#I almost soiled myself

[raiiny-bay]

wip

[speakercrab666]

if horror game in horror genre, then why monster have scary face???? i want horror game!!! NO SCARY FACE!!!!!!!!! only horror game <3

[m1d-45]

And you, teddy anon (and midas ofc), never fail to come up with scenarios that my mind is all too happy to jump on. ❤️

Imagine then, after the Creator has finally been rescued and tended to, they finally wake up after sleeping for a very long time, they see that they’re in a painfully familiar, urban place. Upon realising that they’re not in, say, a hilichurl camp or are otherwise in the wilds, they panic and scramble to try and leave (they think that they’re still being hunted). Then in comes one of their characters (or they bump into them in a corridor or sth).

Off the top of my head, I see a few directions that this could go:

1. Creator tries to plead with the character to let them leave, or are otherwise trying to find an opportunity to escape. Due to their panicked state, they interpret their character’s gestures as hostile or are otherwise trying to trick them into lowering their guard. Maybe they were betrayed by someone (or that one in particular) during the hunt (I can see characters like Kaeya and Ayato doing this) and they’ve been very guarded against similar tactics since. Bonus points if they have the ability to teleport like the Traveler does.

2. Creator tries to defend themselves with their budding elemental power that they are just starting to learn to control.

3. Creator outright gives up. They shake their head, thinking themself foolish for ever believing that they could escape forever, that this was their just desserts for even trying to defy fate. They smile at their character and tell them that they win, and to go ahead and end them. More likely if said character had been extremely persistent in hunting them (e.g. Kaeya). Imagine then that they’re bracing themselves for the final blow, but then they feel warmth. They open their eyes in shock and realise that the character is hugging them close, whispering, “I’m sorry”, or “Forgive me” over and over again. Maybe the character even cries a little.

- cryo anon, whose brain can actually come up with fluff occasionally

oh my god cryo anon my dearly beloved

they’re kinda just merged together because i kinda went off so

you maybe waking up in the estate, sitting up on shaking arms. you don’t remember much, mostly just a blur; thoma shouting at you, a white kimono and a sharp, commanding voice. the details are a haze, and the room you’re in is unidentifiable. there’s a potted plant in a white and purple vase, a dark wood closet, the sheets soft- or maybe they’re not, and you’re simply used to dirt and scratchy sacks?

you don’t know. you have a headache. the door opens, and you delay so long in turning that the person has a chance to shout something down the hallway—does wonders for your migraine—before coming in. when you do look, you wish you hadn’t.

ayato is the last person you want to see on inazuma. you’d met him once before, banged up and hiding near inazuma city. he’d seen you, you thought, seen your blood, your dirty bandages and knotted hair, and you thought he’d known that you couldn’t be a threat.

you didn’t hear what he said, but you pull away from his hand when he reaches for you anyway. where are you? why are you here? your hands were wrapped, your aches had ceased, the room is cool and his eyes are warm-

“i mean no harm,” he says quietly, but all you can think of is the past, of the bustling streets behind him when he found you tucked in an alley, bruised and bleeding.

you don’t want to believe him. you don’t anyway.

if it weren’t for the fact that your legs were broken, you would have run away.

[opens-up-4-nobody]

...

[lorei-writes]

Hi! Happy Friday.

For the fic ask game...

💝what is a fic that got a different response than you were expecting?

💌share something with us about an up-and-coming work (WIP) that has you excited!

Thanks in advance!

Ooh, okay! Thanks for dropping by! :)

💝what is a fic that got a different response than you were expecting?

Ownership -- when writing this, I thought it was somewhat upsetting. Turns out people did not share that opinion.

Also, that Slavic Grandma at the Mansion headcanons. Those. Yes. I wrote them during 15 minutes break between one nap and the other. I posted them without checking anything. Heck, when I woke up I only hazily remembered that I've done all this. Now it's one of my most popular posts.

The only thing I can compare the response to that would be... When I accidentally activated the Slavic part of the fandom, by writing Polish!MC headcanons for IkeSen (Hideyoshi ones). We've screamed disco polo lyrics in the notes. Cursed. Lovely.

💌share something with us about an up-and-coming work (WIP) that has you excited!

// Of course, Winter Flower, again.

I'm trying to actually craft the plot this time, instead of completely winging it! What will come out of it is still uncertain, but only time can tell that much. So far... I've noticed that writing thing with certain continuity has become easier, so that's some improvement to how my previous series went. It's also easier to write when I'm not very hyped for it.

I'm also toying with several ideas for this. Let's call them... "I want to know who I am" and "I want to be safe" >:)

Ask game

[jellyrat-9203]

Reblog this and put in the tags a stupid reason you stopped playing a video game that you like

[nanivinsmoke]

✩ The Assistant.

✩ endeavor x assistant!f!reader

we all want to have him as our boss and fuck him, right?

✩ warnings & tags: it’s endeavor and im writing it, so you know there’s a bunch of hot sex involved. size difference, small age gap, creampie, pussy smacks, oral, semi-public sex, domination, established affair (enji’s seperated, but not divorced), implied sadism, breeding (possibility of a child).

there you were, underneath your boss’s mahogany colored desk; shoving his fat, can shaped cock further down your throat. eyes watering as he fills your mouth to the brim.

the number one hero tried his hardest to not throw his head back and let out a groan, while you devoured his cock. but, the way you handled his balls and sucked him like he was a cherry tootsie pop; made it harder for him and he quickly let out a thick load deep into your mouth.

a loud groan left his throat and his thighs quickly clench around your head; almost suffocating you while he cums. your eyes roll back into that pretty little head of yours, while a small yet powerful orgasm runs through you and he finally lets his thighs relax; making you release his cock from your pretty stretched out mouth.

a string of his cum mixed with your spit dribbled out of your mouth as you looked up into his icey blue eyes, smiling with satisfaction since you took his cock and fallen babies so well. he grabbed your arm and pulled you close to his torso, leaning down to kiss you; his leftovers mixing into his mouth.

“such a good girl for me.” he praised, biting your bottom lip before he pulled away; eliciting a whine from you. he zipped his softening cock back into his pants and helped you get up from under his desk, handing you a kleenex so you could clean your fucked face; before returning to your desk outside of his very spacious office.

you had been working with the number one hero for quite some months now. he had needed an assistant with this big promotion and from hundreds of recommendations, he hired you. and from that day on, something in him lit up and he decided to make you his dirty little mistress.

you knew Enji was married, since he still wore his wedding ring on his finger, but you didn’t care. his martial status meant nothing to you as long as he continued to pump you full of his cock on a daily basis. call it wrong, but that’s just how you felt.

waving at burnin as she passed by your desk and entered your office, you signed into your laptop and started going through your emails and looking over your boss’s calendar book. until, your phone chimed with a text from endeavor’s personal number.

it was a photo of his clothed bulge with a message underneath it.

- still hard. come let daddy drill this cock in you.

his dirty message made you clinch your thighs together and you quickly replied.

- i would if i could, got to reply to these emails and you’re still talking to burnin. how about i send you a video of me playing with myself, instead?

he quickly liked the message and you giggled. you quickly looked around to check if anyone was coming, before you held your phone up and spread your soiled panties to the side, dipping your fingers in between your drenched lips.

your stifled a moan by biting yours lips, thinking about what happened prior to this, making you cum within seconds. you rode out your orgasm and ended the video, hitting send; before you started typing on your computer again. you knew he would watch the video with his sidekick in his office, volume low along with the brightness. and a few seconds later, the blazin haired hero walked out & relayed that endeavor wanted to see you.

on cue, you walked right back into his office; notebook in hand and quickly closed the dark oak door behind you; before walking up to his desk. you watched as his muscles flexed and protruded through his black velvet sweater, while he pressed play to watch your sexy video once more.

“so pretty and wet for me…look at her clinch around nothing…so sexy~” he turns the phone so you could see, making your face hot and your thighs press together.

“you’ve got a meeting in a few mins,” you reminded, just in case he got a bright idea. and just like you thought, he did.

“get back under this desk and take daddy’s dick while they all pile in here. and if you make a peep, there’s going to be hell for you~” you knew he was serious from the way that he spoke, with your body acting on its own; you found yourself following his orders and dipping underneath his desk again.

you turned your clothed ass towards him, arching your back so he could plunge himself into you with ease. he unzipped himself from his corduroy confinements, freeing his throbbing fatness. he pushed up your skirt and ripped your panties off of your body, before pushing his swollen tip towards your tight entrance.

and as you backed yourself up onto his cock, his employees apart of the meeting came piling into his office, sitting on the black loveseats he had inside. you covered your mouth with your hands, smothering the moans that left your lips as his cock stretched your gummy walls to fit around him.

you would never get used to his sized, you felt like he would get bigger each time he fucked you, pushing your walls past its normal limits.

he did his best to control his facial expressions as he began talking about how they’ve been monitoring and controlling the nomu outbreak, while you fucked him.

your were now passing the pain threshold that came with fucking the number one hero and was now welcoming pleasure. you were more aroused than usual, thanks to the state that you were in. fucking your boss in a room with other’s, unbeknownst to them. pussy becoming wet with each glide around his cock, betraying you by making a squelching noise that could be heard by them.

but, endeavor was quick with putting on a video for them to watch; deafening the noise your pretty girl decided to make for him. you turned your head slightly, catching his gaze while you pushed your self deeper onto his shaft; mouth opening like a bitch in heat.

as you bounced your ass against him, your slick coated pussy became too slippery for his dick and he slipped out of you; causing a gush of air to flow out. an employee turned to see what that noise was, but when he saw endeavor’s stoic face, he quickly turned back around and continued to look at the video in front of him.

endeavor turned his attention back to you and gave you a look; pushing his cock back into you along with his thumb pushing into your other hole as punishment for making too much noise. you bit your finger tips so no one would hear you squeal, the next erotic sensation forced your mind to go dumb.

the way he fucked your cunt to his liking, pushing himself deep inside you where his tip kissed your cervix and rubbed your gspot with ease, made you unfold. eyes rolling back to the whites, cunt queefing with each movement; before he pulled himself out of you—replacing his finger in your ass with his cock; resting above your tighter hole. his own orgasm splayed out on your ass, jerking slightly as it pooled out from his tip.

you caught his eye once more, you could read the look on his face; he was far from done.

“meeting’s over,” he clicked off the flat screen tv, making all his employees look at him.

“but sir, we haven’t discussed—“

“get the fuck out, now” they weren’t trying to argue with him, quickly grabbing their things and leaving his office. it was without a doubt that they were afraid of him and no wasn’t the time to prove that. as the door closed behind the last person, he reached down and grabbed your hips, his cum dripping down between your cheeks as a result.

you sat on his lap, cock ghosting your entrance while he held you there, “didn’t i say you were going to get punished for making a peep?” his voice deep and serious, making you swallow the slight fear he gave you.

“im sorry—” you felt like your body was melting once he pushed himself back inside your cunt. how was he still hard? his libido always superseded yours. he didn’t let you adjust, his stiff dick bullying your hole with each pound, fucking you dumb once again.

“all ways so tight for me. god, i can’t stop fuckin this cunt” he sent a smack to your clit, causing you to jolt and clench down harder around him. he groaned at the sensation, sending another one to your sensitive bud. your soft mewls were like music to his ears, his dick throbbing repeatedly inside of you; he couldn’t wait to cum inside.

enji’s big hands reached around your chest and ripped your button up to shreds, buttons popping off and flying onto his big desk.

“enji!” you whined and he sent another smack to your clit, correcting you.

“daddy! I don’t have anything else to wear” you moaned when he pushed his cock further into you, cream slowly coated his base. he slowed his stroke down, making you whine once more. he loved hearing you call him daddy, it drove him insane.

“ill have someone bring you another one from the company’s closet. now be a good girl, while l finish fucking this pretty pussy of yours.” his speed picked up once more and he was drilling himself inside of you. he let out some groans, one more primal than the others as he creamed your pussy full of his babies.

he didn’t stop his movements after cumming either, pistoning his cock deeper inside of you; making your orgasm come down harder than the last. he made you squirt, hard, pushing his cock right out of your pussy—splashing his leaking head and his dark desk.

picking you up with his big hands, he stood you on your feet; legs wobbling from the amount of stress that was put on it seconds ago, before he bent you over his desk. his huge frame towered over your smaller one as he pinned your arms behind your back, pulling your skirt all the way down to your ankles and deepening your arch; just so he could re-enter you once again.

your ass rippled against his clothed pelvis, cream and slick sticking to the soft fabric, as he fucked you. you turned your head and was met with a picture of his estranged family and you couldn’t help but moan. taking someone’s husband’s cock in his office every day, knowing someone could walk in excited you. you were made to be his cock whore.

he gripped your wrists, arms bruising slightly from his grip while he pounded you relentlessly. you were cumming and so was he, the way his balls twitched and his stroke became rougher—you were going to be a good slut and take his last load.

“let me stuff you full of my babies again. want you pregnant with my seed~” you were so dizzy with cock, agreeing to his wish, drooling against his desk; while ropes of his cum flowed into you and your own orgasm erupting inside of you. you could see stars like one of those cartoon characters as you came, his dick slowing down inside of you; before he pulled out of you for the last time.

with a smack to your ass, he zipped up him pants and pulled you back into his chest; pressing his lips to yours; another way he dominated you.

“ill go get those clothes from the closet. put this on and stay here. also, when i get back clear my schedule; taking you back to my place so i can hear that pretty girl speak to me again~”

[gluion]

almost, but not quite — leehan

pairing — leehan x reader genre — friends to lovers, fluff, crack, university au wc — 8.5k misc/warnings — loser!leehan with avoidant tendencies, slight mutual pining, bonedo group dynamics, also architecture student!leehan... heh, a lot of aquatic and ponyo references, a pov switch happens between leehan and myungjae, getting froyo to avoid confessing, alcohol consumption, kissing playlist — heavy by the marías // nervous by the neighbourhood // halley’s comet by billie eilish // patutunguhan by cup of joe // intro (end of the world) by ariana grande // i know you by faye webster // tsunami by niki // ikot by over october // take a chance with me by niki note — please know i have dropped this and pick it up in multiple instances because i'm not built to write fluff. still, i hope you enjoy because i see myself in leehan :]]

synopsis — if there’s one thing leehan didn’t understand, it’s the gross, sticky emotions he feels with you. yet, there’s an undeniable warmth that lingers—and that’s when he knows he’s screwed.

(in other words, the five times leehan found himself at a crossroads and the one time he decided on what he wanted with you.)

if the world were to end, leehan believes it would start with a meteor shower. before they crash against the soil, their trail of flames would catch on tree branches, the fire spreading through forests. their craters would swallow civilizations, and the floor would crack beneath his feet. the world will go up in flames within the blink of an eye; how dinosaurs met their demise would be the same fate he would face.

jaehyun finds it stupid, arguing it would be through an alien invasion. (“there’s too much proof! i mean, have we forgotten about area 51?” is the same point he never fails to make.) it didn’t help that he believed leehan could be an alien in disguise, regardless of how many times leehan showed him his birth certificate.

but how the world ends for leehan happens without him even knowing, waking up in the middle of his fall into the never-ending void. the harsh light morphs into amber tones with every descent as heat prickles his nape. leehan imagines the sting of lava hitting against his skin, burning him alive to a slow death, but it’s his descent into the ocean.

how leehan’s world ends is not from a meteor shower or an alien invasion, but with his plummet past the ocean floor all the way to the core.

yet, the center of his earth doesn’t happen to be molten lava.

it’s you.

“who’s jaehyun talking to?” sungho frowns in confusion before shoving a spoonful of rice into his mouth.

leehan looks up from his phone and attempts to find his friend among the students who fill up the cafeteria. as he cranes his head past unacquainted faces, he spots the familiar boy talking with a stranger. “no clue.” before he can go back to doom-scrolling, jaehyun bursts into laughter.

it shouldn’t be a big deal; the sight of his best friend doubling over is an everyday occurrence for him, but not anyone can achieve it unless they knew the spectrum of jaehyun’s humor.

jaehyun catches leehan’s puzzled look and shoots him a smile. his hand lingers on the mystery person’s shoulder. before leehan can look back at his phone, you turn around.

leehan freezes.

if there’s a view that could beat the great barrier reef, it would be you. (even if leehan has never seen it. he just knows.)

“oh, they’re coming our way,” sungho points out.

like a human meeting a siren, leehan couldn’t rip his eyes off of you. your graceful strides resemble the movement of sea creatures. a coral forms on your nose with every laugh. yet, it’s sea of jellyfish in your eyes that could make him crumble.

before he knows it, you stand in front of him with your eyes on jaehyun. if his friend was saying something, he never catches on—except for your name. “this is y/n.”

he repeats your name to himself; a song to be sung.

“hi! it’s nice to meet you.” your smile is made of the sun and sea. the expanse of blue glimmers as it crashes against him—out of enchantment and back into reality.

“how do you know jaehyun?” sungho asks.

you glance at your friend. “we’re in the broadcast club together. you know, he’s basically made to host.” from your compliment, jaehyun rolls his eyes and nudges your shoulder.

leehan rips his gaze from you, his hand finding a spot by the back of his ear as he fiddles with the last strands of his composure. he’s out of his mind. what’s he even thinking about you? for all he knows, you could be dating jaehyun.

oh god, are you dating his friend? what if you two have been going out for years and he never knew—wait, it shouldn’t even matter.

leehan doesn’t know anything about you so he feels indifferent towards you, right? right?

sungho tilts his head in curiosity. “oh! what do you do?”

in the process of glancing at you, leehan briefly locks eyes with his best friend. jaehyun’s eyes glance dart between you and leehan as a smirk makes its way to his face.

whatever his friend is thinking of, leehan only assumes the worst. is jaehyun going to misunderstand the situation? how does leehan explain to him that he’s just nervous around you? would his friend take it against him for looking at you?

leehan thinks it’s over for him.  

“tech. you know the people who manage the mixing board?” as you imitate yourself moving the sliders, leehan lets out a giggle without a second thought. once you smile at him, leehan feels the heat rise to his cheeks. he looks back down to his phone, hoping you can’t notice the pink tint all over his face.

“that’s cool! even cooler than what jaehyun does.”

sungho’s joke only brings jaehyun to smack his arm. “hey!” he frowns before glancing at you. “he’s kinda right.”

“not even kinda, he is right,” leehan remarks as he ignores the sea in his stomach.

jaehyun groans as his two friends fist bump each other. before they can ruin his reputation any more, he looks at you and says, “i’ll see you after class?”

you nod. “bye! it was nice meeting you.” you glimpse at his friends before locking eyes with leehan.

your eyes are seas that leehan wishes he could swim in. he would hold his breath just to stay in them, undergo the sting of his lungs just to admire them.

but it’s your smile that snaps him out of your possession. when he realizes he’s staring at you, his elbow slips off the table.

“are you okay?” sungho’s question is accompanied with a frown of confusion. while concern paints your features, the same, all-knowing smirk rests on jaehyun’s face.

leehan clears his throat as he fixes his posture. “yeah, i’m good.” he can’t bear to meet your gaze, not after his slip-up and certainly not after jaehyun’s reaction.

“okay, well i’m going. nice meeting you both!” with your farewell, you leave the group of three. 

once jaehyun finds his spot next to leehan, the worst possible scenarios flood leehan’s mind. the last thing he wants to do is ruin his friendship with him.

yet, he’s dumbfounded when jaehyun chuckles. “dude, if you’re going to have a crush, at least make it discreet.”

leehan’s eyes grow wide over jaehyun’s accusation. “i do not like y/n.” he snickers. “what are talking about?”

his friend clearly misread his actions. how could he even like you when he barely knew you? over one interaction, too? jaehyun needs to have more faith in him.

the disbelief in jaehyun’s features tell leehan otherwise. “are you seriously going to play that card? sungho, back me up.” he looks at the boy across from him who’s too busy eating away to even help him out. “didn’t you notice his eyes? they were practically hearts!”

he shrugs as he finishes his food. “beats me. leehan’s always been an oddball.”

“no, but he’s not like his usual silly self!”

leehan grumbles, nudging his shoulder against his troublesome friend. “quit it. stop making this weird.”

“whatever.” jaehyun rolls his eyes before jabbing his finger against leehan’s chest. “just know that i know your little secret.”

leehan grows annoyed at jaehyun’s accusations. he’s already said he doesn’t like you that way. how could jaehyun even think that? leehan swats away jaehyun’s hand before getting off his seat. “i’m leaving.”

“what? why?!” his friend clings onto his arm. the pout on his lips attempts to hold him back from his departure. “did i tease you too much?”

leehan shakes his head as he shrugs off jaehyun’s grip. “no, i’ve got a plate to cram.” he slings his backpack and drawing tube on his shoulders. “i’ll see you guys later?”

sungho only musters a hum before shoving another spoonful of rice into his mouth. as leehan takes his leave, jaehyun rests his chin on his crossed arms. despite the sigh that leaves the dejected boy, sungho pays no attention to him. “you’re not even going to ask why i’m sad?”

“just let him be. i’m sure he doesn’t like them.”

jaehyun groans in response.

if there’s one thing he’s certain about, it’s leehan’s crush on you. sure, his friends don’t see it, but one thing he knows for sure is leehan’s interest in you—he’ll do anything to make sure it comes into fruition.

and if there’s one thing leehan hates to admit to, it’s jaehyun being right in his suspicions, so he’ll keep going—deny, deny, deny, whatever he’s feeling because it doesn’t mean anything.

it shouldn’t.

but to leehan’s dismay, his mind would always drift back to you.

leehan swears he hasn’t thought about you. unfortunately for him, he never crossed paths with you since that one fateful encounter.

it shouldn’t be unfortunate. after all, he knows nothing about you.

(except for your name. and your course. and that you’re in the broadcasting club with his best friend. and that you’re a big fan of ghibli movies. and that every spotify playlist is perfectly curated to fit every mood, from the “slow mornings” to the “rageful evenings” as you’d like to put it on their descriptions.)

absolutely nothing, really.

as he found himself in the middle of midterms, the idea of you started to slip away in between papers and unfinished plates. 

leehan likes the library during exams season; place filled with students who are struggling like him. as night has dawned upon them, bulbs of yellow light up at every table. he’s always been able to work better at the library. after all, it doesn’t help that jaehyun is lounging in their dorm, enjoying his freedom from academic obligations.

still, leehan cannot deny his exhaustion as he attempts to finish one of his many essays. it works in his favor that his hoodie does its job in concealing his fatigue from others, allowing him to isolate and make sense of the words on his screen.

perhaps it’s for the best for you two. if he found himself entangled with you, maybe he wouldn’t get any work done. he already begged his professors for an extension, and he’s starting to think that might be the last time they’d understand. the last thing he wants on his mind is you—

“leehan?”

the source of his sleepless nights stands right before him. it seems like you’re unscathed from what this season brings but your laptop and bag filled to the brim with readings suggest otherwise.

still, it’s the same jellyfish-like glow in your eyes. 

“o-oh, hi!” at his voice crack, his eyebrows shoot up. “sorry, hi again.”

“no, it’s fine! i understand.” you smile in a poor attempt to suppress your laugh. “i just… wasn’t expecting to see you here. wait—you do remember me, right?”

he’s surprised that thought comes across your mind. “of course i do, y/n. how could i ever forget jaehyun’s cool friend?”

you roll your eyes at his flattery, trying to ignore his comment, but the smile on your face says otherwise. “at least. it would’ve been embarrassing to approach you and find out you don’t remember me, which i understand but i think i would’ve ran away.”

your shy demeanor causes waves to crash against his heart, the sound of your voice enchants him, and—snap out of it!

he shakes his head in an attempt to regain his composure. “what brings you here?”

“i’m here to work as well, but i’ve been walking around trying to find a table and i can’t find a vacant spot.” as your eyes flicker to the empty chair across him, he’s quick to move away his scattered things, some pens falling off the table.

“you can sit with me!”

“are you sure? i’d understand if you need your own space, really.”

leehan can try all he wants to shake off the thought of you, insist that he doesn’t have a crush on you (because he really doesn’t), but he isn’t going to have you leave this library in defeat. you two are in the same boat, trying to meet deadlines while running on a few hours of sleep and caffeine. he isn’t going to leave you stranded.

