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kilojulietsierra · 2 days ago

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Baby, It's Alright - Chapter Three (Dr Robby x FemNurse!Reader)

Ok y'all the storms were messing with my internet last night so sorry for the delay, but here it is!

TW: All my content is considered 18+ so proceed accordingly, fluff, a little smut, early days of dating miscommunication, Robby is a bad influence but also wants to spoil her so bad, mentions of therapy, language, Sam makes another cameo, grammar and spelling cuz I don't edit this shit lol

Need to catch up? Chapter One Chapter Two

~~~~~~

Chapter Three

Michael had let you pick the restaraunt, which you appreciated. You'd picked a small place a few blocks from your apartment. A hole in the wall tavern with an eclectic drink menu and a margherita flatbread you could live on if you allowed yourself. The litghting was dim, the interior was all brick and reclaimed wood, the music was soft and jazzy, you loved this place. You also loved the way Michael looked as he glanced over the menu with his glasses on.

"Friendly reminder, I'm old." He deadpanned from beside you at the bar.

"Not even close to what I was thinking." You can't quite look at him when you say it so you pretend to read the menu.

His knee bumps yours to pull your attention back, "And what exactly were you thinking then?" He settles his eyes on you, the glasses just low enough on the bridge of his nose that he can study you over the top of them.

You wish you had a drink already because your mouth goes a little dry, "Definitly not that you're old." You avoid the question and your cheeks warm at the way he smirks.

He let's it go, though he continues to look skeptical, maybe a little mischievous. "Jack gives me hell, says I should just get lasik. Says it's life changing."

"I like the glasses." You can't bring yourself to look at him when you say it, except out the corner of your eye. Enough that you catch the way his smile ticked up to one side.

"Good to know." Michael nodded and went back to the menu, "Very good to know."

~~~~~

Michael walked you home after dinner and it was chilly enough in the evenings now that you felt justified in sticking close to him. You thought your heart was going to stop when he reached over to grab your hand and pulled it, guided it easily so that he could link your arm through his.

It felt good, it felt easy and right and you had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep what would surely be the most ridiculous smile off your face.

He opened the door to your building for you, and when his hand settled in the middle of your back to guide you through you were nearly certain you would spontaneously combust.

Michael though, Michael seemed so calm and quiet, kept the same easy smile on his face like it was completely normal. When he helped you out of your coat, finally inside your apartment, you entertained the thought. How nice would it be for this to be your normal?

"You want something to drink?"

You grin, "He asks me in my own apartment."

Michael grinned back at you and leaned against the counter in your tiny kitchen, "Well?"

You chew your lip and concedes, "There's a bottle of wine in the fridge, nothing fancy." You try not to feel silly. Your mind automatically jumped to Jack and Sam's house with it's wine cooler and collection of whiskey and bourban. "Sorry, I don't have any bourban or anything like that."

He had already opened and closed the door to your fridge and begun the search through your cabinets for glasses. "Don't need anything fancy." He said it offhand, but then Michael must have seen the look on your face, "Hey, what's wrong?"

You hesitated, "Honestly, just feeling kind of silly I guess." T

he cupboard door thunked and he crossed the small kitchen, his eyes scanned your face and then before you could explain yourself futher Michael was kissing you.

Dr.Michael Robinavitch, was standing in the tiny kitchen, of your tiny apartment, towering over you, one warm hand on your cheek... and kissing you. It was soft and slow and over too soon. "Better?" His smile was soft, his eyes warm and searching as he tried to read your expression.

Your breathing still hadn't regulated, your mind still racing, but you couldn't keep the smile off your face. "Maybe, a little."

When his smile widened and he leaned in to kiss you again, it felt like your heart was going to break free from your chest. His hand didn't move, he didn't move, he only kissed you. Smoothed his lips overs yours in long, steady passes.

When he pulled back he tugged your bottom lip with him and he must of liked the way it made you giggle because he dropped one more kiss to your lips. His thumb stroked over the place where he had treated the airbag burn on your cheeks the couple weeks before. Like an afterthought he tipped his head and dropped a kiss there too, lips just brushing the apple of your cheek. "How about now?" His voice was low and warm and close enough to your ear to send shivers down your spine.

"Feel like I could use that drink now." You couldn't help the near giggle that escaped, but you also couldn't help but notice the way Michaels gaze darted lower, his cheeks a little pink, when you bit your lip to stifle it.

He gave you a smirk and a half chuckle, "I can make that happen." HIs thumb stroked over your cheekbone one more time and then he was back on his search for wine glasses. "Go sit, I'll bring it over."

You did as he said and watched him from your little loveseat as he moved through your kitchen and poured the wine. As he approached you felt simultaneously embarassed by the tiny couch in your tiny apartment, and beyond grateful for it because it left little room to sit anywhere except right up against him.

When he brought you the wine he handed you a glass and then dropped himself into the empty corner of the sofa. He turned to face you, right arm drapped over the back, one leg folded up on the seat cushiion. WIth his other hand he raised his glass, "To finally getting that second date." He clinked his glass to yours, "Worth the wait."

The only answer you could form was an embarrasingly giddy smile that you immediately tried to hide in your wine.

Michael grinned wider and took a sip for himself. "If I can ask, why did you say you felt silly?"

You took another hurried sip of wine and then shook your head, "Nothing really."

He looked at you in a way he hadn't since that first night at Jack and Sam's. Like he was trying to figure something out. "I'd like it if you'd tell me." His expression was so soft, curious, eyes so sincere.

"Well," You start, "Maybe it's stupid, probably is, but I guess it's just that... I really like you and spending time with you and it's just sort of, jarring maybe," You twisted up your face trying hard to put your feelings into a coherent sentence. "Now that i'm saying this out loud I'm actively realizing it's stupid." You busted out into a laugh and finally just spit it out, "My apartment is tiny and embarrassing, and I only have these two wine glasses, like maybe four forks, the bedding on my bed right now is from Walmart and it's like four years old. Feel like I'm playing out of my league I guess."

If the embarrassment didn't kill you after spitting all that out, the look on Michaels face might.

Michael simply shook his head, his grin still present but softer, "You understand that none of that,"

"I know." You interrupt him, shake your head at yourself and lean your head against your hand, mirroring Michaels position opposite you. "I... I do know. Think you just..." the words trailed off as you really studied the way the man across from you was looking at you. The effect it had on you, "You have me all flustered."

His grin turned into a smile, a chuckle even, and he turned his head to one side as he stretched his arm towards you over the back of the couch. Warm, gentle fingers tugged at your wrist until your arm was laid over the back of the couch like his. Michaels fingers traced over the inside of your wrist. He locked eyes with you and kept his voice low, "You think I'm not?"

~~~~~~

You and Robby were dating.

You were dating Dr. Michael Robinavitch.

Dr. Michael "Robby" Robinavitch sent you cute text messages, called you on the mornings or evenings your schedules didn't line up, he even occasionally sent you Doordash while you were on shift.

Like tonight, for example, when you walked past Sam where she sat behind the nurses station at her computer. Her eyes locked on yours with a very satisfied smirk on her face.

"What?" You attempted to play it off as you settled into an empty chair behind the station.

Sam just shook her head, "Didn't say anthing."

"You're thinking something, I can tell." You rolled your eyes as you dug into the bag from your favorite Italian place.

The charge nurse grinned and spun her chair to face you, "You guys are just cute, that's all." Her grin doubled when you pretended to be overly invested in your late night lunch. Sam spun back to her computer, "Wish I had someone to send me lunch from my favorite place in the middle of a long shift."

You scoffed, "Oh please." You stopped with the plastic fork halfway to your mouth. "I wIsh I had a shiny new $90,000 SUV."

Sam laughed as she picked up her water bottle and spun back around to face you, "Just have to ask really nice." She threw you a wink before she took a long drink of water.

"I don't know about that," You paused again to look at your forkfull of food, "Feels weird when he spends money on me, even stuff like this." You took the bite of pasta finally. Savored it for a moment. "Feels like mooching or something."

WIth a scoff Sam spun a circle in her chair, "Honey, not to be that person, but do you know what your new boyfriend makes a year?" Her eyes were wide when she hunted for your gaze, "He has the money to spend, and I know Robby well enough to know that shit like that," She points to the lunch he'd sent you, "That's like a love language for him. He likes taking care of people, especially his people."

The radio on the desk by Sam's computer crackled and squelched before you could respond, or even think through how you would respond. Ambulance service was en route.

You shoved a few more bites of the pasta in your mouth as fast as you could without choking and tried not to get hung up on the fact that Sam had used the word boyfriend. You and Robby were dating, but the words boyfriend or girlfriend hadn't been used, and as silly as it may have been that suddenly made you a little less confident in your new relationship status. '

~~~~~

Want to get dinner tonight? Promise I'll try and get out on time.'

You had stared at that text message longer than you'd care to admit. Wasn't like it was a booty call, it was dinner. Michael had a long weekend and you had the night off. It would make sense to go out, but you had got into your head again.

He sent you the sweet texts, he called you, he took you out, sent you lunch at work, kissed you. In fact, he kissed you like no man had ever kissed you before, but you hadn't yet talked about where this would end up. Did you want the same thing?

When the phone in your hand vibrated you nearly dropped it. Michael Robinavitch.

"Hey."

"Hey, didn't know if you saw my text, want to grab dinner?"

"Michael, am I your girlfriend?" The words were out of your mouth before you could even think twice. Your stomach dropped as you heard yourself speak them outloud.

For a moment the line was quiet. "Yes... at least... I've been working under that assumption." Another long pause. "Is that okay?"

"I'm sorry I," "

Hey, no, Don't apologize. Just..." The deep inhale was audible through the phone, "Can I come pick you up?"

Twelve minutes later there was a knock at your door. You'd spent most of that time panic cleaning and trying not to feel like you were going to be sick. Like you hadn't just messed this up. When you opened the door you stood up straight and prepared for... you didn't know what.

Michael was standing there in his scrubs and a wellworn Carhartt coat with snow still melting on the shoulders. He looked tired, but he still smiled when he saw you.

"Hey." Your voice barely registered to your own ears.

He just tilted his head to the side a bit and his smile grew a little, "Want to tell me what's wrong?"

You took a shaky breath and fidgeted in place, "Nerves I guess. We haven't really... labeled this and I think I just got into my own head."

Michael nodded, "Ok." He shoved his hands deeper into the coat pockets, "Well, I had a long fucking day and I'm starving. So, now I would like to spend the evening with my girlfriend. So, why don't you, said girlfriend, go grab your stuff? We'll swing by the house so I can shower and change quick, then you can tell your boyfriend," He smirks a little at the way you're making a face at him, "Which is me, by the way," He points to himself, "Where you want to go for dinner. Sound good?"

Your cheeks are warm and you can't decide whether to roll your eyes or smile like an idiot. So, you do both. "Yeah, that sounds good."

You furrowed your brow as you stared out the passenger window of Robby's truck. It never really occurred to you, not that you'd been dating for that long, but you didn't know where he lived. Now, as you drove down another tree lined street with little shops and the old, colonial style townhomes you realized you maybe should have asked. "You live in Shadyside?"

"Mhmm. Bought a place over here few years ago. Got it quote unquote cheap because it needed some work." He glanced over at you as he hit the blinker and turned a corner, "Not what you were expecting?"

"I didn't say that." You gave him another eyeroll and watched him grin, "Not sure what I was expecting I guess."

He slowed down and hit a button above the rearview mirror, "Well," He turned into the short drive and pulled the pickup into the ground level garage, "I dumped about half of what I paid for it into renovating it, so hopefully you approve, because I'm stuck with it for awhile."

When he let you into the house you stuttered to a stop just inside. Your heart dropped at the fact that you had ever let Michael see the inside of your tiny apartment, let alone made him sit on the floor with you and eat. You didn't move until you heard the thud of Michaels backpack and felt two hands settle on your shoulders, "I'm going to go wash the hospital off me quick." He kissed the back of your head, "Make yourself at home, snoop around, help yourself to… whatever." He dropped another kiss to the back of your head and then headed upstairs.

In your mind you had imagined Michael in something like Jack and Sam had. A nice house in the suburbs, lots of room, neat and tidy, maybe a pool. You were wrong, because this house, this house fit Michael Robinavitch in a way a house in the suburbs never could. It was warm, lived in but not quite a mess, not roomy, but comfortable. You felt like you could easily make yourself at home in the space, but you weren't sure if that was because of the house, or because it belonged to Michael.

~~~~~

Robby had showered quickly and tried not spend too much time thinking about the fact that he finally had you in his house. He had just stepped back into the bedroom to change when he paused. He heard something, More than just you moving around the house, so he pulled on a pair of jeans and a shirt and headed back downstairs.

If he'd been nervous those feelings disappeared instantly as he came back downstairs and paused around the corner. Robby smirked to himself as he watched you move through his kitchen. Took the moment to stand back, quiet his breathing and watch until you caught him.

You paused, eyes wide and one hand on the refrigerator door, "How long have you been standing there?"

Robby chuckled, "Long enough." He stepped the rest of the way into his kitchen, "What're you looking for?"

"Oh," You looked around, "I thought maybe instead of going out to eat we could make something here."

He took a couple steps closer, smiled and nodded, "I'm guessing you've figured out that I need to get groceries?"

You laughed and Robby couldn't help but smile wider to see it. "Yeah, you really do."

"Okay with takeout? At least for one more night."

"That depends." You bit your lip.

WIth another chuckle Robby shook his head, "You really want Gio's again?" The way your smile doubled told him everything he needed to know. "Ok, pick out a bottle, I gotta go grab my phone and my wallet." He gestured to a built in wine cooler and disappeared back upstairs.

By the time he made it back downstairs, rattling the last few digits of his card off, you had picked out a bottle of wine and apparently found the bottle opener and two glasses. He hadn't needed to ask what to order for you, you always got the same thing, which he found adorable. "Said should be fifteen to twenty."

You met him in the middle of the kitchen with a glass for him, "What do you want to do while we wait?"

Robby grinned, shook his head a little at the glint in your eyes, "How about," He took the glass and set it down before guiding you around to one of the stools tucked under the kitchen island, "We talk about what you said earlier." He held your gaze as he leaned against the opposite side of the island from you, "Because apparently there's been some... miscommunication there. Which is mostly my fault. So, you were worried that this wasn't...?" He let the question trail off in the hopes you would fill in the blank for him.

After a long sip of wine you laid your hands flat on the marble counter top and nodded, "So, Sam said something at work."

Robby let his head bob, snorted because of course it was Sam. Sam always had something to say

"She called you my boyfriend, and it just made me realize we haven't really... put a name or a label on any of this and..." You took a deep breath, flicked your eyes back up to his. "That makes me nervous."

At first he just nodded, tried to hear what you were saying and really understand where you were coming from. "Because that made you think maybe this wasn't as serious as you wanted it to be?" He took an educated guess. When you nodded and looked back to the countertop, Robby nodded along. "I meant what I said when I picked you up tonight. You are my girlfriend. At least that's how I think of you" He scratched at the back of his neck, hearing how silly it sounded, and ducked his head to try and get you to look at him again, "This is real for me, I'm sorry I didn't make that clear." You finally looked up at him, eyes a little glassy, and he gave you a wink, "I'm just a little rusty is all."

You took another sip of your wine and smiled, "Sorry, i've been kind of weird."

Robby brought his wine glass with him as he circled back around the island to come closer to you, "Look at us." He hooked a finger under your chin and tipped your face towards his so he could kiss you briefly, "Communicating." He kissed you again, just a little longer that time.

"Therapist would be so proud." You smiled up at him, chuckled at him when he scrunched his face up and looked away.

"Shouldn't make fun of me." He dropped his hand from your chin to lean on it, fingers splayed wide over the marble counter. "I'm not." You chuckled as you looked up at him. His heart misfired when you raised both hands to rest over his chest.

"I think it's sexy you go to therapy."

"Jesus Christ." He murmered and chuckled at himself, his brain short circuited as he watched your smaller hands smooth over the front of his shirt. It made you laugh, which made him happy. "Anything else would you like to communicate about?" Robby liked the way you rolled your eyes at him. It made him want to do and say whatever it took so you'd keep doing it. He also liked the way you always had to bite back a smile while you did it. "Anything at all?"

You looked up at him from your seat on the stool, grin on your face, and seemed to think for a moment, "We could talk about why you've been slumming it, coming over to my itty bitty, sad little apartment instead of asking me to come over here."

"You assume I've never lived in a cheap apartment?" He grinned and studied your face, got the feeling you were only half teasing. "I wanted to spend time with you, doesn't matter to me where that is." He nodded to himself briefly and then gave you a smile. "This is still new, we're still figuring it all out." He took an extra step closer, dropped a hand to your knee to turn you towards him so he could kiss you again. "Now you know that you are definitley my girlfriend," He gave you an encouraging smile and another kiss, "You also know you can spend as much time here as you want." He spoke the words a breath away from your lips, close enough that he could feel you smile, "Preferably a lot of time."

~~~~~~

You were making out with Michael.

You were sitting on the couch, making out with your boyfriend, Dr. Michael Robinavitch, when you were supposed to be doing homework.

It had started innocently enough. You had the night off and a paper due. Michael had told you to come over and work on it at his place. Which is how you ended up on the couch, your back to his chest while you typed away and he read through case notes on his tablet.

You couldn't remember for sure when his free hand had moved to your arm and his fingers had started to stroke absentlmindedly over your skin. At one point he had startled you, his voice low and so close to your ear as you typed, "That study came out in twenty two not twenty three."

"Are you reading over my shoulder?" You teased even as you pulled up another tab to verify the dates.

Michael just chuckled and kissed the back of your head, kept his lips there, "Sounds good so far." He pressed another kiss behind your ear. "Almost done?"

"Almost." You corrected the date you'd cited for the study. Michael had been correct. You bit back a grin, "It'd go faster if you quit doing that."

"Doing what?" He chuckled even as he kissed the spot again.

"Distracting me." You let yourself smile, but continued typing. Or rather tried to.

"When's it due again?"

You heard the thunk of the tablet as he set it down on the end table and then the lighter sound that must have been his glasses as he set them down on top of it. Then both his hands were on you. "Uh," You had to think for a minute, "Not until tomorrow night. Midnight."

"Hmm." Robby wrapped his arms around you and pulled you tighter to him, "Plenty of time."

"You're supposed to be an educator, should be a better influence than this." You griped, but you still hit save and closed your laptop.

"Oops." He chuckled as you settled back into him and let him take your laptop to move it aside.

You never turned around to face him, just let him hold you like he had been and tip your face towards his. HIs hands on you, but never inappapropriat, never pushing too far. Or maybe not pushing far enough, you couldn't decide. Eventually you started to fidget, "Michael…"

"Hmm?' Was his only response, other than a large hand settling on your hip to keep you still.

After another long, mind numbing kiss, you chuckled, "I don't even know."

Michael grinned, snuck a thumb under the hem of your shirt and stroked it over the warm, soft skin underneath, "Why don't you stay here tonight?"

You froze. That was new. Very new. Coming over and spending time with him, in his home, had become a common occurrence, but you'd never stayed the night.

"You sure?" Your voice was soft when you turned more to look him in the eye.

HIs thumb continued to stroke back and forth over your hip, "Up to you, sweetheart." His eyes locked on yours and held, face soft, hint of a grin fighting at the corner of his lips.

For a long moment you were torn. The idea of spending the night with Michael was terrifying and exhilerating. You two had been going slow, taking your time, this would be… new.

"Hey," Michaels voice was soft and his breath warm against your ear, "Not asking for anything, just…don't want you to leave just yet."

You chewed on your lip for a beat, "Work tomorrow?" When Robby shook his head his grin grew another fraction. "Trying to mess up my sleep schedule more than it already is?"

Robby chuckled, "Can stay up as late as you want." He pulled you back in to another, slower, softer kiss. "Maybe even sleep in."

Barely a whisper you added, "I didn't bring anything to sleep in."

HIs face split into the smile he'd been fighting back, "Even better." He laughed when you elbowed him, hard.

"You really are a terrible influence." You scowl at him over your shoulder, but you couldn't hold it long.

"Don't tell anyone." Michael tossed you a wink and reached to pull you back to him, his eyes locked on yours. HIs Adams apple bobbed as you leaned back into him and he settled his hands on your hips. Not guiding, not pulling, only holding. "Hey," He paused, like he hunted for the words, "It's alright," He paused to inhale deeply as you leaned into him, "Baby, it's alright if…"

You stopped him with a kiss, reached behind you with one hand to pull him to you, "It's alright if I want to stay?"

He smiled, smoothed his hands up your sides. "I'd like it if you did."

"If I stay will you let me finish my paper?" You looked back at him, eyebrow raised.

Michael seemed to consider, "Eventually." He kissed you again, and then let you get comfortable, sink back into him. His hands didn't stop though. His breath warm against your ear, his hands smoothed over your hips and your sides. "Maybe tomorrow."

Your brain had already checked out of any further, meaningful conversation. The only thing on your mind was that you were cuddling on the couch with Michael, making out with Michael, his hands on you, his beard brushing against the smooth skin of your neck. For the rest of the night you could stay like that, there on the couch in his arms if you wanted. Once again his thumb slipped under your shirt, smooth, repetitive strokes.

You could've stayed there as long as you wished, but you wanted more.

A little shocked by your own boldness you dropped your head back against his shoulder, eyes closed, as you smoothed a hand down his forearm. You settled your own hand over his and coaxed it further under your shirt. The satisfied hum, nearly a moan, slipped out as his heavy, warm hand spread wide over your stomach. His touch smoothed up and over your ribcage, his thumb within centimeters of your bra. The next sound you made was much closer to a proper moan and you could feel the way Michaels chest rumbled with a chuckle. "That feels good." You whispered as you felt his lips ghost across your neck.

"Yeah?" His tone matched yours as his left hand joined the other under your shirt. He pressed short kisses over the length of your neck. When you nodded, the kisses grew longer, wetter. "Good. I want you to feel good."

All you could do was nod.

"Want me to stop?" He slowed his movements.

"God no." Your eyes snapped open only to be met with his. Dark and shining with something, a grin on his face.

He brushed his nose a long your jaw before coming back for a kiss, "So, I can keep going then?"

You nodded and he slid his hands higher, the overwhelming heat of it forcing your eyes closed again.

"You want me to make you feel good?"

"Please."

His grip on you tightened with a tremor, his arms locked around you as his fingers dug in and Michael murmured out a strangled, breathless, "Fuck." Into your hair. He let out a long, unsteady breath and moved with a lazy purpose. One hand up and up, over a breast to slip easily into the cup of your bra to squeeze you. His thumb rolled over your nipple like he knew exactly where it would be, how much pressure to apply.

It makes your body react without your permission as you arch up into his touch. "Robby…God."

"Michael." He corrects you, words hot against your ear as his lips close over your earlobe and his grip on your breast tightens.

You whimper, your body rolls again and your own hands grab at his jean covered thighs on either side of you, "Fuck, sorry, Michael. Feels good."

"Good girl." The fingers of his other hand dipped, just barely, past the waistband of your own jeans, "Can I?"

There was no need to ask what it was he wanted, you had a pretty good idea, and besides that you would let Michael do just about anything he wanted to you at that moment. "Yes," Your hips pushed up into his touch, "Please."

His hold on you tightened, pushed you back so you were pressed against him completely again and Michael half chuckled half growled in your ear as he did it. "So sweet." His hand on your hip moved, joined the other, his fingers working together to undo the button and the zipper.

You couldn't help but watch, breath caught in your throat, as he slid his hand further. As it crept closer and closer to where you wanted it. No sound escaped you when his first finger found you so wet and warm, only a long studdering exhale as you let your eyes fall closed again.

Michael also kept silent, his attention focused entirely on where his hand disappeared into your pants. That same, singular finger stroked over you, the tip just barely dipping into your warmth with each stroke. Just when you thought you would have to say something, to ask for more, he gave you more. Like he had read your mind he dipped his middle finger in, one steady move, to the knuckle. His lips pressed to your temple and stayed there as he continued.

Before long he had established a pattern. His finger would sink in deep and then withdraw to circle around your clit. Once, twice and then back to tease you from the inside out. Over and over he did this, like nothing else existed in his world, until your hips had picked up the rhythym. WIth each sweep of his finger you couldn't help but lift your hips up to chase the sensation, then almost immediately grind back against him.

When the silence was finally broken it was with a rumbling chuckle, mostly a groan, Michaels breath hot against your ear, "Going to make me embarrass myself." His other hand settled heavy and firm on your hip, dragging your ass back against his erection and then trapping you there. He held you there with one hand while the other picked up the pace, the same pattern, the same motion, only quicker.

The sound his wrods and actions drug from you would be embarrassing if it hadn't made his own hips shift against yours. "Michael…"

"God," It game out as a whisper, but he sped up his hand, no longer teasing. Now he was chasing after something, "Never going to get tired of that." Then there was two fingers, faster, rougher, "Say it again, baby."

You did as he asked, whined out his name as he stoked the fire inside you.

"Say it again." He repeated himself.

"Michael, please." Like every strong, independent, feminist part of you lept out the window the only thing you wanted in that moment was for this man to make you cum. Now.

His hand moved faster,so borderline rough that you didn't have to move your hips. He was moving them for you. His touch shifting your hips under his fingertips as he focused all his attention on the swollen little bundle of nerves and ground his erection against you from behind, "Fuck baby, it's alright. It's alright, go ahead and let it go for me. Give it to me." Michael spoke, moaned, every word into your ear as his lips and teeth and tongue sucked and carresed and nipped at the sensivtive skin until your body seized up in his arms.

No more cute, needy little whines. You let out one, single, strangled gasp of his name as you came. Your head spinning and your entire body alight, like every nerve ending lit up at once.

Michael groaned, deep and louder than anything he'd let slip before. His arms bulged as they locked around you.

It took a moment, your brain barely functioning, for you to realize that Michael had cum with you.

"I'm sorry," He brushed his nose over the shell of your ear, chuckled at himself as he kissed over your neck.

WIth one limp arm you reached behind you to grab Michael by the back of his head and pull him to kiss you properly. "Oh baby, it's alright." You smiled into the kiss, a happy, satisfied little giggle escaping against his lips.

His fingers slipped back inside you and he cracked a scandalous smile when you trembled at the sensation. "We should go to bed."

When you whined, he chuckled again. Sleep was the last thing on your mind.

