It Was Your Idea Babe, No Really You Came Up With It.
Morty- "Y/N, why does Rick always take you to fun places?"
Y/n- Oh, that's because I use subliminal messages.
Morty- What do you mean you use subliminal messages? There's no way that works on Rick.
Y/n- Of course it does Morty, how else do you think I got him to take me to Choco Fun Land.
Y/n- What you think I asked nicely? Rick needs to think he came up with the idea, if he doesn't then no matter how much fun he's having ,he's going to act miserable just out of spite.
Morty- So how do you do it exactly? I mean I've never seen you bring up these places or like leave out brochures.
Y/n- No no, that's to upfront. You have to be really subtle with Rick.
Morty- OK so how do you do it? I want to learn so I don't have to be dragged around to all those awful place.
Y/n- OK, well first off you have to be ready to spend months doing it.
Morty- Months!
Y/n- Yeah months, if you act to eager about a place then he's gonna pick up on it and you can kiss whatever fun adventures goodbye.
Morty- uuuuuuhhhh fine so months of work.
Y/n- So first thing your gonna do is scroll around on your phone for awhile and half heartedly mention whatever place you want.
Then you don't bring it up for a week or two, unless a commercial or something about the place pops up organically.
If that happens just say something like "Oh that was the place I was telling you about."
After that two weeks bring up something that you find interesting about the place.
Just do that for awhile and look up stuff about it on his computer or cell so he gets ads.
Morty- OK so act casual, wait awhile in-between bringing it up, and leave a digital trail so he gets advertisements.
Y/n- Yup that's pretty much it. Eventually he'll start to bring it up so you won't have to work so hard on being subtle.
Mort- Wow thanks Y/n, I can't wait to start tricking Rick into taking me places.
Rick- Y/N!
Y/n- Why are you yelling I'm right here.
Rick- DID -Uuuurp- YOU TELL MORTY TO SUBLIMINALLY MESSAGE ME!
Y/n- No, why would I tell him to do that? that is such an awful thing to do to someone.
Rick- He said that yo-uurp-u do it to get what you want so he should do it to.
Y/n- Rick you know I'm not OK with manipulation and subliminal messages is a form of manipulation.
Rick- Yeah your right he probably picked it up from Jerry.
Y/n- He definitely did.
Y/n- Anyway on a completely different note, did you know that the Ezon network had a massive botanical garden?
Pairing: Dr. Jack Abbot x diabetic!nurse!reader
Warnings: medical emergency, severe hypoglycemia, muscle spasms, seizure activity, brief amnesia, disorientation, vomiting, needles, IV placement.
Summary: a rapid blood sugar crash catches you completely off guard, leading to a medical emergency in the middle of a patient procedure.
Disclaimer: This story is pure fiction and written solely for entertainment purposes.
🎀 based on this request 🎀
more diabetic!reader fics
The shift was relatively calm for a friday night, but the air still carried that distinct heavy exhaustion. You blinked hard, trying to clear the sudden fuzziness around the edges of your vision. Just a few more hours, you told yourself, leaning against the nurses' station.
"Hey." Dr. Abbot stepped up beside you. "I need you in Bed 6. I need a large bore IV started immediately. Can you handle it?"
"On it," you murmured. Your voice sounded a little distant, even to your own ears, but you forced a reassuring nod and grabbed an IV kit.
Inside Bed 6, you prepped the tourniquet and tore open the alcohol wipe. Your hands were usually rock solid, it was why Jack always asked for you on difficult sticks. But as you brought the needle down toward the patient's arm, your fingers violently jerked.
The needle slipped from your hand. Panic, cold and sharp, spiked through your chest.
You gripped your right wrist with your left hand, trying to steady it, but an involuntary spasm rippled through your forearm. Your muscles tightened up, rigid and uncooperative.
No, no, no. Not right now.
You knew the signs. You lived with this reality every day. The entire shift knew it, too. But the velocity with which your blood sugar was crashing caught you entirely off guard.
"Sarah," you choked out, catching the eye of another nurse who was checking the monitor. Your voice was barely a whisper. "Can you... can you take over? I c-can't... I can't get the angle."
Sarah looked at you, confused. "Yeah, sure. I got it."
You stumbled backward out of the cubicle, your right arm tight against your chest as another spasm wracked the muscles.
You needed glucose. Now. Urgently.
You had a strange sensation, a tingling, in your legs, although you could still walk to the break room only because of muscle memory.
From across the floor, Jack catched you exit Bed 6. He frowned. It wasn't like you to hand off a procedure, especially not an urgent one. He stepped away from the central desk, his eyes tracking your swaying stride as you turned the corner into the staff breakroom.
"Hey," Jack called out softly, following you in and closing the door behind him. "Are you alright? Did you—"
You turned to face him, intending to tell him you just needed a fast acting carb, but your body betrayed you. Your neck stiffened slightly, and a small tic appeared, convulsing into a series of uncontrollable muscle spasms. You tried to reach for the cupboards, but your hand was shaking too much.
Jack froze, his medical instincts kicking in instantly.
He knew your diagnosis. He knew what a rapid drop looked like.
"Jesus, baby," he breathed, lunging forward just as your knees buckled.
He caught you before you hit the floor, guiding your trembling body down until you were sitting in one of the breakroom chairs.
"Hey," Jack commanded, cupping your face with his hands. "Look at me, doll."
You were awake. Your eyes were wide open, your gaze still fixed on him, your tics still twitching, but you weren't there. Your gaze was completely lost, glassy and unfocused. An involuntary whimper escaping your lips as another spasm gripped your hand.
"Hey, stay with me. Keep your eyes open," Jack pleaded, his fingers gripping your jaw firmly. He searched into his pocket, grabbing a tube of oral glucose gel he kept strictly for you.
"I'm going to put this in your mouth, okay? Don't swallow. Don't waste energy. Just let it absorb," he muttered, his hands shaking slightly, a rarity for Dr. Abbot. He gently parted your lips and squeezed the gel into your mouth, his eyes locked on yours, desperately searching for a flicker of recognition.
Your eyes remained swimming in an unfocused void, your head still twitching rhythmically against his hand.
The oral glucose gel was in, but your body wasn't responding. Jack knew the gel would take too long to turn this around.
He couldn't risk waiting.
"I need help in here!" Jack shouted toward the door, his voice cracking with urgency. Within seconds, the door burst open. Sarah and a resident rushed in, pausing for a fraction of a second in shock at the sight of the lead attending holding you tightly.
"She's crashing. Severe hypoglycemia, early seizure activity," Jack ordered. "Get a gurney. I need an IV kit and a bag of D50, now!""
The team moved fast. They wheeled a gurney right to the breakroom door, and Jack insisted on lifting you himself, his arms straining as he carefully laid you onto the mattress. They rushed you into an empty trauma bay, pulling the curtains shut to give you whatever dignity they could save.
"Starting IV," Sarah said, her fingers flying as she prepped your arm.
Jack didn't step back. "Baby, can you hear me?" he muttered, holding your head so you wouldn't hurt yourself. He didn't care about who listened to him calling you nicknames in a moment like this. "Are you with me?"
As Sarah successfully flashed the vein and pushed the concentrated dextrose into your IV, the violent twitching in your muscles finally began to subside. Your jaw relaxed and your eyelids grew incredibly heavy.
Your eyes closed completely. Your head rolled slightly to the side against the pillow.
"Hey, hey, no. Stay awake," Jack said sharply. He tapped your cheek, his pulse skyrocketing. "Goddammit, doll."
Jack felt nervous but he felt your breathing deep and even, your body completely limp.
"Fuck, her blood sugar is going to take a few minutes to register a rise in her brain. She’s just exhausted," Jack said gently, he didint know if he was trying to ground Sarah or himself. A patient losing consciousness after a neurological event was never just sleeping. His mind raced through every worst-case scenario: prolonged cerebral hypoglycemia, a postictal coma, a secondary head injury he hadn't seen.
"Get a fingerstick. Check her glucose levels," Jack demanded. He grabbed a penlight from his pocket, peeling back your eyelid to check your pupils. They were reactive, but you didn't even stir from the light. "Come on. Wake up. You can't sleep right now."
Seeing you completely unresponsive was tearing him apart.
"Don't do this," he whispered. "Please, wake up."
Long minutes later, the first thing that roused you from your deep sleep was the sound of the door closing. Your head felt as if it were being pressed tightly between two hands; you felt a great pressure on your temple.
"Hey..." a rough voice made you open your eyes, but the harsh lights of the trauma bay made your vision blur. Before you could even formulate a word, a violent wave of nausea surged from the pit of your stomach.
You gagged, instinctively trying to sit up.
Jack moved fast, grabbing an emesis basin from the bedside table and sliding his arm behind your back to support your weight as you threw up. He held you firmly, his hand rubbing your back as you retched, your body trembling from the sheer exhaustion of it all.
"I've got you," Jack murmured. "Breathe through it."
When it finally stopped, you sank heavily back against the pillows, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.
You felt entirely disconnected from your own body.
Jack quickly set the basin aside, grabbed a damp washcloth, and gently wiped your mouth. Then, he picked up his blood glucose meter from the bedside. "I need to check your sugar again, okay?"
You nodded as he pricked your finger, and a moment later, the machine beeped. Jack sighed, a mix of relief and frustration washing over his face. "Two hundred and eighty four. It's high. The D50 overcorrected you, but we can manage that. We'll give you a small correction dose of insulin in a bit."
You blinked at him, the numbers not quite registering. Your brain felt like it was swimming in confussion. You looked around the trauma bay, the familiar sights of The Pitt looking completely foreign to you.
"Jack?" your voice was barely audible.
"Mh? I'm right here," he said, taking your hand and squeezing it tightly. "How do you feel?"
"Tired..." You said, sighing. "Did... did I miss my shift? What time is it? Do I need to clock in?"
Jack’s brow furrowed. He leaned closer. "Doll, you were already working. You collapsed in the breakroom."
You shook your head slightly, confusion hitting your chest. "No… no, it's… it's Thursday. We had the day off yesterday and had a date. I need to clock in."
Jack froze, his eyes scanning yours. Postictal disorientation was common after a severe hypoglycemic episode, but hearing you sound so lost cut right through him.
"It's not Thursday," Jack said softly, his voice was tending as he tried to reason with you. He raised his hand to gently cup your cheek. "It's Friday, love. Well, technically Saturday morning now. It's 5 AM."
"Saturday?" you whispered, your eyes filling with sudden tears as you realized just how blank your memory was. "I don't... I don't remember."
"Hey, it's okay," Jack rushed to soothe you. "It's completely normal to be confused right now. Your brain just went through a war. We're gonna run some studies to check your brain."
After your blood sugar began to stabilize, he ordered a full workup. He personally walked your labs down to the desk, demanded a priority read on your chem panel, and stood over the monitor while you were monitored for any residual cardiac ectopy.
Two hours later, the results were back.
"Good news," Jack said. He sat on the edge of your mattress, taking your hand back into his, intertwining her fingers with yours. "Physically, you’re completely cleared. Your body handled the crash beautifully, all things considered."
You looked down at your lap. "I still can't remember it, Jack. I remember walking into Bed 4 with an IV kit, and then... nothing. Just waking up and throwing up on you."
"You didn't throw up on me," he corrected gently, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "And the amnesia is normal. The neurologist on call confirmed it’s just localized retrograde amnesia from the seizure activity. It happens when the brain is deprived of glucose so quickly. It might come back in pieces, or it might not. But you are okay. That’s all that matters."
You let out a sigh, leaning your head forward until it rested against his shoulder. He immediately wrapped his arms around you, burying his face in your hair, holding you with protective tightness that spoke volumes about how terrified he had actually been.
"You scared the hell out of me, you know?" he whispered into your hair, his voice cracking slightly. "Don't do that to me again."
"I'll try not to, baby," you murmured against his shoulder. "Thanks for catching me."
"Always," Jack said, pressing a warm kiss to the side of your head. "You're my favorite, I always be there to catch you."
-
Jack entered the room later as the distant sounds of the early morning shift change began to filter through the curtains.
"Alright," he said, his voice was in authoritative tone. "I’m pulling you off the schedule for the rest of the weekend, and you are going home to sleep."
You groaned slightly. "You know I have a double scheduled for Sunday. The floor is already short handed."
"I don't care if the entire hospital is short handed," he countered. "I'm the attending here, and I'm putting my best nurse, my girl, on mandatory medical leave. Arguments denied."
You couldn't help the smile that tugged at your lips. "You're very bossy when you're worried, Jack."
"I am your supervisor, and your soon to be boyfriend. It’s my job to be bossy," he murmured as you blushed.
He reached over, placing a small paper bag carefully in your hands.
"Here. Open it."
You frowned, peering into the bag. You pulled out a brand new glucose monitor sensor box, along with a pack of pink patches meant to secure it.
You blinked, memory suddenly sparking. "Wait... my old sensor..."
"When we were cutting your sleeve to line you, the shears caught your sensor," Jack explained. He rubbed the back of his neck. "It completely ripped it off. I had pharmacy pull a replacement from the emergency stash immediately, and I grabbed these extra-strength overlays from the supply closet so it doesn't budge during your next shift."
You looked from the box up to him, your heart swelling. Even in the middle of an emergency, he was anticipating exactly what you would need to recover.
"Thank you," you whispered, running a finger over the smooth box. "Though I'm pretty sure using hospital supply overlays for personal use is a protocol violation, Abbot."
"Consider it an attending-approved override for an exceptional nurse," Jack smoothly replied, a smirk playing on his lips. "Once we are officially off, I am taking you to my house. I'll help you with the new sensor, and then you are going to rest. I'll even cuddle you to sleep. Deal?"
You looked at him, the perfect blend of your demanding mentor and your devoted partner, and nodded. "Deal. But only if you promise not to critique my sensor placement technique."
Jack chuckled softly, leaning down to give you a warm kiss on yur cheek. "I'm not promising anything. I know you're not exactly… delicate with that."
pairings / Jack Abbot x Daughter!Reader, Michael Robinavitch x Niece!Reader
summary / Jack Abbot didn't feel fear — He wasn't terrified when he was hands deep in a patient's chest, willing their heart to start beating with his hands and sheer willpower. He wasn't terrified when he put on the SWAT uniform and walked into the line of fire just for the sake of it. When his daughter — the one good thing he has left — is involved in a car crash, however? That's a different story.
apertcre speaking!༉‧₊˚✧ just noticed i got the same title as @fangirl-dot-com !! actually not intentional but a good opportunity to tell you guys to read her stories. <3
Jack Abbot was a man of routine, calm precision and sharp witt — That's why he liked the night shift (yes, his therapist said it was because he liked the dark but he liked to argue). He would arrive a little early, parking his truck in the spot that everyone knew to be his, go to the locker room to drop off his bag and then get a cup of coffee before finding Robby for shift change and debrief.
Today is different however — Today, Robby seeks him out before he can even get into the locker room. There is blood on his gloves and arms and while he wears the calm expression only years and years as a doctor can teach you, Jack can still see the lines of panic and despair cracking through the carefully put-up wall. "Robby?" Jack frowns.
