#I'll be leaving to college in like. 2 days

[cut-aare]

🩸🫦

[marvelstoriesepic]

Supposed Distraction

Pairing: College!Athlete!Bucky x College!Reader

Summary: It’s Bucky’s birthday and you and your friends are planning a surprise party. That leaves you with the task to distract him while the others prepare.

Prompt 1: “I think we need to talk.”

Prompt 2: “I don’t owe you an explanation.”

Prompt 3: “Kiss me.”

Word Count: 7.6k

Warnings: friends to lovers; reader is embarrassed and rather terrible at attempting to distract Bucky; Bucky is smug; Bucky is worried; Sam and Steve are idiots; feels; pining; tension; Bucky is a sweetheart

Author’s Note: This is another entry for the lovely cinema themed writing challenge by @elixirfromthestars ♡ I hope you’re not getting tired of me participating, my dear, but I couldn’t help it. Especially since you were the one inspiring me to write this about college!bucky. I'll have to thank you for that!! Hope you enjoy! ♡

Masterlist

You always knock four times.

It’s instinctive at this point, muscle memory more than conscious thought. You don’t even remember when or how it started, but it's always fours knocks.

The door swings open within seconds, revealing Bucky’s easy and bright grin. He leans against the frame, arms crossed over his broad chest, hair slightly tousled, perhaps from running his hands through it. God, he looks great.

“Hey, doll,” he greets, voice warm. “You’re early.”

You arch a brow, stepping past him when he shifts to let you in. “It’s your birthday, Buck. What kind of friend would I be if I left you alone, huh?”

Bucky exhales a short sigh, but his smile stays in place. “Told you, it’s not a big deal.”

“‘Course it is, Buck,” you argue, almost indignant at the thought. Because if anyone deserves a day where people get to celebrate him, it’s James Buchanan Barnes.

But he doesn’t make much of his birthday. He doesn’t like attention when he hasn’t earned it.

It’s why he loves the mound, standing there under stadium lights with all eyes on him, but loathes things like this - birthdays, personal praise, anything that forces him into a spotlight just for existing. You suppose that’s just part of who he is.

You saw him earlier, in university. You shared one class today. He walked in a few minutes late, baseball cap pulled low, backpack slung lazily over one shoulder.

You had been waiting for him, barely able to contain your excitement as you nearly launched yourself at him in the hallway with a cheerful happy birthday, Bucky!

He had only blinked, slightly startled at your enthusiasm before huffing out a laugh when you crushed him in a tight hug. But he hadn’t complained, only chuckled softly, winding his arms around you and pressing his hands to your back, waiting for you to be the first to pull away again.

You told him he'd receive his present later the day with a grin and Bucky only rolled his eyes with a fond smile, letting you have your moment.

But what Bucky doesn’t know is that there is a surprise party awaiting him later, planned by you and your shared group of friends - because somebody has to make sure that today doesn’t pass like it is just another day.

Sam’s apartment is the only logical choice, given that his roommate dropped out and no one had rushed to fill the space yet. That means lots of room, plus an open invitation to make a mess.

The only issue is that Sam’s apartment is directly across the hall from Bucky and Steve’s.

Which means you have been assigned a very specific task - keep Bucky in his apartment until it’s time.

Not that you had much say in the matter. The moment the question came up about who would be the one distracting him that long, every pair of eyes landed on you.

You are his best friend, but - and that’s how you see it - so is everyone else. Still, they seemed to believe that you could hold his attention for long enough, that you could keep him engaged enough not to notice the shuffle of footsteps and suspicious voices beyond his door. That it would be you who he doesn’t mind having around, lingering in his space.

Honestly, you didn’t argue.

There is not a reason as to why you should. Any excuse to spend time with Bucky is a good one.

After all, you love the guy. But that’s a problem for another day.

You drop your bag on the worn-out armchair by the window, the same spot you always claim when you are here.

Bucky’s jacket is slung over the back of the chair, and the second your bag lands on it, the scent of his cologne drifts up - clean, something woodsy, something him. It distracts you for a second, but then you turn to face him again.

He stuffs his hands into the pockets of his jeans after closing the door again.

“Where’s Steve?” you ask casually, like you don’t already know he is across the hall, making sure everything is set up for the surprise. But you don’t know what he told Bucky.

“He said somethin’ about running some drills with the rookies, helping out the coach, or whatever,” Bucky answers, tilting his head in that unconcerned way. He slowly makes his way toward you. “Guess one of them nearly took his own damn head off trying to hit a curveball.”

One of your brows lifts amused. “And Steve’s the guy to fix that?”

Bucky smirks. “Well, y’know how he is. Someone fucks up a throw, suddenly he’s gotta be the one to teach ‘em how to do it right.” He shakes his head, like the whole thing is ridiculous.

“Yeah, sounds like Steve,” you state, trying to suppress a knowing smile.

You lean your hip against the kitchen counter, arms loosely crossed, trying to keep it casual. The apartment is small, with the kitchen bleeding into the living space, a single couch, and a coffee table taking up a lot of the room. You love it.

“So, what do you feel like doing?” You tip your head toward him. “You’re the birthday boy, you get to decide.”

Bucky scoffs, lips curling, finding your antics amusing. But then, he actually seems to consider it. His hands slip from his pockets, arms crossing as he leans back slightly against the table. His gaze falls to the window. Sunlight spills in, casting golden lines across the floor and making your hair gleam.

“You wanna go get some ice cream or somethin’?” he suggests. “It’s warm out.”

You blink, caught off guard. Bucky isn’t usually the one to propose going out. It takes a little coaxing most days, a push to get him moving and leave his apartment to meet your group of friends somewhere outside. You wonder what he would have said if anyone else were the one distracting him.

But you can’t take him up on it. Because you can’t let him leave and potentially find out.

“Uh-no,” you say, a little too quickly, a little too firmly.

Bucky’s brows lift, a smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth. “No?” He huffs a laugh, shifting his weight onto one foot, arms still folded. His voice takes on that slow, teasing drawl. “You just asked me what I wanna do, doll. Thought I got to decide? Y’know, birthday and all that.”

You just started this distracting thing and you are already messing up. Great.

You scramble for a way to walk it back, to keep him here without making it obvious. “Yeah, you know, I just-” You glance around as if the answer is hidden somewhere in the room. “Why don’t we stay inside?”

Bucky watches you, eyes narrowing just slightly, trying to puzzle you out. He doesn’t look suspicious. But there is a curiosity in it.

“Why?” he drags the word out, tilting his head. “Something wrong with ice cream? We could also go get some tacos maybe-”

“No! Nothing’s wrong with ice cream.” You force a laugh, waving your hand dismissively. “I just figured we could chill here for a bit.” You bite your lip, then continue. “We could bake you a cake?”

You would love to face-palm yourself right now.

Why would you even say that?

There will be plenty of cake at the party. Cake that’s already been ordered, picked out, baked yourself, and waiting across the hall. And yet, here you are, offering something completely unnecessary, completely ridiculous.

God, you are terrible at this.

Bucky’s blue eyes are on you, considering, lips parting, about to say something.

Panic rises.

“Or not,” you blurt, stepping forward too fast, too sudden, hands coming up in a vague, dismissive gesture. “Yeah, maybe not. That’s dumb. Forget I said anything.”

You shift where you stand, fingers twitching at your sides. You don’t get nervous around Bucky - at least, not like this. But something hot and uncomfortable starts to creep up the back of your neck.

A slow smirk pulls at Bucky’s mouth as he watches you with so much amusement in his eyes, enjoying whatever the hell this is turning into.

“You alright over there, doll?” he asks, voice warm, teasing.

You scoff, rolling your eyes, trying to keep your cool. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“You sure?” He tilts his head, a lock of dark hair falling into his eyes. “Cause you’re actin’ a little funny.”

You open your mouth, a retort or something like it ready, but Bucky suddenly leans in just a fraction, gaze sweeping over your face like he is searching for something. And yeah shit, you need to shut this down. Now. Or you’ll be a hot mess on the floor.

“Just forget it.” You shrug and then move away from him, toward the fridge, suddenly very interested in whatever’s inside. “You want something to drink?”

You don’t look back at him immediately, don’t give him a chance to see the way you feel your face warm up. Instead, you grab two small bottles of orange juice, shoving one in his direction as a distraction.

Bucky takes it easily, but that amused smirk does not waver a tiny bit. He is still watching you.

Bucky is no idiot. And if you’re not careful, he’s going to catch on fast.

You twist the cap of the bottle a little forcefully, the plastic groaning in your grip. The cold of it seeps into your palm, but it’s not enough to steady the way your heart is beating a little too fast. Taking a sip of the juice, you try to swallow past the lump in your throat.

He has always been observant. Even more so when it comes to you. You wish, just this once, that he'd be a little more dense.

“You gonna tell me what’s up with you today?” he asks, voice colored with curiosity, dipping just enough into concern that you flinch internally.

“I don’t owe you an explanation.”

It’s defensive, but all it does is amuse him. His lips curve, his brows shoot high, the lines on his forehead creasing in exaggerated surprise.

Leaning against the counter with his arms crossed over his chest, his own bottle loosely held in one hand, he tips his head back and studies you. “That how we’re playin’ it, huh?”

You shrug, taking another sip of your juice, using the movement as an excuse to break eye contact. But you know it does not deter him.

Bucky makes a thoughtful noise, shifting his weight. “Y’know,” he drones out, tone lazy but eyes sharp and smirk sly. “Usually when people get all cagey like this, it means they’re hidin’ something.”

You shoot him a hopefully flat look. “Wow, Barnes. That’s some real detective work. You want to get a notepad? Maybe a magnifying glass?”

His smirk widens. He seems thoroughly entertained. You don’t like it.

“Depends,” he teases, leaning in just a fraction. “Do I need ‘em?”

Your pulse spikes. Bastard.

With an obvious eye roll that unfortunately lacks the conviction you tried to portray, you cross the room, shoulders set, and let yourself drop into the armchair where your bag still rests with a heavy thud. The cushions soften the impact. Trying to feign the usual comfort you feel sitting here, you tuck one leg under the other, leaning back. Your hands tighten around the still cold bottle of juice.

Bucky doesn’t move right away. He is still standing by the counter, bottle in hand, eyes never leaving you.

“Do you want to watch something?” you ask, reaching for the remote, already trying to steer this back into safe waters.

Bucky exhales through his nose, humor lining the corners of his eyes. His stance is easy and relaxed, but he looks at you like he knows something is off.

“Is this me deciding?” he muses, voice smooth. “Or are you just gonna tell me no again?”

There is no accusation in his tone, just that familiar Brooklyn drawl that makes everything sound like an inside joke.

He finally moves, dragging his body toward the couch. He doesn’t plop down like you did. He settles himself with intent and leans forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, his entire focus trained on you like you are the most interesting thing in the room.

You swallow.

“You’ll get to decide,” you promise, trying for nonchalance.

Bucky glances at the dark TV screen, then back at you.

“Nah,” he claims. “Let’s talk.”

Your stomach drops.

Bucky never lets things go when he is curious. You see the spark in his eyes, the glint of amusement, the way the corners of his mouth twitch with that smirk. He knows you are acting weird. Maybe he doesn’t know why, but he sure as hell knows something is up and he is going to dig.

You inhale deeply, fighting the urge to groan. But all you do is force a casual shrug, stretching your arms over your head before letting them drop back into your lap. “What do you want to talk about?”

Your fingers fidget with the label on the bottle, a nervous little movement you don’t mean to make. Bucky’s gaze flickers down to your hands and you freeze, immediately stilling them, letting the bottle rest in your lap and shoving your hands between your thighs.

His eyes snap back to yours, lips curving up.

“You,” he says simply.

You roll your eyes, feigning playful annoyance, because if you don’t, you might actually combust on the spot. “Oh, come on,” you scoff.

For the next few minutes, you actually manage to let a conversation drift to normal things. The familiar back-and-forth. You talk about classes, you being annoyed at that one professor who has a habit of trailing off mid-lecture, forgetting what he is actually supposed to talk about. Bucky tells you about his brutal morning training session that left half the team groaning like old men.

You bring up his next baseball game, the one you won’t be able to make because of an assignment, and Bucky whines.

He doesn’t just complain a little but rather goes on about it for minutes on end. Arms flailing, huffing dramatically, groaning like you just told him his dog died.

“You could just skip,” he protests, lounging back into the couch.

“I can’t just skip, Bucky.”

“But I need my lucky charm,” he laments, throwing his head back against the cushion as if this is some great tragedy.

You roll your eyes but there is warmth rising in your chest. “I’m sorry, Buck. But I did come to all your games last month.”

“Yeah, which is why you owe me,” Bucky retorts, sitting up again, gesturing with his hands. “I hit a homer 'cause you were there. What if I suck without you?”

“I’m sure you’ll survive,” you laugh, but Bucky grumbles under his breath, not quite over it.

It starts to feel normal. Easy. You begin to believe that you might actually pull this off. That you can keep him here, keep him occupied, long enough for your friends across the hall to finish setting up.

But then a loud thump echoes from the hallway.

Your spine goes rigid.

Bucky’s head snaps up, his grin replaced with a furrowed brow.

Another thud.

Yeah, so, that was that.

You fumble for your phone and type out a quick text to Sam.

Y: What are you guys doing out there?

The reply comes almost immediately.

S: Just keep Barnes inside.

You would love to curse loudly right now. Because thank you for nothing, Sam.

Bucky is already standing.

“What are you doing?” you ask, standing up as well, your voice perhaps a little sharper than usual.

Bucky glances at you briefly. There is a tiny bit of concern in his eyes. “There’s something goin’ on out there.” He gestures toward the door. “Think I should check. Might be Miss Nelly.”

Something clenches in your gut.

Miss Nelly, the sweet older woman who lives next door to him and Steve. The one they always help carry groceries up the stairs. The one who has trouble with her hip sometimes. If Bucky thinks she might have fallen, or perhaps tried to carry something on her own, of course, he wants to check.

But that is not what is happening out there.

You rush to step between him and the door. “Let me check.”

Bucky shakes his head. “You wait here, doll. I’ll be back in a sec-”

But you don’t let him finish.

You throw the door open and basically slam it shut behind you before he can follow.

Yes, that was perhaps a little rude. Yes, that will probably only make him more suspicious. Yes, you could have come up with something better. But you certainly did not have the time to think about what exactly.

Right outside, Sam and Steve are standing there - in front of the open door to Sam's apartment where a chair lays with its backside on the floor - wide-eyed, looking about as guilty as two kids caught with their hands in the cookie jar.

You would have laughed at the sight if not for the fact that you just slammed Bucky’s own apartment door basically in his face without an explanation.

“What the hell are you guys doing?” you hiss, voice low, exasperated.

Sam lifts his hands in a calm down gesture. “Listen-”

“No, you listen,” you snap, whisper-shouting, barely resisting the urge to grab them by their collars and shake them. “He’s two seconds away from walking out that door.”

Steve grimaces, rubbing the back of his neck. “We, uh, we miscalculated.”

“Miscalculated?” you repeat, eyes narrowing.

They both exchange a glance.

You sigh in frustration. “Where’s Nat?”

“Out with Bruce getting drinks,” Steve answers, folding his arms. “Wanda, Clint, and Laura are inside, decorating.”

“Look,” Sam starts, raising a brow. “We’re bustin’ our asses for this dickhead, and you’re the one who came up with the whole thing in the first place.”

“That’s not-”

“So you gotta do your part. Go back in and stall him some more” A grin spreads across his face and he waggles his eyebrows suggestively. “I don’t know - offer him a good time.”

Your eyes narrow, hands on your hips. “Sam.”

Steve sighs, shaking his head, but there is an unmistakable smirk tugging at his lips.

You glare at them both, spinning on your heel before they can make this worse, yanking the door open and stepping back inside the apartment.

Bucky is exactly where you left him.

Arms crossed. Eyebrows raised. Lips parted slightly, caught between confusion and suspicion.

He is wearing that what the hell was that expression.

You swallow and shut the door more forcefully than necessary, the sound echoing slightly.

Bucky doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just fixes you with a stare so focused, so piecing, seemingly able to look right through you. It makes you shift where you stand, suddenly hyper-aware of every nervous tick in your body.

“Alright,” he starts slowly, carefully, eyes falling to the door before turning back to you. “What’s goin’ on?”

“Not Miss Nelly,” you quip, attempting a light and assuring tone.

It does not work.

Bucky still doesn’t blink. His jaw works. He doesn’t buy a damn thing you’re trying to sell him.

“No, doll.” His voice is lower now, thoughtful, putting together a puzzle in his head. “What’s going on with you?”

You try to press down the lump in your throat.

“You’re actin’ real weird.” His words aren’t harsh, not even accusing. Just observant.

He cocks his head slightly.

Why did the others think you could withstand the way his eyes root you to the spot without flopping down to the ground as a puddle.

You are so screwed.

You push yourself out of the conversation, walking over to the armchair again and trying to find something to keep you busy while plopping down.

“It’s nothing, Bucky.”

Your fingers curl around the juice bottle, bringing it to your lips, but the cold liquid doesn’t do much to cool the heat crawling up your spine. Your thumb works at the label, picking at the paper until it peels away in small, curling strips.

Bucky blows out a breath, rubbing a hand down his face before slowly making his way over to you.

Crouching in front of you, he braces his forearms on his knees, his eyes intently locked onto you.

The sudden closeness forces you to suck in a breath and your fingers tighten around the bottle in your hands.

His expression shifts again, humor creeping into the smirk on his mouth. “Doll,” he starts, voice light, amused. His hands slide up to rest on either side of your chair, effectively caging you in. “Did you plan somethin’ for me?”

Shit.

Your next inhale is a little hesitant. The air thickens. “No.” It sounds too stiff.

Bucky raises an eyebrow. He is smirking so wide. Enjoying this so much, the way you squirm in your seat before him.

You push forward, shaking your head. “No, Buck. I did not.”

“You sure?” He almost laughs.

“Yes, I just-” You are floundering, drowning in your own words. How can you save this now?

“I’m nervous.” Well, at least that’s not a lie.

Bucky’s expression softens immediately, his amusement fading into something quieter. He straightens up, tilting his head tenderly. His full attention is on you.

A gentle crease in his brows forms. “Why are you nervous, sweetheart?” His voice is softer now, lower.

And guilt hits you.

How do you get out of this?

But, hell, he is so close, too close. His eyes are so blue, too blue. His gaze is so intense, too intense. You are feeling hot, too hot - your brain isn’t working, it’s overheating, and your mouth is suddenly moving.

“Because.” Shut up, shut up, shut up. “Because I think we need to talk.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

The entirety of Bucky shifts and you just want the ground to eat you up right this second.

Because now he looks so worried. So genuinely concerned.

You feel yourself start to sweat. Where is this going? Why can’t you stop this? Why did you even start it?

Bucky’s face drops to a frown so deep, lines are forming. A hand of his moves, palm landing lightly on your knee.

“We can talk, doll.” His voice is even softer now, barely above a murmur. “Is something wrong? You alright?”

You just stare at him.

Your heart is hammering.

What the hell are you doing?

Your teeth sink into your bottom lip as your fingers keep worrying at the torn label, peeling off strips that crumple beneath your fingertips. It’s the only thing you want to focus on right now with Bucky’s proximity and his intense gaze.

But then his hands replace the bottle and he grasps your fingers, wrapping around them and stilling their fidgeting.

Something electric rushes through your veins so quickly, you couldn’t catch it if you tried.

This is getting way too serious.

Too intimate in a way that sends your pulse skittering up your throat.

You feel like a deer caught in headlights, your body tensing up, lungs forgetting how to work properly. Because this is veering dangerously off course, heading straight for a conversation you’re not sure you’re ready to have. You never thought you’d ever be ready.

But you started this. You walked straight into it with your own words, and there is no backing out now. So you might as well be honest now.

No time like the present.

Bucky must feel the way your hands begin to tremble in his hold, because he adjusts again, shifting closer, his knees pressing against the base of your chair. His thumbs trace over the backs of your hands. His frown deepens.

Why does he have to be so worried? It would make things so much easier if he remained casual and easy. But really, that’s how Bucky always is. Worrying so fast when it comes to you. You can’t really blame this on him now, can you?

His voice drops lower, soft as a whisper. “What is it, sweetheart?” His eyes are full and searching. “Talk to me.”

Air hitches, stalling between your ribs before pushing forward in a rather trembling exhale. Your lungs barely feel full. Your eyes dart away from his, searching the room, the floor, anywhere but him.

“Did I upset you? Is it something I did-”

“No!” you rush out, hastily. “No, you didn’t do anything, Buck.” God, now he even goes that far. This is bad.

Bucky softens a tiny fraction, but he keeps sweeping his eyes over your face, latching on the details, trying to study you, trying to read what this is about. “You can tell me, doll. Always. Whatever it is,” he coos so sweetly, and it makes you want to cry.

How do you even start this?

You open your mouth. You’re certainly not ready to climb the whole mountain, but perhaps you can try a small hill.

“Do you-” You swallow, trying to sound as if you are simply reminiscing. “Do you remember that time after your game last year when it started pouring the second we left the stadium?”

Bucky blinks at the sudden turn. Confusion enters his features but the worry only deepens. “What?”

You push forward, gaze fixed on the arm of your chair as if it might give you the courage you need. “You gave me your jersey, even though I already had a jacket and you were the one soaking wet-”

Bucky’s brows pull further together, his head shaking slowly, not knowing what to do with your words. “Doll-”

“You walked me all the way back to my apartment.” Your voice turns quieter as if you are speaking more to yourself than him. Perhaps you are. Saying those things out loud makes them seem so much more important. “And then you got sick for three days.”

His hands squeeze yours gently. “I mean- Yeah, I remember.” Confusion also settles in his tone. “But what’s that got to do with-”

“I don’t know,” you cut in quickly. “I just-” You exhale a deep sigh. “I think about that a lot.”

Bucky says your name like it is something delicate. Something that might slip away if he is not careful.

“Look at me, please.”

You try, but it’s hard.

It means staring into those impossibly blue eyes that see too much, that strip you bare without even trying, that try to coax something out of you, you didn’t even plan on letting go.

But you force yourself to lift your gaze and it is worse than you expected.