The fingers inside you swirled, curled, scissored as it to stretch you out and Michael whispered to you again, "Baby, I'm old, but I'm not that old." He nipped at your earlobe. "Nowhere near done with you yet."

~~~~~~

Chapter Four Coming Soon!

If you enjoyed this and haven't already checked out the rest of the connected stories you can find them here! -> Save Me From Myself

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calypso-rt · 2 days ago

Note

hi! I really love your writings and I was wondering if you could do y/n having a problem at home then she goes to a party that her friend told her awhile ago then she got drunk and woke up in someone else's room (it's Rafe's) THANK YOU SM

thank YOU anon for this request, i hope i did it justice

“what are you doing here?”

You don’t do parties.

People at school have learned this by now. The girls who sneak away during last period to get high know better than to invite you. The guys who throw beach ragers with awful flyers and bonfires never bother slipping one into your locker. Even your best friend usually just sighs when she sees your planner and mutters something like “I’ll tell you what happened after you finish your AP Lit paper.”

But this week?

This week has been hell.

Your parents are fighting again. Whisper-shouting in the hallway like you don’t have ears. Like you can’t hear the word divorce land sharp as a knife on the dinner table before it’s swallowed by silence. And school? It’s too much. Your college apps are due in six days. Your lab partner still hasn’t sent the data set. You haven’t slept more than four hours a night and it shows.

So when your friend grabs your hand after seventh period and says, “Come to the party tonight. Please. Just this once,”

You say yes.

And the shock of it actually makes her drop her iced coffee.

You wear something simple. A little mascara. Lip gloss you forgot you owned.

The music is loud.

The lights are spinning.

You take a drink because someone hands it to you and you don’t know how to say no. You take another because it tastes like fruit punch and rebellion. The third, well, you don’t really remember the third. You remember laughing. You remember someone shouting your name over the music, surprised to see you here.

And you remember him.

Rafe Cameron.

T-shirt and chain and smile too pretty for a guy who rarely uses it right. But tonight it’s soft. Tonight it’s aimed only at you. He appears at your elbow like it’s natural. Like he’s been waiting all night for this.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” he says, tilting his head.

You grin, messy and tipsy. “I know. I’m surprised too. Don’t tell my mom...”

He laughs, an actual, real laugh, and you try not to fall over.

(You almost do. He catches your elbow without blinking.)

The rest of the night is blurry.

But it’s the soft kind of blurry.

You remember leaning your head on someone’s shoulder. You remember someone pressing a water bottle into your hand and coaxing you to sip. You remember warm hands and a voice in your ear and laughter like it was the only thing holding you together.

You wake up warm.

Your head pounding. Mouth dry. Body heavy in that unmistakable hungover but safe kind of way. You blink your eyes open slowly, and there he is.

Rafe. Sitting on the edge of the bed in a white t-shirt and boxers, one socked foot bouncing lightly. He’s scrolling on his phone, hair a mess, eyes puffy from sleep.

And he looks so happy to see you awake.

“Hey,” he says, soft like the inside of a Sunday morning. “You alive?”

You groan. “Barely.”

“You threw up in my kitchen sink,” he offers, grinning. “Twice.”

“Oh my god.”

“You also cried about AP Calc and then demanded I take you to get fries.” A beat. “We didn’t get fries.”

You throw a pillow at him. He catches it easily.

“You okay?” he asks, more gently this time.

You nod, then wince. “My head hurts.”

He gets up immediately. “I’ve got Gatorade. Hang on.”

You watch him cross the room, and for a moment, you don’t think about grades or your parents or the billion things you’re supposed to be. You just think about how nice he looks like this. Sleepy. Real. Not a rumor or a mistake but just… Rafe.

He comes back, kneels beside the bed, hands you a cool bottle of glacier freeze. You sip.

“Thanks,” you murmur.

He shrugs. “I liked seeing you like that.”

“Drunk and crying?”

He laughs. “No. Here. Just… letting go.”

You blink at him.

He clears his throat. “You’re always so—put together. It was kind of nice to see you be… you.”

You stare at him for a moment.

Then: “Did we kiss?”

“Nope.”

“Did I try?”

“Yep.”

You slap your hand over your face. “Please tell me you stopped me.”

“I did,” he says, voice lighter now. “Barely. You’re kind of persuasive when you’re tipsy.”

You peek at him between your fingers. “Why didn’t you?”

He doesn’t smile this time. Just shrugs one shoulder and says, “Because if I’m gonna kiss you, I want you to remember it.”

Silence.

And then you’re smiling. Stupidly. Head pounding. Heart racing.

And maybe it’s the Gatorade. Maybe it’s him.

But suddenly, you don’t feel so heavy anymore.

#rafe cameron #rafe cameron x reader #rafe x reader #rafe cameron fluff #rafe cameron imagine #rafe cameron x y/n #rafe cameron x you #rafe cameron fanfiction

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immortalmolloy · 2 days ago

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Daniel wished he knew what to say. He wanted to support her the way she had supported him. She was better at this stuff than he was. And it was hard not to take it personally when she said that maybe she wouldn’t have died and that there was something else that could have been done. It was offensive.

Part of him wanted to run away from the conversation. He wouldn’t get very far with the dawn approaching. Besides, he owed her to stay there and listen and try to help. He was always kind of a mess though, as hard as he was trying to do better.

“I didn’t want it either,” Daniel said, sniffling. He tried his best to stop crying. He hated how pathetic he was feeling. “It was traumatic when Armand…” Daniel was haunted by his own birth to darkness as well as Mina’s. They both had so much pain and trauma they carried. Life had not been kind to either of them. “I survived it because I had you.“

Daniel hadn’t wanted to be a vampire. He hadn’t wanted for Mina to die. He hadn’t wanted to make her a vampire when she didn’t want it. It was awful. After having his choice taken from him it was the last thing he would ever want to do to anyone especially someone he loved so much.

He eventually saw being a vampire as a gift because immortality had meant spending forever with Mina and it had connected him with Louis and Lestat. “I didn’t love being a vampire, but I loved you. So I started to see immortality as a gift because it meant I could spend forever with you. It still hurts… what Armand did to me… but I didn’t have a choice and I had to learn to live with it. I was lucky to have you and eventually I had Louis and Lestat too. The people I love made it worth existing.”

Mina should probably make up her mind about whether he was good or not. It was giving him whiplash. He was bad because he made her a vampire instead of somehow saving her. But he was so good at being a vampire much better than her. She was having a bit of a pity party, feeling sorry for herself because she didn’t want this. He hadn’t wanted any of this either. No he didn’t understand because he was just so nice and so good and it wasn’t even her influencing him or helping. Except how did she know that? She couldn’t read his mind back then. She didn’t know anything. Was it him putting her on a pedestal or was she the one putting him on a pedestal now? No Daniel you don’t know what you’re talking about. Of course he didn’t know who he was or what thoughts and feelings he had. Why would he know anything? He was just good old dumb Daniel. Shit.

“So, you want to interview vampires, so you?”

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graciedollie · 3 days ago

Note

I will get on my hands and knees Js for you to do a Abby fanfic

(mostly an older Abby and a younger reader NOT YOUNG YOUNG) lowk want it to be angst something along the lines of p: Abby and reader hook up, Abby feels guilty, and leaves reader (possibly a part 2 could be added😏) (also NO RUSH AT ALLLLL get to it whenever you can Ik ur a busy women.. bye pretty 💗)

SO TELL ME YOU LOVE ME, ONLY FOR TONIGHT

WARNINGS: older!abby x younger!reader, reader is implied as fem!, abby is in her 30’s, reader is in their 20’s, implied drinking and smoking, mention of break up (r! experienced), reader has attachment issues, 18+ content!! cunnilingus ( R! receiving), fingering (r! receiving), ABBY GOT A SLEEVE TAT (👅👅)marking/hickies, praise & a sprinkle of condescending! abby, smut with angst :(, ghosting/leading on, self-doubting. (part 2?? girl who knows.)

11:34 pm…

It’s that time again.

You found yourself right back where you said you wouldn’t, but here you are—drinking continuous shots of liquor, letting that strong taste burn your throat at the familiar club, Tipsy Ups. The building was packed as the crowd roared along with the booming music of the weeknd—blasting in your ears.

Your eyeliner and eyeshadow was smudged, along with your lipstick—making you look like a total mess. You felt like utter shit but oh well, you always did anyway. That’s why you always came here. Neevah, the bartender that always saw you in the exact same spot exactly at 11:34 pm, smirked at you as she took your cup to refill it once more. “Funny seein’ you here. Thought you said we wouldn’t see each other again, huh?”

“Very funny, but seriously, this is my last time comin’ here.” Your words slurred over as you glazed over at her with glassy eyes, feeling how your heart felt heavy. It was a month since the break up of your relationship of 3 years—the one relationship that you felt completed in, but made you crumble to pieces when it ended.

‘You deserve more than me’

But yet she couldn’t change for you.

The words repeat in your head like a broken record.

A record that you want to smash.

You needed some air. Like now.

Your legs drug you to the balcony—the only place that wasn’t semi crowded with individuals eating each other’s faces off or sharing the most insane comments. Why on earth would you want to hear someone talking about who they’d turn the stranger—they just met—every way which loose while your heart was so heavy, you felt it in your stomach.

Burning with the stomach acid.

It made you sick.

Glassy eyes gazed over the city as you leaned over the railing, letting your mind painfully wonder into the space that you never wanted to go back to. You been through break ups before, but this one stuck like a thorn in a sore wound on your ass. The same thorn that always stung whenever you tried to pull it out.

Every. Single. Time.

Tears started to prickle at the corner of your eyes, returning that familiar stinging pain once again. Your hands gripped at the railing, tight enough to make your fingers hurt. You don’t know what went wrong. Was your love too much for them? Was you not good enough for them to stay? Or did they just simply grow bored of you?

This was not a fun night.

God you needed a smoke right now.

Sniffling as you wiped away the streaks of runny mascara and tears, you rustled through your purse for your usual smokes, but seems like you left them back at home on the counter. Again. “Fuck me..” You cursed harshly under your breath, letting out a huff as you rubbed your face with such annoyance.

“Need a smoke?”

The voice caught your attention as it held a nice low, sultry tone to it—making you finally look over to your side. You nearly felt yourself gag at how gorgeous this women was. She wore simple black pants fitted with a belt and a black shirt that hugged her chest and highlighted her abs—especially her biceps.

Her biceps.

They were sculpted to fuckin perfection.

And—was that a sleeve tattoo?

Oh.

You could feel the soberness taking its affect already just by looking at her.

She definitely seemed older. Maybe mid 30’s or so?

You didn’t care.

Not one bit.

Shaking your head as you realized you were just oogling shamelessly at this gorgeous woman before you, you smiled at her with a stupid grin as you nodded. “Oh—yeah! Yeah, I could use one, please..”

The woman stared at you for a moment before a sharp grin tugged at her lips, chuckling lowly as she shook her head while handing you over the cigarette. Once you placed it in your mouth, she lit the cigarette for you with ease, but it was the way her eyes glazed over you blazed something inside of you.

You needed to have her before the night ended.

“Names Abby. You seem to be havin’ a shitty night. Hate to see a pretty girl like yourself be upset..”

Your eyes glanced over at her as her words caught your attention, watching her closely as she leaned over the balcony while taking a decent puff of the cigarette before looking over at you with a small smile.

“ Names [ ᥫ᭡.] It’s just…just a shitty night. You must wanna know what’s eating me, huh?” Your voice rasped lowly as you placed your hand on your hip while taking another hit of the cigarette, raising a brow at her as you leaned against the railing as she did. She just shrugged and smirked once more, taking another hit before speaking to you in a low tone. “I don’t mind listening..”

“Well, for one, I left my damn cigarettes at home, so that wasn’t fun. I had a shit day at work—dealing with real incompetent people— and not to mention, I’m still dealing with that fact that I got… dumped by the one girl I loved about 3 months ago…” Your voice died down as you felt that lump in your throat, signaling that familiar feeling that you resented ever since that unfortunate moment.

The woman seemed to notice it and a sympathetic expression graced her face as she flicked the cigarette over the balcony, sliding closer to you, but never touching you. She was just being respectful. “Seems like she meant a lot..”

“She did…but someone else meant a lot to her too for her to cheat on me..”

Her eyes softened as she realized the tears that started to prickle at your eyes, making her heart ache at the sight of such a sweet girl as yourself get done like this. She sighed lowly as she gently wipe away the stray tear from your cheek, searching in your eyes as your eyes met. “You didn’t deserve that, pretty…”

You felt yourself melt into her touch unexpectedly, relishing the warmth in her calloused hand that were also adorned with a nice hand tattoo. Your heart felt so heavy as you thought back to the devastating loss, but the way she gazed at you with such sympathy made it feel a little less shitty.

“I just…I don’t know, like I fuckin hate her for it, but I can’t stop thinking about us.” Your voice cracked with emotion as you tried to explain to her, but it was poorly explained. However, she knew how much it hurt you. It upset her to see you like this—sitting here, ruining your mascara, and having a shit night. “I just wanna forget about everything for fuckin once..”

“Maybe I can help, hm?”

༯

“Fuck..”

You don’t know how in the hell you ended up back in your apartment, in your bedroom, with Abby’s lips all over yours—practically eating your face while as her warm hand ran over your body, leaving sparks of fire on every inch of you. It felt so good, you didn’t want her to stop.

Seems like she definitely knew with the way you were gripping her shirt tightly and letting the small whimpers and panting fall from your plump lips. She pulled away from the heated kiss, taking this moment to gaze at your disheveled state. “God you’re so pretty…how could anyone give you away like that..”

Her words sparked a fire in your abdomen that was increasing becoming more intense, squirming in your spot before she pulled you to her lap as she started to suck and bite at your neck. Your eyes fluttered with such bliss as her tongue drew circles over your pressure point, eliciting a soft whimper from your mouth so easily.

You could feel the way her hands roamed from your waist to your hips, moving you back and forth against her sculpted thigh so skillfully. The motion did things to you as it was perfect, feeling the way your panties started to soak even more just by the mere friction. “Seems like she likes it too, hm?”

This woman was going to be the death of you and you just met her.

“Please…” That was all you could conjure from your mouth besides a whimper, scratching slightly at her shoulder as you rocked your hips along with her guidance. She pulled back from your neck with a heavy breath, gazing at you through her thick lashes with those pretty blue eyes. “Please what, pretty? Can do better than that..”

Your breath hitched in your throat at her words, realizing she was not going to let you go that easily. Taking a deep breath, you leaned further to her as you gave her your most pitiful eyes—the ones that would’ve made anyone give you the utter world. “Please…I need you. Just make me feel better..”

“That wasn’t too hard, now was it, hm? Don’t worry, baby..” She murmured lowly under breath as she slowly pushed you back into the pillows, slowly starting to kiss down your body as her eyes never left from yours.

“Gonna take real good care of ya..”

༯

Clothes were scattered. Warm, calloused hands were roaming over your thighs. Plump lips graced your inner thighs with such sweet kisses that you thought you were being pampered by an angel. You needed this so bad.

And she knew it.

Her peering eyes gazed up at you over the valley of your stomach and breast, feeling the way her lips trailed over your inner thighs to leave sweet kisses and occasionally leaving a pathway of marks. Your breath hitched in your throat each time as you felt her teasingly place a kiss to your bare clit, making you nudge your hips closer to chase her mouth. “Abbyyyyy..”

“You’ll take what I give you. Enjoy this, baby. Be patient.” She scolded you softly with a warm chuckle, shuffling on her stomach as she rubbed her hands over your thighs before fully wrapping her arms around your hips to pull you closer. You were about to protest against her words, but that replaced with a gasp as you feel her warm mouth engulfing your cunt. “O-oh fuck..”

She hummed at the taste of you, moaning at the musk smell and taste—feeling the way you melted on her tongue like you were a delicate candy. Her hands rubbed over your sides gently as she continued to lick over your pussy, occasionally flickering her skillful tongue over your puffy clit; eliciting a soft whimper from you each time and she couldn’t get enough of it.

You sounded so pretty for her.

Just for her.

Your fingers combed through her hair slowly, feeling loose locks from her braids coming undone loosely. Your hips slowly moved in pace with her mouth, slowly working you closer and closer to that sweet edge. You couldn’t help the broken moans that would fall out of your lips, especially the ones that were mixed with her name.

Abby was all for it, honestly, she wanted to hear more of those pretty noises. Her eyes gazed up at you through the hill of your thighs and over the valley of your stomach, watching your every expression—the way your eyes fluttered, the way your nose scrunched up, and the way your mouth hung open with such sinful noises. It was all perfect for Abby, she felt like she didn’t even wanna stop even after you came.

Sitting up slightly, she pulled you closer to her by your thighs before slipping a hand between your thighs to smear the wetness over your folds—making you whine. Her mouth pulled away from your cunt as she slowly pumped in a finger, slowly and steady—watching the way you melted.

“Mm, Abby…fuck—s-so good..” A soft mewl escaped your mouth as you bucked your hips up to her, craving more of her fingers to fill you up. She couldn’t help but chuckle at the way you were so desperate, continuing to slowly pump her fingers in you as she leaned down to suckle at your neck to leave the pretty marks all over the delicate skin.

“Yeah, I know, baby…feels good, hm?” You couldn’t give her. a proper answer except a quick nod, but Abby didn’t want that. She tapped your jaw gently to get your attention, adoring at how glazed over your eyes were just from a little of attention. “I said it feels good, yeah? I know you know how to gimme a simple answer, baby, hm?” Her voice had a sweet tone to it, but it was obviously that she was mocking with the way you could barely give her a coherent response.

“It feels good—s-so good. Please…I need it—need more, please.” Your voice was nearly a soft whisper, but she could hear your desperation. “There’s that pretty voice I love…I make you feel so much better than her, don’t I, baby?” She whispered lowly in your ear before placing a kiss behind it, making you shudder as you moaned out the most pathetic ‘yes’ you ever heard from your own mouth.

But you could careless.

All you wanted was to cum.

So fucking badly.

Her mouth left kisses above your ear, down your jaw, and on your neck—marking you completely. Your eyes were nearly in the back of your skull with how far rolled back they were. You were completely drowning in pleasure. It didn’t take long for that pleasure to come crashing over your body, letting out a broken sob as you felt the gush coat your thighs and possibly soak your sheets.

A small groan escaped her mouth as your arousal dribbled down on her fingers, feeling the way her own clit throb against her boxers as the obscene squelching filled her ears so wonderfully. She kept going till you whined about it ‘being too much’, chuckling softly as she slowly retracted her fingers to suck the rest of your essence from her digits.

“Taste good as you sound…”

Since you already a little drunk and tired, the heavenly orgasm put you sleep quicker than you expected. Abby didn’t seemed to mind that though. She happily cleaned you up, changed your clothes, and placed you into bed before leaving some painkillers and a bottle of water on your nightstand.

And away she was gone, but something in Abby didn’t go away.

When you soon awoken from your sleep that morning, you woke up with the most horrid headache you ever experienced. Groaning in pain, you looked around before your eyes landed on the laid out painkillers and bottle of water. Your brow raised in curiosity but shrugged it off as nothing, taking down the pills with water.

Soon as your headache slowly went away, you were quickly reminded of what went down last night. The night was etched into your brain. You quickly realized that you gave her your number and decided to text her. Just to see if she’d respond or whatever….hopefully.

It was worth a shot.

You:

Hey! I really enjoyed last night! I'm so sorry if I had passed out on ya last night a it was rough night. Also thanks for setting me out the painkillers, they helped a bunch :).

Abby:

Oh hey. Yeah it's no worry tbh. I enjoyed last night too :) you seemed like you needed to let loose for a while anyway.

Yeah I did and you helped a lot actually :) Are you like doing anything this weekend or something? Maybe we can like go out for a coffee or something? My treat :)

Oh um...actually I'II be busy that day.

Oh, that's ok! Maybe another time :)?

Lister, you seem like a really sweet girl and all, but I don't know if I can do that anymore. I'm not saying last night was a mistake, but it's just that I'm older than you. Old enough to possibly be your mother.

But I figured you really liked me that night

I do, but it's hard for me to explain. I just can't do this anymore with you. You seem like a sweet girl and all, but after last night, I couldn't help but feel guilty. You're probably not ready to be with someone like me anyway..

But all the stuff you told me last night tho? I mean I at least wanted to get to know you more instead of leaving it like that. You can just leave me like this Abby.

I'm sorry, but I just can't.

Wait can we at least talk about this? Please?I know it was a simple hookup, but it feel so much more than that. Please don't leave me like this

Abby please answer.

All those messages were ultimately left on read and that’s the last you ever heard of her. Yeah, you were overreacting kind of, but the way that moment was shared—it was so much more to you. You felt so stupid for getting attached to a person who you just met that night.

No wonder why you always felt so unlovable.

You loved too fast for your own good.

how y’all feel about this chat…??

taglist 🏷️: @lovergirl-co @abbysdollie @tqlepatia @madewithsilk @lambcultist @littlelovelunette @dear-mimii @supalcina @bumbling-a-bee @cmentary @justhereforsubsevika @vleflain @vesperassh @madsxh1022

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crescenthistory · 22 hours ago

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May I please request ‘Whispering "Oh you are going to be very embarrassed when you wake up."’ with Regulus?

for the journeys & journals mini-event <3

prompt: "oh you are going to be very embarrassed when you wake up"

wc: 0.7k

cw: gn!reader, alcohol, being drunk, vague allusions to regulus' childhood, very fluffy, platonic!bartylus and regdorcas

It’s rare for Regulus to get this pissed.

Tipsy, sure. He was adamant to disprove the prude allegations, not to mention that he enjoyed holding something in his hands during social gatherings to ground him. Eventually that something became your hand, but to begin with he wanted to avoid public displays of affection.

He had an extensive past of drinking with Barty during their teenage years – to drown our merriful sorrows, Barty would always say – but he only really got proper drunk when in the company of the select few he trusted most. For years, that had been Evan, Barty, Pandora and Dorcas, no others.

Then, you happened. That's how he put it.

Thus, he was currently leaning on the very person he trusted the most. All around you, though, were far many more witnesses than he ever preferred.

Dorcas’ birthday bash was always a grand event, something to look forward to. Once Marlene with her fratboy-esque party games and whoops joined in on the planning of it, it quickly became the greatest party of the year. Not only that, but it was a party Regulus actually saw the point in, as Dorcas remained one of the people he would put himself out of his comfort zone for.

After a few years outside Grimmauld’s Place and an evergreen found family blooming around you, it was perhaps also a bit easier to let go. At least that’s how you rationalised it as you tried to draw the connections between the red-nosed, giggling boy with his head on your chest.

Regulus was always very beautiful, his whole family was. Yet, there were moments like these where he still managed to surprise you with the pure depths of his beauty. Rosey cheeks, tousled hair and fond hands. Eyes that sparkled with both rosé and love.

His cheek against your chest, his arms around your waist where he had more or less tackled you down onto the sofa opposite your other friends. Your legs were a mess and his eyes were scrunched up with laughter at Barty and Evan’s running bit.

“Baby Black, are you quite alright?” Marlene interrupted from where she leaned her hip against the armrest beside Dorcas, who was wearing the most gorgeous tiara. Sirius behind her looked torn between horror and amusement.

You knew Regulus was completely gone when he didn’t scowl at the nickname. “Never better,” he hiccuped, making Evan fall into Barty with laughter.

You just smiled. There was a nice buzz flowing through your own veins, and you considered drinking some more to increase it and match your boyfriend’s. But as you looked down at him in all his drunk glory, you decided you wanted to make sure you remembered this clearly.

“Are you alright, amour?” you murmured into his hair, fingers dancing over his back.

He turned his face to beam at you, reaching out to pinch your lips shut with his cold fingers. “That’s my name for you, don’t steal it,” he admonished, words slurred.

“I’m terribly sorry,” you managed to push out despite him silencing you. It sounded choked and it made him break into more giggles, which again pushed Barty, equally pissed, into further giggles.

Regulus tried to kiss you, but missed twice, disorientation taking over. You wound up grabbing his cheeks and kissing him soundly yourself, eliminating the incoming frown.

“Mm, you’re warm,” Regulus murmured.

“So are you, baby.” He merely shook his head at this fact, ducking his head down to peck you all over your neck.

You tangled your fingers in his hair, scraping carefully at his scalp as you noticed his kisses slow, almost like he was forgetting what he was supposed to be doing. Around the same time, his breaths began to slow and a content smile spread on your face as you connected the dots.

You leaned down to kiss the top of his head and whisper to him, while looking out at all your closest friends having a great time. “I love you, Regulus.”

When he didn’t reply, you knew he was drifting off. Another kiss to his head, and then you added, “Oh, you’re going to be so embarrassed when you wake up.”

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amatariki · 1 day ago

Text

SOMEONE CALL THE DOCTOR 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ got a case of a love bipolar

(𝓐UTREMENT) — your calm, gentle, and loving boyfriend suddenly snaps at you out of the blue... weird. but hes surely got his reasons, right?

天使ℳade :: idol!bf!park sunghoon x fem!reader ⋆˚✿˖° 𝒆𝒔𝒕. (5 txts + 1k words) (ℒ)lust. angst(???), kissing/skinship, not rlly much, probs more idk tell me in comments i suck at warnings

ᥫ᭡⊹ ࣪ ˖ (1) notification! a lil special in honor of the amazinf comeback our boys delivered. hoon's hands in the pic tho omg im not okay im not gwenchana ning ning ning. my first time doing texts im sorry if its ass. actually, sorry if this entire fic is ass lmaoo

💋 #reblog for kisses ☆゙ catalogue ˖°— 𝐕𝐎𝐋. 𝐗𝐕

You fluffed up Gaeul’s fur with one hand as she sat on your lap nibbling on her treat, trying not to squish her as cuteness aggression took over you.

You’d taken Gaeul out for a walk in an attempt to clear your clouded mind and get a breather.

You didn’t understand Sunghoon’s outburst over text earlier. He’d always been calm, sweet, and had a good temperament. So, it made no sense as to why he’d got mad at you when he typically took his time to either talk things out with you nicely or just stay quiet and give you the silent treatment when he was extremely mad.

There was only one rational explanation: you must have really messed up for him to snap.

You hoped everything would be fine when you got back. Hopefully, you two would talk things out, and things wouldn’t escalate to terrible positions when you got back home and saw him.

The air whisked your hair around your face as you stood up and continued down the path. As autumn arrived, it got chilly. Soon, the leaves would turn into beautiful shades of warm colors and start shedding in preparation for winter.

As you lost yourself to your positive thoughts and the sight of Gaeul now trotting curiously after a leaf in the air, your phone chimes due to an incoming notification, and you snap back into the present.

The entire time you were heading home, your mind was befuddled. The way Sunghoon acted, like he wasn’t mad at you in the morning, it was weirdly confusing.

Your heart raced while going up the elevator as your head conjured up worst case scenarios where something was terribly wrong and he was in danger.

You step into the house, looking around in confusion and surprise to see all the lights out. You kneel down and take off Gaeul’s vest and leash, letting her scamper into the apartment, probably searching for Sunghoon.

“Hoon?” you call out tentatively, a nervous edge to your voice.

You almost jump when Sunghoon appears in the dark hallway, your heart pounding against your chest.

