#Acoustic drapes

[noiseproblems]

What exactly is an acoustic barrier?

An acoustic barrier is a fence type designed to lessen environmental noise from a specific source, like a construction site or a motorway. Acoustic barriers are made from a blend of insulative materials and high mass which are important for efficient soundproofing. The high mass will reflect the sound away and the insulation will absorb the sound that tries to pass through the acoustic barriers.

Can I use acoustic barriers on construction sites?

Yes, acoustic barriers must be used at noisy construction sites to palliate the noise pollution to the surrounding area and to adhere with regulations set out. Just like acoustic drapes, acoustic barriers are not just for the protection of the surrounding ambience, but also for the workers on site.

Using acoustic barriers to lessen traffic or road noise

It is not strange to build effective noise barriers directly beside motorways and busy roads. The blend of a car moving through the air, tires coming in contact with the road, and engines roaring, all build up to loud noise levels. To prevent these noises from entering your house, you can install window inserts for noise at your house.

Anybody can install acoustic barriers if necessary. Acoustic barriers have more mass, making them heavy to shift or lift. You have to consider the site access, jeopardize yourself, or others installing them at optimum conditions. When this is done, you should have an idea about the number of people necessary to safely install the acoustic barriers or sound absorbing wall art on your site.

Acoustic barrier panels are installed in the same way like a garden fence, with panels and posts to slot in. To make sure the acoustic barriers are completely effective, an acoustic seal is taped between the panels to prevent sound leakage.

[grammarpedant]

Oh it's that fucking thing! It used to be one of my talking points when I gave tours at the State House. Its fishy counterpart is a brass casting in State Senate's chandelier, sometimes called the Holy Mackerel.

Every day I learn something baffling about Massachusetts

[happy74827]

Bittersweet Moments

[Peter Maximoff x Female!Reader]

Synopsis: Your best friend (if you’d even call him that), is an annoying piece of work 99% of the time. But that 1%? That 1% is pretty special.

WC: 1513

Category: Fluff, Irritated!Reader, Mentions of Migraines

My first Evan Peters fic? Lets go.

『••✎••』

Being friends with that white-haired speedster meant you never had a moment of quiet. The guy was just so fast that you never had a second to blink without him pulling a prank on you, which is why you were constantly on edge around him. You could never trust him.

But that didn't mean that he didn't have his moments.

You were on the floor, eyes shut, attempting to fade the raging migraine out. You made your room into a dark cave and had been there all day, and yet, the pain in your head only grew.

By the time you heard your door creak open, you already felt the presence and the air in the room shift. It was almost like a ghost was floating through the doorway.

"No." The voice was quiet, and the sound was barely audible.

The soft footsteps stopped, and you opened one eye, seeing the blurred white figure. Your vision was blurry, and everything was doubled, but you could make out the face.

"You locked me out." The tone wasn't accusatory or playful. It was a soft, concerned tone that made your chest squeeze.

You rolled your head back, trying to look up at him.

"Sorry," you croaked. "But I’m also not sorry. I needed the silence."

"Yeah, yeah," he said dismissively. He crouched down his hand landing on your arm. His skin was cold against yours. "I know you secretly look forward to our little hangouts."

"No, I don't," you grumbled. "And I especially don't right now."

"Can’t even handle my presence without getting whiplash? Man, I must be really awesome."

You could faintly make out his smug smirk, and it made you snort, only worsening your headache.

"Just..." You waved your hand at him. "Get out. Leave."

He, in fact, did not leave. Instead, he stood up and went over to your bed.

You watched him in confusion as he took off his shoes, and then, with a quick flash of light, he was beside you once again, a blanket suddenly wrapped around him.

"Wh-" You were cut off as the blanket was draped around you, and you found yourself pulled up from the ground.

Peter's arm slipped around your shoulders, and he led you over to the bed. He pulled back the covers, and you climbed in, still unsure of what was going on.

Once you were in bed, he pulled the covers back up, and before you could say anything, his headset was ripped from your dresser. He placed them over his ears and lay down beside you.

He looked at you and nodded his head, giving you a thumbs-up.

You just stared at him, completely confused, but his gaze was unwavering. You let out a sigh, deciding to just roll with it. You were too tired to deal with Peter's bullshit anyway.

You rested your head on the pillow and shut your eyes.

A few moments later, a tune started playing, the music filling your ears. Not the loud, classic rock he usually blasted, but a soothing acoustic.

"You’re a fan of the Beatles?" You asked, surprised. You fluttered your eyes only to see Peter's face correctly. He looked like he was in deep thought. And with the soothing music from his Walkman (that he obviously lent to you) and the quiet, you couldn't help but feel a small tug on your heart.

He shrugged. "It just felt like the right song for the mood."

"Meaning… me dying?"

"Oh, stop being dramatic," he rolled his eyes. "Your little brain is just confused from having a devilishly handsome man lay in bed with you."

"You do realize I’ve had this for days now, right?"

"Alright, so, a devilishly handsome man around you. Is that better?"

"I can’t believe I let you in here," you grumbled, closing your eyes once more.

"Don't lie," he said, a little louder than usual since the music was loud in your ears. "You know you like my company—that and my box of sweets."

What box of—

Your eyes opened, and you looked up, seeing him holding a box of chocolate-covered almonds. Your heart did a flip.

"Is this... " You reached for the box, and he handed it to you.

"They're the good stuff. None of that cheap candy crap."

"Wow, you eat something other than Twinkies? I'm impressed," you teased, taking a piece and popping it into your mouth.

"Hey, don't hate the Twinkies. You ever try them with ice cream? It's great. It's like cake, but it's not, ya know? They're just so squishy, but the flavor is there."

"Uh, ew?"

"What, are you some fancy girl? Too high class for my delicious desserts?"

"Yeah, that's exactly it," you laughed, shaking your head. You rested your head on the pillow again.

"Whatever," he chuckled. "Eat your expensive ass almonds. I had to pay actual money for those, and I'm pretty sure Hank's going to notice they're gone."

That made you sit up despite the pounding in your head. "You stole them?! Oh my god, what's wrong with you?!"

"What?" he looked at you innocently. So I stole a box of chocolates. Big deal. The guy's rich. He never notices when I swipe his food. He'll just assume he forgot to put them away or something."

"Ugh, you are such an ass."

"You say ass; I say awesome."

"No," you said, putting another almond into your mouth. "Ass."

"Alright, fine. But, hey, look, who’s still eating the stolen chocolates?"

"Yeah, well," you smirked, taking another one. " Technically, I didn’t steal it. You did. So I can have a clear conscience."

"Ah, I see," he grinned. "Well, in that case, have another. Grab as many as you want. My treat."

You stared at him. "Okay, who are you, and what did you do with Peter?"

"What?"

"This," you gestured towards him. "All of this. You're never nice."

"Well, when you've had a migraine that's lasted for three days, you kinda learn to have a little empathy for that person."

"Three days?" you said, shocked. "Wait, how did you know the exact amount of time?"

"Don’t let anyone tell you you’re just a pretty face… I’m an all-seeing god, remember? Nothing can get by me."

"Except when Apocalypse broke—"

"Okay! Okay, I don’t need to relive that, alright? Sheesh, you're worse than Raven."

You grinned, taking another almond.

"Thanks," you said sincerely.

"For what? Comparing you to the blue lady? Anytime."

"No," you rolled your eyes. "I mean, for not pulling a… well, you. I really do appreciate it."

"Does this mean you’re leaving the Batcave? If we're getting sappy, then I should probably head out. I don’t want to risk my rep."

"You and I both know you have no reputation."

"True," he smiled. But hey, a guy can dream, right?"

You laughed, shaking your head. You were about to lay back down when he spoke up again.

"Actually," he said, looking at the ceiling, "there is one thing I'm good at."

"What's that?"

He didn't say anything. He just stared at the ceiling.

"Pete?"

His head whipped around to you, and with the same speed, he was leaning over you, his face inches away from yours.

"Peter, what—"

He leaned forward and pressed his lips to your ear, and the comment you were about to say died in your throat.

"I can shut up."

The sound of his voice, so soft and low, sent shivers down your spine. He pulled away and gave you a quick smile.

"Just something to think about," he said, and you could see the red tint on his cheeks. He sat up and stood in front of you before you could say anything else.

"You can give the Walkman back whenever, so, uh, don't worry about it. Anyway, I gotta get going. You know, stuff to do and snacks to eat." He turned towards the door. "Anyway, feel better. Later."

And before you could comprehend what had just happened, he was gone just like the wind.

You sat in your bed, still feeling the phantom feeling of his breath on your ear.

And ironically, the pain in your head was starting to fade.

So, yes. Despite him being an annoying little shit, he did have his moments. Genuine, quiet, caring moments. And it always made you question whether or not he was secretly a clone.

You were still staring at the door, your mind running a mile a minute.

But then, as if he could read your thoughts, he peeked his head back into your room.

"Oh, and if you tell anyone about this, I'll tell everyone you're a huge Star Wars nerd."

He vanished, and a second later, he was back once more.

"Also, I definitely didn’t steal that Walkman from a certain someone, so, uh, have fun with the mixtape!"

With that, he was gone.

You rolled your eyes and laid back down, putting the headphones back on.

"Ass."

You will definitely be visiting the white-haired speedster tomorrow. He may have his moments, but that doesn't mean he doesn't deserve some good old-fashioned payback.

[eiightysixbaby]

obsessed with the idea of late-summer evenings spent with eddie, when you’re sort of almost dating but not quite yet.

he borrows wayne’s truck, drives the two of you out somewhere kind of secluded. he’s packed blankets to line the bed of the truck with, he makes it real cozy for both of you once he’s parked somewhere. you sit cross-legged, knees touching shyly as he strums softly on his guitar, the trusty acoustic producing such pretty sounds.

sometimes he just plays, other times he’ll sing softly along. usually when he sings he tries to make it special, choosing something you like. he wants to impress you, wants to make sure you understand how much he likes you. he’ll learn your favorite songs on guitar specifically for nights like these, even if the music isn’t always his taste. he likes the way you smile bashfully when you recognize the opening notes to the latest song you’ve latched onto.

he’s completely captivated by the way the indiana sunsets cast you in a pretty golden-orange glow, and in these moments he doesn’t want summer to end. there’s just something about how radiant you are in the sunlight, in your shorts and your ringer tees.

it’s at the point in the year where the nights start to get chilly, and when the sun goes down he always gives you his jacket, like clockwork. it doesn’t help his pounding heart, seeing you in his clothes. even if it’s just his leather jacket draped over your shoulders, he swears it’s gonna send him into cardiac arrest one of these days.

sometimes, after sundown when you’ve folded away the blankets and packed up the guitar, he’ll insist that you stop at the diner on the way home. it’s just his excuse for more time with you, the food isn’t even that good. he pays every time, despite your protests, though he lets you plead with him for a couple minutes because you look so damn cute when you pout at him,

and when he drops you off, he walks you to your front porch, stalling the goodnight as long as he can. he knows he’ll see you tomorrow anyway — or the day after that at the very latest — but it doesn’t matter. he wants every second he can get.

he wants to time it just right, without rushing, but he can’t wait for the night where he asks you to be his, for real.

[valeriianz]

Mega Popstar Dream and Hob, his extremely non-famous celebrity crush: THE FIC!

for @cuubism! based on this incredible post! Sorry it took me like, 6 months to write :') 5k later, here we are!

----------------------------------------------

“Alright, plans for today…” Lucienne plops down on the sofa across from Dream, a tablet in her hand and a cup of tea waiting for her on the coffee table. 

Dream is still in his sleep clothes; the pants of a mulberry silk, midnight black pyjama set, forgoing the matching long sleeve buttoned top for nothing but his favourite cashmere cardigan that is a size too big on him, draping over his shoulders elegantly and hanging open to reveal his bare, hair-free chest. He’s curled up on the corner of the couch with an old acoustic guitar in his hands, idly strumming away while a notebook sits waiting for him by his side.

Matthew, one of his trusted publicists, would sarcastically quip about how “work never stops,” but it’s more like “inspiration never stops.” Words and melodies are constantly floating around in Dream’s head, and if he doesn’t at least have a pen and paper with him at all times, they will drift away as soon as they come.

Dream listens as Lucienne goes over their itinerary. Awards season is upon them and these days a lot of Dream’s time is spent in appointments with designers and agents for campaigns and endorsements, even media training, still, at Dream’s level in his career. He still has the occasional gaff when speaking in anything that isn’t a practised interview. And, although Dream has gotten better at red carpet events, where a microphone is spontaneously shoved in his face, that coupled with all the flashing lights and overlapping chatter has made him dissociate more than a few times.

Dream nods along when Lucienne pauses to make sure he’s paying attention. He is. And she knows his quirks by now; that he needs to be constantly moving when taking in information. His fingers fluttering along the neck of the guitar, producing quiet blooms of sound that quickly fade away in the space between them.

“And then after lunch is the YouTube appearance…”

Dream stops playing.

“The what?”

Lucienne looks up at him over her coke-bottle glasses. 

“The interview with Centuries, the up-and-coming YouTube channel. We discussed it back in August.”

Right, Dream vaguely remembers the name. He doesn’t watch much YouTube… unless it’s interviews or clip compilations of Robert Gadling from his TV show, Prophecy. He’d be more ashamed of his search history if everyone on his team didn’t already know about his absurd crush.

Dream merely nods, trusting Lucienne and his team by now to handle trivial things like interviews or guest appearances. If he had needed to do any modicum of research beforehand, he would have by now. 

But now Dream’s imagination starts to wander, thinking about the video he’d watched before going to bed last night, his phone clutched in his hand while he took in a behind the scenes feature of the stars of Prophecy going through their period typical wardrobe and makeup, replaying Robert Gadling’s part over and over again. The way the hairdresser had combed her fingers through Robert’s hair, pulling it back to reveal his forehead and bushy eyebrows, expressive as ever, lifted up as he smiled widely in the mirror, the skin around his eyes crinkling with it.

Or the set’s costume designer taking Robert’s measurements, revealing the man in a thin white henley and boxer briefs, the camera only panning down for a moment to capture his tan, corded thighs just thick with hair and taking Dream’s breath away, squirming under the sheets of his too-big California king-sized bed. 

It was bad… Dream’s infatuation with Robert. His team had been worried at first, knowing the gossip columnists loved it when Dream got into a new relationship, shamelessly publishing questions of how long this one will last? And going down the timeline of Dream’s past lovers, all heat and passion at first, before inevitably getting snuffed out by their own intensity. 

Despite Dream’s track record– or maybe because of it– many people, male and female, had tried to capture the performer’s attention. Willing to endure the heartbreak at the end because, as nearly all Dream’s partners had attested to, Dream was an excellent lover. And perhaps, to them, the high was worth the pain.

But Dream had set himself on a firm break from romance. His heart couldn’t take it, so instead he pined, though not from afar. If media outlets were to take him seriously, they’d have a real story to invest in.

Perhaps newsmongers thought it was a joke, the way Dream was so candid about his interest in Robert. In past affairs, the public would just suddenly see Dream cozied up with a new paramour– no need to speculate when Dream would always just go for it.

Dream is surprised, too. His listeners are usually so quick to judge Dream’s suitors and even his relationships. Perhaps it is because Robert Gadling is barely a celebrity, in the eyes of Hollywood.

Prophecy is a BBC program, one of those low budget, historical dramas where romance doesn’t propel the plot, so unfortunately the series hadn’t garnered much success. Which Dream was boarderlined annoyed by. The writing was fantastic, the acting– superb. And Robert Gadling specifically… 

If Dream’s staff noticed how often his mind would wander into daydreams, a woebegone sigh escaping his lips, they didn’t say anything. Leaving Dream to write vague love songs that his fans speculated which ex it was about.

Despite his maddening crush on Robert Gadling, Dream refused to act on it. Not only because he was on a self-imposed break, but he truly was so terrified of rejection. Or worse, dating Robert and having things fizzle out, like they always did. 

Dream knew he wouldn’t survive it if Robert and him were to ever cross paths. So he made sure to steer clear of any events where they might overlap, even going so far as to inform his staff to keep their distance. 

Hiring a friend like Lucienne to be Dream’s manager had one downfall though; she knew him better than himself at times. And she was devious.

-----------------------------------------------------

Hob tugs on his ear as he sits in a chair at the table that’s been set up for his surprise meeting with Dream. The crew is still hovering– even after bustling around and getting everything set up.

It’s not that Hob is regretting this… but it is starting to feel awkward, waiting for Dream to arrive, to surprise him. What if the show’s producers were wrong? What if Dream took one look at Hob and turned right back around?

Though Hob had done some research of his own, after his agent had called him and offered the opportunity to him. Because that’s what this was… an offer— a favour, of sorts. He was barely getting paid for his time here, this was basically just for fun, and “exposure,” a word YouTubers loved throwing around. 

He’d heard of Dream, obviously, despite Hob’s lack of social media and smartphone. You’d have to be living underground to not have heard of Dream, the mega rock-star phenomenon that had risen to fame a short five years ago and was only getting more and more popular, especially as he began adding pop elements into his music.

Hob wouldn’t call himself a fan though. He knows the hits that played on endless repeat on the radio, what he hears in coffee shops and what his co-workers talk about. Hob doesn’t dislike the music, it’s very catchy and he can clearly hear why Dream is so popular. He is one of the few currently dominating the charts because he has actual talent. Dream writes and composes his own music and isn’t tied down by a label (anymore), it’s incredibly impressive.

Hob took the time to get into his music before this meeting. Dream’s lyrics are truly stunning, his arrangements unique and reflective of the words he would croon into the mic. Interestingly, Hob found himself enjoying the more dismissive tracks on Dream’s albums, the songs that weren’t mainstream, especially from his early records.

Hob took on the task of learning more about Dream like he would going into a new role. He liked falling into wormholes about a trade or language he had to learn, and he always put 100% of himself into anything he did. So it was inevitable that he would wind up discovering more and more things about Dream than he had originally intended. Becoming more and more interested and, unexpectedly, attached.

While he had been knee-deep in his music, Hob also watched plenty of interviews with Dream, finding the man to be more withdrawn and selective with his words. He was allusive and coy, and extremely awkward. Watching the way he would interact with TV hosts or answer random questions at red carpet events became endearing. When Dream was caught by surprise, this little lopsided smile would creep out and he would stammer over his words.

It was endearing, and surprisingly… cute.

Hob only had about a day to question if Dream really had a crush on him, like the producers of the show claimed. It didn’t take long before Hob found a late night interview with Dream where the host had pivoted to TV shows and casually asked Dream what he was currently watching.

Dream’s eyes lit up. He shifted to be more on the edge of his chair, and even leaned forward a bit.

“Prophecy.” Dream had said with full emphasis on every letter. “You watch it too, yes?”

“It is growing on me.” The host had admitted, similarly struck dumb by Dream’s entire switch in demeanour. 

And Dream goes on a tirade about how good the show is, the story, the set design, the costumes. How he’s not an actor, has never been on a TV or film set, but he can see all the detail and love and hard work poured into the show and is admittedly obsessed with it.

“And Robert Gadling…” Hob’s heart had leapt in his throat at the way Dream nearly moaned out his full name. “... he’s just so… passionate in his work. His face is so expressive and it’s like he becomes Ser Gideon.”

“Big fan, then?” The host smirked conspiratorially.

“Oh yes,” Dream admitted, crossing his legs and lolling his head to one side, getting comfortable. “I discovered him while watching Prophecy, and fell down a rabbit hole of his previous work. He mostly does stage, you know. And I’ve always admired live art, the theatre. And God– he does it so splendidly. He acts with his entire body and it’s just–”

“Sounds like you have a bit of a crush.” The host cuts in, his smirk sharpening as Dream throws a glare at him for interrupting. 

But then Dream smiles, a tiny thing at the corner of his mouth and his eyes fall. The crowd erupts into a chorus of cheers, goading Dream on and encouraging his embarrassment.

“Well,” Dream pulls his head up, resting it in the palm of his hand. “He’s very dashing, wouldn’t you say?”

Dream’s fingers on his other hand drum along his knee, his gaze gone wistful and distracted. It’s adorable, and maybe could be seen as an act, if not for the answer he gives the host after the next question.

“Have you ever told him of this? I’m sure Robert would be very flattered to hear he has such a notable fan.”

“Oh no. I could never,” Dream withdraws slightly. “If I were to ever see his face in person I’d probably die.”

The audience laughs good-naturedly but Dream has a pretty pink flush spreading up his neck now. 

It’s all downhill from there, Hob discovers. Apparently that had been the first time Dream had admitted to his little crush on Hob and after that, the subject would be brought up again and again, sporadically throughout the course of (if the timestamps on the YouTube videos could be believed) over a year.

Over a year of the very famous Dream proclaiming openly his very serious attraction to Robert Gadling and Hob had somehow never known of this.

Until the day his agent called him, a couple months ago, and asked if he wanted to be on this show. The gimmick was– typically– people (read: fans) meeting their celebrity crush. But for this new season, Centuries had a twist: celebrities meeting their celebrity crush. 

Hob had no idea what to wear. For Dream it would be a surprise, unless his agent instructed him to dress a certain way, Hob could only assume the man would show up in casual attire. So that’s how Hob opted to present himself. He wore a forest green jumper, the sleeves pushed up in the warm cafe, and a pair of simple blue jeans. His hair had gotten pretty long, at the director’s request for the next season of Prophecy, so he’d pulled that up into a small bun that struggled to stay in place. He opted to put in his contacts, though Hob was starting to regret it, wanting something to fidget; his hand kept unconsciously lifting to touch frames that he wasn’t wearing.

Hob tried not to think too hard about his look today. He knew Dream (shockingly, unbelievably) liked him, but for some reason didn’t want him to be disappointed in what he saw. What if Dream took one look at him and realised Hob wasn’t what he thought? What if the real thing didn’t compare to whatever Dream was making up in his mind? And why did Hob care at all?

Perhaps, because… Dream was. Well. Dream. 

Hob wasn’t blind. Dream was beautiful. Hob was sure the lavish lifestyle Dream undoubtedly lived in helped, what with top of the line skin care products and a dietician to make sure he stayed healthy and youthful. Whatever other products Dream used in his hair, on his straight, perfectly white teeth, even down to his nails– clean and pretty, cuticles invisible, usually covered in varnish that matched with whatever expensive outfit he was wearing that day.