He is watching you with an intensity that makes you stop breathing. His stormy eyes are so full of concern, so desperate to understand what is going on in your head, searching every inch of your face.

His lips are parted slightly. His breathing is sharper. Uneven.

“What’s going on, hm?” he coaxes, so softly, so full of patience you don’t deserve. “What’s this about? You still feelin’ guilty?”

Your heart plummets like a stone.

“Doll, there’s no need to, alright?” His hands squeeze yours, grounding, reassuring. “We talked about this.”

God, why does he have to be so good?

His voice is so warm. Warm like sunlight, like home. It makes the sting behind your eyes grow stronger.

You don’t want to cry.

You don’t want to feel this way. Don’t want to ruin his fucking birthday like this. This is getting so out of hand right now, but what should you do? You are so tangled up in trying to figure out what to say, things you are too much of a coward to finally admit out loud.

Bucky notices your struggles. He sees them. Plain on your face. His thumbs brush over your skin in careful strokes. “And you took such good care of me.” His tone lightens, trying to pull you out of whatever hole you’re sinking into. “Remember that part?”

You nod, swallowing and swallowing but the clump of emotions stays stuck in your throat. “Yeah.” Your voice comes out flat, like you are detached from it. “I do. Sorry for bringing it up.”

Bucky’s lips press together, and then he sighs so deeply, his chest rises and falls profoundly.

“Doll,” he murmurs, straightening up, arms beside you tensing as though he is holding himself back from doing something. “That’s not what you wanted to talk about.”

He’s right.

“Darlin’, please,” he urges, and god, the way that word falls from his lips makes you shudder. His voice is barely above a whisper now, full of something genuine, something tender, something that makes him sound like he wishes you would just talk to him, and it makes you want to shrink down to something he can’t see anymore. “What is it?”

You could lie. Again.

You could laugh it off, steer the conversation away, keep pretending.

You could drag this out further until the others are ready, leaving him worried and slightly upset.

You could tell him the truth about the party.

Or you could finally come clean about the feelings you have held in your heart for so long. Feelings for your best friend.

Drawing in a breath, you straighten slightly. Your hands, still held in his, still shaking, squeeze back. His eyes never waver from your face, tracing the contours of your features.

You clear your throat, but it doesn’t help much. “Uhm,” you croak. “I- I wanted- I need to tell you something.”

His fingers twitch around yours. His features fall into a deep concentration. He doesn’t rush you. Just watches. Waits.

And god, his eyes are pools you never learned to swim in.

You look away, at the wall behind him. “I’ve been wanting to tell you this for a while now, I guess. But-” You inhale a quivering breath. “But I was afraid. Because I don’t know how you’ll react.”

Bucky doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. His chest rises and falls deeply, almost mechanically. There is something almost spellbound in the way he stares at you, completely locked in, completely yours. The only sign that he has heard you is the subtle press of his fingers against yours.

His head dips in a nod for you to go on.

You wet your lips. “I, uhm-”

But then something catches your attention.

The door to Bucky’s and Steve’s apartment opens.

Painstakingly slow.

You stiffen.

Bucky is still so enamored with what you were saying, he doesn’t seem to notice at first. His back is to the door.

You see heads peeking through the small gap, cautious, bodies frozen in an awkward crouch as if that makes them less noticeable.

Steve and Sam.

They are trying to slip in without a sound, their movements so unbelievably slow, exaggerated. They resemble cartoon characters sneaking through a heist.

Sam motions at you wildly, gesturing at Bucky, at himself, at the hallway, mouthing something like distract him! Keep him busy.

They almost make it, but Bucky catches the small reaction of you, the surprise. His senses are too tuned in to every little thing about you and with his brows knit together, he shifts to glance over his shoulder.

You don’t think about anything.

Your hands rip from his, and before he can turn fully, before he can see those two idiots, you grab his face.

Bucky jolts, startled, his breath hitching audibly. His skin is warm beneath your palms, the sharp angle of his jaw fitting perfectly against your hands. His wide eyes snap back to you, dumbfounded, searching.

He blinks at you. Then blinks again. Then simply stares.

His lips part slightly, breath brushing over your skin.

Your heart slams against your ribs.

This is close. Too close. Closer than you’ve ever been. Well, but not closer than you’ve let yourself imagine. But having him here in reality is something else entirely.

Sam throws you a thumbs up over Bucky’s head and a wiggle of his brows and the both of them disappear from sight into the hallway.

But you just made this worse.

And you are still holding his face between your hands.

Bucky’s lashes flicker, but he doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t fight it. Just stares at you like you’ve done something earth-shattering, like you’ve just rewritten every unspoken rule between you in a single, desperate motion.

Your pulse is a drum against your throat.

You see Bucky’s pulse thunder in his neck.

But he doesn’t move. You don’t move either.

He doesn’t breathe. You don’t know if you do.

He watches you. You watch him back.

“Doll?” Bucky practically breathes the question.

You swallow hard. Opening your mouth doesn’t help with finding words, so you shut it again. Slowly, you pull your hands away from his face.

But Bucky still doesn’t move.

His breath is still broken, his lips still parted, his brows still slightly drawn, stuck somewhere between surprise and something so deep, you’d be falling endlessly.

He is leaning in just the slightest bit, as though his body hasn’t quite caught up with his mind, not even realizing he is doing it.

And you hate the way your chest aches at the look in his eyes.

There is so much all at once and the more you stare, the harder it gets.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble, dropping your gaze.

But there is movement in your peripheral.

Steve and Sam are creeping back out of the hallway, lugging something that looks like Bucky’s speaker system from his room.

And god help you, they are still moving at a snail’s pace, their motions so exaggerated, so painfully slow and obvious that you want to scream. You grit your teeth.

Fortunately, Bucky is still just staring at you, stunned.

The two are just about to reach the door, so close to getting through this ridiculous charade, when Sam’s end of the box bumps against the shoe shelf.

The sound isn’t loud, but it’s enough. Enough for Bucky’s head to instinctively turn toward the noise. Enough for his body to shift just slightly.

Your brain short-circuits.

Like completely.

Totally.

Lacking any sense.

Not only do you pull his face back.

You pull it in.

“Kiss me,” you blurt, and it’s not soft, not sweet, not anything carefully planted - it’s desperate, panicked.

Bucky’s whole face just goes wide, pure shock filtering out anything else.

Another bump.

You’re not sure Bucky even heard it, but your lips crash onto his with urgency.

Bucky freezes.

And when you say freeze, you mean freeze.

Every muscle in his body turns to stone. His hands flex before going rigid, floating in the air. His breath stalls. His spine goes straight, and the grunt he lets out - so low and gravelly, caught deep in his throat - reverberates into your mouth.

But behind him, Steve and Sam go as still. Dead silent.

You can feel them watching, their eyes practically bulging out of their skulls.

For a full few seconds, nothing happens.

But then, there is a shift. You don’t see it, but you know it. The way their disbelief turns into something smug - something amused and downright delighted. You feel the way Sam’s mouth probably stretches into that toothy and knowing, cocky-ass grin. You feel the way Steve simply looks happy.

You don’t pull away.

Instead, you wave one frantic hand behind Bucky’s back, motioning wildly, trying to get them to move.

You open an eye to see them still staring, Steve blinking rapidly, Sam grinning like a fool, nudging Steve.

But then, finally, they start creeping out of the room again.

They are gone now.

Bucky still isn’t moving.

He’s not breathing.

He’s not reacting.

And the tension stretches so tight, you swear the air could snap in half.

Because this isn’t just a distraction anymore.

This isn’t just a cover-up.

Your lips are still on Bucky’s.

Your hands are still gripping his face.

And his are trembling where they hover near your knees, as if he wants to touch you, wants to move, but his brain is still struggling to catch up with what is happening.

Then the tension snaps.

Bucky exhales against you.

It’s not just a breath - it’s a surrender. A sharp and shuddering exhale that stirs against your lips, warm and tentative, as if he is trying to feel what is happening, trying to understand the shape of this moment.

His hands flex and twitch against your legs, but he is hesitant, as if waiting for something, waiting for you to pull back, waiting for this to be some kind of mistake.

But you don’t pull back.

You don’t want to pull back.

And that’s when he melts.

He sinks into the kiss, his body softening, folding inward toward you. His fingers slide up your legs, brushing tenderly against the fabric of your pants before settling on your hips, cautious, like he doesn’t want to break the moment, doesn’t want to take too much.

Then, his lips move. It’s a slow, searching motion, testing the waters, trying to figure you out. His mouth is warm, his lips so much softer than you imagined. And hell, did you imagine.

He makes a sound - low and unsure, a hum deep in his throat that vibrates against your lips. His movements are careful, almost disbelieving. Like he is afraid this will disappear if he lets himself want it too much.

But then something changes.

Your nails lightly run over his neck, thumbs over his jawline.

And you feel the exact second the hesitation snaps.

He pulls you in.

His hands tighten, fingers digging into your hips, pulling you forward to the edge of the seat, into his chest, his grip growing needy, desperate. He seems to have been starving for this, like something in him has just broken loose.

The kiss turns deeper, heavier, a push and pull of breath and movement. He kisses you with searching urgency, trying to memorize the exact shape of your mouth, the way you feel pressed against him, the way you taste.

His lips part, just for a moment, and then he dares to press in a little more, tilting his head, fitting his mouth more firmly against yours.

He makes another sound - this time rougher, needier - a groan that slips through the space between you.

You can feel the want in the way he kisses you, in the way he angles his head to take more, to taste more, and damn if it does not overwhelm you.

The way his fingers tighten their hold, his thumbs brushing just beneath the hem of your shirt, needing to feel your warmth.

And the way he breathes you in, each exhale shaky, each inhale sharper, like he is drunk on this, on you.

Your hands find purchase in his hair, fingers tangling in the strands at the nape of his neck, and the second you pull just so slightly, he makes a sound.

A gravelly noise that shoots straight through you, heat curling at the base of your spine.

He is kissing you like he can’t help it anymore. As if he has been waiting for this exact moment, for you, for so long that he’s past the point of fighting it.

You thought he’d pull away. You thought he’d startle and demand an explanation, eyes sharp with suspicion, voice laced with confusion. But he doesn’t.

His lips only press more firmly against yours, his nose sweeping against your cheek, his chest rising and falling unevenly, breathing erratic as if he is just as lost in this as you are.

Your heart is hammering so violently in your chest, you think he must hear it, must feel it where your body is pressed to his. Your hands are slightly trembling, sliding to curl into the fabric of his shirt, holding onto him. Because you have to hold on. You have to anchor before you fall, before you slip too deep into the intoxicating pull of him and lose all sense of self.

But maybe you already have.

Because he is kissing you as though he’s afraid this is a dream, testing the edges of reality with every careful, exploring movement of his tongue and lips.

He tastes like something warm, something safe, something like the orange juice you two have been drinking, something wholly Bucky. Every press of his lips, every brush of his tongue against yours, is stealing a coherent thought from your mind.

This was supposed to be a distraction. This was supposed to be a lie.

But hell, it’s not.

It’s everything you’ve ever wished for.

When you pull away, both breathless and panting, his forehead stays against yours.

Your pulse is so fast, so fluttering, and you know he can feel it, the way it thrums in your chest, in your throat, in the slight tremor of your fingers still curled loosely in his shirt.

His hot and shuddering exhale fans over your lips and it’s maddening how much you want to taste them again, how much you want to fall right back into him.

You open your eyes.

His are already on you, so close, so intent, so devastatingly blue that they don’t help at all in trying to regain a healthy breathing rate. There is something in them, something soft and devoted, something awed, like he can’t quite believe you are real, that this is real.

A shiver works its way down your spine, leaving goosebumps in its way and Bucky sees it. He feels it. His grin widens, slow and boyish almost, something that makes him look young and light, like something is lifted off his shoulders.

Your name is a breath that leaves his lips with the kind of care reserved for wishes made on falling stars.

It sends another shudder through you, and his grin turns brilliantly wide.

“That the present you were talkin’ about earlier?” he breathes, voice still hoarse, still dazed.

You huff a laugh, shaking your head. Smiling. Grinning. Like a fool. God, you can’t stop. It’s lifting your cheeks and making you feel giddy in a way you haven’t felt in so long.

“No,” you whisper back, voice airy.

“Don’t matter,” Bucky’s voice is full of affection, of something certain. His hands slide up, one cupping your jaw, thumb skimming over your cheek, the other finding the nape of your neck, fingers weaving into your hair. Holding you there. Holding you close. “Best damn present I’ve ever gotten.”

His tone is so sincere, so full of adoration, that your breath turns upside down, and you can’t do anything but feel the way butterflies are dancing in your stomach.

Heat floods your face and Bucky’s fingers flex against your skin, his smile turning impossibly brighter.

His eyes are shining with something you don’t think you’ve ever seen in them before. It’s breathtaking. It’s promising. It’s worshipful.

It’s everything.

You guess you owe him a little bit of an explanation.

There is guilt pooling in the hesitation before you speak. “Buck?” you start, voice quiet.

“Yeah, baby?” he drawls, and the way the new nickname rolls from his tongue so seamlessly makes your next inhale shatter midway, breaking into uneven pieces. You almost feel like choking.

His voice is so full of warmth, so soft, so fond. He is smiling at you and his eyes are sparkling as if you’ve just handed him the world. He is kneeling in front of you, patient and content, as though he’s got all the time in the world if it means spending it with you.

Something dizzying rushes through your veins, sparking at the base of your spine. You have to take a moment, a single, shaky pause to shove the giddiness down for later, to not let it explore the wide landscape of your heart and mind.

You clear your throat, shifting slightly in your seat, still at the edge of the armchair. Your chest almost brushing against Bucky’s. “I, uh- I do have something planned for you.”

Bucky is beaming. His amusement spills over into something so brilliant and blinding. His entire face lights up, so open, so full of adoration that it makes a feeling of pure bliss explode in your chest, sending delightful shivers down to your toes and hell, you don’t think you can handle it.

“Oh, do you?” he muses, dragging the words out slow and teasing. There is something beneath the syrupy sweetness. Something like mischief. His brows raise, eyes glinting, his lips twitch, and you know he is about to be a menace.

Tilting his head, Bucky feigns deep thought, but his eyes stay on you at all times. “Would that involve two idiots tryna sneak around behind my back?”

You blink at him.

Bucky’s grin turns wolfish and he bites his lip to suppress a laugh.

“You were actin’ all off from the beginning, doll. Knew somethin’ was up,” he states, voice a little softer, until he turns on his playful teasing voice again. “Flawless execution, sweetheart. Didn’t notice a damn thing.”

Groaning loudly, you press your hands to your face and Bucky lets the laugh out. It’s full-bodied and wholehearted. His chest shakes, his shoulders lift, his body tilts into it. And it’s such a good sound, such a lovely sound, so rich and free. It makes your own lips curl despite the frustration of the ruined surprise.

Bucky reaches up to gently pry your hands away from your face. His grip lingers, thumbs tracing over your knuckles, his touch so easy and natural.

His expression gives way to something soft. He bites his lip again, before bringing your hands up and kissing them softly, twinkling bright blue eyes trained on you and the deep flush that spreads along your cheeks.

Perhaps Bucky Barnes finally has a reason to start celebrating his birthday.

“But oh baby! Your smile.. Felt like warm sunshine after a heavy storm.. Overdose of it, is still not enough for me..”

- Zankhana

[mydearzero]

The Babysitter | Robert 'Bob' Reynolds x fem!Reader | Chapter 2 - Keep Him Happy

Summary: You didn’t have any superpowers, nor were you even qualified for the position, yet somehow a mishap between Alexei and Yelena ends up in getting you a new job. Bob-sitter. 

Contents: No Y/N, fem!reader, college student!reader, no warnings apply for this chapter.

A/N: Wow chapter 2 only one day later? Crazy! I already promise that's not a rate I'll keep up, lmao.

Read it on AO3 Chapter 1

1.5K words

So, Bob was not, in fact, a child. He was a grown man who seemed perfectly capable of taking care of himself. His face was somewhat youthful, so you weren’t sure exactly how old he was, but you’d wager it was older than you. 

“Why is it exactly that you need a babysitter?” You asked directly. No use beating around the bush. You ignored the whole flashback memory thing, guessing you’d be enlightened with the details when the rest of the team came back. It wasn’t exactly a fond experience. 

“Well, I wouldn’t say babysitter… It’s just, uh… best to not leave me to my own devices, I guess,” he shrugged. You nodded awkwardly, not sure what to make of the situation. The promised pay was good, you wouldn’t actually have to take care of him, just keep him company. It didn’t seem like a bad deal. 

But even then, he was obviously unstable. Maybe what he needed was a mental health professional, not a ‘babysitter.’ You were probably just a temporary solution. 

You sat in an awkward silence for a while, sipping your drink every now and then trying to think of a lighthearted topic to entertain him with. “So… Tell me about yourself, Bob.” 

“Well, I’m… Bob. Short for, uh, Robert, as you might’ve guessed,” Bob nodded. You sighed inwardly, this was going to be tougher than you expected. Children were usually a lot easier, willing to tell you all of their and their parent’s business. Cats were even better, no need for talking. Bob was going to take some work. 

“How’d you end up here, with these people, I mean?” You wondered. He seemed normal enough, but obviously the ‘New Avengers’ cared about him enough to try and keep him out of harm's way and around their building. 

“It’s kind of a funny story, really. One second I’m in Malaysia in some lab for a medical study, the next I wake up in this bunker with these guys trying to kill each other…” 

You squint your eyes in question. “That is… Funny?” 

“Yeah now that I’m putting it like that it doesn’t sound very funny, does it?” Bob chuckled. It seemingly broke some of the tension. He asked you a few questions about yourself and your contact with Alexei. 

“He seems very sweet,” you concluded. Bob agreed, letting you know the man definitely had his heart in the right place, though sometimes a bit overenthusiastic. 

He told you about the rest of the team, and you noticed he was inconspicuously perceptive. He went one by one, wasting time by talking about the people surrounding him most days. 

“Yelena looks really tough, and she is! But she’s really a big softie,” Bob spoke of her very fondly, a twinkle of adoration in his eyes. 

“Ava’s a bit of a tough nut to crack, but she has a really good sense of humour. She’s a bit more reserved, but really has your back when you need her. She’ll deny it, though.” 

You poured yourself another glass of soda, offering Bob one as well. He declined but thanked you for the offer to a degree which dazed you. You took a mental note of the skittish demeanour. 

“John’s an asshole. Can’t really put it anyway else. He’s here, he’ll show up for the others, but… I can’t really say I’ve come to like him like the others. I’d put it as toloration. I mean he has a history… But who doesn’t? Doesn’t give him the right to be a douche, you know?” He obviously had a strong sense of righteousness, and John did not fit into that picture. 

“And lastly there’s Bucky, but I’m sure you know about him. Congressman and such. He’s not around here much. He tries to be, but I feel like he’s still a bit wary of the team. Part of me thinks he just doesn’t want to get attached, which I can understand, given his past…” Bob looked out the window, seemingly lost in a deep thought. His eyes glazed over and an overwhelming sadness overtook his face. It’d gotten dark in the time you’d been here, the city skyline lit up with artificial lighting. 

“Whatever you do, try to keep him happy, distracted and away from danger.” Yelena’s words echoed in your head. There was likely a good reason for the particular instructions. 

“Well, Bob, thank you for opening up and telling me about them. I feel like we’re likely gonna be spending some more time together, so I really appreciate that you feel safe enough to share,” you smiled, distracting him from his spiralling thoughts. 

Bob smiled before looking a little confused at his own actions. You felt like he might’ve maybe shared a little more than he’d intended. 

You were racking your brain for another topic to talk about when the elevator doors opened once again. Bob deflated, hunching in on himself and making himself visibly smaller. You hadn’t even noticed how his posture had opened up during your conversation.

It was Yelena and Alexei, joking with each other in, was that Russian? They walked in as if they hadn’t just fought off whatever it was that had ransacked the subway and blasted itself into the building. You looked at them expectantly, waiting to finally get an explanation. 

“Ah, right, babysitter. It’s quite late, maybe you should head home?” Yelena suggested, cracking her neck while unloading a few weapons on a side table like she was dropping off her keys after coming home from the office. 

“Was this just a one time thing, or will I be coming back?” You wondered. You could use the money.  

“That depends… Bob? Do you like her?” 

Bob spluttered and gaped at Yelena, unsure of how to answer. “I– I mean, yeah, she’s– She’s nice. I don’t know what you want me to say.” 

“We can find different babysitter if you want. Many more on the app,” Alexei chimed in as he huffed and puffed, trying to get his suit off in the middle of the living room. It looked more like he was doing a form of experimental yoga. 

“No, no. This one’s fine,” Bob winced. You’d really have to come up with a different title than ‘babysitter’ if this was going to become a lasting thing. 

“Good, then she stays. Ava and John are debriefing Bucky. It was just some lowlife with some experimental tech, but man, whatever he was shooting with stung like a b–” 

“Lena, language, we have guest,” Alexei shushed her. Yelena rolled her eyes in response. 

She nodded her head at you, motioning for you to come with her. You shot Bob a quick glance, who gave you a tight lipped smile but seemingly encouraged you to go with her. 

Yelena took you to a smaller separate sitting room and offered you a glass of whiskey, which you refused. “No drinking on the job,” you laughed. 

“So, you’re probably wondering, why does a grown man need a babysitter? Well, I’m gonna explain. But first, what did Bob tell you?” she started, sitting down next to you and leaning on the back of the couch, resting her head in her hand. You mimicked her relaxed posture, putting a leg up on the couch. 

“Not much, really. He told me a bit about you guys and how you met. He mentioned something about a medical study in Malaysia, but other than that nothing too memorable.” 

“Did you happen to shake his hand?” Ah, there it was. Yelena could tell by your expression the answer was yes. 

“Yeah, it happened to us, too. You see, Bob… He’s very strong. Stronger than all of us combined. But he’s not stable. He’s a bit of a grey area in the team. We keep him around because he’s nice, of course, but also because we can’t risk anybody else trying to get on his good side and abusing his trust.” She took a sip of the whiskey, relishing its taste before continuing. 

