#i remember exactly where i was and what i was doing

[humanjarvis]

nurse for a day

synopsis: who knew a sick doctor could be such a handful? 

tags: stubborn zayne who hates being sick, reader takes care of him anyway, sleepy delirious zayne, fluff fluff fluff, humor(?), suggestive for .5 seconds word count: 2k 

a/n: i personally think i ate with this one 

It was quiet. Too quiet. 

As you slink through the seemingly empty house, ducking into shadows like you’re on a stealth mission, you really wish your boyfriend weren’t so damn stubborn. 

On your earlier phone call, Zayne had tried admirably hard to mask the nasally tone in his voice—to pretend like his frequent coughs were simply him “clearing his throat.” But you knew better.

He doesn’t get sick often—what with knowing exactly how to prevent it, and all—but when he does, he detests it for several reasons. The most pressing one, at the moment? You love when Zayne is sick.

Not because you think he deserves it, not because you want to see him suffer, but because you get to play nurse. After so many days being taken care of and scolded by the best doctor in Linkon, you finally get to return the favor. 

Except Zayne isn’t particularly…appreciative of the favor. You’re a very strict nurse, he’s frowned at you several times before. You tell him over and over again that you only want him to feel better, but that doesn’t stop him from holing up in a bunker every time he comes down with something. It’s the only time he avoids you. 

And now, he’s hiding from you. In his own home. 

You know he’s here. When you arrived, his freshly washed car was sparkling in the driveway, a full mug of jasmine tea was still steaming on the kitchen countertop, and various office supplies were left scattered across the coffee table. As if he’d heard you coming and frantically abandoned ship. 

You’d searched the usual spots: his empty bedroom, so pristine it looked like a hotel cleaning crew had stopped by; the walk-in closet, to make sure he hadn’t disguised himself among the hangers; and his study, where there’d been nothing but heaps of paperwork threatening the desk’s structural integrity. 

He’s being extra sneaky this time, you scoff to yourself as you tiptoe around upstairs. Room after room, and no endearingly, adorably, annoyingly stubborn doctor inside. 

But then, pressing your ear to the laundry room door, you hear it. 

The unmistakable crinkle of a candy wrapper.

You’ve never felt so lucky that Zayne reserves his self-control for you and not sweets. 

With a deep breath and a crack of your knuckles, you jiggle the doorknob slightly before bursting into the room. The man inside, hunched over the floor next to a tissue box, jumps at the sudden noise before freezing in place. And then, slowly, shyly, he spins to face you with the wide eyes and stuffed cheeks of a disgruntled hamster. 

Zayne has spent enough time with you to know what the unimpressed look on your face means: Explain yourself. 

“I don’t remember you knocking,” he sniffles curtly, unable to hide the way his stuffy nose constricts his throat. The rosy blush on his cheeks is the only indication of his guilt. 

“I don’t remember signing up to date an escape artist,” you shoot back, satisfied with his resulting wince. “What are you doing all the way in here? Was the space under the desk in your study not suitable this time?” 

“Just wanted a—”sniff—“change of scenery,” he jokes lamely, gesturing to the sleek washer and dryer towering over him. 

Sighing, you crouch down in front of him, taking in the wall of chocolate wrappers barricading him in. “Is the idea of me taking care of you really that bad? I’m just trying to help.” 

“That’s exactly it,” he says dryly. “You always help more than what’s needed.” 

At that, your eyes narrow into slits sharp enough to cut through bone. His bones, if he’s not careful. “Excuse me?” 

“I mean,” he clears his throat, grimacing at the dull burn in his sinuses, “You always help me exactly how I need it, and more.” 

“That’s what I thought you said. Now, come downstairs so I can give you the medicine you need, Dr. Zayne. And hand over the candy.” 

It was no secret that Zayne loved sweet things. The confiscated tub of chocolates sitting on the counter was evidence enough. 

But as you look down at his frowning face, cup of chemically red liquid in hand, you can’t help but wonder if it’s because Zayne loves sweet things that he hates taking medicine. 

Once he’d finally trudged into the kitchen, you’d sat him down on a barstool before fishing the dreaded bottle out of the cabinet. “Why not a lozenge instead?” he’d asked. “One of the citrus ones.” 

You hadn’t fallen for his trap, of course. But as he eyes you like he’ll make a break for it any second now, a weary part of you wishes you had. 

“You know,” you lean in conspiratorially, “they say if you plug your nose, you won’t taste it as much.” 

“Illness doesn’t make me a fool,” he mutters bitterly. “I, more than anyone, know how fruitless that trick often is. It doesn’t even work on the kids in the pediatric ward anymore.” 

“And why would a 27-year-old man need the same encouragement as sick children, I wonder?” you crack slyly. 

Zayne looks away, taking a sudden interest in the floor tiles. 

Snorting, you double-check the dosage in the medicine cup and hold it out to him. He regards it with abject misery, his big, hazel eyes staring up at you pleadingly, and you feel a crack in your resolve.

“Fine,” you grumble, pivoting to raid the pantry behind you. Retrieving the most acceptable pastry you can find—there are about 7 different options—you set the blueberry muffin on the island in front of him. 

At the peace offering, those hazel eyes light up slightly, driving out some of the pallor on his face. With a deep breath, Zayne grunts softly before downing the liquid like a shot, shuddering at the aftertaste. Eyes closed in a lasting grimace, he reaches blindly for the muffin before you push it into his grasp, and he sighs in contentment when he bites into it.

Running a hand through his dark hair, you can’t help but grin fondly. 

If only the pediatric ward could see him now. 

After Zayne recovered from the horrors of modern medicine, he’d sullenly asked for more tea, since the batch he’d made earlier was cold now. Pinching his cheek, you’d sent him to sulk on the living room couch so you could keep an eye on him. Which had worked, for several minutes. You’d gathered the ingredients, and he’d flipped blankly through a journal, intermittent sniffles reassuring you of his presence. 

But as you gawk at the abandoned sofa, you realize he must have ducked you while your back was turned. 

Yep. Definitely an escape artist.

With a frustrated growl, you hurriedly plunk the tea bag in and listen for signs of movement. Hearing the faint clicks of a keyboard, you stomp up the stairs to his study, not caring if the drink in hand sloshes over the rim of his favorite penguin mug. Serves him right.

“What do you think you’re doing?” you snap, setting the cup on his desk to put your hands on your hips.

“Working,” he answers with an innocent upturn of his lips. 

“I mean,” you clarify, “what do you think you’re doing when you should be resting?”

Too distracted to keep typing, Zayne switches his attention to the stack of papers before him. “I feel much better already,” he lies flatly, breaking eye contact when yours bore into his. 

As an incredulous laugh escapes you, you throw your hands up in exasperation. “What would you say to one of your patients if they tried to work through an illness?” 

“I’d say that as a medical professional, I only have the jurisdiction to advise them on the best course of treatment. Once out of hospital care, it’s up to them to exercise judgment and decide if they’re able to work or not. Like I’m doing now,” he retorts, and you almost commend his ability to bullshit such a polished answer.

“Right, of course,” you entertain him sweetly. “So is that why you just scrawled your signature through the bottom of that confidentiality agreement?”

With sluggish alarm, Zayne jerks his head down to survey the damage, and sure enough, his swooping penmanship has rendered the contract illegible.

“How could I have missed the signature line?” he whispers, face aghast with disbelief. “I…I don’t even know what…”

“I do,” you sing triumphantly, walking around to haul him up from his armchair. “I know exactly what’s wrong.” 

The main reason Zayne hates being sick isn’t the symptoms. It isn’t the unneeded pity, the inopportune sick days, or even the insidious slide of what tastes like poison down his throat.  

No. Unfortunately, for your stubborn snowman of a boyfriend, the main reason Zayne hates being sick is simply of his nature: cold medicine makes him terribly drowsy. 

Its heightened effect on him is just like his alcohol intolerance—something in his genes just can’t handle outside influences. 

So as you lead him back to rest on the sofa, laying his head across your lap, it becomes clear you’re now dealing with an oversized koala. 

“You smell nice. I think. I can’t really smell anything,” he murmurs into your navel, tickling your skin with his rhythmic deep breaths. 

“Mm. You smell nice too, under the medicine scent. Like jasmine tea.”

As you gently massage his scalp, he burrows into your stomach, lifting his head up seconds later as if remembering something. 

“Did you d’something different with your hair today? Looks nice,” he slurs, blinking at you with sleep-laced eyes. 

“Yep!” Nope. “Thank you for noticing, Zaynie. So observant even when you’re sick,” you coo, rubbing soothing circles into his back. 

With a delirious hum, he smiles softly at the praise before his gaze lands on your chest, rising and falling above him. “You’re very…warm,” he whispers, baby pink tongue wetting his lips. But just as he leans up to nuzzle into you, you stop him halfway. 

“Oh no, you don’t,” you chide, catching him by the scruff. “Not right now, at least.” 

A quiet sigh is his only resistance, and as he slumps back down, he brings a hand around your waist to leave a lingering kiss on your stomach. 

“Are you tired, Zayne?” you ask, cradling his head in your palms to meet his clouded gaze.

“Mm. I’d like to go to bed now.”

As you turn off the bedside lamp, preparing to leave Zayne in peace for the night, feverishly warm hands pull you down onto the mattress. Lying beside him, you flutter your eyes closed as he presses a tender kiss to your cheek. 

“Aren’t you worried about getting me sick?” you question, raising a brow in the moonlight. 

Chuckling, he shakes his head languidly. “Sinus infections aren’t contagious,” he yawns. “But even if they were, transmission would only give me the chance to look after you in return.”

“Are you sure? Someone once told me I’m too stern of a nurse. I’d hate to be the same way as a patient.” 

Zayne frowns contemplatively as he rests a hand on your hip. “Even though your methods are…involved,” he swallows, “I appreciate the consideration you’ve shown me today. Thank you for taking care of me.” 

“Approval from the illustrious Dr. Zayne,” you whisper, gently tapping his reddened nose. “I hope this means he won’t hide from me next time.” 

As he winces, you can almost see the events of this afternoon replaying in his mind. “If he can help it, there won’t be a next time. But yes, I won’t hide from you again. I truly do feel better with you here beside me.” 

“And you’ll feel even better with proper rest,” you remind him. “Sleep. I’ll stay right here until you do.”

Finally relenting, he turns on his side, holding you to him like a child with a teddy bear. 

And though he’s never believed in them before, when Zayne wakes the next morning, nose clear and fever broken, he thinks you might be a miracle worker. 

[coquettebratzdoll]

HOW I SHIFTED FOR THE FIRST TIME

I'm gonna keep this short and sweet. For some context, no, this isn't literally my first time shifting (we shift all the time, remember?) as I've shifted to countless parallel realities and a couple random realities. However, this was the first time I shifted to a reality where it was supposedly fictional (MHA).

So, what did I do?

This. Exactly what I'm doing right now.

You see, every time I was going to bed or idle with my thoughts (doing chores, walking, etc), I would imagine myself writing a success story or telling a friend (luv you @vixilic) about my successful shift. I'd think about how I'd decorate it, how I'd word my sentences, the feeling I'd get from it, things like that. In the time between my last post and now, I had managed to shift by (mainly) doing that.

Before you say, "Isn't that similar to the xyz method/a combination of abc and qrs?" Congratulations! You know so much that you can actually see the different aspects of Loa/shifting being applied. I'm not gonna pretend like I invented this approach, but it is what worked for me (and perhaps for you too).

So, for those who want a coherent, step by step guide on how to do this, look below:

1. Pick a reference Pick something that you're going to base your visualisation off of. Are you going to tell a shifting friend? Your favourite blog? What about writing your own post? Don't stress, you can use more than one

2. Do the damn visualisation Everyday, imagine what it'd be like to tell your success story. What did you do during the day? How were the people in that reality like? How did it feel? Were you nervous, excited, scared? Do this when you wake up and when you're going to sleep. Bonus points for doing this at other times too.

3. Relax This doesn't have to be an instantaneous method and you may not see "results" right away. The whole reason I started doing this in the first place is because I'm pretty busy with school currently and I wanted to do something related to shifting which I didn't have to think about much. Hell, that shift happened on a night where I had no plans, I didn't "try", I just wanted to sleep 😭

Tips:

- this can be compounded with other methods if you wish: subliminals, robotic affirmations, sats, etc - don't stress if your visualisation isn't perfect, feeling is much more key here - on that note, don't try and force a "feeling" either. maybe you're overthinking it or just not in the mood, you don't have to literally feel it - go with the flow and personalise this to yourself. this is a Tumblr post, not a military boot camp - this can be applied to more than just shifting, too

Special thanks to the following creators who really helped me get out of a shifting slump recently: @scentedpeachlandcreator @hrrtshape @h1biscusgal (and @premiumbitch too but they deactivated 💔)

Moot tag don't mind me: @jealousmartini @livingmydreamlife5555 @xstrawberryshiftsx @vixilic @luckykiwiii101 @multiversal-wanderings @reiashiftsrealities @livingsecret @astrstqr @zomb13pup @zipper-is-ranting @theshifterbride @kimasoft

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[theplaguebeast]

I remember reading Flowers For Algernon back like middle school or something and early on there's a scene where the guy is being walked thru how to knead dough by one guy, and he gets it he's fine, and then he steps away and another guy comes to show him and he does it Just Differently Enough that now he's trying to do something almost the same but not quite and it's tripping him up and now they're acting like he's stupid. That was always the part that resonated with me that I remember it more than anything else. He got lost in the ambiguity. Both guys knew it wasn't about exactly how you held your elbows and rolled your wrists, it was about the action on the dough, but no one ever explained that, just told him 'do what I do' like that's an entire answer.

The way most autism literature describes "literal interpretation" is often not at all similar to how I experience it. Teenage me even thought I couldn't be autistic because I've always been able to learn metaphors easily.

In fact, I love wordplay of all kinds. Teenage me was fascinated to learn all the types of figurative language there are in poetry and literature.

But paperwork and questionnaires are hard, because there's so much they don't state clearly. Or they don't leave room for enough nuance.

"List all the jobs you've had, with start and end dates." What if I don't remember the exact day or month? Is the year enough?

"Have you been suffering from blurred vision?" Well, if I take off my glasses the whole world is blurred, but I'm fairly sure that's not what the intake form at the optometrist is asking.

Or the infamous (and infuriatingly stereotypical) "Would you rather go to a library or a party?" What sort of party? Where? Who's there? I work at a library. Am I currently at the library for work or pleasure? Does it have a good collection?

It's not common figures of speech that confound me. It's ambiguity, in situations that aren't supposed to be ambiguous.

[clockwayswrites]

Danny in Metropolis, Ch 5 Part 2

masterpost shhhh migraine, hell week, worked like 14 hours yesterday. no editing please <3

Kon leaned against the open door frame between the hall and kitchen. He watched Lois peel an apple with practiced ease; Jon hated apple skin. Kon had no idea where Jon got that from, considering Clark would eat most things and Lois was snacking on the peel as she worked.

“Need anything, honey?” Lois asked without taking her eyes off the apple and the sharp knife in her hand.

The nickname always made Kon feel equally warmed and uncomfortable. Honey—someone Lois cared about. She had cared since about fifteen minutes after she’d met him. The first fifteen she’d spent chewing Clark out.

Kon cleared his throat. “Yeah. I actually wanted to ask you for some advice, if you’ve got a moment.”

“Welcome to my parlor, pull up a chair,” Lois said with a grin. “Want an apple slice?”

“Sure.” Kon took the offered slice and went to lean against an open spot of counter. He took the excuse of eating the snack to try and gather his thoughts. “So, um, what sort of activity is good for a first date with someone you already know?”

Lois almost fumbled both the apple and the knife with how quickly she spun to look at him. “No! Really? Who made the move first, you or Danny?”

Kon crossed his arms. “That obvious?”

“Honey, you forget I fell for a Midwestern dork myself, I know what that looks like,” Lois said as she motioned with the knife. “Besides, you were cuddling with him. You only let your group cuddle with you and even then you shove them off half the time.”

Kon opened is mouth to protest, but couldn’t actually find any words to defend himself with so he just frowned.

“Well?” Lois asked with a teasing smile. “Who made the move?”

“Me,” Kon grumbled. “A little one, but then Danny made me talk about it, and I maybe kissed him.”

“Look at you go! Proud of you, kid,” Lois said.

Which was a surprise.

“…yeah?”

“Yeah. Like I said, it was clear that you were sweet on him. It’s too easy to do nothing about a crush. I’m proud that you did something about it,” Lois said. It sounded true.

“I… thanks,” Kon said. He rubbed at his cheek. “But I don’t know what to do for a date. Dates weren’t exactly something that Lex had downloaded into my brain like math.”

“I wouldn’t trust anything that Lex thought about dates anyways,” Lois said dryly.

Kon thought abut that for a moment. “Yeah, okay, true. But that still doesn’t help.”

“We’re getting there!” Lois said and tossed another piece of apple at him.

He caught it and munched on it as a way to stay quiet.

“A movie date is still a classic,” she said. “But if Danny is feeling better, there’s always bowling or roller skating. There’s this grate place—I did a story on the women there once—that’s a roller derby rink but when there aren’t matches, it’s just a place to skate. They use the funds to help pay for the team, but it’s also set up to be a safe place for queer teens and young adults to hang out at. That might be something fun.”

Kon thought about it. “…that could be fun, yeah. Do you remember the name of it?”

Lois shook her head as she piled all the apple splices onto a plate with some cheese slices. “Not off the top of my head, but I can pull it up at work tomorrow and text you to it, okay?”

“Yeah, that’s great,” Kon said and stole a slice of cheese. “We wouldn’t do anything before Friday anyways, bit chem test coming up.”

“Ugh, chem, please tell me you don’t need any help with that one.”

“Nope, that I did get downloaded into my brain,” Kon said with a grin.

“Well, about time Lex did something useful,” Lois joked as she headed off to find Jon with the snack plate. “Other than making you I mean, honey!”

Kon ducked his head an rubbed at his cheek. Under his breath he mumbled, “…thanks, Mom.”

[leo-in-the-pitt]

The Aftermath

Summary: After a traumatic event happens to you, your almost 2 year relationship with Jack Abbott hits a wall. What will it take to bring you two back together again?

Warnings: Established relationship, implied age gap, topic of sexual assault, trauma, mental health struggles, strong language, mostly fluff.

W/C: 5.5K+

This is a sequel to Look Out For Her (highly suggest reading that first so this story makes sense)

The Morning After

As much as you found comfort lying in Jack’s arms after the night you had, nothing could keep your mind at ease. You managed to sleep for a couple hours thankfully. When you woke up around 7AM he was still asleep and had his top arm around you but managed to pull his arm out from under you without disturbing you. As much as you loved this man to death, you felt suffocated under the weight of his arm. You thought to yourself if he could move his arm without waking you up, you were sure you could move his without waking him up. And you were right. 

You grabbed a fresh set of clothes so you could go take a shower. And what better clothes to grab than his. Snuck out of the bedroom, making sure to close the door behind you so he didn’t hear you, and went into the bathroom. 

Your eyes were puffy from all the crying just a couple hours earlier. For a second, you forgot that your hand was broken as you leaned against the bathroom sink. The pain went shot all the way up your arm. You almost yelled but then remembered Jack was still asleep. 

You walked out of the bathroom wearing basically all his clothes. His boxers, t-shirt, even his socks.

The sun was already coming out so you decided to open the shades and sit on the couch closest to the window. Across from you, thrown over the kitchen bar stool was his Beers of the Burgh sweater that you had on only a couple hours ago. The sweater that the man slid his hands in to grab your waist. Under the sweater was the hospital belongings bag with your other clothes, the red dress and black heels. 

A sense of overwhelming guilt hit you. Why did you wear that dress? Jack picked it out for you. You were supposed to be wearing it for him, not for strangers at a bar. Why didn’t you hit him sooner? Yell for help sooner? You could’ve stopped it earlier but, you didn’t. And you didn’t understand why. 

You heard the floorboards in the hallway creaking. He was awake. 

“He’s, how long have you been out here?”

You wiped your eyes, not even realizing that you had fallen asleep. “Um I- I don’t know.” 

“You’re wearing my clothes.”

“Oh yeah”, you looked down at yourself, “sorry they’re just comfier I guess.”

You hadn’t looked at him since he walked over to the living room. 

He leaned his head down to get a better look at you. “You alright? Wanna talk now maybe?”

“Yeah I’m fine. Think I just need to relax today, hands really bothering me.”

You ignored his second question. He definitely noticed. 

“Do you want to go to the police station today?”

Shit. You forgot you had to do that. Was just hoping he’d have charges pressed against him without you having to speak about what happened again. 

“Uh yea- yeah, don’t really think I have a choice. Should probably just go now and get it over with.” You shook your head and looked up at him. 

He looked sad. Almost like he was disappointed in himself for what had happened to you. 

“I’ll come with you.”

“No, Jack it’s okay, I can go by myself.”

“I wasn’t asking.” He shook his head at your. “You’re not going alone.”

“You’re not going to take no for an answer are you?”

“No, I’m not. Lets go. We’ll get you some food after.” 

You walked into the bedroom together. 

“What does someone even where to the police station?”

“Um, well it’s warm out but windy. You can take my sweater that on the chair out there if you want?”

“The sweater I had on yesterday Jack? Really?”

“Sorry. I forgot. What do you want me to do with the stuff in the bag?”

“I don’t know just shove it all in the back of the closet or something.”

And that’s exactly what he did.

———————————————————————

It felt like you were in the police station forever. It was only an hour. On the way out, you felt off. Couldn’t exactly pinpoint what it was. Definitely not the hand. 

Your heart began to beat faster. You felt sweaty, mouth watering. 

You two walked down the steps of the police station and you had a slight wobble in your step.

“Jack I- I don’t feel good.” 

“What’s wro- “

He didn’t finish his finish before you ran over to the bushes. You threw up right there. 

You were breathing deeply. Fast. 

“Fu- fuck. Fuck.” You put your head into your hair grabbing your hair. 

“Shit! Are you okay?” He put his head on your lower back. 

You jumped away. 

He stepped back and put both hands up. 

“S- sorry.”

“No sorry, sorry. It’s not you, it’s just- I don’t know. It’s like I can still feel his hands on me. I don’t know. I know it’s stupid but I- I”

“Babygirl, it’s not stupid. Something awful happened to know. Nobody expects you to be okay. You’re allowed to fall apart. I’ll be right here to pick you back up.” 

You smiled softly at him. 

“Come on, let’s go home and get you some food.”

———————————————————————

Jack stopped by your favorite diner on the way home to pick you both up breakfast and while he was inside, you decided to call Langdon. 

“Hey kid, been waiting to hear from you. Did you go to the police station yet?”

“Yeah I’m actually heading home from there now.”

“Abbott with you?”

“Uh yeah, he’s in the diner right now actually picking us up some food. Just don’t think I wanna be around people right now.”

There was a pause. 

“You two okay though?”

“I don’t know maybe, maybe not, I- I don’t know. I know that he’s blaming himself for this and maybe I blame him a little for it too. I- I know I shouldn’t but if he didn’t lose his shit over the possibility of me leaving, I wouldn’t have left last night. None of this would be happening. So I don’t know what’s gonna happen with us.”

“Did you talk to him about any of it yet?”

“I don’t know if I can. He knows what happened and that’s basically it. None of what’s running through my head though.”

“Well maybe it’s worth a seat down conversation. He actually just called me right before you did.”

