iwriteficsandtragedies

[iwriteficsandtragedies]

I can read your mind "She's having the time of her life There in her glittering prime The lights refract sequin stars off her silhouette every night" I can show you lies

I CAN DO IT WITH A BROKEN HEART

#dancing through the hallway wiping away tears thanks #i can do it with a broken heart #TTPD #taylor swift #LOOK WHAT SHE DOES FOR US

[iwriteficsandtragedies]

“omg you’re so creative. how do you get your ideas” i hallucinate a single scene in the taco bell drive thru and then spend 13 months trying to write it

[iwriteficsandtragedies]

A Little TLC

Player: Gregor Kobel

Warnings: language

___________________________________________________

“You have to stop throwing yourself at the post.”

Gregor yelped in pain as you helped him out of his shirt, the deep purple and blue already spreading over his ribcage.

“I didn’t throw myself at the post,” he grumbled, sitting on the edge of the bed and gingerly raising his arm for you to examine him. “I threw myself at the ball. Post got in the way.” He sucked in a breath through his teeth when you spread the liniment over his skin. “Fuuuuuck, that hurts.”

“I bet it does,” you said. “Did they give you any pain meds?”

He nodded. “Can’t take anything else til morning.”

You watched him try to lower his arm. He was clearly still in a lot of pain. “You need to rest,” you sighed, nodding towards the pillows behind you. “Let me…” You chewed your bottom lip, wondering what to do. “Let me think.”

The guest bedroom had four extra pillows, the couch had some larger throw pillows, and you grabbed a sheet you didn’t like anyway from the linen closet. Gregor was in the bathroom when you returned to your room, which gave you a chance to arrange the pillows in a pile you hoped would be tall and wide enough to support his arm, sheet draped over to keep the ointment from staining. You heard another yelp from behind the door, followed quickly by “I’m fine.”

He was not fine. This was the second time in as many games he’d collided with the woodwork, and his ribs hadn’t had time to fully heal from the first. He’d never had much regard for himself between the sticks. Stop the ball. No matter what. Doesn’t matter if there’s a body, or a post, or a body and a post in the way. Stop the ball. And you’d gotten good at mending him, but he’d never gotten hurt back-to back like this. His chest looked awful.

“At this point you should just go to med school,” he joked when he returned, but he winced when he started to laugh. “Fuuuuuck,” he repeated. “I really did some damage this time.”

“They did an x-ray, yeah?”

He slowly settled himself into the bed, nodding. “Nothing’s broken. They’ll do another one tomorrow to check.” He reclined against the little half-throne you’d made him.

“Are you sure? Breaks aren’t always visible right away if there’s swelling, it could-”

“Baaaabe,” he whined. “Please just come lay with me.” His look was pitiful. He patted the pillow beside him.

You crawled over to him with a malcontented sigh, but you spooned up against him to lay your head on the unharmed side of his chest. “I just worry.”

“I know.” He traced his fingers over your jaw. “I’ll have to sit out the next one, maybe two.”

“Can we sit together?”

He let his arm hang over you, looking down at you. “I don’t know, can you promise not to hit me?”

“It was one time, I was excited!”

He chuckled, wincing again, grumbling. “I wanted to properly celebrate my first clean sheet, dammit.”

“You’ll heal up in a few days.” You slipped your hand under the hem of his shirt, smoothing it over the warm skin of his stomach. “You need to rest.”

He let his head lie back with a heavy exhale, and he tucked his arm tighter around you before closing his eyes. You’d never fall asleep like this, but he needed the comfort of you against him for awhile. “You were great tonight.”

He smiled, eyes closed and voice sleepy. “I was, wasn’t I?”

#aw this one was sweet wasn’t it #shameless reblog

[iwriteficsandtragedies]

Outside Thoughts

A/N SHORT. short short short. Matthew Tkachuk has rotted my brain, I hate the Panthers I hope they lose forever. 🌀

Warnings: immediate p in v unprotected outside sex, exhibitionism, choking if you squint not really

Athlete: Matthew Tkachuk

_____________________________________

The first time you realize Matty’s an exhibitionist is during the open air camping trip for his birthday, in your shared sleeping bag with his hand over your mouth and the other pressed tight to your belly while he grinds into you with slow, deep thrusts. 

“You can be quiet, yeah?” His breathy whisper tickles your ear and sends tingles down your spine. You struggle to nod, trapped between his hand and his shoulder. “Good girl,” he whispers again, “’My good fucking girl aren’t you?” He punctuates his words with a heavy push of his hips.

He buries his face into the side of your neck, whimpering as quietly as he can as he quickens his pace. You can hear how wet you are, the way his cock squelches in and out of you; you can’t believe nobody else can.

“Matty,” your voice is muffled against his palm. “Someone’s going to see us-“

“Fuck,” he grunts, cumming without warning. “Fuckfuckfuck,” and in the crushing grip of his arms you grin to yourself at the realization. 

His chest is slicked with sweat when you turn to face him after a few moments, chest hair glistening in light of the full moon. His jaw is slack, but his eyes are focused on yours. “Gimme… gimme a few ’n I can….”

“Sssh,” you soothe him with a hand to his chest. He’s drained. “Learned something new about ourselves, did we?” 

“Shutup,” he chuckles quietly, hiking your leg over his hip and crushing the rest of you flush against him. “You think anyone heard us?” He’s still so quiet you almost can’t hear him over the pounding of his heart in your ear.

You shake your head. They’d all drank so much before passing out it would take a siren to disturb anyone. “Gotta try harder next time.”

There’s a glint in his eye even as he’s still breathing heavy. “Next time.”

#matthew tkachuk fic #Matthew tkachuk x reader #hockey fic #hockey smut

[iwriteficsandtragedies]

#🤡 it me

[iwriteficsandtragedies]

[iwriteficsandtragedies]

Neglected

A/N oh my god they were roommates, 800 words. Be kind, it's been a thousand years.

Athlete: Dominik Szoboszlai

Warnings: 18+ only please - fingering, mouth full of sin; also breakups, shitty boyfriends, beer, porn; Google translated Hungarian. Shady POV switching.

________________________________________

Dominik greets her at the door with takeout and the good beer, just as she did for him during his last breakup. “That guy was trash, anyway.”

She rolls her eyes, shoves past him to drop her work things on the stairs and strip out of her winter outerwear. “Try not to look so happy about my impending spinsterhood.”

He chuckles as he turns for the kitchen to unpack their dinner. “He didn’t even watch football,” he called over his shoulder. “What did the two of you even talk about?”

He watches her pick through her food, waiting for her to open up first. She’s sad, but not devastated. “He wasn’t even all that into me,” she finally says, and he shifts his body towards her.

“What do you mean?’

She shrugs. “Just… never initiated. Anything. Never texted me first, never planned anything, never… anything, really.” She sets down her near-untouched food. “I don’t know why I put so much effort into it. And he was always jealous of us living together.”

He leans forward onto the counter next to her, his own food forgotten. “Idiot.” 

She looks towards him with a defeated half-smile. “Plus it’s hard to compete against… y’know, the internet.” He raises a questioning brow. “I think he preferred porn to me, honestly.” 

His brain goes blank for a moment, a dull hum in place of thoughts before he blinks himself back to awareness. “…the fuck?”

She laughs at his bewilderment. “Come on, Domi, it’s not like it’s a rare thing anymore.” He continues to stare at her in wide-eyed confusion. “Stop it.”

He rises to his full height, moving to stand in front of her. She can’t understand his muttering in Hungarian, but he looks pissed when he lays his hands on the counter to frame her in between his arms. “I hope his dick falls off.”