“We’re still not really sure what his powers are, and it’s also not up to me to disclose all of the information besides the basics. All I can tell you is that we can’t risk taking him into the field, but we also can’t risk leaving him alone for too long. His abilities are closely tied to his mental wellbeing. It sounds a little degrading to describe it this way,” Yelena winced. She evidently had very conflicting feelings on the topic. You understood it must be difficult, wanting to keep him out of harm’s way without babying him. 

“But it’s really a matter of keeping him happy and distracted when it’s necessary. He needs help, a lot of it, but we just haven’t had the time to figure out how to go about it. So for now, this is it. I’m sorry for all the confusion, but with a ‘job’ as unpredictable as ours, this is the reality. Can you handle that?” Her gaze was piercing, as if she was trying to read every single thought crossing your mind. 

“You care about him deeply,” you observed. 

She gave a fond smile. “I do.” 

“Then I think I can handle it. As long as I don’t have to lie to him or beat around the bush, I can do my best to keep him company and help wherever I can. I can’t promise I’ll be perfect, but I’ll try.” 

“That’s all we ask.” 

It was settled, then. You were hired. 

Chapter 3

TAGLIST: @jason-todd-fangirl-14 @hopes-peak-akademy @rattheraddestrat @i-shall-abide @puer-aurea @kennywantskfc69 @spectacled-studies @hiddlebatchedloki

[itsbarelycrimson]

While I work on the new comic, I'll leave this juicy LORE related to my comic, and to Nathalie's past. These are all headcannons, of course.

FIRST: NATHALIE'S FATHER...

Fiódor Osmond aka "The Field"

(I just call him Mr. Wheat bc is easier to remember)

SECOND: NATHALIE'S BACKSTORY

Nathalie Ducoeur was born in a small family. A young couple that wasn't planning to have a baby, but either way, they loved her more than anything from the day she came into the world.

2 years passed when Nathalie's parents had a tragic car accident that took both of their lives. Nathalie was being cared by one of her mother's friends when she heard the news. And since there weren't any other relatives, she end up in an orphanage. There, she spend 1 year waiting for a new family, but nobody came...

Here comes the dark part...

When she turned 3 years old, a group of people came to the orphanage to offer "help". Phylantropists, they offered a big amount of goods for most of the children in the place, in exchange for a selected group of them to take to a different orphanage, where they will be given a better education and treatment. Of course the deal was accepted.

And Nathalie was among the "lucky" ones.

This other orphanage was hidden, very well hidden, to the public eye basically unexistent, a massive mannor, with dozens of rooms, gigantic yard and with a suspicious amount of basement levels.

All this facility under the banner of "The Sword".

In here, only girls are alowed. In here, they create spies, secret agents, assassins, professional workers of all kinds for the members of The Council and their close contacts. Mostly rich people. The only way to ever leave this place is by getting "adopted" or hired by your boss. Once you do, you won your last name. Based on a special trait, something you excel at.

Another thing, and an important detail. This is where Mr. Osmond appears. Although, Nathalie didn't meet him till she was 15, he knew her since she was 5. He just appeard one day on the main office and said "I want a kid. The weakest one. Raise her well, really well, make her the best of the best. I'll come back to get her when she turns 15".

After that, all the events in the comic happend. The facility had something personal with Nath, a special treatment to be exact.

So... The day came. And she received her last name, Sancoeur. Emphasizing her heartless and sometimes sadistic demeanor. On how well she could hide every single drop of emotion from anyone... (Also, the f*ckrs looked up her original one and they "oh wouldn't it be funny if we mock the memories of the desceased parents by using their last name in a twisted way?"yeah that.)

The "Nathalie and Mr. Wheat" comic come after this, so... let's just wait...

THIRD: NATHALIE'S REAL PARENTS

Samuel Ducoeur and Beatrice Shmidt

He was 22 and she was 21 when Nathalie was born. Sam had to get 3 different jobs to help his fiancé go to college, and, at the same time, buy lots of toys for Nath, very important of course. They were good people.

-------------

That was long... to think that I used to see her like a normal woman. Badass assistant... Stealing ancient things... commiting crimes... killing some people, the usual.

Where did those days go?

[yushiroll]

Armin headcanons (nsfw)

Armin x fem!reader

cw: short mentions of 'slut' and 'cum dump'

An: Okay this is really all over the place LOL, lowkey wrote this with one hand and a single braincell. Nerdmin has been occupying my mind EVER SINCE HIS FIRST APPEARANCE, so glad he's getting the love he deserves. Also, please note that armin is in college in this post and in every future post I make of him.

- This boy is a certified professional pussy eater.

- As much as he loves getting his dick sucked by you, he loves giving you pleasure more than receiving it.

- Hearing you moan for him, feeling you quiver under his touch, his tongue–He gets so much pleasure from it.

- One time while eating you out, he got so worked up that he came in his pants while lapping up your pussy.

- Now when I tell you he watched videos and read quora posts on how to properly eat someone out for the first time... my boy put his high gpa and research skills into good use.

- Will. Get. Pussy drunk.

- Starts with kissing your thighs first, leaving so much hickeys on them that you aren't able to wear shorts for the next few days.

- Then he goes to your inner thighs, giving them a few kisses before finally going right up on your already wet cunt.

- Armin isn't the type to tease, but in bed? Oh, you're in for a treat.

- "Gosh, so wet for me already huh?"

- He takes his finger and traces along your lubricated slit, playing with your juices and licking it off while looking at you.

- "You're just so delicious."

- He then proceeds to go to town on you, making you cum at LEAST 2 times within 15 minutes.

- Absolutely loves when his glasses fog up while eating you out. Leaks so much precum when it happens

- "Mm..h...you close? Come on...cum for me angel. Cum on my tongue...."

- He is a guy with breeder balls. When I tell you he shoots ribbons of cum, literally painting your insides white when he creampies you

- He gets so riled up seeing you take him so good, considering that he has a monster of a dick. Talk about sleeper build, amirite?

- Favorite position to do with you is missionary–He loves seeing his cock go in and out of your swollen pussy, especially taking in the view of your face while he's plowing you.

- Kisses your tears away as he's going deeper inside you, all the while fondling with your tits.

- Nibbles your ears while he fucks you. He finds you squirming and moaning more when he does that.

- Despite how dominant he often is in bed, he moans like such a bitch.

- "M..o-oh...mmmah... f-fuck..yeah.. takin'...it...s' goo..good... for me baby..."

- "Take it take it take it...fuck... 'm gonna cum baby... s-..so close.."

- Armin having long fingers means having eye-rolling sessions of him just fingering you.

- He knows your anatomy so well–curls his fingers to penetrate that sweet, sensitive spot of yours. When he hears you moan louder, thats his cue to go faster and lick your throbbing clit.

- He has fantasies of eating you out during your online meetings, jerking off to the thought of it even.

- It had only been a thought in armin's mind until now.

- You decided to joke around, telling him that he should totally try eating you out during an online meeting. He wasn't joking around. You're lucky you aren't fired yet.

- Loves getting your dirty panties and using them to jerk off.

- Absolutely loves cockwarming. Like, he ADORES it. Your warm pussy taking him entirely and trying to be steady on his cock while you do work or play games.

- Grinds his dick every once in a while to get a reaction from you, grins and says "C'mon, we both know you like it."

- Has you begging like a bitch during these cockwarming sessions, loves it when you beg for him to thrust every once in a while.

- He's such a fucking freak that you never actually expected him to be into demeaning nicknames in bed.

- "I'll only call you those names when you tell me to."

- Then he proceeds to call you his 'fucking slut' the entire night, whispering all the degrading shit that gets you off in your ear.

- "M...mmh yeah? C'mon slut let me hear you..."

- "Like it like that huh? C-course you do...my little cum dump."

- He is so, so good at aftercare. Literally pampers you after every session, he cleans you up and makes you food.

- Best cuddles ever! He sprinkles little kisses all over your body,

- "You really are perfection incarnate, angel."

[talon-the-hawk]

Yandere! Batfam x Neglected Streamer! Reader

Previous Next

Chapter 2: Entertainment

TW: I mean...kinda yandere behaviour...but it's a yandere fic so like if you're not into that why are you reading this far into the post? 🥲

It started off small.

A hushed giggle from Garfield as he watched something on his phone just out of Dick's line of sight.

An amused snort as Roy scrolled his phone in boredom when chilling at one of Jason's safehouses.

Konner and Jon commenting on "a new stream they saw" while over at the manor, leaving Damian and Tim confused and oblivious.

Your popularity in the content creation community was growing rapidly by the day, with your range of viewers extending out of Gotham and moving world wide. You gained a steady community of fans, with some even sending you gifts and letters. Of course, you made sure to use a P.O box to conceal your address in case someone somehow linked you to your past life as Bruce Wayne's child. Through maintaining a semi-regular streaming schedule mixed with uploading to youtube every month left you with quite a chunk of cash in your pocket. So much infact, that you soon decided to drop the couple of college courses you were taking to pursue your content creation career full time.

With the added fame came opportunities to collab. Soon enough you were streaming with the people you used to idolize. It was almost a power trip, the way you ended up being a figure that was adored so commonly.

Adored. Shown affection, unlike when you were with them.

Surprisingly enough, Damian was the first to find out. Damain: the little brother who had taunted you endlessly, mocked you in front of everyone, and showed little remorse for any of it.

Jon was giggling on his phone, eyes stuck to his screen as he watched a youtube video of some sort during one of their many hangouts.

" Tch, can't you put that device down for one moment?" Damian huffed, looking over at the boy.

"Aw, lighten up. Come watch with me." Jon chirped, motioning for Damian to sit down next to him. He reluctantly agreed, posture still slightly too stiff as he sat down on the couch next to Jon. The youngest Kent propped his phone up in his hands, eager to show his friend the newest content creator he had found. His finger hit the play button, and it only took a couple seconds for Damian's eyes to narrow in recognition.

Surely not.

It sounded like you. There was no mistaking it, the same soft timbre that he would make choke up with tears now rang out confidently in an enrapturing way. Each word seemed to catch the complete attention of everyone who watched, bringing a sort of comfort that settled itself in his ribs.

When did they get so popular? Does Bruce know his child is building a reputation anonymously?

It was clear to Damian when he looked over at Jon that the youngest super had no idea it was you, and he supposed that made sense. Often times when Jon came over Damian made a bigger show of ostracizing you from the rest of the family. Now that he really thought about it, he realized that Jon had never really heard you speak in person. You had always tried to get out of Damian's vicinity whenever you spotted him, especially when he was with Jon.

Jon clearly saw he was lost in thought, snapping his fingers in front of Damian's face.

"Hello? Earth to Damian?"

Damian's gaze just slowly returned to the small device.

"I need to go find someone, I'll be back."

For Dick, he was doom scrolling on instagram one night after patrols when a certain reel made him pause. It was a clip one of your viewers had taken from a stream a while back, one where a fan of yours had made a huge donation. The donation requested you to share some sort of talent you had, and as per your usual antics you focused your camera on your new bedroom (still wearing a mask and sunglasses to keep yourself as unidentifiable as you could) and prepared.

"God, this is embarrassing. I actually learned how to do this a while back in order to try and impress some of my family, but that's a story for another time-" You snorted, before flipping over to walk on your hands. You did a little lap around your space before eventually standing back up, pushing the glasses back up the bridge of your nose to make sure they didn't fall.

There was no mistaking it was you, he'd recognize his baby bird anywhere. But what he wasn't prepared for was your small show of talent. He tried to recall any previous instances of you showing an interest in any sort of acrobatics, but his mind came up blank. Matter of fact, he was struggling to come up with a recollection of any of your hobbies.

Surely you've talked to him about something you were interested in before, no? He was your older brother, he should know about your hobbies.

Dick racked his brain, trying to come up with any memory of even holding a proper conversation with you, and his guilt seemed to increase every time he came up empty. He vaguely recalled a time you had asked to show him "something you thought he would like", but he had brushed it off as it was close to the time he was set to patrol.

He bit down on his bottom lip in guilt, clicking on the caption of the reel and trying to see if the person had tagged your official account. They hadn't (which honestly he found insulting, the clip was your hard work and this pathetic internet leech couldn't even be bothered to give you credit-) but in the hashtags he found what he assumed to be the same you went by on most platforms. He quickly typed it into his search bar, letting out a gasp at just how popular you seemed to be.

His baby bird was really taking after him in the entertainment industry. Although it wasn't really the same thing, Dick couldn't help but feel like he was part of your inspiration to become a famous personality.

He spent the next couple of hours carefully combing through your content, memorizing every reoccurring joke you held with your audience and how you acted as a safe space for your community.

God, he really needed to go find you and tell you how proud he was of your success.

Author's note:

Hey y'all! Dw, dw...Jason and Tim's reactions are coming soon lol :p hope you guys enjoy the chapter and please lemme know what you think! Ooh, also if you have any title recommendations for this fic, that would be baller because I've been really struggling to find one hehe!

Taglist: @vanessa-boo @jjsmeowthie @cxcilla @itsberrydreemurstuff @trashlanternfish360 @starsswaggy @legolas-the-homeschooled-elf @nickithearticorn @hallahella @lettucel0ver @kittzu @cssammyyarts @ryuushou @welpthisisboring @neverdead2 @mallowryblog @lingxio @the-dumber-scaramouche @oxionsworld @raini-sanchez @jellyedkazoo @alishii @bellethesleepypotato @icefox8155 @wizzerreblogs @darling-dearesttt @depressed--therapist @crazycaoticsimp @briceericeee

[strwbabydoll]

The Feeling Came Late (I’m Still Glad I Met You)

pairings: grumpy!college student! Harry x fem! sunshine!reader

summary: Harry hates Y/N, it seems like it's been like that forever. He's quick to insult and correct her even when she's right, he's just always been the only one to pick on her no matter what she does. She doesn't understand why it's like this between them or what she did to make him dislike her so much, but what if it's all just a lie?

overall warnings: slow burn, eventual smut, sexual tension, kind of enemies to lovers, angst, alcohol consumption and drug mentions, foul language, Harry is a major asshole in this tbh, heavy on the grumpy x sunshine in this.

chapter 2/? (wc: 3.4k)

masterlist

001 | 01 | 02

- - - -

Chapter 2: Surprise, Surprise

Harry wakes up to the sound of his phone dinging and he grumbles as he sits up and stretches. He looks around and stops his tired gaze at the small window next to his bed. It's dark with just a hint of sunlight beginning to cut through the glass windows, this is definitely not the scenery he's used to when he awakes from his slumber. Groggily he grabs his phone with one hand and rubs his left eye with the other, turns on the phone and hisses as he squints. 

He quickly turns the brightness of the screen down to a manageable setting and mumbles under his breath when he sees it's a little past six in the morning. 

"Who the fuck is awake right now and why are they trying to talk to me. Someone better be fucking dying." The message is from an unknown number, the numbers staring at him tauntingly. 

///

Unknown: hey. it's y/n. i got your number from principal Oscar. lmk whenever works best for you and i'll do my best to arrange my schedule otherwise! :)

— — — 

He grumbles once more about the timing of the text and stares at the screen trying to think of an appropriate response. He could and absolutely wants to just leave her on read and never talk to her again. That seems like the most appropriate since she interrupted his sleep, why is she even up this early? But maybe he should show a sliver of compassion and reply to the text briefly before going back to sleep. 

He decides on not texting back, simply because all this thinking of replying, responses and times is making his head hurt, so he sets his phone back onto the small wooden table beside his bed and clambers back into the warm cocoon of his blankets. Wrapping himself  in the thick blanket, he sighs blissfully as his head relaxes into the soft cushiony bed. He begins to close his eyes and go back to sleep, the pleasant warm feeling of sleep very quickly approaching him. 

Just as soon as he gets comfortable and almost falls asleep, his phone dings once more. He grumbles as he throws the blanket off of him and grabs his phone once again. The same numbers teasing him as another text comes through. 

///

Unknown: this is harry right? i'm so sorry if this isn't! 

////

He rolls his eyes as he mumbles, his fingers typing away on the keyboard as he sends his response. 

Harry: Yes, it's me. In case you haven't noticed, it's five in the morning. I was asleep.

///

He gets a response almost immediately, as if she was staying in the chat waiting for a response.

Unknown: yes i know! why are you still sleep? i like to get my day started early!

Harry: Because no one in their right mind is up this early.

Unknown: sorry for waking you! just wanted to see what times and days work best for you. :)

Harry: Give me a couple hours.

Unknown: okay! have a good nap! :)

— — — 

He mumbles again as he sets his phone grumpily back on the table, wrapping himself back into his blanket just to find it's not as warm anymore. He mutters under his breath, silently complaining about her up so early and choosing to annoy him so early as well, and to top it off she made him lose the warmth of his blankets. He wraps himself up in the blanket and lays back down, resting his head on the soft pillow as he closes his eyes. 

Opening his eyes once more a couple hours later, he gets up and stretches once again. The muscles in his back pops smoothly and he groans softly. He gets out of his bed and quickly makes his bed,  wrinkles sit in the middle of the blanket as he sets his pillow on top, but he can’t bring himself to care. He feels much better after getting another couple hours of sleep. 

He heads into the bathroom and relieves his bladder, sighing in relief as it empties. Shutting the lid down, he flushes the toilet and heads to the sink so he can wash his hands. After he's finished, he brushes his hair and puts it in a man bun.

Walking over to the small dresser where he keeps his clothes, he opens his needed drawers and pulls out an outfit. Settling on a white Rolling Stones t-shirt and some black skinny jeans, he gets dressed and makes sure he puts on his signature rings. Once he's done with that, he sprays his Tom Ford cologne and grabs his phone, responding to the very few notifications he does have and stares at Y/N's name in his message list. 

Her simple text stares at him, somehow politely demanding a response from a couple hours ago. He huffs and mutters 'fucks sake' under his breath as he clicks on it and begins to type out his response.

///

Harry: I'm available anytime

/// 

Not too long after, just long enough for him to set his phone in his pocket and slip on his brown Chelsea boots, his phone dings. 

///

Y/N: okay! um how about tomorrow around 6 at the library?

— — — 

Harry laughs dryly at her enthusiasm as he sends a plain thumbs up, the yellow emoji a stark contrast in the very one sided text conversation, and afterwards he heads out the small bedroom in his dorm and heads to the front door. He passes the various pictures of his roommate and his girlfriend and a couple of pictures showcasing his orange kitten, Delilah, in various moments. She was wrapped up in a soft towel from the day Harry brought her home, and other moments where he thought she looked pretty and decided to capture the moment. 

All the pictures are neatly hung in a long cardboard frame, colorful tacks adding a pop of color to the otherwise boring wall of pictures. The small hallway leads to a basic living room, a simple gray futon sits alongside the cream colored wall with a modern artistic sketch hanging above it, a dark brown bookshelf holding all their movies and the very few books and textbooks they happen to own is placed next to the futon, and a small dresser underneath a decently sized tv. 

In the corner of the living room area sits a small gray cat bed and Delilah lays there peacefully sleeping in a little ball, her tail twitching occasionally. The ends of Harry's lips begin to curl upwards at the sight as he slowly walks over to the small dresser designated just for her. He silently opens the top drawer and opens the small can containing her food. The smell quickly floods his nose and he grimaces as he walks over to her food bowl and pouring it in there, silently gagging as it squelches into the bowl. 

He throws away the now empty can in the small trash can and grabs her water bowl walking over to the dresser once again and fills it with a small water bottle sitting in the top drawer. He sets it down beside the food one carefully because he doesn't feel like cleaning up water right now and walks back to the dresser. He opens the second one and grabs a few of her favorite toys and sets them under the coffee table in the living room, allowing her something to do while he's gone and turns on the tv. Quickly pulling up her favorite tv show - Animal Planet - he walks over to her and very gently rubs the top of her head. He coos at her softly to coax the sleepy kitten awake. 

Delilah stretches and yawns as she opens her eyes, focusing on Harry crouching above her, she lets out a tired but happy meow as she nuzzles her face into Harry's hand. 

"Good morning, sweet girl. I gotta get to school but you got everything set up for you, just how you like. I love you and I'll be back soon." He says with a small laugh as he gives the small kitten a couple extra pets and gets back up, stretching slightly as he heads to the door, making sure to grab his signature leather jacket from the futon as he opens the door and heads out. 

— — — 

It doesn't take him long to head to the campus thanks to his dorm being a short drive from the campus. He parks his car in an empty space nearest the school and he sits in the car after he turns it off. He watches her as she walks to the bike rack, her long hair flowing gently behind her as she walks due to the wind blowing. She's dressed in an olive green sweater and dark blue Levi pants that flare at the end, she'd pair it with some white Nike Air Forces, a medium sized white tote bag and a matching olive green thin belt, he can see the small shimmer of her jewelry shine when the sun hits it as she ties her bike to the small rack. 

He turns the key to shut off his car and opens the door, slowly stepping outside the car as he puts on his jacket. He closes the door with a soft slam and locks it, the beep alerting the girl as she turns around, her hair briefly swishing in front of her face as she turns. He watches as she frowns in anticipation of a snarky remark but returns to normal when it doesn't happen. He slowly makes his way to the entrance, purposely avoiding eye contact with her as he grows closer. He hopes she gets the hint to leave him the hell alone, and wants to keep their interactions to an absolute minimum. 

"Hey!" He hears her voice ring out from behind her but his pace doesn't falter, he actually starts walking just a tad bit faster in an attempt to get inside before she reaches him. He makes it to the top of the steps before he feels a soft hand grip his shoulder and a tug, signaling him to turn around. He slowly turns around, face deadpanned and he takes a deep breath. 

"What?" 

"Any place specific you want to meet in the library?" She asks softly and he shakes his head as he turns around swiftly and starts his journey into the school once again. He can feel her presence behind him and his frown begins to form. 

He chooses to ignore her as they walk, the chatter of the other students in the hall filling their ears as they continue. One of Harry's friends, Alex, walks up to Harry with a big smile as he pays his shoulder and glares at Y/N. 

"How you doin' Haz?" He asks and Harry's frown only deepens at the unwanted conversation. 

"Not now Alex." He shakes his head as he heads to his locker. He can hear Alex scoff as he walks away but he can still feel her presence behind him. 

He scoffs lightly as he gets to his locker, one ringed hand reaching up to twist the little knob to the correct numbers and opens the door. He quickly grabs a textbook and slams it shut and he walks away, leaving a hurt and confused Y/N standing at the locker. 

