#Why Not? With Shania Twain

[corrodedcoughin]

just thinking about musician eddie who ends up doing country music under a pseudonym similar to Orville Peck. Eddie having his rock and metal band but the influence of Wayne and his upbringing doesn’t leave him. So he puts on a mask and picks up an acoustic to be this character. A character that’s closer to his real life than he lets on. A deep voiced cowboy singing about the difficulty of growing up gay but how comfortable he is with his identity.

He only ever does small gigs under this name and the audience isn’t huge. But there’s one regular that turns up to every show, he’s never stayed to talk to Eddie after and Eddie’s never been brave enough to go up to him. He knows he’d let all his secrets out under the attention of those hazel eyes and pretty boy smile.

Tonight though? Tonight he might just risk it all because the gif is over. Eddie is standing at the bar and he’s being handed a drink he definitely didn’t ask for by a man he definitely wants to know more about.

Or!!! Alternatively!!!!!

Steve as an Orville Peck style country singer. Going it to gigs and shows and getting a name for himself as the mysterious masked singer who is a proud queer cowboy. Creating a character to share his emotions and experiences. He doesn’t think it’ll come to much, just a way to let himself be heard.

Only he ends up gaining a strong following. His audiences are small but they are dedicated, understanding the idea steve has created and the importance of it. He loves this group he’s made for himself and how comfortable everyone feels at his shows. There’s often full conversations between him and the crowd, letting everyone be involved in his performances.

Steve has every intention of this being a small time thing that gets him through the long work week. What he doesn’t plan for is one of his tapes being found by corroded coffin front man eddie munson. Eddie Munson who loves a mystery, Eddie munson who might be in a big time metal band but has grown up listening to country and know Good Music when he hears it. Eddie Munson who might be Steve’s number one fan and is planning on finding out who is behind the mask

[vulpesarctica]

TIL that Shania Twain walked so Padmé Amidala could run

[heartfullofswords]

save me mumma's music taste from when she was my age

[attorney-anon]

“. . . [Q]uestions like “Why do you love horses so much?” didn’t quite get the job done.”

[lovevalley45]

out here just tryin to find music to listen to while i write in peace and i-

[strwbyoons]

NO ONE ELSE

STARRING ... BEST FRIEND'S BROTHER!M. YOONGI X READER

WORD COUNT ... 10.4K

SUMMARY ... yoongi doesn’t know what you want from him, but he knows he wants you.

NOTES/WARNINGS ... slight angst. smut (18+/MDNI). i needed these two to fuck so bad. making them official because they mean the world to me <33 taehyung flirting with reader. jealous!yoongi. basically-lovers-but-not-really to lovers. fingering, p in v sex, protected sex. if i forgot anything let me know.

playlist : still into you (paramore), snooze (sza), kiss me (sixpence none the richer), so american (olivia rodrigo), pink + white (frank ocean), still the one (shania twain), runaway (the corrs), kiss from a rose (seal), are you bored yet? (wallows), here with me (d4vd)

you wake up to the sound of yoongi’s alarm vibrating against the nightstand.

it’s early. too early. the sky outside is still a soft shade of orange, and the only reason you’re even awake is because yoongi, in his infinite wisdom, forgot to turn off his alarm before rolling out of bed to use the bathroom.

and now it’s going off, loud and persistent.

with a groan, you shove your face deeper into his pillow, blindly reaching out to slap at his phone until it stops.

silence. finally.

except, now you’re awake. and now you’re aware. of the lingering warmth beside you, the faint scent of his shampoo clinging to the pillowcase, the way his blanket is still wrapped around you, heavy and comforting.

yoongi’s bed is dangerously comfortable.

it always has been, which is probably why you keep ending up here, despite all the logical reasons why you shouldn’t.

there’s an unspoken understanding between you. whatever this is, whatever you’ve let it become, doesn’t get talked about. doesn’t get labeled. doesn’t change anything outside the walls of his room.

the bathroom door creaks open, and you barely lift your head as yoongi walks back in, hair a mess, hoodie slung loosely over his shoulders, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

"your alarm is annoying," you mumble, voice heavy with sleep.

"your face is annoying," he mutters back, dropping onto the bed with zero grace, exhaling sharply when his head hits the pillow beside yours. for a second, neither of you move.

then, yoongi shifts, turning onto his side, gaze flicking over your face like he’s searching for something. he must find it, because his lips twitch, just slightly.

"go back to sleep," he murmurs, tugging the blanket higher over your shoulders.

it should be weird. it should be so weird. but it’s not, so you do.

next time you wake up, yoongi’s side of the bed is cold and empty, and his bedroom door is open.

the house is quiet, save for the faint sound of the tv murmuring from the living room. you stretch, rubbing the sleep from your eyes, before finally dragging yourself out of bed, blanket still wrapped around your shoulders as you shuffle out into the hall.

yoongi’s mom is in the kitchen, flipping through a newspaper with a cup of tea in hand. she looks up when she hears you, barely fazed by the fact that you just crawled out of her son’s bedroom like it’s the most normal thing in the world because, at this point, it is.

“morning, sweetheart,” she hums, setting her mug down.

you blink, still half-asleep. “morning.”

her lips twitch slightly, and then she gives you the look.

the same knowing glance she’s been giving you for months now, the one that says you’re not as sneaky as you think you are but also i’ll let you keep pretending anyway.

heat creeps up the back of your neck, but you don’t acknowledge it, just tug the blanket tighter around yourself and step toward the fridge.

“yoongi up?” you ask, peering inside.

“mm,” she hums. “went out a while ago. said something about needing a new lighter.”

you roll your eyes, grabbing a carton of juice. of course. because god forbid he go a full twenty-four hours without replacing one of the dozen lighters he somehow loses in his own room.

you pour yourself a glass, avoiding his mom’s eyes, but you can feel her looking. assessing. thinking about whether or not she should say whatever’s sitting on the tip of her tongue.

and then, “just make sure you're using protection.”

you nearly choke on your juice. “what?”

she shrugs, oh-so-casual, turning a page in her newspaper. “just making sure.”

you gape at her. yoongi’s mom, the same woman who once scolded you and his sister for sneaking out at sixteen, now just casually suggesting that you and yoongi have been fucking each other in his room—which you've thought about, but in any which case is hardly any of her business.

before you can even think of a response, the front door swings open.

yoongi steps inside, looking obnoxiously unbothered, a fresh pack of cigarettes and a new lighter tucked between his fingers. he glances between you and his mom, brows furrowing slightly at your expression.

“what’s with you?”

you shake your head, gulping down the rest of your juice before setting the glass in the sink. “nothing.”

he narrows his eyes, clearly not believing you, but doesn’t push it. just tosses his lighter onto the counter and leans against it, watching as you continue standing there, blanket still wrapped around your shoulders, looking way too much like you belong here.

his mom, still smirking, picks up her tea again. “you kids hungry?”

yoongi shrugs. “i could eat.”

you exhale sharply, running a hand through your hair. “yeah. me too.”

his mom just hums, standing up and patting your cheek on the way to the stove.

yoongi steps up beside you soon after, close enough that you catch the faint scent of his shampoo, something fruity and familiar. he doesn’t say anything at first, just watches as you rinse out your glass, the weight of his gaze settling over you like a second blanket.

then an arm loops around your waist. it’s lazy, effortless. like it’s second nature to him now, the way he pulls you in, his fingers resting against the curve of your hip, thumb brushing slow, absentminded circles against your shirt.

you freeze, because his mom is still standing by the stove, very much aware and very much watching. yoongi doesn’t seem to care. instead, he dips his head, pressing a kiss to your temple, soft and fleeting, barely there at all.

he lingers for a second longer, like maybe he wants to say something. maybe he’s thinking about it. but then his mom clears her throat.

not pointedly, not in a hey get your hands off that girl kind of way, but in a so are you two finally gonna get your shit together, or? kind of way.

yoongi ignores her completely. just tugs you closer, resting his chin on top of your head, and sighs. “did you finish all the juice?”

“no,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. “there’s more.”

“good,” he murmurs, and that’s it. no teasing, no biting remarks. just this. his voice low and steady, his fingers still tracing idle circles against your side, holding you there like it’s nothing. like it’s everything.

his mom watches for a moment longer, sipping her tea. then, with a shake of her head, she turns back to the stove, muttering something about how she didn’t sign up for this bullshit but is too old to care anymore.

you should pull away. you really, really should. instead, you lean into him just a little more.

yoongi hums against your hair, the sound deep and quiet. “heading to the skate park later,” he murmurs. “gonna meet up with the others.” his fingers tap lightly against your hip, a slow, absent rhythm. “wanna come?”

you’ve been struggling to make friends in his sister’s absence. it’s not like you haven’t been trying. you’ve put yourself out there, made conversation, said yes to plans. but whatever you had going on with yoongi weighed enough guilt on your shoulders to sink you.

because replacing your best friend wouldn’t make you feel any better. wouldn’t fix the fact that she wasn’t here anymore and you had whatever you had going on with her brother.

but then again, if you had other friends, maybe you wouldn’t need to rely on yoongi’s presence so heavily. maybe you wouldn’t be here so much.

you were practically living with the mins at this point, rotating between yoongi’s room and his sister's, burrowing into the space she left behind like a stray cat that refused to be shooed away. as much as you loved being here, you also kind of hated it. hated feeling like a burden, like you were pushing too hard against the edges of a home that wasn’t really yours.

you’d only vanished for dinners with your own family after text after text about how they never see you anymore.

oops.

you shift, exhaling slowly, pressing your fingers into the warmth of yoongi’s hoodie. “who’s going?”

he shrugs against you. “jungkook, tae. maybe joon.”

you think about it. think about how nice it would be to get out of the house for a while. but mostly, you think about how you’re already too tangled up in yoongi’s orbit.

still, you murmur, “okay.”

yoongi doesn’t say anything right away. just tugs you in a little closer, fingers tightening at your hip, and presses another kiss to your forehead. lingering this time, sealing something in place. then, softly, “okay.”

he pulls back first, but only just. his hand stays at your waist, warm and grounding, making sure you don’t change your mind. “eat first,” he murmurs, gaze flicking toward the stove where his mom is flipping eggs. “then shower.”

you blink up at him. “are you calling me dirty?”

his lips twitch. “i’m saying you should shower.”

“sounds fake.”

he huffs, amused but unimpressed. “fine. smell like sleep and my hoodies forever. see if i care.”

you roll your eyes, finally stepping away from him, though you hate the way the absence of his touch feels so immediately wrong. still, you school your features into something appropriately annoyed as you grab a plate from the cabinet.

“can’t believe you’re bullying me first thing in the morning,” you mutter, grabbing a piece of toast.

yoongi snorts, swiping a slice of bacon off the stove before his mom can slap his hand away. “can’t believe you’re still talking.”

his mom groans. “i knew letting you two coexist was a mistake.”

you flash her a grin. “too late now.”

she just shakes her head, turning back to the stove.

yoongi bumps your hip with his before plopping down at the table, stretching his legs out obnoxiously under it. “shower,” he reminds you, mouth half-full of bacon.

you flip him off. he grins.

you roll your eyes, filling your plate with toast and bacon before sliding into the chair across from him. yoongi watches you with that lazy, knowing look, already knowing you’re going to stall as long as possible just to be a menace.

his mom sets a plate down in front of him, shaking her head. “if i hear either of you bickering before i finish my tea, i’m kicking you both out.”

“you love us,” you say, because it’s true.

she sighs, taking a sip. “unfortunately.”

yoongi snickers, stealing another piece of bacon. you don’t miss the way his mom flicks her gaze between the two of you, trying to decide if it’s worth saying anything else. but she just shakes her head again tbefore flipping open the newspaper.

you eat in comfortable silence, nudging at yoongi’s foot under the table just to be annoying. he nudges back. neither of you acknowledge it.

when you finally push your plate away, yoongi lifts a brow. “shower.”

you groan, slumping dramatically against the table. “why do you care so much?”

he chews, swallows, and says, “because you smell like my bed.”

your face heats instantly. “so?”

yoongi shrugs, reaching for his drink. “so people will think i’m obsessed with you or something.”

your heart stumbles over itself, trips and falls flat on its face.

