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.
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!readerÂ
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
âYo. Hey, Logan. Loooogan. Dude.â
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.Â
Dean smiles with all of his teeth. âHey, sunshine. Drain's clogged again.â
Logan grunts. âWhat'd you do this time?â
âAbsolutely nothing. It was Garrett.â
âIt was not, asshole,â Garrett says, strolling into Logan's room. He throws a shirt at Dean. âI just got home. Someone thought it'd be a great idea to pour bacon grease down the drain.â
âWhy are you both in here? This doesn't feel like a conversation that requires a town hall meeting,â Logan grumbles.
âWell, I donât cook, so it canât have been me. Mustâve been Tucker,â Dean says.
Tucker walks in then, as if on cue. âIf 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.â
They all look at Dean, who bobs his head. Logan really wishes he had a stack of pucks to chuck at them right now.Â
âYeah, I lied earlier,â Dean says. âIt was me. I wanted to use the cup.â
Logan smiles flatly. âI 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?â
The three of them say aye. Dean squawks like a big blond bird.Â
âNay! It's not my fault. How am I supposed to know what to do with bacon grease?â
âYeah, how's the little prince supposed to know?â Tucker says, rolling his eyes.Â
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.Â
Then Dean clogged the drain and woke him up.
âHey, don't forget that we still have that interview at the stadium today,â 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.Â
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.Â
âYeah, thanks,â Logan says.Â
Garrett nods. âI'll see you there. Wellsy wants to study.â
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 theyâre both so obviously such soft hearts. Logan saw Garrett listening to Hannahâs Instagram songs more than once. Garrettâs absolutely in denial about how much he likes her. But at least they talk to each other.Â
âFuck,â he says to himself, palms on his eyes.Â
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?Â
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.Â
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.Â
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 âgrow into yourselfâ if you didn't move away.Â
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.Â
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.Â
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 cameraâonly people do.Â
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.Â
âThis is great,â Hannah says. âPeople are gonna see your pictures, as they should.â
You shrug. âI guess so. I didn't really want to do this.â
âYour photos are really good,â she says. âAnd getting them published in the school paper is huge. What are you worried about?â
You sigh. âI don't know. It's kind of scary when people see you through the camera.â Fourth wall breaks unnerve you for the same reason. âAnd what if the players hate the pictures?â
âWell, 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?â
You nod, the pit in your stomach loosening a little. Hannah always seems to know what to say.Â
She beams. âOf course I'll stay.â
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.Â
âI'm here to support my friend,â she says. âItâs her first time photographing for the team. Please?â
âSorry. Only press and photographers can be here.â
She looks at you sympathetically. âI'll be right over there, okay? You'll be great.â
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.Â
You lower your camera as you see Logan approach the local reporter. He shakes her hand and says something you canât hear. Then he looks in your direction. He pauses, then grins widely, waving at you. You wave back, face suddenly warm.
âSo John,â begins the reporter. âHow is the team preparing to win the next three games? Youâll need three wins to keep Briarâs ranking.â
âYeah, you know, we work really well as a team, and Garrettâs a great captain, of course, so I have no doubt weâll win. Weâve been putting in plenty of hours of practice.â
He glances in your direction. Click. Youâre not supposed to snap pictures when people are looking at the camera, but you canât help it. You wonât send that one to the paper.
âHow are you personally feeling about the season?â the reporter asks.
You take more pictures. Logan keeps glancing in your direction, so much so that the reporter eventually holds her hand up.
âJohn, sorry, but we really need you to look at the camera,â she says. âIs there something distracting you? A light? A noise?â
âNope,â Logan says, standing straighter, shaking his head. âAll good.â
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.
âHey.â
You look up from your case. Loganâs 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.Â
âYouâre here,â he says, before you can say hi back.
You nod, confused. âUm. Yes?â
âI didnât know you were a photographer.â Heâs smiling as hard as he does when the Hawks win a game. âI havenât seen you photographing games.â
âI donât. The paperâs editor asked me to take pictures for their article on the team.â
âCan I see?â
You hesitate. âI canât retake pictures.â
âI know. Iâm asking because I want to see your pictures, not âcause I care about how I look in them. You donât even have to show me the pictures from today. Do you have more?â
âYou want to see my other photos? Theyâre of birds and stuff like that.â
âI fucking love birds. And I mean that.â
You blink. âOh. Okay. Me too.â
âI didnât see you in class this week,â he says.
âI was sick.â
âThat sucks, Iâm sorry.â
You nod. You donât tell him why you were sick. He doesnât need to know. No one knows except Hannah. And speaking of, you can see her walking down the bleachers.
She stops next to you. âHey! How was it?â She looks at Logan, and seems a little startled. âHi, Logan. Whatâs up?â
âHey, Wellsy,â he says. You try not to frown. Itâs stupid to want Logan to have a nickname for you. Wellsy isnât even his invention.Â
âLogan wants to see my photos,â you say.
Hannah raises an eyebrow. âOh, really? I didnât know you liked photography, Logan.â
âOh, big time,â he says, looking at you.Â
Hannah widens her eyes at you. You have no idea why. She pats your back.