— — — 

She can't help but frown at Harry's more than usual grumpy behavior as she heads to her own locker, true enough she was the main reason why he's so grumpy but honestly how was she to know he’d still be sleeping? It’s not her fault that she just loves helping people! She should know better than to assume they'd be friends simply because she's tutoring him, but she assumed they'd at least be better than this. She hoped he would be somewhat tolerable, a very silly thought of hers because when is he ever tolerable? She doesn’t know how it came to be this way. She can remember a time where the two of them were cordial and even dared to say the best of friends, but then something changed and she wishes she knew what it was.

She wishes she could just go back in time and watch the two of them under a microscope to see what went wrong, to figure out why he hates her. She misses him terribly, but that’s kept locked away in a box of her feelings and emotions never to be seen again alongside her favorite childhood memories. 

She huffs in frustration when she can't get the lock to open, her combination not seeming to work as she twists and twists. She swears it's the right one, so she tries once more and she's met with once again the lock not opening. 

"Come on!" She huffs as she stares at the lock intently. Beginning to think that maybe she changed the lock combination, she tries a different sequence of the same numbers and after a couple of tries she finally hears the satisfying click as the lock opens. 

She quickly grabs the textbooks for her first two classes and shuts it gently as she walks to her first class, her tote bag gently bouncing off her hip as she walks. She just barely makes it to her first class before the teacher closes the door, her hand pushing on the tall wooden door as she cries out 'wait please!' The door opens and she sees the teacher smile softly as he lets her in. 

"Just in time Y/N, have a seat." He says and she nods silently, with her head down she quietly makes her way over to an empty seat towards the back of the class. Grabbing her notebook and a pen out of her bag, she begins to write down the title of the notes she's gonna be taking and pulls her assignment due from the front of the notebook as well. 

— — — 

Time seems to fly in front of her eyes, the day taking not nearly as long as it usually feels like as she gets released from her last class of the day. With a smile on her face, she plugs her earbuds in her phone as she walks through the halls, stopping briefly to answer any questions from her classmates and to wave goodbye to her teachers. 

She spots Harry talking to a pretty brunette, one of more popular girls who also happens to be on the cheerleading team she thinks, her lips pulled back into a dazzling smile as she twirls her hair around her finger as she speaks. Hesitantly, she makes her way over and taps him on the shoulder, meekly saying 'excuse me' and she's greeted with a very nasty glare from the girl. 

"Um, we're talking." The girl says with a frown on her face. Y/N can't help the flush of embarrassment that begins to heat her cheeks up as she looks down. 

"I'm sorry, I just wanted to remind Harry of the library. It's at six, if you can't make it or gonna be late, just let me know." Y/N's voice comes out quietly as she speaks, her hands subconsciously moving to her front as she begins to play with her fingers. 

Harry lets out a very unenthusiastic 'uh huh' as his eyes never leave the brunette's and he begins to talk to her once more, completely ignoring the other girl behind him as the brunette smirks and plays with the collar of his t-shirt. When she realizes that he isn't paying attention, she frowns slightly before making her way out of the school building as music plays in her ears. 

She mumbles curses to Harry under her breath as she unties her bike and sets the cord in her bag. Hopping on her bike, she begins her ride back to her apartment. She smiles as she passes the cars and families out and about, their joy and love radiating off of them making her smile and aw. As she continues biking, she makes a quick stop at her favorite flower shop, propping her bike against the side of the store and she quickly walks in. The smell of all the flowers welcome her warmly as well as the bright smile of the lady standing behind the counter. 

"Y/N! So good to see you! How've you been?" She asks and Y/N smiles as she walks up to the counter. 

"Hi Tameka! I'm good, how are you?" Y/N asks and Tameka responds with great enthusiasm as she starts telling the younger girl about her kids and how the store's been getting along. 

Y/N loves coming to this flower shop because no matter how long she stays away, she's always greeted with a warm welcome, one that reminds her of her mother at a young age. The shop gives her a sense of family no matter what happens, and she's never been more grateful. After Tameka finishes rambling on about her life, she turns her attention to the younger girl as she props her head onto folded manicured hands and flashes her a warm smile. 

"Here to get the usuals? Anything new to update me on chica?" Y/N shakes her head with a small laugh as she leans on the counter. 

"Of course, you know I never stray. And no new updates unless you count having to tutor the boy who seems to hate my existence an update." She says and sighs, the thought of having to do so is a big damper on her happiness and a heavy weight on her heart — it’s not that she doesn’t want to tutor him, she just knows that it’ll be like pulling teeth with him. She’ll have to pry answers out of him and will more than likely be the worst tutoring session ever, she’ll be exhausted afterwards. 

She can't help but to wonder how it'll go, will he be the same as he is in school? Is he gonna spend the whole time mocking her and poking fun (he most definitely will, she’s sure of it. He won’t turn down an opportunity to annoy her and get under her skin), or will he be kind and listen to her (maybe in another universe, some alternate reality where they’re cordial. She’s silly to even think this was a suggestion, she should know him by now), asking questions whenever he's confused? Will the session end in a screaming match as he tests her limits or will it be calm as he complies and agrees to her help. 

As she pays for her flowers, she can't help but to ask herself those questions. She knows wondering won't help determine the outcome of the coming day, but she knows there's only one way to find out.

She makes her way home, her bouquet of flowers sitting neatly in her tote bag as she rides along. She takes pleasure in the feeling of the wind brushing against her skin and flowing through her hair as she pedals along. The sound of people chatting on the sidewalks and the sound of cars whirring by her and honking at others fill her ear and she just smiles. She enjoys the sound of her community while others might say that it’s too loud and there’s no peace in all of the noise, she says otherwise. She can’t imagine her city in silence, to not listen to the usual sound because it’s all she knows. 

She makes it home and parks her bike beside her apartment, tying it up and making it inside the building. She heads down the short hall and to her door, unlocking it and walks inside and smiles at the sereneness of her own space. She locks the door behind her and sits down on the couch with her notebook and her favorite pen, thinking of the best way to carry out these sessions with Harry. What would be the best approach and everything to do with it. She wants to make sure that he understands that she’s not going to allow him to just walk all over her and cheat his way through. 

She wants to actually help him, not just give him what he wants; she wants to give him what he needs and what he needs is someone to take time out of their day and work with him, cater the worksheets and lessons to how he learns best so he can actually learn the information. She can only hope for the best as she begins to write out a plan for the next few weeks, she just knows that she’s going to need all the luck dealing with Harry.

[valiantothello]

I often see the sentiment of "Dick grayson has a temper/is a huge asshole" percolate across this fandom and I want to talk about a few panels people typically use to show this.

Here's one from his New Titans days:

"YOU SEE THAT? "PLAYBOY POWS PAPARAZZI!" I CAN SELL THIS ONE TO EVERY PAPER IN THE COUNTRY! "I THINK HE BROKE MY JAW!" "PRINT THAT PHOTO AND I'LL BREAK SOMETHING THAT WON'T HEAL!" "I'LL SUE YOU, GRAYSON! I GOT IT ON FILM! I GOT WITNESSES!"

New Titans #97

But most people like to omit the previous panel:

"KORY, DON'T! KORY! YOU KNOW I DON'T CARE FOR HER. I WASN'T PAYING ATTEN-- I MEAN, I DIDN'T KNOW I WAS SLEEPING WITH HER. I THOUGHT IT WAS YOU! OH, GOD--KORY, YOU KNOW I LOVE YOU. KORY!?!"

"MAN, IT WAS A GOOD THING WE WERE FOLLOWING HIM!" "'PLAYBOY SLEEPS WITH GIRL-FRIEND'S TWIN AND DOESN'T KNOW IT!'" "MAN, IF I HAD A GIRLFRIEND LIKE THAT, I'D NEVER NEED TO LOOK AT ANYONE ELSE."

New Titans #97

Is Dick, who is being mocked and goaded for his own rape, lashing out and showing his "temper"? Or is he showing a reasonable reaction to the horrific things that are happening to him?

Another example is the time Dick killed the joker:

"ALL THE DEATHS! ALL THE PAIN! WHEN IS ENOUGH ENOUGH, JOKER!?"

"AW... JEEZ.. I HIT JASON A LOT HARDER THAN THAT. HIS NAME WAS JASON, RIGHT? SHUUH- SHOULDA VIDEOED THIS. OOOOH."

People often forget about this guy:

"WHATEVER STOKES YOU UP, PRETTY BOY... WHATEVER FEEDS THAT YUMMY-TASTY HATE BUBBLIN' UP INSIDE YOU."

Joker: Last Laugh #6

This is a classic moment of Dick Grayson being brainwashed, mind-controlled etc. The character creeping on Dick is called Rancor - a white supremacist meta who has the ability to dramatically increase the anger/hatred someone is feeling. Yes, Dick was furious that the Joker "killed" Tim, but there was no guarantee Dick was out to kill the Joker.

"NO ONE HATES HIM MORE THAN ME. NO ONE WANTS HIM DEAD MORE THAN ME. BUT THIS ISN'T THE WAY. "I KNOW, BABS. GOD HELP ME, I KNOW."

Dick admits to Barbara that he knows that he shouldn't kill the Joker despite expressing clearly that he wants to. But immediately after, Dinah says this to Barbara:

"I TRIED TO STOP KIM... BUT HE SUCKER-PUNCHED ME AND TOOK MY BIKE. HE DID APOLOGIZE THOUGH... STALWART TO A FAULT, YOUR GUY."

This panel immediately picks up after the last one. Dick fights with Dinah off-panel and apologises for it. We also know that Rancor was following him the whole time. Its reasonable to assume that Dick was lashing out at Dinah because of his altered emotions via Rancor's mind-control. Is it really fair to assume that had Rancor not been there, Dick would've went through with killing the Joker? I don't think so.

Another infamous one is Dick's fight with Donna:

"ON TOP OF ALL THAT, KOLE'S DEAD, AND WHAT DID YOU DO WHILE ALL THIS WAS HAPPENING? WHAT MENACE WERE YOU FIGHTING? WHAT WAS DISTRACTING YOU FROM FOLLOWING UP ON RAVEN'S "PLEASE, DICK--DON'T SAY IT."

"DISAPPEARANCE OR MENTO'S INSANITY? YOUR HUSBAND NEEDED HELP WRITING SOME COLLEGE PAPER! THE WORLD GOES TO HELL IN A HANDCART BUT YOU STAY AT HOME HELPING SOMEONE WRITE A LOUSY STORY!"

"STOP IT, DICK... STOP IT!"

New teen titans Vol 2 #19

The panels before it:

"I'M NOT GOING TO LET YOU GIVE UP, DICK. KORY MAY BE MARRIED, BUT IT'S NOT THE END OF THE UNIVERSE. NOT FOR HER OR FOR YOU. AND I'M NOT GOING TO LET YOU TAKE OUT YOUR FRUSTRATIONS ON THE REST OF US. DO YOU HEAR WHAT I'M SAYING, DICK?"

"DONNA, YOUR MISTAKE IS YOU ASSUME I GIVE A DAMN ABOUT WHAT YOU'RE SAYING. I DON'T. MOVE ASIDE, PLEASE. I WANT TO GO OUT." "NO. I'M NOT DONE." "I SAID I DON'T CARE, NOW PLEASE... MOVE." "NO."

New teen titans Vol 2 #19

Notice how Dick repeatedly tells Donna to let it be. He clearly didn't want to discuss the Karras-Kory marriage because he was also being ACTIVELY BRAINWASHED in this moment and is canonically lashing out at his friends and girlfriend because of it. Donna refuses to leave Dick alone, even adding a defiant "No." after he asks.

After Dick snaps and starts yelling some very, very harsh truths at her, Donna starts to violently lash out at Dick.

Notably, Dick doesn't hit Donna back despite his altered mind state. Whilst I'm not villifying Donna for having this reaction at all, she wasn't in the right either. Despite Dick telling her to back off, she did not. Despite knowing Dick was volatile at that moment - the whole reason she wanted to have the talk- Donna still couldn't handle Dick's anger without responding with violence. As such, this isn't; a show of Dick "losing his temper" due to him actively fighting brainwashing, a particularly good representation of their friendship or a girlboss moment for Donna.

There are other moments I could point out that fandom uses to display Dick's "temper" or him being "an asshole" (🙄) and the more I see, the more I notice how out of context these moments are displayed to be.

There's something very disingenuous about deliberately posting panels of Dick acting a certain way with zero context which leads people to believe he is acting that way with no provocation - which is usually not the case- all in the name of giving him a "character flaw". If you can't find said flaw without the character being mind-controlled or literally out of their mind in grief, is it really a character flaw or just fanon?.

[dreamdragonkadia]

Hey!! I hope you’re doing GREAT! I was just wondering if you were going to do a part 2 to your Xaden x Tauri!reader fic? Have a great day!

I hope you are doing well!! I'll happily write a part two! x.riorson x tauri!reader Part one

Was it right, what you were doing?

Gods, no. It was cowardly. Shameful. You could admit that much, at least in the quiet dark of your own mind.

Avoiding everyone for a full week? Not answering a single knock on your door? Not even saying goodbye to Xaden before he left?

Pathetic.

“We’ll talk in the morning,” you’d said. Like a liar. Like a coward. You hadn’t meant it. You would’ve said anything to run, to just breathe.  

Then you’d climbed straight onto your dragon’s back, whispered a single word—“Fly”—and she hadn’t stopped until the mountains blurred below you like water.

The Swordtail hadn’t said a word at first. Just kept flying. Far. Fast. Away. And you’d let her, curling into yourself as the sky turned from near night to morning.

She didn’t take you back until she felt the Blue Daggertail had left campus airspace the next day. Only then had she banked, circled low, and landed with a bone-shaking thud on the edge of the quadrant cliffs.

“You are being a coward,” she’d said flatly, her voice crackling in your mind like embers on wind.

You shoved the bond aside. Hard.

And she let you. For now.

You didn’t expect to get cornered so soon after. And certainly not by him.

Not Imogen, not any of the other third years.

No, it was Bodhi.

Which felt almost worse.

He caught you just outside the mess hall, grabbed your arm without preamble and yanked you into a shadow-drenched corridor, the one near the war college that always smelled faintly of damp stone and full of suggestive memories.

“Crown princess?” he hissed, his eyes dark and wild with disbelief. “And you weren’t just going to mention that to anyone?”

You ripped your arm from his grip. “How did you—?”

“How do you think?” he snapped. “Xaden. He’s barely said five words before he had to leave and two of them were your name.”

Your heart twisted. A fresh wound over a bruise.

“Look, I didn’t—I never meant for any of this to happen.” Your voice came out quieter than you wanted. “I wasn’t trying to lie. I just…”

“No,” he agreed, crossing his arms. “But you sure didn’t stop it, either.”

You swallowed hard, guilt clawing up your throat. “Do you think I wanted to be found out like that? In front of him?”

He looked at you then—not with anger, but with something that felt almost like pity. “He loved you. Still does, I’m sure. But you’ve got to know what this looks like to him. To all of us.”

“I never used him,” you said, firmer now, stepping closer. “I never once used who I was to gain anything. I kept it buried so deep I forgot what it even meant. I bled beside all of you. Fought beside all of you. Earned my place like anyone else.”

“Yeah,” Bodhi said, voice low. “You did. But now we all have to ask ourselves—was she an ally, or was she a royal pretending to be one?”

That landed like a punch to the ribs.

You didn’t have an answer.

He stepped back, eyes narrowing. “Fix this. Or at least talk to him before he starts thinking it was all a game.”

You stared at the wall long after he left.

Because it wasn’t a game. Not to you.

It never had been.

So really, what other choice did you have?

Your dragon knew before you did. Before your hands even reached for the flight jacket still slung over the back of your chair, before you shoved the nearest things into a pack with little care for what you grabbed. Before your feet started moving—fast, frantic—toward the flight field like the wind itself might carry you there faster if you just begged hard enough.

It was Violet you spotted first.

Tairn’s black form casted a long shadow over the clearing. The outpost rotation. Fourteen days. You’d nearly forgotten. Or maybe you’d tried to.

Fourteen days apart. It had already been that long?

Gods, it felt longer. Like the air had been thinner since the moment he left.

You moved before you could think.

“I’m coming with you.” The words left your mouth as your hand closed around Violet’s forearm.

She blinked at you, startled, brows knitting. “You—what? Are you even allowed to—?”

But the Red Swordtail landed with a heavy thud beside Tairn before she could finish the sentence, the wind from her wings blasting across the clearing like punctuation.

“I’m the Crown Princess of Navarre,” you said, too tired to flinch from the truth now. “I can do whatever the fuck I want.”

It wasn’t a threat.

It was a fact. Mostly. One you’d spent your whole life trying to outrun, and now, for the first time, you were owning it. Because maybe the only way to fix the damage was to stop hiding what you were.

Violet looked at you like she wasn’t sure whether to hug you or deck you.

She hesitated, then glanced over at the dragons. Tairn eyed the other like he’d expected this exact kind of trouble, and your dragon simply lowered herself to the ground in a clear, get on with it motion.

Violet turned back to you. “This… isn’t just about the outpost, is it?”

“No.” You met her gaze. “It’s about Xaden.”

“Thought so.” She sighed. “You ready for that conversation?”

You swallowed hard. “Not even a little.”

“Well,” she said, already moving toward her dragon again, “then it’s going to be a hell of a flight.”

And a hell of a flight it was.

Your thighs were screaming by the time Samara came into view, the cliffside outpost jutting from the mountains like a jagged secret. You could already see the dragons circling lazily above, familiar shapes in unfamiliar sky, and—

Gods.

You definitely weren’t expecting to land and be met with the unmistakable bark of Violet’s older sister.

“Princess?!” Mira Sorrengail hissed the moment your boots hit the stone.

You winced.

Violet landed seconds behind you, clearly bracing for impact.

“Mira,” you greeted, barely managing to keep your voice level.

“What in the actual hell are you doing here? Does Command know you’re—”

“It’s a long story,” Violet interrupted, stepping neatly between you both like a shield. “That I will explain. Later.”

You could’ve kissed her. Honestly. If you weren’t already in love with a certain moody, infuriating, shadow-wielding ex-wingleader, you would have kissed her. Right then and there.

But you didn’t have time.

Not when you felt it.

The pull.

That familiar gravity sinking into your chest like a second heartbeat.

Your eyes lifted, and there he was.

Xaden Riorson. Standing in the stone archway of the fortress like some damn storm god had carved him from shadow and control. Arms crossed, jaw tight, unreadable.

And his eyes?

Locked on you.

Seeing you.

Not just looking—seeing.

Your feet moved before your brain could catch up, walking fast, maybe too fast, trying to play it off like you weren’t practically sprinting. Like your legs weren’t trembling with every step, like your heart wasn’t thundering loud enough to echo.

You didn’t stop. Didn’t hesitate.

Didn’t let him say a word.

You reached him and grabbed his arm, the familiar heat of his skin through his leathers nearly undoing you right there. “We need to talk. Now.”

His brow lifted, and you heard the softest huff of breath—almost a snort, like he couldn’t help himself—but before you could yank him toward some direction that only felt right, he moved.

Fast.

His fingers slid down your wrist, trailing fire in their wake before his hand settled low on your back. Firm. Right. Possessive in a way that shouldn’t still make your breath hitch, but gods, it did.

“Wrong way,” he murmured, voice low and maddeningly calm. Then he tugged you with him, pulling you against his side like it was how it was meant to be. Like your body belonged right there, pressed to his.

You stiffened, instinctively resisting the pull for half a second—because how dare he still touch you like that after everything? After Alic? After the truth?

But you didn’t move away.

Couldn’t.

Because, saints, you’d missed this. Missed him. Missed being seen and known, even when it hurt.

He guided you through the inner halls of the outpost without another word. No fanfare. No audience. Just the two of you, your steps too in sync for how fractured things were.

And when he pushed open the door, you didn’t even wait for it to close.

It wasn’t a decision. It was second nature.

You reached for him like you were starving. Like the absence of him had left something cracked open inside your chest and only this—only him—could make it stop hurting.

Your lips found his before the door even clicked shut.

There was no pretense. No buildup. Just fire.

Your hands cradled his face, fingers sinking into the dark curls at the base of his skull, holding him like you were scared the world might end if you let go. And maybe it would.

His hands were on your hips, not rough, just there. Holding. Desperate. Like he was terrified you’d vanish again. Like if he let go, it would all unravel.

You felt the shudder in his chest before you heard it, the way he breathed you in like he didn’t believe you were real. Like part of him thought this was a dream, and any second now, he’d wake up cold and alone.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered against his mouth, voice breaking. “I’m sorry.”

And still, he didn’t speak.

He just kissed you again—slower this time, deeper, with all the careful reverence of someone trying to memorize every shape and sound of something he thought he’d lost.

When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, breath ragged, shadows curling faintly at the edges of your vision like they couldn’t stand to be far either.

His voice, when it finally came, was hoarse. “You left.”

You closed your eyes. Gods, that hurt more than it should have. “I know.”

“You ran.”

“I know.”

He was quiet for a long moment, and then—so softly you almost didn’t catch it:

“I thought I ruined it.”

Your heart cracked clean down the middle.

“No,” you whispered. “You didn’t. I just— I didn’t know how to be everything at once. The rider. The liar. The princess. The girl in love with the one person I should’ve stayed away from.”

His breath caught. You felt it more than heard it.

He pulled back just enough to see your face, eyes searching yours like he wasn’t sure he’d heard you right. Like the floor had just shifted beneath him.

“You love me?” he asked, quiet, stunned.

You let the silence hang for just a heartbeat longer, let him feel the truth of it. Then you said it.

Not soft.

Not shy.

But clear.

And honest.

“No,” you said. “I’m in love with you.”

His eyes widened, barely perceptible, but it was there. That break in his walls. That flicker of something real and raw.

“Every part,” you continued, voice gaining strength now. “The asshole side, the protective side—even when it makes me want to gut you on the spot. The soft side you pretend doesn’t exist, the one that leaves chocolate on my bed and carries me to the med ward like I don’t weigh a damn thing.”

You stepped closer, if possible, pressed your palm against his chest, right over the heart you weren’t supposed to have. Right over the part of him that you’d fallen for, piece by infuriating piece.