“you are obsessed with me,” you blurt out, pointing at him. “admit it.”

he snorts, taking a sip of his juice. “nah.”

“liar.”

he just shrugs again. “go shower,” he says, pushing back from the table. “we’re leaving in twenty.”

you glare at him, but you still stand up, dragging your feet toward the hallway, making a show of how annoying this whole thing is.

right before you disappear into the bathroom, yoongi calls after you, voice laced with amusement. “don’t use my shampoo.”

you slam the door.

you knew yoongi liked to skate. it's been one of his most defining characteristics since the three of you were kids. along with his habit of being annoying and his penchant to get into trouble.

he'd showed you his collection of skateboards that day on his birthday, explaining how much he'd bought them for, showing you the designs he'd painted onto them himself, and telling you the tricks he'd done on them.

his hair had been blonde then. six months later, it’s a more minty color, faded at the roots. it suits him, you think. even if you’d never tell him that.

the walk to the skate park is quiet. comfortable. the late morning sun filters through the trees, casting warm patches of light onto the pavement, and the air still carries the crispness of early spring.

the path slopes downward, and you hesitate before saying, “i’ve been thinking about applying for an art course.”

“yeah,” yoongi says, kicking a loose rock down the path. “i heard you talking to my sister about it.”

you blink. “you eavesdropped on my call?”

he snorts. “you were in my room.”

fair point.

you nudge him with your elbow, ignoring the way your stomach twists at the idea of him remembering something so small. “so?”

he side-eyes you. “so what?”

you huff. “so, what do you think?”

yoongi rolls his shoulders like it’s obvious. “i think you should do it.”

it’s so simple. so straightforward. like there isn’t even a question in his mind about it.

you chew your lip, staring down at the pavement. “i dunno,” you mumble. “feels kind of stupid.”

yoongi stops walking. you get two more steps ahead before you realize and turn back, watching as he lifts a brow, expression flat.

“what?” you say.

his eyes flick over your face, unimpressed. “what’s stupid about it?”

you shift on your feet. “i don’t know. just... feels kind of late to be figuring out what i wanna do, i guess.”

yoongi stares at you for another long moment. then, without a word, he starts walking again. you fall into step beside him.

“you know namjoon didn’t start writing music until he was almost twenty?” he says eventually.

you frown. “that’s different.”

“not really.”

you glance at him, but he’s still looking ahead, expression unreadable.

“do it,” he says again, voice a little quieter this time. a little less teasing. “stop thinking about it and just do it.”

you exhale slowly, dragging your fingers along the strap of your bag. it’s so easy for him to say. but then again, yoongi has always done whatever he wanted, no matter how much trouble it got him into. maybe you should try it, too.

with that thought, your eyes linger on the side of yoongi’s face.

he’s always been like this. steady, sure of himself in a way that makes you envious. not in a loud, look-at-me way, but in a way that just is. like he’s figured out how to move through life without getting caught up in the little things that keep you stuck in place.

his gaze is focused ahead, brows drawn slightly, thinking about something but not saying what. the sharp line of his jaw softens when he chews at the inside of his cheek, something he does when he’s lost in thought.

you wonder what he’s thinking about. if it’s you, or if you’re just making it about you.

either way, you don’t look away.

maybe he feels your stare, or maybe he just knows, because after another few steps, he turns his head, catching your gaze like he was expecting it.

you don’t get the chance to glance away, to play it off.

his lips twitch slightly, the barest hint of amusement. “what?”

you shake your head, shrugging. “nothing.”

yoongi lifts a brow but doesn’t push. just keeps walking, hands still shoved deep into his pockets, that same small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth like he knows something you don’t.

and maybe he does.

you're familiar with some of yoongi’s friends. not in a close way, but enough that their names and faces aren’t completely foreign.

namjoon’s the oldest of his skater friends, the one who’s always been around in some capacity, showing up at the min’s house just as much as you used to. taehyung is newer, though still familiar. he’s got one of those personalities that makes you feel like you’ve known him forever, even if you’ve only spoken a handful of times.

and then there’s jungkook.

he was a year above you in school, and if that wasn’t enough to cement him in your memory, yoongi’s sister having the fattest crush on him definitely was.

you remember the way she used to sigh dramatically about him, how she’d make you wait outside the gym after basketball practice just to happen to be there when he walked out.

it was embarrassing.

the skate park is already busy when you arrive, full of guys who look like they’ve been here since sunrise, boards tucked under their arms, half-drunk bottles of gatorade left forgotten on the ledges.

yoongi barely glances around before spotting his friends near the bowl, plopping down on a nearby bench.

“you wanna sit and watch?” he asks, looking at you expectantly.

you hesitate, toeing at a crack in the pavement. jungkook, who’s already mid-conversation with taehyung, spots you first.

“oh, shit,” he says, grin spreading. “yoongi actually brought someone?”

taehyung turns too, eyes widening slightly before recognition clicks. “oh, wait. i know you.”

jungkook’s brow furrows, scanning you again. “yeah, you were a grade below me, right?”

you nod. “yeah. and yoongi’s sister used to be obsessed with you.”

jungkook groans immediately, dragging a hand down his face. “please don’t remind me.”

yoongi snickers beside you. “it was painful to watch, man.”

taehyung laughs, draping an arm over jungkook’s shoulder. “so you do have rizz.”

jungkook shoves him off. “shut up.”

you snort, easing onto the bench next to yoongi, feeling the tension in your chest uncoil just a little. maybe this won’t be so bad.

jungkook shakes his head, still grumbling under his breath about why does everyone keep bringing that up, but the conversation moves on quickly. taehyung says something about a new trick he’s been trying to land, and jungkook immediately challenges him to prove it.

yoongi stretches out beside you, one arm draped across the back of the bench, fingers tapping idly against the wood. he doesn’t seem in a rush to get up, which means you’re not in a rush to either.

“so, you actually skate?” you ask, nodding toward where taehyung is already flipping his board into his hands, preparing for his turn.

yoongi scoffs. “do i skate?”

you lift a brow.

he exhales, sitting up straighter. “i’m not just some guy with a collection, you know.”

“i dunno,” you tease, tilting your head. “i’ve never actually seen you do anything.”

yoongi narrows his eyes. “i showed you my boards.”

“yeah, but that’s like—” you wave a hand, “—showing off a bunch of guitars and never playing one.”

yoongi clicks his tongue, shaking his head. then, without a word, he stands, rolling his shoulders as he grabs his board.

“stay here,” he murmurs before stepping toward the bowl.

taehyung and jungkook are already watching as yoongi drops in, casual as ever, carving the curve of the bowl like it’s second nature.

and okay. fine. maybe you underestimated him a little. because yoongi doesn’t just skate. he’s good.

like, really good. smooth and effortless in a way that looks instinctual. you don’t realize you’re staring until jungkook nudges your arm, smirking.

“damn,” he muses, watching yoongi flip his board before landing clean. “you got a crush or something?”

your stomach flips. “shut up.”

jungkook just laughs.

yoongi moves like he’s been doing this forever. he doesn’t hesitate before dropping in again, knees bending smoothly with the curve of the bowl, shifting his weight just right before pushing into his next trick.

your eyes stay locked on him, unable to look away as he kicks his board up into a perfect flip, landing clean, not even the slightest stumble. he’s completely in his element. focused, sharp, like nothing outside of this moment exists.

you exhale, dragging your fingers across the edge of your sleeve.

“you’re staring,” jungkook teases under his breath, leaning close.

you glare, shoving him away. “i’m watching.”

jungkook snorts, clearly unbothered. “sure. whatever helps you sleep at night.”

but you don’t take the bait. not when yoongi lands another trick, smooth and seamless, and something tightens in your chest.

because damn. you never doubted that he could skate, but you didn’t expect this. the precision. the ease. the way he moves.

taehyung whistles low, impressed. “he’s showing off.”

you blink. “what?”

taehyung nods toward yoongi, who’s gearing up for another drop-in, his hoodie pulled up over his head now, mint-colored strands falling into his eyes.

“he wasn’t doing all this last time we were here,” taehyung muses, tilting his head. “probably trying to impress someone.”

you roll your eyes, but your stomach does a weird little flip anyway.

jungkook smirks. “wonder who that could be.”

you elbow him in the ribs.

yoongi lands another clean trick, kicking his board up into his hands before finally stepping off, exhaling through his nose as he pushes his hoodie back.

his eyes scan the park once before landing on you, and—

oh. he’s smirking.

a knowing little thing, subtle but there.

your face heats instantly, and you hate the way jungkook and taehyung both make noises of confirmation at the same time.

yoongi strolls over, board tucked under one arm, sweat gathering at his hairline. he stops in front of you, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

“so?” he says, tilting his head. “believe me now?”

you cross your arms, forcing your expression into something unimpressed. “eh,” you hum. “i guess you can skate.”

yoongi huffs, shaking his head like. he leans in slightly, gaze flicking over your face, voice quieter when he murmurs “you were watching pretty hard for someone who just guesses.”

"fuck off," you say with a scoff.

taehyung points a dramatic finger at you, his eyes wide with mock intensity. “my turn!” he announces, loud enough to catch the attention of a few other skaters nearby, “this is for you.”

you blink. “uh—”

before you can even ask what he means, taehyung grabs his board, squares his shoulders, and launches into what you assume is supposed to be an ollie.

except his timing is completely off. his foot misses the pop, his weight shifts too far forward, and then he’s face-planting straight into the pavement.

it happens so fast you barely have time to react. one second he’s in the air, the next he’s sprawled out on the ground, limbs tangled with his board, the dull slap of skin meeting concrete ringing through the air.

there’s a brief, stunned silence, and then jungkook wheezes. yoongi snorts so hard he has to clap a hand over his mouth, and you press your fingers to your lips, trying—and failing—to suppress your laugh.

taehyung groans, lifting his head just enough to glare at the three of you. “y’all suck.”

jungkook clutches his stomach, barely able to get words out. “bro, i can’t breathe—”

yoongi shakes his head, stepping toward you. his arm hooks around your waist, tugging you flush against his chest, your laughter cutting off with a small, surprised inhale.

his voice is lower, teasing but warm, as he murmurs, “that’s what he gets for trying to impress my girl.”

your stomach flips. the words settle heavy in your chest, something warm spreading from your ribs outward, curling into your fingers, making your breath hitch just slightly.

yoongi doesn't let go right away, his hold lingering, fingers flexing slightly at your hip like he’s perfectly comfortable keeping you there.

taehyung, still facedown on the pavement, mutters, “i hate all of you.”

yoongi hums, completely unbothered. “you’ll live.”

the skate park trip lasts another hour before the collective hunger settles in. someone suggests maccas, and there’s no argument. because really, there’s no better way to wrap up an afternoon of skating than cheap burgers and greasy fries, so you all walk.

yoongi’s close beside you, like he always is, hands stuffed in his hoodie pockets, shoulders relaxed. taehyung walks ahead, still rubbing at his scraped-up elbow, while jungkook pushes his board lazily along the sidewalk, rolling it forward with the tip of his shoe.

“so,” jungkook starts, voice full of something already obnoxious, “are you two, like… together or what?”

your reaction is immediate. “no,” you blurt, way too quickly, way too defensively.

yoongi huffs. it’s quiet, barely a breath, but you hear it. so does jungkook.

his brows shoot up, not expecting the level of urgency in your denial. yoongi, for his part, doesn’t say anything, but you feel the way his shoulders tense for a split second. the way his head tilts slightly, side-eyeing you.

you don’t look at him.

jungkook whistles low. “damn. that was fast.”

