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coryndoll · 19 hours ago

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waking up to you ₍₁₂₎

plot ── you wake up in a strange alternate reality that just so happens to be the outer banks universe, and to your disbelief, you’re suddenly in a relationship with the shows most unlikely character, rafe cameron.

content ── this a long one i fear, another journal entry (u can literally see it right there help), rafe being as bf as he can, more ward awkward avoiding tension, some talks !! reader taking a few more steps to coming home

authors note ── ermm hi guys, I FINALLY FOUND THE TIME TO WRITE. lmk if u still wanna be part of this tag list, i was unable to keep up with any of my last requests for this series on the last part because its been 2 months so please lmk now or turn my notifications on !! <3

‘ it all came crashing down again. family dinner at the camerons. i swear i tried, i really did. i didn’t want to be that girl anymore. the one they all whisper about behind my back, the one they think is just a spoiled, bitchy princess. i really thought i was getting better. but i guess i was wrong.

i’m so angry at myself, i can’t even see straight. i was rude. i didn’t mean to be, but i was to everyone. & i know they saw it. i saw the looks, heard the tension. i could feel it, like they were all waiting for me to screw up. waiting for me to be the person they’ve always known. i tried to prove them wrong, but i ended up just making it worse.

and sarah?? she just doesn’t get it. i don’t even know why i said half of the things i did. she said something that just triggered me & i couldn’t stop myself.

i just started spitting out words, things i probably didn’t even mean, all because i wanted to hurt her the way i was hurt. because i couldn’t stand the thought that maybe they were right about me. & rafe had to intervene too. it was so fucking embarrassing.

it was like the moment she opened her mouth, i became that girl again. the girl who can’t hold her tongue, the girl who lashes out when she feels cornered. & maybe that’s exactly what i am. maybe i haven’t changed. maybe they were right all along.

it’s like, every time i try to take a step forward, i end up falling so far back & i can’t even pick myself up anymore.

like what’s the point of changing if nothing changes? what’s the point of trying to be better when people are always going to see you as the same bitch you’ve always been?

maybe i really haven’t changed. ’

the journal is gripped tightly in your hand as you read the words that spill from the page, feeling the weight of the other y/n’s heartache.

everything she says, all the bitterness and the regret, it feels so raw, so real, and it stings like something you’ve felt before. you don’t know if you’re even supposed to feel sorry for her, but something tugs at your chest still.

the y/n who wrote this, she really believed it, didn’t she? she believed she hadn’t changed, that no matter how much she tried, she was always going to be stuck in this version of herself. the girl who could never win.

a soft sigh slips from your lips as you shut the journal with a soft thud. you toss it onto the desk like it might catch fire if you hold it any longer and lean back in the chair with a sigh.

for a moment, you just sit there, staring at the closed journal, your thoughts spinning. it’s clear now how much that argument with sarah weighed on her.

even if sarah and rafe don’t care about it anymore, because they don’t, right? otherwise, sarah wouldn’t have been so friendly when you first landed here, and rafe wouldn’t have looked so damn happy to wake up next to you. her.

but jesus, it must’ve taken a toll if she felt the need to spill her guts onto these pages.

you run your hands back through your hair, bringing your knees up to your chest as you try to make sense of it all. so, what’s the point of this? why are you here? why her? you don’t get it. any of it. but for some reason, it feels like time is slipping through your fingers, like there’s some invisible clock ticking down, and if you don’t figure out what the hell you’re supposed to do soon, you’ll never make it back home.

your chest tightens at the thought, and you look back at the journal on the desk. it doesn’t hold the answers you need, but for a second, you feel like maybe it’s the only thing tying you to the pieces of her life.

you will get back home.

you have to.

the first floor of the home feels colder than you expected, but you can hear something downstairs in the basement. it’s just muffled voices, sarah’s laugh, rafe saying something you can’t quite make out.

you take a slow breath, pulling your jacket tighter around your body as you walk down the steps. the closer you get, the more your chest tightens, like you’re walking into something you’re not supposed to see.

from the last few steps, you spot them. sarah’s leaning against the glass wall of the wine cellar, arms crossed loosely over her chest, her head tilted back in laughter. rafe is crouched inside the glass room, fiddling with something in his hands, while ward kneels near an empty wine rack, muttering something under his breath.

you haven’t been down here yet. the room feels so untouched, so pristine, like it belongs in one of those glossy magazines about rich people’s homes. there’s a bar in the far left corner of the room, the walls are lined with racks of expensive wine bottles, each label perfectly aligned. the air is cooler here, crisp and sharp, carrying the faint scent of oak and something else you can’t quite place.

rafe is the first to notice you. he glances over his shoulder as he stands, his foot pressing against the ground for balance. his hands fidget for a second before he straightens, brushing them over the front of his shirt. sarah notices his distraction and follows his gaze, her laugh fading into a quiet smile as she turns to look at you.

and then there’s ward. crouched near the wine rack, he drags a hand down his face and jaw, his movements slow and deliberate, like he’s trying to collect himself. when his eyes meet yours, the air shifts.

the tension is immediate. it always is.

you feel it in the way sarah and rafe go quiet, not because they have anything against you, but because it’s almost instinctual when ward’s in the room. you can’t blame them.

rafe’s the first to move. he runs a hand over his buzzed hair, his lips parting like he’s about to say something to ward, but instead, he steps out of the glass room and toward you. his hand reaches out to gently grasp your shoulders, his touch grounding.

“hey, babe,” he says softly, his voice low enough that it doesn’t carry far. “what are you— what are you doing up here? i thought you said you were reading.”

right, the lie you told him so you can read his real girlfriends journal.

you open your mouth to respond, but ward cuts in from behind the glass. “it’s fine, rafe,” he says, his tone even but clipped, like he’s dismissing the entire situation before it can escalate.

rafe’s grip on your shoulders tightens for a moment before he glances back at his dad. you follow his gaze, your eyes locking on ward as he stands, clearing his throat. his hand drags down his beard again, and he turns his attention back to the wine bottles.

he adjusts one of them, then another, like he’s mentally calculating if they’re placed correctly. finally, he straightens, his shoulders rolling back as he steps out of the cellar.

rafe’s hand slides down to yours, his fingers wrapping around yours as he gently pulls you off the stairs and onto the tile floor. ward doesn’t say anything as he walks past. he nods at you, a brief acknowledgment, before continuing up the stairs.

you gnaw on your bottom lip, trying to ignore the knot forming in your stomach. what could this version of you have possibly done to make him act like this all the time?

rafe looks back at sarah, who’s still standing near the wine racks, her expression unreadable. then he turns back to you, his voice softer now. “i’ll be back, alright?” he says, squeezing your hand gently. “we can watch our movie tonight.”

“but dad wanted to watch that new movie with us in the living room tonight,” sarah pipes up, her voice cutting through the quiet. she shifts her weight, her arms crossing over her chest. “are you seriously bailing on him again? you already did last month. he’s not gonna be so happy.”

rafe’s jaw tightens, and he snaps at her, “yeah, but dad is never happy.”

you know that isn’t true. ward was literally just laughing before you came downstairs. rafe’s just trying to make you feel better, to shift the blame onto someone else.

he looks at you again, his gaze softening. “i’ll be there soon, okay?” he promises, leaning down to press a quick kiss to your lips before disappearing up the stairs.

you stand there in silence, your arms wrapping around yourself instinctively, as if to shield against the invisible judgment that seems to follow you everywhere in this house.

you’re not even sure why you feel this way. it’s not your fault ward doesn’t like you. it’s not even you he doesn’t like. but being in the place of someone who carries so much baggage with him makes it impossible not to take it personally.

you glance toward sarah, who hasn’t moved from her spot near the bar. she doesn’t say anything at first, just looks at you with an unreadable expression. then, with a light shrug, she pulls out a stool and sits down, leaning her elbows on the bar behind her.

“hey,” she says casually, her voice cutting through the quiet, “at least he only left the room this time. you know, instead of muttering something under his breath like he used to.”

your brows furrow, and for a moment, you just stare at her, trying to figure out if she’s serious. she’s smiling, clearly trying to lighten the mood, but her words settle awkwardly in your chest.

you huff, crossing the room and sliding onto the stool next to her. “is that supposed to make me feel better?” you ask, your voice low and a little sharp, though not intentionally.

sarah’s smile falters. her shoulders straighten, and she tilts her head slightly, studying you. “i mean . . .” she starts, but then stops, her frown deepening. “you’re really upset about this, huh?”

you don’t answer right away. you just look down at the polished wood of the bar, tracing an invisible line with your finger.

sarah doesn’t press you for a response. instead, she leans back a little, resting her hands on the edge of the bar. “look,” she says after a moment, her tone softer now, “i know my dad. he’s . . . stubborn. i mean like, painfully stubborn. me and rafe and even wheezie get it from him. but he’ll get over it. he always does. and honestly, he’s kind of stupid if he doesn’t see you for who you really are.”

you glance at her, surprised by the conviction in her voice. “and who am i, exactly?”

sarah smiles, but it’s not the teasing kind you’re used to. it’s thoughtful, almost sad. “you’re someone who loves my brother. and i mean, really loves him. i never thought i’d see that, you know? someone like you, loving someone like rafe.”

your brows knit together, and you shift in your seat, tilting your head. “someone like me?”

she hesitates, her gaze dropping for a second before meeting yours again. “yeah,” she says quietly. “you’re . . . you. independent, smart, ambitious. you don’t take anyone’s crap, not even his. and trust me, he needs that. but more than that, you’ve always been real, like authentic. even when you were kind of a bitch, and sorry, but you were sometimes, you were just . . . lost. we all were.”

her words hit you harder than you expect, and you’re not sure why. maybe it’s because she’s seeing y/n, like really seeing her, in a way that no one else in this house seems to.

“you’ve been one of my best friends for years,” sarah continues, her voice steady but warm. “even when we weren’t as close, i always knew you were still you. and now? now, you’re finding yourself again. and it’s really good to see. even if it took my idiot brother to bring you back.”

you laugh softly, shaking your head. “i don’t know if i’m really ‘back.’”

sarah shrugs, leaning forward on her elbows. “maybe not. but you’re getting there. and honestly, if my dad doesn’t see that? if he doesn’t see how much you love rafe, how much you’re trying? then he’s an even bigger idiot than i thought.”

you can’t help but grin at that, a small, genuine smile tugging at your lips. “that’s your dad you’re talking about.”

“yeah, well,” sarah says, grinning back, “he deserves it sometimes.”

there’s a moment of quiet between you, but it’s not uncomfortable. it’s the kind of silence that feels like an understanding, like a bridge being built.

“and . . . i’m actually, like, so sorry for last week,” you say with a wave of your hand. “for the way i blew up on you. i could’ve handled it so much better, but i didn’t. and that’s on me. i’m trying to do better, to be better, so stuff like that doesn’t happen again.”

sarah’s eyes soften, and she reaches over to place a hand on your thigh, giving it a gentle squeeze. “oh my god, y/n, it’s fine,” she says, her tone light and reassuring. “seriously. one argument isn’t going to ruin us. i know you’re trying, and i see it. besides, if we’ve survived rafe’s terrible cooking, i think we can survive anything.”

you can’t help but laugh at that even though the memories aren’t yours, but the tension in your chest is easing just a little. “you’re not wrong,” you play it off, shaking your head.

sarah snorts, leaning back on her stool. “see? we’ve been through worse. and we’re still here.”

then, she straightens up, her expression turning more serious.

“you really are changing, y/n,” she says, her voice soft but firm. “and i like this new version of you. and someday, the whole world’s gonna see it too. especially when we’re traveling to every country, helping everyone, saving who we can.”

you blink, caught off guard by the sudden shift, “traveling.”

sarah nods, her smile returning, though it’s tinged with something bittersweet. “yeah. remember? that stupid plan we made in the eighth grade. i can’t believe i remember that. you and me, seeing the world, doing something that matters. i mean, we’re obviously still doing that, right?”

her words stir something in you, something deep and unspoken. you don’t remember reading about it in the journal, but it feels so warm.

as far as you can tell, in the show it was like sarah’s life was pretty much just figured out for her, as if she’d be stuck in outerbanks all her life but . . . even y/n managed to build plans with her to explore the world. sarah didn’t need some treasure hunting plot, she had y/n.

“yeah,” you say softly, your voice barely above a whisper. “we’re still doing that.”

sarah’s smile widens, and before you can say anything else, she leans in, wrapping her arms around you in a tight hug. you hesitate for only a second before hugging her back, resting your chin on her shoulder.

but the hug ends too quickly, and not in the way you expect. one second, sarah’s leaning forward, and the next, she’s losing her balance.

you feel yourself teetering backward, your hand instinctively shooting out to steady yourself on the edge of the bar, but it’s no use, sarah’s grip slips, and in her panic, she reaches for the counter.

the sound of glass shattering on the floor is instant. sharp. final.

your heart jumps into your throat as both of you freeze, wide-eyed.

“oh my god,” you whisper, staring at the bar even though you can’t see the damage from where you’re sitting. your mouth falls open, and you glance at sarah, whose face is twisted into a mixture of guilt and disbelief.

“oh my god,” sarah echoes, her voice quieter but no less panicked. she’s leaning over the counter, trying to peek at the mess below, though it’s clear she can’t see anything either.

you don’t know whether to laugh or panic, and for a few seconds, you do neither. you just stare at her, waiting for her reaction.

finally, sarah pulls back and looks at you, her lips pressed into a tight line as if she’s trying to hold it together. but then her expression cracks, and she lets out a breathy, almost defeated laugh.

“okay. okay, this is fine,” she says, more to herself than to you. “i’ll clean it up. just . . . go upstairs, and i’ll meet you up there.”

“are you sure?” you ask, watching as she makes her way across the room toward a neatly hung broom and dustpan set on the wall.

“yes, i’m sure,” she says, already pulling the broom off its hook. “this isn’t my first time breaking something down here. trust me, i’ve got this.”

you chuckle, shaking your head as you stand. “if you say so,” you say, still feeling a little guilty.

you linger for a moment, watching as she starts sweeping up the shards of glass with practiced ease. then, with a final glance over your shoulder, you head for the stairs.

you take the last step cautiously, your hand grazing the banister as your eyes scan the room. that’s when you see him.

rafe is just leaving the kitchen, his broad shoulders disappearing through the sliding glass door that leads to the backyard.

“a’right, i’ll be back,” he calls out, his voice carrying easily through the space. you watch him go, your gaze lingering on the door for a moment before it hits you. you’re not alone.

ward is still in the kitchen. he’s standing at the head of the island, facing you, his hands resting on the countertop. his posture is stiff, almost tense, like he’s deep in thought.

your first instinct is to turn around, to slip quietly into the living room and make your way to the staircase that leads up to rafe’s room. oh, wonder how this’ll play out. if ward’s here, he probably doesn’t want you here.

he doesn’t move at first. his hands rest on the edge of the counter, his gaze cast downward like he’s deep in thought or maybe just tired. for a second, it looks like he’s about to scratch the back of his head and walk away, but he stays rooted in place.

and then, before you can stop yourself, you take a step forward.

“why don’t you like me?”

your voice comes out stronger than you expect, cutting through the silence like a knife.

ward freezes. his head lifts slightly, his eyes locking onto yours with a sharpness that makes your breath hitch. at first, he looks almost offended, his brows pulling together in a way that feels like a warning. but then, slowly, his expression shifts.

he doesn’t say anything.

“no, seriously,” you press, your voice a little shakier now but still firm. “why don’t you like me? for god knows how long, you’ve been nothing but . . . or no, you’ve been literally nothing.”

ward’s gaze doesn’t waver, but there’s something in the way he tilts his head slightly, like he’s listening even if he doesn’t want to.

“i can’t wrap my head around it,” you continue, the words coming faster now. “are we ever going to fix this? or are we just going to live the rest of our lives avoiding each other? because, honestly, it feels like we owe it to the family to at least try to communicate. every time i walk into a room with you, it’s like everything and everyone goes still. and i just— what did i ever do to you?”

your voice cracks on the last word, and you hate it, hate how vulnerable you sound. but you don’t look away. you can’t.

ward’s head lowers slightly, his eyes narrowing as he stares at you. it’s the kind of look a parent gives when they hear something they don’t like. it’s stern, almost disapproving. but you’re just as upset as he is, and you feel like you have every right to be.

he cocks his head toward the island, the motion subtle but deliberate. it takes you a moment to realize he’s gesturing to one of the stools.

“sit down,” he says.

you hesitate, your brows furrowing as you try to gauge his intentions. but then he turns away, walking over to the sink.

you watch as he picks up a towel and starts wiping down a plate. he doesn’t look at you, doesn’t say anything else, and for a second, you wonder if you’ve made a mistake.

still, you move toward the stool, your steps cautious. you settle into it carefully, your shoulders tense but beginning to ease as you watch him work.

finally, ward glances at you out of the corner of his eye. he sets the plate down on the counter, his hand still holding the towel as he speaks.

“i don’t hate you, you know,” he says, his voice calm but firm. his movements are slow, deliberate, like he’s trying to buy himself time before speaking again.

he presses his palms against the edge of the sink, his fingers flexing once before he turns his head slightly in your direction. “and i was wrong,” he says, nodding once like he’s confirming it to himself as much as to you. “i know that.”

your breath catches. of all the things you expected him to say, that wasn’t one of them.

ward turns to face you fully, his expression unreadable but not as closed off as before. you don’t say anything, just watching, waiting, because this conversation, this moment, shouldn’t be happening with you. it should be happening with her.

but it’s not. it’s you. and you don’t know what to do with that.

he sighs, rubbing his fingers together for a moment before crossing his arms over his chest. “i’ve been watching you these past few months,” he admits, his voice quieter now, more measured. “i see you. i see how much you’ve changed.”

you swallow hard, your fingers curling into your palms.

“you’re getting better.” he nods again, almost like he’s convincing himself. “i don’t think i ever said that to you. but i should have. you always had a good heart when you were a kid,” he continues, his voice distant, like he’s remembering. “but somewhere along the way, you lost it.”

“but then you came around,” he says, shaking his head slightly. “and i see that now. and look, i know i’m not the easiest person. i know i have my expectations, and i know that sometimes . . . i hold onto things longer than i should.”

he shakes his head slightly. “but you’ve proven me wrong, y/n.”

your breath catches.

ward looks at you like he’s really seeing you, his expression unreadable but different, not as guarded, not as cold. “i don’t think i’ve ever told you that. and i should have, and i’m sorry.”

your lips part slightly, but you don’t speak. you just wait.

“for a long time, i thought . . .” he pauses, considering his next words carefully. “i thought you were a bad influence on rafe, on the girls. and maybe, back then, you were. but now?” he exhales sharply through his nose, shaking his head. “now, i see that you’re good for him. good for this family.”

“he loves you,” ward continues, his voice steady. “and i know you love him. that means something. that matters.”

your fingers twitch slightly in your lap. you don’t know what to say. you don’t even know if you should say anything.

there’s a beat of silence before he shifts his weight slightly and exhales. “look, i know this week has been . . . a lot,” he says, almost like he’s testing the words before fully committing to them. “but if you’d like, maybe, you could come with us somewhere for a few weeks like we used to when you guys were kids.”

your brows knit together slightly, lips parting in quiet surprise.

“it wouldn’t be for a while, ‘til maybe this summer,” he adds quickly, almost like he’s giving you an out. “but if you wanted to.”

you don’t know what to say. for the first time, ward cameron isn’t just tolerating your presence. he’s inviting you in. holy shit, did you just seal the deal for y/n’s relationship with ward? did you seal the deal for yourself?

ward watches you, waiting, and when you don’t say anything right away, he tilts his head slightly, his brows raising in that way dads do when they’re expecting a response. then he exhales through his nose, almost amused, shaking his head slightly.

“well?” he prompts, voice still firm but with an edge of something lighter, something that almost sounds like patience.

you blink. you don’t know what to say, but ward is still looking at you, expectant but not forceful. so you swallow the hesitation in your throat and nod slightly. “yeah,” you say softly. “forgiven . . . thank you. for everything.”

his lips press together, and he gives a single nod, like he’s acknowledging the weight of those words. then, after a beat, he pats his palm against the counter once, as if sealing the conversation.

sarah steps onto the main floor, glancing behind her as if making sure the basement isn’t suddenly going to collapse after the mess she just cleaned up, only to immediately pause.

her eyes flicker between you and her dad, seated at the island, not avoiding each other, not silently pretending the other doesn’t exist.

she hesitates, like she’s unsure if she walked in at the wrong time or if she’s even in the right house. her brows furrow, her nose scrunches slightly.

“what’s going on?” her voice is like she’s caught onto something she wasn’t meant to see.

before you or ward can even think of an answer, the sound of the sliding door from the backyard shifts open, and rafe’s voice cuts in, casual and unaware. “hey, dad, i couldn’t find the—” he starts, stepping inside, but he slows his pace almost immediately when his eyes land on the scene in front of him.

his gaze flickers between you and ward, then to sarah, like maybe she’ll have some kind of explanation, but she’s just as clueless as he is. still, there’s something almost amused in her expression, like she’s already piecing things together faster than her brother.

rafe, on the other hand, looks at the two of you like this is some kind of elaborate prank. his lips part slightly, his head tilts, brows drawing together in that signature confused-cameron look.

ward, ever the composed one, is the first to break the silence. he leans back slightly, hands resting on the island as he shifts his attention to his kids. “we were just talking,” he says simply, though there’s an unmistakable ease to his voice that wasn’t there before.

sarah’s eyes narrow slightly, suspicious, but there’s a flicker of something impressed there too. rafe, still playing catch-up, shakes his head slightly, trying to process whatever the hell he just walked into.

before either of them can dig into it further, ward smoothly changes the subject. “what movie are you guys thinking for tonight?” he asks, his tone light, almost casual.

you barely have a moment to process the shift before he turns to you. “y/n, why don’t you help me with the snacks?”

it’s not a question, it’s an invitation. a surprising, unexpected invitation.

rafe reacts immediately, jerking his head back like he just got whiplash. “what?” he blurts out, pure disbelief coloring his tone.

your eyebrows shoot up, equally taken aback, but you catch the tiniest hint of a smirk tugging at sarah’s lips, like she’s already reading into this moment and what it means.

still, you nod, pushing yourself up from the stool, hesitating only for a second before making your way around the counter to where ward stands. as you pass rafe, you send him a look, a silent, wide-eyed ‘oh my god’ look, and he just blinks at you, still visibly struggling to compute whatever the hell is happening.

ward, unfazed, reaches up into a cabinet, searching for something. “hey, sar, rafe,” he calls, his voice even. “can you two set up the movie and let rose and wheezie know to be downstairs in . . .” he pauses mid-sentence, then glances toward you as if waiting for confirmation on a time.

you shrug slightly, guestimating. “fifteen minutes?”

ward nods, turning back to his kids. “fifteen minutes,” he repeats, and with that, he resumes rummaging through the cabinet for the right bowls.

sarah takes a step back first, but not before glancing at rafe, her expression absolutely gloating. she doesn’t say anything, but the way she tilts her head, the way her brows lift slightly, it’s enough to tell him, this is happening.

rafe exhales sharply, shakes his head in disbelief, and finally turns toward the living room, muttering something under his breath about how this is going to take some getting used to.

and just like that, the dynamic shifts. for the first time since you’ve been here, something feels different. maybe even . . . right.

tags ── @v2los @cosmixstar @meeuhsworld @lilithblackkk @rovckwells @cherrylooney @iissza @namelesslosers @cocolovey @rafeyswrd @odairtrqsh @gretag13 @vivian-555 @lunaleah @smol-coffee-addict @twinge-vix @drewsephrry @avngrssckr @cali-888 @simpingcorner @nymphetkoo @pinkpantheris @ilyrafe @romaescapes @thereallifebambi @rafesweetie @faephoria @solo-pitstop-vibes @my-fabulousness-has-arrived @sgecorrow @rafesgiirl @ravisinghs-wife @booksntings @tinyfairies @maybankslover @honeyluvsatj @darleneslane @alysaaaa444 @w4nnabeurs @thewrittenpodcast @watersquirtpewpewboomm @sabrina-carpenter-stan-account @benbarneslut @illicit-affcirs @helo1281917 ++

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s4svnn · 2 days ago

Note

oob!couple :

Jungkook and oc are out on a date and girl starts flirting with jungkook and oc gets jealous (possible jealousy sex 🫥)

No touching

You always knew your boyfriend was hot, but it still caught you off guard just how many girls asked for his number whenever you were out together. So, to make it clear who he belonged to, you set a rule as punishment—no touching.

Pairing: F1 racer Jungkook x reader

Genre: fluff, angst

Warnings/content tags: teasing, punishment, begging, sub Jungkook, dom reader, blindfolding, bondage

Word count: 3k

The night had started out perfectly. Jungkook and I were out on a date at a cozy little restaurant in the heart of the city, tucked into a booth by the window. The soft hum of conversation blended with the low clink of glasses and silverware, the warm candlelight flickering between us, casting golden hues against his sharp features.

And God, did he look good. Jungkook was the kind of man who turned heads without even trying. His black leather jacket hugged his broad shoulders just right, the white tank top underneath stretching over his toned chest, leaving little to the imagine. His silver rings caught the dim light as he idly tapped his fingers against his glass, a habit of his when he was lost in thought. But the real kicker? His hair—gelled back, exposing every inch of that dangerous jawline, making him look like he had just stepped out of a classic movie.

He was effortlessly cool, effortlessly untouchable. But unfortunately, I wasn’t the only one who noticed. The stares had been relentless all night—lingering gazes from across the room, subtle peeks from waitresses, even a few not-so-subtle ones from women walking past our table. But I ignored them. I was used to it. People always looked at Jungkook.

Look, but don’t touch. That was the unspoken rule.

But apparently not everyone got the memo. Tall, gorgeous, and exuding confidence, she sauntered right up to our table, her heels clicking against the floor like she owned the place. Her dress clung to her body in all the right places, her hair styled perfectly, and her bold red lipstick made her smirk look even cockier. She didn’t even spare a glance at me as she approached us stopping right in front of Jungkook.

"Hey," she purred, placing a manicured hand on the table, leaning in far too close. "I just had to come over and say—you have the most incredible eyes. Has anyone ever told you that?"

I blinked. Oh, for fuck’s sake.

Jungkook, ever the polite one, gave her a small, forced smile. "Uh… thanks?"

That should have been the end of it. A polite brush-off, an awkward silence, and she’d leave. But, of course, she didn’t. Stupid bitch.

"You from around here?" she continued, tilting her head, twirling a strand of hair between her fingers like she was a walking cliché. I took a slow sip of my drink, waiting to see if Jungkook would shut this down himself. But when he hesitated—whether out of politeness or just not knowing how to cut her off—I decided to step in to preserve my sanity. I leaned forward, casually placing my hand on Jungkook’s forearm, my fingers lightly dragging against his skin. "He’s with me," I said sweetly, my voice laced with fake innocence. "His girlfriend."

Finally—finally—she looked at me, blinking as if she had just now realized I was sitting there. And then she laughed. She fucking laughed. The audacity.

"Ohhh," she dragged out, shaking her head. "I thought you were his sister."

I stared at her, deadpan. "His what?"

"Sister," she repeated, like I was the one who wasn’t getting it. "You guys don’t really look like a couple, you know?"

Jungkook visually tensed in front of me, his jaw clenching, his fingers tightening around his glass. But before he could say anything, I tilted my head, mirroring her condescending smirk.

"Aww," I cooed, my voice just as fake as hers. "That’s funny, because I thought a bitch like you would know her place." I flashed her the sweetest smile. "Guess we were both wrong."

Her smirk vanished instantly. "Excuse me?"

"You’re excused," I said, giving a dismissive wave of my fingers. "Bye bye now."

She scoffed, flipping her hair over her shoulder. "Wow. Insecure much?"

Jungkook finally spoke, his voice laced with irritation. "You should leave."

The girl huffed, rolling her eyes before muttering something under her breath and stomping off. I smirked, stabbing my fork into my dessert with a little too much force. "Well," I muttered, chewing aggressively, "that was fun."

Jungkook exhaled a quiet chuckle, shaking his head as he leaned back in the booth, watching me with amusement. "Damn, I didn’t know you had it in you to be jealous?"

I shot him a glare. "Shut up I’m not jealous."

His smirk widened. "You totally are."

"Oh, so now you see things clearly, huh? Where was all this awareness when she was flirting with you?" I huffed, grabbing my drink.

Jungkook lifted his hands in mock surrender, "I wasn’t even flirting back."

"You didn’t shut her down, either."

He sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. "I was trying to be nice."

"Nice?" I scoffed. "Jungkook, she practically climbed into your lap."

He rolled his eyes. "You’re being dramatic."

I lifted my chin, turning away. "Whatever. Enjoy your fan club."

Jungkook chuckled, reaching for my hand, but I pulled it away before he could touch me. A flash of something dark flickered across his face, and I smirked in return, if he thought this was over he had another thing coming.

The second we got home, Jungkook was all over me. His hands slipped around my waist as soon as we stepped inside, pulling me against him. His lips brushed the shell of my ear as he murmured, "Still mad?"