“I love the side of you that growls at anyone who gets too close,” you whispered, your hand curling into his shirt, “and the side that looks at me like I might be the only thing holding you together. I love the way your shadows curl when you’re worried. I love that you care, even when you pretend you don’t.”

He still hadn’t said anything. Just stood there, breath shallow, like you’d knocked the air out of him.

You gave him a crooked, watery smile. “So actually, yes, Xaden. I love you. And it’s the most terrifying thing I’ve ever felt. But gods help me, I do.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Then, his mouth crashed into yours again, and this time it wasn’t careful.

It was want and need.

No hesitation. No restraint. Just heat—raw and unfiltered, like a storm finally breaking after holding itself back for far too long.

His hands found your waist again, but this time they didn’t just hold. They claimed. Fingers sliding under the hem of your shirt, calloused palms dragging along bare skin, bracing and igniting all at once.

You gasped into his mouth as he walked you backward, slow and sure, never breaking the kiss. One step. Another. Until the back of your knees hit the edge of the bed and you had no choice but to fall back.

He followed you down, towering over you, shadows curling behind him like wings made of want. His pupils were blown, jaw tight, and he was breathing like he’d just come off a battlefield.

“Say it again,” he rasped.

Your heart stuttered.

“What?” you whispered, even though you’d heard him perfectly.

His hands were on either side of you now, caging you in, his mouth brushing your jaw, your cheek, your throat—never quite kissing, just close enough to set your skin on fire.

“Say it again,” he said, rougher this time. “I need to hear it.”

You looked up at him—really looked—and felt your chest ache with how much you wanted him to believe it. To feel it. To know he wasn’t alone in this.

So you reached up, slid your hand to the nape of his neck, and pulled him down until your lips barely touched his.

“I love you, Xaden Riorson.” you breathed.

He groaned like the words undid him.

And then he was kissing you again—deep and hungry, like he was trying to memorize every part of this moment. Like he didn’t want to just feel you, but devour you. Like he’d spent weeks trying to forget the taste of your mouth and was punishing himself for ever letting it go.

You barely had time to breathe.

His hands slid under your thighs, shifting you back further onto the bed with ease, his body pressed flush to yours in a way that left no space for doubt—or anything else.

He kissed you like a man losing his grip on restraint, like someone who’d been holding back for too long and had finally decided to let go. His mouth trailed from your lips to your jaw, to the underside of your throat, where he lingered—breathing you in, brushing his nose against your pulse like he could feel the truth of what you said there.

His hands found the hem of your shirt again, tugging this time—not demanding, but asking. A silent question pressed into your skin.

You lifted your arms without hesitation.

Because this—he—wasn’t something you feared.

His eyes flicked up to yours once the fabric cleared your head, like he needed one last confirmation. And what he saw must’ve been enough, because he exhaled a curse against your collarbone and ran his hands up your sides like he was relearning you by touch alone.

Every brush of his fingertips sent heat racing along your skin, and when his mouth returned to yours, it was slower, deeper—possessive in a way that made your spine arch and your breath hitch.

“I missed you,” he murmured against your lips, voice frayed and low, like confession and apology wrapped in one.

And you, already left dizzy by his touch, whispered back, “Then don’t let go.”

He didn’t.

[lhswon]

CRAZY TIPS = CRAZY FEELINGS { l.hs }

ᯓᡣ𐭩 𝙨𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮: wherein, heeseung is a player, a fuck boy, and a rich one too which is all what y/n hates about a man. y/n in contrast is a broke college student who barely makes a living to pay up her rent and college tuition. despite years of being in the same university as heeseung, they never had any interactions until the day heeseung finally laid his eyes on y/n who works on the counter at some nightclub and started leaving her with some crazy cash tips.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 𝙥𝙖𝙞𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜: yandere!lee heeseung x tsundere!fem!reader

ᯓᡣ𐭩 𝙜𝙚𝙣𝙧𝙚: non!idol, enemies (one sided) to lovers troupe, kinda slow burn, teeth-rotting fluff, heeseung is a softie, you and enha are in the same age for the sake of the plot

ᯓᡣ𐭩 𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨: lots cursing, suggestive scenes (mdni!), fighting, drinking, smoking, mention of substances, family issues, mention of SA, display of dominance and possessiveness, heeseung is always jealous (lmk if i missed any!)

ᯓᡣ𐭩 𝙬𝙘: unknown (as of now :D)

ᯓᡣ𐭩 𝙖𝙪𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙧'𝙨 𝙣𝙤𝙩𝙚: whoop whoop. wrote this au the moment i saw that video of hee drinking whiskey in a party :D man he was HOT i couldn't stop myself from making this. ALSO BIG NOTE, none of this reflect the idols mentioned in real life. this is only a FICTION and for entertainment purposes only.

𝗽𝗿𝗼𝗹𝗼𝗴𝘂𝗲

the loud music and people's chaotic cheering and murmuring were the ones that welcomed heeseung and his friends, along with the mixed smell of alcohol, perfumes, and smoke from cigarettes. it was already 2:00 am but it seemed a bit more early for the people inside the club, the energy was just insane.

as they walked to find their own spot, heeseung constantly sees people making out on the spot which made him smirk a bit. his initial plan was to find someone to hook up with tonight. it was their midterm interlude after all, he needed to relax and he wanted to start by hooking up.

"i'll order us some drinks, what do you guys want?" jake remained standing while the rest of them sat at the circular couch.

"i want just want some rum." sunghoon said. jay said he wanted the same thing.

"sunoo hyung and i will just have some whiskey." jungwon followed, raising his left hand up and pointed to sunoo next to him.

"what about you, seung?" jake asked.

"just get me some scotch, please and thank you." heeseung said and jake nodded before leaving.

while jay and sunghoon was talking something about their academics, sunoo and jungwon was just chatting why their youngest, niki, recently failed his long test and have to go through intensive tutoring as of the moment.

heeseung on the other hand wandered his eyes around and when he catched a glimpse of jake on the counter, he followed him using his eyes and his breathing hitched when he saw your angelic face giving small smiles to jake as he leans in to tease you.

"come on, do you really have to work tonight? i can pay your manager so he would let you drink with me." the man in front of you insisted. you subtly gave him a 'are-you-fucking-serious' look before brushing his statement off with an awkward chuckle.

"i'm sorry sir, but we are currently short on staffs so everyone needs to play their parts." you gave him a small smile before handing him the bottles he ordered.

"oh come on, don't call me sir. don't act like you do not go to the same university as me." jake chuckled sexily which made you secretly scoff.

you have to admit, jake is attractive, hot even, but he's just way out of your league. he's hot, he's rich, he's an academic achiever, and lives almost a perfect life, plus he's a play boy which is a big no no for you. he's just everything you hate about men.

"i can't jake, i have to work. now, please do get off the counter, i have other customers to serve other than you." you said bravely and gave him a fake smile which made jake smirk. your feisty attitude just turns him on.

after successfully shooing away jake sim, you suddenly felt eyes watching you. you wandered your eyes around and you choked on air when you realize that the pair of eyes watching, and staring at you darkly was heeseung's. one of your schoolmate and friend of jake.

the way heeseung stared at you darkly made you panic. his piercing eyes never leaving you even before you saw jake put down the drinks they ordered. you're like a prey, recognized by the predator. he only diverted his gaze when jake called him, handing him his drink. you too, were nudged by your co-worker.

"you okay?" red asked. she's your co-worker, also your work buddy. you nodded and cleared your throat.

"if you're tired already, you should rest. you're about to end your shift anyways." she suggested while you nodded.

you chatted with her a bit before going to the staff room to change, get your things, and time yourself out from work. the moment you exited the club using the back door, you immediately hugged yourself due to cold. you could see the smoke coming out of your mouth as you breathe. not even the padded jackets could easily warm you up in this cold weather.

you walked through the parking lot to find your second-hand car when you saw two shadow beside your car, making out. it made you mentally scoff, out of all places, why beside yours?

it was cold and already late, you have no choice but to walk towards your car. as you finally get close to the scene, you yet again saw those familiar piercing eyes from heeseung when he watched over you while still kissing the girl in front of him. since the girl was leaning on your car, you couldn't really go without her getting off first so you coughed awkwardly.

"oh, sorry!" the girl squeeled.

finally, they stopped kissing and the girl giggled, as if she's happy that someone had just caught her making out in the parking lot. heeseung on the other hand stayed silent and watched over you intently.

"i'm sorry." you said politely as you bowed your head before moving to open the door of your car. you were about to head inside when you heard the girl murmured something.

"this car is trash, right hee?"

your eyes twitched from what the girl said. slowly, you turned to her with a small smile.

"well look who's talking, you'll just be as dirty as a trash when this man throws you away like a garbage after using you." you said before getting inside your car and starts your engine.

the girl was shocked while heeseung smirked at your attitude. without knowing, you just picked heeseung's interest, and it was the on switch for his yandere era to begin.

check out the chapter 1 here

[dog-bimbo]

shiu n his sweet bimbo girlfriend part four 18+ only minors dni part 1 part 2 part 3 a/n based on this ask. i wrote till i bottomed out. i'll probably not continue this series unless someone gives me good ideas i guess.

you stood out to shiu in that bar. glittery top, pink nails wrapped around a cocktail you probably didn’t pay for. you laugh too loud, sway when you walk, it all caught his attention.

you're his type. not because you were cheerful, because you were the kind people don’t call back after a fuck. oh could he be more wrong....

when he bought you a drink, he could see all of his stereotypes that he had attached to you come true like clockwork. you said something ditzy, your hands all over his body, running through his silk dress shirt, tugging on that tie of his, playing with his collar.

he took you home within the hour. you were clearly enamoured and kind of drunk...

the sex was messy—greedy and loud. he was greedy, he left marks everywhere! holding your waist tight, sucking on your neck, leaving purple bruises, tugging on your nipples like a starved man, spreading your legs wide open and manhandling you like you were a doll. you were loud, you moaned like you'd been waiting for someone like him your whole life, you wrapped your legs around his waist like you’d die if he stopped, called him sir because it kind of fit him—and that just got him as hard as diamonds, yet again... "round two, sir?" you smirk up at him, your beaming smile making him feel something.

he told himself you were just something to blow off steam, something to sink in to forget the stress but... he simply nods. this time was intimate, like he's providing you a compensation for the last round where he went a bit crazy due to whatever the fuck took over him. deep, slow and steady thrusts, his hands kneading your flesh, his face buried deep in your neck, leaving trails of sloppy kisses against your throat... "s-sir-" "call me shiu." you nod, looping your arms around his neck and pulling him closer.

"are you even listening to me, hey—" shiu simply looked at you, kind of blank, "yeah... it was." it was odd for a guy like him to lose his composure. “do you have anything to eat?” he almost told you no. almost told you to get dressed, that he had calls to make, clients to deal with. but something in him paused.

in the morning—you were still there. you were hugging him tight like he was a plushie, he didn't mind. "last night was amazing, wasn't it?" you seemed refreshed and perky.

he was the one who felt like his life was sucked out of him. that was the best fuck of his life.

so instead, he asked, “how does eggs and toast sound to you?”

he’s never cooked for anyone, atleast not anymore. he doesn’t do that kind of thing despite being a decent cook.

you get behind him and wrap your arms around his waist as he cracks the egg in the pan, “you’re really nice,”

he snorts. “i’m really not.”

you don’t argue because you see something soft in him that no one else ever bothered to look for.

and he's trying his best not to pull you in for a loving kiss.

all you needed was an approval, a small sign. and he gives that to you. he drives you places, and if his schedule is busy, he atleast tries picking you up from your job or college because... it's fun. he's not around you just for sex, he's around you because you make him feel warm.

you ask what year he graduated once on the ride home. when he tells you, you gasp— "yeah, i know i'm old doll."

“no, no," you shake your hands, "you’re like... vintage.” and your attempt at damage control just makes him bark out a laugh.

“i’ll leave you on the sidewalk on of these days.”

"w-would you really?..."

and he simply laughs again, "not a chance, sweetheart."

at times, you hang around with him in his apartment, he's already given you the keys to it. you're sitting on the floor of his apartment, face bare, half-drunk off cheap wine that you got for him but you're the one who's downed it all.

the TV’s still on—muted, playing some old movie he put you on but you weren't really watching. shiu’s on the couch behind you, one arm thrown over the backrest, a glass of something more mature and fine in his hand.

he’s been watching you for a while now, like he can’t decide if he wants to say something or let the quiet stretch. either of the options sounded comfortable.

then, “you’re really young.”

you look back, brows perked. “what, now?” he doesn’t repeat himself, just sips.

“is that a problem?”

“no,” he says, but his voice is low, almost tired. “just obvious.”

you turn back toward the TV, though you're not watching—just blinking, lips pursed like you're thinking real hard, which usually means you aren’t...

“is that really a problem though? you're still in love with me, right?” you mumble, then hiccup a little.

he lets out a breathy laugh.

he doesn’t even say anything. because he's never been in love for a long time, it's a forgotten art at this point.

you twist around again, facing him fully this time, your voice drops to a whisper, like it’s a secret. “you are in love with me, right?”

he lifts his glass, takes another sip, eyes on yours the whole time. “you’re drunk.” he deflects.

“that’s not what i asked.”

“jesus,” he mutters. he watches you go quiet again, you're jotting up points to argue in your head and it's obvious. and it hits him—how easy you are to be around, how easy it is to say those words. because now he means it. he really does. "i love you. there, you got what you want."

you simply smile, "i knew it."he leans forward, forearms resting on his knees. "aren't you gonna say it back?"

“i thought you knew,” you say, voice light like you’re teasing but you're honest.

he huffs, barely holding back a real laugh. “you think that counts? you gotta say it back.”

you crawl across the floor toward him on your knees. you end up between his knees, hands on his thighs, looking up at him like you always do. he’s someone you trust without a second thought.

“i love you too, old man." you say simply. like it’s not a big deal. like you hadn’t even noticed it was missing until he asked.

and just like that, he feels undone... he started involving you more in his life. which he didn't know was possible actually.

you once found his gun on the desk of his office. you didn't really care about what he did for a living, you thought it was cool. you held it wrong, your finger on the trigger.

he snatched it out of your hands fast, his voice cold.

“don’t touch things you don’t understand, doll.”

“sorry… i just thought it looked kinda cool.”

he sighed hard through his nose, looked at you for a long beat. his grip on the gun loosened, but not by much.

“it’s not cool,” he said, flat. “it’s not a toy."

you stayed quiet, sitting on the edge of his desk, llegs swinging slowly. you didn’t flinch, didn’t pout or apologize again.

“okay,” you said simply, almost sweetly. “but i still think you’re cool."

he stared at you. something in his jaw ticked. he knew that you meant it.

then he turned and put the gun away, into the drawer, clicked the lock.when he faced you again, your head was tilted, like you were waiting for a verdict. he stepped in closer, stood between your knees.

"don’t touch shit like that again. i mean it.”

“’kay,” you nodded, smiling now. “can i still sit on your desk though?”

and you squealed, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him in for a kiss he didn’t ask for—but didn’t resist, either.

he almost laughed. “yeah,” he muttered. “you can still stay."

deep, slow, a hand on your thigh to keep you steady.

he should’ve pushed you away. scolded you harder because that was some dangerous shit you did.

but instead, he kissed you back.

and that was the beginning of the end, wasn’t it? letting you in like that. letting you stay. letting you know he shady and loving how you didn’t mind.

he didn’t bring you to meetings often. didn’t need to. but you’d begged this time—"i'll be good, i'll even wear that dress you like.... please..."

and he’d caved, like always.the restaurant was dim and sleek, full of money and men who liked to pretend they weren’t criminals. you looked like his sugar baby—tight little dress, hair in that bouncy, ridiculous style he couldn’t get enough of.

you sat beside him in the booth, legs crossed, playing with the straw in your drink while he and the client talked.

“yeah, my girlfriend.”

“she your girl?” the man asked, his eyes going places theh shouldn't.

shiu’s arm was behind you on the booth, his fingers brushing your bare shoulder.

“hm... brave,” the man said, like a joke. “i couldn’t bring a girl like that to work. bit of a distraction, no?”

you didn’t say anything, just looked at the man with that same glossy, vague smile. it wasn’t the first time you’d heard shit like that. probably wouldn’t be the last... but it did make you feel a tad bit weird.

the man kept going. “bet she’s sweet, though. not a thought in her head. like a- what’s the word? yeah, like an ornament.”

shiu laughed then. quiet. dry.you sipped your drink, still silent. still a bit confused on how you're supposed to feel about it all. like you're not supposed to feel bad.

“you think that’s funny?” he asked, voice low.

the man blinked. “what?” the client's expression shifted, unsure now. “hey, i didn’t mean—”

“she’s not yours to mean anything about,” shiu said, smile cold now. “watch your mouth."

the silence hung heavy. you felt a smile quipping up your lips.

the man muttered something like an apology. shiu didn’t look at him again. just reached over and gently touched your chin, “bored yet, doll?”

you grinned. “a little.”

he stood, held out his hand. “then let’s go.”

business could wait. he had better things to do. he had better people to be with. and that's the kind of privilege he thought he'd never have.

[amurotoorudesu]

"fuck, its almost reset time and i havent logged in to the game!"

after rushing to your dorm, you quickly turn on your phone and immediataly launch the game.

you havent been able to play the game because your college assignment and schedule were really messed up. even in this week, you almost forgot to logged in for like 5 days so you always ended up staying up so late to catch up with lots of things. also youve been grinding for the new spring banner.

you lay down on top of the bed, waiting for the loading and "connecting to the server" screen. after a while rafayel shows up, head down on the table in destify cafe and you ignored him as you open your agenda and began the grinding session.

unbeknownstly for you, rafayel hears the bell clinking when he almost dozed off, tired of waiting for you to visit him, then you dare to come when its so late and you ignore him and you just left him after he waits for an entire day?? you know he hates waiting and you know you made a promise to not made him waiting right?? why dont you keep it...??

he begrudgingly woke up and lean his back on the sofa, arms crossed and irritated, waiting for you to finish your work. after claiming all the rewards, you go back to destiny cafe to interact with your favorite fish but a loud glitched voice caught you off guard.

BZZZT!!!

"what are you doing at this time? you know its late, right? why do you visit me at this time??"

forehead crinkled, feeling frighten with the sudden voiceline as if rafayel can see you.

"what the fuck? is this some kind of new glitch?"

"glitch, huh? funny if you think that. of course its not and i can act like this because im mad at you, silly! now i suggest you to go and sleep, you still have some classes tomorrow and im tired of listening you rambling about how you accidentaly sleep in the class and get scolded all because you stay up so late to meet me. so you better get some rest while listening to my angelic... no, siren? but its more scary... uhm, so you better get rest while listening to my angelic voice!"

eyebrows furrowed, forehead still crinkles and your mouth slightly opened because you dont understand what the fuck happened to the game.

"hey, come on! dont looked at me with those stupid face! you looked like dumb fish!" rafayel pouts and crossed his arms, averting his gaze from you.

but then he realized, "owh wait... im the fish here..."

you dont know whether you should laugh or scared but you accidentally let out a mumbled chuckle.

"hey come on, dont laugh at me now! you should sleep and im leaving, buh byee"

rafayel forcefully closed the game and you just lay there, staring at your phone like it just murdered your whole family before lots of notifs come.

"Love&deepspace

Rafayel:

go to sleep now.

and dont forget to dream about me, miss bodyguard.

but i'll put an alarm so you didnt go late to the class.

you better say thanks.

goodnight [real name] [real last name].

:)

also

Forget our promise? I'll remind you in person.

wait for me."

you still stare at your phone but you feel more terrified.

how the fuck did he know your real name.

you entered a different name in the game.

___________________________________________

a/n : chat did i cooked

also its for u guys who voted for the fic to be uploaded now, so now the raf's vote wont get counted on the poll!!

also im sorry for those who ask for part 2 in sylus's one, i dont have the idea abt what happened next but if you have one, my askbox are open!

[astraljedi]

Safe and Sound (Tommy Miller Imagine)

Summary: While out on patrol, Tommy follows a trail of blood, tracking an infected through the snow, but he gets distracted at the worst moment. A gunshot cracks the silence, and he flinches, bracing for pain. Instead, the infected drops with a bullet through its skull and standing in the distance, rifle aimed steady at him, is her.

Pairing: Tommy Miller x Female Reader

Warnings: Violence, descriptions of blood loss, wounded characters, death of a parent/love one, grief, heavy themes of loss, some parts might be NSFW. 18+

Word Count: 7.5k

Song: Safe and Sound by Taylor Swift Feat. The Civil Wars

a/n: This is a long one and I don't regret it. This is my first Tommy Miller fic and I already have part 2 plotted and ready to write at any moment. So if you like to leave some feedback, I would appreciate very much it. Enjoy!

You can read Part 2 here -

You'll be alright, no one can hurt you now Come morning light, you and I'll be safe and sound

“Good morning,” I mumble to my dad, who’s just finishing his small breakfast before getting some sleep after his night watch ended. The sun hasn’t risen yet, but the sky is a pretty soft gray-blue. The chickens in the coop are starting to rustle and cluck, and in a few minutes they’ll be screaming for their breakfast like they’re royalty.

“In a few weeks I’m going to meet with Gunnar for a trade,” he reminds me. My father, Robert, usually meets with an old veteran friend of his to swap goods. We give him cured deer meat, fresh eggs—or if a rooster’s being too much of a bastard, he loses his head and becomes a gift. But lately, I haven’t had much luck tracking deer. There’s still some meat stored in the cabinet, but winter’s about to slam in hard, and we need to stock up while we can. Just in case. Always just in case.

When you go through an outbreak, there’s no way you can't be too prepared. 

“I’m gonna see if I can hunt some deer. Check the rabbit traps too.” I grab the chicken feed from one of the cabinets and slide my boots on. My rifle comes off the wall in one smooth motion, and I sling it over my shoulder along with a small bag of supplies. “Get some rest.” I lean down, kiss his cheek, and step out into the cold morning.

The chickens lose their minds the second I open the little gate that keeps them penned in at night. I scatter feed across the frozen dirt and let them roam free. It’s been seventeen years since my mom passed, and eighteen since the outbreak. Feels like I’ve lived a hundred lives since then.