And Hob. Well.

Hob wasn’t shy, he knew he was conventionally attractive, the attention he used to get even before his appearance in television clued him in on that. But nothing about him really stood out. Just another face in the crowd. He didn’t have any outstanding features, no connections in the industry, he was a very private person who… sometimes regretted accepting his role in Prophecy. Into Hollywood. 

Hob didn’t have social media. It’s something his manager had admonished him about, early on in his career. It would help connect with his fan base, his manager had said. Would be good for connecting with others in the industry as well, and building a social media following was just something everyone did. But Hob had refused. He’d always been a private person, even before he started acting. It was the one thing he refused to give up: his confidentiality.

How could someone like Dream, who had limitless options, countless people fawning over him, find Hob in a sea of faces and latch on like he did? How was he able to know so much about him, when Hob had been so careful to not stand out? It was enough to make Hob skeptical, flattered– a swarm of contradictions but mostly… curious. Hob was so curious.

It was his best and worst trait.

The entire coffee shop, a locally owned one that perhaps was easiest to rent out for a couple hours, is barren of customers, only the crew of the YouTube show present as well as Hob’s small entourage and several of Dream’s agents, as well as a few of the cafe’s staff, patiently waiting behind the counter.

It’s a little awkward, to say the least. 

After Hob has drained his second glass of water and traced every grain on the table’s surface, someone announces that Dream is finally arriving and it’s like a switch is flipped in the room. Everyone either goes ramrod straight, or twitchy with nerves. It’s enough to break the tension in Hob, replaced by amusement, momentarily distracted and wondering if he’d ever cause such a reaction just by the sound of his name.

And now Hob, for his part, doesn’t know what to do.

The producers had informed him to just act natural, be himself, that this was essentially a blind date. But calling it a “date” only made Hob sweat. This definitely was not a date. He looked around at the camera’s pointed at him and at the door, a little red light on them blinking to indicate that they were recording. Hob sighed, slouching a little in his seat and taking steady breaths in through his nose and out his mouth, his hand out on the table’s surface and drumming his fingers. Christ, there wasn’t even music playing, all was quiet in the room.

At last, the front door to the cafe opens with a jaunty ring of a bell and Dream steps through. He halts as soon as the door swings shut behind him though, his gaze imperceptible behind a pair of dark Ray-Ban shades, but his head swivels around, visibly confused before a woman out of sight of the cameras (Lucienne, she had introduced herself as, Dream’s manager), catches his attention and nods with a smile.

Why is everyone so quiet? Hob bites his lip, he’s bursting to say something, even a simple hello, but had been told to remain silent until Dream initiated contact. But Dream is clearly uncomfortable, stepping cautiously, like a cat in unknown territory. 

“What’s this?” Dream speaks, mostly toward Lucienne. His voice sends a pleasant shudder up Hob’s spine, despite how caution colors his tone. It’s a lovely voice. Smooth like chocolate, clear and deep, commanding attention. Hob had heard it countless times through his headphones, singing or giving an interview, but the full force of it in person made Hob’s heart jumpstart in his chest.

And he’d only spoken two words.

Hob is tucked away into a corner table, next to a window with a deep burgundy curtain drawn over it. It’s perhaps why Dream only spots him only once he’s fully in the center of the room, his head turning and his entire posture freezing up.

It’s a little silly, to see how Dream still hasn’t taken off the sunglasses, but even more so that Hob is somehow able to tell that Dream’s gaze has found him, draped over him like a physical thing.

Hob waves, putting on an easy smile, afraid to spook the man further. He also– fuck these producers– speaks first.

“Hello,” Hob swallows his nerves, keeping his voice soft. “Would you, ah– would you like to sit?”

Hob gestures to the empty seat across from him.

It takes a moment, and Hob’s smile grows as Dream just continues to stare. He’s suddenly grateful for the shades, certain that if he had to experience the full force of those eyes on him, Hob would be just as– if not more– nervous than Dream.

And it’s the obvious fact that Dream is nervous that somehow manages to calm Hob down a little. It’s also doing wonders for his ego, if he’s being completely honest with himself.

Dream swallows, and the movement catches Hob’s attention, watching how his throat moves and the way the snow white skin there begins to flush a pretty pink. 

Cute.

Dream at last takes a step forward, then another. His focus zeroed in on Hob, which kicks up Hob’s calming heartrate, his breath coming out in shorter intervals because– fuck. Dream is dressed to kill.

A fitted black jacket with narrow labels, open and revealing a black, smoky, intricately woven sheer top with subtle ruffles that drape down the collar like a scarf. He’s wearing a silver watch on one wrist and a mess of silver bracelets on the other. The pants match the jacket and they go on for miles. Hob licks his lips as he feels his mouth drying. The black boots Dream wears reveal a red outsole, the flash of color barely perceptible with every step.

Dream’s lips part, expression otherwise unreadable, when suddenly he walks full on into the back of a chair.

The sound of the collision is like a balloon popping in the quiet room. His hands fly up to grab the chair, steadying it but his legs continue on, stumbling and causing the chair to scrape loudly on the hardwood floor. Hob makes to stand and help, just as Dream topples forward, one hand attempting to latch onto the table for support and taking that down as well in a noisy crash.

Hob vaults upwards just as the room tenses around them, frozen with uncertainty, and a camera comes in close. Hob barely perceives it, wanting nothing more than to shove the man operating it away, but his focus is on Dream, laying in a heap on the floor among the table and chair.

He hears some muffled jittering and sends a glare up in the general direction, catching Lucienne’s worried expression– she’s taken a few steps forward as well– along the way.

Hob collapses to his knees at Dream’s head just as the camera arrives and Hob can’t stop himself from waving the man away, shooting him a disgusted look, before looking to Dream again.

“Hey, you okay? Anything hurt?”

Hob’s hands spread out uselessly, wondering if it was okay for him to touch Dream. His glasses are askew and he’s lolled his head to the side, nearly knocking them completely off. Hob could see his eyes squeezed shut, his ears beet red.

“Just my pride,” came a small, miserable response.

Hob smiled, huffing a short laugh as he chanced to reach out and gently swipe his fingers over the top of Dream’s head, pulling hair out of his face.

Dream’s eyes open and peek sideways. Hob, again, felt his breath catch. Blue. Like the clear ocean, glinting from the sun’s rays. Or like gemstones– sapphire, sharp and bright. Wow.

“Wow…” Hob hears himself speak and blushes, heat spreading up his neck. 

Dream’s eyes widened, turning to flop on his back and letting those expensive shades fall from his face and Hob was struck by the full force of those blue eyes. 

They’re just as captivating as he’d imagined, even more so, up close and in person.

Hob almost forgets they are surrounded by a camera crew, almost lets himself touch Dream again, imagines putting his hands on either side of his face, just to feel how warm his skin must be, tinged pink. It’s so endearing… and such an attractive look on him, only making the blue of his eyes pop so much more.

But at that moment someone coughs politely and Hob comes back to reality, blinking and clearing his throat. The sound startles Dream, who flinches, still on the floor, and looks side to side.

Hob helps him up, slowly, his nerves singing as Dream’s hand lingers in his as he manages to stand to his full height. There’s a moment of corporeality where Lucienne finally approaches Dream, as well as someone else on his staff, double checking that he’s in fact, okay.

Dream nods and mumbles something to them, his gaze continuing to swing over to Hob, as if checking that he’s still there.

The irritation and distrust that Dream carried on his shoulders when he’d entered the room have vanished, replaced by awkward tension and acceptance. He’s still obviously embarrassed by what happened, his hand rubbing the back of his neck and his lips pulled in to form a thin line, eyes focused as he’s mic’d up, understanding now what kind of position he’d been forced into.

Well, maybe not forced. He looks at Hob again, who’s taken his seat again at the table. Not forced, tricked maybe. Dream probably thought this was an interview of some sort, there must’ve been a reason he was dressed up so well.  

Eventually, Dream sits with him, drinks are brought to them (a coffee for Hob and a tea latte for Dream), and they take a moment to sip the hot beverages.

It’s good coffee, at least. Hob looks into his drink as he sets the mug down, thumbing over the lip of the ceramic cup. He lifts his lashes to watch Dream, who’s also studying his drink, dunking the tea bag over and over again in the liquid.

Hob nibbles on his bottom lip, his fingers now tapping on the mug, his brain sifting through a thousand ice breakers, a thousand things to say, before sighing and leaning back as casually as he can.

“I know you didn’t plan this” Hob starts, falling back on an old charm he hopes will break the tension. “But this is the strangest way to get a man’s attention.”

Dream snorts into his drink and Hob laughs as it sprays foam over the table’s surface.

Hob wipes the mess with a napkin while Dream hides his mouth behind his hand, flustered all over again. Hob smiles. This Dream is so unlike how the man presents himself in public. Poised, professional, god-like. Dream wielded his star power well, it commanded attention and intimidation, only faltering enough to garner his loyal fanbase, to give himself human qualities that listeners could connect with and fawn over.

Like the rambling during red carpet interviews. Or talking about Robert Gadling… talking about him. 

But Hob had never seen… this. The stumbling, the blushing, the insecurity. It made something warm and incredibly fond well up in his chest.

Dream finally collects himself, taking a breath and dropping his hand back to fiddle with the handle of his cup.

“What about your attention?” Dream tilts his head to one side, eyes gone playful but still with a hint of nerves behind them, uncertainty.

Hob’s smile hesitates before he laughs softly, shaking his head in delight. 

He had not anticipated that Dream would flirt.

“I think all you had to do was look at me,” Hob murmured softly, ducking his head a little, letting himself be honest because– how could he not? 

Dream’s lips parted, his face gone lax. 

And that pretty blush crawling up his neck again, making Dream drop his head slightly, a tiny, shy smile peeking through, making something take hold of Hob’s heart and give it a squeeze.

“You can’t just say that.”

“I’m not. Just saying it.” He wants to say more, actually. Hob gets it now. He gets it. Why Dream has half of the fucking world at his feet.

Suddenly, Hob wishes he was the only one. The only person to worship Dream, to know his smiles and his voice, how easy it was to make him blush and stammer. 

Hob takes a long breath and realizes, oh God, I’m gonna fall in love, aren’t I?

Dream nearly squirms in his seat, meeting Hob’s gaze again like he can’t help it. Like he’s amazed Hob’s here at all, before he blinks and casts his gaze to the side, at the large handful of people in the dining room. Hob looks too– just a quick glance. He’d forgotten for a moment there that they had an audience.

So Hob hums thoughtfully, drumming his fingers on his cup before propping an elbow up on the table and resting his chin in his palm.

“So,” Hob grabs Dream’s attention, thinking it best to divert the conversation… for the moment. “... when did you know you wanted to become a singer?”

They relax again as the conversation turns casual. They share their history, from childhood to now. Dream admits he never entertained the idea that he could perform professionally… he liked to sing and play at open mic nights, but the idea of fame scared him. But it was all he knew how to do, he said. Play guitar and write poetry. 

Hob shares that sentiment, but with acting. He’d loved the stage and figured he’d be happy doing that forever. Auditioning for a small part in a film was just for fun, and then it’d snowballed from there. Prophecy was his first major role, but already he was making headway, catching attention (mostly because he was so private) and rejecting offers from other major studios. Hob did enjoy acting in front of a camera, it was fun, in a different way. But for now he wanted to stick with indie stuff and small roles. Unsure if this was the life he wanted for himself.

Dream had gone quiet again, at that, his gaze faraway. Hob wondered what he was thinking about, but before he could ask, Dream changed the subject, asking about Hob’s favorite plays.

Then Hob asks about Dream’s favorite poets, writers, what book he was reading right now. They discuss music and the cities they’ve lived in, sharing embarrassing stories that crack Hob up and make Dream laugh out loud, the atrocious sound unable to be hidden behind a hand.

Hob stares and stares and wonders what he’d been doing his entire life.

Dream has this aura about him, his own gravitational pull, and Hob is powerless to its charm, getting sucked into the point where Hob never wants to leave. He could get lost in the blue of his eyes, his shy smiles. Hob is smitten. And probably a little bit in love.

Before Hob is ready to let Dream go, someone announces that it’s time to wrap up. The spell is broken and the two men fall silent once more.

The director instructs them to say some final lines, some awkward dialogue that apparently is traditional with this channel’s gimmick, and then the shoot is proclaimed to be finished.

Like a dream, everyone is already chatting amongst themselves, scattering about, though the cameras on the tripods remain on. Lucienne walks up the table, thanking Hob for his time and energy, shaking his hand, before turning to Dream.

Hob’s head spins. The illusion is shattered, and Hob has a fraction of a second to wonder if it was all a setup.

But that thought is squashed as Dream’s face sours at something another man says over his shoulder, trying to encourage him to stand and make their way to their next appointment “... already 8 minutes behind schedule…” and Dream looks desperately towards Hob.

Hob stands at the same time as Dream, his mouth working uselessly as he scrambles to say something– anything, to keep Dream here. To borrow him in private for just a moment, just a second!

Hob is only reminded how Dream is an international celebrity by how quickly he is escorted away from him. Despite how well they’d gotten along, despite how they’d run over the shoot time because no one wanted to disturb them. Because there was something there, Hob knew it. And now it was being ushered away from him.

Frantic, Hob asks to borrow a pen from one of the staff members, hastily scribbling down his phone number on a napkin. He turns his mic pack off, and, with a quick glance around, spots Dream standing off to the side as his manager speaks with the show's producer, likely just saying goodbye to them as well.

Hob tries to school his expression into something that’s not insane as he marches up to Dream, catching his attention immediately and holding out his hand.

Dream takes it, a flash of curiosity and wonder– still– at the sight of Hob before him.

Hob clenches Dream’s cool, bony fingers in his, pressing the napkin against his palm.

“It was a pleasure meeting you,” Hob says, very aware that there are still cameras around them.

“Likewise,” Dream says, his chin tilting down, a secretive smile curling his lips as he certainly feels the napkin in his hand.

Hob smiles, too. He swallows before leaning in close, bringing his free hand up to cover Dream’s lav mic, just in case it’s still on, and brushing his lips against Dream’s ear.

“I’d love to see you again, without cameras.”

A quiet gasp tickles Hob’s eardrum and he grins as he pulls back, elated at the spark of mischief in Dream’s eyes.

“I would like that…” Dream whispers, his low voice cutting Hob straight to his core and knocking the wind out of him.

Hob can only nod, feeling dizzy, as Dream’s hand closes around the napkin and they separate.

Dream nods too, smiling as he’s finally turned away and out of Hob’s sight.

(stay tuned for part two! in like... another 6 months to a year lol)

[goldsainz]

# FC43 — NAVIDAD, DULCE NAVIDAD !

MASTERLIST !

SERIES MASTERLIST !

001. SUMMARY !

✯ you spend christmas with franco and his family on their farm.

002. WARNINGS !

✯ lots of argentinian food references.

003. NOTE !

✯ this has been the funnest of all the parts to write, simply because it’s the closest to my christmas experience. i kinda went overboard with all the food references, but it’s my culture and i’m proud of it yk?

word count : 1,8k

As the sun sets over the wide, open fields of the farm, the air fills with the rich aroma of the asado cooking on the grill. Smoke rises in gentle swirls, carrying the scent of sizzling chorizos and perfectly seasoned steaks. Franco moves with ease among his family, greeting relatives with cheek kisses and exchanging cheerful banter. He laughs easily, his relaxed demeanor infectious, and yet, you can’t help but notice the way his eyes find yours amidst the bustling activity. The warmth of the glowing fairy lights draped across the wooden beams of the patio matches the joy in his dark eyes whenever he looks your way.

The night hums with the sound of acoustic guitar, Franco’s cousin leads the music with lively claps, encouraging others to join in. Laughter bubbles around the long wooden table, where plates of empanadas, chimichurri-drenched meats, and bowls of creamy ensalada rusa are passed from hand to hand. Glasses of malbec and sparkling cider clink together in cheerful toasts. Franco’s family welcomes you with open arms, their warmth and humor making you feel as though you’ve been part of these celebrations forever.

“Come on, sing with me!” Franco's cousin calls out, grinning at you. “Don’t be shy—Franco’s been bragging about how good your voice is.”

You laugh nervously, glancing at Franco, who shrugs with a sheepish smile. “I might have mentioned it,” he says, his tone teasing.

Before you can respond, Franco’s mum appears, balancing a tray of freshly baked pan dulce. Her warm eyes crinkle with a smile as she sets it down on the table. “So, this is the one who’s stolen Franco’s attention,” she says, her tone playful but kind. She places a hand on your arm, her touch light and reassuring. “He talks about you all the time, you know.”

“Mamá,” Franco groans, his ears turning red as his mum chuckles.

“Don’t ‘Mamá’ me,” she says, raising an eyebrow at her son before turning back to you. “I’m glad he brought you here. It’s not easy to keep up with him, but it’s clear you’ve done a good job.”

You smile, feeling the warmth in her words. “Thank you for having me. Everyone’s been so welcoming—it’s easy to see why Franco loves it here.”

She nods, her expression softening. “Family is everything to us. And anyone Franco cares about becomes part of our family too.”

The guitar music shifts to a softer tune, and Franco’s cousin calls out again. “Alright, enough talking! Join in already!” He strums a familiar melody, and the group begins singing along, their voices weaving together like an impromptu choir.

Franco leans closer to you, his voice low. “If you sing, I’ll sing too,” he offers with a grin. “But I can’t promise I’ll be in tune.”

You laugh, nudging him lightly. “Deal. But don’t blame me if everyone starts covering their ears.”

As the evening wears on, Franco’s cousin pulls you both into the group, his energy contagious. You find yourself singing, clapping, and laughing alongside the family, the warmth of their joy wrapping around you like a cozy blanket. Even Franco, who earlier seemed content to stay in the background, joins in with an endearingly off-key enthusiasm that leaves everyone in fits of laughter. His mum watches from the side, her eyes glowing with pride as she sees her son so happy.

Later, as you sit down with a plate of dessert, Franco’s cousin plops down next to you, holding a bottle of beer. “So,” he says with a sly smile, “how’s it feel being the star of Franco’s stories? He usually doesn’t bring anyone here unless they’re pretty special.”

You glance at Franco, who’s caught mid-laugh across the table. “I think I’m still getting used to all of this,” you admit. “But it’s been amazing.”

“Good answer,” the cousin says with a wink. “We’re glad you’re here. And trust me, if you ever need embarrassing Franco stories, I’ve got plenty.”

Franco catches the last part of the conversation and groans. “Don’t you dare,” he warns, but his grin betrays the lightheartedness in his tone.

The cousin leans closer, whispering just loud enough for you to hear. “I’ll let you in on a secret—he may act cool, but he’s got a soft spot a mile wide. You’ll see.”

The evening unfolds with warmth and laughter, each moment weaving you further into Franco’s world. Amid the lively chatter and clinking glasses, you often catch Franco’s gaze, his dark eyes softening with unspoken emotion every time they meet yours.

As the guitar music shifts to a softer tune, Franco leans over, his voice low enough to be heard only by you. “Come on,” he whispers, his lips curving into a playful smile as he tilts his head toward the fields. “I want to show you something.”

He guides you past the barn, where the soft nickers of horses and the rustle of hay mingle with the symphony of crickets. The path winds through the tall grasses, their silvery edges catching the light of the moon. The warmth of his hand in yours contrasts with the cool night breeze as you approach the old oak tree at the edge of the property. Strings of twinkling Christmas lights wrapped around its trunk cast a gentle glow, their reflections dancing in the small pond nearby.

Franco stops beneath the tree, his gaze lifting to the vast expanse of stars above. “I’ve always loved how clear the sky is here,” he murmurs, his voice soft and contemplative. “It’s grounding, you know? Being here, under all this, surrounded by family.” He pauses, his smile growing warmer as he turns to you. “Christmas has always been my favorite time of year because it’s about family and love. This year, though... it’s different. Better.”

You glance up at the stars, their brilliance mirrored in his dark eyes. “It’s beautiful,” you reply, your voice barely above a whisper. “I can see why you love it here. It feels... peaceful.”

He nods, his expression thoughtful. “It is. It’s the kind of place where you can just breathe, let everything else fade away. Sometimes, I forget how much I miss it until I come back.”

You tilt your head, studying him. “Do you think you’ll always feel this way about it? That no matter where you go, you’ll come back here?”

His lips curve into a small smile. “I think so. There’s something about home—it stays with you. And now…” He hesitates, as though searching for the right words. “Now it’ll remind me of you too.”

Your breath catches at his confession, but before you can respond, Franco reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a small box wrapped in rustic paper, tied with a sprig of holly. “For you,” he says, his voice almost shy, the faint blush on his cheeks illuminated by the golden light. Inside is a delicate bracelet, its charm shaped like a tiny star, glinting as if it holds a piece of the sky above.

“Franco, it’s beautiful,” you say, your fingers brushing over the charm. “You didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to,” he interjects gently. “It reminded me of you—how you light up a room, how you make everything feel brighter.” He pauses, his gaze steady. “I just wanted you to have something to remember this night. Us.”

Before you can thank him, Franco steps closer, his hands gently cupping your face. His thumb brushes your cheek, and his eyes search yours with a mix of affection and nervous vulnerability. “Thank you,” he whispers, his voice tender, “for making this Christmas unforgettable.” Slowly, he leans in, his lips meeting yours in a kiss that feels both sweet and grounding, as though the entire world has narrowed to just this moment, just the two of you beneath the vast Argentine sky.

When you finally pull back, the soft hum of his family's music drifts faintly on the breeze, mingling with the distant crackle of the asado. Franco intertwines his fingers with yours, his smile unguarded. “Ready to go back?” he asks, his voice teasing.

You shake your head, laughing softly. “Not yet. I want to stay here a little longer.”

“Good,” he replies, his grin widening as he pulls you closer. “Because I wasn’t ready to leave either.” He glances at the bracelet on your wrist, his voice dropping to a softer tone. “You know, you make me want to believe in those cheesy Christmas movie moments.”

You chuckle, nudging him lightly. “Cheesy? This moment is straight out of one.”

