#UHS-II Card Reader

[mostly-imagines]

The Alchemy vol. I

jason todd x fem!reader

aka the progression of your relationship with the red hood

vol II

warnings: slow burn, mentions of attempted sa for reader, depictions of blood and injury, mentions of standard gotham violence

Dear fuck, he’s as heavy as he looks.

You use all of your weight to pull him backwards towards the couch, almost giving up when you realized you’d have to lift him up off the ground to actually get on it.

Getting him through the window was enough of a hassle, challenging the difficulty of the decision to bring him in here at all. 

Thankfully you don’t have to think too hard on it because you feel his body stiffen up suddenly. He jolts upright, though clearly pained to do so, hand flying to the gun holster on his side.

You take a step back, hands out in front of you. “Hey, it’s alright.”

“Who are you?” His voice is interrogative. 

You put your hands down, “You’re the one who passed out on my balcony, I think if anyone gets to ask that question it’s me.”

He stares at you, white lenses bearing into your soul.

Okay, yeah. You tell him your name. He doesn’t move. “You just looked like you needed some help..”

His posture loosens a bit, and his hand finally leaves the holster.

He glances down at his abdomen, a sizable tear in his suit and a nearly alarming amount of blood. “You got any bandages?”

“Uh, I—yeah, yeah, I do.” You dart down the hall into the bathroom, shuffling through your first aid kid. You toss a few wraps into your arms, along with some antiseptic spray you suspect he’ll need. You grab your hand towel and get it wet under warm water. 

When you return, he’s moved himself onto the sofa, lifting his shirt up to assess the damage. You round the couch, seeing more blood than you’d have hoped for.

“Can I?” You ask, motioning to his injury. 

He looks up at you for a long moment. He nods.

You kneel down in front of him and replace his hand in lifting up the shirt. It’s a cut, it doesn’t look terribly deep, but still not shallow enough that he could just leave it.

You take the rag and dab it around the wound, trying to clean up the blood as much as possible without making contact with it.

He’s very still as you work, and you get the strong impression he’s watching you carefully.

You grab the antiseptic spray, shaking it. “This’ll sting.”

He grunts.

You apply the antiseptic thoroughly and he doesn’t even flinch. Doesn’t move his gaze from you for a second.

You unwrap one of the bandages and place it on firmly, making sure there’s no bleedthrough.

And not that you particularly want to be thinking about this right now, but the man is noticeably ripped. Stacked like a house of cards.

You rip away your gaze and stand up, hands on your hips, taking a deep breath. You look at him—at his helmet.

You don’t know how you can tell, but he’s studying you. Trying to get a read on you, maybe. Regardless, you’re eager to escape the gaze.

You shovel the remainder of your supplies back into your arms and bring them back to the bathroom, calling out, “I didn’t take off your helmet, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

There’s a short beat. 

“Do I seem like someone that worries often?” 

You peek your head out of the bathroom door. 

You look at him. “You seem like someone that doesn’t worry enough.”

He snorts. “You’re not far off.”

You make your way back once you’re done, looking at the disregarded meal you’d been interrupted from. “I have pasta if you…eat.”

“I do.”

“I can go in the other room if you—”

He clicks the lock on his helmet, taking it off. He’s left with a second mask underneath, covering his eyes and nose. His dark hair sticks up from the helmet, a white streak poking out in the front. He looks younger than you would’ve expected. Cuter, if his jaw is anything to go by.

“Don’t worry about it.”

Okay then.

You grab a second plate out of the cabinet and scoop on the rest of the pasta from the pan.

You hand him the plate, avoiding standing too close. 

“Thanks, sweetheart.” 

You turn back around as casually as possible after hearing the name, wanting to avoid letting your face give anything away.

This guy kills people, right?

You sit down in the armchair across from the couch, spooling the pasta on and off the fork. He doesn’t show the same hesitation in dining away that you do—you guess fighting crime would require some calorie exchange.

“You a nurse?” He asks after a few minutes. 

The question takes you by surprise. You hadn’t taken him as a small talk kind of person. “Huh? Oh, no, I’ve just taken a few first aid courses and stuff.”

He gives a short hum, thoughtful.

“What?”

“You’re good.” Hardly.

“I didn’t really do anything.”

“You did enough.” He says, not leaving much room for argument.

He stands up at once, walking past you to the kitchen. Your gaze follows him silently. He puts his empty plate in the sink and returns to the edge of the living room.

He looks at you once more and pops his helmet back on followed by the click of the lock.

“I’ll see ya.” He says shortly, before ducking out the window.

You’re left alone, sitting in your armchair, plate of cold pasta forgotten on your lap.

That could’ve gone very badly. Maybe not your most thought-through decision to literally drag the Red Hood into your apartment, but hey. Maybe you’re exercising your ability to be an upstanding, helpful person. Or maybe you were just hoping to prevent a vigilante being found dead on your fire escape.

Regardless, you close the window after him, leaving it unlocked. Just in case.

You wake in the middle of the night to the sounds of footsteps in your living room. You shoot upright, immediately spotting the lamp light flooding in from under your door.

Creeping to a stand, you grab the baseball bat next to your bed and slowly walk to the door.

You creep the door open as quietly as possible, inching out half a step at a time. A nearby creak on your floorboards had you swinging blindly, only to have your bat get stopped midair. You look up to see Mr. Hood himself, blocking the blow of your hit with his hand. 

“Wow. You and a bat against Gotham, huh, sweetheart?”

“Fuck!” You let go of the bat and drown your face in your hands. “What is wrong with you?”

“Apparently that I don’t carry enough baseball bats with me.” He says coolly, inspecting your bat. Though he’s got to admit, your bat is probably a hell of a lot more useful than his. 

You drop your arms at your side. “If I’d known bringing you into my apartment one time was going to be considered a free pass forever, I might’ve thought twice.”

“If I’d known I was going to nearly be concussed with a baseball bat, I might’ve too.” Barely. If you’re being honest with yourself, you’re still half asleep and it was not a very good swing.

He looks at you straight on for the first time. His helmet quickly drifts down and back up to your face just as fast.

You look down. T-Shirt, underwear, and…no that’s it. Not…ideal. You pull down on the unfortunately not at all oversized shirt, wanting to creep back into your room.

He turns his back, allowing you to do just that and scramble for some shorts to throw on. 

“Very gentlemanly of you.” You call out from your room, “And only thirty seconds after breaking into my apartment.”

“Okay, one, I’ve been here longer than that. In a non creepy way.”

“Right.”

“And two, I didn’t break anything. You live in the middle of Gotham and don’t lock your window?”

You reemerge in the doorway, “I live on the eighth floor.” 

He turns around to face you again, helmet in his hands. “Didn’t stop me.” No it did not. 

“Mm. So are you here specifically to judge my home security or was there something you needed?”

He takes a deep breath, “Actually yeah. I just need a place to rest for a minute.” 

“Rest from what?”

A series of gunshots echo from down the street.

“Next question.”

Concise.

You and Hood sit on the couch in the dark, per his insistence, because for some godforsaken reason, you have no curtains. It takes a few minutes for the silence to dissipate into forced conversation, which takes a few more minutes to fade into actual conversation.

“Can I be honest with you?” You ask him.

“Does it matter how I answer?”

“I don’t understand how you’re not dead.” You poke your head up, turning to him. “Are you human?”

He cranes his neck to look out the window, “Maybe getting shot at isn’t the worst thing that could happen tonight…”

You roll your eyes with a smile that you’re glad is hidden by the darkness. “Oh, fuck off.”

“You don’t have much in terms of self-preservation skills, do you?”

You ignore him as to not acknowledge that he’s probably right and roll through to your next curiosity, “Who the hell was shooting at you anyways?” Though, you don’t really expect an answer.

He shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter. They got ‘til sunrise anyway.”

You tilt your head, “‘Til sunri—” oh. Yeah. Come to think of it, he does have two guns on him right now. At least that you can see. You squint blankly at the wall, “You know, I’m placing a lot of trust in the hope that you’re not just as bad as those guys.”

“Yes you are.” He nods, not doing anything to convince you that he is in fact a good guy. He hasn’t tried to harm you in any way though, so you guess that’s a good sign.

You tilt your head at him. “Do you get paid to do this?” 

“I’m pretty sure there’s a lot of people who would pay me not to do this.” 

You nod solemnly, mouth turned into an exaggerated frown. “So you have a day job?”

He looks over at you, “Do you always ask this many questions?”

“Are you always so dodgy about answering them?” You shoot back. If you’d thought for .5 seconds longer on that, you might not have said anything. But you feel comfortable here, in your apartment with a man whose face you’ve never seen, name you don’t know, and always has at least two loaded guns on him.

He huffs out a laugh, “Yeah. I am.” He looks over at you. “You live here by yourself?”

You look around at the empty apartment before turning back to him, “Seems that way.”

He shrugs, “Boyfriend could be out or something.”

“Well most people are asleep at one in the morning. Like I was. Remember that?”

“No.”

You sigh, curling up into a ball on your end of the couch, resting your chin on your knees. You’re quiet for a minute before piping up, “Do people actually break into apartments on high floors a lot?”

“Stupid people.” He pauses, looking over at the frown on your face. “Look, I’m in the neighborhood a lot. If I see somebody climbing your fire escape I’ll shoot them.”

You let a little smile out, “I’m thinking there’s other steps you could take before you get to that point.”

“If you want to waste time.” His gaze doubles back at you, “That was a joke, by the way.”

You bark out a tired laugh, “Yeah, I picked up on that, thanks.”

He removes his eyes from you, fixing on a set of pictures you have hanging on the wall.

Your eyes flutter and you move to rest your head on the arm of the couch. “Is this going to be a regular thing then?”

“You could lock your window.”

“Living on the eighth floor didn’t stop you, I can’t imagine a shitty lock will do much more.”

“If you don’t want me here, I won’t be here.” He says gruffly.

“If I don’t want you here, I’ll let you know.” You mumble, eyes closing.

You can barely make out a laugh from him, “Good to know.”

You’re not quite sure how much time goes by when he leaves, but you have a pretty strong feeling you’d fallen asleep. Your main indicator was feeling the blanket draped nicely over you that you could’ve sworn was on the chair across the room.

Maybe it’s ten o’clock at night and you’re sat on your kitchen floor, bawling your eyes out. Maybe you’re going to have to quit your job. Or maybe you’ll have to face a lawsuit. Maybe this is the worst day in the history of time. Maybe it’s about to get worse. 

The sound of your living room window sliding open has you startling into a rush, body panicking as if you’ve done something wrong and desperately need to cover the evidence. The past few weeks of sporadic visits leaves no question about who it is, and you just hope the kitchen island in front of you will be enough to convince Hood that you’re not in and he’ll leave.

But because today is today, that’s not how it goes down.

You can vaguely make out the sound of his footsteps approaching, a courtesy that you’re sure he incorporated on purpose.

“Oh fuck…” you mutter to yourself, wiping your eyes.

He rounds the counter, looking down at you. “Wha—what’s wrong?”

“Fuck. Nothing.” You say, standing up and adjusting your clothes. “Are you hurt?” He better fucking not be at only ten.

“No, I—why are you on the floor?” 

You roll your eyes, “I live alone, forgive me for assuming I would be given the privilege to cry on the floor in private.”

“Did something happen?” You’re trying really hard not to call him an idiot. 

You raise your eyebrows, giving a light nod. “Uh, yeah, I’d say so.”

He shifts in his stance, “Do I need to talk to someone?”

You scoff, knowing damn well his version of ‘talk to someone’ does not include talking to someone. “Why are you even here so early?” 

“Wanted to stop by before I went out.” he says quietly.

You’re about to snap something at him again, but the burning in your eyes takes immediate priority. You wrap your arms around your middle and try to calm yourself down, with very little success. The tears fall easily and your shoulders start shaking as you look at the floor, letting the melancholy take over. 

It feels like much longer than it probably was, but sometime after the first few tears fall he wraps his arms around you and pulls you into his chest. This only makes you cry harder, sobbing against his armor. Your arms stay wrapped around your center, while his hands remain completely still against your back, though firm. You don’t realize it immediately, but he’s holding a good portion of your weight up, you’d for sure collapse onto the floor otherwise. You kind of wish you would. Sitting on the floor felt nice, maybe falling down on it will feel even better.

You slowly start to regain your breathing, the well in your eyes drying up again. He waits for you to stop completely and slowly pulls back from you, hands momentarily still wavering next to you like he’s ready to catch you.

It takes you a minute to notice, but his helmet is locked on to the finger-shaped bruises on your forearm. You awkwardly move your opposite arm to cover them, looking around your apartment with nothing to search for.  

He’s quiet for a long while, clearly thinking hard. “What happened?”

You sniffle, “Some asshole at my job.”

“Some asshole?” He doesn’t believe you. Rightfully so, but he has no business being able to tell that you’re lying about one single word in that sentence.  

“My boss. Was very intent on successfully hitting on me.” You exhale deeply, “His approach could use some work though, if I’m honest.”

His posture remains statue-like. “Where do you work?”

You look at him straight on for the first time that night, “What does that matter?”

“I’ll take care of it.” He says simply.

You wave him off, “It’s fine.”

He waits a moment before letting you know, “I’m being polite by asking, I’m going to find out either way.”

You plop back down on the kitchen floor, knees to chest. “Well, then do it the hard way.”

About ten seconds of him staring down at you in silence go by, before he sits down next to you. It’s a bit funny how he tries to shrink himself down next to you, you’re assuming because he doesn’t want you to get panicked again because this massive stranger is sitting next to you in your kitchen in the dead of night.  

You don’t look at him as he clicks his helmet off and sets it on the other side of him. It’s quiet for another minute when he holds his gloved hand out to you, and you’re not quite sure how you know what he wants, but you do. You place your bruised arm in his hand, letting him gently pull it closer to him and scan over it. 

“Are you hurt anywhere else?” 

Again, you don’t know how, but you can tell he’s asking how far things went. “I started screaming and it freaked him out. He let me go.” you say numbly. 

You can see him nod out of the corner of your eye, bits of red making their way into your peripheral despite the discarded helmet. You turn slowly to look at him, finding him looking at you already.  

His face is more covered than it had been the first night, the same black mask covers his eyes but the lower half of his face is also hidden by a red mouthpiece. You’re in the lamp light and closer to him than you had been before and you’re counting out specks of green in his blue eyes. He lets you, to your surprise, and when you run out of emerald hues you take focus on his thick, dark eyelashes. Your gaze moves back ever so slightly to make eye contact with him and you tear your eyes away, zeroing in on the kitchen tiles. 

You sigh contemplatively, “I’m worried if you kill my boss it’ll be traced back to me and I’ll get pinned for it.”

He doesn’t laugh. But your delivery was a little dry in the wrong way so really it was on you.

“I’m not going to kill him.” he tells you, “I wouldn’t gamble with my pied-a-terre like that.”

Your head falls back, hitting the drawer behind you with a light thud. “Then why waste your time at all?” Maybe you should slow down with the snide comments.

He wants to, but he doesn’t call out the implied self-slighting in your words. “Maybe it’s a ‘me’ thing but I don’t particularly like men that hurt women.”

You let out a dry laugh. “In Gotham, it just might be.”

He sits with you on the linoleum tile of your kitchen until your eyes start to droop and he lightly corrals you to your bedroom before taking his exit through the window. You told him multiple times that he could go and you were fine, but he insisted that nothing important was happening in the city that time of night. You didn’t quite believe him though, because it was past midnight by the time he’d headed out.  

When you showed up to work the following day your boss wasn’t there. Wasn’t there the day after either. Or the day after. He didn’t make an appearance again until the following Monday. And when he did show face, he did so with a neck brace and a cast on his leg. But once more, he absolutely refused to make eye contact or speak to any of the female employees. It actually became a whole thing when he wouldn’t give instructions or feedback to any of you, and insisted on having his secretary replaced with a man, who he then used as a middle man to speak to all of the women for him. HR got involved three times in the span of the next five days, and by the Monday after, he’d been fired.

So to recap: yes, no, no, undecided, and hard no. 

Maybe you’re really starting to like this Red Hood guy.

Hard yes.

You’re slightly on guard upon hearing a clattering on the balcony, though if the past few weeks have been any indicator, you’re not in much danger.

Your posture slumps as you peer around the hallway corner, “Oh, it’s you.”

“Good to see you too.” he grumbles, dropping onto the floor.

“Well, I have to imagine I’m a step up from the last person you saw.” You say, looking him up and down, seeing what sure as hell looks like a gunshot wound on his chest armor. “What happened to you? The Mad Hatter uses guns now?”

He groans, “Ah, I said something about him being a heartless fuck, and I guess he took it personally.”

You sigh, “Jesus Christ, Hood.”

He waves you off, “It’s not that big of a deal.” 

You scoff, “He tried to shoot you in the heart.”

“Yeah, well, he missed.” He grumbles, adjusting his position on the couch. 

You exhale sharply, “How do you know?”

“How do I know?” He tilts his helmet at you, exasperated. 

You throw your arms up at your side, “I don’t know! I’m not equipped for this scenario.”

He huffs, “Look, it’s fine, it hit my armor. It’ll probably just be a bad bruise.”

“Probably?”

“I don’t think there’s blood. Could you…” he vaguely gestures to his torso, but it's enough for you to get the hint.

You shake the panic out of your head, “Yeah, yeah, of course.”

You help him shrug off his jacket as he strips off his armor, and you lift his shirt up as slowly as you can in case the injury is worse than he thinks.

You’re not shocked to see that he has scars, that’s kind of a given in his line of work. What you are shocked to see is one very long scar that lines directly up the center of his body. It’s a deep scar, too.

And, oh. The long scar extends further, splitting off into a fork at his collar. That’s—oh. Oh. Oh. That is an autopsy scar. 

You’re not sure what to do. You’ve never seen a living person with an autopsy scar—though you have to imagine neither have most people.

He clearly does not want to talk about it and you’re happy to let him keep the skeleton in the closet.

You avert your gaze back over to his diaphragm at the area of reddened skin.

“There’s no blood, but…” You inspect it a bit closer, “I think there’s going to be a bad bruise. You might end up with bruising on your ribs, you need to get that looked at.”

“I am.” He says shortly.

You stand up straight, dropping your shoulders. “By someone who went to medical school. Or has taken more than one anatomy class in their life.” 

He yanks down his shirt, standing, apparently too quickly, and wobbling. You catch his arm as he sways, attempting to steady him. “You should sit down.”

“Need to go back out.” He grunts, trying to pull away from you with little force.

“To get killed? ‘Cause you’re going the right way about it.” 

He tilts his head at you like he’s daring you to be so bold again. At least that's what it felt like. You sigh, gesturing to the couch, “Sit down.”

You didn’t expect it to work but he does as told.

You look around, unsure of what to do next. “Do you need ice?”

“What?”

“You’re hurt.” You say slower. “Do you need ice?”

He falters for a second, “No, it’s—no.” A couple beats pass before he adds, “Thanks, sweetheart.” 

It’s impossible not to notice that he’s staring at you. You feel hot under his gaze, not knowing what to do with yourself. You clear your throat, telling him to hang on for a second. 

You call out behind you as you walk to the kitchen, “Take your helmet off, it’s rude.” You grab the painkillers from their new easily-accessible place on the kitchen counter and grab a water bottle from the fridge.

It was a joke but when you come back his helmet is off and he’s just wearing his domino eye mask. His hair is extra tousled, the white streak barely visible in the mess of loose curls. You toss the bottle of meds at him, followed by the capped bottle of water. He catches them easily, downing more than he probably should have but he got shot tonight so you figure you’ll give him a break about it.    

You plop down on the couch next to him, honestly closer than you’d meant to. Your knees and shoulders lightly brush against one anothers, though neither of you make any moves to scoot over. 

You both look straight ahead at the wall, simmering in the amity. “So did somebody else deal with the Hatter or when you get shot do you just bounce back like a T-1000?”

He scoffs, “No, getting shot at is a bit of an inconvenience for me.”

“Wrong line of work.”

He cocks an eyebrow, “You’re telling me.”

You turn your head to him, “Why do you do it then?” 

He looks back at you earnestly. “Someone has to.” 

“Someone does.”

He tenses up a bit at that, breaking eye contact. “Not well enough.” 

Your head slowly lulls and drops into a rest on his shoulder, causing him to stiffen up a bit more before almost completely relaxing.

“So violence is the answer to violence?” you ask, not argumentative, just genuinely musing. 

Hood sighs, “Half-assed reform programs didn’t do anything, shitty ‘crisis interventions’ didn’t do anything, the cops sure as hell don’t do anything.” He shrugs under you. “You run out of options eventually.”

“And that’s why you took it upon yourself to intervene?”

“Mm. ‘When reason fails, the devil helps.’” He says, quite melodramatically, in your opinion.

“I-Is that—” you squint, shooting off of his shoulder to look him in the eye. “You spend your nights getting in street fights and shootouts and you spend your days reading Crime and Punishment of all things?” You gawk at him, “That explains a lot about your disposition.”

He shrugs with a shake of his head. “It’s a rough world. Can’t afford to be reading about Hogwarts.”

You pause, combing through your next words, “‘Man only likes to count his troubles; he doesn’t calculate his happiness.’”

His eyes crinkle under his mask as he smiles, clearly pleasantly surprised that you know your shit. “Touché.”

You grin back, pleased with yourself. 

There’s a brief recession where your smiles both get caught in the flicker between on and off, where your eyes take the opportunity to scan over each other’s faces. 

You realize that this may be the first time you’ve seen him properly smile and it’s so magnetizing. So much so that you don’t realize you’re staring at his lips until your eyes snap back up to his and find that his are on yours.

His eyes don’t leave yours as he nudges you a bit with his shoulder. It does just enough to break the trance, giving you the cue to rest your head on him again. This time you allow more of your weight to lean against him and he actually seems relaxed for once.

 You glance at the clock on the wall without moving and realize it’s almost four in the morning. “I’m tired, Hood.” you mumble into his shirt.

“You don’t—” he falters for a moment, “You don’t have to call me that.”

You squint at him, “What should I call you then?”

He’s quiet for a moment. “J.”

“J?” you whisper, like it’s a grave secret. You guess it kind of is.

He nods.

“Okay.” Your cheek flattens against his shoulder. “J.” 

You nearly think you’re imagining it when you feel him rest his head against yours.

“You don’t know how to protect yourself?”

You roll your eyes at him, “You saw the way I swung at you with the baseball bat, what do you think?”

It’s only just after sunset, you could still see some purple-pink hues in the sky if you looked out the window. He’s started showing up before patrol some nights, saying he felt bad about waking you up at 3 am multiple times a week. So now, he mostly only drops in late if he’s a manageable amount of injured.

You stand in the middle of your living room together, after you’d made a joke about needing him as a bodyguard in Gotham. As it turns out, that was a one way street to him finding out that you’re useless in a fight.

“I was hoping you were having an off night because you just woke up, but now I'm concerned.” He says, grimacing.

You shrug, “I carry pepper spray.” 

He grumbles, displeased. “Put your hands up.”

You drop your head to the side and glower at him, “Really?”

He raises his eyebrows at you. Just do it. 

Alright, you’ll humor him. You put your fists up and he holds his hands open in front of you in kind. You throw a light punch.

“Come on, put your weight behind it.”

You do, hitting his hand harder. “Hood—”

He tilts his head forward at that, looking at you through his brows.

You inhale impatiently, “J, Why do we have to do this? I don’t have any illusions that I could knock you out and I can’t imagine you do either.” 

He shakes his head, “It’s not about knocking someone out, it’s about defending yourself. Gonna be a hell of a lot harder to hurt you if you’re throwing punches. Harder.”

You give a raised hum, “Not if they have a gun…”

“Well, we’ll work on that too.”

You groan, throwing a half-assed hit. “Where’d you learn to fight?” You ask before throwing another.

“Turn your body into it.” He corrects. “My, uh, my dad taught me.”

You hum, hitting him again. “Are you guys close?”

“You’re being nosy again.” He grunts amidst a hit.

“You’re being evasive again.” You shoot back.  

He drops his hands, taking your wrists in his, “Here, put your hands in front of your face when you shoot so you can block counters.” He tells you, adjusting your stance accordingly.

You make a face, “I’m confused, am I fighting a mugger or a kickboxer?”  

He ignores you, moving his hands around to give you different angles to hit at. 

You go at it for a few minutes, taking his critiques with reluctant concedence. “Alright, that’s good.” He says, relaxing his body.

You perk up, “We’re done?” 

“No,” he shuts you down before asking earnestly, “Do you trust me?”

Your brain hadn’t even fully processed the question before you nod, mumbling a ‘yes’. He takes a measured step closer to you, watching carefully for your reaction. You almost back up in surprise, angling your head up further to look at him properly. You give no objection, so he continues, “I want you to try to get me on the ground.”

You let out a sound that’s half-laugh, half-scoff. “You’re twice my size.”      

He sighs, looking at you somberly. “Sweetheart, odds are you’re not going to be evenly matched against someone that wants to hurt you. You get ‘em on the ground ‘n you have the upper hand or it’ll give you time to get away.”

You throw your hands up at your sides, “I don’t—” You huff, “Fine, okay.” You try to trip him by sliding your leg behind his and kicking, but he blocks you expertly.

You, against better judgment, shove your shoulder into his side, though it does nothing to phase him, let alone knock him down. 

