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svt-luna · 1 month ago

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Omg please do a aftermath of let the world burn. It would be so cute!! 💕

𝜗℘ SHE WILL BE LOVED

❛ 𝘪 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘥𝘢𝘺 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘰𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘤𝘰𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘯. 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘪𝘳𝘭 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘳𝘰𝘬𝘦𝘯 𝘴𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘦, 𝘢𝘴𝘬 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘧 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘺 𝘢 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘦— 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘦 𝘭𝘰��𝘦𝘥. ❜

timeline: 2022

synopsis: Despite her injury, Luna takes the stage with unwavering grace, surrounded by the love and support of her fans and members, proving that no matter what, she will always be loved.

warnings: fluff, cursing, mentions of blood and stitches, injuries, protective!svt, established relationship, fluff, fluff, and more fluff, domestic!JeongNa (guys! ik i have written it but… I WANT WHAT THEY HAVE!)

due to popular demand, here is part two or the aftermath of my recent one-shot Let The World Burn. this is a short but sweet one-shot for you my lovelies!! enjoy and happy reading 💘

╰ ౨ৎ let the world burn

╰ ౨ৎ LUNA-VERSE MASTERLIST ╰ ౨ৎ writings masterlist

Luna should have expected this.

She really, really should have seen this coming.

Luna wasn’t sure why she thought she would wake up the morning after her injury in peace, left to her own devices, allowed to exist in quiet recovery like any other grown adult.

That was never going to happen.

Not with the people in her life.

Not when she was surrounded by—

Hens.

Mother hens.

Thirteen of them.

And it all started with the original, the queen mother hen herself: Luna’s actual mother.

The second Luna cracked open her eyes that morning, still groggy from sleep and weighed down by the dull throb in her ear, her phone was already buzzing against the nightstand. She barely had time to sit up before she reached for it, still clumsy with sleep as she swiped to answer.

“Mom?” Her voice was hoarse, thick with sleep.

Her greeting barely made it through before her mother’s voice came barreling through the speakers.

“Jiyeonie-ah! Oh my god, finally! Why didn’t you answer last night? You manger told me everything that happened. Are you okay? Does it still hurt? Are you taking your medicine? Are you lying down? You shouldn’t be lying down too much! Have you eaten? You need to eat something. Wait, you need to drink something first! Hydrate, baby! Oh my god, is Jeonghannie there? He’s there, right? Tell him to make sure you—”

Luna groaned softly, pressing her forehead against her drawn-up knees, the phone balanced between her shoulder and her ear as her mother’s voice rattled off at rapid speed.

“Mom…” she mumbled, still half-asleep. “I’m okay…”

“You don’t sound okay! You sound tired— are you not sleeping enough? You need to rest! That’s the most important thing. And make sure you don’t touch your stitches! Did they give you extra gauze? They should’ve given you extra gauze. What if it gets wet? Do you know how dangerous that is? You—”

Luna yawned. “Mom…”

“What? I’m just worried! You scared me, you know that? When your manager explained everything to me, I almost fainted! You didn’t even call me to tell me you’re hurt— I had to find out from someone else! What if it was worse? What if—”

“Mom.” Luna sighed, shifting slightly against the pillows. “I’m okay. I promise. It doesn’t even hurt that much.”

That was a bit of a lie, her ear was throbbing— but she figured her mother didn’t need to know that.

“That’s what you always say! But then you run around like nothing happened and make it worse! You have to take care of yourself, baby. You can’t just—”

As Luna listened to her mother’s concerned rambling, her fingers idly traced patterns on the duvet. Next to her, Jeonghan was still lying down, his back to her, his face buried into his pillow as if he was still deep in sleep.

But Luna wasn’t stupid. She could see the way his eyes twitched, the barely-there shift of his fingers against the sheets.

He was awake.

More importantly— he was listening.

No, not just listening. He was memorizing.

Every single thing her mother rattled off— every concerned instruction, every reminder, every worried scolding— Jeonghan was filing them all away in his brain, silently taking notes without ever opening his eyes. He wasn’t even pretending to sleep for her benefit. He was pretending for her mother’s.

Luna narrowed her eyes at the back of his head.

Traitor.

She turned her attention back to her phone. “Mommy, I promise I’ll take care of myself,” she reassured, her voice softer now.

Her mother huffed. “You better. And tell Jeonghannie— he better make sure you do!”

At that, Jeonghan shifted slightly, still pretending to sleep, but now suspiciously closer to her. She felt the ghost of a smile twitch at her lips.

“Yeah, yeah,” she sighed. “I’ll tell him.”

And just like that, mother hen number one was handled.

But the second she hung up the call, she barely had a moment to breathe before mother hen number two took his place.

Jeonghan stretched lazily beside her, finally dropping the act as he turned onto his side, blinking up at her through still-heavy lids. His voice was rough with sleep when he murmured, “She’s right, you know.”

Luna groaned, letting her head fall back against the pillows. “Not you too…”

But of course, it was him too.

Mother hen number two was her boyfriend, after all.

And just like always, Jeonghan was careful not to overdo it. He knew how much Luna hated being fussed over, how easily she got annoyed when people hovered too much, so he did what he always did— he made it seem effortless.

After ordering room service for breakfast, he didn’t outright tell her to take her medicine. Instead, he placed the pills next to her orange juice, nudging them closer to her side of the table without a word.

When Luna pouted at him, he just raised an eyebrow.

“You want me to do it for you?” he asked, plucking the pills off the table and holding them up.

Luna rolled her eyes, snatching them from his fingers. “Fine.”

Jeonghan smirked. “Good girl.”

Luna glared at him as she downed them with a sip of juice.

After breakfast, as she got up to head to the bathroom, he reminded her, “Don’t get your stitches wet, Nana-ya.”

Luna sighed, already dragging a hand down her face. “Hannie, it’s my ear. How am I supposed to shower without getting it wet?”

“Easy,” Jeonghan said. “Just wash your body.”

She scrunched her face at that. ��I’m not a caveman like you. I need to wash my hair.”

Jeonghan gave her a look, completely unfazed. “You’re saying that like my hair isn’t prettier than yours.”

Luna gawked at him. “Excuse me?”

“Mm.” Jeonghan leaned back, stretching his arms behind his head. “My hair’s silkier. Shinier. Probably smells better too.”

“Oh my god.” Luna groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose.

Jeonghan just grinned, looking far too smug.

“Han, I’m being serious!” Luna whined. “I need to wash my hair!”

That was when Jeonghan’s expression softened just a little. He sighed, moving closer to cup the back of her neck, his thumb rubbing gentle circles against her skin.

“Go wash your body first,” he murmured, voice softer now. “Don’t get your ear wet. After that, I’ll help you wash your hair.”

Luna frowned, eyes narrowing. “How?”

Jeonghan just patted her backside twice before waving her off toward the bathroom. “Don’t worry about it.”

Still confused, yet trusting, Luna did as he said. She showered like normal— except she only washed her body, carefully avoiding her ear, the stitches still covered by gauze from yesterday.

Once she was done, she wrapped herself in a towel and stepped back into the room— only to find Jeonghan sprawled out on the bed, scrolling on his phone like he had all the time in the world.

“Now what?” Luna asked, tilting her head.

Jeonghan didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he turned his screen off, tossed it onto the bed, and rolled up the sleeves of his hoodie with the kind of lazy precision that should not have looked as good as it did. His eyes flicked toward her, a playful glint in them as he nodded toward the bathroom door.

Luna barely had time to process the moment before Jeonghan gently nudged her toward the bathroom, his fingers curling around her waist as he guided her. She held onto the towel wrapped securely around her body, her brows knitting together in confusion as she glanced back at him.

“Welcome to Salon Yoon,” he drawled, stepping past her to open the door with an exaggerated flourish. “Where we provide premium services for injured girlfriends who don’t know how to listen.”

Luna blinked at him. Then blinked again. “I— what?”

Jeonghan simply hummed, already moving toward the bathroom counter as if this were an entirely normal thing. He grabbed her shampoo and conditioner, setting them down with an air of professionalism that made her squint at him.

“Wait, wait, wait,” she said, stepping inside, the tiles cool beneath her bare feet. “Are you actually serious?”

Jeonghan turned, giving her a look that was so deadpan she almost laughed. “Would I be wearing my professional stylist face if I wasn’t serious?”

“You don’t have a professional stylist face.”

“Exactly,” he shot back smoothly, already reaching for the sink. “Which is why you should be honored that I’m making an exception just for you.”

Luna rolled her eyes but didn’t argue further as he gestured for her to step closer. He was still acting as if he were running a real salon, adjusting the sink nozzle, twisting the water handle slightly, testing the temperature with practiced ease.

“You’re enjoying this way too much,” she muttered as she shuffled forward.

Jeonghan smirked, hands reaching for her shoulders as he gently turned her around and urged her to lean back against the large sink. “Salon Yoon prides itself on customer satisfaction.”

“Salon Yoon is about to get sued for fraud.”

Jeonghan ignored her, his fingers brushing against the nape of her neck as he carefully pulled out the hair tie keeping her damp locks in place. Her hair tumbled down, cascading over his hands, and he hummed in approval as he smoothed his fingers through it.

Then, just as nonchalantly as ever, he leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to her lips.

Luna blinked up at him, momentarily thrown off, her heart skipping a beat. Before she could react, he pulled away, his voice quieter this time as he murmured, “You’re so pretty.”

Her breath hitched slightly, and for a second, she forgot what she was supposed to be doing.

Then Jeonghan tapped her chin lightly. “Now lean back.”

Luna did as she was told, still slightly dazed, reclining against the sink as Jeonghan turned on the water. Warmth trickled down, and she let out a small sigh, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly.

That was until the position started to feel off.

“Hannie,” she mumbled, shifting slightly. “This is… a little weird.”

“You’re fine,” he said absentmindedly, already lathering shampoo between his hands.

“No, I’m not— baby, my back.”

“I thought you were stronger than this,” he mused, fingers working gently through her hair.

Luna let out a short laugh, squirming. “Not when I’m bending backward like I’m in a horror movie! You could’ve at least given me a chair— ah!”

Jeonghan tsked as she nearly jerked up, his grip steadying her. “Stay still.”

“I am still—”

“You’re wiggling.”

“Because this is a stupid position,” she whined, squirming again.

Jeonghan sighed heavily, like she was the one being difficult, as if he wasn’t the one who decided this was a good idea. His fingers pressed lightly into her scalp, massaging in small circles, which was almost enough to make her forget the discomfort.

Almost.

“Yoon Jeonghan.”

“Hm?”

“My neck hurts.”

Jeonghan exhaled sharply through his nose, biting back a laugh as he continued working the shampoo into her hair. “You’re so dramatic.”

“You’re literally torturing me right now.”

“Oh? Should I stop then?”

“No,” Luna admitted, sinking further against him. Then she wrapped her arms around his torso, clinging onto him like a lifeline as she let out another giggle. “I need to hold onto something. This is ridiculous.”

Jeonghan, to his credit, barely faltered. He merely looked down at her, the corners of his lips twitching as he muttered, “You’re being so needy right now.”

Luna peeked up at him, grinning. “But you love me.”

A long pause.

“…Unfortunately.”

Luna gasped dramatically, smacking his side as he chuckled. “Take that back!”

“Nope,” Jeonghan said, still laughing, still diligently lathering the shampoo through her strands. “Now, stop moving before you make me mess up and I get shampoo in your stitches.”

Luna huffed, resting her forehead against his stomach. “You’re lucky this feels nice.”

“I know I am.”

She groaned, but there was no real bite behind it. Jeonghan, the absolute menace, was clearly trying not to laugh again, his fingers still gently carding through her hair.

And somehow, despite the weird position, despite the fact that she knew he was going to milk this for all it was worth later— Luna couldn’t help but smile.

Soon, the sound of water running over her hair gradually softened before stopping altogether.

Jeonghan’s fingers, which had been threading through her strands with the utmost care, gave one final pass before he reached for the faucet handle.

“And… done,” he announced, his voice laced with satisfaction. “You’ve officially survived the first— and last— session of Salon Yoon.”

Luna blinked up at him, her vision still slightly skewed from being in such an awkward position for so long. She tried shifting, but the second she attempted to lift herself up, a dull ache shot through her lower back, and her muscles refused to cooperate.

A slow, dreadful realization dawned on her.

“…Hannie,” she said, her voice small, lips curving into a pout.

He was already reaching for a towel when he hummed in response. “Hm?”

“I’m stuck.”

Jeonghan stilled.

Luna flailed her arms weakly. “I literally can’t get up.”

Silence.

Then, the corners of Jeonghan’s lips quirked as a knowing look crossed his face. Amusement twinkled in his eyes, but instead of teasing her immediately, he exhaled through his nose and softened, tilting his head.

“Ah, my poor baby,” he cooed, setting the towel down as he moved closer. His hand reached for the back of her neck, fingers warm and gentle as they curved around the delicate skin there. His other hand slid to the small of her back, applying just enough pressure to support her as he effortlessly lifted her upright, treating her like she was nothing more than a fragile newborn.

Luna let out a breath, her head falling forward to rest in the crook of his neck. The stiffness in her back and neck throbbed faintly as she adjusted to being upright again, but Jeonghan just held her there without a word.

“Poor thing,” he murmured, rubbing slow, soothing circles against the nape of her neck. His tone was teasing but filled with quiet affection, the kind that made warmth bloom in her chest. “Did my baby hurt herself again?”

Luna huffed against his skin, refusing to answer.

Jeonghan smiled, letting her stay nestled against him for as long as she needed. He didn’t even complain when her wet hair dampened his hoodie— he simply reached for a dry towel and began carefully patting her strands, drying them as gently as he had washed them.

For a moment, they stayed like that, wrapped in a comfortable silence.

Luna closed her eyes, letting herself melt into the feeling of his hands in her hair.

But before she could get too lost in the warmth, Jeonghan suddenly shifted.

“Alright,” he said, his tone light. Before she could process what was happening, his hands found her waist, and in one smooth motion, he lifted her onto the bathroom counter.

Luna blinked, momentarily thrown off. “What—?”

“It’s time to change your gauze,” Jeonghan said simply, reaching for the medical kit they had left on the counter the night before.

Luna let out a small groan, tilting her head back slightly. “Ugh. Already?”

“Doctor’s orders,” Jeonghan reminded her, opening the kit with ease. Then, his gaze flickered back to her, softer now. “Do you want me to do it, or do you want to do it yourself?”

His voice was gentle— no pressure, no assumptions. Just a quiet understanding of her independence.

Luna appreciated that about him.

She exhaled, considering for a moment before nodding. “You can do it.”

Jeonghan didn’t hesitate. The second she gave her approval, he was already gathering the gauze and antiseptic, his movements precise and steady. He worked in silence at first, carefully peeling away the old gauze just as they were instructed the day before.

Luna barely winced, but even the slightest flinch didn’t go unnoticed.

Jeonghan clicked his tongue, his free hand coming up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Shhh. Almost done.”

Luna pressed her lips together as he dabbed the antiseptic along the stitches, the sting mild but annoying. “It’s not that bad.”

Jeonghan hummed, unconvinced. “Says the same person who just got stuck bending backward.”

Luna scowled. “That was your fault.”

He chuckled but didn’t argue, too focused on securing the new gauze properly. “You’re doing great,” he murmured absentmindedly, his voice dipping into something softer.

Luna found herself watching him closely.

He had always been like this— playful and mischievous in most cases, but when it truly mattered, when it came to taking care of the people he loved, there was no one gentler than Yoon Jeonghan.

A few more seconds passed before he finally gave a satisfied nod. “All done.”

Luna sighed in relief. “Thank you, Jeongie.”

Jeonghan smiled, leaning in to press a light kiss to her lips. “Of course.”

The kiss was brief, but it was enough to make her heartbeat stutter. She reached for him before he could pull away completely, her arms looping around his neck as she tugged him back in.

Jeonghan didn’t resist.

His hands found their way to the counter, resting on either side of her hips, effectively trapping her there. Their lips met again, this time slower, deeper, the familiar rhythm of their movements melting into something effortless.

Luna sighed into the kiss, fingers threading into his hair as she tilted her head slightly to deepen it. Jeonghan exhaled, his hands flexing against the counter before one of them lifted to rest against her thigh, his thumb brushing idly over her skin.

Soft, unhurried, lingering.

When they finally pulled away, Jeonghan smiled. “See? You did survive Salon Yoon.”

Luna let out a breathy laugh, resting her forehead against his. “Barely.”

He chuckled before stepping back, giving her room to hop off the counter. As she straightened up, he stretched, rolling out his shoulders.

“Well, I’m gonna shower. We need to leave soon,” he announced casually, shaking out his arms as if preparing for a marathon. Then, with a playful smirk, he threw her a look over his shoulder. “You should wash my hair next.”

Luna snorted, crossing her arms. “Not a chance.”

Jeonghan gasped, dramatically clutching his chest. “What? After everything I did for you? This is the gratitude I get?”

Luna raised an eyebrow. “Did I ask for a salon appointment?”

“You needed it.”

“You forced me into it.”

Jeonghan sighed heavily, shaking his head. “Such a cruel, cruel girlfriend I have.”

Luna rolled her eyes, walking past him as she grabbed her clothes. “Salon Yoon is officially blacklisted.”

Jeonghan smirked. “Shame. I was gonna offer a full-body massage tonight.”

Luna paused mid-step, then slowly turned to look at him.

Jeonghan’s smirk widened.

“…Fine,” she muttered, pretending to think about it. “But only if I get to charge you next time.”

Jeonghan chuckled, already making his way toward the shower. “Oh, baby. You owe me for this.”

Luna groaned, throwing a towel at him before disappearing into the closet to change.

Jeonghan’s laughter echoed behind her.

