#it's such a dramatic shift in tone from the rest of the series

[ichorai]

chiropterology — bed rest.

drabble synopsis ; bruce is a terrible escape artist. warnings ; mild descriptions of injury, talks of death.

series masterlist.

When Bruce woke up, he was met with four pairs of eyes staring at him with stern, unmoveable expressions. He groaned as he tried to sit up on the bed. The tight bandages wound over his chest felt terribly constricting—he could hardly inhale without his ribs aching. When Bruce started tugging at the gauze, it shouldn’t have surprised him when Alfred smacked his fingers away.

“Don’t touch those,�� Alfred scolded. He fussed with the blanket, tugging it up to Bruce’s stomach. “You should have called for backup sooner, Master Bruce. You’re lucky to have made it out in one piece.”

“My attackers?” Bruce asked, wincing at how much it hurt to speak. His lip was split, and one of his eyes was bruised a horrid shade of purple. 

“Of course that’s your first question,” Tim deadpanned. “GCPD took them into custody. Welcome back, by the way.” Beside Tim, Damian was glaring at his father, arms crossed, clearly upset that he hadn’t called for Robin when he so clearly needed the help.

“How long was I out?” He looked at you this time, wondering why you were uncharacteristically quiet.

You pursed your lips, reaching out to brush errant strands of hair away from his eyes. There was a melancholic gleam to your eyes, one that made Bruce feel all the more terrible. “Two days. You had a punctured lung, hon.”

“Oh.” Bruce hadn’t realized it was that serious. It was no wonder he was having difficulty breathing. “I feel fine.”

“Nonsense,” said Alfred, wheeling a cart with hot tea and snacks to his bedside. “You are on strict bed rest until you recover.”

Bruce’s brows knitted together. “For how long?”

“A few weeks,” replied Alfred, a warning edge to his tone. “Possibly more, depending on how cooperative you are.”

This clearly didn’t sit well with Bruce. “I can’t sit in here doing nothing for weeks.” He tried to shift off the bed, but immediately was pinned back down by Tim on one side, and you on the other.

“Stop it,” Tim said, gentle yet firm. “You’ll rip your stitches.”

“Stitches?” Bruce said. He glanced down at his bandaged abdomen. “Oh.” 

“Yeah, oh,” you snapped, incredulous. “You were stabbed multiple times.”

From the foot of the bed, Damian hissed, “You almost bled out, Father. If Oracle had not realized you stopped responding to your comms, you would have died.”

“I would have handled it,” Bruce protested weakly. 

There was a tense, angry silence.

“You would’ve been dead,” you said. Bruce noticed you clutch your hands together in a futile attempt to get them to stop trembling. “I wish I was being dramatic this time. But you would’ve died alone out there. Do you know how terrifying that is for me? For us?”

Your husband swallowed around the painful lump in his throat. “It won’t happen again,” he reassured you, though you didn’t look very reassured. “My vitals are hooked up to the batcomputer, the chances of me actually dying—”

“That is not the point, Master Bruce,” Alfred interrupted. “This is not up for debate. You are benched until further notice.”

Bruce, about to protest again, paused when you put a hand on his knee. You had very convincing pleading eyes. “Fine,” he relented. 

“Excellent,” Alfred said. “Come along now, children. Let your father have some rest.” He ushered Tim and Damian out of the bedroom, the two of them shooting one final daggered look towards Bruce before scurrying off to tell the rest of the siblings that he was awake.

“Next time, you call for help,” you said, prodding his bicep with a finger. “You hear me? You. Call. For. Help.”

Having no heart to argue with you, Bruce nodded. “Got it.”

“Good.” Your expression softened into one that he was more familiar with. “I’m glad you’re awake. I was getting lonely sleeping in the guest room. Duke and Damian brought sleeping bags to camp out with me on the second night after I complained about it, though. They’re sweet boys.”

Bruce frowned. “Why didn’t you just sleep in here?”

You shifted to slip under the blanket beside him, tugging his head down to rest on your chest. “I was worried I’d accidentally kick you while you were, you know… comatose.”

This made him huff out a laugh. “That’s true. I still remember waking up on the ground the first time we slept together.”

“What I do while unconscious is none of my business,” you vehemently defended, cheeks flushing at the embarrassing memory. “Promise me you won’t die at least in the next fifty years. Please.”

“Hn. Fifty years is a long time.”

“Bruce!”

He smiled into your skin, even though it stung like all hell, and pressed his nose into the crevice of your neck. “If I have to stay alive for at least fifty more years, you have to be around for at least sixty. The kids would need you when I’m gone.”

“That’s a morbid thought,” you murmured, lying your cheek on his hair, voice distant as you considered such a scenario. “But you got yourself a deal. Now go to sleep. I’m exhausted from worrying over you all day.”

Bruce listened to the rhythmic thump of your pulse, and your deep draws of breath as you lulled yourself into a dream. “Love you,” he whispered, to which you drowsily mumbled something unintelligible in response.

When he was certain you were asleep, he slipped out of bed.

And was promptly dragged back to the room by Alfred. Rats.

His second escape attempt was the following morning, when you had disappeared down to the lab to tinker on a new project—something about a cloning machine, Bruce wasn’t entirely sure. He slipped out of the window and climbed down using bed sheets tied together—but Tim had been out by the front of the manor and had seen the whole thing.

“I’ll pay you a million dollars to let me into the Batcave,” Bruce said, though he already knew it was a lost cause from Tim’s sheepish expression.

“Sorry, I don’t think a million dollars is worth much if Mom literally murders me,” Tim said, gesturing back to the manor’s entrance. Bruce, glowering, stomped back inside. 

The third, fourth, fifth, up to eleventh attempts all resulted in failures to varying degrees. It was the one time he cursed how crowded the manor could get.

The thirty-third (or was it thirty-fourth? Bruce was having a hard time remembering now) attempt was actually quite successful. He managed to get all the way down to the Batcave, and stood in front of the Batcomputer with his hands on his hips, basking in his success until—

“Yo,” said Jason, waving at Bruce with a cocky smile. There was a wrench in one of his gloved hands. “Alfred and Mom thought you might try something, and asked if I could lend a hand.”

Bruce glanced around at the several Batmobiles and saw that they were all missing tires. There was definitely no way he could escape in time on foot. 

“Damn,” he said, slumping over. His side ached a terrible amount. It didn’t surprise Bruce when you popped out from behind one of the Batmobiles, waving at him with a cheery smile. Of course.

“Thanks for the help, Jason! Now… let’s get you back upstairs, hon,” you said to Bruce, appearing sympathetic for once. You wrapped an arm around his midriff and helped him hobble to the elevator. “The more rest you get, the faster you’ll recover.”

“Hn.”

“I’ll get you some ice for your eye. I miss when your face didn’t look like a checkerboard of scratches and bruises.”

“Mmh.”

“You hungry? I’m thinkin’ lasagna for lunch.”

“Hnm.”

You kissed his cheek with an exaggerated smooching noise and a peal of laughter. “I’m so happy I married a sulky caveman. Very productive conversations.”

To his dismay, he felt himself smiling again. “You drive me insane,” he sighed, allowing himself to lean more of his weight onto you.

Your grin only grew wider. “I love you, too.”

[radarsteddybear]

What I would give to be able to talk to the writer(s)/producers/director of "That's No Lady, That's My Spy" because I have. so many questions. about how that episode came to be.

[mcrdvcks]

i love you, always and forever ࿐‧₊ first time - teach me how to love

chapter summary: After he dropped hints for weeks, you finally give in to Logan.

word count: 11k+

pairing: Logan Howlett x fem!reader

notes: this is a bonus chapter! i consider this taking place before make you mine

this is the request that inspired this chapter

(you do NOT have to read the series to understand this oneshot. it's mostly smut)

warnings/tags: reader wears glasses, shy!reader, mention of twirling hair, fluff, smut, fingering, unprotected piv, creampie, oral (f!receiving), overstimulation, not proofread

series masterlist

You turned the page of your book, the hum of some old movie playing on the TV in the bedroom. You were lying between Logan’s legs, your head resting below his chin while his hand absentmindedly twirled a strand of your hair. His other hand was draped over your stomach, fingers occasionally tapping against the fabric of your shirt like he had a thought he wasn’t quite ready to share.

“You actually readin’ that thing, or just pretendin’ to so I don’t distract you?” Logan’s voice was low, lazy, the kind of tone he only used when he was completely comfortable.

You didn’t look up from your book. “I was reading.”

“Was,” he echoed, amused. His fingers gave your hair a light tug before smoothing it down again. “So that means I am distractin’ you.”

You sighed, more dramatic than necessary, but the smile tugging at your lips gave you away. “Logan.”

“Darlin’.”

You tilted your head up, meeting his eyes. “You’re doing that thing.”

“What thing?”

“The thing where you get all smug just ‘cause I like being around you.”

Logan smirked, his fingers trailing absently along your side now. “That a bad thing?”

You sighed again, but this time, you leaned into him a little more, letting your book rest against your chest. “No.”

He chuckled, the sound rumbling against your back. “Didn’t think so.”

The movie flickered in the background, some old Western that Logan had flipped to out of habit. You doubted he was actually paying attention to it. His fingers skimmed over the hem of your shirt now, his touch slow, deliberate. He wasn’t pushing, wasn’t even making a real move—just there, lingering, testing.

“Y’know,” he murmured, brushing his knuckles along the sliver of skin just above your waistband, “I don’t mind you usin’ me as a pillow, but I gotta say, sweetheart… there are other ways to get comfortable.”

You didn’t take the bait, though your cheeks warmed at his tone. “I am comfortable.”

Logan let out a quiet hum, his fingers tracing the same path over your stomach. “Could be more comfortable.”

You swallowed, shifting slightly in his hold. “Logan.”

He leaned down, his lips ghosting over the side of your neck. “Just sayin’.”

You exhaled, turning the page of your book even though you hadn’t actually processed a single word. “You’re impossible.”

“Nah,” he murmured against your skin. “Just persistent.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, determined not to let him rattle you—at least, not too much. He wasn’t wrong, though. Over the past couple of weeks, Logan had been dropping hints, pushing just enough to see how you’d react. It wasn’t anything overt—no pressure, no expectation. Just a lingering touch here, a teasing remark there, the occasional kiss that lasted a second longer than it needed to.

He was patient, but he wasn’t subtle.

“You’re thinkin’ real hard about somethin’,” Logan murmured, his breath warm against your jaw.

You cleared your throat, keeping your eyes trained on your book. “Just… taking in the plot.”

“Uh-huh.” He didn’t sound convinced. His hand slid just a little higher, resting against your ribs now. “That book’s been on the same page for the last ten minutes.”

You sighed. “Maybe I just like this page.”

Logan huffed a quiet laugh, his lips brushing against your temple. “Yeah? What’s it about?”

You hesitated, then groaned, dropping the book onto your lap. “Fine. Maybe I haven’t been paying attention.”

He smirked, clearly pleased with himself. “That so?”

You turned your head just enough to meet his gaze. “You love being a distraction, don’t you?”

Logan shrugged, unbothered. “If it gets you lookin’ at me instead of that book? Yeah, sweetheart. I do.”

You rolled your eyes, but before you could fire back with something witty, Logan’s hand slipped beneath your sweater, resting warm and steady against your skin. The touch wasn’t rushed or demanding—just there, grounding, like he was waiting to see if you’d pull away.

You didn’t.

Logan took that as an invitation to tilt your chin up, pressing a slow, lingering kiss against your lips. He wasn’t pushing for more, but he wasn’t holding back, either. His fingers splayed against your stomach, his thumb brushing lazy circles over your skin.

By the time he pulled back, his smirk had softened into something quieter, something more certain. “See? Much better than readin’.”

You huffed a laugh, shaking your head. “You’re incorrigible.”

Logan grinned. “Yeah, but you’re still sittin’ here, ain’tcha?”

You opened your mouth to argue, but nothing came to mind. Because he was right.

And, more than that, you didn’t want to be anywhere else.

---

The sound of chalk against the board was somewhat soothing—it usually meant just you and equations. But it wasn’t as soothing today since Logan was leaning against your desk watching you as you wrote across the board preparing for class.

He’d been there for the past ten minutes, saying nothing, just watching, arms crossed, that infuriating smirk lingering on his face. You’d done your best to ignore him, focusing on writing out the equation, but every time you glanced over, he was still there. Still watching.

Finally, you sighed, setting the chalk down with a small clink. “Are you just gonna stand there, or are you actually here for something?”

Logan’s smirk deepened. “Dunno. Kinda enjoyin’ the view.”

You rolled your eyes, but your face warmed at the way his voice dipped just slightly, lazy and deliberate. You turned back to the board, trying to ignore the way his presence was making it difficult to focus. “Well, unless you suddenly got real interested in quantum mechanics, you’re gonna get bored pretty quick.”

“Nah,” he said, the sound of his boots scuffing against the floor as he shifted. “You’re way more interestin’ than whatever the hell’s on that board.”

You hesitated just briefly before picking the chalk back up, your grip tightening slightly. “Logan.”

“Y/N.” He mimicked your tone perfectly, and you could hear the smirk in his voice.

You turned to glare at him, but it was a mistake—because the second you looked at him, you were trapped. His eyes weren’t just amused; they were sharp, knowing, like he could see right through you. And he could, you realized with an exasperated huff.

“You’re distracting me,” you muttered, looking back at the board.

“Yeah?” Logan pushed off your desk, moving closer until he was standing right behind you. “Guess that makes us even, darlin’.”

Your breath hitched as his voice dropped, the warmth of him settling against your back even though he wasn’t touching you. It would be so easy for him to close the distance, to brush his hand against your waist, to tease you just a little further. But he didn’t. He just stood there, letting the silence stretch, making sure you felt him there.

Your grip on the chalk faltered, a small break appearing in the line of your equation.

Logan chuckled. “You sure you ain’t gettin’ distracted, sweetheart?”

You turned sharply, ready to snap at him, but the second you did, his hand lifted, fingers brushing a stray piece of chalk dust off your cheek. The touch was barely there, but it was enough to make your pulse stutter. His hand lingered for just a second longer than necessary before he let it drop.

“That’s better,” he murmured.

You swallowed, blinking up at him. His smirk had softened, something quieter settling in the way he looked at you. That look always got you—it was dangerous. It made you feel like you were the only person in the world who mattered to him. And maybe, in some ways, you were.

“You’re impossible,” you muttered, pushing past him to grab your notes.

Logan didn’t stop you, but as you moved, he caught your wrist, his grip gentle but firm. “Hey.”

You hesitated, looking up at him again.

“Dinner later?” His thumb brushed against your wrist, barely there.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

Logan’s smirk returned, but it wasn’t cocky—it was satisfied. “Good.”

And then he leaned down, his fingers holding your chin gently as he kissed your forehead, the tip of your nose, and then finally your lips.

His lips pressed against yours, slow and deliberate, and you felt the familiar warmth pool low in your stomach. Logan wasn’t in a rush—he never was when he kissed you. He liked to take his time, to savor, to leave you breathless in a way that made your head spin long after he pulled away. His fingers curled under your chin, keeping you close, his thumb tracing a slow line along your jaw.

His tongue flicked over your bottom lip, a slow, deliberate swipe before he pulled back just enough to meet your gaze. His smirk was lazy, self-satisfied, and entirely too smug.

“Cherry,” he muttered, his voice low, rough.

“You’re obsessed,” you said, trying to sound unimpressed even as your fingers curled into the front of his shirt.

Logan huffed out a quiet laugh, his hands slipping lower, resting heavy on your hips. “Ain’t my fault you keep wearin’ it.” His thumbs brushed against your sides, slow, absent-minded. “Like you want me to notice.”

You rolled your eyes, trying to ignore the heat creeping up your neck. “It’s just lip gloss, Logan.”

“Sure,” he drawled, clearly unconvinced. “Just lip gloss.” His grip on your hips tightened just a fraction. “You always wear this flavor, or is it just ‘round me?”

You opened your mouth, ready to argue, but the way he was looking at you made your brain short-circuit. His expression wasn’t just teasing anymore—there was something deeper behind his eyes, something unreadable but intense. It sent a shiver down your spine.

He leaned in again, not quite kissing you, just letting his lips hover near yours, close enough that you could feel the heat of his breath. “Go on,” he murmured, voice dropping even lower. “Tell me it ain’t for me.”

You swallowed hard, your pulse hammering in your throat. You weren’t sure what was more frustrating—the way he always managed to fluster you so easily, or the fact that he knew exactly what he was doing.

“I—” You hesitated, and Logan caught it immediately. His smirk widened, and you wanted to wipe it off his face, but your brain was too fogged up with the scent of him, the way his hands were resting so firmly on your hips, like he had no plans of letting go anytime soon.

“Thought so,” he muttered, finally pressing his lips to yours again.

This kiss was slower, more deliberate, his mouth moving against yours like he had all the time in the world. His fingers curled slightly, gripping the fabric of your sweater as he pulled you in closer. You felt the scrape of his stubble against your skin, the way he tilted his head just right, deepening it just enough to make you forget that you were still standing in the middle of your classroom.

When he pulled back, you were breathless, gripping onto his shirt like it was the only thing keeping you upright. Logan, of course, looked perfectly fine, his smirk still in place, though his breathing was a little heavier than before.

“Now, what were you sayin’ about this bein’ ‘just lip gloss’?”

You groaned, shoving lightly at his chest. “Logan.”

He caught your wrist before you could push him away completely, pressing a quick kiss to the inside of it before finally letting you go. “Alright, alright,” he said, still grinning. “I’ll stop—” He paused, then added, “—for now.”

You exhaled sharply, stepping back to put some space between you. “You’re impossible.”

Logan just chuckled, watching you with that same damn amused expression, like he was enjoying every second of this. And the worst part? He absolutely was.

You turned away quickly, trying to regain your composure, but you could still feel the heat of his hands on your skin, the ghost of his lips on yours.

“You still good for dinner later?” he asked, casually like he hadn’t just spent the last five minutes making you forget how to think.

You cleared your throat, adjusting your glasses as you grabbed your notes. “Yeah,” you muttered. “I’ll be there.”

“Good.” His voice was warm, satisfied. “See you then, sweetheart.”

And with that, he strolled out of the room like nothing had happened, leaving you standing there, lips tingling, heart racing, and entirely too aware of the fact that you were already counting down the hours until you saw him again.

---

The mansion was abnormally quiet. Most of the students were out for the weekend—some of the older students were looking after the younger ones—and the team was out doing a simple recon mission.

“One and a half cups of flour,” you muttered, leveling off the measuring cup before dumping it into the mixing bowl. The kitchen was unusually quiet, save for the occasional hum of the fridge and the rhythmic clink of your spoon against the bowl as you stirred.

“You talk to yourself when you bake?” Logan’s voice came from the doorway, rough with amusement.

You glanced up, pushing your glasses higher up your nose. “It helps me focus,” you said, reaching for the sugar. “And keeps me from messing up the measurements.”

Logan stepped inside, hands tucked into his jeans as he leaned against the counter, watching you. “Didn’t think you ever messed up.”

You huffed a small laugh. “Everyone messes up.”

“Not you,” he said, smirking. “Not when it comes to stuff like this.”

You shook your head, trying to hide the warmth creeping up your neck as you added sugar to the bowl. “Flattery isn’t going to get you cookies any faster.”

Logan just grinned. “Worth a shot.”

He stayed where he was, not offering to help, not interfering, just watching. He always did this—hovering without making it obvious, keeping you in his line of sight like it was second nature. You’d gotten used to it over the past few months, the way he lingered when you were focused on something, content just being there.

His presence was steady, familiar, something you had unconsciously grown comfortable with.

You reached for the blueberries, tossing a handful into the batter before mixing again. “You’re staring.”

Logan shrugged, smirk never fading. “You’re nice to look at.”

Your grip tightened on the spoon. “Logan.”

“What?” He tilted his head, completely unbothered. “I’m just statin’ facts, sweetheart. ‘Specially when you’re wearin’ this.” Logan tugged on the open placket of his flannel, the fabric loose over your frame.

You huffed, turning back to the mixing bowl. “It was just sitting on the chair. I didn’t think you’d mind.”

Logan’s fingers skimmed the hem, playing with the edge. “Didn’t say I minded.” His voice dipped lower, rougher. “Just sayin’ it looks real good on you.”

Your hands faltered slightly as you stirred the batter, but you kept your focus on the task at hand. “You’re just trying to distract me so I mess up these cookies.”

“Me?” He smirked, shifting closer, one hip against the counter now. “I’d never do such a thing.”

You shot him a pointed look. “You do it all the time.”

Logan let out a low chuckle, reaching over to steal a blueberry from the container beside you. “Alright, maybe I do. But it ain’t my fault you’re easy to rile up.”

You swatted at his hand before he could grab another berry. “You’re the worst.”

“Yeah?” He popped the blueberry into his mouth, chewing slowly. “And yet, here you are, wearin’ my shirt, makin’ me cookies.”

“I’m not making you cookies,” you said, stirring the batter. “These are the blueberries from Ororo’s garden. She wanted me to make cookies with them.”

Logan made a low sound in the back of his throat, arms still folded as he leaned against the counter. “That right?”

“Yeah.” You scooped another handful of blueberries into the bowl, mixing them in. “So, if you want cookies, you’ll have to take it up with her.”

He smirked. “Think she’d let me have one?”

“Maybe.” You flicked your gaze toward him, pretending to consider it. “If you ask nicely.”

Logan snorted, pushing off the counter to move closer. “You ever known me to ask nicely for anything?”

You gave him a look, reaching for the baking sheet. “Exactly.”

His smirk widened. “So that means I gotta find another way to get one.”

“You could just wait like everyone else,” you pointed out, dropping spoonfuls of batter onto the tray.

“Could.” Logan took another step forward, his fingers brushing against the hem of the flannel you were still wearing. “Or I could keep distractin’ you till you cave.”

You rolled your eyes, ignoring the way your heart picked up just from him being this close. “You’re not as persuasive as you think.”

He hummed, standing directly behind you now, his chest barely a breath away from your back. “That so?”

You swallowed, focusing intently on the cookies. “Yes.”

Logan leaned in just a little, his breath warm against your ear. “Don’t seem so sure, sweetheart.”

Your hands froze for half a second before you forced yourself to keep scooping batter. “I don’t give in that easily.”

“Mm.” His hands skimmed along the counter on either side of you, not touching, just there. “Good thing I like a challenge.”

You exhaled, willing yourself to focus. “The cookies go in the oven in five minutes. Think you can survive that long?”

Logan chuckled, low and deep. “Guess we’ll see.”

His hands finally lifted from the counter, and he stepped back, giving you space again—but not before trailing a slow fingertip down your arm on the way. It was barely anything, just a whisper of a touch, but it left a warm, lingering imprint on your skin.

You shook your head, ignoring the way your cheeks felt hot. “You’re the worst.”

He smirked. “You keep sayin’ that, and yet—” He tugged lightly on the sleeve of the flannel you were still wearing. “Still wearin’ my shirt. Still makin’ cookies.”

You sighed, finally turning to face him fully. “They’re Ororo’s cookies.”

Logan crossed his arms, amused. “Uh-huh.”

Your eyes narrowed slightly. “You really think everything I do is for you, don’t you?”

He grinned. “No. But I like knowin’ when it is.”

You groaned, turning back to the tray before he could see how much that stupid smirk was affecting you. “You are impossible.”

Logan just chuckled, watching as you slid the tray into the oven. “I’ll take that as a ‘yes, Logan, you can have a cookie when they’re done.’”

You shut the oven and sighed. “Fine. One.”

His smirk deepened. “Thought you didn’t give in that easily?”

You turned, poking a finger at his chest. “You’re pushing it.”

Logan caught your hand before you could pull it back, his fingers warm as they curled lightly around yours. He didn’t say anything at first, just held your hand, his thumb grazing over your knuckles in slow, easy circles.

Your breath caught, and for a moment, neither of you moved. The playful air between you had shifted, just slightly, into something quieter, something that made your heart beat a little harder.

“Y’know,” Logan murmured, his voice lower now, “I don’t just stick around for the cookies.”

You swallowed, your fingers twitching against his. “I know.”

Logan studied you for a long moment, then, with a small smirk, lifted your hand to his lips and pressed a slow, deliberate kiss to your knuckles. The warmth of it sent a shiver up your spine.

Your breath wavered, and Logan didn’t miss it. His smirk softened, his eyes flicking up to yours. “I’ll be patient, sweetheart,” he murmured, squeezing your hand once before letting go.

Your stomach flipped, but before you could even think of a response, he turned and strolled toward the door. “I’ll be back when the cookies are done.”

And then he was gone, leaving you standing there with your heart pounding and your hand still tingling from where his lips had been.

You took a slow, steadying breath, staring at the closed door for a long moment.

You were in trouble.

---

The night was like any other night. The TV was playing in the room, another old movie Logan had put on, while you read a book—1st to Die by James Patterson.

Your head was resting against his shoulder, while one of his hands absentmindedly stroked your thigh. His touch was steady, casual, like it had been for months now, but you could feel something else beneath it tonight. A quiet kind of intent.

Logan wasn’t subtle. Not really. He liked to pretend he was, but you had known him long enough to pick up on his patterns. The way his fingers traced absent shapes against your skin, his thumb brushing along the inside of your knee before trailing back down. Slow. Measured. Like he was waiting for you to notice.

You turned the page in your book, trying to ignore the way your heart had started to beat just a little faster.

“Y’like that one?” Logan’s voice was quiet, rough in the way it always was. His thumb dragged up again, stopping just beneath the hem of your shorts.

You nodded. “Yeah. It’s good.”

Logan hummed, shifting slightly so he could glance down at you. “Ain’t my usual, but I might give it a shot.”

Your lips twitched. “You barely read anything that isn’t a newspaper.”

Logan smirked. “Fair.” His fingers brushed higher this time, not quite pushing but not retreating either. “But if you like it, I figure it’s worth a look.”

You swallowed, trying to focus on the words in front of you, but they were blurring now, replaced by the warmth of his palm against your thigh, the way his hand lingered, waiting.

After a long moment, you set the book down on your lap and turned slightly, looking up at him. Logan watched you, something unreadable flickering behind his gaze.

His other hand lifted, fingers ghosting along your jaw before his thumb traced over your bottom lip, slow and deliberate.

Your breath caught. He didn’t move closer, didn’t push. He just waited.

It had always been this way with him. The teasing, the lingering touches, the quiet intensity that made your pulse stutter. He never rushed. He was never impatient with you.

But he wanted you to be the one to move first.

You hesitated only for a moment before tilting your chin up, closing the space between you.

The second your lips met his, Logan exhaled sharply through his nose, fingers tightening on your thigh. He kissed you slow at first, steady, like he had all the time in the world. But when he started to pull back, you chased him, your fingers curling into the front of his shirt to keep him close.

That was all it took.

Logan made a quiet sound in the back of his throat before he kissed you deeper, his hand sliding to the small of your back as he shifted, guiding you gently until you were beneath him, your back pressed against the mattress.

He hovered there for a moment, his weight braced on his forearms as he studied you, thumb brushing over your cheek.

“You sure?” Logan’s voice was quieter now, rougher.

You nodded, your fingers sliding up into his hair. “Yeah.”

Logan exhaled slowly, something easing in his expression before he dipped his head again, kissing you softer this time.

He grabbed your book and placed it on the bedside table without looking, without even breaking the kiss. His lips were slow, deliberate, savoring the way you yielded beneath him, the way your fingers twisted in the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer.

His hand slid lower, over the soft fabric of his flannel that still draped over your frame, fingertips tracing the hem where it met your thigh. He pulled back just enough to look at you, smirking at the dazed look in your eyes. “Y’know,” he murmured, his fingers slipping under the fabric, brushing against your bare skin, “I like seein’ you in my clothes.”

You swallowed, trying to steady your breathing. “You’ve mentioned that before.”

“Yeah?” Logan tilted his head, his smirk deepening as his fingers trailed higher. “Think I might’ve understated it.”

You rolled your eyes, but the effect was ruined when he leaned in again, his mouth brushing along your jaw, then lower, dragging slow kisses down the column of your throat. His hands moved with him, one slipping around to the small of your back, the other pushing the flannel further up your thighs.

Your fingers found the hem of his shirt, tugging lightly. Logan hummed against your skin, then leaned back just enough to grab the collar of his tee, yanking it over his head in one smooth motion. The sight of him—bare-chested, golden skin catching the low light—made your breath hitch.

Logan chuckled, catching the way your gaze drifted over him. “Like what you see, sweetheart?”

You huffed, feigning exasperation, but your fingers betrayed you as they splayed over his chest, tracing the hard planes of muscle. “You’re cocky.”

His smirk widened. “Damn right.” He ducked down again, capturing your lips in another slow kiss, his body settling closer against yours. The warmth of him seeped into your skin, his weight grounding you as his hands continued their exploration, one drifting beneath the fabric of your—his—flannel, the other cupping the back of your neck.

His lips left yours only to find the sensitive skin beneath your ear, teeth scraping lightly before he soothed it with his tongue. “M’gonna take my time with you,” he murmured, his voice rough, his fingers skimming beneath the hem of your sleep shorts. “Gotta get you ready for me.”

Your breath hitched at that, and despite the heat pooling in your stomach, you still managed to murmur, “so cocky.”

Logan let out a quiet chuckle, nipping at your jaw before pulling back just enough to look you in the eyes. “That a complaint?”

You held his gaze for a long moment, then shook your head. “No.”

His smirk softened slightly, something warmer flickering in his eyes. He kissed you again, slower this time, more measured, before his hands resumed their path downward. The flannel slid off your shoulders, and Logan eased it down your arms, letting it pool around you before shifting his focus to your shorts.

His fingers traced the waistband, giving you the opportunity to stop him, to hesitate—but you didn’t. Instead, you lifted your hips just enough for him to slip them down, the fabric dragging along your legs before being tossed aside.

His hands traced back up, following the path they’d just taken, but this time there was nothing between you. His palms splayed over your thighs, fingers pressing in just enough to make you squirm before they trailed inward, brushing against the heat of you.

Logan exhaled sharply, his forehead resting against yours for a brief moment before he kissed you again, deeper this time. One hand stayed anchored against your hip while the other moved between your thighs, fingers teasing, exploring, until they found the slick warmth waiting for him.

His lips curved against yours. “So fuckin’ soft,” he murmured, tracing slow circles that made you gasp, your fingers gripping his shoulders. “And already so wet for me.”

Your breath stuttered, nails digging into his skin as his fingers worked you open, slow and careful, coaxing soft sounds from your lips that only made his own breath turn heavier.

“You always this sweet for me, darlin’?” he murmured, his lips brushing against your cheek, your jaw, your throat. “Or is this just ‘cause you’ve been waitin’ on me?”

Logan’s fingers curled just right inside you, pressing against that spot that made your breath stutter, your thighs twitching where they pressed against his hips. His smirk was small but unmistakable, lips brushing against your cheek as his fingers worked you open, slow and deliberate.

“You’re real sensitive, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice rough with something darker, something restrained. His thumb dragged lazy circles over your clit, and you whimpered, your grip on his shoulders tightening. He chuckled, breath warm against your skin. “Damn shame I didn’t do this sooner.”

You couldn’t answer—not with the way he was touching you, not with the heat pooling in your stomach, threatening to snap. Your head tipped back against the pillows, glasses askew, lips parted around soft, breathy sounds that you couldn’t hold back. Logan didn’t stop them. If anything, he worked for them, coaxing every little gasp from your lips like he had all the time in the world.

“That’s it,” he muttered, pressing slow kisses down your jaw, along the line of your throat. His fingers pumped into you steadily, stretching, teasing, dragging that pleasure higher. “Y’been waitin’ on this, haven’t you?”

“Logan—”

His thumb pressed a little firmer against your clit, and your words broke into a moan, your back arching into him. Logan groaned, deep and low, his mouth finding the hollow of your throat as he kept his rhythm.