She can’t help the snort she makes, smiling up at him. “To be fair,” smile faltering when his face grows darker, closer to hers. “Domi, you-”

“When’s the last time he touched you,” he croons in her ear, fingertips skimming over the curves of her waist and hips. “When’s the last time he made you feel good, pretty girl?”

“I-” Her voice catches when he caresses the bare skin just beneath the hem of her shorts, her heart threatening to beat out of her chest. She can feel her face reddening, her body flushing with the heat rising in her. “I don’t remember.”

He makes a noise low in his throat, hands gripping dimples into her thighs. “Fucker,” he murmurs, and the press of his thigh between her legs spikes her adrenaline. His lips trace her jawline to her mouth, skimming over her trembling lips. “That’s unacceptable.”

She puts up no resistance when he hikes her legs around his waist, pushing her onto the counter to finally seal his lips against hers; she’s pliant when his tongue coaxes her bottom lip open, putty in his hands as they explore her body. He inches back to smile down at her and he’s so devastatingly handsome she has to bite back a whimper, fingers curling into his shirt. “Kiss me again,” she pleads, and he’s so eager to comply her body slides further backwards, head narrowly missing the cabinet behind her. With a grunt he forces her forward again, body molded to hers as his tongue desperately seeks out hers.

“Take me to bed,” she gasps, oxygen deprived but still starved for his kiss. “Take me to bed, Domi, please.” He curses when her fingers tighten in his hair, her hips rolling against his. He’s so hard it’s painful.

“Need to make you cum first,” he says, swallowing her whine of protest when he hikes her shorts and panties over her ass down to her knees. “Need it,” he whispers, begs. When he drags the pad of his thumb through the slick gathering between her legs, parting her lips to swipe over her clit in a slow, soothing rhythm, the shiver that darts up her spine pushes a moan from her throat.

“That’s it, isn’t it?” He’s equal parts arrogant and awestruck, pupils blown wide as he watches her come undone. She doesn’t try to still her quaking thighs, kept apart by his slim hips; she comes embarrassingly fast, his name a quiet cry on her lips when her orgasm jolts through her suddenly, engulfed by his scent when he presses himself ever closer to hold her as she trembles.

“Holy shit,” she says when she feels like she can breathe again. “You’re…” she trails off weakly.

He takes her chin between his thumb and forefinger to bring her face to his, his lips soft against hers again. “I’m just getting started,” he promises.

#feels good feels right

[iwriteficsandtragedies]

Neglected

A/N oh my god they were roommates, 800 words. Be kind, it's been a thousand years.

Athlete: Dominik Szoboszlai

Warnings: 18+ only please - fingering, mouth full of sin; also breakups, shitty boyfriends, beer, porn; Google translated Hungarian. Shady POV switching.

________________________________________

Dominik greets her at the door with takeout and the good beer, just as she did for him during his last breakup. “That guy was trash, anyway.”

She rolls her eyes, shoves past him to drop her work things on the stairs and strip out of her winter outerwear. “Try not to look so happy about my impending spinsterhood.”

He chuckles as he turns for the kitchen to unpack their dinner. “He didn’t even watch football,” he called over his shoulder. “What did the two of you even talk about?”

He watches her pick through her food, waiting for her to open up first. She’s sad, but not devastated. “He wasn’t even all that into me,” she finally says, and he shifts his body towards her.

“What do you mean?’

She shrugs. “Just… never initiated. Anything. Never texted me first, never planned anything, never… anything, really.” She sets down her near-untouched food. “I don’t know why I put so much effort into it. And he was always jealous of us living together.”

He leans forward onto the counter next to her, his own food forgotten. “Idiot.” 

She looks towards him with a defeated half-smile. “Plus it’s hard to compete against… y’know, the internet.” He raises a questioning brow. “I think he preferred porn to me, honestly.” 

His brain goes blank for a moment, a dull hum in place of thoughts before he blinks himself back to awareness. “…the fuck?”

She laughs at his bewilderment. “Come on, Domi, it’s not like it’s a rare thing anymore.” He continues to stare at her in wide-eyed confusion. “Stop it.”

He rises to his full height, moving to stand in front of her. She can’t understand his muttering in Hungarian, but he looks pissed when he lays his hands on the counter to frame her in between his arms. “I hope his dick falls off.”

She can’t help the snort she makes, smiling up at him. “To be fair,” smile faltering when his face grows darker, closer to hers. “Domi, you-”

“When’s the last time he touched you,” he croons in her ear, fingertips skimming over the curves of her waist and hips. “When’s the last time he made you feel good, pretty girl?”

“I-” Her voice catches when he caresses the bare skin just beneath the hem of her shorts, her heart threatening to beat out of her chest. She can feel her face reddening, her body flushing with the heat rising in her. “I don’t remember.”

He makes a noise low in his throat, hands gripping dimples into her thighs. “Fucker,” he murmurs, and the press of his thigh between her legs spikes her adrenaline. His lips trace her jawline to her mouth, skimming over her trembling lips. “That’s unacceptable.”

She puts up no resistance when he hikes her legs around his waist, pushing her onto the counter to finally seal his lips against hers; she’s pliant when his tongue coaxes her bottom lip open, putty in his hands as they explore her body. He inches back to smile down at her and he’s so devastatingly handsome she has to bite back a whimper, fingers curling into his shirt. “Kiss me again,” she pleads, and he’s so eager to comply her body slides further backwards, head narrowly missing the cabinet behind her. With a grunt he forces her forward again, body molded to hers as his tongue desperately seeks out hers.

“Take me to bed,” she gasps, oxygen deprived but still starved for his kiss. “Take me to bed, Domi, please.” He curses when her fingers tighten in his hair, her hips rolling against his. He’s so hard it’s painful.

“Need to make you cum first,” he says, swallowing her whine of protest when he hikes her shorts and panties over her ass down to her knees. “Need it,” he whispers, begs. When he drags the pad of his thumb through the slick gathering between her legs, parting her lips to swipe over her clit in a slow, soothing rhythm, the shiver that darts up her spine pushes a moan from her throat.

“That’s it, isn’t it?” He’s equal parts arrogant and awestruck, pupils blown wide as he watches her come undone. She doesn’t try to still her quaking thighs, kept apart by his slim hips; she comes embarrassingly fast, his name a quiet cry on her lips when her orgasm jolts through her suddenly, engulfed by his scent when he presses himself ever closer to hold her as she trembles.

“Holy shit,” she says when she feels like she can breathe again. “You’re…” she trails off weakly.

He takes her chin between his thumb and forefinger to bring her face to his, his lips soft against hers again. “I’m just getting started,” he promises.

#dominik szoboszlai fic #dominik szoboszlai smut #football fic #football smut #football one shot #RPF is necessary actually #football imagine

[iwriteficsandtragedies]

The First Time

A/N I... wrote something????? It's been 84 years etc etc and it's not about a footballer because, tbh, they were so disappointing in 2023 that I have struggled to find any motivation to write my silly little fics about them. So here's a fluffy SHORT little thing about a hockey goaltender because I am nothing if not consistent and a bitch does love a tall lanky goalie.

Athlete: Jeremy Swayman

Warnings: none (I know!)

Being alone in Jeremy’s apartment was peaceful, if a little bit odd. He had waited all of twenty minutes into their third date to have the “we should only see each other” talk, smile on his face as wide as the Bunker Hill bridge. He was a man who knew what he wanted, and he wasn’t timid about asking for it.

Still, it had only been a month. Having a key to his place, being here alone in the middle of the night, just waiting for him to get home from the airport… didn’t feel wrong, just odd. The team flight had been delayed by the snow, but the biggest perk of living downtown was late night access to delivery, and he had good beer in an otherwise empty fridge. 

She heard his key in the door and rose quickly from the sofa to meet him, ruffling her hands through her hair before she rounded the corner into the hall to see him drop his suitcase to the floor and open his arms to her. “You waited.”

