heidi

You spotted her the way you spotted everything—out of the corner of your eye, halfway through a sip of something too strong, too sweet, and not nearly enough to quiet the ER echo in your head.

A petite blonde, heels wobbling, head lolling, being half-carried between two men toward the door.

Your stomach went cold so fast it cut through the buzz.

One guy was wiry, average height, all elbows and effort, his face screwed up in concentration as he tried to keep her from sliding out of his grip. His face was screwed up in concentration as he tried to keep her from sliding out of his grip, jaw clenched, fingers digging into the crook of her knee. The other— Well.

The other was tall.

Ridiculously tall. You guessed, six-four at least, easy to pick out even in the dim light. Broad shoulders under a soft-looking sweater, sleeves pushed up just enough to show forearms that were definitely not skipping gym day. Dark curly hair, mused like he’d been running his hands through it. His glasses caught the neon like a flash of light every time he turned his head. He had the blonde tucked against his chest, one big arm banded around her back like she weighed nothing at all.

Maybe it was the way her arms hung limp, fingers loose. Maybe it was the unfocused angle of her chin, how her head tipped against his shoulder, mouth slack, eyes barely open and unfocused.

Or maybe it was the four-day blur of ER shifts still buzzing under your skin, every scenario your brain had catalogued over the week snapping open all at once.

Whatever it was, your body reacted before your brain caught up.

You set your drink down carefully, fingers catching on the condensation. You slid off the barstool, whipping your wet fingertips against your jeans, and started moving.

"Hey!" the bartender called after you, confusion laced in his voice. You didn’t look back. 

The music thumped low and heavy in your chest. Colored lights strobed over a sea of faces turning everyone into moving shadows. The smell of spilled beer, fryer grease, and cheap perfume hit your nose. You dodged around a group of guys shouting about pool, ducked under someone’s careless arm, and beelined for the door. Someone bumped your shoulder, but your eyes stayed locked on the trio heading for the exit.

The tall guy spotted you a second before you reached them. 

His brows knit, confusion flickering behind his glasses as you planted yourself squarely in their path, feet shoulder-width apart.

"Hey! Put her down!" you ordered. It came out sharper than you meant, clipped, the same tone you used barking orders in a trauma bay. 

The tall guy blinked. The smaller guy—red hair, freckles, very nearly swallowed by an oversized jacket—froze mid-step and did a weird half-pivot like he’d just realized he was in the wrong room.

"Uh," the small one tried, eyes going wide "We were just—"

"Just what? She’s drunk!" you snapped, cutting him off, eyes focused on the blonde.  You swept over her quickly—skin pale and a little clammy, head bobbing, eyelids drooping. Her chest rose and fell, but slower than you liked. "She’s not walking on her own, her head’s not staying upright, and she probably couldn’t consent to a menu right now, let alone whatever you’re planning. Where are you taking her?"

Your nurse brain slotted everything into place with ruthless efficiency. The rest of you was riding a thin line between anger and sheer, exhausted panic.

The tall one adjusted his grip automatically, keeping her more secure against him so she didn’t slide further. Up close, he looked even more annoyingly… wholesome. Soft mouth. Strong jaw. A faint line between his brows from worry than defensiveness. His eyes, now that you were close enough to see them, were a bright blue behind his lenses.

"We’re taking her home," he replied, calm but clearly thrown. "She’s our friend. She’s had too much—"

"Everyone says that," you bit out with a pointed finger, stepping closer. You could smell him now—detergent and something warm and clean, cutting the faint smoke of the bar. "Then I see them in the ER the next morning with their blood alcohol through the roof and bruises they can’t explain!"

Your heart was pounding so hard you could hear it in your ears. Underneath the bass line, you could almost hear monitors instead—the steady beeps, and then the stretch of tone when a heartbeat slowed. The way families looked at you like you were supposed to be God and fix every damn thing, like you weren’t already stretched thin.

Four days of being called "sweetheart" and "nurse" and "hey you" while residents ghosted your calls and families took their fear out on your face—every ounce of that frustration funneled into this moment.

The wiry guy lifted both hands in a full surrender pose, nearly losing his grip on the blonde’s legs. "Whoa, okay, hold on," he blurted, voice a little too high. "We’re not—this isn’t—Clark, help me out here, man, she’s gonna murder us, and honestly I think she could."

You ignored him and reached for the blonde’s wrist, fingers seeking a pulse.

Your hand brushed the tall guy’s forearm.

It was warm. His skin was firm under the thin fabric of his sweater, minimal give even when you pressed. There was a steadiness there that didn’t match the situation at all.

He instinctively shifted back a step to keep from knocking you over and to keep the blonde from tipping, and your tipsy brain interpreted the motion as him pulling her away from you.

"Don’t go anywhere," you warned, snapping your gaze up. Your palm planted itself against his chest to keep him in place before you even thought about it.

His chest was just as solid as his arm. Not overinflated, mirror-flexing solid—just dense, like someone had built a support beam and then stuck it inside a guy in a sweater. You felt the steady thrum of his heart under your hand, strong and unhurried and wanted to trust him. You couldn’t.

"Miss," he tried again, and his voice did that thing—soft, a little deeper up close, careful. Why did it have to be soft? "I promise, we’re just trying to get her back safe. We’re—"

"If you say ‘we’re good guys,’ I’m calling 911," you shot back automatically. "Her pupils are blown, and she’s barely reacting. I’m not letting you walk out of here with her just because you’re tall and polite and your friend looks like a sad red-headed retriever"

"H-hey!" the smaller guy choked. "She’s not wrong about the tall and polite thing, but—"

He stopped when you snapped your glare to him too. 

He swallowed. "Okay, lemme try again! Hi. I’m Jimmy. That’s Cat. She’s our friend.  She works with us. We go out every other Friday. She just pregamed too hard, and Clark—"

"Good gosh, Jimmy, please stop talking," the tall one—Clark, apparently—groaned under his breath, like this was not the first time his friend had overshared in a crisis.

"Clark," you echoed, still glaring up at him. A name slotted him into place in your brain. A person, not just A Tall Guy. Somehow that made it worse. It made him real.

"Look," you pushed on, hand still firm against his chest. "I don’t care if you’re her brother, boyfriend, or the Tooth Fairy in glasses. Put her down."

You moved, trying to maneuver the blonde out of his arms the way you’d shift a patient between gurney and bed. It went… poorly.

You tugged on her elbow, misjudging her weight with your tequila math. Clark tried not to jostle her, compensating in the opposite direction. Jimmy, panicking, adjusted his hold at the wrong time. The blonde’s weight dipped, her head lolling forward, hair swinging.

"Careful!" Clark said quickly, raising his voice for the first time. He immediately shifted, re-anchoring her against his chest, muscles tightening under your palm as he pulled her up. The motion dragged you closer with her. His hand shot out, closing around your forearm for a second, just to steady you both and keep you from slipping on the sticky floor.

Heat flashed up your skin where he touched you, like your nerves had just remembered what it was to feel something that wasn’t stress.

"D-don’t grab me, Clark!" you yanked your arm back like it burned, accidentally seething his name and making him even more real. 

"I’m trying not to drop her!" he protested, exasperation finally edging into his tone, eyes wide and earnest behind his glasses as he stared down at you.

.

The three of you ended up in a ridiculous stalemate by the door.

You were braced in front of them, knees bent like you were about to take a hit in a scrimmage, one hand hovering near the blonde’s wrist ready to check her pulse again. Jimmy kept shifting his grip under her knees, adjusting a half inch this way, a half inch that way, panic written all over his face as he tried not to drop her. Clark stood caught in the middle, arms full of Cat, frozen in the world’s most awkward tug-of-war, moving like the slightest wrong angle might shatter her.

To anyone watching, it probably looked like you were trying to repossess a very drunk woman from two guys who’d attempted a kidnapping and were now failing spectacularly.

"Hey, hey!" a voice cut through the tension, low and carrying. "What the hell is going on over here!?"

You didn’t have to look to know who it was. That voice had called last round, last call, and last nerve on you for years.

You turned anyway.

The bar owner—broad shoulders, soft middle, hairline fighting a losing battle—stood with his brows raised. A dish towel hung over one shoulder like it had grown there. He glanced between you and the guys like he was trying to decide which one of you was more likely to start a brawl.

He greeted you, exasperated but fond."You starting fights in my doorway now?"

"Ugh! They’re trying to drag her out of here," you shot back, gesturing at the blonde. You heard your own voice wobble for the first time, the edges of your certainty fraying. "She can’t even keep her head up. She can’t consent to anything. Why am I the problem here?!"

Your words hung between all of you, heavier than the bass.

The owner’s gaze slid to Cat, took her in with one experienced sweep—the slump of her shoulders, the loose jaw, the steady rise and fall of her chest. His eyes moved to Jimmy, who looked like he might hyperventilate, then to Clark, who was still holding Cat like a very fragile, very drunk baby deer.

He exhaled, long and put-upon.

"They’re regulars," he sighed as he pinched the bridge of his nose. "Girl’s name is Cat. Comes in with them all the time. I’ve cut her off before. They always take her home. Never had a problem."

Your righteous anger snagged like your shoe on a sticky patch of floor, and then faltered.

"O-oh," you managed, your bravado collapsing in on itself rapidly you considered calling a code for yourself.

Heat crawled up your neck. The bar suddenly felt two sizes smaller, the air denser, like someone had cranked the thermostat up twenty degrees. You could feel the warmth of Clark’s body under your palm, the faint tremor in your own fingers.

You looked back at Cat, at the soft way her hand had curled into Clark’s sweater, as if she’d done it a hundred times. Jimmy’s face was pinched and anxious, his mouth pressed into a thin line, eyes flicking between you and the owner like he was waiting for a verdict.

"Oh shit," you repeated, quieter this time. "I just—I thought—"

"I know what you thought," the owner cut in, his tone easing. He dragged his dish towel across his hands, then aimed a look at Clark and Jimmy that was not subtle at all. "And she’s not wrong to think it."

He tipped his chin toward them. "You two make sure she drinks water and doesn’t choke on her own vomit, yeah?"

"Always, sir!" Jimmy blurted, nodding so hard his hair flopped. "Absolutely, yes, one hundred percent, sir, hydrated and on her side and supervised, we know the drill, this is like—like Cat Protocol—"

"Okay, okay," the owner interrupted, rubbing his forehead. "Stop talking before I card you again."

Jimmy clamped his mouth shut, cheeks going pink.

The owner clapped your shoulder, the weight of his hand familiar and steady. "You did the right thing," he reassured you. "Just… maybe don’t tackle the six-four guy next time without warning, huh? I need my doorways intact."

A weak laugh caught in your throat.

You realized belatedly that your hand was still more or less splayed across Clark’s chest, fingers curled slightly in the knit of his sweater like you were hanging on.

You snatched it back like it bit you.

"Sorry, sorry!" you blurted, mortification flooding your veins hot and fast. "I’m—I’m so sorry, guys! Occupational hazard. I’m a nurse. I see this go badly a lot, and I didn’t want— I couldn’t just stand by and watch— I didn’t mean to—"

Words tripped over each other coming out of your mouth, panic tumbling into apology.

"Hey, he, no," Clark cut in quickly, shaking his head. "No, you were just looking out for her. That’s—good. That’s… really good! I’m glad someone cares about people to do these things!"

His voice was earnest enough that it made you pause.

You met his eyes properly for the first time without adrenaline screaming in your ears.

They were—of freaking course—so stupidly kind.

Bright blue, as blue as a spring sky, soft at the edges, framed by lashes that were frankly unnecessary. Little lines creased at the corners from worry and from smiling, the kind of face that probably apologized when someone else bumped into him on the street.

He looked like the sort of person who would help old ladies with their groceries.

He also looked like the sort of person who could lift you with one arm without breaking a sweat, but that was a thought you absolutely did not need to be having while you were still technically accusing him of a felony.

"I, uh," you stammered, suddenly hyper-aware of every inch of space between you and how close you’d just been. It wasn’t often your mouth didn’t know how to talk. "It’s been a hell of a week. So sorry. Again."

Jimmy shifted his grip on Cat’s legs, trying to subtly shake feeling back into his hands. "Rough shift?" he ventured, his tone cautious but sympathetic.

Rough week, you thought. Rough month. Rough… everything.

Then the bar tilted for a second under your feet when you turned just so, and your vision tightened at the edges for just a brief moment. Before you could stop it, your brain slid backwards.

.

Fluorescent lights humming overhead. The shrill, endless ding of call bells, each one a demand. The sharp chemical sting of antiseptic mixed with old coffee and too many bodies crammed into too small a space.

Four days. Four consecutive days of chaos.

You’d had a man’s daughter crying in your arms at ten a.m., mascara streaking down her cheeks, because no one could yet tell her if his CT showed a bleed or just an old scar. You’d had a son call you "heartless" at noon because you wouldn’t let him into a sterile procedure room, his words spitting venom over the surgical mask you wore.

You’d had a resident ignore three calls—three—until the attending rounded, glanced at the chart, and chewed you out for not having the orders already done.

"WHAT DO YOU PEOPLE EVEN DO BACK HERE?"

He’d been red-faced and jabbing a finger in the air like you were a punching bag instead of the person who’d taken his mother’s vitals four times in an hour, the person who’d caught her oxygen dropping before anyone else did.

You’d taken a breath, then another, and explained again about labs and imaging and wait times you didn’t control. You’d smiled when everything in you wanted to scream.

Fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes circled in your mind like a life raft: break, lunch, sixty seconds to yourself to sit down and chew.

You’d opened the fridge in the cramped little break room, already tasting the leftovers you’d packed last night.

Your labeled lunch container—the one with your name written on it twice in aggressive Sharpie, the one you’d carefully packed, your small act of kindness to your future self—was gone.

Vanished.

In its place: someone’s sad, wilted salad and an unlabeled yogurt squished against the back wall.

You’d stood there holding the fridge door, cold air spilling over your scrubs, looking at the empty shelf. For a second you just stared, the world narrowing to the stupid gap where your food should have been. The remaining light left your eyes.

Then you’d laughed, just three times, with a shake of your head. A hollow, broken little sound that felt alarmingly close to a sob and tasted like metal in the back of your throat.