“right?” taehyung snickers.

your face heats. “because it’s not a thing.”

jungkook hums, unconvinced. “sure.”

taehyung nods. “yeah, totally. absolutely no thing happening here.”

you glare, shoving him as you walk past. yoongi stays quiet.

you don’t glance at him, but you feel his presence beside you, the weight of something tense hanging in the space between you. it doesn’t go away for the rest of the walk.

the mcdonald's is busy when you arrive, buzzing with the usual mix of skateboarders, students, and exhausted parents just trying to survive the afternoon rush.

the four of you shuffle into line, the overhead speaker crackling with some pop song that’s been playing on every radio station for months. jungkook and taehyung are still laughing about something behind you, but you don’t catch it. not when yoongi’s standing beside you, gaze straightforward.

you don’t know why you do it. maybe out of habit. maybe to see if he’ll react. but you nudge his arm, light, just a little bump against his sleeve.

he doesn’t move, doesn’t nudge back. doesn’t even look at you.

your stomach twists, something uncomfortably hot settling behind your ribs. yoongi doesn’t usually ignore you, at least not like this. not in a way that feels so intentional.

still, you don’t say anything.

the line moves forward. when you finally reach the counter, yoongi steps up first, rattling off his usual order without looking at the menu. and then he orders yours, too.

exactly how you like it. down to the make sure there's no pickles.

you blink, caught off guard, but before you can ask, yoongi beats you to it. “i know you don’t have money on you.”

you swallow, shifting on your feet. “oh.”

yoongi doesn’t glance at you. just hands the cashier a crumpled bill from his hoodie pocket.

“thanks,” you mumble, voice quieter than you mean it to be.

yoongi just hums. no teasing. no smug little comment. and that makes your chest ache even more.

you fidget with the hem of your sleeve, shifting closer before tilting your head up, peering up at him through your lashes. “… are you mad at me?”

yoongi exhales sharply through his nose. not annoyed, not exasperated. just something.

he tugs you against him. not rough, just a simple pull, his arm looping around your shoulder. his hoodie smells like faded detergent and cheap cigarette smoke and something unmistakably him.

“i’m not mad,” he murmurs, voice low, steady.

you don’t know what to do with your hands, so you just shove them into your own pockets, fingers curling into the fabric. “… promise?”

yoongi sighs, his grip tightening slightly before his chin rests against the top of your head. “yeah,” he mutters. “promise.”

he presses a kiss to your forehead. a silent reassurance. a quiet see? i’m not mad. “don’t worry about it,” he murmurs, voice low, steady.

and you nod, leaning into him.

the playground is quiet this time of day, mostly empty aside from the four of you and the occasional kid passing by with their parents.

jungkook lounges at the bottom of the slide, food balanced on his knees, absentmindedly sipping his coke. yoongi sits a little further off, at the edge of the sandpit, one leg stretched out, the other bent, balancing his burger in one hand.

you and taehyung are on the swings, feet planted in the sand, your bags resting on your laps. the metal creaks slightly as taehyung shifts, twisting just enough to face you, an amused glint in his eyes.

“yours any good?” he asks, nodding toward your milkshake.

you hum, taking another sip. “mm-hmm.”

he leans in, offering his cup, a small smirk tugging at his lips. “wanna try mine?”

you blink at him. “it’s the same flavor.”

he pauses, then laughs, shaking his head. “yeah, but maybe mine tastes better.”

you frown, taking his drink anyway, sipping through the straw before handing it back. “nope. exactly the same.”

taehyung snorts. “right. obviously.”

you don’t catch the way he watches you for a second longer than necessary, or the way yoongi’s gaze flicks over from where he’s sitting.

your fries are nearly gone when tragedy strikes. you shift a little too much, and what’s left of them topples straight into the sand.

you let out a groan, staring down at them in dismay.

taehyung doesn’t hesitate, nudging his own toward you. “here,” he says, tone light, almost teasing. “you can have some of mine. since i’m so generous.”

you smile, grabbing a handful. “thanks, taehyungie. you’re my favorite.”

taehyung blinks, not expecting that response, then recovers quickly, smirk returning. “oh, am i?”

you nod, popping a fry into your mouth. “mm-hmm.”

“better not let yoongi hear that,” he muses, leaning closer, voice dipping just a little lower. “he might get jealous.”

you glance over at yoongi, who hasn’t reacted at all. still sitting there, picking at the wrapper of his burger, expression unreadable. then you shrug, completely missing the way taehyung’s eyes narrow in amusement.

“he’ll live,” you say, reaching for another fry.

taehyung watches you for a moment, absently sipping his milkshake, before tilting his head. "so, you and yoongi," he starts, casual. too casual. "really not a thing?"

you pause. it’s a split-second hesitation, but it's there, and taehyung doesn’t miss it.

you glance over at yoongi before you can stop yourself, like your body reacts before your brain can catch up. he’s still sitting on the edge of the sandpit, half-focused on peeling the wrapper off his burger, but his jaw is tight, his fingers a little too still.

you swallow, forcing yourself to look back at taehyung.

"no," you say, a little slower this time. "we're not."

taehyung hums, he’s turning it over in his mind.

"so, hypothetically," he muses, stretching out his legs in the sand, "if someone, say, me, wanted to take you out—"

you blink.

"—you wouldn't be off limits or anything, right?"

your lips part slightly, confusion flickering across your face before you shake your head. "uh… no?"

taehyung grins, dragging a fry through his ketchup before popping it into his mouth. "good to know."

you don’t even have time to process that before he shifts again, leaning slightly into your space, his voice dipping just enough to make your ears warm.

he nods toward yoongi, then toward himself, smirking. "technically, you’re with me right now."

you scoff, rolling your eyes. "you wish, taehyung."

"oh, i do," he says smoothly, sipping his milkshake like it's nothing.

you shake your head, tossing a fry at him, and he catches it without missing a beat.

from the edge of the sandpit, yoongi exhales sharply through his nose.

the conversation drifts after that, slipping into something lighter. taehyung teasing jungkook about his tragic attempt at a kickflip earlier, jungkook firing back with a dig about taehyung eating dirt at the skate park.

you listen, half-engaged, but the weight of something still sits in your chest.

yoongi hasn’t said much. hasn’t looked at you much, either.

he finished eating a while ago, now idly toying with the straw in his drink, long fingers tapping a slow, absent rhythm against the plastic cup.

then, after a moment, “we should go.” his voice is even, casual, but something about it makes you straighten a little too quickly.

“yeah,” you say, standing, dusting sand off your jeans. “sounds good.”

taehyung flashes a grin, tilting his head up at you from his swing. “what, leaving me already?”

you roll your eyes. “yeh, i’m done with you losers.”

jungkook snickers from his spot at the slide, but doesn’t comment.

you move to fall in step beside yoongi like you always do, but when you do, he kind of shrugs past you. not harsh, not in an outright dismissive way, but pointed enough that you feel it.

your feet hesitate for a split second before moving again, catching up despite the slight hitch in your chest.

yoongi doesn’t look at you. doesn’t say anything else.

just walks, hands shoved in his hoodie pockets, gaze fixed ahead like there’s nothing to talk about. but you feel it. something in the space between you feels different. feels off.

and you don’t know what to do about it.

the walk home is quiet.

it’s not an awkward silence, not exactly, but it’s not the usual kind either. not the comfortable kind that’s filled with shared looks and nudges and stupid little comments that don’t really mean anything but still feel like something.

this silence is… something else. something heavier.

yoongi walks ahead, hands still shoved into his hoodie pockets, his pace easy, unbothered. you trail behind him, dragging your feet just enough to make yourself feel pathetic.

you don’t want to feel like this. don’t want to care that he’s keeping just a little too much distance between you, or that he hasn’t looked at you once since you left the playground, or that your stomach still twists a little too tightly when you think about the way he brushed past you.

but you do care. you care a lot.

you bite the inside of your cheek, arms crossed as you stare down at the pavement, forcing yourself to keep moving, to pretend like this doesn’t feel like some kind of punishment for something you don’t even understand.

when you finally reach his house, yoongi steps inside first, toeing off his shoes without a word before heading toward his room.

you hesitate at the entrance, shifting your weight between your feet.

technically, you don’t live here. technically, you could just turn around and go home. but you don’t. you never do.

so, with a quiet sigh, you step inside, closing the door behind you.

you linger by the entryway for a second longer than necessary, watching yoongi’s back as he disappears down the hall. he doesn’t look back, doesn’t wait for you.

so you swallow hard, shoulders curling inward, and follow after him anyway.

by the time you make it up to his room, yoongi’s already in the bathroom. the door isn’t closed all the way. just slightly ajar, steam from the sink curling into the dimly lit hallway. you hesitate for a second, fingers grazing the edge of your sleeve, before stepping inside.

he doesn’t acknowledge you at first.

just stands there, leaning over the sink, brushing his teeth with slow, methodical strokes, his hoodie peeled off and discarded somewhere on the floor. his hair is slightly damp at the ends, probably from splashing his face, mint-colored strands curling just slightly.

you grab your own toothbrush from the cup beside the faucet, running it under the water before squeezing out too much toothpaste. yoongi doesn’t glance at you, so you don’t glance at him either.

the silence is thick.

your shoulders brush as you move, barely, a light little thing that normally wouldn’t mean anything. except tonight, it does. tonight, you notice.

tonight, it feels like yoongi not nudging you back in the maccas line. it feels like yoongi shrugging past you instead of waiting.

you stare at your reflection in the mirror, at the way your brows are slightly furrowed, the way your mouth presses into a thin line as you scrub your teeth a little too hard.

this isn’t normal. normally, this is easy.

normally, you’d be bumping into each other, making faces in the mirror, shoving at his arm when he spits toothpaste too aggressively into the sink.

but tonight, he just brushes his teeth, and you do the same, and neither of you say a word.

when you finish brushing, you hesitate. just for a second.

toothbrush still in hand, you glance at yoongi out of the corner of your eye, watching as he rinses his mouth, spits, and swipes his hand across his face. he doesn’t look at you, just flicks off the faucet with a sharp movement and reaches for his towel.

your stomach feels tight. you should say something, but you don’t.

instead, you put your toothbrush back in the cup and turn toward his room, stepping past him without a word.

but before you can take another step, yoongi grabs you by the shoulders. his touch isn’t rough, but it’s firm. fingers pressing into the fabric of your shirt, stopping you cold.

your breath catches, pulse stumbling.

“what do you want from me?”

his voice is low, but there’s something frayed at the edges. something not entirely calm.

you blink, caught completely off guard. “what?”

yoongi exhales sharply through his nose, hands tightening slightly.

“what do you want from me?” he repeats, slower this time.

your heart pounds against your ribs. his face is so close, eyes dark, searching, his jaw clenched like he’s trying to keep his voice even.

“because i—” he swallows hard, fingers flexing against your arms. “i want you. wholly. completely.”

your breath stutters. his grip doesn’t loosen.

“there’s no one else in the world i want more,” he says, voice rough. “but i need to know if i’m wasting my time.”

your throat goes dry, your mind races. the air is thick between you, heavy with something you don’t know how to name, something you don’t know if you can handle.

yoongi’s eyes flick over your face, searching for something, for anything. and you don’t know what to say.

you swallow hard.

yoongi’s fingers twitch against your shoulders, breath warm where it ghosts across your face. he’s so close, too close, looking at you like he’s begging for something—an answer, a reaction, anything.

“what do you see when you look at me?” he asks, voice low, rough around the edges.

your throat feels tight. “yoongi—”

“because when i look at you,” he continues, cutting you off, “i see the girl i kissed in the kitchen on my birthday. the girl i’ve been sharing a bed with for the past six months.”

the words settle heavy in your chest, pressing down, down, down.

“the girl i’m—” he exhales sharply, jaw clenching for a beat before forcing the words out. “the girl i’m hopelessly in love with.”

your breath stutters. his eyes flick over your face, searching, desperate.

he’s shaking now, just slightly. just enough that you feel it, just enough that you know this is costing him something.