I smoothly stepped out of his grip, strolling toward the bedroom without so much as a glance in his direction.

Jungkook frowned. "Uh… babe?"

Silence. I grabbed my oversized sleep shirt—the one that barely covered my thighs—and changed into it, knowing exactly what I was doing. When I climbed into bed, Jungkook was already watching me, arms crossed, brow raised. "Alright, what’s going on?"

I sighed dramatically. "Nothing. I’m just enforcing a new rule."

His eyes narrowed. "A rule?"

"Mhm." I turned onto my side, away from him. "No touching."

Jungkook blinked. "No touching?"

"That’s right."

He scoffed. "You’re joking."

I didn’t respond. A few beats passed, then I felt the bed dip as he slid in beside me. His body heat was familiar, comforting—but I refused to acknowledge it. A second later, his lips ghosted over my shoulder, fingers trailing down my side. "Baby…" he murmured, voice low, coaxing.

I dodged, rolling over at the last second. "Goodnight, Jungkook."

He groaned. "What?"

I stretched, pretending to get comfortable. "I’m sleepy."

Jungkook sat up, eyes darkening. "You’re actually doing this?"

I smiled, acting completely oblivious. "Doing what?"

His jaw flexed. "You know what."

I shrugged. "Maybe next time, you won’t let other girls flirt with you."

Jungkook groaned, running a hand through his hair. "Babe, come on."

Jungkook was silent for a few seconds, and I thought maybe—just maybe—he’d give up and go to sleep. But I was wrong. Because a second later, I felt him shift again, his fingers trailing down my arm, slow and deliberate. He let out a quiet chuckle, the sound low and dangerous. "No touching, huh?"

"Mhm."

His fingers moved again, this time ghosting over my hip. "So if I do this—" his hand grazed my thigh, barely touching, teasing, "—you won’t react?"

I forced my expression to stay neutral, even as a shiver threatened to creep up my spine. "Nope."

Jungkook exhaled a quiet laugh, but I could hear the frustration underneath it. "Baby…" His voice dropped, taking on that tone—the one he used when he wanted something. When he was desperate.

I fought the urge to smirk.

"Jungkook," I said, feigning innocence. "Why are you still awake?"

He let out another sigh, flipping onto his stomach, burying his face into the pillow for a second before turning his head to look at me.

"Because you’re torturing me," he grumbled, voice muffled.

I turned my head slightly, finally meeting his gaze. "Oh? And here I thought you didn’t mind when girls played with you." He groaned, reaching out again, but I moved away just before he could grab me.

"Aylah," he whined, his patience slipping. "Princess, come on—I didn’t do anything wrong!"

I raised a brow. "You let her flirt with you."

"I was just being polite!"

"You didn’t shut her down fast enough."

His eyes narrowed. "She didn’t shut up fast enough."

I hummed. "Mm, interesting. And yet I had to be the one to do it."

Jungkook groaned again, rolling onto his back, throwing an arm over his face. "Baby, please," he muttered. "You know you’re the only one I want, just let me make it up to you."

I stayed quiet.

"Oh, you’ll definitely be making it up to me," I mused, tilting my head slightly. "But we’re going to do this my way."

Jungkook’s eyes flickered with something dark, something intrigued, and before I could even process it, he was already nodding eagerly. "I’ll do anything," he murmured, his voice low, dripping with sincerity. "As long as you forgive me."

I let the silence stretch for a moment, letting his own anticipation work against him.Then, I smirked. "Good boy," I murmured, reaching out to lightly trail a single finger down his chest, stopping just above the waistband of his sweatpants.

His breath hitched. "Now… lay down for me."

Jungkook swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing as his eyes searched mine. There was something almost vulnerable in his expression—like he was completely at my mercy. And he was. Without hesitation, he shifted back onto the mattress, lying flat against the pillows, watching me carefully. His chest rose and fell a little quicker now, his hands twitching at his sides like he wanted to reach for me but was forcing himself to behave.

I grinned, leaning over him, my lips hovering just above his. "Now, let’s see how well you can listen." I whispered, watching as his eyes darkened. Jungkook lasted about five seconds before he broke. His hands twitched at his sides, fingers curling and uncurling, his entire body tense with the urge to touch me. But when I leaned in just a little closer, my breath ghosting over his lips, he snapped.

He moved—fast—his hands flying up to grab my waist. I swatted them away immediately. "Oh, come on," he groaned, his frustration obvious, his head dropping back against the pillow.

I clicked my tongue, shaking my head. "I mean what I said—no touching."

Jungkook exhaled sharply through his nose, his jaw clenching. "Baby, please—"

I smirked, dragging a finger down the center of his chest, watching as his muscles tensed beneath my touch. "You’re not in control tonight, Jungkook." My voice was soft but firm, leaving no room for argument.

His eyes flickered with something dangerous—something needy. And then, before he could protest, I reached over to the bedside table, my fingers brushing against the delicate ribbon I had worn in my hair earlier that night. It was smooth and silky, the perfect length.

Jungkook watched me carefully, his brows furrowing. "What are you—" But he didn’t get to finish. Because in one swift movement, I grabbed both of his wrists, pinning them above his head.

His breath hitched. "Aylah—"

I wrapped the ribbon around his wrists, looping it securely before tying it in place. It wasn’t too tight—I wasn’t actually trying to restrain him. But it was firm enough that he wouldn’t be able to touch me unless I let him. When I sat back, admiring my work, Jungkook let out a sharp breath, tugging at the restraints experimentally.

"Oh, fuck," he muttered under his breath, his fingers flexing as he realized he was actually at my mercy now.

I smiled sweetly. "Told you—you’re not in control tonight."

Jungkook exhaled shakily, his eyes darkening as he looked up at me, completely at my mercy. "Babe…" His voice was lower now, more desperate. "What are you gonna do to me?"

I grinned, dragging my fingers down his chest again—just light enough to tease, just enough to drive him insane. "Oh, love," I whispered, leaning in close, my lips barely brushing his jaw. "You’ll see."

Jungkook was falling apart. His body tensed beneath me, muscles flexing as he pulled against the ribbon, his fingers curling into fists like he was dying to touch me—but he couldn’t. And that made it so much better. I smirked, letting my lips trail back up his chest, slowly, taking my time, dragging my nails lightly over his skin just to tease him. His breath hitched when I reached his collarbone, and I felt him tremble as I hovered there, letting my lips ghost over the sensitive spot.

"Aylah," he groaned, his voice strained. "princess, please—"

I ignored him. Instead, I sank my teeth into the delicate skin right at the base of his neck, sucking hard, determined to leave a mark—something deep, something dark, something no one could miss. Jungkook gasped, his back arching slightly off the bed. "Fuck—"

I grinned against his skin, my tongue flicking out to soothe the bite before moving lower, repeating the process. Biting. Sucking. Marking. His breath came out in ragged pants, his jaw clenched so tightly I thought it might break. "Aylah—fuck—"

I moved to the other side of his neck, my teeth grazing over the smooth skin before biting again, just as hard.

"Shit—"

His head tipped back, exposing more of his throat to me, and I took full advantage of it, trailing my mouth over every inch of bare skin, leaving a path of dark purple and red in my wake. Jungkook was completely at my mercy—helpless, desperate, mine. I smirked as I moved up, kissing along his jaw, feeling the way it tensed beneath my lips, the way his breath shook.

Then, finally, I reached his ear. I let my lips brush against the shell of it, my voice dropping to a whisper. "Let me show all those bitches who think they have a chance who you belong to."

Jungkook groaned, his body jerking beneath me, his hands pulling at the restraints like he was seconds away from breaking free. "Fuck," he muttered, his voice hoarse. "Baby, please—untie me—"

I smirked, pulling back slightly to admire my work. His neck and collarbone were covered in marks, deep bruises painting his skin—a map of my possession. I ran my fingers over them lightly, watching the way his stomach tensed at my touch. "No," I murmured, tilting my head. "Not yet."

Jungkook let out a frustrated groan, his eyes dark and hazy as he looked up at me. "Aylah," he gritted out, his voice almost a warning. "You’re killing me."

I grinned. "Good."

Jungkook groaned loudly, his fingers twisting against the ribbon, his entire body shaking beneath me. "Baby, please—"

I smirked, dipping down, letting my lips barely brush his. "Beg me."

Jungkook’s breath hitched.

"Babe—"

"Beg, Jungkook," I murmured, tilting my head slightly, my lips ghosting over his but never quite touching. "Tell me how much you want me."

Jungkook swallowed hard, his body thrumming with need. "I want you so fucking bad," he rasped. "Please, baby��just let me touch you. Let me hold you. Let me—" He cut himself off with a groan, his head falling back. "Fuck—Aylah, please."

I let the silence stretch, just watching him, letting him writhe beneath me. I watched as Jungkook’s body tensed, every muscle tight with anticipation as I slowly untied the ribbon around his wrists. He let out a shaky breath, clearly relieved, but there was no release just yet.

"Sit up," I commanded softly, my voice cool, but with an edge that made it clear I wasn’t done with him.

He nodded, his eyes still burning with desire. As he moved to sit up against the headboard, I helped him with a hand on his chest to make sure he wasn’t too unsteady. His breathing was still ragged, chest rising and falling quickly. I could feel his heart pounding beneath my fingertips. Once he was sitting back, his body leaning slightly against the headboard, I stood up, watching him with a smug smirk on my face. His eyes followed my every movement, the fire in them never dimming. He was desperate, and that just made the moment even sweeter for me.

"You’re so good for me, Jungkook," I said quietly, my voice dripping with sweetness and something more dangerous. His lips parted, but he didn’t say anything—he was waiting. His hands clenched at his sides, still unused to not being able to touch. I smirked, bending down to grab the ribbon from the bed. The same one that had bound his wrists just moments ago. I brought it up to his face, letting it trail across his cheek. He looked up at me with those dark, desperate eyes, his mouth opening again like he was going to say something. But I stopped him with a raised finger.

"I told you," I said, my voice just above a whisper. "You’re not in control tonight."

He exhaled sharply, his lips trembling, but he didn’t argue. He understood. Slowly, I took the ribbon and held it in front of his eyes, making sure he was watching it, letting the silk slip through my fingers. Then, with one smooth motion, I wrapped it around his eyes, tying it gently at the back of his head, effectively blindfolding him.

His body froze, but he didn’t protest. His breathing was shallow, his entire frame on edge. He was blind, vulnerable, and I could feel the shift in the air—the power had shifted, and now he was completely dependent on me.

"How does it feel?" I asked softly, watching him as his lips parted again, the words caught in his throat. "Not being able to see? Not knowing what I’ll do next?"

He swallowed hard, his voice barely above a whisper as he replied, "Fuck, it feels..."

He didn’t finish, but I could tell what he meant. He was on the edge of losing control, and I was loving every second of it.

"Good," I said, my fingers tracing the edge of his blindfold. "Now you’ll have to trust me, won’t you?"

He nodded, his head slightly jerking up, but his hands remained still at his sides, as if waiting for my next move.

"I’m going to make sure you remember who you belong to," I whispered, stepping closer, my lips brushing against his ear, letting my breath tickle his skin. "Every inch of you."

He shuddered beneath me, his body alive with electricity. I could feel his restraint, but I knew it wouldn’t last long. He was mine—completely and utterly mine. And tonight, I was going to take my time making sure he knew it.

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 12 hours ago

Text

Doing Time 1

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, threats, age gap, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: you try to keep your brother safe in jail but put yourself in danger along the way.

Characters: con/ex-con!Steve Rogers

Note: Since' I'm vibing.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

You never expected it to be like this.

It’s still surreal to you. The frigid halls, the concrete walls, and the bulletproof barrier between you and your own brother. Despite all those troubled years, of him being lost, you just never could think he’d end up here.

On the other side of a window; where you can’t hug him, you can’t hold his hand, you can’t even poke him for being the annoying the little brother. You can only stare at him and grieve. You try not to show it. You try to be strong for him. Maybe it’s a lesson.

You wait for the guards to bring him as you sit in the stiff chair. As you think past to the days when you and Vaughn were just kids, when his antics were harmless, it’s all so distorted. Like a dream. Like it never was.

You remember pushing him in the swing at the park, laughing with him about jumping in puddles, but then there are the other scenes stuck on replay. The boys teasing him until he hit them. Until he held them down and filled their mouths with rocks. He wasn’t violent then, not in your mind, he was just protecting himself. Now you see, that was only the beginning of a twisted road.

The door on the other side opens and closes. You look up and lean in, trying to see around the walls of the booth. Other inmates sit along the row, facing their own loved ones, soaking up those few minutes they can.

Vaughn is shoved into the seat across from you. The guard hooks the chain of his coughs to the desk and pats his shoulder with an unheard warning. You sit up and grab the receiver. He does the same, reluctantly. He won’t look you in the eye. He hardly can as his left one is swollen shut, his nose is split at the bridge, and he wears a stiff neck brace.

“What happened to you?” You gasp.

He pokes his tongue into his cheek. He hovers the phone away from his battered face. His tattooed knuckles clench. You repeat your question.

“A fight.” He shrugs and wince.

“A fight? You didn’t think to tell me when I called? How—the guards--”

“The guards don’t give a shit,” he hisses. “Just the way it is.”

“Why--”

“I did what I had to. Some guys in here are just looking for it.”

“Vaughn, look at me,” you demand and lean forward.

He closes his eyes and takes a breath. He opens them and meets your gaze. Shame twitches in his cheek. You’re the only person who calls him anything but V. He sighs.

“I was being stupid. I ran my mouth and... shit, I woulda been killed if it was for this other guy down in Block D. Saved my neck,” he gulps. “Really, he did.”

You frown and rub your forehead, “he saved you? Didn’t think there’d be much of that in there.”

“Huh?”

“Like you said, the way it is. Why would someone help?”

His eyes dart away. For all his sneakiness, he’s never been able to lie to you. Still, he can’t admit it.

“Who was it?” You ask.

“Who? Why? You got friends in here?” He snorts.

“Well, you won’t tell me why they helped, so I don’t know, Vaughn, give me something.”

He rolls his eyes; at least, the one you can see. “Okay, okay. He’s got pull in here. He’s... been here a while. Kinda the big dog.” He sniffs and lowers his voice, “he’s got a lot of friends.”

“You mean he’s in a gang?”

“If that’s what you wanna call it,” he scoffs.

“What would you call it? I’m not stupid. Someone like that doesn’t do you a favour out of the goodness of their heart, so what’s the catch? Tell me.”

“Sis, you don’t get it. You don’t survive in here unless you got someone to watch your back.”

You drag your hand over your head and sit back, “I know. It’s-- it’s just that sounds dangerous. Vaughn, you said you were going to learn from this.”

“He’s not the worst,” he says. “The guy, he’s got a code. He keeps people busy so they’re not hanging around sharpening shivs. It is what it is, but it’s better than the alternative.”

“Still punching each other in the face. Beating each other senseless,” you accuse.

“Look, it could’ve been worse. You should’ve seen the other guy. And the one who helped me, everyone is afraid of him. I got him in my corner. You want me to make it out, that’s how.” Vaugh shifts and touches the neck brace. “And sure as shit I’m not gonna turn around and spit in his face. I owe him my life.”

You think. He's right, you don’t know anything about being inside. And you don’t have any other suggestions. At least he has someone looking for him when you can’t. They might even be able to protect him from his own worst enemy; himself.

Still, new allies mean new enemies. At least, going by the TV shows. You doubt those are accurate. What can you do but let him figure it out. Pray that he does.

“Tell me who.”

“What?” He snips.

“Just tell me?”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I’m curious. What else are we gonna talk about?” You say.

“Yeah, guess you wouldn’t wanna hear about my cell mate’s shits,” he snickers. “Guys name is Rogers, Steve. Don’t know what got him in here but he can hold his own. He’s like a walking Ken doll. Maybe a bit forgotten but, put together.”

“Ah, you interested?” You wonder.

“He��s not my type. You know I’m picky.” He smirks then chuckles only to wince in pain. “Stop making me laugh.”

“Well, I hate to put an even bigger smile on your ugly face but I did add credit to your commissary. Phone time too. You gotta call mom.” You try to roll the tension from your shoulders, “I won’t tell her about the fight but you promise to call. She’s on my ass.”

“Thanks,” he deflates, “I... I didn’t mean to hurt her. Or you. Ya know?”

“I know, Vaughn. There’s time,” you assure him.

The rest of your thirty minutes is spent trying not to fixate on his bruises. It makes you sick to think about what happened; to imagine him being beat like that. You have no illusions about prison, you’re terrified, and you don’t deny it’s his own fault he’s there. None of that can change that he’s still your baby brother.

When it’s time, you don’t want to go. The unhook his cuffs from the loop and force him up. You watch him go before you leave, escorted by a guard into the hall.

You stop by the desk to schedule another visit. You tap the pen on the form as you think. You look up at the uniformed receptionist.

“Can I get another form?” You ask. It’s a bad idea.

“Sure,” she’s unfazed by the request and slides another form through the slot. You write in the time and date then pause as you try to remember the name; Steve Rogers. You don’t know his number but hopefully that doesn’t matter.

You sign and submit both forms under the window. The guard takes them and reviews them with a quick skim of her eyes.

“Rogers?” She reads aloud.

“Yeah? Is that a problem?” You wonder.

“Not my call. Needs to be approved. Even then, the inmate needs to agree,” she puts the forms next to the keyboard and types.

“Oh, well... I guess I’ll wait and see.”

“Not saying anything,” she drones. “It’s just... he doesn’t get visitors.”

“How long has he been here?” You ask.

“Can’t disclose that,” she rebuffs. “But maybe he’ll agree, just for a change in the days. Board’s the real problem.”

“Well, thanks. I appreciate the help,” you put the pen down. “Have a good day.”

“You too, miss.” She responds without looking away from her screen.

You turn and drag your feet toward the doors. You kind of hope it’s denied. You’re too embarrassed to go and ask her to just shred the form after all.

⛓️‍💥

The prison calls to confirm both visitations, not so much to your content. The more you think about it, the worse the idea seems. The man is not only a stranger, he’s a convict and a criminal. You don’t even know what he did.

And what are you going to say? Your whole intent is to thank him but now you think he might just laugh in your face. What if you make it worse?

And you can’t not go now. If he showed up and you didn’t. If he ever finds out it has something to do with your brother, you may have just put him in danger. Oh, why don’t you think things through? Maybe you’re more like Vaughn than you care to admit.

You drive to the facility. You check in with the guard, they do their usual search, then take you into the visitors’ bay. Your brother looks better than the last time you saw him. In better spirits too. No trouble to report, at least none he will admit.

Your half-hour goes to fast. You remind him to call your mom, your mind wandering to your next thirty minutes. The guard tells you to stay as they take Vaughn away. You do. For fifteen whole minutes before the door signals another arrival.

The guards lead the inmate to your booth. You look up at him shyly. He’s tall, thick arms, broad chest, muscled bound shoulders. The jumpsuit clings to him tightly as if they can’t get one to fit properly. His blonde hair is made paler by streaks of silver. His blues eyes are edged with crows feet and his already handsome face defined with the lines of his age.

He’s older than you expect but no less intimidating. He sits, his posture unwavering, and he stares at you blankly. They hook his cuffs to the desk and leave you. There’s only expectation in his expression. He is not the one who starts conversations.

Vaughn’s right. He doesn’t look like the typical inmate.

You wait but he doesn’t move. You grab the receive and put it to your ear. You chew your lip as he tilts his head. He slowly reaches to pick up the one on his side.

You gulp but can’t find your voice. You stare at him helplessly. You eke out, “hi.”

His cheek dimples, “wasn’t expecting you. Mostly ‘cause I don’t know you.”

“Um, uh,” you sniff and shake your head. You fidget with the cord.

“Take a breath, sweetheart.”

“Sweetheart?” You echo.

“Well, you got a name?”

You clear your throat and give your name. It steadies you, just enough.

“You saved my brother. Vaughn.”

He scoffs, “you’re that ugly bastard’s sister? Why on earth are you bugging me?”

“I just... he told me what happened. I wanted to thank you for saving his life.”

“Saving his—Is that what I did. Well, rest assured, I didn’t do it for his sake. I did it because I can use him,” he leans forward on his elbows, crossing his arms. He keeps the receiver between his shoulder and ear.

“He’s still alive because of you,” you argue. His constant stare makes you squirm.

“He’s alive as long as his mouth isn’t aimed at me. Let me make it clear, I hold not kinship for your brother. In fact, I was five seconds away from smashing his teeth in myself so your visit is entirely unwarranted and unnecessary.”

You’re taken aback. Not just by his statement, but by his language. He’s eloquent.

“I... so why did you show up?”

“Curiosity. Boredom,” he shrugs and sits up as he grabs the phone with his hands. “Not much to do in here, in case that isn’t obvious.”

“Well, glad I could entertain you,” you adjust the receiver then slowly move it away from your ear.

“Hey,” his suddenness catches you. You keep the phone hovered an inch away. “Where are you going?”

You arch your brows, “you said it yourself, this is pointless.”

“You got time left. Might as well use it,” he counters.

“I’m not going to sit here and be mocked, Mr.--”

"Steve,” he chuckles, the first time his expression cracks. “Or you can use my inmate number,” he points to the digits across the left side of his chest. “You wanted this and I didn’t let them drag me here for a measly five minutes.”

“I don’t have anything else to say to you,” you tilt the receiver away and he shows his palm, a gesture to stop you. You pause and put the speaker back to your ear.

“We’ll figure that out along the way.”

“Why?”

“Sweetheart,” he pauses then says your name, “fine. Can I be honest with you? I’d like to talk to someone who doesn’t piss five inches from my bunk, anyone who isn’t trying to get something from me, who isn’t trying to stab me in the back. I thought you were a reporter, I was gonna say no. I didn’t so please, let’s keep talking.” He takes a breath and lets it out through his nose. “Let’s just have a human conversation.”

You tweak your lips and think. You did drag him here. He stares back, placid. You’re not sure why you stay but you do. You settle in with the receiver.

“So, where do we begin?” You ask.

“Why don’t you? There’s not much going on in here. Not anything you’d wanna hear about.”

“Um, okay, I don’t know...”

“You look like a teacher? Or librarian?” He ventures.

You squint at him. You’re not sure if it’s an insult. “Admin. For a clinic.”

“A secretary. Close enough. You like your job?” He runs his fingers over the desk.

You shake your head, “does anyone?”

“I guess not. Why don’t you like it?” He waits. You have no answer. It’s still awkward. “Come on. It’s the same thing in here every day. Humour me.”

You exhale, “alright.”

What’s the worst he can do? Laugh about the office drama? You think it’s just as silly. And you are the one who started all this. It'll be a unique experience you hope you never have to think about again.

#steve rogers #dark steve rogers #dark!steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #series #doing time #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #marvel #mcu #au #captain america #avengers

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jasper-dracona · 2 days ago

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I’m so glad you liked and shared my tags!

Also to add on to that thing with academics:

The delight of additional evidence to support a hypothesis, or even just a general idea, is always great. But also it must be made clear that anthropology and archaeology as disciplines have made incredible progress on their understanding of what previous hominins were like since, say, the 60’s. They haven’t been working with the assumptions of them as stupid, strength-and-dominance prioritizing, “primitive” people for quite a while now.

I think we all need to be more conscious of the fact that, for any academic discipline, we the public are on a serious delay from the experts. We always are! And there’s no shame in that, it’s actually kind of a good thing, as long as you’re aware of it.

Ideally the public receives information once a discipline is starting to approach a consensus on a topic of scientific debate. And some people have a skewed perspective on what debate looks like because they’re familiar with spectacle debates, but it works differently in science.

Scientific debate is a process that operates on the order of decades, and it’s usually very impenetrable to the layman. It takes place in the literature and at conferences, and the ultimate goal is to challenge each other, to push each other to do better science, find more evidence, and refine our techniques, so we can collectively get to the bottom of the question at hand. It isn’t about yelling at each other, it’s a mutual challenge to keep doing better and to keep learning.

So we only really start to hear definitive answers around the time that a consensus is being reached and an answer has dozens to hundreds of good, diligent papers backing it up, and decades worth of conferences spent refining the answer and considering other possibilities. Which is great! Because it means that we only really hear about it when it’s well-supported and is about as close as science ever gets to saying something is definitively true.

It means we aren’t really hearing about bad, unfounded conclusions based on shoddy evidence or flawed methods.

An example of when this process failed horrifically was the MMR scare that led to the modern antivax movement. The fear-mongering of the news was rampant, spurred on by a single paper, which would later turn out to be deeply fraudulent and financially motivated, with unethical treatment of child research subjects to boot (thank you to investigative journalist Brian Deer for his diligent work on uncovering all of this. He’s written a book about his work and you should read it). It was one paper. And after all the fear-mongering had already been going on for a while, several similar studies (with significantly more ethical methods) finally finished up and published their findings, and repeatedly failed to get the same or even similar results to the original paper by Andrew Wakefield, failing to corroborate its findings. If Andrew Wakefield hadn’t run around doing tons of interviews, if the news had bothered to look into the matter with more scrutiny and stopped using fear-mongering to hold people’s attention to make more money, or if the news had even just waited a while to see how other experts responded, then the MMR scare wouldn’t have happened and we wouldn’t have the modern anti-vax movement as it exists today.

So we can’t be treating every published paper like a golden monolith of truth just because it got published. That is evidently a dangerous practice. But we then also have to be aware that when we finally start hearing about something, then it’s almost certainly not a brand new idea in that field. It probably an idea that’s been kicking around and gaining evidence and support for a while.

We have to know that we’re on a delay because we don’t and shouldn’t hear about a topic until a debate approaches being settled, and so that we understand that academics aren’t stupid for “not realizing something until now.” Experts have been thinking about this for a while, but it is important that in science we are cautious and patient in accepting new ideas as correct.

So yeah, every time you look at a popular news article about an academic discipline being like “wow look at this cool new evidence of X” and think “what, like that’s news? Wow guys” remember that they’re probably actually saying something like “look we found more evidence of this idea we’ve had for a while! Isn’t it so nice to find more supporting evidence to further increase our confidence in our conclusions :D”

DID YOU HEAR ABOUT THE NEANDERTHAL CHILD WITH DOWN'S SYNDROME? Because they're all I've been thinking about when I'm sad for the past few days. Their existence makes me less sad.

#science #anthropology #archaeology #scicomm #science communication #Neanderthals

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vannyinthestars · 1 day ago

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TGR SPOILERS AHEAD:

Welcome to Vanny’s live reactions to all of that

I have 259 Kindle highlights

There’s lots of thoughts and reactions so proceed with caution cuz this list is gonna be long

Will continue to tag my posts for spoilers but this is just everything from the entire book.

Guilty Lucas and Lucas being the one to get Rhemann because he was scared for Jean when Zane turned up hurt me more than expected

Emma Swift being introduced as a character feeding my soc med au shenanigans.

“Where is your rage?”

Some of the Trojans actually wanting Jean to snap (Derek) is interesting to see

Jean just casually admitting his MOM had his first ever captain and her entire family killed???? What???

Jeremy having a military dad oh he is so me. I’m trying so hard not to project rn but “Yes, sir” has me feeling lot of things

Notebook symbolism!

Jean quoting Neil and fighting back his own insane smile after Grayson is so important to me.

“Ill-bred child” is such a funny dig

“A single word is seldom rude enough to make a point.” SASSY JEAN WE ARE SO BACK

Jean saying he would’ve slashed Kevin’s tires before allowing him to escape makes me physically sick. I’m so normal about them.

JereJean sitting back to back.

Jeremy can’t sing being canon leads me to believe Karaoke is scene is possible for TSC3

“There you are.” I am UNWELL

Insight into Aaron’s trial and I was about to cry? Neil having to be there for Kevin but being stuck on the staircase

Jean not wanting to hurt BarkBark

“I like him Jeremy. Let’s keep him forever” “that’s the plan” FERAL FOR THIS

Cheek kiss.

“We’re his people” I was floundering around they are so found family and it’s what Jean needs.

Andrew being terrified that Grayson did something to Neil had me crying again. He came to Cali for Kevin only to find out Neil had gone without him probs to protect him from his feelings and then he was SCARED

The floozies calling Kevin Queen

JEALOUSY

Jeremy getting between KevJean and saying “back off” ohhhhhh I would’ve been shaking in my boots

JeanDrew scenes? Unexpected and unmatched. Ate them up.

Kevin teasing Jean over Jeremy?? Is he that oblivious intentionally? Will it ever get acknowledged???

Jean going after Bryson I AUDIBLY SCREECHED

Emma being the one to have the bandage idea for Jean’s fingers I need them to actually interact

Jeremy teaching himself French (Alsoooo who is his tutor gonna be??)

“You and me against the world.” I was crying

What did Jean say in French after the banquet when Jeremy got back with Laila. I need to know.

I was not expecting the Orgy mention at all- I could not even explain my reaction to that.

“The Trojans seemed to fall in love so easily” this is gonna get brought up again mark my words

Jean saying “Have a winning day!” I SCREAMED

Jean having to help carry Jeremy off the court paralleling Andreil in the later chapter (I’m getting there) is insane Nora

Rhemann punching Zane- I literally threw my phone.

