childhood best friend jason todd who makes promises like when i grow up, i'll marry you and then we'll be happy forever- but then he gets adopted by bruce and becomes robin and between all that, loses touch with you and then dies.
he comes back, becomes red hood and its not until he sees you again when he remembers his promises.
you run a small bookstore thats also a safe haven for kids to just loiter around and read-
he goes home and looks up everything about you, everything he's missed out on and what you're upto now- he finds out that you got married and then divorced, something about an abusive husband and sealed police and hospital records- a restraining order as well so he does what he what he thinks is right. he kills your ex for you and then starts to leave little trinkets for you at your shop- giving the kids gifts to bring to you from red hood-
this goes on for weeks and weeks until you stand outside your little shop, hands on your hips, looking up, trying to find him-
he lands right infront of you and takes off his helmet, you still dont recognize him. he's older now, scarred, his eyes aren't even blue anymore-
its not until he says im all grown up and i still wanna marry you that you realize who he is- and all he can do is hope and pray that you still want him the way he wished you did when you were kids.
The annual staff party is in full swing, the cramped staff room of the restaurant buzzing with laughter, clinking glasses, and the faint thump of a playlist Richie threw together at the last minute.
You’re leaning against a counter, nursing a soda water with lime, watching the chaos unfold.
The kitchen staff, usually a tightly wound crew, is letting loose tonight, and it’s a sight. Sydney’s debating pizza toppings with Marcus, Tina’s dancing with Ebra, and Richie’s trying to convince everyone he’s got the best karaoke voice in Chicago.
But your eyes keep drifting to Carmen—your Carmen—whose usual sharp focus has been replaced by a tipsy, lopsided grin.
He’s three whiskeys deep, maybe four, and it shows. Carmy’s not a big drinker, but tonight he’s leaning into it, his shoulders relaxed for once, his anxiety tucked away under the warm haze of alcohol. He’s standing by the drinks table, laughing too loud at something Fak said, but when he spots you across the room, his whole face lights up like you’re the only person here.
“Babe,” he calls, voice slurring just enough to make Sydney snicker. He weaves through the crowd, nearly tripping over a chair, and before you can say anything, he’s at your side, wrapping his arms around your waist like you’re his lifeline. “There you are,” he mumbles, burying his face in your neck. His breath is warm, smelling of whiskey and that faint, familiar scent of the kitchen—olive oil, smoke, and him.
“Carm, you good?” you ask, patting his back, trying not to laugh as he nuzzles closer. His curls tickle your cheek, and you can feel the heat of his skin through his thin T-shirt.
“M’great,” he slurs, pulling back just enough to look at you with heavy-lidded eyes. “You’re so pretty, y’know that? Like… stupid pretty.” His hands slide up your sides, lingering a little too long, and you catch Richie raising an eyebrow from across the room, smirking like he’s enjoying the show.
“Thanks, babe,” you say, gently steering his hands back to safer territory. “You’re having fun, huh?”
“Only ‘cause you’re here,” he says, earnest in that way only a drunk Carmy can be. He leans in, trying to kiss you, but it’s messy, his aim off, landing somewhere near your jaw. You laugh, guiding his face back, and he pouts, looking like a kicked puppy. “C’mon, kiss me,” he whines, tugging you closer.
“Carmy, you’re drunk,” you say, keeping your tone light but firm. The others are watching now, Tina stifling a giggle behind her hand, Marcus pretending to focus on his drink but clearly eavesdropping.
Carmy’s usually so tightly wound, all sharp edges and nervous energy, that seeing him like this, soft, clingy, practically draping himself over you—is comedy gold to them.
“Don’t care,” he mumbles, pressing himself against you, his hands wandering again. “You’re my girl, right? Lemme… lemme take you home.” His voice drops, low and suggestive, and you feel your cheeks heat up as Richie lets out a loud “Oh, shit!” and claps like he’s at a stand-up show.
“Carmen Anthony Berzatto,” you say, grabbing his face with both hands, forcing him to meet your eyes with an amused grin. “You are way too drunk for that.”
He blinks at you, slow and confused, then grins like he’s got a secret. “But I want you,” he says, loud enough that Sydney chokes on her drink and Fak lets out a “Yo, Carm, chill!”
You’re torn between embarrassment and amusement, because this is Carmy, the guy who can barely say “I love you” without blushing sober, trying to get frisky in front of his entire staff.
“Nope,” you say, shaking your head, but you can’t help smiling. “You’re going to bed, chef. Alone. With water and some aspirin.”
He groans, dramatically, and slumps against you, his head on your shoulder. “You’re no fun,” he mumbles, but he’s still clinging to you, arms tight around your waist like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go.
You catch Tina’s eye, and she mouths “cute” with a grin, clearly loving this rare glimpse of Carmy’s softer side.
“Alright, party’s over for you,” you say, gently prying him off. “Say goodnight, Carm.”
“Goodnight, Carm,” he echoes, giggling to himself, then waves sloppily at the room. “Night, losers!”
The crew erupts in laughter, Richie yelling, “Get his ass home, Sweetheart!” as you steer Carmy toward the door.
The drive to his apartment is an adventure. Carmy’s in the passenger seat, still touchy, reaching for your hand at every red light, muttering about how you’re “the best thing that’s ever happened” to him. You keep one hand on the wheel, the other gently batting his away when he gets too bold, reminding him you’re not crossing that line while he’s hammered.
At his place, you manage to get him inside, the two of you pressed together, all sloppy kisses and whispered promises. You're giving him this much as you walk him to bed. “C’mon, babe, just stay,” he pleads, flopping onto the mattress, tugging at your wrist.
“Not tonight, Carm,” you say, firm but gentle, pulling the blanket over him. You set a glass of water and two aspirin on the nightstand, brushing his hair back from his forehead.
He’s already half-asleep, eyes fluttering shut, but he grabs your hand one last time, holding it against his chest.
“Love you,” he mumbles, barely coherent, and your heart does a little flip despite yourself.
“Love you too,” you whisper, kissing his forehead. He’s out cold before you even turn off the light.
As you lock up and head home, you can’t help but smile, thinking about the teasing you’ll both get from the crew tomorrow. Clingy, drunk Carmy might be a handful, but he’s your handful, and that’s more than enough.
Farm Boy! Clark Kent who looks at the rain outside of the daily planet and says "this'll be good for the crops!" or "we needed this!" with the most heatwarmingly enthusiastic tone you've heard.
Farm Boy! Clark Kent who can fix any type of engine. Car broken down? Not a problem at all. And as you sit and watch him fiddle with your car he'll share stories of his dad teaching him to fix the tractors. He won't even notice the smudge of oil on his cheek.
Farm Boy! Clark Kent who refuses to buy unethically sourced produce. Despises factory farms with his whole soul. Loves vegans and vegetarians as if he was one of them. Has multiple interviews as Superman where he condemns factory farms and encourages the viewers/readers to buy local.
Farm Boy! Clark Kent whose idea of fun is taking you for a drive around his hometown to see the rolling fields and quaint farms of his youth. Can name the family on each farm for miles, sometimes even knowing their dogs names.
Farm Boy! Clark Kent who ends up outside of the city whenever he needs to think. Mobility isn't hard as the man of steel and the rural land brings him the comfort of home. Farmers exist everywhere, it doesn't matter to him what kind.
Farm Boy! Clark Kent who takes you square dancing, wearing a flannel that he's probably had since his teens. You never knew him as a dancer but the way he sprung to life in that barn made you almost think he was born for that specific purpose.
FARM BOY! CLARK KENT WHO TELLS YOU TO WATCH FOR DEER WHENEVER HE WALKS YOU TO YOUR CAR. You live in a city but it's just instinct. Despite the lack of deer, it's him asking you to be safe. It's him asking you to be careful.
(Yes, he did participate in "bring your tractor to school day")
A/N so this was supposed to be a short thought and ended up longer than I'd planned, whoops.
TW: heavy body image issues, quick skin picking mention
x fem!reader
"You don't understand!"
"Sweetheart-"
"No!"
Throughout the apartment you can hear two sets of feet slapping against hardwood in the kitchen. Hers, fast and angry. His, cautious but intentional.
"Did I do something?" He asks. "Because if I did, just tell me what it is so we can talk about it-"
She spins around and stares at him, incredulously. "What? No you didn't do anything!"
