#and he still pulls the rug from under me all the time

[fxstpace]

in the spirit of matrimony

summary: iwaizumi hajime is getting married and you and your ex, oikawa tooru, must pretend you’re still together to avoid ruining his big day. the charade, however, proves to be a lot more complicated than you thought.

pairing: oikawa tooru x fem!reader genres: romance, angst, exes to lovers!au, fake dating!au word count: 3.0k

↳ warnings: profanity, alcohol consumption ↳ a/n: reposted from my old blog (@/sokuroo). a little bit of info on some terms used: an izakaya is a type of informal japanese bar; oshibori is a wet towel offered at dining places used to clean one’s hands before eating; otoshi is an appetizer offered at izakaya

Oikawa Tooru is currently using the shower in your hotel room, and you are running late for dinner with Iwaizumi Hajime because of this.

You sit on the plush armchair in the corner of the room, picking at the raised swirls and curlicues embroidered on the cushion. You’re supposed to be meeting with Iwaizumi for dinner in fifteen minutes, but Oikawa seems to be taking his own sweet time getting ready. You can’t say you’re surprised. 

Irritated? Yes.

When he finally bursts out of the bathroom, looking like a Louis Vuitton model, you simply grab your purse and hotel card, and stride out the door without a second glance. Oikawa Tooru isn’t worth your time or energy—for now.

He catches up with you quickly—volleyball legs, and all that—and you can smell his perfume: Cremo spice and black vanilla. You hate the fact that you remember; you’d rather not, but he hasn’t changed the scent in five years and it’s always the little things that are the hardest to forget. In his black button down shirt and with his hair styled carefully with gel, Oikawa definitely looks attractive. He knows it, too, probably, and it gives you a twisted sort of satisfaction knowing that he can’t go about flirting with every person who catches his eye.

He simply cannot, because as far as Iwaizumi Hajime is concerned, you and Oikawa are still together.

“Don’t forget,” you mutter, just low enough that only he can hear you.

“Yeah, yeah.” He waves his hand dismissively before tucking it back into his pocket. “It’s just Hajime. Don’t worry.”

You bite back a sigh. It would do you no good to appear so visibly vexed—and it would cause Hajime to worry unnecessarily, which does a lot more harm to everyone involved. The only thing you want him to be worried about is wedding preparations and becoming a husband in three days. 

Your old friend meets you at the hotel lobby, right before Oikawa furtively slips his hand into yours. Iwaizumi looks tired—his clothes look rumpled and he has dark circles under his eyes—but he still smiles at you and Oikawa in the same way: boyish and crooked. You grin back at him.

“Hey, you two.” Iwaizumi opens his arms and pulls you in for a hug. His stubble brushes against your cheek, and you frown. 

“You’re growing a beard?” you ask incredulously, when you pull away.

He chuckles. “I wish. I need to look handsome on the day of the wedding. Akari thinks it makes me look rugged.” He shrugs and adds, “Personally, I can’t tell the difference.”

“How’s Mrs. Iwaizumi doing?” Oikawa cuts in. He smiles at his best friend, a quick flash of his teeth that you haven’t seen in ages. It almost makes you wish he still smiled at you like that. Almost.

“Akari’s great,” Hajime answers, the edges of his smile turning fond. His fiancé is truly the sweetest, and she’s perfect for Iwaizumi in ways no one else ever could be. It’s difficult to doubt their love, and you consider yourself lucky to have witnessed them falling for each other in college. “Really great, actually. She told me to tell you she’s sorry she couldn’t make it today, but she can’t wait to see you both tomorrow.”

Your ex-boyfriend sighs dramatically. “Iwa-chan. The only entertaining person of the evening is missing. Whatever shall I do?”

“I’m sure your girlfriend will provide ample entertainment, Oikawa,” Hajime deadpans.

Your cheeks flood with heat at the implication. You’re the furthest thing from being Oikawa Tooru’s entertainment tonight, and you don’t need to look at him to know he’s laughing internally at the predicament.

“She’s good at entertaining me with other things,” he retorts, waggling his eyebrows in that infuriating way of his. “Not funny enough, unfortunately.”

You bristle. “Uncalled for, Oikawa.”

He turns to you—the first time he’s looked at you properly since you arrived at the hotel in their hometown—and, taking your hand in his, rubs his thumb along the back of your palm. You nearly shiver; Oikawa used to do that all the time when you were still together, and the small gesture now makes a lump form in your throat. 

“Just kidding, babe,” he says indulgently. “You know I make up for the lack of humour on your part.”

You have to give it to him. Oikawa Tooru is a magnificent actor. 

The way he talks to you, as though both of you hadn’t walked out of the hotel room without saying a word to each other is a feat in itself. He speaks to you as though nothing has changed, as though everything about the way you’re projecting yourselves to your friend is completely natural. You close the hole in your chest where Oikawa used to reside; you will not fall for his little antics—not when he chose to leave you alone.

You roll your eyes, meeting Hajime’s fond—if exasperated—gaze. “Ignore him.”

“I’ve been doing it my entire life,” he responds.

“You are mean and I hate you both,” Oikawa whines. Both of you ignore him.

“Let’s go,” Hajime says. “The izakaya gets really crowded later in the night.”

You wipe your hands on the soft cotton of the oshibori, scanning the menu taped onto the wall. Next to you, Oikawa digs into the otoshi, and in front of you, Hajime sips on his glass of beer. 

“Yakisoba noodles sounds good,” you murmur, “don’t you think?”

“I wan’ the chmmkn kraagh,” Oikawa says immediately through a mouthful of potato salad.

Iwaizumi sighs and translates, “He wants the chicken karaage.”

You scowl. You and Oikawa Tooru can never agree about things. You’re both too stubborn and hot-headed to budge from your opinions, and towards the end of your relationship, the number of petty arguments that were a result of your clashing personalities was high. At one point of time, you might have said that it was one of Oikawa’s qualities that you admired.

Right now, it just irks you to no end.

“We can order both,” you suggest. “Don’t talk with food in your mouth.”

Oikawa rolls his eyes. He makes a show of swallowing, exaggerating the bob of his throat, before he turns to you and states, “I want the chicken karaage, and I know Iwa-chan likes it more than yakisoba noodles.”

“Actually,” Hajime says mildly, “I kind of want the sashimi.”

“Let’s just order all three.” You bring your glass of beer to your lips and take a sip.

Iwaizumi looks curiously between you both. You take another sip of your beer, and you come to the realisation that for an outsider—like Hajime—you and Oikawa look absolutely nothing like a couple.

The fault is yours: You didn’t tell Hajime about your break up with Oikawa, and neither did he. Hajime still thinks you’re together. Neither you nor your ex-boyfriend are tactless enough to tell him that you aren’t dating anymore three days before he’s getting married. Iwaizumi is excited, and you aren’t about to dampen his happiness by telling him his two best friends haven’t spoken to each other in months.

That’s how, for the first time in ages, you and Oikawa Tooru decided that you couldn’t ruin Iwaizumi Hajime’s Big Day, and it was also how Operation: Pretend Like You’re Madly In Love So Your Surprisingly Intuitive Best Friend Doesn’t Feel Bad came about.

You set your beer down again, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. 

“Can I try some of that?” you ask, nudging Oikawa’s shoulder with yours.

He pauses mid-chew, chopsticks held high in the air. “Sure.”

You nudge his shoulder again, a little bit more forcefully this time. Oikawa glares at you. You narrow your eyes at him, trying to send him some sort of telepathic signal. His eyes widen.

“Here, babe,” he says, plastering a grin on his face. He picks up a chunk of the creamy potato salad that was served as the otoshi and holds it up. He uses his thumb and pointer finger to gently bring your face closer to his chopsticks. You fist your fingers, nails cutting crescents into your palms, and accept the mouthful he holds out to you.

“Good?” Oikawa murmurs, his eyes not leaving your face.

You hum. It is good, rich and tart with a touch of sweetness, but for some reason, you can’t bring yourself to verbalise it. Your gaze flits downwards as you gently pull away from his grasp. Your jaw tingles where he held it.

Iwaizumi grins at you—almost knowingly—when you pick up your beer again. He holds a hand up, calling for the waiter to take your orders.

The alcohol washes down the taste of the food, but your heart is about to leap out of your throat.

It is always alcohol that loosens your tongue, and it’s the same for Oikawa Tooru as well. The beer you had at the izakaya lowers the towering walls between you both somewhat. It’s easier to speak to him, now, and after you switch on the lights in the hotel room and kick off your sandals, you whirl around and face Oikawa.

“What the hell was that?” you seethe, glaring at your ex-boyfriend.

He pauses in the middle of taking off his shoes. “What the hell was what?”

“You almost blew our cover! Didn’t you see the way Hajime looked at us?”

Oikawa cocks his head to the side, and his cluelessness only infuriates you even more.

“God, you haven’t changed one bit!” you rant. Your chest heaves with emotion—you’re not sure what emotion, exactly. Anger? Resentment? Foolish hope? Or perhaps a cocktail of all three that causes you to feel nothing but confusion. “Hajime is getting married in two days, and I know you couldn’t care less, but for his sake, can’t you make this whole—whole act more believable?”

“You— What the fuck is that supposed to mean?!” Oikawa’s eyebrows raise upwards incredulously. “You think I don’t care about Iwaizumi’s wedding? I met him before I even knew you existed.” He scoffs. “Of fucking course I care!”

“Then would it kill you to act like you still love me?” You take a step forward, eyes narrowed and index finger pointing at him. “Is that it? Is it so repulsive to pretend like you still have feelings for me, so that your best friend doesn’t worry about us?”

“That’s not it, and you know it,” Oikawa snarls, a frown marring his features. “We should’ve told him as soon as it happened.”

Hearing him refer to your relationship as it feels like a slap to the face. You falter, cursing yourself inwardly.

Of course he doesn’t care for you now. Why would he, after he decided that long-distance relationships were too much effort? I don’t see us working out in the long run, he’d explained over FaceTime. I’m sorry.

Two days later, you declared yourself officially single. You burrowed yourself in piles of work and forgot to tell Iwaizumi Hajime because talking to Hajime would remind you of Oikawa, and you weren’t ready for that yet. Eventually, you just… didn’t tell him.

That’s why it came as an unwelcome surprise to you when you walked into the hotel lobby and found Oikawa Tooru waiting there, with his arms crossed over his chest and his suitcase by his feet. You’re here, he’d said, and you wanted to punch yourself for the way your heart somersaulted in your chest.

You finally find your voice again. “But we didn’t, so would it kill you to just… not be so fucking obvious?”

Oikawa remains stoic, though you suspect he’s just as agitated as you are. “Yes. I don’t want to do this at all.”

Something in you breaks. How easy it is for Oikawa to break your heart. You’d given him the fragile thing, made of glass, and he had knocked it over like it was a house of cards more than once. 

“Fine,” you grit out, bending down and picking up your footwear again. The alcohol buzzing in your head isn’t enough—you need to stop thinking, need to find some way to stop yourself from constantly imagining him. “See if I care.”

You shoulder past him and place your hand on the doorknob.

“Where are you going?”

If you really strained your ears, you could almost hear the imperceptible concern in Oikawa’s voice. You brush it off; he doesn’t have any feelings towards you, as he’s made so amply clear.

“Why do you care?” you retort, before pushing open the door and heading in the direction of the hotel restaurant’s bar.

The room is dark when you open the door.

It’s a little past one in the morning—or so one of the bellhops had said when he kindly escorted you back to your room. Your mind is swirling.

It seems even getting yourself batshit drunk isn’t enough to eradicate all thoughts of Oikawa.

The walls spin. You stumble inside. Your hip bumps against something solid—a table, probably—and you let out a startled yelp. 

Oikawa’s voice is like a balm, soothing your feverish forehead, when he says your name.

How are you supposed to get over him? How are you supposed to go back to living alone when you’ve had this taste of what it could be like, regardless of how authentic it is?

The answer is clear as day: You cannot.

A pair of hands guides you by the shoulders to the bed. Oikawa is careful, gentle with his hold on you. You sprawl on the bed sheets, the fabric cool against your cheek. He appears like an outline in the darkness. 

“Are you okay?”

“God,” you mumble, screwing your eyes shut. “You can’t keep doing this to me, Oikawa.”

He remains silent for a moment, before he clears his throat and says, “You asked me why I care about where you go.”

You don’t say anything.

“I just do,” he continues, “and I don’t know how to explain it. But I do care.”

His fingers are warm when he caresses your cheek. The last thing you do before succumbing to sleep is murmur his name—a curse, but somehow reverent.

When you wake up the next morning, the sheets next to you are rumpled. There is no sign of Oikawa anywhere in the room, but there is a tall glass of water placed on the bedside table.

Through the pounding of your head, you squint at the note written using the hotel stationery placed beside it. 

Drink up. Hajime and Akari are bringing us breakfast.

Breakfast is a lively affair. You’re glad to see Akari again, happy to see the to-be-newlyweds so patently in love with each other.

Oikawa keeps his hand on your thigh, steady and comforting, and offers you golden smiles whenever you catch his eye, and you swallow down the awful lump in your throat.

The day passes by in a blur.

It’s on the day before Iwaizumi’s wedding that Oikawa Tooru kisses you.

Wedding photos are unnecessary, you think. After all, you’re not the one getting married. But Akari had been insistent that you and Oikawa take some pictures together, and you couldn’t refuse her beseeching gaze.

Oikawa, clad in his dapper suit, with his hair styled using copious amounts of hair gel, places his hands on your waist and draws you in. His fingers bunch up the material of your dress. The photographer asks you to place your hands on his chest. His heartbeat is a steady thrum underneath the pads of your fingertips. 

“Is this okay?” he whispers, leaning in. 

You nod.

His mouth tastes like spearmint and the chocolate muffins he’d shared with you at breakfast. 

The afternoon passes by in a daze.

As you walk through the wedding venue, noting all the decorations and the flower arrangements, Oikawa slips his hand into yours. 

“You don’t have to,” you say. “No one’s here to see us.”

“I want to,” he replies simply. He is serious now, not his usual boisterous self, the way he is around Hajime and Akari. “It’s a nice place, no?”

You press your lips together. His words are oddly reminiscent of what he said the night you were drunk. Your stomach twists into knots, but if you don’t ask him the one question that has been nagging at you since then, who will do it for you?

“Tooru,” you say.

He stiffens. It’s the first time you’ve used his first name since you broke up with him.

“Why didn’t you tell Hajime we broke up?” you ask.

His shoulders loosen and his mouth twists upwards in a crooked, sad sort of smile. 

“Because I love you, and breaking up with you broke me in some way.”

Your voice is quiet when you ask, “Why did you?”

“I didn’t want to be the one holding you back,” he says, just as quietly. “I didn’t want you to be constantly worrying about someone who didn’t even live in the same country as you. You deserve someone who will be there for you. Someone you can come home to after work, and talk about your day, and cook dinner together with. I couldn’t give you that.”

You want to hit him and kiss him at the same time. What a stupid, idiotic fool you’re in love with.

“Silly,” you say. “I only want you.”

The wedding happens on a sunny afternoon, and it is beautiful. Akari is radiant, and Hajime tells her that he’s the luckiest man ever. They are in love, and looking at them doesn’t hurt anymore. Your ex-boyfriend turned current boyfriend presses his shoulder against yours and gives you a small, knowing smile when he catches you almost tearing up. You nudge him back, and his smile grows into a grin that envelops his face in gold.

(“You’re the golden one,” he’ll tell you later, pressing feather-light kisses to your collarbones and cheeks. You’ll say he’s wrong.)

Right before the crowd disperses, Oikawa takes your hand and brings it to his lips. He presses a soft kiss against the knuckle of your ring finger.

Later, he whispers to you that it’s all in the spirit of matrimony.

Oikawa Tooru is using the shower in your bedroom, and he’s running late to catch his flight back to Argentina, and everything is perfect.

[allthemeniveloved]

It Will Come Back - Part 5

Summary: John whisks you away to Elysian Pool for the weekend to get some much-needed time away, as well as teach you a thing or two.

Tags: high honor John Marston x fem!reader, reader teases John about not being able to swim, John makes a dick joke, John Marston absolutely worships you, tooth rotting fluff, cavity inducing fluff, smut, oral (m receiving), thigh riding, choking, dirty talk, unprotected p in v, praising, author is getting a little better at writing smut

wc: 4.4k

ao3 link

The soft glow of the morning sun filtered through the canvas of the tent, casting warm, golden hues over the rumpled blankets tangled around you. The air was quiet, save for the faint rustle of leaves and the distant chatter of birds, a rare moment of peace in the chaotic world you’d grown accustomed to. As you stirred, your cheek brushing against the rough fabric of the cot, you became acutely aware of John’s arm draped over your waist, holding you close. His warmth radiated against your back, steady and comforting, and the faint scent of leather and pine lingered in the space around you.

You tilted your head slightly, catching sight of him still asleep, his face softened in the morning light. The lines of worry and exhaustion that usually etched his features seemed less pronounced, his breathing slow and even. For a moment, you simply lay there, taking in the rare vulnerability he allowed himself in sleep, your heart swelling with an unexpected tenderness.

As you shifted to untangle yourself, his arm tightened instinctively, pulling you closer as a sleepy murmur escaped his lips. “Stay,” he mumbled, his voice rough with sleep but filled with a quiet plea. It sent a warmth through you that no sunrise could rival, and with a soft sigh, you relaxed back into him.

Your fingers moved hesitantly at first, brushing lightly along the rugged lines of John’s cheek. You traced the longest one, the faint silver line running down from just under his eye to his jaw, your fingertips lingering as you marveled at how perfectly it seemed to fit him—both strong and weathered, like the man himself.

He didn’t flinch under your touch, though his brow furrowed slightly, his eyes flicking up to meet yours with a hint of self-consciousness. “They ain’t much to look at,” he murmured, his voice rough but tinged with vulnerability, like he was bracing for you to agree.

“Not much to look at?” you whispered, your voice filled with quiet affection as your thumb brushed over the scar on his chin. “I like them, a lot. They suit you.” you said with a smile.

He chuckled softly, shaking his head as his hand came up to cover yours. “Didn’t think there was much to like about a busted-up face.”

“Well,” you said, leaning closer, your voice light but sincere, “I happen to think it’s perfect.” You kissed the scar on his jaw, lingering just enough to feel him relax, and his grin widened as he pulled you closer.

John’s hand came up to trace circles on your bare back, his calloused palm warm against your skin. “You’ve got a way of makin’ a man feel like he’s somethin’ better than he is,” he said quietly, his voice thick with emotion.

“You’re already better than you think,” you replied, leaning in to kiss him softly, letting your actions say what words couldn’t. Brushing your lips softly against his, with the warmth of the kiss bringing a quiet smile to your face. His hands rested gently on your back, holding you close as he melted in and kissed you back with an easy, unhurried affection that made your heart flutter.

As you lay tangled together in John’s cot, the soft rustle of the tent canvas blending with the distant hum of the camp, he shifted slightly, propping himself up on one elbow to look down at you. His gaze was warm, a small, playful smile tugging at his lips. “I’ve been thinkin’,” he started, his fingers idly tracing patterns on your arm, “we could use a break from all this… madness. Just you and me. How about we get outta here for a couple days? Fresh air, quiet nights, no Dutch breathin’ down our necks.” His voice dropped to a tender murmur as he leaned closer, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “You deserve a little peace, darlin’. Let me give it to you.”

You blinked up at him, his words sinking in like a warm balm against the chaos that had been your constant companion lately. A small, surprised smile tugged at your lips as you reached up, your fingers brushing lightly against his cheek. “You really mean it?” you asked softly, your voice tinged with a mixture of hope and disbelief. His answering grin was all the confirmation you needed, and you couldn’t help the quiet laugh that bubbled up as you nodded. “Okay, John. Let’s do it.” The thought of escaping, even if just for a little while, sent a flutter of relief through your chest as you leaned into him, your forehead brushing against his. “Thank you,” you whispered, your heart feeling a little lighter already.

John pressed a quick kiss to your forehead, his voice soft but filled with excitement. “I’ll get the horses ready—meet me by Old Boy in a bit, darlin’. Don’t keep me waitin’ too long now.”

"Where are you taking me exactly?" you asked, half-laughing at his determination.

"You'll see." he said simply, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Just you and me.”

-

The journey to Elysian Pool was nothing short of serene, the kind of peace you hadn’t realized you craved until you were out in the open with John riding beside you. The air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of pine and earth, and the distant hum of cicadas created a calming backdrop as your horses trotted along the narrow trail. John kept the mood light, his voice easy and warm as he pointed out the occasional animal or teased you about your riding skills.

“You’re keepin’ up alright,” he said with a playful grin, glancing over his shoulder at you. “Didn’t think Dahlia had it in her to go this fast.”

You rolled your eyes, though a smile tugged at your lips. “Maybe it’s your horse that needs to keep up, Marston.”

He laughed, the sound echoing through the trees, and for the first time in days, you felt your tension start to ease.