“yeah, i’d be happy to have someone join me. i can’t be the only one going crazy here,” he reassures you. you take that as your sign to sit with him.

(and this isn’t his attempt to spend time with you. really, it isn’t.)

he tries to continue where he left off on his work. if he continues to put off this essay, he wouldn’t only lose another hour of sleep but risk receiving a failing mark.

yet, his eyes are drawn to you. regardless of all the risks, of all the threats that loom in the deep ocean, he can only look at you.

which is why it comes to his surprise when you meet his gaze. 

leehan is quick to break eye contact and act like he’s working. heat rises to his cheeks. in the sea of typing, your giggle reaches his ear.

now, he isn’t sure how red he’s become.

“i didn’t know you like ponyo.”

a hum of confusion leaves him. as you stare at the stickers plastered over his laptop, your finger darts at a jellyfish one. “that’s from ponyo.”

his face flushes. “oh! yeah.” the last word trails into a whisper.

“is that your favorite ghibli movie?”

leehan melts into his seat. not from the nerves but pure embarrassment—because he has no clue what ponyo is. from what he’s gathered, it’s a ghibli movie, has jellyfish in it, and… that’s all he got. after all, he bought that sticker at a convention a few months back.

(it’s starting to make sense to leehan why the artist showed him a collection of anime characters back then, and it didn’t help that he asked to see more fish stickers instead.)

he should be honest with you; if he doesn’t know what the movie is about, then maybe you’d indulge him with everything you like.

yet, another lie is said. “yeah!” it leaves leehan in shock, in embarrassment, in a situation he could’ve avoided. he should’ve tried to save himself from the unfolding mess, but the beam in your eyes outshine all sea creatures he’s studied up on. “what about you?”

your smile grows bigger. “i love that movie! you know, there’s supposed to be a symphonic concert happening in a couple of months.” leehan only musters out a hum, trying to cover up his anxiety with interest. as you learn on the table, you ask, “who do you think you are between ponyo and sosuke?”

leehan’s absolutely fucked, but he knows how to keep his act up; avoid answering and throw the question back. “who do you think i’m more like?”

you take a moment to think. as your fingers tap against the table, a small hum leaves you. “based on vibes, i think you’d be ponyo.” leehan can only nod.

once silence settles between you two, leehan thinks he’s in the clear. he’s ready to put this interaction behind him, even kick himself for lying to you—

“now, what about me?”

“uh,” he mumbles as he discreetly searches up the movie.

with your wide-eyed gaze, the pressure to answer is multiplied by ten-fold. leehan thinks this is even worse than answering an exam worth 40% of his final grade. he wish he could be swallowed up; it pains him to keep the act going.

by some miracle, you read his thoughts. “you don’t know anything about ponyo, do you?”

he sighs in relief. “oh, thank god, i couldn’t keep this up any longer. i only got that jellyfish sticker because i like fish, and no one told me it’s a reference to a movie until you pointed it out.” the frown painted across your face makes him feel like he’s been stung by a jellyfish. “i’m sorry. i should’ve just told you that i had no clue what you were talking about, but i panicked and i didn’t want to ruin the conversation with my ignorance and—”

you burst into laughter, causing neighboring tables to glare at you. as you throw an apologetic smile to those you disturbed, you try to hold yourself back from laughing any more. leehan wishes you didn’t stop then; those few seconds turned into a song stuck in his head.

“i’ve never met anyone who’s into sea creatures.”

leehan’s breath hitches. is he weird for liking fish? would you be freaked out by his tank filled with corydoras? is it over for you and him—

“but i think that’s cool.” your words snap him from his thoughts. “do you have some as pets?”

the question brings him to grin. “corydoras and snakeheads.”

“you wanna tell me more about them?”

leehan thinks you might be it—the one, as riwoo likes to rave on about when imagining his unfolding future—for him.

but he’s gone through weeks filled with stress and the exhaustion gets in the way of his work; it’s probably the same case for his feelings towards you. before he can spiral into a never-ending hole filled with delusions, he shakes off the idea. “maybe another time.”

“you’re right. sorry about that. we both came here to work and i’m clearly distracting you.”

his eyes grow wide, scared to send you the wrong message. “no! you’re okay. i like talking to you.” as your expression shifts from apologetic to shock, he quickly adds, “about my fish! yeah, about them.”

while a nervous chuckle leaves him, you smile. “i like talking to you, too.”

leehan’s skin heats up.

“about ponyo, even if you didn’t know what i was talking about,” you tease. “maybe we can watch it together when we’ve got time. i don’t know what it’s like as an architecture student, but i can spare a few hours.”

leehan’s senses elevate—not from your suggestion but over the mention of his course. “how do you know my course?”

he didn’t want to get ahead of himself, really, but he can’t control his mind from jumping into conclusions. did you search him up right after the first meeting? were you curious about him?

were you interested in him the same way he is with you?

“myungjae mentioned it.”

his hope dissipates. “oh, that makes sense.” disappointment is evident in his tone.

still, your smile remains. “myungjae talks about you quite a lot.”

leehan’s groans as his mind jumps to the embarrassing stories that his friend could possibly say. “i would hope it’d be good things.” after all, jaehyun knows too much about leehan, and he didn’t want him to influence your perceptions surrounding him for the worst. 

a quiet moment stretches between you and him. 

“yeah, all good things.”

it’s a silent agreement for the two of you to get back to work; crunch out sentences filled with grammar mistakes and words derived from google searches of synonyms.

still, leehan’s eyes drift back to you every once in a while.

if there’s one thing jaehyun is set on proving, it’s leehan’s crush on you.

it’s been weeks since he first saw his friend freeze at the sight of you. the first time leehan’s eyes held a certain glow that resembled the jellyfish sticker on his laptop.

on the other hand, sungho’s grown tired of jaehyun’s supposed baseless accusations; all jaehyun needs to do is show the signs to prove it all.

he stands in sungchan’s kitchen, swishing around a mix of alcohol and mixers in his cup. the bartop is filled with bottles of liquor and drinks, a variety for him to choose. while everyone is off to enjoy the party, he stands with riwoo and sungho. as sungho shares about the gossip he’s heard, his fingers playing with the hem of his crop top, riwoo’s pink antennas bounce with every laugh. while they’re caught up in their own conversation, jaehyun’s gaze shifts between leehan, who stood by the corner of the living room with taesan, and the front door that swings open every five minutes.

“dude,” riwoo’s voice snaps jaehyun back into their conversation, “what’s gotten into you?”

sungho frowns at jaehyun who only takes a sip from his drink. jaehyun’s odd but never to a point that he’d stop himself from enjoying a party.

“are you waiting for someone?”

from riwoo’s question, sungho manages to connect the dots, and a frown settles on his face. “are you kidding me? even at this party? is that the only reason you begged us to come?”

jaehyun believes that he’s a mastermind. it was easy to convince his friends to show up to sungchan’s halloween party; the mention of alcohol and familiar names seemed did the trick. after all, they all saw the opportunity to de-stress from finals and end the semester on a high note.

the icing on top of his plan was your agreement to show up.

“is this about leehan���s supposed crush?”

sungho’s hip rests against the counter as he looks over at his friend from a distance. “we don’t even know if he likes them, but jaehyun’s so insistent on saying he does which, by the way, isn’t cool. don’t make it weird between them.”

in all other instances, jaehyun would agree with his best friend, but he shakes his head before saying, “just watch and see. by tonight, i will change your minds.”

“if only y/n shows up,” riwoo snickers. 

regardless of his friends’ comments, jaehyun stands tall. “trust me. i know they will.”

sungho rolls his eyes at his friend’s confidence. “what makes you say that?”

“jaehyun!”

the familiar voice rings in jaehyun’s ears. “speak of the devil.” with a smile on his face, he looks over to see you approaching his group of three, all dressed in a mustard-yellow shirt, grey shorts, and a green pail bucket hanging on your arm.

“sorry! i was finishing up my last requirement a few hours ago.”

jaehyun slings his arm around your shoulders. “i’m just glad you made it.”

“yeah, mainly because you begged me to do so.”

“he did the same to us,” sungho snickers.

jaehyun rolls his eyes. “we all know that’s not true. you just won’t admit that you wanted to party, too.”

“i’ll have you know that sungchan invited me before you did,” you remark before you grab yourself a clean cup. with jaehyun’s arm still wrapped around you, you drag him along in staring at the selection of drinks on the counter. “what’re you drinking?”

“oh, the perfect mix!” you don’t think twice about jaehyun’s words until you watch him grab on different bottles of liqueurs and mixers. “like juice, i tell you.”

“that’s dangerous.” a nervous chuckle leaves you before he shakes his head. 

“you’ll be fine, tipsy after one drink at most.” you roll your eyes at your friend being the cause for your impending doom. “by the way, this is sungho, as you’ve met before, and riwoo.” jaehyun’s introduction has you turning around to greet the two.

“you’re dressed as saiki k! i love that anime.” riwoo chuckles at your exclaim. as you look at sungho, you spot the neck of an electric guitar peeking from behind him. “you play?”

he snaps out of his trance and hums in confirmation. “sorry, i was trying to figure out what you’re dressed up as and i still have no clue.”

“oh!” you reach out into your bucket before pulling out a small keychain of a gingered-folk dressed in red. “i’m sosuke, from ponyo.”

riwoo’s hands come together. “i see that now!”

once jaehyun hands you your drink, you take in his costume; a purple sweater that drowns his figure with rock n’ roll girl plastered at the front. “who the fuck are you?” you sip on jaehyun’s concoction. the sweetness of the drink masks the taste of alcohol. it’s a mistake to drink this, not because this will lead you to an incurable hangover but because of jaehyun’s answer.

“i’m darla from finding nemo.”

you choke on your drink. jaehyun’s quick to rub his hand against your back. in the middle of your coughing fit, laughter slips in between. “what the fuck?! i wouldn’t have guessed that.”

jaehyun clicks his tongue before holding your arm. “which is why i have a partner to complete my outfit! come.”

before you know it, he drags you through the crowd of people. whenever your bucket crashes against someone, you’d quickly apologize before jaehyun hauls you five steps forward. you don’t understand the rush, but jaehyun’s smirk makes you believe otherwise.

jaehyun believes he’s a mastermind; he isn’t going to miss the perfect opportunity to push his plan forward.

“leehan!” his friend, dressed in a fish outfit with yellow and white stripes, rips his gaze away from taesan and settles on the two of you. his relaxed smile morphs into a thin line as his droopy eyes turn wide. it’s moments like these that make jaehyun question how his other friends fail to see the signs.

taesan’s eyes follow. “jaehyun! you came at the perfect time. i just needed a refill of your mix.” the moment he spots you, he straightens his back. “i don’t think we’ve met before. i’m taesan.”

“y/n.” the makeshift cat ears formed by his hair bring a smile to your face. “didn’t know i’d meet a catboy today.”

“yeah, well—”

“taesan, come with me.” jaehyun grabs his arm.

taesan and leehan frown at him. “huh? can’t you just make it and bring it here?” as taesan swings his empty cup, jaehyun rolls his eyes before dragging him to his side.

with your confused expression, he forces a smile. “no. i need to introduce you to someone, anyway,” he lies behind his teeth. while you accept his words at face value, leehan’s eyes grow wide at his friends’ escape.

before his lovesick friend can protest, jaehyun and taesan take their leave.

“what the fuck was that?” taesan shouts the question as they make their way back to the kitchen.

jaehyun shakes his head until they reach riwoo and sungho. “that’s the person i was telling you about! the one leehan likes.”

taesan glances at the two before bursting into laughter. “nah, i think they’re just friends.”

“i’ve been saying that for the past weeks,” sungho complains before he sips his drink. “every time jaehyun teases leehan, it almost looks like he’s going to kill himself.”

riwoo hums as he observes his friend. “what even makes you so sure that he likes them?”

“oh, i’ll show you.” jaehyun pulls out his phone before going through his contacts.

as sungho peers over, he frowns at the contact name. “what’s he going to know?”

“hey, can you at least make my drink—”

the call is picked up by their friend, whose eyes are shut and hair ridden into a mess. “hello?” he groans.

“woonhak, do you think leehan likes y/n?”

a pause ensues.

“who?”

sungho smacks jaehyun’s arm, causing him to hiss at the contact. “why’re you bothering the kid? can’t you see he was sleeping?!”

“at 10:34 p.m.? the night’s still young!” taesan jokes as he sings out the last sentence. “anyway, about my drink—”

“this is about the person i was telling you about! the one in the broadcast club.” despite jaehyun’s attempt to jog his friend’s memory, he’s met with a confused and sleepy groan. “the one who likes ponyo.”

for some reason, that piece of information clicks in his drowsy friend’s brain. “oh, yeah! what about them?”

sungho shakes his head. “this is pointless. he’s clearly too sleepy to have this conversation. bye—”

“no! woonhak, you are going to help me prove that i am right about leehan and y/n.”

riwoo laughs in disbelief. jaehyun’s persistence is not new, but it’s the first time they’ve seen it involving their friend. “and how are you going to do that?”

“like this.” jaehyun flips the camera, showing woonhak the view of leehan. woonhak’s face moves closer to the camera in an attempt to focus on his friend, who rocks back and forth in place as he talks to you.

like clockwork, leehan leans forward. “see! don’t you think they’re so close to each other?” jaehyun points at the view.

sungho chuckles before resting his hand on his shoulder. “it’s a party. i’m sure they can’t hear each other that well, especially since they’re near the speakers.”

“he’s right. i mean, they are close, sure, but it doesn’t really mean anything.” although woonhak shares the same sentiments as sungho, jaehyun doesn’t admit defeat. he’s secured in his suspicions; the last thing he’ll allow is for him to be swayed until he shows them all signs affirming it.

“okay, but look at his thumbs.” his friends dart towards leehan’s hands that are wrapped around his cup. “he’s twiddling them! don’t you think he’d fidget around someone he likes?”

riwoo sighs. “i’m sure he’s just nervous because he doesn’t know y/n that well.”

yet, jaehyun shakes his head at riwoo’s assumption. “but that’s the type of anxiety you expect from someone with a crush.”

“that is true.” taesan’s comment brings all eyes on him. i’m kind of just agreeing at this point so that jaehyun can make my drink.” everyone groans and scolds the alcoholic.

“okay, but he could still be warming up to them. i mean, they’ve only known each other for a few weeks now,” woonhak adds on. it’s clear that calling him isn’t helping jaehyun’s case. woonhak’s two more comments away before the call is dropped on him.

at this point, jaehyun’s desperate. he couldn’t have his plan fall through or he would never live this down. if anything, he might end up getting scolded by sungho. (“this is what you get for being so hard-headed!” jaehyun can imagine sungho’s harsh tone that would be accompanied with flared nostrils.)

yet, it’s like the universe heard jaehyun’s plea. leehan does the unimaginable—a gummy grin takes over his features.

“holy shit,” taesan whispers.

riwoo looks back at his friends. “there’s no way, right?”

leehan’s never the type to grin easily, always sticking to tight-lipped ones and smirks. such smiles are different from whenever he'd laugh; a beam in the middle of a conversation comes like bioluminescent waves.

“wait, the quality is so bad. i can’t see why you guys are shocked,” woonhak complains from the other end of the line.

“it’s just that leehan is smiling, like really smiling,” sungho briefs the confused fellow. his head tilts as he continues to watch you two interact. “i mean, y/n could’ve told a joke. like, that possibility is still there.”

jaehyun’s patience runs thin the more sungho remains dismissive. “why don’t you want to admit that i’m right? is it that hard to just say, hey, jaehyun, you might be right about leehan crushing on y/n. sorry about that! like, is it that hard?”

despite jaehyun’s frustration, sungho sighs. “it’s not that, really. i just don’t want to assume anything about his feelings.”

jaehyun’s frown falters. when sungho puts it that way, he recalls all the times he might’ve made leehan uncomfortable, going lengths to ignore what his friend says; he must’ve been a terrible friend to leehan. and for once, jaehyun admits defeat. “yeah. you know what, you’re right. i shouldn’t assume whatever he feels.”

“what makes you so certain about those two, anyway?” woonhak asks.

jaehyun looks over at you two, backs against the wall and shoulders pressed to each other. from leehan’s grin to the crinkle by your eyes, jaehyun smiles to himself. “because i’ve never seen them that happy unless they’re together.”

because to him, you two are a match made by the seven seas—handcrafted by the gods that rule the oceans with the intention of having you to stick together like corals and fish. while his friends can’t see that, he hopes with enough high and low tides that they’d start to see the same vision as him.

yet, the waters hear his final plea; one final sign that might affirm jaehyun’s suspicions.

as you walk away from leehan, making your way to the washroom, his eyes never leave you. his grin resembles the softness of sponges he’d ramble about, and the jellyfish-like glow in his eyes didn’t leave. 

“oh my god, leehan likes y/n,” sungho gives in to jaehyun’s conviction.

“wait, what? how’d we get here? what happened?”

jaehyun doesn’t think twice about dropping the call. (only to pick up and earn an earful of complaints about leaving woonhak in the dark, especially after waking him up.)

leehan thinks he’s dreaming. 

he’ll wake up in a classroom to his professor’s lecture on parametric design or urban revitalization. before he’ll know it, he’ll watch the clock tick away until the bell rings. if not to a lecture, leehan might wake up to jaehyun’s knocks, only to groan and doze off once again.

he should be dreaming, really, because in no universe would he be seated on the couch of the living room and watching ponyo with you—except for this one. 

leehan can’t find the words to explain how he got here. since his last class was canceled for the day, he was going to rush home and take a long needed nap. yet, the waves managed to bring you to him at the right time.

the thing about leehan is that could never say no to you. whether it be for a small favor or rearranging all his plans for the day, he thinks it’s only right to accept anything you throw at his way. you’re his friend, after all, which is why he didn’t think twice about having you over for the long-awaited ponyo watch party.

now, he finds himself seated on a sofa with you, speakers blasting your favorite film. the space is littered with all forms of knickknacks, sea-like or music related. it’s filled with leehan’s and jaehyun’s personalities, showing an apartment filled with love. when leehan’s free time lined up with jaehyun’s, they’d make it a habit to lounge and watch all sorts of films.

while he’s never had issues getting invested in what he watches, it’s only now that he faces that issue.

he swears from the bottom of the ocean that he wanted to focus on the movie, but it all seems impossible with you. the smell of your laundry detergent. your skin against his arm. the quiet, steady breathing of yours that syncs with his.

“leehan.” as you tilt your head in curiosity, he holds his breath. “are you watching?”

and the thing about you is that you always saw right through him. over the course of a few weeks, past the seafoam and algae, you always read him.

he clears his throat before scooting away from you. “of course.” as he stares right at the television screen, a chuckle leaves you.

silence hangs between you two. 

leehan glances at you. you’re eyes are already on him.

“gotcha.” heat rises to his cheeks. 

you sink into the couch with a pout. “if you didn’t wanna watch, i would understand.”

“no, it’s not that at all!” as your eyes snap to him, he sighs. “i really want to watch this with you. my mind’s just over the place.”

you face him, concern painting your features. “what’s going on then? why don’t you tell me what’s up?”

what you don’t know is that you’re his distraction. even at this moment, leehan can’t form an answer to your question. he can never think straight with you; the jellyfish you spoke of in your favorite movie could never compare to the ones in your eyes.

he takes one glance at your lips before breathing out. “nothing.” as he shifts his attention back to the movie, he tries to shut down the conversation. “it’s fine.”

leehan expects for the subject to drop, go back to watching your favorite movie in silence, until your hand rests on his thigh.

“leehan.”

when he looks at you, the distance between you two is enough for the seafloor to crack. the waves in his stomach roar. his breathing halts, almost scared that one exhale will cause you to crumble like a coral reef. when you lean towards him, hot water rushes out of the splits.

yet, you stay still.

the waves won’t carry him to you; all he needs to do is pull his feet from the wet sand to close the distance.

“hey, do you want to get some—oh!”

you pull away from him. as you attempt to resume watching the movie, leehan looks back at the intruder. there stands a shocked jaehyun whose eyes dart between you two.

“uh, i should probably go.” you get off your seat. “i still have some papers to work on, you know.”

leehan shakes his head in reassurance before standing. “of course. i can go with you back to campus—”

“no need!” you interject before shooting an awkward smile. “it was nice seeing you two!”

without any second to spare, you exit out of leehan and jaehyun’s shared apartment.

“were you guys about to…”

leehan’s eyebrows shoot up. “no! that would never happen,” he says as he shuts the television.

a moment ticks by.

before leehan knows it, jaehyun drops to his knees. “no!” his head finds its spot behind his hands. “why did i walk in? i should’ve just kept my damn mouth shut!”

leehan rolls his eyes before walking to his distressed friend. his distraught state should bring concern but it’s an everyday behavior that leehan expects. “nothing was going to happen.”

yet, jaehyun continues to wail. 

leehan grabs hold of jaehyun’s arm and helps him stand up. “c’mon, what did you want to get?”

jaehyun groans before fixing his posture. “i literally saw you two about to ki—”

“we weren’t!” leehan bites the inside of his cheek as he thinks back to today’s events. “nothing is going on between us.”

and there shouldn’t be anything because you two are just friends.  

despite his defense, jaehyun frowns. “well, something is definitely going on!” he crosses his arms. “i saw it with my own eyes, so you better start saying something if you like them.”

but leehan shouldn’t like you. to him, you’re still jaehyun’s friend before anything—even before his friend—and he should respect that.

his silence speaks volumes, bring jaehyun to sigh. “i mean it when i say there’s nothing wrong with liking y/n. why are you scared?”

leehan has always admired his friend’s sensibility. jaehyun welcomes emotions, allowing himself to run on its highs and lows, walking around with his heart on his sleeve. admittedly, it’s something leehan wishes he could say the same about himself. 

all his life, he’s learned to run away from vulnerability. he believes that emotions are inherently disgusting, almost sticky, and should be avoided at all cost. after all, what comes after vulnerability is a moment of inevitable embarrassment.

yet, it’s from jaehyun’s confrontation that leehan realizes he can’t run away from the waves anymore. soon enough, he’ll have to run to the ocean, allow himself to be consumed by the water, and let himself bathe in whatever he feels towards you.

but it’ll take steps for him to get to the sea. “let’s go get some froyo.”

so for now, he’ll continue to run until he grows tired.

leehan remembers the last time he felt this nervous; stomach churning and heartbeat racing with every second. it was for his final defense for his research study. he spent days locked up in his room, piles of clothes found left and right with a corner stacked with empty coffee cups. jaehyun likes to describe it as the great pacific garbage patch that leehan rants about.

who could blame him? with the panel of nitpicky professors, he only had his index cards filled with chicken scratch and his trusty fish keychain to rely on.

when he came out of the defense victorious, the keychain became a lucky charm. for difficult assessments. for life-changing decisions.

for you. 

it shouldn’t be a big deal to leehan, but he holds on to the charm as he waits for you to pick up his call.

ever since he opened up to jaehyun about his confusing feelings, the situation is impossible to avoid. jaehyun claims that the tides leehan rides on are from his crush on you. although leehan still denies it, his friend takes it upon himself to push him across the shore—so long as he’s closer to sea.

“hello?”

“y/n!” his voice cracks, a cough following to cover it up. “hi.”

“oh! how’d you get my number?”

he drums his fingers against his desk. “i, uh, got it from jaehyun.”

“oh, okay. what’s up?”

leehan takes a moment to breathe as he grabs hold of the tickets. maybe he shouldn’t ask you. it would be better for taesan and sungho to go to this event like they originally planned. yet, he would only receive an earful of complaints should he back out now.

“leehan?”

“sorry, i just…” he shuts his eyes. “are you free this weekend?”

“yeah.”

his friends have pushed him across the shore. now, the water is close to his feet. all he needs to do is ask. 

“do you, i don’t know, wanna watch the ponyo symphonic concert with me?”

a beat passes.

leehan’s heart races.

a moment of embarrassment.

he should’ve known better. how could he allow himself to be talked into doing this? he should run farm away from the sea— 

“you got tickets?! how?” your squeal breaks him from his trance. 

leehan chuckles, breathing unsteady, and says, “it’s a secret.”