He blinks at her.
"Okay," he starts off, trying to wipe the last bit of sleep from his eyes. "Did you not want me to come here after work? Because if you need space that's totally fine, I just need you to let me know that."
He'd gotten off early today, and in a bid to surprise her he had headed on over to her apartment, wanting to be there when she got home from work. Letting himself in (with the spare key she had given him), he had then made a home on her couch where he intended to stay until she arrived, however the exhaustion from the day had caught up with him. He'd passed out.
And he was then awoken by the door swinging open, and his beautiful fiance storming in like a bat out of hell.
"I'm sorry I didn't let you know, but I thought it'd be a nice surprise."
"It was a nice surprise!" She exclaimed, throwing her arms in the air, "It is! I love when you're here! I love being around you!"
Silence settled in the room, the only sounds being her exasperated breathing.
"Then baby, what's wrong?" He asked, gently.
He takes a slow step forward, and then another, like he's approaching a frightened animal. And with the wild look in her eyes, that feels like a fair comparison.
Next thing you know, he's right in front of her, sliding his hands around her waist gently. Her chest is still rising and falling rapidly, but she seems more calm than before. Looks less like she's going to bite someone.
"Just talk to me." He murmurs, pressing a kiss to her temple.
A large exhale. Then he feels her hands twist themselves into his shirt, holding on tight like he would float away otherwise.
"It's just," the mumble comes from pressed into his chest. "It's just stupid, fucking Gina."
"Gina?" He questions, still cradling her. "From work?"
"Yes!" She huffs. "She and freaking Roger-"
"Her boyfriend?"
"Not anymore! They're engaged now!"
He can feel her tensing up in his arms again, and starts to rub her back in small circles.
"Is that a bad thing?" He questions. "Just last month you told me he was gonna pop the question any time."
"No it isn't a bad thing, I'm very happy for them!" She puffs indignantly.
He smiles into the top of her head. He doesn't know how she continues to be so endearing even when clearly quite upset about something.
"Then what's the issue, my love?"
This gets a reaction, but not quite the one he was hoping for. She pulls out of the hug and starts pacing the kitchen again, mumbling and pulling at her hair now.
"It's just that, now that they're engaged Gina won't stop talking to me about all their damn wedding prep." She pauses her footsteps and squeezes her eyes tight, pinching her nose. "And it's like, well duh! Of course she's talking to me about it because we," she gestures between the two of them. "-are also engaged! But we've been engaged for months and in a fucking week it feels like she's already so much more prepared than I am!"
She stomps over to the sink, grabbing a glass from the counter and filling it with water, then downing it all in one go. Then she continues.
"He booked everything for their honeymoon last weekend, the venue she wanted didn't even have a wait list, and get this," she throws her hands in the air again. "-she's already got her dress!"
"Don't you have an appointment to go try on dresses in a few weeks? I'm sure you'll find yours-"
"But it isn't about the dress." She sighs. He can slowly see the fight abandoning her, leaving whatever ugly feeling was truly the cause of all of this. "Her boobs are just perfect."
Silence.
He blinks once. Twice.
"Sweetheart, it doesn't matter to me how nice hers are, I'm quite attached to yours."
This gets a smile out of her. Brief and small, but the first smile he's seen since she got home.
"You don't get it." She murmurs. "Hers are so nice, and they sit pretty by themselves, and she could wear a bra that has no support whatsoever and she's still gonna look like a freaking Barbie. Do you know what she told me about her dress?"
He knows this is rhetorical, so he waits.
"She doesn't have to put on any shape wear. Not a single piece. She doesn't have to tape, or suck in, or squeeze. She just looks that way! I don't even have my dress and I just know I'm gonna look like a stupid walrus if I'm not squished into spandex."
"Now wait a second that's not-"
But the truth is starting to spew out now, she's already started and can't hear him.
"My boobs have never looked like that. They will never look like that. If I took my bra off right now they would damn near kiss my bellybutton, can you imagine if we have kids?" She violently blinking, refusing to make eye contact now.
"And then I started thinking about everything I need to fix before we get married, everything I'm trying to get dealt with before the ceremony so you don't have to see it." She squeezes her eyes tight.
Crickets can be heard for a moment, it's quiet enough you can hear the television from the next apartment over.
"It makes me wonder if we should even do this at all."
"Stop."
Her head snaps up.
His eyes are burning, his chest is tight and his fists are balled. He's enraged, but not at her. Never at her, but at the way she clearly sees herself.
"Don't do this, don't ever say those things about the woman I love ever again."
Tears are now streaming down her face, but there's a ball of indignation rising in her chest as well.
"How can you say that when you don't even know all the gross things about me?"
The kitchen is starting to feel suffocating, so she leaves into the living room. He's right behind her.
"Baby there is nothing you could tell me about yourself that would make me not love you-"
"Oh yeah?" She eyes him. She's too far now, everything that's been kept locked up for the last almost year is forcing itself through the open dam.
"I haven't worn my retainer in a year, and I can actively feel my teeth shifting back to the way they were in middle school. That isn't pretty."
She circles the couch, now keeping him on one side while she stands on the other.
"Not only are my tits saggy, but they're covered in stretch marks. And they get absolutely disgusting when it's hot outside. They get white heads and the worst rash from my bra chafing and that sure as hell isn't appealing."
"My stomach rubs the tops of my thighs and makes ingrowns there that I pick at until they bleed. The insides of my thighs chafe so bad that they look infected, and I can hardly stand to see them myself!"
That boy just stands there, his heart breaking as she lists everything she can think of that should make him not love her.
"I get ingrown hairs in my armpits, that get worse when I shave so I have to let them grow out and I hate it! I have zits on my butt that I am so ashamed of, no matter what I do they will never permanently go away, and my worst nightmare-" she's hysterical now, snot clogging her nose and tears tattooing themselves on her face. "- my worst nightmare is you seeing me on our wedding night and being absolutely revolted by everything I am. Resenting me for all of my flaws, for not being able to fix everything I have tried so hard to keep from you."
She slumps into the couch, hands finding her hair and pulling.
"I'm so scared that we're going to get married and you'll realize that it's a mistake. That you deserve someone better, someone prettier and quieter and more presentable than me." She whimpers. "And then you'll leave."
Her eyes are glued shut, so when she hears footsteps she can only assume that he's leaving. Going to grab his things and head out the door now that she's finally laid out what he would actually be getting into. Everything that he would actually have to deal with as her husband.
She was right, it was too much. She wasn't enough like Gina to make him stay, and now she needs to gather the strength to tell everyone that their engagement has been called off-
Then a warm, calloused hand is gently cradling her chin, lifting her head out of her hands.
"Open your eyes, pretty girl." He whispers from in front of her. "Let me see you."
It takes a moment, but he's patient, and when she finally opens her blurry eyes she can see him, the man she loves more than anything else in the world, on his knees with his eyes full of tears.
"Thank you," he murmurs as he presses a kiss to both of her cheeks. "Thank you for sharing this with me, I know that it wasn't an easy thing to do."
A watery laugh escapes her unintentionally. "That's your response?"
"Not entirely," he gives her a little smile, brushing away the baby hairs that are stuck to her forehead and the sides of her face.
"You are the most precious thing in my whole world, and nothing that you just said will ever be able to change that." He gazes at her lovingly. "Your body being totally normal and human is not something that I will ever hold against you, not something that will ever drive me away."
He takes his thumb and ever so carefully wipes the tears and smudged mascara out from under her eyes.
"You are my beautiful fiance, the woman that I am so blessed to be with. The woman that I cannot wait to marry, to live with. The person that I hope to give my children, the incredible lady that I dream of growing old with." He nuzzles his nose against her own, unbothered by her tears now mixing with his.
"It makes me feel so special to get to be the person that you share these things with. To be a safe place for you to rant and rave and cry and scream and just exist. And my sweet love, you are that for me as well. You hold me when I'm tired, piece me together when I'm broken, and love me when I cannot love myself."
He plants another kiss on her forehead, then stands from where he is knelt on her rug, carefully lowering himself next to her on the couch and pulling her close.
She easily clicks right into his side, right where she belongs, fingers once again tangled in his shirt like he'll disappear if she doesn't hold on.
