#I still want to read the book. I expect it will be better | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

big-ooof · 1 day ago

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Jake x f!reader

Reader leaves the city to volunteer at a childcare facility in a small town for a few months. She's staying with her best friend, Sunoo, who wants to play matchmaker.

note: sexual content 18+

Looking around the classroom, you didn’t expect to feel this… undone. Not in a bad way. Not in a falling-apart way. More like the kind of undone that happens when someone peels an orange for you without being asked. A quiet, surprising softness that sneaks up on you in the middle of something ordinary.

Like helping a five-year-old find the right shoelace rhyme, or discovering that wiping spilled juice from your pants doesn’t actually feel like a crisis when a little girl hugs your leg five seconds later and calls you her “sunshine grown-up.”

You arrived four days ago. The air was saltier than you remembered, the mornings quieter. You hadn’t realized how tightly you’d been wound being in the city until the stillness here stretched you open like a clean sheet.

Sunoo insisted you stay with him for the first few nights—“Just until you settle in!”—which had turned into shared breakfasts, late-night catch-ups, and a not-so-subtle barrage of “my friend Jake this” and “you’d get along so well with Jake that.”

You thought it was just Sunoo being Sunoo. Until today.

The childcare facility was cozy but chaotic. Crayon-smeared walls, snack time negotiations, bursts of laughter and sobs all under the same roof. It was the kind of noise that made your brain fizz a little, but in a strangely comforting way.

You were crouched near a reading nook, trying to soothe a curly-haired toddler named Minju who had decided naptime was a personal insult, when you felt a shadow stretch beside you.

“I brought snacks,” a voice said. Warm, mellow.

You looked up. He stood there holding a plastic container and wearing an apologetic smile. Hoodie sleeves pushed up to his forearms, soft hair flopping into his eyes, a bandage on one of his fingers.

“And backup,” Sunoo added, peeking in from behind him, full of smug delight.

You stood, brushing crayon dust from your knees. “You’re Jake.”

He grinned, one side of his mouth tugging higher than the other. “Guilty.”

You took the container and popped the lid. Brownies. Slightly cracked tops, fudgy centers. Still warm.

“I wasn’t aware snack bribes were part of the volunteer orientation,” you said, taking one.

Jake’s eyes sparkled. “Only for the elite recruits.”

You didn’t realize Minju had crept up beside you until you felt her small hand slip into yours. She stared up at Jake with a stern toddler expression.

“This mine,” she declared.

Jake blinked. “The brownie?”

“No,” she said seriously. “Her.”

You nearly choked.

Sunoo lost it first, bending over in laughter as Jake tried to play it straight.

“I swear,” Jake said, eyes wide in mock innocence, “I’m not here to steal your grown-up.”

Minju squinted at him. “You better not.”

Jake nodded solemnly. “Understood.”

Later that afternoon, with Minju asleep on your lap and a board book balanced on your knee, Jake sat across from you at the craft table, absently gluing googly eyes onto a pipe-cleaner octopus.

“She’s kind of scary,” he whispered.

“Powerful,” you corrected. “She runs this place.”

Jake laughed under his breath, then looked at you. Really looked. “You’re good with them.”

You shrugged, suddenly shy under the warmth of his attention. “It’s only my first day.”

“Still,” he said, tone softer now, “some people come in loud. You came in… listening.”

You blinked at him, startled by how much that landed.

“I’m guessing Sunoo didn’t warn you I was this charming,” he added, lips twitching.

You rolled your eyes, but your smile gave you away. “Actually, he described you as ‘a golden retriever who bakes like a grandma and flirts like a substitute teacher.’”

Jake snorted. “Honestly? Not even mad at that.”

Sunoo returned with juice boxes and a dramatic sigh. “I leave you alone for five minutes and you’re already flirting? Jake, control yourself.”

“I’m literally just gluing eyeballs to an octopus.”

“Sure you are.”

You sipped from the juice box Jake handed you and leaned back in your chair, watching Minju sleep with her face mashed into your shoulder. Sunoo kept babbling. Jake kept smiling. The sun kept sliding through the window in slow, honeyed stripes. And just like that, something in you started to unclench.

You’d barely been awake ten minutes when your phone buzzed with a message from Sunoo: ☀️ Wake up, favorite person. Time to suffer. 🧃 Jake says wear shoes you can run in. You’ll thank him later. 🎪 Today’s field trip is the farmers market. The children will be feral.

You stared at the screen, still tangled in a blanket on Sunoo’s pullout couch, and groaned.

Ten minutes later, he was banging on the bathroom door. “You better not be using my expensive face cream again!”

“Oh I live to drain your skincare fund,” you called back.

By the time you arrived at the town square, the childcare group was already assembling near the bus. It wasn’t chaos, exactly, but it was teetering on the edge. Tiny backpacks. Loud voices. A group of toddlers collectively arguing over whether strawberries count as “real” fruit.

Jake spotted you first. He wore a navy tee, faded jeans, and a backpack covered in cartoon pins (his own, apparently). He looked like summer personified, all warm limbs and easy smiles.

“You came,” he said, genuinely pleased.

You raised a brow. “I was threatened with emotional blackmail via toddler.”

“Classic Sunoo,” he said with a grin. “You okay wrangling two kids today?”

“Is that… normal?”

He handed you a sticker with your name scribbled on it. “No. But our ratio is off because Jiwon called in sick and Minju refuses to be separated from you.”

Right on cue, Minju barreled into your legs, proudly holding a juice pouch and a glittery plastic wand.

“I saved you,” she said.

“For what?”

“In case you got lost.”

Jake leaned in with a whisper, “She’s been carrying that wand like a weapon. Proceed with caution.”

The farmers market smelled like peaches, kettle corn, and sunscreen. It was loud. But strangely, it didn’t feel overwhelming. Not with Jake keeping pace beside you, not with the kids’ hands in yours like tiny anchors.

Minju dragged you to a face painting booth. The other little one in your charge, Jihoon, insisted he wanted to become “a dragon, but make it fashion.”

Jake helped him into the chair while you knelt beside Minju.

“She told me she wants to be a rainbow,” the artist whispered. “But only if her ‘grown-up’ says it’s okay.”

Your chest tugged. You nodded, brushing hair gently from Minju’s forehead. “A rainbow sounds perfect.”

Later, while the kids were snacking under a shady tree, you and Jake sat side-by-side on a picnic blanket Sunoo had miraculously packed. The buzz of the market hummed in the distance, but this spot felt calm. Protected.

Jake reached into his bag and pulled out a small pouch of goldfish crackers. “In case of snack emergencies,” he said, tossing you a few.

You chewed slowly. “You’re surprisingly good at this.”

Jake shrugged, brushing crumbs from his jeans. “I like being around kids. They’re honest. Weirdly profound, sometimes.”

You turned to him, curious. “Did you always want to work with them?”

He paused, watching Jihoon and Minju chase each other with foam swords. “My mom used to run a small daycare out of our house,” he said after a beat. “I think it made our home feel… warm. Full. After she passed, I started volunteering. At first, it felt like a way to remember her. Now it just feels like… something good I can do.”

You didn’t say anything right away. Instead, you offered him a gummy bear from your own stash, and he took it without hesitation.

“That’s really lovely,” you said quietly.

Jake smiled. “Thanks.”

There was a silence then. But not the awkward kind. The kind that feels like a shared secret.

As the sun began to dip and the kids piled onto the bus exhausted, sugar-high, and paint-smudged. Sunoo clapped a hand on both your shoulders.

“Soooo,” he said, eyes darting between you and Jake like a drama director. “How’s the field trip of fate going?”

“Stop,” you muttered, but your face betrayed you.