“You scared me!” you exclaim breathily, forcing out a chuckle.

He just nods quietly, grabbing your wrist and tugging you along down the hallway.

“Sunghoon,” you start, nervous. “Wait, Sunghoon.” You pull your hand out of his grasp.

Sunghoon turns around, his brows knotting in confusion. “What?” he asks.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper softly. “I’m sorry for making you mad this morning. I didn’t mean to be so…annoying.”

Sunghoon sighs at your words, remaining speechless as he rubs his temples.

“Who said you were being annoying?” he asks quietly.

“You did. You got mad at me,” you reason. “You never get mad and snap. You either talk it out with me or stay quiet.”

Sunghoon grabs your wrist and pulls you into his arms, wrapping them around your waist as his head fell to rest gently on your shoulder.

“I’m sorry I snapped,” he murmurs. “I didn’t mean to. I was just really stressed with practice and other things. I was mad because something went wrong, and I took that anger out on you. You didn’t do anything wrong."

“Forgive me, won’t you?” He pulls back, reverently pressing his lips to your forehead. “I’ll try my best to not take out my frustration on you from now on. I’m sorry. Keep texting me throughout the day, please. I love seeing your texts, they make me so happy.”

You nod, biting your lips. “Thank you,” you say, smiling. “I know you’ll try from now on.”

“Okay, great. Now c’mere.” Sunghoon quickly tugs you into the living room, eyes sparkling, not letting you finish your sentence.

“Hoon, wait, I’m gonna fall.”

Your eyes widen as he gently pushes you into a pillow fort. It’s filled with your pillows and blankets arranged neatly on a futon. At the foot of the futon is a bowl full of snacks, cups of ramen, a carton of juice, and a few cans of fizzy drinks. There’s a projector connected to Sunghoon’s tablet to watch movies and a lamp he dragged into the fort to light up the inside.

It looks absolutely breathtaking, and you can tell Sunghoon put a lot of time and effort into it after practice, despite being exhausted.

You look over your shoulder to thank him, but find that he’s disappeared.

“Hoon?” You call out, lifting the blankets he’s put together as drapes to step outside to find him.

He doesn’t give you a chance to do so as he reappears with a bouquet of gorgeous flowers: white tulips, white baby’s breaths, white roses, and your favorite flowers in your favorite color, all neatly wrapped together and tied up with ribbons.

“Happy anniversary, snowflake,” he wishes you, holding the bouquet out for you to accept. Even though he puts on a ‘hot, nonchalant, confident loverboy’ facade, you can see the shyness in his eyes as you accept the flowers.

“Thank you, Hoonie,” you reply, feeling all giddy as butterflies swarm wildly in your stomach. "Happy anniversary to you too."

“I was going to take you out to that new restaurant that recently opened,” Sunghoon reveals. “But their scheduling software encountered a problem and they gave our reservation to someone else and there were no other spots left open for today. So, I decided to put this together when I got home after Jake gave me the idea.”

You looked up at him with eyes filled with adoration. You honestly must have saved the world in your last life to have been blessed with such an amazing boyfriend.

Leaning on your tiptoes, you pressed your lips to Sunghoon’s, feeling him tilt his head to deepen it and kiss you harder.

“Thank you so much,” you say breathlessly when you two pull away, panting. “You’re really amazing, you know that?”

“Only for you,” he replies coolly, flashing you those vampire fangs that drove engenes crazy. “Hurry now, I think Gaeul’s getting hungry,” he says, gesturing to the dog who was circling your legs affectionately. “I’m hungry too.”

You chuckle, batting his chest. “Alright, I’m coming, let me put these somewhere.”

“Mhm,” Sunghoon hums simply, cupping your face to pepper kisses all over your face and a final one on your lips before he lets you out of his grip to put those flowers away.

------ᝰ‧₊ taglist open — nets! @k-films — ©amatariki 2k25

@chrrific @lezleeferguson-120 @koiiqqqq @ikeu05 @maewphoria

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ysrjune · 3 days ago

Text

SAM MONROE X HYPERFEM SWEETHEART!READER. 🌸

a/n: reader is highkey just @dollfilmz because she requested it (two months ago..), I used a semi-colon for the first time, and I KNOW it was wrong, but idc leave me alone.

“Why do you always wanna wear something cute. We're only going to my brothers birthday party. It's just gonna be us and a few of his school friends.” Sam kisses his teeth, watching you apply your favorite blush. “Um, because I dont want to look like a bum? And also because I just like wearing cute clothes.” You roll your eyes. “Thats like me asking you why you're always refusing to take a shower.” You tease.

Sam scoffs. “Woah, hey, I take showers.” He marches over to your vanity where you sat in front of. “Are you sure?” You knit your eyebrows and scrunch your nose after getting a whiff of him. You were just messing with him. He smelt normal; like his usual cologne. “Stop it!” He whines and spins your chair. “Are you ready yet?! You're takin' forever.” He keeps complaining. “Oh my God. Yes, Sam. Yes.” You stand up from the chair and push him aside to grab your purse.

You went back to your vanity to grab the makeup you used so that if you needed touch-ups, you had the tools. “SEE? YOU'RE NOT DONE!” He exaggerates by going to your bed and screaming into a pillow. Ew. Ick. Whatever, he's hot and not serious. “That's actually hilarious.” You smile and fix your hair in the mirror. “Okay, let's go.” You smile. Sam gets up from the bed and takes your hand quickly to get out of your house.

℘ AT THE PARTY . .

“Your outfits are always so pretty, y/n. Oh, and your hair! Oh, I'd die for your gorgeous blonde hair.” Robin compliments. She's always admired you; thinking you are the most beautiful girl ever. "Oh, thank you.." You say shyly with a smile and then begin to talk about what products you use for your hair and where you get your clothes even if she'd probably never go to those stores. She thinks she's too old to rock the cute aesthetic you have going on.

Sam stayed silent, sitting next to you messing with the end of your dress that rested on your thighs. He wasn't paying attention to what you were saying. What use would he have of knowing how to make his hair silky? He doesn't care. Especially since his hair is dyed. Which is stupid cause you can still have nice hair when it's dyed, but Sam doesn't give.

Your conversation with his mom died when one of the little boys asked her for something, and she went to go fetch it. "You do look beautiful, I guess." He murmurs and leans his head on your shoulder, then kisses it. "You're bad." He smirks. "Ew, you're such a man." You roll your eyes and kiss the side of his head. Sam smiles with his eyes closed. “Yeah, whatever, babe.”

Later on, after the sunset, you and him stayed on the balcony outside of his room. "It's cold out here, but it's also super nice. I love your house! It gives such nice views." You say as he holds you from behind. "Yeah, it's alright." He sighs and attempts to braid your hair. "You have to leave in a little bit." He frowns. "Can I just keep you in my closet and pretend you went missing, and I don't know where you are?" He tilts his head, halfway done with the horrible attempt of his braid.

"Sweetie, you'll live." You smile. "We can see each other tomorrow! We'll have a fun movie marathon and I'll shower you with kisses and hugss!" You suggest.

"But I want you to stay here. I want all that tonight." He forgets the braid and just holds you. "You're soft and warm. I can't sleep without something soft and warm."

"I got you those pillows that are exactly for that, Sam!"

"Okay? But they're still not you." He huffs and spins you around to look at him. "Can I have a kiss goodbye?" He gives you puppy eyes. "If you stop making that weird face.."

"I was hoping you weren't into it." He chuckles and begins kissing you for a while, but the moment was ruined when your mom called that she was here. "I have to go." You frown. "Alright." He sighs and walks you all the way to your mom's car.

That night he missed you even more than he usually does. Missed your sweet scent and smile. Your contagious laugh. He was already excited for tomorrow, and he figured the faster he slept, the sooner he'll wake up and see you again. Or maybe even better—he'll dream of you.

this is str8 buns

@bxbyysstuff @anakinstwinklebunny @lovethestarrs @valloos @anisangeldust @xo-yaaaaaasxo @anakinca @dollfilmz @alexlovesysrjune @sockiess @sythethecarrot @speaknow-sw @loveamira @alealuvshayden @mvst4far @prettiestmini @amiratheangel @blckberrie @literally-izzyy @litt1e-misssunsh1ne

#ysrjune #sam monroe x girly!reader #sam monroe x y/n #sam monroe imagine #sam monroe hayden christensen #sam monroe life as a house #hayden christensen sam monroe #sammy #sam monroe #christensen hayden #haydenchristensen #hayden christensen #hayden christensen x reader #life as a house au #hayden christensen life as a house #life as a house #hayden christensen x afab #hayden christensen x you #hayden christensen x female reader

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adag10 · 3 days ago

Note

Hi! Love ur blog so far! Can I request the Eltingville club x bimbo reader? Is it cliche and stupid? yes but I am freeeee

Eltingville Club x Bimbo Reader

a/n: is it cliché? yes but nerds x bimbo is SO PEAKKKK I didn't know if u wanted whole group or individual so i just did individual lol sorry if i didn't do the whole bimbo thing too well slightly ooc cuz none of these freaks would talk to a woman ever sorry if any of this is rushed, i like crashed by the end lololol

pairing: eltingville club x reader genre: fluff word count: 4514

Bill Dickey

Bill's seen you around before at school, but he didn't really pay you any mind. He thought you were cute, but he brushed you off as some dumb bimbo that wouldn't blink twice at him. That was until you two were paired together for a group project.

At first, he was majorly bitchy. Kept whining about how he had to do the project with some stupid bitch that doesn't know her right from her left (his words). That was until the dream.

He was having one of his usual Startrek dreams where he was the hero, but instead of his usual damsel in distress, it was you. After that, Bill got more reserved around you, yet he was kinder. Rather than bitching every time you messed up on the project, he just kindly corrected you.

Over the next few days, you two sort of start to become closer. This is because Bill is lowkey plottin on you, and he finally found his chance to meet up with you outside of school when you mention how you're struggling with science.

"Omg, your soo good at this, i like cant get stoichi-whatever it's called" "Stoichiometry? It's so simple. If you want, I could tutor you outside of class" "Omg really?? You're like such a life saver Billy!" "Well I can have a stupid lab partner. You want to meet up at my place to do it?" "Oh def!!"

When the day finally arrives, at first, he was incredibly excited that he managed to find a way to get you over to his place, but then he realized... you're going over to his house. Where were you two meant to study? It cant be his room because he keeps all his superhero memorabilia up there and he doesn't want to risk you breaking it, and it definitely cant be the living room cause what is his stupid sister tries to interrupt you two. no he cant have that. His third and final option is the basement. It's a bit messy from the last time he and the gang had their meeting, but he thinks that if he tries hard enough he can clean it before you come over.

You get there, and now you're being tutored by bill. The chance to mansplain basic info to some pretty chick is majorly stroking his ego. You two are sitting on the couch in the basement with quite a bit of distance between you, but any time you ask for major help, he doesn't hesitate to lean all the way over to help correct you. His face is RED by time he's done you're so pretty up close and you smell so nice.

Over time, even once the project is done, the study sessions become a regular thing between you two, and it is NOT good for him. He's counting down the seconds until the next time he can get you into his basement. He can't stop thinking about you. Your voice, your smell, your lips. He'll never admit it, but he's OBSESSED. All that he's thinking about while tutoring you is the way that your lips would feel pressed against his. He's convinced you're a witch. That's gotta be the only explanation. There's no other reason he would be this obsessed with a woman. You have to have put some spell on him. You know what breaks all spells? A kiss. He's managed to convince himself that maybe if he kisses you, the illusion that your so... perfect, will leave him. And that's just what he plans to do at your next study session.

Here you two are again, same couch, same people, same reason, but everything feels different. You cant quite place what it is, but something about Bill is off today. Not in a bad way, but maybe he's a bit cleaner. Like he put a bit more effort into getting ready. Strange. Maybe you'll ask him about it.

While you're over there trying to place what seems so different, bill is trying to work up the balls to kiss you. He's convinced that whatever you've done to him will fade once he does it. He wont be so enamored by your laugh, and the way that your hair falls to frame your face. By the way that he can smell whatever new perfume you've decided to try, and the soft giggle you let out when you don't quite understand what he's saying. But what if it doesn't work. What if these feelings magnify ten fold after the kiss. What is he to do... He might as well just go for it and pray that he returns to normal. What he didn't realize is that he's staring at you while contemplating what to do.

"Hey Billy are you o-mph!" He cuts you off with a kiss. Its sloppy, and he tries to go in with too much tongue way too fast, trying to emulate what he's seen from his crappy pornos. Once he pulls away, both of you are a bit out of breath. You let out a little giggle at the dazed look on his face. "I was wondering when you were finally gonna kiss me"

Jerry Stokes

You and Jerry have lived next door to each other since before you could remember. He's always been sort of a shy kid, and you quite the opposite, but you two were forced to hang out with each other often enough as children that you two grew rather close. I suppose over the years, a distance has grown between the two of you, well with him hanging out with the club more and you with your more popular friends, but your mother has recently insisted that you stay at the Stokes place while she's out of town for a weekend trip.

You don't mind it much, thinking of it as a chance to reconnect with an old friend. Jerry also didn't mind it, well that was at first. This was until Bill and the rest of the gang got to him "You cant have a girl stay at your place" "god does she even know anything about lotr. she'll totally just mess up your stuff" "who knows, that girl's like stupid, maybe he'll get lucky" these, among many other claims are made by his little friend group. He tries his best to brush these comments off, but he's a bit worried. What if you two no longer have anything in common. What if he makes a fool of himself in front of you. He has always had a small crush on you, maybe this is his chance. His racing thoughts got cut off when he heard the doorbell ring 'shit its her'

He can hear you and his mom chatting down stairs, just basic stuff like "how have you been" "its been so long" and the likes. He overhears his mom call him downstairs and rushes down

"Hi Jer! I feel like we haven't talked in like agessss, what have you been up to?" "H-hey y/n.. uhh I haven't been doing much.."

His mom urges you two upstairs so you can catch up. At first it's a bit awkward, but then you start talking about some fashion magazine that you had been reading and its as though you two never stopped hanging out. He doesn't quite follow everything your saying, not knowing the difference between a halter top and a Henley, nevertheless, he smiled seeing the way that your eyes sparkled. Seeing how animated you got while talking about your interests. During your time apart, he had forgotten about how your smile could light up a room, but now that seems to be all he could focus on.

Over the short weekend, you two become closer than ever. He cant help but notice the way that you flutter your eyes at him when he talks about his interests. He finds everything that you do to be so cute, I suppose his old crush hit him hard. The weekend begins to come to an end, but a few hours before you leave, you remember something. An excuse to talk to Jerry more. Homecoming. You figure that if you ask him and he isn't busy, you two can hang out there and have a good time.

"hey Jer" "What's up y/n?" "Do you like.. have a date to hoco?" "Ah no.. parties aren't really my thing" "Awww, i was totally gonna ask if you wanted to like go with me or something"

He chokes when he hears you say that. There's no way his childhood crush is asking him to homecoming. He stutters out something along the lines of "Well I wouldn't mind going if it was with you.." "Great, then its a date!"

Whelp, now Jerrys out of commission. His brain short circuited hearing you say those words "its a date" did you mean that in the simple phrasing, or did you mean that its a DATE kind of date. Before he got the chance to ask, you hear the doorbell ring and your mother downstairs here to pick you up.

"Well, looks like I gotta go.. Ughhh I was having so much fun hereee, We should like totally do this again!!" "Y-yeah"

He's still so shocked that he barely processes your kiss to his cheek as you leave. All he can think about is the way that you looked staying at his house for the short weekend, whishing it lasted longer.

As the days passed, you two were back in school. You waved at each other in the halls, even going so far as to say high to each other. Doesn't seem so shocking, but its more than you two did previously. You started actually hanging out at his place again, realizing how much you two missed each other. You two eventually get closer, but Jerry still is unsure whether or not you consider your homecoming date to be an actual date. He certainly wants it to be, but do you?

Jerry is counting down the days until the dance, and wouldn't you know, its finally arrived. He's sweating BAD. He doesn't know what to do, he's worried that this was somehow just some cruel joke, but all of his fears melt away when he sees you in your dress. You're the most stunning woman he's ever laid his eyes on. Now, he has a whole new set of fears. 'What if he looks stupid standing next to you. ''What if you think he-' you cut off his racing thoughts

"You look very handsome today Jer!" "You do too. I mean- You look beautiful, not handsome- not that women cant be handsome but-" Your laughter cuts him off "You're so cute y'know" "bidibidibidi, okay buck!"

He freezes. There's no way that the hottest girl he knows just called him cute and THAT was his response. He wants to crawl into a hole and die, but you grab his hand and lead him into the school gym. At first, you two just sit around and talk but then your favorite song comes on.

"OMG i LOVE this songgg!! We HAVE to dance" "I don't know.. I don't really do dancing" "Come onnnnn its gonna be so funnn. Please Jerrr"

He cant resist the way that you look at him, so he gives in. You two dance for a while, but then the up beat pop songs switch to a more slow, romantic kind of vibe. Jerry contemplates going to sit back down, but then you pull him in. You place his hands on your waist, while you wrap yours around his neck. He wonders if you can feel him trembling under your gaze. If you can tell that he's freaking out at the closeness of your proximity. Your scent overwhelms his senses and all he can think about is you. He decides he's finally gonna do it. He's gonna lean in and kiss you, but that's when the genres switch again. You pull away, complaining about your heels making your feet hurt. Damn.. he missed his chance. You can tell that he's a bit sulky after the dance, but you assume its because he still wanted to dance

"Come on Jer, we can go back to dancing in a bit, I just need a moment to rest" "Alright.."

The dance finally comes to an end. You two walk home together, and you stop in front of your house to talk for a bit before you head in and he goes home.

"It's getting late, I guess it's time for me to go" "Without a kiss goodbye? what kind of a date is this"

He stops in his tracks. So this WAS a date, and she WANTS you to kiss her. He turns back to face you and he begins to lean in. He pauses a bit halfway, but you don't hesitate to meet him in the middle. It was simply a quick peck, yet Jerry swears he felt fireworks.

"That's much better"

He stumbles off back to his house as he hears you say goodnight.

Pete Dinuzio

Pete had no intention of falling for you. It started off as a bet between the group. Pete claimed that he would be able to make out with one of the ditzy popular girls before the end of the month. That's how he met you.

He's had his eye on you for a short while. but never planned on talking to you. You were just good fuel for his late night fantasies, but when the bet was made, he decided he simply couldn't miss his chance at you. Even with all your pink, he sees a Scream pin on your backpack. Bingo. That's his in. His conversation starter. He waits until he catches you alone to talk to you about it.

"So.. you like Horror movies?" he nods towards your pin "Oh totally!!! I think they're like majorly cool, but they give me the wiggins haha" "Then how did someone like you sit through Scream?" "oh well.. I started it cause my friends told me that Bill and Stu were like majorly hot, I was like majorly freaked the whole time I watched it though. I like cant watch horror movies by myself or else I get majorly paranoid"

You couldn't make this any easier for him. Over time, he keeps approaching you to make conversation. You two actually begin to become rather close friends, close enough to where you're willing to be seen outside of school with him. Its nearing the end of the month, and he doesn't want to lose this bet, so he invites you over for a movie night.

"I don't know Pete, I'm gonna like shriek and its gonna be so embarassinggg" " Come one man, you have nothing to worry about, I'm gonna be right next to you the whole time" "Okayyy, but don't get mad when I have nightmares, its gonna be your fault" "I could never get mad at you doll" "Haha You gotta cool it with that nickname Pete" "Never"

This comes as a surprise to him. He actually meant those words. "I could never get mad at you." I suppose over these past few weeks, he's gotten rather attached to you. I suppose its become a bit more serious than just a little bet to him. Maybe this was a bad idea, what if you find out that it was just a bet. Well i guess there's little chance of that. What if you don't want to kiss him and you hate him after this.. Eh you're just some dumb bimbo, it's not like it matters if you two are friends after this right?

He gets his house ready, luckily for him, his brothers and his dad are out of the house for now so he wont have to deal with them coming over and messing things up. He planned to get this kiss by the end of the night and he has it planned perfectly. He's gonna smoke some, offer some to you, play some horror film he has laying around, and you'll be so scared that you'll turn to him for comfort. Once you've calmed down, you'll realize how brave he is and you'll kiss him. Easy. It's foolproof, nothings gonna mess it up.

The doorbell rings.

Pete makes sure that everything's where he needs it to be. Its all perfect so he opens the door

"Hey y/-" "Hey Pete! I hope you don't mind that I brought some friends along with me.. I thought it would be nice if we had a few more people!"

It's ruined. Now he's gotta come up with a new plan. What were you thinking bringing three of your friends over, now he's never gonna win the bet...

You all come inside and settle down, you next to Pete, your friends kinda just on the couch by y'all. Some of them mutter about how the place reeks of weed, but you tell them to be nice.

"Sooo what movies are we gonna watch Pete?" " Oh well I was thinking we could start with a classic, Texas Chainsaw Massacre, then we could do Black Christmas, and maybe Hellraiser." "Sounds awesome, I'll try not to get too scared" "You can hold onto me if you get to frightened" "Maybe I'll take you up of that offer"

Okay, this isn't totally ruined, maybe he can get you alone later, or maybe your friends will leave or fall asleep and then you two can have a chance alone.

He starts up a movie, and he keeps glancing at you through the corner of his eye. You seem so interested. You go on about how you feel bad about how they're treating Franklin. He thought it was so cute how worked up you got over some fictional guy. He wonders if you would feel bad for him when he got harassed at school.

Around 30 minutes into the second film, your friends drag you into another room. Pete tries his best to listen in without making it too obvious. He hears them complaining about how boring this is and saying they want to leave. He hears you begin your words of protests but your friends cut you off saying that either you can stay or you can go with them but either way they're leaving.

Pete's given up, its clear that his plan was a bust and he's going to have it held over his head by his friends for the next millennia. He sees you guys coming out and your friends heading for the door, but you're walking over to the couch. What, are you going to give him some dumb excuse as to why you have to leave? He's surprised when you sit down next to him.

"Apparently, they had some curfiew" "And you don't?" "Luckily, I told my parents about my plans and they were cool with me staying as long as I want" "So you still want to stay, Doll?" "Of course I do, I'm having a great time with you, Petey!"

The plan is back on, but now Pete isn't as sure that he should stick to it exactly. Rather than trying to coerce you into kissing him, he decides to just let the night go how it wants, and if the time feels right, he'll lean in.

You two got 45 minutes into the third movie before you stopped paying attention to the film, both to enamored with talking to each other to pay attention to what's going on, Kirsty Cottons screams being rather nice background noise to your conversation.

"You're saying that you would rather be stalked by Candyman than Ghostface?" "I'm saying I'd rather be stalked by neither, but at least I know who Candyman is, Ghostface could be anyone, it could be my father!" "But your father could be easier to get away from than some ghost!" "Yeah.."

You notice the way that Pete's face falls when you bring up his father, so you try your best to change the subject.

"Okay, fuck marry kill... Pinhead, Bubba Sawyer, and Nosferatu" "...Can I kill them all??" "Noooo you have to play alonggggg" "Fine, ill fuck pinhead cause you know hes gotta be into some weird shit" "Are you into weird shit?" "Only if you are"

you let out a giggle at this, so Pete assumes his charms are working

"Okay, getting back on track, what about the other two?" "I'd marry Bubba Sawyer, less money to have to spend on meat" "So you're killing Nosferatu??" "Would you not?" "Eh, I suppose out of those three I'd kill him too." "Exactly!"

As your conversation begins to fade, Pete sees you looking at his lips. He decides that now is his chance, so he leans in and kisses you. At first you start to pull away in shock, but then you decide to deepen the kiss.

Pete is ecstatic, it's better than he ever could've imagined, but something feels wrong. He kissed you, but he won the bet. What if word gets back to you on this. I suppose that's just an issue for another day

Josh Levy

Josh was in shock when he first saw you in Joes. He was convinced you've gotta be lost. Boy did you look it, but you still perused the shelves with a determined look on your face. He wondered what someone like you could be in here for, while he was busy thinking, you noticed him and your face lit up. You begun to walk up to him, but at first he ignored you because he was convinced you had to be trying to get someone else's attention, that was until he heard

"Hey! we go to the same school right?? I think I have you in social studies... You're like... Josh right?"

he looks as though you've just thrown a bunch of freeze potions on him the way that the man stood still when he heard you say his name

"I.. Is that not your name? If it isn't then I'm like so sorry, I've never been too good with names-" "No, Josh is right" "Oh radical! I was just wondering if you could like help me find the latest Star Wars volume? My little brother is like totally into it and his birthday is coming up soon so I thought it would be like so bitchin if I could buy him a copy for his birthday!" "I-uhm I could definitely help you find it" "Awesome! You're a total lifesaver Joshie!!"

Even while dazed that you're actually talking to him, he manages to help you find the right comic you're looking for. You decide to ask for his number just in case you need more nerd help for your brother, maybe you could even ask for some comic recommendations for him!

While you're overjoyed that you found someone that could help you out with your little brothers interests, Josh is stunned that a hot chick like you asked for his number. HIS. He's convinced that this has gotta be some sort of prank.

He rushes straight home because he's realized he's running late to the club meeting. They'll shit their pants when he tells them about this interaction. The only thing is, they don't believe him. You got his number, but he didn't manage to get yours. They, being the high school boys that they are, decide to make fun of him. That is, until you talk to him in school. You stopped him in the hallway early morning while he was talking to his friends.

"OMG Josh thank you for your help before! He was like so psyched when I gave him his present!!" "I'm happy to help"

And then you threw your arms around him. You're hugging him. In public. In school. In front of his friends. I guess they cant make fun of him for making up a girl anymore.

You wave goodbye and run off towards your friends before he can fully process the hug, that's when he hears the bell ring. I suppose he's gotta go to class.

Later that day, you decided to give him a call.

"Who is this?" "Hey Josh, its me y/n! I like totally forgot to call you before, I was so busy with my brother's birthday and spending time with my family, y'know?" "Its fine, did you need something"

Little did you two know, that conversation of yours would last literal hours, you two only realized it when you noticed that the moon was out.

Over the weeks, you and Josh began to get closer, he even went to your house once or twice. You loved the way that he got along with your brother, talking about Doctor Who and Star Trek. It's nice to see your younger brother getting along with someone, and Josh certainly does look cute when he's using his little nerd terms, he even learned.. what was it.. Klingon? God he's such a dweeb. But he's your dweeb.. Well, not YOUR dweeb, but like a dweeb that you're friends with. Right. Just friends.

Its just another day where Josh came over to your place, and you two are just hanging out in the living room with the TV on. It was playing Sabrina the Teenage Witch. You had originally turned the show on to introduce Josh to one of your favorite shows, but then he started talking about how the cat reminded him of some creature from the X-Files. God he's so cute when he's talking about the little shows he's into. Oh my.. you're totally into this dork.

