#and life will go on and on and on long after you and your story is forgotten

[heartyluv]

Note: There’s something about a toxic Caleb who purposely got you pregnant just so he really has a way to stay in your life without you being able to find an excuse to keep him out of it…ANYWAYS, I originally just did headcanons for this idea, but my luvly @asiatic-apple requested—read here—a full fic of it and of course, I just had to. I hope you love it, babe. 🫶🏽

Creds to @/strangergraphics and @/omi-resources for the dividers!

Warning: Unprotected rough sex, Caleb is a walking threat, pussy slapping, he’s a little mean to you in this but it’s only because he’s so mad (calls you stupid once), he threatens to kill a man. I think that’s it LOLL

(!!MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!)

Word Count: 2.7K

Summary: Caleb catches a man in your house when he checks on you through the cameras you never knew he installed. Long story short, he’s fucking pissed.

Possessive&ToxicBabyFather!Caleb/Reader

Caleb’s obsession and his questionable idea of love for you ran so deep that you’ll never really understand how far that man could go. There’s a lot he would do—he’d fight, he’d steal, he’d kill, he’d lie. He would do absolutely anything to ensure that he is the only person in this world that you’ll ever need. And in order for him to successfully be there to fulfill that role, he has to know what you’re doing and thinking before you even get the chance to attempt it.

It’s why when you moved to your place after you two had officially broken up, he came to visit you to not only scope it out, but to make sure he had your exact location. Even if you two weren’t labeled as a couple, in his eyes, you always would be. For him, he was just waiting until you got over yourself and let him come back into your life so he could be where he’s supposed to.

You blamed his obsessive and possessive behavior as well as his never-lacking tendency to overcrowd for why you called it quits despite all the years together. He didn’t argue, he knew he could be a lot. But he would never—could never, change that when it came to the woman he loved. So he let you have the fantasy of a life without him for a brief moment, but of course, it didn’t last.

He was there the first day you moved in, but once he learned that your daughter wasn’t there because she was with your parents while you set everything up, his original plan had gotten a whole lot easier. You were already tired from the move, so it was a simple task of him fucking you so deliciously until you curled yourself into him to sleep.

After making sure you were really knocked out, he carefully slipped out of the bed to do what he originally came for. Unbeknownst to you, he had set up several little cameras in places he knew you’d never find them. He meticulously placed the small black devices in locations he deemed best as you rested peacefully without any clue in the world.

Every day he’s checked on you. Every day he knew what you were getting ready to do. Every day he was there without you knowing.

But unfortunately, for the last few days, he hasn’t been able to see in on you or your baby girl Maven. Being a Colonel makes your baby father a busy man, so he has times where it could get like this and it was a time he always hated. If he wasn’t working while trying to fit in a meal, he was sleeping. There was never any time in between for him to even send you a text, let alone to view you on the cameras.

After the longest five days of his life though, he was back and ready to see his family.

He loved that despite all your attempts to act like you were tired of him, you could never resist making sure he was okay. When he went a whole two days without a peep from being so busy, you were blowing up his phone with text messages and phone calls with worry and concern. It’s things like that that kept him from leaving you alone. He knew that you were too intertwined for there to be any form of separation.

Once he got back into his poor excuse of an apartment—because any place without his woman and daughter would never be a home—he pulled out his phone to see how he was going to sneak up on you both today. He planned on making it a day all about you two; taking you out to eat, getting his girls whatever they, and spending the night because he knew you’d let him.

But when the live feed of your living room took up his screen and he saw you sitting at the dining room table with a fucking man—smiling, grinning, and drinking lemonade out of a cup he paid to put in your home—all that lovey dovey shit dried up.

Caleb had to squint to make sure he was seeing what he was looking at correctly. When the image never altered, he knew he wasn’t crazy. You really went against his word.

A man in your house. The one that he paid for because he vowed to always take care of you. The one he told you to never let anyone but him, family, and your daughter inside of.

That wasn’t going to do.

He watched for a few more minutes, tapping on the button to allow him to hear what was being said.

“…that’s cool. I didn’t know you had a kid.”

“Yeah,” you smiled, thinking of your baby girl. “She’s my everything, but that girl loves her dad.”

“Oh?” the man raised a brow. “He’s still around? I figured you were a single parent.”

“We’re not together. Technically,” you huff. “It’s complicated. But he’s very much present.”

We’re not together? Complicated?

The image of you begging him to go deeper when he bent you over the counter last week flashes across in his head. Have you lost your fucking mind?

He wasn’t going to sit here and listen to this shit anymore. The drive to your house that’s originally fifteen minutes? Caleb turned it into less than ten.

All you heard as you sat at the table and conversed with your next door neighbor was the loudest slamming sound of what you assumed to be a car door. You jumped a little at the sudden noise, looking at Ryker with the same amount of confusion as he was showing you.

But that confusion quickly shifted to shock when you heard the bangs on your front door.

Boom. Boom. Boom.

“Open the door,” Caleb commanded loudly on the other side as his fist continued to pummel the hard wood beneath his closed fist.

“Holy shit,” you shakily breathe, standing and looking at Ryker with sorrow. You had no clue Caleb was back and you didn’t know what was to happen, but you felt terrible for whatever it was about to be.

Ryker had saw you struggling to hang these new flower pots you bought for your porch, offering to help you out. You hesitated at first—you know why you did—but you figured it was harmless and Caleb wasn’t around for him to even know. With your daughter at school, you wouldn’t have to worry about her randomly bringing it up to her dad that some nice man helped her mommy.

After he hung the flowers, he watered them for you, and even whipped out his lawn mower to cut your grass. You knew this was his way of flirting, but you also knew better. Thankfully, you weren’t interested anyway, but had you been, you still wouldn’t pursue anything because of the type of man you have sex with at least twice a week.

But still, you couldn’t find it in your heart to just say thank you and send him on his way. It was supposed to be a quick cup of lemonade and some conversation.

With Caleb outside your door demanding entry, that wasn’t about to be the case anymore.

“Do you want me to answer it?” Ryker offered.

“If you knew who was on the other side, you wouldn’t be offering.” You pressed your lips together. “Just let me do the talking.”

Ryker nodded, watching you approach the door and close your eyes as if to brace yourself before opening it. Caleb pushed it open and despite the irritation on his handsome feautures, he looked so delectable.

A white tank top with black cargo pants and boots—it was simple, but simple was mouth watering on a man like him.

“I didn’t know you were back,” you speak up. Caleb’s eyes bore into Ryker’s before shifting to you.

“Why the fuck is he in here?” he says sharply. “You forget what I told you?”

You shake your head. “He’s just my neighbor, Caleb. He was helping me—”

“I help you,” he interjects. “Me. That’s my job.”

“Yeah, well you weren’t here and I didn’t know when you’d be back. It’s not even that serious, he was just getting ready t—”

Caleb quickly turns to grab you by the jaw. Not hard and not to hurt you—just to make you understand him.

“You like to make me mad, don’t you?” His eyes narrow as he stares you down. “Because you know I’d never hurt you, so you drive me to make me want to harm somebody else.”

Your heart races as he brushes his thumb against your bottom lip. And you know that your pussy shouldn’t be throbbing, but it is.

“That’s not true,” you say through clenched teeth. The tension rippling off you two is like static, ready to shock anyone who dares to get too close.

“Get out.” Caleb turns his head just enough so that Ryker knows he’s talking to him. “Or you could stay and watch me fuck her stupid, but then I’d have to kill you.”

“I don’t want any trouble, man,” Ryker raises his hands in defense.

“Yet you’re still here causing it.”

“Should I call somebody?” Ryker looks at you, completely ignoring Caleb for a moment. That’s what sets him off, but you’re grabbing him before he can throw the poor man across the neighborhood.

“Go ahead and make a call,” Caleb threatens. “We’ll see who’s quicker.”

“Ryker,” you say carefully, placing your hand to Caleb’s chest. “Just go. I’m fine—we’re fine.”

“Are you—”

“Do you not see who is trying to get his hands on you right now?!” you exclaim in disbelief. “Go.”

Finally regaining some sense, Ryker quickly walks past you two before slamming the front door shut after himself as he scurries off. And you have no time to say a word as Caleb picks you up with ease, making you yelp when you’re thrown over his shoulder.

“Maven’s in school?” he asks on his journey to your bedroom.

“Caleb, put me down!”

“Where’s my daughter?” He smacks your ass, making you cry out.

“Yes, she’s in school! I have to get her in like twenty minutes—Fuck, Caleb, would you stop and talk!?”

“I only need ten.”

He throws you down onto the soft mattress, pulling his shirt over his body as he stands between your legs. You try and crawl back to get off the bed, but he grabs your ankle to pull you toward the edge again.

“Now you want to run from me?” he tsks. “Has my absence made you stupid, baby?”

“You’re a dick,” you seethe, your jaw clenching. But your cunt is doing the same thing.

“Maybe I am,” he smirks. “But you’re about to be full of mine, so does any of it really matter?”

He spreads you open, yanking your shorts and panties down your legs with one rough pull. He whistles when he sees how wet you’ve gotten, how your slick coats your pussy lips just how he likes. Running his thumb down your slit without pushing inside, you think he’s preparing to fuck you with his thick fingers.

Instead, he slaps your cunt.

“Agh!” you scream, eyes wide as he holds you down by your waist.

“I shouldn’t even let you come,” he says flatly before delivering another smack. “Since you want to act like you have no fucking sense.”

You jolt, feeling the hot sting mark your flesh. When you try to close your legs instinctively, all Caleb has to do is look at you to tell you what he shouldn’t have to voice.

Don’t move.

“You’re lucky we need to get our daughter, pretty,” he coos, beginning to undo his belt as you remain spread for him. He gets his hard cock out, giving it a few pumps to make his precum seep out the flushed tip. “I would’ve taken my sweet time making you show me how sorry you are for pissing me off.”

Your hips buck, craving him inside you despite the ache settling from his hits on your sensitive pussy. You can’t resist him or his cock, ever. It’s embarrassing.

“Look at you,” he mocks, circling your clit with his tip to make you shudder. “So desperate for it every time. Just like you’re supposed to be.”

“Caleb, please,” you beg, not even finding it in yourself to be care anymore. “Please, fuck me. I’m sorry…”

“I know you are.” He slaps your pussy again with his cock this time and the heaviness of it against you makes you even wetter.

“Say it again.”

“I’m sorr—”. He spears you at the same time you tried to utter the pathetic apology. The way you mewl makes him pulse inside of you and you’re so wet that you can feel it cascade down your cunt and right beneath you onto the covers.

And there’s nothing slow, sweet, gentle, or patient about any of this. He holds your thighs open, his hands so firm in your flesh that you won’t be shocked to see the marks.

His hips meet yours fast and hard, skin echoing against each other in the otherwise quiet bedroom that he’s defiled you in too many times to count. Your arm reaches up and behind you to claw at the sheets as his cock slides in an out of your tightness with no intention of letting up.

The urge to see your tits jump is urgent as he pulls your shirt up just enough to get them out. The chill makes your nipples even tighter.

“Fuck—I can’t, Caleb… ‘s too much..” you mumble incoherently, but you’ll be dammed if he stops. It being too much is what makes it so good.

“You know how to handle my cock, baby. Take what you deserve,” he rasps, pressing down on your stomach so you can really feel him. Somehow, he manages to get deeper. “Think of me sitting right there the next time you want to disobey me again.”

You feel like you’re choking on his dick with how nestled he is inside of you. His hands moves from your thighs to grip your hips, the pace somehow getting faster. You’re moaning like you’re getting paid to do it. You can’t help that the wet claps of you and him connecting has always been one of your favorite things.

“Gonna come…” you warn with a cry as the hold on you tightens, right on the precipice of being painful.

“You better hope you finish before I do then,” he threatens, slapping your tits to make your head spin. He keeps his momentum. “Because I’m filling you with my cum no matter what.”

He feels how you clench over and over eagerly, unable to stop suffocating his cock with your needy cunt. Caleb strokes your tender velvet walls a few more times with his thick length before it becomes all too much. He curses as his orgasm rapidly approaches, spilling into you with zero warning. Your own orgasm is induced at the feeling of his thick and heavy load making its way into your womb, marking you from the inside out.

You can barely catch your breath as he slips out of you with a hiss and a moan, rubbing his softening cock between your lips.

“Push it out,” he breathes. “Let me see.”

He stares at your pussy as you work your muscles to push his cum out of your used hole. You feel it trail and honestly wish you could see it for yourself when you feel him use his tip to push it back inside like he’s claiming you all over again.

Caleb smiles as he licks his bottom lip, admiring the visual he never gets tired of seeing.

“Funny how well you listen when you want to.”

You look at him with annoyance and that weird sense of love you refuse to say out loud. You always have to make yourself remember: You broke up for a reason.

“Will you clean me up?” He raises a brow. You sigh. “Please?”

He leans down, his silver chain clinking as it gently brushes against your chest. While he kisses your lips, you wrap your legs around him, a habit you’ve never broken.

“You love me?” he looks into your eyes as you purse your lips.

“You want me to.”

“But I know you do.”

“So why ask if you’re so confident?”

He shrugs. “I like hearing you say it.”

It’s silent for a moment. “I tolerate you.”

“Cute,” he pecks your mouth again. “You have no choice but to.”

All the while, he’s thankful you never questioned his sudden appearance and anger when he got here. He has his cock to thank for that. The man was prepared to lie if he had to—he came up with his lie on his drive here—but you were so dumb on dick that you didn’t think about anything that wasn’t him.

You still don’t know about the cameras in your home and he intends to make sure it stays that way.

Tags 🏷️ : @innergardentoadpony @teacupwaifu @mcdepressed290 @calebapplepie @xcelfer @honeymoonfleur @obeythebutler @ajyoursgirl @notsurewhattocallthisblog8888 @honeycrispangels @dummiebunny @sucre-princesse @brailsthesmolgurl @klossnite @grlyeetswrld @beesin03 @dramaticalsachan @moonchildjae00 @asiatic-apple @callads7 @caien @stargirlygirl @multisstuff @littledarlingsthings @purpleamethyst25 @lazygelpen @floatinginaer @meadowinthesky @floatinginaer @grackerzzz @nod4mnm3rcyy @loveinorion @ur-l0cal-crypt1d @inutrasha94 @cowaungabungabby @gravity-pilot

[matt-the-radar-techncian]

What people forget is that while the gems have humanlike emotions and look and sound like humans, they very much aren’t human. They don’t have the same needs as humans and they don’t operate on human timescales. They live forever, don’t ever need to eat or sleep, and are able to able to perform a given task literally forever

For a regular person, mourning your dead wife 12+ years after she died would be unhealthy, but for Pearl that not a very long time at all. At the beginning of the show, she’s still just getting used to Rose not being there anymore, of course she’s still not over it

And it’s not even like gems die natural deaths either. We humans all know that we’re going to die one day and have our entire lives to come to terms with that. For Pearl, the very idea that one day Rose wouldn’t be there is never something she had to think about, so of course losing her is going to feel infinitely worse

As for the Diamonds, part of their MO probably revolves around not seeing the other gems they rule over as intelligent beings, but rather as just tools or assets. And to them it makes perfect sense. If you can just create a million sentient workers who are basically immortal and can just do the one task they’re made for forever, then why pay them any more mind? If a few of them start showing “emotions” (whatever those are) just scrap them and replace them with 500 more identical copies. The reason the Diamonds have no regard for others’ feelings or the suffering and oppression they cause is because, until Steven came along, the idea that other beings have feelings and emotional needs is literally a foreign concept to them, at least partly

Even the Diamonds’ treatment of Pink Diamond can be seen this way. As controlling and abusive as they were, they were raising her the only way they knew how; it’s not like they had parents to raise them. It’s honestly somewhat commendable that the Diamonds are so willing to change their behavior and improve their society, even if it is only because they want to make Steven happy since they see him as a stand-in for Pink

It honestly makes for such an interesting society and world. The gems start out life as mindless drones just doing their one task indefinitely forever, but they still have feelings and the desire to form relationships and do more with their lives. It’s how all the Crystal Gems started out and it just makes for some beautiful and heartwarming stories

I’m well and settled on the opinion that Steven Universe had to seriously stack the deck in its own favor to prevent the narrative from ending with anyone getting guillotined. I mean, Steven conveniently having a foot in the door with the diamonds because he turned out to be related, sure, but it goes into the characterization and worldbuilding, too.

Rather than cackling dictators, first off, The Diamonds had to be emotionally-arrested overgrown children; the dynamic between them and Pink was always, with context, less of a parent-child thing and more like three twelve-year-olds lecturing an eight-year-old on adult responsibility, they’re fundamentally aping a notion of the right way to be and I think it’s a mistake to view them as fully-realized people at the point where Steven finds them. Gem society, too, is less of a society, with all its messy moving parts, and more of a sanitized dollhouse representation of a society that’s only just starting to morph into the real deal via the rebellion. There’s no genuinely complicated politics to untangle; just gems meaninglessly play-acting at politics. And, crucially, nobody is getting anything out of any of it- gems are a needless society, they expand endlessly because they…. don’t not do that, there’s no material incentive to behave the way they do, no economic reality Steven has to counter in order to make the horror stop. All he has to do is convince three emotional runts to stop being awful.

Now, where I differ in my thinking, I think, is that in contorting the worldbuilding to make sure that the diamond redemption wasn’t something patently insane, they really hit upon an incredibly compelling science-fiction set-up. Three Elder Gods playing “It’s A Good Life” with a tea-party sham of a civilization full of individuals who nonetheless feel real pain, Three Elder Gods who cause harm, and lots of it, but mainly through their lack of moral context and lack of understanding of what even constitutes harm, Three Elder Gods whom you, a puny human, actually have some pretty potent emotional leverage over but no way to overpower if it comes to a fight? A set-up where part of the horror is how easy it would be to pinpoint the source of the horror and make it stop? That’s fucking dynamite! I’d watch five whole seasons of just that! Hell, even in canon it doesn’t even stop- two years later and Steven is still kinda trying to deal with the fact that the Diamond’s good behavior is kinda-sorta dependent on his willingness to keep dealing with them and he has no real way to be sure any of it is sticking! There’s no actual end in sight! There’s no clean resolution! It’s messy and it’s harrowing and it’s specifically because culpability and morality and ethics and all of that is so goddamn sticky when you’re a consequentialist trying to play ball with super-advanced childlike Von Neuman Machines!

[izzih22]

Can you do like a part 2 of whose side are you on and it be Paige gets in a fight with either a teammate or a sibling and azzi is in the middle?

Blood and Anchor

Note: this was hard to write ngl so it’s short sorry also remember it’s just a story it’s not real

It’s supposed to be a chill weekend. Just family visiting from Minnesota, a few laughs, dinner, the usual awkwardness of siblings crashing into the life she’s built away from home.

Azzi even offered to leave give them space but Paige told her to stay. She wanted her there. She needed her there. Azzi is family.

What she didn’t expect was for it to go sideways this fast.

Her younger brother makes a joke something about how she’s “basically famous now,” how she “probably forgets about the rest of them,” and it’s harmless enough until it isn’t.

Until it turns into,

“You’ve changed. You’re not the same anymore.”

And then,

“Honestly, you’re kind of a jerk when you’re around us.”

And then finally—

“Maybe if you weren’t so obsessed with basketball and that whole perfect image thing, you’d remember what it’s like to be part of a family.”

Paige hears it like a slap. It’s not even yelled, just dropped into the room like a grenade.

Azzi’s head snaps up from where she’s sitting on the edge of Paige’s bed. The silence that follows is sharp.

Paige tries to laugh it off, stiff and bitter. “Okay. Cool. Thanks.”

But her voice breaks on the “thanks.” And then she’s up, grabbing her jacket, pushing past her brother without looking back.

Azzi hesitates for half a second before rising, steady and calm. “I’ll go after her.”

She doesn’t wait for permission. She doesn’t need it.

⸻

She finds Paige in the stairwell.

Alone. Sitting on the cold concrete steps with her hands tangled in her hair, elbows on her knees, breathing like she’s trying to keep something in.

Azzi doesn’t say anything at first. She just walks over and sits next to her. Their shoulders touch.

It’s quiet.

And then—

“He thinks I don’t care about them.”

Paige’s voice is low. Raw.

“I give everything I have to this sport. To this school. To being someone they can be proud of. And he says that.”

Azzi watches her closely. “Do you believe him?”

“No,” Paige answers instantly, then quieter, “I don’t think so.”

Azzi reaches out, gently links their fingers. Paige holds on like she’s drowning.

“I’ve missed birthdays,” Paige whispers. “Holidays. I forget to call sometimes. And I know I’ve changed. I had to. I’m doing the best I can and it never feels like it’s enough for them.”

Azzi doesn’t rush to fix it. She just lets Paige talk.

“I already beat myself up for it,” Paige continues. “But hearing him say it… like I’m selfish or fake… it just…”

She stops.

Azzi squeezes her hand. “It hurts.”

Paige nods.

“Can I say something?” Azzi asks softly.

Paige nods again.

“You are different,” Azzi says. “You’ve grown. You’ve been through hell. You’ve had to figure out how to keep going even when it felt like your body and your mind were working against you.”

She turns toward her. “But none of that made you cold. Or selfish. You love so hard, Paige. You carry everyone. And maybe they don’t always see it, but I do.”

Paige’s eyes finally meet hers, full of glass and hurt.

Azzi shifts closer, brushing her knuckles against Paige’s cheek.

“You don’t have to be perfect to be loved,” she says. “Not by them. Not by me.”

Paige exhales shakily. “Sometimes it feels like I have to be.”

Azzi presses a kiss to her forehead. “You never do with me.”

And that’s what cracks her.

Paige pulls Azzi into her arms, burying her face in her shoulder, shaking slightly from the quiet sobs that follow.

Azzi wraps around her without hesitation. Rubs soft circles into her back. Holds her like she’s piecing her back together.

“You’re home,” Azzi whispers into her hair. “Right here. Always.”

⸻

They sit there for a long time. Eventually, Paige calms, her breathing evening out, her grip on Azzi no less tight but more steady.

Azzi kisses her temple. “Want me to talk to him?”

Paige shakes her head. “No. I’ll handle it. I just… I needed you first.”

Azzi smiles, brushing hair from Paige’s face. “I’ll always be your first stop.”

And for the first time all day, Paige lets out a real breath.

“Thank God for you.”

[jakesimfromstatefarm]

──── PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE . ↳ one shot // also part of the no doubt series !

✎ᝰ .ᐟ aka jake's love language is physical affection, words of affirmation...& mild desperation.

── sim jaeyun x f!reader ౨ৎ wc. 880 ⌗ comfort, fluff, skinship, slice of life!, kissing (making out?), they're deeply in love my honor </3 (also jake is literally just a freaking loser in this one it's actually almost sad but we love loser!jake in this household so .)

↳ IMPORTANT NOTE .ᐟ ── this is part of my no doubt series ─ a sequel series of short drabbles that take place after the events of my fic no doubt, and show jake & reader's relationship throughout their first year together (& how jake wins her trust & love back hehe) ── THIS CAN BE READ AS A ONE-SHOT, however, there will be some easter eggs if you've read no doubt before!

↳ addie's ✉ .ᐟ ── EVERYONE . there's only two official parts left of this series...IM EMOTIONAL dont play with me rn ... can't believe we're almost at the end...but i do have a few requests for jakeyn in my inbox that i will definitely get to! so stay tuned for those hehe :D

Like always—it’s late.

Jake had begged you to watch Star Wars with him for movie night, and the result?

Here you are:

Three movies in.

One YouTube theory video later.

And freshly done giving a very dramatic, very passionate speech on why he absolutely does not need to make a PowerPoint explaining the lore to you.

Long story short: it’s stupidly late.

You’re stupidly tired.

And you’re 98% sure going to dream about baby Yoda and Kylo Ren at this point.

Oh, well. Whatever makes him happy, you guess.

The bedroom is quiet, save for the sound of your breathing trying to settle and the occasional shuffle Jake makes whenever he tugs you closer to him every time you shift in your spot. His arm wraps lazily around your waist, his legs tangled with your own under the ridiculous mountain of blankets you insist on sleeping with (and yet he never complains about), and his face is buried somewhere in your hair, his lips smushed warm against your temple.

It’s warm. It’s tight. It’s a little suffocating.

It’s perfect.

You let out a quiet sigh—soft, sleepy, content—your hand moving up to rest against Jake’s chest as you tuck your head further into the crook of his neck.

“Goodnight, pretty,” Jake whispers, voice low and soft, barely brushing your skin. His fingers comb through your hair absentmindedly, his familiar touch yet leaving a trail of goosebumps every time you feel him. “I love you.”

You smile.

You always do—especially when he says it like that.

Soft, cracked at the edges. Carrying all his emotions and spilling them into those three simple words for you—only for you.

“Mmm,” you hum, sleepily teasing, burrowing deeper into him without answering.

Jake pauses.

You feel his arms tighten around you. His head lifts. His breath hitches.

“Y/N,” he whines, so small and so broken you nearly start laughing into his shirt. “You can’t do that. You can’t not say it back. That’s so evil…you have to say it too.”

He’s fidgeting now, his hand frantically smoothing down your arm like it’ll somehow get the words out of you, “Baby, seriously—I’m not letting you fall asleep without hearing it. Please. Y/N.”

His voice is higher now. The sweet mix of desperation and affection. You swear he might cry.

Or make a PowerPoint.

You pull back just enough to look at him, a smirk on your face and his own expression too pitiful to ignore—eyes wide, pleading, his lips in a pout, and what you swear is a little spark of panic in his eyes.

“Oh my god,” you giggle. “You’re so whipped, Jakey.”

Your fingers reach up to cup his face as you pull up slightly just to get a better look at him. His pout only deepens, and you let out another laugh.

“No, no, baby,” he insists, shaking his head as your thumb brushes his cheek. “I’m not joking. Say it. Just once. Please.”

And then his arms curl tighter around you again, as if holding on for his dear life. And it’s so Jake—the voice, the pout, the way he can’t stand the idea of not hearing you say it back, as if you haven’t said it a million times before.

So completely dorky. So utterly pathetic.

And it makes your heart thump a little harder.

You pretend to think for a second. And then—

“I love you, Jake.”

The words will always slip from your mouth as naturally as breathing.

Soft, warm, and entirely his.

His face instantly lights up, his eyes widening just a little, and you’d think you’d just given him the world (and frankly—you did).

And before you can even process—

Jake immediately pulls you into him, his lips crashing into yours with an intensity that’s almost too much for an easy goodnight kiss.

You giggle against his lips, grabbing onto his shirt for balance, but he’s not having it. He moves his hands to cup your face, desperately holding onto you like he’s going to open his eyes and watch you disappear in an instant.

“Say it again,” his pants, voice a little breathless now, already kissing you again. “Please, please, please—say it again.”

You let out another laugh, pulling back to see how he looks at you with those soft, lovestruck eyes, how his voice is so heartfelt, how he holds you like he can’t get enough of you.

“I love you,” you whisper again. Slow and soft—only meant for him.

He lets out a soft groan before his hand slips to the back of your neck as he kisses you again. Slower this time, more gently—as if savoring this moment.

“I’m so in love with you,” he mutters against your lips, his voice thick with emotion as he finally stops to rest his forehead against yours.

“You’re so dumb,” you whisper, smiling as you kiss him again, quick and so full of love.

“I’m not dumb,” he protests. Another kiss.

“Okay…you’re so whipped,” you tease again, your fingers brushing through his hair as he looks at you with that stupid, goofy smile that you can’t resist.

Jake grins, his eyes crinkling, his hand back to rubbing slow circles on your hip as he holds you impossibly close.

“That I am. And I’m never going to stop.”