Once Luna and Jeonghan were dressed and ready, it wasn’t long before their manager called out to them— it was time to go.

Stepping out of their room together, they barely made it a few steps down the hallway before Luna was immediately intercepted.

A flurry of movement surrounded her, and in the blink of an eye, Jeonghan found himself standing alone as his girlfriend was unceremoniously taken from his side by a group of very determined mother hens.

“Okay, that’s enough of you,” Seungkwan announced dramatically, stepping between Luna and Jeonghan like a bouncer separating two unruly patrons. “It’s our turn.”

Before Jeonghan could so much as blink, a force stronger than gravity itself— otherwise known as the collective will of SEVENTEEN— swept Luna into their embrace, effectively cutting him off.

Mingyu wasted no time gently slinging an arm over her shoulder as he walked with her toward the elevators, eyeing her with a look of exaggerated concern. “Are you sure you’re okay? You’re not dizzy? Nauseous? Seeing stars?”

“No,” Luna laughed, playfully rolling her eyes. “I feel fine.”

“Are you lying?” Joshua teased, nudging her gently as they walked. “Because you know we’ll find out.”

Luna let out an exasperated sigh, though the corners of her lips twitched with amusement. “I’m seriously okay, guys.”

“Good,” Dokyeom said, squeezing her other shoulder. “But just in case, you should hold onto me. I’m very strong.”

Jeonghan, who had been completely sidelined, raised an eyebrow at them from a few steps behind. “You guys do realize she has an actual boyfriend, right?”

“Yeah, yeah, and she sees you all the time,” Hoshi waved him off dismissively, linking his arm with Luna’s other side. “She’s ours right now.”

Luna let out a laugh as she was guided into the elevator, the members practically barricading her in.

“You see her all the time too,” Jeonghan sighed in amusement, shaking his head as the doors closed on them.

The members were even more careful with Luna than usual as they made their way out of the hotel and toward their designated vans.

Joshua kept a firm but gentle hand on her back, ensuring no one accidentally bumped into her as they walked. Jun and Wonwoo walked slightly ahead, subtly making sure the path was clear. Even Dino, usually the one being mothered by her, was extra attentive, keeping an eye on her from the side.

Mingyu, still acting as her unofficial bodyguard, turned to their security detail with a completely serious face. “If you see anyone looking at her too hard, just… take them out.”

Luna snorted. “Gyu-Gyu.”

“What?” He shrugged. “You’re injured. You deserve extra protection.”

Despite the humor, she could feel the underlying care in their actions. Every touch was softer, every glance filled with quiet concern. They didn’t hover obnoxiously, but they were there— just in case.

By the time they arrived at the stadium, they naturally fell into their pre-show routine. Everyone went their separate ways to prepare— some warming up their voices, others stretching, a few sitting on the couches, simply lounging on theirs.

Luna, as always, took her time checking her equipment.

Her backup in-ears were waiting for her, neatly placed inside a small black case. Unlike her main ones, which had exploded during yesterday’s rehearsal, these were brand new— freshly made and double-checked by the staff.

Still, as she stared down at them, her fingers hesitated for a split second before picking them up.

She was lying if she said she wasn’t traumatized.

She knew logically that today’s soundcheck would be fine. The staff had reassured her multiple times that everything was double and triple-checked, that the malfunction had been an unfortunate freak accident.

But still.

The memory of the sudden pop, the sharp pain, the ringing in her ears— it wasn’t something she could just shake off overnight.

As if sensing her hesitation, Seungcheol appeared beside her, his presence grounding as he leaned down slightly to catch her gaze.

“They’re brand new,” he told her softly, motioning toward the in-ears. “I promise you, they’re safe.”

Luna exhaled slowly before nodding. “I know. I just…” She trailed off, biting her lip.

Seungcheol nodded in understanding, his voice gentle. “You’re allowed to feel nervous about it.”

Luna let out a small, self-deprecating chuckle. “It’s dumb.”

“It’s not,” he reassured her immediately. “It was scary. It makes sense that you’re still shaken up.”

She let out another breath, this time a little steadier.

“You only have to wear one, right?” he asked.

She nodded. “Yeah, left ear only. Doctor’s orders.”

“Okay,” Seungcheol smiled. “Then let’s put it in together.”

He held out his hand, palm up. Luna stared at it for a moment before smiling softly and placing her in-ear in his palm. With careful precision, he helped her put on the device.

“There,” he said, voice warm. “See? All good.”

Luna smiled. “All good.”

Seungcheol grinned and gave her a gentle nudge. “You’re gonna do great as always.”

She met his gaze, feeling the warmth of his reassurance settle over her. “Thank you, Cheollie.”

“Anytime,” he said, patting her back before standing up. “Now let’s go kill soundcheck.”

Luna inhaled deeply, exhaled just as slow, then nodded.

“Let’s do it.”

The time had finally come.

Luna took a deep breath as she sat in front of the mirror, checking herself one last time before they stepped onto the stage for soundcheck. Her fingers instinctively reached for her hair, carefully pulling strands forward to drape over her right ear. She needed to keep it covered.

Not because she was ashamed or embarrassed, but because the last thing she wanted was for this to become an even bigger deal than it already was.

Their fans— Carats— were always so incredibly attentive, always noticing the smallest details. If they saw her without her right in-ear, if they saw even a glimpse of the gauze covering her injury, they would worry. And she didn’t want that.

Satisfied with how her hair fell naturally over the side of her face, she reached for her sunglasses, slipping them on gently.

The Bangkok sun was relentless, the heat pressing against the hotel windows all day, and she knew stepping onto that stage would be no different. But the glasses served another purpose too. Her eyes were still slightly puffy from crying yesterday. The pain had been one thing, but the sheer shock of what had happened—her in-ear exploding mid-rehearsal— had shaken her more than she let on. She could still hear the sharp ringing that had followed, the way the force had left her momentarily stunned, the warmth of the blood trickling down her ear before anyone even realized what had happened.

Luna inhaled deeply and let it out slowly.

It’s fine. She was fine.

Dressed casually in a black sleeveless vest and comfortable denim jeans, Luna stood up from her seat, stretching her arms as she turned to the others. The atmosphere in the waiting room was its usual pre-soundcheck mix of excitement and ease. Some members were doing last-minute vocal warm-ups, others were adjusting their own in-ear monitors or joking around to shake off any fatigue.

The familiar routine was comforting, grounding.

Soon, their manager peeked in, giving the signal.

It was time.

As they made their way to the stage, Luna adjusted her mic pack, careful not to tug at the wires too much. Jeonghan, who had been walking beside her, reached for her hand, squeezing it briefly before letting go. A silent reassurance. He knew she was pushing through it, and he knew better than anyone when she needed quiet support rather than words. She gave him a small smile in return.

Then, the moment they stepped onto the stage, a wave of energy hit them.

The floor seat VIP ticket holders— who had been let in earlier than the general audience— were already waiting. The second the members appeared, the crowd erupted into cheers, waves of arms lifting phones into the air to capture the moment. Some fans waved frantically, while others simply stared in awe, taking in the sight of SEVENTEEN under the daylight, dressed down in their casual clothes, looking effortlessly cool even in their relaxed state.

Luna smiled, lifting her hand to wave as she followed the others onto the main stage. Soundcheck was always casual, a chance for them to run through a few songs, interact with the early audience, and test the equipment one last time before the actual concert.

The familiar opening beats of their first song played through the speakers, and immediately, they all fell into their natural rhythm, singing as they moved around the stage freely.

Everything was going smoothly.

Luna crouched near the edge of the stage, reaching down to interact with a fan holding a sign with her name on it, flashing a bright smile as she waved. The fan looked ecstatic, practically jumping in place.

Just as she was about to move, she heard loud laughter from behind her. Turning her head, she caught sight of Hoshi and Seungkwan sprinting across the stage, their voices ringing out in exaggerated yells as they chased each other.

She couldn’t help but laugh.

Shaking her head at their antics, she pushed herself up from her crouched position. And in that exact moment, the wind picked up.

Unbeknownst to her, the strands of hair she had so carefully placed to shield her injury were swept back, exposing her right ear. She had already turned away, walking back towards the others, completely unaware that a few fans had caught sight of what she had been trying to keep hidden.

The gauze was unmistakable.

At first, there was a flicker of confusion among the audience. Some fans turned to each other, whispering, their eyes darting between Luna and their phone screens, zooming in to confirm what they had just seen.

Then, voices began rising, overlapping in concern.

“Jiyeonie-ah, are you okay?”

“What happened to her ear?”

“Is she hurt?”

The murmurs grew, but the music was still playing, and the members were already waving their goodbyes, preparing to head backstage. Luna, still completely oblivious to the commotion, continued waving at the crowd before following the others offstage.

But the news spread fast.

The VIP fans who had been inside, the first to witness it, were already posting online. Tweets flooded in, accompanied by blurry screenshots and shaky videos from the soundcheck.

“Wait… I think Luna is injured?? She wasn’t wearing her right in-ear, and I swear I saw a bandage on her ear???”

“Omg I was there, she looked fine but her ear definitely had gauze on it…”

“WHY IS NO ONE TALKING ABOUT THIS, IS SHE OKAY?!”

“I HOPE IT’S NOTHING SERIOUS, PLEASE SOMEONE CONFIRM???”

“I feel sick. What if she’s in pain and she’s just pushing through it… PLEDIS SAY SOMETHING.”

The conversation spread like wildfire. The fans outside the stadium— who had been waiting to enter— caught wind of it and immediately started discussing it amongst themselves. Fans at home, across the globe, who hadn’t even seen the soundcheck yet, were already trending Luna’s name, demanding answers.

It escalated so quickly that PLEDIS had no choice but to release an official statement.

Hello.

This is PLEDIS Entertainment.

We would like to inform you about SEVENTEEN member Luna’s current health status and her activities moving forward.

On September 30, Luna sustained an injury to her right ear due to a mechanical malfunction during rehearsals. The incident occurred when her in-ear monitor suffered an unexpected technical failure, resulting in a minor explosion. She was immediately attended to by the on-site medical staff and received prompt treatment.

Following thorough medical examinations, it has been confirmed that while she sustained an injury to the upper right ear, there is no damage to her hearing. Luna has been advised to wear protective covering over the affected area and will be using a backup in-ear monitor for her performances moving forward.

Despite the injury, Luna has expressed her strong desire to continue participating in the scheduled performances. After receiving medical clearance, she will be performing at today’s concert as planned. However, PLEDIS Entertainment and SEVENTEEN will be prioritizing her health, and adjustments may be made as necessary.

We sincerely thank the fans for their concern and support for Luna’s well-being. We will continue to monitor her condition and ensure she receives the necessary care.

Thank you.

The statement was meant to reassure fans, but it only fueled the discussion further. Theories, reactions, and messages of concern flooded social media. While some fans were relieved to hear that she was cleared to perform, others were frustrated that she was pushing through the injury at all. Debates sparked, some arguing that she should rest, while others trusted her decision to perform.

But one thing was certain— everyone was watching.

And that’s what everyone did— watch.

The members watched as Luna sat in front of the mirror, getting ready, their eyes subtly flicking toward her every few minutes. They watched as the makeup artist worked delicately around her face, avoiding any unnecessary movements that might jostle her injury. They watched as her hairstylist carefully sectioned her hair, keeping it loose enough to frame her face but firm enough to stay in place, ensuring that no accidental brush of fingers or tools would graze her ear.

They watched.

Luna felt it. She didn’t acknowledge it, didn’t tease them about it the way she usually would, but she felt it.

Their eyes, their concern, their restraint.

Even in the smallest actions— Jeonghan handing her a bottle of water without her needing to ask, Mingyu hovering close whenever she moved as if ready to steady her, Hoshi’s usual playful banter softened just a little, less teasing, more quiet support— they were watching.

She focused on the routine. Foundation, light but enough to cover any signs of exhaustion. Eyeshadow, a soft shimmer that caught the light just right. Lipstick, a natural pink shade that enhanced her smile. Every brushstroke was careful, every movement measured. Her stylist secured her in-ear monitor in her left ear, making sure the wire was tucked neatly behind her, while her right ear remained bare, hidden beneath the natural fall of her hair.

As if nothing had happened.

And when it was time— when the lights dimmed, the crowd’s screams rumbled through the stadium like thunder, and the members gathered in their final huddle before stepping on stage— they all knew the act would become reality.

The moment the music hit, the moment their feet touched the stage, everything else would fade.

And that’s exactly what happened.

The fans watched.

They watched as Luna emerged under the bright lights, her presence commanding, her energy unwavering. They watched as she moved, as she danced with the same precision and fire as always, as if nothing had happened. They watched as her voice rang through the stadium, clear and powerful, as if she hadn’t spent hours the day before wincing in pain.

They watched as the members gravitated toward her, as if by instinct.

How Jeonghan naturally positioned himself beside her during their line where he usually didn’t. How Seungcheol subtly glanced her way between lines, making sure she was keeping up without strain. How Joshua smiled at her every chance he got, quiet reassurance in the form of a familiar gaze. How Hoshi toned down his usual playful shoves, how Dino kept close whenever formations shifted, how even Vernon— who usually kept to himself— would linger nearby.

The fans watched.

They watched as Luna’s face appeared on the big screen, her smile lighting up the entire venue. The cheers were deafening, a mix of excitement and relief, because they knew. They knew she was hurt. They knew she wasn’t supposed to be resting, and yet here she was— dancing, singing, smiling, like nothing had happened.

And Luna, knowing that they knew, took a deep breath between songs, stepping toward the mic as the crowd quieted just enough to hear her.

“I’m okay. I promise.”

She chuckled softly, her voice light, reassuring. The fans screamed in response, some laughing, some yelling back, some probably scolding her in their own way. But she knew they understood. She wasn’t going to let them worry. Not tonight.

So they watched.

They watched as she continued, giving every move, every note, every moment her all.

101%, just like she always did.

Because that was where she belonged. On that stage, in front of them, giving everything she had.

And as they watched, they were simply glad.

Glad she was still there.

Glad she wasn’t too badly hurt.

Glad she was Luna— just as brilliant, just as unstoppable as ever.

Luna was just as glad.

Glad that she had them.

Glad that through all the pain, the exhaustion, the momentary fear of not knowing if she would even be able to stand on this stage tonight— she had made it.

And she wasn’t alone.

She felt it in the way the fans screamed her name, their voices layered with excitement, relief, and something deeper— an unspoken promise that they were with her, no matter what.

She saw it in the way their lightsticks waved in perfect synchronization, the entire stadium glowing like a sky full of stars, a constellation drawn just for them.

She read it in their signs, hastily written messages that said things like ‘Luna, we love you!’ and ‘Don’t push yourself too hard!’

They were worried, she knew. And yet, they were still here, still cheering, still supporting her like they always had.

She was glad she had them.

She was glad she wasn’t hurt worse. The pain was there— lingering, dull in some moments and sharp in others— but it wasn’t enough to break her. The wound on her ear throbbed beneath the gauze, a quiet reminder of what had happened, but she could still sing. She could still dance. She could still stand under these lights and give her all.

And she was glad she had them.

Her members. Her family.

She felt it in the way Seungcheol watched her out of the corner of his eye, in the way Jeonghan subtly brushed against her shoulder whenever they crossed paths on stage, as if to remind her he was there. She saw it in the way Joshua would smile at her just a second longer, in the way Mingyu offered his hand to help her down from a platform when she didn’t even need it.

She heard it in the way Seungkwan and Hoshi made an extra joke just to make her laugh, in the way Dokyeom sang to her a little louder when their voices harmonized, in the way Minghao and Jun still hyped her up between songs like nothing had changed.

She felt it in how Vernon, Wonwoo, and Woozi, usually quiet and reserved, made sure to linger near her during breaks. How Dino, the youngest, made sure to carry the energy just a little more, as if silently telling her that he would cover for her, just in case.

She was loved.

Not just by the fans who cheered for her. Not just by the members who watched over her. But by all of them, in ways both big and small, in ways that filled every corner of her heart.

Luna was glad.

Glad that through everything, no matter what, she had them.

Glad that she was loved by them.

ೃ⁀➷ comment or message me to be added to the tag list :)

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ SUBMIT A REQUEST AND ASK ME ANYTHING!

: ̗̀➛ requests are always open ♡ - lunaఌ

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yazzwrites6962 · 3 months ago

Note

please write more of your niragi fanfic!! i really loved it and im addicted to your writing!! 💗💗

Redemption ♡ Suguru Niragi ♡ Part Three

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ Suguru Niragi x Fem!Reader ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

Part Two: Here

Part Four: Here

Author's Note: UNEDITED! Not much Niragi is mentioned in this chapter. It's mostly you, Chishiya, and Kuina bonding! I know this chapter is pretty short. I promise I'm working on more! I should have the next chapter for this out pretty soon. I don't own any characters or images!

Genre: A little angsty

Summary: After your last game, you're left swirling with the pain of betrayal. Luckily, you have Kuina and Chishiya to help you recover.

Word Count: 2029

Warnings: OOC Chishiya and Niragi, talk of injury, blood, and betrayal

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Trust and loyalty. The two most difficult things to find in the Borderlands. In a world overwhelmed by betrayal and death, rarely anyone was stupid enough to whole-heartedly believe in the goodwill of another person.

Except, you did.

You trusted Niragi, for some silly reason. Despite all the warnings, you had faith in him. You truly believed he was just misunderstood. When you called out to him for help, you believed he would he there to give it to you.

Then you watched him walk away. As your blood ran down your arms and you were so close to making it out, you watched him turn his back on you. It was only a matter of seconds now before death would find you. It was sickening. The pit in your stomach felt bottomless.

You wanted to wait. See what kind of unfunny prank this was and scold him for joking with you at a time like this, but you couldn't afford such a blunder. You couldn't afford to waste valuable seconds waiting for a man to rescue you.