“You gotta get more creative than that.” He chastises with a tut. 

In response, you take a step back to reassess the situation. You try to maintain a poker face as you strategize in your head. You make a dive for his legs, wrapping your arms around the back of his legs and pulling hard to make him lose balance. You’re sure if he were actually trying for a damn you would immediately be done for afterwards, but it does make him wobble. You then throw all of your weight against him, pushing him backwards and causing him to hit the floor with a thud.

He probably allowed for gravity to come to your aid, but he lands on his back all the same. You land half on him, half on the carpet, your hand resting on his chest. He looks up at you nodding, “Good. That was good, sweetheart.”

You smile, quite proud of yourself, and start to stand up when he hooks his arm around the back of your knee and pulls you to the ground too, switching places with you. You hit the ground gently with a sigh, “Really?”

He has one hand rested next to your head to balance him in his place above you. He smirks down at you and lets a tussle of white hair hang over his forehead. “Can’t be getting cocky, sweetheart.”

You laugh sourly, “Coming from you?” 

You quickly push at the bend of his arm and use the distraction to adjust your position to wrap your legs around his center and push your arm against his chest in an attempt to rotate him off of you.

He counters you by pushing your shoulder down, holding you down to the floor. His opposite hand flies to pull your forearm away from his chest, pinning it next to your head, careful to avoid your hair. He moves so quickly that you have half a mind to think he acted on pure instinct. That, and the look on his face when the dust settles says that he hadn’t intended for you to end up in this position. 

Your legs are still wrapped around him and you’re too frozen in the moment to make any changes. He’s in no more of a rush to move, large frame towering over you. You feel his touch stutter against your shoulder, his eyes flickering across your face.

You gaze up at him, taking in the soft look in his eyes behind the mask. You think you can see more green than you did before. You unwrap your legs from around his waist and slowly start to sit up. He releases your wrist and eases the pressure on your shoulder. He leans back half as quickly as you move forward, stopping when you’re propped up on your elbows.

Your faces are only a few inches apart and it feels like your only option is to look down at his lips. You have a feeling he’s doing the same to you. The adrenaline of the hassle has long since faded but the rhythm in both of your chests remains quick.

He leans forward so barely, but it’s enough to make your breath hitch. “J…” you say breathily, not sure what implication you’re aiming for.

He stills and this time you’re sure he’s looking at your lips. He blinks a few times like he’s trying to come back to himself and inches his face away from yours slowly. 

You let the hold in your breath release, disappointed more than anything. He eases off the floor to a stand and holds his hand out to help you up too. You take it with more of a frown than you’d meant to let out and rise to your feet.

“Let’s, uh…” He looks at the ground before taking a step back and putting his hands up again. “Let’s try some combos.”

You blink up at him for a second before raising your hands too.  

Alright, one step at a time.   

vol II

[lefteagleblizzard]

𝔖𝔦𝔠𝔨 𝔴𝔦𝔱𝔥 𝔴𝔞𝔫𝔱 Joel Miller x male reader

Summary: Accidentally inhaling aphrodisiac spores when on patrol with Joel Miller

Tags: Set between The Last of Us Part I and II. Male reader. He/him pronouns are used towards the reader. Friends to lovers. Lots of science rambling that can be skipped. Overstimulation. Sex pollen. Aphrodisiac spores. Age gap. Smut. Gay smut. Top Joel Miller. Bottom male reader. Handjob. Anal sex.

ℳ𝒶𝓈𝓉ℯ𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉

Words count: 7000 words

Your horse’s hooves crunched rhythmically through the icy crust, breaking apart the layer that had hardened atop the road since dawn. You sat astride it with a loose posture, the reins slack in your gloves, not out of laziness but from quiet trust in the beast beneath you. Its coarse winter coat was dusted in pale flakes, which you brushed gently from its mane as it snorted softly, exhaling warm breath that curled through the air like smoke.

You murmured nonsense to it under your breath, fingertips carding through its thick mane, thumb trailing along the ridge of its strong neck.

Ahead of you, Joel’s figure broke the horizon in long, steady strides of his horse. The worn brown coat he wore was dark against the snow, spotted with white. His rifle hung across his back and the familiar hunch of his shoulders gave away the fact he was already scanning for any promising structures that might yield a can of soup or an untouched medicine cabinet.

His horse moved at a sure pace, faster than yours and he never looked back once.

You bit your lower lip, teeth digging in enough that you felt the faint sting. The silence was a weight between you, thick and unwelcoming for most of the patrol.

You leaned forward slightly in your saddle, clearing your throat.

“Hey, uh…” You hesitated. Shit. Too many ways to ask this, and none of them sounded good in your head. You went with the one that had been festering in your brain since Maria handed you the new schedule this morning. “Do you have any idea why Ellie asked to switch patrol partners this week?”

The second you said it, you winced. It sounded accusatory, like you were prying into something you weren’t supposed to know.

Joel didn’t stop but his head turned, and he looked back at you over his shoulder.

Snowflakes clung to the scruff lining his jaw, tangled in the silvered strands of his beard. Hazel leaning to amber eyes met yours, brow drawn like usual.

Fuck, he was so handsome.

That gaze held you frozen for a second and then he turned back forward without saying anything.

You scrambled to patch it. “I just meant, y’know—hope she’s alright.”

“She’s fine.” A faint mutter back as the only answer you got. Didn’t address what you really asked.

You sat back in your saddle, exhaling slowly, watching your breath curl away like smoke from a dying fire.

The horses continued forward in tandem, hooves crunching the snow in that steady rhythm again until Joel’s horse let out a low nicker and Joel gave a grunt as he pulled on the reins.

“Hold up,” he called and you tugged your horse to a stop beside him, coming close enough to see ta descent hidden under a treacherous quilt of white.

The snow dipped fast here, sliding down into a basin where the large roof of a house poked up barely above the surface. You could only see the tip of its peak, the chimney like a crooked finger reaching up from the grave.

“Jesus,” you breathed, shifting in your saddle.

Joel dismounted with practiced ease, boots sinking into the snow with a muted thump. He walked toward you, glancing over your horse’s bridle.

You started moving to do the same, grabbing the rope from your saddle to find somewhere to hitch the animal but Joel reached out and took the rope from your hands, his gloves brushing against yours just briefly. “I got it.”

You blinked. “Oh—I mean, I can—”

“I said I got it,” he muttered, turning before you could answer, tone gruff and clipped with no real edge to it.

You watched him walk away with both ropes, tying the horses down near the base of a bare tree, checking the knots twice. Then he turned back and started walking toward you again, shooting you a quick glance before his eyes dropped back to the snow and he trudged forward, jaw tight, gloved hands flexing.

You didn’t say anything as he passed you, just turned to follow him as he stepped carefully into the snow toward the house that lay buried beneath the frost.

The descent looked steep and slick, but there was a stupid itch that crawled right up your spine.

You’d ridden the tension of Joel’s quiet for long enough and now that you were finally off the horse, boots sinking ankle-deep into snow that practically swallowed your ankles, the temptation was too good to pass up.

You crouched before throwing yourself backward and let your weight carry you down. Soon the snow greeted your ass with a soft, satisfying crunch before you slipped down fast. Cold stung your cheeks and the wind clawed at your face in the most fun way possible.

Behind you now that you surpassed him, you heard Joel’s voice carry through the crisp air.

“Are you fuckin’ serious?!”

It made you laugh harder, the sound catching in your throat and blooming outward until you collided with the incline of the buried roof. A flurry of snow rained down from the eaves above, thumping into your hood, spilling down your back. You choked out a gasp from the coldness but even as you shoved the snow off your head and shoulders, you couldn’t stop grinning.

Dusting yourself completely, the flush of exhilaration was still warm under your skin, fighting back the bite of frost.

Then Joel appeared from the top of the hill, trudging down with that big, square frame. You barked out another laugh at the look on his face.

He looked beyond pissed, jaw locked tight, mouth set in that signature scowl, eyes that held fury, surprise, and a glint of reluctant amusement hiding behind his scowl that he’d be damned if he ever let you see it.

You pull that kinda stupid shit again,” he growled once he was close enough to loom over you, “I’ll leave your goddamn body out here for the infected to find, see how long you last.”

The low rumble of his voice dragged down your spine, no sarcasm or laughter in his tone.

“Worth it.” Your grin only widened and he groaned in annoyance and turned sharply, trudging toward the side of the partially buried chalet without giving you another glance.

You went to the other side with a spring in your step, gun free while eyes scanned the snow-sunken facade. On the far end, hidden beneath a white curtain of ice-glossed ivy, was a tall window pane, mostly unbroken, though the glass was filmed with frost and streaked by old melt marks.

You approached it carefully and leaned in, using your gloved fingers to rub a circle of visibility through the foggy layer.

The room inside was a full-blown lab. Makeshift but organized, a mess inside only science could make. Metal tables lined with test tubes, vials filled with preserved samples of unknown and apparently rotten liquids.

You half-whispered, half-called over your shoulder, “Joel.”

You heard his footsteps crunch toward you just a few seconds later, fast and heavy. He stepped up behind you, his body close enough that you could feel the heat from him through all that damn flannel and denim and leather. His left hand braced against the side of the window as he leaned forward to peer in.

Your eyes flicked to his arm bent at the elbow, flexed from the slight lean, thick under the tight sleeve of his shirt where his jacket had pulled back. Veins like cords twisted along his forearm, disappearing into the glove at his wrist.

You forced your attention back to the lab. “Looks pretty clean in there. Not too dusty. Might be medicine and supplies.”

He gave a soft grunt in response while his eyes stayed on the room for another second, narrowed slightly.

Without a word, he stepped back, shifted the rifle off his shoulder, gripped it at the barrel and with one quick motion, raised the butt of it.

The glass exploded in a clean fracture under the weight of his swing. Shards burst outward and you flinched on instinct.

The remaining edges of the window splintered inward. Joel gave them a quick once-over before stepping in, boots crunching as they touched down on the dark wood floor inside.

“You comin’ in or what?” He turned back, giving you a look. His brow lifted before he added, “Figured if nobody came runnin’ when your dumb ass rolled down that slope, place’s probably empty.”

You climbed in after him, boots thudding against the floorboards and exhaled a quiet breath. The air inside was cold but untouched. Your gun stayed low, loose in your grip but ready.

You went left, he went right. The place wasn’t huge, just one main room, everything scattered but oddly preserved. Your eyes caught on a stash in the corner and you knelt, rifling through what looked like a first aid kit still sealed. Antibiotics, gauze, alcohol, a cache of painkillers, labeled and bagged, bottles still full and expiry date a few years out. Your heart jumped at the treasure found.

There were coins there as well. Metal, worn but intact. Circular, silver with a black enamel inlay. The firefly logo etched across the surface, an insect with outstretched wings, speared through by a vertical line.

There was a whole open floor empty beyond your position and, at the far end, wooden stairs led down. You walked toward them, cautious, gun still at the ready.

As you reached the stairs, particles floated in the shaft of faint light that fell from above.

Spores.

You crouched quickly, unshouldering your pack, flipping it open and digging through the supplies. Fingers fumbling until they closed around the mask. You yanked it free, pulled the straps around your head and started to seal it tight.

Joel was still across the room, his broad back to you, opening drawers and scavenging the place while his hand remained loose over the handle of his revolver, head slightly tilted downward in focus.

Your eyes roamed shamelessly, every inch of him was weathered in the most painfully attractive way and you lingered too long.

Your foot shifted slightly, the floor groaned.

You opened your mouth, his name halfway up your throat when the wood beneath your boots gave out with a snap, splintering down the center.

Your back and shoulders scraped down jagged beams, the slap of gravity pulling you through the tight shaft until you slammed into the floor below, shoulder-first, the impact blooming pain across your collarbone and upper back.

A strangled sound ripped from your throat that was half curse, half gasp. You bounced, rolled to your side, landing hard on your ribs and hip, the floor beneath you unforgiving and damp.

Your breath punched out of your lungs, and for a second, all you could do was lay there, curled slightly, jaw clenched as a long, dry groan dragged from your throat.

The air was wrong. Thick, wet and almost syrupy, like you’ve dropped into the lungs of something alive. Humidity clinging to your skin through the cracks in your jacket.

The smell is a layered, sickening mélange of rot that’s gone sweet with time, earthy decay soaked in moisture.

Your eyes start watering, it feels like your lungs have been lined with spider silk soaked in vinegar. A burn blooms in your throat, sharp and sudden at the first breath, like the air is slicing on the way down.

Your body bucked on instinct. A wheeze tore up your throat, nostrils flared and instantly recoiled.

You shoved yourself upright, coughing dryly, mouth open but refusing to inhale again.

You pulled the mask down with a rough tug, fingers scrambling at the small button of the purifier unit and pressed hard.

The machine vibrated against your cheek, a dull, mechanical hum that began to work.

Your lungs begged for oxygen, ribs now clenching in panic, diaphragm spasming as you waited.

The air filtered through the mask started to feel cooler.

You pulled in a small breath. It didn’t burn this time, the air now feeling artificial.

The pressure in your chest loosened. You swallowed hard, heart pounding like a fist behind your sternum and sagged forward against the wall behind you.

You breathed deep and the filtered air fed your lungs, staving off the panic.

Joel’s voice tore down through the ruined floor as he called your name, tone gravel-thick and thunderous, sharp with panic. You could hear his boots scuffling above, wood groaning dangerously under his weight. You looked up through the splintered opening, all the ceiling was covered in those pinkish walls made of fungus, hence why it was so weak to your weight and gave away.

His face appeared, the muscles in his neck were taut, jaw tight and eyes wide.

“I’m fine!” you shouted, voice muffled behind the plastic and filters of your respirator. You lifted your arm slightly, wincing. “Don’t come close, the floor’s fuckin’ rotten!”

His jaw flexed, eyes tracking the layout quickly before he cursed again before he disappeared rom view as he backed away from the rim of the hole. Even then, you could still hear him pacing, booths thudding in short, frustrated steps.

Finally, you had the breath to look around. The chamber below was far larger than you expected, a full-blown Firefly lab. The quality of what was left here, even if buried under spores and decay, screamed intent.

Fluorescent lights still clung to the ceiling in long, unbroken bars, cracked but intact. A metal gurney with padded restraints sat center-stage and trays of unused surgical instruments glinted on a shelf.

It was organized, intact and completely drowned in spores.

You turned slowly, lifting your flashlight. The beam cut across thick plumes of particulate matter—pinkish, soft as down, thick as fog. You couldn’t see more than ten feet ahead without seeing spores shift in your beam. They clung to the ceilings, ballooning in dense patches—fungal colonies like pulsing lungs latched to the beams above.

There was nothing here. No clickers, corpses or even bones.

How the hell had all these spores flooded the place without anything ever dying here?

Something touched your arm and you recoiled violently, breath choking in your throat, a muffled, startled “FUCK!” bursting past your respirator. Your gun raised on instinct, heart skidding into panic.

It was Joel.

He had dropped down through the stares you were also supposed to take and his boots were now planted solid beside yours. Snow crusted his shoulders, mask was on tight. The lenses fogged slightly from his breath and his gloved hand gripped your bicep hard enough to anchor you in place.

He said your name low, voice slightly distorted behind the mask’s filter unit.

“You hurt?” he asked, tone rough and steady, eyes scanning you, flicking over your chest and arms for any injury. “Talk to me.”

His grip on your arm didn’t loosen, fingers clamped just above your elbow, firm and grounding and the way his sharp gaze was fixed on you sent a tight shiver up your spine.

You swallowed hard, tried to answer, but something in your tongue tangled. Your voice stuck. Maybe it was the mask or the pain still radiating in your shoulder.

You could feel the thick line of muscle under his coat, his forearm flexed just slightly with the hold. His glove had slipped back a little and you could see the veins in his wrist, raised over sinew and tanned skin.

You blinked fast, heat slid into your cheeks, a slowness curled through your stomach, a strange pressure behind your eyes, like your blood was moving differently all of a sudden.

Joel’s fingers squeezed your arm harder.

“You gonna answer me or not?” His voice was gruffer this time and sharper, but the edge was concerned, cloaked in impatience.

You cleared your throat. “I’m—fuck, I’m fine. Landed hard on my arm, that’s all. Just a bit numb. Didn’t break.”

Joel’s eyes narrowed slightly, those rich hazel irises locked to yours, searching for any lie, the tension around his brow eased enough and let go of your arm. Slowly and reluctantly.

Then he pulled out his pistol, the metal glinting slightly in the artificial light as he stepped past you, solid and silent. He didn’t glance back as he muttered, “Don’t fuck around in here.”

He moved half a step ahead of you, as if shielding you, checking corners, vents, behind ruined tables.

“I made a lot of noise when I fell,” you said after a moment, eyes still flicking toward darkened corners. “If anyone was down here, infected or not, they would’ve jumped me already.”

You moved slowly, your boots gliding across the damp concrete floor. Your heart was still hammering, but it wasn’t the same tight spike in your ribs or shortness of breath. It was different slower now and heavier. Like your body was trying to tell you something it hadn’t figured out how to say yet.

You reached the edge of a workstation mottled now with patches of thick, fleshy mold that bloomed in pinkish tendrils across its surface like bruised coral. A few black strands of mycelium threaded through it like veins, pulsing faintly under the dim overhead light, their edges glistening wet.

The sight turned your stomach slightly, but you kept your gloved fingers steady as you reached toward a paper half-submerged in that wall of gross, spongy matter. It stuck a little when you tugged, tore faintly at one corner, but you coaxed it free, holding it up to the beam of your flashlight.

The ink had bled in places, the middle of the page warped by whatever moisture or rot had saturated the mold. But the text was still legible. You squinted at the heading:

[PAGE 7 – Entry 3.2a] (Corner torn, middle stuck together with green mold latticework)

…first success with fungal/plant hybridization observed at 09:34. Spore culture 7G-Alpha2 successfully integrated plasmid DNA from Panax quinquefolius via Agrobacterium-mediated transformation. Fusion strain exhibited marked increase in alkaloid production, unusual for a fungal host.

No fruiting body yet, but the lab humidity chamber has sustained active mycelial growth for 72 hours. Odor profile altered, slight pheromone volatility.

It was hard to wrap your head around at first, bioengineering, spore cultures, DNA fusion with plant-based alkaloids.

You blinked. The print started to blur slightly from your own eyes. A warmth started to crawl under your skin, like standing too close to a fire.

The paper shook slightly in your grip.

Blood serum from rat trials (Group C) shows a significant spike in dopamine and oxytocin levels post-aerosol exposure.

(Handwriting changes. More urgent and slightly uneven.)

Repeat: Respiratory intake is the only variable. Sample B221 designated as viable for further study.

IMPORTANT: pathogen is non-contagious, inert outside of air-saturated chamber. Transmissibility halts without direct spore inhalation. Gene-editing safeguards remain intact. Replication cascade requires >95% humidity and nutrient gel base to activate.

NOTE: Confirm sterilization thresholds before storage.

You let the page drop onto the table, breath pushing out in a soft huff through your mask. Your chest rose and fell slowly, like your lungs were pressing out against something thick. Not hard to breathe, just heavy. Your eyes stung again, not with tears this time, but a strange sort of pressure behind them, as if a headache was blooming there.

You rubbed a gloved hand against your forehead, then turned and that’s when you saw a tank in the corner of the lab, half-shrouded in the drifting cloud of spores. Glass, large and thick but with one entire side cracked. The inner wall was fogged over with old condensation, now streaked with pinkish residue.

Inside, two small skeletons, rodent-sized. One lay curled in the corner, partially buried under a pile of decomposed straw bedding. The other closer to the cracked glass, lay on its side, bones bleached by exposure and time, ribs cracked inward. No visible growth or spores clinging to the bones and yet, this had to be where it started.

One of them, maybe spooked or altered by the hybrid strain, must have panicked. Slammed against the glass, broke the seal and the spores released, flooding the lab.

Your fingers reached for the small stack of papers next to the base of the tank, corners browned, text visible under fungal smudges. You flipped through them, heart thudding harder now.

The first few lines jumped out at you:

“Strain B221 is no longer Cordyceps. Its host behavior is driven not by neural hijack, but chemical amplification. Sexual arousal is observed as byproduct of pheromone analogs stimulating limbic regions directly…”

Subject 15 (male, 32. Accidentally inhaled spores when mask malfunctioned) self-reported lucid state. Vitals spiked: pulse at 158 bpm, skin temp +3.6°F, erection maintained for 37 minutes post-exposure with no physical contact.

Subject did not lose speech or identity.

(Sticky zone begins. It’s smudged, brownish-gold mold—scraped text legible in places)

Increased tactile sensitivity begins 10-15 minutes post-exposure. Subdermal flush around neck, thighs, lower abdomen. Shivering, full-body muscle tension. Erection onset within 10 mins of phase start, resistant to manual suppression.

Increase in tear production, ocular surface wetness. Scleral micro-discoloration: red flush forming at medial corners of eyes, growing outward, associated with burst capillary dilation + fungal metabolite buildup.

STRONG HYPOTHESIS: Fungus aims for propagation via sexual fluid exchange but lacks vector. Safety threshold remains: not contagious via skin, saliva, or semen. Only active in the direct inhalation zone.

You lowered the papers, heartbeat thudding faster in your ears now. Your neck felt damp, pulse fluttered under the skin, and your fingers, shaky now, flexed against the notes.

This is just panic. That’s what you told yourself. Residual adrenaline, shock and pain. Chemicals fucking with your head.

You turned your head, mouth slightly open behind the mask, lips now wet.

The page you held trembled in your grip again. Your arms felt a little like jelly, spine pulled into a slow arch as you inhaled deeper than you meant to. It felt too good.

You dropped the stack to the filthy floor without thought, boots crunching lightly over a smear of dried spores and dust and held the last page tight between trembling fingers.

[PAGE 4 – Entry 6.3: Flare-Up Termination Response]

You could barely focus. The words were fuzzy at the edges, letters bleeding in and out like water-smeared ink, but you forced yourself to trace them, each line landing like a hammer against your spine:

Activation of neurochemical effects now appears governed by host endocrine cycles.

Initial hypothesis of random arousal episodes disproven. Host hormone panels show pattern: recurring surge in fungal expression linked to pulsatile testosterone and cortisol rhythms approx. every 29–32 days.

Strain lies dormant within lymphatic and pulmonary tissue during inactive periods. Reactivation corresponds with small but measurable hormonal fluctuations, suggesting fungal intelligence keyed to endocrine shifts.

Symptoms remain until sexual climax occurs. Neurochemical scan reveals drop-off in fungal signaling immediately following orgasm.

Spike in dopamine, prolactin and oxytocin likely flood receptor sites, disrupting fungal influence and causing symptoms to alleviate over time.

A single bead of sweat rolled down your temple, slipping under the edge of your mask. The inside of your collar was soaked. Your breath hissed in and out of your filter system, loud and uneven, each inhale tighter than the last.

You felt it a presence behind you

Joel was standing behind you. You didn’t know how long he’d been watching. Had he read over your shoulder the whole time? Had he seen the way your knees had started to tremble?

He huffed. A single breath, deep and thick through his mask.

“What the fuck were these people on.” He muttered, voice flat and gruff through the static distortion of the respirator.

“Buncha freaks,” he added, head tilting slightly as he scanned the tank again. “All this damn science talk to explain the fungus makin’ folks horny once a month.” His tone is bitter and blunt.

A hum started in your ears, a pulsing buzz that crackled at the base of your skull, like someone had pressed your head against an old generator. Your heart was racing too fast. The corners of your vision flickered faintly and your cock gave a twitch in your pants.

You sucked in a breath, fast. Your chest burned under the pressure of your shirt. Fuck, the mask was too tight, too hot. You stumbled a step sideways and the page in your hand fluttered from your grip like ash.

Joel shifted behind you in sudden awareness.

“What the hell’s wrong with you?” he asked, his voice low, rougher now. Still trying to sound like he didn’t care too much. But you knew that tone. You’d heard it before when Ellie was missing too long from patrols.

You turned, your mouth opening, but nothing came out. You were panting, full lips parted behind the glass of the mask, leaving the inside fogged over. It smeared with each breath, your own condensation clouding your vision. You saw Joel’s outline, dark and solid, but the details were gone. Only the shape of him remained.

Your hands dropped to the table’s edge, knuckles white, the cool steel hissing against your palms through your gloves. You were burning.

The heat pooled low in your belly, pulsing and tightening. Your cock twitched again, harder this time, thickening in your pants. No friction, arousal bloomed in your nerves like static.

Joel called your name again, louder and sharper this time, but you didn’t answer.

His hand gripped your arm hard, pulling you halfway up off the table with one sharp motion.

It felt so good. The pressure of his hand on you, fingers wrapping around your bicep through your jacket and glove, anchoring you in place, his whole body solid beside yours. You turned your head toward him, lips parting on reflex, throat working with something you couldn’t swallow down.

It was instinct more than anything that made you jerk away. His touch felt like it was melting you and the mask became unbearable. Your muscles tensed as you tore out of his grip, stumbling toward the stairs.

Your boots pounded the steps, feet nearly slipping once as your equilibrium gave a pulse. You slammed your palm against the wall and caught yourself, everything felt like it was breathing.

Upstairs was colder, but it didn’t help, you staggered toward the broken window, the one Joel had smashed earlier and leaned against the wall beside it, fingers fumbling at the straps.