Jake shot him a glare. “She’s not a matchmaking project, Sunoo.”

Sunoo put both hands over his heart. “Of course not! But if you were a project, you’d be the final boss of love stories, bestie.”

Jake looked at you. You looked at him. And just like that, you both laughed—quiet, shy, easy. Like maybe neither of you knew what this was just yet. But maybe it was worth finding out.

The storm came out of nowhere. One moment you were helping Minju and Jihoon make sock puppets from a bin of mismatched laundry, and the next, the windows were painted gray and thunder cracked like a spine snapping open.

You barely had time to blink before Sunoo ran up to you. “Jake ran out to his car to grab snacks. He’s parked all the way across the lot—can you catch up to him? Take my umbrella. He’ll pretend he doesn’t need it but he’s wearing canvas.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re a menace.”

“And you’re welcome.”

Jake was halfway back already, hood up, shoulders hunched, brown bag clutched to his chest like it owed him money.

“Jake!” you called, umbrella outstretched.

He squinted through the downpour and jogged to meet you, breathless. “That was a terrible timing.”

You laughed. “You look like a soggy Golden Retriever.”

“I feel like one.”

He ducked under the umbrella, and suddenly the space between you two narrowed down to almost nothing—his shoulder pressed against yours, your hands brushing on the handle.

“Thanks for the rescue,” he said, voice low.

The rain roared around you, but under the umbrella, everything felt close. Muffled. Like being inside a secret.

You made it back to the facility drenched despite your best efforts. Minju laughed so hard she nearly spilled her juice when she saw Jake’s soaked sleeves.

Sunoo handed you both towels with a smirk. “Break room’s empty. Go dry off before one of the kids starts using you as a mop.”

You toed off your wet shoes and made your way to the back, Jake trailing close behind.

The break room was small: just a couch, a folding table, and an ancient microwave that groaned like it had a grudge against time itself.

Jake peeled off his hoodie, revealing a white t-shirt that clung very unfairly to the lines of his shoulders, the dip of his collarbone. You looked away so fast your neck cracked. He noticed.

“You okay?” he asked, voice thick with amusement.

“I’m fine,” you lied.

He tossed you the spare tee he kept in a cabinet. “Here. Might be a little big.”

You slipped into the bathroom to change and stared at yourself in the mirror. His shirt smelled like laundry and the faintest trace of something warmer—something that made your chest buzz.

When you came back out, Jake was sitting on the couch, towel draped around his neck, hair damp and curling a little at the edges.

He looked up. Froze for half a second.

Then smiled. “Looks better on you.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re flirting.”

“Am I?”

You didn’t answer. Just walked over and sat beside him. Close. Too close.

“You ever do something stupid because you were lonely?” Jake asked suddenly, voice softer now, almost drowned out by the rain.

You turned to look at him. He wasn’t smiling anymore.

“I dated someone last year. Thought she got me. I was wrong.” He exhaled through his nose. “She made me feel like being soft was… pathetic.”

Your chest ached. You touched his wrist gently. “It’s not.”

“I know that now.” His eyes flicked to your face. “You… don’t make me feel small.”

You swallowed. “You haven’t given me a reason to think that.”

There was a silence. A breath. You felt it happen before you realized it—his hand finding your knee, thumb pressing into the denim like a question. Your hand curling over his in response.

He leaned in. His breath brushed your lips. And then— Buzz. A text. You groaned, pulling back.

Jake blinked, dazed. “Was that—?”

You checked your phone. Sunoo: “He likes you. I asked him while he was microwaving soup. You’re welcome.”

Jake’s head dropped onto your shoulder in embarrassment. “I told him not to get involved.”

You laughed, heart pounding like a second storm. “He means well.”

Jake lifted his head, gaze still locked on you. “I wasn’t going to kiss you because of Sunoo.”

“Oh?”

“I was going to kiss you because I’ve wanted to all week.”

The space between you sizzled. But then a small knock interrupted the moment. Minju peeked in. “Are you still wet?”

Jake stood, clearing his throat. “Uh, just emotionally.”

You bit your lip, holding back a grin.

Minju grabbed your hand again. “Come back. You’re mine."

You look over your shoulder and see him grinning like someone who had already imagined what it’d feel like to kiss you in every version of the rain. “I’ll wait,” he said quietly.

And you knew he would.

The movie night was Sunoo’s idea. Of course it was.

“Everyone’s exhausted,” he said, gathering blankets and popcorn like a nesting bird. “We’ve earned a cozy staff night. No toddlers, no work talk, just vibes.”

But vibes apparently included Jake. You weren’t complaining.

By 9 PM, the facility’s back room had been transformed into a makeshift den: fairy lights strung up, every couch cushion on the floor, and a projector aimed at the far wall. You curled under a throw blanket with a warm drink in hand. Jake arrived late—sweatpants, tousled hair, hoodie slung over one shoulder like he’d gotten dressed in the dark.

He found you instantly. “Hey,” he murmured, plopping down beside you. “This seat taken?”

“You’re lucky I like your face.”

He smiled. “That’s new.”

You raised a brow. “What is?”

“You flirting back.”

You leaned in, just slightly. “You sure I’m not always like this?”

He held your gaze. “No. But I hope you’ll be like this again.”

Halfway through the second movie—some cheesy action-romance Sunoo picked solely for the brooding male lead—Jake’s thigh brushed yours under the blanket. It didn’t move. Neither did yours. Every movement became louder in your head: your fingers fidgeting, his slow inhale, the moment his pinky grazed yours and stayed there.

When the lights from the screen flickered low, casting the room in a soft blue, Jake leaned over like he was going to whisper something. But he didn’t say a word. Instead, he just looked at you. His gaze dipped briefly to your lips. And then— You kissed him. Or maybe he kissed you. Or maybe it was both of you, meeting in the middle of a hundred almosts.

It wasn’t a peck. It wasn’t cautious. It was weeks of tension unfurling like lightning in your chest. A kiss that tasted like heat and comfort and something impossibly slow unraveling at last.

Jake’s hand came up to cradle your jaw, fingers spreading behind your ear, pulling you deeper. His mouth moved against yours like he meant it—like he missed you already, even though you were right there.

The movie played on. But the world quieted. When you finally pulled back, he exhaled shakily, foreheads pressed together. “Was that okay?” he whispered, thumb brushing your cheekbone.

You nodded. “More than okay.”

And then Sunoo’s voice rang out from across the room. “Not to interrupt the literal fanfic happening behind me,” he said, without turning around, “but just so we’re clear, I will be saying ‘I told you so’ at least ten times tomorrow.”

Jake groaned into your shoulder. You grinned.

The next morning, there was a knock on the front door. You opened it half-asleep, hair a mess, teeth unbrushed, hoodie half-zipped. Jake stood there holding a breakfast basket and two coffees. He looked… soft. Like the kind of boy you dream about once and then never again, because no one could live up to the version in your head. But he was real. Standing right here.

“Hi,” he said.

“You brought me food?”

He stepped inside without waiting, setting the basket on the counter.

“Sunoo told me you don’t eat until noon unless someone makes you.”

You blinked at him. “Did Sunoo also tell you I talk in my sleep and threaten to fight trees?”

Jake smiled. “No… That’s a bonus.” He came closer. “I couldn’t stop thinking about last night,” he said. “I haven’t felt something like that in a long time.”

You reached for him without thinking. His touch landed just under the hem of your sleep shorts.

“You’re allowed to kiss me again, you know.”

Jake leaned in, lips ghosting yours, voice low. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

This time, the kiss was slower. Less spark. More burn. His hands mapped your hips like he was memorizing you. Your fingers tangled in his hoodie. And when you broke apart for breath, you were already smiling.