“Fuck what I deserve. What about what I want?” THIS IS GONNA COME BACK I SWEAR IT

I actually cried and became nauseous over the Ravens v Foxes game. I understand why it had to happen plot wise but oh my god I thought they got their happy ending?? Andrew and Neil fighting for one another??? Dan defending Neil? I was so not okay I swear Nora you could’ve killed me with this one.

Browning is so real.

“I will choose you every time” is going to come back and be “Choose me” next book I swear

Yo-yo mentioned lmaooo

Jean’s favorite color being Brown? (Jeremy’s natural hair and eye color?)

“Cat wanted to be the voice of reason, but she would pry the stars from the sky if Laila asked for them.” I love them

Jean opening up about Elodie to Laila because they’ve both lost things they don’t know how to lose

Also circling back to Jean asking if it gets easier about grief hurt me so bad

The fact that Andrew appears to be the only character with a functioning Gaydar SENT ME

“Embrace fatherhood” and Jabberwocky Moreau have my soul

#tgr spoilers #the golden raven spoilers #aftg #all for the game #the sunshine court #the raven king #the foxhole court #the kings men #the golden raven #jean yves moreau #jean moreau #jeremy knox #andrew minyard #neil josten #kevin day #catalina alvarez #laila dermott

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mcrdvcks · 14 hours ago

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i love you, always and forever ࿐‧₊ love won; love lost

chapter summary: You and Jean go to your doctor's appointment after your second IUI.

word count: 9k+

pairing: Logan Howlett x fem!reader

notes: the tags give away what happens in this chapter, but i wanted to make sure some people weren't possibly triggered. rather be safe than sorry :)

warnings/tags: reader wears glasses, fluff, pregnancy, miscarriage, mentions of blood, angst

series masterlist - chapter 5 → chapter 7

After another year of trying, the past month had been… quiet, but not in a bad way. You’d settled into a comfortable rhythm, balancing teaching at the mansion, your work on personal physics projects, and trying—without overthinking it—to start a family with Logan. For now, life felt almost normal.

You were at your desk grading papers when Jean popped her head into your lab, her red hair a little frazzled and her expression unreadable. “Hey, you free for a bit?” she asked, walking in without waiting for a reply.

“For you, always.” You glanced up from the essay you’d been marking and adjusted your glasses, smiling at her as she leaned against the lab counter. “Everything okay?”

Jean shrugged, then tilted her head. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”

You blinked in confusion. “Why wouldn’t I be okay?”

“You’ve been glowing.” She grinned, and you felt a warm flush spread across your cheeks at her teasing tone. “And no, before you ask, that’s not sarcasm. You’ve just seemed… happier lately. Lighter.”

You laughed softly, setting the essay down. “I think that’s called sleep. Scott's training schedule hasn’t kept me up at ungodly hours lately.”

“Fair.” Jean gave you a knowing look but didn’t press further. “What are you working on?”

“Grading. My usual Saturday thrill ride,” you said with a shrug, holding up the essays. “Teenagers’ essays on quantum superposition. Some are surprisingly insightful. Others... not so much.”

Jean laughed, pushing herself off the counter to peer over your shoulder. “I don’t envy you that.”

“You shouldn’t.” You sighed dramatically. “Some of them think Schrödinger actually had a pet cat.”

Jean made a face, then patted your shoulder. “Better you than me. Anyway, Logan’s looking for you, by the way.”

“He is?” You glanced at the clock on your desk. It was mid-morning, and you weren’t expecting him back from an early morning mission until the afternoon. “Did he say why?”

“Nope, just that you should meet him in the garden whenever you have a break. Something about ‘flowers or somethin’,’” Jean replied, smirking as she mimicked Logan’s gruff tone.

You tilted your head, curiosity piqued. “Flowers?”

“That’s what he said. I don’t ask too many questions when Logan’s being cryptic.” Jean patted your shoulder again and headed for the door. “But you should go see him. Don’t leave the man waiting.”

You finished your grading session quickly and made your way outside, pushing the glass doors open to step into the sunshine. The garden was in full bloom—a kaleidoscope of vibrant colors—and Logan was leaning against one of the trellises, wearing his usual leather jacket despite the spring warmth.

“Darlin’,” he said as he spotted you, standing straight. His smirk softened into something warmer, his gaze sweeping over you. “Took you long enough.”

“You sent Jean to fetch me like I’m a stray,” you joked, brushing a strand of hair from your face as you walked toward him. “What’s this about flowers?”

“Never said it was about flowers,” Logan replied, raising an eyebrow. He reached into the pocket of his jacket, pulled something out, and then held it up—a delicate lilac blossom. “Thought this would look good in your hair, though.”

You stared at the flower, heat flooding your face. “You… picked this? For me?”

He shrugged, looking casual, but the way his thumb idly stroked the stem gave him away. “Seemed like somethin’ you’d like.”

You reached for the flower, your fingers brushing his as you took it. “Thanks, Logan,” you said softly, twirling the stem between your fingers. “It’s beautiful.”

“You’re beautiful,” he said simply, his tone too steady for it to be a passing comment. Before you could react, he reached for the flower again. “Here, let me—”

You nodded, and Logan tucked the lilac carefully behind your ear. His fingers brushed your hair as he pulled back, his eyes scanning your face as though memorizing it. For a moment, neither of you spoke, the usual sharpness in his expression tempered by an almost overwhelming tenderness.

“I missed you,” he murmured after a beat, his voice rough but sincere.

You blinked up at him. “You were gone for less than a day.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he said, taking your hand in his. “I always miss you.”

Your heart stuttered in your chest as Logan brought your hand up to kiss your knuckles. It was a small, almost old-fashioned gesture, but coming from him, it carried a weight that settled deep in your chest. He didn’t need grand gestures or poetic declarations—this was Logan, after all. Every glance, every touch, every carefully chosen word was all the proof you needed of how deeply he loved you.

Jean was right—you’d been lighter lately. And standing here, your fingers tangled with his, the warmth of the morning sun on your face, you realized why. You were happy. Content.

Maybe, you dared to think, you were even lucky.

---

You were never a person who took naps, even in college. But right now, you felt like you could really use one. Grading papers all morning had sapped your energy, and as you stretched in your chair, the ache in your shoulders reminded you how long you’d been hunched over your desk. The mansion was quiet for once, and it almost felt like the universe was giving you a chance to rest.

And the couch in your office looked particularly inviting.

You looked back down at the assignment you were grading, rubbing your eyes underneath your glasses. The quantum mechanics essay in front of you was only halfway finished, but the neat handwriting was starting to blur together. Sleep sounded heavenly, and the couch in the corner of your office looked tempting enough to pull you away from your usual stubbornness about napping.

Sighing, you took off your glasses, carefully placing them on the desk, and stood up to stretch. Just a little nap, you told yourself, shuffling over to the couch and curling up against one of the pillows. Within moments, you drifted off, exhaustion lulling you into a rare, deep sleep.

---

The first thing Logan noticed when he stepped into your office was how quiet it was. Normally, he’d hear the faint scratching of your pen or catch you mumbling to yourself as you worked through grading or one of your projects. Instead, he found you stretched out on the couch, curled in on yourself, sound asleep.

For a moment, he just stood there, leaning against the doorframe and taking you in. Your features were relaxed, your breathing steady and soft. You didn’t stir when he stepped closer, his boots barely making a sound against the floor. That alone caught his attention. You were normally such a light sleeper—he swore you could sense when someone was walking down the hall toward your room, let alone standing this close.

Kneeling beside you, Logan brushed his fingers lightly over your temple, tucking a stray strand of hair back. He hesitated, then gently picked up your glasses from your desk and placed them on the coffee table, so you could put them on when you woke up. The peaceful expression on your face tugged at something deep in him.

“Darlin’,” he murmured, his voice low enough not to startle you. Of course, you didn’t react, not even a twitch. His lips curved into a faint smile. “Out like a light, huh? Ain’t seen that in a while.”

You shifted slightly, your hand slipping under your cheek, but you still didn’t wake. Logan couldn’t help himself—he reached out again, this time running the pad of his thumb along your jawline. It wasn’t like you to let yourself crash so hard. Sure, you worked hard, but you were good about taking care of yourself. He’d know if something was wrong, wouldn’t he?

The thought unsettled him more than he wanted to admit.

---

When you woke, the first thing you noticed was how warm you were. Blinking groggily, you sat up slowly, surprised to find a blanket draped over you—a blanket you definitely didn’t grab before laying down. You rubbed the sleep from your eyes, squinting in the direction of your desk. Logan was there, leaning against it with his arms crossed, watching you with an expression caught somewhere between amused and relieved.

“Hey, sleepyhead,” he teased, his voice softer than usual. “Didn’t think you knew how to nap.”

Your cheeks heated as you fumbled to grab your glasses from the coffee table, slipping them on. “I usually don’t,” you admitted, your voice still thick with sleep. “I guess I… really needed it.”

Logan nodded, his gaze sharp but not unkind. “Not like you to crash like that. Everything okay?”

“Yeah, just tired,” you said quickly, brushing off his concern. “Grading’s no joke.”

He didn’t look convinced, his eyes narrowing slightly as he pushed off the desk and walked over. “Darlin’, you’re tougher than anyone I know, but even you gotta slow down every now and then. How long’s it been like this?”

You hesitated, not entirely sure how to answer. Was there even an ‘it’? You hadn’t been feeling bad, exactly—just tired, with the occasional off day here and there. Nothing worth mentioning. “It’s not a big deal, Logan. I’m fine.”

“Right.” His tone was skeptical, but he didn’t push further. Instead, he crouched in front of you, resting his hands on your knees. “You been takin’ care of yourself?”

“Of course I have,” you said, rolling your eyes, though the flush on your cheeks gave you away.

“Good,” Logan said, but the worry in his eyes lingered. He reached for your hand, threading his fingers through yours and giving them a reassuring squeeze. “’Cause I need you in one piece, sweetheart. You hear me?”

You laughed softly, squeezing his hand back. “I hear you.”

“Good,” he repeated, leaning in to kiss your forehead. “Now, c’mon. You’ve been cooped up long enough. Let’s get somethin’ to eat.”

---

Logan hadn’t been able to come to your fertility appointment, he was out with Storm and Kitty on a brief mission, so instead Jean came along.

The exam room was quiet except for the rhythmic clicking of the keyboard as the nurse entered your information. Jean sat beside you, her presence steady and comforting as you drummed your fingers lightly against your knee. This checkup wasn’t supposed to be anything significant—just a follow-up after your second IUI two weeks ago. No expectations, no big announcements. Not yet.

“Alright, Y/N,” the nurse said, swiveling toward you with a reassuring smile. “Dr. Harper will be in soon to go over everything. Just sit tight.”

You nodded, your nerves settling slightly as the door clicked shut behind her. Jean crossed her legs and leaned back, her calm energy doing what it usually did—keeping you grounded.

“Still weird being on this side of the science?” Jean teased lightly, glancing at the medical equipment around the room.

“I’ll stick to quantum mechanics, thanks,” you replied with a soft laugh, adjusting your glasses as you sat up straighter. “At least I know what I’m doing there.”

Jean tilted her head, her green eyes warm. “You know you’re doing everything right here, too, right?”

“I know.” Your hand drifted to your abdomen reflexively, the thought of all the efforts over the last two years settling somewhere between hope and guarded optimism. “Just… can’t help but feel like the universe likes to keep me guessing.”

Before Jean could respond, the door opened, and Dr. Harper walked in with a folder in hand, her expression neutral. She exchanged pleasantries as she sat down, and after pulling up your file, she looked between you and Jean.

“I’ve got your results back,” Dr. Harper began, her voice calm but carrying a subtle edge of excitement. “And I’m happy to tell you—congratulations. You’re pregnant.”

Time seemed to stop. You stared at her, waiting for the rest of the sentence, the moment she might correct herself or clarify. But she didn’t. Jean gasped softly beside you, her hand gripping your arm, but all you could do was blink.

“Pregnant?” The word left your mouth almost on autopilot, as though saying it out loud would help you process it.

Dr. Harper smiled, nodding. “It’s still early—around two to three weeks, based on the timing. But the results are clear. Everything looks good so far.”

You pressed a hand to your mouth, your mind racing. Pregnant. After two years of trying, every appointment and disappointment… Jean’s voice pulled you back as she leaned closer, squeezing your arm.

“You hear that? You did it, Y/N!” Jean said, her excitement infectious.

Tears pricked your eyes as you managed a breathless laugh. “I—wow, okay.” Turning back to Dr. Harper, you asked, “Everything’s… normal? No concerns?”

She nodded reassuringly. “It all looks good right now. We’ll do some more tests as things progress, but there’s no reason to worry.”

You felt Jean’s hand rest on your back, her thumb brushing lightly against your shoulder blade. “This is amazing,” she said softly. “Logan’s going to lose his mind.”

The thought of telling Logan struck you, sending a wave of warmth and nervous energy coursing through you.

---

The rest of the day passed in a surreal haze. You returned to the mansion with Jean, who respected your request to keep the news between the two of you until you told Logan. The halls were quiet as you made your way toward your room, clutching the delicate secret like a fragile treasure.

Logan wasn’t there when you entered, so you busied yourself, tidying up and working on some grading to pass the time. You barely heard the door open behind you later that evening until Logan’s familiar voice pulled your attention.

“Darlin’, you in here?”

You turned quickly, unable to hide your smile as he stepped inside, shrugging off his leather jacket. His eyes softened when they met yours, the hint of a smile tugging at his lips as he closed the distance between you.

“There you are,” he murmured, leaning down to kiss your temple. “Didn’t see you at dinner.”

You reached for his hand, your fingers lacing with his instinctively. “I was waiting for you.”

“Oh yeah?” He smirked but paused, his brows drawing together slightly as he studied you. “What’s goin’ on? You got somethin’ up your sleeve, sweetheart?”

You laughed softly, shaking your head as you tugged him toward the edge of the bed, sitting down and pulling him down beside you. His larger hand engulfed yours, and you took a moment, steadying your breath before you spoke.

“I went to my appointment with Jean today,” you began, your voice steady despite your racing heart.

Logan frowned slightly, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “Everything alright?”

You nodded quickly, your smile breaking free. “More than alright, actually.” You placed your free hand over his, looking up into his steady gaze. “Logan… I’m pregnant.”

For a heartbeat, his expression didn’t change—his lips parted slightly, and his dark eyes widened, blinking as though he wasn’t sure he’d heard you correctly. Then, slowly, the words seemed to sink in.

“You’re… pregnant?” His voice was low, almost reverent, as he repeated the word like it was something sacred.

You nodded again, tears springing to your eyes as you laughed softly. “Yeah. We’re having a baby.”

Logan exhaled sharply, his hand tightening around yours as he pulled you into his arms. His embrace was firm but careful, his hand cradling the back of your head as his face pressed into your hair.

“You serious?” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion.

You nodded against his chest. “Completely serious. Dr. Harper confirmed it today.”

He leaned back just enough to cup your face, his thumbs brushing away the tears on your cheeks. The raw, unguarded emotion in his eyes made your heart ache and soar at the same time.

“I love you,” he murmured, his voice hoarse as he pressed a kiss to your forehead, then your lips.

“I love you too,” you whispered, your hands gripping the front of his shirt as you kissed him back.

For now, the world outside the walls of your room didn’t matter. All that mattered was the quiet promise of hope between you and Logan—the life you’d created together.

---

“You’re not having any morning sickness?” Ororo asked, as you stood in the kitchen making lunch.

Jean glanced your way as you responded, “no. But,” you walked over to your bag and pulled out a large binder. “Morning sickness is—”

“Woah, hold up. What is that?” Ororo questioned, cutting you off.

You pushed up your glasses, “my binder. For research.”

“For… everything?”

“…No. For pregnancy.”

Jean let out a laugh she’d been holding back. “I don’t know what you were expecting, Ro. Remember that giant whiteboard calendar in her lab a few years ago tracking everything?”

Ororo raised an eyebrow, leaning casually against the counter. “Oh, you mean the one with color-coded markers and weekly updates? Yeah, I remember. You’re saying she turned that into a—” She gestured toward your binder, her expression incredulous. “—manual?”

“It’s not a manual,” you said defensively, adjusting your glasses as you flipped the binder open. “It’s a comprehensive resource. There’s a difference.”

Jean grinned, crossing her arms. “Right. And I’m sure it’s purely coincidental that it’s tabbed, indexed, and probably has a bibliography in the back.”

“It doesn’t have a bibliography,” you muttered before adding under your breath, “it has citations.”

Ororo and Jean exchanged an amused glance. “Of course it does,” Ororo said, shaking her head with a smile. “What’s in it, then? The secrets of the universe?”

“Close,” you replied, flipping to one of the sections. “It’s years of research on conception and pregnancy: optimal vitamins, dietary plans, the effects of caffeine and alcohol, specific exercises, ideal sex positions—”

Jean choked on her coffee, nearly spilling it as Ororo’s eyes widened. “Hold on,” Ororo interrupted, holding up a hand. “Did you say… positions?”

You shrugged, flipping a page like you were reading off a grocery list. “Certain positions increase the chances of conception by facilitating better sperm mobility. It’s basic physics.”

Jean was laughing so hard by this point she had to set her mug down. “Basic physics, huh? I don’t think Logan’s going to see it that way.”

You shot her a look, your cheeks heating. “For your information, he’s fine with my methods. He agreed to all of this.”

“Oh, I’m sure he did.” Jean smirked. “But tell me—did you explain the physics before or after you made him try the positions?”

“Jean!” You tried to sound indignant, but her teasing grin made you crack a smile. “I didn’t force him into anything. He’s been completely supportive.”

Ororo chuckled, pushing off the counter. “I’ll give him credit for that. Logan’s usually stubborn, but for you? He’s like putty. I’ve never seen him so… soft.”

You ducked your head, adjusting your glasses again to hide your shy smile. Logan’s tenderness toward you wasn’t something you liked to broadcast, but it warmed you to hear others notice.

Jean’s laughter quieted as she stepped closer, resting a hand on your arm. “You’re going to be an amazing mom, Y/N. All this research? It just shows how much you care. That baby’s lucky already.”

The sincerity in her voice made your throat tighten. “Thanks, Jean,” you said softly, squeezing her hand.

---

You plated the fourth dish you were trying and brought it over to Logan. In your research you learned that you needed to increase your folic acid, protein, calcium, iron, and many other nutrients and vitamins.

Logan looked up from the papers he was grading at the island and stared at the plate of fried tofu you set in front of him. His eyebrows furrowed as he sniffed the air.

“What is this?” he asked, poking at the tofu with his fork like it might bite him first.

“It’s fried tofu,” you said, adjusting your glasses as you leaned on the counter. “I read it’s a good source of protein and iron, which are important for pregnancy.”

Logan gave you a skeptical look, lifting a piece with his fork and examining it like it was an alien artifact. “Fried tofu, huh?” He popped it into his mouth, chewing slowly.

You waited, watching his expression carefully. For a moment, it was neutral. Then his jaw stopped moving. His eyes narrowed slightly, and he swallowed hard, taking a long sip of water immediately after.

“So,” you ventured cautiously, “what do you think?”

Logan set the fork down with deliberate care, leaning back in his chair. “I think it tastes like… not food.”

You tried to keep a straight face, but his deadpan delivery made you snort. “It’s not that bad!”

Logan arched a brow, crossing his arms. “Darlin’, I’ve eaten squirrel before. This? Worse.”

You rolled your eyes, grabbing your own fork. “You’re being dramatic.”

“Am I?” He gestured toward the plate. “Go on. You try it.”

With a sigh, you picked up a piece of tofu and took a bite. At first, it wasn’t terrible, but the bland, rubbery texture quickly turned unappealing. You forced yourself to chew, determined not to give Logan the satisfaction of being right.

“Well?” he asked, his tone smug.

“It’s… fine,” you said, though your voice lacked conviction.

“Mmm-hmm. And is that why your nose is scrunched?” Logan tapped the tip of your nose, a teasing smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.

You quickly relaxed your expression, doing your best to look neutral. “It’s not scrunched. I’m fine.”

“Darlin’.” He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the counter as he pinned you with a knowing look. “I can hear your thoughts when you don’t like somethin’. That little wrinkle you get right there—” he reached out, brushing a finger lightly between your brows “—says it all.”

You huffed, crossing your arms. “Fine. It’s not great.”

Logan chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “Not great? Sweetheart, that’s a polite way of sayin’ it’s awful.”

“It’s not awful,” you protested half-heartedly. “It’s… nutritionally valuable.”

“Yeah, sure. Nutritionally valuable,” Logan repeated, his tone dripping with mock seriousness. He grabbed the plate and stood, crossing to the trash can. “Valuable or not, I ain’t eatin’ somethin’ that tastes like a tire.”

“Logan!” you exclaimed, laughing as he dumped the tofu and set the plate in the sink.

“Hey, you can keep tryin’ this ‘research cooking’ if it makes you happy,” he said, walking back to you and wrapping his arms around your waist. His warmth was grounding, his presence steady and reassuring. “But if you’re plannin’ to make that again, we might need a plan B for dinner.”

You sighed, leaning into his chest. “I just want to do this right. You know, make sure everything’s perfect.”

Logan rested his chin on the top of your head, his hands running soothingly up and down your back. “You’re doin’ great, darlin’. You don’t have to drive yourself nuts tryin’ to be perfect. That’s not what this is about.”

You tilted your head up to look at him, your glasses slipping down your nose slightly. “I just… I don’t want to mess this up.”

“You won’t,” he said firmly, brushing a thumb across your cheek. “We’re doin’ this together, remember? You, me, and that little bean growin’ in there.” His hand slid to your stomach, resting gently.

A smile crept across your face despite your worries. “You really think so?”

“I know so,” Logan said, his voice steady. “You’re the smartest, most stubborn woman I know. If anyone can figure this out, it’s you.”

His unwavering confidence in you made your chest ache in the best way. “Thanks, Logan.”

“Anytime, sweetheart,” he murmured, leaning down to kiss you softly.

For a moment, the worries about nutrients and vitamins faded into the background. It was just you, Logan, and the quiet hum of hope between you.

---

Logan promised he would eat whatever you made, wanting to be supportive and endure what you had to—wanted to—eat.

But when you put kale and spinach in his eggs, that was where he drew the line.

You had made the two of you, and Ororo, a simple breakfast burrito, with the eggs, kale, spinach, a bit of jalapeños, and some crumbled sausage.

Ororo, of course, loved it, and said something about people needing to eat healthier at the mansion.

“You see,” Ororo gestured to Logan with her fork, her expression animated. “If everyone followed Y/N’s example, we wouldn’t need to worry about people running out of breath in training simulations.”

Logan arched a brow, carefully biting into the burrito. The first flavors weren’t terrible, and for a moment, he was almost convinced this one might pass without comment. Then the unmistakable bitterness of kale hit him like a freight train.

His chewing slowed, his brow furrowing as he glared at the eggs wrapped in the offending green foliage. Setting the burrito down, he turned his gaze toward you, who were carefully avoiding looking at him while tidying the kitchen.

“Darlin’,” he started, leaning back in his chair with a mock seriousness that made Ororo smirk. “We need to talk about your use of leafy greens.”

“Oh?” you asked, glancing his way while wiping your hands on a towel. “I thought it was pretty good.”

Logan’s deadpan look was answer enough, and Ororo let out a soft laugh as she took another bite of her own burrito. “You really don’t give the man much of a chance,” she teased. “Next, she’ll sneak chia seeds into your pancakes.”

“I heard that,” you said defensively, finally meeting Logan’s pointed gaze. “It’s good for you. Full of antioxidants and essential nutrients.”

Logan’s lips twitched like he might smile, but his tone was dry as he replied, “Full of misery, you mean.”

“You’re being dramatic,” you mumbled, nudging your glasses up as you resumed your cleanup.

Logan stood, crossing the kitchen and resting a hand on your lower back. His gentle touch eased the awkward knot of self-consciousness you always felt under scrutiny. “I’m dramatic?” he asked softly, leaning in close. “You’re the one slippin’ kale in my breakfast like it’s some kinda covert mission.”

You turned to meet his teasing gaze, adjusting your glasses and suppressing a smile. “You said you’d eat what I made, no complaints.”

Logan exhaled with exaggerated patience. “I did say that,” he admitted. “And I will. But sweetheart…” His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, his forehead pressing lightly to yours. “Just warn me next time.”

You laughed softly, leaning back slightly to shake your head. “Noted.”

Ororo watched the exchange with a fond smile, saying nothing but storing the moment away as another example of how Logan became… softer around you. It wasn’t just his willingness to endure kale, spinach, or anything else you set before him. It was the way he stood a little taller when you entered the room, the rare moments of unguarded vulnerability when he was with you.

Even Logan might not realize how clear it was to everyone else.

---

Even though you were only 4 weeks pregnant, you thought that you would at least have some breast tenderness. But instead, they feel normal, not even like you sometimes feel during your period when you wanted nothing more than to throw your bra off.

You never were one to look in the mirror or criticize your appearance, especially not since you’ve been married to Logan, but you expected—you hoped—that at least something small would change.

But Jean kept telling you that you were only a month along, and that it’s still a bit early for symptoms to show prominently. That’s even what your research told you.

You knew all of this. You had read every book, every study, and even combed through forums late at night when Logan was asleep. But still, the doubt lingered. You stood in front of the mirror in your shared bathroom, adjusting the waistband of your pajama pants, wondering if you should see even the faintest bump.

Nothing.

The sound of Logan’s heavy boots on the hardwood pulled you from your thoughts. “Darlin’?” His voice was muffled through the door. “You okay in there?”

“Yeah,” you called back, trying to sound cheerful as you turned off the light and opened the door. He was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, his sharp gaze instantly flicking over you like he was scanning for injuries.

Logan stepped aside to let you pass, following you into the bedroom. “You’ve been quiet all day,” he said, sitting on the edge of the bed. His voice softened, coaxing. “What’s goin’ on?”

“It’s nothing,” you said quickly, avoiding his eyes.

Logan tilted his head, unconvinced. “Y/N.”

You sighed, sitting down beside him and fiddling with the hem of your sleeve. “I just… I thought I’d feel different by now.”

“Different how?”

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “I guess I thought I’d feel pregnant. Or look it. Or something.”

Logan reached out, his hand covering yours. “You are pregnant, darlin’. No matter how it feels or doesn’t feel right now.”

“I know,” you said, your voice soft. “It’s just that we’ve been trying for so long, and now that it’s finally happened, I keep worrying something’s… wrong.”

His thumb brushed over your knuckles. “Jean said everything looks good, right?”

“She did.”

“And all your charts and trackers and whatever else you’ve got in that binder of yours say the same thing?”

You huffed a small laugh despite yourself. “Yes.”

“Then trust that, sweetheart. Trust yourself,” Logan said, his voice steady and reassuring. “You’ve done everything right.”

You nodded, leaning into his side. Logan wrapped an arm around you, pulling you close.

“I’m just scared,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.

“I know,” he said quietly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “But you’re not doin’ this alone.”

---

“—I just don’t understand why he thought it went there.” Scott said, handing you and Jean a cup of tea. “If I hadn’t caught it, the Blackbird’s engines would’ve been toast.”

You sipped your tea and grimaced, opening your mouth and letting the tea fall back into the cup. The taste was bitter, and—well just not right.

You didn’t even notice that Scott had stopped talking and was now staring at you with a mixture of concern and confusion. Jean, on the other hand, casually poured her tea into the sink, trying to suppress a grimace as she set her cup down.

Scott’s brow furrowed, and he folded his arms. “Did… did you just spit that back out into your cup?”

You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, flushing with embarrassment. “It’s just—uh, strong. A little stronger than I expected.”

Jean gave a little cough to hide her laugh, shooting you a sidelong glance. “Yeah, Scott. Strong is definitely the word for it.”

Scott frowned, clearly affronted. “I’ve been perfecting that blend for weeks. Logan said it was fine.”

“Logan also eats charcoal on purpose when he’s grilling,” Jean teased, leaning against the counter. “I wouldn’t use him as a baseline.”

You chuckled softly, grateful for Jean’s intervention, but Scott wasn’t letting it go. “I don’t see either of you rushing to make tea,” he grumbled, grabbing his mug and heading toward the door. “Next time, you can just drink water.”

Once he was gone, you and Jean burst into quiet laughter. “I swear,” Jean said, shaking her head. “That man has no idea how terrible his tea is.”

“It really was… strong,” you admitted, setting your mug aside. “And kind of bitter.”

Jean nudged your arm lightly. “Maybe it’s just your taste buds acting up. Happens sometimes.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You think it’s because of the pregnancy?”

Jean shrugged, her expression thoughtful. “Could be. Your body’s already going through a lot of changes, even if they’re not super noticeable yet. Hormones can mess with your senses. Didn’t you say you’ve been more sensitive to smells lately?”

“Yeah,” you said, running a hand through your hair. “Logan made steak the other night, and I almost gagged at the smell. Which is insane because I usually love it.”

Jean smirked. “See? It’s not just Scott’s awful tea. You’ve got a good excuse.”