You ripped the mask off your face with one wild pull and it dropped, still connected by the dangling strap and hung from your wrist as your other hand clawed at your jacket. The zipper stuck and you swore loudly, yanked it down hard. Peeled it off like a second skin, undershirt now drenched with sweat.

You collapsed back against the cold wood of the wall, head hitting it with a dull thunk, eyes fluttering half-shut as your hands cupped your face.

Joel’s boots hit the wooden floor with short, hard thuds as he marched across the room, jaw clenched so tight the muscles twitched in his cheek. He reached you in three long strides and without hesitation, he reached up and tore the mask off his face. The hiss of the release valves and the scrape of straps broke the silence.

The look on your face near broke something deep inside him. Your skin was flushed high with heat, brow slick with sweat and your lips hung parted, breathing ragged and short, the muscles in your chest heaving like you’d been running uphill for miles.

“Joel—” you started, voice catching in your dry throat.

You could barely get the words out, barely keep your legs beneath you, but still, somehow, you tried. You reached for anything that didn’t lead to this. “It’s just the heat down there,” you muttered hoarsely, trying to keep your voice level.

Joel’s jaw ticked, the twitch in his cheek gave it away first. His shoulders pulled tight, lips parted, the words ground out between teeth so clenched it was a miracle they even made it into the air.

“Don’t lie to me.” He took one slow step closer threatening, he wasn’t gonna let you squirm out from under it with soft words or shaky logic.

“Don’t stand there tellin’ me lies to my goddamn face when your eyes’re goin’ red.” he snapped.

That caught you off guard. You stared back at him, heartbeat thudding like a war drum in your throat. With trembling fingers, you raised the mask still dangling from your wrist and pulled it up toward your face.

Your reflection stared back, twisted and blurred by the warping curve of the mask but the color still shone clear.

Your sclerae were no longer white. Laced with thin filaments of vascular pink that curled out from your irises.

The mask slipped as your grip failed and it clattered to the floor, your knees began to give and Joel’s hand shot out instinctively, callused fingers curled firm around your muscle, grounding you instantly grabbing your arm, hard and fast, gripping you just beneath the bicep.

The heat from his touch flared sharp beneath your skin, like a wire running directly to your core. Your chest jerked and you let out a sound that resembled half a pant and half a gasp.

You leaned into his touch before you even knew you were doing it and he felt the full weight of you press against his side. Joel guided you quickly, rougher than he meant to, toward a pair of dusty chairs behind a table.

You sagged into the seat with a rough, graceless thud, pulled down more by the arm than lowered carefully. He was bad, he knew, but you didn’t complain. You folded over yourself instead, elbows planted on your knees, head dropping into your hands. The chill of the room clashing with the inferno unspooling in your belly. It was impossible to ignore the tent in your pants, painful and throbbing.

Joel exhaled through his nose before taking a seat beside you, silent at first.

Your voice cracked when you finally spoke. “You…you probably shouldn’t be this close to me.”

Joel turned toward you, that line between anger and worry had worn thin over the last hour, and now it just looked like exhaustion and guilt.

“I might not know shit about that science crap,” he mumbled. “But even I caught the part where it ain’t contagious.” His voice was flat, throat working visibly when he swallowed.

He didn’t have anything else to say because his throat was a thick knot of worry, his brain couldn’t prioritize what to yell at first about how stupid it was to come down here, how he should’ve been watching you like a hawk or about how goddamn helpless he felt now, with nothing to shoot, nothing to kill, no way to stop what was burning you up from the inside out.

Joel’s jaw clenched, his eyes wouldn’t leave your face.

Christ, you looked wrecked.

Expression ached with something hot and helpless, lips twitching as if trying to form a word you didn’t know how to say. You were burning up in front of him with need and not once had you begged or pleaded or lashed out.

You were just taking it, shaking through it strong, even while falling apart.

And hell if you didn’t still look—

He cut the thought off before it finished. Wasn’t right. Not now.

The heat from you bled into his clothes and skin. He felt it in his ribs, in his neck and in his gut. Every inch of him screamed to get you somewhere safe, but nowhere was safe now. Not from this.

So he gave you what he could.

Joel shifted beside you for the chair to creak and the scent of him to wash over you, sweat and cedar. You hadn’t even realized you’d learned so far into him.

His hand came to rest on your waist, firm and grounding. You twitched at the contact, and yet didn’t pull away. His fingers flexed once against your side, thick and calloused and warm, and then you were being pulled closer into him.

The ugly squeal of your chair legs scraped across the floor.

Your hands gripped his shoulder, hard, desperate. You buried your face in the curve between his neck and shoulder, trying to hide the groan that clawed its way up your throat. His flannel scratched your cheek but you didn’t care.

“Shoulda kept my fuckin’ eyes on you,” he muttered into your hair, voice low and tight. “You wouldn’t be in this mess if I hadn’t…This’s on me.”

You shook your head against his collarbone and tried to talk to express how it wasn’t his fault, that it was all yours, but the words collapsed into a guttural hiss as his hand moved, gliding downward with terrible slowness.

Your whole body jolted when warm, thick and firm fingers cupped the bulge in your pants.

Your teeth sank into your lower lip until you tasted blood, your breath hitching into ragged whimpers. You couldn’t look at him.

“Joel—” you gasped, unsure what you were about to beg for.

But he didn’t stop, his thumb moved in a slow circle over the wet spot you’d soaked through your pants, so gentle it felt like cruelty.

He turned his face into your hair, breathed in slow.

“I’m gonna help you,” he said, voice gone hoarse, just a whisper now, like he hated himself for every syllable. “Ain’t right lettin’ you sit here like this when I can stop it.”

Your heart pounded so loud it drowned everything else, fingers tightening in his shirt, hips lifting to meet the slow pressure of his hand. Shame made your face flush to the roots.

His hand moved again, undoing your belt and working your zipper down. Every movement broadcast how much he didn’t want to scare you. There was a subtle catch in his breath when your cock sprang free, hard and leaking against your abdomen.

“You’re burnin’ up bad.” He breathed, low and reverent.

You nodded against his neck, eyes screwed shut. “Please.”

That one word broke something in him. His fingers wrapped around your shaft and you let out a ragged moan as your hips bucked into the heat of his grip. Your forehead pressed tighter to his neck.

“I got you,” he whispered, hands starting to work, twisting near the tip, pulling tight at the base and sending sparks up your spine each time.

He nuzzled the side of your face, beard scraping your cheek. “Ain’t right how pretty you look like this.”

You whimpered pathetically and his thumb circled your slit with the lightest pressure, smearing your precum.

Your hips rolled helplessly up into his fist, every stroke pulling the orgasm closer but never letting you fall over the edge and he kept going, whispering into your hair, murmuring gruff, sweet nonsense that shouldn’t have worked but made you shudder every time.

His forehead pressed into the crook of your neck, his hand pumping faster now, breath now shakier. His other free hand brushed your stomach, fingers splayed flat across your abdomen, grounding you and keeping you in place.

You cursed and sobbed his name over and over. Each time more broken and desperate as your cock throbbed wildly, precum soaking his fingers and your abdomen.

You shouted his name, hips jerking wildly into his hand as thick ribbons of cum splattered your shirt and his hand. You gasped and broke apart in his arms, the high so sharp it bordered on pain.

Joel held you the whole way through as your frame sagged into him, breath in ragged gasps. His hand finally let go of your twitching cock, cupping the back of your head instead and pulling you tighter into his neck.

The second the last spasm of your orgasm passed, a new wave of pain slithered its way up, that burning ache hadn’t left as your dick throbbed angrily.

Your breath caught again, this time not from pain, but the sting of need ripping through your belly.

Every inch of his exhale soaked into your skin, warm condensation painting the side of your throat, followed by the gentle, maddening scrape of his beard. A dry rasp that danced across the oversensitized line of your jaw and shoulder, each bristle dragged across the flesh.

Your brain was a fogged glass window, heat smeared across it in trembling streaks and you groaned as you pulled back only to climb him.

Your knees hit the outside of his thighs and you straddled him, planting yourself in his lap with a desperate moan, the shape of his big bulge now grinding flush against your ass through both of your pants.

A huff of shocked air left his lungs, half a grunt, half a curse.

No words escaped him as your mouth crushed his, your hands dove into the heavy bristle of his beard, fingers cupping the rough cut of his jaw as you forced your mouth against his while grinding hard against the thick bulge in his pants.

A grunt was ripped from his chest, rumbling up his throat from the sudden kiss, lips parting beneath yours before he even thought to resist. That first second he froze but the time to recover and he kissed you back like he was starved.

His hands came up hard, wide palms slamming against your back to pull you into him as chapped and rough lips moved with your own. There was a hunger in the way he tilted his head, letting your mouth press deeper into his, groaning again when your tongue slid along his.

He hadn’t expected this, didn’t think he’d get to touch you ever. Now you were straddling and kissing him like it might undo the agony inside you.

You moaned into him and he gasped again, pulling back to breathe but your lips chased him, eyes hazy and lost. You made a quiet, broken noise when he didn’t meet you right away, a whimper that cracked in the back of your throat.

He hated every piece of how this happened. This wasn’t how he wanted to earn you.

He wanted you to choose him because you saw him for who he was and wanted him anyway.

You kissed him again, this time down his throat. Your lips fastened to the rough column of his neck, soft and open-mouthed, tongue licking a trembling path to the notch of his collarbone, lavishing the path ahead.

The outline of his cock throbbed thick against your ass, and your body ground down even harder, seeking the friction with a rhythm that made you gasp while looping your arms around his shoulders to keep steady.

With a low growl, Joel’s hand slid down and hooked beneath your thigh, gripping tight to help you grind deeper against him. His voice rasped out near your ear, breath shaking.

“Y’keep movin’ like that and I ain’t gonna be able to hold back.” He murmured, lips brushing your jaw.

Your hands flew down, fumbling with his belt and he watched you with wide, dark eyes, chest heaving as your fingers yanked open the buckle and fought the button free.

He groaned the second your hand pulled him free, thick, hot and heavy. He was bigger than you’d even imagined in the loneliest of nights.

Joel’ broad palms dropped to your ass sliding inward with a warm smear of spit as he circled your rim with maddening slowness, then pushed one thick finger in without warning.

The stretch burned, but not enough to make you stop or even slow down. You rocked back onto him instinctively, greedy, grinding down to take him deeper.

His other hand came up to stroke your lower back, grounding you as he added a second finger. This time he slowed, watched your face, lips parted and trembling as the stretch widened and your nails dug into the flannel on his chest. The ache rode a razor’s edge with pleasure.

Joel twisted his fingers as he fucked them in and out of you, wrist flexing just so to press against that hot, shivering bundle of nerves inside.

You pulled back, his fingers sliding free with a wet sound that made your cheeks flush and when he reached for you again, you were already rising onto your knees, lining yourself up. One hand gripped the base of his thick and hot cock before slamming yourself down on it.

“Ah—fuck—” Joel choked out, his head snapping forward to bury in your neck, voice breaking against your skin as your tight heat swallowed him whole in a single motion.

Your hole stretched around him with brutal urgency. The burn was immediate, the ache sharp, your body seized again as you came with no warning, just an explosion that tore through your nerves. Your cock twitched where it was trapped between your abdomens, painting streaks of cum across Joel’s stomach and your shirt, your chest heaving as your walls clamped down hard, milking him with pulsing aftershocks of your sudden orgasm and he cursed into your neck.

“Goddamn—you came?” His voice was hoarse, near disbelief while his hands grabbed your hips so hard you thought he’d bruise you, holding you flush against him, buried to the hilt.

Your hole spasmed again, fluttering around him and drawing another groan from his throat as you cockwarmed him. He was panting now, breath hot and erratic against your skin.

Joel felt your still hard cock poking against his stomach, leaking slick again even though you’d just come.

One thick arm snaked down beneath your ass, the other sliding up to your waist, and with one solid motion, he stood.

“J–Joel?” you gasped, voice wrecked.

“Shhh,” he growled while holding you so tight and close that the angle didn’t change, you whimpered when he adjusted you higher against his chest.

Glass shattered, metal clanged, paper flew as Joel’s hand swept across the table near the center of the room, knocking everything to the floor in one vicious sweep of his arm.

It was impossible to care for any of those things when he dropped you down onto the now-cleared tabletop and pushed your thighs open wider, stepped between them, and rammed himself back in with the full force of his body behind it.

“F–fuck!” Your arms snapped tight around his neck, legs locking around his waist. You clung to him, body shaking as he bottomed out again with no warning or pause.

He pulled back and slammed back in again.

Your head fell back with a cracked moan, neck exposed, chest arched. His name poured out of you like a prayer. Joel grunted with every thrust, sweat dripping down the sides of his face, neck corded tight with strain.

You were gone for the feel of him fucking you, claiming and filling you up so completely you didn’t know where he ended and you began. The table shook beneath you with each savage thrust, the wood groaning in protest under Joel’s strength.

Your cock rubbed between you again, hard and wet and pressed to his abs. Each slam of his hips rocked it up your abdomen, drawing gasps and broken noises from your throat, dragging your insides with every inch it claimed and then retreated from.

His head dropped into the crook of your neck, beard rasping against your pulse, breath hot and heavy as it stuttered into your skin.

His voice cracked against your throat. “Still wonderin’ why Ellie swapped patrols with you?”

It was surreal hearing his voice cut through the fog now. You hadn’t even realized the fungus haze had thinned. Not gone, but faltering.

“I—yea—mmmf—” You tried to respond but it broke halfway into a moan when his cock sank back in to the base and stayed there.

“She Saw the way I was watchin’ you. Knew I was askin’ too many goddamn questions ‘bout how you were.” He said with a raw voice as he grounded into you.

“Kid gave me this week. Told me to stop bein’ a stubborn, miserable bastard and just make a move.”

You shivered, breath punching out of you with every thrust.

“Joel—” you moaned.

“Didn’t want this to happen this way but I ain’t lettin’ you suffer alone.” He groaned again, biting into your shoulder briefly.

Your mouth opened but only more gasps came out. Finally, between broken breaths: “I’d’ve said somethin’, Joel…if I’d known… I—I—fuck—I wanted you…”

That did something to him. His thrusts grew rougher and faster. The rhythm shattered and replaced by raw instinct.

Your lips crashed together, his tongue plunged into your mouth, devouring you as his hips slammed forward one final time as he came.

The heat erupted inside you, his cock pulsing thick spurts coming deep in your abdomen, his entire body shuddering against yours. He groaned into your mouth, voice wrecked, lost, the sound of a man giving up every defense he ever had.

Your cock jerked between you, untouched, and splattered hot release all across his abdomen and yours.

The air between your bodies steamed, heavy and thick with the scent of sweat and sex. Your face was buried against Joel’s shoulder, every breath a sharp drag of oxygen through your teeth, his beard scratching against your temple with each slight twitch of his jaw.

Joel let out a breath that landed heavy against the skin of your throat.

This fucked-up fungus was now fused to you now. Living in your system. You didn’t know when it would happen again but all you had clue of was what it meant it will do.

You felt your throat tighten from dread.

“I’ve got it in me,” you whispered. “I—fuck, Joel. I’ll have to live with this.”

“You ain’t alone in it,” he murmured. “I’m here. You hear me?” Voice softer and lower now.

He gave you a moment before handing you your wrinkled shirt. You slipped it over your head slowly, wincing with each movement before doing the same with your pants.

You both moved slowly through the same broken window.

The air outside was colder but clean and you paused near the horses.

“We ain’t tellin’ no one,” He said, tone flat and quiet, “when we get back to Jackson,” he continued, low and firm, “this stays between us. That lab, the spores, what it did to you.” A beat. “Ain’t nobody else’s business.”

He looked at you like you were already his to protect.

He stepped back, mounting his horse in one practiced motion, tone now taking a lower, husky edge to it as he spoke again. “Next time it starts again, you come find me. I don’t care what time it is, where we are. You don’t go through that by yourself, y’hear me?”

[reidsmanuscript]

Seven Seconds

Summary: when Katie Jacob's gets abducted in a Mall, setting the clock for the BAU, who needs a legal favor, and it's been a year since the A.D.A. has know anything about Spencer Reid. Pairing: Spencer Reid x lawyer!reader Genre: pinning, SLOW BURN, maybe right moment?, angst bc i love angst wc: 4.6k! (i know so small comparing to part 1 bear with me) TW: cm canon typical violence, set in 05x3 "Seven seconds" (obviously lol), sexual violence, implied reader's dark past, glimpses of female rage. A/N: my idea for the serie is be taylor jenkins reid and have you question if lawyer reader exists or not (delusional bitch), english is not my first language and let's pretend it's proofread part I - part II - part III - part IV - masterlist

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Spencer sat on the park bench reading a book while playing chess with Ethan, brilliant kid for his age and good opponent, not good enough though because when he cheered “I see checkmate in 5, What do you see?” It took Spencer one glance to calculate all the movements necessary.

“I see it in 3” he answered looking at his book again, the kid turned around the board and moved the pieces

“We've missed you out here” he said, staring at the board amazed.

“Thanks. I, uh, I had to take a little break”

“How come?” His hands froze on the book for a second before closing it.

Spencer had been clean for over a year now, it was 14 months and 2 weeks ago that he had freaked out after noticing his stash of Dialud was gone along with his needle. Where could he find more? Who knew about his addiction? Where was his stash? Who the fuck is Dr. Fitzgerald? Did you report him?

His first instinct was confronting you, given that you were the only person who found out his drugs that he knew, the first days he was a complete paranoid, he jumped every time Hotch called his name, or that Gideon looked at him a little too long.

At the end of the week he was thinking where he could find more, and when that thought scared him, he called the number of the card you had left in the same pocket his drugs used to be.

“Hello this is Dr. Fitzgerald” said a calm voice, it was 10 p.m. so there was a higher chance of going to voicemail, but he got an answer and the tremor of his hands got a little worse. Was it the anxiety or the withdrawal?

“Umm hello.. this is.. Dr.. this is Spencer Reid and someon-""I've been waiting for your call Dr Reid” the other line interrupted, he froze for a second.

“I used to play with a co-worker friend of mine. He's probably the best mind I ever went up against. One day, he just decided that he didn't want to play anymore.”

Fast forward, she helped him get clean and stay clean after Gideon left, getting tested regularly, and gave him the contact of the help group of FBI addicts. He was better, he was alive.

“So you gave up, too?”

“Just the opposite. I attempted to play Through every permutation of moves on a chessboard.”

“That's an infinite number of games.”

“It's not infinite. It's just- it's exponentially large.”

“You couldn't have played through them all.”

“There's an average of 40 moves per chess game, And I'll tell you something– the more I played, The more I realized that every single match every single chess game, Is really just a simple variation on the exact same theme. You know? It's aggressive opening, Patient mid-game, inevitable checkmate, And I realized why my friend quit. He was tired of repeating the same patterns And expecting a different outcome.”

“That's because you haven't come up on Fridays or Mondays in a while” the way his eyebrows went up along his voice tone made him feel like he knew something that he didn't.

His eyebrows furrowed “What do you mean?”

“There's this great player who comes around those days, she even brings the best pastries, and her games is similar to yours, always two or three moves ahead, she always beats everyone here… i think her boyfriend called her Buzz or something like that, like the Toy Story character”

“Buzz?… i don't really remember anyone with that nickname”

“It’s probably not that one but you don't know her because she started coming like 8 months ago.. I'm sure you have a lifetime of chess strategy in your head that you're just sitting on, but when you meet her?” He made a dramatic pause “You'll have to play it.”

He glances at his watch to realize his 15 minute break is coming to an end. “I still use it. I just, uh... I apply it differently. I have to go. It's good seeing you.”

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That evening, the BAU was called in for a local case—a little girl, Katie, had been kidnapped from a busy mall. A week earlier, another girl had been taken from the same location and found dead hours later. Now, they were all racing against the clock.

Katie’s parents were desperate. As any parents would be in this situation, right? But when Hotch asked the father if either of them was having an affair—a routine question in abductions—the man took offense. Deep offense. So much so that he refused to let the FBI search their house.

Now, what kind of parent refuses to help the police find their missing child?

In a small surveillance room, Morgan and Reid sat with Garcia, who was visibly frustrated by the mall’s ancient security system. They were surrounded by screens displaying grainy footage from different angles—well, almost every angle. They had a single glimpse of Katie in one video, and then, seven seconds later, she was gone.

JJ and Prentiss were with the mother, aunt, and uncle, trying to get a read on the family dynamic. Meanwhile, Morgan and Reid had conducted a cognitive interview with Katie’s cousin. It had led nowhere.

“The family has refused permission to search the house,” Hotch announced as he stepped into the room.

“What do you mean they denied?” Morgan’s frustration was evident. “Your only child goes missing, and you refuse to collaborate?”

No one disagreed. They were all thinking the same thing.

“The cousin didn’t say much,” Reid added. “He was too distracted in the game room to notice anything.”

Hotch exhaled sharply. “I’ll speak to the detectives, see if we can get a warrant.” His tone was firm, but they all knew time wasn’t on their side.

Garcia adjusted her glasses. “Sir, I mean this in the best way possible, but it’s almost 8 p.m. I don’t think-”

“I’ll handle it,” Morgan interrupted.

All Reid and Garcia turned to him with identical looks. What do you mean you will handle it?

Hotch’s eyebrows furrowed, but after a moment, he gave a small nod and walked away. Morgan was already pulling out his phone.

“I have a contact,” he explained, dialing.

He put the phone on speaker. It rang once. Twice. On the third ring, a voice answered—sharp, direct, and all business.

“A.D.A. Woodvale.”

Reid went rigid.

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It was late in the office; most people had already gone home, including your assistant Molly. All but Austin, who was still there because he had a lead on one of your cases. You knew he was still hanging around because, over a year ago, when someone had snuck into your office to harm you, you’d become a little paranoid. You’d gotten better, but Austin insisted on keeping you company, especially since your car was in the mechanic’s.

You were reviewing a legal brief, pen in hand, skimming the margins to jot down notes when the desk phone rang. Without looking up, you hit the speaker button with the tip of the pen.

“A.D.A. Woodvale.”

There was a beat of silence before a familiar voice cut in—smooth, direct, urgent.

Morgan called your name “Hey. We need a warrant. Fast.” You blinked, setting the pen down.

Reid and Garcia exchanged glances as Morgan jumped in without hesitation.

“Katie Jacobs. Eight years old. Abducted from a mall earlier tonight,” Morgan started, all business. “Another girl was taken from the same place a week ago—she was found dead hours later. We’re working against the clock.”

You frowned, swirling the pen, going through the multiple scenarios. You had heard about last week’s case, and how slow the police had moved back then.

“We’ve got mall surveillance footage,” Morgan pressed. “At first, we thought she just vanished, but Garcia finally pulled something from one of the side corridors. Katie wasn’t taken by force—she was walking calmly with someone.”

Your fingers tightened slightly around her pen. “Someone she knows.”

“Exactly,” Morgan confirmed. “That narrows it down to family or close acquaintances.” They all shared a silent thought. Family.

We know they’re hiding something,” Morgan corrected. “We just don’t have the probable cause to kick the door down.”

Garcia watched as Morgan paced slightly, his tone firm but urgent.

“That’s thin, Morgan,” Your voice came through the speaker, steady and unyielding.

“We don’t have time for airtight,” Morgan countered.

Your jaw tightened. “You don’t have time for me to get laughed out of a judge’s office, either. Refusing a search isn’t a crime, and suspicion alone doesn’t cut it. I need more.” You understood where the suspicious came from, how are you supposed to help them if they had nothing?

There was a pause. A beat of silence. Then, another voice—one you hadn’t heard in over a year.

“99% of abducted children who are killed due within the first 24 hours” He cleared his throat, willing his voice to stay even. Spencer Reid. “75% within the first 3 hours, and what only law enforcement knows is Jessica Davis joined the 44% of children who are abducted and killed within the first hour. We’re already past the three-hour mark. If we don’t act now, statistically speaking—”

“The likelihood of recovery drops exponentially,” You sighed, already standing up, ignoring how his voice sounded. So different. So… clean.

Your gaze flicked to the clock. 8:06 p.m. Damn it.

You grabbed a blank warrant form from her drawer and reached for a pen. “Send me the address and everything else you have. Give me 20 minutes.”

Click. You didn’t have time for goodbyes.

Austin raised an eyebrow from his seat. “Guess you’re not going home anytime soon.”

You didn’t look up as you started writing. “I never was.”

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The courthouse was mostly deserted at this hour. The fluorescent lights hummed quietly, and the stillness of the evening was only interrupted by the sharp click of your heels on the polished floors followed by Austin’s boots toward the judge’s chambers.

“You sure you don’t want me to take this one? Sweet-talk her maybe?” he teased.

You shot him a look. “You think Judge Holloway is the type to be charmed? Plus, you’re a private investigator, not a lawyer.”  

“She’s not gonna like you showing up this late.”  

You didn’t miss a beat. “If she’s still up, she’ll make time for this.”  

Taking a steadying breath as you stopped in front of the door, you quickly ran through your notes, making sure you had every detail in order. Then, without hesitation, you pushed through the heavy wooden doors of Judge Evelyn Holloway’s chambers.  

Inside, the judge barely glanced up from her paperwork. “You have two minutes, Woodvale.”