“Sunoo’s going to freak out,” you said.

Jake grinned. “Let him. I only care what you think.”

You whispered, “I think you taste like coffee and trouble.”

Jake’s smile deepened. “I think you haven’t seen anything yet.”

You hadn’t meant to fall asleep on Jake. But after breakfast, after that kiss so warm it made your spine ache, you curled up next to him on the couch under your worn blanket, and he tucked his chin on your head like he’d done it a hundred times before.

By the time you blinked awake, the sun had stretched higher across the windows. And Jake was still there, one hand resting softly on your hip like he hadn’t dared to move. Your eyes met his, heavy-lidded and still a little sleep-drunk.

He smiled. “Hi.”

You didn’t speak. Just leaned in and kissed him. Soft, warm, a little lazy. His breath hitched when your hand slid under the hem of his hoodie, fingertips brushing his skin.

“You’re gonna make me late,” he whispered, eyes fluttering shut.

You kissed his jaw. “Five more minutes.”

“Five minutes,” he murmured, already leaning in.

It started slow. Like he wanted to be sure you were still saying yes even after the kissing got messier, even when your thighs bracketed his hips and your breath came harder. You straddled him on the couch, fingers gripping the back of his hoodie, the way his hands slid up under your shirt like he couldn’t help himself—but still careful. Still asking.

He looked up at you, lips swollen, voice a little unsteady. “Tell me if anything feels too fast.”

You nodded. “I will.”

He kissed you like he believed it.

Your shirt came off first. He kissed your collarbone, slow and reverent, like every inch of you deserved a moment. Then lower. Then lower, until your breath caught and your hips rolled forward on instinct.

Jake’s voice broke when he groaned, forehead pressed to your sternum. “You can’t do that and expect me to stay quiet.”

You smirked. “Who said I wanted you quiet?”

That was all it took. He flipped you gently onto your back, lips finding the soft underside of your jaw, the space behind your ear, your throat. His hands worshiped—no other word for it. Fingers tracing every curve like a map he already loved but still wanted to get lost in.

“Are you sure?” he asked, voice hoarse as his hand drifted down the waistband of your shorts.

“Yes,” you breathed, curling your legs around his hips. “God, yes.”

And when he finally slipped his hand under—when he touched you for real—it felt like falling. Like coming undone in front of someone who would never use it against you.

Your hips rocked into his hand, breath stuttering as his lips trailed down your neck, sucking marks into your skin, claiming space that had never belonged to anyone else before.

“Jake—”

He looked up, wild-eyed and flushed. “Yeah?”

“Come here.”

And when he kissed you again, it wasn’t slow anymore. It was hunger. Need. A thousand stolen moments finally unraveling into one long, breathless gasp.

He took his time getting you there—fingers working you open, lips swallowing your moans, hips grinding into yours like he could already feel how good it would be.

You came with your fingers tangled in his hair, his name caught in your throat, your body trembling beneath his weight.

He kissed your temple, your shoulder, your ribs. Then looked at you, grinning. “You good?”

You let out a breathless laugh. “Ask me again when I can feel my legs.”

Jake chuckled, laying down beside you, pulling your body against his. “I’m in trouble,” he whispered into your hair.

You blinked, head against his chest. “Why?”

“Because I think I’m falling. Fast.”

Your heart thudded. But you didn’t run from it. You just whispered, “Then fall.”

Later that day, at the facility, you walked into the art room only to find Jake helping a dozen toddlers finger-paint planets with the same hands that had been all over you hours ago.

Sunoo passed by, noticed the faint mark on your collarbone, and smirked like the devil himself. Jake caught his look and cleared his throat, cheeks flushed.

You? You just smiled to yourself, toeing off your shoes, still buzzing from the way Jake had said your name like it was something sacred.

You spent the night at Jake’s. And in the morning, the sun eased through the curtains like it knew better than to wake you too harshly. You stirred slowly, the weight of Jake’s arm heavy across your waist, one of your legs slipped between his. His body was pressed close, chest warm against your back, thighs tangled with yours beneath the sheets that had long since twisted low around your hips.

And the ache between your legs? Lingering. Welcomed. You shifted, not even meaning to, but your hips rolled just enough to press against the unmistakable hardness resting behind you.

Jake inhaled sharply behind you. His voice was raspy and soft, lips brushing your shoulder. “You’re doing that on purpose.”

You smiled, still half-asleep. “Doing what, exactly?”

He groaned, fingers slipping across your stomach, pulling you closer until your back was fully flush with his front. He was shirtless. Bare skin against bare skin. “You know exactly what.”

You turned in his arms until you were facing him, your fingers brushing the dark strands of hair off his forehead. He looked wrecked in the morning light—eyes heavy, lips still swollen, jaw shadowed with stubble you hadn’t noticed last night.

You leaned in, brushing your lips across his lazily. He deepened it immediately. Jake kissed like he dreamed of you all night. Like he'd memorized every angle of your mouth already and was still desperate to learn more. The kind of kiss that wasn’t urgent—but lingering, as if he couldn’t quite bear to come up for air.

When you shifted your hips against him again, his breath hitched against your mouth. His hand slid down your spine, then lower, fingers gripping the soft swell of your ass like he’d earned the right to hold you there.

“Jesus, baby,” he muttered against your throat. “You keep grinding like that, I’m not gonna last long enough to take my time.”

“Then don’t talk about it,” you whispered, kissing down his jaw. “Show me.”

Jake rolled on top of you so fast you gasped, both of your legs parting instinctively to make room for him.

He pinned you to the mattress with a slow grind of his hips, his hard length pressing right against your already aching center, separated only by your underwear and the thin sleep shorts he hadn’t even bothered to remove last night.

You moaned softly as he kissed along your collarbone, tongue flicking over the mark he’d left just hours before.

“You’re so warm like this,” he murmured, dragging his lips down your chest. “I could spend all day here.”

Then his mouth wrapped around your nipple, and everything slowed down. He sucked gently, one hand squeezing your breast, the other trailing along your side and down between your legs, cupping you through the damp fabric with deliberate pressure.

Your back arched. “Jake—”

“You’re soaked already,” he whispered, voice thick with need. “That for me?”

You nodded, breath ragged. “Yes. All you.”

He growled, slipping his hand under your panties and groaning as he touched you. His fingers slid through your folds with maddening ease, circling your clit slowly before pushing two fingers inside you, deep and curling just right.

Your hips bucked into his touch. He held you down with the weight of his body, his hand never stopping. He watched you—eyes dark and locked on your face—memorizing the way your mouth fell open, the way your body trembled beneath him. You were close. So close. And he knew it.

“Cum for me,” he whispered, pressing his forehead to yours, his breath panting into your mouth. “Let me feel you.”

Your body arched and broke open around his fingers, walls clenching, breath caught in your throat, hips grinding desperately as he held you through it. He didn’t stop until you were shaking beneath him, eyes glassy and lips parted.

Then he pulled back just enough to tug your panties off completely. You reached down between you, palming him through his shorts, and smiled at the way he cursed under his breath.

You sat up on your elbows. “Let me.”

“Fuck,” he whispered, voice fraying. “Anything you want.”

You pushed his shorts down slowly, letting his cock spring free—thick, flushed, already leaking. You wrapped your hand around him, thumb teasing the head before you leaned down and took him into your mouth.

Jake’s whole body jerked, his hand gripping the sheets, his other threading into your hair as he moaned something filthy that made your thighs clench all over again.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he gasped.

You pulled back with a grin, stroking him lazily. “You'll die happy.”