“Of course I waited,” she laughed lightly, pressing herself into him, inhaling the scent of him through the layers of airplane air and Boston traffic. “I missed you.”

“I missed you, too.” He swayed a bit, squeezed her a little tighter. “Sorry it’s so late.”

“Night shift,” she reminded him. “One in the morning is nothing.” She smiled into his chest before he moved them all the way into the apartment, locks clicking into place before he shed his shoes and coat. In the light of the entryway she could see his dark circles and overgrown scruff. Three weeks on the road had done a number on him. 

“You hungry? There’s leftover Chinese.”

He ate slowly at the kitchen counter, suppressing the occasional yawn in between bites. He always had so much to say to her, and he always wanted to know what she thought about everything, but tonight he was practically silent. When he finished, he slung an arm around her shoulders to pull her to into his side and lay his head atop hers with a heavy exhale.

“Will you stay the night? Just… just to sleep.” He pulled back to look at her, tired eyes hopeful. “I missed you, a lot, but I’m so fucking tired.”

She grinned. “Do you have an extra toothbrush?”

He did have an extra toothbrush, and plenty of t-shirts for her to sleep in. Nerves had her giddy as she finished getting herself ready for bed in his bathroom; she’d never spent a night with him before, his schedule always requiring early morning alarms and her schedule that of a night shifter with no other responsibilities simply full of overtime and day sleeping. 

She thought he’d already fallen asleep when she gingerly slid herself into bed beside him, but his eyes blinked open and he reached for her with a smile. His hand came to rest on her hip to urge her closer to him before linking his fingers through hers and bringing her hand to his lips. His eyes were closed again, breathing slowed and even. 

“S’nice coming home to you,” he mumbled. She craned her neck to press a sweet kiss to his mouth, but she had lost him to sleep.

#there's more in here i can feel it #the brain is just rusty #500 words though! #hockey fic #nhl fic #jeremy swayman fic #bruins fic

[iwriteficsandtragedies]

player: Benjamin Pavard words: 557 request: Benjamin pavard - no pref - 250-500 - Ok so going star gazing with Benji like he sets up one of those trucks you know with blankets and stuff in the back and drives her to a field as a surprise. And it turns out he’s so knowledgeable about stars telling her all about the constellations and stuff whist they’re cuddled in the back

The last thing she expects when Benjamin takes the turning that he does, is to see a large truck adorned with candles. From here, she cannot see if they’re real or LED but the effect is stunning and she finds herself leaning forward and squinting her eyes as she tries to take in as many of the details as she can before she’s out of the vehicle. 

“Ben?” It's no real question but it holds all the unanswered questions that linger on her tongue and the chuckle that comes from him says that he knows exactly what she means and he hears them. The closer they get, the more details she’s able to pick out and the smile that had started to form on her face is now spreading completely across her cheeks. 

“Can I…?” she asks, hands already gripping the handle of the door; itching to get out and see everything up close. 

Ben laughs and nods in agreement, an action that he’s barely finished doing before she’s yanking off her seat belt and already climbing out of the door before he’s fully finished killing the engine. By the time he’s exited the car himself and locked it, she’s already peering over the open back of the truck and squealing with happiness. 

She’s confirmed that the candles are LED but they look convincing enough to get a double if not a triple check. Thick blankets are laid out on the bottom of the truck bed and plush cushions are laid out in such a way that she immediately wants to throw herself into them. The only thing that’s stopping her from doing this, is a basket which looks to be adorned with food and drink. 

“This is definitely for us, right?” She has to ask this question. It’s not as though Ben turns his romantic side on often but she also doesn’t know why else he would turn to come to this particular spot if it wasn’t for them. 

“No. I saw it abandoned on the way home, all lit up like this, and I thought it would be fun to steal it.”

“Hilarious." she gives a sarcastic smile and peers back over the top once more. A picnic and blankets beneath the stars? This is hands down the most romantic thing that Ben has ever done. 

“I thought we could have a snack, maybe a little drink and try and spot Aquila.” Benji explains his motives and this earns him a quizzicle look from her. 

“Is that an animal?” She asks, frowning enough to make her nose crinkle. 

“No silly.” he chuckles and steps forward until he’s right behind her. “Ok so,” he glances up and squints until he spots what he’s looking for. “See that kite kind of shape in the stars? Many say it looks like an eagle but I think it’s more like a kite.” He watches her face as she continues to frown at the sky but a smile stretches across his face when her eyes seem to light up and a proud expression changes her face. 

“I see it. Right there.” her hand raises and she gestures in a rough place to Ben but one that looks in the right direction to were he’s looking. 

“That’s right. And if we’re lucky we’ll be able to see a few more constellations.”

#we love a space nerd #recs

[iwriteficsandtragedies]

Something More

Federico Bernardeschi roommate smut, as requested. *flails arms*

Warnings: smut, language. 18+ only, please

_______________________________________l

“This is like, the thirst trap to end all thirst traps.” 

"What does that even mean?” Federico stood there half naked with his guitar. You were taking pictures for him to post to his Instagram, supposedly to thank the company for gifting him the instrument, but he could have thanked them without his nipples on display.

Keep reading

#reblog for…..reasons

[iwriteficsandtragedies]

FYI spam like my shit all you want, it’s literally why I put things on the internet

#imagine being shitty that people like your shit l #unhinged

[iwriteficsandtragedies]

[iwriteficsandtragedies]

spoils of war

{dominik szoboszlai x fem!reader}

in which his national team loses against hers, and she ties him up with his captain’s band.

warnings: plotless smut, as always: some elements of bondage and being tied up / restrained with mild choking, not being allowed to come, blowjobs, accusations of cheating in football, coming without permission.

a/n: i have edited this a billion times and am finally happy with it. I was seized with this idea for days and needed to finally churn it out. please enjoy my first foray into writing about Dominik. written for my captain kink challenge.

He wants to cum. Needs to cum.

He watches her with pleading, begging eyes, from his entwined hands behind his back, wrists bound with the very band he’d brought home tonight, in response to her teasing jokes and taunts. 

She’d been bantering his team all night, arrogant and smug with the confidence that her side was clearly going to win, while he’d only been able to torture her back by sending sweaty selfies with his captian’s band prominently displayed on one delicious bicep. She’d been so devious in her reply, and that, he thinks, was probably what got him all distracted in the first place and led to their appalling loss.

All she’d texted him was: so when you lose, Domi - you going to let me tie you up with that band?

And he was utterly done for.

It’d been the quickest “yes” he’d ever replied with. No shame, no hesitation - not even the least bit disgusted with himself for somehow hoping they’d lose. God - he should be tried for crimes against his own country and taken in as a prisoner of war.

That’s what he is, after all - the spoils of war. In the aftermath of a gruelling match, they’d been trashed so badly he could barely look the fans in the face once they left the field. As she’d predicted, her national team had beaten his in a historic defeat that they will be singing about for years to come - one, he knows, she will never let him forget about. Ever. 

Back at the hotel, now - she is so eager to take every chance to humiliate him in the best way possible, relishing in the great pleasure of stripping him out of his Hungarian kit so she can push him down on the bed and straddle him to take charge. He tries to distract her with kisses along her neck, stopping only when her hands wind his behind his back with the captain’s band he’d brought back. He hisses at the feeling of being restrained, wanting to be free to touch her.

“Nuh uh,” comes her cruel reply. She’s wearing the bright colours of her national team jersey in the skimpiest pair of panties he’d ever seen, and there’s a damp spot already forming along the centre of it.