Stepping forward, you set the warrant request on the desk. “Your Honor, I apologize for the late hour, but we have a child abduction case we’re working against the clock. A young girl, Katie Jacobs, was taken from a mall over three hours ago. We’ve obtained surveillance footage showing her walking with an individual—someone she likely knows. We believe the family is withholding information, and they’ve refused to allow us to search the residence.”

The judge narrowed his eyes, folding her hands on the desk. “And what do you propose I do about it? What evidence do you have to warrant a search?”

You kept your voice steady. “We have footage of the girl with someone who wasn’t a stranger, Your Honor. The parents are refusing cooperation, and the father was evasive when asked about possible affairs, which raises red flags about his involvement.”

Holloway sighed, leaning back in her chair. “That’s thin.” You were ready for that.

“I have the full footage from the mall security, including a timestamp showing the precise time the girl went missing. She is last seen walking calmly with someone she knows, most likely family.”

There was a brief pause, and for a second, you thought you were about to lose her. So you pulled Reid’s words from memory, adjusting them just enough to make them your own.

“Time is working against us. Statistics show that 99% of abducted children who are murdered lose their lives within the first 24 hours 75% within just the first three. And only law enforcement-”

She cut you off with a raised hand, signaling you to stop.

The judge exhaled through her nose, it was late and you were rambling about statistics and you knew she wanted you out as soon as possible when you started citing numbers. So pushing himself out of her chair with a slight groan. “Fine. Get me the paperwork. I’ll sign it—but you better have your ducks in a row.”

You nodded, her demeanor unflinching. “Thank you, Your Honor.”

As you turned to leave, you couldn’t help but feel the weight of the hours ahead of you. But you were used to this—fighting against the clock.

“Let’s move,” motioning to Austin. He gave you a small nod. “You got it.”

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Exactly 15 minutes after the call, 5 minutes earlier than promised, Morgan’s phone rang. He answered it without even looking. 

"You got your warrant. I'll meet you there," Alex’s voice came through, crisp and businesslike, just as expected.

Morgan exhaled, his relief barely hidden. "Thank you, Woody."

He paused for a moment before adding, "I owe you one," then hung up, turning to Reid.

“Tell Hotch we’re heading to the Jacobs’ house,” he instructed, already moving toward the door.

Spencer had been timing her. It wasn’t the first time he'd gotten caught up in the tense waiting game of law and order, but the pressure of it had a different weight today. The memory of your voice, clear and resolute, echoed in his mind, sharper than before.

For Reid, part of getting clean wasn't just the physical withdrawal—it was the emotional weight of confronting his mistakes. The memory of how he'd lashed out at you a year ago still haunted him. How could he have been so cruel? The hurt in your eyes, the way he dismissed you, the way it all spiraled… it wasn’t just the drugs that had made him say those things. And the fury he saw when you looked at him, Dialuid in hand, how you looked like a timing bomb when he was trying to see if he could talk to you, the tension in your shoulders, the lock in your jaw, the grip on the file. He’d been battling so much more since then, in his mind, you saved his life by doing what he couldn't do.

He’d rather die than relive that moment again, than say those things. And yet, here he was, standing in the middle of another chaotic case, still carrying that guilt with him. He stayed behind Morgan for just a beat before pushing down his feelings and moving quickly. 

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The engine of Austin's bike rumbled to a stop as they pulled up in front of the house, where Morgan and Reid were standing in front of the black SUV. You slid off the back with practiced ease, taking off the helmet and letting your hair fall loose.

Austin followed your lead, taking his helmet off with a groan. “So, what exactly are we looking for?”

You shot him a quick, sidelong glance, handing him the helmet, keeping your expression flat knowing he’s about to be a drama queen. “You’re not coming inside. The warrant’s for FBI and police only. Not P.I.s included”

Austin paused, a mock pout crossing his face. “Excuse me? I just got you here, through all that traffic, risking myself to get a speeding ticket and now I don’t get to search? This is the second time in the night that you P.I. shaming me. Do you hate me?”

“If I hated you I wouldn’t have bailed your ass out of jail… twice” you remark the last part. He had a talent for sticking his foot where he shouldn’t be, maybe that’s what makes him good at his job.

“You act like you wouldn’t do it a third time” he was mocking, but he was right, something you would never admit to him. 

You start walking to the house “Mhm.” you hum rolling your eyes, heading towards where Morgan and Reid were. 

You didn't expect him to be there, or maybe you did, maybe you wanted to see him and know what had happened to him since the last time you saw him. They were looking at you, Morgan with a curious already-profiling-you stare, while Reid expression was more… cautious. He looked so different, his cheekbones were prominent in an attractive way and not sickly, he had put on some healthy weight and was not fidgety. You were not mad anymore, because of course at the moment the hurt had turned into rage like it always does for you, but it was more because of phantoms than anything else. 

“Got your golden ticket” you said, avoiding Reid’s gaze as you pulled the warrant from the inner pocket of your gray coat and swung it toward them.

Morgan nodded “You staying?” He gestured with his head to Austin who was leaving.

“I have to make sure you find something, otherwise the judge will have my head for this,” you said dryly, shrugging as though the threat didn’t bother you, but there was a flicker of seriousness behind your words. You were only talking to him, which felt rude because Reid’s stare was locked in your profile. 

Reid was thinking how pretty you looked, how the black vest suited you, and he couldn’t ignore the fact you had changed your brown bag to a black one that looked nothing like his. Your white shirt and gray coat gave you an older, wiser look, but as Reid analyzed your features, he realized he didn’t even know how old you were. You couldn’t be older than him. Serious, sharp, and young... How was it possible for someone that young to be the A.D.A.?

Reid’s mind couldn’t let go of the numbers. The average age of an Assistant District Attorney in the U.S. is 36. You couldn’t be older than 25, and yet you were already in that position.

You glanced at him for a moment before stepping inside the house, feeling the weight of his stare. The look made him snap out of his trance-like state, and of course, his eidetic memory hated him, because for that brief second, he remembered how you had looked at him a year ago.

Morgan nodded and thanked you again before he and Reid walked into the house. You left the warrant on the hall table with a deliberate touch, your fingers lingering for just a moment—as if to remind yourself that you weren’t entirely done with this.

“Somebody lit a fire last night,” you heard Reid say.

“Well, there are dirty dishes for three in the kitchen, so they eat together as a family.” Morgan’s voice carried from the other room as they moved through the house, taking in the details.

If Katie was in danger, the signs wouldn’t be in plain sight. You had to look where they hid—where children kept their secrets. Their bedrooms.

“Hey, my favorite movie from when I was a kid.” Reid held up a DVD, turning it in his hands before pulling it from the player just as you passed by him, tugging on latex gloves before heading upstairs, you did feel a little guilty for not even looking or talking to him, but it was something you did unconsciously. 

“So they watch movies together, too,” Morgan mused. They were starting to build a picture of the family’s dynamic.

“By a fireplace in a house that’s straight out of a catalog,” Reid added. “Norman Rockwell couldn’t have painted this any cozier.”

“That’s what worries me.” There was weight in Morgan’s voice. A tension that sat between them.

Upstairs, you searched through the rooms with careful precision.

When you first became a lawyer, you made a promise—never ignore a sign. Since then, you have gone further. You didn’t just refuse to ignore them; you searched for them. Hollow eyes. Unexplained bruises. Small bloodstains. You looked for them in teenagers, in young adults, in the elderly. But nothing—nothing—was more painful than a child who couldn’t speak up.

Because they were small. Because someone older, someone stronger, was hurting them. There's nothing more hurtful than not being able to speak out, to say something and stand up for yourself. Except when someone did—someone saw the bruises, the fear, the signs—and they looked away deliberately. Because a child’s pain was inconvenient. Because it came with a mountain of paperwork no one wanted to touch.

You had spent your whole life making sure you never looked away.

That’s why you were hunched over the small desk in Katie’s bedroom, flipping through her drawings when Morgan and Reid entered the room. They started searching, their movements efficient and methodical.

“Katie’s been wetting her bed,” Reid said as he lifted the duvet, inspecting the mattress beneath it.

“A lot of six-year-olds do. Could be bad dreams,” Morgan replied, crouching beside you as he sifted through a pile of toys.

You considered that possibility—it was perfectly logical. In a perfect world.

“Some kids won’t get up at night because they’re afraid of the dark,” Reid added, his tone careful. Almost knowing.

“Or it could be a lot more complex than that.”

Morgan had found a doll. Not a Barbie missing a shoe or one that had simply been played with too much. No—this doll was different.

Its hair had been hacked off, jagged strands sticking out unevenly. Red marker smeared across its face like smeared blood. Its clothes were yanked askew, twisted, and wrong.

“Most girls covet their dolls like an extension of themselves.” He took the doll in his hands like it was made of fine glass. 

“Reid, I know these signs-— acting out on her toys, wetting the bed. She's obviously covering up something about that necklace.”

“And her cousin might be holding something back.”

“Well, this looks more like a man than a boy to me,” you said, holding up a drawing of a tall, shadowy figure towering over a small, crying child.

Morgan took it from your hands, his expression hardening as he analyzed the image.

“Psychology says drawing is a child’s way of channeling their inner world. Look at the strokes—how harsh they are,” you pointed to the dark, jagged lines forming the tall figure, then traced your finger over the smaller one. “And this looks like Katie to me. She forgot to draw the hands, which means she feels powerless… helpless.” 

Morgan took his phone out, dialing up “Hotch, we think Katie’s being molested,” Morgan said, his voice clipped. “And we both know the odds.”

A brief silence. Then Hotch’s response, firm and certain. “Most likely by someone under the same roof.”

He hung up, and both men started toward the door, their movements brisk with purpose. But you stayed behind for a moment, rooted in place, taking in the scene. Trying to quiet the distant sirens that echoed in your mind, the same ones always shouting when you were face to face with these situations. A loud pause—maybe out of respect for Katie and her pain, for everything she had been forced to endure.

From the doorway, Spencer glanced back. The dim light from the hallway cast your figure in stark contrast, outlining you in shadow—your form dark against the soft glow of the room. He couldn’t see your expression, couldn’t read your face. He focused on the way your hands curled into fists at your sides, the tight set of your shoulders.

And he wished—just for a second—that he could see more.

　　　　 　　　 .˳˳.⋅ॱ˙ ˙ॱ⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙ ˙ॱᐧ.˳˳.⋅.　　　

You stood outside, leaning against the wall, arms crossed tightly over your chest. By your side were Morgan, Jeremy, Katie’s cousin, and Reid.

Turns out, Katie’s uncle, Richard, was her abuser. A disgusting son of a bitch who deserved to rot in hell. And you were going to make sure he did. He had destroyed Katie’s childhood, probably more than just hers, shattering an entire family in the process. His own son, standing right next to you, was collateral damage he clearly hadn’t spared a thought for. And then there was his wife. The woman who had chosen to look away. Who had taken Katie and nearly gotten her killed, all for the pathetic, desperate hope that it would somehow stop her husband from creeping into little bedrooms at night. She deserved the same hell he did.

A stretcher rolled past, Katie’s small frame barely visible beneath the blankets as the paramedics guided her into the ambulance. Her mother clutched her tiny hand, whispering something—words meant to soothe, to promise safety.

A young voice cut through the air. “I heard her call my mom’s name. That’s what I remembered before.”

You closed your eyes, your mind already racing ahead. Your attorney brain was piecing it together, sketching out the battle that was coming. If the kid had heard it, that made him a witness to the abduction. His own mother had committed the crime against her niece. And God only knew what else he had seen—what else had been happening in that house—without fully understanding it.

“We get it, kid. That’s your mom,” Morgan said, his voice steady. But you knew the truth: if Jeremy could barely say those words to them, getting him to the stand in front of a jury would be another fight entirely.

The boy shifted on his feet, staring at the ambulance. “What’s gonna happen to me now?”

If God existed, He had already been too cruel. He had let all of this happen. And you knew how these things worked—knew there was a very real chance that Katie’s parents, burdened with their own grief, would resent Jeremy by association. That they wouldn’t take him in. That he would be swallowed by the foster system.

You wouldn’t let that happen.

The sirens blared outside the mall, cutting through the air with urgency, but it was the ones inside your mind that were louder—screaming in the same rhythm, as if they were one and the same. Distant and deafening, they filled every corner of your head, drowning out everything but the grim reality unfolding before you.

“I don’t know, Jeremy,” Reid answered, his voice gentle. “But we’re gonna make sure you’re alright, okay?”

Jeremy didn’t look at him. His eyes stayed fixed on the ambulance. “Is Katie gonna be all right?”

You wished—desperately, violently—that you could tell him yes. That you could say it with certainty and make it true. But how could you give him something you didn’t have?

“She will, eventually,” Morgan said, his voice firm.

You exhaled sharply. The words made your skin crawl.

“Is she?” The question slipped from your lips before you could stop it—low, bitter, nearly spat out under your breath. Just quiet enough that the kid wouldn’t hear. Just loud enough that Morgan did.

Before he could respond, you were already moving.

Your feet carried you toward the police car, toward the sick, selfish bastard they were shoving into the backseat. Your hand shot out, slamming the door closed—harder than necessary, just enough that it cracked against Richard’s face.

Morgan watched. So did Spencer.

And for the first time, he realized just how much of a puzzle you really were.

Partially because, throughout all of this, you hadn’t looked at him once. Not when he entered the room, not when he spoke, not even now, standing just a few feet away.

Partially because your eyes, when he finally caught a glimpse of them, were full of something he rarely saw outside of a case like this. Pure, undiluted rage.

Not just anger. Not just frustration. Something deeper. Something personal.

　　　　 　　　 .˳˳.⋅ॱ˙ ˙ॱ⋅.˳˳.⋅ॱ˙ ˙ॱᐧ.˳˳.⋅.　

part III　 Feedback feeds motivation! Likes, reblogs and comments are all appreciated <3

[nerdycheol]

I Loathe You Forever? - II

❤️‍🔥Pairing: real estate developer!jungkook x architect!f reader

❤️‍🔥Genre: Enemies-to-lovers, slow-burn romance, comedic misunderstandings, professional rivalry, personal growth, future smut

❤️‍🔥wc: 5.9k

(TAGLIST OPEN)

note: i have not abandoned this, i promise::>_<:: hope you guys enjoy😊

⏮ prev || next ⏭

Chapter 2: The Art of Not Killing Your Partner

The hotel lobby buzzed with energy. Guests milled around, dragging suitcases and chatting excitedly about their plans, the golden chandeliers casting a warm glow over the marble floors. Jungkook, of course, looked completely at home in the grandeur, striding confidently toward the reception desk while you trailed behind, dragging your carry-on.

The receptionist, a cheerful woman with a polished smile, greeted you both. “Good evening! Welcome to The Mirage. May I have your names, please?”

“Jeon Jungkook,” he said smoothly, leaning against the counter like he was born for moments like this.

The receptionist typed for a moment before her smile brightened. “Ah, yes. Miss Y/N and Mr. Jungkook—room 1501. Here’s your key.” She slid a single key card across the counter.

Your brow furrowed as you stepped forward. “One key? There must be some mistake. We booked two rooms.”

The receptionist’s smile faltered as she double-checked her screen. “Uh, no, ma’am. It’s one room—a suite with double beds.”

You blinked in disbelief, your frustration bubbling to the surface. “No, no, no. We specifically booked two separate rooms. Just book us another room.”

The receptionist hesitated, her fingers hovering awkwardly over the keyboard. “I… I’m really sorry, ma’am, but we’re completely booked. It’s the holiday season, and all rooms are occupied.”

You stared at her, your patience running dangerously thin. “You’re telling me we’re stuck sharing a room?”

“I truly apologize for the inconvenience,” she murmured, her voice barely audible under your glare.

Before you could launch into a tirade, Jungkook chuckled softly and leaned in. “Don’t scare her off—it’s not her fault. Besides, it seems like you’ll have to stay with me,” he said, his tone laced with amusement.

Your head snapped toward him, your glare sharp enough to cut steel. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Mam, again, we’re so sorry,” the receptionist added timidly, her cheeks flushing red.

Letting out an exasperated sigh, you shook your head. “Ugh. Just my luck.”

The receptionist gave a small bow. “Thank you for your understanding. We hope you have a pleasant stay.”

“Doubt it,” you muttered under your breath, snatching the key from Jungkook’s hand and storming off toward the elevators.

Behind the counter, the receptionist’s coworker leaned over with a knowing look. “Couples’ fight?”

The receptionist let out a small sigh, shaking her head. “Looks that way.”

You stomped ahead, your suitcase wheels screeching against the floor, while Jungkook followed leisurely, clearly entertained by your rising frustration.

“Don’t walk so fast,” he called out, amusement dripping from his voice. “You might miss my company.”

Without turning, you picked up your pace, your grip tightening on the suitcase handle. As you reached the elevator, you stepped in and immediately pressed the button for your floor. Just as the doors began to close, you jabbed the “Close Door” button repeatedly, glancing at Jungkook, who was still strolling toward you like he had all the time in the world.

“Real mature,” Jungkook called, breaking into a light jog as the gap narrowed.

The doors were nearly shut when his hand darted through the opening. The sensors forced them open again, and he slipped inside, his grin triumphant.

“Nice try,” he said, leaning casually against the wall.

You huffed and turned your back on him, arms crossed. “Whatever.”

“Admit it,” he teased, stepping closer. “You’d miss me if I got left behind.”

You gave him a sideways glare through the mirrored wall. “Miss you? I’d throw a party in that double bed for one.”

His eyebrows shot up in mock surprise. “Double bed for one? That almost sounds lonely. Lucky for you, I’ll be there to keep you company.”

Your glare could have melted steel. “I’d rather sleep in the hallway.”

He chuckled softly, clearly enjoying himself as the elevator dinged to signal your floor. “Suit yourself. But if you think I’m moving the beds around all night to please your highness, you’re dreaming.”

The elevator doors slid open, and you stormed out, Jungkook following close behind. His teasing voice drifted after you as you marched down the hall. “Don’t worry, I’ll take the side closer to the minibar. You can have the one by the lamp—since you probably need it to keep that fiery temper in check.”

You ignored him, your suitcase wheels squeaking against the plush carpet as you approached the suite door. Swiping the key card with more force than necessary, you pushed the door open, stepping inside.

The suite was annoyingly luxurious. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed a dazzling view of the Vegas Strip, a gleaming chandelier hung above, and the furniture screamed opulence. And yet, your gaze zeroed in on the beds—two plush mattresses awkwardly pushed together, barely pretending to be separate.

You froze mid-step, your disbelief quickly turning into simmering anger. “Are you kidding me right now?”

Behind you, Jungkook strolled in, taking one look at the setup before tossing his bag onto the bed by the window. “Cozy,” he commented, his smirk firmly in place as he flopped down like he owned the place.

“Yah!” You whipped around, pointing accusingly at the beds. “Separate them. Right now.”

He stretched out leisurely, lacing his hands behind his head. “Nah. I’m good here. Thanks, though.”

Your glare could’ve incinerated him on the spot. “Move. The. Beds.”

Jungkook turned his head lazily to meet your furious stare, propping himself up on an elbow. “Why don’t you do it, Miss Independent? Aren’t you all about handling things yourself?”

“Because,” you hissed, your voice rising, “this entire mess was your fault!”

He raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “My fault? How exactly? I didn’t tell the hotel to double-book. You’re just mad because you secretly like this.”

“Like what?” you snapped.

“Me.” He leaned back with a wink, his smirk so infuriatingly confident you were ready to throw something.

Your hands gripped the nearest pillow before your brain could intervene, and you launched it at him with precision. The pillow smacked him square in the face, earning a surprised grunt.

“Keep dreaming, Jungkook,” you spat, grabbing your toiletry bag from your suitcase and storming toward the bathroom. You slammed the door shut behind you with a satisfying bang, muttering to yourself about how you’d survive this nightmare of a trip.

From the other side of the door, his laughter rang out, low and infuriatingly amused. “Goodnight to you, too, sweetheart!”

As you emerged from the bathroom, freshly changed into more comfortable clothes, you caught sight of Jungkook, who was already sprawled out on the bed, flicking through the TV channels like he was at home. You scoffed, immediately turning your attention to the rest of the suite.

You couldn’t help but scoff. “Really? Still didn’t separate the beds?”

Jungkook glanced up at you, his grin spreading. “I don’t mind sleeping in the same bed as you. If you’ve got a problem, move the beds yourself.” His voice was teasing, too calm for your liking.

You were exhausted and frankly, didn’t have the energy to argue or rearrange the furniture. With a dramatic sigh, you marched over to the bed, stopping right in front of him. Without saying a word, you yanked a pillow from under his head, causing him to let out a surprised sound.

He looked at you with raised eyebrows. “What do you think you’re—”

“Shh,” you interrupted, positioning the pillow between the two of you. “This is the boundary. Don’t cross this line.” You pointed at the pillow, your tone firm.

Jungkook let out a laugh, shaking his head. “A line? Really? You’re going to make a big deal about this?”

You gave him your most serious look, eyes narrowed. “You’d better respect it, or I’ll have to find another way to keep you on your side.”

He chuckled, clearly amused. “Oh, I’m scared. Don’t worry, I’ll stay on my side. But just so you know, I’m not the one who started this little war over pillows.”

You flopped onto the bed on your side, crossing your arms. “I’m just making sure you understand the rules,” you muttered.

Jungkook smirked, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Uh-huh. You keep telling yourself that.”

But you could hear the faint chuckle that followed, and deep down, you knew this was far from over.

The soft light filtering through the curtains was the first thing you registered as you slowly woke up. You stretched, sinking deeper into the warmth of the sheets—until an annoying series of grunts interrupted your peace.

Frowning, you blinked your eyes open and turned toward the noise. More grumbling. More aggressive shuffling.

With a sigh, you sat up, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. That’s when you spotted Jungkook by his suitcase, hunched over and wrestling with it like it had personally wronged him. His brows were furrowed, his jaw tight, and every few seconds, he muttered something under his breath.

“Jungkook,” you deadpanned, leaning against the bedframe. “What exactly are you doing?”

He froze for half a second before looking up, face caught somewhere between frustration and embarrassment. “The zipper’s stuck.”

Your lips twitched. “Wait, wait—you mean you, the guy who claims to be packed and ready in twenty minutes, can’t even handle a suitcase?”

He shot you a glare. “It’s stuck, okay?”

You bit back a laugh, arms crossed. “Looks like Mr. Prepared isn’t so prepared after all.”

Jungkook groaned, yanking at the zipper harder. “Are you gonna help me or just stand there?”

You walked over, crouching next to him. “Fine, let me—”

The second you tugged on the zipper, it snapped off in your hand.

Silence.

You slowly turned to Jungkook, holding up the broken piece.

Jungkook stared at it. Then at you. Then back at it.

Clearing your throat, you clapped your hands against your thighs and stood up. “Welp. Looks like we’re going shopping.”

Jungkook blinked. “Now?”

You gestured at his outfit—an oversized white shirt and loose trousers. “Unless you want to show up to the meeting looking like that.”

And that’s how, twenty minutes later, you found yourself walking through the streets of Las Vegas, dragged into a morning shopping trip with Jungkook.

Inside the store, you watched as he, now fully in his element, browsed the racks with way too much enthusiasm.

“Ooh, this is nice.” He pulled out a sleek designer jacket, inspecting it like he’d just found gold.

You gave it a glance, unimpressed. “That’s extra.”

He turned to you. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

You crossed your arms. “Are you trying to be a celebrity? Who in their right mind would buy something that ridiculous?”

Jungkook smirked. “So, you’re saying it screams rich and stylish?”

“I’m saying it screams try-hard.”

Before he could argue, a stranger walking past paused and pointed at Jungkook’s choice. “That jacket is fire. You’d look amazing in it.”

Jungkook turned back to you, grinning way too wide. “See? Some people have taste.”

You huffed, rolling your eyes. “Can we just go now?”

He draped the jacket over his arm smugly. “Oh, I will be wearing this every time we go out now.”

____

After what Jungkook considered a successful shopping trip, the two of you made your way back to the hotel, casually chatting about the upcoming meetings.

“We should go over the briefing again—”

“Yeah, yeah,” you cut him off with a side-eye. Then, without warning, you shouted,

“FIRST ONE TO THE ROOM USES THE BATHROOM FIRST!”

Jungkook barely had time to react before you bolted, sprinting toward the elevators. You practically threw yourself inside, frantically jamming the ‘close door’ button like your life depended on it.

The last thing you saw before the doors slid shut was Jungkook lunging forward—one foot off the ground, arm outstretched—only to miss by an inch.

You grinned. Sweet, sweet victory.

By the time you reached the room, you were practically bouncing on your heels.

“Ahh~ victory tastes so good,” you hummed, fishing out the keycard.

But the moment you pushed open the door, you froze. Your smile dropped.

Jungkook was already there.

Casually leaning against the wall. Barely out of breath. Smug as hell.

“Thanks for the morning workout,” he said, smirking.

Your jaw fell open. “How the hell did you get here so fast?”

He shrugged, brushing imaginary dust off his sleeve. “I ran.”

Your eyes flickered to the faint sheen of sweat on his forehead.

“You ran?”

“Elevators are for people who don’t take their wins seriously.”

You narrowed your eyes, determined to salvage what little pride you had left.

“Whatever,” you huffed. “I’m still using the bathroom first.”

You stepped forward, but before you could even blink, Jungkook darted past you, slipping inside the bathroom and slamming the door shut in your face.

