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thepencilnerd · 2 days ago

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A Lesson In Fear Extinction | part I

pairing: professor!Jack Abbot x f!psych phd student reader summary: You’re a senior doctoral student in the clinical department, burned out and emotionally barricaded, just trying to finish your final few years when Jack Abbot—trauma researcher, new committee member, and unexpectedly perceptive—starts seeing through you in ways you didn’t anticipate wc: 11.9k content/warnings: academic!AU, slow burn (takes places over 3 years lbffr), frat boys being gross + depictions of unwanted male attention/verbal harassment, academic power dynamics, emotional repression, discussions of mental health, mutual pining, hurt/comfort, angst, so much yearning, canon divergence, no explicit smut (yet/tbd but still 18+ MDNI, i will fight u) a/n: this started as a slow-burn AU and spiraled into a study in mutual repression, avoidant-attachment, and me trying to resolve my personal baggage through writing ~yet again~ p.s. indubitably inspired by @hotelraleigh and their incredible mohan x abbot fic (and all of their fics that live in my head rent free, tyvm) i hope you stay tuned for part II (coming soon, pinky promise) ^-^

The first thing you learn about Dr. Jack Abbot is that he hates small talk. That, and that he has a death glare potent enough to silence even the most self-important faculty members in the psych department.

The second thing you learn is that he runs his office like a bunker—door usually half-shut, always a little too cold, shelves lined with books no one's touched in decades. You step inside for your first meeting, and it feels like entering a war room.

"You’re early," he says, without looking up from the annotated manuscript he’s scribbling on.

"It's the first day of the school year."

"Same difference."

You take a seat, balancing your laptop on your knees. Your fingers hover over the keyboard, unsure if you should even bother.

Dr. Abbot finally glances up. Hazel eyes, sharp behind silver-framed glasses. "Let’s make this easy. Tell me what you’re working on and what you want from me."

You hesitate. Not because you don’t know. You’ve been rehearsing this on the walk over. You just hadn’t planned on him cutting through the pleasantries quite so fast.

"I’m running a mixed methods study on affective forecasting errors in anxiety and depression. Lab-based mood induction, longitudinal survey follow-up, and semi-structured interviews. I'm trying to map discrepancies between predicted and experienced affect and how that mismatch contributes to maladaptive emotion regulation patterns over time."

A beat.

"So you're testing whether people with anxiety and depression are bad at predicting their own feelings."

You blink. "Yes."

"Good. Start with that next time."

You bite the tip of your tongue. Roll the flesh between your teeth to ground yourself. There is no next time, you want to say. You’re only meeting with him once, to get sign-off on your committee. He wasn’t your first choice. Wasn't even your second. But your advisor's on sabbatical, and the other quantitative faculty are already overbooked.

Dr. Abbot leans back in his chair, examining you. "You’re primary is Robby, right?"

"Technically, yes."

He hums, not bothering to hide the skepticism. "And you want me on your committee because...?"

"Because you published that meta-analysis on PTSD and chronic stress. Your work on cumulative trauma exposure and dysregulated affect dovetails with mine on stress-related trajectories for internalizing disorders and comorbidity. I thought you might actually get what I’m trying to do."

His brow lifts, just slightly. "You did your homework."

"Well, I’m asking you for feedback on a dissertation that will probably make me break down countless times before it's done. Figured I should know what I was getting into."

Dr. Abbot's mouth twitches. You wouldn’t call it a smile, exactly. But it’s something.

"Alright," he says, flipping open a calendar. "Let’s see if we can find a time next week to go over your proposal draft."

You arch a brow. "You’ll do it?"

"You came in prepared. And you didn’t waste my time—as much as the other fourth years. That gets you further than you’d think around here."

You nod, heart thudding. Not because you’re nervous.

Because you have the weirdest feeling that Jack Abbot just became your biggest academic problem—and your most unexpected ally.

You see him again the next day. Robby was enjoying his last remaining few weeks of paternity leave and graciously asked Jack to sub for his foundations of clinical psychology course. Jack preferred the word coerced but was silenced by a text message with a photo of a child attached. The baby was cute enough to warrant blackmail.

He barely got through the door intact: balancing a coffee cup between his teeth, cradling a half-closed laptop under one arm, and wrangling the straps of a clearly ancient backpack. His limp is more pronounced today. The small cohort watches him with a mix of curiosity and vague alarm.

You’re in the front row, laptop open before he even gets to the podium.

Jack drops everything onto the lectern with a heavy exhale, then glances around. His eyes catch on you and pause—not recognition yet, just flicker. Then he turns back to plug in his laptop.

You don’t expect to see him again two days later, striding into the 200-level general psych class you TA. The room’s already three-quarters of the way full when he walks in, and it takes him a moment before he does a brief double-take in your direction.

You return your attention to your notes. Jack stares.

"Small world."

"Nice to see you too, Dr. Abbot."

He sighs. "Why am I not surprised."

"Because the annual stipend increase doesn't adjust for inflation, I'm desperate, and there aren't enough grants given the current state of events?"

Jack mutters something under his breath about cosmic punishment and unfolds the syllabus from his coat pocket like it personally betrayed him.

When he finally settles at the front—coffee in one hand, laptop balancing precariously on the desk—you catch him bending and straightening his knee just under the edge of the table, jaw set tight. It’s subtle. Anyone else might miss it. But you’ve been watching.

You say nothing.

A few students linger with questions—mostly undergrads eager to impress, notebooks clutched to their chests, rattling off textbook jargon in shaky voices. Jack humors them, mostly. Nods here, clarification there. But his eyes flick to you more than once.

You take your time with the stack of late enrollment passes. He’s still watching when you sling your tote over one shoulder and head for the door.

Probably off to the lab. Or your cubicle in the main psych building. Wherever fourth years disappear to when they aren’t shadowing faculty or training underqualified and overzealous research assistants on data collection procedures.

Jack shifts his weight onto his good leg and half-listens to the sophomore with the over-highlighted textbook.

His eyes stay on you when you walk out.

You make it three steps past the stairwell before the sound of your name stops you. It’s not loud—more like a clipped murmur through the general noise of backpacks zipping and chairs scraping—but it cuts straight through.

You turn back.

Jack’s still at the front, the stragglers now filtering out behind him. He doesn’t wave. Doesn’t beckon. Just meets your gaze like he already knows you’ll wait. You do.

He makes his way toward you slowly, favoring one leg. The closer he gets, the more you notice—the way his hand tightens on the strap of his backpack, the exhausted pull at his brow. He’s not masking as well today.

"Thanks for not saying anything," he says when he stops beside you.

You shrug. "Didn’t seem like you needed an audience."

Jack huffs a laugh, dry and faintly surprised. "Most people mean well, but—"

"They hover," you finish. "Or overcompensate. Or say something weird and then try to walk it back."

"Exactly."

You both stand there for a beat too long, campus noise shifting around you like a slow tide.

"I was heading to the coffee shop," you say finally. "Did you want anything?"

Jack tilts his head. "Bribery?"

"Positive reinforcement." The words trail behind a small grin.

He shakes his head, mouth twitching. "Probably had enough caffeine for the day."

The corner of your lip curls higher. "As if there's such a thing."

That earns you a half-huff, half-scoff—just enough to let you believe you might have amused him.

"Well," you say, taking a step backward, "I’ve got three more RAs to train and one very stubborn loop to fix. See you around, Dr. Abbot."

"Good luck," he says, voice low but steady. "Don’t let the building eat you alive."

The next time he sees you, it’s after 10 p.m. on a Thursday.

You hadn’t planned on staying that late. But the dinosaur of a computer kept crashing, two of your participants no-showed, and by the time you’d salvaged the afternoon’s data to pull, it was easier to crash on the grad lounge couch than face the lone commute back to your apartment.

You must’ve fallen asleep halfway through reading feedback from your committee—curled up with your legs splayed over the edge of the couch and laptop perched on the cheap coffee table. The hall is mostly dark when Jack walks past. He’s heading toward the parking lot when he stops, mid-step.

For a moment, he just stands there, taking in the sight of you tucked awkwardly into yourself. You look comfortable in your oversized hoodie, if not for the highlighter cap still tucked between your fingers and mouth parted in a silent snore.

He doesn’t say anything. Just watches you breathe for a few seconds longer than necessary.

Then, maybe with more curiosity than concern, he raps his knuckles gently against the doorframe. Once. Twice. Three times for good measure.

No response.

Jack steps inside and calls out, voice pitched low but insistent. "This is not a sustainable sleep schedule, you know."

You stir—just barely. A vague groan escapes your lips as you shift and swat clumsily in the direction of the noise. "Just five more minutes... need to run reliability analyses..."

Jack chuckles, genuine and surprised.

He leans against the wall, watching you with no urgency to leave. "Dreaming about data cleaning. Impressive."

You make a small, unintelligible noise and swat again, this time with a little more conviction. Jack snorts.

After a moment, he sighs. Then carefully crosses the room, picks up the crumpled throw blanket from the floor, and drapes it over you without ceremony.

He flicks off the overheads and closes the door behind him with a quiet click. The hallway hums with fluorescent buzz as he limps toward the parking lot, shoulders tucked in against the chill.

A few weeks into the semester, the rhythm settles—lecture, discussion, grading, rinse and repeat. But today, something shifts.

You’re stacking quizzes at the front of the general psych lecture hall when Jack catches movement out of the corner of his eye. Two male students—frat-adjacent, all oversized hoodies and entitled swagger—approach your desk.

Jack looks up from his laptop. His expression doesn’t shift, but something in his posture does—a subtle, perceptible freeze. He watches from where he’s still packing up—hand paused on his laptop case, jaw tight, eyes narrowing just slightly as he takes in the dynamic. There’s a flicker of tension behind his glasses, a pause that says: if you needed him, he’d step in.

They swagger up with the kind of smirks you’ve seen too many times before—overconfident, under-read, and powered by too many YouTube clips of alpha male podcasts.

"Yo, TA—what’s up?" one says, leaning far too close to your desk. "Was gonna ask something about the exam, but figured I’d shoot my shot first. You free later? Coffee on me."

His friend elbows him like he’s a comedic genius. "Yeah, like maybe we could pick your brain about, like, how to get into grad school. You probably have all the insider tricks, right?"

You don’t even blink.

"Sure," you say sweetly. "I’d love to review your application materials. Bring your CV, your transcript, three letters of rec, and proof that you’ve read the Title IX policy in full. Bonus points if you can make it through a meeting without quoting Andrew Tate—or I’ll assume you’re trying to get yourself suspended."

They stare. You smile.

One laughs uncertainly. The other mutters something about how "damn, okay," and both slink away.

Jack’s jaw works once. Then relaxes.

You glance up, like you knew he’d been watching.

"Well handled," he says, voice low as he steps beside you.

You offer a nonchalant shrug. "First years are getting bolder."

"Bold is one word for it."

You hand him a stack of leftover forms. "Relax, Dr. Abbot. I’ve survived undergrads before. I’ll survive again."

Jack gives a small, amused grunt. Then, after a beat: "You can call me Jack."

You glance up, brow raised.

"Feels a little formal to keep pretending we’re strangers.

You don’t say anything right away. Just nod once, almost imperceptibly, then go back to gathering your things.

He doesn’t push it.

It’s raining hard enough to rattle the windows.

You’re having what your cohort half-jokingly calls a "good brain day"—sentences coming easy, theory clicking into place, citations at your fingertips. You barely notice the weather.

Jack glances up from your chapter draft as you launch into a point about predictive error and affective flattening. He doesn't interrupt. His eyes follow how you pace—one hand gesturing, the other holding your annotated copy, words sharp and certain.

Eventually, you pause mid-thought and glance at him.

He's already looking at you.

Your hand flies up to cover your mouth. "Shit. I'm sorry—"

Jack shakes his head, lips twitching at the corners. "Don’t apologize. That was… brilliant."

You blink at him, the compliment stalling your momentum. The automatic response bubbles up fast—some joke to deflect, to downplay. You don't say it. Not this time.

Still, your fingers tighten slightly on the edge of the desk. "I don't know about brilliant..."

Jack doesn’t look away. "I do."

The silence stretches—not awkward, exactly, but thick. His gaze doesn’t waver, and it holds something steady and burning behind it.

You glance down at your annotated draft. The silence stays between you like a taut wire.

Jack doesn’t fill it. Just waits—gaze unwavering, as if giving you time to come to your own conclusion. No pressure, no indulgent smile. Just a quiet, grounded certainty that settles between you like weight.

Eventually, you exhale. The tension loosens—not completely, but enough to keep going.

"Okay," you murmur, almost to yourself.

Jack nods once, slowly. Then gestures at your printed draft. "Let’s talk about your integration of mindfulness in the discussion section. I’ve got a few thoughts."

Ethics is the last class of the week. The room's heating is inconsistent, the lights too bright, and Jack doesn’t know how the hell he ended up covering for Frank Langdon. Probably the same way he got stuck with Foundations and General Psych: Robby. The department’s too damn small and apparently everyone with a baby gets to vanish into thin air.

He steps into the room ten minutes early, coffee already lukewarm, and makes a half-hearted attempt to adjust the podium screen. The first few students trickle in, then more. He flips through the lecture slides, barely registering them.

And then he sees you.

You’re near the back, chatting with someone Jack doesn’t recognize. Another grad student by the look of him—slouched posture, soft jaw, navy sweater. The guy’s grinning like he thinks he’s charming. He leans in a little too close to your chair. Says something Jack can’t hear.

Jack tells himself he’s only looking because the guy seems familiar. Maybe someone from Walsh’s lab. Or Garcia’s.

You laugh at something—light, genuine.

Jack tries not to react.

Navy Sweater says something else, more animated now. He gestures to your laptop. Points to something. You nudge his hand away with a grin and say something back that makes him blush.

Jack flips the page on his lecture notes without reading a word.

You’re still smiling when you finally glance up toward the podium.

Your eyes meet.

Jack doesn’t look away. But he doesn’t smile either.

The guy beside you says something else. You nod politely.

But you’re not looking at him anymore.

The next time you're in Jack’s office, the air feels different—autumn sharp outside, but warm in here.

He notices things. Not all at once, but cumulatively.

Your hair’s longer now. It’s subtle, but the ends graze your jaw in a way they hadn’t before. You’ve started wearing darker shades—amber, forest green, burgundy—instead of the lighter neutrals from early fall. Small changes. Seasonal shifts.

He doesn’t say anything about any of that.

But then he sees it.

A faint smudge of something high on your neck, near the curve of your jaw.

"Rough night?" he asks, lightly. The tone’s casual, but his eyes stay there a second too long.

You look up, blinking. Then seem to realize. "Oh. No, it’s—nothing."

He raises an eyebrow, just once. Doesn’t press.

What you don’t say: you went on a date last night. Your first real date since your second year. Navy Sweater—Isaac—had been sweet. Patient. Social psych, so he talked about group dynamics and interdependence theory instead of clinical cases. A refreshing change from your usual context. He’d been pining for you since orientation. You finally gave him a chance.

You’re not sure yet if it was a mistake.

Jack doesn’t ask again. He just shifts his attention back to your printed draft, flipping a page without comment.

But you can feel it—that subtle change in the room. Like something under the surface has started to stir.

Jack doesn’t speak again for the rest of the meeting, at least not about anything that isn’t your manuscript. But the temperature between you has shifted, unmistakable even in silence.

His feedback is sharp, incisive, and you take it all in—but your focus tugs sideways more than once.

You start to notice little things. The way his hands move when he talks—precise, economical, almost always with a pen twirling between his fingers. The way he reads with his whole posture—leaned in slightly, brows furrowed, lips moving just barely like he’s tasting the cadence of each sentence. How he always wears button-downs, sleeves pushed up to the elbows, like he’s never quite comfortable in them.

You catch the faint scruff at his jawline, the flecks of gray you hadn’t seen before in the fluorescent classroom light. The quiet groan of his office chair as he shifts to get more comfortable—though he never quite does. The occasional tap of his fingers against the desk when he’s thinking. The way his eyes track you when you pace, like he’s cataloging your rhythm.

When he leans in to gesture at a line in your text, you’re aware of his proximity in a way you hadn’t been before. The warmth that radiates off him. The way his breath hitches just slightly before he speaks.

When you ask a clarifying question, he meets your eyes and holds the gaze a fraction too long.

It shouldn’t mean anything. It probably doesn’t.

Still, when you pack up to leave, you don’t rush. Neither does he.

He walks you to the door, stops just short of it.

"Good luck with the coding," he says.

You nod. "Thanks. See you next week."

He hesitates, then nods once more. "Yeah. Next week."

And when you leave his office, the echo of that pause follows you down the hall.

At home, Jack goes through the same routine he always does. He hangs up his coat. Places his keys in the ceramic dish by the door. Fills the kettle. Rinses a clean mug from the rack without thinking—habit, even if it’s just for himself.

Then he sits down on the edge of the couch and unbuckles the prosthetic from his leg with practiced efficiency. He leans forward, slow and deliberate, and cleans the area with a soft cloth, checking the skin for signs of irritation before applying a thin layer of ointment. Only then does he begin to massage the tender spot where his leg ends, pressing the heel of his palm just enough to release tension. The ache is dull tonight, but persistent. It always is when the weather shifts.

He doesn’t turn on the TV. When he buckles it back on and gets up again, he moves around his apartment quietly, the limp less noticeable this time around.

While the water heats, he scrolls through emails on his phone—most from admin, flagged with false urgency. A few unread messages from students, one from a journal editor asking for another reviewer on a manuscript that costs too much to publish open access. He deletes half, archives another third. Wonders when it became so easy to ignore what used to feel so important.

The kettle whistles. He pours the water over the tea bag and sets it down, not bothering with the stack of essays he meant to look at hours ago.

He doesn’t touch them.

Not yet.

Tonight, his rhythm is off.

Instead, he looks over your latest draft after dinner, meaning only to skim. He finds himself rereading the same paragraph three times, mind somewhere else entirely. Your words, your phrasing, your comments in the margins—he's memorizing them. Not intentionally. It just happens.

Later, brushing his teeth, Jack thinks of how you’d looked that afternoon: eyes sharp, expression animated, tucked into a wool sweater the color of cinnamon. Hair falling forward when you tilted your head to listen, then swept back with one distracted hand. A little ink smudged on your finger. The edge of a smile you didn’t know you were wearing.

He wonders if you know how often you pace when you’re deep in thought. How your whole posture changes when something clicks—like your bones remember before your voice does. How you gesture with the same hand you write with, sometimes forgetting you’re holding a pen at all.

He tells himself it’s just professional attentiveness. That he’s tuned into all his students this way. That noticing you in detail is part of his job.

But it’s a lie. And the truth has started to settle into his bones.

He closes his laptop, shuts off the light.

He dreams in fragments—lecture notes and old conference halls, the scent of rain-soaked leaves, the sound of your voice mid-sentence. The ghost of a laugh.

He doesn’t remember the shape of the dream when he wakes.

Only the warmth that lingers in its place.

Across town, you’re on another date with Isaac.

He’s funny tonight—quick with dry quips, gentler than you'd expected. He walks you to a small café far from campus, one you’ve driven by a dozen times but never tried. He orders chai with oat milk. You get the pumpkin spice out of spite.

"Pumpkin spice, really?" he teases. "Living the stereotype."

"It’s autumn," you shoot back. "Let me have one basic pleasure."

You talk about everything but your dissertation—TV shows, childhood pets, the worst advice you’ve ever received from an advisor. Inevitably, you steer the conversation into something about work. It's a habit you seem to remember having since your earliest academic days, and one you don't see yourself breaking free from anytime soon.

"My undergrad advisor once told me I’d never get into grad school unless I stopped sounding ‘so West Coast.’ Still not sure what that means."

Isaac laughs. "Mine told me to pick a research topic ‘I wouldn’t mind reading about for the rest of my life.’ As if anyone wants to read their own lit review twice."

You laugh—genuine, belly-deep. Isaac flushes with pride and takes a long sip of his chai, eyes bright.

It's easy with him, you think. Talking, breathing, being. You lean back in your chair, cup warm between your palms, and realize you should feel more present than you do.

He’s exactly what you thought you needed. Different. Outside your orbit. Not tangled up in diagnoses or a department that feels more like a pressure cooker every day.

But still, your mind drifts. Not far. Just enough.

Back to the way Jack had looked at you earlier that day. The pause before he spoke. The silence that wasn’t quite silence.

You can’t put your finger on it. You don’t want to.

Isaac reaches across the table to brush his fingers against yours. You let him.

And yet.

You catch yourself glancing toward the door as he brushes your fingers. Just once. Barely perceptible. A flicker of something unformed tugging at the edge of your attention.

Not for any reason you can name. Not because anything happened. But because something did—quiet and slow and not easily undone.

You remember the way his brow furrowed as he read your chapter, the steadiness in his voice when he called your argument brilliant, the way he looked at you like the room had narrowed down to a single point.

Isaac is sweet. Funny. Steady. You should be here.

But your mind keeps slipping sideways.

And Jack Abbot—stubborn, sharp, unreadable Jack—is suddenly everywhere. In the cadence of a sentence you revise, where you hear his voice in your head asking, 'Why this framework? Why now?' In the questions you don’t ask Isaac because you already know how Jack would answer them—precise, cutting, but never unkind. In the sudden, irritating way you want someone to challenge you just a little more. To push back, to poke holes, to see if your argument still stands.

You find yourself wondering what he’s doing tonight. If he’s at home, pacing through a quiet, single-family home too large for his own company. If he’s reading someone else’s manuscript with the same intensity. If he ever thinks about the way you looked that afternoon, how you paced his office with fire in your voice and a red pen tucked behind your ear.

You think about the hitch in his breath when you leaned in. The way he’d watched you leave, that pause at the door.

And then Isaac says something—soft, thoughtful—and it takes you a second too long to register it. You nod, distracted, and reach for your drink again.

But your mind is already elsewhere.

Still with someone else.

You take another sip of your drink. Smile at Isaac. Let the moment pass.

But even then, even here—Jack is in the room.

You don’t see Jack again until the following Thursday. It’s raining hard again—something about mid-semester always seems to come with the weather—and the psych building smells like wet paper and overworked radiators.

You’re in the hallway, hunched over a Tupperware of leftover lentils and trying to catch up on grading, when his door creaks open across the hall. You glance up reflexively.

He’s standing there, brow furrowed, papers in hand. He spots you. Freezes.

For a moment, neither of you says anything. The hallway is quiet, just the hum of fluorescents and the distant murmur of a class in session. Then:

"Grading?" he asks, voice lower than usual—quiet, but unmistakably curious.

You lift your fork, deadpan. "Don’t sound so jealous."

Jack’s mouth twitches—almost a smile. A pause, then: "You’re in Langdon’s office hours slot, right?"

"Only if I bring snacks," you quip, referring to the way Frank Langdon always lets the TA with snacks cut the line—a running joke in the department.

Jack raises his coffee like a toast. "Then I’ll keep walking." A dry little truce. An unspoken I’ll stay out of your way—unless you want me to stay.

You watch him disappear down the hallway, his limp slightly more pronounced than usual. And you find yourself thinking—about how many times you’ve noticed that, and how many times he’s never once drawn attention to it.

Your spoon scrapes the bottom of the container. You try to return to grading.

You don’t get much done.

Later that afternoon, you’re back in the general psych lecture hall, perched on the side of the desk with your TA notes while Jack clicks through the day’s slides. It’s the second time he’s teaching this unit and he’s not even pretending to follow the script. You know him well enough now to catch the subtle shifts—when he goes off-book, lets the theory breathe.

He doesn’t look at you while he lectures, but you can tell when he’s aware of you. The slight change in cadence, the way his eyes flick toward the front row where you sometimes sit, sometimes stand.

Today’s lecture is on conditioning. Classical, operant, extinction.

At one point, Jack pauses at the podium. He’s talking about fear responses—conditioned reactions, the body’s anticipatory wiring, what it takes to unlearn a threat. You’ve heard this part a dozen times in college and a dozen more in grad school. You’ve written about it. You've published on it.

But when he says, "Fear isn’t erased. It’s overwritten," his eyes flick toward you—just for a second.

And your heart trips a little. Not in a dramatic, cinematic way—more like a misstep in rhythm, a skipped beat in a song you thought you knew by heart. Your breath catches for half a second, and you feel the heat rush to the tips of your ears.

It’s absurd, maybe. Definitely. But the tone of his voice when he said it—that measured, worn certainty—lands somewhere deep inside you. Not clinical. Not abstract. It feels like he’s speaking to something unspoken, to a part of you you've tried to keep quiet.

You shift your weight, pretending to re-stack a paper that doesn’t need re-stacking, pulse louder than it should be in your ears.

From your seat on the edge of the desk, you can see the way he gestures with his hand, slow and spare, like every movement costs something. The way he leans on his good leg. The way the muscles in his forearm flex as he flips to the next slide, still speaking, still teaching—none of this showing on his face.

Your eyes keep drifting back.

And he doesn’t look at you again. Not for the rest of the lecture.

But you feel the weight of that glance long after the class ends.

You stay after class, mostly to gather the quiz sheets and handouts. A few students linger, asking Jack questions about the exam. You hear him shift into that firm-but-generous tone he uses with undergrads, the kind that makes them think he’s colder than he is. Efficient. Clear.

When the last student finally packs up and leaves the room, Jack straightens. His eyes find you, soft but unreadable.

"Good lecture," you say.

He hums. "Not bad for a recycled deck."

You hand him the stack of forms. "You made it your own."

His thumb brushes over the edge of the papers. "So did you."

You don’t ask what he means. But the quiet between you feels different than it did at the start of the semester.

The room is mostly empty. Just the two of you. You're caught somewhere between impulse and caution. Approach and avoidance. There's a pull in your chest, low and slow, that makes you want to linger a second longer. To say something else. To ask about the lecture, or the line he looked at you during, or the kind of day he's had. But your voice sticks.

Instead, you shift again, adjust your grip on the papers in your hands, and let it all stay unsaid. But Jack’s already turned back toward the podium, gathering his things.

He doesn’t look up right away. Just slides his laptop into its case with more force than necessary, his jaw set tight. He’s annoyed with himself. The kind of annoyance that comes from knowing he missed something—not a moment, exactly, but the shadow of one. An opening. And he let it pass.

There was a question in your eyes. Or maybe not a question—maybe a dare. Maybe just the start of one. And he didn’t rise to meet it.

He tells himself that’s good. That’s safe. That’s professional.

But it doesn’t feel like a win.

His hand pauses on the zipper. He breathes out through his nose, not quite a sigh. Then glances toward the door.

You’re already gone.

You let the moment pass.

But you feel it. Like something just under the surface, waiting for another breach in the routine.

It happens late one evening, entirely by accident.

You’re in your office, door mostly closed, light still on. You meant to leave hours ago—meant to finish your email and call it—but the combination of caffeine and a dataset that refused to make sense kept you tethered to your desk.

Jack’s on his way out of the building when he hears it: a muffled sound from behind a half-open door just across the hallway from his own. He pauses, backtracks, and realizes for the first time exactly where your office is.

He hears it again—a quiet sniffle, then a low, barely-there laugh like you’re trying to brush it off.

He knocks.

You don’t answer.

"Hey," he says, voice just loud enough to carry but still gentle. "You alright?"

The sound of your chair creaking. A breath caught in your throat.

"Shit—Jack." You swipe at your face automatically, the name out before you think about it.

He steps just inside, not crossing the threshold. "Didn’t mean to scare you."

You shake your head, still blinking fast. "No, I just—burned out. Hit a wall. It’s fine. Nothing serious. Just… one of those days." You try for a joke.

Jack’s eyes sweep the room. The state of your desk. The way your sweater sleeves are pulled down over your hands. He shifts his weight.

There’s a long pause. Then he says, softer, "Can I—?"

You furrow your brows for a moment before nodding.

He steps in and leaves the door slightly cracked open behind him. He remains by the edge of your desk, a respectful distance between you. His presence is quiet but steady, and he doesn't pry with questions.

You exhale slowly, suddenly aware of the sting behind your eyes and how tight your shoulders have been all day. You look down, embarrassed, and when you reach for a tissue, your hand grazes his by accident.

You both freeze.

It’s nothing, really. A brush of skin. But it lands like something else. Not unwelcome. Not forgotten.

Jack doesn’t pull away. But he doesn’t linger, either.

Jack doesn’t move at first. He watches you for a moment longer, the quiet in the room settling unevenly.

"You sure you’re alright?" he asks, voice low, unreadable.

You nod, quick. "Yeah. I’m fine."

It comes too fast. Reflexive. But it lands the way you want it to—firm, closed.

Jack nods slowly. He doesn’t push. "Okay."

He steps back, finally. "Just—don’t stay too late, alright?"

You offer a smaller nod.

He hesitates again. Then turns and slips out without another word.

Your office feels warmer once he’s gone.

And your breath feels just a little easier.

Jack makes his way down the hallway toward the faculty lounge with the intention of grabbing a fresh coffee before his office hours. He passes a few students loitering in the corridor—chatter, laughter, the usual.

But then he hears your voice. Quiet, edged. Just outside the lecture hall.

"Isaac, I’m not having this conversation again. Not here."

Jack slows. Doesn’t stop, but slows and finds a small nook just shy of the corner.

"I just don’t get why you won’t answer a simple question," Isaac says. "Are you seeing someone else or not?"

There’s a pause. Jack glances down at the coffee in his hand and debates turning around.

But then he hears your exhale—sharp, frustrated. "No. I’m not."

Isaac huffs. "Then what is this? You’re always somewhere else—even when we’re out, even on weekends. It’s like your head’s in another fucking dimension."

Jack feels the hairs on his neck stand up. He sees you standing with your back half-turned to Isaac, arms crossed tightly over your chest. Isaac’s face is flushed, his voice a little too loud for the setting. Your posture is still—too still.

Jack doesn’t step in. Not yet. He stays just out of sight, near the hallway alcove. Close enough to hear. Close enough to watch.

You draw in a long breath. When you speak, your voice is level, cold. "I just don’t think I’m in the right place to be in a relationship right now."

Isaac’s expression shifts—confused, hurt.

Jack watches the edge of your profile. How your shoulders lock into place. How your eyes go distant, like you’re powering down every soft part of yourself.

He doesn’t breathe.

Then someone laughs down the hallway, and the moment breaks. Isaac looks over his shoulder, distracted for half a beat, then turns back to you with something sharp in his eyes.

"You’re not even trying," he says, voice low but biting. "I’m giving you everything I’ve got, and you’re... somewhere else. Always."

You stiffen. Jack stays hidden, tension rippling down his spine.

"I know..." you say, voice tight. "I'm sorry. I really am. But this isn’t working."