“Christ, you sound good,” he muttered. “So fuckin’ sweet.”

You could feel yourself getting close, the pleasure building, sharp and electric, curling tight in your stomach. Logan felt it too—the way your thighs trembled, the way your breath hitched between each desperate sound.

“C’mon, darlin’,” he murmured, lips brushing your ear, fingers relentless. “Let me feel it.”

And you did—your body tensed, your breath breaking into a soft, gasping cry as you came apart beneath him. Logan cursed softly, watching you unravel, his fingers slowing just enough to help you ride it out.

You were still trembling when he pulled his hand away, bringing his fingers to his lips. He met your gaze as he licked them clean, eyes dark and heavy-lidded.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he rasped. “You taste good.”

Your stomach flipped, heat rising to your cheeks, but Logan was already shifting, already pressing slow, deep kisses against your lips. He took his time, letting you catch your breath, hands steady as they stroked over your hips, your thighs, your waist.

“Still doin’ alright?” he murmured.

You nodded, breathless, fingers curling against his chest. “Yeah.”

Logan smirked, but there was something softer in it, something warmer. “Good.”

His hand skimmed down your side, slow and deliberate, rough fingertips brushing over the curve of your hip. He was watching you too closely, the way he always did when he wanted to be sure you were with him, when he needed to see it in your eyes.

You curled your fingers into his hair and pulled him back down to you, mouth meeting his in a kiss that was less careful this time. You weren’t thinking about shyness, about hesitation—just the heat of his skin, the weight of him pressing you into the mattress, the way his hands knew exactly where to touch.

Logan groaned low against your lips, his body settling fully against yours now, bare skin to bare skin, except for the one piece of clothing left between you. His jeans were rough where they brushed against your thighs, the contrast making you shiver as his hands moved—one sliding beneath you to brace your back, the other gripping your hip, his fingers flexing like he was grounding himself in the feel of you.

He kissed you like he was trying to memorize the shape of your mouth, the taste of you, like he wasn’t sure if this was real or if you’d slip through his fingers again.

You felt it in the way he touched you, in the way he lingered, his lips dragging from your mouth down to your jaw, the column of your throat. His breath was hot against your skin, each exhale rougher than the last.

“You still with me, sweetheart?” Logan murmured against your pulse, his voice low, rasping.

You swallowed hard, nodding before remembering he’d want more than that. “Yeah,” you breathed. “I’m with you.”

A muscle in his jaw twitched. His fingers tightened against your hip like he was restraining himself, like he had to be careful, because this was you, and even though he’d wanted this for so fucking long, he wouldn’t rush it.

Wouldn’t rush you.

His nose brushed against your cheek as he exhaled, long and slow, before kissing you again—slower this time, deliberate.

His hands started moving again, dragging over the softness of your waist, down to your thighs, his touch firm but steady, mapping you out, savoring. When he reached the inside of your knee, he eased it up, guiding your leg around his waist. The shift pressed you flush against him, and Logan let out a sharp breath through his nose, his forehead resting against yours for a moment like he needed to gather himself.

“Fuck,” he muttered, his voice nearly a growl. His hands flexed against you, one sliding down to your ass, gripping, shifting you just enough that the hard press of him against your core made you whimper.

Logan groaned at the sound, his head dipping, lips grazing your collarbone. “You don’t even know what that does to me,” he murmured, his mouth trailing lower.

You bit your lip, your fingers twitching against his shoulders. “I might have an idea.”

That pulled a rough chuckle from him, but it faded when you moved—when you shifted against him, pressing just enough to draw a hiss from his lips.

His restraint was slipping.

He was already worked up, and you could feel it, the tension coiling in his muscles, the way his breathing had gone ragged. He’d been patient, slow, but the way he was gripping you now, the way his hands were starting to tremble against your skin—he was close to losing that patience.

And you wanted him to.

You reached between you, fingers brushing along his stomach, the waistband of his jeans. Logan’s breath hitched, his hips twitching forward before he caught himself, gripping your wrist before you could go further.

“Darlin’.” His voice was tight, strained. “You don’t gotta—”

“I know,” you murmured, looking up at him. Your free hand brushed against his jaw, grounding him. “I want to.”

Logan’s grip on your wrist loosened at that, his lips parting, something flickering behind his eyes that looked a hell of a lot like reverence.

Then he let go.

You made quick work of his belt, the button, the zipper—your hands were steady, but your heart was racing. Logan watched you, his breath shallow, his chest rising and falling in uneven bursts as you shoved the last barrier down over his hips.

His skin was hot against yours, his body solid, strong, and when he settled against you again, when there was nothing between you anymore, you let out a sharp, shaking breath at the feeling of him, the sheer heat and weight of him pressing against you.

Logan groaned, his forehead pressing against yours. “Christ.”

Your fingers curled into his shoulders, legs tightening around his waist. “Logan—”

“I got you,” he murmured. His voice was softer now, and the hand on your hip slid lower. You made a soft, pleading sound, shifting beneath him, your fingers flexing against his skin. Logan exhaled sharply, his hand leaving you to brace himself above you again. His eyes met yours. “You sure?”

You nodded, but Logan didn’t move. He needed to hear you say it.

“Yes,” you murmured, your voice quiet but sure. “I’m sure.”

Something in his expression eased, and then—

He pushed in, slow, steady, careful.

Your breath caught. Logan groaned, low and rough, his head tipping forward, his body shuddering as he fought to keep himself controlled.

“You feel so fuckin’ good,” he muttered, his voice thick, strained. His hands flexed against you, his breath ragged against your skin as he pushed in deeper, filling you completely.

You gasped, gripping his arms, your body stretching to take him, adjusting around him. Logan cursed softly, his forehead pressing to your shoulder, his hands shaking against you.

“Tell me if—” His voice was almost wrecked. “If I need to slow down, I will.”

You shook your head, breathless. “You’re perfect.”

Logan let out a quiet, shuddering exhale. “Fuck.”

His hips pulled back, then pressed forward again, slow, measured. His restraint was there, barely, his muscles taut beneath your hands, his movements careful but not hesitant.

You moaned softly, your body arching into him, and Logan swore under his breath, his grip tightening on your hips.

“Goddamn,” he muttered. “You feel like you were made for me.”

You trembled beneath him, overwhelmed by the heat, the weight, the way he filled every part of you so completely. Logan was holding himself together by a thread, his hands flexing against your hips like he was steadying himself, grounding himself in the feel of you. His breath was heavy against your skin, rough and uneven, his forehead pressing against yours as he stilled inside you, letting you adjust.

“Jesus, darlin’,” he muttered, his voice wrecked. “You—” He cut himself off, exhaling sharply through his nose. “Fuck.”

Your fingers curled against the broad planes of his back, nails digging into firm muscle as you took a shaky breath. He was big—not just in size, but in presence, in weight, in the sheer way he surrounded you, body and soul. You weren’t sure you’d ever felt this full before. It was almost too much. Almost.

But Logan wasn’t rushing.

He didn’t move, didn’t push. He just stayed there, his body taut with restraint, his jaw tight. His thumb traced absentminded circles on your hip, a small, grounding motion against the intensity of everything else.

“You okay?” His voice was rough, thick with the effort of holding himself back.

You swallowed, nodding, but when you saw the way he was watching you—his eyes dark, searching—you knew that wasn’t enough. “Yeah,” you murmured. “I’m okay.”

Logan’s throat bobbed as he exhaled slowly, like he needed to hear it, needed the confirmation.

Still, he didn’t move right away. He stayed just like that, warm and solid above you, one hand slipping up to cradle the side of your face, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone.

It was gentler than you’d expected. You weren’t sure why—you knew Logan was careful with you, always. He was rough around the edges, sure, but with you, he never let himself be careless. Even now, even with his body wound tight as a wire, he held himself back, waiting for you to let him know it was okay.

You exhaled softly, tilting your head just enough to brush your lips against his in a slow, lingering kiss. Logan groaned low in his throat, the hand on your hip tightening fractionally, but he didn’t deepen it—he let you set the pace.

You pulled back just enough to whisper against his mouth. “You can move.”

Logan’s whole body tensed at that, his breath hitching. “Fuck,” he muttered, his forehead pressing against yours again like he was collecting himself. Then, after a long moment—

He pulled back, just a little, before pushing forward again, slow and steady.

The stretch had you gasping, your fingers tightening against his shoulders. Logan gritted his teeth, cursing under his breath as he did it again, his pace careful, deliberate, as if savoring every inch of you.

“You’re so goddamn tight,” he muttered, voice rough as gravel. His lips brushed your temple, his breath warm against your skin. “So fuckin’ perfect.”

Heat curled in your stomach at the way he said it—like he couldn’t believe this was real, like he couldn’t believe he had you beneath him, wrapped around him like this.

Your thighs squeezed around his waist instinctively, and Logan groaned, his hands gripping you tighter.

“Darlin’,” he rasped, his voice strained. “You keep doin’ that, I ain’t gonna last.”

You swallowed hard, your head tipping back against the pillow. “Sorry,” you whispered, your voice shaky.

Logan let out a rough chuckle, his lips brushing the side of your neck. “Ain’t complainin’.”

He thrust again, just a little harder this time, and you let out a soft, broken sound, your back arching. Logan groaned, his teeth scraping along your jaw before he kissed you again, deeper this time, his tongue sliding against yours in a slow, drugging rhythm that matched the roll of his hips.

Your hands slid up his back, over the warm expanse of skin, tracing the dips and ridges of old scars. Logan shuddered beneath your touch, his muscles flexing under your fingers.

His mouth left yours only to drag lower, down the line of your throat, over the curve of your shoulder. “Goddamn,” he muttered against your skin, his voice thick with want. “I’ve wanted this—” He cut himself off with a groan, his fingers flexing against your waist. “You don’t even know how long.”

You whimpered softly, tightening your legs around him. “Then don’t hold back.”

Logan’s head snapped up at that, his breath catching. His eyes locked onto yours, something dark and wanting flashing behind them.

For a second, you thought he might tease you, draw it out longer—but something in your voice must have struck him, because Logan let out a rough breath and gave you exactly what you asked for.

He started moving in earnest now, his rhythm still measured but deeper, more insistent, dragging pleasure from you with every roll of his hips. Your breath hitched, your nails pressing into his shoulders as heat coiled in your stomach, sharp and electric.

You gasped as he thrust again, your body tightening around him. “Logan—”

He groaned at the way you said his name, his fingers digging into your hips. His pace faltered for a second, like he was struggling to keep himself controlled, like he was on the edge of losing himself completely.

And maybe you wanted him to.

Your hands slid up to cup his face, guiding him back down into another kiss, one that was messier now, more desperate. Logan growled against your lips, his movements turning just a little rougher, just a little faster, and you moaned into his mouth, your body arching up to meet him.

You could feel yourself getting close, the pleasure building, tightening, making your breath come faster. Logan felt it too—the way your body trembled, the way your breath caught.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he muttered, his voice wrecked, his hips rolling into yours just right. “Let me feel you.”

The coil snapped.

You cried out, your body shuddering as you came around him, the pleasure cresting over you in sharp, dizzying waves. Logan cursed, his hands gripping you tight as he followed, his rhythm stuttering before he buried himself deep, groaning low against your throat as he let go.

For a long moment, the only sound in the room was heavy breathing, the quiet hum of the TV still playing in the background. Logan stayed there, his forehead against yours, his hands still steady on your hips, like he wasn’t ready to let go just yet.

Then, slowly, he shifted, pulling you into his chest as he rolled onto his side, keeping you close, keeping you warm. His breath was still heavy, but his hands were gentle as they traced over your back, his lips pressing softly against your temple.

“You alright?” he murmured, voice still rough around the edges.

You nodded against his chest, your fingers curling into his skin. “Yeah.”

Logan exhaled slowly, something easing in his expression. “You stayin’ here tonight?”

You huffed a quiet laugh, pressing your face into his shoulder. “I think that’s a given.”

Logan smirked against your hair. “Good.”

---

Bonus Scene

He couldn’t help himself—you looked cute today. To others, it was just a regular outfit, slacks and a sweater, but the difference was those damn heels.

Logan leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching as you walked down the hall, completely unaware of the effect you were having on him. The soft click of your heels against the floor was downright distracting, and the way they made you stand just a little taller—closer to him—wasn’t helping, either.

You adjusted your glasses, scanning over the notes in your hand as you made your way toward the classroom. Logan smirked to himself, shaking his head. Of course, you were completely oblivious.

He pushed off the wall and fell into step beside you. “Fancy shoes, sweetheart.”

You glanced up at him, brow furrowing slightly before realization dawned. “Oh. Yeah.” You adjusted your grip on the papers, glancing down at them. “I don’t wear them often, but I figured I should—”

“Keep ‘em.” Logan cut you off before you could finish whatever practical reason you were about to give.

You blinked up at him. “What?”

His smirk deepened, eyes dropping briefly to your heels before dragging back up. “I like ‘em.”

Your lips parted slightly, as if you wanted to say something, but instead, you quickly looked back at your papers, clearing your throat. “They’re just shoes, Logan.”

“Uh-huh.” Logan’s voice was amused, his smirk never fading.

He could see it—the way you fidgeted slightly, the way your grip tightened just a little on the papers. You were flustered, and it was adorable.

You reached your classroom, your free hand on the doorknob, but before you could step inside, Logan’s hand landed on your hip, pulling you back just enough that you felt the warmth of him behind you. He leaned in, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

“They make your legs look real nice, too,” he murmured.

You inhaled sharply, your back straightening. “Logan—”

“Yeah, sweetheart?”

You turned your head just slightly, your cheek barely grazing his. You opened your mouth to say something—probably a scolding, judging by the look in your eyes—but Logan just grinned, giving your hip a final squeeze before stepping back.

“See you later, darlin’.”

And with that, he walked off, leaving you standing there, flustered and gripping the doorknob like it was the only thing keeping you upright.

Yeah. He was definitely keeping those heels around.

---

You didn’t wear them again for a while—you usually would only consider wearing them on days when you didn’t have to be in the lab.

So, a few weeks later they were on again. The day went on normally, no interruptions from Logan, at least not any more than usual, and by the end of the workday you were glad to finally take them off.

You had already taken off your cardigan, leaving you in a simple t-shirt, and now you were unstrapping your heels.

The second heel slid off your foot with a relieved sigh. You flexed your toes against the carpet, rolling your ankles slightly. You hadn't even heard Logan come in—not until his voice rumbled from the doorway.

“Lemme help, sweetheart.”

Your head snapped up, caught halfway through massaging the arch of your foot. Logan was already moving toward you, dark eyes locked onto yours with that unreadable expression, something steady and sure. The kind that made your breath hitch.

“You don’t have to—”

He crouched down in front of you before you could finish, already reaching for your legs. Large hands wrapped around your calves, rough fingers kneading into muscle as he lifted one foot, pressing his thumb into the soft ache just beneath your toes.

A quiet breath left you, head tipping slightly back at the relief of it. He chuckled, low and knowing.

“Yeah, figured they’d be sore. Been watchin’ you walk around in ‘em all day.” His fingers trailed down, slow and deliberate, past your ankle and along your shin, stopping just above your knee. He looked up then, and something about the way he did it—half-lidded, knowing—made heat bloom low in your stomach.

His hands didn’t move away. Not when he squeezed gently, dragging his palms down the length of your legs again, not even when his fingers hooked into the waistband of your slacks.

Your breath caught. “Logan…”

He hummed, a wordless sound of acknowledgment, but he didn’t stop. He unbuttoned them slowly, eyes flicking up to yours. “Just helpin’ you get comfortable, darlin’.”

You should’ve expected it—Logan wasn’t the type to stop at just your shoes. But still, the sensation of your slacks being eased down, the brush of cool air against your thighs as he worked them off, sent a shiver up your spine.

And then, just as you were about to stand, assuming this was about changing into something else, Logan’s hands were on your hips, pushing you back down.

Your brows furrowed. “I thought—”

But Logan was already reaching for the heels again. He slid them back onto your feet, slow, deliberate. His fingers lingered as he adjusted the straps, the rough scrape of his calloused skin against your ankle making your pulse stutter.

Your lips parted, about to ask what he was doing—but before you could, he pressed a firm hand to your thigh, spreading you open just enough, and then he was moving lower, kneeling between your legs.

The realization hit all at once.

“Logan—”

His hands gripped your thighs, pulling you just that much closer to the edge of the bed. He exhaled sharply, and you could feel it—hot, teasing, right against the thin cotton of your underwear. His nose brushed against the fabric, and the sound that left him was almost a growl.

“Been thinkin’ about this all damn day,” he muttered. One of his hands slid up, fingers pressing into the meat of your hip, while the other smoothed down to hook around the back of your knee.

You swallowed hard, fingers curling into the sheets. “You—” Your voice hitched when his mouth brushed against you again, this time with intent. “You could’ve just said so.”

He chuckled against you, lips dragging over the fabric, teasing. “Nah,” he murmured. “Better like this.”

His tongue traced along the dampening fabric, slow and unhurried, dragging just enough to make you squirm. The first real sound of pleasure slipped from your lips before you could swallow it down. He made a noise of approval, pressing his mouth more firmly against you.

Your fingers twitched against the sheets, breath coming faster. “Logan…”

Logan’s breath was hot against you, teasing, his mouth hovering right where you needed him but refusing to give in just yet. His hands stayed firm on your thighs, thumbs pressing circles into your skin, like he had all the time in the world.

Your fingers curled tighter into the sheets, your breath coming in uneven, shallow little bursts. "Logan—"

"Yeah, sweetheart?" His voice was deep, roughened by amusement, like he already knew what you wanted but wanted to hear you say it anyway.

Your nails dug into the fabric beneath you, and Logan chuckled—low, pleased. He pressed a kiss over your underwear, slow and deliberate, letting his lips linger before dragging his tongue over the fabric. The heat of his mouth seared through, and your hips jerked involuntarily.

He groaned, hands flexing against your thighs. "Knew you'd be sensitive."

A flush burned hot up your neck, your head tipping back as his fingers traced slow, teasing lines up and down your legs, just enough pressure to keep you on edge but not enough to satisfy. He slid his hands up, past your knees, before hooking his arms beneath your thighs, pulling them up, over his shoulders.

Your breath caught as your calves rested against his broad back, the heels he had insisted you keep on grazing against his muscles. His grip tightened, locking you into place, and something about the sheer strength of him—the way he held you like this, open, vulnerable, completely at his mercy—made your stomach clench.

He pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss against your thigh, then another, working his way back toward the soaked fabric between your legs. His tongue flicked out again, just enough pressure to make you squirm, before he pulled back with a smirk.

"Logan," you breathed, frustration seeping into your tone.

His eyes flicked up, dark and hungry. "What, darlin'?"

"You—" Your fingers curled into the sheets again, your voice catching as he flattened his tongue against you, pressing hard enough that you felt every inch of him through the fabric. Your back arched instinctively, a soft, broken sound slipping from your lips.

That noise seemed to snap something in him.

Logan growled, deep and guttural, his fingers hooking into the waistband of your underwear. In one slow, deliberate motion, he dragged them down, letting them catch around your knees before finally tugging them free. His hands didn’t waste any time, gripping the backs of your thighs again, pulling you even closer.

"That's better," he muttered, almost to himself.

And then his mouth was on you, hot and relentless.

A gasp tore from you, your thighs instinctively trying to clamp shut, but his grip held you open. His tongue worked slow at first, dragging long, torturous strokes through your folds, before circling right where you needed him most.

Your breath stuttered. "Oh—"

Logan groaned, the sound vibrating through you. "That’s it, sweetheart," he murmured against you. "Let me hear you."

You bit your lip, trying to keep some of the sounds at bay, but he didn’t like that. His hands squeezed your thighs in warning before his mouth sealed around your clit, sucking just enough to make your entire body jolt.

A cry ripped from your throat.

"Atta girl," he praised, the words sending a fresh wave of heat down your spine. His grip adjusted, hands sliding lower, past your hips, thumbs pressing into the crease where your thighs met your body. Holding you still. Keeping you exactly where he wanted you.

His tongue was merciless, alternating between slow, deliberate strokes and firm, insistent pressure that had your thighs trembling against his shoulders. Every flick, every graze of his teeth, sent electricity sparking up your spine.

You didn’t even realize you were babbling his name until he groaned in response, pressing his mouth harder against you. The pressure built fast, white-hot and overwhelming, your whole body tightening as the coil in your stomach threatened to snap.

"Logan, I—" Your voice cracked, desperate, hands flying to grip his hair, tugging without thinking.

That was all it took.

Logan growled against you, and then his tongue was working you over with ruthless intent, flicking and sucking in a way that sent you crashing over the edge. Your body tensed, your back arching, his name spilling from your lips in broken, breathless gasps as pleasure wracked through you.

He didn’t stop.

Your thighs trembled against him, your whole body oversensitive, but Logan didn’t let up. His grip stayed firm, his tongue still dragging through your folds, teasing, relentless.

A whimper slipped from you, half-plea, half-helpless moan.

“Mmm, Logan?”

Your voice trembled—soft, breathless, still caught in the aftershocks of your first climax, and Logan felt it. The way your thighs quivered against his shoulders, your calves resting against his back, those damn heels grazing along the muscles of his spine. He exhaled sharply through his nose, lips still pressed to the slick heat between your legs.

“What, sweetheart?” His voice was low, rough, vibrating against you.

Your breath hitched. The heat of Logan’s mouth lingered against you, his tongue flicking one last, teasing time before he dragged his lips back up to press against the soft skin of your inner thigh. You twitched beneath him, a small tremor still rippling through your muscles, breath unsteady, fingers weakly curled into the sheets.

“I thought you were—”

Your voice caught as his teeth scraped lightly over your thigh, right where it was still damp from his mouth. He hummed, low and thoughtful, and didn’t move away. If anything, he settled in deeper, his broad hands tightening around your thighs, thumbs smoothing up toward the curve of your hips.

“Done?” His voice was all rough amusement, muffled against your skin.

A shaky exhale left you.

His lips curved. “Oh, sweetheart.” A kiss, slow and open-mouthed, right at the crease of your thigh. “You really think I’m done with you?”

Your breath stuttered. He hadn’t moved back—hadn’t given you any space to recover. He was still right there, his mouth still hovering over sensitive skin, his breath warm, teasing, pressing against you like a promise.

You swallowed, fingers flexing against the sheets. “I—”

He turned his head slightly, his nose brushing right where you were still slick, still sensitive. Your whole body jerked at the touch, an involuntary sound breaking in your throat.

Logan groaned. “That’s what I thought.”

And then his hands were on your hips again, sliding up your sides, holding you steady as he buried his mouth back between your thighs.

A gasp ripped from you, your body jolting at the sheer intensity of it. You’d barely come down from the first wave of pleasure, your skin still too sensitive, too raw—but Logan didn’t care. He was relentless, tongue pressing deep, slow, deliberate, dragging up before circling back around your clit.

You whimpered, your hands flying back to his hair, twisting in the thick strands.

He groaned again at the pull, the vibration of it sending another sharp, overwhelming pulse through you.

“Fuck, you taste good,” he muttered against you, voice thick, wrecked. “Could do this all night.”

Your legs trembled. You didn’t doubt him.

He worked you open with his tongue, slow and indulgent, taking his time, like he had nowhere else to be, no other priority but this—this, and the way you came apart in his hands. He pulled you closer, dragging your thighs up higher over his shoulders, making sure you couldn’t squirm away.

The position shifted something, the heels on your feet sliding slightly against his back, the small sharp drag of them making him grunt.

His tongue flicked over you again, lazy, slow, savoring. He had you completely at his mercy, held tight in his grip, and he knew it.

“Logan,” you gasped, voice breaking.

He smirked against you. “That’s it, darlin’.” His tongue circled once, twice, before he sealed his lips around you again, sucking just right.

The pleasure built fast, unbearable, twisting in your stomach like a live wire sparking beneath your skin. Your breath hitched, your thighs shaking against him, the grip you had in his hair tightening as you tried to ground yourself.

Logan groaned, deep and approving, and then he doubled down. His mouth was insatiable, his tongue working you open, pushing you right to the edge without hesitation.

You felt it hit—sharp and sudden, your whole body tensing as your second orgasm crashed through you.

A sob caught in your throat. Logan didn’t stop.

He rode you through it, drinking in every sound, every twitch of your hips, every broken whimper that left you as you shattered against his mouth. He held you steady, his tongue still teasing, slow, languid, like he was tasting you, savoring the way you trembled for him.

You barely had time to catch your breath before he moved up, dragging his lips along your stomach, pressing slow, hot kisses as he went.

“Think you can give me one more, sweetheart?” he murmured against your skin.

Your breath was still coming fast, your body still tingling with aftershocks. “I—”

"Yeah, darlin’," Logan rasped against your thigh, the vibration of his voice sending another tremor through your oversensitive body. He wasn’t asking—just waiting. Waiting for you to tell him no, to push at his shoulders, to make some attempt at stopping him.

You didn’t.

A deep, satisfied hum rumbled through his chest, his stubble dragging against the tender skin of your inner thigh as he pressed another open-mouthed kiss there. His hands stayed firm at your hips, thumbs smoothing slow, absent circles against your flushed skin.

"You got one more in you," he muttered. Not a question. A promise.

Your fingers curled weakly into the sheets, your chest rising and falling in uneven breaths. "Logan, I—I don’t think—"

"You can." His voice was thick, low, possessive. His hands flexed against you, grounding, holding you still like he could feel the way your legs wanted to clamp shut, your body already overwhelmed. "I got you."

And then his mouth was on you again.

A sharp gasp tore from your throat, your back arching as the wet heat of his tongue pressed against your still-sensitive clit. It was too much—the pleasure too sharp, too immediate, your nerves already frayed and exposed from the last two times.

Your hand flew to his hair, fingers tangling in the thick strands, pulling without thinking. Logan groaned against you, the sound vibrating through every inch of your body, his grip tightening in response.

"Fuck," he breathed, pulling back just enough to murmur against your skin. "You’re still so fuckin’ sensitive, huh?" He didn’t wait for an answer. Just grinned against you before dragging his tongue through your folds again, slow, deliberate, like he was savoring every reaction, every helpless little sound that slipped from your lips.

Your breath hitched, thighs trembling against his broad shoulders. "I—Logan, I don’t—"

"Shhh, sweetheart." His voice was rough, but his touch was steady, unwavering. His hands slid up your sides, fingers splaying over your ribs, grounding you. "Just let me take care of you."

Your stomach clenched, your body torn between pushing him away and pulling him closer. You were too sensitive, too overwhelmed—but Logan wasn’t relenting. He was dragging you over the edge whether you were ready or not.

His tongue pressed deeper, slow and indulgent, before curling up just right, and your body jolted, a sharp cry breaking from your throat. Logan growled at the reaction, his hands gripping your hips tighter as he kept you pinned beneath him.

"You feel that?" he muttered against you, the heat of his breath making you shudder. "How fuckin’ good you taste?" His tongue flicked against you again, making your whole body jerk. "Bet you don’t even know what you do to me."

You moaned, the sound half-frustrated, half-helpless. Your thighs clenched around his head, but Logan only groaned, pressing himself deeper against you, like he wanted to drown in the feeling of you coming apart beneath him.

Your grip in his hair tightened, pulling hard enough to sting. "L-Logan—"

"That’s it," he growled. "Say my name, sweetheart."

You did. Over and over, broken and breathless, as his mouth worked you open, relentless and unforgiving. His tongue was precise, knowing, dragging slow and then fast, flicking before sucking, giving you just enough to send another sharp pulse of pleasure tearing through you.

The coil in your stomach wound tight—too tight, too fast.

You felt it coming, and so did he.

"Give it to me," Logan muttered against you, his voice almost desperate. "Come on, darlin’."

And then he sucked—hard.

White-hot pleasure ripped through you.

Your whole body tensed, your back arching, your breath catching in a sharp, broken cry. The orgasm slammed into you with dizzying force, a wave so intense it nearly knocked the air from your lungs. Your thighs clamped around his head, your fingers fisting in his hair, your entire body trembling against him.

Logan groaned, dragging his tongue through the mess he’d made, working you through every last tremor, every aftershock, until you were nothing but a shivering, spent mess beneath him.

Only then did he slow, his movements easing from hungry and desperate to slow and indulgent, like he was committing the taste of you to memory.

Your breath came in short, uneven gasps, your body completely limp against the mattress. Logan finally pulled back, pressing one last open-mouthed kiss to the inside of your thigh before lifting his head.

His lips were slick, his pupils blown wide, his expression dark with satisfaction as he looked up at you.

"Told you," he murmured.

You could barely manage to lift your head, still dazed, your limbs uncooperative. "Told me what?" you managed, voice hoarse.

His smirk deepened, and he reached up, gripping your ankle. His thumb brushed over the strap of your heel, gaze flicking to where it still sat, perfectly in place on your foot.

"Told you I liked these."

Your cheeks burned, the heat rushing back to your face all at once.

Logan chuckled, clearly pleased with himself. He pushed himself up, his body unfolding as he moved over you, one arm bracing beside your head, his other hand gripping your hip. He was still fully dressed, still perfectly in control, while you lay there completely undone beneath him.

You swallowed hard, your pulse still racing. "You’re—"

A smirk tugged at his lips. "Yeah?"

You huffed, turning your face away, but he caught your chin, gently tilting your gaze back to him.

"You okay?" His voice softened, rough edges smoothing just enough to make your heart squeeze.

You nodded, still catching your breath. Logan’s thumb traced along your jaw, his gaze lingering on your face for a long moment before he finally leaned down, pressing his lips to your forehead.

“Good,” he murmured against your skin.

You felt the heat of his breath, the scrape of his stubble, and for a moment, neither of you moved. The weight of him was solid, grounding, his presence steady and familiar.

Finally, Logan exhaled through his nose, shifting slightly, his hands settling around your waist. He pressed another kiss to your shoulder, then muttered, “Should get you cleaned up, huh?”

You made a small noise in response, still too boneless to move.

Logan smirked. "Yeah, figured."

With an ease that shouldn’t have been possible, he lifted you up, settling you against his chest. His hands skimmed down your legs, his fingers lingering at the straps of your heels before slowly undoing them, slipping them off one at a time.

You let out a quiet sigh as the last one slid from your foot, the ache in your calves finally easing. Logan chuckled, pressing a kiss against your temple.

"Don't get too comfortable, sweetheart," he murmured. "Ain't done takin' care of you yet."

And with that, he stood, carrying you effortlessly toward the bathroom.

yeah... i might've gotten a bit carried away

[daycourtofficial]

Blood moon in Autumn

Pairing: Eris x Rhys’s sister!reader | WC: 1.3k | warnings: mentions of nudity, mentions of sex, mentions of violence

Summary: fae cycles are no joke, but your mate is always there to provide you comfort in the best way possible: by being your personal heating pad

Author’s note: this is part of my gingerfucker series, however this can be read as a standalone. @writingcroissant actually gave me the idea for this so everyone say thanks Tori 🥰

Death was imminent, you were sure of it. Every fiber of your being ached, the pain emanating from your lower abdomen through the rest of your body. It felt like someone was stabbing you with a rusted, dull knife, the blade carving out your insides slowly at their leisure.

You heard your bedroom door open and close, footsteps coming towards the bed. You groan in greeting as the steps get closer.

“Just leave me here to die, Er.”

A soft chuckle makes its way to your ears, despite the layers of blankets you are burrowed beneath, the blankets not offering you the comfort you so desperately crave.

“You’ll be remembered for even in death, your flare for the dramatics never faltered.”

You push your face from the blankets, allowing your face to be seen. You scowl towards your mate, his smirk making you want to push him from the window. You take in the sight of him - he had changed into more relaxed clothes since you saw him last. Gone is his formal jacket, a deep red velvet with golden leaf embroidery. The garment would make anyone look like court royalty, but on Eris it made him look positively radiant, as if the fires of Autumn truly originated from him, as if the apple orchards and the crops found their nutrients from him. You loved when he wore it, your fingers tracing the fine embroidery along the lapel as you would straddle his lap, grinding softly-

You groaned, the idea of moving so much making you nauseous and slightly dizzy.