He laughs, a rich, warm sound that seems to fill the night. “Maybe. But I don’t mind. As long as it’s with you.”

After a while, Franco leans back against the tree, his arm gently pulling you closer. “You know,” he starts, his voice thoughtful, “when I was a kid, I used to come out here whenever I needed to think. It felt like the whole world was far away, like nothing else mattered except this place and the stars.”

You tilt your head, resting it lightly on his shoulder. “Do you still feel that way now?”

He’s quiet for a moment, his gaze fixed on the sky. “Not in the same way,” he admits softly. “But tonight... being here with you... it feels like I’ve found something even better. Someone to share it with.”

The sincerity in his voice makes your heart ache in the best way, and you turn to meet his eyes. Before you can say anything, the distant sound of Franco’s mum calling out breaks the moment. “Franco! Don’t think I don’t know where you’re hiding. Bring her back before we finish the dessert without you!”

Franco laughs, the sound warm and carefree, and reluctantly straightens up. “Looks like we’ve been caught,” he says, his tone playful.

You laugh along, reaching for his hand. “We can’t let them eat all the flan without us.”

As you make your way back toward the farmhouse, Franco squeezes your hand gently. “Promise me one thing,” he says, his voice low enough that only you can hear.

“What’s that?” you ask, looking up at him.

“That this won’t be the last Christmas we spend together.”

Your heart swells at the earnestness in his words, and you nod, a smile curving your lips. “I promise.”

When you return to the patio, Franco’s mum greets you both with a knowing look, her hands on her hips. “About time,” she teases, handing you each a plate of flan with dulce de leche. “We saved you some, but only because she’s a guest,” she adds, gesturing to you with a wink.

Franco’s cousin smirks from his seat by the guitar. “And here we thought you two were rehearsing for your own Christmas movie.”

Franco rolls his eyes, but his grin remains unshaken as he pulls out a chair for you. The warmth and liveliness of his family’s celebration embrace you once more, but this time, everything feels even more magical—because now, you’re not just a guest. You’re part of it all.

[knottedhearts]

Birthday Girl: B.E

Summary: You surprise Billie for her birthday!

The room is dimly lit, with only the faintest morning light sneaking through the curtains. Billie is sound asleep, her soft face relaxed, her dark lashes brushing her cheeks. Her mouth is slightly parted, and her dark brown hair spills onto the pillow. She looks peaceful, like a painting you don’t want to disturb. Her breathing is steady, her arm draped loosely over your waist.

It’s her birthday today, and you’ve been planning something special. You gently lift her arm and slip out of bed, careful not to wake her. She stirs a little, furrowing her brows but doesn’t open her eyes fully.

“Where are you going?” she murmurs in her husky morning voice, eyes barely open. It’s so soft, it makes your heart melt.

“I’ll be right back, love. Just go back to sleep,” you whisper, pressing a kiss to her forehead. She hums softly in response and snuggles into the pillow, already drifting off again.

Once you’re out of the room, the mission begins. You grab your keys and head to the bakery to pick up her birthday cake. After that, you call her family—Finneas, Mama Maggie, and Dad Patrick—making sure they’re on their way. Claudia confirms she’s bringing her camera to capture every moment. Then, you text her closest friends—Zoe, Jane, and Ava—making sure everyone’s set. The plan is coming together perfectly.

When you get back home, Billie is awake but still lounging in bed, scrolling through her phone. Her oversized hoodie swallows her, and her hair is adorably messy. She looks up as you walk in, her lips curving into a soft smile.

“Where’d you go?” she asks, her voice still raspy, making you smile.

“Nowhere you need to worry about,” you tease, leaning down to kiss her. She raises an eyebrow, playfully suspicious but lets it slide.

While Billie lounges, you set up the living room with decorations. Black and neon green streamers, balloons, and a banner reading, “Happy Birthday, Billie!” are hung up. The cake is carefully placed on the table, surrounded by her favorite snacks. One by one, her family and friends start arriving. Everyone speaks in whispers and giggles, excited for her reaction.

When everything’s ready, you tiptoe back to the bedroom. Billie looks at you with a curious expression as you hold out your hand.

“Come on, birthday girl,” you say with a grin. She narrows her eyes playfully but takes your hand, letting you guide her.

As soon as she steps into the living room, everyone jumps out with a loud, “Surprise!”

Billie freezes for a moment, her eyes wide with shock, before a big grin spreads across her face. “What the hell?!” she exclaims, her laughter filling the room. Her cheeks flush pink as she takes in the decorations, the cake, and the people she loves most gathered around her.

“You did all this?” she asks, turning to you, her voice filled with awe.

“Of course,” you say softly. “Happy birthday, Billie.”

She wraps her arms around you, burying her face in your neck. “You’re the best,” she whispers, her voice cracking just a little.

The rest of the day is filled with laughter, music, and love. Billie’s friends share stories, Finneas plays an acoustic version of one of her favorite songs, and her mom and dad tear up during their birthday toast. Billie blows out the candles on her cake, makes a wish, and smiles at everyone around her.

As the party winds down and everyone says their goodbyes, Billie pulls you close, her tired but happy eyes sparkling.

“This was perfect,” she says. “You’re perfect.”

You smile, resting your forehead against hers. “Only because you make it easy to love you.”

She kisses you, soft and slow, her gratitude in every touch. It’s a birthday neither of you will ever forget.

[featherandferns]

angel (fic)

jj maybank x fem!shy!kook!reader | technically the sequel for fascinating new thing, but can be read as a stand-alone too

content warning: pure filth, to be honest; sex (f and m self-pleasure; protected, p in v)

word count: 3k

blurb: jj knows there's something hidden beneath all the layers of quiet and meek; he just has to coax it out of you.

Nobody expected JJ Maybank to end-up having a thing for you, including JJ himself. He couldn’t explain how it happened, or when exactly, but it went from him being somewhat wary of you to completely desperate to have your gaze on him. It seemed that one day you just had him: hook, line and sinker. JJ had sort of accepted that he didn’t have a chance, especially with a certain ginger haired boy lingering in the background. He’d admire from afar and settle for friendship if that’s all you could offer him. But then you kissed him, and everything seemed to fall into place. JJ was allowed privy to your thoughts and the different facets of yourself: watching you song write and waking you from a nightmare and indulging in the late-night baking. He liked every part of it. Everything that was you.

Well, almost everything.

“You can’t seriously enjoy this crap?”

“Be quiet, please,” you mumble.

JJ rolls his eyes. He has one arm under his head, propping it up so he can see the screen of your laptop, and the other on your stomach, resting atop your tee shirt. He’s spooning you, cosy under the sheets of your bed.

It’s the second time he’s been in your bedroom. It’s a nice room; perfectly encapsulates you. Vinyl records and CDs and a million and one potted plants and succulents. Fairly lights draped above your bed and around a pinboard of pictures and keepsakes, shining a delicate golden hue on your belongings. An acoustic guitar rests against the wall by your bedroom door. It’s wide open right now. No need to have it shut; your parents aren’t home.

Looking back to the screen, JJ tries and fails to hold in a sigh.

“Can you be quiet, please?” you repeat.

“Who is that? The guy?”

“George the third.”

“The third? Is that the one that murdered all his wives?”

“JJ, I can’t hear it,” you complain quietly.

“Sorry,” he mumbles. He barely pays attention to the drama on the screen, too busy foraging through his brains for the history of English royals. “Is he though?”

You sigh, annoyed. “No. That’s Henry the Eighth. And he didn’t murder all of them. Just two.”

“Oh, well, that’s okay then,” JJ sarcastically replies.

For some reason, he feels as though you’ve rolled your eyes. He attempts to watch the show that you’ve become obsessed with lately. The characters don’t talk like normal people. Everything is so flowery and over-the-top that he hardly understands what they’re talking about. It’s boring and dull and overdramatic. He lets his mind wander.

“Baby?”

“JJ?”

“Just a quick question.”

“Yes?” you sigh, patience clearly dwindling.

“Is George the Third the one that got really fat?”

“No, that’s George the fourth,” you say.

“Which one’s George the third then?”

“George the third is the one that was ruler when America won its independence. I mean, do you listen to anything in history?” you chuckle. JJ feels the muscles in your belly tighten and loosen as you do.

“Sometimes,” he shrugs. “When it’s interesting. Like, I don’t get how all of this—”

“Shush! I can’t hear what they’re saying!” you snap.

JJ can’t help but snigger. He likes when you lose your temper with him; let the good-girl side of you slip for a moment to put him in his place.

He nuzzles his face into your hair. It smells like cedarwood and salt water. Maybe he’ll just have a nap. You’re not coming away from the show anytime soon – not until the episode’s done, anyway. JJ closes his eyes and vaguely tunes into the droning of dialogue. Lady this and sire that. He’s just about to properly drift off (maybe it’s been five minutes or so) when he’s woken by the feel of you pushing back against his groin. His hold tightens on your stomach and he reluctantly inches his body away slightly.

“Baby don’t do that,” he mumbles sleepily into your hair.

“Do what?” you reply, absentmindedly.

You’re still watching the Goddamn show. He’s not sure if you’re playing dumb or not.

Then, you do it again.

JJ inhales sharply. “Stop doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“Rubbing up on me like that,” he tells you, half-laughing. “S’not fair.”

“Sorry,” you mumble.

He opens his eyes and looks down at the laptop screen. The moment he makes out what’s happening in the show, it clicks. Oh.

Smirking, JJ can’t keep from taking the piss.

“You didn’t tell me that you’re into regency era porn.”

“Shut up,” you reply all too quickly.

“Is it like all royal era stuff or just Henry the third things?”

“George the third!”

“Tomata-tomato,” JJ mutters. Quiet. Then: “Does it have to be in a bathtub or…”

“JJ!” you whine, embarrassed. He laughs into your hair. “Stop it!”

“Alright, alright! I’m just messing around,” he sniggers.

You don’t reply, don’t even seem to be listening to him, with your eyes shamelessly fixated on the screen. JJ starts to watch too, half-curious as to what has you so entranced.

The lighting is dark. Who JJ has finally come to grasp as king George the third is fucking his wife in the bath. She’s riding him, grinding down on him, still in her dress. The music swells with sharp, dramatic violins. This time, when you push back reflexively against JJ, he doesn’t complain. Instead, he uses his hand that’s placed on your stomach to keep you there. He’s only half ashamed to admit that he’s turned on by the regency-era-sex-scene from your corny, cheesy TV show.

Half hard, he rubs against you, sighing into your hair as he does. You don’t shake him off. Instead, you push back against him.

And then, the scene stops. It’s daylight. Cutting to a scene in a conservatory.

JJ shifts his hand so it’s under your tee shirt, moving to stroke at the skin. He feels your stomach constrict underneath his touch, as if you’re holding your breath, and then relax. He places a kiss to your neck, then another, and begins to work on a hickey. You let out a shaking breath, eyes only half-focused on the show, now. One of your hands comes down to lay atop of his, though not in discouragement. JJ can’t help but rut against you again. In the haze of kissing at your throat, he finds himself wishing a silent prayer that you won’t pull away this time.

He doesn’t mind waiting. Really, he doesn’t. He’d probably wait forever for you (if he really had to). He knows how nervous you get; knows all of this is new to you. Understands. Doesn’t want you to feel pressured. But, God, JJ would be lying if he said that he didn’t want to fuck you. That he didn’t jack off almost every night to the thought of it. That seeing you, drenched head to toe, stood in nothing but a bikini after surfing didn’t have him shifting in his seat. That having you pressing up against him like you had been tonight didn’t make his mind shoot off to the darkest, dirtiest places. So, yes, he’ll stop if you ask, but he’s praying, borderline close to begging, that you don’t.

Your fingers loop into his hair, pulling him off your neck. He shifts enough back so you can turn your head, meeting his eyes. Your breathing heavier than usual, lips wet as if you’ve been licking at them. Your eyes are dancing over his face, back to his eyes, glancing at his lips. JJ’s hand on your stomach continues scratching softly at your skin. He gently rubs himself against you. Please.

“I’ve never done this before,” you whisper. There’s a tinge of nerves to your voice.

JJ nods. Swallows. “I know.”

“But…I want to,” you quietly say. A smile teasing at the corner of your lips as you nod. “If you do, that is.”

JJ leans down so his forehead bumps against yours. He exhales a chuckle against your lips. “It’s all I’ve been able to think about since the hammock.”

You giggle, perhaps a little stunned at the confession, and then your lips are on his.

JJ’s rolling onto his back, sighing into the kiss, pulling you atop of him. His hand that was under his head now reaches out to close the laptop, shoving it to the foot of the bed (hopefully where it won’t fall off). Then he’s kissing you with newfound hunger. Tongue slipping into your mouth lewdly, brushing against yours, swallowing your sighs and breaths. Whenever you break apart, it’s for less than a moment. Your hands have come up to cradle his face, fingers splayed across his cheek and jaw. One of his resides on your waist, squeezing at the skin, and his other has fallen onto your bare thigh; the pyjama shorts you’re wearing having ridden up.

When you lean back against him, rolling down on his crotch, JJ groans against your lips. The gasp you let out is small, startled, as you feel him, hard against you.

“We don’t have to,” JJ reminds you, though the id in him is crying out yes, we do. Please.

You shake your head, hands still on his face. “I want to.”

Thank fucking God.

As the two of begin to kiss again, JJ lets his hand creep up your stomach. His fingers gently trace up the soft skin. He feels the ripples of your breaths as he goes; they’re uneven. Bringing his hand up to your chest, cupping at the bare skin, you sigh against him. He begins to tenderly palm at your breast, running a finger back and forth over your nipple, grinning to himself as he feels it harden at his touch.

You’re grinding back on him now, making him uncomfortably hard under his boxers, sensitive as he rubs against the fabric. JJ opens his eyes to look up at you, your kiss naturally breaking as you begin to breath more and more heavy. Frowns as he sees you dig your teeth into your lower lip. He lifts his hand from off your thigh to bring his thumb to your lips, tugging it free.

“I wanna hear you,” JJ mumbles, tone only slightly demanding.

You open your eyes. They’re angel-like; innocent and shining under the fairy-light glow. Then, you do something that has him twitching, horny past the point of no return. You take his thumb into your mouth and suckle at his finger. JJ groans at the sight. Jesus Christ. Something in you seems to shine through and take control. You don’t say anything as you hold his hand in both of yours, guiding his thumb out your mouth only to begin sucking on his pointer finger. Your eyes slip shut as you do, as if you’re getting off on doing so, and you sigh out a quiet moan. JJ feels himself begin to smirk, taken aback somewhat. Okay…

Pulling his finger from out of your mouth tentatively, he lets his thumb pinch at your chin. The dampness of your spit streaks onto your skin, if only slightly. JJ suddenly knows what his new favourite thought of you is. Your chest is rising and falling, lips parted, cheeks warm as if there’s a part of you longing to be embarrassed. But you’re not. Not shying away from him, at least. JJ’s hands find the hem of your shirt and coax it over your head. As he goes, he guides you to lie down on your back – head at the foot of the bed – and crawls on top of you. One of your feet hesitantly rubs at the back of his calve. Then your fingers are tugging at the bottom of his top and he leans back to take it off. Easing back down to kiss at your chest, he can’t help but sigh against the sensitive skin.

“You’re so fucking beautiful.”

Your nails dig into the skin of his back. You don’t reply, but he feels as though you’re shaking your head. Glancing up, he frowns.

“You are,” he repeats.

“Can you not say things like that to me right now…” you mumble, retreating back into yourself.

JJ sighs, somewhat disappointed.

“Sorry,” you add. It makes JJ chuckle, his breath fanning against your chest.

“You don’t gotta be sorry, baby,” he replies, moving to kiss at one of your nipples. One of your hands creeps up to his face, fingers slipping into his hair. A small gasping exhale at the sensation. “Just wish you saw yourself the way I see you, sometimes.”

You’re sighing at the attention he’s giving your body. His hand comes up to grope at your neglected breast. More gasps, more breaths. You’re still so quiet. JJ knows it’s in there, could see it trying to break out when you were sucking on his fingers, he just has to coax it out of you.

Leaning back (a string of spit following), JJ sits back on his haunches and takes you in. Wonders what to do with you, as if you’re fully at his mercy. You’re looking at him, watching him. Laid out on your back, near bare and gorgeous, breathing heavy. You're half covering your chest, not used to being so exposed before someone.

Maybe he’ll just fuck you now. JJ's barely holding it together as it is. No, you’ll be too tight if he does. He has to remind himself that this is new to you. He wants it to be worth it. Wants it to be perfect. Not only that, but he also wants you to appreciate yourself and your body the way he does. Words clearly aren’t gonna cut it; you go squeamish at the faintest of compliments. But maybe…

JJ feels the shadow of a smirk grow on his face with an idea. Makes your lips twitch with a frown, as if confused where his mind might be. The he’s reaching for your spare hand that’s found purchase in the bed sheets. Taking it by the wrist, he guides it over your body, down to your shorts. Your eyes dart up from following it, meeting his eyes. Your lips move as if to say something, but you don’t. So quiet.

“I got an idea,” JJ tells you. He’s so hard it hurts, but he can’t pass up on this opportunity.

Your gaze doesn’t break apart from JJ’s as you let him guide your hand with his under the hem of your shorts. He manoeuvres your fingers easily (you pliant like a doll) and slides it through your folds. You’re soaking. The feel of it makes you gasp. Leaning down, using his other arm to prop himself above you, he guides your conjoined touch back and forth, skimming over your clit. The brief, fleeting touch makes you moan.

JJ smirks. There it is.

“Feel good, huh?” he breaths against your ear, teasingly. You don’t reply but he feels your hand gain more control, working to finger yourself. JJ chuckles. “Knew you were dirty underneath all the good-girl shit you put on.”

It seems that whatever strap was holding you together has snapped. Your honeyed voice is crying out, in moans and whines. Eyes shut, head tilted back, and JJ basks in the sight of you. He gradually lets his hand leave yours, slipping out of your shorts, and watches as you continue getting yourself off underneath your shorts. Chews on the inside of his cheek as he does, bucking against your leg desperately. He can’t help but pull himself out of his boxers, jacking off at the sight. At your sweet, hopeless sounds. Your spare hand is coming to his throat, pulling at his jaw, guiding his lips to yours in a lustful, messy kiss. You’re moaning into his mouth, gasping, voice high and desperate.

“Good girl,” JJ croons. It spurs you on. He’s smirking again, gasping through his own pleasure. Fuck. You’re perfect. How are you so Goddamn perfect?

“You close, baby? You gonna come?”

Your reply comes in a stammered, broken gasp. Yes.

JJ forces his hand from himself, quickly moving to grab at your wrist, pulling your fingers away. They’re drenched. You whine at the loss of contact, so close to the edge it seems, and he chuckles darkly against your jawline.

“Not yet,” he simply says.

As JJ moves to take off your shorts, shucking off his boxers in this process, he catches a glimpse of your hand moving back up your body. His eyes flick up just in time to see you slip your used fingers into your mouth, sucking them clean. Fuck. How JJ doesn’t come on the spot is beyond him. You open your eyes, catching his gaze, and meekly pull them from your mouth. Before you can form the inevitable apology you’re bound to give, JJ’s darting down to capture your mouth in a kiss. Then, he’s climbing atop of you, rubbing at your entrance. Has the both of you gasping against one another.

“Wait,” you mumble, pulling back. “We need a condom.”

“Shit, yeah,” JJ pants. He’d forgotten about that. You point vaguely to your bedside table.

“There should be one in there. Somewhere.”

JJ chuckles slightly and nods, leaning back to riffle through. He can’t help but notice the vibrator, making a mental note of that for another day. Finding one, he’s coming back to you, sliding it on, desperate to be inside of you.

Pressing his forehead against yours, he keeps his eyes on you.

“Tell me if you need me to stop, okay?”

“I will,” you quietly reply, a hand coming up to cup at his jaw.

JJ nods and begins to slide in. His eyes reflexively shut; he can’t help it. It feels fucking amazing. Sex with feelings is better than any kegger hook-up he’s ever had.

But you’re tight, too tight, and it’s like your body is trying to push him out. Opening his eyes, he looks down to see your face twisted in pain, lips pursed and eyes squeezed shut.

“Hey, hey,” he mumbles, thumbing at your cheek. You force your eyes open, gazing up at him. “You gotta relax, alright? Just breath out for me.”

You take a moment then do as he asks. He feels your body soften. Nudging a bit further in, you actively try not to go tight again.

“It’s just me,” he reminds you. “You’re doing so good, alright?”

To keep you lax, he rubs gently at your clit. Eventually, your body opens up to him. Once JJ’s eased all the way in, you’re squeezing him like a vice.

“You can move, JayJ,” you say, almost anxious that he isn’t.

JJ laughs a little. He won’t last a second if he moves right now. Closing his eyes, composing himself, he replies, “I really can’t. Gimme a second.”

Soon enough, the two of you sink into a rhythm. JJ places a hand one side of your head, another on your hip, angling you up slightly. Your back begins to arch and you’re moaning again, and JJ decides that it’s the best sound he’s ever heard. Prettier than when you sing. The sounds echoing off the bedroom walls are filthy enough to make Satan himself blush.

"Fuck baby. Feel so fucking good."

Groaning against your shoulder, moaning into your ear, JJ feels his resolve begin to break. He’s close. The way your body is reacting to him has him thinking you are too. His hand leaves your hip to rub at your clit. Quick, firm circles. You start to gasp, high pitched and euphoric, and JJ know he can’t last much longer. It’s too good.

The moment you finish, JJ lets go. The two of you come almost together, riding it out, clinging to each other as if you’ll float away if not. JJ eventually let’s himself collapse on top of you, breathing shallow and frantic. You’re still clenching around him, body dealing with the aftershocks.

JJ’s not sure how he’s supposed to go about the rest of his life knowing what it’s like to have you in bed. How he’s meant to get anything done with the memory of how you sound, gasping out his name. The picture stained in his mind of you sucking your fingers clean.

He presses a kiss to your damp neck, then another and another until he somehow finds your mouth. You sigh as you kiss him back, a hand coming to cradle at his face yet again. He pulls back, opens his eyes into yours, and you give him the sweetest smile he’s ever seen. Bashful and blissed out and beautiful.

“I love you,” you tell him, still a little breathless.