"I can't wait to marry you." He murmurs, "I'm yours as long as you'll have me."
"I can't wait to marry you," she whispers into his neck, her breathing finally evening out for the first time this afternoon.
"..and I kind of feel bad about everything I said about Gina. She was just collateral because of how I felt."
An unexpected laugh bursts from his throat, and he squeezes her a little bit closer.
"Then tomorrow you can buy her a coffee and apologize, but for tonight let's just stay right here."
Summary — When your insecurities start to creep in when you see the women Steve works beside every day. You try to hide it, but Steve isn’t one to miss the cracks. When he pieces it together, he reminds you why you’re more than enough.
Warnings — Angst to fluff, insecurity/self-doubt, lots of comfort, Soft!Steve.
Author’s Note: Honestly, I’ve been feeling super down recently, so I wrote some Steve fluff because I think this man would be the best person to comfort you. I hope you guys enjoy this one. Love ya’ll lotsss. 𓈒♡︎𓂂 𓏴
The morning light filtered through the blinds, painting golden stripes across your living room floor. You were curled up on the couch, a half-empty mug of tea warming your hands as you scrolled idly through your phone.
The television hummed in the background, tuned to some local news station that had been buzzing about the Avengers’ latest mission.
You weren’t really paying attention until a familiar shield flashed across the screen.
Steve.
Your eyes lifted immediately, phone forgotten in your hand as the feed cut to shaky camera phone clips. The team was exiting a Quinjet, the sleek black aircraft looking out of place against the dull gray of the tarmac.
Natasha walked a few steps ahead, her posture unshakably confident, the sun glinting off the red in her hair. Beside her, Sharon Carter spoke into a comm, her jaw set with focus, her blonde ponytail swaying with every determined step.
And then Steve.
Even through the grainy video quality, he stood out. He moved with that easy strength, a steadying presence that drew every gaze to him without even trying.
Reporters surged forward, voices overlapping as they called his name. He paused, polite as ever, and answered a few quick questions with calm authority. Then he lifted a hand, subtle but commanding, to guide his team toward waiting transports.
Always leading. Always protecting. Always—Steve.
Your heart swelled, a smile tugging at your lips almost automatically. He looked good. He always did. But as your gaze drifted back to the women on either side of him, something inside you faltered.
Natasha’s confidence wasn’t just skill; it was elegance carved into every movement. Sharon’s efficiency made her seem untouchable, a woman who looked as if she’d stepped right out of a polished recruitment poster.
Even Wanda, glimpsed in the background, looked radiant, her scarlet jacket catching the sunlight like she belonged in a painting.
They all looked like they belonged there. Next to him. With him.
Your hand tightened around your mug, the tea long gone cold. For a second, you caught your reflection in the black surface of the television screen: messy hair falling out of a half-hearted bun, the faint trace of yesterday’s mascara smudged beneath one eye, and the oversized sweatshirt you’d thrown on without thinking.
And then the whisper came, uninvited but sharp: He deserves better than this.
Your throat closed. Without thinking, you grabbed the remote and flicked the TV off, the screen cutting to black. The sudden silence rang loud in the apartment.
You sank deeper into the couch cushions, pressing your lips together as if you could physically hold the thought inside and keep it from spilling out where he might see it.
-----
By the time the sound of a key in the lock reached your ears that evening, you’d convinced yourself you were fine.
You scrambled to your feet, setting the abandoned mug in the sink and smoothing your sweatshirt as if that might erase the memory of the morning.
The door swung open, and Steve stepped inside. He looked tired; lines of exhaustion softened his features, but when his eyes landed on you, his whole expression lit up.
That familiar, steady warmth spread across his face as he set down his shield and duffel by the door.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he said, his voice low and rough from hours of debriefings.
Before you could respond, he was across the room. He bent down to press a lingering kiss to your forehead, his hand resting briefly against your cheek like he needed to ground himself in the fact that you were really there.
“I missed you,” he murmured, his thumb brushing your skin in a way that made your chest ache.
You swallowed, forcing a smile as you whispered back, “I missed you too.”
Steve exhaled softly, like he’d been carrying the weight of the world all day and could finally set it down in your living room. He toed off his boots, shrugged out of his jacket, and padded toward the kitchen.
You followed, watching him with quiet fondness as he tugged open the fridge and pulled out a bottle of water.
“You already eat?” he asked over his shoulder.
“Not yet. Was waiting for you,” you admitted.
That earned you a faint smile as he twisted the cap off and took a long drink. “Guess it’s a good thing I grabbed takeout on the way home.” He gestured toward the paper bag he’d set down by the door, the aroma of warm pasta already filling the air.
The two of you fell into the comfortable rhythm you always did: unpacking cartons, setting plates, and Steve sneaking a bite before you’d even sat down.
Dinner was filled with his stories and mission updates, peppered with dry humor that only came out when he was with you. On the surface, everything was normal. Perfect, even.
But under the table, your fingers worried at the hem of your sweatshirt, tugging threads loose, that whisper from the morning refusing to quiet.
When the plates were empty and Steve insisted on doing the dishes, you curled back onto the couch, pulling a blanket over your lap. He joined you minutes later, damp hair pushed back from his face, smelling faintly of soap.
He slid an arm around your shoulders, tugging you against his side. The warmth of him seeped through the blanket instantly, and your body responded before your mind could, relaxing, melting into the comfort you always found with him.
“This,” Steve said quietly, his lips brushing the crown of your head. “This is what I look forward to.”
Your chest tightened painfully. You pressed closer to him, burying your face against his shirt so he wouldn’t see the doubt in your eyes.
Because even if he meant it, even if he really did look forward to nothing more than sitting here with you—you couldn’t help wondering how long it would last before he realized he deserved someone stronger. Someone extraordinary. Someone like them.
-----
The days that followed slid into their usual rhythm, but something inside you had shifted.
You didn’t mean for it to. It wasn’t as if you wanted to start seeing yourself differently, smaller, dimmer, but once the thought had rooted itself, it was hard to shake. Every glimpse of the women Steve worked with only seemed to water it.
Natasha, her smirk sharp enough to cut glass. Sharon, crisp and capable, every word measured. Wanda, with her wild, untamed strength that looked almost effortless.
And then you.
The ordinary one. The one who couldn’t wield a weapon, who couldn’t strategize a mission, who couldn’t stand beside him on a battlefield without becoming a liability.
You didn’t tell him, of course. You never would. Steve carried enough on his shoulders; he didn’t need your insecurities piled on top.
So you buried them as best you could. Smiled when he came home, laughed at his stories, kissed him like nothing was wrong.
Still, he noticed things.
He always noticed.
The first crack appeared when he caught you hesitating in front of the mirror one morning. You’d been getting ready for a simple brunch date, nothing fancy, just you and him, pancakes and bad coffee at your favorite diner.
But as you adjusted your sweater, your reflection caught your eye. You froze.
Your gaze lingered on the soft curve of your stomach, the way your hair didn’t sit quite right, and the faint blemish on your cheek. A sigh escaped before you could stop it.
And then Steve’s reflection appeared behind you.
“You look beautiful,” he said simply, like it was fact.
You forced a smile and tugged at your sleeve. “You always say that.”
“Because it’s always true.” He bent to press a kiss to your temple, but by the time his lips met your skin, you’d already pasted on a brighter grin, one you hoped reached your eyes.
The second crack came a few nights later. Steve was sprawled across the couch, sketchbook balanced on his knee, pencil moving in quick strokes.
You’d been curled beside him, scrolling your phone, until a notification popped up, another article about the Avengers. The thumbnail image showed Natasha in action, mid-spin, the caption praising her lethal grace.
Without meaning to, you lingered on it too long. Your breath caught, something heavy settling in your chest. You quickly locked your screen, hoping he hadn’t noticed.
But Steve always noticed.
“You okay?” he asked, eyes flicking up from his sketch.
“Yeah. Just tired,” you answered too quickly, shoving the phone between the couch cushions.
He didn’t push. He just studied you for a moment longer before nodding slowly and going back to his sketch. Still, you felt his gaze on you every so often, like he was cataloguing each shift in your expression, each time your shoulders drew tight.
By the third crack, you were starting to feel cornered.
It was movie night, your weekly ritual. He’d let you pick the film, and you’d chosen a rom-com, light, harmless, and nothing like the chaos of his missions.