Now he wore a loose, billowy shirt, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, casual brown trousers covering his toned legs. If it were any other day, you’d devour him. Any other day, you’d pull him directly into bed, pushing his clothes off of him, neither of you leaving bed until you slipped his shirt on to grab the two of you some pastries.

Instead, the sight of him made you slightly annoyed - he seemed fine as he set down a tray on the table next to you. He was fine this morning when he rose, having to tend to some things before returning. You were dying, and he was perfectly fine. You groaned, shifting to sit up on your elbows. “What’s this?”

“I believe those of us who leave our beds call it ‘food’.”

His smirk disappears at the pillow that hits his feet. He sends you a withering glare that just makes you scoff. “That could have hit the tray of coffee I made for you.”

You perked up at the sound of coffee - you were sure the warm liquid would at least distract your insides. Or at least provide you some comfort.

You’d take anything at this point.

“Did you make the coffee? Or did you just prepare the tray?”

“What difference does it make? Coffee is coffee.”

“Well, if Jora made it, then I aimed perfectly for your feet.”

“What if it was my coffee?”

“Then I would have aimed for the tray.”

He gives you a withering stare, his fingers halting their movements. “Now that’s no way to treat your mate who lovingly made you coffee.”

You squint your eyes, “if it’s my mate that’s making the coffee, it’s more of an assassination attempt than love.”

“You wound me, my love.” Despite your grievances, he continues preparing your cup exactly as you like it.

“Is the wound fatal?”

“Perhaps.”

“I shall pay my respects at your funeral, then. With my next husband.”

His eyebrow quirks as he rests the cup on your side table before he rounds the bed, peeling back the layers of blankets on top of you. He crawls in behind you, his body heat causing you to melt.

“Next husband?”

“I will get lonely. Besides, the hounds need a male’s touch. They’ll grow soft under me.”

“And who is this next husband? Is he capable of this?”

Before you can ask what ‘this’ is, he slides his arm around your waist, his palm lying flat over your lower abdomen, his fingers spreading across your skin. Your skin began heating under his touch, and you moaned at the relief he provided you.

“If he’s not, he’s not worth it. Perhaps one of your brothers will be capable. Lu, maybe?”

Eris growled at the teasing, your friendship with Lucien a constant sore spot for him amidst his rekindling relationship with his youngest brother. He hated to admit it, but he seethed with jealousy watching you interact with Lucien, the way your conversation would flow easily.

A life of regrets and Lucien takes several of the top five spots.

“Lucien would make a terrible husband. You’d never see him - he spends all day brushing his hair.”

“I like a well-groomed male.”

“The noises his eye makes would keep you up all night.”

“I think you’re getting us confused. The whirring would soothe me to sleep.”

He buries his face into your neck, mumbling, “you are not marrying Lucien.”

“Alastor, perhaps?”

You clutched onto Eris’s arm, the heat providing you some relief. You nuzzle your head into his bicep, and he blows out a hot breath, “if I die, and you are unable to continue alone, marry outside of my family, leave my brothers out of your marriage pool.”

You open your mouth, but he cuts you off.

“Not Azriel.”

You huff, “well if I can’t have a Vanserra or Azriel, I’ll stay alone forever.”

“I prefer that alternative.”

“I will rule Autumn alone. Just as Beron would have liked.”

You spin in his arms, pushing his shoulder down so he’d lay on his back. You crawl on top of him, laying so every inch of you is touching him in some way. Not an inch of space exists between your bodies. You poke his ribs, urging him to start heating up. He ignores you, so you start tugging on the bond between you two.

“Patience is a virtue, don’t they teach that in the war camps they call villages?”

“I’m dying, I think the Mother can forgive my lack of virtues.”

He huffs, but starts warming his skin to better provide comfort. You groan, laying in silence with him for several moments, the heat a comfort to the constant pain.

A few moments later you roll, your back laying across his chest.

“Ah,” you sigh, the pain in your lower back lessening at his touch.

“You’re spinning like game over a campfire.”

He rests his hands on your lower abdomen, the warmth making the stabbing pain into a dull ache.

You sigh at the contact, practically melting at how he soothes your muscles.

“I want to go bathe but that requires movement and leaving this bed.”

Eris laughs into your hair, but you hear the water running in the bathroom. You groan just thinking about how soothing the water would feel on your joints. You breathed out slowly through your nose, preparing yourself for the trek across the room.

You rolled off of Eris, and before you could get off the bed, Eris moved from behind to in front of you, his feet landing softly on the floor.

“Care for a ride?”

You nod, and his arms sweep you up.

“I think this is my preferred method of travel.”

“Perhaps this is how you will tour Autumn, hm? I shall carry you throughout the lands.”

You laugh as he sets you down, helping you remove your clothes. He must be warming the air somehow, because you don’t feel the chill of the air when your clothes are completely off. He helps you into the water, which you melt into immediately. You close your eyes, laying back in the tub, the porcelain a nice surface to lean against.

You’ve completely forgotten about Eris’ presence until you feel him nudge your shoulders forward, his lean body slipping behind you into the tub. His legs stretch besides yours, and you lean your head back to rest on his shoulder.

“There’s no way my next husband will be as helpful as you are.”

He breathes out through his nose, “I fear you can only marry down from here. A pity, truly.”

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Thanks for reading 💕

[yikesdrama]

for one perfect moment 🩵 (i) — Bucky Barnes

summary: bucky’s birthday is coming up soon and you just want to do something special for him, maybe even take a time travelling trip to see his maa….

word count: 6.6k

warnings: its just fluff, secret birthday planning & a lot of cuteness

a/n: please comment, like & reblog with your thoughts. i’m thinking of making it a three part series.

masterlist | next part

Steve Rogers looked across the table at you, arms crossed, brow furrowed in thought. The room felt warm and quiet despite the weight of the conversation, the faint hum of Stark Tech monitors filling the silence as your words lingered in the air.

Sam Wilson sat across from you, leaning back in his chair, one eyebrow raised in mild skepticism, but there was something softer in his expression—something almost amused.

“So, let me get this straight,” Sam began, tilting his head toward you. “Your brilliant idea for Bucky’s birthday is to—what—borrow Tony’s time machine, go back to the 1940s, and hang out with his family?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.” You leaned forward, your elbows resting on the edge of the table. Your voice had a determined edge, but your eyes betrayed a flicker of nervous energy. “I mean… think about it, Sam. When was the last time Bucky had a real family celebration? A moment where he wasn’t running from Hydra or fighting for his life or—” you paused, chewing your bottom lip—“feeling like he’s some kind of burden on the people around him?”

Steve straightened in his chair, his sharp blue eyes shifting from Sam to you. There was a stillness to him, like he was processing your words as if they were mission intel. “You’re not wrong,” he said finally, his voice calm but measured. “But it’s not exactly simple. Time travel isn’t… well, it’s not just a weekend getaway.”

“I know that,” you said quickly, cutting him off before he could build up steam. “I know it’s not simple, Steve, but it’s worth it. You know what this would mean to him. To see his mom & sisters, Steve. Don’t you think he deserves that?”

Sam leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table as well, as a slow grin spread across his face. “Y’know,” he said, pointing a finger at you, “I thought this idea was crazy at first, but now I’m starting to think you’re just crazy enough to pull it off. The question is, how do you convince Stark to hand over the keys to his fancy time machine?”

“Oh, I’ve got a plan for that,” you said, brushing off Sam’s teasing tone with a wave of your hand. “Tony owes me. Big time.”

Steve raised an eyebrow. “For what?”

“Do you really want to know?” You smirked, leaning back in your chair with a satisfied expression. “Let’s just say it involves a highly classified Avengers mission, a stray cat, and one very expensive pair of Tony’s sunglasses.”

Sam barked out a laugh, the sound echoing off the walls. “Okay, now I definitely want to know.”

“It’s not important!” you said quickly, your cheeks flushing. “The point is, I can get Tony on board. But I need you two to back me up. He’s not going to go for this unless he knows it’s not just some ‘sentimental whim.’” You air-quoted the words dramatically, your voice dropping into a passable imitation of Stark’s dry tone.

Steve’s lips twitched into a faint smile, the kind that said he was almost convinced but still holding out for the catch. “Let’s say you get Tony to agree. How exactly are you planning to make this work? The timeline has rules. You can’t just drop in on the 1940s like it’s a costume party.”

You rolled your eyes. “I know that. Look, I’ve been thinking this through. We’d be careful. In and out, no interference with the timeline. Just… a quiet visit with his family. Maybe a week, max. Enough time for him to have a real birthday celebration. I mean, wouldn’t you want that if you were in his shoes?”

Steve’s jaw tightened, and he looked away, his gaze settling on a spot on the wall. For a moment, the room went quiet. Sam exchanged a glance with you, his humor softening into something more thoughtful. Steve’s voice, when he finally spoke, was quiet but firm. “Yeah. I would.”

Your expression softened, and you reached out across the table, your hand brushing against Steve’s. “Then you understand why this is so important. He’s been through so much, Steve. We all know that. He deserves to feel important.”

Sam let out a low whistle, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. “You’re laying it on thick. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re whipped for the guy.”

Your face went red, but you didn’t back down. “Of course I’m whipped for him Sam, I’m in love with him. That’s why I’m doing this.”

Steve and Sam both froze, their expressions caught somewhere between surprise and something softer.

Steve blinked, his hand unconsciously rubbing the back of his neck. “Well,” he said, his voice low, “I can’t argue with that.”

Sam recovered first, his grin wide and teasing. “You’re really pulling the romance card, huh?”

“Shut up, Wilson,” you shot back, but there was no real heat in your voice. “Are you in or not?”

Sam laughed, raising his hands in mock surrender. “I’m in, I’m in. You had me at ‘time machine.’”

Steve sighed, his shoulders relaxing slightly. “I’ll help you,” he said, his tone firm but kind. “But we do this by the book. No cutting corners, no unnecessary risks. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” you said quickly, your eyes bright with excitement. “Thank you, Steve. I mean it.”

“Alright, so what’s the next step? Do we just march into Stark Tower and ask Tony for a favour.” Sam clapped his hands together, the sound breaking the tension in the room. “Because I’ve gotta say, I don’t think the guy’s gonna go for it without some serious persuasion.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” you said, a mischievous glint in your eye. “I’ve got a plan.”

Later that evening, the three of you stood in Tony’s lab, the soft glow of holographic displays casting blue light across the room. Tony Stark was pacing, his hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans, his expression equal parts amused and exasperated.

“Let me make sure I’m hearing this correctly,” he said, stopping mid-stride to look at you. “You want me to loan you my multi-billion-dollar time travel machine so you can throw a birthday party in the 1940s?”

“Not just a party,” you corrected, your tone matter-of-fact. “A family reunion. For Bucky.”

Tony raised an eyebrow. “You know, when I built this thing, I had slightly higher ambitions in mind. Like, oh, I don’t know, saving the universe?”

“This is saving the universe,” you shot back, crossing your arms. “His universe.”

Steve cleared his throat, stepping forward. “It’s important, Tony. For Bucky. He hasn’t seen his family since the war. This would mean everything to him.”

Tony sighed, running a hand through his hair. “You people really know how to tug at the ol’ heartstrings, don’t you?”

Sam smirked. “Comes with the territory.”

There was a long pause, and then Tony shook his head, a reluctant smile tugging at his lips. “Fine. But if you break it, you buy it. And by ‘it,’ I mean the space-time continuum.”

You beamed, and for a moment, it felt like the entire room had brightened. “Thank you, Tony. You have no idea how much this means.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Tony said, waving you off. “Just don’t make me regret it. And keep Rogers out of trouble while you’re at it. Don’t want him to end up fighting someone in the alley.”

Steve raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue. He had a feeling this was going to be one birthday Bucky would never forget.

That evening, the living room of the Avengers Compound had never felt so cramped. Steve sat in his usual spot, his arms stretched over the back of the couch, trying to look casual while his stomach twisted with the weight of your not-so-secretive plan.

Next to him, you perched on the edge of the sofa cushion, your knee bouncing nervously as your eyes flicked between the TV and Sam. The movie playing on the screen was some action flick that none of you were actually watching—except maybe Bucky, who was obliviously sprawled out on the recliner, munching on popcorn.

Steve couldn’t help but glance at Bucky every few seconds, half expecting him to suddenly leap up and call their bluff. It was a ridiculous fear, considering how utterly relaxed Bucky seemed, but it didn’t stop Steve’s heart from racing every time Bucky so much as turned his head.

Sam, seated on the armrest of the couch, leaned over toward you and murmured under his breath, his tone just loud enough for Steve to catch. “So, what’s the next move, mastermind?”

Your lips twitched into a quick, nervous smile as you shot him a sideways glance. “We need to talk to Strange,” you whispered, your voice low but brimming with determination. “But we have to be careful. Bucky can’t know. Not even a hint.”

“Yeah, no pressure,” Sam muttered, rolling his eyes. He popped a handful of M&Ms into his mouth and slouched slightly, doing his best impression of someone who actually cared about the car chase on the screen.

“Can you two stop whispering?” Steve whispered yelled, though his voice lacked any real authority. He reached for the remote, fiddling with the volume button and turned it up. “If you’re going to conspire, at least don’t do it two feet away from him.”

You shot him a look, rolling your eyes. “What do you want us to do, Steve? Write notes and pass them like we’re in fifth grade?”

Sam smirked, leaning closer to you. “I mean, it might be safer. He’s got super-hearing. For all we know, he’s—”

“Sam,” Steve cut in, his tone warning, though there was a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “Not helping.”

Bucky, blissfully unaware of the tension simmering behind him, let out a low chuckle at something on the screen. Steve froze, his eyes darting to you, and you looked like you were about to jump out of your skin. Your eyes flicked back to Sam, then to Steve, your expression screaming this is impossible.

“Alright, alright,” Sam said quietly, lifting his hands in surrender. “Let’s just get out of here before you two have a nervous breakdown. We can go talk to Strange.”

Steve nodded, grateful for the excuse to move things along. “Good idea,” he said, standing and stretching like he’d just remembered an urgent errand. “We’ll, uh, be back in a bit, Buck.”

“Where are you going?” Bucky asked casually, his eyes still glued to the screen.

You froze, your face an open book of panic, and Steve jumped in before you could flounder. “Oh, uh… just running an errand. These two are just tagging along for backup.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow, finally turning his attention away from the movie to look at you. “Backup? For what?”

“Moral support?” you stated hesitantly.

Sam snorted, the corner of his mouth twitching with amusement before he covered it up with a cough.

Bucky gave you all a skeptical once-over but eventually shrugged, settling back into his chair. “Whatever. Just don’t die out there.”

“Got it,” you blurted, grabbing Sam’s arm and practically dragging him toward the door. Steve followed, his stomach knotting tighter with every step.

The three of you didn’t speak until you were outside and halfway to Steve’s SUV.

Sam finally broke the silence with a low whistle. “That was smooth. Real smooth.”

You shot him a glare, your cheeks still flushed. “You’re not helping.”

“I wasn’t trying to,” Sam replied, grinning as he climbed into the back seat.

Steve rolled his eyes and opened the passenger door for you to get in & sit, his patience already wearing thin.

Once you were on the road, the tension in the car started to ease, though Steve couldn’t shake the feeling that you were walking a very fine line. You sat beside him, fiddling with the hem of your sweater as you stared out the window. You looked nervous but determined, your lips pressed into a firm line.

Steve studied you for a moment, his mind drifting to all the times he’d seen that same look on your face. It was the look you got when you were planning something big—something you believed in with your whole heart. He couldn’t help but admire you for it, even if it made him nervous.

“So,” Sam said, breaking the silence as he leaned back in his seat, “what’s the game plan with Strange? You gonna sweet-talk him like you did with Stark?”

You snorted, finally tearing your gaze away from the window to look at Sam. “I don’t think Strange is the ‘sweet-talk’ type.”

“Good point,” Sam said with a grin. “So what’s the backup plan? Bribery? Begging? Threats?”

“None of the above,” you said firmly. “I’m just going to explain the plan and hope he understands.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “That’s it? No clever strategy? No emotional appeals? You’re really putting all your eggs in the ‘logic and reason’ basket?”

Steve cut in before you could retort. “She’s right. Strange isn’t the kind of guy you can manipulate. He’ll respect honesty.”

You gave him a small, grateful smile. You were stubborn, sure, but you were also smart—smarter than you gave yourself credit for sometimes.

When you arrived outside the Sanctum Sanctorum, you were the first to get out of the car, despite the nervous energy radiating off you. Steve followed close behind, with Sam bringing up the rear, muttering something under his breath about “mystical nonsense.”

Stephan Strange greeted you at the door, his expression unreadable as always. He stood tall, his arms crossed over his chest, the red of his cloak catching the door light in a way that made him look almost regal.

“This better be important,” he said, his tone clipped but not unkind. “I don’t have time for casual visits.”

You stepped forward, your hands clasped tightly in front of you. “It is important. I promise.”

Strange raised an eyebrow, glancing between you and the two men behind you. “Alright. Come in.”

The inside of the Sanctum was just as strange and imposing as Steve remembered. You seemed unfazed, though he noticed you glancing around with a mix of curiosity and awe.

“So,” Strange said once you were seated in his study, “what’s this all about?”

You took a deep breath, your hands resting in your lap. “I want to use the time travel machine Tony built to take Bucky back to the 1940s for his birthday.”

Strange blinked, his expression carefully neutral. “That’s… specific.”

“It’s important,” you said quickly, leaning forward slightly. “I just want him to have a chance to see his family again. To know they’re okay. And I promise we won’t do anything to change the timeline. No interference, no big disruptions. Just… a visit.”

Strange studied you for a long moment, his fingers steepled under his chin. “You’re asking me to approve a plan that involves traveling to the past and interacting with people who are supposed to remain unaware of future events. Do you understand how delicate this is?”

“I do,” you said, your voice steady. “But I’ve thought it through. The only thing I plan to do is explain to his family what happened to him—why he disappeared. They deserve to know he’s okay, even if they never see him again. And when I bring him there, it’ll just be for a week. A chance for him to see his family once.”

Strange’s gaze flicked to Steve, then to Sam, as if gauging their reactions. “And you’re both on board with this?”

Sam shrugged. “Hey, it’s not my birthday, but if it makes Bucky happy, I’m all for it.”

Steve nodded, his expression serious. “It’s risky, but I trust her. She won’t let anything happen to the timeline.”

“You’re lucky I’ve seen weirder requests.” Strange said letting out a long sigh, leaning back in his chair. “Fine. As long as you stick to your word and don’t try to rewrite history, I won’t stop you.”

Your face lit up, and Steve felt a wave of relief wash over him. Strange wasn’t exactly the sentimental type, but he’d clearly seen something in your determination that convinced him.

“Thank you,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “You have no idea how much this means.”

Strange waved you off, his tone dry as usual. “Just don’t make me regret it. And for the love of all things sacred, don’t try to save Barnes from falling of the train in the past. You’ll just make things worse.”

“I won’t,” you promised quickly. “This is about giving him something good now, not changing what’s already happened.”

“Good,” Strange said, standing and gesturing toward the door. “Now get out of my Sanctum before I change my mind.”

As you walked back to the car, your steps were lighter, almost bouncing. You turned to Steve and Sam, a wide grin on your face. “That went better than I expected.”

Sam smirked. “Yeah, thanks to your sales pitch.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t lose your smile. For the first time all day, you felt a genuine sense of hope. Maybe, just maybe, this plan was going to work.

Okay, see the thing was Steve had witnessed his fair share of devotion in his lifetime. He had seen love in wartime letters clutched tightly in trembling hands, in quiet glances exchanged across rooms, and even in the sacrifices people made for each other on the battlefield.

But nothing—not in the 1940s, not in the decades since—compared to the sheer, shameless fervor of your love for Bucky Barnes.

He leaned back against the counter of the kitchen, arms crossed, as he watched you chatter animatedly with Sam and Natasha, your eyes alight with that unmistakable spark. You had this way of talking about Bucky that made it impossible not to notice the utter adoration woven into your every word.

It wasn’t just love; it was full-blown, unapologetic obsession.

“And then,” you said, your hands moving wildly as you recounted some small, undoubtedly inconsequential moment, “he just sat there, all broody, like he was single-handedly carrying the weight of the world. And I said, ‘Bucky, you don’t have to pretend to be a tortured poet every time it rains!’” You grinned, clearly delighted with your own story. “He didn’t laugh, of course, but I swear I saw his lip twitch.”

Natasha smirked, sipping her coffee. “Sounds like a real charmer.”

“Oh, he is,” you said, beaming as though Nat’s comment had been an actual compliment. “You just have to get past the murdery vibe, you know? It’s all part of his charm.”

Sam snorted so loudly that Steve thought he might choke on his drink. “Murdery vibe? That’s the phrase you’re going with to describe your boyfriend?”

“It’s accurate!” you insisted, unbothered by the teasing. “You just don’t understand him the way I do. Beneath all that scowling and brooding, he’s—”

“A ray of sunshine?” Natasha interrupted, raising an eyebrow.

“Exactly!” you said brightly, completely oblivious to the sarcasm, again. “He’s my sunshine.”

Steve suppressed a groan, pinching the bridge of his nose. He loved you—he really did—but hearing you wax poetic about his grumpy, perpetually unimpressed best friend was almost too much to bear. It wasn’t the first time, either. In fact, it was a near-daily occurrence.

What astounded Steve the most, though, was how far you were willing to go for Bucky.

Time Travel.

Literal time travel, just so Bucky could have one good birthday with the family he’d lost decades ago. Steve wasn’t sure if it was romantic or utterly insane—probably a mix of both. Either way, he couldn’t deny that it was impressive.

“So,” Natasha said, leaning back in her chair and crossing her legs, “how’s the time travel plan coming along? Did Strange give you the green light?”

“Green as it gets,” you said, practically bouncing in your seat. “He said it wouldn’t mess up the timeline as long as we’re careful. I mean, no big hero moves, no trying to rewrite history, and definitely no saving Bucky in the past.” You paused, your face briefly clouding with thought. “Not that I wouldn’t want to, but you know… rules.”

Sam shook his head, laughing under his breath. “Man, you really would mess with the space-time continuum for him, wouldn’t you?”

You turned to him, your expression dead serious. “In a heartbeat.”

Steve couldn’t help but chuckle at that, the sound low and amused. “Y’know, I’ve seen people go to some crazy lengths for the people they love, but this…” He gestured vaguely, as if words couldn’t quite capture the enormity of your plan. “This might take the cake.”

You turned to him, your expression softening. “Steve, if you could go back and give Peggy one more dance, wouldn’t you?”

The question hit him harder than he expected, his chest tightening as the image of Peggy Carter flickered in his mind. He didn’t answer right away, but you didn’t push him. You just gave him a knowing look, your eyes full of understanding.

“Alright, fine,” Nat cut in, breaking the heavy silence. “Let’s not get all sentimental. You still have one problem, genius. Tony Stark. What’s the plan for getting him on board?”

“We already got Tony on board,” you said smugly, folding your arms as if it were the easiest thing in the world.

Natasha raised an eyebrow. “You? You convinced Tony Stark to let you borrow his precious time machine?”

“Of course,” you said with a shrug. “I just told him it was for Bucky’s birthday, and he rolled his eyes and said, ‘Fine, but if you break it, you’re paying for it.’ Honestly, I think he secretly likes the idea. He’d never admit it, but you know how he is.”

Natasha exchanged a glance with Sam, her expression halfway between impressed and incredulous. “I can’t believe Stark fell for that.”

“Oh, he didn’t ‘fall for it,’” you said, making air quotes with your fingers. “He knows exactly what he’s doing. He just pretends to be all grumpy and detached, but deep down, he’s a big softie.”

Sam let out a low whistle. “Man, I think you’ve got a thing for grumpy guys.”

“Only one grumpy guy,” you said, your smile softening. “And he’s worth it.”

Steve looked away, swallowing the lump in his throat. He wasn’t used to seeing someone care about Bucky like this—someone who saw him as more than just the Winter Soldier or the guy with a past too dark to talk about.

You saw Bucky. The real Bucky. And you loved him for it.

The door to the kitchen swung open, and Tony strolled in, a cup of coffee in one hand and a tablet in the other. “What’s all this about me being a softie?” he asked, his tone dry as he leaned against the counter.

You didn’t miss a beat. “I said you’re a grumpy softie. Big difference.”

Tony raised an eyebrow, taking a sip of his coffee. “You’re lucky I like you. Otherwise, I’d revoke your time-travel privileges.”

“Softie,” you said, waving him off.

Tony smirked but didn’t argue. Instead, he turned his attention to Steve. “So, Captain Sentimental, are you ready to supervise this little field trip? Because I am not cleaning up any timeline messes.”

Steve sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “What choice do I have?”

Tony looked you over, his expression softening just slightly. “You’re really doing all this for Barnes?”

You nodded, your eyes shining. “He deserves it.”

Tony was quiet for a moment, then he nodded, his usual sarcasm melting away. “Well, good luck, sunshine. Try not to get too lost in the 1940s.”

As Tony left the room, the conversation drifted to logistics—timing, equipment, and all the little details that needed to be ironed out before the mission. But even as you talked, Steve couldn’t stop thinking about what Tony had said.

Sunshine.

Steve glanced at you, watching as you leaned over a map on the table, your brow furrowed in concentration. You might not have realized it, but Tony was right. You really were a ray of sunshine—Bucky’s sunshine, in the darkest corners of his life.

And for that, Steve couldn’t be more grateful.

A few hours later, Steve sat on a folding chair, leaning back slightly as he gazed at the clear night sky. The rooftop was quiet, save for the faint hum of the compound below and the soft rustling of the wind.

Beside him, Bucky nursed a beer, his metal fingers absently turning the bottle in his hand, the soft clink of metal on glass barely audible. Sam was sprawled out in another chair, his legs stretched long, an empty bottle balanced precariously on his knee.

The silence was companionable, broken only by the occasional sip or the muffled sound of Sam muttering about how the stars weren’t visible like this back in D.C. Steve let himself relax for a moment, the crisp air cool against his skin. But, as usual, his thoughts wandered to you and your relentless energy over the past few weeks.

“You know,” he started, tilting his head toward Bucky, “your girlfriend is disgustingly obsessed with you.”

Bucky choked on his beer, shaking his head as he swallowed the wrong way. “What?” he said, laughing as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Where the hell did that come from?”

Steve smirked, taking a sip from his bottle. “I’m just saying. It’s impressive, honestly. I’ve never seen anyone so… determined to adore someone.”

“Yeah, man. She’s got it bad. Like, embarrassing bad.” Sam laughed outright, his deep chuckle rolling into the night.

Bucky leaned back, the corner of his mouth twitching up in a small grin. “You think I don’t know that?” He shook his head, the grin softening into something fonder. “She’s been like that since day one. But hey, I can’t say much—I’m just as bad.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you are,” Sam said, raising his bottle in mock toast. “Two of you are a real power couple of mutual obsession.”

Bucky just chuckled, his eyes flicking up toward the sky as silence fell over the group again. Steve let it linger, his thoughts wandering to how Bucky’s face softened every time you entered a room, or how his mood lifted when you were around. It was a strange thing to see—the hardened Winter Soldier so easily disarmed by one person—but Steve couldn’t deny how much you had changed Bucky.

Maybe even saved him.

After a few minutes, Bucky spoke up, his voice quieter now. “She’s planning something, isn’t she?”

Sam, mid-sip, choked on his beer, his coughing fit loud enough to make Steve wince. “What?” Sam rasped, pounding a fist against his chest. “What are you talking about?”

Steve glanced at Bucky, keeping his face neutral despite the mild panic rising in his chest. “What makes you say that?”

Bucky turned to him, his expression amused. “Oh, come on, Steve. She’s been vibrating with energy for weeks. Every time she looks at me, she lights up brighter than the damn sun. She’s up to something.”

Steve fought to keep his expression steady, his mind racing for an answer. He couldn’t exactly tell Bucky the truth—that you were plotting a time-traveling birthday reunion with his long-dead family. Instead, he opted for the simplest approach: deflect. “Could be just a coincidence.”

Wow Steve well done, what a deflect. Idiot!

Bucky raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “Sure, because her suddenly acting like a kid on Christmas has nothing to do with the fact that my birthday’s coming up.”

Steve’s lips twitched. He wanted to feel annoyed at how sharp Bucky could be, but mostly he was impressed. “I don’t know what to tell you, Buck. Maybe she’s just excited.”

Sam cleared his throat, raising his hands as if in surrender. “Listen, man, I love my life, so I’m not spilling anything. But if she’s planning something, it’s probably just a good old-fashioned birthday party. Cake, candles, maybe some embarrassing speeches. Nothing to worry about.”

Steve nodded, grateful for Sam’s quick thinking. “Exactly. Nothing big. She probably just wants to make it special.”

Bucky studied them both for a moment, his blue eyes sharp even in the dim light. Then he laughed softly, shaking his head. “Fine. Keep your secrets. But I know she’s up to something.”

Steve exhaled, letting some of the tension ease from his shoulders. Bucky didn’t know. Not really. And as long as they kept playing it cool, he wouldn’t find out until the time was right.

That was when they heard it: your voice, ringing out from somewhere below, loud and unmistakable. “Baby! Come down, I need your help with something!”

Sam froze, his bottle halfway to his lips, before glancing at Bucky with a grin that was entirely too pleased. “Baby, huh?”

“Unbelievable,” Steve muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “She had to call you that now?”

Bucky’s grin stretched wide, his expression a mix of amusement and pride. He cupped his hands around his mouth and called back, his voice louder than yours. “I’ll be down in a minute, babydoll!”

Steve closed his eyes, willing himself to have patience. He couldn’t believe what he was witnessing. A six-foot-three super soldier—grumpy, broody, intimidating Bucky Barnes—was casually calling you “babydoll” in front of them like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Sam, predictably, couldn’t contain his laughter. “Babydoll?” he repeated, his voice cracking with amusement. “Man, I’ve heard it all now.”

Bucky shrugged, unbothered by the teasing. “What can I say? She likes it.”

“And you like her calling you ‘baby,’” Steve added, his tone half-teasing, half-exasperated.

“Damn right I do,” Bucky said, standing up and stretching. “You two can sit up here and laugh all you want, but I’ve got a girl waiting for me. Try not to get too jealous.”

As he disappeared down the stairs, Sam turned to Steve, still grinning. “You know,” he said, shaking his head, “for a guy who used to be Hydra’s deadliest weapon, he’s real soft now.”

Steve chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “Yeah, well, that’s what happens when you’ve got someone who loves you like she does.”

Sam nodded, his grin softening into something more thoughtful. “Yeah. It’s good for him.”

Steve looked out at the stars, his mind drifting again. He couldn’t help but agree. For the first time in a long time, Bucky had someone who saw him—not as a soldier or a weapon, but as a man worth loving. And that, Steve thought, was the best gift anyone could ever give him.

Somewhere in 1946, Brooklyn.

The modest brownstone on Brooklyn’s east side stood in quiet defiance of the bustling world around it. Mrs. Winnifred Barnes—Winnie to her late husband and close friends—sat at the small kitchen table, her hands folded tightly together, a pot of tea growing cold on the counter. The house was too quiet now, emptier than it had ever been. Rebecca was at school, and though she tried to keep the chatter alive when she was home, it couldn’t fill the void left behind by James.

Her boy.

It had been several months since the letter arrived, stamped with the insignia of the United States Army. The words blurred in her mind even now, but the message was clear: Missing in Action. Presumed Dead.

Her James. Her troublemaker, her beautiful boy with his wide grin and steady blue eyes. Gone. And no one could even tell her how, or where, or if he’d suffered.

She exhaled slowly, her fingers curling tighter. Every time she thought she had no more tears left to cry, the ache returned, fresh and sharp as ever. But this time, something else lingered—a strange sense of unease, like the air had shifted. It was quiet, but not in the usual way.