Isaac’s face contorts. "Seriously? That’s it?"

You shake your head. "You deserve someone who’s fully here. Who wants the same things you do. I’m not that person right now."

He opens his mouth to say something, but your eyes have already gone cold. Guarded. Clinical.

"I don't want to whip out the 'it's not you it's me bullshit'," you continue, each word deliberate. "But this isn’t about you doing something wrong. It’s me. I can’t give more than I’ve already given."

Jack watches the shift in your posture—how you shut it all down, protect the last open pieces of yourself. He recognizes it because he’s done the same.

"I'm sorry." The words are genuine. "You deserve better." Your eyes don't betray you. For a moment, though, your expression softens. You look at Isaac like a kicked dog, like you wish you could offer something kinder. But then it’s gone. Your eyes go cold again, your voice a blade dulled only by exhaustion.

Then someone laughs again down the hallway, closer this time, and the moment scatters. Jack moves past without a word. Doesn’t look at you directly.

But he sees you.

And he doesn’t forget what he saw.

As he passes, you glance up. Your eyes meet.

Only for a second.

Then he’s gone.

Isaac doesn’t notice.

Time passes. You're back in Jack's office for your regular one-on-one—but something is different.

You sit a little straighter. Speak a little quieter. The bright curiosity you usually carry in your voice has hardened, now precise ,restrained. Not icy, but guarded. Pulled taut.

You’re not trying to be unreadable, but you can feel yourself defaulting. Drawing the boundaries back up.

Jack notices.

He doesn’t say anything, but you catch the slight narrowing of his gaze as he listens.

You’d gone all in on this program, this career—your research, your ambitions, your carefully calculated goals. Isaac was the first time you'd tried letting something else in. A possibility. A softness.

And it crashed. Of course it did.

Because that’s what you do. That’s the pattern. You’re excellent at control, planning, systems, at hypothesis testing and case management. But when it comes to anything outside the academic orbit—connection, trust, letting someone see the jagged pieces under the polish—you flinch. You fail.

And you’ve learned not to let that show. Not anymore.

At one point, you trail off mid-sentence. Jack doesn’t fill the silence.

You clear your throat. Try again.

There’s something steadier in his quiet today. You finally finish your point and glance up. His expression is neutral, but his gaze is… undivided.

"Are you okay?"

It catches you off guard. You blink once, not expecting the question, not from him, not here.

You start to nod. Then pause. Your throat feels tight for a second.

"Yeah," you say. "I’m fine."

Jack doesn’t look away. He holds your gaze a moment longer. Not pressing. Not interrogating. Just there.

"You should know better than to lie to a psychologist."

It’s almost a joke. Almost. Just enough curve at the corner of your mouth to soften it. You let out a breath—half a laugh, half a sigh. "Guess I need to reassess my baseline."

Jack leans forward slightly. Then, without saying anything, reaches over and closes your laptop. Slides it just out of reach on the desk.

You open your mouth to protest.

Jack cuts in, quiet but firm. "You need to turn your brain off before it short circuits."

You blink. He continues, gentler this time. "Just for a few minutes. You don’t have to push through every wall. Sometimes it’s okay to sit still. Breathe. Be a human being."

You look down at your hands, fingers curled around a pen you hadn’t realized you were still holding. There’s a long pause before you speak.

"I don’t know how to do that," you admit, voice barely above a whisper.

Jack doesn’t say anything at first. He lets the silence settle. "Start small," he says. "We’re not built to stay in fight-or-flight forever."

The words land heavier than you expect. You stare down at your hands, your knuckles paling against the pressure of your grip. Your breath stutters on the way out.

Jack doesn’t move, but his presence feels closer somehow—like the room has contracted around the two of you, warm and steady.

You set the pen down slowly. Swallow. Your eyes burn, but nothing falls.

Your jaw shifts. Just a fraction.

You don’t say anything at first.

Jack doesn’t either. But he doesn’t look away.

After a beat, he says—careful, quiet—"You want to talk about it?"

You hesitate, eyes fixed on a crease in your jeans. "No."

He waits. "I think you do."

You laugh under your breath. It’s not funny. "This how you talk to all of your clients?"

He doesn't bite.

"You don’t let up, do you?" You're only half-serious.

"I do," he pauses. "When it matters. Just not when my mentee is sitting in front of me looking like the world’s pressing down on their ribcage."

That makes you flinch. Not visibly, not to most. But he sees it. Of course he does. He’s trained to.

You look at your hands. He's not going to let this go so you might as well bite the bullet. "I'm not great at the whole... letting people in thing."

Jack doesn’t respond. Just shifts his weight slightly in his chair—almost imperceptibly. A silent invitation.

Your voice stays quiet. Measured. "I usually just throw myself into work. It’s easier. It’s something I can control."

Still, he says nothing.

You pick at the seam of your sleeve. "Other stuff... it gets messy. Too unpredictable. People are unpredictable."

Jack’s gaze never wavers. He doesn’t push. But the absence of interruption is its own kind of presence—steady, open.

Your lips twitch in a faint, humorless smile. "I know that’s ironic coming from someone studying emotion regulation."

He finally says, softly, "Sometimes the people who study it hardest are the ones trying to figure it out for themselves."

That makes your eyes flick up. His expression is calm. Receptive. No judgment. No smile, either. Just… presence.

You look down again. Your voice even softer now. "I don’t know how to do it. Not really."

Jack doesn’t interrupt. Just shifts, barely, like bracing.

And somehow, that makes you keep going.

"Grad school’s easier. Career’s easier. I can plan. I can control. Everything else just…" You trail off. Shrug, a flicker of helplessness.

He’s still watching you. The way he does when he’s listening hard, like there’s a string between you and he’s waiting to see if you’ll keep tugging it.

"I thought maybe..." You press your lips together. "I thought I could do it. Let someone in. Be a person. A twenty-nine year old, for fuck's sake." Your hands come up to your face. "But it just reminded me why I don’t."

You draw a slow breath. Something in your chest cracks. Not a collapse—just a fault line giving way.

Jack just stares.

Then, slowly, he leans back—not away, but into the quiet. He folds his hands in his lap, thumb tracing a familiar line over his knuckle. A practitioner’s stillness. A kind of careful permission.

"You know," he says, voice low, "when I first started in trauma research, I thought if I understood it well enough, I could outsmart it. Like if I had the right frameworks, if I mapped the pathways right, it wouldn’t touch me."

You glance up.

He exhales through his nose—dry, but not bitter. "Turns out, knowing the symptoms doesn’t stop you from living them. Doesn’t stop the body from remembering."

He doesn’t specify. Doesn’t have to.

His eyes flick to yours. "But you don’t have to be fluent in trust to start learning it. You don’t have to be good at it yet. You just have to let someone sit with you in the silence."

You study him. The sharpness of his jaw, the quiet behind his glasses, the wear in his voice that doesn’t make it weaker.

Your throat tightens, but you don’t speak.

He doesn’t need you to.

He just stays there—anchored. Steady. Unmoving.

Like he's not waiting for you to come undone.

He's waiting for you to believe you don’t have to.

It's Friday night. You’re walking a participant through the start of a lab assessment—part of the longitudinal stress and memory protocol you’ve spent the last year fine-tuning. The task itself is simple enough: a series of conditioned images, paired with soft tones. But you watch the participant's pulse rise on the screen. Notice the minute shift in posture, the tension in their jaw.

You pause. Slow things down.

"Remember," you say gently, "we’re looking at how your body responds when it doesn’t need to anymore. The point isn’t to trick you—it’s to see what happens when the threat isn’t real. When it’s safe."

The participant nods, still uneasy.

You don’t blame them.

Later, the metaphor clings to you like static from laundry fresh out of the dryer. Fear extinction: the process of unlearning what once kept you alive. Or something close to it.

You think of what Jack said. What he didn’t say. The silence he offered like a landing strip.

It replays in your head more than you'd like to admit—the dim warmth of his office, the soft click of your laptop closing, the unexpected steadiness in his voice. No clinical jargon. No agenda. Just space. Permission.

You remember the way he folded his hands. The faint scuff on the corner of his desk. The way he didn’t fill the air with reassurances or advice. Just stayed quiet until the quiet felt less like drowning and more like floating.

And it had made something in your chest stutter—because you'd spent years studying fear responses, coding reactivity curves and salience windows, mapping out prediction error pathways and understanding affect labeling.

But none of your models accounted for the way someone simply sitting with you could ease the grip of it.

Maybe, you think now, as you log the participant's final response, this is what fear extinction looks like outside of a lab setting. Not just reducing reactivity to a blue square or a sharp tone.

But learning—relearning—how it feels to let another person in and survive it.

Maybe Jack wasn’t offering a solution.

Maybe he was offering proof.

Is this what it looked like in practice? Not just in a scanner or a skin conductance chart—but in the quiet, everyday choice of showing up? Staying?

Perhaps the data is secondary and this is the experiment.

And maybe, just maybe, you’re already in the middle of it.

The new semester begins in a blur of syllabi updates and shuffled office assignments. It's your final year before internship—a fact that looms and hums in the background like a lamp you can't turn off. You’re no longer the quiet, watchful second-year—you’ve published, you've taught, you've survived.

But you’re also exhausted. You’ve become adept at wearing competence like armor.

Jack is teaching an elective course this semester—Epigenetics of Trauma. You're enrolled in it—a course you didn’t technically need, but couldn’t resist for reasons you cared not to admit.

When you pass him in the hallway—coffee in one hand, a paper balanced on his clipboard—he stops.

"Did you hear the department finally updated the HVAC?" he asks, and it’s not really about the HVAC.

You nod, a wry smile tugging at your mouth. "Barely. Still feels like a sauna most days."

Jack gestures to your cardigan. "And yet you persist."

You grin. It’s a tiny thing. But it stays.

Later that week, he pokes his head into your office between student meetings.

"You’re on the panel for the trauma symposium, right?"

The one you were flying to at the end of October—thanks to Robby, who had playfully threatened to submit your name himself if you didn’t volunteer. He’d needed someone to piggyback off of, he’d said, and who better than his best grad student—who was also swamped with grant deadlines, dissertation chapters, and a growing list of internship applications. You’d rolled your eyes and said yes, of course, because that’s what you did. And maybe because a part of you liked the challenge, academic mascochism and validation and all.

You nod. "Talk and discussion."

He steps farther in. "If you’re open to it—I’d like to sit in."

You glance up. "You’ve already read the draft."

Jack smiles. "Doesn’t mean I wouldn’t like to hear it out loud."

You lean back slightly, watching him. "You going to grill me from the audience and be that one guy?"

Jack raises an eyebrow, amused. "Wouldn’t dream of it."

You hum. "Mmhm."

But you’re smiling now. Just a little.

It’s not quite vulnerability. Not yet. But it’s a beginning. A reset. The next slow iteration in a long series of exposures. New responses. New learning. Acceptance in the face of uncertainty.

The only way fear ever learns to quiet down.

Robby’s already three beers in and trying to argue that Good Will Hunting is actually a terrible representation of therapy while Mel King—your cohort-mate in the developmental area, always mindful and reserved—defends its emotional core like it’s a thesis chapter she’s still revising in her head.

Mentored by John Shen, Mel studies peer rejection and emotional socialization in early childhood, and she talks about toddlers with the same reverence some people reserve for philosophers. Her dissertation focuses on how early experiences of exclusion and inclusion shape later prosocial behavior, and she can recite every milestone in the Denver Developmental Screening Test like scripture.

She’s known for respectful debates, non-caffeinated bursts of energy, and an uncanny ability to babysit and code data at the same time. The kind of person who shows up with a snack bag labeled for every child at a study visit—and still finds time to coordinate the department's annual "bring your child to work" day. She even makes time to join you and Samira on your Sunday morning farmers market walks, reusable tote slung over one shoulder, ready to talk about plum varieties and which stand has the best sourdough.

Samira Mohan, meanwhile, sits with her signature whiskey sour and a stack of color-coded notecards she pretends not to be working on. She’s in the clinical area too—mentored by Collins—and her work focuses on how minority stress intersects with emotion regulation in underserved populations. Her analyses are razor sharp and sometimes terrifying. Samira rarely speaks unless she knows her words will land precisely—measured, deliberate, the kind of sharp that cuts clean.

Although still in her early prospectus phase, choosing to propose in her fifth year rather than fourth, her dissertation is shaping into a cross-sectional and mixed-methods exploration of how racial and gender minority stressors compound across contexts—academic, familial, and romantic—and the specific emotion regulation repertoires that emerge as survival strategies.

Samira doesn’t stir the pot for fun; she does it when she sees complacency and feels compelled to light a fire under it. That’s the Samira everyone knows and you love—the one who will quietly dismantle your entire line of argument with one clinical observation and a deadpan stare. She does exactly that now, throwing in a quote from bell hooks with the sly smile of someone who knows she’s lit a fuse just to watch it burn.

It’s a blur of overlapping conversations, familiar inside jokes, cheap spirits, and the particular cadence of a group that knows each other’s pressure points and proposal deadlines down to the day. For a moment you let yourself exist in it—in the din, in the messy affection of your academic family, in the safety you didn’t know you’d built, much less deserved. Samira’s halfway through a story about a disastrous clinical interview when she turns to you, parts her mouth to speak, and looks up behind you—

"So is this where all the cool kids hang out?"

You feel him before you see him—Jack’s presence like a low hum behind you, the soft waft of his cologne cutting through the ambient chatter. The light buzz of conversation has your senses dialed up, awareness prickling at the back of your neck. You don’t turn. You don’t have to.

Robby lets out a loud "whoohoo" as Jack joins the table, hauling him into a bro hug with the miraculously coordinated enthusiasm of someone riding high off departmental gossip. Jack rolls his eyes but doesn’t resist, letting Robby thump his back twice before extracting himself but instead of settling there, he leans down slightly, voice pitched just for you. “Is this seat taken?”

Robby at 12 o'clock, Heather to his left, then Samira, Mel, you, and John. The large circular table meant for twelve suddenly feels exponentially smaller. The tablecloth brushes your knees, heavy and starchy against your lap. You feel warmth creep up your cheeks—probably from the alcohol (definitely not from anything else)—and scoot over slightly closer to Mel, giving him room to squeeze in between you and John. You can feel the shift in the air, the proximity of his sleeve against yours, the silent knowledge that he's there now—anchored in your orbit.

He slides in beside you with a quiet murmur of thanks, the space between your arms barely more than a breath. The conversation continues, but the air feels a little different now.

He nods politely to Shen on his left, mutters something about being tricked into another committee, then glances your way—dry, amused, measured.

Always measured.

You feel Jack beside you—not just his sleeve brushing yours, but his presence, calm and dense as gravity. His knee bumps yours beneath the table once, lightly, maybe unintentional. Maybe not. The cologne still lingers faintly and you try to focus on what Samira is saying about peer-reviewed journals versus reviewer roulette, but it’s impossible to ignore the warmth radiating from his side, the way your skin registers it before your brain does. He's like a human crucible. You keep your gaze trained forward, sipping your drink a little too casually, pretending you don’t notice the way your heartbeat’s caught in your throat.

The charged air gives you a spike of bravery—fleeting, foolish, and just enough. Before you let the doubt creep into your veins, you nudge your knee toward Jack’s beneath the table, thankful for the tablecloth concealing the movement. You feel him exhale beside you—quiet, but unmistakable—and something inside you hums in response.

You feel Jack’s thigh tense against yours. The contact lingers, neither of you moving. Moments pass. Nothing happens.

So you cross your legs slowly, right over left, deliberately, letting the heel of your shoe graze his calf.

He stills.

The conversation around the table doesn’t pause, but you’re aware of every breath, every shift in weight beside you. The air between you tightens, stretched across the tension of everything unsaid.

Everyone else is occupied—Robby and Shen deep in conversation about conference logistics, Heather and Samira bickering over which of them was the worse TA, Mel nodding along and adding commentary between sips of cider. Jack sees the opening and seizes it.

He leans in, just slightly, until his shoulder brushes yours again—barely perceptible. "Subtle," he murmurs, voice pitched low, teasing.

You arch a brow, still facing forward. “I have no idea what you're talking.”

"Of course not," he says, dry. "Just sudden interest in the hem of the tablecloth, is it?"

You swirl your drink, letting the glass tilt in your fingers. "I’m a tactile learner. You know this."

He huffs a quiet breath—could almost be a laugh. "Must make data cleaning a thrilling experience."

"Only when R crashes mid-run." You angle your knee back toward his under the table, a soft bump like punctuation.

Jack tilts his head slightly, eyes flicking to yours. "Dangerous territory."

"Afraid of a little ambiguity, professor?"

His mouth twitches at the title.

You sip slowly, buying time, letting the quiet between you stretch like a drawn breath. His thigh is still pressed against yours. Still unmoving. Still deliberate.

"You always like to push your luck this much?" you murmur, keeping your eyes trained on your drink.

Jack hums low. "Only when the risk feels... calculated."

You glance at him, the corner of your mouth twitching. "Bit of a reward sensitivity bias tonight, Dr. Abbot?"

He shrugs. "You’ve been unintentionally reinforcing bad behavior."

You smirk, but say nothing, letting the conversation around you swell again. Robby starts ranting about departmental politics, Heather counters with a story about a grant mix-up that almost ended in flames. You sip your drink, Samira taps her notecards absently against her palm.

The rest of the evening hums on, warm and loose around the edges. When it finally winds down—people slowly gathering coats, hugging their goodbyes—you rise with the group, still a little buzzed, still aware of Jack’s presence beside you like heat that never quite left your side.

Under the soft yellow glow of the dim lobby chandelier, everyone says their goodnights—laughing, tipsy, hugging, good vibes all around. Jack is the last to leave the circle, and as you turn toward the elevator, you glance over your shoulder at him. "See you tomorrow," you say. "Last day of the conference—only the most boring panels left."

Jack lifts a brow. "You wound me."

You grin. "I’m just saying—if you show up in sweats and a baseball cap for your presentation, I’ll pretend not to know you."

The elevator dings. The doors slide open. You step inside, leaning against the railing. Jack stays behind.

"Goodnight," he says, eyes lingering. You nod, then turn, pressing the button for your floor. Just as the doors begin to glide shut, a hand slides into the narrow threshold—the border between hesitation and something else.

Palm flat against the seam. That sliver of metal and air.

He steps in slowly. Quiet. And presses the button for the same floor.

The doors slide shut behind him with a soft hiss.

Silence hums between you.

You don’t speak. Neither does he. But your awareness of each other sharpens—your breath shallow, his jaw tense. The elevator jolts into motion.

Jack shifts slightly, turning his body just enough to lean back against the railing—mirroring you. His arm grazes yours. Then the back of his hand brushes against your knuckles.

A spark—not metaphorical, not imagined—zips down your arm.

Neither of you pulls away.

You glance sideways.

He’s already looking at you.

Your eyes meet—held, quiet.

Not a word is exchanged. But something breaks—clean and sharp, like a snapped circuit. Long-simmering, unvoiced tension rising to the surface, clinging to the pause between heartbeats and motion-sensor lighting.

Jack leans in—not tentative, not teasing. Just close enough that his breath grazes your cheek. Your breath catches. His proximity feels like a fuse. He’s watching you—steady, unreadable. But you feel the pressure in the air shift, charged and thick.

"I don’t know what this is," you finally whisper. Your throat feels incredibly dry. A sharp juxtaposition to the state of your undergarments.

Jack’s voice dips low. "I think we’ve both been trying not to look too closely."

Your chest tightens. His hand twitches by his side. Flexing. Gripping. Restraint unraveling. His breath shallows, matching yours—fast, hungry, starved of oxygen and logic. And then, like a spark to dry kindling, you thread your fingers through his.

Heat erupts between your palms, a jolt that hits your spine. You don’t flinch. You don’t pull away. You tighten your grip.

He exhales—shaky, like it’s cost him everything not to close the distance between your mouths. The electricity is unbearable, like a dam on the edge of collapse.

And still, neither of you move. Not quite yet.

But the air is thick with the promise: the next breach will not be small.

The elevator dings.

You both flinch—just barely.

The doors slide open.

You release his hand slowly, fingers slipping apart like sand through mesh, reluctant and slow but inevitable. Jack's hands stay in a slightly open grip.

"I should..." you begin, breath catching. You clear your throat. "Goodnight, Jack."

Your voice is soft. Almost too soft.

Jack nods once. Doesn’t reach again. Doesn’t follow.

"Goodnight," he says. Low, warm. Weighted.

You step out. Don’t look back.

The doors begin to close.

You glance over your shoulder, once—just once.

Your eyes meet through the narrowing gap.

Then the doors seal shut, quiet as breath.

For now.

Contrary to Samira's reappraisal of you joining her for Friday night drinks, you begrudgingly allow her to drag you out of your cave. Just the two of you—girls’ night, no work talk allowed, and no saying "I need to work on my script" more than once. She makes you wear lip gloss and a top that could almost be considered reckless, and you down two tequila sodas before you even start to loosen your shoulders.

You’re halfway through your third drink when a pair of guys approaches—normal-looking, vaguely grad-school adjacent, maybe from public health or law school. Samira gives you a look that says seems safe enough, and you need this, and so you nod. You dance.

The one paired off with you is tall, not unpleasant. He asks before he touches you—his hand at your waist, then your hip, then lightly over your ribs. You nod, give consent. He smells like good cologne and something sugary, and he’s saying all the right things.

But something feels wrong.

You realize it halfway through the song, when his hand brushes the curve of your waist again, gentle and careful and... wrong. Too polite. Too other.

You think of the way Jack’s fingers had curled between yours. The heat of his palm against yours for a single minute in the elevator. The way he hadn’t touched you anywhere else—but it had felt like everything.

You close your eyes, trying to ground yourself. But you can’t stop comparing.

You’ve danced with this stranger for five whole minutes, and it hasn’t come close to the electricity of the sixty seconds you spent not speaking, not kissing, not touching anything else in the elevator with Jack.

It shouldn’t mean anything but it means everything.

You step back, thanking the guy politely, claiming a bathroom break. He nods, not pushy, already scanning the room.

Samira follows a song change later. "You okay?"

You nod. Then shake your head. Then say, "I think I might be fucked."

Samira just hands you a tissue, already knowing. She looks understanding. Like she sees it, too—and she's not going to mock you for it.

"Yep," she says gently while fixing a stray baby hair by your ear. "Saw it the second Jack joined us for drinks that night."

The night air feels cooler after the club, like the city is exhaling with you. You and Samira walk back toward the rideshare pickup, her arm looped loosely through yours.

You don’t say anything for a long moment. She doesn’t push.

"I don’t even know what it is," you murmur eventually. "I just know when that guy touched me, it felt like wearing someone else’s coat. Warm, sure, but not mine."

Samira hums in agreement. "Jack feels like your coat?"

"No," you sigh. Then, after a beat, quieter, "He feels like the one thing I forgot I was cold without."

She doesn’t say anything. Not right away. Just squeezes your hand. "So what’re you gonna do about it?"

"Scream. Cry. Have a pre-doctoral crisis," you say flatly.

Samira snorts. "So… Tuesday." You bite back a smile, shoving her shoulder lightly but appreciating the comedic diffusion nonetheless.

She exhales through her nose, gentler now. "If it’s any consolation, I see the way he looks at you."

Your eyes flick toward her. She continues, tone still soft, sincere. "Not just that night during drinks, but during your flash talk. I’ve never seen him that… emotive. It was like he was mesmerized. And even back during seminar last year, when he was filling in for Robby? Same thing. I remember thinking, damn, he listens to her like she’s rewriting gravity."

You should feel elated. Giddy. Instead, you bury your face in your hands and emit a sound that can only be described as a dying pterodactyl emitting its final screech. "I hate my fucking life."

"It's going to be okay!" Samira tries to hide her laughter but it comes through anyway, making you laugh through teary eyes. "You will be okay."

You shake your head back and forth, trying to make yourself dizzy in hopes that this was all a dream.

"Who was it that said 'boys are temporary, education is forever?'" Samira all-but-sang.

"Do not quote me right now, Mira," you groan, dragging the syllables like they physically pain you. "I am but a husk with a degree-in-progress."

The week that follows is both everything and nothing. You go to class. You show up to lab meetings. You present clean analyses and nod through questions from the new cohort of freshmen. You even draft two paragraphs of your discussion section. One of three discussion sections. It looks like functioning.

Since submitting the last batch of internship applications, your dissertation committee meetings have gone from once a week with each member to once every three. You'd already run all of your main studies, had all the data cleaned and collated, and even coded all of the analyses you intended on running. Now all that was left was the actual writing and compiling of it all for a neat, hundred-or-so-page manuscript that no one would read.

It’s your first meeting with Jack since flying back from the conference.

In all honesty, you hadn’t given it much thought. Compartmentalization had become a survival strategy, not a skill. It helped you meet deadlines, finish your talk, submit your final batch of internship applications—all while pretending nothing in that elevator happened. At least not in any way that mattered.

Now, seated outside his office with your laptop open and your third coffee in hand, you realize too late: you never really prepared for this part. The after.

You hear the door open behind you. A familiar cadence of steps—steady but slightly uneven. You know that gait.

"Hey," Jack says, as calm and neutral as ever. Like you didn’t almost combust into each other two weeks ago.

You glance up. Smile tight. "Hey."

"Come in?"

You nod. Stand. Follow him inside.

The office is the same as it’s always been—overcrowded with books, one stack threatening to collapse near the filing cabinet. You sit in your usual chair. He sits in his. The silence is comfortable. Professional.

It shouldn’t feel like a loss.

Jack taps a few keys on his laptop. "You sent your methods revisions?"

"Yesterday," you say. "Just a few small clarifications."

He hums. Nods. Clicks something open.

You sip your coffee. Pretend the sting behind your ribs is just caffeine.

The moment stretches.

He finally speaks. "You look… tired."

You smile, faint and crooked. “It’s November.”

Jack lets out a quiet laugh. Then scrolls through the document, silent again.

But the air between you feels thinner now. Like something’s missing. Or maybe like something’s waiting.

He reads.

You watch him.

Not just glance. Not just notice. Watch.

Your coffee cools in your hands, untouched.

He doesn't ask why you weren't at the symposium he moderated. Or if you were running on caffeine and nerves from recent deadlines. And definitely not why you booked an earlier flight home from the conference.

You search his face like it might hold an answer—though you’re not entirely sure what the question is. Something about the last two weeks. The way he hasn’t said anything. The way you haven’t either. The way both of you pretended, remarkably well, that everything was the same.

But Jack’s expression doesn’t change. Not noticeably. He just skims the screen, fingers occasionally tapping his trackpad. The glow from his monitor traces the line of his jaw.

Still, you keep looking. Like maybe if you study him hard enough, you’ll find a hint of something there.

A crack. A tell. A memory.

But he stays unreadable.

Professional.

And you hate that it hurts.

It eats at you.

Why does it hurt?

You knew better than to let this happen. To let it get this far. This was never supposed to be anything other than professional, clinical, tidy. But somewhere between all the late-night edits and long silences, the boundaries started to blur like ink in water.

You tell yourself to turn it off. That part in your brain responsible for—this—whatever it was. Romantic projection, limerence, foolishness. You’d diagnose it in a heartbeat if it weren’t your own.

You just need to get through this meeting. This last academic year. Then you'd be somewhere far away for internship, and then graduated. That’s all.

Then you could go back to pretending you’re fine. That everything was okay.

The entire time you’d been staring—not at Jack, not directly—but just past his shoulder, toward the bookshelves. Not really seeing them. Just trying to breathe.

Jack had already finished reading through your edits. He read them last night, actually—when your email came through far too late. He’d learned to stay up past his usual bedtime about two weeks into joining your committee.

But he wasn’t just reading. Not now.

He was watching. Noticing the subtle shifts in your brow, the tension at the corners of your mouth. You didn’t look at him, but he didn’t need you to.

Jack studied people for a living. He’d made a career out of it.

And right now, he was studying you.

You snap yourself out of it. A light head bobble. A few quick blinks. A swallow. "All done?" you ask, voice dry. Almost nonchalant, like you hadn’t been staring through him trying to excavate meaning.

Jack lifts an eyebrow, subtle, but nods. "Yeah. Looks solid."

You nod back. Like it’s just another meeting. Like that’s all it ever was.

Then you close your laptop a little too quickly. "I think I’m gonna head out early, I don’t feel great," you offer, keeping your tone breezy, eyes still somewhere over his shoulder.

Jack doesn’t call you on it. Not outright.

But he watches you too long. Like he’s flipping through every frame of this scene in real time, and none of it quite adds up.

"Alright," he says finally. Even. Quiet. "Feel better."

You nod again, already halfway to the door.

You don’t look back.

"Hey—" Jack’s voice catches, right as the door swings shut.

Your hand freezes on the handle.

You hesitate.

But you don’t turn around.

Just one breath.

Then you keep walking.

You make it halfway down the hall before you realize your hands are shaking.

Not much. Barely. Just enough that when you fish your phone out of your coat pocket to check the time, your thumb slips twice before you unlock the screen.

He’d called your name.

And maybe that wouldn’t mean anything—shouldn’t mean anything—except Jack Abbot isn’t the type to call out without a reason. You’ve worked with him long enough to know that. Observed him enough in clinical and classroom settings. Hell, you’ve studied men like him—hyper-controlled, slow to show their hand. You’d written an entire paper on the paradox of behavioral inhibition in high-functioning trauma survivors and then realized, two weeks into seminar, that the paragraph on defensive withdrawal could’ve been subtitled See: Jack Abbot, Case Study #1.

You’d meant to file that away and forget it.

You haven’t forgotten it.

And now you're walking fast, maybe too fast, through the undergrad psych wing like the answer might be waiting for you in your lab inbox or the fluorescence of your office.

You don’t stop until you’re behind a locked door with your laptop powered off and your hands braced on either side of your desk.

You breathe.

In through your nose. Out through your mouth.

Again.

Still—when you close your eyes, you see the look on his face.

That same unreadable stillness.

Like he wanted to say something else.

Like he knew something else. And maybe—maybe—you did too.