That laugh still echoed now, underneath the bar’s music and the murmur of conversation and the clink of glasses.

Your stomach rolled.

.

The room tilted again, but this time it wasn’t a memory. The tequila, the adrenaline crash, the four days of running on fumes all decided to gang up at once.

"Hey," Clark prompted, his brows pinching as he watched your face. "You okay?"

"Y-yeah," you lied automatically, because that was muscle memory too. You’d said it to patients, to coworkers, to your own reflection in the hospital bathroom mirror on your worst days, which seemed to be every day. "I’m—"

Your stomach lurched in earnest.

"Oh fuck," you muttered, the words puffing out on a wavering breath as your hand flew to your mouth.

Clark moved faster than he had any right to for a guy that size.

"Bathroom?" he asked, already shifting his weight. You barely managed a nod before he was carefully transferring Cat’s weight into Jimmy’s arms.

"Got her, I got her!" Jimmy babbled, adjusting his stance as Cat sagged more heavily against him. "Go, go, please go, do not throw up on my shoes, those are new."

Clark didn’t laugh. His hand settled between your shoulder blades—steady, wide, warm through the fabric of your shirt, somehow not overwhelming despite how tall he was. He guided you through the crowd with practiced ease, the bar parting around the two of you as he murmured apologies.

"Excuse us," he called over the music, steering you around a table. "Sorry. Coming through. Sorry, she’s—watch your step—"

It was weirdly reassuring, the way he cleared a path without ever pushing, just existing in people’s space until they moved.

The bathroom door swung inward, and the smell of industrial cleaner and too many Friday nights hit you full force.

You dropped to your knees on instinct.

It was not your finest moment.

You clung to the toilet like it was a life raft and surrendered to gravity, tequila, and the accumulated weight of the week. Your body folded up on itself, shoulders jerking with each heave. Your eyes watered; your throat burned.

If you’d had enough dignity left to care, you might’ve told him to leave. You might’ve locked the stall and insisted you could handle it, because handling it was what you did.

He didn’t leave.

He crouched beside you in the narrow stall, one large palm gathering your hair and holding it back from your face without comment. His fingers were gentle, not tugging, just keeping it clear. His other hand hovered just above your shoulder, not touching unless you needed the support, there if you tipped too far forward.

"You’re okay, you’re okay," he murmured, voice pitched low and steady, like he was talking you through a procedure. "Just breathe. You’re alright."

You groaned between heaves, tears in your eyes slipping as you squeezed shut. "This is—oh God—this is so embarrassing."

"I’ve seen worse," he replied, and somehow managed to sound faintly amused without mocking you. It was a careful kind of humor, offering you a way to laugh at yourself if you wanted it.

You wouldn’t have been surprised if that was a lie, but you appreciated it anyway.

"I promise you’re still in the top ten least-disastrous situations I’ve been in on a Friday," he added.

"Top ten?" you rasped, sniffling between breaths. "So there’s… competition?"

"Unfortunately," he confessed. "You’re ranking pretty low on the catastrophe scale, I promise."

Eventually, the worst of it passed. You spat, reached blindly for the sad metal sink beside you, and turned the tap with shaky fingers. You swished water around your mouth, spat again, then leaned your forehead against the cool metal divider for a second, letting the chill bleed some of the leftover heat from your cheeks.

"Clark, I tried to fight you," you muttered, eyes still closed. "Then I threw up. I don’t even know your last name."

"Kent," he told you instantly. "Clark Kent."

Of-freaking-course, he had the kind of name that sounded charming and adorable.

You shut your eyes tighter for a heartbeat, letting the dizziness ebb before you pushed yourself upright.

"Hi, Clark Kent," you managed weakly with a grimace. "I’m so sorry I accused you of being a kidnapper and then vomited in your general vicinity. You seem like a really nice man."

"Honestly?" he replied with a chuckle. "I’ve had much worse introductions."

You huffed out a tired laugh, then reached for the paper towels. You splashed more water on your face, mascara and eyeliner definitely smeared without care, the icy tap stinging your skin awake, then patted yourself dry with the rough, too-thin brown squares.

When you finally stepped out into the hallway again, the bar’s noise washed over you all at once.

Jimmy was waiting against the wall by the bathroom sign, jeans scuffed, jacket rumpled, Cat’s arm slung over his shoulders as he half-supported, half-propped her up. She was now slumped in a corner booth a few feet away, head tilted back, mouth open, breathing even and loud enough you could hear a little snore over the music.

"Everything good?" Jimmy blurted as soon as he saw you, straightening like a kid caught doing something wrong.

"Define good," you muttered, moving toward Cat on autopilot. "At looks…ah, she’ll be fine."

Your hands found their way to Cat like they had muscle memory of their own. You checked her pulse again, feeling along her jaw, count steady. You watched her chest rise and fall. You nudged her chin slightly so her airway stayed open.

"She shouldn’t be alone tonight," you decided aloud. "She’s fine, but if she pukes in her sleep…"

"Yeah," Jimmy agreed immediately, rubbing the back of his neck. "Her place isn’t far, but I don’t love the idea of just dumping her on her couch and hoping for the best. She’ll yell at me tomorrow if I do, but like—alive yelling is better than the alternative."

You hesitated.

Your apartment flashed in your mind. Tiny but cozy. The fifth-floor walk-up with the humming radiators and the crooked windows. Lois was probably still hunched over her laptop at the kitchen table, half a dozen sticky notes on the surface, coffee with a full bag of sugar gone cold at her elbow. The couch in your living room, old but comfortable, close enough to your room that you’d hear if someone needed help.

"My place is actually closer," you heard yourself say, the words landing before you could talk yourself out of them. "My roommate’s sober. Cat can crash with us. We’ll keep an eye on her tonight, kick her out in the morning, hangover and all."

Jimmy’s shoulders sagged in visible relief. "Are you sure?" he asked, hopeful and horrified in equal measure. "Because that would be… that’d be really, really nice. Like my future-therapy-bills nice."

"Yeah," you replied, shrugging one shoulder. "I’d never leave someone that needs help like this."

"I can help carry her," Clark offered warmly, straightening a bit. "You shouldn’t have to haul her by yourself. Not after the week you’ve had."

You looked at him, then at Cat, then down at your own slightly unsteady feet.

Your pride tried to object. Your ankles, knees, and spine filed a collective complaint from your four-day limbo.

"…Yeah," you conceded. "That’s probably smart. Thank you."

Jimmy dug into his pocket for his keys, jangling them in his hand. "My car’s a block over. We can load her into the backseat, should be fine."

You, a drunk blonde who snored, a frantic redhead, and a six-four man in a sweater all filed out together like the weirdest little parade.

And despite everything you’ve felt, the nausea, the embarrassment, the exhaustion, you could feel something inside you loosen just a bit.

Because the guy you’d just tried to fight? Tall guy? The alleged kidnapper? Clark Kent?

He was still walking at your side, close enough that his shoulder brushed yours when the sidewalk narrowed, quietly making room for you on the inside of the street like it was the most natural thing in the world.

.

The night air hit your face and sharpened everything.

Cold slipped under your collar, clearing out some of the bar haze. The sidewalk was slick in patches from an earlier drizzle, reflecting neon signs in smeared streaks of blue and red. Somewhere down the block, someone laughed too loud. A siren wailed faintly in the distance, threads of sound weaving through honking horns and the rumble of traffic.

Friday night in Metropolis—the city humming like it didn’t care how many hours you’d spent under fluorescent lights. The world buzzed while your muscles finally, finally stopped buzzing with ER adrenaline and started buzzing with something… else.

"Backseat’s probably best," Jimmy muttered as he fumbled with his keys, breath puffing white in the cool air. "More room. Less chance of her falling out the door and suing me in the morning."

"Cat would absolutely sue you," Clark murmured, adjusting his grip as she sagged against him. "And then write a column about it."

Between the two of them and your half-competent directions, you managed to maneuver Cat into the back of Jimmy’s car. Her body went boneless the second she flopped onto the seat, limbs everywhere like a discarded marionette.

Her head rolled toward you as you slid in after her.

"Easy, easy," you coaxed, catching her before she smacked into the door. You guided her down carefully until her head settled in your lap. She made a vague noise that might’ve been your name or might’ve been a burp.

You braced her with one hand on her shoulder, the other hovering near her chin to keep her airway clear. Instinct. Habit. Training.

Clark slid in beside you a heartbeat later, ducking his head so he didn’t crack it on the roof. The car suddenly felt two sizes too small.

His shoulder pressed along yours, solid and warm even through both your layers.

Jimmy climbed behind the wheel and shut his door with more force than necessary. The car shuddered.

"Seatbelts," Jimmy called, a little frazzled. "Please. I don’t need Cat drunk and flying through the windshield."

You reached for yours, the belt slicing diagonally across your chest with a familiar tug. You heard Clark’s click beside you. Cat mumbled and drooled on your jeans.

The engine turned over with a reluctant groan, then caught. Jimmy pulled away from the curb like the entire city was a driving test.

Streetlights slid across Clark’s profile as you rolled through the intersection—strong nose, defined jaw. The glow from the dashboard painted his skin in a soft green wash. He kept one hand braced on the back of Jimmy’s seat, the other resting near his knee, fingers long and relaxed.

You realized you were staring and snapped your gaze toward the window, watching buildings smear by instead.

"So," he ventured after a moment, his voice threading through the low hum of the engine and the faint thump of whatever song Jimmy had on the radio. "Do you take on every six-four guy in a sweater you meet at bars, or was tonight a special occasion?"

A laugh escaped you before you could stop it, short and sharp.

"Only the ones suspiciously attached to unconscious blondes," you replied. "Otherwise I try to limit myself to yelling at residents and people who steal my lunch."

"Lunch thieves," he repeated gravely. "The real villains of the hospital."

You huffed, the corner of your mouth twitching. "You joke, but I nearly committed homicide over a missing Tupperware this week."

"I’m on your side," he assured you. "They had it coming."

You glanced down as Cat shifted, her mouth opening. You angled her head, thumb under her jaw, making sure her airway stayed clear. She snored once, then settled.

"Is it always like that?" Clark asked quietly. "Your job, I mean. People yelling. You having to be the bad guy?"

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding.

"Not always," you admitted. "Sometimes it’s good. Sometimes people say thank you. Sometimes you get to send someone home and know you made it suck less."

You rubbed absent circles on Cat’s shoulder, more for you than for her. "But yeah. A lot of the time it’s… this." You gestured vaguely with your free hand. "Dragged-out, tired, being the only one in the room who can’t lose it."

He was quiet for a beat, absorbing that.

"I’m sorry," he said finally, and it didn’t sound like pity. It sounded like someone putting a hand on your shoulder.

"You’re not the one who stole my lunch," you muttered.

"I would never," he replied, mock-offended. "My Ma raised me to respect Sharpie labels."

That dragged a real smile out of you.

Every bump in the road nudged you a little closer together, fabric whispering against fabric

A pothole in the road jolted the car, bouncing all of you a few inches off the seat. Your hand shot out to brace on the door; Clark’s arm reacted at the same time, coming across instinctively like a seatbelt, his forearm solid across your midsection for a split second.

"Sorry," Jimmy yelped from the front. "Sorry! That came out of nowhere, I swear I didn’t see it, the city hates me, the roads hate me, god, let this night be over—"

"It’s okay, Jimmy," Clark called, amused.

You were still very aware of the weight of his arm across you, the heat of it, the way his fingers curled like he was ready to catch you if gravity suddenly failed.

He realized it at the same time you did and pulled back, clearing his throat.

"Sorry," he echoed, this time to you. "That was… reflex."

"It’s fine," you told him, trying to act like your pulse hadn’t just jumped. "I’m used to it getting worse. At work the bed moves and it’s usually because someone’s actively coding."

His face sobered again. "That sounds… terrifying."

"Sometimes," you acknowledged. "Sometimes it’s also kind of… I don’t know. Worth it."

The car fell into a quieter rhythm. Jimmy hummed tunelessly under his breath as he took a left. Outside, Metropolis rolled past in snapshots: late-night diners with fluorescent signs buzzing, people smoking outside doorways, a couple arguing on a corner, someone walking a dog that looked way too small for this hour.

Inside the car, it was just the engine, Cat’s soft snoring, and the sound of your own breathing slowly evening out.

"So," Clark tried again, a smile tucked into the corner of his voice, "do you always offer to take strangers home, or did we just luck out?"

You rolled your eyes, but the tension in your shoulders had eased a notch.

"You’re not strangers," you pointed out. "You’re… semi-cleared by the bartender. That counts for something."

"Ah, right. Background check by towel guy," he mused. "That’s reassuring."

"Hey, I trust him more than half the doctors I work with," you quipped.

"Why does it feel like that’s a low bar?" he murmured.

"Because it is," you confirmed.

He laughed quietly, the sound vibrating where your arms brushed.

"Still," he added, more earnest now. "Thank you. For offering. You really didn’t have to."

"You didn’t have to hold my hair while I made friends with the bar toilet," you shot back. "So I guess we’re both overachieving tonight."

"I’m just trying to keep my ‘alleged kidnapper’ record clean," he replied dryly.

You snorted. Cat stirred and mumbled something into your thigh; you automatically soothed her with your fingers through her hair, checking her breathing again without even looking.

"You’re good at that," Clark observed after a second. "The… checking. Making sure."

"Occupational hazard," you replied. "And, you know. I like people not dying on my watch. It’s a hobby."

He made a thoughtful noise. "That’s a good hobby."

You glanced at him from the corner of your eye.

"You?" you asked. "Hobbies besides rescuing drunk coworkers and attracting fights in doorways?"

A faint blush crept up the column of his throat, disappearing under his collar. "I, uh… read a lot," he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. "Walk. Cook sometimes. Nothing very exciting."

"Reading and cooking are exciting," you argued. "Walking is… mildly suspicious, but I’ll allow it."

"What, I look like I don’t walk?" he teased.

"You look like you do something," you countered, flicking your gaze pointedly to his forearms. "I’d just assumed it was, I don’t know, flipping big tires in your spare time or something. Like what cross-fit people do."

His eyes widened a little like he wasn’t sure if you were joking.Then he laughed, head tipping  back against the seat.

"I promise I do all my tire-lifting in designated zones," he replied.

