Come Into My Bedroom

૮(ˊ ᵔ ˋ)ა ... i’d follow you anywhere .ᐟ

ᥫ᭡ pairing :: neteyam sully x avatar! reader

ᥫ᭡ genre :: mature

ᥫ᭡ synopsis :: in which the reader uses her new avatar body to finally show neteyam just how much she loves him… + based off of this thirst!

ᥫ᭡ general tags :: 18+ (explicit sexual content, explicit language), minimal angst (?), lots of fluff and banter lol

ᥫ᭡ content warnings :: characters aged up to 20, oral (m receiving), cum swallowing, dacryphilia (v tame), corruption

ᥫ᭡ word count :: 2.5k

ᥫ᭡ note :: guys this is what happens when i ask for thirsts!!! i get carried away and never know when to stop ;(( anyway, here, have this while i work on my annual dick analysis for jake & quaritch.

“Where are you taking me?”

“Shh, you’ll see, kitty boy,” you giggled, tightening your grip on his wrist.

Neteyam shakes his head, tongue in cheek. He could never say no to you—not that he wanted to…he always wanted to play with you. He’d follow you into the depths of hell, or whatever the na’vi equivalent of hell was. Yeah, he’d follow you there, he thinks—definitely.  

Keep reading

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forget it — joaquín torres (marvel) !

⟢ synopsis. request: reuniting with ex!joaquín after his near death experience, but you’re the nurse assigned to his care after he gets out of surgery. you broke up a couple years ago because of your very demanding careers, and you don’t see him until you realize they put YOU on babysitting duty to nurse him back to health, yikes!

⟢ contains. spoilers for brave new world! joaquín torres x nurse!reader, so much angst you’re gonna want to block me!! mentions of death, blood, gore, possible inaccurate medical procedures (i am not a nurse idk how that works), open ending but it's honestly realistic and cute.

⟢ word count. 13.7k+

⟢ author’s note. i learned medical terms for this

You like to think that every decision you’ve made has shaped you into the best version of yourself.

A better student, a better nurse, a better person. You’ve spent years honing your skills, pushing yourself past limits, ensuring that when it matters most, you’ll be capable—prepared. You might not have superpowers, enhanced genes, or combat training, but you have your mind, your steady hands, your patience. That’s what makes a difference in the field you’ve chosen. That’s what saves lives.

And it’s paid off. You don’t work at just any hospital—you work at this one. A private facility that caters to soldiers, government agents, and the kind of people who make headlines when things go wrong. The kind of people who disappear into classified reports. The kind of people you don’t expect to see lying unconscious under your care.

But you love your job. You love the structure of it, the control. You love the fact that, in a world constantly spinning off its axis, you can still do something that makes sense. You have your patients, your colleagues, your friends, your family. You still go out when you can, still make time to shop, and still remember to water your plants. Life is steady. Good.

And yet—

There’s something missing.

It creeps in during the quiet moments, when the hospital halls are still, and the steady beep of a heart monitor is the only thing filling the silence. It lingers in the space between breaths, in the pause before you check a chart, in the phantom weight of something you can’t quite name. A presence that once was, or maybe never was, but should have been.

You have everything you’ve ever worked for. So why does it still feel like something’s missing?

You don’t let yourself dwell on it. It’s ridiculous. You have your health. You have your life.

And you know better than anyone how fragile both of those things can be.

You remind yourself of how lucky you are because you’ve seen the alternative too many times. Lives wrecked and ruined by things far beyond anyone’s control. You’ve watched the light fade from seven pairs of eyes. Seven people who didn’t make it. Seven moments that carved themselves into your memory, no matter how hard you try to forget.

You haven’t even been working for three years.

And yet—

You’d hate to see the day when someone you love is one of them.

The thought grips you too tightly, too suddenly, and you only realize you’ve been staring at your hands under the running faucet when the sound of your name cuts through the fog.

“Look what I made!”

You blink, water still rushing over your fingertips, skin already pruning. A slow exhale leaves you as you reach for the faucet, shutting off the tap. The chill lingers on your skin even as you tear a paper towel from the dispenser, crumpling in your damp grip as you turn.

Maria is sitting up in bed, dark eyes bright with excitement as she holds out a carefully folded piece of olive-green paper.

She beams at you, her small fingers cradling the delicate shape with a reverence that makes your heartache. It takes a second for recognition to click. An origami bird.

“What’s this?” you coo, stepping closer.

Maria is a few weeks shy of nine. She should be at home planning her birthday party, picking out a cake, laughing with friends. Instead, she’s here. Confined to this sterile room, surrounded by too-white walls and the soft beeping of machines monitoring the inexplicable changes in her body. She isn’t dying. But she isn’t getting better, either.

Exposure to some strange quantum disturbance in San Francisco had led to her transfer here, to Washington, under your care. Away from reporters, away from speculation, away from anyone who might pry too closely while the government tries to figure out what happened to her.

“It’s a bird. Like the one on TV.” She explains, her tiny fingers carefully adjusting the wings.

You glance at the television, expecting to see another nature documentary—the kind she’s grown fond of in the past few weeks. But when your eyes land on the screen, you freeze.

A news channel. A live interview. Captain America and the Falcon, still in their gear, standing at an Air Force base. The headline scrolling across the bottom of the screen is a blur. Something about a mission. About another near disaster averted.

Falcon stands just behind Captain America, posture sharp, hands clasped loosely in front of him, expression serious but composed. His suit still bears the scuffs of combat, a faint tear along the armoured plating at his ribs. You wonder if it hurts. If he’s bleeding. If he even let anyone check.

A small huff leaves your lips before you can stop it.

You can’t remember the last time you saw him. Now, here he is again, on a screen in a hospital room, larger than life.

“You like superheroes, Maria?” You force a lighter tone, turning back to her, moving to check her monitors. It’s unnecessary—you already did this when you came in—but it gives your hands something to do.

“You like superheroes, Maria?” you ask, forcing a lighter tone as you move to check her monitors. It’s unnecessary—you already did this when you came in—but it gives your hands something to do.

“I love superheroes,” she exclaims, voice full of unshakable certainty.

“Yeah?”

“Yes!”

She watches you closely, studying your face with a look that’s far too perceptive for someone her age. Then, after a beat—

“Who’s your favourite Avenger?”

You pretend to think about it. “Hmmm... I don’t know. Maybe... Hawkeye?”

Maria immediately groans, rolling her eyes so hard it nearly makes you laugh. “That’s so boring!” She throws her arms up in exasperation, nearly tugging her IV loose in the process.

“Hey, hey—“ you reach out, gently taking her hands, steadying her before she can do any real damage. “You’re really gonna judge me for that?”

“So boring,” she insists, her signature sass making an appearance. “My mom likes Thor because he has big muscles.”

You snort. “Wow. Okay. And what about you?”

Maria’s expression turns mischievous, blushing slightly as she glances back at the screen.

“The Falcon.”

The words land like a punch to the ribs.

You swallow hard, but the lump in your throat stays put. You should have seen it coming, the way she lit up at the sight of him on TV, but it still catches you off guard.

Because for Maria, it’s admiration.

For you, it’s something else entirely.

“He’s so cool,” you manage, your voice lighter than you feel. “I don’t think he’s an Avenger, though.”

Unless he is and you have missed that entire chapter of his life. A lot had happened in the last few years—you wouldn’t put it past him to just forget to mention something like that. Not that either of you were on speaking terms anyway.

Maria grins, a small, mischievous thing, and before you can move, she takes your hand in hers and presses something into your palm.

“Here.”

You glance down.

The bird.

You blink at the delicate folds of olive-green paper, the slight tilt of its wings. It’s small, fits perfectly in your hand, but somehow, it feels heavier than it should.

“You have it.”

You open your mouth—to tell her she should keep it, that it’s hers—but the words never leave your throat. The sincerity in her gaze keeps you quiet, so instead, you close your fingers carefully around the paper bird, holding it like something fragile.

“Thank you, Maria,” you say softly.

You still have the bird.

It sits on your nightstand even now, weeks later, its delicate folds untouched, a reminder of that small moment. Of Maria.

You hadn’t thought much about that conversation at the time. Maria’s gift had been sweet, and you had found it endearing—the kind of innocent kindness that children offered so easily.

It wasn’t every day you cared for someone so young in this hospital, and while that was a blessing, it didn’t make it any easier when that child was rolled in on a stretcher.

And it wasn’t until a week later that you remembered Maria’s words.

Not until you watched a familiar face get wheeled into the hospital.

You had heard about it first—on the news, in passing conversations between coworkers. Another mission. Another near-tragedy. Another casualty.

And then you saw it.

The frantic rush of bodies in the emergency bay. The whine of a helicopter’s rotor blades still echoing through the halls, rattling against the glass doors. The sharp, sterile scent of antiseptic burning your nose, mixing with the metallic tang of blood—so much blood, too much of it pooling beneath the stretcher, staining the floor, the sheets, the hands of every ER staff trying to keep him together.

Your coworkers moved fast, their voices sharp and urgent as they swarmed the broken, battered body like bees to a collapsing hive. You barely recognized him at first. His suit—scorched in places, torn in others—hung off him in tatters, the once-pristine armour dented and smeared with something dark.

His skin was pale—too pale.

His lips were slightly parted, chest rising and falling in short, uneven gasps like every breath cost him something.

The blur of medical jargon barely registered in your mind, words overlapping, breaking, reforming into pieces that didn’t quite fit together. But certain ones still made it through the haze, lodging themselves somewhere deep inside you, where they twisted like a knife.

“Heart palpitations—“

“Severe burns—“

“Broken arm—“

“Breath is weak—“

“We’re gonna need a defibrillator—“

“Won’t make it to the OR—“

Your heart stuttered.

You would’ve rather never seen Joaquín Torres again for the rest of your life than see him like this. Like that.

And after that, you were moving on autopilot.

The rest of the day blurred together, slipping through your fingers like sand. You went through the motions, nodding when spoken to, keeping your hands busy, but nothing really stuck. The only thing that did was time—how it crawled, stretched, and bled into itself.

One hour turned to two.

Two turned to four.

Four turned into a sharp, sickening pause.

You were just about to punch out for the night, car keys hanging loosely from your fingers when you heard it.

“His heart gave out. Medically dead for T-minus 30 seconds. Extra hands needed.”

You froze.

The words echoed, hollow and distant like they were being spoken underwater. A strange ringing had started in your ears. You weren’t sure if it was real or just something inside your own head—maybe both.

You had already been hesitant about leaving without checking in on him. You could’ve gone in. You had clearance. But you didn’t.

And now?

Now, you were hearing his heart gave out?

Your mind ran ahead of you, filling in the gaps before you could stop it—could almost hear the faint, dull whine of the machines, the inevitable, lifeless flatline.

The surgeon calling out the time of death.

Your own heart lurched violently in your chest.

Your feet were moving before you even made the decision, carrying you faster than you thought possible. You nearly crashed into the doors of the emergency wing, swiping your card into the OR viewing room, stumbling into the dimly lit space. Your breath came short, choppy, your pulse hammering in your ears.

Your eyes locked onto the glass.

And then—

“Clear!”

Joaquín’s body jerked violently, his back arching off the table before collapsing again.

From where you stood, you couldn’t see or hear the monitor. Couldn’t tell if there was a beat or if it was still that awful, empty silence.

“Clear!”

His body seized again, limbs convulsing before falling limp.

You flinched, a breath hitching painfully somewhere inside you.

The panic clawing up your ribs only loosened when you saw the doctors start to relax, their frantic movements easing back into precision. You watched, rooted to the spot, as they worked—saw the ventilator strapped tightly around Joaquín’s face, the way they were cutting into him, the deep burns covering his side.

But it didn’t feel like him.

He looked dead.

He looked so, so dead.

Your fingers dug into the ledge of the viewing window, knuckles white.

And suddenly you can remember the last time you saw him. A memory that grabs you like a vice.

He was so alive, and he was crying.

His eyes were red and bloodshot, but he wasn’t making a sound. Just staring at you, jaw clenched so tight you swore you could hear his teeth grind. His hands—warm, steady even in their trembling—gripped yours, his touch so familiar, so safe. His fingers curled around your palms like he could keep you here just by holding on tight enough. Like if he let go, he knew he would never get to touch you again.

His skin burned beneath your fingertips.

Like home.

But the warmth of him, the heat of his touch, it didn’t reach his eyes. And you knew—God, you knew—this was the last time.

The ring that sat on your finger was like a wound that wouldn’t stop bleeding.

You hadn’t even noticed the way your breath had started to shake, the way your shoulders had drawn in like you could shield yourself from what was coming. The weight of his forehead pressing against yours was the only thing keeping you grounded, the rise and fall of his chest meeting yours in a rhythm that was almost enough to trick you into believing, for just a second, that nothing had to change.

And then he pulled away.

It was slow like he was giving you time to stop him. Like he wanted you to stop him.

But neither of you moved.

His fingers ghosted over your left hand, tracing over the ring like he was committing the shape of it to memory. You swore his breath hitched when he touched it, but he didn’t hesitate. Not when he curled his fingers around the band. Not when he gave the gentlest, barely-there tug.

The metal slipped from your skin.

The absence was instant. A phantom weight. A missing limb.

Your breath stilled.

He turned it over in his palm once, twice, before slipping it into his pocket, the movement almost absentminded. Like he wasn’t crumbling apart inside. Like he wasn’t shattering this thing between you both with his own two hands.

And then you kissed him. And he kissed you back.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t hesitant. It was desperate. A broken thing—raw, aching, more plea than passion. His lips pressed to yours with the kind of hunger that tasted like regret, like grief, like goodbye. There was no hesitation when his fingers slid up to cradle your jaw, no distance between your bodies when he pulled you in, chests flush, like he was trying to fuse himself to you, trying to rewrite the ending of this moment with the press of his lips alone.

You tasted the salt of tears.

Yours or his, you couldn’t tell.

You felt his hands tremble when they skimmed over your skin. It hurt—fuck, it hurt—the way you knew neither of you wanted to pull away, but you would. You had to.

But you stayed. For a minute. For a breath. Lips lingering, foreheads pressed together, hands gripping tighter even as the seconds slipped away from you both.

He was the first to move.

The absence of his lips was instant—a cold, hollow thing. But he didn’t pull away entirely, not yet. His nose brushed against yours, his fingers curled at the back of your neck, like if he could just stay here for another second, one more second, maybe none of this had to be real.

Then, finally, painfully, he let go.

That kiss was one that lingered, burned, long after he was gone.

He was alive then. And so were you.

But when the door shut, a part of you had died.

And watching his body, motionless on that operating table, you thought maybe a part of him had, too.

It was hard to grieve someone who had never died.

You don’t realize how long you’ve been standing there, staring through the glass, until someone says your name.

Your body jolts, and when you spin around, you're surprised to find Sam Wilson standing a few feet away. His voice had been steady, but his eyes—God, his eyes—heavy with something unspoken, something worn. You wonder how long he’s been there. You think it must’ve been a while, judging by the exhaustion shadowing his face. The bags under his eyes aren’t just from one night of lost sleep.

You’ve met him plenty of times before—hell, you’ve had dinner with the guy on multiple occasions—but something about seeing him now, here, leaves you speechless. Maybe it’s because he’s not just Sam. He’s Captain America, the man Joaquín idolized. And he looks... helpless.

You feel your entire body tense. “Sir—“ Your voice cracks at the word, and you hate it.

Sam exhales, long and slow. “I was gonna call. I mean, I don’t know if you know this, but you’re still the kid’s emergency contact.” He rubs a hand over his face. “I just... I didn’t know what terms you guys were on. I know the breakup was pretty bad and...” He trails off, looking at you like he’s bracing for impact. “I didn’t know if you’d show up.”

“I…” You swallow thickly. You should say something. Anything. But you don’t know how to find the words.

“Were you working?”

You glance down at your scrubs as if you need to confirm it. “Yeah... I just... I heard about his heart, um... how long was he...?”

Sam hesitates. He doesn’t want to say it. But he does. “Two minutes.”

You suck in a breath, sharp and cold, and instinctively look back through the glass. Joaquín is still now, the chaos momentarily subdued. He’s always been restless, always in motion, a man who never seemed to sit still to save his life. And now he’s just... lying there. You feel nauseous.

You don’t know what to say. You think Sam doesn’t either.

“I’m sorry, kid.” His voice is hoarse. “I’m sorry. For Joaquín. I never meant for this to happen. I’m always telling him to be more careful, but you know how he is—”

Do you?

You don’t know how much someone can change in the time you and Joaquín have been apart. You think you still know him. You remember how he used to be—stubborn, hard-headed. Kind, too. Always quick with a response, always teasing. Always warm.

You don’t think you’re remembering him the way Sam asks you to.

“Um... sorry.” You blink, realizing how long you’ve been zoning out. You should say something more. Something meaningful. But your throat is tight, and your hands shake at your sides. Sam looks just as lost as you feel.

“Fuck, sorry,” you mutter, rubbing at your face. “Are you okay?”

Sam blinks. He looks genuinely surprised by the question. “Am I—? Are you okay?”

You nod too fast, stuffing your hands into your back pockets. The heart monitor beeps steadily in the background, grounding you in the moment. “Yeah, I just… You were out there too. Did you get hit? I can check for a concussion.”

Sam says your name, and the way he says it—soft, sad—makes your lip quiver. When he steps forward, you don’t resist. You meet him in the middle, letting him wrap his arms around you, his warmth solid and steady. You tuck your face into his chest, only realizing you’ve been crying when you see the darkened patches on his shirt. He smells like coffee, and—funnily enough—a little bit like Joaquín.

“I’m sorry, kid.” His voice is tight, thick. Like he’s been holding back his own grief for too long.

You hum under his hold. “It’s not your fault,” you say because you think it’s what he needs to hear. You don’t know what happened out there, don’t know who made what call, but Sam relaxes just a fraction at your words. You hug him back.

The hours bleed together after that. You sit with Sam in the waiting area, watching the surgery unfold from a distance. Neither of you leave for long—only to grab coffee, maybe splash cold water on your face—but you don’t sleep. Sam doesn’t either, even when you suggest it. He stays rooted to his chair, jaw clenched, watching the clock.

He doesn’t move until the surgery is almost finished, until the surgeon is finally stitching up Joaquín.

And even then, he stays put.

So do you.

It’s nice, in a way, sitting in this heavy, aching silence. You don’t know what you would’ve done if Sam wasn’t here. You don’t know what he would’ve done if you weren’t.