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gayahithwen · 1 day ago

Text

I was a kid who soaked up information like a sponge. Especially anything pertaining to history. But I also know a lot of kids who get so bored looking at some old historical thing that holds zero significance to them. I think the takeaway lesson shouldn't be "kids shouldn't go on field trips", but rather "education should be more widely available to people of all life stages", and a side dose of "we need to meet learners where they're at", by which I mean... like... If kids haven't developed the requisite perspective to appreciate history yet, maybe you don't start by taking them to a 19th century watermill. Maybe you should start by giving them wheat to grind into flour, and teach them how to make the most basic kind of flatbread. My school did this in first grade. We each got a pestle and mortar and a handful of wheat grains, and we ground away for a good long while until we had basic, coarse flour, and then we mixed it up with water and the tiniest pinch of salt, and baked it in the oven in the school kitchen. And it wasn't particularly GOOD bread, but I'd put so much effort into grinding flour that my pride overshadowed everything else. By the time I got around to learning about how mills worked, I already knew how hard it was to grind grain through human power alone. And so, I could see what a marvel it would be to go from doing that, to having a dedicated MILL and MILLER. And just... I don't know. I do agree that adults should get to go on field trips to learn about things. I just don't think it has to be INSTEAD of children going on field trips. I think learners of all ages should go on field trips as frequently as possible.

#education

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sh4nksslvt · 1 day ago

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Hello, can I please request a reader x Law? The reader is Law's lover. She was a pirate, but 6 months prior, she disbanded her team. About a month ago, she was captured by the Navy. For almost 40 days, she's been interrogated and tortured. The reason they discovered she's Law's lover. And they want to know all of her weaknesses and her main base. She hasn't said much of anything. Why does the Surgeon of Death have an alliance with the Straw Hats? She just stares at them. Will he come for you? asks the Marine, angry. He won't let his lover die. The young woman laughs. "You're an idiot." "We're pirates. That one or two die doesn't mean anything." She's almost lost consciousness.

hope u like this!

No Weakness to Break

Captured by the Navy and tortured for information about her lover, Trafalgar Law, a defiant pirate refuses to break, clinging to her resolve until rescue comes.

Law X fem! reader | ONE SHOT tags: slight angst, sfw, oc, hurt/comfort, torture, interrogation, ooc(?) a/n: this js me trying to write ffs, this is experimental and for fun only, so expect this ffs a bit cringe and akward word count: 1.7k

masterlist | ko-fi

: 𓏲🐋 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖✩࿐࿔ 🌊

The cell was a tomb of cold stone and rusted iron, the air thick with the stench of damp mold and blood. For thirty-nine days, you had counted the cracks in the wall, the only distraction from the pain that wracked your body. Your wrists, bound by seastone cuffs, ached where the metal bit into your skin, leaving raw, red marks. Your once-vibrant hair was matted, clinging to your sweat-soaked forehead. The Navy had taken everything—your crew, your freedom, your strength—but they hadn’t taken your will. Not yet.

You were a pirate, captain of your own crew until six months ago when you disbanded them, seeking a quieter life, or at least one less drenched in blood. You’d been reckless, though, lingering too long in a port town, and the Navy had sniffed you out. They didn’t care about your disbanded crew or your past raids. They cared about one thing: your connection to Trafalgar Law, the Surgeon of Death. They wanted his weaknesses, his plans, his base. They wanted to know why he’d allied with the Straw Hat Pirates, what schemes he was weaving. And they thought you, his lover, would be the key to cracking him open.

The interrogator, a wiry Marine captain with a cruel glint in his eyes, leaned forward, his chair creaking. His name was Varkis, and he’d been your tormentor for weeks. His questions were always the same, delivered with a mix of smugness and frustration. Today, his patience was thinner than ever.

“Where is his main base?” Varkis demanded, slamming a fist on the table between you. The sound echoed in the small cell, but you didn’t flinch. “You’ve been with him for years. You know where the Heart Pirates dock. Tell me, and this ends.”

Your lips curled into a faint, defiant smile. Blood trickled from a cut on your cheek, stinging as it mixed with sweat. “You’re wasting your breath,” you rasped, your voice hoarse from days of screaming. “I don’t know anything.”

“Liar!” Varkis surged to his feet, his face red with fury. He grabbed a metal rod from the corner of the room, its tip blackened from use. “You’re his woman. You know everything. His plans, his alliances, his weaknesses. Why does the Surgeon of Death work with the Straw Hats? What’s he after?”

You stared at him, your eyes heavy-lidded but unyielding. The pain in your body was a constant hum, but you’d learned to push it to the back of your mind. You wouldn’t break. Not for Varkis. Not for anyone. Law had taught you that—strength wasn’t just in a blade or a devil fruit. It was in the mind, in the heart. And your heart belonged to him.

“Answer me!” Varkis roared, swinging the rod. It connected with your shoulder, sending a jolt of agony through your already battered frame. You bit back a cry, your teeth grinding together. The world swam for a moment, but you forced yourself to focus on Varkis’s face, on the desperation in his eyes. He was running out of time. The Navy’s higher-ups were probably breathing down his neck, demanding results.

“Will he come for you?” Varkis asked, his voice dropping to a venomous hiss. He leaned close, his breath hot against your face. “The great Trafalgar Law, the Surgeon of Death. Will he risk everything to save his lover? Or will he let you die?”

You laughed. It was a weak, broken sound, but it filled the cell with defiance. “You’re an idiot,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “We’re pirates. One or two dying doesn’t mean anything.”

The words were a lie, and they burned your throat as you spoke them. Law would come. You knew he would. But you’d be damned if you gave Varkis the satisfaction of seeing that hope in your eyes. Let him think you were heartless, that Law was heartless. Let him think you were nothing to each other. It was the only way to protect him.

Varkis’s face twisted with rage. He raised the rod again, but before he could strike, the door to the cell burst open. A subordinate stumbled in, his face pale. “Captain Varkis! There’s a ship approaching—fast. It’s flying the Heart Pirates’ flag!”

Varkis froze, the rod still raised. His eyes darted to you, and for the first time, you saw fear in them. You smiled, blood staining your teeth. “Told you,” you murmured. “You’re an idiot.”

Law stood at the bow of the Polar Tang, his grip on Kikoku so tight his knuckles were white. The Navy base loomed on the horizon, a fortress of gray stone perched on a rocky island. His crew was silent behind him, their usual banter replaced by grim determination. Bepo, Penguin, and Shachi stood closest, their faces set. They knew what was at stake. They’d all heard the rumors—your capture, your torture. Law had spent the last month tearing through every lead, every whisper, until he’d pinpointed this base.

“She’s alive,” Bepo said softly, his voice trembling. “She has to be.”

“She is,” Law said, his voice low and certain. He didn’t allow himself to consider the alternative. You were too stubborn to die, too fierce to let the Navy break you. But the thought of what they’d done to you in the last forty days made his blood boil. If they’d hurt you—if they’d dared lay a hand on you—he’d tear this base apart brick by brick.

“Captain,” Shachi called from the helm. ��We’re in range. They’ve spotted us.”

“Good,” Law said, his eyes narrowing. “Let them know we’re coming.”

The Polar Tang surged forward, its engines roaring. Law’s plan was simple: infiltrate, extract, destroy. He didn’t care about the Navy’s numbers or their defenses. He didn’t care about the consequences. All that mattered was getting you out.

As the ship closed in, alarms blared from the base. Cannons swiveled, and Marines scrambled to their posts. Law raised Kikoku, his lips curling into a cold smile. “Room.”

A blue dome enveloped the Polar Tang and part of the base. In an instant, Law was gone, teleporting to the heart of the fortress. Chaos erupted as he cut through Marines with surgical precision, his blade a blur. Penguin and Shachi led the ground assault, their weapons flashing as they cleared a path. Bepo roared, his massive form barreling through enemy lines.

Law moved like a shadow, his Observation Haki guiding him through the maze of corridors. He could feel you—your presence, faint but stubborn, like a candle refusing to go out. He followed it, his heart pounding. When he reached the cell block, he found Varkis standing over you, the rod raised for another blow.

“Shambles,” Law snarled. In a blink, Varkis was flung against the wall, pinned by an invisible force. The rod clattered to the ground. Law’s eyes locked on you, and for a moment, the world stopped.

You were a mess—bruised, bloodied, barely conscious. But you were alive. Your eyes, half-open, met his, and a faint smile curved your lips. “Took you long enough,” you whispered.

Law’s throat tightened. He knelt beside you, his hands trembling as he sliced through the seastone cuffs with Kikoku. “I’m here,” he said, his voice softer than you’d ever heard it. “I’ve got you.”

You tried to laugh, but it turned into a cough. “Knew you’d come,” you said. “Idiot.”

He smirked, but his eyes were dark with fury. He turned to Varkis, who was struggling against the wall. “You touched her,” Law said, his voice deadly calm. “That was a mistake.”

Varkis opened his mouth to beg, but Law didn’t give him the chance. A flick of Kikoku, and the Marine collapsed, blood pooling beneath him. Law didn’t spare him another glance. He scooped you into his arms, careful not to jostle your injuries. “Hold on,” he said. “We’re getting out of here.”

The escape was a blur of violence and motion. The Heart Pirates fought like demons, carving a path back to the Polar Tang. Law carried you the entire way, his arms steady despite the chaos around him. You drifted in and out of consciousness, your head resting against his chest. His heartbeat was the only thing grounding you, a steady rhythm that promised safety.

When you woke, you were in the Polar Tang’s infirmary, the familiar hum of the ship’s engines filling the air. Your body ached, but the pain was dulled by bandages and medicine. Law sat beside you, his coat draped over a chair, his hat resting on the table. He looked exhausted, his eyes shadowed, but he was there. He was always there.

“Hey,” you said, your voice weak but steady.

He looked up, relief flooding his face. “You’re awake.”

“Barely.” You managed a smile. “You look like hell.”

“Says the one who’s been through hell,” he shot back, but there was no heat in his words. He reached for your hand, his fingers intertwining with yours. “You scared me,” he admitted, his voice low. “I thought…”

“You thought I’d break?” you asked, raising an eyebrow. “Come on, Law. You know me better than that.”

He chuckled, but it was strained. “I know. But seeing you like that…” He trailed off, his grip tightening. “I should’ve found you sooner.”

You shook your head. “You found me. That’s what matters.”

He didn’t argue, but you could see the guilt in his eyes. Law was a man who carried every failure like a weight, and you knew he’d blame himself for your capture. You squeezed his hand, drawing his gaze back to you. “I didn’t tell them anything,” you said. “Not a word. They wanted your weaknesses, your base, your plans. I gave them nothing.”

His expression softened, a mix of pride and pain. “I know,” he said. “You’re stronger than they’ll ever understand.”

“Damn right,” you said, smirking. “But next time, maybe don’t take a whole month to find me, yeah?”

He laughed, a real laugh this time, and the sound warmed you more than any blanket. “Deal,” he said. “But there won’t be a next time. I’m not letting you out of my sight again.”

You rolled your eyes, but your heart fluttered. “Possessive bastard.”

“Only for you,” he said, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to your forehead. His lips lingered, and you closed your eyes, letting yourself sink into the moment. The Navy had tried to break you, to tear you apart piece by piece. But they’d failed. You were still here, still fighting, still his.

And as long as you had Law, no cell, no torture, no Marine could ever take that away.

#one piece #one piece x reader #one piece x you #one piece x y/n #idk what im doing #idk man #slight angst #trafalgar law #law #law x reader #trafalgar law x reader #trafalgar d law x reader #trafalgardwaterlaw #trafalgar op #trafalgar one piece #heart pirates #hurt/comfort

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acosmicbee · 2 days ago

Text

Dangerous Man

500 Follower Celebration - Day 5

(Castle In The Sky inspired! Is it obvious I love Studio Ghibli or what? TWS: Reader gets drugged, brief vomiting towards the end)

Working in the mines was hard, labor intensive work. Luckily, you weren't actually a miner, but you spent a lot of time keeping everything else up and running and helping wherever you were needed. It was a great way to pick up random skills.

It was the end of another long day. You had already waved your boss out, knowing he had a daughter to get home to who hadn't seen her dad all day. You had been the last one to leave, only half paying attention as you walked along the forest, heading towards town.

It was strange, completely random. You thought you were hallucinating for a when you saw a something stumble out of the woods in front of you. It was a girl, who then promptly collapsed, leaving you to rush to catch her before she hit the ground..

You were an orphan, your mother died in childbirth and your father had disappeared on an adventure when you were 8. Despite that, you were never alone. The townspeople looked after you and you always had enough to get by, they made sure you learned to never abandon a person in need if you could help. Because of this, you didn't hesitate to bring the girl home. You lay the girl down in your father's old room, making sure she was tucked in and safe before heading to bed yourself. Hopefully when she woke up she'd be able to answer your questions.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

You yawned as you cooked breakfast, never truly used to waking up so early in the morning. The food was nothing fancy, just some eggs with a bit of sausage you had left over. You made two plates, one for yourself and one for the mysterious floating girl. You gently knocked on the door before entering, seeing her awake and sitting up.

"You're awake. I was worried after whatever it was that happened last night you might be out for longer." You handed her the plate.

"What happened? And where am I? Who are you?" She carefully took the plate but didn't touch anything. You sighed.

"I'm Y/N. You're currently in the town of Shipp's Ravine, a small mining town no ones ever heard of out by the coast in the middle of nowhere." You introduced lightly. It wasn't wrong, hardly anyone who wasn't from here or somewhere close by had ever heard of this place. "As for what happened, you kinda just stumbled out of the woods."

"I'm... Poppy. I come from... far away. The airship stopped to refuel and... I ran for it." Poppy answered, talking slow as she tried to remember what happened.

"An airship? We don't get much airship traffic around here. You must have walked really far, the nearest airship dock isn't for three towns over, and it's military run." You said. Poppy grimaced.

"The military can't help me." She eventually answered. "Not with why I ran."

"Why? Did you do something? Are you a criminal?" She shook her head before taking another small bite. That made you pout a little. Secretly harboring a criminal would've brought some much needed excitement to your life and she seemed nice enough.

"This man he kidnapped me. He's working with the military, or at least he has connections with them. I know he's probably using every contact he has to try and find me." She said. You perked back up, your interest and excitement piqued.

"Well if you're trying to hide, Shipp's Ravine is the perfect place. Trust me, very few people even know this place exists! You'll be safe here."

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

You hummed as you skipped down the path, waving hello and greeting everyone you passed. You were heading out to buy some more food for dinner having taken a day off to talk to Poppy.

You were halfway to the market when you spotted him. A man with long blond hair in a clean white suit. Next to him were two armed guards. You cursed under your breath as you picked your way through the crowd, trying your best not to stand out.

Of course it didn't work as you were tapped on the shoulder. You turned around with a bright smile, tilting your head in mock curiosity at the outsiders trying to talk to you. "Excuse me, have you seen a young girl? Maybe around your age-?"

"Yeah! There's Lisa, Diana, Gianna, Lily, Winona..." You started to list off all the names of village girls you could think of who fit the description. The man shook his head.

"Her name is Poppy. She has fiery red hair and bright green eyes. Face covered in freckles." You shook your head.

"Nope! The only girls who fit that description would be Mrs. June's daughters but they're both under 7. Anything else I can do for you?" The man shook his head.

"No thank you. Good day."

"You too sir!" You answered, extra cheerily before continuing your shopping. You couldn't leave empty handed without drawing suspicion as to why.

The second you were done, and out of view of the main square, you booked it. You ran up the path, basket clutched in your hand. Poppy jumped when you slammed open the door, shutting it quickly behind you as you drew the curtains shut.

"The man who kidnapped you, does he have long blond hair? Gray eyes?" You asked, the second you dead bolted the door. Poppy froze.

"He's- he's here?" She whispered.

"Hey, hey, it's alright. I have an idea. I have a friend who works at the rail station. I'll get us tickets somewhere in countryside, somewhere even more rural and out of the way. But until then stay here. Avoid the windows and don't answer the door. If you're okay with it, I can cut your hair shorter so you pass as a boy."

Poppy agreed to let you cut her hair so you'd made sure to wash it out nicely before you started. You'd been cutting your own hair for a while, so you made it look as nice as possible. She didn't seem to mind too much and you even caught her smiling at herself in the mirror later.

"It's nice not having to worry about brushing it for hours and hours." She eventually told you. "I wish I had cut it sooner. Maybe you could get a new job as a hair dresser."

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

The day you left was the day you heard that the military had been getting warrants to search the villager's houses for Poppy. You'd already been dropping hints about taking a vacation so it wouldn't come as a surprise if you left for a little.

You ran around your house, gathering only the most important things. You burned Poppy's dress, shoving her into some clothing you'd bought that was clearly meant for a boy. Once you had those all packed away you handed one of the clothing bags to Poppy.

"It'll help you blend in if we're both carrying stuff. Until we're safely on the train I'll call you Pierre, okay?" She nodded, pulling down her cap more as you walked to the station. The train station was empty and you were able to get a private room for a discounted price for the two of you, all paid in cash. The energy was tense until the train had pulled out of the station.

It was a long trip, one that would stretch through the night and into the next day. You and Poppy entertained yourselves with card games and books and other random things until it had gotten dark out. You went to bed feeling safe, drifting off easily to the gentle rocking of the train.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

It was late -- or was it early? -- when you heard the door to your cabin open. In your half asleep state, curled beneath one of your mother's quilted blankets that you'd brought, you assumed it was Poppy. Maybe she needed air or to go to the bathroom.

You could vaguely make out a silhouette of someone with long hair. Convinced it was Poppy you rolled back over, but the door never closed and the lantern light in the hallway made it difficult to fall back asleep. You yawned, finally deciding to get up and see what she needed when your blood ran cold.

Poppy didn't have long hair anymore because you had cut it. Poppy couldn't be standing in the doorway because you had seen her asleep on the other bench when you opened your eyes.

T h a t w a s n ' t P o p p y.

A sudden pinch at the base of your neck made you whine in pain. You rolled over, trying to stand, only for your legs to give out. You never hit the floor, silently being laid back down as you tried to force your body to work.

The man, the same one from the marketplace, shushed you gently as he watched you try to fight the drug. Your eyesight was blurring, your brain turning to mush and you couldn't move. You passed out right as he turned to Poppy, still blissfully asleep across from you.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

You woke up to a faint humming noise. Your stomach turned unpleasantly and you felt feverish and nauseous. Where you were laying was comfortable though. You were warm and it was soft. You wondered what had woken you up when you finally registered someone shaking you.

Opening your eyes to the dark room you saw Poppy, face covered in tears. She hugged you the second you awoke, crying into your chest. Looking around and letting your eyes adjust to the darkness you realized why. This wasn't your home, nor was it the train car. It looked like the fancy rooms advertised for rich people on airships.

"Poppy?" You whispered weakly. She held you tighter, still silently crying. You looked around noting anything that could be important. It was a large room with two beds, one of which you were laying on. There was a small heater in the middle of the room as well as a table and chairs. Your bags were placed on the table, including your mother's quilts which were neatly folded.

There was a small window in the room, barred from the outside, not that it would do anything seeing as the only view out the window was clouds and the night sky. You looked towards the door, ignoring the way your head spun. It must be a side affect of whatever he'd drugged you with, this lethargy and pseudo-sickness.

"It's locked. Everything is." Poppy whispered to you. "I'm so sorry Y/N. I never meant for you to get caught up in this."

Both of you turned at the sound of voices in the hallway outside the locked door. There was the sound of a key before the lock finally clicked open. It was the man, holding a small oil lamp. He was no longer in the white suit but in some kind of lounge wear, possibly some kind of rich person pajamas you'd never even heard of.

"You're both awake. I'm glad the drugs finally wore off, I was getting a bit worried. Then again, they were military grade sedatives." He smiled calmly, almost like he was trying to be comforting. He was dangerous, no amount of smiling would change that.

"Where are we? What did you do?" You asked. You cursed your voice for not only betraying your fear but also your compromised state.

"Y/N L/N, the beloved orphan of Shipp's Ravine. I asked around about you after our little interaction at the market. The townspeople really love you there, it's a shame you won't be going back. As for lying to me, we can discuss the repercussions of that later."

"Let them go! They never did anything to you! This has always been about me, you don't need to drag them into this as well!" Poppy yelled. The man just chuckled, approaching the both of you.

"My sweet, naïve, little Poppy. You trust so easily and you're lucky this time it turned out well for you. Imagine if you'd been found by some creep instead of some poor child playing adult who wanted nothing but companionship in return." He said, and you didn't even have the strength to be offended at his description of you.

"As for them not doing anything to me, they lied to me. Albeit, they did so to protect you, which is just so precious. It made he change my mind on what should happen to them. Rest assured, they will be cared for, just as you will be cared for. You'll finally have the sibling you always dreamed of."

"Just because you kidnapped us together doesn't make us siblings! This isn't some heartfelt family reunion!" The man smiled and tilted his head.

"Oh, but wouldn't it? I happen to have a letter from the commander of the royal military, which makes it more than just simple law. Would you like me to read it to you?" He held it out of reach when Poppy tried to snatch it from him, a satisfied smirk on his face. "It says, 'Seeing as Y/N L/N and Poppy Demonium lack legal guardians as both parents are either deceased or missing, I, General Kingston Grant hereby give all legal guardianship to one Caspian LaRue.'"

Those words proved to be the final straw for your stomach as you hunched over, gagging as you threw up on the floor beside you before slumping over onto Poppy.

"Oh dear. I suppose I should've guessed that such a large dose would've been too much for your body to handle." He murmured. You could only cry as you closed your eyes, trying to stabilize yourself.

You didn't even know when he'd called in cleaning staff, but they were already there when you opened your eyes again, leaving quickly once it had been dealt with. Poppy cradled your body close, protectively glaring at Caspian when he approached the bed and sat down beside you.

"You'll feel better in the morning. We can have a real talk then. Good night Y/N." He brushed some of your sweat stuck hair off your forehead before turning to Poppy. "Good night, Poppy. Sleep well."

He turned to leave, grabbing his oil lamp from where he'd set it, when a small smile crossed his face as he stood in the doorway. "Poppy, short hair suits you. Even if you did cut it for a silly reason." With that, the door closed and locked behind him and the two of you were left alone in the dark to ponder your new lives.

#platonic yandere #yandere platonic #yandere #yandere oc x reader #yandere x reader #platonic #yandere ocs #parental yandere

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swordgrace · 8 hours ago

Text

❝ 𝐛𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮. ❞

┊ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: after getting injured on a mission and dismissing your help, you can’t seem to shake why john doesn’t like you. the answer is more complicated than you thought.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: john walker x fem!reader.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 10.0K (sorry!)

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: smut (mdni), teammates to lovers, angst, talk of insecurities, john is an asshole who’s emotionally constipated, mention of violence, wound tending trope, heavy kissing, groping, teasing, oral sex (fem!rec), cunnilingus, mild body worship, hair pulling, unprotected p in v sex, creampie, missionary position, john has a huge praise kink, aftercare.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: listen ,,, I know he’s a bad person & he’s flawed but he’s so well-written and hot … and it’s wyatt russell !! first time writing for john and I loved this, I hope you guys love it too! thank you so much for your support! 🫶

Ash floats through smoke-laden air in the aftermath of an explosion, chunks of a building blown into the streets, screams of civilians pounding within your ears. Time stills, as if it’s come to a crawl, and everything slows around you.

Missions still paralyze you from time to time, fear and doubt creeping in, keeping you frozen in-place. It’s gotten somewhat easier, adapting to chaotic situations, attempting to fit in with your new teammates.

A clammy perspiration clings to your flesh beneath your suit, the design nondescript. Valentina had pushed for something flashy, more in-line with your abilities, but you refused. The less that you stuck out, the better.

It wasn’t nearly as impressive as the rest of the team, healing powers at the expense of your own energy, but you were designated as the ‘medic’, for obvious reasons. Whenever someone was injured or too roughed-up, you were there to help.

“You still with us over there?”

John Walker’s snide quip emanates from the communication link sitting in your ear, and it’s enough to effectively shatter your stupor. It wasn’t a malicious remark — just a little annoying, likely furthered by his tone of voice.

Steve Rogers was someone you knew, years ago — an acquaintance, really, but he’d helped get you out of a bind with undercover H.Y.D.R.A operatives. When he wore the shield, when Sam wore the shield, it stood for something greater than themselves.

Walker had been thrown into enough turmoil already; losing the role of Captain America, murdering an innocent, losing his family. It was all his fault, he knew this — it didn’t make the pain any less, knowing he was at the root of it all.

The both of you butted heads more often than not, two differing personalities that clashed in verbal sparring matches or thinly-veiled hostility. You’d tried to empathize with him, but he made it difficult with his condescending attitude.

Bucky had played mediator more times than you could count — you didn’t enjoy getting angry, the feeling never benefited you. Nevertheless, you were trying to get along with Walker and learn to work better as teammates.

Things were progressing, albeit slowly. Even after extending the olive branch and being kind to him, maybe too nice, he still held some lingering indifference towards you.

“I copy.” In the aftermath of thwarting enemies of the state, you prefer to help the civilians, ensuring that they were out of harm’s way, healed. Jogging toward a group of people attempting to move rubble aside, you’re quick to assist.

“There’s still one more, if someone wants to take care of it,” Ava’s voice comes over the communicator, muddled by background noise of emergency vehicles. “Unless you need help.”

“I got it.” Quick to volunteer, Walker’s voice cuts in before dissipating. You’re busy helping move wreckage aside, freeing any trapped citizens and making way for ambulances. Wailing sirens fill the air, and things move swiftly.

The air smells of burning, intermingled with a twinge of copper, a streak of crimson splashed upon your cheek. It’s a shallow cut, something trivial and minor, muscles aching with a dull throb after the dust begins to settle.

Helicopters begin to circle overhead, the media soon to follow. It was some rogue section of former H.Y.D.R.A operatives that had caused this mess, and with the formation of the New Avengers, these threats seem to appear more often.

The public is torn — one side openly celebrating that there’s protection again, the other side scornful of a ragtag group of government rejects. You aren’t one to pay attention to the discourse, focusing on finding your own footing, building relationships and making amends.

Despite having the team to lean on, you had a complicated relationship with your own family. After your powers manifested, you became isolated, kept at a distance, prompting you to run away and find S.H.I.E.L.D, when it still existed.

Still, you felt alone sometimes, but the pain had lessened with the passage of time. Alexei, of all people, treated you like a daughter, and Ava proved to be a reliable friend, despite her constant grimace. The more you assimilated with them, the more the bitter sting dissipated.

The team was a conglomerate of fragmented pasts — scars, veiled wounds, regrets; but they had become your family, or something close, and that meant the world to you.

As first responders began to flood the scene, you regrouped with the rest of the team, scraped and battered from the fighting, but all intact. Bucky and Yelena typically helmed any media events following a battle, but this time, everyone wanted to go home.

“Look at us,” Alexei laughs, placing a hand on John’s shoulder, and Yelena’s. “We are good team! The best team that the world has ever seen!” He cheers, and you find his enthusiasm endearing. John winces, stepping away from the Russian’s hold.

“You say that after every mission.” Yelena points out, but there’s a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. The jet is somewhere down the street, and you all begin the arduous process of walking back.

“It is to remind of the truth, of our strength.” Alexei boasts, gleeful as ever as he jogs to keep up with Bucky. Bucky’s taken to letting him pretend that he’s the “co-captain”, just to keep his spirits high.

Morale is Alexei’s specialty — there is never a dull moment when he’s around, and his enthusiasm evokes a small smile from you, curling at the corners of your mouth. Dull, throbbing pangs of sore muscle ebbs through your body.

Straggling along at the tail end of the group, you step through some of the smaller pieces of rubble, a majority of what remains to be disposed of by a clean-up crew. Your mind is elsewhere, and the idea of sleeping once you’re back to the Watchtower is very appealing.

John is there too, uncharacteristically quiet as he walks a pace or two ahead of you, and you notice the slight stutter in his gait. There’s crimson blooming from a gash on the back of his suit, a deep wound, and your brows furrow together.

He didn’t say anything about it, which is typical, but you can’t help but be concerned. You didn’t dislike John, simply abhorred his attitude and the way he sometimes believed that he wasn’t at-fault.

Closing the distance, you come up on his flank, softly clearing your throat. “You’re hurt,” You murmur, low enough for only him to hear. He has an issue with getting injured, as if his pride is simultaneously bruised, so you keep it cordial. “I can take care of it.”

He’s always been reluctant to accept your help, allowing himself to fester within the pain, as if it’s some sort of penance for all the wrong he’s done. His muscles ache, and the gash, bruises, and cuts don’t make anything easier.

“I’m fine,” Dismissive, John brushes your concern aside, focusing on getting back to the jet without collapsing. The serum does its part, easier to manage the pain, but it doesn’t take away the sting. “It’s not that bad.” He utters, hoping you’ll drop it.

It’s his tone again; bitter, indifferent, swatting your offer aside as if you’re more bothersome than helpful. For reasons you can’t explain, it makes you angry, as if he’s too good for your help. Your jaw clenches, and you try again.

“There’s nothing wrong with accepting help, John. When we get back to the Watchtower, I can —”

“I said I’m fine.” Walker retorts, snapping at you without hesitation. It’s born from an amalgamation of agony and his own innermost demons that he’s wrestling with. He stares ahead, not wanting to look at your expression.

Bewildered, you fight against getting frustrated with him, wondering if there’s something that extends beyond his surface-level condescension.

Though, you wonder what you did to make him hate you so much — you sparred about the past, sure, but you were trying to bury the hatchet.

As if pierced by something sharp, you scoff, attempting to smother the flicker of fury that burned within your chest. It overrides your judgment, mouth moving before you can tell yourself to stop. “What’s your problem with me? Jesus, Walker, I just want to help you.”

The both of you are far away enough for the rest to remain oblivious to your sudden squabbling, and John grits his teeth, a sharp inhale splitting his lungs. “I can handle this on my own.” His tone is edged, but there’s something more beneath the surface.

Cerulean hues issue a warning for you to drop the subject, and you do, albeit reluctantly. Anger diminishes into confusion, uncertainty; you didn’t understand. Despite your efforts, he continued to swat you away as if you were a pest.

The splinter of desperation in your cadence turns his stomach, verbal sparring settling into a tenuous silence. John steals a glance despite himself, noticing the forlorn look that is etched into your brow, as if you’ve done something wrong.

He knows it’s not you — never has been, it’s him. John’s agitation dwindles into guilt, knowing that your intentions were wholly good, selfless. It’s something that he wishes he could have, and he’s working on it, but the process is emotionally heavy.

Scorned, you keep pace with him, even if he’s pushed you aside, ensuring that he makes it to the jet intact. The rest of the team regards you with perplexity, though you’re dismissive of it, settling into the webbing of your flight-seat.

The aftermath is often hushed — bodies catching their breath, a wordless recuperation, senses beginning to climb down from heightened adrenaline. Bucky’s piloting you out, heading back to the Watchtower.

Exhaustion settles in, replacing the exhilaration that comes with missions, the surge of vigor in your bloodstream. Tilting backwards, your head meets the cool interior of the jet, engine’s idle buzz thrumming beneath your boots.