No, not a man.

A beast.

That's what he is.

You couldn't just wait to die. You had to endure. You were so close, even without Niragi's help. Maybe you could still make it. Maybe you could still get out alive and hate Niragi for the rest of your life for this. You pushed yourself further, the barbs on your rope digging into your soft flesh as you reached for safety.

You couldn't see. You couldn't breathe. There was only pain. The sting of betrayal made it no easier to endure, but somehow, you endured. You clawed your way to the top, finally completing the deathly challenge, without the help of the man you thought was your friend.

Resilient. You'd learned to be resilient.

You hazily found your key and pushed through your door. Your mind was foggy, and you couldn't remember much. You were surviving on pure impulse. You could only hear the sound of your heart beating in your ears.

The heart. Such a silly thing. A symbol for all sorts of a range of emotion. So complex, but so simple. Its only job to pump blood through a vessel of flesh. Your heart. How badly you wished you could tear it out, to rid yourself of the rhythmic thumping deception in your skull.

Then, your vision went black. Yet, your heartbeat endured.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

You felt your soft sheets beneath you as an echo of hushed voices surrounded you. Your body ached, and your head felt heavier than usual. Your eyes peeked open, and you were thankful to find yourself in your room with Chishiya and Kuina by your sides.

"Y/N!" Kuina cried, seeing your eyes open a crack. You attempt to sit up, putting pressure on your injured palm. The pain is excruciating, and you fall onto your back once more. Kuina gingerly helps you sit up, positioning you against the headboard.

You're covered in bandages. Around your chest, neck, arms, and legs. You feel almost like a mummy, wrapped and restrained in horrible memories. Memories? Memories! Memories come flooding back to you. Hazy, but painful memories.

"Shinji! Did he make it out?" You suddenly recall the young boy who you had grown fond of during your game. Kuina and Chishiya give you a confused look, as if not really knowing who you're referring to. Of course, they wouldn't know. The Beach is filled with hundreds of people.

"What happened during your game?" Chishiya inquired calmly. "You lost far too much blood for a person of your stature. Luckily your injuries were nowhere near fatal."

"Did you patch me up?" You study the wrappings around your body. They look clean. Professionally done. Chishiya shrugged, as if not really wanting to answer your question. "My game... It had three stages. I got these from the last one. I had to... I had to climb a rope that resembled barbed wire. I tried to wrap up my hands, but it didn't work exactly."

"I'm just glad you made it out." Kuina sighed. How did you make it out? You don't remember much. Only the pain and frustration you felt as you hoisted yourself up the rope. You vaguely recall the key, and your bloody fumbling hands pushing through your door seconds before the game was over.

"Niragi. He made it out, right?" You ask, your voice sounding weak. He left you there, struggling. Why? Why would he betray you like that? Just when you'd thought you were getting through to a softer side of him.

"He's the one who brought you back." Chishiya spoke up. "He carried you back to your room while you were unconscious." Kuina nodded, leaning forward to add on to Chishiya's statements.

"Chishiya and I noticed him hauling you up the stairs. We followed you guys all the way back here. We thought maybe he was going to... Do something to you, but no. He just left you here with us."

You hum, not revealing what had happened between you and Niragi during the game. Silence filled the room as your mind raced. Chishiya stared at you quizzically.

"Are you hungry?" Kuina stood, picking up a plate from the table in the corner of your room. "You missed breakfast, and lunch. We didn't want to wake you, but we brought you food."

"Thanks." You muttered softly, taking the plate from her. The food was cold, but you didn't have much of an appetite anyway. "You guys are great friends. I appreciate you." Kuina uncomfortably shifted, glancing at Chishiya. He stood; his hands hidden in his pockets as usual.

"We will give you space to rest." He said, removing a hand from his pocket to wave Kuina towards the door. "Should you need anything, you know where to find us."

With that, the pair exit your room. You're alone, with a pile of cold food and a sore body. You now understand that you can't fully trust Niragi, as much as you wanted to.

Yet, you would've never guessed the conversation going on right outside your door.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

"Chishiya..." Kuina whined as your door shut. She didn't need to elaborate further on her thoughts. Chishiya already knew what she was going to say.

Betrayal. Every relationship you had made in the Borderlands thus far was built a foundation for betrayal, and you were entirely unaware of it all.

"We do not need to discuss this here." He began walking down the hallway, Kuina trailing behind him. She twiddled with her fingers nervously.

"She's nice. She's a good person. We can find someone else. Anyone else. You pick anyone else, and I promise I'll just go along with it." She pleaded.

"Kuina." Chishiya scolded, glaring at her. "We can explore your proposition. Just not here." Kuina's face lit up, now knowing that Chishiya was considering using someone else for the plan.

"Thank you." She sighed with relief, recalling your limp, fragile body being carried back to your room. She simply couldn't betray your trust like that.

"I don't consider it for your sake." Chishiya replied shortly. Kuina's better judgement told her not to question what this meant.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

It felt like you'd been couped up in your room for an eternity. Kuina would bring you meals, and Chishiya often checked on your bandages. Fortunately, he claimed you were "healing nicely". All you had to pass the time were a couple of books and a sketchpad.

"I'm bored." You complained while shoveling food into your mouth. "I feel fine enough to walk and all. Can't I just go out and enjoy the sun by the pool?"

"Swallow your food before you begin speaking." Chishiya rolled his eyes. "Your wounds aren't entirely healed. While you are making good progress, it could still get infected. Imagine that disgusting pool water making its way into your bandages."

"The things people do in that pool are disgusting." Kuina sticks her tongue out, slumping beside you on the bed. "I can't even imagine what kind of germs are in that water. Does anyone even clean the pool?"

"Tatta does." Chishiya adds. In the past few days, he has grown slightly more talkative than usual. You find it pleasant to see Chishiya opening up more.

"I don't have to go by the pool. Just on a walk, or something." You finally swallow your mouthful of food. "I promise I'll be careful, and I won't run into any trouble."

"Why do you try to appeal to us?" Chishiya raises an eyebrow. "I'm not your keeper. I only advise that you remain here and rest. Yet, you are an adult who can make her own decisions."

"I don't know." You giggle, shifting yourself so your legs hang off the edge of the bed. "I guess you two are kind of like... Parents? Mama y Papa, y'know?" Chishiya and Kuina flash disgusted looks at one another.

"Okay, Y/N. Maybe you do need some fresh air. You're losing it in here." Kuina chuckles, helping you out of bed. Had they not found painkillers for you, you would be in agony.

Chishiya left the room as Kuina helped you get dressed. As much as you tried to hide it under your cardigan, your bandages still showed through your bathing suit.

"You still look beautiful." Kuina smiled, giving you a gentle hug and trying to be mindful of your injuries. "Now c'mon. We'll accompany you on your little outing."

"We will?" Chishiya groaned from outside the door. You laugh as you turn the knob, coming face to face with the blonde. He looks as though he would rather be anywhere, but out on a walk with you and Kuina.

"We will." Kuina huffed, interlocking her arm with yours carefully. "Don't be such a party pooper. Y/N is still hurt. Besides, it'll probably do you some good too."

Chishiya shrugs, shifting his hands comfortably in his pockets, before following you and Kuina down the hall. The stairs were a bit tricky, but you felt incredibly accomplished making your way all the way down to the ground floor.

As you make it through the doors of the building, you took a deep breath. The windows in your room didn't really open, so it was nice to feel fresh air filling your lungs.

You and Kuina dominated the conversation, chatting about life as the three of you walked through the front garden. Chishiya listened and followed along from behind.

"I'm still worried." You say, watching people pass you by. "I haven't seen Shinji at all. You know, the boy from my game?" Your eyes drop to the ground as you continue. "I... I don't think he had the time to make it. He was so... Young?"

"I'm sorry, Y/N." Kuina comforts. "It's cruel. What happens in these games... It's not fair. It's like all the best people are getting hurt and killed."

"I was unconscious the whole way back here. I don't know what happened. I don't know if he made it back to the car or anything." You sigh, carefully rotating your body as you and Kuina turn a corner.

"Ask." Chishiya finally spoke for the first time during the walk. Both you and Kuina turn your head to face him, questioningly. "Ask if he made it back to the car, if it's weighing so heavy on you."

"Who would I even ask?" You scoff. Your mind wandered back to who was in the car with you. The only person you really knew was Niragi, and you were terrified at the thought of facing him again.

"Him?" Chishiya motioned to somewhere ahead of you. You turned your head forward again, facing the direction he was pointing your attention towards.

Several meters away, stood Niragi. The one person you didn't want to see. His gun was slung over his shoulder, and he stared directly back at you.

Did he remember how he watched you struggle? Did he see the blood running down your arms as you reached to him for help? What was he thinking when he turned away from you?

And what was he thinking as he began to walk towards you now?

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gojoest · 11 months ago

Text

the one with the waiter — gojo satoru

— a lunch date gone wrong, or maybe not so…

established relationship (you’re married), gn! reader, fluff/crack, dealing with your husband’s shenanigans

a/n: i said i would be doing regular short stories with satoru to challenge my motivation to write so here’s the first one! the way i’ll be naming the titles is obviously inspired by the tv show friends :>

“satoru”, you glared at your husband from across the table after the waiter was done taking your orders.

“yes, my love”, satoru beamed at you.

“do you mind explaining what that was all about?”, you put in extra effort to keep your voice low while forcing a casual smile. you were in public after all — and compared to your husband, you were not one to make a scene in front of other people who were definitely not there to pay for a side of couple’s quarrel from the next table to go with their lunch.

“what do you mean?”, he asked, confusion written on his face, “are you mad because i ordered only desserts?”

“no”, you swiped your fingertips through your forehead and then put your hand back on the table. “you were really rude to the waiter”

“oh, that”, he made it sound like it was a distant memory he just remembered, “that’s because he was flirting with you. he should be grateful that i only asked for someone else to wait our table after he’s done taking our orders”, he clenched his fists. the vein on his forehead was more visible than ever and looked like it would pop any moment if he kept furrowing his brows any harder than he already was. what was there to be so mad about, you wondered.

“you told him to get lost…..”, you shook your head disapprovingly, “like, did i miss something there? when did he exactly flirt with me?”, you scoffed in disbelief, crossing your arms and leaning back against your chair.

“he was taking notes about you and he kept looking at you only with that idiotic lovesick smile on his idiotic face”, satoru said through gritted teeth, nervously shaking his leg under the table which inevitably, due to his long ass limbs, led to the table shaking too as his knee was bumping beneath the wooden surface.

all eyes in the restaurant were on you now, everyone turning around to see what was going on with the two of you — which was exactly what you were dreading.

you took a sip of your water to give yourself a few seconds to recollect your sanity and keep it under control while you try to calm your delusional husband down. “first of all, stop with the leg shaking, please — you’re bothering everyone”

he immediately ceased. pursed his lips and looked down at his lap, ready to be lectured like a child.

“the guy was not taking notes about me — he was writing down my order. that’s what waiters do, baby. they write stuff down so they don’t mess it up and serve you something else you didn’t order.”, you sighed.

“he didn’t do that with me though”, satoru uttered through a pout.

“that’s because there were three deserts on the menu and you ordered them all. that’s not very hard to remember”

“but he kept staring at you with that stupid smile. only i can look at you with a stupid lovesick smile…”

“he did not look at me with a lovesick smile, satoru. you were shooting him death glares, baby. the guy didn’t know what to do. he got all nervous and sweaty trying to avoid eye contact with you, so he kept staring at me….”, your voice grew softer as you went on and on until you ended your explanation with a light chuckle while leaning in and sliding your hand towards his side of the table only for his hand to quickly meet you midway and cup itself around yours.

“i just hope he won’t get in trouble because of what you did…”, you continued, genuinely concerned.

“well”, he looked at you, a mischievous grin sparkling in his eyes, “here’s the deal — if you lose the chair and come sit on my lap for the rest of our lunch, i’ll make sure he keeps his job”

“oh, you…”, a gasp left your mouth but you didn’t quite know what to say after that. at this point you were not really sure if this was simply an awkward accident or a perfectly scripted scenario by your dearly beloved husband aimed to make you sit on his lap in a restaurant full of people. either way, you had to close the deal.

#ઈઉ — ai writes #[ ♡ ] — satoru #gojo x reader #gojo satoru x reader #jjk x reader #jjk fluff

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januaryembrs · 10 months ago

Note

Hi!! Could I please order a spicy hot chocolate for Spencer Reid? (Like you know, the ones that people put cayenne pepper in?!)

You’re an incredible writer and human!

BROTHER'S BEST FRIEND | Spencer Reid x Reader

description: your brother brings home his dorky college classmate, Spencer

length: 2.5k

warnings: spicy, SMUT (omg Em attempts smut and even then its pretty tame but why are my hands shaking), minors dni! heed my warnings this is not for you minors!! nipple stuff, mens genitalia mentioned, Spencer and reader get horny for one another oop. I really hope this is okay I've literally written smut once and even then I second guessed myself so much. SEASON ONE GLASSES SPENCE. BROTHER'S BEST FRIEND SPENCE. smut under the cut.

You felt eyes on you without even having to turn where you were stuffing laundry into the washing machine, your face sweaty with the midsummer heat.

“Jesus Christ, you look like Hot Topic threw up on you,” Your brother’s voice resounded as two sets of footsteps entered the kitchen, and someone cleared their throat where you were bent over, denim shorts riding high up your ass cheeks.

Flicking a look over your shoulder, you pulled the spoon full of peanut butter out of your mouth, yanking a headphone out of your ear to address him.

“Don’t shit your pants, dickbrains, it’s all I have until my clothes are clean,” You snapped at Ryan, tongue dancing with the creamy, sweet spread, and your eyes dropped to his left where his best friend fussed over his sweater cuffs, a duffel bag on his back, and your eyes softened as you saw Spencer looking flushed in your kitchen, “Hi, Spence,”

“Hi,” He peeped shyly, and you smiled widely at the obscenely tall boy who had been to your house a number of times. Ryan had met Spencer on the first day of college, or at least his first day. For Spencer, it had been six years already, his third doctorate well underway, and the two had quickly bonded over something dumb and nerdy you’d never bothered to take note of. You clicked the dials on the machine to a low setting, pouring some detergent into the drum and pressing the ‘Start’ button.

“You guys doing homework?” You asked, fixing where your shirt slouched off the side of your shoulder, exposing your lack of bra and baring your collar bones, and you were quick to catch the way Spencer’s hazel hues fell there with something fleeting and guilty in his expression.

“We’re not twelve years old calculating how many watermelons Sally and Jess have all together,” Your brother scoffed, screwing his lips in annoyance, just as much as any twenty year old pumped full of hormones and energy drinks. “We’re writing a paper on thermodynamics; Spencer’s staying over tonight,”

Rolling your eyes at his know it all snark, you pulled a face back at him, despite the fact you were one year older. You looked to his left where Spencer stuffed his hands in his pockets, his cheeks pink as he caught himself like a fly in honey in one of your usual arguments.

“Do you want a drink, Spence?” You offer, ignoring Ryan’s shitty attitude, heading over to the fridge and swinging the door open, your fathers bottles of beer clinking together where they lay flat on the top shelf.

“Soda would be great, please,” Spencer murmured, trying not to stare as you leaned over, those little, black hot pants skirting up so far his face felt feverish and he forced himself to look at the linoleum tiles in a scrambled attempt to control his thoughts.

He felt like a kid again, with a stupid little crush on the older girl who batted her lashes and called him Spence and smiled at him like you knew exactly how you made that big brain of his turn to mush when you spoke to him.

Handing him a Coke, he tried to ignore the way your cold fingers brushed and avoided your gaze at all cost.

“Thankyou,” He said, his voice cracking in the very middle of it in a way that made him feel like a total loser, and he heard you giggle, his neck growing a prickling hot.

Before you could say much else, his friend grabbed his sleeve, tugging him in the direction of his room where you couldn’t bother them anymore.

Spencer was thinking about your laugh the entire afternoon, until they gave up writing and turned to watching Star Trek, the evening air quickly turning humid and dark, and he begged the tightness in his boxers to leave him be for even just a second.

Only, he found no such luck, tortured by the thought of you being just a single flight of stairs away from him.

–

You were doing dishes by the time you heard him again. Assuming it was Ryan, you made no effort to greet him since it usually was only responded with a grunt or cuss anyways.

Except you could tell by the footsteps that were too careful, the presence that was too soft, even by the way he cleared his throat nervously, that it certainly wasn’t your obnoxious brother who had come into the kitchen for a midnight snack.

Whirling around at the sound, Spencer stood on the other side of the dining table you'd been sitting at just a few hours ago eating pasta and listening to your mom recounting her stressful day in the office. Thin, framed glasses perched on his nose, ones you’d never seen before, glinting in the light from the oven as he blinked at you behind the lenses.

“Spence,” You said with a tired smile, eyes dropping to his shirt and plaid trousers, “Cute jammies,”

He paused for a second, looking down to the grey Doctor Who set, a diagram of the TARDIS splayed across his chest, and he blanked when he tried to figure out if you were kidding or being genuine, “Thank you. You too,”

He didn’t know why he’d said it, maybe because that’s just what you do when someone is being kind, except only then did he look at what you were wearing, and impossibly so it was even more scandalous than what you were wearing earlier.

A tank top, if he could even call it that with how far it rode up, and a lacy pair of blush underwear, a pretty white bow resting just below your belly button.