"Hey, man, you, uh—" Robby stammers, rocking back and forth on his heels. He cut himself off with an akward clear of his throat, pushing his glasses back on his nose with one finger "Have you checked your phone today?" he settles on after a brief moment of silence, eyes cast down to bloodied ends of his shoes.
Jack wordlessly shakes his head, lips formed into a tight line, eyebrows furrowed in worry. "Not really. Kiddo went straight to a friend's house after school and so I took the time to finally build that make up desk I'm gonna surprise her with." he explains, cocking his head to the side with a smile so font that it was solely reserved for his daughter. Normally, Jack kept his personal life as far away from the hospital as possible — especially his pride and joy, his daughter, that he vowed to protect and love with his entire being when she was still so tiny, she fit perfectly in the palms of his hands — but Robby was as much family as the cat, his daughter had once found wandering their street and took in without a second thought.
Robby humms, swallowing against the thick lump forming in his throat — He knew what desk Jack was talking about; had spend an hour and two panicked calls to Dana at a furniture store with Jack picking it out after Tiny Abbot had briefly mentioned that she was saving up for a new table.
Jack always prided himself with the fact that he'd raised his daughter to be independent — She rarely asked for anything. If she did it was mostly for school and even then he had to remind her time and time again that he was her dad and it was his job to provide for her. She worked three shifts a week at a cafe just down the street from where they lived, had gotten her lisence as soon as possible and had even bought her car on her own (although Jack had put double the amount in her bank account as soon as he'd found out and refused to take it back.)
Still, Jack was a doctor. He fixed peole, he took care of people and his daughter was no exception to that. So when she ran out of her (ridiculously expensive) skin-care, there was a new bottle sitting on the vanity the next day and when she got her period (especially during an endometriosis flare-up) she would find a hot water bottle, her favorite chocolate and pain medication waiting for her on her bedside within minutes and when she wanted a new table to get ready at he would buy the best one and set it up for her without losing a word over it.
"Jack, before I say anything else, I promise she is okay." Robby says calmly, his eyes wide with thinly veiled worry. Jack's jaw tenses in a split second, body rigid with a sudden paralysing fear "There was a crash—"
It's at that moment that Jack's world comes to a screeching halt before tilting on its' axis "Robby, she's all I have left." he says unnecessarily like if he could will her to be okay with the sheer force of his hope.
"I know." Robby nods — and he does. He knows, because everyone knows that after the death of his wife all Jack breathed and live for was his daughter. "She's okay. I swear. I took over her entire care. She has a broken leg, a minor concussion and lots of cuts and bruises but with lots of rest and care, she'll make a quick recovery." he explains. Jack is a doctor, but right now he is a dad first and so Robby explains it to him like he was just the parent of another patient.
Jack's jaw ticks and there is a faint tremor in his hand but Robby doesn't comment on it — He knows that after losing his wife, Jack was panicked if she as much as breathed wrong "She is awake." Robby continues "Dana's got her bundled up in the blanket you keep here for your naps and Langdon gave her his phone to rewatch New Girl. She is okay. We just couldn't reach you and I didn't want you to freak out when you see her name on the board."
Jack nods; an ever-growing motion "Okay, okay, okay... The leg. Is it a clean break? Did you do a head CT? Did any of her cuts get stitches?" he rambled, eyes narrowed and hands clasped together — the face of a doctor.
Robby shook his head, putting a firm hand on Jack's shoulder "Be her dad. Not her doctor."
Jack nodded wordlessly; the lines of being a dad and being a doctor blurred in front of his eyes — He treated car crash victims every single day. A broken leg and a concussion were trivial in comparison to the injuries he was used to treating but this was his daughter. His lifeline, his achilles' heel, his heart and soul and the idea of seeing her in a hospital bed had bile rising in his throat "Where is she?"
"Still in South 6, but Dana is trying to pull some strings to get in a room upstairs. You know how she got that woman wrapped around her finger." he explained, eyes crinkling at the corners as he gave Jack a tentative chuckle.
Jack huffed out a breathy laugh at that. Of course he knew — He knew because every morning when he came back from work he saw the growing stack of tupperware that he just kept adding onto everytime Dana held out a box with baked goods or a homecooked meal so the kiddo doesn't starve when he showed up for his shift. He knew because that one time she had a dance at school and he had tried (and miserably failed) to curl her hair, it had only taken a three-words message — Need help ASAP — for Dana to show up at their house with a bag of beauty products, some jewellery and a bottle of wine for which Jack had tried to tell her off but Dana had merely told him to pull the stick out of his ass. He knew because that one time he had a single mother come into the ER about to give birth, he had told her it takes a village and he had thought of Dana and Robby.
"She bled a lot." Robby continued "There was a gash on her face and you know how it is with head injuries... they just bleed an unnecessary amount." he huffed, starring down at his bloody gloves before pulling them off with a shake of his head. "She got all stitched up and Dana helped her get cleaned up."
Jack hummed, muscular arms crossed in front of a broad chest and head tilted upwards by an inch — He looked stern, disciplined and all like the doctor he was but Robby could see the way his eyes blinked furiously against the tears now brimming just beneath his waterline and the way his hand gripped his own bicep with a little too much force "Gonna put my bag away and then check up on her."
Robby nodded, putting one hand on Jack's shoulder, feeling the tense knots under his fingers "I'm taking over your shift tonight." he says simply. Jack openes his mouth to protest but Robby just shakes his head "This as much for you as it is for her. She still needs her dad every now and then, no matter how big and independent she gets."
Jack nodded jerkily — He rolled his shoulders one last time and then he was off; long, purposeful strides towards South 6, barely aware of the throbbing of his prosthesis or Robby following him a step behind. The curtains were pulled shut and for a moment Jack wondered if he hated or loved that he got a moment longer to collect himself; a moment longer to take a deep breath in and calm the trembling in his fingers.
She was propped up in the bed when he finally found the courage to step in — buried under the unfamiliar terror that had taken over all of his senses. Her left leg was in a cast and elevated, the army blanket he kept in his locker for the times he once again spend too much time at the hospital wrapped around her and the sweat jacket Robby always wore loosely hanging from her thin shoulders. Jack's entire body sagged at the sight of her.
Her eyes were half-lidded, focused on the phone in her hand but she looked up when he entered, "Dad..." she breathed shakily and for a moment she wasn't the sixteen years old that prepared breakfast for him after every shift and ducked away from even a pat on the back, but the tiny six years old that crawled into his bed every night, curling up on his chest because that was the place where she felt safest. There was a moment where just blinked at him blearily before a sudden wave of terror washed over her face, sitting up so fast Jack could only hope she didn't tear any of her stitches "Oh my god— dad! I'm so sorry! I was driving carefully and all, the man just ran the red light, the car is fucked but I'll pay for it, I swe—"
Jack didn't know if he wanted to laugh or sob. His daughter — his baby; the light of his life — could have gotten killed today; taken away from his side just like wife had been taken away from him and all she cared about was the car "Kiddo." he breathed "I couldn't give less of a fuck about the car right now. Are you okay?" he stressed, stumbling forward to cradle her thin face in between calloused hands.
"I'm okay, I'm okay. she nodded immediately "Robby took care of me, you don't need to worry."
Jack did laugh at that — a broken, wet chuckle "I always worry. I'm your dad, that's my job. I'm sorry if I didn't do a good job and if I made you feel as though you had to be independent because if there is one thing that will always be true it's that I will always be here to take care of you."
Don't worry my ass, he grumbled under his breath as he pulled up a chair with one hand while the other one fussed with the blanket wrapped around her "Are you warm enough? I can get you another blanket or I'll ask Dana to make you a hot water bottle, I'm sure we have one lying around. I can also get you more painkillers if it get's too bad, just tell me—"
"Dad." her voice cut through his rambling. His fingers stilled where they were uselessly pulling up the blanket again. "I'm okay." she smiled softly, one trembling hand lifting before she closed it into a fist, kissing the fist tenderly and then rubbing it against her sternum — Something her mom used to do when she was too sick to be visited and the only time they could see her was through a visiting window looking into her hospital room.
That means she loves you, Jack had explained to an actually tiny Tiny Abbot back then and three year old Tiny — bless her heart! — had mimicked her mommy's actions.
Jack swallowed harshly around the stubborn knot that had formed in his throat. He wanted to say so much; wanted to tell her how if she died he would go to the next bridge and jump, how he loved her so greatly and so fiercely he would've pried her out of her car with his bare hands and given her every organ she needed if that meant she was safe.
"I love you." he settled on instead, but Tiny smiled and Jack just knew she knew.
Summary: reader wants to remain professional as she interviews Jude after he’s just won the Champions League with Real Madrid, but all he wants to do, is kiss her.
Part 2 of ‘Who are you?’ (Read part 1 here)👈🏻. Can be read as a stand alone but I’d suggest reading part one first.
A/n: I’m so proud I could cry. My Jude Bellingham Masterlist <-
-
White shirts poured onto the pitch the very moment that final whistle blew.
Cheers erupted all around Wembley stadium as you were escorted by a security guard from the media pen and all the way down to the pitch side within a minute of Real Madrid winning the Champions League.
Following your interview with Jude a month ago, you’d been calling each other almost everyday after he finally gave up texting you on instagram and gave you his number.
You were enamoured with each other, utterly obsessed even, to the point where you’d found yourself well acquainted with his family as whenever you’d be on FaceTime, they quite often would walk into frame and speak to you, especially his little brother, Jobe.
It was only a matter of days before you’d developed romantic feelings for him, and even less for him to like you.
So naturally, the two of you had entered a relationship shortly after Jude had confessed his feelings to you while drunk following the La Liga trophy parade.
Whilst your romantic life was blooming, so was your career.
You’d caught the attention of TNT Sports in the way that you’d handled yourself in the face of criticism and how well you’d come across as a result of the excellence of your questions in the post match interview where you and Jude had met.
They offered you a full-time job there next season, as long as you agreed to do the post-match interviews after the Champions League final.
The moment you’d told Jude about his offer, he was screaming down the phone in excitement over the prospect of you being there for him, so long as Real Madrid beat Bayern Munich in the Semi-finals.
They, of course, did.
So here you are, stood pitch side while you watch your new boyfriend jump around with his teammates after winning his first UCL.
Had you not been working and attempting to save professional face, you would’ve been crying just like Jude is.
“One minute until we are live on air” you hear a sound engineer say in your ear piece, a microphone pack having been attached to you moments ago.
“Copy that” you affirm as you hold two TNT sports labelled microphones in your hands, just waiting for the moment you get the green light to go and interview some players.
Your eyes never leave Jude as you watch him with pride, your team noticing.
“Try to keep it professional, okay? The fans loved the two of you after your last interview but they’d love you more if they got to hear from Jude properly” a man you’d grown familiar with recently jests with you.
You laugh at him and nod your head, “I’ll try”.
“Okay, you can enter the pitch now” you hear in your ear and all of a sudden, journalists flood the pitch just begging for a few seconds with the players in white.
“Who am I aiming for?” You ask your team as the camera man follows you onto the pitch.
“Who do you think?” They chuckle and you know who instantly.
Jude.
Professional. Professional. Professional.
You chant in your head, but it’s not you you’re worried about, it’s him.
The world had found out about the two of you as Jude had posted a picture of his garden on his story a few weeks ago, the only problem? It had the reflection of you cuddled into his side in the glass door.
You walk up to him, not having to walk far as he’d been looking for you the moment that whistle blew.
“Jude, may i get a few words from you?” You ask him, the camera having started rolling as he’d made his way over to you.
“For you, of course” he smiles as you hand him one of the two microphones you had. As you did, you subtly tapped his hand and widened your eyes at him, silently scolding him.
He laughs, of course.
“Jude Bellingham, Champions League winner. How does that feel?” You ask him, choosing simpler questions as it’s clear his head is foggy with emotion.
At your words, his eyes glass over and a new wave of tears fights to fall.
He opens his mouth, closes it again. And repeats that a few times while looking over your head, trying to avoid eye contact.
He’s speechless, that’s all there was to say. But you didn’t want to push him, you wanted to let him take the moment in.
“Y/n” you hear in your ear piece, but you ignore it.
“Sorry” he turns back to you, “I’ve just seen my mum, dad and brother in the crowd and honestly…I can’t describe the feeling. It’s all we’ve ever dreamed of. They’ve done so much for me, sacrificed so much for me. I just hope I’ve made it up to them” he says, his voice thick with emotion.
“I know you have” oops. “Everyone knows you have. You’ve had an incredible debut season with Madrid and made a name for yourself amongst the stars. What does this mean for you?” You recover.
But Jude hasn’t, he’s smirking.
Smirking so wide and obnoxiously at your little slip up that you want to kiss that little grin away. But alas, you can’t.
“Yeah, I mean it’s obviously incredible for my first season, for the team” he says and he can’t hold back his laugh. When he sees your stern gaze, he attempts to get the ball rolling again.
“Sorry, yeah but i can’t wait for next season. Getting back on it and hopefully winning more trophies” he says and you can tell that’s all you’re getting out of him in this moment in time.
“Thank you so much, Jude. Enjoy your celebrations this evening” you say nodding at him and turning away from him after reclaiming the microphone.
The camera man pans to the crowd for a moment and before you can finish scanning the crowd of players and media on the pitch for your next victim, you feel hands gripping your waist.
You squeal, your head whipping over your shoulder to see Jude, that same smirk on his face.
His hands slide across your stomach until he is simply hugging you from behind, you’d normally be grossed out by his sweat but you think you can ignore it just this once.
“Trying to get rid of me that quickly, baby” he says, his voice filled with humour.
“I told you to keep it professional” you said as you turn around in his arms, picking a little piece of grass out of his hair as he admires you adoringly.
“I’m sorry, I’m just so happy and excited and then seeing you…I just wanted to kiss you the whole time” he says, he looks so sweet and innocent and happy.
Your heart melts at the sight as you smile, letting your hands drift across the expanse of his broad shoulders and up around the back of his neck as his arms remain around your waist.
“So kiss me then” you whisper, and he needs to more encouragement.
His lips are soft and plump in contrast with the passion in which he is kissing you as you hear cheers from his teammates at the two of you.
You both smile and break out of the kiss as Jude raises his middle finger up at Vini, Cama and Tchouameni.
As that was happening however, the camera man had turned back to where he thought you were before he had panned the camera to the crowd, and with that, the camera turned as well…
Right on the two of you embracing in a heated kiss in the middle of the pitch at Wembley stadium.
A fact you become all too aware of when you hear your in-ear piece activate again.
“Whatever happened to professional?” Your team says and before you can even think about replying, Jude has ripped the ear piece out and embraced you in an even deeper kiss.
You just hope you have a job after this, although nothing could make you any happier than how you feel right now, in the arms of the boy you love. A champions league winner.
Summary: Reader is a sports journalist at TNT Sports for a few months. In a post match interview, another interviewer criticises reader and Jude springs to defend her. Inspired by that clip of Lando Norris 🤍
Part Two
A/n: requests are open while I have the motivation + check out my masterlist
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The match had just ended. Real Madrid and Manchester City both with one goal each, Madrid winning on penalties.