“keeping secrets from me now? thought we were friends.” somehow, your playful nature and curiosity never fails to lighten up the mood—even if you never fail to make him nervous.

leehan could never think properly with you; he loses all common sense or composure, catching him off guard with every impulsive decision. “which is why i’m asking you out.” his eyebrows shoot up at the implications of that phrase.

“asking me out?” you giggle on the other end of the line. “like a date?”

“sorry, i mean—”

“i’m just messing with you,” you cut him off from his tangent. as he sighs in relief, you say, “but i’d love to go with you. send me the details.”

he smiles to himself. “i’ll see you, then.”

“okay, bye.”

once the call drops, leehan flops down onto his seat. as he stares up at the ceiling, he plays the phone call back in his head, and his cheeks start to hurt.

for once, vulnerability awarded him with something.

the sea has grazed his feet.

leehan thinks he sticks out like a sore thumb in the theater. considering that he’s never been here before, he’s grown conscious of his attendance to the symphonic concert. in these moments, he would’ve run away, ditched the event and locked himself in his room, but he made it through the night—all thanks to you.

in the unfamiliar, he’s able to find comfort through you.

“that was amazing!” there’s a skip to your feet as you exit the theater with leehan. “i think my ears were blessed.”

leehan chuckles at your joy. “i’m happy you think that.” as much as he would like to share the same enjoyment, his happiness stems from you.

people continue to make their way out, knocking shoulders against you two. “you don’t think the same?” you throw the question over the loud chatter.

“i’m sure you appreciated it more than i did.” 

your nose scrunches at his accuracy.

the bustling crowd doesn’t die down, swarming the lobby even further with every second that passes. while you attempt to stand tall within the busy crowd, your faltering smile gives leehan enough reason to protect you.

he loops his arm with yours. “hold tight.” before you know it, he dashes out of the theater with you. 

the breeze of the night hits his cheeks. a sigh of relief leaves you as you find yourselves in the open space. “thanks. i was scared that i was gonna trip,” you mention.

“i could tell.”

you laugh as you nudge your elbow against him. “oh, shut up!”

in these moments, leehan’s feelings towards you were pushed to the back of his mind. in these moments, you two are friends; nothing more, nothing less. 

still, you latch on his arm, like tentacles, like sea anemones, almost like you can’t imagine letting him go.

leehan walks on the edge of the pier; between embracing or ignoring intimacy.

you both get in the backseat of your uber. with how late the concert ended, you and leehan fall into silence as the car drives off to your complex.

streams of fluorescent lights fill the window. the radio plays a soft melody that reminds leehan of the sea. he’ll look at everything, so long as your arm around his remains off his mind.

yet, all it takes is your head on his shoulder for him to freeze up. 

a shaky exhale leaves him. his heartbeat fills his ears. when he looks over at you, he notices your eyes are shut. as a series of quiet snores escape you, leehan thinks back to jaehyun’s words. 

why is he afraid of you?

in all the time you spent with him, you learned everything about him; his quirks, his habits, his unconventional interests. he swore that you would walk out on him, drift away like plywood in the sea, as you got to know him. 

yet, you stayed through it all.

he should know better than to disengage with you the moment his fears come into play. without even thinking, he was villainizing you—every moment that teetered the edge of intimacy had only made him pull back like how seaweed rips through ship ruins.

in his eyes, the worst thing that comes out after intimacy isn’t the embarrassment—it’s the uncertainty that follows. there’s comfortability in familiarity; nothing ever goes wrong if he plays it safe. yet, his mindset may have upheld barriers that restrain your relationship.

leehan only understood that the moment jaehyun pointed it out. in all the time he’s spent with you, he’s never fully given you credit, assuming the worst about you the moment you do anything that encourages vulnerability from him.

and still, you welcome him with open arms.

what if you’re good? what if this is good?

all he needs to do is fall into the sea, plummet through the ocean floor, until he arrives at your embrace.

“we’re here,” the driver says as he pulls into the driveway.

to leehan’s surprise, your eyes open in an instant, catching him red-handed. in a split second, he looks away from you, a cough following afterwards.

when a soft giggle leaves you, he knows he’s only dug himself a deeper hole.

you both exit the car as you walk to the entrance of the builidng. for a moment, you stand beside each other, no word being said, and leehan wishes it could stay that way. he doesn’t want to say goodbye to this night just yet.

yet, you look at him with a smile, and say, “i really had fun tonight. thank you for thinking of me.”

“no, thank you for sharing your favorite movie with me.” leehan looks down to the ground as his foot kicks against the concrete. “i think it’ll be my favorite movie.”

“think you’ll end up loving it more than me?”

he smirks. “no one’s love for ponyo will ever compare to yours.” you laugh at his remark. 

leehan notices how your hands fiddle with each other. he’s never seen you uneasy; you always carry yourself with confidence everywhere you go. yet, it’s in this moment that it hits him—were you just as nervous as him?

in all the times his fears got the best of him, did your doubts do the same to you? were your nights plagued with ideas of him in the same way he fell asleep to the thought of you? did you second guess every action, every instance, like he did?

but most of all, did you want him, too?

“okay,” you breathe out, “i’ll see you soon.”

once you turn your back on him, he’s left to watch your figure walk away.

there’s security in the familiarity. avoiding intimacy saves him from embarrassment and uncertainty. if he were to shift the tides at this moment, who knows what could happen between you two?

the sea grazes his sand-covered feet.

despite the unknown future, is diving into the ocean worth it for you?

before leehan can spiral into his thoughts, he grabs your arm and spins you around. your wide eyes meet his. as he pulls you closer to him, his arm finds their spot around your waist.

the distance between you two allows him to take in your features; your trembling lips, the jellyfish glow in wavering eyes.

at the same time, what could happen between you two?

as his hand reaches for your face, you melt into his touch.

the possibilities are endless; you’re the risk he’s willing to take.

with eyes closed, he dives to meet your lips; soft like how he imagined. it’s a slow kiss, one spent trying to learn you in ways he only thought he could in a distant dream. yet, leehan’s hesitance shows with every second spent exploring you.

when your hands rest on the back of his neck, leehan’s fears dissipate, a small sigh leaving him in between. at his relaxed state, you take the lead. your nose grazes his cheek as your fingers play with his hair. leehan grows dizzy, hand gripping your waist as he tries to keep up with you.

somehow, your lips felt familiar; he’s secured in you.

as you pull away, your erratic breathing matches with his. the sight of your lips that once interlocked with his only makes him want more.

he goes for one more, causing you to giggle, and he smiles in between kisses. your fingers dig against his shoulder as he savors the taste of you. how could he have denied himself of this? if this is what it meant to kiss you, he wouldn’t have second guessed diving into the sea.

you break the kiss, a grin on your lips that can’t match his. “took you long enough.”

leehan’s world doesn’t end in a meteor shower, or an alien invasion, or even through his descent past the ocean floor. past the sand, the dirt, the minerals, the core of his world is not molten lava.

instead, it’s a pair of arms that embrace him. wholly. flaws and all.

and leehan’s world doesn’t end, after all—it’s only begun with you.

networks tag list: @kflixnet @k-labels @onedoornet @kstrucknet

boynextdoor permanent tag list: @bonedors @0310s @whyilovewhales-pdf

story tag list: @bananielle @yunextdoor @heechwe @taesanrot

@loserlvrss @blooqz @mari3s @saintriots @koodaes

@seokkiez @candycane-lemonade @chewnotchoke

[pinkberrytea]

Astarion is nervous, possibly even afraid that he is about to lose something—that you are about to lose something, something precious and dear to him.

I will live in thy heart, die in thy lap, and be buried in thy eyes.

Enjoyment beyond the death drive—beyond the self-imposed regulation of pleasure. He wants her, so desperately, so ardently; yet she escapes through his fingers like fine sand, falling on the ground and dissolving in the dirt above his grave.

Astarion x Tav (F!Reader)

w/c: 3k words . ao3 . spotify playlist . 18+ only . nsfw . dividers

a/n: this is the sequel to la petite mort! while it was initially intended as a standalone oneshot, i wanted to expand on the themes introduced in the original. hopefully it lives up to its predecessor! thank you to the wonderful @xxnashiraxx for giving this one a read, i love you dearly friendo!

tags: blood drinking; hurt & comfort; possessive behavior; masturbation; hand jobs; body worship; dry humping

“Astarion…?”

His name slips from your lips before you even open your eyes, your consciousness slowly returning as you are suddenly woken from restless sleep. You feel his naked chest pressed flat against your back, his cold skin robbing you of the warmth of yours; his strong arms encircling your waist, hands roaming your sides; and his fangs, sank deep into the crook of your neck as his wet tongue laps up your crimson, which leaks from the corners of his mouth, dripping down his jaw and onto your shoulders. There is no pain—rather, the sensation is almost pleasurable, familiar, which comes as no surprise considering it’s been months now ever since his nightly feeding sessions became a daily occurrence. You don’t even bother setting up your tent anymore; upon leaving the Shadowlands, he’d begin routinely insisting that you sleep in his, heedless of your mutual agreement to abstain from more carnal proclivities for the time being. “Oh, darling, wouldn’t you say it’s much easier for me to dine with you this way? As hard as it will be for me to keep my hands to myself, I did give you my word,” he’d say, and true enough, you had yet to go beyond very heated kissing and groping—regardless, here he is now, avidly drinking from you while grinding the throbbing bulge inside his pants against your rear.

“Shh. It’s alright, love. Go back to sleep.” Astarion unlatches from your bruising vein to whisper the words in your ear, and you are almost tempted to do just that, but it’s far too late; ignoring him or the erection poking at your backside is no longer an option, and he probably realizes that too, having stopped gliding his hands up and down your torso to gently rest them on your arms instead. You are wearing his shirt, a habit you’ve taken to in recent days—at first you’d lie and say it was because you didn’t want your own to become soiled with blood, though in truth you simply enjoy the intimacy of sharing clothes and the comfort of being enveloped in his scent. Despite seeing right through your excuses, Astarion didn’t seem to mind at all; quite the opposite, he appeared to enjoy the fact that you’d start sleeping clad in nothing but his shirt and your underpants, since oversized as it is, the length would be enough to cover your crotch and thighs. He likely didn’t factor in your agreement, of course—while convenient in most other circumstances, the ease of access wouldn’t exactly be conducive to chastity, so to speak.

Rubbing the sleep from your eyes, you groan and twist your body to face him. He moves one of his hands to your scalp, lovingly running his slender fingers through your tousled hair and planting a bloodstained kiss on your temple. When he finally pulls away to meet your stare, a shiver unexpectedly runs down your spine; his pupils are blown out, almost completely eclipsing his sanguine irises, yet you can undeniably see something primal and hungry lurking in their depths. The candle you had lit before turning in for the night burns bright still, and the light of its dancing flame bounces off his sharp teeth, which had been puncturing your own flesh but moments ago. How easy it is to forget what the heart wants to deny—whenever the true nature of his vampirism rears its ugly head, you find yourself questioning your blind trust in him. Yet like a passing breeze, just as soon as that sliver of doubt weasels its way into your mind, it’s then gone; foolish though it may be, you don’t fear the darkness in him, not now, not when he first put a knife to your throat. 

“You’re not a victim. Not a target. Not just one night it’s better to forget.”

Tentatively, you reach out to lightly stroke his cheek, the pads of your fingers ghosting over his ivory skin. His eyelids flutter close as if by instinct, and he quietly leans into your touch, looking almost vulnerable for a moment. Ever so delicately, you trace the lines on his face, his high cheekbones, his cupid’s bow, his plush lips, which are parted still. It amazes you how his features can be at once so edged yet so soft, much like the man himself, in a way. No, you don’t fear him, even if he has given you no reason not to other than a heartfelt confession.

“I—I could help you, you know,” you hear yourself mumble, almost bashfully, a faint glow spreading across the bridge of your nose and warming the tips of your ears. “With that, I mean.” Astarion furrows his brow and his eyes flit back open in confusion, only to slightly widen as you coyly motion with your head towards his obviously tented pants. He looks down at his groin and then up at you, unsure of what to think, much less of what to say. It’s not often that he is left wanting for words, but then again, you were ever one to drag him out of his comfort zone. 

“You are full of surprises, aren’t you?”

“Oh, you little rascal.” Despite the initial shock, he quickly regains composure, almost too quickly. His expression abruptly changes, gaze laced with seduction and lips quirked upwards into a practiced smirk. “Who would’ve thought you’d be the first one of us to acquiesce? I’ll admit your innocent facade had me fooled, but you’re quite the needy thing underneath those big round eyes and blushing cheeks, aren’t you, darling?” he teases, voice lowering an octave, its cadence measured to an almost unnerving degree. Your mouth becomes dry and your stomach coils into a tight knot as you immediately recognize his sudden shift in attitude, a side of him you’ve come to know all too well and that disturbs you still—yet even more worryingly, his otherwise perfectly poised countenance seems to enshroud an emotion that had never been there before: anxiety. Astarion is nervous, possibly even afraid that he is about to lose something—that you are about to lose something, something precious and dear to him. 

“I don’t know how else to be with someone. No matter how much I’d like to.”

“No! That’s… I didn’t mean it like that,” you blurt out, heart fluttering in your chest, so loudly you are sure he can hear it. While you have never gone over the terms of your agreement or discussed them in-depth, you had always assumed that physical intimacy wouldn’t necessarily be off the table, especially the kind of intimacy that would require nothing of him. Although perhaps therein lies the problem—someone who perceives everything as transactional would naturally fail to accept that another would be willing to give without taking. Remorse washes over you as you realize your mistake, which you promptly try to mend, much as the guilt bars you from looking him in the eyes. “What I meant is… I can take care of it. For you.”

Astarion’s eyebrows slowly slide up his forehead and he studies you intently for what seems like an eternity, clearly taken aback. Before long, he finally breaks the silence, humming quizzically and untangling his fingers from your hair. “Hm? Is that right?” he hesitates, only to yet again flash you a sly smile, a much softer one this time, ruby irises twinkling with something akin to melancholy. “And how exactly do you plan to do that?” Despite provocatively purring each word, the tone with which he speaks is remarkably gentle, almost uncertain. Bringing a hand to your chin, he cups it delicately and tilts your head upwards, prompting you to meet his stare, its flirtatious edge now replaced with wistful warmth.  

“You deserve something real. I want us to be something real.”

You inhale sharply, your brief show of boldness having obviously run its course, and the pink flush coloring your ears deepens into a bright red. His smile widens once he notices your nervousness, and he brings his face even closer to yours, so close you can feel his lashes tickling the delicate skin under your eyes. His cool breath caresses your lips, the metallic scent of blood—your blood—wafting up your nose. Still cupping your chin, he at last closes the distance between you, covering your mouth with his and hooking a leg over your waist to pull your bodies flush together. With the swell between his thighs now nudging your belly, he starts leisurely rolling his hips, resuming what he had been doing before rousing you from your slumber.

“Hnng…” As you bury your fingers in his silvery curls, melting into the kiss and relishing the taste of him, Astarion lets out a muffled moan, low and throaty. Wetness starts pooling between your folds, though instead of indulging in the sensation, you try to ignore it to the best of your ability—tonight is not about you, and you want him to know this. Regardless, he can obviously smell your arousal, but far from causing any upset, it only serves to entice him further; sliding his free hand down your back, he firmly grabs one of your buttocks with a bruising grip upon reaching your ass, kneading it roughly. All this time, he’d been graciously accepting your generosity, and then some—he’s not about to stop now, not when for once he knows he hasn’t manipulated you into extending your kindness to him.

“It’s been so long since I’ve had to decide what I wanted.”

“Mngh—Astarion…” you mewl into his mouth, and he takes the opportunity to slip his tongue inside yours, fangs nipping at your bottom lip without breaking skin. You press one of your palms to his chest, feeling the firmness of his pectorals under the soft pads of your digits before gingerly sliding them downwards, raising a trail of goosebumps in their wake. Drawing small circular patterns, you slowly glide your blunt nails across the valleys of his ribs, his navel, and finally his lower abdomen, teasingly grazing the waistband of his pants.

“My, such a good little helper you are,” Astarion breaks the kiss to murmur against your reddened lips, and moving his hand on your chin down to grasp your own, he encourages you to venture under the waistband. Your fingers now intertwined with his, you let him guide you to the hardness pushing against his smallclothes, which are damp with precome, much like yours are damp with slick. You can feel the outline of his length through the thin fabric, and he unceremoniously has you both fist it, wiggling his hips so that his pants drop below the plump of his behind. 

“Such a good, selfless little helper…” he croons, sliding both of your hands up and down his still covered cock. With every pump, his groans grow huskier, small beads of sweat pooling in the creases of his forehead. His eyes are now closed, his mouth slightly parted, and his hold on your hand is strong, if not binding. Your dripping sex wantonly clenches around nothing at the sight of him, so hopelessly focused on his own pleasure; gods, how desperately you wish to be stretched open around his enlarged girth, stuffed full of him until you are both flailing for purchase, panting and screaming each other’s name. He may not be ready for that yet, but as your imagination wanders, you tell yourself that there’s no harm in picturing him taking you from behind, balls swinging and hitting your ass as he thrusts deep into your slit with reckless abandon; your lips wrapped around his flushed cockhead, one of his hands mercilessly tugging at your hair as he sings you praises; you bouncing on his lap, buttocks slapping against his legs with each bob of your body.  

“Astarion…” you moan, rubbing your thighs together to get some relief from that small amount of friction. His cock jerks under your combined hands, so hard now that his smallclothes are pulled back enough to reveal the swollen tip. How sweet is the sound of his name on your tongue, how sweet is the scent of your desire when he is the one you yearn for. Just as you fantasize about him, Astarion too keeps replaying all sorts of scenarios in his head—he hates that he can’t have you yet, that he can’t pin you to a wall or throw you on a table and fuck you until you beg him for mercy; he hates that he can’t watch your cute little tits jiggle as your tight cunt swallows him whole, that he can’t coax pretty noises out of your rosy lips and make your eyes water as you come for him. He hates that his lust for you is tainted, that his lust for you is what inspired him to choose you as his target in the first place. Most of all, he hates himself for having disregarded you as a beautiful fool; for having underestimated his own susceptibility to falling in love, for having even fallen in love at all. 

“You’re a vision. And you’re so much more than that.”

“Gods, I want to be inside you…” Astarion grunts, letting go of you to pull down his smallclothes, finally freeing his weeping erection. It glistens in the candlelight, red and hungry, and you waste no time wrapping your fingers around its base. A muted whimper falls from his lips once your warm skin collides with his, and he rolls his hips into your hand, to which you respond by lightly squeezing him, drawing pearly, sticky liquid from the twitching crown. “Gentle, darling…” he whispers, though his half-lidded eyes, hazy with want, show no sign of aggravation—despite the commanding tone of his voice, it’s safe to assume that the instruction is not so much a complaint as a suggestion. Regardless, you obey, stroking him softly and setting a sensual pace to your movements.

“That’s it. That’s it, love. Good girl…” With his newly freed hand, Astarion tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, tenderly brushing his long fingers against your cheek before inconspicuously running them down the elegant column of your neck. His gaze is immediately drawn to the fresh set of bite marks maculating your otherwise perfectly smooth skin, and he absentmindedly licks his lips upon noticing the ruby droplets blooming from the small wounds. His cock throbs against your palm as he lowers his head to plant a loving kiss on the spot earlier claimed by his fangs—which he then sinks again into the still seeping artery. This time, you feel a sharp sting, but as soon as he starts sucking, the pain fades away; he wraps an arm around your upper body to hold you in place as he drinks, cradling you against his chest, and his other hand quickly finds one of your breasts under your—his—shirt. Trapping its puckered peak between two deft digits, he pinches it playfully, and you are unable to stifle the whine that subsequently forms in the back of your throat.

“Asta—aah…” You try to remain focused on the task you’ve been entrusted with, tightening your grip on him to remind yourself that he is the priority, not you. This in turn causes him to moan against your neck and shove his hips forward; taking his reaction as a cue, you speed up the tempo of your strokes, which are now almost synchronized with the vigorous bobbing of his Adam’s apple. His hand on your breast gropes it passionately, all five of his fingers now splayed across its soft swell and digging deep into the squishy flesh. He wonders if it’s a deliberate act of provocation, or if you really are so naïve that you wouldn’t notice his ravenous stare whenever your nipples pebble and become visible through the white sheerness of his shirt. Knowing you, it’s probably the latter; he’s yet to meet anyone as oblivious as you are, and while he has learned to accept that this side of you is not necessarily a weakness, it also awakens in him a protective instinct—a possessive instinct. You may be prey, but you are his prey; his to feed on, his to fuck, his, and nobody else’s.

“Honestly, I have no idea what we’re doing. Or what comes next.”

Astarion bends the leg hooked around your waist to pull you even closer to him, and from the way his groans increase both in frequency and in volume, you can tell he is about to fall over the precipice of ecstasy. The glossy sheen of sweat covering his pale skin makes him look like a marble sculpture, an otherworldly creature, yet the ferocity with which he feasts on your crimson reveals him not touched by the divine, but consumed by sin. It’s almost ironic then, that sinful as his longing for you may be, it feels so pure, so sacred. Tension coils low in his stomach, and for once there is no guilt, no disgust, no contempt; only rapture, as if he were an apostate and your love a haven, a promise of sanctuary.

“But I know that this?”

You pump him one last time, and with a guttural growl, Astarion comes in your hand, spurting out ribbons of his seed all over his own abdomen and thighs. Unlatching from your neck, he doesn’t bother pulling away, bloodied lips still pressed against your heated flesh, and his hand that had been under your shirt joins the other as both of his arms fold around your midriff. You let go of his softening length to run your fingers through his curls, closing your eyes and trying to catch your breath, tiredness suddenly weighing down all of your limbs and anchoring them to your bedroll. Lulled by the gentle pounding of your heart, he too empties his mind and lets himself be engulfed by the warmth of your body, so soft, so inviting, so very alive. Your taste still lingers on his tongue, your lifeblood now mixed with his within his veins—as his happiness trickles down in rivulets of scarlet, yours soars into the starry night sky. 

“This is nice.”

[writingwithfolklore]

Describing Foods - A Masterlist

                As a broke university student, I love reading about food. It’s almost like eating a real meal myself <3.

I get a little angry when characters are eating a meal and I barely get to experience it with them. In that, I mean I don’t just want to know what it is, but what it’s like to eat that food—how it tastes, smells, sounds, and feels. Is a perfect croissant still a perfect croissant without the crack of the exterior, the airiness of the pastry inside, the smell of yeast?

                Probably not. When writing about a dish, the smell, texture, technique, taste, and how it looks are all important to painting the experience, so here’s some words to use when describing a meal:

Taste:

Acidic: Sharp tasting. Often used to describe tart or sour foods as well.

Aftertaste: A different taste that remains in the mouth after eating something

Bitter: Tart, sharp, and sometimes harsh flavour.

Bittersweet: Less harsh than bitterness. Tartness + sweetness.

Bland: Has no significant flavor or texture

Briny: Just means salty. Often describes pickled foods.

Citrusy: Bright flavour like… well citrus fruits—oranges, lemons, limes, etc.

Cooling: Mimics that cooling feel—like mint.

Earthy: Reminiscent of soil. Can be used to describe wines, root vegetables, and mushrooms.

Fiery: Another word for spicy.

Fresh: Light and crisp—describes produce or herbs.

Fruity: Sweet and reminiscent of fruit.

Full-bodied: Rich and ‘feels heavy’ in your mouth. Can describe wines or soups.

Herbal: Bright, fresh, sometimes earthy from the presence of herbs

Honeyed: Sweet or candied taste like honey.

Nutty: Taste similar to the flavors of nuts. Often used to describe certain cheeses.

Rich: Full, heavy flavour. Often dishes that contain cream taste rich.

Robust: Rich + Earthy. Used for lots of wines or aged liquor.

Savory: Describes meaty, earthy dishes and soups.

Sharp: Harsh, bitter, or tart taste. Used to describe acidic foods.

Smoky: Reminiscent of the smell of smoke.

Sour: Biting, tangy, tart flavor.

Spicy: Burning taste.

Sweet: Sugary.

