certified silly goose

she/they • 25

[komakesthings]

Very excited to finally share some pictures of my Dread Pirate Frogerts build! I've been thinking about making this outfit for my Kermit for a while now, but the proper motivation to actually get this done was hearing that Cary Elwes was announced as a guest for my local comic convention! So with any luck Dread Pirate Frogerts will be getting to meet the real Westley very soon.

A shocking amount of work went into making this little outfit... I completely underestimated the amount of time I would need to put all this together. Though a good chunk of that was me getting way too wrapped up in perfectionism... ask me how many times I re-did the smocking on the sleeves (On second thought, don't, it's embarrassing). Here I thought I had been con-crunching with Piggy last year... technically, I only just finished Kermit today, and the convention starts Thursday. Lots of internal (and external) screaming was had with this build. I did film the majority of it, with plans to turn it into a full video and reel in the future... maybe once I've had a chance to recoup from aforementioned con-crunch.

[sanguineterrain]

noise | john logan (2)

part one

Summary: Weeks after Dean's party, you encounter Logan by accident when you're asked to take pictures of the guys during a hockey interview.

Pairing: John Logan x fem!reader 

Word count: 5.1k

Warnings/tags: mentions of childhood bullying, parental issues, reader has food sensory issues and trouble understanding social cues. leaning hard into her being ND just fyi <3 dean and garrett being kinda annoying but they mean well. hannah being a cutie. photographer!reader. this is kind of a slow burn so nothing really happens tbh except logan being a nice young man :)

Notes: this is a series now? maybe?? i have no idea what's happening but thank u for all the support on the first fic! i guess if u guys are still interested, i'll keep writing these two!

i don't do taglists but you can follow @sanguinelibrary for all fic updates

the divider

“Yo. Hey, Logan. Loooogan. Dude.”

Logan peeks one eye open. Dean is crouched in front of him, at the side of his bed, shirtless, which is pretty much the last thing he wants to see ever. 

Dean smiles with all of his teeth. “Hey, sunshine. Drain's clogged again.”

Logan grunts. “What'd you do this time?”

“Absolutely nothing. It was Garrett.”

“It was not, asshole,” Garrett says, strolling into Logan's room. He throws a shirt at Dean. “I just got home. Someone thought it'd be a great idea to pour bacon grease down the drain.”

“Why are you both in here? This doesn't feel like a conversation that requires a town hall meeting,” Logan grumbles.

“Well, I don’t cook, so it can’t have been me. Must’ve been Tucker,” Dean says.

Tucker walks in then, as if on cue. “If you're spreading bullshit about me, Dean, I'm here to defend myself. For the record: yes, I did make bacon, and there's a plate downstairs. But I was not the one who poured grease down the drain, because I'm not a fool.”

They all look at Dean, who bobs his head. Logan really wishes he had a stack of pucks to chuck at them right now. 

“Yeah, I lied earlier,” Dean says. “It was me. I wanted to use the cup.”

Logan smiles flatly. “I already knew it was you, dumbass. You clog every drain in the house once a week. Vote time. Everyone in favor of kicking Dean out forever?”

The three of them say aye. Dean squawks like a big blond bird. 

“Nay! It's not my fault. How am I supposed to know what to do with bacon grease?”

“Yeah, how's the little prince supposed to know?” Tucker says, rolling his eyes. 

Then he bolts for the door, Dean on his heels. Logan sighs and lies back, staring up at the ceiling. He dreamt about you again. You were on the ice, skating with him, telling him how much you like Taco Bell. He kissed you. 

Then Dean clogged the drain and woke him up.

“Hey, don't forget that we still have that interview at the stadium today,” Garrett says, typing on his phone. No doubt texting Hannah. Logan is proud to say that he no longer has a crush on Hannah Wells, as fleeting as that was. No, he has a crush on her friend, who is smart and beautiful and who probably hasn't given him another thought since the party three weeks ago.

He missed you in class this week. He even stayed behind and pretended he had a question in order to scan the room to check if maybe he didn't see you the first time. But you were nowhere to be found. And it's not like he can text you. He scoured Instagram, Snapchat, and even Facebook for your account, until he felt like a fucking creep and stopped, the search fruitless. Hell, Logan would write you letters if it meant talking to you beyond the two sentences you exchange in class. 

You did wave at him last week. Usually, you pack up your things as fast as possible and run out of the lecture hall. So when you lingered long enough to smile at him… well, that was pretty fantastic. 

“Yeah, thanks,” Logan says. 

Garrett nods. “I'll see you there. Wellsy wants to study.”

Logan lets his head fall back against the pillow as Garrett leaves. He thinks what Garrett's doing with Hannah will probably end with one or both of them getting hurt, especially since they’re both so obviously such soft hearts. Logan saw Garrett listening to Hannah’s Instagram songs more than once. Garrett’s absolutely in denial about how much he likes her. But at least they talk to each other. 

“Fuck,” he says to himself, palms on his eyes. 

You lost your silica gel.

It's not terrible… no, it is. It's thrown off your whole week, actually. You've been on websites longer than usual, looking at fidget toys, sorely tempted. You're especially taken with a moldable squishy with beads inside. It's like the mother of silica gel, and your fingers itch with anticipation of how it would feel.

But you can't. It's eighteen dollars, which is certainly one reason why you shouldn't buy it, but it also would make noise. And even if you used it outside of class… what if someone found it or caught you using it? How do you explain that? 

And you hate feeling like you need a toy to keep you grounded. Your stomach hurt so badly that you skipped class on Monday, which sucked because you didn't see Logan. But you were thinking about having to see your mother during the break and your upcoming finals and nothing, not even listening to music, helped the resulting pain in your stomach. 

Your mother has always told you that it's psychological, and treats your anxiety like a moral failing on your part. If you would just try harder… but you don't know how to do that. You're already trying so hard. It's difficult enough to eat everyday, and go to class, and sleep enough, and not rot in your dorm. 

Your mother would be pleased if you told her you went to a party. She'd dismiss the fact that a guy harassed you. She wouldn't believe you if you told her about Logan and his pretty curls and mouth. No man is looking to just be friends with you.

She was the one who wanted you to go away for college. You didn't mind staying local, but she said you'd never “grow into yourself” if you didn't move away. 

Your nails have been bitten to stubs. You've been growing them for a month, and all your hard work is lost. The silica gel occupied your hands but now that it's gone, you've fallen back to nail biting. 

Hannah said she would meet you at the stadium after her class this morning. Two days ago, you told one of the editors of the Briar newspaper that you bought a new camera. You've taken pictures for them before, but never during an event. Stupidly, you revealed your new purchase, and the editor excitedly asked you to attend an interview that some of the Hawks players were giving today, and take pictures for the paper. 

If only you knew when to keep your mouth shut. Taking pictures of people is stressful. You hate it. They often want you to turn them into someone they're not through the camera lens. People can never just be themselves on camera. That's why you take pictures of birds or buildings or sunsets. They just are, and you can capture them in all their candidness. Most of the world doesn't perform for a camera—only people do. 

Hannah is the first one to greet you when you get inside the stadium. You walk to the bleachers together, where a video crew is setting up. 

“This is great,” Hannah says. “People are gonna see your pictures, as they should.”

You shrug. “I guess so. I didn't really want to do this.”

“Your photos are really good,” she says. “And getting them published in the school paper is huge. What are you worried about?”

You sigh. “I don't know. It's kind of scary when people see you through the camera.” Fourth wall breaks unnerve you for the same reason. “And what if the players hate the pictures?”

“Well, Garrett's doing the interview, and he wouldn't let anybody on the team say anything to you about your pictures. But it's only a few of them, I think. Do you want me to stand with you?”

You nod, the pit in your stomach loosening a little. Hannah always seems to know what to say. 

She beams. “Of course I'll stay.”

But as everyone finishes setting up, Coach Jensen approaches you. Hannah explains that she's Garrett's tutor, and Coach tells her that she can stay, but only in the bleachers. 

“I'm here to support my friend,” she says. “It’s her first time photographing for the team. Please?”

“Sorry. Only press and photographers can be here.”

She looks at you sympathetically. “I'll be right over there, okay? You'll be great.”

You watch Hannah go sit, wishing you had the silica gel.

Garrett is the first player interviewed. You take many pictures, so there are lots of options to choose from when you send them to the paper. He doesn't look at you once, which is splendid.

Next is Dean. He's fired up in his interview, swearing that Briar will crush the competition. Then it's Tucker, who seems a little nervous in front of the camera. You understand completely. 

You lower your camera as you see Logan approach the local reporter. He shakes her hand and says something you can’t hear. Then he looks in your direction. He pauses, then grins widely, waving at you. You wave back, face suddenly warm.