John sits beside you, unexpectedly, his strenuous sigh rattling your body, passing from the bulk of his bicep to you. His visage is contorted into a look of thinly-veiled wistfulness, glancing sideways at you, a faint grimace of apology.

Quiet, you don’t relocate, simmering in the silence without so much as a murmur. Copper stings your nostrils, the scent of his blood, and you pretend that it doesn’t phase you; it does.

Your arms loosely fold over your chest, listening to the drone of the quinjet. The ride home is short, shorter than expected, and you’re eager to crawl beneath scalding water and let it burn the rush away.

As Bucky prepares for landing on the helipad outside, your gaze flutters toward John, whose stare is attempting to sear through the metal walls of the jet’s interior. He seems gone, as if his mind is a thousand miles away.

It was the same look he had when you were in the Void with him; loathing, conflicted, ripping himself apart for you to see.

The jet tremors violently as it descends onto the helipad, the noise scraping against your ears, a sound that’s still jarring to you. John remains unphased — he’s done it hundreds of times, terse as the hull begins to open.

Saying something now seems meaningless, words fading to ash within your throat, raw from thirst. Your fingers idly curl into the sleeves of your suit, tension relinquished as the team begins to file out of the jet, bearing the bruises and scrapes from the mission.

When you enter the Tower, a sense of relief finds you, the comfort of home, shoulders slouched as you make for your room. Bob is lingering beside the window, a book in his hand, headphones dangling from his ears.

“Good work today,” Bucky calls, attempting to boost morale. He’s at the helm, trying to steer this ship in the right direction, but it’s harder than it looks. “Get some rest.” He moves toward the lounge, hoping to get a status update on the cleanup.

Alexei chimes in with an echoed remark about how everyone did a good job, mirroring Bucky’s own statement. A smile curls at the corner of your mouth despite yourself, feet dragging as you sluggishly stumble toward your room.

Through the light clamor, you don’t see John, disappearing through the tinted pane of your door, feeling it hiss and click behind you. Your room is warm, cozy; it’s a sanctuary you’ve created, making something within the ruins of your old life.

A hush falls throughout the Tower, typically a quiet evening after returning from a mission. Outside, the skies turn to a swirling ink, veiled by heavier clouds that signal the onset of rain.

Peeling away your suit, your flesh is exposed to the coolness of your quarters, glittering with a layer of perspiration, body speckled in light cuts and fresh bruises. The shower calls your name, inviting, and you marinate beneath the water for half an hour.

Bruises pulse with a dull ache, remnants of crimson swept away by the water, leaving you renewed as you change into loungewear. Perched along the edge of your bed, you towel-dry your hair, gaze flickering toward your door.

You shouldn’t be the one to apologize.

The thought of checking on John crosses your mind, and then it stays, leaving you frustrated and torn. You didn’t hate him, you never have; if anything, you were left wondering why the strange hostility still lingered, after everything.

Even then, your desire to help overrode the brief spat that you had. He was your teammate, and leaving him to lick his grievous wounds without ensuring his safety felt cruel.

A tremulous inhale invades your lungs, steeling yourself as you cross into the corridor, leaving your room behind. His quarters are down the hallway, towards the very end, marked by blanched lights on either side.

No one sees you, and you creep over the cold tile as if you might be apprehended in the process. The walk there feels as if it’s stretched on for an eternity, taunting you with each step as you make it to the tinted panel.

His lock is off, you realize, and you try to knock, the sound eerily soft. There’s nothing, only an awkward stretch of silence that makes you shift uncomfortably, the chill of the floor sending a shiver down your spine.

“John?” Abandoning the use of ‘Walker’, you idly pace before the door, weaving in idle circles as you wait for him to answer. Still, nothing — you wonder if it’s intentional, if he’s purposefully ignoring you to prove a point.

Intending to ask for forgiveness later, you slide the door open, stepping into his room with a twinge of anxiety. You shouldn’t be skulking around in here, but his lack of answer had you worried — more than you should’ve been, really.

“So much for knocking,” His voice cuts through your scrambled thoughts like a serrated knife, though lacking the sardonic poise. “Could’ve waited a minute.” John utters, and you spot him in his bathroom.

Startled, your gaze draws to him, attempting to patch himself up with bloodsoaked fingertips and a disgruntled countenance. His back is facing the mirror, head craned over his shoulder, blonde brows creased together, throat stirring with a noise of agitation.

“You didn’t answer.” With a weak protest, you hover in the doorway, shuffling forward to let it close with a subtle click. Everything seems devoid of personal decorum in his room, as if he’s still deciphering what goes where, some belongings still in boxes.

“You didn’t give me a chance.” John retorts, lips parted to make room for a strained sigh. He’s been harsh enough today — he recollects, composes himself, and lets his guard waver.

“I was worried about you.” The weight of your confession brings him pause, hand poised against his back, attempting to apply gauze. He’s failing miserably, cerulean hues darting toward you, arms folded over your chest.

John stops, jaw tense as he huffs with frustration, discarding the roll of gauze onto the bathroom countertop. The low glow of the light glitters against his skin, pleasantly sunkissed, muscles taut and broad, speckled in violet bruises.

There’s a rawness to him, sinewy yet firm, the honed strength of a trained soldier. He’s visceral, nothing grossly herculean, but he’s worked for his physicality, sacrificed plenty for it.

You realize you’ve been ogling him, gaze carefully tracing over the blonde hair smattered over his chest, trailing along his abdomen before it disappeared beneath his tactical pants.

Tendrils of heat snake across the back of your neck, a twinge of something desirous stirring within your stomach. You aren’t used to it, and you feel yourself attempt to rip your gaze away to something else; and you can’t.

He’s a man beneath it all, beneath the shield, the armor, the facade of an inflated swagger, all of the peacocking — he’s vulnerable, now. John’s countenance softens, startled by the sincerity that permeates your voice.

It’s unusual for him to be this quiet, as if you ripped the bravado and smugness right from his throat. Pacing forward, you decide to extend the offer again, hoping that he’ll accept your help and throw away the pride.

“I can help,” Your tone is disarmingly tender, something that John knows he’s undeserving of, given his behavior towards you. You vex him, but not because of your demeanor — he’s falling, and he’s trying to stop himself; he can’t. “Please.”

John concedes, head bobbing in a brief nod as he turns to face the mirror, lukewarm water ridding the crimson that stained his fingers. Coiled muscle cuts across his back, flesh littered in old scars and a colorful variety of bruises.

With a soft exhale, you awkwardly move into the doorway of the bathroom, blanketed by the pale orange of the lights, the distant buzz something of a comfort to you. The gash stretches from his left rib to spine, an ugly wound, oozing red that trickles over his back.

Scraped, calloused hands grip the edge of the counter as he props himself up, gaze flickering toward your reflection in the mirror. Your hair, still damp, tousled and disheveled, a cut on your cheek, mannerisms somewhat shrewd.

It’s quiet — too quiet for your liking, but you don’t want to be the one to break the ice. Wordlessly, you reach out, palm beginning to mist with wisps of a faint green, your powers manifesting.

“I’m sorry for today,” John murmurs, stopping you in your tracks. The mist wavers, concentration effectively shattered by his apology, which happened to be entirely unexpected. “About not letting you help me.”

“Is it something I did?” Your inquiry evokes a pang of melancholy, as if his heart is bleeding, still halfway stitched together. “Listen, I know we’ve had our differences, but I’m trying to move past it.”

John sighs, exiting through his nostrils; measured, restrained. “You didn’t do anything,” He’s learning to admit when he’s the problem, digits tightening against the dark granite; it groans beneath his grasp. “I don’t hate you.”

Relief blossoms within your chest, as if some weight is lifted from your shoulders. Still, you wonder what exactly is wrong with him, festering below the surface, something he’s trying to bury. “Be honest with me — what’s wrong?” You question, brows furrowing together.

He’s reluctant to tell you why he’s comfortable with sitting in the pain — why he feels he deserves it. John knows that you mean well, always looking out for everyone else, showing kindness when you didn’t have to.

“This is what I deserve,” John utters, cadence embittered, withholding a wave of emotion. Tears swim, unshed within his eyes, and he actively fights against it. “The pain — for what I did, for what happened.”

For Lemar, for Olivia, for the blood on his hands, for the son who’ll only know his father as a deadbeat. He hates himself, deep down — he’s learning to be a better man, if that were even possible.

His transparency startles you, attempting to process this information in a way that evokes empathy. No one on the team is truly, wholly good — there’s amends that need to be made, most of them in the healing process, including you.

It’s a bleak contrast from the man constantly barraging you with snarky remarks, constantly engaging in banter with you. You don’t remember him opening up like this with anyone else.

Still, your hand drops, fingers twisting together as you scramble to come up with some encouragement. You’re so accustomed to his general smugness and cocksure attitude that this blindsides you.

“Just because you’ve done bad things doesn’t mean that you deserve to suffer, or rake yourself over the coals again,” It’s gentle, sound advice — John’s eyes screw shut. “Everyone deserves to heal, including you.”

The blood on his hands feels heavy, like some anchor dragging him down. After being stripped of the role of Captain America, spiraling, losing his family, he briefly considered it — a way out. He was glad that he never went through with it.

In the Void, when you found your way into his room, it was the moment Lemar had been killed. Replayed, over and over again, unable to be prevented — but his reaction could’ve been.

He could’ve been a better man.

In the beginning, he tried to justify it, rationalizing killing someone in cold blood. After time passed, he knew how wrong he was, how he desecrated the shield, the mantle; all for something else, to sate his rage. No matter how much healing he did, that would haunt him forever.

“Thanks.” He grits, as if he doesn’t fully believe your words. John understands your intentions, that you’re being empathetic and kind despite the abrasive way he’s acted towards you. It makes him feel worse. “I am trying.”

“I know,” Placating, your digits begin to shimmer with wisps of emerald energy, your power manifesting. “I know you are, John.” Oozing with a tender amiability, you can hear the tremor in his exhale.

When you called him John, it startled him; he’d gotten so accustomed to ‘Walker’, but he didn’t mind this in the slightest. Despite the rough beginning the both of you had with one another, he was warming up to you.

Admittedly, he thought it was the right thing to do, not fully letting you in to protect himself. When you had cordial conversations, he felt your kindness shroud him like a warm blanket; you’d moved on from the past.

Quiet, your hand finally lifts to his wound, brows creased in concentration, energy expelled into healing mist as it curls around the flesh. It feels like cold water, albeit soothing, pluming over torn skin and blood until it sinks inward.

A low grunt rips through his throat, somewhat startled at the sensation of your powers; simple, but wildly effective. It’s as if he’d never been slashed to begin with; the bruises and scrapes don’t go away, but the rest of it does.

Strained, your arm quivers, resolve slipping as you step away, using the doorway as a form of support. You’re always a little weak after you’ve healed someone, almost as if it’s an exchange of life.

“Better?” With a tender smile, you watch as he nods, inspecting himself in the mirror; nothing left behind. “Next time this happens, I hope you’ll let me help you.” You prompt, and he chuckles; it isn’t the typical condescending chide he gives you, either.

“I can’t make any promises.” John’s tone loses that bite, the indifference; it’s disarmingly soft. “Thanks again, for that. I’ve been an asshole to you — wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t want to help.” He murmured, tone lacking mirth.

“You have, but that can change,” Lips remain poised into a smile, one that makes his heart lurch within his chest. “You don’t have to keep being an asshole.” Your remark makes him scoff, though it’s more of a bemused sound, than anything else.

“I’ll lose my charm,” John counters, but he’s being sarcastic — somewhat, at least. You suspect he’ll still remain sharp-tongued and smug, but lose the indifference with you. “I know it’s something I need to work on.”

Grateful for his acknowledgment, you finally feel your energy return, a slow ebb that spreads throughout your body. Leaning off of the doorframe, you awkwardly step aside, figuring that this was your queue to leave.

“For the record, I never disliked you,” He utters, jaw clenched as he carefully navigates on what to say next. “Never had a problem with you, either. Your problem with me was justified.” John shrugs, his stare even-keel.

Bewildered, you let the pang of surprise fester, head cocking to one side. “I never really had a problem with you, or disliked you,” After this, you were beginning to understand why he was an asshole sometimes. “It’s all in the past, now. I want us to move forward.”

John’s halfhearted smile oozed with sincerity, a genuineness rarely seen by others. “I can do that.” Even still, he wouldn’t blame you if you had some sort of gripe against him, but you were kind — you were good, even if you didn’t think so.

His gaze hasn’t left you, cerulean hues fluttering over your countenance; you’re beautiful, eyes beset by kindness, half-dried tresses strung over your crown. The shirt you’re wearing is a size too big, sweatpants baggy, too.

He’s acutely aware of how obvious he’s being, ogling you; he always thought you were pretty, but in the bathroom’s faint glow, you’re stunning. You weren’t subtle either, he knows this, catching your shrewd gaze as it lingers on his arms.

John’s hands reach for his shirt, black spandex all wrinkled, balled up, stained with dried blood. The tension becomes unusually thick, mere embers kindled to life, now a fire that he doesn’t know if he can extinguish.

“Can I ask you something?” Your inquiry pierces through the tenuous silence, and there’s some momentary relief you gain from it.

“Yeah.” John’s tone is barely above a whisper, warm; as if he’s trying to calm himself down, ease the tension. With his shirt still clenched in one hand, he’s offering you his undivided attention.

With arms loosely folded over your chest, your fingers idly pluck at frayed stitching on your sleeves, a fleeting distraction. “Why were you always indifferent towards me, if you didn’t hate me?” You’re not accusatory, just curious.

Shit — John’s mind is scrambling for an answer that doesn’t make him seem strange. He’s got feelings for you, and you’re slowly drawing them out into the open; he doesn’t know how to handle it.

“Sometimes it’s easier for me to not let somebody in,” He shrugs, gaze wavering, flickering toward the ground. The vulnerability is something he’s still growing accustomed to — rawness of pain, feeling his emotions, choosing the right way to cope. “Because of what’s happened.”

Even then, his explanation still feels like he’s covering up for something else. Nevertheless, you let it rest, offering him a threadbare smile. “We don’t judge here, if you haven’t learned that already,” You sigh. “I’ll be here for you, if you choose to let me in.”

He already has — he’s appreciative, nodding as a display of gratitude before he finds your gaze again. “Thanks.” John smiles despite himself, swallowing down the words that want to escape him.

Silence settles between, the same tension simmering like before, causing you to shift your weight. He’s staring again, but you’re oblivious to it this time, angled away, trying to figure out what to do next.

Chewing at the inside of your cheek, your shoulders begin to slouch with relaxation. “I should probably go — you need rest.” You blurt, fumbling over your words, maintaining a sheepish smile as you shuffle toward the door.

John doesn’t really want you to leave; and he knows it’s selfish of him. His lips part, as if to ask you to stay, but he’s frozen, rooted in-place. Still, he nods, quietly resigning to letting you go back to your room.

His feet feel anchored to the floor, each step a drag as he trails after you, following you to the doorway. He’s quiet, still deliberating, turning over every word, every action within his mind. John comes up short, watching as you stop to say something else.

The closeness is sudden, wracked with tension; you’re nearly brushing arms with him, gooseflesh crawling along your spine. You’re both reaching for the door panel simultaneously, fumbling, fingers ghosting over one another; you recoil like you’ve been burned.

In the slim proximity, he catches a whiff of your shampoo — vanilla and peach, something sweeter, causing his jaw to tick. He’s looking again, unable to stop himself, gaze wandering over your body, appreciative; he grips the door frame as a distraction.

When you catch his stare, it burns you, something incendiary, as if he’s searing you into his mind. A subtle hitch forms within your throat, and you’re prepared to tell him goodnight, end it there — but you won’t move.

Silence stretches on, the sort of contemplative quiet before the onset of a storm, the deep breath before the plunge. Bodies linger within arm’s reach, screaming, and you have the audacity to stare at him, doe-eyed.

Then, you say his name, a feather-light whisper, gentle and placating. It barely registers, but he hears it, notices the parting of your lips, the way you haven’t recoiled from the closeness.

John’s mouth is suddenly pressed against yours in a heated frenzy.

A sharp inhale splits your diaphragm, lungs quaking, filled with a sudden surge of ecstasy when he kisses you. There’s a gasp stuck in the back of your throat, swallowed by the snare of his mouth.

His lips are unexpectedly soft, a stark contrast to the sharpness of his smart mouth. There’s a charged passion that echoes beyond the kiss, as if he’s walking the fine line of restraint.

Bewildered, your head is spinning, brain foggy, as if someone knocked you out. Left reeling, you don’t know what to say, what to do. Though, you’re receptive, mouth shyly moving against his, hands frozen at your sides.

When he pulls away, gauging your reaction, you appear as shocked as he does.

Each breath is labored, wrought with the sudden sting of exhilaration, butterflies beginning to pool within your belly. “I’m sorry.” John’s voice is low, a pleasant hum within your ear, but you don’t seem upset by what he did.

“Don’t be.” Without pause, your lips fly to meet him again, reciprocating the kiss, one that seems sluggish and passionate instead of frantic.

He’s kissing you back, hand dropping from the door to your hip, calloused digits caressing you through your shirt. The gesture ignites a fire within your bones, unable to stifle your mounting excitement.

Shyly, your hands move toward his chest, soft like velvet, smoothing over his pectorals as he presses you up against the door. A low groan vibrates through his chest, reveling in the feeling of your skin touching his.

There’s a poised strength coiled within his body, firm, flesh and blood, chest rising and falling underneath your hands.

His kiss is disarmingly gentle, something unexpected, but not unwelcome. You feel his body nudge against yours, distance now nonexistent.

You don’t know what’s gotten into you, gotten into him, but you’re enjoying yourself — you want him, need him, starving for contact.

He tastes metallic, an amalgamation of copper and a natural musk. Digits idly smooth over the coarse, blonde hair that covers his chest, descending toward his groin. The thought alone makes your knees weak.

Each kiss sends you spiraling, clawing for his mouth, leaving you ragged, desperate for his touch. You can’t remember the last time someone kissed you like this — even then, your experience is thin.

His scruffy countenance melds with yours, bleeding heat, kissing you with enough vigor that it prompts you to hold onto him. Your heart gallops, races — it’s quick and erratic, beating in your ears.

Recoiling from the kiss, your fingers tremble, deftly tracing over his collarbone, over scar-kissed skin, over faint clutches of freckles. “John, I — Are you sure?” You whisper, hoarse, afraid that he might regret it all in the morning.

“Wouldn’t have kissed you if I wasn’t sure.” John murmurs, voice low, curling thickly as his hands rub circles into your hips. He’s strong, secure — you didn’t expect to feel so comfortable with him. “I’ve thought about it for a while.”

His lips make contact with your jaw, mouth clamoring over your skin, kissing the spot beneath your ear. Flush to you, his confession makes your bones lurch, and you wonder what else he’s thought about, too.

Flustered, you’re quick to melt into him, visibly smitten, as if you’ve wound yourself into a tight knot. John notices, mouth twitching into a smirk as he places a string of kisses beneath your jawline.

“John …” A soft mumble rolls from your tongue, hands beginning to trail from chest to shoulders, anchoring yourself to him. His beard burns against your flesh, a pleasant scratch, reminding you that he’s real, this is real.

Warm breath feathers over your throat, your jaw, your cheek — he’s still smirking, too. “You’re getting shy on me.” He mumbles, able to taste the heat that bristles from your flesh. A hitch forms within your throat, his remark making you burn.

“No,” Posturing a weak defense, your body succumbs, lips parted to make room for a dizzying sigh. “I’m not.” It’s pathetic, your retort, but he’s still grinning as if he’s caught you in a trap, attempting to reign in the smug attitude.

“Right.” John’s cadence is dangerously low, little more than a pleasant husk that scratches the back of your brain. He’s teasing you still, cerulean hues alight with mirth, fingertips barely skirting underneath your shirt.

He’s charming — too charming, and it makes your flesh burn with an embarrassed heat. His lips plume over your throat, hips brushing against yours, and that’s when you feel it. Something firm through his kevlar pants, briefly grinding against your pelvis.

A noise echoes from John’s throat, somewhere between a grunt and groan, causing you to smile, as if you’ve discovered his secret. “Already?” It’s playful, sure, but you’re simultaneously flattered that it didn’t take much work.

It’s his turn to blush, scarlet crawling over handsome features, red spreading towards his neck. “Can’t help it,” John mumbled, gaze briefly meeting yours. “You’re beautiful.” His low timbre made you shiver.

Unable to smother your smile, you urge him closer for another kiss, digits clamoring for the nape of his neck, toying with the blonde hair there. Each entanglement of lips seems to grow in fervor, charged with mutual excitement, passion.

His hands are fisted in your shirt against, giving it a soft tug, as if silently asking you for your permission. Mouths continue to clash, a mess of lips and teeth, tongue when John initiates it, eliciting a moan from your maw.

With a brief nod, he breaks from you, only to assist in removing your shirt, tossing it elsewhere in his room. You aren’t wearing a brassiere, which catches his attention, stopping in his tracks as he admires your physique.

“Jesus,” John sighs, rapturous, noticing the doe-eyed look you’re giving him again. Lips part, jaw unclenched as he not-so-subtly ogles your collarbone, letting it drift toward your chest. “You’re gonna kill me.”

Swallowing your anxiety, you feel yourself melt beneath his stare, incendiary enough to turn you to cinders where you stand. “The thought hasn’t crossed my mind.” Barely above a whisper, your gentle teasing evokes a half-smile from him.

A huff leaves him, hand steady as he kneads into your hip, dipping lower, grasping at your haunch as he lifts you up, wrapping your legs around his hips. You’re still kissing him, held aloft by John’s arms, bearing your weight without effort.

He carries you to his bed, gray sheets already disheveled, laying you down as he crawls on top of you. A soft exhale whistles through your nose, arousal beginning to coalesce between your thighs, warmth pooling in your belly.

“You sure?” John murmurs, wanting to ensure that you’re certain about this. He is, but he wants to make sure that all cards are on the table. He’s not used to this, to showing vulnerability, but it feels comfortable with you.

“Yeah, I am,” Gazes twine together, the only illumination being the glow from the bathroom, blanketing you in swirls of orange and shadow. “I want you, John.” Your admission is saccharine, steeped in a warmth that he clings to, savors.

Christ, he wants you, too — craves you more than air, cerulean hues glistening with a thinly-veiled ardor. It’s a sudden shift from how things were before, but the tension had finally come to a boiling point, and he was glad that it had.

Mouths connect instantaneously, eliciting a pleading moan from your throat, swallowed by his kiss. Your legs drop, spread apart to accommodate for his frame, lean muscle wedged between your thighs.

His palm kneads into your calf, dragging to the crook of your knee, caressing you over your baggy bottoms. Your hands thread against the nape of his neck, taking handfuls of his blonde tresses, ensuring that you weren’t rough with him.

Chests brush against one another, firm muscle exuding warmth, peaks of your breasts ghosting over his pectorals. Each kiss rips the air from your lungs, leaving you reeling, gasping as you feel his tongue prod against yours.

A whine bubbles from your throat, smitten, tongue shyly mingling with his as the kiss turns into a mess of passion. Your fingers are carding over the back of his skull, slipping over his hair as his teeth catch upon your bottom lip.

John grunts, the tent in his pants grinding recklessly against your core, friction causing both of you to writhe. As if to torment him, you roll your hips forward, evoking a groan from him, his gaze pleading with you to stop.

“Don’t,” He warns, strained, attempting to hold himself together. Your mouth quirks into a smile, one that he feels even as he kisses you again, your palm splaying over his shoulder. “Can I take these off?”

His hands curl into your sweatpants, fingers teasing the waistband as he waits for you to consent. As soon as you nod, accompanied by a breathy ‘yes’, he’s tearing into them, the stitching splitting apart beneath his inhuman strength.

A gasp slipped from your mouth, writhing beneath him to free yourself from the fabric, kicking them to the floor. John marvels at the sight of you, your body something perfect, malleable within his grasp, mouth planting a kiss against your jaw.

Cool air plumes over your heated flesh, offering some alleviation, a reprieve from the fever-pitch of your body. John’s hand smooths over your leg, squeezing into your thigh, digits flicking over the hem of your panties.

The brief gesture makes your head spin, desperate for him to touch you. He’s already got an idea in his head, calloused fingers rough like leather as he drags his hand between your legs.

Knuckles ghost over your clothed cunt, feeling the tangle of damp cotton, the way your throat sputters with a subtle gasp. Your thighs twitch, knees trembling on either side of him as your nails trace over the back of his neck.

“Christ,” He huffs, forehead nearly flush against yours, watching as you squirm from the brief caress. John repeats the motion, feeling your nails dig harder into his skin, mouth screwed open. “You like that?” His murmur makes you feel weak.

With a nod, you want more, hips urging into the friction of his hand. To your delight, he doesn’t torment you, doesn’t make you work for it as his fingers slip beneath your panties.

Two fingers stroke along your cunt, gathering the warm slick there with one sluggish swipe. To your utter bewilderment, he lifts his digits to his mouth, sucking them clean before he lavishes your throat in a myriad of kisses.

“John, please.” Moaning his name, the sight he just treated you to is sure to be burned in your mind forever, causing your thighs to rub together. Kissing a trail down your neck, he finds your sternum, mouth voracious, ceaseless.

A boyish grin settles onto his features, deriving enjoyment from your reaction, continuing to worship your flesh in rapturous kisses. No inch of skin is safe as he descends, lips pluming over your breasts, your ribs, navel; lower, and lower again.

You taste sweet, as if your skin oozed with sugar, and he’s savoring every piece of you, kisses steeped in a disarming reverence. His beard tickles your flesh, goosebumps cascading down your spine as he makes it to your waist.

His muscles flex, pulled taut as he crawls lower, face hovering beside your hip as he eases your panties down, letting them creep over your thighs. Everything feels hot, body set ablaze, arousal coalescing against your cunt.

Lips press to your thigh, shoulders creating space, bullying your legs apart. Digits flex, trembling as they lower to card through his tresses, gaze ensnaring with his own, causing you to shiver.

John kisses a trail over your inner thighs, toward the glistening heat at your apex, listening to your breath hitch. It’s labored, wrought with exhilaration as your back begins to arch.

That ghost of a cocksure grin feels like a hot brand against your thigh, softening when you make a strangled, pleading noise. Nearly prone against the sheets, he lets your legs recline against his shoulders, hands gripping your hips.

The first rake of his tongue over your cunt is agonizing, hot embers, scorching against your flesh as he laps traces the length of your slit. It’s sluggish, exploratory — he’s keen to know what makes you writhe.

With parted lips and eyes wrenched shut, a needy moan splits past your throat, unable to keep quiet. John’s chest stirs with a low grunt, greedy tongue deftly splitting past your folds, tasting you with a sudden fervor.

Still, he’s gentle, disarmingly so, careworn palms massaging into your hips, keeping you slotted against his face. The scruff of his blonde beard scratches ragged over the inside of your thighs, sandpaper to silk, the sensation pleasant.

John eases you into it, committing every detail of your body to memory; hoping there’s a next time, thumbs tracing circles into your skin. Lapping against your core, his ministrations slowly gather haste, nose grazing your clit.

A myriad of moans leave you, attempting to keep the sound hushed, as to not alert any unwanted attention. Your legs tense, flex on either side of his head before his shoulders nudge you apart again, mouth dragging over your cunt.

He maintains something of a rhythm, attempting to walk the line of restraint, as to not overwhelm you. Your body rattles beneath him, spasmodic tremors of delight rolling down your spine, waves of bliss felt all over, ebbing through your veins.

One hand haplessly fists at the sheets, fingers curled so tightly that you want to rip it apart. He’s too good at this, which surprises you — he doesn’t give that impression, initially.

The room feels like a furnace, bodies bleeding heat, each breath hoarse, tight with rapture. His mouth is a thing of perfection, pleasuring you as if it’s his sworn duty, tongue lapping at every inch of your cunt.

John’s gaze flutters from the task at-hand to your countenance, contorted into an expression of ecstasy, effortlessly pretty. His heart skips a beat; you’ve got him wrapped around your finger.

You’re wound up, coiled over and over again, into a tangle of heat, furled desire that’s begging to be released. Carding through his tresses, you gingerly scratch at his crown, briefly tugging on his hair, hips wantonly urging into his mouth.

“G—God, John,” A sheepish moan falls from your mouth, coupled with a sharp inhale that rips through your diaphragm. Your cunt clenches pathetically around nothing at all, back arched from the mattress. “So good at this.”

It’s an inkling of praise, but it’s enough, evoking some hunger from John, who's eager to please. The tent in his tactical pants is borderline painful, erection grinding against the bed in a pitiful attempt to alleviate some of the friction.

Driven to the brink, you feel as if you’re beginning to toe the line of some steep plunge, his lips urging you closer to a release. Everything feels hot, as if you might combust, arousal coalescing between your thighs.

John has you pinned down, nose ghosting over your folds, tongue still ceaselessly lapping at your core until there’s a shift in rhythm. He presses a kiss to your clit, listening to the tremor in your exhale, feeling your legs tense.

Teeth catch across your bottom lip, biting down with an absent pressure, digits beginning to lightly curl against his scalp. His name emerges from your mouth again, desperate and wanton, breathy as you squirm.

“You’re easy to rile up.” John murmurs from between your legs, a breathy chuckle floating from his chest when your fingers pull on his hair. He plants a reverent kiss to your thigh, teasing, but the break doesn’t last for long.

If it weren’t for his lips pursing around your clit, you might’ve clawed for a retort, but he rips any remark from your throat. The sudden ripple of bliss sends you reeling, choking on a simpering whine as you shift beneath him again.

His mouth gingerly laps at that sensitive clutch of nerves, shockwaves shattering through your body, tingles of ecstasy following suit. A strangled moan snares in your throat, slipping through when he drags his tongue along your cunt.

He’s right, though — you are easy to vex, and he’s mapping you out as if you’re intimately familiar to him already. John’s mouth is voracious, tongue endlessly greedy, eating you out as if it’s the last thing he’ll ever do.

You’re getting close, body being pushed to a blissful oblivion, the white-hot heat that threatens to consume you. His hand drifts from your thigh to the slick warmth between, thumb seeking your clit like a missile, slowly circling around it.

“Fuck,” You moan, the expletive uncharacteristic of you, but he finds plenty of enjoyment in you saying it. His name is soon to follow, a bedroom hymnal, repetitive as it spills from your tongue, crying out his name to the ceiling. “J—John!”

It’s pathetic how easily he’s got you squirming, tension beginning to unfurl, the knot within your belly stretched to the brink. He’s careful, tender, intimate in a way that makes your features surge with warmth.