Something was coming.

The knock at the door startled her. It was brisk, not hesitant like the neighbors checking in or the pastor bringing by a casserole. Winnie frowned, wiping her hands on her apron as she rose. Her steps were measured, careful, as though the visitor might vanish if she approached too quickly.

Opening the door, she was greeted by a sight that immediately threw her off balance. The young woman standing there looked as though she had stepped out of some dream—or perhaps a nightmare.

Your clothes were strange, fitted in ways Winnie couldn’t quite comprehend, and your hair was loose and flowing in a style that seemed almost scandalous. But it was your eyes that caught Winnie most—a peculiar mix of softness and urgency.

“Mrs. Barnes?” you asked, your voice steady but kind.

Winnie hesitated, her hand tightening on the doorknob. “Who’s asking?”

You smiled faintly, “I… I need to speak with you. It’s about James.”

Winnie’s heart clenched, the air suddenly too thick to breathe. “James?” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

“May I come in?” you asked, your tone gentle but insistent. “I promise it’ll make sense. I just need a moment of your time.”

Winnie hesitated for only a heartbeat before stepping aside. Something in your voice—or perhaps the way you said James’ name—demanded trust, though it made no sense at all.

The kitchen felt smaller with you standing there, your presence filling the room in a way Winnie couldn’t quite explain. She gestured toward the table, and you sat down without hesitation, your hands folded neatly in your lap. Winnie remained standing, her arms crossed tightly over her chest as though bracing herself.

“What do you know about my son?” Winnie asked, her voice firmer now, tinged with suspicion. “The Army already sent their letter. Unless you’re here with new information—”

“I am. There’s something you should know.” you interrupted, your eyes meeting Winnie’s with unwavering determination. “I know this is going to come as a shock but Mrs. Barnes, James isn’t dead.”

The words landed like a bombshell, shattering the fragile quiet of the room. Winnie felt her knees threaten to buckle, but she forced herself to stand tall. “What did you say?”

“He’s alive,” you said softly. “It’s a long story, and I know it’s going to sound… unbelievable. But I promise you, every word is true.”

Winnie sank into the chair opposite you, her heart pounding so loudly she was certain you could hear it. “You’d better start talking, young lady.”

You nodded, your hands tightening briefly on the edge of the table before you began. “When James fell from the train, he survived the fall. But… he didn’t come home because Hydra found him first.”

“Hydra?” Winnie repeated, frowning.

“They were… they are… a very bad group of people,” you explained, your voice tightening. “They were part of the war, working in secret. When they found James, they… they took him. He was badly injured—he lost his left arm—but they didn’t care about helping him. They used him.”

Winnie’s throat went dry, her chest tightening painfully. “Used him? For what?”

You swallowed hard, the weight of your words pressing visibly on your shoulders. “They replaced his arm with a metal one. And then… they brainwashed him. They erased who he was and turned him into someone else. They forced him to do terrible things—things he would never have done if he’d had a choice.”

Winnie stared at you, her hands trembling. “You’re telling me… my boy’s been alive all this time, and he’s been… tortured?”

“It’s worse than that,” you admitted, your voice trembling slightly. “They put him in cryo-freeze, a kind of suspended animation. It keeps the body from aging. They would wake him up every now and then, make him do their missions, and then put him back on ice. He was never in control, Mrs. Barnes. Not once.”

The room seemed to tilt, and Winnie pressed a hand to her forehead. “I don’t understand. If all this is true, why hasn’t he come home? Why hasn’t anyone told me?”

“He couldn’t,” you said softly. “Not until recently. But now… now he’s free. He’s safe. And I wanted you to know that.”

Winnie shook her head, disbelief and hope warring in her chest. “How do you know all of this? Who are you?”

You hesitated for a moment before answering. “I’m from the future. From 2025.”

Winnie stared at you, waiting for you to laugh, to smile and admit it was all some elaborate joke. But your face remained serious, your eyes filled with an honesty Winnie couldn’t deny. “The future,” she repeated faintly.

“Yes,” you said. “I know how it sounds. But it’s true. I came back to tell you about James because… because you deserve to know.”

Winnie leaned back in her chair, her mind racing. None of it made sense, and yet something about your voice, your demeanor, made it impossible to dismiss you entirely. “If you’re from the future,” she said slowly, “then tell me something else. Tell me about… Steven Rogers.”

Your expression softened. “He’s alive too.”

Winnie gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. “No.”

“He is,” you said, your voice gentle. “He survived when he put the plane down in the water. They found him 70 years later, frozen in the ice, but alive. Just like James.”

Winnie felt tears welling up in her eyes, spilling over before she could stop them. “They’re both alive,” she whispered. “My boys are alive.”

“Yes,” you said, reaching across the table to take her hand. “And they’re together. Living in Brooklyn. James is free, Mrs. Barnes. He’s been pardoned for everything Hydra made him do, and he’s a hero now. People love him.”

Winnie’s breath hitched, a sob breaking free from her chest. She clutched your hand tightly, the tears flowing freely now. “You’re sure?” she asked, her voice trembling. “You’re absolutely sure?”

“I’m sure,” you said firmly. “He’s safe. He’s happy.”

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, Winnie allowed herself to believe it. Her boy was alive. And somehow, impossibly, everything was going to be okay.

Winnie’s hands, now resting limply on her lap, still trembled with the weight of what she’d been told. She didn’t know where to begin. What question could possibly make sense of the impossible? How could you, so composed and confident, sit there and tell her these outlandish, earth-shattering truths as though they were simple facts?

Her James.

Alive. Free. Safe.

But at what cost?

“Mrs. Barnes?” you asked softly, breaking the silence that had stretched too long. Your voice was patient, a warm balm against the storm raging in Winnie’s chest. “I know this is a lot to take in. If you need me to explain anything again, I’m happy to.”

Winnie blinked rapidly, forcing herself to focus. Her hands twisted together in her lap as she tried to gather her thoughts. “I—I don’t even know where to start,” she admitted, her voice trembling. “You’re telling me my son’s been alive all this time… suffering, being used like some kind of—” Her breath hitched, and she shook her head, unable to finish the thought. “How could anyone do that to him?”

Your face softened, your expression filled with sympathy. “I don’t know,” you said honestly. “Hydra is… they were ruthless. They didn’t see him as a person. They saw him as a weapon. But he’s not like that anymore. He’s found his way back to himself.”

Winnie’s gaze snapped to yours, her eyes narrowing slightly. “How do you know all of this? You’ve never told me who you are, or why you care so much about my James.”

You hesitated, your fingers tightening slightly around the edge of the table. For the first time, you looked unsure, as though the question had caught you off guard.

To Be Continued….

[r3starttt]

TO SETTLE

PAIRING: Caitlyn x reader

SUMMARY: domestic night with cait

CW: none just 2.1K words of fluff, very self indulgent

AN: Creds to 2rusty_wings2 on twitter <3 I’m so obsessed w their art and I might be writing more fics for it cos it’s just gorgeous and cute and cozy and UGHH love fanart

TAGLIST: @Kaimythically @lewd-alien @greysontheidiot @jolyne @sapphic-ovaries @tlouloser @prwttiestbunny @visobsession @kiki5gigi @thesevi0lentdelights @lvlymicha @stickycherritart @rob1nbuckl3ys @femininologies @dinakisser @viajeros--sin--destino @GodessAgrona @patronagrona @halle5s @abvisionss

The house seemed alive with its unyielding chill, a cold that clung to the walls and seeped into the very bones of the structure. Despite the fires blazing in every available hearth, their flames crackling and dancing with futile energy, the warmth refused to settle. The floors remained icy underfoot. The walls, aged and unyielding, refused to drink in the warmth

Your fingers, hidden within the sleeves of your sweater, grew stiff, the chill clinging to them with relentless persistence. Even bundled in layers of the warmthes clothing couldn't fight against the chill, as though the house itself were whispering it's cold right against your flesh.

Outside the frost-covered windows, the sun slipped behind snow-draped trees, leaving the sky smeared in bruised hues of gray and violet. The day had been silent, wrapped in the eerie calm that only snowfall could bring.

Each step you took reverberated softly through the expansive halls, the sound hollow and faint, swallowed by the oppressive stillness.

The air was steady, as if the house were holding its breath. And so, the faintest sound drew your attention—a soft, deliberate patter of paws on the cold floor behind you.

The rhythm matched your own footsteps, a quiet shadow trailing your path. You slowed, waiting, and soon felt the familiar brush of warmth against your leg.

Glancing down, you saw him—the young Doberman, his sleek black coat catching the dim light, his amber eyes bright, almost matching the quiet hue that illuminated the house. The orange shadows coming from every room matching his growing frame pressed against your loose pants. You quietly crossed your arms over your chest as you surrendered to his guidance.

The two of you moved as one, your steps falling into sync with his. The puppy led you with his small form confident and his tail flicking gently with each stride.

Your eyes followed him until you saw where he was headed—a dark wooden door slightly ajar, the glow of firelight spilling through the crack and pooling faintly in the corridor. The warm, amber hue seemed like an invitation, its promise of comfort beckoning you forward.

The puppy slipped through the door first, his movements quick and eager, nails clicking against the cold floor. The sound was sharp but not unpleasant, breaking the silence with the rhythm of the unmistakable chaos of his arrival—a series of hurried steps.

You linger for a moment longer in the doorway, allowing the warmth of the scene to wash over you. The air is thick with the scent of burning wood, mingling with the faint, familiar musk of the dogs and the faintest trace of Caitlyn’s tea, still steaming on the small table beside her.

The green sofa dominates the room, its almond tones matching the small Doberman who had claimed his space with all the entitlement of royalty. His back paws, still slightly too big for his body, scrabble briefly before finding purchase. With a triumphant sigh, he sprawls out, his little frame draped dramatically over Caitlyn’s lap, his eyes fluttering shut as though the effort of climbing up had exhausted him entirely.

You suppress a smile, watching as Caitlyn shifts to accommodate him—yet again. Her movements are practiced, resigned, as though this routine has played out countless times before.

The puppy stretches, his head resting heavily against her thigh, and lets out a soft, exaggerated huff of contentment. It’s almost comical in its melodrama, but then Caitlyn mirrors him, exhaling a quiet sigh that carries the same note of fatigue and surrender.

Like mother, like son, you think, a soft chuckle escaping as you lean against the doorframe. The older Doberman, lying on the opposite side and beside her, seems equally put out by the new arrangement.

Once content with resting his chin on Caitlyn’s inner elbow, he’s now forced to shift lower, his head settling just below her arm with an audible groan. “How dramatic,” you mutter under your breath, shaking your head. The sight before you is disarming in its simplicity, a snapshot of domestic warmth that feels all the more precious because of how hard-won it is.

“You’re late,” Caitlyn remarks suddenly, her voice breaking the silence without disrupting its calm. She doesn’t look up at first, her gaze focused on the book in her hands. “There’s no space for you anymore.”

Her tone is teasing, a playful edge that makes you smile.

When she does glance up, she lowers her glasses slightly, peering over the frames to get a clearer look at you. The faint smirk tugging at the corner of her lips is unmistakable, matched by the quiet glint of amusement in her eyes.

“I didn’t know I was expected,” you counter, your brow lifting instinctively. The words come out with a practiced ease, your banter slipping into place.

Caitlyn’s smirk widens, her shoulders shaking slightly with a chuckle that she doesn’t bother to suppress. She shifts her focus back to her book, the firelight catching the curve of her scar and the skin around her once wounded eye as she tilts her head down.

From where you stand, you can see the faint lines of concentration on her face, the way her brow furrows slightly as she reads. Her glasses reflect the steady motion of her eyes as they scan the page, moving with a kind of intensity that tells you she’s completely absorbed.

She’s further along than the last time you checked, the book already halfway finished. You can tell she’s enjoying it by the way her lips press together, a faint smile playing at the corners when she lingers over a particularly interesting passage. Her fingers, which had been idly resting against the spine of the book, now trail absently through the puppy’s soft fur, stroking the small Doberman’s ears with a tenderness that seems almost unconscious.

The room falls quiet again, save for the occasional crackle of the fire and the rhythmic sound of her page-turning. You let yourself relax against the doorframe, crossing your arms as you take in the details—the way her robe pools around her, its deep blue fabric catching the light; the loose strands of her hair that have fallen forward, one tucked behind her ear; the delicate rise and fall of her chest as she breathes, calm and steady. This is a rare kind of peace, the kind you’ve learned not to take for granted.

For a moment, you hesitate to step further into the room, as though doing so might disrupt the fragile perfection of the scene. But then Caitlyn glances up again, her gaze catching yours. She doesn’t say anything this time, but the faint tilt of her head and the softening of her expression are invitation enough.

Caitlyn had that rare look of peace now, a serenity that had once seemed so unattainable. There was a softness to her tonight, a tangible comfort in the way she sat—relaxed yet poised, her every movement unhurried and deliberate.

You let your gaze linger on the smallest details, those that seemed to carry the most weight. The way her lips pursed slightly in thought, her bottom lip caught between the faintest gap in her teeth as she concentrated on the book resting in her lap. Her fingers, delicate but strong, turned the pages with an almost reverent care, their movements slow as though savoring each word.

It was a scene you could never have imagined not so long ago. Life had been chaos, a whirlwind of battles fought and sacrifices made. There had been no space for these quiet nights, no room for stolen moments where time seemed to pause.

And yet, somehow, you had found your way here—to this, to her. You felt it in the air, in the way your heart settled at the sight of her so at peace, in the privilege of noticing the little things: how she had claimed your white polo again, insisting it was warmer than her own, how her hair caught the light just so, how the smallest movements of her hand spoke volumes about the gentleness she rarely let the world see.

You stepped forward, your movement slow, deliberate. The old floorboards creaked beneath your weight, but the sound only added to the intimacy of the room. Her voice broke the silence, soft yet firm, halting you mid-step.

“What’re you doing? Come here,” she said, her tone gentle but commanding. She closed her book with a single finger marking her place, her other hand patting the small space beside her. The invitation was clear, even as her slight smirk hinted at the unlikelihood of you finding much room there. The large Doberman, sprawled on the cushion beside her, lifted his head at the sound of her voice but quickly settled back down, his chin resting heavily on the edge of her lap.

You hesitated, eyeing the crowded sofa. “There’s no room,” you murmured, half-protesting, though the pull to join her was undeniable.

She didn’t respond, only murmured something soft to the puppy in her lap as she gently nudged him further onto the cushion. He groaned dramatically, his small body shifting just enough to make space. You stifled a laugh at his theatrics, shaking your head as you lowered yourself onto the armrest first, testing the waters. But her expectant gaze, the slight arch of her brow, left no room for lingering. With a resigned sigh, you made your way onto the sofa, squeezing into the impossibly small gap beside her.

Her warmth enveloped you immediately, the soft fabric of her robe brushing against your arm. She set her book and glasses aside, her hands moving to cradle yours before you could fully settle. Her fingers, warm and gentle, wrapped around your own, their touch soothing in a way that words could never match.

“Better?” she asked, her voice carrying that familiar mix of snark and sincerity.

You nodded, unable to suppress the small smile tugging at your lips. Leaning into her, you rested your cheek against her shoulder, letting the steady rise and fall of her breathing ground you. The puppy shifted in your lap, his small body radiating heat that seeped into you, melting away the remnants of the cold that had clung to you all evening.

“I told you it was cold,” she added, her voice soft but teasing, her fingers brushing lightly against the back of your hand.

“You’re always right,” you murmured, your voice muffled against the fabric of her robe as your eyes rolled by the forced admission.

A quiet laugh escaped her, and for a moment, the room seemed to hold its breath, the fire’s glow wrapping around the two of you like a protective cocoon. You closed your eyes, letting yourself sink into the warmth, into her.

This, you realized, was the kind of moment worth fighting for—the kind you’d never let slip away again.

[pandapetals]

Our Shirt

You stole Logan's shirt, but really it's our shirt.

professor logan howlett x professor fem!reader - married couple, cute, fluff, banter, no y/n used, no reader description, your an english professor, logan is a history professor

read on ao3 or find more parts for the series: here

divider credit: @enchanthings

Ororo chuckled as you and she walked through the entrance of the mansion, her arm looped around yours as you stumbled a little, slightly tipsy, and found everything inexplicably hilarious.

"That guy was totally checking you out, Ro," you insisted, setting your shopping bags down with exaggerated care. "You should have given him your number."

Ororo rolled her eyes, though the corner of her mouth curled into a smile. "You think every guy is checking me out."

"Because they are!" You waved your hands dramatically in her direction, almost losing your balance. "I mean, look at you! You're practically radiating goddess vibes."

Ororo laughed, shaking her head as she gathered up her own bags. "You're a little drunk, aren’t you?"

"Just a little,” you giggled, leaning against her shoulder.

That’s when Logan appeared in the foyer, leaning casually against the doorway with his arms crossed, watching the two of you with a smirk. “Stop playing matchmaker when people don’t want it,” he drawled, raising an eyebrow.

You sighed, rolling your eyes as you looked over at him. "You have no sense of fun, Logan. Maybe you could learn a thing or two from Ororo. She got plenty of attention today.”

Ororo laughed, glancing over at Logan. “This will probably be the only time I agree with you, Logan," she said, giving you a quick hug before slipping past him. "Good luck with this one," she added with a wink, disappearing down the hallway.

Logan’s gaze shifted back to you, a faint, amused glint in his eye. “Is that my shirt?” he asked, taking a step closer, his tone low and slightly accusing.

You looked down at the oversized white tee you wore, pretending to be scandalized. “What happened to ‘hello, how are you?’” you teased, wrapping your arms around his waist as he moved in closer. “Is my well-being not important?”

He snorted, resting his hands on your hips, pulling you snugly against him. "I’ve been lookin’ for that shirt all week, sweetheart."

You tilted your head back to look up at him, grinning. “You mean our shirt?”

He shook his head with a smirk, reaching down to pinch the fabric between his fingers. “I don’t remember signing off on that shared custody agreement.”

“Well, consider it officially shared,” you said, leaning up on your tiptoes to give him a quick peck on the lips, but Logan’s hands tightened on your waist, holding you in place.

“You’re a thief,” he murmured, his voice warm and teasing, his lips brushing yours. “First you steal my clothes, then you run off for a whole day and leave me here wondering where you went.”

You raised an eyebrow, playfully challenging him. “Were you… waiting up for me, Logan?”

A faint blush crept onto his cheeks, though he tried to cover it with a gruff huff. “Don’t get too cocky, gorgeous. Just wanted to make sure you weren’t gettin’ into trouble.”

You laughed, wrapping your arms around his neck as you leaned into him. "Just a girls' day, tough guy. Shopping, lunch, maybe a few too many glasses of wine…”

Logan’s hand moved up to your face, his thumb gently brushing over your cheek. “Figured as much. You got that look about you… all rosy and happy.”

You grinned up at him, your heart fluttering at the unexpected tenderness in his expression. “Guess I just missed you,” you whispered, letting your fingers play with the hair at the nape of his neck. “Maybe I’ll steal more of your clothes just to keep a piece of you with me.”

He let out a low chuckle, his forehead pressing against yours as he muttered, “Thief and a flirt. I’m in real trouble with you, aren’t I?”

"Absolutely," you said, pressing another kiss to his lips, this one slow and lingering. When you finally pulled back, you couldn’t resist adding, "Now come on. Let’s go inside so you can tell me all about how much you missed me."

Logan’s eyes narrowed playfully. “You keep pushin’ your luck, sweetheart.”

“Only because you love it,” you shot back, slipping out of his grasp with a wink as you headed towards the stairs.

As he followed you, a faint smile tugged at his lips. He might grumble about you stealing his clothes, but you both knew he wouldn’t have it any other way.

[ot8xbangchansgirlsblog]

Hi! I just saw you’re taking requests and I’m so excited!

I have two ideas if you’re feeling them both ot8 x reader of course!

1. Is reader moving in with the boys , I think it would be real cute

2. The reader finding out she’s pregnant and then having to tell the boys

𝕆𝕙 𝕓����𝕓𝕪!

Warning: comfort/fluff

Summary: Request!

A/N: This was kind of rushed so i'm going to turn it into a mini series because i really do have a-lot to add when it comes to everything that has to do with their relationships, the baby itself and Y/n. If you would like to be added to this separate taglist comment down below!

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

“Baby, your tummy feels weird,” I.N said, a frown knitting his brows together as he tilted his head slightly to look up at her.

They were cuddled together on the couch, enjoying a lazy day at home. I.N’s head rested on Y/N’s lap while she absentmindedly stroked the back of his head, something he always adored. But today, he didn’t seem quite right.

“What do you mean, love?” Y/N giggled, leaning down to plant a soft kiss on his frown, hoping to erase it.

“I don’t know… it just feels hard and strange,” he replied, poking at her abdomen gently, causing her to flinch.

“Baby, stop that!” she laughed, swatting his finger away playfully.

“Seriously! It’s so hard and not squishy like it usually is,” he said, shrugging his shoulders with concern. “Are you on your period?”

“No, my love, not yet. Maybe it’s just because I’ve eaten too much?” she suggested, trying to lighten the mood.

“Hmm, maybe,” he agreed, resting his head back on her lap. They spent the rest of the afternoon watching movies, snuggled under a cozy blanket. But when Chan called, asking if they could pick up some groceries for dinner, they reluctantly decided to get dressed and head out.

“I like having you home,” Y/N said, intertwining their fingers as they walked to the store.

“I like being home with you,” I.N replied, planting a gentle kiss on her temple. The walk was short, but Y/N felt every step weighing her down.

“Are you okay?” I.N chuckled, noticing her panting slightly as they reached the store. “You look a little out of breath.”

“Yes, just a bit winded! Damn, how long has it been since we walked to the store?” she gasped for air, trying to play it off.

“We were just here last week for shampoo, babe,” I.N teased, a grin spreading across his face.

“Oh my God, maybe I’m just getting fat because that felt like a workout,” she sighed dramatically, rolling her eyes. I.N laughed softly and grabbed the shopping basket like the gentleman he was, following her as she picked out everything they needed—and a few treats for Felix’s baking cabinet.

Once they got home and put away the groceries, Y/N flopped onto the couch. “Can we take a nap?” she asked, her voice slightly muffled against the cushions.

“Babe, we just woke up from one!” I.N said, furrowing his brows in confusion.

“I know, but I still feel really tired. That was a workout, and my back aches,” she huffed, stretching out on the couch.

“Your back aches?” His tone shifted from playful to worried in an instant. “How bad is it?”

“Just a little bit. It’s nothing serious,” she reassured him with a pout, pulling him toward his room. “Cuddle me, please.”

“Alright, but let me grab some cream for your back first. Remove your shirt,” he instructed, and she nodded, slipping off her shirt and lying down comfortably.

When I.N returned with the cream, he lay beside her, his warm hands gently starting to massage the area where her back ached. She let out soft whimpers of relief, her eyes fluttering shut as he worked his magic.

“Is that better?” he asked, his voice low and soothing.

“Mmm, much better,” she sighed contentedly, feeling her body relax beneath his touch. Before long, she succumbed to sleep, her breathing steady and peaceful. Satisfied, I.N tidied up the room and put everything away, glancing back at her with a smile before heading downstairs to await the others.

When the boys finally made it home, the sound of laughter filled the air. Chan peeked into I.N's room, raising an eyebrow when he saw Y/N still asleep, a content smile on her face.

“Did you take good care of her?” Chan asked, crossing his arms with a smirk.

“Yeah, she took another nap. She said she was tired,” I.N replied casually as he flipped through the channels on the TV.

“Tired again?” Leeknow asked, raising an eyebrow in confusion.

“Yeah, we went to the store, and she said her back ached, so I gave her a massage and put her to sleep,” I.N explained, a hint of pride in his voice.

“Maybe her period is about to come. I’ll check the app later,” Leeknow suggested. He leaned in to give I.N a quick kiss before heading up to his room, making sure to check in on Y/N before disappearing to take a shower.

“How was your day, guys?” I.N asked as the rest of the boys slowly started to filter into the room.

“Missed you,” Han said automatically, crawling onto I.N’s lap and snuggling in without a second thought.

“I missed you too, baby,” I.N replied with a smile, wrapping his arms around Han.

“I’ll go check on Y/N,” Felix announced, hopping up and making his way to I.N’s room. Once inside, he climbed onto the bed, instantly cuddling up against her.

Y/N stirred slightly, opening her eyes to see Felix’s tousled blonde hair in her face. She let out a soft giggle before speaking. “Hey, bub,” she said, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead.

“Hi, hi, hi!” Felix cheered, showering her with light kisses. Knowing how much he loved to be the little spoon, she turned and held him close.

“Missed you,” she murmured, running her fingers through his hair.

“Missed you too,” he replied, wrapping his leg around her waist and burying his head against her chest. She let out a soft groan as his head nestled right on her sore breasts.

What the hell was going on with her body?

“You’re cuddly today,” she chuckled, continuing to play with his hair.

“You smell nice and feel soft,” he said dreamily, slowly drifting off to sleep. Y/N smiled, allowing him to relax, knowing how exhausting practice could be. She grabbed her phone, curious to check her flow app.

As she scrolled, her jaw dropped in shock. “Oh no…” she gasped, causing Felix to stir slightly but not wake up.

The app showed that she had missed her period. But how? She was always on top of tracking it!

Panic flooded her thoughts as she glanced at the time—it was still only 7 in the evening. She needed to get pregnancy tests. Quickly but quietly, she wiggled out of Felix’s grip and rushed downstairs.

“Woah, woah, woah! Hey there!” Hyunjin chuckled as she nearly knocked into him.

“Hey, bye!” she called over her shoulder, slipping her hand from his grip as she hurried to put on her slippers.

“Are we not getting a welcome home?” Chan yelled, but she was already out the door and in her car, heart racing.

The drive was short, but her mind was racing with negative thoughts. What if? Could she really be…? She shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts as she parked.

Taking a deep breath, she stepped out and headed into the store, her heart pounding in her chest. The fluorescent lights felt almost too bright, but she pushed through, grabbing a couple of pregnancy tests and making her way to the self-checkout.

“Come on, come on…” she muttered under her breath, scanning the items quickly and hoping no one was judging her for the sudden purchase. After paying, she hurried back to her car, clutching the small bag tightly.

As she drove home, every worst-case scenario flooded her mind. What if she was pregnant? How would the boys react? Would they be supportive? Or would they panic?

Pulling into the driveway, she took a moment to collect herself. She couldn’t let them see her like this, all frazzled and scared. She had to stay calm.

With a deep breath, she walked inside, trying to put on a brave face. As she entered the living room, she was met with the warm chaos of her boyfriends, laughter filling the air.

"Hey, everyone!" Y/N managed to say, forcing a smile as she stepped into the living room. She hoped they wouldn't pry too much about what was in the bag she clutched tightly to her chest.

"Hey, baby!" Leeknow greeted her, the warmth in his voice putting her at ease for a moment. "I'm going to start on dinner, okay?" He leaned in and gave her a quick, reassuring kiss before heading to the kitchen.

"Where did you run off too?" Hyunjin asked, not missing a beat as he continued playing video games with Changbin. His eyes flicked to her, curiosity evident in his gaze.

"I went to get some… pads," she lied, her heart racing. She felt like she was about to pass out from the weight of the truth.

"You could've just asked me to run to the store, babe," Chan chimed in, looking up from his phone. "At least we know you've been feeling down lately because of your period."

"Yeah, I guess so," she replied, her voice slightly shaky. "I'm going to go put some on, then I'll come say hi properly."

"Wake up Felix for me! I don't want him sleeping too much," Leeknow called from the kitchen.

"Alright!" she responded, her mind already racing as she dashed upstairs to her room. Once inside the bathroom, she locked the door behind her, hands trembling as she read the instructions on the pregnancy test.

With each step, her anxiety spiked. "What am I going to do?" she whispered to herself, burying her head in her hands. It felt like the walls were closing in, and tears threatened to spill as she watched the timer tick down agonizingly slow. When it finally went off, she felt like she wasn't ready at all.

"Just rip it off like a band-aid. Don't be scared, Y/N," she encouraged herself, her voice barely above a whisper. She took a deep breath and turned over one of the tests.

"Oh no, no, no…" she gasped, her heart plummeting as she checked the other two. They all said the same thing-positive.

That was it...it was official, she was carrying a baby.

After taking a cold shower to calm down, Y/N made her way to I.N's room to wake up Felix. He was deep in sleep, snoring softly, looking utterly peaceful.

"Baby, you have to wash up and come down for dinner," she said gently, brushing her fingers through his hair. He groaned in response and rubbed his eyes, reluctantly stirring.

Once he was up, they went their opposite ways: Y/N heading downstairs to join the rest of the boys, who were chattering and playing games. She tiptoed over to Han, who was engrossed in his phone. Leaning down, she showered him with soft kisses until his cheeks flushed a deep tomato red.

"Okay, moving on!" she giggled, moving to the next person. She made sure to repeat this with all the boys, leaving a trail of smiles in her wake, before finally settling down next to Chan, who was the only one available.

"Did you have a good day today?" Chan asked, rubbing her back lightly. "Any cramps?"

"Um, no… I just stayed with Innie the whole day, watching movies. What about you?" She felt a wave of uncertainty wash over her-was this the right time to tell them?

“Oh, you know, the usual,” he replied, rolling his eyes playfully. She decided to give him a quick massage on his shoulder as they waited for Leeknow to finish dinner.

A few minutes later, Felix came bounding down the stairs, a bag in hand. Y/N’s eyes widened in panic as she shot up from her seat. No way he found them!

“Y/Nnie!” Felix squealed, his voice piercing through the room. Everyone turned to look at him, curiosity written on their faces.

“Y/Nnie, you’re pregnant?!” Felix practically shouted, his excitement making everyone’s jaws drop.

“What is he talking about?” Chan asked, looking at her with wide eyes. Y/N was in shock, quickly snatching the bag out of Felix's hand.

“Felix, how many times do I have to tell you not to go through my stuff?” she snapped, her heart racing.

“I was just grabbing my moisturizer from your bathroom…” he said, taking a step back, frowning.

“Wait, hold on. Why are you getting mad at him?” Changbin stood up, his brows furrowing. “Are you pregnant?”

I.N grabbed the bag from her, ripping it open to pull out the pregnancy tests. “Holy shit… s-she’s actually pregnant…” His eyes widened in disbelief as he lost his balance, falling back into his seat, while Chan snatched the tests from his hands.

"You didn't tell us?" Chan looked at her, disappointment etched on his face.

"I took three tests, and they all say the same thing," she replied, feeling tears welling up again. "I don't know what to do!"

Chan immediately wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into a comforting embrace.

"What's all the commotion?" Leeknow asked, walking into the room, a knife in hand.

"Y/N's pregnant," Seungmin repeated, almost in disbelief.

"What? I thought… wait, hold on…" Leeknow huffed, scanning the room for a seat as if he needed to process this news.

"I-I… I'm sorry, okay? I just took the test. I was going to tell you guys."

"When?" Han pouted, crossing his arms.

"I don't know! I freaked out! This is a lot, okay?" she huffed, wrapping her arms around herself.

"Is that why you ran out of the house?" Hyunjin asked, and she nodded, looking away.

"Holy shi- a baby? A whole baby…" Chan gasped, glancing around the room as if the walls were closing in on them.

"Is that why your stomach feels weird noona?" I.N asked looking at her curiously.

"That's probably one of the reasons yeah," she replied.

"Wah.." he gasped looking amazed. He knew something was off earlier on. He had felt it.

"I never knew it would be this soon," Seungmin said. He was honestly confused and didn't know how to feel about the situation. He just felt bad for her because she was probably scared shitless.

"okay.." Leeknow finally spoke, "we need to have a conversation about condoms and how to use them because obviously one of you slipped up," he rolled his eyes looking at the boys. They all laugh but try to hide it making it even more funnier.

Chan on the other hand looked stressed as fuck.