The atmosphere in the Etihad louder than normal, the city fans quieter than the away fans like they normally are in Premier League games.
The Madridistas sounded like they were having a party in their end, music playing, crowds screaming and chanting as the players were celebrating alongside them.
You were down pitch side having been moved their from the media box during the penalty shootout.
There were about ten journalists, including yourself, all with official lanyards, notebooks, your questions you’d prepared for every player as you still didn’t know who you were to interview.
You were overall in a good mood, but the nerves were eating at you. It was your first sports journalism job since you got the apprenticeship with TNT sports during the Champions League. You weren’t supposed to be the one interviewing, you were just supposed to shadow someone from the company but they were ill and no one else was available to do it. So to say the pressure is on, is no exaggeration.
These nerves only worsened when you realised the other nine journalists were male, old and all stood a few metres away in a little group.
You felt like you were back in school with all their little whispers and glances at you.
You bit the inside of your cheek as you thought about how pathetic they were as grown men leaving out a young woman.
If you weren’t in an apprenticeship and you weren’t professional, you would’ve said something, but you told yourself to bite your tongue.
You decided to take the time you had by yourself to read over your questions and review your notes on the match seeing if there’s anything you need to change.
After a few minutes and floods of city fans exiting the stadium, a member of the stadium team comes over to you.
“You’ll be interviewing Jude Bellingham first, but that’s the only interview we can give you today I’m afraid.” The older man says to you sweetly.
“Okay, no worries. How long?” You smile.
“The interview will be in a few minutes after they get the media set up ready and keep it between 2-3 minutes please” he says before walking away and going over to the group of the other journalists, all looking over at you.
You smile and wave at them sarcastically, in response to their hostile glances. You said you’d be profession, not that you wouldn’t be petty.
You head over the the edge of the pitch, set up with a board of all the sponsors logos and a huge camera a metre or two in front of it, there are wires all over the floor leading to a generator behind the barricades at the edge of the pitch.
“Y/n y/l/n?” The engineers ask your name.
“That’s me” you affirm while holding up your lanyard with proof.
“Here’s your microphone” the lady says while handing a mic to you with TNT sports on it.
“Thank you” you reply with a smile and take the microphone in your hand, placing everything but your questions for Jude on the floor by the media set up.
You’d be lying if you said you didn’t want to interview Jude, you weren’t blind and from previous interviews you’d watched, he gives good answers.
You read over your questions one last time before you see a talk figure heading your way.
“Rolling in one minute” an engineer says as you meet Jude’s eye.
He grabs the other microphone from the engineer and takes his place between the camera and the sponsor board.
He looks at you, a hint of curiosity in his eye.
“I’ve not seen you before. I’m Jude” he says and holds his hand out for you to shake. You smile in return before reaching your hand out and making contact with his.
You felt your cheeks heat up under his gaze and your hands stay enclosed for a few seconds before you realise you still haven’t said your name.
“Oh, I’m y/n y/L/n. I’m on an apprenticeship currently, my first interview. It’s nice to meet you” you explain as he lets go of your hand, slightly laughing at you.
“Yeah, you too” he smiles.
“Well played today” you say, hating awkward silences.
“Thank you, it was a good game” he seems very attentive and engaged in whatever you had to say, something you hadn’t seen with other players and interviewers. It was nice to feel heard in an industry where women are often hushed.
“Okay, whenever your ready” the interviewer says, and in an instant, your nervous demeanour switched to one solely of professionalism, something Jude noticed and was largely intrigued by.
“Hi, Jude. So, you’ve had a bit of time to reflect on the match now. Hod do you feel about the team’s overall performance?” You ask him.
He nods during your question, absorbing every word you say.
“Yeah, I think the team put a good shift in overall. Manchester City is a difficult team to play against, you know when you think you’re through on goal you’ve got more defenders running at you. So in a goal scoring sense, we probably good have done better and not miss so many chances but defensively I think we were quite strong.” He says, it’s interesting how his maturer personality comes out during interviews as opposed to his boyish persona beforehand.
“Other than their goal, of course.” He slightly smiles, like feeling much better about it in hindsight than he did during the moment.
“Sure” you politely laugh at his joke, “as a result of that goal, obviously, it ended up going to penalties, how confident were you going into that?”
He purses his lips as he thinks about his answer, his eyes wondering around the crowd of Madridistas behind you.
“I had no doubt that we had some incredible penalty takers. Experienced ones as well with good heads on them so in terms of our capabilities, I was confident. On the other hand, we were against City, a team with various goal scorers and arguably one of the best keepers in the world at the moment so of course we couldn’t underestimate them.” He nods at you.
“Okay, thank you, Jude. One more question before I have to go, going into the Semi-final, you’re playing against Bayern Munich, a side which you’re largely familiar playing against of course. You’re main rivals last season at Dortmund. Is there anything you picked up on in your performance tonight that you know Bayern will capitalise on if repeated?” You ask, one thing you always pride yourself on is how in depth your research is before an interview, the person you’re shadowing has taken a few of your questions during your apprenticeship.
Jude seems impressed as the corners of his eyes crinkle slightly in a smile.
“You ask the best questions, they’re making me have to think” he says with a laugh.
Before you can thank him, a rough and deep voice startles you from behind, “no she doesn’t”
You turn your head to see one of the other journalists, your heart starts to beat quicker and the nerves kick back in. You start to think you need to defend yourself but you can’t find the words, shocked at how rude he was.
“Sorry, who are you?” Jude looks past you and says the man, his face scrunched up in anger, he can’t even fathom how someone could be so rude and have no shame about it.
You turn to Jude to look at him, his posture and body language changing to a defensive one. You silently thank him as the man retreats, his fave dropping as he senses no humour in Jude’s tone.
Jude glares at him for a little bit longer before turning back to you with concern in his eyes.
“Are you alright? I meant what I said” he tells you and you smile before nodding.
“Reckon I could get an answer to that question?” You ask, poking fun at the altercation.
“Yeah sure” he laughs with you.
“I think if we aren’t more clinical in front of goal then Bayern can obviously punish us with that now they have Harry Kane up front” he replies and you nod, agreeing with him.
“Perfect, thank you so much.” You say smiling at him before the camera is cut.
“Okay, this way please” the engineer says to you, ushering you away from the media spot.
You follow her, smiling one last time at Jude before heading towards the exit.
“Wait” you hear Jude call from behind you, you stop in your tracks and slowly turn around.
“Jude, you need to do another interview” the engineer calls to him as he jogs over to you.
“I don’t want to have one with him anyway” he replies back, referencing the man that insulted you.
You laugh at him as he finally reaches you.
“Can i have your instagram please?” He asks, he seems shy now and you have to bite your lip so as to not smile.
“Instagram?” You tease him.
“My mum doesn’t let me give people my number, only family and friends can have it” he says, his hand rubbing the back of his neck shyly.
“My username is just my name” you say before you turn to walk away.
“Okay! Look out for my follow” he shouts as he runs back to the media set up.
The both of you are left with a smile on your face and a warm feeling in your stomach.
Hey I was wondering if you could do Lewis Hamilton x male reader and like Lewis proposing to him and getting help from the other drivers and rookies? Thanks!
𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝒫𝓇𝑜𝓅𝑜𝓈𝒶𝓁-𝐿𝐻44
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warnings: none. have fun!
PS: this is my first fanfic, if you have any suggestions for next time please let me know!!
words: 1.1k
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Lewis Hamilton and Reader have been together for 4 years. when it all started was hard, the first ever official LGBTQIA+ couple in the world of F1 so obviously the media and the fans talked a lot about it, but Lewis was already normalized with it all, being the first ever black driver and having 7 world champions wasn't for anyone.
As any couple, Lewis and Reader had arguments but always stayed together no matter what, their love was strong and has been through a lot of things this last 4 years. Dating an f1 driver wasn't easy, always traveling, not too much time at home and a lots of things to do even when at home, but it wasn't a problem with Reader, he was one of the Mercedes mechanics and for being part of the team it was way easier to be together all the time and have the same crazy schedules.
Lewis wanted to have the perfect proposal so he grabbed the whole paddock and when they were having their drivers private dinner he started talking.
Lewis: So...
The table fell quiet. All the drivers turned their attention to Lewis. The private dinner had been his idea: a “casual” end-of-weekend gathering in a secluded Monaco restaurant overlooking the harbor. Only the current grid was invited. No team principals, no media, no outsiders. Just the boys.
Max raised an eyebrow, already smirking. “Spit it out, Hamilton. You’ve been fidgeting since we sat down.”
Lewis let out a soft laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Alright. I need your help.” He paused, taking a deep breath. “I’m going to propose to Reader.”
The table erupted.
Lando nearly choked on his drink. “No way! Finally!”
Alonso looked at him with a face that knew something bad could happen. “Are you sure? It can be a lot, especially with the media.”
Lewis met Fernando’s eyes steadily, a small but confident smile on his face. “I’m sure. We’ve already been through the worst of it. The headlines, the hate, the questions… We handled all of that together. This is just making it official. I don’t care what they say anymore. I just want him.”
The table went quiet again for a second. Then Charles broke the silence with a soft clap. “That’s beautiful, mate.”
George, raising his glass. “Respect. If you’re all in, we’re all in.”
Charles looked at him. “So, do you have a plan?”
Lewis thought for a moment at his question. “Honestly, not much. The only thing i'm sure of is that i want to do it at the beach were we had our first kiss. Any suggestions?”
Max was the first to speak, grinning like he’d just stolen pole. “Beach proposal? Classic. But make it you. Private yacht to get there, obviously. No paparazzi sneaking through the dunes. We can get security sorted... I know people.”
Lando bounced in his seat, already halfway through planning. “Mate, you need fireworks. Or one of those skywriters? ‘Reader, will you marry me?’ in the clouds. Or! wait! drones! Lights in the shape of a ring! I can get the guys from Quadrant on it.”
Oscar laughed, shaking his head. “Lando, this is not a Netflix special. Keep it romantic. Lewis, you said the beach where you had your first kiss? That’s perfect. Sunset. Just the two of you. Maybe some string lights in the palms, soft music… something personal. Do you have a song?”
Lewis nodded slowly, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah. There’s this old track we listened to on repeat that first summer. I could have it playing when we walk down.”
Pierre raised his glass. “Simple is better. You two have already done the hard part the world watching every step. This should feel like it’s just for him. But… we can help make sure it stays private. I’ll make sure no one leaks anything.”
Ollie leaned back with a thoughtful expression. “Security and discretion first. Media will lose their minds when it gets out, but you control the narrative. Propose, enjoy the moment, then decide how you want the world to know. And Lewis… make sure you have a speech. Not too long. Just honest. He’ll remember that more than fireworks.”
Kimi chimed in from across the table. “Rings! Do you have the ring already?”
Lewis reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small black box. He opened it carefully. Inside was a sleek platinum band with a subtle inlay of black diamonds and a tiny engraved Mercedes star on the inside. Personal, elegant, unmistakably them.
The table let out a collective impressed noise.
Carlos whistled. “Puta madre. He’s going to cry.”
Lewis closed the box, his expression softening. “I just want it to be perfect. He’s put up with so much. The travel, the spotlight, the bullshit we dealt with, specially in our first year together… He’s been my rock through all of it.
Alex clapped Lewis on the shoulder. “Then don’t overthink it. Take him to the beach, tell him you love him, ask him to spend the rest of his life with you. The rest is just details.”
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𝒜 𝓌𝑒𝑒𝓀 𝓁𝒶𝓉𝑒𝓇, 𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇𝓎𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓌𝒶𝓈 𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹𝓎!
The sun was just beginning to melt into the horizon, painting the sky in deep oranges and pinks. The same secluded cove where, four years ago, Lewis had nervously leaned in and kissed Reader for the first time after a stolen midnight drive away from the paddock chaos.
Lewis’s hand was warm and steady in Reader’s as they walked along the water’s edge, barefoot, trousers rolled up. Gentle waves lapped at their ankles. Soft music played from a small portable speaker Lewis had set up earlier, that same song from their first summer.
Reader glanced over, sensing something was different. “You’ve been quiet tonight. Everything okay?”
Lewis stopped walking. He turned to face Reader fully, the fading sunlight catching in his eyes. For a man who had stared down pressure at 300+ km/h for nearly two decades, his heart was hammering harder than it ever did on a qualifying lap.
“I’ve been thinking a lot lately,” Lewis started, voice low and sincere. “About us. About how we started in the middle of the storm… and somehow we made it through all of it. Stronger. Together.”
He took both of Reader’s hands in his.
“You’ve been my safe place through every podium, every crash, every headline trying to tear us down. You understand this crazy life better than anyone ever could. And I don’t want to do another lap of this world without knowing you’re mine forever.”
Lewis dropped to one knee in the soft sand, pulling out the ring box. The waves continued their gentle rhythm behind him.
the life may leave my lungs / but my heart will stay with you
♫⋆｡♪₊˚ bring me the horizon - deathbeds
(gn reader / fluff / 1k words) attractive stuff he does :)
leaving his hand on your lower back to guide you
the paddock becomes a living creature on race weekends. the crowd swarms around you, little more than a series of flashing cameras and a blur of people calling your name from all sides. someone’s eyes are on you everywhere you look. you almost feel small before their prying gazes. your stomach churns at the thought of having to fight your way through the crowd, already stuck somewhere in your own head.
beside you, oscar darts away from a reporter to close the distance between you. “stay close,” he murmurs. his hand slips to wrap around your waist like second nature. his hand settles against your hip, pulling you into his side until your shoulders brush with each step. oscar leans in so close that his breath ghosts against the shell of your ear.
you steal a quick glance at him before your eyes dart back to the mob of cameras surrounding you on all sides. it’s almost surreal to watch how they follow your every move, no doubt flickering every single second. “there’s so many people here,” you say quietly.
“don’t worry.” the corners of his lips curl up into a small smile — one just reserved for you. oscar leans so close that his lips just barely brush against your temple. “i’ve got you.”
using his hand to block the counter when you bend down
you don’t notice it. neither does oscar — lando does.
the mclaren hospitality unit has lost much of its liveliness, settling into a somewhat peaceful post-race haze. debriefs and press duties and meetings had stretched well into the night. the sun has fully dipped below the horizon, leaving only a few stars sparkling in the dark skies above.
you’re only semi-conscious of lando’s voice from across the table. he’s talking about an overtake on the back straight, complete with big hand gestures and a larger-than-life animation to his movements. oscar nods along beside you, only occasionally adding his own commentary when lando pauses for breath.
at some point you lean down, fingertips tugging at the laces of your shoes. your body contorts as you fold yourself in half in an attempt to readjust their feeling around your feet. lando’s story abruptly stops. the sentence instead collapses into a soft chuckle.
you sit up, only slightly confused by the sudden change. lando grins fondly but you don’t miss the teasing glint in his eyes. “mate,” he says, pointing across the table at oscar. “you don’t even realize you’re doing it, do you?”
“doing what?”