Back in the summer of 2003, I’d just graduated college. Preschool teacher by day, bartender by night, all to scrape up enough to help with my mom’s medical bills. My dad worked as a security guard and collected his veteran benefits, but it was never enough. People used to call him a lunatic for prepping, always whispering behind his back like he was crazy.

But he wasn’t. Not even close.

He spent years fixing up this old hunting cabin my grandpa left behind—tall wire fence, secured doors, a basement-turned-bunker filled with canned goods, weapons, and a cot we could sleep on if we had to go into lockdown. Bolted from the inside. If the world went to hell, we could stay down there for months if needed. He made sure of it.

I remember the night it all started. I was clocking in at the bar, and something just felt off. The place was packed but tense. Fights broke out, people acting like they’d lost their minds. Sirens blared and helicopters roared low in the sky. While the streets was crowded by military trucks, dragging people off the street. Then I heard the screech of tires—my dad’s truck flying around the corner.

“We need to go.”

“What’s going on?” I asked, and he didn’t answer. Just shoved a rifle into my hands and started driving.

“You feeling sick? Any fever? Twitching?” He kept flicking his eyes between me and the road, barely able to hide the panic.

“No,” I said, confused. “You?”

“Don’t talk to the neighbors. Grab what you need and we’re out of the house in ten minutes.”

I packed fast—my mom’s heart-shaped gold necklace, her ashes. A backpack of important files, IDs. Our family photo album, her winter jacket. A duffel bag of clothes, soap, anything else Dad had told me to keep ready “just in case.”

“I’m done.” I came running down the stairs—and froze.

Dad was outside. And he’d just shot our neighbor.

The man was crawling, dragging himself across the pavement in this twitchy, jerky way I’d never seen before. Not human at all. My dad didn’t even flinch. He raised the gun and shot him again—this time in the head.

That was the first time I saw one. Not the last. And it never got easier. We stayed hidden, just the two of us, carving out a life in isolation deep in the woods.

Dad always took the night shifts. Raiders came and went. But he made sure they didn’t stay. He scared off more people than I could count. Then Gunnar came along—a familiar face from the old veteran center. Somehow, my dad still trusted him. Said Gunnar was the only man besides himself he’d bet his life on.

Gunnar taught me how to set rabbit traps a few years back. Deer were reliable, but you couldn’t count on anything forever. Not anymore.

After feeding the chickens, I scan the area. Fence is fine. Snow’s undisturbed—no footprints, no blood. Everything looks calm. I unlock the gate and step out into the woods.

Hunting alone doesn’t scare me like it used to. I like the silence. I love my dad, but it’s the only time I get to breathe. The cabin’s small, one bedroom, and though we technically share a bed, he mostly sleeps in his recliner. Still, during those long winter storms, the walls start to close in.

I know these woods. They know me. I head straight for my traps, and from the three traps, only two have rabbits in them. I grab them by the ears and tie them around my waist with a string. Skinning is my dad’s job. Always has been. I’ll shoot, I’ll trap—I won’t gut.

I reset the traps on another trail, trying to guess where the next rabbits might be hiding. The woods are too quiet now. Most people would find that peaceful, but not me. I know better.

The infected are bad, sure—but people? People can be worse, especially after all these years. And being a woman, alone out here? It makes you a target.

The quiet shifts. The air gets thick and the birds stop chirping above. 

Something’s wrong.

I slip behind a tree, crouching low to the snowy ground. My fingers find the rifle’s grip without thinking.

Close by, a horse snorts unsettled but a man’s voice hushes it. I press my back against the trunk and slowly peer around it.

He’s heading toward the trail that leads straight to the cabin. I follow the noise, heart beating faster, boots crunching soft over snow. I drop low behind a thick, fallen trunk for cover.

That’s when I caught a better look at this man.

He’s got a rifle on his back and both hands on the reins of a light colored gelding. “Whoa,” he murmurs, trying to calm the animal as it inches closer to our fence.

I glance at the snow. Only one set of prints besides mine. And a long, red drag line.

Blood.

My eyes snap up and spot it—a lone infected, creeping toward the man and his horse. Silently, tracking him.

I move fast, ducking behind trees, avoiding every dry branch. The moment it’s within five feet of him, I raise my rifle and fire. The gunshot cuts through the woods like a thundercrack and birds fly away from their place in the trees.

The horse panics, rearing back with a scream. The man grabs the reins and fights to settle it.

I step out, rifle still raised and aimed straight at him. “You need to leave. Now.” My voice doesn’t shake.

He stares, eyes wide—more stunned by the infected’s corpse than the barrel I’ve got pointed at him. Blood pools under the body, staining the snow black.

He doesn't move. Doesn’t reach for his gun. He just watches me, like he's not sure what he’s seeing.

“What?” I snap. “Never seen a woman before?”

“I’m not here to cause any harm,” he says, slow and calm, like he doesn’t want to spook me. “I was tracking the infected through the woods and lost sight of it.”

“You didn’t lose it, they’re not dumb. That thing led you here and it was tracking you.”

He swallows and nods, like maybe he knows I’m right. “Look, I’m from a town not far from here—Jackson. I’m Tommy.” He gestures vaguely toward the hills. “You don’t have to be out here alone. Jackson’s got decent people, good food, security. It’s safe.”

The cabin door bursts open. My dad steps out, rifle ready, expression cold and dangerous. “She isn’t alone.”

His gray hair’s a mess—he must’ve just rolled out of the recliner—but his voice is stirn and direct. He clicks his rifle, as a warning.

Tommy straightens. “Alright. I’m goin’.” He tugs on the reins. His horse resists, but he guides it back the way they came. He glances over his shoulder once, then twice. Still watching me, even as he disappears through the trees.

I wait until he’s fully gone before I unlock the gate.

“You hurt?” my dad asks when I get close, scanning me top to bottom for scratches, blood, anything.

“I’m fine.” My eyes flick back toward the woods, toward the infected’s body too close to the fence. 

He mutters, “Should’ve shot him.”

“If I did, his little town would come looking,” I say, brushing past him. The cabin’s warm inside, fire still crackling low. I hang my rifle up on its hook and kick off my boots.

I set the rabbits on the table. “Your turn.”

“That’s the first infected we’ve seen in a while.” He says, grabbing the rabbits.

“Yeah,” I mutter. “It was hunting him. Probably lured him down the steep trail.”

I grab a match and the old oil can from beneath the sink.

“I’m gonna burn it before it draws more.”

A couple of days have passed since the Tommy and infected scene happened. I’m outside in the chicken coop grabbing some eggs when I hear horse hooves smashing against the snow. I peek through the small gap of the coop and—it’s him. Again.

I have my rifle by the chicken coop door, but I don’t reach for it. I don’t feel a sense of danger from him. He trots up to the gate and slips off his horse smoothly, unties a cloth bag from the side of his saddle, and places it on the ground by the gate.

I stay in cover, but he lingers, watching the door like he’s half-expecting my dad to aim a gun at him again. I stifle a laugh, remembering how scared he looked that day when he saw my dad—hair all messy, clothes wrinkled and another gun being pointed at him. 

Thankfully, he doesn’t hear me. He hops back onto his horse and disappears into the woods, the same trail he took last time, but I don’t move. My rooster sings loudly on my right and I wince from the sharp, high-pitched sound.

“Frederick, really? In my ear?” I glare at him and shoo him away.

I step out from the coop, sling my rifle over my back, and open the gate just enough to grab the bag.

If it were from a stranger—which technically, Tommy is—I would’ve tossed it or let the chickens peck through it. But my gut trusts him. He seemed genuine last time and he didn’t overstep once. Tommy could’ve easily run me over with that horse, but he didn’t.

In the kitchen, I open the bag and the smell of freshly baked bread hits me. I groan, the warm scent tugging me back to a time that’s long gone. It’s been years since I’ve had bread like this. There’s also two jars of jam—one red, one a light yellow. A few medicine bottles and even menstrual products. I blink, caught off guard, cheeks warming up. It’s not taboo, but it feels weird, someone who’s not my dad thinking of that.

“Why do I smell bread?” my father huffs, groaning as he pushes himself up from the recliner.

“Tommy brought a bag of goods.” I gesture toward it.

“That boy again? Did he bother you?” He reaches for the bread and I smack his hand away.

“Hey, I’m hungry!”

“Sit at the table then. I’m gonna cut this loaf like it deserves to be treated, old man.” I laugh and grab a knife, slicing into the warm bread. How did it stay warm all this way? Maybe he picked it up right before heading out.

I spread jam on a few slices and put them on a plate. “Here. Now we can eat like civilized human beings.”

I grab a piece and bring it to my nose, closing my eyes as the sweet strawberry scent fills my senses. I take a bite and it’s even better than I imagined.

The following weeks, he keeps showing up—once a week, always on Tuesdays. I start waking up earlier on those days, and I finish all my chores before noon. I wait near the trail—his trail. The only one he knows, but I’m not about to tell him there’s a quicker one. 

Not yet.

I sit against a tree, ears perked as I snack on dried plums from last week’s bag. When I hear singing and familiar hooves crunching through the snow, I smirk and prepare myself.

When he’s close, I spook him and his horse.

The poor thing rears back and Tommy slips off the saddle, falling straight into the snow. Luckily, I’m out of range and the horse doesn’t bolt—Jackson must train their horses well.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Tommy snaps, still sitting in the snow, his beanie half-buried.

I’m breathless from laughing, struggling to stay upright.

“Oh, god.” I can’t stop laughing. I grab the reins and feed his horse a dried plum, scratching his neck as he melts into my touch.

“This what I get for bringing supplies?” Tommy grumbles, brushing snow off himself as he pulls the beanie back on.

“Glad to know Jackson trains their horses not to run off,” I say, kissing the horse’s nose. We used to have one, years ago. It was good for travel when Dad made trades, but it got too hard to care for, so he traded it for warmer jackets.

“You should tell them to train their patrol better. They get spooked too easy,” I tease. “Are you hurt?”

“Just my ego,” he mutters.

“Good,” I say, handing him the reins. “We don’t need your supplies. You can stop coming by.”

“You say that, but weren’t you just eating the plums I brought?” He smirks.

“Well yeah, I’m not gonna waste ‘em. Don’t know if you noticed, but we’re living in an apocalypse.” I turn on my heel. “Don’t follow me back. Go home.”

I make it a few feet and glance over my shoulder. He’s on his horse, still not moving. I roll my eyes and keep walking on the trail. Once I’m back inside the cabin and shaking off snow from my boots, I hear the hooves again.

I peek out the window and there he is, placing the damn bag at the gate.

He just doesn’t give up.

The next week, he doesn’t show. Tuesday passes—no hooves, no singing, no bag.

Then Wednesday. Still nothing.

He gave up. And I hate to admit it, but… I’m a little disappointed. The week after that is the same. 

I come home from hunting with only a rabbit tied to my belt and no deer. 

“Guess the boy finally gave up,” my dad says, waiting for me on the porch while holding a warm cup of tea. Tea from Tommy’s bag.

“Disappointed you won’t get more tea?” I tease.

“Not as disappointed as you, when you realize he’s not coming,” he says, poking my side before walking back inside.

I glare at him, but—he might be a little right.

It takes me a few more weeks, but I finally track a deer and it's a big one. It’s gonna be hell to carry, but this is gold.

I get into position—rifle resting on a fallen trunk—and wait. Its ears twitch, and I freeze, listening for whatever it hears. 

Nothing. I hold my breath, wait for its head to lower again and when it does, I take the shot.

The deer drops onto the snow, a clean shot. 

I jump over the trunk, adrenaline rushing, but my boots slip on a patch of snow and I fall—hard and my palm lands right on a sharp rock while I try to grasp something. 

“Shit!” I curse. I clench my bleeding hand, trying not to cry out. But blood's already oozing fast.

I sling off my pack and dig for anything to wrap my hand with. I end up grabbing an old cloth from one of Tommy’s bags, dumping out its contents to use it.

But trying to wrap it one-handed is useless with my shaking hands. I glance back at the deer—I can’t leave it. Not after everything.

“This is so stupid,” I mutter, trying again.

“You need help?” I scream and drop the cloth.

Tommy.

He’s already walking toward me, eyes scanning the deer and then at me.

“Is this karma for scaring you weeks ago?” I sigh, my heart still racing.

He tries to hold back a smile, but when he sees my hand, it fades. “You’re hurt.”

He picks up the cloth and steps closer. And I don’t stop him.

“What happened?”

“I celebrated early and ate shit,” I mutter, nodding toward the deer. “It’s the biggest one I’ve gotten in weeks.”

He finishes wrapping my hand, then helps me up and I grip his bicep for balance.

“I’m not leaving it,” I say, heading for the deer.

He grabs my arm gently. “Let me. You just grab your stuff.”

He lifts the deer like it’s nothing and slings it onto his horse. I open my mouth to protest, but my vision goes blurry for a second and I stumble.

“Hey,” he says quickly, “hold on to Pearl’s lead.”

We’re not far from the cabin, but it feels like miles with how hard my head is pounding. I glance back once and find him staring at me. I look away, which makes the dizziness worse and I trip again. But he doesn’t let me fall, his hand catches my waist.

Even through the thick layers of clothing, heat shoots through me.

I mumble a thanks and keep moving, not daring to look back at him. 

When we reach the cabin, Dad is already on the porch, sipping his tea, smirking behind the cup. He’s not going to let me live this down, ever. 

He steps down the porch steps and holds the gate open while I led Pearl in. Tommy hesitates and stays behind the fence, but I nod him forward. He nods at my dad and steps in.

“What’s happened? Dad asks.

“She’s hurt,” Tommy says quietly, pointing at my wrapped hand. 

Dad glances at my hand, then the deer. “Get her stitched up,” he orders like he used to in the army. “I’ll handle the deer.”

“Yes, sir,” Tommy replies and helps me inside. I kick off my boots, shrug off my thick jacket, and toss it on the hook.

“You can leave your coat here,” I tell him, reaching up for the first aid kit. “Normally I’d do this myself, but I trust you more than Dad. He’s terrible at stitching.”

I set the kit on the table and sit. Tommy joins me not a second later and opens the kit.

“Did you hit your head?”

“No. Blood just makes me dizzy.” I confess, watching him look through the kit. Then he unties the cloth on my hand and sprays the wound without warning. 

I wince and grip my knee with my good hand. “You didn’t warn me, asshole!”

“Wouldn’t matter. You’d whine either way.” He laughs quietly. “Do you have liquor? This is gonna hurt.”

I shake my head. “This is my karma. Just do it.”

It does hurt. Worse than when I sprained my wrist skating as a kid. But I stay conscious through it and after.

When he finishes, I watch his large hands pack everything back in the kit. I shift a little in my seat. God, this is the first attractive man I’ve seen in ages and I can barely function.

He pulls on his jacket and I grab a cloth bag, packing it with cured deer and rabbit meat.

“Thanks,” I say, walking him out to the gate. I hold the bag out and he ties it to Pearl’s saddle.

Tommy smiles before climbing up to Pearl’s back.

“Go, before it gets too dark out.”

“I can handle myself, sweetheart,” he says, cocky.

“You sure? Last time I had to shoot an infected because you got distracted,” I tease.

“Now we’re even.” He nods at my bandaged hand. I roll my eyes and chuckle. I stay by the gate, watching him disappear through the trees. At some point, I have to teach him the shorter trail, for his safety. 

In the eighteen years I’ve lived after the outbreak, this is the most I’ve laughed and blushed. Last week it was warmer than usual, but now the cold came back worse, the kind that makes your bones shake uncontrollably. It doesn’t feel that bad, though, not with all the blushing and Tommy’s body close to mine, not when he keeps looking at me like that.

He’s helping me clean out the chicken coop, while my dad is out checking the rabbit traps, something he volunteered to do himself. “Frederick, stop!” I shoo the small, quirky rooster off while he keeps running around singing his heart out.

“You named your rooster Frederick?” Tommy laughs.

“Yes, and as you can see, he isn’t exactly the quiet type when he’s loose.”

We both laugh, watching the rooster peck on the snow. There's a moment of silence but with him, it isn’t awkward. 

“Can I ask you something?” he says, and I nod, crouching down to check the hens’ nests for eggs.

“What’d you do... before all this?”

I sigh, heavy in the chest. “I was a preschool teacher,” I murmur. 

Just saying it makes my heart clench, thinking about the kids in my class and where they ended up. “Graduated with an education degree. Worked at a school during the day... bartender at night.”

Tommy looks genuinely surprised. “You? Teaching little kids?” He raises a brow like he can’t picture it.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I grab the basket of eggs from the floor and shut the chicken coop door behind me. “You don’t think I’m capable of handling little kids?” I throw over my shoulder as we head toward the porch.

“I think you’d scare ‘em straight, is what I think.”

I shove his shoulder gently but I’m laughing now, that quiet, warm kind of laugh I didn’t even know I missed. I sit down on one of the steps and he drops down next to me, close enough that I can feel the heat off him even through the cold.

“I was a fun teacher,” I tell him, nudging his knee with mine. “The kids loved me. I always ended up with painted handprints all over my favorite overalls.”

Tommy grins, like he’s imagining it.

“What about you?” I ask, tilting my head.

“I was in the army for a while. Then I started working construction with my older brother.”

I blink at him, stunned. “Wait, you have a brother?”

He nods, his gaze dropping. “Yeah. I don’t even know if he’s still out there.” His voice gets quieter. “And I also had a niece— Sarah. She was thirteen. Died the night it all started.”

My heart twists and aches. Without thinking, I reach out, resting my small hand over his, and then the other finds its way to the back of his neck, curling into his hair.

“I’m sorry, Tommy,” I whisper. “Were you close?”

He nods again. “We used to tease each other a lot. Joel would always come between us, telling us to behave,” he says, and even though he’s smiling, I can see the sadness underneath it, the way he squeezes my hand like he needs to hold on to something or he’ll drift somewhere dangerous.

“I lost my mom to cancer a year before the outbreak,” I confess, letting the words fall out because somehow, with him I want to let my walls down. “That’s why I worked nights at a bar. I had to pull my weight with the bills since my dad’s veteran benefits and his security job weren’t enough.”

“I’m sorry, darlin’.” Tommy shifts closer and presses a kiss to my temple. 

“You know...” I tug playfully at one of his curls, trying to lighten the mood again. “You could use a trim. It looks like you live in the woods.”

He chuckles low in his chest. “Darlin’, we live in the woods.”

“You know mom was a hairstylist and she taught me everything. I could give you a cut if you want,” I offer, twirling a curl around my finger.

Tommy gives me a skeptical look. “You promise you won’t leave me bald?”

I laugh and shove him lightly. “I’m offended you would even think that.”

He grabs my wrist gently, pulling me closer, his eyes sparkling with something I can’t quite name. “Forgive me, sweetheart.”

“I’ll think about it.” I grin. “Dad’s gonna meet up with Gunnar in a couple days. Maybe you can come by.”

“I don’t know if your dad would appreciate me being here while he’s gone,” he teases, but I feel a little resistance in his voice.

“He isn’t here now,” I whisper, a little closer to him than before, close enough to feel his breath on my lips. “Why haven’t you kissed me?”

“Because I’m a gentleman,” Tommy says hoarsely, his hand sliding up to the back of my neck, holding me steady. A whimper slips out of me, but he shuts me up the only way he can— with his mouth on mine.

I close my eyes as he leans into me, savoring every second. The tip of his tongue brushes my lips and when he tugs my hair a little. I moan at the feeling and I part my lips, letting him in.

It’s not my first kiss, but it’s my first kiss in years, and it wrecks me. I can feel the heat spreading under my skin, the way our bodies slot together needing to be close, how desperate and right it feels. When we pull away, breathless, I can't resist being away— I dive right back in, capturing his lips again, my hand threading through his curls.

This time, he moans.

"God," I gasp when I finally break away, dizzy and breathless. “I haven’t been kissed like that in years,”

“One hell of a kiss,” Tommy says, his voice rough, and I’m blushing so hard I have to look away. He grabs me by the chin and pulls me to another kiss, this one sweeter, slower. He gives me a few playful pecks on my lips and it has me giggling. 

The trading trip takes a day to get there and a day to get back. It’s not the first time I’ve been left alone, but it’s the first time someone’s here with me, someone who isn’t my dad.

Tommy shows up a little after my dad’s gone, and it feels strange— strange in a good way, something new and dizzying. Like a teenager sneaking her boyfriend in while her parents are away. And the butterflies have been eating me alive for days.

“Are there any boyfriends I should be worried about?” he asks, his voice low against my ear, his bare chest pressed against my back as we sit by the fire.

After I cut his hair, things got... heated and we got distracted discovering new places to leave hot kisses. 

Our clothes got lost somewhere— his shirt, his jeans, mine too— and now there’s just a blanket pulled over us, both of us sitting on the old rug with a plate of bread half-forgotten beside us. I grab a piece and feed it to him. 

“Never had one,” I say, popping another piece into my mouth.

“What?” he says, sitting up straighter.

“I had a fling senior year of college but he was a little shit and the sex wasn’t great,” I say, laughing a little at the memory now.

“My apologies on behalf of the male species, we’re not all bad,” Tommy says, his hand sliding up to my breast, his mouth finding the sweet spot on my neck, slow and teasing. I lean my head back against him, giving him all the space he wants. 

“Come with me to Jackson,” he murmurs against my skin, his lips warm against my pulse.

I close my eyes, drunk on the feeling of him, the way he bites down just enough to make me gasp that I almost miss what he says.

He keeps talking, whispering against my skin. “There’s a lot of veterans there. Your dad would have people to bond with and I’d have you closer. Somewhere I know you’ll be safe.”

I freeze and stiffen up. I pull my body away, staring into the fire like it’s going to give me some clarity or save me from this conversation.

Tommy moves with me, not pushing, just leaning in close enough that I feel him, his hand gentle on my shoulder. The idea of leaving the only safe place I’ve ever known... it sits heavy in my gut. And I know Robert, he’s not going to pack up this cabin and leave with me, he doesn’t trust many people and isolation has worked for us for years.

“I am safe,” I whisper, still staring at the fire.