His mouth waters - gaze skimming down the curves of her body as she shifts back, admiring her pretty face that now dips down to mouth over his hard cock with lips so sinful and supple. A rough sound tears itself from his throat - he can’t help it, twitching and struggling against her relentless cruelty. She’d been merciful to leave his mouth alone - not gagged, because she wants to hear how gruff he gets, how his moans fill the space of their bedroom.

“And what does this captain have to say,” she murmurs, tongue swiping at the bead of precum that already gathers at the tip of his cock because he’s so turned on, “about your spectacular loss against us, hm?”

He growls, straining up into her mouth when she takes his cock now, wrapping around it with tight, enclosed lips, teasing him with her tongue and the playful edge of humiliation that he can’t get enough of. The shame burns in his cheeks - he doesn’t want to give her the satisfaction of admitting they were the poorer side.

“Your boys were cheats,” he grits out, a grimace on his face as she cups his balls and rolls them in her skilful hands. He feels them tighten up - so close, so eager. Wanting just a bit more friction, more of her touch and that wet, hot suction so he can -

She pulls her hand away, indignation all over her face. “We played fair,” she huffs, before adding with a smirk. “You’re the ones who played dirty.”

The word in her accent is a goddamn mindfuck. He can’t handle the way her hot breath brushes against his oversensitive dick before she takes him into her mouth again, swallowing around him, making him struggle with the need to stop her before he’s driven over the edge. He makes pathetic little sounds of protest because words fail him when she gets like this - so indecently smug, especially when she pops her mouth off his cock with an obscene final suck that definitely takes years off his life. He’s helpless - watching her climb into his lap now, her breasts in his face that he can’t stop staring at - the soft swells enticing enough for his cock to throb again, painful and aching. He struggles against the captain’s band that now restrains him - wishing he could touch her. Wishing he had been good and worthy. 

She sits atop his erection now, pressing the satin of her underwear against his hardness. He can feel how wet she is already - how searingly hot her cunt is when she’s trapping him like this. Her hands are on his chest, and he grows momentarily distracted as she caresses him, runs fingers over the smoothness of him, over the taut muscles of his body, his pretty tattoos.

He whimpers at the pleasure of her touch on him, almost wanting to close his eyes to bask in it, to soak it right up. 

But, as he well knows, pleasure with her is always meted out with a little bit of cruelty. 

Her fingers now wander to the silver chain he wears around his neck, and his eyes fly open in surprise. She fiddles with the heaviness of it, playfully twisting her fingers in it, over and over until the chain tightens and bites into the skin of his neck. “Such a shame,” she drawls, “you don’t know how to play fair.”

She could choke him, if she so wanted. And he might even beg for it. 

Dominik licks his bottom lip, eager. Barely restraining himself. She’s got his fullest attention now.

So she starts talking, and he feels a different kind of pleasure altogether. She’s ruthless - cutting sharply through each element of his game, detailing aspects of tactics he himself didn’t even think twice about, let alone be able to convey with such clarity. In one fell swoop, she dissects his team’s weaknesses, picking out things that even his coach didn’t cover, while they were being berated on the way back to the hotel. He grows hot at the shame that wells up, the attraction he feels towards her spiralling manically out of control now at how articulate she is, how clever she gets about all this. How much she loves the game even more than he does. How closely she’s paid attention. 

How lucky he is to have her.

“Like I said, Domi…” she murmurs now, keeping the chain just a tad too tight until his mouth drops open in excitement, as her eyes meet his with purposeful, seductive intent, and her hips roll over his cock that aches, that throbs, “such dirty. fucking. cheats.”

He gasps and stiffens, a wild, desperate look flashing in his eyes as he comes, hard, all over their entwined bodies, right between the juncture of her sweet thighs. 

He looks so beautiful - shaking endlessly with shameful, broken moans, while she giggles at the warm, wet mess, and all the power he affords her tonight. 

-

This man will definitely be the death of me. Can you tell I’m not okay about him??? Many thanks to @emilielfc and @percervall for sending me so much brainrot about him 🥰.

Hope you enjoyed this - and feel free to send me more captain band kink scenarios!

love, ives

[iwriteficsandtragedies]

Days of You & Me: January

Pairing: Joel Miller x OFC!Alison Murphy Word Count: 7.0k+ Warnings: Descriptions of death/injury (OFC is a nurse). Awkward turtle Joel. Little shit baby brother Tommy. Author's Note: Sitting on my hands has been so so so difficult but I'm so glad that I did. I've been working for a couple of weeks on this story now. If I tag too many people, this won't show up in the tags but such a huge thank you to everybody has encouraged me and proofread and helped me edit. It means so much and I love you so much. Please follow @wyn-writing and turn on updates (if you want to) for notifications on this story. If you follow the link to the series masterlist, you can access the playlist.

Days of You & Me Masterlist

January 4, 2003:

Only an hour left in this bright light bullshit.

God, maybe two. Maybe more.

Lost count to quitting time somewhere around the third car wreck that made its way through the emergency room doors. Another pileup somewhere on I-71 because Texans can’t drive in the best of weather, and rain really makes a fool out of them.

Freeze the rain and it gets worse. 

So many needless deaths today. Screw the paperwork that comes with it; that’s nothing but typing notes into the computer and calling it a day. I can handle that. It’s when the light goes out behind somebody’s eyes that chips away at my soul. If I didn’t believe in something and a balance, something far bigger than myself, then I would’ve slipped away with all those souls a long time ago, too.

But God, I need a fucking break.

“Murphy,” a voice over my shoulder, “you busy?”

“I don’t know, Andrea, do I look busy?”

“Less busy,” she responds, placing a hand on my shoulder, “and more like hell. How you holding up?”

Let’s see, I’ve only been able to piss once today while simultaneously being on my eighth cup of coffee and the only food I’ve had is half a cinnamon roll so… "Just fantastic, Drea.” Looking up at her and her sympathetic smile, I immediately regret it. “I'm being a bitch, Andrea, I’m real sorry.” 

“No apologies, it’s been a day. That’s why I figured you’d want the handsome gentleman that just came in.” She winks conspiratorially. “No wedding ring.”

A laugh barely passes my lips. Andrea’s the head nurse but she might as well be my mom with the way she’s constantly trying to set me up. Hell, the first time my mother visited and they met, the two of them couldn’t get over what a catch I am. Mom said my accent had changed enough after a decade, I should be pulling the cowboys in left and right. Drea agreed, even brought up my dimples and good humor.

“Depends. Is the handsome gentleman close to death? Because that seems to be the only thing I’m good for today.”

She shakes her head. “He needs stitches, not a grim reaper. Get him sorted and you can head on home, I’ll finish your notes.”

“But—“

She raises her hand to stop me. “Don't argue with me, I’m handing you a hot guy and a break. Go!”

There’s another reason to believe there’s something else calling the shots out there—I have Andrea. And if nobody else hears my prayers, I know she does.

Miller, Joel. The chart is bare bones chicken scratch; a name and height, birthdate, blood pressure, description of injury—gash across nose—and the recommended treatment. 

"This is bullshit, Tommy,” comes a deep, thickly accented voice behind the curtain. “We’ve been here for hours, I need to get home to Sarah.”

So much for no ring on his finger.

The other man—Tommy—says she’ll be alright and that she ordered a pizza. That’s a good fucking idea, actually. But as I pull the curtain back, I start to lose my appetite again.

Gash across nose was not an accurate descriptor. Large gash across nose would be more apt. Hell, it’s split so wide I’m curious how it’s even hanging on. Not quite sure where Andrea got handsome out of that; I can see it, maybe, but maybe she saw a thirty-one year old man without grays and figured that’d be good enough. 

Both men are looking at me like I’m the one with half a nose.

“Finally—“

“—you’re the doctor?” 