“you’re blocking the table’s edge with your hand,” lando explains. “you didn’t even break eye-contact when you moved.”
oscar turns, glancing at his hand as if it doesn’t belong to him. his fingers are curled around the table, effectively blocking the corner’s sharp edges. his arm is outstretched towards your side.
you smile softly. oscar simply shrugs, though you don’t miss his bashful smile. “didn’t want you to hit your head,” he explains. “just in case.”
you lean in, pressing a chaste kiss against his cheek. “thank you, osc.” you pretend not to notice the way the tips of his ears burn a deep shade of red or how he turns away from you, biting back a larger grin.
“simp,” lando mutters.
including you in conversations — even when they’re unrelated to you
sponsor events were always a drag. there were only so many pointless introductions you could exchange and glasses of overly expensive champagne you could drown your boredom in before you began to feel unsteady on your feet, just aching to go home.
the ballroom is too cold and too humid for your liking. shivers raise along your bare skin as you offer yet another tight-lipped smile to a businessman you don’t recognize. you’ve been standing for too long, bouncing around between making idle small talk when oscar is pulled away and zoning out in the corner.
the curtains are too long, dragging against the floor. the chandelier hasn’t been dusted in months. the waiters wander around you in circles, as if practicing a choreographed dance all of their own. you anxiously drum your fingers against your glass of champagne, willing the time to pass just a little bit faster.
you almost startle when oscar returns to your side, sliding an arm around your waist like it’s second nature. an older man in a tailored suit follows him, effectively dragging your attention away from the furniture and misplaced decor.
“this is my partner,” oscar introduces, gesturing to you briefly. you repeat the same pleasantries you have all night — shake his hand firmly, but not too tight, muster up the biggest smile you can, nod along as miscellaneous points, awkwardly chuckle when oscar does.
you let their words flow in and out of your ears, little more than background noise. that is until oscar’s grip around your waist tightens ever so slightly, dragging you back into reality just quickly enough for you to register his words. “actually, my partner is interested in that as well,” oscar says with a soft smile. “right, babe?”
making space for you in his life
“do you want anything from the store?”
oscar glances up at you from his phone, eyebrows furrowing as he thinks the question over. he shakes his head after a moment. he shuts his phone off with one click before setting it down on the table in front of him. “no, i don’t think so. what are you planning to get?”
“i ran out of shampoo,” you shrug. “and i need some other stuff, too.”
oscar blinks at you. “check under the cabinet, on the right side. i got another bottle for you a while back.”
his words make you stop in your tracks entirely. you pause, turning to face him with wide eyes. he looks younger in the mornings — more human. the wear of the day hasn’t yet taken its toll. his movements are slightly more sluggish than usual and his voice rasps at the ends. a t-shirt hangs off his broad shoulders. an old pair of sweatpants drag along the floor behind each step.
it’s domestic. almost sickeningly so. you can feel butterflies swarm throughout your stomach. your heart beats wildly in your chest. heat flushes your face. you can’t help the way your lips curl into an almost unconscious smile, overwhelmed by the casual affection underlying his actions.
“really?”
oscar simply shrugs. he leans in to steal a kiss like it’s the easiest thing in the world. his lips are soft when they meet your own. you find yourself chasing the feeling, even unconsciously. “didn’t want you to run out.”
notes: please leave feedback if you enjoyed!! f1 reqs are open and greatly appreciated <3 if this is incoherent it's bc i only got four hours of sleep to watch spa live (congrats kimi!!) i'm obsessed with this picture he's so cute, inspo from this fic by @sof1rs :)
if you enjoyed this fic, please consider leaving a like, comment, or reblogging!! and if you want to support me, consider checking out my f1 masterlists here and here <3
summary: the story of a flower rotting from its core
warnings: mention of satanic things such as sacrificing, killing, blood, mention of hurting goats, Titus is a complicated father, a creepy old man who wants not so innocent things with the reader (not Titus another guy), Titus calls reader little dove, possessive Titus, protective Titus, Titus may be ooc bc this is my first time writing him, not proofread, probably could of gone darker, think it’s kinda mild but I’ll add a 18+ MDNI (just in case)
a/n: dad!Titus bc I’m apparently incapable of not writing characters as fathers
a/n 2: Have no idea what this is but enjoy while I try to finish some longer fics, one of them is a Titus one I started writing before this one, but needed a short little break from it and this was that outcome
“Do it” the words rang out in the cold forest. The moon shining through the gaps of leaves down onto the small opening. Reflecting the light on the metal currently pressed against your father’s neck.
An eerie feeling settled over the quiet woods. Blood stained the sharp edge. The blade had nicked his skin when the “victim” pressed it harder against him. The metallic smell got picked up in the air. Blowing with soft gusts towards you. Hidden in the bushes behind the man that had dared to comment lewdly about you in front of Titus.
You were his… his child, his daughter. His heritage. His to teach and mold into the person he’d watch you become today. The person who didn’t hesitate to protect the power your family deserved. He wanted to create a beast out of the delicate flower that had yet to crumble and be reborn into ugly weed that snared its veins around the insects that tried to eat it alive. He wanted your nails to turn into poisonous thorns that didn’t hesitate to claw their way out of any situation. Didn’t hesitate to draw blood when all means of escape seemed lost. When weapons were out of reach and your limbs were the only weapon you had left.
He wanted a monster but what he’d gotten was a flower, delicate and soft as it rose in the light, rather than the cold dark corners of the stone walls and the blood that sprayed the stained stone floors from the knife that cut the throats of all their sacrifices to Mr. Le Bail.
Your mother had been anything but delicate. Yet the way she raised you had done irreparable damage. She’d let you into the softest corners of the world. Let you glide along the clouds believing they were made of cotton and that rain was just the way the world mourned over lost souls. Lost souls like your father, she’d always say.
You hadn’t understood it then. But now in the moonlit clearing. The knife in your hand glinting in your grip as you took a silent step towards the back of the old man who’d wronged you. You thought maybe, just maybe you’d finally understood her.
The man who just a few hours earlier had told Titus he’d liked to marry you as soon as you turned nineteen in a month. The very descriptive and precise way he’d told your father how he’d give him a grandchild to continue on the family line was not something he liked hearing. It was as if the man had forgotten Titus was your father, whose eyes had squinted, head tilting in a glare as the man talked about defiling you like plucking the petals of a flower one by one.
It’s what landed him here. At this time of night. Where his life would be righteously drawn out of him. Titus didn’t take lightly to threats against what was his. Or to creepy old men who wanted to feast on his daughter like it was the first course meal of a five star restaurant for cannibals.
If it was anything Titus hated more than people trying to control him. It was people who thought just because he was the head of the high council, he’d be just as wicked and sick in the head as those in the lower class that sought any means to reach Mr. Le Bail’s approval for a council seat.
Titus hadn’t even shifted his gaze from the man when he said “Do it”. Words clear, unwavering as the corners of his lips twisted up in a disturbing smile towards the man. Who Titus would have liked to do nothing more than to crack his skull open with the stone he could feel digging into the side of his boot.
The sword's pressure had faltered. Disturbed by Titus's words and smile, the man had momentarily forgotten he was dealing with the Danforth’s and not some mere council member. The family that had kept the powers of the high council since as far as anyone could remember. Titus Danforth who’d killed for far less. Who — known widely amongst Mr. Le Bail’s followers — had tortured a man in front of his family for giving you the wrong flavour of ice cream.
You’d been five when that happened. Despite the violence, the blood and gore that lived in the walls of your home. Despite the screams your mother said was for the better good that resided just below the stairs to the basement you’d come out unscathed. Innocent. Fragile. Weak.
While Titus might have despised the frilly dresses and pastel colors your mother dressed you in. While he preferred you to wear black like the rest of them and not pastel pink and white like some sort of fairy princess — despite you definitely being his little princess — he did like the fact that in ignoring to educate you on Mr. Le Bail, he’d gotten someone who didn’t see him as a monster. Someone who saw him for just the father that he was to you.
But then of course the facade had to wither away piece by piece. Like watching a house get striped from its paint ever so slowly. Or to watch a flower wilt as the sun got hidden behind the dark towering shadow of the devil who snuffed the light out of his worshippers one sacrifice at a time.
Your mother had tried to keep you away from it. Keyword tried. Marrying someone like Titus had made that almost impossible. But the ignorance you kept towards their nightly sacrificial activities. To the hunts you excused as just hunting deer in favor of feeling some sort of normalcy in your life. The white lies you accepted blindly without second thoughts had gone a long way. Until your mother died.
Titus loved your mother, until her very last breath. She’d been the only one who didn’t try to control him. Didn’t try to force him into a mold of gracefulness he’d never fit. He’d married her with a game of chess. Fitting since their relationship had started out just as strategic as the game chess was itself. Love based on lies and torture. Both wanted power, and both families uniting gave that, but the real power came at your birth. You changed the rules. The lawyer had told them that “The sought out heir whether woman or man would get them the power they sought for generations to come”.
Of course it came by Mr. Le Bail’s hand during the ritual to give you your name. When the goat's blood had splattered over your chubby face. Innocent eyes getting customed to the horrors that happened deep down in the basement of your parents home, Mr. Le Bail had flickered into place on the throne. Everyone had sworn they saw him reach with a hand towards your forehead before he disappeared once more. A memory you couldn’t recall even if you tried to.
Perhaps that’s why your mother and father clashed in your upbringing. One side of the coin wanted to teach you like he’d been taught by his father while the other side wanted to give you the freedom and love neither had ever gotten. Both argued that Mr. Le Bail had smiled upon you so no matter what you’d always come out on top, so Titus, albeit begrudgingly so, let your mother raise you the way she wanted. It wasn’t like any other families actually dared to take the seat after your birth. In fear of angering the demon that had given them everything they had.
When your mother died the truth had slipped through her fingers like sand. Her last words she’d told you was to not let your father change you. But that proved to be harder than you’d thought.
Titus never meant to disrespect your mother or disregard everything she’d done to raise you. But as soon as she died he’d started to raise you his way. Today was just another lesson. He’d never taken it this far before. But somebody had to be your first victim and there had to be a place and day for such a thing. For such a ritual as your first kill. That day just so happened to be today. Because what it all came down to was him needing to prepare you for the inevitable. The day the ring would be at play once more. Which could happen at any moment. Or at least that was his excuse.
He’d started to train you with weapons. Your favourite so far was the knife in your hand. Thumb tracing over the fancy D engraved in the handle. The blade was sharp and clean. Rust didn’t even come near the weapons of the Danforth estate.
Taking a silent deep breath you took another step forward. Then another. Three. The sixty-one year old man’s head snapped to the side at the sound of the rotten branch crunching beneath your boot. Eyes widening your body froze. Your boot halfway onto the ground in fear of making a bigger sound. You weren’t built for this. The sneaking, the weapons, the hunting. The killing. It was all an overwhelming big cluster of new things you never wanted to experience. But you didn’t choose your family, couldn’t run away from it. The Danforth’s owned everything. You were stuck in this fate and whether you liked it or not the best thing to do was make your father proud.
So with deliberate steps. More careful than before, you managed to sneak up on the man currently threatening your dad. His head was turned back to Titus again, his third mistake of the night. The first had been the way he’d talked about you. The second, the fact he thought he could even win against Titus to begin with.
Titus lips curled up in another smile. Eyes unchanging as they stared coldly ahead. Warming for just a millisecond as they made contact with yours.
The old man’s breath caught as he felt the cold edge of your knife press against his own throat. His grip on his sword wavering enough to make Titus get free of the pressure that drew blood from his throat. He barely even felt the sting it left behind. The dull throb of pain nothing against the way his eyes darkened at the sight of you. The monster within him hummed with joy at seeing you press the knife against the old man.
Your eyes locked onto each other. Whilst yours held fear, his held approval, encouragement. Pride. “That’s it little dove just press the edge a bit closer to his neck” his lips curled up, almost in a growl as he saw you hesitate. The way he watched your breath hitch, eyes zoning out, the pressure against the old man’s neck not even drawing a single drop of blood. The monster in him wanted to claw free. Tear out of his chest and force your hand to drive the knife into the man’s throat. To plunge a pain writhing scream from the man who’d said such vile things about you. But he did no such thing. Titus held it inside. He knew you had to be the one to do it. The one to make blood splatter in the sticks and stones on the darkened grass from the lack of sun. The one to let the body fall into the river, mixing red with the clear water that went downstream towards the grave of many before him.
All you needed was a little push. You were of his blood after all. He knew you had it in you. If you didn’t he’d make sure you’d rot eventually. He needed you strong, not weak. He couldn’t let the fate of the family hang on a loose thread.
Sometimes you wished back to the times Titus hadn’t cared about such things. To the time he’d grant you anything you wanted. The time you had him wrapped around your little finger. When he’d do anything for you. Instead of now, when he wanted to carve darkness into your soul.
He took a deliberate step towards you. His sleeve swiped against his neck. Leaving a red stain on his dark sleeve. He came up in front of the man. Easily overpowering him and taking the sword from his grip. Manhandling him into a tight grip he wouldn’t break free from. Turning him to face you. So you could see what you were about to do. Could see the way his face would twist when you became the executioner. No holding your hand to ease you into it like he’d done when he taught you how to cut the throat of a goat correctly.
Titus knew by all means that you were a delicate flower. Your mother had made you that. And he was trying to undo it one ritual at a time. He wanted to watch you wilt, crumble and be reborn like a phoenix rising from the ashes.
“Please Miss Danforth I meant nothing by it- please I’ll make up for it-“ Titus’s hand covered the man’s lips. Causing his begging whimpered words to get muffled by a rough hardened hand. The ones so different from your soft ones who’d never done any hard work in their entire life.
A hum left him, far from soft. He was losing his patience. You could see it in the way his fingers twitched. “It’s easy just come closer” you did, how could you not when the pressure he was putting on you was so immense it made a haze fall over you.
“Put the edge against his throat” you did, not daring to do otherwise, in fear he’d retaliate against you.
“Press the knife forward and across his neck like you did with the goat last week” he hummed in content this time as you drove the edge across the man’s throat. Blood splattering over your face. Tainting you in red liquid. Licking your lips you could taste the metal before it overwhelmed your senses completely. Lips curling in a grimace as you heard the gurgled screams trying to break free from the old man’s lungs as Titus let his body fall to the ground. Red pouring out in waves that painted the grass in the color of horror.
“That wasn’t so hard, was it little dove?” His hand caressed the back of your skull. Despite the gentle action you knew it was him holding you in place to watch what you’d just done. What you were capable of if you just let go of the fear and let yourself follow the darkness you’d inherited by him. Your fate had been sealed. Inside the monster’s cage. Trapped like a bird who lost its wings. Being held up by the person who clipped them.
You swallowed the bile that rose in your throat at his words. Because when it came down to it. Written across your face clear as day. You didn’t hate it. You didn’t feel bad for killing him. He’d deserved it for what he’d wanted, voiced of doing to you.
It made the beast Titus had been searching for claw itself out from its prison inside you. The way your eyes darkened under your eyebrows at the sight of the man trying desperately to press his hand against his throat before you kicked his hand away made Titus smirk. His own beast roared in content, feeding off of the way your fingers twitched around the now stained knife.
The Danforth future would be secured for another generation.