“He called you while he was in the diner didn’t he? So you already knew that he was with me.”

“Uh yeah- yeah I did. He just wanted me to check up on you. He knows you’re gonna try to play the tough guy in front of him and not tell him everything. Told him I’d try to knock some sense into you.”

“Not sure anyone can knock any sense into me right about now.” 

“If anyone’s gonna help you through this it’s going to be him. You guys are basically the Pittsburgh Trauma power couple. Basically the real life version of Meredith and Derek.”

You smiled and let out a little laugh. The first time you had smiled since before it happened. 

“Alright, take care of yourself kid. And take care of that hand. You’re gonna need it when you become an attending here.”

Shit. Forgot your interview for the attending position is next week. 

“Talk to you soon.” And you hung up the phone 

And with perfect timing he was walking to the car with the food. 

“Alrighty, let’s get my girl home.” He leaned in to kiss you. 

You pulled away quick. It lasted less than a second. It was different. You didn’t know how but it didn’t feel the same. And you could see on his face that he felt the same.

———————————————————————

Once you got home, you went straight to the bathroom to freshen up and put his clothes back on. 

As soon as you walked into the kitchen, you saw that he had set out the food already. 

“They had that cheesecake you love, it’s in the fridge if you want some later.”

“I don’t really know if I have the appetite for all of this right now.”

“That’s okay, could eat the rest of it later if you want?”

“Yeah maybe”

You barely touched any of your food despite it being your favorite. Jack noticed but, didn’t say anything about it.

There wasn’t much conversation for the rest of the day until you were getting ready for bed.

Jack walked into the bedroom. “Hey so I’m going to be home with you the rest of the week.”

“I didn’t ask you to do that.”

“Yeah I knew you wouldn’t ask but, I don’t really think you should be alone right now so I talked to Robby and got some time off.”

“What else did you tell him?”

“He just knows about the hand. Nothing else. Told him that you would call him when you’re ready.”

You didn’t say anything, just crawled into bed.

“Look I’m just trying to help you out here.”

“Well you weren’t there to help me when I really needed it so what’s the point now Jack?” You got into bed facing away from him and pulled the covers over your shoulder.

“You already know that I blame myself.”

He let out a sigh and he shook his head.

“Think I’m just going to sleep on the couch tonight.”

You could here it in his voice. What did you just do?

——————————————————————— 

One Day After

You went in person the next day to talk to Robby in person early before Jack woke up. He stayed on the couch the entire night. You told Robby most of the story.

“So you sure you want to push the interview back? We could just do it right now if you wanted?”

“This isn’t exactly how I planned on interviewing for an attending job here Robby.”

“Well if I’m being honest with you, you don’t need to interview. The job is yours if you want it.”

“Wait, what?” Your jaw was on the floor.

“I’ve seen you grow into an amazing doctor here. Your not the same person you were when you walked through those doors as a med student and I think that’s for the best. The way you treat your patients, the way you teach the newer residents, you’re always trying to learn something new. This things can’t be taught. It what we need around here.”

“Robby I- I don’t know what to say.”

“Don’t say anything. Think about it. Talk to Jack about it. Let me know. Whatever you decide we’ll all be here to support you. 

“Not sure he wants to talk to me right about now.”

“If I know anything about him, it’s that all he wants to do is talk to you.”

———————————————————————

Two Weeks After

You went back to work two weeks after it happened. One week after Robby offered you the attending position. Jack still didn’t know. He just thought you pushed the interview but, didn’t ask to when.

You started back on nights with Jack. Robby offered to let you do days for the last 2 and a half months of residency but, you just wanted things to go back to normal. So you kept the same schedule and went right back to being chief resident. Things were awkward between you two at home but, at work you managed to keep it civil and everyone thought you two were fine but, truth is you were far from it.

Jack and you had been carpooling to and from work and you typically had to wait for him. Today he was taking longer than usual. 

“I’m sure you guys will be fine.” Said Robby.

“I don’t think we will. She won’t even talk to me. We’ve had maybe 5 conversations since it happened. She blames me for what happened to her.”

“You just have to give her more time Abbott. This isn’t going to be a quick fix. Her hand is still shattered. She cancelled all her interviews. You can’t expect her to be okay with everything going on.”

“Wait, wait, wait. What do you mean she cancelled her interviews? What about the interview here?”

“So I’d be right in assuming she never told you?”

Abbott shook his head. “I’m in the dark here man.”

“She already had her interview. She took the job here. She told me last week. She said she talked to you though.”

He put his head in his hands. “She just doesn’t trust me anymore.”

“Don’t say that.”

There was a pause, “I don’t know I- I guess I should return it then.” 

“You bought the ring already, didn’t you?”

“Bought it 2 months ago the day after we walked past that jewelry shop and she dragged me inside to look at them. Figured her looking at them with me meant she was ready for the next step but, I don’t know anymore.”

“You guys have already been through so much together, you can’t give up on her now.”

“I just thought we’d be in a better place by now.”

“When were you planning on doing it?”

“Once she finished residency. Once she got the job here. I wanted to step into the next part of our lives together. Watching her career take off as we start planning a wedding. Looking at houses with spare bedrooms for a future kids. Start thinking of baby names. I’m ready for the whole thing with her Robby but- but I don’t think we’re going to make it that far anymore.”

“Does she now you’re planning all of this?”

“She called me the night it happened. Right before it happened. Left me a voicemail that she was sorry and loved me. I tried to call her back. It went straight to voicemail, told her all of it, that she’s it for me. I was leaving that voicemail as it was happening to her,” his voice cracked, tears started to fill his eyes, “I couldn’t help her.”

Robby put his arm around him. 

“None of this is your fault and it’s definitely not hers either. You need to sit down and tell her all of this before it’s too late.”

Down the hall, Landon saw you waiting.

“Damn kid, why are you still here?”

“You haven’t seen Jack around have you?”

“Yeah, he’s in Robby’s office. Want me to go get him?”

“No, I got it.”

You walked down the hallway with your bags. You’d been waiting over half an hour for him. And you were pissed.

You opened the office door without knocking. “Hey boys, I’d like to go home if that okay- oh shit, sorry didn’t mean to disturb you guys.”

You didn’t expect to see Jack standing there on the verge of tears with Robby comforting him. 

He reached into his pockets and pulled out his car keys. “Here. I’ll be right there.”

You took the keys and left.

“Just talk to her Jack. The only way out is through brother.”

You waited outside for him, standing against the hood of his car.

He finally came outside. His eyes were red. He was crying. In the 4 years of knowing him and almost 2 years of dating him, you’d only seen him cry once after losing a patient.

He walked up to the drivers side door and tried to open it. 

“Can you unlock the car please?”

“No, I want to talk about what that was in there?”

He took a deep breath, “We were talking about you. That what you want to hear?”

“What’d I do this time?” You glanced over at him. 

“Think it’s more of what you’re not doing. You can talk to me you know? I’m just here to help you. Please let me help you.” He pleaded.

“I’m fine.” You looked down at the ground. 

He walked over and stood directly in front of you. You took a slight step back without realizing it. 

“I can’t even get within 2 feet of you completely losing it. We’ve kissed once in 2 weeks. You won’t let me touch you. At all. Were you going to tell me you took the job here? You keep things secret.”

“I don’t want to talk about this now.”

“Okay so if not now then when? You wanted to talk remember? We’ve been together for almost 2 years. You’re really going to push me away now? After everything that’s happened”

“Jack I- I’m not trying to push you away, I just- You have an out if you want it.”

“What the hell are you talking about? 

“I won’t blame you if you want to leave me. I’m not okay, and- and I probably won’t be for awhile and I don’t expect you to just sit around and wait for me.” 

You turned to walk around and get into the car. He grabbed your arm to stop you.

“Jack, just let me go please. You have to be the one to end this. Please. I can’t be the one to leave.” 

“No, fuck no, I’m in this. I can’t leave you. I’m never going to leave you. Just- just please trust me. I’m here for you, I’m here with you.”

Tears filled your eyes.

“You deserve better Jack.”

“Ple- please talk to someone. You need help that I can’t give you anymore. Please.”

And with that you fell into his arms.

——————————————————————— 

One and a Half Months After 

After your talk in the hospital parking lot, you agreed to start going to therapy. Which, much to your surprise, was actually helping.

Jack went on Tuesday and Thursday in the morning to his sessions and you went to yours. You’d meet up afterwards for breakfast at your favorite diner to talk over coffee afterwards. 

The first few sessions were rough. You struggled to open up but, once you did, you realized just how much trauma you’d accrued these past 4 years. 

“Hey babygirl, how’d it go?”

“Well today we just talked about you, so that was nice.”

“Should I be scared?” He laughed. 

“Um well actually she thinks that I’m scared to let you touch me because it reminds me of that night…”

Jack nearly choked on his coffee.

Coughing he said, “And do you agree with her?”

“I think so, I- I mean I’m not scared of you. Just the last person to put their hands on me changed me in ways I didn’t even know was possible. I know you aren’t him and I know that you won’t hurt me. It doesn’t make any sense and I’m sorry. If I could change it I would.

“No, I mean, I get it. You’re allowed to feel that way.”

You and Jack hadn’t had sex since before it happened. What was once an occurrence multiple, multiple times a week, was now unheard of. 

Yeah it was only a month. But it was a long month for you both. Especially him and you could tell. There was a few instances were to tried to initiate something more. A couple high school like make out sessions but, you always pulled back before things got too far. 

“I’m sorry Jack, I just think I need more time until we can be intimate again.” 

“Did she tell you how much longer that might take?” He was laughing. 

You chuckled lightly, “Wish I could tell you.”

“It’s okay, you’re worth the wait.”

———————————————————————

Two And A Half Months After

There was 2 weeks left until you were going to just be a resident anymore. You’d be an attending running all your own cases. 

4 years ago you never saw this coming. Working as An Emergency Room Physician in your dream hospital with your favorite people in the whole world.

Your hand finally healed. You were finally able to do everything pain free. Guess Jack bribing the best physical therapist in the hospital was worth it after all.

You and Jack were surprisingly better than ever. Still living together. You were going to be working night shift too once you started so you’d be seeing a lot more of each other. Which you didn’t know would be a good or bad thing. But you were hopeful.

There was still no intimacy between you two.  It almost happened after you showed him the outfit you were going to wear to your residency graduation but, once again it was you the stopped it. And he was still as patient as ever. 

———————————————————————

Three Months After 

The day of your residency graduation was finally here. You did it. You fulfilled your lifelong dream. Going to be working with some of your best friends. The best people you could have ever imagined working with. 

You walked out of the bedroom wearing the outfit that Jack was ready to rip off of you the day you bought it. A long red dress. 

He licked his lips as he looked you up and down. 

“You look good. Like really fucking good. That’s my attending physician right there.”

He was wearing a slim fitted black suit. His shoulders. His waist. The way his silver curls shined in the light. You thought to yourself, maybe tonight is the night you can finally jump over that last hurdle in your relationship. 

“You don’t look too bad yourself Dr. Abbott.” 

God you could jump this man right here and now.

“You know I love it when you call me that.” He did sideways smirk that always drove you crazy. “Come on, let’s go, wanna go show you off.” 

The ceremony was quick. There was only 5 in your graduating class. And everyone else was leaving the program to go somewhere else. It would just be you left here. 

You took pictures and videos with everyone. They would all be leaving right away to move for their new jobs and you didn’t want to forget this moment. It was the best day you had in as long as you could remember. All your problems just melted away that day. 

You may have had too much to drink throughout the day but, to be fair, so did everyone else. 

“Glad she’s doing so much better.” Said Robby. 

“Yeah, me too.”

“You guys all good?” He glared over at Abbott.

“Uh, yes and no.”

“Do I want to know what that means?”

“I don’t know, are you my friend right now or her boss?”

“Well we were friends way before she came along.”

“She’s gonna kill me for telling you this,” he took a deep breath, “we haven’t had sex in three months.”

“Jesus Christ, Jack.” Robby shook his head. 

“It’s not me I swear, I’ve tried, a lot actually. It’s just hasn’t happened.” 

“I don’t know, maybe all this excitement and joy today will help you out.”

“God I really hope so. Not sure how much longer I can hold out.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t have told me that.”

“All I know is, I’m going to marry that girl. Soon if I can help it”

The day came to an end and all you could think about was getting Jack home and ripping him out of that suit. Tonight felt like it could be the night. 

Jack walked you back to the car. He opened the passengers side door for you like he always does. But before you sat down, you put your hands on his chest. 

You looked up into his green eyes shining in the light from the gleaming sunset and ran your fingers through his silver hair. And kissed him. The spark was back. 

Yeah kissing him always felt special. But something changed after that night 3 months ago. But it was back now. 

He kissed you back. His arms now wrapped around your back pulling your bodies together. Hands wondering. You were on your toes as your mouths meet. He let out a slight moan as his tongue slid into your mouth. 

After about a minute, you pulled away. 

“Take me home Jack.” 

“Absolutely.”

The entire drive home, he kept one hand on the steering wheel and the other on your thigh. Nothing was said but, you could feel the excitement. 

You got out of the car as quickly as you could. You normally waited for him to come and open your door for you since he would get mad if you opened it yourself but, you couldn’t wait this time around. 

You were stumbling as you two walked up to your apartment. Definitely wouldn’t failed a sobriety test. And he noticed. 

“You okay?” He asked as he put the key into the apartment door. 

“Yeah, maybe just one too many drinks. I’m fine though, I promise.”

As soon as the apartment door was closed, you threw your body onto his. 

The kiss was passionate, raw. You slid his suit jacket off and threw it onto the couch. You slipped off your heels and started to unbutton his dress shirt. 

Just as you reached for his belt buckle he gently pushed your hands away. 

“What’s wrong? I thought you wanted this?”

“Not like this, you’re drunk. You don’t wanna do this for yourself, you wanna do it for me.”

“No, I’m not. I want this, please.”

“You are. And that’s fine, you had a lot to celebrate today. And I want to do this. My god you have no idea how badly I want to do this but- but, no not like this.”

“Are you sure Jack?”

“Yeah, yeah I’m sure. It’s fine. Don’t worry. Think I’m just gonna go jump in the shower real quick. It’s late we should probably get some sleep.”

You didn’t sleep the entire night. Just tossed and turned. 

Once the alarm clock woke you up, you just sat on the edge of the bed. 

Jack rolled over and saw you sitting there. 

“What’s wrong babygirl?”

“What happened last night Jack?”

“Which part?”

“The part where you don’t want to have sex with me anymore.”

“You know I want to have sex with you all the time.” He laughed.

“So why didn’t you last night?”

“Cause that was all the alcohol talking. You wanna sleep with me because I want to sleep with you. Not because you want it. Not because you’re ready for it.”

“I am ready for it.”

“If I got up right now and tried to have sex with you, you’d stop it.”

“Yeah, because I’m not in the mood now.” You shrugged.

“You always used to be in the mood couldn’t get you off of me before,” he laughed, “you’re not ready and that’s fine. I’ll be here waiting for you. The sex is amazing, don’t get me wrong, earth shattering actually but, it’s not everything to me. It’ll happen when you’re ready. “

“What did I do to deserve you?” You laid back in the bed with him. 

“And I ask myself the same thing about you everyday.”

———————————————————————

Two Weeks As An Attending

You took no time off in between finishing residency and starting work. Graduation Thrusday and work starting Monday. Jack would be at work anyway, so you had no one to spend all that time with. 

The first week was filled with paperwork and classes you didn’t even know existed. The next week you were already starting work. Meeting all the new interns, starting all your new responsibilites. Work was occupying your mind for the most part but, next week was your 2 year anniversary with Jack. 

Of course he was going to plan something big and romantic, especially since you were on such good terms now. Besides the no sex part.

He forced you to go shopping a couple of days before your anniversary. You were filling a box all the things special to him. And at the bottom a photo album with all of your favorite pictures together. You figured he had to be planning something too since he was out of the house the entire day. 

He was out planning with Robby. 

“So you and Langdon have to go pick up the flowers.”

“I thought Collins was getting the flowers.”

“Oh for fuck sakes…”

“I’m just messing with you. We went over this a million times, we got this.”

“I’m planning a proposal in 4 days and you think it’s time to joke?”

“Just trying to help Abbott.” Robby laughed and put his hand on Jacks shoulder.

“You can help by making sure you get the fucking flowers on time.” Jack pulled back.

“Just trying to calm you down brother. I already told you if you want I’ll get Collins to subtly bring it up to her to see what her thought are.”

“No absolutely not. She scares easy.”

He knew you too well.

“And you don’t think this big proposal will scare her?”

“No, no it won’t. When we first started dating, she used to so me all these proposal videos, telling me what she liked and didn’t. She even has wedding ideas saved in her phone. She’ll love it, I’m sure.”

While Jack was finalizing the details of your marriage proposal, you were out buying his last gift. A new watch. He kept saying that he needed a new one and would show you which one he had his eyes on. But he always said he wanted it personalized, so that’s exactly what you did. 

It was expensive. But the new salary was definitely helping. The two of your initials were engraved on the back, along with the original day you met when you were still in med school and the day he asked you to be his girlfriend. 

You explained that to the jeweler who was giving you the watch when you were picking it up. 

“Maybe you can add a engagement day or wedding day on there soon enough!” 

“Yeah we’ll see about that I guess.” You awkwardly laughed remembering the voicemail he left you the night it happened. 

As soon as you walked out of the shop, you called Langdon. 

“What’s up ki- “

“We have a big problem!”

“Oh god, what happened this time?”

“What if Jack proposes on our anniversary?”

There was silence.

“Langdon if there’s any moment where you’re actually quiet for once, it should not be right now.”

“Sorry thought there was more to what you just said. Not sure I’m really seeing why you’re freaking out. Wouldn’t that be a good thing kid?”

“Yeah obviously it would be the best thing ever…” 

“I’m sensing that there’s more on your mind.”

“Well I mean we’re obviously in a good place now it’s just that- “

“Spit it out kid.”

“We haven’t had sex in 3 months.”

“Yeah I could’ve gone the rest of my life without knowing about your sex life.”

“You’re my best friend Langdon, I need to tell somebody about this.”

“Has anyone like tried to initiate something or?”

“Well yeah obviously, we both have. It just hasn’t worked out in our favor obviously.

“You just gotta give it some more time. You’re both probably trying to wait for the perfect moment.”

“What if the perfect moment doesn’t come?”

“It won’t. You both just have to stop overthinking everything. Trust me, I doubt that this is the end of your sex life kid.”

You finished telling Langdon about everything you bought for Jack and decided you should go home before he starts to think that you’re making a break for it before your anniversary.

All of the gifts came together the way you imagined. But his actual gift, was you. You were ready for him. You were ready to have sex with him again. You were since the night of your graduation. And you were ready to convince him too. 

As you walked up to your apartment door, you could hear Jack talking to someone. It was Robby. 

“Oh shit, I mean hey babygirl, didn’t know you’d be back so soon.” He walked you to you to give you a quick kiss. 

“I’ve been gone since 10.” 

It was now 4PM. 

“Time flies when you’re having fun I guess. I should probably start heading home anyway, Collins is waiting for me.”

And with that he was just you and Jack. Alone.

“So what were you guys up to?”

“Nothing just hanging out. Boring guy stuff you know.”

“You guys hang out like everyday at work. Is that not enough?”

“Guess not. Uh you wanna order some food or something?” He was speaking faster than usual. 

“Are you okay Jack?”

“Yeah, why?”

“I don’t know, you just seem frazzled or something.”

“Nope all good over here. I think we should order some food. Maybe watch a movie or something” And he picked up his cellphone.

You just stared at him. He didn’t look up. But you watched his fingers against the screen. He wasn’t scrolling looking for somewhere to order food from. He was typing.

To Robby: She knows brother. She knows.

There was only one thought racing through your mind in that moment. Oh my god. He’s going to propose.

———————————————————————

This one goes out to the handful of people that wanted a second part!

Obviously there has to be another part and I think we all know where that one’s heading. Or do we?Actually have plans for another 2 parts at least. The next one might be rated M for mature if you know what I mean. You'll have to wait and see.

See you next time! :)

[lightsoutmatthews]

Emergency Contact - Sidney Crosby

summary: after an incident at work you wake up in the hospital, much to your surprise your ex-boyfriend is there too

pairing: Sidney Crosby x female!reader

word count: 3.2k

warnings: hospitals, fainting, mentions of needles, age gap relationship (reader described to be in her mid 20s)

authors note

greetings from the sunny South of France

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

When you blink your eyes open you were in an unfamiliar setting. A rhythmic beep was coming from somewhere, but you couldn’t quite make out from where because consciousness hadn’t completely returned to your body yet.

You didn’t know where exactly you were. The last thing you remembered being suddenly feeling incredibly ill on the way to your next meeting and no matter how hard you tried to think about what happened next you could not remember.

You had a few very stressful weeks. A big project deadline was coming up at work and in the middle of all of it you broke up with your boyfriend.

Sidney and you ending wasn’t something that came completely out of the blue, it wasn’t like you were fighting or anything dramatic turned the tide in your relationship. Life got busy. Not living together and him being gone half the month wasn’t helping to keep the relationship what it was in the beginning.

Sometimes you thought he felt bad for keeping you in his house during the weekends. “You´re young, you should be out partying not watch old movies with me on the couch.” He once said to you. When you tried to argue that you loved the quiet evenings with him, he just shrugged it off.

The ten-year age gap hadn’t been something that bothered you. You enjoyed a quiet life after being the life of the party when you were in college. Settling down in your mid-twenties something you hadn’t imagined for you but weren’t complaining about.

But you knew it bothered Sidney sometimes, that paired with the lack of seeing each other lead to the eventual end of your relationship.

It wasn’t an easy talk but neither of you had hard feelings. You had gathered your things from his house with the promise to drop his off as soon as you had time to gather them and that was the end of it.

Sure, you missed him and deep down you knew there would always be some sort of feelings for the man you had spent almost a year with, but it wasn’t the worst break-up you ever had.

Locking eyes with exactly that man when you fully gained consciousness again was not what you expected.

Sidney looked exhausted. Like he hadn’t slept in days. Head hung low; a penguins hoodie draped over his broad shoulders; team issued sweats on his legs. He looked like he was fresh out of practice and didn’t have time to change yet.

You blinked a few times to make sure you weren’t imagining him being there. While doing that you finally fully realized where you were. A hospital room. A needle poked in the back of your hand, a bag with fluids hanging on a metal rod next to you. Stiff sheets wrapped around you.

“Oh great, you´re awake,” a nurse, entering your room, said. Sidney’s head snapped up immediately, his dark eyes locking with yours. “Do you remember what happened? Or why you are here?” she questioned, while you still starred at your ex-boyfriend with an open mouth and wide eyes.

Closing your mouth when her words registered, you tried to remember once again, but nothing came back to you.

“The last thing I remember was being at work, rushing from one meeting to the next and then I woke up here,” you mumbled. The nurse wrote something down on a tablet she was carrying before looking at you with kind eyes.

“You fainted at work. One of your co-workers called an ambulance because you weren’t waking up for a few minutes and they were really worried. You have been resting for a couple of hours now. How are you feeling?” she explained the situation.

Blinking a few times a faint memory of being in the ambulance came back to you. The unsteady back and forth on the uncomfortable bed. While the paramedics moved around you but that was it.

“I remember being in the ambulance,” you whispered. The nurse nodded before facing the tablet again.