<< past || no doubt m. list || next >>

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[dreamersparacosm]

jeon jungkook - off the record (part four)

part four ; prom: white house edition

warnings ; alcohol consumption, oc spiraling hard af, emma and paul ?? deserves its own warning

prompt ; in which you’re paired with your insufferably charming ex-academic rival turned coworker to cover a congressional scandal, and suddenly, professional boundaries becomes the only thing holding you two apart.

note ; *comes out from behind corner, tucks hair shyly behind ear* heyyy.. how yall doing..?

pls no tomatoes thrown at me for how long this part took. mommy was unfortunately quite busy AND this story is taking a complete left turn in my brain. let’s unpack that real quick, shall we? initially, this story was supposed to be a clean ten part fic. however i got inspired by one of abby jiminez’s books and could not restrain myself from exploring a longer slowburn with these two because it fits them SO WELL. so, moral of the story, is you’ll be seeing more of them. how many parts you ask? idk, ask someone else fr

anyways! onto this part — there’s a lot going on here. this whole White House gala is just jungkook circling oc like a hawk and her slowly, sloooooowly softening at the edges (but not too damn much). forgive my girl for not immediately succumbing to him, she grew up in a poor family and doesn’t like to feel the weight of the world on her shoulders (lol see what i did there)

please enjoy to your heart’s content, and read slow (like it’s legit 12k words. what you in a rush for??!!) ALSOOOOSDKD MAJORRRRR MF shoutout to @httpsincity, one of my cutie little beta readers who listened to me spiral about being true to their characters for like an hour and struggled to use box.com😔

playlist here

series masterlist here

The red dress was a mistake of catastrophic proportions. 

You’ll be paying the consequences of it until you’re 85 and muttering about shapewear in a retirement home with subpar pudding. 

It pinches at your hips, digs into your ribs, and you’re walking like someone has a gun to your back. You’re also sweating in places you didn’t know you had sweat glands.

You had pitched every excuse to not attend the gala known to man for the past week. Claimed to have contracted a rare airborne virus (possibly made up), hinted at a tragic scalp burn from a curling iron incident, even floated the idea that you were morally opposed to large public gatherings.

Jenna wouldn’t budge. 

“It’s good optics,” she called it, waving you off like an uncooperative wedding planner. 

You could give two shits about optics. What you do care about is being home in your sweats with a charcoal face mask on and Season 4 of Suits playing in the background while you judge Meghan Markle’s legal ethics. 

Now, you’re trapped beneath an arch of peonies and imported orchids that you're quite certain cost more than your entire salary. You’re lingering — loitering, really — by this floral monstrosity, heels already in mortal pain.

To add insult to injury, three interns glide past you, high on sparkling wine and great expectations. “Did you see the dessert table?” one of them squeals. “It’s shaped like the White House!”

Avoid the dessert table at all costs. Got it. 

You stare after them, slack-jawed. There is simply no way on God’s green earth these interns are going to have a better time at this event than you. You skipped Suits for this.

Pushing off the floral arch, you roll your shoulders back, and decide that if you are stuck here, if you are doing this, then so be it. 

If this is the hand life is going to deal you, then you might as well not bite it off. 

Tentatively, you step into the Hay Adams ballroom like you’re being lowered into a trap. The lighting is spilling warm buttery hues across the room, strategically placed crystal fixtures drawing people under them like moths to a flame. The marble floors are polished so well that when you look down, you can make out every pore on your face. 

There are waiters floating through the crowd, balancing trays of drinks you don’t recognize and appetizers that look too sophisticated to actually enjoy. Some band is playing near the front, but it’s jazz so it mostly just sounds like everyone forgot the melody at the same time. 

You pause a few steps in, eyes scanning the room, instinct already kicking in: assess, categorize, survive. There’s a burn in your chest, a familiar swoop of anxiety that overtakes you. 

You’re mid-gaze into the ballroom, performing what can only be described as an elite-level social avoidance, when something — or rather, someone incredibly clumsy — collides with your left side. 

“Where the fuck have you been?!” Emma’s voice accuses, latching onto your arm desperately, like she’s afraid you might jump out the nearest window. There’s still enough time that you might. 

She smells like a perfume counter had a passionate affair with the open bar. Her lipstick has migrated slightly north of her mouth, body vibrating with the energy of someone who discovered the champagne fountain approximately four glasses ago. 

“Good lord,” you mutter, finding your balance both literally and metaphorically. “How long have you been terrorizing this event?” 

“Unclear,” she grins stupidly. “Time is fake. You look hot by the way.”

You blink at her, absorbing her physical assessment of your appearance. You can't say hot is what you were going for. Scary, maybe. Not hot. “I’ll take it.”

“You absolutely should,” she insists, squeezing your arm. “Wait, did you just get here?”

The way Emma’s looking at you tells you that you probably need to lie, need to tell her you got here precisely an hour ago and she just somehow missed you. However after years of working together, there’s nothing that gets past her. You whine, shoulders slumping, “C’mon, you know I hate this stupid fucking gala.”

She rolls her eyes, yanking your arm as if she’s dragging her reluctant cat to the vet. “You say that every year and still end up at the after afterparty at someone’s penthouse.” 

Okay, it was one time. You were 24, way too drunk off Moet & Chandon, and the man you were with smelled like a mix of bergamot and cedar. It was nice. Sue you. 

Your heels betray you on the slippery marble tiles, sending you forward. “Emma, I really don’t—”

“No, absolutely not,” she declares, voice dropping to a dangerous register that means she’s made an executive decision about your night. “The ‘silently judging everyone’ portion of tonight’s programming has been canceled. You’re not allowed to roll your eyes in corners until you get drunk enough to start socializing.”

You attempt to come up with a plausible defense, but she’s already steering you past the dessert table, which has become a feeding ground for the interns. One of them clutches what appears to be the Capitol dome covered in chocolate ganache. Your soul recoils instinctively. 

“Have you tried the constitution-shaped cookies?” another squeals, eyes wide with wonder. 

“Who the fuck let them in here?” you whisper mostly to yourself with narrowed eyes. 

Emma catches it, laugh bellowing off the walls and above all the chatter as she guides you around the ballroom like her emotional support pet. “Be nice. They still believe journalism might save democracy. It’s adorable.”

You scan the room, heels skidding with each step Emma drags you. There’s the reporter who “borrowed” your framework for his feature, the communications director who used to hook up with Jenna before she remembered she had a Hinge+ subscription, and that insufferable New York Times correspondent who once corrected your pronunciation of ‘bipartisan’ so smugly you considered a career change. 

Several other journalists you recognize make eye contact across the room. Paul also looks over at you, gives you The Nod, a universal signal that communicates professional acknowledgement but could also mean you look hot (based on Emma’s drunken opinion). 

Emma navigates you closer to the bar, halting right in front of two barstools, “Okay. You need alcohol. I need you to have fun. Both seem fairly easy to accomplish with the help of the other.”

“Just so you’re aware, I despise everything about this,” you sneer, fixing the strap on your shoulder that threatens to fall loose. 

“You say that like it’s breaking news.” 

It isn’t. You hate the lighting designed to flatter the undeserving, the artificial laughter, the way everyone pretends to be off-duty while mentally writing Monday’s opinion piece. You hate the performative glamor and calculated smiles and the overwhelming pressure to network when all you want is to dematerialize through the nearest exit. 

Emma’s already ordering you a vodka soda, draped halfway across the bartop, projecting her voice as if she’s sober enough to make decisions for either of you. You catch her saying “absolutely no lime—I can handle my liquor” and you log out of that conversation so fast before you can do something stupid like get involved. Emma gets hot-headed when she drinks, and although it’s not often, you’ve learned to turn a blind eye when the inevitable does occur. 

You let your gaze perform a sweep of the room, mentally cataloguing emergency exits for once it hits midnight and all hell starts breaking loose. 

Paul, three people over. Awkward eye contact, check. You both give the other a tight-lipped smile and move onto the next person in your line of sight. 

Gavin’s talking to his wife enthusiastically, gesturing in a way that suggests he’s either four rum and cokes deep or recounting a professional tale where he singlehandledly saved journalism. His narrative reaches a dramatic pause as he catches your eye mid-sentence. Your internal alarm system flashes a bright, unambiguous absolutely not across your forehead. 

Your eyes glide past the dessert station, beyond another towering floral display that looks like the florist had a meltdown, and land on Sana in the far corner. She’s laughing at something, body angled like she’s engaged fully in what the other person is saying. There’s a soft radiance about her tonight — not that she hasn’t always been stunning — and it reminds you that she’s one of those people who’s universally beloved with no effort. Hell, even you love her when she gives into your interrogations and spills Fox’s insight into certain current events. You take an imaginary sip from your yet-to-materialize drink and mentally file away a good for her with approximately sixty percent sincerity. 

But then, a few strategic inches to her left, you discover exactly who Sana is honed in on.

Jungkook. 

He’s standing with one hand in his pocket, head tipped towards Sana, listening intently. His shirt is white, crisp and fitted, sleeves rolled up to just below the elbow. Enough that you can see his tattoo sleeve — bold that he would do that at White House prom but, whatever, to each their own. 

His tie is loosened, a glass in his left hand, half-full with something dark and his watch catches the light when you look at it. 

Which is not to say you’re looking. 

You’re scanning. It’s a sweep. An environmental awareness thing. Nothing more. 

Except then he nods at something Sana says and mid-turn, his eyes snag on you. 

Those dark brown eyes flick up, mouth relaxing. His brows twitch upward slightly. You nearly step backwards from the intensity. 

His gaze travels downward. A flicker of assessment so understated yet brazenly deliberate that your skin erupts into goosebumps under the fabric of your dress. Suddenly, it feels like your body is operating at a temperature that violates several laws of thermodynamics. There’s also a weird pit in your stomach that feels like you just went barreling 100 miles per hour down a rollercoaster. 

His eyes snap up to meet yours again. Your skin prickles with a wave of awareness that starts at your nape and cascades downward. 

If you’re not totally blind, you’re about ninety percent sure Jungkook just checked you out head to toe. 

Are you drunk? Did Emma somehow magically slip you a roofie when she stumbled across the ballroom with you?

Jungkook, the same dude who got caught re-watching your press briefing, the one who’s been purposefully making your life hell since you were a freshman in college. 

Your breath catches somewhere between your lungs and your throat, suspended in the no-man’s-land of Things We Will Not Be Discussing. Those eyes of yours are getting you into more trouble than you’d like. You swivel your body away from him, redirect your attention back to Emma, who’s now negotiating with the poor bartender like she’s brokering Middle East peace talks, all for a drink you're not entirely sure you want anymore. 

The last real interaction you had with Jungkook was Tuesday, when you discovered him perched on the steps of the west wing, watching your press pool briefing like he was some championship chess player contemplating their opponent’s queen.

Monroe came down with some vague “flu” that’s kept her out of meetings, which — to your luck — means you haven’t had a reason to step into the same room as him since then. Honestly it’s been a little peaceful. No hallway stalking, no press conferences, no internal panic about whether he’s going to pull the rug out from under you with another cheating tactic. 

But still, seeing him here now, in that shirt, sends a weird ripple through your body. Like vertigo. Like nausea. Like—

No. It’s clearly too hot in here. It’s just the combination of societal oppression and your body’s sudden, urgent desire to evacuate itself from your consciousness.

Emma thrusts an overflowing vodka soda into your hand like she just negotiated a hostage release. “It’s a little strong. I tipped extra in cash so he gave me a pour that’s probably illegal in three states.”

You nod numbly. Sip, And then cough because, yeah, it’s mostly vodka. Apparently, Emma’s definition of “a little strong” means “practically moonshine with ice.” 

You take another substantial sip — purely medicinal — and direct a silent, desperate prayer to whatever deity oversees your life that Jungkook has found something more interesting to look at than you. Sana, please, keep that man engaged. 

“So, hear me out.”

Yes, Emma, that is exactly what you’ll do to keep your brain occupied from Sana and those tattoos and the glance that got thrown your way that feels dirty. Borderline explicit. 

“Hm?” you hum, taking another massive gulp of your vodka with a splash of soda, trying to calm the storm of unwelcome feelings swirling inside you. 

She leans against the bar, holding her own martini glass hostage. “We should go talk to those guys over there.”

You squint at the ominous tall figures her nail is pointing towards. She can’t possibly be serious. “What guys?!”

“Those ones!” She tilts her head so aggressively it’s a miracle her earrings don’t fall off. “You know, Paul, his friend in the blue tie.. He’s like, kinda hot.” 

You guess, but refusal is your middle name right now. 

“I do not want to do that.” You deadpan at her, bewildered, sharing a look reserved for work best friends who have clearly crossed several lines of judgement. 

Emma’s basically vibrating with excitement as she studies the two men like she’s just discovered an all-you-can-eat buffet after a week of intermittent fasting. When you follow her gaze, sizing up the two men, you realize… you don’t really know that dude in the blue tie. Never seen him a day in your life. And you happen to know every correspondent that walks through those doors. 

The first thing you notice is his height — six feet tall at the minimum. He has shaggy brown hair, clearly possessing fortunate genetics, and has a wholesome, eager energy about him that just screams “golden retriever.” 

You could probably eat him for dinner.

Emma whines beside you, stomping her heel down, “Come on, what happened to the old [Y/N]? Remember… a few months ago… we went to that bar on 9th street…”

Now that she mentions it, you’ve been actively trying to scrub that entire night from your hard drive until Rosalie brought it up a few days ago.  

“Some memories are meant to remain buried in the graveyard of my brain, Em,” You cut her off, desperately trying to prevent your most embarrassing memories from being aired in public. 

“Just a little fun?” she nudges your shoulder. 

“I don’t—”

But Emma, the hot-headed drunk she is, is already moving, your hand gripped tightly in hers. Your vodka soda tilts over the edge, spilling a little on the marble floor. There’s something admirable about her complete disregard for social conventions, the way she approaches interpersonal chaos. 

She weaves you through the crowd, mumbling ‘excuse me’s’ and ‘pardon me’ at a rate that earns her a few crass side-glances. You find yourself apologizing for each shoe she accidentally steps on.

You’re trying — genuinely attempting to embrace the evening, live in the moment, take a page out of Emma’s book. But your dress has developed its own mind tonight, the air feels thick enough to bottle, and every time you perform a quick pass over the room, you feel like your heart is going to leap out of your chest like a caterpillar escaping its cocoon. 

The entire experience feels like standing in a glittery fishbowl where everyone’s pretending the water isn’t slowly reaching to a boil. 

You begin after another few steps in what feels like the wrong direction. “You know, I really think—”

She barely looks at you over her shoulder, “Respectfully, shut up.”

Yes, sergeant Emma. 

You attempt to reorganize your posture, rolling your shoulders back in a futile effort to project confidence. Trying to breathe without appearing like you’re still actively monitoring those emergency exits (although you did spot one in the far right corner). Trying not to look like you’re not cataloguing every face in the room while Emma drags you through the depths of this crowd, as if it’s some march to your final breaths. 

All things considered, you’re not looking for anyone specific. 

Obviously. 

That would be ridiculous. 

Except… your gaze does go rogue again.

Again, those basic survival instincts are just kicking in. But there is this inexplicable gravitational pull, this soft magnetic curiosity that keeps dragging your attention, past the florals, past the swarm of interns at the dessert table. 

Before you can even think of moving your eyes to that far corner again, you take a sip of your drink forcibly. The vodka burns a straight line down your throat. 

Emma parks you in front of Paul and his blue-tied buddy, releasing your hand almost immediately upon contact. “Heyyyy, Paul. How’s the night treating you?”

Her voice is sickly sweet, completely and totally unlike the Emma you see five days a week in the CNN press room. 

He blinks heavily. “Pretty good, Emma. You doing alright?”

It’s endearing how he’s trying to act all cool, calm and collected while clearly having no idea what to do with Emma’s sudden attention. By all means, he really wouldn’t know how to handle all of her. Her long brown hair cascades down her back, tan skin glowing under the golden tone of the chandelier, eyes piercing into his own. 

You think he might cream his pants. 

“Oh, I’m fantastic,” Emma purrs, leaning in intimately. You want to disappear into the nearest floral arrangement. “You know, I was just thinking — we don’t really talk much around the office.”

Paul blinks again, looking genuinely confused. “Yeah, well, you did say I was weird for listening to NPR during my lunch break.”

“NPR, sh-menPR,” Emma waves dismissively, as if yesterday’s mockery was merely a charming misunderstanding rather than a full-on ten minute roast session about his “geriatric taste in current events.”

Somewhere in the distance, a male voice bellows with laughter. You wish there was something to laugh about at this exact moment.

You’re having trouble processing the fact that Emma — who literally just yesterday compared Paul’s open-toed office shoes to a cry for help in leather — is now batting her eyelashes like he’s the last available bachelor in the D.C area. 

Meanwhile, Blue Tie Guy’s gaze has been ping-ponging back and forth between you and Emma. You can practically see the calculations happening behind his golden retriever eyes: Who’s her friend? What’s the dynamic here? Are we running a two-man?

No, Blue Tie Guy. You are not running a two-man. 

You remain silent while Emma blabbers on, mouth super-glued to your vodka soda, which has become alarmingly depleted despite your memory of only taking a few sips. 

Blue Tie shifts his weight, obviously debating whether to introduce himself to you or stare awkwardly into the distance. You take the final sip of your drink and pray that Emma’s sudden lust for Paul doesn’t require you to participate in whatever bizarre social experiment she’s conducting. 

Paul’s now doing that thing that guys do where he tries to lean casually against something that isn’t there, catching himself before gravity betrays him. “So, uh, what changed your mind? About the whole… talking thing?” 

He’s helpless. 

Emma flashes a smile that could probably power a small grid. “Maybe I’m just full of surprises tonight.”

“Right…” Paul nods. He spares a passing glance at you, an afterthought to his attraction to Emma. “Surprises. That’s… good?”

You’re witnessing what can only be described as the world’s most awkward mating dance… if mating dances involved this much uncertainty about whether anyone wants to be actually participating. 

Emma’s radiating pheromones. “I like your tie.” She reaches out, feeling the fabric beneath her fingers.

Paul’s entire face turns an embarrassing shade of red. “Thanks. It’s, uh… my grandpa’s.”

“Vintage,” Emma hums solemnly. “Very nice.”

You’re so absorbed in this exchange that you almost miss Blue Tie Guy’s approach, an expression of friendliness on his face that means he’s been psyching himself up for this interaction for the past five minutes you’ve stood there. 

Why the fuck did you wear this red dress again?

“I’m Steve,” he says, extending his hand.

You accept his handshake against your better judgment. This wasn’t exactly penciled into tonight’s agenda, which had primarily consisted of avoid making eye contact with anyone who might expect conversation.

“[Y/N],” you respond, and Steve grins, teeth on full display. He definitely had braces in middle school. Professional teeth whitening too. 

Theoretically, he seems charming. Steve (Rest in Peace, Blue Tie Guy) is objectively attractive. He definitely photographs well at family events. 

But the problem is your brain has apparently decided that a pleasant conversation with an attractive stranger falls somewhere below a voluntary root canal on a list of things you want to do tonight. 

“So what do you do for work?” 

Oh sweet, sweet Steve. 

Any man who’s gotten laid before knows no woman wants to talk about work. They want to talk about anything but deadlines, their coworkers, and their boss. 

“Correspondent.” 

That’ll be all for tonight, folks. 

It’s pretty clear he’s Paul’s plus-one, and while you also were afforded the luxury of bringing one, you didn’t really have anyone. Rosalie left mid-week on another voyage with her Daddy, and you were honestly still a little weird with her after your last conversation. 

“Oh, cool. I work in private equity not too far from here.” He tilts his body into you, body language sending you all the signals. Steve puffs out his chest a little, like that’s supposed to have you begging him to bend you over the dessert table. 

“That’s nice,” you tightly smile. “How long you been in D.C?” 

And then your mind drifts off to your cozy little apartment. He’s definitely making sounds, mouth moving with hand gestures involved but you’ve completely dissociated into the land of face masks and Netflix.  

You catch fragments of it: best opportunities in private equity are where the politicians are, passionate about bridging the gap between financial institutions and government (yawn), all the ex-New Yorkers are moving out here (fake news).

You nod politely, ignoring how barren your glass seems now that you’re talking to someone who isn’t Emma. 

“I just think your job is really cool, like, how politics is evolving. Like the digital landscape is changing everything, you know?” 

He has the energy of a paper towel. Like the inside of a dentist’s office. Your brain has started playing elevator music. 

He smiles, pleased with himself as if he thinks he just said something incredibly profound. 

Glancing down at your glass, you stare at the melting ice. Still empty. Fantastic. “Yeah, totally.”

“Paul said you work with him at CNN?” Steve’s eyes light up. 

You shake your head agreeably. You don’t really know when they exchanged information about you but you don’t really want to ask. 

“That’s so cool,” he rushes to say, “I was actually talking to someone at Politico the other day about all this. It’s just like.. your work is so important.”

Damn you, Jenna. This is exactly what you had nightmares about. 

If you’re running right on schedule, the Reuters editor should be appearing at any minute now to perform a drunken rendition of WAP, exclusively singing Cardi B’s verse. 

You open your mouth to say something bitter but close it again. You’re almost certain he’s trying to sleep with you, which is fine, you guess, but you really just want to go home at an acceptable hour. 

You offer a polite smile and nod again, and that encourages him to continue. You are now being held hostage by a man with the least amount of edge on this forsaken planet. 

“Paul says you’re a killer in press briefings,” he lowers his voice, leaning in. “I’d love to see that sometime.”

“It’s… all on YouTube.”

This topic should be completely irrelevant to you. Who cares? Every press briefing has been filmed since the dawn of time. 

And yet, a flash of a distant memory you tried to bury wanders to the forefront of your brain — Jungkook, planted on those West Wing steps, with a notebook splayed open, laptop playing your section of a press briefing. 

The memory crawls up your spine, leaving behind a shiver that you immediately blame on the air conditioning. 

“Right,” his cheeks flush a little. “No, yeah. I meant like.. In person.”

Please, Steve. We don’t have to do this. 

“Hm,” you utter passively. “Maybe at the next briefing.”

Steve chuckles like you’ve made a joke, even though you absolutely have not. “That’d be so fun,” he says as if you just invited him to Disneyworld. “Do you get called on, or is it random?”

“It’s not a raffle.” 

“Oh, obviously, I didn’t mean it like that,” he laughs nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just meant it’d be cool to see you in action. I bet it’s intense.” 

It is. It’s cutthroat. You argue with men on the daily, fight to get your question in. But right now, none of those words are making it past the dull throb in your temple or the vodka-less self-awareness happening inside your head. 

You glance down at your cup. It is, without a question, empty. A ghost of ice. 

“Yeah, definitely that.”

Steve leans in, undeterred. “You ever get nervous?”

Is he really flirting via patronization?

You flash a tight smile. “Not really.”

He laughs loudly at that, beaming at you like he just successfully completed a meet-cute you’ll be telling your kids about. 

It’s obvious to you he’s waiting for something. For what, you don’t know. More insight into the wonderful world of journalism? A Linkedin connection? You’re not sure, and you also don’t want to find out. 

“Excuse me,” you say as nicely as you can manage. Most women have gathered this skill by the age of five; learning how to exit conversations with just the bat of their eyelashes to avoid harsh confrontation. “Gonna go grab a refill.”

You wave your empty cup in front of him, and there’s a gleam in his eyes that suggests he’ll try and follow you to the bar, use this as some kind of excuse to get you nice and drunk. 

But you’re turning around quicker than he can move, and all you hear behind you is “Cool! I’ll be here!”

Of course you will Steve. 

You glance over your shoulder once you’re a safe distance away, ensuring Emma hasn’t been abducted or listening to NPR with Paul. But nope — there she is, giggling with him like they’ve known each other since birth. Her hand is resting on his bicep, and he looks like he might explode if she doesn't remove it soon. 

This night is absolutely fucking bonkers. 

A red dress is getting you in the worst situations, your coworker is flirting with a man she’s spent years publicly ridiculing, and somewhere in the midst of it all, you feel completely out of place. 

You slam your elbows onto the mahogany and slightly damp surface of the bartop, chin dropping into your palms, social battery exploding in a shower of sparks. 

“Vodka soda, please,” you tell the bartender the second you make eye contact with him. “And a shot. Dealer’s choice. Surprise me.”

You’re feeling dangerously open to possibilities. 

The bartender raises an eyebrow but nods. You don’t particularly care if he serves you tequila or rum or battery acid, but at this point, if it burns going down, it’s doing exactly what you need it to do. 

You let out a deep exhale through your nose. You’re fairly certain you came here with some kind of plan — something involving networking, the word ‘optics’ and liquidating the open bar. But the details have become frustratingly unclear after what feels like several hours trapped in a room with too many floral arrangements. 

The bartender returns, sliding both drinks towards you sympathetically. You contemplate the shot — some yellow liquid, kind of fruity — and decide a sip of your vodka soda to cleanse the palate is probably the best way to go.  

And then you feel it. An unfortunate warmth behind your body, the heat of a person near you. You swear to god, if Steve followed you, you’ll call security—

“Wow,” a voice begins, smooth like honey poured over a knife. “So we’re just letting civilians into press galas these days.”

The sigh that escapes you could probably be heard from space. 

One of your hands, the one not clutching your drink, promptly facepalms. 

“Please don’t start,” you mutter into your palm. “I’m one drink away from faking a fainting spell.”

But then your stomach does that thing again. That ridiculous little drop it did earlier in the night, followed by a flutter that feels suspiciously like anticipation wrapped in nausea. Your rational brain would very much like to blame this on Emma’s nuclear-strength vodka concoction rather than acknowledge it as anything resembling interest. 

That would just be inconvenient, and absolutely not something you’ll process while you’re wearing a red dress that’s already testing your limits. 

You don’t turn around. Some survival instinct within you is warning you that eye contact with the origin of that voice would be the equivalent of staring into a solar eclipse.

Hopefully, if you ignore him long enough, he might dissolve back into whatever corner of the ballroom he emerged from, taking with him the reminder that your body now apparently has formed opinions about him that your brain would like to shut off. 

Apparently, peace was not something the universe promised for you tonight. 

He moves around the bar to claim the space beside you, hips angled and shoulders brushing the air near yours. The dark brown liquid in his cup sloshes as he adjusts to the small centimeters of wiggle room. 

The scent of him hits you in waves — first his drink, all expensive whiskey, followed by his cologne that always smells like bergamot and cedar. It’s familiar. Nice. 

You stare down into your own drink and the untouched shot that’s sitting beside you, mocking you. 

“Didn’t peg you for a vodka soda girl,” Jungkook observes. His rings catch the lighting as he raises his own glass. Your eyes stay locked on them. “Figured you were more of a dry martini, twist-of-lemon kinda girl.” 

You refuse to grant him the satisfaction of eye contact. “I don’t want to be perceived tonight. Somehow I feel like ordering that kind of drink is asking for it.” 

He laughs, and the pit in your stomach drops even further you’re certain it’s on the marble floors. “Ah. Hiding in plain sight during this event? Classic CIA. You sure you not a narc?”

You finally turn your head to look over at him. Naturally, he’s already intently looking back. 

His chin is tilted, a little curve playing at the corners of his mouth. His hair is disheveled, top strands doing interesting things near his temples. 

His lips —and wow, your observational skills have apparently decided to become deeply unprofessional tonight— are glossy, something that normally happens when someone’s spent the night drinking liquor. A flush washes over his cheekbones, and you take a peek at the scar you noticed the other day on his cheek. 

You briefly wonder where he got it from. 

“You’re staring.” 

You blink. He is insane. You are not. 

“I’m assessing,” you correct, taking what you can only hope looks like a casual sip of your drink. 

“Assessing what, exactly?” 