Summary: You're gaming online and ignoring Dick, Tim, and Jason's attempts to join your game. When they grow tired of asking, their characters load into your game and they begin arguing in your headset. It's your favourite way to game.
Warnings/Word Count: texts at the beginning (Blue Bird = Dick, Red Bird = Tim, Big Red = Jason), banter, fluff, references several games, atla, & Red Rising. 1.1k+ words
part of fmq batboy summer ‘26
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New Message from Blue Bird🐦
New Messages from Red Bird🐦🔥
I would have lived in peace. But my enemies brought me war.
You’re my enemies right now.
New Message from Big Red🥊
Don’t make Tim do it. He will.
Your phone buzzes for the fourth time in a row, finally drawing your attention away from your screen. Pushing your headset down, you sigh and wonder what could possibly be important enough to interrupt your gaming time. Maybe adjusting your settings so any calls or texts from the Wayne family was a mistake.
After setting your phone aside again — without replying to any of the messages — you adjust your headphones and find your place in the game. Static interrupts the sound effects of the current mission.
“Do you think me dumb, feeble, subhuman?” you question when the static fades.
“I think you should have let me in when I asked,” Dick Grayson replies, his pout audible as his on-screen character runs circles around yours.
“What are you wearing?” Tim inquires.
“What?!” Jason exclaims.
“Her avatar,” Tim explains. His character bounces before Jason’s moves to its side. “She’s dressed like she’s vacationing on Ember Island.”
“How do you guys have enough time to save Gotham nightly and be massive nerds?” you wonder.
A familiar, “Tt,” is the only argument to your comment. You have no idea if Damian’s online or if he’s simply watching one of his brothers play.
“Am I late?” Duke asks, slightly out of breath as his character appears.
“None of you are supposed to be here,” you argue. “Duke gets an exception because he plays for fun and doesn’t turn every mission objective into a Defcon 3 scenario.”
“That Call of Duty campaign was a Defcon 1, easy,” Jason counters. “We could have finished it in half the time if you’d all just listened to me.”
“Saying ‘I came back from the dead and destroyed my enemies’ does not mean you know how to beat Graves,” Tim argues. “I’ve logged more time in these games than you were alive the first time.”
Your jaw drops at Tim’s taunting, and Dick laughs when Jason lowers his voice to threaten Tim.
“Are we playing or, uh, bat fighting?” you check.
“Leave the bad puns to me, honey,” Dick encourages.
“Don’t ever call her honey again,” Jason rumbles.
“What would you prefer I call her? Love? Sugar queen?”
“Another Avatar reference?” Tim asks.
“I will kick you all off,” you threaten.
“And I’ll bring us right back in.”
Sighing, you use your arrow keys to follow the game’s cues toward where you’re supposed to go. The boys quiet as their avatars follow yours, offering quick quips or game advice until you reach the next checkpoint.
“Which one of you just added Hellmart to your Steam wish list?” you ask when the notification appears in the top corner of your screen.
“That was me,” Duke answers softly. “It looks cozy.”
“Have you played DEVOUR?”
“No, but the Carnival map looks amazing.”
“Sorry to interrupt, but skip DEVOUR,” Jason interjects. “We can’t all play together.”
“Weird,” you hum. “I didn’t hear anyone invite you.”
“You’d treat your favourite like this?” Jason exclaims dramatically.
“No chance you’re her favourite,” Dick scoffs. “I mean, have you met me?”
“There are either three or four of you here right now that were not invited,” you remind them.
“That says more about you than us,” Tim points out. “Wait, three or four?”
“Is Dami on?”
“No, he’s watching over my shoulder,” Dick answers. “He thinks we should talk to one of the townspeople.”
“In case you haven’t realized, if we see your Steam account is active, we’re getting on,” Jason informs you. “Last time you played Monster Hunter Rise I joined from a rooftop.”
“Nerd,” Tim mutters under his breath.
“Wow,” Duke drawls. “Tim Drake calling someone a nerd?”
“How’d you get on?” you wonder.
“Steam Deck,” Jason answers, defending his character from an angry NPC.
“You carry your Steam Deck on patrol?” Dick asks incredulously.
“You guys planning on staying online for a while?” you check.
They all answer affirmatively, leading you to pause the game and switch tabs to your Steam library. It’s not often you all have time to play together for more than a few minutes at a time. If Tim, Jason, and Dick are free, Duke is keeping Gotham safe in the daylight, or Duke and Tim can join but Dick and Jason are out fighting crime.
“Where to?” Tim asks.
“Oh, now I get a say in what happens?” you joke.
“You had every chance to let us in before,” Dick singsongs.
“I know, I know,” you sigh. “What are we thinking?”
“Something cozy,” Duke suggests.
“Liminal spaces,” Jason adds.
“No, straight action,” Dick counters.
“What does Damian want to see?” you ask, since they can’t agree on something.
“He said Tomodachi Life,” Dick replies. “Dames, that’s not multi-player.”
Damian says something that sounds like I don’t care.
“We could do Stardew,” Tim suggests.
“Absolutely not,” Jason responds immediately. “Field of Mistria.”
“Cat Quest II?” you find.
Jason hesitates, then says, “Fine.”
“Sounds good,” Tim agrees.
“I’m picking the next one,” Jason adds. “And if the demon spawn makes one comment about my dog—”
“You play as a dog in Cat Quest?” Duke clarifies.
“Of course I do. Dogs are better.”
“And you wonder why I don’t invite you every time I play,” you mutter.
“Admit you love us,” Dick coos. “It’s easier than pretending to be grumpy.”
“I’m not the grumpy one here.”
“Is that me?” Jason asks.
“Hey, you said it, little wing,” Dick defends.
“I need a private Steam account,” you sigh as you finish customizing your character.
“What makes you think I wouldn’t find it?” Tim asks.
“You’re stuck with us,” Duke reminds you. “You’re welcome.”
“Jay, Damian thinks your dog looks inbred,” Dick says suddenly.
“That little—”
“Back to the Xbox for me,” you sigh.
“Can I come over and play?” Duke inquires.
“Of course.”
“Hey, she’s playing favourites again,” Dick complains.
“I’m telling Bruce!” Tim exclaims.
“The last time you tattled on me for ‘cheating’ in Resident Evil, Bruce paid my internet bill for putting up with you,” you say with a laugh. “Go for it, Timmy.”
“Are you going to talk all night or play the game?” Damian asks through Dick’s microphone.
“Right,” you mutter as Duke apologizes to Damian.
“So… Backrooms: Escape Together next week?” Jason asks as you navigate the current game.
And the argument over what to play begins anew. Despite your complaints about Tim forcing his way into your game, this is your favourite pastime. Even if it descends into chaos within minutes.
Idea: 20yr reader working with Stratt who drinks so much more caffeine than she does and barely even sleeps to make up for it. Stratt comes in early to find the lights still on and steps in and reader is running off of like a fourth monster energy and is blasting some silly music as they work.
Hehe I made that dumb post about twenty year old reader using slang around all these very important scientists and engineers and now I’ve gotten Stratt put into the mix. Love it.
This one’s a little shorter than my other oneshots, hope that’s okay!
Project Hail Mary x reader (platonic!)
Reader is twenty, Stratt and Grace are late thirties.
MDNI
Masterlist here!
—
Coffee Addict
—
Coffee wasn’t just a nice drink to have in the morning, but a drug that everyone in the building abused more than five times a day. There were more coffee ground bags than water cups, more coffee mugs than staplers, more creamer bottles than snacks.
You were one of the frequent visitors of the coffee station, even keeping your own mug in the cabinet alongside Dr. Ryland Grace’s and Eva Stratt’s. The two had been very adamant about decreasing your intake, but that never stopped you from grabbing something on your way to work. (To their chagrin)
You’d been the last one in the building besides the security guards, lights still on in the office you’d taken up as your own for your storage plans regarding the Hail Mary. The reason you were there wasn’t complicated equations or scientific solutions, but a lot of measuring and managing storage capacity. The Hail Mary was a gigantic ship that would be home to three people until they passed, so you had to make sure there was enough storage for every inch of the craft. You’d get lost in your work; sketching, measuring, making small dioramas to physically show Stratt what the plans were and how’d they function, and lots of blueprints.
Other people handled the materials, you did all the cool organizational stuff.
Anywho, you were aware that it was late, pitch black outside and the building quiet, but you remedied that by placing your speaker on the counter by the door and blasting an early 2010’s best hits list you found online. You moved around the room, singing along as you gathered materials, bags heavy under your eyes, heart buzzing with unnatural caffeine flowing through your veins.
Stratt came into work a little earlier than normal, wanting to follow up on a few reports and prepare for an important meeting later that morning. She quirked a brow as she saw a light down a hall she swore no one would be in at this hour, the faint sounds of muffled music traveling just far enough for her to hear. A deep sigh left her nose as she followed it, sipping at her coffee as she walked inside.
You hadn’t noticed the door open or the woman stepping inside until you turned around, screeching in fright and dropping your scissors. You stumbled back into the table your work was piled on top of, grabbing the front of your shirt as your heart really felt like it was about to stop. Stratt stared at you, unamused, reaching over to your speaker and clicking the mute button, “[Name].”
“Hey-Heeeeeey..” you slumped a little, “you scared the shit out of me, oh my god.” She huffed, “you haven’t left since yesterday.”
“Wha- how do you know??”
“You’re wearing the same clothes. I’m not stupid.”
“Never said you were..” you grumbled, but her eyes softened a little, just a fraction you barely noticed, “Go lay down in my office, I’m not letting you drive home. With our luck, you’ll crash your car and we won’t have anyone to replace you.”
“Ugh. I’m fiiiine.” You complained, head lolling to the side a little.
“I’m not asking. Go.” She stepped aside so you could grumpily shuffle out of the room, turning the light off and shutting the door behind the both of you. Her office was nice, comfortable couch on one side, desk, chairs, shelves, the works. You laid down and curled up, the exhaustion finally getting to you even as your heart screamed like a freight train. You felt a cold hand on your head before darkness came for you, out like a light.
—
“Uh- who’s that?” Stratt looked over at you on her couch, still dead asleep, blanket tossed over you by Grace a few hours ago, “Storage consultant and designer for the Hail Mary.”
“And they’re..” the scientist looked very confused, had he never seen a sleep-deprived college student before?
“Asleep. Yes. Can we focus?” The man turned away from you, “ah- yes. Apologies.”
—
That’s it for now! Hope you enjoyed! Have a nice day and stay safe!
A lot of people headcanon Grace himself as neurodivergent and maybe he is one of us 🥰 but at the very least I truly believe he’d be the best partner to someone with autism 🖤
🔬 Even at his most frustrated or excited he never yells to/at you if you’re startled by loud noises or tonal shifts. As a teacher Ryland has plenty of experience getting his voice to carry without shouting.
🔬 In that same vein he is so patient with explaining any instructions or cues you didn’t quite catch. There are no stupid questions, he always tells you ☺️
🔬 Sometime he’ll ask you things like, “Can I touch you?” “Can I kiss you?”. He probably would anyway, but you love hearing it regardless.
🔬 Has legit gotten pissed at textures for you. Your least favorite fabric has become an enemy to him and you’ve caught him glaring at shirts made of it in the store when you were on Earth. Literally intercepts people handing you materials or tools that cause sensory issues and will blow up if people try to prank you with them or give you “exposure therapy” without your knowledge or consent.
🔬 He loves gently helping you dress and undress, putting on your socks so they line up just how you like them and placing gentle kisses on you as he goes. You’re more than capable of removing a jacket or tugging on socks and he knows that, but it’s the little things to Ryland that show he cares and remembers.
🔬 Do you infodump? Guess who else does? :) entire dates of y’all just yapping your adorable asses off back and forth about science, history, your favorite pieces of media, new teaching methods, you name it! Ryland doesn’t care if you have a special interest in batman or the history of the feather duster, if you can teach him things and show that passion he finds that super cool and attractive 😌
🔬 Will literally bring blankets, what of your safe food was brought on the ship, and all the plushies you both have for an "audience" to watch your most special movie or show in the don't go crazy room WITH, of course, special pausing privileges aka moments where you can share your comments and facts and Ryland can make the most massive heart eyes at you while nodding like an attentive puppy shown his favorite treat.
🔬Do you collect things? Items related to your special interest perhaps? Don't worry, Ryland's not annoyed, he's literally lining them up and displaying them anywhere safe on the ship 🫶🏻
🔬 He learned a bit of ASL to use for student signaling and communication and thus if you go nonverbal and sign he has GOT YOU!!! He’ll naturally switch to signing himself without a second thought.
🔬 Teases you about your "sexy brain" when he sees your unique way of thinking in action!
🔬 He’d do this with any partner but knitting with you🥰 it’s a great way to occupy your hands and some simple fun you can learn and enjoy together!
🔬 Just giggles and waits or pulls you back in if you get distracted mid makeout session because same, honestly, sometimes he does his best thinking and gets his best ideas with his lips on yours, one leg locked in the grip of yours.
🔬 The Zero G stresses him out and makes things harder, but for you? It's bliss, utter relaxation and you find yourself strangely well-oriented. Ryland learns to move around faster just so you can have a little longer of floating time.
🔬 He also begs Rocky to make you a xenonite ball especially if you like being curled up/seek sensation. You guys are laughing like kids building a blanket fort as you ignore the Eridian's protests and cram into the many-sided figure that's barely big enough for two bodies, the sensation similar to your weighted blanket but even warmer and with a thrill.
🔬 For more sensory seeking he borrows some of Rocky's dangling, jingly celebration clothing and hangs it from your arms and hips, positively lighting up like he did at the newborn sun when you leap, clap, and sway to hear the noise and catch glints of coppery and golden light.
🔬 Mr. Grace had the best collection of stim and fidget items in the entire school. It was a running thing that he has some sort of sixth sense in determining the most satisfying ones and thus the kids' favorite teacher must be neurodivergent too 😈 you tease him about this as you play with your favorite of his stim items and he kisses your temple and says, "That's a compliment. All my favorite people are."
Reply/Ask/Message to be tagged in any future posts 🖤
A violent patient attack leaves you non-verbal (for a short period), stimming and rocking. Jack Abbot is the only one who can calm you down.
Word count: 3.3k
TW/Tags: mention of attack, violence, blood
Notes: No pronouns for reader. Reader has a nickname. Based on this request.
P.s The guidance in my country says you can sleep after a concussion.
Being a doctor is challenging, because you are always expected to be the best. Being an autistic doctor is even more challenging, because your mind was in a constant battle with your emotions and senses, finding a balance between not going into overdrive, but working in an environment that requires your senses to be heightened all the time.
Your colleagues were no strangers to your autism — it was once mentioned in passing conversation. But even medical professionals often forget how to talk to someone autistic, and what to do if that person is overwhelmed. It is in human nature to forget, truly, but it also doesn’t take any effort to simply remember.
Jack Abbot however, the handsome and kind attending, who remembers everything about everyone, never once overlooked your neurodiversity.
He had asked you once, whether calling you by your last name is too formal and you might not like it, or if you prefer a first name. He understood that the tone of voice he uses with you has to be specific, otherwise you might not be fully be able to understand it. Because autistic individuals often process tone differently than a neurotypical person.