Following his gaze as it devoured your exposed appendage, you grinned at him devilishly, “Sorry, it gets pretty hot in my room at night,”

“Y-yeah I can imagine you-you’re hot,” He stammered, realising what he said when you raised a brow at him, “B-because you’re a floor up, I mean, and heat rises because hot air has a lower particle density than cool air although some physicians believe-”

“I know what you meant, Spence,” You said with a smirk, moving around the table to stand in front of him, your feet padding softly against the cold floor. Looking up at him with a tilted head, you inspected the frames you realised were a mahogany brown now you were close enough to see them properly, you peered past the lenses and right into where his doe eyes stared back at you, skittish and flustered, “Are these new?”

Spencer licked his lips nervously, “I used to wear glasses when I was a kid but now I wear contacts,” He said, rubbing clammy palms over his trousers. He could smell your detergent from here, the same one he’d seen you pour over your laundry just a few hours earlier, ‘Blossom breeze’ or something girly and sweet and floral like that. He didn’t know the brand, but it was entirely intoxicating, except he suspected it had nothing to do with the liquid and more to do with the fact he could see your nipples pressing against your shirt when you stood so close to him, “Girls don’t really think scrawny guys in glasses are.. hot,”

You sniggered, though your brows furrowed the slightest bit, “Who told you that?”

“Lot’s of girls, more than once actually, it’s just kind of common knowledge,” He fumbled, his chest pricking with nerves when your fingers moved up to grip his waist gently, thumbs danced down his hip bones, the gentle touch alone stirring his cock into a painfully hard stance. He gulped, the sound loud in the sombre twilight of the kitchen, and for a guy who had aced every single test he’d ever taken, who played chess against himself for fun to guess his next five moves, Spencer had no clue where he existed outside of your body so close to his, looking at him like he was a puppy begging for treats if he gave paw.

“I think those girls are absolute boneheads if they can’t see how pretty you are, Spence,” You said his name as if it was the only one that had ever mattered, and he couldn’t help how his chest swelled at the sentiment, even if he wasn’t so off guard as to actually believe that. You’d always had this way of making people feel special, he saw it at your family barbecue last Summer, when your cousins flocked around you like you were their Queen Bee, how you seemed to make waiters and waitresses alike flush under your preening smiles and 'please's and 'thankyou's whenever you took Spencer and your brother out for dinner.

“T-thankyou,” He replied after a thick breath, his chest rattling as you pulled him towards your calm figure, and he let himself be guided like he were leashed, “Y-you’re pretty too,”

He wanted to tell you so much more than that, that you were beautiful like all the popular girls at school were, only humble and kind like the golden part of you glittered inside too, except before he could even attempt at expanding on his three pathetic little words he’d stammered through laboured breaths, he effectively got fully disconnected from his brain when you leaned in towards his face and brushed your nose against his, testing the waters.

Your gaze trailed up to his innocently, so close he could feel your minty breaths fanning over his bottom lip, and he guessed you’d already brushed your teeth ready for bed.

“You really think I’m pretty, Spence?” You asked naively, even if he knew it was just because he forgot how to speak when you were too forward, as if you were trying not to spook a deer. He nodded quickly, his eyes zeroing on where your mouth was mere centimetres away from him, one single shiver in his spine and he would be kissing you, and like you’d heard his train of thought, you pushed your lips against his softly, his body jolting with an electric shock.

There could be sirens surrounding the entire house and he would be none the wiser, because in mere seconds his blood was rushing through his eardrums, sounding like radio static, and it was only when he felt the vibration of it against his mouth did he realise you’d whined, and his hands sprung to life, cupping both your cheeks and tugging you closer to his face as if he was clinging onto every second of the feeling.

Spencer groaned, a sound he didn’t even realise he was going to make until he felt your fingers squeeze him lightly, and he snapped back into his body like a hair tie slinging him back into a world where the girl he’d had a teeny, tiny, maddening crush on for months was making out with him in her kitchen.

“‘Gotta be quiet, baby, my parents are asleep,” You said, breathless as you ripped yourself away from him, despite the fact he was insistently pulling you back towards his mouth, and you smiled up at his urgency, “You ever kissed a girl before, Spence?”

He sighed, and you’d never counted him as sassy until you heard it, almost spoiled and bratty now you’d given him a taste of heaven and held it back from him for the sake of small talk.

“Once, at recess in fifth grade, but it wasn’t like this,” He said, yanking you back towards him ravenously, and you let him devour your lips again, grinning into his desperate mouth, “Never been like this,”

You weren’t sure whether he meant himself or what was likely a peck on the lips between kids as a dare, but you didn’t think too hard about it, as you slotted yourself back into his rough hands, calluses on the insides of his right fingertips from the years holding a pen so hard he might just break it. He felt your mouth open, and he followed your lead, your tongue feathering out with a shyness you showed nowhere else. And it was like every single statistic and number and fact about sharing saliva flew out of his head with wanton need as he dove right for the source, the tip of his tongue meeting yours with a warm nudge and he heard you mewl in pleasure.

Spencer didn’t know what had come over him. Only moments ago he’d been too nervous to even look at you in fear of stumbled around a few syllables and calling them words. Yet here he was, his glasses slipping down his nose and pressing against the bridge of your own, your chest pressed so close to him he could feel your nipples pebbling against his TARDIS shirt, and it was like it was then he remembered you had no bottoms on except your panties.

He hooked a hand underneath one of your legs, hiking it up to his waist and pushing even further up against you, the sudden movement making you gasp, your lower back hitting the dining table as his pubic bone ground against the ball of nerves that had been aching since you caught him shuffling around your kitchen in his damn Doctor Who pyjamas.

Sliding his broad fingers up, your skin spread into gooseflesh and it was your turn to become putty under his touch as he bravely grabbed a handful of your arse, though his touch was still light and uncertain if he was crossing any boundaries. The change in position meant you felt yourself leaning back, your spine spreading out like a cat in warm sunlight, and he was quick to accommodate you, ever eager to please as Spencer was, moving away from the warmth of your mouth and kissing his way down to your pulse, the feeling of it making both of you hum on quietened tones in pleasure.

“Why have we never done this before?” You asked breathlessly, your chest rising frantically as you gasped for air, a hushed moan bleeding into your airways.

Spencer held you upright with one of his long arms, thought his mouth devoured a path over your collar bones, heading right for where your breasts lay in wait, and he didn’t even bother trying to remove your top as he kissed over your nipple with hungry, warm lips.

“I dunno, probably because Ryan wouldn’t be too happy with me trying to fuck his sister while he’s eating dinner,” Spencer said without thinking, his tone sharp and witty as ever, like the noises you were making and the desperation in your touch seemed to rewire his thoughts into something overindulged.

But you laughed, loud enough you slapped a hand over your mouth to stop yourself from waking up the whole house, because you had no idea how you’d explain to them why you and Spencer had ended up half sprawled on the dining table as he practically fixed himself onto every inch of you. And without warning he chuckled too, the vibration blowing over your skin that was already humming with excitement.

“Do you think we could do this more often?” You asked, raising yourself up onto your elbows as his hands spread over your stomach, riding your top up just the smallest bit so he could kiss over your stomach, his pupils blown out into planets behind his glasses, his cheeks tinged raspberry red, his gaze drunken like he was in some sort of sugar rush only ready to stop when he’d gotten his fill, though at the rate he was going Spencer thought that day might not actually come.

You were a drug, a nectar he’d never come close to, and he felt like every kiss to your skin only made that well in his stomach dig deeper and deeper, possibly never running dry as his every thought overflowed with drops of you, and your smell, and your taste, and your tongue.

Missing your lips, he moved back up to your face, crashing his mouth back onto yours as your fingers raked through his hair, the sensation jolting his rod like appendage into you own pelvis, the two of you shivering with the feeling of it.

“I think we can arrange that,” He murmured, and you grinned up at him devilishly as he fiddled with the cotton hem of your underwear nervously, his boldness wearing off as he saw that glint in your eyes that spelled trouble. But he understood that nervous and excitement felt so similar it was easy to mistake one for the other, perhaps even mesh both together at the same time, and the logical explanation for his clammy hands and racing heart seemed to soothe him the slightest bit.

He loved sleepovers at your house.

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid imagine #criminal minds x reader #spencer reid fanfiction #matthew grey gubler x reader #matthew gray gubler x reader

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goldfades · 4 months ago

Text

I DON'T WANT YOU LIKE A BEST FRIEND───JOE BURROW

request: Can you write a joe burrow one shot about so high school 🥰🥰 Or if you’ve already done that, then the song dress

ev's notes: this was supposed to be a blurb. keyword: supposed to. i got a bit carried away, but how can you not when it comes to taylor? also, we all love LSU joe

The first time you saw Joe Burrow, he was standing on the edge of a practice field, helmet in hand, a picture of quiet confidence. His buzzcut was sharp enough to catch the late Louisiana sun, and you remember thinking he looked like the kind of guy who had his entire life planned out. It was almost intimidating how effortless he made everything seem—throwing perfect spirals, cracking jokes in the locker room, balancing the weight of a team on his shoulders. But then, somehow, you found yourself next to him during a random group project in Sports Management 201, and everything changed.

You didn’t become best friends overnight. Joe wasn’t exactly the “overshare everything in one go” type, and you, well, you had walls of your own. But there was an ease between you, the kind that turned study sessions into late-night deep dives about life and childhood and everything in between. By the time sophomore year rolled around, you were inseparable. You’d sit on the floor of his apartment during game weekends, surrounded by a haze of pizza boxes and team gear, and think, This is it. This is my person.

But somewhere along the way, the easy edges of your friendship began to blur. Maybe it was the way Joe looked at you during one of those low-stakes nights, his gaze lingering just a little too long. Or maybe it was the time you patched him up after a particularly brutal hit on the field—his voice low and rough as he muttered, “What would I do without you?” Either way, the shift was small but seismic, like an earthquake rumbling beneath your feet before you even realized it was happening.

You couldn’t pinpoint when you started noticing the details. The golden flecks in his otherwise blue eyes, the way his laugh hitched just slightly when he found something truly funny, or the way his voice softened when he said your name. You tried to ignore it at first, chalking it up to some misplaced admiration for your best friend, but the feelings were stubborn, refusing to be tucked away neatly. They buzzed under your skin, electric and impossible to ignore, leaving you breathless whenever he was near.

And then there was the dress. A stupid, impulsive decision born out of frustration and hope, hanging in your closet like a secret you weren’t ready to admit. You’d told yourself you bought it because you deserved something new, something fun. But deep down, you knew the truth.

You weren’t supposed to want him like this. You were supposed to be his confidante, his teammate, his best friend. But every lingering glance, every accidental brush of hands, every inside joke that felt too personal—it all built up, layering itself into something you couldn’t unravel even if you tried. And now, sitting in the dim glow of your shared favorite bar, watching him laugh at something trivial, you wonder if he feels it too.

If he notices the way you can’t quite meet his eyes for too long. If he knows that every smile he sends your way makes your chest tighten. If he realizes that every secret moment you’ve shared has carved itself into your memory like a golden tattoo you’ll never erase.

You don’t want him like a best friend. Not anymore.

The bass from the speakers thrums through the walls of the house, rattling the beer bottles on every flat surface. The air smells like spilled alcohol, cheap cologne, and too many bodies crammed into one space. It's chaos, but the best kind, the kind you’ve come to associate with game days at LSU—sweaty, celebratory, and electric. Tonight, the Tigers pulled off a win that had everyone on their feet, screaming until their voices cracked, and the party is nothing short of a victory lap.

You’re deep in a circle of friends, the buzz of alcohol warming your veins and making you laugh harder than you have in weeks. The strain of classes, late nights, and endless football schedules has melted away, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you let yourself relax. Someone hands you a drink—something neon and probably terrible—but you take it anyway, raising it in a toast to nothing and everything. It feels good to let loose, to drown out the noise in your head with the noise of the crowd.

And then you see him.

Joe is across the room, leaning casually against the kitchen counter like he owns the place. His LSU cap is turned backward, and his smile is as easy and devastating as ever. You can tell he’s in his element, surrounded by teammates and admirers, his laugh cutting through the din of the party. You feel it in your chest like a physical thing, a pull you’ve never been able to explain but have stopped trying to fight.

But it’s not just Joe that catches your attention. It’s the girl next to him.

She’s gorgeous, the kind of gorgeous that turns heads and stops conversations. She’s leaning in close, her perfectly manicured hand resting on his arm, saying something that makes him laugh. Not just any laugh—the kind that crinkles the corners of his eyes, the kind you thought was reserved for the two of you. Your stomach twists, sharp and sudden, like you’ve just swallowed something bitter.

You try to look away, to focus on anything else—the half-empty drinks in front of you, the sticky floor beneath your shoes, the laughter of your friends—but your gaze keeps drifting back, helplessly tethered to the sight of them. She’s laughing now, tossing her hair over her shoulder, and Joe’s watching her like she’s the only person in the room.

The nausea hits you like a wave. It’s not subtle, not something you can breathe through and ignore. It rises quickly, making your throat tighten and your head spin. You set your drink down on the nearest surface, ignoring the shouts of your friends as you mumble something about needing a break.

The hallway to the bathroom feels like a mile long, each step heavy and unsteady. The crowd thins as you move away from the main party, the noise dulling to a low hum. You push open the bathroom door and lock it behind you, gripping the sink to steady yourself. The fluorescent light overhead is harsh, making everything feel too bright, too real.

You glance up at the mirror, and there it is: the blue dress.

You bought it on a whim, a little too expensive for your budget but too perfect to leave behind. Joe had told you once, in passing, that blue was your color. It had been a throwaway comment, something he probably didn’t even remember, but it had stuck with you. When you saw the dress, you thought of him, of the way his eyes softened when he looked at you, of the way he said your name like it was something special. You’d wanted to impress him, to feel like you could belong in the world he so effortlessly ruled.

Now, staring at your reflection, the dress feels like a cruel joke. The silky fabric clings to you in all the right places, the color vibrant against your skin, but it doesn’t matter. Not when Joe is out there, smiling at someone else like she’s the only thing that matters.

Your hands grip the edge of the sink, knuckles turning white. The nausea is still there, but now it’s tangled with something else—anger, humiliation, heartbreak. It’s overwhelming, and for a moment, you think you might actually cry. But you don’t. You can’t. Not here, not now.

You take a shaky breath, forcing yourself to stand up straighter. The dress still looks good, you think, even if it feels tainted now. You smooth the fabric down with trembling hands, telling yourself that it doesn’t matter, that Joe doesn’t matter. But deep down, you know it’s a lie.

He’s always mattered.

You take another deep breath, the kind that feels like it’s dragging through every nerve in your body, and push yourself away from the sink. The girl in the mirror stares back at you, her lips pressed into a determined line, her eyes just a little glassy. Maybe from the drink. Maybe not. Either way, you’re done hiding in this bathroom like a cliché in some bad movie.

Joe can talk to whoever he wants. He’s not yours. He never has been. But you? You’re not going to let one moment ruin your night. Not when the music is still pumping, your friends are still laughing, and—let’s be honest—you’re in a frat house. There are plenty of boys here who would love to talk to a girl like you, especially in this dress.

A smile tugs at the corner of your lips, small but defiant, as you fix your hair and smooth your dress one last time. If Joe wants to waste his night with someone else, fine. You have no shortage of options.

The noise of the party hits you the moment you step back into the hallway, a tidal wave of music and laughter and the unmistakable sound of someone shouting “chug, chug, chug!” You weave your way through the crowd, ignoring the tightness in your chest when you pass the kitchen and see him still standing there, leaning closer to that girl. Instead, you head straight for the living room, where the crowd is thick, the lights are dim, and the music feels like it’s coming from inside your chest.

You position yourself near the edge of the dance floor, close enough to seem approachable but not so close that you’re desperate. It doesn’t take long. It never does at a frat party, especially when you’re wearing a dress like this one.

The first guy approaches within minutes. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, and definitely a little drunk. His grin is lopsided as he leans in, yelling over the music. “Hey! You’re way too cute to be standing here by yourself. What’s your name?”

You force a smile, polite but not overly enthusiastic. “Thanks. I’m just waiting for my friends.”

He doesn’t take the hint. “Well, they’re not here right now, are they?” He takes a step closer, the smell of beer and sweat rolling off him in waves. “Lucky me.”

You laugh awkwardly, trying to keep some space between you. He’s not bad-looking, you’ll give him that, but there’s something about the way his eyes linger on you that makes your skin crawl. It’s like he’s not looking at you, but at the dress, the shape of your body, the idea of what you might let him get away with. It’s unsettling, and the longer he talks, the more you want to disappear.

“So,” he says, leaning in even closer, “you here with anyone? Or are you single tonight?”

You hesitate, the words catching in your throat. Normally, you’d have brushed this guy off by now, forced a polite smile and ducked away before things got too awkward. But tonight isn’t normal. Tonight, you’re wearing this stupid blue dress for a boy who doesn’t even notice you’re alive, who’s too busy laughing with someone else to care that you’re here, trying not to drown in your feelings. And maybe it’s the alcohol humming in your veins, or maybe it’s the weight of everything pressing down on your chest, but you don’t brush him off.

Instead, you tilt your head and smile, the kind of smile you’ve never given to anyone but Joe. “Single.”

His grin widens, and he takes another step closer, his hand finding your waist like it’s the most natural thing in the world. It feels wrong and right all at once—wrong because he’s not Joe, but right because at least someone is looking at you like you matter. His voice is low, almost a murmur now. “Lucky me.”

You laugh, a sound that feels foreign to your own ears, and let him guide you further into the crowd, where the music is loud enough to drown out your thoughts. His hands are confident but not pushy, and when he leans down, his lips brushing against yours, you don’t stop him.

You kiss him back. At first, it’s awkward, more about the motion than any real feeling, but as the seconds pass, you give in, letting the alcohol and the haze of the moment carry you. His hands slide down to your hips, pulling you closer, and you let him. You let him because it’s easier than admitting that the only person you really want to be kissing doesn’t want you back.