“So John,” begins the reporter. “How is the team preparing to win the next three games? You’ll need three wins to keep Briar’s ranking.”

“Yeah, you know, we work really well as a team, and Garrett’s a great captain, of course, so I have no doubt we’ll win. We’ve been putting in plenty of hours of practice.”

He glances in your direction. Click. You’re not supposed to snap pictures when people are looking at the camera, but you can’t help it. You won’t send that one to the paper.

“How are you personally feeling about the season?” the reporter asks.

You take more pictures. Logan keeps glancing in your direction, so much so that the reporter eventually holds her hand up.

“John, sorry, but we really need you to look at the camera,” she says. “Is there something distracting you? A light? A noise?”

“Nope,” Logan says, standing straighter, shaking his head. “All good.”

He answers a few more questions. The reporter thanks all of them for their time and then the crew packs up. You put the lens cap on your camera and pack it up in its case.

“Hey.”

You look up from your case. Logan’s in front of you. This close, you can really take in his appearance: his swoopy hair, his azure jacket with the Hawks emblem on the chest. He smells like apples, as always. 

“You’re here,” he says, before you can say hi back.

You nod, confused. “Um. Yes?”

“I didn’t know you were a photographer.” He’s smiling as hard as he does when the Hawks win a game. “I haven’t seen you photographing games.”

“I don’t. The paper’s editor asked me to take pictures for their article on the team.”

“Can I see?”

You hesitate. “I can’t retake pictures.”

“I know. I’m asking because I want to see your pictures, not ‘cause I care about how I look in them. You don’t even have to show me the pictures from today. Do you have more?”

“You want to see my other photos? They’re of birds and stuff like that.”

“I fucking love birds. And I mean that.”

You blink. “Oh. Okay. Me too.”

“I didn’t see you in class this week,” he says.

“I was sick.”

“That sucks, I’m sorry.”

You nod. You don’t tell him why you were sick. He doesn’t need to know. No one knows except Hannah. And speaking of, you can see her walking down the bleachers.

She stops next to you. “Hey! How was it?” She looks at Logan, and seems a little startled. “Hi, Logan. What’s up?”

“Hey, Wellsy,” he says. You try not to frown. It’s stupid to want Logan to have a nickname for you. Wellsy isn’t even his invention. 

“Logan wants to see my photos,” you say.

Hannah raises an eyebrow. “Oh, really? I didn’t know you liked photography, Logan.”

“Oh, big time,” he says, looking at you. 

Hannah widens her eyes at you. You have no idea why. She pats your back.

“You did great,” she says. “I’ll see you later?”

“I thought you wanted to get lunch together,” you say. 

“Uh…” She glances between you and Logan. “I’ll catch up with you. I have to tutor Garrett anyway. He canceled on me yesterday.” She rolls her eyes. “Hockey players.”

“Ouch,” Logan says, nudging her.

Hannah smiles sweetly. “You and Tucker are the best players, and you can quote me on that.”

“Garrett will definitely be hearing that.”

“Good.” She squeezes your arm. “I’ll see you later, okay? Have fun.”

You watch her go, feeling lost. “She said we were going to eat lunch together. Why did she change her mind?”

“Oh, um, I don’t think Hannah meant anything by it,” Logan says. He chews his lip for a second. “Garrett’s such a diva, honestly—he’d probably whine about not studying today even though he canceled on her yesterday.”

You do know how important the philosophy midterm is to Garrett, especially since he’s currently failing. And Hannah has complained about how stubborn he is. 

“I guess that makes sense,” you say. “I’ll go eat by myself then. It’s one o’clock, so it’s lunchtime.”

“I could come with you.” Logan clears his throat. “Uh, if you want, I mean. No pressure. You can say no.”

“Oh. No, I’d like that.” You smile. “And I can show you my photos, right?”

“Yeah,” he says, sounding breathless. “Please do.”

Logan has three chicken thighs on his plate.

“Hockey season,” he explains as he sits. He bought your food with one of his meal swipes. You told him he didn’t have to; he said he wanted to.

You sit opposite him with your own food. Nothing had seemed appetizing, but you have a headache, which is your body’s way of telling you that you really need to eat. Sometimes you don’t feel hungry, but logically you have to eat at least three meals, so you try to time eating around the same time, so you don’t have to rely on faulty signals that never arrive.

And when Hannah eats with you, it helps, because then you aren’t distracted by other things, like listening to music or watching a show. You can’t do those things in front of another person, because it’s rude. When you eat alone, you frequently forget you’re supposed to be eating. And by the time you remember, the texture or temperature of the food has changed, and it’s no longer appetizing. 

“Eating that much chicken doesn’t make you feel sick?” The thought of eating that much meat in one sitting makes you want to vomit. Not to mention the chicken ick. Chicken is an extremely unsafe food—if you detect a hint of tendon or fat, you can’t eat it.

Logan shakes his head. “Nah, I’m hungry. Dean can easily tear up, like, five of these.”

He starts eating, scooping the chicken with the gravy, peas, and potatoes in one forkful. You watch, fascinated. Eating probably wouldn’t be such a chore if you could eat like that. 

You were going to try and convince Hannah to go to Taco Bell with you today because that’s the only thing that sounds edible today, but since you’re with Logan, you can’t do that. Probably you can’t go to Taco Bell every time you see him… still, you’re tempted. Maybe you can just sit here until Logan’s done eating, and then you can go get what you want. 

You take a deep breath. No, you should eat. You should eat like a normal person. You want your headache to go away—it’s too hard to talk to people when you have a headache, and you really want to talk to Logan.

You unwrap the foil your turkey burger is in. You take it out and remove the whole wheat repulsive bread, then put the meat on your plate. You cut it into small triangles with your knife and fork. 

“Not a fan of the bun?”

You look up at Logan, hunched over the plate. You eye him suspiciously. 

“This bread tastes like cardboard,” you say slowly, watching him for judgment. “I like fluffy white rolls only.”

“That’s my favorite too. Garrett’s always on me to eat more whole grains.”

“Maybe another brand would taste good. School food tastes like slop sometimes.”

Logan laughs. “Seriously. I think I’m spoiled by Tucker’s cooking. He’s a master chef.”

You squeeze a packet of mayo, then hot sauce, then mustard. This is your trick for when you don’t want to eat: you overdo it with sauces you like, to mask whatever you’re eating. At least you don’t have to taste the turkey burger, though that doesn’t dismiss the possibility of a bad texture. 

You chew, staring at your plate. You forget you’re not alone until Logan taps your shoulder. You jump.

“Sorry,” he says. “Again. Seems like I’m always doing that.”

“I zoned out.”

“Yeah, you’re really focused on your food there.”

“I have to be, or I won’t finish it,” you say. “Nothing’s appetizing right now, so I have to make myself eat.”

You quickly finish the burger, which isn’t the worst, to be fair, but you’re not happy to eat like you were yesterday with the tater tot casserole the cafeteria served. They serve that once every two weeks, and it’s your favorite day on campus. 

“Okay,” you say. “Now I can talk to you.”

Logan smiles. “Awesome. Can you show me your pictures?”

“Oh, right. Yes, I can.”

You get out your camera and move to sit next to Logan. He leans in to look at your camera’s screen, but he doesn’t touch you. You kind of wish he would. You bet he’s warm and solid.

“Wait, go back,” he says.

You were skipping through the pictures from today’s interview. You press the left arrow to go back.

“There! Oh my God, that’s so funny. Please use that picture for the paper,” Logan says, snickering. 

It’s a picture of Garrett, mid-yawn. His face is scrunched, mouth wide open. 

“That was a mistake,” you say, but you’re smiling too. You can’t avoid Logan’s infectious giggles. 

“No, that was a gift from above,” Logan says, still laughing. “God, that’s perfect. If you don’t send it to the paper, please at least send it to me.”

“How?”

“Do you have Instagram?”

“No,” you say. “I deleted it. It made me feel bad about myself.”

“Honestly? Good for you. I’m not on it that much either.” 

“The only people who I want to talk to have my number anyway,” you say. “So it doesn’t really matter. I don’t care about random students’ lives.”

“You rock,” Logan says. “Seriously. You’re my hero.”

You can’t take it when he says things like that. All you can do is look away, your face heating up.

“Well, uh,” he continues. “This might be presumptuous of me, but… d’you wanna exchange numbers?”

“It’s not presumptuous,” you say. “I like talking to you.”

He lights up. “Same here.”

You type your number into his phone. 

Hi :) says the message on your phone.

Hi, you text back. You change his contact to Logan 🏒. 

“I’ll send the picture when I upload them tonight,” you say.