You smiled faintly but didn’t respond. Jean’s smile faded slightly as she studied you. “You’ve been quiet today,” she said gently. “Everything okay?”

You hesitated, your fingers fidgeting with the hem of your sweater. “I don’t know. I guess… I just feel like something’s off.”

Jean set her mug down and turned to face you fully. “Off how?”

“I don’t know,” you admitted, your voice low. “It’s like… I don’t feel as excited as I thought I would. I mean, I am excited. But I keep waiting for something to go wrong.”

Jean reached out and placed a comforting hand on your arm. “Y/N, it’s normal to feel anxious. You’ve been through a lot to get here—two years of trying, all the treatments, all the hope and disappointment. It’s hard to just… trust that this time will be different.”

You nodded, swallowing hard. “I want to trust it. But I feel like if I let myself believe it, and then something happens…”

Jean squeezed your arm gently. “It’s okay to be scared. But you’ve got Logan. You’ve got me. And we’re not letting you go through this alone, no matter what happens.”

The lump in your throat made it hard to speak, so you just nodded again. Jean smiled softly, giving your arm one last squeeze before letting go. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s get some actual tea. My stash is way better than Scott’s.”

You laughed lightly, following her out of the kitchen. But even as you tried to push your doubts aside, they lingered, a quiet, persistent whisper in the back of your mind.

---

At six weeks, the strange limbo you felt in your pregnancy persisted. The symptoms you had—nausea, fatigue, the occasional food aversion—seemed to plateau instead of intensify. Sometimes, you barely felt pregnant at all.

Your doctor assured you everything was progressing well during your last appointment. "The sac is a little smaller than average," she’d said, her tone calm and measured, "but it’s nothing to be alarmed about. These things vary."

You nodded and forced a smile, trying to absorb the reassurance. But the words echoed in your head long after you left the clinic. You’d clung to every piece of advice, every statistic, every graph in your meticulously prepared binder, yet none of it seemed to silence the nagging voice in your mind.

Logan noticed your quietness, of course. He always did.

"You wanna talk about it, or should I just sit here and look pretty?" he asked one evening as he stretched out on the couch, his legs spread wide, filling up most of the space. His casual tone was meant to make you laugh, but you just sighed as you flipped through your notes again.

"I’m fine," you said automatically, tapping your pen against the edge of the binder.

"Sure you are," Logan said, leaning forward and resting his forearms on his thighs. His eyes softened as they met yours. "Darlin’, you’ve been stuck in that thing for hours. Whatever’s in there ain’t gonna change what the doc said."

You hesitated, feeling the weight of his gaze. "She said the sac was small."

"And she also said it’s nothin’ to worry about," Logan reminded you, his voice steady.

"That’s easy for her to say," you muttered, closing the binder with more force than you intended. "She’s not the one who’s—" You stopped yourself, shaking your head.

Logan stood, crossing the room in a few quick strides. He knelt beside you, one hand resting lightly on your knee. "She’s not the one who’s what?"

You looked down at him, your chest tightening. "Who’s been waiting for this for two years," you said quietly. "Who’s had to deal with the hope and the disappointment and the Clomid and—"

Logan’s hand squeezed your knee gently, grounding you. "We’ve been waitin’ for this," he corrected. "It ain’t just you goin’ through this, Y/N. We’re a team, remember?"

You swallowed hard, nodding. His steady presence was both a comfort and a reminder that you weren’t alone, even if your anxieties sometimes made it feel that way.

"I just want to know everything’s okay," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.

Logan tilted his head, his thumb brushing small circles against your leg. "And if it’s not, we’ll figure it out. Like we always do."

You blinked back the sting of tears, leaning forward until your forehead rested against his. "I don’t know how you stay so calm."

He smirked faintly. "I’m not. I just hide it better."

---

By eight weeks, the unease gnawed at you more frequently. The symptoms you’d been clinging to—especially the nausea—had faded almost entirely. You knew logically that every pregnancy was different and that symptoms could come and go, but logic wasn’t enough to silence your fears.

Jean noticed it during one of your usual tea breaks in the kitchen. You stared into your mug, barely sipping, while she caught up on the latest mansion gossip.

"You’re not even listening to me, are you?" Jean teased, nudging your arm.

"Huh?" You blinked, startled. "Sorry. What were you saying?"

Jean frowned, setting down her tea. "Okay, what’s going on? You’ve been distracted all week."

"I’m fine," you said automatically, but the look Jean gave you made it clear she wasn’t buying it.

"Y/N," she said gently, "you don’t have to pretend with me. What’s wrong?"

You hesitated, your hands tightening around your mug. "I just… I feel like something’s wrong."

Jean’s expression softened, and she reached across the table to take your hand. "Why do you think that?"

"My symptoms are gone," you admitted. "I don’t feel sick anymore, or tired, or… anything. It’s like nothing’s happening."

Jean nodded slowly, her thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles. "That doesn’t mean something’s wrong. You know that, right? Symptoms can come and go, especially early on."

"I know," you said, your voice unsteady. "But it doesn’t feel right. And the sac was small last time, and—"

"Hey," Jean interrupted gently. "Breathe. You’re doing everything you can, Y/N. And stressing yourself out isn’t going to help."

You exhaled shakily, nodding. Jean squeezed your hand once more before letting go. "Have you talked to Logan about how you’re feeling?"

"He’s already worried enough," you admitted. "I don’t want to put more on him."

Jean arched a brow. "Y/N, Logan worships the ground you walk on. You know that, right? He wants to be there for you, no matter what."

The lump in your throat made it hard to respond. You nodded again, gripping your mug like it was a lifeline.

---

At nine weeks, the bleeding started. It was light at first—just a spot on the toilet paper that you tried to convince yourself was nothing. It was a faint pink color, something you knew was normal in early pregnancy.

You were in your lab, writing down some data points from your latest experiment, a simple one that you were trying to see if it would work for your physics class, when you realized you forgot what size parachute you used on your small test dummy.

You stood up, feeling lightheaded, but brushed it off. You grabbed the rolling cart to steady yourself, but before you could regain your focus, a sharp cramp tore through your lower body. It wasn’t like anything you’d felt before—it was deeper, heavier. You gripped the cart harder, blinking rapidly as your vision blurred.

Panic set in when the next wave hit, forcing a pained gasp from your lips. Your knees buckled as the pain became unbearable. Somewhere in your mind, you registered the wetness between your legs.

The world around you spun, and you heard a faint clattering—probably a glass vial knocked from the counter. Your breath hitched as you tried to call for help, but all you could manage was a soft, strangled sound. Then everything went dark.

---

Jean had been in the middle of a strategy meeting with the Professor when it hit her—an overwhelming, visceral pain that wasn't her own. She froze mid-sentence, her breath hitching as her mind latched onto the familiar mental signature.

“Jean?” Charles asked, concerned.

“I have to go,” Jean said quickly, already rising to her feet.

She didn’t wait for a response. Her telekinetic push flung the doors open ahead of her as she sprinted down the hall, her heart racing. She knew exactly where you were—your lab, always the safe haven you escaped to when you needed to focus or distract yourself.

When she reached the doorway, her stomach dropped. You were lying on the floor, glasses askew, one hand weakly clutching your abdomen. Blood stained the inside of your leggings.

“Y/N!” Jean gasped, rushing to your side. She knelt down, her trembling hands moving to check your pulse, then gently touching your shoulder. “Y/N, can you hear me? It’s Jean. I’m here.”

Your eyelids fluttered as you struggled to respond. “Jean…” you croaked. Tears spilled over before you could finish. “It…hurts…”

“I know. I know,” Jean said, her voice breaking as she pulled her communicator from her belt. “Logan, come to the med bay. Now,” she said firmly, before linking directly to Hank. “Hank, emergency in Y/N’s lab. She’s bleeding. Bring a stretcher.”

Jean cradled your face in her hands, her thumbs brushing away your tears. “It’s going to be okay,” she said softly, her voice trembling. “Just hold on. I’m here with you.”

“Jean… I don’t…” You whimpered, squeezing your eyes shut.

Jean fought to keep her own tears at bay. “Don’t think like that, Y/N. We’ll take care of you. I promise.”

---

By the time Hank arrived, Logan was with him, having intercepted them at the stairs. He took one look at you and his usually impassive face cracked with fear.

“Darlin’…” Logan’s voice was rough, choked with emotion.

You opened your eyes, barely able to focus on him. “Logan…”

“I’m here,” he assured you as he knelt down and pressed his hand over yours, which still clutched weakly at your abdomen. “We’re gonna get you help. Just hold on, okay?”

You gave him a shaky nod, and Jean stepped back to let Hank take over. Logan stayed by your side, one hand never leaving yours, murmuring reassurances the whole way to the med bay.

---

The hours that followed were a blur. Logan paced relentlessly outside the med bay while Hank and Jean worked to stabilize you. He bristled any time someone tried to approach him, his mind racing through every possibility. He’d seen you hurt before, but this… this was different.

When Jean finally emerged, her face pale, Logan froze. “How is she?” His voice was low, desperate.

Jean looked up at him, her expression hollow. “She’s awake,” she said softly. “But… Logan, I’m so sorry. She lost the baby.”

Logan inhaled sharply, his chest constricting. It was a punch he wasn’t ready for, even though some part of him had been bracing for the worst. “Can I see her?”

Jean nodded. “She’s asking for you.”

Logan slipped into the room silently, his footsteps unnaturally quiet for a man of his stature. You were lying in the hospital bed, pale and tired, your glasses resting on the table beside you. Your eyes were swollen, and as they met his, fresh tears spilled over.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice hoarse.

Logan shook his head, his jaw tightening as he crossed the room and gently cupped your face in his hands. “Don’t you do that,” he said firmly, his thumbs brushing your tears away. “This isn’t your fault. Not even a little, you hear me?”

You swallowed hard, your throat tightening as you reached for him. “I—Logan, we tried so hard—”

“I know,” he interrupted softly, leaning down to press his forehead against yours. “And we’re gonna get through this. Together. You’re my everything, darlin’. I don’t care how long it takes or what we have to do. I just need you to be okay.”

Your shoulders shook as you finally let yourself cry in his arms. He held you tightly, his fingers threading through your hair, murmuring soft assurances over and over.

“We’ll get through this,” he repeated, his voice steady. “I swear to you, we will.”

---

Jean advised you not to teach for the rest of the week, due to your bleeding, cramping, and because of how you were feeling emotionally.

You obliged without any fight because you knew she was right. In your binder, you had a small section of research on miscarriages, but you thought it would never be needed. Now, it felt like those pages stared back at you mockingly from your bedside table.

Jean stayed with you the first night in the med bay, refusing to let you be alone. She brewed tea you couldn’t stomach and let you cry without judgment. She didn’t offer the usual platitudes, knowing they wouldn’t help. Instead, she simply sat close, holding your hand when the silence threatened to swallow you both whole.

“I know you’re hurting,” Jean said softly, her voice breaking through the quiet. “But I don’t want you to close yourself off, okay? Logan, me, all of us… We’re here for you, Y/N. Lean on us.”

You nodded, but words didn’t come easily. You felt hollow, as though the grief had burrowed into every part of you and left nothing but a dull ache behind.

---

When you were finally discharged from the med bay, Logan insisted on carrying you back to your shared room despite your protests. He didn’t say much—his actions spoke louder. The way he handled you with such care, his arm strong and steady beneath you, was all you needed to know about how deep his worry ran.

Once in the room, he helped you into bed, fussing with the blankets until you were comfortable. "Need anything? Tea, water, something to eat?" he asked, his voice quiet.

You shook your head. "Just… you. Stay with me?"

His expression softened, and he sat beside you, his hand sliding into yours. "I’m not goin’ anywhere, darlin’. Never."

You rested your head against his shoulder, and for a long time, neither of you spoke. The weight of everything hung heavy in the air between you, but Logan didn’t try to fill the silence. Instead, he pressed a kiss to the top of your head and kept holding you.

---

The following days passed slowly. Jean dropped by every morning with tea and gentle nudges to eat, though her presence served more as comfort than a reminder. Some of the students peeked in to check on you, their quiet concern enough to bring a flicker of warmth to your otherwise grey days.

Logan was your anchor. He didn’t hover, but he was always there—a steady, unwavering presence that reminded you it was okay to take each moment as it came.

One evening, as you sat curled up in an armchair by the window, staring out at the snow-dusted grounds, Logan entered with a tray of food. "Brought somethin’ for you," he said, setting it down on the small table by your side.

“I’m not really hungry,” you murmured, not taking your eyes off the window.

He crouched beside you, his hand coming to rest lightly on your knee. "I know," he said, his voice low. "But you’ve barely eaten today, sweetheart. Just a little, yeah? For me."

You hesitated, glancing down at him. The worry etched into his features made your chest tighten. Slowly, you nodded. "Okay."

Logan offered a small, grateful smile and stayed there, watching as you forced down a few bites of soup. He didn’t push when you couldn’t manage more, instead setting the tray aside and pulling you into his lap when you settled back into the chair.

"One step at a time," he murmured, holding you close. "We’ll get there, darlin’."

---

One night, a week after your miscarriage, you found yourself unable to sleep. Throughout the past few days, when Logan let you have a few hours to yourself, you had done more research, specifically on miscarriages.

Now you have a new binder, almost as big as your other one. You quietly got out of bed, Logan’s arms falling to the mattress where you just were, and grabbed the binder, heading outside.

You always enjoyed reading outside, especially when it was raining. As you walked through the rain, you paused the droplets above you, creating a small time bubble that kept you dry. The rhythmic sound of the rain hitting the frozen barrier was soothing, almost enough to quiet your thoughts. Almost.

Settling into your usual spot on the grass, you opened the new binder you’d compiled over the past few days. The pages were a meticulous collection of research, statistics, and theories, each one marked with color-coded tabs. It had been your lifeline since being discharged from the med bay—a desperate attempt to make sense of what happened.

You flipped through the pages with a determined focus, rereading sections you’d already memorized. There had to be something, some mistake you made, something you missed. Your mind refused to rest until you found an answer.

---

Logan woke up to find the bed empty, the space beside him cold. He frowned, his hand brushing the sheets where you should’ve been. Instinct kicked in immediately—he was on his feet in seconds, scanning the room.

His eyes landed on the bedside table, where the new binder you’d been working on was conspicuously absent. His jaw tightened as he glanced toward the window and saw the faint shimmer of rain. He knew exactly where you were.

Grabbing a sweatshirt to ward off the chill, Logan headed outside. The rain was steady, but it didn’t touch him as he walked toward the bubble you’d created. You were sitting cross-legged on the grass, your glasses perched on your nose as you hunched over the binder, flipping through pages with a frantic energy.

He stopped a few steps away, his heart tightening at the sight. You looked exhausted, your movements sharp with frustration.

“Darlin’,” Logan called gently, his voice cutting through the rain.

You jolted, looking up as the binder slipped from your lap. “Logan,” you said, your voice shaky. “What are you doing out here?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” he replied, stepping into the bubble. The rain stopped falling on him as he crouched down beside you. “Couldn’t sleep?”

You hesitated, glancing down at the binder. “I was… reading.”

Logan’s eyes softened, and he reached out to brush a stray strand of hair from your face. “Out here? In the middle of the night?”

You didn’t answer, your hands tightening around the edges of the binder. Logan’s gaze dropped to it, and he could see the words “Miscarriage Causes and Prevention” written in bold letters on one of the tabs.

“Y/N…” he began, but you shook your head, cutting him off.

“There has to be something,” you said, your voice rising with desperation. You flipped through the binder quickly, your eyes darting over the pages. “Something I did wrong. Too little vitamins, too many vitamins. Not enough exercise, the wrong food—I missed something, Logan. I had to have missed something.”

“Stop,” Logan said firmly, his hand covering yours to still the frantic motion. You froze, your chest heaving as you stared at him with wide, tear-filled eyes.

“I can’t,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “I can’t stop, Logan. If I stop, it’s like I’m giving up, and I can’t give up on this.”

Logan exhaled, his grip on your hand tightening. “Darlin’, look at me.”

You hesitated, but his steady tone pulled your gaze to his. His eyes were raw with emotion, the pain he usually kept hidden now laid bare. “What does all your research say about miscarriages?” he asked quietly.

You blinked, thrown off by the question. “I… I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do,” Logan pressed gently. “You’ve been readin’ that thing nonstop. What does it say?”

You swallowed hard, your voice trembling as you answered. “Most miscarriages aren’t caused by anything someone did. It’s usually… chromosomal abnormalities. Things that can’t be controlled.”

Logan nodded, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “Right. And what else?”

Tears spilled over as you struggled to speak. “That it’s… common. That it happens to a lot of people.”

“And does it say it’s your fault?” Logan asked, his voice rough. “Does it say you did somethin’ wrong?”

You shook your head, your throat too tight to form words. Logan reached out, gently pulling the binder from your hands and setting it aside. Then he cupped your face, his calloused thumbs wiping away your tears.

“This ain’t on you, sweetheart,” he said, his voice breaking with emotion. “It’s not on me, it’s not on anyone. It just… happened. And it hurts like hell, but blamin’ yourself isn’t gonna make it hurt any less.”

Your shoulders shook as the weight of his words sank in. “But we tried so hard,” you choked out. “For so long, Logan. And it still wasn’t enough.”

Logan pulled you into his arms, holding you tightly as you cried against his chest. His voice was thick with tears as he spoke. “I know, darlin’. I know. And it kills me too. But we’ll get through this. I swear to you, we will.”

You clung to him, the rain outside your bubble a soft echo of the storm inside you. For the first time that night, you let yourself believe him, even if just for a moment.

and that is 2007!

i totally didn't cry while writing that last scene... totally didn't...

#logan howlett x reader #logan howlett x you #wolverine x reader #wolverine x you #james howlett x reader #james howlett x you #logan howlett #logan howlett fanfiction #logan howlett x fem!reader #logan howlett fic #i love you in every time #i love you always and forever

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cece693 · 1 day ago

Text

A Burden of Imagination

pairing: steve rogers x gender neutral reader tags: reader was a playboy/playgirl, Steve (on the other hand) grew up with the 'no sex before marriage' ideals, conflict arise from this, insecure Steve, resolved argument, something short I had in mind

You first notice the shift in Steve’s posture when you arrive at the gym for a late-night workout. Usually, he greets you with a nod and a small smile—something that says I’m happy you’re here. But tonight, his eyes flick over you briefly before dropping to the floor. His shoulders are rigid, and there’s no warmth in his voice when he quietly says, “Hey.”

It’s like every gentle, welcoming aspect of him has been replaced by a defensive tension. As the two of you spar, you sense that he isn’t entirely focused on the match. His jaw keeps tightening, and his movements become stiff, mechanical. Finally, you lower your fists and step away.

“Steve,” you say in a gentle tone, panting a bit from the exertion. “I can tell something’s bothering you. Can we talk about it?”

He hesitates, still avoiding your gaze. “Maybe later,” he says tersely, grabbing a towel and swiping it over his sweat-damp face. Before you can respond, he mumbles a quick apology and heads for the locker room, leaving you with a weight of uncertainty pressing on your chest.

That evening, after a tense dinner in the Tower’s communal kitchen, you convince Steve to come back to your room, hoping for a chance to sort through whatever’s on his mind. The atmosphere is charged from the moment the door closes behind him. He looks like he wants to say something but can’t find the words. You sit on the edge of your bed, motioning for him to join you in a space that’s always been comforting—until now.

He stands a foot away, gaze restless. You speak first. “Steve, please. I can’t help if I don’t know what’s going on.”

He exhales sharply, pressing a hand to his forehead. “I don’t know how to say this without sounding awful,” he murmurs. But then the dam breaks. “I look at you, and I keep—God—I keep picturing you with…with other people.”

Your stomach twists painfully. “Steve—”

“It’s not fair,” he says, voice wavering between frustration and shame. “I have no right to feel this way. I know it’s your past, and it’s none of my damn business how many people you dated or slept with before. But…” He forces himself to look at you, and you catch a flicker of hurt mixed with something akin to disgust. “I can’t stop imagining all the times you—” He cuts off, swallowing hard, as if even finishing the sentence is too much.

A flare of anger stirs in your chest, mingled with deep hurt. “So what? The thought of me with my exes disgusts you? Is that it?”

He scrubs a hand over his face and drops his gaze again. “I’m not proud of it,” he whispers. “I don’t want to feel this way. But it’s in my head all the time lately. When I look at you, sometimes I just…I see them. I see all the people you were with. And it makes my stomach turn.”

You stand up, heart pounding. “You’ve never said it like that before.”

“I know,” he says miserably. “And I’m sorry. It’s just that I—I can’t get over how I was raised. ‘One person for life.’ No sex until marriage. All those things drilled into my head. I know it’s outdated, I know the world has changed, but I keep feeling cheapened somehow by the idea that I’m not your first.”

It’s a harsh statement—one that shocks you to the core. You didn’t realize just how deep this ran for him. A moment of silence stretches tight between you, and Steve’s eyes remain fixed on a spot near your feet.

Suddenly, a rush of fury and pain bubbles up. “And what if I told you you disgust me for being so backward?” you snap, voice trembling. “I don’t mean it,” you add quickly, tears burning at the corners of your eyes, “but that’s how I feel right now—judged by you. How can you love me if you’re disgusted by what I did before we met?”

He grimaces as if you’ve physically struck him. “I do love you. I swear, I do. But I can’t shut off these images in my head.” The tension chokes the air in your room. You stand there, arms wrapped around yourself protectively, while Steve looks one step away from bolting. Then, in a voice laced with desperation, he speaks. “Please, just help me understand how to move past this.”

Your anger subsides a fraction, replaced by weariness. “Steve, my past experiences are mine. They helped shape me. They helped me learn what I want in a partner, in love, in intimacy. And you know what? They led me to you.” You hold his gaze despite the tears threatening to spill. “I’m not some used-up thing, and my experiences don’t make me less worthy of love. If you really think I’m dirty or disgusting because of who I’ve been with, then—then you’re not the man I thought you were.”

He recoils, pain etched in every feature. “That’s not it,” he says, voice cracking. “I don’t think you’re dirty. I don’t think you’re any less. It’s just this…” He struggles to articulate, eyes pooling with guilt. “I feel inadequate. I feel like I’m behind the curve. Like you’ll compare me to them.”

The question hovers in the silence: Is that the real root? The insecurity of not measuring up. Suddenly, the wave of hurt from moments ago becomes tinged with sympathy.

You inhale, steadying yourself, then step toward him. “Steve,” you begin gently, “I don’t compare you to anyone. The only person I see when I look at you is you. The man who showed me it’s possible to be patient, brave, and caring all at once. The man who gives so much of himself to the world.” You swallow, voice growing thick. “You’re the one I chose.”

A tear slips down his cheek, and you lift a hand to brush it away. Your voice wavers. “But you have to accept that I had a life before you. If you can’t, this will destroy us. I can’t pretend it didn’t happen. And I won’t let you turn me into something less in your mind because of it.”

His breath shudders as he places a hand over yours, pressing it against his face. “I don’t want to lose you. And I hate that I’m feeling this twisted mix of jealousy, disgust, and shame. Because I don’t want to judge you, or your decisions. You’re right—your past made you who you are, and I love that person. I truly do.”

Slowly, tentatively, you guide him to sit on the edge of the bed with you. You take his hand, feeling the roughness of his palm against your own. “I think,” you say carefully, “that you might need time—and maybe even help—dealing with these feelings. I understand you were taught a certain way, but we can’t keep running into this wall. Can you talk to me every time it creeps into your head? Even if it’s uncomfortable?”

He nods, blinking back tears. “I can try.”

“And can you believe me when I say that you’re enough?” you ask, voice quiet, but firm. “That there’s no ghost from my past who could replace who you are to me?”

He laces his fingers with yours, inhaling unsteadily. “I want to believe it. I do.” His gaze finally meets yours, earnest and desperate for reassurance. “I’m so sorry. I know I said...awful things.”

You shake your head. “We both said things. Let’s…let’s figure out how to move forward.” He lifts your entwined hands to his lips and rests a trembling kiss across your knuckles. There’s a moment of fragile calm as you lean into him, your foreheads almost touching.

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beans-core · 2 days ago

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tysm for continuing on the yap sesh, much appreciated, immaculate vibes here

LOVE your AU idea. Just… an AU where the bats have to go full undercover agent to stop Ras from paywalling the Pit— it’s a situation where there is evil to be stopped, sure, but it’s also a situation where Bruce Wayne’s name becomes more feared to the opposition than Batman’s. Billionaire vs Billionaire. Old money vs New Money (not actually true considering Ra’s has had centuries to accumulate wealth, but he prob made a fake identity, so the public thinks so). Bruce, as an abhorrently wealthy person himself, struggling constantly with his hero complex and wish to defeat not just criminals of the legal system but criminals of society and humanity. Which includes a lot of shitty/unjust rich people. Then, Ra’s fucks around, so Bruce goes hmm and decides to take out his anger about the issue on this one especially evil rich guy and his organization as Bruce Wayne instead of Batman. Continuing to spread the message that the Waynes do not fucking approve of criminal/inhumane bullshit even if you’ve got tons of money. YES.

And that's not even mentioning the absolutely awesome part of the bats getting to creep around and fight baddies like super spies. They all get wacky somehow-functional disguises. Tim deciding to make some spy-movie-esq. gadgets for everyone. Dick amping up the atmosphere by being extra with his fighting style, like incorporating a bunch of completely unnecessary complex flips. The kids bickering about who they think would be the main character in the hypothetical Bats spy movie. I love every single bit of it!! Aaah!!!

Honestly I’m so down to write it, and if I ever get the motivation, I just might… Ra’s’ takeover as a prologue, bats spy AU after it, what’s not to love? (If I do end up writing it, I’ll tag you for permission/credit ofc!)

Ra’s going “lmao don’t believe me? sure alright. Get Baja dunked, fuckhead” is amazing. I can picture it so clearly it’s great. He’d probably do it in front of an audience, so dunking only one person spreads the idea/message wider without actually having to heal more people. Could you imagine: present day, it’s some sort of revered ceremony, ornate and elaborate, that people who are looking for something to believe in attend to see if it’s all true. However, the first few hundred of Ra’s’ followers know that these ‘ceremonies’ used to consist of some beaten-up and kidnapped non-believer in the seat of a carnival dunk tank (with all the stereotypical music and decor of course), Ra’s giving a sharp, all-teeth smile as he throws a knife to activate the trapdoor lever-thing for extra flair, no sweet-talking needed— most of those early followers stuck around because Ra’s’ crazy matched their crazy. And yeah, if anyone would know how to run a cult with a terrifying level of efficiency, it’d be Ra’s. He’d work them like they applied for a 9-5 job.

The initiation idea is actually dope as fuck too. When you first join and pledge your allegiance, maybe you get a sip of the Blessed Baja. Work your way up the line, and you get more access to the Lazarus Pit. The more of your life you dedicate to the cause, the more life Lazarus’ Pit will give back to you. Or something.

Jason: It’s your spleen! You lost an ORGAN Tim, you should have told us!

Tim: So? You don’t have your tonsils, that’s an organ!

Dick: That’s not the same and you kn-

Jason: Jokes on you, my tonsils grew back in the Lazarus Pit so your argument doesn’t even make sense!

Dick, now fully turned toward Jason: Your tonsils did WHAT

#the lazarus pit #lazarus pit #ras al ghul #ra’s al ghul #now imagining those cult followers trailing after Ra’s while he pretends not to like it #they matched each other's freak #i’m so not normal about this #bruce wayne #batman #batfam #batfamily #dc

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s4nniebe4r · 2 days ago

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dibs

pairing: rival! yunho x fem! reader

synopsis: somebody keeps stealing your favorite chair

wc: 4.2k

tags: fluff, slice of life, light use of explicit language

etc: this is a major rework of a fic i wrote previously elsewhere, it’s been on my mind for a while… thinking about a potential part two, but i’ve got to work out the kinks and whatnot, as always not thoroughly proofread!

The library is quieter than usual when you step inside, it’s the kind of quiet that makes you hyper-aware of every little sound—your footsteps against the aged tiled floor, soft rustling of pages as students flipped through their overpriced textbooks, and the humming of a printer in the distance. You adjust the strap of your bag and exhale, already sorting through the mental checklist of everything you need to get done for this session.

It’s a lot. Too much, honestly. You’ve got a paper due, an exam to study for, and some general note-taking, a headache was already starting to form, and a general sense of dread was setting in.

But it’s fine. It’s fine. Because at least you have your seat.

The one by the window. The one where the light filters in just right, making the otherwise dull atmosphere of the library feel a little less draining. That seat made you understand just how a cat feels curling up under the sun taking a nap; so cozy, so at ease. And it was comfortable—more than the others, anyways—cushioned, in a way that doesn’t make your back regret ever meeting it. From where that chair was, you were perched over and away from the vast majority of the library, but you were easily able to people-watch as they came. It’s a small comfort in a long day, and you’re holding onto it. You always do.

Or at least, you did.

Because when you rounded the last bookshelf, ready to collapse into your little area of familiarity, you see him.

Sitting in your chair.