"I could totally kiss you right now" "and then they- wait what..?"

Holy shit... you just said that out loud. You told him you could kiss him. I mean you totally would if he wanted to but like what if he didn't. Come on y/n he's just staring at you, you've gotta say something

"I said I could like totally kiss you right now" "O-Oh"

Okay and you doubled down. What's the worst that could happen. he could reject you. Maybe he isn't into you the way you're into him, but there's no way it'll become too awkward if he isn't right?

While you're freaking out, so is he.

She likes me. She likes ME. I mean I would definitely kiss her too. I guess i could tell her that. But what if she's joking. His thoughts are erratic. He can feel his palms getting sweaty and his mouth getting dry. He cant leave you hanging, he's gotta say something.

"I wouldn't mind it if you kissed me..." "Really?" "Really."

Your eyes begin to flutter close as you begin to lead forward, his mind is racing but all the thoughts stop when your lips touch. All he can think about now are how soft your lips are and how sweet you smell.

You pull away. He has a look of disbelief on his face

"God the guys aren't going to believe this" "You're such a dork!"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I hope u enjoyed this :)

#bill dickey x reader #jerry stokes x reader #pete dinuzio x reader #josh levy x reader #x reader #the eltingvlille club x reader #fanfic #the eltingville club #pete dinunzio #josh levy #jerry stokes #bill dickey

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cryoculus · 2 days ago

Text

the art of war (and other distractions) ⟢

as a mandatory part of your post-grad program, you're required to log 200 hours as a teaching aide—which would’ve been fine, if you had any say in who you were working with. instead, you're assigned under professor jing yuan: esteemed war historian, charming bane of the faculty lounge, and the one man who makes grading ancient battle essays feel like a tactical skirmish of your own.

★ featuring; jing yuan x f!reader

★ word count; 11.1k words

★ notes; hiiii part two is finally here! quick note that there's a brief timeskip between this and part one, so you might want to read that first although imo it's not necessary. just puts more depth and context into jing yuan and the reader's relationship :3c i was supposed to have this up yesterday but #i forgot lol

MASTERLIST ✧ READ ON AO3

II. A (SLIGHTLY) FUTILE RESISTANCE

You’ve been living in Yaoqing for over three years, and the city still surprises you.

It’s quieter than the Luofu, more grounded—there are no sky bridges between buildings here, no gilded corridors echoing with history. What Yaoqing has instead are sun-drenched lecture halls with cracked windows, noodle stalls that open at sunrise, and students who never take office hours for granted.

You like it. You’ve even grown fond of the bus ride from the apartment you share with Jiaoqiu downtown. It’s a little far from campus, but the rent is reasonable, and it’s walking distance from the hospital he works at. Your best friend is rarely home, always working rotations or crashing face-first into textbooks. But the place feels lived in and more importantly, shared.

That morning, like most mornings lately, you’d left before Jiaoqiu even stirred. Your coat still smells faintly of the congee stall you passed by on your way to the university gate.

Now, eight hours and three departmental fires later, you’re standing in the symposium planning room. You stare at a whiteboard, or what’s left of it. Beneath the mess of color-coded arrows, neon post-its, and someone’s increasingly unhinged handwriting, there might be a white surface. You haven’t seen it in three days.

But then again, this is the chaos that typically accompanies inter-campus symposiums at Xianzhou University. They don’t happen very often for a reason.

“Yingyue,” you say slowly, “why does the keynote slot just say ‘??? + pray’?”

Across the room, Yingyue doesn’t look up from her laptop. “Because we’re still waiting for confirmation from the Luofu guests. And also,” she adds, tapping something out furiously, “because prayer is the only action item I can complete on time.”

You squint. “I gave you three backup names.”

“Two are out of town. One said he’ll only accept if we introduce him as a ‘transcendent thought architect.’”

You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Absolutely not.”

“Agreed,” Lihua chimes in from the corner, crouched over her laptop and what looks like a seating chart for a diplomatic summit. “You let one person change their job title, next thing you know Zichen will demand we call him an intellectual athlete.”

“I would never,” Zichen says, stepping through the door like he’s been summoned. He’s holding two cups of coffee—he hands one to you before continuing, “Though I do think ‘scholarly gladiator’ has a nice ring to it.”

You take the coffee. “You’re late.”

“You’re welcome,” he replies. “The line was twelve people deep and someone ahead of me ordered six oat milk lattes with the emotional weight of a thesis defense.”

The door slams open. You all flinch.

Feixiao storms in with a folder under one arm, a thermos the size of a fire extinguisher, and the kind of expression that makes grown men reconsider their careers. You instinctively straighten up, like all people do in the presence of the Dean of your department.

“If the Facilities Manager tells me one more time that our lighting request is ‘aspirational,’” she announces, “I will replace every fixture in Lecture Hall Two with interrogation lamps from my uncle’s militia days.”

Silence.

Yingyue lowers her glasses. “Is… is that a real option?”

“No,” you say automatically. Then, because it’s Feixiao, you add, “…Probably.”

Feixiao tosses the folder on the nearest table and points at you. “Update?”

You resist the urge to salute. “We’re still locking in the final keynote, but everything else is on track. Zichen’s confirming the catering, Lihua finalized the panel schedule, and Yingyue—”

“Is praying,” Zichen offers helpfully.

Feixiao exhales. “Good. Because I just got the finalized guest list from the Luofu. And you,” she pauses before pointing another finger, “are going to love this one.”

She slides a printed page across the table toward you. One glance—and your stomach drops.

Professor Jing Yuan Department of History Luofu Campus

Guest speaker. Confirmed.

And just like that, the air shifts. You hear Zichen humming “Taps” under his breath. Lihua raises an eyebrow. Yingyue silently writes oh no on the whiteboard, underlining it twice.

Feixiao’s eyes narrow. “That bad, huh?”

You press your lips together and manage a steady, “It’s fine.”

She nods once. “Good. Because he’s giving a talk in the same time block as your keynote.” Then your superior smiles, just a little too sharply. “Think of it as healthy competition.”

“Healthy competition,” Zichen deadpans. “Sure. Like a knife fight with footnotes.”

You barely hear him. You’re still staring at the name on the page. The printed letters don’t blink, but they may as well. Professor Jing Yuan. You know the cadence of that name too well. Know the quiet weight he always carried into a room. The way he used to lean against the edge of your desk like he had all the time in the world—

“Right,” Feixiao says, breaking the silence with a snap of her folder. “Glad that’s settled.”

You blink. “What?”

“Oh, I mean I settled it,” she says, casually flipping to the next page. “He requested the keynote slot opposite yours. Said it would be a nice mirror—your work on literature and emotion, his on emotion in wartime. Complementary perspectives. Lovely, right?”

You open your mouth, close it again.

Yingyue is now pretending to type something on her laptop with the kind of focus that means she’s listening very hard.

Zichen stirs his coffee and doesn’t look at you. “So. Old mentor of yours?”

“Something like that,” you mutters, shifting your weight. “We worked together. Years ago.”

“And now,” Lihua says, “you’re crossing academic swords on your home turf. Classic.”

You shoot him a look, but Feixiao cuts in before you can respond.

“He mentioned you,” she says. Calm. Too calm. “Back when we were coordinating speakers. He asked how you were adjusting to Yaoqing, and maybe mentioned it’d be good to see you again.”

You glance at her. She’s not smiling, but there’s a glint in her eye like she’s waiting to see whether you’ll retreat or dig in. Classic Feixiao—direct, but never cruel.

“I’m sure he meant that professionally,” you say evenly.

“Mhm,” she replies.

The silence stretches. Everyone is trying their best to look productive.

But Zichen ruins the illusion by coughing into his cup. “So, any chance he’s hot?”

You nearly drop your coffee. “Zichen.”

“What? I like to be prepared for these things. If I’m watching an academic rivalry unfold in real time, I need to know if I’m rooting for drama or emotional devastation.”

“Academic ri—? I used to TA for him in grad school, not try to score higher than the guy in every exam. You think I’m that old?”

Lihua giggles to herself. “Oh, he’s an older gentleman, then? I totally understand.”

Sometimes, you think handpicking these idiots for the symposium task-force committee is a grave mistake. But you don’t have the energy to argue anymore.

Just when you thought you can get away with your non-rebuttal, Feixiao decides it’s time to give her own input.

“He’s six-foot-something, speaks like a poem, and has the kind of hair that makes old generals weep.” She smirks. “So yes, Zichen. He’s hot.”

Yingyue nods solemnly. “It’s true. I looked him up. It’s upsetting.”

“Great,” Zichen says. “So we’re definitely in emotional devastation territory.”

You groan and shove the folder back toward Feixiao. “Can we get back to the actual symposium planning?”

“You’re the one who got flustered,” Lihua points out.

You were not flustered. Probably. Maybe. You take a long sip of coffee and start listing panelist names under your breath like a warding spell.

Somewhere deep down, you already know the rest of this week won’t be easy. You’ve worked hard to build something new here—quiet mornings with students, long evenings working beside the hum of city traffic, lectures given with your own voice instead of someone else’s echoing behind it.

You’re not the same person who left the Luofu. And he’s not the same professor you walked away from.

But still.

You feel the shift in the air already. The pull of something unspoken, just ahead. You square your shoulders and reach for your notebook.

Let him come.

You get home just past ten.

The hallway light flickers twice before it steadies—just enough to remind you to finally submit that maintenance request. You kick off your shoes and lock the door behind you, shrugging off your coat with a sigh that seems to come from somewhere deeper than your lungs.

Your apartment is dim, save for the warm glow spilling from the kitchen. You catch the faint sound of a rice cooker ticking, something soft playing from Jiaoqiu’s old tablet speaker.

He’s leaning against the counter, dressed in hospital scrubs, one socked foot tapping gently against the cabinet. His hair is a mess and there’s a pen tucked behind one ear like he forgot it was there—which, knowing him, he absolutely did.

Jiaoqiu looks up when he hears you. “You’re late.”

“You’re one to talk,” you say, dropping your bag onto the chair by the door. “I thought you had a night shift.”

“Shift ended early,” he says, holding up a bowl. “I made enough rice for two. The stew’s reheating.”

You pause. “Did you actually make the stew or did you just add ginger to something frozen and call it a day?”

He doesn’t answer. Which means you’re right.

You smile a little despite yourself, dropping into the seat across from him. “Thanks, Jiao.”

He slides the bowl across the table, then leans on his elbows, watching you like he’s measuring your posture the way he does vitals.

“So,” Jiaoqiu starts. “You want to talk about it, or should I guess?”

You freeze for half a second. “Talk about what?”

He raises both eyebrows and flashes you a look that would've made a lesser person shy away from his gaze. Jiaoqiu is much too perceptive for his own good.

You stir your rice. “It’s nothing.”

He waits.

“…Feixiao confirmed the Luofu guest list today.”

“Ah. For that symposium you mentioned.” He nods slowly. “And?”

You don’t answer. You don’t need to.

Jiaoqiu exhales and leans back, resting his head against the cabinet behind him. “He’s one of the guests in question, isn’t he?”

You glance at him, startled. “How did you—?”

“I’d have bet money,” he says simply. “You’ve had the same expression since you graduated whenever his name comes up. Like you’re thinking too much and trying not to show it.”

You focus on your bowl. “It’s fine. It was years ago.”

“You left the Luofu literally a month after you last spoke to the guy,” he says, not unkindly. “And you didn’t tell me until after you got the Yaoqing offer. That was years ago.”

“I didn’t leave because of him.”

“I didn’t say you did.”

Silence stretches between you. The rice cooker clicks off.

He turns down the speaker volume and says, a little more gently, “You okay?”

You nod. Then hesitate. “I think I will be.”

Jiaoqiu watches you for another moment, then reaches for the ginger-stew and starts dishing out a second portion. “If he says anything dumb, or makes you cry again, I’m filing a patient complaint.”

“He doesn’t even live here, Jiao.”

“Details.”

You laugh—quiet, but real.

And for a moment, the weight in your chest eases.

Despite the looming symposium that’s got your attention pulled in ten directions at once, you’re unfortunately still a professor at Yaoqing.

Throughout the week, you had to manage your time between meeting student volunteers, making sure all the necessary permits are in order, as well as showing up to your own lectures with at least a thirty-minute power nap squeezed somewhere in your schedule.

But come Thursday, things have started to mellow down and you can at least afford to grade assignments in your office without having to think about the Luofu delegation’s lodging. Yingyue told you she had it covered—something you were somewhat skeptical about, but were too exhausted to insist otherwise.

Just as you’re filing away this batch of papers, you hear a soft knock on your door. You glance at the clock—technically after hours, but you’re not the kind of professor who locks her door the moment class ends.

“Come in,” you call.

The door creaks open, and a student steps halfway inside.

You recognize her immediately—Yinyan, from one of the general lit seminars. Smart. Soft-spoken. Always takes notes like she’s transcribing scripture.

“Sorry to bother you,” she says, already fiddling with the corner of a printed essay. “It’s not for your class—I just... I didn’t know who else to ask.”

You motion her in, already reaching for a pen. “If you’re asking whether I’ll take a look, I will. But you might regret it.”

That earns a nervous laugh. “You’re just easier to talk to than—well. The others.”

You raise a brow but don’t push. Instead, you take the essay when she offers it, skimming the title.

‘The Evolution of Strategic Positioning During the Warring Alliance Era.’

Something tightens behind your ribs, but you flip to the first page without thinking.

The dates are off. One of the campaign names is misattributed. There’s a common myth included as fact about the Fall of Feilin Pass. You catch all of it, circling details and jotting a few quick notes in the margin before you realize what you’re doing.

It’s muscle memory. From another life.

From long nights in a military history seminar where the man at the front of the room spoke about tactical retreats like they were poetry. Where you learned to fact-check casualty records like you were tracing footsteps in the snow.

You blink, pen paused above the page.

You don’t touch this stuff. Not anymore.

“I—I didn’t expect it to be perfect,” Yinyan says, misreading your silence.

You look up, startled out of the haze. “No, it’s not that. You’re asking really good questions here. I just...” You set the essay down gently. “I don’t want to make learning harder than it already is. You’ve got strong instincts. This? This can be fixed. But I can’t go over everything right away. You’ll have to come back tomorrow.”

Yinyan’s shoulders relax, and you think yours do too. She nods, looking genuinely relieved.

“I’ll make sure to revise once you’re done,” she says. “Thank you, Professor.”

You smile as she leaves, but your fingers linger on the edge of the paper a second longer.

It’s been over three years since you last held a red pen over a passage about the Warring Alliance. But even now, part of you still knows the terrain.

You sit still long after Yinyan leaves, the door clicking shut behind her like a question mark you haven’t figured out how to answer.

The essay rests on your desk, marked in your neat red scrawl. You meant what you said—her instincts are good. But the familiarity of the content wraps around your thoughts like an old scarf, warm and unwelcome.

The Fall of Feilin Pass.

You remember the first time you heard that name spoken aloud.

Jing Yuan’s voice had filled the lecture hall—measured, deliberate, always just a little amused. He’d paced the front of the room with his hands behind his back, white hair catching the light like a lion in a sunbeam. You’d been his TA for almost a month by then, already accustomed to the way he made military maneuvers sound like the rise and fall of poetry.

He called it a masterstroke of misdirection, that battle. Pulled up diagrams, quoted journal fragments from commanding officers, invited students to challenge his interpretation like they were strategists themselves.

Not wanting to dwell, you get up and cross to the window like you can outpace the memory.

Outside, the Yaoqing campus is quiet. Students crossing the quad below, jackets pulled tight against the early autumn breeze. There’s a flicker of movement near the gardens—someone tending to the bonsai by the administration building.

You press your palm to the window’s cold glass.

You’ve worked so hard to leave all of that behind. And yet the facts still live in your hands. The timelines, the tactics, the battles—they never really left.

Just like he never really did.

That night, an unwelcome stranger infiltrates your dreams for the first time in months.

The city hum fades. The streetlight outside your window flickers once, and then you’re no longer in Yaoqing.

You’re somewhere else.

The light is too gold. The air smells of tea and spring dust. The walls are lined with old maps, books worn soft at the edges, a potted dracaena bending toward a narrow beam of sunlight. The desk is familiar. So is the man leaning against it, arms folded, eyes like liquid amber tracking your every move.

“You’re early,” Jing Yuan says, like he always did when you arrived exactly on time.

You open your mouth to answer, but your voice doesn’t come. You look down at your hands. They’re full of papers, disheveled in a way that reminds you of old habits. The syllabus, a half-graded quiz—fragments of a life you left behind, scattered at your fingertips.

When you look up again, the room is dimmer.

“You haven’t changed,” he says, his voice softer now, like it’s almost a confession.

You almost laugh. Almost. "I’ve changed a lot."

He doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, his eyes linger on you with that same unflinching focus, the kind that has always seen you too clearly. His gaze is unreadable, but his silence speaks louder than words.

“But not where it counts."

Your throat tightens, a visceral reaction, like there’s something he’s seen in you that you don’t want to face. You don’t want to ask what he means. You don’t want to know.

The documents in your hands flutter, and suddenly you’re outside—same campus, different time. The greenhouse near the old west gate. You recognize the planter box you tended to for a while, filled to the brim with daffodils that seem to mock you.

You don’t turn around when you hear footsteps. But he speaks anyway.

“Would it have been easier,” Jing Yuan asks, “if I hadn’t acted like I cared so much?”

The question burns in your chest, but you push it down, far down. Instead, you clench your fists, fingers digging into the soil as if you can anchor yourself to this moment, to anything other than the weight of his words. You can almost feel the sharpness of the past, the ache that never really went away.

You say, without turning, “It wouldn’t have mattered.”

The next moment, you’re in the lecture hall. His lecture hall.

It’s empty, save for the two of you. The rows of seats are abandoned, the air still, save for the faint echo of past voices.

He’s standing at the podium, his posture poised, authoritative, like he belongs there. Like this is still his domain. And you? You’re sitting halfway up the stairs, knees drawn to your chest, tucked into the corner of your old spot, as if you’re still his assistant. Still waiting for something from him.

He opens his mouth to speak—

—and then the scene fades, all of it washing to white like chalk under rain.

You wake to the sound of Jiaoqiu boiling water in the kitchen. The apartment smells faintly of ginger and morning mist. There’s sunlight on your curtains and a text from Feixiao already on your phone.

Feixiao: Your keynote segment for Day 2 has been moved an hour earlier.

Me: Is it worth asking if that person’s segment has also been moved?

Feixiao: That’s a pretty cold way to address your old mentor.

Me: You’re just reading into it too much.

Feixiao: But, yes. Jing Yuan’s segment was moved as well.

Feixiao: At least the two of you can serve back-to-back cunt right after lunch.

Me: …who on earth taught you how to use those words?

Feixiao: Zichen.

You lie still for a moment. One breath. Then another. Though Feixiao’s attempt at imitating newer speech steals a chuckle from you, the dream you had still clings like mildew in the back of your head. Because part of it is true—you just didn’t want to admit it to yourself.

You changed.

But not where it counts.

You arrive ten minutes early and still feel late.

The banners are already up—elegant cream and crimson, catching the wind just enough to look important. A student volunteer is fiddling with a welcome stand, and Zichen is already leaning against the pillar near the humanities building like he got there by accident and decided to stay out of curiosity.

“You look like,” he says, tilting his head, “you’re about to face a firing squad.”

“Worse. I’m facing a university welcome committee,” you reply.

He offers you a thermos. It smells like jasmine and guilt. “Feixiao told me to give you this.”

You take it with a sigh. “She thinks I’m going to choke, doesn’t she?”

“She thinks you’re going to be too composed and it’ll freak everyone out.” He shrugs. “Honestly, she might be right.”

Before you can reply, the last of the expected shuttles pulls up to the curb.

You see the rest of the Luofu delegation stepping out in stages: a couple of assistant professors, a senior archivist you vaguely recognize from an old conference, and—

Him.

He moves like he always did. Each step measured and easy, like gravity’s just a mere suggestion.

Jing Yuan steps out of the van last, adjusting the collar of his coat with that absent-minded elegance that fools people into forgetting how calculated he really is. His hair’s longer than you remember, gathered low at his nape, a few strands brushing his cheek like they belong there. His expression, as always, is unreadable.

And those eyes—golden, sharp, too steady for comfort—sweep across the campus like he’s surveying old battlegrounds. Taking stock. Mapping exits. You half expect him to start assigning formations.

Three years.

It’s been three years since you last saw him.

Then his gaze lands on you.

And for the briefest second, something flickers. Familiarity? Surprise? That strange, quiet relief that feels too much like longing?

You don’t know. Because just as quickly, it’s gone—smoothed away like it was never there, replaced by a polite smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

He nods.

You nod back.

It’s all very professional. Very academic.

Zichen says nothing, but you can feel him staring like he’s watching fault lines splinter beneath centuries of pressure. Something in the stillness holds, but only barely.

Jing Yuan turns away first, speaking low to the assistant at his side. You can’t hear the words, but you know the cadence like an old song. That steady rhythm that always made his lectures feel like lullabies and warnings in equal measure.

The welcome committee descends on the group like a well-rehearsed ambush. Hands are shaken. Names exchanged. You feel someone clap your shoulder—it’s Feixiao, brisk and bright-eyed as always.

“Battlefield’s open,” she says under her breath. “You ready, soldier?”

You square your shoulders. “Always.”

Feixiao smirks and marches ahead, calling out greetings to the delegation with the booming energy of a woman who’s organized half a dozen international symposiums and never once let an itinerary slip by more than five minutes.

You fall into step beside her, thermos still warm in your hand, pulse ticking under your collar. Zichen stays behind, lingering near the edge like a cat who knows better than to step too close to a dogfight.

The introductions begin.

Names pass like ceremonial offerings—titles, departments, affiliations. You bow when it's appropriate, shake hands when offered, and smile just enough to seem gracious but not overly eager. It’s choreography you’ve mastered by now.

And still, you feel him.

Jing Yuan is silent at first, content to let the others go ahead of him. But when Feixiao gestures toward you with her customary flourish—“This is the stellar professor who’s been overseeing logistics from our side. She’s younger than she looks and deadlier than she sounds”—he steps forward.

You brace.

“Hello,” he says, voice as smooth as ever. “It’s an honor.”

There it is again. That pause. That moment where the rest of the world seems to blur just slightly out of focus, where the air seems to thin.

You extend your hand. “Professor Jing Yuan.”

His hand is warm. The handshake firm, but not too firm. His eyes hold yours, just long enough to make it feel like a conversation. Just long enough to remember.

Then the moment passes before he turns to speak to one of the archivists, asking about something on the schedule. Feixiao nudges you as she moves ahead, eyes gleaming with something suspiciously close to amusement.

You don’t look back at him again.

Instead, you fall into line with the rest of the Yaoqing faculty, escorting the Luofu delegation across the stone path that leads to the main conference hall. The banners flap gently in the breeze, just loud enough to remind you that this is happening. That it’s real.

As the group moves ahead, you find yourself walking beside Yingyue and Lihua. The former gives you a look.

“Well,” Yingyue murmurs, “if that was just ‘professional,’ I’m very curious to see what unprofessional looks like.”

“Yingyue,” you hiss.

“I’m just saying,” she singsongs under her breath. “The air around you two felt… loaded.”

Lihua nods solemnly. “Like a scene in a film right before someone gets emotionally wrecked.”

You say nothing. You sip from your thermos. The jasmine tea is scalding, but you don’t flinch.

“Should we be worried?” Yingyue asks, feigning innocence.

You keep your voice neutral. “There’s nothing to worry about. He’s a visiting scholar. That’s all.”

Zichen catches up from behind with a smirk that suggests he saw everything.

“Right,” he says. “And I suppose I’m just here for the coffee and not the front-row seat to whatever this is.”

You walk faster.

But you don’t deny it.

The panel room is packed.

Faculty from both campuses line the rows, notebooks open, styluses ready. The translator charm hums faintly over the room, a soft shimmer in the air for any non-native speakers.

You’re seated at the center table beside Lihua and one of the Luofu delegates. There's a placard in front of you with your name and mastery in literature and cultural theory embedded with a glossy print.

You catch Feixiao’s thumbs-up from the sidelines and roll your eyes just enough to make her grin.

“Let’s begin,” says the moderator. “Our first discussion will be on narrative authority and the reinterpretation of classical texts in post-crisis literature.”

He calls your name, saying the floor is yours, and you stand. The mic hums to life.

You start by thanking everyone who graced the room, and by extension, the symposium with their presence. How honored Yaoqing is to host such a convergence of sharp minds and generous spirits, and how rare it is to see so many brilliant scholars under one roof without a single turf war breaking out over footnotes.

A ripple of laughter follows when you glance toward the back and add, “And if all goes well, I might finally convince Zhuming's Department of Humanities to participate next year—willingly, I mean.”

Then, you ease the audience into your piece for today's panel. Softly, yet also deliberately.

“Don’t you think,” you say, letting the pause linger just long enough, “there’s something quietly liberating about rereading a nation’s pain through fiction?”

You catch yourself smiling when a few heads pop up to look at you. “Post-crisis literature doesn’t just record trauma. It reclaims it. It reframes grief into metaphor, and in doing so, it softens the blow. That’s not erasure—it’s survival. And survival, I’d argue, is the most honest form of storytelling we have.”

Your voice is steady. You speak like you belong here—because you do.

Gone is the girl who used to linger in the back of lecture halls, afraid her questions might sound too unsure. You know the shape of your own ideas now. You carry them without apology.

And when you speak, the room listens.

Until—

“Do you believe,” Jing Yuan begins from his seat near the back, “that fiction built on softened truths still holds moral weight?”

The room turns as one. And there it is—Jing Yuan’s unmistakable drawl, the one you used to hear more than you care to admit. It’s not challenging, exactly, but there’s something wry in his tone, a touch of that old teasing sharpness that used to curl around the edges of every conversation you had. A raised eyebrow, not a reprimand, but an invitation to push back.

You meet his gaze evenly. “I do. Fiction doesn’t owe us pain to be powerful.”

His eyes don’t leave yours, but there’s a subtle shift in his posture, a slight lean forward as if testing the ground. “But doesn’t the omission of pain risk distortion?”

The question hangs between you like a weight. You can feel the tension in the room, the way everyone has drawn closer, waiting for the next exchange.

A part of you almost wants to laugh, the absurdity of the situation rising in your chest. You’d thought this moment would come. You’d told yourself you were prepared. But facing him again—this way, in this context—feels like you’re falling right back into the rhythm of a dance you didn’t even realize you knew the steps to.

“It’s not omission,” you counter, before you can stop yourself. “It’s transformation. Rewriting the aftermath isn’t the same as denying the disaster.”

The room holds its breath. There’s a beat of silence, and then a quiet murmur ripples through the crowd. Someone behind you murmurs an appreciative “Mm,” as though savoring the taste of a well-crafted argument.

Jing Yuan leans back, fingers steepled. “And if a nation prefers the transformed version to the truth?”

You smile, and it’s not sweet. “Then the burden falls on the reader to know what they’re looking at.”