“I’m gonna terrorize him with it in the group chat. Show me more pictures? You said you saw some birds.”

“I did.” You shuffle through the photos until you find one of a hawk flying low. It’s one of your favorites; you were so proud to capture it. It’s only a little blurry too.

“That is so fucking cool, whoa.” Logan scoots closer to look, his arm touching yours. You don’t move away. “You’re amazing at this. What else did you capture?”

You show him pictures of the nearby lake, sunsets, a deer, the Boston skyline. Logan loves them all, and tells you many times how good of a photographer you are.

“You could do this professionally, seriously,” he says. “Like, you should photograph our games. You could get paid for it.”

You shrug bashfully. “I don’t know. It’s not even my major. It’s just a hobby.”

“So what? You’re really good.”

You gnaw the inside of your cheek. “Maybe.”

“Yeah, think about it. I could talk to Coach, see what’s open.”

You and Logan are pretty much curled up next to each other by now. Your arm and thigh are pressed against his. He is indeed warm, and you can feel his muscles shift against you. You think of him in the gray sleeveless shirt at the party. You couldn’t stop staring at his biceps. You want to hold them, trace the veins on his forearms. 

And when he turns to talk to you, he’s so close. Close enough to—

“Yo, Logan, you started without us?”

Raucous laughter breaks the moment. As soon as you see Logan’s teammates, you put a foot of distance between you two, shifting to the next chair over. 

“Hey, man,” Garrett says, tapping Logan's shoulder. “I thought you said you were gonna hit the gym.”

“Plans changed,” Logan says. He doesn’t look very happy to see them. You’re puzzled. 

“Hi,” Tucker says, waving at you, saying your name. You wave back.

And then Garrett and Dean seem to notice you. Dean grins, looking between you.

“Ah,” he says. “Plans changed. Got it.”

You don’t like the tone of his voice. You don’t like the way he and Garrett are smiling at each other. 

“How do you know Logan?” Dean asks. “You a hockey fan?” He winks.

“I’ve only been to one game. Logan and I are in developmental psychology together.”

“You guys study together?” Garrett asks, glancing at Logan. The table shakes, and Garrett winces. “Ow! What the fuck, man? Why’d you kick me?”

“Because you’re both asking idiotic fucking questions,” Logan says. “Lay off. She’s not a suspect.”

Your skin itches. You don’t like being watched. And they’re watching you, you can tell. They’re studying you. Figuring you out. 

“Actually, I should go,” you say, getting up. You try not to eye the others as you say it. 

“Are you sure?” Logan asks, getting up with you.

“Yes, I have finals to work on.” You gather your things, putting your backpack over your shoulders. “Thank you for the meal swipe.”

“Yeah, anytime,” Logan says. “I’ll see you in class on Monday?”

You nod. “You will. I’ve taken two unexcused absences and the syllabus said that Dr. Jenkins will demote us by a letter grade for any more than that.”

“‘S not a real threat,” Garrett says around a mouthful of rice. “They have to put that on the syllabus, but a lot of professors don’t care. Dean was absent eight times in that class.”

“And I still got a B minus,” Dean says, fist-bumping Garrett. 

Tucker shakes his head. “Yeah, and you failed the subsequent course because you missed so much of the semester, dude.”

“A win is a win.”

“So Dr. Jenkins lied?” you ask, brows furrowing.

Garrett shrugs, digging his knife into his chicken. “Kinda. More like a bluff.”

You squeeze your backpack straps, your chest feeling tight. “Why does everyone know the secret rules but me?”

All week you’ve been anxious about potentially missing a third class because of your stomach. You were prepared to chug as much Pepto Bismol to avoid that as you needed to. Has everyone else been living without a care in the world, not forcing themselves to go to class when they feel sick? You’ve gone when you were sure you’d throw up. You went to class in the throes of the worst gallbladder pain you’ve ever felt, right before you got it removed. 

Garrett stops chewing, looking at you. In fact, they’re all staring at you. Fuck. 

“Whaddya mean, secret rules?” Dean asks.

Fuck, fuck. You’re being weird. Stop it. Stop. 

“Hey,” Logan says gently, drawing your attention to him. He moves so he’s the only person you can see, blocking out the rest of the cafeteria. “If you don’t feel well, you should skip, but you aren’t, like, losing out on some grand life experience if you miss half the semester. That’s what college is for. You’re doing the right thing. It’s not a secret rule, it’s just a loophole that some assholes like to exploit.”

Dean scoffs. “Excuse me?”

Logan ignores him. “So I hope you come on Monday, but if you feel sick, rest up, okay? Tucker’ll make you soup and I’ll bring it over.”

Tucker leans around so you can see him and gives you a thumbs-up in confirmation. Your breathing gets a little easier; your shoulders soften. 

“Okay,” you murmur. You drift towards him, and Logan brushes your fingers. You aren’t brave enough to take his hand, so you touch and step back. 

“Can’t wait to see your pictures in the paper,” Logan says.

You smile. “They’re of you.”

“Yeah, but you took ‘em. Who cares what they’re of?”

You duck your head, feeling shy again. It’s a residual shyness, but sometimes you get so aware of how nice and handsome Logan is, and the fact that he goes out of his way to talk to you. Not that you’ve ever cared much about the college social hierarchy, but you aren’t immune to the charms of a hockey boy who sings praises about your photography. You’ve been trying to shake this aching want for more ever since the party. You can’t.

“Well, um, bye. I’ll drop off your wings soon,” you say.

“Stop by anytime.”

“See ya around,” says Tucker.

“Yeah, see you,” Garrett says. Dean nods. 

You mumble a short goodbye to them, still feeling flustered. You hope Logan won’t hold it against you. 

Once outside, you take out your camera outside and flip through some of the shots of Logan. You’re not sure what he likes so much about your photos, but now you’re a little glad that the editor asked you to take pictures.

“Hey, wait up!”

You turn around. Logan’s jogging toward you. 

“What are you doing?” you ask as he stops in front of you.

“Uh.” He puts his hands on his hips, breathing hard. “Um. Hm. Good question. I don’t know, actually. I just feel like we ended on a weird note in there.”

You frown, nodding. “I know. I’m sorry I was weird and freaked out in front of your friends.”

“What? You didn’t—”

“I did, Logan. I know I did. I saw Dean and Garrett’s faces. They thought I was weird. And I was, to be fair. I reacted too strongly to the absence thing. Sometimes I do that, and I don’t realize until someone’s really obvious with their face that I, you know, emoted wrong.”

“You did not emote wrong,” Logan says, shaking his head in disbelief. “You didn’t, okay? I promise that Garrett and Dean didn’t think that. They were probably just confused. You and Hannah are, you know…”

“Nerds?” you finish.

“Smart, studious, all that. And I know we keep it hidden, but we’re actually not winning any Nobel prizes in between practice. They’re not used to knowing people who worry about attendance. That’s all it was, I promise.”

You purse your lips, trying to figure out if he’s telling the truth. You can’t, so you just ask. “Do you mean it?”

“Yes,” Logan says. “I mean it.”

“It’s okay if you don’t. I wouldn’t hold it against you. Lots of people have thought I’m weird. Lots of boys. Lots of athletes. I was terrible at kickball in middle school, and people hated me for it. I would sit out early so they wouldn’t purposely kick the ball at me.”

His eyes get sad. That’s an expression you recognize on Hannah too.

“That’s fucking awful,” Logan says. “We aren’t all like that. I’m not, anyway, and the guys I hang out with aren’t either. Even if you are weird, it’s not a bad thing. Not at all.”

No one’s ever told you it’s okay to be weird. They’ve only ever denied that you are, even though you’re pretty sure you are. You can’t help it either. But Logan doesn’t mind. You’re still good. He still likes you. No one is going to kick a ball at you. 

“Okay. Can you tell me how to get to the Hawks house? I’m going to drop off your wings before Monday.”

“Sure, so you’re gonna walk down this little path here, Cooper Avenue. Then you’re gonna turn left, onto Montgomery. Then you’ll walk all the way down till you get to Pickett Lane. It’s like a dirt path. And you’ll turn right onto that. We’re the first house on the left.”

You nod, even though you’ve already forgotten all that. You’re terrible with street names. “I’ll be there.”

“I look forward to it,” Logan says, grinning. 

You start to walk away, then you turn around and return. “I actually don’t remember anything you’ve just said. I’m bad with streets and directions. Can you tell me in terms of landmarks?”

“I can absolutely do that,” Logan says softly. “Okay, you know the statue of the guy on the horse?”

“Yes, the famous horse wrangler who carried children on horseback to Briar’s first schoolhouse in 1846.”