“I'm very sorry for your wait, Mr. Miller,” I address the man on the gurney and turn to the other while pulling on my gloves. “And, no, I’m not the doctor. We’re a little bit short handed today so I’m drawing all the straws on stitches. You’re welcome to wait longer,” I continue, turning back to Mr. Miller, “if a doctor is who you pref—“

“NO!” It comes out pretty gruff—a half angry bark—and he attempts to take a deep breath. “No,” he says again. “No, this is fine. Just put my face back together and we’ll be out of your hair.”

“Yeah, maybe you’ll do him a favor,” the other man says. “Actually make him good looking for once in his life.”

“Tommy, get the fuck out.” 

“Oh, he’s not bothering me, Mr. Miller.”

“Joel, please,” he says, wincing as I tip his head up to the light. “And he’s sure as shit agitating me. I’m sure you can tune out an asshole or two but I’ve been trying since this one was born so I don’t think you’ll have much luck.”

The other man takes his leave, says he’s gonna go update Sarah, and all tension drops from Joel’s shoulders. I finally see the handsome when he opens his eyes—big and brown, salt water building in the ducts at the corners. Magnetic and kind.

“Have they cleaned this yet, Joel?” 

“No, they put me in here and said somebody would be with me soon.” 

Every time I push his fingers away, they try to come back and I can tell he’s trying to resist temptation to hold himself together—literally—but he is failing. 

“And did you attempt to clean the wound at all?” I ask, finally smacking him across the hand like a toddler.

“Sweetheart,” he breathes out, “it’s a struggle just trying to keep my eyes open right now.” 

Sweetheart. I know he doesn’t mean anything by it, that’s just southern hospitality. But ten years in Texas and I’m still not used to it. Never had it light fire in my bones before either, though. “Fair enough,” I tell him, letting go to prepare an irrigation syringe to push the debris out of the wound. “So… did you lose or should I see the other guy?”

He huffs a laugh as I get to work, attempting to pull away when the water hits his nose. “Considering my fight was with a two by four, I think it’s safe to say I lost.” 

“Oh, please tell me it at least snapped in half. An eye for an eye and all that.”

Joel laughs again. “Fuck, I hope not. It’s Brazilian Olivewood, expensive as hell but so’s our client—and so is sitting in this damn cubicle. Let’s not lose me too much money today.”

Wound clear of debris, I put the syringe down and pluck the cotton pad out of the saline solution and start dabbing carefully at the dried blood crusted onto the edges of his broken skin. He keeps wanting to pull away, broad chest rigid and jaw set against the pain. “I can give you a numbing shot,” I tell him casually.

“That'll run me—what? A grand?”

“Round about,” I tell him. “Can you really put a price on comfort?”

“Yes,” he confirms. “Yes, I can. I don’t give a fuck about myself, I’ll take the pain. Now, if Sarah was the one sitting here…” He trails off. We both know how that sentiment would end but it’s almost like he can’t fathom that possibility.

“Well, she is a lucky woman, Mr. Miller.”

“Joel, please” he says. “I’m thirty-five, not the goddamn crypt keeper. As for Sarah, well…” He takes another deep, labored breath. “It feels like she’s more mature than I am most days. Fourteen going on forty-five but I’d break my back to give her the world. Hell, I broke my nose trying to.” 

“Your nose is certainly busted, Joel,” I tell him. “But I think you’ll be okay. I do, however, need you to stop crossing your eyes to look at what I’m doing.”

“Just wanna make sure you’re doing it right.” 

“Maybe you should focus on doing your job right and you wouldn’t have to worry about mine.” 

His eyes meet mine and he smiles, crooked and quiet, and easy silence falls over us as I pull string through skin. 

Back in its proper place, and with most of the blood gone, I take in more of those good looks—a curved nose with full lips, day old stubble growing up to the fine lines of fatigue beneath his eyes and the soft kind of cheeks that smile lines like to call home. If anything, the scar this leaves him with will only serve to make his face more interesting. 

“I'd give you some ibuprofen but that would be another two-fifty,” I tell him as I pull the final stitch through. “I trust you know how to get to the pharmacy.”

“That I do.” His voice is low as he leans towards me. "I'm a rewards member.”

“Great,” I say, stepping back at the shock I feel from his proximity. “Follow the directions on the bottle, keep”—I wave my hand over his nose—“this clean and the stitches will dissolve as it heals. Come back if anything weird starts coming out of it.”

“Weird?”

“Pus, mainly. But if you rip it open with more Olivewood, we can add blood to that list.”

“Jesus, have a little faith in me, you’re starting to sound like my brother.” His eyes follow me as I clean the area around him, making an easier job for the—what did he call it?—cubicle to be turned over for the next occupant. “You're not from here, are you?”

“That obvious, huh?”

His head is shaking when I turn back to him. “Not obvious unless you're looking real close, which I have been.”

“Boston,” I tell him. “Close enough to it anyway.” 

“You don’t sound like it,” he says. “How the hell did you even end up down here?”

Laughing, I tell him I got into UT Austin. “Came for the warmth.” 

“Not the parties?” He asks, shocked.

“Not the partying type.” I let the r drop from partying and he smiles.

Gaze staying fixed to my movements. I can feel nerves creeping in, a free falling kind of anxiety butter fingers are made of and I’m waiting for the tray worth more than my paycheck to fall. 

He grabs his jacket as he stands and nods at me as if tipping some kind of hat. “Thanks for fixing my face, sweetheart.” 

January 9, 2003:

“Morning, Murphy,” Andrea says as she walks in. “Been a while since I saw you darkening my doorstep. Busy day?”

I’ve pulled shifts in pediatrics and cardiology the last few days, covering for their staff shortages wherever I can fit myself in. Neither’s much fun. While I do like that I get a longer amount of time to spend with the patients, build a rapport with them, that only makes the hurt hurt more. Especially pediatrics.

“For the sake of my sanity, I’m going to say yes,” I tell her, looking up from my spot in the nurse’s station. “And I’ve already had to tell one of the doctors to go fuck themselves.”

“What did they do?”

“Found out they’d been putting off admitting a kid with suicidal ideation who’s been waiting all night. Apparently it’s the fourth time this month the kid has been in here but I looked it up and it’s only the second.”

Andrea nods her head. “I would’ve yelled too.”

“I never said I yelled, I said I told him to fuck himself.”

She sits beside me then. “Maybe I shouldn’t tell you what happened yesterday then. Or the day before that either.” 

I stare at her, waiting for the stories, but I have to roll my hand in a gesture to get on with it before she starts speaking.

“Remember that hunky guy from Friday?” She asks. “The one whose nose you put back together?”

“Yes?”

“Well, he came in on Monday looking for you, said you told him to come back if anything weird came out of his nose other than blood.”

“Oh god, what color was it?” I ask. 

She laughs. “That's the thing, there was nothing wrong with his nose as far as I could tell, your stitches looked good and his face was clean.”

“Then”—I can feel my face pinch up in confusion—“why was he here?” 

“Oh, he said he wanted to thank the nurse who helped him. When I said I’d pass along the message, he said he’d much rather tell you himself. He asked if you worked Tuesday but I said I didn’t give out schedules and he understood. Still came back though.”

“Came back in a… creepy way?”

She shakes her head. “I didn’t get that vibe from him. Actually—I think your mama might owe me some money for being the one to finally find you a man.”

Money? “You made a bet?”

She shrugs. “If he comes back today, maybe I’ll tell you.” 

January 11, 2003:

If Joel Miller showed up on Wednesday, I wasn’t made aware of it.

Same goes for yesterday.

But today, at the end of all the bullshit and the car crashes both coming in and happening all around me, I’m called to the waiting room.

Standing easily at six feet with two half black eyes, Joel worries the brim of a hat in his hands as he looks around nervously. He really is handsome. Not my type but not not my type.