"Chan say something please.." She begged looking at him.

"oh baby girl, i'm just in shock thats all," he sighed wiping away her stray tears. "I can… I can abort it—"

“NO!” they all shouted in unison, causing her to flinch.

“You actually want me to keep it?” It was her turn to sit down, the weight of the situation crashing over her. Was this actually happening?

“I mean… yeah?” Changbin shrugged. “I don’t mind it.”

“I wouldn’t mind having a kid running around,” Felix added, his face lighting up at the thought.

"That would actually be sick, imagine a baby coming with us on tour!" Hyunjin hyped up the situation even more.

"What if there twins?!" Seungmin claps his hands in excitement.

"or Quadtruplets?!" Han gasps.

"Those do run in my family," I.N says smirking.

Y/n couldnt help but smile at the fact that they where excited for this. It made her feel a little better now although she still wasn't sure about the whole situation.

"Plus, we're all financially stable to take care of one. I don't see why not," Han chimed in, nodding in agreement

"Okay, woah, woah, woah, guys. Let's slow down for a second and ask the person who's actually carrying the baby if they're okay with it," Chan said, raising his hands to calm the excitement.

Everyone's eyes landed on her, anticipation hanging thick in the air. Y/N took a deep breath, her heart racing. She really wasnt expecting this at all and although she felt like she wasnt ready, the way the boys looked at her with hope was the only answer she needed.

"Oh… I guess… let's have a baby? I just-what if I'm not ready for this? What if it changes everything?"

"Life is full of surprises," Chan said gently, kissing her forehead. "But we'll face whatever comes next together. You're strong, and we're all in this with you."

"I… I guess it's just a lot to take in," she admitted, wiping away a few more stray tears. "I wasn't expecting this."

"None of us were," Felix said, a small smile breaking through his breaking through his worry. "But we'll make it work. We're a family, right?"

"Right," Y/N replied, feeling a flicker of hope. "I just need some time to process it all.”

"Take all the time you need jagi," Hyunjin reassured her.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Don't forget to reblog and follow! <3

A/N: Thank you anon! (Taglist open)

[rosierin]

domestic | atsumu miya

synopsis; (y/n) can't even fold the laundry without being harassed by a certain miya twin (not that she minds of course).

this fic is part of the off-season quartet™ series! for more, click here :)

(Y/n) was minding her business.

She really was. Just folding laundry in the living room, bathed in the quiet, honeyed warmth of golden hour. Sunlight poured lazily through the windows, settling over the floor in soft, drowsy patterns, casting everything in a dreamy, amber glow. Her feet were tucked beneath her, legs folded as she knelt on the rug, hair slightly tousled from the long day. The laundry basket sat beside her, still warm from the dryer, its contents smelling like fresh cotton and floral detergent.

The air in the room felt gentle.

Things were peaceful.

Until Atsumu walked in—shirtless, in gym shorts, towel slung lazily over his shoulders, wet hair clinging to the nape of his neck—and the vibe… shifted.

Dramatically.

"Evenin'," he said, like he wasn't dripping sex appeal all over the hardwood floors.

(Y/n) forced her eyes to stay on the shirt in her hands. She knew—she knew—that one glance would unravel her composure faster than a loose thread.

"Evening," she replied lightly. Then, side-eyeing him: "Oi, use a hairdryer. You're getting the floor all wet."

He dropped onto the couch behind her with a groan, towel flopping over his lap, shaking his head like a golden retriever. A very hot, very smug golden retriever.

Water droplets sprayed in all directions. A few landed squarely on the back of her neck.

Her eye twitched. "Atsumu."

"What? I'm air-dryin'. Environmentally friendly."

She scoffed, not out of irritation—more out of muscle memory. He had a talent for toeing the line between annoying and charming. "Environmentally obnoxious," she muttered.

He smirked, running the towel through his hair with lazy swipes. “Whatcha doin’?”

She blinked down at the stack of laundry. “Baking a cake.”

"Smartass."

“Laundry,” she clarified, flatly.

“Fun.” He stretched his legs out until one pressed deliberately against hers. “Want company?”

She didn’t even look at him. Just kept sorting the laundry with practiced ease. “Mmm… not really.”

“Too bad.”

She exhaled through her nose, but there was a tug at her lips she didn’t bother hiding. Of course he was bored. And of course, when he was bored, he came to her. He always did.

She never really minded—

“Whatcha wearin’ under that hoodie?”

Never-mind.

She paused mid-fold. Blinked. Looked over her shoulder, one brow arched. “I beg your pardon?”

His grin curved slow, wicked. “You heard me.”

There it was—the look. Those half-lidded eyes and cocky little tilt of his chin. Every time he looked like that, trouble wasn’t far behind.

“Whatcha wearin’ under that hoodie?” he repeated—teasing, shameless.

She turned back around, shaking her head. “None of your business, you perv.”

Behind her, she heard a low hum. Felt the weight of his stare like a hand pressed between her shoulder blades.

“That means it’s somethin’ cute.”

She clicked her tongue and dropped the shirt into her lap, spinning halfway toward him with mock exasperation.

But he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and the shift made his shoulders flex like he knew what he was doing. He probably did.

“There’s somethin’ real hot about domestic stuff,” he murmured.

Her throat tightened. The tips of her ears burned. She did not ogle the way his forearms rested against his thighs, or the way a bead of water rolled from his collarbone down his chest. No sir.

…

She looked.

Damn it.

His eyes sparkled like he caught her in the act.

"’M bein’ serious,” he drawled, tone dipping lower. “You sittin’ there, all cosy with that serious little look on yer face… it’s real cute.”

She wanted to play it off. Wanted to roll her eyes and scoff like usual.

But he was shirtless. And radiating warmth. And sitting right there.

And the playlist in the background had switched to some jazzy love song that made everything feel a little too cinematic.

She tried not to look again. She really did.

“I’m just sayin’,” he continued, “yer out here foldin' laundry, and suddenly I’m considerin’ things I shouldn’t be considerin’.”

Her heart jumped.

“Atsumu—”

“You’re turnin’ me on.”

She launched a sock at his face.

He caught it easily and flashed her one of those stupidly attractive grins.

"Ya look flustered, sweetheart," he cooed. "Don't tell me my flirtin's actually gettin' to ya this time."

This time she did scoff, half-hearted at best. Turned back to the laundry like she urgently needed the distraction. “You’re hopeless.”

“Hopelessly into you,” he shot back.

She hated the way her blush gave her away.

He laughed softly, the sound making her chest flutter more than it should have.

Then, gentler this time: “Seriously though. Ya look real cute like this. All domestic and stuff. Makes me wanna mess it up.”

Her fingers curled around a pair of joggers—his, naturally. “You’re all talk.”

She felt his foot nudge her lower back.

"You want me to prove it?"

She swatted him away without turning. “Stop pestering me. If 'Samu gets home before I’m done, he’s gonna think I’ve been slacking.”

"Or," Atsumu chirped, sounding far too pleased with himself, "ya could tell him the truth and say ya were too busy eye-bangin’ me instead of doin’ yer little chores."

She turned, unamused. “Says you. I’m not the one getting turned on by someone folding a few shirts.”

He leaned back, stretching like a smug house cat, arms draped over the couch with a lazy kind of swagger.

“Nah, but admit it—ya like the attention.”

She narrowed her eyes. “No.”

“Yes.”

“I don't.”

“Liar.”

They stared at each other across the chaos of socks and damp joggers, tension simmering somewhere between playful and awfully close to flirty.

And then—

The front door creaked open.

Crap.

“You still not done?”

Osamu’s voice floated in from the doorway, heavy with suspicion. He stepped into the living room, keys hitting the side table with a clatter, a couple grocery bags slung over one arm. He paused halfway through toeing off his shoes, eyebrows raised as he scanned the laundry chaos still strewn across the rug.

(Y/n) froze mid-fold.

Osamu tutted like a disappointed parent. "C'mon (y/n), I've seen ya fold quicker than that."

She pouted dramatically, throwing a pointed finger in Atsumu’s direction like a child tattling on her sibling. “It’s his fault!”

Osamu gave his brother a flat look. “What’d he do this time?”

Atsumu, lounging back on the couch like he’d never done anything wrong a day in his life, cocked a brow. “Yeah, (y/n). What did I do?”

She glared at him.

He winked.

Osamu’s gaze flicked to the couch—and immediately narrowed on the damp spots soaking into the cushions.

“You absolute dumbass,” he muttered, striding over to whack his twin upside the head with the towel. “Get yer wet hair off the furniture and go dry it before I throw yer whole ass in the goddamn dryer.”

“Alright, alright! Jeez.” Atsumu got up, rubbing his head like he’d been assaulted. “No need to get violent.”

He shuffled off toward the hallway, grumbling under his breath like a scolded puppy.

(Y/n) watched him go, biting back a laugh. She lifted a hand to her mouth, failing to hide her amusement behind her sleeve.

He caught the sound just before turning the corner, stopped mid-step, and turned to shoot her a betrayed look.

She smiled sweetly—and blew him a kiss.

Atsumu rolled his eyes.

Osamu, still standing nearby, huffed a laugh through his nose and turned her head back towards her assigned task. “Alright, back to work, miss. Ya can flirt with my brother after the laundry’s done.”

(Y/n) laughed despite herself, not even bothering to defend her honour as she turned back toward the basket. “Yes sir, sorry sir.”

Osamu smirked. “That’s more like it.”

The room settled into a quiet warmth—playlist still humming in the background, laundry pile slightly smaller, the air still charged with something light and playful.

(Y/n) smiled to herself as she folded the next shirt, fingers moving on autopilot.

Atsumu returned not too long after, already radiating mischief like he physically couldn't help himself.

He grinned her way and she shook her head.

Perhaps she did like the attention after all.

[millers-girl]

what it takes

chapter 2 of willow & whiskey

a/n: thank you all so much for all the love the first chapter’s gotten 🫶🏼 ps: I ended up changing the title of the fic because I saw someone post another joel fic under a similar name and didn’t want any confusion :)

pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

summary: the trek to the state house begins... and ends in a way none of you expected.

warnings/tags: age gap, adult language, blood and violence, death

word count: 4.2k

series masterlist

When Ellie woke the next morning, head lifting from where it had been nestled in your lap, she found you already awake.

Your back rested uncomfortably against the bookshelf behind you, posture stiff, but your expression was calm – watchful but not hostile. Your gun was within reach, resting on the ground beside you, yet your hands never reached for it.

Joel and Tess sat in front of you, a safe distance away, mirroring your posture. Tess seemed at least composed; Joel, on the other hand, was tense, his gaze fixed on Ellie.

Despite the clear unease in the room, you offered Ellie a small, reassuring smile as she stirred awake. Your fingers brushed through her hair – a light touch that spoke volumes and comforted Ellie beyond belief.

"Morning," Ellie greeted, voice dripping with sarcasm when she turned to the smugglers. The moment she moved to stand and use the restroom, Joel's gun was up.

Without hesitation, you moved too – not for your gun, but to shield Ellie with your body.

"Jesus," you cursed, lifting your hand up in exasperation. "You're one of those shoot first, ask questions later kinda guys, huh?" 

Joel's glare flickered to you, but his grip on the gun didn't waver. You sighed, reaching down and pushing your own gun further away in an act of reluctant trust. There, you seemed to say. A truce.

You knew he wouldn't shoot – he couldn't. Ellie had made it through the night and if he didn't believe she was immune, he had to at least believe she wasn't going to turn. Her body resisted the bite.

Still, he didn't lower his weapon.

"Wow," you muttered, crossing your arms over your chest. "You must be a hoot during a trust exercise." 

Ellie rolled her eyes, moving to your side to try another approach. "Do I look infected?" 

"Show us your arm," Joel said flatly.

Ellie huffed but did as asked, rolling her sleeve up to reveal the same bite – unchanged.

Tess leaned forward, her tone more curious then accusatory. "What was Marlene doing with an infected kid?"

"She's not infected," you corrected gently. "We went to her when Ellie was bitten. Marlene had her tested every day to see if she was getting sick."

"Test her how?"

Ellie groaned, shifting from foot to foot. "I have to pee."

"Test you how?" Tess pushed, turning to the girl.

"They'd make me count to 10 and hold out my hand and then keep it steady. But, you know, I think what really impressed them was the fact that I didn't turn into a fucking monster. Now, can I please?" She asked, turning to you.

You hesitated, casting a glance at Joel – who was still gripping his gun like he expected Ellie to morph into a Clicker mid-sentence.

Your lips pressed together, but you turned back to Ellie, eyes softening. "Go ahead." 

Joel didn't move, but his grip tightened.

You sighed dramatically, giving him a look that was more amused than combative. "So she survived the night, which is as much proof as there possibly could be, and you still don't believe, old man?" 

Joel scowled. "Old man?" 

"Hey, if the shoe fits." You smirked before stepping back to stand watch near Ellie.

Joel muttered something under his breath, but his gun finally lowered.

As you leaned against the doorway, listening to Tess and Joel whispering amongst themselves – they were much louder than they thought they were being.

You could tell Tess was starting to believe you; she mentioned Ellie making it through the night without turning. Joel, however, was less convinced, stating they should sneak Ellie back into the QZ and find a different way to get the battery.

Ellie was done and walking back into the room before they could come to an agreement. 

Then, the four of you sat down and ate what you assumed to be lunch, considering you'd all slept through breakfast after the long, grueling journey the night before.

Now, in this abandoned office building you were in, the air was damp, smelled like concrete and mildew. You perched yourself on top of a mossy spot, stomach already grumbling.

"You two can share some of ours," Tess offered, holding out a pitiful-looking ration of dry, stale food.

You winced at the sight. "Thanks. Marlene sent us with our own."

Tess and Joel gnawed at their jerky—tough, unappetizing, and depressingly dry—while you and Ellie tore into your sandwiches, inhaling them. The stark contrast was almost embarrassing.

"Is that chicken?" Tess asked, eyes widened in something bordering reverence.

Ellie nodded mid-chew. "Marlene said they get it from smugglers... Guess not you guys."

You snorted at that comment, nearly choking on your bite.

"Why are you so important to Marlene?"

Ellie hesitated to answer, giving you the space to. "There's a Firefly base camp somewhere out west with doctors. They're working on a cure."

Joel hummed, low and unimpressed. "Mhm. I've heard this before."

"Whatever happened to Ellie – "

" – is the key to finding the vaccine," Joel finished in a deadpan mimic, as if he'd heard it a million times. "That's what this is about? Vaccines, miracle cures – none of it works. Ever."

"Hey, fuck you, man," Ellie snapped, bristling at his cynicism. "I didn't ask for this!"

"You and me both," he mumbled before turning to Tess. "This isn't gonna work. We need to go back."

Tess exhaled, rubbing at her temple before leveling him with a look. "Let's just finish it. Even if she is or isn't what the Fireflies believe she is, we'll get what we want."

Joel hesitated, jaw locking as silence stretched between you all. Then, with a begrudging nod, he turned to you and relented, "If she so much as twitches..."

Right on cue, Ellie let out a gurgling snarl, snapping her teeth together to mimic an Infected.

Joel's glare cut to you, and you swatted Ellie's arm to get her to stop. "She'll behave," you promised. "Okay?" You glanced between them, gaze lingering on Joel, trying to smooth the tension in the air. 

"Okay," he huffed in surrender, going to gather his pack so you all could begin the day's trek. 

As he grabbed his gun off the floor, Ellie immediately piped up, "Can I have a gun?" 

"Absolutely not," Joel growled, at the same time as you offered a soft, "Maybe when you're older." 

Ellie huffed. "Okay, Jesus, fine. I'll just throw a fucking sandwich at them." 

After packing up, Joel led the way outside, holding the door open as you passed through. You glanced up at him, murmuring a quiet, "Thank you."

It was a simple thing, but it still surprised him. He hadn't heard someone be so polite in a long time. He didn't know what to do with it. So, he simply grunted in response but retaking his position at the head of the group, beside Tess. 

Ellie, walking beside you, turned her head to take in the ruined city, her expression shifting from wary to awestruck. For the first time, she was seeing downtown in the daylight, and the sheer scale of it had her stunned into silence.

Your heart swelled seeing her take it all in; she was utterly in awe. It was a welcomed, rare view and you took a mental picture of the sight before nudging her.

"Cool, huh?"

She nodded eagerly, jaw still practically on the floor, eyes flickering across shattered windows, rusted cars, and vines creeping up twenty-story buildings. It was the quietest you'd ever seen her, just soaking in all the beauty the world still had.

Tess eventually informed everyone that the route to the State House required passage through a hotel. On the long walk there, Ellie kept nudging Tess with questions – about Infected, the bombings in the city when the outbreak happened, whatever she saw. It was clear she was starting to warm up to her. The same could be said for Tess, who did her best to answer all of Ellie's inquiries.

That meant you got stuck walking beside Joel. 

"Your watch isn't the only thing that's broken," you commented absently, eyes glued to the pair walking ahead.

Joel made a low noise in his throat. "Hmm?"

You motioned to his side. "Your hand."

He subconsciously tucked the hand out of view. "Oh. Maybe a hairline," he muttered. "It'll heal fast."

"It'll heal wrong," you corrected. "I've got some compression wrappings and anti-inflammitories in my pack. You can use them when we stop."

He studied you for a beat before asking, "You used to be a doctor in the QZ?"

A laugh slipped out before you could stop it, but your smile faltered quickly. "No, I just... I just read a lot."

Joel hadn't known you for that long, but he could tell you were a shitty liar. Still, he made the decent decision not to press.

"What'd you do before the outbreak?" You asked quietly, shifting the topic.

"I was a contractor," Joel answered. "Used to build houses, stores." 

"Did you like it?" 

He shrugged. "Paid the bills." 

Your brows furrowed at that. "You didn't have a dream job? Like, I don't know – CEO? Musician? Dad?" 

His gaze snapped at you at that last one. Dad? 

You shrugged. "My mom used to say it was a full-time gig."

Joel didn’t respond. He just walked in silence for a few moments before pivoting to Ellie, telling her to drink some water, making sure she stayed hydrated.

Tess took notice of the interaction, finding the corners of her lips twitching up ever so slightly. It was nice to see someone who still believed in small kindnesses.

She cleared her throat, asking, "Hey, nobody's gonna be coming after you two, right? Like, Mom... Dad... Boyfriends?"

You shared a quick look with Ellie before answering for both of you. "No." Your eyes dropped to the ground as you added, "No one's coming." 

The words sat heavy in the air.

"Hotel" was a generous word to describe the building entered; "swamp" was far more accurate. 

The air was thick with dampness, and a pool of stagnant, murky water stretched out in the lobby, complete with lily pads, frogs, and the occasional floating scrap of debris.

The waist-deep water was vile, seeping into your jeans and shoes, turning everything a miserable mossy green.

Ten floors up, your group hit its first obstacle: a jammed door. The only way through was for someone to climb over the adjacent rubble and clear the blockage from the other side.

Tess volunteered, which left you, Joel, and Ellie alone in the hallway.

After a few moments of silence, Joel eyed Ellie’s switchblade tricks. "Nice knife. Where’d you learn to do that?"

"The circus," she deadpanned, causing you to nudge her side, silently telling her to knock it off. "Where are you from?" Ellie forced the question out, trying to make small talk.

"Texas," he answered. And the moment he said it, you let out a snort.

Of course he was from Texas. He may not have oozed Southern charm but his accent easily gave him away. That, and how naturally gentlemanly he was – always opening doors for you girls when it was safe, going through them first when it wasn't; lending a steadying hand when you had to climb over a particularly tricky hurdle. Practical. Protective.

His gaze was immediately fixed on you, lips parting to speak before Ellie beat him to it. 

"What about Tess?"

"Detroit... it's in Michigan."

Ellie rolled her eyes. "I go to school. I know where Detroit is." A moment of silence passed before she continued. "So, uh, you and Tess like a – "

Joel cut her off. "Pass."

She huffed, then tried again. "How'd you end up in Boston?"

"Pass. No more questions about me."

You cut in then, interrupting. "You got to ask her about the knife. She gets a question."

"She evaded mine," Joel shot back.

"Calls himself old, but his memory is sharp as a whistle," you mumbled, crossing your arms over your chest.

"Kid, you were the one who called me old," he corrected, one brow lifting. 

You shrugged. "Like I said – sharp as a whistle." 

Ellie spoke again when silence blanketed over your group. "How long do Infected live?"

Joel was quick to quip. "Oh, I thought you went to school."

You chuckled, ruffling Ellie's hair while she shrugged. "I never said it was a good school."

Still, Joel answered. "Some last about a month or two. But there's others been walkin' around 'bout twenty years."

"Ever kill one?"

"Yeah, I killed lots of 'em," Joel answered.

"Was it hard? Like, knowing they were people once?"

Your gaze flickered up to Joel then, waiting for his answer. 

He simply offered Ellie a shrug and a, "Sometimes."

"What about that guy last night?"

Before Joel could even begin to form an answer, Tess suddenly appeared on the other side of the door, pulling it open for you all to pass through.

"Saved by the bell," you sang as you shuffled past Joel – who, of course, held the door open for you. Gentleman.

The hike from the hotel to the museum—your next stop—was short. What awaited you inside, however, felt like a lifetime.

Even in its decrepit state, you were surprised by how much of the museum still stood. Most exhibits were intact, their artifacts frozen behind glass displays, covered in years of dust. It was eerie—like a ghost of the past stubbornly clinging on through infinite layers of dust, refusing to be forgotten.

Turning a corner from the visitor center, you suddenly froze. "Oh, shit," you breathed, taking a sharp step back.

Joel was at your side in an instant, gun and flashlight raised. It took only a second to register the sight before you – what was left of a security guard, his body torn apart, limbs at unnatural angles, as if something had tried to pull him in different directions at once.

"What the fuck did that?" Ellie gasped from beside you, making you turn her face into your chest to block the gruesome view from her. She didn't need to be scarred like that.

Your head snapped to Tess as she softly spoke, "Maybe... maybe he was attacked outside and crawled through the doors. Door was open – could've been him... I don't hear anything." 

"Who would you hear?" Ellie asked, pulling her head away from your chest to meet Tess's eyes.

Joel's hand immediately shot out in warning – an unspoken command to be quiet. Tess had gone stiff beside him, eyes scanning, body tense. 

Your stomach tightened. "What – did an Infected do that?" you whispered, your own eyes widening.

Tess and Joel shared a look before Joel turned to you and Ellie, voice low but firm. "Okay, from this point forward, we are silent. Not quiet – silent." Ellie went to open her mouth to ask why but your arm wrapped around her, hand clasping over her mouth. "No questions. Just do it." 

Ellie opened her mouth to ask why, but you were already wrapping an arm around her shoulders, pressing a hand lightly over her lips. She looked up at you, brows furrowed, and you simply nodded before letting go.

The group moved carefully through the museum, Tess bringing up the rear, keeping you and Ellie sandwiched safely between her and Joel.

Then, just as you reached the top of the stairs, the entire structure beneath you gave way.

The deafening crash sent dust and debris flying, shoving you, Tess, and Ellie onto the floor. You barely had time to scramble up before Joel’s hand was on your waist, pulling you up, steadying you. Your eyes shot up to meet his, lips going to form a grateful smile, until a screech echoed through the halls.

Joel and Tess's guns were immediately trained towards the clicking of the Infected, while you began to slowly pull Ellie back further into the room, creating some distance. Tess followed, then Joel.

Then the Infected.

Just one. 

Coming into the room and forcing your group up against a glass exhibit. Its loud screeching filled the room, which was otherwise quiet, save for Ellie's heavy breathing.

You reached out, hand on her shoulder, grounding her – silently pleading with her to stop breathing so loud.

You're okay, you mouthed to her, nodding encouragingly. 

The Infected rounded the glass case, coming around to Joel's side, oblivious. The moment Ellie's eyes caught the Infected, closer than she'd ever seen one, her breathing hitched, loudly. 

The Infected instantly turned to her, screeching loudly. Joel began to shoot at it, shouting for you to run, and you didn’t hesitate – grabbing Ellie’s wrist, dragging her through the room as Tess fired behind you. You stumbled over a display stand, the impact sending you sprawling.

"Run!" you shouted to Ellie, yanking your gun up and firing, taking down one of them just in time. You bolted, rounding the corner, breath ragged.

Rounding another corner, you spotted the beam of Joel's flashlight before you saw him, pressed up against another cabinet, reloading his gun.

Upon noticing you, he motioned you to him, letting you take his place against the cabinet as he continued to refill the chamber of his gun.

As if on queue, you heard the Infected nearby, quietly clicking.Your fingers curled into Joel’s jacket without thinking, pulling him closer. His body was tense, his heartbeat a wild rhythm against your skin. You tilted your head up, catching his gaze in the dim light. He was already looking at you.

A silent moment.

Then, his hand found your waist, pulling you even closer—steadying you both.

Carefully, you pressed your half-loaded gun into his palm, exchanging weapons without a word.

In the dark, your hand found his, exchanging his gun for yours, which was at least half-loaded.

Then, he nudged his head towards the exit sign in the far corner, and you nodded your head, quietly following after him, one hand clutching his jacket so you would't lose him.

You two shuffled along the perimeter of the room, only freezing when Joel accidentally stepped on some broken glass, the noise loudly ringing in your ears.

In a flash, the Infected was on you two. It knocked you both onto the ground, screeching as its claws scraped against your jacket. Joel kicked it off, scrambling up, but you were faster—your gun already raised.

One shot to the head. It dropped.

You waited a moment, ears perked, listening for more Infected. Hearing nothing, your slumped forward, forehead resting between Joel's shoulder blades.

"Oh, my God," you mumbled against his jacket, trying to catch your breath.

"You alright?" He asked from in front, gun still pointed at the only entrance to the room.

You nodded against his back before leaning your head back. "You?" 

He nodded, leading you out of the room. You met Tess and Ellie by the exit, where all of you climbed out of a window. While Tess sat down to tend to a twisted ankle, you and Ellie made your way across a wooden beam connecting the museum to another rooftop. 

You two took in the view of the setting sun before you, reflecting on the shiny gold dome of the State House – it was beautiful.

"That was insane," Ellie began, letting out a shaky laugh.

You nodded your head, heart just now beginning to beat regularly in your chest. "Are you okay?" 

She nodded, showing you her arm. "Just a scratch. Least I didn't shit my pants." 

"Proud of you," you teased, tousling her hair. 

A silence passed before Ellie said, "That was scary, huh?" You nodded your head. "It was me breathing too loud that caused all that... right?" 

You shrugged. "Probably would've been me tripping over something if you gave it enough time. Or Joel grumbling about how musty it was in there." That made her laugh. "You were just unlucky this time... You'll get better with more experience."

Soon, Joel joined your duo, also taking in the view.

"Is it everything you hoped for?" He asked Ellie, watching her take it all in.

"Jury's still out," she replied. "But, man, you can't deny that view." 

Your smile matched hers as you wrapped an arm around her, squeezing her close to you. You pressed a soft kiss to the top of her head before Tess came over, ready to make the home stretch of your trek.

As you neared the State House, you reached for Ellie's hand, giving it a squeeze. 

"You okay?" You asked. "Bit quiet." 

She nodded, but her eyes betrayed her, flickering to the fresh scratch on her arm. "What if – "

You were already shaking your head, reassuring her. "You're good," you said softly, voice steady and sure.

"How do you know?" 

"Because I'm your big sister. And big sisters know everything." 

She managed a small smile then, gripping your hand tighter as you walked the rest of the way.

The Firefly truck was parked outside, right where Marlene said it would be – only, there weren't any Fireflies in sight... until you rounded the other side of the truck.

One body, already starting to decay.

And a trail of blood, leading inside.

Tess stormed ahead, motioning for you three to follow.

The scene inside wasn't any better. More bodies, more blood, more death.

"What the hell happened?" you murmured, instinctively pulling Ellie closer as you took in the destruction.

Joel surveyed the room with narrowed eyes. "One of 'em got bit." He gestured toward patient zero, whose twisted corpse lay slumped against the wall. "Turned the others. Healthy ones fought the sick ones. Everyone lost."

You went to speak but were cut off by Tess rummaging through the leftover supplies, looking for a radio. Coming up short, she turned to Ellie and snapped, "Where did Marlene say that she was taking you?" 

"Uh, I don't know. Just west." 

"Just west – okay, fuck. Well, I mean, one of them's gotta have a map on them, right?" 

She dropped to her knees, flipping through the pockets of a dead Firefly. Your stomach twisted at the sight, eyes flickering over to Joel to find some repreieve. 

"Tess," he began, voice sharp. "It's over. We are going home." 

"It's not my fucking home!" she snapped, turning to look at him.

You tensed, stepping in front of Ellie. There was something in Tess's voice – desperation. Like a string pulled so tight it was about to snap.

She exhaled sharply. "I'm staying... Our luck had to run out sooner or later." 

"Fuck," Ellie muttered under her breath, making both you and Joel turn to her. "She's infected." 

Tess scoffed, yanking down her collar to reveal the ugly bite blooming on her neck. "Oops, right?" 

Your stomach dropped.

She turned to Ellie, softly asking her to take her bandage off. She did so, and her scratch was starting to heal, the redness nearly gone now. "Look, Joel, this is real. She's fucking real... I need you to get her to Bill and Frank's. They'll take the girls off your hands. They'll handle it from there."

Joel was already shaking his head. "No, no, no. I can't. They won't take 'em."

"They will," Tess insisted. "You'll convince them. And if you can't, she will." She turned to you, and your throat went dry. "She's sweet and good and kind. Frank will see that. I mean, you saw how he welcomed us; he'll roll the red carpet out for her." 

Neither you nor Joel could bring yourselves to speak. 

Tess turned back to Joel, voice trembling now. "I never ask you for anything... Not to feel the way I felt, not – " She stopped herself, inhaling sharply. "This is your chance. You get them there, you keep Ellie alive, and you set everything right. All the shit we did." She swallowed hard. "Please say yes, Joel. Please." 

Before he could respond, a rasping sound from behind made you snap around.

One of the Infected—half-crushed beneath another body—was waking, reaching blindly for Ellie.

You didn’t hesitate. You drew your gun and fired, but in doing so, the Infected's hand came to rest on a patch of cordyceps. Fuck.

As Tess had said, it grew underground, stretching long distances. And now that you had triggered It, you may have woken a dozen Infected from somewhere else. Now they knew where you were; they were coming.

Joel darted to the door, peeking outside to see a swarm of them running toward the State House.

"They're comin'," he said, rushing back over. "Maybe a minute." 

 Tess didn't waste a second. She pushing over a stack of barrels, oil spilling across the floor, then scattered grenades into the mess.

You watched silently as she did so, eyes filling with tears, throat burning as realization sank In.

"What are you doing?" Ellie asked, voice small.

"Making sure they don't follow you." 

Tess stepped closer to Joel, whispering something to him. Whatever it was, it made his face go blank, his eyes darkening with something heavy. And then, before Ellie could react, Joel grabbed her arm and dragged her toward the exit.

"We're not leaving her! Get off me!" She wailed, thrashing in his grip.

Joel barely glanced at you—just a brief flicker of his eyes, checking that you were following.

But you weren’t moving. Not yet.

You turned to Tess. She was already reaching for her lighter, hands steady.

"Thank you," you whispered.

Her lips twitched. Not quite a smile. Just the ghost of one.

Then you turned to follow after Joel. 

You barely made it a few yards before the explosion ripped through the air, a fireball swallowing the entrance to the State House. The force of it shook the ground, heat pulsing at your back.

Tess was gone.

Your group immediately felt smaller without her.

The weight of it settled heavy in your chest, pressing down, making it hard to breathe.

This was going to be the price of getting out west – you either made it or paid with your lives. Suddenly, the stakes seemed much higher than you'd ever anticipated. And, all you wanted to do was run back to your scrappy little QZ apartment and huddle under the covers until the storm passed.

Instead, you kept walking.

Because Ellie was still holding your hand.