“That’s it.” John murmurs, timbre little more than a drawl as he coaxes an orgasm from you, thumb continuing to toy with your clit until you burst. He’s mesmerized, a super-soldier reduced to a lovesick boy, watching you with a thinly-veiled rapture.

With one simple circle of your pearl, you’re gone, ecstasy bleeding from you in one wave, nearly overwhelming. You’re blinded by euphoria, white-hot stars crossing your vision until you’ve melted into the sheets.

Nerves are frayed from bliss, tossed into the throes of pleasure, one that you may not fully recover from. Stars linger still, head foggy, dizzy from a desirous haze as you try to find a scrap of composure.

He tastes you again, one last time, committing it all to memory as he kisses your leg, kneeling in-between your thighs. You’re shaking, chest tight with drawn-out sighs, gazes ensnared, burning with adoration.

“You’re really good at that.” A soft whisper rolls from your lips, appreciative, but John looks like you’ve just called him perfect. He’s starved for praise, reduced to a mere beast, laying at your feet, preening for more.

John’s up on his knees, staring a hole through you, hands reaching for his belt. Driven by both excitement and instinct, you sit up, fingers clamoring with his own as you’re helping to wrestle his belt off, unzipping the front of his tactical pants.

“You drive me crazy,” John groaned, feeling you grow smitten in the wake of his admission, desperate to be inside of you. “Can’t think straight.” He utters, and you know it’s an intentional compliment.

He repositions himself, hunched in, blanketing you with his bulky physique, lean muscle glued to your frame. He’s much larger than you, you realize, listening to the shuffling of fabric, feeling his cock press incessantly against your navel.

You’re intimidated, bewildered by his size, startlingly large, unabashedly so. Swallowing the growing lump in your throat, your hands come to hook around the back of his neck, no space remaining.

As if to ignite the tension further, your mouth catches his, lips locking together in a heated kiss. You can taste yourself, an added layer of debauchery, but he’s groaning into your lips, fisting the pillow near the side of your head.

John’s other hand finds your thigh, kneading into your haunch as he steadies himself, cock heatedly grinding against you. Mouths tangle, clash — it’s a war of teeth and tongue, thirst instead of hunger, as if he needs you more than anything.

Wanton, exhilarated breaths drag between bodies, the warmth of his sigh pluming over your features, his beard ragged against your cheek. His blonde tresses are tousled, disheveled — he’s painfully handsome, kissing all over your mouth.

He withdraws, heads flush together, mere centimeters apart as he adjusts himself, cock nudging against your folds. You’re clinging to him, a twinge of anticipation churning in your belly.

“You alright?” He utters, low and husky beside your ear, actively restraining himself from being too spirited. There’s something intoxicating about the way you’re staring at him; it’s tender, more than he deserves, he thinks.

Slowly, you plant a kiss against the scruff of his jaw, and then beneath, where a yellowing bruise sits. Hands wander to the firm muscle of his shoulders, kneading over freckled skin.

John exhales; a drawn-out, contented sound that releases coils of tension from his shoulders. With a nod of consent, you let yourself get comfortable. He drags his cock over your cunt again, biting back a stifled groan.

“Go slow,” You squeak, body already sore from the mission — he might add to it, if he isn’t careful. His lips seal themselves to your throat, peppering your flesh in a myriad of sweet kisses, nose brushing over your jugular. “I need you.”

Serum-infused blood pumps through his veins, oozing raw strength, but he knows to rein himself in, head bobbing in a brief nod. “Say that again.” John grunts, cock prodding against the warmth of your cunt, preparing to push past.

His head is partially buried into the hollow between throat and shoulder, beard prickling your flesh, a satisfying sensation. An excitable buzz wracks your body, sending tingles all over, a throbbing pulsing from between your legs.

“I need you,” Wantonly, your palm splays over his shoulder-blade, nails digging into his skin, eliciting a low groan from your paramour. “J—John, please!” It’s a plea, a desperate one, spoken through a beguiling cadence, one that winds him into tight knots.

With a shudder, John is thirsty for your embrace, a man lost within a desert, finding his oasis. His forehead nudges beside your temple, hotly grunting into your ear, sending waves of ecstasy through your belly.

His hips slowly urge forward, flushed head of his cock pushing into you with mild resistance. Disarmingly gentle, John doesn’t move quickly or rough, heeding your words as he fists at the pillow, body kissed by perspiration.

The tightness of your cunt drives him to the brink of madness, huffing beside your ear, fighting against baser, lesser instincts. Clinging to him as if he might fade through your fingers, he moves at an agonizing pace, not wanting to hurt you.

He doesn’t, a husky groan ripping through his diaphragm when your hips accidentally roll, feeling his muscles tense beneath your hands. “Jesus,” John grits out, feeling your nails dig crescents into his shoulder. “You’re perfect.”

A moan tumbles from your parted lips, his cock filling you completely, nearly bottoming out as he sinks forward. Intermingled groans and hot sighs tangle in the thin space between, heat against heat.

Your knees squeeze near his waist, legs kept spread apart by his musculature, bodies clawing for one another, ardor thinly-veiled. John’s countenance is contorted into a look of concentration coupled with bliss.

“S’good,” You moan, having adjusted enough, allowing yourself a moment of composure; it won’t last, and you know it. “Move.” Breathy and wrought with exhilaration, you give him the signal to take things further.

John’s resolve is crumbling, foundation swept away in the wake of your affections, and your wanton moan doesn’t make anything easier. Propping himself up on one arm, the other holds steadfastly to your thigh, an anchor.

Foreheads knock together, noses ghosting over one another as he begins to thrust into you, bicep flexing with exertion. The first drag of his hips sends you reeling, and you know that you won’t last long — and neither will he.

A string of hoarse expletives flutter from his mouth, barely above a whisper, setting your bones ablaze as he pulls back and pushes forward.

The fit of him is tight, cock oozing with heat as he draws back again, following through as he jolts forward.

Beneath you, the bed frame creaks — faint, as if it shows some give with the super-soldier on top of you. Your digits coax him in for a kiss, mouths colliding in a messy clash of tongue and needy lips, fire feeding fire.

John groans into your mouth, pushing and pulling, hips urging into yours, cock filling you with each thrust. Between fervent kisses and pleading moans, your head is foggy, dizzy with desire.

He develops a rhythm, the pace steady, each drag of his hips ripping a moan from your mouth, and he earned it. His hand kneads into your thigh, squeezing on occasion when the pleasure mounts, muscles coiled within his stomach.

“Y—You’re perfect,” The praise leaves your tongue as a hoarse whine, a noise that leaves goosebumps trailing over John’s spine. It’s the validation he desperately craves, the veneration, knowing he’s doing something right. “Don’t stop.”

A husky, throaty groan pierces through his chest, the noise making you shiver, arousal slick and warm between your thighs. It makes each snap of his hips easier, cock sinking into you over and over again.

It’s unintentional, his shifting pace; it begins to climb, from drawn-out and steady to needy, rutting into you as if each stroke would be his very last. John is trying to keep himself controlled, but you make it so difficult.

He slows again, the pleasure mounting, a knot that is becoming frayed at either end, prepared to be pulled apart. His cock throbs incessantly, pulsing inside of you, feeling your cunt clench around him.

Perspiration glitters along his brow, glistening along his hairline as he hunches in over you, and you feel all of him, viscerally.

The bed frame rattles in protest, as if bowing to his strength, and he’s already tearing the stitching in the pillowcase beside your head. A soft gasp slips from your lips, his mouth ghosting over yours.

Grunts of ecstasy leave him in droves, cock easing in and out of your cunt as if you’re made for him. John’s countenance is one of bliss and concentration, frustration now dissipated.

Each snap of his hips drags you further into the throes of ecstasy, and he’s nearly there, cock spearing into you. His breathing is growing ragged, raspy as it curls beside your ear, hot breath pluming over your face.

Noises surge in volume, filling his room with the sounds of vigorous lovemaking; he doesn’t care if the team hears anymore. John’s rapturous groans make you shiver in delight, head flush to yours again, the closeness addicting.

Another grunt ripples through his chest, the sound stretched, the rest tapering off as his hips begin to stutter, pace erratic and desperate. He’s close, weighing the odds of finishing inside of you, nearly whimpering when your legs hitch around his hips.

His name spills from your lips like a confessional, sobbing to the heavens, feeling your body begin to unfurl with tension. Bodies move within one another, his cock buried deep, kissing your cervix with each thrust.

From the tension in his muscles alone, you can tell that he’s about to burst, combust like fireworks in your hands. You’re on the pill, and so you urge him closer, wanting him inside of you even still.

When your name emerges from John’s mouth, you’re awestruck, flustered by the way in which he says it so tenderly. “I’m on the pill.” It’s all you’re able to say before he’s swallowing your words, covering your mouth with his.

The kiss is voracious, needy — John is unable to mask how he feels about you, letting it all bleed into tangled lips as he cums. He releases inside of you with a groan, followed by a rush of warmth that blankets your insides.

Tingles of delight wrack your body, a subdued release that seems to twine with his, a muted buzz surging through your bones. John’s hips crawl to a sluggish rhythm, agonizingly slow, as if to absorb the last few traces of friction.

Each breath heaves for composure, shallow and taut with exhilaration in the aftermath, sweat-slick skin melded together. His forehead nestles against yours, labored breathing evening out quicker than yours as he stills.

His spend and your arousal feel slick between your legs, making a mess of his sheets, joined bodies bleeding heat. You’re reeling, slower to recuperate as he pulls out of you with a soft grunt, rolling over to lay beside you.

John doesn’t leave, cerulean hues glued to your countenance, as if his whole sense of gravity has been shifted, changed. It’s hushed, save for your labored sighs, in-tandem with one another.

Wordlessly, he coaxes you closer, muscled arm hooking around your middle, inviting you to lay against his chest. One palm remains splayed, flat against your ribs, soothing you with easy caresses.

“Are you still with me?” John’s wisecrack makes you blunder, a soft laugh escaping you, hand playfully bumping against his chest.

“Yeah,” Unable to smother your smile, you’re delighted to sink into his embrace, keeping your hand on his chest. The hair beneath is something you trace through, over muscle, over old scars and greenish bruises. “I …”

As you trail off, John’s head cranes down enough to brush his lips against yours, the kiss sweet, bristling with a thinly-veiled affection. He lets you finish your thought, watching as you sit up enough to see him fully, perched on your stomach.

“I don’t want this to be a one-time thing.” You utter, agonizingly soft, cadence wrought with an amalgamation of sentiments. John’s trying to be better, and it’s something you want to be a part of, if he’ll let you.

Neither did he, admittedly; it’s something John’s willing to admit to. “The thought never crossed my mind,” He murmured, blonde lashes fluttering as his hand cupped your jaw, calloused and careworn over satin skin. “But I’m not perfect.”

“I know, that’s why I like you.” With a dazzling smile, he’s caught right in the crosshairs, lips parting with a placating huff. It turns into a hum of a chuckle, his hand still firm against your side.

In a gentle clamor, his lips find yours, beard tickling your skin again, the sensation wholly pleasant. The kiss lingers, something that feels closer to home, a newfound warmth that the both of you desperately crave.

John’s mouth twitches into a half-smile, a peculiar mirth beginning to touch his eyes. He feels you plant a kiss against his shoulder, and he knows he’s completely screwed — you’re falling, but he’s falling harder.

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motthe · 1 day ago

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there's no death here | robert "bob" reynolds [part ii]

warnings: childhood trauma, bit of blood, secondhand embarrassment maybe???

《masterlist》

Bob didn't know what to expect when Bucky mentioned a friend of his being able to help with his “weird mind power stuff.”

Said friend being a woman, Bob wasn’t sure if that made things easier or not. Opening up to anyone felt forbidden these days. That and the team knew how to deal with his bad days. He would have to see someone react to him for the first time all over again.

One thing Bob was sure about was that he would feel a hell of a lot worse hurting a woman if this training didn't go well.

Then you walked off the elevator, and he quickly realized he couldn't save face around you. For one, you held yourself like every other hero in his life. If there was a weakness, he couldn’t pinpoint it, and you held more confidence in one finger than he’d ever had in his entire life.

And second, you were beautiful. It had been a fact even from a distance, but then you held his hand without fear, and you’d smiled bright enough it blinded him for a good second.

Training the psychic side meant you were going to see every molecule of shit that ever existed in his head. There was nothing he was going to be able to hide from you. But if you weren’t running for the hills after everything you’d heard in his head the first day, then maybe there was a chance.

Bucky also mentioned all the lowlives you’d had to needle your way through to get evidence for detectives. When you said you’d seen the worst of the worst, you had meant it, and while Bob never once thought of himself as a good or even useful person, he could at least feel a bit better about himself when compared to a serial killer.

He had done bad things, but he'd never wanted to do them intentionally.

‘“So, h-how is all of this going to work?”

It was his second day meeting with you and after the storm of introductions with the rest of the team, one too many comments from Walker, and a strange look of respect passing between you and Yelena, this was the first time he’d ever been alone with you. There was no Bucky to look to for second opinions, no one to step in if something went wrong—

“Nothing is going to go wrong.”

His attention zipped to you as you sipped from a to-go coffee cup. “Um, can you warn me when you’re going to…you know?”

“I’m not reading your mind,” you said, tongue catching a stray drop on the corner of your lips.

Thank God, he thought and you winced like someone had blasted music in your ears. You made some vague hand gesture before the line in your brow relaxed.

“You’re projecting,” you said. “I told you, you're loud. But I can block you out. It just takes some fine tuning I don’t usually have to do with others.”

“So I’m just shouting everything?” he whispered, horrified.

You shook your head. “Not always. It’s bits and pieces. When you’re worried or excited the volume builds. It's like if you were ranting about something, y’know?”

“Can we work on that first?” he begged.

“First,” you said, clearly amused, “we have to get comfortable with one another. When I skirt around your head, you’re guarded in some places and open in others. You have to get used to being completely open with me before I can teach you to close yourself off.”

“I’m sorry,” he sighed. “You’re going to have to see a lot of messed up stuff. I know you already have but still.”

“I’ll apologize as well,” you laughed, “because it’s going to go both ways. You’re going to see as much of me as I will of you, but that’s part of the process of building mental shields.”

“But if I’m able to get in—”

“You've done a great job keeping it under control so far,” you told him. “From what I read, you only see glimpses before you or your target breaks away.”

“I don’t want to even do that, though.”

“Well, in order to learn how to not do that, I have to see how you even do it in the first place.” You lifted your hand, palm facing up as you twiddled your fingers at him. “Let’s see what you bring out.”

He shook his head, sinking further into his chair. What happened to building up to his despicable magic trick? This was only day two. “I don’t think that's a good idea. Aren't we supposed to meditate or build the whole mind barrier thing by imagining bricks?”

“We’ll get there,” you promised, sipping your drink again. “For now, let’s level the playing field. You’re embarrassed and scared of all the things I know already. This will let you learn about me a bit.”

“What I make you see—” he tried again.

“I know. Trust me, I can handle it,” you swore, eyes hardened with certitude. “Now, come on in, Bob. The door’s open.”

He wasn’t going to pretend he wasn’t curious about what shames you had floating around in your past, but baring yourself open as easily as you were… How were you okay with that? Would he learn where that came from while you were teaching him?

He closed his eyes, biting the inside of his cheek. He didn’t want to put you through the worst times of your life.

“Please, Bob. You trusted me to try yesterday. I need that again.”

“I know,” he whispered, straightening his shoulders as he looked you in the eye. “I just don’t want you to be afraid of me.”

There was that smile again. Radiant, he thought and you huffed on a laugh. Shit.

“I’m not afraid,” you promised.

He swallowed and reached out a hand. “You will be.”

A wall of darkness crashed over your mind. The ground fell out from under you, sending your heart off rhythm. Your first reaction was to ground yourself, but you fought it, allowing Bob’s presence to wash over you and drag you into whatever memory his power clung to.

Opening your eyes, you sucked your teeth at the sight of that old, wooden dining room table. You were four, doing your best to get around the food on your plate as your mother sat opposite of you. The dining room had that powdery smell of youth.

“Fuck,” you whispered, eyes watering as the grief claimed you. She was alive and breathing again and you were about to see the beginning of her spiral. But you had prepared for that.

“You don’t have to hide, Bob,” you called, sensing him nearby. “Come here.”

He stepped up on your right, eyes glued to the scene before looking at you. “You’re so young.”

“I was,” you agreed, frowning at the expressions flickering over your mother’s face. She looked a mess, clothes ragged on her frame and eyes darting around the room before settling on you, scowling at your plate.

“Baby, eat your food, please,” she called quietly.

“Don’t want to.”

You drowned the conversation out as you turned to Bob. “Your powers seem to pick shame from the beginning.”

“Never this young,” he whispered, eyes round as he looked at your toddler self.

“I was born with my powers. I couldn't control them back then,” you explained, wincing as your mother began to yell. You held a hand up, silencing the scene.

“How did you…?” He looked between your hand and the environment in awe.

“You can’t block my powers even when I’m in the midst of yours. That's interesting,” you hummed. Your heart squeezed in your chest as your mother threw herself to the floor, clawing at her head as your child self ran to her, tears streaming down your cheeks.

“What happened?” he asked, voice shaking.

“I projected a lot. Like you do now,” you explained, grabbing your upper arm as your mother’s hand found the butter knife on the floor and slashed. “She thought she was going insane and then she did.”

Bob turned away as your toddler self began to bleed, crawling away and screaming into silence. “I don’t want to see this.”

“Then don’t,” you told him. “Pull out of it.”

“I can’t just do things like you can!” he said, panic rising.

“Focus. Take a breath.” You eyed the scene as it started over from the top. Another thing to note. “You latched on to this memory. Let it go.”

“How?” His breath was picking up.

“Can I touch you?” you asked. The question seemed to confuse him for a second before he nodded. You grabbed his arms and turned him away from the dining room, getting his full attention on you. “Feel my hands?”

“Uh, yeah,” he murmured, bobbing his head.

“You’re feeling that with your mind. This isn’t real.”

“It was real," he breathed, watery.

“And now it’s done,” you stated gently. “Can’t be changed. I'll always regret what I did to my mother, but I was a kid. There was nothing I could do.”

“Yeah,” he muttered, hands folding back over yours as he took a slow breath. “Okay.”

“Feel the floor under your feet. You’ve grounded yourself to this memory. Now you just have unground.”

He looked down, expression pinching as he fought to focus. You couldn’t help but laugh as he jumped.

“With your mind,” you repeated.

“This is my mind!” he said, voice shrill and eyes wide as he met yours. “God, what if we’re stuck?”

“We’re not stuck,” you promised, squeezing his hands. “Here, I’ll do it. Maybe you’ll be able to feel it.”

Honing in on the sensations around you, you followed them back to your core, centering your focus on yourself and Bob. With a slow breath, you let that shield snap over the two of you, forcing the darkness back.

There was a split second as you trailed out of Bob's mental snare. You couldn't be sure, but somewhere on the horizon of your consciousness melding with his there was a…mass. A dark blotch.

And when you noticed it, there was no way to hide when it noticed you back.

A gasp of air split your lips. Back to reality, you two were still at the table in the Watchtower. Bob blinked opposite of you, his fingers skimming your palm. The shield you'd propped over both of you was still intact—that mental bond pulsing.

“How did she do that?”

Lots and lots of practice, you answered him, making yourself known in his head. Feel this? That’s how you’ll know I’m in your head.

He made a distressed expression that had you snorting. His head turned from side to side, reminiscent of a cat with a medical cone on for the first time. He wasn't sure what to do with a second presence melded to his. “Oh, weird. Okay. That feels so weird. I don't know if I like this.”

Yeah, not very comfortable. You want me to leave?

“Yeah, just, well, lemme try to get used to it for a second. So weird, what the fuck?”

You covered your face with your hand to try to find a semblance of professionalism, but it was impossible with the faces he made and the stream of thoughts filtering through.

I'm sorry, I shouldn't be laughing.

“I'd rather you be laughing than running, screaming out of the room. It's embarrassing, but it's not the worst.”

If it makes you feel any better, I'm not a professional in any shape or form. Bob's head tilted as he stared through the table. There was a brush against your mind. I'll make mistakes trying to figure out the best way to teach you what I know—oh, hi. That's me.

“You’re warm,” he replied aloud, squinting as he zeroed in. You made a point to retreat back a bit in case you ended up back in a shame room. His eyes flickered up to yours. “I feel you moving around. Is this how you see stuff?”

You nodded, a bit flustered at the feeling of his consciousness circling yours. He learned fast. “I’m not actively looking right now, just making my presence known. Careful, you press any further and you'll get my subconscious thoughts again.”

He shuddered as you pulled away from his mind completely. Your mind barrier went up for both his privacy and yours.

"Sorry, I should’ve warned you.”

“No, its fine, just...so weird.” His nose wrinkled as he said it.

“Yeah, I've heard that before,” you scoffed, smiling into your drink. The way he grinned back, it weighed in one corner—the same side he turned into to avoid eye contact. “You have any questions for me after all that?”

“Yeah,” he muttered, that sweet smile dropping as he bit at his lip. “You…felt something when we left the shame room. How did I feel that? And what was it?”

“My shield connected us. I wanted to bring you out with me instead of pushing you out. Would've been a bit rude since I asked you to show me.” You fiddled with the cup sleeve, leaning back into your chair. “As for what I felt, I don't want to assume anything but seeing as I sensed it as much as it sensed me…”

“Did it scare you?” he asked.

“No, but I didn't expect to run into Void this soon. Does it always sit on the outer edges like that?”

Bob shrugged. “On good days, yeah. But he's always around. A voice in the back of my head.”

“Tell me about him,” you murmured. “I've read what others think of him, but I want your input.”

“He's just…bad.” Bob shook his head, hands rubbing over his jeans. “Everything messed up or wrong in me, he feeds on it. He spits it back out on the bad days and tries to overwhelm me? I guess?”

“Does he try to get out often?”

His hair swayed as his head shook again. “More like when I'm weakest.”

“Weakest mentally? What about physically?” Bob shrugged, looking put off by the questions. “I'm not trying to overstep, I just need to understand as much as possible. They say he's your alter ego, that he's separate from you.”

“I mean, that's not wrong but I don't know if that's right either.”

You made a mental note. “Would you call him a parasite?”

“No.”

You raised a brow, amazed at the certainty. “Why? You said he feeds on you.”

There was a twist in his face, a flash of molten something in his eyes as he shook his head. “Sorry. Um, I don't know. I, uh…”

You slowly reached back out to his mind, gentle as you weighed against him. It's okay. We can stop here for today.

“Sorry,” he breathed, shoulders sinking. “He's louder now. I think we pissed him off.”

“Yeah, that'll probably be happening a lot from now on,” you chuckled, standing to throw your empty cup away. There was no trash can in your immediate view. “If you ever need help, I'm good at blocking things out for a time. I don't know if that would make things worse, but it's worth a shot, right?”

He surprised you with a weak laugh, clearing his throat as you turned. “Sorry. I know you said you weren't a professional, I just didn't expect this to be casual.”

You weren't sure how else you could have been. The stuff you both would be dealing with, well, you'd be getting personal with a whole lot in a very short amount of time. That's why you and Wanda were so close as well as Nat. One wanted you to learn your powers on a spiritual level, and the other wanted you to be able to steel your mind when chaos came knocking.

Hopefully, with Bob you could be that anchor they had become for you.

“I'm definitely not the strict and unemotional type,” you agreed with him. “As dangerous as all this could be, it's a breath of fresh air compared to what I was doing, so. Thanks for wanting me to help.”

There was that shy little grin of his again. You hoped, maybe after a few weeks or less, it wouldn't be as rare to see.

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erwinsvow · 21 hours ago

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oh no. a second jack abbot idea has hit erwinsvow. now i’m imagining being the daughter of one of jack’s old friends—army buddy or co-resident or someone he knew in medical school or whatever it may be—and when you start your intern year, you’re ecstatic that one of the attendings is one of your dad’s friends. even though you haven’t seen him all that often through the years, he tells robby to take extra good care of you during the day shift (which always makes you smile… and something else. you don’t know what it is yet). in particular i’m picturing mornings when you’re showing up and the daily “good morning dr. abbot!” “morning, sweetheart.” and then maybe a year goes by like that, and you hear it often enough that it gets to you—how cute jack is (which is getting harder to deny), how everyone seems to know he’s your dad’s buddy and clearly you’re his favorite even though he barely works with you, just the occasional all hands on deck emergency and one spectacular twelve hour shift when robby had the flu and jack covered for him. (was it the best twelve hours of your life, seeing him at every turn, being doted on in front of the others, getting called sweetheart at least once an hour? maybe. maybe.) so you can only imagine your reaction when you find out they really need a resident for night float for the next couple months, and jack even stays late after his shift to talk to you about it. (talk. as if you can pay attention when his curls are messy and he looks tired but he’s still giving you all of his attention and energy and then some. telling you something about a good learning environment and a little slower pacer though not by much and how i take care of my residents.) and a little dumb, a little blindsided you say something like “i don’t doubt it. you always take care of me.” and then you realize what you’ve said and get flustered and decide the best course of action is to walk away after mumbling something about when do i start? and then jack realizes this is a terrible idea—because it was one thing to be sweet on you when you were with the day crew, but it’s something else entirely if you’re going to be with him all night. and he honestly thought his one-sided crush would fade by now. you’re his friend’s daughter for god’s sake. and it’s especially bad since he’s just realized you like him probably as much as he likes you.

#this is so silly #i just love a dads best friend!#jack abbot #jack abbot x reader

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revelboo · 3 days ago

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Soooo I did a little spending spree on myself, and fiance got me the pop as an early bday gift and did a dramatic scene with them.

Never have I ever thought that i would be doing this just from reading your stories. Thank you for this motivation you've been giving us! Motivated a lot of folks here just from your content. We appreciate your work, and I hope that you're having a good day! 😁💜💜💜

Nice! 🤣 I’m corrupting everyone

Everything Is Alright Pt 159

Starscream x Reader, Soundwave x Reader, Megatron x Reader

• Glancing over at Megatron as the warlord cradles the protoform in the crook of an arm, you feel the weight of Starscream’s accusation hanging in the air between you. But they’re talking. Something you’re not sure they really do without Megatron trying to murder Star for contradicting him. “You recruit us, name us your commanders, and then ignore our advice,” Starscream mutters into the silence. “We believed in you, but you never believed in us, did you?”

• Toying with those little servos, Megatron’s aware of that little, somnolent spark nestled inside his own. That it’s not his even if it feels like it is. And he can’t help but love that fragile life, wanting to feel those little servos grip his. To hold their warmth and weight in his hands, hear them laugh. None of it meant to be his. “Betrayal leaves scars,” he growls, touching the curve of its cheek. “I learned to do what ever I had to in order to survive in a world that saw me as expendable. Worthless. I wasn’t after power for power’s sake, though.”

• Bristling at the accusation, Starscream’s wings flare, trembling in outrage. And hating that there’s some truth in those words. “Maybe I wanted power as much as I wanted change,” he admits, hesitating when you lay a cheek on his servo, looking up at him. Calming him. “But you became blinded by your obsession with the Prime.” Freezing at the soft ‘so I did’ from the other mech, he’s not sure he’s ever heard any admission of wrongdoing from Megatron.

• This is good. Talking without trying to murder each other. And okay, they’re refusing to look at each other, but it’s a start. “Maybe this little one will be my successor, a little mining frame like their sire,” Megatron adds to make Starscream drop you on your butt on the desk, knocking his chair over with a snarl. So much for no fighting. Glaring at Megatron as he offers you a crooked smile, because he couldn’t resist being a jerk for one whole, serious conversation?

• “Just because you stole my new spark from my mate doesn’t mean you’re the sire!” Starscream snarls at him, wings trembling with outrage and Megatron clears his vents with a chuckle up until you just shake your head looking disgusted to make him feel guilty. ‘Your mate gave me the new spark. Trusted me,’ Megatron counters, ignoring the Seeker completely to tuck the protoform closer to his frame. Because this little one will never suffer through what he has. He’s going to make sure of that.

#transformers x reader #starscream x reader #megatron x reader #soundwave x reader #soundwave #starscream #megatron

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johnnysuhbmarine · 2 days ago

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Out of Time

Pairing: Chenle x reader Description: You'd be lying if you said feelings weren't caught within the thirteen years of friendship you had with Chenle, but even when you both wanted to be more, you agreed to shut any idea of it down - his future marriage was already arranged as part of a business deal, there was no point setting your hearts up for breaking. So, why is he on your doorstep begging for a chance just three months before he has to go back to China? Content warnings: Arranged marriage au but not with each other; rich kid Chenle; swearing; they have sex, and while no actual smut is written, it’s not exactly glossed over, either; fluff; angst; there is no happy ending to this part but I promise another part is coming Word count: 16,362 A/n: If you knew how long I’ve been working on this idea, you wouldn’t believe me…but now that this first part is out I’m actually really happy with how it’s come together. The second part should be out in no more than a few weeks (hopefully). Let me know if you want to be on a taglist for it. Posting this today to celebrate @fullsunstrawberry's last day of class for the semester!!…though this ends in angst so it’s not the best gift I’ve ever come up with 🫠 Anyways, please enjoy, though who am I to tell you what to do…as always, feedback would be greatly appreciated. Take care of yourselves, I love you

Your childhood went by too fast. Though, you assume that’s the only way it could feel when it’s the sole marker of the time you were able to have with Chenle. The two of you grew up together, but through conversations you felt you were too young to be involved in, you both knew that you wouldn’t be able to continue with said friendship in adulthood. The thing about Chenle was, he’s lived with his aunt, right across the street from your parents, in a small Korean suburb since he was five years old. However, where he spent the first four years of his life, and where he would eventually be summoned back to, was with his parents in Shanghai.

There was nothing wrong about his parents. In fact, for most of childhood, Chenle only had positive things to say about them, a wide smile adorning his face whenever he thought of seeing them again. The entire reason he was living with his aunt was because his parents wanted him to experience a normal childhood, so really, they had his best interest at heart. That being said, they did not care about whether or not Chenle would have a normal adulthood. Instead, they were waiting for him to fall in line, learn how to eventually take over their multimillion dollar company, and with that, play his part…and accept the fact that his future marriage, to the daughter of one of their business partners, has been arranged for him since the moment he was born. Finding this out, Chenle no longer had loads of nice things to say about his parents. He lived with a constant resentment towards them since the start of high school, but you were always his one beacon of comfort, where the weight of his future could fall off his shoulders and he could just be a kid again for a little while longer.

