wouldn’t help anyway. 

Each time he glanced onto his badge, he’d still be reminded that he was a doctor; a colleague. 

No longer Frank, just Dr. Langdon. 

He didn’t know how to deal with that. 

So, in the meantime, he’ll deal with Louie Cloverfield. 

As promised, he wheeled Louie into the big ER as soon as Perlah had managed to sneak a room for him. South 15. Near the station most residents camped at for charting. 

He had come across Whitaker, King, and Santos. Whitaker, who has taken two medical students under his wings for a guy who’s yet to receive a new hospital badge with the word “Doctor” on it. King, who has been the first person actually on board with the idea of having him around the ED again. If he hadn’t been spending his time out in triage, he knew he’d take Mel under his wings and teach her a thing or two just like she did him ten months ago. 

And just as he expected, Santos didn’t put much of an effort at masking how she felt seeing him in the workplace. The side eyes and the scoffs she’d been generous in giving was more than enough to let Langdon know where he stood with her. He knows she’d kick him out on the curb if given the chance. Maybe even spit at him too. If he was in her shoes, he wouldn’t want to see let alone breathe the same air as him too. 

Whitaker had jumped off his seat the second he saw Langdon with Louie. Frank had heard about Whitaker’s living situation. It wouldn’t be a surprise if he’d known about the drugs, too.

By the looks of it, he might be right. The urgency that emanated off Whitaker was a clear indication he knew Louie was one of Frank’s meal tickets in the past. 

“Mr. Cloverfield, it’s always nice to see you despite your unfortunate condition.” He says, exchanging glances between the patient and the senior resident holding his wheelchair. 

“Likewise, Doc.”

Langdon doesn’t miss a beat in giving him a rundown of Louie’s case. 

“Who’s the primary?” Whitaker inquired. 

“Robinavitch.” He schooled the expression on his face, but how her name felt so foreign still made him cringe. 

Calling her Robinavitch just felt—wrong. It felt like he was going against what he’s known instinctively for so long. 

He’d only met her last night. 

“Oh—” His gaze flickered onto Santos. Sudden and brief. “Alright, I’ll make sure she finds him.” he said, motioning to take over Louie’s wheelchair. 

Langdon knew what that meant. There was no need to caption the glaring obvious. 

He turned the balls of his feet back towards triage. 

God knows Langdon would gladly take his own arm and give it to Robby if that’s what it takes for him to finally let him be a proper senior resident.

𓂃𓂁𓂃  

You and Trinity Santos have been attached to the hip under her own insistence and despite your own protest. 

She’d been stringing you along whatever case she deemed worthy of her time on the Patient Board. R2s should always stick together. She had said. That’s the first time you ever heard of such a thing. 

It doesn’t take a seasoned detective to tell you how much Santos craved a Robinavitch’s attention. It didn’t matter if it came from you or your brother. Either way, it could get her a step closer to Robby’s glowing recommendation. 

For the time you’ve spent with Santos, you were able to gather that she isn’t exactly a fan of the “Great” Frank Langdon, as he's been called by several medical assistants you’ve come across. 

His return to the ED was quite a big deal, apparently. 

Despite such fact, you notice the intensity and indifference that quickly enveloped Santos’ eyes at the mere mention of Frank’s name, especially when praises for him came from Garcia and Al-Hashimi. 

She nearly gags whenever Dana spoke fondly of him, reminiscing on the past ten months filled with his absence and how she preferred if he had been around. Santos looked like she was being flayed from inside and out the longer she stayed to hear people continue gush about “Frank fucking Langdon,” it was probably the only time she distanced herself from you on her own volition. 

“What’s with you and Langdon?” You heard Al-Hashimi ask her when Frank had somehow wandered out of chairs and into central to send a patient from triage. She’d dismiss it again. At least when it was Al-Hashimi who was asking. 

You did ask her about it when your curiosity had finally won you over. Specifically, what’s it about him that seemed to have irked her deeply. She’d just answer you with something short, something that had a unique adjective attached next to Langdon’s. 

Frank Langdon is an ass, a jerk, and a douchebag. An arrogant son of a bitch Trinity Santos didn’t like seeing in the ER. She said he’d managed to screw up Santos’ first day in the Pitt. Somehow he’d branded her as an arrogant know-it-all that didn’t care about hospital ranks and her seniors. 

It didn’t sound like the Frank you knew. 

You didn’t know how to respond to that. 

Almost every person that talked about Frank had said otherwise. They’ve always found him to be a fairly cool guy; chill. The Pitt to Robby’s Clooney. The golden boy. The heir-apparent slash protege of your beloved brother. Some even went as far as to tell you how they felt for him having gone through what he did. Recovering from addiction coupled with divorce didn’t exactly complement one another. On top of that, Frank had to deal with your brother.

As little as Frank knew about you, you realized there’s not much you knew of him either. Besides the events of last night, you and Frank Langdon were practically strangers. 

The thought of it didn’t sit well with you. You didn’t like the idea of it being a fact notwithstanding your recent activities with Frank Langdon.

Insofar as you were concerned, Frank has only ever been just Frank. A recovering-addict slash divorcé who loved his mocktails as much as walking hundreds of blocks if it meant spending more time with you. 

Who knew the eve of the fourth of July could be so simple?

Amidst the qualities and characteristics that yours do not necessarily jive with Santos’, working with her had been much more bearable than working with Frank Langdon.

You were able to loosen her grip on you when the father of her nine-year old chin lac patient arrived; much to her dismay of course. She’d been airing out her doubts as to the child’s father’s ability to provide the appropriate care his daughter needs, going as far as to paint him in a way that needed child protective services involved. Everything she’d told you was speculative. Most, if not all, hearsay considering it came from the father’s girlfriend who seemed like she didn’t know exactly what she was doing. 

That’s just enough to tire you out by noon. 

“What about you, Dr. Robinavitch?” Mel pulled you from your thoughts. 

You have managed to squeeze in some time to do your charting. Al-Hashimi has been riding every resident she could find upon the use of her tedious AI system. The very same one that has caused an ENT fellow to come running down the ED just to reprimand Whitaker for an oversight he wouldn’t have made if he did his charts the old-fashioned way. 

Mel King has been waiting for your answer for longer than a minute. 

“Huh?” 

She repeats, “Plans for tonight?”

Oh, that. 

Your mind wanders to the not so distant past. 

Dinner. Tonight. After work. 

It seems as though your calendar had cleared up considering the choices you’ve made for the past five hours. 

“Uh, I don’t know. I’ll probably just watch the fireworks at my place.” You answer with what was acceptable. In reality, your plans for tonight pretty much hinged on your brother’s. “What about you guys?”

Whitaker joins in, “I’m gonna drop by Amy’s to help with… her family.”

Right. Santos has also mentioned Dennis’ situation at home. Their home. Considering they’ve been roommates for as long as Langdon has been away from the hospital. 

“Javadi?” Mel had turned to ask Victoria of her plans this evening.

“Me? Oh, I don’t know. I couldn’t figure out which department to go to for my internship so I’m just gonna go fixate on that rather than watch some stupid firework show.” She snarked at no one but the computer. 

“Have you thought about your options?” You inquired. 

She scoffed a laugh, finding the question more of an ultimatum than a harmless query. 

“Got a pretty thin list.” She acts as though she’d been deep in thought. “I’m stuck between doing what I want and disappointing my mother or doing what she wants and disappointing myself.” 

“Good combo.” Whitaker comments.

Your eyes catch a familiar figure moving fast coming from the station, heading for triage. 

Robby.

“What about you, Robbie? Ever thought about double-boarding?” Javadi inquires in turn. 

You hear Whitaker ask the second he heard her, “What—like Santos?” 

Robby catches your gaze, momentarily slowing his pace at the realization of whose ghost it was he just saw. You fought the urge to roll your eyes. It’s already noon and you haven’t gotten the chance to be alone with him since the handover. Clearly, his jurassic age has made him somewhat more like your father. 

“She told my mom she’s looking into it. EM and Surgery.” 

“Ambitious.” Mel comments lightly. “Maybe you can do that too, Dr. Robinavitch.”

“Do what?—Oh, right. Double boarding. Sorry.” You dissent, “No. I can’t. I have too much on my plate.”

Seeing as the said ‘too much’ had just ignored you without batting an eye.

You’ve given double-boarding some thought in your final year in med school. Mel King was right. Doing it was quite ambitious. Just ambitious but not entirely impossible. You would’ve done it if you had the luxury of time and were excused from the familial responsibility of making sure your sibling was kept alive. 

If only they’d pressed further, you might’ve actually answered them with EM and Neuro. 

It doesn’t take long before Trinity joins in the group, seemingly upbeat; fresh from a minor GSW case she joined an hour ago. 

“Hey, Robbie. Working charts?” 

You reply, unamused. “You guessed it.”

“Ugh. Me too. Had to take a break though. Jumped in on some action in Trauma 2. You won’t believe what happened. Fumblevie pulled a shard lodged in a major artery. Got humbled by Garcia real fast. You should’ve seen the look on his face. Too bad you missed it.”

She doesn’t take a moment to acknowledge her peers. The ‘Trinity Santos’ Show seems to be always on wherever she goes. 

“Crash. Huckleberry. Fumblevie. What’s with the nicknames?” You can’t help but ask, prompting two of the owners of said nicknames to get back to their charts, ducking their heads a bit lower as if to hide behind their respective computers.

“It’s a term of endearment.” She states, taking pride in her creativity, “Like Robbie for Robinavitch. Except it’s spelled with ‘ie’ because, well—we already have a Robby.” 

She fails to persuade you. 

“Doesn’t sound too endearing to me.” 

She grinned tauntingly, “Really? I beg to disagree.” 

Mel King looked at you as if to silently plead not to proceed with what you’re about to tell Santos. You managed to subtly wink at her. After all, you’ve seen how Santos has been treating her since this morning. The side eyes. The condescending demeanor. The constant dismissal of Mel’s attempt at supervision. Quite a nerve really, considering PTMC was a teaching hospital and Mel was one of her seniors. 

“Huh.” You appear amused, but not quite. “So you’re telling me, should I decide to call you a jerk and a bully, you’d find it endearing?”

Santos couldn’t get a word in edgewise. “I—“

“No? Yeah, thought so too.” 

You finally say just as you stand and leave.

You caught sight of Frank when he walked past Dana’s station, most likely headed back to triage. He wasn’t allowed to go anywhere else but triage. Always triage. If it hadn’t been pointed out by Jesse, it would have taken you twice as long to notice. You just thought he was, for the most part, trying to avoid you. 

The why as to the Langdon-Ban still remains curious; unclear. You didn’t know exactly why, given how he’s been so clearly missed by everyone else in the ER. 

Well, the same cannot really be said for Santos. 

He was finishing a can of Red Bull when you called his attention.

“Langdon!” 

He stopped mid-sip. When it dawned on him that it was indeed your voice, he carefully let go of the spent can into the bin as if attempting to will time in his favor and make you let him leave.

You called him again. This time, striding towards him.

There wasn’t a chance he’d get to slip past you.

A smirk lifts faintly upon seeing how your voice willed Frank Langdon against his own body. 

He turned his heels towards where you stood. 

“Robinavitch.” 

That was rather enough for the faint grin to disappear. 