While she was doing that your eyes went back to Sidney. The hospital chair was too small for his large frame. He was fidgeting with his hands; a look of worry firm on his face.

“It´s good that you seem to be feeling better. The doctor will be with you in a few to explain to you what the next steps are but I´m sure your boyfriend can take you home in a few hours.” She nodded towards Sidney, who stiffened when she mentioned the word boyfriend.

That was the first time you questioned why he was here. You weren’t together anymore, there was no reason for anyone to call him or for anyone connected to you to have his number in the first place.

“I´ll be back in a bit,” the nurse waived goodbye before stepping out of the room, closing the door behind her quietly.

Carefully you tried to sit up, but exhaustion was still lingering all over your body. “Stop trying to move so much, you need rest,” his firm voice came out of nowhere. He had been a silent observer of everything ever since you woke up, so you were taken aback a little.

A few beats of silence followed. You tried to gather the courage to ask why he was here. He was thinking about something too, you knew by the expression on his face.

You swallowed. Your throat dry from hours without water.

“Here,” Sidney said, getting up, handing you a cup that was placed on a table next to the bed. “Thanks,” you coughed out before taking a greedy sip from the cup. “Go slow,” the man in front of you uttered.

After a few gulps your throat started to feel better, and you felt like you were able to speak normal again. Sidney had returned to his chair, back to kneading his hands and thinking.

“Why are you here, Sid?” you quietly questioned.

The hockey player ran his hand over his face, letting out a sigh before answering. “They called me. Apparently, I´m still your emergency contact.” You closed your eyes, swallowing hard. Removing him from the list of contacts was on your list of things you needed to do, but since the last weeks were so busy you simply forgot. It´s not like anyone expected you to land in the hospital any time soon.

“I´m sorry.” You eyed him up and down. “Did they call you away from practice?”

You had stopped following the Penguins soon after the two of you broke up. You weren’t a hockey fan before you met him, only watching games for him during your relationship, stopping soon after it ended.

“Yeah, not off the ice but from the weight room.” You swallowed hard again. You knew how serious he took his training and discipline. Him leaving the facility to get to you at the hospital not something you had even expected from him during the relationship, much less now.

“I´m sorry they called you away. You didn’t have to come.” His brows furrowed. “What am I supposed to do when a hospital calls me, telling me my girlfriend passed out at work and is admitted into it because of severe exhaustion? What would they think of me if I didn’t show up?”

His image was one of the most important things to him. No scandals, ever. He was just here to protect that, you thought.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that,” he added before you could say another word. “I didn’t mean it in a way of being who I am but what kind of boyfriend I would be.” You turned your head to look directly into his eyes again.

“But you´re not,” his features tightened. “They don’t know that.”

Turning back to stare at the celling you let out a deep breath. Your head was starting to hurt and the quiet grumble in your stomach slowly began to be more prominent. It made you a little uncomfortable that he was just staring at you without saying anything. Like he could see right through you and your thoughts.

“You can leave if you want to, I´m sure you have more important things to do than watch your ex-girlfriend at the hospital. I call my sister to pick me up later.” Sidney let out an incoherent grumble before looking at you like you had just offended him.

“I´m good,” he said before grabbing his phone, that was lying face down next to him and began typing. Probably to coaches or teammates, letting them know that he would not come back to the facility today.

Based on the fact that he was still here you figured that he didn’t have a game today. If he did, he wouldn’t have disrupted his routine. He was so superstitious in that department. If he didn’t go through his usual routines before a game, he was convinced he would have a bad game.

When you were still together it took you a while to come to terms with it. But there was never a day where you didn’t respect his wishes. You knew he was who he was because of what he did.

Heavy silence cast over the room. Neither of you knowing what to say. Was small talk something appropriate for this? Should you ask him about hockey? Tell him about why you were so exhausted?

In the end you decided against it. He wasn’t your boyfriend anymore, there was no reason for you to share all that with him.

“You should let your co-workers know that you´ll be alright,” Sidney suggested, when he stopped typing into his phone a few minutes later. “One of them kept calling earlier but I didn’t know if they knew about us, so I didn’t pick up.”

You looked over at the small table next to you bed again. Your phone laid there abandoned. “There is no us, Sidney,” was the first thing you argued. His features got hard. “I didn’t want to assume.”

“Assume what? We broke up weeks ago, yes, I told them about it. It’s not like it was supposed to be kept a secret right? Hardly anyone knew we were together anyways.” It wasn’t supposed to be an accusation, but you realized that it came out like one.

He valued his privacy. Only people close to him knew about your relationship. Family, friends, his team and a few selected others. You weren’t complaining. A life in the public eye like his was, wasn’t something you ever intended on having.

“Sorry, I didn’t want that to sound so accusing,” you backtracked immediately, just like he did earlier. Your head had started to pound, feeling like it was about to explode. Rubbing your temples you closed your eyes again, hoping it would go away when you shut out the bright overhead lights.

When you opened them again a few minutes later the room was cast in darkness. The only light coming from Sidney´s phone screen. He was typing again, not noticing that you had opened your eyes.

You observed him for a bit. While you couldn’t see much you could see that the grey streak in his hair got more prominent since you last saw him in person. His expression was stern, but the familiar softness of his features wasn’t lost in it. He was still as beautiful as you remembered him. Looking effortlessly put together even in his team issued sweats and with tussled hair.

“I can feel you staring,” he chuckled. “Hard not to look when you look like that,” you laughed back, grimacing immediately when a sting pinched through your head. You didn’t mean to flirt but something in the air made it impossible to react normal to his presence.

“The nurse should be here with some painkillers any minute,” he added before putting his phone away, giving you his full attention again.

Speaking of the devil the nurse from earlier softly opened the door and stepped in, followed by an older woman in a white coat.

The nurse handed you a pill and another cup of water, while the woman, who you assumed was the doctor, checked the monitor you were hooked up on.

“Wonderful to see that you are awake. Mr. Crosby told us that you´re experiencing a strong headache. That’s normal after fainting. It should go away with the ibuprofen and rest. You´ll be as good as new in a few hours.” She turns to face Sidney.

“When you take her home, she needs to rest.” She turned back around to face you this time, speaking again before you could tell her that Sidney would in fact not take you home. “No work for a few days, you need rest and after that you need to take it slow,” she added with a stern expression.

You opened your mouth to say something, but Sidney was faster. “I´ll take care of it.” His deep voice sent a shiver down your spine. “Good, we´ll get the results from the lab in about forty-five minutes, I´ll come back then and you should be able to leave after that. But again, no work, nothing that could induce too much stress.” You nodded, fear overtaking your thoughts.

You still had the project due next week and since you were one of the leading designers, taking days off before it was set to launch. The team was capable, you knew that, but there was no way you wouldn’t be there to oversee the last steps.

“I´ll be back in a bit,” the doctor said, before rushing out of the room.

Sidney shuffled in his chair. He seemed nervous all of a sudden and from experience you knew that it took a lot to make in nervous. “You can leave if you have to, I´ll get out on my own.” Your voice was quiet, you weren’t even sure he heard you but when he sucked in a deep breath before standing you assumed he had.

What you hadn’t assumed was that instead of leaving like you just offered him he walked over to your side. Suddenly being close to him sent a shiver down your spine. His familiar scent took over your nose and let goosebumps rise on your arms.

A few seconds passed without anyone saying anything. You looking anywhere but in his general direction but at the same time feeling his glace on you. “Do you want to talk about it?” he asked.

For a beat you weren’t sure what he meant but then it clicked in your head. He wanted to know what was going on, why you passed out at work. The look of worry on his face still as prominent as when you first woke up.

Taking a deep breath, you brushed a stand of your hair out of your face before answering. “They promoted me to lead designer for the project, like you know and ever since then responsibilities were piled on my head. Not like small things, more like I had to redesign one entire page of the website because one of the new hires messed something up by accident. Then I had constant meetings with the board. They´re insisting that everything about this is perfect. One wrong move and the entirety of the team will face consequences.”

You took a short break, taking another deep breath, considering your next words carefully. “And then in the middle of all that my boyfriend and I broke up. Which might have seemed inevitable and predictable but still nagged on me for weeks.”

For a second you had hesitated before speaking. Debated with yourself if you should bring it up as one of the reasons why you were so stressed right now. But you felt like he deserved to know.

“I´m sorry,” you blinked. Starring at him in silence, not understanding what exactly he was sorry for. “I did a lot of thinking since and breaking up the way we did was wrong. We… I should have worked harder to make it work.” He ran his hand over his face once again, turning away, but you grabbed his hand before he could fully walk away.

“Sid, this is not your fault. It´s a lot of stressors coming together at an unfortunate time. You and I ending was unavoidable. Work getting busy right at the same time is just a coincidence.”

“You and I ending was avoidable.”

His statement lingered in the room like a heavy cloud. You didn’t understand what he meant.

Looking at him for answers he seemed to calculate his next words very carefully.

“I thought I was holding you back. You´re only 26, that´s young. I thought you should rather be out with your friends on a Saturday night than on the couch with me or at the arena watching me play a sport you don´t even like. That´s on me. I should’ve listened to you when you told me it’s what you want.”

His confession surprised you and while he was right, and you were glad that he could see that he was projecting something onto your relationship that was entirely untrue you weren’t sure why he was coming out with it right now. At the hospital. Where he only showed up because you forgot to remove him as your emergency contact.

“Why are you telling me this now? And why here?” you questioned.

“Getting the call and seeing you in here made me realize I never want to not be there when you need someone to be by your side. Doesn’t matter if it´s in the hospital or at your big work presentation.” He tightened the grip you still had on his hand. “I want to be there, if you´ll still have me.”

You swallowed hard. This confession hitting you even harder than the first one. You didn’t assume he was still feeling for you like before.

Weeks had passed since the two of you broke up. Life moved on and so did he, or so you tought.

Him standing here, in your hospital room, asking you if he could still be the guy that stands by your side through life, something you never imagined happening. But your heart immediately fluttered when he spoke the words. Lingering feelings of something you still had just a few short weeks ago bubbling back up before you could even try to swallow them down.

Being with Sidney was good. Being with Sidney was something you wished you had never given up for weeks after the initial conversation happened and now you had it right in front of you again.

“Sid…” you started. His hopeful eyes dimming immediately at your tone. But you spoke again before he had a chance to intercept. “… if we want to try again, we really need to set some rules, okay?” He nodded slowly.

“We can discuss them later, I mean I am still in the hospital, and I should rest before my boyfriend takes me home.” His hear perked up at the word boyfriend his face totally different than earlier when the nurse called him the same thing.

“So, you´re giving us another chance?” A smile spread across his face. “Yeah, Sid. I´m giving us another chance.”

He grabbed your hand, the one that still had a hold on his and placed a subtle kiss to the back of it.

“I will work harder to make this work, I promise,” he mumbled against it. “Let´s not talk about this now,” you reminded him. “Just kiss me.”

And who was he do deny you.

[gyubakeries]

HtBDaSTGYM presents: Method 1 - Love Potions

test subjects: kim mingyu x f!reader

word count: 2.9k

contents: college au , friends to lovers , love potions , lowkey witchcraft , verkwan cameo , cookies as a plot device , crack treated seriously , this is just Silly , the slightest bit of angst , inspired by descendants 1

verification: Trust Me Bro

sources: thank you serena ( @gotta-winwin ) and ally ( @lovetaroandtaemin ) for helping me finish this fic with your motivation + inspiration 🩷

series masterlist

seungkwan, focused on his assignment due in four hours, startles in his seat when you plop down onto the chair next to him, a guttural groan leaving your lips. he’s pretty sure the librarian shoots a dirty glance in your direction, followed by passive aggressive motions towards the bold ‘keep quiet’ sign in the library.

“what did kim mingyu do this time?” seungkwan sighs, voice dropping to a whisper. you slam your head on the table, immediately cursing and rubbing your forehead at the impact.

“he’s being too nice,” you whine. “it would be so much easier if he was a mean asshole who wasn’t the literal human embodiment of a golden retriever!”

“so this is wh​​at first world problems sound like,” seungkwan mutters. he then puts his pen down to turn his body and face your figure, currently slumped over the table in defeat. “look, if his existence bothers you that much, stop being around him!”

“it’s not a bother,” you click your tongue. “it’s annoying because i like him so much and can’t do anything about it.”

“why not?”

“seungkwan, have you looked at me?” you deadpan. “mingyu is way out of my league. there’s no way he’d like someone like me.”

“then make him like you,” seungkwan shrugs.

“and how do you suggest i do that, genius?” you roll your eyes and scoff.

seungkwan simply smiles in response and clasps his hands together. you only have a few moments to feel extremely terrified before seungkwan says, “let dr. boo teach you how to.”

“this feels like a scam.”

“please don’t hurt my ego.”

“.... alright.”

—

for seungkwan’s ‘masterclass’, he drags you out of the library, assignment forgotten, and into his dorm room. his roommate, hansol, doesn’t even spare a glance at seungkwan’s strange antics, as if he’s seen this play out multiple times before.

seungkwan takes you into his room and instructs you to sit down in the middle of his bed.

“okay, enlighten me,” you look up at seungkwan expectantly.

“the most fool-proof method of getting your crush to like you back, pause for dramatic effect,”seungkwan mutters under his breath before continuing, “is by making a love potion.”

there’s silence for a few moments, only to be interrupted by hansol loudly munching on chips while leaning against the doorframe. you raise an eyebrow at him, and all he says is, “watching seungkwan be delusional is my favorite hobby.”

“i’m not being delusional!” seungkwan argues. “my methods are tried and tested.”

“yeah, right,” you snicker. “who exactly has tested your methods?”

“i have!” seungkwan says with pride. “the love potion is real. ask hansol.”

“hey man, don’t turn this on me,” hansol raises his arms in defense. “i haven’t been given any potion.”

“remember that one week when you begged me to bake you cookies every day?” seungkwan hums. “what do you think was in those?”

“no way,” hansol’s eyes are wide with surprise. “i just thought your grandmother passed down some killer cookie recipe.”

“she did,” seungkwan nods, facing you. “that’s where i got my love potion recipe from. does it sound legit enough?”

“not even close,” you shake your head. “but i’m desperate, so teach me.”

“i’ll be glad to,” seungkwan chirps, and you momentarily think to yourself, what have i gotten myself into?

—

“hey, y/n! good morning!” the familiar voice makes you whip your head back, butterflies going crazy in your stomach as mingyu walks up to you. he looks effortlessly handsome in a simple hoodie and jeans as he comes to a stop next to your locker, canines peeking through when he smiles.

“how was your weekend?” he asks, and you pray to every divine presence watching that you aren’t a blushing mess.

“oh, it was fine,” you reply. “just trying out new things.”

“like what?” mingyu asks, and somehow, the ever-present twinkle in his eye seems even brighter. you wrack your brain to come up with any answer that won’t give away exactly what you’ve been doing over the weekend.

“a new recipe,” you finally reply. “you know, the tiktok recipes are becoming too interesting not to try.”

“but i thought you said you were terrible at cooking?” mingyu’s eyebrows furrow, and you mentally kick yourself for your flimsy lie. making seungkwan’s love potion-infused cookies hadn’t been easy, given your lack of basic cooking skills, but you had managed to scrape together a batch of cookies that were edible, not burnt, and baked all the way through.

“i had some help,” you smile. hoping that you sounded convincing enough.

“so, what’d you make?” mingyu asks, and you nearly sigh with relief. you had been thinking of ways to bring up the cookies in conversation, but thankfully, mingyu did all the work himself.

“i made some cookies,” you reply, and mingyu’s eyes light up.

“please tell me they’re choco chip,” he gasps, squealing when you nod in confirmation.

“would you wanna…. try them?” you offer hesitantly, not knowing just how much you could ask of mingyu before he got suspicious. fortunately for you, mingyu was like a giant dog whose tail starts wagging the instant he hears anything about food.

“yes! i’d love to try some,” he nods eagerly, and you couldn’t be any quicker in pulling out the box of cookies from your bag. mingyu watches closely as you open the lid, the smell of warm, fresh cookies filling the air. he doesn’t hesitate to reach into the box and grab a cookie, immediately taking a huge bite out of it.

you watch with bated breath as mingyu chews on the cookie, humming with satisfaction as his eyebrows scrunch together.

“y/n, these are heavenly,” mingyu groans. “do you mind if i take another one?”

you remember seungkwan’s instructions from earlier that week. the more cookies he eats, the stronger the effect of the potion is.

“of course! take as many as you want,” you grin, holding the box out for mingyu. he takes the box from your hands and reaches in for another one. you only watch (with heart-eyes) as mingyu finishes three cookies within five minutes.

“these are seriously so good,” mingyu sighs, closing the lid on the box. “do you think i could take the rest of these home?”

seungkwan’s voice speaks up from a corner of your brain. ‘the potion will work in your favor only if you are the first person mingyu sees after eating the cookies. you can’t let him have it anywhere else, or he’ll be in love with someone else.’

“no!” you reply, wincing at how loud your voice sounded. “i mean, i was saving some for myself too….”

you hate how quickly mingyu’s smile fades, shoulders drooping instantly as he hands the box back to you. “i see,” he says, looking dejected. “you can have these back.”

“i could make you some more!” you offer, trying to bring back the smile you loved seeing. “you can come over this weekend, and i can make you some more cookies, if you’d like.”

“really?” mingyu asks. “i won’t be too much of a bother?”

“you’re never a bother to me,” you say, and you hope that mingyu can tell that you really meant the words.

“awesome! i’ll see you on saturday,” mingyu grins. “i have to get to class now, but text me what time works for you, yeah?”

you frown. seungkwan had mentioned that the potion takes a couple of minutes to work, but mingyu’s behaviour was still normal.

“sure! but, uh, do you have anything you want to tell me?” you question, wringing your hands together with nervousness. mingyu stays silent for a while, his eyes locked onto yours, and for a second, you think that the potion really has worked, but the only answer that leaves his lips is: “great cookies! you’ve underestimated your cooking skills.”

as mingyu walks away to get to his class, it’s your turn to feel dejected as you think, why on earth did the cookies not work?

—

“something probably went wrong in the baking process,” seungkwan assures you over the phone, later that week, two hours before mingyu was scheduled to come over to your apartment.

“you told me your recipe was easy! what could’ve gone wrong?” you throw your hands up, frustrated.

“maybe ask yourself that,” seungkwan rolls his eyes. “my recipe is perfect, maybe consider that you did something wrong?”

you sigh. you did end up doing something wrong with five batches of cookies before the last batch had turned out good, so it wasn’t too unbelievable of a proposition.

“fine, then at least tell me what i should do now,” you plead. “this is probably my last chance to make this work, and i can’t screw it up.”

“don’t worry, i’ve got you,” seungkwan comforts you. “get the ingredients ready, i’ll guide you through every step.”

an hour later, the cookies were baking away in the oven as seungkwan busied himself with doing karaoke in his room, and you cleaned up the kitchen. the bottles of ‘magical’ ingredients seungkwan had given you, labelled unicorn vanilla essence, fairy chocolate chips, and pixie cocoa powder, were now empty, so you sweep them into the trash. the names did sound a little sketchy, but you’d rather stay silent than question seungkwan’s credibility.

“are you sure it’s gonna work this time?” you ask seungkwan, and he shoots you a glare before moving to pause his music.

“y/n, there’s absolutely nothing that could go wrong,” seungkwan says. “i guided you through the entire thing. now, just trust the process and let the magic do its thing.”

“okay, got it,” you nod. just then, the oven timer rings, and you hurry to grab your mittens to take the tray out of the oven. you carry the tray over to the cooling rack on your kitchen counter, the smell of cookies wafting through your apartment, when your doorbell rings.

“wait here, kwan, i’ll go check who’s at the door,” you tell your friend before hanging up and heading over to the front door, mittens still on your hands. you open the door, and then your jaw drops.

“mingyu?”

“hi!” mingyu chirps. he looks good; good enough to make your brain short-circuit when he smiles at you. you’re so caught up in your thoughts that it takes you a while to realize that he’s also holding out a bouquet of flowers for you.

“you didn’t have to—”

“i wanted to,” mingyu cuts you off. “you’re making me cookies, and i felt bad for showing up empty-handed, so i got you these flowers. you said you liked tulips, right?”

you blush instantly, smiling bashfully as you take the bouquet of tulips from mingyu. “i love them, thank you. please, come in.”

mingyu trails behind you as you lead him into the apartment. you mentally kick yourself when you see a blanket strewn haphazardly over the couch, immediately going over to fold it to make your living room look more presentable. “excuse the mess, i wasn’t expecting you for…. another hour.”

it’s mingyu’s turn to look flustered as he scratches the back of his neck. “i’m sorry for showing up this early— i was excited to meet you.” when he sees your eyes go wide at his words, he quickly adds on, “and the cookies. i was really excited to meet the cookies and eat you! oh. i mean—“

“it’s alright!” you cut him off, saving him the awkwardness. “why don’t you take a seat? i’ll bring the cookies out.”

mingyu merely nods, his cheeks just as red as you imagine yours to be.

he’s probably just embarrassed, because there’s no way he likes me. the love potion didn’t even work on him! you grapple with your reasoning for some more time before settling on a version that made sense. a version that, unfortunately, didn’t involve mingyu feeling the same way you did.

ignoring the urge to cry, you head into the kitchen to pile the fresh cookies onto a plate. while you’re focused on arranging them in a pretty way, you fail to realize when mingyu enters the kitchen.

“they smell so good,” mingyu says, right next to your ear, and you can’t help but startle. mingyu smiles sheepishly, moving away from you to keep a comfortable distance between both of you.

“sorry, i keep surprising you,” mingyu apologises. “i only came into the kitchen to see if you needed any help.”

“don’t worry, you’re good,” you assure him quickly. you don’t even care about the sudden jumpscares mingyu has been giving you, not when the excitement and nervousness rising from your love potion-cookies overwhelms every other feeling.

not being able to hold back any longer, you grab the plate of cookies from the counter and slide them over to mingyu. “you can make it up to me by having these cookies.”

mingyu’s smile becomes even brighter, something you never thought was possible, as he reaches for a cookie. he doesn’t even hesitate to bite into it, and for a moment, you feel guilty for feeding him a potion without his knowledge.

“they’re even better today!” mingyu’s gasp of contentment interrupts your thoughts. “they’re fresh, warm, and the perfect amount of chewy,” he continues, raving on and on about how the ‘sea salt enhances the chocolate perfectly’ like some cookie connoisseur.

on a normal day, your chest would be swelling with pride at how mingyu, a die-hard foodie, complimented your food, but you had the love potion to worry about.

impatient and curious, you make your first mistake by blurting out: “is it working?”

at the confused expression mingyu shoots you, you can only bite your tongue at the wrong choice of words.

and then, your second mistake:

“i meant, i—uh, used some new ingredients for these cookies,” you quickly add to cover up your lie. “i just wanted to check if they were able to—”

“—make the love potion you put in these cookies?” mingyu raises an eyebrow, and your jaw drops. your heart is soon to follow when you see mingyu’s smile morph into something upset and betrayed.

“how did—how did you know?” you ask, wringing your hands together.

“y/n, there’s literally an instruction booklet in front of you that says, ‘love potion-cookies,’” mingyu sighs. “it’s pretty obvious.”

horrified, you stare at the recipe laid out in front of you. there was no way you could save yourself now. so, you decide to own up to your actions.

“mingyu, look—”

“i knew your plan,” mingyu stops you. “i knew it the day you first gave me the cookies.”