It was the summer before freshman year of high school when your parents and his aunt sat the two of you down at the dinner table and explained how Chenle’s future was going to pan out. You were just fourteen years old, having Chenle suddenly upset and arguing about who he’d be marrying felt so wrong, the problem seemingly so far away. You were kids, but because of that moment, you both grew up too quickly - Chenle by force, and you because you refused to let him go through it alone. The real world, outside of school and pickup basketball games in someone’s driveway, now weighed heavily on the two of you, and the only thing you could promise was that you’d navigate as much of it as you could together.

The one thing his parents agreed to compromise on was that, rather than having Chenle fly back immediately after high school graduation, he could stick through that last summer with you, and eventually head back to China when you left for university. That’s the exact period of time that the two of you were in now - almost a full three months where the plans that have been talked about for years were now facing you head on. Stupidly, you try to forget about it, pretend it was just some normal summer, like your best friend wasn’t being ripped away from you at the end of it. You were setting yourself up to be blindsided by the inevitable passage of time, but it was all you could think to do if you wanted to hold onto any chance at smiling this summer.

It was the day right after graduation when Chenle hopped across the street and rang your doorbell. It was the middle of the day, your parents still at work, so you had to be the one to slide off the couch and check who was at the door. Normally, Chenle would text you before he came over, and you would have the door already unlocked for his arrival so that he could just barge in and join you on the couch…or immediately grab your wrist, drag you through the kitchen for two glasses of lemonade, and then out the back door for another basketball match. The last thing you expected him to do was ring the doorbell out of nowhere, but more confusingly, when you open the front door to face him, he’s pacing back and forth. His mind seemed to be going a hundred miles a minute, and you don’t think you’ve ever seen him look this distraught before.

“Chenle?” You prompt, tilting your head at him still making circles in your front walkway. He snaps his head up and stops moving, seeming not to have heard you actually open the door yet and instead leaving him to get surprised by your voice. As he takes in your bewildered state, he does his best to calm himself, correctly assuming he was the reason for it.

Now, his body faces you full-on, but he still can’t meet your eyes, instead looking towards the ground and sucking on his bottom lip as he figures out what he wants to say. Eventually, he gives up, shaking his head and bringing his gaze up to you with an agitated sigh. “Any way I put this, I come off as an asshole, so please forgive me,” he finally says all at once.

You furrow your brows at him in confusion, your return question bearing a much lighter tone than his own. “What’s up, Chenle?”

He darts his gaze off to the side, biting on his bottom lip again. Though, this contemplation period hardly lasted a second before he’s dropping his head and spitting out his words through one rushed exhale. “Can I be selfish for one summer? Before you go to college? Before I move back to my parents' house? I know we both agreed to be smart enough not to get involved…but before I have to be someone else’s, I want to be yours - even if it’s just for one summer.”

To say you were thrown off was an understatement, but not necessarily because of his confession. It was no secret the two of you developed feelings for each other. Your parents knew it, his aunt knew it, you knew it, he knew it - there was no use in pretending said feelings didn’t exist. However, being sixteen with those feelings and knowing what you had since you were fourteen made the situation less than average.

You and Chenle decided the best thing you could do was flesh everything out. So, one random day of sophomore year, you did. An entire evening kicking yourselves for catching feelings, laughing at the fact that it seemed inevitable, and then deciding that the best course of action now was to try and forget about it. You were not the daughter of his wealthy parents’ wealthy business partner, and the two of you quickly learned that there was no changing his parents’ minds on the arranged marriage. There was no reason to try and pretend an outcome could exist where the two of you could work, where you wouldn’t get hurt. It was both, a pro and a con of being forced to grow up - dumb decisions that your childhood was waiting for you to make were never made, and it was so hard to tell which dumb decisions you actually missed out on.

Chenle was right, the two of you agreed to be smart enough to not get involved, but a part of you was mad that you never took the chance to be a stupid high school kid. It seemed entirely out of left field for Chenle to address the situation again just three months before the beginning of the rest of your lives kicked in, but you’re glad he did.

“One summer for us to make some stupid decisions and break our own hearts?” You echo back, and any trace of hope on Chenle’s face fades away. That is, until you look back at him with a smirk, leaning against your doorframe casually. “Yeah, what the hell. Let’s do it,” you say, and when Chenle whips his head back up to face you in surprise, you can’t stop your smirk from turning into a full smile.

Chenle shakes his head quickly, as though to get rid of all the thoughts on how to respond to a refusal that never came, and instead an easy smile reaches his own face as he looks back at you. “Great! So, can I take you on a date?”

He’s completely serious as he replies and this is where you’re most taken aback. “Oh, starting off with a date?” You only had three months to be together, and to be quite honest, you thought Chenle was going to skip past all the initial dates and dive right in, knowing that you wouldn’t have given it a second thought if he immediately had you pinned against a wall. You seemed to have greatly underestimated the character of your best friend though, because he shoots back with a sure nod, genuinity filling his next words.

“Well, yeah. I don’t want this to just be a physical thing. I want to be able to say that you were my first love. You were always meant to have that title. I want to remember you that way, not as some no-strings-attached summer fling.”

You immediately drop your head to face the floor. Chenle must have grown up some more when you weren’t looking. All at once, you don’t know what happened to the loser you grew up with, who learned to shut off his feelings and fill all that space with basketball instead; but now, here he stood, making his intentions very clear in that he planned to spend the summer falling in love with you, and outside of the shock you’ve felt throughout this entire conversation, a new feeling erupts in your stomach - butterflies.

You look back up at him, regardless of how embarrassingly red you could tell your cheeks were, and a smile reaches your face as soon as the two of you lock eyes. “A date it is,” you say with a nod before stepping back into your house some more and actually letting him inside for a bit. “I’ll have to actually get out of my pajamas,” you say with a laugh. “Any idea of where you want to go?”

Chenle bites on the inside of his cheek before shaking his head. “Well, you know I can take you out on a really fancy date, and if that’s what you want, we can do that. I mean, that’s sure as hell what you deserve…but I was thinking maybe we could just go out to our favorite ice cream shop and then play some basketball.”

Your cheeks puff out in a smile. “So, you wanna hang out?” You tease, and Chenle is quick to shake his head.

“No! I wanna go on a date with you! I know we get ice cream and play basketball a lot, but now I want to do so while also knowing I can go up and kiss you whenever I want.”

You raise an eyebrow playfully. “Oh, now we’re kissing on the first date?”

Chenle just stares at you in disinterest. “Three months, y/n. That’s all I get. I’m not exactly looking to take things super slow. Besides,” he continues, throwing a sly smirk your way as his own brows raise. “You’re the one who’s been wanting to kiss me for the past two years.”

Your mouth drops into a gape as you swat at him, only succeeding in making him laugh like a dolphin, and while you made fun of his laugh whenever you could, it was also your favorite thing in the world. A certain warmth fills your chest at the sound of it as you simply shake your head. “Whatever. You’ve been wanting to kiss me for the past two years as well. Don’t even pretend otherwise.” He’s still getting over his laughing fit as you finish your sentence, leaving you to just roll your eyes at him as you turn and walk upstairs to your room to change, the front door still hanging open for him to eventually follow you through.

When you come back downstairs after getting ready, Chenle looks you up and down with a smile. “I’ve always liked that skirt on you,” he says casually. You let out a light laugh.

“I know. You weren’t very secretive about it,” you reply playfully, causing a light dusting of pink to cover Chenle’s cheeks.

“Is dating you just going to be a nonstop period of you teasing me?” He finally asks in return. His words make you freeze, though. You only had three months but he was serious about it, serious about you, and you couldn’t help thinking about how great the hurt would be for both of you once it was over.

You shake out of it, you had to, and instead send a wink his way as you rush out the door without him. “I guess you’ll have to just wait and see,” you banter back, and Chenle rolls his eyes before following you out and doing your part in locking up behind him.

While you were exchanging greetings with the worker on the other side of the ice cream parlor’s bar, Chenle was just continuously poking at your arm. “What?” You finally snap as you turn to him, though no one would ever be able to pick up even the slightest bit of irritation with his antics based off the smile on your face as you looked at him.

Chenle draws in a deep breath as a confidence booster before spitting out his words all at once. “I know we normally get our own milkshakes and finish them, but if you wanted to do that thing where we get one milkshake and put two straws in it, we could.” He was completely serious as he spoke, and you bite your lip to stop the wide smile from coming onto your face at his attempt to truly make this feel like a date.

Instead of letting him know how cute he was, you resort back to messing with him. “Hmm…less ice cream for me, though,” you say, pretending to contemplate his offer.

“I can buy us another one after that!” He quickly responds, and you can see the typical energy begin to flow back through his body as he relaxes some more. “We can just keep ordering milkshakes to share! I mean, what’s a couple of $5 transactions on a black card?” He continues rambling but you break out into a laugh, immediately getting him to stop and stare at you in bewilderment because nothing he just said was a joke.

“Breaking out the black card for our first date?” You ask, looking over at Chenle as though you were something like impressed. He does not see what the big deal is.

“Of course, anything for you-” That’s where he breaks himself off, his head falling into his hands on the counter as he finally cracks. “God, I feel like a loser,” he groans, but a fond smile paints its way across your face in response.

“You’re not a loser,” you reply calmly, but Chenle shakes his head in his hands, his next words coming out covered in defeat.

“But my face is red and I’m saying stupid stuff.”

“It’s cute,” you reassure him gently, but he is quick to quip back.

“You’re cute.” The statement rolls off his tongue effortlessly and you jump back a little in your seat, eyes wide.

“Woah, lele. I didn’t know you could actually be sweet to me,” you say back, feigning astonishment.

Chenle finally lifts his head up out of his hands to drag his troubled gaze over to you. “Do you see what I’m talking about? I’m a loser! I didn’t mean to say that,” he groans.

You just furrow your brows. “So, you don’t think I’m cute?” You ask playfully. Chenle squeezes his eyes shut, taking an extra long breath before peeking one eye open to look at you and practically whisper his response.

“Yes, I do.”

An easy smile spreads across your face as you take in the fact that Chenle genuinely complimented you, though you were glad to see it pained him to admit it because that meant this was still your Chenle after all. You immediately turn your gaze back over to the worker, who pretended to be super invested in cleaning the counter as your conversation with Chenle drew out, and then you order just one milkshake with two straws. After, you move your gaze back over to your best friend.

“You can just be yourself, you know? I’ve liked you for years already, you don’t have to try and win me over now.”

Chenle sucks on his bottom lip, sighing. “I know but…you deserve to feel romanced and loved, and I want to do that, I just- it’s not my strong suit. My parents just bought me things and then shipped me overseas. A pretty weird love language if you ask me.” He ends with a small laugh, and you’re relieved to see the tension in his shoulders fall as he does.

You shoot a fond smile his way in response. “I know, and that’s okay. Look, these three months for us to be together is just a change in the title of our relationship. There’s not much else that has to change. I won't hate you for struggling with how to express love. I know you like me, that’s enough.”

“Stop being so good at making me feel better,” he says with a weak grin. “I already feel like I’m not good enough for you.”

You roll your eyes, placing one hand on top of his at the counter, getting him to meet your serious gaze. “Lele, you make me happy - that’s more than enough. Plus, you’re rich,” you add, and Chenle lets out his own laugh as he rips his hand away from under yours.

“Oh, whatever,” he replies with a scoff, but the atmosphere is instantly lighter as your laughter is only broken up by the milkshake being slid in between the two of you, immediately redirecting your attention to the shared directive of sucking that down as fast as you could.

As Chenle got his card back after paying for all your rounds of milkshakes, he turned to you with a hopeful grin. “Do you wanna go back and play basketball in our street?” He asks, causing a similar smirk to spread across your own features.

“You know I do, but can you take it easy on me now that we’re dating?” You suggest playfully, though surprise was the last feeling that came to mind when Chenle’s eyebrows furrow in response.

“Absolutely not,” he replies quickly, causing you to sigh. “If anything, I gotta go harder on you now that we’re dating. I don’t date amateurs. You gotta keep up with me.” Your face falls into shock as you lightly hit the back of your hand against his forearm and the two of you break out into laughter again.

“Hey! Thirteen years of pickup basketball does not equate to me being an amateur. I’m a seasoned pro,” you try to say seriously. Chenle raises his eyebrows at you in a taunt.

“Yeah? We’ll see about that. What do you say, loser has to buy-” He cuts himself off from going over the terms of the bet as he turns his attention towards the countertop in disbelief. “I guess I just bought all our ice cream. What are we supposed to use as a bet now?” He speaks as though his hopes and dreams were ruined. You just shake your head fondly at him, sucking on your bottom lip to try and hold back a smile.

“Come on,” you say, moving to grab his hand in yours and pull him away from the counter. “We’ll figure something out. Let’s go before it gets dark.”

Chenle shoots you a look as though you were crazy. “Y/n, it’s summer. We have like- at least five more hours before it gets dark.”

You stop in your tracks, turning back to him with a smirk. “Well, my bad. I just wanted to spend as much time with my boyfriend as possible,” you reply, and Chenle ducks his head as blush covers his face. Though, with one gentle squeeze of your hand, he’s the one now pulling you out of the ice cream parlor and towards the car to go back home.

As always, the two of you started off with a game of horse. It’s typically how you would decide who gets first possession, though you’ve stopped seeing a point to it because Chenle wins every time. At least, that’s how it normally goes. Today, standing in Chenle’s driveway, it was you who was crushing Chenle in horse. With you still at ‘h’ and Chenle just tacking on an ‘s,’ you let out a laugh. “I thought you weren’t taking it easy on me,” you taunt, and Chenle whips his head in your direction seriously.

“I’m not!”

You raise your eyebrows at him as you move to take the ball from his hands and shoot your next shot. “Okay well then, whoever you are, can you go get Chenle back for me?” You ask, turning back to him after successfully making it. “I miss him. He’s your height, looks kinda like you, is good at basketball-” You tease, and Chenle cuts you off as he turns fire red, grabbing the basketball and readying himself to shoot from where you just did.

“I’m good at basketball!” He argues before taking his next shot…and missing. He turns around to meet your raised eyebrows and groans. “A game of horse doesn’t even matter! All it means is that you start off our actual game.”

You shake your head at his antics as he picks up the basketball and passes it to you because somehow, you had first possession today. These ‘actual’ games were where you tended to perform better, but it was the same for Chenle of course, so you still typically only took one out of every twenty games from him.

Though, it seemed Chenle’s poor performance in horse did nothing to actually warm him up, because his game performance was no better - possibly worse. You watched as the famed Lele Curry missed every shot he took, acting as though nothing happened every time he retrieved the ball for you. You wait until he misses an easy layup before finally shaking your head at him from the other side of the driveway.

“Lele, come kiss me,” you say plainly, and Chenle immediately stops in his tracks as he turns towards you.

“WHAT? Wh- wha- why?” He fumbles out through something of a shocked yell, getting you to just roll your eyes at him playfully.

“Cause I have a feeling it’s gonna get you your basketball skills back,” you reply with raised eyebrows, greatly contrasting Chenle’s furrowed ones as he looks back at you in question.

“Huh?” He gets out, causing your shoulders to bounce up and down lightly with a small chuckle.

You look up to face him fondly, the teasing lilt out of your tone. “Look, we’re dating now, we just talked about affection, it’s on your mind and messing with your game, so you should come kiss me and get it over with,” you state as though it were no big thing. It was a big thing to Chenle though, because he just learned you could read his mind. Of course he was thinking about kissing you, it was all he could think about - you were you, after all, and Chenle really really liked you.

You watch as his adam’s apple bobs up and down with a hesitant swallow, but as he looks back up at you, the tension in his shoulders falls. He crosses the driveway to end up directly in front of you. Slowly, his right hand comes up to cup the side of your face, an action that you easily smile into, and Chenle takes a moment to run his thumb over your puffed out cheek as his nervous gaze runs over every inch of your face. “I don’t know how to kiss but- but I promise I’ll do it just right if you let me.”

“Chenle…”

“May I?” He asks quietly once his eyes finally fall to your lips.

You nod your head, caught off guard for a breathless moment at the recognition of this softer, shyer side of Chenle. You had kissed a few guys throughout high school, but you knew he hadn’t kissed anyone before. Once the two of you found out his marriage was arranged, he gave up completely on high school relationships or flings, and meanwhile you tried to kiss as many guys as possible in an attempt to get your mind off of it. None of them ever meant anything, but this one did, and Chenle knew it, too. He wanted to do everything right, but he didn’t even know what ‘right’ was, and any time he didn’t know what he was doing, he fell shyer, more hesitant, always so uncomfortable with unknowns that he tried to just slip away instead. He hardly let you see this side of him because he always wanted to present his best self; but he was soft with you now, because he cared enough about you to admit he was clueless - that the thought of kissing you made his head spin but it wasn’t even something he could truly picture.

“You may,” you answer softly, and Chenle slowly leans into you.

It started out as the lightest kiss in the world, a kind of gentleness almost uncharacteristic of your best friend if you didn’t know all his layers already. You can’t help the smile that spreads across your lips, but you refuse to break so quickly; so instead, you pin your focus on deepening the kiss - pressing back into him, establishing a healthy rhythm sucking on his bottom lip. Chenle’s hand that wasn’t cupping your face soon flies to your waist as he begins to match your pace. As he got more comfortable with the feeling of his lips against yours, he got more desperate for it. You figure standing in the driveway of his house is not where you should teach him how to use his tongue, so with one last soft kiss, you break away.

Your gaze instantly falls to the ground beneath your feet, a cheesy grin across your face that you try to cover up. “See, now you’ve kissed me. Nothing else is going to be as scary as that,” you say playfully. “Now you’re good. You can kiss me whenever you want. Alternatively, you never have to kiss me again if that’s what you want-” You immediately cut off your words as you finally bring your gaze up to make eye contact with Chenle, only to realize he’s staring at you with wide eyes, his mouth hanging slightly open. “What’s that look for?” You ask, suddenly worried you did something wrong.

Chenle shakes his head in an attempt to gather his thoughts, mouth opening and closing in hesitation as he looks you up and down. “Um, I like you…a lot. Like, a lot,” he says as though he were out of breath. The wide grin comes back to your face as you let out a fond laugh.

“Ha! That’s for another time,” you promise, instead bending down to pick the basketball up from the ground and place it in his hands. “Now turn around and shoot,” you continue, nodding your head towards the basket behind him. He does as asked, turning around and not even taking a moment to regain his footing before shooting and immediately making a nothing-but-net basket. You drop your face back to the pavement with a knowing nod. Then, you walk the one step back to meet him again and place a soft kiss on his cheek. “There’s my Chenle,” you claim softly, and watch as his ears turn a deep shade of red.

Biting on his bottom lip, he shakes his head, unable to say anything in response. Instead, he moves to grab the basketball again, passing it to you since he just scored, and you know you’re about to get your ass kicked in pickup basketball.

That was, in fact, exactly what happened. The only difference between this and the games that occurred before you started dating, is that now throughout the game, Chenle would sometimes turn around after making a basket and tell you a play that good deserved a kiss. You would roll your eyes every time but you always obliged - each soft, casual, ‘proud of you’ peck leaving Chenle with the biggest grin on his face.

Your pickup game finally ended when his aunt got back from work, forcing you both out of the driveway but more importantly, breaking the two of you apart from your quick kiss as you scramble into the grass. As she pulls into the garage and turns off the car, she steps out to meet you two still on the side of the driveway. “Well, something’s certainly changed in the time I’ve been at work, hasn’t it?” She says with a playful smirk. You and Chenle drop your heads in unison, but his aunt just lets out a warm laugh, nodding her head towards the door. “Come on, kids. I’ll make us dinner.”

Matching smiles spread across your faces as you rush to follow her inside. As she started cooking, you and Chenle did whatever you could to help around the house where needed, but eventually you were told to just sit and rest a while as opposed to crowding the kitchen and making things more difficult. So, TV remote now in hand, you leaned into Chenle on the couch and he hooked both arms over you instantaneously.

Chenle’s arms around you, the smell of home-cooked dinner, and a basketball game on the TV, there was something so natural about it - as though Chenle’s arms have been around you your entire life, as though you’d have them around you, to come home to, for the rest of time. You knew the idea of it would never be true in the long run, but right now it was as real as it could get - and the second you could convince yourself to simply exist in the present, that fact was enough to make everything okay. You’re sure Chenle could feel it, because at the very same time that peace crashed over your body, Chenle squeezed you slightly tighter to him, placing a small kiss to the top of your head before resuming his task of acting super nonchalant about having you in his arms.

The two of you explained everything to his aunt over dinner, and any disheartening thought she may have had about the situation, she kept to herself. You all had collectively gone through that song and dance all those years prior when the news of Chenle’s arranged marriage first broke. She knew you didn’t need to hear that speech again. Instead, she smiled warmly, claiming that if any two people deserved to be happy together, even for just a little while, it was you guys.

You excused yourself after dinner, figuring it was probably time for you to head home since you haven’t seen your parents all day. Chenle immediately stood from the table with you, gently lacing his fingers with yours and leading you to the door. “I’ll walk you home,” he says casually, but you just shake your head at him.

“Lele, I live right across the street. It doesn’t even take twenty seconds for me to get home,” you reply playfully. Chenle just squeezes your hand in his slightly tighter, and when he speaks again, it’s much more somber in tone.

“Three months, y/n. I’ll take a few more seconds anywhere I can get them,” he states quietly, and his words seem to have hollowed you out so that all you can do is nod your head. Chenle smiles at your acceptance before getting hit with another thought and immediately pausing. “Oh, wait!” He exclaims as you take the first step out his front door.

You turn back around to face him in question, watching as he runs through the house before coming back into view with a hoodie in his arms. “For you,” he says with a bright smile as he holds out the hoodie for you to take. You just raise your brows at him with a smirk.

“Chenle, it’s summer. What am I gonna need a hoodie for?” You ask playfully in return, though your traces of banter didn’t reach Chenle, and instead every feature on his face falls into a pout. You let out a fond laugh at the sight of it, moving towards him to take the hoodie from his arms with a light kiss on his cheek. You immediately slip it over your head, and the sheer comfort of it answered your question of what you were gonna do with a hoodie in the summer - wear it any chance you got. You look back at Chenle, who was stuck staring at you in his hoodie as though you were a goddess. You just pray your face doesn’t show too flustered in the moonlight and grab his hand to actually start on the walk across the street.

As you get to your front door, Chenle tightens his grip on your hand to pull you back some more, now just standing idly on your front porch. You study his figure curiously, watching as he tosses around thoughts in his head so loud you could almost hear them. His gaze eventually falls to the ground but he finally finds his voice.

“I don’t think I’m gonna be great at ever telling you how I feel. It’s hard for me to articulate anything even closely related to feelings. There’s so much in my head but I don’t know how to tell you everything…how much you mean to me. But if today taught me anything, I’m much more comfortable with showing you how I feel. That doesn’t seem as foreign to me for some reason. I can show you how I feel - I want to. I hope it gets across, though. I hope you know every time we kiss…” He drags off, and his eyebrows immediately furrow in irritation that this was just another example of him struggling to put his feelings into words.

You give a fond shake of your head as you stare back at him. “Chenle,” you let out softly, rubbing your thumb against the back of his hand, still intertwined with yours.

He finally looks back up at you with resolve. “What I’m trying to say is that if one day, you get fed up with all my emotions being expressed physically rather than verbally, I can stop. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. I don’t have to kiss you all the time. I can try- I can try to…I can-” This time, he’s cut off by your lips on his, and he melts right into the kiss.

When you finally pull back, you place a hand on his cheek, nodding your head lightly. “It gets across, lele. Everything you’re feeling, it gets across. It’s never gonna be too much; we have a lot of time to make up for, I know. So, whenever you want to kiss me, I want to kiss you.”

In return, Chenle gives the most bashful smile you’ve ever seen. He moves a hand up to guide your own back down from his cheek before studying the way your two hands fit with each other so naturally. All hands were meant to be interlaced with another, he thought, but his were specifically made for yours. You look at his soft features with a grin, squeezing his hand gently in yours and getting him to train his eyes back on you in a rush. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says surely, causing you to laugh some before nodding your head.

“See you tomorrow,” you softly return as he takes the first few steps back towards his house. You stand and watch until he finally reaches his own front door; turning back around to see you still outside, he gives an exaggerated wave in your direction, and you didn’t need to see the huge smile on his face to know it was there. You move your hand up slightly to wave back to him, hoping the yellow street light wasn’t enough to illuminate the clarity that had immediately washed over you as you clocked that you only had three months left of his exaggerated waves and huge smiles - the butterflies that had occupied your stomach all day were no match for the void that made its presence known now. A heavy breath escapes you as he finally turns the knob and enters his house, leaving you with nothing left to do but the same.

As soon as you opened the door, the change in atmosphere was striking. The warmth of your parents’ laughter filled the kitchen as they were cleaning up from their own dinner, your dog entirely too wound up as he jumped around waiting for teased scraps from your father’s plate. The pit in your stomach didn’t go away, but instead became more pronounced as another strange feeling added to it. Your parents had much longer than three months to be together; you wondered if they could fathom it - if they could ever wrap their heads around the amount of love shared between the two of them throughout all these years. You wondered if you would ever be able to wrap your head around the idea of loving someone that many years, knowing it wouldn’t be Chenle on the receiving end of it. You hated remembering why the two of you originally promised not to get involved with each other - you hated that those reasons made more sense than ever.

You didn’t realize the door practically slammed shut behind you until the rest of the house fell quiet in response. Your mom makes eye contact with you in the front entryway before smiling brightly and returning to the dishes. “Hey, sweetie! Were you over at Chenle’s?”

Her question is coated with a smile and all you can do is start rambling to try and fight off the nauseous feeling that arose in response. “Guys, I made a really stupid decision and I know it’s stupid so I don’t need you to tell me again and I really don’t need you to be pessimistic about it because it won’t help.” You speed through your words in an instant and the look on your parents’ faces completely flip as they drop what they’re doing to go meet you still by the front door.

“Y/n, what happened?” Your dad asks in a panic, and you figure the vagueness of your statement meant they were currently assuming a lot worse than it was. You shake your head, but it doesn’t do much to dismiss their worry until you follow it up with words.

“Chenle asked me to be his girlfriend,” you spit out, and the tension in their shoulders drops at once.

“And you said ‘yes,’” your mom softly finishes in your place. You shoot your gaze up to her, bringing their notice to the tears in your eyes as you respond weakly.

“I couldn’t say ‘no.’”

Your mom lets out a fond sigh, nodding her head as she throws an understanding smile in your direction. “I know,” she replies, coming up to wrap you in a hug where you finally let yourself bawl your eyes out.

“We only have three months to be together but- but we wanted to be together,” you explain as firmly as you could through tears. “And we should’ve just pressed on these three months like we have our whole lives, I know it’s stupid-”

“Y/n, it’s not stupid,” your mom cuts in seriously. You lean slightly out of the hug to make shaky eye contact with her, then darting your gaze off to meet the encouraging look your dad bore and only getting more confused. You pull back from the hug entirely, now doing your best to collect yourself again so you could have a real conversation.

“I’m gonna be really hurt three months from now, and it’s not Chenle’s fault, it’s mine-” You could only be mad at yourself for so long before your mom cuts you off again.

“It’s not your fault. Sometimes, what makes a decision seem stupid is that there’s no one to blame for its consequences. It’s not gonna be your fault, nor Chenle’s…and it’s weird when you don’t have someone to blame.” Your mom was always the voice of reason, but you figure this time she was taking the same approach that Chenle’s aunt did. The inevitability of you and Chenle was the least of her worries. Her main goal was to keep you from jumping off the ledge before you could even enjoy it.

“I think Chenle blames his parents,” you rebuttal thoughtfully, and your dad just lets out a laugh before he responds more sincerely.

“Yes, but I think he hates his parents enough for the all of us, so we shouldn’t add to it.” Chenle’s disdain for his parents was more than evident, and your own parents never had the nicest things to say about them either - even though they kept their thoughts to themselves, you knew it. There wasn’t a single person in the suburb who understood where Chenle’s parents were coming from; with the quality of life being so starkly different, you figure no one ever would. The sucky thing was, you knew Chenle’s parents were thinking the same thing about you all, and it’s why everyone but Chenle has kept their opinion to themselves - it wasn’t worth it to do otherwise, an understanding could never be made between two different worlds.

You take in his words with a flash of your eyebrows but eventually let out a heavy sigh. “...he shouldn’t hate his parents,” you admit solemnly, thinking of your own family and wondering how heartbreaking it would be for both sides if you viewed them the way Chenle views his.

Your father ducks his head, his thoughts running parallel to yours. “No, but that’s not for us to worry about. I’m just glad you don’t hate yours,” he says with a smile, and you finally move your gaze back up towards your parents, three pairs of uncertain eyes exchanging thousands of emotions between them.

“Is everything gonna be okay?” You finally ask, your voice much weaker than you would have liked. Your mom shakes her head in mystery, a thin-lipped smile giving its best attempt at comfort.

“I don’t know, but was today okay?” She asks in return.

“Yes,” you answer immediately, but then your face turns more contemplative and you shake your head. “No- it was so much better than ‘okay’ you wouldn’t even understand.” Your words come out coated in fondness. You figured it was the first step towards realizing how bittersweet these next three months with Chenle were going to be, how nostalgic you would soon feel for memories you were in the middle of making.

Your mom’s smile widens at your words as she moves to brush over your cheek with her hand, ensuring the two of you make eye contact as she gives the only advice she thinks she can at this point. “Then let’s try not to worry about if everything’s gonna be okay in the future, and focus on the fact that everything is so much better than okay right now,” she says softly, leaving you nodding your head against her hold. It eventually falls into a tight hug before you get embarrassed and excuse yourself to make your way to your room for the night.

It was a few hours later when your parents walked in to say goodnight. Your dad went first and then waited at the doorway as your mom took her moment to kiss the top of your head and bid you goodnight. Before she could take a full step away, though, you caught her hand in yours. Her face whipped back around to meet your soft, wavering gaze. “He kissed me today.” Your tone made it sound as though you had a million thoughts in your mind, but it was clear not even one would manifest itself into more words right away. Your parents both give a warm grin, and as your dad leaves from your doorframe to let the two of you have a moment, your mom joins you sitting on top of your bed.

“Yeah?” She encourages softly. All you can do is nod before frustration reaches the surface and you end up shaking your head decidedly.

“Mom, I don’t want to kiss another guy ever again,” you say, looking up to make sincere eye contact with her. “I want it to always be Chenle,” you continue firmly, and your mom just lets out a defeated sigh.

“For three months, it will be,” she says with a weak smile, trying her best to bring any sense of hope to the situation.

You pull your bottom lip in between your teeth, both coming to terms with the situation and not being able to believe it all at once. “And that has to be enough. How do I make that be enough?” You ask helplessly, the sight of you torn up like this chipping away at your mom’s heart.