“so tell me,” he murmurs, voice quieter now, like he’s scared of what comes next, “what do you see?”

he’s laid himself bare. no more room to dodge, no more room to pretend. it’s your turn.

but your mind is racing, spiraling too fast, trying to catch up.

before you can think, before you can second-guess, before you can talk yourself out of it, you kiss him.

it crashes into him, hands fisting into the fabric of his t-shirt, fingers curling tight like you’re afraid he’ll disappear if you let go.

yoongi freezes. just for a second, just long enough for you to think you’ve fucked up, but then he moves. his hands slide from your shoulders to your waist, gripping, pulling, needing, mouth pressing firm against yours, breath hot and uneven as he exhales into the kiss.

it’s messy and urgent. six months’ worth of unsaid things spilling out all at once.

yoongi makes a noise in the back of his throat, somewhere between frustration and relief, like he’s wanted this for so long he can’t believe it’s finally happening.

and you don’t know why you ever tried to fight it.

yoongi’s hands are firm at your waist, fingers pressing into your sides, his body heat sinking into yours. he lifts you, hands gripping beneath your thighs, shifting you up until you’re perched on the bathroom counter, your knees falling open around him as he steps between them, slotting himself exactly where he belongs.

you gasp against his lips, hands flying to his shoulders to steady yourself, but yoongi just smirks, a slow, teasing thing as he exhales sharply through his nose.

his fingers squeeze at your waist, holding you in place, keeping you trapped against him.

then, voice low, amused, “deja vu?”

your breath catches, stomach flipping. because fuck.

the birthday. the kitchen.

his hands on your thighs, his body between your legs, the first time you let him kiss you like this.

your mouth parts slightly, but nothing comes out. you don’t know what to say, don’t know how to respond to the way he’s looking at you. your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, gripping tight.

yoongi’s smirk softens just a little, but his eyes stay locked on yours, sharp and knowing. “got an excuse to stop this time?” he murmurs, tilting his head.

you shake your head. “no.”

yoongi hums, pleased, his fingers flexing against your skin. “good,” he murmurs, before pulling you into him, mouth crashing back against yours.

yoongi kisses you like he’s starving for it, like he’s been holding back for months, fingers digging into your waist as he tugs you impossibly closer.

his hands move without hesitation. skimming up your sides, brushing beneath your shirt, teasing at the waistband of your shorts, testing how far you’ll let him go.

when you don’t stop him, when you only tighten your grip on his shirt, legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, he exhales sharply against your lips.

“yeah?” he murmurs, voice rough, barely holding back.

you nod, breathless. “yeah.”

that’s all he needs.

his hand slips past the elastic of your shorts, fingers pushing beneath the waistband of your underwear, pressing right there, just enough to make your stomach tighten, heat pooling deep in your core.

you gasp against his mouth, back arching slightly.

yoongi smirks, lips brushing against yours as he rubs slow, deliberate circles over your clit, teasing, barely enough pressure to satisfy.

“you’re already wet,” he murmurs, voice laced with something dark and pleased.

you bite your lip, hips shifting toward his hand, but he just hums, keeping the pace agonizingly slow.

“you like this?” he asks, like he doesn’t already know.

his fingers press down a little harder, circling just right, and you make a quiet, desperate noise. yoongi groans at that, his other hand gripping your thigh, keeping you open for him, his mouth brushing against your jaw.

“thought about this,” he mutters, lips ghosting over your skin, “so many times.”

his fingers move faster now, pressing, rubbing, teasing you to the edge, the heat between your legs burning beneath his touch.

“yoongi—” your voice breaks, head tipping back against the mirror.

his lips press against your throat, his breath heavy. he strokes over your clit again, pressing tight little circles that make your stomach twist, make your thighs tense around his waist, make your breath stutter out in sharp, quiet gasps.

yoongi groans against your skin, low and throaty, his mouth brushing along the curve of your jaw. he slides his fingers lower, pushing your underwear aside and teasing at your entrance, dragging them through your slick before pushing in.

a sharp inhale rips through you, your nails digging into his shoulders, his shirt fisting in your hands.

yoongi groans again, deep this time, his fingers sinking into your cunt nice and slow, stretching you open.

“fuck,” he mutters, mouth pressing against the corner of your lips, his breath hot.

his fingers curl, stroke, press into that soft, sensitive spot inside you, and your whole body tenses, a soft whimper slipping from your throat before you can stop it.

yoongi feels it, feels the way you tighten around his fingers, the way your hips jerk toward him, and groans, his forehead pressing to yours.

“yeah? you like that?” he murmurs, voice dark, rough.

you nod, breathless. “y-yeah.”

he exhales sharply, and his fingers keep moving. slow at first, dragging in and out, teasing you open, before pressing deeper, his thumb slipping up to rub your clit in slow, lazy circles. your thighs tremble around him.

“you always this wet, baby?” yoongi rasps, eyes flicking to yours, heavy-lidded, heated.

you don’t get the chance to answer, because then he’s crooking his fingers, pressing right fucking there, and all you can do is gasp, head falling back against the mirror with a quiet, breathless moan.

yoongi watches you. watches the way your body reacts to him, watches the way your lips part, the way your hands clutch at him, your whole body responding to him like you were made for his touch.

his breath shudders out.

“you’re gonna let me fuck you, aren’t you?” he murmurs, pressing his fingers deeper, harder, coaxing another whimper from your lips. his own brush against yours, not quite a kiss, almost. “tell me,” he breathes. “tell me you want it.”

your whole body reacts before your brain even catches up, hips rolling instinctively into yoongi’s hand, chasing the pleasure he’s pulling from you.

“i—” your breath shudders, voice barely above a whisper. “i want it.”

yoongi curses under his breath, his forehead pressing to yours for half a second before he drives his fingers into you again, pressing hard, and you squeal, the sound high-pitched and desperate. before it can fully escape, yoongi’s hand is covering your mouth, his fingers pressing against your cheek, his own breath coming out shaky.

“fuck,” he groans, voice thick with something dark.

his fingers don’t slow. they move fast and rough, pumping into you, curling deep, his thumb rubbing messy, urgent circles over your clit, dragging you closer and closer to the edge until your whole body is trembling, tightening around him, begging for it.

yoongi groans again, his hand still over your lips, muffling every soft, broken noise spilling from your throat.

“be quiet,” he breathes, voice strained, like he’s losing himself in the way you react to him, the way you feel around his fingers.

you can’t be quiet. not when he’s touching you like this, not when he’s looking at you like this. eyes heavy, jaw clenched, breathing ragged as he drives you closer and closer to the edge.

you whimper into his palm, your hands clutching at his wrist, your whole body tightening as pleasure crashes through you, sending a sharp, blinding wave of heat down your spine.

yoongi groans, watching the way you come undone around his fingers, feeling the way you squeeze down, hips stuttering against his hand.

he doesn’t move his hand from your mouth until the tremors in your thighs start to fade. when he does, he presses his forehead against yours, exhaling sharply, his fingers slipping out of you just as slowly as they slid in.

“we’re not done,” he says, voice low, utterly wrecked.

his breath is still heavy, his forehead pressed to yours, hands sliding back down to your hips, gripping. yoongi grinds against you, his hips rolling forward just enough that you feel him. feel how hard he is through his jeans, the way he presses right up against you.

your breath stutters, fingers tightening in his shirt, and yoongi groans, voice rough, barely holding himself together. “fuck, doll.”

your stomach flips. the name isn’t new. he’s thrown it around before, teasing, casual, just part of the way he speaks. but this is different.

his lips brush over your cheek, jaw, down to your throat, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses between his words. “you feel that?” he murmurs, voice thick, almost shaky.

you nod, swallowing hard, and yoongi hums, dragging his mouth back up to your ear.

“this is what you do to me,” he breathes.

he grinds again. harder this time, pushing against you, making you feel him. letting you know exactly what you’ve done to him, exactly how much he wants you.

his fingers slip beneath the hem of your shirt, grazing the bare skin of your waist, warm and possessive, gripping like he’s making sure you don’t slip away.

“gonna make you feel so good, doll,” he murmurs, kissing just beneath your ear, smirking against your skin when he feels you shudder.

his hips roll forward again, pressing just right, sending a spark of heat straight through you, and a soft whimper slips past your lips before you can stop it.

yoongi groans at that, his grip tightening. “yeah?” he murmurs, teasing. “like that?”

you nod frantically, breathless.

yoongi smirks, lips grazing yours. “good,” he mutters.

then he kisses you hard, hands gripping your thighs, pulling you even closer as his hips roll into yours again, again, again.

your fingers move down fumble against the waistband of his jeans, your breathing uneven, hands barely able to keep up with the urgency buzzing through your veins.

yoongi feels it. feels your desperation, your need, the way your hands shake slightly as you try to pop the button.

he smirks. "impatient, huh?" his voice is low, teasing, lips brushing over yours as he exhales, the warmth of it sending a shiver straight down your spine.

"take these off," you whimper softly, frustrated, fingers tugging uselessly at the fabric, and yoongi chuckles.

“here, doll,” he murmurs, his own hands coming down to cover yours, moving with an effortless ease, his fingers brushing against yours as he pops the button open, then drags the zipper down, slow and deliberate.

he holds your gaze the entire time, watching the way your eyes flicker, the way your chest rises and falls too fast, too eager.

"there we go," he murmurs, voice thick with something almost fond.

his hands shift, moving to the waistband of your shorts now, his fingers slipping beneath the fabric, grazing warm over your skin.

“lift your hips for me,” he mutters.

you do, without question, and yoongi chuckles at that, his lips curling just slightly, pleased, before he drags your shorts down, letting them drop to the floor.

his gaze dips, his fingers skimming over your bare thighs, and he hums, voice deep, teasing. "much better."

your breath is ragged, your body thrumming with anticipation, but somewhere in the back of your mind you manage to think just clearly enough to gasp out, “wait—do you have a condom?”

yoongi huffs, lips brushing against your jaw as he mutters, “yeah, yeah. hang on.”

then, before you can say anything else, he pulls away, stepping back with a sharp exhale, raking a hand through his messy, mint-tinted hair.

you watch as he disappears into his room, the absence of his warmth making you ache, leaving you cold in a way that has nothing to do with the air against your bare skin.

you hear the faint slide of a drawer opening, the sound of something shifting inside. then the drawer shuts, footsteps padding back toward the bathroom.

yoongi steps inside again, his gaze flicking over you. still perched on the counter, thighs spread, lips parted, chest rising and falling fast.

his tongue swipes over his bottom lip. then, without breaking eye contact, he lifts the foil packet to his mouth and tears it open with his teeth.

your stomach flips.

his eyes are dark, focused, his breath steady as he pulls the condom free. “gonna be good for me, doll?” he murmurs, voice thick, nearly a growl.

you nod, too breathless to speak, and yoongi smirks.

then he steps between your legs again, his hands warm and possessive at your waist, his mouth ghosting over yours as he mutters “good girl.”

yoongi doesn’t rush, doesn’t fumble.

his fingers move smoothly, easily, like he’s done this a million times before, even as his chest is rising a little too fast, his muscles tense beneath his skin.

he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his jeans, tugging them down in one slow, fluid motion, along with his boxers, just far enough to free himself, and your breath catches. he’s hard, aching and heavy, flushed at the tip, standing thick against his stomach.

yoongi exhales sharply, rolling his shoulders back, and then he’s sliding the condom over his cock, his fingers sure and steady, his gaze flicking up to yours through heavy-lidded eyes.