He tilts his head. “How do you know that?”

“It’s on the plaque.”

“Huh. Embarrassingly, I’ve never stopped to read one of those plaques. I should do that.”

“He brought children to school for eighteen years. One of them ended up founding Briar University.”

“Shit, wow. That’s cool.”

“History is cool.”

Logan hums. “You’re cool. And that mentality is why Dean’s the loser for missing half the semester and you aren’t.”

You smile. “I guess so.”

“Okay, so, horse wrangler. Turn left when you get to him. Then you’re gonna walk past that student vegetable garden you photographed. Keep walking until you see that giant oak tree with the knots in the trunk. The one that students make out under. Or, uh… study?”

“Attempt to study, anyway.” You know the struggle well.

“There’s a path there, and you’ll walk until you see our house on the left.”

“Got it,” you say. “For real, this time.”

“Good. Then I’ll see you at some point, before class. If you want to stop by.”

You look at the cafeteria. “They won’t mind?”

“Nah, we always have people come over, don’t worry. Hey.” Logan bumps your arm gently. “They won’t bother you. And if you want, text me, so you’ll know I’ll be home.”

The sun is in his eyes. Speckled tree bark. Rich, black tea. You want to kiss him so badly.

“I really do like talking to you,” you say.

“Me too.” Logan steps closer. Your heart is in your throat.

“Okay, well, see you!” And you’re gone.

There’s a photo from this morning’s interview you took of Logan. He’s looking at you—well, the camera—smiling, a curl falling into his eyes. You don’t send it to the editor, even though it’s one of your best photos. Instead, you set it as his contact picture on your phone. 

[snoomfies]

snoopy pride flags :)

[littlemut]

me: “sorry ): can’t come!! got so much to do at home”

me as soon as im home:

[cannibalchicken]

[heartsnmagic]

[arboret-art]

peace on earth ☾ ⋆*₊˚ ✧˖* prints ✷ timelapse

[starl1ghtgr4yson]

𝐀𝐛𝐬𝐨𝐥𝐮𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐈𝐧𝐬𝐮𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞 --𐙚˙✧˖°📷 ༘ ⋆｡

this is part one!

Next part

not proofread

summary | You're an intern at Wayne Enterprises, and also Dick's fake girlfriend!

pairing | dick reader x reader wc: 2k

warnings/tags || light swearing, fluff, uhm nothing really

Author’s note: i dont think you guys understand HOW badly i need him sfsfsdffsdfe

Dick Grayson was insufferable. He had absolutely no reason whatsoever to be enjoying this as much as he was. Which is why you were way more grumpy than you had any business being. You were simply bringing balance, you thought, when defending yourself against your own judgement.

You see, when you had started interning at Wayne enterprises, you had no idea that you would soon become a magnet to the annoying being that is Dick Grayson.

“What was annoying about him?” one may ask, and the answer was everything. He was ridiculously social and polite, his charm somehow captivated everyone into forgetting how to breathe, it was like life bent its own rules around to accommodate him. And it pissed you off. His social battery seemed to be infinite, especially around you. He never stopped talking, never stopped waltzing his way into your brain— and when you finally managed to kick him out again, it only took him a second to pop out another one of his goofy grins and pull your guard down again.

And it was this exact frustrating behavior of his that ended up getting you stuck in this mess, pretending to be his girlfriend. It happened during a Wayne Enterprises press event that was already going wrong before you even got there. A reporter had cornered Dick, asking invasive questions about his personal life and whether “Gotham’s favorite playboy’s adopted son” could ever actually settle down. The kind of question that made PR people start sweating immediately.

Someone behind the scenes decided a simple answer would not be enough. Someone else decided damage control needed to have evidence this time. And Dick, instead of deflecting like a normal person, grabbed the nearest available solution.

You.

He had pulled you into frame like it was obvious, hand settling at your waist, smile already in place before you could even process what was happening. By the time you realized he was introducing you as his girlfriend, people were already reacting like it made sense. Cameras were already flashing. The story had already started forming without your permission.

The next day you had confronted him and you could tell he was trying his hardest not to burst out laughing. He just couldn't help himself-- not when you were standing there with your hands on your hips, glasses sliding off the tip of your nose, and glaring at him so harshly one would think you were burning a hole through him with your eyes.

"What the fuck was that Grayson?" you furrowed your brows, attempting to make your glare stronger.

"What was what?"

"That-- that whole-- pretending we're together. Stop acting even dumber than you usually act. You know damn well--"

"Okay, relax. it wasn't completely my idea. One of the nice reporter ladies asked if you were my girlfriend, and a second later, I was told to pull you next to me for the greater good of Wayne Enterprises. No harm done."

You hiss at him, "very much harm done. To me. I'm not fake dating you, Grayson."

He shrugged, "Okay, we can real date then. Wanna be my girlfriend?"

Your skin turned redder than your handbag as you seethed with rage.

When you tried to correct it later, the PR team stepped in and called it “strategically beneficial consistency.” Which was corporate speak for absolutely not letting you fix it now.

So now you were stuck in it.

A fake relationship that required public appearances, coordinated smiles, and the unbearable experience of watching Dick Grayson act like being your boyfriend was the easiest thing in the world.

Which, in hindsight, you should have questioned harder.

Fake dating Dick Grayson was emotionally exhausting. Not because of the appearances, (okay-- maybe the whole public thing was also very annoying), but because he seemed to have it all under control. You on the other hand, were like a ticking time bomb; every single charming smile from Dick was a second closer to setting you off. He slipped into the role so naturally it almost felt insulting. Holding doors open for you, remembering your coffee order, resting his hand against your back whenever crowds got too tight. He did all of it with the same easy confidence he brought into every room, like pretending to date you required absolutely no effort on his part whatsoever.

You had expected the act to disappear in private. You assumed that once reporters left and charity events ended, he would go back to treating you normally. Instead, he somehow got worse.

Dick started appearing at your desk uninvited with coffee and flowers you never asked for. He leaned against the edge of your cubicle like he paid rent there, talking to you for ages while you tried very hard to ignore the fact that half the office kept staring every time he showed up. Sometimes he would casually steal things from your workspace just to watch you get annoyed enough to chase him down the hallway.

One time he took your hand during a very not public meeting and held onto it for twenty minutes straight, and when you questioned him about it later, he simply shrugged and said that its just a part of the whole "fake boyfriend thing." You didn't know if you wanted to slap him, or scream at him, or push him of a building. All three made the most sense.

Another time he walked into the office kitchen, saw you standing on a chair trying to reach something on the top shelf, and instead of helping immediately, rested his arms against the counter and said, “You know, legally, as your fake boyfriend, I think I’m supposed to stop you before workplace accidents happen.”

He then proceeded to wrap his arms around your waist to steady you, but only because he didn't want you to "have a tragic fall and get brutally injured."

You nearly threw a mug at him, but then settled on a plastic cup.

The problem was that Dick never seemed bothered by you being angry at him. If anything, it only encouraged him. Every sharp comment you made earned you another grin. Every threat somehow made him look more entertained. It was infuriating.

And confusing.

Because sometimes he would look at you in a way that did not feel fake at all.

Those moments usually happened when you were not paying attention. You would look up from your laptop during meetings and catch him already staring. Or you would say something sarcastic under your breath and hear him laugh quietly to himself like he genuinely enjoyed listening to you talk.

It threw you off every single time.

You noticed it more during the smaller moments too.

Like the way he always slowed his pace slightly when you walked together, even though his natural stride was longer. Or how he somehow remembered tiny details you mentioned once and never brought up again. You had once, unknowingly complained about not liking Dr. Pepper. The next week, the vending machines had replaced all the Dr. Peppers with more Coca Cola, because "Mr. Grayson prefers Coke."

The first time you got on an elevator with Dick, you hesitated for a split second before stepping on, and SOMEHOW, that man understood that you were afraid of elevators. The next time you and a few other interns were headed down with him, he casually grabbed your arm and said he wanted to take the stairs, and couldn't leave his girlfriend behind.

It made no sense.

Nothing about Dick Grayson made sense anymore.

At first you had assumed he was just committed to the bit. Maybe he took the fake dating thing too seriously because that was the kind of person he was. Maybe he enjoyed annoying you enough that dragging the act out in private became entertaining for him. That explanation made sense. It was irritating, but it made sense.

The problem was that he stopped acting like someone who was pretending.

And those moments always caught you off guard.

One afternoon you had been sitting through a meeting so painfully boring you were halfway convinced it counted as psychological warfare. Some executive from another branch had been talking for nearly forty minutes straight without actually saying anything meaningful, and you had slowly started losing your will to live.