The banter eased something in your chest that the tequila and the cold air hadn’t touched. Your shoulders dropped a fraction, the knot between them loosening.

"Honestly," you muttered, thumb absently rubbing circles on Cat’s shoulder, "this is still better than what my night was supposed to be."

"Yeah?" he prompted, glancing over.

You huffed a small breath out your nose. "My roommate was trying to set me up on a blind date tonight," you admitted. "Kept going on about some ‘perfect guy.’ I turned it down. I’m too tired to make small talk with a stranger over appetizers."

His mouth curved. "You picked ‘fight a stranger in a bar doorway’ instead?"

"I’m versatile," you said dryly. "But yeah. After this week? I just wanted to sit alone with a drink and not be perceived."

He nodded like he understood that a little too well. "Funny," he said after a beat. "I was supposed to get shoved into a blind date too. Friend at work’s been trying to introduce me to ‘someone I’d really like.’"

You glanced at him, brows lifting. "And?"

He lifted one shoulder in a small shrug, eyes back on the window. "Fell through," he replied. "Timing didn’t work out, I guess

"Their loss," you heard yourself say before your brain could filter it.

His gaze flicked back to you, surprised and faintly pleased. "Yours too," he offered, a little shy, "if your roommate’s taste is anything like your judgment in doorways."

You snorted, but the warmth that curled low in your chest wasn’t from the tequila this time.

Jimmy’s car coasted to a stop at a light. The red glow washed over the interior, over Cat’s smudged mascara, over your hands resting lightly on her shoulder and over Clark’s thumb tapping absently against his knee.

You realized, somewhere between one street and the next, that you weren’t on edge around him anymore. You were… aware, yes. Hyper-aware. Of his size, his presence, the way he angled himself so he didn’t crowd you even though the backseat barely had room for the three of you.

But the alarm bell that had gone off the second you saw him carrying Cat had gone quiet.

He’d held your hair. He’d move when you moved, listened when you barked orders, let you poke at his friend without getting defensive. He’d taken being accused of kidnapping and turned it into a running joke without once making you feel small and stupid for it.

The light turned green. Jimmy eased forward.

"Okay," Jimmy announced a minute later, relief creeping into his tone as he recognized the block. "Almost there. One more turn and then you’re free of my terrible driving. I swear I’m better in the daylight."

"I believe you," you lied kindly.

He made an affronted noise. Clark bit back a smile.

They followed your directions through the quiet side street, tires crunching over a stray pile of leaves someone hadn’t swept up yet.

Finally, Jimmy rolled to a stop in front of your building—a five-story brick walk-up with ivy crawling up the side and a streetlamp flickering nearby. The familiar sight tugged at something soft in your chest.

Home. Messy, noisy, shoe-strewn home.

"Here we are," Jimmy exhaled, killing the engine. "Need help with her?"

You looked down at Cat, then at your own still-wobbly legs.

"Unless you want to watch me faceplant on the stairs," you muttered. "Yeah. I might need backup."

"On it," Clark replied immediately.

Between the three of you, you managed to maneuver Cat out of the car in stages. You slid out first, easing her head from your lap, then scooted aside as Clark leaned in, arms scooping under her knees and shoulders with an ease that made it look rehearsed.

She mumbled something incoherent into his chest and promptly faceplanted into his sweater again, fingers curling instinctively in the fabric.

"Hi, Cat," he murmured, shifting her weight. "You’re gonna hate us in the morning."

You adjusted the strap of your bag on your shoulder, moved closer, and automatically took hold of her dangling hand so it didn’t swing.

Clark’s hands were there immediately, steadying both of you when you swayed a little on the curb.

"I’ve got her," he assured you, dipping his head so he could meet your eyes. "You just lead the way."

You were too tired to argue with that, and—annoyingly—you trusted him enough now that you didn’t feel the need to.

Your building’s front entry smelled like someone had burned toast every single day. The paint on the banister chipped under your fingers as you grabbed it, dragging yourself and your little parade up the stairs.

"Sorry, sorry," you winced automatically as Cat’s shoe scuffed the wall in narrow hallway, the rubber sole squeaking against the wood. "Sorry. Almost there. Sorry, Mrs. Kowalski," you added when a door cracked open on the second floor and an older woman peered out, frowning.

You pushed on, your thighs burning by the fourth floor, heart thudding in your ears again for a much more normal, exertion-related reason.

At least this time, when you reached for the railing and your step faltered, there was a big, warm hand hovering just behind your shoulder blade to steady you.

.

You dug your keys out of your bag and jabbed them at the lock, your fingers suddenly clumsy and not entirely obeying your brain. The metal scraped uselessly against the wood.

The door swung inward before you made contact.

"Finally," Lois mumbled around a mouthful of something, leaning against the frame like she’d been propping it open for hours. She wore an oversized Metropolis Meteors shirt and sleep shorts, hair yanked into a lopsided bun, pen tucked behind one ear. "You’re back late, I was about to—"

She stopped dead.

Her gaze ran over the scene in the hallway like a scanner: you, sweaty and winded, one hand still latched around Cat’s limp wrist; Jimmy hovering behind you, wide-eyed and breathing hard; Clark towering over all of you, arms full of Cat’s weight like it was nothing, shoulders blocking half the hallway.

Lois’s jaw dropped so fast you almost heard it.

"Jimmy?" she blurted, eyes ping-ponging. "Cat? Clark?"

You stared at her, brain trying to catch three different trains of thought at once and failing all of them.

"You… know them?" you managed, voice coming out a little higher than usual.

Lois dragged her gaze back to you. You could practically watch the emotions flicker across her face—horror, delight, confusion, oh, this is going in my mental notes, and the dawning realization that the universe had just handed her a front-page-worthy story.

"Oh my God, what are you guys doing here?" she breathed.

Your stomach sank and flipped at the same time.

"Wait, hold on," you said slowly, as if the words might rearrange into something less insane if you gave them time. "These are the coworkers you were talking about? From The Planet?"

Lois pointed straight at Clark like she was accusing him of murder.

"That’s him," she declared, shaking your arm. "That’s the guy! That’s the blind date you turned down tonight."

Silence dropped over the hallway like a weighted blanket.

You became acutely aware of every single life choice that had led you here: every "no thanks" to Lois when she described her very polite, dorky, Mid-western with a Capital M, tall coworker, every tequila shot, every step across that bar, every time your hand had been on Clark’s chest—or his arm—or his anything, really.

"I—" you started, then stalled.

You glanced at Clark.

He looked vaguely like someone had just informed him gravity was optional. His eyes were wide, mouth parted, Cat’s head still tucked against his shoulder like a very drunk, very inconvenient scarf.

"You’re the… mysterious coworker?" you croaked.

He swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing. "Apparently?" he answered, sounding dazed.

Behind you, Jimmy made a strangled noise that might have been laughter escaping before his brain could tackle it.

Lois’s eyes narrowed. "What did I miss?"

"Nothing," you blurted. "I just—misunderstood, and there was a little… situation at the bar—"

"She almost tackled him in the doorway," Jimmy piped up, loyalty gone in an instant. "Like, full bouncer mode."

Lois stared at you, then at Clark, then back again, connecting the dots so fast it almost hurt to watch.

"You almost fought your blind date," Lois groaned, pressing her fist against her mouth like she was physically holding in a scream. "Of course this is how you meet. Of course."

You slapped your free hand over your face, heat slamming into your cheeks. "I’m going to jump out of the window," you muttered into your palm.

"Please don’t," Clark blurted, a little panicked. "I don’t think I can carry Cat and catch you out there at the same time."

That dragged a helpless little laugh out of you, embarrassingly bright considering you still smelled faintly like bar bathroom.

Lois stepped back, swinging the door open wider and shaking her head like she’d just been bumped up from orchestra seats to front row. "Okay, bring her in," she instructed, already shifting into crisis-manager mode. "We’ll put her on the couch. Then someone’s explaining this to me in excruciating detail."

You shuffled forward, guiding everyone inside.

Your apartment greeted you like it always did—small, a little cluttered, but warm. Earth-toned furniture that didn’t match but somehow worked together. A soft, sagging couch. Bookcases lined with fantasy novels, dog-eared paperbacks, and thick nursing textbooks with fluorescent sticky notes peeking out. A balcony door cracked just enough for a thin line of cool air to sneak in. A string of fairy lights along the ceiling, one bulb always a little dimmer than the rest, casting everything in a soft, lived-in glow.

Cat ended up sprawled on the couch in under a minute.

"Okay, easy—one, two, three," you coached, shifting to guide her down as Clark lowered her with more care than most people used on expensive glassware. Her head thunked against the pillow, but gently.

You and Lois moved in tandem without needing to talk, years of roommate triage kicking in. Lois grabbed pillows; you adjusted them under Cat’s head and shoulders. Lois snagged a blanket off the back of the couch; you shook it out and tucked it around Cat’s legs. You grabbed a glass from the coffee table, rinsed it quickly in the kitchen sink, and filled it with water. Lois dragged the trash bin closer and set it beside the couch like an ugly little guardian.

You watched Cat's ribcage rise and fall. You nudged her chin, making sure her head stayed angled right.

"Finally," you exhaled some of the tension that had been living in your shoulders all week, especially tonight. "She’ll hate herself in the morning, but she’s okay."

Jimmy let out a long, shaky breath, scrubbing both hands over his face. "Thank God," he muttered. "Thank you. Seriously. I owe you… I don’t know, my life? Her life? A lifetime supply of lunches that are not stolen?"

Lois bumped his arm with her elbow. "You owe her brunch and a two hour massage," she corrected. "At minimum."

"Done, booked," Jimmy agreed instantly, nodding. "I’ll buy out the whole menu if I have to."

You huffed a small laugh, the tension in your chest easing another notch. "I’m holding you to that, Jimmy," you mumbled.

You straightened, rolling your neck, and turned.

Clark stood a little off to the side, as if he didn’t quite trust himself not to knock something over. His hands had found their way into his pockets, shoulders hunched just enough to make himself smaller in your cramped space. His gaze moved over your apartment, absorbing details—plants on the windowsill, the throw blanket bunched in your usual spot, the stack of mail on the table—like he was trying to build a map.

The fairy lights reflected on the lenses of his glasses, turning them into soft gold squares. When he finally glanced at you, they caught you full on.

Something in your chest did a weird, weightless flip.

"Okay," Lois announced suddenly, clapping her hands once like she was calling a meeting to order. "I have a deadline, a headache, and a burning desire to eavesdrop, but sadly, I must finish my article."

She pointed between you and Clark in a dramatic little arc. "You two. Talk."

"Lois—" you started, already knowing it was useless.

She was already backing down the hallway toward her room, steps exaggeratedly light. "Later," she called, grinning. "I want every detail. Especially the part where you tried to fight him. Goodnight Smallville!"

Her bedroom door shut with suspicious speed.

You were left standing in the soft lamplight with Clark, the low buzz of the fridge in the kitchen, the faint ticking of the cheap clock on the wall, and Cat’s raspy little snore sawing through the quiet from the couch.

You cleared your throat, which did absolutely nothing to fix the sudden lump in it, and retreated to the kitchen mostly because it gave your hands an excuse to move.

You grabbed a glass from the rack, turned the tap on. Water rushed out. You immediately turned it off again. The faucet squeaked in protest.

Cool. Normal. Totally not flustered.

Clark drifted into the doorway and leaned against the opposite counter, like he was trying to respect the invisible boundary between "your kitchen" and "the rest of your apartment."

He pushed his sleeves up to his elbows, revealing more of his forearms.

His forearms were—damn. Defined without being showy, veins faint under his skin, sprinkled with dark hair. They belonged to someone who did actual things, not just typed all day.

"So," you managed finally, because someone had to break the weird, humming silence. "You’re the mysterious coworker."

He lifted one shoulder in a shy half-shrug, mouth tipping up like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to smile. "Guilty, sorry, I didn't think to clarify where I worked," he admitted. "I… Lois has mentioned you. A lot."

Your fingers curled tighter around the edge of the counter. "Hopefully the good parts?" you hoped, biting your lip.

"All good! Very good," he assured quickly. "She said you’re one of the best people she's ever met," His lips quirked. "And that you’re stubborn."

You winced. "I see she undersold that second part."

He chuckled under his breath. "I don’t know," he countered. "I think she might have been right on the money."

The quiet that followed wasn’t awkward. Just… packed. Charged. Like the air right before a storm, but not in a bad way.

You glanced toward the living room.

Jimmy had slumped into the armchair, head tipped back, mouth slightly open, one hand still vaguely extended in Cat’s direction as if he was standing guard even in sleep. Cat shifted, mumbling something about gossip and glitter, then settled again.

You dragged your gaze back to Clark.

"Look," you began, words dragging a little. "About earlier. I’m really sorry again. I came at you like that. I’ve just had a week, and when I saw her I—"

He shook his head immediately, cutting you off with a quick, emphatic move. "Please don’t apologize," he insisted. "You were trying to keep her safe."

He straightened slightly, searching your face. "You were willing to risk looking ridiculous, or making people mad at you, to step in anyway. That’s…" He paused, lips pressing together as he tried to land on the right word. Finally, he huffed a small laugh. "That’s kind of incredible. I admire that."

You blinked.

Your brain, which had been carefully preparing a self-deprecating speech, stalled out.

"You were also very ready to throw hands with a stranger twice your size," he added, eyes crinkling at the corners. "Which was a little terrifying, in a… impressive way."

"I wasn’t going to throw hands," you protested, heat climbing back into your face. "I was going to… strategically redirect the patient."

He laughed, soft and warm.

"That’s what you call it?" he teased.

"In my head, yeah," you muttered.

You exhaled slowly, feeling some of the residual adrenaline finally drain out of your shoulders. The tight band around your chest loosened another notch.

"What about you?" you asked, tilting your head. "Rough week?"

He hesitated, jaw working like he was debating how much to say. Then he nodded once. "Yeah," he admitted. "Different kind of rough, but… yeah."

He tipped his head back against the cabinet behind him, eyes drifting briefly to the ceiling as he searched for words.

"It’s hard sometimes," he continued, gaze dropping back to you. "Writing about things that go wrong and not being able to fix them. Or having to walk away when a story’s done even if people are still…"

He lifted one hand and made an aimless gesture in the air, fingers opening and closing like he was trying to catch the right word.