Some guy, completely absorbed in whatever’s on his laptop screen. His body was in your chair. He wore a loose-fitted crew neck, and jeans, his hair tucked lazily under his beanie… his outfit portrayed how he looked in your chair; far too comfortable. His fingers were lazily tapping against his coffee cup, so carefree, like he has nowhere else in the world he’d rather be. Like he belongs there. Which, of course, was far from true.

So you stop, standing there longer than necessary, waiting for some kind of divine intervention, or universal fixture to this. Maybe, just maybe he’ll look up, and sense your suffering in silence, and move along with his life. Maybe he’ll realize that this chair was not his to sit in.

But, neither happens. Nothing happens.

Instead, he stretches a little, shifting like he’s settling further into his seat, and you feel an actual physical reaction—something between the lines of heartbreak and bitterness, maybe a little irritation mixed along. Irritation with yourself, maybe? You don’t own the chair, obviously… you know this. But, it’s yours.

It’s yours.

For a second, you debate saying something. You could ask if he plans on staying for long. Maybe drop some passive aggressive hint? There was always the seat across, but that felt too cruel, like salt rubbed into your already stinging wound.

You were lost in thought, but then his eyes flick up—just for a second, barely long enough to register your presence—before he goes right back to whatever it was that he was doing. There’s a light sprinkle of pink that appears on his face after a second. And his lips purse into a straight line, before the tug upward ever so slightly.

And that’s when you realize.

He knows.

There’s something about the way his lips are twitching, like he’s trying not to smile, and it’s enough to tell you that he’s fully aware of what he’s done. Like he’s waiting to see what you plan on doing about it.

A small heat courses through you, enough to make you pull out the chair from beside you without much of a second thought. So, without any other choice, you sit. You sit in the only other available spot at the table—that godforsaken, awful wooden chair across from him. The one that’s stiff and unforgiving, it’s everything wrong with seating. And you’re sure he knows that too, because now he really does smile, just barely, as he takes a slow sip of his iced coffee.

You don’t look at him, as much as you want to, you don’t. You just open your laptop with a little more force than necessary, and start typing. You have no idea what you’re writing, but your fingertips tapped away at your keyboard.

And so, you sat. Staring at the screen as you mindlessly wrote as the minutes passed. You figure at some point you’d write something useful. And then—because the universe just wasn’t done with you—somebody spoke up.

“That chair’s not so bad, is it?”

With your fingers halting their motions, just hovering over the keyboard now. You slowly lift your gaze, and there he is, watching you over the rim of his coffee cup as he takes another sip, his eyes full of amusement.

You take a deep breath to ground yourself. “It’s awful actually,” you deadpan. “And you’re in my seat.”

He hums lightly, shaking his head as he sets his cup down. “I wasn’t aware we called dibs here. And I didn’t see your name on it.”

Oh, you hate him. Instantly. Viscerally.

“Didn’t realize I needed to,” you reply. “Considering I sit here every time I come here.”

“Ah.” He nods, like the information is new and groundbreaking. “Well, I'm sitting here now.” He said it so casually.

Your jaw tightens, almost locking into place. “Yeah. I gathered that.”

For a moment, he just looks at you, head tilted slightly, a slow, insufferable smile forming. It was almost to the point where you could describe it as shit-eating. And just as he grins, he reaches for his laptop, shifting it slightly—just enough to make it painfully clear that he has no intention of moving.

Fine. That’s just fine. You weren’t about to let some bratty stranger ruin your day.

You refocus onto your screen, posture stiff no thanks to the chair you were forced upon, fingers aggressively typing out something—anything—to keep from glaring at him. But your mind is already racing, planning every possible way you could reclaim your rightful spot without actually asking.

You could get here earlier tomorrow. Beat him to it.

It wouldn’t be that hard. So, you let the thought settle, a slow petty satisfaction creeping in. You continue writing whatever it is that you are, and think of tomorrow.

You walk into the library, this time with a little bounce in your step, a satisfied little smirk tugging at your lips as you take a slow, victorious sip of your drink. It’s sweet, something fruity with just the right amount of tartness; a perfect mix, like the universe was apologizing for yesterday.

Today, you were winning, and you made sure of it.

You left earlier than usual, cutting through campus like you were a woman on a mission, and you did sacrifice your usual few minutes of mindless rotting on socials just to be here. Before anyone else, but especially before him. If yesterday was an unfortunate twist of fate, today is divine justice. That chair is yours, and you’re going to sit in it. Reclaim it.

And so, with the extra pep in your stride, you weave through the aisle, your fingers tightening around your cup, anticipation creeping up on you. The closer you get, the more your confidence builds, your mind already savoring the feeling of sinking back in your spot, watching the light filter through the window, so perfectly onto your back. The thought of stretching out into the space that’s so perfectly yours that you could, well you could nearly—

And then, the world stops.

You see it.

Rather, you see, him. Sitting in your chair. Again.

You come to a dead stop, nearly choking on your own drink in disbelief.

He’s there, again, stretched out in your chair. His laptop is already open, positioned at just the right angle, his fingers yet again lazily tapping away against the keyboard like he has all the time in the world. His iced coffee—which frankly, he doesn't deserve—sits right beside him, condensation trailing down and onto the wooden table. An easy sign that he’s been here for a while.

Like he planned this. Like he knew.

He looks up.

His eyes meet yours, just for a second, and then, the slowest, most insufferable grin spreads across his face. The same shit-eating grin from yesterday. It makes your stomach twist in a way you absolutely refuse to acknowledge.

He raises his cup slightly, like a toast.

“Morning.”

You can’t pull yourself to say anything. So you just blink at him.

He knows. He absolutely knows. He knows that you know, that he knows.

“Are you,” you exhale sharply through your nose, tightening your grip on your cup, almost to the point of spilling. “Are you serious?”

He just shrugs. “What? You didn’t call dibs.”

With every fiber of your being, you absolutely hate him.

“You—” you glance up at the clock on the wall, you are scrambling to process this. “What time did you even get here?”

“Earlier than you,” he replies smoothly, taking a slow sip of his coffee.

You grimace.

He just looks at you. Calm and amused. Infuriatingly so. He seems the type to enjoy watching people unravel. But you’re not about to give him the satisfaction of knowing that this has genuinely thrown you off.

So, instead, you gather everything together in you, lift your chin ever so slightly, and step forward.

“Fine.”

You grab the same god-awful chair from yesterday—the chair that has no business even existing—and sit across from him.

And him?

Still wearing that same stupid smile.

The third day comes around, and you’re prepared.

You don’t just leave early, you have a clear cut plan. Perfectly executed.

And now, here you are, victorious.

Sitting in your rightful spot, drink in hand, soaking in the warmth of your cozy little chair. The sunlight filtering through the window, hitting just the right angle on your back, and you lean into it, savoring every single second. It’s sweet, really. You won.

It honestly should feel a little embarrassing how smug you feel about it, but you didn’t mind too much. He did have it coming. If he thought he could steal your chair two days in a row, then he clearly had you grossly underestimated your willpower to be petty.

You’re mid-sup, indulging in your well-earned satisfaction, when you hear the footsteps. The presence. The slight pause in movement, like someone just registered something unexpected, just as you had the days prior.

You glance up, and there he is.

He stands a few feet away, his bag slung over his right shoulder, his iced coffee in his opposite hand. His head tilts slightly as he takes in the scene before him.

Then, the slowest, most ridiculously amused smile spreads across his face, leaving you curious.

“Oh, wow.” He exhales, shaking his head slightly. “You really wanted that seat, did you?”

You set your drink down, crossing your legs, leaning back into the chair like second nature. “What can I say? Everything returns to how it should be. This is universal justice.”

His lips twitch, brows furrowed, like he’s holding back a laugh. “Right. And by justice, you mean beating me here by, what? A few minutes?”

“Not my fault you slacked today.” You say, raising an eyebrow. “Seems like you’ve lost your edge.”

His eyes narrow ever so slightly. Not in an irritated way, more like he’s intrigued. He studied you for a second longer, then—

“Well.” He exhales once more, tapping his fingers against his cup. “Guess I’ll just have to take the seat across from you then, won’t I?”

And your smugness falters, just a little.

Because of course he would.

You shift, sitting up slightly as he moves, pulling out the chair across from yours—the very same god-forsaken, uncomfortable, completely cursed chair that you suffered in for the past two days. Except, unlike you, he doesn’t seem remotely bothered, not in the slightest. He just sets his drink down, slides into the seat, and looks right at you, as if this is all completely normal.

You narrow your eyes. “You’re really going to sit there?”

He lifts a brow. “Did you call dibs on this too?”

Your jaw tightens at the audacity this man has.

He takes a slow sip of his coffee, mockingly slow, before setting it down. “Besides,” he muses, tilting his head slightly, “it’s kind of nice sitting across from someone. Good company and all.”

You blink. “...We’re not company.”

“Sure we are.”

“No, we’re not.”

He hums, unconvinced. Then after a beat he speaks again. “So, what’s your name, then?”

You pause, skeptical. “Why?”

He shrugs. “Figured if we’re gonna keep stealing seats from each other, we might as well know what to call one another.”

You study him for a moment. There’s something genuinely amazed in his expression, like he’s been entertained by you this entire time. Like this has been fun for him.

Before you can answer, he glances at your cup, then gives you that familiar shit-eating grin. “Y/N.”

Your eyes widen. “How do you—?”

He nods at your drink. “Your name’s on the cup, genius.”

You glance down, and sure enough, there it is, scrawled in black marker across the side of your cup.

“Oh,” you blink, feeling a little ridiculous. “Right.”

He chuckles softly, turning his own cup slightly so you can see the name written on it.

Yunho.

Your eyes trace over the letters as he leans forward, just a little, barely noticeable, and rests his forearms on the table. “Nice to meet you, Y/N,” he says, voice so smooth, almost like he was teasing. “I’m Yunho.”

You roll his name around in your mind. Yunho. It suits him, somehow.

You take a moment to clear your throat. “Well, Yunho,” you say, meeting his gaze. “Just so we’re clear—this seat is mine.”

His grin only widens. “We’ll see.”

The fourth day, you tell yourself, is going to be different.

Not because you’re going to get all worked up over a chair again. No, you’ve got things to do. Things a collegiate student has got to do; assignments to complete. You’re here for a productive study session.

Except, when you round that last corner again, Yunho is already there.

He’s sitting in your seat and is wearing his signature smirk when he sees you approaching.

“You’re slacking,” he says, sipping his iced coffee. “I expected better.”

You exhale through your nose, leveling him with a look. “I’m not here for games today.”

He raises an eyebrow, acting surprised. “Oh? Then what brings you to these parts?”

You wordlessly pull out the infamous chair across from him and sit down, dropping your bag onto the table. “I have work to do.”

Yunho leans forward, his hands cupping his chin as he looks up to you. “How tragic.”

You ignore him, taking out your laptop and flipping it open. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t even pretend to do anything productive. Instead, he stays in the same state he was, his cheeks pressed against the palms of his hands. He just stays there for a minute, and then, his pen clicks.

You don’t acknowledge it at first.

His pen continues to click.

But you keep typing.

And so does the clicking.

You pause. Inhaling sharply, forcing yourself to stay composed, and then resume your work.

A thumb presses down on the end of his pen a few more times and the clicks practically echo through your ears. You can only take so much of it. You slap your hand down on the table, making the pen jump from his grasp. “Do you have an actual reason to be here, or are you just here to irritate me?”

Yunho blinks. Then he grins. “Oh, I definitely have work to do.”

“...Then do it.”

He shrugs. “I work better with background noise.”

You let out a short and dry laugh, almost sounding strained. “Right. And I’m supposed to believe that?”

He tilts his head, clearly entertained by what you had to say. “What, you think I just came here to mess with you, someone I met only three days ago?”

“Yes.”

He scoffs before placing a hand over his chest in dramatics. “I am appalled by your false ideologies.”

You roll your eyes, turning back to your laptop. “If you have actual work, do it. Otherwise, find someone else to annoy.”

“Tempting,” he says, “but no one else reacts quite as such as you.”

You make it a point to ignore him, willing yourself to focus on the assignment. For a few minutes, it works, it’s quiet, save for the faint sounds of typing and shuffling pages behind you. You start to think maybe, just maybe, you’ll get some work done today.

Then he speaks again.

“I think you should take a break.”

You don’t stop typing, you don’t even look up. “I’ve been working for ten minutes.”

“Exactly. I think you’re overworking yourself.”

Your lips pressed together in a straight, thin line. “You just want me to stop working so you can bother me more.”

“Maybe,” he admits. Then after a beat, “Or maybe I just think it’s a little unfair that we’re sitting here and not talking.”

You finally glance at him, skeptical, wary. “Why do you want to talk to me so badly?”

He sits and acts as if he’s thinking hard on the topic, going far enough to point a finger to his lips as his eyes furrow into each other, like he’s deep in thought. He seemed to enjoy this. Humming, he says “Maybe because you’re the only person in this library that looks personally offended by my being here.”

You scowl. “I’m not offended. Just… mildly inconvenienced.”

“Ah, so you do like me then.”

You scoff, turning back to your laptop. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Yunho.”

He hums, seemingly satisfied. “Oh, so now you’re calling me by my name?”

You don’t respond, instead pretending to type something important. Yunho chuckles softly before reaching for his coffee, taking a slow, deep sip as he watches you with an amused glint in his eyes.

Eventually, his eyes shifted from you, to your laptop, he appeared to be tuning into the sound of the keys clacking, one after the other. And from the laptop, his eyes followed to the drink you brought with. A sixteen ounce iced strawberry lemonade mixed with black tea and popping boba. The exact order stickered onto the side of the cup with your name scribbled to the left. The exact same one from the days before.

Eventually, he followed your lead and did his own studying, both of you working silently away. The minutes continued on as the two of you were engulfed in your academics, until eventually the library closed for the day, the two of you heading your separate ways.

You’re already running late, which never happens. Usually, you’re the first one at the library, tucked into your usual spot before the place fills up. But today, Thirty minutes were stolen from you. You were in your sweatpants, and barely awake. And of course, as you rounded the corner, the first thing you see when you walk in is Yunho—leaning into the chair, looking up from his laptop.

“Thought I’d see you eventually,” he says, casually stirring his drink in his hand. “Here.” he continues as he pushes a familiar pink drink your way.

You blink at him. “You- you ordered for me?”

Yunho shrugs, just pushing the cup even further across the table. “You’re never this late. Figured something tragic must’ve happened, like, maybe you overslept for the first time in your life.”

You narrowed your eyes, inspecting the label. Sure enough, it’s exactly what you would have ordered given the chance. “How would you even know what I get?”

“Habit of mine,” he says, like it’s obvious. “I pay attention.”

You let out a breath of air, sliding into the chair across from him and flipping open your laptop. “That’s a little creepy.”

“Oh definitely.” He takes a sip of his drink, then gestures at your outfit with an amused look. “Gotta say, sweatpants are a new look for you.”

You just groan. “Don’t start.”

“No, I mean it,” he says, leaning back, his grin only widening. “It’s a good look on you.”

You pause. Blinking at him again. He isn’t teasing—well, maybe a little—but there’s something fairly effortless about the way he says it that makes your face warm, just a little. It’s either the sheer confidence of it or the fact that it’s coming from him, of all people. However, you are determined not to let him get the upper hand, you roll your eyes and turn your attention to your laptop. “What are you pretending to work on today?”

“Same thing as you.”

Your lips pulled to one side, almost frowning. “What?”

“We’re in the same class, genius.”

Your brain practically stutters. “No we’re not—”

“East wing, big lecture hall, right? Got to be at least two hundred students? You sit near the front.”

You hesitate for a moment before you nod.”

Yunho raises a brow, looking a little too pleased with himself. “Exactly. I sit further back.”

You stare at him, trying to process this information. “You’ve been in my class this whole time?”

He nods, tapping his fingers against the table. “Guess you just never noticed.”

Your cheeks flushed a rosy color again. You go to open your mouth, then close it again in a hurry. You don’t know why you’re feeling so oddly flustered. “Well, sorry, but I actually pay attention to the professor, not the people behind me.”

Yunho chuckles. “Yeah, I noticed.”

Something about the way he says it—lighthearted, so amused, but also kind of observant—it makes your stomach continue to twist in a weird way. Has he been noticing you this whole time? Shaking the thought away, you change the subject. “Alright, so what’s the assignment this time?”

“The paper. The one due next week.”

You groan yet again, rubbing your temples in slight pain of the topic. “Right. That one.”

Yunho tilts his head. “Don’t tell me you haven’t started.”

Oh, I’ve started,” you mutter. “Doesn’t mean I’m happy about it.”

He chuckles, nodding in a quiet understanding before he talks again. “Yeah, I get that. I’m still trying to wrap my head around half the material myself/”

You glance at him, curiosity now piqued. “You don’t get it?”

“Not all of it,” he admits, spinning the pen effortlessly between his fingers. It almost seemed dwarfed in his hand. “Takes me a while to really absorb everything. That’s why I usually keep studying after the library closes.”

You blink, taking in the almost shocking information. “Wait—you study after the library closes?”

Yunho shrugs. “Yeah. Just go back to my dorm and keep going until it just sticks.”

Something about that makes you pause. You’ve never really thought about how he works, you always assumed he was the kind of person who breezed through everything, given his calm and collected demeanor. The idea that he has to put in extra effort, that he stays up late grinding through the material, makes you look at him differently. “I didn’t know you studied that hard,” you say.

Yunho tilts his head sideways, leaning in. His head perched on his left hand whilst his right continues bobbing the pen back and forth. “Some of us aren’t naturally geniuses.”

You huff a small laugh in retort. “You could’ve asked for help, you know.”

He stares back at you before letting his lips twitch upwards. “Oh? And miss out on all of this? Nah.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s something about the exchange that feels a little different. Less like your usual bickering, there’s a little something more to his teasing this time, even if it’s small.

The thought lingers as you turn back to your laptop, typing out a few sentences before glancing at him again. He’s still spinning his pen, deep in thought, lips slightly pursed. He must sense you watching him because he looks up, eyes meeting yours in a way that makes your breath catch for just a second.

He tilts his head. “What?”

You shake your head quickly, looking away. “Nothing.”

There’s a pause. And then, “You know, if you’re feeling generous, you could help me study sometime. You know, you do owe me a drink.”

You glance back at him, raising a brow. “After the library closes?”

His lips quirk up. “That is, if you’re up for it.”

A small silence settles between the two of you. He’s sitting there with a grin on his face, not the usually shit-eating one, but an easy one, something that makes you feel uncomfortably calm. You tap your finger against your laptop, considering the offer.

“Maybe,” you say. “If you promise to stop making fun of my sweatpants.”

His grin grows a little deeper. “No promises.”

You roll your eyes yet again, but your lips twitch up despite your knowledge. The assignment still looms over you, and you know there’s work to be done, but for now, maybe you could let it wait. There’s always time to study after the library closes.

#jeong yunho #yunho #yunho ff #yunho fanfic #yunho fic #yunho fluff #yunho soft hours #yunho x reader #ateez #ateez ff #ateez fanfic #ateez fic #ateez yunho #ateez fluff #ateez soft hours #ateez soft thoughts

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quokkaholic · 1 day ago

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Aquarium Guy h.j

Warnings/ tags: Pure delulu fluff, gn reader (if you consider guy neutral, which I do obv), little cussing. Minimally proofed

Synopsis: You work for a hobby aquarium store that offers in-home installation. After Han impulse buys a fish tank online, he sets up an appointment with you to help set it up, which leads to many subsequent appointments definitely for the fish and not to have an excuse to see you. (romance anime style with mutual pining and slight angst that could easily be solved by communicating your feelings with nothing but a sweet confession at the end. where all my romance lovers at? 🙋👋)

.° ｡𖦹˚ 𓆝 ｡𖦹°‧.° ｡𖦹˚ 𓆝 ｡𖦹°‧.° ｡𖦹˚ 𓆝 ｡𖦹°‧.° ｡𖦹˚ 𓆝

After loading your supplies into the comically large, industrial strength waggon you have to use to carry all your heavy and expensive equipment and lugging it through the halls of the high class apartment complex, you are out of breath as you press the doorbell outside of the door of the apartment number you have written on crumpled piece of paper in your pocket. The size of the tank and location are all the information you had received form your deadbeat manager leaving you to pack way more fixings than are necessary to ensure the customer had options. The lack of details could very well be due to the customers indecisiveness or simply not knowing enough to have opinions yet, but it's more likely that your manager didn’t even care enough to ask about it. In this job, you are more often than not setting up tanks for people with no experience keeping fish, and many don’t even want to learn; they just want living art in their homes. It gives you a job, but you often end up working with snooty people. You have no reason to expect anything less today. As you wait for the customer to answer the door, you go into customer service mode, thickening your skin in case you are to be barked at and ordered around for the next few hours and going over your script in your head.

A chipper but cautious voice comes from the speaker above the button asking of your identity, and your mind races with uncertainty. Are you at the wrong place? As you reach for the paper with the address in your pocket, you nervously answer,

“This is y/n from The Fish Bowl; I’m here for the appointment booked to this address...”

“Oh shi..” is all you hear before shuffling on the other side of the door, and it is flung open. To your surprise, a breathtaking man in casual attire opens the door completely destroying the image of a crotchety well-to-do you had been preparing for. You’re always a bit nervous about home visits, but the fact that he’s got to be around your age, and his casual demeanor mixed with his kind features, puts you at ease.

“So sorry, please come in! Let me help you.”

“Don’t worry I got it. It's my job” you respond, pulling the cart behind you. The place is decorated simply but it's still homey. He lets you know the tank will be in his room as he leads you there. The space is by no means dirty, but it's obviously lived in, which is honestly nice to see when most of the houses you end up at are sterile and maintained that way as a show of status.

“Sorry it's a mess, I may have forgotten I booked this…” his words trail off with a nervous smile.

“This is NOT dirty; I think your room is very cute and nice, but if you need me to come back another time, that's more than fine. What day would work better for-?” He cuts you off slightly panicky,

“No! No, today is great! Plus you’re already here; I just booked it on impulse and it slipped my mind. I’m sorry, again, but I’m really excited about this!”

“Please stop apologizing! I’m working for you today,” you say as you begin rifling through your supplies, hastily getting to work before you make things even more awkward. Han takes a seat on his bed. You work in silence, removing the basic items to get started with.

“You really think my room is cute?” There's a coyness to his voice.

“For sure! It has a lot of character. I really like that,” you say glazing around the room, eyes landing on stacks of manga, old game consoles, and multiple guitars before landing on the large empty tank resting on a desk along the wall opposite his bed and continuing,

“The aquarium is gonna look really sick in here,” a huge smile spreads across his face,

“That's what I'm saying! My friends think it's just another stupid purchase. I’ll admit, I buy a lot of useless stuff online, but this is not one. It's gonna be legendary.”

Having to help him though the decisions of what style filter and aquascaping he wants, you quickly learn how indecisive Han is. His answers to every question flip flopping back and forth for an eternity with a million questions about your experience and personal tanks and your opinions, often landing on whatever you say you have or like. If he wasn’t so cute and sweet, you’d probably be annoyed by now. His genuine curiosity and lust for knowledge are beyond endearing.

Many of your clients barely speak to you beyond the bare minimum, a lot aren’t even home while you're there, but Han casually lounges in the room chatting away. You can feel him watching your every move; it made you a bit nervous at first, but it quickly became obvious that he is just enthralled by the process, frequently commenting little ‘woah’s and ‘It's just like the video I saw!’

When the set up is done, he helps you fill the tank with water and pack up your equipment. Once the hard work is done, you give him the run down accompanied by the informational pamphlet, and his overflowing excitement is quickly replaced with utter disappointment when you inform him that the tank still isn’t ready, as it needs time to cycle before it's safe for fish. His jaw going slack and eyes bugging when you broke the news.

“I’m so sorry, Sir, I mean, Han,” He had asked you to speak casually with him when he found out you are in fact close in age, causing both your cheeks to slightly heat at you slip of the tongue before you bulldoze right over the awkwardness to continue the conversation,

“My manager should have informed you, I used special substrate and established media in the filter, which should speed up the process, but it could still take up to around 2 weeks,” his big eyes are brimming with sadness, dismay sullying his beautiful face. You just had to do something,

“How about we give it like five or six days and then I can start dropping by daily to test the water, that way we can get you your babies as soon as possible?” at your offer his exuberance returns along with immense gratitude. He tries to be polite and decline your offer, but you can tell it's just a formality, and he's desperate for his tank to be filled. He is a flustered mess when you tell him that what you're offering isn’t a service through your job, but a kindness that you want to provide because he is the best customer you’ve had in a long time, and you are genuinely excited to help him as you enter your personal number into his phone. That evening you receive yet another thanks from Han with details to set up the next time you’ll be over.

Six days later, you are back at the apartment ringing the doorbell. Instead of hearing Han’s cheery voice from the speaker, a more serious and suspicious voice comes out,

“Who are you?”

You weren’t prepared for this. You thought Han would just open the door, as you showed up right at the time he was expecting you. You even got there a bit early and sat in your car to ensure you’d arrive perfectly on time. You weren’t prepared for another introduction; you hadn’t practiced your lines.

“Oh um, I’m the… the aquarium guy?” you stutter out, just trying to say something, so he doesn’t assume you're some freak or solicitor.

“What?” Did he not hear you, or was he genuinely confused by your answer?

“I’m here to test the water of Mr. Han’s aquarium, he should be expecting me” a faint noise of approval is all you hear in response before a shout coming from the other side of the door.

“Mr. Han-yah, the aquarium guy is here!” the unknown tenant yells naggingly into the apartment. Soon the door is pulled open to reveal Han slightly flustered, assumedly he’d run from his room on the other side of the apartment. He introduced you to his roommate who must’ve been the one you spoke to. He was polite but not particularly interested in making conversation, which you appreciated as you were feeling particularly shy after your interaction through the speaker.

The visit was short. You made quick work of testing the water, putting some water in vials and adding the testing solutions before setting the timers and observing the color changes. The awkwardness that dissipated after spending a few hours together almost a week ago has returned, maybe even stronger than when you first met as you guys are in that weird phase when strangers become acquaintances. If it weren’t for Han's persistent curiosity, you probably would've spent the whole ten minutes in uncomfortable silence, but thankfully Han’s mind thirsts for knowledge, and he did not allow a single step in the process go by without asking at least one question. Unfortunately, you had to break the news that the tank was in fact not ready, and break his sweet little heart all over again. It hurt to have to break his spirits once again; you warned him that it probably wouldn't be ready for two weeks, but his excitement, and your unprofessional interest in him, has you continuing to show up at his apartment daily for another week, everyday having to crush his dreams of being a fish dad all over again.

Despite repeatedly dashing his hopes, the visits became something you looked forward to desperately. They were at all hours of the day to meet his complex schedule, but you always made time for him. The quick drive by water tests shifted to prolonged aquaria talks to straight up just hanging out under the guise of work. Even though not all of your meetings were during work hours, a lot of them were; you knew it was wrong to be hanging out on the clock, but one look at Han’s giddy face every time he lays eyes on you makes the guilt disappear instantly. It’s not like you're neglecting any job duties, time you typically would be wasting at the office are now being spent more effectively “building customer relations”. At least that is the answer you had prepared if your manager ever asked what you were doing, but he never did. He could not care less of your whereabouts and was probably happy to have you off his back and out of his hair.

The day after the levels looked correct you arrived bright and early with bags of colorful fish, you had painstakingly helped Han pick out with the help of Lee know. Even as a three man job, it took hours. After all that you ended up with a selection that looked strikingly similar to the set up of one of your community tanks you have set up at home. Even though Lee know acted uninterested, he sat with Han, watching you work and put the finishing touches on the tank before floating the fish. You all spent time gaming as the fish acclimated to the temperature of the tank. Once the temperature was equalized, you began drip-acclimating them to the water parameters. The drips were excessively slow and some would argue, unnecessary as the fish you all chose were on the hardy side to accommodate Han's inexperience, but you were definitely being extra careful, and not just making excuses to spend all day with them. Han ordered you all food, which you overly thanked him for, but he insisted that you deserved it for all your hard work.

When the fish were added and supplies were packed, you talked to Han about tank maintenance, and offered him the tank maintenance package that your work provides. He seemed extremely on board until he made a joking comment,

“I can’t be a single dad of twenty! You have to help me care for my babies,” he commands with a silly grin.

“Oh han,” you fein condescension “I was promoted beyond sucking up fish poop months ago; I’ll send one of my underlings to do that,” you jest, but it is not as well received as you would have hoped, Han’s face drooping for a moment before continuing the jesting conversation,

“Underling? What are you an anime villain?”, he asks. You pause for a moment before answering with a mischievous smirk,

“Definitely not…” His acting is on point as he acts out the dramatic reveal of the big bad. The slight disappointment still barely visible in his face as he continues,

“Maybe you could just teach me how to do it myself! I’ll figure out something for when I’m traveling when the time comes; I'll hold off for now. So you just do set ups or..?”

“Yeah mainly setups and upgrades,” you say trying to maintain familiarity, but it is obvious his mind is slowly slipping somewhere else. You quickly say your goodbyes as it's starting to get dark, and you still have to drop off the equipment back at the office.