“I need a senior for my case.” you say the second you were within earshot. “Would you sign on for Louie?” 

A glint flashed in his eyes for a second. You wouldn’t have caught it if you weren't looking at him so attentively. It was gone the second he blinked, making the way his gaze landed on you feel foreign. 

That has become a habit of his since morning. 

There was something in his eyes that spoke more than just of indifference. Regardless of how hard you try to discern it, Frank has never looked at you long enough for you to be able to read him. 

He wasn’t alienating you. 

He was alienating himself from you on purpose. 

“I can’t. I’m needed in triage.” He said coolly. 

It seemed as though you happened to appear each time Frank felt like he’s losing. 

When he was shunned away in scut-island. When he was needing to feel like he could still play the part. It hadn’t been that long since he’d wished to be treated like a senior resident yet here you were, prepared to throw him a life line even before he got to ask. 

He hated the fact that you were there for him. He hated that you were trying to reach out no matter the facade he managed to put up. He hated how the mere mention of his name makes the idea of walking utterly incomprehensible even for a man of his brilliance. 

If you planned on being this accessible for Frank Langdon, why did you have to deny you knew him at all? 

No matter how hard he tried to wrap his head around such query, he couldn’t think of a sensible answer. Each time he thought of you, he felt betrayed over and over again to the point he’s beginning to lose focus.

“Oh, we both know Donnie’s got that covered. Besides, Samira and Joy are there with him. Triage has got way too many hands as it is, I was hoping I can borrow yours for a while?” 

There was a coy expression printed on your face and you know you were barely trying to conceal that you were being despicable on purpose. You’re aware that he knows; as he was. He’s sure of it. He wished you weren’t being this cruel. 

“Come, Louie’s waiting.” 

You don’t spare him the chance of declining as you turn your back to him and leave, hoping that he’d followed and picked up pace.

He wanted to hate you but couldn’t. For now, he’ll hate himself for doing exactly what you wanted. 

It had been more than an hour since you last saw Louie. 

Hour Six had been just the same as the hour it followed. Which is quite lucky considering you’ve expected much worse. 

There have been at least four trauma patients that entered through the emergency doors since Frank had managed to get Louie in the big ER. GSWs, MVCs, and one that had been caused by a firecracker that blew up prematurely hitting the victim’s chest. The number of patients wasn't overwhelming per se. Regardless, the trauma cases that have come and gone both trauma rooms were within the Pitt’s usual numbers for things to be deemed under control. 

Louie has been placed on IV albumin for the Paracentesis procedure he’d apparently already had for the last several visits he’d made in the past six months. He needs to give his liver a break, otherwise his next visit could be fatal. 

He’d been expecting you when the door to his room swung open. 

“How are you feeling, Louie?” 

“Feelin’ like I’m due for another drink.” 

You gave a wan smile, “I can get you water or some juice if you’d like.” 

“He’s talking about Buddweiser.” Frank commented, his voice still distant like before. 

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” 

Perlah had left to tend on other patients by the time you got back. Louie had successfully filled two more bottles totalling his liter-count to four. You were just in time to make the transfer. 

“I can handle the stoppage. You transfer.” Frank tells you in as much a manner as an order. 

He was talking like a senior resident. 

“How’s your tooth?” He asked Louie whilst both of his gloved-hands worked on the latex tube to give you ample space for the transfer. 

“Still numb. But, I know it’s there.” 

“Stopcock on.” He captioned. 

“Transferring—” You take the bottom end of the catheter out of the fourth bottle and into a fresh one. “—resume procedure.” 

Clear fluid resumed to trickle down the fifth bottle by the time you got back on your feet. Before you could realize, Frank was no longer near you. It was as if he couldn’t last a minute longer being that close to you. 

You were right. 

For Frank, being in close proximity with you was bad enough that surely he shouldn’t be compelled to maintain sharing a tight space with you. The way he can smell the scent of your shampoo and the undeniable fact that he can still smell some of his cologne in the shirt you were wearing just made longing for you even worse. 

He was already over to the other side of Louie’s bed, busying himself as he checked the latter’s stomach with his stethoscope. 

It hadn’t even registered for you to notice. 

“How’s your first day going, doc?” Unlike the man standing across from you, Louie was kind enough to initiate a conversation. 

“It’s... more than what I’d expected.” You answer, absent-mindedly glancing over Frank who didn’t seem to care about what you had to say. 

“First day’s always been a fluke for me.” He said, “Then again, so are first pancakes.”

“Stomach’s looking a lot better, Louie. It’ll be at least half an hour for the last bottle. After that, we can take care of your tooth.” Frank informed him, voice distant to the only person who didn’t happen to lack the awareness of it. 

Instead of acknowledging his assessment, Louie inquires, “How about you, doc? How are the kids?”

You see a warm smile creep up his lips at the mere mention of his children. 

He almost looked like the Frank you knew. 

“They’ve adjusted pretty well with the divorce. Tanner’s five. Penny had just turned three.”

You stared at him. It hadn’t occurred to you how close they might’ve been for Frank to open up to him that easily. Louie knew about his kids and Frank had willingly confided in him about his divorce. It was almost as if Louie weren’t just… a frequent flyer. 

You didn’t say a word and let them chat in their own little bubble as you put what’s left of the necessary orders for Louie. Just the last of the routinary lab test and his usual dosage for painkillers. You also prescribed him a numbing cream to accommodate him before he could see the dentist. 

Louie had just finished lecturing Frank on the ways he can maintain his front yard when he turned his attention to you. 

You shot your head up as you heard him call.

“Dr. Robinavitch,”

“What is it, Louie?” 

“I’m really glad you’re both my doctors today.” 

You gave him an earnest smile. You can feel Frank’s gaze on you but decide there wasn’t a point to meeting his eyes when he’d do nothing else but look away in just a split second before you manage to do so. 

“I’m just as glad I wandered around triage and saw your passport. There wasn’t much to it compared to your records.”

Frank grew tense. 

He wishes you hadn’t noticed. 

“You saw his records?” He asked, quite possibly the first time he’d purposely talked to you. 

You hum affirmatively. 

“Just the past six months.”

You notice him relax and let his shoulders drop.

“It’s what was available first hand. I could go check,—” 

He refuses almost immediately. “No need. I’m familiar with him.”

The door to South 15 swung open before you got the chance to inquire more. 

Your brother was looking at you and Frank with an arched brow. 

“Everything ok here?”

“Yes.” You let him know, “After the pints are done, Dr. Langdon’s going to work on Louie’s tooth.”

Robby had become visibly irked, possibly appalled by the thought of Langdon taking over. 

“Who’s his primary?” He mostly demanded rather than inquired. He went to the monitor and tapped his badge to access Louie’s record. “You ordered the librium?”

Frank was stoned to his feet and failed to answer. 

Despite being oblivious to the tension in the air between your sibling and your… chief resident, you answered. 

“I did. I made all the orders.”

There’s relief that washed over Robby’s face he’s fully aware of only you noticing. He was no longer trying to hide his expressions from you considering you’d still know nonetheless; there was really not much point in attempting to do so. 

“You can work on the tooth alone.” He addressed you with intent, his tone biting. “Take Joy. Have her observe.” 

It was unnecessary and all the MS had already been preoccupied by cases far worse than Louie’s. 

You hold your ground in protest.

“I already have Dr. Lang—”

“This is still a teaching hospital. I haven’t seen you supervise any of the MS.” He said flatly as you noticed him shot a pointed look at Frank. He doesn’t spare you enough time to contradict any more of his orders as he spoke to your senior, “Tell Joy Robinavitch needs her when you get back to triage. Now.”

Frank walked out of the room the moment Robby had let go of the door. He finally had a window to leave and he gladly took it with both hands at the mercy of your brother. 

You know he’d be off ignoring you for as long as he could until such time you come up with another case to force him to be around you again. 

You quickly excuse yourself from Louie and head for the door to go after Frank Langdon. 

You wanted a moment with him. You needed time to explain yourself. Tell him about Robby. Tell him about the reason why you were back in Pittsburgh and why you had to deny you knew each other. 

Regardless of how you’re guilt-stricken and scared of how he might take it, you knew you had to try. You owe him that much. 

If only he’d let you be in the same room as him long enough for you to begin. 

“—if I could take back what happened, I would. But, I can’t.” 

Your steps halted the second you heard his voice coming from the lockers. 

Frank’s voice was tense and desperate. It was as though he was running out of time trying to make out whatever he was in the middle of explaining.

You hear receding footsteps. But just as you’re about to resume walking, you hear her speak. 

“I don’t buy it.” Santos scoffed a laugh. “Everyone thinks you're just an addict who went to rehab, and you've convinced everyone here that you've changed and you're owning up to your mistakes, and they welcome you back with open arms because you're still the golden boy, and I think it's bullshit.”

She spoke to him with vile and absolute disgust just enough to tug at your chest. 

“I’m genuinely sorry. I know you hate my guts. I know I’m the last person you wanted to be stuck in a shift as fucked up as this one. I know it doesn’t look like it, but I’ve faced my fair share of punishment for what I did. I’m doing the best I can—”

You bite the insides of your cheeks. You never imagined you’d get to hear him speak of himself so lowly like this. 

If Santos could break his neck with her heel, you know Frank wouldn’t do much other than take it. Whatever Santos had fuelling her hatred towards him, Frank was taking every blow she carelessly threw at him. 

“I don’t care even if you lose an arm for it.” She bit and let out another laugh as if to mock him. “You shouldn’t be here. I should’ve reported you for what you did. You should have lost your license and gone to prison.”

“I’m really sorry, Trinity.” You notice his voice beginning to falter. “You don’t have to accept it. I just—I wanted to apologize.”

“I’m not absolving you of your guilt by taking your apology.” You notice the same biting tone Robby had whenever he spoke to Frank. “You really want to atone for your sins? Tell everyone what you did. Until then, stay out of my way.” 

Trinity Santos made her way back into the big ER with nary a word as if nothing had happened. The nurses who you were sure to have overheard them didn’t seem to make it known. 

They avoided your gaze as much as Trinity’s when you walked past them. 

He looked defeated by the time you’d seen him. 

It hadn’t occurred to him that he was no longer the only person standing in the corridor. That he wasn’t the only person who’s willing to take the brunt of whatever’s left of Santos’ rage.

“Frank—”

The color of his face betrayed him by the time you met his gaze. Panic laced his ocean eyes at the sight of you; it had made him seem even more pale than he already was. 

“What happened?” 

You reached out, hands threading the gap that parted you from one another.

“How could you let her talk to you like that?”

He started walking towards you, shoulders squared up and his voice just as dismissive as before. 

“Worry about your own problems, Robinavitch.” He deadpanned. “You’re here to babysit Robby; not me.”

𓂃𓂁𓂃

Langdon felt sick to his stomach the second he left her. 

It seemed as though six months of rehab washed the drugs off his system along with his sense of self-preservation. He hadn’t thought about the possibility of anyone walking into his conversation with Santos. Worse, he hadn’t expected to see her at all. As far as she was concerned, Langdon had left her still taking care of Louie. 

Everyone had gone to the recent trauma patient wheeled in by Bosco and Otero. If he hadn’t turned to take the path nearest to Louie’s room for triage, he wouldn’t have crossed paths with her. 