“h-how?”

“people have used it on me many times,” mingyu admits, sounding annoyed. “what sucked was that i used to fall ‘in love’ with them momentarily. even though it’d wear off in a few hours, it wasn’t the best feeling.”

“but how could you tell that—that my cookies had the potion?” you ask him, wondering why on earth mingyu would agree to eat cookies laced with potential magic ingredients.

“i’ll be honest, seungkwan’s recipe is a bit different, so i couldn’t tell at first. i only recognized the flavor of unicorn vanilla essence after the second cookie, and i knew.” mingyu reveals.

“but why didn’t it work on you?” you’re more frustrated than confused. if you did everything right both times, why hadn’t it worked on mingyu? “is it really so impossible for us to be together that not even borderline witchcraft can help me?”

“y/n—”

“this was my last resort, because i was so tired of pining after you for months and still being seen as a friend by you—”

“listen to me—”

“maybe i was never destined to even find love, because whose luck is this bad—” this time your rant is cut off by mingyu’s hands cupping your face and his lips meeting yours.

for approximately three seconds, your body freezes. you wish you could move, kiss him back, do something, but you can’t be blamed for taking a few extra seconds to process that you’re being kissed by someone you’ve liked for almost two years.

when your brain finally starts working again, you lean in closer to mingyu, placing your hands on his shoulders for some leverage as you balance on your toes to kiss him back properly.

mingyu is the first to pull away, and he even leaves a soft peck on the tip of your nose. his hands move from your face to your waist, and you allow yourself to be hugged close to him.

“the potion doesn’t work on me because i already like you back,” mingyu explains, and a heavy weight lifts off your chest. “i was too scared to confess to you, so i was kinda glad that you tried to make some move.”

“wait, so— how long have you felt this way?” you question, feeling like an idiot who can’t stop smiling.

“ever since we got paired up in the cooking contest at the college fair,” mingyu chuckles, and your eyes widen at that memory.

“oh god. that’s so embarrassing,” you complain, leaning forward to rest your head on mingyu’s chest and hide your face from him.

“hey, seeing you cry before you got to cutting the onions was hilarious!” mingyu adds on in a teasing tone, and you playfully punch his arm.

“it stung my eyes real bad! you had to be there to know,” you defend yourself, to which mingyu replies, “i was there. it really wasn’t that bad.”

“are you trying to get me to lose feelings for you right after i confessed?” you pout, and mingyu simply laughs before pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“okay, let’s never bring that day up again,” he says, and you nod in agreement.

“do you think you could make me some more cookies, though? like, at least once a week.”

“are you insane? i’m never going near an oven ever again. you are the chef in this relationship.”

“it was worth a try, i guess.”

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[missposessive]

WANTED.

cowboy!rafe cameron x fem!reader

a.n - do u remember the trend of people opening beer’s with their belt..? yeah. this isn’t really cowboy!rafe but it is cause I said so.

warnings - provocative language, fondling/groping, mirror sex, porn with plot, bathroom sex, unprotected sex (wrap it UP.), p in v sex, oral (r!receiving), implied pregnancy, creampie, pre-established relationship, mentions of alcohol, rafe hit’s (and eats) it from the back hello, NOT proofread, rushed at the end..having sex while guests are over.

You and rafe’s shared playlist echoed through your house, banter from Pogues and kooks alike. You were all adults now, you could put all of your drama and disagreements behind you. You and rafe were now married, your shiny ring a constant reminder of the love you two shared.

After laughing with Sarah about trying your new recipe, you went out back to where everyone else was, rafe’s gaze immediately finding you as he gestured over to himself. You sat on his lap, beer bottle in hand as you smiled widely.

“Shit, wait— I forgot the bottle opener.” You spoke, going to stand up, and rafe would’ve let you if it wasn’t for topper opening his mouth. “You gonna let her walk away? Can’t you just open it with your belt buckle?” Topper spoke to rafe, and everyone turned to him, including you. “What?” You chuckled out, confused about the concept as a whole.

Rafe’s hand found your hip as he moved you to sit back down on him. He gently gestured for you to hand him the bottle, which you obliged. “might get a little wet.” He smirked at you, and you watched as he brought the bottle to his belt, wrapping the cap with his belt buckle before grabbing your hand with his free one. “Tug it.” He spoke gently, and you glanced at him, somewhat getting the memo. He smirked before nodding, giving you reassurance. You tugged, and beer quickly began squirting out, drenching his shirt and some of your lap.

A few ‘ooh’s’ came out of people’s mouths, and you only stared at rafe in awe as he quickly drank some of the spilling beer, the liquid running down his chin.

And every movement that man made sent you into orbit. You felt overcome with lust and admiration, your thighs clenching together, and there was no denying he felt it. He pulled the beer bottle away from his lips and licked them, smiling before turning to you.

“I—I have to go to the bathroom, excuse me.” You spoke out, quickly standing up, rafe’s hand lingering on you for longer than it should’ve. You quickly speed-walked to the bathroom, not necessarily to touch yourself, god knows you needed it, but to just get away. The thoughts you were having about your husband at a gathering of all places was…sinful, quite frankly.

You closed the bathroom door, eyeing yourself in the mirror before sighing out, hands on the counter. After all these years, your husband knew exactly how to get you right where he wanted.

After a few minutes, you turned to exit the bathroom, just for the door to open and almost slam you in the face. “Oh— didn’t see you there, ‘m sorry, baby.” Rafe chuckled out to ease the tension, and you gave him a small smile in response. Your eyes traveled down to see the wet spot on his jeans, shirt gone. Your mouth watered and dried all at once and you could’ve collapsed immediately. But, maybe it was best you didn’t see him strip to begin with.

“You ran away..thought I should check up on you.” He spoke softly, his hand sliding on the door to open it more, and you backed up when he began taking steps towards you.

“Are you upset?” Your brows furrowed at his question. You were far from upset. “No, rafe, oh my god- no. I just needed to take a breather.” Rafe nodded at your words, but they went through one ear and out the other. He didn’t believe you. He silently thanked the years of marriage between you two, since he could call bullshit whenever.

Maybe that’s how you ended up bent over the bathroom sink, nails digging into the counter as he watched you. He sunk down a bit, his hands wrapping around to grope your tits. “I know when you’re lying to me,” he muttered out. “Rafe..” “I know what you need. ‘Know when you need it.” It baffled you how this man read you like a book, reading every page intently like there was no tomorrow.

He massaged your tits, staring at your contorting face in the mirror. “Yeah..just like that.” He spoke. A small smirk played on his lips at your expression, your noises..knowing all of your friends were right outside. His hands went under the fabric of your dress, rubbing your clit through your panties.

Or at least he would’ve if you were wearing any.

Rafe’s face fell, out of surprise, but definitely not out of protest. “Fuck, of course. Should’ve noticed when you gripped your dress so much.” He chuckle out, staring at your ass. He massaged it, occasionally stealing a glance at your face in the mirror. “Rafe..stop teasing,” you moaned out, and he cocked his head to the side.

“As you wish.”

There was slight sarcasm in his tone, but he leaned down, practically on his knees behind you as he kissed your ass before licking a stripe up your pussy. You both sighed in sync with each other. “Missed your taste.” He groaned, before fully wrapping his lips around your pussy, sucking and licking every drop of you. He was a greedy man, and you knew that.

He was relentless, every time you tried to pull away because you felt too sensitive, he gripped you tightly and pulled you back on his tongue. “No, no. Don’t run.” He spoke, breathless.

But of course, when you got close, he pulled away, slapping your ass gently as he stood up. “I’m not done with you.” You were about to let out a groan in frustration, but then you heard his belt buckle clink and his zipper go down.

“You’re lucky I’m just as pent up as you, or I’d tease the shit out of you.” He chuckled out, and you looked back at him with something of a glare before he shook his head, slipping off his jeans and gripping your chin to turn your gaze back to yourself in the mirror. “Watch yourself fall apart, baby.”

And you did just that. His boxers dropped, and after a few movements of his cock rubbing up and down your soaking pussy, he pushed himself in. It took you both a second to adjust, so he just went slow, eyeing your expression and blowing out. “Shit, rafe..” you moaned out, your eyelids already feeling heavy, but you fought to keep them open, rafe’s demand in your head. He sped up over time, and with the pace and wetness of both of you combined, it wasn’t quiet. Clapping which you prayed no one heard echoed through the bathroom, his cock pounding into your hole like this was the last time he’d be able to.

Well, maybe for the next nine months.

His grip on your hips was bruising, his hand going up to pull the top of your dress down, letting your tits fall as he watched them. “Keep your fuckin’ eyes open— fuck. Watch yourself.” He breathed out shakily, fondling your tit with one hand, the other still holding your hip.

“I can feel it. Cum for me, hm?” He smirked, his own climax approaching. “We can..shit. We can cum together.” He moaned out, which earned another one from you as you only nodded in response.

He contemplated pulling out, but he needed this. He needed you. He thought about watching his cum drop out of you, and that fueled his lust, and finalized his decision. “Gonna cum inside you, okay? Is that okay?” He spoke, taking on a softer tone. You nodded immediately, the thought clouding your mind as you whined, your body shaking.

With just a few more thrusts, rafe’s hips stuttered, his breaths growing more feverish, yours more desperate. He slowed down eventually and kept himself inside of you, making sure the cum stood there for as long as it could before finally pulling out. He leaned down and smiled, proud of himself, and you were about two seconds away from collapsing on the counter. You were fucked dumb but you loved it.

He rubbed your hips to soothe you while you came down from your high, his gaze drifting everywhere across your body. He was so infatuated with you.

“I’ll take my time with you later.” He smiled more, which earned a grin from you in return.

[mrsvante]

Where We Left Off

pairing: yoongi x reader

genre: college au, friends to lovers, angst

summary: you’ve spent years dancing around the inevitable. soft glances, blurred lines, and too many nights pretending not to want more. but when the game finally ends, nothing feels casual anymore. not his touch. not his kiss. and definitely not the way he says you’ve always been his.

warnings: mutual pining, years of tension, soft but filthy smut (tongue technology in action 😜), oral f, riding, unprotected sex, tenderly possessive, angst, yearrrrrning, morning after fluff

word count: 4,413



It starts the way it always does.

With his name flashing softly across your screen, cutting through the quiet in the way only he ever manages to.

Late, always too late, when the world outside your apartment has gone still and soft and heavy with sleep. That dangerous, in between hour where decisions are made more with instinct than logic.

You shouldn’t answer.

You tell yourself that every time, every night he calls after midnight, every moment you watch his name glow like a siren, luring you back into waters you swore you’d never tread again.

But you never hesitate. Not when it’s him.

Your thumb slides across the screen before your mind can even form the word no, and you press the phone to your ear, already sinking deeper into the warm cocoon of your blanket like it might somehow shield you from what you know is coming.

“Hello?”

Your voice is soft from sleep, wrapped in that lazy, intimate heaviness that only exists when the world has gone quiet.

But his cuts through even that.

Low. Rough.

Not broken, Yoongi never lets himself fall apart that easily, but tired in a way that makes something twist inside your chest.

“Can I come over?”

Simple. Familiar.

A question he doesn’t need to ask, but always does anyway. As if giving you the option makes any difference at all.

You could say no.

You should say no.

You should remember what you promised yourself after the last time he left in the morning without a word, pulling the door closed with a softness that still somehow managed to echo in your ribs.

You should remind yourself that graduation is weeks away, that soon you won’t live across campus from each other, won’t share classes and coffee shops and the invisible tether of we can always figure it out later.

Later is running out.

And yet…

Your resolve falters, just like it always does.

Because Yoongi, in all his quiet, unassuming gravity, has always been your exception.

You close your eyes briefly, swallowing around the thick knot forming in your throat. You know exactly how this will end. You’ve known since freshman year. Since that night he fell asleep on your dorm bed halfway through studying, his arm slung lazily over your waist, lips parted as soft breaths tickled your neck.

Since the mornings after, when he’d make you coffee and act like he didn’t remember the way he kissed you until you couldn’t speak, only to pull you right back in when no one was looking.

Since the first time you both agreed—out loud, serious faces and fragile hearts—that going back to friends was the right thing to do.

It never stuck.

Not really.

Not with him.

You sigh, already moving from your bed, already unlocking the front door without bothering to flip on the hallway light.

“Yeah,” you murmur, your voice quiet but steady.

“Come over.”

••••••••

You leave the door cracked for him, because that’s what you always do. He never knocks, never has to. You hear the soft scrape of the door as it opens, then closes, sealing the night and whatever this is back inside.

He doesn’t say anything right away.

Neither do you.

But you feel him.

The quiet weight of his presence as he toes off his shoes and pads down the short hallway like muscle memory. The subtle shift in the air as he enters your living room, where the only light is the pale glow of the TV playing something neither of you care about.

When you finally look up, he’s already watching you. It’s painfully familiar. Hands stuffed deep in the pockets of his worn hoodie, hair messy and falling into his eyes.

No pretense. No shields.

Just Yoongi, standing there like he’s still nineteen and knocking on your dorm room door with ramen and a physics textbook, asking if you wanna pull an all nighter.

But you’re not nineteen anymore.

And neither is this.

He looks… tired.

But not in the way you expected.

You sit up straighter on the couch, tugging your blanket tighter around your shoulders like armor. “So,” you start, voice sharp and cool despite the way your pulse races. “Why aren’t you with her right now?”

Yoongi blinks, caught.

Or maybe not caught, just surprised you went straight for the throat tonight.

“Her?” he repeats slowly.

“Sade, your girlfriend,” you clarify, your tone too bitter to pass for casual. “Thought she was the one keeping your bed warm these days. Why come running here, Yoongi? Did she stop answering your late night calls?”

You regret the words the second they leave your mouth.

They sound crueler than you intended.

But part of you—the part that’s been carrying this bruised thing between you for too long—wants them to sting.

Yoongi’s jaw tightens.

For a second, you think he might turn around and leave.

For a second, you almost want him to.

But instead, his shoulders drop, and something shifts in his expression.

“We broke up.”

The words land heavy and sharp, punching all the air out of your lungs at once. You stare at him, momentarily stunned silent.

“…What?”

His lips twist, humorless and soft.

“Yeah,” he says quietly, gaze dropping briefly to the floor before flicking back up to you. “A few weeks ago.”

You scramble to collect yourself, to school your features into indifference.

You fail miserably.

“Oh,” you say, voice tight.

“Why?”

You mean for it to sound casual, but it comes out hollow. Too fragile.

Yoongi steps closer, slow and deliberate, until he’s standing just in front of you. Close enough that you have to tilt your head back slightly to hold his gaze.

He looks at you for a long moment, eyes soft but heavy, like he’s weighing every single word he’s about to say.

When he speaks, it’s low. Unshakable.

“Because she wasn’t you.”

Your breath catches.

You blink, once, twice, trying to process as he kneels in front of you, resting his hands on your knees like he needs to anchor himself there.

“I tried,” he says, voice quieter now but somehow more intense. “I really did. To move on. To pretend I didn’t feel it every fucking time you looked at me, every time we crossed paths on campus, every time I caught myself thinking about how no one ever makes me laugh the way you do. How no one else feels like home the way you do.”

You can’t breathe.

You can’t move.

His fingers slide up your thighs gently, curling over them as he leans in just slightly, not enough to kiss you yet, but enough that his breath fans across your lips.

“It’s always been you,” he whispers, the confession slipping out like a sigh and crashing directly into your ribcage.

“It’s you or no one. And I’m so fucking tired of acting like I’m okay with anything else.”

Your lips part, but no words come out. Your heart is hammering too violently, your thoughts dissolving under the weight of his closeness.

And Yoongi, usually so patient, so slow and deliberate, doesn’t wait anymore.

He surges forward and kisses you like he’s been holding it back for years.

It’s not gentle.

It’s not careful.

It’s desperate and deep, all tongue and teeth and soft, broken sounds caught between your mouths.

His hands slide up, burying in your hair, pulling you closer as you clutch his hoodie with shaking fists, kissing him back just as fiercely.

There’s no hesitation now.

No pulling away.

No more pretending.

You melt into him completely, letting years of longing bleed out through every press of lips and swipe of tongue, until all that’s left between you is heat and the terrifying, beautiful certainty of finally.

When he pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his breath is shaky, his voice roughened with emotion when he whispers, “No more running.”

You nod, your lips brushing his as you murmur back, quiet but sure.

“No more pretending.”

And this time, you both mean it.

You feel it in the way he shifts immediately after, pushing you gently but firmly until your back meets the couch cushions.

His body comes over yours in one fluid movement—balanced on his forearms so his weight doesn’t crush you, but close enough that his presence consumes everything.

He looks down at you like he’s memorizing.

Like he’s apologizing.

Like he’s claiming.

“Been thinking about this for so long,” he breathes, kissing the corner of your mouth, your cheek, your jaw, each press slower than the last.

You hum softly, sliding your hands beneath his hoodie, smoothing over his warm skin with shaky fingers.

“Since when?” you whisper, arching slightly when his hips press lower, slotting perfectly against yours.

He hesitates, eyes flickering—exposed, honest in the dark.

“Since freshman year,” he admits, voice raw. “That stupid night we stayed up finishing that music theory paper… when you fell asleep on my lap.”

You remember.

Of course you do.

You remember the way his fingers ghosted through your hair as though he didn’t realize he was touching you so tenderly.

You remember the scent of his hoodie and the sleepy, startled look in his eyes when you woke and your faces were too close. You remember not speaking about it. Not daring to.

But now…

Now, he kisses you again. Slower, sweeter, pulling your bottom lip gently between his teeth before releasing it, his voice breaking on a confession you know has been years in the making.

“Thought I could ignore it,” he whispers, lips brushing yours. “But then you kissed me sophomore year, after that party… and ruined everything.”

You gasp softly, laughter and ache mingling as you clutch at his sides, your fingers pressing into his skin.

“That was your fault,” you murmur, smiling through your breathlessness. “You said I looked pretty that night. You never said shit like that back then.”

Yoongi laughs into the kiss, soft and boyish, and devastatingly fond.

“You always looked pretty,” he says quietly. “I just got brave enough to admit it.”

You laugh with him, but the sound fades when his hands slip lower, sliding beneath your sleep shorts.

Warm palms on bare skin, slow and fervent as they coast along your thighs, spreading you open with a gentleness that makes you tremble.

The air shifts again.

Laughter dissolves into soft, shaky breaths.

You rut up against his fingers instinctively, eyes fluttering closed, until his voice—low and commanding—pulls you back.

“Look at me.”

You obey.

Of course you do.

His eyes are molten when they meet yours, heavy with restraint and years of unsaid things.

“No more hiding,” Yoongi whispers, his voice nearly breaking. “I want to see you.”

Your throat tightens at the weight of it. At the way this suddenly feels so much bigger than anything that’s come before.

And when he slides his fingers beneath your panties, dragging through your slick heat, you gasp, hips chasing his touch instinctively.

“Fuck, you’re wet already,” he mutters, his mouth brushing across your jaw, your cheek, your lips. “So eager for me, huh?”

You nod, helpless.

“Yoongi—” you breathe, shivering when his fingers circle your clit with agonizing slowness.

“I know, baby,” he soothes, kissing you tenderly even as your body writhes. “Been waiting too. Let me take my time.”

And he does.

For long, torturous minutes, he touches you ardently—circling, stroking, slipping inside until your thighs shake and your head falls back in desperation.

By the time he pulls away to rid himself of his sweats and boxers, you’re wrecked. Lips kiss swollen, eyes hazy, chest heaving.

But there’s no rush.

Even when he’s bare before you, flushed and heavy, cock already leaking, there’s only devotion in the way he watches you as you strip his shirt from your body, leaving you naked beneath the faint glow of the TV.

Yoongi’s gaze devours you.

His lips part, eyes darkening as they drag slowly down your body, his voice rough when he finally speaks.

“Fuck… you’re so beautiful.”

You shiver beneath the weight of it, and when you swing your leg over his lap, settling into him slowly, deliberately, his hands fly to your hips, steadying you.

The shift is immediate.

The press of him beneath you makes your breath hitch, and your fingers cradle his face, pulling him in until his eyes—dark and swimming with tenderness—meet yours.

“Keep looking at me,” you whisper, voice breaking with emotion.

“Don’t look away.”

His lips curve faintly, his throat working as he nods.

“Never.”

You kiss him again—soft, loving—as you shift, grinding softly until the thick head of him nudges at your entrance.

You don’t tease.

Don’t hesitate.

You rise slightly, guide him to where you need him most, and sink down slowly, achingly slow, until he’s seated deep inside you.

Yoongi releases a shaky groan, head dropping to your shoulder as his arms wrap tight around your waist, holding you to him like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

“Fuck, fuck…” he murmurs, voice shredded.

You hold still for a moment, your own breath shallow, your hands threading through his hair as you press soft kisses to his temple, waiting for the fullness to become something bearable.

When he finally lifts his head again, his eyes are molten—wide and soft and devastating.

“You feel like everything,” he says quietly, like he almost can’t believe it.

“Always have.”

Your heart clenches, but you don’t cry.

Not yet.

Instead, you start to move, slow, rolling motions, your hips circling gently, pulling him deeper with every glide.

His hands roam everywhere—up your back, cupping your ass, sliding across your ribs like he’s desperate to feel every part of you at once.

But his eyes never leave yours.

“That’s it,” Yoongi whispers, his lips ghosting across yours. “Stay with me. Don’t look away.”

You don’t.

You couldn’t if you tried.

You ride him slowly, grinding and tilting until the rhythm becomes everything—until pleasure builds so steadily it threatens to unravel you both.

“Yoongi…” you gasp, your body trembling as the knot inside you pulls tighter.

His grip tightens, his own hips lifting to meet yours in sync.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers roughly, worshipfully. “Always.”

That’s what undoes you.

Not the stretch.

Not the perfect drag.

It’s the words.

You cum with a soft, breaking cry, clutching him tightly as your walls pulse around him, your entire body going rigid and then liquid all at once.

Yoongi follows moments later, hips stuttering as he releases deep inside you, his hold on you tightening as he presses his forehead desperately to yours, whispering your name like a vow.

You collapse together, breathless, shaking, still joined—arms wrapped tight, lips brushing in the tender quiet that follows.

••••••••

You’re still breathless when it happens.

Still full of him and clinging to his side, loose limbed and warm, hearts beating in sync beneath thin layers of sweat and soft, uneven breaths.

Yoongi kisses you lazily, lips brushing yours over and over like he can’t bear to stop, even when the kiss is more air than contact.

But there’s something shifting beneath his softness now. Something simmering, low and heady, and impossible to miss. You feel it in the way his hands, once gentle and still, start to roam again.

Up your back.

Down your thighs.

Across your hips, fingers dragging possessively as though relearning your skin even though he was just inside you.

“Yoongi,” you murmur softly, voice spent, already anticipating the haze of sleep.

But he pulls back just enough to look at you, and his eyes have gone dark again.

Not harsh or demanding.

Just… starved.

“I need more,” he says, voice low and frayed with something deeper than want. “I need to taste you.”

Your breath stutters.

Before you can respond, or can even fully process the shift in him, he’s sliding down your body.

Slowly, deliberate, like he’s savoring every inch.

He takes his time, giving his full attention to your breasts. Wrapping his lips around your sensitive nipples as he grips the weight of them in his hands, kneading, licking, nipping.