“you watching me, doll?”

your cheeks burn. “no....”

yoongi smirks, the corner of his lips curling, completely unbothered by your blatant lie. “sure you aren’t.”

his voice is amused, teasing, but there’s something darker beneath it. something satisfied at the way your thighs shift, the way your breath hitches when his fingers tighten at your waist.

the condom rolls into place, snug around the base, and yoongi gives himself a slow stroke, groaning under his breath before stepping closer, slotting himself between your legs once more.

his hands grip your thighs, spreading them wider, pulling you to the edge of the counter. his length presses against you, hot, throbbing right against your cunt, and you gasp, hands flying to his shoulders.

yoongi chuckes, but there’s something wrecked in his eyes now, barely holding it together. “still want this?” he murmurs, voice rough, hands squeezing at your skin.

your fingers curl into his shoulders. “yes,” you breathe.

yoongi groans, low and deep in his chest. “good,” he mutters. then he aligns himself and pushes in.

the stretch is intense. your breath stutters, nails digging into his skin as he pushes in slow but insistent, filling you inch by inch.

"fuck," yoongi groans through clenched teeth, his head dropping against your shoulder, his breath hot against your skin.

you whimper, your walls clenching down around him, trying to adjust to the sheer size of him, the way he’s stretching you open, making space inside you that wasn’t there before.

"tight—" yoongi grits out, his hands squeezing your hips, forcing himself to take it slow. his arms tremble slightly as he holds himself still, his chest rising and falling in deep, uneven breaths. "so fucking tight, doll," he murmurs, voice strained, lips brushing against the curve of your neck.

you moan softly, head pressing against the side of his. yoongi shudders against you, his fingers twitching where they grip your thighs, his body tense like he’s barely holding on.

"shit," he exhales, his voice wrecked, his forehead still pressed to your shoulder, breath heavy.

you’re both completely still, bodies locked together, hearts pounding in sync. yoongi grits his teeth, exhaling hard through his nose. then, his lips brush against your ear, voice barely more than a breath. "tell me when, doll."

your fingers tighten in yoongi’s shirt, legs trembling around his waist, your whole body thrumming with need, stretched tight around him but craving more, needing him to move.

you tilt your head back against the mirror, breath coming out in quick, shallow gasps.

"please," you whisper, voice wrecked, barely able to get the word out.

yoongi groans, deep in his chest, his hands tightening at your hips. "yeah?" he rasps, his voice low and gravelly. before you can even nod he snaps his hips forward.

the force of it knocks the breath from your lungs, sends a sharp, blinding spark of pleasure through your spine. yoongi curses under his breath, pushes in deeper before pulling back and slamming into you again and again, fast and hard.

every thrust sharp, his grip bruising, his breath hot against your neck as he groans against your skin, completely losing himself in the way you squeeze around him, the way you take him so perfectly.

"fuck, doll," he grits out, voice shaking, his fingers digging into your hips as he pounds into you. "so fucking good."

your hands scramble for purchase, gripping at his shoulders, his hair, his arms, anything to ground yourself as he drives into you, his pace unrelenting.

"wanted this," he groans, his lips brushing against the corner of your mouth. "wanted you for so fucking long."

your breath hitches, your body tightening around him in response, and yoongi feels it.

"shit," he groans, slamming into you harder, faster, deeper. "say it," he demands, his forehead pressing to yours, his breath ragged. "tell me you wanted this too."

your breath stutters, pleasure coiling so tight in your stomach it’s almost painful.

"i—" your voice breaks, another moan slipping free as he fucks in deep, his cock kissing that sweet spot, his pace just a little too much, just enough to make your thighs shake.

yoongi smirks against your lips. "c’mon, doll."

you clutch at his shoulders, nails scraping down his back, legs tightening around his waist as you finally choke out, "i wanted this."

his body shudders against you, a sharp exhale leaving his lips, his rhythm faltering just slightly before he picks it up again, faster, harder, driving into you like he’s trying to make up for all the months of waiting, of wanting, of not having.

"good girl," he breathes, his hand sliding up your back, pulling you closer and pressing his forehead to yours, his lips hovering just over yours, his breath hot and uneven. "so fucking good for me."

your stomach flips, heat rolling through you like a tidal wave, and you don’t know how much longer you can hold on. yoongi feels it. feels the way your body tenses, the way your legs shake, the way your walls clamp down tight around him.

"you gonna cum for me, doll?" he murmurs, voice dark, teasing, but there’s something almost soft under it, something needy, something that says he wants this just as much as you do.

you nod, breathless, your body already so close. yoongi groans, his pace punishing, his hands holding you exactly where he wants you.

"then be good," he rasps, voice breaking. "cum for me."

your head tilts back, mouth falling open as a sharp, broken moan escapes your lips, and yoongi reacts on instinct. his hand slaps over your mouth again, muffling the sound, his palm hot against your skin.

"shhh, doll," he groans, his forehead dropping against yours, his own breath coming in ragged, uneven pants. "you gotta be quiet."

his words barely register over the sheer pleasure that slams through you, waves of heat rolling through your body as you gush around him. your whole body shakes, thighs trembling, walls fluttering around his cock, the pressure between your legs snapping so hard you see white.

yoongi grits his teeth, his pace stuttering, his hand still firm over your mouth as he groans deep in his chest. "fuck, baby," he rasps, his voice low, wrecked, almost pleading.

his hips don’t relent, driving into you through the aftershocks, his pace growing more erratic, more desperate, chasing his own high as you pulse around him, your body still milking him for everything he has.

"so fucking tight," he mutters, his lips brushing over your damp skin, his breath hot, ragged. "tou're gonna milk me dry, doll. gonna cum so fucking hard—"

his words send another sharp, overwhelming wave of heat through your already-sensitive body, another muffled whimper slipping past your lips against his palm.

yoongi groans, his movements turning sloppy, his body tensing. and then, with a sharp, wrecked moan, he breaks.

yoongi slams into you one last time, his whole body tensing, a deep, wrecked groan spilling from his lips as he cums, hips jerking against yours, fingers digging into your skin. his breath is shaky, uneven, his forehead pressing against yours, his body trembling slightly as he rides out his high.

his hand is still covering your mouth, his palm warm against your flushed skin, muffling the soft, breathless whimpers still slipping past your lips.

it takes a second. a long, heavy moment where the only sounds in the bathroom are your mingled breathing, the faint hum of the overhead light, the distant creak of the house settling.

and then yoongi exhales hard, his body relaxing against yours, his grip loosening as he finally lets his hand drop from your mouth.

your lips are swollen, your chest rising and falling in deep, uneven breaths, your whole body still reeling from the intensity of it all.

yoongi leans in, pressing the softest kiss to the corner of your mouth. so gentle, so tender, reminding you that even after everything, he’s still him. "you okay, doll?"

his fingers brush over your cheek, his touch light and his gaze flicking over your face, checking. making sure you’re here, with him. making sure he didn’t just wreck you beyond repair.

you swallow hard, blinking up at him, your fingers still gripping the fabric of his shirt like you’re afraid to let go. "yeah," you whisper, voice hoarse, spent. "i’m okay."

yoongi hums, his lips twitching just slightly, a hint of something soft beneath the haze of pleasure still clouding his gaze. "good," he murmurs. "‘cause that was—" he exhales sharply, a small, breathy chuckle slipping past his lips, shaking his head like he can’t even find the words.

you laugh, quiet, breathless, your forehead tipping against his. "yeah," you murmur. "it was."

neither of you move right away. neither of you want to.

right now, it’s just you and him, breathing in the same air, existing in the same space, his hands still on your waist, your legs still wrapped around him, his lips still close enough that all it would take is the smallest movement to kiss him again.

and you want to. but before you can, yoongi snickers, shaking his head as he pulls back just enough to look at you, an amused smirk playing at the edges of his lips.

"well," he mutters, voice teasing, "guess we gotta shower now."

you groan, tilting your head back with an exhausted sigh, "can't we relax a bit first?"

but he just grins, leaning in to press another lazy, lingering kiss to your jaw. "c’mon, doll," he hums against your skin, lips curving as his hands squeeze at your hips.

"round two?"

taglist : @rpwprpwprpwprw @haru-jiminn @glossdebut @mimi1097 @angellekookie @yooniivrse @annyeongbitch7 @hemmosfear

[ur-mag]

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[the-shedevil-writes]

I Was Made For Lovin' You (Tyler Owens x Reader)

DESCRIPTION: You're a reporter desperately needing a story good enough to save the magazine. That's how you end up in the middle of Oklahoma interviewing the charming tornado wrangler, Tyler Owens. You end up getting a lot more than you bargained for when you end up in the passenger side of his storm-chasing truck. WORD COUNT: 5.6k WARNINGS: Cussing? Sensual jokes? Just a good old journalist x Tyler romance. MY MASTERLIST - READ ON AO3!

Y/n sat at her office cubicle, gnawing at her pencil. There had to be something. Scrolling through articles and hours of social media, trying to find something decent enough for a good story, had her clawing her hair out. It didn’t look that stressful in her mundane, fluorescent office with the succulents and cat posters, but inside, she was scrounging everything she could. Post-it notes and lists littered her whiteboard. The whole thing practically looked like a crime scene.

Then her coworker Stella came by, sipping flavored water and holding her phone. Stella was the producer for the video side of the magazine and her closest friend. But even she didn’t know what her boss and CEO of The Culture Edition had privately said during a meeting. 

Y/n, you’re our star journalist. That’s why I want you to know. We’re filing for bankruptcy. And there’s a very good chance we’re shutting down our doors come fall. 

But she didn’t want to work anywhere else. She had heard about other magazines and online companies. The unethical means and money-hushed journalists. That wasn’t why she became a journalist. She wanted to explore and put out work about culture and people making a difference. 

That’s why when Stella went. “You heard of this Tornado Wrangler guy on YouTube?”

She let out a loud scoff, pinching the bridge of her nose. It already sounded like a tragic addition to her list of ideas just by name alone. “No. Do I want to?”

“He’s like this guy out in Tornado Alley, and he’s chasing tornadoes in his truck and well… wrangling them.” 

She furrowed her brows. “Like stopping them?”

She nodded. Huh… There might be something there. Whether this Tornado Wrangler knew it or not. 

“Like look-” Stella said, holding out her phone so that the both of them could watch. 

They watched the livestream footage of a blonde man in the front seat of a pick-up truck. He definitely looked attractive enough to be internet famous, that’s for sure. She squinted her eyes suspiciously until another camera angle was shown from some sort of drone, showing the truck driving near the tornado. That was an interesting play. 

Then it switched back to him and his other passengers hooting and hollering annoyingly at the camera, and she was turned off.

“Could be a good story.” Stella said, wiggling her eyebrows, “And I mean- the chance to talk to a real-life cowboy.” She teased.

The two of them had been talking of a ‘cowgirl summer’. Watching westerns with a dreamy protagonist. Listening to Shania Twain and Carrie Underwood next to the pool. But let’s face it, the two of them were city girls. California was their home. If she were ever flown out for a story, it was usually to New York or Atlanta for arthouse openings and charity fundraisers. She didn’t exactly enjoy the mud and dirt. 

“I don’t know. It’s intriguing, but how big even is this guy?” She said, unsure. Would it be worth it for the company to fly her out to the middle of nowhere?

“He got a million subscribers.”

She blew her off and waved her hand. “Who doesn’t?”

“No, no. A million subscribers last night. He’s at four million today.”

That’s how she ended up in Oklahoma, a week later. Walking up to the motel that this Tyler Owens guy said they would be at. The sun was slowly setting behind her as she stepped out of the rental car. Her decisions had been poor already, with a car that could barely handle the dirt roads and the formal block heels that sank just slightly into the dust. Her beautiful hair was already frizzy from the weather. But she needed to look professional. 

She looked around the surprisingly busy parking lot. It had people sitting around in lawn chairs, lighting campfires, drinking, and talking. It looked like a tailgating party. She walked stiffly in her pencil skirt and blouse as she looked around, trying to find the recognizable Tyler. She was used to people looking at her when she had a press badge around her neck, but right then, she felt people eying her strangely. The most probable reason being that she looked completely out of place. Compared to the lighthearted and casual atmosphere, she was an alien with a camera bag bouncing on her hip.

“Ms. Y/n!” A voice called, and her head whipped around to find the man she was looking for sitting on the roof of his famous truck. He waved with a screwdriver in his hand and climbed down. 