Now he had. Out of all the people who didn’t have the time of day to extend basic courtesy of leaving Langdon to mind his own business, she was the person who happened to hear all the vile things Santos had to say about him in the exact moment that appeared to be the lowest he would have in his shift.

It’s bad enough he also had to endure being denied by her, now, he’s sure with absolute certainty she’d hate him for using Robby against her. He questioned multiple times how someone could be so cruel, funny how he was just the same. 

The only consolation Langdon had for himself was the unlikelihood of her hearing the entirety of his and Santos’ conversation. The worry in her eyes could attest to the fact she hadn’t accidentally came to know that she’d slept with a fucking felon. 

Which also meant Robby hadn’t told her about his addiction. 

Being in the place he abused in order to acquire pills coupled with one of the many patients he’d stolen it from had been such a high risk for his recovery. He’s aware of it. He’d been dreading it the second he saw Louie in the waiting room despite his attempt at shoving it in the deepest crevices of his mind. 

He wasn’t quite prepared to deal with having to worry about her finding out too. Langdon didn’t think seeing her at work would ever be a possibility. If it ever were, it’d only be because of a simple ache enough to force her into the emergency room. At least then, Langdon would be able to take care of her. She’d tell everyone she knew him, she wouldn’t need to deny him at all. She’d let him be her doctor. She’d let him care for her and be with her. 

The possibility that she’d be wearing the same scrubs as he was hadn’t occurred to him as much as the fact that she was also going to be Robby’s sister. 

God. Why did she have to be related to him at all?

With her around, taking over Louie’s case, forcing him to be stuck in triage with her and actively going against Robby’s orders had just upped the ante for Langdon. There were just so many layers and so many strings that complicated things further insofar as she was concerned, Frank couldn’t wrap his head around it as fast as he should’ve to save whatever it was he thought he had with her. 

Now he hates himself for letting her go. 

All of this wouldn’t have happened if he stayed in bed with her. They’d still be curled up in his sheets, entangled in each other’s bodies despite it being mid-day of the fourth of July. They’d stay in bed and rot in it all day. He wouldn’t have to worry about being back. She wouldn’t have to worry about her big day. 

But alas, today has come, and it’s turning out to be more than just a big day; it almost amounted to something significant as to alter not just her life but also Langdon’s. 

“Dr. Langdon,” said a voice that barred him from exiting Central. 

“Dr. Al-Hashimi.”

“I’ve heard nice things about you.” she started. “Are you back to join us?” 

Langdon stilled and caged his expression. 

“Not yet. I was just heading back to triage. Robby deems it best for me to handle things over there.”

She looked at him, seemingly unenthused by his deliberate response. 

“I assume you have it under control?” 

“Yes, Donnie and I got it covered.” 

“Good. I don’t think Donnie needs any more supervision. I want you to let him know he’s in charge on your way back.” 

She said it as a matter-of-fact, barely leaving space for Langdon to oppose and further press on Robby’s hand wrapped around his neck. 

“Then, I want you to come back here and join us. I’m expecting a minor GSW en route in less than five minutes.”

The thrill of another attending trusting him made Langdon want to ignore prior orders. A chance to redeem himself was being handed to him on a silver platter by an attending, no less. 

If he has to gain the trust and approval of his attending, he should take it. Anyway, it didn’t always have to be from Michael Robinavitch. 

The corner of his lips quirk. 

“Will do.”

𓂃𓂁𓂃

Robby has caught Langdon thrice in the ER in the last three hours. A little too frequent than he’d prefer, a little too much exposure he couldn’t risk for Frank Langdon. 

He had his reasons for putting Frank in exile. He didn’t make it simply out of spite. There’s just too much going on in the ER. Too much of what’s enough to let Frank slip through the cracks—fall deep into the abyss that it would take a lot more than just Robby to save him a second time. 

Frank has been clean for ten months; sober after six months of rehab and four months into his inevitable forever. He sat amongst other patients by the waiting room with his tail tucked between his legs hoping his mentor would tap his shoulder—be the one to hold the door he’d been dreading to enter. 

Frank has been divorced too as per the latest gossip that spread through the hospital grapevine. 

He’s not wearing his ring. Princess had whispered to Perlah in Tagalog. 

Of course, Robby didn’t know if that’s what she said exactly. He had to grasp on the context of her dramatically waiving her ring finger to pick up on what’s going on in their covert conversation. 

Robby had noticed it too, the ringless finger. Back when he’d taken Baby Jane Doe from Frank’s arms right before he pushed him back to triage. He’d also noticed how it seemed like Frank was looking for someone—or worse—something else other than his previous mentor. 

That alone scared Robby to his core. 

He’d been blinded by Frank’s talent and brilliance back then so much so that he missed all the signs that led to the biting conclusion of his addiction. 

The constant energy. The crash that manifested through outbursts—oftentimes anger—frustration. The defensive line Frank held to hold down the fort of his ugly secret. Robby had only been made aware of it when Santos came around, but as he thought of it one week after the PittFest shooting, he’d realized how Frank’s addiction bled through fifteen hours of his life in the ED. 

Robby couldn’t let that happen. 

Not again. Not when he’s still around. Not ever. 

He has managed and practically gotten away with what happened on that fateful day in September insofar as Frank was concerned. Ten months and he’d kept the one thing that concerned Frank under wraps and under control. Santos knew about the drugs. Gloria knew of the addiction. The latter outweighs the other, and he knew Santos wasn’t the kind to break her word.

Jack Abbot had unknowingly made things more complicated when he dragged Robby’s sister into the picture. 

He wasn’t worried about Al-Hashimi. In fact, she was the last on his list. If he's being honest, she wouldn’t make the cut if it hadn’t been for her plan against the nickname of his ED. She’s not the type to force her hand on things beyond her control. Boundaries, some might say, which is why Robby knew exactly how to deal with Al-Hashimi. 

Robby did not know how to deal with her. 

Now that she’s around, there’s one more person he needs to hide this secret from. The one person who will most likely figure it out, if and when she happened to know more than what meets the eye. 

For now, Robby had a better chance at avoiding his own sister.

His chances were slim when it came to Frank.

He wasn’t aware he was coming back. 

Gloria hadn’t mentioned anything about it just as Dana failed to give him a heads up as to the fact he’d find Frank sitting in chairs like he was put on time out. Robby should’ve expected to be blindsided; telling him shit was an option people didn’t seem to have the mind to make today out of all days. 

Robby still wishes Frank hadn’t been around, especially now that Robinavitch was. 

Now that she’s roaming the same halls as him, he knew he had to be more careful. It meant he needed to be more intentional; more calculative and precise. 

With his actions and with his lies. 

One slip of the tongue and she’d immediately catch on what he’d been hiding from everyone in the ER. One more time he sees Frank traipsing around Central and the risks double down. 

He had to contain Langdon. He needs to be kept away from her.

Robby had willingly put himself in front of a loaded revolver, completely oblivious as to the time it would go off. One out of six. That’s how Russian roulette worked. He’d only be able to keep Frank’s secret under wraps five times. 

Five times that’s worth the risk if it meant he’d get to save Frank. 

“Dr. Robby to South 15, Code Blue—Dr. Robby to South 15, Code Blue.”

Louie. Fuck.

Robby zipped up his pants and got himself out of the restroom in split seconds. 

𓂃𓂁𓂃

Things in the ER have gotten worse by Hour Nine. 

The surge of patients coming in due to the holiday coupled with the season’s heat was quite overwhelming. Not to mention, two patients died on your table on your first day. 

Louie Cloverfield. Austin Green. 

One was imminent. One could have been prevented. 

You were with Mckay’s knee-frac slash cancer patient when everything unfolded with Louie. No one even bothered to page you as it happened let alone tell you what happened until you returned to South to report on what’s left of his labs. 

Your liver guy’s dead. 

That’s what Ogilvie told you. It was too simple. Time-efficient and detached. He informed you that the first patient who made you feel welcome in the hospital died as if his death didn’t make so much of a dent in his shift. 

You wanted to cry. So, you did. Just a tear or two after the 5-minute briefing your brother had marked out of everyone’s shift-schedule. You hadn’t known Louie that well. It’s unfair that you didn’t have the chance. But as Perlah held your hand with a gentle and knowing squeeze, you feel as though the time you’ve spent with him mattered as much as everyone else’s. 

Frank had shown everyone a picture he found in Louie’s pocket. Turns out he did have a wife and a child. A family gone in a crash. 

They left some time ago. 

I’ll find them. Soon enough. 

It all made sense. 

How can one be expected to ever recover?

Then, Ogilvie messed up Austin Green’s routinary tests, you almost felt guilty about telling-off Santos on how she referred to him as Fumbilvie. He has, in fact, fumbled and brought you along with him. 

The kid was way in over his head to consult the test he had ordered with his superior. At this point, you wouldn’t mind if he consulted some other doctor like Samira or Santos instead of you. He could’ve easily done that given the fact that the main reason as to why he didn’t was that ‘he couldn’t find you.’ 

Fucking dick. 

He may have volunteered to assist Dr. Shamsi and Garcia for his surgery but it wouldn’t make up for the fact that you had lost the ball insofar as doctoring and mentoring was concerned. 

Now, Austin Green is dead. His death may not have been on the actual table in your trauma room, but you had a hand in it as his primary doctor. Garcia and her friends merely attempted to clean up after your mess. 

Here you were thinking you could babysit your brother. 

Frank had a point. How could he expect you to worry about him too when you can barely even keep yourself together?

Your personal failures kept on piling up and it's begun to bleed into your professional life. You don’t need to speak of it, let alone think about it. If you lose one more patient, if you fuck up another time, and if you lose Robby in the midst of it, you know you’re going to crumble. 

You glanced at the clock. Good lord. 

It’s not even past 4:00 PM. 

The door to the breakroom swung open. 

Someone called your name. Cassie Mckay. 

“M75. North 5. I need you.” 

“Oh—okay. Be right there.”

You shot up to your feet, leaving your seat fast. 

Cassie Mckay had been the only doctor in the ED that seemed like got her shit together. She’d remained calm, collected, and fairly level headed despite having watched her knee-frac patient succumb to cancer. 

Now, she wasn’t even close to that. It was the first time you’d seen her frantic with panic lacing her eyes, you highly doubt the case was something short of a M75. 

She was already far gone by the time you got out of the breakroom. 

Boy, was she fast. It did nothing but strengthen your assumption. 

You were nearly running with each stride you took, trying to catch up with one of your mentors when—  

“Hey, Robbie—navitch, I think we should talk.” 

If it hadn’t been for Santos, you would’ve probably caught up with your superior. 

“I can’t right now, Dr. Santos.” You dismiss her just as you return to walking, “I have a patient in North 5 waiting for me.” 

Somehow she continued to catch up, matching your pace as the two of you rounded your way into central.  

“It'd just take a minute. It’d be best for us to talk, I think we may have gotten off on the wrong foot.” 

Goodness, she has got to have the worst timing ever. At the rate she was going it seemed as though she wouldn’t let this go; wouldn’t let you go. 

“Alright fine, Dr. Santos. If this is what you want,” 

You begin, losing patience by the minute.  

Across the room, Princess grabbed Perlah by her arm to stop her mid-track. Meanwhile, Donnie who was just returning from the lockers with Langdon, grabbed the latter by his scrubs to drag him from walking back to triage.