Bleeding. Grieving. Waiting.

You knew exactly what he meant.

"I get that," you replied quietly. "I patch people up, and sometimes they walk out and I never see them again. Sometimes I do see them again, and it’s… not for a good reason." You tapped your fingers lightly against the counter. "The part where you can’t control any of it—"

"Is the worst part," he finished.

You nodded.

Silence again. But this time it felt like standing at the same side of a bed, not across from each other.

He shifted his weight, the floor creaking under his heel, suddenly looking almost… nervous. It was strange seeing someone that big fidget. He rubbed his palm against the side of his thigh once, as if steadying himself.

"For what it’s worth," he said, clearing his throat, "if… if you’re still not interested in the blind date Lois had planned, that’s okay. This is probably not the meet-cute she envisioned."

The corner of your mouth curved up. "Oh, I don’t know," you countered. " ‘Girl tries to fight her future date in a bar, then vomits while he holds her hair’ has a certain charm."

His laugh burst out in a surprised huff, shoulders shaking.

"I was going to say," he went on, smile lingering, "if you are interested, I’d be happy to pretend tonight wasn't our first meeting. Something less…SVU adjacent. You know, if you’d rather have a version where you don’t immediately accuse me of a felony."

You thought about Lois at the kitchen table earlier, trying to sell you on some mystery guy while you yanked your hair into a clip and told yourself you were too tired to care.

You thought about her face at the door, caught between glee and horror.

You thought about this man, this Clark Kent, who had carried his unconscious friend across half the city without complaint, had held your hair while you emptied your stomach, had taken your anger without flinching, and then somehow still managed to make you feel like you’d done something brave instead of something stupid.

You thought about how your chest felt less like a clenched fist around your lungs and more like… space. Freedom.

"I don’t want to pretend tonight didn’t happen," you said finally, honest in a way that startled you. "I kind of like that I tried to tackle you for honorable reasons. It’d make a good story to tell at a wedding someday."

His smile bloomed, slow and bright. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," you murmured, suddenly very aware you might actually mean it.

You shoved your hand into your pocket before you could second-guess yourself, pulled out your phone, and held it out to him. Your fingers trembled just enough that you hoped he didn’t notice. "Here. Put your number in. In case I need to send you a formal apology. Or, you know… schedule that date."

Clark’s fingers brushed yours as he took the phone. The touch was light—almost absurdly careful, like he handled everything as if it might break. His hands were big enough that your phone looked too small in them, and you almost laughed.

He typed for a second, thumbs moving quickly, then handed it back.

Your screen lit up with a new contact:

Clark Kent (Blind Date You Fought).

A cackle burst out of you, bright and immediate.

"You named yourself that?" you demanded, incredulous.

He looked modestly pleased with himself. "I thought it would help you remember who I am," he replied with a shrug.

"Oh, trust me," you told him, shaking your head. "I’m not gonna forget you, Clark."

From down the hall, Lois’s voice rang out, muffled by the closed door but still weaponized. "Say yes to the date already, you coward!"

You almost dropped your phone, startled. "I hate her sometimes," you coughed, entirely unconvincing.

"You love me all the time!" Lois shot back.

Clark was laughing now, eyes amused and his shoulders visibly more relaxed. "She’s very… subtle, isn’t she?" he observed.

"You get used to it," you sighed. "Or you don’t, and she steamrolls you anyway."

"Don’t I know it," he glanced toward the front door, then back at you, something softer settling into his features. The humor didn’t leave, but it made room for something else.

"I should get Jimmy home," he eventually said, voice low. "He’s going to wake up with a crick in his neck if he stays in that chair, and I'm not really in the mood to hear it."

You glanced at the living room; Jimmy snored lightly, chin tucked to his chest.

"Yeah, probably. You're a good friend," bumped your shoulder to his.

Clark welcomed the touch, then took a step toward the living room, nudging Jimmy awake. 

They both walked to the door, but Clark hesitated, looking back at you.

"Hey…" he started, walked back to you and clearing his throat again. "Can I text you tomorrow? About maybe grabbing dinner sometime when you’re not on your fourth shift of the week and I’m not babysitting a coworker’s blood alcohol content?"

Your smile came easily this time.

"Yeah," you said. "Text me tomorrow, Clark. Better yet, when you get home, okay?"

He nodded once, like he was locking that in.

At the door, he wrapped his hand around the knob, then glanced over his shoulder.

"Get some rest, Nurse Who Almost Took Me Down," he remarked, eyes warm and amused.

"Get home safe, Blind Date I Accidentally Assaulted," you shot back without missing a beat.

"Goodnight," he said your name softly, grinning.

"Goodnight, Clark," you replied, matching his smile. "A-and Jimmy. Good night Jimmy."

He stepped out into the hallway, Jimmy stumbling awake enough to follow him with a lazy wave. The door closed gently behind them with a soft click.

The apartment seemed to exhale.

The hum of the fridge suddenly felt louder. The clock on the wall ticked loud and steady. Somewhere, pipes clanged as a neighbor ran water. Cat snored on the couch.

You stood in the middle of your little kitchen, surrounded by the faint lingering smells of bar air, Lois’s reheated takeout, and your own coffee from that morning, and realized that—for the first time in days—your chest didn’t feel like it was being squeezed by an invisible fist.

You were exhausted. Your feet throbbed in your shoes. Your lower back ached. Your head buzzed with leftover tequila and adrenaline and the distant, horrible awareness that you had a week of upcoming shifts, back to the fray.

But under all of that, threaded through like a thin, steady line of something bright, was something new:

Curiosity. Spark. The dizzy feeling of maybe.

You dragged yourself to your room, peeled off your jeans in slow, clumsy motions, and flopped face-first onto your bed. The mattress dipped around you, familiar. You didn’t even bother with the blanket. Sleep grabbed you by the ankle and pulled you under fast.

Sometime in the fuzzy gray light of morning, your phone buzzed against your nightstand.

You cracked an eye open, groaned, blindly patted around until your fingers closed over it. You squinted at the screen.

A message blinked up at you from Clark Kent (Blind Date You Fought):

Made it home!

That was just a little after you fell asleep. A new message just under it:

Hope you’re feeling okay. And that you’re still willing to go out with the guy you tried to fight for honorable reasons. Dinner?

You stared at the text for a long second, vision a little blurred, brain still booting up.

Then you snorted into your pillow, a ridiculous grin spreading across your face until your cheeks hurt.

Your thumbs moved before your brain had the chance to spiral.

YOU: Only if you let me handle the CPR if you choke on your fries. Professional pride.

The little typing dots appeared almost immediately.

CLARK: Deal. I already trust you with my life.

You laughed out loud, alone in your cramped room, the sound bright and startled and so at odds with how you’d felt all week that it made your eyes prickle for a second.

Four days of hell. One very drunk blonde. One very tall, very kind Clark Kent.

You didn’t know where any of it was going yet, but as your heartbeat steadied you knew one thing:

You never quite understood why Jason was upset, even if you tried with all the patience you possessed. Most of your “dates” were not dates in the usual sense at all, but small, tender things done quietly within the four soft walls of home. They were evenings stitched together from the ordinary: the rhythmic sound of Jason’s knife against a cutting board while you perched on the counter, watching him cook and finding new, shameless ways to distract him; the slow comfort of cleaning together, your shared music low in the background as sunlight drifted across the floorboards; laundry dates that ended in laughter, with soap bubbles clinging to Jason’s hair; and movie nights, his favorites—the kind where you both ended up asleep before the film even reached its second act. Or...occupied with something else.

Movie nights without his little brother, that is. Because when Damian was there, movie nights somehow stopped belonging to Jason at all. They became something else entirely—soft, conspiratorial things between you and the boy. The two of you would sit wrapped in the same blanket, heads bent close, whispering about the film’s inaccuracies.

Laundry days became a battlefield when Damian joined in. He would stand beside you, arms crossed and unimpressed, as he scrutinized every item of Jason’s wardrobe like a disapproving tailor. “You wear this?” he’d ask, his voice flat with disbelief.

Cooking nights weren’t much better. You found yourself giving too much of your attention to Damian’s questions, explaining measurements and flavors and medical nutrition while Jason sighed and stirred and watched from a distance, half-amused and half-wounded.

Jason could never quite tell when it happened—when you and Damian stopped being polite strangers and somehow became… something else. Something closer.

All he knew was that one night, both of them were bloodied bone-tired, and he’d broken his own rule: no family in the apartment. But Damian needed help, and he trusted you. You had training, steady hands, and the kind of gentle patience that could coax a frightened little robin to rest.

You patched them both up that night. Bandages and soft voices, soup after that. It was supposed to end there.

It didn’t.

Somehow, after that night, the boy who once hissed at anyone who dared to touch him began to let you close. Damian—the child with the wary eyes and the spine made of quiet pride—let you ruffle his hair without complaint. He let you mend the tear in his sleeve, let you fuss over his meals, let you feed him soup when he was too tired to lift his arm.

Jason watched it all with a strange mix of awe and jealousy.

Damian even began to compliment you—though always hidden in insults aimed at Jason.

“I don’t know how you tolerate Todd,” he’d say airily. “You’d think you’d prefer someone who matches you intellectually.”

Jason would groan and roll his eyes. You’d only laugh.

There were other things, too. The tutoring sessions that had somehow become part of your week—Damian’s new interest in medicine, his newfound fascination with anatomy and physiology. You were his favorite teacher, though he’d never admit it outright.

You were also, much to Jason’s dismay, his doctor.

And Damian liked his “patient room”—your shared bedroom—kept quiet as a cathedral. No chatter, no movement, no sound but the clink of teacups and the rustle of papers.

Damian liked your apartment. Truly liked it. Liked the calm that hung in the air like a soft blanket. Liked that you didn’t speak unless you had something to say. Liked that you covered every window with those translucent suncatchers that painted colors across the floorboards when the light came through. Not the gaudy sort found in tourist shops—yours were delicate, old, a little imperfect, like melted drops of glass. Your home reminded him of a place he once called home.

Damian liked the kittens you fostered. He liked feeding them, brushing them, pretending he didn’t enjoy either. He liked making tea with you because you brewed it properly, just as it was made when he was small with the old servants, with patient hands and quiet dignity.

He did not like your choice in company.

And he told you so, in his usual unflinching way.

“I can find you a more adequate match,” he whispered one afternoon, low and confidential, though Jason heard every word from across the room.

You were kneeling beside the tub, sleeves rolled up, bathing a litter of kittens in a metal bucket from the hardware store. The poor things had fleas and ringworm, and your fingers were red from the warm water and soap. Damian crouched beside you, sleeves just as damp, as if he’d been born to this small ritual of care.

“I think he’s quite adequate,” you whispered back, soft enough not to wound his pride.

That was another thing Damian liked: the way you spoke to him. You matched his tone, measured and deliberate, the way someone might match a heartbeat. He knew it wasn’t how you spoke to everyone—he’d seen you with delivery men, with Jason—but with him, you were precise. Thoughtful. Gentle.

You spoke like he did.

And for a boy who’d spent years surrounded by voices that stumbled over his accent, who had grown used to repeating himself until the words felt wrong in his mouth, that meant more than he’d ever say aloud.

“Yeah, I think he’s adequate too!” Jason called suddenly from the doorway, grinning as he tightened a hinge on the bathroom door. You turned to glance at him, smiling despite yourself.

He was dressed in that white T-shirt with the sleeves cut off—his arms smudged with grease and his hair far too long, hanging just above his eyes. His clothes bore the familiar stains of oil and paint and everything else he’d fixed that week. His sneakers were worn down to their last thread, and yet somehow, standing there with a screwdriver in one hand and a crooked grin on his face, he looked steady.

His skin had color again, no longer the pale gray of sleepless nights. His back wasn’t as stiff as it used to be, his shoulders at ease. And though he grumbled endlessly about Damian’s visits, he looked softer when the boy was around. A little more human. A little more home.

Perfect, as always. Yours as always.

“You look like a turd,” Damian said flatly, scowling in Jason’s direction.

Jason didn’t even flinch. “Bro, you smell like a turd.”

“I wonder why,” Damian muttered, holding up a dripping kitten by the scruff, water trailing from its tiny paws.

Jason dropped the screwdriver and spun, pointing accusingly. “Damian, I swear to God—if you drip that medicine on the rug again, I’ll—”

Before he could finish, you reached forward, gently guiding Damian’s small hands back toward the bucket. “Let’s not test him,” you murmured, the edge of laughter in your tone. Damian’s lips pressed into a thin line, but he obeyed, his pride intact.

Half an hour later, the kittens were washed and dry, bundled in towels that smelled faintly of lavender. They lay in the wicker basket you used for your farmer’s market trips—the same one Damian sometimes carried with a reluctant sort of pride. The three of you sat together in the aftermath of the small chaos: Jason kneeling by the repaired door, you perched on the rug with a kitten in your lap, Damian cross-legged beside the basket, his expression unusually serene.

“What do you want for dinner?” Jason asked finally, testing the hinge one last time.

“Biryani,” Damian said immediately, still rubbing a towel over a kitten’s ears.

Jason didn’t look up. “I was asking my girlfriend.”

The room went quiet for a heartbeat. Then both of them turned to look at you—Jason with a weary sort of amusement, Damian with scandalized indignation.

You sighed, stroking a kitten’s damp fur. “I’d like biryani too.”

“Vegetable,” Damian added.

You paused, glanced down at him, then back up at Jason. “…Yes, vegetable.”

Jason blinked. For a long moment, there was silence. Then he muttered, “Lost to a vegan,” and wandered out of the bathroom, the sound of his boots fading down the hall.

When you looked back, Damian was smiling—just a small, quiet smile, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes but softened them all the same. You felt warmth bloom in your chest.

By the time dinner is ready, the kittens are all asleep, little bodies curled into soft commas in their basket. The faint hum of the radiator fills the silence between your breaths, and the apartment smells rich and warm—spices blooming in the air like memory.

The biryani sits steaming in the center of the low coffee table, bowls placed in an uneven triangle around it. Damian is already criticizing between bites.

“There’s too much cardamom,” he says with all the dignity of a food critic, squinting at his plate. “And the star anise—how am I supposed to chew on this?”