Tangy: Tart, biting taste—feels tingly

Tart: Sharp, bitter, or sour flavour. Used to describe acidic foods.

Woody: Earthy, sometimes nutty taste. Describes some coffees or cheeses.

Yeasty: Earthy taste reminiscent of yeast. Describes beer and bread.

Zesty: Fresh, vivid, or invigorating flavour.

Sound/Texture:

Sound has a lot to do with texture, so I've combined them for this section!

Airy: Light, pillowy texture (think inside of croissant)

Brittle: Hard but easy to break

Bubbly: Usually during heating, when bubbles rise to the surface—low sound.

Buttery: Smooth, creamy texture (think certain pasta sauces)

Chewy: Food that needs to be chewed thoroughly. Can be light and bouncy (chewy bread) or heavy (steak) and sticky (candy)

Creamy: A smooth and rich texture, comes from dairy.

Crispy: Light texture with slight crunch.

Crumbly: Food with loose structure that falls apart into crumbs.

Crunchy: Firm, crisp texture with a sharp, loud noise.

Crusty (behave): Food with a hard outer layer and soft interior (many loaves and breads)

Delicate: Light and fine, feels like it can come apart easily.

Doughy: Soft and heavy, usually pale colouring.

Fizzy: Usually liquids—a hissing sound, feels like ‘static’

Flaky: Light, characterized by layers that come apart during eating.

Fluffy: light and airy.

Frothy/Foamy: Airy bubbles, usually in a drink like a latte.

Gamey: Usually refers to meats when they’re very “meaty”

Gooey: Viscous, sometimes sticky texture from moisture in a dense/solid food.

Hearty: Firm, robust texture.

Juicy: Tender and succulent texture from liquid in a solid food (steak)

Molten: Hot, gooey

Oily: Slick, heavy, lingers on the tongue.

Silky: Fine, smooth texture that feels sleek.

Smooth: Texture free of grit, lumps, or edges.

Snap: A quick, sharp, crackling sound when broken.

Squelch: A soft sucking sound when pressure is applied. Somewhat gross.

Sticky: Gluiness in the mouth.

Succulent: Tender and juicy

Tender: Soft and easy to break down

Velvety: Smooth and rich

Smell:

Acrid: Strong, bitter, unpleasant

Comforting: pleasant, probably calls back to a nice memory

Damp: Wet smelling—probably a bit earthy

Delicate: subtle, faint, not overpowering

Earthy: reminiscent of soil

Fetid: Caused by decay—unpleasant

Fishy: reminiscent of fish

Floral/flowery: Reminiscent of flowers

Fragrant: Sweet or pleasing

Fresh: Cool, crisp, refreshing—produce, probably not cooked

Funky: Something’s gone off

Heady: Strong smell, pungent, rich

Musty: Not fresh

Perfumed: Pleasant, reminiscent of something (can be perfumed with citrus, say)

Piquant: stinging, pungent—tickles the nose

Powerful: strong

Rancid: Definitely gone off, decomposing

Ripe: Strong, usually unpleasant smell

Savory: spicy, salty, no elements of sweetness

Sour: has gone off

Spicy: Sharp, tingles the nose

Tangy: Strong and bitter but in a good way

Tart: Sharp

Woody: earthy smell, reminiscent of wood

Sight:

Usually texture gives us a really good picture of what a food looks like, so here’s some non-texture sight additions:

Blistered: Bumpy exterior.

Caramelized: Usually golden brown

Cloudy: Splotched. Almost see through if not for a slight white or grey mist.

Colourful: Bright and vibrant

Glassy: Resembling glass

Glossy: Smooth, shiny

Marbled: Two colours intertwined

Opaque: Not transparent. Can’t see through.

Ripe: Colourful (can be to a fault). Nearing the end of its edible state.

Scaly: Covered in scales, fish.

Shiny: Appears wet or glossy

Sparkling: Glimmers under the light

Stuffed: An ingredient placed inside a larger part with no additional space.

Translucent: Allows light through

Vibrant: Striking, bright

Food Prep:

How the food is prepared gives it these other attributes. If your character is familiar with cooking (or is the cook themselves!) they may describe food this way.

Baked: Cooked in an oven. Results in browned or crispy outer layer.

Blackened: When food is dipped in butter and coated with spices then cooked in a hot pan—spices darken, making it appear ‘blackened’

Blanched: Food scalded in boiling water and moved to cold water so it stops cooking. Texture comes out soft.

Braised: Food that is briefly fried in fat and then stewed in a pot. Results in seared, crispy exterior with a tender interior.

Breaded: Coated with breadcrumbs/batter then baked or fried so it turns crispy

Broiled: Food cooked with intense radiant heat in an oven or on the grill. Results in a darkened appearance and crispy texture.

Caramelized: Food slow-cooked until it’s browned, nutty, and has a bit of sweetness.

Charred: Grilled, roasted, or broiled and gains a blackened exterior and smoky flavor.

Fermented: Food that’s sat with bacteria, yeast, or another microorganism and has produced acids, alcohols, or gases. Results in a biting, pungent flavor. (Kimchi is fermented)

Fried: Food cooked by submerging in hot oil. Creates crispy, crunchy texture and golden colour.

Glazed: Food with a coating brushed onto its surface. Appears glossy with a thin, flavorful, and crisp outer layer.

Infused: Food steeped in liquid with another ingredient so it carries the essence of that ingredient. Used with herbs usually.

Marinated: Usually meat soaked in liquid containing flavourful herbs, spices, vinegar, or oil.

Poached: Food cooked in near boiling water. Results in tender, moist texture.

Roasted: Food cooked with dry heat in an oven or over the fire. Results in browned exterior and crisp coating.

Sautéed: Food cooked quickly in small amount of fat.

Seared: Food cooked in small amount of fat until caramelized. Finished by roasting or grilling. Results in crisp exterior and tender interior.

Smoked: Food exposed to smoke from smoldering wood for a long time. Results in that distinctive smoky flavor.

Whipped: Food beaten to incorporate air. Light and fluffy.

What did I miss?

[eudaimaniacs]

bedsheets (logan howlett x female reader)

character/universe: logan howlett/wolverine (x-men/marvel)

word count: 947 words

warning/s: full-on smut (minors, dni).

notes: i am back after a week of stressful preliminary exams. i can't wait to write again. and also, happy birthday to the handsome hugh jackman. have a good day, and enjoy!

The Texas summer was different, requiring you to change your clothes and bedsheets constantly. You had to wear little to none because of the excessive sweating. While you were melting under the sun, Logan enjoyed the view. He loved the short shorts you wore that you would discard later. The sight of the thin, transparent strap accentuating your ass made him crazy. There wasn’t one day where Logan would almost rip your underwear to shreds before fucking you like an animal.

This day was no different. However, you had to change the bedsheets after having them for a week. The mixed sweat and fluids of yours and Logan let out a foul smell. It was disgusting to sleep and have sex on it. Logan wouldn’t admit it, but he loved it. The combined scent of the love you two had for each other drove him crazy.

Dressed only in your t-shirt and underwear, you removed the soiled bedsheet and put on the newly washed one. The sweet, lavender smell overcoming your nose made you smile. You couldn’t wait to lie down and sleep on it. It was extra special since Logan decided to fix the air conditioner that broke down one searing day. He was wearing his signature white tank top and those tight jeans. The cat-haired man was focused on ensuring the air conditioner was in good condition.

After putting on the new bedsheets, you went to the kitchen to eat some ice cream. You turned on the electric fan as the inevitable sweat began to drip. You cursed the cruel Texas summer as you ate spoons of chocolate ice cream. The clacking and boom of Logan fixing the air conditioner filled the air. As much as you hate the loud sounds, you are relieved that both of you are going to sleep in peace without sweating through the night.

“[Y/N], check the air conditioner,” Logan shouted from the bedroom.

You stood up and put the ice cream tub back inside the freezer. Almost removing your sweat-filled shirt, you made your way to the bedroom. The cold air surprises your hot body. The sensation of getting cooled from the cruel summer felt nice. Finally, you and Logan won’t sweat every night, so you won’t have to change the bedsheets constantly.

You kissed Logan and remarked, “Nice job, darling. Now I won’t tire myself changing disgusting bedsheets.”

The older man smirked and massaged your exposed butt. You see the outline of his penis hardening in his tight jeans. You sighed as you knew the bedsheets were getting soiled, not by the combined sweat but by the fluids. Logan groaned as he caressed your breasts and made your nipples perk up. You moaned as you squeezed his jeans, making Logan elicit a loud growl. You giggle as you break the kiss and remove your shirt.

“You don’t mind messing the new bedsheets, princess?”

You lie down on the lavender-scented bedsheets. Your tits bounce as Logan begins to unbuckle his belt.

You smirk and giggle before begging him to mess up the newly changed bedsheets with you. You spread your legs, and that made Logan even crazier. The transparent fabric is now wet with your arousal. The glisten of it invites Logan to let out his animal. Even with his penis wanting relief, Logan wanted to taste your pussy first.

He kneeled at the end of the bed and began to eat you out. You grabbed the sheets as the sensation of Logan’s tongue sent you to ecstasy. You whined and called out Logan’s name. Logan licked your pussy as if it were an ice cream on a cone, melting under the sun.

“You taste so sweet, [Y/N]. Already wetting the bedsheets, you naughty girl,” Logan grunted as he rubbed his penis against the mattress.

As you felt your high crashing over, Logan stopped eating you out and discarded his jeans and underwear. You groaned at the sudden halt of your pleasure. However, in exchange for its absence was his dick finally entering you. Logan lifted your legs and put them over his shoulder. He slowly entered inside you, and you felt the outline of his penis growing in your stomach.

You moaned as Logan started pounding away. Your boobs bouncing at Logan’s sheer animalistic power. He growled as he saw your flushed face overwhelmed with pleasure. Logan squeezed your tits as he continued to thrust inside you.

“Logan, it-i-it feels s-so good!”

You try holding on to the headboard or anything at all. Your legs were tired already. However, you wanted to chase your high. Logan kissed your legs as he quickened his pace.

“L-Logan! I’m, fuck, I-I think I’m c-close to c-c-cumming!” You shout as you feel your stomach twisting at the upcoming wave of pleasure.

Logan growled and whispered, “Fuck, come on, princess. Cum. Cum on my cock.”

He picked up the pace as he wanted you to orgasm. Your eyes roll at the back of your head as the overwhelming sensation of his penis fills you. Logan relaxed his thrusts as he fucked his fluid inside you. He pulled out and lay next to your shaking and sweating body. You sensed Logan’s warm cum flowing out of your pussy.

Logan kissed your forehead as he took care of you. You smile and put your face in his chest, listening to the beat of his heart.

“Sure, you don’t care about the messy bedsheets, princess?” Logan whispered as he massaged your back.

You softly smile and look at his eyes before replying, “I am always happy to mess them as long as you fuck me, Logan.”

eudaimaniacs - 2024

[entitled-fangirl]

A King in the North. (P2)

Cregan Stark x wife!reader

SMUT SMUT SMUT

Summary: the reader and Cregan made true of their promises

Warnings: p in v, cockwarming, dom!Cregan

Part 1

Masterlist

.......................................

Cregan sat there anxiously, the seconds feeling like minutes, and the minutes feeling like hours. 

But she did show.

He left the door cracked open, and she took that as an open invitation, her fingers gripping the door to open it just a little further to let herself in.

Cregan's eyes moved to her, and a broad smile appeared. "I was getting worried."

She flushed. "I had to… clean up… after myself. You understand."

His head tilted and he studied her admiringly. She was so pretty after all. 

"Does the king still invite me in?" She asked softly. 

His smile only grew as he pushed his chair back, and gestured to his lap.

She happily closed the door and stepped to his table filled with paper. "I can't imagine any of this being interesting in any form."

He hummed and tossed one of the papers further out of the table. "It's only boring to an eager girl with other things on her mind."

Her eyes glowed under the light coming from the candles on his desk and the fireplace that burned steady. 

"Have you come to stare or to warm me, wife?"

The only change in her was the darting of her tongue across her bottom lip. "Is my Northern King chilled so easily?"

He groaned softly at the name. "Very easily. If only he had a pretty girl to help ease his mind."

She took the initiative, pulling one leg on the side of his chair, then the other, throwing her arms around her neck. "He does," she grinned. "She can ease more than that, I hope."

He went in for a tentative kiss, but she was growing hungry, crashing her lips to his and tugging at his hair immediately. 

He was startled. Cregan Stark was startled. He grabbed her biceps to gain his bearings then began to relax, kissing back eagerly.

A soft whine ran from her lips as he dared to lift one thigh up just enough to rub at her still sensitive core. 

He broke the contact of this lips to tease her. "Can you take me already, you think? If I pull this cloak off and your nightgown up, will I find you drench in the thought of me?"

Her breath hitched at his filthy words and a scarlet color ran up her face, heating her neck. 

"Is that a yes?"

Beating him to it, she began to reach up and tug at the string of her cloak. It fell and just as it did, she was pulling her soft nightgown up to her thighs. She hesitated. 

"Keep going."

She hummed in acknowledgment but didn't quite lift it high enough for him to see. 

She knew. 

He dared to lift his thigh up again and it hit her core softly, causing a breathy squeal from her. 

And though his couldn't see it, he felt a warm sensation over his pant leg. 

He grinned at that. 

"I think me interrupting your little playtime has had an effect on you, hasn't it?"

"Gods, please don't tease me anymore," she pleaded softly. 

He tilted his head and shrugged. "I'm here to work. And I intend to do so."

Though it was a struggle to him, Cregan leaned forward and looked over her shoulder at the pages that laid out in front of him. 

She looked over her shoulder with him, almost as if to make sure he was being serious. 

And as she did so, a hand of his came from the other side and began to rub at the back of her head. "Find something useful to do," he lightly scolded. 

She hummed, to engrossed in the feeling of his hand in her hair, pulling her away from reality and into his touch alone. 

When he didn't get the response he wanted, he tugged. "Will you do so or will I force you to? Seems time alone has soiled your brain. So longing for me that you cannot force a thought."

Both of his hands moved to her waist and he picked her up just a bit to resettle her, now with only one of his thighs between her legs. He forced her hips down, relishing in her whine when it met her core again. 

"Find whatever it is that you're craving so badly, sweet girl."

"Cre-"

"Ah," he chided again. "That's not the name you used earlier, was it?"

She hesitated before completely giving in to it. She kissed at his jaw. "T-Torrhen." She nipped at him. "My king."

" 'My king' will do just fine, for now. That's all I want to hear," he commanded. He said it with no second thoughts, none seemingly about her as his eyes were glued to the papers in front of him. 

She kissed at his neck now, trying to make him see reason. "My king, I cannot- ah."

His thigh came up again, taking her breath from her lungs. 

"Let your king work," he reprimanded under his breath.

As embarrassing as it made her at first, she knew Cregan wasn't truly being heartless. And she knew she had more of his attention that he wanted to admit. 

So she lowered herself to his thigh, giving into the temptation. 

Her hips worked back and forth, rubbing her bare clit just right against his pant leg. Cregan had to physically bite back a grin.

Then when he began to tap his leg against the ground, she felt lightning shoot up her spine. 

She gripped his tunic and tucked her face into his neck, ashamed to let too much noise slip out from her lips. 

Cregan picked up papers, scanned them over, threw them back onto the table. He didn't read any of them. He couldn't focus enough. The words blurred across the page, the ink once making perfect sense and now? He couldn't register anything but the small noises coming from the woman on his lap. 

That, and the warmth that was spreading across the fabric on his leg. 

A certain rub of her hips made a small groan come from her throat, and Cregan's smile grew.

"You're disrupting my important work, wife."

She huffed under her breath at that and continued her movement, now becoming more and more insistent on chasing the high that had begun to form in her lower belly.

Cregan put a hand on her back. "Be good."

She nipped at his jaw in retaliation but he pretended to not notice. 

He leaned forward again, reaching out to grab a quill and ink, dipping the former into the latter to begin a letter. 

Prince Jac-

The quill scribbled with the quiver of his hand. 

Her own hand had found its way to his trousers, beginning to untie them. 

How he ached for her touch. 

"I'm writing."

"Are you?" She looked over her shoulder. "I hadn't noticed."

"You difficult girl. Let me work," he laughed. 

"Oh." Her face fell mockingly. "I'll return to my chambers. I wouldn't want to bother the king while he w-"

He gripped her hips tightly, almost as if fearing she really would leave if he let go. "Stay."

It wasn't a command. It was a plea. 

She couldn't continue even teasing with the idea of leaving, leaning herself against his chest once more. 

Once he felt her relaxed, he willed one of his hands to try writing again. 

Prince Jacaerys,  I find the winters of the Nort-

She tugged at the ties of his trousers again, laying a soothing tongue and kisses over his jawline as she did so.

She pulled the fabric aside, setting his cock free from its restraints. 

Not even caring for foreplay, she threw her leg over his, now fully straddling him again. 

Her hand lined him to her core, and Cregan held his quill away from the paper, knowing that he could never have a steady hand during what was coming next. 

The woman sunk herself down onto his cock, an open mouth as she did so. 

Cregan didn't notice that though. His eyes were closed as he fought back the idea of taking her on the table. 

She easily took half of him, pausing to catch her breath and adjust. 

"C'mon," Cregan whispered. 

She gasped softly as she pushed herself further down onto him. 

Though she'd taken him multiple times, each one felt better than the last. 

Especially after such a long time apart from their nights together. 

"Touch yourself," he lightly commanded.

She had no fight in her, licking her fingers and moving it between her legs. 

Her other hand was braced on his chest and she began to lift herself up again. 

Cregan grabbed her waist tightly, the quill still captured between his index and middle finger. He held her there, keeping her still on his cock. 

She let off a soft shudder that he saw move from her shoulders until he felt the tightening in her walls. 

"You're keeping me company, aren't you? Then sit still and let me work," he reprimanded. 

She tucked her face into his neck again, trying to keep her breathing calm and her whimpers light. 

He knew he was going to give into her whims soon, he just had to finish this letter. 

With each shift or turn of Cregan's body, he could feel more and more of his wife's restraint dwindling.

He even once experimented, thrusting his hips up lightly and not even bothering to hide the sheer joy on his face when she cried out in restraint.

His handwriting was messy, but he didn't care. 

The letter was quickly done, and he threw the quill aside before ravaging her. 

…

The next day, she got dressed, trying to ignore the soreness between her legs or the boards that still kept the balcony off limits. 

She'd have to tease him for it later now that she understood. 

She wandered into the library where she knew he'd be. 

But when she walked in, he wasn't there. Luckily, there were the remnants of his once being there- the open ink bottle, the warm chair. 

He'd return soon. 

So she walked around the table, until her eyes set on a page that caught her interest. 

Prince Jacaerys,  I find the winters of the North often too cold, but this season, I fear that I do not mind it. Warmth is a great blessing when it is within your grasp.  I pray that you one day find warmth of your own. Though Dragonstone fairs wonderfully on any day and the seasons remain as they are, cold is not something I wish upon you.  As we begin this war, the days away from your betrothed will seem like years. The cold seeps into the bone and the drear in the thought of living alone can become too much to bare.  But imagine the glow that radiates from the woman waiting for you to return. The pain will be worth it in the end, I swear to you.   After the death of my brother, I feared I'd have no one to give my northern advice to. Not like a brother can. And I'm glad I have one in you.   I'll have my lady write to Princess Baela soon. I know how she longs for her letters.  Enjoy the warmth, my prince. Enjoy it well. Lord Cregan Stark

"I do hope he can read my writing," he quipped from the doorway. 

She gasped, and looked up. 

It was true. His handwriting was so shaky, it was barely legible. 

Jace wouldn't know why though. 

"It's a wonderful letter," she smiled.

He nodded. "It's a truthful one at least."

"When you go, I'll miss you most dreadfully," she admitted longingly.

"Just keep our bed warm and I'll return to you. Always. Plus," he adds with a teasing smirk. "I leave you in comfort that you'll find some release on your own, hmm?"

He then laughed heartily at her reddish cheeks.

..................................

Taglist: @twinkletwinklenotastar, @kidd3ath,@yujyujj, @misswynters, @cosmosnkaz, @sithapprentice, @kaniromi, @lovemesomevesey, @its-jackie-bb, @8812-342, @thorins-queen-of-erebor, @kingdomzeldaquest @nyxbranwenn, @callsignwidow, @a1lexh-blog, @alyssa-dayne, @ethereal-athalia, @ashovertheriver, @lost-in-fiction-like-ur-mom, @dozcan123, @wangjiangelangel, @kamitargaryen, @aegonswife, @lv7867, @helpmedecideaname

[thekissofaphrodite]

I Grew this for you, Ives.

Luke Castellan X Daughter of Demeter! Reader

Summary: Your secret meetup with your boyfriend, Luke, might have been interrupted by Percy Jackson.

Warnings: MakeUp...MAKEOUT- I MEAN. Language (Tell me if i missed one!)

Author's note: It might be kinda weird that the title doesn't match the summary but trust me, it's worth reading. + If you saw a fic from another blog the same as this i requested it and decided i wanna make the fic myself.

___

New kid, New responsibility. You were known as being motherly towards every kid that stepped in Camp Half Blood. And Maybe, Just maybe, Percy Jackson considered you as his Camp Mom, It wasn't new for older campers seeing a new 12 year old boy follow you around and look up at you with big puppy eyes along with Grover's confused look, but oh well.

Ever since your Godly Mother, Demeter has claimed you, Luke has called you Ives since then. It all happened when three years ago, you ended up in Camp Half blood after your mortal father has been killed by a chimera, much to his sacrifice, You might have offered some small offerings to your Brother In Law, Hades, to watch him in the underworld. Your first week into camp half-blood, Chiron had announced that Capture the Flag will be the first game for the day, you were teamed up with the reds (Much to your disappointment) you were near the cabin fire when two boys from the blue team had cornered you (One of them was luke) you raised you hands to cover yourself but then, Two ivy vines sprouted out the soil and blocked them, horror washed over you when one of the vines that you 'accidentally' summoned strangled one of the boys, Luke was able to escape and still..Blue team one.

While they were celebrating, The red team started ranting angrily about how you made them lose, You sat in a corner, your head leaned against an oak tree as you sobbed, then, a bright greenish-yellow light appeared with gold sickle with a few sheaths of wheat above your head, No one was there, not until a group of campers saw you, they ran and moments later, almost dozens of campers were in front of you, including chiron.

"All Hail Y/n Y/L/N, Daughter of Demeter"

Bunch of flowers started sprouting near you, The forest and plants looked much more healthier in your eyes as every one knelt down, Including Luke, Who gave you a mischievous wink.

"....And this is the mess hall, You're always designated to sit with your cabin mates but that depends, most unclaimed kids just sit with their friends" You said, Glancing at Percy, The young boy just nodded shyly and coughed,trying to hide his blushing cheeks.

"Looks like someone has a crush on you" Luke appeared behind you with a grin, Percy's eyes immediately went wide, making you chuckle.

"Crushes don't hurt, it's admiration afterall" You whispered before giving percy a light kiss on his cheeks, leaving luke shocked.

One of you halfsiblings, Althea, called you over. Apparently, another one of your half sibling's EX boyfriend from the Dionysus cabin used a lard grapevine to ruin the bathroom door inside the cabin while you sibling is showering out of rage and jealousy.

Now, As head of your cabin, It's either you spent one whole hour being lectured by Mr. D out of his favoritism or...Plead with one of the Hephaestus kids to fix it for you.

What a day.

Giving Luke and Percy one last smile, You left.

__

"C'mon Felix! This is the only time that i've asked for a favour out of all the favours i've done for you, You'd do it for me" You pleaded as you followed him back and forth inside his cabin's workshop.

"Look, Y/n, I love you as my friend, but i can't do it, not right now"

"What if i give you a 25$ gift card from burger king and......" You scouried your pocket hoping to find something, Your eyes lit up as you felt a bill in your palms "50 dollars...and...." You then went to pat your bra and pulled out a coin. "A Peso"

You then placed it in his soily hands, Felix's face remained calm, he then took the money.

"It's warm..." He said kinda horrified...You pulled the peso out of your bra for the gods sake!

"Take it or leave it."