My escape route, you think, but instead say, “Whether you’re drunk enough for me to win an argument.” 

His laugh is easier this time. “Not even close. You’ll have to rely on insults other than my appearance or work ethic tonight.”

“Damn,” you mumble, peering into your glass. Somehow, despite yourself, you barely notice you’re almost smiling. “There goes my strategy.” 

“Ah, I’ve missed this,” he begins. “You, snapping at me. The thrill of not knowing if I’ll make it out of the room alive.”

You arch a brow. “You’re a masochist.”

He shrugs. “Maybe I just like watching you be better than everyone else in the room.”

That lands in your chest like a dropped weight. Just drops right into your ribcage and sits there. Did everyone in the room inhale laughing gas before you got here?

But he doesn’t let it sit there too long for you to overthink it. “I mean, not that the bar’s high,” he adds, “Half of any briefing room’s asleep on their feet.”

“Don’t.” you warn, lifting your drink to your lips. You’re not entirely sure what you’re asking him not to do. Don’t be nice? Don’t notice things? 

He continues on, eyes twinkling, “With Monroe out, I haven’t even gotten a chance to try and give you a run for your money.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose, “She’s out sick, not dead.”

“Right. The flu.. Or the plague. Whatever it was.”

“She’ll be back by Monday.” You roll your eyes. “And if not, I’ve got about twenty pages of questions I’m emailing her way.” 

“Mm.” The sound rumbles in his throat as he swirls his drink, and your eyes can’t help but flicker down to his rolled-up cufflinks, his tattoos peeking out underneath. “True.”

A pause unfurls between you two, and you want to crawl under the bar and die. 

“You know..” he says casually. “I thought you'd been avoiding me this week. Which would be adorable, if you weren’t so obvious about it.” 

Literally what on earth is he talking about? The only reason you haven’t run into him is because your only shared project is out on indefinite leave due to the plague. 

You chuckle uninterestedly at that. “Avoiding you implies I think about you long enough to plan my schedule around you.” 

“Right,” Jungkook’s eyes stare into yours, and you immediately fidget with the straw in your drink. “So, you not coming into the Fox room once this week to ask about any new updates to the student visa crisis..”

“Got my own intel.” 

“Didn’t show up at happy hour on Thursday to make fun of my new piece?”

“Calendar management. I had better things to do.” 

His smile unfolds slowly. “Of course. My bad.” 

Your brows pinch before you can stop them. A soundless what leaves from your parted lips. There’s a lag in your brain, like someone forgot to hit play again, and you just… stand there, Processing. 

What you thought was just fortunate coincidences was apparently strategic hiding tactics. You weren’t doing it on purpose, not one bit. It’s not like you sat down with your calendar and a red pen, plotting routes that would minimize Jungkook encounters. But now that he’s pointed it out, you’re forced to confront the uncomfortable possibility that your body has been making decisions about your proximity to him before your brain can. 

You do your best to puff your chest out. “Don’t flatter yourself.” 

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he quips, but his eyes suggest otherwise. Suggest, unfortunately, that he’s been doing his own study on you and reached some conclusions he will indeed be sharing. 

“Well, clearly, you have been.” You take another sip of your drink, hardly noticing you’re down to your final few sips. 

“Every time I look around lately, I don’t see you or hear your little opinions. It’s hard to miss.” The smile on his face imprints deeper into his skin. 

You snort, placing your drink down. “Congrats, you’ve finally scared me off.” 

“Oh come on,” he leans in, far past your comfort zone, and now you’re inhaling too much of him and your head is slightly spinning. “You’re not that easy to scare. I’d know.”

“Really?” you scoff incredulously. “You’d know?”

“I would,” he tuts, bumping his shoulder with yours. You move your body an inch farther away. 

“I guess it’s not all that weird you think that,” you agree, letting your gaze wander the overstuffed ballroom before landing back on him. “You are practically studying me.”

He crosses his arms over his chest, and that pit in your stomach returns when you realize how big his biceps look from this angle. “Studying you?”

“Steps of the West Wing ring any bells? My voice echoing out into the universe, your notebook wide open..?”

The image burns into the crevices of your brain. And now that you’re rehashing it out loud, you’re admitting something incredibly mortifying. Him, sat upon the steps in the sunlight, has been haunting the halls of your mind like an uninvited guest. 

He has the audacity to smile like this is some charming story you’ll share at the holiday party this year. “Ah,” he shifts his weight onto his other foot. “That.”

“Yes, that,” you echo drily. “Care to explain? Because from where I was standing, it looked like you were trying to copy me for the next press briefing.” 

There’s a flicker of amusement that appears on his features — mixed in with surprise or appreciation for the directness of your words. Like he wasn’t expecting you to address it head-on, which makes you wonder what kind of avoidant people he usually deals with. 

“You want the truth?” He ducks his head towards you, looking around like he’s about to impart the president’s nuclear codes.

“Is that even possible coming from you?” Your pointer finger jabs into his chest. Truthfully, both the alcohol and the way your head is reeling from the proximity of him have the move lacking any real punch, but it still leaves you a little bewildered. 

His laugh comes softer this time. Beneath your finger, the muscles are hard and his heartbeat stable. Then you realize you’re still touching him and withdraw your hand as if you’ve put your palm over an open flame. “I was trying to figure out how you do it.” 

“Do what, exactly?” 

“Make it look effortless.” He gestures vaguely into the open air. “You ask questions that make people tell you things they didn’t plan to reveal. It’s… intriguing.”

You tilt your head and shift your weight onto another heel. A quick glance over your shoulder like maybe someone else heard this too, because surely you didn’t hallucinate whatever the hell just came out of his mouth. 

“So you thought the best approach was to… lurk my stuff? Like a stalker?” 

“When you put it like that, it sounds significantly less charming than I thought it would be.” He takes a final swig of his drink. 

“You’re a fucking freak, Jungkook.” 

His eyes never linger from yours, almost daring you to keep going, like this is some sick, twisted game he enjoys playing every night. 

It feels as if the room is closing in on you. 

“Sounds like it left a bit of an impression on you,” he replies smoothly. 

“Oh I’ve told my therapist allll about it,” you bite back. “Right after we finished unpacking how you got your little paws on Kara Devlin’s quote.”

He pauses for a second before chuckling under his breath. Something involuntary and deeply stupid happens in your chest cavity. You stare down into your melted drink and remind yourself that Jungkook has been unreasonably irritating and easy to look at since you met him eight years ago. None of this is breaking news. 

“So you’re still mad, I’m assuming.” He shakes his head. “Come on, it was nothing. Name of the game. You liked arguing with me before we were paid to do it.”

“Oh yeah, totally,” you deadpan. “You know what really gets me going? Espionage.”

He grins at that, but not with a mean expression. “Same here.”

You side-eye him before turning back to the bartender who’s now juggling 45 drunk orders, “I’m going to need another drink if you’re gonna stand here all night.”

“Make it two,” He downs the rest of the liquid in his cup down his throat and you shift away from him when his elbow brushes against yours.

Emma’s favorite bartender is busy arguing with a New York Times correspondent, so you opt for the girl who seems more interested in texting someone back on her phone than taking your drink order. 

Your mouth parts open to speak when she finally puts her phone down, sauntering over to you while fixing her hair as she spots Jungkook beside you. “Hi, can—”

“Can we get two vodka sodas please?”

He’s far closer than you’d like him to be, warmth radiating off him like a human furnace. Jungkook’s displaced himself behind you — just a smidge, with one hand pressed onto the bar, caging you in — enough for the girl bartender to notice, sigh and nod before pulling up two clean glasses. He’s in your nostrils with that smoky scent of whiskey, in your ears with the hoarseness of his voice. 

God, why is he so close? Why is he standing like that? Why is your skin doing that thing where it feels like it’s been plugged into an electrical outlet?

Please, please let this bartender be the kind of professional who minds her own business. The last thing you need is someone else cataloguing the clear tension crackling between you two like a livewire. 

You fixate on her bartending skills, terrified to acknowledge anything else. He moves behind you again, his other elbow brushing against your back as he puts it somewhere. 

That stupid, treacherous flutter returns. A whole swarm of butterflies or something more like wasps that you immediately begin exterminating mentally. Get away, you absolute pests. 

“Here you go,” she presses her lips in a tight smile as she slides the two drinks towards you both. She takes another moment to eye Jungkook before moving on to her next victim. 

But he’s not looking at her. 

When you turn around to hand him his drink dismissively, he’s staring down at you. “Thanks,” he whispers, taking the glass. 

“Whatever.” 

You whip back around, managing down a few colossal gulps that you’ll remember tomorrow morning as your last ones. A bit of it spills down your neck onto your chest, but all you care about is how it feels going down. 

Setting the glass down, you wipe your mouth and some of the residue with the back of your hand.

When you whip around to make your way back to Emma (and potentially let another lethal comment fall from your lips), you realize Jungkook’s gone. 

No comment lingering in the air like cigar smoke. Gone as if he’d never been there at all. 

You know he was, though, because your whole body still feels like it’s recovering from it. Like standing next to him required physical exertion. 

Somehow your mouth is dry even though you just chugged half a vodka soda. 

You don’t even know why you notice it, or why those wasps in your stomach slowly replace themselves with something else. On the bartop next to you, is the citrusy shot you never ended up taking. It taunts you, condensation melting onto the surface. 

Your eyes dart around, looking wildly. Searching for Emma, duh. But you’re also looking for a sleeve of tattoos that you just spent an abhorrent amount of time with. 

Treason of the highest fucking order.

With that, you swivel back around, wrap your fingers around the shot glass, and down it in one go. It faintly tastes tart, going down like molasses. It’s heavy in your throat and you mash it down with saliva. 

But even with the extra liquor in your body, his absence feels louder in your mind than his presence ever did. 

Four. That’s how many it’s been. 

Four lemon drop shots — because that’s how many Jenna, who has now appointed herself the Chief of Boosting Morale, decided was an appropriate amount. She stopped keeping tally after two. 

After each shot, she says something stupid like “To journalistic integrity!” Declining her felt like admitting defeat in some endurance competition, so you’ve been silently suffering while each shot drags you further and further down the drunk rabbit hole.

Jenna’s husband is too polite to say no to a round so he’s been glued to her side the entire time, whereas Jenna’s arm has been threaded through yours, laughing at something her husband finally contributed to the conversation. Something about a senator using an emoji in a tweet. 

It’s not even that funny, but you’ve reached that point of the night where everything feels a little like a sitcom. 

“Oh my god,” Jenna wheezes, tightening her grip on your arm. “Do you remember when our editor tried to convince us to use ‘yeet’ in a headline?”

You snort into your fifth vodka soda (or is the sixth?), barely dodging a splash up the rim. “No. No. I blocked it out like a traumatic memory.”

“He said it meant to throw??”

“It does mean to throw!” Her husband interjects. 

“Yeah, but the headline was about the debt ceiling,” you giggle. 

Jenna’s husband chuckles politely while his eyes scan the room, probably wondering when it’s socially acceptable to go home and watch a movie.

Jenna is in a very rare form. She’s always put-together, but tonight her dress is perfectly tailored, makeup hasn’t budged an inch, and her nails are a crimson red to match her lipstick.

Tonight, you’re incredibly grateful for her. Grateful she came, grateful she’s kept you busy.

You swish what’s left in your glass and blink through the haze. 

It’s starting to hit, that warm syrupy lag behind your thoughts. Liquid confidence that whispers lies about your ability to be graceful and sophisticated. 

“You know, I don’t know how half those pieces fucking run,” Jenna sips her espresso martini. 

“Don’t you just, like, put a stop to them?” You’ve seen her do it before. 

“I physically intercept like a human firewall, yes,” she grins with all her teeth. 

“We all owe you a medal.”

You both erupt into cackles, and her husband — poor, sweet Greg or Grant or whatever he said his name was — offers a little smile as if he has even the slightest clue of what’s going on.

Your gaze drifts across the ballroom, and Jenna follows your line of sight, brows lifting amusedly in recognition. 

“Would you look at that,” she elbows you gently in the ribs. “They’re still talking.”

Emma and Paul. Paul is upright like a soldier, like he doesn’t fully trust his legs to hold up under the pressure of Emma’s approval, while Emma lounges against the dessert table you swore off.

“I give it twenty minutes before she asks something like ‘can I see your Spotify Wrapped?’” you mutter, rolling your eyes. 

“Ten,” Jenna counters. “And if she sees any NPR podcasts, she’s bolting.”

“He probably listens to Benson Boone. Gives me that vibe.” 

“Maybe he has layers,” she shrugs, leaning her head lightly against your shoulder. “Not that it matters. I’m just glad you haven’t ditched me for a man.”

You turn your head slowly to meet her expression. “Ew. At this event? Literally not a soul worth my time.”

She breaks into laughter, lifting her head up, "Right, right. How dare I?”

“I would never do you like that,” you clutch your chest dramatically. “Who else am I going to split an uber with later while we trash every senator we saw leave with someone who isn’t their wife?”

“That’s why you’re my favorite.”

Your head turns sharply, eyes narrowing. “Wait, what?”

She gives you a sly smile over the rim of her glass, “I said what I said.”

It hits a second later, like a stone dropped into a still lake. A single splash, followed by a thousand ripples. Your chest tightens and there’s a flutter of pride making a home in your heart. 

She hasn’t brought it up again since your one-on-one on Monday. Where she may or may not have hinted at you getting the promotion of your dreams. You’ve done an exemplary job of playing it cool ever since. No prying, no follow ups. 

Hearing the word favorite, however, feels like someone pressed a thumb right into your sternum. 

“I’m touched,” you exclaim. “Even if I know you tell that to everyone.”

She scoffs while looping her arm through her husband’s, “Please. You think I say that to Emma?”

“Fair.”

She takes a final swig of her caffeinated martini, a little tipsier than she was earlier. “Just promise you won’t forget me when you get to my role, okay?”

You snort. “Never. But we still gotta Uber together always.”

“Deal.”

Your eyes wander again around the ballroom. Like clockwork, they land where they always do. On that kaleidoscope of tattoos you can’t miss. 

But you don’t look at him or who he’s talking to for too long. Maybe long enough to question your intoxication but as soon as the moment comes, it goes, and you’re back to Jenna, who’s now talking to her husband sweetly. 

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t the two sharpest women in Washington.”

It’s like the universe has a vendetta against you. Did you accidentally trip over a time traveler or steal candy from a baby in a past life?

It’s an overconfident voice you hadn’t heard in a while that sets off an almost Pavlovian reaction in your brain. 

You and Jenna turn in tandem like a pair of synchronized swimmers. Sure enough — and to your detriment — it’s Mike Montgomery. 

Mike is one of the editors you work with, and has the face of someone who’s probably been told he looks like a young Richard Gere and has never once disagreed. He once unironically told you ‘let’s circle back.’

Last year at the gala, you allegedly had a thirty minute conversation with him near the end of the night where the phrase aesthetic fascism in political media kept getting tossed around freely. But who’s to say. Last year was also the year you had tequila sodas instead of vodka sodas so really, the whole universe was off course.  

“Mike,” Jenna starts, tone flat. She doesn’t even fake a smile, which further proves your love for her. “You remember Greg.”

Greg. Right. Yes — her husband. You mentally file that away. 

“Of course,” Mike sticks out his hand. “Man of the hour.”

Greg blinks back at him like he was plucked straight out of his daydream. “Hey.”

Raising your eyebrows, you tease. “Man of the hour?”

Mike shrugs, letting out a little chuckle, “Well anyone who can keep up with Jenna at one of these things deserves a prize right?”

“He’s had some drinks and a shrimp cocktail. Let’s not get too ahead of ourselves.” She pats Greg’s chest lovingly, and that seems to bring him back to life.

Mike laughs loudly at that. He always laughs too loud, like he wants everyone’s attention in the room. 

“So how’s the correspondent life?” he asks, glancing between you and Jenna like he’s forgotten which one of you he’s more afraid of. “Still dealing with the same old bullshit?”

You purse your lips, cross your arms over your chest. “Are you under the impression the bullshit ended?”

“Fair,” he tries to laugh but it comes out more like a cough, “Yeah, I’ve been currently working on a little passion project, something about profiles of influential parties in media. You two came up, obviously.”

A look is exchanged between you and Jenna. You don't remember agreeing to be profiled. 

“Oh. Cool.”

“Yeah,” he shoves one of his hands into his pocket. “Just really trying to dig into the psyche of the rising class, you know? What drives you, who you look up to.”

Your arms squeeze tighter around your chest. “Sounds like a very healthy exercise.”

Mike smiles at that. You take an extra long sip of your drink and imagine throwing it directly in his face.

Greg, bless him, tries to nod along, although he has no idea who this man is or what series he’s referencing or why Jenna’s throwing daggers with her eyes.

Mike keeps going. “Anyway, just wanted to say hey. You know. Been a while since I edited your stuff.”

“Funny. I’m actually still waiting for the piece you were supposed to factcheck before publishing last May,” Jenna’s smile is poisonous. If looks could kill, he would be floating in a box down the river. 

Mike clears his throat. “Technical error. I think there was a glitch last time..”

“Mmm,” Jenna nods slowly. “Happens to the best.”

Mike readjusts his tie, sensing perhaps this might not be the enthusiastic crowd he’d envisioned. His eyes flit towards you briefly like he’s about to pivot into a new strategy. 

Please, god, let this man go flirt with an intern. 

“So,” he draws out the word for like, four seconds. “I don’t think we ever got to talk. You and me.”

There’s two routes you can go down. Play dumb, which somehow feels like the smarter decision. Or play smart, which feels like the dumber decision. 

“Yup. Tragic that we never spoke.”

Playing dumb it is. 

He bellows out a laugh, like you’ve just made the world’s wittiest joke instead of insulting him. 

“I always read your work,” he clarifies. “Your coverage during the midterm elections was really impressive.”

You glance over at Jenna, whose lips are now pressed together like she's trying to restrain herself from intervening. Meanwhile Greg (and you will not forget his name this time), has spotted someone he knows but is trying to find the courage to approach them. 

“That’s… nice.” You’re unsure what else to offer up. You can’t tell if he’s flirting or awkwardly trying to send you journalistic admiration. 

Mike’s lips stretch wider. “I get it, you know? Women like you don’t always get credit, but for what it’s worth, you’re one of the best out there.”

You nod, already looking past his shoulder at the crowd. Your drink is also damn near empty, and that simply won’t do. Time for drink six (or is it seven?). “Thanks. Appreciate that.”

He leans into you, “If you ever wanna talk shop.. Or, you know.. not shop.”

He’s so goddamn insufferable. 

You frown, not because you’re offended but because you literally have no comprehension right now. “Not shop?”

“Yeah, like… not about work?”

“Oh. Uh..” you blink, glance down at your drink, and then look back into his eager eyes. “I think I’m good.”

A long pause fills the air. Long enough for Mike to register the rejection, though he recovers fast, snapping back into a cocky grin like nothing demoralizing happened. 

“Open invite,” he says with a wink that makes your molars grind. “In case you change your mind.”

You hum noncommittally before angling back towards Jenna, who has a brow raised and a husband who’s gone from her sight. 

Jenna inquires, “You didn’t clock that?”

“Clock what?” You shrug your shoulders, scrambling for nonchalance. 

She shakes her head, smiling to herself, “Nothing. You’re still my favorite.”

And that makes you feel better than anything Mike could've said. 

“Alright, I’ve gotta get a refill before I lose my mind.” You shake your drink at her like it’s going to magically refill itself. 

"I've gotta go find Greg,” she sighs. “Text me when you’re down to leave?”

“Duh.” You flash her a salute, then pivot toward the bar, slipping back into the current of people. You nearly step in a puddle of what you hope is someone’s spilled gin and not a gastrointestinal emergency. 

You snake your way forward, elbow grazing someone’s sequined bag, catching the edge of someone’s shoulder and finally land in a spot wedged between a man in a tux and a woman who shoveled a half-eaten shrimp into a napkin. 

“Vodka soda,” you tell the bartender when she makes brief eye contact, and you lean your forearms on the table. The bartop is sticky again. 

You haven't checked your phone all night. Part of it was intentional. Nothing good happens on your phone at events like this. Nothing you want to deal with, anyway. 

But you’ve got a few minutes while your drink’s being made and your feet kind of hurt and you’re incredibly tipsy and suddenly the soft glow of your phone screen feels too tempting to ignore. 

So you dig into your purse. Pull out your device. 

When your phone boots to life, you lazily scroll through the notifications. A few texts from your college group chat. Texts from Emma asking ‘where are you??’ even though you’re maybe 50 feet away from her. You snort under your breath. 

And then, below that, a message from Rosalie. 

Rosalie❤️: hey, did jungkook ever say anything abt me?? dmed him when i was drunk and never heard back :( lol 

You stare at the screen like it’s displaying launch codes in a foreign language. 

There’s this erratic rhythm tugging at your heart, like someone’s tapping impatiently against your ribcage. 

It’s fine. Obviously, it’s fine. Who cares about Rosalie’s romantic DMs or her apparent inability to handle rejection with grace? You could have predicted this development from three miles away, honestly. Rosalie drunk texting someone tracks with her pattern of impulsive behavior. 

But.. you are curious. That’s all. Curiosity is a natural human reflex. 

Why would she message him despite your entirely fictional narrative about STDs? And why, more importantly, do you find yourself genuinely invested as to why he didn’t respond to her?

You lock your phone and shove it back into your purse. 

“Vodka soda,” the bartender slides the drink towards you and you grip onto it like a life raft. 

You barely get a full step away from the bar before that voice — his voice — is haunting your ears again. 

“Careful. You keep showing up at my favorite spot in the room, people are gonna start talking.”

Mid-step, you pause and inhale once through your nose like you’re gathering patience from thin air. 

Slowly, you swivel to meet his eyes. His tie is long gone, brown hair even more unkempt from when you last saw him. You lean back against the bar with all the theatrical grace of someone who’s had four, maybe five, lemon drop shots and has decided, for once in her life, not to flee when Jungkook starts speaking to you. 

God will strike you down for this. You can feel the lightning forming. But whatever, you’ve had a long week. You’ll repent tomorrow. 

“Are you gonna sneak up on me all night?” you ask flatly, raising your glass to your lips. You’re not even going to try and hide the exhaustion in your tone. 

“Potentially,” he takes a step closer. “Everyone here’s boring.”

You cock a brow. “What? No one here worth your time?”

He tips his glass a little, watching the ice swirl. The liquid is clear. It looks unusually familiar… like a vodka soda. You wonder if it’s the same one from an hour ago or if he ordered one on his own merit. “Nah, you know I like to be intellectually stimulated.”

Your laugh comes out dry. “Oh, so I stimulate you?”

His eyes lift to meet yours. They’re darker despite the hue of the chandelier you’re standing under. “In more ways than one.”

“You’re fucking gross.”

“Mm,” he hums, and it’s definitely not an apology, but moreso an acknowledgement. Like he’s well aware of the filth he peddles and would sell it to you wholesale if you gave him the chance.  “You set that one up.”

“Did not.”

He takes another step closer. The man that was beside you earlier has fled the scene, and Jungkook wedges himself into the open spot. When did it get so crowded in here? 

“Did too.” His fingers tap lazily against his glass. “You know, you always act like conversation with me is a federal offense.”

You roll your eyes. “Because every conversation with you is like stepping into quicksand.”

“You haven’t left me yet, so am I winning?” His eyes are twinkling with amusement. 

Scoffing, you deflect. Deny. “I’m tipsy. I make bad decisions when I’m tipsy.”

“Noted.” His gaze flickers down to your mouth for a millisecond. The gesture lands somewhere in your stomach, sending an embarrassing, vodka-amplified flutter cascading through your body. 

God, you need a priest. Or someone to physically remove you from this ballroom. 

“I saw you talking to Mike earlier,” Jungkook casually says, like he’s commenting on something trivial like the weather or whether or not vodka sodas are his new go-to drink. 

You groan immediately. “God, don’t remind me.”

“That bad?” His lips twitch as he settles his glass on the bartop.

“He tried to flirt with me, I think. According to Jenna.” You want to mentally facepalm at the memory. 

“Mike?”

You give him a look. “Yes, Mike.”

Jungkook whistles softly, shaking his head as if this is genuinely a tragedy. “Wow. I always thought his type was more fresh out of college and terrified.”

“It probably is,” you agree. “I thought maybe he was doing community service.”

“Hmm,” he looks deep in thought. Surveys the room for a beat. “What did you mean by according to Jenna?”

You shrug, lifting your glass to your lips to take a quick sip. “I don’t know. She caught onto the flirting before I did, I guess.”

“Oh.” His expression shifts a little, into one you can't make out. After knowing Jungkook for eight years, you’ve gotten familiar with the faces he has. But this one is unrecognizable. “You always that clueless?” 

“I guess,” you concede. He looks like he wants to say something more to that but decides against it. 

“So, what did he say?” 

“Something about how we never really speak, which is just rich coming from him considering we had a long ass conversation at last year’s gala about fascism.”

Jungkook chokes on his spit. “No.”

“Oh yes,” you nod solemnly. “He also pronounces Kremlin as Krim-lin. I rest my case on him.”

You expect him to chuckle or at least fake one, but it doesn’t come. He looks at you for a second, drinking you in. It almost feels like you’re back on the steps of the West Wing, where he was seeing every part of yourself you bore to the world. Like he’s been listening this whole time, which is somehow worse. 

“You’re funny when you’re off-duty,” He smiles into his glass. 

“When am I ever off-duty?”

“Right now,” he gestures toward you with his cup. “Sort of.”

You narrow your eyes. “You think this is me relaxed?”

“I think this is you after a few shots,” he jokes. “And slightly less terrified of being seen with me in public.” 

“Bold assumption, buddy,” you quip. You need to find your sanity and walk far away as hell from this conversation. 

“Is it wrong?”

You hesitate long enough for that to be a confession, and the look on his face says I win. 

“Exactly.” And there’s that smug tone you know so well. “Maybe I’m growing on you.”

You let something between a snort and laugh fall from your mouth. “Like a tumor.”

But the smile you’re biting back makes it a little harder to sell the insult. 

You clear your throat and straighten up slightly, ignoring how the vodka seems to have settled in your bloodstream like a warm compress. 

“Anyway,” you say, “How’s your coverage going for Monroe?”

He raises an eyebrow haughtily. “Pivoting? And to Monroe?”

“I just don’t think I’m in the mood to talk about how you think I’m growing on you.” 

Jungkook’s smile could light up half of DC. “You started it.”

“Ending it right now.” 

“You always think you’re the one ending things,” he counters. 

You shoot him a look, then echo louder this time “How’s your coverage going?”

He leans an elbow onto the bar, glass resting loosely between his fingers. “Good. Bet you’re dying to talk to her again, though.”

You shrug nonchalantly, pretending to scan the room like you’re searching for someone — Emma, Jenna, literally even Blue Tie Guy at this point — but all you really find are name tags you don’t care about and plates of passed shrimp. 

“Not my fault she came down with that rare plague. But it is weird she came down with it just after we had our first session with her,” you mutter. 

“You sound disappointed,” he points out. To be honest, you are. She has a hell of a story to tell and you want to write it. 

You glance at him again. “What?” 

“You miss her,” he coos at you playfully, “Now admit you miss me too. It’s okay, I won’t tell anyone.”

You roll your eyes, using the motion to buy yourself a few seconds of mental reorganization. “I miss being able to ask real questions.”

He nods, fingers drumming thoughtfully against the glass. “Yeah. You're good at those.”

You gape at him through your lashes. They’re just words that are perfectly arranged in an ordinary sequence that just so happens to reference your competence. But now it’s one time too many that he’s praised you for something, and you're running out of fingers and toes to count on.

It lands in your chest with a quiet thud, like he tossed a coin into a wishing well you didn't realize was inside you. 