JJ smiles back. Heart stammers.

You wanted him. You picked him.

Kissing you once more, tender and fleeting, JJ sighs. “I love you too.”

[nickeverdeen]

Sweet Harmony | Ellie Williams x Fem!reader x Dina

Pairings: Dina x fem!reader (romantic), Ellie x fem!reader (romantic), Ellie x Dina (romantic)

Warnings: Eating out, dom!top!Ellie, bottom!reader, soft!top!Dina

Summary: The innocent moment when Ellie is playing guitar and you and Dina are resting changes when your hand wanders somewhere…

————————

It was a peaceful afternoon in Jackson, the kind of day that made the harshness of the outside world feel like a distant memory. Sunlight streamed through the windows of Ellie’s cozy little house, casting a warm, golden light over the room. The three of you had decided to spend the day together, simply enjoying each other’s company.

Ellie sat on the couch, her acoustic guitar resting in her lap. Dina was beside her, her arm draped over the back of the couch, fingers lightly brushing Ellie’s shoulder. You were curled up on Ellie’s other side, your legs tucked beneath you as you leaned into her. Everything felt right—calm, peaceful, and perfect.

You glanced at Ellie, then at her guitar. “Ellie,” you asked softly, “could you play something for us?”

Ellie looked down at the guitar, then back at you with a small smile. “Sure,” she said simply, adjusting her grip on the instrument.

She started to strum the strings gently, letting a soft, familiar melody fill the room. You leaned into her, closing your eyes and letting the music wash over you. Dina’s hand rested on the back of Ellie’s neck, thumb brushing lightly over her skin in a soothing rhythm. It was a moment of pure peace, the three of you completely in sync, wrapped in the warmth of each other’s presence.

As Ellie played, you found yourself absentmindedly sliding your hand under her shirt, your fingers brushing against the firm muscle of her abdomen. You sighed softly, lost in the moment, and Ellie’s strumming faltered for just a second before she caught herself. Dina’s eyes flicked to your hand, then back to Ellie’s face, and a knowing smile tugged at the corners of her lips.

Ellie kept playing, but you could feel a change in the atmosphere—something charged, a tension building in the air. Dina noticed too, her hand sliding from Ellie’s neck to your thigh, her touch gentle but deliberate. Ellie’s playing grew softer, the melody more subdued, as if she was struggling to keep her focus.

Eventually, Ellie’s fingers stilled on the strings, the last note hanging in the air as she looked between you and Dina. “You okay, babe?” Dina asked, her voice teasing but affectionate.

Ellie chuckled, setting the guitar aside as she turned to face you more fully. “Yeah, just… distracted,” she admitted, her eyes dark with something that made your heart skip a beat.

“Distracted by what?” Dina pressed, though she already knew the answer.

Ellie’s hand found your thigh, squeezing gently as she leaned in close. “By her,” she said, her voice low and rough, the simple words sending a shiver down your spine.

Before you could respond, Dina’s lips were on yours, soft and warm. Her kiss was tender, full of love and reassurance, but there was an undercurrent of hunger there too, something that made you melt into her touch. Ellie’s hand slid up under your shirt, her rough fingertips grazing your skin, making your breath hitch in your throat.

“Is this okay?” Dina murmured against your lips, her eyes searching yours for any sign of hesitation.

You nodded, your heart racing with anticipation. “Yes, please,” you whispered, giving them both the permission they were waiting for.

Dina was the first to move, her kisses trailing down your neck, her hands gently pushing you back against the couch. She took her time, undressing you with care, her touches slow and deliberate as she worshiped every inch of your skin. Ellie watched, her eyes dark and hungry as she leaned in to kiss you again, rougher this time, her teeth catching your lower lip in a way that made your toes curl.

Dina settled between your legs, her lips brushing against your inner thighs, soft and teasing. “You’re so beautiful,” she whispered, her breath warm against your skin before she finally pressed a kiss to your center, making you gasp.

Her tongue was soft, gentle, as she took her time exploring you, savoring every reaction, every sound you made. Ellie’s hand tangled in your hair as she kissed you again, her free hand trailing down to your chest, fingers brushing over your nipples, sending jolts of pleasure through you. Dina was relentless, her pace slow but steady, building you up until you were trembling beneath her, your hips moving on their own as you chased the high she was giving you.

Ellie’s lips moved to your neck, sucking lightly, leaving marks that made you moan louder, your hands gripping the couch cushions as Dina pushed you closer and closer to the edge. “Dina… Ellie…” you whimpered, your voice trembling with need, and that was all it took for Dina to push you over, her tongue working you through your orgasm as you cried out, your body shaking with the intensity of it.

You barely had time to catch your breath before Ellie was moving down, her hands gripping your hips as she positioned herself between your legs. Dina moved up, her lips finding yours again as she kissed you deeply, her tongue sliding against yours in a way that made your head spin.

Ellie didn’t waste any time. She was rougher, more insistent, her tongue diving deep, her hands holding your hips down as you writhed beneath her. Dina’s lips moved to your neck, her teeth grazing your skin as she sucked, leaving marks that would be there for days, marks that would remind you of this moment every time you saw them.

“Fuck, Ellie,” you gasped, your hands gripping her hair as she worked you over, her tongue relentless as she pushed you towards another orgasm. Dina’s hand slid down your side, her fingers brushing over your skin in a way that made you shiver, made the pleasure that Ellie was giving you all the more intense.

It didn’t take long for Ellie to bring you to the edge again, her name falling from your lips like a prayer as you came, your body trembling with the force of it. Ellie didn’t stop, her tongue still moving, drawing out every last bit of pleasure until you were a quivering mess beneath her, barely able to catch your breath.

When Ellie finally pulled back, her lips shiny with your arousal, you were exhausted, your body spent but completely satisfied. Dina was right there, kissing you softly, her touch gentle and loving as she held you close.

You blinked up at her, a sleepy smile on your lips. “I want… I want my turn too,” you mumbled, your voice heavy with exhaustion.

Dina chuckled, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “You’re too tired, baby. We’ll save it for another time,” she said softly, her voice full of affection.

Ellie nodded in agreement, pulling you into her arms as she settled back on the couch. “Just rest, we’ve got you,” she murmured, her voice low and soothing.

You didn’t need to be told twice. The exhaustion was pulling at you, your eyes fluttering closed as you snuggled between them, feeling safe and loved. Ellie and Dina’s voices faded into the background as they talked quietly, their words a comforting murmur as you drifted off to sleep.

“Think she’s gonna sleep through dinner?” Ellie asked, her voice low as she glanced at Dina.

“Probably,” Dina replied with a soft smile, brushing a strand of hair out of your face. “She had a big day.”

Ellie chuckled, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead. “She’s perfect,” she murmured, her voice full of affection.

Dina smiled, leaning in to kiss Ellie softly. “Yeah, she is,” she agreed, her hand resting on your hip as she settled back against the couch, the three of you wrapped up in each other, safe and warm.

And as the sun set outside, casting the room in a soft, golden glow, the three of you fell into a comfortable silence, content just to be together, knowing that whatever the world threw at you, you would face it together.

[macfrog]

heart, body, soul cowboy like me chapter thirteen

surprise! happy friday eve. here's some cowboy to get you through it. life has been a little tough on me lately. sorry for the terribly long wait. but the end is in sight, dear readers. tighten the stampede string on your hats. we're coming in to land.

pairing: dbf!joel x fem!reader

summary: you and joel are at an impasse. you resolve it the only way you know how

warnings: age gap (reader is 23, joel is 48), cursing, alcohol consumption, mention of dr*g use, titty appreciation, face sitting, oral (f receiving), unprotected piv, creampie, major fluff, major angst

word count: 14.4k (y’all ask. mother macfrog delivers)

series masterlist | main masterlist | playlist | follow @macfroglets w notifs on to be the first to hear when i post 🧡

You sigh. “I don’t want you…with…anyone else. I want you to…only want me.” His brows straighten. You sit in silence, staring at one another. Both daring the other to be the first to talk. But it’s his turn, and he knows it. So he swallows, and says – “I don’t want nobody else.” And that’s a thing. A great big, terrible thing.

It’s been a week since you last saw Joel. Blurred, tilting, pulling to-and-fro across your vision. A week since you last heard him; his low voice like the hum of an electric wire, tired acoustics drumming weakly through his chest into your heavy hand, laced through his own. Fingers draped softly across his swollen knuckles. You wonder if they’re still marked seven days later.

A week since you felt him. Felt your body lean towards him – gravity or dizziness or something stronger – as his weight dipped into the bed beside you. The way it has only a handful of times now, but enough to score it deep into your memory. Enough that you know the difference between him and anyone else, even with your eyes closed and your heart bleeding.

Enough to ensure that, for as long as you live, you’ll know and see each difference between him and every other person you ever meet. They won’t lower their head the way he does, or lift the corners of their mouth like him. Your name won’t sound the same, won’t sound as complete, coming from someone else’s mouth. Your body won’t magnetize to anyone, the way it does to him.

And that’s fine. The separation. The fact that he was a fleeting moment. The fact that it was over before you felt it leave, before you heard the door close behind it. It’s fucking fine.

Still, you let it hurt a while. Just a little while.

The gash on your calf has healed up, your hangover had subsided by Saturday evening. But your chest still feels tight, your hands are still restless. You lie awake staring at the ceiling, surrounded by the clothes you have of his; breathing in the ghost of his scent and breathing out pathetic, aching sighs. He’s all you smell, all you touch.

Except – he’s not anymore, is he? He saw to that well enough.

So you let it hurt. And you think you can just about make do with that.

“Hey, hon,” you dad gently calls, hanging on your doorframe. Your room is dark, drapes closed, the only light source the white light from your laptop.

“Hi,” you reply, with a break in your voice. Your eyes don’t lift from the screen. Jim just told Pam he’s in love with her, but she’s engaged to Roy. But she really loves Jim, she just won’t admit it. It’s cathartic, okay?

Dad steps into the room and awkwardly stuffs his hands into his jean pockets. “Awfully, uh…awfully quiet lately, hm? Everything okay?”

“Fine. Everything’s fine.”

It’s not a lie. You are fine. You’re so fine, you’re actually numb to it.

The problem is that for the last few weeks, you’ve been more than fine. The best you’ve felt in months – maybe even years. The most you’ve smiled, the hardest you’ve laughed. The warmest the blood has ever run through your veins.

And then you’re just – fine again. Back to nothing.

He shuffles between feet. Stares at the floor, where his shadow sprouts from his toes. “I was gonna head into town, grab a few things. You wanna come? Sit in the car with a book, maybe?”

“I’m good, Dad. Thanks.”

“Sure? Whatcha watchin’?”

“The Office.”

He nods. “Right, right. I, uh, I was thinkin’ of askin’ Joel and Sarah over for dinner tonight. You always have fun when they’re around. You and Sarah could spend some time together, y’know?”

Your heart nosedives straight from your chest into your stomach. The thought of seeing him again, this time crystal clear and not while under the influence of alcohol, drugs, or worse, sinks its sharp claws into your shoulders and sinks you deep underwater. His voice gets lost somewhere in the space between you. And when you finally come back up for air, back into the room, you gulp back whatever string of senseless words your empty chest initially offered up.

“Hm…” You pretend to consider the thought, then head straight for passive. “Whatever. Sure.”

Your dad’s mouth opens to respond, and you cut in again.

“I’m kinda tired,” you say, yawning. Trying to make him leave.

He’s not great at taking hints. “Kiddo, I am really worried about you. Weren’t you s’posed to be working this mornin’?”

“You ain’t gotta worry about me. I’m just a little tired, is all. Wasn’t feeling up to restocking tools and dealing hardwood to your buddies.”

It’s only the second truth you’ve told him since he set foot in your room. You never feel much like work, not Sal’s-fucking-Hardware-kinda work, anyway. But the thought of standing for seven hours with a bared-teeth grin plastered on your face, hands blistering from tearing open box after box of stock, shoulder slowly coming up in a bruise from the number of customers tapping on it…you figured Sal could do without you for one fucking day.

“You wanna look some more at other jobs?” Dad asks, and finally you look up. The blurry, luminous silhouette of Jim and Pam is strung in the dim air before him.

You shake your head. “Not right now. I have some bookmarked I can show you later.”

He takes a deep breath, unsure of which angle to come at you from next. Finally, with an air of resignation and defeat, he settles for, “You know where I am if you need me,” and closes your door as he leaves.

You’re staring intensely at the face of every character onscreen. The pixels burn into your eyes. You’re trying harder than anything to get him out of your head. It’s not working.

His hand through yours, his arms around you – warm, safe, protective; the way he smelled, sweet like whiskey, sharp like pine; the way he’d mumble, lips against your head, sweet nothings pressed into your hair; the feeling of his lips on yours, hungry for something only you knew how to give him. The look in his eyes, tender, knowing, loving.

And because he was the only other person fluent in your little secret language – a look, a nod, a tug at the corners of his mouth. His eyes settling on yours only for a nanosecond, one tiny moment in time laced with a thousand words that you translated as quickly as his glance moved across you. It all meant something. It all meant so fucking much.

All of it. You feel all of it as it sinks through your skin, through bone and into your brain. As it curls around your ribcage, holds tight around your heart. Every thought and feeling that flutters through on full display for him to read. And you’d let him, because it’s him. You trusted him. You – you might’ve even –

I mean, what the fuck, right? When the fuck did this happen?

Joel Miller. Joel fucking Miller.

Is this what you thought would happen that very first time you looked at him differently? Tidying up after pizza, leaning into you, telling you you’re nothin’ but trouble? Did he know then, that this was where you were headed?

Did you?

Your phone buzzes. You glance down at it through your tears.

Sarah: wtf is going on ???

You craft a reply as nonchalant as you can manage. Three little letters.

You: Wym?

Sarah: are u good??

You: Yeah lol. Why wouldn’t I be good

Sarah: idfk. weird. my dad’s on the phone to yours rn

That’s great. That’s just fucking great. He’s probably telling Joel right this second how miserable you are. That’s all you need.

You want to hold onto your pride, keep an air of casualness about you impermeable to even Sarah – but you desperately want to know what’s being said. What she’s listening to him say.

You: Yeah? What are they talking about?

Sarah: well now it’s just some andrew guy

Sarah: sounds like a loser

Sarah: we’re coming over for dinner tonight btw

You: Nice. See ya then

Sarah: u wanna come over here before? we can watch love island

You: I’m good. Gonna go for a nap

Sarah: you can nap here. come over!!!

You bury the phone under your pillow without replying. Sarah is like Joel in many ways, but her persistent nature is one avenue in which they drastically differ. Joel would – and has – give you space, let you mope; Sarah will probably text you all afternoon until she’s on your doorstep, takeout in one hand and a telling in the other.

So you drag your phone back out and put it on Do Not Disturb mode. She’s already sent two more texts since her last.

Sarah: seriously. would you come the fuck over. im only on episode 5 i gotta catch up

Sarah: even my dad is worried about you

Yeah. Good one, Joel. Fuckin’ asshole.

----------

They arrive at six on the dot, armed with pizza and a crate of beer. The doorbell rings once, you lean over a degree to glance down the hallway, and Sarah’s stepping over the threshold, her shadow of a father at her heels.

He’s rugged. Hair amok. He kinda looks a mess, sorta looks how you want him to after almost two weeks of no you. But he’s here. He’s right in front of you. And this time, the shape of him isn’t swimming across your glassy eyes.

Your heart swells with relief to see him again, only until it twinges from the wound that he caused, and it hurts all over again. You turn back in your stool to face the kitchen island, making some noncommittal noise when Sarah’s hand presses between your shoulder blades in greeting.

“Tyrique and Ella are kinda cute, but I don’t trust him. Dude’s gonna fuck her over for sure,” she mutters, shoving the box over the counter towards your dad, who accepts the beer from Joel with a pat on his arm.

He’s standing across the kitchen – Joel – as far as he can get from you. You’re sure his eyes haven’t lifted from the floor yet. But you scan him all over, from the loose collar of his shirt down to the cuffs, rolled halfway up his forearms; from the rough hair of his beard down to the soft tufts decorating the skin just below his clavicle.

You scan him all over. The body you know just as well with the flannel and jeans over it as you do without them. The body you’ve squeezed, and scratched, and bit and kissed – and the same one you’ve thrown curses and insults at as it follows you through his house.

If he looked you dead in the eye right now, you’re not sure you could look away. You’re not sure you could stop.

That is, until Sarah presses a chilled beer to your arm, startling you, and silently nods towards the dining table.

She sits on your right, opposite your dad’s seat. She resumes chittering about Love Island. Joel and your dad are still in the kitchen, stacking plates, cracking the caps off their drinks. And then he pushes off the counter, and slowly wanders over.

You watch his every move. Study him, like you’re about to be tested on it. Which foot he steps forward with – always his left – and which chair he’ll pick once he’s at the table – the one opposite you, ‘cause it faces the TV for when he and your dad watch baseball while eating.

Two for two.

He lifts the chair, pulls it back, and angles it to face Sarah’s. He places his beer gently on the mat. When he sits, he doesn’t pull in any closer. Doesn’t risk your legs crossing paths under the table. You pull your knees up, let your shins rest against the wooden ledge. Your dad takes Joel up in conversation.

“So, this Andrew. He’s the brains of the operation?”

The pizza is slowly pulled apart over the course of an excruciating hour-long meal. Sarah puts the next episode of Love Island on while you eat, points out her favorite couples and nudges you to ask your opinion on the girls’ outfits.

“Wouldn’t have gone with those heels,” she mutters, chewing, pointing with her pizza crust to some six-inch ankle-breakers.

You lean past her shoulder every now and then to pretend you’re as engaged as she is. Pretend you’re listening. Your left ear is tuned into the conversation happening across the table.

Your dad thinks Andrew Curtis is fucking hilarious. Hoots with laughter when Joel tells him about his untucked button up. Says, Oh, jeepers, when he hears about the way the guy tripped jumping down from his truck.

The storyteller doesn’t sound so lively opposite. Your dad’s slapping his thigh with laughter. Joel’s shoulders are jerking at best. You dare a glance at him, and he’s already facing your direction. He turns away before your eye reaches his chest.

Soon, the episode ends. The atmosphere dies arm in arm with your dad’s attempt at another conversation. There’s a thick silence between the four of you. You haven’t opened your mouth the entire meal, but even if you did, the tension would clamp its heavy hand over your lips, blocking any words from making their way out of your windpipe.

Sarah clears her throat, manages a tentative, “I –” and then the phone rings, piercing through the awkward mist like a bolt of lightning.

Your dad pushes himself up and trots over, grabbing the handset a little too hastily. “Hello? Oh, hi, Rita. Hi. Yeah. Yep, Joel’s – Sarah? She’s here, yep.”

Sarah’s head drops, hand gripping her glass frozen in mid-air. “Fuck,” she whispers, and Joel shoots her a look across the table.

“She’s – oh, yeah? Well, let me ask ‘er.” Your dad covers the bottom of the handset with a huge palm. “Rita has some…cross –”

“Cross stitch, yeah, I know,” Sarah says, and thuds her glass down. “I said I’d help her out with it. I bet she’s seen your damn truck across the street!” She jabs a furious finger at her dad.

Joel shrugs. “Ain’t my fault the woman has eyes.”

Your body jerks as if to laugh. You don’t catch it in time. He notices.

“She’s on her way over, Rita,” your dad continues, nervously smiling at Sarah as she pulls her jacket over her shoulder. “She’s – oh, sure, I’ll let her know. Alright, now. Bye, Rita, bye. You’ve to bring your glasses. ‘pparently the pattern’s pretty small. You even wear glasses?”

She huffs in response. “I’m gonna be there all damn night. I’ll just get you at home.”

Joel opens his mouth to protest, goes to warn her that she ain’t walkin’ home alone in the damn dark, but your dad holds his hand out.

“We’ll give you a ride home. You come back here once you’re done.”

She nods gratefully and struts off down the hallway. The door slams shut behind her.

Your dad lightly chuckles, sauntering back over to his seat. “And then there were three…” he says, sitting back down.

But the loss of Sarah only cranes the spotlight over to you. Only you. No one else to split it with. No one else to lend it to. You can feel your dad’s eyes on you, waiting for you to make a move, some song and dance for your company.

He lifts his beer to his lips. Nods to you. Makes a song and dance of his fucking own, when he says, “Guess who’s been lookin’ at grad jobs?”

Joel stares at him for a second, like he’s waiting for your dad to reveal who it is he means. Like it can’t possibly be the only she in the room. His thumbs tap around his own bottle. “Oh – yeah?” he stammers, and throws a haphazard glance in your direction. He seems to mean to address you.

You sit forward, choke out a, “Yeah, uh – it’s – well. Kinda.”

“Film?” he asks, and you hear the rest of the question in the tone of his voice. Somethin’ you like, ‘n not just your dad’s suggestion?

You nod, but he’s not looking. He’s studying the label of his beer.

“Film,” your dad confirms. “Shut me the hell up, didn’t she? Came downstairs with her laptop the other night. Where is it, kiddo – New York?”

Your breath catches. The answer cowers at the back of your mouth, terrified to show itself. You force it forward.

“LA.”

Joel’s eyebrows lift.

“I said she might be better goin’ back to school. Reapply for next year, right?” Dad looks to you, and your lips pull in an awkward smile. “…but she didn’t wanna wait around. Told you the other day – this place is like prison.”

He chuckles, but Joel isn’t laughing. He’s staring at his beer, his brows slowly lowering from arched and curious to dark and furrowed. And you want to reach for his hand, want to shoo your dad off and spill your guts to his best friend. Want to explain yourself, show him the webpages and application forms you’ve spent the last few days surfing through – want to justify yourself to him.

But so long as your father is sat here, bumbling to himself about the prices of college courses these days – none of that happens. You simply sit in a stalemate opposite one another – a million thoughts racing through your head, a million and one racing through Joel’s.

“…might change her mind, but who knows? She’s skittish, this one, she –”

Another bleating ringtone cuts what you’re sure would’ve been an endearing compliment short. You say a silent prayer of gratitude for whoever’s at the other end of the line. Your dad sighs and heaves himself up again, swiping the phone from the kitchen counter.

“Hello? Hi, hi, Richard. No, I’m not – well, it’s – sure, sure. What’s –?”