He then rolled his eyes and grabbed his toolbox.

"Lead the way"

You squealed and hugged him before pulling him to your cabin.

As you watched him repair the door in silence, Felix broke the silencce by purposely dropping a hammer to the ground, the loud clattering sound made you flinch a little, he smirked "Thinking about Luke?"

You snorted, as if tho you weren't actually thinking about him, "No, i'm thinking about Percy"

"The new kid who broke Clarisse's spear? he's badass"

"mhm, Son of Poseidon"

"Speaking of, How's Luke?"

There was a moment of silence before you replied.

"Fine"

"Just 'fine' ? No ungodly things happening?"

"No" You could've bursted out laughing.

"I don't believe you, C'mon tell me some elaborate details"

You raised your brow, a mischievous glint appearing in your eyes.

"Actually, if you finished that, i'll tell you"

The Hephaestus boy huffed and went back to work

After an hour, Felix finished repairing the door and bid you a goodbye (Along with a side-eye)

__

It was now 11 pm, the Campfire sing-along ended almost an hour ago, and you were in your cabin, re-arranging your stuffed toys for the 5th time, (Making one plushie lay beside you will cause chaos among the plushies)

"Carrie..You go here and..Princess should be right....here, Done!"

All of your plushies were in order when you heard a knock from the window near your bunkbed. then, you saw luke, still in his usual camp shirt, unlike you who was in your rather inappropriate pajamas.

His eyes first landed on you, he then grinned before groaning and landing on your soft bunk bed.

"Hey ives-"

"Luke, what're you doing here?!" You hissed, afraid that your half siblings might caught you two.

"Can i not see you?"

"You can, but not at this time" You huffed, But he was still grinning before pulling a flower pot, with a rose.

"I grew this for you, Ives" He whispered, His eyes carefully scanning you expression before you chuckled.

"You know i can grow this in seconds?"

"Mhm, But still, I love you 'till the very last rose in this entire world wilt into ash"

A smile graced upon your lips before luke grabbed your cheeks and kissed you, the flowerpot fell into your bed, the soil staining your new bedsheet, You couldn't care less.

You deepened the kiss by pulling Luke by his neck, and a groan escaped his lips, his calloused hands then slowly went up your shorts making you moan a little, His hands became closer and closer and closer until-

"Luke?"

You two pulled away, Luke's hands were still in your inner thighs, he took a peak into your window and saw Percy, in his cute pajamas with messy blonde hair.

"Percy" Luke breathed.

"What's up?"

"The Apollo cabin seemed to be having a party, the noise is too loud and i can't sleep, i was wondering if you could go see it "

You then peaked into your window, your cheeks were pressed against luke's

"Y/n? Wait..what are you guys doing? and...why are you in her window?" Percy asked, his drowsiness seemed to have vanished.

Luke couldn't even answer percy himself, he started chuckling softly before burying his face into your neck and smothered it with kisses.

Percy then stood still before realizing, he cleared his throat, but before he could leave you called him.

"You know what? I think Luke could actually take a look at those Sun Brats" Luke immediately groaned and looked at you.

"Seriously?"

"Seriously. Go help the poor boy"

"Yes Ma'am"

He then got up and just as he was about to climb down your bunk bed you stopped him.

"Nah uh, You can leave where you entered"

The dark haired boy chuckled, and and started climbing down the window, before he could jump back to the ground you kissed him one last time, But this time, the kiss was much more passionate. You could've sworn percy made a gagging face before turning around.

"I love you Ives"

" 'Till the very last rose in this entire world wilt into ash" You said, Luke's eyes soften.

You watched as he and Percy went to the Apollo cabin to resolve the chaos.

The flower potted rose sat in your bed, You took it, and glanced at the beautiful red beauty, You sniffed the fragrance before placing it near your window as you felt Hypnos' warm palm caressing you to sleep.

__

The next day, The first thing you did was bang into Felix's cabin, Giving him every detail from last night as Luke, along with percy watched you from afar.

A/N:

Hey Guys! I've been gone for too long and i just watched the new PJO series and i have to be honest, I fell in love with Charlie as Luke so here's a little treat for you guys while i finish my other fics, i do hope you guys like it!

[ozzgin]

I love your shapeshifter fic so much, especially the part about living along with one hell of an abomination (affectionately). I wanna ask has the shapeshifter ever slipped up in front of reader? Accidentally does something that a dog wouldn't be capable of ? or is he dedicated to his role and makes sure to only drop the act around guests?

Tw: mentions of dead bodies

That’s a very good question and I’m asking myself the same thing currently, as I’m planning to sit down and work on part 2 today. 😭Do I prepare a grand reveal, or just continue with this ridiculous back and forth?

I feel like there’s a certain comedic charm to the whole cluelessness of it. There might’ve been plenty of slip ups, Reader is just oblivious to everything.

“Someone’s been digging in the yard!” They’ll scold playfully, waving their index at the dog-like abomination.

Unbeknownst to Reader, there are several cadavers clumsily scattered mere inches below the soil: the one-night stands who never stayed the morning after. The creature wags its tail without a care.

“Wow, you sure are popular with birds. I guess it’s all that time spent in the forest”, Reader will remark thoughtfully, gazing at the committee of vultures circling them each time they go out.

The creature responds with an eerie sound, tongue rolled out in enthusiasm.

“For a second, I thought you said, ‘It’s the stench of death and eternal torment’, hehe. I should take a break from my horror podcasts.”

Or Reader entering the living room with a confused frown, holding a crumpled book in their hand.

"Did you find this outside?", they ask, glancing again at the title: The Myth of Sisyphus by Albert Camus. "Someone scribbled 'one must imagine humans happy' on almost every page. How did you even manage to stuff it under my pillow?"

The creature tilts its head and stares in silence.

"You're a silly one", Reader exclaims in amusement.

[oxbellows]

Welcome Home! Nothing Weird Happened.

Written based on @emilybeemartin's spectacular Boromir Lives AU comics, with permission. I might write more, who knows.

My whole thought process here is this: if Boromir lives and makes it back to Minas Tirith, he is about to receive an absolutely ludicrous quantity of bad news. And I for one think it would be both plausible and hilarious for Pippin to be the one who ends up delivering that news. So here we are!

Trigger warnings for that whole pyre situation from Return of the King.

 It was fitting, to Boromir’s mind, that the battle for Minas Tirith should be decided by dead men. So many had died for the city of kings already, their blood seeping into her soil like rain. Why, then, should her fate rest solely in the hands of the living? An unnatural justice rang out in the clang of steel against phantom blades, heralding the return of a hope long since given up for lost. 

“None but the king of Gondor may command me,” the wraith hissed.

“You?” Boromir had roared. “You, Oathbreaker? I am the heir to the Stewards of Gondor. Generations of my kin have died for an empty throne. None but the king of Gondor may command ME. Here stands the king of Gondor before us, and you will suffer him as I have!”

And suffer him they did. Sickly green washed over the last armored oliphaunt as the dead claimed more souls for their own. Boromir pulled his eyes away from the spectacle and spun his sword in his hand, scanning the area around him for the next foe. He found none. Only the backs of retreating orcs, and weary Men attending to their fallen brothers. That and, out of the corner of his eye, the strangest possible trio of a Man, a Dwarf, and an Elf. Finding no enemy to engage, Boromir instead turned his step toward the strange trio to embrace his friends in the wake of victory. 

Aragorn, king of Gondor, did not appear especially regal at the moment. He was covered in grime and gore, surrounded by the corpses of orcs left to rot in the open field. Gimli’s sturdy metal armor was slick with blood, and it dripped steadily off the edge of the axe that he had slung over one shoulder. Legolas, of course, was only as disheveled as he might have been after a short run, clean of the muck that covered the rest of them. His hair still fell properly at his shoulder, what witchcraft did the Elf use to maintain it? 

Boromir could only imagine what he himself must look like. He knew that he was damp and smelled like death, which did not bode well for a lordly appearance. Nonetheless, even in all his heavy armor Boromir felt lighter than he had since childhood. The battle was over, fought now only by those straggling beasts that had not managed to escape the field on foot. Boromir was still, impossibly, alive, and so were his companions. So was his king. 

The enemy may yet prevail, but Gondor would not fall before the White Tree bloomed again. It was more than his grandfathers had ever dared to hope. 

“Is that blood in your hair or just its natural grease?” Boromir asked his king, sliding his sword back into its scabbard and stepping over the body of a fallen orc to approach him.

Aragorn laughed, raising one dirty hand to skim his fingertips over the top of his head. “I cannot say, Captain. I only know that in either case, I would wash it before I present myself to your lord father.”

Boromir clicked his tongue dismissively. “My lord father’s not the one we have to worry about. If my brother hears that I’ve brought Isildur’s heir home in such a state, he’ll throttle me.”

He almost continued speaking. He almost added, if he’s alive. Aragorn heard the unspoken caveat all the same. His dark eyes had a softness in them when he spoke.

“The battle is over, Captain of the White Tower,” Aragorn said. “We must turn our efforts now to the dead and wounded. May we not find you kin among them.”

If the taste of ash settled on the back of Boromir’s tongue, it could be attributed to the smell of Mordor’s filthy army laying dead at his feet, and not to the terrible image that flashed across his mind’s eye of Faramir’s bloodied and unblinking face.

“My father will be well,” Boromir asserted, determined not to speculate on his brother’s wellbeing. “He is past his time as a warrior. He will have commanded our troops from a place of safety within the walls.”

Aragorn inclined his head in assent. His hair really was a sight- black blood had matted chunks of it together, and where they stood now in the open field, with the sun just beginning to peek through the enemy’s unnatural bank of shadow, Boromir could see that his clothes were in much the same state. Perhaps this was why Aragorn so persistently favored black for his travel clothes. Were he wearing any other color, it would be obvious that he was as drenched in the blood of orcs as if he had bathed in it. 

A warrior of staggering skill was this king of Men, but he preferred not to proclaim his deadliness to the world. He tucked it away into shadow until such skill was needed. Perhaps one day Boromir might look upon this man that he called brother and not be humbled by the mere sight of him. 

Perhaps. 

“I will search with a sharp eye, then, for Captain Faramir,” Aragorn promised. 

Boromir closed the distance between them to grip Aragorn’s shoulder in thanks. Aragorn returned the gesture with ferocity, digging his fingers into the mail covering Boromir’s upper arm. Gimli thumped Boromir’s back in a heavy handed gesture of approval, and Legolas bowed his head with a coy smile. A river of unspoken words passed between the four of them, about great and important things like love and fear at the end of the world, and then they released each other. Aragorn turned his stride towards the Citadel to lend his knowledge of elvish medicine to the House of Healing. Legolas and Gimli set out together to help carry the wounded into the city for aid. Boromir made for the rocky outcrop at the city’s outermost wall, the one that archers favored for its vantage point. There he was sure he would find rangers, and hopefully news of Faramir.

The walk carried him past countless dead orcs and uruk-hai, but also more dead men and horses than Boromir had ever seen on a single field. For every pair of comrades he saw embrace in giddy relief, another wail of grief reached his ears from somewhere else. His mail grew heavier with every step he took.

Boromir had scarcely made it halfway to the archer’s outpost before he was stopped by the sound of his own name.

“Captain Boromir!” a familiar voice shouted. “You live!”

Boromir stopped and whirled about. There, about ten yards from Boromir, close enough to the outermost wall to be half-concealed in its shadow, crouched a man in a forest-green cloak. His hands still hovered over a fallen Gondorian soldier, as if he had frozen partway through checking for signs of life. Before the man in green rose to stand, he brushed a hand over the fallen one’s face, coaxing his eyes shut before stepping away. Boromir felt a dull pang of grief in his already overburdened heart at the confirmation that yet another of his countrymen was dead. He had no time to acknowledge that pain, though, as the man in green righted himself fully. The green cloak, brown leather vambraces, and longbow on his back all sparked immediate recognition. 

Boromir knew this man, had met him before, but his weary mind failed to provide a name for him. It hardly mattered. The uniform he wore told Boromir everything he needed to know. Faramir had been clad exactly the same, the last time Boromir had seen him. This was one of the rangers of Ithilien, his brother’s own company. Hope swelled painfully in his chest. He hastened his step towards the ranger.

The ranger rushed to meet him and performed a quick, obligatory salute when they were close enough to speak comfortably. “My lord,” he greeted, breathless. “Your father thought you dead, but we in Captain Faramir’s company held out hope.” A wide grin split across his face. “You cannot imagine how sorely you’ve been missed!”

Seeing his smile finally dragged the ranger’s name to the front of Boromir’s memory. “Anborn,” he said warmly. “It’s good to see you alive and well. Tell me, what news do you have of my brother?”

 Anborn’s smile dropped, giving way to a look of naked concern as quickly as a candle being snuffed out. “I have no news, my lord, none that is not two days old at least.”

 "Then give me the old news,” Boromir pressed, trying not to snap. 

Anborn grimaced and nodded. “My lord,” he said, haltingly, “The last time I saw your brother, my Captain, was on the day he rode out to reclaim Osgiliath with a company of forty mounted soldiers.”

Boromir could only stare for a long moment, turning over Anborn’s words in his head to try and make them comprehensible. No clarity came to him. “My brother is- in Osgiliath?”

Another grimace. “If he is still there, he is dead.” Boromir’s lungs constricted and froze. Anborn continued, “Osgiliath was overrun more than a week ago. I’ve heard rumors that Faramir made it back to the Citadel, but I cannot say any more than that without inventing rumors myself.”

“The Citadel,” Boromir repeated. He forced breath into his uncooperative lungs. He would go to the Citadel, and he would find Faramir there with their father, incoherent with frustration after arguing strategy with Denethor. He turned on his heel and started walking. Anborn said something as Boromir strode away, but he didn’t hear it properly over the ringing in his ears. 

What he had heard of Anborn’s words clamored in his mind- it sounded as if Faramir had taken a company of only forty men to reclaim an overrun city. That would be absurd, though. Faramir may be prone to bouts of melancholy and brooding, but he wasn’t suicidal. And even if he did, for some reason, decide to seek his own death, he would never bring any number of Gondor’s defenders with him to do it.

 Your father thought you dead.

 Boromir broke into a run.

Faramir didn’t hold sway over all their troops’ movements. Faramir wasn’t the Steward. 

 He was moving too slowly. Stumbling to a halt, Boromir grasped at the leather straps holding his pauldrons in place and did his best to unfasten them with numb fingers. Denethor had not been the same in recent years. The shadow in the east had darkened his thoughts, day by day, and set him talking as if the end were already here. His gray eyes had glinted in a way that Boromir scarcely recognized when he’d spoken of the One Ring. He’d never favored Faramir, never encouraged him the way he deserved, but the cruelty that had colored Denethor’s every interaction with his secondborn in the year or two before Boromir left shocked him. 

Boromir’s pauldrons landed on the ground in a heap, and now he doubled over to escape the shirt of mail. It was a difficult task without taking off his sword belt, but he managed. He needed to be faster, but he could not bear to go unarmed. The chain links poured gracelessly down over his head, yanking his hair as they went, and then he was free. Boromir took off running again, now unencumbered. 

 Faramir would never plan a suicide mission. 

 Would he accept one, though, if he was ordered?

Boromir’s feet touched white marble bricks for the first time in months that had felt like decades. He did not pause. Shouts followed him as he went, calling his name or exclaiming surprise. Arches and edifices flew by overhead. Rubble littered the street. He caught glances of bodies crushed under great stones. 

Boromir made it to the stairs. His weary legs burned and protested, but he dared not slow his descent. He needed to know where Faramir was, now. He needed to know what had happened in Osgiliath, before any more ideas had the chance to take root in his head. If he finished the line of thinking that Anborn’s news had set off-

 Boromir might kill his father with his bare hands.

So, he would not stop, and he would not think, until he found answers.

 He reached the top of the stairs. 

 A small group of guards, maybe five or six, clustered together at the Citadel gate, all spoke over each other in urgent tones. Boromir could not hear most of their words over his own ragged breath, but he caught a few. He heard “Mithrandir” and “Witch King” and “wood”, and then, “Denethor.” 

“Where?” Boromir barked. Every one of the men before him startled and turned to him with unabashed fear written across their faces.

If Boromir had looked a mess back on the fields, by now he must appear absolutely deranged. Half his armor gone, hair wild, white shirt drenched with sweat and blood- he could hardly blame the unsuspecting guards for the shock and confusion they displayed so brazenly at his question. Nor could he blame himself for the urge to grab the nearest one and shake him until he spoke sense.

Fortunately for all present, the guard furthest to the left, a man of slight and youthful stature underneath his plate armor, spoke up.

“The House of Stewards,” he said, voice trembling. He pointed in the right direction. “In the tombs. Both of them, lord and son, with orders from the Steward to be left undisturbed.”

 Boromir ran like he had never done in his life. 

 For what possible reason would his father and brother be in the tombs in the midst of battle?

 He threw himself against the door to the tombs of his forefathers. They gave way with no resistance, and as he stumbled through the opening, he noted that the floor was dusted with splintered wood. This door had already been broken through. There he stopped short.

He could not, for the life of him, make sense of the scene before him.

 In the center of the foyer, directly on top of Húrin’s memorial etching, were the remains of- a bonfire? Heaps of ash and charred wood covered the usually immaculate white marble floor, built up into a high, still-smoldering mound in the chamber’s center. The air reeked of smoke. Neither Denethor nor Faramir were in sight, nor was anyone else. The tombs appeared deserted.

  “Faramir?” Boromir called warily. 

A clang of metal and the scuffle of unshod feet on stone answered his call, and then-

“Boromir!”

A small form collided hard with his midsection, forcing him to take a staggering step back. Small arms wrapped around him like a vice, a familiar vice, and Boromir abruptly realized that he was in the embrace of a hobbit.

“Pippin?” he demanded, aghast.

The young hobbit turned his face up to meet his gaze and a fresh wave of panic seized him. Pippin’s face was coated in ash and streaked with tears.

“Boromir!” Pippin cried again. “You have to help, Gandalf said that healers were coming but nobody came, there was screaming in the halls so I dragged him as far as I could but he’s heavy and I don’t know where Gandalf went and just- just- come here!” 

The hobbit released his iron grip around Boromir’s waist in favor of clutching one of his wrists and started hauling him off to one side of the room, into a corridor of mausoleums. There, poking out of the nearest alcove, Boromir spied the lower half of a single black boot. 

Pippin pulled him onward when his own pace faltered. With each step he could see more of the body that Pippin had apparently tried to drag to safety. A small, or rather, hobbit-sizedsword lay carelessly discarded on the floor beneath the alcove’s arching entrance where Pippin had dropped it. That would explain the clanging sound Boromir had heard just before being tackled, then. Which would mean that when he called out, Pippin had been guarding this archway with sword in hand. 

Pippin’s relentless tugging finally forced Boromir to where he could see the stricken man on the floor.

It was Faramir.

Of course it was Faramir. 

A rough, strangled sound echoed through the quiet tombs, and Boromir only realized a moment later that it had come from his own throat. Pippin darted from his side to kneel at his brother’s head, petting his hair and murmuring a soothing word. Faramir did not react in the slightest. He wasn’t dead; Boromir had seen enough dead men in his life to know with unfailing precision the difference between a dead body and a dying one.

No, his brother was not dead. He was only dying. 

Boromir dropped to his knees. 

In all this time that he had dreaded coming home and hearing that Faramir had fallen in battle, it had never occurred to Boromir that he might watch him die.

“He needs medicine,” Pippin pleaded, his little hand nestled in Faramir’s hair. Boromir now saw that the hobbit was dressed in the garb of the guards of Citadel, mail under a velvet tunic embroidered with the white tree. What had happened in his city? When had this barely-trained halfling become his brother’s last line of defense?

“Go,” Boromir rasped. He touched the hilt of his sword. “I will protect him now. Go to the House of Healing, down one level. Aragorn is there. He will listen to you.”

Without another word, Pippin took off at a sprint. Boromir and Faramir were left alone, together for the first time since Boromir had left for Rivendell. 

Boromir wanted to scream.

Instead, he maneuvered himself carefully to sit at his brother’s side. How Pippin had managed to stash Faramir away in this little nook, Boromir had no idea. He could only just find room for himself against the wall without jostling the motionless body beside him. He reached a tentative hand out to lay it on Faramir’s forehead. He paused before he touched skin, momentarily stunned by the radiating heat. When his fingers settled on his brother’s brow, it was like touching metal that had been left in the sun too long. Faramir burned. Boromir gently smoothed his hand over damp hair.

It wasn’t just Faramir’s hair that was damp, actually. It was everything on him. His short beard, the finely embroidered collar of his tunic, the silk of his sleeves. If his fever was so high, it was not so surprising to find him coated in sweat. The choice of clothes, though, was undeniably strange. There was no blood staining the fabric. Had he not been hurt in battle, then? Had he simply been taken by a violent illness? Was there a plague in the city? That might explain the lack of gore but not the presence of finery. Boromir had only ever seen Faramir wear this tunic for ceremonies. He wouldn’t have put it on before battle, and he would certainly have taken it off if he were falling ill. 

No, the only reasonable conclusion was that Faramir had not been the one to dress himself. A terrible, unspeakable suspicion wormed its way into his heart. 

Boromir almost regretted sending Pippin away without first asking him what had happened to create this bizarre tableau. Almost. His answers could wait until Faramir had been brought safely into the care of physicians. He lifted his hand to stroke Faramir’s hair again, but the slickness that clung to his palm bade him pause.

That wasn’t sweat in his brother’s hair, it was something else, something more viscous. Puzzled beyond words, Boromir brought his hand close to his face to inspect it. 

His palm was smeared with oil.

All at once, a dozen disparate fragments of information arranged themselves into nightmarish clarity.

Someone had dressed Faramir for a funeral. Someone had brought him into the place where the bones of their ancestors rested and covered him in oil. Someone had lit a bonfire in the center of the tombs. 

Not a bonfire. A pyre.

Someone had tried to burn his little brother alive.

 “No,” Boromir whispered, as if he could prevent his next thought from taking shape.

Only one person in Gondor could do any of this without being stopped.

In the tombs, the guard at the gate had said. Both of them, lord and son, with orders from the Steward to be left undisturbed.

Boromir launched himself upright, out of the cramped alcove, and was sick all over the marble floor.

For the second time in a day, Pippin found himself running for someone else’s life. At least he didn’t have so far to go this time. He could not remember ever being so tired. It was also fortunate that he knew already where to find the House of Healing. Gandalf had insisted he memorize the route there as soon as he’d made his oath to Denethor, which was a bit insulting, to be honest, but turned out very useful in the end.

 The first time he’d entered the House, just a few days ago, he’d thought it was very full. Most of the rows of clean, simple cots had been occupied by rangers returning from outside the city. As he dashed through the sturdy oaken door now, though, he entered a different world entirely.

The cacophony of sound, smell and movement that surged up to meet him stopped Pippin in his tracks. The House of Healing was so crowded he could not see the far wall. He could barely see the nearest row of cots. Tall ladies rushed about in every direction, shouting orders to one another above a nauseating din of groans and cries. Pippin had been standing guard in a cloud of smoke for hours, and yet the onslaught of ugly and unfamiliar smells that accosted him here made him wish for the scent of smoke again.

His foray into the front lines of a battle had been terrifying. This place might be worse.

Boromir had said that Aragorn was here, though, and Pippin would walk headfirst into an army of orcs right now if it meant that Aragorn would help him. He never wanted to be in charge of anything, ever again, especially not trying to keep great lords and heroes alive. Aragorn was good at that sort of thing, he could take over now. Pippin took a deep breath and began forging a path through the chaos, calling Aragorn’s name as he went.

As he weaved his way through cots, ducking underneath outstretched arms and around long legs, Pippin heard questions following him that he had no desire to answer.

“How old is that boy? Who let a child in the guard?”

"Is that one of those halflings? The wizard’s pet or something?”

“Are you lost, little one?”

Some of these Men had the most terrible manners, clearly. Most of them were bleeding very badly, though, so Pippin could forgive them for their rudeness. He ignored them all and kept moving.

“Aragorn!” he shouted again.