He kissed you like he just might, fingers gripping your hips, guiding you back on top of him. This time, when he slid inside you, it was slow. Deep. Complete. Your bodies moved together like they’d done it forever—slow, grinding, no rush. Just the sound of breathless moans and skin and whispered praise.

When you both came, it a quiet, trembling surrender. His arms wrapped around you as you shook in his hold, forehead pressed to his shoulder, lips brushing his neck.

Later that afternoon, the facility was busy. You were helping a group of toddlers stack foam blocks when someone new walked in—a volunteer from another district, all confidence and cologne.

He grinned at you. “Didn’t know they let angels work here.”

You blinked. “I—uh—thanks?”

Jake, across the room, stopped moving. When the guy kept talking, asking how long you’d be in town, if you had plans that evening, you smiled politely but shifted away.

Jake crossed the room in two strides. He didn’t say anything at first. Just slipped behind you, hand settling firmly at the small of your back. You looked up, surprised by the tension in his jaw.

“Hey,” you murmured.

“Hey,” he replied, kissing your temple right in front of the other guy. “You good?”

You nodded, heart thudding.

Jake turned to the volunteer and smiled—tight and cold. “Thanks for helping out today. We’ve got it from here.”

The guy left. Jake didn’t move.

You reached for his hand. “You okay?”

He exhaled hard. “Didn’t like the way he looked at you.”

“You don’t have to worry about that.”

Jake leaned in, whispering just for you. “I don’t worry. But I feel. And what I felt was mine being looked at like a thing.”

You didn’t breathe for a moment. Then without thinking you kissed him—right there, in front of the playroom chaos, while foam blocks toppled and kids shrieked in delight.

That night, you found yourself in Jake’s apartment again. This time, you took control. You pushed him gently onto the bed and crawled over him. He let you—smiling, eyes dark, voice ragged. “What are you doing?”

You kissed his throat. “Showing you how I feel.”

And then? You made good on your word. Your mouth mapped his body—slow, reverent, hungry. You kissed his chest, his stomach, the line of his hip. Watched him fall apart under your hands, biting his lip until he couldn’t keep quiet anymore.

Jake arched into your touch like he needed you—head thrown back, fingers gripping the sheets, his voice breaking on your name.

When he begged—actually begged—you smiled. “Say it again.”

“Please,” he breathed. “Please, baby.”

And when you finally gave him what he wanted… when you slid down onto him, slow and steady, your breath stuttering as you adjusted— Jake nearly lost it. He sat up, burying his face in your neck, gripping your waist like he never wanted to let go.

“God, you feel unreal,” he whispered, voice thick with emotion. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

You moved slowly at first, taking your time, letting the tension build. Jake kissed every inch of you he could reach, his hands shaking as they held you. It was messy and hot and intimate. Like your bodies had been waiting for this moment longer than you realized. When you both came, it was together. His name on your lips, your nails in his back, everything around you shattering into stars.

After, you laid there in the dark, head on his chest, listening to the frantic beat of his heart.

Jake whispered, “I don’t think I’ve ever… felt something like this.”

You smiled and whispered, “that makes the two of us.”

The late afternoon sun spilled golden through the windows of the childcare center, catching dust motes in the air like snowflakes suspended mid-fall. You had a paintbrush tucked behind one ear, your sleeves rolled up, and a five-year-old clinging to your leg like a barnacle.

“Do I have to clean up?” she whined.

“You don’t have to,” you said with a grin, ruffling her curls. “But the glitter fairy said she only gives snacks to kids who help.”

That earned a dramatic gasp and immediate cooperation.

Across the room, Sunoo was crouched beside a group of toddlers, dramatically voicing every stuffed animal like he was auditioning for a musical. You caught his eye and laughed, mouthing you’re insane. He winked.

Jake leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching the whole thing unfold with that quiet smile he saved just for you. You could feel it without looking. It made your heart ache in the best way. Because this was your last full week here. Just a few more days before you'd be back in your city, back in the rhythm of a life that already felt a little foreign.

You were wiping paint from a table when Jake finally crossed the room, stepping beside you. He didn’t touch you—didn’t need to. You felt him in the way he stood, the way his voice dropped a little when it was just for you.

“Want to sneak out early?” he asked. “I could make that pasta you like. The spicy one with the lemon.”

You smiled softly. “You bribing me with carbs?”

He bumped your shoulder. “I’m bribing you with quality time.”

You leaned into him for a moment, brief but certain. “I’ll be there by six.”

Later that night, you sat side-by-side on the small balcony outside Jake’s apartment, sharing a fleece blanket and a bowl of cherries. The city was quiet around you. A little breeze played with your hair.

“I’ve been thinking,” Jake said after a while.

“Mm?”

“I don’t want this to be over.”

You turned to look at him.

“I mean—” he fumbled, “I know you’re going back. I’m not trying to guilt you or ask you to stay. I just… want to figure out how to not lose this. Us.”

You didn’t speak for a second. Then, softly: “I was thinking the same thing.”

Jake turned to face you fully, eyes searching. “You were?”

You nodded, then took a breath. “I came here for a few months thinking I’d just help out, get some perspective, maybe feel useful. I didn’t think I’d find you. Or find out that this version of me—the one with paint on her jeans and jelly on her cheek—is the one that actually feels like home.”

He reached for your hand, threading his fingers through yours. “You don’t have to choose between versions,” he said. “You can bring her with you. Or stay. Or leave. Just—don’t think you have to stop being her because your zip code changes.”

You exhaled slowly, your heart so full it hurt. “And us?” you asked.

Jake squeezed your hand. “You’re mine, in whatever way you want to be. I’ll come to you. You come to me. We’ll make it work. I’m not scared of the miles.”

Sunoo texted you that night with a photo of the two of you laughing during snack time, and a caption that read: “Miss you already and you haven’t even left. But I know you found what you didn’t know you needed. And I’ll always be proud of that.”

You held your phone to your chest for a moment before turning back to Jake, who was already watching you with soft, patient eyes. You leaned in, kissed him slow, and smiled.

“Okay,” you whispered. “Let’s see what happens next.”

Your suitcase sat half-zipped in Sunoo’s living room. Your last night.

Jake didn’t say anything when he walked in and saw it. He just stood in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, watching you fold a shirt slowly, like packing it meant admitting this was real.

“I can help you finish,” he said quietly.

You looked up. “I know.”

But neither of you moved. The silence stretched. Comfortable, but charged.

Jake stepped closer. His fingers brushed your wrist. “Or… we could do something else.”

You raised an eyebrow. “What did you have in mind?”

He tilted his head, looking at you the way he always did when he was about to ruin you in the best way. “I think,” he said, voice low, “you deserve to leave this town knowing exactly how much I wanted you. From day one.”

Your breath hitched. Jake leaned in slowly, like giving you time to back away. You didn’t.

The kiss started gentle—like goodbye—but turned greedy in seconds. Tongues brushing, hands grabbing. Months of tension crashing into one night. He walked you backward to the couch, lips never leaving yours.

“You’re sure?” he whispered, hovering over you once you fell back, shirt already riding up.

“Jake,” you said breathlessly, eyes locked on his, “I need you.”

That was all it took. His hands were everywhere—thighs, waist, chest—like he couldn’t get enough. His mouth followed, kissing down your body like a prayer. When he finally sank into you, slow and deep, it wasn’t just about lust.

It was a promise. To remember. To ache. To want.

You clutched at his shoulders, nails leaving soft crescent moons in his skin, gasping his name like it was the only thing you knew. He murmured filth and affection in the same breath—told you how good you felt, how beautiful you looked falling apart beneath him, how he didn’t know how he was supposed to let you go.

He didn’t let you go for hours. And afterward, he held you like the space between you was a thing he refused to accept.