Sam seems to relax even more when a friend of his shows up—Bucky. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him in person before, but you recognize the way Sam’s shoulders loosen just slightly like something fragile inside him can take a break. Bucky nods at you, then at Sam, and without a word, he takes a seat next to him.

You don’t say anything either.

Because you don’t need to.

For the first time in hours, Sam exhales like he’s not carrying the world on his shoulders.

You leave only when he urges you to, though it takes less than a minute after Joaquín is sent out for recovery.

You barely remember the drive home. The world outside the hospital blurs past in streaks of streetlights and empty roads, your hands gripping the wheel just a little too tightly. Every red light feels longer than it should, every breath harder to take. By the time you step inside your apartment, exhaustion settles in your bones, but sleep never truly comes. You close your eyes and see glimpses of him—Joaquín on the operating table, still and silent in a way he never should be.

You wake up before the sun rises, restless, your body aching with the kind of fatigue that sleep can’t fix.

By the time you return to the hospital, it’s at a strange hour—too early for the day shift, too late for the night crew. The hospital is caught in that eerie in-between where the halls are too quiet, where the few people still moving about do so in hushed voices. The fluorescent lights overhead hum, stark and artificial against the pale blue of the walls.

You’re running on espresso shots and the growing pit in your stomach, a weight that presses heavier with every step.

Joaquín is here. You know that. You have known that for almost twenty-four hours now.

But the thought still makes your hands cold. It was easier when you didn’t know what State he was in, or what he was doing—if he was even in the country.

You don’t let yourself think too much about it. You go through the motions, moving from patient to patient, checking vitals, signing off charts, trying to push through the fog in your mind. It almost works—almost—until you step out of Maria’s room and spot Amanda, the Chief Nursing Officer, walking toward you.

She smiles, clipboard tucked under her arm, but there’s something in the way she looks at you. Something unreadable.

You can already feel the dread start to wrap itself around your ribs.

“Hey, how’s it going?” she asks, falling into step beside you.

“Good,” you reply automatically. “What’s up?”

She doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she takes your tablet, her fingers brushing against yours for just a second too long. You furrow your brows, taking it from her, but your stomach twists at the hesitance in her gaze.

“There’s been a bit of a change,” she finally says. “Kit’s taking over Nicholas now.”

That makes you pause.

You've been taking care of Nicholas for a little over a month, an older man who came back from the blip different, well… different was a nice way to put it.

“Oh?”

Amanda nods, opening a new file on your screen before watching you closely. “Here,” she says, passing you the updated patient file. “Your new assignment.”

You take the tablet, adjusting your grip as you glance down at the screen—only to feel the air sucked from your lungs.

Captain Joaquín Torres.

The name alone makes your heart lurch, when did he become a captain? But then your eyes drop to the image beneath it.

You freeze.

Joaquín, unconscious. His skin is bruised, his face pale under the harsh lighting of the hospital room. The ventilator is taped to his mouth, bandages covering his side where the burns must be. He looks… wrong.

Your stomach turns.

“Um.” You barely recognize your own voice. “I don’t think I can take this one.”

Amanda’s brows knit together. “Why not?”

“It’s…” You swallow, suddenly hyperaware of how dry your throat feels. “It’s a personal case.”

“I know.”

That makes you look up, and when you do, Amanda is already watching you with that same careful expression—understanding, but unwavering. “That’s why I’m assigning it to you,” she says, soft but firm.

You stare at her, trying to process the words.

“Familiar faces help in recovery,” Amanda says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Waking up to someone he knows might do him some good.”

Your grip tightens around the tablet, fingers pressing into the smooth surface as your pulse pounds in your ears.

“Not everyone gets shot out of the sky by the military and lives to tell the tale.”

She’s right. You know she’s right.

But Joaquín isn’t just anyone.

And it’s been a long time since you’ve been a familiar face.

Would he even want to wake up to you?

You don’t ask that. You don’t let yourself. Instead, you swallow around the knot in your throat and force a nod. “Okay.”

Amanda watches you for a moment, searching your face like she can see everything you’re trying to hide. Then, she squeezes your shoulder, her touch warm and grounding. “You got this.”

You wish you believed her.

You suck in your pride as Amanda walks away and your fingers tighten around the tablet as you glance down at Joaquín’s medical file, his name printed in bold letters at the top. You already know his blood type, his medical history, his baseline vitals—things you shouldn’t still remember but do anyway. It feels strange seeing them laid out so clinically like he’s just another patient.

Your thumb swipes down the screen, scanning through his injuries. Severe burns on the left side of his torso. A broken radius and a fractured humerus on his right arm. The notes estimate he’ll be unconscious for a few more days, maybe a week at most. The doctors don’t think it’ll be a long coma.

He might wake up anytime.

Your stomach twists.

The live security feed on the tablet shows a grainy, black-and-white image of him, still and silent in the hospital bed, wrapped in layers of bandages and hooked up to machines that beep in steady intervals. The sight of him like this, unmoving, is almost more unsettling than the injuries themselves.

The elevator ride to his floor feels endless, but when the doors finally slide open, the hallway ahead stretches on like something out of a dream—too long, too empty, too quiet. The soft hum of fluorescent lights overhead fills the silence, and your shoes barely make a sound against the polished tile.

You’ve never hesitated like this before. No patient has ever made your heart pound this hard before you’ve even stepped into their room.

You stop in front of the door, your ID card clutched tight between your fingers.

He is hurt, you remind yourself. A wounded soldier. He needs care. That’s all this is. Just do your job.

Your hand trembles slightly as you swipe your card for clearance, and for a second, your eyes flicker down—out of habit, maybe—toward your left hand. The ring is gone. Has been for a long time.

You press your lips together and push the door open.

The room smells like antiseptic and fresh flowers.

Your eyes find him instantly.

He’s barely recognizable beneath the layers of medical care—IV lines, gauze, the rigid brace securing his arm. But it’s still him. His curls have grown out, the longer strands curling over his forehead, though the sides are still neatly trimmed. His face is slack with unconsciousness, lips parted slightly as he breathes in slow, measured rhythms.

There’s already a small collection of bouquets on the bedside table, a mix of bright yellows and deep reds—he always liked bold colours. You know more will come, especially once his mother finds out what happened. You pity whoever has to make that phone call.

Your pulse is loud in your ears as you move toward the sink, washing your hands on autopilot before slipping on a pair of gloves. The scent of hospital soap clings to your skin even beneath the latex.

You set the tablet down and step to his bedside, the weight in your chest settling heavier now that you’re standing this close. You can see the damage now. The discoloration where the burns peak through the bandages, the bruises blooming beneath his skin. His arm rests stiffly in its brace, fingers curled loosely at his side.

You hesitate before touching him.

Then, with careful hands, you reach for the hem of his hospital gown, lifting it just enough to expose the bandages on his torso. The dressings are damp, already beginning to seep through.

Too gentle.

You’re taking too long, moving too carefully. This should be routine—cleaning, reapplying, monitoring for infection. But your hands linger a second too long over his skin, your fingers ghosting over the edge of a bandage before you force yourself to focus.

You work in silence, methodical but deliberate, peeling away the old dressings and replacing them with fresh ones. His chest rises and falls steadily beneath your hands, the only sign of life in his otherwise motionless body.

When you finish, you pull the blanket up to his chest, tucking it carefully around him.

You don’t leave right away.

You should. You have other patients to see, and other rounds to make. But you linger for a moment longer, just watching him.

Being here—being this close—feels like stepping into something half-forgotten. Something you’re not sure you’re ready to remember.

With a quiet exhale, you turn away, stripping off your gloves and tossing them in the bin before grabbing the tablet again.

This is just a job.

And you have work to do.

The next few days slip into a pattern—one you follow carefully, almost methodically, because routine is easier than thinking too much.

Joaquín remains unconscious, but his condition improves. You can see it in the subtle things: the way his breathing becomes steadier, how his colour starts to return beneath the bruising, how the tension in his features eases little by little. His body is still healing, but it’s doing what it’s supposed to—recovering, piece by piece.

Somewhere along the way, his mother and grandmother are flown in.

You make sure you’re nowhere near the hospital that day. You tell yourself it’s because you need the rest, that you’ve been pulling extra shifts, that you could use the break. But you know the truth.

You aren’t ready to face them.

You can barely bring yourself to stand in the same room as Joaquín, let alone look his mother in the eye. She always had a way of seeing right through you, of reading between the lines of what you said and what you didn’t. You don’t want to know what she’d find if she looked too closely now.

So you take a sick day. You ignore the tight feeling in your chest when you imagine them sitting at his bedside, his mother smoothing down his curls, his grandmother murmuring quiet prayers over him. You wonder if she blames you. If she thinks you should’ve been there when it happened. If she wonders why you’re here now, after all this time.

But you don’t ask. You don’t want the answer.

The next morning, when you step back into Joaquín’s room, there are more flowers.

The table beside his bed is overflowing now—bouquets of sunflowers, carnations, lilies, roses in every colour. Some are from coworkers, others from people you don’t recognize. A small card tucked between them catches your eye. You don’t pick it up, but you already know who it’s from.

His mother’s handwriting is easy to recognize.

A fresh wave of guilt washes over you, but you push it aside. You busy yourself with checking his IV, adjusting his blankets, making sure everything is in order. The steady beep of the heart monitor is the only sound in the room, save for the occasional rustling of flower petals when a breeze drifts through the open window.

Sam visits often.

He comes at random hours, able to bypass the strict visiting times the hospital has set up, sometimes lingering for only twenty minutes, sometimes staying for hours at a time. You catch glimpses of him in the security feed before you even enter the room—his tall frame slouched in the chair beside Joaquín’s bed, one ankle resting on his knee as he flips through a book.

He plays music sometimes, a quiet hum of familiar songs drifting through the room. You recognize the playlist—the same one Joaquín used to blast while working late, the one he’d force you to listen to whenever he got too excited about a new artist. It’s a mix of genres, the kind that shouldn’t work together but somehow do.

You pretend you don’t notice the way Sam watches you when you walk in, his eyes lingering like he’s waiting for you to say something. But he never pushes. He just nods, sometimes offering a small update about Joaquín’s family or a passing comment about work before settling back into his chair.

Neither of you talk about the fact that Joaquín still hasn’t woken up.

Instead, you go through the motions.

His burns are healing faster than you expected. The bandages come off, revealing raw, pink skin that will take time to fade. His arm is no longer suspended from the ceiling, the rigid brace replaced with a looser sling. His body is catching up with itself, putting itself back together the way it always does.

You try to keep the windows open as the sun sets later and the spring weather gets warmer, letting the sun come into the room. You hope it might bring back that golden tan to his skin.

The air in his room changes as the days go by. The tension shifts—subtle, but there.

The sun sets later now, casting golden light through the blinds in the evenings. You start leaving the windows cracked open, letting the spring breeze filter in, replacing the sterile scent of antiseptic with something softer.

It makes the room feel less like a hospital and more like something else. Something warmer.

But warmth can be deceptive.

Because the closer he gets to waking up, the more real this all becomes.

And you still don’t know what’s going to happen when he finally opens his eyes.

One day, while cleaning his burns, you notice something—something small, but enough to make your breath hitch.

The heart monitor.

The steady rhythm you’ve grown so used to suddenly shifts—just a faint change, barely noticeable, but it’s there. You freeze, your gloved hands hovering over his burned skin, waiting to see if it happens again. The beeping stabilizes after a moment, falling back into its familiar, constant pattern.

You swallow hard, exhaling slowly through your nose.

Maybe it was nothing. A fluke. You’ve seen it happen before—small involuntary fluctuations that don’t mean anything. You force yourself to shake it off, to keep going.

But the moment your hands brush against his skin again, the heart monitor spikes.

This time, you see it. The sudden jump, the erratic beep, the undeniable reaction.

You pull back immediately, like you’ve been singed. Your heart lurches, panic flashing through you because—did you hurt him?

Your pulse pounds in your ears as you scan his face, searching for any sign of pain. His expression doesn’t change. His eyes remain closed, his body still. But the numbers on the monitor flicker with every beat of his heart, betraying what his body won’t show.

And then it hits you.

He feels it.

He’s not just lying there, unaware of the world around him. His body is reacting. It means he’s drifting, slipping from unconsciousness, slowly clawing his way back to waking.

Your chest tightens.

This is what you’ve been waiting for. What you should want.

You should be relieved.

But you’re not.

Because for all the times you’ve wished he’d open his eyes, you never stopped to think about what it would mean when he finally did.

What if the first thing he sees is you?

What if he looks at you and all you find in his face is resentment?

What if he asks why you’re here? Why you even bothered?

Your breath catches in your throat, torn between anticipation and fear. Your fingers curl into your palms, gloves crinkling under the pressure. You wait, holding yourself still, eyes locked on his face, waiting for the inevitable flutter of his eyelids, the slow, unfocused squint as he adjusts to the light.

But it never comes.

His breathing stays even, his lashes unmoving, his expression unchanging. His body is stirring, but his mind isn’t ready yet.

Your hands feel cold.

You force yourself to take a step back, creating distance—just in case. You reach for the tablet to record the change in his vitals, trying to make sense of what just happened, of what almost happened.

You practically jump out of your skin when a voice cuts through the hallway, sharp and frantic.

“¡Mija!”

Before you even see her, you feel her—Esperanza’s presence sweeping toward you like a storm, her heels clicking against the tile. The next thing you know, you’re wrapped in her arms, your face pressed against the soft fabric of her floral blouse, caught in a hug so tight it knocks the breath out of you.

“Mi amor, ¿cómo andas?” she asks, her voice thick with worry and affection.

You barely have a chance to respond, still stunned by the unexpected embrace. She smells the same—warm vanilla and roses, a scent so deeply tied to holiday dinners that it nearly knocks you off balance.

When she finally pulls back, she doesn’t let you go completely. Her hands clasp yours, fingers curling over your knuckles like she’s afraid to let you slip away again.

“Esperanza,” you manage, breathless.

Her eyes shine with unshed tears, her lips pulling into a grin so familiar it makes your chest ache.

“What are you doing here? Visitors can’t be here for another hour,” you point out, grasping for something—anything—to ground yourself.

She waves a dismissive hand, scoffing like the very idea is ridiculous. “Ay, enough with that,” she chides. “When has that ever stopped me?”

And then she stops. Really looks at you.

Her expression softens, and suddenly, you're under a gaze so warm it makes your throat tighten.

“Wow, look at you, my dear. Hermosa,” she murmurs, shaking her head like she can’t believe it’s really you standing in front of her.

You let out a small, breathy laugh, flustered. “I look like a mess,” you correct, glancing down at yourself. You’re in scrubs, nearing the end of a long shift, and you know you must look exhausted. Especially after dealing with Maria throwing up glowing vomit all over you earlier today. There’s no way you look anything close to hermosa.

But Esperanza just smiles knowingly, squeezing your hands once before tugging you toward the chairs lining the hallway. She sits down, keeping her grip on you like she’s afraid you might disappear through her fingers if she lets go.

You follow, hesitating only slightly before settling into the seat beside her.

"It’s been so long," she says, her brows furrowing with something between disappointment and relief. "You haven’t called in months. I thought you were sick! Do you hate me?"

"I could never hate you," you say quickly, shaking your head, a little horrified she would ever think that.

And then she smacks your arm.

"Then why haven’t you answered my calls?" she scolds, her voice laced with exasperation. "Your mother tells me you moved away and what? I don’t hear a word from you?"

You blink. Your mind stutters at the revelation.

"Wait—" you pause, trying to piece it together. "My mom… and you? You’ve been talking?"

Esperanza gives you a look, like it should be obvious. "Of course," she huffs. "What, you thought just because you and Quino broke up, I was going to stop talking to my comadre?" She rolls her eyes like the very idea is ridiculous. "Por favor."

Your mouth goes dry.

Your mother and Joaquin’s mother—keeping in touch this entire time. Behind your back. Talking about you, probably about him, too.

Your stomach churns, and suddenly, there’s something heavy pressing against your ribs.

You open your mouth, but she’s already shaking her head.

"Oh, lo sé," she sighs, exasperated. "The dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. If it were up to me, you two would’ve been married by now. Given me a grandchild, too."

Your laugh comes out a little too flustered, a little too forced. You glance around the hallway, avoiding her gaze, trying to ignore the way your heart wrings at the thought.

"Yeah," you mutter because you don’t know what else to say.

Esperanza exhales, her posture softening. She lets go of one of your hands just to reach up and brush your hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear with the same gentle touch Joaquín used to.

The same way he always did when you were talking too much, or overthinking, or when he just wanted an excuse to touch you.

You let out a long, quiet sigh, blinking hard against the sudden sting in your eyes.

It’s too much.

Too much familiarity, too much of your old life creeping back in all at once. You don’t think you’ve gotten enough sleep to process any of it properly.

"Mija," she murmurs, her voice softer now, more careful. "I don’t care whether you and Quino are together or not. I loved having you around. I still want to have our little chats. You are like one of my own. And when he told me you broke up, I just…" she shakes her head, pressing her lips together like she doesn’t want to say it. "I hate that it took him getting hurt for us to talk again."

"Esperanza…" you start, but she just shakes her head again.

"I know, I know. Perdóname," she says, waving it off as she stands up. She smooths down the front of her dress and sighs. "It’s so good to see you again, mi amor. You keep taking good care of my son. I’ll be in the city for another week, so please—call me. Maybe we can get coffee."

Before you can respond, she scans her visitor’s pass on the key panel and walks into Joaquín’s room, disappearing behind the door without another word.

But she leaves the question hanging in the air, thick with nostalgia and something painfully close to longing.

And she leaves the scent of rosy perfume lingering in her wake.

You stare at the closed door, your heart thudding unevenly in your chest.

You should go. You need to go—your tablet is already beeping, pulling you back to reality, reminding you that there are other patients who need you, that there’s a crisis waiting for you three flights down.

Still, you hesitate for just a second longer, swallowing hard against the lump in your throat before finally turning away.

There’s no time to process this right now.

But you have a feeling that, no matter how hard you try, you won’t be able to shake this conversation anytime soon.

Maria’s hand grips the IV pole tightly, her small fingers curling around the metal as she rolls it beside her, careful not to let the wheels catch on the tile. The fluorescent hospital lights cast a soft glow over her—too pale against her skin, too sterile—but despite it all, she beams.

You’ve never seen someone so excited just to walk.

But today is special. It’s her birthday.

She didn’t ask for much—just this. A chance to stretch her legs, to be somewhere other than her hospital room. Her parents had begged you to keep her busy while they decorated, slipping streamers and balloons inside the room like they could somehow make up for lost time.