His head falls in much the same way Sarah’s did ten minutes ago. He sighs.

“Right. No, that’s quite alright. I can be there in ten. Yep. Alright. See you in a – hello?”

He drops the phone back into its cradle and runs a hand down the back of his neck, growling.

“Kelman?” Joel asks, jaw turning to his shoulder.

“You bet. Misplaced the damn keys for his site. You two alright if I head on over there ‘n lock up for ‘im?”

“He familiar with Andrew Curtis at all?” Joel quips, and then waves your dad off. “Go on. I’ll be outta your hair by the time you get back.”

In a frenzied blur, your dad’s tying his laces, grabbing his keys, tossing a jacket over his shoulders. He apologizes a total of four times to Joel, thanks him for dinner, promises he’ll pay him back next time he sees him. And then he’s jogging off to the front door, and taking every ounce of comfortability with him.

And then there were two.

You slouch back in your chair, listening through the silence as your dad’s car engine fades down the street. When the quiet humming disappears, Joel’s head turns back to face you.

You’re alone again. For the first time in a week. This is the closest you’ve felt him, even separated by the dining table and a fog of conversation that you have no idea how to begin clearing. There’s more weight to the silence between you than words could ever bear, you know that much. More to be communicated between your eyes than your tongues know the language of. But still, you can see him through it.

Like a lighthouse, shining bright and beckoning you to the shoreline. You can feel him again, as if there’s an electric pulse radiating off of him. And you feel drawn in, like you always do; feel that magnetic pull in your chest, only ever satiated by the meeting of Joel’s.

You shift in your seat. His eyes flit up. Your heart jumps, like it’s a sign he’s really still in there. And then they drop back to his lap, and your chest sews itself back together.

Your eyes start to burn with fast-forming tears. Your throat tightens, tightens, tightens, pushing them higher and higher until they pool across your waterline. Blinking doesn’t help, just drops them onto your cheeks, to be quickly swept away by the sleeve of your hoodie.

All you want is for him to look you in the eye, whisper, C’mere, baby, scoop you up and hold you in his arms forever. Fuck everything you said about the distance being good. That was when he was in his house, and you were in yours. He’s here, right now. He’s sat across from you. You’re finally on your own again. And he’s not fucking looking at you.

You let your legs down and sit up straight in your chair. It’s small, but it feels like a necessary step to silently tell him that you’re in the room with him. You’re here.

It lifts his eyes again. Not to you, but to your empty plate. Then, to the wet stain on your sleeve. You hope it stabs his heart a little.

From the shaky breath he sucks in, it seems to hurt just enough. He clears his throat. Pulls his gaze higher, higher, a little higher, until you’re eye to eye.

A wave of feeling, either burning hot or freezing cold – you can’t tell the difference – stretches across your body. It’s unnerving, and yet calming. It’s soothing on your wound, and irritating all the same. He’s looking at you. You wonder if he can see you.

You stare at one another for a few moments, drinking it all in. You can see him clear as day. You can almost see the shadows of his thoughts as they dance across the frosted-glass windows of his hazel eyes.

He blinks. Breathes in deep through his nose. And then speaks.

“LA, huh?”

You scoff. You don’t fucking mean to, but it’s the opposite of what you expected – and kind of wanted – him to say. Your whole body relaxes, though – finally relieved of the tension of the last seven days, even if only for a moment.

You feel lighter, like someone kicked the door down and this is the first gulp of clean air in your lungs. It’s small, insignificant even, but it does what it needs to.

Which is – it gives you the energy to answer back.

“It’s not a concrete plan. Yet.”

“Yet,” he repeats.

“I’m not running from you, if that’s what you’re thinking. Get your head out of your ass.”

He wants to laugh. He should’ve expected it.

“I didn’t say anythin’. I think…I think it sounds like a good plan. ‘n you’d be close by to Sarah, so.”

This conversation feels like you’ve been left alone for ten minutes with your dad’s buddy. Sanitized. Surgical. Which would’ve been what it was little over a month ago, but it’s not now. Now, it’s totally different. There’s more than just that one neat string between you.

You’ve held his hand. You’ve kissed him. You’ve touched him, in ways you’ve only ever touched a handful of people. And even then – none of those times have been anything like the way you’ve touched Joel. You’ve tasted him, you’ve felt him as he climaxes somewhere deep inside you. You’ve pulled him into your body, over and over; you’ve let him have you in ways nobody else has.

There exists a complicated, messy web of history and emotion, woven tight between you. The weight of it bears down on the surface of the dining table.

And he’s talking to you about fucking grad jobs.

“Could you just – stop fucking with me?” you ask, sincerely. You’re not angry, you’re not hurt. Not anymore.

Joel lifts his chin. Studies your face. “I’m not fucking with you.”

“Yes, you are. You’re talking to me about some job, like there’s nothing else to talk about. Like there ain’t nothin’ else we might have to discuss.”

His response is resigned. Bored, even. “What else do you wanna discuss?”

You narrow your eyes. “Oh, um, I don’t fucking know. Last week?”

Joel takes a swig of beer. You take it as reply enough.

“I don’t have any clue where you’re at, Joel. You pick me up from Frank’s, beat a dude up for me, put me to bed, ‘n then when I wake up, you’re gone. Oh, but you left your fuckin’ shirt. By accident? Or for me? Who the fuck am I to know?”

He holds back a smile. “I had work.”

“Right,” you nod, “Andrew Curtis.”

“That guy’s an idiot. You’d probably like ‘im.”

“I bet. I’m fond of idiots, apparently.”

This time, he can’t hold it back. A smirk spreads across his lips, soft and shy, but there. Right there. You could reach out and fucking touch it.

And then he nods. Leans back in his chair, folds his arms, and nods. The smile begins to fade.

With it, goes the breathing space between you. The fog starts to thicken again. The web tightens some more. Your chest begins to ache. Things feel normal for all of two minutes, and then they’re back to awkward air so heavy that you can feel it on your shoulders, feel it forcing you into a slump in your chair.

This whole thing is built on lies. Lies on top of lies on top of lies. The only truth there has ever been has been between the two of you. Two lonely figures, wrapped in each other’s arms in the eye of a storm. So –

Fuck it.

You sniff. “I thought – that the most we were risking was my dad. I thought the worst that could happen was him findin’ out.”

Your voice is quiet. Unsure of itself. One word carrying you to the next, not totally sure where you’re going with it.

“I didn’t know I was risking losing you, too, and now…now, you’re just gone. Like, you don’t wanna talk to me, you barely wanna look at me. I don’t…I don’t have you anymore, and it’s all fucked up. Do you know, I – I wouldn’ta done any of it if I thought you’d go?”

Joel flinches. Tightens the hold on his arms.

“I want you to come back,” you say, stronger this time. Louder. Clearer. You’re ignoring the tears sweeping across your vision. “Just come back. You don’t even – you don’t even have to touch me or nothin’. We can just hang out and talk, we don’t have to…we don’t have to do anything.”

Your voice wobbles by the end. Your lips tighten around it, shutting it off before you can say anything more to embarrass yourself.

Joel’s still quiet. He watches wordlessly as you stand, pile the plates atop one another and make for the kitchen. As you place them gently into the sink, you feel the weight of him behind you, reaching over to set the bottles alongside them.

“I ain’t gone anywhere,” he murmurs, and you twist to face him.

“Joel. This is the most we’ve touched in two weeks. Putting dishes in the sink.”

He repeats himself. Adds, “I’m still here. I still care about you.”

You shrug. “Then – show me.”

He steps back. “Show you,” he scoffs. Your expression doesn’t shift. “Show you? Like I didn’t just almost break my damn knuckles defendin’ you? Take you home in the dead a’ night, deal with all your drunk bickerin’?”

Your head tilts. He’s right. But you want more than that. More than spitting threats and leaving flannels behind. You want his hands, and his lips, and his voice. You want –

“…Lord, mighty me.”

Your dad’s voice follows the sudden jolt of the front door opening. You and Joel are already five feet apart by the time his body appears around the corner, one hand leaning on the wall, the other pinching the bridge of his nose.

“How on Earth that man has his own construction company, I have no idea. Called me halfway to the site ‘n said he found the keys in his damn pocket.”

“Always the scatterbrains,” Joel says, leaning casually against the counter.

“Sure is. You ‘n me oughta start our own, show ‘em all how it’s done. Anyways. What’d I miss?”

Before you can answer, Joel’s speaking again. He sounds in a hurry. “Just tidyin’ up. We were talkin’ about graduate programs, actually. You know what,” he turns to you, “I’m sure Sarah has some old brochures from UCLA. Might have some stuff worth checkin’ out. You wanna come get ‘em?”

It takes a second for you to realize he’s talking to you. His eyebrows are arched, his thumb pointing over his shoulder. He came up with the lie so damn quick, you have whiplash.

“I – yeah, sure. Yeah.”

Your dad runs his tongue between his teeth. “UCLA. Huh. Well, don’t keep Joel too late.”

“I w…I won’t,” you reply, following at the heels of the swaggering figure towards the door. You dodge his eye contact and dip your head behind Joel’s shoulder, thankful for his protective stance in front of you.

Your dad doesn’t say anything more – instead, he stands back and lets Joel lead you out. You steal a glance back at him as you slip through the door. His face unreadable, his eyes stick on Joel; locked tight on the flannel wandering down the driveway ahead of you. The word loops in your head as though the phone’s ringing again. Guilty guilty guilty guilty guilt–

But then the night breeze is dancing across your cheeks, and you’re following at the heels of Joel again, and you feel light as air in the wake of him. You climb into the passenger side of the truck and watch as he settles alongside you with a sigh. He pulls out of the drive, and his right hand sits idly on his thigh. You think to take it. Joel reads your mind.

He sits it on the armrest between you, palm facing up. You stare straight ahead and let your fingers slip through his. He knots your bodies together, thumb rubbing gently on your knuckle.

Another pound of weight lifts from your shoulders.

----------

Joel drives for twenty minutes before pulling up in an empty parking lot across from a church. It’s pitch-black and deserted. There’s a single streetlight over by the corner, illuminating a trashcan and not much else. You’re shrouded in darkness, save for the soft glow from the lights on the dash.

He switches the engine off and sits back in his seat. Your hands are separated. The distance between you slowly starts to grow again.

“LA,” he says, for the second time tonight, staring at the ceiling of the cabin.

“LA,” you echo, staring at him.

He looks down to you. Smiles. There’s something behind it. You can’t tell what.

“It’s not a grad job,” you say, forcing something up. Your fingers are twisting around the drawstring of your hoodie. “I was lookin’ at grad stuff, but there wasn’t anything I was into. The LA thing is a six-month temp job I saw.”

Joel nods. “What’s that look like?”

“Production assistant. Lots of behind-the-scenes stuff.”

“Mhm. Sounds like your thing.”

Your brows jump as you pull the tie around your finger. The tip turns white. “Might be. Job ad closes on Monday.”

He sucks in a breath. “Better get applyin’, then.”

Your head cocks. “So eager for me to go?”

“Eager for you to do somethin’ you love,” he corrects.

“But it would get me outta your hair.”

“I don’t want you outta my hair.”

A smirk sneaks its way across your lips. You nod to the view from the windshield. “Why are we way the hell out here?”

“Because your dad bombed our conversation, ‘n I figured we weren’t done.”

“Then talk.”

He licks his lips. Folds his arms, settles deeper into his seat. He turns a little more to face you. The single light from outside catches in his iris, like that same lighthouse beacon you could see earlier. Distant, far off, but there. Still there.

“I owe you an apology,” he says. “I…I thought what we were doin’…What I was doin’…I thought I was causing you more hurt ‘n harm than good. I was scared it’d gone too far. Scared it wasn’t okay anymore.”

“Was it ever okay?”

He shifts again, uncomfortably. In the dim light, you see his face pull. He squints, wobbles his head in consideration. “No. It wasn’t. But we did it anyways, you ‘n me. We made that decision together.”

“Right. And then you went and made the complete opposite decision, alone.”

He’s nodding. He knows. And you think you know, too. It fucking sucked, losing him – but you get it. What was the big plan? How far were you going to let it go? Someone had to pull the plug at some point. Someone had to cut the thing loose.

You lean closer to him. “I just…I wish you’d let me fight back a little. Wish you’d heard me out more. I know what we’ve done isn’t right. I know that. But I – I fucking –”

You sigh. It leaves your mouth shaky and unsure of itself.

There’s something more. Something at the back of your tongue, itching to separate into the dense space between you. Bigger. Stronger. Heavier.

“I missed you,” you concede, shaking your head. “That’s all.”

Joel’s eyes fall shut with a wince when you say it, like it physically hurts to hear the words come out of your mouth. But he’s clearer, now – the fog is slowly shrinking away. The words behind his eyes seem to light them in a warm glow. Missed you too, baby.

His hand opens up on the armrest again. Yours falls into it instantly.

He clears his throat then, and says, “Also owe you an apology for – for the Lois thing. I know I should’ve explained a lot sooner, ‘n I’m sorry I had you thinkin’ what you were thinkin’. I didn’t – I didn’t know it was such a big deal to you. Thought you’d know I wouldn’t…do that.”

“I think I did,” you tell him. Your nails run up and down his fingers. “Deep down. Wasn’t so much about her as it was about me.”

“About you?”

You shrug. “Yeah. Me, us, this. It was more of a, Why wouldn’t he want someone like her?, y’know? No lying, no secrets. And she’s old, like you.”

“Easy.”

You smile. “She’s nice. I know she is. My dad went on for five whole minutes about how good you’d be together when I asked ‘im. So – why wouldn’t you wanna be with her, right?”

It’s rhetorical. Joel knows. But he answers it anyways.

“She is nice,” he agrees, “but I ain’t interested. To tell you the truth, darlin’, I was a little preoccupied worrying my ass off about you to even look twice at the woman.”

You freeze for a second. Stare at the outline of his jaw, the jagged bristles of his beard; the soft sweep of hair silhouetted by the moonlight outside. He’s still Joel – even in the darkness, even in the fog. Even when you can’t see, hear, or touch him – he’s still there. Thinking about you. Worrying about you.

“Well,” you sniff, “you don’t gotta worry anymore. I just…I didn’t like the thought of it.”

His head tilts. Beckons you to continue.

You sigh. “I don’t want you…with…anyone else. I want you to…only want me.”

His brows straighten. You sit in silence, staring at one another. Both daring the other to be the first to talk. But it’s his turn, and he knows it. So he swallows, and says –

“I don’t want nobody else.”

And that’s a thing. A great big, terrible thing.

“But,” he continues, almost immediately, “this has gotta be – I’ve gotta do right by you. Gotta be honest, now –”

“Wait,” you interrupt, “can you just – stop acting like it’s all you?”

Joel falls quiet. His brows knit together.

“Stop saying things that make it sound like you’re the only one in this. I’m in it, too. I want it. I want you.”

“Baby, it’s not as simple as –”

“Joel,” you take his arms and pull yourself closer to him, legs propped against the center console, “I want you. This. I want us. All of it, I want all –”

Your body is being tugged closer to him, lifted nearer, and his chin bumps against yours, and his eyelashes almost brush against yours when your foreheads link, and his breath sweeps hot and needy across yours, and he – he kisses you.

You stop breathing. You don’t care whether or not it ever comes back. Oxygen replaced by him. Everything replaced by him.

His tongue slips past your lips, his hand glides across your hair to cup the back of your head. He locks you into his body, lets you rest your arms across his shoulders. Your lips find a rhythm against one another; warm, wet, tender.

His free hand cups your cheek, holds your mouth to his just a second longer, before he pulls away, and gives you one last kiss. Softest of them all. Seals the fucking deal.

“We okay?” he mumbles, and you lift your head from his palm. You sit frozen for a second, just looking at him. Looking and looking and looking.

“We’re good.”

He smiles then. A genuine smile. “I thought,” he whispers, glancing around the quiet parking lot, “I could take you on a date.”

So that’s why he brought you out here.

“A date?”

“Mhm. Never been on one, have we?”

“Never could.”

He nods in agreement. “Just ice cream. For now. Thought I’d show you some of my moves.”

“You got moves?” you snicker.

“I’m a catch, darlin’. The ladies swoon for me.”

“Alright, never say that to me again.”

Joel laughs. “There’s a place right around the corner. ‘s go.”

He climbs out of the truck and wanders off towards the sidewalk, and you follow. He looks down at you as you walk. His cheeks swell with the smile on his face, dimples at the edges of his lips.

It’s quiet; quieter than you’d expect, not that you’re complaining. With the sun almost set, you’re doused in light only when you wander under a streetlight. So, it’s no surprise when Joel’s eyes quickly scan the street up ahead, and his hand reaches down for yours.

Your stomach flips. You’re doing everything you can not to let him feel your pulse in your wrist, but you’re pretty sure you can, because he leans his shoulder against yours and asks if you’re okay.

“Good,” you choke out, relieved to have just passed a streetlight that might give away the blush on your cheeks.

Approaching on the right is a sickly-sweet, pastel-painted store front; fairy lights decorating the window, wireframe tables and chairs dotted outside. A bell dings when Joel pushes the door open, holding it open for you to step inside.

It’s…dainty. Sweet. Everything is either teal or pink or white. There’s a giant ice cream cone stood in the corner. There’s a gumball machine opposite it. The lighting is a little garish – kind of reminds you of sitting in the dentist chair, eyes squinting up at the bright white light overhead.

You’re fucking surprised to be stood in here with Joel Miller, of all people. He sticks out like a sore thumb; his worn jeans and crumpled flannel against the minty gleam of the parlor like an earthy tree sprouting in the middle of that same dentist’s office. It makes you giggle, as he leads you over to the counter.

A boy with a teal uniform meets him over a glass case full of different ice cream flavors. His name badge reads Ben. “What can I get you?” he asks, scoop in hand. Your lips press against one another to stop your laugh from escaping.

Joel turns to look at you. He nudges you with his elbow when you don’t return his glance, too focused on Ben’s pink baseball cap, the logo of the shop printed on top.

“Uh,” you consider, glancing down, “I’m good with any.”

Joel sighs, lips thinning. “Am I gonna pick a flavor, ‘n then you decide you don’t like it?”

“Nope. Promise.” You smile innocently, and he turns back to the server.

“I’ll take one scoop of the cookie dough, and, uh…one of the coffee, please.”

When Ben dips to scoop the order into two little tubs, you mock gasp at Joel.

“What?”

“Coffee?”

He shrugs.

“I took you for a vanilla man.”

Ben stands straight and punches some numbers into the cash register. Joel hands him a ten.

“What about me makes you think I’m into vanilla?” he asks in a low voice.

You bat your eyelashes at him. A dark thought crosses your mind, but you think better of voicing it and save Ben the embarrassment of potentially hearing you.

Joel thanks him and takes both tubs in one hand. You make for a booth by the window, but his hand quickly slinks around your waist, diverting you back to the door.

“Nuh-uh.”

“What?” you ask, spinning around.

Joel continues walking, backing you out of the shop. “I am not sittin’ in here. Got a fuckin’ headache already from five minutes in the place.”

“But it’s so cute,” you protest, giggling. “You don’t want your picture taken with the giant cone?”

“Get the hell out,” he mumbles, shoving you across the tiled floor back out to the sidewalk. He can’t mask his own grin, spilling out behind you, taking your hand in his.

You snort as he drags you back along the street. “Maybe I should forget about LA and get a job in there. Drive myself insane.”

“Maybe you should,” Joel agrees. “Least then you’d have an excuse for it.”

You slap his chest. “Where are we goin’?”

“’s just go back to the truck. Quieter. Less fluorescent lights.”

He unlocks it a few paces away, but you stroll past your door.

“What are you doin’?” Joel asks when you pull yourself up into the bed.

“C’mon,” you call back, settling against the back window, “it’s a nice night. Who are we hiding from?”

He tosses it over in his head and cocks one eyebrow. Fair enough. He climbs up and passes you the ice cream, shrugging his shirt from his shoulders. He throws it over your bare legs and sits down beside you, grunting as he does.

You smirk when he rests back.

“I’m almost fifty, darlin’,” he warns, reaching for his tub.

Your lips curve and you nod, digging the little plastic spoon into your dessert. You stretch your legs out and cross your ankles, watching in quiet contentment as the cars roll by, squealing to a halt at the traffic lights. Lights are coming on in windows, curtains are being drawn. Joel’s legs lie against yours, joined at the hip, shoulders brushing off one another.

This is the most peace you’ve had in a fortnight. Sat in the back of his truck, no eyes on you, watching the comings and goings of some back street in the city. You talk about nothing, for the first time in what’s felt like forever. You talk about films, and music, and all the stuff that seemed so unimportant before. Now, it all feels imperative. Feels like a life-or-death thing. What’s your favorite movie? You know my favorite movie, baby. But tell me again. Just so I know for sure. Just so that – if anything happens.

You listen when he answers. You watch his mouth as he says the words. For all the times you took it for granted before. For all the times you thought it was insignificant. It’s all significant, now. It all means something. It’s just more strings to the web between you, each one knotting you closer and closer together.

And you talk about what you’ve missed. The two weeks you’ve spent apart. You catch him up as if he was only gone on vacation. As if he was always meant to come back in the end.

“The guy with the weed – same guy you punched – he was –” gulp, “– what was his name again? Knicks? No –”

Joel snorts, spoon scraping around the edge the tiny pot in his huge hand. “Knicks?”

You close your eyes, waving your hand like it’ll urge him to remember the name of a guy he took no time getting to know before he floored him. “No, it wasn’t Kn…Knox! It was Knox, and he –”

“Kind of a fuckin’ name is Knox? Knox?”

“Are you gonna let me talk, or what?” you quip, and Joel brings his wrist up to his mouth to mask his laugh.

“Sorry, sorry, sweetheart. Go ahead. Knox had the weed.”

“Knox had the weed, and…he…Fuck, I can’t even remember where I was goin’ with that.” You shake your head and lean it back against the windowpane.

He laughs. For real. A Joel laugh. His shoulders jerk with the force of it. “You were gonna tell me about his friends, I think. Somethin’ about his friends.”

It sparks back up in your brain – the memory. “Right! Right. His friends – that dude with the glasses? That was Zack.”