The sound of charting stopped. 

Emma almost bumped into a wall. Samira contemplated moving on with a patient, but nonetheless proceeded to move along. Dana—well, Dana watched.

You and Santos stood before everyone else in Central, unaware of the attention pinned on the only R2s at the same time. 

“I get that you want to build some rapport here because I’m Robby’s sister. You don’t have to deny it, I can sense your desperation from a mile away.” you crossed your arms to your chest, “I want us to get along, but you are making it very hard for me to like you.” 

Santos was about to argue otherwise, but couldn’t get a word in edgewise. 

“You are a skilled doctor, I’ll give you that, but, I’m afraid you lack the sense of humanity logically required for this job. So, yes. You’re right. We have gotten off on the wrong foot, but you only have yourself to blame for it.” 

You start to retreat. 

Worry about your problems, Robinavitch. 

You’re here to babysit Robby, not me. 

It just so happened that you were far from being done. 

“And might I suggest, since you wanted to talk, if you don’t want a deposition happening in your future, you should think about those endearments of yours. It’s also high time you read up on ADA. I wouldn’t want you to lose two years of residency just because you happened to be too much of a prick towards a recovering-addict.”

By the time you looked up and gathered enough sense to keep your head afloat, every gaze was pinned on you; some skeptical, most of which amused. 

Who knew Robby’s sister happened to be as much of a dick as he was? 

You resumed your path to North 5, ignoring the uncomfortable silence that immediately sat around the nurse’s station and the fact that Frank Langdon had just witnessed your outburst. 

You hate it. 

You hate him for staying. 

The one time he actually paid attention, purposely looked your way, and it just had to be your finest moment. 

Of course. Nothing has ever worked your way. It would be highly delusional of you to expect otherwise. 

You met your brother’s gaze by the time you caught on with Mckay. You haven’t seen him since Louie. 

He had his arms crossed to his chest, looking uncertain. Worried. Perhaps, with a hint of annoyance discernible from a distance. His face tensed in a way that tells you he wasn’t exactly thrilled to be around—you.

Was it because of you? Possibly. 

It just doesn’t feel like it. 

You brushed the inner turmoil aside and eased your way into their conversation. 

“We have a shoulder situation?” You inquire the moment you were within earshot. 

He nodded, briefly looking back on the counter to hand you a hospital tablet. 

“More than a shoulder situation. We got ICE in the building.”

“What? Why?”

“They brought in the shoulder patient. Pranita Shah. Said she got caught trying to flee a raid or some operation they weren’t supposed to be doing.” Cassie snided with contempt. 

“Wow. Okay—alright, where do you need me now?” 

You turn to your brother as he surveyed the ER, taking a quick scan just before his eyes landed onto you and Cassie. 

“I need a hand with—” 

Robby cuts Mckay mid-sentence, “Take Robinavitch.”

“I was going to.”

“As the treating physician.” He supplemented. 

“What—? She’s an R2.” She turned to you apologetically as if to be remorseful of having enforced the imaginary ED ladder. 

He only shook his head, “Doesn’t matter now. I’ll explain later—just work with her.” He then turned to you with a knowing look on his face, one which you quite instantly understood, “Can you handle this?” 

“Yes.” you answer determinedly, not needing to think twice of whatever lies ahead. Not of the fact that you didn’t have your license, just that there was a lot at stake. 

Before Robby lets you go, he stressed directly at Cassie, “The chart has to state she’s the treating physician, got it?” 

“Got it, boss.”

Two unnecessarily armed men towered over beds by the time you caught sight of Pranita.

“Alright, Pranita, I’ve got good news. We can begin treating you. This is Dr. Robinavitch and she will be overseeing your care today.” Cassie prefaced before turning to you, “Agents Correa and Russo. They brought her in about fifteen minutes ago.”

“Why does she need two doctors?” One of the agents snarled through the mask he was wearing. He wasn’t in his uniform nor was he wearing a tag. 

You quickly glanced onto the second agent, hoping to get more than the fact that they were ICE. Agent Correa was the name stitched to the chest of the uniformed agent. A lot shorter than Russo. There was the slightest hint of diplomacy in the manner he carried himself. You can work with that. 

“Protocol.” You replied with a stern look just before you eyed the zip-tie wrapped around both Pranita’s wrists as makeshift hand-cuffs and her shaking hands, “Why don’t you tell me what happened?”

She nodded frantically, “I was—”

“She took a nasty fall. Her shoulder. Screamed in pain when we put the ties on her.” Russo interrupted.

“She fell?” You asked sarcastically as you restrained yourself from rolling your eyes.

You knew exactly what he was doing. 

“We were conducting a sweep at her restaurant. Everyone in the kitchen took off. She was shoved down some alley stairs.”

Cassie suggested, “Could be a rotator cuff tear or an AC separation.”

“Could be.” you affirmed. “Let’s do her vitals first then PA and drop arm test.”

“What are those?” Agent Russo directed the inquiry at you. 

“Just some routinary test to see if we can rule out any fracture.” You answered, just as you motioned for Jesse to join Pranita’s care team. “I need her ties removed so we can check her vitals.”

Both agents exchanged looks but neither of them offered any protest. Correa was the one who cut off the ties tightly coiled around Pranita’s wrists, seemingly unnecessary considering how ‘tight’ her security already was. 

You alongside Cassie and Jesse began Pranita’s treatment with a Painful Arc test. Her heart rate had gone up to 110 by the time you conducted the drop arm test. Both tests came out positive which meant Pranita’s case would require an X-ray and a few more physicals that would cause her to stay longer. Much to the agents’ dismay, it also meant having to sit in the ER longer than they initially intended to; just as you expected. 

Russo barely waited for a minute to pass to attempt escorting Pranita out of the hospital by the time you left to get her X-ray results and for Cassie to tend to her other patients. You’ve entrusted Pranita’s care over to Jesse for the time being, hoping she’d be at ease with someone from the hospital looking out for her besides the two federal agents who couldn’t be bothered to show up wearing what they’re supposed to in the conduct of legitimate operations.

“We’re going.” Russo declared. “Step aside.” 

Jesse moved, using his body to shield Pranita from Russo’s line of sight. 

“This will only take a minute.” He said, voice calm and certain. “She needs a sling.”  

“I don’t care.” 

Correa snarled, “We’re done waiting.” 

“Move.” Russo aggressively shoved Jesse, moving towards Pranita. 

He took her by her good arm, but the force nonetheless hurt her. 

She groaned in pain. 

“Hey man, you’re hurting her!” 

Jesse barely got the chance to step in when Correa proceeded to grab him. 

Commotion formed almost instantly. You were gone for half a ten-minute mark to work on Pranita’s Clearance and Transfer Order. Specifically, that she was yet to be cleared for her injuries.

“What the hell is happening?"

Dana yelled from the station.

“—Robby!” 

People were running away and towards North simultaneously by the time you got out of the elevator, bearing in your hands Pranita’s papers. 

“What’s the matter?” you hurriedly asked, stopping one of the nurses on their tracks. 

“That ICE patient—”

You bolted before she got the chance to finish the sentence. You ran towards North 5 where you saw Jesse being pinned on the ground by Correa as he locked shut a set of hand-cuffs around his wrists in an attempt to immobilize him. 

“Would you mind telling me what the hell is going on here?” You demanded the second you’ve managed to insert yourself into the mess bleeding throughout the North wing. 

“Your nurse is interfering.” Russo stated with absolute certainty, eyeing Jesse who still had his face mere inches from the floor. 

You pull out a card resting idly and unassumingly inside your chest pocket. It hadn’t even occurred to you that it was there despite knowing it didn’t have the same worth as it did back home. Old habits die hard, so they say.

You extend your hand onto both agents in order for them to see its content. 

“Quite sure you remember me from earlier. I’m Pranita’s treating physician and I’m also an attorney licensed in New York.” you announced, causing Jesse to stop squirming on the floor and a few more heads to turn onto where you stood. 

Including Frank Langdon’s.

“You have no jurisdiction here, Doctor.” Correa stated.

You retracted the card and placed it back in your pocket. “I agree. But immigration is a federal matter, is it not? And right now, licensed or not, I’m bound to protect my nurse just as much as you are mandated to proceed with whatever you have against Pranita Shah.”

Russo glanced over at Correa, at you then at Jesse. 

“Get him up.”

“Robbie, I didn’t do anything.” Jesse exclaimed the second he was on his feet, “I just need to give her a sling.”

You turn to him, instructing in a low voice, “Don’t say anything. Let me handle this.”

“This patient hasn't been cleared for discharge.” You inform the officer, handing him the order. 

He takes it, barely spares a second to read the same. 

“We’ve been here for more than an hour.” Russo said. “You’re in PA. Your license is as good as this scrap of paper.”

You fight the urge to punch him in the face. 

“I am not putting that in question nor am I asserting my authority, officer. I’m advocating for my patient and the safety of our staff. Now, as a medical practitioner, I’m informing you that this patient is not medically cleared for transport. I am risking liability for this hospital if I let you take her in this condition.” You stressed, “As for my nurse. Why is he in handcuffs, officer?”

Correa declared, “He’s interfering with the operation.” 

“He’s acting on my direct order. As I’ve said, the patient is not clear for discharge.” You countered.

“He physically interfered with a federal investigation.”

“How so?” 

“He didn’t move when I asked him to.” 

“Didn’t?” A smirk lifts ever so slightly at the corner of your lips, “Are you saying there wasn’t refusal that amounted to interference necessitating arrest?” 

The agent doesn’t answer. 

“For the safety of my staff, I need this on record. I need an answer. Was there refusal, Officer?” 

“None.”

“For the record, you just told me there was no refusal. My nurse didn’t refuse at all.” You repeat for the benefit of those eavesdropping, “Are you still arresting this nurse, Officer?”

“He’s obstructing the operation.” 

“That’s not an answer.” 

“We’re arresting him for obstruction.” 

“Do you have a warrant for this arrest?” You hold your ground, “I need a judicial warrant pertaining to the arrest of my nurse.”

Both agents failed to answer.

“Nurse Jesse is a citizen of this country and a licensed medical practitioner acting within the scope of patient care. He’s neither acting against the directive of federal agents nor actively obstructing this operation. He was merely exercising medical judgment as is clearly stated in that medical order you are currently holding.” You assert. “I’m only providing you with the facts as they appear to me. And speaking on behalf of my nurse and in the interest of this hospital—very clearly, he’s not the subject of your operation.”

“We’re still taking him for processing.” 

“If you proceed, the hospital will be challenging the same. I’m prepared to accompany him, question your cause as well as the procedure by which you’ve executed this warrantless arrest.” You declared, voice exuding with confidence different from that of a doctor’s. “If so, I’m going to need your names and badge numbers.” 

Russo and Correa fell silent, looking at one another as though waiting for who gets to drop the ball. 

A beat passed and Correa finally conceded.

“Just give her the sling.”

“What are you saying?” You inquire, needing to hear him say the exact words that would liberate Jesse. 

“We’re going to wait.” Russo clarified. 

“Take the cuffs off.” Correa told him just as he turned to you, “We are not leaving without her.” 