But halfway through, your chest clenched as the female lead appeared on screen. She was radiant: perfect hair, a dazzling smile, and the kind of effortless beauty that seemed designed to be adored.
You laughed along with the movie and tried to hide the way your throat tightened, but Steve’s hand tightened just slightly where it rested on your knee.
Later, when the credits rolled, he turned to you. “You’ve been quiet tonight.”
You shook your head quickly, forcing a yawn. “Just tired. Long day.”
Steve didn’t argue, but his eyes lingered on yours a moment longer than usual, searching.
And that was the part that scared you most.
Because Steve Rogers wasn’t oblivious. He’d spent years reading people, noticing details others missed. And now he was watching you with that same quiet intensity, piecing something together you weren’t ready for him to know.
So you tried harder.
Smiled bigger. Laughed louder. Kissed him first, before he could look at you too closely.
But deep down, you knew it was only a matter of time before the cracks gave way completely.
-----
Then it happened on a Thursday night.
You’d tried to busy yourself all day—laundry, dishes, halfhearted attempts at work on your laptop—but nothing had settled the ache in your chest.
By the time Steve came home, you were already curled up on the couch in that same oversized sweatshirt, blanket cocooned around you like armor.
The door opened. His familiar footsteps crossed the floor. He said your name softly, almost hesitantly.
“Hey, sweetheart.”
You looked up and smiled. Too quickly. Too practiced. “Hey. Welcome home.”
He kissed your forehead like always, but when he pulled back, his eyes searched yours. “How was your day?”
“Fine,” you answered, the word slipping out before you could think of something more convincing.
Steve’s brow furrowed, the faint crease between his eyebrows deepening. He didn’t press immediately.
Instead, he set down his shield and bag and went through his usual motions, unlacing his boots, shrugging off his jacket, and grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge.
You thought maybe that was the end of it. Maybe he’d let it slide again.
But when he joined you on the couch, his arm draping automatically around your shoulders, he didn’t reach for the remote.
He didn’t ask what movie you wanted to watch. He just sat there, warm and steady, fingers drawing slow circles against your arm.
“You’ve been quiet lately,” he said after a long silence.
You shifted beneath the blanket, pulling it tighter. “I’ve just been tired. Long week.”
“That’s what you said last night.” His voice was gentle, not accusing, just patient. Too patient. “And the night before that.”
You felt your throat tighten. “Because it’s true.”
Steve tilted his head, studying you. He didn’t push. He never did. He just… waited. Like he always waited, giving you the space to come to him. And that was what made it harder.
Because part of you wanted to keep hiding. To paste on another smile, deflect with another excuse. But another part, the bigger part, the part that ached every time he looked at you like you were the center of his universe, wanted to break open and tell him everything.
The silence stretched. Your heartbeat roared in your ears.
Finally, you blurted, “I don’t… I don’t belong next to you.”
Steve blinked, startled by the sharpness of your words. His hand stilled on your arm. “What?”
You squeezed your eyes shut, shame burning hot in your chest. But the dam had already cracked, and the words tumbled out, shaky and uneven.
“I see the women you work with—Nat, Sharon, Wanda—and I look at myself and… I don’t measure up. They’re strong, they’re beautiful, they’re… everything you deserve. And I’m just—”
Your voice broke. You dug your nails into the blanket, gripping it like it might hold you together. “I’m just ordinary. I can’t fight beside you. I can’t keep up. I can’t be what they are.”
The room went quiet, too quiet.
You didn’t dare look at him. You couldn’t bear to see the pity in his eyes, or worse, agreement. So you stared at your hands instead, blinking rapidly against the tears threatening to fall.
When Steve finally spoke, his voice was low and steady but carrying a weight you couldn’t ignore.
“Sweetheart.”
Just that one word, filled with so much emotion, almost made you crack right there.
He shifted closer, his hand gently cupping your chin, coaxing your gaze to meet his. When your eyes finally lifted to his, you found no pity. No confusion. Only something deep, fierce, and unshakably tender.
“Is that what you’ve been thinking?” he asked softly.
You swallowed hard, guilt pooling in your chest. “I didn’t want to tell you. I didn’t want to make it your problem. You already have enough—”
Steve cut you off, his voice firm but gentle. “You are never a problem.”
The conviction in his tone nearly undid you.
Your lips parted, trembling around unspoken words, but Steve wasn’t finished. His thumb brushed along your jaw, his other hand finding yours beneath the blanket and squeezing firmly, grounding you.
“You think you don’t measure up?” He asked quietly, eyes never leaving yours. “You think I’d rather be anywhere else than right here with you?”
Tears blurred your vision. You tried to speak, but all you could manage was a shaky whisper: “I just… don’t understand why you chose me.”
For a moment, Steve just looked at you. Like he was memorizing every detail of your face. Then, with a tenderness that made your chest ache, he said, “Because you’re the best damn thing that’s ever happened to me.”
And the way he said it, so steady, so certain, he left no room for doubt.
The words hung in the air between you, heavy and impossible to ignore.
Your breath hitched, but Steve didn’t falter. He shifted closer, wrapping one strong arm around your shoulders and pulling you gently against his chest.
His heartbeat thudded steady beneath your ear, like a drum keeping time.
“You think I don’t see you,” he murmured into your hair, his voice low and rough with emotion. “But I see you. Every day. I see the way you laugh at my dumb jokes, even when you’re tired. I see the way you take care of me when I come home half-dead on my feet. I see the way you make a place feel like home just by being in it.”
His hand smoothed down your back, slow and steady, as if trying to ease the tension right out of you.
“Nat, Sharon, Wanda… They’re incredible, yeah,” Steve continued. “But that doesn’t make you less. They’re my teammates. They’re my friends. But they’re not the person I come home to. They’re not the one I think about in the middle of a mission, reminding myself what I’ve got to fight to get back to. That’s you.”
Your tears spilled over then, hot against your cheeks. “But I’m not—”
Steve tipped your chin up again, his thumb brushing the tear away before it could fall. “Don’t say you’re not enough. You’re more than enough. You’re the reason I can keep doing what I do. Because I know, no matter how hard the fight gets, I’ve got you waiting for me. You keep me grounded. You keep me human. That’s not ordinary. That’s everything.”
His words hit like a wave, crashing into the walls you’d built around yourself. The conviction in his tone left no space for doubt. He wasn’t trying to convince you; he believed every word.
You let out a shaky laugh, half-sob, half-disbelief. “You always know exactly what to say, don’t you?”
Steve smiled softly, leaning down until his forehead rested against yours. “No. I just tell the truth.”
The simplicity of it unraveled you. You leaned into him fully then, burying yourself in his warmth, in the steadiness of his embrace.
He held you like you were fragile and unbreakable all at once, his arms cocooning you in the safest place you’d ever known.
For a long time, neither of you spoke. The quiet stretched, comfortable now, filled only with the sound of your breathing syncing with his.
Finally, Steve pressed a kiss to your hair and whispered, “You don’t ever have to compare yourself to anyone else, sweetheart. Not with me. You’re it. You’ve always been it.”
The sincerity in his voice and the softness of his words wrapped around your heart. For the first time in days, the ache in your chest eased.
You tilted your head back, eyes still glassy, and met his gaze. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”
Steve’s lips curved into the smallest smile before he kissed you, slow, unhurried, filled with the quiet certainty of a promise. When he pulled back, he rested his hand over your heart.
“Maybe you don’t see it,” he said, “but I do. Every day. And I’ll keep reminding you, for as long as it takes.”
The tears came again, but this time they felt lighter. You laughed through them, tucking yourself back into his chest as his arms tightened around you.
The rest of the night passed in a blur of softness. Steve making you tea, fussing over you like you were made of glass, and then carrying you to bed despite your half-hearted protests.
He curled himself around you beneath the blankets, his chest pressed to your back, his arm draped securely across your waist.
“Sleep,” he murmured against your temple. “I’ve got you.”
And for the first time in days, maybe weeks, you believed him.