So it was agreed, that he would only call you by your last name if he is talking about something serious. Your first name, if it was a causal conversation, and a nickname, when he is talking to you as Jack. Your friend Jack.
“Do you have a nickname in mind for me?” You ask him, not maintaining eye contact with him. It made you feel uneasy, maintaining his gaze — sometimes causing sensory overload if you had to stare at anyone too long. So you opted to look at just over his shoulder when you spoke with him. Jack on the other hand, never took offence once.
“I don’t have one in mind no… what is it you are interested in? Hobby wise.” Jack asks you a direct question, not an open question that would require a lot of conversation of thinking. Because with overthinking, comes spiralling.
“I like… puzzles. They calm me down.”
“How about Patch? Or patchy?” Patch because you’re patching people up, but also because of your love for puzzles.
“I like that!”
“Are you sure?” Jack asks again, to check if you are okay with it.
“Of course!” You smiled and look at him for a brief second, “so last name for formality, first name for informality and conversation, and nickname when we are talking as friends?” You like to double check the information, because over the years you realised that people don’t often say exactly what they mean.
“Exactly!” Jack smiles widely. “I’ll let you go, Patchy; it was good speaking with you.”
You sigh of relief once the conversation ends, not because you didn’t like speaking with Jack, but often maintaining a conversation with someone can be exhausting. Especially working in the ER — where you don’t get a moment of silence.
You and Jack became incredibly close at work because it was easy to speak with him. He maintained a great balance between pressuring you to do a task so it would benefit your career and delivering it in a way that you felt comfortable doing. He was incredibly gentle and patient, and you found yourself at ease whenever you were with him. You grew fond of him very quickly and found yourself looking forward to seeing him every day.
This fondness grew into something much warmer; something that made your chest flutter and not because of anxiety. The way he'd say your nickname made your stomach flip, and the crinkles around his eyes were so prominent when he smiled at you.
He never made you feel like you had to be anything other than yourself.
Jack, on the other hand, had grown deeply attached to you, too. He admired everything about you, including how resilient and determined you are. He loved the way your face lit up when he used your nickname, and how you always chose to present to him and not Shen. Over time, Jack found himself lingering after shifts just so he could speak to you or coming up with excuses just to check in on you.
You found your safe person and Jack found his.
Today had particularly started off wrong. First, everything went wrong when you tried to make your food. You burnt the toast, which set off the fire alarm, and that was your first push. You then had to turn on the extractor fan, which was incredibly loud and overstimulating. You then gave up on food and decided to grab it on your way in. But the restaurant was far too loud and busy, and you were starting to sweat as you waited for your takeout. You also overthought the conversation you had with the waitress, and worried you came across rude when you were simply too overstimulated.
You made it to work just on time, and that was another thing that almost tipped you off the edge. You hated being late. You didn’t have the time to take a breath before you got called into a trauma room, along with Jack. He instantly notices that you’re not yourself, given the subtle shaking of your hands as you put gloves on. He doesn’t ask; instead, he waits a few more minutes and studies your demeanour. You did well, hiding how overwhelmed you were and focusing on the task ahead. But with every noise, you felt as if someone was digging a knife in your ear. With every touch, you felt your skin crawl. You needed a minute, and your shift hadn’t even started yet. You hadn’t done rounds yet — and that required a lot of memorising, and your mind was already mushy.
Once the patient was stable, which felt like hours later, you managed to finally breathe. You rushed out of the room, wanting to get to the bathroom for some silence, but Jack caught up with you.
“Hey wait up”
“Sorry Dr Abbot I really-“
“Need a minute, I know” he says quietly. “Let’s go to the supply closet. It’s dark and much quieter than the bathroom.”
“I’m fine truly” you say quickly, rubbing both of your palms together to soothe yourself, “I just- today it was- I don’t know what I’m trying to say it’s all-“
“Hey, let’s not talk. No one needs to talk. Let’s go.” He doesn’t touch you, but instead gestures for you to follow him into the supply closet. “There’s no lock on the door but no one ever goes in here. Well, I do, when I need a minute. Take five.”
“Five?”
“Five minutes”
“Like literally five minutes?” You ask again, wanting to know the exact amount he’s allowing you to take.
“Yes five minutes. Close your eyes and focus on slowing your breathing down.” He says softly, “I will set a timer so the noise doesn’t interrupt you, okay? I’ll come back and knock quietly.”
“I’m sorry, im really sorry I’ve only just started my shift and-“
“No one is angry or upset with you. It seems like your day’s going terrible and it’s not even started yet. Take five, I’ll be back.” He says quietly, and leaves you in the closet, closing the door very gently behind him. He sets a timer for five minutes — although he wants you to take longer, but he knows that punctuality is essential when it comes to you so taking ten when he said five, will only upset you further.
You sit in the corner and hug your knees up to your chest, and focus on nothing but your breathing. You remind yourself that just because today started off wrong, doesn’t mean it should end this way. But it’s not always as simple as that. Because once you’re hyper aware of everything that could remotely affect your senses, everything automatically becomes heightened. The five minutes are up, and Jack slowly opens the door and whispers, “hey”
“I feel okay now”
“Can I sit with you?”
“Don’t they need us out there?”
“Day shift is actually still here, something to do with an unfinished case so they’re helping.” He whispers again as he lowers himself on the ground slowly. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure”
“How can I help you when you’re feeling overwhelmed?”
“What you did today was good, Jack”
“But how can I do it better?”
“It’s difficult.. because I don’t know what helps me sometimes.”
“Do you benefit from deep pressure stimulation?”
“I try and do it on myself sometimes but… my hands are usually shaky and I start fidgeting a lot so I cant maintain the movement.”
“Want me to try? So you tell me if I’m doing it right?”
“Yes please”
“So from what I’ve read….” Jack murmurs as he shifts on the ground, “it’s best to apply pressure on large muscles, could be arms or legs…”
He had read about it? You wonder what else he researched and it warmed your heart how attentive he is.
“I’m gonna touch your shoulders, let me know if it’s good.” He shifts and faces you, leaning in and gripping each side of your biceps and he squeezes gently.
You murmur, “maybe a bit harder?”
“Sure?”
You hum and nod.
He squeezes your biceps harder and you feel your body as it grounds itself to his touch. You can’t help but close your eyes and focus on his squeezing. Jack smiles to himself, noticing how your face had already relaxed. “I’m gonna move down slowly…”
He moves down to your forearm, squeezing hard then reaches your hands. “I’m gonna go gentler now.”
He holds your hand, making small gentle squeezes on your palm. For a moment, your mind goes silent, your breathing is back to normal and you want nothing more but to stay here with him.
“Patchy?”
“Yes Jack?” You murmur, opening your eyes slowly and you’re met with his warm gaze.
“Feeling better?”
“So much better. Thank you”
“Anytime sweetheart. Do you think you’re ready to go back out there with me?”
In that moment, you felt like you would go anywhere with him. The feeling of being this content around someone was so incredible and comforting, and you never wanted it to end.
“Hey Mateo, you know that patient in room eleven — does he seem a bit… odd to you?”
“In what way?”
“Just… not right. I don’t know how to explain it.” You had just left his room and asked him a couple of questions, but he didn’t seem… stable. It’s incredibly difficult to explain to a neurotypical individual how well you can read people's expressions. Maybe not tone of voice... but facial expressions or body language were different. Others may see him just like any other person, but over the years you’ve learnt to recognise patterns so you can truly understand one’s behaviour. It wasn’t always so simple, but in this particular case, something was not right. You went to find Jack, who was finishing up with a patient. “Hey Dr Abbot, do you have a moment?”
“Not this second — I’ve got a meeting in 2 minutes. Everything alright?”
“Ummm” you hesitate, not entirely sure how to explain it to him, “never mind.”
“You sure? Do you need me or an attending?” You, you thought. You needed his attention to explain how you’re feeling, but you figured it wasn’t his responsibility to take ten minutes out of his day so you could try to explain a feeling. "I can be late for my meeting, no problem." He smiles softly and approaches you closer. "Is something bothering you?"
"No, don't worry about it." You mumble and quickly walk away.
He calls after you, “Hey, Patchy, we’ll catch up after my meeting, I promise.”
“Okay” you smile, and hold onto his promise as you head in the direction of room eleven.
“Caleb?” You knock and walk in, but he was not in bed. “Mr Richard?” You say quietly. Where has he gone?
“You” an animal like growl hisses from behind you. You turn around and see him standing in the corner by the door, with a psychotic look on his face. Psychosis eyes. That’s exactly what that look was. That was the feeling you couldn’t explain.
“Caleb?” Your voice instantly shakes as you walk away from him. “Do you want to tell me what’s going on?”
“He’s behind you”
You look over your shoulder in a panic, but no one is there. “Okay, what-what does he want?”
“He’s telling me things, things that are not good!” He yells. You look over at the panic button across the room, but you have to pass him to get to it.
“Don’t listen to him, maybe listen to me? Okay?”
“No!” He yells again, “he’s telling me to hurt you!”
“Please, please don’t hurt me” you plea, “don’t listen to him!”
He yells something inaudible again, and so you yell at the top of your voice, “hula hoop”
He charges toward you but you jump on the bed to avoid him, wanting to get to the panic button. But he was too quick, and too big. He gets hold of the back of your neck, pulling you back up. You scream hula hoop again, repeatedly, until he slams your face into the wall. Pain, like you’ve never felt before, wraps all around your face, and not a muscle in your body has the energy to fight him. Everything then goes silent, and you are well aware that you have now dissociated.
Ahmed was the first one to run in, pulling the patient off you, followed by Lena, Parker, Mateo who are now surrounding you.
Commotion had taken over the atmosphere as everyone started yelling, security is now in the room, dragging the patient away, who’s aggressively fighting them off.
“Hey, you’re okay” Parker wraps her arms around you in an attempt to protect you from the chaos, but the walls were closing in on you, and the last thing you needed was someone being this close. “I’ve got you”
Her fingertips on your shoulder feel like sandpaper as you push her off and fall to the ground.
“Sweetheart” Lena crouches down next to your, lifting your bloody chin up, “come with me.”
Your hands cover your ears, tapping on them repeatedly as your body starts to rock back and forth.
"He's not gonna hurt you now." Parker crouches down next to her, "Can I please touch you so I can stop the bleed?"
But you don't respond. You wouldn't be able to even if you tried.
"Mateo, can you call Abbot, please?" Parker adds, "He might be the only one who can help."
"Already did, no answer. I’ll text” ER. Stat. Hula hoop
Jack doesn’t need to know who was involved in code Hula Hoop, but as he runs into the ED, he goes to room eleven. Call it a gut feeling, but he knew it was about you, and blamed himself for not taking the few minutes of his time to talk to you, maybe the outcome might have been different,
Everyone’s surrounding you, desperate to try and check for injuries, but he finds you stimming, eyes closed, and rocking back and forth.
“Everyone out!” He doesn’t mean to yell, knowing it’ll only make it worse for you but he’s far too anxious. “Now!” Bodies hesitate to move at first, but Jack pushes through them to get to you, saying once again in a firm and authoritative tone, “Everyone out now!”
He crouches down to your level, shaking his head at the mess the patient had made of you. Seeing you like this broke his heart, and he tries not to think about the guilt that sat deep in his chest.
He whispers, “It’s just me” and then slowly reaches for your hands that are hitting your ears. He holds both of your hands and starts squeezing them gentling, without saying a word. Calming you was his priority first, then attending to your injuries. He rests your hands on your knees then grabs hold of your biceps, squeezing them gently at first, then increasing the pressure slightly a bit by bit, until your rocking eventually slows down.
He says gently, “You don’t have to answer me but I need to know what he did. Nod for a yes shake for a no”
You give him a shaky nod, eyes still closed.
“Did he hit you anywhere apart from your face?”
You point at your neck and Jack slowly moves to look at it. “Did he do anything else, like hit your body?”
You shake your head.
“Can I take you to another room so I can properly examine you? Please?”
You shake your head quickly, and your hands move back to your ears.
“Okay sweetheart let’s stay here.” He pulls up gloves from his pocket, snapping them on quietly, “I’m gonna touch your face so I can look at your nose.”
You nod and eventually open your eyes, wincing at the brightness of the fluorescent lights above your head. Your eyes meet his for a moment before he looks away. He can’t risk tearing up in front of you. He murmurs, “I’ll turn them off in a minute. I just need to check your injuries, okay?”
You whisper, "Jack?"
"Yeah, sweetheart?"
"Don't leave."
"Not going anywhere," he murmurs, "I'm right here...I’m so sorry this will probably stress you out even more but I need to know how hard you hit your head”
You shake your head, not wanting to think of what happened.
“Okay, okay, I’m gonna check for a concussion, then we’ll go to a dark room. Hmm?” Jack carries out his checks gently and slowly, careful not to startle you. Despite not saying much or answering his questions, your pupils showed signs of a concussion, but refused to be moved to a room. "Shall we go home? Instead of a dark room?"
"I can't take the bus or-" you whisper.
"I'll drive you home and i'll stay with you."
"Promise?"
"I promise, Patchy, I'm not going anywhere."
Jack keeps his promise, not letting anyone near you as he finishes up the last bit of paperwork before guiding you out of the ED through the side entrance. He unlocks the car, opening the door for you and patiently waits as you get in and settle. He starts the engine, reaches over, clicking the seatbelt in, "no radio, close your eyes if you need to."
The drive is quiet, and every few minutes he glances over, checking on you without making it obvious. When your hands start trembling again, he doesn’t say a word; instead, he rests his hand palm up on the centre console, as an open invitation if you want it. After a few minutes, you take your hand in his and start squeezing hard. He squeezes back -- the exact deep pressure that you prefer.
Your apartment is dark when you arrive, and Jack only turns on a small lamp in the corner. "Couch or bed?"
"Couch", you whisper.
He guides you over to the couch, helping you sit comfortable in the corner,, i'll go get you a change of clothes, can I go through your closet?"
"Sure"
He disappears and returns a few moments later with one of your jumpers and joggers, along with antiseptic wipes and a warm cloth. He helps you out of your shirt first, and slowly starts wiping the dried blood away. His jaw tightens at the bruises that sat on your face and neck, "is this okay?"
You nod.
Once your face is clean, he hands you the change of clothes, and helps you change slowly and quietly.
“I'll go get you some water." He brings it with a straw so you don’t have to sit up too much. After you drink, he sits next to you, keeping a respectful distance, but also staying close in case you need him. "You don’t have to talk,” he murmurs. “But I’m right here. I’m staying the night...on the couch if you want space, or in the chair if that’s better. Whatever you need, Patchy.”
You reach out and tug lightly at his sleeve until he shifts closer. He understands immediately and carefully lies next to you, letting you nestle against his chest. He pulls a weighted blanket on top of both of you, feeling you relax under his touch.
"You're safe, and I've got you." He murmurs against your head, "It's just you and me in here, and no one else."
"Thank you" Your eyes sting, and you feel physically exhausted, "for being here with me."
"I need you to promise me something."
"Sure."
"Promise me next time you have a bad feeling about a case, you come to me." He murmurs, gently lifting your chin up to look at him, "Promise me that you'll tell me everything. Because I never want to see hurt like this ever again."