Dahlia was a sleek, all-black Arabian mare, her glossy coat shimmering like polished obsidian under the moonlight, every muscle finely sculpted for speed and grace. Her alert, intelligent eyes and delicate, arched neck gave her an almost regal presence, and she carried herself with a quiet confidence that matched your own perfectly. Dahlia wasn’t just a horse—she was the last gift your father had given you before he passed, a spirited black Arabian with a gleam in her eye that reminded you of him. You could still hear his voice, proud and warm, as he handed you the reins for the first time: “She’s got your fire, kid. Treat her right, and she’ll take care of you.” You couldn't help but to smile at the memory.

As the sound of rushing water grew louder, John slowed his horse, gesturing toward the clearing just ahead. The sight of Elysian Pool was even more breathtaking than you expected. The waterfall cascaded down in a glittering rush, the sound of the water filling the air with a soothing rhythm that seemed to wash away every lingering worry. Mist hung in the cool air, catching the sunlight and creating a faint rainbow at the edges of the pool. The soft grass near the water’s edge was lush and inviting, a perfect spot to rest and forget, at least for a while, the chaos waiting back at camp.

John dismounted first, his boots crunching softly against the earth as he reached up to help you down. “Told ya this was worth the ride,” he said with a grin, “Figured this was better than listenin’ to Bill snore all night,” he joked, helping you down. You couldn’t help but laugh.

“It’s beautiful, John,” you said softly, your voice almost lost in the roar of the waterfall.

He spread out the blanket on a patch of grass overlooking the water and gestured for you to sit. The moment you did, he settled beside you, leaning back on his elbows with an air of relaxed satisfaction. “We both needed this,” he said, glancing at you. “Somewhere quiet. No Dutch, no plans, no nothin’.”

The sincerity in his voice made your chest tighten, and for a moment, the only sound between you was the roar of the falls. Then, as if to break the spell, John reached over to pluck a blade of grass, twirling it between his fingers.

“You ever seen someone try to fish with just their hands?” he asked, his grin turning mischievous.

You laughed, shaking your head. “Please don’t tell me you’re about to try.”

“Oh, I’d manage just fine,” he said, leaning closer with a teasing glint in his eye. “But it’d probably scare off all the fish. Let’s just stick to relaxin’ for now.”

“Fishing with your hands, huh?” you teased, crossing your arms and tilting your head at him. “Might be a little tricky for someone who can’t even swim. What’re you gonna do if you fall in? Charm the fish into draggin’ you back to shore?” His head snapped toward you, his face a mix of amusement and mock indignation as he straightened up. “You’re real funny, you know that? Maybe I oughta toss you in first, see how well you swim with all that sass.”

You laughed, shaking your head as you nudged him with your elbow. “Face it, Marston—you’d be bored stiff without me.”

He chuckled, leaning a little closer, his eyes glinting with mischief. “Maybe, but don’t let it go to your head, darlin’. I ain’t about to start sayin’ you’re always right.”

"And for the record, I'm stiff when you're around anyway so it wouldn't make much of a difference."

“John Marston!” you exclaimed, your voice filled with mock outrage as you reached out and gave his arm a light slap. He chuckled, feigning innocence as he rubbed the spot where you’d hit him. “What’d I do now?” he teased, his grin widening. You rolled your eyes, but the laughter bubbling up between you made it impossible to keep a straight face. “You know exactly what you did,” you shot back, shaking your head at him, though the warmth in your smile betrayed your amusement.

-

The sun had dipped low, casting the waterfall and the clearing in a soft, golden glow as John paced a few feet ahead of you, his revolver dangling lazily from his fingers.

“You know,” he said, breaking the comfortable silence, “I’ve been meanin’ to teach you a thing or two about shootin’.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Shooting?”

You raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms. “Are you sure this is necessary? I think I do fine without a gun in my hand.”

“Maybe,” John replied, his tone light but edged with seriousness. “But what happens when I ain’t around to back you up?” His expression softened as he stepped closer, holding the revolver out to you. “C’mon, darlin’. Just humor me, alright?”

You’d always preferred the subtlety of slipping a wallet from a pocket or a watch from a wrist over the loud, messy chaos of a firefight. You’d always known enough about gunslinging to survive when it counted—a few well-placed shots here, a quick draw there—but it was never something you excelled at or even cared to perfect. Your aim was steady enough to hit a target if you had to, and you’d managed to bluff your way out of enough tight spots with a revolver in hand to keep trouble at bay. Quick hands and a sharp mind had kept you alive far more often than a gun ever had, though John seemed determined to change that.

With a sigh, you took the weapon, the cool metal heavy in your grip. He moved behind you, his hands coming to rest lightly on your shoulders as he adjusted your stance. His voice was low and steady, brushing against your ear like a warm breeze. “Relax,” he murmured, his hands sliding down to guide your arms into position. “Don’t hold it too tight, but keep it firm. You wanna be in control, not the gun.”

You couldn’t help but feel a little flustered at his closeness, his steady presence both grounding and distracting at the same time. He pointed toward a rock at the far edge of the clearing, his hand brushing against yours as he helped you aim. “See that? Focus on it. Line up the sights, and when you’re ready, squeeze the trigger—don’t yank it.”

You took a deep breath and steadied yourself, squeezing the trigger as the shot rang out, echoing against the falls. The bullet missed the rock by a small margin, striking harmlessly into the dirt, and you groaned in frustration.

John chuckled softly, his hands squeezing your shoulders in encouragement. “Not bad for a first try. You’re just gettin’ the feel for it.”

After a few more attempts, with John’s patient guidance and a string of playful teases when you missed, you finally chipped the rock. You let out a triumphant laugh, spinning to face him. “I did it!”

He grinned, his pride in you unmistakable as he reached out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “Told ya you could. You’re a natural, darlin’.”

You swatted at his arm playfully. “A natural, huh? You might want to hold off on the flattery until I can actually hit something without you babysitting me.”

He laughed, leaning in slightly, his tone softening. “You’re better than you think. And one day, you’re gonna see that for yourself.”

As the evening wore on, the lesson turned into an easy rhythm of shooting and playful banter. By the time the sun sank below the horizon, leaving the clearing bathed in twilight, you found yourself more confident with the weapon—and more drawn to John’s unwavering belief in you.

Eventually, you found it harder and harder to focus. His voice, low and gravelly, was meant to be instructive, but the warmth of his breath brushing your ear and the way his fingers lingered on your wrists sent a shiver down your spine. He leaned in closer, adjusting your grip, his chest brushing against your back, and it was enough to make your heart race faster than the gunfire you were supposed to be practicing. “Darlin’, keep your eyes on the target,” he murmured, his tone teasing but steady. But you couldn’t. Spinning on your heel, you dropped the revolver to your side and pulled him toward you, crashing your lips against his in a kiss filled with all the tension you couldn’t keep bottled up. For a moment, he froze, surprised, before his hands slipped around your waist, drawing you closer as he kissed you back with just as much fervor, the lesson momentarily—and blissfully—forgotten.

John’s grip on your waist tightened as the kiss deepened, his calloused hands pulling you flush against him as if he couldn’t bear even an inch of space between you. The forgotten revolver slipped from your hand, landing softly in the grass, but neither of you noticed or cared. His lips moved against yours with an urgency that sent your pulse racing, his usual cocky demeanor melting away into something raw and unrestrained.

When you finally broke apart, breathless, John rested his forehead against yours, his hands still holding you close. “Darlin’,” he murmured, his voice rough, a playful smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “You’ve got a hell of a way of interruptin’ a lesson.”

You laughed softly, your hands still tangled in his shirt as you looked up at him, your cheeks warm from both the kiss and his teasing. “Maybe I just found something more interestin’ than shootin’ targets,” you quipped, unable to hide the grin spreading across your face.

John chuckled, his thumb brushing your cheek, his expression softening. “You’re trouble, you know that?” he said, though his tone carried no bite, just affection.

“Maybe,” you replied, your voice quiet but full of warmth. “But you don’t seem to mind.”

His grin widened, and he leaned down to press another quick, lingering kiss to your lips before finally stepping back, though his hands never quite left your waist. “Alright,” he said, his voice lighter now, “we’ll call it a break—for now. But you’re still learnin’ how to shoot proper, whether you distract me or not.”

You smirked as you slowly and gently backed him towards the nearest tree, his words filling you with a quiet joy. “We’ll see about that, Marston.” But John Marston was always two steps ahead of you, and before you knew it, he spun you around, pressing his thigh between your legs as your back hit the tree. You couldn't stop the gasp from leaving your lips as his large hand wrapped around your throat, applying perfect pressure.

"Fuck, baby," he growled, "you're playin' with fire here." His thigh pressed tighter against your core, and warmth curled in your abdomen at the feeling of your cunt dragging across John's thigh, your folds sliding through the slick that's began pooling in your undergarments. Each roll of your hips sent sparks of pleasure racing up your spine, stoking the flames of your desire higher and higher. John's grip on your hips tightened, his fingers digging into the soft flesh as he fought the urge to rip your clothes off and take you right then and there. But he held back, letting you set the pace, content to revel in the delicious friction of your body against his.

"Careful what ya wish for, baby," he warned, his voice rough with barely restrained lust. "Keep this up and I won't be responsible for my actions."

You just laugh, "Oh, I'm counting on it," your breathed, your hot breath sending shivers down his spine. And with that, you redoubled her efforts, grinding against him with wild abandon.

"Good girl," he adds in a low tone as you let out a choked out whine when he tightens his grip and guides your next stroke. "Good fucking girl."

"John," you cry out as you continue to grind against him, that coil tightening inside of you.

He presses sloppy open mouthed kisses to the exposed skin on your neck, all the way down to your collarbone.

"Go on, take what you need," he says hoarsely. " Use me. I know you're close. I can feel it." he urges. The hand currently squeezing your neck slips away and clamps over your mouth as you desperately chase your release. You stick your tongue out and lick the palm of his hand before taking his two middle fingers in your mouth.

"Jesus, princess, you're filthy." John lets out a loud groan in unexpected satisfaction as you eagerly suck on his fingers.

Something in his tone made that coil snap inside of you, your nails digging into his shirt as stars danced across your vision. You came hard, your thighs trembling, the only thing holding you up was his hand on your hip and his thigh between your legs.

John groaned as your release coated his thigh, the heat of your essence seeping through the denim. He could still feel you trembling above him, your body shuddering with the aftershocks of your pleasure.

"Fuck, baby," he rasped, his voice rough with desire. "You made quite a mess of me."

You just smirked, eyes glinting with mischief as you slowly slid down his body, making quick work of his gun belt. "I ain't done yet, cowboy." Before John could even catch his breath, you had his cock free, your hot breath ghosting over his sensitive flesh.

"Jesus, darlin'" he gasped, his hips bucking involuntarily. The sight of his cock went straight to your already dripping pussy as you looked up to him with eyes that begged for permission. That was all the encouragement you needed as you grabbed the base of his cock, feeling how the veins throbbed under your touch.

He's unbelievably hard and leaking as you slowly slide your tongue around the tip of him before taking his curved head into your mouth. John takes a deep, shaky breath as you suck softly on the head of his cock, fluttering your tongue along a bead of precum he's leaking.

"That's my girl," he murmured, his voice hoarse as he tightens the grip on your hair. You take him deep, the very tip of his cock hitting the back of your throat, over and over again. Your tongue fits along the curve of him, massaging him with every soft corner of your mouth, and you can't help but to notice John's breathing changes.

"You're so fucking pretty like this, darlin'. All mine."

Your thighs press together tightly to subdue the ache in your pussy. His hips move in time with your head, fucking your throat with feral grunts that has slick pooling at your entrance. Your hands move to his thighs for stability, throat burning with the stretch of him as you gag, saliva dripping out of the sides of your mouth.

He tears himself away, hand grabbing you by the throat to pull you to your feet and lock eyes with him.

"You're too good at that baby." He breathes as he forcibly twisted you around presses your chest against the tree.

"You want more? Beg for it."

You nodded frantically, "Please, John," you begged, voice high and needy. "I need you inside me. I need you to fill me up."

Without warning, John spanked you. You gasped at the sweet pain that spread across from your skin.

"That's not my name." He answered, his tone was cold and firm.

"Fuck - daddy! I'm sorry."

With a low growl, John lifted your skirt, ripping your panties away, baring you to his hungry gaze. He positioned himself at your entrance, teasing with shallow thrusts that had you keening in frustration.

"Beg for it," he demanded, his eyes blazing with lust. "Keep begging for my cock, princess."

"Please, daddy," you sobbed, hips bucking back toward him. "Please, I need it. I need you. Make me yours."

That was all John wanted to hear. It filled him with pride to hear the vulgar words fall from your lips for him, watching you plead for his cock. And with that, John slammed home, burying himself to the hilt in one powerful stroke. You cried out, back arching deeper as he began to move, his hips snapping against yours with brutal force. He quickly slid his hand around to the front of your throat, finding solace there once more as he squeezed tightly and pulled your body flush against his as he pounded into you with wild abandon.

"Fuck, baby," he grunted, his breath hot against your ear. "You're so fucking wet. Takin' my cock so well." You could only moan in response, hands clutching his forearm for purchase as John fucked you harder and faster. His fingers dug into the soft flesh of your throat, applying just enough pressure to make you lightheaded with need.

"That's it, princess," he growled, his hips never faltering in their relentless rhythm. "Take what I give you."

John was so close to you, so deep inside of you with his intoxicating scent filling your lungs leaving your body on fire, every nerve ending lit with pleasure as he drove into you again and again. You could feel his cock hitting deep inside, touching places you didn't even know existed.

"Please," you sobbed, hips bucking back to meet his thrusts. "Please, daddy, I need... I need..."

"I know what ya need, baby," John rasped, his hand leaving your throat to slide between your legs. He found your clit and rubbed it mercilessly, pushing you to the brink of madness.

You came with a scream in no time, with your body convulsing in John's arms as he followed you over the edge. He buried himself deep inside of you, groaning your name as he filled you with his seed once again.

You both stayed like that for a long moment in an attempt to catch your breaths, bodies entwined and glistening with sweat in the moonlight. And as John finally pulled out and tucked himself back in, you begin to notice just how weak your legs had become. He finds your discarded panties on the ground nearby and shoves them in his back pocket. The cool night air wrapped around you as John’s strong arms lifted you effortlessly, cradling you against his chest like you weighed nothing. You were boneless, your body still trembling with the aftershocks of your multiple intense orgasms. Your head rested against his shoulder, the steady rhythm of his footsteps and the warmth of his body lulling you into a haze of exhaustion and comfort.

“How do you feel?” he murmured softly, his voice filled with both affection and worry. The sound of the waterfall faded behind you as he carried you back toward the tent, his hold protective and unyielding up into his arms, cradling you against his chest as your legs had given out beneath you.

"Mmhm," John couldn't help but laugh at your failure to string together a sentence.

The stars twinkled brightly overhead, their reflection rippling faintly in the still water of Elysian Pool as you and John settled on the blanket by the fire he’d built earlier. The sound of the waterfall was a constant, soothing rush in the background, blending with the gentle crackle of the fire as it cast flickering shadows across the grass. You curled up beside him, your head resting against his chest, his arm draped securely around your shoulders. His fingers traced slow, lazy patterns along your arm, the touch grounding and filled with quiet affection.

“You know,” John murmured, his voice low and warm, “nights like this… makes me think we could have a life like this someday. Just us, somewhere peaceful, no gang, no runnin’.”

You smiled sleepily, your eyes drifting closed as you listened to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your ear. “I’d like that,” you whispered, the words barely audible over the calming symphony of the night.

His lips brushed the top of your head in a tender kiss, his arm tightening slightly around you. “You deserve it, darlin’. More than anyone I know.”

The weight of his words and the warmth of his embrace lulled you into a serene haze, and as you drifted off, you felt him shift slightly, his other hand resting protectively over yours. “Sleep tight,” he whispered softly, his voice fading into the night. “I’ve got you.” And with the waterfall murmuring in the distance, you let yourself believe, just for a little while, that a life outside of the gang existed.

꧁✰꧂꧁✰꧂꧁✰꧂꧁✰꧂꧁✰꧂꧁✰꧂꧁✰

tag list: @photo1030

[isalabells]

Andreas casually dropping he used to date Maud Ackermann in the late 1980s I'm- WHAT DO YOU MEAN BOB ANDREWS AND FÜNF FREUNDE GEORGE WERE AN ITEM ONCE

[ovaryacted]

PAIRING: Logan Howlett/Wolverine x f! reader || WC: 900 CW: MDNI/18+. NSFW. Missionary Position/Mating Press. Overstimulation. Mentions of sub-space. Logan is an endearing tease.

Alright...Y'all know I just had to. If it wasn't already evident based on my previous posts, Wolverine is rotting my brain and Hugh Jackman snuck up on me in my sleep and slipped into my head again. I had to get this out of my system before I went insane lmao, and don't worry, I have longer pieces in mind for claw daddy. When writing this, I also imagined the X-Men version of Logan cause I loved the og movies, so this isn't the variant Logan from the Deadpool movie but imagine whichever version tickles your fancy! Thanks to @ozarkthedog for helping me pinpoint his characterization btw. <3

At times, Logan knew he could be a lot to handle. Not that he would really give a fuck most days, but he became more conscious of his presence when he met you. Softer, much more pliant in comparison to him, covered in hard muscle and rugged tendons. You didn’t mind his intensity, much less his overbearing weight and heavy hand. In fact, you welcomed all of him and encouraged him to let loose and forget about his fears regarding how he handled you.

“I’m not made of glass, Logan. I can take it, trust me.”

You told him once, his eyes silently apprehensive as he glanced at you. He was always careful, always self-aware, and treated you with respect. You knew it would take much more convincing to get exactly what you wanted with your lover, who was too adamant about keeping Logan and Wolverine separated in your relationship. But just this once, you asked for his trust to try something else, something a little different.

Ultimately, you got what you wanted, but your curious ambition may have underestimated the situation.

Legs pinned above his broad shoulders, Logan’s hips hammered into you as he fucked you into the mattress. You’ve lost track of time since he pulled the first orgasm between your legs, the tip of his nose and upper lip covered in your slick, glistening under the dim lighting of your bedroom. He surprised you as he kept going, pulling another release out of you with the use of his thick fingers, and a third the moment he slipped his body into yours over and over again.

The back of your head lay limp against the crumbled pillow underneath, thighs shaking on impact and your body jolting upwards with every thrust Logan gave you. You didn’t have the energy to moan or cry out for him anymore, your chest heaving as you tried to catch your breath, and your hands loosely held his flexing biceps.

You were lost, so far gone into pleasure, your brain wasn’t working anymore. The only thing on your mind was how the tip of Logan’s cock continued to hit that spot inside you with rehearsed precision, sending you further into that fuzzy headspace you seemed to enjoy. Your eyesight grew hazy, glossed over with tears on your lashline that began to fall down your warm cheeks. You didn’t realize you were crying until you felt a comforting palm on your face, fingertips tapping along your cheekbone in an attempt to ground you back to reality.

“You still with me, sugar?” He asked, gravelly voice filtering through your ears. You whined in response, pupils losing focus as your eyes fluttered closed.

“Not a single thought in your head now, huh?” The creases on Logan’s temple became more prominent as he smirked, deep strokes intensifying the heat you felt deep in your gut.

“C’mon sweetheart, need to hear you say something. Talk to me.” His nose bumped into yours, huffs evident on your bottom lip as you struggled to find your voice.

“Logan...” Your voice was breathless and raw, trailing off into a meek whimper at the feel of his other hand squeezing your waist. Your eyes trailed up to his own, hazel irises and a toothy smile came into view, causing you to clench around him. 

“There she is. This too much for you?” He knew it was, knew that this was what you asked of him, to push your limits and bring you to the point of no return.

Your mind fizzled out, the grip on his arm waning as he continued to thrust hard into you. You gave him a feeble nod, finding enough stamina to provide an answer. It was too much; three orgasms in, and your entire body felt on edge and overstimulated, sensitive to anything that was done or said within the confines of your bedroom. And yet, you didn’t want to stop, didn’t want to eat your own words and make him proud.

“I know, honey, I know. Just giving you what you wanted.” Logan teased, his tone dripping with sarcasm that matched his cocky expression.

You could feel yourself getting closer, your thighs and knees shaking on either side of his head. He continued to move against you, the hand that was on your waist drifted between your legs, seeking out your throbbing clit. His thumb pressed into the engorged nub, rubbing it in diligent circles that sent your hips jolting away from him. Logan held on to one of your thighs, pressing it towards the mattress and bending forward to pin you in place. Your heart raced, your chest ached, and you tightened at the violent wave of your next climax threatening to wash over you. 

“Keep your eyes on me, right up here. I gotcha.” Logan said, maintaining the powerful drives of his hips until you came around him with a scream of his name, doing your best to hold his gaze. You sobbed at the feeling, a neverending spiral of bliss filling your body and making your head go blank.

“That’s right, atta girl. Keep looking at me.” He rasped, groaning loudly under his breath and leaning down to give you a bruising kiss, spilling into you and filling you to the brim not that long afterwards.

Sure, Logan can be a lot to tolerate sometimes, but you didn’t mind being the one to handle him.