You must have zoned out harder than you thought because suddenly Dick’s knee bumped lightly against yours under the table.

You looked over immediately.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t even look at you at first. He just slid a sticky note across the table with the most horrifically drawn smiley face known to mankind.

You glared at him. What were you, a pair of highschoolers?

Dick finally glanced sideways, trying and failing to hide the grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Under the smiley face, he had drawn the most hideous rat you had ever seen, next to it an even more horrific pun: "you're doing teRATfic"

You bit the inside of your cheek so hard it hurt because absolutely nobody needed to know that you almost smiled.

Especially not him. You turned back and gave him a weak glare that faltered the moment he gave you that ridiculous, goofy grin.

Then there was the incident with the rain.

Gotham weather was genuinely demonic, and you had gotten stuck outside the building during a downpour after your umbrella snapped inside out from the wind. By the time you made it back toward the entrance, your clothes were damp, your shoes were soaked through, and your mood had reached genuinely dangerous levels.

Dick had taken one look at you and burst out laughing. Not a cute laugh either. A full, head-back, absolutely disrespectful laugh.

“You look furious,” he managed between breaths.

“I am furious.”

“You’re dripping on the floor.”

“I hope the building floods and you go with it."

That only made him laugh harder.

You were already planning several creative ways to ruin his life when he suddenly stepped forward and pulled his jacket off his shoulders. Before you could even process what he was doing, he draped it over yours carefully, tugging it closed against the cold.

The motion was so easy. So natural.

His hands lingered for half a second near your collar before he stepped back again like nothing happened.

“There,” he said softly. “Less murdery.”

And the thing was, Dick did not even seem aware when he did things like that. That was the part that kept messing with your head. None of it felt calculated. None of it felt like flirting performed for attention. It was like he didn't even realize he was driving you insane.

Right now he was leaning over your desk with that same easy expression, sleeves rolled to his forearms, completely unaware that his existence was rapidly decreasing your lifespan.

You looked up from your laptop slowly, pushing your glasses back up. “Why are you standing like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you need to talk to me about something I'm not going to be happy about.”

You narrowed your eyes at him while he laughed quietly to himself. Somehow he always managed to look more entertained the angrier you got, which felt deeply unfair.

“Well,” he said after a moment, “our next appearance is kind of important.”

Your stomach dropped instantly.

“No," you groaned, "not another appearance."

“You don’t even know what I’m talking about yet.”

"Fine. Enlighten me."

“It’s a gala.”

The grin he gave you was answer enough.

You stared at him for a long moment before dropping your head against the desk with a quiet whine. From somewhere above you, you heard him laugh again, softer this time.

“C’mon,” he said. “It won’t be that bad.”

“I know. But it still means I have to be all lovey dovey with you. Again.” you fake gagged.

“This one’s important,” he continued, completely ignoring you now. “Big Wayne Foundation event. Press, investors, charity board members. Bruce is making one of his speeches.”

“Bruce makes speeches at everything." You roll your eyes.

“Yeah, but this time people are expecting us there together.”

You lifted your head just enough to glare at him. “I still don’t understand why everyone accepted this so fast. I mean seriously.”

Dick shrugged lightly. “Because I’m charming.”

Unfortunately, he said it with enough confidence that you couldn’t even argue properly.

You watched as he shifted slightly, resting one hand against your desk while looking at you with an expression that had become dangerously familiar over the last few weeks. He looked like a sick puppy.

It was genuinely exhausting, mainly because it was increasingly difficult not to succumb to his beautiful annoying face.

“So,” he continued casually, “we’re gonna have to go shopping.”

Your face fell immediately. “Absolutely not.”

“We need to get you a dress.”

“I own dresses.”

“You own two dresses.”

"It's actually three, fyi."

“Yeah, but you need something more special. You can't wear those dresses to a high class event.” he said.

“Watch me.”

“C'mon. A pretty girl like you deserves a prettier dress.”

"And an annoying guy like you deserves a slap in the face."

He chuckled lightly before giving you a knowing stare.

You hated that he was right. Mostly because he sounded so pleased about being right.

“And before you start,” he added quickly, already seeing the argument forming on your face, “I'll pay for it."

"Nope. Absolutely not. I'm paying for my dress, thank you very much."

"Well then, that settles it. You and I are going dress shopping tomorrow."

"That settles it, I'm murdering you tomorrow."

————————————————

Dick’s drawing:

next

[tetitasdelimon]

top 5 horror movies

-having a job

-not having a job

-applying for jobs

-the job market

-the concept of working my whole life

[ceruleanheaven]

[looking at people younger than me] you have your whole life ahead of you [looking at people older than me] you have your whole life ahead of you [looking at myself] its over

[seravph]

one day we will find the rainbow connection. we have to

[iipxilf]

𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚 '𝐲𝐞𝐬' .

clark kent x fem!reader .ᐟ

𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ masterlist

synopsis : you’re quiet, awkward. not used to being liked—especially not by someone like clark kent. but he’s warm, patient, and always smiling at you like he sees something worth waiting for. (wc : 4k)

a/n : based on this request ! this was so fun to write omgg like my heart is melting 🤍🥹 as soon as i got the ask this morning, i had to write it today

contents : awkward!reader, fluff, workspace love, mutual pining, friends-to-lovers, soft romance, emotional intimacy, soft kisses, they’re falling hard for eachother your honor, clark’s a big sweetheart

𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐃𝐎𝐍'𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐊 𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐑𝐊 𝐊𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐈𝐒 𝐅𝐋𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐘𝐎𝐔.

you hope he isn’t.

not because the idea is unwelcome—but because it terrifies you in a quiet, breathless way. 

you’ve never been particularly good at that sort of thing, at reading signals or knowing what to say when someone looks at you too long, too softly. 

especially when it’s clark. that sweet, focused kind of attention short-circuits your brain. it’s not sharp like a spotlight or teasing like a smirk—it lingers. gentle and intentional. like he just… likes you. and you don’t know what to do with that.

you weren’t built for being liked that way. you’re not good with words unless they’re typed on a screen. not good at holding someone’s gaze for more than a second without overthinking every blink, every breath. your smiles are usually delayed reactions—polite, practiced, easy to forget. you chew on your sleeves. you answer questions like they’re quizzes. you apologize when people bump into you. and when clark kent stands close enough that you can smell his cologne—warm linen and sunlight—you feel like a glitch in the system.

clark is like someone dipped a daydream in golden hour and gave it a name.

he’s warm all the time. like—literally, you’re pretty sure he runs hot. his smiles are easy, and his voice is low in the kind of way that feels like a secret meant only for you, and it flutters somewhere behind your ribs in a place you don’t have the courage to name. 

everyone at the daily planet seems to gravitate toward him—jimmy calls him the nicest guy in the building, lois rolls her eyes when she says he’s a dork, and perry’s always grumbling about how he’s the only one who turns things in early. he’s dependable in a way people notice. in a way people love.

and you? you mostly say things like “thanks” and “cool” and hope he doesn’t notice how you stare at the floor when he talks to you. you keep your hands busy, your thoughts quiet, and your heart on lockdown.

but clark always talks to you.

like he doesn’t mind when you fumble. like he doesn’t care that your voice shakes a little or that you’re not quite sure how to be looked at so gently. 

“hey,” he says one morning, stepping into the elevator just before the doors seal shut. the overhead lights flicker once above him—just enough to catch the faint glint in his glasses, the raindrops still clinging to his collar. his tie’s a little crooked like he got dressed in a hurry, and his hair is soft and damp, curling faintly at the edges from the drizzle outside. he’s holding two coffees, again. one in each hand, fingers careful, familiar. “i got an extra.”

you blink. glance at the cup, then at him.

“…you didn’t have to.”

“i know,” he says easily, voice dipped in something warm. “but i wanted to.”

the elevator hums around you, a quiet mechanical hush. you stare at him a second too long, long enough that it starts to ache a little behind your ribs. then you nod and reach out for the cup, fingers brushing against his by accident.

your stomach flips—sharp and sudden, like the beginning of a fall.

he smiles like it’s nothing. like it didn’t just change your whole morning.