The next morning, Jake was in Sunoo’s kitchen when the ambush happened. Sunoo plunked down two iced coffees and a suspiciously pink slice of cake between them, narrowed his eyes, and said: “So. You and my best friend.”

Jake blinked. “Uh… yeah?”

Sunoo stared at him like a disappointed guidance counselor. “Are you serious-serious or just hot-guy-in-a-small-town serious?”

Jake tried not to laugh. “What does that even mean?”

“It means: are you going to move on the second she leaves or are you already plotting her name in your phone as ‘future wife 💍’?”

Jake’s jaw dropped. “I—I mean, I really like her. It’s not casual. It never was.”

Sunoo chewed a bite of cake slowly, eyes narrowed. “She’s been through a lot. She doesn’t always say it, but I see it. That softness? She earned it. It’s not naïve. It’s chosen.”

Jake sobered. “I know,” he said quietly. “And I’m not going to break her. I want to be the one who reminds her she’s safe. Even when she’s far away.”

Sunoo blinked, then sniffed. “Ugh. Okay. That was kind of romantic.”

“Are we good?”

“I haven’t decided yet,” Sunoo said, sipping his coffee like a judge on Top Chef. “But I am rooting for you.”

Jake grinned. “You know... I'm not sure why you're talking to me as if we're not also really good friends.”

“True,” Sunoo admitted, then pointed his fork at him, “but…if you ever hurt her, I will poison this cake and bring it to your house disguised as an apology.”

Jake nodded solemnly. “Understood.”

#enhypen fanfiction #enhypen imagines #enhypen oneshots #enhypen jake #enhypen fluff #enhypen smut #jake x reader #jake x y/n #jake scenarios #sim jaeyun x reader #sim jaeyun imagines #sim jaeyun #jake oneshot #jake sim

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just-dreaming-marvel · 19 hours ago

Text

The Librarian & The Wolverine ~ The Epilogue

THE LIBRARIAN & THE WOLVERINE MASTERLIST

< previous: The End ~ Part 2

Word Count: 3,290ish

Summary: The aftermath.

Notes: The warnings are below the cut. Tread carefully. MAKE SURE YOU'VE READ PART 2 BEFORE THIS.

Warning(s): funeral, time jumps, character death

It rained that morning. Not a storm, just a quiet drizzle— a gray mist that clung to the trees and slicked the stone path winding through the back garden of the mansion. The same path students had walked a thousand times. The same path you had once wandered, hand in hand with Logan.

The school had never been so silent. Every student. Every teacher. Every mutant who had once passed through the halls— they all stood there now, dressed in black, some holding flowers, some holding books.

The casket was simple. Hard-carved wood. No frills. No shine. Just smooth grain, warm color. Logan had built it himself one night when he couldn’t sleep.

Ororo stood by Charles, her shoulders straight but her eyes glistening. Jamie held one of your notebooks in his arms like a sacred text. Hank looked like he hadn’t slept in days. Jean and Scott stood side by side, holding hands. And Logan stood at the front. Still. No tie, no umbrella, no words. Just his hand on the casket.

Charles spoke softly. “She was not one of our warriors in the way the world expected. But she fought. Every day. For all of us. For the truth. For knowledge. For peace. She gave more than any of us could ask. And we are better for having loved her.”

No one moved as Jamie stepped forward. He placed the notebook on the casket. “She saved me,” he said quietly. “Before she ever got between me and a bad day or a mistake… she saved me. With stories. With patience. With kindness.” He stepped back, lips trembling.

And still Logan didn’t speak. He just stood there— drenched and unmoving— until the others began to file away. Eventually, it was just him, your casket, and the rain. He knelt beside the casket, placing a single book atop it— one of yours. The spine was cracked. The corners worn. You had read it a hundred times. He brushed his hand across the wood like it was your skin.

“I don’t know how to stop loving you,” he whispered. “I won’t.”

He stood slowly, fingers curling into fists. Then he turned and walked back towards the mansion. The casket would be buried in the garden. You name was already carved into stone by his own hands. And the world would go on. But Logan wouldn’t. Not really. Because the library was quiet now and so was he.

~~~

The mansion was eerily quiet after the funeral. Most had gone to their rooms. Some students cried in corners, others sat in silence, unsure how to process the gaping hole left behind.

But Logan didn’t rest. He hadn’t changed out of the clothes he wore to hurt you. The black shirt you loved so much was still wet from the rain and clinging to his back like guilt. He stood in his room now, throwing things into a duffel with a kind of haunted precision— like if he moved fast enough, maybe the pain wouldn’t catch him. Boots. Jacket. Cigars. A bottle of whiskey. The small photo of you tucked under his shaving kit. The zipper screamed shut. He threw the strap over his shoulder and turned for the door— only to find Ororo and Jean blocking his path.

He scowled, trying to sidestep them. “Move.”

“No,” Ororo’s voice was firm.

Jean didn’t speak. She didn’t have to— her presence in his mind was quiet, humming, alert. She was ready if he bolted.

“I’m not doin’ this,” he growled. “Not stayin’ here like nothin’ happened.”

“No one’s asking you to pretend,” Ororo said, stepping into his path more. “But running into the woods like a ghost in the night won’t bring her back.”

“You don’t know what I need.”

“I know she wouldn’t want this.”

He flinched.

Jean finally spoke up. “She wanted you to keep living, Logan.”

“I was living— when she was here.” His voice cracked, rough and ragged. “Now, I’m just… here.”

“And that matters. You being here matters. To them. To us.”

“To her,” Ororo added. “Even now.”

His breath was shaky as he looked away. “I see her everywhere,” he whispered. “In every damn hallway. Every book left around. Every student who smiles like she used to.”

“Then don’t run from it,” Jean said. “Remember her. Honor her.”

Logan didn’t move. Jean reached out and slowly— gently— took the bag from his shoulder. He let her.

Ororo stepped forward and placed a hand over his heart. “She loved you. All the way to the end.”

He lowered his head. “I don’t know how to do this without her.”

“You’re not doing it without her. You’re doing it for her.”

For a long moment, he didn’t move or speak. Then finally— a shaky nod. Jean turned away, eyes misted. Ororo stepped back as he stood still, hands trembling. And slowly, Logan sat down on the edge of his bed.

~~~

Logan wasn’t trying to be seen. He was just passing by. Another silent loop around the mansion to fill another empty day.

But Jamie caught him anyway. “Logan!”

Logan froze, jaw tightening. He turned slowly.

The kid looked nervous. Grieving still, but trying to be brave. “I, uh… I’ve been watching the library,” Jamie said. “We all kinda pitched in. Ororo’s been helping too. But…”

Logan waited, arms crossed.

“One of the big shelves— the one near the back window— it snapped yesterday. Old support. I tried to fix it. But it’s… it’s too heavy.”

Logan’s face didn’t change. He flatly responded, “Ask Hank.”

“I did. He’s busy with the labs and teaching. Told me to ask you.”

Silence.

Jamie pushed a little hard. “She’d want it fixed.”

“Don’t.”

The boy flinched.

“You think I don’t know what she’d want?” Logan’s eyes were sharp now, glassy with something dangerous. “You think I forgot?”

“No. I just— I thought maybe it’d help.”

Logan shakes his head. “Leave it. Someone else will do it.” Then he walked away.