©️ ovaryacted 2024. Please don’t repost, copy, translate, or feed into any AI. Support your fellow creators by reblogging, commenting, and liking!

[xinganhao]

🐇 svt reacts to 'i used to have a little bit of a crush on you'.

anon → "svt reacting to reader texting them ‘i used to have a bit of a crush on u lol’ to test the waters (bc reader definitely still has that crush)"

⌗ ┆this took me a hot minute but tbh i was sold the moment i saw the ask. such a goood prompt

‧₊˚✩彡 includes: reader crushing on svt, [super duper light] angst (just with jihoon tbh), crack/fluff/etc., headcanons under the cut.

🐇 headcanons .ᐟ

someone as pouty as seungcheol would not let that text slide. 'used to'? he will absolutely pester you for details. on top of that, he'll mope about your feelings for him 'fading' so quickly. when you eventually confide to him that it's still a present-day thing, he'll probably hold a grudge until you go after him. he's not happy to be played with, especially when it comes to your feelings for him.

jeonghan, as usual, is quick on his feet. here's the thing: he's one of the few who know you're messing around. he probably knows you still have a crush on him and will be quick to mess with you so he can get you to admit that. he's smooth about how he confesses to reciprocating your feelings, although he has a way of making it look like it's harmless flirtation. he's already plotting on how to pull the rug underneath you next time for attempting to prank him like this.

it's so hard to joke about things like these with joshua. he'll be genuinely upset that your crush is in the past tense, and will be just as insistent as seungcheol in finding out why things might have changed. unable to resist his babygirl tendencies, you're likely to come clean and he'll do a full 180. he doesn't mind that you tried to prank him; he's amused, even, and mostly just glad that he has a reason now to confess as well.

junhui will be relentless. whether it's sending you his selfies or buying you food, he's going to be a little extra in bringing those feelings back. even if you insist that you were kidding and that the crush is still very much existent, he won't believe you. he's going to do everything for you to keep your eyes on him, no questions asked.

soonyoung is not about to waste a moment once he gets that text. if he has to drive, if he has to run, he'll do it. he'll be on your doorstep within minutes, out of breath and still his usual overdramatic self. "used to? used to?" he'll demand, minutes away from a full-on tantrum. "what do you mean, used to— when i like you nowww—?!"

if you're going to pull his leg, wonwoo is going to do it right back. he's always been calm and collected under pressure; this is no exception. he's not about to crack over a message that's so obviously a joke. like jeonghan, he has some sense that your feelings are still present tense. he's just a lot more suave in trying to get you to admit it. after all, wonwoo doesn't mind taking his time.

jihoon wouldn't be devastated, per se, but the little 'used to' will sting more than he really cares to admit. he's the type who will end up spiraling over this if you don't amend it quickly. what if i told them i liked them much earlier? what if i hadn't done this, hadn't done that? when you come clean, he'll probably just be like "oh." before taking it as a cue to finally be honest with himself (and you), too.

mingyu is in the club of those-who-know-the-crush-is-still-there, but he's definitely one of the more insufferable about it. he will wheedle that confession out of you if it's the last thing he does. in typical mingyu fashion, there's a healthy dose of teasing— but at the end of it all, you can trust that he'll give just as much as he takes.

seokmin would be so broken up about the fact that your supposed confession is after the fact. when he says he needs a moment, he's going to spend a couple of hours frantically typing out the best response in his notes app. it turns out to be more of a stream of consciousness where he praises you, confesses, and asks you out in one breath.

don't be fooled by minghao seeming the most normal about this whole thing. his hands are shaking as he types out his responses, as his mind goes absolutely overdrive on The Right Thing To Say. all of that goes out the window when you give him an opening. The Right Thing To Say be damned. he would very much like to find out what could have been different if you knew this could go somewhere.

if anybody would be playfully annoyed about this little turn of events, it'd be seungkwan. and he'd make it everybody's problem, too! by the time he gets back to you, half of the group already knows that you've allegedly gotten over your crush on seungkwan. when you confront him, he's quick to be the perfect picture of innocent. "what, gonna tell me it's wrong?" he'll tease. "you're just upset because you still like me, don't you?"

vernon's attempt to be chill backfires almost instantly. he's the type who will try (and fail) to feign nonchalance, like a confession from you is just an every day thing. but then you press and he realizes— well, there's not much hiding to do at this point. he'll tell you the truth if only because he's just glad to have it off his chest.

nobody is going to be more pissed at this prank than chan will be. not only did you manage to get him to accidentally confess, but he will also feel like his pride has taken a real hit. he'll give you a cold shoulder and whine about it for days. when he gets over it, only then will you have a chance to discuss what this all means. (and how you should never, ever joke around with chan about something like this ever again.)

[pandapetals]

Crush

logan howlett x fem!shy reader - slight angst, misunderstandings, struggle expressing feelings, crushes, introvert reader, x-men cameos, logan being jealous, fluff at end

You have a crush on Logan but being shy and introverted makes it hard for you to tell him that.

read on Ao3

You had a painfully obvious crush, at least to yourself. You kept it locked away, buried under layers of awkwardness and forced indifference. There was no point in admitting it, no point in setting yourself up for the kind of rejection that would leave you reeling for weeks. That’s why they called it a crush—it hurt. And you’d rather avoid the sting altogether.

Logan, of all people, would never look at you that way. Why would he? The man was a living embodiment of rugged confidence, the kind of guy who attracted the attention of bold, sexy women without even trying. Women who exuded confidence, who knew how to flirt without stumbling over their words or turning beet red at the slightest hint of interest.

You were not that woman.

You were awkward, sometimes downright clumsy with your words, and whenever Logan was nearby, you either avoided him completely or turned into a jittery mess. The few times you’d actually spoken to him, you’d kept it short, clipped even—anything to hide the way your heart raced whenever he was within arm’s reach.

But today? Today, fate was not on your side.

"Hey," Logan’s low, gravelly voice cut through the air, pulling you out of your swirling thoughts.

You jumped, nearly dropping the stack of books in your arms as his voice startled you. A squeal escaped your lips before you could stop it, and you cursed under your breath, feeling heat flood your cheeks.

"Hi!" you blurted out, avoiding his gaze as if your life depended on it. Your eyes darted anywhere but at him, settling on the wall, the floor, even the damn ceiling—anywhere but on Logan’s piercing hazel eyes.

You stood there, clutching the books like they were some kind of shield between you and him, your heart hammering in your chest. Logan stood in front of you, his hands casually in his jacket pockets, looking as effortlessly cool as ever. His brows furrowed slightly, probably trying to figure out why you were acting like a deer caught in headlights.

"You alright?" he asked, his voice gruff, though there was a hint of amusement in it.

You nodded quickly, a little too quickly, your palms suddenly sweaty. "Yep, fine," you muttered, shifting your weight from one foot to another. “Just busy.” You gestured vaguely to the books in your arms as if that explained your entire existence.

Logan's gaze lingered on you, those damn intense eyes scanning your face, trying to read something in your expression. You swallowed hard, willing yourself to act normal, but normal wasn't exactly your strong suit when he was around.

"Right," he said, his tone skeptical but not unkind. "You sure? You look like you’re about to bolt."

You forced a laugh, though it came out more like a strained chuckle. "No, no bolting," you lied, though the urge to flee was strong. Your nerves were screaming at you to make up some excuse and leave before you made an even bigger fool of yourself.

Logan didn’t move, didn’t let you off the hook that easily. He stood there, hands still in his pockets, watching you with that calm, unshakable presence that made him impossible to ignore.

"So, I was thinkin’," he started, his voice a little softer now, almost hesitant—something you weren’t used to hearing from him. "You and me, we should... hang out sometime."

Your heart nearly stopped. Hang out? Logan wanted to hang out with you?

Your brain went into overdrive, trying to process the words, but instead of the cool, collected response you wished you could give, you blurted out, “Why?”

The word came out sharper than you intended, and you immediately winced, mentally kicking yourself. Of all the ways you could’ve responded, why was probably the worst? It sounded rude, and defensive, like you couldn’t believe he would even suggest it.

Logan raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Why not?”

You blinked, feeling your face grow even hotter. “I-I don’t know, I just—” You stumbled over your words, trying to backtrack but only making it worse. “I mean, you don’t usually talk to me, and I figured you’d rather—uh—hang out with someone else, you know?”

The smirk on Logan’s face softened, his eyes narrowing slightly in the way they did when he was trying to figure someone out. "I’d rather hang out with you," he said, his voice low and steady, without a hint of hesitation.

The words hit you like a punch to the gut, your mind reeling. He wasn’t teasing. He wasn’t mocking you. He was... serious and that realization only made you more nervous.

You shifted on your feet, clutching the books tighter. “I’m... not exactly the best company,” you mumbled, avoiding his gaze again. “I’m awkward, and—well, I’m not really good at this kind of thing.”

Logan chuckled, the sound low and almost warm. “Darlin’, you think I’m lookin’ for someone perfect to hang out with? I’m about as rough around the edges as they come.”

You hesitated, sneaking a glance at him from under your lashes. He was still watching you, but there was something softer in his expression now, something that made the knots in your stomach loosen just a little.

“I don’t know,” you murmured, feeling your voice wobble under the weight of everything unsaid. Uncertainty hung in the air between you and Logan, thick and suffocating, making your chest tighten with every awkward breath.

Logan stepped closer, his usual gruffness softened by the unspoken question in his eyes. His hand moved toward your face, almost instinctively, but he stopped short, his fingers lingering just inches from your cheek, as if he was afraid to touch you—afraid of crossing a line. His jaw clenched the hard edge of frustration in his expression barely masked by the vulnerability he wasn’t used to showing.

“Do you hate me or somethin’?”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut, so sudden and raw that they knocked the wind out of you. Hate him? Your throat tightened as you stared at him, the disbelief written all over your face. How could he think that? How could anyone hate Logan? The idea was so far from the truth that it left you speechless for a moment, caught between the shock of his question and the overwhelming desire to fix whatever misunderstanding had led him here.

“No—” You shook your head, the word falling out of your mouth clumsily, but it wasn’t enough to erase the hurt that flickered behind his eyes.

Logan’s face hardened, that familiar guarded look slipping back into place like armor, shielding him from whatever pain he thought you were hiding. He shifted his weight, his arms crossing over his chest in a way that felt more like a barrier than anything else. “Could’ve fooled me,” he muttered, his voice low, almost resigned. “You don’t talk to me. Hell, you barely look at me.”

You winced, feeling the truth in his words like a knife twisting in your gut. He wasn’t wrong. You had been avoiding him, dodging his gaze in hallways, keeping your conversations short, brushing him off whenever he tried to get close. But it wasn’t because you hated him—not even close. It was because every time he looked at you, your heart raced in a way that terrified you, a way that made you feel like you were standing on the edge of a cliff, waiting to fall.

The last thing you wanted was to fall for someone who could never want you the way you wanted him.

Logan took your silence as confirmation of his worst fears. His jaw clenched tighter, the hurt in his eyes hardening into something closer to anger, though not quite—more like frustration and resignation rolled into one. “Look, if I’ve done somethin’ to piss you off, just say it,” he said, his voice rough around the edges, but quieter now, like he was trying not to let the hurt show. “But this whole… act? This avoidin’ me all the damn time? I don’t get it. I ain’t done nothin’ to deserve this.”

His words cut deep, guilt gnawing at the edges of your heart. You could see it now—how your awkwardness, your fear, had been misread as rejection. How Logan, of all people, had been standing there, arms outstretched, only to be met with walls you didn’t even realize you were building.

You opened your mouth to explain, but the words wouldn’t come. You didn’t know how to explain the mess inside your head, the way you’d convinced yourself that keeping distance between you and him was safer, easier, than admitting how much he affected you. How much you wanted him, despite everything telling you it could never work.

Logan’s eyes flashed with frustration as the silence stretched between you. He ran a hand through his hair, his rough fingers tangling in the strands like he was trying to keep himself from saying something he’d regret. “You’re really not gonna say anything, huh?” His voice broke a little, rawer now, like the frustration had finally worn him down.

Your heart hammered in your chest, the weight of his words suffocating. The look on his face—the quiet hurt, the way his eyes flickered between anger and something far more vulnerable—was too much. It was too much to bear, too much to know that he’d spent all this time thinking you hated him when the truth was the exact opposite.

“I don’t hate you,” you whispered, the words barely escaping your lips, but they carried more weight than you realized.

Logan stilled, his eyes locking onto yours, searching for something—some hint of truth, some explanation that made sense of all the confusion that had built between you. “Then what the hell is it?” he asked. “’Cause I don’t get it, darlin’. One minute you’re actin’ like I don’t exist, and the next you’re—” He stopped himself, his breath catching in his throat as he tried to find the right words. “I just don’t know what the hell I did wrong.”

Your heart ached at the pain in his voice, at the way he seemed so sure he was the problem. The truth weighed heavy on your chest, but fear kept your mouth shut—fear that once you said it, once you admitted how you felt, there’d be no going back.

Logan wasn’t going to wait forever. He took a step back, pulling his hand away from where it had hovered near your face, his eyes flickering with something close to disappointment. “Forget it,” he muttered, shaking his head. “I’m not gonna beg.”

He turned as if to walk away, and panic surged through you, your chest tightening with the fear that you’d let him leave without explaining, without fixing what you’d broken. Your hand shot out instinctively, grabbing his arm before you even realized what you were doing.

“Wait—Logan, please.” Your voice cracked, your grip on his arm tightening. He stopped, glancing down at your hand, then back up at you with those sharp hazel eyes, and for a moment, you couldn’t breathe.

He waited. His silence a heavy, painful thing as you struggled to find the right words. “I don’t hate you,” you repeated, more firmly this time, your heart pounding in your ears. “I… I just—” You swallowed hard, your chest aching with the weight of what you were about to admit. “I didn’t know how to be around you.”

Logan frowned, his brow furrowing as he studied your face. “What d’you mean?”

You bit your lip, your mind racing for an escape, any way to pull yourself out of this vulnerable moment. You could feel the truth bubbling up inside you, threatening to spill out, but fear clenched around your chest like a vice. You couldn’t do this. You couldn’t tell him.

“I don’t know,” you muttered, your voice tight, forced. Your eyes flickered to the floor, your stomach twisting as you scrambled for something, anything, to steer the conversation away from the truth. A lie formed on your tongue, half-formed and desperate, and you latched onto it before you could stop yourself. “I’ve just been... distracted.”

Logan’s frown deepened. “By what?” His voice was quiet, but there was a sharpness to it, a need to understand that made your stomach churn. He was getting too close, too damn close.

Panic surged through you, and before you knew what you were saying, the words tumbled out. “It’s... someone else.” You cringed inwardly as the lie left your lips, feeling the weight of it settle between you like a barrier.

Logan’s expression shifted, confusion flickering across his face, and then something darker. He tightened his jaw as his eyes hardened. “Someone else?” he repeated, his voice low, carefully controlled.

You nodded, your heart sinking. You couldn’t stop now. The lie was out, and you had to commit to it. “Yeah, um... it’s just—I’ve been kinda... into someone from the team.” The words felt foreign, clumsy like they didn’t belong to you. You hated how easily they fell from your lips, how they felt like a betrayal of everything you actually wanted to say.

Logan’s eyes narrowed, his arms crossed over his chest, the muscles in his forearms flexing as he studied you. “Who?” The word was clipped, sharp, like he was bracing himself for something he didn’t want to hear.

You froze. Who? You hadn’t thought that far ahead. Your mind raced, and in your panic, you blurted out the first name that came to you. “Scott.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Logan’s reaction was immediate—his jaw clenched so tight you thought you could hear his teeth grind. His eyes flickered with something hot and dangerous before he quickly masked it. He took a step back, his hands curling into fists at his sides, his posture rigid. “Scott, huh?”

You nodded, swallowing the guilt that rose in your throat like bile. “Yeah,” you mumbled, hating yourself more with every second that passed. “I mean... I know he’s kinda, you know with Jean but...you can see why I didn’t want anyone knowing—”

Logan let out a sharp breath, cutting you off. His eyes, usually so intense but warm, were cold now, narrowed and unreadable. “That’s why you’ve been avoiding me?” His voice was rough, edged with something that made your heart ache. “Because you’re into Scott?”

You didn’t trust yourself to speak. You just nodded, the lie sitting heavy on your chest, suffocating you.

Logan’s laugh was humorless, more of a bitter scoff than anything else. He shook his head, running a hand through his hair, his movements tense, almost angry. “Well, should’ve seen it.” 

You stood there, the room suddenly feeling too big, too empty, the weight of your lie pressing down on you like a heavy stone. Logan had left without looking back, his words still ringing in your ears—“Should’ve seen it”—and you wished, more than anything, that you could take it all back. But the damage was done, and now you were left with nothing but the bitter taste of regret.

You slumped into a chair, burying your face in your hands, replaying the moment repeatedly, wishing you’d had the courage to just tell him the truth.

Meanwhile, Logan was storming down the hallway, his mind a tangled mess of frustration, confusion, and something he couldn’t quite name. He wasn’t one for feelings—hell, he’d spent most of his life trying to bury them—but this? This hit him differently. The thought of you having a crush on Scott had thrown him, and for his life, he couldn’t figure out why. What the hell did you see in the guy?

His footsteps echoed through the mansion as he made a beeline for the training room, where he knew Scott would be. When he pushed through the door, the room was mostly empty, save for Scott, who was busy adjusting one of the control panels near the Danger Room entrance.

"Summers," Logan growled, his voice low and sharp as he approached.

Scott turned, eyebrows raised beneath his visor, clearly not expecting Logan to barge in like this. "Logan," he said, keeping his voice neutral. "What’s going on?"

Logan stalked closer, his hands curling into fists at his sides. "Did you know she had a crush on you?" he demanded, his voice rough with barely contained frustration.

Scott blinked, clearly confused. "Know about what?"

"Her," Logan snapped. "She’s got a crush on you. You knew about that?"

Scott looked completely taken aback, his mouth slightly agape before quickly composing himself. "Wait, who are we talking about?" he asked, genuinely bewildered. "Are you talking about... her?"

Logan clenched his jaw, the muscle ticking beneath his stubble. "Yeah, her. She told me she’s been into you, and now I’m tryin’ to figure out what the hell’s goin’ on."

Scott’s confusion deepened, and he shook his head. "I had no idea," he admitted, sounding as baffled as Logan felt. "I thought she had a thing for Kurt."

Logan's scowl deepened. "Kurt?" he repeated, the name coming out like a low growl. "You’re sayin’ she’s into Nightcrawler?"

Scott shrugged. "That’s what I thought. I’ve seen them talk a few times, and she seemed... I don’t know, shy around him. Figured she liked him."

Logan’s frustration flared even higher, his temper fraying as the conversation spiraled further away from what he thought he knew. First, he’d thought you were into Scott, and now Scott was telling him you might have a crush on Kurt? None of it was making any sense, and the knot in Logan’s chest tightened.

"Thanks for nothin’, Summers," Logan grumbled, already turning on his heel and heading for the door.

Scott held up his hands, his visor catching the light. "Hey, don’t shoot the messenger. I’m just telling you what I saw."

Logan grunted in response, barely acknowledging Scott as he stormed out of the training room, his mind racing. If Scott didn’t know, and if you weren’t into him... then maybe Kurt had the answer. Logan’s jaw clenched at the thought, a surge of jealousy he hadn’t expected twisting in his gut. He needed to get to the bottom of this, one way or another.

Logan found Kurt in the garden, perched on a stone bench, lost in thought. The air around him was peaceful, the soft sound of birds chirping and the rustling of leaves in the wind providing a calm backdrop to the scene. But Logan wasn’t here for calm.

"Kurt," Logan called, his voice cutting through the serenity like a blade.

Kurt looked up, his yellow eyes widening slightly as Logan approached, clearly sensing the tension rolling off him. "Logan," he greeted cautiously, his tail twitching nervously. "Is something wrong?"

Logan stopped a few feet away from him, crossing his arms over his chest. "You and her," he said bluntly. "There somethin’ goin’ on there?"

Kurt’s brows furrowed in confusion, his tail curling around the leg of the bench as he tilted his head. "Her?" he echoed, trying to follow Logan’s line of thought. "Who are you talking about?"

Logan huffed in frustration, running a hand through his hair. "The girl," he growled. "You’ve been talkin’ to her. Scott thinks she’s into you. Is that true?"

Kurt blinked, completely thrown off by the accusation. "Into me?" He shook his head quickly, standing up from the bench. "No, Logan, that’s not true. We’ve spoken, yes, but nothing like that. She’s... well, she seems reserved around everyone."

Logan’s jaw tightened. "So you’re tellin’ me you haven’t noticed her actin’ strange around you?"

Kurt smiled gently, trying to diffuse the situation. "Everyone acts strange around me at first, Logan. But no, I don’t believe she has feelings for me. I think you might be mistaken."

Logan let out a frustrated sigh, feeling no closer to an answer than when he’d started this ridiculous search. "Great," he muttered under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck. "First Scott, now you... I don’t know what the hell’s goin’ on."

Kurt watched him for a moment, his expression softening with understanding. "Perhaps," he began carefully, "you’re looking for answers in the wrong place. If you want to know who she cares about... maybe you should ask Ororo."