She walked over. Her heels crossing over from dirt onto the bumpy asphalt made her balance worse, and when he noticed, he rushed over with his hands out. She quickly took purchase of his large, calloused hands out of necessity. 

“We gotta get some boots on ya, city girl.” He said helping her find her balance. 

She stared down at her feet, steadying herself. “Thank you.” She replied, and when she turned up to see his face, she couldn’t help but swallow. Wow, this guy was handsome. He looked like a movie star, not exactly a tornado wrangler. With chiseled features and sea green eyes. He had his hair swept over and his stubble taken care of. Rugged and clean at the same time.

She quickly shook herself out of it, though she could’ve sworn that he was looking at her with the same look of admiration in his eyes. She reached her hand out stiffly. “I’m Y/n. Thank you for having me.”

“Tyler. Thanks for coming.” His accent was strong, and his voice was deep, making her remember her and Stella’s ‘Cowgirl Summer’ jokes and ideas. The brown corduroy button-up shirt that stuck to his sweaty body didn’t help. MUST STAY FOCUSED.

“What were you just working on?” She asked, gesturing to the top of his truck, which had some sort of satellite sticking out of the top. It was unlike any pickup truck she had seen before, with gadgets, spikes, and equipment poking out of it. 

He smirked. “Right to business, huh?” 

She nodded a little shyly. She had interviewed hundreds of people, yet she was so out of the loop here that she didn’t even know where to start with him. 

He nodded his head for her to follow him, and she trailed him to the truck. 

“Do you mind if I record this?” She asked, rushing to open her camera bag.

A friendly smile grew on his face. “Sweetheart, I’m on camera every day. Go right ahead.” 

God, the word sweetheart coming from his mouth sent a blush across her face that she fought to get rid of. She took out her video camera and started recording. 

“It is June 5th, 2024, and I am with Tyler Owens.” She stated for future purposes.

He chuckled and waved. “Hi guys. I’m Tyler Owens, and I was just about to explain to the lovely Y/n here what I have been working on.” He pointed to the satellite on the roof of his truck, “You see, that is a Mobile Doppler Radar. Or a DOW. A doppler on wheels. Mine is kinda crappy compared to those of other meteorologists, but we use it to track supercells and scan tornadoes in real time. That way me and my crew know when to go in and when to go out. I was just adjusting it cause some screws got knocked loose.”

“You say ‘other meteorologists’. Are you a meteorologist?” The question just naturally came out of her.

He seemed kinda stunned by that question off the bat, and he was about to say something until a shorter, tan man with wild black hair appeared from the side.

“Damn right he is. Don’t let him tell you he isn’t.” 

She quickly zoomed out the camera to incorporate the new character. He slapped Tyler’s back. “This guy right here’s got a degree in meteorology. Genius. He’s taught me everything I know.” 

“Boone, okay, okay,” Tyler said, chuckling and shaking his head. 

“Woah! Sick equipment.” Boone said, pointing to her camera. 

She smiled. The guy was welcoming, and he was now speaking her language. “It’s for work. Wish it was mine.” 

Then she realized the opportunity that had just come up. 

“Could you introduce yourself for me?” She asked, now she was diving deeper, and she developed this feeling in her gut that this story was gonna be good. With only meeting only two people, she had never met anybody else like them. 

Boone nodded and looked at the camera. “I’m Boone. I’m the videographer for this awesome guy right here.” He and Tyler wrapped their arms around each other proudly. 

“And would you consider yourself a meteorologist?” 

He shook his head with pursed lips. “Me? No. I’m just the camera and rocket guy. But I sure do learn a lot every day from Tyler.”

Tyler nodded and clicked his tongue. “You see, there’s a common misconception that you need a degree to do this sorta thing. But my crew doesn’t need PhDs or fancy gadgets. I can guarantee you that Boone and my crew have seen more tornadoes than your average weatherman.” 

Boom. Quote. She couldn’t help the grin that grew on her face. An underdog story? Are you kidding me?!

“You get real pretty when you hear something you like,” Tyler said, and she quickly pressed stop on the camera. 

“Oh! Well-” She stammered nervously and looked at her heels on the asphalt.

Boone laughed at her off-guard reaction. Was it appropriate? No. Was it unwanted? … Well. 

“Thank you for that. Both of you.” She said, looking up and facing the two of them. “Tyler, I’d love to interview you one-on-one at some point tonight after I check in. Then the same with the rest of your crew.”

He smiled again. “Yes, ma’am.” 

Getting into her motel room, she felt the need to splash cold water on her face. The only reason she didn’t was to sustain her makeup, but she did dab her sweaty face with a rag. How anybody survived this dry heat was unbelievable. She looked into the mirror, and her makeup was practically melting off her face. Shit. 

That’s why when she walked out an hour later, she had redone her face and washed her sweaty hair by leaning over awkwardly in the motel sink. Instead of heels, she put on a pair of loafers. They were still definitely unsuitable for the environment, but they were less so than the previous heels. 

She found Tyler and his crew sitting around a campfire. They had a pack of beers open, and their laughter could be heard from the second-floor balcony strip of the motel. 

As she approached, Tyler waved, looking her up and down. “City girl’s back. And in much more comfortable shoes.” He turned to the circle, “Everybody, this is Y/n. She’s the reporter doing the piece on us.” 

They all waved and said their hellos. She smiled and waved. The group seemed welcoming, but she still felt a little out of place. 

“Tyler, if you could spare a few minutes, I’ll try and keep it brief.” She said, not wanting to be a bother, but also needing to do her job.

“You have me as long as you want.” He said, slapping his thighs, and standing up. As they walked away from the group, he looked at her, “Do we need somewhere private? We can sit in the trailer.” 

Her eyes lit up at that prospect. Perfect. Now the audio wouldn’t be completely destroyed by the crowd noise and cicada screaming. “Yes! That’d be perfect.”

He led her to the trailer, and as she stepped in, she whipped out her camera to start recording the space. It wasn’t exactly spacious, but it was filled with audio and video equipment. Screens and switches of different weather instruments were packed alongside.  A string of Christmas lights hung across the top, making it homier. Along with pictures of the crew hung up next to the small window. It all felt cozy rather than cramped.

Tyler stood by the door. “Door open or closed?” He asked, and she immediately felt better about the situation. If he were leading her into an enclosed space to murder her, he wouldn’t have asked. 

“Closed works. Cleaner audio.” She said, and he nodded. 

After closing the door, the noise level went down infinitely. Now it was just an awkward silence inside this tight trailer. But she was used to awkward silence. It came with the territory of interviewing people. People often didn’t know how to conduct themselves on camera or audio recording, and their answers were often rehearsed. Yet she had a feeling she wouldn’t have to worry about this with the Tornado Wrangler.

He sat down in a small booth across from her. She set up the camera on the counter of the windowsill. The angle didn’t matter as much, it was just for her to look back at later and be able to write accurately. 

“You ready?” She asked, looking at the camera monitor, making sure his face was in focus. It felt like she could stare at the screen all day…. Shit, that must be one of the reasons why people were so obsessed with this guy. The warm lights of the RV trailer cast nicely on his skin, and he gave her a small, shy smile. He looked different from how he did on the livestreams. More subdued. He looked a lot more thoughtful when he wasn’t screaming. She was sure that even if she ended up posting this footage, it was bound to go viral just by the oxymoronic nature of it. 

He nodded. “Whenever you are, city girl.” 

The interview went perfectly. She got to ask about why he specifically focused on tornadoes, and she received answers that showed the heart and soul he had for weather. She listened to the story about seeing his first tornado, and she wrote down notes in her pen pad. 

“I was just mesmerized. But I looked over at my aunt’s face, and I knew that I was supposed to be scared.”

Her head tilted. “Is the Tornado Wrangler scared of tornadoes?” 

He chuckled and shook his head. “Not exactly.”

She learned about his bull-riding past and his college degree. The start of his YouTube channel. For an interview that she promised would be a few minutes, she ended up so invested in the conversation that they were there talking for almost an hour. It got to a point where he was asking her questions now, and it wasn’t just an interview. 

“How long have you been doing this for, then?” He asked, curiosity in his eyes.

She shrugged, “Hard answer. Did the newspaper in high school and college. Studied journalism. Got my job at The Culture Edition straight out of school and never looked back.”

“The Culture Edition… Why that one?” 

She smiled. “I’m supposed to be the one interviewing you here, Tyler.” Just then, her camera beeped, and she looked over. “Shit- I mean- Shoot, my battery died.” She said. That was a rare occurrence for her. A slip-up in professionalism? But she had been so comfortable talking to Tyler that she must’ve gotten too cozy.

He laughed at her fluke as she tinkered with the camera.

“Well, that’s alright. The last fifteen minutes are us talking about nonsense anyway. Thank you for talking to me.” She said genuinely.

She started packing it all up, and she didn’t even notice his gaze stuck to her like glue.

“It’s no problem. You’re the one who flew out here just for little old me.” He said, standing up now, so his staring wasn’t obvious.

They walked to the door, and she was about to reach for the handle, but he got to it before her. He opened the door for her, and they stared at each other for a moment. A lingering look that said ‘I don’t want you to go’. 

“Hey, you should come join us on the road tomorrow. Could be good for your story, and I can guarantee it’ll be a lot of fun.” He offered.

She was taken off guard. Her eyes widened, and her mouth dropped slightly. What should she say? She had seen the video clips of how violently that truck moved, and how dangerous it was near those tornadoes. The thought of her in the back seat made her stomach twist. But she also knew it’d be so good for the story. Potentially company saving.

She took in a deep breath. “I’ll meet you in the morning then.” 

He patted the hinge of the door excitedly, and she gave a polite smile before walking down the steps of the R.V.

After a long night of interviewing the rest of his crew, she was completely exhausted, but also so satisfied. The story was coming along perfectly. A group of diverse misfits chasing tornadoes and providing relief aid to towns hit by them. All led by a man who was bound to make star headlines. 

The day had been so long. With the travel time and the late-night interviews, she crashed as soon as she hit the pillow. 

It was only a few hours later when her heart leaped into her throat as a BOOM of thunder awoke her, jolting her right up. She put her hand to her heart even though she could hear it race in her ears. In her mind was her mom’s advice. Go outside. It’s only scary when you’re inside because your brain does all the talking. 

Wide awake now, she got out of bed and strolled out the door in her silk yellow nightgown. Surely, there wouldn’t be anybody awake at three in the morning during a storm this bad-

As she shut the door, she made eye contact with Tyler, who leaned against the railing and looked back at the sound. Her eyes widened. 

“Oh! Uh- Sorry. I’ll just-” She went to turn back around.

“Wait- What are you doing out here?” He asked gently, and it seemed like he was suppressing a smirk at the sight of her in a little nightie like that. Her hair was a wild storm in of itself. Meanwhile, he was dressed in a white T-shirt and sweatpants. Certainly a lot more covered up.

“It’s stupid. I just-” 

CRACK. The thunder boomed again, and it was close. The flash of light was visible from a near distance. She jumped and covered her ears with her eyes closed. It’s just thunder. It’s just thunder.

A dawn of realization cast on Tyler’s face. He cracked a smile. “Aw, don’t tell me you’re afraid of the storm now.” 

She brought her hands down from her ears and walked over to the railing. Her arms shook as she held onto it, and she avoided looking at him and his condescending smirk. Instead, she tried to look at the rain and how rivers of water slid off the roof above them and onto the ground. It reminded her that it was all just clouds and water.

“My mom always told me to go out and look at the storm when I was scared. Helps me feel better.” She explained.

He nodded and clicked his teeth. “Now tell me this, why is a woman who is shaking like a leaf at a little thunder doing a story on storm chasers in Tornado Alley?”

She sighed, debating on whether to tell him or not. After some deliberation and looking over at his kind expression, she decided there was no harm in telling him. 