Joel’s the kind of guy I’m attracted to but never the one I end up with.

Or, at least, end up horizontal with.

“You work tomorrow?” The end of his sentence goes up a little higher than I think he meant it to, like he wanted it to come off cool and lost himself along the way.

He told the front desk he was worried about his stitches, just wanted them checked out to make sure he’s keeping up with them alright. Which he is, they’re perfect. His request was bullshit and he apologized for interrupting my day. I didn’t tell him that this interruption was a much needed respite to the chaos behind the doors.

“Why?” I ask, studying the broken blood vessels darkening the bridge of his nose. “Are you planning on losing a finger next? Because I gotta be honest with you, Mr. Miller, short straw or not, that is far out of the scope of my responsibilities.”

He laughs. “No. But I’d like to stop by and maybe take you to lunch.”

Holy shit.

“That's bold, Joel, but I’m off for the next four days so I guess we’ll just have to part with only this between us.” 

“So you’ll be back Wednesday?”

“I don’t give out my work schedule, sir,” I tell him.

Smile lines do form then, lips stretching wide to show a bright smile. “Just tell me what you like in your coffee, I owe it to you after you took such good care of me.”

“Don't worry, your insurance will pay me enough for the official visit you already had but”—my voice drops to a whisper as I lean in—“I’ll never refuse a plain latte with cinnamon on top.”

I shock myself even as I say it.

“Plain latte, cinnamon on top” he repeats, the smile growing wider. “You have a nice weekend, ma’am, and I’ll see you on Wednesday.”

Handsome. Funny. No ring. Showed up to ask if he could buy me a coffee.

Usually when a man hits on me in here, it’s so crude that I’m not sure I can count what he did as flirting. I watch as he walks out, placing his hat back on his head as soon as he’s beyond the doors, and release the air of cool I had been holding in for so long.  

January 16, 2003:

Maybe Friday didn’t end as well as I thought.

I came back in to learn somebody from one of the car wrecks didn’t make it after all. She seemed like she would but something went wrong in the hours well after surgery.

I question this career choice after news like that; after the days like Friday was when the bad moments outweigh the good ones. Sometimes there’s no balance and the chaos I willingly chose and prepared for all those years ago is just too much. 

There were two wins in my pocket when I walked out those doors. One slipped away in the early hours of Saturday morning and, as the clock pushes forward into the late afternoon, it’s looking more and more like it slipped the other’s mind.

“Hey, Drea,” I say, leaning against the counter of the nurse’s station. “I think I’m gonna go ahead and grab lunch.” 

The older woman nods her head, waving me away. 

Lunchbox already in hand, I push my way out the door and into the outside, grateful that the heavy rains have subsided for the foreseeable future. Even then, the air smells like mud and dead leaves. I’m so busy watching my feet, making sure I don’t slip, that I don’t fully register the boots until I’m colliding face first into another person.

“Looks like I’m just in time,” comes a deep, thickly accented voice.

That second win.

I hate the way I know I’m beaming when I look into his big brown eyes. “It’s not like we had set one.”

Joel nods, eyes darting down to my lunchbox. “You didn’t have much hope though, did you?”

“I was losing it,” I shrug.

“Well”—he holds up a fast-food bag in one hand and a coffee tray in the other, nodding to each—“hopefully this makes up for it.”

Eying the bag, I ask, “how’d you know what I’d want?”

“I didn’t. But I’ve never met a girl who didn’t like chicken nuggets and french fries.”

“Congrats, Mr. Miller, you’ve figured women out.” I take the bag and head towards the parking lot before calling back. “You should write a book, you’ll make a killing.” 

“I'm not trying to make a killing, ma’am,” he says, taking two steps to fall right into stride beside me. “You think I want dumbasses like my brother to know how to talk to pretty girls like you?”

Opening the driver’s side door, I tuck myself into the seat and look up at him. “Who said I’m a pretty girl?”

He smiles, “I did.”

“Well, then,” I shake my head, “I guess I get your point.” 

“Am I allowed to sit in your car with you”—he nods to the empty passenger seat—“or would you rather I hand you your coffee and fuck right off?”

Joel’s built tall and broad, shoulders stacked over a straight spine like he’s being held up by a hanger. His face is dropping though, as moments stretch between us, until, finally, he grabs one cup from the holder and hands it over. “I guess I’ll be on my way then—“

“Get your ass in the car, Joel.”

Smile lines again. Deep set parentheses in his cheeks and, this time, I see a dimple that matches my own but this one only pockets his right cheek. He jogs across the front of my car like he’s aware of every single pound he weighs, all but throwing himself into the passenger seat as soon as the door is open. “Did I make myself”—he licks his lips before taking in a deep breath—“incredibly obvious there or what?” 

Shaking my head, I shove another fry into my mouth. “What was supposed to be obvious? Are you flat footed?” I lean into him, examining the smile that’s somehow getting wider. “Is that why you run like that?”

“What's wrong with the way I run?” 

Another fry. “Nothing.”

In the still silence of the small car, the minutes tick by between bites and sips. Usually, new people have me hammering on in nervous nothingness and stuttered speech patterns, tripping over my tongue to find words that don’t make me sound like an idiot. Not Joel.

I feel like I’ve sat in a thousand parking lots sharing silence with him.

“This is strange.” 

Funny he should say that. “What is?” 

Joel breathes deep and tips his cup to his lips again. “Just don’t want you thinking it’s my habit to bring lunch to pretty girls.”

“There you go with that pretty girls again, I guess you really do think I am one.”

“I—yes. I do. This is exactly why I didn’t tell Tommy about this, I’m making myself sound like a goddamn fool.” 

“Maybe just a fool,” I tell him, head resting against the back of my seat. “God doesn't look like he’s damned you yet but”—I reach out and curve my hand beneath his chin, thumb pressing into one cheek while the tips of all my fingers press into the other—“This hasn’t come too far in healing, there’s hope for you yet. Are you keeping it clean?” 

“Doing my best.” Pink tongue darts out against his lips, eyes squinting as he nods in my direction. “Does it really look that bad?”

I shrug. “Looks like shit but that’s to be expected, it’s only been a couple of days. You said you lost a fight to a two by four?” 

Joel nods against my grip. “I'm a carpenter, I-I work in construction.”

“I know what a carpenter is, Joel. You don’t just work in construction.” 

“Right, well… I asked Tommy to hand me a piece of wood, which he was already doing because the dumbass can read my mind, only”—he shakes his head—“he was swinging the goddamn thing at my head like a baseball bat trying to be funny and I turned just as he was swinging and then I met you.”

“With a couple hour wait between.”

“More like three hours,” he corrects me. “But I got a date out of it.”

I let go of him. “This is a date?”

“I'd like it to be. Like I said, I don’t do this—date, talk to girls. Unless it’s the moms at school events. I have a daughter, by the way.” 

“I figured.” I did. “A man wouldn’t say he’d break his back trying to give a little girl the world unless he’s a father or a criminal. I’ve seen enough of the latter to figure you weren’t it. But, Joel, do you even know my name?” 

“Sweetheart”—he pinches my work badge between his thumb and forefinger—“it says Alison right here in big, bold letters.”

Studying him, I nod. “They said you didn’t ask for me by name, though. Said you gave your own and asked for the nurse who fixed you up.”

“I-uh…” He licks his lips and smiles. “I knew it was creepy enough I was showing up to your work to talk to you, I didn’t want to pull out your whole name like we go way back or anything.” 

It goes quiet between us again and he pulls his hand away, focusing instead on the lid of his cup. “Maybe I should’ve taken the hint earlier and—“

“Joel, shut up. You do not strike me as a man who doubts himself.”