You shift your weight and conduct another sweep of the ballroom. Still no Emma, no Jenna. 

“I really should find Emma..” you trail off, eyes darting across the room like a prisoner looking for a fire escape. “Before I start enjoying this conversation and lose all sense of who I am.”

Jungkook leans into your body. His cologne hits you again square in the face. “That would be tragic… if you forgot you hated me.”

You clench your jaw. “Please. I don’t hate you, that’s too much energy. I just think you’re—”

“Objectively infuriating?” he offers. 

“Exhausting.”

“Better than forgettable,” he smirks. 

You grip your near empty cup and wish you had something better to throw at him. Or honestly, something else to look at — something that doesn’t talk like him, look like him, smell like him. 

And as you’re searching in your repertoire for that something, your brain decides to shove Rosalie into frame. 

Her text. That stupid little ‘lol.’ The digital ghost of her face.

The alcohol in your body is doing that unfortunate thing where your filter stops working but your nerve hasn’t quite kicked in yet. And his cologne — Jesus, it’s warping your actual brain chemistry, 

Before you can stop yourself, you blurt the words out. “Have you.. heard from Rosalie?”

“Rosalie?” He cocks his head, scratches his jaw. 

You shake your head up and down, suddenly extremely interested in the ice melting in your cup. “Yeah.”

There’s a pause. Slow furrow of his brows. “Rosalie from college?” 

You aim to keep your expression cool but your stomach does something distinctly uncool. Like a fish flopping on the deck. “The one and only.”

Jungkook blinks at you. His body is still, but his face guards itself. He’s squinting as if he’s scanning you for the motive behind your question. 

You hate how well he reads people. You hate that he’s doing it to you right now.

“Why?” he treads lightly.

You shake your head quickly, “Just tell me.”

He hesitates. It’s pretty obvious to you both this isn’t a nothing question. 

“Yeah,” he says finally, “She reached out to me.”

Your throat goes uncharacteristically dry. 

The lightness from before — his little jabs, the crooked smile — it’s all taut now. Like he’s waiting to see what this really is. You also would like to know what this is. 

You scramble for a reason, anything to make this make sense outloud.

Feeling caught, you busy yourself with one of the bracelets on your wrist. “She’s my best friend,” you shrug like it’s no big deal. “She tells me everything.”

He flinches subtly, a brief twitch in his jaw. “Well,” he utters finally. “I didn’t answer her. If that’s what you want to know.”

And that is when your chest does the thing again. 

It’s an awful, disloyal twist. It heard the words and immediately reached for them, clutching at some fragile thread of relief you didn’t place there.

You inhale, trying to drown it back down. The thump thump of your heart, the tiny voice in your conscious going, good. 

The wasps are back too. Buzzing and furious and unavoidable, even as you swipe at them with your mental fly swatter, one by one. 

You feel regrettably stupid. Now you’re standing there, tipsy and humiliated and flinching at your own internal reaction like a girl in some cheap romance novel where the brooding rival turns out to be a chill dude and your panties fall off in chapter eight. 

No thank you. Not today. You are a professional, a fully grown woman with access to two-factor authentication and press credentials.

You do not feel things when Jungkook says things like “I didn’t answer her.”

Though, clearly you’re having trouble leaving it alone. Clearly, that little skill of yours of asking the right questions — the one people applaud, the one Jungkook complimented an hour or two ago — has decided to clock in right now, under a chandelier and several ounces of vodka. 

You meet his eyes even though your gut is screaming don’t, and say, “Why didn't you respond?”

Air leaves his lungs, barely. His jaw tenses for a fraction of a second. One flicker of thought behind his eyes before he smoothes it all back out. 

The silence looms over you two like an unsuspecting fog. Your stomach starts writing its own obituary. 

You’re about to take it back, about to say never mind ha ha silly me asking about your DMs, when he finally responds with, “She’s not who I’m interested in.”

There’s a hiccup in your brain. Like someone pulled the emergency brake on the subway and your neurons are just stuck, powering down and firing blanks.

She’s not who I’m interested in. 

You don’t dare blink, breathe, or even think, which is crazy because thinking is your whole personality. His pupils practically eat up his entire eye as he peers down at you, 

A whole rolodex of faces spins through your head. Maybe someone new started at Fox? There was that blonde you passed in the cafeteria, maybe that’s his type. Or maybe… maybe he made a move on Sana tonight. He and her always had that weird click, right? They have matching resumes, wouldn’t that just be poetic? Full circle and all that.

Your voice is crawling up your throat again, forming something stupid like oh yeah? Who’s someone you’re interested in? Because apparently vodka and lemon drop shots have taken control of your frontal lobe and are now driving the bus.

But before the words can land, there’s a blur of movement from your left. 

“Where the hell have you been?” 

Emma materializes beside you in a cloud of perfume, cheeks flushed and eyes bright. 

Your neck whips to her. “Jesus.” 

She latches onto your arm immediately. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere,” she’s breathless. “Did you die? Be honest.”

“I was just —” You flick a glance at Jungkook and regret it upon impact. 

Emma doesn’t notice or care, undoubtedly in a bubble of her own. “Ugh, I have so much to tell you, I feel like I’ve been living a double life tonight.”

Right, and that’s cool and all. But your body is still humming, tingling under your skin as if someone left a speaker buzzing in your chest. She’s not who I’m interested in. 

Your brain is dying to ask then who the fuck is?

Emma’s too busy blabbering away to care about any of it; your facial expression, Jungkook’s eyes that haven’t moved from you, the way your hands are slightly trembling as they hang loosely down at your side. “Okay, I know I’ve ignored him for the past few years but Paul is actually so funny. He told me this story earlier about his dog and I was crying. Literally crying. I’m just like, why have I never given this man the time of day—”

She pauses suddenly, looks over at Jungkook. Freezes mid-sentence like she just saw a coworker she drunkenly sexted. 

“...Well.” Her voice drops multiple octaves. “Whatever.”

Words aren’t coming to you as easily as you’d like. 

Emnma clears her throat, forcing her gaze back to you. “Anyway. You’ve been summoned.”

“For what?” you question, but your voice comes out thinner than when you practiced it in your head. 

“Afterparty,” a sinister smile makes its way onto her lips. “Duh. Do you not realize what time it is?”

“No, Emma,” you bite back. “You don’t realize what time it is because you’ve spent the past few hours eye-fucking Paul.”

Emma shrugs. “Okay and? I told you, he’s kinda funny.”

You sink your teeth into your lower lip. 

“And he also knows about the current crisis in Venezuela,” she adds proudly, like that qualifies him for marriage. “Which is honestly more than I can say for half the men I’ve dated.”

You sigh. “I’m not going to an afterparty.”

“Yes, you are.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes.”

“Emma—”

“You owe me. For that night.”

You do actually owe her. That night a few months ago, where you went home with that random guy, she went home alone and buried her face in a Dominos pizza while you had mediocre sex. 

Your body is already 40% vodka and 60% bad decisions, and you’re hovering alarmingly close to making another one—

She turns to Jungkook. “You’re coming too, right?”

You whip your head toward her. You absolute fucking traitor, Emma. 

Jungkook’s grin is so infuriatingly cheerful that you’re torn between wanting to punch him in the teeth or seeking refuge behind the bar, anything to avoid that smile.

“I mean…” he replies. “If she’s going..”

Why are you the deciding factor in all of this?

Emma snorts. “Oh, she’s going.”

“I really wasn’t—” you start, but then realize they’re making eye contact over your shoulder like they’ve coordinated to ruin your night. 

“I’ll… see you there?” Jungkook asks, shooting Emma a look you don’t miss.

You can't help but daydream about what it’d be like to toss all your worries out the window, party like there’s no tomorrow, drown yourself in whatever booze is lying around the afterparty, and wake up to the faint memory of a random hookup who’s definitely ghosting you before you even finish your breakfast. 

You, a tipsy bundle of bad decisions, look at Jungkook — his hair a windswept disaster, eyes twinkling like he's just heard the world's worst joke, and those tattoos dancing on his golden skin — and as tempting as it is, you remind yourself you really should just say no and sprint away from this mess, while dreaming of a life where the world isn’t dragging you down like an anchor in a swimming pool. 

But… you have always been dangerously open to possibilities after a few shots. 

You drain the rest of your drink and go, “I’ll see you there.”

masterlist + ask

taglist ; @somehowukook @lovingkoalaface @moroe-blog2 @almatiarau @hanamgi @yooniepot @strawberryberrygirl @rossy1080 @libra04 @kenzierj11 @senaqsstuff @dtownbae @xumyboo @bellefaerie @chimchoom @satisfied18 @arcanekookz @vintagemoonsstuff @brokebitch-101 @taolucha @songbyeonkim @oopscoop @mochibites00 @whatevevrerr @lessthantmr @nesha227 @mar-lo-pap @jazzyb22 @lachesismoonmist @indyuhhhhh @sky-23s-world @swimmingweaselzineegs @jiminshi20 @khadeeeeej @withluvjm @anishasingh1233 @jksusawife @btstrology @youphoriajk @jadestonedaeho7 @diamondjeon @sharplycoldpaladin @annafarrr @tteokbokibyjk @prxdajeon @tatzzz-25 @magicalnachocreator @younhakim29 @purplelanterns @134340-kr @amarawayne

[strawberry-nugget]

To fill the empty spaces | 1

Pairing: Katsuki Bakugo x reader

Summary: Katsuki has been a single father for five years. After his wife died shorty after giving birth to their son, he's not sure he's ever going to find happiness in mundane things anymore. Cue you, the new, young teacher at his son's kindergarden, who seems to be taking the best care of his little guy.

-Or alternatively, karma is a quirkless bitch that will be biting Katsuki in the ass for his entire life, whether it's in him having a quirkless son, or falling for you, a younger woman, his son's teacher, who lost her quirk as a child before the Overhaul arc.

Tags: MDNI, Dilf!Bakugo, single dad!Bakugo, teacher!reader, slowburn, mutual pining, slice of life, fluff, eventual smut, ten year old age gap, Kirishima is a sunshine.

A/N: be kind to me i wrote this five years ago and never had the guts to post it until now :> this will be a 3 part story so let me know if you want to be tagged in the following parts

There's a strange deception about bliss and felicity in life and it is much like the analogy of the sun shining brighter after a storm, or the beautiful shades of the rainbow that cast over the sky. Happiness is supposed to be earned somehow, through hardships, or at least that's what everyone has always preached about. 

How time has supposedly promised to bring you what you want, how the universe makes sure to give you what you're in need of when you need it most. You're expected to survive through the worst storm, pouring rain and eardrum grazing blowing wind and you're told it'll be worth it. So when you see trees get blown onto the ground or when you see crushing waves that are a hundred times bigger than the ones you've seen on normal days crash onto the shore and wipe everything in their wake you shouldn't react. 

The sun shining, the warmth of the light grazing kindly over the mountain tops far across your vision should be worth it. 

Until, it's not. 

Bakugo, at least, doesn't think it's worth it and he doesn't think that you have to walk a mile before you get to rest. Mostly because he doesn't get to rest, and because walking a mile, for him, is the easiest thing in the universe. He's had too much hardship to know there's no payoff other than slamming his body into his couch after a long shift and feeling his chest tighten at the thought that he's managed to save a life. 

For him, happiness is something you shouldn't chase or take for granted. 'There's such little time for us in the world' he keeps telling himself and every time he looks at the set of pictures on the tv shelf he knows his words are correct. When once he thought his happiness had found him, he'd put a ring on her and called it a day, had a fancy wedding, threw the biggest party when he topped the hero charts, cried when his son was born; he douched in bliss without knowing it was momentary and he paid the price of stomping over the steep top of the world by falling so hard that his bones could never fully heal. 

It's been five years since his wife died, since he's had to take care of his son on his own and he's managed it perfectly so far. Showing up on every play in kindergarten, waking up at five am to make him the cutest bento in his class, clothes crisp and smelling of expensive soap, always present on parent counseling days, always present on days kids were supposed to bring their parents in to talk about their jobs, always one call away from rushing to anything he ever wants. 

The phone always rings, without fail, every single day when Kiko's teacher leaves for retirement and a new one gets hired. 

You're young, probably just landed your first job with your preschool degree and you feel like a fish out of water running a class on your own. Bakugo knows because he's seen it too many times, with the kids of his friends, has seen it happen to new sidekicks, assistants and despite not having the patience to deal with a rookie teacher who panics about everything, he appreciates the concern about his son. 

So every single day, without fail, he picks up the phone (no matter if he's on patrols or doing paperwork) and begrudgingly answers your stuttered questions, “yes Kiko might not want more food but he's too shy to say it”, or “Kiko isn't allergic to the ointment your emergency box has to offer, but I packed the one his dermatologist gave him because it works best for his eczema”, or even “Yes I'm willing to talk about what Kiko keeps drawing this week.”

It's always a topic concerning overall health and attitude issues that a teacher who was called in two months before graduation and hasn't worked with the class for longer can't have knowledge on. And still, with raspy apologies, Bakugo promises to send you a few notes about your queries, because the other parents have already done so, and he's ashamed to be the last in line. 

Your voice gets more stern over time, your calls become shorter, so short that all you ever need to ask is who's picking up Kiko today—even though the answer never changes; Kirishima both drops him off and picks him up- and then you hang up. 

Today's call, though, catches him off guard, it makes his feet freeze on the ground, his teeth clash as his jaw tightens. You've dropped a bomb from the other side of the phone 

"His friend Daichi manifested today and we thought he wouldn't," You say, voice sounding far, crazed, digital. "I think it's high time we discuss that Kiko might be… quirkless." You breathe out after a long pause and for the first time today, you sound apologetic -as you should—like you're begging to say sorry about the situation, like it's your fault his son hasn't manifested a quirk. 

With his hand cupping his face, fingernails scratching at the seams of his jaw where just a slight scruff pokes out of his skin, Katsuki  sighs. He glances to his right, catching Kirishima's sharp smile.. His face snaps into a serious one when Bakugo says, "I'll be there at three." 

Thick fingers trample the screen of his phone pushing the end button a thousand times before he's assured he's hung up, shoving it into his pocket with a hitched groan.He looks over at Kirishima with hurt painted all over his face, feeling the mellow jabbing blooming inside his chest and in return he collects a serious gaze, one more apologetic wave burst that hits him in the stomach. Like a villain on a winter morning. 

The thing is, Kirishima is a friend close enough to know when something is wrong and this is a moment where Bakugo knows he won't keep his mouth shut. 

And so, the question isn't late, not even a second, it shoots out of his friend's mouth and it corners Bakugo into the nearest wall, his head spins, his eyebrows furrowed. 

"Kiko's teacher huh?" Kirishima questions and Bakugo nods and then he makes his note "you look bummed man. Is it that serious or did she ask if Kiko has any allergies again"

It's not like Bakugo doesn't need a little pushover to spill what's in his head, but still, he rasps what's left of a winter cold in his throat, clears his voice before he mutters "She said" his head is in his hands "that he might be quirkless"

Kirishima mouths an oh, silent, his jaw tensing like the blond's had a while ago, but his face doesn't contort in sadness like Bakugo's does, instead, his ears perk, his brows travel up against his forehead. 

"Don't worry bro, that doesn't make Kiko any less better than the rest of the kids."

That was quick and truly, Bakugo doesn't know where Kirishima finds all of this positivity. However, he supposes it's written over him like ink on a page, he's meant to see the good in any situation and put it on his plate, split his meal in half and call his glass full even when it's almost empty. Despite being in his early thirties and not being a schoolboy anymore there's always a goofy smile plastered all over his face and Bakugo thinks that maybe, maybe it helps him soothe that emerging ache inside his chest. 

Or maybe Kirishima should write a book about how to always see the good out of everything and retire from his career as a pro hero to be a life coach. Because Kiko might be the son of Dynamight, but Bakugo's head is suddenly filled with images he's shoved to the back of his brain. 

Kiko is the son of the number two hero, without a quirk in class full of gifted kids, he's expected of so much and there's so little he can give back because he's a child, a shy little child that Katsuki had to bring up on his own. And as Kirishima rambles about important people that are quirkless Bakugo keeps thinking about the times his son falls asleep in his arms and how guilty he feels for being a mean kid to Izuku for being quirkless, how he couldn't handle it well if anyone treated his child like that. 

"His teacher is quirkless too" Kirishima says, patting Bakugo's back softly but that raises an eyebrow of the blond's. How exactly does he know that? 

Not that it's his place to ask, or rather shoot this -gossipy- question at Kirishima, but there's a curious part of him when it comes to you. Apart from the fact that you sound like you're about to shit your pants every time you're on the phone with him, he's managed to land his eyes on one precious kindergarten picture of Kiko's class with you in the middle. And he can't really see much, not with a naked eye and not with his glasses, you simply have a smile on your face that matches the kids' but still you look proper enough to have landed the job at that prestigious preschool. 

So when Kirishima adds a small "she's very cute and very smart" Bakugo gets a bit irked at him. He says it like he's the lead in a drama talking about the qualities of her crush even though she's being treated like shit most of the time. 

There's a bursting feeling inside him that makes him shoot a question directly into Kirishima's face. "Are you flirting with my son's teacher?" 

"Nope" Kirishima puckers his lips and looks away

Bakugo couldn't really care less about Kirishima's love life, he grunts, but there's this fear that overwhelms him when he thinks about his itty bitty baby son dragging Kirishima into the car while he's flirting away with anyone that stands in his way. There's this throat tightening feeling when he imagines his baby's belly grunting in hunger, a panic when he thinks his shirt is sweaty enough for him to catch a cold, or even worse he waits until he gets home to tell Kirishima that he fell and scraped his knees at school today and Kirishima probably has his thoughts taken over by his flirting when he's promised to take care of Kiko. 

Sick sick sick. The thought makes him completely sick. Sick enough to consider working even less to be able to be the one to get Kiko from school every day. Fuck the hero ranks, fuck wanting to be the best. 

"... for you"

Kirishima's voice is nothing compared to the worries inside his head, but as a shiny drop of sweat falls over Bakugo's forehead he's forced to ask for a repeating of his words. 

"Come again?"

"Just saying man, just saying, she's uh, you'll like her" 

Whatever Kirishima suggests, Bakugo knows it's a nuisance, but he promises himself he'll talk to you about his concerns on the matter. You sound like a good teacher, like you worry about Kiko a lot and Bakugo thinks that he can trust you on not allowing his kid to be treated like he treated Izuku. 

Kirishima hunches Kiko over his shoulders the moment he walks out of the kindergarten doors. 

You can't suppress a giggle when you see the interaction, bent on waving them off with a little back and forth shake of your hand and a smile; in the two months you've been working here, Red Riot shows up almost daily to pick up Kiko, because -as you learn- Dynamight works longer shifts a few weeks before his son's birthday so he can take a few days off. 

And when March is about to roll around the corner and you're still unsure of the fact if that's possible, your coworkers that have been here before you keep reminding of you on the daily, that it's only a few days down the line that Kiko's father will be picking him up at twelve every day and then they run off to the break room to talk about how they can't wait to feast their eyes on Dynamight -because he looks so damn good in person. As always you excuse yourself, the subject of Dynamight's attractiveness being something that isn't really your concern to talk about. 

Mostly, you have your views on how he's come to treat the daily heroic deeds like an office job, and although you suppose that as a single parent he doesn't have much choice you often compare the bits and pieces of today's Dynamight to the one from tens of years ago, when you watched him on TV debuting as a pro, fresh out of college. You frankly remember tricking your mother so you could zap between channels to simply watch him go, watch him beat villain after villain. 

You're sure there's a routine in being a hero for over a decade, what you do and what you don't, how when you're faced with choices to set priorities you take your own paths in life. And that's probably how Dynamight gets to have a week to himself for him and Kiko -you wonder, if Kiko is happy at home with his dad, if that week helps him feel like his father is an ordinary human being, not someone that gives a piece of him to everyone- if there are evenings of quietness where the hero's phone doesn't ring with an emergency. 

And would he do it for anyone else? 

You've always been fascinated by heroes like him, the sheer amount of courage it takes to be your own person and have a life, live your own heaven or hell and then go about your days trying to make sure the world is safe. 

You wonder if Dynamight's yearly one week absence makes any difference to the hero world, but as you look at Kiko writhing over Kirishima's shoulder you're convinced that it doesn't.

There's probably a faded Dynamight poster hung onto the wall of your childhood room that your mother's clinging onto, and there's probably a five year old child in you with bright gleamy eyes like Kiko's watching the UA sports festival, amazed by the blond. 

Perhaps there's this fangirl of a child inside you when you call him that's screaming at you for having the guts to put on your big girl voice and talk to him. And sometimes you distinctly remember crying your eyes out the day he got married, so much that your middle school friends kept rubbing that on your face even until graduation. 

Still your curious eyes travel back onto Kiko. He's twisting himself over Kirishima's shoulders and a part of your heart drops at how dangerous this looks from afar. But it's impossible for this mountain of a man to drop someone as small as Kiko. And the contagious giggle of the child is finally getting to you- Kiko doesn't usually laugh that much in class, nor does he ever seem as active as he is when Kirishima picks him up. 

It makes you wonder, just how his interactions with his father are. 

Kiko is a ball of energy at home, sometimes, Dynamight tells you. 

Or rather, grunts at you. 

He gets to the kindergarten on 3.17pm with a fresh split on his cheek and pouty lips. And he mutters that he is more than sorry for being late, although there's nothing to be sorry for, you tell him, because he is a hero and that's a job he can't clock out the second he wants. 

"I'm working on it" He says and red eyes gleam dangerously into yours. You can't shake the feeling that he's angry. At you? At himself? At the villain that delayed him? 

"It's really no big deal" You mutter, breath choked inside your chest and you gesture to him to have a seat across from you in the break room. 

Your chest aches in a fast heartbeat; this is the same Dynamight that used to look back at you through a piece of shiny magazine paper in your teenage room- his eyes are deeper than carmine, with vermillion specs and copper rings adorning his irises. That's definitely something the poster in your room would never show you; the missing high quality of such fierce eyes, it's almost hard to speak when you look into them. 

When you inspect his face from this close, your mind runs back to your coworkers, how they always talk about him and how beautiful he is- for a second you don't blame them, you'd love to gawk over him too, forgetting your words stare into those slant red eyes and get lost into them- but this is your big girl job. Your first serious job, and the faint expression line between Dynamight's brows signifies that your excitement has to be cut short. 

He's not here to cater to you healing your inner teenager by looking at a person you were a fan of. 

So you cough in your bent elbow to relieve the tension in your neck, your chest, and you arrange the notes in your hand by shaking them onto the table next to you. 

"Would you like anything to drink? Water? Tea?" You offer and the hero shakes his head. 

"No, I'm good"

You wonder if his wound hurts, or if he's nervous of what you're about to discuss with him- perhaps calling him to simply announce that his child is probably quirkless was a little bold of you, but calling parents to counsel or inquire them about their kids is essential in this school, or so your boss had blabbered endlessly about. 

"These are a few notes about Kiko" You mutter quietly and hand him the pack of notes. It's not a pile, nor is it only two pages long. He glances at them with a sigh, tired eyes going over the paper before his fingers, thick and shaky with determination, reach out to take them from your hands, slightly brushing over yours. 

And your heart is on fire. Great. Exactly what you need to fix your gaze in how small the paper looks into his hands. We're his hands always this big? Were they this big in your poster? Even if they were, you can't think of it right now, you clear your throat again and eye the notes -not his hands, the notes- and say "you'll have to go over them at home if that's not a bother, it's mostly in class progress and some behavioral issues I've noticed-"

"Behavioral issues? What behavioral issues" 

It's his time to paint on panic all over his face, head twitching to your direction instinctively when the word drops from your mouth. You haven't had enough experience with panicked parents, especially being around panicked parents when you're panicked yourself, but there's a skip in your heart beat that urges you to prioritize your work over your thousand aeon old crush on Dynamight. He's nothing but a parent who's looking at you with a query like all others. 

"Is there anything wrong with my son?"

You shake your head, lips crushed together, jaw tight "no no," You kindly muster up your voice "He's a quiet one, I think we should work on him being a bit more social"

"He's plenty social with my friends"

"I've noticed" You nod once, thinking about how Kiko behaves towards Kirishima versus how he behaves towards his classmates "but it's important to be able to be a bit compatible with people his age"

Dynamight nods as well, eyebrows quirked and knitted at the same time, his eyes going over the pages of notes he's flipping through. "I understand" He gulps and you read through that look almost instantly

"He's not a problem child, if anything. He's very smart, very witty. Just very shy, very quiet"

There's a stillness of air, a lack of time and space as he drags his eyes across your face once again, papers clutched in his hands, his lips pursed together so tightly there are dents all over his jaw. Unlike him, he notices there aren't scars across your face, skin delicate, looking soft, plump, young. There's a tiredness in your face that can't match his, the level of what's weighing him down is more than you could ever graze in your life and you look young.

Kirishima, stupid shitty hair that he is, infiltrates his mind just now, the inside of his lips tucking under his teeth; you do look cute. He was right. Your clothes look comfortable, baggy but appropriate for work, with colors that would look nice and calming to the kids you're in care of and he suddenly gets why Kiko is so fond of you. 

You have your way of saying things. Carefully, tenderly. Like you could break him even by saying that Kiko doesn't know how to count to five. You fear you're going to break him by telling him things he already knows with a timid, shy smile across your face, a very polite voice, bowing again and again. There are no expression lines on your face, not one on your forehead, not nearly enough near your lips. 

"As for his quirk. I'd say it's very unlikely that he manifests one but you should give him some more time" You watch as he nods, eyes wide as you open your mouth again, "did his mother have a quirk?"

Bakugo almost hisses, the question caught him off guard, sent his eyes to the corners of his kids and forced a huff out of his mouth. The sorry you utter isn't necessary, he knows and tells you so, but the words he wants to speak gather inside his mouth, hide under his tongue. 

"I avoid talking about my late wife" He says and you bite your lip. You should have known. Dynamight's wife died in your late teens, but there wasn't much known to the public about her -maybe the fact that she was in UA with him, or maybe that she quit trying to be a pro at an early age- but her funeral was broadcasted by channels and you remember hungry media, restless reporters violating his personal space for a shot of him and his son. You remember the chaos, the mourning. 

Your face drops. 

Maybe life didn't go on for him as it did for you. Life wrinkled his eyes and dented his face . You think there's probably been a time he's had a very small baby in his arms, in his mid to late twenties, unsure of what to do, with not as plenty scars in his face -maybe just the one across his nose and the one over his lip- you can't help but stare and assume, perhaps a little rude at that. 

But for the record, you never would have thought you would be teaching in the preschool his son attends. 

"She was a psychic" Dynamight grunts through his teeth 

"Incomparable quirks sometimes cancel eachother" You yelp, quietly, then speed up your words as you add "I'm quirkless too, if that's any comfort, I got shot with a quirk nullifier when I was a kid on my way back home from school"

Whatever Dynamight thinks, he doesn't respond. He looks at you with big, red eyes, face contorted in an apologetic mask, one you've seen on TV after he catches himself swearing on live interviews. You wonder if you're comforting. Any. But you hope there's a part of him that feels like his son can be included somewhere, somehow. 

"M sorry" He finally mouths but it doesn't sound forced. It's more constipated when he adds "That must have been before the raid to arrest Overhaul" 

"Oh we were taught about him in hero ethics class"

Bakugo curls his brow, curiously. The leap in the generation between his and yours continues to grow, and he's aware now, more than ever. There was never a hero ethics class when he was at school. "Hero ethics?"

"Yeah, and basic quirk anatomy, they're like major subjects you have to take throughout all of your university years"

"I wouldn't know," He sighs, "but I'd like your advice on how to approach Kiko on the quirk thing. How do I say something that doesn't scar him, or hurt him?"