Maria hadn’t argued. She had just grinned up at you when you asked if she wanted to go outside.

Now, she’s practically glowing, her feet sinking into the grass as you lead her through the small hospital garden.

She tips her head back, eyes fluttering closed as the breeze ruffles her hospital gown, lifting strands of hair from her shoulders. Pink cherry blossoms sway on the branches above, petals drifting onto the ground like delicate confetti.

"Did you know cherry blossoms only bloom for a few weeks?" you tell her.

Maria gasps. "Really?"

"Yep. It’s called hanami in Japan. People go outside just to watch them bloom."

Her eyes widen in pure delight. "That’s the best thing I’ve ever heard. They should be watched. They’re so pretty."

You smile. "Yeah, they are."

For a moment, she just stands there, soaking it in. And you let her.

It’s one of those rare times when she doesn’t look like a patient. No tubes, no machines, no sterile smell of antiseptic—just a kid. A kid enjoying the sun, the air, the simple beauty of something fleeting.

She sighs, finally pulling herself away. "Okay. I’m ready to go back in."

"Are you sure?"

She nods. "Yeah. I don’t wanna get in trouble for being outside too long. It’s my birthday, but I think Nurse Kate would still yell at me."

"Yeah, probably," you say with a chuckle.

The hospital halls are quieter than usual, the usual hum of voices and distant beeping fading into soft background noise. Maria walks beside you, still clinging to her IV pole but with a bit more confidence in her steps.

She doesn’t drag her feet anymore. That’s new.

Her body is stronger than it was weeks ago—no more trembling hands, no more laboured breathing after short walks. It’s a victory, even if it’s small.

Maria suddenly gasps, gripping your arm and her feet skid against the floor. You barely have time to react before she jerks to a halt, her entire body going rigid, eyes locked on something ahead.

Her mouth falls open.

"The Falcon?!"

Your stomach drops.

"Maria—"

"The Falcon is here?!"

Before you can stop her, she takes off, darting toward the digital display outside one of the hospital rooms. The screen flickers with patient information, vitals, and medication logs—

Torres, Joaquín

Maria’s hands slap over her mouth. "Oh my God."

"Maria," you warn, but she’s already clambering onto one of the chairs lined against the wall, pressing her face to the glass window beside the door.

"Oh my God! It's him! It's really him!" She whirls around, panic-stricken. "Is he dead?"

You lurch forward. "What? No." Your hands instinctively find her waist, steadying her before she tips over. "He’s just sleeping."

"Can I go say hi?"

"No."

"It’s my birthday."

"Maria—"

"Please!"

You close your eyes, inhaling slowly.

This was not in your job description.

You glance at the window, frowning. You weren't supposed to let anyone into a patient’s room unless they were authorized. Especially not another patient. There were rules. Strict ones. The last thing you needed was for someone to get sick, for someone to get hurt, for someone to wake Joaquín up before he was ready—

But then you look at Maria.

She’s practically vibrating with excitement, hands clasped tightly like she’s holding back from bouncing on her toes—the youngest patient in the entire building. Wide-eyed and full of wonder, she’s looking at Joaquín because he’s a real-life superhero, someone she’s only ever seen in headlines and shaky phone recordings.

And Joaquín… Joaquín loves kids.

He always has.

You’ve seen it firsthand—the way he kneels when he talks to them, the way his face lights up whenever he makes one laugh, the way he always offers high-fives like it’s second nature. Even now, even unconscious, the thought of him being the reason behind Maria’s uncontainable joy tugs at something deep in your chest.

It feels like something he would want.

And maybe… maybe this is okay. Maybe this is good—a reminder that people out there care about him, even the ones who have never met him.

Still, you hesitate.

You’re comfortable taking care of him now.

Or at least, that’s what you tell yourself.

No more denial. No more excuses. No more pretending that seeing him like this—unmoving, caught somewhere between here and wherever his mind has drifted—doesn’t scare the hell out of you. You’ve accepted that you miss him, that you still... care for him, even after everything. But stepping into that room again—with Maria, of all people—feels like a step toward something you’re not sure you’re ready to face.

Because Joaquín is here. So close. Close enough to reach out and touch, to whisper his name and wait for that slow, teasing smile to appear—the one he always gave you when you were being too serious. Close enough that you should feel relieved.

But he’s also impossibly far.

No teasing smiles. No dumb jokes. No knowing looks from across the room. Not even anger of having you near. Just silence. Just the faint rise and fall of his chest, the machines working to keep him stable.

For days, you’ve watched him. Sat beside him. Checked his vitals. Changed his bandages. Waited.

But then Maria looks up at you, eyes round and pleading.

"Okay," you exhale, already regretting it. "But you have to be really quiet so he doesn’t wake up, okay?"

She nods, lowering her voice, "Okay."

Maria is practically bouncing with excitement as you swipe your keycard and push open the door. Sunlight spills in through the half-drawn blinds, cutting warm streaks across the floor, across Joaquín’s blankets, across his still form. The midday hum of the hospital filters in from the hallway, muffled but present. The steady beeping of the monitors tracks his heart rate, a slow, even rhythm, while the IV beside him feeds a clear solution into his veins.

Maria tiptoes inside like she’s afraid of disturbing something sacred.

You don’t blame her.

Because up close, he looks even more unreachable. The bruises along his temple have faded from deep purple to a softer yellow-red, but the cuts on his face are healing. His lips are chapped. His hair is messy against the pillow, a sharp contrast to how put-together you remember him.

You move—more out of instinct than anything—because lingering in the doorway makes it worse. The small cart beside his bed is stocked with fresh bandages, antiseptic, gauze—everything you’ve used to help keep his wounds clean these past few weeks. Without thinking, you pick up his chart because you've forgotten your tablet, scanning the latest notes, his most recent vitals. Stable. No new concerns. No change.

Maria whispers something, but you don’t catch it.

You blink, glancing at her. "What?"

She’s staring at Joaquín, her small hands gripping the edge of his blanket like she’s afraid to touch him, but wants to.

“He’s even prettier up close,” she breathes.

Despite yourself, you smile. "Yeah? You think so?"

She nods seriously.

There’s something achingly familiar about the way she looks at him—like she’s trying to memorize him, like she’s afraid he might disappear if she blinks.

You know that feeling.

Because you’ve caught yourself staring at him the exact same way.

Like if you look long enough, you might commit him to memory all over again. Like you can make up for the lost time, for the time that has slipped through your fingers. You study him—not just the broad strokes of him, not just the familiarity of his face, but every little thing you’d forgotten during your time apart, the things that had slipped from your mind.

There is a faint stubble that’s started to grow along his jaw. And now you notice little moles dotting his skin, scattered in ways you don’t recognize from your memories or dreams of him—they were always focused on the bigger picture, the way he smiled, the way he laughed, the way he loved you.

Now, it’s the details that root you to the present.

The soft rise and fall of his chest beneath the hospital blanket. The steady hum of the monitors. The warmth of his skin when you reach out, pressing two fingers to his wrist, feeling the familiar, comforting rhythm of his pulse beneath your touch.

You check his vitals—his heart rate is stable, his oxygen levels are good, and his IV fluids are running properly.

Maria exhales softly, still watching him, her voice quiet as a breath.

"I think he’s gonna be okay."

You let out a slow, measured breath, your thumb grazing over the back of Joaquín’s hand—just for a second, just enough to feel the warmth of him.

"Yeah," you whisper. "Me too."

It’s enough. For now.

Your fingers slip away from his, the warmth vanishing almost instantly, and you start to usher Maria back toward the door. But as you move, something shifts—so small, so quick, you almost think you imagined it.

Joaquín’s fingers twitch at his side, just as yours leave his.

Your heart stutters.

A rush of warmth blooms in your chest, something fragile and desperate, something that wants to hope, to believe that it means something. That he felt it.

Swallowing, you make a quick note on his chart, recording the small movement even though it could be nothing.

Even though it could be everything.

You exhale, trying to ground yourself, trying to shake off the way your heart is pounding now, loud and heavy in your ears. You don’t even realize you’re holding your breath until Maria tugs at your sleeve, glancing up at you, her own expression somewhere between curiosity and uncertainty.

You force yourself to move. To turn away. To guide her toward the door, because whatever flicker of hope just sparked inside you is too fragile to hold.

But then—

A sound.

Low. Faint. Hoarse from weeks of silence.

Your name.

Spoken.

Maria gasps softly.

And you—you freeze.

The breath leaves your lungs in a sharp, startled exhale, and your fingers go rigid against the door handle. A slow, involuntary shiver runs down your spine, your pulse hammering against your ribs.

Did you imagine it?

You must have.

But then you feel it—Maria’s small fingers wrapping tightly around your hand, clutching at you with quiet urgency.

Because she heard it too.

Your name. A whisper, raw and barely there, but there.

And it came from him.

Joaquín.

The hospital room feels smaller now, charged with something delicate and terrifying all at once. The air thickens, pressing against your chest as you slowly—slowly—turn around, terrified that if you look, it’ll be gone.

That it was just a trick of your desperate mind.

But it’s not.

Because Joaquín’s fingers twitch again.

His brow furrows, lips parting slightly, throat working as he struggles to form a sound, his voice raw and unfamiliar after so many days of silence.

Maria gasps, gripping your sleeve, her excitement barely contained, but you don’t register it.

Because Joaquín’s eyes are fluttering open.

For a moment, he stares blankly at the ceiling, his chest rising in a shallow, uneven breath. His body remains rigid, like his muscles haven’t caught up with the fact that he’s conscious. There’s no immediate recognition in his gaze—just a hazy sort of confusion, as if he’s somewhere else entirely.

Then, he moves.

His fingers twitch against the sheets, then curl. His breath hitches. The faint beeping of the heart monitor quickens. His body tenses, his shoulders pulling in as if bracing for impact.

His gaze shifts—and lands on you.

The second your face comes into focus, his entire body jerks.

A sharp, ragged inhale drags through his chest. His pupils constrict. His hand flinches at his side, like he wants to reach for something—like he’s searching for something solid.

His breathing changes. It’s not just uneven anymore—it’s too fast, too shallow. The rise and fall of his chest is quick, erratic, his ribs barely expanding with each breath.

Then, a whisper, barely a breath—words spilling from his lips before he even realizes he’s speaking.

"Me morí."

The words repeat, over and over, almost like a prayer.

"Me morí. Me morí. Me morí."

His voice trembles. His fingers fist the blanket. Tears well in his eyes and slip down his temples, silent, unchecked.

Your heart lurches.

You move instinctively, stepping closer, hands steady even as your pulse pounds in your ears.

"Hey, hey," you soothe, voice low and careful, placing a gentle hand on his good shoulder. "It’s okay. You’re safe."

Joaquín flinches at the touch, his muscles twitching beneath your fingers. His head turns slightly, his gaze darting, frantic, searching—taking in the room, the medical equipment, the IV in his arm. You can tell his body wants to move, to fight, to run, military instincts kicking in. But he’s still weak, his limbs heavy, uncooperative.

His pulse pounds beneath your fingertips. Too fast. His whole body is reacting before his mind can catch up.

"Joaquín." You keep your voice steady, careful, like speaking too loudly might shatter him completely. "Can you hear me?"

His gaze snaps back to you.

Something flickers in his expression. Recognition.

His chest is still rising and falling too quickly, his hands still tremble against the sheets, but his shoulders drop just barely. Some of the tension bleeds away.

His lips part, but no sound comes out at first. His throat works through the effort.

Then, at last, a hoarse, broken whisper.

"Hi."

Your breath catches.

Your fingers twitch against his shoulder, the warmth of his skin grounding you as much as you hope you’re grounding him. You press your palm there just a little longer, just to reassure yourself he’s real, that he’s awake.

"Hi," you whisper back.

His lashes flutter as he blinks at you, slow and deliberate, his eyes still wet with tears. Still searching. His gaze drifts over your face like he’s trying to map every detail back into his memory.

Like he’s afraid you might disappear.

"Hi," he says again, quieter this time.

Your chest tightens, a lump forming in your throat.

"Hi, Joaquín."

A slow, trembling exhale leaves his lips. His body sags into the pillow, exhaustion catching up to him all at once. His fingers unclench from the blanket, the tension in his muscles fading—but not entirely.

Because when you start to let go, when your fingers begin to lift from his shoulder, he twitches beneath your touch.

The hesitation is so subtle that you almost miss it—almost.

A flicker of something crosses his face, something unspoken, something aching. You worry he's hurting.

It reminds you of another time, a different moment in a different place. Years ago, Joaquín slouched in the passenger seat of your car, showing you his newly earned stitches after getting beat up by a Flag-Smasher, laughing through the pain while you frowned.

"You gotta stop scaring me like this."

"I’m trying, I swear."

You remember the way his eyes had softened in the dim streetlight, the way he had looked at you then. The way he kissed you to take your mind off of his pain—how neither of you had wanted to let go.

And now—now, as your fingers hover over his shoulder, as he doesn’t look away—it feels exactly the same.

Only this time he can't kiss you.

Only this time you can't wipe his tears away.

You force yourself to pull back, to let your fingers drift away, even as your hand aches to stay.

Joaquín swallows hard, blinking sluggishly as his gaze flickers to the IV in his arm, the monitors beside him, then back to you. His lips press together briefly as if he’s gathering himself before a rough, scratchy mutter escapes him.

"Ah, shit. I screwed up so bad."

The sound of his voice—dry, raspy, but carrying the faintest hint of that familiar humour—makes something in your chest crack wide open.

A breathy, wet laugh slips from your lips before you can stop it, and you quickly swipe at your eyes, shaking your head.

"I'm... I'm gonna go call a doctor, alright?"

Joaquín doesn’t say anything. He just watches you.

There’s something in his gaze—something unreadable, something too much. It makes your pulse stutter, makes your breath feel too shallow in your lungs.

You don’t give yourself time to process it.

Instead, you turn, pressing the call button for the doctor. "Come, Maria," you say, voice quieter than before.

Maria, who's gone strangely silent since Joaquín woke up, rushes to your side without hesitation. But she does nearly break her neck to keep looking back at him until you pull the door shut, sealing that moment away.

You exhale, resting your back against the wall for half a second longer than necessary before forcing yourself to move.

The doctor arrives quickly. You straighten up, rattling off Joaquín’s vitals, every detail you can remember—his initial reaction, his moment of panic, his response to stimuli, everything. The words come automatically, like muscle memory, like routine. You focus on that, on the familiar rhythm of procedure, handing off the responsibility to the doctor so she can begin running tests, checking his neurological responses, assessing how much damage—if any—his body has endured after so many days in forced stillness.

The weight of your exhaustion presses heavier against your shoulders as you upload his files to the system, sending them over before turning your attention back to Maria.

"You did good, Maria," you tell her softly as you lead her back to her room.

She just nods, but there’s something distant in her expression now.

You get it.

She’s just witnessed the moment. The one where everything changes.

It’s the moment where the panic stops being panic and turns into something else—something messier, something heavier.

It’s the moment where the question “what if he never wakes up?” turns into something just as terrifying:

“He’s awake. Now what?”

Her parents are waiting when you bring her back, and you don’t stay. You let them have that moment for her birthday, closing the door gently behind you before turning back into the hallway.

And then you’re alone.

For the first time in hours, in days, you’re alone with nothing to distract you.

Your hands are shaking. You hadn’t even noticed at first, but now you can’t not notice—the tremor in your fingers, the way your pulse hammers too fast against your ribs, the way your body suddenly doesn’t know what to do with itself now that you’re not running on pure adrenaline.

You sink into one of the chairs outside Joaquín’s room, bracing your elbows on your knees. The motion feels stiff, foreign—like your body isn’t quite yours anymore.

Your eyes sting.

Joaquín is awake. He’s awake.

He spoke. He looked at you. He recognized you. He remembered you.

You should feel relief. You should feel something good.

And yet.

It’s like coming up for air after being stuck underwater too long—except just as you’re about to take a full breath, it’s ripped away again.

Because now that he’s awake… he can speak to you.

He can react to what you say, to what you do.

Maybe he’ll ask for a different nurse. Maybe he’ll ask to be transferred to another hospital back in Miami or something. Maybe, when his voice isn’t so raw and broken, he’ll tell you exactly what he thinks about the fact that you were the one sitting by his bedside all this time.

And God, you don’t know if you can handle that.

You drag your hands down your face, pushing out a breath. You don’t have time for this.

The sound of hurried footsteps in the hallway reminds you that Sam—or Joaquín’s mother—is bound to show up any minute now. The news will spread fast, and soon, his room will be filled with people who have been waiting for this moment, praying for this moment.

Shit.

You squeeze your eyes shut for a second before forcing yourself up. You should be in the room right now with the doctor, checking over Joaquín’s vitals, taking actual notes instead of spiraling in the hallway. Get your shit together and do your job.

Your movements feel sluggish as you reach for your tablet, swiping your ID card at the door. The scanner beeps, and for a split second, you hesitate—your fingers still lingering on the door handle, your chest tight.

Then you force yourself to step inside.

The room is brighter now, bathed in soft afternoon light filtering through the window. Dust motes drift lazily in the warm glow, a stark contrast to the sterile white walls and the quiet hum of machines. The steady rhythm of the heart monitor is too steady, too real.

The doctor is already mid-assessment, having raised Joaquín’s bed into a slightly upright position as she runs through a neurological check-up.

Joaquín is watching you.

His dark eyes flicker to you the second you enter, and you feel it in your chest, hot and unrelenting.

You swallow hard, gripping your tablet like it’s a lifeline, and take your place near the doctor, prepared to focus on numbers and stats and anything else except the weight of that stare.

You wonder if you’ll get kicked out for distracting him.

"Oh, great, you’re back," the doctor says, breaking through the static in your brain. "Do you mind grabbing some water for Captain Torres? I’m just about done here. Everything looks good and healthy. He’s recovering well."

You nod, already moving before your thoughts can catch up. Autopilot. It’s the only thing keeping you grounded at this point.

Still, you feel it.

The way Joaquín’s gaze follows every single one of your movements, tracking you like you might disappear if he looks away.

You crouch, retrieving a bottle from the mini fridge, fingers twisting at the cap before stepping back toward the bed. That’s when it hits you—he can’t take it. His muscles are still sluggish, his coordination not quite there yet.

You pour some into a paper cup instead, stepping closer when the doctor gives a nod of approval. Joaquín doesn’t say anything.

The tremor in your hands is almost imperceptible, but you feel it when you lift the cup to his lips. The moment your fingers brush his skin, a muscle in his jaw tenses.