A women that had been rushing by him paused for an instant to glare down at him. “Hush, you,” she scolded, in a voice that spoke of unquestionable authority. She wore a sort of veil with a nice brooch on it, so Pippin supposed she might be in charge here. “Lord Aragorn’s doing very important things right now and I’ll not have you disturbing him.”

Pippin’s heart jumped. “Where is he?” he asked.

The woman tsked and shook her head, making to continue along her original path. She held a bowl in her arms that Pippin was quite sure he did not want to see the inside of. Whatever it was sloshed unpleasantly when Pippin lurched after the women and grabbed a handful of her skirt to prevent her from leaving.

“The Steward has ordered me to fetch Aragorn! Show me where he is!” Pippin declared. He didn’t think it was a lie. Denethor was dead, so that made Boromir the Steward in his place, probably.

The woman gasped in surprise. “Lord Denethor lives?” she asked. “Wondrous news, we thought lord and son dead already.”

 Pippin avoided the question about Denethor by standing up as straight as he could. “Lord Faramir needs medicine,” he said imperiously. “He needs Aragorn’s skill. Take me to Aragorn.”

With a quick hand gesture to follow and not another word, the woman took off walking at a brisk stride deeper into the crowded hall. Pippin had to run to keep up with her. After what seemed like a dozen maneuvers around clumps of people and cots, a figure clad all in black finally came into view.

“Strider!” Pippin cried with relief. 

Aragon knelt at a young man’s bedside with a wet rag and bowl of water in his hands. He turned his face at once toward the sound of Pippin’s voice, a genuine smile gracing his lips as he did. Some of the panic that had been driving Pippin these last several hours faded away at the sight. If Aragorn was here, then surely things would get better now.

His relief faltered a bit when Pippin noticed that Aragorn was simply ­covered in blood- both red and black, and sweat, and grime that Pippin could not begin to identity. The Men gathered round him didn’t seem to mind Aragorn’s state, but then, most of them were splattered with blood as well, probably their own. Even Aragorn could not dispel the somber truth hanging in the air, that unimaginably many people had died today.

Faramir would join the dead soon if Pippin didn’t get a move on, so he marched past all those tall, bloodied Men to stand right at Aragorn’s side.

“Faramir’s dying,” he hissed, hoping he was quiet enough for none but Aragorn to hear. He didn’t especially want to deliver more bad news to the people in this room. “Boromir is with him, but he needs medicine, now.”

If Aragorn found this news distressing, he did not show it. He just nodded thoughtfully, and asked, “Can he walk?”

Pippin shook his head. Aragorn hummed an acknowledgment and rose to his feet. He handed the bowl and rag he’d been holding to another woman that Pippin hadn’t noticed before, murmuring something that sounded like instructions. He then spoke to the lady that had led Pippin, the one who seemed to be in charge.

“Ioreth,” he addressed her. “We have need of a stretcher.”

“It will be done,” she said, and turned on her heel to vanish back into the crowded hall.

Aragorn wiped his hands on his trousers to dry them. Pippin suspected he made them dirtier in the process. “Pippin,” Aragorn said. “Will you please lead me to Boromir and Faramir?”

“Yes, this way,” Pippin answered quickly. He was eager to be out of this terrifying place. He found it easier than before to navigate through the throng. He realized after a few moments of uninhibited movement that people were stepping aside to make way as soon as they saw Aragorn following him.

Had Aragorn already gotten around to being crowned while Pippin was busy? These people were certainly treating him like a king.

“Did you already become the King?” Pippin asked without thinking.

Aragorn chuckled dryly. “No, and I don’t think the lady healers would much care if I had. They care only that I know how to draw out the poison that covers many orcish blades, and that I’ve shared what I know.”

“Oh,” said Pippin, feeling queasy.

Finally, the door came into sight, and with a quick burst of speed, Pippin flung himself back into fresh air. Mostly fresh, anyway, permitting for some lingering smoke. The smell of blood and death that lingered in his nostrils seemed even more vile when contrasted against another, cleaner scent, and it made him gag. Aragorn placed a sympathetic hand between his shoulders.

“The battle to save the wounded is the hardest and the bloodiest,” he said gently. “There’s no shame in being shocked by it.”

Pippin couldn’t quite speak yet, so he bobbed his head in a jerky, shaking nod. He allowed himself two deep breaths before turning his attention back to the task at hand. Right. Faramir. Shot full of arrows and nearly burned to death, currently stashed in a mausoleum, actively perishing of fever. He had to bring Aragorn there, and then maybe he could sit down for a moment. He set off again at a jog.

Aragorn, being unfairly long-legged, could follow him with a brisk walk. Pippin was growing weary of these big people, he really was.

Back over the same cold marble stone he went, retracing his steps to the tombs. Two men carrying a stretcher had started following them at some point- Pippin hadn’t noticed exactly where they came from, but the stretcher they carried was already stained with red, so he suspected that they had been going back and forth from the House of Healing for a while already. Aragorn let there be silence between them for several yards, but began asking questions as soon as they crossed under a crumbling archway.

“What happened to Faramir to leave him needing medicine?”

“He was shot at least twice, I’m not sure when. Sometime yesterday.”

"Where has he been?”

“Well, he got shot when he was fighting in Osgiliath, and then the horse dragged him back, and that probably made it worse, actually, but then Denethor put him away someplace for a day or so and then brought him into the tombs and tried to burn him alive.”

Aragorn froze for a moment. “What?”

“Denethor lost his mind just before the battle started, he tried to burn Faramir alive on a pyre. And himself too, I think. He thought the world was ending.”

“Where is Denethor now?”

“He jumped off the wall.”

Aragorn took up walking again, now at a faster stride. “Boromir is with his brother now?”

"Yes,” Pippin confirmed, doing his best to keep up with Aragorn’s pace.

“Does he know what happened?”

That was a good question, actually. Had Pippin explained the situation at all? He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember most of today, to be honest- it was all a blur of screams and fire.

He remembered the blinding panic he’d felt when heavy footsteps had entered the tombs. He remembered clutching his sword with sweaty hands and bracing himself to get torn to shreds by uruk-hai, and then abandoning his sword to hurl himself at Boromir once he’d heard the man’s voice. What had Boromir said, though? Anything? Had Pippin said anything?

He remembered Boromir dropping heavily onto his knees. The look on his face had been awful. He looked sad and scared and sick all at once. Pippin had never been sure what the word anguish meant, but he was sure now.

“I don’t think so,” Pippin finally answered.

 Aragorn muttered something to himself, a string of elvish words that Pippin had never heard before. It sounded like what Legolas said when he missed a shot, though, so Pippin could wager a guess at what it meant.

At last, they reached the door to the House of Stewards. Pippin darted through, glancing over his shoulder to make sure Aragorn was still following. Through the foyer, around the smoldering remains of the pyre, down the corridor on the right, and there they were. The lords of Gondor. Not quite as Pipping had left them.

Boromir had extracted Faramir from the alcove where Pippin had dragged him to lay his brother out in the open. The fine silk tunic Faramir had worn lay in oil-soaked shreds scattered about the floor, and the mail shirt he’d had on underneath was similarly cast aside, half-obscuring a puddle of vomit near the entry to the alcove. Pippin was sympathetic- being in this place made him want to retch, too.

Faramir lay on his side in his undershirt. The fabric had been white once, Pippin knew, but blood, oil and ash had colored it through. Boromir knelt at his back, holding him steady by the upper arm with one hand and gently tearing the cloth of the ruined shirt with the other. The cloth didn’t move the way it should when Boromir tugged it. It stuck stubbornly to Faramir’s scorched upper back and shoulder, like it had been glued there.

Pippin gasped in horror as the realization hit him. Boromir couldn’t get Faramir’s shirt off because it was stuck to his burnt skin, fused in place by the heat of the fire. Had his skin melted? Could skin melt? The thought alone sickened him.

Boromir must have heard Pippin gasp, because his head snapped up to fix the hobbit with a wild stare.

Pippin didn’t usually think of Boromir as frightening. Fearsome, of course, but not to his friends. Certainly never to Pippin.

He looked frightening now. His eyes were wide, and his pupils were tiny pinpoints. His lips were pulled back into an animalistic expression, somewhere between a grimace and a snarl, showing just a hint of teeth. His shoulders curled forward, hunching slightly over Faramir’s still form, and through his thin, damp shirt Pippin could see he was shaking with pent up energy.

When Pippin was younger, one of Farmer Maggot’s dogs had gone missing. They’d found the creature hiding under a shed, nursing a bleeding paw, growling and snapping at any hobbit that tried to approach. Boromir did not make a sound, but Pippin swore he could hear the same wounded dog’s growling all the same.

Pippin felt rather than heard Aragorn approaching from behind him, and it was a great relief when Boromir’s gaze flicked up off his face to fixate on Aragorn instead. With what seemed to be a tremendous effort, Boromir opened his mouth to speak.

“Where is Denethor?” he rasped, voice shaking.

Aragorn took a cautious step forward, moving in front of Pippin. He held his hands up, fingers splayed open, the way he did when trying to settle a spooked horse. “Boromir, my brother-” he began, voice soft and steady.

Boromir interrupted before he could take another step. “Tell me where my father is, Aragorn,” he croaked. “Tell me so I can find him and gut him.”

“He’s dead,” Pippin blurted. “He set himself on fire and then he went off the edge of the wall and died.”

Aragorn stiffened. Boromir’s jaw went slack. He heard gasps from the men carrying the stretcher behind him.

Perhaps he shouldn’t have spoken. Gandalf was always telling him something to that effect.

Boromir let out long, low groan and slumped in on himself, bowing his head so low his forehead grazed Faramir’s hair. He released the firm grip he’d been maintaining on his brother’s upper arm to grab fistfuls of his own hair instead.

Aragorn moved swiftly to kneel beside Boromir. He wrapped one arm around Boromir’s shoulders and pulled him into a lopsided embrace. Boromir went without protest, deflated and boneless against his king. Aragorn spoke to him, too softly for Pippin to hear, and coaxed him to shuffle backwards just a pace or two to create space at Faramir’s side. The two half-forgotten men with the stretcher between them seized their opportunity and swept in to gather Faramir up. Boromir twitched forward when they lifted his brother, but Aragorn held him back with a hand on his chest. With quick, synchronized steps, Faramir was taken out of the tombs.

Louder now, so Pippin could hear again, Aragorn spoke with real regret in his voice. “I must follow them. I promise I will give all the skill I have to make Lord Faramir well.”

“I’m coming,” Boromir stated.

Aragorn fixed him with a hard stare. “It will be ugly,” he warned. “I’ll have to cut the shirt off his back, and I expect much of his skin to come with it. If he wakes it will be to scream.”

“I know,” said Boromir.

“I would rather not find your blade shoved through my heart while I work.”

Boromir flushed. “I would not.”

Aragorn raised one eyebrow. “All the same, if you wish to follow, leave your sword at the door for my peace of mind.”

Boromir opened his mouth, but seemed to think better of it and simply bowed his head in assent. Aragorn hauled himself to his feet and offered Boromir a hand up, which Boromir accepted without hesitation.

“Can I help?” Pippin asked, surprising himself.

Aragorn eyed him up and down. One corner of his lips twitched upward. “Yes, Pippin, I think you can help us all very much by staying at Boromir’s side and keeping him calm. If you have any more news to deliver, however, perhaps you could share it beforewe enter the House of Healing?”

Pippin recognized the admonishment for what it was and ducked his head, chastened. On the other hand, now that he mentioned it-

“Gandalf’s staff is broken,” he announced.

Aragorn closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “I see. Thank you, Pippin. Anything else?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Very well. If you think of something, take Boromir out into the hall and tell him.” Aragorn turned to Boromir and spoke sternly. “Boromir, if Pippin takes you out into the hall, I forbid you to pick up your sword until we have had a chance to speak.”

Boromir huffed out something very close to a laugh. “Wise council, my king.”

[almostempty]

right kind of dream (joel miller x f!reader) part one

wc: 12.5k | other fics | rating: 18+ | read on ao3 | PART TWO HERE

summary: rebuilding your life, chasing cans, and hitchin’ a ride to the rodeo with team roper joel

to my pedrostories secret santa recipient @katiexpunk: this was a challenge for ya gurl to be srs (and it’s not a tentacle gangbang, i lied in ur asks babe i’m srry) i hope i hit the mark on a handful of the prompts though, i had high hopes that i could really challenge myself and deliver some breeding kink cowboy but i fear it’s more of a creampie kink—i hope that still hits, i have horse knowledge, but only rodeo adjacent experience so if any rodeo queens find glaring mistakes pls forgive me — but happy holidays bb, i really hope you enjoy-- EDIT: I MADE IT TOO GIRTHY (or something?? sorry!!) and had to split it into two parts, the second part will be up and linked as asap as possible, and i'll add the full text to ao3 so it'll be in one spot

tags: modern cowboy joel au/ team roper joel and tommy, no sarah, enemies to lovers, dbf lite, choose your own age gap, small town romance, city girl returns to the country, miscommunication, guilty yearnful joel, horsegirl!joel, smut, ridin’ that cowboy bareback as the good lord intended, no beta–mistakes are my fault for writing at 4am 

thanks: to @syd-djarin, @auteurdelabre, @lovely-vamp-princess for support, eyes, ideas, etc.

The sun beats down on the gravel driveway as you pull your truck toward the old house. It looks almost the same as it did the summers you spent here as a kid when it was your grandparents–the peeling white paint on the porch railing, and the barn standing sturdy, but weathered further down the driveway. The fields stretched on as you rolled down the driveway, dotted with occasional wildflowers and critters dashing into the denser brush. 

The air blows warm through the window, same as you remember, but the weight of the memories feels different now. The summers used to feel endless here, the fields seemed endless, as did the sky. It all used to feel so liberating. It’s not an endless summer now. Everything looks smaller and more weathered. 

Except for the shiny white PVC fences on the other side of the driveway and the modern-looking house and barn built on the same soil you used to spend hours patrolling with your pony, Clover. She’d search for the best bits of grass as you laid across her back coming up with stories—some days you were an old-timey cowgirl traveling west or Clover was a wild horse you were training or you were on a quest to a magical kingdom together. 

But now it’s a new home for whoever bought up the parceled land your dad sold to cover the updates on the house when he inherited it. Someone with enough money for a fancy barn and shiny truck. You pull to a stop and hop out of the cab, still scanning the neighbor's property, making your first impression. 

Your dad emerges from the barn, wiping his hands on a faded rag. He gives you a smile and a nod. “About time you showed up,” he calls, his voice warm and teasing. “Thought maybe you had changed your mind.” 

You shake your head softly, rolling your eyes. “Nope. Nothing worth staying in that city for.” 

The gravel crunches under your boots as you round the bed to grab one of your boxes. All your belongings fit into a few boxes. At least, everything that mattered to you, everything that was still you. “Where do you want this?” You wonder how you’re going to manage living in the same house with your dad now that you’re an adult. 

“Just set it inside,” he said, gesturing to the house. “We’ll get you sorted after we have something to eat.” 

As you followed him toward the house, the outline of the neighbor's property loomed large. The barn caught your eye. It was close. A pair of horses stood in the near pasture, swishing their tails in the afternoon heat. The contrast was stark. Where your dad’s place still carried the scrapes and scuffs of decades–theirs looked new and polished. Smug even. Can a house be smug? 

“The neighbors are closer than I thought.” You cross the porch, the nostalgic screen door squeaking as your dad ushers you inside. 

“Don’t mind it. We look out for each other.” He points to the room you stayed in as a kid. “He damn near built the place by himself, and helped me with the new roof on this place.” 

You shoot him a sharp look. “You said you were gonna hire roofers instead of climbing around up there at your age.” He shrugs you off. Always stubborn. Convinced he can do it better and cheaper. Despite the toll on his body. 

“Paid him to help,” he argues, “wasn’t up there by myself. You don’t gotta worry about me like that.” 

You set your box down at the end of the twin-size bed, the room falling quiet for a moment. Your dad stays planted in the doorway, but his brows pinch and lips purse briefly before he lets out a breath. You scan the room, gaze landing on the floorboards, waiting. 

Instead of addressing the elephant in the room, he says, “You hungry?” 

You grin at that, letting out a shaky breath. Your father’s daughter, neither of you likes to dig into your feelings. He taught you to show love through actions, like keeping you fed, taking on hard labor jobs without a complaint, or changing your windshield wipers before the rainy season starts and you’re cursing yours out. 

“Yeah,” you say, brushing past the knot in your chest. “Starving.” 

The rumble of a diesel engine jolts you awake the next morning, the deep growly sound reverberating through the walls like thunder on an otherwise quiet morning. You groaned, stretching and blinking blearily at the pale light filtering in through the old curtains. It was barely dawn yet, which explains the dull headache you’ve got. 

Sleep had been restless. Tangled thoughts, ruminating on what you’d left behind. A failed engagement, the job you hated, the mix of excuses you had rehearsed for why you’d come back. You’d hoped coming here would ease the ache, but just when you were finally falling back asleep—the truck from hell pulled up to the house. 

The engine is already cut off, but now you can hear voices on the porch. Your dad’s, low and steady, just a hum, and another unfamiliar drawl. Whoever it is, they’re carrying on like the rest of the world wasn’t still trying to wake up. 

You drag yourself out of bed, wearing your soft sleep shorts and a thin shirt. The worn fabric clings to your body in places it shouldn’t, but you’re not thinking about being presentable, you aren’t really thinking at all yet. You drag your feet crossing to the kitchen to pour yourself coffee, for a brief moment you miss the coffee shop you used to stop at on the way to your old job, but the familiar roast your dad’s been loyal to has its charm. Like the free coffee at an AA meeting. It’s there and you need something to keep you going. 

You push past the squeaky screen door, stepping out onto the porch. Your dad sits on the worn bench, coffee in hand. Next to him, leaning casually against the railing is a man you don’t recognize. His black Stetson gives him a classic cowboy silhouette, the morning sun catches on the sharp cut of his jaw and the scruff on his cheeks. His plaid shirt stretches across his broad shoulders, his jeans are worn and dusty in a way that speaks to more than just appearances. 

He straightens when he sees you, pulling his hat off with one hand in a fluid, effortless motion. “Mornin’,” he says, voice low and rich. “You must be the daughter. Joel Miller.” 

You take a sip of your coffee. “Morning,” you mutter, voice still thick from sleep. “You always roll up this early, or is today special?” 

Your dad shoots a look at you, but Joel just chuckles softly. 

“Guessin’ you’re not a morning person?”

Your eyes are narrow, defensive. “I’m just fine in the mornings,” you say in a clipped tone that doesn’t support your statement. “Just not when I’m woken up by a jet engine at the asscrack of dawn.” The chill in the brisk morning air causes you to shiver for a moment somehow making you look more irritated. 

Joel glances at your dad with a faint smirk before tipping his hat to you. “Noted.” 

Your dad laughs. “Should’ve heard her when she was ten,” he says leaning back. “Wouldn’t let anyone tell her what to do. Still doesn’t take shit from anyone I guess.” 

“I’m right here,” you mutter, glaring at him.

“Just sayin’,” your dad replies, raising his mug in mock surrender. He turns back to Joel and they resume their conversation about fence posts or something equally riveting. You let your eyes roam as you wake up, drinking the rest of your coffee, tuning in and out of their conversation about their plans for the day. 

The easy camaraderie between the two of them was clear. Like a friendship forged through shared labor and quiet mornings. They flow between their plans for work and that subtle gossiping that men do–convinced it isn’t really gossip–as they share updates about other folks in town and a few of the local businesses. 

“What about you?” Joel asks, turning to you and pulling you out of the fog. “You’re back for a while then?”  

It’s an innocent question, but it grates at you anyway. You stiffen. “Yeah, just taking some time,” you say vaguely. 

Joel raises an eyebrow but doesn’t push for a real answer. You can feel the weight of his curiosity in the air between you. He looks to your dad, who doesn’t elaborate, letting something unspoken pass between them. 

“Well,” Joel drawls, “good timing. Lot of work to do this time of year. If you’re up for it.” 

The comment makes you pull a face. “I’m familiar with hard work,” you reply, your voice sharper than intended. 

Joel’s lips quirk again, into something like a smirk this time. “I’m sure you are,” he says with the faintest edge of a challenge. 

He takes a long swig from his stainless steel travel mug, trying to fix his eyes on the horizon. But damn, if it isn’t a challenge to see you standing there, looking every bit like you’d just rolled out of bed. In a shirt too damn thin for a morning like this, leaving too little to the imagination. 

He knew he shouldn’t be noticing something like that, shouldn’t look at you like that–especially not while you’re standing next to your dad. Hell, he shouldn’t want to look at all, but his eyes betray him. Darting for just a moment to your soft curves and the evidence of the chill in the air–the impression of your stiff nipples protruding in the soft fabric. 

Christ. He swallows hard, landing his eyes back on the scowl you wear on your face. You’re his friend's daughter. It just ain’t right. Sweet young thing like you. He battles the devil on his shoulder that reminds him you aren’t a kid. You’re a woman. A grown woman with your own life and clearly your share of grit, if the sharpness in your voice was anything to go by. 

He shifts on his feet, forcing his attention back to your dad who was still chuckling softly at something. Joel didn’t catch the joke, head too full of thoughts about you–or how to not think about you. He could feel the warmth creeping up his neck, unsettling him in front of your dad. 

You and him made loose plans for the day while Joel’s mind continued to wander. He shouldn’t have asked about why you were back. Your answer was vague, brushing him off like it was a privilege he hadn’t earned. For some reason that lodged it in his head further. He wanted to know more, even if he shouldn’t. 

Your dad stood up, stretching and declaring that all of you have work to do. You take that as your cue to head back inside, leaving the screen door swinging behind you. Joel lets out a low breath, shaking his head as he turns back to your dad. 

“She’s a spitfire,” Joel comments, keeping his tone neutral.  

“She is,” your dad agrees, adjusting his hat. “Good to have her back.”  

Joel huffs a small laugh, “S’pose we could use a strong woman around here. Keep us in line.” 

“No doubt she will,” your dad says, clapping him on the shoulder. The whole exchange stuck with Joel though. Something under that edge of yours, something unpolished that has him curious in a way he isn’t used to. He shakes his head knowing it isn’t his place to go digging. 

Your dad starts down the front steps. “Let’s get moving, then.” Joel moves mechanically, boots falling in line with your dad’s, but his mind is half on you—in that t-shirt, with that scowl on your face, and that faraway look that he’d like to unravel. 

You were used to hard work but your muscles weren’t exactly dialed in for the functional conditioning. It was humbling as you found yourself aching and exhausted by the end of the night. However, the fatigue did make it easier to fall asleep once your head hit the pillow instead of spiraling on about your failures until the birds started chirping. 

The next few days gave you a jump start into the rural routine. In bed early, up before the sun. Hot showers before dinner to wash away the layer of sweat and sweet-smelling dust from the pine shavings and hay. You found yourself looking forward to the strong coffee and the cool morning air before you started with your day. 

Your dad, and Joel, learned quickly to let you wake up rather than ask questions as they caught up on their plans before heading out together or splitting up. You didn’t mind listening, but you could feel Joel’s eyes lingering on you now and then. It made your spine straighten, determined to hide the sore muscles in your shoulders from him. If he was waiting to hear a complaint from you it was never gonna come. 

Despite getting more rest and having an endless list of labor to keep you moving–you often found yourself working solo and in silence during the day. A silence that your mind was more than happy to fill. You rehashed memories and dissected those little moments from your relationship with your ex-fiance that you wish you had seen more clearly at the time. 

You’re deep in one of those memories, mindlessly stacking bales of hay onto the trailer for a delivery your dad is making tomorrow when Joel enters the other end of the barn. He leans against the door, arms crossed loosely over his chest, just watching you work. The warm scent of hay fills the air, grounding and everpresent in his life. 

It wasn’t anything remarkable, just a common chore he’d do without thinking twice. But watching you was a whole different story. Your shirt was damp with sweat as you leaned into the work like you’d done it your whole life. You climb up a stack of bales and toss down some from the top of the next row, unaware of his presence. 

He is mesmerized by you. The sharp look on your face like you were mulling over an argument, the fluid movements as you worked, and the determination radiating off of you as you worked at an urgent pace. 