“I know you are,” he says softly, “but I’ll sleep better knowing you’re not an hour horse ride away. We just finished fixing up a house. You and your dad could have your own space and he could have a community. You could have a life with me.”

He doesn’t pull me back to him, just presses kisses to my bare shoulder, soft and patient, trying to kiss away the fear unpacking itself inside me.

“The only way that old man is leaving,” I sigh, “is when he’s dead.”

I get up, grabbing the empty plate, feeling the cold bite at my bare legs and arms. Even though the fire's still crackling, I shiver, missing the heat of him, the feel of lips and his skin against mine.

I’m still barefoot, in nothing but my bra and underwear, standing at the sink when I feel him behind me, his arms wrapping around my waist.

“I’m not rushing you,” he says, voice low. “Just throwing the idea out there.”

I nod, tilt my head back against his shoulder, and he catches my chin, tilts it toward him, presses a kiss to my lips—not desperate— but understanding. A kiss that says I’m here, I’m not going anywhere.

“Come on,” he murmurs, breaking away. “Let’s get you back under the blanket, get you warm.”

He leads me back to our little nest by the fire and somehow, without even realizing it, I fall asleep on his chest, his hands holding me like he’s afraid I’ll disappear, like if he lets go even for a second, I’ll vanish right out of his arms.

The weather around here is unpredictable.

But the moment I feel the temperature shift, I know there’s a blizzard closing in on us. Dad gets home just in time, only an hour after Tommy had to leave, but he’s struggling to keep his footing. I search him for scratches, bite marks—anything—but I don’t see any.

Since he walked through that door, he hasn’t stopped sweating, coughing, and shivering. And when I try to give him some of the medicine Tommy brought over the first couple times after we met, Dad can’t keep it down.

It’s not the first time he’s gotten sick, but this is the first time we can’t get help if we need it. The blizzard’s howling like crazy outside and it's shaking the walls like it wants to tear it down. I’ve got the hens and Frederick inside, huddled close to the fire in cages, and I’m kneeling by the fire too, heating up some bone broth, praying I can get something into my dad’s stomach.

Even Frederick is quiet in his cage. Something is definitely wrong.

I leave the hot pot on the kitchen counter and look out the window.  I can barely make out anything through the snow, but my heart kicks into a sprint when I see three shadowy figures moving across the property.

Shit. The gate.

I was so distracted, worrying, that I didn’t even hear them rip it open. I grab my rifle from the wall and sprint to the back room. “Dad,” I rush to his side, trying to lift him. “We gotta go. Now.”

I try to drag him out of bed, his arm slung heavy around my shoulders, but he’s too weak, dead weight. He groans, delirious. I don’t even think he knows he’s back at the cabin. 

The floorboards creak under heavy boots on the porch as I rip the bunker door open. “Get in. Lock it behind you. I’ll be back.”

I step into the hallway and wait for them while the hens are losing their minds from the banging on the front door. I raise my rifle, grip steady even though my insides are shaking with adrenaline, and the moment the door bursts open—I fire.

The first intruder drops hard on the porch, a single bullet between his eyes.

The second one, a man built like a goddamn wall, charges forward and he’s faster than I thought. I squeeze the trigger again—the bullet slams into his shoulder, but it barely slows him down.

I smash the butt of my rifle against him when he gets close enough and he stumbles. I kick him in the stomach, but he barrels into me, tackling me to the floor. The air punches out of my lungs but I try to claw for my fallen rifle, fingertips brushing the wood—

“Pretty little thing,” he growls, pinning my wrist down.

I twist beneath him, get my knee into his ribs, but he’s too heavy. His hand finds my ankle, yanking hard—and I scream as pain shoots up my leg, hot and sharp.

The third one strolls in like he owns the place, grinning. He must be the leader. “Look what we got here.” He kicks my rifle even farther out of reach. “We’re gonna have some fun with you, but it’s his turn first.”

He sneers before disappearing into the living room, going through our home like he hit treasure. The blood drains from my face but I lunge for the only weapon I can reach—a small handgun strapped to the man’s waist. My hands are quick, desperate, unbuckling it without him noticing. 

I’m desperate to get the upper hand, I need to do something and save my father.

The safety is off and I press the barrel into his side, pulling the trigger. He roars in pain, loosening his grip, and I shove the gun against his forehead and fire again. His limp body collapses onto me and I throw him off, gasping for air.

“You wanna play? Let’s play,” the last man snarls, bolting from the living room with a knife in his hand.

I fire at him and nothing comes out from the handgun. 

Fuck.

I scramble for my rifle, but he slashes out with his knife, ripping the skin along my arm. I stumble, my ankle screaming in agony. He grabs me by the hair, yanking me across the porch and throwing me onto the snow, my blood staining it a deep red.

I try to get up, but my ankle gives out. I’m weaponless, hurting, trapped and the icy wind is no use either. 

“Let me hear you scream,” he laughs, pressing his boot down hard on my bad ankle and I bite my lip until I taste blood, refusing to give him the satisfaction. If I’m going to die, I’m not going down easy.

I always said the infected were bad—but people were worse. This is what I meant.

My fingers dig into the snow, scrambling for anything, fighting back the tears while his boot pressed harder. 

“Scream, you little bit—”

BANG.

He jerks violently, eyes wide in shock before he collapses on top of me. I wheeze, struggling to push his dead weight off, chest heaving.

“Dad?” I whisper, dazed. He’s at the doorway, barely standing, rifle clutched in his hands while blood drips from his lips. Then he collapses to his knees and the rifle falls down to his side. 

“No, no—” I limp toward him, dragging his half-frozen body back inside, down into the basement. The main door to the cabin is gone, there’s no use trying to fix it. The only thing I can do now is get us into the bunker and lock ourselves in before the storm swallows us whole or even more danger creeps up on us. 

Right now, the cold doesn’t matter. Nothing does but keeping him alive a little longer.

The green military cot in the bunker is too small for him. I kneel beside it, clutching his hand against my forehead. His skin is freezing, his face draining of color.

Who do I pray to? God? Who’s left to listen now?

I fight the sob clawing up my throat, but when our eyes meet, it shatters me. I choke on a broken sound.

“Go with him,” Dad rasps, voice barely there.

“What?”

“Tommy.” His breath rattles with each word. “Go with Tommy” He coughs, like his body is giving out one word at a time.

“Stop.” I try to beg him to save his energy but he won’t listen to me. 

“Don’t tell him I said this or I’ll haunt you in your sleep, but… he’s a good man.”

“No—" I press my forehead to his, shaking. "Please, stay. Please."

He cups my cheek with a trembling hand, and I lean into his cold familiar touch. “He looks at you the way I looked at your mother," he says, voice cracking. "Let him keep you safe.”

“Daddy,” I cry, the word ripping out of me in terror. This wasn’t the plan. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

“I love you,” he breathes. “Don’t let me hold you back from something good. Promise me.”

“I promise.” I press frantic kisses to his knuckles, to his forehead, trying to memorize him, trying to hold on.

I don’t fall asleep—not even after I feel his life slip away in my arms. I scream, the sound ripping from somewhere deep inside, raw and feral and grief mixed together.

I don’t know how long I stayed like that, clutching his hand in the poorly dim room. I don’t know how long it took before my eyes betrayed me, before exhaustion dragged me under, even as the blizzard screamed outside.

It takes Tommy two days to get to the cabin.Two days of me being locked in the bunker with my father, life already drained from his body. 

The storm outside has calmed down a little, but it still has its moments of roaring back. Even so, I don’t dare leave the bunker. I threw a blanket over my dad, laid my back against the bolted door, and just stayed there, frozen, trying not to think, trying not to feel.

My ears perk up at the sound of my name being called. At first I think it’s my mind playing games, like it has been for hours, until I hear heavy boots across the floor upstairs. 

Tommy’s voice, shouting for me in panic.

I push myself up, putting all my body weight onto my good leg, fumbling with the bunker door until I finally get it open. My rifle slung over my shoulder, I limp through the hallway, heart in my throat, following the sound of him.

He’s outside now, digging up a body buried in the snow, his voice cracking from the cold and fear. “Please, please,” I hear him beg, his lips trembling. He thinks it’s me.

I make it to the porch and my voice cracks too. “Tommy.”

His head whips toward me the same second he realizes it’s not me lying there, that it’s one of the raiders. Relief floods his face and he tosses the body back into the snow without a second glance, running toward me with his eyes full of tears.

The sight of the cabin was a nightmare.The gate was ripped open, the wooden cabin door was on the ground and there’s blood frozen into the wood, smeared across the porch. But Tommy doesn’t look at any of it. His eyes stay locked on mine, wide and glassy.

I drop the rifle and fall into his arms. I don’t care that my ankle screams in protest, or that my stomach aches from days without food, or that my arm starts bleeding again.

None of it matters the moment his arms close around me.

I don’t try to hold it in anymore. I break down, sobbing into his chest. “Jesus—hey, hey, I got you,” he murmurs, voice thick, one hand cradling the back of my head. “I got you.”

“He’s gone.” Tommy understands right away. His body tightens around mine like he’s trying to shield me from anymore danger.

Tommy patches the door the best he can. It’s not perfect, not meant to hold for long, just enough to close off the cabin while he gets me to Jackson to see a medic.

I pack a duffel bag with the only things that matter: my mother’s gold necklace, my father’s pocket knife, a picture of the three of us when I was small, a change of clothes to last until we can come back for the rest—and for my father’s body.

Tommy wraps his arms around me and helps me onto Pearl. He ties my bag to the saddle, then mounts behind me, taking the reins in one hand while keeping the other tight around my waist.

Even though Tommy has described Jackson to me a hundred times, seeing it for the first time feels unreal, like this shouldn’t be possible after what we went through. The gates are huge, guarded, the town tucked safely inside.

He waves a colored flag to the guard on top of the wall and the gate creaks open. I keep my head low, feeling small under the weight of everyone’s stares. 

Did Tommy tell them about me? About us?

“It’s not up for discussion, darlin’,” he mutters against my ear as he helps me down from the saddle. All I wanted to do is hide away in a dark room, try to push away this nightmare. But Tommy insisted I get my wounds and ankle checked at the clinic before he took me to his home. 

“I need to make sure you're okay.”

I just nod, too exhausted to argue even if I wanted to. I let him guide me into a small clinic in town.

The room is small, the smell of antiseptic and cold metal lingering in the air. Tommy stays close enough that I can feel his body heat, grounding me and pulling me back to reality. He’s not suffocating me—he’s keeping me standing. My lungs, my heart, everything leaning on him.

Don’t let me hold you back from something good. 

“You must be the woman Tommy’s been talking about,” the medic says, walking in with a gentle smile and pulling me back to reality.  She’s older, her hair completely silver, wrinkles crinkling around kind eyes. She jokes, but neither Tommy nor I laugh. 

I barely listen as they talk quietly. I sit there, numb, while the medic cleans the gash on my arm and wraps it tight. Then she checks my ankle, twisting it gently until I wince and clutch Tommy’s sleeve with a gasp.

 “All right, that’s enough,” Tommy snaps before the medic can push more. His voice came out protective while he held my hand. 

Thankfully, my ankle isn’t broken—just badly sprained. 

The medic finishes wrapping it, promising she’ll bring crutches to Tommy’s place when she finds them. “If she needs anything, even if it’s late, knock on my door,” she whispers to him, but I hear it anyway. She pats his shoulder before leaving the room, giving us space.

“Tommy—” I start to protest when he scoops me up without warning, one arm under my knees, the other around my back.

“Don’t,” he says, his voice cracking a little as he presses a kiss to my forehead. “I spent the whole storm thinking the worst. Let me do this.”

I don't argue, I don’t have any more energy. I just bury my face against his chest, letting him carry me.

“I got you,” he whispers, breath trembling against my hair. “I’m not letting you go.”

He carries me out of the clinic, across the frozen ground of Jackson, back to a place he calls home.

Home. Tommy is home.

[calebsdog]

Masterlist

I've been getting more and more lovely followers lately. So, to make your wonderful lives easier, I think it's about time I made a masterlist! I hope you enjoy your stay :)

Caleb

Autonomy

18+ Necklace

First paycheck

Old habits

Braised chicken

Baby blanket

Black cat and golden retriever

Body hair

Plushie party

Mood swings

Grey hairs

Fear of the future

The toring chip

Clogged sinuses

Hypocrite

18+ Dirty talk

Snack thief

Little angel

Summertime storms

Annoying affection

An intense protest

Caleb's love language

18+ Chastity belt

First and last kiss

College struggle meals

Bonded strays

Beat down

Backfired insult

Caleb and Xavier

Boundaries? What's that?

Never apart for long

Cologne

Five more minutes

Kidnapping

Caleb's personality

Heating pad

Snack dispenser

Driving playlist

Call from a stranger

Reciprocation

Forever promise

Too sour

Birthday party for two

Living with a bully

Calm, encouraging, bright

Nachos

Only Caleb can call me that

You're not a brat

Picky eater

Giggling like school girls

A real home

Road rage

Voice of an angel

Responsible young man

Dino nuggets

Proving himself

Messy eater

Box of chocolates

Positive masculinity

Wedding day

Old flirt

Stomach problems

Three days

Peaches

Is it worth it?

Random

No escape

Your forgiveness

Birthday feast

Lingerie

18+ Worn out

Heatwave

Rawrpard

Possessive

I'll take care of you

Yours

How to cheer him up

Missing you

Unsent messages

Sylus

One hundred and one

Doomscrolling

Gentle soul

Finishing touch

18+ His evol

Swearing

Wanted criminal

Messy eater

Timelock key event

Timelock key event pt 2

Zayne

Worrywart

Hot flashes

Timelock key event

Timelock key event pt 2

Everyone

Biscuit bakery

Would they leave a tip?

[deliciousangelfestival]

FINAL LAP - B. Barnes | 1

Character: Bucky Barnes x Female reader

Summary: She starts her dream job at SPEED, a top PR company for sports events, only to find out her boss is Bucky Barnes—the same guy she once accidentally injured in college.

Main Masterlist || If you enjoy my work, please consider buying me a coffee on Ko-fi 🙏🏻

By the way, I published my book Arrogant Ex-Husband and Dad, I Can't Let You Go by Alina C. Bing on Kindle.

Thank you to everyone who has read this chapter. Leave a comment and Reblog, please. I'd love to hear your thoughts. ❤️

Your heart still buzzed with excitement as you stepped through the glass doors of SPEED. It was your first day — finally. You had found out you were accepted last Friday, and ever since, you could barely sit still.

Today was Monday. Game day.

You walked up to the front desk, your shoes tapping lightly against the marble floor. Behind the counter, the receptionist looked up with a friendly smile. You offered a small, slightly sheepish grin and handed over the letter you clutched in your hands.

"Hi! I’m a new employee. I don’t have my ID card yet," you explained, shifting your weight from one foot to the other.

The receptionist nodded immediately, typing something quickly into her computer before pressing a button under the desk. A soft beep sounded, and the access gate unlocked.

"12th floor," she said, gesturing toward the elevators.

"Thank you," you said, a little breathless, flashing her a grateful smile.

As the elevator doors slid closed, you let out a slow, deep breath, willing your excitement (and nerves) to settle.

When the elevator dinged open at the 12th floor, the first thing you saw was the giant silver logo mounted on the wall: SPEED — sleek, bold, confident. Just like the company itself.

You felt a rush of pride. You had dreamed about working here since your final year of college, inspired by your love for sports — especially running — and the buzz of live events. It was why you studied Public Relations and Business in the first place.

"Morning! You're early," a familiar voice called out.

You turned to see Natasha approaching, her heels clicking lightly on the polished floor. She wore a smart blazer over jeans and had a coffee in hand. You instantly recognized her — she was the HR manager who had interviewed you online.

"Have to make a good impression," you replied with a slightly nervous laugh, smoothing down your blazer.

Natasha grinned, waving off your nerves. "Chill out. We love new kids around here." She gave you a playful nudge with her elbow, then gestured for you to follow her. "Come on, let’s get you set up."

She led you through the open office — a lively space with pops of color, trophies on shelves, and people already busy at their desks. She stopped at a table near the windows, dropping off a small box of starter supplies.

"You'll be working with Sam," she said, glancing at her sleek digital watch. "He should be here in... 3… 2—"

“♪ Wake me up before you go-go… ♪”

Someone's voice floated down the hallway, slightly off-key but full of energy.

You turned just as a tall guy with a wild head of curls and a worn denim jacket slid into view, dance-walking as he sang along to the music blasting from his earbuds.

Sam.

He caught sight of Natasha — and you — and dramatically yanked out one earbud.

"Hey!" he grinned, jogging the last few steps. "New blood?"

Natasha smirked. "This is Y/N. She’s joining your team."

Sam held out a hand without hesitation, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. "Welcome to SPEED, rookie. Hope you can keep up."

You shook his hand, laughing. "I'll try my best."

"That's the spirit," Sam said with an approving nod. "Come on, I’ll show you the ropes — or at least where the good snacks are hidden."

The rest of the morning flowed surprisingly easily. Your tasks were manageable, and everyone around you — from the senior staff to the interns — went out of their way to be patient and helpful. You never once felt out of place.

Instead of drowning in information, you found yourself actually smiling as you learned new things.

You were focused on your screen, typing notes, when you heard Natasha's teasing voice from across the office.

"You're late," she called.

A beat.

"I know," a guy’s voice answered, full of laughter. "At least I broke another record."

That voice… it sounded strangely familiar.

You furrowed your brow and glanced at your watch — it was already 11 a.m. Seriously, who even dared to stroll into the office this late?

You were about to sneak a look at the source when Sam suddenly called out, "Come on! I'll show you where the storage is."

Whatever curiosity you had instantly slipped from your mind. You grabbed your notepad and hurried after Sam.

He led you down a hallway lined with posters of past events — marathons, soccer tournaments, cycling championships. Finally, he stopped in front of a door labeled "Storage."

"This," Sam said, pushing the door open with a flourish, "is where we keep all the good stuff — supplies, merch, and sometimes, leftover medals from events."

He walked you around the space, explaining what was where and what you'd need most often. You listened carefully, occasionally nodding and asking questions, trying to absorb everything.

After a few minutes, Sam clapped his hands together. "Alright, let's head back. We’re having lunch together in the cafeteria.

Welcome party for you."

You blinked. "What? For me? You guys don’t have to—"

"It’s tradition," Sam cut you off, grinning. "We like to eat together at lunch, not at night."

You smiled at that. "That's really nice. So everyone can go home and rest early."

Sam snorted, shaking his head. "Of course not. So we can hit the gym."

"Oh." You laughed. Everyone here was athletic. Even lunchtime had a purpose.

Just then, Sam’s phone buzzed. He checked the screen and nodded. "Yup. Let’s go back. They said the food’s ready."

The moment you walked back with Sam toward the cafeteria, the nerves hit you like a wave.

Oh no. That meant... introductions. Again.

You tugged lightly at the hem of your blazer, trying to steady your breathing.

When you both entered the cafeteria, it felt like every pair of eyes turned to you.

You instinctively straightened your posture, feeling a little like a deer caught in headlights.

But the atmosphere quickly softened.

People waved, smiled, called out casual greetings. It wasn’t tense or awkward — it was warm, almost like a big family gathering.

You wandered a little, weaving through tables filled with colorful platters and food stations, until you spotted Natasha stacking some tacos onto her plate.

You made your way over. "Everyone here is really nice," you said, voice a little in awe.

"Told you," Natasha said, smiling without looking up.

You watched her build a taco with almost suspicious expertise. "This idea’s really great, y’know. Welcoming the newcomer."

Natasha chuckled. "Yeah, it was mine."

"I told you, it was a great idea," said a tall man standing beside her, casually stuffing a donut into his mouth.

That voice.

Your stomach flipped.

You stepped closer, squinting a little, before pointing at him without thinking. "You!"

The man smirked, still chewing. His smirk only grew wider when he saw the recognition (and horror) dawning on your face.

Natasha glanced between you two, curious. "Wait — you guys know each other?"

You and the tall man answered at the same time:

"He's my senior from college," you said quickly.

"She broke my leg," he said, still smirking.

Natasha gasped, nearly dropping her taco. You, meanwhile, slapped a hand over your face. "It was a misunderstanding!"

Sam, of course, couldn’t resist sliding into the conversation, grinning wide. "Ooh, this is gonna be good. So what exactly did you do that broke our boss’s leg?"

You froze.

"...Boss?" you echoed, your voice a whisper.

The man, your college senior, laughed softly and leaned casually against the taco station. "Don’t tell me you had no idea who owns the company you’re working for. You're still the same."

You stared at him, utterly mortified.

No, you genuinely had no idea.

You were drawn to SPEED because of the incredible projects they managed — not because you had stalked their leadership.

Not once did you check who the founder was.

But now that you really looked at him — the strong build, the confident posture, the easy authority — the same narcissist.

Bucky Barnes.

Your mouth went dry.

Your eyes darted down instinctively to his leg. "It... doesn’t still hurt, right?" you asked weakly.

Bucky chuckled — low, warm, and amused. "Nah. Healed a long time ago."

Still, your ears burned with embarrassment.

It was your first day on the job, and your new boss was already mentioning how you were the reason he spent six weeks on crutches.

This wasn’t exactly the grand entrance you imagined for yourself.

But — like you told Natasha — it really was a misunderstanding!

🏃‍♂️🏃‍♀️👟🎽

Flashback

Four Years Ago

The green yard was buzzing with excitement, filled with young people who couldn’t wait to start their college life. Laughter, chatter, and the rustling of luggage wheels filled the air as students moved about, wide-eyed and eager. Some clutched campus maps, others already wore university hoodies, proud to belong.

Among the crowd, a number of parents had come along, helping their children settle into their new homes. Some struggled up the dorm steps with heavy boxes, others fussed over making the beds just right, smoothing out sheets with trembling hands as if reluctant to let go. It was a bittersweet day — a day of firsts and goodbyes.

Just like them, your parents were there with you, standing near the entrance of your dorm room, looking a little lost. Your mom kept adjusting the corner of your pillow, while your dad lingered by the door, arms crossed tightly over his chest, like he was trying to hold himself back.

"You sure you want to live on campus today? You could stay at the hotel with us," your mom asked, her voice thick with emotion.

You shook your head, smiling bravely. "No. I want to stay here."