“Why would I ask her?” Logan growled, more to himself than anyone else. “What’s she got to do with this?”

Kurt, ever patient, tilted his head and gave Logan a knowing smile. “Because she and Ororo are friends. I’ve seen them spend a lot of time together. If anyone knows what’s going on, it’s her.”

Logan grunted, rolling his shoulders, his tension palpable. He didn’t want to involve Ororo—didn’t want to turn this into more of a thing than it already was. But if Kurt was right, and Ororo knew something… well, he didn’t have much of a choice.

“Thanks,” Logan muttered, already turning to leave.

Kurt nodded, watching Logan go, but his yellow eyes were filled with something more than amusement—something that hinted at the truth Logan was too stubborn to see for himself just yet.

Logan found Ororo in the greenhouse, tending to a row of plants that thrived under her careful touch. The humid air clung to him as he stepped inside, the smell of earth and rain filling the space. Ororo didn’t look up at first, her focus on the delicate leaves of a blooming flower, but she knew he was there. She always did.

“Logan,” she greeted calmly, her voice like the soft rustling of leaves in the wind. “What brings you here?”

Logan wasted no time, his frustration still simmering just below the surface. “I need to ask you somethin’,” he said, his tone gruff as usual.

Ororo finally looked up, her serene expression unwavering. “Go ahead.”

He hesitated for a second, feeling foolish now that he was standing in front of her. Ororo wasn’t the kind of person you grilled for answers, but he was desperate. “You and her,” he started, his eyes narrowing. “You two are close. Has she… said anythin’ to you about someone she’s into?”

Ororo raised an eyebrow, her lips curving into a small, knowing smile. “Why do you ask?”

Logan’s jaw clenched. He hated this dance, hated feeling like he was walking into a trap he couldn’t see. “Kurt said you’d know. I’m tryin’ to figure out if what I heard is true, that she’s got feelings for Scott.” The name came out like it left a bad taste in his mouth.

Ororo tilted her head, her expression softening. “Logan, what exactly are you trying to figure out?”

Logan scowled, feeling the question cut too close to something he hadn’t fully confronted. “I just… need to know if she’s into someone. That’s all.” His words were clipped, defensive.

Ororo’s eyes sparkled with quiet understanding. She didn’t say anything for a long moment, just watched him with that unnerving calm that made him feel like she could see right through him.

When she finally spoke, her voice was gentle but firm. “Logan, if you’re so concerned about who she’s interested in, perhaps you should ask yourself why.”

Logan stiffened, his muscles coiled tight. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Ororo’s smile softened, but she didn’t back down. “You’re chasing answers about her feelings, but I think the real question is about yours.”

He blinked, thrown off by her words, but before he could snap back with his usual gruffness, something clicked—something that made his heart tighten in his chest. Jealousy.

Was that what this was? All this running around, demanding to know who you were interested in, snapping at the thought of you liking someone else… it wasn’t about figuring out the truth. It was about him. It was about the way his heart twisted at the thought of you being with anyone but him. The way he couldn’t shake the anger, the gnawing insecurity, because deep down, he wanted to be the one you were looking at, thinking about.

Ororo watched the realization settle over him, her gaze steady but compassionate. “You’ve been chasing the wrong answers, Logan,” she said softly. “If you want to know how she feels, ask her. But first, figure out how you feel.”

Logan stood there, his fists clenched at his sides, the weight of her words sinking in. He didn’t respond, didn’t know how to. Instead, he gave a curt nod, turning on his heel and stalking out of the greenhouse, his mind a mess of conflicting emotions.

The rest of the day, Logan couldn’t get Ororo’s words out of his head. Jealousy. He wasn’t the type to get jealous. He’d lived too long and seen too much to get caught up in feelings like that. But damn it, whenever he thought about you with someone else—Scott, Kurt, anyone—it made his blood boil in a way he couldn’t explain.

By the time night fell Logan had had enough. He needed answers. He needed to know the truth, not just about you, but about himself.

With a deep breath, he made his way to your room, his pulse thrumming with a mix of frustration, confusion, and something he wasn’t quite ready to name yet.

When he knocked on your door, he heard the soft shuffle of footsteps inside. A moment later, you opened the door, looking surprised to see him standing there. The expression on your face quickly turned to confusion when you saw the intensity in his eyes.

“Logan? What’s going on?”

He didn’t waste any time. “We need to talk.”

You frowned, your hand tightening on the doorknob. “About what?”

Logan stepped closer, his voice low and rough. “About you. Who the hell you’re really into?”

Your eyes widened, panic flashing across your face. “W-what are you talking about? I already told you—”

Logan cut you off with a growl, his frustration boiling over. “Don’t lie to me. I’ve been runnin’ around all day trying to figure this out—askin’ Scott, Kurt, even Ororo. And you know what? None of them know a damn thing. So I’m done with the guessin’. You’re gonna tell me the truth. Right now.”

Your heart pounded so hard you were sure Logan could hear it. The weight of his words, the raw frustration in his voice, wrapped around your chest like a vise. This was it—the moment you’d been running from, the one that made you feel exposed, vulnerable, and terrified.

You couldn’t run now. 

You swallowed hard, forcing the words past the lump in your throat. “Logan... I don’t like Scott. Or Kurt. That was just—I panicked,” you confessed, the lie sitting heavy between you both, a truth finally dragging itself into the light. 

Logan’s eyes, usually so unreadable and guarded, were stormy with confusion and something sharper, something closer to hurt. He stared at you for a moment, trying to make sense of what you’d just said. “Why did you lie?” His voice was rough, almost accusing. “If you hate me, then just admit it.”

The way he said it—the bitterness in his tone—cut through you like a knife. Hate him? The idea was ridiculous, absurd, and yet it was clear Logan had convinced himself of it as if you avoiding him, your awkwardness, could only be explained by disgust.

“I don’t hate you!” you blurted, more forcefully than you intended. Your voice cracked with the weight of your own emotions, and you immediately took a step back, trying to gather yourself, but Logan wasn’t letting you go that easily.

“Then why does your heart race every time you see me?” Logan pressed, his voice low but intense. He took a step toward you, the space between you growing smaller, the air thick with tension. “I must scare you, right? You must be terrified of me because you hate me.”

The words hit like a wave, your breath catching as his eyes bore into yours, a mix of frustration, vulnerability, and anger swirling in his gaze. He was waiting for you to confirm it, to say what he thought was the truth—that you couldn’t stand to be around him.

Your throat tightened, your pulse hammering in your ears as you struggled to find the right words. How could you explain what you felt when even you didn’t fully understand it? The confusion, the fear of rejection, the way being near him made you feel so exposed like he could see through every wall you’d ever put up. 

“You don’t scare me,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “Logan, it’s not that.”

“Then what?” His voice was still rough, but there was a flicker of something softer underneath—like he was holding on to the hope that maybe there was more to this than he thought.

“I don’t hate you,” you said again, your voice steadier this time, though your chest still felt tight. “I just... I didn’t know how to act around you. Because every time I see you, every time you’re near me, I—”

You hesitated, the words catching in your throat. Logan didn’t move, his eyes still locked on yours, waiting, watching, almost daring you to finish.

“I feel something,” you finally admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “And it scares me.”

Logan’s expression shifted, the anger fading as something else settled in—something that made your stomach twist in anticipation. His jaw clenched, his fists relaxing at his sides, and for a moment, he just looked at you, really looked at you, like he was seeing you for the first time.

“What’re you sayin’?” he asked quietly, almost hesitant like he didn’t trust himself to believe what he thought he was hearing.

Your breath hitched as his question hung between you, the truth teetering on the edge of your tongue. You had been running from this moment for so long, hiding behind your awkwardness and your fear. But now? Now you had to say it.

“I’m saying...” you began, your heart pounding as the words finally came, “that I could never hate you because I don’t know how to handle…you.”

Logan’s eyes softened, the frustration melting away as the truth hit him. He took another step closer, his presence almost overwhelming, but not in the way you feared. It was grounding, steady, and for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel like running.

“I make your heart race because... you like me?” he asked, his voice low, the disbelief in it unmistakable.

You nodded, your chest tight with anticipation, your eyes locked on his. “Yeah,” you whispered. “I do.”

Logan exhaled slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing as he let out a quiet, almost disbelieving laugh. “Shit,” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head like he couldn’t quite believe it. He ran a hand through his hair, his gaze dropping for a moment before meeting yours again, softer, more open than you’d ever seen it.

“All this time,” he murmured, his voice rough and full of something raw, something you weren’t used to seeing in him. “You’ve been drivin’ me crazy, and I thought—” He stopped himself, his lips curving into a small, rueful smile. “I thought you couldn’t stand me.”

You felt a wave of relief crash over you, the weight of your unspoken feelings finally lifting. “I couldn’t stand being around you,” you admitted with a nervous laugh, “because every time I was, I couldn’t think straight. I didn’t know what to do with myself.”

Logan chuckled softly, the sound low and warm, like a quiet rumble from deep in his chest. He took another step closer, his hand reaching up, this time closing the distance and gently brushing a strand of hair from your face. His touch was warm, his fingers rough but careful as they lingered there.

“Well, now I know why you kept avoiding me,” he muttered, his smirk softening into something more tender. “Guess I should’ve figured it out sooner.”

You smiled, feeling your heart flutter in your chest as you looked up at him, the tension between you shifting into something deeper, something that felt like it had always been there, just waiting for the right moment to come to light.

“So... what now?” you asked softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

Logan’s eyes darkened with something unreadable, but his smile stayed, slow and easy. “Now?” he murmured, his hand sliding to the back of your neck, his thumb brushing lightly against your skin. “Now…I would really like to kiss you.”

He leaned down, his lips hovering just above yours for a heartbeat, waiting, giving you the chance to pull away—but you didn’t. Instead, you leaned in, your heart racing as his lips finally pressed against yours, slow and deliberate, like he was savoring the moment he thought he’d never have.

The kiss was gentle at first, cautious, but it didn’t take long for the heat between you to build, the months of longing and tension finally breaking through. When you pulled away, your breath shaky, Logan’s forehead rested against yours, his breath warm against your skin.

“Should’ve told me sooner,” he muttered, his voice low, teasing but soft.

You laughed softly, still catching your breath. “Yeah, well... better late than never, right?”

Logan smirked, his fingers brushing through your hair. “Right.”

[redflagshipwriter]

Snitches the cat and his favorite bat

I wrote up dpxdc fics based off of prompts I happened to see in the last day to add to the reading pile for anyone who didn't prep for the archive down time today.

EDIT

The idea for Danny as a cat came from @shycorvid, thank you so much for correcting me and letting me play in your sandbox!

Snitches the cat comes from @garbagewith-a-cherryontop (I think??? I couldn't find a definite first post!) but the fantastic linked post is the one with how I think Snitches the cat looks here.

Word count is 1053.

Tumblr reference

masterpost for my AO3 downtime fics

“Ugh- that's not- did we just summon a demon cat?”

“It's so messed up looking. Ew.”

Danny blinked and swayed on his feet. He'd had a tail a minute ago, speeding across the GZ to check in on Walker. There had been an unpleasant lurch in his stomach. And now he was on his feet. All four of them.

Wait, what?

“You fucked this up.”

His ears twitched at the sound of a slap. Danny swiveled towards the sound and then got distracted by the feeling of his ears swiveling back. Whaaaaat?

He looked down at his precious little feeties. They were adorable paws.

“Oh, you motherfuckers,” he said. It came out as a conversational yowl.

The humans looked at him from about ten feet away and five feet up. “Annoying…”

He was pretty sure they were high schoolers. There were five of them, two girls and three boys. They were all bigger than him. High schoolers were usually bigger than he was, but this was just ridiculous.

“Count yourself lucky, dimwits,” one of the older kids said. He took a step towards Danny. Danny pressed his ears flat against his head and hissed at the approach. “If you managed to sacrifice Patches to a demon, your Mom would straight up murder you.” He laughed when he said it, like anything about that was remotely funny.

Uh- what now?

Only now, Danny noticed a very distressed calico cat underneath a laundry basket on the other side of the room. There was a stack of textbooks weighing the basket down. A large rug had been rolled up and- he sneezed rapidly, eyes watering. Chalk! They'd drawn on the floor with chalk!

‘This is some incompetent summoning,’ Danny realized, way too late. ‘Did they- how did they turn me into a cat?’ He looked at his unfortunate brethren under the laundry basket. Her ears were flat against her skull and she looked scared.

He remembered the word “sacrifice” and his blood flushed hit with fury. They'd wanted him to eat her! They'd wanted something to eat miss Patches!

The teenagers froze and looked at him, aghast at the angry sounds that were coming out of his throat.

“Shut up!” One hissed. She took off her shoe and threw it at him. Danny dodged and then threw his head back to yowl even louder. Sonic attack! Aural damage, you big jerks!

“The neighbors are going to- make it shut up!”

Danny had to run, dashing over furniture and tearing his way across a crowded table to avoid being grabbed. He screamed the whole time, eager to alert whoever they were so afraid of. Someone should see!

The window burst in.

Danny stopped running, shocked. He hadn't actually expected-

Someone snatched him up from behind and smacked him on the face with a palm. His jaw exploded with pain. It cut off his yowling.

Stunned. He was still for a moment and then he struggled for his life. The grip on his ribs was way too tight-

He looked over at the sound of a sword being pulled from a sheath. Holy shit, that was bomb as hell. His eyes went wide at the sight of a heavily armored small child crouched on the windowsill. The boy's eyes were covered, but Danny could still see him look at Danny and the poor calico under the laundry basket. He sneered.

“Unhand the cat or lose your hands at the wrist, you wretch.”

Danny loved him.

The teenager dropped him. Danny caught himself with a stumble. He let out a sad mraow before he could stop himself.

Fight club baby was enraged. “What have you done to this animal?” He hopped down into the room, revealing he was at least a foot shorter than the smallest girl in the room.

Danny trotted to him and started winding around his ankles admiringly. What a good kid! He purred.

“I will be taking both of your cats with me. If you ever harm an animal again, it will be your head that is found in a chalk-”

“Robin.” A hugeass grown man squeezed himself through the window that the kid had broken. Danny craned his head up, up, up, to see him case the joint.

The older man radiated incredible judgment. “I see that you require education on animal welfare and demonic summoning. Go on, Robin.”

“That's my Mom's cat!” One of the teenagers protested. “You can't take her!”

Robin growled at her. Danny jumped in his skin at the sound.

“Then we shall return it to your Mother and her alone, when we explain what you've done.” Danny let murder baby scoop him up and purred at full volume. Hell yeah. He looked at the cowering teenagers with condescension.

“Not that fugly thing.”

Danny blinked. He ended up making an inquisitive mraow. Why was a finger being pointed at him? He was baby.

“That thing showed up, you can get rid of it. But Patches is Mom's cat, and you can't steal a cat because-”

“Batman can steal any cat!” Robin bit out, gathered up Patches, and jumped out the window with both cats in an expert grip.

That didn't sound right, but Danny just enjoyed the night air as a line pulled Robin up to where yet another masked vigilante was waiting, cackling himself to tears.

“Batman can steal any cat,” he wheezed. “Brilliant. Good detour, Robin. Can I hold one?” He held out his blue-striped palms expectantly.

He faltered when he saw Danny, visibly surprised.

Danny… was starting to feel bad. He curled into Robin, hurt. He wasn't ugly. Why did people keep reacting to him weird?

“No,” Robin said curtly. “You have damaged his pride, and Patches is still reeling from her shock.”

The man let out a sigh but let the topic go. “That's Patches, and this is…?”

Robin hesitated. “He is the Snitch.”

That unlocked cooing. “Snitches? Snitchy Snitch Sni- ow!”

Danny snapped at the hand that came way too close and he let out a warning growl. No baby talk!

Robin seemed very pleased. He rubbed behind Danny's ears. “Snitch… I suppose that Snitches will suffice. We are taking him home.”

“....Maybe, just for fun, we should take him to get treated for mange first!” The guy made jazz hands to go with his statement.

Robin and Danny both growled that time.

[tacticaldiary]

A Fighting Chance

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

Genre: Hurt/Comfort

"When was the last time you kissed me and meant it?" Her voice drops into something akin to defeat.

And Simon...Simon feels like the rug's been pulled from under his feet.

Part 2, Masterlist,

"What're those?"

"Papers."

Ghost pauses halfway through opening the document, glancing up at the curtness of her voice. "Papers? She doesn't meet his eyes, gaze fixed on the table of the little booth they're sitting in.

The ice in her drink is long gone, watering down her coffee into something that tastes as bitter as her heart.

It had taken months for her to finally make this decision. Days of talking with her lawyer, crying alone at night and coming to the gruelling acceptance that this was for the best. It was best for both of them.

There's not many things that unsettle Simon. He's had blood stain his hands; his own, his comrades, and his enemies. Had almost any injury you could think of marring his skin, been prodded and ripped into, been the one on the opposite end of the knife.

But as he slides out the documents, turns them over, Simon's never felt more apprehensive.

He stills, reading the first few lines, clenching his jaw. "What is this?"

"I want a divorce."

And something in him crumbles at her defeated tone. Like she's already decided. Like he doesn't even have a chance to ask why or talk it through.

"No." He says tightly, putting them down and crossing his arms.

Her gaze shoots to his. "You can't just say that."

"I did. I won't sign them."

"I want this." She argues, and Simon swallows back the lump in his throat at how utterly tired she looks.

"I don't."

She's the light of his life, the one good, untouched piece of joy he gets to see. Something other than the bloodshed and violence he lives in.

"Simon," She says, shoulders sagging forward. "I can't do this anymore."

"This isn't the solution, love." He feels like his skin is crawling, the beginnings of unfamiliar panic clawing at his chest when she doesn't react to the pet name.

Doesn't smile, doesn't flush that beautiful red, doesn't squirm.

When she doesn't respond again, tight-lipped and clammed up and so determined to not look at him, he asks the question burning a hole through his tongue.

"Why?"

Deep down he knows. Knew this was coming but that part of him is buried under the thudding of his heart, and the rush of blood in his ears. Everything feels deathly still and moving too fast at the same time.

"Why?" She repeats, something in her stirring at the question. Her brow furrows and she switches from a cautious indifference to disbelief and frustration quicker than Simon can process. "Are you serious?" She huffs out an incredulous laugh. "You're away for months at a time and I'm supposed to what? Wait for you at our doorstep and wag my tail all happy when you finally come back to me?" Her grip tightens on her drink.

"Even when you are home, it's never about us. Never about me and you. You lock yourself in your study with your work, don't talk to me unless you come out for dinner or lunch. When was the last time we went out?" She demands. "When was the last time we went on a date? The last time we slept at the same time in the same bed?"

Simon clenches his jaw but says nothing, at a loss for words. It only encourages her to keep going, spewing thoughts that have been boiling over for the past few years.

"You barely look at me when we're home, I had to drag you out of the house to get here! You left halfway through our anniversary dinner last year because work called you in. Sometimes...sometimes I feel like you're only with me because it's easier than leaving and starting over, and that fucking hurts. It hurts when you can't bear to spend five minutes with me away from work. I've been telling you this for ages but you just...you don't listen to me." She leans forward, drink completely forgotten and hits the final nail in the coffin.

"When was the last time you kissed me and meant it?" Her voice drops into something akin to defeat.

And Simon...Simon feels like the rug's been pulled from under his feet.

"I never even know if you're coming home to me." Her voice cracks, and she hugs her middle, taking a deep breath to steady herself. "So yes, Simon, I want to separate. I'm not happy, not like I was when I met you." A sheen of tears she refuses to let fall.

"You can focus on work like you love to, and I can...I can move on."

It was so good when they started out. She found him endearing, dry humour and brooding and all. It was special, those first few years, and she'll always care about him but this...this waiting, this hurting, laying in bed at night alone and cold and crying...it wasn't right. It wasn't what she wanted and she wouldn't force Simon to want it when he clearly didn't want to.

"Fucking hell, I love you." Simon says quickly, stumbling over what to say. He reaches out for her hand on the table, but she pulls it away before he can grab it. It stings more than he can convey, makes the reality crashes down onto him.

He's about to lose her.

Because he couldn't fucking bear to pull himself out of being 'Ghost'.

It was always a rough couple of weeks during his leave. The adjustment to civilian life was a slow one for him, but that's not really an excuse at all.

"I don't think you do."

Simon blinks at her like she's slapped him. "You...you don't think so?" He repeats, running a hand through his hair. She nods, one nod, quick and so sure that it makes his chest ache.

Fuck. He's absolutely messed up.

"Everything's finalised on my end." She says. "You just need to sign them." Her voice is soft, almost like she's coaxing him.

If there's one thing he knows, it's that he's not touching those fucking papers. He's not losing someone he loves again.

"I'll take time off." He says, the intensity of his gaze makes a shiver run down her spine. "We can work through it, yeah? You can't spring this on me and not give me a chance to protest."

She shakes her head, "You're only taking time off because I'm upset." She tries to explain. "What do you think is going to happen? We spend a month together doing what we used to, and when everything's a little more stable you leave again. Distance yourself. Shut me out. Then we're back to square one."