You’re not sure how long it lasts—minutes, maybe hours—but the world blurs into a mess of noise and heat, and you lose yourself in it. You don’t notice the weight of another gaze until it’s too late.

“[Your Name].”

Your name isn’t loud, but it cuts through everything like a knife. The music, the chatter, the blood pounding in your ears—all of it fades the second you hear his voice. Joe’s voice.

You pull back from the guy, your head spinning as you turn to find Joe standing a few feet away. His cap is gone now, his hair slightly mussed, and his expression is unreadable. But his eyes—those blue eyes you’ve memorized in a thousand different shades—are filled with something you can only describe as hurt. It hits you like a punch to the gut.

“Joe,” you manage, your voice shaky, but he doesn’t respond right away. He just looks at you, his jaw tight, his hands curled into fists at his sides.

You barely hear him. Your focus is locked on Joe, on the way his shoulders tense and his gaze flickers between you and the guy. When he finally speaks, his voice is quiet but razor-sharp, like he’s trying to keep something dangerous from slipping out. “Didn’t realize you were… busy.”

The guy behind you shifts awkwardly, clearing his throat. “Uh, I didn’t—”

“She’s drunk,” Joe cuts him off, his tone flat but laced with something that feels too heavy, too sharp to be just irritation. His eyes don’t leave yours, even as he continues, his jaw tight. “You know that, right?”

The words hit you like a slap, and your stomach twists in both anger and embarrassment. You straighten up, the haze of alcohol doing little to dull the heat that creeps up your neck. “Joe, I’m fine. Don’t—”

“No, you’re not,” he snaps, his attention finally shifting to the guy, who looks like he’d rather be anywhere else right now. “Get lost.”

“Hey, man, I didn’t mean any harm,” the guy says, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender. “She seemed into it.”

“Yeah, well, she’s not,” Joe bites back, taking a step forward. There’s a warning in his voice, low and simmering, and the guy takes the hint, backing away with a muttered excuse before disappearing into the crowd.

You whip around to face Joe, your chest heaving. “What the hell is your problem?”

“My problem?” His laugh is bitter, his eyes narrowing as he looks at you. “What are you even doing, [Your Name]? You’re drunk. And you’re letting some random guy—”

“I know exactly what I’m doing,” you interrupt, your voice rising to match his. The heat in your face isn’t just from the alcohol anymore; it’s from the way he’s looking at you, like you’re some reckless child who needs saving. “I’m not a kid, Joe. I don’t need you to swoop in and play hero.”

His hands curl into fists at his sides, and for a moment, he doesn’t say anything, just stares at you like he’s trying to figure out what to do next. When he finally speaks, his voice is quieter but no less intense. “You don’t see it, do you? The way guys like that look at you. They don’t care about you, [Your Name]. They just see an easy target.”

You flinch at his words, the sting of them sharper than you expect. “You don’t get to decide what I do or who I talk to, Joe. You don’t own me.”

“Damn it, I’m trying to protect you!” His voice cracks slightly, the frustration and something else—something softer, almost desperate—breaking through. “Do you have any idea how bad this could’ve gone? What if I hadn’t been here?”

“I didn’t ask you to save me!” Your voice is shaking now, the emotion bubbling up faster than you can contain it. “You think you’re protecting me, but all you’re doing is acting like you know better than I do.”

For a moment, the two of you just stand there, the weight of the argument hanging heavy between you. Around you, the party continues, oblivious to the storm brewing in this corner of the room.

Joe runs a hand through his hair, his expression shifting into something you can’t quite read. Hurt? Anger? Both? “You don’t get it,” he says finally, his voice low. “You never get it.”

“Then explain it to me,” you shoot back, your own voice raw now. “Because all I see is you barging in and making me feel like some helpless idiot.”

His jaw clenches, his hands flexing like he’s holding back something volcanic. When he finally moves, it’s not to storm off—it’s to step closer, his hand wrapping around your arm with just enough pressure to make you pause, though not enough to hurt. His grip is warm and steady, grounding in a way that feels infuriating right now.

“That’s enough,” he says, his voice low but firm. There’s no anger in it, no edge, just a quiet certainty that only makes you bristle more. “You’ve had enough for tonight.”

You yank your arm back, but his hold doesn’t falter. “I’m fine, Joe,” you snap, your voice sharp and defensive. The alcohol in your veins has burned away just enough to leave you teetering on the edge of indignation. “I don’t need you babysitting me.”

He doesn’t respond, his eyes meeting yours with a calm intensity that only fuels your frustration. “Let me go,” you demand, your voice rising. “Seriously, Joe. You can’t just decide—”

“You’re drunk,” he cuts in quietly, his tone unshakable, almost maddeningly patient. “And this isn’t you.”

Your stomach twists, the words hitting a nerve you didn’t realize was exposed. “Oh, so now you’re the expert on me?” you fire back, your voice trembling slightly as you try to pull away again. “You don’t get to tell me who I am or what I can do. I’m not some little kid you need to take care of!”

He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t yell, doesn’t even argue. He just lets you rail against him, his expression remaining infuriatingly steady as he starts guiding you through the crowd, his hand never leaving your arm. You’re too angry to notice the way people glance your way, their conversations pausing as they watch Joe Burrow, the golden boy of LSU, calmly escort you out of the frat house like it’s a routine play he’s run a hundred times before.

“Joe, let me go!” you yell again, louder this time, but your voice bounces off the walls of the crowded room and fades into the noise of the party. He doesn’t respond. He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t even look back.

By the time you’re outside, the cool night air hits you like a slap, the contrast between the crisp breeze and the stuffy warmth of the party jarring enough to momentarily stall your protests. Joe finally lets go of your arm but stands in front of you, his broad frame blocking the house and everyone in it from view.

You glare at him, crossing your arms as you try to steady your breathing. “What the hell is your problem?”

“My problem?” he echoes, his voice still calm, though there’s a hint of something sharper underneath. “My problem is watching you let some random guy take advantage of you because you’ve had too much to drink. My problem is knowing you’re going to regret this in the morning.”

“And you think dragging me out of there like I’m some damsel in distress is going to fix that?” you snap, your chest heaving with the force of your words. “You don’t get to control me, Joe!”

“I’m not trying to control you,” he says, his voice quieter now, but no less firm. “I’m trying to protect you.”

“From what?” you demand, throwing your hands up. “From having fun? From making my own choices?”

“From getting hurt,” he says, and the words are so soft, so raw, that they stop you in your tracks. For a moment, all you can do is stare at him, the anger in your chest giving way to something heavier, something harder to ignore.

His eyes meet yours, and for the first time tonight, you see the cracks in his calm façade. There’s something unsteady in the way he’s looking at you, like he’s balancing on a knife’s edge, trying not to fall. “I care about you, okay? More than I probably should. So yeah, maybe I overstepped, but I’m not going to stand there and watch you make decisions that aren’t you, not when I know you’re going to hate yourself for it tomorrow.”

The weight of his words hangs in the air, heavy and unrelenting. You open your mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. Because for all your anger, all your frustration, there’s a part of you that knows he’s right. And it terrifies you.

Joe takes a step back, running a hand through his hair as he exhales slowly, like he’s trying to steady himself. “If you want to go back in there, I won’t stop you. But I had to try.”

He turns to leave, his shoulders tense, and for the first time tonight, you feel the weight of everything crashing down all at once.

You watch him for a second, the silence stretching between you, thick and tangled with everything unsaid. The words you want to say sit at the back of your throat, but they won’t come. Instead, you take a deep breath, the cold air doing little to cool the fire in your chest, and you follow him.

Joe’s footsteps are steady and purposeful, like he’s not even thinking about the fact that you’re trailing behind him, but somehow you can’t bring yourself to be mad at him anymore. Your anger dissipates in the quiet of the night, swallowed up by the calm that surrounds you both. The sounds of the party fade away as you walk down the street toward your apartment, the rhythmic tap of your heels on the sidewalk oddly soothing.

You keep your gaze fixed ahead, not meeting his eyes. For once, the noise in your head is quieter than the pounding of your heart, but still, you can’t shake the nagging feeling that something's missing.

You finally glance at him out of the corner of your eye. His face is shadowed in the streetlights, but you can still make out the tight line of his jaw, the furrow in his brow. He doesn’t look at you, his focus trained straight ahead, and for some reason, it makes your chest ache.

Neither of you speaks, the tension between you thick but not unbearable. It’s the kind of silence that feels like it’s holding its breath, waiting for something to shift, for someone to break. But you don’t. Not yet.

By the time you reach your apartment door, the quiet feels heavier than the air itself. You fumble with your keys for a moment, your fingers trembling just enough to make it harder than usual to find the right one.

"Here," Joe says, his voice low, and you glance up just in time to see him stepping forward, his hand brushing against yours as he takes the keys from you. He unlocks the door in a smooth motion, and before you can even think to thank him, he speaks again.

“I—”

“You looked good tonight,” he says, cutting you off softly. His voice is steady, but there’s something in it that makes your stomach flip, an edge of vulnerability you weren’t expecting. His eyes meet yours then, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “The dress. I liked it.”

The words hang in the air for a moment, and it feels like the ground beneath you shifts, like the world tilts on its axis and sets you spinning. You stare at him, your heart beating too fast, and then—without warning—you’re smiling.

It’s not forced or awkward. It’s real, stretching across your face in a way that makes the weight in your chest lift just a little. And then he’s smiling too, that familiar grin that’s been burned into your memory for years, and suddenly, everything feels lighter.

“Thanks,” you manage, your voice quieter now, softer. You glance down at the fabric of your dress, smoothing it out as if to steady yourself. “I wasn’t sure if it was my color.”

“It is,” he says, and there’s no hesitation in his voice, just certainty. “Blue suits you.”

You blink, staring at him, at the way he’s looking at you now—open, earnest, a soft smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Something in his eyes shifts, like he’s trying to gauge whether you’ll believe him, whether you’ll understand the weight behind those words. And you do.

A smile spreads across your face before you can even stop it. It’s like all the pieces of this night fall into place, clicking together, and for the first time in hours, you feel lighter. The alcohol fades to a dull buzz in the back of your mind, replaced by a warmth that starts in your chest and spreads outward, filling you up from the inside.

“I’m glad you like it,” you say softly, the words slipping out before you even think about them. You’re not even sure who you’re trying to convince. Maybe him. Maybe yourself.

He smiles back, that familiar, crooked grin that makes your heart stutter in your chest. And just like that, you know.

The tension between you two, the hurt, the anger—it’s all still there, but it’s fading, slipping away with each breath you take, with each passing moment. The connection you’ve both been avoiding is right there, in the space between you, unspoken but understood.

Without thinking, without hesitating, you step forward. The words leave your mouth before your brain can stop them.

“Do you want to come in?”

For a second, he doesn’t answer. He just looks at you, his expression unreadable, like he’s trying to figure out what’s real and what’s not. But then the smile returns, a little softer, a little more vulnerable this time, and he steps closer, his hand brushing against yours again.

“I’d like that.”

You step aside, holding the door open for him, and as he crosses the threshold into your apartment, the world outside fades away. The weight of the night, the tension, the unspoken feelings—it all starts to fall away as you close the door behind him, the sound of it locking making everything feel a little more real.

And for the first time tonight, you feel like you might actually be able to breathe again.

Inside, the apartment feels cozy, a stark contrast to the cold night air outside. You toss your keys onto the counter, the clink of metal breaking the comfortable silence as Joe surveys the familiar space. He’s been here more times than you can count, so much that it’s almost like he lives here—except he doesn’t. He’s always just passing through, leaving behind traces of himself that linger far longer than he does.

“I’m gonna shower,” he says casually, already heading toward the bathroom like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And maybe it is.

“Sure,” you reply, watching as he grabs a towel from the hall closet without missing a beat. “You know where everything is.”

He shoots you a grin over his shoulder. “Hard not to when half of it used to be mine.”

You roll your eyes, but a laugh slips out before you can stop it. The tension from earlier feels miles away, replaced by an easy warmth that only Joe seems to bring. You head to the couch, plopping down and grabbing the remote while he disappears into the bathroom. The sound of water running fills the quiet, and you let yourself sink into the cushions, your body finally relaxing.

When Joe reappears twenty minutes later, his hair damp and curling slightly at the ends, he’s wearing a pair of sweats and an old LSU hoodie you distinctly remember stealing from him months ago. The sight of him makes your stomach flip, but you push the feeling down, focusing on the TV as he flops onto the couch beside you.

He stretches out, his long legs taking up most of the space, and gestures at his hoodie with a mock-serious expression. “You know, you could at least ask before raiding my closet.”

You glance at him, feigning innocence. “What can I say? Your clothes are comfortable. And they look better on me.”

He snorts, leaning back with a grin that’s all teasing charm. “Debatable.”

“Not even a little bit,” you counter, smirking. The playful banter feels so normal, so easy, that you almost forget the storm that brewed between you earlier.

Almost.

After a while, the two of you migrate to your bed, the comforter a welcoming cocoon as you prop up pillows and settle in with The Office playing softly in the background. Joe’s on one side, you’re on the other, the space between you wide enough to be friendly but not awkward. It feels... safe. Like every other time you’ve done this.

But tonight, something lingers in the air, something unspoken that buzzes just beneath the surface. You try to ignore it, to lose yourself in the familiar rhythm of Jim and Pam’s back-and-forth, but you can feel Joe shifting beside you, his presence impossible to ignore.

It’s almost halfway through an episode when he speaks, his voice cutting through the soft glow of the TV. “You know…” he starts, his tone so casual it catches you off guard. “It’s funny how everyone thinks we’re just friends.”

You turn to look at him, your brows knitting together. “Uh… because we are just friends?”

He shrugs, his eyes still fixed on the screen, his expression maddeningly nonchalant. “Sure, but like… doesn’t it ever feel like more than that sometimes? Like, not in a weird way, but…” He trails off, his lips curving into a small, almost amused smile. “I don’t know. Just thinking out loud.”

Your heart stutters, your breath catching as his words sink in. You’re suddenly hyper-aware of the way his arm brushes against yours, the warmth radiating from his body, the way his voice dips just enough to make you second-guess everything. But Joe doesn’t seem fazed. If anything, he looks like he’s just commented on the weather, like this vague, half-confession isn’t turning your entire world upside down.

“Joe…” You hesitate, unsure of what to say or how to even process what he just implied.

He finally looks at you, his gaze steady but soft, like he’s daring you to call him out. “What? I’m just saying. It’s not that crazy of an idea, is it?”

Your mouth opens, but no words come out. You’re torn between laughing at how absurdly casual he’s being and screaming at him for dropping this bombshell like it’s nothing. Instead, you settle for staring at him, your mind racing as the silence stretches on.

And then, as if to hammer the final nail in your coffin, he adds, “I mean, you do look really good in that dress. I wasn’t lying about that.”

It feels like the air’s been knocked out of you. Your heart pounds so loudly you’re sure he can hear it, and you’re not entirely sure if the warmth spreading through your chest is panic or something else entirely.

Joe doesn’t push. He just leans back against the pillows, his gaze flicking back to the TV like he didn’t just casually crack open the door to feelings you’ve spent way too long pretending don’t exist. But the small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth gives him away. He knows exactly what he’s doing.

And for the first time, you’re not sure if you want to close that door or walk straight through it.

Your brain short-circuits. There’s no other way to describe it. You sit there, staring at him, your mouth opening and closing like you’re a fish out of water, but no words come out. None. Your heart is pounding in your chest, your thoughts racing too fast for you to grab hold of even one.

Joe waits, his expression unreadable. His eyes flick to yours, searching, like he’s waiting for some kind of confirmation—or maybe a rejection. The seconds stretch into what feels like hours, and the weight of the moment settles heavily between you.

You want to say something, anything, but your tongue feels glued to the roof of your mouth, and all you can do is sit there like an idiot while your heart threatens to burst out of your chest.

And then, Joe decides he’s done waiting.

Without warning, he leans in, his hand coming up to cup the side of your face as his lips press softly against yours. It’s gentle, tentative, like he’s giving you every chance to pull away. But you don’t. You can’t. The moment his mouth touches yours, it’s like the world stops spinning.

When he pulls back, his gaze locks on yours, his thumb brushing against your cheek. His expression is softer than you’ve ever seen it, and his voice is quiet when he finally speaks. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

It takes a second for his words to register, but when they do, they snap you out of your daze. “I’m impossible?” you manage to croak, your voice barely above a whisper. “You just—”

“Yeah,” he interrupts, a faint smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I did.”

You blink at him, still trying to process what just happened. But then the realization hits you like a freight train, and the words tumble out before you can stop them. “I feel the same way.”

Joe’s smirk widens into a full-blown grin, and he leans back, his hand dropping to rest casually on your knee. “Took you long enough to say it,” he teases, his tone light but undeniably smug. “Thought I was gonna have to spell it out for you.”

Your cheeks burn, and you swat at his arm, unable to stop the small laugh that escapes you. “Oh, shut up.”

He chuckles, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he pulls you closer, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and tucking you into his side like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His hoodie smells like fresh laundry and something distinctly Joe, and you let yourself sink into the warmth of him, your head resting against his chest.

For a while, neither of you say anything. The TV continues playing in the background, the familiar sounds of The Office filling the room, but neither of you are paying attention anymore. Joe’s fingers trace absent patterns on your arm, and every now and then, you catch him glancing down at you with a soft smile that makes your heart flutter all over again.

It’s quiet, easy, comfortable, like this is exactly where you’re supposed to be. And maybe, just maybe, it is.

↳ make sure to check out my navigation or masterlist if you enjoyed! any interaction is greatly appreciated !