Your dad, ever the protective one, grumbled under his breath, "I wish your cousin Steve would be here."

Steve, your older cousin, was supposed to be your lifeline here — already two semesters ahead at this university, he had been a big reason your parents even agreed to let you study so far from home. But just weeks before your freshman year started, Steve had been accepted into a study exchange program abroad for one semester.

You didn’t mind. Honestly, you were excited.

This was your chance — to step out of the cocoon you had always lived in, to stretch your wings without someone hovering nearby. For once, you wanted to find your own way.

Still, your parents clearly struggled to let go. Your mom wiped her eyes quickly when she thought you weren't looking. Your dad shifted awkwardly, pretending to check his phone.

"Mom, Dad," you said gently, stepping closer to them, "I'm fine. Besides, Auntie's house is nearby if anything happens."

Your mom nodded, blinking away tears. She reached out and pulled you into a tight hug. "Can’t believe my baby is growing up."

You hugged her back just as tightly, feeling the lump rise in your own throat. "I’ll be alright. Thank you for coming here with me."

You spent a little more time with them, helping your dad find his way back to the hotel on the GPS, laughing when your mom tried to stuff one more set of snacks into your already full closet, before finally walking them to their car. As you waved them off, your heart squeezed, but excitement soon drowned out the sadness.

As soon as they left, you turned back toward campus, your steps lighter. The air smelled like fresh-cut grass and something electric — possibility.

This is it.

You were finally here, in the university you had dreamed about for years.

There was one thing you were especially looking forward to — joining the Running Community Club. The university was famous for it. Their team had not only dominated local marathons but had competed — and won — internationally. It wasn’t just a club. It was a legacy.

You wandered through the campus, past colorful booths and groups of students calling out offers to join everything from theater to debate. Your heart skipped when you finally spotted the booth you were looking for — The Horizon Running Club — under a giant banner flapping proudly in the breeze.

But it seemed you were late.

A long line had already formed in front of the booth, most of them girls, clutching applications excitedly. You caught snippets of conversation — giggles, whispers, excited chatter about someone named Bucky Barnes.

You knew that name.

Bucky Barnes was practically a legend here. He had broken a state record last semester and had been featured on the news — and all over your cousin Steve’s social media. Steve had practically posted Bucky’s winning sprint in slow motion.

As you got in line, your phone buzzed in your pocket. You pulled it out quickly and saw a text from Steve:

"Hey, I just got Wi-Fi. Still registering for a new SIM card. Congrats on officially becoming a University Student!"

You smiled, thumbs moving fast to reply:

"What time is it over there?"

A few seconds later:

"3 a.m. Have you found the running booth?"

"Yup."

"I bet there’s a lot of people who want to join. Are you sure you want this? Our club only looks for people who are really committed."

"I am."

"Well, no turning back now. I'll text my friend Bucky about you. You have my full recommendation."

"Thank you for being the best cousin in the world!"

There was a long pause before he finally replied:

"...."

You waited, staring at the screen, but no more messages came.

It seemed like he had lost Wi-Fi access again.

Tucking your phone back into your pocket, you stepped forward as the line moved.

You couldn't help but feel your heartbeat pick up — excitement and nerves battling in your chest.

🏃‍♂️🏃‍♂️🏃‍♂️🏃‍♂️

At the running club booth, the members were clearly exhausted. After hours of registration and interviews, their energy was running low. They were growing tired of hearing the same reasons from hopeful candidates—everyone wanted to join for the same old reasons: to improve their time, get healthier, or follow the latest trend. But this club wasn't just about enthusiasm; it was about commitment.

They only wanted serious runners, people who could balance their training with their academic responsibilities. This was why their club was so respected by the faculty, including the dean. Most of the members managed to juggle their schoolwork and practice sessions without fail, setting an example for the entire university.

One member, Milo, looked especially drained. His face was flushed, and his shoulders slumped as he leaned against the booth, scribbling down notes. "We have a lot of people who want to join," he muttered, exhaustion in his voice. "But most of them have the same reason."

He glanced over at his friend, who was busy taking photos with a group of fresh-faced students. "Not my fault they're impressed with my time," Bucky replied with a cocky grin, his hands still holding the camera. "But it's easier to eliminate them. If their reason is just to improve their time and health, we’ll probably let them in."

Milo sighed deeply, rubbing a hand across his face. "If Steve was here, he wouldn’t say the same thing. He’d probably... well, he'd have a different view on this." Milo couldn't help but think that the beginnings of this club had been a bit narcissistic, especially with the attention Bucky was getting.

When your turn came, you handed over your registration paper, only to be met with a question that you hadn't anticipated.

"Hi, thank you for wanting to join this club. May I know why you want to join?" Milo asked, looking up at you with a tired but kind smile.

You blinked, taken aback. You had expected the registration process to be quick, just handing in your paperwork and moving on. But here you were, caught off guard. You turned your gaze to the person standing beside Milo.

You hesitated for a second, then met Bucky’s eyes. He was watching you, his arms crossed and a playful smirk tugging at his lips. Something about his gaze made you feel both nervous and challenged at the same time. You squared your shoulders and looked back at Milo, answering confidently, "I want to beat his record time."

The words hung in the air, and everyone nearby seemed to stop and listen. There was a moment of silence, and then Bucky raised an eyebrow, clearly amused by your boldness. He leaned in slightly, his smirk widening into something almost competitive.

"Welcome to the club," Bucky said, his voice dripping with a mix of respect and challenge.

🏃‍♂️🏃‍♂️🏃‍♂️🏃‍♂️🏃

Extra:

Meanwhile, on the other side of the world, Steve was standing in a crowded immigration line at the airport, exhausted but relieved to have finally landed. He quickly pulled out his phone and typed a message to Bucky:

"Yoo... just landed. By the way, my cousin wants to join the running club. She's perfect for it. Her 5K record time is 15 minutes. Her name's Y/N L/N."

He hit send.

The message showed "Sending..." for a moment.

Not thinking much of it, Steve slipped his phone into his pocket and moved forward to check in with immigration, completely unaware that his text had 'Not Delivered.'

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My book Arrogant Ex-Husband and Dad, I Can't Let You Go by Alina C. Bing is FREE on Kindle for a few days. Check it out!Link for Arrogant Ex-HusbandAmazon.comLink for Dad I Can't Let You GoAmazon.com: Dad, I Can't Let You Go eBook : Bing, Alina C.: Kindle Store

[gold-onthe-inside]

career day, pt 2

who? single dad!spencer reid x history prof!reader summary: in continuation of career day, pt 1; spencer asks you out for coffee after a conversation in the playground, meets your adorable nephew, and has a much needed heart to heart with maya. content warnings: mention of childbirth complications, r is averse to childbirth, reference to spencer's knee injury word count: 3.3k a/n: again, maya's 12, please forgive her.

They’re all guided to the teacher’s lounge, encouraged to have snacks and coffee while they wait for the school day to end, but Spencer’s not really in the mood for small talk, silently grabbing a cup of coffee while you’re peppered with questions, particularly from parents who want their kids to get into a prestigious college and see you as their way in. Never mind that I went to Caltech and MIT, he thinks sourly, slipping out of the lounge with his coffee.

Spencer takes a moment to himself, leaning against the wall in the hallway just outside the teacher's lounge. He takes a sip of his coffee, trying to drown out the sound of the voices coming from within. The parents' questions echo around in his head, and he can feel himself getting more annoyed with each one. Maybe it's the nerves from his presentation or the fact that you're getting all the attention instead of him, but he finds himself feeling resentful.

Rather than do or say something he can't take back, he just leaves the building. He takes a deep breath as he steps outside, the fresh air helping to clear his head a bit. He walks over towards the empty playground, the swings and slides deserted at this time in the middle of the school day. He sits down on one of the swings, staring off into space, still holding onto his now-cold cup of coffee.

“6th graders can be rough,” he heard you say, your boots crunching over the fall leaves as you joined him, leaning against the poles holding up the swing.

Spencer looks up as you approached, a slight smile on his face. "Yeah, they don't hold back, do they?" he says, taking a sip of his coffee. He glances at you as you lean against the swing set. "You seem to be the more popular one today," he teases, unable to hide the hint of jealousy in his voice.

"Yeah, I've been told I ooze cool aunt energy," you said, chuckling a little.

He rolled his eyes playfully. "Must be nice." He takes another sip of his coffee. "I guess I'm just the uncool dad with social anxiety."

"There are more important things than being cool," you said, your voice earnest and he glanced up at you, one of your shoulders shrugging. "Like being a parent who shows up. Who actually takes an interest."

He felt his annoyance melt away a bit as you said that. "I guess being uncool has its perks then," he said with a small smile.

"Yeah, that's what I keep telling my nephew," you said, huffing a little.

Spencer chuckled at your comment, but then something clicked in his head. "Wait, you have a nephew?" he asked, a surprised look on his face. The boy whose shoelaces you’d been tying that morning…

"Yeah, I came for my nephew," you answered, your brow furrowing, placing your hand on your heart unconsciously. "My bad, I should have clarified."

"Well, now I feel like an idiot," Spencer said, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. "I just assumed you were here for your kid or something."

"Pretty safe assumption to make," you replied, shrugging nonchalantly. "Though, I expect better from a fancy behavioural analyst."

"I'll try to live up to your expectations next time," Spencer responded sarcastically. But then he turned to you, a question at the tip of his tongue. "You don't have any kids of your own, then?"

"No," you said, shaking your hand, pocketing your hands.

"Any reason why?" Spencer asked curiously. He took another sip of his coffee, studying you intently.

"Um... I guess, I haven't found the right person yet," you said hesitantly. "That and the whole delivery process freaks me out."

Spencer raised an eyebrow at your reply, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips. "Scared of childbirth, huh?" he said, teasing you a bit.

"You know how many women die from childbirth complications every year?" you asked him, raising a brow.

"Actually, the maternal mortality rate in the United States is steadily declining," Spencer replied, not missing a beat. "It's currently around 26 per every 100,000 live births."

You narrowed your eyes at him. "You just... had that lined up in your head?"

Spencer chuckled. "No... well, yes... kind of," he said, shrugging casually as if the information weren't already stored in his mind. "I have an eidetic memory, so this kind of statistical information tends to stick."

"Huh," you said, pursing your lips, slightly impressed. "How many live births a year?" you asked him, just to test him really.

Spencer doesn't even hesitate before answering. "It’s currently around 3.7 million per year," he says without any hesitation, taking another sip of his coffee.

"That sounds like way too many," you muttered with a frown.

"On the contrary," Spencer replied, trying to cross one leg over the other on the swing and failing, "it's actually quite reasonable given the population size. In fact, the annual live birth rate has actually dipped a bit in recent years, which could indicate a potential decline in the population growth rate." He took another sip of his coffee, clearly enjoying the chance to talk about statistics.

You looked at him, raising a brow. "Huh."

Spencer couldn't help but notice the slight look of awe on your face. "You sound impressed," he said, a hint of smugness in his voice as he sipped his coffee.

"Don't be smug, it's not an attractive look on you," you said, shaking your head as you smiled, looking away.

"I wouldn’t be so sure," he remarked, smirking where he sat, hiding it with his cup of coffee, and pointing at you as he said, “You kind of have a tell.”

“What? No, I don’t,” you retorted but he shrugged, pursing his lips.

“Hate to break it to you, but that little thing you do when you look away… That’s a tell.”

You huffed, unable to deny it as you shook your head. “You always profile everyone you meet?”

“Not everyone,” he said, sipping his coffee, his hazel eyes never leaving yours.

“So, I’m special, am I?” you asked, raising a brow.

“Would that be so bad?” he countered, watching you shake your head.

“No,” you said quietly, your own gaze latched onto his, the two of you standing alone in the empty playground until the bell rings, signalling that the school day was over. Spencer got up with much effort, trying to ignore your snicker. “You okay, old man?”

“In my defense, I’ve had reconstructive knee surgery, okay?” he retorted, walking with you to the pick-up zone as kids came rushing out of the building.

“Seriously?” you asked, chuckling, walking backwards as you both talked because you were just that cool.

“Seriously.”

“What’d you do, fall off a ladder at the library?” you asked, still teasing.

“No, I, uh…” He rubbed the back of his neck. What was the protocol for telling someone you might potentially ask out that he’d gotten shot on the job? “Just had a bad day at work,” he said lamely, watching your brow furrow.

“Okay,” you said, leaving it at that as your attention drifted to the boy running towards you, the same one with his arm in the cast from this morning. “Hey, slugger,” you greeted him happily, squatting to his level. “How’s the arm?”

“Itchy,” he replied miserably. “Ryan stuck a pencil down there and now I can’t get it out.”

You tsked, pushing his glasses up his nose and smoothing back his hair. “I’m sorry, baby. We’ll get it out, okay? And we’ll get donuts on the way back, alright? Chocolate with sprinkles, just how you like ‘em.”

“Classic,” Spencer mused, nodding. “I like your taste.” The boy frowned as he looked up at Spencer.

“You’re Maya’s dad,” he said plainly and Spencer smiled, tucking hair back behind his ear as he squatted.

“That’s me. You can call me Spencer, though.”

“I’m Benjamin,” he said, holding up his left hand to shake Spencer’s hand. “But everyone calls me Benji.”

Spencer squatted in front of Benji, shaking his hand with a rueful smile. “Got it.”

“I really liked your presentation,” Benji said, his glasses slipping down his nose again and he pushed them up with his left hand. “Ian’s mean to everyone. You should just ignore him. That’s what I do.”

“Sounds like a smart move, Benji,” Spencer said, smiling at him warmly. “I’ll keep that in mind next time.”

“We should get going,” you said, before you could think too hard about how sweet and attractive Spencer was talking to Benji like that.

“Yeah, Maya likes taking her time before coming out,” Spencer said apologetically. “But um… I was hoping I could maybe… I mean, if you’d want to… get coffee or something some time?”

“Yeah, coffee sounds great,” you replied warmly, pulling out your phone from your pocket to exchange numbers with him while Benji shuffled off, distracted by a caterpillar. You punched your number into his cellphone, one that seemed like it was a decade old, but you didn’t say anything, swapping phones again. “I’ll see you around, then, Doc,” you said, smiling at him, and he feels like a lovestruck teenager watching you call Benji back and walk with him to your car.

Spencer had gotten Maya her own cellphone much earlier than most other kids, his own paranoia over being away from her for days at a time ranking higher on the list of concerns than cybersecurity. Worry had always been a familiar friend on his shoulder, gnawing at him, but had grown bigger recently as Maya withdrew from him more often than not. Almost always holed up in her room, in a world he had started to feel locked out of.

He knocked on the door to her room, her nameplate hung on the door in the style of California licence plates, before twisting the knob, ducking his head in. “Hey, monkey,” he said softly, finding her lying on her stomach, on her bed, a dolphin body pillow tucked under her arms, barely looking up at Spencer as he walked in.

“Dad, I don’t need you to tuck me in anymore,” she said, sounding exasperated and he frowned.

“Right,” he said unhappily. “You’re all grown up now.” She only looked up when he sat on the edge of her bed — coral pink bedsheets with soft blue pillows. “I know it’s natural for you to… seek independence and autonomy—”

“Dad, don’t go all profiler on me,” Maya griped, sitting up to look at him, brow furrowed, and he wet his lips.

“I’m not trying to,” he said patiently. “I’m just saying… I’m new to this, okay? Up until this year, I’ve always tucked you in at night, or called to talk about your day… And I get it, you’re older now, you’re in middle school, you don’t want to be treated like a baby. Just… I’m asking for a little time to get used to it, okay?” he said, keeping his voice soft and gentle.

She was silent for some time, picking at the fabric of her pillow, refusing to meet his eyes. At one point she’d been all over him, hanging off his arm for dear life whenever he was at home, climbing into his lap the moment he sat on the couch to watch TV with her. It was hard to accept that she had moved past that phase in her life. “You’re always at work anyway,” she mumbled, trying to sound indifferent, but her gaze remained down-cast, voice a little small.

Spencer's face fell at her words. "Is that why you didn't tell me about Career Day?" he asked softly, his heart breaking a little. "You didn't think I would come?"

“It’s not that,” she said, trying to sound indifferent but failing. She fiddled with the fringe of her pillow, her lower lip caught between her teeth. Looking at him was difficult, because she saw how hurt he was — not over being not asked to join career day, but over her lack of trust in him. “I just know you’re really busy, and you’re rarely home.”

"Monkey, come here, please," he asked gently, needing to hug her before he said anything else to her.

She hesitated for a moment, but then, quietly, she set the dolphin plush down and climbed into his lap, like she used to do when she was younger. Spencer hugged her, wrapping his arms around her. "I love you more than anything in the world, monkey," he whispered. "I will always be here for you when you need me."

She pressed her face into the crook of his neck, her little hands clenching tighter in the fabric of his sweater, feeling him hug her tight against his chest. “Promise?” she asked, voice small.

"Cross my heart, monkey," he said softly. "And I'm sorry if I embarrassed you at school today."

She gave a soft little huff, pulling back far enough to look at him, her gaze still downcast. “Well, you did embarrass me,” she mumbled, still sounding grumpy. “You were such a dork, Dad,” she said with a huff of faux-exasperation, but cuddled against him once more.

"Yeah, I know," he sighed, burying his nose in her hair as he hugged her.

She was silent for some time, burying her face in his chest, feeling him hug her tight against him, and she could feel the tension from him, could practically hear the cogs working in his brain as he desperately tried to stay calm; to not get too emotional over one stupid mistake on his part, and she almost felt guilty.

Almost.

“Dad?” she asked, voice a little muffled against his sweater.

"Yeah, monkey?"

She pressed her face against his chest, quiet for some time, her gaze still cast down as her fingers fidgeted with the fabric of his sweater. “You’re not… mad at me… right?” she asked, voice a little small, tentative almost.

"Not in the slightest," he replied instantly, looking at Maya and tilting her chin up to meet his gaze. "I'm not a cool dad, and that's okay."

She looked up at him, meeting his gaze with a slight frown, though it was a fond one. “You’ve never been a cool dad,” she said, as if stating the obvious, though her tone was affectionate.

"I know," he said, sighing sadly as he tucked a curl behind her ear. "But I'm doing my best."

A little frown appeared on her face, a tug between her eyes, at the sad look in his eyes; the little self-deprecating tilt to his tone. She felt awful, almost guilty for making him sound that way. With a slight frown on her face, and a little more emotion than she’d been willing to show before, she threw her arms around his neck, burying her face back in the crook of his neck. “I know you are,” she mumbled against his skin.

He wrapped his arms around Maya's waist, taking a deep breath as it relaxed the tightness in his chest. "I just want you to be proud of me, that's all."

She pulled back, looking at him, her gaze a little more open and vulnerable than before, but still a little defiant and stubborn. “I am proud of you,” she said, sounding exasperated. “You’re an FBI agent, a genius and you’re a great dad.”

"Even if I'm the dorkiest dad in the world?" he asked, the corner of his mouth curling up.

She huffed out a laugh, rolling her eyes and giving him a slight shove. “Yes, even if you’re the dorkiest dad in the world,” she said with an air of fond exasperation.

He kissed Maya's hair, stroking the back of her head. "I love you, monkey."

She sighed, though the small fond smile never left her face, her arms around his neck, cuddled up close to him. “I love you too, Dad,” she said, finally looking up at him, giving him a small smile.

He kissed her forehead again, just because he could. "Alright, we ready for bed?"

She let out a loud groan, sounding exasperated. “But, I don’t want to go to bed,” she whined, giving him her best puppy dog eyes, as if that might sway him.

"You know we need at least 8 hours of sleep," Spencer chided gently. "And you need even more for that brain of yours to develop."

She let out another groan, though there was no real defiance behind it, more of a petulant teenage attitude. “I know, I know,” she said with a sigh, rolling her eyes. “Eight hours, like a grown-up.”

"That's my girl," he murmured, tucking her in. "You brushed your teeth?" he asked, smiling when she let him tuck her in without a fight. She rolled her eyes again, a little huff escaping her, though it was more fond than anything.

“Dad,” she groaned in faux-exasperation. “I’m not five. I brushed my teeth, okay?”

"For two whole minutes?" he asked, raising a brow.

Another sigh escaped her, exaggerated and put upon. “Yes, Dad, the full two minutes. Even used my timer and everything,” she said, rolling her eyes, though there was a hint of a smile on her face.

"Huh, maybe you are all grown up after all," he remarked, kissing her forehead. "Guess you don't need me to read to you tonight then."

She went very still, giving him a wide-eyed look, clearly shocked and appalled that he would even think that. “No, no, no, wait—” she protested, sitting up straight in bed. “You have to read to me, Dad. That’s not fair—”

Spencer laughed, sitting on the edge of the bed. "Sure?"

She nodded, looking at him earnestly. “Yes, Dad. It’s not bedtime if you don’t read to me,” she said, settling back against her pillows, arms out from where he had tucked her in, geese lining her cotton blue pyjamas.

“Okay, tradition’s tradition,” Spencer replied, his voice non-chalant as he picked up her copy of Eragon, settling into bed next to her and opening up the dense novel to where they had last left it. He slid the bookmark out, holding it against the back of the book, and Maya snuggled into his shoulder, following along to his soft, soothing voice.

As Spencer read to her, she felt herself growing drowsy, her eyes drooping a little, a yawn escaping her and he smiled, looking down at her. “Time to sleep, monkey,” he murmured, settling her head against the pillows.

As he tucked her in, she looked up at him, still not quite ready to let him go. “Dad?” she mumbled, her eyes still closed, but she wasn’t quite asleep yet either.

"Yeah?"

"Can you... stay here for a little while?" she asked, quietly, so much so that he almost wasn't sure he had heard her correctly. Despite all her teenage huffing and her constant efforts to show how big and grown-up she was these days, there were still moments like these, when she reminded him that she was still a little girl at heart.

"Sure, I'll be right here," he murmured, stroking her hair as she closed her eyes.

She let out a soft sigh, a content little sound, and snuggled even further down into the blankets. "Thanks, Dad," she mumbled groggily, her voice soft and thick with sleep.

"You got it, monkey," he whispered and she smiled sleepily, her grip on his hand loosening as she slipped into the comforting embrace of sleep.