Joel stares at you blankly, tongue in his cheek. “Zack?”

“Big guy, red face. Buck teeth. From Costco?”

His jaw slackens. He remembers. “I fuckin’ – I knew I’d seen that kid’s face before. That was him?”

You nod. Uhuh.

“Damn.” He chuckles. “He looked at me like I was a wild bear.”

You toss your head, roll your eyes. “Well.”

He laughs again. Knocks your legs with his own.

“Good call, by the way,” your lips mumble around the shape of your spoon, “cookie dough. it’s nice.”

“Wanna try mine?”

“Really?” Your face contorts, eyes screwing. “Coffee?”

“’s good. Here.”

He holds out a spoonful.

“Yeah, nice to you, who drinks, like, thirty of ‘em a day.”

Joel responds by pushing the spoon to your lips and you oblige, opening up and letting him feed you the ice cream.

It’s not bad. It’s ice cream, it can’t be bad. But it definitely isn’t good, and the way your lips purse and your neck jerks lets Joel know exactly how you feel about it. He scoffs, wiping a little from your lips with his thumb and sucking it clean.

“You don’t like it?”

“Why is it…bitter? Eugh.”

He laughs to himself as he loads up another spoonful. “It’s an acquired taste.”

“Well, I am not interested in acquirin’ it. You want some of the cookie dough?”

He shakes his head. “You enjoy.”

You both turn back to the street ahead. Joel’s arm is warm at the side of yours, his shoulder right there for you to lean your head on.

He places a kiss to your head when you do.

“What do you think he’d do if he found out?”

You’re not sure where it comes from. Neither is Joel, apparently, from the way he clears his throat and squirms ever so slightly. He knows exactly who you mean.

“I, uh…I don’t like to imagine.”

“It scare you?”

He takes a deep breath. “Naw. I just got better things to do with my imagination, is all.” He prods your arm with his. Picturin’ you.

“Ha. You reckon he’d kill you?”

“Probably.”

“He couldn’t kill you. Wild bear.”

“Well, I reckon he might try.”

“I think he’d call the cops.”

Joel’s head lifts from yours and falls back against the truck with a laugh.

“Help, Officer,” you mimic your dad’s twang,“my grown adult daughter is sleeping with someone!”

Joel’s shoulders slowly stop moving.

“Is that all we’re doin’?” he asks.

“Huh?” You lift your head and look at him. His dark eyes reflect the city lights in the distance.

“Is that all we’re doin’? Sleepin’ together?” His voice is gentle, honest. Genuinely asking, seeking out what you think.

You consider it, tryna sound casual. You know what he’s getting at.

“That’s all we’ve been doin’. Help, Officer, my daughter’s grabbing ice cream with someone? Better?”

He hums. Looks down at the empty tub in his hands. Looks back up to your lips. Draws nearer to you, holds your chin with one finger, looks you dead in the eye, and whispers,

“How about, Help, Officer, my daughter made someone fall in love with her?”

Your breath catches. Your hands fall limp into your lap. You blink away tears.

“You – No, that’s – You gotta say it. You gotta actually tell me, ‘cause I’m not – I don’t wanna misinterpret – We haven’t –”

You’re buffering. Your brain malfunctioning. Your tongue can’t decide which of the words at the back of your throat, all desperate to escape, to let through first.

Joel’s just smiling, watching you stutter and stammer your way through a sentence that leads you nowhere, desperately trying to compute what he’s just said because he’s finally fucking admitted it. He’s finally letting you know, giving you access to a part of him he’s been keeping from you for who knows how long.

Even though all this time it’s been the one thought running through your head that hasn’t passed your lips, it reverberates around your ears like it’s the last thing you ever expected him to say.

Joel’s hand moves to your neck, just below your ear. “Baby,” his thumb rubs your skin, “you know I love you.”

A gasp flees from your lips. Your ice cream is thrown to the truck bed, probably spilling over, and you don’t care. You leap into his lap, arms around his neck, and kiss him all over.

Joel’s laughing, returning what kisses he can, squeezing you with his big hands.

“I love you,” he says again when you come up for air, and it’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever heard in your life. You sit your forehead against his, whispering breathlessly,

“Fuck, I love you, too.”

You two stare at each other, eyes scanning every part of the other’s face, mapping every mark, line, scar, like it’s the first time you’ve ever seen each other.

Guess it is, right?

This is the first time you’re looking at the man you love and you’re not afraid of it. The first time your chest swells and you don’t gulp it back, the first time you let him feel your heart pounding against the wall of your chest.

It’s the first time you look into his eyes, dark eyelashes and fine lines decorating deep warm brown, and think those three words…and know you can say them. Know neither of you will be spooked, neither of you will try to push them back down where they came from.

I love you. That’s all there is between you now. Your cards are flat on the table, Joel’s, too. Game over. You know everything there is to know about each other. You know each other.

You’ve sunk down his body, turned so your back curves into his chest, his chin resting on your head. Safely encased in his body, sat between his thighs. His hand runs up and down your thigh, lighting drawing lines and circles and writing words you don’t care to guess, ‘cause you probably already know ‘em.

Love hums between the two of you, keeping you warm; your bodies pressed together, hearts beating just inches apart. You blink your eyes open and the single streetlight sails back into your vision – bright as the moon, stirring you from your tranquil bliss.

“Do you,” you turn, and Joel fixes your hair, presses his lips to your forehead, “do you tell all the girls that on the first date? Was that just one of your moves?”

He snorts, and answers by pulling you in to give you a tender kiss.

No. Just you.

“You ready to go?” he asks when your lips part.

“Mhm. Take me home, cowboy.”

----------

His house is dark against the dusky sky. The headlights illuminate the garage door as he pulls up in the drive, squeezing your hand once as the truck comes to a halt.

“And then…” Joel says, holding a finger up to you. Wait right here.

He gets out of the driver’s side and you watch the shadow of him jog around the truck, stopping at your door. He opens it, and holds a hand out for you to take.

You choke on a laugh. “That is…”

“That is what?”

“…so cheesy. You really do that?”

“Uhuh. C’mon.”

Your fingers lace through his and you hop out of the truck. Joel shuts the door behind you and extends his elbow, and you link your arm through his. His hand warmly rests on top of yours.

You both wander over to his porch where he stops, letting you walk up the steps alone. When you reach the top one, only just taller than him on the path, hands still interlinked, you look down.

“Then I say, Thank you for a lovely evenin’, and,” he lifts your hand, pressing his lips to your knuckles, “then…” Joel holds his arms out. Voila. Just like that.

“Wow. I feel…honored.”

“You should.”

“Not even a proper kiss?”

“I just kissed your hand, baby. You didn’t like that?”

“You don’t ask to come inside?”

He scoffs. “Nope. What would I want to come inside for?”

You grin. Shrug your shoulders. Start walking backward to his door.

“Well, I am exhausted after our date, Mr. Miller. I do think,” yawn, “I should be gettin’ ready for bed.”

Joel lowers his head, eyes trained on you, smirk growing on his lips. “Is that so?”

You nod.

He starts to climb the steps.

“I’m sure I’ll be expectin’ a call from you,” you mewl, exaggerated Southern accent crooning to him. Your back bumps against the front door. Joel’s on the porch now. You bite your lip.

“Oh, I’m sure you will,” he returns, his shadow creeping over you. He reaches your body and his arms come to rest on the frame right above your head.

You hook your hands around his shoulders.

“You really don’t wanna come in?” you whisper, and his jaw ticks.

“I wouldn’t want to be ungentlemanly.”

Leaning in, lips against his ear, you whisper soft enough to shake the breath as it falls from his lips.

“And what if I asked you, nicely, to take me inside and fuck me good ‘n hard until I can’t walk?”

Joel’s eyes pool black when you lean away, head resting back on his door. Your gaze is heavy with lust, eyelashes batting slowly.

“Hm,” he grumbles, body beginning to press against yours. His head cocks. “You don’t wanna be treated like a lady?”

“Nope.” You smirk, hand falling down to cup the bulge quickly forming below his belt.

“Want to be treated like a fuckin’ whore, do ya?”

Chest heaving, you nod, massaging him.

“So dirty, darlin’, feelin’ your date up on the porch,” he tells you, dipping his jaw to run his lips along your neck. “What ‘m I gonna do with you?”

You shrug again, and your fingers find the door handle at your hip. You push, and the wood behind you falls inward.

As you plunge into the dark house, Joel’s rough hands clamp down on your waist, taking you in his tight grip and throwing you against the wall. His lips find your neck, teeth scraping the sensitive skin, tongue caressing tenderly as he sucks a bruise into you. Heat spreads across your core. You clench your thighs around the feeling.

“Joel,” you whine, hands surfing through his hair. “Fuck, take me upstairs.”

He hums. He’s going to. He’s just not doing it quick enough.

You lift your leg to his hip, and his left hand scoops under your ass. He pulls your center flat against the swelling in his jeans, ruts slowly against your body. You hear a deep groan from his throat.

“Upstairs,” you say again, growing impatient, and he growls, taking you with both hands and lifting you two steps at a time towards his bedroom.

He kicks the door open, loosening his grip on you as he walks over to the bed. Light streams across the room in splinters, peering through the shades from the streetlights outside. Your legs drop and you dance along on your toes, turning him midway until his calves hit the bottom of his mattress.

Your lips part for mere seconds, allowing one reflected expression between you, before you’re pushing him by the chest onto the bed. His body springs when he hits the sheets, staring back up at yours between his legs. His breath courses from his mouth, thick with want and need.

You lay him flat on the mattress, knees either side of his waist, hands curved over his shoulders. His own find your waist, holding on tight as you straddle him, playing with the tie of your shorts when you settle.

You dip your head and brush your lips against his. One long, sweet kiss, and his hands are at the hem of your hoodie, pulling it free, lifting it over your head. You groan as it separates your bodies, let your tongue find his again as quickly as it was pulled apart from it.

“Let me see,” he whispers against your lips, hands slipping beneath the fabric of your shorts to rub circles into your hipbones.

You smile as you straighten, fingers dancing along the hem of your tee.

“Let me – see,” Joel grunts, when your core grinds into his.

You peel the tight fabric from your stomach, higher, higher, until it lifts your breasts, catching on the curve of them, and as you whip it over your head, they bounce back down. Joel groans from below, staring at the perfect peaked shape. He lifts one hand to cup your tit, runs his thumb over the quickly-hardening nipple.

“So fuckin’ pretty, baby.”

“I know,” you tell him, watching as his thumbpad circles the delicate skin. Your back arches into his touch.

And then his hands sink into the mattress either side of his body, pushing himself closer to you. He wraps a strong arm around your back and pulls your chest to his mouth, lips pressing wet kisses to the valley between your breasts. His teeth graze across the round shape up towards your nipple again.

His tongue slips over the hard bud, swirling and soaking all over it. Your head falls back, fingers grip onto his hair. Your mouth falls open, but no sound comes. Joel sucks harder.

“S– fuck,” you whisper, nearly voiceless. His tongue is flicking now, lips pulling more of your body into his mouth. “Fuckfuckfuck, I need you, I need you,” you whimper.

He releases your sweet skin, lips shining with saliva. “Tell me where.”

You writhe on top of him, hands pushing your shorts down over your hips. “You know where.”

Joel holds your body steady. “Tell me.”

You whine, trying to rock against him. He doesn’t let up. “Joel, fuck. Betw– between my – fuck.”

“Between your legs?” he taunts, pushing you harder against the hard folds of denim below his belt. “That where you need me? Between those pretty legs, babygirl?”

Your fists ball around the fabric of his shirt, clinging on to him. “Ye-ah,” you whimper, and his weight falls from your grasp.

You feel your shorts tug over the crests of bone by your hips. “Step out of ‘em, baby,” he instructs, and your knee lifts.

He pulls the cotton down one leg at a time, telling you to shift your weight as he curls a finger around the lace of your panties and tugs them down after. Before you can think about it, you’re naked, soaked cunt making a mess over the crotch of his jeans.

He looks up at you expectantly.

“What–?”

He flicks his fingers in a beckoning motion, a Come here, either side of your thighs. You hesitate.

“Darlin’. Up.”

“Joel.”

“Up.”

You take his open hands and shuffle up the mattress, knees pushing into the soft sheets either side of his head. You glance down at him.

“I don’t know –”

“’m not gonna tell you again.”

And he doesn’t have to. You steady yourself, locking your fingers through his behind your ass, and slowly lower yourself down to him. His jaw lifts to meet you, and you think about pausing again, telling him he doesn’t have to do this, asking instead to do something else, something he’ll enjoy as much, something you can both –

But then his lips open around the sweetest part of your body, and your lungs freeze. His tongue slips between, daring where you need him most, and your body sighs in equal parts relief and pleasure.

You’re so fucking wet. You can feel it, leaking onto his lips, spreading around your own as he kisses you, licks you, takes in every drop of you. Your back curls, lips fall open to the ceiling, breath comes in short wisps.

It’s been almost two weeks since the two of you felt like this. Hot, wet, needy. Two weeks of waiting for the other to come back, two weeks of reaching for the phone and deciding against it once the number’s dialed, two weeks of nothing.

And now – everything. Everywhere. Every part of your body ignited for him. You feel him fucking everywhere.

You lean all of your weight onto the palm of your hands, pushing all of it into Joel’s. He’s steady, strong, letting you rock and swirl your hips as he laps at your core.

“Right there,” you whisper, head rolling back. “Keep – keep – oh, fuck, Joel. What the f–?”

He slowly lowers his hands, letting you untangle your fingers and place them on the bed. His own come to hook around your thighs, clamping you as close against him as you can possibly be.

Two weeks of nothing. And now, five minutes of everything. The shards of light from outside blur across your vision; heat starts to prickle up your spine, tickling the back of your neck. You’re smiling, filthy and desperate.

“I’m gonna –” you breathe, and Joel hums. “’m gonna c– come.”

You can hear his response, though he doesn’t say a word. Then, come.

Your hips motion forward. Tighten. Clamp. Inhale. Joel’s tongue slips between your folds, warm on the inside of your cunt. And you rock back. Unwind. Unfurl. Exhale. His bottom lip puckers against your clit.

“J-oel. Joel, I’m – you’re – fuck.”

He moans against your sex. His hips shift behind you. Buck upwards, carefully.

Tighten. Clamp. Inhale. Tighten – inhale. Unwind. Unf-url. Ex-hale. Tighten. Inh– clamp. Fuck. I’m there. Unwind. Warm. Wet. Tongue. Exhale. Tongue. Tighten. Clamp. Inhale. Joel –

Your fingers curl around his bedsheets, nails dig into the cotton. Your orgasm sends a flood of hot pleasure across your cunt, rains down over Joel’s lips, and sets fireworks off through your body which explode into the dark room in the form of a throaty moan.

You’re not sure when you come to. You’re not sure your arms can bear the weight of your body. But when your eyes blink open, he’s kissing the inside of your thighs.

His mouth is glistening. Moustache and beard covered in you. Soft lips pearlescent with your spend. Your body feels heavy, unbearable. You lift your leg and tumble onto the mattress by his side, pussy throbbing when you land.

“I love you,” you whisper, and not for any particular reason. Not because of what he just did. Not because you’re naked in his bed.

But maybe because it feels like this is what you were made to do. To love and to be loved – by him. It feels like this entire thing has been, from its genesis, an exchange. An understanding. Immediate and certain. Here are all the parts of me. You know what to do.

As if there needed no further explanation. No instruction, no tutorial. You just knew.

He pushes himself up, leans over your frame. His jaw lowers, and he licks into your mouth tenderly.

“Gotta be inside you, baby,” he says, and at the same time, your fingers find the buttons of his shirt. “Gotta feel you again.”

You nod against him. Fuck me fuck me fuck me.

Joel’s hands are on his belt, pulling it through the loops, dropping it to the floor. Your help him tug his jeans off when he undoes the button. The material of his underwear rubs against your sex; your creamy arousal smears all over the black fabric. You can feel the weight of his stiff cock beneath. It dizzies your head.

He lets your fingers sneak below the elastic, lowering it until he springs free, slapping against the bottom of his tummy. You could fucking drool at the sight of him – the pink tip, beaded with precum; the thick vein on the underside of the shaft; his balls below it, heavy and waiting. Your hands wrap around him and pump slowly as he drags his boxers down, kicking them off at the foot of the bed.

He groans, hips thrusting gently into your palms as you squeeze him. Your fingers slip between your folds, collecting your own slick, coating him in it as you fist him.

“So good, babygirl,” Joel breathes, leaning down to kiss you. “You gonna take it all?”

“Mhm,” you reply, tongue slipping against his.

“Yeah,” he says, “my girl can take it.”

You let his hand shadow over yours, the two of you guiding his cock towards your entrance together. It glides between your dripping folds, the head sifting effortlessly from your clit to your tight hole and back again. Joel laughs, teeth clashing with yours, as he dips in and out, teasing you.

Your ass lifts from the mattress, any movement to draw him nearer. “Stop,” you gasp.

Joel pauses. “Stop?”

“No,” you bleat, “don’t stop. Just – fucking do it.”

“Do what, darlin’?”

“Fuck me.”

And he sinks in.

You’d be lying if you said all you’d done for the last two weeks was cry, mope, and stare at the ceiling. That’d be discrediting everything that this little affair was built on. It’s impossible to forget how the thing fucking started – your hands between your legs, Joel watching from the doorway.

In the moments you didn’t feel the mind-numbing tsunami of heartache overcome you – you felt something else. Memories of his hands on you, the trail of his tongue between your legs, the swell of his cock deep inside you. You tried to replicate it a handful of times with your hands. But nothing – not your fingers, not two, three, or four – nothing stands a chance against him.

He pushes in slow at first, drawing out when he’s halfway, and then in again as he covers himself in the wet his tongue left behind. When he’s soaked, glistening and gleaming, he thrusts. Hard. His tip catches on your cervix, and your back arches in a mix of pain and delight.

Something throbs deep inside as he bottoms out. You feel your opening stretch around his base. You feel your legs widen as if by instinct, accommodating the size of him, the width of him, the pace of him.

You throw an arm over his shoulder, elbow hanging on the nape of his neck. His sweaty forehead sticks to yours, and your hand cups his cheek.

“Harder,” you tell him, and he listens.

“Fuck, baby,” he pants, “fuck, you’re so tight. Oh, my – I ain’t gonna last.”

“Don’t – want you – to,” you cry, body jumping as he fucks you quicker, quicker, harder, deeper. “Want to – come – together.”

Your head tips back against the bed, and Joel’s lips attach to your neck. He’s moaning into your skin, teeth biting down, breath hot and quick. He’s not gonna last he’s not gonna last he’s not –

“F-u-ck, Joel,” you sob, your walls starting to close in around him, “feels so – f-fucking good, oh!”

“I know, darlin’, I know. C’mere.”

He takes your cheek and pulls your face back to his, lines his lips with yours and kisses you. It’s messy, haggard, fucking all over the place as your bodies bounce together, but he tastes like sweat, and sex, and you, and him.

“Missed this so fuckin’ much,” he grunts, hips pounding. “Missed bein’ inside you. You know how bad I needed you?”

“Tell me,” you slur, echoing his own words back to him.

He smirks. “Best fucking pussy I ever had, sweetheart. Best – I ever – had.”

“Don’t pull out,” you hum against his lips, and his jaw pulls back a fraction. “Don’t.”

“Baby,” he says, strained, and your head tilts.

“Need it,” you tell him. “Please. Need you.”

He nods, leaning back into you, letting you connect your mouths again. His lips shudder when you pull away, the thought translated clear as day from your mouth to his. And he knows, and he drives in harder, and he fucks the image from your mind. Who the fuck is Lois, when you’re under him and he’s this deep between your legs?

You look up into his eyes, and you find your answer. She’s nobody. There’s only you.

Your body feels liquid, your mind like fog. You pull him into your body, deeper and deeper, until you’re sure you’re one, and there is no place where he ends and you begin, and you’re sure this is what it feels like, this is what those words feel like, not just the sound of them, not just the way his lips move around them, but the shape of them on and in and around your body. Something deafening, something blinding, something screaming from the pits of your lungs as you come all around him, and you feel him come all around you.

His warmth spurts deep inside you, filling you up, dripping down your walls as he collapses into your shoulder, a loud moan drilling into your collarbone. He slows, thrusts in and out gently, pushing his spend deeper and mixing it with yours.

It's everywhere. The feeling. The pulsing, the humming, the singing. He’s everywhere. Him. In your brain and in your lungs and in your body and in your cunt. And you want to keep him there, hold him there, keep your bodies together for five more minutes, just five more minutes.

But then he’s panting into your skin, pressing kisses into that little dip between your collarbone and your chest, and he slowly slips out, come dripping from where he leaves.

He presses his palm deep into the sheets by your head, lifts off of you – but your arm is still around his neck, and you lean with him. Tilted on his mattress, holding onto him, letting him kiss your head; letting his hand move across the surface of your stomach, mapping the gentle slope over your belly button and scaling the tiny mountains of your hipbones. Kneading softly into the skin over which his seed sits, warm and snug, deep inside you. It’s new. You think you love it.

And he’s whispering, “Good girl, did so good for me,” and he nuzzles his nose into your hair, and he tilts your chin back until he can see your face, see your expression, and he smiles with relief when he clocks your doe eyes, your blissful smile, the sweet tinge of red on your cheeks.

“I love you,” he tells you, and you’re staring at his lips.

“Again.”

“I love you.”

You look up to his eyes. “Again.”

“I love you.”

You smile. It breaks into a laugh. “Again,” you whisper, and he kisses you.

Slowly, only once you pull away from him and your breath steadies, Joel takes your body and carefully shifts. He turns onto his back, settles you on his chest, your hips between his thighs. He runs a gentle hand over your hair and you lie against his sweat-shining chest, his heartbeat whispering sweet nothings into your ear.

Love and sex, as far as you knew, were always two different things. Separate. One, you weren’t even sure existed. The other, nothing more than a need to be satisfied. Something deep within you, something no one had ever managed to touch. And then Joel. And his lips, and his tongue, and his hands and his cock.

And suddenly the two – love and sex – begin to blur, their edges touch frantically. They bleed into one another, until there are no longer two distinct forms; instead, one big shape which has the curve of your hips and the cut of his jaw.