“No one's stopping you. We’re not going to interfere with your job. Just let us do ours. It will only take a minute.” 

The cuffs are off. 

“Jesse, get to work.” You ordered.

Jesse looked at you reluctantly. You reassure him, squeezing his shoulder as you give him a gentle nudge to proceed.  

“Alright. Please hand me the order, officer.” You tell him, making the necessary amendments thereto, finally signing Pranita’s medical clearance.

Afterwards, it didn’t take long for the ICE agents to leave with Pranita. Once they were out the door, the ED finally breathes.

So does Jesse. 

“You okay?” You check on him.

Jesse turned to you, chest still heaving with adrenaline. 

“You’re a fucking rockstar. Thank you.” 

Across the wing Donnie whispers to Langdon, “Robinavitch is a badass.”

Some people clapped and cheered. 

Most were glad the whole thing was over.

“Good job.” Robby commended once he met you and Jesse on your way back to the station. Cassie was standing beside him mirroring the same grin your brother had on his face albeit more pronounced and less concealed. 

Robby quickly turned to everyone, his voice emanating through Central. 

“Show’s over! Everybody get back to work.”

He then turns to Mckay who was already nodding in approval, 

“Now you know.”

𓂃𓂁𓂃

Langdon felt as though he was dazed for the entire hour that followed the ICE incident. He wasn’t high, just—distracted. So much so that he’d knocked over a filing rack Dana had spent half an hour categorizing. 

He’d never been so distracted over the years spent working in the ER. Even when he roamed the halls of the Pitt high as a kite, he was able to get things done. Plural. Multiple. Things. He was high but he was productive at the very least. 

Now, he’s sober and clumsy and causing Dana Evans problems she would normally have to deal with a five year-old kid at home. If she wanted a mess so juvenile, she wouldn’t have come to work to mother a grown-ass man like Langdon. 

Despite all the patients he surprisingly managed to treat following his parole, courtesy of Al-Hashimi, he couldn’t bring himself to think about anything else other than Robby’s sister. 

All of his problems ultimately led him straight to Robby’s sister. 

Robby’s doctor-lawyer sister. 

She may not be one in PA, but she was nonetheless still a lawyer. A doctor. And Robby’s sister.

Langdon can keep repeating it, listing it, running it on loop in his head but it won’t stop from being true. 

Fucking hell. 

Langdon might as well turn himself in at this point. 

He was stuck between having to deal with her and Robby himself. Langdon didn’t know which was worse.

It seemed as though his first day hadn't gone through all its worse flips and turns in order to make everything just all the more horrifying for Langdon.

He wasn’t just worried. To reduce what he’s feeling into something close to being worried would be an utter understatement. 

She knew how to work both systems in her favor; see anomalies as fast as someone smelling gas leak from a pipeline. One wrong move, one innocent review of patient records, she’ll know. She’ll find out the truth herself, Robby wouldn’t even have to lift a finger in an attempt to tell her. 

There was a patient almost writhing in pain and arrested by federal agents. He’d seen his colleague pinned to the ground, restrained and almost taken into custody without as much a valid warrant. Yet, here he was thinking about no one else but himself. 

He felt ashamed by the fact that he’s been walking around trying to make peace with the knowledge that he’d probably get caught for stealing drugs from the hospital by no other than the very same person he’d kissed and made love to this morning. 

Langdon knew last night was too good to be true; Everything he felt, even those about himself. It was a surreal series of events that he was foolish enough to interpret as something more than a mere fail safe. 

He’d never really gotten things in life simply out of luck. He was never a lucky man. He always had to work hard for the things he got and wanted. Worked double-shifts, overnights, and odd jobs just to make ends meet. He grovelled for the things he had managed to keep. His wife and his marriage may not have been one of those things, but at least he still had his kids. None of it all was just because of some pure dumb luck. 

That was something he had to learn and realize early on. How he could’ve forgotten such an intrinsic fragment of his life, he would never come to know. 

Then came her. 

Somehow, everything about her made him entertain the possibility and actually painfully and foolishly believe that he could be lucky. Lucky to have found something bigger than himself; to have found the person he was actually and truly meant to be with. 

In a span of less than twenty-four hours or so, he believed in something unfathomable. 

He’d always been a pragmatic and a realistic man. But with her, he was simultaneously less and more of the man he never knew he was capable of being. 

He no longer reasoned nor talked himself out of the things he inherently desired. He no longer debated as to whether he was deserving of what he wanted. The only thing that mattered to him was that she wanted the same thing he did. 

He wanted to be with her that night and she had allowed him to, so he did. She’d given him permission to kiss her, to touch her, to be with her as though she’d known him longer. 

Seeing her lay on his bed wrapped in his sheets was the image that made Langdon believe he could actually be lucky. So lucky he’d no longer care about unknowingly spitting out words and phrases so juvenile as to make himself cringe if he were to have thought of it ten months prior. 

It just made sense. 

She made sense. 

After all that, how does one expect Langdon to feel whatever’s short of worried? 

Of course, he wasn’t just worried. 

He was terrified. 

It felt as though the universe hadn’t just fooled him once nor twice; it fooled him three times. The lucky number three. All of which were nothing close to lucky. 

He was an erring doctor who’d actively diverted medicines to fuel his own addiction. He’d reduced his oath into a tool for perpetuating felony. He not only disappointed the only mentor he’d looked up to but he—more importantly—betrayed them and broke their heart in doing so. 

She fit so perfectly in the equation. 

She was the loaded round in Robby’s revolver. 

One out of six. They were in a cat versus mouse situation. 

Langdon has likely used half of his luck whining and pining for a woman he’d known for less than twenty-four hours.  

Whatever the universe has against him, it shouldn’t have bothered to wait for ten tedious months. It shouldn’t have waited for him to get a fall sense of success now that he’d gotten his shit together. 

Wasn’t she supposed to be the prize of all the horrible things he’d gone through for the last ten months? A nod of acknowledgement for pulling himself out of what felt like the deepest pit of his life? How come it’s beginning to feel as though she was yet another price he had to pay to show whatever God there is that he was remorseful of the sins he’d committed?

If everything was always meant to be taken away, why dangle the dream and make him reach for it? 

“I have an interesting case, Dr. Langdon.” 

Mel King’s face comes into view and for a while he forgets about his self-loathing.

“Let’s hear it.” He says, putting up a weak smile.

“I have a guy in Central who’s been erect for the last eight hours.” 

Sounds about right. 

“ED? How’d he do it?”

Mel shrugged, “I’m actually just about to see him again. Donnie had only told me the basics. I was hoping you could supervise since you’re back,—like really back.”

“I don’t think you’d need my supervision, but yeah, for sure.” 

“Robby told me teaching is a good distraction from… the deposition.” She explained. “So, I figured I’d give it a shot while I still have time.”

“Oh, right, that’s happening in an hour. How are you holding up?” 

“Nervous. I really don’t want to be thinking about it.” She fret nonetheless. “I did mark out a fifteen-minute break so I could panic.”

He sees Mel fidgeting with the end of her braid. 

“Don’t worry, your case already sounds like a good distraction.” He smiled earnestly, “Come on.”

Ian Randall, as what was stated in the patient passport Mel handed Langdon, was a middle-age man suffering from a Holiday erection. He apparently gave himself double of the recommended dosage for injectables in preparation of his wedding anniversary. 

And people think romance is dead.

“Good, he’s already out.” He stated the second he saw Mr. Randall lying on the hospital bed unconscious, completely and utterly oblivious of how his comment must’ve come off considering the patient had his penis out on standing ovation. “Not that I meant him—I just meant,—”

“I know what you meant, Dr. Langdon.” 

Mel reassured him albeit with a grin.

“Robbie suggested we give him Versed for the procedure. It would be less awkward for the patient.”

His brow quivered faintly, suddenly hyper-aware of the possibility of being in such close proximity with the man who hated seeing him in the ER. 

“This is Robby’s case too?”

Mel shook her head profusely. 

“Oh, not Dr. Robby. Robby with an ‘ie’ as in Dr. Robinavitch.” She said, “There she is.”

She stood exactly two feet away from him. 

Langdon hadn’t been this close to her since—

Worry about your own problems, Robinavitch. 

The guilt in his guts gnawed its way to his throat, twisting it as if to render him temporarily incapable of uttering a simple word. He couldn’t even bring himself to call her Robinavitch. The guilt of being so vile towards her was eating its way to his core; painfully and agonizingly slow as though to make him crave being tormented faster for the sake of it all being over. 

“Dr. King,” 

She gave Mel a tight-lipped smile just as she forced herself to engage in yet another tedious exchange with Frank Langdon. 

“Dr. Langdon.”

He fucking hated that name.

𓂃𓂁𓂃

Frank was the last person you expected to see the second the door swung open. Judging by the look on his face, it seemed as though he didn’t expect to see you too; or at all, for the matter.

It takes a little while for him to recover from the initial shock of having to be in close proximity with you. It didn’t take much effort before he schooled his expression closed, shielding away the Frank you thought you had known. 

“Dr. Robinavitch.” He acknowledges you in an all too familiar voice. 

Cool. Distant. Aloof. 

He’d barely said a word other than your name and it had already made the insides of your throat hurt. 

He darted his eyes away from you instantly and onto the unconscious patient lying in the middle of the room. 

Mel was already seated by the time you entered, smiling at you warmly as she invited you to do the same. 

Frank doesn’t say a thing until you get your hands into a fresh set of medical gloves and prepped for the impending procedure. 

“You sure you need me here, Mel? An ED is a pretty minor case, I don’t think a senior resident as good as you needs any supervision.” He stated, voice laced with undeniable admiration inadvertently alienating a newcomer such as yourself.

 “Well… this will be my first time teaching Dr. Robinavitch.” She reiterated. “Plus, we would need an extra hand to hold the basin.”

There was a sense of retreat discernible in the way Frank’s shoulders dropped in resignation. He nodded with a shy grin sitting at the corner of his lips, acquiescing. 

“Right. Makes sense.”

It seemed as though he’d accepted yet another cruel fate of his. Funny how his sufferings always had something to do with you. 

“Ready?”

Mel looked at you with expectant eyes. 

“Yup.”

Frank walked over to Mel’s side, ensuring that the Saline drip was accurately put in place before you start jabbing needles inside Mr. Randall’s eight-hour erection. 

“Enter the dorsal side to hit the corpus cavernosum.” She began, instructing with practiced ease, “I'll hold the glans.” 

You take the syringe with a hand supporting the body while putting the other in place for aspiration. 

“Go in two centimeters before you aspirate.” 

You readied the needle, pushing it to penetrate the skin, gliding through the superficial level of the muscle. Once you hit the mark, you extract the blood from the genitals. 

“And for today’s catcher,” Frank reached out with a basin in hand, carefully waiting for the first batch of blood you were about to expel through a needle. 

Mel King chuckled, albeit clipped and controlled. 

“You still have the worst comedic timing.” 

“Hey! I was trying to soften the mood.” 

“Stop it.” Mel rolled her eyes. 

“I wasn’t—” Frank snickered, “I promise, no pun intended.”

It didn’t occur to you that she and Frank were closer than what it initially seemed. Mel had rarely talked about him over the period you’ve spent seated beside her while charting. And even if you had the balls to ask, you never had the chance to ask Frank because he was simply nowhere near where you were. 