His heart monitor beside the bed jumps.

Your eyes snap to the screen, but the doctor catches it first.

"Interesting," she hums, her tone just teasing enough to send heat creeping up your neck. But she lets it go.

"So, Joaquín," she continues, "We’re gonna have to do some blood work tomorrow, just to make sure everything is alright internally. We’ll up your dose of painkillers now that you’re awake."

"Awesome," he mutters, voice scratchy but laced with dry sarcasm.

She smiles. "They’ll make you a little drowsy, which is normal, but we’ll need you to try and stay awake until sunset. Just to make sure you’re not slipping in and out of consciousness. But I doubt it."

Then she turns to you.

"I’ll let Amanda know he’s awake. But you did a good job—woke up sooner than we expected."

You blink, caught off guard by the compliment.

"Thanks."

"I’ll come back later for a check-up."

And then she leaves.

The door clicks shut, and there is a silence that follows.

You stand there, hands gripping the tablet against your chest, unsure of what to do. Well, you know what to do—your duty is clear. You should be checking his vitals, updating his chart, making sure he’s comfortable.

But that’s not what’s stopping you.

It’s him.

Awake. Looking at you.

Joaquín Torres, alive and conscious and blinking at you like he’s still trying to convince himself this isn’t just another fever dream.

His voice comes quiet, hoarse, a low grumble you barely hear over the rhythmic beeping of his heart monitor.

"You took care of me?"

Your breath catches.

It’s a simple question, but it knocks something loose in your chest. Because it’s him asking. Because he’s here to ask it.

You swallow, shifting on your feet. Your gaze flickers over him—not just the wounds, but all of him. The way the sunlight filters in through the window, warming the stark white of the sheets, reflecting in the deep brown of his eyes. He looks more alive now, and maybe it’s the light or the steady rise and fall of his chest, but for the first time in weeks, you allow yourself to believe it.

He’s here.

Breathing. Talking. Alive.

And yet—his dead face still haunts you.

The memory lingers in the corners of your mind, just out of reach but never truly gone. His stillness, the unnatural slack of his features, the too-loud silence of a body that had once been so full of energy, of life. The image is burned into your brain, playing over and over again like a cruel loop. The moment you thought you lost him.

The tears in his mother’s face.

The look of dread on Sam.

The guilt.

"Uh, yeah. I did."

Your voice is barely above a whisper.

Joaquín exhales, long and slow, as if processing your words. Then, he tries to smile.

It’s small, faint and unsteady like he isn’t quite sure how to do it yet. The corners of his lips curve, but there’s a hesitation in the movement, like his face isn’t used to the motion after so long.

Still, he tries.

And when his eyes meet yours again, your stomach twists, sinking deep like an anchor dropping into dark water.

"I… I know it’s just your job, but—" His voice falters, but his gaze doesn’t. "Thank you."

Right. Your job.

The words settle into your chest like a weight—familiar, suffocating.

Because you remember the last time he said that to you.

Your last fight.

Well—it wasn’t really a fight, was it?

Not the kind with screaming and shattered glass, not the kind where anger built up and spilled over, reckless and sharp. It was quieter than that. Heavier. Because in the end, it wasn’t about anger.

It was about exhaustion. About wanting so badly to hold on to each other but realizing, little by little, that neither of you had hands free to do it.

You had barely been sleeping.

Between overnight shifts at the hospital, classes, training, and trying to be the best nurse you could be, your time wasn’t your own. It belonged to the people who needed you—the patients, the emergencies, the long nights where your body ached and your mind ran on fumes.

And Joaquín?

He had thrown himself into working with Sam, into proving himself, into becoming something bigger. His missions got longer. The risks got greater. He was gone more often than he was home, and when he was home, he was bruised, exhausted, a shadow of himself trying to piece together the scraps of a normal life between deployments.

You tried to make it work. God, you tried.

You spent so much time missing each other—passing like ships in the night, phone calls that never lasted long enough, conversations cut short by a code blue or a mission call.

At first, you thought it was temporary. That one day, things would slow down. That eventually, you’d find a rhythm that let you breathe with each other again.

But that day never came.

Instead, the gaps between you grew wider.

The distance stretched, and stretched, and stretched—until one night, you were sitting across from each other, and you both knew.

"I can't do this anymore, Joaquín."

You had whispered it.

Not because you didn’t mean it, but because saying it any louder might have broken you.

He had looked at you, like he was waiting for you to take it back.

Like if he just held on long enough, you’d change your mind.

"I know... You know, I love you," he had said, low, firm, desperate.

And that had been the worst part.

Because love wasn’t the problem.

It had never been the problem.

It was everything else.

Your job. His job.

The nights spent apart, the exhaustion, the never-ending fear of opening your front door to a folded American Flag. You couldn’t stand watching him bleed.

And he couldn’t stand knowing that one day, you might not be there to stitch him back up. That was the last time he said it. "But it’s my job."

Like that was supposed to make it better.

But now, you’re standing in his hospital room, staring at proof that it never got better. Because you had left to protect yourself from seeing him hurt. And now you had seen him dead.

"Of course," you manage to say, wincing when you hear your voice break.

Joaquín hums softly, but his eyes don’t leave you. He’s looking for something in your face—like he’s searching through memories neither of you have spoken aloud in years.

But then, his gaze flickers away. Over to the table. To the mess of flowers stacked in unsteady vases, their petals bright in the afternoon sunlight. The kind of display that only happens when someone is lucky enough to wake up.

His brow creases. "How bad was it?"

You swallow, feeling something sharp lodge itself in your throat. "You were shot out of the sky by a missile."

His lips part. "Right."

"It was pretty fucking bad."

A beat.

"Right."

You don’t know what you were expecting. Some kind of reaction, some flicker of acknowledgment for the hell he’s put you through. But instead, he just takes it—like it’s another report, another piece of intel.

You hesitate, something bubbling up inside you. You can’t tell if it’s anger or sorrow. "You died."

The words hit the air, heavier than you expected.

Joaquín blinks, his breath hitching almost imperceptibly. His fingers twitch against the blanket.

"I died?"

You nod, biting your cheek so hard you taste iron.

"Yeah," you force out. Your throat tightens. Don’t cry. Not in front of him. Not again. "Two minutes."

He’s staring at you now. Eyes wide. Disbelief creeps into the edges of his expression, but not enough—not enough for someone who actually understands what that means.

What it means to you.

"Oh."

You scoff. "Yeah. Oh."

Your laugh is brittle. Sharp around the edges. Because what else is there to say? Joaquín dies for two minutes, and you’ve spent days living inside them.

He exhales, dragging a hand down his face.

"God," he mutters. "Sam’s gonna be so mad at me."

You don’t know whether to laugh or cry. Because this wasn’t how you imagined seeing him again.

In your head, there were a million other ways this could have gone—maybe you’d run into each other in the future when you were older. When things had settled. When you’d moved on.

Maybe you’d both be married to other people.

The thought makes you sick. But this? This is so much worse.

"Do you, um, do you need anything else? Are you hungry?"

"No."

You nod, but you don’t believe him. Patients are usually peckish when they wake up—a sign of life returning to their bodies, a reassurance that things are moving forward. And while he’s not allowed solid foods for another twenty-four hours, you could bring him a smoothie, something light.

But if he really wants something, he can call you.

You tell yourself that as you turn toward the door.

"Can you stay?"

You linger because you didn’t expect it.

Because you kind of hoped he would ask.

Because he didn’t ask you to stay last time.

Your fingers twitch at your sides, gripping your tablet a little tighter, as if the tension in your body could be contained in that single movement.

"Yeah," you say softly. "I can stay."

You turn back to him, and Joaquín is already looking at you.

His eyes are pleading.

It takes everything in you not to break right there. To not spill over.

You force yourself to move, careful, measured steps toward the chair beside his bed. It feels like you’re wading through something thick, something unseen, like grief or memory or all the what-ifs you’ve tried to bury.

You sink into the chair slowly.

A strand of hair falls into Joaquín’s face as he leans back against the pillows, the bruising on his cheekbone catching the light just enough for you to hate it.

Your fingers twitch again. The urge to brush it back is unbearable. But you don't.

He exhales.

"When was the last time you slept?" he asks suddenly.

You blink, caught off guard.

"Last night." you answer, almost automatically.

"Did you sleep well?"

"Not really."

A beat.

"Nightmares?"

"Something like that."

"Something on your mind?"

"Lots on my mind."

The words slip out easily, like an old habit. No walls. No defences. It’s like no time has passed at all, like the space between you hasn’t been filled with anger, regret, and time apart. Just raw, open honesty in the quiet of the room.

The weight that’s been crushing you for days feels a little lighter in the space between his questions and your answers. You exhale, and only then do you realize you’re holding back tears.

You wipe at your face absently, surprised to find wetness there. You hadn’t even known you were crying.

Joaquín shifts in the bed, his gaze sharpening. There’s concern in his eyes, guilt, and maybe something else—something deeper. He looks away, clearing his throat, as if trying to fight it.

"I hope it's not me you're worried about,"

"I'm always worried about you."

You glance away from him, pretending it’s nothing, but the words hang between you both, too heavy to ignore.

His breath catches, something in him faltering, and then you catch the slight, almost imperceptible way his fingers curl into the sheets. His ears are pink, the flush spreading down his neck. He’s always been terrible at hiding how he feels, and you’re helpless against it. You always have been.

You can’t look at him. You don’t want to admit how much you’ve missed him. How much you’ve been carrying around since the breakup. How much he’s haunted every quiet moment since you walked away.

"Joaquín," you start, tugging at the ring finger on your left hand, the absence of his name there like a wound you forgot was still open. "When they brought you in here—"

"I miss you."

Your chest tightens. "Joaquín—"

"It's true, I do." His voice is quiet, almost vulnerable. "I’ve been looking for an excuse to talk to you again, and I just…" His gaze drifts from yours, like he’s struggling to put it all together. "I couldn't get it out."

You swallow hard, feeling that familiar ache well up in you. “I miss you too. It’s been... it’s been really hard.”

"Yeah." He nods slowly, his voice softer now. "It has. But, you know, I’m the Falcon now. Can you believe that?" He chuckles, but it’s almost nervous, as if he’s trying to lighten the mood, trying to make you smile. "I work with Captain America. I’ve got big shoes to fill. I’ve got to show up, but this... this is all I’ve ever wanted, since I was a kid. I’ve got it now. But... there’s something missing."

You look at him, really look at him, seeing the difference in his eyes now—less brash, more tired but still so much the same. "Yeah. Yeah, I feel it too. It’s like a nagging feeling, right? No matter what we do, it’s there."

"Make me feel guilty." His lips curve into a faint smile, but it’s tired.

"Like I wanna vomit," you reply dryly, the familiar banter slipping back into place before you can stop it.

Joaquín’s eyes soften as he lets out a breath, and there’s an edge of regret in the way he says, “I’m sorry I left.”

Your heart aches at the words, and you feel the old wounds crack open. "I’m sorry I made you leave." You’re not sure whether you’re trying to make him feel better or punish him with your own guilt. Either way, it burns.

“No,” he says quickly, “It doesn’t work that way.”

"But it does," you insist, your voice soft but firm.

He presses his lips together, brow furrowed, as if trying to work through what you’ve just said. "I should’ve fought harder," he murmurs, voice cracking just slightly.

"Joaquín... c’mon. Let’s talk about this later, okay? You just woke up from a coma. I can’t be putting this much stress on your mind."

"But I wanna talk about it," he presses, desperate.

“I know, I do too,” you admit,

“Then let’s talk about it,” he says, leaning forward just a little.

"Rest first." You place a hand on his shoulder gently, urging him to lay back. “You’ve been through a lot. I can’t let you burn yourself out again.”

“I’ve been resting. Had the best nurse in the world take care of me,” he teases, trying to distract you with a smile.

You feel the tug in your chest at his words. "And I will still take care of you. But you need rest. We can talk about it tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?"

"Yes, tomorrow," you confirm, trying to smile, to soothe the tension you’ve both built up.

"Will you still be here?"

You glance down at him, a familiar warmth flooding your chest at the sight of him so vulnerable, so human. "I’m not going anywhere. Will you still be here?"

His smile softens, a quiet promise in his eyes. “I’m not going anywhere.”

❥ Braids , Locs , Twists And More. Maxis Match Edition ❥

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15

Part 2 3 4

Huge thank you to the CC creators ! ➳♥ @dogsill @aler-ii @kamiiri @daylifesims @oakiyo @qicc @sheabuttyr @gigglecoffin @joshseoh @candysims4 @arethabee @sleepingsims

punk!patrick x reader

-

the minute you and your friend walk up to the house it’s quite obvious there’s a party going on. from the people dry humping on the grass outside to the music pouring out the house. you wondered how the cops hadn’t been called yet.

inside smelt like weed, sweat and other bodily fluids. right off the bat you realize these aren’t the kinda people you’re used to partying with. they were all dressed in heavy black clothes and makeup with jewelry covering their faces.

you stuck out like sore thumb in your mini jean skirt and pink top.

“i can’t believe you talked me into this.” you were currently being squished between bodies of people in someones stuffy basement. “it’s gonna be totally worth it ok, the guys in this band are hot.” your friend yelled back in your ear. that’s honestly the real reason you even joined her.

the instant screams that erupted when five guys walked onto the makeshift stage cut you off from responding to her. and the second your eyes caught the drummer you were hooked.

he had mini spikes in his black hair, piercings studded out of his eyebrow, ears and lip. loud shitty punk rock music blared in your ears, but you were completely focused on the unnamed drummer who was twisting his drumsticks between his fingers before beating them down. banging his head in time to the beat. you eventually found yourself jumping and screaming along with everyone else.

by the time their set came to an end your throat was sore and you could feel sweat bedding on your hairline.

“thanks for that energy you guys we got another band coming up soon so either stick around or don’t.” and you didn’t. the second you saw the drummer getting up, making his way through the crowd and you perked up. “hey. i’m gonna go get a drink.” you absentmindedly patted your friends shoulder, following after the black haired boy.

-

you caught up with him in the kitchen. he was chugging back whatever was in his cup before pouring some more. you tried not to get distracted by his wife beater that seemed a size too small from the way the hemline sat cropped showing off his happy trail.

“your guys set was really good.”

the guy in front of you took one look up and down at you before scoffing into his cup. “really?” you hummed, nodding your head, and pouring yourself a drink. “i loved all the um— anti conformist lyrics.” he shook his head and laughed. “right right. listen don’t take offense but are you sure you’re at the right party?” he was totally right you were at the wrong party, but that didn’t mean he could call you on it.”

it was your turn to scoff. “and why wouldn’t i be right party?” he just shrugged. “doesn’t really seem like your speed.” “and how do you know what my speed is?” you cocked your head to the side. “didn’t your mother ever tell you to not judge based on the cover, huh?” he threw up his hands in defense. “you’re right, i’m sorry. thank you for enjoying the show.”

“you’re welcome.”

there was silence before he spoke again. “i’m patrick by the way.” you repeated his name, testing how it felt in your mouth then introducing yourself.

you watched him out the side of your eye chew on the rim of his solo cup. “so.” you cleared your throat. “do you guys always play basements?” the drummer, you now know as patrick shook his head. “sometimes we play dive bars and other parties. it’s just this is our bassist brothers house so lets he us play whenever.” you nodded, “that’s sweet”

“he’s an asshole.” you nearly choked on your drink at the abrupt answer. “but he lets us use his garage for practice so i guess he’s ok.”

it was patrick’s turn to ask you a question. “you play any instruments.” you tilted your head up thinking. patrick’s eyes immediately hone in on your neck thinking about how good it’d look decorated in the marks he wanted to leave behind. “piano in the fifth grade.” you reveal.

“cute.”

suddenly patrick was close to you. “come with me.” he abandons his drink to grab your wrist pulling you with him.

-

you got a semi bad feeling when you guys reached the destination. it was dark but you could tell it was also spacious. you could only hope your weren’t about to get murdered by a guy in eyeliner.

“tada.”

the lights came on and you let out a breath. it was just a garage.

“and why are we in here?” you turned around to look at him, your eyes catching his fingers moving to twist the lock.

patrick walked around you to the drumset that sat near a wall. “was just a little loud in there.” he took a seat on the stool in front of the drums. “how long have you been playing.” you asked, walking you fingers crossed that gold cymbals that’s dinged together softly. “since i was ten.”

“a real professional, huh.”

patrick laughed holding out the drumsticks in your direction. “wanna try?” you nodded

you sat in his lap with his big hands covering your as he guided them to drum a simple beat. “so, gonna tell me why you’re really here.” his voice was deep in your ear. “just wanted to see who was playing tonight.” you say sticking to your lie.

“bullshit.”

his hands leave yours and rest on your bare thighs. “come on just tell me. i know you don’t listen to this shit.” he referenced to the music that you could hear faintly. “fine, my friend is more into this stuff i only came because the band was supposedly hot.” you shrugged.

you felt the rumble of his laugh on your back and his fingers sliding up your thighs.

“and are they? hot, i mean.” patrick’s breath was hot against the back of your neck, his lips ghosting your skin. “mmm, the drummers pretty alright.” you tease. turning around to face him. “that right.” you nodded, making the first move to press your lips against his.

the kiss escalated quickly, you tugging on his bottom lip piercing with your teeth earning a groan from him. he slide his hand down the front of your skirt. “o-oh my god.” patrick easily slipped his middle finger into your wet heat. “you’re so wet.” he muttered against the skin of your neck that he was sucking marks into. “a-another.” you moaned and patrick’s pushed his ring finger in and pumped them both in and out at a fast pace, his palm hitting against your clit.

you abandoned the drumsticks on the floor grabbing on to patrick’s wrist. “oh fuck! right there.” your knee jerked up hitting the drum set causing the cymbals to bang together drowning out the obscene squelching noises, when patrick’s finger tips find your g spot.

“m’close.” you whine, throwing your head back on to his shoulder. “gonna cum all over my fingers,huh? ” he said in your ear. pressing kisses on your cheeks and jaw. you could only nod, your whimpering getting louder and breathing getting heavier. all it took was patrick’s thumb flicking at your clit to send you over.

“oh my god, u-uh!”

patrick let you ride out your high, grinding your hips down on his fingers. you slumped back into him, catching your breath. patrick pulled his hand and out you pants and turned your face towards him. you ignored the cringey feeling of your wet fingers against your cheek. he fitted his tongue into your mouth in a messy make out.