You love him. And he loves you. You’ve heard it translated between your minds longer than you care to admit, and now – you’ve felt it. Transferred between your bodies. You love him. Jesus, you love him.

It’s as terrifying as it is thrilling. Enamoring, and yet dangerous.

“So,” you sigh, “what’s next?”

He glances down, lifts his eyebrows and gives his head a shake. His hand lifts off of your shoulder with a shrug.

“Like, your next move. What happened with the other eight?”

“The other eight?”

“Mhm. Me, Sarah’s mom, makes two. There are eight others, right? What’d you do afterward?”

“Kicked ‘em out.”

You lift a heavy hand and slap his chest. He shudders with laughter.

“I dunno, baby. Wasn’t all like this.”

Your brows knit. “Like what?”

He takes a deep breath. Your head rises as his lungs fill. “Lyin’ in bed afterward. Talkin’.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

“What?” he asks, smirking.

“Who even were they? I wanna know.”

“Why?”

“Just do. I wanna hear about ‘em. When was the last one, before me?”

Joel’s eyes drift off to the ceiling above you, thinking. “May.”

“M–?” You jump up, pushing yourself off of his body. “May?” you repeat, eyes wide. “That’s…so recent.”

“Recent?” He chokes back a laugh. “When’s your last?”

You furrow your brows, dropping his gaze. “We’re not talking about me,” you mumble, thumbs twiddling.

Your last had been two nights before you flew home. You’d gone out with your roommates and dragged home Matteo, an exchange student who you’d worked with on a group project for your screenwriting class. He was three inches shorter than you. He bent you over your kitchen counter and fucked you until he came. Then he made himself some cereal, ate half of it, and left.

Joel doesn’t really need to hear about him, you think.

“Do I know any of them?” you ask in attempt to change the subject.

Joel pulls a face. His lips tighten, teeth clench. His eyes narrow to a thin line, looking at you through his eyelashes. He nods tentatively.

“Shut the fuck up. Who is it? Who?”

“I dunno if you know her, but she knows you.”

“What’s her name?”

“Your dad gave us a ride home from the bar. She ‘n him got to talkin’, and he said he had a daughter –”

Your fist lightly drops onto his chest. “Joel, if you don’t fucking tell me who it is, I –”

“She’s an elementary teacher. Long, dark hair. Good few years older ‘n you. Think she said her little sister went to your school.”

“Who – was – it?”

He makes the face again. This time his eyes close over, waiting for the penny to drop. His head shakes lightly.

“You –? No, Joel. Come on. Please don’t…Are you fucking serious? You don’t remember her name?”

“It was a long night, alright?”

“How did you forget her damn name?”

He shrugs. “I don’t fuckin’ know. I was drunk, baby.”

“Elementary teacher? I don’t know anybody whose sister teaches elementary.”

“Guess we’ll never know.” Joel shrugs, and you shake your head at him.

You’re picturing Joel stumbling out of Frank’s, arm in arm with a brunette, heavy feet dragging along the sidewalk while your dad chitters in his ear about the Rangers, or about some rude bartender, or about…you. The brunette turns, and her face is yours. Your features, your smile. Your hand linked through Joel’s. C’mon, baby. ‘s go home.

You chase the image away. It slips from your mind like dust cleared from a countertop. Would never. Could never. Should never.

You replace it with something lighter. Something to make you forget about the dust.

“Does…Does my dad ever go home with anyone?”

“What?”

You don’t answer. He heard you.

“That’s…No. I ain’t answerin’ that.”

“Oh, come on. If you’re takin’ women home left, right, and center, he’s gotta be seein’ that. Does he?”

“I was not takin’ home women left, right, and – No, darlin’, no. It’s inappropriate.”

“Yeah, you’re right. And I’m known for my appropriate behavior, y’know,” you gesture between your naked bodies, “I’m known for the good life choices I make.”

“This,” Joel hooks his hands under your arms and drags you up until your chin meets his, “is a good life choice.”

“Yeah?” you ask through a giggle, your nose bumping his.

Joel smiles softly, runs a hand over the back of your head. Looks between your eyes, a twinkle in his. Yes.

Your lips crash together like waves on the rocks. You’re the sea; he’s the stone. Two different worlds, suddenly married in some unforeseen twist of nature. And when you pour over him, your body lighting him in a twinkling glow of ocean, it’s as though you never existed apart from one another. It’s as natural as the waves on the shore.

“Alright, darlin’,” Joel mumbles against your skin. “Speakin’ of inappropriate. I gotta get you home.”

“Why can’t I just stay the night?” you complain. “Like last time. Tell ‘im we’re watchin’ a movie again…”

Joel’s head rests on your arm. “He’s worried sick about you. Ain’t no way he’ll let you spend the night here. You know that. Plus, Sarah’ll be long done with Rita’s cross stitch by now.”

He sits up and you roll into his lap, head resting on the soft skin of his belly. He looks down at you, head tilted, eyes glowing hazel.

You stare right back. The dimples in his cheeks dig deeper when you whisper, “Kickin’ me out right after we finally make up. I see how it is, Miller.”

Joel’s shoulders hunch. “Happens to all of ‘em. Warned ya.”

He shifts off the bed and begins gathering his clothes. You sit up and watch as he pulls his boxers snug over his hips, swipes his tee from the carpet at his feet. As he drapes it over his scruffy chest, your half-naked form meets his at the foot of the bed.

His fingers knot in your hair. You lean into his arms, legs giving as he kisses you gently, breathing you in, stealing any more words of protest from your tongue.

“I love you,” he whispers when he pulls away, tip of his nose brushing off yours. “You know that?”

“Somebody told me somethin’ to do with that, yeah.”

He smiles. “Get dressed.”

You pull the rest of your clothes back on in silence, tossing socks and jeans across the room to one another, giggling like a pair of kids. After all you just did, the palpable pleasure you just sent hammering through one another – this is the part you wish you could bottle. The laughter, the love. The attempts to keep holding onto him, even as he tries to pull his arm through the sleeve of his shirt, even as he links his belt back through his jeans, as he bends to tie his boots.

The fun of it. The hope of it.

The foolish, foolish hope.

“Hoodie.” Joel flings it up towards you, crouched as he tightens his laces.

You pull it on over your bra. Flatten your flyaway hairs, stand straight before him.

“Ready?”

“Ready.”

“You got your phone?”

Your hands instinctively pat your body down. “Oh, nah,” you realize, “musta left it at home.”

Joel nods and heads into the hallway, you at his heel. At the bottom of the stairs, you glance around his house, like it’s the first and last time you’ll see it wrapped into one. It looks different; two weeks of absence and you notice things you hadn’t before.

His coat hanging by the door, probably untouched since early spring. The bowl on the side table where his and Sarah’s keys live. The guitar in the corner of the room, the books in the shelves above it. All him. Every little piece of it. He’s reflected in every object in the room. He’s reflected in you.

You drive back to your dad’s place in silence. Comfortable, sweet silence. Your fingers ghost across his palm the entire time, watching out the window as the dark neighborhood soars by in a blur of porch lights and mailboxes. All too quickly, you’re back in front of your own house.

“What do we do now?” you ask, and through the darkness you see Joel’s smile fall.

After a moment’s silence, heavy and contemplative, he looks back up. Softens when his eyes land on you.

“We’ll be alright,” he tells you, and you believe him.

You lean forward and press a quick but tender kiss to his lips, and your fingers latch around the door handle. Joel’s hand finds the back of your head, keeping your mouth on his.

“Gotta – let me – go,” you mumble between kisses, and he hums a laugh in response. “Joel.”

“I know,” he whispers, finally pulling back. “I know.”

You smile, head tilting into his palm. “I’ll text you.”

He nods once. “See you, babygirl.”

You slip out of the truck and wander past to your front door, twirling as you click the handle. Joel laughs, and the truck reverses back onto the street. You wait for it to disappear before closing the door, and step into the unlit hallway.

The TV lights the living room at the opposite end. You stop by the kitchen, feeling the grumpy rumble of your stomach. Your dad’s armchair is sat facing the screen. You lean over to double check he’s not sat in it, fast asleep while Rangers highlights play on loop before his eyelids.

When you swivel the plaid pattern towards your knees, its only occupant is the remote. You flick the TV off and pad back over to the kitchen, filling a bowl with some chips. You’re hunched over at the refrigerator when his footsteps clunk slowly down the stairs, and he materializes like a specter around the doorway.

“Hey.”

You straighten up, lit in a nervous blue hue from the fridge. “Hey, yourself.”

“Joel gone?”

“’bout ten minutes ago. Where’ve you been? You left the TV on.”

“Just…y’know. You get those brochures?”

Fuck. You were at Joel’s under the premise of picking up fucking UCLA pamphlets – and you’ve come home empty-handed. The lie doesn’t form on your tongue as quickly as Joel’s did earlier. Something else on your mind.

“…sure. Some…interesting stuff.”

Your dad nods. “Good. Good, I’m glad. We can take a look in the mornin’.”

Your eyebrows flinch. “Yeah. That’d be – yeah. I’m…gonna head to bed, alright?”

“Sure,” he says, nodding.

With a can of soda under your arm and your bowl of chips in the other, you nod and cautiously shuffle towards him. His lips are a thin line. You duck by him and trot upstairs, and make it as far as the landing before he’s calling out again.

“Oh, hey.” He holds a hand out, and disappears in a jog towards the living room. You drop back down a couple steps, watching him swipe something from the dining table and pace back over. “You left your phone.”

He’s presenting it like a jeweler shows a Rolex – or maybe more like an investigator handles evidence. Holding it out in almost trembling fingers, afraid to mark it with his fingerprints. Your eyes flit from the phone to his, unsure which of the two frightens you more.

That’s not where I fucking left it.

You lean over and take it from his palm. “Thanks…”

“I think maybe you got a text, just then. It was lit up. Maybe I’m seein’ things.”

You force the corners of your mouth upward. Your cheeks inflate with nerves and shame. “Thanks,” you repeat, and then: “Everything okay, Dad?”

“Everything’s fine, kiddo. Sleep well.” He makes back for the living room.

As you turn, you unlock your screen.

Joel: Left your shirt here, and your bikini from last week. This mean I get to be the one wearing your clothes now?

Panic spills over your head, a wave of freezing cold washing over you when you read his words. Did Dad read them, too?

You continue walking, feeling the weight of your dad’s strange voice on your back as your feet drag you one by one up the stairs. When you make it back to the landing, your cool flees you, and you take the rest of them two at a time until you’re leaning against your bedroom door, panting.

You: Problem. I think my dad saw that text

Joel: How so?

You: When I got home my phone was next to his chair, and he’s being so weird

You: Joel I think he knows something

Joel: I’m sure he doesn’t. He wouldn’t read your phone baby.

He’s trying to reassure you, telling you he wouldn’t even know what it means, maybe he’ll think you spilled something on it, but no matter how many ideas Joel comes up with, none of them slow your heart rate.

You sit down on the edge of your bed, and the anxiety bubbling in your stomach forces you straight back up. Pacing doesn’t help, knowing your dad is directly below you probably hearing the floorboards creak with every step you take.

Your head dizzies with doubts, fears, worries, all frantically throwing themselves against the walls of your skull. You lean your forehead against the cold glass of your window, eyes screwing shut, stars in your vision. Nothing is calming you down.

Joel takes too long to reply back, whether he’s running out of explanations or just fucking forty-eight with an iPhone, but every time your phone buzzes with a new attempt at comfort from him, it only convinces you even more that – no, it wasn’t a stain, it wasn’t a joke, Joel has your top because you took it off for him an hour ago, and then let him fuck you in his bed.

And your dad fucking knows it.

[dippindaz]

Billy with a plus sized reader requested by @jokerghzu

I decided to do this in headcanons and add in Eddie and Steve :) enjoy!

Billy Hargrove

• Protective as Hell: Billy has a fiery temper when it comes to people disrespecting you. The moment anyone makes a comment about your appearance, they’re met with his signature glare—or a fist, depending on his mood.

• Compliments constantly: Billy makes sure you know how attractive he finds you. He’ll casually drape an arm around your shoulders and whisper things like, “You’ve got curves that could kill, babe,” in his cocky, teasing tone.

• Always Touching You: Billy’s love language is physical touch, and he’s obsessed with running his hands over your hips, waist, or thighs. He loves to hold you close in public, making sure everyone knows you’re his.

• Defensive Insecurity: Billy isn’t great at expressing feelings, so when you doubt yourself, he gets frustrated—not at you, but at the world for making you feel that way. He’ll pull you into his Camaro, blast music, and drive around until you’re smiling again.

• Secret Softie: Though he acts tough, he loves quiet moments where he can trace patterns on your skin and just exist in your presence. It’s a side of him he shows only to you.

Eddie Munson

• Unwavering Adoration: Eddie thinks you’re the most beautiful person he’s ever seen. He doesn’t just tell you that—you’ll catch him staring at you with this goofy, love-struck smile during Hellfire Club meetings.

• Inspiration for His Music: Eddie writes songs about you, comparing your confidence (or the way you carry yourself) to a heavy guitar riff or your laughter to a light acoustic melody. He’ll play them for you in his room and act casual, but he’s secretly dying for your approval.

• Cheerleader Mode: If you ever feel insecure, Eddie is your loudest supporter. “You’re a freaking goddess, babe. They wish they could be you.” He’s 100% sincere, and his enthusiasm is infectious.

• Cuddles Galore: Eddie’s love for cuddling knows no bounds. He adores resting his head on your chest while rambling about D&D campaigns or horror movies, insisting it’s the comfiest spot in the world.

• Clothes Sharing: Eddie loves seeing you in his oversized band tees and denim jackets. On the flip side, he’s not above asking to borrow something of yours if it fits his vibe. “Come on, babe, let me wear the flannel—it looks cooler on me, admit it.”

Steve Harrington

• Casual Affection: Steve constantly shows affection through little gestures—holding your hand, wrapping an arm around your waist, or kissing your forehead. He loves the reassurance of touch and never hesitates to remind you how much he adores you.

• Constant Compliments: Steve is the king of making you feel loved. “You’re gorgeous. No, seriously, stop arguing—it’s a fact.” He’ll say it in the middle of a mundane conversation like it��s the most natural thing in the world.

• Shopping Together: Steve loves taking you shopping. He’s the type to insist you try on outfits you might be hesitant about and hyping you up when you step out of the dressing room. “See? You’re stunning. I’m a genius for picking that one.”

• Ultimate Defender: Steve shuts down any negativity directed your way immediately. He’s polite about it (mostly), but there’s a sharp edge in his tone when he says, “That’s enough.” His protective streak is strong, especially when it comes to you.

• Admires Your Confidence: Steve falls even harder when you embrace your body and carry yourself with pride. He’s inspired by your strength and makes sure you know it, telling you how much he looks up to you.

[superblysubpar]

This is my submission for @carolmunson The Boy Is Mine Challenge! The scene, props to include, and dialogue to use as well as all the details on how to participate can be found here - come join in and write your version of Eddie and celebrate everyone else's. 💛

The Boy Is Mine (Taylor's Version Edition):

eddie munson x fem reader

summary: a romantic night in at your trailer full of fluff, a dash of spice, and an..."Alien invasion"? | this is fairly SFW, but my blog is 18+

the song: The Boy Is Mine by Brandy & Monica

1675 words

“Son of a-” Your shoulders tense beneath palms that soothe. The chuckle beneath your ear rumbles deep in the chest your cheek is pressed to when you whine, “Gets me every fucking time.”

Despite the eerie music and the jump scare on the glowing screen, you dare someone to tell you this isn’t the most perfect night, the most perfect life. 

A pizza box with a few slices left sits on your new - well new to you - coffee table next to shitty horror and gore VHS tap - wait, doll, how’d Pretty in Pink get in the stack? There’s a candle burning, its warm orange glow competes for a chance to light up the space with the small flickering TV. 

Activities from earlier in the day litter the room that’s meant for living, but barely able to be made out in the growing darkness. His acoustic guitar next to loose pages of doodles and lyrics, dragons and elves and stories and songs about fighting and finding love erratic and unorganized next to your small notebook, a stack of books and several applications. 

There isn’t much else, not yet anyways. A collection of records and a stereo, cassettes un-alphabetized strewn about the wobbly bookshelf and milk crates. A few boxes with labels for unimportant things that haven’t found their new home yet. The rain that falls outside the open window above the couch and onto the roof of the metal trailer pings and echoes in the sparse room, making you snuggle deeper into the black cotton beneath you, squishing your cheek to a firm, but comfortable chest. 

The most perfect night, the most perfect life.

The most perfect guy. 

“Do you think,” he starts softly, his fingers running down your spine and back up before he asks, “I’m as much of a badass as Ellen Ripley?”

“No.” 

The noise of protest he makes beneath you at your immediate and confident response has your lips twisting, fighting a smile as his legs close around you tighter. Bunched tube socks brush your calves, thighs and hips covered in soft gray sweats shift beneath you as he grumbles something about showing you just how wrong you are. 

One arm stays relaxed behind his head against throw pillows propping him up, the other restless but content to fiddle with and roam over your body that’s draped across him. 

The rhythm of his heartbeat beneath you and the scent of old spice around you, everything Eddie, has you humming at his “threat”, eyelashes fluttering from the peace. His fingers massage over the back of your neck, lighting up the skin beneath it and you huff out of your nose, upset about the bubble that’s about to break. Your whine lost in his worn band t-shirt. 

“I have to pee.”

“So go pee.”

Your head shakes, chin resting on his chest so you can look up at him with narrowed eyes. 

“If I get up and go pee, you’re gonna do something stupid when I come back out.”

Eddie looks down at you, innocent doe eyes blinking as his hands rub over your shoulders. 

“I’m always gonna do something stupid, so enlighten me, what is it you think I’m gonna do this time?”

Your hand reaches up and pulls at a dark brown curl that frames the cheeks his dimples are trying not to show in. 

“Oh, I don’t know, turn off all of the lights, jump out from around the corner, attack me from behind…”

“Baby, I always wanna attack you from behind.”

That earns him a fake stern look and a smack to his chest with the back of your hand. 

Pink lips pout and twist in the fight of a mischievous smirk, his eyebrows bunch together and wrinkle his forehead as he tries to scoff around a laugh.

“Aw, don’t be like that. I would never scare you.”

“That’s not even remotely true,” you counter. 

“Sweetheart,” he catches your chin with thick fingers, cradling your jaw as he vows, dramatically, “I promise I would never, ever let the aliens get-”

You catch his other wrist before fingers could find their target just below your ribs. Raised eyebrows to his big, brown eyes that glint with trouble, not even pretending to be ashamed he was caught. 

The eye contact you’re sharing pulses, accompanied by the musical score of the thriller on screen. His thumb swipes over your bottom lip as his tongue licks over his own. The seconds of time slowly ticking by aren’t a luxury, but big, pounding, booms of your imminent fate right on your tail. 

“Eddie,” you warn, lips fighting a smile. “Don-”

He screeches like the aliens, fingers digging into your sides and legs, grabbing at your thighs and pulling you closer so his mouth can pretend to bite at you as you give a shriek worthy of a Ridley Scott flick. 

You can’t help but laugh though, as explosions happen on screen and Eddie gets louder, yelling your name dramatically like he’s fighting off the aliens, trying to save you despite it being his own fingers that have you wheezing and gasping for air. 

“Eddie! If you don’t stop, we’re gonna have a real problem!”

“Oh honey, I know! This thing means business! But don’t worry! I’ll save you, Ellen Ripley’s got nothing on me!”

He doubles down his tickling efforts, screeching and grunting out a “Not my girlfriend you monster!” dramatically into your neck before he nips at it. Quick bites and kisses mingled with alien noises until you’re swatting at his chest and wiggling off of him, shouting about how he’s the monster on your way to the bathroom. 

It’s suspiciously quiet while you're gone. And when you open the bathroom door, you take a timid step out into the dark hallway and call out, “Eddie?”

“Baby,” he laughs from the living room, “I swear on Jonesy that I’m sitting on the couch, and I’ll keep my hands to myself for the rest of the movie.”

And well, swearing on Jonesy’s life is like swearing on Henderson’s mom, so you’re satisfied and confident enough to travel through the dark to return to the menace you call your boyfriend. 

He sits, cross legged on the couch now, smiling. You kind of can’t believe this boy exists, that he’s yours. 

Eddie gestures to the bottle of wine that’s replaced the pizza box, the large Garfield and Snoopy mugs joined by a bag of pretzels and a tub of vanilla frosting. “We don’t really have like, nice cups, this okay?”

Is it okay? Is this guy real? He’s straight out of a TV show, a favorite movie, the thing all the songs are trying to tell you about but just don’t seem possible. 

He blinks at you, cheeks growing pink as you continue to stand at the edge of the living room and stare at him. His smile relaxes down to a shy, tight lipped thing as the silver metal on fingers that tap on his knees glints in the TV’s glow. 

“Doll?” Eddie coughs, eyebrows raised at you when you still don’t say anything. 

“Sorry,” you make your way to the couch finally, “Yeah. Really okay.”

“Cool,” he says quietly as you sit, ears peeking out through thick waves turning as pink as his cheeks. 

He grabs the pretzels and you grab the frosting, popping open the lid with a grunt, and managing to get a decent amount of it in the curve of your thumb and forefinger. 

Before you can scoop it up with a pretzel, Eddie’s fingers are tugging on yours, bringing your hand up to his mouth. His lips mold around the space, sucking before his tongue traces it and the room turns unberably hot despite the cool breeze and rain drifting in. 

Eddie clocks the way your hips shift and thighs press together, the way your mouth parts and head tilts. The way your eyes turn a little glassy when he looks up at you. 

He removes his mouth from your hand slowly, grinning and absolutely pleased with himself as he murmurs, “Oh, we like that, huh?”

Words escape your clutches just as Ripley does the Alien’s, and Eddie drops the bag of pretzels back onto the coffee table. He keeps eye contact as he grabs the tub of frosting from you, and dips his finger into it, slowly. 

“Eddie, I-”

He’s smearing it on your collarbone and up your neck, your jaw and cheek as your fingers grip the couch cushion. Your chest heaves with quick breaths, a gasp slipping past your lips as he leans forward, tongue sweeping over your throat. 