And you weren’t letting go.

Not now. Not ever.

.

.

.

taglist: @orcasoul @lizlil @littleshadow17 @joeldjarin @mrsyixingunicorn10 @luvwanda @escaping-reality8

[sweetheartsofpanem]

What We've Been Becoming - Soft Things Survive

Previous Part

warnings: refer to series masterlist

pairing(s): refer to series masterlist

word count: 4.35k

series masterlist | main masterlist

Your living room looks like a small, polite explosion went off.

Throw pillows are scattered across the floor. There’s a blanket halfway across the coffee table for reasons no one has explained. Katniss is sprawled across the couch like she’s claimed it in a quiet act of revolution, and Peeta is in your armchair completely upside down.

You are on the floor.

By choice.

Kind of.

Mostly because Katniss shoved you off the couch when you tried to adjust the blanket and called it “natural consequences.”

You sip your tea and try not to look suspicious.

Peeta is watching you.

He’s been watching you for a while.

You try to look normal.

Which, unfortunately, is exactly what gives you away.

He shifts so he’s sitting like a normal person, smile growing way too slowly. “So.”

You squint at him over your mug. “Don’t.”

Katniss raises an eyebrow from the couch, voice dry. “She knows it’s coming.”

Peeta grins. “She should. We’ve given her at least three minutes of peace.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“Oh, we know,” Peeta says, in a tone that absolutely implies you did everything.

You lower your mug with a sigh. “Whatever you’re about to say, I object.”

Katniss shifts, resting her head on the arm of the couch. “You’re wearing his shirt again.”

You immediately look down, like you forgot.

Then curse yourself for looking down, because now they know they’re right.

Peeta gasps, scandalized. “And she blushed.”

“I did not—”

Katniss reaches down with her foot and nudges your shoulder. “You totally did.”

“Okay, new rule,” you mutter. “No bullying the emotionally vulnerable girl in her own home.”

“You love it,” Peeta says, kicking his legs over the arm of the chair like he owns the place.

You glare at both of them. “I want a refund on this friendship.”

Katniss smirks. “Too late. You’re stuck with us.”

Peeta watches you for a second longer, that little knowing smirk twitching at the corners of his mouth.

Then, far too casually, he says, “So are you guys, like… together?”

You choke on your tea.

Katniss doesn’t even flinch. She just reaches for one of your cookies like this is the conversation she’s been waiting to overhear.

You stare at Peeta, wide-eyed. “What?”

“You and Haymitch,” he says, gesturing vaguely like it’s obvious. “Are you… a thing now?”

“I—no? I don’t know?” You fumble the words like they betrayed you. “We haven’t even kissed.”

Peeta blinks.

“Wait, what?”

Katniss casually takes a bite of her cookie and murmurs, “That’s pathetic.”

You spin around on the floor to glare at her. “You’re pathetic.”

She shrugs. “Never claimed otherwise.”

Peeta holds up a hand. “Back up. You’re telling me you guys have slept in the same bed, had entire conversations with your foreheads touching, wear each other’s clothes, hold hands like it’s a religion, and haven’t kissed?”

You press your palms to your face. “Why are you like this.”

Peeta leans forward. “You cuddle. You spoon. You made him birthday pancakes.”

“It was one time!”

“You call him sunshine.”

“Because it annoys him!”

“You kissed his scar with your eyes, Y/N.”

Katniss snorts so hard she nearly chokes.

You grab the nearest pillow and throw it at Peeta.

“Shut up!”

“You’re emotionally married!”

“You are banned from this house.”

Katniss raises her mug. “Seconded.”

Peeta’s grinning so wide it’s a miracle his face hasn’t cracked. “I’m just saying—if I were cuddling someone that often, we’d have made out weeks ago.”

You flop back against the floor with a dramatic groan. “We are not talking about this anymore.”

Peeta hums. “You say that, but—”

“I will bite you.”

“I’d like to see you try.”

Katniss leans down and places a cookie on your lap like an offering. “Here. You’ll need your strength.”

You lay back, eyes on the ceiling, wishing it would open up and swallow you whole.

Peeta’s still watching you like he’s waiting for an answer you’re never going to give him.

Katniss is eating her cookie with the kind of serene detachment only someone who thrives on emotional dysfunction can manage.

And then, because apparently you hate yourself, you say, “…We kind of insinuated we love each other.”

Both heads snap toward you.

Peeta’s eyes widen. “Excuse me?”

You wave a hand vaguely, still staring at the ceiling like if you don’t make eye contact, the embarrassment might stay contained. “I mean, we didn’t say it. But it was like—implied. Subtextually. A lot of… ‘it’s love’ and ‘you make the days feel different’ and ‘you’re already halfway in love with me’ kind of stuff.”

Katniss blinks. “So… all the feelings.”

Peeta makes a noise like his brain just short-circuited. “On his birthday?!”

You groan. “I didn’t mean to! It just happened! The vibes were intense!”

“The vibes?” Peeta repeats, somewhere between laughing and panicking. “You accidentally confessed your love over pancakes and vibes?”

“There was also cuddling,” you mumble.

Katniss tosses another cookie at your stomach. “You’re hopeless.”

You slap your hand over your face. “I know.”

Peeta leans back in the chair like he’s re-evaluating the entire timeline of your friendship. “So just to recap—he held you all night, you made him breakfast, you both basically said ‘I love you’ in different fonts… and you still haven’t kissed.”

You groan again, louder. “I hate it here.”

Katniss hums. “We could lock you in a room.”

“I live in a room!”

“Good,” she says, serene. “Then you’re already trapped.”

You push yourself upright, arms draped over your knees, and finally look at them both.

“I know it sounds ridiculous,” you mutter. “But we’re just… taking it slow.”

Peeta opens his mouth.

You cut him off. “Actually slow. Like… healing-in-progress, maybe-someday slow.”

That quiets him.

Katniss tilts her head slightly.

You shrug, a little helpless. “He’s been single for twenty-five years. I’ve been single for eight. We’ve both got a lot of…” You gesture vaguely. “Stuff. That we never really unpacked.”

Peeta leans forward again, gentler this time. “That makes sense.”

You look down at your hands. “I don’t want to screw it up by rushing into something we’re both still figuring out how to want. I mean, I do want it. I think he does too. But we’re still learning how to trust that it’s real. That it’s allowed.”

For a second, it’s quiet.

Katniss is the one who breaks it.

“You don’t have to explain it to us.”

You glance up.

She shrugs. “We get it.”

Peeta nods. “Honestly? Makes me feel better knowing you’re going slow. Means you’re not just diving in and hoping he won’t disappear.”

Your chest aches a little—but in the way that says maybe you’re finally safe enough to feel it.

You smile, small. “Thanks.”

Peeta grins. “Still gonna bully you a little, though.”

Katniss tosses another cookie. “Obviously.”

You dodge it this time.

But you don’t stop smiling.

You’re still curled up on the floor between your best friends, warm from laughter and the last threads of honesty, when the door creaks open behind you.

You don’t have to turn to know who it is.

You feel it in your chest before you hear the footsteps.

“Hope I’m not interrupting whatever deeply profound nonsense you three are up to,” Haymitch mutters as he steps inside, still rumpled from sleep, hair a mess, shirt only halfway buttoned like he gave up halfway through.

You look up.

And your face lights up.

There’s no stopping it.

Not a polite smile.

Not a casual grin.

A full-body, helpless, face-softening, heart-stupid smile.

Peeta makes a sound.

You turn toward him slowly.

He’s just sitting there. Staring.

And then—brightly, like he’s never once feared death—he says, “Look at that smile. That’s the kind of smile people write love songs about.”

You blink. “Peeta—”

“No, no, don’t hide it now,” he says, delighted. “That was a worshipful smile. That was a ‘you walked into the room and the sun came out’ smile.”

Katniss covers her mouth, shaking with silent laughter.

Haymitch pauses mid-step. “Should I come back later or…?”

“No,” Peeta says. “Please. Stay. We were just admiring how stupidly in love your girlfriend is.”

Your jaw drops. “I am not—”

Haymitch smirks. “Not what?”

You glare at him. “Don’t you start.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“She was glowing,” Peeta adds helpfully.

Katniss throws another cookie at you. “Sunbeam.”

You bury your face in your hands again. “Why do I talk to any of you.”

Haymitch sits on the arm of the couch near you, far too smug, and sips whatever’s in the mug he brought with him.

You peek through your fingers.

And, damn it—

You smile again.

Peeta sighs dramatically. “There it is again.”

Haymitch sits there a moment longer, surveying the couch like it’s the next strategic move in a long, complicated game.

Then he looks down at Katniss, legs still draped across the cushions with all the grace of a sleeping mountain lion.

“Legs up, sweetheart.”

She doesn’t even blink. “No.”

He raises an eyebrow. “I will sit on them.”

She sighs, dramatic, but pulls her legs up anyway, curling into the opposite arm of the couch with a cookie still in hand like she’s royalty who’s just been mildly inconvenienced.

Haymitch sits with a grunt, stretching one arm along the back of the couch, mug in the other hand.

You don’t look at him.

Which is probably why you jump a little when his fingers brush your arm.

He doesn’t say anything.

Just tugs lightly.

And you—helpless, hopeless you—let him pull you off the floor like it’s nothing. Like it’s normal. Like it’s not setting off every alarm in your body and also somehow turning them all into lullabies.

You end up tucked beside him, legs curled under you, shoulder just under his arm.

His hand settles warm at your upper arm like it belongs there.

Peeta makes another noise.

“Unbelievable,” he mutters. “She’s being scooped like a kitten.”

Katniss, deadpan, “She didn’t even hesitate.”

You don’t defend yourself.

You don’t need to.

Because Haymitch, voice low and smug and just loud enough to carry, says, “Didn’t hear her complain.”

And you’re never living any of this down.

But you’re also not moving.

So.

Fair trade.

Eventually, the teasing dies down.

Peeta stops his commentary long enough to munch on one of the cookies Katniss didn’t hoard. She’s curled back into the couch corner, eyes half-lidded, content in that specific way only she can be—like she’d bolt at the first sign of sentiment but for now, this is fine.

Haymitch doesn’t move his arm.

You pretend not to notice how warm he is.

The room settles into something easy.

Someone says something dumb about Peeta’s “cinnamon bread sculpture” from last week that ended up looking like a deflated swan.

Katniss says she still ate it.

You tease her for pretending she doesn’t like cinnamon.

She glares at you. “I never said I didn’t like it.”

“You said it was ‘aggressively sweet.’”

Peeta snorts. “You ate three pieces.”

“It was fine.”

Haymitch mutters, “Swear you could set her on fire and she’d just say it was slightly warm.”

Katniss throws a pillow at him.

He bats it away without flinching, and you all fall into laughter again, the kind that comes from deep in your chest, soft and full and unexpected.

After that, the conversation turns quieter. Gentler.

Someone mentions the garden.

Peeta wants to try growing carrots next. Katniss says it’s a waste of space. You argue that carrots are important for the soul. Haymitch says something about the last time he tried to grow anything and ended up accidentally cultivating a mushroom colony.

“You should try flowers,” you tell him. “You can’t mess those up.”

“I could.”

“You could,” you agree. “But you’d try. And that counts.”

He doesn’t say anything.

Just gives you a look.

One you’re starting to know pretty well.

The hours drift by in that slow, honey-thick way that usually only happens when you forget you’re supposed to be doing something else.

Peeta ends up in your kitchen experimenting with what he swears is a brilliant cinnamon-cocoa-tea hybrid. Katniss tells him it tastes like bark. You say it tastes like safety.

Haymitch drinks it in total silence and refuses to comment.

Eventually, Katniss migrates to the floor with a pillow under her back and starts braiding a tassel off your throw blanket. Peeta tries to teach her a complicated pattern, which ends in both of them muttering insults under their breath while Haymitch judges them from across the room.

You don’t move from the couch.

You’re still pressed beside him, your legs tucked under you, his arm draped behind you like it settled there and forgot to leave. He hasn’t moved it. You haven’t shifted away.

No one says anything about it.

Not even when Peeta keeps glancing over like he’s physically restraining himself from making a comment.

Eventually, Katniss stretches—limbs long and lazy like a satisfied cat—and says, “We should go.”

Peeta groans. “Nooo, I like it here. It’s warm. There’s cocoa and tea. Y/N’s blushing.”

“I’m not.”

“You are,” Katniss and Peeta say at the same time.

You glare at both of them from your safe little corner of the couch. “You two are the worst.”

Katniss shrugs as she gets to her feet. “We get results.”

Peeta grabs his coat and points a finger at you on his way to the door. “We’ll talk more about the not kissing thing next time.”

“Peeta—”

He grins. “Love you!”

Then he swings the door open like he owns the place and slams it behind them, leaving the room in sudden, blessed silence.

You don’t move.

Haymitch doesn’t say anything.

But when you glance up at him, he’s already looking at you.

And there’s something about the way the light hits his face—soft and gold and quiet—that makes you feel like you’re still glowing from the inside out.

Haymitch lets out a long, tired sigh like he’s been holding his breath for hours.

“You gonna survive?”

“Not sure. Peeta might’ve done permanent damage.”

You smile. “He is a menace.”

“Should’ve drowned him in that tea.”

“It wasn’t that bad.”

He gives you a look. “It tasted like cinnamon tried to fight a tree and lost.”

You huff out a laugh, head tipping against the cushion. “You didn’t even complain.”

“Didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.”

A comfortable beat passes.

Then, casually, he says, “You were smiling pretty damn hard when I walked in.”

Your cheeks heat instantly. “You don’t have to bring it up.”

“I didn’t say it was a bad thing.”

You glance at him.

He’s not teasing now.

Just looking.

Warm. Amused. A little smug, but softer than you expect.

You shrug, trying to play it off. “You’re just… a good face to see.”

His lips twitch. “That so?”

You elbow him lightly. “Don’t get cocky.”

“Too late.”

You roll your eyes but a smile tugs at your lips, the room still glowing from earlier laughter, from sun filtering in lazy stripes across the walls.

His thumb brushes lightly along the top of your arm, just above your shoulder. Not deliberate. Not really. Just… resting there. Just staying.

You glance down at where his hand sits, draped loosely around you, and then up at him.

He doesn’t move.

Neither do you.

The air between you feels softer now. Like it’s folded in on itself. Like maybe it understands that this—whatever this is—is still new. Still fragile. But real.

You shift slightly, nestling a little closer into his side until your cheek rests against his chest.

“Hey,” you murmur.

Haymitch hums. “Hmm?”

You tilt your head to look at him, voice low. “You doing okay?”

He’s quiet for a second, his chest rising slowly against your cheek.

Then—without looking down—he says, “Better than I usually am.”

Your chest tightens.

“Is that because of me?” you ask, barely above a whisper.

Finally, he glances down at you.

There’s no sarcasm in his face. No smirk.

Just Haymitch.

Soft around the eyes. Worn around the edges. Tired in the way people get when they’ve carried everything alone for too long.

“Yeah,” he says. “It is.”

You don’t answer.

You don’t need to.

You just press your face a little closer to his chest and let your arm slip gently around his middle.

His hand shifts again—settling more fully over your shoulder, thumb brushing along the edge of your collarbone now in slow, steady strokes.

And when he leans his head down just enough that his cheek rests lightly against the top of your head, he exhales.

Like he was waiting for permission to breathe.

And you close your eyes.

Because here, like this, wrapped in the warmth of his body and the quiet hush of the moment, you don’t have to be brave. Or funny. Or sure.

You just get to be.

You don’t know how long you stay like that.

Minutes pass, slow and steady, marked only by the movement of his thumb against your shoulder and the quiet rhythm of his breathing.

You think he could fall asleep like this.

You think you could, too.

But eventually, the light fades enough that the edges of the room blur, and your neck starts to ache from where you’ve been resting against his chest.

You shift, just enough to look up at him.

“Should we… go upstairs?”

His brows lift slightly. “You inviting me to bed, honey?”

You roll your eyes. “You’ve already been in it. Multiple times.”

“Still nice to be asked.”

You nudge his side. “Consider this your formal invitation.”

He smirks, but it’s soft around the edges. “In that case…”

You both stand slowly—your legs slightly numb from being curled under you too long, his knees cracking like it’s a full-body protest. He winces. You snort.

You lead the way to your room, still barefoot, the soft creak of the stairs the only sound between you.

And when you push the door open, the room is the same as always—quiet, warm, lived-in—but now it holds something else too.

A drawer.

Third one down.

You don’t say anything as you walk to it and pull it open, revealing a small but very real collection of his things—folded shirts, a pair of sweatpants, a clean undershirt. His.

You feel him pause in the doorway behind you.

Then, after a moment, his voice—low, a little rough. “That mine?”

You nod once, not turning. “Yeah.”

A pause.

Then, gentler than you expect, “How long’s that been there?”

You shrug. “Couple weeks. I didn’t really plan it. Just figured… if you were staying over more, it made sense.”

You turn to glance at him over your shoulder.

“I like when you’re here.”

He doesn’t say anything.

Just walks over to the drawer and reaches in, grabbing the sweatpants.

Then—without hesitation—he peels off his shirt right there.

You freeze.

Like completely.

Because, okay. You were prepared for him to come back in a t-shirt and maybe mentally swoon a little.

You were not prepared for bare skin, the dip of his collarbones, the scar across his stomach catching the low light.

You absolutely forget what air is.

He glances up.

And oh.

He sees it.

That smirk crawls right back onto his face, subtle but infuriating. “Something wrong, honey?”

You manage a noise that’s meant to be a scoff and comes out dangerously close to a squeak.

He’s still smirking when he heads into the bathroom to change.

You rip your gaze away like it physically hurts and scramble into your softest sleep shirt, tugging it over your head and launching yourself under the covers before your brain can spiral into places it has no business going.

When he comes back, he’s in the sweatpants—but still shirtless—and you swear the air drops ten degrees and spikes ten more all at once.

You refuse to look.

You absolutely look.

He says nothing.

The bed shifts slightly beneath his weight as he settles in beside you, the room dim and quiet, the ceiling painted in soft moonlight. You’re both under the blanket now, barely an inch apart, facing each other.

And it’s… a lot.

He’s warm. Bare-chested. Eyes half-lidded with sleep but still focused, still sharp.

You’re not touching.

Not quite.

But you’re so close your knees bump beneath the blanket and your foreheads could meet with the smallest tilt.

Haymitch lets out a quiet breath. “Didn’t think I’d ever get used to this.”

You glance at him. “To what?”

“This,” he murmurs, eyes on yours. “Ending the day next to someone. It’s… weird.”

“Weird bad?”

He shrugs one shoulder, the motion slow and a little too aware. “Weird good. Good weird.”

You smile, barely. “Yeah. I get that.”

His hand shifts between you, fingers brushing your blanket-covered arm before stilling again. Not pulling you closer. Just letting the touch land.

You hold his gaze.

It’s quiet.

Still.

Heavy in that way that feels like standing on the edge of something.

“You make it easier,” he says, voice low. “All of it.”

You blink. “What?”

“Just… being here. Letting someone close. Letting myself want that.” His voice softens. “You make it easier.”

Your breath hitches.

And suddenly, everything is louder.

The thrum in your chest.

The way your knees brush.

The soft warmth of his skin only inches from yours.

You whisper, “You’re not the only one who’s scared, you know.”

He nods slowly.

“I know,” he says.

A pause.

His thumb brushes your wrist under the blanket. “But I think I’m finally more scared of not having this than I am of screwing it up.”

You don’t say anything.

You just shift—closer now, barely an inch of space left.

Your forehead brushes his.

And he exhales like he’s been holding that breath for years.

His forehead stays against yours.

Just lightly.

Barely touching.

Like he’s afraid to press too hard and break the spell of the moment.

You let your eyes fall closed for a second, just breathing.

It’s still so new.

This kind of closeness.

This kind of ease.

“You know,” you murmur, barely louder than the hum of the house, “I used to think I’d never have this.”

His thumb moves again, tracing a soft circle near your wrist.

“This… what?” he asks.

You open your eyes. “Quiet. Safety. A place to land.”

He’s looking at you. Not smiling. Not teasing.

Just looking.

“And now?” he says.

You hesitate. Then whisper, “Now it’s hard to remember what it felt like without it.”

The silence between you stretches again, but not because you’ve run out of things to say.

Just because some things are better left hanging in the space between your bodies. Floating there, weightless and real.

His voice comes softer now. Like the words are more breath than sound.

“You ever think about what it’d be like if the world hadn’t gone to hell?”

You glance up at him. “Like if there hadn’t been Games?”

“Yeah.”

You think about it.

Then shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe we never would’ve ended up in the same room.”

He huffs a breath, almost a laugh. “Tragic.”

You smirk. “You’d have missed out on so much character development.”

He smiles at that.

A real one.

Quiet and a little tired and so full of affection it makes your chest ache.

“I would’ve liked to meet you anyway,” he says.

Something in your throat tightens.

“Even if it wasn’t like this,” he continues. “Even if it was just passing you on the street or buying something from your stand or seeing you in the bookshop you work at.”

You blink. “You think I’d work in a bookshop?”

“You have the bookish rage of someone who’d alphabetize with malice.”

You try not to laugh, but it breaks through anyway—soft and breathy.

He watches you like it’s the best sound he’s ever heard.

Like it matters.

You shake your head gently, still close enough to feel the warmth of his skin. “You’d be that weird guy who comes in once a week to buy books he already owns just to argue about the ending.”

“And you’d let me.”

“Only because I’d want to win.”

Then he meets your gaze again and says, “You probably would.”

You smile—small, quiet, almost sleepy.

And when your hand drifts up without thinking, brushing his bare shoulder, your fingers barely graze a scar just below his collarbone.

You don’t realize you’re doing it.

The silence between you settles again, delicate and warm.

His thumb keeps brushing your wrist.

Your hand rests against his shoulder, fingers curled slightly—not clutching, not pulling. Just there.

You look at him.

Not expecting anything.

Just… looking.

And maybe that’s what does it.

The way your eyes soften when they meet his.

The way your lips part just barely like you’re about to say something but don’t.

The way you don’t flinch when he shifts closer.

His eyes drop—slow and hesitant—to your mouth.

And when they come back up, they don’t ask for permission.

They ask in the way only he can—with a breath, a pause, a look that’s all uncertainty wrapped around want.

Then quietly, just above a whisper, “Come here.”

Your brows pinch, barely.

But you lean, instinctively.

Because of course you do.

Because it’s him.

And he kisses you.

No fanfare.

No speech.

Just mouth to mouth like he’s never tasted softness before and isn’t sure how long he’ll be allowed to keep it.

His hand lifts—cups your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek.

Yours tightens against his shoulder like it’s the only solid thing in the room.

And it’s slow.

And unsure.

And steady.

Like everything that led up to it.

Like him.

Like you.

When he finally pulls back—just barely—you don’t let go.

Neither of you says anything.

Not yet.

Because there’s nothing left to say.

Just breath and skin and the quiet hum of something that’s finally become real.

Next Part

[focusonkayjay]

Wildly Wealthy Koreans (2); inspired by Crazy Rich Asians

Pairing: Jungkook x (f.) Reader

Genre/Tags: photographer/ filmmaker! jungkook, rich girl/ fashion designer! reader, established relationship, angst, fluff, potential smut

Series summary: When you invite your boyfriend, Jungkook, to accompany you to your brother's wedding in your hometown, Daegu, he’s overjoyed, eager to meet your family and experience a side of your life you’ve never shared with him. However, once he uncovers the truth about who you really are, he’s unable to grasp the full extent of your reality. The situation becomes even more complicated when a certain someone makes him feel profoundly unwelcome, leaving him to question not only your world, but also his place in it.

Disclaimer: This series is heavily inspired by the movie Crazy Rich Asians, with the storyline closely following the original film's plot. However, I wanted to reimagine it as a fanfiction, where Jungkook and OC take center stage as the main protagonists. While I’ve kept the core elements and themes from the movie, I’ve added my own touches here and there, such as altering certain character dynamics and incorporating a few original settings. Some scenes are directly inspired by the movie, and I’ve worked to recreate them in a way that it hopefully resonates with the fans of the movie. Hope you enjoy!!

Word Count: 6.6k+

Chapter Warnings: talks about culture, your mom is a meanie

A/N: literally fighting the urge to rewatch crazy rich asians right now omg. anyways, i'm having so much fun writing this because i love explaining every little thing in detail, and this series gives me so many opportunities to do so. let me know your thoughts <3

part 2

“I can’t believe this.” Jungkook breathes out, sinking into the plush comfort of Yoongi’s ridiculously soft mattress. He runs a hand through his hair, his mind racing as he tries to process everything he had found out during the eventful lunch he just had with Yoongi's family.

It feels like the ground beneath him has shifted. You’re not exactly who he thought you were. Not that he had preconceived notions about your life, but this? This was on an entirely different level. “I wonder why she never told me.” he mutters, more to himself than anyone else.

Yoongi chuckles from across the room as he pulls back the heavy, luxurious curtains, flooding the space with the warm afternoon light. His bedroom is just as opulent as the rest of the mansion... floor-to-ceiling windows, sleek modern furniture, and an aesthetic that screams understated wealth.

“I mean… maybe she didn’t want to show off.” Yoongi suggests casually, as if being from an ultra-rich family is something people hide every day. “Yeah… like you.” Jungkook points out, sitting up and gesturing around the room.

His eyes narrow as they take in every detail. “You never told me you were this...” he pauses, glancing pointedly at the chandelier hanging from the ceiling, the antique show piece on the side table, and the impossibly soft bedding beneath him “...rich.”

Yoongi smirks as he leans against the window frame, arms crossed. “What can I say? I’m humble like that.”

Jungkook groans, leaning back on the mattress as he throws an arm over his face. “My whole life is a lie. You’re telling me I’ve been surrounded by literal multimillionaires this whole time and I didn’t have a single clue?” His voice is half-frustrated, half-bewildered, and the wide-eyed expression on his face makes Yoongi snort with laughter.

“Come on, you’re being dramatic.” Yoongi teases, his tone light but with a knowing smirk. It’s almost laughable coming from him... the same guy who was practically losing his mind over you back in the dining room. “It’s really not that big of a deal.” he adds casually, as if he hadn’t been the one freaking out just moments ago.

“Not that big of a deal?” Jungkook echoes, sitting up with an incredulous look. “You live in a mansion. You drive a car that costs more than my entire apartment building. And now I find out my girlfriend is a part of one of the most powerful families in the country?” He shakes his head, rubbing his temples. “You’re right. Totally normal. Nothing to see here.”

Yoongi grins, clearly entertained by his friend’s over-the-top reaction. “You’re handling this surprisingly well.” he jokes. Jungkook shoots him a look. “I’m on the verge of an existential crisis, and you’re laughing at me.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.” Yoongi says with a shrug, making Jungkook groan again.

“And now I can’t stop thinking about that damn tea party ceremony thing I have to go to, this evening.” Jungkook sighs, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees.

His fingers thread through his hair in frustration. “I don’t know what to expect after everything I’ve learned today.” He breathes out heavily, as though the weight of the world is pressing down on his shoulders.

“Don’t stress it.” Yoongi replies, his tone infuriatingly nonchalant as he leans back in his chair. He looks completely at ease, like Jungkook hadn’t just had his world turned upside down in the span of a few minutes.

Jungkook stares at him, exasperated. “How can I not? I don’t know if I’ll even be able to fit in. Everyone there will probably take one look at me and smell the filth on me. They’ll know right away that I’m a completely different breed compared to them.” he huffs, gesturing dramatically to make his point.

Yoongi stifles a laugh, shaking his head. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“Am I?” Jungkook counters, his tone sharp. “I’m just some regular guy. I grew up in a tiny apartment with my mom, eating instant ramen and working part-time jobs to get by. These people... your people... live in literal mansions and probably eat gold-flaked caviar for breakfast or something.” he rambles.

Yoongi finally bursts out laughing, the sound making Jungkook scowl even more. “Gold-flaked caviar? That’s a bit too much, even for us.” Yoongi teases, his voice dripping with amusement. “But seriously, You’re overthinking it.”

Jungkook shakes his head, his insecurities bubbling to the surface. “You don’t get it. I’m not like them. I don’t know the rules, or how to act, or what to say or how... how to dress. I’ll stick out like a sore thumb.” he says, covering his face as the stress surges through his veins.

"Well, since you brought it up... do you have an outfit for the evening?" Yoongi questions. Jungkook shrugs, a bit unsure. “Well, I have this simple suit. It’s... it's this black-”

“No way.” Yoongi interrupts, shaking his head in disbelief. “There’s no way you’re wearing a simple black suit to this thing.”

Jungkook blinks, taken aback. “What’s wrong with a simple black suit?” he asks, genuinely perplexed.

Yoongi clicks his tongue like a disappointed teacher, standing up from his seat. “This won’t do. Follow me.” he says briskly, already turning on his heels. Jungkook barely has time to react before Yoongi is leading him down the hall and into what can only be described as a dream closet.

The room is enormous, with racks of clothing neatly arranged by color and style. Spotlights illuminate the array of designer outfits, from tailored suits to silk shirts and everything in between.

Shelves line the walls, displaying polished leather shoes, neatly folded ties, and an impressive collection of watches. A faint, luxurious scent lingers in the air, and Jungkook can’t help but gape at the sheer extravagance of it all.

“Okay, let’s see.” Yoongi mutters, his sharp eyes scanning the racks like a man on a mission. He pulls out a prussian blue short coat with clean, sharp lines and a tailored fit. The material has a subtle texture that exudes luxury without being flashy. “This is so so sleek and I think this should be perfect for tonight.” he muses.

“Blue?” Jungkook raises an eyebrow. “You think that’s the move?”

Yoongi smirks. “I don't think... I know it is.” He sets the coat aside and grabs a light blue silky dress shirt, its soft sheen adding just the right amount of elegance. “This will add a little softness. Plus, it’s classy as hell.” he explains.

Before Jungkook can protest, Yoongi moves to another section, pulling out matching prussian blue trousers. “These match the coat...” he softly says, more to himself.

Yoongi then crouches down to the shoe shelf, grabbing a pair of sleek black loafers “And these... for your feet.” He stands back up and makes his way to the display of accessories.

“We’ll keep it simple...” he murmurs, looking around and a few seconds later, he picks out a delicate diamond brooch shaped like a flower. “This is gonna add just the right amount of sophistication without being too much.” he smiles, proud of himself for the fashion choices he's making.

“Try it on.” Yoongi orders, shoving the outfit into Jungkook’s arms.

Jungkook hesitates, still overwhelmed by how much thought Yoongi has put into this. “Isn’t this… a bit too much for a tea... party?”

“Not for this one.” Yoongi says matter-of-factly, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. “Trust me, this is how you blend in while still making a statement.. you're gonna thank me for this.”

A few minutes later, Jungkook emerges from the dressing area, and Yoongi’s face lights up in approval, completely satisfied with his work.

The prussian blue coat fits Jungkook perfectly, accentuating his broad shoulders, while the silky light blue shirt adds a sophisticated edge. The trousers and polished loafers complete the look, and the diamond brooch glimmers subtly, tying everything together seamlessly. (jungkook's full outfit if u want to visualize it)

Yoongi whistles low, nodding. “Now that’s what I’m talking about. You look insanely good.” he claps. Jungkook glances at himself in the mirror, stunned by the transformation. “I look… fancy.” he mutters, running a hand down the soft fabric of the coat.

Yoongi smirks. “You look expensive. And that’s exactly the point.”

//

As the clock strikes 5, Jungkook’s phone buzzes with a message from you. It’s the address of the place he’s supposed to go. The pit in his stomach deepens as he reads it... nerves gnawing at him now that the event feels real and imminent.

He stands in Yoongi’s room, fidgeting with the cuffs of the silky dress shirt he's wearing, while Yoongi carefully styles his hair. After a few minutes of fussing, Yoongi steps back, his expression satisfied. “There.... perfect.” he quips with a smirk.