There’s a relaxed kind of honesty that drapes across his face, familiar like that silence was before and, God, he beams. Like a politician on a winner’s stage, it goes from ear to ear with a barely there beard, splitting a patch in his mustache. “I am a single father of a teenage girl, I doubt myself all the time. I like to surround myself with people who can call me on my bullshit, though, which you seem to have no trouble doing, and you just so happen to be my type. So, yeah, I’d like this to be a date.” He bites his lip. "But if you want me to fuck off, just say that and I’ll be on my way.” 

I consider him momentarily, study the rise and fall of his chest with the way his breathing seems to have picked up. He doesn’t do this, but neither do I. I don’t date and I certainly don’t entertain the advances of patients. It’s an emergency room, though. If I ruled out dating anybody who could ever possibly walk through those doors for any reason, I’d rule out everybody.

“What's your type?” I ask him.

There’s a small piece of plastic from the lid that he’s managed to twist and pull off and he fights a smile as he drops it into the empty cup. His profile blows me away but it’s the curls I didn’t notice when I had his head in my hands that I’m transfixed on now.

Wetting his lips again, his eyes dance across my face and he shrugs. “Pretty girls.” 

January 24, 2003:

“Why are you apologizing to me?”

There’s no sweetheart on the end of it, Sarah must be in the room. Or close enough by to hear. 

“Because I—fuck.” This week has been a nightmare, today has been a nightmare. I miss him and I don’t even know if I’m allowed to this early in the game. God, I don’t even know if there’s a fucking game. Half after eight and I’m pushing tears from my eyes for the fourth, maybe fifth, time since I left the hospital. “I just waved you away, I was such a bitch.” 

“Hey, hey.” Joel’s voice is raspy in that two beers kind of way I’ve come to know from all our late night conversations. I think that’s what’s finally caught up to me. The late nights, the early mornings—all the death and not enough sleep in-between. A door clicks shut on the other end of the line and he pushes a hard breath out. “You’re being too hard on yourself, you were swamped when I came in.”

“I guess.”

“No, you were. Look, I come by because I like seeing you but I can recognize that your job is hectic and demands your attention first. I’m a grown man, Alison, and I am perfectly fine with being told to fuck off. I thought I’d made that abundantly clear to you.”

“Yeah,” I press my head back into my pillows. “You’re right.” I want to not sound like a fucking moron to him but I’ve got anxiety and cortisol pumping through my veins like stress is the only thing I’ve ever known. “Thank you for the drink.”

“Why don’t you let me buy you a real one tomorrow?” He asks. I can hear the rough slide of his palm against the grain of his beard. “I think we’ve graduated from lattes and lunch dates.”

There are logistics to that request—clothes to pack, the hope of a quick shower at the hospital after work. God, I have to shave my legs. 

“Feeling real rejected here, sweetheart,” he whispers into the phone. “Did you fall asleep or are you in your head?” 

I can hear his smile through the phone, picture that dimple in his cheek. “That would be nice,” the words come out on a yawn.

“I thought about you all day,” his voice seems to hit an even lower register and heat flushes up my cheeks. “I’m trying to keep my cool with you, not come off over eager, but between seeing you every day and talking to you every night…I’m making some stupid ass mistakes that might land me right back into your emergency room so I want you to know…” Joel trails off and huffs a laugh. “Never mind.” 

“No, finish your thought.”

“I'm trying to not scare you off. Do you have a restaurant you’d like to go to? You said you like Italian food?”

“Everybody likes Italian food, Joel.” 

He laughs. “Okay, sweetheart, you got me there.”

The ache to apologize is creeping back up my throat and I know it’s because of his tone now. If he was gonna scare me away, he would’ve done it by now. “I’ve never really done the dating thing either,” I tell him honestly. “If there are rules to this, I never knew them to even consider they could be broken.”

He laughs, again, on the other end of the line, small and agreeable.

“Joel, I’d be happy just spending time with you, it doesn’t matter what we eat or where we go. That’s why I apologized earli—“ Another yawn. “Mm, that’s why I apologized earlier, I like spending time with you.” 

“I’ll let you get some sleep, sweetheart,” he says, yawning as well. “But I have a question…” 

Nodding against the pillow despite knowing he can’t see, I whisper back, “okay.”

“You like Johnny Cash?” He asks. 

“Ten years in the south, Joel,” I say like it’s obvious, “I think I’d be shot if I said anything but yes.” 

He laughs. “You like nachos?”

“Not to sound like a cool girl, but if I ever deny nachos, I ask that you have me shot.” 

“Perfect,” he breathes out, “I’ll pick you up at the hospital.” 

“I-uh—“ He makes a grunting sound on the other end of the line. “I’ll see you. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Joel.”

Aimlessly, I push myself up to sit again and think over the day and all the things I could’ve done different. It was shit. The kind of life draining busy that leaves me staring aimlessly at the end of it all. I’m not even sure how I got home, that’s how zoned out I was. I kept that bit from Joel, though. It’s only really been a week and he’s already expressed worry about the length of my shifts, how I only drive at night.

He hasn’t even kissed me yet, barely even hugged me. There’s a familiarity and a kindness in the small touches we’ve shared though—lunches traded off with fingers brushing the other’s, him tucking my hair behind my ear, me checking his stitches. 

On Monday, as I stood over him, head in my hands, manipulating his face this way and that, I stumbled and he caught me. Tommy had walked into the space, sawdust kicking up with the wind he let in, and before either of us had registered his presence, he whistled like an old cartoon with his eyes half bugged out. Sudden noises make me jump, increase my heart rate, especially when I’m focused. 

Hands on my hips, he grounded me and it shot fire right through to the pit of my belly. If that was all, then I would’ve been fine after saying goodbye, but it wasn’t. Joel dragged his thumb across a little strip of exposed skin where my shirt had ridden up, back and forth and back again. Breathing properly became difficult after that.

There are no games with him, I learned that so quick. He says he’ll do something and then he does. He said he’d bring me coffee and he did. Says he’ll stop by and he does. Says he’ll pick me up at the hospital tomorrow and I know he will. I feel insane for saying I love it, but I do. Because there’s no guesswork, no overthinking. 

Even so, my nerves are activating already thinking about being near him without obligation to hurry back to, complete with drinks and clean clothes.

I miss his voice as I wash the day from my face, too used to his soft humming soundtracking my nightly routine as he goes through his own.

It’s only been a week and it feels like I’ve had that forever. To think it happened because my boss took pity on me, handing me a bright spot in a bad day. He was that again today, showing up with the bruises on his face starting to fade out into green at the edges and a coffee in hand. I gestured back out the door before I’d even taken a sip, I don’t even think I said hello. Not properly anyway.

Everybody seemed to die on me again today too; codes left and right until my patience and my confidence were both worn so thin that I came close to snapping. Joel would’ve been on the receiving end, it’s why I asked him to go. The new guy—Greg—called me The Angel of Death, said I killed everything including Joel’s mood. That’s why I wanted to apologize, afraid that would’ve been what finally kept him from coming back tomorrow. 

January 25, 2003:

Sometime a little after five, I finally find a moment to sit.

Today’s been…steady. Still busy as shit but if it was dead, the new guy—Greg—would say that’s just something else I had killed. I walked in this morning and the first thing he said to me was a reminder not to suck the life out of the day.

I can’t even get away from him because I’m the one who’s training him.

“I didn’t know you wear glasses, sweetheart.”

Joel’s voice melts all the tension from my shoulders. “What are you doing here?” He’s smiling when I look up and reaches over the counter of the nurse’s station to put a coffee in front of me. “Joel, shouldn’t you be headed home?”

“I should be,” he nods. “See, I got this date tonight I have to get ready for”—he leans against the counter—“and she’s got these big, beautiful hazel eyes.”