Eddie licks over your skin, slow, patiently, weight falling over you as you fall backwards on the couch and arch underneath him. The way his mouth travels over you is nothing like the quick nips and fast kisses from earlier. It’s slow licks, soft presses of his mouth, open and wet and breathy and dirty as he travels higher and higher. 

His path leads him over your jaw and cheek now, both of you gasping for air as his fingers dig into your hips that roll against him and yours curl in the soft material on his shoulders. 

He pulls away when he reaches the corner of your lips, smiling at the whine that leaves them when you don’t get the kiss you’re aching for. 

“Guess you were right afterall,” he whispers, the tip of his nose tracing up yours as he does. 

“Wh-what?”

Eddie grins, his mouth hovers over yours, sweet and sticky vanilla flavored lips just close enough to almost taste. 

“That I was gonna do something stupid.”

“The only thing that’s stupid is that you haven’t kissed me yet, Munson.” Your eyes roll as his grin grows even wider. 

“Oh, sweetheart,” he laughs, reaching for the frosting again. “I’m just getting started.”

Rain falls, and Aliens are killed and the candle flickers on a perfect night. Your new favorite flavor of anything is vanilla because of the perfect guy. 

Eddie Munson gets you every fucking time. 

[bullet-prooflove]

Three things prompt game:

John Winchester: leather, thunder, guitar

Tagging: @kmc1989 @thecolourshadesofpinnata @hit-meup69 @jimmynovakreal @niamaejones 

Companion piece to:

Did You Miss Me? (NSFW) - John shows you just how much he's missed you.

You wake up to the sound of music, to the dulcet tones of the acoustic guitar one of the band members keeps on the stage of the bar where you work, the stage you’re currently waking up on after a night of debauchery.

You sit up, clasping the leather jacket John had draped over your sleeping form, to your body to cover your nakedness. Outside there’s a roll of thunder, the beginning of one of the worst storms of the decade you’d had heard on the radio.

“Hey.” John murmurs, his voice husky as he plays the opening bars to Johnny Cash’s Solitary Man. He’s perched on one of the bar stools, his jeans slung low on his hips, his chest bare. You drink him in, the scars, the tattoos, the bruising that’s starting to blossom across his ribs from his most recent hunt. The one he didn’t tell you about, the one you didn’t ask about.

“You’re still here.” You say surprised because John, he always disappears after he’s finished with you. He’s the very definition of fucking and running.

“Yea.” He sighs, his gaze meeting yours as his fingertips continue to strum across the strings. “I guess I’m not ready to leave just yet.”

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[hairmetal666]

Steddie She's All That au????

Steve pulls up to the Munson's trailer, a secondhand acoustic across the backseat. Can't believe he's here; that he's actually doing this. He shouldn't. Absolutely should not; knows he let his still-simmering animosity with Billy Hargrove push him to this, to trying to date Eddie Munson, to proving that he's still popular enough to win prom king with the Freak on his arm.

Munson doesn't deserve it, is the thing. For all his weirdness, his off-putting behavior, Steve thinks he might be nice. Or kind, maybe? Steve's noticed how he gathers the freshman who have no one else, gives them understanding, a place to belong. And those kids, they remind him of Dustin, Will, Mike, Lucas, and he can't help but feel something warm towards the Freak, some kind of kinship.

He puts the car in reverse, can't go through with pretending to like this guy who did nothing wrong but be too much himself.

Before he gets his foot on the gas a head pokes out the front door.

"You came," Eddie shouts.

"Said I was." Steve surrenders to his fate and puts the car in park. Eddie watches him as he grabs the guitar case, hauls it up the stairs, only moving to step out of the way.

Steve's eyes scan the living room and kitchen, something in his chest loosening as he does. There are mugs and hats covering the walls, a worn sofa, clutter on every surface. It's home in a way Steve has never experienced. He loves it.

"Alright, let it out, Harrington. I'm poor, etc."

"No!" Steve startles; hadn't realized he'd been staring so obviously. "I like it."

Eddie makes a face, but offers him a beer and guides him to sit on the couch.

"How much do you know?" Eddie asks without preamble.

He strums a couple of notes, things he picked up at summer camp ages ago. Munson nods. "Better than I expected."

Eddie runs through notes and chords, helps Steve get his fingering right. He's patient, almost kind, and he laughs softly as he gently corrects Steve's mistakes.

And Steve's fingers, they won't behave, keep slipping off the strings. Eddie arranges himself to drape around his shoulders, fits their hands together. He's warm, fingers long and callused, his rings slightly colder than Steve's skin.

"Like this, Harrington." And he and Steve strum in tandem, and Steve is caught by the light glinting in his curls, the softness of his dark brown eyes, the fullness of his pink lips. He wonders how soft they are, what they taste like, if Eddie would cling to him or take control.

"You with me, Steve?" Eddie asks, shocking him back to the present.

"Yeah, yes, right here. Sorry." He throws himself into learning, but can't stop stealing little looks at the man teaching him.

And Steve, he knows it's not a bet anymore. He'll tell Hagan and Hargrove he's out, take whatever shit they give him, and Eddie never has to know.

---

A month in, Steve walks into the trailer and sees those little figurines, like the kids have for their game, scattered on the coffee table; sheets of paper with scrawled writing and doodles lining the floor; one of those weird manual things that Dustin always lugs around sitting open on the couch.

"Fuck, Stevie, I'm sorry. Lost track of time." Eddie's face turns pink as he gathers the looseleaf and slams the book closed.

"You play that dragon game?" He asks. He picks up one of the figures, studies the meticulous paint. It does something weird to his heart.

"What did you think Hellfire--Wait." Eddie pauses. "Why do you--Steve Harrington--know about dnd?"

"The kids I babysit play."

Eddie stares at him openmouthed. "Shit, sweetheart. You've been holding out on me. You ever join them?"

"Nah. To tell you the truth, they're pretty intimidating about it."

Eddie laughs, drawing Steve's eyes to his slender neck. "You scared of children, Stevie?"

"You haven't met them, man. They're terrifying."

"You know," Eddie's eyelashes flicker. "I run a campaign with Hellfire after school every Friday. You could--if you wanted--you could come. You're probably busy, I know, but if you find some free time and you wan--

"Eddie!" Steve laughs. "I wouldn't miss it."

"Really?"

"Promise."

---

He shows up that first Friday to some mixed reactions from most of the Hellfire members, and Eddie's shy, pleased smile. They make eye contact and Steve's stomach swoops.

"You came," Eddie says when they get a second alone.

"I told you I would." Steve laughs.

"C'mon, you're going to tell me this isn't a hopelessly lame way for King Steve to spend a Friday night?"

"Maybe." Steve nudges Eddie's chest. "And maybe I wouldn't want to be anywhere else."

Steve watches them play and is transfixed. He's never seen Eddie totally in his element. His voice goes deep and rumbly, doing accents, shouting, jumping around, banging on the table. Steve can't pull his eyes away, doesn't want to, can't stop smiling.

"What'd you think?" Eddie asks when the session is over and they're alone. His hands shuffle through his notebook, eyes fixed firmly on the table.

Steve grabs his wrists, soft, careful. "Amazing, Eddie," he says. "You were amazing."

"Really?" Eddie's throat bobs. He finally looks up, meets Steve's eyes.

"Never seen anything like you." His eyes drift to Eddie's mouth. The space between them shrinks.

"Eddie?"

"Yeah?" his voice waivers.

"Can I kiss you?"

He thinks Eddie might pull away, freeze up, but instead his eyelashes flutter, his lips shaping into a gentle smile. "I'd be disappointed if you didn't."

Steve laughs, slips his fingers through Eddie's hair, closes the distance between them. It starts sweet and soft, until Eddie's tongue brushes his bottom lip and Steve opens for him, lets him take control, as easy as anything. For the first time, he lets someone else lead, sinks into it, into Eddie. It's perfect.

---

Prom court nominations come out with Steve number one on the ballot for king. The other nominees are Billy, Tommy, and some weirdo religious zealot junior Steve barely knows, Jason Carver.

He doesn't think much of it, having slipped so easily into a version of himself that sits at the Hellfire table at lunch, spends evenings at the Munson trailer and nights in Eddie's bed. Sure, he catches Hargrove glaring at him throughout the day, but pays it no mind. Billy Hargrove's always pissed about something, anyway.

So, he's unprepared when Hargrove and Hagan corner him that afternoon as he's waiting for Eddie to finish up a deal. There's a kick in his stomach, a swirl of nausea, at their presence. He didn't ever tell Eddie about the bet, figured it didn't matter since they were together, since they both started falling.

"Think you're hot shit, Harrington?" Hargrove asks. Hagan laughs like he's never heard a real joke before.

"I'm out," he says in way of answer. "Bet's over."

"Stevie-Boy, I don't think you understand," Hagan says.

"Nah, I'm not doing it." Worry prickles at his scalp. Eddie will be done soon, and he needs Billy and Tommy gone.

Hargrove pinches Steve's chin in his grip. "We made a bet, and you're seeing it through."

"Hey, hey, hey," the last voice Steve wants to hear right now shouts. "What the fuck is going on here? Get the fuck off him, Hargrove."

Billy's wrenched away, but he's laughing, and Steve is frozen at the train wreck unfolding in front of him.

"Harrington tell you about the bet?" Billy asks.

"Bet?" Eddie's nose wrinkles in the cute way Steve loves and he's terrified of what comes next.

"Uh-huh. Hagan and I bet Harrington here that he couldn't date the biggest dud in school and still wind up prom king. Little did we know, I guess."

Steve watches as the words hit Eddie, as he processes them, as his face falls. His gut twists as he watches his boyfriend go tense.

"What?" Eddie's eyes widen with panic.

Tommy's face contorts into a cruel smile."You didn't think Harrington was actually into you, did you?"

Eddie doesn't respond, won't look at any of them, draws into himself.

Hargrove snickers. "That's what I thought. Have a good night." He gives them a pageant queen wave as he walks away.

Steve's crosses to Eddie as soon as the other two are gone, but Eddie flinches, stopping him in his tracks.

"Was I bet, Steve?" He asks. His voice cracks.

"It wasn't like that, Ed, I swear. I swear." He grabs Eddie's shoulders, and again, he's pushed away.

"You didn't answer the question."

"It was real for me," Steve babbles. "It was all real for me. I promise."

"Answer me!" Tears limn his eyes. "Was I a bet?"

"It wasn't like--"

"Was I a fucking bet?" He yells and Steve can't take it. Can't take the hurt all over Eddie's face, the betrayal. Wants to erase it, to make everything okay, to get back to where they were last night, wrapped in Eddie's bedsheets, giggling.

"It started as a bet, okay? It did. I messed up by not telling you. I know I did. But I like you so much. I--I--" Steve loves him. He knows without any doubt, but he can't say it not now, not for this.

"Fuck you, Harrington," Eddie says. His voice is even but his face is a wreck.

"Please, Eddie." Steve begs. "Please. Give me a chance to explain. You're everything."

Eddie doesn't respond. He climbs into his van, drives away without a second glance.

---

He tries to apologize.

He tries to apologize, but Eddie isn't at school, not at first, and the death glare he gets from the Hellfire guys lets him know he's no longer welcome. When Eddie does come back he won't so much as look at Steve.

He goes to the trailer park where Wayne--Wayne who he watched sports with, Wayne who liked him--stands on the steps and says, "I don't think you have any business here anymore, kid. Not if you know what's good for you." And Steve nods and goes home and cries.

---

Steve stands on the stairs of the Munson trailer in his tux with a bouquet of flowers that are so purple they're almost black and a self-recorded tape in his hands. Prom is tonight but he has no interest in going to the dance that started all this bullshit.

Music pounds from inside; Judas Priest, he thinks. Eddie's van is in the driveway and Wayne's car is not.

The music quiets at his knock, and his heart pounds in the silence. Eddie frowns when he opens the door, but it morphs into something infinitely sadder when he sees Steve.

"Aren't you supposed to be at a dance?" Eddie asks.

"No, I--I didn't want to go. I wanted to say--Eddie, I'm sorry. I should've told you the truth from the beginning. I was afraid of losing you, and you learned the truth in the worst possible way."

Eddie doesn't speak or move, so Steve barrels on.

"I--uh--I ordered these for you. Before we broke up. And I just thought--you should still have them. That you would like them."

Eddie takes the flowers like he's in a daze.

"And uh, this too," Steve places the cassette in Eddie's hand. "It's um, stupid, probably? But I miss you and I'm sorry and just--take it."

---

Steve's been at the quarry for two hours, staring up at the stars from the hood of his car. He should go, probably. Eddie clearly isn't going to show. But he can't make himself. If he stays here, looking at the sky, losing Eddie won't be real.

He's dozing off, almost asleep, when the shine of headlights has him blinking alert. A familiar van trundles to a stop next to him, and Eddie climbs out. He's wearing a snug black button-down with a deep purple rose pinned to his chest, tight black jeans, and shining black boots.

"You came." Steve scrambles off his car, graceless in his relief, his gratitude.

Eddie nods. "Wasn't sure if I should but--" he shrugs.

"I'm glad you did. Thank you. I--" he swallows. "Eddie, I'm so sorry. I'll do anything, anything if it means you'll forgive me."

"Anything?" Eddie's mouth turns up at the corner.

Steve nods, firm. "I promise."

"You learned 'Rainbow in the Dark' for me."

"I did."

"That's a really hard song." Eddie smiles but tears track down his cheeks.

Steve laughs. "It's so hard."

Somehow, without Steve noticing, their fingers are entwined. Eddie lifts their joined hands, studying them. "Oh, baby, your calluses."

"Yeah." Steve blushes. "It was important I got it right."

Eddie's mouth drops as he stares, studying Steve's eyes.

"I know it took you a lot to trust me," Steve says. "And I know I broke that, but please, please try to believe me when I say that it was real for me. From the beginning. It was all real."

Eddie clears his throat. "When did you know?"

Steve's smile is soft. "That first guitar lesson. You arranged my fingers and you just--you were so beautiful."

"Oh," Eddie breathes.

"I was an idiot, Ed. I fell in love with you, and thought I could back out of the bet, that you never had to know. I never meant to hurt you."

"Wait...love me?"

Steve freezes. He hadn't meant to say that, not yet, not when things are so tenuous. "Yeah. I--yeah, I love you, Eddie."

"That's funny, sweetheart. Cause I love you too, and four hours ago I thought falling for you was the worst mistake I've ever made."

Steve's smile matches Eddie's now. "Dance with me?" he asks.

There's no music; just the whirr of early spring insects, the rustle of leaves, but Eddie still smirks, and pulls Steve close. They sway against each other, beaming, glowing, brighter than the stars.

"You're missing your prom, Stevie," Eddie says.

"Nah. I'm not missing anything. I have you."

[musetheapothecary]

and I don't smoke (except for when I'm missing you)

matsukawa issei x fem!reader (nsfw)

Fog curls damp fingers up around her jaw, tracing paths of condensation across her pink cheeks. A bead of sweat tickles behind her ear, dripping down to pool in the cup of her clavicle. The air burns her nose, hot and sticky and laced with artificial sweetness. The water swirls around her bent knees, a muted shade of pink, cut through with (what the clerk had assured her was eco-friendly and biodegradable) glitter. Clumps of it stick to her shin, smears of silver refracting the weak overhead light.

The blunt sags from the tips of her fingers, and smoke dances out from her mouth and around the fog. She watches it billow towards the ceiling through heavy lidded eyes.

Someone outside is playing something loud and fast with too much bass. Makki, probably. Hajime has the decency to use headphones. The holds the blunt aloft and dips her head under for a moment, sighing out a stream of bubbles. The world pauses, muted, blissfully quiet. She rises and spits out a mouthful of pink. It certainly doesn't taste like bubblegum.

The bath had sounded like a good idea when she'd arrived home, bedraggled and aching from a too-long day, but the angle she's had to fold herself at to fit in their sad excuse for a tub is doing little for the stiffness of her spine. Her ass is bloodless from how long she's spent sitting against the ceramic and there's a numb divot at the back of her neck from where she's draped it over the lip.

She had other, better, stress-relievers. Ones that left her with much sweeter aches and pains.

But they were still at work.

In the fogged up mirror there's a slew of faded finger-drawn hearts, along with a smattering of toothpaste. She tries to read patterns in the flecks of white, drawing constellations with her eyes.

Finding meaning in the mundane, that's what it's all about. That's what her mother always liked to say.

“It means I need to clean,” she says through a mouthful of smoke, dragging sharp nails over her sweat-slick scalp.

Having four roommates was mostly only fun on paper.

Nails tangle in her hair, which has been melting its way out of a bun for the past hour.

The doorhandles jiggles twice, then swings open. Most of the men of the house would've heard the crooning voice of Mitski through her battered phone speaker (abandoned in the sink, for better acoustics) and left her well enough alone. Which means its either Shittykawa trying to nab her chapstick or—

“Issei,” she breathes out, the last syllable—along with her breath and a heavy lungful of weed—are lost to his lips.

Without speaking he tugs his shirt up and over his head with one hand, the other working at the tie in her hair. It spills down over her shoulders and he gives it a gentle tug.

“Care to share?”

She's not sure whether he means the tub or the blunt, so she scooches forwards, knees knocking against the sides, and hands the dwindling dart over to him.

Issei makes quick work of his belt and pants and both of his hole-strewn socks before sinking down beside her. She can feel the smoke he exhales against the back of her neck before he presses a dozen light kisses there.

If the bath seemed cramped before it is now practically non-existent, smothered beneath his abnormally tall build. She doesn't mind it, not when she can feel the drag of his skin against her own and the plush of his muscles cradling her head. He smells good, too. Better than the too-sweet bubblegum of her bath.

His voice is rough when he speaks, hoarse in a way that she'd expect from shouting or screaming, but this is Issei she's talking about and he's never once raised his voice for anything. “Shit day?”

“Better now,” she says lightly, and is surprised to find that she means it.

He rewards her with a slow, wet kiss to the nape of her neck and a hand tucked into the cradle of her thighs. She sort of wishes she could see him, this big dark-eyed man crowded into her pink and glittery bath, but the thought vanishes as her eyes slide shut in a drawn out moan.

The hand that is not currently sunk into her heat hovers in front of her face, offering her the last puff of her joint.

“All—shit—y-yours,” she manages, slipping further into the bath as she just about liquifies in his grasp.

He takes his time with it, like he does with everything. Working her up in a way that borders on lazy. But it's so good. Exactly what she needed. Especially when he curls his fingers right there and—

He huffs out a smoke-laced laugh. “Thanks, baby.”

—Oh. She'd been babbling, hadn't she? It really had been a long day.

[cranberrymoons]

checking it twice

prompt: open mic night (@steddieholidaydrabbles) rating: t word count: 666 words 😱 tags: coffee shop au, modern setting, established relationship

hi friends! i've been hard at work on what i've been affectionately thinking of as a fic advent calendar – bite-sized fics posting every day during the month of december. enjoy!

---

Steve feels his cheeks go pink and start to thaw out as he steps from the chill of outside into the warmth of the shop, ice crystals melting in his hair and making it go damp, wilting a little where it falls into his eyes. He pulls his gloves off and shoves them in his pockets, shaking his hands out to warm them.

Max looks up from her phone at her usual place behind the register, curled up on a stool with a knee pulled to her chest. When she catches sight of him, she rolls her eyes, tilting her head back to shout in the general direction of the kitchen,

“Hey asshole. Your little friend’s here.”

Steve resists the urge to laugh as he takes a step toward the counter. 

“You know, I don’t think you really know who you’re messing with,” he tells her. “I’m actually very scary and intimidating.”

She raises her eyebrows. “That so?”

Steve nods. He shrugs out of his coat and drapes it over his arm. She squints at him, and he matches her stare.

“Ask anyone,” he says. “You want a mean girl, I’m your guy.”

She watches him for a moment, then snorts as she lets her feet drop to the floor. She pockets her phone and starts in the direction of the back room.

“I’ll let him know you’re here,” she says over her shoulder without looking back.

From her, that’s practically a hug and a kiss on the cheek, and Steve smiles to himself, tucking his nose down into the high collar of his sweater as he takes a look around the room, bustling and busy as they get set up for the week’s open mic.

Eddie emerges a moment later, hair a little frizzed out from the heat of the kitchen, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, cheeks flushed and happy. Steve feels the smile on his face growing warmer as their eyes catch, and he tries to ignore the flurry of butterflies that kick up in his stomach. 

“Hi,” he says, and – fuck. It’s only been a couple months, hasn’t it? How is he already – 

“Hey,” Eddie says. His smile matches Steve’s as he comes around the counter, slinging a dish towel over his shoulder as he goes. He catches Steve around the waist. “You look nice tonight.”

Steve laughs. “Thanks,” he says, feeling the flush creep up his cheeks. “I worked from home today, so –”

“No monkey suit,” Eddie says. his eyes widen teasingly. “No buttoned up suit and tie.”

Steve smiles. “Something like that.”

“Good,” he says. “I like you a little casual.”

“I know.” He tilts his head to the side, letting Eddie tug him forward into a kiss. “You like me every way though.”

Eddie hums. “We’ll see.”

“Oh yeah?”

And Eddie nods, swaying him back and forth to the rhythm of the music playing in the background. 

“What if you showed up in a clown suit?” he asks very seriously. “I’m not sure I’d be so into that.”

Steve lets out a little laugh. “Now I feel like I have to go get a clown suit just to test the theory.”

“Listen,” Eddie says. He holds up his hands. “I’m up to try anything once. If anyone could make it work, it would be you.”

And that definitely makes Steve flush, which is just – he can’t believe he’s blushing over Eddie telling him he’d look good in a clown suit…? What is that even –

“You ready for open mic?” Eddie asks, raising his eyebrows. He gives a little shimmy. “Going to surprise us all with your acoustic skills?”

Steve snorts. “Yeah, Drops of Jupiter,” he says. “Really wowed my college girlfriend.”

Eddie’s eyes flash. “Can’t tell if you’re joking or not. Kind of hot either way.”

“Hotter than a clown costume?” Steve asks, raising his eyebrows.

Eddie laughs, face breaking into a ridiculous grin. 

“Guess we’ll just have to try out both and see.”

[also on ao3]