The next day, you take some time to yourself and have a bit of a slow morning since you worked late last night. When you arrive at the shop, you settle in checking emails sipping on your fancy latte you actually had the time to make. You deserved a treat. You couldn’t quite pin down the reason, but the day felt a bit lackluster. Maybe you slept weird, maybe it was just one of those days, or maybe you didn’t have a meeting at a cute boys apartment to look forward to. After responding to the miscellaneous messages, you check your schedule to see if your manager booked you out for anything coming up. There were a few installs you knew you had coming up, but a highlighted date for your soonest appointment next week was new. After clicking on it and reading the description, a smile tugged at your lips, your heart raced, and the day seemed a bit less dim. Han was on your books for a lighting upgrade.

You looked forward to seeing him all week. You’ve gotten close enough that you will text about stuff unrelated to work, but neither of you are comfortable extending the conversation, so it usually just starts off with a fish tank questions and goes back and forth a bit before reaching a natural stopping point and then lies dormant until he sends you more questions or update pictures on the fish he insists are your god children, frequently adding that they “miss you very much”.

When you arrive at the apartment you have become all too familiar with, Lee know is once again the one to answer the door, which you have come to realize is the norm, and he shouts that the ‘aquarium guy is back’. He has taken quite fondly to calling you the silly name you gave yourself in a flustered panic, even going as far a s saving it as your contact in his phone. You question if he even knows your real name, yet he treats you like a friend nonetheless. Your lighting install takes little more than an hour, but you end up staying for a few; Lee know cooking you all lunch, before they are the ones who have to cut the hangout short as they have some appointments.

The next day, you follow your usual routine of checking emails and then schedule to see Han has booked you again to install a CO2 injector. You were very clear in explaining he didn’t need one because his plants are beginner friendly, but you won’t pass on another chance to see him. Despite being more than happy to keep this up, there's a nagging in your head reminding you that it can’t go on forever.

A few days later, you have to go to Han’s house late in the evening, as it was the soonest free time he had that you were available. You offered to push it back a few days, but he vehemently refused the rescheduling. When you arrive, Han is looking a little less put together than usual, sweats and an oversized hoodie with his hair pushed back in a ball cap and barefaced. He must’ve been at practice; he looks so exhausted. Feeling bad for keeping him up, you have to keep reminding yourself that he insisted that you be there. He tried to apologize for his appearance, but you shut him up quickly with a string of compliments that flew from your lips before you could think twice. He just looked so soft and cuddly which is only exaggerated by his flushing cheeks and ears. Yanking yourself swiftly from your admiring trance to avoid getting locked in it for the rest of the evening, you get to work hooking up valves and tubing before dialing in the right amount of gas to be released.

Finally connecting it to the lighting timer system. Usually, you’d take your sweet time chatting Han up while you work or just rush through the install to have more time to purely hangout, but since it was already so late, you opt to work in concentrated silence, only talking to feed Han information about his new system. After double and triple checking that the flow of gas is appropriate and there are no leaks in any of the connections, you hastily gather your stuff hoping to leave Han to get some rest after his ling day. He is already dozing off in a beanbag in the corner, a vintage handheld gaming system resting in his lap still playing idle music. You whisper a goodbye over your shoulder heading out the door, but before you cross the doorway back into the hallway, calloused fingertips wrap around your wrist.

“Wait...” his speech is broken up by a yawn, using his free hand to rub the sleep from his eyes,

“Let me take you to dinner?” it's less of a question and more of an order.

“Hannie,” a sweet nickname you’ve subconsciously adopted from Lee know,

“you’re so tired, don’t even try to deny it,” you respond to his ask, accurately predicting his next tactic causing his mouth to close as he swallows his words and contemplates a backup plan,

“Fine, I am tired, but I’m also sooo hungry,” he pleads with puppy dog eyes, dramatically gripping his stomach, trying to pull the sympathy card, but that ends up backfiring, as you’re now concerned that he isn’t taking care of himself.

“You haven’t eaten?! Come on man!” chastising him in a joking tone. His imploring face turns to one of shock as he goes to defend himself,

“I rushed home after we finished to see you! I bet you haven’t had dinner either!” His read is valid, pointing out your hypocrisy. If his comment about skipping out on food to see you wasn’t enough to drain the sternness from your tone, your embarrassment over your sanctimonious scolding was. Sighing, you relent,

“Fine, but you aren’t calling a ride, I’ll drive.”

Dinner with Han was the highlight of your week. You try not to think about it, but recently he has become the highlight of every week. The conversation is pleasant as ever; Han's silly nature has you sending jokes back and forth filling the nearly empty restaurant with bellowing laughter, even earning some snickers from the older cashier/server you could only assume is the owner or at least related to them. At one point, you even choke on your soda when Han made some offhand, absurd comment causing you to spit the drink, luckily, into a napkin and not his face or food, earning concerned looks from the few other tables and another lambasting from you. He insisted on paying for your meal, making it feel even more like a date, which only made your heart sink more as you laid in bed reflecting on the evening, once the post-date high wore off after dropping him off. There was only one upgrade left that you offer, and you had a strong inclination that the next time you worked, there would be that last appointment made at that cute man’s apartment.

Unsurprisingly, there was a new appointment with the all too familiar address for your earliest availability, but the whole calendar had been cleared after that. You would ask your manager about it, but he wasn’t in the store, which wasn’t out of the ordinary. You asked some of the other aquarium techs, but they hadn’t seen him either. It wasn’t till you entered the customer facing portion of the store and spoke to the cashier that they broke the news that your shit-head manager was finally canned for not completing job duties. While it was long overdue and definitely for the best for the company, you couldn't help but worry that the replacement would be stricter on your scheduling and keep a closer eye on your whereabouts, but that shouldn’t really be a problem after your appointment with Han tomorrow. After a quick phone call with upper management, you realize it actually won’t be a concern at all, as you’ve been promoted, you are the replacement.

You toyed with the idea of cancelling on Han; if you keep pushing it off, there would never be a last booking. You could save the final install for when you were ready to say goodbye, but you knew that day wouldn’t come. Plus if you pushed it off too much, they would probably just give the appointment to someone else so you can focus on your new managerial duties. Han had obviously become more than a client, not even the most delusional, irrational person could deny your growing feeling for him. It would be better to just rip the bandage off and move on. You steel yourself as you ring the doorbell one last time with your stupid cart filled with the supplies for a small brine shrimp hatchery, so he can have live food for his spoiled babies.

Soon after letting you in, Han had to take a phone call, leaving you alone in his room. You were simultaneously grateful for not having to navigate telling him that you won’t be seeing him anymore just yet and sad that your last hangout with him was sabotaged by some important conversation he just had to have right now when he should be hovering over you gushing about all the documentaries he has been watching or games he's been playing. When he finally enters the room, he finds you gathering your things.

“Damn, you're already finished?”

“No worries, Mr. Han. I’m all done here; you've got the whole shabang. Very jealous. Your fish are very lucky to have you,” you say, trying to cover your sadness with some joking sass, but it comes out a bit more cold than you would’ve liked, returning to formalities trying to solidify the customer and worker dynamic in your mind. The tightness in your chest making your trash acting skills even worse. Trying not to look his way for too long, especially due to the puzzled expression written all over his face as he tries to figure out what has come over you, you keep your head buried in your bag.

“I’m sorry, I wouldn't have taken the call if I didn’t have to,” he apologizes trying to solve your sour mood.

“No! It's fine, really! Please don’t be sorry; just feel like I missed out a little…” you confess; you are upset but not at him, and you can’t leave him thinking he had done something wrong. At your words the smile he had greeted you with returns to his lips,

“I’ll just have to bother you extra next time,” he says in a mocking tone. Face scrunching as you search for the words for a moment,

“Like I said, you’ve gotten all the upgrades available…” letting your words trail off, hoping he would put two and two together.

“Oh… well…I think Lee know said he wants a tank in his room for enrichment for the cats, or... maybe we could put one in the living room; that would look cool, right?” He is racking his brain for ideas to keep you around. You force a smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes as you relay the ‘good’ news,

“I’ve actually been promoted again. This is my last appointment as an aquarium tech.” His face drops reminding you of when you denied him fish all those weeks ago, and if you thought it was heartbreaking then, the look on his face is practically earth shattering. He’s done trying to cover his motives, he decides before speaking softly,

“I don’t want to stop seeing you” his words are barely audible. Just as your words shocked him into confession, his do the same to you.

“I’d gladly go back to sucking up fish poop to keep spending time with you,” your admission triggers such a strong grin from him that it pinches his misty eyes causing the tears to gather in the corners threatening to spill down his pink cheeks that match your own. After a deep breath with just the trace of a quiver, he makes a proposition,

“How about you start coming over as my,” he pauses looking for the right word,

”friend,” he lands on skeptically, like he was planning on saying something else,

“not my aquarium guy?”

.° ｡𖦹˚ 𓆝 ｡𖦹°‧.° ｡𖦹˚ 𓆝 ｡𖦹°‧.° ｡𖦹˚ 𓆝 ｡𖦹°‧.° ｡𖦹˚ 𓆝

A.n- yes is do keep fish, how’d you know? This was inspired by the Han and Bang chan interview on Jaefriends when Han admits to being a big online/impulse shopper or “pushover consumer”. This took me so long to write; smut remains so much easier for me to write. I guess it's easier to be horny and depraved than to be wholesome and vulnerable. will consult the council on this one.

-mo 🐠

pic creds: pinterest x x

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rainbow-rey · 1 day ago

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Shameless - chap. 2

Sukuna x Reader - MDNI!!

Summary: You didn't expect to end up under that guy you met on your weekend getaway, but you're glad you did.

Tags: reader-insert, pov second person, p in v, creamp/e, size k/nk, multiple org/sms, phone s/x, mutual m/sturbation, squ/rting

Part 2 of a series - Full thing posted on ao3 as a longfic

You can’t sleep. It’s 4 a.m., and you’ve been rolling around for hours. You’re desperate for something. Some sort of release, an escape from the late-night thoughts you’ve been having about a certain someone.

You finally give up trying to go to sleep, and sit up in your bed. You pull your dildo out of your bedside drawer as you unlock your phone and open Twitter. You open your bookmarks and scroll through, trying to find a good video… And you just about find one, but you get a notification.

sukuna 🍆💦 Hey You up?

Ah. Just the person you were trying to forget.

you yeah whats going on

sukuna 🍆💦 I miss you + I’m horny

You almost choke on your own spit.

you same what should we do about that?

sukuna 🍆💦 Hm I can think of a few things

sukuna 🍆💦 started a FaceTime call.

“Hi,” you squeak out. You’re in a low-cut tank top and pyjama pants, no bra. The usual sleepwear.

Sukuna is shirtless.

You didn’t expect the sight to affect you so much, but god, he’s hot. His face is effortlessly beautiful—jaw is strong and defined, tattoos framing his face powerfully. And his body, fuck.

His shoulders are broad, chest wide. You can’t see anything below his armpits, which may be for the better. You would probably cum on the spot if you did.

He probably noticed your drooling, because he smirks. “Like what you see?”

You can’t stop yourself from nodding.

“You wanna see more?”

You gulp. You’re unbelievably turned on right now. “Y-yeah. Sure.” You’re both mature adults. Who can make mature decisions. But the mere sight of him, all exposed, has you picturing things you probably shouldn’t be thinking about.

Your brain starts going haywire when he tilts his camera to show him sliding down the waistband of his pants. His happy trail leads to a patch of hair—which is somehow also pink. You wouldn’t have thought that would be a turn on, but if it’s Sukuna, anything goes.

He pulls his pants down to his knees, showing his massive erection through his boxers. There’s a wet patch near where his tip is, leaving the grey material almost black.

“Told you I was horny,” he says, and you can hear the smirk in his voice.

Your voice quivers when you laugh. “Can I ask you something kind of weird?”

“Of course. What’s up?”

“H-How big is it?” Is that an acceptable thing to ask someone?

It must be, because Sukuna answers easily. “Six and a half inches.”

You almost choke. “Isn’t a normal length, like, three?”

“No idea. Have you ever been with a guy this big?”

Oh. You forgot to mention something earlier. “I, uh, haven’t been with any guy.”

Now it’s his turn to choke. “You’ve been with girls before, though, right?”

You shake your head. “I’m a virgin. Definitely not inexperienced, just not with real people.”

He groans. “You’re saying you were gonna let me be your first?”

“Well, first cock. But yeah.”

“Shit. Would you still let me, if I was with you now?”

Your abdomen tingles. “Probably. Fuck, I wish you were with me. I’m so horny.”

You hear Sukuna’s staggered breathing in the mic. And you could swear his erection grew a little bit.

“To make up for my not being there, could I help you another way?” Fuck. Is he really suggesting what you think he is?

“What kind of help are we talking?” Your speech is quiet, now, barely a whisper.

“I think you know, doll.”

“What if I don’t? I need some details…” Where is your confidence coming from all of a sudden?

“I want you to fuck yourself the same way I would if I was there. Do you have any toys with you?”

Your cunt aches at his words. “Fuck. Y-Yes. I have a dildo.”

“Good. Don’t use it yet. First, touch your tits for me. Be nice and gentle, but squeeze them a little.”

You rest your phone so that your camera captures your whole body, and you do as he asks. Your hands start groping your tits through your tank top, massaging them as you go. Your fingers graze over your nipples, rubbing and pinching them slightly. You bite your lip, imagining that it’s Sukuna’s hands roaming your body.

He starts palming himself through his boxers, and it all sends a shiver down your spine. “Good girl,” he says. “If I was with you, I’d suck them till they were swollen. I’d work my way down, too; your thighs would be purple when I finished. Touch your thighs for me, baby. Run your hands all the way to your cunt.”

“Fuck, I wish you were with me,” you whine, doing as he instructed. Your fingers trail closer and closer to where you need them the most, but you hold back for now.

“Once I get my test results back, I’ll make up for this. Promise. Gonna make you feel so good.” Sukuna groans as he adds more pressure on his ever-growing boner. “Take off your underwear, and I’ll take off mine? I don’t think I can hold back anymore.”

“Uh huh,” you nod eagerly, sliding your panties to your ankles. You watch in anticipation as Sukuna’s erection springs free—and it’s big. Bigger than you’ve ever seen. You have no idea how it’s supposed to fit inside you… not that it’ll stop you from imagining. You can feel slick gushing out of your hole as you picture his cock fucking up into your swollen cunt over and over and over and—

“Fuck, I think I might cum just from thinking about you. Can’t wait ‘till I see you next.”

“Neither can I,” you sigh. “Need you so bad.”

“God, you’re going to be the death of me. Touch yourself, doll.”

You whimper as you drag one finger down your thigh. You slowly dip it into your pussy, soaking the tip in your juices, before pulling it out. You rub soft circles on your clit, letting out little moans. Sukuna has started stroking his cock, and you wish it was you. You stroke yourself faster, thinking about how his long fingers felt on your cunt.

“You ready to use that toy?” he asks. When you nod, he continues. “Lick it, get it all wet.”

You do as he asked, slurping the dildo the way you would if it was Sukuna. You can see him stroking himself faster on your phone screen, groaning louder as you take the silicone as far down as you can. By now you’re sure it’s soaked, so you release it with a pop. You line the toy up with your entrance. “May I?” you ask Sukuna.

“Fuck. Go ahead, doll.”

At his words, you push the dildo past your puffy lips. It slides into your cunt with no friction, and the sound of it squelching is sinful. You let out a soft moan as you shove the whole thing inside, the balls pushing against your ass. You leave the toy inside you, clenching so it doesn’t slip out, while you lick the tips of your middle fingers on one hand. You bring your clean hand to the dildo, pulling it out slowly, as you bring your fingers to your clit. You rub gently while you begin thrusting in and out of your soaked cunt.

“Ah, f-fuck,” you moan, the noises your pussy is making combined with the feelings driving you mad. You stroke your clit faster, matching the speed you’re fucking yourself with. “W-wish this was you,” you whimper, and that sets Sukuna off.

His hand jerks faster and sloppier, and he lets out a loud cry as spurts of cum erupt from his cock. “Fuck,” he sighs, shoulders relaxing. He turns to watch as you near the edge as well, fucking yourself rapidly. “Keep going, baby. You’re doing such a good job.”

“O-oh, fuck, I’m coming!” you cry out, the dildo bruising your g-spot over and over. “Ah!”

“That’s it. Cum for me, doll,” Sukuna rasps, sending you over the edge.

You cum on the toy, screaming Sukuna’s name and coating the silicone in your slick. You deflate after, chest heaving. “Fuck, Sukuna… I’ve never cum that hard in my life.”

“I’ll beat this one,” he says with a grin. “Are you free Saturday?”

—

It’s Saturday. Finally. You’re picking out an outfit to go to Sukuna’s place. It doesn’t matter what you wear, really, considering it’ll end up on his bedroom floor anyways, but a good outfit means a good mood. You settle on a black t-shirt with grey sweats. You throw on a lip gloss, some sneakers, and a purse, before heading out.

Sukuna’s front door opens about a second after you knock. He greets you with a grin, bending down to plant a peck on your lips. “Hey.”

“Hi,” you say. “Oh, we’re matching!” He’s wearing a black shirt with grey sweatpants of his own.

He laughs, pulling you inside. His apartment is arguably tidier than yours. He brings you to the couch, sitting with you.

“I’ve missed you,” he murmurs in your ear. The warmth of his breath sends shivers down your spine.

“I missed you too. Haven’t stopped thinking about you all week.”

“Neither have I… Came on my hand to the thought of you every day.” You blush, and he pulls you closer to him, taking your purse and putting it on his side table. He presses a soft kiss to the nape of your neck, making you shudder.

You can feel yourself getting wetter as he continues kissing your neck, licking and sucking on the skin. Your head falls back against the armrest and he shifts to be on top of you. One of his hands threads through your hair, while the other trails down your body.

He cups your breast, squeezing gently and rubbing over your nipple with his thumb. You arch into his touch, whimpering softly. “Fuck, I need you so bad…”

Sukuna groans. “You wanna go to the bedroom, doll?”

You nod, and he picks you up effortlessly. He carries you to his room and lies you down on his bed, before claiming your mouth with his own. Your lips part as you moan, and his tongue slides in. His hands roam your body again, this time sliding under your top. He grabs your tits, massaging them both. He presses his bulge into you, grinding against your cunt. You whimper into his mouth.

“Please…”

“Please what?”

“Fuck me, ‘Kuna… Need you so bad,” you whine.

Sukuna obliges with a smirk. He pulls your sweats and panties down to your ankles, then slides one finger through your puffy folds. He collects your slick, bringing it up to your clit and circling it slowly. The sensations drive you crazy.

He sucks on two of his fingers and inserts them gently into your cunt, hitting your g-spot with ease. He fucks little moans out of you as he thrusts his fingers and rubs your clit. Just as you’re about to cum, he pulls away. He licks his fingers clean and pulls down his own pants, freeing his erection.

And fuck, it’s even bigger in person. It’s perfect: long and girthy, with two veins running along it. You can’t help but reach out to touch it, and he groans on contact. You wrap your fingers around it, massaging the head with your thumb. You stroke his cock twice before he pulls your hand off.

“If you don’t stop, I’m gonna cum, doll. Let me at least get inside you first.”

He spits out a glob of saliva, landing right on your swollen clit. He uses his thumb to smear it over your nub and pussy lips. His fingers part your folds gently, the cool air hitting your dripping wet hole. Your cunt aches from all his teasing, hole clenching around nothing.

“Please, ‘Kuna, fuck me already!” you whine.

“Getting impatient already, hm?” Sukuna grabs his cock—you don’t know if you’ll ever get used to how fucking huge it is— and slaps his tip on your clit. You moan at the sensation, pain mixing with pleasure.

He lines up his leaking dick with your slit, gliding it up and down your puffy folds. He pushes in a little but pulls away, and you whimper.

He makes up for it by quickly shoving his cock into your pussy. He can only get about an inch in before meeting a tight ring of muscle, and he slowly pushes the rest of his length through.

Your walls feel like they might break; he’s just so massive. He’s the only one who can fill you this much. Your toys have nothing on Sukuna Ryoumen.

He juts his hips carefully, thrusting inch by inch into your abused hole. He doesn’t stop fucking into you until he’s balls-deep, and neither of you are quite sure how he fit. Luckily, he gives you a minute to adjust to his size before he pulls back out.

He leaves only the tip in, and you realize that you’ll never be truly satisfied unless he’s sheathed inside you.

He slowly pushes all the way back in, veins hitting every possible spot in your cunt. He begins a slow pace of thrusting in and out of your sopping pussy.

Every time he fucks into you, your juices squelch audibly. It sounds just like how it does when you’re fucking yourself, but it feels ten times better. Especially when he tilts his hips ever-so-slightly upwards, so you can feel him bruising that one spot inside you.

Eventually, Sukuna speeds up his pace, finally fucking you fast, hard, and deep. You’re not sure how you haven’t cum yet, but even when you do, you know you’ll be able to go for longer. His thrusts feel so good that you think you might cry.

You know it’s over when he brings his calloused thumb back to your clit. At this point, your entire vulva is coated in juices, and your swollen bud is no exception. His finger rubs back and forth, friction a forgotten feeling. You don’t know if it could get any better than this.

It takes you maybe ten seconds of him rubbing your clit for you to start convulsing around his cock. Your cunt squeezes so hard that he can’t keep thrusting; your lips just suck him back in. His balls tighten and he spills himself inside you, painting your insides with rope after rope of his cum.

Sukuna, still buried deep inside you, lies down on top of your torso. He places kisses all over your face, licking and sucking your neck and chest in a way you know will leave marks.

“Your pussy feels like it was made for me, doll,” he mumbles in your ear.

“I think it was.” You’re only half joking—the way your bodies fit so perfectly together is nothing short of divine intervention. And your lips. And hands. And genitals.

You suspect Sukuna Ryoumen was put on this Earth just to make you feel good… And he’s doing a good job of it so far.

Right as the thought pops into your head, it appears to pop into Sukuna’s mind as well. He takes a break from leaving hickeys on your chest to cup your chin and capture your lips with his own.

Your mouths dance together, tongues intertwining. He traces delicate fingers along your stomach, waist, hips, all the way back down to your sex. He hasn’t pulled out of you yet, and you feel his cock harden slowly in your walls.

“You ready for more?” he asks, pausing his hands before they actually make contact with your cunt.

“Uh huh. Fill me up with your cum, ‘Kuna.”

Your words are the green light he needed, and his fingers meet your swollen clit. He swipes over your wet nub while you feel his dick swell. Your cunt gushes, clenching around him when his veins press against your g-spot.

Sukuna pulls almost all the way out of you, leaving just his throbbing tip inside. His cock is coated with a sticky white mixture of your fluids that serves as lube. He thrusts into you slowly, both of you listening to the squelch that rings out every time he pushes into your cunt. Your soft moans and his laboured pants blend in as well, and the room echoes with sex.

“You feel so good, baby,” he groans in between thrusts. His dick overwhelms your insides as he picks up his pace, every inch of him pressing into every inch of you. He continues to stimulate your clit, rubbing back and forth to match how fast he pounds into you.

It starts carefully and gently, but he eventually moves his hips with a speed and force that has the bed creaking from underneath you. You let out moans that you never would have expected to leave your lips.

“Fuck, ‘Kuna, you’re too big!” you whine.

Sukuna chuckles and you clench around him a bit tighter. He pauses his thrusts, eliciting a disappointed whimper from you, before he flips you over onto all fours. “Such a good girl,” he murmurs, running a hand down your back. He cups one of your ass cheeks and squeezes. “Taking my cock so well.” He shoves his dick back inside you.

“Ah! S-so full!” you cry. “Can’t take it, ‘s too much!”

His hands take a bruising hold on your hips as he starts to pound into you, this time faster and harder than before. His balls slap against your clit, fucking little moans out of you each time.

“So perfect for me,” he says with a groan. “Milking me with that little cunt.”

Sukuna pulls your hips back to meet his thrusts, his fat tip meeting the back wall of your pussy. He feels so good you just want to be consumed by him.

“F-fuck, ‘Kuna, you feel too good! ‘M gonna cum!”

It takes one deep, hard push for you to meet your climax. You scream as your legs wobble and your pussy squeezes his dick tighter than you thought possible. You squirt all over his balls and thighs—you didn’t even know you could do that!

He holds onto you tighter, fucking you through your high. When he reaches his climax, he locks your hips together, and you can feel his balls pulse as they empty into you. His hot cum floods your pussy, joining the load he dumped in you earlier. Your arms give in, letting you collapse on the mattress.

Sukuna lets go of your hips and pries his cock out of your cunt’s death grip. “So good for me.” He rolls you onto your back. He captures your lips in his, nearly devouring you with his kiss. “So fucking good.”

The two of you lay in silence, breaths syncing as you recover from your highs.

“I think I want you to get me pregnant,” you whisper.

He laughs. “Let me take you on a date, first, doll.”

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thekristen999 · 1 day ago

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I haven't been around much because RL hasn't been kind, but I'm trying to get back into my happy places. I'm sorry, I haven't responded to many people!

My goal is to get my crash fic done before the premiere. Previous sneak peaks here.

Here's a new snippet :)

Eddie bit his lip. Buck’s face was covered with streaks of dirt and dried blood, and there were bits of leaves in his hair. “I think you should sit down and take a break.”

“What?” Buck said frantic. “No, we need to find the team. I’m sure they’re close.”

Given Buck’s state of flight fight, Eddie knew he would not let go of the idea of a rescue unit. There was no use arguing, but he could use it to his advantage. “Buck, we shouldn't move around. You know the number rule in search and rescue is to stay in one spot. If we keep moving, we’ll mess up the grid search.”

Buck blinked wearily at him. “But, you’re hurt and you need medical attention.”

“I’m right here. I’m fine.” Of course, he wasn’t in great shape and if Buck wasn't altered, he’d see right through it. Eddie dug his fingers into Buck’s shoulder. “I’m injured, but I’m stable. I’m more worried about you.”

“About me?”

“Yes.” Eddie stared at Buck’s confused eyes, hoping he conveyed every ounce of truth. “I always worry about you. It’s my job.”

It was much more, but Eddie couldn’t explore those feelings yet.

“And it’s my job to look after you. Always.”

Eddie swallowed against the sudden lump in his throat. Buck’s eyes were a window to his soul and it was showing him so many truths.

“Buck. You’ve always had my back. It’s one of the few things in life I can count on.” He watched Buck’s bottom lip wobble, Eddie squeezing his arms again in reassurance. “Now come on, let’s get off our feet.”

“But we have to get you to Chris, he needs to know…he needs to know…”

Buck's concussion continued to impede him. Eddie needed to get him comfortable. He needed to shift his focus.

“We have to sit down.” If they didn’t sit down soon, Eddie wasn’t sure how much longer he’d be able to remain on his feet. “Buck,” Eddie fought against a wave of dizziness. “If I don’t sit down…”

Buck’s eyes got large like he finally got a good look at Eddie and realized the state he was in. His hands clutched Eddie’s shoulders. “Yeah, okay. Sure.”

Going from standing to sitting was not easy or rewarding. Once they both started to lower themselves to the ground it was as if their bodies finally gave up the fight against gravity, and they both collapsed.

tagging a few people who might be interested:

@andavs @hippolotamus @exhuastedpigeon @mellaithwen

@spaceprincessem @spotsandsocks @dangerpronebuddie

@elvensorceress @tizniz @fleurdebeton @ci5mates

@diazsdimples @inell @verylazyanimal @steadfastsaturnsrings

@thebestbooksaround @epicbuddieficrecs @thelikesofus

#buddie #eddie diaz #evan buckley #kristen999writes #crash fic buddie

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pencil-n-pen · 10 hours ago

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I WANT AN INNOCENT LOVE

.☘︎ ݁˖

alexandria! rick grimes x fawn! fem! reader

masterlist | kofi

summary: you’re a new addition to alexandria. Rick’s just looking out for his group. That’s the only reason he finds himself drawn to you. Nothing else.

cw: LEGAL age gap (it is big, i imagine reader in her early 20s) canon typical depictions of violence, Rick is kinda mean to reader at first, Rick kind of struggles with the age gap a little, dom! Rick, slight possessive rick

tags/tropes: shy and skittish reader, she’s not used to dealing with people but she’s not helpless, honestly she’s just a sweet and soft person who became what everyone becomes in the apocalypse, hurt/comfort, insecurity, touch-starved reader a bit, YEARNING, no saviors or whisperers just Rick and everyone living happily in alexandria. Daryl is also here and he’s kind of like ur uncle bc i love daryl and i say so

a/n: i have nothing to say other than this is so insanely self indulgent it’s not even funny. nobody asked for this but writing it has kept me sane while i’m couch ridden. everything is terrible rn but rick grimes <3333

songs i listened to while writing: We'll Never Have Sex by Leith Ross, Work Song by Hozier (Rick's theme song) you were mine by Esha Tewari, Do I Wanna Know- Hozier's Cover, Somethin' Stupid by Nancy & Frank Cinatra, Lover, You Should've Come Over by Jeff Buckley (i'm so not normal about that entire album) Under Your Spell by Snow Strippers, Little Bit by Lykke Li (the original not the remix)

title taken from Under Your Spell by Snow Strippers

₊ ⊹❀

You were just a little thing when you showed up at the gates.