“So why aren’t you getting ready for her?” I ask.

“She's also got this incredibly hectic job”—he looks around—“and she left me a voicemail at four this morning so I figured she might need a little pick me up to see her through to the date.”

“Oh, you figured?”

He shrugs. “I’m a boring son of a bitch but I don’t really want her falling asleep on me.”

“That's really smart, actually,” I tell him. “She’s had a rough day—”

“And he looks like he’ll give you a rough night.” 

Joel’s energy shifts beneath those words, as does his gaze to my trainee, and he stands straight with a tall, rigid spine.

Greg clears his throat and rolls his chair closer to mine, sticking his arm out in an attempt to shake Joel’s hand.

Joel looks at me and I know he sees the embarrassment—the exhaustion—in my face and looks back at Greg’s outstretched hand before settling his eyes on the other man’s again. “I thought clowns worked up in pediatrics.” 

The hand withdraws from my peripheral and Joel knocks once against the countertop. “I'll pick you up at seven thirty?”

I’m still nodding when he leaves, heat rushing up my cheeks in boiled, scarlet red. Greg’s trying to apologize and I realize Joel was wrong. When he suggested I could tune out an asshole or two, he was wrong.

He catches the hint after a few minutes, finally fucking off and leaving me alone. First baby nurse I’ve ever been stuck with that I want to feed to the wolves. Or maybe just put on trauma and triage forever. I don’t even know why I’m surprised, he pulled the same shit with a patient earlier as if he got his bedside manner from watching reruns of Scrubs.

The last of the day slips by on autopilot, I even manage to finish the drink while it’s warm this time, and, before I know it, I’m being tagged out and the nerves come back. Which is stupid because he was just here and I felt fine.

But now he’s leaned up against the wall next to the door waiting for me with his hair slicked back and a nice, blue shirt beneath a thick, brown jacket and my anxiety builds back up

Because there are no games here, not yet, but the only time we’ve spent with one another is at my work or his. This is real, no scrubs or the smell of ammonia clinging to me. No sawdust or sweat on him.

“Hi,” I say.

“You took your hair down,” he says, pushing off the wall.

“Does it look bad?” 

He shakes his head. “I never said that, sweetheart.” 

What happened to that quiet comfort I felt? It’s there but it’s dull, muted down as anticipation takes over. He’s told me all this time that I’ve got to tell him when to fuck off, I’m fairly certain he’ll be the one to say that to me.

My hand in his as he leads me to his truck and opens the door, an apology for the construction smell on his lips but all I can smell is his cologne hanging thick in the cab.

Earthy with some kind of spice to it. Fitting for a man like him, like it was custom made for him. 

“You look beautiful,” he tells me, leaning against the open door. “I should’ve said that. I just haven’t seen your hair down, I knew you had curls but…wow, sweetheart.” He leans closer. “I'll try not to trip over my words for the rest of the night.”

“Keep your cool,” I tell him, an attempt to keep mine as well.

A small laugh and he closes the door before jogging over to the driver’s side. Sitting in shared silence with him feels so natural, but driving in it has tension so thick, I’m shocked he can see. 

Again, this isn’t taking a moment to be with each other—get to know each other—in the middle of the day. This is the objective and, from the way he’s tapping his fingers against the wheel, his nerves are meeting up with mine. 

“So… where are you taking us?”

Joel smiles and looks over momentarily, eyes darting back to the road and over again. “I had a plan but”—he scratches at his cheek, facial hair trimmed down back to near nothing—“seeing you in that dress, I’m sitting over here thinking I should throw that straight in the garbage.”

The timbre of his voice dips low when I tell him it’s nothing special. “Alison”—it comes out stern—“I might just be some dumb old man but I wouldn’t have bribed my brother with a bottle of whiskey to watch my child for nothing special.”  

The quiet that follows isn’t exactly comfortable, not with electricity crackling just beneath the surface of my skin.

When he parks, he turns to me. “I can take you somewhere nicer.”

“This seems really nice,” I tell him honestly, taking in the neon and the twinkle lights illuminating all the people spilling out the front door. “It's popular.”

“It's not exactly first date material.”

I pull the latch to the door and begin to step out. “It’s a good thing this isn’t our first date.”  

Music starts at eight.

Some old country cover band that seems to do nothing for the tension set in his jaw. It’s snaking all the way into the tips of his fingers, stiff and heavy against the small of my back as he guides me into my seat before pulling up one adjacent. Mindlessly, I reach across and swipe my thumb along the swell of his cheek—like I’ve done it a million times before—and watch as he leans into my touch. 

Before I can even ask how ordering works, a peppy blonde drops by to take our drink orders.

“Um…” He leans back, caught off guard. "Y’all got Modelo?”

“I can do Modelo,” she responds.

“Perfect, I’ll take one of those.” Joel raps his knuckles against the table and points to me. “Your turn, sweetheart.” 

“May I just have a bourbon on ice?” I ask. 

Out of the corner of my eye, I watch Joel blow out a breath, head shaking with a shit eating grin and, when it's just the menus left in front of us, he leans forward. “You know, pretty girl, I didn’t think you could get hotter but—“

“Joel Miller,” I turn to him, “is that confidence sneaking back into your voice?”  

He laughs. “I feel like we’re doing a pretty good job trading it back and forth.”

In front of everybody, in front of everything, I want to kiss him. Want to slide my fingers into the short, slicked back curls he’s already mussed up and pull him closer until there’s no more space between us.

“I'm still not sure what to make of this,” he goes on. The closeness of his lips to my ear sends shivers down my spine. “I don’t trust easily.”

That weightless, free falling feeling of nerves and excitement returns, lit up bright and burning beneath his fingers as the back of his knuckles stroke the exposed skin where my skirt has ridden up.

“Neither do I.”

“Yet, here you are,” he responds slowly, “with a strange man in a bar.” 

I do it then, not loud or aggressive. Just to get it out of the way, ground myself beneath his touch the way it was when I lost my footing. It feels as natural as the silence, like my last kiss didn’t come five years ago under the mistletoe before being dumped.

Nothing exists around me but him, everything is dull and tuned out—the music, the feedback, the sound of conversation. Hands on his face, his rough palms rest just below my elbows, almost like he’s keeping me in place so I can’t let him go, and he leans into me as I pull him closer.

It isn’t much but it tamps down the nerves, closed lips on closed lips. Then again with half a breath shared between us and again, each time coming together with more ease and familiarity.

Joel’s face is lit up when I do pull away, smile reaching up into his eyes as heat and want trickle down through to my finger tips and the tops of my cheeks. I know he can feel it, can see it. It feels like he’s seen me every day, looking at me as if I’m a regular face in his life’s routine. I feel so similarly about him—that his presence has always been in my life so it’s truthfully nothing new. But it is, he is. 

I bite these feelings back as I press another kiss to the corner of his lips. “Everybody’s a stranger until you give ‘em a chance, Joel.” 

#aaaaaaaaaah oh my god oh my god it’s here it’s time lfg lfg lfg #she’s here and she’s perfect! #joel miller #rex #tlou

[iwriteficsandtragedies]

I stole this from Twitter but I’m Curious

[iwriteficsandtragedies]

Pay Attention.

player: kepa arrizabalaga words: 567 warnings: fingering. request: oh yes kepa smut after his incredible saves today omg. anything with his hands >>>

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You should have known how this would end when he sat you between his thighs with your back to his chest. He’d also lasted longer than you thought, making it to almost the 30-minute mark of the movie before you’d felt his fingers stroking from your knee to the tops of your thighs. Kepa had said that he hadn’t wanted to do anything special following his team’s win, even though you’d watched as his confidence had flourished with every save, especially the ones in quick succession that left him breathless but ecstatic.

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#hoor.