“He jokes a lot.”

When you meet Mel’s gaze, you bear to offer a kind smile; failing completely at trying to mask the fact that you suddenly felt as though you were disturbing a much-awaited reunion. A third-wheel occasionally talked to just so you wouldn't feel so out of place and so foreign.

“I see.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you feel Frank’s gaze flicker onto you. You pretended not to have any sense of it and continued doing your job. 

You have successfully made seven aspirations, all of which were done in complete and utter silence, before Frank had finally decided to break the ice. 

“Mel,” He called Melissa King by her first name. 

Always her first name, as you’ve noticed. 

“Yeah?” 

“Anything else we could do to reduce rigidity?” 

“Oh—uh,” Mel blinked a few times, seemingly forgetting she had a penis in her hands. “You can break up clots by massage and compressions.” 

Instead of building on what Mel answered, you hear Frank choose a rather personal direction. 

“You okay?” 

You bit the insides of your cheeks.

He asked her so earnestly the question had sounded so tender as to make you almost forget how to breathe. 

It would’ve been easier to decide what you were feeling if Mel hadn’t been warm and kind and just the perfect colleague she was to you the second you were both introduced. 

Subtly, despite having your hands quite full, you manage to sneak a glance onto Mel who was looking intently at Langdon. 

Then you. 

“Actually, no.” she stated. 

A brow quirk, curious as to why, you asked—“What’s up?” 

Absent-mindedly, Mel begins to perform light compressions around the patient’s shaft as to begin the gradual process of shrinking the swollen bodypart. 

“Listen… There’s a reason why I brought you two in here.” Mel managed to voice out despite her palpable hesitation. 

Frank felt as though he could easily choke on the catch in his throat. 

“What—is it?”

“I… want to hear what you two thought about the deposition.”

“Two? Us?” He inquired, failing to notice how his poor choice of word made your heart skip a beat. 

When it did come to him, he supplemented, “Why me?”

“Because I trust you not to make fun of me.” She answered instantly, so much so it was the first time you heard her speak without hesitation clouding over her demeanor. 

They were more than just close. The chemistry between them—despite it being platonic—was so palpable you wanted to leave the room.

“No one in this room is going to make fun of you, Dr. King.” You told her.

“I’ve been meaning to talk to somebody about the deposition. When I did, they always… always said it was nothing.” She said, lips quivering with anxiety. “I want to believe them, but how could I when none of them had ever gone through one?” 

She paused, hesitating yet again as she continued doing compressions on Mr. Randall’s anniversary mishap. Then, slowly but more steadily, she looked at you. 

“Then I heard about what you did earlier with the ICE patient. I want to know from someone who truly knows if this is going to end badly for—me. This might probably be too big-a-deal to ask, considering you probably didn’t want anyone knowing about you.” 

You sigh. You didn’t really intend for anyone to find out. Your license had no place in Pittsburgh and everything that concerned your being a lawyer had become moot the minute you left New York. Either way, what’s done is done. There’s no point in dwelling in the past. 

“The secret is out anyways.” A quiet laugh escapes from you. More shameful than modest. “I might as well get a good use out of it.”

Frank was still looking at you, holding the basin out with more intent as opposed to the haphazard manner he did when you started. 

“Why don’t you tell us what happened?” You asked. 

You hear Frank clear his throat. 

“Have you talked to Mike—Robby about this?”

Mel only resorted to nodding her head. 

“What did he say?” 

“It was probably nothing.” Mel quoted your brother. “He said almost every doctor he knew had been sued. But I haven’t been sued. Not ever.” 

“What do you want to know? How can I help?”

Mel began narrating the events concerning her measles patient, Flynn, and his overbearing mother. It happened last year when she was just an R2 like you. She amazingly walked you through the spinal tap procedure she’d performed with the guidance of another doctor she referred to as Dr. Parker Ellis. You haven’t met them but the name was still familiar. It had been one of the names included in the roster of doctors Jack had provided you with in a PDF. 

You notice her voice faltering by the time she gets near the end. The mother was suing for malpractice on the ground that the procedure Mel had performed and the conduct by which she’d done her duties as a doctor not only contributed but caused Flynn’s intellectual decline. 

You give yourself a minute to process once the recap is over. Just like you initially presumed, Mel wasn’t in the wrong. 

The case wasn’t just frivolous and baseless, it was a futile and quite laughable attempt at a shake down. You’d think a mother would always put the best interest of her child of paramount importance; apparently, Hillary Edwards wasn’t the ordinary kind. 

“Is it bad? Do you think I am bad for the case?” 

“Mel, you’re one of the brightest doctors I’d ever gotten the privilege of working with. This isn’t going to end badly—not for you, anyway. The lawsuit is frivolous at face value. You saved that kid’s life. Do no harm, remember? That kid wouldn’t have survived if he’d travelled all the way to Presby just like what his mother had wanted. This lawsuit is just a mere after-thought now, they’re grasping at straws to make up a case worth a couple of thousands. I know my telling you all this wouldn’t alleviate the stress you’re dealing with, but if you’d be up for it, I’ll be more than happy to coach you for your deposition.” 

“Really? You would do that?” Mel’s brows jumped in anticipation just as it quirked to its familiar default for the day: worry worry worry. “Are you— can you— I don’t want you to get in trouble because of me.”

“I won’t, I promise.” You swore, shifting your body towards Frank to aspirate. “Trust me. Just say when and I’m there.” 

A brilliant smile radiated from Mel. “Great. He’s showing first signs of flaccidity."

You concur, seeing the shaft soften and become less of a pole and more of a relaxed penis enclosed between Mel’s gloved hands. 

A few minutes later, the door to the room opened to reveal Dana with her default-office grin. “Mel, there’s a patient out in chairs saying she’s your sister.” 

“What?” Mel turned to her immediately, forgetting she was still holding Mr. Randall’s penis. 

There was an instant panic that glinted in her eyes. She didn’t know whether to let go of her patient or go after Dana who’d just closed the door.

You see the emotional turmoil beginning to brew—

“Go, Mel.” 

Frank coaxed her out of her seat, enough to take your attention from Mel and onto him. He couldn’t possibly think this was a good idea. Once Mel leaves, it’d only be you and him. 

You watched him walk towards where she was seated; already with a fresh set of gloves on. 

“I can handle this. See if it’s really Becca.”

𓂃𓂁𓂃

Silence settled pretty quickly by the time the door closed with a definitive thud. 

The consequence of Mel King leaving hadn’t occurred to Langdon, not until he’s left with a dick in his hand he had to clinically hold in front of the woman he’d been trying not to think about and worse—as he’d been failing quite miserably in doing so—to look at. 

He’s hoping holding another man’s penis was a good enough distraction. 

The basin filled with blood was securely set atop a cart by her side. There’s about half an hour left for the procedure to finish. There might’ve been flaccidity present sensing by Langdon’s touch but Mr. Randall still remained somewhat flexed at appearance.

He kept looking at the dick he was holding, willing himself not to meet her eyes. 

She was doing the same. 

Her hands remained in the same posture long enough for Langdon to suspect she must have been growing sore and tired because of it by now. Even if it had been otherwise, she was amazingly good at putting up a facade. 

She was growing tired.

Her triceps had been flexed for longer than five minutes to sustain the weight of the procedure she was conducting. Aspirate. Basin. Aspirate. Basin. She’d been doing it on loop with the added pressure of not getting to speak with the colleague she was stuck with. 

The uneasiness exuded off her just enough for Langdon to notice. 

Looking at her was always worse than settling with just missing her. Seeing her at the other side of the bed, pretending to be laser-focused with a task at hand, made Langdon wish Mel was still in the room with them. At least then, he’d be able to come up with a lame joke Mel would probably still find funny. 

Now, he’s at a loss for words and doesn’t know how to initiate a conversation. He wasn’t even sure if he wanted to or if ‘wanting to’ was something he was still allowed to do when it came to her. 

“Frank,” She called him softly as if her voice alone was enough to rein him in. 

Langdon’s jaw tensed. “What?”

It was. 

Somehow, looking at her than some other guy’s dick was much more painful and harder to bear for Langdon. He should have fought through it. He should have just answered and refused to take so much as a glance at her. 

Now, he’s tormented by how his mind craved memorizing every bit about her. All of her features; the way the corner of her eyes crinkled when she smiled; the color of her lips; the lone strand of hair that fashioned her forehead; the tiny speck of sweat lucky enough to graze her skin; and her laugh. 

Oh, god, her laugh. 

It was bad enough Frank had accidentally opened that memory he’d purposely shunned away since morning. She’d laughed at his jokes louder than Mel ever did. She laughed in between kisses, giggled when he nuzzled his nose in the crook of her neck when he did everything he wanted and refused to let go of his hold on her. 

Langdon was utterly and without a doubt absolutely done for. There was no coming back from last night. He knew it no matter how hard he tried fighting against it. 

“Are you angry at me?” 

Then she chooses to speak and just make everything all the more worse for Langdon. 

He silently pleads for her to look away.

Look at the dick. Aspirate.

Look at the basin. Aspirate.

She doesn’t do anything remotely close to that and chose to look him straight in the eye as she waited for an answer. 

“You really don’t know?”

Langdon forced himself to tear his eyes from her as he returned to Mr. Randall, massaging the shaft to try to get his mind off the fact that he just recognized the expression she had by the time he replied. 

Hurt. Langdon had gotten pretty good at recognizing hurt. 

After having to deal with it for the past ten hours or so, being hurt was where he’d found comfort. It was the only familiar thing that stuck by him despite the irony. Hurt knew his name and where to find him. Hurt didn’t care whether he was Frank or he was Langdon. It didn’t distinguish, it just gave and hurt him in so many innovative ways. 

Then she finally says it. 

“I’m sorry.”

Langdon caged his expression and continued with his compressions. 

“I panicked.” 

He laughed rather mockingly. 

“You panicked.”

“I didn’t expect to see you—I didn’t know what to do. I just panicked.”

Somehow, Langdon found it unconvincing. After all, she had already established that she was really a good liar. In fact, it was one of the first few things she’d let him learn about her. Langdon knew because she’d told him. It was his fault for believing otherwise.

“You acted like you didn’t know me.”

“I pretended.” She corrects him too quickly. 

Langdon smirked, regretting having to hear it. He was wrong again. Talking was worse than being compelled to sit in silence. Talking always made things worse between them.

“I’m sorry that’s not what I meant—”

“Last night was that bad for you, huh?” 

There’s a sense of coolness in his tone that was rather enough to mask the dread he was feeling internally. She pretended. He’d managed to reduce himself to something worse than a loser. She had been pretending. 

She pulled out the syringe from the shaft and let it go. 

“What?” She shook her head wildly, “No, Frank I—”

Langdon let go of the shaft just as he looked at her—really look at her. 

“Is that why you’ve been looking at me that way since morning?” 

Befuddled, she asked, “What way?”

“Like you regretted me.”

He didn’t mean for the statement to land so definitively, but it did. She was hurt. Langdon knew just by looking at her. She might’ve been a good liar but her eyes were the very thing that always betrayed her and gave her away. 

“I don’t regret you, Frank.” She stated. “I don’t regret us.”

He hopes she wasn’t lying.

He breathes, keeping himself level-headed. 