"Won't happen." He says like he hasn't been doing it for the past few years already. "You...I can't lose you, darling." He leans forward. "Let me make it better. Give me a few months-"

"Simon-"

"A week."

"A week?" Her eyes widen. "A week to...what, prove that you'll change?"

"One week."

She worries her lip between her teeth, considering. One week wasn't a long time, but hope was dangerous in a situation like this.

"I'm not letting you go over something like this." Simon says. "I can't."

"This isn't about you." She crosses her arms. "You really think you can turn just...reverse the past few years in a week?" Maybe it's foolish of her to want him to say yes, to fight for her and realise that she's been hurting, but goddamn doesn't a small part of her scream at him to do it anyway.

"Not trying to reverse it." He folds his arms, and she can see the tense line of his shoulders as he takes in the situation, gears turning in his head as he plans how he's going to work his way out of a situation so precious and daunting as this.

Part of him didn't think it would ever come to this. Yes, he can be cold and aloof but Simon thought she knew that he loved her through it all. No matter what.

When was the last time you kissed me and meant it?

Fuck if that doesn't tear through his chest more painfully than any caliber bullet ever could.

He takes her in quietly for a moment.

The woman he fell in love with. The person that gave him a reason to keep going, a motive to feel anything other than the cold efficientness of loading a gun and firing. Soft touches and warm smiles, something so at odds with the rough life he's used to.

Sitting there in front of him, she looks more beautiful than he remembers, and it only proves to make his stomach sink like a stone at the notion of seeding any doubt about his feelings in her heart.

A right fucking bastard he was for it.

"I'm sorry." He breathes out, much softer than the gruff voice he's been using with her. "I'll do better. Just give me a chance, yeah?"

For one horrible moment, Simon thinks she'll decline. That she'll slide over the papers again and demand he sign them.

But she considers his words for a moment before nodding once.

And it's all he needs.

A fighting chance.

Reblog, Like and Comment!

Part 2

(11/10/2023)

[bbokicidal]

"What Happens When..." | [SKZ] OT8 | [HAN]

Han allows himself to indulge in the fantasy of letting his group members use you like a toy.

Genre: Smut [18+ MDNI] Pairing: Han x Fem!Reader Warnings: Dub-con!!, reader says things like "wait," and "hold on," etc., inning/pushing/shoving, manhandling, fingering, unprotected sex, one big ol orgy, etc.

Notes: This IS a short fic and isn't anything really long. There's no plot - it's purely smut for your viewing pleasure and my mental peace, lol. also - the middle pic?? GOOD GAWD,,,

Word Count: 1.2K

Divider by @enchanthings

"She likes when you're rough." Jisung's voice peeps from somewhere in the back of the group following down the hallway of your apartment. At the front, and currently being held tight by two of the men your boyfriend was close friends with (and whom you adored), you stumble over your own feet on the way to the bedroom. "So you guys can go all out. Just - no breaking her, yeah?"

You shift in the hold of the men guiding you along, voice wavering in both excitement and uncertainty. "Nobody told me we were doing this today --" You can't help the giggle that escapes your lips, willingly letting them push you towards the bed.

"Hold her down."

It's not your boyfriend's voice you hear from behind you - but the leader of the group; Gruff, gritty with need. He huffs out from beside where you trip over the rug at the end of your bed, body hitting the mattress harder than intended. Chan's chuckling, one hand holding tightly to the fabric of your pajama top and pinning your chest down to the sheets when you begin to wriggle. "Stay still, angel, and this'll be a lot easier."

"Jesus..." Someone else from behind begins to mutter to himself. The voice lower, paired with the hand running over your thigh and tugging down your shorts to expose your dripping hole to them, gives away that it's Felix. Always eager and quite full of energy, he's almost instantly grabbing and kneading at your ass before you have to chance to move - but he does take the initiative to spank you when you wiggle too much under their holds. If you'd glanced back you would've seen just how much you affected him, rock hard and almost whimpering from how badly he wanted to get at you already.

"Jisung..--" Your voice breaks in your throat and you can hear your boyfriend giggling off to the side.

The hand currently keeping you from pushing yourself up - pinning your wrists behind your back - tightens it's grip on your soft skin. It belongs to Jeongin, who lets his body slowly lean down to the side so he can peer into your eyes when your head tips his direction. He watches as you shift to get a better look at him, whispering out, "Innie--"

But he shakes his head, a knowing smile overtaking dimpled cheeks. "Sorry, sweetheart. But I'm just as excited as they are and... if you're going to make it harder for us, then we'll just have to take matters into our own hands."

"Come on," Someone grips at your hips where they lay on the bed, palms warm and heavy before his fingers wrap around the bone and pull harshly upward. Your weight shifts, neck straining and brows crinkling when you settle on your knees - and your grimace only hardens when two fingers slip right into your pussy with such ease. His thumb slides down between your folds until he finds the soft bundle of nerves, making it swell with the way he prods and rubs over it almost angrily. "Oh my God," Seungmin coos, almost enamored with the way you tighten around his fingers. "You're dripping, aren't you?"

But your boyfriend has first dibs - He is your boyfriend after all. So after giving Seungmin some time to toy around with you, pushing at your clit and making you tremble with his hands, he shoves the younger aside to take his rightful place behind you. Pants dropped to his thighs, his cock slips right into your walls with practiced ease. "God, it's like you're made for me." Jisung sighs in adoration, his eyes slowly rolling back in his head with the warmth of your slick coating his cock. And it's little to no time at all before he's moving, the sound of his hips slamming into your own filling the room.

"Hey."

Someone all but bites. With your face pressed into the mattress, he watches as you clearly struggle to lift your head at all. The angle makes you whimper until his fingers tangle into the crown of your head, pulling your hair until you had to crane your neck to look at him. Changbin stares down at the red of your cheeks. With teary eyes blurred and damp, you blink up at the man sitting on the bed in front of you. Had he been there the whole time, watching you rock back and forth on the sheets with no way to support yourself? It seems he doesn't have much to say - He just wanted to see your pretty face while his dongsaeng fucked into you like a dog in heat, drool sliding down your chin and tears beginning to streak over the pink of your cheeks.

"Wait..-- Wait--"

The sudden emptiness of Jisung pulling out makes you whine in distress, lips falling open and jaw slack as someone seems to take his place. Cock pushing into your walls - it's heavier, thicker, bigger. It makes you choke on every breath as he sinks into you balls deep before pulling back, dragging along your inside and almost teasing you with how slowly he seems to move. "Sorry, angel." Leaning down and letting his chest just barely touch the back of your shoulders, Minho settles comfortably behind and lets his hips push closer to bury himself back inside of you. "No time to wait. We all want a turn."

You can feel every breath that escapes his lips brushing over your throat, eyes previously glued to Changbin now flittering down towards the sheets beneath your bodies. With a dull gaze and spit still coating your lips, someone's hand gently takes a hold of your chin. Your eyes remain on the sheets, almost seeming out of it with how perfectly Minho's length massages every inch of your pussy - something you've dreamed of (Jisung, too.) but never expected to actually happen.

The person's thumb gently swipes over your bottom lip, slowly gathering the spit that drips and lifting it to his own mouth to lick it clean - before he's carefully taking hold of your chin once more and letting his thumb press into your mouth. Hyunjin watches as spit pools on your tongue, coating his finger and making him shudder where he sits beside Changbin in front of you.

"Mmn--" You gasp when Minho's hips snap hard to your own, Hyunjin almost pulling his hand back with the way your lips close and threaten to bite down. But you refrain and his worries instantly fade, continuing to push down on your tongue until you were drooling over his hand. He sighs out and, with his free hand, unbuttons his jeans in a quick snap. The fly, already down, lets his cock gain some relief after straining against his briefs for so long. "Keep that pretty mouth open," Hyunjin hums, "I'll put it to good use while I wait for my turn."

Tag List : @dwaekkicidal @jabmastersurpriseee @possum-playground @thatonedarkskinnedsiren @oc3anfloor @theyadorevalerie @inlovewithstraykids @seungminsbest @edit-me-prettyplease @butterflydemons @satosugu4l @jeonginsleftcheek

[itneverendshere]

Bartender!reader reacting to rafes buzz cut for the first time.

made it extra fluffy and flirty bc i've been writing too much angst 😭thank you for the request, hope you like it💗

it's buzzcut season anyway - r.c

pairing: rafe x pogue!reader (bartender!reader universe)

You were in the middle of counting your tips when the door creaked open again. You didn’t even look up this time. The lunch rush had finally slowed, and you were way too focused on making sure some old man’s cash hadn’t gotten stuck together. 

Your break started in two minutes. Your plan? Grab something to eat with Rafe and maybe—if you were lucky—convince him to give you one of those neck massages he was so good at. You’d earned it after dealing with the entitled club members all morning, and he always liked giving you a hard time about being stressed when he came to visit you at work.

If you could just survive until your break, you could—

“Hey, baby,” a voice drawled, warm and familiar.

Rafe.

Your heart did that stupid little thing it always did when you heard his voice, and you couldn’t help but smile even before you looked up.

“Hey, ba—” Your words caught in your throat the second you actually saw him.

Your hand stilled on the cash. He was standing in the doorway, all long toned limbs and that easy charm you’d fallen for over a year ago. But something was off. You squinted, your brain trying to catch up to what you were seeing. It wasn’t the way he was standing or the fact that he had on a backwards cap—he always did that. It was what wasn’t under the cap. Something was missing.

Your eyes went straight to the top of his head.

“Wait—what the—” You blinked, abandoning the tips on the counter as you stepped around it and walked toward him, your eyes locked on the top of his head, trying to figure out if you were seeing things. “Did you buzz your head?”

He just grinned, casually leaning his shoulder against the doorframe, totally unbothered. “Yeah. What d’ya think?”

You gawked at him. “You shaved your head. You literally shaved your head.”

You stared at him, eyes wide. His cap was covering most of it, but you could see enough—enough to know that his thick, messy hair, the hair you’d spent countless hours running your fingers through, was gone. 

Gone.

“Oh my God. You buzzed it? For real?”

Rafe straightened up, lifting his cap and running a hand over the buzzed length, showing it off like he was some kind of model. “That’s the second time you’ve said that. You don’t like it?”

Your fingers itched to touch it, but you hesitated. You were trying so hard not to freak out. He’d just gone and buzzed his head without even telling you.

“Like it? I—” You sputtered, waving your hand in the air. “Baby, your hair! You just... did this? No warning? No ‘hey, baby, I’m thinking about going full buzzcut, what do you think?’”

His grin turned cocky as he reached out to pull you into him by the waist. “I thought I’d surprise you. Didn’t expect you to get all worked up over it.”

You gave him a playful shove, but he didn’t budge. “I’m not worked up! I’m just... shocked. I thought I was gonna get to lunch with my boyfriend and his hair, not—” You gestured to his head, still half in disbelief. “—this.”

He chuckled, leaning down so his forehead almost touched yours. “So... you hate it?”

You gave him a look, trying to stay mad or at least a little indignant about the whole thing, but it was impossible with him looking at you like that.

“You thought I’d like you going from ‘beach boy’ to ‘buzzcut’ overnight with no warning?”

“Pretty much.” He leaned in, “You gonna tell me you don’t like it?”

You bit your lip, pretending to think about it.

Truth was, you were already starting to like it. You liked that it was new, that it was him, and that it made him look a little rougher, more rugged. But you weren’t gonna tell him that right away. You hadn’t expected to be into it, not at all. Rafe’s hair had always been one of your favorite things about him—the way it’d curl up when he got all sweaty in the summer or how it’d fall into his eyes when he was being serious.

But... the buzzcut? You weren’t expecting it to be hot. But it was. So hot.

“I didn’t say I hate it...” you said, letting your voice trail off as you finally gave in and ran your fingers over the buzzed hair. It was soft, like velvet, and you couldn’t stop yourself from grinning.

He chuckled, one hand coming up to cup your chin as he tilted your face up toward his. “Knew it.”

“Oh, shut up.”

“See? Told ya,” he teased, his hands still gripping your waist as he watched your reaction. “You can’t keep your hands off me now.”

“I never said I couldn’t,” you shot back, your cheeks heating up. “It’s just... I wasn’t expecting to like it this much.”

“Uh-huh.” His eyes darkened, and he leaned in closer, his breath brushing against your cheek. “Admit it. You think I look hot. You’re lookin’ at me like you can’t wait to get me alone.”

Heat rushed to your cheeks, and you playfully pushed at his chest, trying to cover up how much he was getting to you. “Shut up,” you laughed. “You’re so full of yourself.”

“I know you love it.”

You groaned, finally giving in to a full laugh. “Okay, okay. Fine. You look hot.”

Rafe grinned, clearly pleased with himself. “Knew you couldn’t resist.”

You rolled your eyes, pulling him in for a quick peck, unable to help yourself now. “You owe me lunch for this, though.”

“I brought you lunch,” he said, lifting the bag you hadn’t even noticed in his other hand.

“Oh, did you now?” You raised a brow. “You’re really tryin’ to get on my good side today, huh?”

“I’ll grow it back, don’t worry,” he murmured, leaning down to brush his lips against your neck. “But for now, you’re stuck with this.”

As you both sat down at one of the tables near the back of the bar, you couldn’t stop sneaking glances at his head.

It wasn’t just the look of it that was getting to you—it was the fact that he’d done something so out of the blue, just like that. He always kept you on your toes, never predictable, and surprisingly, you loved that.

He caught you looking for the millionth time and shot you a smug smile. “I can tell you wanna say somethin’. Spill.”

You reached over and ran your fingers through the nonexistent hair again, giggling. 

“I just can’t get over it, baby. You look like a whole new person. A sexy, buzzed-head guy.”

His smile softened, his hand finding yours on the table. “Yeah?”

You nodded, giving his hand a squeeze. “I mean, I miss your old hair, but I’m into this. You look hot.” You bit your lip, your gaze dropping to his mouth.

His eyes darkened a little, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Careful or I’m not gonna let you finish your lunch before I drag you outta here.”

Your heart raced, “Rafe Cameron, if you ruin my lunch break, I swear—”

He cut you off with a low chuckle, leaning across the table to press his lips to yours again, not caring that you were still technically on the clock. You melted into him, all thoughts of food forgotten for a moment. When he pulled away, his forehead rested against yours, both of you breathless.

“I can’t believe you buzzed your head,” you whispered, still grinning.

“I can’t believe you’re this obsessed with it.”

“…Fine.”

[luveline]

hi jade!! if ur still up for kbd, can we see an instance where mom feels insecure about her parenting like she feels like she's doing something wrong or being a bad mom (she's not) and Steve just helps her through it? thank<3

KBD —Steve can make you feel better just by being himself. mom!reader, 1.4k

Wren wriggles like a worm on the floor. You’ve spread her baby mat out over the rug, rainbow hearts and stars and smiley faces all around her. 

“Mom, what did you say? What’s tummy time?” Beth asks. “I can’t ’member what you said.” 

Wren whines. Her face is smushed into the floor again. 

“Tummy time is to help her develop her muscles,” you say. “It’s supposed to help her hold her head up by herself. Not working yet…” 

You slide your hand between Wren’s face and the floor. 

“Come on, baby, you can do it,” you say. 

“Try her on your chest,” Steve says, Dove in his arms as he walks through the kitchen doorway into the living room. “She’s much happier when I lay her on my chest before her nap. I lay real flat on the couch.” 

You scoop Wren up under her armpits. Her hair is getting much longer now, the same wavy texture as her father’s, though as she’s grown older her hair has thickened. You’re sure she’s gonna have full curls when she’s older, but for now, you hold her to your chest and brush a hand through those waves thoughtfully. It’s much darker than Steve’s, as are her eyes.

She gurgles as you carry her to the couch. When you lay down, Beth crawls to your side to ask if she can sit on your feet. 

“What are you upto now?” you ask Steve, laying Wren out on your chest. You realise that’s not gonna work and pull her down so her face and neck are flat on your stomach instead. 

“We just washed our hands,” Steve says, letting Dove down. “She made a little mess, that’s all. Need something?” 

“Come n’ sit down, baby,” you murmur, beckoning him in. 

Steve doesn’t need telling twice. He sits in the armchair by your head and feels around for the TV remote. Things go quiet, Dove with her Barbie’s to the right of the room where all the toys live, Beth squeezing your ankle, and Steve clicking through channels until he finds the family movie channel. You tease Wren’s cheek where she rests, but she won’t lift her head. You’re scared she’ll smother herself. 

“Honey, what am I doing wrong?” you ask. 

“Doing what?” 

“Tummy time? She never wants to lift her head.” You frown. “S’like she doesn’t wanna see me.” 

“Maybe you’re just comfy.” 

You sigh and lift Wren again. When she sees you, she smiles. “Ba?” she says. 

“Hiya, baba,” you say softly, “what’s wrong? You don’t wanna play with mama?” 

“Ba,” she says again, dribble curling down her chin as her hand grabs for your face. You let her down against your chest, unperturbed when she grabs your ear. 

“No tummy time, then.” 

“That’s fine, she was on her tummy for a long time earlier,” Steve says, “she’s probably just tired out.” 

“It hurts my neck to hold it up all the time,” Beth says. 

You scrub your eye. Are you hurting her? You hadn’t realised she was tired, but how could you not know that? You’re her mom. 

You’re tired, too. You murmur a sorry to Beth and take your legs from under her. You curl in, pill bug style, baby curled in with you. “Sorry,” you whisper, kissing her forehead. 

“Ba,” she says again, her spit on your cheek. 

You’ve had one of those shitty mom days. You burnt the last bagels in the toaster so Beth had to have toast, which she doesn’t even really like. You tore Avery’s Princess Polly dress trying to clean the sleeve. Dove cried because you didn’t listen to her story, Wren won’t do tummy time, and Steve wouldn’t have done any of those things. He’s amazing, and you’re just… you. He makes being a dad look so easy, he was basically born to do it, and you love your kids but you suck. Today sucks. 

Wren babbles all over you. “Ma-ba ma,” she says, then, “grrrrr.” 

“You growling at me, baby?” 

She lets out a bunch of gr’s and wr’s. You rub her back, tickle it until she giggles. Even the sound of her bumpy baby laughter doesn’t improve your mood. 

Steve goes to the kitchen in silence. He opens the freezer a couple of times, and then he’s calling for the girls to come and have some ice cream and chocolate fudge. Avery tumbles down the stairs from her room. She could take the hallway to the kitchen, but she stumbles into the living room instead. “Hi, mommy,” she says, smiling widely, “are you tired?” 

“A lot,” you confess. 

“Can a kiss make you feel better?” 

You turn your cheek and poke it. “Please. Just one,” —she darts forward to kiss you soundly— “go have your ice cream, baby, quick, before Dove eats it.” 

Steve dodges her. He has a bowl when he returns. He says your name so nicely you don’t think twice about taking it. An ice cream sundae melts inside, three scoops of thick ice cream adorned with cut fruit and a chocolate fudge heart. 

“It looked better five minutes ago. I did yours first.” 

“Where’s yours?” you ask. 

“I thought I’d share yours,” he says. “No?” 

You grin. “Nope.” 

“Alright. Can I sit with you, at least?” 

You straighten up. Wren stays in one arm, your bowl rests on your leg. You lift the other to take your spoon, while Steve sits next to you, not a millimetre of space between your two bodies. 

He doesn’t ask for the baby, which is actually nice. Usually eating with a child in tow is irksome, but you feel a little more capable without his asking. And besides, Steve’s fully trained. You could drop any baby into his lap at any hour and he’d take them without complaint. 

He doesn’t ask you what’s wrong, but you know you could tell him. Can tell he’s waiting for a confession, or ready to let it go. 

You don’t want to talk about it. Admitting your failings is too embarrassing, sometimes, and he’s biased, so he’ll tell you anything to make it go away if he needs to. Instead, you sit, you eat your ice cream, and you rest your face against his shoulder, listening to the girls scratch their bowls in the kitchen. 

“You can go to bed early, if you need to,” he says gently. 

“No, I’m okay.” 

“How about a shower? A walk?” He lifts his head to press his nose against you. “Just let me know what you want.” 

“I’m okay, really.” 

“Okay,” he says, both of you aware that you’re not fully okay, and that he doesn’t believe it. “Can I have some of those strawberries?” 

You scoop up some strawberries and lift the spoon, but notice movement from the corner of your eye that makes you laugh in surprise. Wren is opening her mouth, waiting for a bite. She’s just on the cusp of being old enough for soft foods, but she’s never expressed any interest, until now. 

“Oh, do you want to try?” you ask, laughing. “I’m sorry, baby, this is much too sugary for your first bite.” You lean down to kiss her head. “Sorry,” you murmur into her hair, “we’ll have to find you something tomorrow.” 

Steve smiles so hard you can hear it. “Wow, soft foods already!” he says to her, rubbing the tip of his finger up and down her chest. “Our big girl, huh? Are you mama’s big girl? Daddy’s big girl?” 

“Ma,” she agrees, before her lips part again for a taste. 

Steve looks into your face proudly, eyes darting between you both. He looks at you like you’ve just hung the moon, when you didn’t do much of anything. 