Jungkook sighs, taking in his reflection. He looks different... polished, refined, like someone who owns a portfolio full of stocks and leaves enormous tips at fancy restaurants without a second thought. He tilts his head, still processing the transformation.

“Let’s head out?” Yoongi suggests, and though still hesitant, Jungkook nods, grabbing his phone and wallet before following Yoongi downstairs.

When they step outside, the familiar luxury of Yoongi's estate greets him and he instantly notices that this time, Yoongi has opted for a different car... a sleek, deep-red Ferrari Roma. The polished exterior gleams under the fading daylight, and Jungkook can’t help but gawk. "This car looks like it belongs in a museum." he mutters, still trying to process Yoongi’s absurdly lavish lifestyle.

The same guard from earlier appears, carrying Jungkook’s luggage, which he efficiently loads into the the car's surprisingly spacious trunk. Yoongi slides into the driver’s seat, revving the engine, and the low, throaty hum fills the air.

Jungkook gets into the passenger seat, muttering under his breath, “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this.”

Yoongi chuckles as he adjusts the rearview mirror. “You’re supposed to say, ‘Thank you, Yoongi, for giving me a taste of luxury.’” he jokes.

The ride to the address you’ve shared isn’t long, but with each passing kilometer, Jungkook grows more apprehensive. The city’s bustling streets fade away, replaced by quieter, tree-lined roads. And as the sun finally sets, the atmosphere feels secluded and serene, the kind of area reserved for only the wealthiest of the wealthy.

By the time they approach the destination, it’s almost completely dark, and the surroundings are cloaked in shadow. Eventually, the headlights illuminate a massive iron gate adorned with intricate designs, the kind that looks custom-made and costs more than an average car.

Tall stone pillars flank the gate, with elegant golden lettering engraved on plaques— 'The Kims' etched prominently.

The GPS pings, signaling they’ve arrived. Before Jungkook can say a word, the gates swing open automatically, revealing a long, winding driveway lined with towering, perfectly trimmed trees. A soft glow from decorative lanterns illuminates the path, casting an ethereal ambiance over the grounds.

“Is this a driveway or a runway?” Jungkook mutters as the car rolls forward. The sheer length of the driveway seems surreal and it takes them almost five minutes to reach the end.

When they finally arrive, Yoongi slams on the brakes, his jaw dropping. “Holy fuck…” he breathes, gripping the steering wheel tightly. His voice is barely above a whisper as he asks, “Are you seeing this?”

Jungkook stares, utterly gobsmacked. Before them stands an enormous mansion, more like a palace than a home. The architecture is a seamless blend of modern elegance and classic grandeur.

A sprawling facade of pristine white marble reflects the soft golden lights strategically placed along the perimeter. Massive glass windows stretch across the mansion, framed by intricate black ironwork.

A fountain stands proudly in the center of the circular driveway, water cascading gracefully in the glow of ambient lights. The front doors are enormous, crafted from dark wood and adorned with golden handles that look like they belong in a royal palace.

Behind the mansion, faint silhouettes of sprawling gardens and additional wings of the estate hint at just how vast this property is. Jungkook feels like he’s stepped into a movie. His voice is barely audible as he murmurs. “This… This is where Y/N lives?”

“Dude...” Yoongi says, still staring at the mansion. “I told you my place would be nothing compared to this.”

As Yoongi is still marveling at the house, his hands gripping the steering wheel like he’s afraid to blink and miss something, Jungkook’s gaze drifts beyond the car's window.

Near the expansive lawn and the grand entrance of the mansion, groups of people mingle, their laughter and chatter carried on the soft evening breeze. It’s all so overwhelming, but then his eyes land on you, and suddenly, the world seems to still.

You’re standing by the grand double doors, chatting with two women who appear equally elegant. But his focus is entirely on you. You’re dressed in a stunning emerald green gown that hugs your figure just right.

The strapless design accentuates your shoulders and collarbones, and the gown flows down in soft, silky waves, brushing against the floor with every slight movement. A string of delicate pearls adorns your chest, their soft sheen catching the light with each turn of your head.

Your hair is styled in a way that frames your face beautifully, soft tendrils brushing against your cheeks. The golden glow of the mansion’s lights reflects in your eyes, making them look like the night sky dotted with stars.

You smile at something one of the girls says, and that smile... it’s the kind that makes Jungkook’s heart skip a beat, the kind that could light up even the darkest of nights.

As he sits there in Yoongi’s car, rooted to his seat, he can’t help but take in your beauty. The way you carry yourself with such grace and confidence, as though you were born to belong in a setting as grand as this. Jungkook feels his throat tighten. How? How on earth had someone like him... ordinary, flawed, and a complete mess half the time, ever managed to end up with someone like you?

You’re perfect, he thinks, in every sense of the word. From the sparkle in your eyes to the way your laughter carries, soft and melodic, across the air. He feels a pang of disbelief, as though at any moment someone might tap him on the shoulder and tell him it’s all been a dream.

His hand clenches slightly against his knee as he leans back into the seat, still staring at you, unable to look away.

And like magic, your eyes meet his from across the expanse. It’s as though the crowd and the grandeur of the mansion fade into nothing, leaving just the two of you in your own world.

Your expression instantly lights up, a radiant smile spreading across your face. You excuse yourself from the two women without the slightest bit of hesitation, your steps purposeful as you make your way towards the car parked by the grand fountain.

“Oh my god, she’s coming… she’s coming here.” Jungkook mutters under his breath, panic and exhilaration twisting together in his chest. His words snap Yoongi out of his trance, but before Yoongi can even react, Jungkook is already out of the car.

“Baby... you made it.... Hi.” you say, your voice sweet and filled with warmth as you approach him. Without a second thought, you wrap your arms around him, pulling him into a tight hug. The faint scent of your perfume envelops him, soft and comforting, and for a moment, he’s too stunned to move.

Just seconds ago, Jungkook’s mind had been a mixture of nerves and doubts, the unfamiliar surroundings and the weight of everything he’d learned earlier still pressing on him. But now, as he feels your arms around him and the steady rhythm of your heartbeat against his chest, all of that melts away.

He exhales a breath he didn’t even realize he was holding, his arms instinctively wrapping around your waist, pulling you closer. In your embrace, the humoungous mansion, the status of those around him, and the intimidating luxury that surrounded him, no longer mattered. None of it.

Right here, right now, he feels safe. He feels like he belongs... not with the wealth, not with the prestige, but with you. It’s in the way your presence calms his racing heart, in the way your touch grounds him. With you, it feels like home.

And in that moment, he knows. No matter how out of place he might feel in this world of opulence, as long as he has you, he’ll always belong.

“Ahem.” Yoongi clears his throat, a playful glint in his eyes as he watches the two of you pull away from the hug. He stands by the side of the car, arms casually crossed, his lips curling into a teasing smirk. His gaze flicks between you and Jungkook, his eyebrows wiggling as if to silently ask... Are you going to introduce me, or what?

Jungkook’s eyes travel to Yoongi, and the subtle shift in his expression tells Yoongi that he’s caught on to the unspoken request. He gives a small, sheepish chuckle, the tension that had lingered before, now dissipating.

“Babe, this is Yoongi.” he says, his voice soft but genuine as he reaches out to encircle your waist again, his fingers lightly tracing the curve of your back. He turns his head to Yoongi with a grin. “And Yoongi… this is Y/n.”

You look at Yoongi, a warm and open smile immediately spreading across your face. You’ve only heard bits and pieces of stories about him from Jungkook, but you already have a good sense of his nature. “Yoongi, hi!” you greet him, your voice bubbling with kindness.

“Thank you so much for bringing him. I'm a little mad at you for stealing him away from me on his very first day here...” you tease, your eyes sparkling as you glance up at Jungkook. “But I still get it. I guess I’ll forgive you... only this time, though.”

Yoongi chuckles, genuinely amused by your playfulness. He raises his arms, giving a mock bow, and offers a teasing apology. “I apologize. But thank you for letting him come meet me. It was really nice catching up after all these years." he sincerely says.

You smile at the sentiment, inching closer to Jungkook as you move past the brief formality. The three of you stand for a moment, the evening breeze and the sound of the water splashing in the fountain, wrapping around you.

The conversation feels comfortable, like a warm, shared space where everyone is still figuring each other out but already enjoying the connections being made.

Then, with a sudden idea that seems to come naturally to you, you look up at Yoongi with a soft but insistent smile. “Why don’t you join us tonight? It’ll be fun.” you suggest, your tone light but sincere.

Yoongi looks like he’s about to refuse, his shoulders relaxing slightly as he opens his mouth to protest. “Oh, my god, no. It’s alright, really-”

You cut him off gently, your voice light with the promise of something easy and enjoyable. “Oh, come on. It’ll be amazing. Besides you're already here and I would feel like a horrible person if I just sent you away without an invitation. Plus, I'm pretty sure you'll find some you know in there.. so please, do come.”

Yoongi hesitates again, the pull of his curiosity and the warmth of your invitation winning him over. But deep down, he knows he’d be stupid to refuse. Why the hell wouldn’t he want to spend his evening at the Kim estate, soaking in the luxury and splendor?

“Well... if you insist…” Yoongi begins, finally giving in with a playful smirk. “I’d be honored to stay.”

Jungkook watches the exchange with a soft grin on his lips, his heart swelling with a quiet affection for you. In moments like these, it’s impossible not to marvel at how effortlessly you make everyone feel at ease.

Your ability to connect with anyone, to put people at ease with your calm demeanor and genuine interest, is one of the things he admires the most about you.

//

As the three of you enter the mansion, Jungkook’s eyes immediately widen at the sheer gloriousness of the place. The space is expansive, and the walls are adorned with elegant artwork, framed portraits, and intricate carvings that speak of a long history of wealth and taste.

The air smells faintly of fresh flowers and something warm, like vanilla, and the soft lighting gives the house an intimate yet sophisticated feel. He can’t help but be in awe, his footsteps slowing as he takes in the magnificent surroundings. From the grand chandeliers overhead to the tastefully arranged furniture, every corner is meticulously curated.

Suddenly, Yoongi is distracted by a familiar face in the crowd... a friend of his, evidently, who bumps into him as they walk into the entryway. "Yooooo...Yoongi, What are you doing here, dude?" the man beams, instantly dapping him up.

Yoongi’s expression shifts from casual to excited as he greets the man, and soon enough, they’re deep in conversation, his attention completely absorbed by the exchange.

Seizing the moment, you lean over to Jungkook and softly whisper. “Come on, let's leave Yoongi to catch up with his friend." you simply say.

Without giving him an opportunity to agree or protest, you take Jungkook’s hand and lead him up the grand staircase, the polished wooden steps creaking slightly beneath your heels.

The second floor seems even quieter than the first, with only the distant murmur of conversation from the living room and the lawn below. The hallway is empty, the walls lined with family portraits and antique furniture that speaks of both elegance and history.

As you walk down the long corridor, Jungkook follows quietly, his hand wrapped around yours, the warmth of your touch grounding him.

Glancing over your shoulder, you catch his gaze and flash him a playful, flirty smile. Then, with effortless grace, you turn to face him, continuing to walk backwards, your eyes never leaving his, a teasing glint dancing in them.

A comfortable silence settles between you two as your eyes take him in. He looks undeniably charming. The way the outfit fits him, accentuating his sharp features, makes your heart flutter in a way you didn’t expect.

Even though you’ve only been apart for a few hours, you’ve missed him deeply. Unable to find the right words, you let your gaze speak for you, your eyes lingering on him with warmth and admiration, as if memorizing every detail.

“Did I tell you how fucking gorgeous you look tonight?” Jungkook’s voice cuts through the stillness, and you can't help but giggle at the awe in his expression.

His eyes glint with admiration, the kind of look that makes your heart flutter in your chest. He’s not hiding his feelings, and it’s evident from the way he glances at you, his gaze tracing your figure as if trying to etch every detail into his mind.

You feel a spark ignite inside you at his words, but you manage a smile, keeping your composure as you look at him. “You don’t look too bad yourself.” you tease, your steps slowing as he steps closer, releasing your fingers from his hold as he places his hands on your waist, halting you in your tracks.

The corridor feels quieter now, the faint hum of distant chatter fading into the background as his presence fills the space. He pulls you closer, his dark eyes locking onto yours. “I missed you.” he murmurs, his voice low and earnest, his gaze flickering to your lips. And as though it’s second nature, he leans in, capturing your lips in a soft yet passionate kiss.

A smile curls on your lips as you kiss him back, the warmth of the moment sending a flurry of butterflies through you. You can’t understand how he always manages to have this effect on you, leaving you breathless and wanting more.

“I missed you too.” you whisper as he pulls away, your eyes catching the faint shimmer of your lip gloss now smudged on his lips.

Despite the intimate moment you’ve just shared, you can’t help but laugh softly. He tilts his head in slight confusion, his brow arching adorably. Without saying a word, you take his hand again, leading him forward down the corridor.

“Come on, I want to show you my room.” you say, your voice light and eager as you guide him further into the corridor.

Jungkook’s eyebrows raise in eagerness as you lead him further down the corridor, past several closed doors. The silence around you both feels almost comforting, as if this is a moment just for the two of you... away from the grandiose of the house and the people downstairs. You’re aware of the weight of the space around you, but in this moment, you’re only aware of him.

“I’ve lived in this house ever since I was a baby...” you continue, your voice quiet but soft, allowing a sense of nostalgia to seep in. “After moving out to New York, the one thing I missed the most was my room.” You look up at him, your smile deepening. “So... I really just... wanted to show it to you.”

Jungkook seems struck by your words, his curiosity piqued, but you don’t elaborate further. You can tell he’s fascinated by the house... he’s seen enough of it already to know it’s not just a regular mansion, but you’re careful not to make him feel overwhelmed.

You don’t want him to think you’re bragging or showing off, not when it comes to your family’s history or the house that’s been passed down for generations. It’s always been a part of you, but you’ve always hated the idea of people seeing you through the lens of privilege.

You’ve never been the type to flaunt it, but the quiet discomfort always lingers. The fear that people will think you’re trying to distance yourself from others or act like you’re somehow above them. It’s why you’ve never told Jungkook much about your background, not in the way some people might expect. You didn’t want him to misunderstand.

As you round a corner and approach your door, Jungkook glances at you, sensing that there’s something more beneath the surface of your words. He opens his mouth to ask, but you cut him off gently with a soft smile, knowing he’ll get to know everything in time.

For now, all that matters is this moment, and as you unlock the door to your room, you can’t help but feel an odd sense of calm. You’ve never shared this part of yourself with anyone before... not like this. But with him, it feels like you’re finally letting him see all of you.

As you switch the lights on, a soft glow fills the room, instantly giving it a warm, inviting ambiance. Jungkook takes a step inside, his gaze sweeping over the delicate details that make up the space. The walls are painted in a blush pink hue, accentuated by crown molding in a creamy white tone.

The furniture matches the aesthetic, with an elegant white queen sized bed and a quilted headboard adorned with tiny, pearl-like studs.

There’s a fluffy cream rug sprawled across the polished wooden floor, and a cozy armchair tucked into the corner beside a tall bookshelf that’s overflowing with colorful novels, fashion magazines and trinkets.

The vanity table by the window catches his attention, its surface sprinkled with makeup items, a small vase of fresh flowers, and neatly arranged bottles of perfume. Above it, a mirror framed with soft golden lights reflects the subtle shimmer of the space.

The walls are brought to life with framed posters of iconic bands and celebrities, each placed thoughtfully, as though telling a story. A string of Polaroid pictures hangs on the wall near the bed, giving the room a personal, nostalgic touch.

He notices little figurines of 'Hello Kitty' on a floating shelf and a small collection of plush toys sitting in a basket near the window seat. The room feels youthful and dreamy, like stepping into a snapshot of your childhood.

Jungkook takes it all in, pausing as his eyes land on the posters and the subtle quirks that reveal glimpses of your younger self. He can’t help but imagine you here as a teenager... probably sprawled out on the bed, reading or listening to music, daydreaming about the future. The thought makes him smile, a warm fondness settling in his chest.

His thoughts are interrupted as you walk over to the vanity and pick up a picture frame, holding it up with a soft smile. “That’s me...” you say, pointing to a baby in the photo. Jungkook steps closer, curious, and his eyes fall on a little version of you, chubby-cheeked and wide-eyed. “And that... is Tae.” you continue, pointing to a young toddler that's securely holding you in his tiny arms.

Jungkook chuckles softly, leaning in to get a better look. “You still look the same.” he chuckles, his gaze shifting between the picture and you. "And Taehyung looks like he’s already ready to fight anyone who gets near you." he adds.

You laugh, gently setting the frame back down. You glance at the photo one last time, feeling a small tug of nostalgia before turning to Jungkook, who’s still looking around, clearly charmed by this intimate glimpse into your past.

"Your room is beautiful." he finally says, his voice soft with admiration as his gaze takes in the delicate details surrounding him. He can't believe he's being shown this deeply personal part of your life, and it makes him feel incredibly special.

You step forward, wrapping your arms around his neck with a tender smile. "Thank you, baby. I'm so glad I could show it to you." you say, pressing a gentle kiss on his cheek.

Just as the moment seems perfect, your expression shifts like you've suddenly remembered something crucial. "Oh my god! wait... no way... I totally forgot!!" you exclaim, breaking away from him.

Jungkook is bewildered for what feels like the hundredth time today as you grab his hand and practically drag him out of the room and down the long corridor. He's still trying to process what’s happening when you lead him back downstairs. His eyes dart around, noticing the guests still lost in their conversations, oblivious to the two of you passing by.

"I told my mom I'd introduce you to her the minute you'd arrive but… I totally forgot!" you admit hurriedly, your voice tinged with a mix of excitement and guilt as you weave through the crowd.

The words hit Jungkook like a bolt of lightning, and his eyes widen in panic. Your mom? He was going to meet your mom? Right now? No warning, no preparation? He feels a surge of anxiety bubbling up in his chest.

"Wait... wait!" he halts abruptly, tugging your hand so you’re forced to turn around and look at him in confusion. "Babe, a warning would have been nice. I need to prepare myself for this moment... this is your mom we're talking about." he breathes out, clutching his chest dramatically.

You chuckle, brushing off his concerns with ease. "Oh, come on, Kook. She's just my mom. You'll be fine, I promise." you assure, gently tugging his hand again, urging him to follow you.

Reluctantly, Jungkook lets himself be led through a side door and into what appears to be the kitchen. As soon as he steps inside, he’s overwhelmed by the bustling atmosphere. The space is alive with activity... chefs moving in synchrony, slicing, plating, and perfecting dishes with meticulous attention to the tiniest details.

The scent of freshly baked bread mingles with the aroma of roasted meat and delicate spices, creating a sensory overload.

Jungkook’s gaze darts from one end of the kitchen to the other, trying to absorb everything at once. A massive spread of colorful dishes is being prepared on a long marble countertop, and he doesn’t even know where to focus. For a moment, he forgets his nerves as he marvels at the organized chaos around him.

"Stay with me." you murmur, squeezing his hand reassuringly. But Jungkook can’t help but think about how this might be the most intimidating moment of his life... meeting your mom in the middle of what feels like a five-star culinary operation.

You glance around the bustling kitchen, scanning the scene for your mom. It doesn’t take long before you spot her back as she leans slightly towards one of the chefs, gesturing animatedly while the chef nods thoughtfully, hanging on her every word.

There’s a commanding yet sophisticated presence about her, and the sight makes a smile creep onto your lips. Without hesitation, you tug Jungkook along, your excitement bubbling over. “Mama!!” you call out, your voice cutting through the hum of the kitchen.

At first, she doesn’t respond, too engrossed in giving precise instructions about something to the chef. You don’t mind, though because you know how focused she can get when she’s in her element.

As you approach her, you release Jungkook’s hand, letting him stand beside you as he instinctively straightens his coat, smoothing the fabric nervously.

Now only a few steps away, you finally stop, waiting patiently for her to finish her instructions. Jungkook stands a little stiffly next to you, his hands clasped in front of him as he watches the exchange, silently psyching himself up for what’s coming next.

Once she finishes instructing the chef, she finally turns around, her soft features lighting up with a smile when her eyes land on you. “Y/N.” she says warmly, acknowledging you.

Her appearance is effortlessly chic, exuding an aura of power and sophistication. Dressed in a sleek, wine colored dress paired with a delicate pearl necklace and stud earrings, she looks into your eyes.

Her posture is immaculate, shoulders back, chin high, and she carries herself with an air of unshakable authority. Her eyes... sharp and piercing, hold a fierceness that can make anyone squirm under her gaze.

She’s never been the one to smile easily, and even now, her expression holds a seriousness that makes Jungkook feel like he’s being sized up before he’s even said a word.

But when her eyes shift to Jungkook, her demeanor subtly changes. The faint smile that played on her lips moments ago falters, replaced by a look of mild disapproval.

One of her eyebrows arches as she takes in the man standing beside you, and Jungkook immediately feels the weight of her scrutiny. It’s clear from the way her gaze lingers that she’s not the least bit pleased to meet him.

“Mama, this is Jungkook.” you begin sweetly, your voice light and cheerful, as if trying to bridge the gap of tension. “I told you I was bringing him.” You smile at her, radiating warmth, but it’s met with a polite but distant smile from her, one that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. Jungkook isn’t blind to it, he can see the coldness lurking behind her expression.

“Hello.” she finally says, her tone neutral, devoid of warmth. Her words are carefully measured, making Jungkook feel like she’s already testing him.

He feels his heart rate spike, but he doesn’t let it show. With a deep breath, he bows at a perfect right angle, his voice steady as he speaks. “Hello, ma’am. I’m Jeon Jungkook.” He straightens up, his posture confident despite the nervous energy coursing through him.

He meets her fierce gaze head-on, determined to make a good impression, though her icy stare makes him feel like he’s being dissected.

You glance at Jungkook, noticing his effort, and squeeze his hand briefly before stepping closer to your mother, hoping to ease the tension.

She nods curtly as Jungkook introduces himself, her sharp eyes trailing over him from head to toe, as though she’s analyzing every detail.

"So, you're from New York?" she asks suddenly, her voice carrying an edge that makes Jungkook straighten his posture. The question catches him slightly off guard, but he quickly nods in acknowledgment.

"Yes, ma’am." he answers politely, his voice steady.

Your mother narrows her eyes slightly, a calculating look flashing across her face. "I'm sure you've noticed how different things are around here... in Korea." she says, her tone almost conversational, though there's an unmistakable undercurrent of something more. "Very different from your... western culture." she adds, the words laced with what feels like a taunt.

You shift uncomfortably, sensing the rising tension. Jungkook hesitates, unsure of how to respond, and you decide to step in. "Mama, he lived in Korea before he moved to New York..." you explain gently, trying to diffuse the situation. "I'm sure he knows how things are around here."

But your mother doesn't acknowledge your reassurance. Her piercing gaze stays fixed on Jungkook. "Your parents?" she asks next, one eyebrow raised, her expression unyielding.

Jungkook’s throat tightens as he answers, his tone polite but guarded. "My mom... she owns a café in New York." he replies, hoping to keep the answer straightforward.

Your mother’s expression barely changes, but Jungkook notices the faintest flicker of disapproval in her eyes. It’s subtle, but it cuts deep. "Ah... so it's only your mother, then?" she probes further, her voice calm but pointed.

You feel your stomach drop at her words, the implicit judgment in her tone impossible to miss. Your protective instincts kick in immediately, and before she can say anything more, you interject.

"Okay, Mama, that's enough interrogation for now..." you say, your voice cheerful but firm as you grab Jungkook’s hand. "We need to get going. Grandma is going to be here any minute now... and the party is going to start soon." you add.

Jungkook notices the way her eyes flick down to your intertwined hands, and her jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. She doesn’t say anything, though, merely nodding stiffly as she steps back.

Before the situation can escalate further, you tug Jungkook out of the kitchen and into the hallway. As soon as you’re out of your mother's sight, you stop and turn to him, your expression apologetic.

"I am so so so sorry for that." you say quickly, your eyes scanning his face. You can see how pale he looks, the color drained from his cheeks. The conversation clearly rattled him, and it breaks your heart.

"I don’t know why she was acting like that." you continue, your voice softening as you place a comforting hand on his cheek. "I’m really sorry, baby. That wasn’t fair to you."

Jungkook exhales slowly, feeling the warmth of your palm against his skin. He hates how unsettled he feels, the subtle but unmistakable judgment in your mother’s eyes still gnawing at him.

He’s not naive, he knows exactly what her words and looks implied. But he doesn’t want to burden you with his feelings, so he forces a small smile and shrugs.

"Please... don’t apologize." he says gently, his voice calm but distant. "She’s your mother. I get why she’d question me like that... I’m dating her daughter, after all." he reasons.

His attempt to brush it off doesn’t fool you, but you decide not to push him. Instead, you give his cheek a small caress, hoping to soothe him.

Sensing the heaviness lingering between you, Jungkook shifts the conversation. "Anyways... don’t we have a tea party to get to?" he asks with a soft laugh, trying to lighten the mood despite the war in his mind.

You know he’s deflecting, choosing not to dwell on the interaction with your mother. So you let him, offering him a gentle smile in return. "We do." you reply softly, squeezing his hand. "Come on, let’s go."

As Jungkook trails behind you, the weight in his chest feels almost suffocating, each step amplifying the unease swirling in his mind.

Three weeks... that’s how long he’s going to be here for. The thought echoes in his head, heavier with every repetition.

He doesn’t know how he’s going to endure it, not when your mother’s piercing gaze feels like it sees right through him, layered with unspoken judgments that cut deeper than words ever could.

The very idea looms ahead, an uphill battle he isn’t sure he’s equipped to fight, yet one he knows he cannot avoid.

<- part 1 // part3 ->

taglist: @mirinaeii @taetaecatboy (lmk if u want to be added <3)

[etherealyoungk]

the boy next door | choi seungcheol

✩ seventeen as romantic tropes series ✩ masterlist ✩

PAIRING: seungcheol x reader

THEMES: boy next door trope, mutual pining, fluff, pinch of angst

WARNINGS: kissing, shirtless cheol-

WORDCOUNT: 2017

A/N: enjoy <3

choi seungcheol, he had always been the boy next door. ever since you moved into the neighbourhood four years ago, you got to know him and his family. it was like there was just a spontaneous spark between your family and his and they bonded immediately. you'd gone to the same school as seungcheol, become good friends with him, and graduated highschool together. and now here you were going to his family's beach house for a little summer vacation before college started.

"are you packing to move to the beach permanently?", seungcheol questions when he sees the way you're sitting on your suitcase and trying to close it, because it won't seem to zip close otherwise, not with the way you've stuffed it full.

"shut up if you're not going to be of any help", you tell, frustrated, struggling even more.

seungcheol wordlessly bends down the same moment you slide off the suitcase. he pushes it down with one hand, his ridiculously big bicep flexing as his other hand finds the zip and he manages to close it with ease and grace, unlike you.

he looks at you, proud and you give him a thumbs up. "are you excited?", he asks you. "very, gotta use the last of my freedom before college starts", you tell as you sit on the floor.

"well, i'll see you tomorrow, i should head back, mom's been after me because i still haven't packed", he says, getting up and ruffling your hair in the process before he leaves.

your and seungcheol's dynamic was like close friends. you two had grown close over the years, sharing countless memories and inside jokes. but this year felt different somehow as if there was an unspoken shift in the air and you couldn't help but feel something, something that tugged at your heartstrings.

the next day you bid your parents goodbye for the next two weeks and you're sitting in the car, seungcheol beside you as you head to his family's beach house. you were more than excited and ready for this vacation. you fall asleep in the middle of the journey, resting your head on seungcheol's shoulder as you doze off. after a while you feel someone softly shake you awake and your eyes flutter open.

"wake up sleepyhead, we've reached", seungcheol says as you lift your head up, still sleepy. he proceeds to clutch his shoulder dramatically, telling you how inconvenienced he was and you smack him, annoyed, but you can tell by the way he laughs and smiles stupidly that he was teasing you he like he did.

that day you don't really do much other than settling in the small room you had and helping his mom with preparing dinner while seungcheol was off on a side quest his dad had sent him.

the next day, the sun was already high in the sky as you made your way towards the beach, the salty breeze teasing your skin and tousling your hair. you're wearing shorts and a crop top and you felt the warmth of the sun against your bare arms, a sense of freedom washing over you with every step.

you're halfway to the beach when you hear seungcheol call out for you. you turn around and your jaw almost drops to the ground. why?

because seungcheol was shirtless, his bare chest basking in the sunlight. his toned body and physique was on full display. it was like a scene from a movie and for a moment, you found yourself frozen in awe as you stared at him. "wait up", he says as he jogs towards you with an easy smile, catching up to you. you can feel your heart rate quicken as he closes the distance, his presence commanding attention with every step. you have to pry your gaze away from his sculpted form, and you focus on the ground beneath your feet, willing yourself to regain composure.

together, you continued towards the beach, the sound of the crashing waves growing louder with each passing moment. despite your best efforts to maintain a casual demeanour, the image of seungcheol's shirtless figure lingered in your mind, sending a flurry of butterflies dancing in your stomach as you tried to keep your eyes straight and not dart towards his side.

you walk towards the water and sigh as the cool water envelops your feet, a contented sigh escapes your lips, the sensation of the wet sand between your toes grounding you in the moment. you close your eyes, feeling the breeze tangle in your hair. but your tranquillity was short-lived as a sudden splash of water jolts you from your moment, drawing your gaze to the mischievous grin of none other than seungcheol.

a playful glint dances in his eyes as he launches another playful splash at you, the droplets of water peppering your skin. "oh you're asking for it aren't you", you tell with a teasing grin of your own, bending down to scoop some water in your hands and retaliating with a splash of your own. you both walk a little deeper into the water and he splashes you again. his hands grab your waist as he captures you in his grip and you've been utterly defeated. you let out a laugh as he loosens his grip on you and you turn around, looking at him. his hands linger on your waist and you gulp as you try to calm your racing heart.

the next week goes by and you're having fun and having a great time relaxing, spending time with seungcheol's family and having some wind-down time for yourself as well. the only thing that seemed to really affect you and your brain chemistry? the fact that seungcheol was practically walking around shirtless the entire time. you swear it was like he hadn't even packed any shirts because you don't think you'd seen one on him apart from once.

as the days went on, the realisation that you liked seungcheol crept up to you like the tide rolling in and you couldn't shake the nagging feeling that your feelings for seungcheol were evolving into something more than mere friendship. it was starting to make you feel restless and uneasy.

you found yourself lying awake in bed, thinking about seungcheol. despite spending every day together, it was never enough. there was a craving for more, a desire for more of his company, more of his laughter, more of him. so you decide to create some distance between you and seungcheol because that was the only way you could think of to deal with your complicated emotions.

seungcheol notices on the second day. he notices the subtle changes in your behaviour, the way you're not spending time with him like you were, somehow always being holed up in your room more often than before. the way you would make excuses to stay back whenever he was going to the local market or on an errand his dad sent him on instead of tagging along like you always did. just the way you were keeping a distance from him, talking less, not your usual self had him worried and the distance started to eat away at his heart. had he done something wrong?

the next day he decides to do something about it. so he climbs up your balcony late into the cool night and knocks on your window, startling you.

"seungcheol what the hell?", you nearly shout when you see him balancing on your balcony with that stupid grin that made you heart somersault. thankfully he was wearing a shirt otherwise you would have sworn you'd have gone insane otherwise.

"i want to show you something", he tells, offering his hand to you.

"i'm tired, later okay", you tell, making an excuse. seungcheol's smile falters a but his determination does not.

"please, you can only see it today", he says, reaching for your hand anyway, not willing to let you get away this time.

you glare at him but give in and seungcheol beckons you to climb out the window and follow him.

"what-i am not climbing the roof seungcheol what is wrong with you?", you whisper yell because it's late into the night and you don't want to wake his parents up.