“You’ve lied enough today, Robinavitch.” He smiled bitterly, resuming to place his hands onto the already flaccid penis. It barely looked like it suffered from a rather uncomfortable dysfunction. At least, not close to one that ailed Mr. Randall’s doctors.

“I hate it when you call me Robinavitch.” She finally told him. She’d been waiting for a chance to do so since she wandered around triage. 

“I hate it too.” He said. “But not as much as I hate having to sit across from you and act as if you weren’t in my bed this morning.” 

Langdon gazed upon her, his eyes having the faintest hint of devastation in them that he knew she’d be unable to see herself. 

She saw right through him.

𓂃𓂁𓂃

You didn’t see Frank after Central. 

Or at least, he made sure you didn’t for both of your sake. 

If it was indeed a gesture he extended, you didn’t feel grateful. The dread of thinking about him nonetheless caused you the same pain you know you would have still gotten if you had to see him walking around the ER. 

“Dana said ICE brought in a patient?” Jack was holding the ends of his stethoscope placed idly around his neck. 

It was a relief he’d return to clock in for his shift. With Michael, Frank, and Santos—all the other familiar faces—you had felt somewhat more alone than you ever did in New York. At least there you had a life despite having no one but yourself. 

“Yup.” You offered a quick answer.

You simply didn’t have the energy to give him a full recount of things you’d done on your first day in the hospital; having to live through it was torture enough. You weren’t much of a martyr unlike your famed brother. 

“Nice to see the band’s back together.” 

Speaking of.

“Threatened about being left out, brother?” you teased back, letting how displeased you were with him accompany your words. 

“Any new plans I should know?” He asked rhetorically, tone biting. 

Jack didn’t care much for it.

“Done with all the tweaking, I’m afraid. We’re basically just executing it now. Have some faith in us, will you?”

Robby gave the night shift attending a pointed look. He was growing fairly good at scaring most people without having to say a word. Too bad neither you nor Jack were most people. 

“You need something?” You finally asked. “I assume you’re done with Duke?”

He smirked as the three of you began to strut along the ER. 

“As a matter of fact, you’re right. He’s outside fixing my bike.” He tells you, voice lifting with feigned excitement. “Pretty sure you know you aren’t the only ones who had plans this evening.”

Jack rolled his eyes as he stopped at the door to the restroom. 

“I’d rather do my No. 1’s than hear any more of this from the both of you.”

Jack shut the door, leaving you to fend off your brother. 

“What’s this I keep hearing about you and Santos?” 

Robby doesn’t spare a second to ask. So, that’s why he was intent on keeping a conversation with you. 

Peeved, you comment. “Great.” 

“What did you do?”

“She was making fun of the MS that worked with you in T1. Fumblevie—Ogilvie.” 

“So what? That kid could use some reality check.” 

“She also berated Frank for not getting fired despite whatever happened last year.”

Frank? He thought to himself. He didn’t know you were on first-name basis with Langdon. “And since when did you care about Langdon?”

“I’m not only a doctor, Michael. I hope you remember that.” You caught yourself, looking away from him and onto one of the empty rooms you’d just walked past to appear busy. “It’s not just the Hippocratic oath I’m upholding here.” 

“Still. You could’ve handled that privately.”

“I was going to. I never meant to snap, but she kept pushing it.” You sigh. Robby had a point. “I figured—and I mean this with love—with how you’re reacting right now, I’d say she doesn’t get a lot of that reality-check you’re so willing to give a 4th year MS.”

It took a beat before he finally said a word. 

“Santos can be… very assertive, even aggressive at times. But she’ll grow on you. It doesn’t seem like it, but she means well.” Robby says earnestly, “You are the only R2s ‘round here. Second year of residency can be tough and she’s been around a year longer than you. Trust me, Trinity is going to be of help. She’d be open to help.”

You nod, finding it unnecessary to agree with him given that you’ve yet to truly know what’s more to Santos than meets the eye. 

“I still think you should talk to her.” you reiterated. “About the pet names and Dr. Langdon.”

“Fine. I’ll sort it out myself after you help me with this one.” 

You take the tablet he handed to you. It was Samira’s flight-risk patient, Orlando Diaz. Samira had mentioned he eloped and pulled the IV off himself just minutes before she got back to his room. She was gone for fifteen minutes trying to assemble a care package for him. He saw it as his chance, took it along with the many risks she’d explicitly explained to him, and fled. Now he’s back in a state worse than before.

“What do you need me for?”

“We’re expecting Neuro to come down in a minute. Thought you might want to observe.” He said. “I know you’re free to leave since you’re shift is over—”

You gave him an appalled look and grinned, “Leave? I’m not letting you off that easily, Michael.”

People were coming in and out of Trauma 2 by the time you arrived with Robby. Samira was all the way across the room, checking Orlando’s records. Javadi was visibly tired, but was still insisting on helping one of the night shift nurses in setting up a crash cart. 

“You must be the sister I keep hearing about from Dr. King.” A night shift approached you with an all too wide grin. 

You glanced onto her badge clipped to her scrubs.

Dr. Parker Ellis, MD.

Ah, The Dr. Ellis. 

You instantly returned the gesture, “Likewise, Dr. Ellis. It’s very nice to finally meet you. What do we have so far?”

“Diffuse brain swelling with effacement and compression of the ventricles. Left pulmonary contusion, no intra-abdominal hemorrhage. Garcia left just a while back.”

“If he doesn’t need OR, why did I have to call Neuro?” asked Victoria, prepping on fluids to be administered down Orlando’s line. 

“Just wait. This is going to be fun.”

“Gotta get this brain swelling down.” Robby declared, “How we gonna do that, Samira?”

“What—?” Samira snapped. 

“What do we need if we have to lower the intracranial pressure?” Ellis added.

Samira finally answered, “Mannitol.”

“But that can cause diuresis and hypotension. It’s not our best option.” You tell her. 

She appeared to be thinking, then—“Hypertonic saline.”

“Good. 23%. 50 cc's through a central line.” Robby ordered. 

“Hypertonic’s in.” Ellis announced the second she pulled the needle off the central line. 

You found Javadi staring at the dried up blood staining the cloth near Orlando’s head. 

“Looks like a halo sign.” 

You shake your head, “It’s cerebrospinal fluid from a basilar skull fracture. The halo sign is neither sensitive nor specific for CSF. Saline, tap water, and runny noses—they all separate from blood. You can’t really trust a positive result if you’re basing results solely on HS.”

Robby looked at you stunned. “Where’d you learn that?”

The doors to T2 slid open, revealing a female doctor well-within your brother’s age. 

You shrug, “I read.”

“She learned it from me.” 

You looked at the doorway and stopped when you met her eyes. 

“Dr. Conley.” You smiled awkwardly. 

She called you by your name with the same warm grin she’s widely known for during her time in Columbia. 

“I didn’t know you transferred to Pittsburgh?” She said, holding her hands up for a set of gloves. “It’s been so long. Still working overtime?”

“Oh, no. I’m just here to observe.” 

“Her shift just ended.” Robby eased into the conversation. “Hello, Linda. I see Gloria’s got the division chief working on a holiday.” 

“Somebody’s got to.” She replied, eyeing you and your brother, “Just the same, workforce must’ve been so scarce she started outsourcing out-of-state family members.”

“Cunning, isn’t she?”

Dr. Conley smirked as though agreeing.

“Ok, enough talking. I saw the scans. This guy needs an EVD.”

Victoria leaned closely towards you and whispered. “EVD?”

“External ventricular drain to take down the pressure.” You informed her, “Cerebral perfusion pressure in the brain equals mean arterial blood pressure minus the pressure in the skull.”

“I see you’re still acing recitations,” Dr. Conley commended, motioning for everyone to put on masks, just as she was. “Want to assist?”

“Oh—I’d really just want to observe.” You modestly declined, “Javadi can assist.”

Dr. Conley grew all the more stunned, taking a good scan at the people in the room. “Javadi? As in, daughter of Raymond and Eileen?”

You saw the same awkward smile you just gave her on Victoria. 

“I was at your mother's baby shower. She was a resident. You were in utero. I don't know how she got through motherhood and training.” She revealed. “Feel free to join me.”

Javadi looked at you as though she was asking permission. You gave her a warm smile and opened up a gown for her to get into. 

“A lot of proteges in the room. Getting quite greedy, Robby.” She announced. You almost forgot about your brother.

You see him staring at you. Just staring. Pale and whiter than his already alabaster skin. 

Neuro was the one thing you’d wanted for yourself. The one thing you’ve turned your back from in pursuit of Emergency Medicine. Your mouth falls agape, wanting to talk and defend your recent choices but simply couldn’t.

“Anyway, Robby—” Dr. Conley spoke yet again just as she turned to you. “When she gets bored here, you know where to find me.”

Such a remark was rather enough to cause him to leave. He didn’t even bother to look, much less say a word of courtesy to a close colleague.

The neurosurgeon smirked underneath her mask. 

“Looks like I touched a nerve there.”

𓂃𓂁𓂃

Finding Robby was the first thing you did by the time Orlando had been cleared for a bed upstairs. 

When you failed to find him around the ER, you nearly panicked. Jack had mentioned how Robby often climbed to the rooftop whenever things around the ER got too much. It was one of the many things he’d told you on your phone calls. When you saw Duke tinkering your brother’s bike out in the Ambulance Bay, you ran for the elevator. 

“I see you’ve found a higher spot.” You announce the moment you were within earshot. “Didn’t know you were that serious about it.”

It’s amazing how you pulled off that sentence considering the panic coiling down your throat at the sight of your brother leaning on the safety railing. 

Robby’s head minutely shifts over his shoulder, ensuring he’d see everything else but your gaze. Like what Jack had advised, Robby didn’t seem to expect you—or anyone coming. 

“Why are you here?” Robby asks, voice more resigned than frustrated.  

“Was kinda hoping to get some air.”

“No,” A tired laugh breaks as though he was laughing at himself. “Why are you here?”

The tone in his voice stoned you where you stood. 

“Linda had to refrain herself from pestering me about bringing you here. Apparently, you’re a protege at Presby. Top of her class, two Columbia-borne licenses. She told me Neuro was holding their necks out for you—not much left to do—you just had to take it.” Robby’s voice sank through his monologue. “But I assume that you didn’t?” 

“No.” 

“Why?” You notice a bite. Then, he continued, “Why EM? Please, save the court room drama and tell me the truth.” 

You. That’s what you wanted to tell him. 

You wanted to tell him he was the reason you were back; the reason you didn’t just willingly uproot your life and start anew in the city you’ve longed outgrew but also subconsciously planned your life around it. Around the possibility that one day, Robby might need help and not ask for it. 

Robby would hate himself if he ever knew why. 

Instead, you say—“Practicality.”

He laughed at that. He did ask for the truth. He didn’t understand why he expected for you to lie. Perhaps, he’d have a reason to hate you then he’d be able cast the anger he’s feeling from within directly at someone besides himself, if you ever did.

“I don’t believe you.” He said before he proceeded to recite the facts, voice enveloped with something bitter. “You wanted Neuro, but you figured you’d have to start all over again once you’re back in Pittsburgh.”

He paused. “I thought you hated playing safe, sister?”

“I suppose you don’t?” 

“I do not.” 