“What should we make her?” he asks. 

“I don’t know, what do you think she’ll like?” 

“What do you think?” 

You abandon your spoon to soothe one of her curls away from her forehead. “I don’t know… she looks like an applesauce girl, doesn’t she? Or maybe some sweet potato.” 

Steve wraps his arm around your shoulders. “We’ll have sweet potato mash for dinner, then, and she can have the first bite. Good idea, angel.” 

You turn into his hold, letting him nose at your ear. 

[solbaby7]

Testing the Waters

pairing: rhysand x reader

[ 1 ] [ 2 ]

part 3 to the shy!reader massage mini-series

warnings: sexual content, minors DNI, massages, some swearing, probably typos

summary: Weeks of rubbing up on a certain High Lord is bound to build some tension.

—

“Need you to do something for me, bunny.”

There’s a feeling in your stomach at the pet name, bare toes digging further into the throw blanket and it’s instinctual the way your body rises to meet him, your book long forgotten. Rhysand doesn’t resist when you come ease his jacket from his shoulders and throw it over the couch. “Anything.”

His hands run over the back of his neck, head slowly rolling and the tension in his body is unmistakable. He doesn’t even bother asking you to go grab your oils or salts; Rhysand’s hand waves and it’s all laid out on the table before you. His clothes disappear with a lazy blink and the way the High Lord’s body drapes across the couch in your room was utterly boyish, boxers tight around his thighs. “Please? I always get the best sleep after these.”

You hum in acknowledgement, grateful for his face pushed into the pillows to hide the blush that blooms at the sight of his body. It never got tiresome; the rippling muscles that contracted whenever he adjusted or the gravelly tone that set in when you finally got your hands on him. It begins as a fleeting touch, fingers just barely grazing the smooth skin between his shoulder blades and his body goes still. “Try to focus on your breathing,” It feels weird as you say it, giving the most powerful male in all of the Courts a demand but Rhysand is quick to comply. “Gonna try something a little different this time.”

You’re not even facing him and you can feel the smirk that pulls on full lips. “Is that so? Maybe I should lie on my back instead.”

“You know, Cass said the same thing when I did this for him last night.” Rhys goes quiet a moment, violet irises tracking your every move like hunters did their prey, taking in the gentle tease of the pale purple hem of your nightgown against your thighs, the cute tapping of your toes against the terra cotta rug as you pulled out a black box filled to the brim with smooth rocks that were warm to the touch.

“And did you take him up on his offer?”

There’s a shake in your voice when you answer, skin blooming with heat at the nature of the conversation but you busy your hands with the little glass jars of oil, its contents significantly depleted. “That’d be highly inappropriate. He’s my friend.”

Rhysand relaxes instantly, clearly pleased with your response but his eyes still watch you as you prepare. Dainty fingers dip into a tiny little jar and you’re swift in the way you swipe it under his nose, the soothing scent of lavender filling his nostrils each time he breathed and he couldn’t deny the way it aided in his relaxation. “You’ve never thought about it?”

“Rhys,” It comes out so quietly you barely hear it yourself, skin going warm and you’re quick to sit on the back of his thighs before he can see the affect his words have on you. “You don’t usually ask me questions like this.”

“I’ve had a long week, bunny. Reports and responsibilities; things you don’t have to worry your pretty head about.” You try to focus on the crackle of the fire instead of the casual compliment falling off the deep rumble of his low voice, throat bobbing when he lets out a little chuckle. “Indulge me.”

Heated oils drips on his spine, a deep sigh releasing when you finally put your hands on him. Slow, smooth motions; easing the stress away from the broad stretch of his shoulders to the muscular taper of his waist. “Was that an order, High Lord?”

“No.”

It takes a second for you to work up the nerve to answer and you’re grateful he doesn’t push; taking the time to ease into the feeling of your palms gliding over golden skin. “Yes, I’ve thought about it,” You finally confess, thumbs pressing firm circles near the spot where his wings would sit.

A groan pulls from deep inside the High Lords throat and you can’t tell if it’s from your fingers or the shy admission but you don’t ask; too fearful of the feeling beginning to form between your thighs and you’re quick to readjust your positioning, rising to your knees to avoid any more contact than necessary. He was too handsome—smelled too good and felt like heaven beneath your fingers that you didn’t trust yourself not to grind down on the thick thighs beneath you if he’d asked a thing more.

Mother above seems to laugh at you, winking from above when the Lord of Night leans into your touch, one eye prying open to look at you. “Tell me what you think about. Tell me who.”

“My Lord, I really think—“

“Come on, bunny. I’m just Rhys when we’re like this; just tell me.”

You swallow thickly, hands stuttering to a stop on his back. “You promise not to laugh at me?”

“I’d never.” The seriousness in his words is all you need to nod a little to yourself, one hand bracing at his waist to lean over and grab the warm rocks he’d summoned. They’re smooth to the touch; retaining their heat and once they touch his skin, he finds them to be far more soothing than initially anticipated. “Cross my heart.”

Your bottom lip is caught between your teeth, debating on if you were actually brave enough to do as he’d asked—not commanded. It felt like such trust; an opportunity to make him proud and you didn’t want to disappoint no matter how jittery it made you. “Sometimes, when I’m doing this,” You feel him adjust beneath you, head turning to the side and even though his eyes are closed you can still see that gentle furrow of concentration, waiting in anticipation. “—I think about letting my hands wander places I know they aren’t supposed to.”

He sucks in a sharp breath when your fingertip barely grazes under the waistband of his underwear and he’s acutely aware of the tremble of your knees on either side of his hips. He doesn’t want to say anything, violet eyes clamped shut as his mind wandered to just that, your soft hands coated in sweet oils wrapped around his cock, those shy eyes fluttering with wonder at the way he’d crumble to pieces for you.

A High Lord, completely at your mercy.

Rhys swallows thickly, voice so hoarse it’s impossible to miss the affects your words have on him and a confidence brews in your belly, words more sure when you proceed. “I think about what would happen the next time one of you jokingly asks me to strip down for my turn and I actually do it.” A smile works its way on your mouth when you see the way the High Lords brows crease, imagination running wild behind those lids.

“You think about doing that with all of us?”

Silence.

The gentle scrape of rocks against one another as you trail them up and down the sides of his spine, the oil slick and the warmth working out deep knots from the countless hours being hunched over his desk with a whiskey in hand and brain overloaded with information Rhys was no longer processing. “At the same time?”

The noise he lets out is positively sinful and you’re suddenly aware of his breathing beginning to quicken. “You can’t say things like that.”

“Forgive me, I didn’t understand.” But you did now, understood the underlying question behind his inquiry. “I sometimes think about it with Cass on nights he’s trained especially hard because he gets really vocal and sometimes those sounds are really hard to get out of my head.” Rhys hums in strained understanding, body relaxing but his hips keep shifting every now and then, fingers clamped tight around his biceps as he encourages you to continue. “Sometimes, I think about it with Az because when I’m doing an especially good job, he gets so relaxed that his shadows forget to obey and they start playing around in my clothes.”

Rhysand grunts but you take it as your hands doing good work, not the fact that he didn’t blame the slinking shadows; nearly subject to doing the task himself if you’d kept up.

“But you, High Lord,” It comes out breathless, hands stilling as if you couldn’t focus on touching and talking at the same time. “I think of you the most.” He physically shivers at the confession, fingers gripping so hard at his arms he’s sure he’s left marks but he tries to relax, forces himself to breathe and listen to the pure filth of such desires that hummed deep within your brain.

If only he could just slip past and look for himself—

“Especially that night with you in the tub,” You whimper, the noise sending filthy shocks of pleasure straight to his cock. The rocks clamber to the floor, his body twisting before you can comprehend his hands suddenly on your waist, violet eyes half lidded and so lust blown they’re nearly black. You can see the print of his arousal through the thin fabric of his underwear and you’re certain he’s clocked the way your tongue slides over your bottom lip. “Rhys.”

“Keep going, bunny.” His voice is wrecked, tone so low and commanding you don’t resist when strong hands ease you down on the thick bulge. He gives you time to deny it, to pull away and scramble off but it never happens.

“But—“

“You’re just helping, right? Helping your High Lord and this,” You follow his gaze to where both of you touch, the hardness of him pressed between your legs, the embarrassing wet patch that he’s surely felt seep through thin cotton. “I really fucking need this.”

The delicious drag of his hands guiding your hips over the rigid length of him, gaze eating up the way your lips part and your hands slip against his abdomen. "What about me in the tub, bunny? Tell me."

You don't understand how he expects such things from you when you can barely keep control over your body with such intense pleasure coursing through it. The friction of cock and cloth against your sensitive clit is enough to have your toes curling at the pressure, fingers digging perfect marks into your hips as you scramble through the brain fog long enough to remember how to form words and string together sentences. "Fuck," The slur doesn't even sound like you, eyes clamping shut and it takes great effort to remember what had been asked of you. "I've thought about it every night since; picturing what you looked like beneath all those bubbles."

"Was hard as a fucking rock the second you stomped to the door." He feels you clench around nothing, head falling back as you submitted to the pleasure and he genuinely has to hold back from finishing the second your hand slides up your own frame to grab at your breast. "Mother above."

He doesn't even have to guide your movements anymore, hips grinding into him with such hunger it makes the room darken; a deep, rumbling power filling the space and Rhysand actually moans when you don't shrink away from it. "Rhys, I'm—"

"Just a little more for me, yeah?" You catch yourself nodding along with him even when you don't believe you'll be able to fulfill his command. The burn in your stomach was near unbearable, mind stuck in a frenzy when warm hands bunch up the thin hem of your nightgown just enough to show off the wet drag of cloth on cloth. "So fuckin' pretty."

So eager to please, eyes glossy and half-lidded when you peer down at him, hands running over the defined muscles of his abdomen as your hips take on a pace that had the High Lord sucking breath through his teeth. "Thought about being the reason you made those noises. Wanted to use my hands," Your fingers drag over the strong planes of his chest, nails scratching just enough to leave a hint of a trail and your words carry a sultry drawl to them. "—my mouth too."

He's seconds away from release, skin on fire and hands eager in their exploration of your body over the silky material of your clothes. He trials up the length of your belly, fingers smoothening over the hard nipples poking through. The room smells of arousal, male musk and feminine desire twisting about the air so thick there'd be no way denying what had taken place if anyone had decided to walk in.

None of it matters though.

Not when you lean over, hands bracing on his chest and press a whisper of a kiss to his bottom lip.

The bruising grip on your hips leave only to pull your mouth back to his own, both of swallowing the others moans in and you can feel his cock twitch against you the moment your own release shudders through you. He doesn’t stop kissing you through it, hips slowing to a stop and you have to pull away simply to catch your breath before you pass out. “It’s your turn,” You huff out and you’re quick to smooth out the curious furrow of his brow. “To tell me what you’d been thinking about all those times?”

A feline smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “I’d rather just show you.”

[joelmillerisapunk]

Howdy Honey I. can't get you off my mind

series masterlist masterlist

wordcount: 6,709

summary: After a tumultuous fall from your horse that leaves you with a fractured wrist and bruised ribs, you find solace in the strong arms and gentle care of Joel Miller, the new ranch hand whose rugged exterior hides a tender heart.

warnings: mentions of falling, fracture, eventual smut, slowburn, age-gap, some fluff, two stubborn people falling in love, angst, from both your and Joel's pov

notes: First of all thank you to all of you for supporting the masterlist, I am absolutely blown away! I appreciate the heck out of you all so very much! <3 <3 Second thank you sm to @joelslegalwhre and @mountainsandmayhem for screaming with me about all of this ily both <3 Third I wrote this after my own experiences falling off a horse and being carried by a hot cowboy at work. K I'm gonna go panic, love you all bye. gif is by @tomshiddles divider by @saradika-graphics

The sun is high and unforgiving, casting a golden hue over the sprawling acres of your family's ranch—a place where the West still feels wild and untamed. The ranch, nestled in a valley surrounded by rugged mountains, is a patchwork of green pastures, dotted with grazing cattle and horses. The main house, a sturdy two-story structure with a wraparound porch, stands proudly at the heart of the property, its whitewashed walls and red roof are like a beacon for the lost amidst the vast expanse of land. You can always find your way back home.

To the east lies the stables, a long, low building with enough room to house two dozen horses comfortably. Its wooden walls have weathered to a soft gray, and the scent of hay and horse is always present in the air. Just beyond the stables is the equipment barn, filled with tractors, balers, and all manner of tools necessary for maintaining the ranch. The sound of metal clanging against metal often echoes from within as ranch hands tend to repairs or prepare for the day's work. A little further out is the chicken coop, bustling with activity as hens peck at the ground and roosters crow their morning greetings.

On the southern end of the ranch, a series of fenced-in training pens are set up for breaking in new horses or for practicing roping skills. It's here that you often find the newly hired ranch hand, Joel Miller, expertly mending a section of split-rail fence or guiding a young colt through its paces with patience and skill honed over decades. 

You've grown up with the scent of hay and the sound of hooves on dirt, a life that's as much a part of you as the blood in your veins. Recently, your parents brought on a few new ranch hands, a decision driven not only by their advancing years and a growing wanderlust but also, you suspect, by a desire to ensure you're well looked after in their absence. It didn't seem to matter how many times you'd promised that you and [name] the very first and only other person hired to help around, could take care of the ranch -  they never let go of the fact you weren't five anymore. 

Today you find yourself working a little less hard because of Joel Miller, the new ranch hand that looks like he stepped straight out of a Western movie. You watch him from afar as you make your way to take your horse out, his muscles straining against his plaid shirt as he repairs a section of fencing. He moves with an easy grace despite his age and broad build. His salt-and-pepper hair peeks out from under his worn cowboy hat, and you can't help but feel a pull towards him, something beyond the usual respect for a seasoned hand.

The ranch is alive with activity as you prepare Daisy for her daily run. The horses in the nearby pasture lift their heads at your approach, their ears pricked with curiosity. Daisy nickers softly, her tail swishing in anticipation as you lead her out of her stall and toward the open pasture. As you trot along one of the well-worn trails, you pass by landmarks that tell stories of your family's history; there's an old rusted tractor from your grandfather's time, now half-buried in wildflowers; a grove where you used to play hide-and-seek with your siblings; and further on, an ancient stone marker placed by settlers who once claimed this land as their own. Each sight brings back memories that are as much a part of you as they are a part of this place. 

But today, these familiar sights are merely blurs in your peripheral vision as Daisy gallops across the landscape. The wind whips through your hair, and you feel a rush of adrenaline as the horse's muscles move powerfully beneath you. It's in these moments that you feel most at peace, in harmony with the natural world around you.

Suddenly, a sharp cry from Daisy breaks the rhythm of her gait. You pull sharply on the reins as a jackrabbit darts out from the underbrush, its sudden appearance startling her. In an instant, your peaceful ride turns to chaos. Daisy rears up, her eyes wide with fear, and you're thrown from the saddle, the world a blur of blue sky and golden earth. The impact is jarring, knocking the breath from your lungs as you hit the ground hard. Pain radiates from your side and arm. As you lie there, struggling to catch your breath, Daisy gallops away towards the safety of the stables, leaving you alone in a cloud of dust.

The sun beats down mercilessly upon you as waves of pain wash over your body. You try to move but find that even breathing is a challenge. You try to push yourself up, but a wave of nausea forces you back down. It's then that you hear the pounding of hooves approaching fast and boots hitting the ground. 

"Easy there, easy," a familiar voice drawls as strong hands gently roll you onto your back. Joel's face swims into view, his brow furrowed with concern. "Looks like ya had a bit of a tumble, darlin'. Can you tell me where it hurts?" His voice is deep and soothing, cutting through the haze of pain. You manage to point to your side, wincing as he carefully probes the area. "Just bruised, I reckon," he says after a moment, his touch is surprisingly gentle for such calloused hands. "Your arm too. We should get ya back to the house. Might have t'see the doctor."

Over my dead body, you think to yourself.

With surprising ease, Joel scoops you up into his arms, cradling you against his chest. You can't help but notice the warmth radiating from his body. It's an intimacy that makes your breath hitch in your throat—a sensation that has nothing to do with your injuries.

"Gave me quite the scare there darlin," Joel remarks as he carries you towards his waiting horse. His tone is light but there's an undercurrent of something else—affection? worry? "What were you thinkin’ taking Daisy out alone after that storm last night? These trails can be treacherous."

You want to argue that you're capable and don't need help, that it was just a routine ride and something spooked Daisy but arguing takes energy—energy that's currently in short supply thanks to the pain radiating from your side and shooting through your arm. Instead you murmur a weak apology. "Didn't think it’d be a problem."

Joel chuckles softly. "Well, I reckon that's part of the adventure, ain't it? Never quite knowing what the day's gonna bring." He adjusts his hold on you slightly, his grip firm yet careful. "But next time, maybe wait for someone to come with you. Safety in numbers and all that."

As he settles you onto his horse, he keeps a steady hand on your back, “you okay darlin?” He asks, making sure you're secure before you nod and he swings up behind you as gently as he can. The closeness is overwhelming; his body is a solid wall of heat at your back, and you can feel the muscles in his thighs as they grip the horse's flanks. It's a strange mix of vulnerability and safety, being so close to this man who just (weeks/days?) ago was a little more than a stranger.

The ride back to the ranch is a blur of sensations—the rhythmic sway of the horse beneath you, the scent of leather and sweat mingling with Joel's unique aroma of woodsmoke and something undeniably masculine. You find yourself leaning into him without thinking, seeking comfort in his strength.

"Almost there," Joel reassures you as the house comes into view. His breath is warm against your ear, sending an unexpected shiver down your spine. "We'll get some ice on those bruises and take a look at you."

Once at the ranch house, he carries you inside and sets you down gently on the living room couch crouching beside you to remove your boots. His fingers brush against your skin accidentally as he works them off one by one—a touch that sends sparks racing along your nerves despite yourself and despite any rational thought about how much older he is than you. You quickly blink them away.

"Ice pack," he commands firmly but kindly before disappearing into the kitchen. You hear the clinking of ice being scooped from the freezer. 

As Joel returns from the kitchen, the air in the room shifts subtly. He kneels beside you on the couch, his movements deliberate and gentle. "This might be a bit cold at first," he warns, his voice carrying a hint of gruffness that hadn't been there before.

You nod, bracing yourself for the shock of cold. But when he lifts the hem of your shirt to expose your bruised side, the brush of his fingers against the sensitive skin of your stomach sends an unexpected wave of heat coursing through you. It's a clinical touch, meant only to aid in your recovery, but the proximity of his hands to the curves of your body is not lost on you.

He places the makeshift ice pack against your side, the cold seeping your body. You can't help the sharp intake of breath as the icy chill envelops the tender area. Joel's eyes flick to yours, concern etched across his features.

"Sorry, darlin'," he murmurs, his gaze lingering on yours for a moment longer than necessary. "I know it's uncomfortable, but it'll help with the swelling."

You give him a small, reassuring smile, trying to convey that you understand—that you appreciate his attentiveness. As he holds the ice pack in place, his other hand comes to rest on your hip, a steady presence that seems to anchor you amidst the discomfort.

The room is silent save for the soft ticking of the grandfather clock and the occasional crackle of ice as it begins to melt against your skin. You can feel the heat of Joel's palm through the fabric of your jeans, and you find yourself acutely aware of every point of contact between you.

After a few minutes, he slowly lifts the ice pack away, his eyes scanning your side with a practiced eye. "How does it feel now?" he asks, his voice a low rumble that seems to resonate within you.

"A bit better," you admit, the pain having dulled to a manageable ache.

He nods, his attention still focused on your injury. With a gentle touch that belies his rugged exterior, he traces the edge of the bruise with his fingers, his touch feather-light yet firm. The sensation sends a shiver up your spine, and you find yourself holding your breath, waiting for his next move.

"You're gonna be sore for a few days," he says. "But I think you'll live."

As he withdraws his hand, you feel an odd sense of loss, as if the warmth of his touch had become a lifeline in the midst of your pain. You watch as he rises to his feet, his tall frame casting a shadow over you.

"Thank you, Joel," you manage to say, your voice barely above a whisper. The words feel inadequate, but they're all you have to offer in this moment.

The corners of Joel's mouth twitch into a small smile, and he gives a nod, turning back towards the kitchen 

While he's gone, you take the opportunity to study him from afar as he walks through the open room to the kitchen. There's an air of quiet strength about him, a sense of resilience. You find yourself wondering about his past—where he came from, what brought him here to your family's ranch. But those questions will have to wait for another time; right now, just talking and moving is enough of a challenge without adding an interrogation into the mix.

Joel returns with a glass of water and some painkillers. "Here," he says gently, helping you sit up enough to swallow the pills before lying back down against the cushions with a wince at the sharp pain in your side again.

“Rest up now," Joel instructs. “I'll take care of things around here for the rest of the day. You just focus on healin.”

You drift in and out of sleep on the couch and everytime you drift out you see Joel lingering around keeping watch over you like some kind old west guardian angel dressed in denim. 