Jason looks like he’s aged five years in the span of the meal.

“Don’t eat it then,” he grumbles, though there’s no real bite to it.

Damian ignores him, of course, muttering something about “culinary atrocities” and “unsuitable textures” as he gets up to fetch salt from the kitchen. His footsteps fade down the hall, leaving a kind of hush behind him.

Jason exhales hard, running a hand over his face. “Gods, I—” He stops himself, then huffs again and reaches over to scoop a few extra vegetables into your plate. “I love the kid. I mean it, I do. But does he always have to be around?”

His voice drops low, almost conspiratorial. The firelight flickers against his face, softening the hard line of his jaw.

You smile, trying to keep your voice light, teasing. “Are you jealous?”

You hope to draw that familiar flush to his cheeks, to make him sputter and deflect because you don't want the risk of Damian hearing all of this and drawing back into himself.

But Jason doesn’t take the bait—at least not the way you expect.

“No,” he says, too quickly. Then, quieter, “Yes. No—I don’t know. I…” His gaze drops to his food, then to the floor. “I like having you to myself.”

There’s something naked in that confession. Something fragile, almost boyish. Jason, for all his rough edges and sharp words, has never learned how to admit loneliness without looking away.

He doesn’t need to pretend with you—not like he does with his family. Around them, he wears armor made of sarcasm and silence. Even now, years after coming back, Jason doubts he’ll ever fully relax in their company.

Especially not around Damian.

It isn’t the boy’s fault. Jason knows that. But every time he looks at Damian, he remembers.

Remembers standing in the League’s training yard, watching the child run until his small body trembled, his tutors shouting that failure was death. Remembers the look in Damian’s eyes when they handed him a knife and pointed to a chained dog. Remembers him crying—choking on his own breath, spitting his mother’s name like a curse—and then, finally, going still. Blade down.

Jason had watched from a distance, powerless to intervene. That memory lives in his bones.

He can’t relax around that kid. Not really. And yet Damian has learned to relax around you—and Jason knows how rare that is.

So it feels selfish, maybe, to resent it. But he does.

He misses you.

Misses you kissing his neck without warning, standing on tiptoe instead of asking him to lean down. Misses the way you’d curl into his lap whenever he finally sat down, the solid comfort of your weight grounding him in a world that never stops spinning.

He misses you walking around half-dressed and unbothered, so at ease in your skin that he felt human just watching you. Misses you sneaking up behind him while he cooks, arms slipping around his waist, the low hum of your laughter against his back.

Misses the smack you’d give him whenever he teased you about your inability to ever survive as a celibate.

Apparently, you could.

Apparently, you could rival a monk.

And Jason’s pretty sure you’d win, too.

Apparently he's the one who'd die if he was ever made celibate.

“…He needs a space,” you murmur finally, your voice as soft as the fire crackling in the grate. Your hand drifts to his thigh, a gentle anchor.

Jason sighs, leaning into the touch like it’s the first warm thing he’s felt all day. “I need a space,” he grumbles, sounding more like a sulking teenager than a grown man. He pokes at his food. “And I need meat.”

You roll your eyes, amused. “The chicken biryani you made last week tasted wonderful.”

“Yeah, well, apparently chickens are birds,” he mutters.

You blink, looking up at him. “Huh?”

“I always thought they were like… fat fish,” Jason says. “That’s what Dick told me when I was, like, ten.”

You stare for a second before laughter spills out of you, helpless and bright. “And you believed him?”

Jason just shrugs, reaching for another spoonful of biryani. “I believed everything my brother told me at that age.” He scoops some of his food into your mouth, shoveling most of his vegetables your way.

You chew, smiling around the bite. “You know who else believes everything his brother tells him?” you ask, voice sly.

Jason pauses mid-bite, suspicious. “…Damian calls me an idiot daily.”

“Yeah,” you hum. “But he still listens when you talk. He doesn’t do that with Tim.”

“That’s because no one can stand Tim talking.”

You groan, rolling your eyes again. “He does it with Dick, and no one can stand Dick talking either.”

Jason snorts. “He does not like me as much as Dick.”

“Me either,” you admit easily, your tone warm. “But he likes us as much as Dick. You don’t see him going to his apartment.”

“Yeah, because Kori brings out his worst habit,” Jason mutters, though there’s fondness hiding under his words. “All that god-awful rambling.”

You laugh quietly. “I think they’re sweet.”

He gives you a look, the corner of his mouth twitching.

“Tim and Kon, too,” you continue, ignoring it. “No matter how much you complain.”

“They need to learn how to get a room,” Jason groans, shoveling another bite into his mouth. “And I love Kori and Dick, I do, they’re just—”

“Loud,” you finish for him, gentle and knowing.

He chuckles, a low rumble in his chest. “Yeah. Loud.”

You both sit in the quiet that follows, the kind of quiet that’s easy, lived-in. The kind where every sound feels magnified—the slow ticking of the wall clock, the faint purrs of sleeping kittens, the crackle of birch wood in the fireplace.

Jason stares into the flames for a long time before muttering, “It’s not just them. The manor’s always so damn loud. Steph and—”

“Hm.” You hum softly, eyes thoughtful. “Yeah. So if I were Damian, I’d want to come here, too. To my brother’s quiet home. The one with tea, kittens, a bed for Titus, and a sweet older brother who actually makes ethnic food.”

Jason snorts. “Alfred can make him biryani.”

“Jason,” you say, laughter slipping into your tone, “I know you love him, but…”

You trail off, because you don’t need to finish it.

Jason already knows.

And somewhere in the kitchen, Damian’s voice drifts faintly back:

“You’re both eating without me—uncivilized.”

You and Jason exchange a look, trying not to smile too wide.

The kiddo comes back, and Jason immediately feels the loss of your hand on his thigh. The warmth that had anchored him to the moment is gone, and he notices it before he even thinks. Damian strides in, shoulders stiff, grinding salt onto his onion raita with a small scowl.

“Honey,” you murmur quietly, all knowing, “that’s your third bowl.”

Jason can’t help the small smirk that tugs at his mouth. He folds his arms in faux pride, chest puffed out like a rooster, though his eyes linger on your face and your hand brushing lightly over Damian’s, quietly correcting his angle with the spoon. You glance at him briefly, then pull back to focus on Damian, who has paused mid-grind, frowning at his food as though it’s betrayed him.

“You people will make me fat like Jason,” Damian declares, voice sharp, accusation hanging in the air.

“I am not fat!” Jason huffs immediately, scandal written across his features. He glances at you, eyes wide and pleading. “You’re the doctor! Tell him, babe!”

You pause for a moment, tilting your head thoughtfully. Technically, according to textbooks and clinical standards, someone of Jason’s size could be considered slightly overweight—but he carries it like armor, and your instinct is to reassure rather than lecture.

Damian’s grin grows impossibly wide at your pause. Jason’s jaw drops.

“HA! Told you! Fatson Todd over here is in denial!” Damian exclaims, triumphant, waving the onion raita spoon like a sword.

You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing, handing Damian a stack of empty dishes with a soft, indulgent smile. Begrudgingly, he gets up to collect them, still muttering, still scowling, but your quiet smile seems to soften him just enough.

“God, sometimes I think you play mom,” Jason mutters, leaning back slightly. He watches your expression—the soft, gentle tilt of your lips, the quiet care in your movements as you help Damian balance the plates—and he feels the warmth of it wrap around him. “You really want someone like him as a kid? Hey, if we had a kid like him, I’d toss it right back to Grandpa Bruce.”

Damian’s huff echoes faintly from the kitchen, scowling and stomping as he disappears from view.

You turn to Jason, your voice low, almost conspiratorial. “You’d love a kid like Damian.”

He looks at you, hesitant, unsure, because the concept of children has never been simple for him. And yet… the softness in your eyes, the gentle calm you exude, makes him pause.

“Yeah,” he mumbles finally, uncertain but open. “Sure.”

You lean closer, brushing a fingertip over his hand. “He looks like you,” you murmur, “your eyebrows and cheekbones.”

“Bruce’s eyebrows and cheekbones,” Jason corrects softly, then glances at your face, his eyes lingering. “Your eyes would suit them.”

You hum, leaning forward to kiss the side of his neck briefly, warm and comforting, and then you hear the faint rush of water as Damian starts washing dishes. Jason freezes slightly under the gesture.

“Oh, so now you kiss me?” he huffs, mock-indignant, a childish edge to his voice. “Go kiss his cheeks like I know you want to.”

You pinch the cheek unmarked by his scar gently. “I love him too, because he reminds me of you. Don’t forget that.”

“You also think raccoons remind you of me.” Jason says, smirk creeping in.

“Raccoons are adorable!” you reply, cheerful and soft.

“Well, this raccoon wants attention,” he huffs, mock-sulking.

You glance toward the kitchen, checking Damian’s progress, then lean in, pressing a quick kiss along the bicep you’ve been eyeing since he came back from fixing the door. “…Damian mentioned he has a sleepover with Jon on Friday. I can call off work too and…”

Your voice trails, hypnotic, and Jason lifts his gaze, caught in the light of your lashes and the quiet intensity of your expression. “…we can—”

“Have a sleepover?” Jason murmurs, small smile teasing the corners of his mouth.

“Oh, there won’t be any sleeping,” you whisper back, eyes sparkling with mischief.

He blinks, and a slow smirk spreads across his face, soft and fond, the apartment feeling warmer somehow. The smell of biryani, the faint crackle of the fire, the distant splash of water from Damian’s dishwashing—everything settles into a rhythm that feels like home.

Jason leans back slightly, still mesmerized by the faint glow of your eyes and the way your lips curl at the edges.

please please please let me know what you think it gives me so much motivation to write and you will be getting a new work sooner if you do ; (◞‸◟)

©shisuni 𝖺𝗅𝗅 rights reserved , 𝖽𝗈 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗅/𝖼𝗈𝗉𝗒 𝗈𝗋 𝖼𝗅𝖺𝗂𝗆 𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗈𝗐𝗇. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝗎𝗍 𝖺𝗂/𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗍𝗀𝗉𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾 𝗂𝗍. Any oc's are not permitted to be put into other works unless dm'd, discussed, and agreed upon.

“blaze… don’t fall for it.”

“but she’s such a trustworthy person!” he protests against the group’s warnings, beginning to follow you down the dim staircase.

you hold back a snort at his enthusiastic voice, wondering if he was playing up on his usual airheaded tendencies or if he really thought you weren’t going to kill him off from the game down here.

“the basement, definitely super romantic and cool and not suspicious at all!”

he definitely knew. you giggle as you make it to the end of the staircase, standing at the bottom as you awkwardly try to think of what you want to “show him” besides the plastic knife in your pocket.

“your laugh is usually cute, but when it’s so mischievous and in a dark basement it’s kind of creepy,” he shivers, backing up towards the stairs again. “actually… i just remembered i need to do something!”

“wait! you said i’m cute, right?” you snatch onto his flannel, dragging him back towards you—or rather dragging yourself towards his much heavier and unmoving body.

“yeah…”

“um… wanna… make out?”

“yeah!” he switches back to his himbo cheerfulness, very eagerly leaning down and pressing his lips against yours.

you indulge him for a moment, before your puckered lips spread into an evil smile and you’re pressing the plastic knife into his abs. a disappointed sigh leaves his lips as he dramatically sinks down to the floor to play dead.

“not cool, you’re gonna leave me in the spooky basement?” he pouts, his fluffy tail laying flat on the ground.

“you’ll be fine,” you giggle, pressing one last kiss to his forehead and happily skipping up the stairs to finish the round. “see you later!”

𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐞: 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬. 𝐝𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐝𝐢𝐞!

“where is everyone…?” you trail, feeling uneasy as you look for all of the friends you were separated from. 

your search is interrupted when you hear footsteps rapidly approaching you across the grass of the backyard. 

despite knowing this was a silly game with friends, turning to see a six foot three beast of a werewolf sprinting at you with a plastic knife in hand was still a terrifying visual. you couldn’t help the terrified yelp that left your lips as you sprinted away from him, knowing your efforts were futile.

you’re caught up to within barely a few seconds, strong arms nearly crushing you as he scoops you up. a squeal leaves your lips as you cling onto his shirt, feeling your feet leave the ground.

“wait! wait!” you screech, heart racing as you catch your breath.

“nuh-uh,” he laughs.

you groan when you feel the knife firmly placed against your back, limply dangling in blaze’s arms.

“caught you.”

𝐆𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐎𝐓𝐇

𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐞: 𝐦𝐮𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐫. 𝐤𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐨𝐧𝐞.

your arms boldly slink around garroth’s shoulders as you lean onto him from behind where he sat, your face snuggling up to the side of his cheek.

automatically he tenses up, eyelids narrowing as his vision darts over to you from the side of his eye. he mutters your name suspiciously, but one of his hands comes up to softly grab onto one of your arms.

“hey, garroth,” you whisper into his ear, holding back the amused giggle that fights to escape your lips. “i was just wishing a tall, hot blonde guy would go into the closet to make out with me…”

garroth sighs, his ears turning a bright red where your breath ghosted along the skin.

“you said that last time, and i died.”

you can tell he’s trying to make his voice monotonous and unimpressed, but the amused intonation at the end of his sentence tells another story. your chest presses against his back, and the breathy, mischievous laughter that exhales from your lungs shakes the both of you.

“no, i’m for real this time!”

“oh yeah, that sounds perfect,” he sarcastically quips back. “i’ll go with the girl trying to seduce me into the closet with no witnesses.”

“garroth… would i ever betray you in such a way?”

“you just did a couple rounds ago.”

“yeahhh,” you drawl out, placing a kiss on his cheek as you quickly place the knife over his heart and press down. “sorry.”

he sighs, slumping forward on the table to play dead.

“so cruel and heartless,” he jokingly pouts, and you have to restrain yourself from placing another kiss on his jutted lower lip.

𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐞: 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬. 𝐝𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐝𝐢𝐞!

“garroth, i’m sorry. why don’t we hug it out?” you suggest, arms spread wide as you look up at the blonde expectantly.

he rolls his eyes, leaning down and tightly wrapping his arms around you. after a moment you pay his back, expecting to be let go, but realization hits you as it’s his turn to giggle at you. 

the light rumbling of his laughter vibrates against you, before you feel the plastic knife pressing right up against the small of your back.

you groan, going limp in his arms and leaning your head back as you sigh in light hearted annoyance.