âYou did great,â she says. âIâll see you later?â
âI thought you wanted to get lunch together,â you say.Â
âUhâŚâ She glances between you and Logan. âIâll catch up with you. I have to tutor Garrett anyway. He canceled on me yesterday.â She rolls her eyes. âHockey players.â
âOuch,â Logan says, nudging her.
Hannah smiles sweetly. âYou and Tucker are the best players, and you can quote me on that.â
âGarrett will definitely be hearing that.â
âGood.â She squeezes your arm. âIâll see you later, okay? Have fun.â
You watch her go, feeling lost. âShe said we were going to eat lunch together. Why did she change her mind?â
âOh, um, I donât think Hannah meant anything by it,â Logan says. He chews his lip for a second. âGarrettâs such a diva, honestlyâheâd probably whine about not studying today even though he canceled on her yesterday.â
You do know how important the philosophy midterm is to Garrett, especially since heâs currently failing. And Hannah has complained about how stubborn he is.Â
âI guess that makes sense,â you say. âIâll go eat by myself then. Itâs one oâclock, so itâs lunchtime.â
âI could come with you.â Logan clears his throat. âUh, if you want, I mean. No pressure. You can say no.â
âOh. No, Iâd like that.â You smile. âAnd I can show you my photos, right?â
âYeah,â he says, sounding breathless. âPlease do.â
Logan has three chicken thighs on his plate.
âHockey season,â he explains as he sits. He bought your food with one of his meal swipes. You told him he didnât 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 bodyâs way of telling you that you really need to eat. Sometimes you donât feel hungry, but logically you have to eat at least three meals, so you try to time eating around the same time, so you donât have to rely on faulty signals that never arrive.
And when Hannah eats with you, it helps, because then you arenât distracted by other things, like listening to music or watching a show. You canât do those things in front of another person, because itâs rude. When you eat alone, you frequently forget youâre supposed to be eating. And by the time you remember, the texture or temperature of the food has changed, and itâs no longer appetizing.Â
âEating that much chicken doesnât make you feel sick?â 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 foodâif you detect a hint of tendon or fat, you canât eat it.
Logan shakes his head. âNah, Iâm hungry. Dean can easily tear up, like, five of these.â
He starts eating, scooping the chicken with the gravy, peas, and potatoes in one forkful. You watch, fascinated. Eating probably wouldnât be such a chore if you could eat like that.Â
You were going to try and convince Hannah to go to Taco Bell with you today because thatâs the only thing that sounds edible today, but since youâre with Logan, you canât do that. Probably you canât go to Taco Bell every time you see him⌠still, youâre tempted. Maybe you can just sit here until Loganâs done eating, and then you can go get what you want.Â
You take a deep breath. No, you should eat. You should eat like a normal person. You want your headache to go awayâitâs 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.Â
âNot a fan of the bun?â
You look up at Logan, hunched over the plate. You eye him suspiciously.Â
âThis bread tastes like cardboard,â you say slowly, watching him for judgment. âI like fluffy white rolls only.â
âThatâs my favorite too. Garrettâs always on me to eat more whole grains.â
âMaybe another brand would taste good. School food tastes like slop sometimes.â
Logan laughs. âSeriously. I think Iâm spoiled by Tuckerâs cooking. Heâs a master chef.â
You squeeze a packet of mayo, then hot sauce, then mustard. This is your trick for when you donât want to eat: you overdo it with sauces you like, to mask whatever youâre eating. At least you donât have to taste the turkey burger, though that doesnât dismiss the possibility of a bad texture.Â
You chew, staring at your plate. You forget youâre not alone until Logan taps your shoulder. You jump.
âSorry,â he says. âAgain. Seems like Iâm always doing that.â
âI zoned out.â
âYeah, youâre really focused on your food there.â
âI have to be, or I wonât finish it,â you say. âNothingâs appetizing right now, so I have to make myself eat.â
You quickly finish the burger, which isnât the worst, to be fair, but youâre not happy to eat like you were yesterday with the tater tot casserole the cafeteria served. They serve that once every two weeks, and itâs your favorite day on campus.Â
âOkay,â you say. âNow I can talk to you.â
Logan smiles. âAwesome. Can you show me your pictures?â
âOh, right. Yes, I can.â
You get out your camera and move to sit next to Logan. He leans in to look at your cameraâs screen, but he doesnât touch you. You kind of wish he would. You bet heâs warm and solid.
âWait, go back,â he says.
You were skipping through the pictures from todayâs interview. You press the left arrow to go back.
âThere! Oh my God, thatâs so funny. Please use that picture for the paper,â Logan says, snickering.Â
Itâs a picture of Garrett, mid-yawn. His face is scrunched, mouth wide open.Â
âThat was a mistake,â you say, but youâre smiling too. You canât avoid Loganâs infectious giggles.Â
âNo, that was a gift from above,â Logan says, still laughing. âGod, thatâs perfect. If you donât send it to the paper, please at least send it to me.â
âHow?â
âDo you have Instagram?â
âNo,â you say. âI deleted it. It made me feel bad about myself.â
âHonestly? Good for you. Iâm not on it that much either.âÂ
âThe only people who I want to talk to have my number anyway,â you say. âSo it doesnât really matter. I donât care about random studentsâ lives.â
âYou rock,â Logan says. âSeriously. Youâre my hero.â
You canât take it when he says things like that. All you can do is look away, your face heating up.