“fuck.” patrick pushing you to stand up before dragging you by your belt loop to the wall that was behind you. “need to be inside you.” he rushed out, pulling you in for another kiss that tasted like weed and fireball. “this wanted you wanted all along right? to get fucked.” he hiked up your skirt to your waist, pulling your panties out and disregarding them on the floor.

he unzipped his pants enough to pull his cock out. “wanted to come to the show and play groupie?” he traced the tip of his cock on your already sensitive cunt. “you can be my little groupie, follow me around.”

“yeah-yes!” you threw your head back hitting the wall when patrick pushed his full length into you. patrick held your legs around his waist, squeezing the fat of your ass between his calloused palms in a bruising grip.

“god, you’re tight.” patrick groaned, thrusting his hips up.

you didn’t know how long you’d last, your inner walls still sensitive and throbbing. the feeling of patrick’s cock dragging against them had your moans bouncing off the walls of the garage. “f-feels so good.”

patrick moaned, completely taken by the site of his dick disappearing in and out of your cunt, coming back wetter each time. “this perfect pussy.”

your guys moans mingled together in a mix of low and high pitched grunts and groans.

your nails embedded themselves in patrick’s shoulders. “gonna cum again.” you whined and patrick sped up. his cock head drilling into that soft spot inside you. patrick dropped his head into the crook of your neck grunting into it. “shit, do it. wanna feel you cum on around me.”

you took hold of patrick’s dark locks messing up his gelled spike. your walls got tighter around him. your head hitting the back of the wall, and a moan getting stuck in throat in the midst of your orgasm.

“f-fuck.”

patrick pulled out still hard and on the verge of cumming, jerking himself off in four hasty strokes before he released on your inner thighs and the wall.

“holy fuck.” patrick slotted his lips against your in a wet kiss.

you both silently got back dressed. you tugging your skirt back in place and patrick stuffing his dick back in his pants.

“here.” patrick picked a sharpie that was lying around, and grabbed hold of your arm. “my number.” he scribbled it in messy writing. “just in case you want these back.” he grabbed your lost underwear off the floor holding them up before tucking them into his back pocket. leaving you in the garage to collect yourself

-

Boy Noise

summary: prompt fill. Wally's waited a whole week for you to notice he still exists and he's going crazy. finally, he manages to get your attention and you dote on your sweet boy the way he's been so desperate for you to. (request)

pairing: Wally Clark x masc!reader

warnings: smut. flashfic. sub!Wally Clark. brat. flirting for attention. blow jobs. Wally Clark has undisclosed mommy issues. dead dove.

bon reading, frens

___________________________🖇️

Boy Noise

He doesn't know why he does it.

Lie.

He does it because he's fucking desperate and you're over there watching with a simmering grin and sharp eyes, acting like Wally isn't going out of his fucking. mind. because you haven't touched him in a week.

And yeah, okay, it's no one's fault. You were stuck in practice after practice for soccer and Wally has that Art project he needs to finish, and schedules got too full too fast, but, come on, please. He hasn't been able to touch himself, his hand not good enough when he knows what the real thing feels like, and you're just smiling. Giving him that sedate up-and-down stare, licking your lips like he's a piece of meat you want to devour and, still, you just sit there, sprawled on Simon's couch, taking up more room than your frame should allow and not doing anything.

So, he flirts with Chloe, watching you watch him, hoping to instigate some kind of response. It wouldn't matter if you didn't look so good. Sleeves rolled up to accentuate your forearms, shirt tucked in, slim waist to round hips on display. A deity in painted-on black jeans and Wally's gold chain.

He hates you.

No he doesn't.

He wants you.

Now. Yesterday. Tomorrow. A week ago. Jesus, please. Do something!

Fuck, he's aching for it. Can feel his cock harden for every feline look you pin him with.

It's Maddie's birthday, he knows that's why you haven't made a move yet. You want to be present—told Wally to be present, to enjoy the celebration and it'll be worth it, sweet boy, I promise. But he's about a hair's breadth away from total atomic failure and can't get the memory of your hands on his body out of his mind for more than a second.

He tried so hard to be good. He really, really did. Sat on his hands and pretended everything was hunky dory until you showed up dressed like that, sauntered in like you owned the room, and gave him such a hot stare, Wally's blood is still on fire. And now most of it is in his cock as he sees you dancing to that song you blast in Wally's car, body moving like water; hips swaying, ass perfect.

Wally doesn't hate you, but you must hate him. He abandons Chloe without so much as a nice to see you, slinks into your space—where he belongs—and glides his hands down from your waist to your hips. You're not the only one dancing; everyone else (especially from Claire's adopted squad goals) is making a dancefloor out of the living room, the lights dim and the atmosphere high.

No one else is making this song their bitch, though. No one else is torturing Wally with their ass against his crotch and their nails grazing his neck. No one else is making him fucking wait for something he needs more than air, water, life itself. Please, please, do something!

Finally, you take pity on him, his hand in yours as you lead him to a bedroom upstairs and farthest away from the party. A guest room, Wally hopes, but a quick scan tells him it's Simon's room. You place your drink on Simon's desk and shove Wally down so he's sitting on the bed. Kick his legs apart and step between them, a sultry grin on your face.

Wally whimpers, his heart beating triple-time, head spinning already, yes. He leans back and props himself on his elbows, just watching you, licking his lips in anticipation. His eyes fall to half-mast as you bend over him, hands on either side of his hips, lips so close he can taste the Vanilla Coke on your breath. Your eyes bore into his, heavy and dark and full of promise, and you trail your fingers so lightly from his chest to the front of his tented jeans.

"Is this where you need me to touch you, baby?" You purr, holding his gaze. He nods, a little choked sound escaping as he rocks his hips up in a bid for friction you refuse to give him. "Think you can be quiet?"

Uhm, "Yeah," sure, Wally can try. But you can't blame him if he can't. It's been a week since he's been inside you. A week since he's felt your body on his, skin to skin, slick with sweat and spit and come.

"You want to taste me, baby? Or do you want me to take care of you first?"

Oh, such a tempting offer, and Wally suddenly doesn't know what he wants more. Needs more. He loves it when you fuck his face. Loves how you force him to give you what you need, using him until you scream in ecstasy. On the other hand, his dick's so hard he's sure one more soft touch will undo him, and he'd rather come in your mouth than in his jeans.

He swallows, pleading, "Can you suck me off?" Your grin turns sharp, and he adds, "I'll do whatever you want after, I promise, just please, I need it so bad. I need you to help me, please." He's babbling, begging, hand on your jaw and then sliding over your chest to your back then your ass. "I'm so hard, I can't think, p l e a s e." Wally hitches his hips up to emphasize the point.

"Whatever my boy wants," You soothe, making quick work of his fly and pulling his jeans and boxers down to his ankles as you sink to your knees.

He barely has a chance to react, mewling like a fucking slut when you get your mouth on him. He falls back, arm over his eyes, opposite hand on the back of your head, forcing his hips to stay still as you work him into your throat.

"Oh god, oh fuck, yes, ungh, thank you, thank you—" And you tap his hip, a signal that he can move as much as he needs to which he takes for the permission it is. He humps your face, fucks into your mouth in little motions, panting and whining and showering you with gratitude. You're so good to him, taking care of him like this, he has to tell you, "thank you!"

He comes with a spasm and a high, needy whine, back arching off the bed and his eyes rolling back. Fuck. Stars collide and angels sing and it feels like the first time he's ever experienced true pleasure although you and he have done this and so much more. He's just blissed the fuck out, melting into the mattress, blind eyes on the ceiling as he comes down.

Not that he can revel in the afterglow. He hears you peel out of your sin-tight jeans, feels and sees your underwear land on his face. Wally chuckles, delighted, and reaches for you, eager to show you exactly how grateful he is for you. He uses lips and tongue and careful brushstrokes of teeth to make you see God, and then asks in a breathy voice if he can do it again, "Just one more?" as if he's asking for another piece of Maddie's birthday cake.

And, Jesus, thank you, you oblige with a wicked smirk, eyes heavy, smoldering, yet razor-edged. This time he rolls you over and fits his shoulders between your thighs, uses his fingers in time with his mouth, moaning wantonly as he tastes you again. He loves this more than you'll ever know. But you stop him when he wraps a hand around himself, tries to use spit for lube, and insist, "Not so fast, baby," your chest rising and falling rapidly.

Wally whimpers, pouts, and then brightens when you flip him onto his back, sweetness hovering over his lips as you fold over him and take his cock in your mouth again.

An hour later, he's curled around you, his head on your chest, dozing and unaware. He thinks he hears Simon shriek and both feels and hears your cackle, but he could be dreaming. Shit, he hopes he's dreaming.

Whatever. Wally's too sated and happy to care. He knows you'll make everything better before Simon can banish Wally from all future gatherings or activities or the friend group altogether.

Because that's what you do. You make Wally's whole world better.

fin.

🖇️___________________________

also on AO3!

Order Up! MASTERLIST

if you enjoyed this, you may also enjoy Alphabet Soup.

the journey of a clandestine love affair at several stages because Wally Clark craves what he can't have and refuses to keep his hands to himself. and you live for it. (Janet and Wally are dating to increase their social value. meanwhile, Wally wants to get closer to her step-sister. you.)

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐲𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐲𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐬

Pairing: jj maybank x fem!reader, slight rafe cameron x fem!reader

summary: friendship makes a weird way for feelings, especially if they aren't reciprocated.

warnings: underage drinking, slight unwanted advances, angst, nsfw (18+ please)

no pogue on pogue macking. that damn rule rang through your head as you caught yourself gazing off watching the one boy, that you promised yourself you wouldn't fall for, show interest in a random tourist. Her hips swayed against his almost naturally. The connection they have looked almost more than a random hookup at a spur of the moment kegger. It was always simple for him to find some girl to latch onto to pass his time. For you, however, it was torture. what you thought was a mutual pining for one another, had shown it was more one-sided than he had led you to believe.

downing another drink seemed easier than confronting the obvious jealousy eating away inside of you. Hitting the brink of alcohol-induced amnesia could help put you into a state where you could obliviously enjoy yourself. Feeling as if you’re at will to an anonymous puppeteer. Snapping right back to the moment when you hear her sickly sweet giggle echo through the night air, laughing at his pathetic excuse for flirting. something you thought was reserved only for you.

jj wasn't one to acknowledge his feelings for a girl, instead, trading it for the convenience of quick sex that was served to him by the desperate girls who were here on vacation. not wanting to have the responsibility of having to learn more than the name he would be grunting out that night. pushing away his feelings that had been building for his best friend for years. to him, you seemed worth the trouble.

"weird to see you alone" drunkenly turning your head to see that none other than rafe cameron, king of the kooks, was taking his time to talk to you. "normally maybank is attached to your hip" he sniggered as he sipped out of a red solo cup. "he seems a bit preoccupied" you replied with a snarky tone. uncharacteristically rafe open a hand in invitation. with a confused glare, you grab it. "now this isn't me doing you a favour, I just hate maybank more than I hate you" he replied in almost response to the questions littering your mind. this catching the glances of the pogues, including the one you were hoping to.

music blaring as you wrapped around rafe to the beat, grabbing a cup out of a kooks hand and downing it to try and make this more bearable. you hated to admit it but you were having fun. almost forgetting the fact that you had a means to why you were dancing with rafe instead of with your friend group, who weren't subtle about their distaste for your current actions. minutes quickly passed as you caught yourself having a good time.

you finally pull yourself away from the group of kooks that had formed. Topper and kelce made for decent conversation as you were slipping back into sobriety. you had to get another drink, you were way too aware of what was happening, a pogue being adopted by a massive group of kooks for the night was not going to end well and you were not willing to be sober for it.

you had almost made it to the keg when a large hand grabbed your wrist, with a slight jump you turned around to see john b. "what are you doing?" he said with his voice laced with concern rather than anger. "jay had mumbled something about you and then took off to the twinkie, I have never seen him so angry or hammered." with a sigh and a blunt response promising you'd deal with it. you set off in the direction of where the van was parked. completely sobered up carrying a full cup of cheap beer.

the dark corner of the street where john b had parked made it almost impossible to see the swaying of the van. the lights were on and you swung open the sliding door. thinking you would find an angrily intoxicated jj. it was a surprise to see that in fact, he wasn't alone, his large hands wrapped around the bare back of the black-haired girl he had perched on his lap as the moans of them both had now become more apparent. almost deafening, as you stood there frozen, as you tried to process. his head lazily rolled back as he guided her to bounce on top of him.

clearing your throat after three seconds that felt like an eternity. he scrambled to cover himself, leaving his guest to try and swiftly cover her naked body. "jb thought something was wrong, seems he was misreading the situation" you turn on your heel to try to walk away from the steam-filled volks wagon, abandoning the party and making a break down the dark and lonely road.

jj scrambling to dress his lower half and trying to catch up to you, as you head back to the chateau on foot, not wanting to ruin the night for the others. "come on, wait a fucking second" ignoring him as you continued down the cold path. hurt, not upset but angry.

finally catching up to you, he placed both his hands on your waist, bringing you to a halt. using the leverage he had on your waist to force you to face him. "can you at least tell me what's got you all hot-headed" he started "did rafe not fill your needs?" he spat. at a complete loss for words, you look up to see the blue eyes you once fell in love with turn completely dark. his grip tightening on your hips. "let go" you say in barely a whisper. with that, he let go with a scoff. "I don't get why my best friend, suddenly has a problem with everything I do," he said once again with anger evident in his voice, grabbing ahold of you once again. he went to go speak again but you beat him to it, "jay you might be an idiot but I know you're not stupid, just let me go" and with that, he did. With a glimmer of sadness in his eyes at the thought of losing you for good.

and with that he had, he had lost you completely.

a/n, hiya this has been sitting in the drafts as dot points of ideas and I felt motivated enough to finally put them collectively together as a one-shot. This is my first fic in a while so go easy on me, I'm rusty. I had to write some jj angst cause that's all I'm reading currently. hope you enjoyed <3

---

Why is like every account I’ve ever blogs on here deactivated

Omf help the Wally smut is just perfect.

Imagine like Wally and reader finding aphrodisiac chocolate or something from an alive football player falling out of the pocket. Wally doesn’t know what it is so he eats it and

Oh well. Wally Clark experiencing aphrodisiac for the first time with mind blowing sex, pussy eating and cock blowing omg

Hello dear anon! So I had to do a little research thought this was like a sex pollen request and I'm not in the mood for sex pollen right now lmao. I did do some research on the chocolate itself and decided to spice it up a bit for storytelling purposes. I hope you like this delightfully naughty oneshot, I definitely got a bit carried away with it.

*Not My Gif*

Another game where the Split River Bandits demolished their rivals and Wally was cheering like they had just won the Superbowl on the field with the players. You smiled down at him as he waved at you excitedly, you waved back and watched as Wally ran up the stairs of the bleachers; a giant smile on his face.

"Did you see that baby?" He said excitedly, grabbing hold of the lapels of his letterman jacket you were wearing and bringing you close to his body and pressed a sweet kiss against your lips.

"I did!" You smiled back.

"Wow! What a game! That kid Patricks could totally go pro! He ran that ball in, all the way from the forty yard line. And did you see that interception?"

You felt a small pang in your heart, thinking about Wally's very short football career, and how far he could've gone had he not died on the field that night. "I did! It was amazing! They did good tonight." You smiled, pressing another kiss to Wally's lips. He wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you closer to his body and deepening the kiss. His tongue slipping past and intermingling with yours, before you lightly pressed against his chest, pushing him away.

"Easy there, Tiger." You said, looking around to see if the rest of the ghosts were watching.

Wally smirked, before he pressed a quick kiss to your nose. "Going to go celebrate with the team and meet up with you later, baby."

"Okay." You giggled. "Have fun!" You shouted as you watched him climb back down the stairs of the bleachers, hooting and hollering with the rest of the team as they made their way into the locker room.

Wally loved celebrating with the players, even if they couldn't see him, he was jumping up and down with them enjoying the adrenaline rush of winning the last game of the season. He looked around at the faces of the people he'd known for the past four years, and wondered what the future held for this bunch and what the next group would bring to the table.

As the group changed out of their gear and into their jerseys to go celebrate the last win of the season off campus, Wally followed the group out as they left the locker room, Patricks was the last to leave. Hurriedly grabbing his backpack, he didn't notice it was open and Wally watched as something fell out of the front pocket.

"Hey man." Wally tried in vain, to get the player's attention, and just sighed picking up the little pink item, turning it over in his hands and seeing it was chocolate. "Oh sweet!" Wally opened up the chocolate bar and saw the three little squares wrapped in gold foiling.

"Oo fancy chocolate." Each square had a little symbol on the front of the square. Wally squinted trying to make them out.

"Is that a peach? Does that mean it's peach flavored? Hmm." He said unwrapping the peach chocolate and popped the entire square in his mouth. "Okay definitely not peach. Cherry flavored? Interesting. I wonder what the raindrop one tastes like." Wally pocketed the rest of the chocolate and went off to find you.

.....

You made your way back to your little spot tucked away in the school that you and Wally had claimed as your own. You knew Wally loved hanging out with the team for a while after a big win, so you went and hung out with Charley and Rhonda before making your way back.

When you got back to where Wally was, you saw him lounging shirtless on the mats that made up your bed/lounging area.

Wally's head immediately snapped in your direction as you entered the room. "Hey baby." Wally said, his voice sounding a bit gruff, as he got up from the mats and made his way over to you.

"Hey Wally." You smiled brightly. "How was the after part-" You were cut off briskly as Wally grabbed your hips and pulled you flush to him.

Your eyes widened but not only from the forceful sensation of Wally's tongue immediately slipping into mouth, his tongue dominating over yours and sucking on it. But also because when he pulled you close to him, you could feel his hard cock pressed against your stomach as it strained against his soft sweatpants.

"Wally." You moaned. Feeling his large hands, snake down your back and cupped your ass. Trying to bring you impossibly closer to his body than you already were, and you swore you could feel him buck his hips just the smallest amount against you. "What's gotten into you?" You grunted, trying to push him away but could only manage to break the kiss.

"I just missed you baby, that's all." He whispered, nuzzling your neck, placing soft kisses in the spot that he knows drives you wild.

"I was only gone for like an hour." You giggled, and then grunted as you felt him sucking on your sweet spot. "There's no way you could miss me this much after an hour." You stated firmly, pushing him harder and finally getting him to detach from your neck, holding him at arm's length.

You raised an eyebrow at him. "There's no way I've been gone for that long, that you could be this horny."