You stood there. Processing.

Then, you banged on the door. “JUNGKOOK! OPEN UP!”

On the other side, you heard the faucet turn on. Then the shower. Then, his voice—way too casual for someone who just committed a crime.

“Oh wow,” he mused. “The water pressure in this hotel is amazing.”

Your fists clenched. “I will get my revenge.”

“Take a number,” he replied smoothly.

You groaned, pressing your forehead against the door.

This. Was. Not. Over.

You did not enter the meeting with a sane mind.

First, Jungkook had taken his sweet time in the bathroom, wasting precious minutes doing absolutely nothing. Then, just when you thought you’d have a moment of peace, he had the audacity to stop your taxi and slide in beside you like he owned the damn city.

Now, as he strolled through the hallway, practically dancing with every step, greeting every other person like he was running for office, your patience was hanging by a thread.

You glared at him. He grinned back, completely unaffected.

"Good morning!" Mr. Cox, the project manager, greeted as you both stepped into the conference room. He was a sharp-dressed man in his late fifties, with an air of authority that commanded attention. "Glad to have you here. We have a lot to cover regarding the proposed site for the new building."

You nodded, smoothing out your expression as you took a seat, Jungkook dropping into the chair beside you with all the grace of someone who wasn’t just on your last nerve.

"As you know," Mr. Cox continued, clicking to the first slide of his presentation, "we're looking at a high-rise commercial building—mixed-use, with retail on the lower levels and corporate offices above. The location we've chosen offers high foot traffic and excellent visibility, but there are some zoning restrictions we’ll need to navigate."

You leaned forward, already shifting into work mode. "Are there any concerns about environmental impact? With a building of that scale, we’ll need to ensure compliance with regulations before we proceed with permits."

"Good question," Mr. Cox nodded, flipping to a map of the site. "We've already started preliminary assessments. The main challenge is integrating green spaces into the design while maximizing commercial utility."

Jungkook, who had been leaning back in his chair, finally spoke. "If we adjust the layout to allow for rooftop gardens or vertical greenery, it could help with sustainability requirements without compromising space."

You blinked. Huh. That’s actually a good idea.

But instead of acknowledging it, you scoffed. "Look at you, saying something useful for once."

Jungkook smirked, tapping a pen against the table. "Try not to sound so surprised."

Mr. Cox chuckled at the exchange, continuing with the presentation while you and Jungkook took turns asking questions, subtly (or not-so-subtly) one-upping each other with every suggestion.

But despite your irritation, you had to admit—he wasn’t just here to annoy you. He was good at this. And that was even more annoying.

As the meeting wrapped up, Mr. Cox clicked off the presentation and set his hands on the table with a satisfied nod.

"Well, that was productive. I appreciate both of your insights—it’s always good to have fresh perspectives on a project of this scale."

You offered a polite smile. "Thank you, Mr. Cox. We’ll review everything and follow up with any additional notes."

Jungkook, for once, didn’t immediately add some unnecessary comment. Instead, he simply nodded, professional and composed.

As you both stood up to leave, Mr. Cox gave Jungkook an approving once-over. "By the way, Jungkook, sharp outfit. Not many people can pull that off, but you wear it well."

You froze, eyes widening slightly. No. No, no, no—

Jungkook’s smirk could have powered an entire city. He side-eyed you with pure, unfiltered smugness. "Oh, thank you, Mr. Cox. You have an excellent eye for fashion."

Mr. Cox chuckled. "Well, I like to think so."

You clenched your jaw as Jungkook turned fully toward you, leaning in just slightly. His voice dropped to a whisper only you could hear. "See? Some people have taste."

You huffed, adjusting your bag over your shoulder. "One more person complimenting you doesn’t mean you’re suddenly a style icon."

Jungkook shrugged, adjusting the lapels of his very extra jacket. "It’s a start."

You rolled your eyes, already heading toward the door. "Let’s go before your ego inflates so much you can’t fit through the exit."

Jungkook let out a soft laugh as he followed. "You just hate admitting I look good."

You didn’t dignify that with a response.

The meeting had drained you, but the real challenge wasn’t the endless discussions—it was the man beside you. Smug, confident, and practically radiating self-satisfaction, Jungkook looked far too pleased with himself.

Now, as you made your way toward a nearby café, you desperately needed caffeine—if only to tolerate his gloating.

“Since I have such an impeccable taste, I'll order for both of us,” he declared, striding ahead without a second thought.

You narrowed your eyes. “Since when did we agree on that?”

He waved a dismissive hand. “Trust me. You’ll thank me later.”

Skepticism clear on your face, you watched as he placed the order, exuding way too much confidence. Minutes later, he handed you a cup.

One sip was all it took.

Your entire face contorted in horror. “What is this?” You coughed, barely holding back the urge to spit it out.

Jungkook took a leisurely sip of his own, completely unfazed. “It’s coffee.”

You scowled. “This tastes like burnt wood.”

“Stop being dramatic,” he scoffed.

Without hesitation, you shoved the cup into his hands. “Fine. You drink it.”

Jungkook raised a brow, refusing to be outdone, and took another sip. For a moment, he held strong—until the telltale twitch of his eye gave him away.

Your lips curled in satisfaction. “You hate it.”

He wiped his mouth, feigning indifference. “No, it’s… it’s good.”

“Oh yeah?” You crossed your arms. “Then finish both.”

For the first time, his composure wavered. His eyes flicked between the second cup and you, and for a fleeting second, you swore you saw his soul leave his body.

Still, with a deep breath, he downed the drink like it was a punishment.

By the time you stepped out of the café, he looked like he had just endured a life-altering experience.

“Never letting you order for me again,” you muttered, shaking your head.

Jungkook cleared his throat, voice rough. “Your loss.”

Before you could reply, a sharp squawk rang out.

You barely had a second to react before—splatter.

Something warm and deeply unwelcome landed right on Jungkook’s shoulder. Right on his brand-new, overpriced designer jacket.

Silence.

You slapped a hand over your mouth, eyes wide in disbelief.

Jungkook turned his head—slowly, as if already resigned to his fate but still clinging to a shred of hope.

“…No way.”

The second his eyes landed on the runny, white mess smeared across his shoulder, you lost it.

Laughter erupted from you, raw and uncontrollable. You doubled over, gripping your stomach as tears blurred your vision. “I—I can’t—” you wheezed between fits of laughter. “Your precious jacket—”

Jungkook stood frozen in absolute horror. “This has to be a joke.”

You wiped at your eyes, still gasping for air. “Oh no, this is karma in action.”

With a blank expression, he carefully peeled off the jacket, holding it like it was biohazardous material.

“This is not funny,” he grumbled.

“It’s hilarious.”

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “Since you find it so amusing, you can clean it.”

Your laughter cut off instantly. “Yeah, that’s not happening.”

He shoved the jacket toward you. “Come on, you’re the one who said it wasn’t worth buying anyway.”

“That doesn’t mean I want to touch it,” you shot back, stepping away. “I have standards.”

Jungkook sighed dramatically. “Fine. I’ll just burn it.”

Grinning, you clapped a hand on his back. “Good idea. Let’s pretend this never happened.”

Jungkook gave you a flat look. “Oh, I’m never forgetting this.”

Still basking in victory, you turned toward the hotel. “Let’s go, Fashion King. You’ve got a jacket to mourn.”

He let out a long-suffering sigh but followed, muttering about horrible luck while you walked ahead, enjoying every second of his misfortune.

The next day, the meeting stretched longer than expected. Discussions over blueprints, material choices, and project timelines filled the conference room. The air was thick with professional tension, especially between you and Jungkook—both of you quick to counter each other's suggestions, challenging details down to the last inch.

Mr. Cox, ever the patient and thoughtful client, listened attentively, nodding along as you both debated. Every now and then, he’d offer his input, always considerate and appreciative of your expertise.

By the time everything was finalized, the afternoon sun was already dipping lower in the sky. Mr. Cox smiled warmly as he closed his notebook. “That was a productive session. I really appreciate how dedicated you both are to this project.”

He stretched slightly before glancing between the two of you. “The team is going out for drinks tonight. I’d love for you both to join—it’d be nice to unwind after all this planning.” His tone was inviting, not forceful, just a friendly offer.

You hesitated. Networking was important, and Mr. Cox was a well-respected client. But the thought of spending extra time around Jungkook—after an entire day of butting heads—was something you weren’t sure you had the energy for.

Before you could respond, Jungkook spoke. “Sounds good. I’ll be there.”

You glanced at him. He looked relaxed, as if he hadn’t spent hours challenging you over glass paneling choices.

Mr. Cox smiled. “That’s great. We’ll be at The Velvet Room around eight. Hope to see you both there.”

He gathered his things and left, leaving you standing there, debating.

Jungkook turned to you, one brow raised. “Thinking about bailing?”

You exhaled. “I just don’t know if it’s a good idea.”

He tilted his head slightly, amusement flickering in his gaze. “It’s drinks, not a lifetime commitment.”

You scoffed. “I know that.”

Jungkook smirked but said nothing else, walking past you toward the door.

“See you at eight,” he tossed over his shoulder.

You frowned. You hadn’t even decided yet.

Had you?

//

But here you were, sitting beside Jungkook, downing shot after shot like it was your life’s mission.

The alcohol burned less and less with each drink, your body growing lighter, your mind fuzzier, and your filter—completely gone. Across the table, Jungkook was surrounded by a group of female coworkers, all laughing a little too loudly, touching him a little too much. You watched with mild amusement as they giggled at whatever nonsense he was mumbling, one of them even squeezing his biceps like he was some kind of prize.

Jungkook, for his part, just sat there blinking at them—like his brain was five seconds behind in processing what was happening.

You let out a tipsy giggle, pouring yourself another shot. “Look at you, playboy.”

Jungkook’s head snapped toward you, his eyes glassy, but the second he saw you, a slow, lazy grin spread across his face. Without warning, he peeled himself away from his admirers and stumbled toward you.

“Y/nnnnn,” he slurred, your name drawn out like a lovesick fool’s. Before you could react, he plopped down beside you, his entire weight pressing into your side. “Why are you so far away?”

You squinted at him, cheeks flushed from both the alcohol and the fact that he was suddenly way too close. “I was literally right here.”

Jungkook ignored your words entirely, wrapping an arm around your shoulders like you were his new favorite thing in the world. “You’re so soft,” he mumbled, nuzzling into your shoulder.

You burst into laughter, nearly spilling your drink. “Oh my god, you’re so clingy when you’re drunk.”

“I am not,” he argued, but his grip only tightened.

You turned to face him fully, but the sudden movement made your world tilt slightly. “Woah,” you muttered, gripping the table for balance.

Jungkook gasped dramatically, eyes wide. “You’re drunk too!”

You pointed a wobbly finger at him. “You’re more drunk.”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Uh-huh.”

Jungkook stared at you for a long second before reaching out and poking your cheek. “You’re cute.”

You blinked. “What?”

His grin widened. “I said you’re cute.”

You groaned, covering your face with your hands. “God, you’re such a flirt when you’re drunk.”

“You like it.”

“Absolutely not.”

Jungkook tilted his head, eyes scanning your face like he was trying to read your mind. “I bet you think about me all the time,” he mused, voice laced with amusement.

You scoffed, tilting your head back. “You’re so full of yourself.”

He leaned in closer, his breath warm against your cheek. “Sooo you don’t think about me?”

Your drunk brain took a solid three seconds to process the question, and by the time you came up with an answer, Jungkook was already laughing at your delayed reaction.

“You doooo,” he sing-songed, poking your forehead.

“I do not,” you argued, but the grin on your face betrayed you.

Jungkook leaned in until his nose nearly brushed yours. “Admit it, you’re obsessed with me.”

You snorted. “Obsessed with wanting to strangle you, maybe.”

“Woah,” he gasped, clutching his chest like you’d just broken his heart. “Violence? In this economy?”

You smacked his arm lightly, which only made him laugh harder. “You’re impossible.”

Jungkook suddenly grabbed both your hands, squeezing them in his. “But you love meee.”

“I do n—”

“Shhh,” he pressed a finger to your lips, effectively cutting off your protest. “Just say you love me, it’s okay, I already know.”

You rolled your eyes, but your heart was pounding way harder than it should have been. “You’re the worst.”

“And yet,” he grinned, resting his forehead against yours, “you’re still here with me.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

The rivalry, the bickering, the tension—it had all melted away under the haze of alcohol, leaving behind something dangerous, something that made your stomach flip in a way you weren’t ready to acknowledge.

But before you could respond, someone from the team called out to Jungkook, momentarily breaking the moment.

Jungkook groaned dramatically, burying his face in the crook of your neck. “Noooo, I don’t wanna talk to them.”

"Mr. Cox!" you suddenly called out, voice way too loud, making the entire table turn toward you. You didn’t even care. The alcohol had wiped out any sense of embarrassment. "Jungkook and I are excusing now!"

Mr. Cox chuckled, clearly entertained by your drunken enthusiasm. “Alright, you two. Get home safe.”

Jungkook perked up at your declaration, blinking at you with wide eyes. “We are?”

“Yes, we are,” you declared, grabbing his wrist and tugging him along.

Jungkook stumbled after you, both of you giggling like kids sneaking out past curfew. As soon as you stepped outside, the bright, flashing lights of the city nearly blinded you. But then, your gaze landed on something.

A casino.

You gasped dramatically, pointing toward it. “Jungkook. Look.”

He followed your gaze, eyes lighting up like a kid on Christmas. “A casino!”

“Let’s go!” you cheered, already dragging him toward the entrance.

You groaned, pointing at it. “Ugh, I’m never able to win that.”

Jungkook’s eyes lit up with determination. “I’ll win it for you.”

You turned to him, raising a skeptical brow. “Oh yeah? You think you’re some kind of claw machine god?”

He smirked, rolling up his sleeves as if preparing for battle. “Watch me.”

With intense focus (or as much focus as a very drunk Jungkook could have), he maneuvered the claw over a ridiculously oversized teddy bear. You held your breath as the claw lowered… grabbed… and then—

It slipped.

Jungkook gasped like he’d just lost a championship. You burst into laughter.

“That was rigged!” he whined, turning to you like he needed comfort.

“You’re ridiculous,” you teased, patting his arm. “Come on, let’s go find a game we can actually win.”

After wandering some more, you found yourselves at a craps table, the dice game buzzing with excitement. Jungkook grinned. “This. We’re playing this.”

You squinted at the table. “Do we even know how to play?”

He shrugged. “Nope. But that’s never stopped us before.”

And with that, you both dived in, placing bets together as a team. Jungkook took charge of rolling the dice, and after a few rounds of cheering, stumbling, and chaotic high-fives—

You won.

Your eyes widened in disbelief as the dealer pushed forward a pile of chips. Jungkook let out the most dramatic gasp, grabbing you by the shoulders. “We did it. We’re rich.”

You giggled, throwing your arms around him. “I take back everything I said—you’re a gambling god!”

Jungkook spun you around, his laughter mixing with yours. “Told you! We make a good team.”

Your head was pounding.

A dull, persistent ache pressed against your temples as you groaned, shifting under the covers. Everything felt off. Your mouth was dry, your body sluggish, and worst of all—

Something warm was draped over you.

Your eyes shot open, and your barely functioning brain needed a moment to process what you were seeing.

Jungkook was sleeping beside you, his arm slung around your waist, his face smushed against the pillow. His dark hair was tousled, his lips slightly parted, and his breathing was steady. It would have been almost peaceful if it weren’t for the fact that he was in your bed.

And hugging you.

Panic shot through your body. Without thinking, you yelped and shoved him off the bed.

There was a loud thump and a groan. “What the hell?”

Jungkook sat up from the floor, rubbing his head as he squinted at you, still half-asleep. His shirt was slightly wrinkled, and judging by the state of your own outfit, you hadn’t changed into pajamas either.

“What are you doing in my bed?” you shrieked, pulling the blanket up to your chest.

“What am I—” Jungkook blinked at you, looking just as confused. Then his gaze shifted slightly, his eyes widening. “Uh… Y/N?”

“What?”

He pointed to your hand. More specifically, to the ring on your finger.

Your stomach dropped.

“What… is this?” You lifted your hand as if the weight of the ring would suddenly make sense.

Jungkook stared at it for a long moment, then slowly raised his own hand.

He had a matching ring.

“Oh,” he said simply. Then, “Oh.”

Your heart rate skyrocketed. “Jungkook. Why do we have matching rings?”

Jungkook rubbed his eyes, taking a deep breath. “I think… I think we should retrace our steps.”

There was a long silence as you both sat in bed, staring at each other, until—

Your mind reeled, dragging up hazy memories from the night before.

You clutched onto him, still breathless from the excitement, your eyes flickering to the stack of chips in front of you. There was a beat of silence before you suddenly blurted out, “Wow… that’s enough money to start a life. Like, buy a house, have a family—”

Jungkook gasped dramatically, gripping your shoulders as if you had just discovered the meaning of life. “Then let’s get married.”

You blinked up at him, swaying slightly. “Really?”

He nodded, completely serious (or at least as serious as someone as drunk as him could be). “Yeah. You said it yourself. We’re rich now. And we make a good team.”

You squinted at him. “You do have a point…”

The words hung between you both, and then—

“Let’s do it.”

One moment you were in the casino, and the next, you were stumbling through the neon-lit streets of Las Vegas, hand in hand, laughing like absolute idiots. Somewhere along the way, Jungkook had grabbed his winnings, and you had no idea whose idea it was to find the nearest chapel, but suddenly, there it was—

A tacky little 24-hour wedding chapel, glowing under the artificial lights.

“Oh my god,” you whispered, staring at it like it was the most magical place you’d ever seen.

Jungkook turned to you, eyes wide and awestruck. “It’s beautiful.”

“We have to do this.”

“We really do.”

And just like that, you pushed open the doors, giggling uncontrollably as you stumbled inside. The receptionist barely batted an eye—clearly, this wasn’t the first time she’d seen two drunk idiots waltzing in like this.

“You two getting married?” she asked, popping her gum.

Jungkook threw an arm around you, nodding confidently. “Hell yeah, we are.”

You beamed up at him. “Best decision ever.”

The receptionist sighed, sliding over a form. “Fill this out. Want Elvis to officiate?”

Your jaw dropped. “Elvis?! No way.”

Jungkook looked equally impressed. “We’d be dumb to say no.”

And so, as the lights flickered overhead and the faint sound of a love song played through an old speaker, you both messily filled out the form, barely able to keep the pen straight.

Somewhere deep in your mind, a tiny sober voice screamed at you to think this through.

But drunk you?

Drunk you was having the time of your life.

And so was Jungkook.

The chapel was tiny, tacky, and perfect. The neon “Open 24/7 Weddings!” sign buzzed in the window, casting a weird pink glow over the cheap white pews. An Elvis impersonator in an oversized rhinestone suit stood at the altar, adjusting his wig while humming Can’t Help Falling in Love.

Jungkook blinked at the laminated menu, swaying slightly. “Which one has, like… confetti?”

Debbie chewed her gum loudly. “Neither.”

You snorted, hanging off Jungkook’s arm. “Oooh, the ‘Vegas Royalty’ one comes with a tiny wedding cake.”

Jungkook gasped. “Cake?! We’re getting that one.”

And that was how you both ended up standing at the altar, in front of Elvis #27, giggling as he cleared his throat.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today—”

“WAIT.” Jungkook threw up a finger, nearly toppling over. “Rings. We need rings.”

Debbie sighed and chucked two plastic rings at him. “Five dollars extra.”

Jungkook caught them with the reflexes of a man who had clearly taken too many tequila shots, then turned to you, blinking dramatically. “Y/N.”

You squinted at him. “That’s my name.”

He nodded solemnly. “I’m gonna marry you.”

“Yeah, no shit.”

He took a deep breath. “From the moment I saw you, I knew you were the one.”

You stared. “Jungkook, you told me to ‘go trip on my own ego’ this morning.”

“And you did, beautifully.”

You sniffled, fake wiping a tear. “That was… poetic.”

Jungkook wobbled, clutching his chest. “I’m a poet.”

Elvis cleared his throat. “Can we move on?”

And then—

“I now pronounce you husband and wife! You may kiss the bride.”

Silence.

Jungkook grinned. “Ohhh, this is my favorite part.”

And before you could process it—

He grabbed your face and kissed you.

Back in the present, you stared at Jungkook, mouth agape. He stared back, looking equally horrified.

“Well,” he muttered. “At least we got cake.”

(a/n): oopsie what just happened. hehe

[wing-ed-thing]

Honey Cakes (Shino x Reader) Chapter VI

Synopsis: You were stupid. You made a stupid choice; it left you with the first real heartache of your life, and you could safely admit that you deserved it. But then the war came. And as quickly as it came, it was over. So what about you and Shino? Sequel to Honey Stand.

Chapter I Chapter II Chapter III Chapter IV Chapter V Chapter VI

Word Count: 3.9k

Warnings/Tags: No Reader Pronouns, Post War, Slow Burn, Slight Canon Divergence, Aged Up Characters, Angst, Language

Notes: uh... meow?

When you got home, the first thing you did was take a long, hot shower. Only when you changed into a fresh set of loungewear—reinvigorated by the clean clothes and the steam wafting out of your bathroom—did you turn your sights to unpacking your mission pack. 

It sat on a tattered mat by your door. The dye on the thick, hardy fabric had faded early in your career, and the dense threads were caked with dirt and other stains that would never come out. Sweat had probably penetrated every stitch. You hauled it by the top strap into your workshop, and from there, you began unpacking. 

The dirty clothes were tossed into your laundry basket. Your unused kunai and shuriken were placed in a pile on your workbench to be repacked into your smaller bag for patrols. You’d inspect them later. 

With you and Shino home again, you knew it would take no time for the both of you to be incorporated back into the schedule for patrols, guard duty, and other routine responsibilities for experienced shinobi. The leftover equipment and tools used for your installation went back into their proper places in your organization system (or at least what you called “organized”). 

Tap. Tap. Tap.

You perked up at the sound, instinctively turning in the direction of the window between your lounge area and your kitchen. You padded out of your workshop, and before you sat a messenger hawk on its outside perch. It pecked again, although gently, at the glass. The surface was still scratched and weathered. A neat little card sat in its beak.

You unlatched the window, sliding it open to take your message from the bird. You took the card from the messenger hawk, which let out a delighted shriek, flaring its wings. It motioned with its head, and upon further inspection, it appeared that the hawk carried several messages. All of them were crammed into the message canister so tightly that you thought you would have to take the whole harness off, but with a bit of effort, you managed to retrieve your cylinder of communications. You sent the bird off with a small treat before closing the window again. 

You read the first of the bird’s communications. You started with a lilac-colored note as you rinsed your hand off in the sink. The square-shaped envelope carried a letter written on quality, heavy-duty paper. You studied your name written at the top in neat penmanship. 

“We would like to formally extend an invitation to our wedding rehearsal…” the first line read. You skimmed the rest, quickly absorbing the time and location details before flipping the card over in acute confusion. 

You didn’t think people usually sent out invitations to wedding rehearsals, but you had, after all, been unreachable as of late. You had also never planned a wedding before, so you decided that perhaps you weren’t one to judge a couple’s abundance of communication with their wedding guests. 

You flipped past a few bills and other documents you deemed ignorable for the time being. You were late on a few annual trainings and had to renew some certification or another. Deadlines for various menial tasks were approaching somewhere off in the near-distant future, although it wasn’t something you were remotely worried about. 

The documents were so crammed together that they were hard to separate. But amongst the curled notices, you instantly recognized a formal insignia. Your fingers fumbled, quickly separating it from the rest, only to find that there were two official messages. Your name was printed sternly at the top of both, and together they read,

“I am pleased to offer you the position of Senior Commanding Jōnin at…”

— “Fort Azuma, the eastern base affiliated with Konohagakure…”

— “Fort Nantou, the southeastern base affiliated with Konohagakure…”

That was… horribly fast. However, you weren’t too surprised that the satellite bases were hurting to acquire some experienced leadership. So much had changed after the war, including the mass of shinobi who decided to retire and those lost on the field. 

It was a good thing. It was what you wanted. And yet, you couldn’t help the beat of hesitancy that wracked your body. 

You stood, holding both offers in your hands. You traced the letters with your eyes; their shape served as an oddly harsh and surreal reminder of reality. You had taken the steps to transfer out of the central village. You dreamed about the opportunity to escape your routine, to become someone new somewhere else. And yet… perhaps you didn’t consider you’d get this far.

A single, curled note floated to the floor from somewhere behind your offer notices. It was printed on intricately official paper directly from the Hokage’s office. Only one word was printed on it.

“Drinks?” It read. 

You let out a heavy sigh.

“Fuck yes,” you breathed.

***

 Shikamaru had a usual place that he liked to escape to both after and during hours when it came to lulls on busy afternoons. It allowed for smoking and wasn’t too far from the Hokage building. You arrived shortly after receiving his note, knowing that it was more likely than not that he was still there. If Shikamaru wasn’t at work, he was at home with Temari; if he wasn’t at home with Temari, he was here. 

The sun still shone light in the sky, but its orientation was slowly sinking as if trying to slink off behind the horizon without anyone noticing. It wasn’t too dissimilar to the way Shikamaru had slinked off to his corner bar seat. 