His lips and tongue leave wet, open mouthed kisses across your belly, your hips, your inner thighs. Pausing only to murmur softly against your skin, words that melt straight into you.

“Thought about this too much,” he confesses, his voice barely above a whisper but loaded with years of longing. “Every fucking time you smiled at me.”

He kisses higher, lips dragging just beside where you need him most.

“Every time you laughed at my stupid jokes…”

Higher still, his breath hot as his nose brushes your sensitive skin.

“Every night you left my room after those late study sessions…”

You gasp softly when his tongue flicks out, tasting the mess between your legs, your release mingled with his, and he groans low in his throat, the sound filthy in the quiet room.

“Fuck, this—” he rasps, mouth already moving again, kissing and licking as if your taste alone is holy.

“This is ours. Do you know that?”

Your hands fly to his hair as he buries himself there, his tongue dragging slowly and firmly through your folds, lapping up everything you gave him like it’s exactly what he’s craved all these years.

“You and me,” he murmurs brokenly against your pussy, his words lost slightly in the wet sounds of his mouth and tongue working in lazy, devastating strokes.

“It’s always been this.”

You whimper, your hips lifting helplessly into his mouth, thighs trembling as his hands press them wider, keeping you open for him.

His tongue flicks softly over your clit—once, twice—before wrapping his lips around it and sucking gently.

The noise that rips from your throat is wrecked.

“Yoongi—oh, fuck—”

“That’s it,” he whispers, pulling back just briefly to kiss your inner thigh, his lips sticky and glistening. “Let me have it. Let me make you fall apart again.”

He doesn’t stop.

His tongue returns with purpose now, flicking and circling and stroking until your body arches sharply, fingers twisting tightly in his hair as your orgasm begins to creep up your spine, liquid and insistent.

And all the while, he keeps talking. Soft, filthy truths spilled against your cunt as though he can’t hold them in anymore.

“I wanted you for so long.” He mumbles, sucking on your clit.

You shiver, a broken sound spilling from your lips as your walls flutter around his tongue. He continues with his confessions, “Thought I could be patient. Thought I could stay quiet.”

Your head is spinning with pleasure, fingers tightening in his hair.

“But you ruined me. You ruined me for anyone else, and I love you more for it.”

Your vision blurs.

Everything tightens, the pleasure cresting with terrifying speed as Yoongi shifts, sliding two fingers deep inside you while his mouth never stops moving.

You cry out his name, breaking apart all over again.

This time wetter, messier, with his fingers curling perfectly inside you and his tongue flattening against your clit until you’re shaking uncontrollably beneath him.

But Yoongi doesn’t stop right away.

He kisses you through it, slow and soothing, lapping up every drop as though committing the taste to memory.

When he finally pulls back, his lips are slick and swollen, his cheeks flushed.

His eyes are half lidded and heavy with something that looks suspiciously like love.

“I love you,” he whispers hoarsely, sliding up your body again until he can kiss you properly, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

“I love you, I always have.”

You kiss him back weakly, too wrecked to speak, your arms winding tightly around his neck as you pull him down fully on top of you.

His weight feels perfect there.

Settling.

And when he buries his face in your neck again, breathing deep like he can’t get enough, he murmurs the softest thing yet.

Words you barely catch as you drift toward sleep.

“I’m never letting you go.”

You don’t respond.

You just kiss him again—slow, lingering, grateful and terrified all at once. Because this time, you both know there will be no going back.

And you don’t want to.

Not when forward means him.

••••••••

It’s the sun that wakes you.

Gentle, unhurried, slipping through the slats of the blinds in soft golden ribbons that stretch across the sheets and pool warmly against your bare skin.

You shift slightly, limbs heavy with a familiar ache — thighs sore, muscles lax and humming faintly from hours spent tangled beneath Yoongi.

For a moment, you forget.

Not truly. Not really.

But enough.

Enough that the haze of sleep has you floating, suspended between the past and now, until you feel him.

Heavy and warm and wrapped around you like he belongs there. His arm, thrown lazily across your waist, fingers curled possessively against the soft swell of your stomach. A thigh slotted firmly between yours, hooking you close, anchoring you even as sleep clings to him.

His face, pressed to the curve of your neck, lips parted against your skin as his slow, steady breaths fan out across your collarbone.

And his scent, warm and familiar. Skin, faint sweat, a hint of your shared release still clinging faintly to the sheets and to him.

It hits you then, soft but deep.

The realization settling slow and sweet beneath your ribs.

Oh. This is real now.

The thought is tender now, not terrifying.

Not anymore.

You shift, turning carefully until you’re facing him, until you can see him properly in the muted morning light.

Yoongi stirs almost immediately. Brow furrowing softly, and his grip tightens instinctively, pulling you closer before his eyes even flutter open.

A quiet, gruff sound escapes him. Thick with sleep, the barest edge of whine beneath it.

“Mm… where you going?”

You can’t help the soft smile that curves your lips.

Your fingers lift automatically, carding gently through his messy hair, pushing the strands from his eyes as they finally blink open, bleary, half lidded, but heavy with affection.

“Nowhere,” you murmur quietly. “Just wanted to see you.”

A slow, sleepy grin tugs faintly at his mouth. Lopsided and warm and boyish in a way that makes your chest ache. He hums in response, nuzzling slightly deeper into your touch, eyes flickering lazily over your face like he’s cataloguing every detail.

Neither of you speak for a while.

You just look.

Like maybe you’re both still trying to believe it.

That this happened.

That this is.

Eventually, he breaks the silence. His voice soft, so careful, but tinged with something fragile beneath the playfulness.

“Last night…” he trails off, eyes flickering between yours. “That wasn’t just—”

“No,” you interrupt gently, shaking your head before he can finish.

You cup his cheek softly, your thumb brushing tenderly along the curve of his jaw, anchoring him.

“Of course it wasn’t.”

Something inside him visibly eases at your words.

His shoulders, always tight even in sleep, loosen fully as he exhales slow and deep, his eyes slipping closed briefly as if letting himself feel it for the first time.

“Good,” he whispers when he opens them again, pulling you even closer until your foreheads press softly together, noses brushing.

“Because I meant everything I said.”

Your lips brush his when you smile again—faint but sure, full of quiet certainty.

“I know,” you whisper back. “I believe you.”

The kiss that follows is slow. Languid and lazy. Your lips sliding gently, no urgency left.

It feels like gratitude.

Like peace.

When you finally part, Yoongi’s eyes shine brighter in the morning light, clearer now, like sleep and secrecy have finally burned away.

“Are we…” he starts softly, but hesitates.

You tilt your head, teasing, eyes glinting playfully.

“Are we what?”

His lips twitch, though his voice stays serious beneath the hint of amusement.

“Together now?” he asks, and there’s something unexpectedly shy about the way his fingers fidget against your hip as he says it. “Like… for real?”

Your heart twists in the best possible way. Not with fear or uncertainty. But with overwhelming fondness and the soft, slow flood of relief.

“Do you want to be?” you ask quietly, though you both already know the answer.

Yoongi doesn’t hesitate. “Yeah,” he breathes, voice certain and steady, eyes never leaving yours. “I want to be yours. I want you to be mine.”

You kiss him again, this time faster, grinning against his mouth as his arms wrap snugly around your waist, pulling you fully onto his chest.

“Okay,” you murmur, lips still brushing his. “Then we are.”

Yoongi hums, satisfied, his hands sliding beneath the blanket to cradle your hips as he buries his face in your neck again.

“Good,” he murmurs sleepily, his voice muffled but teasingly possessive.

“Was tired of pretending you weren’t mine anyway.”

You laugh softly, warmth blooming deep in your chest as you card your fingers through his hair again, pressing a lingering kiss to the side of his head.

“Same,” you whisper, softer now. “So tired.”

He hums again, low and content, before mumbling against your throat,

“Stay here a little longer. Just wanna hold you.”

You do.

You stay pressed together in the lazy quiet, legs tangled beneath the sheets, until the sun climbs higher and hunger finally forces you both from bed.

••••••••

Later, the kitchen is filled with soft laughter and sleepy bickering.

Yoongi teases you mercilessly as you accidentally burn the eggs, while you roll your eyes fondly when he struggles to work your ancient coffee machine, grumbling like he hasn’t made coffee with it for years.

It’s easy.

So easy, it makes you ache.

You share a plate, sitting pressed hip to hip on the counter, his knee bumping yours, his arm slung comfortably across your shoulders as you lean into him.

Every few minutes, he kisses your temple or tucks your hair behind your ear like he can’t help himself.

“Still feels like us,” he murmurs eventually, voice thick with affection and sleepy wonder as he glances down at you.

You smile softly, fingers brushing lightly against his thigh.

“It’s always been us,” you whisper, steady and sure.”We’re just picking up where we left off.”

He doesn’t argue. He just leans in and kisses you slow and sweet, right there in the kitchen, still in yesterday’s clothes, half finished breakfast forgotten.

As though this, right here, is everything he’s ever wanted.

And everything he’s finally allowed himself to have.

masterlist

[onemillionwordsofcrap]

OKAY SO I didn't actually work at the dollar store, I worked with a company that did inventory. We would travel between various dollar stores and a few other stores in the general tri-state area--job was basically ride a van for 1-4 hours, count all their shit, go home. Almost every co-worker was a queer addict with at least one prison story. It was amazing and I 100% would have stayed on that job if the loss of sleep + eating on the road didn't fuck up my body so much.

Predictably, with that kind of lifestyle, people carry around a few pick-me-ups. Including the boss, a sleepy-looking extremely gay millennial about my age with a lot of fun stories to tell and a lot of incredibly inappropriate jokes. We made friends basically instantly.

So this day, I was low on sleep and just feeling generally down and crappy. And the boss was like "You seem down, you want a gummy?" while handing me a wrapped gummy.

You see, dear reader, this is the point where the miscommunication occurred: I assumed this was a CBD gummy. I have limited experience with CBD but I thought for a second and went. You know what I DO want a gummy. So I took the entire gummy. Without reading the label. While my boss watched in horror.

And THEN upon looking at the label I realized it was not in fact a CBD gummy. It was cannabis + three different types of mushrooms, including Amanita. Based on his reaction, I quickly gathered that an entire gummy was likely not an appropriate dosage during the workday.

I was like okay, I'm a heavy girl and my doctor has mentioned how I metabolize substances pretty fast, I'm gonna work as long as I can and see what this shit does. First I started noticing my counts were off by 1-2. Then I started losing count completely. Then I started experiencing time as a series of layers. Around the time I realized that I was having tunnel vision and losing time every few seconds I put down my equipment and retreated to the back room of the dollar store.

What followed was my boss and co-workers laughing at me and making stupid puns trying to get me to laugh, me trying to remember how to use the restroom and vaguely wondering if I was going to be able to control my bladder (I did), and me freaking out wondering how the hell I was going to get home without my mom finding out while time dilated into something resembling a fucked up timey-wimey lasagna. When my boss realized I was definitely not getting back on the floor anytime soon, he led me to the van, put on the air conditioning and let me sleep it off. I turned on a track of rain sounds and spent roughly the next four hours meeting God, who it turns out looks like shimmering pattern of mermaid scales, and unburdening repressed guilt.

By the time we made it back into town I was lucid enough to contact a cool friend to help me get home and tell my mom I had the stomach flu. I wasn't normal for about 36 hours. The gummy was called "Fuck'd blend" and it does exactly what it says on the tin. I ordered some more.

Overall I do not recommend experiencing psychedelics for the first time in a dollar store but I'm glad my ex-co-workers are cool people and nothing particularly bad happened lmao

incredible website

[shurisneakers]

unsolved (xiv)

Summary: Bucky doesn’t even believe in the paranormal. So who the hell thought it was a good idea to stick him in a series about everything haunted for the internet’s amusement? With his loose-canon of a teammate who has no concept of subtlety or shits left to give, to make things even worse. (Buzzfeed unsolved AU)

Warnings: swearing, frustrated bucky, obnoxious reader, seasickness,

A/N: hey how are we feeling about bucky barnes being back with a fuckass bob. old man's got JOKES. im gonna kiss him.

Previous part || Series masterlist

There’s a book open on his lap but he’s not touched a single page. You’ve got a few books strewn across in different distances from you– physics, psychology, cooking. 

He’s stretched out across the floor with his legs thrown over your lap, back against one of the bookshelves. One leg has already fallen asleep since he hasn’t moved in the last two hours. The other digs its heel into your thigh every time he shifts.

You’ve got a clipboard balanced on top of his shins and a pen in your mouth.

You’re scribbling.

He watches you, warily, feeling the indents of the shelf in his back.

His phone plays the Velvet Underground at a volume just above whispering. 

But the library is warm. And you snuck a flask of something warm past the librarian, and wouldn’t tell him what exactly he was drinking but told him to trust you, and he did. 

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Nothing.”

“You have a clipboard.”

“It’s for science.”

“You’re making that face.”

“I have one face.”

“You have at least three,” he mutters, eyes drooping. “And the one you’re making is never good news.”

“I’m not,” you say, offended. “I’m just cataloguing your responses in different haunted locations.”

Bucky stares. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And thorough.” You tap the page. “Okay. Quick question. Rank these: ghost orphanage, blood motel, mirror forest, murder mansion, possessed gas station.”

He sighs and leans his head back against the books. “Too much effort.”

“C’mon. Based on vibes, then.”

“Vibes? I almost got murdered at the gas station.”

“So that’s a ten?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Silent agreement. Got it.”

He shifts his foot just enough to knock the clipboard sideways. You catch it easily.

“You’re avoiding,” you sing.

“I’m surviving,” he replies, eyes closed.

You poke his leg with your pen. “I’m just trying to map it out, Buck. There’s a pattern, I know it.”

He cracks an eye open. “And what happens once you figure it out?”

You shrug. “Then I stop dragging you into the ones that hurt. Or I keep doing it, but I bring snacks.”

His smile is slight, but his foot settles again.

You take that as a go-ahead.

“Okay,” you say, chewing the end of your pen. “Would you say your discomfort in haunted locations is more visual, auditory, or tied to–”

Bucky lifts his phone and mutes the song. The chimes disappear into silence.

You blink. “...Was that dramatic or are you helping?”

“Helping,” he says flatly. “You can’t do a field study with a soundtrack.”

You grin down at him. “God, you’re such a good test subject.”

“Don’t make it weird.”

“Too late.” You blow him a kiss. A stupid, immature, teenager-y part of him takes it to be as close to the real thing for now.

“Shouldn’t have let you bring me here.”

“I literally just said hi and you asked where we were going.” 

“Shut up,” he mutters. 

And then you return to your clipboard, tongue caught in your cheek, already mid-question again as his eyes flutter shut.

You don’t say anything for a while. Just the soft scratching of your pen, the hum of the muted light overhead, the quiet rhythm of him breathing, slower now.

You glance over.

He’s still got his eyes closed, head resting back against an old copy of Emma, mouth relaxed in a way it rarely is when he’s awake.

You’re about to poke him again with the pen when you remember something.

“Oh,” you say, like it’s nothing. “By the way. Our next case is a haunted cruise ship.”

He doesn’t open his eyes. Just lets out a low, long groan.

“That shit makes me seasick.”

You smile, soft. “Okay. Then I’ll find something else.”

He shifts slightly, still not looking at you.

“Nah,” he mumbles. “It’s fine. We’ll go.”

“You sure?”

“Mhm.”

He shifts again, lazily, until he’s rolled halfway onto his side, legs still slung over your lap, arm tucked under his head.

Settled.

You stare at him for a second longer, pen hovering uselessly above your clipboard.

Then you look down and write:

Subject may be growing fond. Possibly attached. Observe further.

And beneath that, smaller:

Also: seasick. Do not let steer boat.

“I just want to set the tone,” you say, stepping lightly onto the rusted gangway with arms wide and a dramatic spin. “For the record, even though you and her are the same age at the end of the movie, I am the Rose in this situation.” 

Bucky, standing behind you with a duffel bag slung over one shoulder, responds. “You mean doomed?”

“I mean devastatingly hot.”

He takes a cautious step onto the gangway. It groans. Loudly.

“This thing’s gonna collapse and then I’m going to be the one floating on driftwood,” he says. 

You glance back over your shoulder, grinning. “You’d let me drown?”

“I’d let you have your monologue first.”

“Wow.”

You spin again, wind tugging at your jacket, and gesture to the looming structure ahead.

The Odette rises out of the fog.

White paint peeled back to rust. Windows dark. Decks slanted just enough to make the walk a bit of a trek. 

The dock beneath you is warped and uneven, and the whole structure leans as if the water itself is trying to reclaim it.

“This is going to be a very romantic evening. I can feel it,” you tell him. “It’s giving summer romance on the waves.”

“It’s giving tetanus,” Bucky mutters, eyeing the railing. “Did you get a tetanus shot this year?”

“What’s a little tetanus in the grand scheme of things?”

“Do you ever process the things you’re saying or do you just freestyle it?”

You step through the hull door, flashlight flicking on with a warm click.

Inside, the ship is exactly what you'd hoped: creaking wood, disorienting reflections from old mirrors, the lingering scent of salt and mold and varnish.

It’s not ice cold, but it feels like it should be. No light enters in through the dusty windows. 

Bucky walks slowly beside you, metal arm brushing against yours as you move deeper into the central hall.

“This place is barely thirty miles from the city,” he says, scanning the space. “You’d think someone would’ve turned it into an Airbnb by now.”

“They tried three different times. One crew abandoned the job overnight. The other two refused to stay past sundown. Last contractor quit two hours in.”

He makes a noise in consideration. 

“Anyway,” you say, pausing beneath a crumbling art deco archway. “Here’s what we’re working with. 

"Then one night, she vanished mid-voyage. Off the coast near Long Island. Clear weather. No distress calls. She was just... gone. They found the ship the next morning, still running. No crew onboard. Like the whole ship had just stopped."

"Anyway," you continue.

“Look,” you say, “if I go missing on this shit, just tell people I vanished. Don’t ruin the mystery.”

“Noted,” he says dryly. 

You grin. 

The hallway smells like wet velvet.

You push open the next door and step into a long, narrow hallway.

“Oh, by the way, we’re staying overnight.”

There’s a pause. A long one.

“Sorry?”

“On the ship,” you say lightly, scrolling again. “Spending the night. Full investigation, sunrise exit, et cetera.”

Bucky stops walking. “That was not in the briefing.”

“What do you think is in the duffel bag you’re carrying?”

“Change of clothes because we’re on water.”

“You’re planning on swimming?”

“Considering I’m with you, I wouldn’t rule out anything.” 

You grin. “The ship’s tethered, you’re not getting thrown overboard.”

 “Right, ‘cause nothing abnormal ever happens around you.”

“We’ve talked about this. Racing heart, nervousness are signs that you’re in love with me, not paranormal activity.”

“I’m not in love with you.”

“Denial looks so hot on you babe.”

He rolls his eyes, moving ahead past you.]

"The ship's not moving. It's hardcore anchored, so you don't have to worry about the waves. I made sure."

"Joy."

"Unless, of course, the ship decides to set course with us in it. But then we'd have bigger problems than you throwing up."

"Thanks. Good to know."

The next room is a dining salon, or what’s left of one.

Long tables still bolted to the ground. Place settings eerily intact. The dust is thick.

You shine your flashlight along a stack of plates. They’re china. Real. Cracked at the edges but still arranged in neat piles.

“I got us sandwiches. Wanna eat it on that?”

“You’d be eating more dustmites than bread.” 

"Oh, word. Protein."

Bucky’s flashlight points toward a faded sign above the wall paneling. It reads: Midnight Banquet. Closed Event. Strictly Guests Only.

“Well, I feel deeply unwelcome,” he mutters.

You step closer to the table and pull back a chair. It’s heavy. Cold.

“They say the night she vanished, Odette was hosting one of her private parties. Whole thing was invite-only, super-exclusive. Her ‘farewell to the sea.’”

He rests a hand on the back of one of the chairs. It creaks beneath the pressure, but doesn’t move.

“Talk to the spirits,” you tell him. “They’re supposed to be real hospitable ‘cause it’s all waitstaff for the ultra-wealthy.” 

“I’m not talking to the air.”

“Just say ‘hi’, It’s common courtesy.”

He gives you a weathered look. You nod seriously.

He sighs, shifting the duffel bag to his other shoulder.

“Hello, demons,” he tests slowly, awkwardly. “It’s… James.”

“Who the fuck has ever called you James in your life? You immediately interject. 

“That is my name.”

“No one has ever called you James,” you scoff. “Hello spirits? His name is Bucky Barnes, also known as Bucky Barnes. And he is single and ready to be haunted.”

Bucky rolls his eyes so hard he might just see his brain, but the second he turns to retort with a glare, he falters. 

Golden, flickering, warm.

The room smells like citrus oil and perfume. It’s bright. There’s a glow to everything. Not artificial. Sunlight. Morning sunlight, thick and amber and alive.

You don’t know where it’s coming from.

There’s a polished table in the middle, partially set. Delicate china cups. A half-eaten grapefruit. Silverware placed with elegance. A folded napkin resting over someone’s chair, like they stepped away mid-brunch.

He looks at you, covered in the same rays you’ve dragged him to the roof too many times just before sunrise to see. It makes him swallow the thickness in his throat at how… radiant–

“I think we’re at brunch,” you whisper, snapping him out of it. 

There are coats slung over the back of chairs. Gloves. A handbag, its clasp slightly open. Someone’s reading glasses resting on a closed book.

Bucky doesn’t answer. He’s scanning the room like he’s expecting someone to laugh, to enter, to scold them for intruding.

It feels like somewhere nearby, someone’s telling a joke. Someone’s fixing their lipstick. Someone is about to ask you how long you’re staying and whether you’re from the city.

You walk further in. The carpet is soft under your boots.  

You rest your hand on the edge of the table. The porcelain is still warm.

Glass. Clinking, faintly. A fork brushing against a plate. A woman’s voice, low and amused. Not words. Just the tone.

You turn slowly, goosebumps crawling up your arms.

There’s no one there.

But it feels like there is.

Bucky’s still watching the room like it’s going to move on its own.

You don’t answer.

There’s a sound then. Not loud. Just a scrape, like someone pulling their chair back, ready to leave.

You both turn.

Nothing moves.

But the folded napkin is now unfolded, crumpled gently on the seat.

The grapefruit is gone.

The juice pitcher is empty.

The book on the side table is closed, a bookmark placed neatly between its pages.

You blink.

There is only rusted metal, cold dead silence and the thick smell of salt. 

Back to dust. Rot.

“Did you see–”

“Yep.” 

You glance around. 

The pale green walls half peeled and browned. Wet splotches on the ceiling. 

There’s a painting of a garden party over the fireplace, and beside it is a mirror.

Full-length. Silver-framed. Spotless.

You tilt your head at it.

Bucky walks closer, and the moment you both step in front of it, you freeze.

Because it’s you.

But not exactly.

Standing too near. Soft expressions that don’t match the faces you think you wear. A version of you that belongs here. A version of Bucky that isn’t carrying everything in his shoulders. 

Like you’re mid-conversation. Like this is familiar.

You glance at him.

He’s staring at the mirror with an unreadable expression.

“…That’s not real,” he says after a long pause.

“No shit.”

“I don’t stand like that.”

“I don’t smile like that.”

The version of you in the mirror glances up. At him.

The reflection of Bucky gives you that smile. You recognise it– it’s the one he only ever uses when he thinks no one’s looking. Sometimes it makes an appearance when you say something exceptionally stupid. 