“careful,” he murmurs, gentle. “still warm.”

you take the cup with both hands, like it’s something delicate, and try to disappear behind the rim.

the coffee smells like cinnamon today. a little sweet, a little bitter. just the way you like it.

you’ve worked here for four months now. long enough to memorize the floor numbers by feel, long enough to stop getting lost on your way back from the printer. but still—clark kent makes everything feel new. like every day is a question you don’t know how to answer.

for at least three of those months, he’s been trying to get you to like him.

and for at least two of them, you have—you just haven’t figured out what to do with it yet. it’s not the kind of crush that fizzes in your chest or leaves you giggling in the stairwell. it’s quieter than that. like something that curled up behind your lungs when you weren’t paying attention.

you’ve never liked someone like this before. not someone who sees you; not someone who waits, without needing you to perform or perfect or pretend; not someone who’s kind for the sake of it—who remembers the way you take your coffee, who always holds the elevator even when you’re still halfway down the hall, who never lets your silence feel like an inconvenience.

and always, always—smiles when you walk into the bullpen like it’s the best part of his day.

which is insane.

because you’re just—you.

and clark kent is…

well—he’s clark kent.

he stops by your desk around noon.

you’re eating lunch, sort of—picking at a half-warm sandwich you forgot to toast, one hand scrolling through the headlines, the other wrapped limply around the crust like it might make the day move faster. you’re not really reading, not really chewing, just going through the motions. the office is soft around the edges—phones ringing somewhere far off, the hum of conversation low and constant like the inside of a seashell.

suddenly—“hey.”

you glance up too quickly, nearly dropping your sandwich. clark is leaning on the edge of your desk like he belongs there, arms crossed, his sleeves rolled past the elbows. his forearms are tan and solid, scattered with freckles. 

you blink. “hey.”

“you doing okay today?”

“yeah,” you say, too fast, too bright. “fine. just… work.”

he smiles like he knows exactly what that means. “same.”

but he doesn’t leave. he stays propped there, casual, like gravity doesn’t quite apply to him. like your desk is the most natural place in the world to be. your heart skips, then stumbles. you look back at your sandwich like it holds the answers.

he shifts a little, rubbing the back of his neck. his gaze flicks briefly to your screen, then back to you. “you, uh… you doing anything after work?”

you look up, a little slower this time.

“no,” you say. then—too quick again—“why?”

“oh. no reason.” his voice dips a little, softer now. “just wondering.”

your mouth opens, then closes. you nod, like that’s a normal thing to do when someone maybe-almost-asks-you-out.

he waits a second longer, then pushes off the desk, casual but careful. like he’s testing a door to see if it might open. “well… let me know if you ever wanna grab dinner or something. y’know. just—just putting it out there.”

you blink twice.

“…cool.”

and then he’s gone, just like that. no flourish, no teasing smile over his shoulder. just the scent of rain still clinging to his shirt and the sound of your pulse roaring in your ears.

you sit with it—the idea of it, the weight of it. the fact that he asked if you were free and said the word dinner like it didn’t mean everything. like it didn’t tilt your entire world an inch to the left.

your stomach swirls—too many feelings, not enough space. you’re not even sure it was a date, or if he meant it like one. but god, something inside you aches anyway. aches in that soft, frightened way you only feel when you want something badly enough to ruin it.

and you do want it.

you want him.

but you’ve never been good at wanting things. you’ve always been better at hoping silently, better at folding your feelings into neat little corners where no one can see them.

so you hope he doesn’t stop trying.

he doesn’t.

a few more days pass. he still brings you coffee—always says it like it’s an accident, like it’s nothing, like he didn’t rehearse it in his head on the way over. he still smiles when you pass his desk, still waves during meetings like the two of you share a secret language. like you’re the only one in the room that matters.

and slowly—so slowly—you start smiling back.

you start hovering near his desk when you have a question, even when you already know the answer. you start remembering how he takes his coffee—black, no sugar, but a little too hot to drink right away.

and one morning, before you can second-guess it, you beat him to it.

you show up at his desk with two cups, your hands trembling just enough to spill a little on the lid. your pulse flutters in your throat, and your mouth feels too full.

he looks up, and his eyes go wide.

“oh,” he says, breath catching like he wasn’t expecting it. “you didn’t have to—”

“i know,” you cut in gently. and this time, you smile. “but i wanted to.”

his face changes then—goes soft at the edges, flushed with something warm and quiet and real. he takes the cup from you carefully, like it means something. like you mean something.

his fingers brush yours. neither of you moves away.

the silence hangs for a moment. not awkward, not empty,  just full.

“it’s still warm,” you murmur.

and that’s the moment.

because clark kent—who’s always a little clumsy around you, who stutters when he’s nervous and laughs too loud and never stops fidgeting—goes still.

he looks at you like you’ve just solved something.

like the world just clicked into place.

“so are you,” he says softly.

and you look away, face burning, heart thudding against your ribs.

but you don’t stop smiling.

you’re not even sure when he asked you. 

it didn’t happen in a way you could mark on a calendar or replay in your head like a movie—it was quieter than that, smaller. not some grand gesture, no dramatic pause, no flicker of violin music swelling in the background. 

just clark, leaning over the side of your desk on a lazy thursday afternoon, sleeves of his shirt rolled high enough to show the faint line where his watch sometimes rests. his hair was a little messy, soft and wind-tousled like he’d walked fast to get here or maybe spent the better part of the morning running his hands through it while thinking. the light from your monitor threw a soft glow across his cheekbone, caught in the edge of his glasses. he looked casual—tired, maybe—but still impossibly kind.

“hey,” he said, voice lowered to something just above a whisper. “you feel like dinner next friday? i know a place.”

you remember blinking up at him, heartbeat slowing in that way it does when the world suddenly starts paying too much attention. you remember the tight catch of breath in your chest, the throb of heat in your ears. you remember asking, carefully, “… like a date?”

and then he smiled. that crooked, too-soft smile that always looked like it snuck up on him. the one that made your stomach knot in this warm, fluttering way. “yeah,” he said, nodding. “like a date.”

you had to swallow before answering, throat bone-dry like you hadn’t drunk anything in hours. “okay,” you said. “sure.”

he grinned, full and boyish and easy, like you’d just made his entire day. “yeah?”

you nodded again, more like a reflex than a decision, and watched him walk off down the row of desks—hands stuffed in his pockets, hair still mussed, whistling under his breath like he didn’t just knock the wind out of your lungs and rearrange your entire week.

now it’s friday. and you’re dressed—probably.

you’ve changed shirts at least three times, possibly more. they’re all slung across the end of your bed now in crumpled piles that look like the aftermath of a storm. 

you keep sitting down, then standing up again. your stomach won’t stop twisting. nothing in your closet feels right—not cute enough, not subtle enough, not something he’ll like, or maybe too much of something he will. 

the mirror hasn’t helped. every time you look, your eyes dart to different flaws. maybe your makeup is off. maybe you should’ve tied your hair differently. maybe you shouldn’t be trying at all. you keep asking yourself if this is too much. or worse, if it’s not enough.

your phone buzzes softly where it rests beside the lamp, a little heartbeat in the stillness. you reach for it without thinking, palms already clammy.

clark : outside when you’re ready :) 

you stare at the text. the smiley face makes your chest ache. not in a bad way. in the kind of way that feels like cracking open. 

he’s outside—waiting. for you.

your hands shake when you reach for your coat. you fumble with the zipper, check your reflection one last time—not to change anything, just to ground yourself. and when you turn out the light and step out the door, your heart is thudding so hard you think it might echo down the hallway.

you go anyway.

he’s waiting outside.

standing just beneath the soft spill of the streetlamp, arms loose at his sides, hands tucked deep into the pockets of his coat. 

his foot taps a quiet rhythm against the sidewalk, not impatient, just something for the nerves to do while he waits. he’s dressed in a navy button-up, sleeves rolled to his forearms, and dark slacks that fit a little too well, like someone helped him pick them out. but it isn’t the clothes that get you. it never is.

it’s the way his shoulders ease the second he sees you step out. like he’d been holding his breath and didn’t know it. like you, just appearing, was enough to settle something in him.