All wide-eyed and skittish at the tree-line, clothes hanging awkwardly off your frame. Scuffed and dirty, when Rick goes up to the tower to scout you out.

You don’t quite come close enough for anyone to get any kind of information on you. Name, age, where you’ve been, what you’re doing at the gates.

These are all questions Rick, as leader, needs answers to.

If he could just convince you to get close enough.

Under different circumstances, he’d just let you do whatever it is you’re planning on doing, but the lurking is starting to make people uneasy. And he figured he ought to do something to ease their concerns. Easiest way is to either get you inside the walls or find answers to those questions.

You’re real good at staying out of reach, though. And you never stay in one place for long. By the time two weeks have gone by, you’ve made it around the entire length of the walls. Just to end up right where you started: the gates.

It’s just past the crack of dawn- dew is still lingering on the plants and grass and the sun’s rays have yet to actually provide warmth. Rick is up, making his rounds and checking in when one of the guards on rotation lets him know that you’re at the gates. Only time you’ve ever been that close.

So they’re opened, and you amble in— light-footed and unsure. Honestly, you remind him a bit of Daryl with your obvious hesitance to be in the company of other people and clear inclination towards nature. But where Daryl is hard edges and reclusiveness, you’re… softer.

A small group of people —curious onlookers, mostly— forms behind Rick as he saunters towards you, and he watches the moment you see the reality of your decision and begin to regret it.

He comes to a stop a few feet away from you, letting the silence hang in the air for a bit.

He finally takes you in with his own two eyes, without the aid of the binoculars, and he examines. Catalogs the nervous twitch of your hands and scuffs and scrapes he can see on the visible scraps of skin. Eyes the way you worry your lip between your teeth and can’t decide if you’re going to keep staring at him or look away- your mind clearly torn between vigilance and submission.

“You finish your tour of Alexandria?” He asks dryly.

You blink up at him, eyes wide. “Are you the leader of this safe-zone?”

He nods. “Sure am.”

You begin fiddling with your fingers absentmindedly. The small motion draws his attention back to your hands, where me notices bandaids practically covering the entire surface of your skin. He files the information away in his head for later.

“Are you currently accepting new members?”

He can’t help but crack a smile at your question. The way you phrase it and your nervous demeanor remind him so much of the times before the dead started walking— you look like a college student looking for a job, not somebody trying to find refuge here, after the end of the world.

“Depends,” He rests his hands on his hips, and he notes the way your eyes dart to the gun at his side before back up to him, “You got any skills to offer? You alone? Or do you got a group waitin’ for you?”

Your lip is raw from where you release it from your teeth.

“I’m really good at mending. I’m a proficient hunter. I can hold my own in a fight. And I’m alone.”

At the admittance of your lack of company, you shift back a few steps, a subtle re-distribution of weight.

Ain’t been socialized a whole bunch, Rick thinks to himself. He’s willing to bet you either don’t have a lot of positive experiences with large groups of people or you just plain ain’t been around em’ much.

He hums. “You killed anybody?”

“Walkers or live?”

“Either.”

You shift your shoulders. He’s starting to wonder just how many nervous actions you have.

“I don’t think anybody lives alone who hasn’t killed walkers.”

“And the living?”

You don’t move, but your eyes look to the ground, not at him.

Shame. Fear.

“Twice.”

“How come?”

“They wanted my supplies. Wanted me dead. I decided I didn’t want to die.”

He looks you over again. You really are a cute little thing. He thinks, absentmindedly in the back of his head, that something like you shouldn’t have bloody, bandaid covered hands. Shouldn’t have a kill count.

But he dismisses the thought. The end of the world leaves no room for those unwilling to do what’s necessary.

He dips his head. “We’ll get you settled in,” He jerks his head to the some of the guys behind him. “They’ll get you sorted out. Get along, now.”

You slink past him, distance carefully measured as you go.

Your eyes don’t quite leave him, though. There’s a moment- either you pause or his mind slows. Maybe a bit of both. But the air stills, and your gaze locks on him for the first time since he saw you, nestled in that tree line. The memory is clear and vivid- the sun shining through the trees, dappling you in shades of amber and grey. And then he’s here, and you’re looking up at him, eyelashes fluttering, and the sun has risen just enough that it casts a similar glow, the only difference now he can see up close just how the light catches on your face, just how he knows your features would look so different, so much softer if you were cleaned, if someone minded the cuts and scrapes.

And then you step away, and he snaps out of his reverie. He blinks a few times at your retreating form, shakes his head, and then busy’s himself with other work. There’s always something to be done.

But no matter how hard he tries, he can’t get the image of you gazing up at him, bathed in the early morning sun out of his mind.

—

A few days pass, and Rick sees little of you. He’s almost positive it’s on purpose. The few times he does see you, you look scared. And then, generally, you manage to make some sort of fleet-footed escape. The repeated spotting and fleeing reminds him of the time he accompanied Daryl on a hunt and startled a doe.

He can’t quite figure out why you’re afraid of him, though. He remembers being fairly decent to you when you arrived, and tried coaxing you towards the gates politely before you’d shown up on your own.

The sight of your scared expression ends up stuck fast in his head, usually super-imposed over the image of you on that morning at the gates. Two different versions of you, neither making any sort of sense.

He decides that it’s probably best that he stick away, if he scares you. You’ll settle, your ruffled feathers’ll smooth.

And he’ll stop thinking about you.

—

Neither do you settle or does he stop thinking about you.

He watches you from a distance, careful. You just… don’t relax. Ever. You creep away from every possible opportunity to connect with others like it might grow jaws and bite- you shrink back or freeze. Like you think if you play dead, if you don’t move, they’ll leave you alone.

He’s wondering what you hoped to accomplish by seeking refuge in Alexandria if this is how you act. You’re going to have a bad go of things if this is your plan. Or maybe you plain haven’t even thought that far.

He snags Daryl’s arm as he passes by.

“Wha—“

“The new girl,” Is all Rick says, still watching you remarkably avoid everyone who passes you. “She’s real skittish.”

Daryl follows his eyeline, finding you easy enough.

“Mm. She ain’t settlin’?”

“No.”

Daryl just hums again. “Well, she ain’t got nobody, does she?”

“So?”

The hunter shrugs. “Can’t relax. Ain’t got nobody to watch her back, take a watch. She’ll settle. Might take her a bit of time.”

Rick huffs. “She’s afraid of me.”

“No she ain’t,” Daryl snorts, “And since when does Rick Grimes care whether other people like him well enough?”

Rick doesn’t respond, just keeps watching you.

Daryl follows Rick’s gaze, then breathes out a low sigh.

“She is a pretty little thing, ain’t she?”

“That is not what this is about.”

Daryl levels him with a look. “Sure it’s not.“

“She’s half my age. I could damn well be her father.”

“But ya ain’t.”

“That isn’t the point.”

“Then what is the point, Rick?” Daryl sighs again, crossing his arms. “Either do something about it or move on. You got too many people dependin’ on ya for you to be eyeing up flighty young girls.”

Rick rolls his shoulders. “You make me out to be such a creep.”

The other man claps him on the shoulder. “Then stop acting like one.”

He attempts to take Daryl’s advice to heart. It’s an annoying truth that Daryl always knows exactly what Rick needs to hear. Not necessarily what he wants to hear, but what needs to be said.

And he is being creepy. He shakes his head as he walks away. Watching you, thinking about you. He can’t. That’s— you’re too young to be thinking any kind of thing like that.

No matter how there’s this half second, before you look scared, where you almost look relieved. No matter how he wants to personally take care of the bumps and scrapes on your face, wants to take off the bandaids and examine what’s beneath them.

Daryl was right. He needs to focus. Carl, Judith, everyone- they need him.

You’ll be fine. He’ll be fine.

—

You’ve gone missing.

Rick has been doing his best to heed Daryl’s advice— he stopped looking for you in the crowds, stopped trying to figure you out, stopped watching you from afar. He even made a fairly decent attempt to stop thinking about you. Not that the effort proves especially fruitful, but he tried, damnit.

All of those efforts go straight out the window when Daryl tells him that no one’s seen you since yesterday.

It takes him two seconds to grab his gun and follow Daryl out the door.

He barely remembers to tell Carl where he’s going, which scares him, because he doesn’t quite understand what’s been so invasive to his mind and day-to-day activities about you. Your eyes, the soft curve of your cheek, how you might feel in his hands.

They cloud his judgment. Make him do stupid reckless things like search Alexandria high and low for any sign of you.

He doesn’t find any. He searches the place you’re staying— nothing. Only sign of life is the unmade bed and bandaid wrappers in the trashcan by the bed.

He sighs deep and low as he stands over your bed. “Think she had enough? High-tailed it?”

Daryl leans against the doorway. “Nah. She likes it here well enough. She ain’t stupid enough to leave a good thing like this.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You’ve spoken to her?”

Daryl shrugs. “Few times. She don’t like talkin’ too much, but I think she figures her and I similar.”

“She wrong?”

He scratches his beard. “A little. She fears situations and people the way a prey animal does. S’ why she’s a runner.”

Rick mulls Daryl’s words over as they scan the rest of the place but, of course, find nothing. There are no signs that you, specifically, live here. Nothing personal. Just the unmade bed and the bandaid wrappers in the trashcan.

The pair of them turn the entirety of Alexandria over in a matter of hours. He’s just about to call it quits, either wait for you to come back or send out a search in the morning when Daryl comes back over, telling him you’re at the gates.

As in, outside of them.

Opposite of how things went when you first showed up at the gates, people clear a path as he stalks towards you. They give the pair of you a nice, wide bubble. Even Daryl stays a few feet behind him.

The first thing he notices is that you’re covered in blood. From the way you’re holding yourself, most of it isn’t your own. There’s a backpack slung over your shoulder, but it’s not your usual one.

You won’t meet his eyes.

He stops an arms length away from you. “Where the hell were you?”

You shift backwards, away from him ever so slightly. “Scavenging.”

“Mhm, interestin’,” He says, rubbing his jaw, “Because the last scavenging party was yesterday. And you came back with everybody, so I’ll ask again. Where were you.”

Your eyes flick up from the ground for a moment, eying the people that have gathered to stare. He watches you mentally count them all, then attempt to put more distance between yourself and everybody else. Emphasis on attempt, because the second you take a step back, you stumble, wincing before righting yourself and going right back to scanning the crowd.

He works his jaw, anger and annoyance simmering just under the surface of his skin. He’s not going to get anything out of you here.

He grabs your wrist and turns, set in the direction of the medics.

He drags you along behind him, ignoring the little huffs or sharp intakes of pain when you walk a little too hard or too fast on your bad ankle.

You trip a few times as you go, and when you almost take Rick down with you, he sighs, pausing and turning.

The expression you give him is full of fear. He realizes, in the moment, that you might not remember where the medics are, so as far as you know, he’s angry at you and dragging you to a secluded area.

Guilt strikes him hard and fast, right in his chest.

Damn.

It’s too early to feel guilty about the random girl he allowed into Alexandria. Frightened eyes and shy nature aside.

He shakes his head once. “We’re going to see a doctor. Here, put your arm around me.”

He has to lower himself a little for you to drape your arm across the back of his neck. Your fingertips brush his shoulder, and he can feel the way you’re shaking.

It’s slow going from then on, with Rick acting as your crutches.

“Where were you? And don’t bullshit me.”

“Scavenging.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes,” You nudge the backpack still strapped to your back. “I was… looking for something. I can’t look for it with the others.”

“What the hell is it that you can’t look for it with the others?”

“A body.”

Your response hangs in the air, thick and heavy.

“…Family or friend?”

“Friend. Haven’t found her yet.”

Something clicks into place in his mental file about you. He feels like he just gained a new piece of the puzzle.

He readjusts your weight over his shoulder, tucking you a little closer and steadfastly pretending he doesn’t hear the little gasp you let out at the contact. Whether it was from pain or surprise, he can’t let himself think about it.

“Don’t go out by yourself. If you need to look, take Daryl with you.”

You sag a bit into him. “Okay.”

He glances down at you from the corner of his eye. You’re… pliant. You’d agreed quickly, and showed absolutely no fight or unwillingness when he, admittedly, manhandled you. You’d followed dutifully behind him and then simply allowed him to position your arms the way he wanted them.

There’s another little parasite that burrows into his brain right there. Right as he’s got you in his grip.

He slows to a stop, a little question forming in his head. He slips the arm that had been wrapped around your waist away, instead curls his fingers across your chin and jaw. He tilts your head up, looks down at your face, searching it for… something.

He meets no resistance. You only stare up at him, doe eyes blinking. He tilts your head to the left, then to right, and still, nothing.

Huh.

He lets go, and you shudder, a full body shiver. And he thinks, in this moment, that he could do whatever he wanted, and you might let him. He could break you, like this.

It’s a very dangerous thing, he decides. Because he doesn’t want to break you. He doesn’t want to hurt you. He wants to peel back the bandaids and see what’s under them. He wants to scrub the dirt from your face and give you soft clothes —his clothes— not those tattered rags that hang off your body.

You might let him do whatever he wants, but you’re the one who holds this power over him. You’re the one who made him sick— filled his head and clouded his judgement and made him the kind of man he never used to be.

But he can’t say any of that. Can’t even act on it. Not with someone young enough to be his daughter. He has a daughter for Christ’s sake. And a son.

So he just wraps his arm back around your waist and helps you to the medics.

—

“Rick,” Daryl says one afternoon, leaned on the post on the porch, “You’re drivin’ me crazy, here.”

“I’m not sure how I’m supposed to help with that.”

“The fawn.”

He raises an eyebrow. “The fawn?”

“You know. That nervous little thing you keep pretendin’ you don’t want in your bed.”

“Daryl.”

The man just keeps fiddling with his crossbow. “What?”

“I can’t just— she’s half my age.”

“So you’ve said.”

“I got kids to think about, and—“

“Carl don’t give a shit and Judith is ten. Only thing she’s concerned about is sneakin’ sweets.”

He entertains the notion in his head, thinks about what pursuing you might be like.

Something occurs to him.

“She ever get close to you?”

“No,” Daryl huffs, always knowing exactly what Rick means, “Keeps about an arm’s distance away. No matter what. She’s been inchin’ closer recently, but not by much.”

His hand on your face, moving it this way and that without any resistance at all, your body pliant in his grip—

“Hm,” Is all Rick says, crossing his arms.

“Why fawn?”

Daryl shrugs. “Looks like one. Kinda acts like one, around you.”

“No she doesn’t.”

Daryl levels him with a look. “Yes, she does. And based on the way you’ve been actin’, you like it.”

He opens his mouth to refute the point because no, he doesn’t like it, he just constantly thinks about how far he could take it, what you would let him do, if he could make you his.

And then he thinks ‘oh.’ Maybe he does like it.

He drops his hands to his hips. “What exactly am I supposed to do, then?”

“I don’t know. Ain’t my area of expertise.”

“You’re the one who knows her better, said I was drivin’ you crazy.”

“So? I don’t know jack shit about romance, Rick.”

“Well, you keep calling her a fawn. How different can it be?”

Very different, his mind supplies. You know that.

Now it’s Daryl’s turn to sigh. “Don’t overwhelm her. She’s a nervous little thing, but she likes you. Once she figures out you ain’t gonna hurt her, she’ll latch on.”

“That’s specific. You deal with fawns a lot?”

He snorts. “No. I’m fuckin’ guessin’ here.”

The two men fall into silence, Daryl fiddling or cleaning his bow— Rick ain’t paying that much attention to him.

He’s thinking about you. You, you, you. Your eyes and your face and your hands and the figure you carefully keep hidden under layers of clothing, even under the hot Virginia sun.

Fawn, he thinks to himself.

Fitting.

—

He doesn’t make a plan or something stupid like that. He just thinks. And then he decides.

“You’re really coming with us?” Glenn asks, pack slung over his shoulder.

“Yep,” Rick says, holstering his gun, “Goin’ stir crazy in there. Just needa get out for a bit.”

You’re quiet as you get your things in order, but the group doesn’t bat an eye. They’re used to your silence, it seems.

You can’t seem to tear your eyes away from him, though. You look away every time you think he’s looking at you, but he’s good at looking at you out of the corner of his eye, so he sees it.

Throughout the run, you hover near him, never quite going out of range of his field of vision. He’s impressed by how quietly and efficiently you work- you spot things even he wouldn’t have. All the while watching for walkers, and of course, subtly eyeing Rick.

Despite being the leader, he heads up the back and watches for stragglers. He didn’t really come out cause he was stir-crazy, anyway.

He came out for you. He wanted to watch you work, wanted to do it with you.

To your credit, you work well with the others. You’re a woman of few words with them, but you help where you can and stay civil. Even if you don’t quite get close to any of them.

Except Rick.

As they’re scavenging an abandoned house, a few walkers shuffle out from the trees. Not enough to be a problem— the group outnumbers them easy. But you’re all busy getting supplies and he’s trying to keep an eye out, so he takes them out, one by one.

It really isn’t a huge thing for him, couple walkers ain’t really a big deal, but you notice.

Your eyes are trained on him, clothes now dirty with blood and gore.

He tilts his head, then makes his way over to you.

“You, um,” You say as he gets closer, voice a little hoarse, “Are you alright?”

He runs a hand through his hair. “I’m fine. It’ll take more than a few walkers to take me out.”

You blink. “Oh.”

He snorts a little laugh. “You ain’t too good at this whole conversation thing, huh?”

You flush, looking away. “Sorry. I’m just not… used to having them.”

You look up at him, earnest. “But I’ve been practicing!”

Oh, lord have mercy over his poor soul. You’ve done a full 180– turned from being afraid of him to very obviously wanting his approval.

“That’s good, that’s good. Who you been practicin’ with?”

“Daryl.”

“Now, that ain’t no good.”

You frown, shifting in place. “It’s not?”

“Well, it’s good that you’re tryin’,” He amends, “But Daryl ain’t good for conversation practicin’. He’s a little too much like you. Much too inclined to just sit in silence.”

“Oh.”

You pause, taking your lip between your teeth and mulling something over in your head.

“Would you, um.” You look up at him, clearly nervous.

And he can’t help himself really, from leaning down into your space a bit, a low “Hmm?” humming from his chest.

Your reaction is instant. This close, he can see the exact moment a flush crawls across your face, to even the tips of your ears.

And he’d suspected, you know, based on your behavior with him. But this— cold hard evidence that he makes you nervous. That you want him on you.

It’s cute. Real cute.

You steel yourself against your own nervousness, and he wants to coo at you.

“Would you practice with me?”

He leans back against the post, slides his hands into his pockets. “Course. Ain’t much to it.”

You smile. It’s small, a quiet sort of thing, but it’s there. He made you smile.

You gesture to the house behind you. “I’m. Gonna go back to scavenging. Um. Thanks.”

You turn on your heel, fleeing back into the house. He watches you go, something settling right into place in his chest.

You stick a little closer to him for the rest of the run.

—

After that day, you begin seeking him out. You don’t approach him right away, preferring to to trail behind him for a little bit before finally making a move.

The move being a quiet: “Hi, Rick.”

Today’s no different, other than it being a little later when you do find him. He’s taking a little stroll around, as is his usual. It… settles him, to see everything alright with his own two eyes.

Settles him even more when he hears the quiet patter of your footsteps behind him.

He chuckles. “Afternoon, darlin’.”

Your foot steps speed up, fall into step somewhat beside him. “Hi, Rick.”

“Hi,” He says, smile tugging at his lips. “How was your day?”

You clasp your hands behind your back as you walk. “Good. Weren’t many walkers on today’s run. I got something for Judith.”

“Oh? Let’s see it, then.”

You take something out of your pocket and hold it out to him.

It’s a pocket knife. One of those multi-tool ones.

And it’s pink.

“I know it’s a cliche, the girls knife being pink, and she is only ten, but I saw it and I thought of her, and—“

“It’s perfect,” He interrupts before you can start spiraling. “She’s gonna love it.”

You deflate almost instantly. “Oh, good. I wasn’t sure.”

You walk for a few minutes before remembering the point of you coming up to him.

“Um. How was your day?”

He huffs a little, too fond to be upset. “Fairly decent. Ain’t got too much going on now.”

“That’s… good?”

He shrugs. “Just a little borin’. How’s that ankle of yours?”

This is usually how your conversations go. A few easy, back and forth questions. Easing you into talking to people, keeping conversations going. You’ve slowly gotten more confident. You talk a little longer, voice sounds a little more expressive.

“Fine.” You say, a little too quickly.

He narrows his eyes. “Really? No pain at all?”

It’s the looking away that sells it. You never look at him when you’re lying. Can’t stand to.

“No. It’s fine.”

He kicks his foot out a little, the toe of his boot just barely catching your ankle.

It’s a little more effective than he wanted. You let out a little yelp of pain and stumble forward, ankle almost immediately buckling.

He darts forward, catching you under the stomach with one arm.

You hang there a little, arms dangling.

“Fine, huh?” He hefts you up, so you’re back to standing upright, though now, visibly favoring your ankle. “So what’d the doctor tell you when I dropped you off?”

“Rest, ice, compression, and elevation.”

“And which of those four have you been ignorin’?”

“…”

“Hey,” He says, tapping the side of your jaw with two fingers. “Don’t lie to me.”

“All of them,” You wince, “I just didn’t want to be useless. I can walk on it fine. You haven’t even noticed until now!”

Your voice goes a little high at the end, a little desperate.

He thinks about how animals that are lower on the food rung don’t show pain. A deer will break a leg and keep walking until it drops, till it slows too much and something picks it off.

But you ain’t an animal, and nothing’s gonna pick you off.

“That’s true,” He says, “But that don’t make it right. You’re just prolonging the healing process.”

You look down. “…You were mad. I didn’t want to make you more upset by being useless.”

Ah. So that’s what it’s all about.

His approval, once again.

“I’d rather have you useless for a week than useless forever because you didn’t rest properly,” He ignores the hypocrisy of it, the fact that he’s ignored medical advice more times than he can count.

“I really am fine, mostly,” You say meekly, “It’s stopped hurting when I walk. It’s just a little unstable.”

“I still want you taking it easy for a little, you hear me?”

You nod.

“Nah,” He moves, standing in front of you, more than a little in your personal space, “I wanna hear you say it. Use your words.”

It’s a little test of sorts. To see how you’ll respond. What you’ll say. If you’ll listen.

You swallow, eyelashes fluttering. “I hear you. I understand.”

“What are you gonna do?”

“Take it easy.”

“That’s right,” You’ve been nice and obedient, so he figures you deserve a little reward. “Good girl.”

He hears your sharp intake of breath, watches your eyes get a little glassy.

Aw, that’s all you wanted. Just wanted to be someone’s good girl.

His good girl.

He nods towards your place. “Get along, now. Do I have to walk you to your door?”

“No,” you shake your head. “I’ll go. I will. Uh— bye.”

He watches you scamper away, gait a little uneven, hands clenched at your sides.

I can get used to this.

—

It becomes a little thing, after that.

When you’re not busy with your own responsibilities, you’re usually with him. Either right beside him, or trailing a few feet behind. Your company is quiet and calm, like waves from a lake lapping gently at the shore.

You also begin to settle in with the rest of the group. You’re still more inclined to be near Rick or, if he’s not available, Daryl, but once you become comfortable talking with people, Maggie and Glenn are quickly added to your slowly growing roster of safe people.

Judith has loved you ever since she found out that you’re the one who gave her the most beloved pink pocket knife, and enjoys babbling and talking your ear off about nothing the way that ten year olds do.

Carl grows to appreciate your presence too, finding solace in the fact that you don’t feel the need to fill silence with conversation.

You still act different when Rick is around, though. Especially when it’s just the two of you.

With everybody else, you’re subtly but very strictly independent- despite growing close with the group, you still maintain a slight distance with most of them, and prefer doing things yourself, by yourself. Old habits die hard, he supposes.

But when you’re alone, just Rick and you, those hard edges soften, and your little personal bubble pops. He’s steadily growing obsessed with the change.

He’d be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy it. Having such a cute little thing follow him around, hanging off his words. Most days, it’s all he can do not to throw you over his shoulder and carry you to bed.

And then one day, he does. Kind of.

It must be the middle of the night, but the second he hears the knock at his door, he’s wide awake.

He hushes both Carl and Judith back to bed, then creeps to the front door with his hand on his gun. He has never, in his entire life, been awoken in the middle of the night to good news.

When he opens the door he sees you. And Daryl, but he’s really focused on you. You’ve got tears streaming down your face, you’re wearing a strange combination of sleep clothes and the clothes he’s seen you wear to do runs. Your boots are on, but not tied.

“Wha—“

“Caught her sneaking towards the gates, all shaken up. Figured it’d be wiser to take her here then back to her place.”

Daryl pats your head once. “Don’t do anythin’ stupid.”

Then Daryl’s gone, and you’re standing on Rick’s porch, still crying.

“Alright, come here now.”

He barely manages to get the door closed before you fall into him, face pressed to his chest and hands grasping the front of his shirt.

He hesitates for just a moment before wrapping his arms around you.

“Shh, shh. You’re alright, you’re alright now.”

He presses one hand to the nape of your neck, keeping you tucked close as you crack, just a little bit, nearly silent tears staining his shirt and tremors wracking your body.

Eventually, he guides you over to the couch, situates himself before helping you into a more comfortable position. He wraps your arms around his neck, your legs draped across his lap and the couch.

He keeps one hand pressed to your neck, the other rubbing slow circles on your back.

He presses his cheek to the crown of your head, breathing in deep and slow, a curl of satisfaction rising in his chest when you unconsciously mimic his breathing, silent sobs slowing, tremors fading.

Once you’ve calmed down enough, he speaks.

“What’s got you so worked up, huh? What happened sweetheart?”

The pet name slips out of his mouth unbidden, but honestly, he wouldn’t take it back.

“Nightmare,” You sniffle. “Daryl was gone and it was my fault and you hated me.”

“Well, none of that happened now, did it?”

You shake your head.

“No, that’s right. Daryl’s just fine, and I ain’t upset with you. You’re alright.”

You take in a few shaky, shuddering breaths.

He shifts, readjusting and tucking you closer to him. “Now, how come you didn’t come to me? Daryl said you were headin’ to the gates.”

You go a little rigid. “Didn’t think I was allowed. Didn’t want to wake you up for something stupid.”

“Oh, none of that now,” He nudges you away a little, taking your face in his hands. He needs eye-contact while he says this, “You need something, you come to me. I don’t care what it is, I don’t care what time it is. You come to me, you understand?”

You nod, lip wobbling a bit. “I understand.”

He thumbs your cheekbone. “Good. Now come on. Let’s get you back to bed.”

In the morning, the kids are a little surprised to see your rumpled form at the kitchen table, but both recover fairly quickly. Judith especially, who rejoices at the prospect of someone other than Carl or her father whom she can hold hostage with inane, ten year old questions.

But you never quite shake that haunted look in your eyes. Like there was something else— something more in that nightmare, something that dug its little claws in and stuck fast.

It’s all he can do but pray it doesn’t last.

—

It becomes an unspoken thing that wherever Rick is, you’re nearby. Kind of like a little puppy, following him about and hoping for a treat.

He indulges you, because he can’t really help himself in the face of those eyes.

He also knows it’s the easiest way to get you to smile, which he’s been trying to bring about more, since the nightmare. You’ve shaken that haunted expression for the most part, but every now and then, it’ll come back, if just for a few moments.

You’ve been absent most of the day today, off on a run, and he wishes it didn’t get under his skin so much to not have his favorite girl right there behind him.

You’re his stress relief, and you don’t even know it. Don’t even do anything really, just kind of linger about with your adorable little face and occasionally help with your cute little hands. He’s hopelessly obsessed.

You’re smiling when you get back, bee-lining straight for him.

“Well, well,” He says, resting his hands on his hips, “What do we have here?”

“I got you something,” You say, practically vibrating with excitement, slinging your backpack off and rifling through it.

“Oh, something for me? Can’t wait to see it.”

You pull an honest to god polaroid camera out of your bag.

“You said once that you wished you had pictures of your kids to carry with you, and I found this, and it still works, and it still has film in it. I checked.”

You thrust it out to him, and he extracts it carefully from your hands, holding it with an almost reverence.

A camera. A working film camera.

You shuffle in place, and he realizes he’s been staring at it in silence for more than a few minutes. “…Do you like it?”

“I love it,” He says honestly, voice just a little scratchy, because he doesn’t understand how someone can survive the zombie apocalypse, and still end up so damn kind, and so damn sweet. “I’m so touched, sweetheart.”

You beam up at him. If you had a tail, you’d be wagging it. He’s never understood cuteness aggression until this very moment. He just can’t. He wants to squeeze you as hard as he can or just punch a wall or some stupid shit.

God, he’s pushing forty, he needs to get this under control.

“I was really excited when I found it. Tara took a picture of me to test it.”