“wowwww, okay.”

he continues to laugh, leaning over and letting you slink down to the floor before gently letting you rest on the ground.

“sorry,” he smiles, looking the least bit sorry before leaning down and placing a kiss against your lips.

“i’m so gonna haunt you.”

“i wouldn’t mind a pretty ghost following me around,” he smiles back, before getting back up and running off to finish his job.

𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐄

𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐞: 𝐦𝐮𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐫. 𝐤𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐨𝐧𝐞.

“gene, wanna go make out?” you casually ask, smiling at the older boy cheekily and attempting to ignore the attractive look he stares back at you with.

his head falls back and he rolls his eyes, smirk plastered on his lips as he sighs in contemplation from where he sat.

“see, how am i supposed to refuse when you ask like that, though?”

“like what?” you tilt your head innocently, lacing your hands behind your back.

he pointedly stares at you through hooded eyes, before stretching up from his seat and shoving his hands in his pockets.

“alright, where are we going to make out?”

you shrug and guide him out of the house, passing a few people as you go.

“where are you two going?”

“to make out, apparently.”

“don’t tell me you’re falling for that.”

“it’ll be fine,” gene drawls, waving his hand as the two of you exit the house. “i have a feeling on how this is gonna end, but i’ll take my chances.”

“well, whoever’s the cop—be ready when she comes back alone,” you hear someone say as the door shuts behind you. 

you only take a few steps before turning around, pointing the knife at him with a small innocent smile on your face.

“damn, not even gonna give me a small chance at a kiss before you kill me?”

“so sorry,” you apologize emptily, the cheeky smile on your lips leaving when he leans forward into the knife, grabbing your face and devouring your lips for a moment with his own.

you blink at him in shock as he pretends to cough in pain, keeping forward into the ground and rolling onto his back to play dead.

“it’s alright, you will be later,” he smirks back, laying flat on the ground and staring up at the stars.

𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐞: 𝐜𝐨𝐩. 𝐬𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐨𝐧𝐞!

finally! you found where your friends had been all round… only to see that they were all sprawled out on the floor, motionless. you take a cautious step into the room, slowly turning your head to the tall form standing in your peripheral.

you hear a few snickers from the ground as you and gene stare at each other, with your hands on your hips.

“well, it’s just us, huh?”

“yep.”

you don’t have enough time or a chance to pull out the gun, instead having to run away down the hall and through the back doors as he suddenly sprints after you.

“nooo! nonono, gene!” you call out, fumbling for the gun in your pocket as you run through the grass.

“why are you running?” he asks, the amused smile on his lips heard through his voice without even having to glance back. “don’t run from me.”

you point the gun back, shooting and missing the boy entirely, wasting your last bullet. one more stride and he catches up to you, knocking the gun out of your hand and restraining you against him with one arm in a single swoop. 

“wait! don’t!” you frantically scramble as he presses the knife up against your chest. “i will… um!”

“mhmmm…” he tauntingly hums, letting you continue.

“…go out? …with you?”

you whine as he presses the knife down against your chest, slumping over as he hunches over and slowly lets you down to the ground. deep laughter leaves his lips as he looks down at your pout, hands on his knees in amusement. 

“sorry, that’s not a good deal if you already do that, doll.”

𝐋𝐀𝐔𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄

𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐞: 𝐦𝐮𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐫. 𝐤𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐨𝐧𝐞.

“laurance, follow me,” you tug on his shirt, backing up as you try to lure him out of the room.

“i’m not falling for that, silly girl,” he leans down towards you, smirk plastered on his face. “where’s everyone else you walked off with, then. hm?”

“falling for what?” you follow him as he starts backing away from you and towards the door. “i just love you so much. i wanna show you!”

“uh-huh, right,” he nods, before turning and taking off outside into the cool night air.

“laurance! wait, let me show you!” you laugh hysterically. “i wanna show you how much i love you!”

“get away!” he laughs, using his soccer skills to dodge and run away from you in the grass.

you manage to catch him, jumping onto his back and using the momentum to tackle the both of you down to the soft grass. your legs straddle his torso as you both catch your breath, chests panting for air.

“now it’s just us…” you trail, dragging your index finger across his lower lip. 

you pull on it before leaning down and pressing a kiss to his lips, simultaneously plunging the fake knife against his chest.

“that was both terrifying and hot at the same time,” he breathes with a smug grin.

𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐞: 𝐜𝐨𝐩. 𝐬𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐨𝐧𝐞!

“come on, you don’t trust me?” laurance tilts his head, pouting as you indecisively point your gun back and forth between him and katelyn—the rest of your friends laid out on the ground. “ouch, that hurts.”

katelyn stares at you with a deadpan expression. her and laurance have their arms raised in the air in surrender, leaving you as the one to make the game-settling decision.

“um…”

“don’t let him woo you, you’re better than this—“

“she went off with aphmau alone and now aphmau is dead!” laurance insists, leaning forward towards you. “it’s obviously her, be smart. you’re smart.”

“um… i’m sorry katelyn!” you apologize, sending a bullet out toward katelyn’s stomach.

she laughs with a groan as she sinks to the ground. you come to the realization that you, in fact, made the wrong decision when nobody else gets up, leaving you and laurance at a standstill.

“…i’m out of bullets.”

“you better run…” someone mutters with a snort on the ground.

strings of shouts and scared curses leave your lips as you take off down the hallway, searching for any bullets to use now that you’ve cornered yourself at one end of the house.

“oh no!” you yelp, socks sliding as you land against a wall, laurance’s hands trapping you in before you can scramble anywhere else.

“hey,” he jokingly bites his lip, staring at you with faux seduction.

you sigh dramatically. “just kill me.”

he giggles, stabbing you with the knife before placing a kiss against your cheek.

“hey, it’s not your fault my charm works so well—“

“shut up.”

honestly, he'd never bothered himself with the guy and his depraved shenanigans, always giving for granted that someone else — usually iida or shoji — would stop him before he actually did anything. he always told himself that he'd step in only when nobody else managed to stop him, more in honor of the respect for girls his mother taught him to have, but since the beginning of third year he's not even letting the poor guy breathe.

guess what happened at the end of second year? exactly! you guys got together officially. guess what happened right after that? bakugou started noticing more actively the way mineta tried to peek at anything and everything all at once.

under skirts, pants, and god forbid that one of you girls exited your dorms with him near, because one moment of distraction and he'd be in, snooping through drawers and sniffing the beds. he is, by far, class a's biggest source of embarrassment — and while katsuki has learned to live with the fact that you guys weren't getting rid of him, that doesn't mean he has to accept him.

"hey." it's evening, during dinner, when bakugou puts a hand on your thigh and lightly shakes it to get your attention. you turn, mid bite, frowning, "i'll do the dishes tonight, okay? just watch that movie the others are planning to see and i'll join you guys as soon as we're done."

your frown deepens, and you try to recall the kitchen chores schedule — it's organised in couples, usually by drawing the names and dates, and there's always two people cooking and two people looking after the cleaning. katsuki had already cooked today, and you honestly didn't even remember it was your turn to do the dishes, but you have no intention of refusing. "aw, really? you're the best, ‘tsuki!"

everyone finishes eating and you leave for the couches in the communal area with a soft kiss on his lips — and as you go, he gets one last look at the shorts you've got on before he starts collecting the plates and putting them in the sink. and as mineta comes back from the bathroom, ready for his kitchen chores with the prospect of at least having a girl around, he is met with the sight of a very angry bakugou, furiously washing the dishes.

he blinks. katsuki blinks back, stopping his movements as minoru screams, enraged, "hey! go back to your own things, bakugou! the schedule promised me boobs and ass!"

that's exactly why your saint of a boyfriend preferred to let you be happy with the others than spend a single minute alone with the tick that the registry office has signed as mineta minoru — especially with the shorts that you were wearing. he had no intention of telling you to change, because honestly, that shouldn't be your problem and they did look good on you. katsuki blinks, weirdly calm, only to pick him up by the scruff and hold his head under the stream of water of the faucet. "die, pervert."

aizawa enters the kitchen twenty minutes later looking for water, and is instead met with the sight of the dishes still undone and mineta being positively waterboarded into oblivion by a strangely collected, murdery bakugou — who looks up to him like he's just rinsing out a glass or something. after a brief minute of silence, broken only by minoru's gasps for air and cries for the teacher, shota just mutters, "try not to kill him, it would look bad on your record."

bakugou tsks, "yeah, like i'd ever let a mosquito like him stain my reputation. if i ever kill him, nobody will know."

well, with the amount of distress he gives the girls, his absence would surely be noticed — not that he'd be missed by any of you. "i don't doubt it," aizawa replies, dead serious. "just... try not to. it'd be a lot of paperwork to fill."

the summer retreat is now a nice tradition that has been following you since first year, and with it — thankfully or unfortunately — always comes hot springs. and with hot springs, always comes mineta's unnatural need to peek over to the women's bath.

katsuki can hear you and mina idly chatting on the other side of the wall that separates men and women, and maybe it's the fact that you sound so relaxed and at peace that ticks him off towards mineta's behaviour — and he's not even trying to climb over the wall (yet), even if he surely will as soon as bakugou gets distracted for just a moment. he is, though, pressing his ear to the wall like sounds can transfer images.

the blonde just gets up from his position, the boys suddenly quiet around him, and taps on his shoulder. "oi. stop doing that."

the guy loudly protests, looking near to tears, "i'm not doing anything illegal! i'm not even snooping!"

bakugou gets down to his level — because honestly, he's so short it was hurting his neck to look down at him so much. "listen here, you little shit. in case you didn’t know, my girlfriend's behind that wall. and if i ever see or hear or even suspect that you are fantasizing about her — or about one of the other girls — i'll make sure that next time, there's enough water in the faucet to drown you."

"no need to rub it in," mineta mutters, now effectively crying — at what, katsuki doesn’t know. he guesses it’s the mention of the word girlfriend that did it, and tells himself to use it more.

"scram, before I rub it into your intestines," bakugou promptly replies. "i can always drown you in this pool — there's enough water anyways."

loud cheering comes from the girl's part of the wall — katsuki hadn't even noticed that you'd all gone quiet. "YOU TELL HIM, BAKUGOU!" mina yells, calling out for you right after, "i swear, if you don't give him the sloppiest head ever after this, i just might–"

thirst tweet #1

@bakudekudefender69

Pro Hero Dynamight saving the city with explosions AND that slutty waist. Pick a struggle, sir

He leans back in the chair like he owns the space, tongue pressing briefly to the inside of his cheek.

“…Slutty?” he repeats, incredulous, then scoffs. “I’m literally working.”

His eyes flick up, sharp with amusement. “And I’m doing it well.”

thirst tweet #2

@greatexplosionfuckmegod

Dynamight could tell me to shut up and I’d say thank you.

He doesn’t even look at the camera at first. Just reads it. Then—

“Shut up,” he says flatly, like he didn't even care. He glances up with sharp eyes.

“Now where’s my thank you?”

Laughter breaks out, loud and immediate.

thirst tweet #3

@peonypunk00

i’m going to destroy every chair on earth so the only place he has to sit is on my face

He drops his gaze, looks at the chair beneath him, then spreads his legs just slightly — claiming the space.

“Well, you’re doing a terrible job,” he says, smirk slow as his gaze dips. “I’m clearly sitting just fine.”

thirst tweet #4

@dynadaddy_

top me @/dynamightofficial, i deserved it

Katsuki hums, slow and thoughtful, like he’s genuinely considering it. He tilts his head, eyes narrowing with interest rather than annoyance.

“What’d you do to earn that?”

thist tweet #5

@explosive_thoughts

‘Oh look at me I’m so strong and handsome and I defeated afo’ girl fuck you

He squints, then laughs— sharp, surprised.

“…Okay, first of all,” he says, sitting up straighter, “accurate.”

Then he shrugs.

“Second, I kinda wanna meet them. That’s my level of confidence.”

thirst tweet #6

@dynamight_s_waist

oh i know its veiny @/dynamightofficial

Katsuki’s smile turns slow. He tilts his head, eyes gleaming.

“Oh?” He leans back, arms crossing, gaze never leaving the screen.

“Then go on,” he says. “What else do you know?”

thirst tweet #7

@sparksandzerofucks

Dynamight’s explosions are loud but my moans would be louder.

He exhales through his nose, amused, shoulders relaxing like he’s settling into this now.

“That’s a big claim,” he replies, shaking his head.

thirst tweet #8

@/groundzero0

I could take Dynamight

“In a fight?” Katsuki asks immediately, brows furrowing, genuine confusion on his face.

The director coughs. “Uh… no.”

He blinks. Then groans, dragging a hand down his face. “…I hate this place.”

thirst tweet #9

@bunnyspony

dynamight’s name is so long, i wonder what else is

Katsuki leans forward again— slowly, intentionally— forearms braced on his thighs.

“I’ll tell you what isn’t,” he says coolly. “My patience.”

thirst tweet #10

@y_n_bakugou

@/dynamightofficial tomorrow isn’t promised!!! we need to fuck today!!!

“The fuck—” He freezes. Stares intently at the username, then groans so hard he drops his head back.

“Why is my wife on this list?” He points at the screen. “And why does she have internet access?”

thirst tweet #11

@no1pussypopper77

I need to see Dynamight’s abs right now 😫😫

He sighs, already halfway standing. “Relax.”

With zero hesitation, he lifts his shirt just enough— no flexing, no posing, just defined muscle and obvious strength.

Gasps and giggles erupt in the studio, and one very loud oh my god can be heard.

He drops the shirt like nothing happened.

thirst tweet #12

@redsoji

Dynamight’s fav sex position must be missionary since that man never shuts his mouth. We can argue in peace while he’s dicking me down.🤤🤤

Katsuki considers it, nodding slowly.

“Clever theory,” he says.

Then he looks straight into the camera. “But wrong.”

There is a pause, then,

“It's doggy.”

People in the studio gasp, again.

thirst tweet #13

@dynamightfanpage

the way he leans in when he’s annoyed??? Sir, this is not foreplay. Or is it??👁️👁️

He reads it, then deliberately leans in again— closer, heavier, gaze unwavering.