Another pause, this one heavier, stretched thin by the weight of your words. The tension in the air is thick enough to cut with a knife. You could almost hear the collective breath being held in the room.

Then, from somewhere behind you, Zichen mutters, “...Hot.”

The moderator coughs, startled. “Err—thank you, Professors. Let’s open the floor for questions?”

There are questions. Thoughtful ones. Smart ones. You field them with practiced ease, each answer flowing naturally from the previous one. You’re in your element now, calm and controlled.

But part of your mind stays on him. On that deliberate little push. Those questions with too much timing to be innocent.

Jing Yuan remains quiet for the rest of the discussion, and you can’t quite tell if he’s satisfied or just waiting for another opportunity to test you. But every time your gaze flickers toward him, you feel that familiar spark, that old pull that neither of you has ever fully escaped.

After the panel, as the crowd disperses into murmurs and clinks of tea cups, you feel a soft tap on your shoulder.

It’s him, standing beside you now. Closer than the panel format allowed. You try not to dwell too much on how warm his hand is in the vastly air-conditioned space, but the sensation lingers in your chest, distracting you.

“You’re scarier than you used to be,” Jing Yuan says, his tone soft, a hint of something almost nostalgic in his words. His smile is small but real, like a shared secret between you both. “I didn’t expect that.”

Instead, you arch a brow. “And you’re exactly the same.”

“Am I?” His smile is quiet. “That’s disappointing.”

You don’t answer, feeling the weight of those words more than you should. Instead, you take a sip from your water, a small, nervous gesture to buy yourself time, before turning to walk toward the exit—where your team is waiting. Zichen’s face is aglow with the joy of watching chaos unfold, and Lihua gives you an approving nod.

But as you pass by them, you can still feel Jing Yuan's gaze on your back, trailing after you like the start of a new chapter you didn’t agree to write.

There’s a shaded bench under a plum tree that your team has unofficially claimed.

Zichen's sprawled across one end like he owns the place, Lihua’s nibbling on a red bean bun she definitely smuggled in, and Yingyue’s already pulling up the playback recording from the symposium like it’s a drama she can rewatch at leisure.

You sit with your back against the cool stone ledge and let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding.

“So,” Zichen says casually, “on a scale of one to scandalous, how inappropriate is it to ask if academic foreplay is a thing?”

Lihua nearly chokes on her bun.

“Zichen,” you groan, covering your face. “I’m begging you.”

“What? It was electric. That entire back-and-forth was like watching two swordsmen flirt via carefully cited historical examples.”

“I was defending a thesis,” you protest. “Not flirting.”

Yingyue taps her screen. “Okay, but the eye contact? The tone shift? The part where he said ‘that’s disappointing’ and you visibly inhaled like you were about to bite back something unholy—”

“You guys were eavesdropping?” You scowl. “And no! I was going to tell him he hasn’t changed since he assigned three chapters of military ethics over a long weekend.”

Zichen gasps. “Three chapters? Oh, no. You were in love.”

That gets them both going. Lihua’s laugh is high-pitched and unfiltered, and Yingyue is practically vibrating. “Wait, wait—so is that a yes? Was there, like, a thing?”

You hesitate.

Not long. Just enough to betray yourself.

“He was a professor. I was his TA. That was it.” You keep your tone light, looking down at your hands. “...But maybe I respected him more than I wanted to. Maybe I admired him a little too much. It wasn’t anything serious.”

There’s a pause, heavy with understanding.

Then Lihua asks gently, “Did he know?”

You smile. Not sad, exactly. “He didn’t act like it. And I didn’t want him to.”

There’s a quiet empathy in the air now. They all know that it’s not as simple as that, that it’s not something that can be neatly wrapped up in a few words.

Zichen, always the one to break the tension, swings an arm over the back of the bench, his gesture surprisingly soft. “You ever think he figured it out anyway?”

You look across the courtyard, past the rustling trees, where the symposium banners are fluttering gently in the breeze, and the familiar silhouette of Jing Yuan can be seen through the glass window of the atrium. He’s talking to someone, calm and composed, exactly as he always is.

It’s hard to ignore the way your heart catches in your chest for a split second, or how your breath hitches just a little when you see him.

You shrug. “It doesn’t matter now.”

But it does.

A little.

And they all know it.

Day Two sessions are always where the real academic showdowns begin.

The scholars who flew in just to be seen have already made their exits, leaving only the ones who care too much—the ones who take themselves and their work just a little too seriously. You arrive before most of the others, coffee in one hand and your tablet in the other, already reviewing the panel order for the day.

This morning was calm—enough time for polite discussions over coffee, for setting the tone. But now, with the afternoon panels, the real program begins to take shape. You can feel it in the air, in the way the faculty members file into their seats, the way the hush of conversation spreads across the room like a slow tide. There’s an edge to the anticipation. Today’s centerpiece? The keynote speeches.

One from the Luofu. One from Yaoqing.

You.

And him.

You move toward the large hall, where the cream-and-crimson banners hang tall behind a dignified podium. Rows of lacquer-backed seats stretch out beneath cool, carefully placed lighting. The hall feels both expansive and intimate, the kind of space where every word carries weight, where every gesture is scrutinized.

As you settle into your seat near the front, you can’t help but notice the faint hum of excitement that permeates the air. Most of the audience knows what’s coming. There’s a buzz of whispered names, of scholars shifting in their seats, adjusting their glasses, preparing for the intellectual clash they’ve been waiting for all day.

Then, the doors open, and Jing Yuan takes the stage.

His entrance is the same as always—unhurried, graceful, and deliberate. It’s as if he’s stepping into a rhythm only he can hear. The murmurs in the room settle almost immediately, like the air itself is being drawn into his orbit. Someone behind you whispers his name in reverence, the tone respectful but edged with a quiet awe.

You don’t turn.

His voice fills the room with the same calm authority it always has. “Thank you to the organizers, to the faculty members, to my colleagues, and to everyone who has come today.” He nods to Feixiao in the front row, offering a smile that’s both respectful and distant. Then, he begins, his words measured and steady, like a soldier reciting a well-practiced speech.

His topic: Strategic Retreats in Military History: Calculated Loss, Preserved Legacy.

You want to laugh.

Of course it’s that.

He speaks of war, of victory and loss, of the delicate dance between pride and pragmatism. But what stands out to you, as it always does, is his discussion of restraint. The power of stepping back. The clarity of knowing when to withdraw, not out of fear, but out of a clear-eyed understanding of what matters most.

It’s a subject he’s always been passionate about, and as he talks, you can hear the deep layers of memory in his voice, the weight of years spent navigating both war and peace.

You try not to dwell on the subtle way he emphasizes “timing,” “discipline,” and knowing when to act, when to hold back. You feel it, though. It’s there, tucked into the cadence of his words. Meant for you, even if it’s not obvious to anyone else.

Your hands are folded neatly in your lap. You’re aware of Zichen sitting beside you, his posture a little too eager. He leans in, his voice low enough that only you can hear.

“He’s quoting your old seminar discussion notes,” he whispers.

You don’t answer. You don’t need to look at Zichen to know that he’s right.

Of course, Jing Yuan would bring up those discussions. The ones you had, years ago, when the subject of strategic retreats was just a theoretical exercise for you both, a way of dissecting history without fully acknowledging how personal it might feel.

It was one of those days when he got close to converting you into becoming a history major. Luckily, you didn't.

He finishes his speech with a bow, not too deep, nor too distant, the same kind of gesture that’s both professional and intimate in its simplicity. The applause that greets his exit is raucous, as expected of a seasoned scholar. But you don't let it deter you.

Because it’s your turn.

You rise from your seat with practiced grace, your body moving automatically, every step taken with a spine straight and sure. You can feel the gaze of the room settling on you. Every eye is fixed, waiting for your words.

The podium is yours now—not as a reply, not as a counterstrike to what he’s just said.

This is your space. Your voice. A place for you to carve your own place in the conversation.

Then, without missing a beat, you guide them into the heart of your keynote.

The Intersection of Literature and Human Emotion: Love and Loss as Universal Themes.

Your thesis.

The one that earned you the best dissertation award back in grad school. The one you bled into for months, and stayed with you even years after. Every line of it felt like a scar you chose to wear. You don’t need your notes for this. You know it the way you know your own name—intimately, instinctively.

Because it’s not just an argument you once defended. It’s a piece of you.

A truth you lived.

You speak of the silence between words, the unsaid things that carry just as much weight as the spoken ones. You discuss the way ancient texts often depict longing, exile, and loss—not as clear-cut emotions, but as complex tapestries woven through silence and space. You talk about the characters who would rather suffer in silence than confess their feelings. You talk about how those unspoken emotions still speak louder than any words ever could.

When you speak of unspoken affection in the epics—of missed chances and deliberate distance—you don’t look at him. Not once. But you feel it. The air tightens. The weight of his presence is undeniable. You know exactly what he’s hearing.

There’s a subtle power in the silence you speak of, and you feel it intensify when you near the end of your speech.

It’s not a grand flourish you’re after. No dramatic exclamation. Just one quiet line from a favorite text, a line you’ve always held close to your heart:

“Some wars are won not by holding the line, but by stepping away from it.”

The silence stretches after you finish.

It feels more like the world is catching its breath than anything else. The weight of what you just said settles, deeper than you anticipated, heavier than you thought it would feel. You stand there for a moment, just letting the words linger in the air, letting them settle.

Then the applause begins.

At first, it’s hesitant. Measured. But soon, it builds—slowly, steadily—until it becomes something real. Something you feel in your chest.

You bow—not to Jing Yuan, not to anyone in particular, but to the room, to the audience, to the words you just shared. To the fact that you’ve made it here, and you’re standing on this stage; that your voice, after everything, is still your own.

You step down from the podium, each movement graceful but touched by a quiet fatigue—the kind that settles in only after you've laid your heart bare beneath a roomful of lights and eyes.

The stage lights stretch your shadow long across the floor, following you as you make your way down the aisle. You don’t look at him—not at first. But you feel the depth of his gaze. Steady, unmistakable, like a thread pulling gently at something deep in your chest.

Against your better judgment, you glance his way.

Just once. Just long enough.

What you find isn’t surprise. Not pride or regret either. It’s something gentler. Something unguarded. A look that holds recognition, yes—but more than that, reverence. Like he’s seeing you not as you were, but as you are now. And somehow, that means everything.

Maybe, just maybe, he is seeing you for the first time.

And perhaps that’s the moment you’ve both been waiting for all along.

When night falls, so does the final curtain on the symposium.

The function hall glows in soft amber light, casting delicate shadows on ivory linens and polished glassware. It’s elegant by design—curated to impress, to invite conversation between brilliant minds across disciplines. But beneath the laughter and clinking glasses, something else simmers: rivalry dressed as camaraderie, nostalgia edged in ambition. A quiet current running just under the surface.

You find yourself by the refreshment table, fingers curled loosely around an untouched glass. The keynote glow has worn off, and what’s left is a strange sense of dislocation. You were just on that stage, commanding the room. And yet, now, surrounded by colleagues and strangers, you feel slightly out of place. Like you’ve slipped back into an old version of yourself, ill-fitting and over-aware.

You’re still replaying that moment—after your speech, when everything in the air felt thick with something unspoken—when someone steps into your orbit.

Zichen, drink in hand, angles in with that lazy, knowing grin. He doesn’t need to say anything—you already know that look. But of course, he says something anyway.

“So,” he says, his voice loud enough to cut through the quiet room, “was I right? Was it like watching a pair of sparring poets trying to outwit each other with footnotes?”

You don’t roll your eyes, but you definitely feel your chest tighten. “I think I’m going to need a second drink to survive this conversation, Zichen.”

“Can’t blame you.” He leans closer, still grinning. “If I were you, I’d need several. Honestly, though, I started wondering—were you two that in sync, or is there something else going on?”

You sigh, half-laughing, half-groaning. “You’re infuriating.”

Before he can needle you further, Lihua materializes, her presence like a breeze. She’s trailed by Yingyue, who offers you a small smile as she cradles her glass.

“Alright,” Lihua cuts in, no-nonsense and warm, “let’s not corner her before she’s even had dessert. We’ve pulled off something incredible, and that deserves more than your conspiracy theories.”

Yingyue’s laugh is softer, but no less amused. “Honestly, we’ve earned this. Two full days of chaos, zero disasters. Let’s just bask in that.”

You smile, genuinely this time. The four of you raise your glasses—an unspoken toast. To the symposium. To the effort. To being seen and recognized, even if only by each other.

But Zichen isn’t one to let the moment pass without his usual jab.

“So,” he drawls, swirling his drink, “now that we’ve toasted… is it safe to ask the real question? You said it wasn't anything serious, but why does it feel like you two were reading off the same script?”

Your stomach twists. The weight of his words lands, heavier than it should.

Your thoughts ricochet back—to that look from Jing Yuan, the stillness between you, the way his gaze lingered like he hadn’t meant to.

“I’m getting some air,” you say quickly, voice light but clipped, and step away before anyone can follow.

You step into the evening, where the air is crisp with the kind of quiet that only comes after too much noise. The campus is still now, wrapped in the soft hum of cicadas and far-off footfalls, the faint lights casting long shadows over stone and grass. Out here, the symposium feels a thousand miles away.

You lean against the railing, hands curled loosely around the cool edge of the stone. The stillness should be a relief, but your chest is too full—of adrenaline, of memories you’d meant to leave behind. You exhale slowly, letting the silence wrap around you.

And then, footsteps.

You don’t turn. You don’t need to.

“Shouldn’t you be inside?” Jing Yuan’s voice drifts through the quiet, low and unhurried, like it always is. But there’s something else there—hesitation, maybe. Or restraint. It ripples across your skin like a breeze you weren’t expecting.

You don’t answer. Just breathe in the night and hope that if you stay silent long enough, he’ll take the hint and go. That you won’t have to open the door to this—whatever this is.

But the footsteps don’t fade.

There’s a rustle, and then he’s there, beside you, not quite touching, but near enough that you can feel the heat of him. The railing holds both of you now, like a boundary you’re pretending not to lean across.

Neither of you speaks. The silence stretches, but it's not awkward. Just... thick with things unsaid.

When Jing Yuan finally does speak again, it’s softer. Not the voice of a professor or a speaker. Just a man beside you.

“Your friend’s right, you know,” he says, a touch of amusement coloring his words, though it’s tempered by something deeper. “You and I... we’ve always been in sync. Even if only for a short while.”

You let out a breath that’s almost a laugh, but not quite. Yet another person has eavesdropped into your conversations.

“I think Zichen’s just trying to make something out of nothing.”

“No,” he says, and there’s a subtle warmth to his tone that catches you off guard. “It wasn’t nothing.”

You glance at him, finally, but don’t quite meet his eyes. The tension you’ve been carrying since his keynote, since the moment your speeches mirrored each other, is there. In the air between you. And it feels like a weight you can’t lift.

Jing Yuan doesn’t press. He simply waits.

And somehow, that’s worse.

The air hangs thick with unspoken words. You can feel the weight of the moment pressing down on you, as if the entire day has led to this. It’s not just the speeches, or the research, or the people inside—the real conversation has always been between you two. You just haven't been able to face it until now.

You finally look at him. It’s hard to miss the way his expression flickers when he sees you meet his gaze—golden eyes heavy with anticipation.

You exhale slowly, your voice steady despite the turmoil inside.

“You know, Zichen also said,” you begin, “that it was like we were reading from the same script today.”

He arches an eyebrow, but doesn’t interrupt.

“You and I… we’ve always had this thing, haven’t we?” you continue, your gaze not leaving his. “This back-and-forth. This... tension. You could say that some of your habits rubbed off on me while I was your assistant. That I carried them further down my career. But it's always been more than that, isn't it?

"And I’m tired of pretending it doesn’t exist.”

His jaw tightens. The calm façade he always wears is slipping, but you push on.

"Three years," you say, voice barely above a whisper. "Three years of silence and distance and professionalism, and still—this. Us. Whatever it is, it’s never gone away. And maybe that’s what’s so hard about this."

The quiet between you pulses with meaning, full and sharp.

Jing Yuan finally steps closer—not quite touching, but close enough that the night feels smaller now. His voice, when it comes, is rougher than before, stripped of its usual polish.

“I never meant to make you carry it alone,” he says. “I just... didn’t know how to be close without crossing a line.”

Your breath catches. “And now?”

His eyes search yours. “Now I'm certain we both crossed that line a long time ago. We just pretended we hadn’t.”

The words hit you like a tide—relief and fear, ache and recognition.

You don’t know how to answer that. Your throat tightens, and for a moment, you feel the sting of old memories—those days spent working together in his office, when things were easier, but so much more complicated beneath the surface.

Instead of speaking, you just take a slow breath, willing yourself to steady your shaking hands.

“I’ve always been good at distance,” you say, your voice steady despite the tremor inside. “I made a whole life out of it. But standing here with you… I don’t think I want to be good at it anymore.”

And this time, when his eyes meet yours, you feel it. No more games. No more pretending. Just the quiet recognition that something has shifted between you two.

For a long moment, neither of you speaks.

Then, Jing Yuan leans in just slightly, his breath warm against your skin. A large hand cradles the side of your face, and you instinctively lean into his touch.

You can feel his lips almost brushing against yours, the tension so thick it’s almost unbearable. He smells like cedarwood and rain and everything you shouldn't even want.

But just as it feels like he’s about to close the distance completely...

“Ahem!”

You both startle, just slightly. And then she appears—Feixiao, with that all-too-familiar grin, already stepping between you and the moment like it’s nothing at all.

“I’m not interrupting, am I?” she says, tone breezy as she links her arm through yours and casually steers you away from Jing Yuan. She gives him a polite nod, her eyes sharp with mischief before turning back to you.

“Dinner’s starting soon,” she adds, a playful lilt in her voice, followed by the faintest nudge. “And you’re not about to keep me waiting, are you?”

You blink, still caught somewhere between heat and hesitation. “Feixiao, I—”

You glance over your shoulder. Jing Yuan hasn’t moved far, but the look in his eyes says enough: the moment is slipping, and he’s letting it.

Feixiao keeps her arm linked with yours as she walks you a few paces away, lowering her voice just enough to keep it private—but not too serious. She never does serious unless she has to.

“Look,” she says, “you’ve always been the type to stay sharp, keep your eyes on the goal. Not a bad thing. But if you’re thinking about sorting things out with him... don’t rush it.”

You shoot her a look, still reeling. “What are you talking about?”

She hums, thoughtful. “Just saying—he’s not going anywhere. You don’t need to run headfirst into something before you’ve figured out what it means to you.”

You pause, the words landing somewhere heavy. Shame creeps up, uninvited and quiet.

“Yeah…”

Feixiao softens then, rubbing your shoulder in easy circles, a rare gentleness beneath all the bravado. “I don’t know what’s between you and Jing Yuan,” she says, “but whatever it is? It’s been cooking a while. So don’t serve it half-baked.”

Her words pull at something deeper—something buried. A memory: something Professor Fu Xuan said, years ago, over noodles and pork dumplings.

He’s not built for half-measures.

Neither are you.

Before you can speak, Feixiao’s already shifted gears. She pats your arm, a bright smile smoothing everything over.

“Anyway! You’re still coming to dinner, right? Or would you rather stay out here and stew in all that dramatic tension?”

You hesitate, heart not quite caught up with the rest of you. But she’s already tugging you gently toward the building, her cheer disguising something more careful beneath it.

You glance back, just once.

Jing Yuan is already gone.

The key clicks in the lock.

You step inside, letting the door fall shut behind you with a soft thud. The lights are low. Your heels echo dully against the floor, and your bag slips from your shoulder with a sigh that feels like it came from your chest.

Then you hear it: bright, canned laughter drifting from the living room.

Jiaoqiu is half-swallowed by a blanket on the sofa, legs tucked under him, a bowl of popcorn in his lap. His eyes are fixed on the TV and you don't have to glance to know he's watching his favorite sitcom.

He jumps a little when he sees you, fumbling for the remote. “Hey,” he says, voice too casual, as if you haven’t just walked in with the weight of a night trailing behind you. He pauses the episode mid-joke. The room goes still.

“You’re back.”

You nod faintly. But for a moment, you don’t move. You just stand there, the quiet thick between you. Your thoughts are a thousand miles away, still chasing the afterimage of something you almost said. Something he almost did.

Jiaoqiu watches you carefully. “Bad night?”

You shake your head. “Not bad,” you say, low. “Just… a lot.”

He doesn’t ask. Just shifts over and lifts the blanket in silent invitation. “Come sit.”

You cross the room and sink down beside him, shoulder brushing his. The couch cushions exhale. He presses play again without a word, as if the hum of dialogue and background laughter can buffer the ache you brought home.

The screen flickers.

A punchline. More laughter. Someone throws a pillow on-screen. Someone dodges it.

Then, softly, without looking at you, Jiaoqiu says, “You don’t have to talk about it. But if you want to…”

You let out a shaky breath, then press your face into your hands. “Jing Yuan.”

He nods impercetibly, like that name holds all the answers to life's curiosities. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Did he say anything stupid? Make you cry?” he asks, reaching for the popcorn.

You manage a breath of laughter—thin, but real. “No. Worse. He didn’t.”

That gets a knowing hum out of him. Jiaoqiu holds out the bowl like it’s an offering. “Popcorn therapy. It’s not peer-reviewed, but I’ve had great results.”

You take a handful, the corner of your mouth twitching. “Thanks.”

Finally, he turns to look at you fully, expression careful. “You okay?”

You pause, leaning your head against his shoulder. “I think so. Or I will be.”

Jiaoqiu doesn’t say anything else. The sitcom carries on, voices flickering in and out, but neither of you is really watching.

And that’s okay. Some nights aren’t for talking.

Some nights are just for not being alone.

The final day of the symposium begins with brisk air and brisker goodbyes. Yaoqing runs like clockwork, and the send-off is no different—efficient, unceremonious, almost surgical in its precision.

Delegates file out one by one, boarding shuttles with handshakes and nods. You’re stationed nearby, clipboard in hand, checking names against lists, pretending you don’t feel the knot in your stomach.

You know he’ll be here.

You expect him to be cordial. Maybe even distant. You expect him to act like last night never happened.

But Jing Yuan isn’t predictable in the ways that matter.

When his turn comes, he’s not alone—his aides beside him, belongings packed. The lines of his coat are as neat as ever, but there’s something softer about his expression when his amber eyes find yours.

Jing Yuan steps forward, says something low to one of the attendants, then turns to you.

Before you can speak, he holds out a small pouch made of familiar linen. Twine wrapped neatly around it. You don’t take it right away, but your fingers brush his when you do.

I've seen this before...

He doesn’t explain. Doesn’t try to. Just watches you, gaze steady.

Then, just as he’s about to leave, Jing Yuan offers you one last look—a long one.

And says, quietly, “Be well.”

The words hit harder than you expect.

Because that’s what he said to you the day you graduated, three years ago. Beneath that shade tree in the Luofu courtyard. Your last conversation, before the silence settled between you like dust.

You don’t reply. Can’t trust your voice to hold.

He nods once and walks away.

You stand there long after the shuttle door hisses shut behind him, the pouch clutched in your hand and that old goodbye echoing through your ribs like a bell you’d forgotten how to hear.

Later in the day, you hole yourself up in your office—avoiding your colleagues (even Feixiao) to the best of your ability. You’d told yourself you’d get started on writing the midterm; outlined three prompts, even booted up the document

But the pouch sits in your drawer like a challenge, and your curiosity, traitorous thing that it is, wins out.

You untie the twine.

Inside, you find once-vibrant blossoms that have faded to a muted violet, their edges curled inward like they’ve been holding their breath for too long. You know these flowers.

Scutellaria lateriflora. Skullcap.

You inhale, and there it is again—that same earthy, herbal scent. He gave you this once before. Years ago, when you were still his teaching aide, and he’d just started that absurd little project at the Luofu campus greenhouse. He's still tending to it, from the looks of it.

Your hands are steadier than you expect as you unfold the linen further. Tucked beneath the sprigs is something else.

A calling card.

It’s plain. Cream cardstock, gold embossed lettering. You find it almost funny.

Jing Yuan used to scoff at these, said they were for pretentious academics and bored aristocrats. “Too performative,” he’d once told you, half-asleep in his office, tea cooling by his elbow.

You flip it over.

There, scrawled in that infuriatingly elegant handwriting of his:

I'd love to speak with you—about this, and whatever else you've been stockpiling behind that diplomatic smile. On your terms, of course. If you prefer the art of futile resistance, by all means. But if not... I'm just a correspondence away. — JY

You stare at the words for a long moment, unsure how he even squeezed all those words in such a tight space. Only then do you let the card fall flat on your desk.

The dried skullcap rests beside it, patient. Familiar.

And you—

You sit back in your chair, heart too full of memory to be still, and let the thought bloom quietly in your chest:

He remembered.

Subject: Follow-up on the Symposium From: Me To: Jing Yuan

Dear Professor Jing Yuan,

I hope this message finds you well. I wanted to extend my thanks again for your presence at the Yaoqing symposium. Your insight during the panel sessions was both illuminating and deeply appreciated by the faculty and students alike.

If you ever wish to collaborate on a joint lecture or discussion in the future, please don’t hesitate to reach out.

Warm regards.

(You stare at the draft for a long time. Then delete “Professor.” You don't send it. Not yet.)

Subject: About the Gift From: Me To: Jing Yuan

Hi,

I wasn’t sure whether to write at all. But the pouch you left... I remember it. Of course I do.

I haven’t decided what I want to say, or how much. Only that I don’t want to pretend it meant nothing.

(…You get this far and stop. You never hit send.)

Subject: Your Dramatic Correspondence From: Me To: Jing Yuan

Jing Yuan,

Only you would make dried herbs feel like a grand confession. Should I be flattered, or concerned that you're now resorting to calling cards?

...I haven’t thrown it out, if that’s what you’re wondering.

(You read it back, scoff at yourself, but save it as a draft anyway.)

Subject: Fine. Let’s talk. From: Me To: Jing Yuan

You said you’d wait until it was on my terms.

Well... I’m writing, aren’t I?

Just tell me you meant what you said. That it wasn’t just leftover sentiment from too many missed chances.

If you do, then maybe we can talk. Really talk.

(You go over it twice, heart pounding. Then close the laptop before you can think too hard.)

It’s been a month.

The pouch still sits in the top drawer of your desk, tucked beneath a stack of grading rubrics and office supply receipts. You haven’t moved it since the day you opened it. Some part of you thinks if you don’t look at it too often, the weight of it will lessen. (It hasn’t.)

You never sent the emails. Not the formal one, not the funny one, not the almost-brave one. They’re still sitting in your drafts folder like ghosts.

And you—well. You haven’t changed as much as you wanted to believe.

You still choose silence when things get too complicated. Still fear the what-ifs more than the what-is. Still worry about what others might say, what the faculty might think, what it would look like to the world if you stepped just slightly out of line.