Your breathing gets caught in your throat before you ever come up with a reply. Words are forming in your brain, years of academic knowledge flowing in your neurons as you're trying to figure out the exact answer to this question, the words of endless professors turning your brain into mush. If you could think of a way to feel, you'd feel sorry for using Dynamight as a parent with whom you're challenging your skills. 

And in between year four basic quirk anatomy and child psychology for preschool teachers as an extra class you had to attend, you pick out a selection of exquisite words, woven by the wrinkles in your brain, washed over the anxiety in your gut. When you open your mouth, tongue dry and ready to clash with your palette, lips ready to make the first smack, voice almost at the brick of catching space in air, Dynamight's phone rings. 

"Oh fuck" He panicks, mouthing a quick apology, bowing his head, squinting his eyes "this is an emergency, I have to take it" He says and you nod. His fingers -you notice they're thick, too thick, the back of his hands rough and chapped so much it makes you gulp- quickly reach to push the button to accept the call and he curses when the touch of his screen seems to act up.

He curses again when it stops ringing, but his hands are quick to make searching motions, waving back and forth in the open space. He's searching for a piece of paper and a pen, anything, and you-smart as ever- give him the lilac paint marker in your hands and, of course your hand. When he clicks his tongue you cringe. You feel stupid, embarrassing, like earth could swallow you whole right now and you wouldn't have a damn thing to protest about. 

Still, he scribbles something on the back of your hand and the ticklish sensation of the nib across your skin kicks in instantly. When you read it you gasp, barely, and you hope he doesn't hear over the sound of his phone timing again. 

"This shit won't cooperate, help me" With pleading eyes he turns the phone to you, tapping his foot erratically and you pick up the signal; you swipe up the button and he presses it to his ear immediately. You don't realize now, but the way your hands linger onto his for the second time today has made your skin crawl, itch, and it will do so for the rest of the week. 

The back of your hand reads, in bright lilac, 'Beetles children playground, Saturday 5pm'

When you enter the indoor playground the smell of plastic surpasses almost any other. 

There's something nostalgic about it; how these walls accommodate child after child, how the maintenance of enormous swirly slides is executed by precautions for kids to not scratch their knees, to fall on soft plastic covered mattresses when they jump out of the gigantic machine operating head of a tiger that acts as a slide. 

Part of you misses that -the days where you've tried to convince your parents to take you to a place like this to play- but whatever's left of that part of you is smiling, awkwardly, lips pressed together as you spot Dynamight in the labeled 'parents resting place' cafeteria. Part of you misses not caring about how you look, your mannerisms, but still you hug your coat closer to your chest when Dynamight finally notices you, nodding his head. You bow from afar, eyes closed, lips pursed -only then you notice Red Riot sitting across from him on the small wooden table. 

The sight of him -despite being a tad intimidating due to his enormous size- eases your nerves. He looks over at you, waving his hand, his grin plastered across his face. You're used to seeing him like this, nice, welcoming, talkative and enthusiastic, so your steps to their table aren't counted. You're assured -somehow in your head because Dynamight snorts too, leisurely- that there's not even a single thing to be worried about. 

You study your clothes for any wrinkles a few feet away from the table, ready to curse yourself if there's anything sort of like a wrinkle in your long work skirt, but its loose wooly material has proven to be a savor once again. 

Tentatively you smile at the two men when you reach their table, bowing your head and opening your mouth to greet them when Red Riot steals the words out for your mouth. 

"Hey teach" He greets, hand still waving at you when you look at him, muttering a small "hello" in response. 

Bakugo clears his throat when he notices the way you and Kirishima look at each other, it's not any of his business if you want to stare at each other to the end of the world anyway, but it doesn't have to happen at the parents lounge in a playground. So he's rolling his eyes to the back of his head, gripping his coffee mug tight -too right for it to be normal- in his hand and speaks up "Thank you for meeting me here"

It's so blunt that Kirishima bursts out in laughter while your eyes shoot open, confusion written on your face. Dynamight grows red, piping hot as anger plumishes his face with every choke of laughter Red Riot takes. 

"Dude, don't make it sound like that" Kirishima laughs again, eyeing the chair in front of you "I think you scared her, look at her, come on teach, sit down"

"What the fuck. I didn't. Shut your face shitty hair"

"Please excuse him, his vocabulary is so colorful for a children's playground" Kirishima smiles at you when you look at them with a shook expression on your face. 

Dynamight's foul language isn't a secret, in fact most of your co workers were and still are intimidated to be in a position to ever reply to any of these tantrums, and if you're honest, you are too. You strive to be professional, to look bigger than you are, more significant. And Kirishima is allowing you to believe that somewhere behind Bakugo's- Dynamight's foul language there's some respect to you, to the roof of the place you're under. 

"It's okay" You shake your head and finally make a move towards your chair 

You don't really look at Dynamight a lot, but you definitely notice the multicolored plaster that sits across his nose, decorated with dinosaurs of all colors. There's one on the cut on his cheek as well. It's cute, kind of, the way they contrast his eyes and his hair. You dont think youve ever seen him dressed so casually, or in any context that would allow him to rock such bandaids on his face, so it's even more peculiar to see him pull out Kikos green water bottle from his backpack the second he sees him approaching.

“Having fun?” he asks his son and the little blond nods with a huff, out of breath “you're all sweaty, we should change your shirt”

The kid objects and looks at Kirishima for what you guess would be support but he does not utter a word before he downs half of his water bottle. “Daaaad”

“Nope, don't look at Kirishima, he's not going to get you out of this. And say hi to your teacher” 

Bakugo moves his head to the side and Kiko peeks with a tilted head at you, smiles and bows slightly before saying “hello miss, thank you for coming to my party” and you smile back at him and bow as well, while muttering a small happy birthday. 

There aren't any kids from the kindergarten, only a few other heroes can be spotted on the other tables of the cafeteria and you're guessing it's the ones that are parents already, maybe in their circle superheroes’ kids are all friends with each other. Your train of thought is quickly interrupted by Kiko munching on a piece of toast Bakugo had given him.

“Now you swallow your bite and i-” Bakugo says as he retrieves a clean long sleeved shirt from his backpack, but is cut short before he gets the chance to finish his sentence

“Okay bye daaaad” 

“Come back here! Kiko! Kiko!”

“Damn bro chill, it's just a sweaty shirt, he wants to play” Kirishima remarks with a giggle and you follow suit when Bakugo lets out a frustrated huff.

“Parenting isn't easy” you say, and sip on the juice that was served to you a while ago.

“You have kids, teach?” Kirishima asks, intrigued by Bakugos reaction to his question. You miss the way he kicks his blond friend under the table

“Oh no no, I just happen to be around so many parents at work and I've seen how challenging it can be. But I do hope to have kids someday." You reply, feeling a bit embarrassed for admitting your desires to have children to two of the top five heroes in Japan. It's not like you can always have everyday conversations with them and it's a tad uncanny that they feel so free spirited to talk about mundane things like a family with someone like you. 

But the way Kirishima nods understandingly, and the way Bakugo rolls his eyes before growling “careful what you're getting yourself into brat” - not in a mocking way at least - makes you feel more comfortable.

“Oh shut up bro, you have a golden child. Never whines, never throws tantrums! You literally have nothing to complaint about”

“Well, a child turns out this well mannered only because of the way they've been brought up” you suggest and you swear there's a mischievous grin that covers Bakugos face momentarily

"Damn right!! But, It's not easy, that's for sure," Bakugo finally speaks up after a moment of silence, "but it's worth it. Seeing Kiko grow up and learn new things every day, it's amazing. He's a good kid, I couldn't imagine my life without him now that I got him" His tone is softer than you're used to hearing from him, and it catches you off guard.

Kirishima, on the other hand, is still grinning from ear to ear, looking like he's enjoying every moment of the charade between you and the blond. "I think you'd make a great mom, teach. You're so patient and kind with the kids at school."

You feel your cheeks warm up at his words, and you take a drink of your juice, hoping to hide your blush. "Thank you, Kirishima. That means a lot coming from you."

Bakugo grumbles something unintelligible under his breath, but you can tell he's not unhappy with the conversation. There's a comfortable silence that falls over the table for a few moments, until Kirishima speaks up again.

"So, teach, we were wondering if you'd like to join us for a little celebration tonight. We were planning on going out to a bar and grabbing some drinks." He winks at you, and you feel your heart skip a beat as your eyes fall all over Bakugo’s whos clenching his jaw. “Bakugo always celebrates Kiko’s birthday like this. Man… he's too happy to have him.”

"I would love to join you guys," you say, smiling, but i can't, i have a uhm-, i-"

"that's fine" Bakugo growls, don't push it shitty hair" 

Kirishima smiles a wide grin that covers his face from one ear to another “oh come on! pleaseee”

You're taken aback by how childish Kirishima sounds, but being invited to something like this, with two pro heroes nonetheless feels kind of exciting. So you accept, shyly, there's not much you could do when you flicker your eyes over to Bakugo’s when they look at you like he's expecting you to say yes as well.

Kirishima's smile, despite being inviting at first, is dimmed slightly when Bakugo gruffs in response. Sure, he persists as his eyes plead with him -and you in time. “Come on, it'll be fun. I promise. Please join us teach”

Your gaze is so confused as you stare at him, hesitating to give a positive response. It's just so unbelievable that Dynamight and his best friend are trying to make plans with you.

Kirishima's wide grin falters for a moment at Bakugo's gruff response, but he quickly regained his enthusiasm, his eyes pleading with you.

"Please," Kirishima chimes in, his voice taking on an insufferable pleading tone.

You feel a pang of guilt at the disappointment in Kirishima's eyes—sure there are no prohibitions about spending time with parents outside of work, but you hesitate over actually saying yes to spending time with someone you’ve always admired as your hero.

Despite Bakugo's apparent disinterest, you find yourself unable to resist Kirishima's infectious energy. He's too sweet, always is. Maybe once won’t actually hurt. 

Just one drink.

With a hesitant smile, you turn to Bakugo, hoping to convince him to change his mind. "It would be fun," you say, your voice soft but earnest. "I'd really like to join you guys. I think"

Bakugo's gaze flickers to yours, a hint of annoyance flashing in his crimson eyes that’s shot at Kirishima, because he can see your hesitation, before he sighs heavily, as if conceding defeat. 

"Fine," he grumbles. "But only for a couple of drinks. We won’t be keeping you for long”

Kirishima lets out a whoop of excitement, his grin widening even further as he claps Bakugo on the back feverishly "Yes! This is gonna be awesome!"

~All rights reserved: @/strawberry-nugget, 2025. Please do not copy, over write or steal my work.

Likes, reblogs and comments are all appreciated equally

[fiastomatocheek]

IT’S OKAY, YOU’RE STILL LEARNING

requested: yes | req: dad!luke and reader cuddling after putting their daughter down for bed. she’s not even down for five minutes before she comes padding down the hall and into her parents’ room to snuggle and sleepily yap at them 🥹🥹

pair: dad!luke hughes x f!reader

genre: domestic fluff, family, comfort, emotional softness.

warnings: emotional vulnerability, sweet tears, bedtime softness, mentions of parenthood anxiety.

summary: after putting lucy to bed, you and luke cuddle up for a quiet night, but lucy isn't asleep for long-padding softly into your room in her universe star pajamas, bunny in tow. nestled between you both, she shares sleepy thoughts about love, pride, and what it means to be a family. her words innocent, tender, and full of understanding-remind luke and you just how deeply she's watching, learning, and loving.

fia’s note: this idea came to me right after yesterday’s dad!luke fic, i just imagined luce slowly developing this little habit where, instead of asking for bedtime stories, she always wants to hear stories about you and luke. she thinks those are way more fun, and her curiosity just grows with every story you and luke tell. even though the memories happened before she was born, she listens with so much joy, like she’s getting a glimpse into something magical. maybe that’s why she loves it so much because hearing how her mommy and daddy met, fell in love, and built a life together makes her feel like she’s part of that love story too.

tagging team fia ! — @iloveyoutodeathbutimdrowning @dancerbailey3 @mashmashi @hopefulsuitcasemoneyzonk @kell9rs @alwaysclassyeagle @nokiaholland @macka @silvenyy @bd147ms

fia’s masterlist | join fia’s taglist | yap & fic | mondays with fia

“Luce go down okay?” you asked.

Luke nodded, nose brushing your hair.

“Yeah. Said she wanted to count the stars on her jammies before sleeping. Got to ten before she passed out.”

“She’s been getting so curious lately. We had a little heart-to-heart today, Mommy and Luce talk. Said when she grows up, she wants someone who looks at her with ‘blink-blink eyes.’ Like her Snoopy does.”

Luke chuckled, shoulders shaking.

“That’s terrifying and adorable. Mostly terrifying.”

You tilted your head to look up at him.

“She said she wants someone like you, Snoopy.”

Before Luke could respond, the softest knock pattered against the bedroom door.

Tap tap.

Both of you paused.

The door open slowly, and a little figure appeared. Lucy.

She was in her favorite navy-blue pajama set covered in white stars, hair messy from her pillow, her bunny clutched tight under one arm.

“She’s doing it again,” Luke whispered like it was a secret.

“She’s doing it again,” you whispered back, smiling.

Lucy padded across the floor, climbed up onto the bed, and wedged herself between the two of you like it was the most natural thing in the world. She let out a deep sigh as her little body melted into the mattress.

For a moment, you thought she’d drifted off right away. But then

“…Mommy,” she mumbled in her raspy, sleepy voice. “Snoopy.”

Luke tilted his head toward her, voice gentle.

“Yeah, baby?”

Lucy didn’t open her eyes.

“I was so proud of Mommy. She’s the best Mommy in the world.”

You felt your throat catch as you brushed hair from her forehead.

“Oh, Luce…”

“Snoopy,” Lucy whispered again.

“Are you proud of Mommy too?”

Luke leaned in. “So proud, Luce. I’m proud everyday. Mommy’s the bravest, strongest, funniest person I know. She’s always been here, even when Snoopy wasn’t sure what he was doing.”

Lucy was quiet for a second, then added, “I’m proud of you too, Snoopy. You’re the best Daddy ever. You always got time for me and Mommy.”

Your heart clenched. You couldn’t believe how much love could live in such a tiny voice.

Then she looked at Luke, blinking slowly.

“But… sometimes you’re sad, right?”

Luke looked surprised. “Sad?”

Lucy nodded. “Yeah. Sometimes, when I’m supposed to be sleeping… you come into my room really quiet. You think I’m asleep, but I hear you, Snoopy.” She paused.

“You say sorry. You tell me you hope I forgive you ‘cause you’re still learning to be a daddy.”

Luke’s lips parted slightly.

“I didn’t know you were awake for that,” he said quietly.

“It’s okay,” Lucy whispered.

“Not everyone gets it right the first time. I know you try. And I love you even when you think you’re not the best. But you are. My best Daddy.”

You reached for Luke’s hand beneath the covers and squeezed it.

“And Mommy…” Lucy turned to you now, shifting her bunny.

“Thank you for being my Mommy. I’m so glad you’re my Mommy.”

You smiled, warmth flooding through you.

“Thank you for being my little girl, Luce. You’re the brightest part of my whole world.”

“I think… when Snoopy met me, he was… happy?” she asked sleepily.

Luke responded instantly.

“So happy. You have no idea. Before you were born, I carried around a picture of you, when you were just a little peanut in Mommy’s belly. I showed everyone. Even fans. When you were born, I cried. Real tears. And you know how rare that is.”

Lucy giggled weakly. “Yeah. You’re the strong one. Mommy’s the soft one.”

“And together, we’re your team,” you added.

Lucy blinked slowly, her eyes fluttering.

“I think maybe I didn’t know who you were… when I was born,” she said, voice fading, “but I think I was happy too. ‘Cause I got the best parents. I’m so proud…”

Her sentence trailed off as her breathing evened out and sleep overtook her once again.

You and Luke lay in silence for a moment, each of you staring at the ceiling, hearts pounding from the weight of the moment.

Luke finally broke it.

“She’s smarter than me,” he whispered.

“She’s definitely your daughter though,” you whispered back, turning to kiss his cheek.

“Heart too big.”

“She listens more than I realized,” Luke said, staring down at her.

“I used to think… if I didn’t do everything perfectly, I’d let her down. But she already sees me trying.”

“She does. And she loves you even harder for it.”

He let out a shaky breath and reached across Lucy’s little sleeping form to tuck a piece of your hair behind your ear.

“You were right about this. About all of this. Family. Love. Blink-blink eyes.”

You smiled sleepily. “I always am, Snoopy.”

[takenbypeter]

Delivery Girl With A Date

Bob Reynolds x fem!reader

Words: 2265

A/N: Part 3: The date!! DUN DUN DUUUHHH! lets goooooo! Idk what to do after this so this might be the end of this lil series. Or it might not be 👀 idk but I hope you like it ✨✨✨ props to @sebbystans1fan16

Previous Parts:

Part 1: Delivery For Bob

Part 2: Delivery For The New Avengers

You couldn’t believe life sometimes. One minute you’re elated to even be in the presence of The New Avengers, and then the next, one is confessing his feelings for you and taking you out on a date. 

Honestly it was just baffling to you. And obviously while Bob being a “New Avenger”, was a perk, that wasn’t the main reason you agreed to this date. Bob was…cute, respectful, and dare say a bit on the awkward side which you just adored. I mean with that confession how could anyone dare turn him down. 

But now standing in the elevator as it descended with just you and him occupying the space you could tell just how nervous he was. 

His face was easily readable. And you could see he was taking caution in even his breathing as he stared at the numbers going down. The air in the elevator was thick. You were nervous too, but honestly you liked the man too much to let nerves ruin this night.

You leaned towards him giving him a gentle nudge with your shoulder against his, “you can relax I’m not going to bite you. I mean unless you want,” his eyes widened at your remark to which you added, “I’m joking.”

He exhaled a laugh, and you joined. 

“I know, it’s just…” his head tilted from side to side before he looked at you again. “I haven’t been on one of these in a long time. I want it to go well, you know?”

See that. That right there was sweet in itself. He was already so honest and straightforward with you. Even if it was the worst date in history you knew you’d still end up liking the man. 

“It’s going to be fine.”

He nodded and your cheeks lifted even more, “so where are we going?”

“I was thinking, I know it’s simple, but pizza. Unless of course you’re lactose intolerant or have any food allergies.”

You rested your hand on his arm, “pizza sounds great.”

A shy smile at your touch grew on his face as he repeated that word back at you, “great.” The elevator dinged and he led the way out to the pizza place. 

The place wasn’t too far. Which is exactly what Bob failed to think about. 

Once arrived Bob made a point to step forward and open the door. 

“Thank you kind sir,” you kid and he smiled following after you, before saying. “Figured I could at least cross one thing off of that embarrassing list.”

“Hey, I liked that embarrassing list. Besides there was nothing even embarrassing about that list.“

He led the way to a booth near the corner, where it was more secluded as you were just about one of the few people there. 

“You’re right, it was just the way I said it that was embarrassing,” he remarked, guiding you to your seat before he sat on the opposite side while you shook your head at his words. “It was cute.”

“Well I’m happy you thought so.”

A waiter came by and quickly took your order. Once she left you finally relaxed in your seat looking at the man across from you. “So you know a lot about me but I barely know about you. Tell me, why this pizza place?”

Bob looked around taking in the decor. “I don’t know. I, uh…I guess at the beginning of being a part of The New Avengers team, I found this place early on and it just felt comforting. It felt safe. So I came a number of times after that and yeah that was that.”

You nodded taking in his story. It wasn’t exciting, it wasn’t awe inspiring but it was truthful and understandable. 

“I get that.” You knew that feeling of a home away from home. “Did it feel like home?”

Bob’s eyes wandered a bit as he nodded again, and tried his best to make his next words not too depressing. “I wouldn’t say that.” A loud cough from a nearby table grabbed his attention but he finished his sentence, “home life was…complicated. Abusive dad, physical abuse, verbal abuse, it was hard.”

Your eyebrows raised realizing that you asked a question you probably shouldn’t have. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to overstep.”

“You didn’t, you’re fine, I don’t love talking about it, but talking about it makes it easier to realize that yeah that’s what happened and I can’t change that. It’s just something I have to grow from. I have my down days because of it but I think I’m okay now. Really,” he nodded and again that warm smile of yours returned and he felt it again. That light, airy, heated sensation in his chest like he just wanted to see that smile all day. 

Before he found himself getting too lost in it, it was his turn to ask a question. “Um, what about you, what was your childhood like?” He asked. 

“Same old, same old. Arguments, siblings fighting, the usual. But now we all get along I think, so not too bad I guess.”

“That’s good. That’s kind of how I feel now on the team.”

“Your team seems very fun,” you compliment, genuine. 

“They’re a bit much most of the time, but in a welcoming way. We just get each other.”

“That’s good! It’s good to have a group around that understands you.”

“It really is.”

Your food came and you both delved in, enjoying the cheesiness along with more questions as you got to know each other further. Bob’s crush on you only grew as you spent the time together and yours blossomed as well. 

You two were just about done with your meals when you decided to ask another question. “Okay, so this has been on my mind but I’ve been trying to stay away from the superhero questions. I don’t want it to seem like I’m only interested in you because of that.”

Bob nodded trying not to focus on the part where you said you were interested in him. Despite him sitting across from you he still found it hard to believe that you liked him too. 

“Okay so, The New Avengers? You guys all stopped that dark thing right? What was that like?”

“Ahem,” Bob let out an awkward laugh as he leaned back in his chair blinking a few times. He opened his mouth and the word, “actuall—“ A sudden loud, “cucumber! Cucumber!” Was heard through the restaurant and both you and Bob spun your head to the voice who suddenly had their back to you. 

You leave it at that and turn back around but you notice Bob’s eyes narrow as he squints at the figure and then, he notices two other bodies that sat at the same table as the first.

“Would you excuse me just for one second,” he stood and immediately headed towards the figures. 

Upon reaching the not so distant table he looked down at the three who avoided eye contact and lowered their caps, as if that did anything. 

“What are you guys doing here?” Bob asked. 

“I’m sorry I think you have wrong peoples,” Alexei’s voice rang from under his cap which Bob didn’t hesitate to grab and lift up before Alexei scrambled to grab it and place it back on his head. 

“What are you guys doing?”

“We just wanted to see you were okay,” Alexei answered, waving his hands at the other two to back him up. 

“Yeah we just wanted to make sure you didn’t biff this one Bobberino,” quipped John. 

“Not me. I was just promised food,” Ava said smiling behind her slice. 

“Okay well just so you know, this is weird. I’m a grown man. I don't need you all spying on me or looking out for me.” He waited for them to apologize, or up and leave—do something. But instead Alexei’s voice added, “what you said about team? So sweet,” his hand reached up pressing against his chest, “it really warmed my heart. But, maybe go a bit easy with backstory.”

“Yeah you don’t want to depress the poor girl and scare her off. Oh don’t mention the…” the blonde paused peeking back at your table before holding a hand up to cover one half of his mouth, “drugs,” John mouthed. 

“Eh I don’t know, she seems to be into the whole vulnerability thing, I say give her the whole layout,” Ava suggested and Bob couldn’t tell if she was trying to actually be helpful or trying to sabotage him, the expression on her face was very hard to read.  

“I can handle this, can you please,” he motioned for them to walk out the door and as he did he heard a ding bringing all their attention to the door causing him to spot another familiar blonde standing in plain sight at the front counter.

“Yelena? What are you doing here?” Bob asked, stepping up to her. 

“What? Can’t a girl just get some food?”

“That’s a lie she’s been standing there for twenty minutes,” John shouted, outing her. 

Yelena’s jaw dropped feigning offense, “what? That is not true. Sure maybe I’ve been standing for a while but this menu is just very extensive.”

“Okay, you all just need to leave. Now please, I’m begging you.” He pleads and without getting confirmation from them he turns his back and returns to you who obviously has heard basically all of the conversation. 

You noticed how tense he was again and honestly you couldn’t blame him. You leaned forward, your voice a bit quieter, “hey, do you want to get out of here?” You asked and he nodded with zero hesitation. 

He reached into his pocket pulling out some cash and leaving it on the table before you both made your way to the exit. 

On the way out you waved to the others who just smiled and waved in response. 

Once outside Bob felt like he could finally breathe again. “Sorry about them…again.”

“It’s alright they’re your family right? They’re just making sure that I’m not a serial killer and that you’re alright. It’s cool.”

“Well I’m glad you think so,” he mumbled a bit irritated but ultimately pleased they didn’t ruin the date. 

Bob suddenly stopped in place and you watched his eye-line as it went past you and towards the sidewalk across from you. You peeked over your shoulder but before you could get a good view of what grabbed his attention, he excused himself again. You watched as he looked both ways before running across the small road and stopping at a flower cart. 

From your spot you observed while he chatted with the owner and pointed in your direction. The two looked at you and then talked some more before the owner pointed and Bob picked up a bouquet. Handing over some cash he was quick to return with a small bouquet of beautifully colored plants in his hand. 

He extended it to you, “this is to apologize for my team. And for agreeing to go out with me.”

“Aww Bob,” you took the flowers and held them admiring the color scheme that worked so well together. “I told you it was okay.”

“Yeah but then this way I get to cross something else off the list.”

You grinned again remembering his endearing confession. 

You glanced down again and beamed down at the small but delightful gift. But as you looked up your eyebrows raised and you reached for his hand. 

“I have someplace to show you. Let’s go,” you said, pulling him along. 

“Where are we going?”

“Somewhere where we can cross that last thing off your list. Watch the sunset, remember?” He didn’t reply but you knew he remembered. 

You tugged his arm leading him to a park you were very familiar with. The park was averagely busy but you knew a secluded picnic table located a bit away. 

Once there you sat down and patted the empty space next to you for Bob to occupy. After he sat you two looked forward, staring out at the pretty view. It was comfortable. Not forced, just regular ol’ comfort. 

“Sorry about your childhood,” you spoke up feeling a bit guilty about before, despite you being aware of the fact that there was no possible way for you to even know without asking. 

“It’s okay.”

“…I’m not the best advice person but I am a great listener so if you ever need to talk I’m willing to listen.”

“Thank you, really. I appreciate it.” His features shifted as if he just remembered, “oh and you too, if you’re ever going through something, I can be there for you. If you’ll have me, of course.”

You smiled at him, “wouldn’t have it any other way,” it was crazy how close you felt to him. 

You noticed the sky shift as the sun continued to set and another still filled the air as you observed the sky actively transforming into a purple hue. Taking in the wonder filled view you leaned your head against his shoulder and he froze under your touch making sure not to move a muscle so you remained comfortable. 

“Do you think you would’ve ever made a move if your teammates didn’t basically give it away.”

“Honestly…I don’t think so.”

You hummed the sound vibrating against his shoulder and he relished in the way you felt against him. “Remind me to thank them the next time I see them.”

Bob’s eyes crinkled, the smile pushing his cheeks up before saying, “remind me to thank them too.”

[crescenthistory]

while we're both here; part two

Synopsis: Your chronic illness makes you a frequenter in Madam Pomfrey's infirmary – at some point you're bound to make a connection with her other favourite patient. Said patient is currently lingering around the infirmary, hoping to see you once more, even if that is to support you through an episode or two.

Words: 3.6k

Tags: fem!reader, undisclosed chronic illness that makes you hurt and faint (writer has hEDS and POTS), remus' pov with all its typical warnings, 'on-screen' syncope/fainting, flirting, physical affection, fluffy hurt/comfort, maternal madam pomfrey, remus is taller than you but you're not necessarily short, you have enough hair to fall into your face.

part one can be found here

Remus had been hoping he would see you again soon after that. It was odd to, for once in his life, want to go to the infirmary; it was even more odd to hope the girl that had caught his eye would end up there as well.