↳ thank you for reading all the way through, as always ♡

#nfl fic #nfl football #nfl lb #nfl imagine #joe burrow #joe burrow bengals #joe burrow x reader #joe burrow imagine #joe burrow smut #joe burrow fan fic #joeyb #cincinnati bengals #joe burrow x you #joe burrow x y/n #joe burrow x oc

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catiuskaa · 1 year ago

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missed me, missed me, now you gotta...

SUMMARY: minho wasn’t grumpy, nor he was jealous. but he hasn’t been the same ever since he fell in love with you.

REQUESTED! by a sweet annonie right here. pookie, your idea was lovely to write! lil grumpy minho, im melting… it’s a bit short, but I hope you like it! <3

CW: use of (crack) text messages to convey the plot, starring: han quokka as cupid + reader’s bsf, clingy minho as king of my heart, and ngl, type 1 diabetes fluff ahead. keep insulin shots close just in case! lol

WC: 1.1k

A/N: i love how i’m slowly turning into a minho blog/page lmaoo, only minho: the man, the myth, the legend!

[🪻☆🌫️☆🪻]

The same ringtone buzzed again during rehearsals. Its ding had sounded so many times already that it had started to get repetitive really quickly.

Minho frowned as he looked in the mirror, retouching his rolled sleeves just once more for what he secretly knew it had been more than twenty times. In the span of ten minutes. Maybe even less.

But Minho wasn’t ‘grumpy’.

He so wasn’t.

His day had been normal so far. He had no reason to be grumpy. Not one what-so-ever.

He had woken up in between your arms, and even if he had ‘complained’ about it, he loved being the little spoon. And also, his cats jumped on the bed and, just for once, none of them landed on his face.

There had been just one thing.

…

Well. Technically more than one.

You had rushed outside this morning. You claimed you didn’t have time to have breakfast with him, because you were late for something he didn’t really get. Because of that, you hadn’t come over to the JYP building with him. He had to drive over alone. And you hadn’t pecked him goodbye at the entrance like always.

But he. Wasn’t. Grumpy.

Not. At. All.

> sunggie: girl, did you hide his cats or smth?

< minho’s owner: lol, wdym dude?

> sunggie: he looks like he’s going to kill me.

> sunggie: And he loves me! Wtf??

“Jisung-ah.”

Han shrieked in his place in the sofa, his phone almost falling off his hands. He quickly turned it off, hoping that the grumpy dancer hadn’t seen the old or new messages.

“Who were you texting?” Minho frowned, deeper this time.

“Oh.” Jisung chuckled. “Just checking in on noona.”

“My girlfriend?” The way Minho enunciated the title felt a bit possesive. Jisung eyed at him weirdly for a second. Even he felt weird himself.

Jisung nodded sheepishly, turning his phone back on but quickly opening a random app.

“Yeah. I owed her a call back.” He shrugged, nonchalantly accepting that he had opened Subway Surfers, and started to play.

As the catchy music came from Han’s phone, Minho shook his head.

Not grumpy.

Not at all.

But the thought that you had been texting Han and didn’t text him —instead of him— did funny things in his chest.

Now, keep in mind that Minho would never describe himself as a jealous man.

He trusted you with his cats, of course he trusted you regarding your relationship. But he had barely got a hold of you all day. And Han had. By call and text. Like he was doing now.

Not grumpy.

Sure.

< minho’s owner: you dead yet?

Jisung groaned.

> sunggie: no! you made me lose my score!

> sunggie: and I don’t have any keys! ㅠㅠ

< minho’s owner: sucks to suck, lol

< minho’s owner: but what’s wrong with my future husband? did you do something?

> sunggie: he’s moody since he came in this morning.

> sunggie: you weren’t here tho. smth wrong between ya?

< minho’s owner: no…? just had to run to work early…

And then, something in Jisung’s paboracha brain connected. Probably because of how he had named your contact in his phone.

> sunggie: omg

< minho’s owner: what?

> sunggie: that corny dumbass

> sunggie: he’s so stupid

< minho’s owner: bitch what is it???

> sunggie: he’s moody bc u didn’t come in with him today!

You hesitated. Could that be it?

< minho’s owner: really? u think so?

> sunggie: bitch I know so!

> sunggie: imma go get boba for the boys, get your ass here and come w/ me

Jisung’s brain started to work at cupid’s speed.

< minho’s owner: omw. be there in 5’

“Guys, I’m gonna go get boba. Do any of you want something?”

The rest of the gang blabbered something while some kept going over the steps of the choreography and the others rested on the couch, doozing off or on their phones. Han quickly noted down everyone’s orders, not before being squinted down by Minho. He held back a shiver.

“Clingy prick…” Jisung mumbled, leaving quickly.

He walked out of the JYP building, waiving and half bowing to the staff members and other artists in the building.

< minho’s owner: just parked! ^^

Jisung entered the boba place next to the building, smiling at the cashier as he read down the orders on his note app, and stood aside, waiting for the drinks.

“Hey!” You smiled widely at him, taking off your scarf, merely leaving it hanging on your shoulders. He clapped your hand, playfully slapping your back.

“Working hard?” Jisung snickered, pointing at the bag on your other hand.

You side-eyed at him, giggling softly.

“Took some snacks before heading off.” You shrugged. “We can sneak these in, right?”

Jisung scratched the back of his neck. “We’ll… come up with something.”

You both struggled carrying the drinks, teasing each other and betting who’d make a mess first. But all giggles came to an end when the security guard stared at you.

“Name and business?” He asked in a low huff.

Your body stiffened.

“She’s my sister,” Han chimed back. You were in fact far from being his sister, but that didn’t matter when the guard seemed to nod. “She’s just helping me carry the drinks inside.”

“And the bag? What’s inside?”

You cleared your throat, smiling. “Clothes for him to change once he finishes training.” You lied.

Thank God for his imagination. And for his stupid idea of shoving your scarf and his hoodie into the bag of snacks.

“Ok. You may come in.” The guard smiled politely.

Only after the both of you had gotten into the elevator you allowed yourselves to let out a sight full of relief. You two then smirked, high-fiving.

“Thank you, bro.” You teased in a snicker.

He cackled. “You’re welcome, sis.”

You both laughed and joked until you reached the training room.

“The person you dream of is back!” Han cackled.

“Noona!” Felix grinned happily.

“Yeah, that’s me!” You cackled at Jisung’s faked frown.

You smiled and greeted everyone as you entered, leaving a certain bunny boy for last.

You sat next to him on the couch, and without missing a beat, he took your legs and layed them on his lap.

You took a sip of his drink, and he stared at you, almost with a squint.

“You’ve made me jealous of fucking Han Jisung.” He stated matter-o-factly, making you practically choke on the tapioka pearls.

You coughed. “What?”

“You texted him all evening. And me? Not even a good luck kiss this morning.”

“Aw, are you grumpy, kitten?” You grinned teasingly, speaking only towards him in a soft tone to his ear. You pecked his cheek.

He needed more of those.

Grumpy, huh?

“Yes. Very.” He mumbled, hiding his blushed and pleased grin in the crook of your neck. “Need more kisses.”

“Well, you know how it goes.” You mumbled in a snicker. He hummed at you, waiting for you to explain.

You kissed his forehead softly, his hands stroking your thighs.

“Missed me, missed me, now you gotta kiss me.”

~Kats, who can write this in one sit, but can’t figure out how chemistry works (yes have exams, why did I choose this for myself, help)

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wchswift · 1 month ago

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hii hii there!! OMG congratulations for your 125 followers! that's a great achievement so proud of youuu!! you deserve it sm <3

had an idea hihi 🌺 + touch it by ariana grande. would it be okay if i ask for a lot of slow burn before giving in to each other? but it's okay if you can't write them!

and i would love to see worst! wolvie and fem! reader for this one :3 thank you!

─── touch it.

pairing: logan howlett x fem!reader

summary: logan pretends to not even notice you outside of missions so you push him until he stops holding back. ─ inspired by touch it, ariana grande.

note! hello hello zayn thank youu <3 and tysm for the request love, I loved your request so much I really hope it does justice to what you asked for. I tried to keep as much slow burn as I could lol. this is part of my 125 followers celebration! Join the celebration too!

ℒogan masterlist !

mdni 𖤐 18+

The first time she met Logan, he barely spared her a glance. Wade had brought him along on a mission, dropping some half-assed introduction that didn’t matter because Logan didn’t do introductions. He was gruff, closed off, and clearly not interested in making friends.

Which only made her more interested in him.

She wasn’t stupid. She’d seen men like him before—hard, angry, wearing their pain like armor. But Logan was different. His silence wasn’t just brooding; it was defensive. The way he kept his distance wasn’t arrogance; it was self-preservation. And that only made her want to crack him open more.

It didn’t help that he was devastatingly attractive. Rugged in a way that shouldn’t be so alluring, all sharp edges and raw masculinity. The rough stubble, the wild hair, the way his muscles tensed beneath his worn t-shirt—he was built like something out of a fever dream, something dangerous and untouchable. And yet, all she wanted was to touch.

They worked well together, even if he frustrated the hell out of her. Despite the chaos that followed Wade like a curse, she and Logan found an easy rhythm, and somehow, she’d ended up watching his back more times than she could count. He was fast, efficient, brutal. She was clever, quick on her feet, and stubborn as hell. More often than not, they ended up fighting back-to-back, instincts perfectly in sync.

But outside of missions? He was a ghost.

She’d catch him watching her sometimes, like he was trying to figure her out, but the second she met his gaze, he’d look away. If she got too close, he’d make some gruff excuse and disappear.

It drove her insane.

Because she knew—knew—there was something there. Some unspoken thing that hung between them, thick and heavy, just waiting to be acknowledged. But Logan wouldn’t let it happen. Wouldn’t let them happen.

And, God help her, she’d fallen for him anyway.

So she waited.

She teased him in the field, pushing his buttons just to see the way his jaw clenched. She made sure to sit next to him whenever they went out for drinks, reveling in the way he tensed every time her arm brushed against his. She learned how to get under his skin, how to make him react.

One night, she wore a tight tank top that hugged her curves, the hem riding up just enough to show a sliver of her stomach when she moved. Very short shorts that exposed long stretches of skin. And the way Logan looked at her when she walked into the bar? Worth it.

He was staring before he even realized it, his knuckles whitening around his glass. She smirked, sliding onto the barstool next to him, ordering a drink with a casual ease that only made him more rigid.

“Something wrong?” she asked, all innocence, fingers playing along the rim of her glass.

Logan didn’t answer at first. Just exhaled sharply through his nose, taking a slow sip of his whiskey before muttering, “Nothin’.”

But when the bartender leaned in just a little too close, flashing a flirty smile as he handed her another drink, Logan shifted in his seat, his grip tightening on the glass. She caught the tick in his jaw, the way his shoulders squared like he was fighting the urge to say something.

So she pushed, just a little. Leaning in, close enough that her thigh brushed against his, warm and deliberate. “You sure?” She said, holding her breath, waiting.

Logan’s eyes flicked to hers, dark and heated. His breath was slow, controlled, but there was an edge to it. Like he was holding something back.

Then Wade stumbled in, ruining everything.

But she never pushed too far.

Not until tonight.

The apartment smells like cigarette smoke, whiskey, and something inherently Logan. It’s not unpleasant—just rough around the edges, lived-in, much like the man himself. The dim lighting casts long shadows across the walls, making the space feel smaller, more intimate. And maybe that’s why her heart is pounding in her chest.

She wasn’t supposed to be alone with him tonight.

Deadpool had invited her over for something—she honestly couldn’t remember what now—but, as always, he had his own plans, leaving her alone in the apartment with Logan.

Just the two of them.

“You gonna stand in the doorway all night?” Logan grumbles from where he’s leaning against the kitchen counter, a half-empty bottle of whiskey in his hand.

She huffs, stepping inside and closing the door behind her. “Didn’t realize I was interrupting your brooding session.”

He doesn’t smirk, doesn’t fire back like he usually does. Just watches her with that sharp, unreadable gaze, his knuckles tightening slightly around the bottle.

It’s always like this with them. Tension so thick it could choke her, words unsaid hanging in the air between them. She’s tried to ignore it, to push it down and pretend like she doesn’t lie awake at night thinking about him, like her chest doesn’t ache every time he pulls away just when she gets too close.

But tonight? She’s done pretending.

“Why do you do it?” The words slip out before she can stop them.

Logan’s brow furrows. “Do what?”

“This.” She gestures between them. “You pull me in, then push me away like it never happened.”

Logan stiffens, jaw clenching. “You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

She lets out a breathy, humorless laugh. “Bullshit.”

His eyes snap to hers, something dark flashing in them. He looks like he wants to argue, to shove the conversation under the rug like he always does, but she steps forward before he can.

“Logan, I see it. Every damn time. The way you look at me, the way you—” She swallows hard, forcing herself to keep going. “You want this just as much as I do. So why won’t you just let yourself have it?”

The silence stretches between them, heavy and suffocating. He looks torn, like he’s caught between running and finally letting himself stay.

Then, his shoulders drop. A long, weary sigh leaves his lips, and for the first time, Logan lets her see him. The man beneath all the rough edges, the one who isn’t untouchable, who isn’t immune to her.

His fingers twitch at his sides like he wants to reach for her but doesn’t. So she does it instead.

Softly, she brushes her fingers against his wrist. He doesn’t pull away.

Her voice is barely above a whisper when she speaks. “You don’t have to say anything. Just... let me in.”

Logan swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. His hand hesitates, then lifts, rough fingers ghosting over her arm before settling on her waist. It’s not a kiss, not some grand confession, but it’s something. Something that says he’s tired of fighting this, of fighting her.

“You sure you know what you’re askin’ for, darlin’?” His voice is low, gravelly, filled with something she can’t quite place. “Because I don’t know if I can let you go if we start this.”

She smiles, small and sure. “Yeah. I do.”

That’s when he finally moves.

It’s not rushed or desperate. Instead, Logan pulls her in slowly, his lips brushing hers—tentative, questioning. When she doesn’t pull back, he deepens it—slow, wet, unhurried. A kiss that tastes like whiskey and restraint finally breaking. His hands tighten on her waist, tugging her closer, and she melts into him, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him in like she’s been waiting for this forever.

And maybe she has.

His breath is warm against her lips when they part, his forehead resting against hers. His grip firm, as if grounding himself in the moment, in her.

“You got no idea what you’re doin’ to me,” he mutters, voice rough.

She smiles against his lips. “Then maybe you should show me.”

Logan growls low in his throat, and the next thing she knows, his hands are on her thighs, lifting her effortlessly. She gasps, gripping his shoulders as he carries her toward his room, the heat between them finally, finally breaking loose.

And this time, Logan doesn’t hold back.

𖤐 reblogs and feedback are appreciated! requests are also welcome, ty!

tags: @cruel-as-sin @mcrdvcks @logaenhowlett (tagging some logan mutuals i really like <3 sry, if you want to be added or removed let me know <3)

#꣖ ີ ꣓ writes.#worst wolverine x you #logan howlett #logan howlett x fem!reader #logan howlett x reader #logan howlett fanfiction #logan x reader #logan wolverine #wolverine fanfiction #worst wolverine x reader #worst wolverine #logan howlett oneshot #logan howlett 🪽#request 💌#100 followers

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basicallyjeankirschtein · 2 months ago

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jjk men x streamer!reader smau

╰┈➤ Collab?

chapter 4

ೃ⁀➷ THE HAT MAN IS REAL????? + gojo is cute or wtv

* MDNI, suggestive, ooc, crack, the hat man… this chapter contains writing! not proof read

masterlist. prev. next.

and that’s how gojo found you sprawled out on your bed talking to nothing in the corner of the room.

“y/n.” gojo spoke, his voice soft. you turned over, your eyes hazed over as if you were about to fall asleep at any moment now.

“hi, go,” you spoke, offering him a lazy wave. he couldn’t help but giggle at how cute you looked, even if you were just talking to a maybe real demon that predicted the fortnite miku collab..

“you alright?” he asked, glancing between you and the corner of the room. you followed his eyes, sleepy giggles escaping your lips as you rolled over on your side.

“sleepy.” you said.

gojos cheeks flushed red when he saw the way your shirt rode up, exposing the smooth flesh of your waist.

he coughed, glancing away before he sported a boner. “yea, yea. go to sleep.” he decided to wait to question you about the hat man until you at least had some consciousness…

gojo started to turn around to retreat to your fridge to get water for the both of you, but your loud whine startled him. he was quick to rush to your side,

“y/n? are you alright?”

“don’t leave,” you whined, giving him the most glossy puppy dog eyes he had ever seen. if your exposed skin didn’t make him pop a boner, this definitely did.

“‘m not leaving..” gojo huffed, unable to get away from your grasp as you held onto his arm oh so tightly.

“you were,” you whined sleepily in his ear, pulling him down so he laid beside you on the bed. gojo was strong enough to resist your efforts, yet he gave in, anyway.