âWell, uh,â he continues. âThis might be presumptuous of me, but⌠dâyou wanna exchange numbers?â
âItâs not presumptuous,â you say. âI like talking to you.â
He lights up. âSame here.â
You type your number into his phone.Â
Hi :) says the message on your phone.
Hi, you text back. You change his contact to Logan đ.Â
âIâll send the picture when I upload them tonight,â you say.
âIâm gonna terrorize him with it in the group chat. Show me more pictures? You said you saw some birds.â
âI did.â You shuffle through the photos until you find one of a hawk flying low. Itâs one of your favorites; you were so proud to capture it. Itâs only a little blurry too.
âThat is so fucking cool, whoa.â Logan scoots closer to look, his arm touching yours. You donât move away. âYouâre amazing at this. What else did you capture?â
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.
âYou could do this professionally, seriously,â he says. âLike, you should photograph our games. You could get paid for it.â
You shrug bashfully. âI donât know. Itâs not even my major. Itâs just a hobby.â
âSo what? Youâre really good.â
You gnaw the inside of your cheek. âMaybe.â
âYeah, think about it. I could talk to Coach, see whatâs open.â
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 couldnât stop staring at his biceps. You want to hold them, trace the veins on his forearms.Â
And when he turns to talk to you, heâs so close. Close enough toâ
âYo, Logan, you started without us?â
Raucous laughter breaks the moment. As soon as you see Loganâs teammates, you put a foot of distance between you two, shifting to the next chair over.Â
âHey, man,â Garrett says, tapping Logan's shoulder. âI thought you said you were gonna hit the gym.â
âPlans changed,â Logan says. He doesnât look very happy to see them. Youâre puzzled.Â
âHi,â 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.
âAh,â he says. âPlans changed. Got it.â
You donât like the tone of his voice. You donât like the way he and Garrett are smiling at each other.Â
âHow do you know Logan?â Dean asks. âYou a hockey fan?â He winks.
âIâve only been to one game. Logan and I are in developmental psychology together.â
âYou guys study together?â Garrett asks, glancing at Logan. The table shakes, and Garrett winces. âOw! What the fuck, man? Whyâd you kick me?â
âBecause youâre both asking idiotic fucking questions,â Logan says. âLay off. Sheâs not a suspect.â
Your skin itches. You donât like being watched. And theyâre watching you, you can tell. Theyâre studying you. Figuring you out.Â
âActually, I should go,â you say, getting up. You try not to eye the others as you say it.Â
âAre you sure?â Logan asks, getting up with you.
âYes, I have finals to work on.â You gather your things, putting your backpack over your shoulders. âThank you for the meal swipe.â
âYeah, anytime,â Logan says. âIâll see you in class on Monday?â
You nod. âYou will. Iâve taken two unexcused absences and the syllabus said that Dr. Jenkins will demote us by a letter grade for any more than that.â
ââS not a real threat,â Garrett says around a mouthful of rice. âThey have to put that on the syllabus, but a lot of professors donât care. Dean was absent eight times in that class.â
âAnd I still got a B minus,â Dean says, fist-bumping Garrett.Â
Tucker shakes his head. âYeah, and you failed the subsequent course because you missed so much of the semester, dude.â
âA win is a win.â
âSo Dr. Jenkins lied?â you ask, brows furrowing.
Garrett shrugs, digging his knife into his chicken. âKinda. More like a bluff.â
You squeeze your backpack straps, your chest feeling tight. âWhy does everyone know the secret rules but me?â
All week youâve 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? Youâve gone when you were sure youâd throw up. You went to class in the throes of the worst gallbladder pain youâve ever felt, right before you got it removed.Â
Garrett stops chewing, looking at you. In fact, theyâre all staring at you. Fuck.Â
âWhaddya mean, secret rules?â Dean asks.
Fuck, fuck. Youâre being weird. Stop it. Stop.Â
âHey,â Logan says gently, drawing your attention to him. He moves so heâs the only person you can see, blocking out the rest of the cafeteria. âIf you donât feel well, you should skip, but you arenât, like, losing out on some grand life experience if you miss half the semester. Thatâs what college is for. Youâre doing the right thing. Itâs not a secret rule, itâs just a loophole that some assholes like to exploit.â
Dean scoffs. âExcuse me?â
Logan ignores him. âSo I hope you come on Monday, but if you feel sick, rest up, okay? Tuckerâll make you soup and Iâll bring it over.â
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.Â
âOkay,â you murmur. You drift towards him, and Logan brushes your fingers. You arenât brave enough to take his hand, so you touch and step back.Â
âCanât wait to see your pictures in the paper,â Logan says.