You pull out a little polaroid picture, film developed, and he takes that with reverence too. In the picture, you’re smiling, that same soft, little smile you do when you’re really happy about something and don’t know how to express it. Your hands show two peace signs, a knife clutched in one.

That’s my girl, he thinks.

“Might just have to keep this,” He says, dumb smile on his face.

“Really?”

“Really. You know, it’s good luck to keep a picture of a pretty girl with you.”

“Pretty?” You squeak, flushing. It’s so easy to make you flustered. He loves it.

“Mhm,” He says, tucking the photo into one of the compartments on his belt, keeping it safe. “Real pretty, I’d say.”

“Oh.” You say, more than a little breathless. “Um.”

Oh, your poor little brain.

“You need a minute?” He snorts.

“Maybe?”

He chuckles, patting the top of your head. “Oh, you’ll be fine. Better get used to it.”

“You’re pretty too,” You blurt, then your eyes widen comically. “No, wait, I meant—“

He laughs, a real, actual laugh. “Me, a grown ass man- pretty. That’s a good one.”

You bury your face in your hands, a tiny little whine escaping your throat.

“Aw, come on, now. Don’t be embarrassed. I’m very flattered you think I’m pretty.”

“S’ not what I meant.” You mumble.

“No?” He says, prying your hands off your face. “What’d you mean, then?”

You look away, unable to meet his eyes.

“You’re… handsome.” You whisper the last part, barely loud enough for him to hear.

“Aw, what’d I do to deserve a young thing like you thinking an old man like me is handsome?”

You mumble something again, a little too quiet for him to hear.

“…afe.”

He leans down. “What was that, now?”

“You’re safe.”

Oh.

That’s… not the answer he was expecting.

But he likes it.

Rick is a leader. A protector.

And you need him.

“I make you feel safe?” He hums, resisting the urge to step closer to you because you’re very much out in the open and he knows how you feel about wide open spaces, especially when there’s people in them. He’s torturing you enough as it is. “That why you linger around me, huh?”

Feeling bolder at his interest, you nod.

“You make me feel like… something special. Protected.”

Yes.

He’s always known that he needs to be needed. That he’s the kind of man who requires being a leader, taking care of what’s his, protecting.

To have verbal confirmation that he’s made you feel safe, protected, it’s.

Well it’s a lot more than he can unpack in front of the gates.

“Pretty little thing like you needs protectin’.”

You frown.

“Not because you’re incapable,” He amends, hands raised, “But because I rather like doing it.”

You lean closer, and he follows, heat rising—

“Please, save us all the pain of havin’ to watch, Rick.”

He grins, nose brushing yours, then steps back.

“Maybe stop creepin’ around, Daryl.” He calls to the other man, who just shrugs, ambling on by.

But Daryl does have a point. He doesn’t want an audience. You’re not that kind of girl.

Instead, he reaches down, snakes an arm around your waist and leads you away from the open space, towards his house instead.

“Come on, sweetheart. Think you’d rather be somewhere quiet for what I’m about to do.”

The heat radiating from your body and the shiver he feels under his palm is all the confirmation he needs.

His little fawn, finally his.

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪

54 notes · View notes

solar-sparky · 2 days ago

Text

Surprise!

You guys finally get a little bit of my character's lore/story!

I wanted to do something simple to start, just how my Neo 3 meets their roommate.

(I haven't written something in like 2 years, so my apologies if anything is amiss. I reread multiple times and sometimes I still do not catch stuff :')

Another grueling shift at Grizzco, it’s really nothing new for Harper. At such a high EVP rank they are tasked with handling the most dangerous sightings of Salmonids. It's not a job a person would willingly take, but sometimes you need to do whatever you can to get by.

“Nice work today Harper!” It was one of their coworkers from today's shift calling from across the locker room, waving with a grin on their face. They were just about finished with changing out of their uniform.

“Thanks.” Harper sighed as they took off their boots to hang up on the drying rack. They weren't one for talking, especially not with anyone at Grizzco. It's not that they don’t like anyone, it's just a shady business and people go missing all the time. Your next shift might be your last, it's best not to get close to anyone.

“Never expected to see Grillers today. Man those little guys were everywhere, huh?” Harper let out a small grunt in acknowledgement. The coworker approaches them, “Hey man if you want, me and the others are gonna go out tonight, you want to tag along?” They were neatly folding up all the chords that hook up to the harness of their suit.

Harper was busy wiping off their hardhat, they quickly glanced up at the inkling standing in front of them, “Ah… I’ve got stuff to do tonight, thanks though.” Their speech falling into a mumble.

“Alright, if you need anything or want to do anything I’m always down too!” The Inkling headed back towards their open locker to finish up and head out. They seem kind but it’s hard to tell if they understand the dangers of what they are doing. “‘Cya!”

Harper sent them off with a single wave of their hand.

Trading in the capsules was always interesting. The slight bit of randomness of bonuses made it fun, but the guaranteed pay was always there. This time it was decent, enough for rent and the usual groceries, plus a couple of concession stand tickets to sell off for a small bit of extra cash. Harper hopes to find a better job soon, maybe even move out of their cramped apartment. Anything extra will go a long way.

As they exit the building, the light from the setting sun hits Harper's eyes. The dim lighting of the Grizzco building is always a stark contrast to the outside no matter what time of sunlight it is. You know, at least the city air was much better than the stench of the Salmonid zones. Before they head back to their place, they have to stop by the community bulletin board to see if any tabs have been ripped off their roommate vacancy poster. It has only been a few days since posting it, but not a single bite.

Walking closer to the board, they notice an Octoling, tall and well-built, standing at the board, squinting at each posting, using their finger to follow along.

I’ve never seen this guy around before… As Harper draws closer, they can see them mouthing some of the words on the posters.

“Hey,” Harper speaks up, “do you need somethin’?”

Parts of their tentacles spike up at Harper's voice, the stranger swiftly turns around towards them, staring wide-eyed like a startled creature. Harper asks again, “Hey if you’re done here, I need to check my… paper?” Before they could squeeze by, the blue Octoling grabs Harper’s paper off the board and starts reading it out.

“Looking for... roommate…” Their pronunciation was not good to put it lightly, definitely someone from out of town. They slowly lower the paper down, their yellow eyes looking from over the poster back down at Harper.

“Well?” Harper shrugged with an annoyed expression on their face, they don't really have the time for this, “I need to know if you are interested or not cause I~” Another set of yellow eyes, this time much bigger, appear from behind the Octolings legs, grabbing Harper's attention. It was a smallfry of a Stinger class Salmonid, peering up at them.

“~I think we should go. We’ll talk about it, okay?” Harper frantically grabs the Octoling by the arm and starts pulling them away quickly, the smallfry following behind jumps up onto the Octoling.

I think I have a pretty good idea at what this guys deal is; Not fluent in Inklish, followed by a salmon? They're probably from that area near Spawning Grounds. Harper and this strange Octoling had been walking down the streets in silence for a couple of minutes. The Octoling was looking at almost everything, they were in awe at the city's tall buildings, busy streets, and the amount of residents that live here in Splatsville. Each place that caught their eye, they would stop and look at for a bit before rushing to catch back up to Harper. Maybe the sounds of chatter, cars, planes and the above head monorail were a bit much for them, but nonetheless they seemed to be enjoying themselves on this walk.

“Uhmm… Nice. Uhh, s-sky today?” Breaking the silence between the two, the Octoling stutters, fidgeting with their hands and eyes wandering. Seems like they only know a few words in Inklish but not even close to enough for a proper sentence. “You uhmm, like…” Their sentence trails off as they begin to mutter in a different language.

Salmonid! Well that makes it much easier. From their time at Grizzco they’ve heard and learned how to speak Salmonid. It isn't required at all to work but you can listen to conversations to know what plan of action to expect next, giving you and your teammates the advantage. The Octoling begins to open their mouth, but before they can say anything, Harper clears their throat and cuts them off, “You don’t need to do that.”

“You speak Salmonid?” Once again surprised, the Octoling this time slowly turns their head to face Harper.

“‘Picked it up, yeah.” Harper says with a shrug and a roll of their eyes. Salmonid was extremely different in comparison to Inklish, if it's not your first language then it is very hard to learn.

The Octoling breathes a deep sigh of relief, they didn't have to fumble around with their words. “Oh thank Coho, no one else around here can understand let alone speak my language!” Their voice is rough and loud but shows a lot of emotion. They seem very excited at Harper’s ability to speak Salmonid. “Your pronunciation seems great but I can tell it's not your first language.”

“So, why are you here?” Harper asks as the two continue their walk down the street.

“Ah my mother told me that I must find people like myself, so I was curious. We spotted this city on the horizon and crossed part of the desert to get here. We got here 2 days ago?” They look over at their Salmonid companion who nods in agreement. “Yeah, 2 days ago. Haven't been in this part of town though.”

Crossing the desert from the sea to the city is no easy feat, and this Octoling did it in nothing but the wraps on their feet. A bit taken aback by this fact Harper asks another question, “How did you end up near that orange building?”

“Smelt like home! Soap here darted straight for it.” The Salmonid smiles and bows their head in shyness.

Harper pauses their walk and shakes their head, “‘Smelt like home-’? Just don't go near that building, okay?” their ears point backwards in anxiousness.

The Octoling looks puzzled, “Why not?”

I don't think they’ve seen any Grizzco workers before, otherwise they might’ve known. “Ehhh you wouldn't like it, especially them, Soap or whatever.” Harper gestures towards the small Salmonid sitting on the Octolings shoulder, it waves in response. They continue onward through a thin alleyway and the Octoling jogs to catch up with them.

“Oh my apologies, do you want my name?” The Octoling says from behind.

“Shoot.”

“My name is ‘The Octopus Who Listens to Crickets Chirp’, but you can just call me Cricket.” Cricket holds out their hand with a grin on their face, the fangs of their beak sticking over their lips on either side, one pointing up, the other pointing down.

Not from around Spawning Grounds, they're actually from a school… Harper slowly reaches out their hand almost hesitantly and shakes Crickets hand. “... Harper.”

“Well Cricket, I don't know if you understood anything I said before but I am looking for a roommate. Do you need a place to stay or…” Harper tilts their head towards the apartment building from across a courtyard filled with grass patches and walkways.

“Ahh that's what that sign was for!” Cricket laughs a bit, “I haven't been under a roof in a couple days so sure!”

About a 15 minute walk from the Grizzco building, the apartment that Harper lives in is found in a more quiet part of Splatsville, away from the main hub at least. The building itself isn't new but it's not too old either, it's well kept. Walking up the stairwell, Cricket was still looking around with curiosity even though it's just a room with light grey walls and stairs. Harper’s room is on the 4th floor, not the top floor but fairly close. Harper pulls out their lanyard with their keys and unlocks the door.

“Here we are, it's not much but- Oh watch for Crumb.” A small yellow blob making a noise sounding like a mix of chirping and purring approaches the front door. It was Harper's sea slug, who was always excited when Harper returned home. Cricket picks up the creature, holding it out in front of them. It squirms out of its grip and runs up their arm to their shoulder and presses its face against Crickets.

“Yeah, uhmm, it's not much but it's enough.” Harper takes off their hat and shoves it into the sleeve of their jacket. “If you can wait for a bit, I can get dinner ready.” Harper flicks on the light switch revealing a small apartment room.

Crumb was still rubbing its face on Crickets, “That would be handy.”

They finally pick up Crumb and place it on the ground where it continues to brush up against Cricket's legs. Harper looks down at it with a somber smile. It follows Cricket as they walk out of the entryway.

“You can just- Yeah.” Not having much in terms of outside wear, Cricket begins to explore the apartment; A living space to the right of the entry hall with a very shallow balcony outside, a large L-shaped couch takes up a lot of space and is used as a sort of barrier to create a room. A small flat screen TV stands on a unit containing cases for DVDs and a few older looking electronics with one fairly new looking game console placed right underneath the TV. The kitchen was across the way from the living space with the usual amenities and a small bar-like seating area. From there, there is a hallway leading to 3 other rooms, one of which, Cricket watched Harper disappear into.

Cricket could get used to this, they didn’t really have this kind of living space before. While it was much smaller than their families living quarters due in part to not having to share with huge fish, this one felt cozy and well lived in.

A couple minutes later, Harper begins to make dinner. “Anything to drink?” They ask Cricket who was sitting on the other side of the counter, messing around with a bowl and some packets.

“Water is fine for me.” Without another word Harper begins to fill two glasses with water from their water filter. It was quiet, aside from the sound of a bubbling kettle. With a click, the rumbling starts to fade.

“I’ve noticed that your storage cabinet is full of these strange bowls, you don't eat these every day do you?” Cricket asks with a concerned frown on their face as Harper starts to pour in the hot water into the bowl of dried noodles and powder. They place a plate upside down to cover the top of the bowl.

“Well they are quick and easy, and I like them so yeah, most days.” Harper begins to do the same with their own bowl of noodles, packets, then water, then cover.

Cricket slams their fist on the counter top and snaps their fingers, “That must be why you look sickly!” Harper does a near spit take, instead choking on their water due to Cricket’s sudden connection. “Where are your essential food groups? Any vegetables and meats?”

Very caught off guard, Harper is still coughing, “Uhm-” they finally clear their throat but still speak in a wince, “Excuse me, it’s expensive.”

“Huh, can you not just grow it?” Cricket asks as they watch Harper take another drink from their glass to try and clear their throat more.

“That would be even more expensive and take time and I don't really have that.”

“I see...” Cricket sounded a bit defeated. Food was important, almost sacred to them and the first person they can talk to has a problem with acquiring healthy ingredients? They had to do something about it. Harper looks over at them, Cricket was clearly thinking about something by the look on their face.

When the noodles were ready, the two ate in relative silence, Cricket occasionally chiming in with something to say. It was different for Harper, their past roommate didn't talk much, as such they grew accustomed to the silence. It was nice to hear someone else's voice though and Cricket seemed like the kinda guy you find at a bar and have a really nice conversation with then never see again, but they’d be seeing them everyday now. Despite their comment earlier, they are very polite and well-mannered. It was a nice change of pace for Harper and they could definitely get used to it.

The next morning, around 8am, Harper woke up early to an unusually pleasant smell. Perhaps it was just from some food shop down the street but, no, it doesn't smell this good unless there’s splatfest prep going on. Harper rolls over to see that the bed across the room was empty, Cricket was nowhere to be seen. It didn’t concern them too much however, they probably just got up earlier than them. As Harper sat up, Crumb crawled on over to greet Harper good morning as they stretched.

Stepping out of the bedroom the smell was even stronger. Harper stumbled over to the kitchen as at this point it was the only place for the source of this smell.

Well there was Cricket, humming to themselves as they stood over the stove. Soap was on the counter bringing over an egg to Cricket.

Harper stood across from the counter flabbergasted, they rubbed their eyes both in tiredness and to check if they were seeing correctly. “What are you doing?! Did you use my stuff?”

Cricket turned around still holding the pan over the burner. “Not at all! You barely had anything anyways.” They teased while waving a spatula around, their voice was too loud and energetic for the morning.

Harper looked around the kitchen a bit more, there were three bowls filled with rice, one being smaller. On top of the rice that was already sprinkled with seaweed and sesame seeds, each serving had some perfectly fried canned meat slices. Harper started rubbing their face in shock, “Then where did you- How.”

“Ah! I woke up much earlier than you so I went for a walk. I noticed that some old folks at a market down the street needed some help with some crates,” Cricket continued as they walked over to put a fried egg in each bowl, “so I offered to help them and they gave me some stuff!”

Putting the pan into the sink to wash later, Cricket grabs the bowls and places them on the bar counter which was already set with condiments and other toppings that Soap presumably set up.

“Well, do you want some or not?” Cricket points the spatula at Harper before placing it in the sink.

Harper stood there speechless, their mouth open. They sat down on one of the bar stools and brought a bowl and pair of chopsticks closer to them. Cricket gives them a smile before walking around to the other side to join Harper in breakfast. Cricket gives their thanks before eating. Harper breaks the egg’s yolk and lets it seep into the rice, they take a piece of the egg, some rice and some of the meat.

“It's… Good.” Harper's eyes widen, it's really good in fact everything is cooked and seasoned perfectly, that and Harper hasn't had a good home cooked meal in a while. Their usual breakfast just consists of either toast or cereal.

“Mmm, I’m glad! Learned from only the best!” Cricket grins, their mouth partially full of food, they weren’t expecting Harper to say anything.

Of course this tastes good, this guy was raised by Salmonids. Harper thought. It was nice to share a genuine meal with someone again after a while. They’ve only known Cricket for less than a day, but they’ve already grown to really appreciate them. Even though Harper is also a stranger to them, Cricket just treats them like a friend they’ve known for years.

Harper pulls out their phone from their pocket to check the time. “Oh I’ll take the leftovers with me to work,” Harper stands up and brings the bowl over to the other side of the counter, “Thanks.” Cricket was still eating their bowl, so was Soap. Harper would love to stay around to finish but it was getting closer to their clock-in time.

“Don’t worry, I’ll clean up when we’re done.” Cricket says. Harper puts their extras into a container, and quickly feeds Crumb before they leave.

As they finished packing up their stuff for the day and while putting on their jacket, Harper asks Cricket one more thing, “Do you want to make dinner?” They sound shy in their request.

Once again caught off guard by Harper’s question, “Of course!” Cricket excitedly says.

Harper smiles at them before they shut the front door and head off to work.

#splatoon #solarsparkyart #splatoon oc #neo agent 3 #solarsparkyswriting

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 20 hours ago

Text

Besotted 2

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, virginity loss, age gap, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: your new neighbour brings intrigue and a bit of danger.

Characters: ex-con!Bucky Barnes

Note: Oh, Mr. Barnes.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

It’s not exactly the promised casserole, but it’s what you can manage. You’re a simple woman. You wish more people appreciated that.

The shepherd’s pie is much better in your opinion. A hardy full meal. A couple of dinners in a single pan at least. Even if he asks you to join him for dinner.

Most of your night was spent on the feat. After your shifts, you don’t often have much energy, but you’re committed. You’re finally going to prove Angelique wrong. You’re going to rub it in her face, too.

You change out of your gravy spattered sweats and change into something cuter. Sexier.

The halter dress doesn’t offer much in the way of coverage or support. Your chest tests the strength of the bodice, your cleavage squished together in the deep vee, and the skirt ends just low enough to hide your panties.

You cover the pie and slide into a pair of wedged sandals. You use your elbow to open the screen door and push out with your hip, spinning onto the front porch. It’s quiet outside. The sky slowly dims as the streetlights flick on one by one.

You clomp down the steps dangerously, balancing yourself with the ceramic dish. You bought it just for this very purpose. You want everything to be perfect.

You have a fresh coat of nail polish on your fingers and toes alike, sparkly and perfectly sealed. You dab on a little lip gloss before you left your side of the duplex and touched up your mascara. Just enough but not too much effort.

You stop at the bottom of his steps. You stare up at the door. You glance over at the black motorcycle. You saw him ride up on it earlier. He looked even sexier. He had his long hair pulled back, a few strands blown free by the wind, and he wore a pair of dark black sunglasses. He really has the whole dangerous aesthetic down.

You climb stair by stair and ease open the outer door. You rap on the thicker wood door and wait. You arrange yourself and the pan. The screen door rests against your elbow.

When the locks twists, you push your shoulders up and chest out. You smile big. He pulls inward and greets you with a grunt and raised brow. His eyes drift back and forth as if looking for something, or someone.

“Hi, Bucky, remember I promised you a casserole?” You chime.

He’s in his usual all black attire. Black jeans, black tank, his left arm swathed in tattoos. His silver-streaked hair hangs around his chin and his beard adds to the sharpness of his jawline. His forehead lines deeper as he looks you over.

His eyes come back to you and flick down. You hold the dish before your chest so his eyes snag first on your cleavage. You see the way they dart in between the two then back to your face. You extend your arms to offer the pan. He reaches to catch the screen door so it doesn’t hit you, stepping closer as he does. He’s made even bigger as the porch is slightly lower than inside the house.

“It’s a shepherd’s pie. I know it’s not exactly what I promised--”

“I told ya not to bother, girl,” he grits.

You bat your eyes and pout. His voice is silky but gritty. You could drown in it as easily as his eyes.

“It’s no bother,” you insist. “Really. Secret family recipe. I make my own gravy. Oh and I use sweet potato. You get the sweet and the savoury together.”

He hums darkly and inhales. You watch his chest rise and fall. His cheeks dimple. He reaches for the dish.

“Be worse to waste your effort,” he utters dully.

“It was easy,” you assure him and hand it over. “I just know when you’re settling in, there’s so much to be done. I didn’t eat a real meal for two weeks when I got my place.”

He holds the pan in his hand and looks at your again. His eyes seem to strain as he meets yours. As if fighting not to look somewhere else.

“Thanks,” he growls. Oof, he’s like those romanticized bad boys in a novella.

“No problem!” You wiggle. “I really hope you enjoy it.”

He nods and stands there awkwardly. He sighs again and taps his fingers on the screen door. He clucks before he speaks again.

“Guess I shouldn’t... just send you off. You went to all this trouble,” he begins. Your heart picks up. Yessssss. “You eat?”

Your smile can’t get any bigger, “oh not yet, I was cooking but I got a Michelena’s in my freezer--”

“Wouldn’t be right if you didn’t try some,” he insists, though hesitation plucks in his timbre.

“Oh, you are too nice, Bucky. I’ll have a little, but I made it for you.”

“Mm,” he goes to back up and you shuffle forward. He stops again.

“Wait out here,” he commands.

Yes, daddy, you nearly blurt out, even if you are disappointed not to be let in.

“I’ll bring it out to you. Place is... unpacked.”

“Right, okay, I’ll be here. Waiting,” you twirl away and flutter over to the small table against the siding. You watched him set it up the other day. With two matching chairs. It’s that discount set you saw outside the hardware store.

You sit and put your elbows on the table. Then you make yourself sit up. You look down and fix your tits in the dress. The dress keeps riding up as your chest is heavy enough to bunch up the fabric under it. The cut of the bodice ends a bit short of your actual proportions.

Angelique, you bitch. She has those perfect, high c-cups. She can wear anything without a bra and no one really knows, unless it’s cold. But you, it’s oh so obvious, not that you mind at the moment. Still, it kills the back.

You cross one leg over the other as the screen door whines on its hinges. Bucky comes around and places two plates on the small table. He shuffles the cutlery in his hands and offers you a fork and knife. He approaches the other chair, a short pause before he sits.

He’s quiet. That’s okay. Your job is mostly talking. You can be a real yapper when you want to be. You thank him as you hover the fork and knife on either side of the plate.

“Nice night,” you say.

He slices through the layers of beef and potato, scooping up the veg with it. He shrugs.

“The oven heated up my place so much though, I’ll have to keep the windows open,” you press the tines into the top layer of potato. “I wish I had AC, it gets so hot.”

He looks at you to show he’s listening but still has no response as he chews. You don’t mind a bit of silence. It’s kind of like a sexy mystery. You just have to solve his riddle.

“Oh, I had a question. About your bike.” You brighten up, jolting so your chest bounces with you. His eyes sink for a split second.

“Are you going to try it?” He gestures with his fork.

“Oh, uh, of course.” You stop and scoop up some pie. You smile then lean in to slide it into your mouth. You drag your lips down the fork as you stare at him. Your chest is as good as one the table. “Mmmm.”

You quickly swallow and run your tongue over your teeth, “about your bike.”

“The motorcycle?” He rasps.

“Sure, um, well, you know, I’ve been saving up for a car but I was thinking a bike might be cooler. Faster. I looked up some lessons but thought you might know some stuff too.” You twirl your fork in your fingers.

“Dangerous,” he says. “And you can’t drive around in dresses.”

You look down and lean back. You giggle, “do you like it? It’s new. I got it on sale.”

He sounds like he’s choking as he swallows. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, “pretty colour.”

“You think? I don’t know. I was looking at the purple one too.”

“Wouldn’t know the difference,” he mutters.

“Well...” you grin at him and lean forward. “I like your necklace.”

He brings his hand up to his neck, “dog tags.”

“Oh, you’re a soldier? Or, were? A veteran?”

“Was,” he answers curtly and takes another bite. You have more as well, feeling a bit awkward.

“So how about it? I could pay for lessons, I don’t mind. Or... maybe other things. Make ya more dinners?”

“Dunno. Got work,” he says.

“Right, me too. What do you do?” You ask.

His cheek ticks, “nothing exciting.”

“Ah, me neither. I work at this call center in the bank. Sit in the basement and try to sell credit cards. Pays pretty good though and you get commission if you sell a diamond.” You explain, “boring, I know.”

“Gotta start somewhere,” he remarks.

“Yeah, I guess,” you agree. “So, are you from around here?”

“I’m here now. Doesn’t matter,” he answers. He’s stubborn, you’ll give him that.

You watch his hands. His knuckles are tattooed with little wolf heads. His fingers are deft and thick. You think about them doing other things.

“I grew up here. Not in this house but in this town. I guess it’s alright.” You preen and fix your dress. He’s looking again. “But I only really got friends from around here too. I love learning about new people. New places.”

His plate is clear already. You don’t realise until that moment how quick he was eating. Almost mechanically.

“You gonna finish that?” He asks. “You girls peck like birds.”

You giggle again, “that’s funny. My mom always said I chatter like one. Called me Chickadee when she got annoyed, which was like always.”

“Mm,” he drones.

“I’ll finish,” you push your fork into the pie, “like a good girl.”

His eyes flash. You got him. He shifts and puts down his cutlery. He sits back and crosses his arms. His knees are set wide as he heaves another deep breath.

You suck another bite off the fork. You lick your lips. You set down your knife on the rim of the plate and touch your chest, just below your throat.

“I’m so sorry, could I get something to drink? Please?”

He twitches, “shoulda offered before.”

He gets up. You smile, “thanks, Bucky.”

He gets up and takes his empty plate. He walks past you with a gristly breath. You catch how he tugs at the loop of his belt, adjusting his pants just slightly. You’re not trying to be too into yourself but you think you know why.

You continue to eat. The pie turned out pretty good. And you are starving. He returns with a tall glass of water for you, a beer for himself. He doesn’t sit.

“Thank you so much,” you smile and reach for the glass. You rinse out your mouth and watch him as he puts his back to you and looks out at the lawn. “Did you like it?”

“Hm?” He turns his head so you can see his profile in the streetlight’s glow.

“The pie?”

“Oh, yeah, good cooking. Been a while.”

You smile. You’re proud of that. You’re no Gordon Ramsay, you can cook simple things, but they do the trick.

You finish as he watches the neighbourhood. A few passerbys have his posture changing. You set the cutlery neatly on the plate and stand. You come up next to him and put your hands on the rail. You sense him flinch.

“I hate this humidity, makes me so sticky,” you fan yourself. He must be dying in those jeans.

He grunts but offers no other reply.

“I like your tattoos. I was thinking of getting one,” you turn to look at him, keeping one hand on the rail, as the other frames your hip. “Maybe like a little heart?”

“Mm, if you want to. Just ink.”

“Sure. Do you have any recommendations for an artist? I don’t even know where to start.” You giggle again.

“Didn’t get any here. Make sure you don’t cheap out,” he shrugs and tucks his thumbs into his jeans pockets. He won’t look at you.

You search for something else. Anything.

“Dinner was good. Thanks. I don’t wanna keep you,” he gets there first. Fuck.

“Oh, I don’t mind.”

“Got an early morning,” he sniffs.

“Alright, uh, sure. I’ll see ya around?” He nods. You try not to show your disappointment. You tremble then squeeze his arm, “I like talking to you, neighbour.”

You drag your touch down his forearm then turn away. You sway your hips as you head for the stairs. You get to the top and look over at him, “good night, Bucky.”

“Night,” he growls.

You take the first step down but on the second, your wedge sandal slips off and bounces down the steps. You trip and find yourself stumbling forward. It all happens so fast, you yelp as you find yourself just a few inches off the ground, staring down at your fate but not meeting it.

Bucky has you by your arms. He holds you almost horizontal as your feet remain on the third step. He pulls you up to your feet and you lean back against him with a gasp. You feel him tense.

“Oh my, I’m so clumsy,” you fan yourself. “Bucky, you saved me.”

His fingers curl into your bare arms before he lets go. He steps around you and stomps down to grab your shoe. You tug at the top of your dress as he looks up, your left boob is almost out. Your cup it and guide it beneath the fabric.

His throat bobs as he stares up at you. He puts the shoe flat at the bottom of the stairs. He doesn’t say a word as he offers his hand. You take it and hobble down in your single wedge.

“Thank you, Bucky,” you step into your shoe at the bottom and cling to him, “you’re such a gentleman.”

He shudders and gently wiggles his hand free, “get outta here, girl.”

He backs away and turns to take the stairs two at a time. You grimace at his suddenness. You turn as the door swings shut behind him and the inside one closes in quick succession. Your plate and the drinks are still on the table.

You’re only disappointed your night was cut short. You let the agitation slake away and sighs. You laugh to yourself and slowly strut away. Oh, you did something.

#bucky barnes #dark bucky barnes #dark!bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #series #besotted #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #winter soldier #avengers #mcu #marvel #captain america #au

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