As the day wanes and the shadows grow long across the hardwood floors, you stir from your uneasy slumber. The pain in your side is a dull roar now, thanks to the medication Joel provided. You blink slowly, your eyes adjusting to the dim light of the living room. The ranch is quiet, save for the occasional creak of the old house settling and the distant sound of Joel's voice as he talks to one of the horses in the stable.

Your heart flutters at the thought of him—his rugged features, his gentle touch, and those eyes that seem to see right through you. It's a dangerous path your thoughts are taking, but you can't help it. There's something about Joel that draws you in, despite the years between you.

The front door opens with a soft squeak, and Joel steps inside, his boots leaving a trail of dust on the floorboards. He looks weary but satisfied, his shirt damp with sweat from a hard day's work. His gaze finds you instantly, and a warm smile spreads across his face.

"You're awake," he observes needlessly as he approaches. "How're you feeling?"

"Sore," you admit with a small grimace as you try to sit up straighter on the couch. "But better than before." You didn't want to admit how bad your arm was actually killing you.

Joel nods in approval before disappearing into the kitchen again—a man of few words but many actions. He returns a bit later with a steaming mug in hand and offers it to you carefully so as not to spill any on your lap. 

"Chamomile tea," he explains gruffly when he sees your questioning look at what seems like an unusual choice for someone like him, someone who seems more accustomed to strong black coffee than herbal infusions. "It'll help with any lingering pain and help ya sleep." 

You take a tentative sip; making sure to grab the cup with your good hand it's sweetened just how you like it—a small detail that makes your chest tighten unexpectedly because it means he's been paying attention even when he didn’t have to be.  The warmth seeps into your hands as much as into your insides making everything feel less daunting all at once despite your injuries.

The evening settles in, casting a cozy glow over the living room. The ranch is quiet, the animals bedded down for the night, and the chores all done. Joel lingers, his presence a comforting constant in the otherwise empty house. He settles into the armchair across from you, the lines of his face softened by the dim light.

"You should eat somethin’," he suggests, already rising from his chair. "I'll fix ya up a plate."

Before you can protest, he's back in the kitchen, the clatter of dishes and the smell of food wafting through the air. You can't help but smile at his insistence. It's been a long time since anyone has taken care of you like this.

Joel returns with a tray balanced in one hand—a simple meal of soup and a sandwich, cut into manageable pieces. He sets it down on the coffee table, pulling it closer to you. "Eat up," he urges, his tone gentle but firm. "You need to keep your strength up."

As you eat, he watches you, his gaze never straying far. It's an odd sensation, being the focus of such intense attention, but you find yourself not minding it. There's a sense of security in his watchfulness, a feeling that you're not alone in this big house.

When you've finished eating, Joel takes the tray away, leaving you to sip your tea in peace. The painkillers are starting to wear off, and as you move to adjust your position on the couch, a sharp, stabbing pain shoots through your arm, causing you to yelp in surprise and discomfort.

Joel, who has been quietly cleaning up the remnants of dinner in the kitchen, is at your side in an instant. "What is it?" he asks, his voice laced with concern. "Did you move wrong?"

"It's my arm," you admit through gritted teeth, cradling the injured limb with your other hand. "I think I might have aggravated it."

With a nod, Joel gently takes your arm in his hands, his touch firm yet gentle. He probes the area with practiced ease, watching your face for any signs of pain. When he reaches a particular spot, you can't help but flinch, a hiss escaping your lips. “Shh, I know. Easy, easy," he soothes you like a wounded animal, before releasing your arm. His brow is furrowed, his lips pressed into a thin line. "I don't like the look of this. Could be broken, or at least badly sprained. We need to get you to a doctor first thing in the mornin’."

"I'm sure it's fine, Joel," you argue weakly, not wanting to cause a fuss. "It's probably just a bad bruise. I'll be okay after a good night's sleep."

But Joel is having none of it. "No, it ain't fine," he says firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. "You could be doin’ more damage by not getting it checked out. I'll drive you to the clinic myself in the morning. This ain’t up for debate."

You know that look on his face—it's the same one he wears when he's dealing with a stubborn horse or a difficult piece of machinery. There's no point in trying to dissuade him when he's made up his mind. And truthfully, the idea of having a professional assess your injuries is somewhat of a relief.

"Alright," you relent with a sigh, the fight draining out of you. "I'll go to the doctor in the morning."

Joel's expression softens, and he gives your good shoulder a gentle squeeze. "That's the smart choice, darlin'. We'll get you fixed up in no time."

As he moves away to finish tidying up the kitchen, you find yourself watching him, a mix of gratitude and something deeper swirling within you. Despite the pain and the uncertainty of your injuries, you can't help but feel a sense of safety and comfort with Joel around. You're taken from your thoughts when Joel comes back into the living room. "I should be gettin’ home," Joel says after a while, his voice low and reluctant. "But I'll be back first thing to check on you."

You nod, trying to hide your disappointment. The house feels too big, too empty to be without him in it. "I'll be okay, Joel," you assure him, trying not to worry him, though the words taste like a stale cigarette on your tongue. "Thank you for everything."

He gives you a long, searching look before nodding slowly. "Alright then," he says, rising from his chair. "You remember what I said about not pushin’ yourself too hard?"

"Yes," you reply with a small smile. "Rest and recovery."

"That's right," he affirms, pulling on his jacket. "And don't hesitate to call me if you need anything—no matter the time."

You watch as he heads for the door, his silhouette framed by the night outside. Just before he steps out into the darkness, he turns back to you, his eyes reflecting the soft light of the living room. "Goodnight darlin," he says, his voice carrying a hint of something unspoken.

"Goodnight, Joel," you whisper back, the words hanging in the air long after he's gone.

The house is silent once more, save for the ticking of the old grandfather clock in the corner. You finish your tea and carefully set the mug aside, the warmth of it still lingering on your lips. With a sigh, you settle back against the cushions, the pain in your side a dull reminder of the day's events.

As the night deepens, you find yourself reaching for your phone, your fingers typing out a message before you can second-guess yourself.

Hey. Just wanted to say thank you again for today. I'm okay, just wanted to say thanks. Hope you got home safe.

What you really meant was, “please come back I'm fucking scared being alone.”

You hit send before you can change your mind, the message disappearing into the ether. Minutes tick by with no response, and you chide yourself for expecting otherwise. Joel is probably already asleep, or at least on his way to getting some much-needed rest after the day he's had. But just as you're about to set your phone aside and try to get some sleep yourself, it vibrates in your hand, startling you. A notification lights up the screen—a new message from Joel.

Of course. That's what I'm here for. Got home just fine. How are the ribs? Any better with the meds?

You can't help but smile at the concern in his words, the gruff affection that seems to come so naturally to him. You reply, telling him about the tea and the meal, about how much better you feel with him looking out for you.

His response is quick, as if he's been waiting by his phone for your message. 

Glad to hear it. And remember, there's no rush to get back in the saddle if you're not feeling up to it. Everything will still be here when you're ready. Your health is the priority now. If there's anything I can do for you, just holler. I've got your chores covered. Take care of yourself and don't hesitate to reach out if you need anything or just want to talk about what happened.

You read his words over and over, each one a balm to the lingering ache in your side—and to the unexpected emptiness in your heart. With a contented sigh, you finally set your phone aside and close your eyes, the sound of the ranch at night lulling you into a peaceful sleep.

______________________________________________________________

The next morning, you're awakened by the sound of a vehicle pulling up outside. You rub the sleep from your eyes and glance at the clock—it's early, barely past dawn. With some effort, you manage to sit up and swing your legs over the edge of the couch, wincing at the stiffness in your muscles.

The front door opens, and Joel steps inside, his hands full of a large wicker basket. "Brought you some things," he announces, setting the basket down on the coffee table. Inside, you find an assortment of items—fresh fruit, a few paperback novels, a soft, hand-knitted blanket, and a small potted plant. "I figured you could use some company," he says, gesturing to the plant. "And the books are from my daughter's collection. She loves a good western—thought you might enjoy them."

The revelation that Joel has a daughter is something that catches you off guard, a piece of him that he kept carefully tucked away, a piece you want to know more about. 

You're touched by the thoughtfulness of his gifts, each one carefully chosen to bring you comfort during your recovery. "Joel, this is... it's too much," you protest half-heartedly, even as you reach out to run your fingers over the soft wool of the blanket.

"Nonsense, darlin’," he replies with a dismissive wave of his hand. 

The way he calls you darlin’ brings heat to your cheeks, and you quickly look away, busying yourself with arranging the items in the basket. When you finally gather the courage to meet his gaze again, you find him watching you with a soft smile on his face and you assume he's forgotten about the doctor until he speaks up.

“Alright let's go.” Joel's stands up and holds a hand out to you. 

You look up at him and chuckle “It's fine Joel. It barely even hurts.”

The argument is brief but intense, with you stubbornly insisting that a trip to the clinic is unnecessary despite the pain in your arm. Joel, however, is just as adamant, his concern for your well-being overriding any protests you might have.

"I ain't gonna stand by and watch you suffer when there's somethin’ that can be done about it," he says firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Now, we can do this the easy way or the hard way."

You cross your arms defiantly, wincing as the movement sends a jolt of pain through your injured wrist. "And what's the hard way?" you challenge him, though there's a hint of amusement in your voice.

Without warning, Joel strides toward you, scooping you up into his arms before you can react. You let out a startled yelp as he hoists you over his shoulder with surprising ease, his strong hands holding you securely in place.

"Hey! Put me down!" You pound on his back with your good hand, your cheeks hot with embarrassment and indignation. But beneath the surface, there's an undeniable thrill at being so close to him—at feeling the muscles in his shoulders and back move beneath his shirt as he carries you effortlessly toward the front door.

"As soon as we get to the truck," he replies calmly, unfazed by your struggles. "We're going to see Dr. Simmons whether you like it or not."

You continue to squirm and protest as he carries you across the yard to where his truck is parked. The other ranch hands look on with barely concealed grins but wisely choose to keep their comments to themselves. They know better than to get between Joel Miller and something he's set his mind to.

With a gentleness that belies his gruff exterior, Joel sets you down on the passenger seat of the truck and buckles your seatbelt for you before closing the door and heading around to the driver's side. 

Joel.

He grips the steering wheel tightly, his knuckles white as he navigates the familiar dirt roads that lead away from the ranch. He can see you out of the corner of his eye, arms crossed, gaze fixed on the passing landscape. A vision of stubborn beauty, your jaw set in a way that makes his heart do things it hadn't done in years. He can feel the tension radiating off you—a mix of pain and frustration at being manhandled against your will. He can't blame you for being upset. If someone had picked him up and carried him off like a sack of feed, he'd be mad too. But when he saw you lying there in the dirt, hurt and vulnerable, something inside him shifted. It awakened a protective instinct that he thought had died along with Sarah.

Damn it, Joel, he chides himself. She's young enough to be your daughter. But the thought feels hollow, a weak defense against the pull he feels toward you. You’re strong, fiercely independent, and yet, there’s a vulnerability to you that calls to something deep within him, the need to care for someone - for you. He glances over at you again, taking in the delicate curve of your jaw, and the way your hair falls in waves around your shoulders, taking in the way the morning light plays across your features. You’re a sight to behold, all fire and spirit wrapped up in a package that is far too tempting for his peace of mind. Every time he looks at you, all logic seems to fly out the window. There's an undeniable connection between you, a spark that ignites whenever you're near each other. It's terrifying and exhilarating, you make him feel young again. 

He risks another glance in your direction, and his heart skips a beat when he finds you watching him with those big doe eyes of yours. Joel swallows hard, forcing himself to look away before his thoughts can wander any further down that dangerous path. He needs to focus on getting through this day without letting his guard down completely.

The clinic is just up ahead now, its whitewashed walls gleaming in the early morning sun. He pulls into the parking lot and kills the engine, turning to face you with a stern expression that belies the turmoil he feels inside.

"Ready?" he asks, though it's clear from his tone that it's more of a statement than a question. He's not going to let you talk your way out of this one—not when your health is at stake.

You nod reluctantly, your gaze fixed on the clinic entrance. You're nervous; he can see it in the way your fingers worry at the hem of your shirt, in the slight tremble of your chin. He wants to reach out and wrap you in his arms, to offer some semblance of comfort, but he holds back. It wouldn't be appropriate—not here, not now. Instead, he climbs out of the truck and comes around to open your door for you, offering a hand to help you down onto solid ground.

The interior of the clinic is cool and sterile-smelling—a stark contrast to the fresh air and open spaces of the ranch. Joel checks you in at the reception desk while you sink into one of the waiting room chairs, wincing as even that small movement sends a twinge of pain through your side and arm.  Joel takes a seat beside you in the waiting room, his hands clasped tightly between his knees. He can feel the tension emanating from you, a coiled spring ready to leap to action at the slightest provocation. He knows that look—it's the same one he's seen on injured animals over the years, a mix of fear and defiance. It tugs at something deep within him, a primal urge to protect those he cares about most.

He wants to say something to ease your discomfort, but words seem inadequate in the face of your pain. Instead, he reaches out tentatively, his hand hovering just above your knee before he gives in to the impulse and rests it there gently—a silent promise that he's not going anywhere.

You startle at his touch, your gaze flicking to his face in surprise. But as you meet his eyes, you see nothing but sincerity and concern reflected back at you. Slowly, deliberately, you place your own hand over his.

The waiting room is filled with the soft hum of fluorescent lights and the occasional rustle of magazines being flipped through by other patients. Joel's thumb traces idle patterns on your leg as you sit there together in silence.

"Joel," you say finally, breaking the silence that has settled between you. Your voice is quiet, but it cuts through the ambient noise like a knife. "I want to thank you - for everything."

He shakes his head dismissively, though there's a warmth in his eyes that wasn't there before. "No need for thanks," he replies gruffly. "I did what anyone else woulda done."

"No," you insist firmly, turning in your seat so that you're facing him fully now—ignoring the twinge of pain it elicits from your injuries. "Joel," you say again, your voice steady despite the pain you're clearly in. "I mean it. You've been... you've done so much for me. More than I could have asked for."

He opens his mouth to respond, to downplay his role in your care, but the words die on his lips as the nurse appears in the doorway, clipboard in hand. She calls out your name, scanning the room until her eyes land on the two of you.

Reluctantly, Joel withdraws his hand from your knee, the connection between you severed as you rise to follow the nurse. He stands as well, intending to accompany you, but the nurse shakes her head. "Just the patient for now, please," she says with a polite but firm smile.

You shoot him a reassuring look over your shoulder as you follow the nurse down the hallway, leaving Joel alone with his thoughts. He sinks back into his chair, his hands clasped tightly between his knees again as he waits for you to return.

The minutes tick by slowly, each second stretching into an eternity. Joel's mind races with worry and concern. He knows the ranch like the back of his hand, can handle any crisis that comes his way—but this is different. This is about you, and the thought of you in pain, of you being afraid, is more than he can bear.

He can't shake the image of you lying in the dust after being thrown from Daisy, the fear in your eyes when you realized you couldn't get up on your own. It had been years since he'd felt that kind of raw terror, the kind that gripped your heart and squeezed until you couldn't breathe. But in that moment, with you hurt and helpless, it all came flooding back. Joel had always prided himself on his strength, both physical and emotional. He'd had to be strong after Sarah passed, but with you, he felt something shift inside him—a crack in the armor he'd spent years building up around his heart. He cared about you, more than he should. It was a truth he couldn't ignore, no matter how hard he tried. You were young, vibrant, full of potential and promise. And he, well, he was just an old cowboy with more yesterdays than tomorrows. But when he looked at you, when he saw the fire in your eyes, he felt alive in a way he hadn't in years.

He’s pulled from his thoughts when he hears your name called again. He looks up to see the nurse beckoning him forward with a gentle smile.

"You can come back now," she says, her voice soft and reassuring. "She's asking for you."

Joel's heart skips a beat at her words. He rises quickly, his boots thudding against the linoleum floor as he follows the nurse through the maze of hallways to the examination room where you're waiting. His mind races with possibilities—none of them good. 

Why would they need me if everything was fine? Had something happened while you were back there? Was the injury worse than they initially thought?

The door to the examination room creaks open, and Joel steps inside, his eyes immediately going to you. You're sitting on the edge of the examination table, your face pale but composed. The relief that washes over him at seeing you unharmed is palpable; it leaves him momentarily lightheaded as he crosses the room to your side.

"What's goin on?" he asks urgently, his gaze flicking between you and the doctor who is standing nearby with a clipboard in hand. "Is everything alright?"

Dr. Simmons gives him a reassuring nod before turning his attention back to you. "I was just explaining to your friend here that it looks like she's got some bruised ribs and a fracture in her wrist," he says matter-of-factly as he jots something down on his clipboard. "We'll need to keep an eye on those ribs—make sure there's no internal bleeding or complications—but I think she'll be just fine with some rest and proper care.We gave her some pain medication before the x-ray. It may make her tired so she will need to be watched. No driving, etc. And she will need to come back in three weeks from now to get an updated x-ray of her wrist."

Joel lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding, relief flooding through him like a tidal wave crashing against jagged rocks. He reaches out instinctively, taking your good hand in his own as he listens intently while Dr. Simmons goes over your care instructions.

Once the doctor finishes his instructions and hands over the prescription, Joel helps you down from the examination table, his hand at the small of your back providing a steady, reassuring presence. "Let's get your meds and then getcha home," he says softly, guiding you out of the clinic and back to his truck.

The drive to the pharmacy is quiet, the air between you thick with unspoken thoughts and emotions. Joel keeps stealing glances at you, noting the way you're cradling your injured wrist against your chest, the way your breath hitches ever so slightly when the truck hits a bump in the road. He wants to say something, to offer some words of comfort, but he's never been good with this sort of thing. He's a man of action, not words.

At the pharmacy, Joel takes charge, handling the paperwork and payment while you sit quietly on a nearby bench. He can see the exhaustion etched into your features, the way your eyelids are starting to droop. He knows you're running on fumes, and the pain medication will likely knock you out soon.

He heads back to the ranch, the truck's engine humming softly beneath the weight of the silence that stretches between you. You're fading fast, the medication they gave you at the doctor taking its toll. He can see you struggling to keep your eyes open, your body swaying slightly with each turn of the vehicle.

Once he reaches the ranch house, he parks as close to the front door as possible and hurries around to your side of the truck. You're already half-asleep by the time he opens your door, your eyelids fluttering as you fight to stay awake. "Easy now," Joel murmurs, unbuckling your seatbelt and scooping you into his arms with a tenderness that surprises even himself. You let out a soft sigh as he carries you into the house, your head lolling against his chest. The trust you place in him is both humbling and terrifying and the sweet little noises coming from your mouth don't make any of this easier. 

He settles you onto the couch, propping pillows behind your back to keep you comfortable. You smile sleepily up at you, a smile that sends a jolt straight to his heart and many other places. "Stay with me?" You ask quietly. 

How could he possibly say no?

Joel nods, brushing a stray lock of hair away from your face, “‘course darlin, just gonna make you somethin to eat real quick.” Joel heads into the kitchen to prepare something for you to eat. An Eggo waffle seems like a safe bet—simple and comforting in its familiarity. He pops one into the toaster and waits impatiently for it to brown, his thoughts consumed by the woman lying on the couch.

Joel returns to the living room, the scent of warm waffles wafting through the air. He sets the plate down on the coffee table, along with a glass of water and the bottle of pain medication the pharmacist had given him. "Here you go, darlin'," he says softly, offering you a small smile. "Eat up, and then we'll get you settled in with a movie or somethin."

You nod, managing a weak smile in return as you reach for the waffle with your good hand. The simple act of eating seems to revive you somewhat, though Joel can tell you're still in a considerable amount of pain. He watches as you take a tentative bite, followed by a sip of water to wash it down.

"Thank you," you murmur between bites, your eyes meeting his in a silent exchange of gratitude and concern.

Joel nods, his throat tightening unexpectedly at the sincerity in your voice. "Anything for you," he replies gruffly, the words slipping out before he can stop them. He quickly clears his throat and changes the subject. "What do ya feel like watchin’? There's some old western tapes layin around or we could find somethin else.”

“Hmmm” You think about it for a moment before responding with a slight shrug of your shoulders—a movement that causes you to wince slightly, “I'm not picky. Whatever you want cowboy.” 

If only I could tell ya what I want darlin’

Taglist: @mermaidgirl30 @maried01

[stu-dyingstudent]

Sakura Haruno fic recs: romance-centric

I, like many others, definitely enjoy a a good romance every so often. All of these recs are going to have the romantic development of the characters as the forefront of the story, so just because the fic includes a ship doesn't mean it will go on the list. That means, many of them might feel more on the slice of life side of the spectrum, but that's not the case for all!!

There is going to be a mix of ships here so if you're interested in one in specific then use the search feature!

Started: 2024.08.28

Last Updated: 2024.09.28

note: feel free to check out my master list which has a bunch of Sakura Haruno fic recs (all organized)!

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To Build a Home - RedPowder || ao3 || E || kakasaku || canon divergence || ongoing

Sakura and Kakashi are assigned a mission that will change the path of their lives forever.