His gaze drifts lower as you climb down and bend to heave another bale onto the flatbed trailer. The muscles in his jaw tense as he lingers on the curve of your back as you bend to grab another. The way your legs shift as you work. The outline of your body in that shirt, the soft grunt you let out as you hoist another bale had him thinking indecent thoughts before he could stop himself. 

Joel drags his hand over his face, fingers brushing his scruffy jaw. Heat burning within him that has nothing to do with the Texas sun transforms into irritation. He was considering copping out and disappearing before you even noticed him when he was outed by the damn barn cats. 

The orange cat comes sprinting towards him, but it’s the black and white one meow-yelling at him down the aisle that catches your attention. A dull thud echoes through the barn as you drop another bale and watch as Joel squats down to give the cats the attention they demand. You watch, catching your breath. He’s gentle with them, murmuring something you can’t hear before he stands and strolls toward you. 

“Afternoon,” he greets you in his deep baritone voice. Joel grabs the two-string bale of hay in front of you and drops it on the trailer with ease, grabbing another before you can interject. 

“I can handle it.” You huff as you resume your task. 

“Never said you couldn’t,” he replies smoothly, setting another down. “Thought it’d go faster with two sets of hands.” 

“I wasn’t in a hurry.” You eye him warily for a moment before slipping into a coordinated dance like it was natural. Tossing the rest that needed to be loaded up into the aisle for him to grab. You work in silence, just the sounds of hay shifting and boots scuffing against the barn floor. 

You break the silence first. “Dad says you and your brother hit the rodeo circuit in the summer. That true?” 

Joel huffs a soft laugh. “True.”

“You compete?”

“Team roping,” he says, his voice warming slightly. “Me and Tommy hit most of the circuits within a day's drive from here. Keeps us outta trouble.”

You roll your eyes. “Hard to picture you in trouble, cowboy.”

Joel’s smirk returned, faint but there. “You’d be surprised, sweetheart.” He matches your playful tone. 

His words linger as you work, stirring something you don’t quite know what to do with. Your mind drifts to the idea of rodeoing, the adrenaline of it, the discipline it demands. You forgot how much you missed it, how much you gave up chasing a life that didn’t pan out the way you hoped. 

Joel shifts beside you, the faint scrape of his boots pulling you back to the present. You glance at him, catching the way his shirt clung slightly to his back, the easy strength in the way he moves.

For a moment, the quiet feels comfortable. Easy. The steady rhythm fills the space. But eventually, Joel speaks again. 

“Your dad said you used to spend summers out here,” he says, in a low and easy tone. 

“Yeah,” you say, a little out of breath from the exertion. “When I was a kid.”

Joel brushes some loose hay off of his shirt. “Guessin’ it’s different now.” 

“Everything’s different now,” you mutter, more to yourself than to him. 

His brow furrows slightly. “What brought you back?” 

You hesitate, not looking him in the eye. You’re searching for an answer in the dust particles caught in a beam of sunlight. “Just needed time to…rebuild.” It’s still vague. 

“You runnin’ from something?” 

You tense at that, before covering it in sarcasm. “I’m not an outlaw,” you jest, earning you a small smile. He doesn’t press further, but you feel his eyes on you, steady, and patient like he’s waiting in case you offer more. 

“It’s not as simple as people make it sound,” you say finally, the words slipping out before can stop them. “Starting over, that is.” You sit on a bale and pull your work gloves off, running the back of your hand over your forehead smearing sweat and dust in a most unsatisfying way. 

“No, it ain’t,” he adds quietly. 

Something in his tone makes your chest tighten, but you ignore the sensation. “What about you? How’d you end up here?” 

“Had to start over myself, I reckon,” he muses, dusting off his hands before sitting down next to you. The words hang in the air, heavier than you expected. He doesn’t look at you, instead, he watches the cats play with a piece of baling twine. “This place made it easier—focusing on getting the house built and getting the business running. Your dad helped too.” 

That catches you off guard. “My dad?” 

Joel nods, finally meeting your eyes. “Just seemed to understand, I guess.” 

You stare at him. You’re disarmed by the softness in his tone. Like there’s more beneath the surface if you ask for it. 

Joel feels the air thicken. He takes in the way your sweat-damp shirt clings to you, and the heavy rise and fall of your chest. For a split second, an image flashes in his mind—your chest heaving for a very different reason, your skin flushed and shining. His throat tightens, and he looks away quickly, cursing himself for letting his thoughts slip. 

The cats weave between your legs, easing the silence. But the air between you still feels charged. Your thighs are nearly touching. The proximity feels overwhelming for some reason and you're suddenly caught up in the details of his profile as he stares down at the floor. The lines at the corner of his eye, his nose, his lips.

He clears his throat and slaps a palm on his thigh. “Well,” he starts, standing up rather abruptly. “Just came by to check-in. See how you’re settling in.” 

“What?” You frown. You miss the grimace that flashes on his face, your eyes drawn to the cats darting away from the two of you. “How I’m settling in?” 

“Yeah, you know…” he gestures vaguely around the barn and your brows furrow and your eyes sharpen at him. Irritation flickers behind your eyes. 

“I told you I’m not afraid of hard work,” you snap, jumping to your feet in front of him. 

“That’s not what I meant,” he grumbles, like you’re misunderstanding him. 

“Did my dad send you to ‘check in’ on me? Or did you want to see if I could keep up?” 

“It ain’t like that.” He says lowly. 

“Right.” You cut, crossing your arms. You’re over this rollercoaster of a conversation. Your eyes catch on the deep crease between his brows and the glint in his dark eyes. Something flares in your chest. You can’t tell if it’s indignation or something else entirely. “Then what is it?”

His jaw tightens, gaze locked with yours. Something unspoken flickers in his expression. But instead of answering, he straightens, stepping back. “Doesn’t matter,” he says curtly. 

Your stomach twists at the coolness of his tone, the connection you just felt snapping like a wire. 

“This was a mistake,” Joel mutters to himself. 

“What was?” you asked, your voice deadly quiet. 

Joel only shakes his head before striding toward the far door. His boots echo on the floor and the cats follow after him like shadows, their tails swishing as they dart out into the sun. Joel pauses in the doorway, glancing back with a look you don’t understand. 

“Don’t work too hard now.” His voice carries easily before he stalks off.

Your thoughts have you spinning. “The fuck is his problem?” you wonder out loud, sharp in the warm air. In the space he left. 

But deep down, you can feel the edge of something else. Something more than frustration, curling low and unwelcome in your chest. The weight of his gaze was still lingering, and try as you might, you can’t ignore the way his presence had pressed into every corner of the barn, or the faint scent of leather and bourbon that still hangs in the air. 

Your routine locks into place, and the days begin to pass in a blur. Joel stops by for coffee and acts like the conversation you had in the barn never happened. The stoic, gruff cowboy thing works just fine with you.

Except for the moments you catch him staring at you like he’s trying to find an answer to something he never asked.

If you’re honest, though, despite your hostility, you seem to catch yourself studying him with the same frequency and intensity. You’re loath to admit you catch yourself hung up on his obnoxiously broad shoulders, his arms sculpted from the physically demanding work, and that gravelly morning voice he has before he finishes his coffee.

Aside from whatever Joel’s problem with you is, everything else seems to be falling into place. You catch up on your dad’s list of projects. You pick up a part-time job at the feed store in town, keeping yourself too busy to have idle time and too tired to dwell on the past or the future. You get to know folks in the town while you work at the register.

The town seems smaller than it was when you were a kid, but there’s also a charm in the simplicity that you find comfort in. The regulars keep you up to date on the town gossip, and you’re laughing loudly with your boss, Linda, one day over a joke she’d never admit to teaching you when your neighbor struts up to you with a list in hand for a bulk feed order.

You’re cordial to him and the man at his side who gives you a flirty wink that has you raising your eyebrows in disbelief for a moment before you put it together. “You must be Tommy?”

He grins brightly and offers his hand. “And you must be the neighbor?” You give him your name and a polite smile. Your eyes flick to Joel, taking in his neutral expression. His hands rest in his pockets, but his posture is loose, his broad shoulders back in a way that draws your eye before you can stop yourself.

As you enter the details of their order into the prehistoric computer, Linda chats both of the men up, asking them about their horses and when their next rodeo is.

You give Joel his total and take his payment, trying not to roll your eyes when he doesn’t make eye contact with you. You’re ready for the interaction with him to be over when Linda puts you on the spot.

“This one’s been talking about looking for a project horse of her own.” She nods her head toward you. “You boys have any leads for her?”

You can feel your face heating up as they both look at you. It’s not like it was a secret, but you weren’t planning on making Joel privy to your plans. You still haven’t forgotten the way he said this was a mistake after having one conversation with you. Or the way he is always looking at you. Like you don’t belong here or something.

“I’ll do you one better,” Tommy says. “We’ve got a couple of colts just getting started under saddle. They could use the miles, and they’re real sweet-tempered if you wanna come by during the week.”

“Thanks, Tommy.” You give him a genuine smile. “I’m actually going to take a look at one that’s got potential this weekend. Marilyn from the post office said her cousin’s got a six-year-old quarter horse she’d sell for a steal.”

Joel lets out a dismissive laugh under his breath. “You mean that Hancock gelding? The blue roan?”

“Yeah.” You confirm, slowly growing more confused by the reactions on all of their faces. “Why?”

Linda’s mouth is hanging open like you said the devil was gonna sell you his horse. Tommy gives you a modest smile like you’ve told him two plus two equals eight, but he’s too polite to correct you. Joel’s expression remains unreadable, but the crease between his brows deepens.

“Am I missing something?” you ask, hoping for an explanation. You do not like feeling like you’re being played for a fool. 

“She’d sell that horse for a dime and a handshake,” Linda says. “Her cousin broke her jaw getting bucked off that horse. That’s why he’s been out to pasture ever since.”

You’re quiet for a beat before the familiar challenge and determination wrap around your heart. “Can’t hurt to look,” you say with a shrug.

“Hancocks are notoriously stubborn and broncy,” Joel adds, his tone low and edged with warning.

“They’re also incredibly smart, loyal, and full of try if you earn their trust and ask ‘em the right way,” you shoot back, meeting his eyes for just a moment too long. Why does it always feel like he thinks you’re out of your element? Does he think you’re incompetent? It only strengthens your desire to prove him wrong.

Joel’s mouth presses into a thin line, but his gaze doesn’t waver, and it stirs something uncomfortable low in your chest.

“So I’ve heard,” Tommy cuts the tension simmering between you and Joel. “Offer still stands if he doesn’t work out.”

“Thanks.” You pointedly direct your appreciation to Tommy, not looking back at Joel. “We’ll give you a call when the order’s in.”

They take that as their signal to move along. You think that would be the end of the drama for the day, but Linda’s got one more tidbit in store after the door closes behind the two men.

“God, those two are so hot it’s unbearable,” she sighs. It catches you off guard, and you blink at her. “Too bad they’re cowboy Casanovas.”

“What?” You give her a scrupulous look, shifting on your feet as she leans against the counter.

“Oh, yeah,” Linda says with a knowing smirk. “Every buckle bunny in a three-county radius knows those two. I hear they have a sign-up sheet at the trailer.”

You laugh softly, shaking your head, but the image comes unbidden—Joel, shirtless and panting, sweat glistening on his chest, his jeans slung low on his hips, every muscle taut as he leans over some woman. His gravelly drawl slides through your mind like warm honey as he murmurs something low and dirty, but you can’t make out the words. Your thought derails violently, and you scowl at yourself, heat rushing up your neck, but Linda’s still talking. 

“I’d stand in line for either of ‘em if I were single,” she adds with a shrug.

The image morphs into smug Joel tipping his hat, a self-satisfied grin on his face as some random woman climbs out of his bed. Your throat tightens unexpectedly, and you shove the thought away, scowling at the knot of irritation it leaves behind.

The trailer rocks faintly as you haul it slowly down the driveway toward the barn. Blue shifts inside, and the loud thud of him pawing at the floor, anxious to get out of the small space, echoes loudly in the driveway as you ease to a stop. You cut the engine and hop out of the cab, you can hear your dad’s boots on the porch steps before he’s striding toward you. “You actually brought him home, huh?” 

“You knew I would.” You grin. Your dad unlatches the trailer door and you slip past the divider to untie your new gelding and back him out of the trailer. Blue’s ears flick rapidly and he snorts like a dragon, wary of his unfamiliar surroundings, but you steady him with a calm voice and wait for him to drop his head before coaxing him backward. 

His hooves hit the solid ground and he blows out a sharp breath, shaking his neck to de-stress. “He’s gonna be perfect,” you say, running a hand along his neck. “Just needs someone who knows what they’re doing.” 

Your dad gives you a look that says he knows he couldn’t change your mind if he tried. His gaze flicks over Blue’s body, taking in his confirmation and conditioning, the scar on his back leg, the brand on his flank, and the stocky ranch horse build. “Linda said he’s got a bad reputation.” 

“Linda says a lot of things,” you shoot back, leading Blue toward the barn. “He was misunderstood. Had a rough start, that’s all. That girl who got bucked off never shoulda had him to begin with—not after he’d been out to pasture for so long. She was scared, and he felt it.” 

Your dad hums, the kind of sound that tells you he’s skeptical but not enough to argue. “Well, he’s in good hands now.” 

“And we both know I like a challenge,” you say with a steady voice, edged with something sharper. 

The sound of boots on gravel draws your attention and you glance back to see Joel strolling over from the direction of his property. His hat tipped low as his dark eyes flick between you and Blue. 

“Afternoon,” he calls, steady and smooth. 

Your dad turns and gives him a nod. “Joel.” 

“That the Hancock gelding?” 

“Yeah,” you reply shortly, adjusting Blue’s halter. 

Joel steps closer, his expression unreadable as he studies the gelding. Blue swishes his tail before shifting his weight, resting one back leg like he’s already starting to relax. Joel walks a circle around Blue, before pausing next to your dad. “Well-built,” he comments. “Is he sound?” 

You can barely hold back your eye-roll. “I had Barb meet me at the farm for a pre-purchase exam. Passed with flying colors.” You swallow down your irritation. Once again Joel thinks you’re a fool? That you’d go off and pick up a horse without a vet inspection?

Before you give Joel a piece of your mind you take a steadying breath, grounding yourself and whispering into Blue’s ear. “He might doubt both of us but he’ll be eating his fuckin’ words real quick once you and I get started.” With that, you turn away and lead Blue to the barn. 

Joel watches the two of you walk off, resting his hand on his hip. “She got a death wish or somethin’?” he grumbles.

Your dad crosses his arms, both men still watching the barn door where the two of you disappeared. “She’s tougher than she looks. And she’s got more patience than the two of us combined—for animals that is. Lord knows she’ll let us have it just for looking at her sideways.” 

Joel grunts, ignoring the heat crawling up his neck at the thought of you telling him off. “Hope you’re right.” 

“It’ll be good for her to have her own project. Haven’t seen that light in her eyes since she got here. S’about time she started moving on.” Your dad’s words eat at Joel. He still wants to know what you’re trying to rebuild from, but he doesn’t ask. Letting the silence stretch before your dad continues. 

“Plus, she’s got the right touch for it,” your dad drawls, tone laced with pride. “Always drawn to the ones that seem a little rough around the edges.” 

Joel doesn’t respond right away. His eyes narrow on the horizon, but his gaze flicks back to where you walked off, the sway of your hips lingering longer than it should. The deeply twisted interpretation of your dad’s words messing with his mind. 

In the barn, Blue seems less concerned about getting the lay of the land now that there’s food in front of him. He munches greedily, tearing hay out of the net tied in the stall. You’re buzzing with a mix of emotions, already imagining the next steps for the two of you. 

Your thoughts fall back on Joel and your dad, their low voices carrying faintly in the warm air. You can picture Joel still standing there, one hand on his hip, eyes fixed on you, that infuriatingly unreadable look expression he always has. 

Your chest tightens, heat rising in your cheeks as you lean against the stall door. You hate how Joel looks at you like that. Like he’s waiting for you to fuck up. To prove him right. Like he’s already decided you’re in over your head. 

“He doesn’t know me,” you mutter under your breath, “doesn’t know you,” you tell Blue, “doesn’t know shit.” 

Blue snorts softly, and you take that as his agreement, a smile tugging at your lips. 

Days blur into a steady rhythm—early mornings with Blue, afternoons at the feed store, and long evenings under the arena lights. Each ride sharpens your connection with him, his turns growing tighter, his strides more confident. Progress comes in small, steady victories, each one lighting a spark of hope in your chest.

One afternoon, when the sun hangs low in the sky, painting the fields with warm hues of orange and gold. From his spot near the fence of his own property, Joel leans one arm against the top rail, his black felt Stetson shading his eyes. Across the way, you’re working with Blue in the makeshift round pen. 

Joel can tell from the way you hold yourself that you’re tired. Your shoulders seem stiff and your jaw tense. But you don’t stop. Your voice carries in the breeze, warm and steady as you encourage Blue to make another pass. 

The horse resists, throwing his head and stomping at the ground, but you don’t flinch. You give him the space to settle before asking again. Joel’s lips twitch, with a hint of a smile. You’ve got grit. 

He can’t shake the feeling that you’re working off more than just the horse’s rough edges. You move with purpose and focus, but with a weight that doesn’t seem entirely about Blue. 

From where Joel stands, he can’t make out every detail, but it doesn’t stop his eyes from lingering. You draw his attention with a pull that he can’t resist.

Against his better judgment. He traces the line of your spine as you step forward, the way your hips shift when you pivot. He knows better than to look, knows it’s wrong, but he can’t stop himself. 

Blue gives in, his steps evening out as he settles into a steady rhythm circling you. Joel watches as you slow him to a halt. The tension in your posture releases and you reach out with ease and satisfaction to stroke Blue’s neck. 

That invisible pull between you draws your eyes to where Joel is standing. Your face hardens when you catch him observing your training session. He gives you a nod before pushing off the rail and heading into the barn. 

He catches glimpses of you working together in the mornings and evenings. He tries to stop himself from watching, but it’s useless. He catches himself inadvertently timing out his schedule to be able to keep an eye on you. Tells himself he wants to be sure someone’s keeping an eye on you in case something goes wrong. Or that he’s curious about your progress. 

He can admit he admires your perseverance and the skill you have. He would never admit the way he finds himself waking up hard and aching thinking about you and what it’d feel like to have your hips rocking on his lap instead of a saddle, your tits bouncing in his face, and your sweet blissed out smile. And when trudges up the steps of your porch in the mornings to see if your dad needs anything from town—he prays neither of you can see the remnants of his sins in his eyes. 

He can’t stop himself from trying to talk to you, though. One morning he asks straight up, “How’s the project horse coming along?” He tries to sound casual, averting his eyes as he sips his coffee. 

Your smile flickers, equal parts excitement and hesitation flashing across your face. “Good,” you say after a beat, sitting on the wooden bench. “He learns quick, got good stamina and drive.” 

Joel hums, tilting his head slightly. “He give you any trouble?” 

Your jaw tenses, though you try to hide it. “Nothing I can’t handle,” you reply, tightly. 

Joel nods. “Good,” he says simply, but he still looks at you, like there’s something else weighing on his mind. 

Your dad clears his throat, breaking the tension. “She’s got him started on the pattern already.” 

“You gonna run barrels?” Joel asks, curiosity sneaking into his eyes. 

“That’s the plan.” 

Joel hums, taking a long pause. “You wanna run him in a real arena? Bring him over to get some practice in with the right kind of footing and see what he’s really got for a motor?” 

Your eyes narrow and your shoulders tighten, straining with disbelief. A real arena? It’s like nothing you do is ever good enough for him. “We’re getting along just fine as is, thanks.” The words are dripping with venom as you slip back into the house letting the screendoor slam shut behind you. 

Joel’s brows furrow. “Didn’t mean no harm, by it,” he says to your dad. “My mistake,” he adds gruffly. 

Your dad looks a bit miffed at the sharpness of your rejection but gives Joel a shrug back. “She’s always gotta do it her own way.” 

The conversation with Joel sticks in your mind. You’re still chewing it over that evening as you run Blue through some drills, working on his lead changes and corners. When you finally bring him down to walk to cool down you hear the sound of hooves hitting the dirt across the field. Sharp and rhythmic. You walk Blue along the fence line. Pausing when you catch sight of Joel and Tommy in their outdoor arena. 

Their horses move like extensions of their bodies. You loosen the reins, letting Blue’s head sway with every step as you stay transfixed on the two men. Tommy’s bay gelding moves with a quick, snappy stride. His hindquarters tucked under him as he spins on a dime at Tommy’s commend. You can feel the thrill and see Tommy’s grin from where you sit. It’s infectious. You roll your eyes as he tosses his rope catching the dummy steer in a single fluid motion. 

You make another lap before you let yourself study Joel. 

He’s riding his big red mare, her muscles rippling in the sun as she powers forward at a lope. Joel’s hand is steady on the reins, his posture relaxed but exact. Every movement he makes is calculated, and deliberate, yet to an untrained eye seems completely natural and fluid. Like he and his horse were born to do it. He barely shifts to ask the mare to pivot. Her body arcs beautifully, bending around his leg as they make a sharp turn toward the roping dummy. 

You’ve seen good riders before, but there’s something different about the way works. He doesn’t just ride—he leads. Every muscle he moves is a quiet conversation between him and his horse. It’s seamless and controlled. And damn if it isn’t mesmerizing. 

He leans forward slightly, and your mouth goes dry watching his arm flexing as he tosses the rope with precision. His red mare halts instantly, kicking up dirt around her hooves. Joel adjusts his hat with a smooth motion, you can see the focus on his face. Serious and competitive.

You swallow hard as you change directions, still walking on a loose rein very aware that Blue’s sweat is long dried by now. You feel warmth burning in your core that has nothing to do with your tired muscles. He looks good out there. Too good. The kind of good that makes you think about things you shouldn’t be thinking about. Your eyes drift, taking in the way his jeans hug his thighs, the line of his back as he shifts in the saddle. You imagine his hands, thick, precise fingers. Something coils hot and tight within you. You shake your head at yourself. You are not having those thoughts about Joel Miller who thinks you don’t know your ass from your elbow. You swing your leg over the back of the saddle dropping to your feet. Loosening your cinch and still trying to shake your thoughts out of your mind when you hear Tommy hollering at you. 

“Watch and learn, neighbor!” Tommy calls, snapping you out of your thoughts. 

You glance up, cheeks burning as Tommy tips his hat your way with his charismatic grin. Joel follows his gaze, dark eyes locking on you for a moment. Tommy gives you a demonstration of his prowess with the rope–as if you hadn’t been watching–but, Joel says nothing before turning his mare and heading in the opposite direction. 

His cool look sends a shiver down your spine. 

You walk back to the barn, and the sound of their horses fades behind you, but that image of Joel sears into your mind. His commanding and maddeningly attractive exhibition just stoked a fire you’re desperate to ignore. 

You have the same stubborn streak as your father and you’d be damned if you’re gonna cave and ask Joel to use his facility. You find a summer barrel series in a nearby town with low entry fees.

You start hauling Blue out to get some experience. At first, his runs are clumsy, but as you get your miles in, his turns get tighter, his confidence grows, and your times get quicker. And you quickly feel like the two of you are ready to enter your first rodeo.

The air smells like dirt and livestock, as you unload your horse and tie him to the side of your trailer. There’s a hum from the generators, buzzing conversations, and the occasional whinny of a horse or thud as one paws at the dirt.

You had made a point not to ask if Joel and Tommy would be attending, but you catch his familiar shoulders tapering to his slim waist, with one boot on the lowest rung of the fence a few yards ahead when you head toward the warmup pen before your division gets called. He isn’t even facing your direction but you instinctively square your shoulders and raise your chin. You wonder if he’s just here to see if you’re going to fail. Or maybe he’s just watching to earn some other woman’s favor. 

Something ugly simmers in your blood and your chest feels tight. You attribute it to irritation, refusing to acknowledge any alternate reasons. You’re going to prove him wrong. 

You’re still staring at him when he turns to say something to the man standing next to him. You grit your teeth. Superstitious–as every cowboy is–his usual salt and pepper scruff is neatly trimmed, he’s got on a pair of deep blue Wranglers–nicer than you figure he owned, and a crisp long-sleeve pearl snap. Dressed to earn Lady Luck’s favor. 