His frequent visits to the infirmary once felt like a massive obstruction in the little life he had miraculously managed to create at Hogwarts. It was the one place that had to be just his, somewhere his friends would rarely go. Part of Remus was well aware that if he asked any of his mates to accompany him on his visits, they would drop everything to do so. Most of him, though, felt like that would only be salt in the wound, would only highlight his difference.

It was easier to slip in and out alone.

To have somewhere that was just his would in many ways be Remus’ introverted dream, but with his tragicomical context, it was far from it. He resented having to spend so much time there, only finding solace in Madam Pomfrey’s kindness.

And then, in you.

Over the encounters, each one fertilising the bloom of whatever was growing between you, Remus found that he didn’t mind that this was where he met you. That he got to have you in this place that was just his, with none of his mates’ prying eyes or prior knowledge. 

You don’t have her, you twat, he would scold himself at that line of thinking. She’s not yours to have.

Remus was really good at reminding himself that he shouldn’t be thinking like that. Following through was an entirely different story.

He wouldn’t admit it when his mates began to hound him for the reason why he was spending so long in the infirmary for just small things, but he had begun to drag his feet every visit. Lingering by his bedside cabinet, slyly looking around, hoping to suddenly catch your eye and – wow, dove, I had not at all expected to see you here while I’ve spent 20 minutes picking up bandages!

There was a small war going on in his mind, waged between the dizzying pull you had on him and his better senses. He could hear Lyall speaking to him in his mind, “Son, it’s best you walk this life alone.”

Yet, here Remus – stupid, dreamy Remus – was hoping he might walk into you.

It was while caught up in this mental tirade that he did exactly that. 

He had begun to walk out of the long-term wing, heading for the exit, gaze focussed on his feet and mind elsewhere, when another set of feet emerged into his view seconds before the collision. Remus stiffened when a body bumped against his, hands shooting out to grab the poor sod by the elbows and stabilise them. “I am so sorry–” 

He looked up and cut himself off when his eyes landed on you.

It was not within his power to withhold the wide smile that blossomed on his face. “Oh, hey dove,” he breathed out, approximately two seconds before remembering himself. Remus cleared his throat and took a step back, squeezing your elbows reassuringly before hastily letting you go, though not without noticing how you leaned into his touch. His gaze was still on yours, but more reserved now, head tilted down. 

You looked equally perplexed, despite the oncoming tradition, but were quick to ease his thoughts with a small smile. “Well, if it isn’t Poppy’s golden boy.”

“Had to complete her set now that you’re here, yeah?” The words seemed to slip effortlessly off his tongue when he was around you, in sharp contrast to his inner turmoil. Remus dared hope that meant you didn’t pick up on it. “What brings you in today, love?”

He wondered if the way your cheeks appled at that perhaps meant he wasn’t the only one flustered in the other’s company. 

You recovered enough to roll your eyes heartily. ��Professor Binns has requested I get the matron to write a note to excuse why I couldn’t make his lecture last week.”

Remus’ eyebrows lifted, though he wasn’t necessarily surprised at the professor’s audacity. “I hope he knows she’ll kill him for wasting her time with that.”

You hummed in agreement. “I believe he’s a bit too dead to care.”

You began inching around him, head perked up to presumably spot Madam Pomfrey, and for a second Remus’ chest panged with the realisation that you probably didn’t share his recent desire to linger in the infirmary. You probably wanted to be rid of him. Shame wrapped hotly around his veins as his eyes flickered over you, searching for a sign in your body language that you truly wanted him gone.

That was how he noticed the way you swayed as you stood on your tiptoes to scan for Pomfrey, looking worse for wear with every passing second, and he understood the actual reason for your urgency.

“Hey, why don’t you come sit down with me in the waiting room, and I’ll grab a hold of her when I spot her?” he offered, nerves sneaking into his voice despite his best efforts. “Would probably be easier for me, given my vertical gifts.”

You had called his ridiculously tall stature a vertical gift a few days ago when you saw each other last and it came up that he could see the birds sitting by the top windows of the infirmary. It was something he had hardly considered worth mentioning, but it seemed to amaze and please you greatly, so he couldn’t help but feel quite chuffed after the interaction. 

If your snort was anything to go by, you remembered your comment. You smiled at him and Remus tried not to feel like an arse for how quickly relief bloomed in his chest at the sight.

“You know what, that sounds like a much better idea than me straining myself like this.” You began to move towards the cushioned maroon chairs in the wide hall that just barely classified as a waiting room. “If Binns is strict enough about me not missing lectures to send me on an errand during his lesson, it serves him right if I miss the whole thing.”

Remus followed dutifully behind you, letting you choose a seat before sitting down beside you, knees angled in your direction. They were starting to preemptively ache as the full moon edged closer, so maybe it was good for him anyway to forgo the walk up to the common room and instead dwell here a bit longer.

“You’re supposed to be in his lecture right now?” Remus asked, frowning. At your emphatic nodding, he murmured an added, “What a twat.”

Your giggle made a smile grow on his face, like a flower seedling in the sun’s presence. 

“What, aren’t you skipping a lesson right now yourself?” You curled up in your chair like a perfect cat, legs crossed beneath you and propping your chin up on your hand.

He shook his head. “No, I’ve got a free period luckily.”

“And you decided that the best way to spend said free period was, naturally, hanging out in the infirmary?” 

There was nothing but goodhearted humour in your tone, but Remus’ face still felt warm and he tried to shrug nonchalantly. “Had to pick up some bandages. Now was as good a time as any, no?”

You eyed him curiously. “Are you planning on needing bandages in the near future?”

Usually, Remus’ cover-up lies rolled naturally off his tongue – he had had a lifetime to practice, after all. It didn’t even really feel like lying anymore, but suddenly, with you, that changed. Now it felt like pulling teeth. 

Remus was luckily accustomed to pain enough to push through. “They’re not for me this time, actually. James and Sirius are playing in the match against Slytherin tomorrow, so you can infer why we prefer to keep the dorm stocked beforehand.”

Your smile was genuine, even as your eyes seemed to grow more tired by the second. “You’re a good friend, Remus.”

He did not have it in him to unpack how that made him feel. Terrible and wonderful. He gave you a lopsided smile. “If you say so, dove. Are you going to the match?”

He had never seen you there before, but until your encounters began picking up in frequency a few weeks back, he hadn’t necessarily known to. These days he felt like a scout on a rogue mission to find you everywhere. 

There was a slight twitch in your face, an emotion that flickered briefly before burying itself. One Remus wanted to catch and interrogate – it didn’t seem like hurt per say, but it wasn’t a nice one either. You looked down at the armrest as you said, “No, my body doesn’t really agree with quidditch matches anymore. You know, stairs and hard planes and all.”

Remus kept his eyes trained on yours until you looked back up, so that he could gift you with a small, knowing smile. “Yeah, I understand that, dove. I’m the same way on bad days. Lily always says I’m not missing much when I can’t go, but it’s still not a great feeling.”

He decided to interpret the look in your eyes as grateful. Rather than dwelling on the issue, he tried to steer the conversation elsewhere. “What, uh, are you doing after this?”

It was the first question he could think of, escaping him before he could consider the implications more closely. His veins froze as he realised how you might receive it.

However, you didn’t seem too caught up in what he was saying. There was a certain haziness swimming in your irises and your eyelids were moving both too frequently and too slowly. Remus could somehow tell you weren’t completely yourself.

He reached a hand out tentatively, placing it on your shoulder closest to him. “Love?” His tone of voice was soft, albeit slightly nervous.

“Sorry…” you mumbled, trailing off. Your eyebrows furrowed. “I think I… I will…”

In this moment, he was grateful that he had gone to the library to do some reading on your conditions after you shared them with him in passing. He had felt like a total creep for it at the time, but now it eased his panic a little as he could see you starting to slip away.

With a swift, almost instinctual movement, Remus’ hand moved up from your shoulder to cup the side of your face securely, seconds before you lost consciousness. Instead of falling face-first onto the infirmary floor, you fell into Remus’ hand as he supported your head and kept you up.

“You’re good, dovey, you’re alright,” Remus murmured gently, getting out of his seat to kneel before you. His other hand came up to help lean your limp body lean further back into your seat, stabilising your neck.

He tucked some of your hair that had fallen in your face back behind your ear, large hands surprisingly delicate and careful. This was not something he wanted to mess up. His breathing was laboured – ironically matching yours – but he didn’t have time to analyse whether it was from nerves or proximity.

Remus looked down the hallway, trying to spot the matron with more motivation than earlier. “Poppy?” he called, quietly enough to hopefully not disturb patients in nearby rooms, but loudly enough that she might hear.

There’s only two students to his knowledge that call her by her first name, and right now both needed her help.

For a moment, he was met with silence and Remus was about to turn his focus back to you when he heard. “Mr. Lupin?” Her voice was inquisitive, confusion mixing with mirth, likely as she would have thought he had left ages ago.

“Could I get a hand? Quickly?”

There was no hesitation as he could hear her dropping whatever she was holding in favour of coming to his aid, the sound of her footsteps soft in the quiet infirmary. No questions asked – her steady presence made a warmth spread in Remus’ chest. She made him miss his Mam while also soothing the ache of his loss.

Remus looked back at you, still unconscious but with your eyelids fluttering slightly. His thumbs brushed back and forth over your cheeks, as if to calm you down. It was while cradling you on his knees before your chair, with his eyes trained on you, that Madam Pomfrey found you both.

She huffed in the doorway, making Remus look up at her like what he could only presume a small puppy would. Her hand was at her hip as she took in the scene.

“I– uh, she fainted,” Remus rambled, looking back at you. “I know it’s normal, but I figured we could use some help?”

“I can see that, Remus.” Her voice was once more laced with the mirth from earlier as she gave him a funny look. It didn’t deter her from hurrying forward though, sitting in the chair Remus had previously occupied as she studied you. He remained dutifully on the floor. 

“She’s alright,” Pomfrey concluded quickly after sneaking her hand between Remus’ still supporting your head to check your pulse. “She’ll come to shortly, we should just cool her down.”

Remus knew what fainting would look like in general, but less so for you. He had read up on it and he had listened to what Pomfrey said to you when you were coming to from a syncope while he was in the room – which was not the same as eavesdropping, he told himself. Still, he didn’t really know how to help, and found himself desperately wanting to.

So he followed Pomfrey’s every movement with rapt attention. She pulled out her wand and cast a wind spell, directing a cold breeze in the direction of your face. “If you can support her with just one hand, that would be best, Remus dear. Less skin on skin contact will help make her less warm.”

He couldn’t help but feel like she was indirectly poking fun at him with her tone as he quickly dropped his other hand. “What else will help?” he asked to distract from his flush.

“Laying down is best, usually, but right now it would likely be more uncomfortable to jostle her around to one of the infirmary beds. We really should get one in this waiting room, if only Helena and Godrick hadn’t thought that Hogwarts’ thousand students only needed the tiniest of infirmaries–” 

This was a rant both you and Remus had heard many a time before. She cut herself off and looked away from you to meet his eye. “Anyway. Usually a supine position is best, but leaning her back the way you have is great. Good job, Remus.”

That comment brought a smile to his face, but he didn’t feel like he could thank her for it either. “Alright, that’s good. Anything else?”

“Studious, are we?” Pomfrey’s look was knowing as she turned back to you, moving her wand slightly to improve the airflow in your face. “The recipe is to check her breathing and pulse to be safe, bring down both position and temperature, and sprinkle in some kindness and patience. Oh, and talk. She might be able to hear you at various points.”

Remus had read that, actually. He looked back to you as your eyelids fluttered again, but seemingly more purposefully this time as opposed to the almost jerking motion from earlier. He whispered your name, squeezing your cheek a little. "Hey dove, you're alright. It's just Poppy and I. The I in question is Remus."

Just to be safe.

“Atta girl,” smiled Pomfrey, keeping her wand pointed against you for a little while longer still, as you blinked your eyes open. “Keep supporting her for a bit longer, dear.” That last instruction was to Remus and he nodded and mentally thanked her for helping him save face as you came to. He didn't want you to wonder why his hand was on your cheek.

You looked at Remus first, bleary-eyed with furrowed brows. He smiled encouragingly at you. “What boring company must I be to have you faint on me like this.” 

The laugh that escaped you was confused but a laugh nonetheless. Remus hoped he wasn’t insane to think you were choosing to lean into his hold on you, as you looked towards Pomfrey. “Oh, there you are. Binns needs me to get a note from you.” Your voice was hoarse but still quintessential you.

Pomfrey’s eyebrows shot up into her greying hairline. “Now, dear, why would he think I care what he needs from me? Forget all that nonsense until we get you back on your feet.”

“See, that’s what I told him!” You were still somewhat drowsy, but clearly coming to. Your tone softened a little as you added, “Thank you for helping, Poppy.”

Pomfrey pinched the cheek Remus wasn’t cradling, smiling maternally at you. “It’s my job, child. One I carry out happily.”

Remus thought him and Pomfrey provided a good emotional support team for you, considering you were smiling and laughing within the first minute of being conscious.

Somehow, an apologetic tone still managed to seep into your expression as you looked back at him, as if remembering. “I’m sorry for fainting on you. It was a long trek down, I didn’t realise–”

“Shhh, don't be silly dove, you’re alright.” Usually Remus was adamant about not interrupting women, but he felt this was a worthy exception. “You’re just giving me a good excuse to skip out on Herbology.”

Pomfrey’s head whipped around to look at him. “Are you supposed to be in a lesson right now, Mr. Lupin?”

He grew a bit smaller, yet somehow managed to shrug nonchalantly. “Not yet, I don't think. Either way, I was simply helping a friend who fainted, matron.” At her still pointed look, he also gestured to his crouched position. “Not to mention, I now need some ointment for my knees.”

Usually, Remus held out on pain medication for as long as possible, but anything for a good excuse, apparently.

Pomfrey shook her head, waving a finger at you two as she got out of her seat, pocketing her wand. “You bairns are lucky I like you. Remus, help her lay down in the infirmary wing for a while and help yourself to your usual remedies. And then I expect you to head to your lessons at the soonest possible moment.”

Even with her hands on her hips and strict tone, you could see the affection in her eyes, exemplified by the quick wink she shot the both of you, effectively diminishing any threat she pretended to uphold. 

“Yes, ma’am!” He nodded abidingly at her, smile subdued.

Maybe he was abusing her favouritism, but Remus couldn’t bring himself to feel too guilty for that, at least not at this very minute.

“Thank you, Poppy!” Both of you chorused after her as she turned to head out, smoothing down her white apron, muttering something about “those kids”. 

As Remus turned back to look at you, he realised neither of you had moved from your positions. His hand was still on your cheek, thumb occasionally brushing over it instinctually. Your hand had come to fist a handful of his jumper's sleeve, as if grounding yourself.

You met his gaze, and he found a depth in them that enraptured him. With the last of Pomfrey’s presence melting away around you, Remus remained on his knees before you, and could not deny that he both looked and felt reverent. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from yours, his hand away from your cheek.

He tried to clear his throat to clear the trance, but you both remained caught up in each other. “A– are you good to walk to our wing?” he whispered. The term our formed itself on his tongue without his explicit involvement.

You blinked. Then, abruptly, as if remembering yourself, you nodded and sat up in your seat a little. “Yeah– yes, of course.”

Even as you agreed, Remus could practically see the wall of dizziness hit you as you sat up. He doubled down with his hand cupping your face and brought the other up to squeeze your elbow. “Alright there, racer. Slow and steady, yeah?”

You nodded again, slower this time. The smile being born on your face appeared in a similar fashion. “You’ve got enough time for that?” The teasing tone was back and Remus relished in it.

“I’ll let you in on a secret,” Remus stage-whispered, allowing himself to flirt openly with the confidence of your touch. “I have no intention of making it to Herbology.”

“Is that so?”

“Mhm.” He tried to gauge your reactions in real time as he spoke. “Found something a lot more interesting.”

You grinned at him, a laziness sweetening its edges in the best way, as if you were comfortable with him. “And that would be the aftermath of a syncope?”

He hummed in agreement. “You’d be surprised what the right person can make fun.”

“Alright then, right person. Want to help me up?”

By Godrick, that he did.

[madamadamiu]

Fort Max is my beloved and i saw your arts and i remember something + thought about something

But firstly, quick story.

Back in the high school i had a friend, we volunteered together a couple of times. Once we were sent to volunteer at the pet shelter and he saw that cat. Her name was "Susan", she was half blind because of a heavy eye infection in the past and she was pretty big (4-5 kilos maybe? I'm still convinced that like half of this weight was because of the fur, she was fluffy as hell). It was love from the first sniff, i swear, i have never seen this man so gentle around someone. He wasn't rude or anything, but Susan definitely stole his heart.

One problem : he couldn't adopt her by any means. His father had an awful allergy to fur + he couldn't afford vet visits and stuff, but he wanted best for her.

What did he do : every day, after his shift at the job, he was going to the shelter and spent time with Susan + he was helping around the building. Nobody wanted to adopt her, so the workers were really happy to see someone actually attach to Susan. He was planing to adopt her as soon as he graduates from school. He already knew which college he wanted to go and has saved enough money to take a good care of cat and pay rent in the apartment that allowed pets.

So.

Why am i telling you all of this.

Cerebros.

I thought about him as soon as I saw Fort Max and Red alert. I think that concept of schoolboy/student that comes to shelter every day to see these fluffy boys and saving money to give the cats the best life is pretty adorable.

I can't help but imagine how cerebros comes to shelter every day after hard work and just places his face into the Fort Max's fur.

Seriously, how can anyone doesn't want to adopt Max? These three tons of pure love can brake intruder's neck by just falling on top of him. The best security ever!

Anyway, I'm jus yapping. Your ask button said that i can yap, so i will, sorry.

I thought about a few different ways to incorporate Cerebros, but all my ideas kept circling back to this ask. Anon, i am stealing your idea. Hard. It’s all a matter of getting his design down and how to round out his personality more. Fort Max and Red Alert need a human!! It’s just a very long wait until they can finally go home.

[boinday]

The Water Dog Update

Short version:

I gotta hack my darling into pieces

Long version:

Hmm. How to put this. I am becoming increasingly disillusioned with my dream of being an author, which seems like a normal part of "growing up," but it's a hard thing to swallow when you've dedicated your life to that goal from the age of 12.

I don't think I'm a savant, or some great undiscovered talent that the world is missing out on. But I do have faith in my skill. When I said last September that The Water Dog was finished, I meant it - insofar as it could be finished without a professional editor. I'm not arrogant or naive enough to think there's no room for improvement, but I am satisfied that I have told the story I wanted to, in the tone I wanted to.

However, that's the problem... Tone. I wrote TWD to be slow and soft and cozy, with language that follows the rhythms of old Irish stageplays. I designed it to feel like a Ghibli movie, where the writing focuses strongly on making my readers feel folded into the community, and where the conflict of the plot has to compete with the seduction of the atmosphere. I honestly think the style works, and it's gotten almost exclusively positive feedback from beta readers. But it means the book is long and gently paced, which is simply not what the Market wants right now.

TWD is 140k words long. That book length isn't unheard of for a debut, but almost all the literary agents I've been following on social media say 100k words is too long. In two instances, when I tried to submit my manuscript to an agent soliciting work, their online form would not let me submit once I'd entered the word count, saying it was over their limit.

And I'm not begrudging agents for this - they understand the market, their job is to find manuscripts that will be attractive to publishers. It's an extremely competitive industry that, in my opinion, is becoming increasingly hostile to debuts. I wrote on my other blog about my frustration about the Tiktoker who received a two book publishing deal from Simon & Schuster, despite the fact he hasn't WRITTEN a book yet. Meanwhile I see incredibly talented authors giving up and opting for self publishing, because after fighting for years to get their manuscripts to submission, they're shot down for having queer characters or some bullshit like that.

I've had multiple agents request my full manuscript after reading my query - a signal to me that my story IS interesting and it HAS potential. But all of them have told me the same thing: the length is untenable. So, I'm taking a hatchet to my work.

I'm going to try and chop 40k words off the novel without fundamentally changing the story. I think I'm a pretty tight writer, narrative wise - I don't waste space, I make sure every sentence has a purpose to the wider story. So I suspect most of the cuts will be to the atmosphere of the novel, shrinking it to be more fast paced, intense and anxiety inducing. It's not what I wanted it to be, but I'm willing to do what I have to if it means the novel will be considered for trad publishing.

Anyway, if you're still reading - wow! You must actually care about the project. So I'll share a little secret with you :3c If, by the end of this year TWD has had no nibbles from agents, I intend to turn it into a serialised audiobook. A free "podcast" where I'll release one chapter a week, every week for six months. I'll make the novel available for purchase by self-publishing, of course, but I think the spoken word really complements that stageplay style I mentioned.

Thanks for your interest and support! <3

[nameless-ken]

bucky barnes x reader - Ceilings

based on the song by Lizzy McAlpine

warnings: lots of angst with some fluff mixed in

word count: 4.2k

Masterlist

Ceilings, plaster / Can’t you just make it move faster? / Lovely to be sitting here with you / You're kinda cute, but it's

The tower is unusually silent, given it’s the middle of the night and everyone has settled into their beds a little bit ago. 

You lie awake in your bed, limbs tangled in the sheets, body still but mind restless. You exhale slowly, trying to loosen the tension clinging to your chest. Sleep hasn’t come easily lately, not since you moved into the tower. Not since everything changed. 

The building is massive—sleek, modern, and a little too perfect. Long glass hallways reflect the city lights in fractured streaks. The common spaces are stylish but sterile, full of plush furniture that’s more for show than comfort. Your room is tucked in one of the quieter wings, far from the command center but close enough to hear the occasional late-night footsteps of others pacing through insomnia or unfinished business.

Everything about this place feels both too big and too small. Grand in scale, but intimate in the way it reminds you you’re not quite home. Not yet.

There’s an ache inside you. Not sharp but not sudden. Just… constant. A hollow, quiet kind of heaviness that won’t go away. You’re not even sure what you’re waiting for, you only feel like something is missing. Or maybe a particular someone. 

You’ve been part of the Thunderbolts—though Valentina prefers the rebrand, New Avengers—for six months now. Long enough to stop feeling like the new kid. Long enough to memorize the rhythms of this strange second life and the people who fill it.

Yelena is always the first to find you when you’re quiet too long, dragging you into conversations with a smirk and a sarcastic story. She’s blunt, often brutal, but she keeps you anchored. Alexei’s the heart behind the noise. His booming laugh echoing through the kitchen as he tells exaggerated tales from his Red Guardian days. He calls you kiddo and always saves you the last slice of whatever pizza he's hoarded. Bob—kind, quiet, thoughtful Bob—asks about your day with such sincere interest that it almost makes you cry the first time. John is a little harder to read. He keeps a measured distance, always polite but guarded, like he’s still deciding whether you deserve his trust. Ava too, sharp as glass and just as elusive. She moves like smoke, barely making a sound, often disappearing for days at a time. But she notices everything. Leaves small comforts in her wake: a painkiller packet when you’ve got a headache, your favorite tea waiting on the counter after a rough briefing. She never asks why you’re upset. She just knows when you are.

And then there's James Buchanan Barnes.

Bucky.

You still can’t bring yourself to call him that, not out loud. James feels safer, more respectful. You’re not sure if you’ve earned the right to call him anything less formal.

He barely looks at you. Not in a cruel way—he’s not dismissive or rude. Just… distant. Like his body is in the room, but his mind hasn’t touched down in days. Like he’s suspended in time while everyone else is trying to catch up.

Still, he has his ways of showing his caring side. You’ve seen it. The small things like restarting the coffee pot after he uses the rest or fixes the jammed training equipment before anyone else realizes. 

Maybe that’s why you notice him so much.

You’ve tried to break through to him even if he can’t sense it. You’ve folded his clean laundry when you see the piles sit untouched for days. You make sure to pick up his favorite protein bars when the supply runs low. You always make sure to offer him lunch if you’re in the kitchen at the same time. 

He never says much. Just a quiet nod. A gentle thank you, barely above a whisper. Eyes that flick to yours for a moment but drift away just as quick.

You know what he’s been through. You’ve heard the whispers. You’ve heard the short version from Yelena and read about it on the internet on one of your nightly deep dives. And still, you feel it. This pull toward him, quiet but persistent.

You’ve told no one. Not Bob. Not Yelena. No one. If they knew, they’d tease you to death. Worse, they might tell him. And that would ruin everything. Whatever slow, careful steps you’ve taken to exist in his orbit, to mean something, however small, would crumble.

So instead, you keep your distance.

And you dream of him. Every night.

You blink—and suddenly, the ceiling is gone.

You’re sitting at one of the small tables in the common room, sipping your morning cup of coffee. It feels different now, warmer even with a steady rain continuously tapping against the windows. It’s peaceful, the kind of moment you want to stretch on forever and never leave. 

James sits across from you. 

Not the quiet, reserved version you see during training or passing in the hall. This James looks relaxed, leaning back in his chair with a genuine smile resting on his face. His hoodie sleeves are pushed up to his elbows and he holds a coffee mug between his hands. He looks at you, not past or through you, but at you. 

“You always this quiet?” he asks, teasingly.

You laugh under your breath. “Only when I don’t know what to say and trying to enjoy my morning coffee.”

His smile grows and he leans forward, elbows on the table now. Closer.

“You trying to say I’m ruining it?” he teases, tilting his head slightly. 

You shake your head, a small smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “Maybe just a little.”

He huffs out a laugh, quiet and low, and it settles between you like the steam rising from your mugs. The rain is louder now, steady against the windows but it only makes everything feel softer, more intimate.

“You know,” he says after a moment, voice softer now, “I like being here with you.”

Your breath catches slightly, but you try not to show it. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he nods, eyes never leaving yours. “It’s easy. Not a lot of things feel easy these days.”

The vulnerability in his tone makes your chest ache. You want to reach for him, to touch his hand, to say something—anything—that will let him know you understand. But instead, you just nod.

“I get that,” you whisper.

He leans back again, fingers curling around the handle of his mug. His shoulders drop slightly, like the tension he always carries is slipping away as each second passes.

You’ve seen him in fights, stoic and deadly. You’ve seen him in passing, quiet and unreadable. But this version—this James, warm and at ease and right in front of you—it feels like a secret no one else has gotten to see.

And he’s showing it to you.

You glance out the window, watching the rain slide down the glass in crooked little paths. When you turn back to him, you find him already looking at you.

“Can I tell you something?” you ask, unsure where the courage is coming from, only that it feels okay here, with him, in this moment.

He nods, and that’s all the encouragement you need.

“You’re kinda cute,” you admit, voice barely above the rain.

His eyebrows lift in surprise, and then he laughs. Really laughs. The sound feels homely and real, and you swear you’ll remember it forever.

“Just kinda?” he teases, ocean blue eyes twinkling through the gray cloudy sky surrounding you.

You bite your lip, feeling a blush creep up your neck. “Don’t push it, Barnes.”

His smile softens into something gentler, quieter. “It’s lovely,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

You tilt your head. “What is?”

“Sitting here with you. It’s… lovely.”

Your heart flips in your chest, a little too fast. A little too hopeful.

The moment stretches, long and golden and safe. You want to live in it. To press pause. To stay.

But already, your dream starts to shift.

The lighting dims. The room feels colder. The rain grows louder, harder now.

This isn’t real.

But you don’t want to believe it. Not yet.

Raining harder / My shoes are now full of water / Lovely to be rained on with you / It's kinda cute, but it's

You're outside now.

The air is fresh and thick with the earthy scent of rain. The sidewalk glistens beneath the streetlights, every puddle catching the reflections. Your shoes are soaked, squelching with every step, but you don’t care. You should care. But right now, you don’t.