Kakashi and Sakura are forced to marry on orders from the village and I know that description sounds dumb, but trust me when I say this fic is gold. I've always had a hard time with kakasaku fics because I feel the whole teacher/student thing gets swept under the rug too easily, but that's not the case here. Their past relationship from team 7 is a glaring shadow over their marriage and the guilt over the whole situation weighs heavy on Kakashi. This mission isn't easy for either of them and it takes a lot of pull and tug to ensure things don't completely blow up. To Build a Home is probably one of my favorite takes on this ship as the portrayal feels realistic and the character feel accurate to themselves. Just give it a go!

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Approaching Sun - ANerdInAllHerGlory || ffn || T || sasusaku || blank period || ongoing

After 2 years, Sasuke returns to the village where friends anxiously await him. Still troubled by the mysteries of Kaguya and his personal guilt, Sasuke is split between friends and his journey. Troubled by rising casualties and international dependence on her abilities, Sakura is torn between her love for Sasuke and her duty to her village.

Approaching Sun is probably one of the most realistic depictions of Sasuke and Sakura's relationship that I have read. This takes place during the blank period and references the novels, so it feels like an actual possibility of what went down. As much as I love them, I have a hard time believing that their relationship was smooth sailing and so I think this is an interesting take.

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The Fool - thekatthatbarks || ao3 || T || shikasaku || blank period || complete

Ino kicked at a pebble on the ground, her arms folded across her chest. “How long?” Shikamaru sighed and pulled the cigarette away from his lips. “The war." It was a lie somewhat. He’d liked her since they were kids but had simply ignored the budding crush expecting it to fade over time. It hadn’t and by the time the war came around, he accepted he would always carry it despite his increasing efforts to drop it. He’d tried drowning it in the river, burning it in a fire, covering it up with something else. But it was all to no avail. It stuck with him, always apart of him. “Have you ever told anyone? Chouji? Her?” "No."

I actually really like Shikamaru and Sakura as a pairing (or just working together in general); however, I haven't read much of them. The Fool was a great post-war read where with some meddling (curtesy of Ino) we get to watch the progression of their relationship into something more than friends.

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Nightmare in Red - Sariasprincy || ao3 || M || itasaku || non-massacre AU || complete

Haruno Sakura used to think the eyes were the windows to the soul, but after witnessing the horrors of the Sharingan firsthand, she's convinced they are the doors. It was pure chance that led Sakura to the discovery of the disease eating through Uchiha Itachi's lungs and now that she's aware, she knows she cannot just turn a blind eye. But how is she to treat the very man who tortured her while at the same time keep her nightmares from consuming her? That she doesn't know, but she knows she has to try, even if it nearly kills her in the end.

Itachi unintentionally captures Sakura in his mangekyou after being rolled into the hospital for her to heal. While Sakura tries to work through the impacts of the genjutsu she continues to work with him in an effort to cure him of the disease infecting his body. I actually really liked how the whole thing played out. Itachi's sickness was sort of a mystery in the original series and so I found it rather interesting to see what was done in regards to it. Anyway, I love their interactions and Shisui is (like always) a great character as well.

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Blind - ObsidianSickle || ffn || sasusaku || T || canon divergent || complete

It was almost time, Orochimaru was going to take his body as a vessel. He hated being used...he refused to be used. With that thought, he took the kunai in his hand and slashed across his eyes.

I won't lie, Sakura is pretty weak in Blind and the whole thing is super cheesy, but it's still an enjoyable read.

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Ghosts - ElegiesforShiva || ffn || sausaku || M || blank period || incomplete

In love and loss, it often comes back to family, and Team 7 had always been fated, hadn't they? Deny it as she may, Sakura finds her heart strung to them with an uncanny reverence and the weight of their ghosts. Sakura-centric. Heavy, heavy angst. Slow burn Sasusaku. Canon pairings. Lots of friendship feels. Eventual (consensual) lemon.

Ghosts is a pretty dark read where basically everyone is suffering. Sasuke and Sakura in specific have an especially hard time coping with their individual struggles yet they find comfort in each other. Check TWs before going in

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Home is Where the Heart is - DeepPoeticGirl || ffn || sasusaku || T || blank period || complete

And with every moment together, they get just a little closer, a little more comfortable with each other. Fall a little more in love. Post-war. Pre-epilogue.

This fic is actually adorable! Taking place during the black period we get to see how Sasuke and Sakura's relationship slowly progresses. If you've always wondered what their travels were like then definitely check this one out.

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In Times of Peace - SouthSideStory || ffn || sasusaku || M || blank period || canon divergent || complete

The war is over, and like Konoha, Team 7 has rebuilt itself from the ground up. Everything has changed, but Sasuke and Sakura remain much the same. Eleven years, she thinks, is a long time to be in love.

Sakura and Sasuke have like a secret relationship going on. Also, Sakura as a jonin sensei is so good!! I really wish that someone from the original cast actually went down that route, but whatever.

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Labyrinthine - FM_White || ao3 || itasaku || M || canon divergence || complete

ItaSaku (Post Uchiha Massacre) AU: Some things are destined to be. It just takes a couple of tries to get there.ItaSaku. Light KakaSaku.

I actually really liked how this was done as team 7 is still a family, Sasuke didn't lose his mind, Itachi picked a much more respectable path imo, and the characters are all adults.

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Only a Crush by Gingersoup || ao3 || kakasaku || M || canon divergent || complete

It was supposed to be an easy, fun night out. She never intended to wake up in her sensei's bed, half-naked and with no memory of what happened the night before! As she tries to unravel the mystery of that night, something sinister is growing beyond the walls of the Leaf Village... and what was only a crush spirals wildly out of control.

Sakura is unwillingly thrust into the world of illegal drugs, trafficking, and sex all while coming to terms with her new feelings regarding her former sensei. I typically don't like kakasaku, but I think this work is done tastefully well. The characters are both adults and the immorality of the relationship is not ignored, so be prepared for a lot of "we can't," "this is wrong," etc.. Anyway, Sakura is an absolute powerhouse and I thoroughly enjoyed the relationship between all of the different characters and villages!

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Dreaming's End - thepiedsniper || ao3 || T || kakasaku || canon divergence || complete

Sakura didn't avoid the Infinite Tsukuyomi with the others, and all the events that happened afterward were simply the product of her dream-state. When Sakura finally wakes up from years spent in her personal "paradise," she must to learn how to start again. Kakashi is there to help her. ~*~ (TWs for genjutsu-related unreality)

Basically, imagine the entirety of Boruto was Sakura's dream in Infinite Tsukuyomi. When Sakura manages to breakout during the war she's left to deal with serious ramifications of the life she just lived. She finds herself constantly questioning what's real and Kakashi tries to help her through it.

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Mamihlapinatapai - FM_White || ao3 || E || itasaku || canon divergence || ongoing

Mamihlapinatapai・Yagan. (n.) a look shared by two people, each wishing that the other would initiate something they both desire, but which neither wants to begin In which Sakura tries her hardest to raise one hell of a rambunctious baby by herself, Sasuke is searching for something unknown, and Itachi is the uncle.

In another life where Itachi doesn't end up dying and instead tries his best to help Sakura raise his niece in Sasuke's absence. It's my head canon that everyone came together to help with Sarada just like they did for Kuranai, and so Mamihlapinatapi satisfies that thought for me. I like how Sasuke was criticized in this since as much as I understand the necessity of what he's doing, I also find it completely unfair to his wife and daughter. Itachi and Sakura form a great bond and it's all very domestic and just super fluffy all around, which I love.

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Louder than Words - SouthSideStory || ao3 || T || sasusaku || non-massacre AU || complete

Sakura hasn’t uttered a single word since the day her family died, but Sasuke is determined to hear her, one way or another. (No Uchiha massacre AU.)

Sakura gets taken in by the Uchiha family after Fugaku finds her on a mission. She's been mute ever since, but that doesn't stop her and Sasuke from forming a close bond.

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Snake Bound - shefalls || ao3 || E || sasusaku || canon divergence || complete

"You... took me with you." "That's what I said." "To Orochimaru. You took me with you, to Orochimaru." Sasuke nodded curtly and shoved the medical kit a little more insistently into her hands. Sakura accepted, and prayed to every known god that Orochimaru would ignore her existence. She should've known the gods don't listen. Now only on AO3. Sequel up.

What if Sasuke took Sakura with him like she asked? Snake Bound explores that idea and it's honestly a very uncomfortable read. Their relationship is based off of the isolation and dependency their new situation puts them in. All they really have is each other and the new bond that brings is not a healthy one.

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Armour-Sleeved Single Hit - thatdamnuchiha || ao3 || T || madasaku || time travel AU || one-shot complete

Sasuke always told Sakura she was weak. Even after she trained with Tsunade for years he only had eyes for Naruto whom he considered strong. She would forever be invisible to him no matter how many mountains she toppled.Being a member of Team Seven despite Sasuke’s refusal to acknowledge her meant she got herself into her fair share of sticky situations. Getting stuck a hundred odd years in the past had to take the cake though.But she was just a weak little girl and compared to the shinobi of old she’d be ridiculously pathetic. Sasuke had said she was weak to him – a modern day shinobi who hadn’t been forced into battle after battle like they did in the Warring Clans Era. Obviously she’d be nothing more than a spec of dirt in the eyes of the Founders.

Sakura manages to find herself in founding-era Konoha! While trying to prove that medical ninja are capable fighters she unknowingly gains the affection of Madara Uchiha. After all, the Uchiha find beauty in strength. Super cute read!

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Always You - alex-halcyon || ffn || T || kakasaku || age swap AU || complete

[AU. Age-swap] Kakashi x Sakura. From academy days to the third shinobi war and beyond, Kakashi and Sakura grow up and fall in love.

Basically, Sakura takes Rin's place on the old team 7. The progression between the character is quite interesting as it definitely isn't smooth sailing for Kakashi and Sakura. However, even through everything they find themselves drifting towards each other. Pretty cute imo.

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interim - stannide || ao3 || T || sasusaku || blank period || one-shot complete

Sasuke lives with Sakura in the weeks after the war.

Interim is such a wholesome read where Sasuke and Sakura rekindle their former relationship. Super fluffy

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Hit Me With Your Best Shot - Tozette || ao3 || T || sasusaku || blank period || one-shot complete

Sasuke is actually eighteen the first time he looks at Sakura and realises abruptly that he wants her.

I think we all know by now that Sasuke has always been attracted to strength, power, so why not when it comes to romance? Essentially, one day on a mission, Sasuke discovers he has a strength kink. Watching him continuously get flustered throughout the fic because of his admiration towards Sakura's strength is so entertaining. Really fun read

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the problem with how time works - MurderMittens || ao3 || E || kakasaku || generation swap AU || complete

"I don't remember you being this uncomfortable when Kakashi was nine and had a crush on you," Ino pointed out neutrally. "You thought it was flattering before." She moved to pour more wine into their glasses as Sakura exhaled sharply out of her nostrils. "Obviously! It was fucking cute when he was a kid! But now he's..." she trailed off, gesticulating feebly. Ino, taking pity on her, finished the sentence: "Now he's a stone cold hottie who looks and sounds like he'd murder the ever-loving shit out of your vagina."

Sakura and Kakashi's generations swap place and boy is it entertaining. With Naruto as his sensei, of course Kakashi has met Sakura. Now that she's back in the village after years, Kakashi decides to try his best to win her over.

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on still water - summersirius || ao3 || T || shisaku || canon divergence || complete

and sometimes, there are days without rain. —shisui/sakura

I'm actually devastated that the author decided to not pursue the plot line after about chapter 15 (it was so good too), but On Still Water is great nonetheless. Some really cute Shisui x Sakura moments

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never let 'em know your next move - MirrorImage003 || ao3 || T || itasaku || non-massacre AU || one-shot complete

six times itachi is surprised by sakura, and the one time he's surprised by his mother.

Sort of drabble style moments between Itachi and Sakura and it's honestly adorable.

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Hatsukoi - sparklyfaerie || ao3 || sasusaku || gen || non-massacre AU || complete

Sasuke leans away as the girl turns to him, and his mother doesn't need to be any closer to guess as to the expression on his face. The girl's body language changes in an instant, and Mikoto recognizes the posture of a little girl in love. It's kind of adorable.

Probably one of the cutest sasusaku fics I have read as Hatsukoi follows them from genin to marriage! It's told in multiple perspectives and it's full of tooth rotting fluff. You get to watch the slow progression of their relationship over time and how they grow even closer in Naruto's absence. Definitely read is you want something light!

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(oh, you'll probably go to heaven) please don't hang your head & cry - SafelyCapricious || ao3 || T || itasaku || time travel AU || one-shot complete

There’s no such thing as a good death. But Sakura faces her death without any regrets. Her dying is keeping her precious people safe — and that’s all she can ask for. So she dies with a smile, taking thousands of enemies with her. She wakes up and falls off the branch she’s laying on.

More of a pre-ship than anything actually romantic, so maybe this isn't the best for this list lmao.

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Send me some recs if you have any to share! I'm generally fine with any ship as long as the story is good :)

[xinganhao]

🎞️ svt with a 'fangirl' partner.

@seungkwansflower → "them dating someone who was a HUGEEE fangirl when she was younger, but somehow didn’t fangirl over svt ORRR svt member finds the fan account u used to run for your ult group as a teen and teases you for it."

⌗ ┆took a little bit of #time with this because i wanted to do it justice ᵕᴗᵕ enjoy!

‧₊˚✩彡 includes: fangirl!f!reader, mentions of other groups/idols, established relationship, sulky & dramatic svt, crack/fluff, pet names, cussing, [short] headcanons under the cut.

🎞️ headcanons .ᐟ

easily, there's going to be a 'line' of the members who would tease you the hell out of your fangirl tendencies (albeit good-naturedly). we have jeonghan, of course, who will go around quoting your tweets at the most inopportune moments. you will quite literally never hear the end of it from him. chan follows close behind in judging some questionable things you said at the height of your obsessions. he's likely to use it as an opportunity for you to say something good about him, in turn. and wonwoo? he'll act cool and nonchalant about it, but he'll pull the rug out from underneath you when you least expect it. he likes getting you flustered when he reminds you that you may have not been a fan of his group, but surprise, surprise! you've ended up with him, still. call it karma, he'll half-joke.

there's also the 'line' whose pride takes a teensy bit of a hit at the thought of you liking other idols. to no one's surprise, junhui and soonyoung will be screaming in your ear about not being your ultimate bias. what do you mean they're not your standard, not the one you spent your entire tweenhood tweeting about?! they're about to make your days a living hell. a little more surprising: joshua is also relatively sulky over these revelations. he likes being your guy. he knows it's irrational to be envious, but for as long as you'll indulge him, he'll pout a bit and press, "i'm more handsome, though, right? you love me more?"

resigned. that's really just the best way to describe seokmin, minghao, and vernon. seokmin has accepted that he plays second fiddle to your love for your biases, and so he just pulls off little tricks here and there to catch your attention. he's the type to buy your priority photocards or get you fan meet tickets without you having to ask. over on minghao's end, that man is exasperated. you have him jumping through rings— specific outfits, fan cafe events— and he might grumble a bit about it, but he always gives in at the end. secretly, he enjoys seeing you so in your element. vernon is similar but in more extreme ways. he's a lot more vocal about his gripes re: your fangirl-isms and he's probably hella reluctant to ride along with you. but the look on your face when he secures you tickets to that comeback concert? okay, fine. maybe he'll start doing this a lot more often.

seungcheol isn't really the concert type. he loved music, sure, but the live shows and all that was more of the younger members' thing nowadays. that is— until he realized how much you liked concerts. now, he's pulling every stop to make sure you have tickets to your favorite acts. he goes with you when he can, and you're likely to find him with his arms crossed over his chest, his head bobbing up and down to the music. if he's being honest, though? he spends half of the show watching you, instead.

mingyu falls smack dab in to those who would tease you about the whole thing, though he gets a special mention for his endearingly annoying habit: holding it as leverage when the two of you are having petty arguments. never in serious fights, no, but in your day-to-day squabbles? he's pulling up all the times you called your bias 'pookie' on the internet. no point in deactivating the account. he's already screenshot every incriminating tweet and stowed it away in a locked folder on his phone. endless ammunition.

the runner-up in this series would most definitely be jihoon. a part of you will start to think it's intentional, how he's going around collaborating with your favorite groups and soloists. jihoon would never say it out loud, but of course it's intentional. he lives for the moments where he can get you signed merchandise, when he can ask your ult for a video message or some sort. it's the best of both worlds. you get all these exclusive little things, you get your boyfriend's lyrics/production on the acts you love, and jihoon gets you. it's a win-win in his opinion.

and [drum roll] of course seungkwan takes the cake in this verse, because he beats everyone out: he already knows about your life as a fangirl, maybe even way before he personally knew you. seungkwan is the likeliest to have also had a fan account of his own, and so it should come as no surprise if the two of you had crossed paths on the internet. he'll probably go around bragging about being 'oomfs' with you to the point that you have to beg him to stop mentioning your dark past. but why would seungkwan stop? he loves you. he loves being a fan. and, hell, at this point? he just loves being a fan of you.

[solxamber]

I HAVE A REQUEST FOR IDIA SHROUD X A SHARK READER >///<

More specifically, a reader that just has a very large shark tail that he likes to hold onto, weather it's hugging it or holding the tail tip as they walk down the halls. Idk I think it would be cute 🫶

Hook, Line and Shy Guy - Idia Shroud x Reader

Idia loves your shark tail, you think it's adorable.

i loved the idea so much <3<3

Idia clutches the end of your tail again.

You’ve told him about a thousand times that it’s fine—no, really, you don’t mind—but the way he’s gripping it like it’s his lifeline, bright red ears poking out of his hood? Yeah, that says everything.

He likes it. A lot.

Currently, the two of you are walking through the halls of NRC. Well, you’re walking. Idia? Idia’s trailing after you, both hands wrapped around the very tip of your shark tail like it’s some kind of comfort object. You flick it every once in a while just to mess with him, and he lets out these quiet little startled noises, like you’ve just pulled a rug out from under him.

“C-Can you not?” he stammers, even though he doesn’t let go.

You throw him a grin over your shoulder. “Didn’t know you were so attached, Shroud.”

He tugs the edge of his hood lower over his face, mumbling something under his breath. You don’t catch it, but you think it was something like, "I hate this place." Or maybe "I'm doomed."

Frankly, it’s adorable.

Idia holding onto your tail has become a habit. The first time it happened, you thought it was an accident—he was nervous, fidgeting with his sleeves, and when your tail flicked by, he just… grabbed it. You didn’t have the heart to pull away when he looked so relaxed for the first time that day.

And now? Now it’s a thing. Your thing.

He clings to your tail when you’re walking to class. When you're studying together in the library, he drapes it across his lap like a security blanket and pretends not to notice that his hands wander to it whenever he’s stressed. Heck, one time in the Mostro Lounge, he straight-up hugged the base of your tail to his chest like it was a giant pillow.

And, honestly? You can’t get enough of it.

“Why do you like holding it so much, anyway?” you ask, slowing your steps just a bit so he doesn’t have to rush to keep up. “Feels kinda fishy, if you ask me.”

Idia grumbles. “That’s... That’s a pun. And it’s not funny.”

You chuckle, swishing your tail to the side slightly. He stumbles, almost tripping, but still clings onto the end of it. You swear you see his hands tighten, just the smallest bit.

“It’s soft, okay?” he mutters, so quietly you almost miss it. “And… I dunno, I just... I like it. Is that a crime?”

A warmth spreads in your chest at the honesty. Idia being open is a rare thing, and you’ll take any little piece of it you can get. But you’re not letting him off the hook that easily.

“So you like soft things, huh?” you tease, glancing back at him with a grin. “You want me to just wrap you up in it one day? I could curl it around you like a big ol’ burrito—”

“Stop talking!” he hisses, his face flushing all the way to his neck. He looks like a lobster. But the way his fingers keep fiddling with your tail tip? Yeah, he’s not letting go.

“Okay, okay, I’ll stop,” you say, stifling a laugh. “But seriously, it’s kinda cute that you like it.”

“...I'm not cute.”

You blink. “Dude, you’re holding onto my tail like it’s a stuffed animal right now. How is that not cute?”

Idia grumbles something unintelligible, squeezing the fin of your tail in protest. He’s trying to look annoyed, but the effect is ruined when you feel him press his forehead to it, hiding his blush in your scales.

“You’re evil,” he mutters. “Pure villain energy.”

“And you love it.” You flick your tail, knocking lightly against his side. He yelps but still doesn’t let go. He never does.

The two of you continue down the hall, your tail gently swaying behind you and Idia holding the end like it’s his own personal lifeline. A couple of passing students stare, but he doesn’t even care at this point—he’s too comfortable, too content.

By the time you reach his room, he doesn’t even hesitate to pull your tail onto the couch with him, clutching it like a favorite blanket.

“Don’t make it weird,” he mumbles, tucking his hood over his head again.

You sit beside him, the warmth of his hands still lingering on your scales. And as he absentmindedly strokes the tip of your tail while zoning out in front of the TV, you can’t help but think that this might just be your new favorite thing, too.

Masterlist