“This is how I get people to listen,” he says evenly. “If you’re distracted,” his mouth curves, “that’s your problem.”

thirst tweet #14

@katsuki_s_lefttesticle

I’m IN LOVE WITH THIS MAN THERE’s JUST SOMETHING UNDIAGNOSED ABOUT HIM

Katsuki snorts.

“Yeah,” he says. “It’s called drive.”

thirst tweet #15

@explosionbetweenmylegs

Dynamight makes me see sparks but can he make me see stars as well???

His smile turns sharp and controlled.

“That depends,” he says slowly, “on how much you can handle.”

thirst tweet #16

@kurabaku88

I love Great Explosion Sex God Dynamight or whatever is name is

He exhales, shaking his head.

“…They never say it right,” he mutters.

Katsuki exhales slowly through his nose and finally lowers the last cardboard, as he lets it drop onto the pile.

He leans back in his chair, spreading his legs, one arm draped over the backrest, the other sitting in his lap. There’s a grin pulling at his mouth— lazy, entirely too pleased with himself.

He quickly scans the studio: the crew still half-laughing, the director rubbing their face, someone behind the camera very clearly regretting their life choices.

“You’re all insufferable perverts,” he says, voice low and rough with amusement. Not angry. Not scolding. He’s entertained. His eyes flick towards the camera, sharp and knowing.

“Seriously. You really think you could handle me just because you’re typing behind a screen?”

He scoffs, shaking his head once, smirk widening as he taps the edge of the cardboard against his knee.

“Pathetic,” he adds— then pauses, grin sharpening. “…But I don’t hate it.”

Then his grin fades into something slower, more deliberate. His eyes narrow as if he has just remmebered something.

“…And you,” he says, lifting hand, finger pointing towards the camera, voice dipping into something dangerous but unmistakably playful, “just wait until I get home.”

"i don't–"

"did you miscount?" his head pops around the door. he scans the empty packet in your hands and gives you a sympathetic look.

"i guess... maybe i looked at the wrong date on the calendar... fuck, that's so annoying!" you make a face and flick the empty pack into the trash.

he swallows. when you peer up at him, you find that he's avoiding your eyes, hands clasped in front of him like he's trying to keep them from fidgeting. "i mean..."

"what?"

"it's not the worst thing," he murmurs. he does glance up at you now, narrowing his eyes slightly like he's trying to stop himself from smiling. "i-i mean, it could be worse, right?"

"izuku."

"i'm not... i'm just saying! your appointment could be in a couple weeks, or next month, right?" he takes a step into the bathroom and unclasps his hands, wiggling his fingers unconsciously like he wants to reach for you. instead he drops his arms.

"izuku." your tone is chiding, but it doesn't carry much weight. you raise an eyebrow at him and press your lips into a thin line to stop the smirk that's itching to form.

he takes another step forward. he really needs to wipe that look off his face; it makes him look like a kid in a grocery store about to beg his mom for a treat he knows he shouldn't have. makes him look greedy.

"yes my love?" he's starting to crowd your space a little bit, big wide eyes shining with something like hunger. one of his hands twitches, and he finally gives in and slides it on your hip, squeezing just a little.

your shorts are thin. why are your shorts so thin, are they always this thin? his touch tickles and you shiver.

you can't look at him, can't make eye contact because you know exactly what will happen (it involves a lot less clothes... which is what always happens when he looks at you like this) and you can't risk it – so you say just that.

he huffs a little breath through his nose, almost in amusement, and rubs a circle into the junction between hip and waist with his thumb. it's a nice soothing pressure.

"alright, baby."

there's no commentary – suspiciously no commentary. he plants a kiss on the top of your head, gives your hip another squeeze; when you finally sneak a glance up at him he gives you a sweetheart smile, the one that softens his whole face. he couldn't fake that smile if he tried; it's not withholding, just earnest. "whatever you want, okay?"

you nod and give him a kiss, rubbing at his chest. he smells good, post-work out and pre-shower, all sweaty and musky, and his lips are so soft, you find yourself hanging on to the soft and pliant fabric of his t-shirt. he's so warm too. his other hand finds your waist and he pulls you forward, deepening the kiss with a little sigh into your mouth, and you can't help but lean into him. when your nails scratch against his skin through his shirt (just a little!), he inhales sharp and through his nose, chest rising beneath your fingers. then he groans into your mouth, sliding his hand slightly higher up your torso until it rests right against your abdomen.

god, you feel hot. is it hot in here? it's like heat is radiating off of izuku in waves, warming your cheeks and making your heart beat faster. kissing him feels so good, makes you feel all gooey and needy and–

shit. nope!

nope nope nope.

releasing his shirt, you flatten your palm and push, breaking the kiss. "you're playing dirty," you mutter with a scowl. he just smiles and kisses you again, no funny business this time.

"you're the one who kissed me first, baby."

"ugh!" you slap his chest and step around him to get to the hallway. "i have to get dressed or i'm gonna be late for work!"

what you miss are his eyes glueing themselves to your hips the second you pass by. he cranes his neck to watch you walk away, leaning against the doorframe to track your form until it slips into the bedroom and out of sight.

shit.

it could be said that izuku is a man with incredible self control. he's been through hell and back, and he stayed true and genuine the entire time; he only had a year to prepare himself for one for all, and he did it; he follows his self-made schedule more rigorously than anyone you've ever seen; one time he explained to you how he organizes his hero notes, and it was so thorough and so detailed, you knew you could never commit to such a system, but izuku does; he's disciplined like that.

it could also be said that izuku is a man with very, very little self control. especially when it comes to you.

he finds himself on edge for the rest of the day.

your little messages don't help. they aren't even anything crazy, which makes it worse.

around lunchtime, you text:

thinkin abt u baby!

he sets his chopsticks down and presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, rubbing them like it will somehow release the tension he's felt churning in his gut ever since he saw that empty pill packet in your hands.

he doesn't think he's gonna make it until your appointment. the only thing he's thought about all day is how pretty you always look when he's got a hand pressed to your abdomen, hips flush with yours as the the tip of his cock stays nestled right up to your cervix and keeps you plugged nice and full; how pretty you sound when you beg for it: please, izuku, i–ngh–i need it...

damn it! he has to cut off this line of thinking before he spirals. adjusting his pants to account for the semi he's sporting (seriously?), he flips his phone over and picks up his chopsticks.

then he sighs. he sets them down again, picks up the phone, and sends a response:

i've been missing you all day

his thumbs hover over the keyboard before he types:

seriously, all day

then he really turns the phone around, switching it to silent for good measure. unfortunately, this measure is useless, since it doesn't stop him from checking it every five minutes. he's never taken so long to eat a meal in his life, but he keeps getting distracted: setting his chopsticks down and sighing, staring morosely at the food in his bento.

he'd feel better if he knew what you were doing, how you were feeling, what your day has been like. he misses you.

you miss him too. you can't remember the last time a day at work felt so long. all morning, time has dragged on and on, but the clock never seems to change all that much. it doesn't help that you're glancing at it every few minutes, and it certainly doesn't help that you decid to wait until lunch to text izuku. hasn't it been 10 for like an hour already? surely more time than that has passed, right?

he's been taking up space in your mind ever since this morning. that heat you felt emanating from him never left, lingering in the pads of your fingers where they touched his chest and traveling through your bloodstream, veins and arteries carrying it to everywhere else; he may as well have transferred it to you. now he swims in your consciousness, floating through your thoughts as though you're dreaming. it's impossible to focus.

impossible to focus on work, that is. it seems since you saw that empty birth control packet in your hands, there's been only one thing on your mind.

izuku always fucks you properly. you're never left needy or wanting. he takes good care of you, and right now, it's all you can think about. you want him to bully that fat cock inside without any barriers between you, wanna feel him with no limits... just you and him, raw. you and him, as close as you can possibly be... he always makes you feel so good, always keeps you so full and–

ooooookay!

that's enough of that. there's still another hour until lunch time, and if you're getting this distracted already you're never gonna make it.

when it comes to each other, you and izuku are both experts in the art of communicating through what goes unsaid. throughout the day, you send little texts back and forth, and there's nothing overtly sexual in any most of them, but by the time you're catching your train home your panties are drenched and it’s all his fault.

he knew exactly what he was doing when he sent you that post-workout selfie in the late afternoon... the one he conveniently "forgot" to send this morning… yeah, right. more like he saved it to use against you later. it was only fair when you retaliated with a picture hastily taken in the bathroom of your work, shirt tugged down enough that your bra peaked generously over your top's neckline... if he's gonna fight dirty, then so are you!

when you get home, right away, he's hovering; taking your coat, offering you a drink (of your choice!). after you change he's guiding you to the couch and pressing you gently on to it. he slips a pair of socks on to your feet and rubs your shins, pausing before glancing up at you. "you were on my mind all day today."

what a deliberately nonchalant tone he's adopted! it seems he's deciding to play it cool, something he's never been very good at. you run a hand through his hair and then rest it on the side of his face – he immediately leans in to your touch, eyes fluttering closed when your nails scratch at his scalp.

he's so easy.

"yeah?"

"yeah! i, uh, i was thinking about what we talked about this morning..."

your lips twitch into a smile. he's so easy you can't resist messing with him a little. "which thing?"

"oh, the... um, the birth control thing... and i was thinking..."

"oh! that reminds me–" you spring up from your seated position and he starts, falling back until he lands ass first on the floor. he stays there, defeated, as you scurry to your bag and pull out a small box.

he eyes it carefully. "what have you got there?"

"condoms," you explain, pressing the cardboard between your fingers and sliding a foil from the package. it crinkles between your fingers, shiny surface catching the lamplight. "y'know... in case... well, i mean, i figure we'll need them."

now how to respond? does he press the issue now or later? he can tell, with the way your lips tremble – you're bluffing. have to be.

how cute! did you go all the way to the store to buy – what is that, a 3-pack? – it is! a box of three condoms that he's unsure would fit anyway, all to pretend like later you aren't going cum on his very much unwrapped cock. as if three condoms would be enough to last the four days between now and your appointment anyway. they must have been the cheapest option. he loves it when you commit to a bit.

sure, the two of you used condoms plenty of times back when you first started sleeping together. it's just that the first time you had sex without a condom... game changing, and you've never looked back.

"that's very... thoughtful. wow, thank you baby! nice work, thinking ahead like that."

you purse your lips. "...yeah, you're welcome."

you had gone to the store, a 7/11 that was about five minutes away. it had been an afterthought on your walk home from work. you really thought he would protest more when he saw them, or even laugh–maybe you're misreading things? is he being annoying on purpose or just being sweet and now you're the crazy one playing mental games?

except you know how izuku feels about raw sex (with you, specifically). and you know that on the inside he has to be nearing his limit. you saw the look on his face this morning, you know what he's thinking about. it's like he just expects you to roll over, to give up and ask him for it. where's the effort? you'd love to see him beg a little.

you saunter back into the living room and haphazardly toss the condom on to the table, then turn towards the kitchen.

"i'm gonna get started on dinner. if you don't have work to finish you can get rice going."

izuku nods and mutters something that's supposed to sound like acknowledgment, but sounds more like a grunt instead.

as you walk away, he stares at your ass from his spot on the floor. he can't help himself. all that purported self control, erased the second you enter his field of vision.

he loves you, more than life itself; loves your mind and your sense of humor, loves the way you talk to yourself when you think no one's looking and the sound of your voice. when you direct that pretty voice in his direction it makes him feel like a truly lucky man, not everyone is so blessed! with all the things you could say and all the people you could say them to, you choose to spend your time talking to him – and gosh, does he love you for it.

but... honestly? he didn't hear a thing you just said. were you even talking just now? he's pretty sure he saw your lips moving...

it's like he's in a trance; all he can hear is blood rushing in his ears and the sound of his heart trying to claw it's way out of his chest and lay down at your feet. step on it, who cares? he'd die for you. do whatever you want. the way you look right now, he's pretty convinced you're some kind of deity, and he just wants the chance to worship at your altar.

"wait–" he gets up and stumbles after you, fingers itching to touch. in the kitchen, he finds you washing your hands at the sink, back turned. he wastes no time, sidling up behind you and grabbing your hips, leaning in to press his nose to the back of your neck and taking a deep breath.

"baby." now he's turning you around slowly, laughing when you glare at him.

"i'm a little busy, don't know if you noticed–"

he reaches behind you and turns off the sink, using his hips to press you against the counter.

that same smoldering heat erupts at the point your hips make contact and your mouth actually falls open at the sensation. every touch with izuku always seems to be laced with electricity, and now it's arcing between your bodies, building and expanding – when they say sparks flying, this is what they're talking about.

between his two large hands, he holds your cheeks with great care. his thumb brushes over your lips, catching on the bottom one and dragging it down until it bounces back into place.

whenever he captures one hundred percent of your attention, he isn't playing fair. he has this incredible ability to turn a mundane moment into an unforgettable one, and he wields it in moments just like this. maybe it's the attention he gives you and it's undivided nature, maybe it's the way he touches you like he never wants you to forget the way it feels, but one moment you're washing your hands and the next you're tunnel visioned and starry eyed, forgetting where you are or what you're doing as he stares at you like you invented the sun. yeah, it makes your heart melt and your brain short circuit, how could it not?

works like a charm, every single time.

"m'sorry, baby," he murmurs. "i didn't get to kiss you hello."

"no"–you gulp–"you didn't."

he doesn't make either of you wait for it anymore. his lips press against yours, firm and soft and familiar. when they part open you follow suit, an open invitation which he's happy to take. he groans, so satisfied at the way you taste he has to vocalize it. how could he not, when he's been craving about that flavor all day?

now you're tugging on his hair and panting into his mouth and grinding against his thigh that he doesn't even remember slipping between your legs, he just did it without thinking because it felt like the right thing to do and here you are rubbing all over it and he'll be damned because you're somehow wearing those tiny little shorts again. so thin. why do they even make shorts that thin? when did you have time to change and how come he didn't notice? are you trying to kill him?

he pulls away and one hand tugs at your waistband impatiently. "come on," he complains. "these don't even count as clothes. you're fighting so much dirtier than i am!"