“I don’t know, but you’ll figure it out,” she replies, and you figure that’s all anyone would be able to say to that. These are your circumstances, and regardless of if it feels unfair, all you can do is the best you can do; spending these three months trying to resolve a grief that hasn’t even hit you yet was definitely not your best course of action. With the smallest of laughs that still comes across as jarring in the fragile moment, your mom speaks up again. “I would say you could kiss him like every time will be the last, but I can’t have you sucking his face off…his parents would not be thrilled about that,” she teases, and you’re finally able to crack a smile as well.

With one last kiss to the top of your head, your mom gets up and heads towards your door again. “Remember,” she says, turning back over her shoulder to look at you. “Today was really really good. Tomorrow will be, too; and the day after that…and the day after that. So, no stress for at least the next three days, okay?”

Your smile widens on your lips at the silly promise, but it did its job in removing what felt like the entire weight of the world from your shoulders. “Okay.” Then, with one last smile, your mom was out the door.

The next week was spent with you and Chenle not seeing more than an hour of separation from each other unless you were sleeping. Though you couldn’t say this for anyone else you hang out with, you never got tired of Chenle, never oversaturated from his energy; so, spending all this time together was hardly a task - it was just how you were meant to be. You think Chenle held the secret to it all along, the reason you never got tired of each other - though you doubted he was even aware of it, every time he looked your way, it seemed to be with a fresh set of eyes, like it was the first time he’d ever laid eyes on you. You could see it in the glaze of softness that took over his stare for a millisecond. How could you ever tire of each other when every glance gave the illusion of no time having passed at all. The only problem you could anticipate is how shocking it would be when these three months were up, if each passing day still consisted of the butterflies from the first.

It was at the end of this first week when your mom lingered in your room while saying goodnight to you again. You eyed her curiously as she sat down on your bed rather than the typical lean-over to kiss the top of your head. She gives a small laugh as she meets your gaze, then starts her words with a light sigh.

“Y/n, your dad and I have been talking,” she begins, and the color drains from your face.

“Uh oh,” you reply, unsure of whatever it is they came up with but knowing it typically never boded well for you.

At this, she laughs again, shaking her head with a grin. “No, it’s nothing bad. It’s just-” she breaks off, looking as though she couldn’t believe what she was about to say, and once you heard her words, you understood the look on her face completely. “We know how this is gonna go. You guys are eighteen year olds who like each other a lot, the situation only made more dire because there’s a strict end date. We figure you’re gonna want each other as your first time, right? So, just please be safe about it, okay?” She moves to make eye contact with you again, seemingly proud with how she articulated everything, meaning she’s completely surprised to see your jaw dropped.

“Wait, what?!” The volume of your voice jars even you, but you could not believe her words. “Are you telling me you and dad came to the decision that Chenle and I could have sex?! Me?” You question, pointing up at yourself as though your mom didn’t know who she was addressing. “Your daughter? Permission to have sex with Chenle?” At your crazed tone, your mom just lets out another small laugh and a shrug, morphing the atmosphere into something much more chill than you could imagine.

“I mean, you’re eighteen,” she replies nonchalantly, only getting you to gawk at her some more.

“I’m like- still a kid to you guys!” You shoot back, remembering how many times the idea of that played into their many rules for you - curfew during high school is 10:00 but hey, that first summer once you’ve graduated, go crazy, it seems!

Your mom tosses the concept of you being a kid around in her head before returning her gaze to you with a slight smirk teasing at her features. “Eh, I lost mine at, uh- well...younger than you, so eighteen’s honestly looking pretty good.”

“What?!” You exclaim again, this piece of lore about your mom baffling you more than anything else you’ve heard tonight.

You watch as she winces, reliving the truth of what she just said, but her eyebrows eventually raise as she turns to you with a cheeky grin to contrast her serious gaze. “Yeah, don’t tell your father about that one. I’m pretty sure he thinks I lost it at nineteen…” She drags off, and you let out your first laugh of the night.

“I can’t believe this,” you say, and your mom’s smile meets your own as she shakes her head and continues with her actual point.

“Look, some people see being eighteen and an ‘adult’ as a reason to never need their parents’ permission for anything ever again. So, I’m glad that you still want our approval for certain things but, here it is. Just be safe and we’re good,” she says casually, and you just drop your head with a laugh of disbelief.

“Okay-” you begin with a nod, but your words are cut off as your mom seems to light up with another thought.

“Oh! Just please do all that when we aren’t home. Your father and I do not need to-” She cuts herself off abruptly but continues to open and close her mouth as if searching for words to describe exactly what her and your dad don’t need to be around to hear, but you just nod your head with another laugh.

“Okay, okay, I got it. Don’t worry,” you conclude, finally motioning for her to let it go and actually bid you goodnight. With a laugh, she relents, walking out of your room and leaving you completely bewildered…and with news to tell Chenle when you see him tomorrow.

However, when you did see Chenle the next day, the conversation with your mom was the last thing on your mind because your little romantic surprised you with a date to the zoo, saying that you had to go right away before it gets too hot and all the animals hide in the shade of their habitats.

The first hour of the zoo experience was completely normal - snow cones that turned your hands into a sticky mess, which Chenle refused to let you wash off right away because he kept sticking your hands together and pulling them apart again with the biggest smile on his face; and then walking around the entire place actually holding hands, splitting your conversation between genuine facts about the animals and trying to see who could get the other to believe the craziest lie they could come up with at the time.

It was when you were at the prairie dog habitat that things took a turn. You and Chenle were reading the fact sheet when you heard the little girl next to you ask her mom what was happening with the animals. You whip your head back up to see the prairie dogs in a compromising position and immediately hit Chenle on the shoulder to get him to whip his head up as well. The two of you try your best to hold in laughter as the parents with younger children rushed to find another animal habitat to keep their child entertained with. That was when memories of last night came flooding back to you and you turn to face Chenle in an instant.

“Oh, hey! You know my parents said they’re chill with us having sex,” you say quietly enough so that just Chenle could pick up on your words. Expecting a reaction similar to yours when first hearing the news, you were stunned to see that when Chenle turned his head over towards you, his face was completely flat aside from his raised brows.

“So, what are ya thinking? You wanna drop down right here and do it?” He asks neutrally, beginning to eye the floor before scrunching his nose and looking around for a better spot.

“Chenle!” You gawk, and all it takes is one look at your exasperated face before he finally falls into a bout of laughter.

“I’m kidding, princess. God, who do you take me for?” He jokes with a disappointed shake of his head. Though, as you calm down with your own dramatic eye roll, he slips his hand into yours again, bringing them up to kiss the back of yours before dragging you off towards another habitat.

Hand-in-hand, the two of you walked around the rest of the zoo before heading out for a casual dinner. It wasn’t until Chenle was dropping you off at your front door that, in an effort to keep you in front of him a little longer, he remembered the topic he probably shouldn’t have just dismissed earlier in the day. “Oh, hey, before you go,” he starts, and you instantly remove your hand from the door knob to turn back around towards him. He makes serious eye contact with you as he continues. “About what you said at the zoo-”

You raise your brows with a grin but he shakes his head as soon as he spots your smile. “Not the part about all elephants being recognized as ordained ministers,” he clarifies, and you can’t help the small laugh as you remember your attempts at animal facts today. “But about us,” he continues seriously. “If I want anyone to be my first, it’s you, but I don’t wanna rush into it just because we’ve been told we can. I mean- I just got used to being able to kiss you and hold your hand-”

“And call me princess,” you add with a smirk, not letting him get away with the new pet name that easily. Chenle drops his head bashfully.

“Yeah, and call you princess…” he echos, falling more thoughtful with each word. “And I wanna be able to relish that a bit more before- well.” He shakes his head, getting frustrated at how poorly he was able to articulate everything on his mind. “I wanna be able to be there,” he finally says with resolve, looking back up to make eye contact with you again before continuing. “Be present…and if I still can’t fathom the fact that I get to kiss you right now, I don’t want to try and wrap my head around even more,” he finally concludes with something of an embarrassed laugh to try and lighten the atmosphere that only he thought needed lightening. You just smile sweetly back at him.

“I get it, lele. Hey, I wasn’t the one suggesting we drop to the floor and do it in front of the prairie dog habitat,” you remind him, causing him to face the ground again as he lets out an actual laugh at his own past actions. When you pick your words back up, it’s with sincerity. “If one of us isn’t ready, then nothing’s happening. I’m good to take it slow. We wanted to do this right, yeah?”

Chenle nods his head as he lets out a sigh of relief, as though he expected the two of you to not be on the same page for the first time in thirteen years. Though, when he looks back up at you, it’s with a firm smile. “Yeah.”

You shake your head at it all, your smile alone revealing how endearing you found him despite your best efforts to keep it hidden. You press up on your tip-toes and lightly kiss the top of his nose before moving down to catch his lips easily with yours. “Goodnight, Chenle,” you say once you finally pull back. Chenle’s face is as red as ever, and you knew he wasn’t kidding when he said he still can’t fathom the fact that he gets to kiss you.

“Goodnight, princess,” he replies in kind, getting your own face to flush as he turns to walk the few steps across the street to his house.

A few more dates and countless pickup basketball games later, and it was already the one month anniversary of the day Chenle paced around your front porch and begged you to forget about what’s happening in just two months now. Knowing Chenle, and how much he loved spending his parents’ money while he wasn’t under their rule, you were half expecting him to greet you today in a suit and take you out to the fanciest restaurant he could find. Instead, Chenle barged in through your front door that afternoon with something much less proper on his mind. “Y/n, it’s been a month,” he points out, and you turn your head to face him from where you sat on the couch.

“Yeah?” You acknowledged, waiting to see where he was going with this.

“I think we should have sex,” he states plainly, and you throw your head back with a laugh before you can even think about it.

“Just like that, huh?” You tease, looking over at him once again with a huge grin, not at all as serious about this proposal as he was.

He puts his hands out awkwardly, as if making sure you stayed put and would hear him out. “Look, I’ve been doing a lot of reading on the subject-” he begins, and you cut him off with another laugh of disbelief.

“Oh, I’m sure you have,” you joke, finally up on your feet and rounding the couch so you could stand face-to-face with him.

He shakes his head in the meantime, a look of annoyance on his face, all overwritten by a huge grin because it was you he was annoyed at. “Shut up,” he quipped with his own small laugh before continuing with as much seriousness as he could. “What I’m saying is, I think I could make it the best day of your life.”

Your eyebrows shoot up immediately, and it’s hard to keep the tease in your voice when the rest of your face betrays you with a huge smile. “Oh, yeah? Well, I’m sure with all your nerdy research, you’re practically a pro by now.” Chenle opens his mouth to bark out some confirmative response, or more likely beg you to stop with the teasing. Though, before he can do any of that, you just shake your head, grabbing his hand in yours and, with the knowledge that both of your parents were still at work for the next few hours, easily guiding him to your bedroom without a second thought. “Come on, big head.”

Chenle smiled brightly at the back of your head as he followed you up the stairs. “I’m so lucky,” he responds, the sarcasm not doing any good at covering up how much he genuinely meant that statement…if only Chenle knew how lucky he made you feel.

Ever since then, it became clear that sex with you was going to consistently stay at the forefront of Chenle’s mind. He was absolutely obsessed with the opportunity to know you more than he already did after the first thirteen years of memorizing you as his best friend. Each curve of your body was something sacred for him, and he took every chance he could get to indulge in it some more. Two weeks after your first time, Chenle met you at your front door with the same gleam in his eyes as ever.

“Hey, baby,” you say, leaning in to quickly kiss him before moving back so he could actually step inside your house. “What do you wanna do today?”

“Sex!” He immediately answers, his tone as though he were a kid asking for candy. You drop your head with a small laugh.

“Not today, lele,” you reply, and Chenle’s brows shoot up in question, though the playfulness is still coating his every move.

“Was my approach wrong? Let’s go from the top, I’ll make my words more sophisticated,” he jokes with a smirk.

You finally give a solemn shake of your head. “No, Chenle.”

His demeanor immediately shifts as he falls into concern. “Okay, what’s wrong?” He asks, placing his hand softly on your cheek so he can guide your eyes back to his own. You meet his worried eyes and immediately dart your gaze away again, laughing softly in embarrassment.

“Nothing. I just started my period today,” you explain, and Chenle immediately lets out a sigh of relief as you watch understanding wash over his figure. You pick up at the end of his sigh and continue with your answer. “My cramps are always the worst on day one.”

Once sure you weren’t breaking up with him nor banning him from ever fucking you again, he easily slips back into his usual manner with you; in this case, instantly getting on your ass. “Why didn’t you tell me?! I would’ve brought over your favorite snacks and your microwavable stuffed animal you always keep at my place and-”

You cut him off, shaking your head with a small smile. “I don’t need all that, though. I just wanna be with you.”

Chenle renders completely still for a moment. For a man who seemed to struggle with words, yours always ended up hitting him right on. He moves to instead wrap you in a tight hug, a contrasting gentle kiss placed on the top of your head as he just held you there for a moment. He finally moves to instead kiss your cheek and pull back a bit. “Movie night, then?” He suggests lightly.

You flash a soft grin in his direction, eyebrows raising as you stare back at him. “Will you hold me the whole time?” You ask seriously in return. Chenle rolls his lips inwards to hide his smile, though he can’t hide the light dusting of pink now covering his cheeks and tips of his ears.

“Is that even a question?” His banter back is ruined by the sheer softness of it. Your grin widens as you grab his hand and lead him towards the couch in the living room. You lean into him easily and he doesn’t think twice before pulling you even closer, holding you even tighter, as your favorite movie begins playing in front of you. “We’re watching the Steph Curry documentary after this, just so you know,” Chenle suddenly speaks up, a faint laugh in his tone - a strange vocalic considering he was completely serious, but you realize it’s his attempt to be softer with you right now, figuring you had it bad enough with your cramps that you didn’t need his bluntness on top of it.

“I’m pretty sure we can both quote the entire documentary by now,” you banter back with a disinterested groan. Chenle looks over at you by his side with a playful gleam in his eyes.

“Exactly! Which means we have to watch it one more time to really make sure.”

You roll your eyes at him but relent without another word; you still had an hour and a half of the first movie anyways.

It was a little over two hours later when your parents got home from work to find the two of you seemingly in conversation, only to realize the movie in front of you had no sound and it was just you and Chenle switching back and forth quoting each line - neither of you cutting the other a break should there be a moment of hesitation…so half of the script was recounted in between laughs and over the other’s teasing. Needless to say, once the Curry documentary started, there had been significantly less cuddles than before, but your cramps, however painful they may have been, were the last thing on your mind. It was only when you sat down for dinner that reality came flooding back over you, suddenly making it hard to sit down again. Trying not to focus on the pain, you instead thought about how pain-free the past few hours have been. You hated that Chenle knew what would work so well…you hated that he wouldn’t always be here to make it work again.

After dinner, your parents made their way out back to enjoy the firepit and calm night. You and Chenle found yourselves back on the couch, this time old cartoons you used to watch during childhood taking up space on the TV rather than movies. You cuddled into him easily, and he did his best to love on you enough to make the pain go away again.

When your parents finally came back inside, the TV was still running but you and Chenle were asleep against each other, his arms wrapped around you protectively as the two of you shifted so that you were laying down on top of his figure rather than just leaning against his shoulder. Your parents just let out light sighs, sad smiles covering their faces as your dad turned off the TV and your mom laid a blanket over the two of you before texting Chenle’s aunt and letting her know that Chenle wouldn’t be making his way back across the street tonight. They weren’t sure if they were feeding the beast by letting the two of you spend the night together, but it was too hard on their hearts to impose a future reality when you guys were so at home living in the present.

The morning sun eventually made its way through the windows to disrupt the darkness of your unconscious state. Still refusing to open your eyes, you just turn your head so that you're facing away from the window. Though, that’s when a hand lightly trails through your hair to move it away from your face, and you realize you’re still against Chenle’s chest. At once, you blink awake, and when you move your gaze to look at Chenle, you can hear the snap of silence as his breath gets caught in his throat. He shakes out of it with a smile, once again running his fingers through your hair as he begins to speak softly. “God, I wanna wake up next to you for the rest of my life.”

Your face goes fire red and you immediately rush to bury it back in his chest. “Shut up,” you chide. “Why would you say something like that?”

“Because I need you to know that,” he responds in sincerity, kissing the top of your head since your face was still hidden. “I’ll always want it to be you.” His soft confession served to be one of the most reassuring and sweetest things you’ve ever heard, and you knew he meant it wholeheartedly. However, while warmth took over 98% of your body, there was the other 2% overcome with a certain uneasiness. With Chenle claiming that he would always want it to be you he wakes up next to, it was the first time you felt a sense of pity for the girl on the other end of this arranged marriage with Chenle, because while you could never be her, she would never be you.

You push the thought to the back of your mind, sure anyone around you would call you crazy for feeling pity for his future wife. Instead, you pick your head back up and press a light kiss to his lips, and just like that, 75% of the rest of summer nights and early mornings saw you and Chenle asleep against each other.

All too soon, Chenle was accompanying your family as you moved into your college dorm. There was a week left before the first day of classes, and in between now and then, Chenle would have his fateful flight back to Shanghai. You had spent the past few nights crying yourself to sleep - well, if it wasn’t a night you and Chenle were spending together. All you wanted to do was be strong for him, your mind a constant loop of how sorry he looked as he asked to be selfish for the summer and indulge in his feelings. The last thing you wanted was for him to actually feel bad about it, to know how painful it truly was for you, when you knew he was going through the same thing himself. You didn’t need to add to the heavy weight on his shoulders imposed by almost every other figure in his life. So, you kept your tears to yourself. It wasn’t that hard anyways, being in Chenle’s presence meant a constant smile was on your face without ever having to think about it.

Once all your things were put away and you could pass as ‘moved in,’ you stood opposite your parents in the doorway to your dorm as Chenle used the bathroom. With a few words and quite a bit more unspoken ones, your parents made themselves conscious of the time on their watch and then bid you goodbye for a bit.

When Chenle came back out from the bathroom, he looked around for your parents, but his shoulders instantly fell once he failed to lay eyes on them. Instead, he turned to you in complete seriousness, pointing a thumb out to the side towards where your bed was as he looked at you with raised brows. “Can I be the first to fuck you on your dorm bed?” He asks plainly, and despite yourself, a loud laugh erupts from your chest.

“Chenle!” You chide, and the familiar big grin makes its way back across his lips.

“What? Isn’t that a thing?” He laughs off in question as though nothing were amiss. He quickly shakes his head, regaining his serious composure as he begins in his attempts at convincing you. “Regardless, I won’t get to experience it for myself so you should take pity on me. And I want this bed to be able to know me before any other college boy toy,” he states plainly, making you drop your head to hide the smile conjured up by his words.

“So glad you think that after you go back to China, I’ll resort to boy toys,” you shoot back monotonously. Chenle finally fumbles as he rushes to steer your mindset in a different direction.

“Okay, it came out wrong. That’s not what I meant,” he assures, but you stare back at him with raised, uninterested brows.

“Yes it was,” you reply immediately, but with the smallest peek of a smile from you, Chenle loses his tension again, ducking his head into his shoulders with a dumb laugh.

“I know.”

You shake your head at him to accompany the eye roll. “I hate you,” you say through a laugh, much to your dismay because you could not sell the bit to save your life. Chenle knew it, too, as he pops back up to look in your eyes with nothing but a tease behind his own.

“So, that’s a no to fucking on your dorm bed?” He questions, making it seem as though that were your least desired possibility rather than his own. His mind games didn’t need to work, though, as you shake your head with a fond smile this time, taking a step towards him to kiss his lips softly.

“I already told my parents to explore the campus,” you admit, and Chenle’s kissed lips turn into a childish grin that he had to calm down from before he could even think about kissing you again.

“Hmm…I think I like my bed better,” Chenle finally says, tossing your shirt back over to you as you both now sit up in your bed. You can’t help the laugh that escapes you at his words.

“Well, I would hope so,” you tease. “Yours is a King as opposed to this Twin.”

Chenle shakes his head, dismissing your banter as he responds with more contemplation than the situation called for. “No, I mean, the bigger bed is nice but I don’t think that’s it. I think this one is just a little too squeaky,” he concludes with resolve. All you can do is laugh, leaning over to place a fond kiss on his cheek.

“You had high standards for plastic-covered springs,” you joke as you pull back. Chenle looks over at you with raised brows.

“I have high standards in general. That’s why I like you,” he responds, and instead of letting yourself get embarrassed by how flustered that statement was about to make you, you nudge him in the side with a roll of your eyes.

“Whatever. We both know I was too low maintenance for you to originally fathom,” you reply, and Chenle finally lets a huge smile break across his face.

“We were kids in a suburb and I came from money…there was a lot I couldn’t fathom,” he recounts seriously. You move your head to look over at him by your side, a soft smile on your lips as the playfulness behind your eyes begins fading to match it.

“I’m glad you finally came around,” you start with sincerity. “The suburb will be sad to see you go.”

Chenle lets out a heavy breath at your words, the weight of reality seeming to hit you both at the same time. He finally nods his head a little, not in agreement but something like contemplation. “Speaking of, I guess we should get back to it. Now that we moved you in, we have to move me out.” The words are bitter on his tongue. The two of you did an immensely good job at sticking to the present throughout this past summer, but now that the present involved the first steps of the dreaded future, it was hard to stay lighthearted. You did your best, though, responding with a faint laugh.

“Yeah, I’m sure my parents have just about exhausted every way they can keep themselves busy anyways,” you point out playfully, and Chenle finally seems to remember he’s still sitting shirtless in your bed. He looks over at you, realizing he’s the only one to have fallen behind on getting dressed again, and with a matching laugh, he begins to remedy that.

“I can’t believe how chill your parents are,” he replies with a bit of awe as he pulls his t-shirt over his body.

You shake your head at him, pulling your bottom lip between your teeth in thought. “They’re not, they just like you.” Your reply is more serious again and Chenle swings his gaze your way with raised brows. You pull up your own to match, and a small smile plays on your lips as you continue. “If it was anyone else, they would’ve had me by the throat.”

Chenle takes in your cautious figure and furrows his brows, not at all seeing the consequences in the same light you were. “You like that, though,” he replies, nudging you in the side and getting the both of you to laugh. You shake your head, dropping it to cover your face with your hands in embarrassment.

“Sometimes, I wish you had a filter,” you banter back, but when you uncover your face again to look over at Chenle, his demeanor had completely shifted, as though your laugh had reminded him that he didn’t know how many more times he would be able to hear it.

“I’m sorry for having to leave,” he says miserably. “Your family has been so nice to me, all throughout childhood and now trusting me with you…” He drags off, his gaze moving across the bed beneath him and over to you, hair messy and lips slightly swollen from his kisses. He shakes his head. “Like this, and I’m just up and leaving.” You can tell he’s getting pissed at himself with every new word, but he doesn’t give you time to jump in right away. “I put you in a position where I knew you’d get hurt. I feel like an asshole.”

Gently, you bring both of your hands to cover over his own against his lap, and he turns his gaze your way at the contact, allowing you to see him physically break from his reverie and instead soften in your presence. “Chenle, you aren’t an asshole,” you reassure. “I knew what I was signing up for at the beginning of summer, and I told my parents exactly how this was going to go, too. No one blames you for having familial obligations. Not me and not my parents. They aren’t mad that you’re the reason my heart is gonna break in a few days, they’re just really really grateful you’ve been the reason behind the happiest three months of my life.” Your words carry enough weight, it was obvious that that’s truly how you viewed the situation. If possible, Chenle felt worse. He was the bad guy here, and you were reframing it for his benefit. He never felt like he deserved you, and had no clue how you managed to think otherwise for the past three months.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out. You whip your head towards his face once you hear his shattered tone, and your lips part in disbelief. You always figured Chenle would be the strong one, but today’s proved to you that’s not the case.

“Hey,” you start, rubbing a thumb beneath his eyes before his tears could fully roll down his cheeks, an accompanying fond laugh to cover over your own heartache. “Don’t get all sad on me now, we still have four days until you leave.”

Chenle gives a weak smile, catching your hand with his own and bringing it from his eyes down to his lips, pressing a firm kiss to the back of your hand before shifting grips and giving it a tight squeeze. “Let’s go find your parents.” His voice cracks again as he speaks, and he’s finally able to let out an embarrassed laugh in response. You just nod your head, leaning over to grab your phone and find a well-timed text informing you they were waiting at a café on University Boulevard. So, with a onceover in the mirror to make sure the general public wouldn’t be able to tell you and Chenle just fucked, you led him out the door.

Once you got back home, you and Chenle hardly ever left each other’s sides…even less than normal. There was a shift ever since you moved most of your things to university, and everything started to feel a little more real as opposed to the way the rest of this summer felt like an escape from that reality. You both were running out of time, and you couldn’t do anything but be conscious of the fact. It affected Chenle the most, and you could tell from his first touch once the two of you got back.

Up to now, sex with Chenle was a full-on activity. It was rough, hot, and passionate to say the least - he would fuck you. However, the last four days, the air had completely changed. Now all his movements were softer, slower. He was trying to memorize you.

His eyes would become distant sometimes, and only he knew that it meant he was replaying the first day he met you - five-year-old him staring judgementally on the sidewalk out front of his aunt’s house as he watched you play with the water hose, getting messy for no reason and having the audacity to laugh with joy because of it. When you met his gaze, you motioned for him to come join you, to which he adamantly shook his head and decided he was never making friends with the kids on the block. However, as he turned around to go back inside, figuring some basketball could wait until all the messy kids were gone, cold water hit his back in a sensation that had him whipping around again. His first thought was to start spouting Chinese words that he heard his parents say sometimes after they got off business calls with ‘imbeciles of clients,’ but instead as he laid eyes on you, just a few feet away now, with a water gun in your hands and the brightest of joys in your eyes, he forgot all his words. All he knew was that he wanted to be friends with the kids on the block. Though, not even that, he just wanted to be friends with you. He swore in that moment you outshone the sun, and he wanted in on your warmth.

If Chenle knew then what he did at fourteen, he’s not sure he would’ve ever allowed himself to get close to you. However, if he knew then what he did now at eighteen, closer to you than he’s ever been, he’s positive he’d go through this heartbreak a thousand times if it meant he got to love you even once, and he wouldn’t have waited so damn long to love you in the first place.

The last day - the last time, the distant look in Chenle’s eyes wasn’t there at all. Instead, it was filled with non-stop whispered words of how much you meant to him, how much he adored you; his voice occasionally catching in his throat when he got too sentimental, and you’d be reminded of how hard it was for him to articulate his thoughts at all; so all you could think to do was pull him down for a kiss and swallow his words instead.

Then you blinked and it was already the day of Chenle’s departure. Your parents had been outside most of the morning helping Chenle and his aunt load the car up with his things. You took no part in it. Instead, you sat in your room, hugging your knees and staring blankly. The only tell that you weren’t frozen was the fact that you were chewing on your bottom lip, truthfully destroying it, but it was the only thing you could think to do to ground yourself at the time.

With a light knock on the door, your mom enters your bedroom and you move your head up to meet her gaze. “Chenle’s sitting outside. We got him all packed up and everything.”

You swallow harshly and your eyes immediately find your knees again. “I know,” you reply shortly, your voice hardly above a whisper.

A sad smile crossed your mom’s face, but when she saw you making no effort to move in response to her words, she let out a sigh. “Sitting in your room doesn’t stop time.” Her words come out flat, like a lecture, and you knew she was trying to juggle how to be both, a ray of comfort and an authority figure. “You still have to say goodbye.”

You shake your head to dismiss the bit of worry held in her tone as she gave you orders. She didn’t have to walk on eggshells around you, it was that you were the one mentally walking on eggshells around your heart. “I’m just trying to keep my emotions from running high,” you say monotonously, finally looking up at her. You watch her eyes widen as she notices the glaze of tears over your own, and shake your head again in frustration before dropping it back down to your lap. “The last thing he needs is to have to leave while I’m in tears. He’ll never want to go.”

Your mom rolls her lips inward, and suddenly she understands why you’ve taken solace in tearing up your own bottom lip before she walked in. Though, with a sigh, she speaks again with her best attempt at unbiased advice. “He already doesn’t want to go - but the fact of the matter is that when you look back on this moment days, months, years later, you’ll want to have said ‘goodbye.’” You shake your head immediately, she was wrong.

“No. I don’t ever want to say ‘goodbye’ to Chenle,” you claim with more force than you thought yourself capable of in such a fragile moment. You glance up to watch the outsider persona she tried to create instead fall away, and she just went back to being your mom.

She fumbled with her thoughts for a few moments, mouth opening and closing again as she shook away everything she didn’t want to say. Finally, she presses her lips to form a thin line, and then is immediately turning around to walk back out of your door. “You can wish him luck, then, but you need to go see him.” As her words come out, straightforward and not open for debate, you realize why she started walking away as she delivered them, because she wouldn’t have been able to face you and give such orders. Her words were still not what you needed to hear, and you both knew that, but she had to exert some authority and get you to at least do what seemed best in the long run; you figure that’s why it was hard for you to take in…you and Chenle didn’t have a long run. The concept of it hurt enough to pull you up from bed and out the front door.

Without a word, you sit down next to Chenle on the sidewalk, making a chair out of the step in the pathway leading up to his aunt’s house. He moves his head to look over at you, registering that you were next to him. With a breath, you turn to face him as well, a smile on your lips that didn’t quite reach your eyes, though the tears once occupying them were successfully blinked back.

He ignores your smile of reassurance, instead just looking over you once and nodding his head minimally before facing the front again and leaning his head on your shoulder. That’s how the two of you stayed for a good five minutes. No words exchanged, just your light breaths and his heavy exhales as you run through every thought in your mind. You weren’t sure which ones to say, which ones would make things worse, or if any of them would make things better.

“Oh!” You startle as the first practical, rather than emotional, thought crosses your mind. “I still have your hoodie, oh my god let me go get-” Your move to get up and run back into your house is ruined by Chenle’s calm words.

“Keep it,” he says immediately, and you whip your head towards him in shock.

“What? Chenle, if I keep it, it’s almost guaranteed you’re never getting it back. We won’t have contact after this.” That was always the deal, he was getting a new phone and his parents were taking any trace of you out of it, blocking your number, the whole nine yards. However, admitting that you weren’t going to have contact after this present moment was incredibly bitter on your tongue. The words make Chenle tense up, too, but he just as quickly continues with a head nod.