Your stomach does something unhelpful.

“Okay,” you say too loudly, stepping back. “Well, that’s cursed.”

“Some fucking gas leak has us hallucinating here,” he adds, voice rough. “We’re leaving before we pass out.”

He slinks away, clearing his throat and blinking harshly a few times. What the fuck. 

“Got another hundred rooms and a whole night– well fuck,” you stop midway. 

“What?” he asks, trying to reconcile with what he just saw. 

“I don’t know how long we’ve been in this fucking room but it’s close to midnight,” you murmur. “Crazy.”

That’s one way of putting it. 

“Well, that was fun. I’m gonna go check if we got any of that on camera or if we just went through a cool new bonding exercise in our heads,” you say, unfazed.

Bucky thinks that the world may not be all he’s been believing all these years. 

You walk out of the room, leaving Bucky to follow. 

He turns to the mirror again.

It’s cracked.

Just once, straight down the middle.

“C’mon, we’ve gotta go check out the captain’s quarters,” you call.

“Coming,” he grunts out, exhaling slightly. 

He turns again, just out of instinct, one last time– 

She’s there.

Small. Smiling. Bright-eyed in that way only memory can exaggerate..

Standing beside him in the reflection, just for a moment. Hair tucked behind her ears. Wearing a sundress he got her with money from overtime at the docks

She mouths something.

“Leave.”

He takes half a step back. Blinks.

She’s gone.

Your voice sounds distant, asking something, but he doesn’t register what.

He turns. Doesn’t speak. Just walks out.

You walk in silence for a while.

Your boots creak against the warped floor. Bucky’s steps are quieter. Measured.

You glance sideways at him.

He’s got that look again. The one where he’s processing, but pretending he’s not.

You open your mouth. Close it again.

You stop in the middle of the corridor. He stops too, reluctantly.

Your voice drops, suddenly serious. “You saw it. The mirror. Us.”

“Did I?

He starts walking again.

“You’re being weird about this,” you say, catching up.

“I’m being normal about this,” he mutters.  

You roll your eyes. “You’re deflecting. That’s fine. That’s your thing. But I know when something rattles you.”

He snorts. “I wasn’t rattled.”

You study his face. The way his mouth is set, the way his jaw ticks every few seconds like he’s grinding through something.

You stop again.

And then you sit down. Right there in the middle of the hallway. Clipboard across your lap like a shield.

He blinks down at you.

“What are you doing.”

“Something’s wrong, Bucky.”

“Something’s always wrong.”

You pull a pen from behind your ear like it’s a sword. “You’re being weird. This isn’t just normal you-weird, this is that weird.”

He sighs.

“Alright. Paranormal scale. One to ten. Emotional impact, ten being a full snot-crying on my shoulder.”

He groans. “Put that away.”

“You’re pale.”

“That’s just my face.”

“You look seasick.”

“I am seasick.”

“From a ship that hasn’t moved since 1900s?”

He closes his eyes. “I should’ve left you in the mirror.”

“You wouldn’t. I was fake-laughing at your jokes.”

He snorts. Looks away. That one almost got him.

You make a show of writing something down. “So. You’re not talking. You’re not denying it either. Conclusion?”

“I’m tired.”

You study him for a few more moments. Bucky doesn’t change.

You glance down at the clipboard. Then, gently, you place it back in the bag.

You offer him a bottle of water instead. He takes it.

“Where’s the quarters,” he asks. 

“Straight ahead,” you oblige. 

The lantern’s been off for fifteen minutes.

Technically, it’s lights-out.

Realistically, you’re still awake.

Lying on your back, blanket pulled over your chest, eyes fixed on the water-stained ceiling, listening to the gentle scratch of pen on paper.

Bucky shifts in his sleeping bag beside you. “Are you writing again?”

“No,” you say, scribbling something else. “I’m documenting.”

He exhales through his nose. “Same thing.”

“I’m keeping a record in case we’re murdered in the night. I think that’s responsible.”

“You wrote ‘smells like seaweed’ earlier.”

“It did smell like seaweed.”

He turns his head. “What does it smell like now?”

You pause. “Unresolved tension.”

“Go to sleep.”

“I will. I’m just waiting.”

He groans. “For what?”

You tap your pen. “To see if any of the staff shows up. Captain usually goes on rounds at night.”

“There’s no ghost captain.”

“There might be. He probably wears epaulettes and appears only to emotionally complicated people.”

“My bad, tell him I say hi when you meet.”

You toss a balled-up gum wrapper in his direction. It hits his shoulder.

You glance at him. He’s lying perfectly still, like if he commits hard enough, he’ll vanish.

You turn back to your clipboard. “I think if I die, they’ll probably promote me. Make me first mate.”

“You’d be thrown overboard in five minutes.”

“I’d haunt the galley. Spill soup on your ghost boots.”

“Ghost boots.”

“Ghost boots.”

“You still haven’t told me where you got that fucking candle from.”

“Stole it from brunch.” You glance at the small tealight flickering next to your knee. “It’s ambiance.”

“You’re going to burn the ship down.”

“It’s in a dish.”

“You put it in a cup.”

“It fits perfectly.”

There’s a long pause.

“You’re insane.”

You smile to yourself. “You love it.”

“I tolerate it.”

“You love it.”

Bucky doesn’t answer.

He just rolls over, pulling the sleeping bag tighter. “Wake me up if anyone on the staff’s hot.”

You grin, still scribbling. “I’ll put that in the notes.”

The first thing he notices is the movement.

A deep, rolling sway. Not a casual creak or a groan, but a full-bodied shift.

He blinks awake.

Immediately regrets it.

His stomach lurches sideways.

The ceiling above him is doing slow, sick figure-eights.

“God–” he mutters, pressing the heel of his hand to his forehead. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

The ship rocks again, harder this time.

He grabs the edge of his sleeping bag like it’ll help. It doesn’t.

He closes his eyes, counts to five, and opens them again.

And that’s when he realizes.

The sleeping bag next to his is empty.

No candle. No clipboard.

No you.

“Jesus fucking Christ. You have to be kidding me.”

He tries to sit up and instantly regrets that too.

Something slips down from his forehead and lodges on his nose. 

He pulls it off and stares at it.

A sticky note.

You’ve written in your neatest cursive:

“Gone to investigate.

If I die, avenge me.

If I live, take me bowling.”

He stares at it.

Underneath, in all caps:

“DO NOT THROW UP IN THE CORNER. THAT’S MY SIDE.”

Then lets his head fall back against the floor with a quiet, miserable thunk.

Another lurch. The ship groans like it’s stretching awake.

He exhales through his nose. Folds the note once. Puts it in his pocket.

Then he rolls to his feet, grabbing onto walls and railings to steady himself, and sets off to find you.

_____

Bucky staggers down the corridor like a man cursed, one hand braced against the wall, the other curled around his stomach. 

The ship sways harder this time like it’s trying to shrug him off.

He swears under his breath.

He rounds a corner, stomach lurching again, and stops in the doorway of the captain’s room.

You’re there.

Grinning like a lunatic, wind in your face that doesn’t technically exist, spinning the massive ship’s wheel with both hands.

He shouts over the noise. “What the hell are you doing?”

You look over, delighted. “Steering!”

He blinks. “We’re not moving.”

You point dramatically. “We are listing to port, sir. Someone had to take control before this ship took us to fucking hell.”

The wheel creaks as you spin it again. You lean into it like it might actually do something.

“You’re making it worse,” he groans, dragging himself fully into the room. 

You glance at him. “You look awful.”

“I feel worse.”

“You’re green.”

“The room is fucking spinning.”

“I know, I’m trying to counterbalance it.”

He collapses against the nearest console like it might forgive him. The whole floor shifts again, a slow, sick tilt that makes the walls groan in protest.

You finally let go of the wheel. "Honestly, the ship started making all these weird noises and when I got up to check, it started rocking like we're in the middle of a storm. I was hoping I'd get it under control before it woke you up. Didn't want you to get sick."

The ship groans again. Still. Slower, maybe. But still wrong.

You look at him a little closer now.

“Okay, you really don’t look good.”

“I woke up alone. On a moving ship.”

“Did you throw up on my side?

“There was a note taped to my face.”

“I told you not to throw up on my side.”

“Stop talking about throwing up,” he groans. 

“Alright, Buck,” you say brightly, “your turn!”

He doesn’t even lift his head. “Absolutely not.”

You let go anyway.

The wheel creaks, spins half a turn on its own.

“Why is it still moving?” he asks sharply.

You’re already across the room. You step up onto the low ledge by the window and spread your arms slightly, windless but dramatic.

“I’m the king of the world,” you announce.

“Get down.”

The ship lists again. He lurches forward, catches himself on the wheel, and immediately regrets touching it.

You hop down lightly and clap your hands together. “Okay, okay, fine. Keep steering. I’ll figure this out..”

“I’m not steering.”

“You are steering. You’re at the wheel. That’s what it means.”

“I’m touching the wheel. That’s not consent.”

“Ghost captain would be disappointed in you.”

“Ghost captain should drive his own damn ship.”

He grips the wheel with one hand. It shifts again beneath his fingers, slow and unsteady.

The wind’s gotten worse.

The deck tilts again, hard. You catch yourself, slide a few inches toward the helm, wind slamming through the cracks in the wall.

“Okay, okay,” you pant. “I think it’s pulling to the left. Hold on, I’ll try to level it out–”

“Christ alive, hurry up.”

“I am doing my best.”

The ship lists again. He makes a noise and grips the wheel tighter.

“I hate this place,” he mutters. ”I hate ghosts. I hate ships. I hate being haunted.”

“I thought the brunch wasn’t that bad–”

“That’s not what I’m talking about. 'm talking about the dead people who've been after me for months.” He clenches his eyes shut to quell the nausea. 

The ship groans under you like it’s stretching its spine.

“What?”

Fuck.

“What do you mean dead people have been after you for months?”

He’s not looking at you. Both hands on the wheel, jaw clenched.

You stare.

He swallows. Doesn’t repeat it. But the damage is done.

You step toward him, slow. “Bucky.”

“Can you make this stop?” he says, voice as even as he can make it.

The ship groans again, loud now. Almost angry.

You plant your legs firmly on the ground. 

Your fingers dig into the palm.

Steady. Focused.

And the wind begins to slow.

Not like flipping a switch, but with a groan. 

The ship stops rolling. The tilt evens.

It doesn’t feel natural, not in the way ships normally respond to weight or wind, but it’s still. 

You breathe hard. Keep your hands where they are.

Bucky is still staring at the wheel, like it’s safer than meeting your eyes.

“Forget what I said, I’m sick,” he says, voice rough. 

You don't say anything when you look at him. 

The ship groans beneath you but this time it’s heavier.

You step to the window again, squinting out into the dark.

He doesn’t look up. He’s leaned over a console like the only thing keeping him upright is his refusal to puke in front of you.

You clear your throat. “I think we’re not in the water anymore.”

“What?”

You open the hatch. Step out into the stale wind.

He drags himself after you, reluctant and mildly green.

Outside, there’s nothing. No lapping water. No dock.

Just air. Fog. The faint shape of the coastline beneath you.

The Odette is levitating.

Bucky stares for a long moment.

“Did you lift the ship?”

“Not on purpose.”

“You anchored us into the air.”

“I was trying to keep it from swaying.”

“You took it off the ocean.”

You hold up both hands. “To be fair, it worked. I can put it–”

“Do not put it back down.”

You blink.

He slides down the wall and sits, knees pulled up, head in his hands. “If it starts moving again, I will jump off the side.”

You nod solemnly. “Understood, Captain.”

He drops his head to his knees.

You sit beside him.

For a long beat, neither of you say anything.

The air is cool, and it ruffles through his hair. You wipe stray strands away from his forehead. 

“If you bring that clipboard out, I’ll drown myself.”

“I’ll circle back later.”

“Absolutely not.”

You pat his knee. “Let me know when you’re ready to go back down.”

He just closes his eyes. “Give me five– twenty minutes.”

You barely make it through the front doors before being ambushed.

Really, Maya appears like she’s been summoned.

“Jesus Christ,” she says, stepping into the hallway. “You’re alive.”

You pause mid-step. “Statistically, we’re usually alive.”

Maya exhales like she’s been holding it in for hours. She’s in flats, an oversized blazer, and carrying two phones, both vibrating. 

She stops in front of you. Eyes bloodshot.  

“I have emailed. I have pinged. I have sent a courier, and the only response I got was an AI generated TikTok of both of you turning into swans.”

You blink. “I figured I was in trouble again.”

“And so you thought avoiding it would make it go away?”

“I try that with everything, it never works,” Bucky mutters. 

Maya closes her eyes. “You two are going to be the death of me.”

“You’ve said that before.”

“Yes. And every time I mean it more.” She opens her tablet. “Anyway, that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about, which you'd know if you opened my mail.”

“Sorry.”

She waves you off. “Your numbers are up. A lot.”

You raise an eyebrow. “How much is a lot?”

She turns the screen. “This is your traffic graph.”

You stare. “Why does it look like a heart attack?”

“Because while you test terribly with people over the age of 65, ages 13 to 55 love you. Congratulations. You are now accidentally our most valuable brand.”

Bucky falters. 

Maya continues, flipping to another screen. “Also, the poll about the code name? That thing you launched without approval?”

You nod slowly. “People had opinions.”

“They always have opinions. You know who else had opinions? Legal. Communications. Homeland Security, somehow.” She gestures broadly. “But good news for you: it worked. Your metrics are through the roof. So, as per the contract you signed– you only need enough videos to finish off the season. Then you’re out.”

You stare at her.  

“We’re out?” you repeat. 

Maya nods. “Done. No more videos. Just a few interviews here and there, and some social media.”

You glance at Bucky.

He’s still facing away, completely still. Like he’s buffering.

Maya softens a little. “Hey. This is good. Right? You guys– him especially– wanted this. You’re free.”

Still nothing from him.

You say, carefully, “Yeah. Great.”

She studies you both. Her voice gentles. “Seriously. You did good. I’m proud of you. Deeply, incredibly exhausted. But proud.”

Bucky finally turns. Looks like he’s trying to remember how language works.

“Thanks,” he says flatly.

Maya tilts her head. “Okay. That’s about the emotional range I expected.”

You smile faintly. “You should lie down.”

“Oh, I’m going to die standing up like a horse.” She steps back. “Eat something, you guys look terrible. And sign off on the new Mayday merch. We’re launching a footwear collection.”

“No promises,” you reply.

“I know,” she mutters, and walks off down the hall, muttering to herself about analytics. 

The silence returns.

You and Bucky stand there a while longer.

Finally, he says, without looking at you, “C’mon.”

Neither of you say what you’re thinking.

Bucky doesn’t know whether the sick feeling in his stomach is still from the ship or not.  

The elevator dings softly.

The doors slide open to your floor.

You’re half-asleep, half-hovering against the wall of the elevator, hoodie pulled over your head.

Bucky stands beside you, hands in his pockets.

You yawn, dragging your feet as you step out. “You look like you’re about to collapse. You don’t have to walk–”

Before you can finish the statement, he steps forward. Stubborn motherfucker. 

Follows you down the hall.

“I’ve made it to the room in one piece," you announce. "Now go sleep for a week.”

“I will.”

But he stays until you cross the threshold. Until the lights come on fully. 

Until you turn and say, a little softer, “Thanks.”

He nods just barely.

Then turns and disappears down the hall.

Bucky doesn’t even bother with the light when he gets back to his room.

The door slides shut behind him and he lets his coat hit the floor somewhere between the entrance and the bed.

He lands face down, boots still on, half a groan catching in his throat on the way down.

He lies there for a long time.

Somewhere near the pillow, Alpine lets out a soft chirp.

She steps delicately onto his back. Sits.

He doesn’t complain.

The buzz of his phone vibrates against the nightstand.

He reaches out blindly, flips it toward his face. Squints.

He closes his eyes again. Let the phone drop.  

From: mayday

You ever gonna talk about what you said on the boat?

Exhales long and heavy.

There’s a pause.

Then, from somewhere near his shoulder:

“You should talk about your sister.”

His eyes snap open.

He doesn’t move.

Just lies there.

Face still in the pillow.

He lifts his head. Slowly. Looks over his shoulder.

Alpine is still sitting there. Tail flicking gently.

Silence.

“I haven’t told anyone about her yet, if that’s what you care about.”

Bucky stares, mouth open.

Alpine licks her paw. Casually. 

“You can fucking talk?!”

THANK U TO EVERYONE WHO BOUGHT ME A KO-FI FOR THIS SILLY FIC

shoutout chapter 5. y'all thought I wouldn't do it. but i have been scheming throughout

here’s my ko-fi if you’d like to support my writing!

Next part

to know when this fic updates, please follow @shurisneakersupdates and turn on post notifications! it’s the only way tumblr will let me have a taglist and i don’t post there at all except for fics </3

[jungkoode]

THE 25TH HOUR | O8

“𝐃𝐄𝐂𝐀𝐘𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐑𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐒”

"Your coffee is exactly the way you like it, though you do not remember having a preference over it, nor knowing Agent Min's. Just like you don't remember the coffee shop, or the barista. Or how, apparently, certain phrases trigger certain protocols."

next | index

— chapter details

word count: 5,4k

content: coffee details, sugar slander, yoongi hiding the softness (i see u mf), him leaving in the worst moment possible (oh no can you believe that), a barista thinking he's john wick and yoongi showing him he's indeed not (why am i laughing at this i'm so funny), idk fleeing, superpowers, golden tendrils/tentacles/traces and they're sensitive bc i'm a horny slut who loves drama, yoongi explaining his abilities and basically both of them being somewhat stranded.

— author’s note

OKAY OKAY OKAY—wow. phew.

Lemme just say I had to speed write this chapter like I was being chased by CHRONOS itself because I was NOT prepared for y’all to hit the chapter goals in like… two days. TWO. DAYS. Both on Wattpad and Tumblr. Kinda insane honestly but also like… slay Kiki Nation, we are so back.

This was a severe underestimation on my part and it 100% reflects in the goal numbers I set this round. Don’t look at me like that. This is entirely your doing.

NOW. As for this chapter: WOAH. I was so itchy to finally get into some action-packed scenes!!! I know it’s not a full-blown Marvel throwdown or anything but ughhhh I love the way it’s parried with uncovering new truths, a little sprinkling of Yoongi’s abilities, and just the faintest nod at Noma’s. We’re getting there, babies. We’re cooking with unstable temporal gas.

Sci-fi + superpowers = my drug. Inject it directly into my brainstem. This fic is honestly just me going full feral in my favorite genre and I love that you’re all just vibing with the chaos.

And hey—just a heads up—those golden traces / tendrils / tentacles / whatever-the-fuck you wanna call them? Yeah. They’re important. Not just plot-wise.

Oh no. We’re going smut-wards. You remember that little detail about them being sensitive? YEAH. Narrative seed. Planted. You’re welcome, you horny-ass goblins. I love your deranged asses because they are as feral as mine and I respect that.

Anyway. I’m gonna make that man suffer through overstimulation and there’s NOTHING you can do to stop me. Whoops. Who said that??

Godspeed and love. <3

— read on

ao3

wattpad

You’ve never registered an aversion to coffee. 

Analysis confirms your preference: black, minimal dilution via milk, zero sweeteners. Sugar introduces an artificial variable, a taste profile your palate rejects as inefficient data. 

The cup sits between your hands now, untouched. Heat radiates outwards, a minor thermal signature registering in your system. You stare into the dark liquid, a reflective surface showing nothing but distorted ceiling lights. Your mind searches for a focal point, a problem to solve, but the what remains elusive, fragmented.

Beside you, Agent Min occupies the adjacent stool. His presence is a known variable, yet the proximity registers as… different. Static cling without the static. 

His coffee mirrors yours in its lack of sugar, but deviates in the absence of milk. Plain black. Stark. Your internal database flags this information, yet registers no 'new entry' timestamp. It’s data already logged, sourced from… where? 

The query returns a null set. 

Error. File not found.

“Good?”

The query comes from him. Low frequency, minimal inflection. You lift your gaze, meeting his across the short distance. Dark eyes, partially obscured by mint smudges of hair that have fallen across his forehead.

Analysis identifies a lack of direct eye contact, his focus aimed somewhere near your left temple.

A defensive posture? Or observational?

You tilt your head, a minor adjustment of 15 degrees. Querying his query.

The corner of his mouth flickers. A micro-expression, barely perceptible, suppressed almost instantly. He’s withholding an upward curve, a smile response. 

Why?

“I mean you,” he clarifies, voice maintaining its low, even tone. “Not the coffee.”

You redirect your focus to the cup. The brown surface ripples slightly as you shift your weight. You deliberately defocus your vision, blurring the edges of the ceramic rim.

Unconscious action.

Flagged for later analysis.

“Yeah, just…” The sentence terminates prematurely. Insufficient data to complete the thought. Or perhaps, excess data causing system overload.

He mirrors your earlier gesture, head tilting towards you. An eyebrow arches. A non-verbal prompt for continuation. Standard interrogation technique.

“I knew Robin.” The words emerge, low volume, clinical detachment coating the raw data point.

He nods once. A slow, measured movement. No verbal response. He allows the silence to expand, granting you control over the data flow. 

“And now he’s gone.” You complete the statement. 

Flat delivery. Fact confirmed.

His gaze drops to his own cup. He lifts it, takes a sip. The motion is fluid, economical. He places the cup back down without a sound. Four seconds pass. Five. 

“I got him erased.” The statement escapes as a whisper, approximately 17 decibels. 

A conclusion reached through flawed logic, yet carrying an unexpected physical weight. Something constricts within your chest cavity, pressure.

His response is immediate. No processing delay.

“No.”

The word is rough, textured like sandpaper against concrete. A rasp that cuts through the low hum.

“CHRONOS got him erased.” He pauses, intake of breath audible. “That’s what they do.”

"I mentioned the temporal anomaly to him." You mutter, the unidentified strain expanding behind your sternum. "Probability suggests that's why they targeted him."

"They were already watching him," he says, voice calibrated to exactly 40 decibels. "Your conversation may have accelerated their timeline, but he was already flagged."

You process this new data point, running probability calculations against known variables.

"How can you be certain?" 

His eyes meet yours—pupil dilation increasing by 7.3% in the 0.7 seconds of direct contact.

"Because I've been tracking their erasure patterns for longer than you've been alive."

The statement contains multiple logical inconsistencies. 

Agent Min does not look significantly older than you.

Yet your temporal analysis centers don't flag it as a falsehood.

Your glance moves back to the cup. 

"Robin kept succulents on his desk," you say, the information surfacing without clear relevance markers. "Three of them. Arranged by height. He watered them every Tuesday at 14:27."

Yoongi's face produces some series of micro-adjustments in 17 distinct facial muscles that combine to form something your pattern recognition identifies as... compassion? 

The classification feels incorrect, but alternatives rank lower in probability.

"You're processing grief," he observes, voice modulating to a softer cadence. "It's normal."

The diagnosis feels foreign. Incorrect. Your emotional processing centers operate at 98.7% efficiency. You would recognize grief.

Wouldn't you?

"I barely knew him," you counter. "We shared 17 lunch periods over 4.7 months. Total interaction time: 23.8 hours. Insufficient for meaningful emotional attachment."

Yoongi takes another sip of his coffee. The liquid level decreases by exactly 12 milliliters.

"Grief isn't always logical," he says after 2.3 seconds of silence. "Sometimes it's just... human."