Maybe you're still that same graduate student—ambitious, yet scared. The one who looked at Jing Yuan like he was both everything she wanted and everything she couldn’t let herself want.

The one who left before it could become real.

A knock on your office door brings you back. You straighten, push the drawer closed, and return your attention to your laptop.

You half-expect a student with late homework, but when you glance up, it’s Feixiao, leaning in with a grin and a folder tucked under one arm.

“I come bearing gifts,” she says, stepping inside without waiting for permission. “Or at least, a very polite summons.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Another invitation?”

She waggles the folder. “Guest lecturer. Luofu campus. Smaller-scale than the last one, but good turnout.”

You sigh. “Feixiao…”

“I know, I know.” She plants herself in the chair across from you before you can object. “You were going to say no. Again. But hear me out.”

Your silence is permission enough.

“It wasn’t Jing Yuan,” she says plainly. “Not the invitation, not the event, not the committee. It came from their Literature Department directly—someone named Ying, I think?”

Professor Ying.

The instructor that you were supposed to TA for, before all the administrative mishandlings. You want to laugh. The universe really does have a sense of humor sometimes.

“...He doesn’t know?”

Feixiao shakes her head. “Not a clue. And if you go, you’re under no obligation to see him. I’d bet he’d rather vanish into the stonework than bother you uninvited.”

You study her face. “You sound sure.”

“I am. Military kids don’t grow up without learning who respects a line in the sand.” She pauses, then adds, “Besides, my uncle served with his father. That family’s got a reputation—long memory, even longer patience.”

You let that settle for a moment.

Jing Yuan wouldn’t push. He never has.

Still, your mind flickers. You remember Yanqing, all sharp edges and earnest questions. Jing Yuan mentioned that he was close to that boy's family through their ties in the military as well. You wonder how old he is now. Then you recall the literature department where you once spent late evenings with your peers, poring over old poetry and marking drafts by hand.

Lastly, you think of Jing Yuan himself.

And how—despite everything—you miss the way he listened when you spoke, how he salutes the dracaena in his office like it's a real person, and the fact that he never once called you foolish for drawing back.

The silence stretches.

Feixiao quirks an eyebrow. “So? You going to keep saying no to opportunities just because they come from the same direction?”

You look down at the folder, then up at her. “Tell them I’ll do it.”

She smiles. Not triumphant, but satisfied. It feels like she knew you’d say yes eventually.

Your superior rises, flicking a casual salute. “Knew you were smarter than you looked. Not that it would've mattered—I already filed your leave request with HR this morning.”

You gape. “You what?”

Feixiao just grins. “Contingency planning. If you’d said no, I would’ve told you after the paperwork cleared.”

You want to be annoyed. You really do. But instead, you laugh—quiet, incredulous, warm.

She’s halfway out the door when she glances back. “Don’t overthink it, okay? Just go. See what happens.”

The door clicks shut behind her.

You look down at the folder again, fingertips brushing the corner.

Maybe it’s time to stop holding your breath.

MASTERLIST ✧ READ ON AO3

#honkai star rail x reader #hsr x reader #jing yuan x reader #honkai star rail #hsr #jing yuan #jing yuan smut #hsr smut #honkai star rail smut #cryoculus

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kittenan2 · 3 days ago

Text

Mission: Pineapple

Genre: Chaotic rom-com, fluffy smut, arranged marriage, cracky slow burn Pairing: Shy!ArrangedHusband!Jin × SlightlyEvilButSoft!Wife!Reader Rating: Explicit (18+), detailed smut, fluff, bickering, intense love Word Count: ~6k Warnings: Explicit sexual content, oral sex (m/f), light food play, chaotic foreplay, unprotected sex (assume contraception), bickering, fluff, mild embarrassment kink, Jin being a flustered mess, Reader being unhinged but loving.

You’re losing your mind, and it’s all Kim Seokjin’s fault. Your husband of three weeks—thanks to your families’ insistence on a “traditional” arranged marriage—is a walking paradox: a Greek god with the social skills of a nervous librarian.

His face is unfair, all sharp jawline, plush lips that look like they were designed for kissing, and big, doe-like eyes that make your heart do embarrassing cartwheels. But he’s so polite it’s infuriating. Every time your hands brush, he jumps like you’ve electrocuted him and mumbles, “Sorry,” like he’s committed a federal crime.

This morning, at the breakfast table, it happens again. You reach for the sugar at the same time he does, your fingers grazing his. He yanks his hand back like you’re made of lava, nearly knocking over his coffee. “Sorry!” he squeaks, ears turning a shade of pink that should be illegal. He pushes his glasses up his nose, staring at the table as if it’s about to reveal the meaning of life.

You sigh, loud and dramatic, leaning forward until your chin is practically in your cereal. “Jin, we’re married. You don’t have to apologize for touching me. It’s not illegal.”

“I—I know,” he stammers, adjusting his glasses again, a nervous tic you’ve clocked about 47 times in three weeks. “I just… don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

Uncomfortable? You’re so in love with this man it’s physically painful, like your heart is staging a daily riot in your chest. You want to climb him like a jungle gym, pin him to the nearest wall, and kiss him until he forgets how to apologize.

But Jin? He’s treating you like you’re a porcelain doll in a museum, complete with a “Do Not Touch” sign. It’s driving you to the brink of insanity.

Last night, you tried to up the ante. You “accidentally” dropped a spoon while doing dishes, bending over in your tightest yoga pants to pick it up, giving him a full view of your assets. He turned red, muttered something about needing to water the plants (you don’t own plants), and fled to the living room.

The night before that, you wore a slinky silk camisole to bed, hoping he’d get the hint. He complimented your “nice pajamas,” offered you an extra blanket, and slept so far on his side of the bed he nearly fell off. You’re one more “sorry” away from staging a full-on seduction coup.

In a fit of desperation, you left a spicy romance novel—The Duke’s Forbidden Desire—on the coffee table, open to a particularly steamy page. You watched from the kitchen as Jin picked it up, curious, only to drop it like it burned him when he read the words “throbbing manhood.” He spent the next hour reorganizing the spice rack, avoiding eye contact. You’re married to a man who’s allergic to innuendo, and it’s going to kill you.

You’re sprawled on the couch, scrolling TikTok like it’s your job, while Jin sits in the armchair, reading a book on The History of Korean Pottery (because of course he is). Your phone pings with a voice message from your best friend, Mina, the human equivalent of a chaos gremlin. You pop in your earbuds and hit play.

“Girl, you sound desperate,” Mina cackles, her voice dripping with mischief. “Your man’s too shy to make a move? Feed him pineapple. It makes… you know taste better. Plus, it’s got enzymes that can boost sexual arousal, like, rev up his engine. Trust me, my hookup last week said I tasted like a tropical vacation. Get him hooked, and he’ll be begging to get in your pants.”

You choke on air, nearly yeeting your phone across the room. It lands on the rug with a thud, and Jin looks up, alarmed.

“You okay?” he asks, all sweet concern, his glasses slipping down his nose.

“Fine!” you squeak, scrambling to retrieve your phone, your face hotter than a jalapeño. Pineapple? TASTE BETTER? Your brain is a fireworks display of filthy possibilities.

You glance at Jin, who’s gone back to his book, oblivious, his lips pursed in that unfairly kissable way. A plan forms in your unhinged mind, so chaotic it could only come from Mina’s terrible influence. Mission: Pineapple is born. If you can’t seduce him with yoga pants or smutty novels, you’ll seduce him with enzymes. It’s foolproof. Probably.

You leap off the couch, startling Jin again. “I’m going to the store!” you announce, already halfway to the door.

“For what?” he calls after you, confused.

“Fruit!” you yell back, slamming the door before he can question you further. You’re on a mission, and nothing—not even Jin’s crippling politeness—will stop you.

At the grocery store, you load your cart with enough pineapples to start a tropical plantation, ignoring the cashier’s raised eyebrow. Mina FaceTimes you mid-checkout, screaming, “YOU’RE REALLY DOING IT? Get some whipped cream too—make it sexy!”

You hang up, mortified, as the cashier smirks and an elderly woman behind you mutters about “kids these days.”

The next morning, you’re a woman possessed. You’ve blended a pineapple smoothie so aggressively it’s practically a religious experience, the kitchen smelling like a tropical island.

You slide the glass across the counter to Jin, beaming like you’ve just invented sliced bread. “Drink this,” you say, trying to sound casual but probably looking like a manic fruit salesperson.

He blinks at the vibrant yellow liquid, suspicious. “What’s in it?”

“Pineapple, banana, a dash of chaos—er, I mean, love,” you say, winking. Your wink is more of a twitch, but you’re committed now.

Jin raises an eyebrow but takes the glass, wrapping his lips around the straw. Oh no. Oh no. His lips—those perfect, plump lips—purse around the straw, and he sucks gently, his throat bobbing as he swallows. A drop of juice escapes, sliding down his chin, and he wipes it with his thumb, licking it off absentmindedly.

Your brain implodes. Holy fuck, he’s going to ruin me with that mouth, and he doesn’t even know it. You imagine those lips on your skin, trailing down your neck, your thighs, lower, leaving a sticky trail of pineapple juice.

Your core clenches, and you grip the counter, your filthy thoughts screaming: I’m trying to seduce you with fruit enzymes, you gorgeous idiot, and you’re making it so much worse!

You picture him pinning you against the fridge, licking juice off your collarbone, whispering your name in that low, rough voice you’ve only heard when he’s half-asleep. You’re so lost in the fantasy you almost drop the blender.

“It’s… sweet,” Jin says, oblivious to your internal meltdown. “You made this for me?”

“Yup! For your health. Vitamin C and all that.” Your voice is an octave too high, and you’re pretty sure you’re sweating. He smiles, all soft and grateful, and you combust internally, retreating to the sink to pretend-wash a perfectly clean plate.

Thus begins your reign as the Pineapple-Pushing Menace. Over the next week, you’re relentless:

Monday: Pineapple chunks in his lunch, cut into little hearts because you’re extra. He raises an eyebrow but eats them, commenting, “You cut these into hearts?” You nod, muttering, “Just eat it, Jin,” while imagining him sucking the juice off your fingers.

Tuesday: Grilled pineapple skewers with dinner. You watch, practically drooling, as he bites into one, juice dripping down his chin. You hand him a napkin, your hand shaking, and he thanks you like you’ve saved his life.

Wednesday: Pineapple cookies, which you spent an hour shaping into perfect hearts. He eats three, looking increasingly baffled.

Thursday: Pineapple salsa with homemade tortilla chips. You “accidentally” brush his hand while passing the bowl, and he apologizes, making you want to scream.

Friday: A pineapple smoothie and pineapple-glazed chicken. You catch him sniffing the chicken suspiciously, and you chirp, “It’s tropical! I tried watching online.” He nods, but his eyes are narrowing.

Saturday: You sneak pineapple into his morning oatmeal, blending it into a puree so he can’t escape. He eats it, but his expression screams, What is happening to my life?

By Sunday, you’ve escalated to pineapple pancakes, and he’s staring at the plate like it’s a puzzle he can’t solve. “You really like pineapple,” he says, his tone half-amused, half-wary.

“Good for Vitamin C!” you insist, your smile so wide it’s probably terrifying. Inside, you’re screaming: Please, for the love of god, figure out why I’m doing this and kiss me senseless.

You’re a walking disaster, and it’s all because of Jin’s stupidly perfect face. Watching him eat pineapple is your personal hell. Every bite, every lick of juice from his lips, sends you spiraling into a fantasy so vivid you’re surprised you haven’t spontaneously combusted.

You’ve started dreaming about it—him pinning you against the counter, whispering your name, pineapple juice dripping everywhere. You wake up all sweaty, then spend ten minutes staring at yourself in the bathroom mirror, ranting: “I’m trying to seduce you with enzymes, you beautiful, oblivious man! Why is this so hard?!”

Last night, you tried another seduction attempt, “accidentally” spilling water on your white t-shirt while doing dishes, rendering it see-through. Jin took one look, turned the color of a fire engine, and offered you his hoodie, muttering about how you “must be cold.” You’re one step away from hiring a skywriter to spell out “I WANT YOU” over the house.

The final straw comes at dinner. You’re both eating pineapple salad—because of course you are—and a drop of juice slides down your chin. Before you can wipe it, Jin leans across the table, his expression soft but focused, and gently swipes it away with his thumb. Then, without breaking eye contact, he licks the juice off his finger.

Your brain short-circuits. Sparks fly behind your eyes, your heart stops, and you’re pretty sure you’ve ascended to another plane of existence. Did he just—? Is he flirting? Is this allowed?

You imagine him licking juice off your lips, your neck, your everything, and your core tightens so fast you nearly fall off your chair. You stare at him, mouth open, as he calmly resumes eating, oblivious to the fact that you’re mentally writing your will because you’re about to die of horny.

“Messy eater,” he teases, a small smile playing on his lips, and you choke on a pineapple chunk, coughing dramatically while he pats your back, all gentle concern. You want to scream, “STOP BEING CUTE AND FUCK ME ALREADY,” but instead, you wheeze, “Thanks.”

After ten days of your pineapple onslaught, Jin’s starting to crack. He’s sitting at his laptop in the living room, glasses slipping down his nose, looking like a sexy professor who’s just stumbled onto a conspiracy.

You breeze in with a plate of pineapple cupcakes, frosted with little pineapple-shaped sprinkles, because you’re nothing if not committed. “More pineapple?” he asks, his voice laced with suspicion, like you’re trying to smuggle contraband.

“Yeah Vitamin C... enhances immunity!” you chirp, but your grin is so manic it probably looks like you’re auditioning for a horror movie. He takes a cupcake, eyeing it like it might explode.

That night, you’re in the kitchen when you hear a muffled gasp from the living room. You peek around the corner to see Jin hunched over his laptop, eyes wide as saucers as he Googles, his face lit by the glow of the screen.

“Why does my wife keep feeding me pineapple?” The top result is a Reddit thread titled “Pineapple and Intimate Benefits: The Truth.” Jin’s hand hovers over the keyboard, trembling, as he clicks the link. His eyes scan the page, and then—oh no—he chokes on air, slamming the laptop shut so hard the couch shakes.

You burst into the room, pretending to be casual. “Everything okay?” you ask, holding a pineapple smoothie you definitely didn’t make just to mess with him.

He jumps, nearly falling off the couch, his glasses askew. “F-Fine!” he squeaks, his voice hitting a pitch only dogs can hear. His ears are so red they could guide Santa’s sleigh. “Just… work stuff!” He clutches the laptop to his chest like it’s a bomb.

You raise an eyebrow, sipping the smoothie loudly. “Work, huh? Looked intense.”

He nods, sweating, and bolts to the bathroom, muttering about needing a shower. You cackle internally, knowing you’ve got him on the ropes. He knows. He totally knows.

The next day, you catch him at work, cornered by his coworker, Namjoon, who’s trying to be helpful but is clearly out of his depth.

You’re dropping off lunch (pineapple salad included, naturally) when you overhear Jin whispering, “She keeps feeding me pineapple. Every day. I looked it up, and… I think she’s trying to do something.”

Namjoon, bless his soul, looks horrified. “Like… poison you?”

You freeze, your hand on the lunch container, and deadpan internally: My stupid idiot husband and his stupid idiot friends.

You roll your eyes so hard you’re surprised they don’t fall out, biting back a laugh at the sheer absurdity. Poison? Really, Namjoon? You’re tempted to barge in and yell, “It’s not arsenic, it’s foreplay!” but you hold back, savoring the chaos.

“No!” Jin hisses, glancing around like you’re a spy. “Like… you know.” He makes a vague hand gesture that could mean anything from “sex” to “jazz hands.” Namjoon’s eyes widen, and he pats Jin’s shoulder like he’s consoling a man headed to the gallows.

“Maybe just… talk to her?” Namjoon suggests, and Jin groans, burying his face in his hands.

You slink away, grinning like the Cheshire Cat. Mission: Pineapple is working.

Jin’s behavior shifts dramatically. He’s quiet now, his eyes tracking you like you’re a puzzle he’s too shy to solve. When you offer him pineapple upside-down cake, he hesitates, his ears pink.

“I’m… good,” he mumbles, pushing the plate away like it’s cursed.

You panic. He’s onto me. So you double down, going full Pineapple Overlord. You make pineapple tea, pineapple salsa, even pineapple-scented candles for “ambiance.” But the real chaos comes from Mina, who’s taken it upon herself to be your seduction coach, texting you increasingly unhinged ideas.

“Wear a pineapple bikini! Like, cut pineapple slices into little triangles and tie them with string. He’ll lose his mind.”

You stare at your phone in the grocery store, horrified. A pineapple bikini? Is she trying to get me arrested for fruit-based indecency? You imagine yourself waltzing out in pineapple slices, and Jin fainting from shock. You text back, “I’m not a fruit salad, Mina!” but you cheeks are flushing.

“Spray pineapple juice on your neck like perfume. It’s sexy and subtle.”

Against your better judgment, you try her suggestion, spritzing a little juice on your wrist before dinner. You feel like an idiot, but when Jin leans close to grab the salt and sniffs the air, confused, you nearly drop your fork. Oh my god, it’s working. Or he thinks I’m a smoothie.

You’re torn between embarrassment and arousal, your face hot as you stammer, “New… lotion?” You nod slowly, his eyes narrowing, and you want to crawl under the table.

“Feed him pineapple in bed. Naked. Like, put a chunk on your stomach and make him eat it off you.”

You choke on your coffee, spraying it across the kitchen counter, when you read her latest text. Naked pineapple feeding?

You imagine the logistics—sticky juice everywhere, Jin’s horrified expression, you accidentally rolling onto the pineapple and squishing it into the sheets.

“Mina, I’m trying to seduce him, not start a fruit massacre!” you text back, but the idea lingers, making you giggle hysterically in the bathroom later. Jin knocks on the door, concerned. “You okay in there? You’ve been laughing for ten minutes.”

“I’m fine!” you yell, but your voice cracks, and you hear him mutter, “She’s losing it,” through the door. His concern is adorable, but it only fuels your panic—he’s noticing your weirdness, and it’s making him nervous. You catch him eyeing you warily at dinner, like you might whip out a pineapple and start juggling it.

Mina’s final suggestion comes via voice note: “Sing a sexy song about pineapples. Like, ‘Pineapple of my eye, come and take a bite.’ Instant panty-dropper.”

You delete the message before Jin overhears, but you’re cackling so hard you trip over a chair, and Jin rushes to help you up, his hands lingering on your arms.

“You’re acting… strange,” he says, his voice soft but laced with worry. You grin, manic, and say, “Just excited about fruit!” He blinks, clearly unconvinced, and you know you’re one pineapple away from a full-blown intervention.

Your families, in their infinite meddling wisdom, send you to a “bonding” weekend at Jin’s family’s farmhouse on Jeju Island. It’s a sprawling, rustic place with creaky wooden floors, a chicken coop that smells like regret, and—oh no—only one small bed. The bedroom is freezing, with a single, lumpy mattress under a quilt that looks like it’s been through a war. You’re losing your mind.

The farmhouse is chaos incarnate. The first night, a rogue chicken escapes the coop and somehow ends up in the kitchen, clucking furiously as you and Jin chase it with a broom and a spatula.

“Why is there a chicken in the house?!” you shriek, diving for it as it flaps onto the counter, knocking over a jar of pickled radishes. Jin, red-faced and laughing, grabs it, only to trip over a rug and land in a pile of flour you’d spilled earlier while attempting to make pineapple pancakes. You both collapse, wheezing, covered in flour, the chicken smugly strutting out the door.

Next day, you cook pineapple fried rice, smirking as you set the plate in front of him. The farmhouse kitchen smells like soy sauce and tropical dreams, but the vibe is pure chaos—a goat wandered in earlier and ate half your ingredients.

Jin stares at the rice, then at you, his eyes dark with something new. “Do you… want me to do something after eating this?” he blurts, voice cracking, his glasses fogging up from the steam—or maybe his nerves.

Your brain short-circuits. “What?”

He’s red from his neck to his ears. “I—I read online. About pineapple. And… you know.” He gestures vaguely, like he’s trying to mime sex without actually saying it, his hands flailing in a way that’s both adorable and mortifying.

You choke on your own spit. “I—NO! I mean, yes! But not because of the pineapple! Well, maybe a little, but—” You’re flailing, words tumbling out like a clown car crash, and the goat chooses this moment to bleat loudly from the corner, startling you both.

Jin knocks over his water glass, and you slip on the spilled liquid, crashing into him. He catches you, and for a moment, you’re pressed against his chest, his heart pounding against yours.

Then, to your shock, he leans in, his lips brushing yours, soft and hesitant. You melt into a puddle of pure want, the goat still bleating like it’s judging you.

The kiss deepens, and you’re gone. You grab his shirt, pulling him closer, and he makes a soft noise that sends heat pooling low in your belly. “Jin,” you gasp against his mouth, “I’ve been trying to seduce you for weeks.”

He pulls back, eyes wide, lips swollen. “With pineapple?” he asks, but there’s a teasing lilt in his voice now, his shy demeanor cracking to reveal a playful edge.

“You thought feeding me fruit would get me to… what, ravish you on the kitchen counter?” He laughs, a rich, warm sound, but his eyes are sparkling with amusement, like he’s just discovered the funniest, cutest thing in the world.

You flush, mortified but also charmed. “It was Mina’s idea!” you blurt, then clap a hand over your mouth. “I mean—not entirely! I just… wanted you to want me.”

His smile softens, and he cups your face, his thumbs brushing your cheeks. “You’re adorable,” he murmurs, and the word makes your heart stutter.

“You’re this chaotic little mastermind, shoving pineapples at me like it’s a secret code. I’ve wanted you since the wedding, you know. I just… didn’t know how to say it without sounding like an idiot.”

You stare, then laugh, half-crying, half-hysterical. “You’re the idiot? I’ve been practically throwing myself at you, and you kept apologizing!”

He grins, leaning in to kiss you again, softer this time. “I’m sorry,” he whispers against your lips, and you groan, shoving him playfully. “Kidding! But seriously, the pineapple thing? Genius. Ridiculous, but genius.” He’s teasing now, his confidence growing, and you’re smitten with this new, playful Jin who finds your unhinged plan endearing.

You tackle him, kissing him hard, and he catches you, stumbling back against the farmhouse counter. A basket of radishes clatters to the floor, and you both freeze, then burst into giggles, the goat bleating in the background like it’s cheering you on.

You’re a mess of hands and lips, knocking over a rusty watering can as you drag Jin to the bedroom. The farmhouse bed creaks ominously under your combined weight, and you’re both laughing, but his eyes are dark, hungry.

You tug at his shirt, and he helps, revealing smooth skin and a lean, toned chest that makes your mouth water. “You’re ridiculous,” he murmurs, but he’s kissing you again, hands sliding under your sweater.

“You and your pineapples,” he teases between kisses, his voice rough. “What’s next, a mango seduction plan?” You groan, half-laughing, half-aroused, and yank his belt off, fumbling in your haste. He chuckles, guiding your shaking hands. “Slow down, pineapple queen,” he says, but his breath hitches when you slide your hand over him, feeling him hard through his boxers.

You pause, staring, and he blushes, covering his face. “Don’t look like that,” he groans. “Like you’re planning to eat me with a side of fruit.”

“Maybe I am,” you retort, smirking as you ease his boxers down. He’s perfect, thick and hard, and you can’t resist. You grab a pineapple chunk from the bedside table—because of course you brought some—and trail it down his chest, the juice leaving a sticky path. “Let’s see if you taste tropical,” you tease, and he chokes out a laugh, his hands gripping your hips.

“You’re insane,” he gasps, but he’s grinning, watching as you pop the pineapple into your mouth, then lean down to lick the juice off his skin.

His hands tangle in your hair, and you move lower, your lips brushing the tip of him. You lick a slow stripe up his length, savoring the mix of his taste and the faint sweetness of pineapple lingering on your tongue.

He groans, a low, desperate sound, his hips twitching as you take him into your mouth, swirling your tongue around the head. “Fuck, baby,” he pants, the pet name making you feral. “You and this damn pineapple kink are gonna kill me.”

You hum around him, the vibration making him curse, his hands tightening in your hair. You work him slowly, teasing, enjoying the way he’s unraveling, babbling your name and half-coherent apologies.

A drop of pineapple juice from your chin drips onto him, and you lick it off, making him groan louder. “You’re filthy,” he gasps, but his eyes are reverent, like he’s never seen anything sexier. You don’t let him finish, pulling back with a wicked grin and climbing up to kiss him, the taste of pineapple and him mingling on your lips.

He flips you onto the bed, and you squeal, delighted, as he peels off your clothes with surprising confidence. “My turn,” he murmurs, wicked and filthy, a side of him you didn’t expect.

He grabs another pineapple chunk, trailing it down your stomach, the juice pooling in your navel. He licks it up, slow and deliberate, his tongue dipping lower until you’re arching, whimpering.

“Jin, please, don’t make me wait. I’ve been dying since our wedding,” you beg, and he grins, sliding your panties down. His mouth is on you, hot and slow, tongue circling your clit with devastating precision, the faint pineapple sweetness adding a decadent edge.

You cry out, hands fisting the sheets, as he works you over, one hand pinning your hips, the other teasing your entrance. “Tastes better than pineapple,” he murmurs against you, and you laugh, breathless, until he sucks gently, and your vision whites out.

You come hard, trembling, and he doesn’t stop, licking you through it until you’re oversensitive and giggling.

You push him onto his back, straddling him, and he looks up at you like you’re a goddess. “You’re gonna be the death of me,” he says, but he’s grinning, grabbing another pineapple chunk and popping it into his mouth before kissing you, the juice dripping down your chin. You both laugh, licking it off each other, a sticky, chaotic mess.

“Condom?” he asks, voice strained.

“No!! I want to feel you,” you pant, aligning yourself over him. He chuckles and nods, eyes locked on yours, and you sink down slowly, gasping at the stretch. He’s big, and it’s intense, but the way he watches you, reverent and wrecked, makes it perfect.

You move together, clumsy at first, laughing when the bed creaks like it’s about to collapse. A pillow falls, then a lamp, and you both dissolve into giggles.

“This farmhouse is cursed,” you gasp, and he retorts, “No, it’s your pineapple obsession!” Then it clicks, and it’s electric—deep, rolling thrusts, his hands gripping your hips, your nails digging into his shoulders.

He flips you again, pinning you down, and the angle changes, hitting just right. You’re both loud, moaning and laughing, pineapple juice sticky on your skin.

He reaches between you, rubbing your clit, and you shatter, clenching around him, screaming his name. He follows, groaning, “My pineapple queen,” as he comes, and you cling to him, riding out the waves of pleasure, the bed creaking one last protest.

You collapse together, sweaty and dazed, tangled in the lumpy farmhouse quilt. Jin’s face is buried in your neck, his breath warm and ticklish, and you’re both giggling like teenagers who just got away with something naughty. The room smells faintly of pineapple and sex, and the goat outside bleats once, as if giving you a sarcastic round of applause.

Jin props himself up on one elbow, his glasses slightly crooked, hair a glorious mess. He’s grinning, that playful, confident side of him fully unleashed. “So,” he says, voice teasing, “was the pineapple worth it, my little fruit seductress?” He pokes your side, making you squirm and laugh.

“Shut up,” you groan, swatting his hand, but you’re grinning too, your face hot. “It worked, didn’t it? You’re here, all… ravished.”

He laughs, a rich, warm sound, and leans down to kiss your nose. “Oh, it worked. But I’m gonna need a pineapple detox after this. I’m one bite away from turning into a tropical smoothie.” He grabs a stray pineapple chunk from the bedside table, popping it into his mouth with exaggerated flair, winking at you.

“Mmm, still delicious. But not as delicious as you.” His voice drops, teasing but sincere, and your heart does a somersault.

You snatch the quilt, pulling it over your face to hide your blush. “You’re the worst,” you mumble, muffled by the fabric, but he tugs it down, his eyes sparkling with mischief.

“Nope, you’re the worst,” he counters, tickling your ribs until you’re shrieking with laughter, flailing to escape. “Who spends weeks seducing their husband with fruit? You’re like a sexy, evil mastermind. I’m framing those heart-shaped pineapple cookies as evidence.”

You gasp, mock-offended, and tackle him, starting a playful wrestling match that sends more pillows flying. “You loved those cookies!” you accuse, pinning him down (or trying to—he’s stronger than he looks). He flips you easily, trapping you beneath him, his hands gentle but firm on your wrists.

“I love you,” he says softly, his teasing fading into something so tender it makes your chest ache. He kisses you, slow and deep, and you melt, wrapping your arms around his neck. “But seriously,” he murmurs against your lips, “what does pineapple do to you? I need to know for… science.”