James walks beside you, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, hood down, letting the rain hit him full-on. Droplets cling to his lashes, trail down his cheekbones, dampen the curls at the nape of his neck.

You laugh, something he just said lost to the sound of rainfall and he turns to you with that same open smile from the common room. Bright and rare.

“It’s raining harder,” you say through your grin, holding your arms out slightly like you're trying to feel every drop.

He looks up, then back at you. “Think we should head back?”

You shake your head. “Not yet.”

So you both keep walking, neither of you in a hurry. Rain soaks through your clothes and into your hair, but all you feel is the warm thrum of adrenaline and the steadiness of his presence beside you.

There’s no urgency. No fear. Just the rhythm of water falling, your feet splashing lightly with each step, and the soft laughter shared between two people who feel like they don’t have to try so hard for once.

“You’re going to catch a cold,” he says, glancing over at you, but there’s no bite to it, only a flicker of concern in his voice.

You nudge him with your shoulder. “So will you.”

“I’ve had worse,” he murmurs but the way his mouth tugs into that to-die-for crooked grin makes your chest flutter. “This isn’t so bad.”

Your brows knit, but you don’t ask him to explain. Instead, you say, “It’s kind of perfect, actually.”

He glances sideways at you. “Perfect?”

You shrug, still smiling. “I don’t know. Being soaked to the bone, walking in the dark with someone who doesn’t make me feel like I have to fill every silence. That kind of perfect.”

He slows just a little, like the words catch him off guard. “I like that.”

“Me, or the rain?” you ask, teasing gently.

He huffs a soft laugh. “Both.”

You stop walking, and he does too, like he was only waiting for you to set the pace. You’re both standing there now, in the middle of the sidewalk, rain coming down in sheets, and for a moment, it’s like the world folds itself around you. Everything is wet and shimmering and suspended in time.

You look at him, water dripping down his jaw. His hair is flattened but his curls pop out around the base of his neck, his clothes cling to his body, and he looks at you like you’re the only thing worth focusing on.

And for a second—just a second—it almost feels like he might kiss you.

Your breath catches. Your heart stutters.

But instead, he reaches out and brushes a raindrop from your cheek. His thumb lingers for a second longer than it should. Just long enough for you to close your eyes and memorize the warmth of it.

When you open them again, he’s still watching you.

“I like this,” you say softly.

He doesn’t ask what you mean. Maybe he already knows.

Still, he murmurs, “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“You feel… different when you smile like that,” he says, and his voice is so honest, so exposed, that it startles you.

“Different how?”

He shifts slightly, then states, “Like maybe there’s a version of me who could make you smile like that more often.”

Your throat tightens as you reach for the right words but they get caught in your throat.

So instead, you say, “You already do.”

That makes his expression falter, as if he’s trying not to let himself believe it but he wants to. 

“It’s lovely,” he says again, and this time, when he smiles, it’s smaller. Sadder.

Like part of him knows, too.

That this isn’t real.

But you both choose not to say it.

Not yet.

So short / Then you're driving me home / And I don't wanna leave / But I have to go / You kiss me in your car / And it feels like the start of a movie I've seen before

The sound of the rain softens as you settle into the passenger seat of James’ car. It taps against the windshield, soothing like a lullaby. The heater wraps the car with warmth and everything outside fades into a blur of streetlights and stormclouds.

You glance over at him.

James grips the steering wheel with one hand, the other resting casually on the gearshift. His knuckles are still damp. His jaw is clenched like he’s thinking about something he won’t say.

Neither of you speak. Not right away.

The ride is silent, but not uncomfortable. The kind of silence that feels full, thick with the words neither of you knows how to say. You don’t want the night to end. Not yet. Not when the space between you has finally started to shrink.

You watch the city pass by in sharp glimmers. Everything feels slowed down when you’re with him. As if time is giving you this moment on purpose.

“I used to hate the rain,” you announce suddenly.

He glances at you. “Yeah?”

You nod. “It always made me feel… stuck. Like everything good was just on the other side of it, but I couldn’t get there.”

He’s quiet for a small second, then agrees, “I know that feeling.”

You turn slightly in your seat to face him more fully. “But tonight—it didn’t feel like that. Not with you.”

He doesn’t smile, not right away. But his expression shifts softly as his fingers flex around the wheel.

“I don’t feel stuck when I’m with you,” he admits, so quietly it nearly gets swallowed by the hum of the engine and the patter of the rain on glass. “I don’t feel like I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

The ache in your chest builds from his admission. “That’s rare, huh?”

His mouth tugs up at the corner. “For me? Yeah. You could say that.”

Then, without warning, James eases the car to the side of the road.

The tower is still ten minutes away.

He doesn’t say why he stops and you don’t ask.

He shifts into park and leans back in his seat. His fingers tap once against the steering wheel before falling still. You can hear his breathing. Rapid. Careful.

The entire car feels impossibly small now.

You turn to look at him, heart thudding in your chest. He’s already looking at you. Really looking at you. Not like in the kitchen. Not like in training. Not a flicker or a glance.

This is different.

“You don’t have to say anything,” you whisper. “But if you’re thinking what I think you’re thinking... I don’t want you to talk yourself out of it this time.”

His throat bobs with a swallow. “I always do, don’t I?”

“Yeah,” you utter, barely a breath. “But I always wish you wouldn’t.”

Your breath catches as he leans in slowly, measured, giving you every chance to pull away.

But you don’t. You couldn’t if you tried.

And then he kisses you.

Soft.

Certain.

Like he’s thought about it a thousand times before and now he’s finally letting himself have it.

Your eyes flutter closed. The world quiets around you, even the rain.

He kisses you like you’re a secret he’s kept for too long. Like you’re something he doesn’t want to lose again. His hand comes up to your jaw, fingers brushing your skin like you might disappear if he’s too rough.

You murmur against his mouth, “Took you long enough.”

He smiles into the kiss just barely. “Wasn’t sure I deserved it.”

You pull back an inch, enough to meet his eyes. “You do.”

It’s not rushed or desperate. It’s gentle but almost euphoric. Like it’s the start of something that could change everything.

And in that moment, your heart swells so big it feels like it might burst. You’re weightless, floating. Safe. Whole.

This—you think—this must be it.

This is real. Finally.

The beginning.

The start of a movie you’ve seen before.

Bedsheets, no clothes / Touch me like nobody else does / Lovely to just lay here with you / You're kinda cute, and I would say all of this / But I don't wanna ruin the moment / Lovely to sit between comfort and chaos

The dream shifts again, soft around the edges like film slipping out of focus.

Now you’re in your room. But it doesn’t feel like your room.

The lighting is low, golden. The air still carries that soft scent of rain, but it's distant now, replaced by comfort and calmness.

You’re lying tangled in sheets, legs wound with James’ beneath the blankets. Your head rests against his bare chest, his fingers tracing feather-light patterns along your spine. Every now and then, he presses the faintest kiss to your temple, like he can’t help himself. Like it’s second nature.

There’s no sound but your breathing. His heartbeat. The subtle creak of the mattress when either of you shifts. The world outside is gone. There’s only this.

You want to speak up but can’t, not because there’s nothing to say, but because there’s too much.

You want to tell him how long you’ve waited for this. How many nights you’ve imagined what it might feel like to be held like this, to be touched like this and not just with his strong, tempting hands but with intention. With reverence. Like you matter. Like he sees you. Really sees you.

That if you say what’s in your heart, the dream might dissolve around you. And you’re not ready for it to end.

So you stay there, curled into his side and hold on just a little tighter.

His hand drifts down your arm, fingers curling around yours. He anchors you. Like he always has, even if he never realized it.

And for a moment, everything is exactly as it should be.

Perfect.

Still.

Then James whispers with his deepened morning voice you wish you could bottle up to keep forever, “I don’t know how to do this.”

You shift just enough to look up at him. “Do what?”

His eyes search yours. “Be… happy. Be safe. Want something and let myself believe I could keep it.”

Your throat tightens. You press your forehead lightly against his jaw. “You don’t have to know how. We’ll figure it out.”

He exhales, a shaky breath. “You make it feel easy. Like I’m allowed to want this.”

“You are,” you murmur. “You’re allowed to want something soft.”

He closes his eyes, hand tightening around yours. “And you? What do you want?”

You hesitate. Not because you don’t know. But because it might break you to say it out loud.

Still, you do.

“You,” you whisper. “Just you. In whatever way you’ll let me have you.”

He goes still.

Then he shifts so he can look at you fully. His expression is unreadable at first then it crumples, softens into a raw, open and real reaction. 

His voice breaks as he whispers your name. “You already have me.”

And God, it hurts because you know it’s true.

Here, in this dream, he’s yours.

His metal fingers brush your cheek, gentle as a sigh. “I think about this all the time. You. Us. But I never let myself…”

“I know,” you admit. “Me too.”

He presses his lips to your hair, to your temple, to the spot just below your ear. Each one a promise you’re afraid to believe in.

“I wish I was braver,” he whispers.

“You’re here,” you reply. “That’s enough.”

You close your eyes again, soaking in how lovely it is to sit between comfort and chaos with him. James shifts slightly, resting his forehead against yours.

The comfort of his skin and the contrast of cold his metal arm brings, the way he holds you like you’re breakable but in a way that tells you he’d never let you break.

The chaos lives just underneath. There will always be something in you that knows this can’t last.

Trembling at the edges of this moment, like a ripple in a dream you’re trying too hard to keep from slipping away.

But still, you stay.

Just a little longer.

Because this—him, here, like this—is the only thing that’s felt real in such a long time.

But it's over / Then you're driving me home / And it kinda comes out / As I get up to go / You kiss me in your car / And it feels like the start of a movie I've seen before

Your dream changes again.

You barely notice it at first, how the glow has dimmed, how the softness in James’ features fades just slightly. How the air is cooler, the silence pressing down on you a little harder.

You’re back in the car.

The seatbelt cuts gently across your chest. The windows are fogged but the outside world is darker, unfamiliar, like it doesn’t belong to you anymore. Rain beads along the glass again, slower now, heavier.

This silence isn’t like the one before. It’s not full, it’s empty. Something has shifted. You can feel it, even though nothing has been said.

He pulls up in front of your building except it’s not your building. Not really. Just some abstract version of “home” that your mind pieced together in the dream. It doesn’t matter. It’s the end. You can feel it.

He puts the car in park and you don’t make any movement to get out.

“I don’t want to get out,” you tell him.

His hand tightens on the steering wheel but he doesn’t look at you. “I know.”

“Then don’t make me,” you plead. “Not yet.”

James exhales slowly, like the weight of your words hurts him. “This was never going to last.”

“Why not?” Your voice cracks. “Why can’t it?”

Finally, he turns to you. There’s something sparkling in his eyes—remorse, maybe. Regret. Or worse, detachment wrapped in sorrow.

“Because I don’t trust what I want,” he says. “Not with you. Not when it matters.”

You feel your breath catch. “You matter to me.”

“I know,” he says again, quieter this time. Like he hates the way it sounds coming out of his mouth. “That’s why I’m letting you go.”

You shake your head. “You don’t get to make that choice for both of us.”

“I’m not,” he says. “I’m making it for you. Before I break something I can’t fix.”

The silence is thick now. Awful. You want to scream. You want to cry. You want to rewind the dream and start over.

But before you can speak, he leans across the console.

And kisses you.

But it’s different this time.

There’s something final in the way his lips meet yours. Something soft and mournful. Like a goodbye wrapped in what could have been love.

Your fingers grasp at his jacket, desperate to hold onto him and this dream. “Please,” you whisper against his mouth, barely audible. “Please don’t go.”

He pulls back just far enough to rest his forehead against yours.

“If things were different,” he breathes, “I would’ve stayed.”

You close your eyes. “They don’t have to be.”

“They always are.”

You kiss him back.

Trying to hold onto it. Trying to memorize the shape of his mouth, the gentleness of his hand cupping your cheek. Trying to make it last.

But it slips through your fingers.

You blink—

—and he’s gone.

The car dissolves into a shadow. The seat beneath you disappears.

But it's not real / And you don't exist / And I can't recall the last time I was kissed / It hits me in the car / And it feels like the end of a movie I've seen before

You jolt awake in your room.

The sheets are still tangled around your legs. The moonlight still spills across the wall.

And you’re alone.

The silence rushes back in, sharp and cold this time. Like a reminder. Like a punishment.

Your throat tightens.

You blink up at the ceiling, eyes wide, heart thudding dully in your chest.

And that’s when it hits you:

It wasn’t real.

He wasn’t real.

Not like that.

You can’t recall the last time someone kissed you. Not in real life and definitely not like that.

You press your palms to your eyes, trying to hold back the tears threatening to spill. Your chest aches with the weight of the dream, with the loss of something you never really had.

It feels like the end of a movie you’ve seen before.

The kind where the credits roll in silence with tears streaming down your face. 

You see him in the hallway the next morning.

He walks past, quiet as ever. A coffee in hand, hair damp from a shower. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t speak but he glances at you. Just once.

A small nod.

And then he’s gone.

It’s all you’ll get.

And maybe it should be enough.

But as you stand there, blinking back the ghost of a dream, the echo of his voice, his touch, you know it’s not.

Still, you carry it.

Even if it breaks your heart a little more each time.

thanks so much for reading <3 my Bucky requests are open!!

[occamstfs]

Zero to Hero

In a world with superpowered celebrities, how could one not long to join them. Despite discovering his own cerebral abilities, Shirong/Zero always longed for the flashier sort of strength. When he finally gets the call up to the big leagues, he’ll get just that- though not quite how he always dreamed.

Went a little crazy with this one haha! Bit different than it was on the poll and with quite a long preamble before the TF, which starts at the red 0 0 0 if you want to skip straight to the action ;) Otherwise, I hope you enjoy this story of a hero unknowingly giving up his brain for some brawn! -Occam

Everyone wants to be a superhero. You grow up your whole life watching the Hero Corps jetting around, saving lives, doing flashy photo ops. It’s no wonder every kid out there wants to follow in Mustang’s or Lady Libertas’ footsteps. 

Shirong Ling was not exempt from the sway of these heroes and heroines. Again, who could be. All his youth the young son of second generation immigrants pushed himself to his limit, toiling as hard as he can athletically to end up a bench warmer and max out his lifts at what actual athletes label a warmup. Physically, Shirong plateaued before he even began. 

In just about every other regard, the young man excelled with flying colors. Something of a tech whiz, every adult in his life keeps him on retainer for ever-needed support. He aced rigorous course loads and went above and beyond in any non-athletic extracurriculars, though despite that all he still struggles to accept he’ll never see his name in lights.

His parents longed to see him happy and worried the glitz and glamor of those oiled up superstars was doing irreparable damage to their young man’s ego. After graduating he was on the precipice of finally accepting that it’s just going to be a civilian’s life for him. And then, it happened. 

As is more often the case, Shirong just woke up one day and had superpowers. Quite the bizarre one, the information age youth found himself with the ability to access anything on the internet with his mind. Finally it all made sense to the student, just like his parents said, he had misplaced his priorities though mind now brimming with ever increasing knowledge he’s certain they were not correct in the way they intended.

In terms of the U.S. Hero Corps operations, he was a brainiac. Some superhuman with ultra-enhanced intelligence or similar mind-based paranormal powers. Indisputably useful and outright necessary for any of the hero teams bustling about the world. No team can truly function without heroes like Shirong is to be, though rarely does one have the star power or flat out endurance to make the mainstage and headline a team. 

Knowing this, as well as anything else he forces his awareness to understand, as soon as he honed his skills enough to be useful Shirong hatched a plan. Filled with the confidence of an upstart grappling with unlimited power, he knows exactly how he can be one of the greats. After a few years stateside of using his nigh-limitless knowledge to solve problems that have long plagued just about every field that he has the slightest interest in, when the USHC makes a call for new heroes the multihyphenate is quick to answer. 

Unfortunately for the young hero, he doesn’t even make it in the room, his brand simply isn’t strong enough. They already have a brainiac and Shirong doesn’t even have a logo or heroic deed to his name. Returning home to a bedroom filled wall to wall with degrees he barely lifted a finger to earn, he chides himself for not taking this seriously enough. Spending that night learning everything there is to know about the USHC and their recruitment process.

The next morning he rises a new man and broadens his horizons. Almost immediately into his research he hears that the Beijing chapter of the ZYL has an unexpected need for a new brainiac. Before the sun sets across the Atlantic, Shirong has applied with a new alias and persona. Zhihui 0, Zhìhuì Líng, literally Wisdom Zero. 

Pitching himself as a returning wayward son to that most ancient of nations, as well as a fresh new tech savvy immigrant hero, the Beijing chapter is more than happy to welcome him onboard. He masters Mandarin, Xiang, and Cantonese on the flight over. The whole thing goes as well as he had expected his application to the USHS would, not that he’s bothered. Known mononymously as Zero to his new team, he fits in swimmingly and in little time at all finds himself quickly making waves and getting heat that brainiacs seldom enjoy. 

Never pick of the litter mind, but Zero is reaching heights in Beijing that any man in the van usually struggles to do. Almost as much effort is spent spreading his name as doing good. Zero’s happy to find that the Chinese audience seems primed for a young waifish heartthrob in a way that American fans of the USHC don’t appreciate nearly as much. Faster than he even expected he’s tagging along to group events and glitzy photo shoots. 

With each bound forward and new height of his rising star, Zero never lets himself forget that this whole jaunt abroad is but a stepping stone towards American Stardom. Sure, the language and culture were truly nothing for a man with his skills to overcome and appreciate, and he does truly enjoy the opportunity to service and enjoy a city more than twice as large as NYC. But, having been SF born and bred, the need to reach those specifically American superstar heights is simply too deep.

And in reality he’s beginning to see the limits of his influence in this non-native land. I mean c’mon, the leader of his team is literally the Sun King. Some self-styled computer whiz isn’t going to displace a monkey man literally dubbed Wukong at birth. No, despite knowing he’ll only continue to burn brighter in China, checking the stories etched into his mind of heroes who settled down and grew complacent, Zero refuses to slow.

So, when there’s talk of a hero trade with the USHC, Zero is first in line to return stateside. Using every scrap of influence he has in Beijing, he arranges himself to be sent in exchange for Trailblazer, some bruiser type woman who’s sure to do some dirty work for the ZYL. Before it’s even been finalized, Zero leaves his research and tech with his actual replacement, some meek diviner named Yijing, and he books a flight back home.

Yet again, there’s not a doubt in Zero’s mind that he is soon to be the next big all star in the USHC. He can see his face on billboards now, leading the American superintel team, blazing new ground for all those little ones out who’ll never be able to go toe to toe with bruisers and their ilk. It’s been so long since he’s been, this time no one will be able to stop him. Zàijiàn Beijing, welcome back America.

0 0 0 - 0 0 0 - 0 0 0

It isn’t until his first meeting with the team leader, Mustang, that he finally learns that his dreams do not align with the USHC plans. “Now listen here Zero, ain’t all that bad y’know. Team just don’t need another brainiac right now. Higher ups, the powers that be- Well, they just think that Binary is more than enough an ace that we don’t need two of yas.”

Zero frowns, biting his tongue to not insult the man’s intelligence. Mustang has always been one of his favorite heroes, dim as he may be. Hearing that famous, simple drawl in person is almost enough to distract Zero from the acerbic words spilling from his mouth as he’s reminded that the Corps are just pawns for management to do with as they please. Pieces to play when there is something that need punching, or punching bags when they need to save face.

No, he knows he has no reason to fight with Mustang, who despite his poor job relaying the message, obviously means well with his new teammate. Who Zero doesn’t care for however, is the stoic android who has been standing motionlessly behind his hero since they entered the room. Binary, the current USHC brainiac supreme, some old tech instilled with life that masquerades as a real once-human superhero. Oft kept in the shadows where their rusty profile belongs. 

Apparently the foremost opponent in his way. Them, Zero has no qualms in attacking. ”So you’re telling me this geratic hunk of junk is just going to keep his spot on the roster forever? I’m smarter than them, faster! I mean for fucks sake surely management can see the lengthy list of pros to having an actual human being as the head of their intel department.” The android’s face remains unmoving as Zero tears into them.

Mustang scratches the back of his neck uncomfortably. Groaning to himself as he readjusts his immense weight, “Now hold on there littlun let’s not be too hasty. You, me, and Dupree ere’ll be a team no matter which way this shakes out. It’s just-” Mustang takes a second to adjust, unlike his two present compatriots thinking does not come naturally, “from what Binary thinks, the know-it-all biz just don’t got that high-profile pull that you’re after.”

Hearing the android’s right on the money, Zero’s eyes flicker from Mustang back to his would-be boss only to find the blank slate that must always be painted on their face. Rolling his eyes, he impetuously sighs and skips ahead in the conversation, “So what’s the other option?”

The hero smirks, “Ah! All you thinkers- Love it! So, I’m not gonna pretend to know anything bout the details, but Binary and the researchers’ve ‘pparently made this serum that’ll let any superdude and wonder gal unlock some latent powers. So, we’re thinkin’ what better way to introduce our new techie, Zeehooey Zero than by unveiling you as the first ever do-it-all supe! Ain’t that right Binary?”

The bot slowly nods, still betraying nothing of the processes ongoing behind their synthetic face. “Affirmative. Should Shirong so desire, I, we, have been allowed to grant access to the department’s notes on the program.” Without waiting for a response, Binary’s eyes flash a cold blue as he gives the new Corps member access to the proprietary notes. Immediately Zero’s mind rushes in, spreading thin to learn everything there is to know, searching for a downside, an ulterior motive, a trap.

Unfortunately for the scion of the internet, the trap was laid for him in mind. Binary’s impassive facade finally cracks as they watch him fall hook line and sinker. Highlighted to a degree that should certainly raise red flags, Zero is directed towards the most likely powers gained: super strength, endurance, enhanced reflexes and healing. Exactly the superhero cocktail that every big shot in the league has. 

The young man is so excited by the prospect he doesn’t even realize that the side effects and expectations for his case have been completely scrubbed. As Binary expected. In a microsecond their face falls flat once more and Zero returns from his brief sojourn in the notes on this mystery procedure, not even trying to hide how eager he is to get this done as soon as possible. 

He tells himself he has no choice, that it’s this or nothing. Zero pushes down the excitement quickly overtaking him, the surging theories and potentialities that lay ahead of him, and fanart of himself as a brawny, well-muscled superhero. His eyes slam shut as he forcefully stops himself from imagining the threads on various less than puritanical sites of himself well-hung and oiled up.

After a moment of resetting Zero clears his throat and nods, completely ignoring Binary, “Yeah, Shi de. I think this is something that I’d be interested in doing, sir-” Mustang lights up and promptly reaches over the desk to dap Zero up, “Fuck yeah! I mean who can resist y’know!? Just imagine, you ‘n me ripped as all get out. Brain ‘n brawn, can’t wait littlun- er, for now that is! Hah!”

Mustang gets up with a grunt, ruffling Zero’s hair as he walks by, an eager smile on his face, betraying nothing but his ignorance of whatever Binary has in store for Zero. Binary remains motionless, eyes powering down as they await the new hero to follow the commando before heading off to research where his is to ‘discover his new powers.’ The android would laugh, but that would be unbecoming. yes.

0 0 0 - 0 0 0 - 0 0 0 

Zero doesn’t quite understand the outfit they’re having him wear for the procedure. He was ready for a gown or something similar, but these are just, well, gym clothes? Obviously he read the notes and knows the whole thing is far less invasive than one would expect. But as he changes into a tank top, he can’t help but feel ridiculous. 

Pulling up shorts he hasn’t worn since high school, the young hero grimaces as he sits alone waiting in the smallest of the HQ’s operating rooms. In the meantime he does what he always does, to prepare for what’s to come, to kill time. He retreats into his mind. The whole thing is kind of insane, but from his expansive understanding that’s just how it is in the big leagues.

For a moment he considers trying to dive into the USHC’s data on Binary but is promptly denied access. Something about that bot was off. Another time. He shouldn’t let the piece of chrome get him bothered, this is a win, he’s going to be brain, brawn, and out of that brainiac’s jurisdiction. He should focus on himself.

And so he does, racing through the web past fanfic and photoshopped pictures of Zhihui Zero, shifting through long dead links on superhero fanblogs. He knows exactly what he’s looking for as he dives deep into a long abandoned forum kept running through the power of his mind alone. There he finds a post he made decades ago accompanied by a sloppy drawing of a costume that looks not too dissimilar from his current one, albeit on a much broader figure. ‘I wish I could be a superhero. I want super strength and super sped!! And to fly and be able to talk to dogs :) here’s my costume i hope you like it!’

Sitting in this room on the precipice of becoming a new type of hero, a new eidolon of man, Zero simply grins. And then grimaces as his connection slowly fades into static. Shaking his head at being dampened without warning, he returns to the meatspace and sees a doctor not much older than himself smiling with a datapad. “Oop! Sorry about that though you of course knew you were going to be disconnected during this procedure hm?”

In the end, not a world away from Binary himself, Zero performs cerebral stoicism in the face of this man whose eyes glimmer with curiosity and interest. He nods as the scientist continues, “I must say our team is so intrigued by your abilities! I mean a direct connection to a fully manmade phenomena! Well, it’s no wonder Binary wants their hands on-” 

Before he can finish the sentence his free hand flies to an earpiece and his face falls slightly, clearly being reprimanded by someone watching in. Zero turns to the visible camera and waves at what can only be the android, who must be obsessed with him he thinks with a smirk. 

Clearly more muted than he’d like to be, the doctor restates his excitement for the procedure, gets Zero to sign off on a few wavers he should’ve read closer, and puts a friendly hand on his shoulder. “Let’s see what a bruiser we’ll make out of you!”

 Zero does a double take at this, bruiser is a very specific word in hero parlance. Bruiser, Brute, muscle without a brain. His eyes shift back to the camera which is obviously inscrutable. He’s just in his head from being disconnected. He just needs to lay back and let the doctor work. The quietly smiling man moves with some degree of melancholy in his eyes as he puts an anesthesia mask on Zero. Would’ve sworn there were people for that, anesthes- anasteesy- olo just, uh-

0 0 0 = 0 0 0 = 0 0 0

And then he’s awake. His mind humming once more with his powers returned and he lets loose a sigh of relief. Worried about nothing.  Like a computer starting up he flexes his mind and ensures he has access to everything he should, as he does every morning. Pinned like a bookmark to the front of his consciousness is the drawing of him buff and flexing. Looking down at his form, the same as ever he feels nothing but embarrassed.

Distinctly colder from the friendly face that laid him to rest, he is greeted by Binary as he awakens. “Excellent. Now time for the true test.” Still running through start-up processes, Zero simply stares. “I trust you are familiar with the novella: Jekyll and Hyde Mr. Ling. As you are aware with my superior processing power we have little need of a second Dr. Hyde, although, I do appreciate the greater understanding of your abilities which I am sure our associates will make use of down the road. You know, when I have need of a portable computer. However, at his juncture Shinrong, it is time for you to become the Jekyll.” 

For the first time, Zero sees Binary smile before they quickly turn and sidestep out of the room, leaving him alone in this clinical cell. Going to follow in their footsteps, the young man is unsurprised to find Binary locked the door behind them.

 Zero’s face burns red as his mind overheats. He forces his eyes closed as he puts all available energy within him towards overclocking his powers to find out what is going on. Was he tricked, what did he miss in the contract, how does he get out of this room. And then sharper than any headache he’s suffered in his life, Zero falls to the floor as he hits a wall in his mind that has simply never been there before. 