"they're pajamas," you emphasize, like that exonerates you. "and you're the one who sent a gym picture when you weren't even at the gym–"

"–because you sent me that text about ovulating–"

"–that's–not–that's unrelated!"

"nuh-uh!"

he abruptly tosses you over his shoulder, ignoring your squeal, and marches back into the living room, dropping you somewhat unceremoniously on the couch before climbing over you. his thigh finds it's way back between your legs.

"izuku!" you gasp. every time he manhandles you like that, it leaves you a little breathless. it's a jarring reminder that he can do whatever he wants with you.

"you... your–this–this little back and forth has been so cute," he says. this psychological foreplay has been fun but if he doesn't get a visual on your pussy in the next five minutes he's worried he might explode. "and, gosh, you're so cute, cutest in the world, but honey"–the look he gives you is exasperated, like he knows he signed up for this but he's still regretting it a little bit–"i'm sorry, i can't do it anymore."

both of his hands rest on your hips, fingers curled around the elastic of your shorts. "these can come off or stay on, it doesn't matter to me."

does this mean you win? you technically held out the longest, not that you'd really call it holding out... self control when it comes to izuku is not an area you excel in. something you both have in common.

it doesn't matter. you've both won, now it's time for your reward.

"take them off," you say, voice cracking at the end. it's not something you have to ask for twice.

he yanks the shorts down your legs, shaking his head the whole time. then it's time for your underwear, and he's gentler, but equally as impatient.

need is finally starting to catch up to you, and you feel almost drunk with izuku looming over you like this. he feels too far away. you want him to stretch you out on his cock so badly it feels like you're going to pass out, but he slides two fingers between your folds instead.

"gosh, you're so... already this wet? thinkin' about it all day, huh?" he slips one finger inside and you moan.

"don't... you don't... just, i wanna feel you right now," you urge.

he slips in another finger, curling and pumping them in the way he knows you like. his movements are intentional, calculated and efficient. they're not dragged out, he can't handle that right now. fingering you to make sure you're aroused enough to take him is really a formality in this moment – it's obvious with the way you're dripping down his hand and on to his wrist that you're ready to go.

"what do you wanna feel?" he presses, using his other hand to pull his shirt over his head and fumble with his belt. you don't waste any time, pulling the rest of your own clothes off.

he pulls his fingers out of you and jerks them down his length a few times, spreading the ample pre-cum that leaks from his tip to lubricate himself before lining himself up.

"i wanna feel"–you shudder when his tip presses past your entrance–"f-fuck–wanna feel your cock filling me up. just-just your cock, nothing"–he bottoms out and you yelp–"nothing else."

he shifts his weight until he's right on top of you, holding himself up with his knees. he lowers his lips to your ear.

"but what about protection?" he purrs.

you don't need it with izuku. there's nothing to protect you against. anything he has to give you is something you'll accept.

you gasp. "i don't... want it!"

"i don't know, sounds pretty risky..." he taunts, torturing you with a slow roll of his hips. it doesn't matter if he was the one to give in first, izuku always makes you beg for it eventually.

clenching around him, you whine "come on...!", locking your legs around his hips. one of your hands finds his shoulders and clings to them.

fine. enough of this. if he gave in so can you.

"izuku," you say thickly. "i want you to cum inside. please, i'm-i'm asking you to."

"but what if something happens?"

"let it," you beg, legs squeezing tighter. you can't take much more of this, need him to move like your life depends on it. "cum inside, and whatever happens, happens, i don't ca–no, i want it, alright? c'mon, please."

he grins, wickedly. let's out a little breath and starts to thrust into you. "want me to make you mine, forever?"

he strikes a deep, slow pace, like he wants you to really feel it. like he wants each rut of his hips to steal the breath from your lungs.

so far, it's working.

"oh-oh... my god... i feel you so deep." each time he presses into you, it sends a numbing sensation rolling down your entire body, washing over you in a muted wave. there's something intoxicating about the combination of the momentary ache you feel each time his tip kisses your cervix and the mind numbing pleasure it precipitates. it's like an unspoken reminder that there's nothing between the two of you right now.

his hand slides against your lower abdomen and presses. the gesture makes you gasp, has your eyes fluttering at the added pressure and how it makes you feel that much more full. his green eyes are completely wild; he looks unhinged. every signal he sends radiates his claim.

he presses a little harder, then pulls all the way out for a moment. the feeling of emptiness lingers for long enough that it settles in your chest like anxiety.

"izuku!"

you want to scream at him for teasing you right now, your aching need starting to override your rationality. you whine, and he coos, "you want it?"

"yes!"

still, it just makes it all the sweeter when he slowly sinks back inside. his hand is so big and warm where it rests right against your womb – it heightens your arousal to the point that his sliding in just an inch has your back arching completely, your hips involuntarily trying to shimmy down further on his length. he sinks to the base and holds it for just a second, stretching you all the way and relishing in the extended moan that's tugged from your throat.

his thumb rubs a leisurely path over your skin. "you feel me... here?" and he presses again.

"yes, feel you in my stomach," you pant. he's rutting in to you with a steady, breaking pace, like a man on a mission.

"gonna put a baby here," he whispers, like a secret meant for your ears only. "gonna claim my pretty girl"–you clench around him and he gasps–"s-shit, you like that? like it when i talk about breeding you so everybody knows who you belong to?"

every single word that passes his lips sends you further into what feels like hysteria.

"wan' you to fill me up, please... you know i'm all yours izuku, you know."

you're not even really thinking straight at this point. your cunt feels like molten lava, burning you up from the inside out, and izuku keeps turning up the heat. he relishes in the way you clamp down on his dick, pussy walls constricting so intensely he actually grits his teeth.

you want it so bad. wanting might not be strong enough of a word... you crave it. you yearn for it. you need it.

"look at you." he's certainly looking at you now, with an intensity behind his gaze that hasn't diminished. it only seems to get stronger when he grinds into you nice and slow.

the heaviness of it all makes you keen. you keep mumbling "baby, please" and "you know" over and over, too fucked out to muster up full sentences. izuku acts as your own weighted blanket, draped over you and numbing out all of your senses. he kisses you with an open mouth and swallows the sound of your whimpering. he thinks it's a nice flavor on you.

"gosh, you sound so pretty when you beg," he breathes against your lips. "go on baby, beg some more. what do you want?"

are you going to pass out? no, maybe not... it's just that the edges of your vision have started to blur. the blinding pleasure is almost starting to err on the side of pain, nerves set so alight that your brain can't keep up. still, his dick is so deep that you can't possibly think of anything else with much conviction.

he hits each thrust with precision and purpose, molding your pussy to take him and him alone. if his weight wasn't on you so heavily, you'd be pushed up with every rut of his hips.

"you–i need–your cum, oh my god"–this might be it for you, each word cut off by the sound of skin clapping against skin–"fill me up all the way"–imploringly–"f-fuck, baby, make sure it sticks."

you have the thought that you might really be ruined for anyone else, not that it matters. it doesn't feel possible that anyone else could ever make you feel this good... more than just good, izuku makes you feel like the only person that's ever existed, like the most desirable and beautiful thing he's ever seen. each time he grinds his hips against yours, he's reminding you:

i choose you. i want you. i own you. you're mine you're mine you're mine.

"it will," he grunts, "it has to, the way you're sucking me in." lowering his face to the juncture between your neck and shoulder, he sucks a mark into the delicate skin. you have this feeling of being completely anchored, held down and fucked full of love. "wh–hah–whatever it takes."

it's full skin to skin. sweat pools between your bodies and it just adds to the intensity of it all. you feel him deep inside, you feel him on top of you, you feel him everywhere.

this feeling is why they call it making love. in this moment, that's exactly what you're doing: each of pouring all of your trust and devotion and commitment into the other, giving into that primal instinct that seeks out this sacred shared intimacy.

tears prick at your lash line and your next gasp is a little strangled on the way out.

"izuku."

something in your tone has him lifting his head so he can look in your eyes. some of his curls are sticking to his sweaty forehead, and the rest tickle the side of your face as he peers down at you.

the tears don't make him stop, but he does lace one of his hands with yours, squeezing lightly to reassure you. it's just what you need.

"honey, are you still with me?"

honey. baby. sweet girl. his tenderness is always so appreciated, but now it has you reeling with emotion. everything feels so intimate and you feel so vulnerable and fragile and taken and claimed that it sends a few tears spilling over and onto your cheeks. your eyes can’t focus on anything, so you close them.

that's izuku for you: fucking you dirty on his cock, all the while holding your hand and calling you honey.

"hey, sweet girl. will you give me a signal?" izuku's voice pulls you back to yourself, back to him. you can’t see it but he looks at you in earnest now, taking even more careful notice of your reactions and expressions.

you realize you need to say something or else he might stop and that's the last thing in the world you want right now. with tremendous effort, you open your eyes again and force yourself to make eye contact.

“yes,” you gasp. “i’m here.”

izuku beams. he kisses your nose, then kisses the tears on your cheeks. “there she is.”

sometimes, like right now, izuku loves you so much it frightens you a little. it's a strange feeling when you've spent years building walls to protect yourself and someone meticulously disassembles them. he didn't break them down, he showed you why you didn't need them anymore. now, here he stands, worn but satisfied in front of your tender and defenseless heart.

with every kiss, he promises to take good care of it. every touch says: i can protect you better than those walls ever could. i see who you are, i know what you need.

to be loved is to be seen, and he makes you believe it. there's no one else who could have you like this. you both know it, both feel the gravity of it. what a privilege, to be needed like this. what a privilege to give yourself.

"i love you," he whispers. it's uttered like a secret, but one you already know.

more tears run over. “i love you so much,” you blubber, gasping when he grips your hand tight in his and moves them up until they rest beside your head. he whispers how much he loves you over and over, calling you his good girl, all while his cock threatens to tear you in two. “f-fuck, izuku, it’s too much, i can’t.”

“you can,” he murmurs, “you can do it, you’re already doing so well for me.” the fingers that rest on your abdomen squeeze softly. he gets a shiny gleam in his eyes. you know that look, one that threatens an impending flood of emotion.

"right here"–his pace is starting to turn erratic, thrusts lacking any semblance of consistency, meaning he's close–"gonna put a baby right here. our baby–" he's choked by his own guttural groan when your cunt clamps down on him. both of your chests heave, breaths syncing until they're all shared. "tell me you want it," he begs you. the whiny tone in his voice is like a drug, taking you higher and higher and higher.

"i need it," you cry. "i need it. need your cum, need you to fill me up all the way–i–please–"

you could snap at anytime, your body vibrating like a string pulled tight, but you're waiting, holding on so that you can finish together. you want to look right in his eyes as he gives you his seed, wanna see his face the moment he fulfills both of your wishes and unbreakably tie the strings holding you together. the way you're begging for.

"i've got you," he gasps, "take it all, baby, f-fuck"–his eyes go wide–"take everything, you can, you can."

his eyes are glassy with unshed tears, and he looks like he might be panicking but it's not panic, just a feeling of pleasure so intense he doesn't even know how to process it. he thrusts hard once, then twice, and you feel the way his cock throbs as he unloads deep inside you, as deep as he can possibly go.

being fucked full of izuku's cum is already one of the best feelings you can possibly imagine, and it doesn't come close to this, with the threat of your actions looming over your heads and sending a thrill through your gut. your orgasm slams into you like a bus as every muscle seizes at once and then slowly start to relax as waves of pleasure roil your blood, your pussy squeezing around him, milking him and sucking in every drop of cum he gives. it's so warm, flooding inside you and making you feel like you're floating.

you tremble and moan, unable to do much else because izuku's body is still flush with yours, his hand still pressing yours back into the cushions behind you. there's no space between your bodies and he's still barely close enough... but the way your eyes are locked on his fulfills the desire for connection that courses through you. it's too much, so much that you want to look away but you can't. your body won't let you, and you can see the same reality reflected in his glistening irises as a few tears slip from the corner of his eyes.

two hearts beating in one rhythm, two lungs sharing the same breaths, two eyes reflecting the same tears.

it's the longest time has ever stretched. in this moment lies infinity, as you swim through the cocktail of dopamine and oxytocin your brain is pumping through your system. you're trembling, the aftershocks of your orgasm still rattling through the marrow of your bones.

izuku doesn't dare pull out, just drops his head to your neck and sucks in air in gasping breaths that feel hot against your skin; soon, you feel the gentle press of his lips there instead. you bring your free hand to the back of his neck, using his hair as an anchor to grab on to, rubbing featherlight circles into the base of his skull.

several minutes pass, just like this, in the quiet and sticky air that fills the intimate bubble you're floating in.

finally, finally, once your heartbeats have returned to a more normal rhythm and you've regained feeling in your extremities, he so gently lifts his head and kisses you nice and slow. his cock has gone soft but he still doesn't pull out, relishing in the closeness too much to break the moment. you smile into the kiss, and he laughs a little, pulls back and rests his forehead against yours.

"that was..."

"what the hell," you murmur, "insane." softly, your thumb traces his cheekbone.

when he rubs your noses together you giggle. "you should run out of birth control more often," he jokes, and you laugh, then you bite your lip and flit your eyes down.

"not to be a mood killer, but–"

"i already made an appointment," he interrupts gently, giving you a warm smile, "for a morning after pill. that's what you were going to say, right?"

you narrow your eyes in slight suspicion. "yes...?" his smile turns a little guilty but he doesn't look very apologetic. "when did you have time for that?"

"i did it on my way home..." he confesses, and you gasp, then roll your eyes. of course he did. it's equally thoughtful and presumptuous, although izuku prides himself on making highly informed guesses based on his predictions which, admittedly, are right most of the time.

you decide that it's just thoughtful. still, you say, "i knew it! you're such an instigator!"

izuku just laughs. "i can't say that i'm sorry for it."

you can't help but laugh with him. "yeah. me neither." tugging the hair at the nape of his neck, you raise your chin to hint at your desire for a kiss, and just like always, he indulges you. over-indulges you, biting at your bottom lip and slipping his tongue into your mouth. your body reacts before your mind has time to catch up and you curl into him. the sensitive walls of your pussy flutter and you feel his cock twitch.

"tomorrow, huh..." you whisper. "we have such a limited window..."

he's growing harder by the second; the feeling makes you shiver.

"yeah," he agrees, "gonna make it count."