You gasp, smacking him with a pillow, and he cackles, rolling off you to dodge your attack. “You’re never letting this go, are you?” you groan, but you’re laughing, pulling him back for another kiss, the quilt tangling around your legs.

“Never,” he promises, his voice muffled as he nuzzles your neck. “You’re stuck with me and your pineapple obsession now.”

Months later, you’re happier than ever, Jin’s shyness a distant memory replaced by a playful confidence that keeps you on your toes.

You’re in the kitchen of your shared apartment, attempting to bake a cake (chocolate, because you’ve finally branched out from pineapple, though you’ve got a can on standby). Jin sneaks up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and stealing a swipe of frosting from the bowl, his chin resting on your shoulder.

“Hey!” you scold, swatting his hand with a spatula, leaving a smear of chocolate on his knuckles. He grins, licking it off with exaggerated slowness, his eyes locked on yours in that sinful, teasing way that takes you right back to the farmhouse. Your body tingles, and you’re half-tempted to abandon the cake and drag him to the bedroom.

“What?” he says, all faux innocence, leaning against the counter with his shirt unbuttoned just enough to be distracting. “Just taste-testing for my favorite baker. Gotta keep my energy up for… later activities.” He winks, and you roll your eyes, but your cheeks are burning.

“Keep that up, and I’ll start another pineapple campaign,” you threaten, waving the spatula like a sword. He laughs, grabbing it from you and pulling you into his arms, spinning you around the kitchen until you’re dizzy and giggling, the floor creaking under your feet.

“Oh, please do,” he teases, his voice low and playful, his lips brushing your ear. “I’m ready for round—what is it now, 47? 48?—of Mission: Pineapple. Maybe this time we’ll make a baby and name it Pineapple. Little Pineapple Kim, our tropical legacy.” He waggles his eyebrows, and you burst out laughing, shoving him playfully.

“Pineapple Kim? Are you trying to curse our hypothetical child?” you gasp, but you’re cackling, imagining a tiny human with Jin’s doe eyes and your chaotic energy, possibly wielding a pineapple like a scepter. “They’d be the weirdest kid in school, and it’d be your fault.”

“Excuse me, you’re the one who started the fruit seduction,” he retorts, catching you as you stumble from all the spinning.

“We’d dress Pineapple Junior in little pineapple onesies, teach them to flirt with fruit by kindergarten. It’s a family tradition now.” He’s grinning so wide his cheeks must hurt, and you’re so smitten it’s absurd.

“You’re unhinged,” you say, but you’re kissing him, chocolate frosting smudged on both your faces. He lifts you onto the counter, and you knock over the sugar bowl, sending it crashing to the floor. Neither of you cares, too busy laughing and kissing, your legs wrapped around his waist.

“Only as unhinged as you, my pineapple queen,” he murmurs, stealing another kiss. You spot the can of pineapple on the counter, and you both freeze, then dissolve into giggles. “Round 48?” he suggests, waggling his eyebrows, already reaching for the can.

You yank him toward the bedroom, leaving the cake half-frosted and the kitchen a mess, ready for another chapter of your deliciously chaotic love story. “Pineapple Kim’s gonna have the best origin story,” he calls after you, and you laugh so hard you nearly trip, pulling him closer for more.

A/n: Guess what... I am eating pineapple while writing this sin. And yes Jin... I am filthy for you. And I am not sorry for that.😩😏😈

Taglist: @the-djarin-clan . @jeonjamiekim . @moonjinniecafe . @minpdrecs . @bontensbabygirl . @this-most-assuredly-counts . @taolucha . @mytaegiheart . @dear-mono . @lilyficrec . @janeluvwonuuuu . @k-fan-fics . @iztrouble . @pikajooni . @namluvili . @alonahh . @paradise172 . @stay-tiny-things . @micdropitlikeitshot . @softhaes . @littlebluhellfire . @niqueesthings . @nocturnalsingularity . @syudoeslove . @namjoonbaby17-blog . @mar-lo-pap . @naesarang07 . @diame93 . @themwordsblog . @crizoosblog . @bebabido

#seokjin fanfic #seokjin smut #jin fanfic #jin smut #bts smut #bts fanfic #jin fanfiction #bts fic #BTSFanfic #SeokjinSmut #seokjin x reader #jin x reader #bts x reader #kittenanwrites #kim seokjin #seokjin #bts jin

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ilikekidsshows · 3 days ago

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"It also seems like she often takes credit for things that require a whole team to accomplish."

THIS. I definitely agree/commiserate with other anon here.

Similarily, there's the trend of just Ladybug getting credit or attention in her partnership with Chat. Off the top of my head: Alya outright ignoring and never acknowledging Chat saving her personally, twice, in the Origins episodes, the class cheering Ladybug's name in Bubbler when her and Chat show up, Fu thanking Ladybug in Feast and her alone even though Chat was just as involved and is standing right there, just...all of Timetagger (aka Bunnix constantly uplifting LB "you're the bestest hero ever now and in the future" and essentially telling Chat "you're a reckless idiot and ruin things in the future"), the whole city chanting her name in Strikeback, Ladybug and Chat showing up in front of Alix in Evolution while she cries out "Ladybug!", the opening news segment of Illusion in which the citizens talk about "Ladybug's" actions against Monarch, and even the Paris special when Sabine tells Tom "she's" already gotten a miraculous back (Chat who?)...

It's just, no wonder people think he's a sidekick. She's treated like a solo hero by the city more often than not, because even though he's been by her side contributing 99% of the time, he's rarely mentioned or acknowledged. I don't care if they're supposedly "partners" and it's just that "she leads, " or it's "her story", it's just so obvious the writers are prioritizing girl power/wish fulfillment over everything. And don't care nearly as much about uplifting their deuteragonist who they wrote to have self-esteem issues and an abusive home life (seriously, why did they write him that way if they never intended on adequately addressing it???), because he's...not a girl, I guess. And therefore he doesn't need or deserve to be appreciated or celebrated for being a 14 year old hero. or doing so wouldn't serve the wish fulfillment

And sure, to be fair, there are times when both their names are mentioned, but the fact that removing his name so often is a complete non-issue really tells you something. Like it's almost...nice of them to include him, but not required. Whereas the opposite is definitely not true. Can you imagine, Ladybug and Chat showing up somewhere as everyone starts chanting "Chat Noir!" alone?? Kinda seems weird that they'd just ignore her existence, now doesn’t it.

Alternately, there are times that LB messes up and then they both get blamed for it. Which after everything...is so frustrating. This is already a longer ask than I intended, so I won't go into it more, but in sum...the show tends to ignore his contributions but elevate him to "partner" status when she fails and needs an emotional support lackey.

Just...have him explicitly in the role of the sidekick from the get-go (no ying-yang this or ignoring his equal contributions that), and bam! No problem. Or at least, less problems.

...

Okay so I definitely veered into ranting about their "partnership" instead of the whole team getting shafted for Ladybug's sake, but I'd be curious to hear more/see examples, if you have any thoughts or if the other anon cares to chime in again.

---

One thing that stands out to me in addition to all of this is fans. Adrien the model’s fans are depicted as annoying unless they’re Marinette, meanwhile Ladybug’s fans are depicted as sympathetic unless they’re Theo. Like, Adrien is a fan of Ladybug but Ladybug thinks Cat Noir is an egotist and doesn’t even respect him as more than a teammate from the get-go despite him being shown as being originally more competent with his Miraculous than her with hers. She doesn’t need to do anything more than show up and Cat Noir will stare at her in slack-jawed awe, but, whenever he showcases remarkable skill in languages, binary, fencing, combat, superheroics or just clearly having a strict moral code, she’s just annoyed at him and thinks he’s showing off.

Cat Noir isn’t appreciated, in universe, outside of his existence being acknowledged. Like, Paris putting up a statue of Ladybug alone would have been such a snub, but, considering the rest of the ‘Copycat’ episode, I feel like the statue depicted Cat Noir as well just so that they could have that setup between Cat Noir and Theo. There isn’t a single Cat Noir fan in the cast, like, Nino is excited to see him in ‘The Horrificator’, but that being because Cat Noir is his favorite between him and Ladybug is just my headcanon and Adrino bias, we actually have no evidence of that.

Alya’s blog is the “Ladyblog” not the “Miracublog”, so the main news outlet for the heroes is Ladybug-focused. Chloé fangirls Ladybug but sneers at Cat Noir, but, since the show was always very bad about showcasing Chloé and Adrien’s friendship, it isn’t really set up to be for irony’s sake, but more because Ladybug is supposedly cooler / the wish-fulfilment. "Everyone who's mean to you in school would like you if they really knew you". The villains can’t shut up about Ladybug, but Cat Noir only gets vaguely mentioned in a “I’ll get you both next time” way.

Also, the importance of his Miraculous gets forgotten all the time by the writers, heroes and villains. There are so many times when Cat Noir is captured, incapacitated or mind-controlled, and very often the villains don’t even bring up the possibility of taking his Miraculous and, when it does get mentioned, it’s brushed aside with a “I’ll get it later”. Meanwhile, every time Marinette is cornered, the writers don’t waste a second before raising the stakes by having the villain try to reach for her Miraculous. Marinette is an attention black hole in-universe.

#dats chats #ml critical #ml salt

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katxbuckyx · 2 days ago

Text

Give me a minute to hold my girl. (Bucky Barnes x reader.)

Hello!

I wrote a quick Congressman!Barnes one shot, I hope you will enjoy it! It was not very well proofread, but I will do it when I'll have more time!

Sign count: 5842

Description: When you got out of shadows, there's only one arms, you want to run into.

Warnings: Mention of mental abuse, alcohol, bullying. Almost non existent mention of body insecurity.

The work's mine, I don't give permission to share it anywhere without asking.

(Gif's not mine.)

***

You were congressman Barnes's assistant. You were helping him with the speeches, keeping him company at the meeting, talking with him about his program and about the things he wanted to do, the laws he wanted to present, how he wanted to make the world a better place even though he felt like he didn't belong to it anymore. You were also running him some errands, but mostly it didn't feel like working as an assistant. In your previous job, you were doing everything, including grocery shopping for your boss, but now? Bucky was bringing you coffee, not the way around. He was nice to you, asked how your day was, was small talking to you, which was new because you knew his reserved and grumpy attitude, he was reluctant to let new people in. You couldn't help but get attached to him, you liked him, maybe even more than a boss, but you kept it quiet.

So, when he didn't come to a meeting, after his failed speech to the reporters, and after you gently scolded him for not reading the speech that you had written him, you felt bad. And you decided to check if he was okay. You came to his house, late afternoon and knocked on his doors. He didn't open, it seemed like he wasn't at home. You were worried, so you took out the key he gave you a long time ago, and you entered his house. The place looked like a mess. There was pans with leftover food on the kitchen stove, some half eaten chilli hot dog on the counter. Along with his bill packets that he was trying to read while eating, because there was a huge stain on the page. There was a lot of things thrown around but you didn't see or hear Bucky. The house was dark. You started walking around, calling him but no answer. He really wasn't home... You were even more worried, especially when you saw that his guns and the holders was gone from the closet. Where did he go? You hoped that he didn't get himself in some trouble, you wouldn't survive if something happened to him.

While trying to think where he could go, you heard some screams from outside. People were screaming and running away. You quickly run out to the street, after closing the front door in a hurry. When you were outside, you looked around. In the sky was some black, shadowy mist spreading out slowly, and when it reached people, they disappeared, turned into shadows... Damn, another blip? You thought, and started running away. You didn't go far, before you could hide back again in Bucky's house, you were gone. The darkness hit you.

You found yourself in your family house. You didn't know what was going on, you left your country and your home when you were 20, and you never looked back. And now, you were standing in your childhood bedroom, filled with your things hat you left behind. There was some darkness creeping in the corners and you felt shivers going down your back, hearing the familiar screaming outside the room. Oh, no.... No, it couldn't be happening.... With your breath held, you walked out. You saw your father, drunk and angry, shouting at your mother. What broke your heart, was the sight of little young you, barely ten years old, standing in front of your mom, protecting her. Without thinking, you run in front of both of them, shielding them. When you did that, you went back to your room. It looked like you went back to the beginning, like someone pushed the reverse button. It happened multiple times, before you stepped out again. Thinking that you were doing it wrong... You weren't supposed to jump in front of them... With a fierce expression on your face, you walked back into the kitchen again, but this time, you didn't stand in front of your mum and little you again. This time, you came closer to your younger self, and wrapped your arms around her, sheltering her. You ignored the way your father was shouting, you held her. "I'm sorry, that I couldn't be here when you were little. You wouldn't have to suffer." you whispered into her ear.

When you said that, you disappeared again. Now, you were standing in your primary school. You were looking at some boys hitting some girl, calling her ugly names. You would recognized those pigtails everywhere, and now, you knew what to do. You ran to yourself, shielding you from the bullies, wshipering to her ears things that you wish you could've heard when you were younger: "You're beautiful and you will grow up in someone who is kind, smart and strong. Don't let them bring you down. Don't let them tear your soul apart."

Before you knew, you were back in New York. The city was almost in ruins. Again. You were confused, and there was tears streaming down your cheeks, but you were safe. You were no longer stuck in the shadows where all your pain came back to life.

Standing there, reliving the past again, you realised that this was what the mist was doing... Showing the deepest, moist painful moments of life. Everyone who disappeared there, must have seen them too... "Bucky..." you whispered, thinking about him in that moment. If he disappeared too, he must have seen his past, his past as the Winter Soldier, and maybe even before war. Before his life turned into a nightmare filled with pain and death.

Filled with bad feelings, you were wondering where he could be. You hoped you will find him safe and sound. You started walking toward where the most people were gathering, to the Avengers Tower which no longer had the name, Avengers didn't exist anymore. Valentina bought it, Bucky told you that a while ago. He was looking for things that could brought her down. If there was a place where he could go, it was the Tower. Him and his stupid saviour complex...

When you got there, you were panting heavily, your hair a mess. You were calling his name. You walked around the crowd. Until you saw him... He was alive. A little bruised and dirty, but alive. And that was what mattered the most. He was standing with a group of people from which you only recognized Walker, and Yelena. The other ones were not so familiar, but you could swear that you saw the face of the man wearing red suit somewhere in the TV. Maybe it was in some old communist documentary film? The girl was wearing a leather suit that looked like a protective shield in some way. And that guy wearing a sweater? Nope, never saw him before in your life. Was Bucky catching strays again? Who was those guys? Were they a team?

"Bucky!" you called out his name and he turned around immediately, hearing your voice.

Before you could think, you started running in his direction, not giving a damn about how you look, or how your body looked, you just wanted to hold him. You jumped into his arms, and he caught you, wrapping his arms around your waist.

"You're safe." I murmured into his neck. "I was so worried when I didn't find you in your house..."

He just wrapped his arms around you tighter, holding you even closer, even to the point where you couldn't breathe, but you didn't mind that. "I didn't mean to scare you, doll."

You wanted to say something, but John interrupted you. "Look, we don't have the time to..."

"Shut up, Walker." Barnes hushed him. "Give me a minute to hold my girl." he hummed, hugging you tightly.

You looked at him with surprised expression. "Your girl?" you asked.

"My girl." He answered, smiling at you. "Mine and only mine. If you want to." He added, quietly.

"I want to. Of course, I want to." you replied, kissing him on the lips, without hesitation. "I wouldn't fight my shadows to come find you if I didn't want to be yours."

"And I would still be in the shadows, if it wasn't for you, doll." He kissed you again.

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kjiscrawlingbackformore · 24 hours ago

Text

Peace - Act I : Chapter ten

Lottie Matthews x fem!reader

Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Summary: Reader comes back to her hometown and transfers to Wiskayok High School after getting expelled from her previous high school. Follows Junior year into Senior year, all the way up to the crash. (Eventual NSFW mdni)

Warnings: None

A/N: The goal was to kinda bring some subtle signs of Lotti's symptoms. But also 🥺😭 gosh my sweet angel lottie

Ever since Lottie told you the truth, you two have been inseparable. Enough for Jackie to joke a little too much about being replaced for it to be a joke, and the Yellowjackets to tease about Lottie being your shadow.

With Lottie being home alone most nights, and your aunt being well, your aunt. Sleepovers at hers have become almost an every-night occurrence. Especially the nights you don't feel like third wheeling Jackie and Shauna. (To Jackie's dismay, of course.)

She had your toothbrush and clothes in her second drawer on the left now. It was like you both fit like a puzzle. It was nice. Like really nice. Here you were, sitting on Lottie’s floor, the tall brunette sitting across from you. Both of you are in your pajamas, reading through flashcards.

“Okay—le mot pour ‘mirror’?” You quiz Lottie, flipping the flash card.

Lottie frowns, her eyes bouncing from you to behind you. “Uh... miroir.” She says distracted.

You beam at her, “Yes! See, you’re nailing this.”

Lottie frowns, rubbing her temple. “I’m not. It’s like my brain’s filled with static.” She mumbles in frustration.

You place the flashcards beside you. Your eyes now focused on the sudden turn of energy coming from Lottie. “We can take a break if you want.” You suggest softly, your hand reaching for hers in reassurance.

“No—I just need to focus.” Lottie snaps, not letting your hand fully reach her.

You swallow the hurt that spiked in your chest and pull back a bit, nodding. You grabbed the stack of flashcards beside you to go back to work. A few minutes pass. You notice Lottie blinking rapidly, staring just over her shoulder.

You purse lips. Should you ask what she was looking at? You met her line of sight to see nothing. Your eyes took in the soft red on her cheeks and the long eyelashes as you studied her face. God, she is so beautiful. Your heart races in something you couldn't quite understand.

“Hey. What are you looking at?” You ask gently.

Lottie blinks, like your voice was far away, eyes still fixed. “Nothing. Sorry. Thought I saw something.”

You pause, waiting for her to elaborate. And when she doesn't, you ask, “Like...?”

Lottie offers a small, shy smile, “It’s stupid. It happens sometimes when I’m tired.”

She starts writing in her notebook again in a sign that the conversation was over, but her hands are shaking slightly. Her gaze flicks toward the corner of the room again. Your eyes watch her closely now. Finding it hard not to ignore her, with the shift in the air.

Your heart clenches as you see her hands stutter in their writing. You sigh, before asking softly again, unconvinced. “You sure you’re okay?”

You feel yourself jump at the sound of Lottie slamming her pencil down and shutting her notebook closed. “I can’t think. The words keep moving. I’m trying to remember if I took my meds this morning, and now I can’t remember what time it was, and—God, I hate this.” She rushes out in frustration, her eyes becoming glassy.

You nod, “Hey. It’s okay. We don’t have to do this right now.” You assure her calmly.

Lottie shakes her head, “You don’t get it. If I fall behind, it’s over. Teachers expect me to be the smart one. The perfect one. If I mess up, they’ll look closer.” She says her voice is tight, and her fingers fidget on her lap.

“At what?” You ask softly.

Lottie doesn’t answer. She looks like she is trying to find the words. After a minute, she sighs in a defeated way.

“At me,” she says lower than a whisper.

She presses her palms to her eyes. When she speaks again, her voice is barely audible. “There’s a voice. It’s not saying anything clearly. Just... whispering. Like radio static in the back of my skull. It’s been doing that since last night.”

You don’t say anything. You watch as the room fills with silence. Your heart was in your stomach at everything she said. To live like that sounded frustrating. You frown, scooting closer to her and reaching over to cover Lottie’s hand with your own. Her eyes snap to your connected hands.

“Then let’s turn it off for today. Let’s go for a walk. Or sit outside. You’re allowed to pause.” You suggest, hoping it would be helpful.

Lottie finally meets your eyes, and they are filled with water, and…fear. Your breath hitches with the intensity that met you in her gaze.

“I don’t want you to be scared of me.” She confesses in a whisper.

“I’m not. I’m here.” You assure her without missing a beat. “I’m here.”

You watch her face as the frown on her lips lingers. Slowly you nod and scoot even closer, your arm now pressed against hers, hands still connected. Lottie sighs, and waits a minutes before dropping her head onto your shoulder.

Her hand pulls yours into her lap, interlocking your fingers. She doesn’t say anything but her eyes are locked onto your hands.

“Thanks.” She mumbles.

And you swallow hard, because her touch and closeness is making something expand in your chest. You lay your head onto of hers, and hum softly in response.

How did this girl from French class become so important to you now? And why did you want to protect her and comfort her and care for her so deeply? You didn’t want to think about it so you just held her.

#lottie matthews x you #lottie matthews #lottie mathews x reader #charlotte matthews #lottie yellowjackets #yellowjackets #jackie yellowjackets #wlw yearning #jackie taylor x reader #jackie taylor #shauna shipman #shauna yellowjackets #jackie x shauna

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unholyhelbig · 1 day ago

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Can we have a bounty hunter au with nat?

Title: Double-Crossed: The Deceiver and Hunter

Main Masterlist | Send in Requests

Ship: Bounty Hunter!Nat x Con man!Reader

Summary: After evading Natasha Romanoff for four years, karma finally catches up with you, and throws you into a world that you'd much rather forget.

Dt💕: @thinking1bee

Warnings: Cannon-typical violence, gun use, Blood, kidnapping (technically), petty cons, evasion, sexual themes, mentions of incarceration, mentions of divorce, restraints, unsafe actions in a car, and horrible grammar, I don't proofread!

[A/n: So... may have gone a little overboard with this one. I'm open to keep going if people are interested!]

Natasha’s natural scent reminded you of sweet tea; a lingering scent of citrus and sugar cane and something fresh that combined into something else tantalizing and familiar and all too much like home. In an enclosed space like this where your body heat mingled and you were near enough to see the smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose from the summer sun, you could do nothing but smell her.

The world around you was hazy. Softened by the rain that fell in sheets and made the lights of the city blur just beyond the glass. Your skin was damp and clothes suddenly uncomfortable and cold from the air that blasted through the car. Your fingers itched to shut it off but you refused to move more than you already had, eyes staring lazily at the woman you’d known since you were no more than ten years old.

“You’re not going to shoot me, Natasha.”

“You’re so sure.”

“It’s not your style. What’d you do with Cassie?”

It was taking a great deal of self-control to keep your voice steady. Even. A few more seconds and you’d be trembling from the cold and fear and shock of it all. You were calling her bluff. You didn’t know her style anymore. She very well could have painted the brick wall with Cassie Lang before turning her creative tendencies to the inside of the car. You’d certainly pissed her off enough to warrant the stroke of her brand of brush.

She looked beautiful in this toxic blue light. It filtered through the windshield and made her look ghostly. Her lips pale and kissable. Not the thoughts you should be having with a handgun wedged painfully against your ribs. But you couldn’t quite help yourself. She’d always been the love of your life, as stubborn as she was.

Natasha scoffed, had the audacity to roll her eyes at your silent accusation. “Please, the last thing I want to do is create more of a mess than you already have. You find people low enough to work with you, they’re bound to be bought out. What have you been pulling with your little schemes anyway? Six, seven hundred a week?”

She wanted you to answer and you wanted to pout. Sometimes it was less than that. You’d met Cassandara Lang at a bus station just south of Philly a month and a half ago. She’d offered you a cigarette and a light when the wind had just started to get bitter. You didn’t’ realize how cold you were until the sweet tobacco warmed you up while the two of you waited under buzzing fluorescent lights, fingers slowly chapping to an ugly red.

You didn’t know too much about her, but she was nice enough and was beautiful enough to disarm any man that had two good working eyes. It’s why your latest grift worked so damn well. Where you were rough around the edges, Cassie was unblinkingly soft and blonde and smelling of fresh fruit. She could bat her crystal blue eyes and sell water to a fish.

It was simple enough, really. The two of you would target gas stations up and down the east coast. Little mom-and-pop operations, nothing that was a chain. She’d exit the very car you sat in now in her fancy sundress and scour the ground in a panicked, aloof state.

“Oh, my ring!” Cassie laid it on thick every time. She wasn’t southern. She was from upstate New York but could fold her tongue over her words like hot honey after listening to you slip into your own hometown draw two or three times. It was disarming. “I lost my engagement ring and I’m supposed to get on a plane. I just can’t miss my flight!”

The man behind the counter, and you always chose a place with a man because they were just desperate enough, would assure Cassie that if he found it he’d ship it to her with information she left behind. They’d certainly be a reward. A hefty one that accompanied the warm kiss she left just close enough to the edge of his lip, lip gloss sticky on his cheek. A lingering memory of the girl in the red sportscar that smelled like peaches.

That’s where you came in.

The ring was in your pocket. Gilded and not worth more than a few nickels, if that. You always made a show of nonchalance when finding it on the ground in plain view of the attendant. Waiting just enough time for him to keep his eyes peeled for the ring himself. It had to turn up somewhere, right? A ring just doesn’t vanish.

“Hey, kid, that’s my ring.”

“Your ring?”

“Yeah, my ring.” Breathless. Easy. Pliable.

“There a reward?”

Whatever was in the cash register ended up in your pocket by the end of the night and he never heard from the girl in the sundress again. She was parked a few blocks up with a manila folder filled with identical rings in the glovebox, ready to pull the same scam on the next sucker that was dumb enough to fall for it. The money always covered gas to keep the two of you on the road, and any hotels and food you needed.

You weren’t stupid enough to ask Cassie Lang what she needed to keep moving for, and she never asked what you were running from. What mattered was staying quiet and staying busy. There would be a time when your past caught up with you and she broke away. A price. You wondered how much she was bought for.

Knowing Natasha Romanoff it was a growled threat, a promise to keep her life, and a couple of hundred bucks. You didn’t blame Cassie. Not really. Neither of you did anything past pleasantries, and something like this was miles over the line. Too many stakes in a poker game that neither of you agreed to play in the first place.

“Oh, come now, baby don’t be like that. I’ve spent the last few months trackin’ you down. The least you can do is be honest with me.” She pressed the gun closer to your ribs. “Lot of people have a bounty out on your head.”

You shrugged, let out a small sigh “I have a talent for pissing people off. Ask your mother, she’s never liked me.”

Natasha made a small noise of agreement in the back of her throat. “You going to come quietly, or must you make a scene?”

“Oh, Natasha, you know I never come quietly.”

You were 75% sure that Natasha wasn’t going to shoot you. She needed you with a beating heart if she wanted any type of payout for the struggle you’d been putting her through. Reeling back and spitting in her face was more of a gamble than you were willing to take on a good day. But it happened to be a bad day.

It bought you enough time to open the car door, to feel a few drops of sweet rain, before Natasha’s iron grip curled around the collar of your jacket and dragged you back into the car. Further this time. You caught another whiff of that oaky sweet scent that she carried.

It gave you a moment of solace before your temple came down hard against the dashboard with a dizzying crack. The taste of metal filled your mouth, a ringing so strong in your ears. Natasha was swift with her retaliation.

“Fuck,” You groaned.

“devochka,” Natasha brought her face close to yours, having the nerve to brush hair from your eyes, still holding your cheek against the dash. “You always did make my job interesting. But, if you’re going to spit in my face you better make it worth my while.”