"What can I say? You drive me absolutely crazy." He purred, leaning closer to nuzzle at your neck. "Do you wanna feel how much you drive me crazy?" He said reaching for your hand and pulling it towards the waistband of his sweats.

"Wally!" You said pulling your hand back, and taking a step away from Wally.

Wally didn't miss a beat, as he took a step towards you, arms reaching. "Mmm. I love it when you say my name. I like it even better when you scream it when your sweet pussy is full of my cock."

"Okay!" You said putting your hands up and turning you back to Wally. "Someone had booze or drugs and you decided to indulge. I don't blame you but good lord this is -" Wally cut you off again as he grabbed you and snaked his arms around your middle, pulling you against his body.

He was impossibly hot to the touch.

"No drugs. No booze. I just have this desperate need to feel you cum all over my fingers, baby" He said and you watched as he gruffly shoved his hand inside your jeans, and began palming your sex.

"There's my girl. So wet for me already."

You gasped, as he slid two of his fingers inside your hot pussy, pumping them slowly into you. While his thumb traced small circles against your clit.

You couldn't help but jerk your hips into his hand, your head falling back into the crook of his shoulder as you could feel yourself growing wetter at Wally's touches.

"Wally." You whimpered. "What's gotten into you?"

He hummed against your neck, his nose dragging up and down your neck, inhaling your scent; as his fingers continued to lazily pump into you. "Nothings gotten into me, but I hope to be buried inside you tonight, baby." He growled punctuating his statement by pressing you harder against him so you can feel his cock straining against the small of your back.

You felt your eyes rolled to the back of your head, as you felt Wally's soft lips, brush against your neck. "God baby, you just drive me crazy." He whispered, before sucking harshly on the spot where your collarbone and neck met.

Causing you to buck your hips into his hands, as his fingers drove into you faster, your release just on the edge.

"Wally!" you moaned out and grabbed onto Wally's biceps, his presence a constant reminder that you weren't going to drown as your orgasm crashed over you, seeming to take the very breath from your body.

Wally pulled his fingers out of your pants and you watched as he put them in his mouth. You felt yourself growing hot again as Wally moaned around his fingers, tasting your release.

"Baby." He moaned. "I could just eat you up."

Before you could even react, Wally grabbed your waist and threw you over his shoulders and carried you back the two feet to the mats that were spread out on the floor. Laying you down, he immediately went after the tops of your jeans.

"These need to come off now." He growled, his large hands roughly yanking your jeans down your legs. You watched with trepidation as Wally took in the sight of you.

"Wally." You whispered, as Wally's hands reached for you again, his hands felt scorching against your legs as he traced them slowly up your legs, to play with the hem of your panties. "Wally." you whispered his name again, this time getting his attention. His dark brown eyes met with yours, making your heart jump.

You swallowed the lump in your throat and felt your cheeks heat. "What about you?" You said in an impossibly soft voice, but he heard it nonetheless.

"Trust me baby." He said taking your legs in his hands, so your knees were bent and pushed together as he rolled you to place a kiss on both sides of your hip. "Everything that's going to happen tonight is going to be purely selfish."

You let out a gasp as Wally suddenly flipped you over and grabbed your waist so your ass was in the air. You braced the weight of your upper body on your forearms, as Wally's hands traced down your back, playing with the hem of your panties again before pulling them down, leaving them pooled around your knees.

Wally had never felt like this before, he didn't know what was in that chocolate but he felt like his skin was on fire, and you were the tall drink of water he couldn't wait to guzzle down.

"Did you really think that sucking you off my fingers was going to be enough for me? I'll never get enough of you honey. Enough of your body." He breathed, kissing the small of your back. "Enough of your soft little moans." He said as he kissed the top of one of your ass cheeks, before biting it softly and doing the same to the other. "Enough of your sweet taste." He whispered before notching his leg in between yours and pushing your legs apart more, so he could nestle himself in between your legs comfortably. His hands grabbed your hips and brought your body back to his awaiting tongue.

You let out a loud moan, dropping your head to the mats under you, as you felt Wally's tongue dive into your hot center. He'd eaten you out a couple of times before, but this time was different, he'd never done something like this.

His tongue felt deeper, as it slid in and out of you, before finding your clit, and eliciting a groan from you as he sucked and flicked the swollen bud with the tip of his tongue. His nose nudged your tight hole, as he spread you wider for him. He ran his tongue back down the length of your folds and started to fuck you with his tongue again.

"Fuck baby. You always taste so sweet for me." He moaned against your skin, his hand running up the length of your back, keeping you arched into his mouth perfectly. "I could do this forever, keep you here like this for me. Maybe I could tie you up next time, and you'd never get away from me or my tongue." He chuckled, the image of you tied and whimpering as he pulled orgasm after orgasm from you making him even harder than he already was.

Oh yeah Wally Clark was definitely into overstimulation kink.

You let out a sharp gasp, as you felt Wally reached around with his hand and start rubbing your clit, as he started to fuck you with his tongue again and you knew you were close.

"Wally." You moaned, pushing your ass closer to his face. He hummed against you, his finger moving faster as you felt your orgasm build to a height you didn't think you could survive from.

"Wally." You moaned out again, feeling desperate as you clawed your nails into the mat, searching for an anchor to keep you sane. And in the next moment your orgasm violently ripped out of you, causing you to scream.

You felt Wally hold onto you, knowing that you'd tried to get away from the pleasure he was pulling from your body, as he continued to eat you out slowly through your orgasm.

He left you feeling boneless, as he lavished your sensitive pussy with kisses, lapping up your release. While your face was pressed into the mat, having no energy to even lift your head let alone pull away from Wally.

When Wally finally pulled his face away from your pussy, he was grinning ear to ear. "Best snack of the day." He chuckled. "Much better than that chocolate from earlier."

"What chocolate?" You asked through the haze of your orgasm.

"It's nothing baby." He purred as he traced his hand down your back as you heard the tell tell sound of his sweats being pulled down. "I'll share some with you later." He smiled before pushing himself into your tight wet pussy.

Tonight was going to be a long night

Princess - Wally x Reader

A/N: So I’ve been toying with a Wally from School Spirits idea. And finally wrote it out. It might be the only one I write for him, but I thought to share it anyways. Haha.

Warning/s: fluff, cute Wally, maybe inaccuracy of CD walkman, possible spelling/grammar mistakes

Wally looked around the field, eyes looking for one person in particular. As this was their favourite place to bask in the sun, even if they couldn’t feel its warmth anymore. He looked to the stadium seating, and there in the sun, laying on a bench half way up, was you.

From this position he could see that one foot was planted on the ground, while its counterpart was propped up on the bench, possibly tapping away. Walking up the stairs, destination to you, Wally could see your hands resting on your stomach, also tapping away.

One of the luxurious from your life, that you could still use years later, was your CD walkman. Those flimsy looking headphones sat over your ears, your luscious natural curled hair half fanned above your head.

Standing by your head, Wally looked down at you. Admiring the beauty of your face. Your porcelain like skin with a natural glow, the 90's makeup that gave you an angelic look, but mostly your glossy lips. Which rested in the most naturally beautiful pout. You gave off this ‘sleeping beauty' feel, even with your foot and hands moving.

Quietly and with minimal movement, Wally sat down next to your head. His blue eyes watching you. You were both from different eras, but you were closer to his age then any other girl he’d been around. And you were just the sweetest thing he’d ever met.

You don’t know when it happened, but for a little while it felt like you were being watched. But the last two songs had been to good to pause. Music was one of the few things you had in this limbo of an existence. Along with your lips loss and old 90s magazines from the library.

But that being watched feeling didn’t ease up. So on the next song, even though it was another good one, you slowly opened your eyes. And what did you find? Wally Clark looking down at you. This love sick puppy dog look on his face. Which made you smile softly.

The moment your eyes fluttered open, for Wally, it was like seeing the most beautiful sight in this world. He wanted to see those eyes every moment of everyday for ever how long you both were stuck in this place.

“Hi Wally" you said softly, voice sounding content and relaxed, as you removed the headphones from your ears.

He swallowed. “Ah, hi...”

You giggled, yet didn’t move. Enjoying this version of Wally. This was the shy, cute Wally. Compared to the self-assured, flirty Wally. This one was rare, and you wanted to bask in it.

For years now you’d been tiptoeing around the boy above you. Pushing aside his flirt and charm, ignoring the butterflies that fluttered every time you saw him. Or your racing heart when he’d smile your way. He was golden retriever energy, while you were more cat energy. Or as the kids these days had put it.

“Can I help you?” You finally asked when the boy above you floundered.

Wally snapped out of his daze. “Ah, yeah" he sat back up and not hovering over you. “W-was looking for you, we’ve got group...”

Sitting up, you turned your body to mirror his sitting forward on the bench. Nodding your head you did a little stretch. All the while Wally watch contently. How your back arched, your cropped top rising to reveal a small amount of skin.

And then you stood up, turning to grab your hounds tooth jacket, which matched your shorts. That tied in with your crop top, over the knee socks and loafers, it was a very ‘Clueless' look. Which has and will always be one of your favourite movies, and fashion icons. As six months after its release, did you end up dead, forever stuck in that aesthetic.

You turned back to Wally, a soft smile on your face. Just adding to his daze. But then you snapped your fingers in front of his face, well-groomed eyebrows drawn together.

“Earth to Wally" you said amused.

Snapping out of his daze, Wally quickly got to his feet, nervously laughing, and apologising. You just giggled, making his heart skip a beat once more. That sweet, cute sound was something he could listen to forever.

He moved to stand on the bench below the one you’d been laying on, and jumped down to stand on the concrete. Turning back, Wally held out his hand, as this was something he did on occasion for you. Helping you to jump down a row or two before moving to the aisle. When you both could have just walked to the aisle in the first place.

Placing your forever manicured hand in his, even as ghosts feeling the other was always nice when it’s been years since you could truly feel anything. Almost grounding and familiar.

With his support, you stepped onto the bench before jumping down to stand beside Wally. Who then moved to the next bench, and jumped down, all the while still holding your hand. When you made it to stand on the next bench, rather than just jumping down, you decided to walk along the bench. And he was happy to walk beside you, hand in hand.

Soon, though, you removed your hand from his but placed it on his shoulder for support. One foot in front of the other, you walked like on a tight rope and not a bench. It amused you, made you smile. And Wally, he happily let you do this. Enjoying this playful moment.

Coming to the end of the bench, and the aisle, you were going to jump. But had a better idea in mind. Turning to Wally, who then turned to you, you placed your other hands on his shoulder, stepping closer to him. Silently asking for his help.

Looking at you with the sweetest confused look, it took only a few seconds for Wally's brain to work out what you wanted. Shakily he brought his hands up to your waist. Firmly he held as he effortlessly lifted you down to stand before him.

With your feet planted firmly on the ground of the bleachers, your hands on his shoulders slipped down and over his covered chest. All the while you smiled brightly up at him.

“Why, thank you Wally" you said softly, removing your hands from his chest.

A movement that he truly wished didn’t happen. That was the first time you’d ever placed your hands on his shoulders and his chest. It was progress.

“Ah, no problem, Princess" he muttered clearing this throat, as well as his clouded mind.

Your smile fell slightly. “Princess?” You questioned in surprise.

Wally's eyes widened, and he was mentally kicking himself. That was the nickname he used in his head, and sometimes when talking to Charley and Ronda about you.

“Ah, um, yeah...” he sputtered trying to think. “I-it’s my, um, nickname for you...?”

You watched him, eyes blinking a few times, processing what just happened. Wally nicknamed you Princess, a name that once was used as an insult to you, but he had used it in a warm, almost terms of endearment way.

“You nicknamed me Princess?” You asked, needing clarification.

His mouth opened and closed a few times. “Ah, yes...but only I use it!” He rushed out, hoping you wouldn’t be mad.

And then you giggled, that sweet sound gracing his ears. Looking down at you, he could see the warm smile on your glossy lips. Eyes shining brightly.

You stepped closer to him, manicured hand moving to rest on his chest as you looked up at him. “Well, I think I can let that slide...so long as I’m your only Princess". And you winked at him.

Wally was shocked, eyes wide and mind blank. You had just approved his nickname, so long as you were his only Princess. And you winked. This was big progress, this had to mean you liked him too, right?

As quick as you invaded his space, you stepped back, removing your hand. With another giggle you began to walk down the aisle towards the field. All the while Wally stood, shocked to his core.

Half way between Wally and the ground, you stopped to look back up at him. This time you laughed, seeing him still in the same spot you left him.

“Wow, have you frozen or stuck in a loop?” You called out in a tease. “We have group!”

Snapping back to reality, he finally noticed you had walked off without him. Quickly he moved his feet, making short work of the steps to come to stand beside you, as you continued to laugh.

His face warmed, embarrassed for you to have seen him like that. But you didn’t mind, you liked this Wally a lot.

“You know, I think I like this cute, flustered Wally" you mused with a tilted head, smiling up at him. “It’s adorable”.

Wally rolled his eyes, yet couldn’t help the small smile on his face. You grabbed his arm and proceeded to pull him down the stairs, and out of the stadium to group.

Yes, this definitely the start of the Princess and the jock.

solus | elliot

pairings — elliot/reader | stranded!au | “__” = Y/N

word count : 10k

summary : you and elliot wake up in a world where everyone else magically vanishes.

warnings : fingering, dirty talk, alcohol, weed, angst, oral sex (f) receiving, riding, missionary, multiple orgasms, hickies, dirty talk, elliot calls you a brat, degrading, spanking

authors note : the ending creeped me out lolz

© elliotsblunt 2022. do not repost, modify, or translate.

elliot masterlist latest fic

Making your way a bit faster towards the gymnasium, biting your lip in anticipation of getting there on time—you felt your phone vibrate leading you to release a frustrated groan.

Pausing in your steps, you snatched your phone from your back pocket, eyes scanning over the dimly lit screen. You squinted as you read the text.

mads 💌

i left something in peterson’s class. can u plsssss get it for me

Your brows rose, letting out a scoff at the audacity your best friend had.

sent

get it yourself. i don’t wanna be late

Your phone dinged almost instantly after, as if she knew you were going to tell her to go fuck herself. Rolling your eyes at her reply, you caved in.

mads 💌

im in the bathroom blowing my ass out bitch

sent

fine. what is it?

mads 💌

pads. pls and thanks hoe 🙏

sent

cunt.

Shutting your phone back off, you sighed before changing your path and heading towards the English class. How did she even leave them in there? They must’ve fallen out or something—you don’t know. Constantly checking the time on your phone, you began to panic when you only had five minutes left, and began to quicken your pace.

When the maroon colored door came into sight, you let out a huff before pushing open the heavy surface. Your hand fell from the knob as you released a shout, covering your face with your hands, a squeal falling from the girl that was making out with none other than Elliot.

Elliot.

God, you hated him.

The picture burned in your mind of his hand around her neck, sitting on the teacher’s desk while he pressed his lips to hers making you want to projectile vomit. You felt her push past you, making your shoulder hit the door, letting out a curse before sending her an icy glare. But she had her back turned towards you as she scrambled out the halls.

Looking at him with a raised brow, he only sent you an irritated scowl; crossing his chiseled biceps over his broad chest, “Nice going, cockblock.”

You placed your hands on your hips, before cocking one of them, “Cassie Howard? Didn’t know you fucked blondes too.”

His scowl stretched into a smirk, rubbing his chin with a smug look, “I fuck anything that has a pussy, babe,” he teased, approaching you slowly. Your figure stiffened as his eyes flickered up and down your face, before setting back onto your eyes, “You would know, wouldn’t you?”

Your nostrils flared, fists balling at your sides.

“Don’t call me babe ever again.”

His brow roses, eyes flashing.

“I thought you liked that?”

Clenching your jaw, he let out a dry chuckle before brushing past you; making his way over to the door. Shutting your eyes in relief, glad that he was about to leave, the knob turned. But you didn’t hear the door shut, causing your brows to furrow, and spin around to face him.

His hand kept trying to turn the knob, but it wasn’t working. He had to be faking it.

“Fuck,” he muttered, his veins protruding from his flesh on his neck as he tried again; but failed, “I think it’s jammed or some shit.”

You snorted, knowing he was only fucking with you, causing a new wave of annoyance to wash over his features, “What the fuck are you giggling at? I’m serious,” he snapped, delivering a harsh kick to the door afterwards to seal the show he was putting on, “It won’t—fuck—open.”

When he didn’t let up his act, you began to grow a bit worried, blinking quickly, “Stop it, Elliot,” you mumbled, shifting back and forth on your feet, “I don’t have time for this. I can’t be late—“

“Try for yourself,” he spat, stepping aside with gritted teeth. Elliot gestured to the door,

“Go on. See if I’m fucking with you or not.”

Gulping, you puffed your chest out and walked over to the door, and confidently tried to open it. But when it didn’t work, like something was blocking the other end, your eyes rounded as you looked at him. He rolled his eyes, plopping down onto the chair for the teacher, legs far apart as he slumped.

He twirled a marker in the air, before pointing it at you with a fake smile, “See. Told you.”

There was no fucking way you were stuck in a classroom with Elliot. 

Ignoring the cocky expression he was sending you, you began to pace back and forth across the class after trying to open the door for another ten minutes. Elliot just sat there, watching you with that stupid fucking grin on his face, while you tugged at your strands while trying not to panic.

This was your luck. You were going to miss the assembly because your friend needed fucking pads.

“How is this even possible?” You muttered to yourself, hand landing on your chest, “By the time someone finds us, the assembly will be over and it’ll look like we did something together,” but then you paused, eyes widening in horror over at the wall, “—or even worse, I’ll get detention. Fuck!”

Elliot’s chuckle rang through the class, earning a glare from you, “Surprised that you think getting detention is worse than being seen with me.”

“It’s not like we actually did something,” you muttered with a huff, causing him to raise a knowing brow at you.

“We haven’t?”

“I mean now. In here,” you picked up a notebook from a random desk, and tossed it at him. He dodged it before narrowing his dark eyes at you, whilst you pointed a finger at him,

“—and we agreed you’d never bring up what we did. It was a mistake.”

His upper lip curled, features tightening.

“Well the feeling’s mutual.”

Pressing your lips together, you decided to save your own breath and simply ignore him. You did a pretty good job of acting like he didn’t exist for the past year, and now wasn’t going to be any different.

When it was close to an hour to go by, you walked over to the glass window, which was a tiny slit that probably was five inches in size. The air wafted inside the small room, giving you oxygen, as you watched the door with intent eyes.

Wasn’t the assembly finished by now? They usually took about 45 minutes.