The bar sat half inside and half outside, with the outside part coiling around an unfortunately placed pillar near one of the outer walls of the building. But the awkward orientation made for a quiet, out-of-sight nook for Shikamaru, his drink, and his ashtray.

“You’re hiding,” you frowned, sliding onto the seat next to him. You plucked a little rectangular menu out from under Shikamaru’s ashtray.  

His back pressed against the wall behind him as he sat sideways on his chair, lounging laxly with a cigarette between his fingers. He took a drag on it with a shrug.

“You found me anyway,” he hummed. You didn’t humor his sarcastic reply; you already engaged with the bartender who took your drink order. Shikamaru couldn’t be bothered to pay attention to what you asked for. He slumped a little farther down against the wall, letting his knees spread on his seat. His free hand rested on the back of his chair. 

You turned to Shikamaru, “Food and drinks are on you, right?”

Shikamaru exhaled a puff of smoke, brow cocked. 

“Who said anything about food?” he huffed, but you were already handing your little menu off, and the bartender went on his way. After eating nothing but boring base food and field snacks, you were itching for something with a little flavor. A little something that would surely clog your arteries didn’t sound too bad, either. 

Shikamaru sighed, extinguishing the butt of his cigarette in his ashtray. He was planning on charging the tab to Old Man Kakashi anyway…

“How was the install?” he asked. You didn’t notice the delayed drag of his words as Shikamaru tried a little too hard to remain casual. His eyes flickered toward you, then down as he brought his drink to his lips. 

You didn’t say a word. Instead, you pulled the offer letters out of your pocket and gently threw them on the table. They fell perfectly, the pages sailing to a spot on the counter between you, where they sat overlayed with each other. 

Shikamaru nearly choked, taking little more than a second to recover as he stared at you with wide eyes.

“Oh shit,” he coughed, “You really went through with it.”

In his state of shock, neither you nor Shikamaru knew if his words were a question or a flabbergasted statement. The bottom of his glass was quickly placed back on the countertop. It hit the surface with a tiny splatter, his cup sweating far too much condensation from the time he’d been sitting there and nursing it. 

Shikamaru tugged the top letter down just enough to see the contents of the paper underneath, even though he already knew what it said. 

“I mean…” he trailed. Fuck, he needed another cigarette for this. Shikamaru dug around in his pockets. “Congrats.” 

He took his pack from his pocket, summoning a cigarette upward with a sharp flick of his wrist. Immediately, he took it into his mouth, lighting the end with an acute sigh of relief. 

Shikamaru had an inkling this would happen. You mentioned a transfer in passing a few times, and no matter how often he made grunts to the contrary, you seemed to always have it in your mind that condemning yourself to a satellite base would make you feel accomplished. 

Kiba also did a stint at the southern base when he was having a quarter-life crisis. He called it a tour of the boonies before he came back to the village with his tail between his legs to finally buck up and settle down with Tamaki. 

You frowned, quickly shuffling the offer letters away. 

“I wasn’t expecting a big reaction out of you, but jeez,” you huffed. You waved your hand in the air to try to dissipate the smoke that seemed to pour from Shikamaru. 

“What?” he said with crinkled brows. “I said congrats.”

“Uh-huh,” you hummed. Try to be less excited. Please, Shikamaru, this is embarrassing.” Your drink was delivered sometime between mockeries, and you wasted no time bringing it to your lips. The appetizer you ordered followed closely behind. 

Shikamaru rolled his eyes.

“No one’s gonna jizz their pants because you got a position you’re overqualified for.”

“Thanks for that.”

While the satellite bases were nothing to look down upon, they hardly got much action after the war. Armed with skilled shinobi as they already were, having you there would be like fortifying an anthill with a bazooka. 

The generation most responsible for the Leaf’s successes during the war was the most accomplished class in a long while, with each and every one of you being a powerhouse in your own right.

Shikamaru shook his head, putting the butt of his cigarette out with a bit more force than necessary. It wasn’t an angry action but one of laziness as he let his wrist almost drop down amongst the ashes.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

“You don’t gotta prove shit,” he muttered, but not lowly enough for you to be able to ignore him. You frowned, crossing your legs as you continued to nurse your drink. He reached for a bite of your food with a shadow he didn’t think you’d notice, slowly inching the basket closer. 

“You don’t get restless?” You glanced at him out of the corner of your eye. Shikamaru shrugged.

“Only the ambitious get restless,” he sighed, pressing his cheek into the palm of his hand. “I’m gonna live here, die here, and that’s plenty for me.” 

“You’re in a mood today.”

“You’re starting to sound like my wife,” Shikamaru mused with a grumble before letting silence wash over the two of you. Idle chatter from around you melded together into white noise along with the low music that played from somewhere. He took a shallow breath in.

”Stop that.” 

“Stop what?” 

“Breathing like that.” You swiveled slightly on your seat to face him. Your eyes narrowed. “I know what you’re thinking. Don’t even ask.” 

Shikamaru’s eyebrows bounced as he dug a bit deeper into the food. The basket appeared to have grown just slightly closer to him. You didn’t like the self-assured dip of his lip. 

“So it’s about him after all,” Shikamaru sighed, reaching for another bite. You pulled the basket away before he could, much to Shikamaru’s visible dismay.

“Don’t even go there,” you warned, glaring. “It’s not.”

“But it’s at least a part of it.” He appeared otherwise unbothered. “Can’t you two just kiss and make up already? This has been going on long enough—”

—“I’m not the one who brought it up—”

“Talk about emotionally constipated…” 

“I’m not talking about this because there’s nothing to talk about. It’s not about him, okay? It would be stupid if it was.” You slapped his hand away from the last bite of your food, meeting his gaze as you shoved the last of it into your mouth. Shikamaru’s posture visibly deflated. 

“Now that’s just uncalled for.”

“Get your own.” You swiveled back around to face the counter, still guarding the now-empty snack basket. You slumped back against the back of your seat, arms crossed. “Besides… We talked about it plenty. Probably too much. It’s just…” Shikamaru’s intent stare made it easy for him to catch your eye. It made it even easier to see through the slight smile you tried to offer him. “… time to move on, isn’t it?”

Shikamaru tore his gaze away from yours, already digging for another cigarette. 

“It seems like you’ve already got your mind made up…”

***

“Is everything… okay?” Kakashi’s eyes narrowed. He clasped his hands together, leaning the tip of his chin on his folded fingers. 

A vein in Shino’s forehead twitched in confusion.

“Yes…?” He spoke slowly, thrown off by the intense stare that bore into him. Kakashi sat unmoving despite Shino’s answer. He gazed straight ahead, almost as if he were expecting more. “Why?”

“I thought I’d have better luck getting an answer out of you than—” Kakashi motioned to the empty space next to Shino where you had just been standing. You dashed out of his office after delivering your report quickly. It would be a few more hours until you met Shikamaru for drinks. —“That one. Nearly ripped my doors off the hinges coming in and out of here.”

“I can’t say I have anything else to report,” Shino said, the corner of his lips pulling slightly downward. He buried his hands in his pockets. “If you don’t need any other information about the installation, I’ll be going—”

Kakashi waved his hand in the air with a sigh.

“I’ve heard all I need to about that,” he said with another huff. “I wanted to know what was going on with that weird chakra between you two.” Kakashi raised a lazy finger, gesturing between Shino and the empty space again. 

Shino’s frown only deepened. 

“You can’t possibly be this bored.”

“It’s not like you to be getting into fistfights.” Kakashi shrugged, sitting back in his chair with his arms coiled over his chest. His words weren't scolding as much as they almost sounded mocking. He was getting at something; if Shino was good at anything, it was picking up on subtleties. 

“Fair enough, you’ve made your point,” Shino was quick to speak, his words spitting out with more force than he intended. 

It caused Kakashi a slight pause, not so much taken aback as silently self-satisfied in an unspoken hunch. Perhaps he was bored after all. He sat up just a bit taller. Kakashi’s arms remained crossed over his chest, his elbows now resting on his desk as he leaned forward. 

He didn’t say anything else, simply staring at Shino with an unsettlingly unreadable expression under his mask. And then, without warning, he rose, slapping his fingers on the surface of his desk.

“A personal matter then… None of my business.”

“Am I dismissed then?” 

Kakashi hummed affirmatively, and Shino paid little mind as Kakashi slowly meandered around to the front of his desk. Rather, Shino turned quickly, eager to get home and shed his gear. 

“But if I could give you one piece of advice before you go…” Shino had just reached the door, his hand hovering over the handle as Kakashi spoke. He cringed, eyes pinching closed just slightly as his head ticked to the side. 

He ironed his expression back out before he turned around, eyeing Kakashi with a little less restraint for his annoyance. Although, his demeanor wasn’t too far from his regular appearance. 

Kakashi leaned his hip against the front of his desk, a few papers in his hand. He didn’t look at Shino when he spoke, shuffling through the same three pages.

“If you’re going to make a decision, I would do it sooner rather than later,” he said. Shino didn’t have time to respond. Kakashi lowered the pages, finally making lazy eye contact. “I’ve been getting quite a few base transfer requests lately. I suppose a change of scenery is in high demand right now.” 

Shino eyed him warily from behind his darkened shades. 

“I suppose it is.”

***

Kiba was apparently looking for him. He had been banging at Shino’s door a few times a day, much to the dismay of Shino’s neighbors and the rest of the Aburames at the family compound. But if Kiba was anything more than a nuisance, he was thorough. Several different people reported Kiba’s ruckus to Shino but also carried a message: Kiba wanted to meet and soon.

Even so, Shino took his sweet time meeting his fellow squad member. The whole change of scenery thing stuck with Shino more than he would’ve liked, but he thought that with all the bustle about the wedding, there would be plenty to distract himself with. Konohamaru had apparently been working on some grand video in Shino’s absence, and everyone in their class was brainstorming creative ideas and gifts to bring to the celebration. At least, that’s what his beetles were reporting back to him.

“Ew! A bug!”

“Catch it! Catch it!”

Shino’s head snapped to the side just in time to catch a small group of children rapidly closing in on one of his beetles. Shino lunged forward with a yell, with a bit more urgency than was necessary if he were actually thinking, startling the group as the beetle swiftly escaped to its host. But with his bug safe and his 194cm form now hovering menacingly over a group of small children, Shino considered damage control.

“That bug’s my… friend.” He cringed as the words spilled off his lips. The sheepish crinkle of his brows was well hidden behind his hood and dark shades. To Shino, the statement made sense. Still, he was aware enough to understand how his words could potentially come off as absolutely insane. 

“You’re a bug summoner!” one of the kids exclaimed in recognition. Shino let out a subtle breath that he didn’t realize he had been holding. Great, he couldn’t even talk to Genin in a coherent way without help.

“Yeah,” Shino affirmed, and what little control he had over the interaction vanished as the group of kids swarmed him. And being the sucker he was (Mirai’s made him soft in recent years), Shino was commanding his beetles to do tricks before he knew it. He contorted them into different shapes, answering questions and entertaining chatter about the children’s various shinobi ambitions. 

“I’ve never seen a bug-user in person before!” Well, now you have.

“Do you have to summon them one at a time?” No.

“Are you popular at parties?” No.

“Do you want to become an insect summoner?” Shino asked a boy whose hands were just about saturated with beetles. The boy glinted up at him with wild eyes, hands poised up in the air like a surgeon ready for a procedure. 

“No way!” he exclaimed with certainty. A thick layer of bugs crawled over his palms and fingers. “I’m gonna become Hokage one day and surpass Naruto Uzumaki as a ninja.” 

“The Hokage, huh?” Shino hummed with seriousness. (He could ignore the implication that an insect summoner can’t be Hokage.) “Well, if you want to surpass Naruto, you’ll have to become Hokage, right?”

“You get it!” One of the other children chirped. 

Shino nodded, memories of Kiba and his bragging prevalent in his mind. It almost made Shino crack a smile. A group of two boys and one girl… They even looked a little like Team 8. 

“Yeah, I know someone else who wants to be Hokage. And if you ask me, you’ve got him beat already.”

The boy’s eyes glittered. 

“Really?”

Shino didn’t have it in him to stifle the way the corners of his mouth turned upward. 

“Really,” he said, “I can’t say I know anyone who says they want to become Hokage as an afterthought. You’ve got a serious dream, alright.”

“Was your dream to become an insect user?” The little girl asked. 

Shino faltered. His logical side wanted to say no, that the Aburame clan established their hives at very young ages as part of a long-held tradition. However, he was reluctant to say that what amounted to upholding his birthright wasn’t his dream. But no one had asked him outright what he wanted out of life before…

Once again, Shino didn’t get the opportunity to speak. 

“Oh,” one of the little boys asked, seeming to sense Shino’s hesitation, “Are you one of those shinobi that just want a wife and kids?”

The other little boy smacked the back of the boy’s head. 

“Not everyone wants a wife, stupid.” He turned to Shino. “He can have a husband,” he said with assertive certainty. He nodded profusely. “Or like, I dunno, something like my parents!”

“I really have to be going,” Shino cleared his throat. Judging by the sun’s position in the sky, he was already late for his meeting with Kiba, and his conversation with this genin group was beginning to sound like an Aburame family gathering.

So, when Shino and Kiba gathered to discuss wedding presents, Shino thought that the lightness of the topic could keep him well-distracted. 

He thought wrong.

“It’s our final mission as Team 8,” Kiba said, glancing over his shoulder at Shino with a wide grin. “Once Hinata gets married, we won’t get to work together the way we used to, right?” He was too lost in his grand proclamations to see the visible tension in Shino’s figure.

“Yeah…” Shino muttered. “That’s true.” 

Shino knew— yes, the thought had crossed his mind— that Hinata getting married would mean the end of Team 8. Hinata was hardly enthusiastic about mission work anyway. Despite all she did to do her part in stepping up during reconstruction, the donations of her time and efforts were more out of the goodness of her heart rather than a passion for late-night patrols. 

Her wedding would mark a perfect opportunity for her to retire. Shino knew Hinata had always wanted to be a mother, so retiring and having a baby or two would be a well-deserved dream realized. Shino was more than happy for her, but it was another thing he had never heard spoken out loud before. 

Kiba had even said it lightly. We won’t get to work together the way we used to, as opposed to Team 8 will never fight together again. (Unless Hinata grew restless for a bit of field action, Shino couldn’t recount the last time he witnessed Hinata restless.)

And so, despite Kiba’s abundance of excitement to set out on a quest, Shino quickly took the lead. They both set off quickly, searching for the perfect gift for Naruto and Hinata.

Thank you to all who liked, reblogged, followed, and supported. Your support means so much and is greatly appreciated.

Notes: Hi hi hi I'm sorry for the... 2 year delay 🥲 I finally figured out what I want to do with this story and I guess it took this long. No timeline at the moment, sorry!

Chapter I Chapter II Chapter III Chapter IV Chapter V Chapter VI

[amethystarachnid]

YES, PART 3 OF CHRISTMAS PROPOSAL WITH BABY STARK 😍😍😍😍😍 family man Tony is the best thing ever! 😍

CHRISTMAS PROPOSAL - part III

⤷ ANTHONY “TONY” E. STARK

ᯓ★ Pairing: Anthony “Tony” E. Stark x fem!reader

ᯓ★ Genre: romance, fluff

ᯓ★ Request from: MARVEL Holiday special

ᯓ★ Word count: 6.1k

ᯓ★ Part I | Part II

ᯓ★ Summary: what the ask said

ᯓ★ TW(s): fluff fluff fluff

ᯓ★ Love is in the air - Valentine's Day special game

ᯓ★ My Masterlist

ᯓ★ MARVEL Holiday Special

ᯓ★ MARVEL Multiverse - choose an AU, pair it with your favorite character and make a request!

ᯓ★ Songs & Superheroes tales - The Game (to make a request, follow the rules on the link!)

ᯓ★ MARVEL Bingo

ᯓ★ English isn’t my first language

A few months have passed since the honeymoon, and life with Tony has settled into a chaotic, beautiful routine. Between Stark Industries, charity events, and his insatiable need to spoil you with extravagant date nights, there’s never a dull moment. But despite the whirlwind of your life together, there’s one thing that grounds you: the simple, intimate moments.

Like now, for instance.

It’s a quiet morning—well, as quiet as mornings in the Stark penthouse get. Tony is in the kitchen, wearing pajama pants and an old AC/DC shirt, humming something that sounds suspiciously like "Livin’ on a Prayer” as he messes with the espresso machine. You’re sitting at the counter, staring at your phone in disbelief.

A pregnancy test sits in your other hand.

Two lines. Clear as day.

You’re pregnant.

The weight of the realization settles in—a mix of pure joy, excitement, and a tiny flicker of nervousness. You and Tony had talked about kids before, in that dreamy, “someday” way. But now, someday is right now.

You bite your lip, glancing over at Tony, who is oblivious, frowning at the espresso machine like it personally offended him.

How do you even tell Tony Stark that he’s about to be a dad? Just blurting it out feels too simple. A normal, straightforward approach? Too boring. No, this moment calls for something big. Dramatic.

Something worthy of Tony Stark.

And so, a plan begins to form in your mind.

—

For the next few days, you go full mastermind mode. You order props, recruit some unsuspecting help (mainly Happy and Pepper, who immediately catch on and absolutely want front-row seats to this reveal), and prepare the most Stark-level dramatic way to break the news.

The hardest part is keeping a straight face whenever Tony’s around.

“Okay, what’s going on with you?” Tony finally asks one evening as you sit on the couch together. He pokes your cheek, squinting suspiciously. “You’ve been acting all… sneaky.”

You blink at him innocently. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

He narrows his eyes. “Oh, really? Because usually, when you’re planning something, you get this look.”

You feign offense. “I do not.”

He smirks, poking your cheek again. “You so do.”

“Well, maybe I’m just happy,” you say, which isn’t technically a lie.

Tony raises an eyebrow but lets it go—for now.

Little does he know, tomorrow is the day.

—

The next evening, everything is set. You send Tony out on an errand (okay, fine, you fake an emergency call from Pepper needing his help at the office), giving you time to get everything ready.

When he finally returns home, the penthouse is dark—except for a glowing arc reactor sitting in the middle of the living room.

“Uh… honey?” Tony calls, stepping inside cautiously. “Did I walk into a surprise party? Because if I did, and there’s a clown, I swear to—”

Before he can finish, the TV screen flickers on, revealing a very dramatic, very Tony-esque video montage.

It starts with a slow-motion replay of some of his most heroic moments—Iron Man in action, dodging explosions, saving the world. The theme from 2001: A Space Odyssey plays in the background. Then, the screen cuts to you, standing in a spotlight, holding a cue card.

Tony squints. “What the—”

You begin flipping the cards, each one revealing a new message.

“Tony Stark: Genius, Billionaire, Playboy, Philanthropist.”

Tony snorts. “I was a playboy. Past tense.”

“You’ve built a legacy.”

“You’ve changed the world.”

“You’ve faced gods, aliens, and the occasional malfunctioning coffee machine.”

Tony tilts his head. “Hey, that’s a low blow. The coffee machine betrayed me.”

“But now… your biggest challenge yet.”

The music swells dramatically. The next card flips.

“Fatherhood.”

Silence.

Tony blinks. He rewinds the video in his head, as if making sure he saw that last card correctly. His mouth opens, then closes. Then opens again.

“What.”

You step into the living room, grinning as you hold up the positive pregnancy test like it’s Excalibur.

“I’m pregnant.”

For the first time ever, Tony Stark is speechless.

He looks at you. Then at the TV. Then back at you. His mouth moves, but no sound comes out. He points at the screen. Then at the test. Then at you.

“You’re…” He clears his throat. “You’re serious?”

You nod, biting your lip. “Dead serious.”

Tony just stares for another solid five seconds. And then—

“Oh my God.”

The next thing you know, you’re being lifted off the ground as Tony spins you around, laughing, half-shouting.

“WE’RE HAVING A BABY?!”

You giggle, clinging to his shoulders. “We are.”

“Holy shit,” he breathes, setting you down. His hands hover over your stomach, like he’s almost afraid to touch you. “You—you’re okay, right? You feel okay? Do you need anything? Water? A cheeseburger?”

You laugh, placing your hands over his. “I’m fine. We’re fine.”

Tony looks down at where his hands rest against your stomach, and for the first time, his expression shifts from excitement to something softer. More vulnerable.

“I never thought…” He swallows, shaking his head. “I mean, I hoped, but I didn’t think it’d actually happen.”

You cup his face gently. “Well, it did. You’re gonna be a dad.”

His eyes shine in a way you’ve never seen before. “I’m gonna be a dad.”

And then—he kisses you. Hard, deep, overwhelmingly full of love.

When he finally pulls back, he takes a deep breath, then smirks. “Wait, does this mean I can start designing the most high-tech crib in existence?”

You groan. “Tony—”

“I’m just saying,” he grins. “Our baby deserves the best.”

You roll your eyes, laughing. “Fine. But no mini Iron Man suits.”

Tony gasps, clutching his chest. “You wound me.”

The rest of the night is spent in pure joy. Tony keeps alternating between kissing you, talking to your stomach like the baby can already hear him (“Hey, kiddo, it’s your dad. I’m very cool, you’ll love me.”), and excitedly making lists of things you’ll need (“What’s the best brand of baby socks? Do babies even wear socks?”).

By the time you both collapse into bed, Tony wraps himself around you protectively, his hand resting over your stomach.

“I’m really happy,” he murmurs against your shoulder.

You smile, threading your fingers through his. “Me too.”

And as you drift off to sleep, wrapped in Tony’s warmth, you know this is only the beginning of the most incredible adventure yet.

The day of your first doctor’s appointment arrives faster than expected, and Tony is practically vibrating with energy from the moment he wakes up. You wake up to the feeling of him shifting restlessly beside you, checking his watch even though it’s still hours before you need to leave.

"Tony," you mumble sleepily, rolling over to face him. "It’s six in the morning."

"I know," he says, eyes wide and alert. "But what if traffic is bad? Or if there’s some freak weather event? Or what if we get there and they tell us the appointment was actually scheduled for yesterday and we missed it?"

You blink at him, still half-asleep. "Do you hear yourself?"

"I do," he says, completely serious. "And I regret nothing."

You groan, throwing a pillow over your head. "Wake me up in two hours, Stark."

Tony sighs dramatically but pulls you closer, pressing a kiss to your forehead. You fall back asleep to the sound of him quietly mumbling about hospital equipment and state-of-the-art ultrasound machines.

When it’s finally time to leave, Tony is dressed like he’s going to a high-stakes business meeting, a sharp suit and perfectly styled hair, as if the doctor might be more likely to give him good news if he looks put together. Meanwhile, you’re in comfortable leggings and a sweater, eyeing him like he’s lost his mind.

"Are we closing a billion-dollar deal or going to a doctor’s appointment?" you ask, raising an eyebrow.

Tony adjusts his cuffs. "Why not both? This is arguably the biggest investment of my life."

The car ride is a mix of his usual sarcasm and pure, unfiltered excitement. He’s bouncing his knee, tapping at the dashboard, and checking his phone as if he has an entire presentation prepared for the doctor. At some point, he starts mumbling baby names under his breath.

"You’re getting ahead of yourself," you tease. "We don’t even know anything yet."

"I know," he says, grinning. "But isn’t this fun?"

At the clinic, Tony is all nerves and charm, chatting with the receptionist like he’s trying to network, but it’s clear he’s just masking his anxious energy. When your name is called, he immediately stands up, his hand on your back as he walks with you like a bodyguard escorting the president.

Inside the examination room, he doesn’t even sit. He stands next to you, arms crossed, looking between you and the doctor like he’s ready to jump in if anyone so much as breathes wrong in your direction.

"First-time dad?" the doctor asks with an amused smile.

Tony lets out a breathless laugh. "What gave it away?"

The moment the ultrasound begins, he’s gripping your hand tightly, eyes locked on the screen. And then—there it is. The tiny flickering heartbeat. A sound so small yet so incredibly powerful.

Tony doesn’t speak. His mouth falls slightly open, and his grip on your hand tightens just a fraction. His eyes glisten, and for the first time since you’ve known him, he looks completely overwhelmed in the best way possible.

"That’s… that’s real," he whispers, almost in disbelief.

"That’s our baby," you say softly.

Tony blinks a few times, then lets out a shaky breath before pressing a kiss to your knuckles. His thumb brushes over your skin in slow, careful circles, as if grounding himself.

When the doctor hands you the printout of the ultrasound, Tony stares at it like it’s the most precious thing in the world. He doesn’t even put it in his pocket—he just holds it in his hands the entire ride home, glancing at it every few minutes like he’s making sure it’s still real.

The moment you step through the front door of the penthouse, Tony suddenly shifts into full-on protection mode.

"Alright," he announces, clapping his hands together. "We have a lot of work to do."

You pause mid-step, raising an eyebrow. "Work?"

Tony is already moving, heading straight for his workbench. "I need to upgrade the security system. The biometric scanners need to be recalibrated, and I should probably add reinforced locks to all the windows. Actually, maybe we should get a secondary security system, something more sophisticated. Oh, and babyproofing. We need to start babyproofing now."

You laugh, kicking off your shoes as you follow him. "Tony, the baby isn’t even born yet. We have time."

"Do we?" he says, already pulling up schematics on one of his screens. "Because time moves fast, sweetheart. One second you’re hearing their heartbeat for the first time, and the next thing you know, they’re crawling towards an unprotected power outlet."