“I know. So, keep it. It can be your hoodie, just please don’t forget that it’s mine.” He stops talking once he notices the sorrow in his tone, and you watch as he swallows it back before speaking again, this time with a touch of playfulness. “And even after you stop wearing it, you can give it to your first-born, Chenle, and then it’s Chenle’s hoodie again.” He concludes as though the entire thing made perfect sense, and you didn’t know how to feel with the fact that his banter made this conversation seem so normal. On the one hand, you were grateful when the familiarity fought off any last question of tears, but on the other hand, you hated knowing this was the last time you would get to have a normal conversation with him.

You settle with rolling your eyes rather than figuring out how to feel. “I’m not naming my first-born ‘Chenle,’” you reply, looking at him with raised eyebrows. You watch as a small smile overtakes his face, but it quickly settles into a grimace and then it’s gone.

“It was worth a shot.” He pauses for a beat before turning to face you, his new tone coming off as desperate, helpless. “Don’t ever forget me, okay?”

You shake your head rapidly as you reassure him. “I couldn’t.”

The two of you stare at each other again in silence for a moment. The time to say goodbye was upon you, which is why the conversation died, which is why you remember what your mom had said in your room, and thus you start with your wishes of luck. “You’re gonna do great, you know? Learning how to run a company and everything. No one’s more capable than you. I’m already incredibly proud of you, not because you’re gonna be a crazy successful business man, but because you’re you. So, when you set foot in your dad’s company, don’t lose that, okay? Everything that makes you Chenle. I’d be sad to see that go just for some bottom line.”

Chenle’s shoulders sink as he turns to face the pavement. “I’ll do my best for you,” he assures with a nod. You want to fill the silence again but hardly have a clue what to say. However, that’s when you see Chenle’s lips twitching and you know he’s in the midst of trying to articulate more of his own thoughts. When he does speak up again, his voice is surprisingly steady. “You know, I’ve been thinking lately. That’s all I could ever seem to do these past few weeks. You know I always struggled finding the right words to say, to let you know how much you mean to me. But lately I’ve found my words. And it’s stupid because it’s so easy,” he says with a scoff, and a wave of uneasiness washes over you as you see the smile he’s able to conjure up. “I’ve been saying it over and over again in my head and it’s so natural. I could’ve been telling you this entire time.”

That’s when clarity hits you and you jump to stop him from saying his next words - you couldn’t handle them. “Chenle, don’t-” You speak up in a rush, but he does, too.

“I love you,” he says firmly, finally bringing his head back up to look at you. His eyes are wide in sincerity, making sure you could see every emotion behind them, how much he meant it. “I love you, y/n l/n. I really do.”

Every last bit of strength you had vanished in milliseconds, and instead you bawled your eyes out sitting on that pavement. “You stupid kid,” you cry out, ramming your head into his shoulder. Underneath you, Chenle froze, and you realize he has no clue if you’re sad or genuinely mad at him. “I’m gonna miss you so much,” you add weakly, a hand coming up to clutch at his shirt. Chenle immediately softens, placing both of his arms around you as best he can. All this time, you had been mentally preparing to comfort him, to be so incredibly strong for him so that he could take his next steps and not feel incredibly guilty for doing so…but now he was the one comforting you as you sobbed in his arms. Chenle could figure out how to articulate his feelings but you couldn’t even get this right - he was stronger than you.

No more words were exchanged between the two of you. He held you in his arms as you tried to rid yourself of tears, but you couldn’t even accomplish that before his aunt gave the first gentle warning that they had to get on the road. Chenle felt you freeze in his arms, and he hated knowing that, regardless of how you wanted to frame it, he was the reason you were crying and torn up like this. If it was up to him, he would’ve never left you; but it wasn’t up to him, so all he could do was leave you with something - his hoodie, and the softest of kisses on the top of your head, getting you to finally pick your head up again so he could place more kisses across the span of your face, slowly but surely kissing your tears away until he made his way down to your lips…and there he finally faltered, letting out a heavy breath against your skin. A last kiss sounded horrible, did he even want one so clearly defined, or was it better for your last kiss to have been yesterday, being able to remember it as basked in love rather than tears. His inner debate was more like a war as his eyes roamed over every inch of your face - what to do? What’s best? Tears were still running down your face but he can't shake how beautiful you look right now…he loves you. How does he kiss you goodbye? How could he ever say goodbye? Does he not do anything at all? He loves you. Is a final goodbye best left unspoken? Unkissed?

His state of drowning in his thoughts gets cut off as you make the decision for him, leaning in to kiss him softly, and instead he’s drowning in you…and your last kiss. It was delicate and innocent, with the audience you had, it probably would have been weird for it to be any other way. Regardless, he still chases your lips after you pull back - that couldn’t have been it; but then the car starts and his eyes shoot open as they dart over to where his aunt was getting situated in the driver’s seat. Chenle whipped back around to face you and looked terrified, but the roar of the engine was a constant reminder of where he needed to be - he couldn’t put it off any longer. He opened his mouth to say something but no words came out, instead it was just quick, heavy breaths and a scared shake of his head. None of that meant that he wasn’t in the act of standing up from the pavement, making his way to the car…leaving you.

Every step you watched him take as he left was another drop of poison in your bloodstream, a poison you should’ve built up tolerance for already given how many small doses it seemed like you were taking throughout the last three months. Though, you must be kidding yourself - goodnight kisses under the porch light before watching him walk the few steps to the other side of the road were nothing even close to poison; an antidote, maybe, to last you throughout the night and fight off the poison of when you were apart, but there were no more goodnight kisses to keep you going now. It was a different sting, your muscles tightened, you couldn’t move, couldn’t look away. Though, you refused to watch him go, leaving it up to your tears to blur the sight of it. The scene in front of you was nothing other than a tragedy, an ending no one was satisfied with, not because it could’ve ended differently, but because it was always going to end this way. There was no crazy plot twist or invocation of Deus Ex Machina to change the narrative. No, just the same, sad, memorized ending of a story you forgot was your own. You played yourselves for fools, believing you could outrun a truth that only ever gained on you with each stride - that, together, the only thing the two of you needed was what you would never be able to have…more time.

#Chenle #Zhong Chenle #NCT Dream #Chenle fic #Chenle x reader #NCT Dream x reader #nct x reader #Chenle fanfic #NCT #NCT Dream fic #Chenle fluff #NCT Dream fluff #Chenle angst #nct dream imagines #nct imagines

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sonnabug · 1 day ago

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This perspective is a bit American and I don't know how much it applies to places with free education already, but a huge part of me believes that if we had free education here it would help reduce this problem

Speaking as a former and current student, school is so degradingly exspensive and many student loan burdens are based on *expected income* after you graduate and are successfully hired.

Scholarships rely on grades, even work study contracts that you're forced to foot if you end up not doing well in something.

Tens of thousands of dollars with crippling interest rates, that could depend on how many anwsers you get right, and so you feed it to a machine that might get some of it wrong but will probably get enough of it right that you'll pass.

And you think to your self "I'll really focus and learn it my self when I have time but right now I really just need to pass" and then you never have time, and you never learned, and now you have a job and a license that really means something and you have to use it and use it well.

Im not saying there aren't lazy people cutting corners, who just cant be bothered to write a summary for a discussion post in a class.

But I am saying there is such an astronomical financial burden, that is often directly tied to grades, and a time burden when students have to work through school, that they feel backed into a corner.

ur future nurse is using chapgpt to glide thru school u better take care of urself

#ive never used ai to cheat at school but man sometimes I really do get it #its so hard #school is so hard #this is my second degree you would think im better at it by now but its still so hard and so exspensive

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cinnamorollcrybaby · 4 hours ago

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CINNA MY BELOVED IVE BEEN SAVING THIS REQ JUST FOR U IM SO HAPPY THEYRE OPEN (im so happy ur back btw i was checking ur blog religiously every day)

choso thinking he hates reader when in reality it’s just cuteness aggression but he doesn’t understand because he’s new to being a human

begging on my KNEES 🧎🏻‍♀️🧎🏻‍♀️🧎🏻‍♀️

Cuteness Aggression (Choso’s Ver.)

Tags: Choso x fem!Reader, fluff, very slightly suggestive, mdni anyway, not proofread, is this considered enemies to lovers?

An: this idea is so stinking adorable. i get cuteness aggression so bad, so i definitely relate here lol

you get the feeling that choso doesn’t like you very much.

it’s the way his dark eyes narrow at you with a fervent glare. it’s the way his body tenses whenever you’re too close to him. it’s the way that he’ll make sure to never be alone in a room with you.

you’ve tried everything you know to make him feel at ease while he talks to you, but nothing works. he’s quiet, reserved, and honestly, a little peeved when it comes to talking to you.

you don’t get it. the rest of jujutsu tech seems to accept your presence. sure, you weren’t in japan when the shibuya incident went down, so maybe he just saw you as some outsider who couldn’t grasp the horrors that everyone went through together.

deciding that there’s not much you can do to change choso’s perception of you, you give up. you stop seeking him out. you quit trying to make some sort of friendship happen between you.

that only pisses him off ten times worse.

choso has never experienced feelings like these ever in his lifetime. it’s always been clean cut and dry for him: he either liked someone or he didn’t. there were no grey areas when he was just a curse.

yuji itadori was the one who introduced him to all these… complex emotions. he was still learning day by day what living like a human entailed.

he thought he had it all down… until he met you. now, he felt like a complete contradiction.

your voice was so soft and sweet. it made his heart flutter uncontrollably, which he hated. he wanted to cover your mouth with his palm to shut you up.

your skin looked so smooth and supple. he constantly found himself wondering what it’d feel like if he bit down into it. he wanted to hear what kind of noises you’d make. would you whine from discomfort or moan quietly?

he was physically bigger than you, not that you ever seemed to care. you were constantly there… pestering him. he just wanted to wrap you up in his arms and squeeze you as tightly at he could.

maybe he could but you in some sort of headlock and just hold you there. would you bite him to get away? shit… there it is again.

he growled beneath his breath as his pants feel tight again. he just doesn’t understand. why would his body react this way when he clearly hates you??

he hates the way you make him feel, like he’s unsteady on a tightrope. he hates the way he looks forward to seeing you. he hates how he feels so violent while you’re around, but he doesn’t really wanna hurt you…

it’s all so terrible perplexing. he wants to feel you so close to him that your atoms begin to merge with his.

choso doesn’t fully understand what’s happening to him. that was until your head slowly rested on his shoulder during a debriefing meeting.

it had been a long, grueling mission for everyone involved. he knew you were exhausted, and your cute self decided to take a nap right there on his shoulder.

that’s when things started to click for him as he felt suddenly protective over you. he didn’t want to hurt you. he wanted you for himself.

“oh no, y/n’s asleep. we should wake her, right?” one of the kyoto jujutsu tech students said. he had never bothered to learn her name.

a hand reached towards you, and choso didn’t think twice before he slapped it away. “leave her alone,” he grunted, narrowing his eyes at everyone who was looking at you two. “she’s tired. she needs her rest.”

honestly, everyone was stunned by the fact that choso had spoke up at all, but they were especially surprised that he seemed to be completely content with you sleeping on his shoulder.

his eyes flickered down to your face, making sure you were still sleeping soundly on him. he felt the fluttering sensation in his chest, and his stomach churned. he hated this feeling, but he found himself not wanting this moment to end.

Taglist: @theuniversesnepobaby @airandyeah

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cobaltperun · 2 days ago

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The Catalyst (3) - Monster

WandaNat x Female Reader

Chapter summary: The tensions keep rising and the first actual danger makes you act in a way you didn't think you ever would act again.

Spotify Playlist

Masterlist / First Part / Previous Part / Next Part

Word Count: 4.1k

-I feel it deep within, it's just beneath the skin I must confess that I feel like a monster-

You headed for the lab where Banner and Stark were working on finding the Cube, still very much affected by what Loki did to Natasha. And it annoyed you. It proved a fact you’ve been trying to ignore. That, as angry as you were, you still cared and you didn’t want anything bad to happen to her.

“L/N,” you saw her and Thor coming from the other hall, heading in the same direction as you were.

Words ‘are you okay’ got stuck in your throat and you just nodded, refusing to meet her eyes. You weren’t even sure she knew you’ve seen what happened. Fury knew, but that never meant everyone else involved knew. But no, she wasn’t okay, she was distraught, no matter how well she was hiding it.

Even if you wanted to tell her anything you were already close enough to the lab to hear the guys arguing.

You went in, followed by Natasha and Thor, only to be met with the sight you frankly should have expected. A high-tech weapon, a firearm somewhat resembling a shotgun, right there on the table. You shouldn’t have been surprised, this was S.H.I.E.L.D. after all, the same people who developed mutant depowering serum, then strengthened it, made it last longer and finally turned that into gas and went after X-Men. Now only a handful of the team remained, and they were scattered, spending their days in hiding. Perhaps you would have been one of the targets if you didn’t already leave the organization. That was a question you refused to entertain, you had enough gripes with S.H.I.E.L.D. as it was, you didn’t need those what ifs.

“Did you know about this?” Banner asked Natasha as you looked at Fury. He was dangerous, willing to do anything if he believed it was necessary.

“You wanna think about removing yourself from this environment, doctor?” Natasha suggested, setting her priorities straight, Banner could not lose control.

Banner laughed in disbelief. “I was in Calcutta, I was pretty well removed,” he reminded her, hints of his anger slipping through the cracks of his composure.

“Loki’s manipulating you,” Natasha warned him, tried to make him see reason and you were reminded of her conversation with Loki, how he got under her skin. Banner, with his fears and insecurities, was an easy target, one Loki didn’t even need to directly speak to.

“And you’ve been doing what exactly?” he challenged her, seeing right through her and Fury’s manipulations.

“Fair point,” you had to agree, and you saw her hand twitch ever so slightly.

Natasha ignored your quip and instead focused solely on Banner and deescalating the situation. “You didn’t come here because I bat my eyelashes at you.”

“Yes, and I’m not leaving because suddenly you get a little twitchy,” he then turned the screen and pointed at the schematics for missiles. “I’d like to know why S.H.I.E.L.D. is using the Tesseract to build weapons of mass destruction.”

Everything became silent for a few moments, before Fury relented. “Because of him,” he said while pointed at Thor.

“Me?” you could hear confusion in Thor’s voice, hell, there was even a hint of hurt there.

“Last year Earth had a visitor from another planet who had a grudge match that leveled a small town. We learned that not only are we not alone, but we are hopelessly, hilariously, out-gunned,” Fury argued his case, and you’ve read the reports, you’ve seen from a relative distance what Hulk fighting that other monster looked like. As it was, S.H.I.E.L.D. was truly hilariously out-gunned.

“My people want nothing but peace with your planet,” Thor stated confidently.

You laughed at that, catching the man’s attention. “I’m sorry, isn’t one of your people the reason why we’re all here?”

Thor opened his mouth to respond, but Fury spoke up before Thor could utter a single word. “And, you’re not the only threat. The world’s filling up with people who can’t be matched, they can’t be controlled,” the fact that you actually sort of fueled Fury’s argument made you want to take it back.

You turned to glare and pointed your finger at Fury. “Oh, don’t you go playing a saint here, not when you turn on your own people,” you accused him.

“Controlled? You mean like you controlled the cube?” Rogers demanded fiercely, angered by the reckless actions Fury and S.H.I.E.L.D. took.

“Yeah, that’s his M.O., he tries to control people and when they don’t let him, he turns on them. How long until you turn on your precious Avengers? Hm?” you asked, getting in Fury’s face.

“You are making this personal, agent L/N, it’s clouding your judgment,” you had to admit he had balls to say that when you could turn him into a pile of ash.

“You leave her to die, and you expect her to fight for you? I’m a narcissist, but you developed a brand new level of entitled,” Stark walked up to you and shoved a bag between you and Fury. “Blueberries?” he offered so casually you almost forgot about how serious this situation was.

You observed him for a moment before taking a few. “Thanks,” at the end of the day there was no harm in the slight distraction. And come on, you were offered blueberries.

“I expect all of you to fight for this world!” Fury declared and you could tell he was getting frustrated over all of this. The team he was trying to gather was falling apart right in front of his eyes.

“But only under your terms,” you countered and when Stark offered you more blueberries you went and took them. “You don’t want a team, you want puppets to do your bidding,” at least the blueberries were good.

“This is bigger than all of your individual egos and grudges,” Natasha joined in, recognizing that Fury was losing his patience.

And you suddenly got a foul taste in your mouth that not even the blueberries could fix, of all the people to throw that at you it had to be her. “Yeah, you just keep on following orders,” you snapped at her and watched as she opened her mouth and then changed her mind, choosing to instead just look away.

“You brought this on yourselves. Your work with the Tesseract is what drew Loki to it, and his allies. It is the signal to all the realms that the Earth is ready for a higher form of war,” Thor tried to focus the conversation back on what was important.

“A higher form?!” Rogers demanded, alarmed at the idea. And he wasn’t even around to see the worst of what the Second World War brought.

“Sure, that’s exactly how war works. They’ll wait for us to get ready,” Natasha countered sarcastically and took a few steps back, trying to remove herself from the arguments, especially if it meant arguing with you even more.

Fury turned to Thor in disbelief. “You forced our hand! We had to come up with some-“

“Nuclear deterrent! ’Cause that always calms everything right down,” Stark was having none of it.

“Remind me again how you made your fortune, Stark?” somewhere deep down you had to admit you were enjoying watching Fury have a meltdown as he turned his full attention toward Stark. Even if the meltdown wasn’t nearly as dramatic as you hoped it would be.

“At least he was open about it,” you countered. You’ve kept up with the news, you knew Stark shut down weapon manufacturing and turned his attention elsewhere. And you respected that, but more importantly you were really pissed at Fury for making a jab at something Stark once did when Fury himself had plenty of things to own up to.

“I’m sure if he still made weapons, Stark would be neck deep-“ Rogers argued back with a hell of a low blow.

“Wait- Wait! Hold on! How is this now about me?” Stark had no intention of backing down, especially when it was clear Fury was diverting the attention away from his own bullshit.

“I’m sorry, isn’t everything?” and Rogers was unknowingly doing exactly what Fury wanted.

“This wasn’t until you brought it up,” you turned away, very tempted to leave. Not just this conversation, but helicarrier in general. Loki was captured, as far as you were concerned the job was completed.

“I thought humans were more evolved than this,” oh, that was rich coming from a guy most humans considered a myth. The same guy that less than a minute ago talked about the Earth sending signal that it was ready for higher forms of war.

“Excuse me, did we come to your planet and blow stuff up?” Fury turned to Thor yet again.

Thor seemed disgusted. “You treat your champions with such mistrust.”

“You’re not my champions!” Fury exclaimed, and though everyone was standing around it felt like even the slightest push might cause a fight.

“For once we agree. I am not his champion,” you actually felt a tiny bit sick for agreeing with Fury in any way.

“Are you going to argue with everyone here?” Rogers asked you and you could see his confusion over all of this. Your reaction, your anger, it confused him, and you weren’t even going to consider explaining yourself to him.

“I’ll do whatever the fuck I want,” you shrugged at this point just going along with the chaos. It was frustrating, but it also kind of felt good to let it all out.

“And you should! Let the woman talk, she has more gripes with the super spies than any of us do,” Stark took your side, and you looked at him, not quite sure how to read him just yet. “Also, hasn’t argued with me or Banner yet,” he pointed out matter-of-factly.

“I’ve still got time,” you were actually joking. So far you had no reason to argue with Stark or Banner.

“Bring it,” Stark offered you more blueberries and well, you just took another handful.

“And lose blueberry privilege? No thanks,” you popped the blueberries into your mouth and honestly considered getting a bag or two, or five, after this was over.

“Knew you were smart,” he tapped you on the shoulder with the back of his hand.

“Can you two focus for once or does everything have to be about you?” Rogers demanded in disbelief.

You swallowed and then let out an exasperated sigh. “Oh no, the world is ending because we ate blueberries instead of losing our minds,” you rolled your eyes and Rogers just stared at you, speechless.

But none of this was a conversation anymore, it was just a group of people yelling at one another over one thing or another. You weren’t getting anywhere like this, and chances were things wouldn’t get better anytime soon.

“You speak of control, yet you court chaos!” Thor accused Fury, and for what it was worth it, you agreed.

“It’s his M.O., isn’t it? I mean, what are we, a team? No, no, no. We’re a chemical mixture that makes chaos. We’re a time bomb,” Banner caught Fury’s attention after a while.

“You need to step away,” Fury warned him, realizing that whatever this argument brought, it could, under no circumstance, make Banner angry, or there would be consequences.

“Why shouldn’t the guy let off a little steam?” Stark asked as he placed his hand on Rogers’ shoulder.

“You know damn well why! Back off!” Rogers pushed his hand away and glared at him.

“Oh, I’m starting to want you to make me,” and Stark was back at it again with Rogers. It was the clash of the opposites in every way imaginable. Red against blue, armor against whatever Rogers was wearing, and the clash of their ideals was even more apparent.

Rogers circled around Stark and glared at him. “Yeah, big man in a suit of armor. Take that off, what are you?” there was even some contempt in Rogers’ voice.

And Stark didn’t immediately glare back, he wasn’t even looking at Rogers. “Genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist,” he only looked at Rogers by the end of the sentence.

“I know guys with none of that worth ten of you. I’ve seen the footage. The only thing you really fight for is yourself,” scratch contempt, this was disdain, he looked at Stark and reached his conclusion about the man. And it wasn’t a positive one. “You’re not the guy to make the sacrifice play, to lay down on a wire and let the other guy crawl over you,” and Rogers was completely sure of that.

“I think I would just cut the wire.” Stark shrugged, seeing no reason to be so dramatic if there was another way to solve the problem.

“Sacrifice play, how noble,” you scoffed, sick and tired of those ideas. Rogers already sacrificed himself once, nearly losing his life. In a way losing his life, since he woke up in an entirely different world. Yet he haven’t had enough, he was ready to do it all over again. Noble, but stupid ideal, as far as you were concerned.

“Always a way out. You were an agent, you accepted the risks,” Rogers turned to you, disappointed for whatever reason.

“Yeah, is that what I did? You know me so well, Rogers,” you mocked. There was a difference between the two of you. He chose to sacrifice himself; you were left to die an unnecessary death.

“You know, the two of you may not be a threat, but you better stop pretending to be heroes,” he warned you and Stark, which was kind of funny to you because you certainly never even thought of yourself as a hero.

“A hero? Like you? You’re a laboratory experiment, Rogers. Everything special about you came out of a bottle,” yeah, there was definitely something a lot deeper underneath those words, but you had neither the information nor the will to dig into it.

“Put on the suit, let’s go a few rounds,” Rogers challenged, finally saying the words that were probably on his mind since Stark chose to go after Thor and Loki on his own.

“What, super soldier serum didn’t boost your brain?” you smirked a bit, taunting Rogers for pretty much losing the argument.

“You people are so petty, and tiny,” Thor scolded you all like that would do anything.

“Yeah, this is a team,” you looked down to see if the sarcasm dripping from Banner’s voice was causing a flood.

“Agent Romanoff, would you escort Dr. Banner back to his-“ Fury began but Banner cut him off.

“Where? You rented my room!” he reminded him and you all suddenly stopped arguing, focusing entirely on Banner. He was getting angry and that was making some of you nervous.

“The cell was just-“ Fury tried to calm him down but there was no going back now.

“In case you needed to kill me, but you can’t. I know. I tried!” if the arguments didn’t stop before now they were absolutely done for as you all listened to him. “I got low. I didn’t see an end, so I put a bullet in my mouth and the other guy spit it out. So, I moved on, I focused on helping other people. I was good,” he lamented over the stable environment he had. “Until you dragged me back into this freak show and put everyone here at risk,” he turned to Natasha and despite all the anger, despite all the things she did, you still got worried. “You wanna know my secret, Agent Romanoff? You wanna know how I stay calm?” he asked

You moved closer to Banner and reached up for your glaive, ready just in case. Natasha and Fury reached for their guns.

“Doctor Banner, put down the scepter,” Rogers told him and Banner looked down to his left, confused and surprised to see the scepter in his hand.

Suddenly there was a beeping sound coming from one of the monitors and you looked back, seeing that the Tesseract was found. You let out a sigh of relief, it was finally over. Well, not quite because Thor still argued about where the Tesseract should be taken and Stark and Rogers were once again arguing. But then it happened, an explosion caught you all by surprise and sent you flying to the back of the lab while everyone else scattered. Stark and Rogers ended up near the entrance, Fury and Thor fell behind a table and from what you saw when the explosion happened Natasha and Banner dropped down to the equipment room.

You turned onto your back and stared at the ceiling. You were going to let them handle whatever that was on their own. Rogers was right, you weren’t a hero. You never were, and you weren’t about to start acting like one.

~X~

The explosion took her by surprise and now she was paying the price for her carelessness. A large steel pipe pinned her leg down and if it wasn’t for her super soldier serum her leg probably would have been broken. Natasha still groaned, the pain wasn’t the worst, but it was definitely there. She looked above her, toward the hole her and Banner fell through and wondered what happened to you.

It was kind of ironic. The last time you were on a mission together your positions were reversed, with you falling and getting hurt, only your injury could have been fatal. For her this would be a temporary annoyance some pain killers would handle. But it was dark, and she was hurt, and Banner was close to her, and she thought that you must have felt something like this back then as well. Only much worse because you were dying and she left you there.

“Romanoff!” she heard Fury’s voice over the earpiece and tried to pull her leg free. She still couldn’t do it, but she was getting there. What worried her was Banner; he didn’t seem like he was fine.

“Okay!” she replied to Fury, not even sure if she was telling the truth. Banner probably landed hard and was now in pain, which definitely wasn’t good for her. She watched him closely, noticing his eyes turning green and his face twisting in rage and desperation. “We’re okay, right?” she whispered fearfully.

Banner’s body seemed to be changing bit by bit and that sent panic through Natasha’s body as she struggled harder to pull her leg from underneath the pipe. He was groaning, clenching his fists like he was trying to suppress the Hulk, but it was all too much. Being pulled away from somewhere he felt relatively safe, pulled right back into this crisis, manipulated, and now in pain, it was a miracle he didn’t snap before. But she still hoped she could calm him down. “Doctor? Bruce?” she tried to call out to him, to establish at least some slight connection between them. “You gotta fight it. This is just what Loki wants. We’re gonna be okay,” she tried to assure him. “Listen to me,” she had to get him to listen.

She heard footsteps and her heart skipped a beat. Regular agents would be torn apart is Banner transformed. “You hurt?” one of them asked her and she quickly waved them away. The further from all of this they were, the better.

“We’re gonna be okay. Right? I swear on my life I will get you out of this, you will walk away, and never ever-“ she tried her best, her voice shook from pain and fear and pure panic, and all she thought about was that she didn’t even get to try and save Clint, and that she never even tried to apologize to you for what she did. And now, with Banner about to transform there was a good chance she’d never get the chance to do either of these two things.

“Your life?” he growls, mocking her oath bitterly and she couldn’t blame him. Not after everything. Understanding him didn’t help her one bit though, not when she saw him transforming. She watched in utter horror as he grew larger, his shirt tearing as he did his best to get as far from her as possible. He did not want to hurt her, but there was no way to keep her safe here.

The lights went out for a moment and she fearfully called out to him again. “Bruce?” some of the flights flickered back on just enough for her to see her nightmare became a reality. She was no longer looking at Bruce Banner, but rather at the Hulk. The desperation made her pull her leg out from underneath the pipe just as the Hulk looked at her. Their eyes met just for a moment and she saw exactly what his intentions were. He was going to hurt her.

He was going to make her pay for manipulating him. For bringing him here. For being close to him in this very moment. And she ran as fast as she could, hoping to somehow escape him as he roared.

~X~

You still didn’t get up. You weren’t going to. As far as you were concerned if the helicarrier fell, then let it fall. This was probably Clint’s doing, but you weren’t eager to go after him either. You heard a roar, and it wasn’t human, it wasn’t even a beastly roar, it was something much, much different from either of those two.

“Natasha!” you gasped, realizing that the roar came from the Hulk, and that she was beneath you with him.

It was pure instinct that drove you, caused by the good times you spent together, caused by the idea that, as angry at her as you were you didn’t want her dead. The idea of Natasha being killed by the Hulk terrified you as you burst into flames and the ribbons of fire and lightning attached themselves to your wrists. They were long, nearly ten feet long in fact, and they flowed behind you as you jumped down the hole to where Natasha fell.

You landed easily once you slowed your fall down with some fire bursting from your feet. You looked around, noticing the destruction all around you. The Hulk wrecked the place, that much was clear but there was no Natasha in sight, so hoping she was still alive, you rushed after the Hulk and listened for more roars, which were luckily happening quite often. You jumped onto the pipes and ran, hoping you would spot Natasha easier if you were a bit higher from the ground.

You heard the sound of running and went in that direction just in time to see the Hulk running through everything like it wasn’t even there. He didn’t slow down even after he ran through some steel pipes. And Natasha was right in front of him, running for her life with him coming closer and closer with every second.

You didn’t even consider staying out of this, just fleeing and making sure you were safe. You just moved. You jumped from the pipe, enhancing your speed with lightning and sent a powerful lightning strike right at the back of his head. The Hulk stopped for a moment, roaring in anger at you slowing him down. But that was just enough time to zap right past him and grab Natasha and get her off the narrow walkway and into a wider area where you could both maneuver more easily.

“Why the- Y/N why would you do that?” she gasped and leaned back against the wall. You noticed her legs were shaking.

“You ignored her as the Hulk roared at you. You didn’t think, you didn’t panic, you knew if you made one mistake you’d be killed. The only way out was to try and buy enough time for someone else to jump in and help you. “Let’s see if I can actually fry your brain,” you got ready as the Hulk lunged at you.

“NO!” Natasha cried out, but before the Hulk could reach you, or before you could even do anything, Thor flew right into the Hulk and sent him through multiple walls.

You took a few steps back, knowing full well this would have been your end if it wasn’t for Thor. You were a mutant, with highly destructive powers, but the Hulk was the Hulk, and there was no way for you to come out on top. And most importantly, this wasn’t the place where you could go all out, especially with Natasha this close to you.

“Y/N,” Natasha’s shaky voice brought you out of your thoughts and you turned to look at her, not yet sure of what would come out of this situation.

A/N: And that's the third chapter. I think I'll be done with The Avengers part of the story in the next chapter or two, depending on how much detail I put into the fight scenes. Either way I'm happy with how this story is going and thank you all for the support! Also... I need Wanda to show up already. All the good things I have planned need her to be here as well 🤣🤣🤣

Taglist: @toxicitytiger @wandaromamoff69 @womenarehotsstuff @psychickryptonitebouquet @seventeen-x @maddsdotorg @arualdcg @ilovemybabygirlmoon @redroomgraduate @canyonyodeler

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