You snarked. “And here I am sparing the drama so you can do it yourself.”

Robby turns to finally face you. He folds his arms to his chest, tightening his hold on himself as though hoping he doesn’t slip away just yet.

“Did it ever occur to you that I don’t need you here? No one needs you to be here.”

“I wanted to be here.” 

“You sure about that?” He mocked. “‘Cause I’ve seen you work today and that doesn’t look like someone who wanted PTMC.” 

Frustration bleeds in your tone, “What do you want me to say Michael?”

“I don’t want you to say anything at all.” He started flatly, just before he raised his voice. “I want you to be in New York! Away from all of this—away from me!” 

You stepped closer.

“Why? If you’re so against the idea of me being here, why are you going to New York?” You countered, “You have no reason to be there other than myself.” 

He averted your gaze at that and you almost felt sick to your stomach. You saw it. You didn’t just catch a glimpse of it. His eyes looked so tired; exhausted. It was as though breathing had become the only thing your brother had been willing to still do up until this very moment. 

You were scared to your core. You think you need Jack to be here with you. You were out of ideas. You were afraid and—and terrified of the possibility he’d completely lose it and just throw himself off the building with you watching. 

“Robby.” You take another step. “Okay, so now you don’t wanna talk? My god, Mike—”

“Alright, fine—You wanna talk? ‘Kay, I’ll talk.”

You see him turn against the edge of the building and aimed towards you. You exhaled visibly, letting go of the air you’d been unknowingly holding. 

“How about you tell me about New York? Neuro? You get your ass in here as if you can make everything better. Like some promised child meant to save us from eternal damnation. You are not Jesus fucking Christ, Robinavitch. You can’t save everyone. I didn’t save Dad just like you weren’t able to save your Triple A guy. What makes you think you could save me?”

“We didn’t save Dad.” You choke at the words. “But I was hoping I can at least try saving you.” 

He looked away again. “I don’t need saving.” 

“Then what do you need, Michael?”

“I need you to listen to me.” Robby shakes his head, gesturing wildly as to stress his point. “Get your ass back in New York and let me do what I want.” 

For a second, you failed to answer.

“Are you asking me to let you die?” 

The pain in the tone of your voice was rather enough to make Robby want to get his shit together.

“—I’m asking you to see things through my eyes.”

“Have you ever considered seeing things through mine?” 

“Why do you always twist my words and use it against me?” He accused more than asked, “See? That’s your problem. You can’t even talk to me without thinking like a lawyer, how do you expect me to believe that you wanted to be here? Tell me Robinavitch, are you here to be a doctor or to be just another one of Gloria’s corporate dogs?” 

“I’m here to be your sister.” 

The sentence lands with absolute certainty.

“I need you, Michael.” You willed yourself not to cry. You manage to speak, every word punctuated with purpose and utter desperation. “Not Robby. Not Dr. Robinavitch. I need Mike. You’re all I have left.” 

His head shot up at you upon the revelation.

It didn’t even occur to him to ask about your mother. 

“I’ve always had my foot out the door, but you were the push that made me leave Pittsburgh. Now, we've only got ourselves. Two Robbies in this cruel little world. Let me take care of you.”

He massaged his temple, feeling all the more resigned. 

“I take care of you, not the other way around. You’re too good to be stuck in the same place as I am. I’ve made peace with the fact I’d never get to leave. I don’t think I ever wanted to leave. Until—recently. So, just listen and for once, stop being so stubborn because I don’t want this place to turn you into someone like me.”

The color of his eyes begin to turn into blood-shot red. He’d been willing himself not to cry just as much as you were. Just two Robbies in this cruel awful little world. 

“What if I’m already like you?”

He answered, voice clipped. “Then you’re an idiot.”

“Help is being offered, Michael. All you have to do is take it.”

“I don’t want your help.”

You sigh, “There has to come a time when you can stop helping others at the expense of refusing to help yourself, Mike. You’ve had your fair share of lending me a hand. I can do this. You have to trust me that I can do whatever it is that you think I’m incapable of doing.” 

“I promised I’d always keep you safe.” He said. 

“Who keeps you safe, Michael?” You countered. “You hated your Mom for leaving. You always resented her for abandoning you. How is that any different from what you’re about to do to me?” 

Robby looked at you quite aghast by the audacity you had to bring up his mother. 

“You can argue with me all you want—I can stay here all night, for all I care, but between you and me, I’m pretty sure you’re not gonna be the last person standing here.” 

Robby looked at you incredulously and moved to head for the door. 

“Mike, please don’t do this.” You pleaded by the time he’s only a foot away from you. You reached out and held his arm. “Please don’t leave me.”

He doesn’t look at you but his voice cuts through the evening air clear enough.  

“I’ll see you in the morning.” 

He’s not leaving. He’d guaranteed it. Not because he wanted to live, but because you were his liability. You’d practically grovelled and pleaded for him to postpone whatever he wanted to do at Mt. Suicide. He’s staying because he had to fulfill yet another obligation. He’s not leaving because he wanted to stay. He’s not leaving because he promised he’d always keep you safe.

Even though your brother would never admit it, for the first time in your life, he’d managed to make you feel worse than a dead weight. 

𓂃𓂁𓂃

The door to the rooftop swung open and Langdon saw a stark figure leaning against the safety rails. It wasn’t just a familiar figure. Despite having known for less than twenty-four hours, it was a figure he knew like the back of his hand. 

She had her back towards him and didn’t seem to notice his arrival, nor the fact that the door just shut with a thud behind Langdon’s back. She was staring beyond the Pittsburgh skyline, drowning herself in the noise of the fourth of July. 

Langdon was a mere step away from her when he heard the muffled and subsiding sobs. The way her shoulders shifted infinitesimally was enough for him to gather she’d been crying for quite some time and had just stopped moments before he arrived. 

When he took a step closer and the soles of his shoes scraped against the ground, her head shot up, causing her to look over her shoulders.

Conscious at the attention of the eyes he’d been trying so hard to avoid all day, Langdon shoved both of his hands inside the pocket of his jeans as he closed the remaining gap between them. 

An unfamiliar silence settled rather quickly. It was maddening for him. The sense of unfamiliarity within the space he was sharing with her juxtaposed to the space non-existing between them the night prior scared him to his core. He didn’t know how to move around a stranger. He hadn’t realized he’d avoided her all day, she was already turning into one. 

Langdon shook the thought away, refusing to let the alienating quiet drive her farther.

“I almost paralyzed a patient today.” He forced himself to speak, breaking the ice. “Close reduction, Uni-facet Cervical Dislocation.”

Langdon took it as cue to continue when she didn’t reply, “I was with Henderson and your brother. After how I almost killed Grady with an intubation, I didn’t think I could handle another almost. Before that reduction, I was sure I shouldn’t have come back; that I was no longer the kind of doctor I thought I was before… before the addiction.”

It was the first time he’d talked to her for longer than a few seconds since she’d left his apartment. He paused, waiting as to whether she’d say something to acknowledge him. 

She didn’t speak.

“Robby’s been riding me all day for being back. Santos was pretty much the same. Everyone else was just… being cordial. You were the last person I expected seeing, but the only one I actively tried to avoid. When I didn’t fuck up the close reduction, it didn’t matter what Robby and Abbot had to say. I didn’t care for any of their praise. I didn’t care that I’d done a ‘nice’ job. I wanted to get out of that trauma room as fast as I could to find you. You weren’t doing charts. You weren’t seeing patients. I thought you’d gone home considering the shift ended two hours ago. My first day back and I felt like shit for having gone through it. I spent the entire day trying to make amends with the relationships I’ve made here, I didn’t realize all I really cared about was you.” 

Langdon breathes the sunken summer air beneath the night sky.

“I’m… I’m sorry for how I was today. I’m sorry for how I reacted when you saw me with Santos. I shouldn’t have used Robby against you. Whatever reason you had this morning, I shouldn’t have taken it personally. I should’ve known you had a reason for it.”

It took him a while before he realized she was crying. 

He reached for her, his hands hesitating mere inches before he got to touch her. 

“Robinavitch,” 

A muffled sob fought its way through her throat upon hearing him call her by her last name, just like he’d done the entire day.

She felt as though she was no longer the person he’d met at the bar nor the person he’d spent the night with. She was just Robinavitch. The thought alone was enough to constrict the air out of her chest. 

Langdon willed all his strength to get a hold of himself. He pulled her close, arms wrapping around her as she finally let herself break down the walls that’d been keeping them from each other. 

“I was scared.” 

He felt a tug in his chest the second he heard her voice. Broken and in too much emotional pain.

“I came back for Michael.” She breathed in his scent as he rested her head on his torso, “I tried—I wanted to have one night for myself. I can’t afford to lose sight of him today. He’s—he’s all I have left.”

Langdon didn’t say a thing but kept stroking circles on her back in an attempt to soothe her. 

I panicked. 

I was scared. 

She was finally telling him the truth.

“I came back for Michael. I had no other reason. But you—” She managed to confess in between sobs. “When I saw you this morning, I didn’t know what to do. I suddenly had to choose. I didn’t have that before you. It was easier for me to pretend I didn’t know you because that way it meant I’d chosen Michael. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I couldn’t think of anything else other than saving my brother.” 

The act she’d been performing finally reached its curtain call. Langdon wasn’t the only person who excelled in putting up a facade. She played the part pretty well as much as he had. Perhaps, even better than he did. 

“It’s okay. I’m here. You don’t have to choose,” He found himself caressing her head. “You don’t have to choose because you have me. You’re allowed to have me.”

She broke away from him, arms falling to rest on Langdon’s waist. She looked at him, eyes glinting with tears. 

He didn’t say a word when she fell silent and chose to rest her head against his chest again. He simply waited. Even if it takes her an hour to recover, he wouldn’t mind. He had just spent fourteen hours trying to make peace with the fact that he’d never get to be this close to her again. Now that she was in his arms, he’s never letting go.

Langdon grazes his thumb across her damp cheek when she looked at him. It had been a while since she stopped crying. Her face was mere inches from his. Their breaths ghost in between their lips as Langdon chooses to close in, meeting the same set of lips he didn’t think he’d get to kiss again. 

He relished the relief that washed over them.

This he knew.

This was familiar.

The way she kissed him back and the way she’d let him in.

Frank Langdon knew her like the back of his hand. 

He wills all his might to pull away, finally calling her by her name. “Whatever you decide, I’m here.”

tagging everyone who commented on the prev parts ♥︎ @lvrfilm @lushfruit @pittstevedon @dina2223 @patchs-curiosity-corner @kneelforloki @stillinraccooncity @bean1ebabie @valentinevampp @bambibabyblogger @princessesareforsuckers @andziiiiaaa @superawesomecool @misty--lillies @itseightbeats @arabis-world @coubalts @justreadinghere7 @dear-detested @ivy-stuffs @dovellici @zatannas-wand @ashbye @ddeonmixx @goldnhabitx @lushfruit @loveandlewis @sunmoon-01 @strawbrysapphic

note: this mini series will now be continued on ao3! i feel we can end here for the sake of continuity. i hope yall would still join me over there as i finish this little fic. i promise it'll be HEA. reblogs and comments are highly appreciated i would love a chat with yall ◡̈ ᥫ᭡

[i-love-ptv]