You shake your head fondly. "You really think our kid is going to be crawling out of the womb?"

Tony points at you without looking away from the screen. "Stranger things have happened."

Over the next few hours, he’s in full-on genius billionaire mode, mapping out everything from enhanced baby monitors to motion-sensing nursery cameras with facial recognition. He even briefly considers designing a baby-sized Iron Man suit, but you shut that idea down immediately.

"I’m just saying," he insists, "it’s never too early to think about armor."

"Tony," you deadpan. "No."

By the end of the day, half the penthouse is in the middle of some kind of upgrade. The front door’s security system has been recalibrated, the windows have new locks, and there’s an entire section of Tony’s workshop dedicated to babyproofing prototypes.

You find him sitting on the floor in the nursery-to-be, a screwdriver in one hand and a baby gate in the other, looking entirely too proud of himself.

"You know," you say, leaning against the doorframe, "I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this invested in a project before."

Tony looks up at you, a soft smile tugging at his lips. "This isn’t just a project. This is our kid."

You step closer, kneeling in front of him. "You’re gonna be a great dad."

He exhales, running a hand through his hair. "God, I hope so."

"You already are," you say, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

Tony wraps his arms around you, holding you close. "I love you," he murmurs against your shoulder.

"I love you too," you whisper.

And as you sit there together in the middle of the half-finished nursery, surrounded by babyproofing gear and Stark-grade security upgrades, you realize that this little life growing inside you is already the most loved, most protected baby in the world.

Pregnancy with Tony Stark is nothing short of an adventure. From the moment the test turned positive, he has been equal parts overprotective, fascinated, and completely obsessed with the fact that his DNA is currently helping build a tiny human inside of you.

Every doctor’s appointment is an event. Tony refuses to miss a single one, no matter how minor. He even clears entire days in his calendar, treating each visit like a high-stakes board meeting.

"Do we have a checklist?" he asks one morning, pacing the bedroom as you rub sleep from your eyes. "I need to go over all the questions I have for the doctor."

You groan. "Tony, we’ve been over this. You can’t ask if the baby has a preference for AI systems yet."

"But what if he does? What if he prefers J.A.R.V.I.S. over F.R.I.D.A.Y.? I need to know where he stands on this."

"Tony," you deadpan, "he’s the size of a mango."

"Okay, but hypothetically—"

You throw a pillow at him.

Despite his constant stream of ridiculous questions, Tony is all heart when it comes to your pregnancy. Every ultrasound leaves him more emotional than he’ll ever admit, and each time he hears the baby’s heartbeat, his grip on your hand tightens, his eyes glistening just a little.

But, of course, pregnancy isn’t all sentimental moments. There are the mood swings.

The first time Tony experiences one in full force, he is caught completely off guard. One moment, you’re laughing at a sitcom, and the next, you’re sobbing into his shoulder.

"I just… I just love you so much," you wail, gripping his shirt. "And you’re gonna be such a good dad, and I’m just really happy and I don’t know why I’m crying!"

Tony freezes, looking down at you with wide eyes. "Oh. Uh. Okay. Okay. We’re happy crying. That’s… good. Do you need ice cream? A jet to a tropical island? A back rub? Help me out here."

You sniffle. "Ice cream."

He bolts to the kitchen.

Then there are the cravings, which hit at the most inconvenient times.

At 3 a.m. one night, you nudge him awake.

"Tony."

He groans, half-asleep. "Did I forget an anniversary? Because I swear I have an alarm set for that."

You shake his shoulder. "I need pickles and peanut butter. Like, right now."

Tony cracks one eye open. "Are you messing with me?"

"Do I look like I’m joking?"

He stares at you for a beat, then sighs. "Alright, alright. Give me ten minutes."

You expect him to go to the kitchen, but no—this is Tony Stark. Instead of settling for store-bought pickles and peanut butter, he insists on making a "pregnancy gourmet special," complete with imported pickles and some ridiculous artisanal peanut butter.

You take one bite, moaning in satisfaction.

Tony watches, fascinated. "You like that?"

You nod, mouth full. "It’s perfect."

"Jesus," he mutters, shaking his head. "You’re growing my child and this is what you want to eat? I feel like I should be concerned."

Despite his teasing, he stocks the pantry with all your weird cravings, making sure there’s never a moment where you have to go without.

Then, one day, your belly pops seemingly overnight.

Tony wakes up, stretches, and turns to look at you—then immediately does a double-take.

"Whoa," he blurts, sitting up.

You blink sleepily. "What?"

He gestures at your stomach. "Did you inflate overnight? Because I swear that wasn’t there yesterday."

You glance down at your belly, which is now undeniably visible. There’s no hiding it anymore.

Your eyes widen. "Oh my God."

Tony grins, reaching out to trace a gentle hand over your stomach. "Well, looks like we’re officially outed to the world now."

And he’s right. The moment the two of you step outside for a public event, the paparazzi go wild.

The next day, the headlines are everywhere.

TONY STARK AND Y/N EXPECTING FIRST CHILD – BUMP DEBUTS IN STYLE! THE NEXT STARK HEIR IS ON THE WAY! BILLIONAIRE BABY ALERT: WHAT WILL THEY NAME THEIR CHILD?

Tony, of course, finds it all hilarious.

"Look at this one," he says, holding up his phone. "Apparently, someone is betting that we’ll name the kid Iron Baby."

You groan. "Why are people like this?"

Tony smirks. "Jokes on them. I was thinking Captain Iron Baby. Really rolls off the tongue."

You throw a pillow at him.

And then, suddenly, it’s time for the baby shower.

Or, rather, the Stark version of a baby shower, which means it’s just the two of you, a cake, and a ridiculous amount of anticipation.

"You really didn’t want to invite anyone?" you ask as he sets up the cake.

Tony shrugs. "Nah. This is our thing. I don’t need a crowd to celebrate the fact that I knocked you up. Just you. And sugar."

You laugh. "God, you’re so romantic."

"I try," he says, winking.

The cake is massive, decorated with question marks since neither of you know the gender yet. Tony dramatically picks up the knife.

"Are you ready?" he asks.

You roll your eyes. "Just cut the damn cake, Stark."

He grins and slices into it—revealing bright blue filling.

Silence.

Then, Tony lets out a breathless laugh. "Holy shit."

Your hands fly to your mouth. "We’re having a boy?"

Tony stares at the cake, then at you, his eyes suspiciously glassy. "We’re having a boy."

The reality sinks in, and before you know it, tears are streaming down your face. Tony immediately pulls you into his arms, holding you close.

"Are we happy crying again?" he murmurs.

You nod against his chest. "Very happy crying."

Tony exhales shakily, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "Good. Because I have so many ideas for this kid. He’s gonna have the best life."

You smile through your tears. "I love you, you know that?"

Tony grins. "I do know that. And I love you more."

The two of you sit on the floor, eating cake and talking about the future—about the nursery, about names, about all the ways Tony is going to spoil this kid absolutely rotten.

And for once, in all of his chaotic, high-speed life, Tony Stark looks perfectly, completely content.

Deciding on a name for their baby is not an easy task.

Tony has a lot of ideas—some of them serious, some of them utterly ridiculous.

"Okay," he says one evening, sprawled on the couch with you, his laptop balanced on his knees. "What about something cool? Something strong. Like Maximus. Or—hear me out—Titan Stark."

You snort. "Tony, I am not naming our son Titan. He’s a baby, not a gladiator."

Tony pouts. "Fine. What about something tech-related? Like… J.A.R.V.I.S. Jr.?"

You give him a deadpan look.

He sighs. "Okay, yeah, even I admit that’s a bit much."

The conversation carries on for weeks, with Tony throwing out names at random moments. In the lab, in bed, even in the middle of grocery shopping.

"Newton?" he asks while grabbing a box of cereal. "As in Isaac Newton?"

You shake your head.

"Einstein?"

"Tony."

Then, one night, it just happens.

You’re curled up together in bed, his hand resting protectively over your bump, tracing slow, absentminded patterns.

"What about Lucas?" you murmur sleepily.

Tony stills. "Lucas," he repeats, testing it out. "Lucas Stark."

You hum, shifting against him. "It feels… right."

Tony doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, he gently rubs your belly, as if testing the name on the baby himself.

"Lucas," he says again, softer this time. "I like it."

And just like that, Lucas Stark is officially decided.

But no one else gets to know.

"Not even Rhodey?" you ask one morning.

"Especially not Rhodey," Tony says firmly. "I love him, but he has zero chill."

So, for now, Lucas remains a secret between the two of you.

As your pregnancy progresses, you find yourself growing more self-conscious. You’ve gained weight, your belly is undeniably huge, and while Tony worships you like you hung the moon, it doesn’t stop the little voice in your head that whispers insecurities.

And then, an event comes up.

It’s a gala—one of those fancy ones that you and Tony usually enjoy. You had picked out a dress for it weeks ago, feeling confident back then. But now, standing in front of the mirror, you hesitate.

The dress is stunning—elegant, deep red, and drapes over your shoulders while leaving your belly exposed in that gorgeous, artistic way some maternity photoshoots capture. You had loved it when you picked it out. But now…

"Maybe I should wear something else," you mutter, touching your belly.

Tony, sitting on the bed, immediately frowns. "What? No way. That dress is hot."

You bite your lip. "But what if I look—"

Tony is up and in front of you in seconds, gently tilting your chin up so you meet his gaze.

"You look stunning," he says firmly. "Always. But in this dress? Jesus, babe, I’m gonna have to fight people off you all night."

You let out a weak laugh. "Tony—"

"Nope," he interrupts. "Not letting you do this to yourself. You’re carrying our kid, and you look beautiful. End of discussion."

He kneels down, pressing soft kisses to your belly. "Lucas thinks so too, don’t you, buddy?"

You sniffle, because damn pregnancy hormones. "You’re such a sap."

Tony smirks. "Only for you."

He helps you into the dress, his hands lingering on your body, tracing every curve with reverence. And when you finally stand in front of the mirror, you have to admit—you do look incredible.

Tony whistles. "Yeah, we’re definitely leaving early tonight, because there’s no way I’m keeping my hands off you for too long."

You roll your eyes, but his words warm something deep inside you.

At the event, Tony is his usual charismatic self, but there’s an edge to him tonight—a protective energy that hasn’t left him since you stepped out of the car.

He keeps a firm hand on your lower back at all times, guiding you through the crowd with ease. The moment someone so much as accidentally bumps into you, he stiffens, shooting them a glare so sharp they immediately stammer out an apology.

"Relax," you murmur, squeezing his hand.

Tony huffs. "I am relaxed."

You raise an eyebrow. "You’re acting like I’m made of glass."

He scoffs. "Well, excuse me for not wanting people to body-check my pregnant wife at a crowded gala."

You sigh, but you let him hover. Because, honestly? It’s kind of sweet.

Throughout the night, Tony makes sure you’re comfortable, offering you water, checking if you need to sit down, and even stealing you away from conversations when he notices you starting to tire.

Eventually, you stifle a yawn, and Tony notices immediately.

"Alright, that’s it," he declares. "We’re heading out."

You start to protest, but he’s already guiding you toward the exit, whispering quick goodbyes to a few people before ushering you into the car.

The second you’re inside, you let out a relieved sigh, leaning your head against his shoulder.

"Tired?" he asks softly.

You nod. "Mmhmm."

He presses a kiss to your hair. "Let’s get you home, mama."

You smile at the name.

And as the city lights blur past the car window, you realize—pregnancy might be tough, but with Tony by your side, you wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Tony Stark has never considered himself easily shaken. He’s fought off aliens, defied death more times than he can count, and stared down the most dangerous threats the universe had to offer.

But nothing—nothing—could have prepared him for this.

It starts in the middle of the night.

You wake up to a sharp, deep cramp in your lower belly. You hiss softly, shifting in bed, pressing a hand against your stomach. At first, you think maybe it’s just Braxton Hicks contractions again—the false alarms that had been plaguing you for weeks.

But then another one comes.

And another.

And they’re closer together.

You reach for Tony in the dark, shaking his shoulder.

"Tony," you whisper.

He groans, rolling onto his stomach. "Mmm. Five more minutes."

Another contraction slams into you, and this time, you don’t shake him—you dig your nails into his arm.

"TONY."

Tony flings himself upright so fast that he nearly topples off the bed. His hair is sticking up at odd angles, his eyes are still half-closed, and he looks utterly confused.

"Whuh—what? What’s happening?"

You clutch your stomach. "It’s happening."

Tony blinks. "Happening happening? Like, baby-is-coming happening?"

You groan through another contraction. "YES, TONY, WHAT ELSE WOULD I MEAN?"

Tony levitates out of bed.

"OH, SHIT! Okay! Okay! Stay calm! We have a plan, right? Right? We totally made a plan!" He looks around wildly like the room will suddenly offer him instructions. "JARVIS! Initiate baby protocol!"

"Sir, the hospital bag is by the closet, the car keys are on the kitchen counter, and Mrs. Stark’s doctor is on call."

Tony whirls toward you. "See? We got this, babe. Totally under control."

You double over with another contraction.

Tony immediately loses his mind again.

"OH MY GOD, WE’RE NOT IN CONTROL AT ALL!" He rushes around the room, grabbing random things that you absolutely don’t need, like his Iron Man helmet, a handful of granola bars, and—why the hell is he stuffing a wrench into the hospital bag?!

"Tony!" you snap.

He freezes.

"Hospital. Now."

Tony gulps and nods furiously. "Yes, ma’am."

The car ride to the hospital is an experience.

Tony is gripping the steering wheel like it personally insulted him, white-knuckled and hunched forward as if that will make him drive faster.

"You doing okay?" he asks, voice strained.

You glare at him. "Tony, I am currently redefining the concept of pain right now."

"Right. Stupid question. I’ll just—yeah." He presses the gas a little harder. "JARVIS, do something useful and make all the traffic lights turn green."

"Sir, that is highly illegal."

"Okay, so hack them. I promise not to tell."

"Sir—"

Another contraction hits, and you scream.

Tony visibly panics. "Okay, you know what? Forget the lights. FRIDAY! Get the hospital on the line!"

By the time you reach the hospital, Tony is barely holding it together. He practically carries you through the doors, yelling for a doctor like a madman.

"Somebody help! My wife is having a baby, and she is not happy about it!"

The nurses rush over, putting you in a wheelchair, and Tony follows in a frenzy of overprotectiveness and completely useless commentary.

"She needs the best room. And the best doctor. Actually, give us two doctors! And whatever fancy drugs you have!"

"Mr. Stark, please take a deep breath," one of the nurses says gently.

Tony does take a breath—right before launching into another set of demands.

And then the real fun begins.

The delivery room is absolute chaos.

Tony tries to be helpful, he really does. But Tony Stark and high-pressure situations that he can’t control? Yeah, that’s a disaster waiting to happen.

"Okay, babe, just breathe," he says, hovering way too close to your face.

"I am breathing!" you snap. "Why don’t you try pushing a watermelon out of your body and see how calm you are?!"

Tony flinches but holds his ground. "Right. Good point. Totally fair."

You groan through another contraction, gripping his hand in a vice grip.

Tony screams.

"Oh my God! You’re breaking my fingers!"

"GOOD."

"Okay, I love you, but I might pass out—"

"Then pass out quietly, TONY!"

The doctor chuckles. "Mr. Stark, maybe you should—"

"Nope!" Tony cuts him off. "I am staying! I am supporting my wife!"

You turn your head, panting. "Then shut up and let me focus!"

Tony nods quickly, lips pressing into a tight line.

He tries to be quiet. He really does.

But then—

"Oh God, that’s a lot of fluids—"

"TONY!"

"Right! Focusing! Quiet as a mouse!"

After what feels like an eternity of pushing, screaming, and Tony almost passing out twice, a cry suddenly fills the room.

It’s loud. Sharp. Tiny.

And everything stops.

The doctor lifts a wriggling, messy little body into the air.

"Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Stark. You have a healthy baby boy."

Tony sags in relief, eyes wide, breath caught in his throat. He watches in stunned silence as the nurse carefully places the baby in your arms.

And just like that—Lucas Stark is here.

You’re exhausted, sweaty, and sore, but the second you see his tiny, scrunched-up face, tears well up in your eyes.

"Hey, baby," you whisper, touching his cheek.

Lucas lets out another small cry, his little fingers curling into a fist.

Tony still hasn’t moved.

"Tony," you say softly, looking up at him. "Do you wanna hold him?"

Tony stares at you like you just asked him to carry the moon. "I—I don’t—what if I drop him? Or hold him wrong? Or—"

"Tony." You give him a look. "You built an Iron Man suit in a cave. I think you can hold a baby."

He swallows hard. Nods.

Slowly, very carefully, he reaches down and scoops Lucas into his arms.

And then—

He breaks.

Tears fill his eyes instantly. His whole body tenses for a moment before softening entirely, his arms cradling Lucas like he’s the most precious thing in the world.

"Hey, buddy," he whispers, voice shaking. "I’m your dad."

Lucas wiggles slightly, making a tiny cooing sound.

Tony lets out a choked laugh. "Jesus, you’re so small. I mean—I knew babies were small, but damn."

You laugh weakly. "Yeah, that tends to happen."

Tony brushes a fingertip over Lucas’ cheek, his expression pure, unfiltered wonder. He looks up at you, his eyes shining with tears.

"You did it," he whispers. "We did it."

You nod, exhaustion settling in, but your heart feels fuller than it ever has.

Tony looks back at Lucas, awe still written all over his face.

"You are so grounded for scaring the hell out of me, kid," he murmurs. "But… God, I love you already."

And just like that—Tony Stark is officially a dad.

That first night at home is something out of a fever dream. You’re both running on fumes, your body still aching from giving birth, and Lucas seems determined to make sure neither of you get more than a few minutes of rest at a time. Every little noise he makes has Tony jolting awake, staring at the bassinet like it might explode. The sheer panic in his eyes when Lucas lets out a particularly sharp cry at three in the morning is almost comical.

“What does that mean?” Tony hisses, already scrambling out of bed.

“It means he’s a baby,” you groan, rolling over and trying to find a comfortable position, which is damn near impossible. “Babies cry, Tony.”

“Yeah, but what if it’s, like, a specific cry? What if it’s a code? What if he’s trying to tell us he’s got colic, or he’s hungry, or—I don’t know—existential dread?”

You sigh, propping yourself up on your elbows. “He’s fine, Tony.”

Tony, however, is not convinced. He stares at Lucas, who is now hiccuping little sobs, face scrunched up in displeasure.

“He’s mad,” Tony concludes. “He’s mad at us. Oh God, we’ve already failed as parents.”

You chuckle despite the exhaustion and shift to sit up completely, wincing slightly at the soreness in your abdomen. Reaching over, you scoop Lucas up, settling him against your chest. Almost immediately, he quiets, his tiny hands clutching at your shirt.

Tony watches in pure awe.

“He just… stops?” he whispers, like he’s witnessing some kind of divine magic.

“It’s called breastfeeding,” you murmur, adjusting Lucas as he latches on.

Tony is stunned. He’s seen you pregnant, felt Lucas kick inside of you, been there every step of the way. But this? Seeing you hold your baby, feeding him, soothing him with nothing but your touch—this is a whole new level of amazement.

“You’re incredible,” he says softly, sitting on the edge of the bed, watching like he’s afraid to blink. “I mean, I knew you were incredible, but this? This is, like… superpower levels of amazing.”

You roll your eyes but can’t hide your smile. “Tony, it’s just biology.”

“No, it’s you,” he insists, reaching out to brush a thumb over Lucas’s impossibly soft cheek. “You made him. And now you’re feeding him. Do you have any idea how insane that is? You are literally keeping him alive with your own body.”

You shake your head, amused. “I love how you say it like it’s some shocking revelation.”

“Well, forgive me for never witnessing something this damn cool before,” Tony huffs, but his eyes are soft, his voice reverent.

Lucas makes a little contented noise, his tiny fingers curling against your skin, and Tony sighs like he’s just had his entire worldview shift.

“I think I love him so much it physically hurts,” he admits, pressing a kiss to your shoulder before resting his forehead against it.

You feel the same way.

The days blur together in a whirlwind of sleepless nights, endless diaper changes, and more crying than you ever thought possible—from both Lucas and Tony.

Your body is still healing, and Tony makes sure you don’t lift a finger when you don’t have to. He’s cleared everything from his schedule, no work calls, no lab time—just you and Lucas.

He’s completely, utterly obsessed with both of you.

Every time you nurse Lucas, Tony is there, watching with the same kind of awe he had that first night. Sometimes he makes little comments, like, “You’re basically a goddess, you know that?” or “I’m considering building a statue in your honor.” Other times, he just watches silently, like he still can’t wrap his head around how incredible you are.

At one point, in the middle of a particularly long night, you find him lying next to you on the bed, chin propped in his hand, staring at you while you feed Lucas.

“Tony,” you whisper, barely holding back a laugh.

“Yeah?”

“Are you ever gonna sleep?”

“Not when there’s this to witness,” he replies, nodding toward you and Lucas.

You shake your head but secretly love how obsessed he is with the whole thing.

He tries to help as much as he can. He’s on diaper duty, which he tackles with the same level of commitment he gives to designing a new suit. He actually times himself at one point, trying to break his own record.

“Two minutes and thirty-four seconds,” he announces triumphantly after changing Lucas one night. “I think I’m getting the hang of this.”

“You do realize you don’t have to speedrun it, right?”

“Tell that to him,” Tony gestures to Lucas, who looks vaguely unimpressed. “He’s judging me. I can feel it.”

You giggle, but your laughter turns into a yawn, and Tony is immediately on high alert.

“Okay, bed. Now.” He gently takes Lucas from you, cradling him in his arms. “I got him. You sleep.”

“But—”

“No buts,” Tony says, already swaying gently, patting Lucas’s back. “Sleep, babe. I’m the night shift now.”

You’re asleep before you can argue.

Tony stays up, walking around the penthouse with Lucas in his arms, murmuring softly.

“You have no idea how much I love you already, buddy,” he whispers, kissing the top of Lucas’s head. “Like, I thought I knew what love was, but then you showed up, and boom, my heart isn’t even mine anymore.”

Lucas lets out a tiny yawn, his face scrunching up before relaxing again. Tony smiles.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. I’m getting sappy. Don’t tell your mom, she’ll never let me live it down.”

Lucas snuggles deeper into his chest, and Tony swears he’s never felt anything better in his entire life.

It’s chaos. It’s sleepless nights and exhaustion and baby cries that seem to have no solution. But it’s also warmth and laughter and a love so intense it shakes Tony to his core.

And he wouldn’t trade a single second of it.

[runningfrom2am]

Omg I neeeed a part two to hard to carry it’s so good!

your wish is my command :))

(i feel like this is literally so boring so apologies in advance lol)

hard to carry (II)

part one

pairing: jj x kook!reader

wc: 2.4k

After a week, JJ still couldn't get you off his mind. He resisted the urge to send you a message over Instagram several times, and his usage of the app spiked since you entered the username in his phone. Not that you posted anything new, but subconsciously, he was waiting for you to. More than once, he found himself tilting his phone away from his girlfriend while they were laying in bed together, hoping she wouldn't catch a glimpse of the latest picture of you he was staring at, desperately trying to recreate the feeling he got when he first laid eyes on you.

JJ is torn. Even as he sits on the takeout counter at The Wreck, laughing and talking with the girl he's loved for years, he can't help but compare her laugh to yours.

"No, JJ, we have to do something for Sarah's birthday, I'm just saying that it's a good option!" Kie laughs, wrapping her apron around her waist as she steps around the counter.

"Yeah, yeah, you're right." JJ chuckles, glancing down at his phone as it vibrates in his hand. Disappointed again when it was just a message from John B, not from you. 

"JJ! Off the counter," Mike calls out, seeing a customer walking towards the door. JJ goes to jump down, stopping with his hands gripping the edge next to him when he looks up at the customer and sees that it's you.

You carefully close the door behind you, looking down at your phone taking the last few moments before you have to talk to an employee of the restaurant to place a long order with the list you got from your parents. You want to make sure you remember everything alright, avoiding stuttering and embarrassing yourself.

You look up as you approach the counter, smiling when your eyes land on JJ. "JJ the pogue!" You call out, smiling wide. "Do you work here?"

JJ smiles, relaxing again on the counter. "Hey! Uh, no, I don't." He shakes his head, looking back over his shoulder as Kie walks out, wiping off her hands, ready to take your order.

She swats at him to jump down and he does, his eyes not leaving you for a second while you speak.

"Weird that you're sitting on the counter in an establishment you don't work at." You tilt your head at him and he chuckles, shrugging and looking over at Mike when he intervenes.

"Agreed, sweetheart." The man says, brushing past behind you to join his daughter behind the counter.

"Uh... what can I get for you?" Kie asks, glancing between JJ and you as you stare at each other.

"Oh! Uh, I've got a bit of a list that I've totally forgotten, I was hoping to get everything to go as well. Just give me one sec..." You laugh in embarrassment, looking down at your phone again.

"I can just read the list, if that's easier." The girl suggests and you nod, handing it over to her.

"Thanks, I appreciate that." You say as Kie takes the phone, typing in the computer from what you have written down in your notes app.

"What's the name for the order?" She asks, sticking her tongue to the inside of her cheek as she notices how JJ is watching you so intently.

"Y/N." You answer, catching JJ's eyes again briefly as he leans back against the counter in front of you.