Jamie didn’t call after him. He just watched Logan go.

~~~

The door creaked open slowly. Dust floated in the moonlight through the tall windows. Logan stepped inside. He was wearing the same outfit he wore at the funeral. He hasn’t shaved or cleaned up or slept. Logan didn’t look at the desk. Or the little table in the corner you always kept cleared for him. Or the corner where they two of you used to read together.

Logan walked straight to the back window. And there it was. Thee shelf, broken along the side. Books scattered, wood splintered like a wound. He stood there for a long time. Then finally, he knelt. He worked in silence. No gloves or claws. Just his hands. He found the right nails and fit the pieces back together. He reinforced it. He wiped the dust off the spines as he replaced each book. Just how you would have done it.

~~~

The next night, the door creaked open just after midnight. Logan slipped inside, moving without sound. He didn’t turn on the lights. He knew the path by heart.

A fallen cart of books near the front? He made it right and sorted every spine.

A loose bulb flickering in the corner lamp? He replaced it from the drawer behind the desk you used to sit at.

Dust on the tall shelves? He wiped it away with a cloth from his back pocket.

Every book returned that day, he put exactly where you would have— by author, by title, and sometimes by the quiet little subcategories only you would have thought of.

Logan didn’t read while he was in there. Not yet. But he touched the books like they remember you. Like they were listening. And when he was done— two hours, sometimes three— he left the way he came: silent, heavy-footed, vanishing before the sunrise.

~~~

By week two, people began to notice.

Ororo found the dust gone from the windowsills. Jamie’s returns are already shelved each morning. Rogue commented that the pillows on the reading couches were fluffed again. Even the creaky cabinet hinge in the poetry second didn’t creak anymore.

Jean knew and Charles knew. But neither of them said a word. They just glanced towards the library when passing. And smiled— small, soft, yet full of sadness.

One night, Jamie lingered too long after hours, tucked into a corner, pretending to read. Just after midnight, he heard the door open. He could see the silhouette in the dark. He watched Logan, tall and careful, pick up a fallen hardcover with gentle hands and shelve it without a sound. The boy didn’t say anything. He just pulled his blanket tighter and watched the Wolverine fix the world, one book at a time.

~~~

A week later the door to the library opened. Not past midnight, but mid-morning. The sun was slanting through the windows. There were students at the tables, bend over assignments. Jamie was shelving returned. Ororo was near the front desk, cataloging a few new titles.

Logan stepped in. He hesitated in the doorway. No one stared or gasped. But Ororo did meet his eyes. She smiled, faint and quiet, and then returned to a task without a word. Logan walked down the aisle— slow and steady. His boots thudded softly against the floor. He went to the back corner, to the spot you always kept clear for him. The table was still there, cleaned off. Logan sat.

For that whole first week, that was all he did. He sat in silence. But he was there.

~~~

It started small. A nervous student, muttering to themselves about Tolstoy and thematic structure. Logan overheard and muttered something about comparing it to Hemingway instead. The student looked at Logan strangely, then asked a question. He answered.

Another day, he helped Jamie carry a cart of books too tall for the kid. Then he began showing up early. He fixed crooked chairs. He refilled pencil jars. He kept the rowdy students in check with just a single look. And then one day— he knelt beside a student struggling with an essay on ethics in dystopian literature.

“Try lookin’ at it like a survival instinct,” he suggested. “How people justify what they do when they’re scared. Might help it click.”

The student’s eyes lit up and it clicked.

~~~

Ororo found Charles watching from the hallway.

“He’s… different,” she said softly.

“He’s healing,” Charles replied, “even if he doesn’t think he is.”

Logan was still inside, talking with Jamie and another student about The Odyssey.

“No,” she murmured. “He’s honoring her.”

~~~

Logan sat stiffly in one of the armchairs across from Charles’ desk, arms crossed, jaw tight. Suspicious and guarded.

Charles folded his hands nearly on the desk. “I know that you haven’t taught history in a while,” he began. “But you’re no longer listed as a history instructor starting next week.”

Logan frowned. “What?”

“I’ve spoken with the faculty. The course load will be shifted. Jean, Hank, and Scott will still continue to teach the history courses.”

Logan straightened in his seat, eyes narrowing. “Why?”

“Because I’m assigning you elsewhere. A full-time role.” Charles smiled softly. “You’re the new librarian.”

“No.”

“Logan—“

“I said no. You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to pretend she didn’t—“ He cut himself off.

“No one is pretending.”

Logan stood abruptly and began pacing. “She made that place what it is. Every system. Every shelf. Every breath. That’s hers. You want me to walk in there with a title that belonged to her?”

“You already do.”

Logan froze.

“You’re already the one who mends the shelves. Who teaches the students. Who knows where everything goes. You’ve been honoring her in silence. I’m only giving it a name.”

“It’s not right.” Logan shook his head. “It feels like replacing her.”

“You could never replace her. No one could… But you can carry her legacy forward. You can make sure the students still find safety in that room. You can keep her stories alive.”

Logan turned to face Charles again. “What if I can’t?”

“You can.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I see her in the way you walk through those doors. In the way you look at those books. In the way you speak to every student with the same quiet patience she had. You’re not replacing her, Logan… You’re becoming the echo of her love.”

Logan didn’t answer immediately. But something in him broke loose. A single, shuddering breath rippled through him as he sat back down. “I’m not wearing a cardigan.”

Charles chuckled. “I wouldn’t dare suggest it.”

~~~

The bell rung for second period. Students filtered in slowly— some to work on papers, some to read, some just to nap on the soft couches by the windows. The door to the library was propped open. Inside, Logan was at the front desk— your desk. No cardigan. Just flannel and denim. A fresh copy of To Kill a Mockingbird in one hand, a mug of coffee in the other.

Logan didn’t announce anything or explain and he asked for the same from Charles. When Jamie passed by and gave him a silent nod, Logan returned it. When a student asked where to find a biography, Logan walked them to the shelf without hesitation. When another dropped a book face-down on a table, he corrected them with a quiet, “Spines up. She hated creased covers.”

And the students got it. They settled in a little softer that day. The library felt full again. Not the same— never the same. But warm and alive. And you would have loved it.

~~~

The doors were locked. The windows were darkened. Logan moved quietly through the rows, checking shelves, closing returned books, dimming the lights. He stopped in the back corner— his corner— to the table you always left for him. And he pulled something small from his pocket. A plaque. Simple and bronze. He drilled it gently into the wood just above the bookshelf, where students could see it— but not too bold, not too loud. He stepped back and read the engraving.

In Memory of Our Librarian ~ Miss Y/N L/N

She kept the stories safe, and made us brave enough to live our own.

Logan brushed his fingers over it. Then turned and walked away, locking the doors behind him. But that night— and every night after— the plaque glowed softly in the moonlight. And so did the library.

~~~

The library was quiet. Outside the windows. Snow fell softly across the lawn, blanketing the world in white. Inside, the shelves were full, cared for, and loved. Logan moved a little slower now, but just as steady. He was shelving a return, humming faintly under his breath, when a shadow moved in the doorway. Ororo. She smiled when he looked up. She was still regal, composed, though the years have touched her. She walked with calm confidence— the kind that once belonged to Charles. She held an envelope in her hand.

“Got a minute?” She wondered.

“Always,” Logan responded.

She crossed over to the corner table he had never given up and set the envelope down. “I found this in Charles’ personal effects. It was marked for you.”

Logan looked at it. Just his name on the front. Nothing else. He didn’t move to it right away.

Ororo gave him a nod. “Take your time.” Then she left without another word.

Logan sat. The envelope tremble slightly in his hands as he opened it. Two letters sat inside. One in Charles’ neat handwriting and the other— in older paper— yours. He read Charles’ note first.

Logan,

If you’re reading this, I’m no longer there to hand it to you myself. I kept this letter at her request, sealed and untouched, to be delivered only when I was gone and you were still standing.

You are more than we ever deserved.