You smile. âTheyâre of you.â
âYeah, but you took âem. Who cares what theyâre of?â
You duck your head, feeling shy again. Itâs 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 youâve ever cared much about the college social hierarchy, but you arenât immune to the charms of a hockey boy who sings praises about your photography. Youâve been trying to shake this aching want for more ever since the party. You canât.
âWell, um, bye. Iâll drop off your wings soon,â you say.
âStop by anytime.â
âSee ya around,â says Tucker.
âYeah, see you,â Garrett says. Dean nods.Â
You mumble a short goodbye to them, still feeling flustered. You hope Logan wonât hold it against you.Â
Once outside, you take out your camera outside and flip through some of the shots of Logan. Youâre not sure what he likes so much about your photos, but now youâre a little glad that the editor asked you to take pictures.
âHey, wait up!â
You turn around. Loganâs jogging toward you.Â
âWhat are you doing?â you ask as he stops in front of you.
âUh.â He puts his hands on his hips, breathing hard. âUm. Hm. Good question. I donât know, actually. I just feel like we ended on a weird note in there.â
You frown, nodding. âI know. Iâm sorry I was weird and freaked out in front of your friends.â
âWhat? You didnâtââ
âI did, Logan. I know I did. I saw Dean and Garrettâs 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 donât realize until someoneâs really obvious with their face that I, you know, emoted wrong.â
âYou did not emote wrong,â Logan says, shaking his head in disbelief. âYou didnât, okay? I promise that Garrett and Dean didnât think that. They were probably just confused. You and Hannah are, you knowâŚâ
âNerds?â you finish.
âSmart, studious, all that. And I know we keep it hidden, but weâre actually not winning any Nobel prizes in between practice. Theyâre not used to knowing people who worry about attendance. Thatâs all it was, I promise.â
You purse your lips, trying to figure out if heâs telling the truth. You canât, so you just ask. âDo you mean it?â
âYes,â Logan says. âI mean it.â
âItâs okay if you donât. I wouldnât hold it against you. Lots of people have thought Iâm 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 wouldnât purposely kick the ball at me.â
His eyes get sad. Thatâs an expression you recognize on Hannah too.
âThatâs fucking awful,â Logan says. âWe arenât all like that. Iâm not, anyway, and the guys I hang out with arenât either. Even if you are weird, itâs not a bad thing. Not at all.â
No oneâs ever told you itâs okay to be weird. Theyâve only ever denied that you are, even though youâre pretty sure you are. You canât help it either. But Logan doesnât mind. Youâre still good. He still likes you. No one is going to kick a ball at you.Â
âOkay. Can you tell me how to get to the Hawks house? Iâm going to drop off your wings before Monday.â
âSure, so youâre gonna walk down this little path here, Cooper Avenue. Then youâre gonna turn left, onto Montgomery. Then youâll walk all the way down till you get to Pickett Lane. Itâs like a dirt path. And youâll turn right onto that. Weâre the first house on the left.â
You nod, even though youâve already forgotten all that. Youâre terrible with street names. âIâll be there.â
âI look forward to it,â Logan says, grinning.Â
You start to walk away, then you turn around and return. âI actually donât remember anything youâve just said. Iâm bad with streets and directions. Can you tell me in terms of landmarks?â
âI can absolutely do that,â Logan says softly. âOkay, you know the statue of the guy on the horse?â
âYes, the famous horse wrangler who carried children on horseback to Briarâs first schoolhouse in 1846.â
He tilts his head. âHow do you know that?â
âItâs on the plaque.â
âHuh. Embarrassingly, Iâve never stopped to read one of those plaques. I should do that.â
âHe brought children to school for eighteen years. One of them ended up founding Briar University.â
âShit, wow. Thatâs cool.â
âHistory is cool.â
Logan hums. âYouâre cool. And that mentality is why Deanâs the loser for missing half the semester and you arenât.â
You smile. âI guess so.â
âOkay, so, horse wrangler. Turn left when you get to him. Then youâre 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?â
âAttempt to study, anyway.â You know the struggle well.
âThereâs a path there, and youâll walk until you see our house on the left.â
âGot it,â you say. âFor real, this time.â
âGood. Then Iâll see you at some point, before class. If you want to stop by.â
You look at the cafeteria. âThey wonât mind?â
âNah, we always have people come over, donât worry. Hey.â Logan bumps your arm gently. âThey wonât bother you. And if you want, text me, so youâll know Iâll be home.â
The sun is in his eyes. Speckled tree bark. Rich, black tea. You want to kiss him so badly.
âI really do like talking to you,â you say.
âMe too.â Logan steps closer. Your heart is in your throat.
âOkay, well, see you!â And youâre gone.
Thereâs a photo from this morningâs interview you took of Logan. Heâs looking at youâwell, the cameraâsmiling, a curl falling into his eyes. You donât send it to the editor, even though itâs one of your best photos. Instead, you set it as his contact picture on your phone.Â
Authorâs 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.