"So, JJ the pogue, how was that watermelon?" You ask as Kie writes the name down on the receipt and passes it off to her dad before handing you the debit machine, which you quickly tap your card on, leaving a generous tip. Her and the man she's working with seem really nice- you assume that it's her dad, since they look quite alike. You've always also valued small businesses, and getting to know different local restaurants and stores on the island has been a favourite hobby of yours since you arrived.

JJ nods in response. "It was really good! I was right- you had a good eye, Y/N the kook." He grins, and you don't notice as the father and daughter working both lock their eyes on the two of you at the same time.

"Okay-" You laugh, shaking your head and reaching up to brush away the hair that's fallen into your face. "You're right, that does sound so bad." You say, leaning against the counter next to him and picking up your phone from where the curly-haired girl left it.

JJ smiles at you, moving over a little to give you some space. He looks back over his shoulder when he hears Kie drop something, seeing instead that she just slammed something down on the counter while she was getting your drinks ready. "Do you two know each other? Or..." Kie asks when she notices both of your eyes on her. Your smile fades, suddenly getting the vibe that she's not pleased about the two of you talking.

"Yeah! Sorry, I'm Y/N. You knew that, though, I guess." You chuckle and she nods, looking over at her boyfriend and waiting for further explanation.

"We met at the grocery store last week, she helped me pick out a watermelon. The one we ate for breakfast yesterday, she said it was the second best one they had." JJ explains, cringing internally as Kie nods skeptically, raising her eyebrows to show she doesn't believe it. Or at the very least, doesn't care. "This is Kie, by the way. My girlfriend." He turns to you now, feeling guilty already for having to say that at all. Deep in his gut, he hopes he doesn't scare you off.

"Oh! Lovely to meet you!" You smile, hoping to make a good impression despite your slight disappointment. Of course JJ wasn't single, but you hadn't let yourself consider that until this point.

"Likewise." Kie grumbles, stepping away to grab something from the back. 

"So... uh, what brought you to The Wreck?" JJ asks you as she walks out of sight.

"We heard some five-star reviews." You shrug, smiling at him then looking up to Mike. "Also that the owners live just down the block, and are upstanding citizens." You say, making the man chuckle and shake his head.

"That's real sweet." He says, returning his focus to his cooking. "Your parents are the Y/L/N's, then, yeah?" Mike asks.

"Yes sir." You nod.

"Well, welcome to the island! I'm Mike, Kie is my daughter." He explains. "And JJ isn't even supposed to be in here." His tone shifts as his eyes land on the blonde boy next to you, making him tense up.

"Message received, sir." JJ salutes him. "I'll get out of your hair, then." He stands up away from the counter, heading for the door.

"I'll see you around, yeah?" He says to you, trying to commit your eye colour to memory as the bell above the door rings when he opens it.

"See you!" You smile and wave as as he leaves, walking just out of sight.

Mike diverts his eyes from the interaction, chewing on his lip as he focusses on not burning your food. He hates JJ, of course, and would love nothing more than him and Kie to break up, but even imagining the possibility of him cheating on her makes his blood boil. He remembers seeing that look on JJ's face in the way he used to look at his daughter, and now in the way he looks at you. Maybe he should let your food burn after all.

"It was nice to meet you both! No doubt I'll be back, this smells fantastic." You smile, holding the bag of takeout on your hip as you head for the door.

"Bye, tell your parents we'll have to meet them for dinner or something sometime!" Mike smiles at you and Kie just rolls her eyes.

"Of course. They would love that." You nod. "Bye, Kie!" You add in for good measure, smiling at her. You hope that if you do make good friends with JJ, the way you hope you will, you can befriend her too and make a better first impression.

"Later." She replies sarcastically as you open the door, slipping out and letting out a sigh as the door shuts behind you and you make your way to where you parked behind the building. That was tense.

"Hey! Y/N!" You look up before you open your car door, seeing JJ walking up to you.

"I thought you were kicked out." You laugh and JJ shrugs.

"Yeah, and I left." 

"Right, of course." You giggle.

"Uh, nice car you've got." He changes the subject. He's not sure why he even waited, or why he even came to talk to you, but he just knew he had to. He couldn't let you leave again without learning something, anything else about you.

You look back at the vehicle behind you, suddenly having never seen it in your life. "Oh, thanks. It's my pride and joy. We've been through a lot together." You joke.

"Yeah it's cute. Suits you." JJ admits, smile tugging at his lips as he looks between you and the car.

"And! Get this-" You say excitedly, pulling your keys from your pocket and fumbling with them in your one free hand before starting it from outside, the Bluetooth speakers automatically connecting to your phone and blasting the same Taylor Swift song you were listening to before you parked. "Bose speakers! Isn't it cool?" 

"That is sweet, yeah." JJ nods, but he doesn't even so much as glance at the car again. "We should take it for a ride sometime." He suggests hopefully, making your smile falter a little.

"Yeah! I mean, I don't know, I feel like Kie didn't like me very much." You say quieter, tucking the keys back into your pocket.

"She doesn't have to come." JJ shrugs, making you nervous. Both of you feel guilty even as he says it, but there's just something about you that makes him unable to resist the urge to ask.

"She's welcome to! She does seem lovely. She's gorgeous, by the way." You regain your smile, again, hoping to keep your possible new friends on your good side.

"Oh, yeah, thanks." JJ says, looking down at his feet briefly.

"Does she just... Not like you having girl friends? Or is this about the kook thing again? That would be weird though because I feel like she qualifies, her parents living down the street from me and all." You ask, genuinely curious.

"Uh.. could go either way, honestly. She's gone full pogue. Her parents hate me for that." JJ laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. "She kind of hates me these days too, to be honest."

Watching his movements, you can finally admit to yourself that you are absolutely jealous of her. He's gorgeous. "What do you mean?" You ask, shamefully hoping that this means their relationship is on the outs.

"Ah, well, shit. I don't know. We just fight, sometimes, and, I don't know." JJ tries to explain, not wanting to air out their dirty laundry to someone who's essentially a stranger. A beautiful one, none-the-less. 

"Oh..." You nod a little, unsure of what to say. "I'm sorry to hear that-" 

"How about that drive, huh?" JJ interrupts you, staring into your eyes again.

"Oh- uh, yeah! We'll work out a time... I'll just message you?" You ask, taking the change of subject and running with it. "I've got to get this dinner home, my parents are waiting..."

"Shit, yeah, of course." JJ nods, giving his head a quick shake to ground himself in reality again.

"Bye, JJ the pogue!" You say, winking at him as you open your car door, placing the food on the passengers seat.

"Later, Y/N the kook." He teases, giving you a quick wave and turning to head back to his bike. God- he hopes you'll text him.

By the time Kie gets home and slams the front door, JJ is left in nothing but his pyjama pants, just about ready to go to sleep. He was hoping for a message from you that never ended up coming. You knew right away was not a good time, considering the new news that he has a girlfriend.

"Hey, baby-" He calls from the kitchen, Kie quickly following his voice and storming in. 

"Don't!" She says angrily, throwing her bag down on the counter. "What the fuck was that, JJ? Who is she?"

JJ sighs and rubs his eyes with one hand while she stares him down. "I told you, she just moved here, and we met at the grocery store- why are you-"

"No! Don't ask me why I'm being weird about it. I saw the way you looked at her! Are you fucking kidding me? In front of my dad, too? God- JJ you are unbelievable!" She shouts, shaking her head at him in utter disbelief.

"Alright- alright." JJ holds his hands up defensively. "If we want to play that game, let's talk about that touron I know you hooked up with at the kegger. Shall we? Let's go all in." He snaps, crossing his arms.

Kie's eyes widen at this. "What are you even talking about right now?"

JJ purses his lips together and nods quickly. "Oh, well, Pope told me he saw you- so don't even try to act like I'm the crazy one right now."

"It was one time!" Kie admits. "I don't even know his name- I couldn't find you and I got bored. Fuck, like, I'm sorry but this is different."

"It is different! Because I haven't done anything! I've never cheated on you! I'm loyal to you, always, I loved you through everything! I saved you from that stupid camp, and then forgave you for cheating on me, I never even said a word!" JJ shouts now, gripping the counter behind him.

"Don't you dare throw that in my face." Kie says, tone quieter now as she shakes her head at him. "I never asked you to do that. Honestly, maybe it would be better if you hadn't, actually!"

JJ nods sharply, leaving the kitchen and huffing as he walks to their room, throwing on a t-shirt. He has to get out of here. He can't imagine even coming back. He doesn't want to.

"JJ, If you walk out that door we are done." Kie says, appearing behind him as he pulls his shoes on.

JJ shakes his head a little, quickly shoving the door open and walking out without a second thought. The fresh air feels like it lifts a weight off his shoulders. He's upset, but can't help but feel relieved. He walks down towards John B's rebuilt home that he shares with Sarah, which luckily isn't very far from their own new house on the cut.

Before he reaches their door, he pulls out his phone and opens Instagram, opening your account and sending you a message. 

JJ: how about that drive?

It surprises him when you reply within a minute.

Y/N: sure :)

The guilt has faded away almost completely now, and he'll burn the bridge of dealing with Kie when he gets to it.

highly requested part two!! hopefully this didn't disappoint! (i'm definitely disappointed in it but that's neither here nor there)

taglist: @taurusvic, @casualsludgeshoetoad, @maybankspov, @sagcas-latte

[theshipsong]

I think it's working now

and you know what i'm taking this as you walking into the tarot party welcome!!

consider this a guest pull from my blond boyfriend because it's all major arcana:

you (taurus): the high priestess

reiner (leo): the hermit

the relationship: strength

this is me getting on my technical soapbox again: i disagree with exactly half of the "traditional" assignments of the zodiac to the major arcana, and taurus is one. it's usually tied to the hierophant/the pope, which is only apt if you hate tauruses or only think of pre-vatican ii popes. but *eye* think taurus should be the empress. my fave tarot reader jessa crispin calls the empress a combination of the two cards before her, the magician and the high priestess, so take hange as the magician (mad scientist; if i were to make a one piece tarot, that's vegapunk) and someone like, say, nico! as the high priestess. the high priestess is much more lunar than venusian, though, which is also me mixing your s/ins a bit here. she's more of an artemis figure, more wiling to cross into darkness and ambiguity than even the magician.

reiner getting the hermit feels sad, lol. it's him returning to marley alone, marcel and bertolt dead and annie imprisoned, and the next four years of his isolation. the empress and the hermit are both singular figures and both affiliated with earth signs (virgo, only one sign off from his leo sun), but the empress presides over a harvest while the hermit has fuck all. by choice, if he's a religious man, or by privation, or both. it could be a kind of atonement or punishment, too, like zunesha's sentence to wander the earth. for reiner, i think it has to be a bit of self-denial. zeke at least indulges vices like cigarettes, but after tasting actual paradise (not not pussy) on paradis and knowing you, an embodiment of venus, he probably feels he doesn't deserve pleasure or comfort.

strength came up in an entirely different deck in a reading for an irl friend of mine who was also tangled with a leo (with buggy's birthday). it's so stupid and not rigged, deadass. to be frank, this is one of few times i prefer the more familiar waite-smith illustrations to an italian or french deck like this one. strength in the waite-smith is a young girl taming a lion so the card becomes more about patience and endurance and building trust, like making friends with a cranky house cat, while i must say the visconti tarot's figure is certainly whacking the poor guy. uh. at least he's armored? if i stretch to make this as nice as possible, let's say you already did patience and understanding before and during the attempted kidnapping debacle. but four years later, jean shows us the way to get him out of a guilt spiral is indeed force, the romantic languages' forza that's a bit more brutal than our romantic ideas of "strength." i think nico's mad scientist ass is also a bit more willing to poke this bear than most.

come to my tarot party!!!

[supertrxshwrites]

Maneater part II

Jason Todd x Reader

( I might write a short to end this better but uuuh yeah here’s pt.2 sorry in advance for spelling errors I did NOT proofread this…Oh uh I’m tagging you bc I saw your comment on pt. 1 @justyouraveragekleemain )

TW// blood mention, wound, cut,

“Fuck, me” you say as Jason speeds off into the night,rain sprinkles down leaving small droplets on your arms before its pace picks up and it starts to pour.

You trot back up the stairs to grab your helmet and purse before walking to the closest bus stop, your wait wasn’t too long when you heard the creak of the bus coming to a halt, the hiss of the doors opening takes you back to your high school days. You shake the thought away before stepping onto the bus, you dig through your wallet practically blowing dust off your bus card praying there’s enough on it. You swipe it and the driver nods his head in approval for you to take a seat, the fluorescent lights shining down on the dark blue plastic of the seats. There’s a few people on but you can tell it’s nearing the end of the line, older men with brown paper bags hugging what’s probably a 40oz beer, a woman with two sleeping children and what looks like grocery bags. Only a sight you’d catch on public transit, people from different walks of life in one place. You catch the bus driver looking at you through the mirror, a bit annoyed that you haven’t picked a seat yet, you quickly choose one scooching close to the window sighing as the rain makes a pitter patter sound against the glass. As the bus moves you feel a headache coming on as you start to think about the events of the nights gala experience. You never saw Jason as anything romantically, he’s been your best friend forever and you assumed that he just felt the same way. Once the bus comes to a stop near your apartment you release a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, you grab your purse and helmet and step off before crossing the street to your apartment complex. You walk through the parking lot and take the elevator to your floor and finally make it to your door a deep sigh leaving your lungs the second you turn the key in the lock. You throw the helmet on your couch and practically run to your room falling face first into the mattress.

“What the fuck” you say voice muffled from the pillows. You roll over to check your phone to see if maybe Jason has texted you, but there’s nothing.

──────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆────────

About a week goes by since you’ve seen Jason. Not a text, a call or even a knock on your door. You had been blowing him up but not a single answer.

“Whatever” you say to yourself quietly in your empty apartment as you plop down onto the couch to watch some corny show.

That’s when you hear a light tapping sound. The first time you heard it you shrugged it off and continued the show you were watching, but then you heard it a second time which made you nervous. You got up and slowly crept towards your bedroom hoping that it was just rain on the window and you could return to watching TV.

You hear a slight thud on the window followed by a streaking noise. You inhale sharply as you finally have a full view of the fire-escape window in your bed room. The glass is foggy and all that you can make out is the shadow of a person which makes you even more nervous. A pang of nausea hitting your stomach, you step closer and that’s when your heart begins to pound.

“ what the fuck?!” The breathe you sucked in earlier spilling out of you like a balloon. You shuffle over to the window pushing it up and before you can react. The figure falls over onto the floor knocking things over in the process.

“ Hnn..took you long enough..fuu..ck” he says between wheezes

Your eyes widen as you finally collect your thoughts as to what’s unraveling in front of you.

“JASON?!” you say in a confused tone.

“Floors so cold…hnn and soothing” he wheezes out before rolling over slowly, blood spilling from his torso.

You drop to your knees next him.

“YOURE BLEEDING!” Panic settles into every nerve in your body as you try to pull Jason’s massive frame from the floor. Your mind is racing, you hadn’t heard from him in days and now he’s the fucking Red Hood bleeding all over your floor and bedroom?!

“Y/n..” he mutters your name before you continue to drag him to your chair in the living room. His wheeze becoming most prominent when he tries to speak. You shush him for a moment before pressing your temples with your eyes clothes.

“I need a moment” you take a deep breathe before you pull your hair up and grab your first aid kit.

“Look I’m not great at this Jason I’ve never had to patch or sew anyone up before.”

Your eyes dart at every part of him before you sit between his legs and situate your self so you’re able to tend to his wounds without leaning on him too much.

“What the fuck is your problem?!” You snap at him as you help him out of his dirty brown leather jacket and lift his shirt up.

“I-“

“No Jason don’t speak!” You say putting your gloved index finger up

“You take me to a gala! You leave me to find your dad and then embarrass me only to leave me there?!” You say as you dab his cuts with alcohol a wince slipping from his lips.

“And-and- then you ignore me?!” You say angrily as you begin to apply bandages.

“Jesus Christ…can you..shut up!” He says cutting you off through gritted teeth.

“I needed time to think about what I wanted to say to you. How I wanted to apologize about how I acted at the gala-“ he says before the tilting his head back and whimpering in pain.

Your mouth hangs open surprised at his words. You weren’t expecting this from him, you didn’t even consider that he’d apologize for what happened at the gala.

“I..Jay..” you stammer as you close the first aid kit and dispose of your gloves and any dirty tools. For a while you both sit in silence, the soft hum of your fan rotating echoing through your apartment.

“You’re my best friend Y/N, I wanted to tell you about me being Red Hood…then the gala happened and I was so mad-“

You look at him before sucking in a deep breath.

“Jason…it’s fine..yeah I’m worried about you being a vigilante but there’s worse things” you laugh a bit as you shrug

“Wow..um you took this better than I thought you would.” He laughs a bit before wincing.

You check the time before getting up to grab a few blankets and pillows. You make up the couch for him and you sit down and pat the spot next to you. He gets up using the chair to steady himself before sitting next to you.

“Jason…” you pause for a moment before you continue his green eyes have your full attention.

“I have always loved you. You have and will always be my first love Jay..I never wanted to say it because I was afraid you’d run away or I’d ruin it some how if I ever said anything. S’why I always settled for shitty guys I guess”

You feel the words pouring out of you like vomit, your stomach flipping as you confess. He lets out a breathy laugh as he leans closer, he brushes some of your hair away before cupping your face a soft smile forming on his face. His thumb softly caressing your cheek, you feel a chill down your spine at the contact, goosebumps appearing on your arms.

“Can I?” He asks softly as he leans closer.

You nod with a smile before Jason closes the gap between you two.

You feel your body enveloping in warmth as he kisses you. Your heart flutters as each second passes, when he pulls away it feels like two magnets being pulled apart.

“I love you too, Y/N”

[atplblog]

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[pikselog]

Xbox taşınabilir el konsolları ROG Xbox Ally serisini duyurdu

https://pikselog.com Microsoft, taşınabilir oyun pazarında ciddi bir adım atarak ASUS ile ortaklaşa geliştirilen iki yeni el konsolunu tanıttı: ROG Xbox Ally ve ROG Xbox Ally X. Bu cihazlar, Xbox’un gücünü Windows’un özgürlüğüyle birleştiriyor. Her iki model de 2025 tatil döneminde seçili pazarlarda satışa sunulacak. Ön sipariş, fiyat ve aksesuar bilgileri ise ilerleyen dönemde açıklanacak. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FIVmyOIV1MQ Xbox ekibi, son yıllarda “her yerde oyun” vizyonuyla Play Anywhere, Game Pass, Xbox Cloud Gaming (Beta) ve Remote Play gibi hizmetleri öne çıkarmıştı. Şimdi ise, ASUS ile birlikte teknik bilgi ve deneyimlerini bir araya getirerek, ROG Xbox Ally ve ROG Xbox Ally X ile bu vizyonu fiziksel cihaza dönüştürdüler. Oyuncular, Xbox, Battle.net ve diğer popüler PC mağazalarındaki oyunlara artık tek bir cihazdan ulaşabilecek. ROG Xbox Ally, giriş seviyesinde, uygun fiyatlı ve her oyuncuya hitap eden bir model olarak sunulurken; ROG Xbox Ally X, üst düzey performans isteyenlere yönelik olarak tasarlandı. Her iki el konsolu da ister yerel ister bulut üzerinden ya da başka bir odadaki Xbox konsoluyla uzaktan oyun oynamayı destekliyor. Windows 11 ile çalışan cihazlarda, Xbox için özel geliştirilmiş tam ekran arayüz, kolaylaştırılmış Game Bar ve Armoury Crate entegrasyonu gibi özellikler öne çıkıyor. Oyunlar ve uygulamalar arasında geçiş, sohbet, ayar yönetimi ve kütüphane erişimi doğrudan cihaz üzerinden, kontrolcü ile rahatça yapılabiliyor. Ayrıca cihazlar Discord, Twitch ve mod desteğiyle PC oyun özgürlüğünü de koruyor. Teknik açıdan; ROG Xbox Ally: AMD Ryzen Z2 A işlemci, 16GB RAM, 512GB SSD, 7” FHD 120Hz ekran, 60Wh pil, 670g ağırlık. ROG Xbox Ally X: AMD Ryzen AI Z2 Extreme işlemci, 24GB RAM, 1TB SSD, 7” FHD 120Hz ekran, 80Wh pil, 715g ağırlık, Thunderbolt 4 destekli bağlantı noktası. Her iki cihaz da Wi-Fi 6E, Bluetooth 5.4, ergonomik Xbox tarzı tutuş, hızlı geçiş tuşları ve geniş aksesuar desteği sunuyor. Game Pass üyeleri yüzlerce oyuna doğrudan erişebiliyor. Ayrıca, cihazlar Play Anywhere desteği ile satın alınan oyunları Xbox konsolda, PC’de ve el konsolunda ortak ilerlemeyle oynama imkânı tanıyor. ROG Xbox Ally ve Ally X, yıl sonunda Türkiye dahil birçok ülkede piyasaya çıkacak. Ön sipariş ve fiyat detayları yakında paylaşılacak. Xbox ve ASUS, el konsolları pazarında yeni bir dönemi başlatmayı hedefliyor.    ROG Xbox Ally  ROG Xbox Ally X  İşletim SistemiWindows 11 Home  Windows 11 Home  GamepadXbox Kablosuz Kumandalarından ilham alan ergonomik tutuş, tüm gün boyunca konfor sağlıyor. ABXY tuşları / yön tuşları (D-pad) / L & R Hall Effect analog tetikler / L & R bumper tuşları / Xbox tuşu / Görünüm (View) tuşu / Menü tuşu / Komut Merkezi tuşu / Kütüphane tuşu / 2 adet atanabilir arka tuş / 2 adet tam boy analog çubuk / HD titreşim / 6 eksenli IMU sensörüXbox Kablosuz Kumandalarından ilham alan ergonomik tutuş, tüm gün konfor sunuyor; gelişmiş kontrol için impulse tetikleyicilerle (titreşimli tetik) tamamlanıyor. ABXY tuşları / yön tuşları (D-pad) / L & R impulse tetikler / L & R bumper tuşları / Xbox tuşu / Görünüm (View) tuşu / Menü tuşu / Komut Merkezi tuşu / Kütüphane tuşu / 2 adet atanabilir arka tuş / 2 adet tam boy analog çubuk / HD titreşim / 6 eksenli IMU sensörüİşlemciAMD Ryzen™ Z2 A Processor  AMD Ryzen™ AI Z2 Extreme Processor  RAM16GB LPDDR5X-6400  24GB LPDDR5X-8000  Hafıza 512GB M.2 2280 SSD for easier upgrade  1TB M.2 2280 SSD for easier upgrade  Ekran 7” FHD (1080p) IPS, 500 nits, 16:9   120Hz refresh rate   FreeSync Premium   Corning Gorilla Glass Victus + DXC Anti-Reflection 7” FHD (1080p) IPS, 500 nits, 16:9   120Hz refresh rate   FreeSync Premium   Corning Gorilla Glass Victus + DXC Anti-Reflection I/O Portları2x USB 3.2 Gen 2 Type-C with DisplayPort™ 2.1 / Power Delivery 3.0  1x USB4 Type-C with DisplayPort™ 2.1 / Power Delivery 3.0, Thunderbolt™ 4 compatible  1x UHS-II microSD card reader (supports SD, SDXC and SDHC)  1x USB 3.2 Gen 2 Type-C with DisplayPort™ 2.

1 / Power Delivery 3.0  1x 3.5mm Combo Audio Jack  1x UHS-II microSD card reader (supports SD, SDXC and SDHC; UHS-I with DDR200 mode)     1x 3.5mm Combo Audio Jack  Ağ ve İletişimWi-Fi 6E (2 x 2) + Bluetooth 5.4  Wi-Fi 6E (2 x 2) + Bluetooth 5.4  Boyut 290.8*121.5*50.7mm  290.8*121.5*50.7mm  670g  715g  Batarya60Wh  80Wh  İçindekiler ROG Xbox Ally  65W charger  Stand  ROG Xbox Ally X  65W charger  Stand  

[ashley-259]

Canon EOS M50 Mark II

I’ve only used it 2-3 times a year so it’s lightly used. I’m willing to give it out to anyone who really needs it. I just got my son a newer model.

Give me a tangible reason and I’ll have it shipped down to you.

It would be perfect as a beginner camera.

It includes:

* EOS M50 Mark II Body

* EF-M 15-45mm f/3.5-6.3 IS STM LENS

* Strap EM-200DB

* Battery Charger LC-E12

* Battery Pack LP-E12

* SanDisk 64GB Extreme PRO UHS-I SDXC Memory Card

* USB 3.0 & USB C Card Reader (Model: B6311)

* Padded Camera Case

[luckyfalconcomputer]

SD5760T Thunderbolt™ 4 Dual 4K Docking Station with 96W Power Delivery

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Maximize your productivity with the ultimate docking solution! 💻⚡

[domer94]

Hey, Have you entered this competition to win RebelDustyPinky New Years ROG Ally X Giveaway! yet? If you refer friends you get more chances to win :) https://wn.nr/6yJ2gkk

[martinfavela]

Hey, Have you entered this competition to win RebelDustyPinky New Years ROG Ally X Giveaway! yet? If you refer friends you get more chances to win :) https://wn.nr/XS7Anhn