“hey,” he says, voice catching faintly at the edges. “you look—wow. you look great.”

your brain short-circuits on the spot. you stop just past the doorframe, heart tripping awkwardly through your ribs, and scramble for a response you haven’t already rehearsed. “you… too,” you manage, already cringing. “i mean—you look nice. really nice.”

his grin slips out before he can stop it, slow and crooked, like it’s blooming against his will. you want to melt straight through the pavement.

the restaurant he takes you to is warm and quiet, tucked into the far corner of a block you’ve probably passed a dozen times without ever really noticing. the windows are fogged a little from the heat inside, the soft clink of silverware and low conversation spilling gently into the street as he opens the door and steps aside to let you in first. 

it smells like roasted garlic and something sweet you can’t quite name. the lighting is soft, gold and flickering like it’s coming from candles even though it isn’t. jazz hums low through unseen speakers, just enough to paint the air between tables.

he pulls out your chair before you can think to touch it. he takes your coat and doesn’t just drape it over the back of your seat—he folds it over his arm and brings it to the front where the hostess is waiting. 

when he comes back, he doesn’t sit right away. just smiles at you, gentle and warm, like he’s checking to make sure you’re real. then, without needing to ask, he orders sparkling water for both of you, voice casual but kind. you don’t realize until a few seconds later that it’s because he remembers you once said too many drink choices stress you out.

clark doesn’t stop smiling. not once.

he keeps glancing at you between words, between bites, like he’s making sure you’re still here, still with him. like he can’t quite believe it. his knee bumps yours once under the table and he doesn’t pull back right away. he just blushes faintly, then grins again, eyes wide and happy behind his glasses.

you pick at the bread, more for something to do with your hands than anything else. you fidget with the edge of your napkin until it starts to wrinkle, try to sit still, try to act like you belong here. like this is something you’ve done before. but your thoughts won’t stop spiraling—what if you say the wrong thing? what if you mess this up? what if you already have?

about halfway through the starters, he sets his fork down and leans forward just slightly. his voice stays soft. careful. “you okay? you’re quiet.”

you blink, startled. “i’m always quiet.”

he lets out a laugh, low and sweet. “true. but tonight it feels like you’re thinking quiet. not comfortable quiet.”

you look down, heart tightening. “sorry.”

his face shifts fast, all concern and softness. “no—don’t apologize. i didn’t mean it like that. i just meant… if there’s anything i can do to make this easier, i want to.”

you chew the inside of your cheek, eyes still on your plate. the warmth of his voice lingers in the air like steam. then, after a long breath, you shrug.

“…i’ve never really done this before.”

his brows draw in, just a little. “what? dates?”

you nod. “yeah. or, like… letting someone know i like them.”

he goes still—not startled, not smug, just quiet. like you touched something inside him without meaning to.

“…you like me?” he asks, and it’s not a joke. it’s not playful. it’s barely even a question. it sounds like a hope he’s been carrying around in his mouth, waiting for permission to say out loud.

your heart lurches. “i didn’t—I mean—”

“hey,” he says, voice even gentler now, and reaches across the table to brush his fingers against yours. not a full touch, just enough to feel like contact. “i’m glad. i like you too. obviously.”

you stare at his fingers. then at his face. he’s looking at you like you just gave him the answer to something he’s been wondering about for weeks.

“…really?”

“really,” he says, smiling so softly you feel your throat close. “so much it’s kind of embarrassing.”

you let out a laugh without meaning to—small and startled and real. it escapes before you can contain it. his whole face lights up at the sound, so bright you swear he might float right out of his chair.

by the time dinner ends, something in you has shifted. the tightness in your shoulders is gone, melted somewhere between the second course and the third time he made you laugh so hard you forgot to be nervous. your body angles a little closer to his now, unconsciously drawn in by the way he listens—like every word you say is something worth holding. your answers are longer, fuller. less rehearsed. your eyes find his more often, and you don’t always look away first.

it’s still a little awkward. still full of pauses that hang like half-finished thoughts, full of small, twitchy movements and fidgeting fingers on your napkin. but it’s quieter now, that awkwardness. it doesn’t buzz so loudly in your head. it feels like room—space to breathe, to figure it out. because you’re learning, and he’s waiting. and somehow, even with all the static and silence, you meet somewhere in the middle.

outside, the night has settled deep into the corners of the city. the air is cooler, crisper than it was when you arrived. the restaurant behind you glows faintly from its windows—warm gold spilling across the sidewalk like it wants to hold onto you just a little longer. the street is mostly empty, just the occasional shuffle of a car in the distance, the whisper of wind nudging past your ankles.

clark walks beside you, his pace easy, his hands tucked into his coat pockets as the two of you make your way down the mostly empty sidewalk. 

when you reach your building, he slows, then stops just a few steps from the front door. he doesn’t say anything right away. doesn’t fill the silence with anything unnecessary. he just turns toward you slightly, his shoulder brushing yours in a way that feels intentional. his eyes meet yours in the low light, uncertain and warm all at once.

you pause, lingering just beneath the glow of the nearest lamp, fingers twitching at your sides. you’re standing close. close enough to feel the warmth of his coat radiating into your sleeve, close enough to notice the way his breath clouds faintly in the air. your hand shifts—only slightly—but it’s enough that your knuckles brush his.

he looks at you like he’s trying to read something between the lines. like he’s not sure if this is the end of the night or the beginning of something else. there’s a flicker in his eyes, a held breath in the space between you—uncertain. should he lean in? should he back away? should he ask?

so you do it for him.

“… can we do this again?” you ask. your voice is small, but clear. not loud enough to echo, but enough to feel brave.

he lets out a soft laugh, something disbelieving in the way it escapes him. “yeah,” he says. his voice breaks just a little on the word. “god, yeah. please.”

you nod, heart stammering like it wants to jump straight out of your chest. and before you can lose your nerve, before you can overthink it—you lean in, fast and awkward, and press a kiss to his cheek. it’s clumsy. too quick. your lips barely brush his skin before you’re pulling back like you touched something too hot.

“sorry,” you blurt. “that was stupid—”

“no, no—” his hand catches yours before it can retreat, warm and sure. “it wasn’t. i just didn’t expect it.”

you look up.

he’s close now, closer than he’s ever been. the air between you feels thinner. he’s warmer than the night, than the streetlamp humming above you. his cheeks are a little pink, and he’s looking at you like you’re something good.

he clears his throat, voice low and careful. “... can i kiss you?”

your stomach does a full somersault.

you nod.

and clark—clark kisses you like he’s afraid of getting it wrong. like this is the kind of thing you only get to do once, and he wants to make sure it’s perfect. his hand shifts to your cheek, not forceful, just there, a grounding touch as he leans in. 

the kiss is slow, soft. just enough pressure to make your knees go a little weak. just enough warmth to make you forget what month it is. he kisses you like he means it. like he’s wanted to for a long time and still can’t believe he gets to.

when he pulls back, he’s smiling again.

not like someone caught in a daydream.

like someone who finally got to wake up beside one.

divider credits ♡

[ciricearts]

portrait of my fem jason with short+long hair hehe

[kosmogrl]

once again overreacted and panicked for the whole day and it ended up being alright. no I will not learn and it will happen again

[bugwasgay]

computer, why do i always feel like dying after i stand up for myself?

[urhoneycombwitch]

love me back to life

cowboy!Eddie x Reader | a new addition to the farm

foreword: somethin' for springttime, my sweeties. let's all take a deep breath!! and freak out about farmer cowboy Eddie plz and thx!!! <3 more cowboy!Eddie cbf here

cw: cowboy!Eddie, older!Eddie ;), domestic farming life, livestock + animal content, lambing season, flirtin’ and fluff, springtime <3 no smut but mdni as always

wc: 2.1k

The pastures of Munson Farms are lit up in gold, May’s afternoon sun stretching to every inch of the forested property. 

You can see all four of the horses from your spot at the kitchen sink. Sway-backed and heads lowered, they munch on the lush grasses to their hearts’ content as you gaze at them through the window- propped open with an old book to usher in the sweet spring winds. 

The last of your lunch dishes are rinsed and racked. Eddie’s been gone since dawn, lending a hand down the road at Wayne’s farm. Lambing season is in full swing. 

You’re well-practiced when it comes to sheep, but Eddie wanted to spare you the early rise and laborious tasks. 

For once, you didn’t argue. 

There’s a lot of room in your heart for animals but last season’s herd was almost enough to threaten that sacred space. At one point it felt like the creatures were intentionally plotting to get pneumonia and foot rot and all sorts of other ailments just to spite your lack of knowledge. 

So yes, you’re grateful Eddie chose to keep Munson Farms focused on the already-established cow and horse herds for this season, and that the few remaining sheep were successfully integrated into Wayne’s flock. 

There’s the distant crunch of tires on gravel. On the porch, two sets of dog ears prick upwards, an ecstatic chorus of barks in staccato take to the air.

You turn towards the eastern window to watch Goblin with his sleek black shepherd’s body zip down the driveway, while Rosie moves behind with the slower, dignified shamble of an elder sheepdog. 

They meet the red pickup halfway, following its path closely with lolling tongues and wide wags. Eddie pulls the truck into his usual spot alongside the house and though your vision is obscured, you hear him hit all the familiar beats of homecoming. 

A squeak-slam of the driver’s door, a scramble of paws on gravel as the dogs whine-whimper in greeting. There’s a low chuckle and some firm patting noises, and then Eddie’s telling Goblin “Get offa me, you giant beast,” before the screen door of the house bangs shut.

Eddie sighs long and loud the moment he’s inside, and you wait for the inevitable path of his boots- thunking along the hardwood, all the way to fit between the soles of your slippers. 

“Howdy.”