“i was gonna get you water.” he denied, letting you cuddle up against his chest.

while gojo looked composed, he was internally freaking out. not only did you just cuddle up to him as if you’ve been dating for years, but your hand was dangerously close to his embarrassing erection that was absolutely painful against his strained shorts.

you went silent, which would have worried gojo if it weren’t for the sound of your almost melodic, soft breathing.

it went completely quiet in the room, the only sound being your breathing and heartbeat. two things gojo cherished with his heart and soul. if only you had realized that.

gojo sighed, looking down at you with a pained smile. why were you always so oblivious and adorably stupid? you were so shy. it’s what made you so endearing, yet so hard to get close to.

gojo loved everything about you, but sometimes you could be be so oblivious, it was headache inducing.

but that sweet look on your face always made him feel so guilty. it wasn’t your fault, he had to keep reminding himself.

he also had to remind himself it wasn’t your fault for being so beautiful and likable when he felt a vein pop at the sound of your phones message notifications going off.

how did i go from hat man fortnite miku to boners bruh give me the benadryl next

taglist

@estella-novella @ourfinalisation @definetlynotanalien @fuckisthatahotghost @m-0ona @sillybillylamb

@ayla-1605 @l-ilysm @randoperson22 @mentallyunpresent @poopooindamouf @1ennj4

@ex1acy @lunavelha @trsh-kitty @b3bybunny @onna-musha-mari @onlypickless

@moncher-ire @ieathairs @minzxec @marvellousdaisy @etsuniiru @kissprincess

@i-am-chickadee @ayumigotabitlonely @emlient @imoutofpot @des-todoroki

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virginreprise · 7 months ago

Text

J U N K Y ' P R I D E

joel miller x reader

" I KNOW I CAUGHT YOU AT A NOT SO HAPPY TIME OF YOUR LIFE " ✧ ⁺ ⁺ 　°

WARNINGS: age difference (big one), pervy joel, trailer park joel, joel miller has a vintage porn collection, joel's a sad old man, video game joel was in mind when writing, joel is six foot because i say so, multi-part, smut in the next chapter because i can't write anything if it isn't slowburn

WORD COUNT: 7.7k

CHAPTER TWO

AO3LINK

CHAPTER ONE—BAD DISEASE

Static from the television set tucked in a corner, a beaten leather armchair parked in front of it and a stack of vintage, VHS porn tapes on the unit. One half of “Agent 69” stuck in the VCR, balancing on its side due to the lack of care from its owner who’d jacked off in the very chair that towered over it—cum stained fist and a name on his lips, slipped out between plush flesh. Hand frantic, jerking in tandem with the buck of his hips as he flit his eyes between the TV and the wood-panelled ceiling, profanities spilling from his filthy mouth. Muttering to himself as pornstar moans graced his ears, words whispered into the night, stolen by the archangels and flown up to God: conspiring, scheming, uttering under their breath that he should not be allowed through the holy gates on judgement day. That the defiled Bible on his bookshelf and the cross that had been left for him by the previous owners, pinned to the trailer wall, was not enough for them to ignore the strained sentences that he spewed in a desperate bid for the Trailer Park Princess on her knees—red nails and red lips wrapped around his cock. A ring of colour staining the base.

Utter filth. And Joel knew it.

The perversions he didn’t keep to himself, laughed about bending over the pretty thing next door whilst nursing a beer on Pete’s porch—puffing away on the cheap cigars he’d stolen from the liquor store. They tasted like shit, smelt like shit and Joel would’ve been better without it, but it added to the image: kept Susan from asking him stupid questions like why he didn’t have a woman. It was her way of flirting, bikini top displaying her sagging tits, bending over the kitchen counter whilst his buddies watched baseball.

“You got your eye on anyone, Joel?”

“Not really, Susan.”

Then Pete interjecting.

“Come off it, Susan. Just cause he ain’t committed don’t mean that he ain’t got women.”

That kept her quiet, made her slink away into the hallway, slipping into their bedroom and pulling a cover-up on—suddenly insecure.

Joel wasn’t a pervert. He didn’t have some strange penchant for young women. They were just…nice to look at. Pretty and sun-kissed in the Texan heat, ass hanging out their shorts, bikini top doing much more to entice than Susan’s did. There was no harm in looking—they never knew. He prided himself on being discreet, nursing a beer in the late afternoon whilst Kenny Rogers lulled from the radio, flicking ash from his cigarette onto the porch floor—eyes trained on your open window, cracked just a tad to let the air through. Drapes open.

At times, he thinks you do it on purpose, a gentle taunt, a silent jeer: “You can only look, perv.”

If the invitation was there, he’d take you up on it. Because out of all the women he’d fucked, headboard bashing against the wall, a chip in the wood of the trailer evidence of his trysts, you were the only one who’d worked him up to the point of no return. The only one who’d grabbed him completely by the collar and forced him to lick your boots.

Like Joel said, he wasn’t a pervert. You were just a fucking whore who needed to be put in her place.

So he’d sit there, in the white garden chair he’d snatched up from the pile of scrap that accumulated just east of his trailer, and watch. Most days, you’d be doing nothing in particular, unfortunately already dressed, dirty clothes in hand and wet hair dripping down your back. Other days, the days where Joel thought he was really lucky, where he’d stumble inside with a hard-on, sit on his recliner and hastily shove whatever he got his hands on, into the VCR, skipping over the poorly acted introductions, and pretend that the moans reverberating the trailer, were yours. Images of you slipping your shorts over your hips, swaying slightly to whatever tune you were listening to, peeling your shirt off your body. No bra. Slyly stepping towards your window, catching his eye once, a look so slight that he wouldn’t be surprised if he imagined it, and pulled your drapes shut.

He’d spilt all over his hand, white on his knuckles and a smile on his lips.

Joel would never feel guilty for wanting you, not when he had already made peace with the fact he was a deadbeat, bound to the white trash lifestyle, unemployed and living off the pills he paid for and sold for a ridiculously high price, still grieving his losses and wondering what the fuck he could’ve done differently. If he would’ve done anything differently given the chance.

No, Joel was not a bad person. He just looked for her in every person, desperately seeking a will. And so far, you had succeeded in helping him remove the gun from his mouth—evenings spent in different, dangerous ways.

Texan summers were unlike anything you’d experienced before, the heat so incredibly stifling that your love for the sun disappeared completely. Mornings spent on the porch, soaking in the last bits of breeze before cycling your ass to work, sweating and heaving by the time you got there, in the same condition when you rode back home and locked yourself away with every window flung open before nightfall fell and you felt you could breathe again.

The cicadas were loud, the snakes huddled up in the shade, waiting for you to trample on them, and the beast next door, Joel Miller: terrifying, gorgeous and a fucking pervert.

The day you’d moved into the trailer, despairing the loss of stability, ruminating upon your desperate escape from a home now dead and lost to the prairies of your mind, he’d been there. Wifebeater stretched across his wide torso, a cigarette placed on his lips, unused as it hung there, smoking away, the grey wisps begging with each dissipation into the atmosphere: breathe me in. He’d stared. Unable to be subtle no matter how slick he thinks he is, eyes flitting between your tits and your ass. Tits. Ass. Tits. Ass. A calculated dance that left a funny feeling brewing in the pit of your stomach, a lurch in your bowels that made nausea claw its way up your throat.

Tits. Ass. Then, he suddenly looked at your face, standing there on his porch, the sunrise building its way up the horizon, too early for anybody to see him looking you over like you were a dead deer he’d just shot, smirking at the notion of sawing your head off and displaying it on the wall above his mantle. Heaving boxes into the empty trailer, lot number seventeen, whilst the owner of lot eighteen wouldn’t take his fucking eyes off you, was a terrible feat.

Once you’d shoved the last box into your bedroom, you’d shut the door, locked it tight and peeked through the window to see that he had gone back inside, retreating to the haven of steel and veneer.

Over time, Joel became easier to manage. After the initial, awkward introductions where he’d called you princess, babydoll, sugar (almost adding a “tits” to the end of the nickname before realising where he was) your stomach reeling at the monikers, time settled your unmistakable disgust for him, the universe replaced the sickness you felt when you spoke to him with another stomach-turning anxiety that you pushed down far into every crevasse and high onto every mountain.

You grew to enjoy the nicknames, skipping a few paces up his porch steps and ask him ever so kindly if he could come and fix the cupboard door that was swinging off its hinges, change the lightbulb because you couldn’t reach the ceiling yourself, stop the leaky tap that seemed to start drip drip dripping every month—just to bully you.

Although you knew that Joel was a dirtbag, hearing him talking about the filthiest things, laughing as Pete clapped him on the back in praise and acknowledgement, knowing that he wanted nothing more than to treat you like a whore, he gave you nothing except a sly smile, a sleazy nickname and the occasional help around the house. Fixing things.

So, naturally, you began asking around about Joel. Susan liked to gossip. So did Lillian, a woman who had spent her entire life in the park and, at sixty-two, had no interest in leaving.

“I remember when he moved here,” she’d told you one fine summer evening, when the heat wasn’t as menacing and you felt content being away from the air conditioning, sipping sweet tea in Lillian’s wooden garden chairs, feet placed on the seat—chin resting on your knees. “All stoic, wouldn’t speak ‘ta anyone. I could tell he’d gone through something bad, you know me and my sixth sense.”

She’d paused for a moment, taking a drag, a sip, a sigh before looking at you solemnly.

“He was a catch with the ladies,” she’d muttered. “They were all after him, even this one over here,” she’d pointed to Susan who’d smacked her arm, complaining about her disrespect. She was a married, loyal woman after all. “Well, it’s true. If I were twenty years younger, I would’ve gone for him too, but it wouldn’t have done much anyway cause he didn’t touch anyone. There ain’t many pretty young ladies round here, you know you’re the only one,” she’d said plainly, addressing you with a hint of affection.

Waving her cigarette around as she relayed every single detail she knew about Joel’s love life, telling you how after a few years of moping, he’d bring back girls in the middle of the night, fuck them, and then throw them out the next day.

“He’s not a romantic,” Lillian had prefaced, Susan interjecting with:

“Ya think so? I think he is…if he just found the right woman-”

“Oh don’t listen to her Darlin’, he’s a man who likes to play. He ain’t lookin’ to settle, I tell you that much.”

Listening to them both, their anecdotes, their stories, and their opinions, you concluded one thing about Joel Miller. He was an asshole. A man who had done nothing to better his life since he stepped foot in the trailer park ten years ago, a sag in his shoulders and an anger in his eyes.

You weren’t sure if he’d mellowed since then, or if he’d just managed to conceal it better. Joel hadn’t been angry around you, not when you knocked on his door at three in the morning, asking him if he could come get the spider out of your bedroom, not when you’d accidentally run into his truck with your bike or told him that he was an asshole when you’d caught him talking about you one day in springtime.

“She’s as dumb as fucking rocks,” he’d chuckled. “Bet she gets cockdrunk so easy.”

He’d grumbled out the last sentence, an afterthought that was more for him than the men he was talking to, but you, stumbling around, half-asleep after your shift, were not willing to take the degradation. You’d berated him in front of his peers, slammed the door behind you, and regretted it immediately. Because, even though it shouldn’t matter, even though you thought he was pervy and angry and wouldn’t treat you how you’d been told you deserved, the last thing you wanted was for him to hate you.

Every time he praised you, told you that you looked good as you stepped out of your home, on your way to Lillian’s for a catch-up and the cigarettes she bought you every three weeks, just for being good and keeping her company, you felt that tingle, the synaptic transmissions running down your spine every time he stepped through your door, asking what the issue with your tap was. You should’ve been disgusted when he’d left and you’d gone to the bathroom only to find the panties you’d left on the floor were gone, but you’d felt that same spark instead. A deep, sliding ache that consumed every part of you.

Luckily for you, your sink decided to start leaking again on a gorgeous Sunday afternoon. Perfect time to lure him into your trailer, grab him by the neck and ask him as nicely as you could if he could cease the pain.

Sip of beer, drag of cigarette, click of the remote to change the channel, repeat.

A usual Sunday afternoon pastime.

Joel would’ve rifled through his VHS’s, find something he could jack off to whilst he deliberated whether today would be the day he’d say “fuck it” and saunter on over to next door, hoping to god he’d get his dick wet by someone other than a whore, but he couldn’t be bothered to move from his seat. It was effort enough trying to change the channel, arm aching as he pressed the button, rolling his eyes as the same boring drab illuminated his TV screen.

It was another one of those days. Glancing at the watch on his wrist, the broken glass, the notion that he would never fix it no matter how easy it would’ve been to go over to Shane’s and ask him to get it working again, all for the low price of a few pills.

She’d left him with it and he would die with it.

A reminder of her every time he glanced at his watch, swallowing hard as he remembered the way he’d pressed cool metal to the side of his head, a tear slipping down his cheek before realising that he never could. Because Joel was an asshole, he knew that. He was selfish and cruel and spoke about people as if they could get any lower than he already was. But more so than anything, Joel was a sad old man.

Tommy, the damn bastard, who’d left Joel to fend for himself while he went off with his new-found “true love” to have kids and a decent life, had sent a few thousand dollars and a pitiful “I’m sorry, Joel,” over the phone after his big brother had fucked up and lost his job. When Joel had been left penniless and broken. Nothing to fight for. No one to hold him or tell him that he was loved. He’d spent all his money raiding gas stations for cases of beer, bottles of whisky, anything that could numb the pain—choosing the alcohol over food, over his mortgage. When he’d lost the house, he hadn’t taken anything of hers. Even after she’d died, he’d insisted that everything needed getting rid of. Her clothes, her posters, even her damn phone. He’d slammed Tommy against the wall after realising that he was taking everything with him, that he was not doing as he was told. After that, Joel had closed the door on her bedroom and never stepped foot in it again.

All he had of her was a damn watch, a photo that his little brother had shoved into his hands, a harsh, “Take it, you damn bastard. You’ll regret it when you stop feeling so sorry for yourself,” on his lips, and the memory of her in his arms when he’d felt that huge heart of hers stop beating.

There had been many low points in Joel’s life, wandering through his existence on a tightrope that was ready to snap with every step, but none had been lower than that.

Not even when he’d called Tommy in the middle of the night, sobbing, struggling to breathe with a clean bottle of Jim Beam in his hands, begging him to help. He’d lost his house, he’d lost his job, he’d lost his daughter. Where to next?

Tommy, all the way in Wyoming had scraped together some money, told Joel to get himself down to the mobile park and a steady job. Start from the bottom again.

Sometimes, Joel resented his brother for not giving him that money for a flight to the West, smiling down the phone as he informed that they had a spare room for him, his nephew cooing in his bassinet and waiting for his old uncle.

He understood though. When he wasn’t drunk it made more sense why he hadn’t invited him to his home.

They hadn’t spoken in sixteen years. To his nephew whom he did not know the name of, he was just the deadbeat uncle who hadn’t made it out of Texas—still alive but lost.

Tommy would’ve probably hated him more if he was sitting on Joel’s couch, staring at the porn and the beer, the cigarettes that his little brother knew he had only smoked when he was a rebellious teenager—the occasional pull never becoming a habit, especially when his daughter came along.

Almost certainly would’ve despised him if he knew how he felt about the girl next door, the perverse catharsis he experienced when he took himself in hand and imagined taking care of her, shushing her whimpers, making her whine with the way he stretched her open.

Oh, and he was a bad man. A bad fucking man and he was the last thing you needed. Some poor, young girl who was doing her best to make it. Pay the rent on time, make sure she was kept fed, all whilst juggling the inescapable feeling that once you were in the trailer park there was no getting out.

Joel didn’t see an end. He’d been here for over a decade; his drug money was not for a new house or a new life, it was for whores and booze, a carton of Marlboro reds that he got for cheap from Bill, and porn. He’d collected all the goddamn vices—became a person so unlike who he was, so far from the quietly loveable single dad he’d been hailed as years ago.

As far as Joel now was concerned, that guy was a fucking pussy.

That guy would think he needed professional help for the way he thought about you, would expel every single image of you naked and writhing, tits bouncing in time with his thrusts as you lay boneless and crying in his grasp.

You were legal. What was the big fucking deal?

Joel needed this. You were not just some throwaway material good that would leave him in debt for the next ten years—you were full and gorgeous, smart, quick-witted and made him harder than the oak tree that stood centuries-old just a little down the road from the old Palmer farmhouse.

That day you’d heard him talking about you to his friends, the way he’d lied and said that you were dumb, when you’d come storming up his porch steps—all rage and heat—and cussed him out, he’d laughed. It didn’t matter about the taunts and the sniggers he got from his buddies who he would have no issue never speaking to again. They could go fuck themselves for all he cared because you hadn’t willingly thrown yourself at his feet and licked his boots.

Whores were easy. No challenge with a whore, no longing, no desire, just a mutual understanding that this was transactional and she was going to moan as loud as you wanted her to whether it felt good or not.

But you had given Joel something worth chasing. And fuck he was going to catch you, even if it meant he’d die in the chair he sat in, with nothing to show for his life except a case of Bud, an empty fridge, and a stain on his bedsheets where you’d reached for him—begging for everything he could not give.

Something about him had you checking your appearance before you walked out the door, making your hair presentable, touching up your lipgloss, blotting the oil from your face. All for a man who saw you as nothing but jailbait

You wanted to be wanted. To be looked at with a fire, an urge to grasp you and take you fully, pull you close when you cried and kiss you when you shook with the need to run far away. You wanted to be kept, to be reminded every day that you were needed, loved and desired.

You wanted Joel.

Joel: the sad old man next door, the dangerously handsome figure in your life that stood six feet tall, jaw sharp and strong, muscles straining with his arms crossed—built big and firm. A chest you’d very much like to lay your head on. A bulge in his pants you’d very much like to see stripped bare.

So when the opportunity came, you seized it, with an iron first, intent on capturing what had been yours since the day you’d moved to the free prison—since the day he’d stared at you, an unadulterated and irremovable, perverse desire that shook the very beings of your existence. That determined exactly who you are and how you would fall for the watchful eyes and glinting gaze that befell you every time you stepped down the rotten wood steps at the foot of the trailer entrance.

You stepped onto them then, Chuck Taylors strapped to your feet, laces loose and lazily tied, skin smoothed from the razor you’d pressed against it in the shower that morning—all for him. The appearance every bit of expectation you had for his fantasies and ideals, hoping that the attire would thrust him further into abandoning a morality he did not have.

The sun set rapidly behind you, the grass long and dry around your ankles, unmowed—as you nor Joel had ever discussed who would get mowing duty—and a clear head. A set destination, unstifled by a long day at work, the sweat curling along your back too harsh to be ignored and the sometimes discourteous demeanour of Joel’s so powerful that you often wondered why you liked him. Why you gave so much attention to a man years ahead of you, unable to look at you without laughing at the prospect you thought you were more to him than a pretty thing to look at whilst he wallowed in his castle of self-pity he’d built for himself all these years spent trapped and lonely.