Gasping in shock, Zero hoists himself up on the operating table, arms struggling far more than they should for how light his form is. Hesitant to delve into the internet he checks his surroundings in reality and notices what must be a one-way mirror at the back of the OR, He scowls at his reflection, not knowing who on the other side led him down this path of being a lab rat. He wonders if Mustang was in on it, picturing his genial face, it only introduces more anger in the young man. 

Zero slams a fist down on the table with strength he didn’t know he could summon. Tools on a tray table nearby shake as he does so, no way he could’ve manifested such force. Looking down at his hand still forcefully in place, Zero gasps as he sees the slightest dent in the table. He pulls his arm up to inspect it, using his mind to summon what it should look like and comparing it to how it is now. 

Even this is more difficult than it should be. The intricate assessment should be second nature to his supermind. At present though, Zero’s unable to perform minute calculations groaning he simply goes over the big picture. New veins trail down his arm and with each slight twitch of movement they pulse thicker. Photoshopped images of his bulging biceps, burned into his subconscious as they are, burst to the front of his mind and he suddenly forgets whatever difficulties he's having with his abilities to instead inspect his arm.

His stomach dances as he raises it to flex, smirking as he sees new muscle begin to grow. Stretching and twisting his right arm, he focuses on it with an intensity he hasn’t brought to the real world in years. Drinking in each shifting muscle fiber as they expand. Quickly bringing it into a flex he’s beside himself with primal joy as he sees it peak higher. He does it again, and again. Each time his stare grows hungrier as the bicep bloats larger, rises higher, like a loaf of bread. 

Usually able to keep a running awareness of his body’s processes, Zero simply feels his racing heart and sharp breaths rather than passively watching numbers shift. He forces his hand on his chest, feeling his palm spreading wider, fingers stretching longer and growing fatter across his thin chest. Zero struggles to slow his breathing. Upon his first deep breath he realizes his arms are not the only change. 

He smells the anesthesia in a medicine cabinet across the room, discarded sweat covered tissues and latex gloves in the sterilized trash. Eyes widen as he smells in real time his body odor changing. The muted rarely present stink of his old self issuing forth from his left pit at his left arm begins its rapid journey towards the powerful arm of a hero. Opposite, already changed, he feels the few hairs in his pit joined by a small garden as it now carries the musk of a man, the stink of a hero. 

Turning away from the glass, Zero’s face red from rage softens to one more pink from embarrassment. Thank god they got him in these stupid shorts and not spandex. He smells his heady musk changing with every passing second, grossing stronger as his arms hang heavier and bulge larger. Their odor is then joined by a new scent as he smells pre dripping into his suddenly strained underwear.

Desperately trying to readjust and obscure his newly bulging dick, Zero grunts as every time his clumsy fingers graze it it only becomes more unwieldy. Biting his lip, he forces down his leg, leaving a pipe more than clear in the shorts but allowing him at least a modicum of dignity. His heavier balls pulse with need and his mind that rarely leaves room for sexual fulfillment simply demands that he take in his reflection.

Zero smiles as he sees himself becoming the man he always dreamed he could be, would be. Flexing an arm briefly, letting his long pit hairs drip freely, his eyes then trail down. Past his bulge he, for the first time, notices his calves beginning to surge larger. Doing a quick calf raise, Zero nearly falls over as his whole body stretches taller in that half a moment. And so he does so again, the sound of cracking bones fills the air as his whole form lengthens.

Legs that were already struggling to put on mass to match his new bulky arms surge into overdrive as they race to become the trunks that any top heavy superheroism demands. Long toes burst free from the shoddy surgical shoes they had him in, leaving his grippers exposed as his soles widen into nigh perfect shock absorbers for the hero. He flexes his toes and feels even this awaken more strength in calves, sending shockwaves of growth through the length of his lower body. 

Completely forgetting about losing his mind, unaware that the fire wall he came across moments ago has only continued to shrink inward, one thought surges to the forefront. Zero needs to see what these bad boys can do. Stretching his longer legs to their limits, patting thighs and hearing how dense his muscle mass has grown in such a short time, Zero moans to himself as his pre leaks even more than his memory.

Eyes almost crossing as the thighs that now strain his pants leave his balls little room to breath, his cock straining them even moreso. Zero shifts one of the meaty palms clutching his thigh to instead tear off his underwear. 

This is done with ease, fabric he couldn’t tear without tools is suddenly scattered to the floor as stained boxer briefs are torn away from his form. It’s of little matter unfortunately as in no time at all his legs surge large enough to leave the athletic shorts skin tight.

Problem solved, he laughs to himself as he remembers what his next move was. He was going to see how high he could jump. Crouching down in an instant, he flings himself immediately into the heavily reinforced ceiling of the room before crashing back onto the floor. Thankfully pain was not a sense enhanced as he lies in a heap on the floor, doing something between groaning in pain and laughing at himself.

Resting his fat hand on his chest to steady his breathing once more, he feels one of the few remaining frontiers of his body begin to puff up. With each gasping breath new weight begins to pile onto his chest. Think fingers cup his forming pecs and the bulge in his pants struggles against its confines as his nipples poke into his new mitt.

Perfectly round pecs pounding larger with the beat of his powerful heart, Zero takes a moment to reflect. Why did he just jump headfirst into the ceiling? He never acts without thinking. He should’ve known he’d shoot into the reinforced tiles. It was his job to do the math on stunts like that for his team. It is his job, what he’s good at. Narrowing his eyes, he tries to see the numbers in front of him. 

At first Zero’s able to at least summon the equations in front of him. He can almost recognize the formula, what he’s supposed to do with it and what goes where, almost. Then they fade, becoming little more than spots in his vision. His mouth falls open as it now is almost always to be, bruisers being something synonymous to mouth breathers it’s no wonder that Zero is apt to join the rest of his new cohort. 

On the cold sterile floor, an ass that has yet to slow down its growth begins to send tears down his shorts. Joining veiny thighs and a veinier dick, it’s only a matter of time before Zero is truly baring it all to his colleagues. He tries to ignore the image of fans across the world staring at his ass, admiring his bulge. Feeling his cock throb, both staining and straining his shorts, Zero stays strong. No, he was going to figure it out.

Still the same stubborn man he’s always been, Zero once more tries to do the math, just to show that he can, to himself. This time he struggles to even produce the first digits of the problem. Falling back on an old trick, he uses his meaty digits to try and direct his mind. 

He hasn’t needed to do this since he was first starting out, he’s never had trouble organizing his mind. He’s taken great care to stay sharp, or rather he did? His crutch, his clumsy fingers struggle to offer any aid. Arms raised his musk is once more sent spewing into the open air causing him no small degree of distraction.

Sitting up in frustration, he slams an arm into the side of the operating table. His frustration only accelerates his growth. Raw, primal emotion numbs the mind and sharpens his massive form. Pecs form a wide overhang above abs so well sculpted they must have been crafted by hand. While his new hands lack finesse, this shortcoming is more than overshadowed by arms as powerful as thick and powerful as some of the strongest normies thighs. 

Standing to his feet with a deep, bovine groan, Zero is reunited with his reflection. He is truly unrecognizable. As he watches his face begins to change, jaw widening, eyes dulling. He motions his hand to bring up a saved image of himself, something that should be the easiest thing in the world, but fails to produce even a memory. Static fills his ears as cotton fills his mind. He just watches, breathing in through his mouth as he hungrily stares at himself, changing and growing.

Walking closer, inspecting his massive chest, he bounces his pecs. The static grows louder. The pecs grow bigger. Forgetting he was even trying to do a comparison, his mouth waters as he instead flexes every bulging muscle on his new form. Hypnotized by his massive chest as it pushes his tank to its limits. They’re like nothing he’s ever seen before, like no man he can imagine. His eyes fill with wonder as his pecs continue to inflate as if they were hooked up to an air compressor.

Standing there, staring at his own powerful body, finally being the superhero he always wanted to be. He would almost feel disdain for being the little know-it-all he once was. The scheming little runt who solved calculus problems for the real heroes, the little guy who stared longingly at alpha heroes like the brute he is now. He sneers as he imagines being such a pipsqueak. 

He would, that is, were he not on the fast track to forgetting that’s who he ever was. Hips bucking, Zero rapidly begins to forget his connection to the sum of all human knowledge. His abilities at solving mysteries and effortlessly uncovering buried answers as Zhihui Zero are rapidly wiped from his mind as his balls begin to bulge, pulsing with need.

Mouth watering at his splendor, his strength, he can’t imagine being anything but the strongest man in the room. His hips reflexively buck as he laughs at the idea that maybe he’s got supervirility too. The dumb thought only turns him on all the more. He guffaws to himself, switching poses each time his dripping cock thrusts forward, quickly breaking free of his shorts. 

Massive arms fall forward on the one-way glass that Zero recognizes as nothing but a mirror with enough force to shake the whole room. Staring at his dumb eyes reflected, seeing not a single thought behind them, Zero’s whole body twitches and contorts as he loses control. Spewing his load into the once sterile OR, his heavy breaths steam the glass as his sweaty palms send cracks across the glass simply from holding his weight against them.

His enhanced nose finds its way into his pits to smell his hormones change as he finally tastes sweet release. Fuck that’s the good stuff. Tongue out, panting like an animal, Zero becomes exactly the boorish brute that Binary intended him to be, no, even more of one. Judging by the truly immense size and strength of the USHC’s new behemoth it’s clear that Binary severely underestimated how useful the young technomage would have been. 

Before the new brute gets the wise idea to clean up the spilled cum with his tongue, the door at the far side of the room rears open and in walks Mustang and Binary. The android’s face squirms at the powerful odor of the room, kicking themselves for ever giving themself the ability to smell before turning it off. Adversely, Mustang is absolutely stoked to have another bruiser on the team, “Yeeehaw?! Zero that you dude!?” 

Apathetic to the still dripping cock, Mustang tosses his new teammate a towel and goes over for a bear hug. Zero is similarly ecstatic to see his captain and he tests his own strength on the man built well stronger than a stallion. Embracing and feeling camaraderie in strength, Zero’s cock immediately begins to stir again and Mustang laughs, “Shoo- Gonna need RnD to whip up some real ultragrade spandex to keep that pecker under control ‘ere Zero!” 

The two men laugh for a few seconds before Binary clears their robotic throat. Zero takes a step to look past his leader and is less than pleased to see the android, “Hm, what brings the old recycling bin by Cap?” Mustang pats him on the back and offers a stern look to half-reprimand him as Binary rolls their robotic eyes with a canned, “Hah Hah.” After a moment they continue, “I am simply here for the aftermath of the experiment, Zero.”

Zero’s thick brow furrows and he scratches his wiry pubes peeking above the towel, struggling to remember exactly what experiment must’ve just happened. Lucky for the boor, Binary is more than happy to explain, “Likely you do not recall, as intended, but before coming in here you were a fellow brainiac.” Zero scowls, looking down at his meaty hands he shivers performatively at the idea of being unable to lift a truck. 

“Anyway. You were able to access knowledge from the internet straight from the aether, now I perhaps underestimated the use of this judging by how drastic the counterweight transformation was.” Three sentences in, Zero is finding himself more than bored with the bot. Who cares what he used to be IF he even used to be some nerd, instead his eyes flit to Mustang’s rugged chin and meaty pecs as he wonders whose are bigger.

“Now, should you ever wish to access the power again I will have tech give you equipment to do so. You must keep in mind that any use would directly draw from your strength and form. Now-” Zero interrupts, “Boooooring- Why’d I ever wanna trade brawn for brain Binary? I mean look at me? There’s a reason me ‘n Stang are on lunch boxes. I’ll leave that nerd shit to you. Thanks.”

Slightly regretting adding another meathead to their team, Binary shifts their weight and puts a pin in this conversation, “Very well.” Mustang then seizes the floor and throws his arm around Zero, “Now bud, new powers means new identity, got any ideas kickin’ around in that thick-head o’ yours?” Pinching the bridge of their nose, Binary chimes in with, “What of Idiot Savant, I think it’s-”

They’re interrupted as they often are by their ever louder cohorts as Mustang waves his hand in an arc, “Oh how ‘bout Stud! Wouldn’t mind havin’ a real partner on the team. Stud ‘n Stang, I can see it now!” 

Zero then retreats into their mind to the long imagined image of himself as a brawny hero that remains firmly implanted in his psyche, internet access or not. “Y’know, I’d love to do my mom and pops proud, and they always liked Zero. Would it be alright if I kept the name?” The image of his shoddily sketched costume, still burning bright in his eyes. He’d need to go up more than a few sizes.

Binary and Mustang stare at each other before the captain shrugs. The android’s eyes light up as they set to work, “I’ll send it up to Marketing.” Not soulless, probably, they see the intensity in Zero’s expression and tack on, “I’m sure they’ll find the idea acceptable.” Zero pumps the air with a “fuck yeah!” and faster than Binary has a chance to react he rushes over to hug the robot. 

Patting them on the back hard enough to loosen a few screws, the android sounds winded despite lacking lungs, “for future celebrations a handshake will suffice!” Zero waves them off and after a few seconds allows them freedom from his grasp, leaving them more than a little sweat stained. 

Finally, Mustang saunters over and joins the pair. Putting a massive arm around each compatriot, he starts leading both out the door, “Now it’s about time to get those massive lats fitted for some spandex dontcha think kid?” And so the trio depart, Binary working on a report and Mustang yammering about their other teammates. Zero doesn’t quite hear as he is preoccupied imagining his new start and his first proper day as the hero he has always dreamed he could be.

[demie90s]

please do caitlin clark x hyper femme reader that attends her game! maybe reader isn’t super tall but always wears heels so same height, has custom jackets, etc

𝐂𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐥𝐢𝐧 𝐂𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐱 𝐅𝐞𝐦!𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

All Eyes On You

MASTERLIST, MORE

Summary: You’ve been showing up to every game in custom jackets, heels, and lip gloss sharp enough to cut through tension. You don’t hoop, but you’re a problem. Especially for Caitlin, who can’t seem to stop looking your way.

Genre: Slow tension, flirtation, soft build, off-court vibes

Warnings: Mild language, flirtatious energy, one-sided pining (but mutual 👀)

Word Count: ~ 0.4k

Vibe: Femme power, ‘you’re on my mind mid-game’, heels louder than your thoughts energy

You didn’t need to go to every game.

You weren’t one of those obsessive fans with season tickets and group chats about stats. You had a life, a schedule, plans. You showed up when it made sense. But when you did show up? You showed up.

Black heels. Tight jeans. A cropped varsity jacket custom-made just for the moment—white and gold satin, her number embroidered near your heart in sleek black thread: #22. A little sparkle stitched under it, subtle but loud enough if someone looked too long. And they always looked too long.

Especially her.

Caitlin noticed you before you ever said a word.

At first, it was just curiosity. You didn’t dress like the rest of the crowd. You didn’t cheer like them either. You weren’t loud. You didn’t jump and scream. You leaned back in your seat, legs crossed, watching like you knew something. Like you were scouting her. Or challenging her. And maybe that was why she looked at you too long the first night.

And the next. And the one after that.

It became a thing. If you were in the building, she’d know before tip-off. Could feel it. The way her focus tightened. The way her passes got sharper. The way her game got just a little more electric—like she was performing for someone, but didn’t want anyone to know.

She didn’t even know your name. Until one night—mid-season—you weren’t there.

She’d been looking. Scanning the same section she swore you always sat in. But nothing. No heels. No hair. No sly little smile. And for the first time all season, her game was… off. Her rhythm shook. Her shots missed. Her mood? Gone.

“Rough night?” one of her teammates asked in the locker room.

Caitlin shrugged. “Yeah. I guess.”

No one asked why. But if they looked close, they’d see her glance toward the stands one last time before leaving.

You didn’t come back until two weeks later. This time, in a black trench coat and a new custom piece. Gold chain, thin and sleek, the pendant resting just at your collarbone: C22.

She saw it when you stood.

And she didn’t miss a single shot after.

Y’all didn’t talk until after the season ended.

Post-game meet-and-greets were usually a blur, but that night she walked straight over to you. Not a word. Just stood in front of you, hands on her hips, sweat still clinging to her neck.

“Nice necklace,” she said, trying not to grin.

You tilted your head, playful. “You earned it.”

That’s how it started.

Messages. Banter. Video calls. A slow unraveling. You never pushed. You let her come to you. And she did. Every time. With stories about practice, little updates about film breakdowns, inside jokes from games you’d barely watched. You’d ask what she was wearing, just to fluster her. She’d ask what you were cooking, knowing damn well you were ordering Uber Eats.

Then came the first gift.

She opened her locker one day to find a new jacket—deep maroon, her initials stitched into the lining. Hidden on the inside collar, where only she’d see it, was a small embroidered script: “All eyes on you.”

No note. Just that. But she knew.

You didn’t have to show up all the time. That was never your thing. But whenever you did?

She played better.

The team noticed. Fans noticed. Commentators started asking who you were. Someone on Twitter dubbed you “the mystery muse in stilettos.” And Caitlin?

Caitlin stopped denying it.

“Who’s that in the stands tonight?” a reporter asked post-game once, nodding toward you.

Caitlin’s answer was simple, easy. “She’s mine.”

[psin314]

Hello! I was scrolling through your BSky and was wondering the story behind your OCs Sean and Eugene, also if you plan on doing more art for them.

glad you asked anon! so so glad!!! sean and eugene (i call them yush) - one of my strongest ocs hyperfixations ever, i love them so much. but i'll try to tell about them as short as possible. (everything's under the cut!!)

also more art? easy. i made them in 2019...

funny pics:

pretty pics:

spicy pics: somewhere on their th pages.

a little about the world they live in (i unofficially call it ryzhebes. i made it in 2017 and it still doesn't have a proper name...):

it's almost like our world but hell and heaven, angels and demons + witches exist here too. hell and heaven look pretty ordinary and modern, no lava pools or screams of horror and pain. satan is a tired workaholic, and god uuh angels say he's a nice guy. demons and angels mostly don't care about humans (also humanity doesn't know that all this exists), but some of them love to have their vacations there (all of them can use "magical" disguises to hide their supernatural features and look like humans). after death humans go either to hell or to heaven, where they live a slightly better or slightly worse second life. of course there are some naughty demons (or even angels) who love to do shit like in movies like the exorcist but there aren't that many of them. (i can write more info about this universe if anyone's interested, but let's keep it short for this post.)

so! about my boys. the first version of them was much darker with catholic guilt and a suicide attempt but I don't want them to suffer so they're simply in love and very happy now.

eugene black is a 42 yo demon, a tattoo artist with an engineering degree who knows 20+ languages. loves to drink beer, smoke cigarettes and act like a cool guy in leather with a motorcycle (he can't afford a motorcycle. he lives with his mom. but he can afford a leather jacket and pants.) (also he's silly.) he's a stutterer, has problems with pronouncing the letters d t p, sometimes n and m. and he doesn't really care. loves to talk. sensitive and romantic guy, will do everything for the people he loves. loves his family, has 5 siblings. has health problems, needs to eat a lot, almost all the money he has he spends on food and still can't gain weight much. has a supernatural ability - can teleport wherever he wants, just needs to know the place or see the needed place on the map. (he uses math and physics for this but no one would understand him anyway.) has problems with teleporting from closed spaces.

father sean farrell is a 30 yo catholic priest from ireland. traumatized childhood, father issues, long depression episodes but he's mostly okay now. although anxiety can't leave this man alone. very kind, supportive, understanding and friendly person. he is very non-aggressive and easily controls himself during an argument. loves to listen and help people. although he's a simple priest, goes to the gym and plays rugby regularly. he's… big and strong. (also getting tired physically everyday helps him fall asleep peacefully.) never been in a romantic or sexual relationship before eugene.

how they met.

1994. eugene lost a bet to his friend and had to go to any random church and steal something. hungover, somehow disguised, he went there in the morning and got right to mass. he had to stay and listen. but somewhere along the way he fell asleep. unexpectedly for eugene, someone started trying to wake him up, holding him by the shoulder. it was this priest who was reading mass. the sleeping man smelled of beer and cigarettes, but he slept so soundly that sean was even a little scared. when he finally woke him up, eugene mumbled something unintelligible (probably his name??) and ran away. sean didn't understand anything. and eugene fell head over heels in love, because the priest turned out to be very pretty.

eugene returned to the church in the evening. in his demon form, because he thought that he would quickly go there, steal what he needed and leave. but he crossed paths with father sean there, who was delayed there to clean up. eugene didn't lose his composure, said hello, joked, tried to come up with a reason for his presence. but sean was silent and looked at him strangely. eugene looked at his hands and realized that the priest was now seeing a demon in front of him. as soon as he raised his head, he received a thick bible book in his face. eugene tried to calm him down, sean wanted to hit him with the book again. but eugene managed to grab him by the wrist and carry him with him to hell.

they fell on top of each other on the road near eugene's house. sean was starting to get hysterical, but eugene, sitting on top of him, grabbed him by the hands and very angrily asked him to calm down and that nothing bad would happen. surprisingly, this calmed sean down. he noticed eugene's nose was bleeding and gave him a handkerchief… (sean thought it was because of the bible blow but teleportation took a lot of eugene's strength. now he'll have to wait until he rests to be able to bring sean back.)

sean looked around, hell looked… nice. normal. an ordinary suburb of a small town. trees are blooming, it smells like normal evening air and and the rain that has just passed. then they went to eugene's house, luckily his mother wasn't home, he made sean some green tea and told him a little about hell, demons, himself and his stupid bet. sean was mostly silent because he was in shock. then a couple of hours later he brought sean back. they went their separate ways.

eugene couldn't stop thinking about sean, he fell in love, he wanted to see him again. sean couldn't sleep either. he had to rethink his whole life, but it didn't work out very well, there was too much of new information. as a result, eugene returned to the church after some time. this time sean noticed him first and immediately ran to him, to discuss reality.

they started talking to each other. first on the topic of the universe, and then moved on to personal topics. started seeing each other more often. it didn't affect sean's faith much in the end, although he almost had 7 nervous breakdowns at once. being a priest still made sense and he continued to do what he always did. he already sort of knew that all this existed. just not in the form that he imagined.

(yes, there are no classic demon-priest relationships here, where the demon seduces the priest and destroys him. it's a romcom. :))

well and yes, after a few months their talking to each other turned into romantic interest. sean slowly fell in love with eugene. he didn't really care that eugene was a man, he wasn't homophobic but he couldn't come out yet. he was naturally worried that eugene was a DEMON and also... celibate yeah. he had never had a relationship, but what he felt for eugene was a very pleasant feeling.

so a few weeks later of what should i do what should i do, one warm evening, sean kissed eugene, and then quickly ran away, because they almost got seen. they met that same night, in the park, in their usual place, where no one would see them. sean wanted to tell eugene that he did it by accident without thinking, they need to stop this, but this time eugene came to kiss him and sean forgot about everything. now they were kissing properly. sean didn't know what to do, this was all wrong, but he really liked eugene. they talked about it and decided to have secret meetings.

after some time it led to sex ofc... after it sean was kind of happy, but also worried even more. one part of him said that this needed to end, and the other part said that he loved eugene. sean told him about it again. they both came to the conclusion that they love each other. eugene didn't want to ruin sean's life so he doesn't mind becoming the priest's secret wife.

im talking to much sorry, and this part to this day isn't properly explained haha ​​sorry x2 i just want them to be happy.

well, in the end. they continue to date and love each other, keeping their secret. (eugene's whole family and his best friends know that he's fucking a priest.)

(sean said that eugene's like a star for him, that of all the billions of shining stars, he found the brightest one. and eugene didn't know that he can say things like that. maybe i'll redraw and repost it someday idk.)

[aeristudios]

2099: A Seventeen Series

50 years ago, the milky way as we know it was destroyed, leaving the remaining human population to find find shelter in another galaxy—deemed The Shattered Nebula. Now it's 2099, and with civilization spawning across several planets, we will follow the lives of the thirteen souls of Seventeen as they carve their paths through love, danger, destiny, and the beyond...

Genres: fluff, angst, smut, sci-fi au, dystopian au

General warnings include heavy topics, depictions of violence and murder, talks of murder, uprisings/rebellions, morally grey characters, recreational drinking, use of guns, etc. Each story will be explicitly tagged and will be 18+ ONLY.

If you would like to sign up to be tagged for each story when it's released, you can sign up here.

✦ Thank you @hobeemin for the banner and dividers ✦

See You, Space Cowboy

✦ ⋆ ࣪. With a bounty on your head, you are determined to get your revenge at all costs… even if it means losing the man that you love.

pt. 1 pt. 2 visual concept 1 visual concept 2 playlist

Girl With The Spider Tattoo

✦ ⋆ ࣪. Jeonghan doesn’t do feelings. He runs his business, takes care of his sister, and lives his life attachment-free. He was okay with that until you showed up, too perfect and careful lies. But despite that, he wants you anyway.

coming soon

Like Wildfire

✦ ⋆ ࣪. She was someone soft from his past, a dreamer who longed to be with the stars—someone who had no business surviving in the bloodstained world Soonyoung lives in. She disappeared during an uprising, and he assumed she was dead. Now, years later, he finds her with the rebels, with eyes like wildfire, ready for revenge.

coming soon

 Lucid Dreams

✦ ⋆ ࣪. After a near-death experience, Investigator Jun starts seeing you in his dreams, someone he doesn’t know but feels deeply connected to. When he tracks you down in real life, you claim never to have met. But each night, the lucid dreams grow stronger… and your reactions start to change.

coming soon

The Fixer

✦ ⋆ ࣪. Chan is a fixer—always ready to please, trained to obey… except for when it comes to you.

Sleeping With The Enemy 

✦ ⋆ ࣪. You're the daughter of a rebel general, forced to marry the crowned prince Joshua to unite the warring factions. You hate each other and it's no secret. But an attempt on your life forces you to share chambers with him, and you aren't so sure you hate him anymore.

coming soon

What Lies Within

✦ ⋆ ࣪. You’re hired to investigate a string of murders tied to relics once held in the now-destroyed Oracle Vault. Minghao, a famous ancient artifact curator, agrees to help you, but only if he gets to keep the relics. The deeper you go, the more disturbing the truths become, and you find yourselves fighting for your lives— and running into each other’s arms.

coming soon

Save Me

✦ ⋆ ࣪. You're a prisoner from Mechara for a crime you did not commit, locked in a floating penitentiary. Injured during a riot, you’re taken to the infirmary, where Seokmin, the resident medic, treats you under strict surveillance. He’s gentle, careful, too kind for this place. And as much as you don’t want to, you start to trust him.

coming soon

T.K.O

✦ ⋆ ࣪. Seungkwan is a smooth-talking promoter who runs underground fights. Everything was going fine until you entered the ring and knocked him off his feet.

coming soon

Cordis

✦ ⋆ ࣪. You’re the sole survivor of an explosion from a chemical lab in Zoie City. Jihoon rescues you, bringing you to his station. He monitors your vitals daily as you recover, watching your heartbeat stabilize in sync with his own. He insists it’s clinical. But he’s lying

coming soon

Erased

✦ ⋆ ࣪. You sell memories on the black market—sliced, edited, and projected. Vernon is your most loyal client, always buying memories that don’t belong to him. One night, he brings you a memory chip he found—a forbidden one—and asks you to watch it with him. It’s a memory of the two of you: laughing, kissing, saying goodbye. You don’t remember it. But he does. And someone out there wants that memory erased—for good.

coming soon

Need You

✦ ⋆ ࣪. You overheard something you shouldn’t have, and you’ve been on the run ever since. Almost at the end of your rope, you turn to the one person you know would drop anything to save you—even though you still hate him for breaking your heart.

coming soon

Peaches

✦ ⋆ ࣪. Seungcheol is at the top of the world as the head of The Organization. He’s respected, feared, and if you are an enemy? Run. But once a month, he returns to his serene hometown to visit his mother… and buy peaches from the girl who doesn’t flinch when she looks him in the eye.

coming soon