“It’s almost two,” you muttered, furrowing your brows, “Sixth period should be happening by now.”

But where was the teacher?

Walking over to the window, Elliot spun in the chair he was still in, letting out a quiet fuck before shoving his phone into his pocket, “I have no service. Fucking shitty ass wifi,” he grumbled, “Can’t wait to get the fuck outta here.”

Bringing your thumbnail to your lip, you chewed with your teeth while nervously tapping in front of the door. Your fist collided with the cool surface as you let out a call, “Hello! Can someone get us out?” Hearing your phone echo in the halls, you perked up, before trying again, “Hello! Hell—“

“Your giving me a headache,” Elliot snapped, sniffling before wiping his nose. He shrugged with hooded eyes, “If anyone was going to come, they would. It hasn’t even been an hour yet. Just chill the fuck out and sit down somewhere.”

“We didn’t have a half day, so we should be in class right now,” you mumbled, chewing on your thumb even harder.

Elliot’s jaw clenched, “So you think we’re stuck in here?”

“Maybe.”

He kicked the desk, “Dammit,” he grunted, letting out a heavy breath before standing up. His long, thin legs strode over to the door, his sneakers padding against the tiled floor, before bringing his fist up to slam against the wood,

“Yo! Let us out—before I fucking—“

“Yeah, threaten them,” you laughed dryly, shaking your head before looking to the side, “Like they’re doing this on purpose. Everyone probably just went home.”

He tightened his lips at you, “Don’t teachers stay after school?”

“Not all the time.”

“Great,” he slammed his hand on the door, letting it slide back down to his side before leaning his forehead against it. His thick lashes fluttered as his eyes fell shut, voice coming out quiet yet bitter, “This is all just—fucking great. Can’t even smoke a fucking joint.”

“That’s what your worried about?” You tilted your head, “A joint? What about using the bathroom? Or water? Jesus,” your hands flew to your temples. Trying to soothe the overthinking thoughts that made your brain pound, “Not only am I stuck in here with an idiot, but an idiot that’s also an asshole.”

Elliot chuckled, pausing in front of you, a smile quirking onto his pink, plump lips, “Hold still,” he held a hand up in front of your face, raising his brows, “I’m just trying to imagine you without the bitchy prude personality.”

“And I’m just trying to imagine you with a bigger dick,” you hissed, smirking as his smile slipped off his face, being replaced with a scowl, “You know, one that could actually make girls come.”

“Fuck you.”

“Never again,” you snapped, pushing past him before going to sit in one of the corners, snatching a book off the shelf before making yourself busy. You heard Elliot laugh in disbelief before mumbling to himself; keeping his distance from you.

After a few hours passed, it dawned on you that you would have to spend the night there. Using your jacket as a pillow, you kept tossing the boy glances that was drawing on the board with a marker. He probably wasn’t going to sleep. You didn’t trust him enough to sleep around him, but you were really tired, and didn’t have much of a choice.

A yawn tore through you, before feeling your eyes flutter close, and falling asleep. By the time you had woken up, it was because the door had screeched open, leading you to shoot up from your laying position with round eyes. Your sights flew to Elliot, who had passed out in the teachers’ chair, letting out quiet snores as he drooled onto the desk.

Grabbing your backpack, you didn’t even bother waking him up, throwing an asshole towards his limp figure before storming out the class.

But then you paused, realizing that no one was to be seen. Who had opened the door?

Perhaps the janitor? But how did he know you two were in there?

You had never seen the halls so empty before, not a student in your gaze, which was a great relief. You had looked like utter shit, wearing the same clothes from yesterday, makeup dried out and ruined. Eyes still puffy from just waking up, you began walking down the hall.

After taking a shower, you felt extremely refreshed, peering your head out your bedroom doorframe before calling out for your father, “Dad!”

He should’ve been home by now. It was like—almost eleven o’clock at night. Furrowing your brows, you slipped on a hoodie and some sweats before walking into the kitchen; then the living room. They were both empty. Gulping, you figured he must’ve been working late, and plopped onto the couch to turn on Netflix.

Before you knew it, it was the next morning; and your father was still nowhere to be seen. You had fallen asleep on the couch, slobber dribbling down your chin, realizing that you didn’t have school today since it was the weekend.

You checked your texts, and noticed that you had no new notifications. You had texted Maddy last night about being locked in a class with your worst enemy; and figured she was busy when she didn’t reply right away.

But now—it’s been almost an entire day. Something was up.

Sending a quick text to your dad asking where he was, you called the brunette girl, but it went straight to voicemail. Rolling your eyes, you tossed your phone onto the cushion, before getting up to go piss.

After coming back, your phone dinged, expecting it to be your best friend—but your face instantly fell when you read the text.

unknown

meet me at the school.

You knew it was Elliot, since you had deleted him as a contact—and he was the only person that would boss you around through messages. Letting out a sigh, you typed back a quick response with pursed lips.

sent

no 😍 fuck off

About to shut your phone off, he sent you another message, making irritation begin to boil in your blood.

unknown

i’m not fucking kidding

unknown

hurry up and come

Your finger flew to the block button, before pressing the red circle, and deleting the conversation.

You did not want to give him the time of day.

Moving over to instagram, your feed wouldn’t refresh, saying there was an error. Same for your twitter. Frowning at your screen, you checked to see if Maddy or your father had messaged you back—but your messages had turned green.

That was weird. Your messages with Elliot were blue.

Beginning to get creeped out, you poured yourself some cheerios before scooping some into your mouth; glancing at some random episode of shameless that played on the wide screen.

Chewing with your mouth open, you swirled your spoon in your milk, before taking another bite. But as you ate another spoonful, a harsh knock banged at your door, causing you to bite down onto the medal.

“Fuck,” you cried out, rubbing your jaw before dropping the spoon. A dull ache pounded in your gums as you whimpered, approaching the front before swinging open the front door, and feeling your insides churn with pure annoyance, “What the hell do you want from me, Elliot?”

He had his arm leaned up against the doorframe, looking at you with narrowed eyes.

“You blocked me?”

You shrugged, “You were annoying me.”

“You petty little—“

Letting out a fake yawn, you were about to slam the door in his face—but his palm slapped against the wood before tightening his jaw, “Wait a sec,” he mumbled, leaving you to roll your eyes, but comply. He gulped, eyes flickering, “Look—I didn’t come here to fight. But you were the only number I could message.”

Your brows knitted.

“Were you able to contact anyone else since you got home?”

You blinked, “Well…no, but—“

“Check this out,” he cut you off, pulling out his phone from his back pocket. You chewed on the inside of your cheek whilst he dialed 911, making a gasp tear from you, about to pull the phone from his hands. He stretched them from your gasp,

“Wait—just look,” he grunted dryly, and for a moment, it rung once before a long drawn out beep played for about ten seconds before hanging up the call automatically. Your chest rose in confusion as he looked at you, “See? Not even the police is answering.”

“Maybe it’s just your phone,” you replied, holding up your phone before doing the same. You both watched intently as it did the same thing that it did to Elliot, making your heart drop into your stomach, knowing something definitely was wrong, “What the hell is happening?”

Elliot rubbed the back of his neck, “I dunno, but it’s hot as fuck. Can I come in?”

You were about to reject his request, but were a bit freaked out about what was happening, and didn’t have the never to argue with him. Nodding, you walked over to the couch, taking a seat as you heard him shut your door, “Nice place.”

You didn’t reply, sending a bunch of texts to your friends, hoping at least one of them would answer. But none delivered, becoming a green bubble, making you let out a curse before your head fell in your hands.

This isn’t happening.

Snatching your keys from the table, you jumped to your feet before walking past Elliot, “Where—“

Stomping onto your driveway, your thumb dug into the button in your keys before unlocking your car. Hearing it beep, you climbed inside, shoving the key into the engine before it rumbled.

Hearing the passenger door shut, your eyes snapped over to Elliot, who looked at you with an amused look, “Who gave you permission to come in here?”

He flashed you a sarcastic grin.

“You gonna throw me out? I’d like to see you try.”

Flaring your nostrils, you growled before changing your gear to reverse before exiting the driveway. Elliot turned on the air conditioner, making you scoff at how comfortable he was with being in your car. Twisting the dial to turn up the radio, he lightly hummed to a Blink-182 song that rose through the static; leaning back in his seat as your shoulder remained frigid.

His voice was musical, “You know, I’m sure one joint would do wonders for how tense you are most of the time.”

Sending him a look, he snickered before plucking the stick between his lips; but you snatched it before tossing it out the window. His eyes squinted, tone furious, “What the fuck? That was my property.”

“And this is my car. No smoking allowed.”

“Of fucking course. Almost forgot,” he sneered, “You literally have a big ass warning label on your face that says I’m a fucking prude. Silly me, always forgetting.”

You made a sharp turn, making his shoulder bang against the side, earning a groan from him. You smirked coyly, “Rather be a prude than a douchebag that has at least three sexually transmitted diseases…from different people.”

“I’d say one of them would be from you, but you were a virg—“

Your tires screeched as you pulled into the parking lot, hopping out your car before he could finish that sentence. The seatbelt dug into his chest, resulting in him letting out a shouted curse. Refraining from slapping the fuck outta him, you sped walk towards the grocery store, hoping that there would be workers. If there weren’t, then your suspicions would be true.

Feeling the air conditioning fan you as the electric doors slid open, you paused.

It was like a movie. Nothing you’d ever seen before. Blood curdling in your veins, your stomach depleted as a gust of wind sent chills down your spine.

Mouth falling open, your eyes scanned the empty mart, all registers vacant and not a single person being seen in the aisles. Your eyes turned glossy, from shock, as you began to pant heavily due to panic.

It was fucking impossible.

Where did everyone go?

“You know you’re supposed to lift your foot off the brake rig—no fucking way,” Elliot walked in from behind you, stopping beside you, looking around with his own jaw dropped. He emphasized the curse word, scratching the top of his head, features twisting as he rose to his tip-toes as if to make sure there wasn’t anyone hiding, “That’s…horrifying.”

He turned to face you, raising his brows, “What do we do?”

You thinned your eyes at him, “We?”

“Yeah,” he nodded, attitude in his voice, “It seems like we’re the only fucking people here right now—so yeah. We.”

“I don’t know, Elliot, how the fuck would I know what to do?” You shrugged, “It’s not like I’ve been in this situation before.”

“Oh, so the person that always claims they know everything—doesn’t all of a sudden? I thought you always had a plan,” he barked, waving his hand in the air, “Whoopty fucking doo!”

Pressing your lips together, you looked down at the ground, beginning to ponder what the hell was happening.

You and Elliot were the only people in town. The only reasonable explanation was that a mysterious virus hit town, and everyone evacuated, all in the span of the twelve hours you both were locked in the classroom. But your father wouldn’t have left without you; not unless he was forced against his will.

There was still shopping carts filled with items, meaning that the shoppers had left their things in a rapid rush. Your theory began to make much more sense, since the clues were adding up.

Hearing bottles clinking, your head snapped to the direction of the sound, raising your brows at Elliot—who was trying to pop open a bottle of whiskey.

“What are you doing?” You scolded in a harsh whisper, “You’re eighteen—“

“Who’s gonna come arrest me?” He shrugged, before finally twisting the top open. You let out a groan, rubbing your forehead, as he tossed his head back and took a sip—letting out a cough before his face scrunched up, “Here,” he muttered, handing it to you, “It’ll make you stop thinking so much.”

You pushed it away, “I don’t want to get drunk, Elliot. Especially not with someone like you,” you spat, folding your arms, “Unlike some people, I enjoy having coherent thoughts. And respect for myself. I would never get intoxicated in the same room as you.”

He shot you a brow, “You sure?”

You scoffed.

“As I’ve ever been.”

“Do you listen to asmr?”

Elliot furrowed his brows, leaning his head against one of the aisles as you babbled drunkenly, keeping your back against the case of water bottles. His leg was kicked up, resting his elbow on the other one, as his eyes hooded from intoxication while taking a sip of the whiskey, “At first, I thought it was like, really really weird— but then it felt like, so euphoric inside my ears—“

“__,” Elliot took the bottle from you, pulling a giggle from you, before placing it on his side.

“I think you’ve had enough of this.”

You pouted, stretching your arms to steal it from him, but he only shook his head before you gave up, sitting back onto your bottom, “You always told me to loosen up.”

He chuckled, “Yeah, by pot. You talk too much when you’re drunk.”

“Well that’s just poo.”

His face twisted, “Poo? What are you? Nine?”

“I suppose so,” you replied in a posh british accent, earning a weirded out look from the boy before he chuckled again, shaking his head as you laughed too.

His chuckles died down, his smile faltering as he tipped his head toward you, “Why do you always want to control everything, __?”

Your smile faded away, “I dunno,” you shrugged, brushing a few strands away from your face whilst letting out a thick breath, “I’ve just always been like that I guess. Easier to like it if it’s your way.”

“That why you regret having feelings for me before?” He told you, pink tongue poking out to wet his lips. You gulped while your fingernails dug into the fabric of your sweats,

“—because you couldn’t control me? I was too much?”

Eyes flickering, your shoulders fell, hues dropping whilst hugging yourself. You cleared your throat,

“I don’t have feelings for you anymore.”

That was a lie. You knew that you still cared for him, as much as you hated yourself for it, and wouldn’t think twice smashing his lips against yours. But then again; you were drunk out of your mind at the moment— so that could affect your judgment.

His chest sunk, nodding his head quickly, “Yeah I know,” his voice came out quiet, mustering up a small smile that didn’t reach his eyes, “I guess I deserve that though.”

You didn’t say anything, watching as he rubbed his thighs with his large palms, looking at you with soft eyes.

“I’m sorry, by the way.”

You swallowed thickly at his words. You had waited two years for him to apologize for what he did. For never speaking to you again after you told him he had been your first. Sure, it was a night one stand, but you at least wanted to stay friends with Elliot afterwards.

But no. He didn’t follow you back on instagram, nor added you on snap. He had acted like you didn’t exist. Like you were nothing.

So yeah, you hated him; or so you thought. Because right now, you didn’t feel like you hated him.

Your eyes threatened to gloss over with tears, remembering how low your confidence had been after, shrugging before looking off into the distance,

“Thanks.”

He nodded, a silence crossing over you two. Your eyes flew back to his, which were on you, his attention completely focused on the person before him.

“Elliot.”

He hummed, his gaze flashing down to your lips, making you do the same to his, “Yeah?”

Your throat went dry, “I think I’m really drunk right now.”

“You are?”

“Uh huh,” you licked your lips, feeling a heat bloom in your chest before meeting his eyes once again. This time they were glazed over with something cloudy, a small sparkle in them, “—I wanna kiss you.”

As soon as he heard those words, he pounced onto you, letting his lips mold into yours. Your hands flew to his shoulders, sneakers creasing against the floor, as he slid his body in between your legs while your back fell against the floor.

It felt like fireworks, as odd as it sounded. Like ears ringing, limbs shaking, adrenaline washing over you as his warmth radiate onto your flesh.

“__,” he groaned against you. His hips grinded into you, his clothes cock rubbing against your core, boosting the level of lust that pumped through you. His hands roaming under your soft skin beneath your hoodie, making your back arch, as you moaned into the kiss, “So fucking hot.”

He swallowed them with greed, teeth sinking into your bottom lip, before swiping his soothing tongue over the wound. The pleasure was accentuated by the pain, making you wiggle your hips, trying to rub yourself onto him.

But then an alarm shot through your head, realizing this isn’t what you wanted. You didn’t want to have drunk sex with some dude that broke your heart.

Shoving him off you, he let out a grunt, rubbing his lower back before shooting you a confused look, “What—“

“Was this your plan? To get me drunk and hook up with me?” You spat at him, standing up onto your feet. His eyes narrowed as you scoffed, “I wouldn’t put it past you. All you think with is your dick.”

His jaw clenched, eyes turning hard as his tone came out plucked.

“I wasn’t trying to do anything. You said you wanted to kiss me,” he pointed out before standing up as well, straightening out his black and white flannel, “I had no intention of ever fucking you again. It was like fucking a dead person!”

You gasped, gritting your teeth.

“Excuse me?”

He chuckled, nodding, “Yeah. You were too afraid to moan and were boring. Why would I ever want to sleep with you again?”

“I was a virgin you asshole!”

“I can see why,” he spat out with venom, tearing into your chest, “I almost fell asleep while ins—“

“I can’t believe you broke my fucking nose,” Elliot grumbled, trailing behind you while holding a sack of peas to his nose. You grabbed a hair of bread and butter pickles before plopping it into the basket, heading him sigh, “You get to accuse me of wanting to take advantage of you but when I call you a corps—“

You snapped your head over to him, voice sharp, “Do you want a black eye to match your broken nose?”

Rolling his eyes, you hummed in content, before turning back around and scanning the items. Cereal, grains, oatmeal, white bread, english muffins…

Your eyes followed Elliot snatching a box of granola bars, the ones meant for kids, with chocolate coated all over the treats.

“You’re such a child,” you snorted.

He flipped you off, “Fuck off. These are good as fuck.”

You sent him a look, before spinning around, and heading towards the exit. He caught up with you, tearing open one of the wrappers, before munching on a bar.

By the time he was on his second one, you were both at your house, sitting on your porch while you sucked the juice from the pickles. Elliot looked at you with a grossed out look, smoking a joint now, finished eating at the moment whilst a cloud of smoke swirled around you both.

The sour taste of the juice contrasted with the sweetness of the pickle, making you happily tap your feet on the ground, hearing Elliot snicker, “You have an eating dance?”

“There’s people that aren’t miserable like you, Elliot, y’now,” you snapped, giving him the side eye before looking off into the sunset. It was about to make your two days in this weird, isolate version of the world.

“Yeah? Ever think I might just be a little miserable because you punched me?”

“It was well deserved.”

“I’m sure it was, __.”

The wind blew away the hairs from your face, “Why don’t you just go home? I mean, why are you still here?”

“I don’t feel like being alone right now,” he muttered,

“I’m desperate for company— even if it’s you.”

And although you despised him, you did feel a bit better not having to go through this crisis alone. And so for the rest of the time; he stayed at your place.

Nothing much happened the next day. You two didn’t interact with one another, Elliot sitting on your couch while watching tv; stuffing his face with popcorn due to him having the munchies.

Across from the living room, you were seated at the counter, trying to figure out what the hell was happening and how. But every theory you came up with—didn’t really make sense.

If it was a virus, you would’ve at least seen one person or a helicopter by now. But no; there hasn’t been any other source of human life.

Aliens.

Explains itself.