You closed your eyes, letting the warmth of him chase away the shadows. Wrapped in his embrace, with his steady heartbeat lulling you to sleep, you knew one thing with absolute certainty:
imagine doing that tiktok trend with yuji where you set your phone up, run as fast as you can like your life depends on it, and see how long it takes for your boyfriend to catch you.
and when you explain it to him he just shrugs with a gentle little smile and says, “sure, babe. sounds fun.” because your sweet boy would do anything you ask him to.
so with your phone propped up, you quickly hit the record button, then break into a sprint while yuji waits with his hands in his pockets, watching you closely and counting to ten like you told him to.
and you keep count in your head, too. to make sure he’s not cheating of course.
but it’s something about seeing you run from him that entices him in a way he doesn’t expect. makes a delicious anticipation bubble inside him, makes his jaw clench. his lips take to a smirk once he realizes that’s what you wanted, and then he takes a breath.
“ten.”
he takes off immediately, a little dirt kicked up in his absence from how powerfully his foot launched him into motion.
and you’re a mess of giggles as you run, heart beating against your ribcage because you know it won’t be long. you don’t bother looking back, you know you can’t outrun him.
you haven’t even blinked twice when a pair of strong arms snake themselves around your middle and he’s got you caged in the air with a low grunt, your backside pressed against his chest, feet kicking and flailing as you squeal between laughter for him to let you go. his hold only tightens further, biceps flexing with a little more effort when you squirm. his hands are locked on his forearms that bind you to him, ensuring you won’t be going anywhere.
you can feel the rapid thumping of his heartbeat, the heat of his body and it makes you pull your bottom lip under your teeth. there’s no need to wonder if this excited him as much as it did you, because you can feel it.
it’s exhilarating, to say the least. you’re completely out of breath, and just as you expected, he’d barely even made an effort.
the sharp of yuji’s canines gently nip at the shell of your ear to make your breath catch in that way he likes, his voice low and smoldering, yet sending a shiver down your spine when he whispers,
simon being a silent guy, but his daughter being the most vibrant, babbly baby possible. that’s because she’s gone on you.
you talk too much, it’s been on every report card since you were in year 5. your teachers recommended an adhd assessment, but the waiting lists were too long and your parents couldn’t afford to go private. so you’ve been bouncing off the walls since you were in school.
you met simon outside a coffee shop, whilst going to your corporate job, and after he’d been discharged. he seemed hollow, too silent, and you’d spilled coffee all over him, forgetting you didn’t have an extra arm when you were adjusting your bag’s strap.
you’d apologised (eight times) offered him another coffee (he wanted it black) and then talked his ear off for the next three hours. he didn’t say much, just nodded or shook his head, but you spoke enough for the two of you.
you left with his number on a piece of tissue, and that was how it began.
now, holding violet in your arms as she babbles away, you love to play with her, speak to her in baby talk, she’s so intelligent. but when she babbles at simon, it’s hilarious, because he doesn’t know what to say.
she’s always making him smile though, and she can’t get enough of her dada anyway, so you count that as a win.
her hands bat the scars on his cheek, twisting the skin, but he just smiles again.
“dada scar.” she says, seriously, “hurt?”
he looks at you, and then back at her, “not anymore.”
“no more?” she asks, her eyes big as she presses her face into the cheek. “owie.”
“no more owie.” he whispers, before putting a kiss on her head. she starts to babble again about her new favourite colour (it’s green, today.) and his eyes catch yours.
about ˚｡ being PERCY JACKSON's sweet sweet friend means knowing everything about him—but who he likes. surely the campers are just exaggerating how he treats you...! but are they really?
⌗ author's notes : please don't mind errors especially in the last part, i was editing this at 3 am yesterday. yes i'm gonna post more fics soon especially summer fics !!! REQUESTS R APPRECIATED.
❛❛ percyyyy ! ❜❜ a group of tween campers called squealing from the other side of the amphitheater, drawing a certain dark-haired demigod's attention from sparring with an Ares kid.
" your girlfriend [name]'s calling you !!!! "
percy glances up at the sound of your name, and it costs him.
riptide slips from his hand with a sharp clang against the stone, and the Ares camper in front of him lets out a loud laugh.
"wow, jackson. took one word to drop your sword."
"shut up," percy shoots back, already smirking as he steps back. "you wish it was that easy."
The match ends a second later, with percy forfeiting the match. he reaches out, daps the guy up.
"good fight. i was beating your ass out there."
"yeah, until she showed up," the guy says, nodding toward you.
percy doesn’t even argue. i mean he's not lying, though?
he just shakes his head, picks up Riptide, caps him and chuck him straight into his pocket, and heads straight for you.
like a good [boy]friend he is!
"you’re smiling," you point out the second he gets close.
"I just won," he says.
"you dropped your sword."
"there's this thing called 'strategy' if you know what that is."
"annabeth sent me," you say. "swimming lessons tomorrow with new campers?"
percy groans, dragging a hand through his hair. "I knew I was forgetting something."
"and cabin checks tonight."
he stops walking.
"…you’re actually enjoying this."
"i don't know what you're talking about." though your smile gave it away.
"that’s messed up."
you just smile and start walking again, and he falls into step beside you.
the noise of the amphitheater fades behind you, replaced by the steady hush of the shore. the path opens to the Long Island Sound, the water catching the late sunlight, everything dipped in that soft, golden glow that makes the camp feel quieter and calmer than it ever really is.
you head for the docks. sit at the edge, your feet dangling at the water.
percy doesn’t sit. no.
he wades in, shoes forgotten, water curling around his lower body, and somehow it feels rejuvenating for him. he leans forward, bracing his arms on the dock on either side of you, caging you. his sea-green eyes look into yours intensely. it's like he's looking at you like you're his god-given solace.
your breath catch a little.
"you're blocking my view," you say.
"my view's better," he replies easily. "i'm looking at you."
"…you're so annoying."
"yeah, but you're still here."
the water laps quietly against the wood beneath you. somewhere in the distance, someone shouts, someone laughs—but it feels far away. like right now, both of you are in your own world.
a second passes by.
"they're not gonna drop it, you know," Percy says after a while.
"drop what?"
he tilts his head, amused. "the whole 'your girlfriend' thing."
you shrug. "they'll get bored eventually."
"mm. i doubt it."
"why? you worried about your reputation?"
he huffs out a soft laugh. "please. I don't have one of those."
"true."
He watches you for a second.
"...you didn’t say anything," he adds.
"about?"
he lifts a brow. "you know. that."
"Oh." you glance out at the water. "didn’t feel like it mattered."
Percy studies your face, he’s trying to read something there.
“And if it did?” he asks.
You look back at him. “Would it?”
He shifts closer, water moving with him, quiet and obedient. now he's in between your legs, his arms still caging both your side.
“Depends,” he says.
“On what?”
His mouth curves, just slightly. “On whether you’d say yes.”
Your heart does something stupid.
“…to what?”
He lets out a breath, something softer slipping through the teasing.
“To them being right.”
It’s quieter now.
The space between you feels smaller.
Warmer.
You don’t look away.
“I would,” you say.
And for once—
Percy Jackson doesn’t have something ready to say back. No cocky comment. No teasing. Nada. Zip. None.
“…yeah?” he asks, softer.
You nod.
“Yeah.”
He exhales a short laugh, something almost disbelieving under it, then shakes his head a little.
“Okay,” he murmurs.
And then—
“I like you.”
It comes out easier than he expects.
You don’t even hesitate.
“I know.”
That gets him.
His head tilts, eyes narrowing just slightly, a smile creeping in. “Oh, you know?”
You lean forward a little, matching him. “You’re not subtle.”
“That’s offensive,” he says lightly. “I’m extremely subtle.”
“You dropped your sword.”
“Okay, that one time—”
You don’t let him finish.
You kiss him.
And he freezes—before he’s kissing you back, one hand coming up instinctively to steady against your arm, grounding himself, because gods forbid him being too greedy when it comes to you. you're his salvation. because in a world where everything's constantly getting taken away from him, he knows better than to reach for something he might lose.
It’s warm. Percy can taste the cherry lipbalm he always sees you put on.
A little uneven. A little breathless. Too greedy.
Until—
hands grab your ankles.
“WAIT—”
You’re yanked forward, Percy’s eyes going wide right before both of you go crashing into the water.
The cold hits all at once, laughter exploding above you, voices echoing—
the whole. freaking. camp.
You surface, soaked, pushing your hair out of your face, staring at the shoreline where half the camp is losing their minds.
“You’re all insane!”