It all seemed insignificant that day you’d crossed the boundary between lot seventeen and lot eighteen. When you’d shakily advanced up his steps, onto the porch you grew so fond of, and knocked once, twice, thrice on the white door—stepping back to await his welcome. Hoping to god that he’d see you and take you there.

The shuffling on the other side of the door raised your heart rate, a sweat forming on the back of your neck which you brushed away with a hasty hand, intimidated by what awaited you when the white disappeared and transformed into bulking arms and a firm chest—a tall body that you gazed up at with ardour.

When the sight appeared, you gulped away the desire to run away, to pretend that you’d just come here for the leaky tap and that there was no other reason you had bothered him on his peaceful Sunday afternoon. No ulterior motive. Not that you just wanted to see him because he had hardly been around the past couple of days and in truth you were worried about him; you wanted to make him feel better.

“Hi.” He struggled to conceal the surprise in his voice, seemingly struggling further to keep the thickness in his throat at bay, the redness of his eyes that displayed days of restlessness and insomnia. “You alright?”

“Yeah,” you murmured impassively, licking your lips, swallowing away the dryness in your throat at the state of him: burning cigarette in hand, flannel shirt unbuttoned and displaying the white wifebeater that lay underneath. The shape of his belly was visible underneath it, his belt purposefully unbuckled and hanging from the loops of his jeans. “I’m alright.”

There was a twitch of his lips as he stared down at you, eyes flitting from head to toe—shameless in the way he always was. In the way you liked.

“You sure?”

It seemed stupid suddenly: the entire situation. The call you felt towards him, the want you had to curl up against his chest, let him hold you and tell you he was proud of you for opening up to him—telling him how fucking much you wanted him, despite knowing exactly how it would end if you were to venture further into a relationship that surpassed just neighbours.

So instead of inviting yourself in, seducing him until he fell to his knees, tugged you by the waist and begged you for just the smallest piece of yourself, you succumbed to your insecurity, and retreated from the palace walls.

“Yeah…yeah, it’s just that my taps leaking again.” For a split second, he almost looked irritated, eyes honing in on you, narrowing with a look of aggravation—confirmed by the clench of his jaw. You appeased him, saying, “You don’t have to come over now. I just thought I’d tell you,” and the expression slowly slipped away into something much more sinister: mirth.

“Sure thing, pretty girl,” he said as he slinked away from the doorframe, inviting you into his home, coaxing you past the threshold as he fumbled about in the fridge and pulled out two beers.

Contemplating, you stared at him, the flex of his muscles as he uncapped each bottle, the stature and size of him as he hunched over the counters, turning around to hold out a drink to you. An invitation. One that you had expected you’d have to give yourself—that you’d have to kick and cry before he ever let himself find you.

“Just have a drink,” he soothed in that southern lull of his, the words rolling from his tongue with ease. As if he had practised the scenario before he knew it would befall him. “No point in worrying over your tap, I can’t do anything until I buy new washers. I’m out 'cause of you.”

The irritation he’d shown earlier seemed palpable now—as if he was inviting you into his home simply to make you as uncomfortable as possible, hold you down by the hips until you promised to leave him alone. A taunt, a ploy to make sure you would never get what you wanted.

However, you had never stepped foot in his trailer, had only ever been on his porch and ran your hand over the chair he frequented, wondering what it looked like beyond the four walls, and curiosity prevailed as it always did.

Uncertainly, you stepped onto the carpet, gently closing the door behind you, and mumbled a thank you as you took the beer from his hand.

Almost immediately, you felt like apologising for his irrational emotions.

“I’m sorry,” you muttered. “I didn’t mean to put you out. I’ll pay for whatever you need-”

“You pay in ways you don’t know. I don’t need your money.”

The cryptic way in which he spoke, the casualness as he gave you a look that hinted at something you couldn’t decipher and the slow saunter to his armchair left you in a state of uncertainty. Standing there, with a beer wetting your hand, a frown on your face and a furrowed brow, you had no idea where to go next. What would await you if you questioned him—the things you would discover that were best left in the hands of God and no one else.

Again, curiosity thrust its violent hand into your stomach and forced your feet to start moving towards him, hoping that he’d appreciate your bravery—your denial of your urges to run far away. It was noted, however, that Joel Miller could care less about bravery. That the quality itself was right down at the bottom of the ladder and that he could and would not give a shit if you welcomed his advances in spite of your lack of courage.

Hesitantly, you planted yourself on his couch, the furniture built into the wall, curving into an L shape where you imagined he’d kick his feet up after a long day, palm the bulge in his jeans and pick from the litany of porn that you took one glance at and thought better than to stare at it too long in case he felt offended by your interest.

The discovery admittedly took away a little of his allure.

“Make yourself at home,” he insisted, taking a sip of his beer and urging you to do the same with a single nod of his head. The slight twitch of his lips when you did so caused your body to go squirming, shifting uncomfortably in your seat as the fire raged within you—unable to be sated with the way he looked at you then.

Just a scoff, a sip, and a glance at your lips before he turned away completely and focused his attention on the blank TV screen— his reflection the only entertainment.

Silence grew uncomfortable, the bitter taste of alcohol coating the back of your throat, dripping down your oesophagus and choking any words that you wished to say. The heat emanating from him was overpowering even from the distance you sat apart, the scent of cigarettes overwhelming, so much so that you needed a distraction, anything to dull the rest of your senses from shutting down—all because of his powerful presence; the effect he had on you even when he sat still and awaited your call.

“What did you mean?” The words came tumbling from your mouth, driven by an insatiable desire and lacklustre confidence you had somewhere deep in the pits of your stomach, bubbling with the acid that nestled there until it rose to the surface—bile transforming into questions that could leave you in a shell of humiliation. At his furrowed brow, you expanded. “About me paying in ways I don’t know.”

He leaned forward in his seat, elbows resting on his knees. Sombre, all of a sudden. Staring into the barrel of his bottle, the brown glass reflecting like constellations on his face—accentuating the sharp angle of his jawline, the sunken hollows of his cheekbones.

When his eyes nestled on yours, burrowing right into your skull, you couldn’t move. Couldn’t even fathom the thought of taking a lungful of air, waiting with your breath held tight inside, for his answer.

“You shouldn’t go asking questions like that.” He sipped quietly, wetting his lips by flicking his tongue in and out, averting his gaze back to the shadow of himself in the television. “You’ll get yourself in trouble.”

It was not the answer you wished for, eyes downcast, focused on your shaking knee as you tried to gauge some form of clarity beneath the mystery that clouded the gates to his head—what lay beneath his skull; what you wished to find.

Against your better judgment, you pressed further, keeping the beer bottle clutched between your hands and hoping it would stay cold forever.

“I can handle myself.” It came out more confident than you had expected, your bobbing knee ceasing its movement, your dry throat provided with moisture. A break from the anxious sweat you had broken out in. “If you don’t tell me I’ll just leave a hundred dollars on your doorstep and leave you alone.”

You hoped quietly, in that stifling room, that he would make sure it didn’t come to that. That he would let you pay in any way he saw fit. You hoped that the sad hulk of a man sitting in the lone chair with porn in every drawer and money set aside for whores, would let you have him—bring back a semblance of light to his eyes. Find out what kept the despondency trapped so tight around him, the crown of thorns on his head expanding until it reached his feet and kept him locked in nature's prison—skin scratched, bloody and unable to be healed unless he found someone willing to cut through the overgrowth.

He seemed to bristle at your words, shoulders tightening, jaw clenching in the manner he did when he was irritated. You’d seen it before when Dale had been drunk and had followed you home. When you’d stumbled uncomfortably to your trailer and pleaded Joel who sat on his porch, almost looking like he was waiting for you, to get him off your back. That tick, the downturn of his brow, the twitch of his lip, the look so intimidating you had rushed inside and watched through the window as Joel clapped a hand on Dale’s back and ushered him away from you.

You had no idea what he’d done after they’d left your sight but Dale barely looked at you after. The last interaction you’d had with him was the morning after when he’d knocked on your door, timid for a fifty-year-old man, and apologised. Joel had been there, like he almost always was—always dancing in your peripheral, waiting for you, taunting you—with a cup of coffee clasped between two hands and a smug look on his face when he watched the interaction.

“You ain’t as smart as you think you are,” he uttered, slipping you away from the vignette and shattering the memory with his simple words.

They stung. More than you cared to admit.

Men were never this difficult, never this hard to get through to, never this confusing. He had given you every possible sign, every protection, every knowing look that confessed: you are everything I wish to have.

It seemed every day he was further from you, every day he looked at you and thought that he was blinded by loneliness and that you were the last thing he needed to dote on.

With the rejection, came vexation, a rumbling little thing that forced its way into your mouth—lips parting to let it out.

“You’re not as discreet as you think you are.” As soon as they fell, the rest came following like a herd of bulls, a huge red flag flying through the air, right where Joel sat. They came for him, and you didn’t care enough to stop them. “I’m not stupid, no matter what you say.”

The tick, tick, tick of his jaw. That subtle way his eyes narrowed, honing in on everything but the thing causing his problems, trying desperately to stop the truths from betraying his conceptions.

“I see you, Joel. I see you through my bedroom window, using me as your personal stripper because you’re too fucking cheap to go down to the strip club and give a tip.” The push and pull was becoming apparent, the sympathy and disgust you held for him all at once growing and growing until all that prevailed was rage. That after everything, he still refused. That he was still a fucking coward no matter how many faces he pulled at anyone who looked at him wrong. You would not be deterred by the look he gave you then: one that should’ve made you shrink away in fear he would do something rash. “I see the way you looked at me from day fucking one. Just a pair of tits to stare at, a new young girl that you can prey on-”

“Stop.”

“I’m not stupid.” Your voice was rising rapidly, your lips downturned in a scowl, unable to see the danger that befell you if you continued. “I know how you talk about me to your friends, I know that you make a show of being this immovable thing that no one can ever get to because you’re so wrapped up in your own self-pity that you can’t even admit to yourself that the only thing you are is a fucking pervert. And an asshole.”

“You are crossing a line, little girl.”

His words fell on deaf ears, a scoff coming from the back of your throat—so many things that you wanted to say but couldn’t voice. You settled for a final, blow. One that might kick him off his feet.

“I know you stole my panties.” Jaw ticking, teeth grinding so hard they were liable to turn to dust in his mouth. “Took them right off my bathroom floor. Could you not help yourself? Are you that sad, Joel? Are you that much of a fucking perve-”

Silenced by the way he towered, standing upright, bottle discarded by the leg of his chair and fury dancing in his eyes—so apparent and profound you finally stopped and cowered.

“You don’t know a thing about me.”

You were stunned into submission, finally on the end of his intimidation—a feat that was sure to happen sooner rather than later. You were just another Dale, just another one of his victims that he shot down with narrowed eyes and a nasty tone of voice that forced you to swallow down the confidence—sending it right back to your stomach, and burning the false assurance away.

“I have been cordial with you for as long as possible.” There was danger in the way he spoke so calmly, a tremor in your hands as he stepped forward, facing you completely, and kneeled before you—eyes boring into yours, forcing you to look at him with the hand he placed on the couch beside you. “I’ve tried my hardest to be respectable but you make it so damn difficult.”

“I’m sorry,” you began, wishing you could take it all back, wishing that you could’ve used your boldness for better: crawled into his lap and let him hold you, sank to your knees like he and worshipped him with every bit of yourself you had.

“Sh, sh, sh,” he shook his head, the hand on the couch, moving, the weight of it resting there dissipating and falling even heavier on the side of your face. “You can’t take it back now.”

Nerves slipped like rapids through your stomach, the damn thing churning so much you began to feel sick with the anticipation and fear you felt being closer to him than you ever had been before. Your mouth opened as if to speak, then closed again when you realised that your throat had closed, the inside of your mouth dry and unable to lubricate your words with credibility as they fell from your lips.

“You think I’m a pervert?” he asked, eyes expecting an answer, eyebrows raising to help you find a response. “Hm?”

“Yes.” The monosyllable fell shakily, unable to lie when he was looking at you so harshly, all whilst stroking your cheekbone with his thumb and engulfing the right side of your face with one, big, warm hand.

He nodded with knowing, his other hand falling to your bare knee. You were crowded by him, completely consumed by his presence and with a harsh swallow, you hoped that he would slip away and allow you to breathe—if only for a moment.

“I know,” he said with finality, your cheek whacked with cold air as he removed his hand, quickly providing you with warmth again as he pressed his thumb to your chin, holding it delicately. Making sure you couldn’t look away from him. “But you like it, don’t you?” he brushed the bottom of your lip with his nail, an uncontrollable shiver running through you that he revelled in.

He’d called your bluff entirely. He’d locked you up in his cage, gave you the upper hand for just a second, made you believe that you could get away from him if you kicked and screamed enough, only to leave you hopeless as he twisted the key to the right, and threw the metal that granted you freedom, into the fire.

“If you had an issue with me looking, you’d close the drapes. You’re a smart girl, I’m sure it ain’t too hard for you.”

His patronisation, his demeanour that consisted of arousal and determination, had a small breath puffing from your lungs, a sudden and overwhelming heat crawling from each of his hands and into your head—breaking your rationale and leaving you pliable and willing in his grasp. He’d got you. Right there. And if he wanted you, you would let him have you.

“And if you didn’t want me to steal your panties, then you shouldn’t have left them there.”

It was unbelievable, the way he twisted the blame onto you, the way he made you believe in everything he was saying with a simple swipe of his thumb over your bottom lip and a look in his eyes that stopped you from questioning him.

“Yes, Joel, I’m sorry, Joel,” were the only words swimming through your head: words that you would’ve spoken aloud had he not stunned you into silence, the hand on your knee sliding along your skin, up towards the hem of your shorts where he slipped his fingers under and skimmed the skin concealed by the denim.

“You understand me, little girl?”

“I’m not a little girl,” you managed, voice shaky as the warmth of him engulfed you entirely, wrapped up in the scent of him, the feel of the callouses along your smooth skin and the eyes piercing you. If looks could kill…if those pretty eyes could rip you apart with the viciousness of their stare.

“No you ain’t,” he murmured, gripping your chin, thumb rubbing along the flesh of your bottom lip, the skin bouncing as he peeled it back and let go. “I know you ain’t.”

There seemed a flood came over his being, a white wave of purity dowsing him, ridding him of every adulteration and forcing sense back into his head as the hand fell from your face, the one on your inner thigh taking longer to slip away before the cloud of insensibility faded and he arrived to a semblance of morality.

You watched as he stumbled over to the kitchen, hand working over the scruff he called a beard and forced his eyes away from you.

“Joel,” you called softly, finally gaining back a little strength now he wasn’t crowding you; forcing you to look at him and make the first move so his conscience could be clean.

“Just go.” The words were uttered much softer than before, the delicacy of his voice surprising you but the strain that coated his throat a reminder that this was still Joel Miller. Dangerously beautiful Joel Miller with a lifetime of terror stashed somewhere in the backrooms of his mind, a darkness in the depths of his eyes you couldn’t help but be frightened by, and a story you wished he would tell. A story that stretched years back to the life before he crept past the opening gates of Shady Springs Mobile Park and left a life that you had no clue wether had been better or worse than his life now. “I’ll come over tomorrow afternoon and have a look at that tap. You might have to get maintenance round soon though if it keeps up.”

“I don’t like strangers…in my house.” Your words trailed off at the end of your sentence, caught up in the possibilities of your words and how he would reply. If he would see right through you and clock how you’d only spoken because the tap was one of the biggest ties you had to Joel. If he would realise that you’d thought about getting maintenance months ago when it first started dripping but didn’t want a permanent fix, no matter how annoying. All because of Joel Miller and the way he’d perversely captured you in the plot of some barely legal porno that you would’ve turned your nose up at if it was anyone but him and you.

You and Joel.

The thought sounded nice—the reality a little less nicer.

“Yeah, well…” he leant back on the countertops, arms crossed over his chest, eyes bloodshot and bordered by black—an undeniable piece of evidence that Joel perhaps wasn’t doing as well as he made everyone believe; that there was something deeper tugging at his mind and causing such aggravation.

After a moments silence, when he looked at you and you looked right back at him, your head clear and working properly again, you diverted the conversation elsewhere—a ploy to hack deeper at his head and find what lay underneath his skull.

“Are you okay?” Simple, easy. Not difficult to ascertain the concern laced deep in your tone because you were concerned for him. The moment he’d opened the door after days of barely seeing him, time spent cursing the fact he could peer through your windows but you could not peer through his, you knew something was wrong. That there was something happening to him. Something dangerous. Your sympathy began to overtake everything else, memory shed of all the times he had wronged you and replaced with the very little he had done right. “You look…tired. Exhausted, really.”

“I’m fine,” he said with finality, the rage in his eyes returning but with less power this time. The fatigue was setting in, the constant running from himself finally catching up to him.

“Are you sure?”

“I said I’m fine.” It shut you up well enough, so much so that you began to lose the commiserations. You could always say you tried. “Now get out of my house.”

It was the final thing he said to you before he slipped away, striding down the hallway, footsteps echoing until he reached the bedroom; the click of the door resounding throughout the trailer.

You stared at the spot where he’d kneeled, a finger brushing softly over your lip before shaking away the self-pity and gently placing the beer bottle on the table that sat next to his chair.

Looking one last time at the door at the end of the hallway, shadowed and guarded by snapping dogs, you opened the door, the damn thing creaking as if to shout to everyone within a mile radius that you had made no progress with the man you desperately wanted, and stepped out. Leaving your pride on the doorstep.

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