The devil on your shoulder whispers a thought in Linda’s teasing voice. He doesn’t need to do all that to get lucky. You take a deep breath and peel yourself away from the sight. You’re here to focus on Blue, not your asshole neighbor and his conquests.

Despite trying to let go of your issues with Joel, a scowl stays plastered on your face throughout your warmup. Blue picks up on your distraction and he’s a little hot, as you head him toward the alleyway when it’s time for your run. Against your will, your eyes search for Joel. A wash of heat floods your veins when you find him already watching you. He mouths good luck at you and you can only manage a curt smile before you’re pushing Blue to a lope, making one tight circle before you cross the start. The sound of his hooves pounding into the dirt matches the blood pounding in your ears. The burst of adrenaline is instant. The run isn’t perfect. He breaks his stride around the second barrel and you lose time nudging him back into rhythm, but you finish the pattern without knocking anything over. The announcer calls your time as you slow to a trot, and you let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. It’s such a blur you don’t think to look for Joel. You don’t think about him at all until you’re untacking Blue at your trailer, brushing sweat marks from his coat when movement near another horse trailer catches your eye.

Joel stands close to a woman with long, shiny dark hair. She flashes a wide smile, leaning toward him and resting a hand lightly on his arm. The sight makes you grimace. You shove down the feeling. “None of our business,” you mutter to Blue as you keep brushing. But, your eyes flick back despite yourself. She tilts her head, laughing at something he says, or doesn’t say, you can’t tell. He stands stiffly, hands in his pockets. You can’t see his face from your angle.

The woman reaches to touch him again, and you feel a headache brewing in the back of your skull. Joel glances away from her, landing in your direction for the shortest moment, before his weight shifts and he takes a small step back. You scowl again, tossing your brush back into the tack room shelf with more force than necessary making Blue toss his head. Your heart thuds louder than it should and you run a hand over Blue’s cheek, murmuring softly to calm both him and yourself. When you glance back, the woman is still talking, but Joel’s looking at you again. His dark eyes are sharp under the brim of his hat. He nods, barely noticeable, before turning away from the woman entirely. You clench your jaw, forcing yourself to take another deep breath before loading Blue back into the trailer to head out. You weren’t sticking around to watch any of the other events. Especially not the team roping. 

You smile when you pull onto the highway. You count the day as a success and feel ready to enter a bigger rodeo. The idea makes you glow. Finally feeling like you’re getting back to your true self. You feel like a new woman compared to the version of you that showed packed up her truck desperate to put miles between your ex-fiance and your corporate nightmare.

“It’s not that bad,” you argue, crossing your arms as your dad leans against the truck with a skeptical look. “The hell it’s not,” he replies, gesturing toward the trailer. “That’s floor is one step away from dropping your horse onto the damn highway.” You sigh, dragging a hand over your face. “I know,” you grumble lowly, disappointment sinking in your stomach. “I was just hoping you’d see something I didn’t.” “Sorry kid,” your dad says. “S’fine. I’ll figure something out. Or just eat the entry fees I paid.” “Or,” he says pointedly, “you could ask Joel.” You glare at him, fire burning in your chest. “I don’t need his charity.” “Ain’t charity,” he interrupts your sour attitude with a gruff tone. “He’s practically family. Don’t let your pride get in the way of your goals.” The words stick, heavy and uncomfortable. You’ve got half a mind to keep arguing. Joel might be your dad’s best friend, but he’s nothing like family to you. But before you can talk yourself out of it, you’re dragging yourself up the steps of Joel’s front porch. 

You realize as your boot hits the last step that you’ve never been to his place. He always offers to have you and your dad over for a whiskey or for a fire out back, but you always brush him off. You see why your dad takes him up on it though.

It’s beautifully made with stunning wooden chairs and a bench for seating on the porch. You’d consider complimenting him on his craftsmanship if you weren’t already dreading what you’re about to say. Joel opens the door, his hat already in hand like he’d been expecting you. “Somethin’ wrong?” “Yeah,” you admit, trying not to hesitate. “Uh, trailer’s shot,” you point your thumb in the direction of your dad’s place. “Was wondering if you’d have room in your trailer to haul Blue with your horses.” 

The corner of Joel’s mouth twitches. The gleam in his eye makes you want to say never mind. You brace for a smart-ass remark. “‘Course,” he replies. You blink, caught off guard by the simplicity of it. “Of course?” 

He leans back into the house to grab something, then he’s handing you his keys. “Load your tack up tonight, and get your bags in the living quarters.” “No need,” you shake your head, leaving him holding the keys between you. “I’ve got the truck. And a tent.” 

Joel leans against the doorframe, crossing his arms. You pointedly avoid how his sleeves strain around his biceps. “You’re ridin’ with us. Not riskin’ that truck dyin’ on the highway.” You glare, lips pressed into a thin line. Of course, you’ve got a trailer with a busted floor and a truck with more miles than you’d like to admit on it—while Joel has a shiny truck from this decade and a horse trailer with a tack room and living quarters. Probably has AC and everything.

You catch the glint in his eye, realizing you’re the one asking for a favor and you steel yourself, reminding yourself to bite your tongue.

“Fine,” you grit out, holding your hand out for the keys.

The truck hums beneath you, the steady vibration doing nothing to ease the thick tension in the cab. Tommy’s passed out in the back seat, his hat tipped low over his face, leaving you alone with Joel and the steady drone of the country ballad playing through the speakers.

“You always listen to this?” you ask, breaking the silence as you reach toward the radio.

Joel glances at you, one hand resting casually on the wheel. “Somethin’ wrong with it?”

“Didn’t know you were a ‘sad songs for sad cowboys’ kind of guy,” you mutter, flicking through stations before he can answer.

Joel doesn’t stop you, but when you pause on something irritatingly upbeat, his hand moves toward the knob just as yours does.

Your fingers brush his, and the contact jolts through you like a live wire.

You pull back instinctively, your breath catching as your heart slams against your ribs. Joel pauses for half a second before retreating, his knuckles tightening faintly on the wheel.

The silence that follows is suffocating.

Joel stares ahead, his jaw clenching as his thoughts spiral. He knew telling you to ride with him was playing with fire. But he can’t stay away from the heat. You glance out the window, pretending the spark you felt wasn’t real. It’s just Joel, always better than you, always an ass. The charged silence stretches on though, every shift of his hand on the wheel drawing your attention. Every shallow breath reminds you of his proximity. 

“This’ll do,” you say tightly. Joel huffs softly, but says nothing, keeping his eyes pointed straight ahead. Neither of you speaks again for the rest of the drive, but the weight of the accidental touch remains, thick and suffocating. The rodeo grounds are already alive with motion by the time you’re parked and unloading the horses. The evening sun casts an amber glow over the circus of trucks, tents, and trailers. You help get the portable fence set up and the horses settled before the three of you head off to check in at the visitor's tent and get your meal tickets. 

The smell of barbecue wafts through the air and you get in line to fill your plate. Folks chat eagerly. Tommy strikes up an easy conversation with a group of riders near the picnic tables.

You watch as some folks head back to their campsites, hesitating on whether you want to do the same or find a table. Joel passes you and sits at a nearby table and before you can debate any longer a voice interrupts your thoughts. “Long travel day?” the wiry cowboy drawls, tipping his hat and gesturing to the bench next to him. “Take a seat.” 

You give him a quizzical look, but you’re hungry enough to take the opportunity to sit and eat. 

“Name’s Cody.” He introduces himself while you eat. He tells you he’s a bull rider. Asks if you’re runnin’ barrels tomorrow. He’s chatty with a smooth and easy voice and a playful look on his youthful face. You answer his questions, politely, suddenly keenly aware of Joel’s gaze boring into the back of your head. It makes your spine prickle with something you can’t name. The heat of his stare burns into you, fierce and unwavering, making every laugh at Cody’s jokes feel like defiance. Cody continues on and you find it easy to listen to his stories, but you can’t help feeling compelled to glance over your shoulder betraying the distraction you’re trying to ignore. Cody points out some of the other riders he knows and invites you to come hang out at their campsite and have a drink. You’re still searching for the right words when you catch sight of Joel walking swiftly past your table. He mutters something to Tommy–who seems to be proving Linda’s rumors true with a woman wrapped around his arm and batting her lashes at him–and stalks off. Your stomach twists as you watch him go, irritation flaring hot and fast. “The fuck is his problem?” you mutter under your breath, turning back to your plate. Cody shrugs, clearly oblivious. “Who knows? Anyway—” But you’ve already tuned him out, your eyes following the path Joel struts down before he disappears.

You joined Cody and his friend for one drink, hoping it would ease your nerves. He had a kind group, a little rough around the edges, but tough as nails like you’d expect bull riders to be. They kept your mind distracted with their wild stories, but you decided to head back to the trailer before anyone got drunk and stupid. The walk back to the trailer feels longer than it should, every step weighed down by something stirring within you, something that has you on edge. You check on the horses before pulling the door open and climbing into the living quarters. The cool night air hasn’t soothed the heat that’s been simmering within you since dinner—or since that moment in the truck if you’re honest. You toe off your boots before looking up to see Joel, leaning against the wall, his jaw set tight, and his eyes sharp as they snap to yours.

“Where’s Tommy?” you ask, realizing it’s just the two of you in the small space. “Reckon he’ll be out til the sun's up,” Joel says in a quiet, low tone. “Alright,” you nod. Another point goes to Linda for that one, you figure. Joel’s jaw remains set in that infuriatingly unreadable way that seems to be his signature look. The dim light in the trailer casts sharp shadows across his face that darken his gaze. “You enjoy yourself? With your new friend?” he asks, his voice raw, edged with something you can’t place. You stop short, narrowing your eyes. “Excuse me?” He steps closer, reaching past you to hang his hat on the hook by the door. “Took your time gettin’ back.” He says, his eyes flick over you, dark and assessing.

You’re acutely aware of the scent of the campfire on your shirt and beer on your lips. It swirls with his leather and bourbon musk like they were designed to enhance each other. His words sink in, cutting and daring. “What’s your point?” “Did you fuck him?” The bluntness of it knocks the breath out of you. Your mouth falls open. Shock and fury battling for control as you glare at him. “What did you just say to me?” “You heard me, sweetheart,” Joel says, his voice calm but razor-sharp. “Just wondering if that cowboy got what he was after.” It takes everything in you not to slap him across the face. “What the fuck,” you hiss, stepping closer, your fists clenched at your sides, “makes you think you’ve got the right to ask me that, Joel?” 

He shrugs his shoulders, but his expression remains cold. “Lookin’ out for you. Your dad’d kill me if I didn’t.” You laugh bitterly. “Bullshit.” His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t respond. Silence fanning the flames within you. “You aren’t my dad,” you snap, voice trembling with rage. “And you sure as hell don’t get to tell me who I can or can’t fuck.” Joel’s eyes narrow, his shoulders stiffening as he steps even closer. “That’s not what I—” “Save it,” you cut him off, word sharp as a whip. “I don’t know why you think I’m so weak or clueless all the time. Like I can’t handle myself. Like I’m some kid you’ve gotta babysit.” 

Joel’s expression hardens, his dark eyes flash with something that looks like hurt beneath his anger. “That’s what you think I see?” his words come out like a dangerous growl. “That’s how you’ve acted toward me since day one,” you fire back, stepping toe-to-toe with him. “If you don’t respect me, Joel, just stay out of my business.” His chest rises and falls sharply, his breath warm against your skin as the air between you thickens. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talkin’ about,” he grits, voice tight with frustration. “Explain it to me then,” you challenge. Shaking with the force of everything you’ve been holding back. “Or stay away from me if I’m such a thorn in your side.” He works his jaw, and for a moment you’re glued to the corded muscle in his neck and the exposed golden brown skin of his chest. He glares at you, making no move to back off. His voice drops sinfully low and quiet. “You really wanna know?” “Yeah,” you breathe, heart pounding like it’s trying to break through your ribcage. “I do.” His hand moves fast, gripping your wrist—not rough, but firm enough to make your breath catch. “You drive me fuckin’ crazy,” he accuses in a rough and uneven voice. You blink. “What?” “You heard me,” he rumbles, dark eyes locked on yours. “From the first day, you showed up here, lookin’ at me like you had somethin’ to prove.” Anger burns in your veins. “How does that make me your problem?” His grip tightens, his body presses closer. “You ain’t my problem,” he mutters. Guilt twists into his words, “Shouldn’t even be lookin’ at you like this. S’wrong.” He swallows thickly, only sharpening the edge in his voice. “But I can’t stop thinkin’ about you, and it’s pissin’ me off.” His confession hits you like a brick over the head. The trailer is silent, but the sound of the blood rushing in your ears, and your ragged exhale seems deafening. 

“Then stop,” you challenge, voice trembling with defiance. “If it’s so wrong, just leave me alone.” Joel’s eyes darken, his other hand settles on your hip, fingers digging into you. “Can’t,” he says,  voice so thick with frustration, it sounds like it hurts. “Don’t think I want to.” 

Silence stretches and time feels thick and warped. Your ragged breaths fill the space. His eyes search for a reason to stop, but he finds none. 

You don’t get a chance to reply before he drops your wrist to wrap a large hand around your jaw, pulling you into a feverish kiss. Nothing gentle about it. It’s raw and desperate, equal parts frustration and hunger. Your fingers curl into his shirt as if you could pull him any closer as your teeth scrape over his bottom lip, in a sharp, biting challenge that makes him groan low in his throat. He angles your face so he can kiss you deeper, harder, until your knees feel like they might give out. Your mind goes blank, flashing white with anger and need. All you can process is the hot slip of his tongue against yours and the sharp bristle of his facial hair against your tender lips. Your back hits the cool metal wall of the trailer before you realize your feet had even moved. Joel’s hips press into yours, pinning you against his body–solid and unrelenting. His lips trail down your jaw to your neck, the edge of his teeth scraping at your skin. The rasp of his stubble sends sparks to your core, and you dig your fingers into the hair on the back of his head. Pulling him toward you, needing him in a way that verges on painful. He lifts his mouth, breathing hotly against your damp neck. “This what you want?” he says, his tone matching the burning desperation coursing through you. “You want me to fuck it outta you? Til you can’t keep runnin’ your mouth at me?” “Shut up,” you snap, but the way your body arches into him betrays the hostility in your voice and the subtle stretch makes you keenly aware of how wet and needy you are already. He makes a low, guttural noise in his throat that makes your cunt throb. His hand slides down to grip your thigh, hitching it around his waist as he grinds into you. The hard ridge of his cock pressing into you makes you gasp. The sound you make sends heat ripping through him like wildfire. We can’t, he thinks, but the words die on his tongue. The thought of how wrong this is flashes in his mind, but it’s drowned out by the way you’re looking at him. The way your nails dig into his shoulders as you pull him closer, your breath hot and shaky against his cheek. He can’t think. He can’t stop. He doesn’t want to. Not when you’re so soft and warm and furious beneath him. He’s helpless. His hand slips under your shirt, rough fingers brushing over soft skin, leaving a searing trail that grounds you as your mind spins. He pushes your shirt up, baring you to the dim light of the trailer. Time slips back into the warped, syrupy dimension as you absorb the unbidden lust and awe in his eyes. You’re the one exposed, but you feel like you’re seeing something just as naked in his face. Time catches up and you pull your shirt the rest of the way over your head, committing to sin wordlessly. You shiver at the sudden contrast between the heat radiating off of his body and the cool air hitting your flesh. “Joel,” you gasp, your head tipping back as his mouth closes over your nipple like a wet furnace. His teeth graze the sensitive skin causing you to spew breathy curses over the top of his head. They only spur him on. He sucks hard enough that you tug him off you by his hair, but he only switches to your breast, delivering the same delicious punishment as his fingers roll and pinch at the wet, puffy, flesh he abandons. 

It’s like he can predict your needs before your mind can, biting down harshly enough to pull you away from the angry, hissing thoughts and keep you desperate to stay lost in the physical sensations. He palms the full weight of your tits, gliding his thumbs over both, slick and shining with his saliva. He presses them together before releasing them. “Goddamn,” he murmurs, taken by the way they bounce more perfectly than he could’ve imagined. It’s wrong to have you topless and panting beneath him, but his name falls so sweetly from your lips that it doesn’t matter. The heavy-lidded look you have makes him feel confirmed. When you moan lowly as the pain melts into pleasure when he kneads your soft, slippery skin, his cock aches and weeps for you. He needs more. He needs everything. Needs to wreck you, to see you so fucked out the only thing you can say is his name. 

It’s an exquisite brand of torture. 

You hate how good this feels, how badly you want him to keep going. To show you every move he knows. To break you down with his hands and mouth. You should push him away, tell him to fuck off. But your body doesn’t want that. You don’t want that. You roll your hips against his, begging wordlessly for more, as you tug at his hair hard enough to pull a throaty groan from deep within him. The sound he makes nearly has you short-circuiting, but he doesn’t give you the respite to fall apart. His hands are everywhere, frenzied like he’s losing control. Hasn’t he already lost it? You wonder distantly. Slowly, you realize he’s littering dirty little threats and filthy promises into your warm flesh. You hate the way his words make you shiver, how much you crave every pledge he makes. “You’re gonna feel me for days, sweetheart,” he husks hotly, just behind your ear. It’s a commitment you unwittingly pray he keeps. Some part buried deep within you blooms at the idea of feeling every memory of his touch as you go about your day tomorrow. “Get to it then,” you snap, hands reaching for his belt with urgency. Joel doesn’t need any more encouragement. His hand slips between your legs, teasing you through the soaked fabric of your underwear, and the sound you make at the pressure—the breathless, needy, whimper—makes him forget how to breathe. All he knows is that he needs to hear it again while he fucks into your soft, warm cunt. 

He wrenches your jeans open and works them down your thighs as you tear at his shirt buttons. He’s barely able to let you go long enough to pull his shirt off; watching you kick your pants off the rest of the way makes him nearly trip over himself. 

The air between your naked chests is sticky and warm. He dips his hand beneath the hem of your underwear, fingertips gliding over the soft hair on your mound making his eyes roll back. 

The edges of your vision blurs when he prods two big fingers between your slick lips, but you’re glued to the way his dark eyes are nearly black now. He looks every bit possessed by a beast, and fuck if you aren’t driven by the sick desire to make him snap. 

“You like having me touch you like this, don’t you?” His voice drips with need underscored by the slick sounds coming from between your legs. 

“No.” You rasp, as you grind your clit against his palm. He pumps two fingers inside of you, curling them just right to make you moan. 

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he drawls, thick like honey. You grip the muscle flexing in his arm to steady yourself. His concentration and competence makes your walls flutter around his fingers. 

“You’re gonna come for me, right here.” He declares. 

You shake your head. “I’m not—fuck—I won’t.” 

“You will,” he interrupts. Dark and calm. His pace quickens, fingers focused on the spot inside you that makes you a mindless wreck. His thumb draws circles around your clit. 

“Can feel how close you are.” Your hips rock and your muscles all pull taut. “If you’d quit fuckin’ fighting me.” He somehow crowds even closer to you. You feel like you’re about to snap when he pulls his hand away, leaving you feeling empty and ragged. “But you’re too fuckin’ stubborn, ain’t you?” 

“Joel,” you whine, angry and devastated. “I hate you.” 

You grip the back of his neck with one hand, and both of you watch as he finally takes himself out of his jeans. 

The view makes you salivate. 

Everything about Joel is rugged and masculine. The muscles carved into his arms and chest. The trail of dark hair leading down his stomach that thickens around his base. The deep flushed color of his thick cock. The ragged inhale he makes when he presses the blunt tip against the drenched fabric that clings to your swollen folds. 

“Say it,” he growls, rubbing along your barely clothed seam. 

“I hate you,” you whisper unconvincingly, digging your nails into the back of his neck and arching off of the wall. 

“Tell me you want it.” You can’t tell if it’s a demand or a plea. This strain in his voice and the muscles tensing across his broad frame make you tremble.

“I don’t.” You lie. You snake one hand down your body, peeling your ruined panties to the side so he can slot his tip at your dripping entrance. You tilt forward, impatiently, stretching around him just enough to override your filter. 

“Oh, fuck,” you start. Unable to stop the stream of whispered curses from rolling off your tongue. 

“Yeah,” Joel rasps, inching deeper inside of your tight, warm walls. He feeds himself into you slowly, the overwhelming fullness as you adjust makes your thighs shake. He pulls out and you whine, unable to say a word before he’s moving, dipping you onto the thin trailer mattress and slipping your underwear down your legs. 

“Gonna fuck you full,” he mutters. You spread your legs, making room for him to settle above you. He draws his cock back through your lips, coating himself in your arousal before driving into you with a powerful stroke. 

Your lips part, sucking in air as he sets a pace. He fills you deeper than you’ve ever felt, relentlessly making room for himself as he saws in and out of you. It’s powerful and primal, but refined by his athleticism. Fluid rolling hips and his strong core make you see stars as he fucks into you.

“That’s right,” he rasps above you, and you realize he’s responding to you. 

“So good,” you’re murmuring, “so full.” 

“Taking it like you were made for it,” he says to himself. The intensity of your tight, warm pussy coaxing him deeper makes him spill his thoughts. Unfiltered. 

He sets a pace, slow and deliberate at first, each stroke filling you completely before pulling back, leaving you desperate for more. The friction is maddening, plunging his length into your sensitive walls as he pins you beneath his hard body.   

“You feel that?” His breath is hot against your neck. “Feel how deep I am? How I’m splittin’ you open?”  

You nod frantically, your nails digging into his shoulders as you whimper his name.  

Joel’s control falters at the sound of it, his hips snapping harder, faster, as his desperation takes over. “Thought about this,” he rasps, his voice hoarse. “Fuckin’ hell, I’ve thought about this too damn much. But you’re better than I ever imagined.”  

His confession sends a jolt through you, but you’re too far gone to process it, your body tightening around him as pleasure builds again, sharper and hotter than before.  

“Joel, please.”  

“Fuck,” he chokes the word out, his pace faltering for a split second before he slams into you harder, deeper. “Say that again.”  

“Please,” you whisper, your voice breaking as your release breaks through you, leaving you gasping and cursing.  

Joel’s hips snap erratically, pinning you into the mattress with a tight grip, as he buries his cock as deep as he can inside of you. 

“Gonna fill you up,” he mutters, his voice ragged. “Every drop, sweetheart.” Make you mine, he barely keeps the last thought in his head. 

“Yes, yes, yes.” You chant as your body jolts with each collision with his. 

“Fuck,” Joel mutters, cock driving deeper and swelling at your words. “That’s it. Take it all, sweetheart.”  

Your release hits again, your body trembling violently. Or maybe it never stopped—he only drew it out of you in waves. 

Joel curses low, his hips slamming into yours one last time before you feel him pulsing inside of you, hot and thick. 

When he pulls back, his eyes linger on the mess between your thighs. “Look at that,” he mutters, his voice low and reverent. His wide hands slide up the back of your thighs, bending your knees to your chest so he can watch the mix of your releases glistening and dripping from you. 

He takes one hand and drags it through the mess, pushing it back up inside of you. You squirm, sensitive to the touch, but fixated on whatever is burning behind his eyes. 

You wait for him to say something characteristically Joel.

To dismiss you as naive, to rub it in that he broke you down. That he had you crying his name. That you shouldn’t have done that. 

But it never comes.

You’re convinced he was trying to put you in your place. To give you another reminder that he thinks you’re useless and clueless. You’re too wrapped up in the thoughts to speak or move. 

He doesn’t say anything at all which nearly makes it worse.

Instead, he pins you under a heavy arm, holding you against him until you both doze off. Succumbing to exhaustion.

-> PART TWO

dividers by @/saradika-graphics 🤠🤎

tagging the usual babes in case you want some cowboy!joel for christmas too:

@lovely-vamp-princess @gothcsz @auteurdelabre @adoreyouusugar

@swankyorange @itwasntimethatdidit40 @ivoryandflame @magneticecstasy

@indiegirlunited @syd-djarin @harriedandharassed @bbyanarchist

@94namkooksworld