“The Culture Edition is going bankrupt. And… I think this is a good enough story to get us back on our feet.” She said 

He let out a soft whistle. “You really care about your work.” “You really care about the weather.”

He pointed to her as if to say ‘touche’. “But you can write anywhere for any company, can’t you?”

“Technically, yes. But…” She shook her head, “It’s a long story.” “I’ve got time.”

She looked over at him and couldn’t help but notice that he was looking directly at her face. Not her exposed chest or her shivering thighs. But her face. And with genuine interest.

“The Culture Edition was, of course, the first job that took me. But I also just… I feel like it’s a side of journalism that’s dying out. I mean- our political climate’s a mess, and reporters are siding with one or the other. They’re often being paid for or sponsored by somebody. Even if it’s not political, journalists are writing opinion pieces and reviews on products that they’re being paid to endorse. It’s becoming so… so soulless.” She shook her head sadly, “Not The Culture Edition. We focus on exploring human stories and connection. And I love learning so much about different people with every job. So the fact that I might not have it come August… I’ll do anything to keep it.” Tyler looked at her, nodding. 

“You really think that this story’s gonna help you guys bounce back?” He asked. 

She nodded. “You and your team have given me some of the best quotes I’ve gotten in months. You’re genuine people, and the public will recognize that.”

He chuckled and looked at her with an admiring smile. He took his hand and gently traced her bare arm with the side of his index finger, sending a trail of electricity up with it. “You’re still shaking.” 

Looking up at him, she realized he was watching her arms now as they involuntarily shivered. She nodded again.

“You sure you wanna do this tomorrow?” He asked. 

No. But looking up at his face, he had a sense of determination across his eyes.

“I don’t have a choice.” She whispered.

“Then let’s get you a goddamn good story.”

The next morning, she was texting Stella as she sent many cowboy gifs and the song lyrics to ‘Save a Horse’. 

S: Can’t believe you’re ‘going for a ride’ with Tyler Owens.

Y: IN HIS PICKUP TRUCK!

S: Sure… Sureeeee. Go save some horses for me. 

She rolled her eyes, but couldn’t resist sending some GIFs back.

A knock at her door startled her, and she turned off her phone at record speed. She opened it and found Tyler standing there in the whole shebang. A brown flannel over top a white wifebeater that was tucked into his jeans. She looked down at his belt with the biggest buckle that she had ever seen, but couldn’t resist looking up at the cream-colored cowboy hat that crowned his head. 

“Morning!” She said with a smile, taking him all in.

He looked at what she was wearing. “Oh no, city girl. This isn’t gonna work.” He laughed.

She looked down at herself, confused. She was wearing a tight white button-up blouse tucked into some black slacks. If she was gonna be on camera, she should probably look the part of a reporter, no?

“What?” She asked, looking back up at him.

“You’re gonna get all dirty today.” He said with a smirk, “You pack any jeans in that little suitcase of yours?” He pointed over her shoulder.

She looked over and saw that he was looking at her small capsule wardrobe. She nodded.

“Good. Cause I can get you a new shirt.” He said.

A little while later, she sat in the passenger side of Tyler’s truck wearing a baseball tee that had the graphic ‘Not My First Tornadeo’. Jesus, it was kind of hideous, and she couldn’t believe that she was gonna be introduced as a journalist wearing this. But Tyler was right, even as they simply drove with the windows down, the dust from the dirt road was getting everywhere. 

She kept her notepad open, but didn’t film because there was no point in using her fragile camera when they were already capturing this at every angle possible. 

The storm clouds started to appear in the distance, greying the sky. Her chest tightened just slightly, and her shoulders clenched. 

“We ready to start the stream, Ty?” Boone asked from the back. 

“Yeah, let’s just-” Tyler said, looking over at the anxious Y/n, who was sitting stiffly and chewing on the end of her pencil. “Boone, put on your mixing headphones.”

“What? Why? I wouldn’t be able to hear any-” 

Tyler looked back at him and tilted his head with raised brows. 

“Ohhhhh… Yeah. Got it.” Boone put his headphones on, and she let out an anxious laugh at that.

“How we feeling, city girl?” Tyler asked

She looked over at him as he drove forward. “Like I’m gonna puke. But I really don’t wanna do that on camera.” 

“You’re not just facing your fear today. You’re riding it. And I think that’s incredible.” He encouraged.

She stayed silent, taking in deep, shaky breaths as raindrops started pittering against the windshield. Looking back down at her legal pad and chewed-up pencil, she felt a sense of dread shake through her.

“You’re gonna be just fine.” He said, reaching over and squeezing her shoulder. He soothed her with a gentle brush of his thumb afterward. “I’m so sure, in fact, that I wanted to ask you something.” He took his hand back and put it on the steering wheel.

That caught her attention. She looked over at him, but he kept his eyes on the road, as if he were nervous to look at her. 

“After today’s stream, can I take you to dinner?” He blurted out with a small smile poking the corners of his mouth, “We can celebrate. Facing your fears.” 

Her jaw dropped slightly, and she blinked in surprise. She looked back at Boone, who was jamming out to music in his own world, then back at Tyler, who was anxiously waiting for an answer. This couldn’t be real. He was asking her out. 

“I think you mean riding them.” She finally replied confidently, “Yes. I’d love to.”

His grin somehow grew larger. “Let’s do this, city girl.”

She looked back at Boone and waved to get his attention. She motioned for him to take off his headphones.

“Is it go-time?” Boone asked

“It’s go-time,” She said, surprising Tyler.

The start of the stream was certainly interesting. She watched as Tyler and Boone communicated with Lily, Dexter, and Dani in the R.V. using a radio. She feverishly scribbled notes and was in the middle of writing them when Tyler said into the propped-up camera:

“Today, we are being joined by the lovely Y/n, from The Culture Edition!”

She looked up in surprise and gave a smile and a wave to the camera.

“She is a very talented reporter, making sure the crew and I are on our best behavior for her story coming out. And you guys should all go check out The Culture Edition online.” He expressed to the camera.

Her head turned to him as she couldn’t help her astonished reaction. He didn’t have to do that. She didn’t even ask. That wasn’t his job, and this wasn’t a partnership yet- he did that just for her.

When he looked over and saw her face, he sent her a smirk and a wink before checking the sensors on his dashboard. And for some reason that felt more dangerous than the goddamn tornado they were about to see. If she somehow managed to survive this, was she even gonna survive dinner?

“Dexter, you seeing the same thing I’m seeing?” Tyler radioed in.

“Looking good up ahead. Low-level cape. Good enough shear. Good moisture.” Dexter’s voice came through.

“WOOOOOOOOOOO!” Boone suddenly cheered from the back, startling her, but she let out a laugh. “You ready?!”

She nodded with a nervous smile. Even though the rain was pouring onto them now, it was hard to be scared with Boone and Tyler’s optimism. 

That’s when she saw it. This giant mass of whirlwind is in the distance. It looked like something out of a religious painting. A god damn hole in the sky that tunneled and touched down onto the grass. The already uneven road rumbled, and the truck shook like Hell had just opened up beneath them.

Tyler let out an excited scream. “ALRIGHT. HARNESSES ON.”

She quickly glanced back at the black straps on the seat and swiftly put her arms through. She buckled herself in. She couldn’t believe this was real. If this saved the magazine, then she was very much deserving of a promotion. 

“Someone’s awful quiet over here!” Tyler said excitedly, looking over at her. But it also seemed to be his way of checking in on her while the cameras were rolling.

She smiled at him and rolled her eyes, shaking her head.

“Give us a yell!”

“A yell?!” She looked over at him, laughing, and he seemed relieved to see her do so as they neared the center. 

“A yell! Like this!” Boone said before demonstrating a shrill woohoo.

She blushed with a bashful smile before finally letting out a “WOOOOOOHOOOOOOOO!”

Boone grabbed her shoulders from the backseat and shook her, making her laugh. “THAT’S what we’re talking about!”

“Folks, we got here a natural Tornado Wrangler.” Tyler looked over at her, and if the circumstances were different, he’d take his time watching her. Admiring how, even though she was shaking hard, she still had a gorgeous smile on her face. Her hair whipping every which way as they drove on the bumpy terrain.

She sucked in a breath as they got so close to the tornado, she could see the chunks of dirt and assortment of nature it had picked up. Spinning and flying like the Wizard of Oz. But over the harsh sound of the rain and wind slamming into the windows of the truck, there was Tyler’s laughter. For some reason, his nonchalant attitude and genuine glee grounded her. 

Tyler grabbed what looked like a joystick in the middle of the console and pressed the red button. 

“Anchors deployed.” He announced.

“What do those do?” She yelled over the rumbling. 

“Those keep us on the ground, honey.” He said back. 

She nodded and wrote down in her notepad to ask him more about that later. Of course, she felt his grin on her and the shake of his head as he watched her somehow write with a full-blown tornado in front of her. 

Looking back up, it was right in front of her very eyes. Leaves and grey dust spun violently, erupting a loud whistle in the air like she had never heard before. It was roaring fast and straight into them. 

“Oh god. Oh god. Oh god!” She squealed, closing her eyes and gripping the grab handle with one hand. She felt Tyler reach over and grab her other. He squeezed it, and she exhaled her scared breath. Opening her eyes, she watched him as he continued yelling and hollering for the livestream. Just under the camera, he held onto her hand, letting her squeeze it as tightly as she needed. 

He looked over and nodded as he saw her open eyes now. “Wanna do the honors? Press that switch!” He pointed to a small silver switch between them.

“NOW?!”

“YES NOW! WE’RE IN THE TORNADO.” He cackled.

She quickly flipped it and screamed, startled as the shriek of fireworks sent off into the air ignited. Watching above, she observed as the rockets disappeared into the clouds, then BOOM. They didn’t explode like they normally would. The flares of color went in the direction of the winds. Green, blues, and reds swirled around them. She had never seen anything like this in her life. She couldn’t help but lean forward, amazed to watch it all. And Tyler, who had seen this dozens of times, was instead watching the reflections of color dance in the pupils of her eyes. 

Then the roar of the winds started to lessen, and the area started to clear. She could see the path in front of her again. Boone and Tyler were going crazy, excited to say another tornado was wrangled. And she was left sitting awestruck and shaking. But now it wasn’t out of fear, but out of pure adrenaline and excitement.

Once they got back to the motel, Tyler walked over to her side of the door and opened it for her. She sat frozen, considering she was about to open it herself, but then she took Tyler’s hand and climbed down from the truck. She dusted her hands off.

“Did you have fun?” He asked.

“How could I not? That was… incredible.” She smiled breathlessly.

“Told you we’d survive.”

She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, well, do I get to pick the place we eat at tonight?” 

He nodded. “Whatever you want. It’s your day.”

She looked down at her loafers, which were absolutely covered in a coat of dust. Unable to stop her bashful smile, “Thanks. For what you said about The Culture Edition in there. You really didn’t have to.”

“And you really didn’t have to face a tornado for your job, yet you did.” He said, looking down at her. “Wanted to make it worth it.”

“Oh, it was more than worth it.” She said with a newfound confidence, looking up at him. She was breathing heavily, and he reached out to brush away some wild strands of her hair out of her face. 

He smirked. “Was it now?” He moved closer and cupped the side of her cheek now. 

Hesitantly, she started bringing up her opposite hand, and he calmly took it mid-air and put it on his shoulder. More than permission. Asking for it. She spread her hand across his back before reaching up with her other to tap the brim of his cowboy hat.

“You always wear this?” She asked teasingly

“What can I say? The ladies love it.” 

“That they do.” She smirked before leaning in to press her lips against his.

[guapitas]

Ring of Fire (Joel Miller x Reader)

Rated: Explicit

Word Count: 7.4k

Summary: When Joel Miller finally returns to his typical patrol station, you aren't expecting his absence to have made much of a difference. But something’s definitely changed, and you don’t quite have the strength to deny it before his hands are between your legs.

Warnings: Needles, stitches, background character death, injuries, fingering, inappropriate behavior on patrol, exhibitionism kind of, age gap?