The cadence in his last word triggers some unexpected response in you.

"I'm not experiencing grief," you insist. "I'm experiencing statistical anomalies in my cognitive processing."

His eyes meet yours again—0.9 seconds of contact that somehow feels heavier than its temporal parameters suggest.

"Call it whatever you need to. The result is the same."

Your fingers adjust on the cup again—pressure decreasing by 0.2 kilograms as your muscles unconsciously respond to his voice.

"What is the statistical probability that my conversation with Robin directly caused his erasure?" 

Yoongi's expression darkens—brow lowering by 0.4 centimeters, jaw tensing with 31% more force.

"You're looking for a percentage to quantify your guilt," he observes, voice edged. "It doesn't work that way."

"Everything works that way," you argue. "Reality is quantifiable. Causality is measurable. Effect follows cause at precisely calculable intervals."

"Not in the 25th hour. Not with CHRONOS."

Silence spreads as his thumb traces the rim of his cup-three precise rotations counterclockwise. Then, he speaks again, needing to make a point.

"Consistency matters now more than ever. CHRONOS is auditing behavioral patterns with 62% increased scrutiny since last quarter."  

You frown. "Source?"  

"Erratic temporal enforcement." His finger taps the ceramic once—sharp, percussive. "Fourteen percent spike in memory wipes. Thirty-three percent decrease in Outlier survival rates post-detection."  

The numbers land like ice chips down your spine. "Correlation doesn't imply causation."  

His eyes narrow by 0.3 millimeters. "You think they're redecorating parks for aesthetic purposes?"  

You ignore the rhetorical jab. "Recommended behavioral adjustments?"  

"Normalcy. No deviations from established routines. No unscheduled interactions. No..." 

His gaze flicks to your hands. 

“...idle curiosity."  

You follow his line of sight.

Your fingers have been tracing infinity symbols in condensation on the table.

A subconscious pattern emerging at 2.7-second intervals.  

"Noted." 

You wipe the moisture away with a napkin, friction coefficient registering 0.4 higher than standard paper stock.  

"They're cross-referencing biometrics with temporal signatures now. Elevated heart rate during routine scans triggers immediate audits."  

Your pulse spikes by 11.2 bpm at the implication. "You're suggesting emotional suppression."  

"I'm suggesting survival. Your body can't afford inconvenient truths right now."  

The phrase 'inconvenient truths' lodges in your cortex, sparking 37 simultaneous neural queries. 

All return access-denied.  

"Define 'normalcy' parameters."  

"Wake at 06:00. Work until 18:30. Consume 427 calories at designated intervals. Report all temporal irregularities except the ones we cause."  

"Compliance seems..." You search for the optimal term. "...counterintuitive to resistance efforts."  

“You think rebellion looks like fireworks and manifesto drops?" Leather creaks as he leans closer, mint and ozone sharpening the air between you. "Real resistance happens in the microseconds they don't monitor."  

Your retinas capture the exact moment his pupils dilate—3.2% expansion correlating with proximity increase. 

"Such as?"  

"The 25th hour. The only time they can't see us."  

Your watch beeps softly—temporal variance: 0.89%.  

He pulls back instantly, posture reset to neutral. "Stick to the numbers. The patterns. The lies they've programmed you to live."  

The coffee turns bitter on your tongue, pH shifting by 0.2. 

"And you?"  

“I'll be the ghost in their machine."  

Ghost.

The word settles in your chest, impossibly making it warmer.

Then, the lights flicker—a couple times—as CHRONOS agents pass outside the window. Their shadows stretch across the floor in elongated distortions, limbs warped by the glass's refractive index.  

You count their footsteps.  

He counts your breaths.  

A soft exhale from his lips—a controlled release of 1.2 liters of air over 2.4 seconds.

Rising from the stool, he stretches his neck 37 degrees to the left, then 42 degrees right. The vertebrae produce three distinct clicks at frequencies between 73 and 81 hertz.

His cup sits empty. Yours remains 73% full.

That same suppressed curve at the corner of his mouth does a reappearance.

Your pattern recognition flags it as the third occurrence of this specific micro-expression in the past 18 minutes.

“I need to use the restroom.” His statement is direct, efficient. “Wait here.”

You nod once—a 15-degree downward tilt followed by an equivalent upward correction. Optimal response to a simple directive.

He moves 1.7 meters toward the back of the establishment before pivoting 170 degrees. His eyebrows lift by 0.4 centimeters, creating three distinct lines across his forehead.

“You’ll be okay?”

The question registers as anomalous. Its premise suggests a concern disproportionate to the circumstances. Your brow furrows, creating a 0.3-centimeter depression between your eyebrows.

He shakes his head, dismissing the moment, and disappears behind the door marked RESTROOM—white letters, slightly chipped, 7.2 degrees off center.

You pivot on the stool, body angled toward the counter.

The coffee sits there, cooling. You sip. It’s gone tepid. Your thumb traces the rim, mapping the circumference for the third time.

The bartender approaches. Male, mid-thirties, dark hair, clean apron. Smile at 65% intensity.

“Not a fan of the coffee?” he asks, voice pitched for casual friendliness. “You’ve been staring at it longer than drinking.”

You blink twice. Processing. “No, it’s fine.”

He leans in, elbows on the counter. “You sure? Most people ask for sugar. Or something sweet.”

You shake your head. “I don’t like sweeteners. They distort the baseline flavor profile.”

He laughs, easy. “That’s… specific.” 

His gaze lingers, searching for something. 

“You come here often? I don’t recognize you.”

You hesitate, brain skipping. “Not that I remember.”

The words fall out, unfiltered. He goes still. Smile vanishes. His hand drops below the counter—movement too smooth.

Cold metal presses to your temple. Soft click.

You catalog the sensation. 

Barrel diameter: 9mm. 

Temperature: room. 

Pressure: firm, not shaking.

His voice drops, all pretense gone. “Don’t move. Don’t speak.”

You comply. 

Data input: threat detected.  

Output: unknown.

Your retinal sensors register gold first—erratic sparks at 11 o'clock, 43 centimeters from your focal point. 

The barista's weapon hand undergoes rapid cellular decay: skin desiccating at 3.7 millimeters per second, muscle tissue liquefying with 92% efficiency. His scream measures 114 decibels—pain response authentic, but temporal signature reveals 0.8-second delay.  

Agent Min's grip materializes around your wrist before the decay reaches radial artery. His fingers burn at 39.1°C, golden threads weaving through his leather gloves. The world blurs—not from speed, but temporal interference. 

Your internal chronometer confirms: local time dilation of 47%.  

"Move." The command vibrates at 87 Hz, bypassing auditory processing to embed directly in your motor cortex.  

Your legs comply before conscious thought engages. Adrenaline spikes—17.3% above baseline. The cafe exits warp as you pass, doorframes appearing to bend at 12-degree angles—an optical illusion caused by the temporal distortion field surrounding you.  

CHRONOS agents materialize in peripheral vision, their movements unnaturally segmented—3.1 frames per second versus standard 24. Their comms chatter fractures into your awareness:  

"—emporal breach Sector 4-Alpha—"  

"—arget exhibits Reality Shifter signatures—"  

"—containment protocol Theta-7 authorized—"  

Yoongi pivots 170 degrees, dragging you into an alley where air molecules vibrate at 0.7x normal frequency. His free hand glows faintly gold, pressed against the brick wall. Mortar ages backward then forward in precise spiral patterns—2.3 revolutions per second, creating a passageway exactly 0.9 meters wide.  

"Don't breathe," he warns as you pass through particulate matter suspended in his temporal field. 

Your lungs register 14% oxygen decrease.

Insufficient for hypoxia.

Sufficient for discomfort.  

The alley deposits you onto a street where Agent Min(?) has slowed time by 23%. Pedestrians move at imperceptible rates, their coffee cups appearing frozen at 37-degree angles. His temporal manipulation leaves gold afterimages—3.2-second persistence in your peripheral vision.  

Your Chrono-Sync Watch beeps erratically:  

TEMPORAL VARIANCE: 4.89%  

ANOMALY DETECTED  

His grip tightens—42.7 kilograms of pressure now, necessary to anchor you against increasing temporal distortion. Without his stabilizing touch, you assume your untrained body would suffer severe temporal drag. 

"Focus on my voice," he commands, words layered with harmonic frequencies that stabilize your inner ear fluid against the disorienting effects of his temporal field.  

CHRONOS drones breach the time dilation field behind you, their propulsion systems screeching at 17 kHz—the exact resonant frequency that makes your temples protest. 

They're designed to track and pursue through temporal distortions. You know this from your training, what they taught you. Or at least, what they wanted you to be taught.

But Yoongi never looks back; not even once.

Nature’s lumbar support leaves much to be desired.

The wall at your back is jagged, scraping through your shirt, stone biting into skin. Yoongi’s breath saws out next to you, sharp, furious. He rounds on you, eyes wild, voice pitched higher than baseline.

"What the fuck did you do?"

The question isn't a question—it’s an accusation wrapped in 87 decibels of controlled fury. You straighten 2.3 centimeters, ignoring how the rock tears at your jacket.

“I answered his query within established social parameters."  

His laugh is all sharp edges. "Parameters? You told a CHRONOS informant you didn't remember him!"  

"Statistical probability suggested—"  

"Probability?" He steps into your space, mint and ozone overpowering the cave's damp musk. "They've activated civilian reporting protocols! That bartender was required to log every customer interaction!"  

Your pulse spikes-+18bpm. "Unforeseen variable. You didn't brief me on—"

"I literally just said don't deviate from normalcy!" The wall cracks behind him, hairline fractures spreading at 3mm/second. "Normal people don't have memory gaps about coffee shops!"  

You catalog the wall damage—microcrystalline structure failure inconsistent with human strength.

Fascinating.

New data point: Agent Min's capabilities exceed known parameters.  

"My response was logically sound," you counter. "Approximately 72% of humans experience—"  

"Logically suicidal." Gold sparks dance in his irises now. "They train those informants to flag exactly that phrase."

The revelation triggers 23 simultaneous neural queries.

"Why would 'not that I remember' trigger—"

"Because Outliers say it when their memories glitch!" He's closer now, 47cm instead of 72. "Basic fucking tradecraft, Noma."

You flinch at the nickname. "You expect me to intuit unpublished surveillance tactics?"  

"I expect you to listen when I say CHRONOS is hunting us." The gold intensifies, threads weaving through his clenched fists. "That man wasn't armed until you turned him into a threat."

"Correlation fallacy." Your voice drops to 19dB. "You lack evidence that—"

The cave wall explodes.  

Not literally—just Yoongi's fist connecting with stone 3.2cm from your head. Dust cascades downward as he withdraws his hand, skin unmarred.  

"Evidence?" His breath ghosts across your lips, warmer than human biology allows. "You think decay patterns manifest spontaneously?"  

Realization crystallizes.

The bartender's rotting hand. The gold threads. The temporal distortion.  

Your eyes narrow. "You altered his cellular decay rate."  

"To save your statistically suicidal ass."  

"Without consent."  

"Without options.” 

The standoff lasts 4.7 seconds.

"You're an anomaly," he growls. "Stop acting like one."  

"Variables require data." You match his glare. "Which you hoard like a fucking dragon."  

His hands rake through mint hair, leaving it standing at precisely 47-degree angles.

"Because I have no other fucking choice!" The words explode from him, raw and jagged. "Every piece of information I give you is another potential trigger. Another way for CHRONOS to find you. To erase you. Again."

That word. ‘Again’. He keeps saying it, like it’s something he can’t lodge out of his throat.

Yet, for his incredible powers, he seems unable to prevent what he fears most.

What ‘again’ means to him.

Your eyes narrow, recalculating.

"So your ability..." You pause, watching his muscles tense. "Time manipulation?"

His eyes flick to yours, then away. A non-answer that answers everything.

"You aged his hand by 70 years, at minimum." Your voice steadies as you shift to analysis mode. "Accelerated cellular decay, targeted temporal field. Fascinating."

"83 actually." The correction is automatic. Petulant. He slides down the wall beside you, knees cracking at 73 and 81 hertz. "Time Anchor. That's the technical classification."

You catalog the term, cross-referencing against known temporal phenomena.

No matches found.

"I can't create or destroy time." His voice drops, rougher now. "I can only... redistribute it. Accelerate decay in one place, slow it in another."

Your fingers twitch with the urge to document, to measure. "Conservation of temporal energy."

"Something like that." He flexes his right hand, and you notice the faint gold shimmer beneath his skin—network of lines like circuitry, pulsing at 0.7-second intervals. "Every action has a cost."

"The gold." You gesture toward his hand. "Temporal bleed?"

His eyebrow lifts 0.3 centimeters. "For someone who claims to know nothing, you make impressive leaps."

"Pattern recognition is my primary function." You shift, angling your body 12 degrees toward his. "What's the cost?"

His laugh lacks humor, registering at 42% below standard mirth indicators.

"Depends on what I'm doing. Age someone's hand? Minor headache, maybe some joint pain. Stop time completely?" He taps his temple. "Migraines that would kill a normal person."

You process this, calculating energy transfer ratios.

"And the 25th hour?"

"That's different." His voice drops another 3 decibels. "That's not me. That's... a system error. Something CHRONOS never accounted for."

"That you exploit."

"That we exploit." He corrects, eyes meeting yours. "Some of us, anyway."

"How many like you exist?"

"Time Anchors?" He shrugs, the movement exact despite its casual appearance. "Only me, that I know of.”

The admission feels sad.

Terribly lonely.

"And me?"

The question emerges before your logic centers can evaluate its prudence; and his eyebrows twitch, eyes staring directly onto the ground.

"You're something else entirely."

"Define 'something else,'" you request, shifting your position against the wall to better observe him. 

The movement causes a minor increase in discomfort—rock surface irregularities creating pressure points along your vertebrae.

But they do not register as important in the face of acquiring new information.

Agent Min finally exhales—which suggests internal debate about information disclosure parameters.

"I can show you," he says finally, voice dropping. "But you need to understand that what I'm about to do is extremely detectable. If there are any CHRONOS agents within 400 meters, they'll register it."

You calculate risk factors, weighing variables against known CHRONOS response protocols.

"Current location provides approximately 87% concealment from standard monitoring," you observe. "Probability of detection: 13.2%."

His mouth quirks—almost-smile that never fully materializes.

"Always with the numbers," he mutters, but it doesn't register as annoyance—rather something warmer.

He extends his right hand, palm up, and focuses his attention on it with an intensity that alters his breathing pattern by 0.4 seconds per cycle.

At first, nothing happens.

Then—

Gold.

Liquid light emerges from his fingertips, tendrils of energy that move with fluidity. They spiral outward in clockwise rotations, creating phenomenons that defy any standard classification parameters.

Your pupils dilate by approximately 28%, heart rate increasing by 17 beats per minute.

"Temporal energy," he explains, voice steady despite the obvious energy expenditure. "Direct manifestation of my ability."

The golden traces move like extensions of himself, responding to minute shifts in his focus. They emit no measurable heat signature yet appear fluid, almost liquid in their movement patterns.

"Fascinating," you breathe, leaning closer to observe better. "How do they work? What's their composition? Can they interact with physical matter or are they purely energetic manifestations?"

Your questions tumble out in rapid succession, each one triggering three more in your mind. The analytical part of you wants to measure, catalog, understand—but something else, something less quantifiable, simply wants to touch.

He watches you cautiously, measuring your reaction.

"They're extensions of temporal force," he explains. "I can manipulate objects through their timeline states—age them forward or backward, freeze them in their current temporal position."

The golden traces curl and twist above his palm, creating complex patterns that seem to follow mathematical principles.

"Can I—" You hesitate, unusual break in your typically decisive speech pattern. "Would contact damage them? Or me?"

"No damage," he says carefully. "But they're... sensitive."

The word choice seems odd, triggering your curiosity further.

"Sensitive how?" you press, eyes tracking the golden movements.

He sighs—perhaps denoting exhaustion.

"They're direct extensions of my temporal energy. I feel what they feel."

You process this information.

"Like nerve endings," you suggest.

"Yeah… Something like that."

Decision made, you extend your hand toward the nearest tendril, moving slowly to allow him time to withdraw if needed. 

He doesn't.

Your fingertip makes contact with the golden energy.

The sensation is... unexpected.

The trace feels solid yet fluid simultaneously, warm without heat, substantial without mass. But what registers most prominently is Yoongi's immediate reaction—sharp intake of breath, pupils dilating by approximately 32%, micro-tremor in his left hand.

You pull back instantly, recalculating.

"Did that hurt?" you ask, cataloging his physiological responses.

"No." His voice drops by 2.7 hertz. "Not hurt."

No further clarification. 

Your own pulse increases by another 8 beats per minute in response.

Oh.

You reach out again, this time with intent, and trace your finger along the golden tendril. It responds to your touch, curling around your fingertip like it's greeting you.

Yoongi's breathing pattern alters—inhalation extending by 0.7 seconds, exhalation shortening by 0.4.

"They recognize you," he says, voice rougher than before.

"That's impossible," you counter automatically. "We've never interacted like this before."

His eyes meet yours, holding for 2.3 seconds—longer than his usual 0.8-second maximum.

"They recognize you," he repeats, simply.

The golden trace wrapped around your finger pulses slightly, the rhythm matching your heartbeat with 97.3% synchronicity. 

"What else can they do?" you ask, scientific curiosity temporarily overriding everything else.

He flexes his fingers slightly, and the traces extend further, creating a complex network of golden energy between you.

"They can interact with physical objects," he demonstrates, directing a tendril toward a small rock. 

The stone ages rapidly, crumbling to dust in 3.2 seconds. Another rock reverts to its geological past—crystallizing into a perfect quartz formation.

"Temporal manipulation at a distance," you observe, mind going through all possible applications, limitations, variables.

"Yes."

You watch as the traces move with increasing confidence around you, never touching without your initiation, but clearly... aware of your presence.

"And these are unique to Time Anchors?" you ask, testing another hypothesis.

"Each type of Outlier has their own manifestation," he says carefully. "Mine happens to be temporal, and in tendrils of different sizes."

You detect deliberate vagueness, information being withheld.

"What's mine?"

The traces flicker briefly, responding to some change in his emotional state.

"That's something you'll have to discover yourself," he says finally.

You frown, dissatisfied with the non-answer.

"More cryptic responses. Inefficient communication strategy."

His mouth quirks again.

"Some things can't be told, Noma. They have to be experienced."

You reach out again, this time allowing your entire hand to pass through the network of golden energy. The traces respond immediately, wrapping around your fingers, sliding between them.

Yoongi's breath catches, the sound barely audible at 17 decibels.

"These are... remarkably sensitive," you observe.

"Yes." The word emerges strained, tightly controlled.

A hypothesis forms. You test it by deliberately trailing your fingers through the traces with a bit more pressure.

His reaction is immediate—pupils dilating to 7.1 millimeters, pulse visible at his throat increasing to approximately 92 beats per minute, a muscle in his jaw tensing with 47% more force.

"Interesting," you murmur, filing away this reaction for future analysis.

"We should stop," he says, voice rougher than before. "Extended manifestation increases detection risk."

Logical. Rational. 

Yet you find yourself strangely reluctant to end the experiment.

"One more question," you negotiate, still not withdrawing your hand from the golden network. "Why do they move in clockwise patterns specifically?"

His eyes meet yours again, unreadable.

"Because that's how time moves," he says simply. "Forward. Clockwise."

You correlate with your observations.

"And if something moved counterclockwise?" you ask, the question emerging from some intuitive part of your mind rather than your analytical centers.

The traces flicker again, responding to something in his emotional state.

"That would be something else entirely," he says, echoing his earlier statement.

Before you can press further, he withdraws, the golden traces retracting into his skin. The absence leaves the air feeling strangely empty, lacking some vital element you hadn't noticed until it was gone.

Your fingertips tingle with residual sensation—a ghastly feeling you don’t know how to categorize but for some reason find yourself missing.

"We need to move," he says, voice returning to its normal cadence. "We've stayed in one place too long."

He is right. 

You don’t know why you still want to touch those golden traces.

You rise instead, calculating the most efficient exit route while your mind continues processing this new data point: Agent Min’s golden traces recognize you, despite having no logical reason to do so.

Another anomaly to add to your growing collection.

He presses his right wrist with two fingers, applying precisely 2.1 kilograms of pressure to the outer edge of his Chrono-Sync Watch. The device responds with a soft sound—around 17 decibels, so barely perceptible even in the cave's acoustic environment.

A holographic display materializes 4.7 centimeters above the watch face, projecting a three-dimensional map of Sector 4 with pulsing red markers scattered across its surface.

You lean forward, immediately registering the discrepancy: standard Chrono-Sync Watch models lack holographic projection capabilities.

"What is that?"

Yoongi doesn't look up, his focus entirely on the floating map as he rotates it 37 degrees with a precise finger movement.

"Modified," he says simply, the explanation as efficient as always. "I told you."

You study the hologram, cataloging design parameters and technical specifications with automatic precision.

"Quantum-projection module integration into a Chrono-Sync interface would require bypassing at least seven encryption protocols," you observe, mind already mapping the engineering challenges. "The power requirements alone would necessitate a modified lithium cell with 347% increased capacity. Not to mention the spatial compression algorithms needed to maintain holographic integrity without..."

Your analysis trails off as your eyes meet his over the floating display. The corner of his mouth twitches once more.

"You helped create this," he says quietly, fingers still moving through the projection.

The statement registers, but fails to connect with any accessible memory database.

"I did not." Your contradiction emerges automatically, precisely calibrated to express certainty.

He doesn't argue. Doesn't press. Simply continues manipulating the map with those agile, gloved fingers, eyes occasionally flicking to your face as if contemplating your reaction.

Silence expands between you for exactly 4.3 seconds before your curiosity overrides caution.

"Where are we going?" you ask, redirecting the conversation away from memory discrepancies that trigger uncomfortable neural responses.

"I'm mapping our closest access point," he murmurs, more to himself than to you.

His index finger traces a route through the holographic streets, calculating distances with the same analytical precision you recognize in yourself.

"We need to reach one of the travel spots within the next 37 minutes. Our temporal signature trail is too fresh after that... incident."

"Travel spots?"

You catalog the unfamiliar terminology, cross-referencing against known CHRONOS lexicon.

No matches found.

Yoongi's fingers pause at exactly 23 degrees northeast of your current position. His throat works—a slight contraction suggesting hesitation.

"I..." 

His voice hovers over the simple noun. He swallows once, recalibrating.

"Travel spots are access points," he continues, voice modulated in a way that suggests internal editing. "Strategic locations throughout the city that allow direct transport to the 7th Hour headquarters."

"Teleportation technology? That's theoretically impossible given current quantum limitations."

"Not teleportation. Temporal-spatial warping." His finger taps a pulsing blue marker on the map. "These portals use existing weak points in CHRONOS's reality grid."

Theoretical models. Probability factors. Energy requirements.

"The energy necessary to maintain stable reality tunnels would exceed—"

"That's why they're not tunnels," he interrupts, eyes still fixed on the map. "They're more like... doors. Open only when needed, closed immediately after use."

You lean closer, studying the blue markers. Their distribution follows no discernible pattern—a deliberate randomization algorithm to prevent predictive tracking.

"Why can't CHRONOS detect them?" you ask, probing for weaknesses.

"They can detect the activation," he answers, voice tightening slightly. "But not follow through. The portals are specially calibrated to recognize Outlier temporal signatures. Anyone else attempting to pass through would trigger an immediate collapse."