"I promise you, Jack."
"Good." He murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, "I'll always be there for you."
hi!! if ur still taking requests can i ask for something with prompt list #1 option 1 or 20.. :D
[Masterlist]
18+ Only | 3.4k | Want to send your own request? | Prompt Queue | Homelander x female!Reader | Established Relationship. Happy moments. Fluffy sex. Using sex as comfort. Handjob.
You’ve always been a light sleeper. Moving from your dingy apartment in the dodgy part of the city to the top of the Vought tower meant that there were no more oppressive sounds of cars, drunken people, or fights right outside your window. It was quiet. It felt like for the first time you got to enjoy a whole night of peaceful sleep.
At first Homelander slept like a baby. With his arms around you, his chest tucked as closely to your back as possible, your warmth and comfort put him to sleep fast.
Those days you woke up rested, still in each other’s arms with his lips ghosting across your neck, placing a couple soft kisses in between a raspy ‘good morning’. Those were the good nights.
In your time together you’ve also discovered the bad nights.
You wake up to Homelander screaming, crying or thrashing around often enough that you’ve learned to manage it.
One way or another.
Some nights it requires soft cooing words as you hold him close, rocking him from side to side, taking on the role of a mother soothing a crying child. Another night you hum anything that comes to mind—soft songs and rhythms that put Homelander to sleep faster than you’d expect.
Some nights neither of you manages to fall asleep again so you sit in the dark of the room, talking in hushed voices akin to naughty kids staying up all night during a sleepover—worried the adults might overhear. While nobody is here to hear the two of you, the fantasy of a lighter moment in time feels too exhilarating to abandon.
You talk about anything and everything those nights. You talk about silly things like favourite colours and why there’s more to life than red, white, and blue—no, gold doesn’t count either. Have big debates on what are statistically most likely to be people’s favourite meals or drinks—you insist it’s not milk—or what would be the most nutritionally logical food if you could only eat that for the rest of your life. It’s the type of conversations you’ve had with friends instead of studying or working. You’d think they’d be too mundane to entertain and distract Homelander but he’s glowing, immersed in the experience of a low-stakes conversation that won’t matter by the morning. The memory of a peaceful time, however, will.
You make it your mission to give him the sleepover experience he’s never had in those evenings.
You talk about life experiences and events—you even share your most embarrassing moments just to get his mind off things and pretend to pout and get mad when he can’t hold back his laughter. It’s a rare thing these days—you enjoy it fully even if it comes at your expense.
You introduce him to many games. You play ‘Would You Rather’ for at least an hour. It gets sillier and sillier by the hour.
“Would you rather have the Deep as your best friend or never get another blowjob?”
“Oh Christ, can we go back to when I was picking between a hug and a kiss?”
“Nope, you gotta answer. That’s the rule of the game.”
The 4 am giggles have fully set off by now and you find just about everything funny. The choked noise of disbelief at the question alone sends you into a wheezing fit. Homelander pulls you closer, and you can’t stop the way your laughter makes you shake against him.
“What if it’s a long-distance friendship? I kick him out of the Seven and send him back to Sandusky.”
He’s bargaining and all it does is send you down another spiral of tears-in-your-eyes laughter.
“Still gotta be a best friend though. You’d have to get on the phone with him ever so often.”
“Fuck—okay, define best friend.”
“Somebody you go to with your deepest, darkest secrets. Somebody to hold you close when you’re upset.”
“Mhmmm, I have you for that.” He nuzzles into your neck, pressing a couple cute kisses into your skin. You’re so sensitive to laughter that the tickling sensation makes you burst into giggles. You make your escape but his iron grip doesn’t let you get far.
“You’d have to go to him too! What if we get into a fight? You gotta talk to your bestie Kevin about that.”
“Please, don’t ever say that—You know what—I mean—pfft—blowjobs are overrated anyway. Handjobs are still on the table, right? We’ll just have to get your hand really wet and then it’s no skin off my back.”
“Wow, okay, I’ll remember this.”
“Babe—”
The petulant tone just sends you into another fit of giggles—you swear your abs are gonna ache in the morning.
“Alright, your turn. Would you rather be skinned alive or burned alive?”
“What?! Those are horrible options. The fact that you’re even making me think about it is mean enough.”
“Exactly—now you know what I’m going through. Not that I’d let either happen. You know I’d save you, right?”
“Yeah, your water bestie could put out the fire.”
“Alright, now you’ve done it.”
The tickle fight that ensues makes you scream with laughter, begging for mercy like you’ve never had to before.
That ends the ‘Would you Rather?’ round and you move onto more unique games. You start enjoying Homelander’s powers for silly reasons. You’ve seen them in action, you’ve even seen him abuse them in bed but never have you just… had fun with them.
That night breaks another first for you both.
You’re both lying on your back staring up at the ceiling. Homelander’s using his penetrative vision to see through all the layers of the tower’s rooftop, pointing out the direction of stars he can see.
“How far can you even see?”
“Well, far, but they’re pretty fucking far away. Still just looks like a spec in the sky. Do you want to fly out with me? We can hover in the sky, watch the stars together.” It’s romantic and sweet but you’re more than content with just being next to him here. No great feats or displays of powers necessary—insane eyesight aside. Plus the bed is awfully comfortable and his body is oh so warm against you.
“No, I want to stay here. But let’s do that another night, I think that’s a really fun idea.”
You tuck yourself closer to him, his arm automatically wraps around you, stroking up and down the side of your arm as he looks in other directions telling you all he can see through buildings and how many layers he manages to see through. You feel him puff his chest out anytime you let out a particularly amazed ‘wow’.
When his discoveries lend to people getting ready in the early mornings or having sex is when you shut this activity down. But the laughter he’s freely sharing with you just might be worth invading other people’s privacy.
You spend these nights together until the dawn breaks. Both of you end up feeling more tired than usual in the middle of the day, but one knowing look is enough to put a fond smile on your face.
There are, however, some nights that are harder to recover from. His nightmares can leave him shaky and tense in the confusing state of in-between sleep and wakefulness and sometimes words are not enough to untangle the mess in his head.
He lashes out, screams, or pushes you away—seeing you for someone else.
He’s turned away from you. Too frazzled to even seek out your comfort. You know a part of him is worried that he’ll lose control of his lasers and blow two holes cleanly through your skin and bone—he’s said so before. You can’t say that hasn’t crossed your mind before, but he’s not hurt you yet—even accidentally.
He’s not asleep, you can tell he’s still tense. He’s clutching the shared duvet so tight, it’s a straight line across your bodies. He nearly pinches it entirely off your side. Glancing into the mirror across from him doesn’t help you. While the moonlight illuminates the room, it’s not enough for your average eyes to discern anything more than vague silhouettes.
“Homelander,” you tap his shoulder gently with your fingertips, resisting the urge to pull back when he flinches. “It’s okay.” The rest of your fingers land on his hot, soft skin, slowly lowering your palm fully over his shoulder blade. You rub in slow circles over the tense muscle. He’s almost scorching hot, as if all that pent up frustration and inability to pulverize a target to release the pressure cooks him from the inside out.
“I’m fine—” His voice is hoarse yet one you could barely call menacing.
“Sh, sh, shhh…” You cut in, letting your tone extend into silence as your hand moves closer to his spine stroking your knuckles along the left side of it. “Just focus on me.”
If there’s one thing he’s even more affected by than the messy thoughts in his head it’s touch. Simple press of skin against skin that would mean nothing to anybody else. No matter how long you’ve been together, the novelty of every time you go out of your way to touch him has not worn off. Whether it’s holding his hand or seeking out a hug, he makes you feel like that’s the best part of his day.
You alternate between stroking with the back of your finger across his nape, just about meeting the short hairs and turning down to his back, palming over the expanse of his bare skin.
Anything to get his mind out of the dark spiral you drag your finger in the shape of letters across his back, spelling out a range of words and phrases ranging from ‘Homelander’ to ‘I love you’.
You smile to yourself once you see the tension of his shoulders release with a sigh. Your lips swap shifts with your fingers and you place little kisses across his neck and shoulders, enjoying the way he shudders and leans closer to you.
“Mhmm… closer.” He rumbles softly, his voice more a purr than the tension-strung rasp it was before.
You grin into the kiss you’re placing against his shoulder as you scoot over, your body now firmly pressed against his back. Homelander sighs in relief, the presence of you grounding. Your arm snakes in between his arm and his side as you let it limply curl around his midriff.
It’s not enough for Homelander. He grasps your hand in his own, pressing it firmly against his chest. He releases a heavy breath with the added pressure of your palm in between his pecs. Once he lets go, his own hand now hanging limp and loose with the fatigue of waning adrenaline rush, your hand kneads the pliable muscle and skin, nails making little lines in between the swirly chest hair.
Surprising even yourself, you let out a salacious little heavy breath when your hand goes in to cup his pec from the bottom giving it a squeeze. Without a thought you press your hips against his ass as if you could grind into him from this angle.
Getting a handful of his pec feels obscene enough to him too, except Homelander isn’t shy about the raspy moan he lets out. Feeling encouraged, your fingers give his nipple a squeeze before going back to kneading both of his pecs, one after the other, with a little thrust from your hips against his. Most of it isn’t even conscious, your body just reverts to what it knows best. Comforting one another through sex has always been a reliable remedy.
His body feels so good in your hands. Suddenly you wish he was lying underneath you so you could get two glorious handfuls of his tits, squeezing them and seeing the look on his face as you do. Even with the time passing the room is still too dark for you to make out his expression through the mirror’s reflection.
“You want me to take care of you?” The deep rasp of your voice should embarrass you but the need with which you run your hand across his body takes over.
His nod is followed by a nearly inaudible whimper.
His nerves are long gone but he’s not eager to twist this moment into your usual dynamic. The feel of a phantom hand that he cannot see is a thrilling change to your usual comforts.
Your hand slides down to his stomach, squeezing the side of him before tracing lines across his skin—teasing the line of his waistband.
“It’s okay John, I’ll make you feel so good.” You whisper his name into his ear like a dirty secret. Homelander groans and bucks his hips forward on autopilot—his body used to the naughty sensation of grinding against your silhouette in the middle of the night. This time he doesn’t meet the soft swell of your ass in front of him so he pivots, pushing back against you instead.
Your hand settles over the top of his soft cotton sleeping pants. Part of you is glad he’s worn them today, the feeling of them is divine when you brush up and down his thighs. While the feeling of his bare thighs against your palm is a nicer indulgence you enjoy the way he jumps when you squeeze, not expecting the faint sensation to turn so vivid within half a second.
He’s so jumpy like this. He has nothing to be afraid of nor surprised by. It’s not the first time you’ve touched him by a mile. Yet he’s acting like a virgin hitting third base.
He gasps out loud when your hand slides across his cock. He’s already hard. You wonder what was the first thing that made his cock jump in excitement in your comforting gestures today.
He’s usually more of an active participant in your bedtime activities but today he’s letting you lead. It’s a nice change. His cock is hard and hot through the fabric of his sleeping pants. He’s not wearing any underwear so you get to feel the glorious fullness and heft of his cock through the soft cotton, gift wrapped just for you.
You lose yourself in the feeling of your hand gliding over the thick outline of him up and down. The softness of the material against the pulsating hardness is a fun textural feast to experience. It’s mouth-watering. Homelander always needs, yearns so strongly his body takes over where his words don’t hold up.
“You’re doing so well, baby.” You continue whispering in his ear, kissing tiny little tickling kisses into his neck right under his ear. “Does this feel nice?” You ask, sweet as honey, as you cup his balls through his pants before returning to tapping your fingers across the head of his cock, feeling the wet little patch where he’s soaked through the material stick to your finger each time.
“Do you want more?” You tap your fingers across his considerable length.
“Uh-huh.” His response is clipped and breathy, choking on the way he’s been holding in his overwhelming reactions.
You both hiss in unison when your hand squeezes tight around his cock, feeling the pulse thud confidently against your grip. You rarely get to feel him tent a pair of loose-fitted pants like this. His suit is rigid and unforgiving—removing the fun of feeling his cock ache to be touched directly.
Even though you’re enjoying this soft play a little too much, making your own underwear damp the same way he’s making his pants at the highest point, you want your man to relax. He’s gone back to feeling tense and high-strung. Albeit for nicer reasons.
Your fingertips dance around the thin elastic band, finally slipping underneath and wrapping around his thick cock. The skin of his shaft is velvety soft and smooth, a treat for your hands when you feel the bump of his underside vein throb under your fingertips. You need better leverage to grip him properly and give him a good long stroke.
“Help me out?” You nudge at the fabric.
Instead of just pulling the waistband down enough to give you full access to his heavy cock, Homelander rips the fabric off, letting it separate at the seams and fall in tatters down on the bedroom floor next to his side of the bed.
You can’t deny that the effortlessness of it sends a thrill down your spine. You’ve long stopped him from ripping your clothes off anytime things get heated fast because you got frustrated with having to replace your wardrobe each month—seeing this makes you reconsider.
You let out an airy little laugh, “yep, that’ll do. Thank you.” You reward him with a little kiss on his neck. He preens and exposes more of his skin, letting you nuzzle into him fully. Daringly, you lick a line up the pretty slope and attempt to suck a hickey into the softest part of his neck. You fail—of course—but you’re persistent, surely one of these days it’s going to take.
You finally wrap your hand around his bare cock, forming a fist over the head. The poor man has been diligently leaking pre-cum, thoroughly wetting the head from where he rubbed it against the fabric.
You coat your hand in the substance, rubbing the smooth tip in a circle before you slide down, stroking just over the edge of his tip. It’s a sensitive part of him, you feel his thigh twitch against you involuntarily.
You spread his wetness down his shaft, impressively there’s enough of it for this to be a smooth comfortable slide of your hand. So attuned to each other’s bodies you both groan at the first full stroke of your fist down the entire length of his cock.
Your hand repeats the motion, stroking up and down in a soothing rhythm, neither too fast nor too slow. Just right. Even a simple rhythm is too much for poor Homelander who’s nearly trembling all over at the way your hand twists at the top.
His cock makes a little wet squelchy noise when your fist runs over the head and closes at the top. It shouldn’t make you as wet as it does but there’s something inherently sexy about his body getting so aroused he’s produced enough pre-cum to slick your hand fully.
Your thumb slides over the tip and across the slit each time you stroke upwards, reaching a faster, heavier rhythm. The thud of your hand is nearly embarrassingly loud in the quiet home as your fist meets his hips at a steady interval.
Homelander’s freely whimpering now—to an untrained ear he sounds closer to sobbing (and he might well be) but you know that his most tortured whimpers equate to the best pleasure.
It doesn’t even take beyond two minutes in total for him to fall apart. Your hand concentrates at the top of his cock, gliding over the edge of the head seamlessly, sending electric pleasure down his limbs. His cock twitches all over, throbbing heavy and hard in your hand.
His wet choked up moan is all you get as a warning before his entire body flexes and releases, his cock spurting pearly white ropes of come over your fist and his torso. He’s even managed to reach up to his neck. You give him a couple more deep and long strokes, really squeezing it all out of him.