"trust me okay", he tells, taking your hand, holding it firmly and helping you climb onto the roof. you're gripping onto seungcheol's hand so tight once you get on the roof, scared and the sudden height makes you dizzy, making you stand closer to him. his arm finds your waist to help steady and ground you and he guides you to a small portion of the roof. he sits down and so do you.

"care to explain why we're here?", you prompt, looking at seungcheol.

"look up, see that constellation over there?", he says, pointing out to it. your eyes search the night sky for the constellation he was pointing at, expecting something extraordinary but it was only the same old one you see every day.

"but i see that every day", you tell, giving him an unbelievable look.

"exactly, just like you see me everyday. so why are you suddenly avoiding me?", he asks with a raise of his brow as he looks deepy into your eyes.

"i-i'm not avoiding you", you tell, lying but seungcheol can see right through you.

"seriously yn? you expect me to believe that?", he asks, giving you another look as he runs a hand through his hair. "what's going on? you can tell me", he assures, looking at you and waiting for you to speak, giving you that space.

you sigh and look ahead, watching the beach, the water mostly still apart from small waves. the salty breeze tangles into your hair and the night is chilly, stars peppering the deep blue night sky. how could tell seungcheol you liked him?

"it's stupid okay and not important", you tell, dismissing the topic and your feelings. "it's not stupid if it's bothering you", he says, looking at you with those big, sweet, brown eyes that you can't help but fall for deeper.

you gulp. "i think i like you", you tell so softly after a few moments of silence. your words are so soft that seungcheol would have missed it if he wasn't listening so carefully and you see the small wave of emotion that ripples through his face and eyes.

"i told you it's stupid, just forget i said anything", you tell, moving to get up but seungcheol doesn't let you, holding you back down.

"don't i get a say in this?", he asks, and the tone of his voice makes you sit up straighter somehow.

"no? it'll be embarrassing if you're going to reject me, it's better if we stay friends anyway", you tell, already feeling nervous.

"i think i like you too", he says, his words cutting into the tense air between you both and you can only blink at him as he gazes at you.

"you know when we went to prom together because no other guy asked you out and i took you since you were so excited and wanted to go? that's the moment i realised i liked you, liked you more than friends. you were glowing that night", he fills in, his words making your breath catch.

and you both continue to look at each other until you break eye contact, nervous and a little overwhelmed.

"we shouldn't", you tell softly. "why not?", he asks, moving closer his hand coming to cup your cheek and you steal a glance at his lips. he leans in slowly and you do too until his lips meet yours and he leaves a soft kiss on your lips. he pulls away, looking at you, only to be pulled back as you grab his shirt, kissing him again.

he kisses you back, slowly moving his lips against yours and you sigh into the kiss because no matter how many times you had imagined this moment, nothing would compare to the real one right now.

seungcheol kisses you sweetly under the moonlight and star-speckled sky and all you can do is kiss him back because nothing could have prepared you for how hard you would fall for the boy next door.

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[mocchiixxx]

Seventeen's Ways of Saying 'I Do' Series # | 04: The Grand Decision

Genre: Fluff, Comedy, Playful Romance

Wen Junhui | Jun X Reader

Summary: You teasingly tell Jun that you like his last name and ask if you can have it. Instead of getting flustered or teasing you back right away, he dramatically pretends to be deep in thought—only to hit you with the most Junhui-like response possible.

You and Jun are in the middle of a lazy afternoon at home, sprawled across the couch, doing absolutely nothing. His head is resting on your lap as he scrolls through his phone, occasionally showing you random memes that make him giggle.

Feeling playful, you absentmindedly run your fingers through his hair and say, “I like your last name. Can I have it?”

The scrolling stops.

Jun blinks up at you, expression completely unreadable. Then, very slowly, he sits up, straightens his back, and clasps his hands together as if he’s about to make the most important decision of his life.

"Hmm…" he hums, tilting his head.

You raise an eyebrow. "What are you doing?"

"Thinking," he says seriously. "This is a big deal. I mean, you’re asking to become a Wen. That’s a lifetime commitment."

You snort. "Oh? And what happens if you say no?"

Jun gasps, clutching his chest dramatically. "Then I would be the biggest fool in history! Imagine rejecting the love of my life who voluntarily wants to be part of my legendary Wen bloodline? Unthinkable!"

You burst into laughter. "Jun, oh my God—"

He suddenly grabs your hands, looking at you with sparkling eyes. "Alright, let’s do it! When’s the wedding? Do you want a grand one? Oh! Or should we do a traditional Chinese ceremony? I need to call my mom— she’ll be thrilled!"

"Jun, I was joking!" you protest, still laughing.

"Oh, but I’m not," he says, eyes twinkling mischievously. "You said it first, baobei. That’s a verbal contract. You can’t back out now!"

"Says who?"

"Says me!" he declares proudly, puffing out his chest.

You roll your eyes, but before you can respond, he suddenly cups your cheeks and grins. "But seriously, though."

Your breath catches at his sudden shift in tone.

"I think my last name would look really good on you," he murmurs, his thumbs gently stroking your cheeks. "Just saying."

Your heart stutters. Damn it, Wen Junhui.

Bonus:

Later that night, you receive a text from Jun.

Jun: Baobei, just checking… are we sending out wedding invites yet or should we wait a few months? You: JUN... Jun: Fine, fine, we’ll wait. But you are gonna be Mrs. Wen someday, right? 😏 You: ...Go to sleep." Jun: That wasn’t a no. 😉

[fallenbratfiction]

rain and regret ~ loki x f! reader

This fic is part of the In sickness and in health series! Where a lot of different favorite characters take turns to take care of you. 🧻🌡️🩹

masterlist faq

A/N; He's so fucking dramatic AAAAAAAAAA he's acting like you got the damn plague or something awful of the sort.

minors dni. i am not responsible for what you consume.

do not copy, translate or claim any of my stories as your own.

The rain starts suddenly, tapping gently on the floor-to-ceiling windows of the lounge. You glance up from your coffee. Thor notices the gleam in your eyes before Loki even lifts his head.

“No,” Loki says immediately.

“Yes,” you say, already standing.

Thor beams. “A storm! I shall join you!”

Loki groans, setting down his book. “You’re not children.”

You spin toward him at the door, dripping anticipation and glee. “Says you, the literal God of Mischief.”

Thor lets out a booming laugh. “She has you there, brother!”

Loki’s eye twitches.

“I wreak controlled mischief,” he mutters, folding his arms tighter. “Not puddle-soaked madness.”

You don’t even reply—you just sprint into the rooftop garden barefoot, arms open, hoodie bouncing, socks already soggy, Thor thundering after you.

The sleek stone paths are quickly covered in puddles, the air smells like ozone, and your laughter echoes through the Tower.

Thor crashes out behind you, shouting war cries as you chase him in circles through the wet grass and stone. You slip once—catch yourself and cackle like an absolute menace.

From the doors, Loki watches.

Arms crossed. Jaw tight. His silhouette sharp in the dim interior light.

“Absolutely unhinged,” he mutters. “Someone electrocuted her brain as a child.”

Eventually, soaked to the bone and breathless from laughter, you came stumbling back inside, trailing muddy footprints and giggling like you’d just outrun death.

Loki was waiting.

He didn’t say anything. Just walked forward, placed a towel on your head like a parent too tired to scold, and started patting your arms dry with another one.

“Happy?” he asked flatly.

“Ecstatic,” you beamed.

“Moron,” he replied gently.

Thor just let out a deep, satisfied sigh and said, “That was magnificent.”

“I swear to the Nine, if you fall ill—”

“I won’t,” you say, too fast.

He narrows his eyes. “You will.”

Later...

The room is dark and quiet. The rain still whispers against the windows.

You’re curled up in bed, shivering under layers of blankets, a tissue clutched in one hand and a cup of barely-sipped tea on the nightstand.

“I told you not to go out in the rain,” Loki says, arms folded, his voice sharp—defensive. But underneath it: worry.

“I was out there for five minutes,” you rasp.

You try to laugh. It comes out as a cough. Loki’s eyes flash with alarm.

Without another word, he kneels by the bed, his tone shifting from annoyed to concerned beyond comprehension.

“You mortals are so… fragile.” He brushes a strand of damp hair from your forehead, frowning. “Is this… normal? To look like you’ve been cursed by a frost giant and then claim you’re ‘fine’?”

You manage a weak smirk. “It’s just the flu, Your Highness.”

He glares at you, then stands and swishes his hand—suddenly the tea is steaming hot again, the pillows fluffier, the blanket heavier.

“Better,” he declares, smoothing the blanket over your chest. “You will rest. You will drink. You will not die of this absurd condition, or I swear I will enchant your immune system myself.”

“Is that a thing?”

“For you? I’ll make it a thing.”

Later, when you drift into a fitful sleep, Loki doesn’t leave.

He sits beside you, conjuring small spells of cooling mist for your forehead, whispering in Old Norse to soothe your dreams. When you stir, eyes hazy, he leans down and murmurs, barely audible:

“You must recover. I am not yet done loving you.”

The hallway is quiet.

Dimly lit by warm sconces and the faintest shimmer of magic, it feels like a dream as you step out, the blanket draped around your shoulders trailing behind you like a cape. You’re barefoot. Sniffling. Half-asleep. But your body noticed his absence, and that was enough to rouse you.

“Loki?” your voice is hoarse—barely above a whisper, soft like cracked porcelain. You sound like a Victorian ghost haunting the corridors of her lover’s estate.

You catch him off guard.

He’s seated on the floor, leaning against the wall, knees drawn up, a hand over his mouth. But not fast enough.

You see it. The shine in his eyes. The way he quickly wipes his cheeks with the heel of his palm, trying to make it look effortless. Like he wasn’t crying in the hallway over you.

“What are you doing out of bed?” he asks, standing swiftly, voice low and tight. “You shouldn’t be up.”

You shuffle toward him, blanket still wrapped around your shoulders. “What are you doing crying in the hallway?”

He falters.

“I’m just…” he swallows, hands twitching at his sides. “Worried. That’s all, my love.”

You blink at him, voice raspy as you deadpan, “Dude. It’s the flu. I’m not dying.”

He exhales a breathy, incredulous laugh—but there’s no mockery in it. Just relief. Just you. Standing there like a sleepy little gremlin, dragging your blanket like a train.

“I know that,” he says softly. “But it’s never... just the flu when it’s you.”

You step into him. He immediately wraps his arms around your shoulders, blanket and all. You melt into his chest like he’s gravity.

“I’ve seen gods fall,” he murmurs, lips brushing the top of your head. “But nothing ever felt as terrifying as watching you burn up and not being able to stop it.”

You tilt your head up, brow bumping his chin.

“You big softie.”

“Don’t tell anyone,” he mumbles into your hair. “It’ll ruin my brand.”

You smile.

“I’ll take it to the grave,” you whisper, before pulling him back toward the room. “Now come on, I need you to warm my feet before I freeze to death.”

You shuffle back to bed wrapped in your blanket like a burrito, sniffling but victorious for having made it down the hall and emotionally checked on your God of Meltdowns.

Loki helps you ease under the covers without a word, conjures a mug of tea with a flick of his fingers, and gently places it in your hands.

“Small sips,” he murmurs, crouching at the edge of the bed like a healer at your feet.

You raise a brow at him over the rim of your cup. “What, no lecture this time?”

His eyes flick to yours. “I think you’ve suffered enough.”

He says it lightly, but there’s something heavy in his voice.

You just drink your tea—warm, minty, a little sweet. He vanishes beneath the blankets to press his fingers around your feet. With a quiet spell, heat radiates gently through them.

You hum in response.

He gives a quiet snort, and then he’s moving again—slipping into bed on the other side of you, pulling you back against his chest in one slow, protective motion. His arms curl around your middle, locking you in like you’re the last thing holding him together. You don’t resist.

His forehead presses into the curve of your shoulder.

You breathe. He breathes with you.

His magic flickers again—faint, warm, steady. A soft buzz at your sternum, like he’s trying to anchor himself to the rhythm of your heartbeat.

You wake up in the middle of the night, groggy and flushed. You’re not burning up, but you’re hot enough to feel gross, and the congestion has hit full force.

You let out a few rough coughs—not violent, but deep enough that your chest aches a little.

Loki stirs immediately beside you. He sits up halfway, one hand braced on the bed, the other gently touching your back.

“You’re alright?” he murmurs, sleep-rough and tense.

You nod weakly, coughing into the crook of your arm. “Just… stuffy. Gross.”

He watches you like he’s trying to read your pulse with his eyes alone. Then he exhales, brushing your hair from your forehead.

“Please don’t do that again,” he whispers. “Don’t go out in the rain like that. Don’t—don’t scare me like this.”

You blink at him. “Loki, I’m okay. It’s just a cold.”

“I know,” he says. But he doesn’t sound convinced. “I know.”

And then he lies back down and pulls you to him anyway, like he still needs proof that you’re alive and warm and real.

He presses his forehead to yours, eyes closed, like he’s trying to draw breath from you. As if your existence is what’s holding him together.

You fall asleep like that, wrapped in his arms, his magic pulsing faintly against your back.

I hope you enjoyed this as much as I've enjoyed writing it! If you need more comfort fics, check out the series linked at the top!

Would you like to join the taglist for this series? Comment below and you shall be magically added!

Shares, Reblogs, Likes and Comments help stories grow! I'm thankful for each one of them✨✨🩷

[loganlermanstanaccount]

Rigor Mortis (part 2)

College roommate!Miguel O'Hara x reader

(AO3 Mirror) (Wattpad) Series Masterlist, Main Masterlist,

Part 1, Part 3

summary: Your new roommate has... interesting habits.

warnings: sexually suggestive, nothing explicit.

a/n: i think i've realised miggy in this fic is a combo of his movie and comic counterpart. Miguel O'Hara: part-time whore lmfaooo

Thank you to my beta readers, @tianyhi and @urgonnaneedabiggership (they also write Miguel fics, I highly recommend! my favourite is this series), I couldn't have done it without you guys <3

Join my taglists here

wc: 4.2k

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

lady death, at the cradle of a babe.

You've decided: if Miguel's the Sun, then you're a black hole. Cold and dark where he was warm, to seemingly everyone else but you. Even then, the metaphor didn't carry, and O'Hara wasn't quite the shining centre of the universe you had first thought him to be.  

In the dim gloom of a little lamp on your bedside table, you’re left squinting at a crisp white document. Blank; save for a thousand tabs open, and the blue links of a half-hearted bibliography. You’ve got the bare bones of an assignment; left too late, as usual. The rest lies at the tip of your tongue; nips at the ends of your fingers like the heat of cigarette butts, and as fleeting as wispy smoke in an ashtray. To get yourself through it, you’ve resorted to romanticising it all, pretending you're a wistful poet dipping the feathered end of a quill into ink. Writing something… revolutionary; as opposed to the mish-mash of articles and studies you’ve crammed within the last hour and a half. There’s a pounding at your skull: the dull beginnings of a migraine, most likely. You squeeze at your temples, eyes shut – and the thrum matches the thud at your thin walls. Rhythmic, obscene, and it creates a cruel staccato; shaking the flimsy plasterboard that separates your room from your roommate’s. 

He’s fucking someone. Loud, like it can’t be heard by half the complex. It's the third girl he’s had over in as many weeks. Not that you were keeping count. For a supposed tutor, you hadn’t seen much studying - despite the bright eyed young women that seemed to be at your doorstep most days. Perhaps you're being dramatic, but you couldn’t quite wrap your head around the kind of pupils Miguel had had the privilege to “teach”.

You remember the first time the true weight of Jia’s words became clear: whilst banging on the front door after a draining day of lectures. 

You’d forgotten your keys after rushing out the morning of, and arrived to a locked door in the afternoon. You had been starving, insides churning with the thought of takeout you’d saved the night before; a greasy bag nestled in the corner of your shelf in the fridge. So maybe you'd been antsy, irritable at a stretch; fist on the door like a divorce lawyer, hungry in more ways than one. 

Wasn’t Miguel already home? He had to be, you can hear the low tones of his voice leaking from the gaps at the sides of the door. And.. rustling, the shift of fabric tousled and pillows hitting the floor. It’s then that you hear another voice, higher pitched; gentle and soft where his is baritone. If you’re not mistaken; and something at the pit of your stomach hopes you are, for some reason; he’s laughing, speaking in hushed tones, whilst she giggles at something he said. You bang at the door even harder, hoping the sharp rap-rap-rap interrupts him. It feels like you’ve had half of your college’s senior cohort in the city in and out of your apartment - or, at the very least, the pretty ones. For some reason, this is the straw that breaks the camel’s back; and your knuckles sting against the lacquered wood. You’ve half a mind to shout into the keyhole, to tell him to hurry the fuck up, or else–

Miguel opens, brow tight, and wiping something from his lips with the back of his hand. It’s suspicious; he looks carefully flushed, lips plump and cheeks slightly ruddy. You notice the way his head flops onto the lip of the open door; slightly out of breath like he’s done a dozen push ups. And with the way his biceps flex and tense under his open button up; paired with some slacks in a pitiful attempt to look less slutty; he might have. The image makes you purse your lips to stop inappropriate laughter: Miguel on the floor, brows kneaded in concentration as the woman in your apartment looks on, entranced. It feels more plausible than the reality; making out on your couch, whilst her hands travel to undo the button at his waistband.

What doesn’t help, is the look he gives you; like you’ve interrupted something important.

“Oh.” He says, clearly deflated. “It’s… you.”

You flash him a sarcastic smile and push past into the front room. You’ve seen her before: the girl on your couch. Sarah, a pretty thing in Miguel’s advanced Math class, you’d learned from the last few weeks. It’s not the first time she’d been over, but she doesn’t usually stay; rather, she’d drop something off at the door and twirl her hair whilst she waited. You’d answer, because of course he was never home at the right times, and she’d crane her head in for a glimpse of him. The first time; you were struck by the effortlessness of her beauty. And on your sofa, she seemed hardly fazed; the gentle curve of her stomach and thighs spilling onto the tattered cushions, donned in a patterned sundress. Her lips are pert, curved into a knowing smile as she giggles at the scene you and Miguel make at the door. 

“Hey, Sarah.” You give her a small wave as you make your way into the kitchen, heading straight for the fridge. However, you don’t have the energy to dignify Miguel with a response – so you stay silent. He bristles.

“You don’t have a key, or something?” You’re digging through the shelves as he calls out to you, hands on his hips like you’re in the wrong. You can’t help but hiss under your breath. He’s got an attitude, when only one of you had been left outside the door; starved and exhausted. And the other: getting off on your sofa. Poor Miguel, left with a limp dick and full balls.

 "Forgot." Your answer is curt, and you don't even bother to look up. You can hear him scoff, incredulous - as if the mere idea was so offensive. It makes anger bubble up at your gut, head still buried behind the fridge door. 

"That's convenient." You can't hear the words that come out after, but you're sure it's not exactly glowing praise. You lob a hypothetical grenade over the lip of the fridge door: a middle finger, crisp and clear. 

Takeout in hand, and a bag over your shoulder that feels like a concrete block; you drag yourself to your room, without giving Miguel so much as a second glance. When the door slams, you're hit with the full weight of Jia's words; a moment that seems so long ago. Miguel's probably picky about who he tutors for the same reason people swipe left and right on dating apps: he's an unrepentant whore. 

The thought had seemed somewhat premature, at the time. You had had little to no evidence: a string of pretty women in your apartment did not a slut make, after all. It wasn't quite enough, just a knee-jerk reaction after a bad day. The most charitable interpretations tell you that by all means, your roommate is an upstanding guy. A model student; who left his undergrad with honours and a disgustingly high GPA, head of half a dozen clubs and societies, and currently getting his masters sponsored by a prestigious biotech company in the city. He’s a chronic overachiever, more or less.  All things you've learnt from the people he’s tutored, small talk in between sessions (and they’ve all been nice enough). It seems a little more than convenient that the prettiest ones end up in your apartment - in his bed. And yet, you can’t get a straight answer from the man himself. Favours for a couple of friends, he says every time you complain. 

With the noises you hear from the room over, you wonder how he treats the friends he really likes. 

You think he’s doing it on purpose. That’s the only explanation you’re left with as you massage your temples in desperation. A steady pounding, that makes the shared wall shudder. Interspersed with graphic moans, the higher pitched panting of his partner; Yes Miguel and Just like that; seems to blend with his groans. Sleep pulls at your eyes, and you want to scream into the pillows. It’s muffled, but you can make out his voice beyond the wall; low, hushed tones that makes desire pool at the base of your stomach. And you’d rather die than admit it; but you zone out for a moment, a little lost in the haze of a daydream. God, his stamina. It feels like they’ve been going for hours, obscene grunts and groans spilling into your room. The wide span of his shoulders, the way light is cut at his jawline - and you wonder what he’d look like on top, or the sounds he’d make underneath.

Shaking your head, you try to convince yourself: it's the lack of sleep that makes you think of the way his hands would feel on your waist.

~~~

The honeymoon stage, if there ever was one, was well and truly over. 

In the morning, you’re woken up by the thud of the front door. Laptop cracked open on the covers, you shift to wipe the drool crusted on the side of your mouth. The good news: you remember getting down a couple thousand words before fitful sleep. Not to a great standard, of course, but as your deadline approaches, you’re grateful for whatever you can scrape together. Stretching, your back creaks with the memory of last night: hunched over your laptop, barely able to concentrate. Still in pyjamas from last night, you pad into the front room, looking for water to satisfy your dry mouth. 

The bad news: you’re met with Miguel on the sofa, splayed out on the cushions lazily. There’s a mug of something on a side table, which he’s clearly neglected; eyes closed, and an arm drawn upwards to expose the tan skin of his chest. He’s wearing nothing but loose plaid pants, hair a mess and frustratingly peaceful. For once, he’s not wearing the perpetual frown you’ve been subjected to for the past few weeks, and he looks five years younger as a result. You tilt your head to the side – like a mere 90 degrees would make him look any different – and you can’t believe this was the man who was terrorising you the night before. He looks… cute. Innocent, almost.

The sight makes you scoff. You snatch a glass from the cupboard with a clink-clink, and he stirs. You watch him stretch as you fill it; a mop of brown peeking over the back of the couch. He peers over, groggy and seemingly confused. 

"....When did you get back?" His voice is gravelly, heavy with last night's sleep – or lack thereof. You ignore the feelings it stirs up; pleasant and comfortable and domestic. 

"Good morning to you too, " You say it under your breath but he hears; catches it and holds it at his chest like a songbird. One hand over his heart, he smiles, wide; a lazy, sarcastic grin, but it still makes your face heat up. It's too damn early for this, you think. "I wasn't… for fuck's sake… I came back last night."

"Oh." He frowns, sweeping into the kitchen, and opening up the cupboard. 

"I couldn't sleep." Miguel's not stupid, and you wait for him to take the hint. "There was… too much noise last night."

"So that's why you're up early." He clicks his tongue. "You don't have a lecture to be late for?"

"You don't have another girl to fuck and ignore?" Without missing a beat, you snap at him – too tired and annoyed to entertain it. 

"Ouch." It's blaise, thrown over his shoulder without a second thought. He doesn't even look at you, head buried and eyes scanning the shelves – looking for his morning coffee, no doubt. He finds it, opening the packet and elbowing you in the process, and you give him a glare. Did he have to do that right next to you? 

You catch the ghost of a smile on his face. 

"...Miguel?" You say; quietly, because you can't quite find your next words. 

"Hmm?" He hums, fiddling around with the machine; a ritual you've only caught glimpses of. 

How do you tell your roommate you can hear him have obnoxious sex through thin walls? Well, probably by opening your mouth and saying it, but anything resembling your true feelings dies in your throat. 

He doesn't prompt you to finish the question, choosing to let the silence wash over you both. The clattering of a spoon against ceramic is the only noise in the little kitchen. It's not something you hear too often - never waking up at the same time as Miguel through a combination of coincidence and sheer willpower. Naturally, your routines are asynchronous - a half step, half-hearted jig to crashing music. That is to say: if you and your roommate were partners in a… ballroom, perhaps: you’d be stepped-on-toes and two-left-feet on the dancefloor. Disastrous, to say the least.

And yet, half-asleep, you watch as he pads around the kitchen; poking into cupboards and bringing out the ingredients to a hearty breakfast. Eggs and chorizo and tortillas; your stomach rumbles at the thought of a proper cooked meal. Ever the stereotypical college student, your usual food has mostly been instant noodles and leftovers. Maybe you’re just tired, but he makes the drawers and fridge shelves seem bottomless. It’s clear Miguel eats and he eats well – because of course he does.

“Could you…” You jump a bit when he places a gentle hand at your waist, moving you to the side as he reaches for a chopping board on the counter. “Sorry. Do you mind?”

It’s brief, but the fleeting touch fucks with your head as he cooks. Flashes of the night before run up your spine, electric. You watch his deft fingers fly on the chopping board; slender, a wide palm covering the span of a large pepper. How would they feel on your waist – properly – at the crook of your back, or at your thighs? Sighing, you chew the inside of your cheek and lean your head back against the wall. You feel the whispers of another headache. It's much too early for this.

He puts a pan on the stove. Shirtless, despite the heat of the spitting oil, and he pops a piece of a bell pepper in his mouth with a little smile that makes you roll your eyes. It's smug, somehow, like he knows something you don't – like he knows exactly what he did yesterday (or rather, who) and he’s enjoying your reaction.

Except: you’re exhausted, and he’s giggling like you’ve caught a kid with cookie crumbs on their face, empty jar in hand. 

It’s a quiet he sits with, comfortable; moving around the space with the kind of familiarity that comes with time. It makes you wonder just how long he's been here, which other roommates he’s terrorised over the years. Maybe, Miguel’s got a reputation, and there’s a Yelp review sitting somewhere you’ve neglected to read.

“Did you see her leave?” He still doesn’t look at you. Instead, his eyes are trained at the eggs on the pan, onions and veg making a lopsided smile in the runny yolk. Even his food seems smug.

“Her?” You frown, not quite following. 

“...Katie?” He says it like it’s obvious, as if her name alone should set off half a dozen bells in your head. It’s Katie, this time - not Jia, or Sita, or the slew of other girls he’s been fucking in the past few weeks alone.

Your eye twitches. Involuntarily, of course, but it feels like your body is physically rejecting his bullshit.

“I didn’t know she stayed the night.” A lie, obviously. You heard her well enough through the walls, not even a couple of hours ago.

“S’okay,” He shakes his head, nonchalant. You trace the curve of his shoulders and gentle slope of his plump lips. “I would’ve called her an Uber, or something.”

“You’re a gentleman, Miguel.”

And he laughs, a deep rumble that rings off the tiles. Admittedly, you like the way it sounds, and the way his eyes crinkle up into crows feet. He’s pretty, you think. In an annoying kind of way.

Oh, fuck him. You get closer, and stick a fingertip into the rich red of the pan. Wrapping your lips around it, with the heat of Miguel at your back, and yes, it's fine. Okay, fucking incredible – you know, nothing you haven’t tasted before.

Making eye contact, you watch him blink in surprise. It’s the first time you’ve seen him unsure of himself; not dripping with the arrogance of a few minutes ago. Not wanting to give anything away, you keep your face steady.

"Needs salt, I think."

The spell is broken and he clicks his tongue in disapproval. "I've seen the crap you shovel into that big mouth of yours… ¿mi mamá no me enseñó a cocinar para que vengas a decirme que sabe mal…?"

[My mom didn't teach me how to cook so you can come here and tell me it tastes bad…?]

It's your turn to smile at the sweet taste of revenge. Not enough to fuel the next couple hours of essay writing, but a small victory nonetheless. You flash him pink tongue, and watch as his gaze drops to your lips for a fraction of a second. 

"More salt?" He scoffs. "You wouldn't know good food if it bit you on the ass."

It's childish, but he chucks a tea towel at your head; and you narrowly miss it. 

"Asshole." You spit out, frustrated. Your stomach grumbles, loud, and you watch his face crack, amused. 

His lips curve into a shit-eating grin. "Idiot." 

Face tight, you storm out of the kitchen. 

You're holed up in your room for the rest of the day; only leaving for snack and toilet breaks. Luckily, Miguel doesn't disturb you, except for a full plate left outside your doorstep in the morning. It tastes delicious; warm and homely, but you'd rather pull your teeth out than see that stupid fucking grin on his face. Instead, you give him a grudging thanks, shrugging as if to say: it was somewhat edible. 

And when you hit send on your essay, with a whole 11 minutes to spare, you sigh in relief. You got through it, eventually; even though your roommate is trying to kill you, your new apartment is falling apart and you're failing half your classes already. But you're through the day, and approaching the end of the week with minimal emotional damage. Key word: minimal. 

In the warmth under the covers of your bed, it makes you think. It can't get any worse, right? It won't – it can't. 

Something shifts. Like a rip in the space time continuum or a malevolent god, the universe snatches up that thought; ripe and ready to spit you back out onto the fire. 

~~~

You wake up and something feels off, already. For one, light streams in through the blinds, a slight chill from the open window. It’s peaceful, and the first thing you hear is the song of morning birds just beyond the glass, instead of cars and clattering garbage trucks. 

But it’s a Friday, and you’ve got that 9:00am; the one you were insane enough to sign up for at the beginning of the semester. What you should be hearing is the call-for-war of your alarm; the one that slaps you square across the face and wakes you the fuck up. On time, of course, but still the kind of sound that strikes fear into the hearts of grown men. Groggy, you wipe the sleep from your eyes. And then you frown. The lilting chirp of songbirds (well-fed pigeons that shit all over your windowsill, large enough to be classed as biological weapons), instead of your alarm…?

Your hands go cold, and dread creeps in. Reaching for your phone, you click it on and it shuts off just as quickly. You’re met with the red icon of a dead battery. Fuck.

Leaping out of bed, you rush into the hallway. From there, you see Miguel; out of his workout clothes and flitting in and out the kitchen. Except usually, at this time he’s just coming back from his run and banging at the door to hurry you out of the shower. He spots you and furrows his brow in confusion.

“Aren’t you meant to be…?”

You don't let him finish, and call out. “–What’s the time?” 

He looks at his watch. “Uhhh… quarter past 8?”

“Fuck!”  It erupts out of you, and you bite down the rest; opting to dart back into your room.

Miguel gets closer, pops his head towards your door; in the careful kind of way someone might approach a sleeping bear.

“Are you–”

When you open it in a robe and toiletries bag in hand, he’s there; tentative, and slow, and in your way. A beat passes and your eyes widen, incredulous. Like a fucking lump of coal, he’s slow on the uptake.

“...Move.” 

You push past him into the bathroom and he throws his hand up to surrender. You’re the oddest person he’s had the pleasure (?) of sharing an apartment with, he thinks. Mostly harmless, but hard to read.

The shower sputters to life, changing from hot to ice cold in a second. You grit down a scream, powering through it until the suds wash off. Sheer resolve makes you towel off and change in record time. 

You’re grabbing your bag and chucking whatever you can find in the fridge onto bread. Whilst making a crude sandwich, you’re distracted – going through the calculations in your head. You’ve got a train to catch in about 20 minutes, and if you keep a brisk pace you can make the walk in 15. When you switch subway lines to get across town, it’ll be tight, but you can make it up by cutting across the barriers and keeping those elbows sharp on the stairs. God forbid you miss the transfer, because you’ll have to wait another 15 minutes for the next one and–

Miguel watches by the doorway, a little amused. So caught up in your own world, you don’t notice. He takes a sip of a mug of hot coffee, and you look up. Your face, cute and all scrunched up as you concentrate; but he can’t help but enjoy the flash of displeasure on your face.

“Don’t want to hear it.” You’re spreading butter aggressively, if there was ever such a thing.

He shrugs. “...I didn’t say anything.”

“I can hear it, Miguel. You’re thinking out loud, and…” Wrapping up your meal in tinfoil, you stuff it into your bag. “...I don’t have the time to tell you to fuck off.”

With a little gasp, he clutches at hypothetical pearls. He gives you a sarcastic grin before you’re off – slamming the front door in your wake.

_

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