You frown, recalculating. "But my temporal signature is registered in the CHRONOS database. Wouldn't that trigger their defense systems?"

His eyes flick to yours briefly—0.7 seconds of direct contact.

"Your official signature is a fabrication. The real one..." He pauses, choosing his words with unusual care. "The real one is already authorized in our system."

Another anomaly to catalog.

Another fragment that doesn't fit your accessible memory database.

"So we access one of these points, and it transports us directly to your headquarters?" you confirm, redirecting toward practical logistics.

"Yes." He closes the holographic display with an easy gesture. "But we need to be careful. After what happened at the coffee shop, they'll be scanning for temporal disturbances with heightened sensitivity."

You tilt your head, considering.

"And why haven't you contacted your team? Surely they could provide assistance or extraction."

His eyes flicker to you. Presses his lips together. Then, answers.

"Communications are compromised in this sector," he explains. "Any encrypted transmission would register on CHRONOS monitoring systems. They'd triangulate our position within 3.7 seconds."

"Your golden traces," you observe, connecting variables. "The temporal display at the coffee shop would have triggered every sensor within 1.5 kilometers."

"Precisely why we need to move quickly." He cracks his neck again, just like he did back in the coffee shop. "Our window is closing. That display was necessary but costly from a strategic perspective."

Your mind reconstructs the coffee shop incident—the bartender's decay, the golden traces, the immediate pursuit.

"You risked substantial exposure to extract me," you state, the realization forming fully. "Statistically, that decision carried a 78.3% probability of compromising your entire operation."

He doesn’t explain. Doesn’t elaborate, doesn’t try to correct you. Just lets silence stretch for three seconds.

"Some variables outweigh probability," he says finally.

"I still don't understand why you can't simply use your temporal abilities to transport us directly. If you can manipulate time—"

"I manipulate time, not space," he sighs. "I can slow it, accelerate it, even stop it briefly. But I can't move through it. That's..."

He hesitates again, that same weighted pause.

"That's a different ability entirely."

You catalog this limitation, updating your mental model of his capabilities.

"And these portals combine both temporal and spatial manipulation," you deduce, connecting data points.

"Yes." The confirmation is clipped, efficient. "They were designed specifically to compensate for the limitations of individual Outlier abilities."

"Designed by who?"

His eyes meet yours again—1.4 seconds this time, 75% longer than his usual pattern.

"By us," he says simply.

The pronoun registers with unexpected weight.

Us. Collective. Collaborative.

You and him.

Your Chrono-Sync Watch beeps softly: Temporal variance: 1.07%.

"We need to move," he says, already turning toward the cave entrance. "The nearest travel spot is 1.7 kilometers northeast. If we maintain optimal pace while avoiding main thoroughfares, we should arrive within the acceptable window."

You follow, legs automatically adjusting to match his stride, body responding to cues your conscious mind hasn't processed.

Another anomaly. Another piece of the puzzle.

You catalog it alongside all the others, building your database of inconsistencies, contradictions, and inexplicable familiarities.

Someday, you'll find the pattern that connects them all.

But for now, you follow the ghost with golden traces, moving through a city that feels increasingly like a simulation with every step.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

goal: 250 notes

next | index

— taglist

@cannotalwaysbenight @taevanille @itstoastsworld @somehowukook @stutixmaru @chloepiccoliniii @kimnamjoonmiddletoe @ktownshizzle @yoongiiuu93 @billy-jeans23 @annyeongbitch7 @mar-lo-pap @hobis-sprite0218 @mikrokookiex @minniejim @curse-of-art @cristy-101 @mellyyyyyyx

© jungkoode 2025

no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[captain-huggy-bear]

congrats on 1000!! your writing is so cozy and inclusive and it’s such a breath of fresh air 🥹 ((i feel obligated to mention once again you’ve turned me into a fellow clay girlie🤧))

for the celly - what about “can’t sleep.” “i tried absolute everything but nothing.” pulling you even closer as they say “you haven’t tried everything, i think i can get you to fall asleep” + clay?

I did this in my own way so it's not exactly like the request but I wanted some freedom to work with, I hope you like it anyway <3 1000 Followers Celly Finished Requests are currently closed while I work through current ones <3 Writing Masterlist

You don't make a habit of phoning Clay at 1am when he's sleeping, more often than not overly considerate of his sleep schedule and time. Even when he's told you that you can wake him for anything, even when he's told you it's not a bother, that he wants to be there for you. It doesn't bother him when his phone wakes him up, your contact one of the few that can get through to him past 11pm.

"Wha's wrong, baby?" His voice is gravelly, rough from sleep, blinking into the dark of his bedroom, eyes adjusting to land on Lucky. Lucky who's snoring in his bed by the door, legs in the air, feet kicking.

“Can’t sleep.” You sound frustrated, close to tears like you've hit your breaking point. “I tried absolute everything but nothing is working... I just want to sleep.” You're so tired...frustrated, upset. You'd put your pillows at the foot of the bed, you'd tried white noise and music, you'd tried a warm shower...if you could think of it then you'd tried it.

“Baby, it's okay..." Clay can tell you're maybe one wrong move from bursting into tears and it doesn't help that you're miles away for work, a school trip to Washington DC of all places, in an unfamiliar place and somewhere he can't reach you. An unfamiliar place where you've got the weight of responsibility on your shoulders, trying not to lose a single child each day. All the while there's no way for him to drive to you, wrap you up in his arms like he normally would...his hands are tied almost entirely.

"I'm so tired, Clay...and I have to get up in 5 hours to take the kids to the Smithsonian" Your voice is growing thick with tears, choked as you grow even more frustrated, leg bouncing up and down where you're sat on the edge of the hotel bed. Your forehead pressed into your palm like you could force your brain to start working better.

"I know, I know, hey, you haven’t tried everything, I think I can get you to fall asleep.” His voice is a soothing rumble, the rustle of sheets coming down the line as he sits himself up in bed and turns on the bedside lamp. Your side is cold, empty. Your book gone, your usual glass of water not there. God, he misses you...

"Clay..."

"I'm serious, trust me...get comfy, lie back, head on the pillow...." There's a moment before you move, shifting and rustling the bedsheets as you slide under and into your preferred sleeping position, pillow under your cheek, "You comfy?"

"...Yeah," You don't want to doubt him, but you feel helpless, like nothing is going to get you to sleep...no matter what.

"Okay, close your eyes, sweet girl."

"Clay...."

"Close your eyes, baby." His voice is quieter, a low rumble, just loud enough for you to hear but purposefully quiet. Soothing rather than disruptive. "Closed?" You hum in the affirmative, focusing on his voice, the rasp to the undertone of it, the rumble in his chest, the warmth. Cosy, sweet.

"Do you remember the first time we met?" Your hum is enough for him, he doesn't want you talking anyway, just listening to the steady rhythm he sets his voice to, something calming. "I came to your school with the team for some event...I can't even remember what it was for, but I saw you first..."

Your breath quietens at each word, he can hear it, the way you start to relax more on the other end of the line like his voice is a lullaby.

"You were stood in your classroom doorway, it was hot out so you had the windows open and it made your hair blow like you were in some sort of commercial...you were so beautiful...are so beautiful. I couldn't stop staring at you...every time you were in the room my eyes kept going to you and I just...I knew."

Your breath hitches just enough, just the tiniest amount that he knows you're still awake and listening to him ramble on, because really he's started now and he just can't stop.

"I knew you were it, that I had to speak to you...and I...I couldn't stop stumbling over my words when I finally did...walked away and nearly didn't ask to give you my number...had to run back into the school, do you remember that?"

"Mmm,"

"I'm glad I did..." And Clay just keeps talking, and talking and talking...even when he can hear in your breath that you're asleep. He talks until he can't keep his own eyes open, falls asleep without ending the call until you both wake in the morning to the call still going, 5 hours and 23 minutes long.

You're the best thing that ever happened to him and if helping you sleep means talking till the wee hours of the morning? Until he can barely keep his eyes open at practice the next day? Then that's okay because it's you.

[kamikasei]

It's bewildering how many of the arguments in this thread think they're about replicators but in practice are "if you get the same food from a different person in a different place, it won't be exactly like the precise version you remember from a specific time or place in your past". Yeah, no kidding! That's true, but doesn't have anything to do with replicators per se. Referring back to the "local water is different", a replicated slice of New York pizza, for example, obtained in San Francisco, would taste more authentic than the same pizza made by the same chef in the same restaurant picked up and airlifted intact from coast to coast, using all the same ingredients, but with local San Francisco water. Talking about "it won't be sizzling fresh / the parsley won't be half-wilted" makes no more sense than saying the same about a normally cooked meal that's served a little faster or slower than is ideal.

I also suspect a lot of people are talking about the general idea of "3d-printed synthetic food" as a concept, rather than Star Trek replicators as actually described and depicted.

Star Trek is a setting where technology allows a human being to be teleported tens of thousands of kilometers^ in an instant by a device that scans them, disassembles them, converts them to energy, transmits that energy, and reassembles them, at the molecular/atomic level. There's a whole philosophical can of worms about whether this amounts to killing them and replacing them with a duplicate, but that's beside the point for our purposes here (though we're shown that subjective awareness is apparently continuous throughout the process - you experience the world dissolving and changing around you) - the relevant issue is that the person isn't discernably different because they were transported, and there's no implication that it has any medical or biological effect in the normal course of operation. In other words, if you kill and eat someone who just stepped off the transporter pad, they'll taste the same as if they walked up to you instead.

^ (Technically transporters can reach much further, but roughly surface-to-orbit, or a tenth of a light second, is the "standard" range.)

Less viscerally, anything edible they're carrying will still be edible and still taste just the same, as far as everything we're shown indicates. If - for example - Nog is housebound at Starfleet Academy with Rigelian flu or something and can't make it to Joe Sisko's restaurant for dinner, Joe can make his usual order, beam over to the Presidio, and make a home delivery that will taste exactly the same to Nog, accounting for any delay in physically moving the dish around outside of the beam-in. The experience won't be the same, but that's because of the different setting, not the food itself. We pretty much have to accept this is true, because otherwise the entire cast of all shows would already be dead of brain damage and tumours before the shows actually happen.

What differences can exist? Well, we're told that replicators are related to transporters, but not quite the same as them. Supposedly (and I'm mixing together show information and that from sources like the technical manuals, because I sure don't remember exactly what comes from which), replicators are lower-fidelity than transporters, which is part of why you can beam conscious, living people around, but not replicate them. The inability to replicate a living organism is reasonably well-established and necessitates special technology for medical, pharmaceutical, etc. applications (e.g., you can rapidly grow someone a new organ for transplant, but you can't just replicate it on the spot). One of the justifications offered for this is, in fact, data storage: yes, you can replicate additional storage banks, but you still need to put those storage banks somewhere physical in space, aboard the ship or wherever you're situated. You supposedly can't keep someone's transporter pattern on file and use it to materialize it twice after dematerializing them once (though of course the shows breaks this rule a few times for story); the patterns are simply too large, and can only be temporarily handled by the transporter system itself for the duration of a transport. (This drives the plot of Our Man Bashir, for example, where trying to save the patterns of just five people, caught in an explosion mid-transport that prevents them from being materialized, requires using all available computer memory everywhere on the station and wreaks havoc on operations for the duration of the episode.)

The official tech manual explanation is that indeed, replicator patterns are smaller, and thus there are tiny discrepancies between a dish beamed from A to B and one scanned into a replicator at A and subsequently replicated at B (and C, and D, and...), but that these discrepancies are too tiny to be significant and that no, you can't actually taste a difference. Claiming you can is the equivalent of audiophiles who insist that overpriced sound equipment sounds better because of differences the human ear literally can't perceive. And this makes sense, because the idea that you can taste a difference is generally attributed to cranks, traditionalists, or just persnickety home cooks, while no medical professional at any point suggests that there's any risk that replicated food won't have the same nutritional or medical value as "real" food (and if anything, you'd expect the risk of medical problems to be much larger than a possible difference in taste - all kinds of real foods today are medically bad for you in ways your tastebuds can't detect at all!)

The implication, and what people like @ravenclaw-burning above mean when they talk about blind taste tests, is that if you assemble a panel of a dozen people and you have a cook make a dozen of the same meal for them, and you take take six of those meals and scan them into a replicator and then replicate them and swap them out, and you serve the six "real" meals and the six replicated meals at the same time... those dozen people won't be able to tell whether they're eating real or replicated, at any better rate than just guessing. Not even if they eat the same meal from the same cook every day: there's no signature for their tongues to detect that says "this dish is replicated" instead of "this was handmade fresh today and is slightly different from every other version I've had here in the same way they're all slightly different from each other".

People do talk about "programming" replicator recipes in ways that sound more like they're telling the computer what to make (in advance, in a lot more detail than when we just see them ordering normally) than like they're cooking an example themselves to scan in; that lends credence to the idea that most dishes aren't exact duplicates of template dishes but are instead generated according to some set of steps from base ingredients and then replicated according to the computer's simulation of the result. That also implies it would be trivial to add enough random variation to avoid the problem of every instance of a given dish tasting exactly the same every time. (Thought experiment: imagine a holodeck program where you watch a holographic chef cook holographic ingredients to make a holographic meal, then you eat the meal - from what we're told about how the holodeck works, the meal is just a hologram until you're about to eat it, at which point it's replicated and seamlessly swapped in. That same process of figuring out what the meal should be based on the ingredients and recipe could be run without the holograms, just by the computer itself.)

There are also scenes where people complain about the options available from the replicator or have to argue with the replicator about unhealthy or "not recommended" options, but these don't seem to be restrictions of the replicators themselves but more about safety, health, or just cultural norms aboard starships - for example, synthehol substituting for alcohol, which certainly in early TNG is treated like this shift in culture where wanting real alcohol marks you as archaic and eccentric. The franchise is also wildly inconsistent about this, not least because of factors like retconning replicators and replicator-like devices further back in the timeline than they were originally presented. Early TNG (again) in particular is quite bad about this, as many things like replicators and holodecks are presented as shiny new technologies to the characters, but very normal parts of everyday life are also treated like strange, foreign concepts from the past that people have entirely forgotten except as novelties - see Riker attempting to cook for his friends, and compare it to Sisko. It seems a fairly safe bet that a personal replicator in a planetside home can be set to produce whatever food and drink with whatever healthy or unhealthy ingredients you want, barring anything literally prohibited by law for sapient consumption.

The long and the short of it: no, you probably can't tell the difference between a replicated and hand-cooked meal. Your doctor sure doesn't think there's one worth mentioning. Yes, a meal you get from a replicator will be different to ordering the same meal from a restaurant or having it cooked at home, just like ordering from any specific restaurant in real life will be different from ordering from a different restaurant, or cooking for yourself. Yes, there are probably recognizable differences between the food available from replicators on starships and what you'd get on any given planet (possibly even from replicators!), but that's more a matter of different defaults and ingredient substitutions, like IRL regional variations such as "this uses margarine instead of butter", "cane sugar vs high fructose corn syrup", "kosher vs regular salt", etc.

As a side note… I am really annoyed by one thing about Star Trek.

“Replicated food is not as good as real food.”

That’s ridiculous.  In Star Trek, replicator technology is part of the same tech tree as transporters.  Replicated food would be identical to the food it was based on, down to the subatomic level. 

[puppetwoman17]

So I just randomly thought of a really depressing Cap AU (as you do). It’s basically where everything happens as it always has, with the Batson parents dying, Billy being left behind, and Shazam choosing him. But what if Billy’s memories of that night were taken away. Maybe it’s a Failsafe to protect the champion if the transformation ever fails.

Basically, Billy doesn’t remember that he’s Captain Marvel. When a villain’s attacking Fawcett, the only reason he says “Shazam” is because it’s still an automatic response regardless of if he has memories or not.

As Captain Marvel, he remembers everything. Billy’s not all that happy with Shazam for taking such important memories, but the old dude says it’s been done with many champions in the past(a total lie, Shazam’s just overprotective).

But one day, someone is able to capture a clear image of Captain Marvel. And he looks exactly like CC Batson.

Everything just crashes down for Billy after that. His dad is back, but he hasn’t come to see him once. At this point, Billy is still homeless, saving up to rent a rusty apartment somewhere. If there was anyone he trusted right now for help, it would be his dad. But CC seems okay with staying away and having this new life where he’s loved by all.

Billy guessed that his love wasn’t enough.

…

Yeah so basically Billy loses his memories of being chosen as the next Champion of Magic and believes that Captain Marvel is his dead father brought back to life, who doesn’t want anything to do with him anymore. Boom. That’s all I’ve got for today. *Mic drop*

[thatssofruity9]

Okay, could you guys imagine if the thing that finally got Ghost and soap together wasn’t some life or death situation where they’re forced to confront their feelings but rather Price's nosey, meddling wife?

F!reader X John Price and Ghost X soap

Authors note: This has been rattling around in my noggin for months.

“Hey, John?” you murmured as the two of you cleaned the mess left behind by the boys.

“Yeah, love?” John asks glancing up at you from the pile of dishes he’s working on

“You ever notice anything about Johnny and Simon?” you ask him in an almost cautious tone, these men meant more to him than he would ever care to admit.

“Yeah, drink their weight in liquor every damn time we have them over” your husband grumbled, you wonder sometimes if he’s willfully oblivious or just a man.

“No baby, like..” you thought for a moment. How exactly do you explain queer longing to your very straight husband?

“Okay like when Simon makes a joke he immediately looks at Johnny to see if he laughed. When Johnny has a question he only asks Simon. When Kyle says something stupid they look at each other like they have their language, like me and you do.” You do your best but John is all for minding his own business, he’s a pretty unproblematic guy overall, too old to care maybe.

“Lovie, mind your business, please. They’re grown men, if they have the hots for each other they can figure it out on their own.” John rolled his eyes at you and continued working. You didn’t love that, dismissing your want to gossip but it’s very John, makes you want to strangle him. You don’t bring it up again at least not for a few months, not until Kyle’s wedding, that was a very interesting trip as far as your snooping was concerned.

The moment Kyle and his beautiful wife said their ‘I do’s’ you glanced toward your husband in his fancy tan suit, remembering how that moment felt when it was the two of you standing at that altar. You can’t help the way your eyes drift from your husband to the blonde man behind him. Simon, much like you were looking at John, was looking at Johnny.

You knew from that point on you couldn’t let it go, they’re soldiers, they don’t talk about feelings, you know this, you sleep in a bed with one every night. The idea that they might miss out on potentially the greatest thing in either one of their lives because they’re either too stubborn or too stupid to realize what’s happening meant you didn’t have a choice, you had to meddle at least a little.

It started small, sitting in Johnnys seat when the group goes to a bar so he’d have to squish into the booth next to Simon, asking Johnny and Simon to watch the house while you and John were away for the weekend. Sure Kyle usually does it but he’s so busy with his new wife can’t you guys make the time? Asking Johnny, what is wrong with Simon when there is absolutely nothing wrong with him just so Johnny will have to pay more attention to figure it out.

You weren’t being malicious you were just trying to push them together, John was mostly unaware, although he occasionally gave you a look, specifically the time you asked Johnny if he thought ‘Simon’s haircut looked good’ (it did)

It eventually got a little more pushy. Not pushy in the sense that you were being mean or even trying to push them into something they didn’t want, because they want it. It’s just you knew soldiers, you knew these boys. They are dumbasses.

“Hey Simon?” you asked one Sunday afternoon. Simon had come over to watch some game with John, not unusual, although it is unusual for him to not have Johnny with him. This was your moment, John had gone to the bathroom so you wouldn’t have to hear “Stop being nosy, love!” You can just continue with your plan.

“Mm?” The quiet man asked you turning his head from the Telly to look at you. He’s not uninterested so much as he’s just quiet, you have known him for long enough to know that.

“How long have you and Johnny been dating?” You asked, you knew they weren’t dating. All part of the plan, all part of the plan.

“What?” He looked confused, you know him, maybe not as well as your husband but you know him. He can’t hide his facial expressions for anything, it’s probably best he wears a mask on the field.

“What?” You give the same facial expression as if trying to understand where his obvious confusion is coming from.

“We’re not dating, why did you think we were dating?” Simons interrogates you, it’s so rare that he says so many words you almost feel a little guilty.

“Oh, I’m sorry I just assumed.” Your tone is light, an honest mistake Simon, so sorry for the inconvenience.

“Why? Why did you assume that?” For the first time all the time you’ve known him he seems flustered.

“Oh, I just… you guys live together, always touching, talking quietly to yourselves, it’s just exactly like me and John. I just assumed dating, shouldn’t have.”

Your statement is made with kindness and a smile but one day you’ll tell him how you conned him into being in love.

“We’re not” Simon stated leaving no room for your argument. There was a long stretch of silence before he spoke again.

“Do you think he thinks we’re dating?” Well you didn’t expect that question, Johnny lacked common sense sometimes but he’s not stupid, no you did not believe he thinks they’re together.

“Yeah probably, I would.” LIES, one day you’ll have to confess to this but not today.

He left not too long after that conversation, and you kind of felt like you may have messed something up. But you shouldn’t doubt yourself, you know this, you’re like a wizard in the art of getting in other people’s business. Your self-doubt is as squashed the minute Johnnys' silly little contact photo popped onto your phone. A phone call, you answer.

“Hello?” You barely have time to start speaking before Johnny starts in. Poor guy.

“Si just texted me and said he talked to you bout somethin’ and it made him ‘realize some things’ that hell’s that about?” Rambling is funny on him, he’s always so calm and collected, now this is where you kinda hesitated, do you tell the truth or do you stir the pot? You settle on stirring the pot. For the greater good of course.

You ended up telling Johnny everything you and Simon spoke about, leaving nothing out, you simply just finished off your little story with a

“Who knows maybe it made him think hard enough he’s going to tell you how he feels.”

Johnny stays silent for a long moment on the other end of the line, mulling it over probably.

“So Si has the hots for me aye?”

You wish he could’ve seen your eye roll but you’re sure he heard your sigh.

“Just a hunch” you add maybe you could get him to make a move, he’s probably easier to work on than Simon anyway.

“Aye, good hunch, lass.” You are acutely aware that your husband still in fact doesn’t know you’re trying to convince his soldiers to break “no fraternizing” rules. But he will only be annoyed until he sees his mates so happy.

Your phone call with Johnny doesn’t last much longer. You feel like a Disney villain for a couple of minutes but then John put on his reading glasses so you kinda got a little distracted and ‘forgot’ to mention to him that you were psychologically manipulating his best friends for their good. You let fate do its thing now, you pushed enough.

Weeks maybe even months go by, and you haven’t seen the group in a bit, you and John are off in the kitchen making drinks while Kyle and his new wife make googly eyes at each other in your living room.

When Johnny and Simon finally decide to grace the group with their presence, you see it immediately, holding hands, nothing is different except for that. You and John rejoin the group at some point, talking and laughing like always, they don’t mention it, you don’t ask and neither does anyone else. But everyone knew something had changed, thank the gods.

You’re poor dumb husband looks at his two best friends after a while, once the food was mostly gone and the drinks had been flowing. He looks at them and then back to you before ducking down and whispering in your ear.

“Love? I know That’s your handiwork.” yeah NO SHIT, John. But they look so happy.

Horrifyingly years later once the whole story had been recounted they told that story at their wedding, which was, yes embarrassing but the thought that you helped bring these two beautiful souls together eased that pretty quickly.