âWhat was annoying about him?â 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 brainâ 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 âGothamâs favorite playboyâs adopted sonâ 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 âstrategically beneficial consistency.â 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, âYou know, legally, as your fake boyfriend, I think Iâm supposed to stop you before workplace accidents happen.â
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 Dickâs knee bumped lightly against yours under the table.
You looked over immediately.
He didnât say anything. Didnât 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.
âYou look furious,â he managed between breaths.
âI am furious.â
âYouâre dripping on the floor.â
âI 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.
âThere,â he said softly. âLess murdery.â
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. âWhy are you standing like that.â
âLike what?â
âLike you need to talk to me about something I'm not going to be happy about.â
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.
âWell,â he said after a moment, âour next appearance is kind of important.â
Your stomach dropped instantly.
âNo," you groaned, "not another appearance."
âYou donât even know what Iâm talking about yet.â
"Fine. Enlighten me."
âItâs a gala.â
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.
âCâmon,â he said. âIt wonât be that bad.â
âI know. But it still means I have to be all lovey dovey with you. Again.â you fake gagged.
âThis oneâs important,â he continued, completely ignoring you now. âBig Wayne Foundation event. Press, investors, charity board members. Bruce is making one of his speeches.â
âBruce makes speeches at everything." You roll your eyes.
âYeah, but this time people are expecting us there together.â
You lifted your head just enough to glare at him. âI still donât understand why everyone accepted this so fast. I mean seriously.â
Dick shrugged lightly. âBecause Iâm charming.â
Unfortunately, he said it with enough confidence that you couldnât 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.
âSo,â he continued casually, âweâre gonna have to go shopping.â
Your face fell immediately. âAbsolutely not.â
âWe need to get you a dress.â
âI own dresses.â
âYou own two dresses.â
"It's actually three, fyi."
âYeah, but you need something more special. You can't wear those dresses to a high class event.â he said.
âWatch me.â
âC'mon. A pretty girl like you deserves a prettier dress.â
"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.
âAnd before you start,â he added quickly, already seeing the argument forming on your face, âI'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."
[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
synopsis : youâre quiet, awkward. not used to being likedâespecially not by someone like clark kent. but heâs 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 đ¤đĽš 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, theyâre falling hard for eachother your honor, clarkâs a big sweetheart
not because the idea is unwelcomeâbut because it terrifies you in a quiet, breathless way.Â
youâve 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.Â
especially when itâs clark. that sweet, focused kind of attention short-circuits your brain. itâs not sharp like a spotlight or teasing like a smirkâit lingers. gentle and intentional. like he just⌠likes you. and you donât know what to do with that.
you werenât built for being liked that way. youâre not good with words unless theyâre typed on a screen. not good at holding someoneâs gaze for more than a second without overthinking every blink, every breath. your smiles are usually delayed reactionsâpolite, practiced, easy to forget. you chew on your sleeves. you answer questions like theyâre quizzes. you apologize when people bump into you. and when clark kent stands close enough that you can smell his cologneâwarm linen and sunlightâyou feel like a glitch in the system.
clark is like someone dipped a daydream in golden hour and gave it a name.
heâs warm all the time. likeâliterally, youâre 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 donât have the courage to name.Â
everyone at the daily planet seems to gravitate toward himâjimmy calls him the nicest guy in the building, lois rolls her eyes when she says heâs a dork, and perryâs always grumbling about how heâs the only one who turns things in early. heâs dependable in a way people notice. in a way people love.
and you? you mostly say things like âthanksâ and âcoolâ and hope he doesnât 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 doesnât mind when you fumble. like he doesnât care that your voice shakes a little or that youâre not quite sure how to be looked at so gently.Â
âhey,â he says one morning, stepping into the elevator just before the doors seal shut. the overhead lights flicker once above himâjust enough to catch the faint glint in his glasses, the raindrops still clinging to his collar. his tieâs 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. heâs holding two coffees, again. one in each hand, fingers careful, familiar. âi got an extra.â
you blink. glance at the cup, then at him.
ââŚyou didnât have to.â
âi know,â he says easily, voice dipped in something warm. âbut i wanted to.â
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 flipsâsharp and sudden, like the beginning of a fall.
he smiles like itâs nothing. like it didnât just change your whole morning.
âcareful,â he murmurs, gentle. âstill warm.â
you take the cup with both hands, like itâs 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.
youâve 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 stillâclark kent makes everything feel new. like every day is a question you donât know how to answer.
for at least three of those months, heâs been trying to get you to like him.
and for at least two of them, you haveâyou just havenât figured out what to do with it yet. itâs not the kind of crush that fizzes in your chest or leaves you giggling in the stairwell. itâs quieter than that. like something that curled up behind your lungs when you werenât paying attention.
youâve 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 whoâs kind for the sake of itâwho remembers the way you take your coffee, who always holds the elevator even when youâre still halfway down the hall, who never lets your silence feel like an inconvenience.
and always, alwaysâsmiles when you walk into the bullpen like itâs the best part of his day.
which is insane.
because youâre justâyou.
and clark kent isâŚ
wellâheâs clark kent.
he stops by your desk around noon.
youâre eating lunch, sort ofâpicking 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. youâre not really reading, not really chewing, just going through the motions. the office is soft around the edgesâphones ringing somewhere far off, the hum of conversation low and constant like the inside of a seashell.
suddenlyââhey.â
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.Â
you blink. âhey.â
âyou doing okay today?â
âyeah,â you say, too fast, too bright. âfine. just⌠work.â
he smiles like he knows exactly what that means. âsame.â
but he doesnât leave. he stays propped there, casual, like gravity doesnât 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. âyou, uh⌠you doing anything after work?â
you look up, a little slower this time.