The smooth timber of his voice comes from the archway of the kitchen at your back. You keep your eyes on the dishtowel in your hands, smiling at just the sound of him. 

“Hiya. How’d wrangling sheep go?”

It’s a bit odd that he hasn’t touched you yet- usually Eddie finds a way to attach himself to you within the first three seconds of return. 

Odder still is the silence that meets your question. You turn to face him, tossing the dishtowel to the counter without a second glance.

Eddie’s leaning into the archway on one shoulder, black cowboy hat in his hands as he twists and worries at the brim. He meets your look with a grin, dimples springing to life- seems like he got plenty of sun today. There’s a new spray of freckles across the bridge of his nose, cheeks slightly pink. 

The smile fades, and without it, you realize he looks nervous. 

Your heart kicks up in alarm. “What happened?”

“Nothin’.” Eddie shakes his head, then his eyes drop. “Well. Somethin’.”

He fixes his hat back on and turns, gesturing down the hall- “Got you a present. It’s in the truck.”

Fear gives way to suspicion and your eyes narrow. “Oh, shit. Eddie. What is it?”

Eddie doesn’t answer you. 

He’s nearly to the back door and you trot to keep up, trying not to get distracted by how goddamn muscular he looks. Broad-shouldered in denim overalls and a white sleeveless undershirt that stretches tight across the newly-tanned bulk of his chest. 

You almost forget to be wary.

Goblin’s two front paws are planted on the foot rail of the truck’s passenger side door. He’s sniffing intently through the half-rolled window, feathered tail swinging from side to side. 

Eddie bends to slip an arm around the shepherd’s broad chest, moving him to the ground with a murmured “Look out, pal” before opening the door and ducking into the cab.

Rosie plops herself down to sit at your feet. Her tail thumps a steady rhythm in the dirt when you slip a hand down to rub behind the silk of her ear.

Eddie turns around with the bundle of his leather jacket cradled in both arms. 

Swathed in the fabric is the smallest lamb you’ve ever seen. 

The tiny thing bleats a watery, mournful maaa, its back leg kicking out from the wrapping, creamy white fur contrasted against black leather. 

“She’s a girl,” Eddie says, eyes soft but focused on the creature in his arms. 

The lamb looks especially tiny against the brawn of her holder; even Goblin, who tends to act on his most young and foolish instincts, is being careful in his excitement. He’s prancing against the gravel in a loop, yipping eagerly but containing his jumps to a minimum. 

As Eddie steps closer, you can see the weak wobble of the lamb’s head, the suggestion of bone just beneath the surface where all the soft skin stretches tight.

Her ears are a perfect petal pink on the insides- she’s young enough that they’re still a bit floppy, hanging on either side of her face and framing a pair of dark eyes and sweeping lashes. 

“Eddie-” you start, in a warning tone.

He cuts in. Takes another step, closer, until you can see the wet sheen of her nose, nostrils curious and pulling at the unfamiliar air. 

“Her momma had too many in one litter. Couldn’t keep up the milk with three, Wayne had to bottle feed her with the leftover colostrum stock. Plus, she’s the smallest- wouldn’t stand a chance in the pastures.”

Your eyebrow lifts, arms folding into a cross even as Rosie nudges against your leg- the last attempts at being stern before the lamb can make another adorable noise to win you over entirely. 

“And Wayne didn’t want to keep her because- let me guess- he didn’t want to wake up every three hours for feedings? Or sanitize equipment at 2 AM? Or worry about temp checks-”

“Right on the money. You’re real smart.” Eddie grins at you, and god damn those dimples for hitting every weak spot you own. 

He senses the softening in you- it’s the same tendency that resides in him. The same softening that translates to kindness, to a duty of care, a part of farming life that you weren’t expecting to be so vital, so integral. But you’re deeply grateful that it remains important to Eddie, and by extension, to you. 

Eddie shifts the lamb to the crook of his elbow, then reaches his free hand for yours. “Here.”

He guides the tip of your pinky gently to the front of the lamb’s mouth; she opens immediately and suckles, wet warmth tickling against your skin. The very tip of her tail peeks out from the fold of Eddie’s coat and it wiggles with each suck. 

“Feel that?” Eddie’s voice is low at your ear, as if he’s being careful not to break the quiet moment. He smells like sweet hay grass and woodsmoke, a layer of sweat, too, musky from the day’s work. “Means she’s a fighter.”

Unfortunately, you know exactly what this means. It means you’re going to go inside and find a blanket to fit inside an applebox, and drag out the dusty box of lambing supplies that have been sitting untouched in the barn for over a year.

It means that this lamb- however unfairly her few hours earthside have treated her- wants to live. 

And you know beyond doubt that you’ll give her the best chance possible.

When your finger slips free the lamb squeaks and wriggles, but calms again when you stroke the velvet behind her ear. Nearly as soft as Rosie, who’s nosing her way upwards to sniff at the newest addition to the farm. 

“Goddammit,” you mutter. Already, your focus is shifting to the next twelve hours, the store runs that will need to be made, the procedures and tricks of the trade needed to keep this lamb alive. 

“I know,” Eddie says, because he does. 

It makes you ache, thinking of Eddie’s drive- likely one hand on the wheel and the other wide and warm around the belly of his passenger. Murmuring encouragement, foot heavy on the gas to bring the newborn to the one person in the world he trusts the most for help.

There are curls spilling loose from the hasty tie of his hair, spirals of deep chestnut shot through with silver that coast against his jaw as he watches you, waiting for the final verdict.

You lean to tuck a strand behind Eddie’s ear then lean further, enough to hook an arm around his neck and press your face to the side of his cheek in a partial hug, just to feel him breathe. 

“Good thing we’re both soft touches, hm?”

He smiles at your words- you can feel the joyful line of it forming against your own skin.

Eddie carefully extricates his coat and transfers the lamb into your waiting hands. She’s about the size of a football, and probably a comparable weight; she bleats and kicks during the handoff but settles once you’ve got her laid across the bare scoop of your chest.

You wrap the edges of your blouse around the entirety of her frame. There’s a fluttery whoosh at her ribs, the blip of her heartbeat now against your own. 

The lamb’s neck flops unsteadily but ends up tucked along the line of yours. Her lips wibble at the top of your shoulder and she makes a mrrr sound that vibrates through you. 

Entirely against your will, you’re already in love.

Eddie’s watching you with a gentle, knowing smile, even as he fields the energy of Goblin (who has taken permission to bodily launch into Eddie’s sides now that his hands are free). 

“Whatcha gonna name her?”

“Pain In My Ass, Junior.”

Eddie laughs. 

You cuddle the lamb closer and give your real answer- “Let’s see if she survives the night. Then we can talk baby names.”

Rosie follows close behind as you walk to the house, falling into step like she knows her sheepdog duties have come back into play. 

“I’m gonna need that kit from the barn,” you call from the back door, half-inside already. 

Goblin hears the word barn and scrambles pell-mell down the branching dirt path without waiting for Eddie- Eddie who nods in ascent and gives you a Buckley-classic salute.

“You got it, boss.”

The lamb, against all odds, fights. 

For every breath and every movement, for every bit of life. She takes the bottle and the heating pads and the early-morning sink washes in stride, ribs bellowing with the effort it takes to sustain herself. 

By morning, you still have a lamb. Unnamed, but alive. 

A lamb that can walk- albeit shakily- across the length of the porch, stretching her legs and seeking out the warm side of Rosie.

Eddie brings two steaming mugs of coffee out to the porch and passes you one, chuckling at the antics of the lamb as he sits on the top step next to you. 

“Sunrise,” he comments, voice husked with sleep. He stretches out a hand to rub at the tense spot where your neck and shoulder join. “Picked a title yet?”

The lamb bleats when Rosie trods to the other side of the porch, her back hooves giving a kick in her haste to catch up. 

You chuckle, too, because despite the exhaustion it’s hard to feel anything but happy around a creature that is so darling and has come so far in such a short time. 

“Petal.” You speak it into existence as you watch the lamb clumsily step on Rosie’s tail; the dog turns around with all the patience in the world to give a few licks to Petal’s nose. “It’s Rosie’s lamb, really. I’m just the night nurse.”

Eddie takes a sip of his coffee, contemplating, his thumb working wonders on the knot in your trapezius. “Don’t sell yourself short. I dunno anyone half as good as you at lovin’ things back to life.”

You smile around the rim of your own mug, eyes still on Petal even as you lean backwards to be caught on either side by the shape of Eddie’s legs. Your arm slings around his knee, patting at him tenderly; he leans forward to kiss your temple. 

Petal bleats, the loudest noise she’s made to date. 

It sounds like victory.

[rottweilerr]