Percy comes up beside you, laughing under his breath. “Yeah, that tracks.”
Someone yells, “DO IT AGAIN—”
Percy rolls his eyes, but there’s a grin tugging at his mouth. “They’re never letting this go.”
You huff, trying not to smile. “Your fault.”
“My fault?” he echoes. “You kissed me.”
“You literally—”
The water shifts.
You feel it before you see it— cool, smooth, rising around you.
Percy glances at you, something playful sparking in his eyes.
“Hold on,” he says.
The water lifts, curves, closes—forming a clear, shimmering bubble around the two of you beneath the surface. The noise above dulls instantly, reduced to distant muffled chaos.
It’s quiet.
Soft light filters through the water, catching in his hair, in his eyes, in the space between you.
You stare at him.
“…you’re so extra.”
He grins. “You’re welcome.”
Your hand finds his without thinking.
He notices.
His thumb brushes lightly over your knuckles, slower this time.
Less teasing.
"…now," he says, voice lower, softer, like he’s settling into something he doesn’t have to joke away—
Dying for some yearning Dunk. Physical yearning. Emotional yearning. I want him to be in so much agony. Bonus points if reader doesn’t have a clue.
"would you look at that? you're a natural, ser."
dunk couldn't blink enough to rid the searing image of your smile from his mind. he stood in your tiny workshop, shoulders hunched and head lowered to shrink himself. even then, there was hardly enough room, and he was too aware of every second your body brushed against his. the gentle touch of your hand, the gliding stroke of your skirt against his legs only had his skin burning hotter.
a mere six moons he's known you, and he's come back to your shop more than he could recall. most times he used egg as the reasoning, that the boy wished to learn more about your practice. it was mostly true, and egg enjoyed carving pieces of oak and pine along side you. often times dunk would keep to himself from afar, maintaining his armor, savoring what fruit he had in his packs, or...watching.
always listening, always daydreaming like the saphead he was.
now he was alone with you, the boy had retreated early to rest. he would've left if you hadn't called upon him to stay.
"i know my way with a blade, is all," he fought a smile, worried he'd make himself look more of a fool. for all the ways you looked at him, he swore he wore his heart plainly.
sometimes, he wish he had. maybe then he’d have enough courage to declare his longing without fear.
“you have it in you to be a good craftsman.” you took the carving from his grasp, the soft touch of skin against his own making his heart race. he had a good body, strong and able to take a beating. yet you made his heart so weak, he didn’t know if he could handle another journey away.
he needed a weakened heart, dunk thought not too long ago when he watched you and egg laugh over the wonky horses you made. or else it would harden to stone, and the rest of his life would be spent wondering how the organ could beat so steady and yet feel so hollow. he’d rather be full and weak than be without you.
his hands trembled at the thought, and it only worsened. he was too focused on your hands. he’s felt your hand plenty now, and he could only imagine what the rest of you felt like. wanting and wishing he could touch you. to hold your hands against his own as you worked, to have the privilege of keeping you ontop of him as if he was a chair. he could make a good seat.
“—don’t you think, ser?” your voice cut through his thoughts, and he realized he had begun to sweat.
“think…think what?” he croaked, before he quickly wiped under his brow. “yes. well—i don’t—“
“it takes patience,” you continued, his anxious gaze not lost on you. “and gentle hands.”
dunk swore he heard you wrong with how his blood rushed to his ears. he blinked dumbly at you, unsure what to say or what to do.
“you believe i’m gentle?” the words tumbled out in a rasp, as if the thought itself was sacred. “i—“
a small huff escaped him, but you spoke before he could say more. “i have done this sort of work most of my life. it’s not easy, ser duncan. to do this.”
and you held the carving higher, closer like it was worth more than a copper. dunk’s eyes darted between your gaze and the piece, his swallow evident while you continued.
“…i hope you’ll practice. when you can.”
“you do?” he asked, stunned and soft all at once.
“please?”
gods, yes. forever if i must.
but he didn’t say so outloud. he only nodded, hoping you couldn’t see the sweat building once more upon his skin.
“i will,” he vowed. “perhaps someday…the boy and i will return with dragons and knights of our own.”
you grinned, further rooting him in place. “i would like that, ser.”
after giving him his wooden carving back, you turned to clean your table. dunk watched, as always, memorizing you in that moment. the carving felt heavier, unfinished. it didn’t have your hair. nor the shape of your nose, the grace of your lips or the flow of your dress.
it needed to. dunk lowered his head, his thumb brushing against the pine in thought. it needed to.
Simon Riley’s never thought that before—until they’re barreling down his driveway, barking up a storm at you. A pretty thing in the neighborhood, pushing a stroller.
He follows after his stubborn German Shepherds, gruffly ordering them to heel. They won’t hurt you, of course, but you don’t know that. He braces himself for the screams when he rounds the mailbox. A terrified mother and her child, chased by three trained-to-kill dogs and a masked man—
Laughter stops him in his tracks.
Cap, Kilo, and Mac are planted on their asses, tails wagging, tongues hanging out. Your toddler’s giggling so hard she’s nearly tippin’ out of her seat as she yanks on Mac’s ear, earning a face full of slobber for it.
And you—you’re bent over, one hand holding Cap’s paw, the other scratching behind Kilo’s ears.
“Cute pups,” you say.
Cute...what?
You look up at him, past his mask and into his eyes. He freezes. But you just smile.
“You military?”
He ends up not replying, because the setting sun catches in your eyes and his brain is temporarily short-circuited. You’re not deterred, however, your chin tilting to the gun holstered at his hip.
“My husband was, too.” Your gaze drops to the paw in your hand. “He did an op down in Coal Ridge last year.”
You don’t have to say anything else. Everyone knows what went down in the ridge.
Ghost tries to find something—anything—to say. Condolences would be a start. But nothing he thinks of is good enough, or sounds right in his head. So he just stands there, looming over you, watching you pet his assassin dogs.
And then—it hits him in the chest like a bullet.
You’re all alone in that house at the end of the street with your little girl.
Something rears its head under his ribs. A protective urge so strong it’s almost staggering.
“Well,” you sigh, straightening and offering him a playful, cute little salute. “Have a good one.” Your eyes flick to the insignia on his sleeve. “Lieutenant.”
As you stroll away into the setting sun, Simon watches you go, and the ‘cute pups’ whine at his feet as you leave.
And suddenly, three guard dogs don't seem like enough after all.
We need to talk about how Dunk is so easily flustered. Especially early on with you:
The night air is cool and dewy, the fire crackling at your back keeping you warm through the thin fabric of your clothing. Yet the knight underneath you is somehow burning hotter, the heat of his skin radiating into yours at every point of contact.
Dunk is sitting against the elm, you're in his lap, straddling his hips while you press kisses into his mouth, then along his jaw, straying behind his ear, and following the muscle in his neck lower to linger at his collar bone. He's tilting his head away from you, his breathing high and frantic.
You take notice and pause. Dunk can hardly look at you. You ask and make sure he's alright (he is and Seven above please don't stop) when you find his hands clenching tightly into fists at his sides. You assure him that he can touch you, helping him to relax his fingers with yours.
Steeling himself, he manages to meet your eyes again. You watch the bob of his throat as he swallows hard, willing himself to maintain his composure as he plants his hands gingerly, shyly, almost politely on your hips. He sighs, flooding with relief and ruin in equal measure at the feeling of you under his palms—and his ability to keep himself together.