Another noise that sounded much too pitiful for your liking escaped you, suddenly much too tired to fight her off, your vision pulsing at the edges and eyes fluttering, and breath lingering in your lungs expelling softly.

It could have been the head trauma, it could have been the blue light fading from the rain, but there was a softness to her serpentine eyes. Quiet and contemplative, and barely there. But there all the same.

The ache was dull and started at your shoulder. It pulsed uncomfortably down to your elbow and through the right side of your body with each bump of the moving vehicle. You were docile enough to slip in and out of consciousness, swallowing down the rising nausea that threatened to surface at the bumpy ride until you were jostled by a particularly rocky bump.

Your head hit the coolness of the window, jolting you from whatever faux peace you had cultivated. A groan spilled past your lips as you threw your face back from the offender. It was much too bright, offensively so. You greedily sucked air in through your nose and tried to gain sense of your surroundings.

A car, a shitty one by the looks of the tan interior. It rumbled down the highway with mild difficulty, but the thought of breaking down didn’t worry you as much as the fact that your wrists had been zip tied to the handle of the door, forcing your palms close. The plastic dug in stingingly, but you gave a test tug regardless.

Your eyes narrowed as you slow turned to the driver seat. You meant to make a noise that sounded threatening, but even to your own ears it came out as something pathetic and whiny. It caught her attention anyway- even as she closed her perfectly painted lips around the red straw of a gas station drink.

“Good morning, darling” She thrust the styrofoam cup your way, you eyed the pigment at the tip. “Thirsty?”

“How do I know you didn’t drug it?”

Natasha scoffed, “I’m driving.”

When you didn’t answer her, she shrugged and placed the drink back in the cupholder. Your body was thrumming with phantom pain of being contorted in different uncomfortable positions for hours at a time. You wouldn’t put it past her to slip something into your bloodstream just to keep you under. You were compliant that way. She could get you to the bookie without too much of a fight.

It irked you that she was the one to slap the cuffs on after all this time, though, in a way, you knew it was coming. Natasha didn’t take kindly to being wronged. You had known that when you did the wronging in the first place, but it wasn’t enough to stop you. It lit something in her. A chase that satisfied her immensely. It was written in her body language now; relaxed. Content.

Outside, a blur of birch trees gave way to greenery and spanish moss that settled something uncomfortable in the pit of your stomach. The vegetation was familiar, all the way down the coated forest floor. Your jaw clenched, working away at the building spit that lingered there, but it wouldn’t allow you to swallow.

VIRGINIA IS FOR LOVERS

The obnoxious blue sign cut through the foliage and your sleep-hazed eyes tracked it until it was out of view. South. You were headed south. The humidity that seeped into the shitty car was an indication of that, if not the marker that you’d just passed. The stone dropped further into your gut. You gave another test pull of your restraints.

“Natasha,” You looked at her again, meeting that neutral green gaze of hers. So frustratingly patient. “Where are we going?”

She didn’t have to say it. There was a crack of guilt that flashed across her features for just a moment. You wouldn’t have caught it had you not been paying close attention. She wasn’t capable of such a complex emotion, not anymore. But there it was, like a firecracker in the night sky. It fizzled in grandiose just as fast as it came.

“No,” You whispered, tugging at the zip ties once, then twice, and then frantically until you felt that edged plastic cut so deep that it was nearly warm. “No, no, no. Natasha seriously. There has to be somewhere else. Every goddamn state on the east coast has charges against me if you just-”

You put your foot up on the dashboard for more leverage and started tugging backwards with your full body weight. The panic was building in your chest, clawing at the back of your throat like acid. The car was already a small space with a crap a/c unit, but sweat had instantly coated your entire body. The handle refused to budge, the plastic not even giving a warning crack of frailty.

“Jesus fucking christ, what is this door made of?”

Shaking the restraints a few more times gave you more wiggle room, just stole your breath from you. You were resulted to a panting, disheveled mess in the passenger seat, hair falling into your eyes and sticking to the damp of your forehead.

Natasha let out a sigh and picked up the cup, “Thirsty?”

Resigned, you swallowed a few gulps of the cold generic cola before recoiling. It settled nicely in your stomach, the wash of sugar and carbonation bringing you further from the haze of your hours of unconscious travel. You slumped in the seat, sniffing.

Natasha hummed. “Good girl. You can listen when you want to. Right now, I need you to listen. We’re going to drive to Red Creek and I’m going to give you over to Steve Rodgers and collect the massive reward they’re offering for you, and it’ll be damn satisfying after all the bullshit you’ve put me through.”

“Some people consider that foreplay, Natty.”

“Stop talking. We’re listening, remember?” She snapped, words cutting like a blade. “After I drop you off at that station, I never want to see or hear from you again. No letters from whatever prison cell they throw you in. I don’t care where you rot, as long as you do.”

Frankly, you didn’t care where you rotted either. Prisons were all the same, all metal and concrete and routine and looking over your shoulder at the slightest prickle of worry or discontent. The institution didn’t matter. Where Natasha Romanoff decided to indite you sure as hell did. Red Creek Florida was the last place you wanted to be. Second to the passenger seat of this car.

The unsteady beating of your heart thrummed with the stinging bite of the plastic ties. You’d drawn blood, rusted and heavy around its edges. Your skin looked like a messy finger painting, all the colors mixing together to create a sickly brown. Any further attempt would rip through old wounds. Cause more pain.

You let out a tight breath, slumping to the side. “Rodgers is in charge now?”

Natasha’s fingers tightened on the leather steering wheel with a creaking noise. She hadn’t expected small talk, something so soft and resigned from you, wiggling your fingers to get some type of feeling back in them. It sent pins and needles to your elbows.

“That was always his path. Some people pick something and stick with it.”

You swallowed the artificial sour-sweet taste on your tongue, head lazily lolled to the side. It was easy to watch Natasha, one of your favorite pastimes. She has always been beautiful, the serpentine of her eyes and the softness of her skin around sharp features. Her jaw was clenched and her stare was trained on the road, but she was familiar. Her scent enveloped the cab of the car, all citrus and floral and a hint of sweat.

“Natasha, I have to tell you something.”

“I don’t want to hear a fucking thing you have to say.”

“One thing and then I’ll shut up.”

Again her fingers tightened around the wheel. “I don’t believe you.”

The silence opened the floor. She glanced at you once, then twice. It was an invitation to speak and you weren’t about to let it fly out the window. A nervous coil formed in the pit of your stomach. You weren’t sure if you wanted to vomit, pass out, or both. Instead, you took a deep breath of cold, stale air.

“My parents still think we’re married.”

Natasha hit the breaks with the delicacy of a cement block. Your body shifted with the sudden change in momentum, forehead slamming against the dashboard, expertly heated by the sun. You felt the ache immediately radiating from the center of your head and filling your vision with stars. That was the second time she’d nearly rendered you unconscious in the past twenty-four hours.

“What the hell!” You snarled, frantically looking around the road. An interstate in the middle of nowhere, dwarfed by trees. She’d taken a calculated guess. There were no other cars around. “You could have fucking killed us, Natasha.”

She shook her head. “No, I think I might already be dead and burning in hell. My sorry excuse for an ex-wife just told me that she’s been lying to her parents for the last four years about the fact that we’re very much un-hitched because she’s a jackass that gets off on petty crimes instead of my fingers.”

“When you put it like that it sounds bad.”

Natasha was across the console, the collar of your shirt wicked around her slender fingers. She pulled you as close as she could with your binds tugging at the raw skin of your wrist. You swallowed a whimper of pain, wouldn’t give her more of an advantage than she already had.

“It is bad. So, very bad for you y/n. Before, I was annoyed, extremely fucking satisfied about finally getting my hands on you after all these years. But now? Now I’m considering skipping the bail altogether and killing you myself.” Her grip loosened minimally, eyes still hard and brazen with anger. “I can’t believe you.”

She shoved you back just as hard, your spine hitting something plastic and unnecessary on the inside of the car door. You swallowed the sudden dryness in your throat, heat still coloring your cheeks from her earlier comment. She could shoot you between the eyes right here, and no one would come looking.

Instead, she eased her foot off the brake and kept driving on the long, curvy road, the softness of her voice breaking the hair-thin silence. “Why would you do that?”

You were expecting a lot of things from Natasha, but not raw emotion. Her words were pinched with a sadness that made your shoulders droop. They threatened to tremble from the pain of it all. The same scenery you’d grown up peering at suddenly became more interesting to you. A horse here and there, a plow that stopped in the middle of a field, mailboxes crafted by the owner of the home.

“There were enough broken hearts going on, Tasha.” You whispered, not keen on meeting her eyes. You knew she could hear you. “I didn’t want to crack my mother’s in two. She always loved you more than me. Said you were the best thing that could ever happen to her daughter.”

You heard the leather of the steering wheel creak under her tightening grip, but she didn’t say anything. Neither of you did. She didn’t have the strength to deny the statement, and with the incessant pounding in your head, you didn’t either.

The next time you stirred, the sun had begun to dip below the horizon. You hadn’t exactly fixed your posture in your sleep, but your neck had released some of its stiffness and the zip ties around your wrists had been loosened at some point. Not by your struggle, but by the deliberate movement of someone else’s hands.

It wasn’t hard to recognize Red Creek. It hadn’t changed since you’d left. The small fishing town bordered the marsh, filled your lungs with a heady sea smell that clung to your skin. Thick sections of forest dripping with deadened Spanish moss accepted the darkness of nightfall sooner than the nicely trimmed green grass, the mismatched houses that all had windchimes and kitschy lawn ornaments.

Natasha’s jaw clenched in a way you had always clocked as distaste. Distaste about the drapes you’d brought home from the thrift store. Distaste about eggnog ice cream, soon to be spat out. Distaste about you.

You’d alerted her to your wakefulness with a stuttered exhale. Streetlamps were soon to come on, they did like clockwork at 7pm every night. It had been your timer as a kid, waist deep in marsh water and reaching into the darkness for minnows that always seemed to slip through your fingers, but nestled so simply into Natasha’s.

“You’re not patient enough,” she giggled with her full chest “If you want to catch a fish, you’ve gotta stay still.”

“Nah, it’s all about being fast. Quick like lightening. They won’t even see it coming.”

Most of your evenings in the wetlands ended in the two of you wrestling in the shallow water, swallowing more of the silt than you’d like to admit. You never actually caught more than a dozen fish with your hands, but that didn’t matter when Natasha was smiling so genuinely and splashing water onto your face.

It was strange- being back here. There was an unsteady feeling of remiss in your chest, dripping down to your stomach. Just because you’d grown up here, fell in love here, lost your love here, and ran as far as you possibly could, didn’t mean a thing. They were buildings and roads and parks and schools that could be anywhere.

Natasha turned the headlights off before she pulled into the parking lot of the sheriff’s office. It was nothing more than a small building repainted in a soft golden yellow. It reminded you more of a stand that would sell snow cones. But, it was bigger on the inside, filled with two holding cells and four desks that held the whole police force.

She sat still for a moment after shutting off the ignition. In the stifled silence, you could hear the gentle push and pull of cicadas, screeching their husky songs. “I’m sorry about this.” She said customarily, but the corners of her lips quirked up like the beginning of a lie.

“You’re enjoying this.” You scoffed.

“A little.”

With a show of mercy, she used her pocketknife and expertly snipped away the zip ties after tugging at the door. Your aches had aches, but she wouldn’t allow you to catch your footing in the stifling, heat-ridden, air. She had a hand wrapped around your upper-arm, dragging you to a standing position.

You winced, flexing the stinging stiffness from your wrists as Natasha kicked the door to the beater car closed. She kept a hand on you at all times, an unwelcome heat brewing in your belly at the familiarity. It was traded with the sickly-sweet office scent that filled your lungs when you were shoved into the station.

Copy paper and burnt coffee. You’d been here before as a teenager when you were caught at a party that you’d snuck out to get to. They’d thrown you in a cell to teach you a lesson, and you were always sure that your father had told them to do just that until day broke.

Your eyes swept across the room out of habit. It was sleepy like the rest of the town. An officer was tinkering with the water cooler, banging the side of his hand against the plastic jug with an empty tap. He shot his gaze over to the front door at the sound of it closing.

“No fucking way.”

He’d straightened to his full height, closing the short distance. Up close, you recognized him. He wasn’t baby-faced anymore, his muscles filling out the sleeves of the uniform. He had meticulously combed hair and a trimmed beard that must have taken some time to groom. ‘Stark’ was written across his left breast in white thread.

“Romanoff? Y/L/N? I thought the two of you got out of town a long time ago. Heard you were in New York!” He laughed loudly, taking in your appearance with a glint in his eyes. The way you were being forced under Natasha’s hand to stay put. “What is this? Some kind of kinky sex thing?”

“Gross, no.” Natasha bit out.

You sighed dejectedly, mumbling “Gross? I wouldn’t go as far as gross.”

She gave you a shove, thankfully not hard enough to send you sprawling across the tile. Tony raised a curious eyebrow at the both of you, trying to gage the dynamic as his fingers absently traced his tactical belt. You wondered for a moment if all the times he hit his head playing football was catching up to him or if this was just typical small town cop mentality.

“I’m here to bring her in.” Natasha sounded out when he wasn’t quite getting it. “Petty larceny, auto-theft, embezzlement. I can keep going or you can pull it all up on that little computer of yours, pay me, and I’ll be on my way.”

“Yeah, okay.”

Tony made a show of moving behind the nearest desk, pulling his shoulders back as if he were playing a part in a play. He deliberately typed slow, shooting the both of you a smile. The exasperated stare you shared with Natasha was the only time in the last twenty-four hours that you’d agreed with her on something.

“Y/n Y/l/n has active warrants for petty larceny alright.” Stark clicked his tongue. “She clearly stole your heart, Natasha. Nothing else.”

He turned the screen to face the both of you. A horrible copy of your license photo mid-sneeze was at the forefront, digitized versions of your fingerprints, and an absolutely clean record. Squeaky clean. Not even the night you’d spent behind those bars.

“What the fuck?”

“Bullshit.”

The two of you spoke at once. Natasha leveled you with a glare that reminded you that she was the one in charge. You snapped your jaw shut and straightened your spine. When she moved to get a closer look, Tony swiveled it back around. “You- You have to check the whole database.”

“I did Nat. There’s nothing. You’re both really committed to this bit, huh? Gotta admit, it’s a nice change from perimeter checks and suspended boating licenses. It’s good to know you two have fun.”

She let out a tight breath, pinching the bridge of her nose in exasperation. Irritation that settled into a growl. When she turned, those serpentine eyes cut through you like the sharpened blade of a priceless sword. She was close then, close enough to smell the sugar cane and the earthy scent on her. Her lips pressed to the shell of your ear, words barely audible.

“I don’t know what game you’re playing, dvornyaga, but it ends here. Right where it started.”

#Natasha Romanoff #Natasha Romanoff x you #Natasha Romanoff x fem reader #Natasha Romanoff x y/n #Natasha Romanov #Natasha Romanov x reader #Natasha Romanov x you #Cassie lang #Steve Rodgers #Tony Stark #Hometown au #Bounty hunter au

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vevobly · 10 hours ago

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Yellowjackets With Filipino Reader Headcanons! [Peri-crash] (1)

A/N: One of my friend's birthday is coming up pretty soon, so I decided to make this post as a gift to them! There's a translation for everything that the reader says in filipino down in the comments for you guys. Enjoy and devour as always! 😺

Jackie Taylor:

It frustrates her to no end that you’ll mutter something under your breath in Tagalog and smirk after someone annoys you. And she knows it’s about her sometimes. So, she starts asking you what certain words mean. “So what does…‘buwisit’ mean? You called me that earlier.” You tell her it means “beautiful” and she just absolutely believes you. When she finds out that it didn't mean the same thing as you told her it meant from someone else on the team, she confronts you directly about it before storming off pissed as fuck.

Jackie does not know how to take you. I mean, you weren't impressed by her back then. You definitely aren't impressed by her now. You fight—a lot. And one day, she snaps to which you just facepalm and mutter “ang arte mo talaga” to her. “I KNOW that was about me,” she replies, lip curled. You look her dead in the eye and respond. “Yeah! You’re dramatic.” She doesn’t talk to you for a day. Then, when you’re out splitting wood, she just says this. “You’re kind of the only one who doesn’t treat me like I’m useless now.”

After that, she starts being really weirdly too nice towards you. Even more when Shauna was distancing herself from her. She's almost always sharing her food ration with you, brushing it off with confusing stuff like “you’re cold all the time" or "don’t want you freezing to death before I win an argument" etc. She keeps gravitating toward you—watching you peel wood, eavesdropping when you mutter in tagalog. Over time, she starts asking for your help with things but she never phrases it like she needs you at all. You think it's funny somehow and a bit cute.

Shauna Shipman:

You’re the only one who notices when Shauna’s hands tremble after burying someone. And then you're almost always quietly handing her something random to hold, telling her it's something she needs to look after out of nowhere. She's confused, but she nevertheless does just that and never forgets it. She doesn't know when or how exactly it happened, but she starts quietly learning tagalog phrases just to understand you. Especially when you're insulting her for something.

You correct her tagalog when she asks what “pikon” means after hearing you say it to Jackie. “Means sensitive. You are, a little” you say gently to her, and Shauna flushes. One time when you caught her looking guilty after Jackie scolded her for spacing out, you decided to ask her if she was okay. She just nods in response and you frown for a moment before replying with “Hindi ka nag-iisa” - She doesn’t ask you what it means, but she keeps the words in her mind despite it. Shauna is drawn to you like a moth to a flame she swears she won’t touch, and it is BAD.

You teach her a few Tagalog words from time to time. She tries them but messes them up. When she says "maganda ka" to you one day, you freeze - caught completely off guard with it. "Did I say it wrong?" She asks you. "No," you replied quietly. "You just said I'm beautiful.." And that gets her really red in the face while you're all so quiet with her after it. Later? When everyone's asleep, she leans against your shoulder and despite the kinda awkward moment earlier, you don't move away. Neither of you says a word before drifting to sleep.

Taissa Turner:

Tai knows you're swearing when you start talking in tagalog. She doesn’t know what you’re saying, but she knows. She pretends not to care when you say something about her in Tagalog, but she corners Van later and asks her “That thing she said to me today—how bad was it?” When neither Van or anyone else on the team knows what you're saying about her, she starts going out of her way to sit next to you during planning stuff and makes a game of guessing what your words mean.

You guys butt heads early on because while Tai is efficient, you're intuitive. She says you’re “sloppy” once and you haven't stopped calling her “masungit” since then. She admires the way you are, but when you push back on her trying to be a leader for the team? Oh boy, things get tense fast. “We need to follow a system,” she snaps at you one day. “You mean your system,” you reply. You walk away, muttering a curse in tagalog. “You always do that—say shit no one can call you out on!” Taissa shouts. You guys don't talk to each other for days because of it.

But eventually, she corners you and asks her what you said about her. You look at her. “I said I’m tired of being ordered around by people who don’t listen” She doesn't say anything, but the next time she makes a decision? She looks at you first. You both end up becoming the designated planners of the group, and she starts seeking out your opinion before anyone else since then. She asks you to teach her some words once. You don't say yes, but later when you mutter “gago” when Travis does something stupid? She repeats it under her breath with a grin.

Van Palmer:

Van thinks you're hilarious. Even though half the time she doesn't understand what you're saying. When Mari annoyed you once? She whispered “say something in tagalog” to you. You glanced at Mari and muttered “hayop ka” to which Van nearly choked laughing. You make her laugh even when you’re not trying. Especially when you mutter “bahala kayo diyan” and walk away dramatically. She’s the only one you don’t mind translating your curses for on the team because she doesn’t take it personally.

You and her create secret inside jokes about people. Like, if someone’s being annoying? She’ll whisper “banana ketchup” and you’ll both just lose it. Van flirts with you a lot openly. But her flirting is very weird, and confuses you because she just tries to come up with her own fake filipino words just to tease you. One time she accidentally says something real and really vulgar that your jaw dropped. You tell her never to say it in public again. "What? What'd I say?!" She asks you. "I'll tell you if you hold my hand" You replied. "Deal!" But you're both equally weird, tbh.

Van is one of the few who doesn’t get weird when you speak Tagalog. She asks questions and she listens to you about it. “Teach me a swear word,” she begged you once. And you do. But she butchers it badly that you laugh for the first time in days. After that, Van starts sitting closer to you—sharing food, nudging you awake during night watch—you never talk about it. But it feels like something is forming. Or maybe breaking? She gives you dumb nicknames in Tagalog based on what she thinks they mean. “My little... tinapay" You stared at her. "You just called me bread"

Natalie Scatorccio:

You and Nat have this weird unspoken thing. You don't ask about her shit. She doesn't ask about yours. That's the foundation of your relationship with each other. You once threw a knife into a tree after an argument with someone else on the team and muttered “lintek na buhay to” to which she passed you a cigarette without a word. You help her with her hair one day and Natalie practically short circuits. You sit together often. Not talking, but just being close to each other. You don't need her to be soft, and that's what does it for her.

“Next time you wanna say something sweet in tagalog, just whisper it in my ear” She jokes to you after it, and you basically stop working for a moment. She opens up to you in small ways. Tells you about her dad. Her mom. The anger. She doesn’t expect comfort, but you give it anyway. When you mutter in tagalog, she doesn’t ask that much. You asked her why once. “I like it better when I don’t understand,” she replied. “At least I can pretend it’s nice.” You tell her you don't know what to think about that to which she laughs about.

One night, when everyone else is asleep, she tells you "I like hearing you talk, even if I don't get it all. I like how you talk" and then the two of you don't talk for two days after until she gets a cut on her hand and you happened to be the only person available to patch it up for her. "You could be gentler" She winces. "You could be less reckless" You snap back. Her lip quirks and she replies with. "Fair." You flick her head after you finish patching her up. "jusko, ikaw ang ikamamatay ko"

Lottie Matthews:

Lottie watches you more than she speaks to you at first. She doesn’t mean to focus on you, but she does. Before the crash, you guys barely ever interacted with each other unless necessary or because of something like being left alone with each other and so. On a cold morning after a few days since the plane crashed, you lend her a scarf. “Para sayo.” You tell her. She asks what you just said meant, and you can't help but smile. "For you" You answer. After that, she starts being close to you. Doing tasks with you almost more than anyone else on the team.

She learns words like ganda, tanga, and so much more just so she can understand you better. That, and so you'd have someone else to talk to in tagalog even though she wouldn't be able to understand everything you say in it. At least you'd have someone to talk to in your native language, right? She asks you from time to time to teach her a word every day. And surprisingly so, she remembers them. She says “ingat ka” before you go outside the cabin once and you freeze, your mouth agape while you blinked repeatedly to see if you heard what you did correctly at the time.

There's this strange comfort between you, and this really weird thing where you speak in tagalog but she doesn't understand what you said yet she knows exactly what you meant by your words somehow. In the middle of a really cold night when everyone else but you guys are asleep, you whisper “malamig” to yourself. "What does that word mean? " She asks you after. "Cold," You replied. Later, when she lies next to you by the fire, she whispers. "Still cold?" And you feel your cheeks heating up. "Not right now.."

Laura Lee:

Honestly, you surprise her. You're crass, tough, and sometimes harsh but you always say “thank you” when she shares food or water. She's a bit wary of you at first. Not just because you weren't religious, but you also tended to ask her a bunch of questions about her beliefs and so that came off as insensitive and offensive at times. She thought you hated her initially because of it until you caught her crying once and told her how much you admire her will to keep being faithful at times like these before leaving.

Just because of that one moment, Laura Lee has a whole reevaluation about you and starts getting close to you. It begins with the smallest things—being paired up for chores, helping her out now and then, and little shared moments. Though she doesn’t understand anything you say when you curse, she just knows they’re definitely not good. She mostly guesses the meanings of the words you say in tagalog. And if not that, she just asks you. "What does putangina mean?" And you respond with. "It's motherfucker" She gasps, scandalized.

She starts asking you for “non-evil” tagalog phrases, and you teach her the most church appropriate ones like — salamat, mabait ka, and etc. But you also teach her pakyu and lie about the meaning of it. So she says it at Jackie one day, and you lose it. She hears you sing a kundiman one night and thinks it’s the most beautiful sound she’s ever heard. “Does god understand me?” You asked her. And she giggles like the question is a bit silly. “God understands all, no matter what language they speak.” Somehow, your cheeks heat up at that.

Misty Quigley:

Misty desperately wants to know what you’re saying all the time. She starts carrying a notebook and tries to phonetically spell out your curses to look them up when you guys get rescued in the future or just to decipher their meanings by herself and in which situations you use them. That, or she just asks you instead. She tries to parrot your insults but always gets the stress wrong. “Pu...ta—gee-na?” She says one day. “That’s not how you say it, Misty. Stop before I call a multo on you.”

You avoid her at first, but she keeps “coincidentally” being wherever you are. One day she tries to help you cook rice wrong and you snap. “You don’t stir the rice! Anong ginagawa mo?!” You shouted at her. “I’m sorry! I just wanted to bond!” She replied, quickly going away. You start calling her makulit, epal, and sira ulo since then. She thinks those are words of endearments, but they're not. One day she gives you a sad look and asks, “Does ‘sira ulo’ mean you like me?” It reminds you of a kicked puppy. “...Sure. Let’s go with that.” You replied.

She eventually finds out that they aren't, and while she's super hurt about it. She just ignores it, because you're nice to her. Although “nice” is a bit subjective though. Misty doesn’t understand boundaries, and while you would love to tell her off immediately, you feel bad for it so you start scolding her in Tagalog—huwag mo kong hawakan, ha? She never gets you, but at least she tries to. She still hovers you, despite of it. One day, she asks. “Would you tell me if you were saying something mean about me?” And you look her in the eye. “No, ” You replied. “But at least you can think what I say to you is nice, right?” It's bad, but it's better than being outright mean to her.

#yellowjackets x reader #yellowjackets x you #jackie taylor x reader #jackie taylor x you #shauna shipman x reader #shauna shipman x you #taissa turner x reader #taissa turner x you #van palmer x reader #van palmer x you #natalie scatorccio x reader #natalie scatorccio x you #lottie matthews x reader #lottie matthews x you #laura lee x reader #laura lee x you #misty quigley x reader #misty quigley x you

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