âno,â you say. thenâtoo quick againââwhy?â
âoh. no reason.â his voice dips a little, softer now. âjust wondering.â
your mouth opens, then closes. you nod, like thatâs 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 heâs testing a door to see if it might open. âwell⌠let me know if you ever wanna grab dinner or something. yâknow. justâjust putting it out there.â
you blink twice.
ââŚcool.â
and then heâs 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 itâthe idea of it, the weight of it. the fact that he asked if you were free and said the word dinner like it didnât mean everything. like it didnât tilt your entire world an inch to the left.
your stomach swirlsâtoo many feelings, not enough space. youâre 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 youâve never been good at wanting things. youâve 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 doesnât stop trying.
he doesnât.
a few more days pass. he still brings you coffeeâalways says it like itâs an accident, like itâs nothing, like he didnât 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 youâre the only one in the room that matters.
and slowlyâso slowlyâyou 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 coffeeâblack, 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.
âoh,â he says, breath catching like he wasnât expecting it. âyou didnât have toââ
âi know,â you cut in gently. and this time, you smile. âbut i wanted to.â
his face changes thenâgoes 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.
âitâs still warm,â you murmur.
and thatâs the moment.
because clark kentâwhoâs always a little clumsy around you, who stutters when heâs nervous and laughs too loud and never stops fidgetingâgoes still.
he looks at you like youâve just solved something.
like the world just clicked into place.
âso are you,â he says softly.
and you look away, face burning, heart thudding against your ribs.
but you donât stop smiling.
youâre not even sure when he asked you.Â
it didnât happen in a way you could mark on a calendar or replay in your head like a movieâit was quieter than that, smaller. not some grand gesture, no dramatic pause, no flicker of violin music swelling in the background.Â
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 heâd 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 casualâtired, maybeâbut still impossibly kind.
âhey,â he said, voice lowered to something just above a whisper. âyou feel like dinner next friday? i know a place.â
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, â⌠like a date?â
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. âyeah,â he said, nodding. âlike a date.â
you had to swallow before answering, throat bone-dry like you hadnât drunk anything in hours. âokay,â you said. âsure.â
he grinned, full and boyish and easy, like youâd just made his entire day. âyeah?â
you nodded again, more like a reflex than a decision, and watched him walk off down the row of desksâhands stuffed in his pockets, hair still mussed, whistling under his breath like he didnât just knock the wind out of your lungs and rearrange your entire week.
now itâs friday. and youâre dressedâprobably.
youâve changed shirts at least three times, possibly more. theyâre all slung across the end of your bed now in crumpled piles that look like the aftermath of a storm.Â
you keep sitting down, then standing up again. your stomach wonât stop twisting. nothing in your closet feels rightânot cute enough, not subtle enough, not something heâll like, or maybe too much of something he will.Â
the mirror hasnât helped. every time you look, your eyes dart to different flaws. maybe your makeup is off. maybe you shouldâve tied your hair differently. maybe you shouldnât be trying at all. you keep asking yourself if this is too much. or worse, if itâs 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 youâre ready :)Â
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.Â
heâs outsideâwaiting. for you.
your hands shake when you reach for your coat. you fumble with the zipper, check your reflection one last timeânot 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.
heâs 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.Â
his foot taps a quiet rhythm against the sidewalk, not impatient, just something for the nerves to do while he waits. heâs 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 isnât the clothes that get you. it never is.
itâs the way his shoulders ease the second he sees you step out. like heâd been holding his breath and didnât know it. like you, just appearing, was enough to settle something in him.
âhey,â he says, voice catching faintly at the edges. âyou lookâwow. you look great.â
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 havenât already rehearsed. âyou⌠too,â you manage, already cringing. âi meanâyou look nice. really nice.â
his grin slips out before he can stop it, slow and crooked, like itâs 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 youâve 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.Â
it smells like roasted garlic and something sweet you canât quite name. the lighting is soft, gold and flickering like itâs coming from candles even though it isnât. 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 doesnât just drape it over the back of your seatâhe folds it over his arm and brings it to the front where the hostess is waiting.Â
when he comes back, he doesnât sit right away. just smiles at you, gentle and warm, like heâs checking to make sure youâre real. then, without needing to ask, he orders sparkling water for both of you, voice casual but kind. you donât realize until a few seconds later that itâs because he remembers you once said too many drink choices stress you out.
clark doesnât stop smiling. not once.
he keeps glancing at you between words, between bites, like heâs making sure youâre still here, still with him. like he canât quite believe it. his knee bumps yours once under the table and he doesnât 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 youâve done before. but your thoughts wonât stop spiralingâwhat 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. âyou okay? youâre quiet.â
you blink, startled. âiâm always quiet.â
he lets out a laugh, low and sweet. âtrue. but tonight it feels like youâre thinking quiet. not comfortable quiet.â
you look down, heart tightening. âsorry.â
his face shifts fast, all concern and softness. ânoâdonât apologize. i didnât mean it like that. i just meant⌠if thereâs anything i can do to make this easier, i want to.â
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.