Until you praise him for it, and that about does him in.
thank you @ladyoftheelm for beta reading this little drabble <3
Ser Duncan The Tall is the type of masculine I wanna see on my screen (and irl) more often. He's big, strong, and manly, but he's also sweet, stands for what's right, and he does it because he truly believes in the cause, not for money. He's awkward. He respects women. He doesn't repress his emotions. He treats kids and animals right. This man should be the role model for young boys instead of the misogynistic edgelords
super shy and nervous dunk and the pretty fisherman's daughter ⊹ ࣪ ˖
-commonborn!reader, just a bunch of yearning and meet-cuntess, fluff, kind of in dunk's pov, (her=you) slight suggestiveness...he run's into you and believes you are bathing naked basically, he sees the outline of your body but no smut ensues! ᥫ᭡
the salt-laced wind was a familiar lover to dunk, tugging at his worn tunic and whipping his dark hair across his face.
he’d come to the cove at dusk, as he often did, seeking solitude from the small, crowded world of the fishing village. it was here, on this secluded stretch of shingle and sand, that he could feel like himself, a giant of a man, yes, but one who was just another small part of the world.
he was kicking at a piece of driftwood, lost in thought, when a flicker of movement by the water’s edge caught his eye.
there, standing on a slick, moss-covered rock at the very edge of the surf, was a girl. he froze, his large frame suddenly feeling clumsy and conspicuous.
she was a silhouette against the bruised purple and blue sky, her form outlined in the fading light.
he felt like an intruder, a clumsy ox blundering into a fairy’s grotto. before he could think, he was backing away, his boots crunching loudly on the shingle. he didn’t look back, just retreated into the shadows of the coastal path, his face burning with a shame he couldn’t quite name.
he hadn’t seen anything, not really, just the shape of her, but it felt like he had stolen something precious.
the next night, a restlessness he couldn’t shake drove him back to the cove. he told himself he just needed the air, but a small, hopeful part of him was listening for the sound of a voice, the glimpse of a figure, of who she was. the moon was a sliver of pearl in the inky sky, casting a soft, ethereal glow over the water.
and there she was.
this time the water was swirling around your waist. the moonlight caught you, and for a heart-stopping moment, dunk thought you were naked. he saw the soft curve of your body all rendered in shimmering, liquid silver… then you saw him.
a strangled gasp escaped his lips, and he stumbled back, raising his hands to cover his eyes as if he’d been struck.
"oh! seven hells, i’m so- thousand apologies, m’lady! i didn’t…i’ll leave!" he stammered, his voice a hoarse, embarrassed mess. he turned to flee, his face on fire.
a sound like tiny bells stopped him dead. it was a giggle. her giggle.
"no! wait!" you called out, your voice as clear and sweet as the sea foam.
dunk froze, his hands still clamped over his eyes. "i…i didn’t see anything, i swear it on the gods!"
"you can look," you said, your voice laced with amusement. "i’m wearing a dress!"
slowly, hesitantly, dunk lowered his hands. he blinked, his eyes adjusting to the moonlight. and then he saw it. you were wearing a dress, yes, but it was made of the thinnest linen, almost gauzy.
you looked to him like you had been painted by the gods themselves.
"o-oh," he managed to stammer out, his mouth suddenly dry as dust. he felt like his tongue was three sizes too big for his mouth.
you swam closer, a small, playful smile on your lips. water streamed from the hem of your dress, clinging to your legs as you stepped out of the water.
"you’re much larger the more i get closer...ser!" you giggle again.
"dunk," he said, his voice barely a squeak. "m’name’s dunk." he felt like a fool. a giant, blushing, tongue-tied fool.
"dunk," you repeated, and the way you said his name, soft and slow, made his knees feel weak. "you came last night, did you not?"
"well- yes-" he stammered, his eyes glued to your face. he’d seen you before, of course. everyone in the village knew the fisherman’s daughter, and knew you were so very, very kind and lovely.
he kept his gaze fixed firmly on your upper half…terrified that if it drifted lower, he might forget himself and act like a complete oaf. "i, uh…i didn’t mean to disturb you. i’ll just-"
"don’t go," you said, your voice suddenly soft, the playful teasing gone. "i don’t mind the company. but you mustn’t try anything. my father has taught me to fight, and though you are far larger than i am- i could easily-"
he took a hasty step back, his hands flying up as if to ward off a physical blow. "i-i wouldn’t, m’lady," he stammered, his voice a low, earnest rumble. "a knight is vowed to protect innocent women." he shook his head, his expression one of pure, unadulterated sincerity. "i would never bring you harm."
your eyes, which had been narrowed with feigned ferocity, went wide as saucers. the tension vanished, replaced by a radiant, breathless awe.
"you are a knight then!" you exclaimed, your voice lighting up with pure delight. a smile, genuine and brilliant, spread across your face, making you glow brighter than the moon itself. "i’ve never met a knight before!"
dunk’s face flushed a deeper crimson. "well…i am. or, i’m trying to be, m’lady. ser duncan the tall, at your service." he gave a clumsy, half-bow, nearly overbalancing in the soft sand.
"ser duncan the tall," you repeated, savoring the title as if it were a sweetmeat. "it fits. i’ve seen you at the forge. the other boys whisper you can bend steel with your bare hands."
dunk looked down, embarrassed. "it’s not so much as that, m’lady. exaggerated rumors."
"but you have a sword? and armor?" you pressed, eyes sparkling with curiosity. you took a step closer, the sheer dress forgotten, your mind entirely consumed by this new revelation. "have you fought in a tourney, ser?"
a wry, sad smile touched dunk’s lips. "i have my sword, yes. old and heavy. as for tourneys…"
"but you are sworn to a lord?" you asked, head tilted. "who do you serve?"
"i served a knight of my own," dunk said, a flicker of pride in his voice. "ser arlan of pennytree. a good man. he’s the one who taught me the meaning of a vow." he paused, then added quietly, "he passed not a year ago. now i am with a squire, a boy of noble blood. we… we travel."
your face softened with sympathy. "you’re a hedge knight, then." it wasn’t an accusation, but a statement of understanding. "you wander the seven kingdoms, seeking service."
"i do," he confirmed. "though it seems more often we’re seeking our next meal." he managed a self-deprecating chuckle. "not very glamorous, i’m afraid."
"glamorous?" you scoffed, a playful light returning to your eyes. "ser duncan, you are the most exciting thing to ever happen to this sleepy cove. hedge knights are in the songs! they save princesses and rescue villages from raiders!"
"i’ve mostly just chased off bandits preying on merchants," he admitted with a shrug. "and i haven’t met many princesses… let alone saved any."
you laughed, a clear, lovely sound. "any girl with eyes would be interested in you." you looked him up and down, your gaze frank and appreciative this time, no longer just seeing his size, but the strength and honor that came with it. "so, a knight and a noble squire boy. that’s a strange tale."
"he’s a good boy," dunk said, his voice filled with fierce loyalty. "egg. smarter than anyone i know. he’ll be a great… lord one day."
his quiet devotion was more compelling than any boast of slaying a dragon. you looked at this giant of a man, so humble and so good, and felt your heart give a strange, unfamiliar lurch.
"you are a good knight, ser duncan," you said softly, your voice full of conviction.
dunk felt a warmth spread through his chest that had nothing to do with the evening air. he looked at you, standing there in the moonlight, your sheer dress clinging to you, eyes full of an admiration he had never before received.
for the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel like an oversized oaf or a poor hedge knight. in your eyes, he felt like exactly what he had always dreamed of being… a true knight.
"what are you doing out here so late?" he asked.
you shrugged, a delicate gesture. "swimming, of course."
"ah… well, it’s quieter. not very many people out here to stare so much."
"they stare because you’re bigger than anyone they’ve ever seen. they don’t know what to make of you." you took another step closer, until you were standing right in front of him. you had to tilt your head back to look up at him. "there’s nothing wrong with that, ser."
dunk swallowed.
you were close enough now that he could smell saltwater on your skin, could see where the moonlight caught in your lashes. he felt enormous and clumsy and far too aware of his hands, hanging useless at his sides like they belonged to someone else.
"there is," he muttered, eyes dropping to the sand between you. "i break things without meaning to. hit my head on door frames too many times to count…"
he looked so uncertain. so careful. like he was afraid even standing too close might somehow offend you.
"i don’t much know what to say to pretty maidens," he admitted, voice low and rough with embarrassment, raising his hand to gesture at you.
your cheeks warmed at that. "you are doing just fine, ser duncan."
he flushed clear to the tips of his ears. "you are kind, m’lady."
the waves rolled in gently behind you, the tide creeping higher up the shore. a breeze lifted the hem of your thin dress, and dunk very pointedly fixed his gaze somewhere over your shoulder, as if the horizon had suddenly become fascinating.
"you should not be out here alone," he said after a moment, tone shifting, protective, worried. "if something happened-"
"you would hear me, would you not?" you said quietly.
his brow furrowed. "i would?"
"you’re never far," you replied. "you’ve been walking across this path for three days now. i see you when my father’s boats are out."