Charles

Logan’s breath caught. His hands hovered over your letter. He unfolded it. Your handwriting was instantly familiar, taking him back years.

My dearest Logan,

If Charles did this right (and let’s face it, he usually does), it means you’ve outlived me and him— and that you’re probably mad I made him wait so long to give you this.

I’m writing this now, not because I’m afraid I’ll leave you, but because if I do, I need you to know some things.

You saved me.

Not just from the government or my own failing powers— but from myself. From disappearing. You reminded me every single day that I was still here. Still real. Still worthy.

I don’t care how many years pass. If you’re reading this— I still love you.

I hope you still sit at that desk. I hope the books are still in order.

And I hope you’re not alone.

But if you are… open The Secret Garden. Page 247.

You’ll find something there I couldn’t say out loud.

Logan’s hands were shaking as he went and pulled the book from the shelf. He flipped to page 247. There— tucked between the pages— was a small pressed flower. And beneath it, a line in your handwriting, scrawled faintly in ink:

Love alway finds the quiet places.

Logan closed the book slowly. And for the first time in years, he let himself cry. Not because you were gone. But because, somehow, you were still here.

~~~

The school had changed. The building had been rebuilt, expanded. Brighter and stronger. It was full of new faces, new voices, new generations who barely remembered the name of those who came before.

But the library? That stayed the same. And in the center of it, always, was Logan. He didn’t speak much anymore. He didn’t teach or fight. He moved much slower and wore your old glasses. His hair was grey and his beard was full now. But he shelved every book, knew every title, answered every question the way you once had— with patience, with a little gruffness, and sometimes, with the same dry humor that had made you laugh.

Students didn’t fear him. They respected him. Some even brought him coffee the way he used to bring it to you. Your picture still sat on the desk. Smudged at the corners where his thumb always found it. Your favorite chair was still in the corner. Your name was still etched into the spine of a journal on the highest shelf. Logan never moved it, not once.

~~~

Jamie, now head of the school, found him during morning shelving. The doctor had requested a check-in. Logan had sat through it, grunting as Hank’s successor read through the through the scan results.

“You’re healing factor’s too slow now. The adamantium’s killing you, Logan. It has been for a long time. You’ve just been too stubborn to notice or say anything.

Logan looks down at his hands, rough and shaking more now. “I noticed.”

“You need rest. Peace.”

“I’m already where I want to be.”

They didn’t argue. You wouldn’t have wanted them to.

~~~

It was late when he passed. The lights in the library were dimmed, the sound of soft classical music playing from the old speakers Jamie had installed— music you loved. Logan had fallen asleep at the desk. One hand resting on your photo, the other on an open book.

They found him that way the next morning. Peaceful and still. Not clawed or bleeding. There was a note written on the back of an old checkout slip.

She waited for me. And now I’m finally going home to her.

Jamie closed the library that day. And for the first time in years, the halls of the school fell silent. But only for a little while.

Because Logan had left behind shelves perfectly stocked.

A desk still warm.

And a library full of love.

~~~

Notes: Thank you for reading this! I hope you enjoyed it! I love writing it for all of you! Please don't forget to share your thoughts and/or check out more of my works!

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edawgz · 20 hours ago

Text

ᝰ.ᐟ PETER: DEFINITELY NOT A SUPERHERO

𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆ peter parker x fem. reader. ~1.1k words.

❚ ❙ ❘ fluff, tooth rotting fluff. peter is awkward and a barista.

: ̗̀➛ After a long day, all you wanted was a quiet moment. Instead, you got a very flustered Peter Parker, one ruined coffee, and a feeling you didn’t quite expect..

| masterlist. | marvel masterlist. |

You hadn’t been looking for anything -- especially not borderline romantic company -- when you ducked into the coffee shop on the corner of 9th and Holloway. The sky above had been threatening rain all afternoon, the kind of thick, oppressive gray that pressed in like a weight, and when the clouds finally split open halfway through your walk, they didn’t hold back. No umbrella. No jacket. Just a soaked hoodie and socks squishing in your shoes as you crossed the street, trying to pretend your day hadn’t just fully gone to hell. The café’s door was a relief, its hinges creaking open to let out the smell of cinnamon, espresso, and quiet conversations. It was warm inside in a way that made your shoulders drop an inch, the kind of soft warmth that came not from the thermostat, but from old wood, yellowed lightbulbs, and the low hum of people trying to recover from their own long days.

You found a table by the window and peeled off your damp sweatshirt, fingers still clumsy with cold. The book you carried -- something dog-eared and familiar -- opened easily in your hands, the paper curling at the corners. You didn’t expect to stay long, just long enough to dry out, maybe warm up with a latte and a half-decent paragraph.

But then, in a blur of clumsy motion and flying foam, a drink landed on the table and promptly tipped sideways, spilling half its contents across the wood and onto your arm before you even registered what had happened.

“Oh my god-.. sorry, sorry, that was-.. crap, that was me.” The voice came fast and flustered, attached to a guy with wide brown eyes, wild hair, and an apron that looked like it had seen better days. He stood frozen for a second, like even he couldn’t quite believe what his hands had just done. “I can fix that. Like-.. clean it up. Not emotionally. Well, maybe emotionally too.”

You blinked, caught somewhere between amusement and damp confusion. “Did you just try to emotionally support my coffee?”

He looked mortified. “That depends. Did it work?”

Despite everything -- the soaked sleeve, the ruined drink -- you laughed, a quiet thing that surprised you more than it surprised him. He relaxed at the sound, the lines in his forehead easing just a little, and you noticed then the way his name tag read Peter: Definitely Not a Superhero in crooked handwriting.

“I’ll get you a new one,” he promised, already backing away like he didn’t trust himself near another beverage. “Upgraded. On me. This one was clearly cursed.”

Before you could protest, he was gone, disappearing behind the counter with a kind of jittery energy that made you wonder if he moved like that all the time. When he returned barely a minute later, he had a new drink in hand and a sheepish smile playing at the corners of his mouth. ��Caramel this time,” he said, placing the cup gently in front of you like it was made of glass. “No extra charge. Also no foam casualties.”

You took a sip, cautiously, and then nodded. “Redemption accepted. This is actually really good.”

He beamed, that same dimple flashing like it was trying to sneak up on you. “Thank god. I was about to lose sleep over that.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You’re this dramatic with all your customers?”

“Only the ones I accidentally baptize in latte,” he replied, and for a moment, the space between you felt warmer than just the coffee.

He hovered, like he wanted to say more but wasn’t sure if he should, and then, before you could decide for him, he blurted, “Do you mind if I sit? Only for a second. Just... I don’t know. You seem like the kind of person who won’t punch me for ruining your day.”

You should’ve said no. You didn’t come here to make small talk with a jittery barista who smiled like it might crack him open. But something about him -- about the way he fidgeted with the sleeve of his hoodie and tilted his head like he was genuinely curious about your answer -- made you nod instead. “Sure, why not.”

Peter dropped into the seat across from you like he hadn’t expected you to say yes, and immediately started fiddling with the sugar packets on the table. You sipped your drink again and tried not to look too hard at the way his eyes kept flicking toward you, then away.

“You always working? You don't act like someone who has much of a sleep schedule... or a break from all the caffeinated drinks.” you teased, more to fill the space than anything else.

“Most days,” he said. “Keeps me busy. Pays for books. Also.. yeah tha caffeine. I fix the espresso machine when it throws tantrums.”

“Sounds like a stable relationship.”

He grinned. “It is. Except it tries to murder me with steam sometimes.”

There was something disarming about him, something honest in the way he didn’t seem to know how to stop talking but still tried to read your mood like it mattered. Like he was trying to match your pace even when his default setting was clearly “chaos in sneakers.”