ââŚiâve never really done this before.â
his brows draw in, just a little. âwhat? dates?â
you nod. âyeah. or, like⌠letting someone know i like them.â
he goes stillânot startled, not smug, just quiet. like you touched something inside him without meaning to.
ââŚyou like me?â he asks, and itâs not a joke. itâs not playful. itâs barely even a question. it sounds like a hope heâs been carrying around in his mouth, waiting for permission to say out loud.
your heart lurches. âi didnâtâI meanââ
âhey,â 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. âiâm glad. i like you too. obviously.â
you stare at his fingers. then at his face. heâs looking at you like you just gave him the answer to something heâs been wondering about for weeks.
ââŚreally?â
âreally,â he says, smiling so softly you feel your throat close. âso much itâs kind of embarrassing.â
you let out a laugh without meaning toâsmall 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 listensâlike every word you say is something worth holding. your answers are longer, fuller. less rehearsed. your eyes find his more often, and you donât always look away first.
itâs 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 itâs quieter now, that awkwardness. it doesnât buzz so loudly in your head. it feels like roomâspace to breathe, to figure it out. because youâre learning, and heâs 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 windowsâwarm 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.Â
when you reach your building, he slows, then stops just a few steps from the front door. he doesnât say anything right away. doesnât 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. youâre 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 shiftsâonly slightlyâbut itâs enough that your knuckles brush his.
he looks at you like heâs trying to read something between the lines. like heâs not sure if this is the end of the night or the beginning of something else. thereâs a flicker in his eyes, a held breath in the space between youâuncertain. should he lean in? should he back away? should he ask?
so you do it for him.
â⌠can we do this again?â 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. âyeah,â he says. his voice breaks just a little on the word. âgod, yeah. please.â
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 itâyou lean in, fast and awkward, and press a kiss to his cheek. itâs clumsy. too quick. your lips barely brush his skin before youâre pulling back like you touched something too hot.
âsorry,â you blurt. âthat was stupidââ
âno, noââ his hand catches yours before it can retreat, warm and sure. âit wasnât. i just didnât expect it.â
you look up.
heâs close now, closer than heâs ever been. the air between you feels thinner. heâs warmer than the night, than the streetlamp humming above you. his cheeks are a little pink, and heâs looking at you like youâre something good.
he clears his throat, voice low and careful. â... can i kiss you?â
your stomach does a full somersault.
you nod.
and clarkâclark kisses you like heâs afraid of getting it wrong. like this is the kind of thing you only get to do once, and he wants to make sure itâs perfect. his hand shifts to your cheek, not forceful, just there, a grounding touch as he leans in.Â
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 heâs wanted to for a long time and still canât believe he gets to.
when he pulls back, heâs smiling again.
not like someone caught in a daydream.
like someone who finally got to wake up beside one.
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, flirtinâ and fluff, springtime <3 no smut but mdni as always
wc: 2.1k
The pastures of Munson Farms are lit up in gold, Mayâs afternoon sun stretching to every inch of the forested property.Â
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 heartsâ content as you gaze at them through the window- propped open with an old book to usher in the sweet spring winds.Â
The last of your lunch dishes are rinsed and racked. Eddieâs been gone since dawn, lending a hand down the road at Wayneâs farm. Lambing season is in full swing.Â
Youâre well-practiced when it comes to sheep, but Eddie wanted to spare you the early rise and laborious tasks.Â
For once, you didnât argue.Â
Thereâs a lot of room in your heart for animals but last seasonâs 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.Â
So yes, youâre 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 Wayneâs flock.Â
Thereâs 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 shepherdâs body zip down the driveway, while Rosie moves behind with the slower, dignified shamble of an elder sheepdog.Â
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.Â
A squeak-slam of the driverâs door, a scramble of paws on gravel as the dogs whine-whimper in greeting. Thereâs a low chuckle and some firm patting noises, and then Eddieâs telling Goblin âGet offa me, you giant beast,â before the screen door of the house bangs shut.
Eddie sighs long and loud the moment heâs 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.Â
âHowdy.â
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.Â
âHiya. Howâd wrangling sheep go?â
Itâs a bit odd that he hasnât touched you yet- usually Eddie finds a way to attach himself to you within the first three seconds of return.Â
Odder still is the silence that meets your question. You turn to face him, tossing the dishtowel to the counter without a second glance.