"aye…" he agreed with a smile, then took it back once he realized how it sounded. "i-i don’t watch you if that’s what you’re thinking-"
silence settled between you again, not awkward, just thick with everything neither of you knew how to say.
"you should return home now," he said suddenly, as if the words hurt him. "it’s dark. and if i stand here much longer, i may forget i’m meant to behave like a knight."
your heart skipped. "and how is a knight meant to behave?"
"better than i’m managing," he replied hoarsely.
the wind picked up again, sending a chill over your damp skin. without thinking, he shrugged off his cloak and settled it carefully around your shoulders, movements slow and reverent, as though he were draping you in silk instead of worn wool.
his knuckles brushed your collarbone by accident, and he flinched like he’d been burned. "apologies…"
"you are a good knight," you repeated, softer this time. "but you are allowed to be a man too."
a fisherman’s lantern flickered faintly in the distance, someone calling across the docks. reality pressing in. reluctantly, you stepped back, though you kept his cloak wrapped tight around you.
"i will go," you promised. "before my father sends half the village looking for me."
dunk nodded, but he didn’t move.
"will you be here tomorrow?" you asked.
"if you wish it."
"i do."
that shy, almost disbelieving smile tugged at his mouth again, small and crooked and far sweeter than any courtly grin.
"then i’ll walk the shore," he said, with a nod of his head.
you turned to leave, bare feet whispering over sand. after a few steps, you glanced back.
he was still standing exactly where you’d left him. tall, steadfast, watching to make sure you reached the path safely.
in the moonlight, he looked every bit the knight of your girlish stories.
wc: 1.3k, the concept of fratkuna embarrassing himself in front of you 🙏🙏 not proofread we die like gojo
Ryōmen Sukuna has a reputation to uphold at school.
It was imposed on him if he's being totally honest — when he's squinting at someone because he can't see for shit and they automatically assume he's glaring at them, or when he has his earbuds in and brushes past someone trying to talk to him — small things that people just can't help but take personally.
So he didn't necessarily mean to lean into the "fratboy who thinks he's above everybody else" persona; it just happened like that.
It helps that annoying people don't bother him at the gym and stoners don't come up thinking he's the dealer at parties anymore, so he has half the mind to keep it going.
Ryōmen Sukuna also has a little brother, who is currently threatening everything he's built up for the past three years.
"Yuuji Itadori," he growls out, his arms crossed, "C'mere."
"I don't wanna!" Yuuji cries out, clinging to your pants indignantly.
Sukuna's eye twitches.
It's situations like these in which he wishes he were a god or something — someone who could command tides or move the ground to absolutely pummel his little brother into the ground. He has things to do and places to be, all of which far more important than a preschooler who knows he can't leave until dropping him off at home first.
"Um..." your eyes dart unsurely between him and the boy, "Are you two brothers?"
"The fuck does it look like?"
Sukuna halfway regrets how aggressive it comes out, but you don't seem to pay attention, kneeling down to face Yuuji directly instead.
"Yuuji, why won't you go with him?"
He looks up at you with a pout pulling at his chubby cheeks, his eyes tearing up — your lips purse, eyebrows furrowed in distress as you softly pat his head in hopes of calming the tides of an imminent meltdown.
Sukuna's eyes flit to your frame, fretting over the child halfway to bursting into a temper tantrum, clutching your hand like you're the only light in his four miserable years of living.
(Cute, his mind numbly thinks.
Though you'd be cuter if you weren't here right now.)
"He won' sing the song—" Yuuji hiccups, his voice wobbling, "He sings the song every time and he won' sing it today!"
Sukuna's eye twitches again.
"I ain't singing it, shithead."
For a moment, Yuuji just stares at him with the most crestfallen look he's ever seen. And then it's like the dam you've put the past five minutes into repairing bursts open, and the waterworks immediately start.
"Stranger danger!" He wails, his voice blubbery and nose filled with snot, "Stranger danger!"
Sukuna's mouth falls, appalled.
"You brat," he hisses, his head swiveling to you, "Can't you just give him to me?"
"Not like this I can't—! It's okay, Yuuji, you're okay—" You do your best to hide the flash of panic in your voice when you talk to Yuuji, looking up at Sukuna with pleading eyes, "Can't you just sing the song?"
No, he would really rather not.
Not while you're here.
He recognized you almost immediately — the person who sits a few rows down from him in his general history class, always chattering your mouth to anyone that would listen about anything and everything. You must be an education major, he remembers Toji saying something about his girlfriend interning at different schools, so you must also be doing your rotation at Yuuji's for the semester.
A gossip like you would most certainly ruin the peaceful mornings he's worked so hard to achieve — he can almost see the headlines in the newspaper now — the million-dollar idea of Breaking: Is Fratboy Sukuna Actually a Softie? crashing his entire world down.
...
But he has to meet Gojo in the library in an hour to study for their upcoming midterm, and he has to get ready for the party that Geto's throwing tonight, both of which he can't do until Yuuji's safe and sound in his bed. So he swallows his pride, walking up the steps to where you stand, kneeling down to face his baby brother directly.
Yuuji stares at him wide-eyed, with tears in his eyes as he clutches your leg tighter.
(And now, the moment is way too dramatic.
You're awaiting with bated breath for the goofiest song he's ever made up on a whim to get his brother out of bed, one that followed him through his childhood.
He's the definition of "accidentally became important at work", and now he's paying the price for it.)
"Lil' brother, lil' brother," Sukuna takes a sharp inhale, steeling himself for his next words, "... You're loved like no other."
A pause, before Yuuji makes a noise of dissatisfaction, somewhere between a huff and a groan.
"Sing it like you always do!" He whines, "Like you always do!"
Sukuna makes the mistake of looking up at you, and you're trying not to laugh.
He's suffering and you're trying not to laugh.
(Cute, again.
Always cute, even when he kind of wants to maim you at the same time.)
He has to bite his lip this time, to ready himself for another attempt of destroying his pride for his brother's safety.
"Lil' brother, lil' brother, you're loved like no other—" comes out in a crude rendition of the melody of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, his voice hammering it home that he should just let Yuuji walk himself home after this when it cracks at the very end.
His little brother has the biggest smile on his face, though, tears completely gone as he launches himself off of you like a rocket onto Sukuna's leg, like a koala to a tree. He stumbles back a little bit, regaining his footing before leaning down to detach the creature babbling on about his day to carry him in his arms.
Sukuna refuses to look back at you, knowing you're undoubtedly basking in his torment — he can't give Yuuji any more satisfaction than what he's already achieved, but he can imagine just how big your smile is.
Bright, like the sun — before shaking it out of his thoughts.
The day passes by as normally as it could pass — Gojo whacking him with a pencil because his dumb brain can't understand the fucking hieroglyphics in Algebra 3, and the party Geto threw being just fun enough that he doesn't feel the need to drown himself in alcohol, so he wakes up bright and early with a fresh and clear mind.
So yeah, who cares if you know his deepest darkest secret is loving his little brother? Is that something he should be ashamed of? He should really be honest with himself anyways, there's a pretty good chance you don't even know who he is — he doesn't even share the same last name as Yuuji, and how popular is he really—?
"Hey, 'Kuna!"
He immediately feels eyes on him, and a presence at the seat right next to him.
His eye twitches.
Maybe it's the way he tenses up, or just his overall demeanor, but you immediately rush out, "O—oh, I can leave if you want—!"
"Stop shouting."He grumbles out.
Sukuna tilts his head slightly, enough to catch the owlish blink in your eyes, how you grip the straps of your backpack. You have a foot behind you, primed to escape his wrath if he starts yelling at you.
(You talk to everyone, but this is your first time talking to him. He likes having your attention.)
As softly as he can, he musters, "And no, don't leave. Sit down before you cause a scene."
And before he can look away, your lips part, and you smile. Bright, like the sun, exactly as he'd pictured.
"Shit, my fucking—" his hand slams on the table, dropping the pencil on the floor. He leans down, clammy fingers reaching the writing tool he won't even use in a class that he's given zero shits about until now.
You giggle next to him, and his hands grip the plastic tip.
This is so fucking annoying.
Hopefully, in the next three seconds he has left to spend down here without looking like a creep, the flush on his cheeks will go away.
full credits to the person off of reddit i stole that quote from! it is the cutest brother quote ever
Lynn @blackmarketfruitrollups - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