With a heavy sigh he sags against the mattress, all of the fight and stress released out of him. In more ways than one.
“Mhm, that was beautiful.” You lean over and finally give him a little peck on his lips.
“Thankss for….mhmmmm… that.” His speech is slurred and a little heavy but the content smile on his face is all the thanks you need.
“Tissue?” He groans weakly and you nod, turning towards your end of the bed, plucking a wet wipe or two out of the package.
By the time you turn around with the wet tissues he’s asleep, huffing little sleepy breaths as you wipe his chest down off his own mess. Since he’s already asleep you go the extra mile to get out of bed and walk to the nearest trash and dispose of the tissue.
On the way back to bed you notice it’s gone 4am already. Settling back into bed hoping to fall asleep quickly you’re surprised when Homelander turns around, spooning you just like you did him earlier, huffing a quiet sleepy breath and settling his head against the top of your back.
Regardless of how the night goes, you will always have each other to rely on.
Taglist (you can add(or remove) yourself to be tagged when I publish a new fic):
some more thoughts running around my head while i write the second part of bookworm
homelander isn't much of a reader. at all.
not because he can't read or he's 'too dumb', he doesn't really have the time to read (and he gets too restless)
if he does read anything, it's likely going to be nonfiction (even more likely american history)
he finds your bookishness to be both endearing and annoying, especially when you're more focused on reading than him
"are you even listening to me?" "yes honey, i can read and listen at the same time. it is in fact possible."
his penthouse becomes littered with books that you've bought or borrowed from the library. some from vought's own publishing branch, most from other publishers
there have been times when you've caught him reading over your shoulder, and he always pretends that he's not actually interested but he will skim over the blurb when you're not looking
he likes to lounge on you while you read, not minding that you're doing two things at once
although he's not a reader himself, he is of the opinion that reading makes people smarter and likes that you constantly have a book in your hand
See Yourself Become the Villain (Book 3) Chapter One
Found Family! The Boys and Supe! Reader
Platonic Yandere! Homelander and Supe! Reader
Platonic! Soldier Boy and Supe! Reader
Chapter One: Camp
Summary: Homelander's world is his.
Chapter Warnings: Typical "The Boys" warnings, Homelander
Mouse Note: Welcome back! I'm so excited to post the last book in this series. Buckle up, I went overboard, and it's going be a long book for one season. Also, no one get mad: we won't see Borealis for a hot minute, not really. But I promise it's all worth it <3 Enjoy!
Applause thundered through the convention hall. Homelander smiled at the audience, arms extended to them as he stepped out into the light before the shareholders and fans of Vought—of him.
“USA! USA! USA!” chanted the crowd. “USA! USA! USA! USA!”
“Thank you,” said Homelander.
“USA!”
“Thank you!” Homelander’s smile twitched. The music stopped, and he looked around the audience. “Thank you and welcome to the Vought International Annual Meeting of Shareholders.” The crowd roared with approval again. Homelander smiled. Everything was in control. “Wasn’t that long ago we were lost in the darkness. Starlighters running wild. Starlight herself on a vicious murder spree. But we said, ‘No.’ We said, ‘Enough.’ We said, ‘Not in America.’ And together we soared into a new golden dawn!” People thundered with applause and cheered and stamped their feet in a fervor. “Our superheroes are now the ranking law enforcement officers. We designed the Starlighters a terrorist organization. Other heroes are proudly serving in the armed forces thanks to the new chairman of the Joint Chiefs, General Mayhem! Net income is up twenty-one percent. G-Men: Days past the Future has grossed over two billion. And do not get me started on the EBITDA margins.”
Homelander saw the smiles, heard the applause, and listened to the cheers. Everything was falling into place. With Calhoun and Ashley in the White House, he had control of the USA. Vought was under his control. Sage was working out all the details of capturing Starlighters. His camps throughout the country were taking anyone who would try to take away what Homelander deserved. Homelander would have his perfect life.
Homelander continued, his smile widening as he recalled how successful he had become. “But all of this pales in comparison to the most important truth, that this is a safer, more God-fearing nation! Our nation! Yes! Despite what that little bitch Starlight tried to do at our southern border, is there no depth to what that little who—”
The screen behind him glitched, and the face of a man in a plane appeared. The room went quiet, and Homelander whirled.
“Homelander and Queen Maeve…my God, they’re leaving us!”
On the video, Maeve pushed a daughter and mother towards Homelander. “Take these two!”
“Whoa, no!” denied Homelander on the video.
“Just these two, please!”
“What? So they can tell the world that we left the rest of them to fucking die?!”
“Come on!”
Homelander went still. He stared at the old, old video. This wasn’t supposed to ever get out there. That was—
“No, Maeve. No!” On the video, Homelander glared at the crowd, eyes glowing with lasers. “You stay back. All of you, stay back! You stay the fuck back or I’ll laser you, goddammit I’ll laser every fucking one of you!” The video ended.
Homelander let out a long, shaky breath. Everyone was staring at him. He could feel the stares. His ears rang, and his hands flexed. His eyes flickered red. He had to destroy them all. He had to destroy everything. Fucking Starlight wouldn’t stop destroying what Homelander was building.
A hand landed on Homelander’s arm. The glow of his eyes died. Sister Sage gave Homelander a warning look. She would handle the issue.
Homelander settled down. He gritted his teeth. He hated Starlight. He hated Butcher. He hated all the small people still trying to take away what he deserved—his perfect world for his perfect family. He would build it brick by brick, body by body.
l
Homelander paced his penthouse. Sister Sage was doing damage control, Ashley was doing press releases about AI deepfakes, and everything was under control. But Homelander didn’t feel in control. People were doubting him; turning against him. Homelander took a deep breath and laid a hand on a smooth white tank. He looked down at it, smiling.
But it would all be alright. Homelander had a plan. It was time to rid himself of Hughie Campbell, the French one, and Marvin—their execution was imminent. Homelander smiled. Starlight and Butcher would have no choice but to come out from hiding, and Homelander would then get to crush them.
“They’re trying to tear us apart. I won’t let them. I’ll keep you safe from them. They won’t be able to get to you anymore. They won’t get into your head, giving you silly ideas about how we’re not family.” Homelander smiled and patted a smooth white tank. “But don’t worry. You’re safe, (Y/N).” Homelander smiled down at (Y/N). Their face was expressionless, eyes shut in a deep, deep sleep. They were safe, protected from the world that was trying to turn them against him. Homelander wouldn’t let it. No matter what, he would protect his family.
l
Annie exhaled despondently, and sickly sweet vapor filtered into the air. She tucked the video of the Deep’s constant insults away. She didn’t care about all that. She cared about MM. Frenchie. Kimiko. Hughie. (Y/N). She just didn’t know how to help them, stuck in Vought’s clutches.
(Y/N). Their name echoed in her mind, and Annie’s grip on the bottle next to her tightened, the coping mechanism etched into her now. She had failed them. They had been the hero, sacrificed themself to a literal fate worse than death, and given Annie a chance to fight. But Annie was useless. She couldn’t save (Y/N). She couldn’t’ save anyone, not even her own people. Her own sibling, her family, was probably near dead under Homelander's control. They could even be dead already, broken down until nothing of them was left. It broke Annie's heart.
“Oh, bollocks.”
Annie jerked to her feet and whirled. Butcher stood in the doorway of her safehouse. Her eyes narrowed.
“Half a bottle of rum and you’re a solid five-out-of-ten any day of the week,” said Butcher sarcastically.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” snapped Annie.
Butcher smirked and glanced behind him. Kimiko stepped into the doorway. Annie’s eyes widened—really relieved.
“Kimiko?” A smile appeared on her face for the first time in-in over a year. Kimiko smiled and rushed in for a hug, which Annie returned joyfully.
“Oh, wow.” Kimiko drew back. “Your skin is so oily, like hugging a McRib.”
Annie stared. “Wait—Did you—Did you just—How?”
“Fucking speech therapy and fucking therapy therapy and so much fucking TikTok,” said Kimiko matter-of-factly.
“Well, you sure sound like you’re on TikTok,” admitted Kimiko.
“Sixteen-hour-flight and not a fuckin- peep,” said Butcher incredulously.
“ ‘Cause all you say is ‘Oi, oi, oi, cunt, cunt, cunt,’ ” said Kimiko sharply.
Butcher huffed. “I liked her better with her mouth cunt.”
Kimiko rolled her eyes.
“Where have you been?” asked Annie.
“Vought got tired of me ripping off their guards’ faces, so they deported me to Manila,” said Kimiko. “I tried to sneak back once, in the wheel well of a 747, but I fell out at ten thousand feet.” She grimaced. “Oh, man, that took a hot minute to regrow. They found my asshole, like, a mile away.”
Honestly, Annie had no words to respond to such a graphic image. “How did you find me?”
“Oh, ways and means, luv,” said Butcher cheerfully. “How many men you down?”
“How many does it look like?” Annie was alone once more. She glanced at Butcher’s stomach as he hummed.
“Don’t worry, luv. Nothing to be scared of.” Butcher wiggled his fingers at her with a grin.
“I’ve seen what your chest full of murder dicks can do,” said Annie coldly. She had a right to be wary. “So, are you still dying, hopefully?”
“No, hearty and hale!” said Butcher. “See, that’s the mistake most people make, they try to fight the cancer.” He gestured to her. “Nice one, putting Flight 37 out there.”
“Was it? It didn’t move the needle an inch,” said Annie, exhausted and frustrated.
“Oh, course it did. Homelander’s fuming.” Butcher smirked at the image. “He’s gonna execute Hughie, Frenchie, and MM in about thirty-six hours.”
Annie’s eyes widened.
“Course, it’s a trap,” said Butcher. “The question is what else are we gonna do ‘sides walk into it?”
“Why haven’t you tried to spring them before?” questioned Annie.
Butcher hesitated.
“Mm. You want Frenchie,” said Annie. “You’re still working on the virus, and you want his help.”
“The virus that’ll kill Annie, (Y/N), me, and you now?” said Kimiko.
“And Homelander.” That’s what mattered to Butcher. “Now, you gonna help us save the Boys or not?”
Annie stood, crossed the room, and returned with photographs that created a schematic of the camp.
“How did you get these?” asked Kimiko.
“Flyby. I took it myself,” said Annie.
“Wait, you’ve known where the guys are this whole time?” asked Kimiko, frowning. “That makes me feel angry and want to tit-slap you, but then hug you.”
“So, how come you didn’t spring them, then?” Butcher threw the question back at Annie.
“Honestly? They’ve been safer there.” And Annie was terrified of how unable she was to protect people around her. She ignored Butcher’s look and pointed at one building. “It’s this one.”
“Getting in won’t be easy,” said Butcher. “The perimeter’s just open space.”
“That’s what I’m telling you,” said Annie.
“I know a guy. I mean, he’s a fucking worm, but he might be able to help,” said Butcher. “But even if I can get us in, how the fuck we gonna get out?”
“Leave that to me,” said Annie. “I have someone we can call.”
Butcher nodded. “Alright then.” He turned and left the room to reach out to his contact.
Kimiko looked at Annie. “You know where the boys are. So what—What happened to (Y/N)?”
Annie looked down. She remembered the screams, the crash, the terrified but scarily determined look in (Y/N)’s eyes when they’d ordered her to leave. “Vought took them.” The words felt like fresh wounds. “Because I couldn’t protect them. They fought, but-but they were sedated.” Her fists clenched. “They remembered, Kimiko. They remembered everything. And they’re out there somewhere, scared and alone, and we’re not there.”
“Hey.” Kimiko put a hand on her arm. “(Y/N) is strong.”
“They shouldn’t have to be,” said Annie. “It’s not fair to them.”
“It’s not,” agreed Kimiko. “But we’ll find them. You know we will. And…” Kimiko squeezed Annie’s arm encouragingly “Whatever doesn’t kill (Y/N) usually regrets it.”
Annie nodded slowly. She hoped so. (Y/N) deserved to be free.
l
After scheming with Frenchie and MM, Hughie took a deep breath, maintained his regular composure, and walked into their boarding room. He froze. The room was splattered with blood. Bisected limbs littered the ground, and the smell of fear and death permeated the air. It was only years of desensitization that kept Hughie’s food from coming up.
“ ‘Well, Annie, today marks two months. It’s a little insane how much I miss you.’ ” In the middle of the gore sat Homelander, reading from the precious, secretive journal Hughie had hidden in the walls. “ ‘I’ve been having trouble eating. Every day, I see people giving up, but not me because I have you.’ ” Homelander smirked at the saccharine words. “It’s very, very sweet.”
“They were innocent.” Hughie could feel the bodies lining the room, the people he’d lived with for over a year, regular people who just wanted to live.
“Oh, well, I’d hardly call them innocent,” scoffed Homelander with a cheerful smile. “They lied to me. Played dumb about your little stash int the wall there.”
Hughie let out a breath. The Molotovs had been found.
“We’ve known about that for quite some time,” said Homelander. “But I just wanted to give you a little hope.”
“You’re not the one who gave it to me, asshole,” said Hughie.
“Ooh, I like Internment Camp Hughie,” said Homelander. “She’s zesty.”
“Fuck you,” snapped Hughie. He stepped forward and extended his arms. “Do it.”
“What?”
“Kill me.”
“Not until we flush out Butcher and Starlight,” corrected Homelander.
“You think they’re dumb enough to just walk right into your trap?” demanded Hughie.
“Let’s not insult each other. We both know they’re coming,” said Homelander. He tossed the notebook ot the ground. “It even says it there.” He cleared his throat and repeated Hughie’s own words, “ ‘I know that it hurts being apart. But I know that, when the times comes, we’ll fight for each other. We’ll fight for M and Frenchie and Kimiko and (Y/N) and everyone else.’ ” Homelander grinned. “You’ll do whatever it takes for each other.”
Hughie’s hands curled into fists.
“Do you remember when we first met?” said Homelander abruptly.
“How could I forget?” said Hughie sarcastically.
“Believe Festival,” remembered Homelander. “I tried to cleanse your soul. I remember thinking…‘Why him?’ What does Starlight see in this gangly simp that reeks of fear and Strawberry Smoothie kids’ shampoo?” Hughie frowned. “You know, William and Victoria Neuman love you, too.” Homelander stood. “I mean, I get it from your perspective. You’re punching up. Good for you. But why are they so hopelessly devoted to such staggering mediocrity?” Homelander’s smile fell to a frustrated sneer. “Why would (Y/N) treat you like family when you’re so inferior?”
There it was: the real issue Homelander had. He could deal with Butcher and Annie adoring a ridiculously weak man like Hughie, but (Y/N) had a better option. Borealis was Homelander’s sibling, they had the perfect family right in front of them, and yet they chose Hughie as a brother.
Hughie met Homelander’s gaze. Refusing to cower, he lifted his chin. “Because I treat (Y/N) like a person. Not a possession.”
The fist to his head knocked him before he could stay another word, but Hughie didn’t regret it for a moment.
Here is the cover I had the pleasure of illustrating for the Polish edition of "The Husky and His White Cat Shizun" Published by Wydawnictwo Czarna Owca
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