Purgatory.

Somehow, you and Elliot could’ve both been dead; and were waiting together in a sort of dimension for the dead. But it wouldn’t explain why you two were alone together, instead of being with other ghosts. Or saw anything by now.

On the fifth day of being at this place, Elliot broke the vow of silence, by knocking on your bedroom door. Putting the book you were reading down, his eyes rounded as they landed on your laying position.

Your tank top had ridden up, breasts spilling from the top, glancing up at him confused, “Uh,” he stuttered, gulping before looking back into your eyes, “I’m gonna hit the mall. Sick of staying in this house.”

Your tone was dry, “Are you asking me to join you?”

“Obviously.”

“Why would I go with you?”

“Fine, stay here in this house all by yourself; if that’s not creepy to you,” he barked before walking away, making you sit up. Shit; he was right. Throwing the covers away from you, your feet sped down the stairs, heading him snicker. You slapped the back of his head, “Knew you would bre—ah!”

Slipping on your sneakers, you snatched your keys from the table, “I just didn’t want you driving my car. Now hurry up before I change my mind, asshole.”

After arriving to the mall, Elliot suggested raiding the pretzel store; resulting in him stuffing one of the plastic bags filled with cheese sauces. You had no idea why he needed so many of them.

Growing bored, you went over to this one vintage store next door to the hot dog joint, finding a small stereo behind the employee desk. Flicking it on, a random pop tune began to play, bobbing your head up and down whilst dancing around the store.

Mumbling to the lyrics, you let out a squeal, Elliot popping out from behind one of the stores’ aisles with an old woman scarf around his head. You couldn’t help but feel a laugh leave you, pushing his forehead away as he snickered.

“ooooooh i’m in love with judas—judas”

The song began to ring throughout the store, lady gaga’s voice echoing in the room. Your brows raised in surprised when Elliot grabbed a random hanger and used it as a microphone before jumping onto the counter with little to no effort, lip syncing to the lyrics.

Slapping a hand over your mouth, he jumped back down, throwing a pair of glasses at you before sending you a suggestive look. Biting your lip, you looked down at the object, then sighed.

Fuck it. It’s not like anyone else was going to see this.

Sliding them onto your eyes, your vision darkened, beginning to bounce onto your toes like Elliot while singing out the words, both of you letting out giggles like kids while dancing in the store.

You knocked over a stand of hangers, Elliot doing the same after you, trashing the store. He let out a cheer before grabbing your hand, and spinning you.

Then you moved over to the dressing room, a thin sheet of sweat covering your forehead while continuing to dance to the music. It felt great; finally letting go for the first time without any worries. You didn’t have to worry about the consequences, or what kind of grade this would give you.

Beginning to grow tired, you walked back out, Elliot laying on the ground while breathing heavily. Usually, you would send him a sassy remark about how many germs must be on the floor, but instead sank down beside him while you both stared up at the ceiling.

“Didn’t know you were fun, __.”

“I’m full of surprises,” you quipped back, smiling gently even though he couldn’t see it, “I don’t think I’ve ever danced like that.”

His tone came out higher, “Like…not even alone in your room?”

You shook your head, popping the p, “Nope.”

“Interesting,” he muttered, “Very interesting.”

After a few more minutes, you both went exploring a bit more, before heading back home.

You were both now stationed on the couch, Elliot smoking yet neither joint, which hung loosely from his lips.

“I’m gonna sleep,” you announced, curling onto your side on the floor. Elliot nodded, not even glancing at you to keep his eyes glued to the tv, as your eyes fluttered shut.

The tv kept playing in the background, and after a few moments, you felt someone crawl into the blanket beside you. Your body stiffened when Elliot’s cold fingers landed in the bare flesh of your hip, due to your tank top riding up once again, his hot breath fanning your ear.

Body growing rigid, his fingers tapped on the waistband of your boxer shorts, hearing him hum gently. His voice was a whisper, “Say yes, __.”

Your core began to pound, giving you against him, wiggling your hips against his hard on before whimpering, “Please.”

Inhaling sharply, he mumbled fuck before dipping his nimble, talented fingers beneath the elastic and cupping your mound, making your toes curl. He left open mouthed kisses on the open side of your neck as you breathed heavily.

His two fingers rubbed your sensitive pearl, before collecting some of your slick and using it to slide inside your folds. One of your hands flew to his wrist, holding onto him as he gently fingered you in your house under the blanket, “You’re so tight; holy shit, __.”

Letting out a pleading mewl, he chuckled, using his thumb to press harsh circles into your puffy clit. Your hips jolted as he pressed you against him.

“Does that feel good, __?”

You nodded, squeezing your eyes shut as his musky scent swarmed your mind, “So good. D-Don’t stop.”

Growling at your words, his chest rubbed against your back as you began to rock onto his fingers. He increased the pace, teeth sucking and nipping at the flesh of your throat, but you didn’t dare face each other.

It you had looked at one another—it would make it too real.

“Wanna see you fall apart on my fingers,” he breathed in your ear, biting at the shell of it, “Feel your tight pussy clamp down on ‘em. Missed that feeling.”

“E-Elliot, gonna come.”

His fingers left your slit, rubbing over your beet red clit, “Yeah? Show me, __.”

A high pitched moan rose from your chest, puffing out your breasts as you began to fall over the edge. Shoving his fingers back into your pussy, he added another finger; three of them pulling inside of you.

The knot twisted in your tummy, letting out tiny pants while he added another finger; the stretch setting you off.

Trembling on the floor, your lips fell open and cried out while you came undone by the boys’ hand. He groaned as your warm, wet walls choked his digits— just as he had asked you to do.

Once you came down, he pulled them back out, but kept his hand on your hip; leaning you confused. He didn’t make a move on doing anything else, just wanting to be beside you.

Your chest still tingly from your orgasm, your voice came out small, “What—“

“Just for tonight,” he muttered, digging his nose into your hair before draping his arm over your waist posessively, “Wanna sleep like this just for tonight.”

You gulped, but melted into his presence, snuggling into his arm as you sighed.

“Just for tonight.”

When you had woken up the next morning, your cheek against his chest, you jolted from the position before standing up from the floor. Elliot let out a small groan, rubbing his eyes, as panic began to set in your eyes.

You let him use you again.

Gulping, you brushed your hair away from your face, slapping a hand over your neck where he had kissed you prior.

“Does that feel good, __?”

Elliot rolled over onto the other side, prolonging his slumber with muffled grumbles. Letting out a huff, you raced to the bathroom, in attempt to shower his touch off your limbs completely.

You kept feeling his fingers down in your core, making lust bloom in your tummy—as you scrubbed your flesh with the orange loofa. Until it felt raw, you shut off the water, and threw on a pair of sweats and a baggy, baggy sweater.

Walking back to your room, you approached the window, looking outside with narrowed eyes. You missed your father. You missed Maddy.

It was so fucking exhausting, living with the only person that you ever had real feelings for. And pretending like he didn’t exist; when he was the only person here.

What if you stayed here forever? Would it really be that bad?

Feeling a pair of hands slither around your waist, his warm lips pressed a lingering kiss to the crook of your neck. You melted for a second, but then jumped from his touch, looking at him with wide eyes.

Elliot chuckled, reaching for you with puffy eyes. He must’ve just woken up. His voice rasped lowly, “What’s up with—“

“Last night was a mistake,” you told him, the drowsy smile on his face slowly fading at your words, “I was just lonely—and you were there. But there’s no time to fuck around anymore. I need to figure out a way to get the hell out of this place.”

His jaw tightened, his gaze flickering.

“I’m not going to leave like last time, __. You don’t have to worry about that,” he spoke softly, a tone you weren’t really used to. He took his bottom lip between his teeth, “And we can both figure it out together. We can still be friends.”

You scoffed, “No—we can’t. I wouldn’t be friends with you even if you were the last person on earth.”

His eyes squinted, “That wasn’t the best metaphor.” 

“I’m not doing this,” you muttered, snatching your notebook filled with your theories before tossing it onto your bed, “I need to focus. So please; just go back to your fucking house and leave me alone.”

“Fine,” he spat, sending you a fake smile, “Fuck you.”

He stormed out the room, leading you to bitterly chuckle.

“How grown of you!”

Yeah, you didn’t get much anything done.

You just couldn’t figure it out, and eventually gave up when your skull began to pound. You couldn’t help but feel guilty for treating Elliot the same way he had treated you after you initially slept together.

But then again, that was two years ago. You were both kids then.

Going downstairs, you cooked spaghetti, before packing the delicious noodles into a container and walking over to Elliot’s house. It felt eery, there being no cars and no people walking on the sidewalk.

He was right. It was really fucking creepy.

Knocking on the front door, he didn’t answer, so you tried again. No answer. You debated on leaving, but had made this stupid pasta for him, and he was going to eat it even if you had to shove it down his throat.

Turning the knob, you walked inside, gulping while walking down the only hall. Hearing the light strumming of a guitar, you peeked your head around the bedroom door, and rose your brows at the boy seated at the foot of his head.

He must’ve not heard you knocking earlier.

You recognized the instrumental, being I’m A Mess by Ed Sheeran. It was kinda humorous, actually, that he decided to play this song.

He really did have a talent, though. You knew he sang, but wasn’t aware that he played guitar as well. And he was really good, talented fingers sliding up and down the tail of the guitar while humming to himself.

His eyes were fluttered shut, sunlight shining down onto his golden curls; making him appear like a fallen angel. Feeling your heart turn warm in your chest, you didn’t notice yourself smiling faintly as you watched him— not until his eyes opened and aligned with yours.

He stopped, furrowing his brows while a nasty sound played from the instrument when he smacked his palm against the strings, “You don’t hate me for the time being?”

“You can’t cook for shit,” you bit the inside of your cheek, placing the container onto his desk.

“Figured you were hungry.”

He snorted, looking back down at his guitar, “Yeah, thanks.”

You took that as your cue to leave, pressing your lips together before spinning around.

“Stay—if you want.”

Gulping, you turned to face him, but he kept his eyes drawn to the object in his hands; beginning to play once again. You took a seat on the floor though, hugging your knees as you watched him with a new outlook.

Listening to him for a while, your eyes began to grow drowsy, his voice soothing you so much to the point where you almost fell asleep.

But your eyes bulged when he tossed a pillow at you, wearing a smile that hung from his lips, “Wake up, bitch.”

“The food is getting cold,” you mumbled, grabbing it and handing it to him. He thanked you before going to grab a fork, and ended up bringing two, giving you one before sitting on the floor beside you.

You blushed as you both ate quietly, until his voice broke the silence, “Surprised you didn’t burn it.”

“Shut up,” you laughed softly, putting down your fork as he took another bite, “Fun fact—the only think I can cook is spaghetti.”

“I believe it.”

He wasn’t eating anymore, his gaze falling back onto your lips. The sun had set a while ago, leaving you both under the dimly lit lamp in his room. The tension could’ve been sliced with a knife; his teeth sinking into his plump bottom lip as his eyes bored into yours.

You wanted to bite that lip for him.

But you also needed to be logical, and the only logical—

Eh, fuck it.

You pounced onto him, his hands instantly landing on your hips as you smashed your lips against his. His throat slid up to your throat, “Say you want this,” he breathed into your mouth, flipping you onto your back before grinding his hips into yours. His pupils were blown as he looked down at you, “Say you want me to fuck you; and I will.”

“Fuck me,” you whispered, his eyes flashing, “Fuck me, Elliot. Make me fucking scream.”

He growled before tugging off your hoodie, doing the same to him, bare chests pressing against each other as the rest of your clothes became a pile on his bedroom floor.

The hair on his chin scraped against the inside of your thighs, as he nipped at the flesh, making your slick drip down to the area, “Look at me when I eat this pussy, __. And don’t you fucking dare look away,” he ordered, slapping your clothes pussy when your hazy mind didn’t respond.

His eyes narrowed, “Okay?”

“Okay,” you mewled, arching your hips, “Please—just…”

“Fucking brat,” he spat before pulling your panties down your legs, throwing them behind him. He spread your thighs with his big hands before sucking in sharply when he saw your glistening, pink clit poking out from its hood, “Only like me when you wanna fuck me.”

Your hand flew to his curls, “I barely like you right now, Elliot.”

He chuckled, your eyes squinting into a glare, as he wrapped his lips around your puffy pearl and sucked harshly. Scowl shifting into your mouth falling open, a long moan ringing in his bedroom, his wet tongue flicked at the sensitive nub repeatedly while shaking his head to apply more pressure.

Your nerves were on fire. The strands on his hair tickled your skin as he lapped at your folds, before pulling away and intently looking at them. His lips were glossy from your slick. Spreading open your slit with his two fingers, he didn’t break eye contact before licking and sucking at the sensitive warm walls.

Breathing in deeply, your legs shook around his head, “Oh my god. I fucking hate you, but your mouth is l—like g—god.”

He hummed against you, making a spark of pleasure add a new wave of arousal from your cunt. He lifted his lips, before spitting onto your pussy, and roughly tonging your clit while your eyes begin to shut. His teeth nipped at the pearl, making you gasp, “Don’t fucking close ‘em. I won’t tell you again.”

“But I’m gonna—“

“I don’t care,” he grumbled, “Look at the person who’s making you cum, fucking brat. Show some respect.”

Gasping for breath, you lost composure as the coil snapped inside of you, “Fuck—I’m coming!”

Your eyes squinted as he looked up at you with those puppy dog eyes of his, catching every single drop of cum into his greedy mouth. Slurping loudly, you blushed as he kept going, letting out a squeak before pushing him off.

He wiped his chin, chuckling, “That was some pretty fucking good dessert.”

You didn’t know where your newfound confidence came from, but your hands pushed him down onto the floor; taking his cock from within his boxers and rubbing it against your folds.

Elliot widened his eyes at you, leaning on his elbows to really look at you, “Fuuuuck,” he let out a drawn out moan as you sunk down onto his thick, bulbous head—stretching you out. You winced before stopping once he was fully inside you, his size burning your walls, but you didn’t care, beginning to bounce into his length.

“Holy fuck, just like that,” he encouraged, one of his hands slapping your ass. The stinging sensation made you mewl, before he rubbed it after, taking one of your nipples into his mouth, “So sexy. So fucking hot.”

Your hands flew to his shoulders, tipping your head back as you whines out and moaned his name, “Don’t stop.”

“Roger that,” he huffed, moving his lips to your neck, sinking his teeth into the flesh making sure to leave a bruise. The pain went straight to your core, making it clench around him, “You’re so tight. Like a—fuck—fucking glove, __.”

He pinched your nipples, “Does it feel good? Fucking the boy you hate the most?” He hissed, spanking your ass again, your thighs growing strained from how hard you were bouncing on his cock. His eyes turned dark, “Jumping on my cock when you couldn’t even stand me two hours ago.”

His filthy words made your orgasm come closer, but you stopped, panting heavily as your body became worn out. He snickered, flipping you onto your back, before throwing your leg over his shoulder, “It’s all good. Now it’s time for me to fuck the brattiness outta you.”

His thumb rubbed at your clit, both of you watched his cock vanish in and out of your folds. You spotted his stomach clenching as he kept toying with your abused pearl, “Love watching this pussy try to take me in. So fucking cute.”

“God, I’m close,” you announced, making his thrusts become more erratic. Your hand flew to his wrist to hold onto something as he began to reach your cervix, “Holy fuck, Elliot, I—“

“There we go,” he breathed, your cunt so asking around his cock as you convulsed repeatedly. Your high hit you out of nowhere, eyes turning glossy as he smirked down at you, “There we fucking go. All over me.”

He pulled out his cock, rubbing it on your clit quickly, making a few drops of your cum splatter across both of you. You let out a scream as he shoved himself back in, ignoring the fact that you just came, making you began to scramble away from his length.

“Take it like a good girl,” he grabbed both your arms, forcing you to keep still as he began to now completely give it to you; chasing his release. His teeth gritted, “Don’t run away from me. Need you to come again for me.”

You didn’t know how you came so fast again, but as soon as his fingers began to messily rub your clit, you gritted your own teeth before the knot snapped. This time, Elliot came with you, his lips falling onto yours as he moaned against you. You both shook against each other as you came down, and after he caught his breath, he pulled out of you.

“Ow,” you whispered, and his eyes flickered.

“My bad.”

You waved your hand, “It’s fine.”

Putting your clothes back on, Elliot watched you with careful eyes, clearing his throat as you buckled your bra, “__.”

You hummed, looking at him with shy eyes. He bit his bottom lip, “I don’t want this to be just another—one night stand.”

You pondered for a moment, and then spoke.

“Let’s just see how things will go from here.”

“But what if we go back—and you don’t want anything to do with me?”

You didn’t know what to say, so you just swallowed before mumbling goodnight, and turned on your side. Elliot let out a sigh before sitting in the chair by his desk, and you tried your best to sleep.

You were woken up by someone slapping your cheek, eyes bulging as you met Maddy’s. She was bent on her knees, looking over at Elliot, who was holding you in his arms. You recognized the classroom you both were in, and realized it had all been a dream.

I mean—it had to be..right?

“Did you two fuck?”

Elliot jolted awake, wearing the same thing he was wearing the day you both got locked in the class; leaving you to believe perhaps it really was all just a figment of your imagination. You gulped as he looked at you, confused as well, brows pulled together as Maddy cackled, “Oh my god, you did! In the class too? Shit!”

“What’s going on?” You muttered, scratching your head.

Her eyes squinted at your neck, “Yeah, that hickey on your neck is what’s going on.”

She stood back up onto her feet, “Whatever. The assembly was boring as fuck without you, come on,” she sighed before walking out the class, swaying her hips in her pink joggers, “I’m fucking starving!”

Elliot leaned upwards, “We’re back.”

Oh. So it wasn’t a dream.

“Yeah,” you mumbled, “Guess so.”

He was about to stand up, but you pulled him in by his collar, pressing your lips to his. It was a sweet kiss; reassuring that you did want more than just sex. He kissed back, before biting back a smile when you pulled away, “See you later?”

He nodded, “If that’s what you want.”

Smiling while blushing, he sent you a salute, “Later, __.”

You chuckled as he skipped out the room, making you giggle more, bedore Maddy peeked her head around the room, “Did I just see Elliot skip out the room? Is your pussy that enchanting, bitch?”

“Thanks to you. Would’ve never been locked in here if you hadn’t texted me.”

A puzzled look crossed her features, “Texted you what?”

“For the pads,” you reminded, brushing off your jeans, “Remember?”

Her tone was confused.

“__…I never sent a text.”