Eddieâs 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. Thereâs a new spray of freckles across the bridge of his nose, cheeks slightly pink.Â
The smile fades, and without it, you realize he looks nervous.Â
Your heart kicks up in alarm. âWhat happened?â
âNothinâ.â Eddie shakes his head, then his eyes drop. âWell. Somethinâ.â
He fixes his hat back on and turns, gesturing down the hall- âGot you a present. Itâs in the truck.â
Fear gives way to suspicion and your eyes narrow. âOh, shit. Eddie. What is it?â
Eddie doesnât answer you.Â
Heâs 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.Â
You almost forget to be wary.
Goblinâs two front paws are planted on the foot rail of the truckâs passenger side door. Heâs sniffing intently through the half-rolled window, feathered tail swinging from side to side.Â
Eddie bends to slip an arm around the shepherdâs broad chest, moving him to the ground with a murmured âLook out, palâ 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.Â
Swathed in the fabric is the smallest lamb youâve ever seen.Â
The tiny thing bleats a watery, mournful maaa, its back leg kicking out from the wrapping, creamy white fur contrasted against black leather.Â
âSheâs a girl,â Eddie says, eyes soft but focused on the creature in his arms.Â
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. Heâs prancing against the gravel in a loop, yipping eagerly but containing his jumps to a minimum.Â
As Eddie steps closer, you can see the weak wobble of the lambâs 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- sheâs young enough that theyâre still a bit floppy, hanging on either side of her face and framing a pair of dark eyes and sweeping lashes.Â
âEddie-â 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.Â
âHer momma had too many in one litter. Couldnât keep up the milk with three, Wayne had to bottle feed her with the leftover colostrum stock. Plus, sheâs the smallest- wouldnât stand a chance in the pastures.â
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.Â
âAnd Wayne didnât want to keep her because- let me guess- he didnât want to wake up every three hours for feedings? Or sanitize equipment at 2 AM? Or worry about temp checks-â
âRight on the money. Youâre real smart.â Eddie grins at you, and god damn those dimples for hitting every weak spot you own.Â
He senses the softening in you- itâs 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 werenât expecting to be so vital, so integral. But youâre deeply grateful that it remains important to Eddie, and by extension, to you.Â
Eddie shifts the lamb to the crook of his elbow, then reaches his free hand for yours. âHere.â
He guides the tip of your pinky gently to the front of the lambâs mouth; she opens immediately and suckles, wet warmth tickling against your skin. The very tip of her tail peeks out from the fold of Eddieâs coat and it wiggles with each suck.Â
âFeel that?â Eddieâs voice is low at your ear, as if heâs being careful not to break the quiet moment. He smells like sweet hay grass and woodsmoke, a layer of sweat, too, musky from the dayâs work. âMeans sheâs a fighter.â
Unfortunately, you know exactly what this means. It means youâre 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.Â
And you know beyond doubt that youâll 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, whoâs nosing her way upwards to sniff at the newest addition to the farm.Â
âGoddammit,â 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.Â
âI know,â Eddie says, because he does.Â
It makes you ache, thinking of Eddieâs 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 Eddieâs 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.Â
âGood thing weâre both soft touches, hm?â
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. Sheâs about the size of a football, and probably a comparable weight; she bleats and kicks during the handoff but settles once youâve got her laid across the bare scoop of your chest.
You wrap the edges of your blouse around the entirety of her frame. Thereâs a fluttery whoosh at her ribs, the blip of her heartbeat now against your own.Â
The lambâs 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.Â
Entirely against your will, youâre already in love.
Eddieâs watching you with a gentle, knowing smile, even as he fields the energy of Goblin (who has taken permission to bodily launch into Eddieâs sides now that his hands are free).Â
âWhatcha gonna name her?â
âPain In My Ass, Junior.â
Eddie laughs.Â
You cuddle the lamb closer and give your real answer- âLetâs see if she survives the night. Then we can talk baby names.â
Rosie follows close behind as you walk to the house, falling into step like she knows her sheepdog duties have come back into play.Â
âIâm gonna need that kit from the barn,â you call from the back door, half-inside already.Â
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.
âYou got it, boss.â
The lamb, against all odds, fights.Â
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.Â
By morning, you still have a lamb. Unnamed, but alive.Â
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.Â
âSunrise,â he comments, voice husked with sleep. He stretches out a hand to rub at the tense spot where your neck and shoulder join. âPicked a title yet?â
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.Â
You chuckle, too, because despite the exhaustion itâs hard to feel anything but happy around a creature that is so darling and has come so far in such a short time.Â
âPetal.â You speak it into existence as you watch the lamb clumsily step on Rosieâs tail; the dog turns around with all the patience in the world to give a few licks to Petalâs nose. âItâs Rosieâs lamb, really. Iâm just the night nurse.â
Eddie takes a sip of his coffee, contemplating, his thumb working wonders on the knot in your trapezius. âDonât sell yourself short. I dunno anyone half as good as you at lovinâ things back to life.â
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 Eddieâs legs. Your arm slings around his knee, patting at him tenderly; he leans forward to kiss your temple.Â
Petal bleats, the loudest noise sheâs made to date.Â