After a lull in conversation, you glanced at the book still open beside you. “You ever read this?” you asked, tilting the cover toward him.

He leaned forward to look. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “It’s the one where the main guy breaks his own heart because he thinks he deserves it.”

You blinked, surprised. “That’s… a weirdly accurate way to put it.”

Peter shrugged, and for the first time, he looked a little less like a boy who had spilled something and a little more like someone who carried too many thoughts around with nowhere to put them. “I like stories where people fall apart but still try.”

Something about the way he said it landed deep, somewhere soft and unguarded, and you set your cup down without really meaning to. The rain outside had thickened into a steady, rhythmic drumbeat against the windows, and inside the café, everything felt still.

You watched him watching you, both of you quiet now, and wondered how the hell a botched drink had turned into this. Into a moment you didn’t quite want to leave.

“You ever flirt with customers using coffee disasters, or am I just lucky?” you asked, tilting your head.

Peter’s mouth tugged upward in that half-smile again, the one that felt almost involuntary. “Only when they laugh afterward.”

And for the first time that day, you didn’t feel tired. You felt awake.

You held out the second half of your muffin, voice soft as you said, “Well, Peter: Definitely Not A Superhero, you’ve earned this. And maybe another conversation.”

He took it like it meant something more, like he might not have the words yet, but he understood the shape of what you were offering.

“Best shift ever,” he said, and you could’ve sworn his eyes lingered just a second too long.

And for once, you let them.

#ao3 #fanfic #dawgpound #edawgz #writer #wattpad #x reader #imagines #marvel #peter parker #peter parker x reader #peter parker fanfiction #peter parker x you #peter parker x y/n #spiderman #amazing spider man #spiderman comics #ultimate spider man #spidey

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andy-15-07 · 2 days ago

Note

Hi, could you please write a Javier Peña x daugther reader oneshot where one of last remaing Escobars' men tried to kill her? Like using a motorcycle, or any kind of vehicle, really, and then tries fatally striking her with melee weapon on the head. Luckily, it didn't instantly kill her, but it did put her in a coma. She barely knows Javier and was actually raised by her grandpa. So when she does eventually wake up after a long period of time, she's surprised to see him with her at the hospital.

The Last Name That Matters

PAIRING:Javier Pena x daughter!reader

WORD COUNT: 1060| requests are open (send requests, I will gladly answer them all)

Pedro Pascal Masterlist | Pedro Pascal Masterlist II

Bogotá was loud that day.

You hated how the motorcycles never stopped screaming down the alley by your apartment building. Grandpa always warned you to stay alert. “You’re not like the other girls,” he’d say. “You’ve got Peña blood, and that means trouble.”

You thought he was being dramatic.

Until the engine cut off right behind you.

You barely had time to turn around before the man was on you.

He didn’t speak , just moved. The handle of the machete glinted in the late sun before it cracked against your head. One second, you were walking home with a bag of pan dulce. The next, there was blood in your eyes and the concrete rushing up to meet you.

And then: silence.

Javier Peña got the call just past midnight.

He was at his kitchen table, whiskey warming his throat, when his old landline buzzed to life. When he picked up, it wasn’t what he expected , no agency business, no intel.

It was your grandfather’s voice, cracking and desperate.

“It’s her,” he said. “It’s Y/N. They tried to kill her.”

The next hours were a blur. Sirens. Dust. Nurses shouting. A glimpse of you on the stretcher with blood matted in your hair, tubes in your nose, your body still.

She’s in a coma, they told him.

She might not wake up.

He hadn’t been a father. Not really.

You were a baby when he left. Your mother wanted nothing to do with cartel wars or agents who came home with their hands shaking. She left, and you stayed behind , with your grandfather.

Javier had told himself it was safer that way. That it was better for you to grow up away from his world.

Now you were lying in a hospital bed because of it.

One of Escobar’s men, they confirmed. A loyalist who never stopped hunting. You were just the next name on a bloodstained list.

She’s not even in the game, Javier had yelled. She’s a kid.

Didn’t matter.

Peña blood.

He didn’t leave the hospital for two weeks.

Your grandfather came during the day. Javier stayed at night.

He sat beside your bed, quiet. Watched the machines blink. Watched the bruises on your forehead turn from deep purple to a sick yellow-green. Your chest rising and falling, painfully slow.

He brought books, once. Left a worn-out copy of The Little Prince on your side table. A nurse told him you used to read it on the park bench outside your building.

He learned all your routines by watching them break.

She doesn’t eat spicy food, the nurses said. Her lips twitch when she dreams. She talks in her sleep , sometimes in Spanish, sometimes in English.

He kept waiting for your eyes to open.

They didn’t.

The morning you woke up, the sky was a sharp blue , the kind that makes your head hurt.

Your eyes fluttered once. Then again.

The light overhead buzzed, too loud. Your mouth was dry. Your whole body ached.

You didn’t know where you were. Or why your throat felt like sandpaper. Or why everything smelled like antiseptic and sadness.

You turned your head slowly. There was a man in the chair beside your bed.

He was asleep , or pretending to be. One leg stretched out, his arms crossed. His face worn from time, jaw shadowed with stubble. But his head jerked up the second you made a sound.

Your voice cracked. “Who...?”

He stood immediately. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

You blinked at him, disoriented.

The machines beeped louder. A nurse’s voice echoed down the hallway. Your eyes started to fill with tears , your brain working too slow to make sense of anything.

He stepped closer, hands raised in surrender. “You’re in the hospital. Bogotá Central. You were hurt, but you’re safe now.”

“Who are you?” you whispered.

He hesitated.

Then: “I’m your father.”

You stared.

“No. No, you’re not. My dad’s... he’s,”

“Gone. I know.” His jaw tightened. “I wasn’t there. Not like I should’ve been. But I’m here now.”

You felt your stomach turn.

You remembered your grandfather’s voice. The way he never talked about your real father unless pressed. How he’d change the subject. “He’s out there somewhere,” he’d mutter. “But he made his choice.”

“You left,” you said.

“Yes,” Javier answered quietly. “And I’ve regretted it every day since.”

Tears slipped down your cheek.

He didn’t move to touch you. Just stood there, letting you look at him. Letting you hate him if that’s what you needed.

Finally, your voice shook: “Why are you here now?”

He sat down slowly. Rubbed a hand over his face. “Because the second I heard what happened, I realized I couldn’t lose you. Not like this. Not before I even got to know you.”

You swallowed.

He leaned forward. “You were targeted because of me. Because of my name. And I swear to you, Y/N , I’ll never let anything happen to you again.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. The exhaustion pressed down too hard.

But before your eyes slipped closed again, you whispered: “Don’t lie.”

He shook his head. “I’m not.”

You fell asleep with his voice in your ears.

Recovery was slow.

You lost weeks in your coma. Muscle atrophy made walking hard. The headaches were constant. But little by little, you came back.

So did Javier.

He brought you real food when the cafeteria trays got too depressing. Told you dumb stories about how bad he was at high school algebra. Sat with you through physical therapy, awkwardly quiet until you made fun of him.

“You’re not very good at this whole parenting thing,” you said one day.

He smirked. “I was a DEA agent, not a babysitter.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Pretty sure those overlap.”

He chuckled. “You’re probably right.”

You still didn’t trust him. Not fully. But something in you , something broken and stitched up , wanted to.

One evening, as the sun dipped low behind the hospital towers, you caught him staring out the window.

“You could leave,” you said. “I mean... I’m awake now.”

He didn’t turn around. “Do you want me to?”

You hesitated.

“No.”

He looked back at you. “Then I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

You looked away. “I still don’t know you.”