A/N: I just wanted to write about country music and Joel Miller but got carried away </3 also, I was drinking a beer and listening to said country music while writing this, as Joel would've wanted

After knowing a man for damn near two years, chatting with him should not feel like pulling teeth. 

Though in all fairness, he isn’t always like this. Joel Miller has his good days, even with you— though those might be better defined as good moments— and they certainly never happen on early patrol, when you haven’t so much as seen him in the past two months. Prior to his brief disappearance, he’d been your chief patrol partner for six months, tasked to train you on everything there is to know about protecting Jackson. And when you were suddenly thrown under another professional’s wing one muggy morning, you knew that Joel didn’t owe you an explanation, nor should you even dwell on the matters, but the absence of Joel Miller was, unfortunately, one you’d always notice. Which is… so, incredibly stupid, and you’ll continue to ignore the foolishness of it all, alongside the way you can scarcely look into his eyes without holding your breath. Instead, you’d focus on the stretch of his flannel where it hugs his shoulders, snug around his back that’s facing you while the horses trot. 

A couple of months ago, when lady Rita died, she had left her entire music collection to you; then her rollout rugs to her new neighbors down on main street, handmade baby clothes to Tommy and Maria, and thick old school blankets to Joel Miller. 

“The cream of the crop,” Jesse had said when he handed over the crate, even if he himself wasn’t a fan of Rita’s easy listening. And, like usual, he was right, though it had taken a bit of convincing. Rita had albums going back decades before outbreak day, with nearly every old and sad and twangy country song, and the pre-outbreak modern ones, too— still twangy. 

Back in your one-bedroom, and despite spending every free minute with something playing in the background, you haven’t even made a dent in the grand collection since you’d received it. Not a single name you recognized— Alan Jackson, Shania Twain, George Strait, George Jones— but some songs are familiar, probably from bingo nights at Rita’s, or at town center parties where she slipped her music in when nobody was looking. 

Rita at least went civilized. Maybe it was her charm that leaves her country collection so easy to enjoy, against all odds. Maybe that’s why you’re on patrol with Joel Miller– who you last saw at her funeral– riding fucking horseback, and choking on the silence with one of Rita’s songs stuck in your head. 

When he’s a few paces ahead of you, and you can’t stand eyeing up his back any longer, you catch yourself filling the awkward space with some humming. It’s some song about a little girl named Fancy, of all things, and really, he’s the one that catches you. 

“Reba McEntire?” He doesn’t glance back when he says it, just calls out all nonchalant and gravelly. You jolt up so hard, even your sturdy horse tries to shake the tension out. 

“Oh. Yeah, I think so, actually.” 

“Don’t sound surprised. That’s more my music than yours anyway, I’m sure.” Finally coming up in the distance is your post-up building where you’ll sign off on, but you can’t feel the relief because it’s been like forty minutes already and you’ve only just got him talking. If you had known all it took was some off-tuned humming, shit, you would’ve done it sooner. “One of Rita’s, or what?” 

It might just be your imagination, but you swear his horse is slowing down– or yours is getting faster– like they’re syncing up and inadvertently taking some mercy on you. There’s a better view of his profile this way, where he’s still staring straight ahead with a cool expression and the wind is pushing his salt and pepper hair back. His face eclipses perfectly with the supple sunrise in the background. It would leave you breathless, if not for the sheer need to keep the conversation up. “Yeah, Rita’s.” 

And jesus fucking christ, if there were a time for social ineptness to be barred entirely from an interaction, this would be it, but it’s you talking to Joel Miller so of course not. It’s not like you’ve never upheld a conversation with him before, but it’s been a while, and you’ve forgotten how he… looks. How he keeps his hair long so he can push it back and curl the ends under his ears, or how the curve of his nose ends down at his greying moustache, which swirls out into the greying scruff at his jaw and cheeks. And now the bite of wind has his skin pale and the tip of his nose a rudolph red. Lord. 

Back when Tommy and Maria had introduced you to Joel, you knew that he was hot, plain and simple. You knew he sort of had a kid and a killer shot and, if anything else, was utterly unattainable. Thee Joel Miller wouldn’t be caught dead with anyone on his arm— even flirting seemed to be off limits with him. He kept it straight and easy and always seemed entirely more concerned with all else— community, family, work— before any romantic or lustful pursuit. You at least learned that much from the masses with failed attempts, the rest from observation alone. Unattainable. 

It was a crush back then— before you ever really knew him— but now? Well, it’s pathetic, for one, let alone humiliating. Years out of the traditional academic curriculum, your stomach still flips like a schoolgirl crush whenever his name is mentioned. Christ. 

“What else she got in there? Anything good?” Joel asks, unmoving from his gaze that peers around at your surroundings, like he’s half expecting an infected or a straggler to come tumbling out from the woodworks. At least he knows how to carry a conversation better than you can— which is so fucking sad, now that you think about it, considering it’s an on-patrol Joel Miller. 

“Reba’s good,” you say, and you try not to stammer too much while he makes a noise of affirmation. “Garth Brooks has some good ones too, I think, and Dierks Bentley…” 

“No. Absolutely not.” 

The sheer audacity of him has you gaping, jaw slack with no ability to hide the taken abackness, because, sure, he has Texas origins under his belt but come on! He’s not the connoisseur of country music. “Damn. What’s wrong with them?” 

Joel gives a little grunt. “Garth is fine. Bentley, on the other hand… That’s just new age bullshit.” 

“It’s been over twenty-three years since those albums came out. I’d hardly call that new age. And your cultural literacy is blowing my mind.” 

It’s nice, for a moment, to let yourself talk some shit with Joel, like you haven’t gone more than a few days since your last patrol together. Like you might be convincing not only him, but yourself that there’s nothing more than a trainer-trainee dynamic happening here. For him, at least, that should be the case, but it’ll take a little more devastation on your end to give it up entirely. 

“Like I said, it’s more my music than yours.” He shakes his head and frowns all deep, like enjoying anything but his personal music preference is like spitting on his shoes. “What else?” 

“Um.” You really hadn’t gone into this with the expectation of being interrogated. Filing through the back of your memories, sifting through and playing those albums, you suggest, “George Strait?” 

He looks almost satisfied, before it’s gone again with the wind. “They started calling him the king of country. He’s good, but still too new age for all that praise.” 

“Jesus. How is your taste older than old?” 

It’s hard to discern whether he might crack a smile or if he’s only growing more irritated. Either way, he still hasn’t looked in your direction. When your horses pull into the post, sheltered finally by the protection of your destination, Joel is first to climb off the saddle and tie them up. You continue the roll on the conversation as you swing yourself back to the ground. “Surprisingly little of Jackson actually likes this sort of music, you know.” 

“It’s a post-outbreak thing,” he says, eyes at last landing on you while he waits. “Everybody loved country back then.”

“Maybe everybody in Texas…” 

Something like a scowl sours his face. “What d’you know anyway? You weren’t even close to seein’ the normal word.”  

“I’ll have you know, I just barely missed it. My mom used to say she was pregnant when the world hadn’t totally gone to shit yet.” 

“An outbreak baby nonetheless.” He guides the way off into the building, which is a familiar, beaten down warehouse that you’ve both been tasked on plenty of times before. This route is somewhere in the lower-middle ground of difficulties, even though it’s been months since you’ve started, and even though Joel’s skills might be better equipped elsewhere. Regardless, he continues to lead the way past abandoned equipment, ducking and weaving through awkward entrances that keep the place secure. Every groan and sigh with the bends of his wisened body stir something deep inside of you, low and simmering. 

Patrol. You’re on patrol. 

“Whatever,” you say as you dodge a dangling wire. Then, the memory of one goofy little song has you stifling a laugh and you suggest, this time, “Oh! Kenny Chesney? You ever ridden a tractor before?”

He doesn’t even look back. “Alright, that’s enough of you.” 

“There’s no way you know which song I’m talking about!”

“Yeah, I’m really fuckin’ old and really fuckin’ country.” His offhand curses are breaches in his armory, splits in the steel expression that falters every millisecond, until you have to tear your gaze away from him for the sake of your own blood pressure. “He ain’t even good either. If Rita had any taste— which she did— you’ll find some Johnny Cash in there. Maybe a Linda Ronstadt.” 

If you tried very hard, you might pry the image of a Johnny Cash album from the pit of your brain, but the mental exertion is impossible when Joel’s standing right next to you, breathing heavy. “Sure. I’ll keep an eye out next time.”  

The upper level of the building is your real target, where there’s actual chairs and intact tables, a spare set of binoculars on a windowsill, pens with a clipboard that Joel goes to sign. He handles the clerical business this time while you go to peer out the window, getting a good view of Jackson from this angle. The snow is finally starting to melt this time of year, leaving sporadic and slippery puddles on the ground, but at least you won’t go to bed freezing cold anymore. 

From behind, there’s a grunt of something like indignation– not anything unusual from Joel Miller, and certainly not urgent enough for you to spin around, guns blazing, but enough to pique your interest anyway. 

“Where’d y’all go while I was gone?” 

What the hell is he on about? For a moment, you’re more concerned with the fact that he’s even acknowledged his absence at all. You assumed that it was one of those things that would never go discussed, added to the list of other topics you’d steer clear from during patrols, like home lives or histories or feelings. But he’s looking down at the paperwork and you think he must have noticed your name nowhere on it. 

“I got paired up with Mickey while you were gone,” you say, arms crossing over your chest. “We were on the Foster route all two months.” 

And from his towering stance over the table, shoulders curved over so he can get a good look at the sheet, Joel’s eyes are suddenly pinned at you, maybe looking harder than they have since the day you first met. Even the very first patrol you went on together never had this single intensity in an expression. It’s kind of fucking frightening, and if you weren’t so sure that Joel Miller would never hurt you, you might be busting a hole through the window pane right now. 

Finally, he turns away and curses under his breath. “Jackass. Should’ve told him to keep on this one.” 

“What for?” 

His hands are propping his weight up against the wooden surface, palms at the ledge, and he isn’t answering too quickly. Instead, he’s standing around like he’s trying to find the words. “It’s easier. You aren’t ready for Foster.” 

Alright, that sucks– maybe stings a little bit, too, because what have you been doing for the past six months with Joel then? What have you been doing wrong? 

“I handled myself just fine,” you say, trying to suppress the stubborn tone. “Mickey was impressed, actually.” 

“I’m sure he was. How many kills you get, then?” He’s looking at you with those eyes again, and when you can’t even lie to give him a respectable answer, he eases up and lowers the bearing. “That’s alright. I’m sure Mickey did more showing than teaching, anyway. And you’ve never been the fighter.” 

“I can be,” you say, a little too fast, and you might cringe at how defensive you sound if only you weren’t actually so damn…. well, defensive. 

“But you’re not,” he says real slow, rubbing at his chin now, ruffling the hair. “You help out at the theater and… collect eggs from the chicken coops for fun.” 

And, well— okay, sure, making popcorn is fun and searching for the eggs is satisfying, but that doesn’t mean you can’t wield a gun or protect the city when it comes down to it. In fact, it’s about time you’ve tried to make yourself useful beyond the city walls. As young as you are, with no kids or familial prospects, it’s a no-brainer, which is exactly why you even started patrolling in the first place. 

But now Joel fucking Miller is telling you that you aren’t up for the job? Yeah, your mind won’t let you forget this conversation anytime soon. 

“I also kill infected and locate raiders.” 

“You’ve killed maybe two infected since we started training,” he counters with ease, then takes a seat in one of the dusty chairs and fucking sighs, like the subject matter is tiring him out now. Like it’s a burden to break it to you that you’re nothing but a liability. 

“That’s not fair. Shouldn’t you have been better at training me, then? Actually help me improve?” 

His fingers pinch at the bridge of his nose, one elbow leveraged on his knee, and you can’t stop yourself from noticing how much older he appears here. Handsome, too, of course, but mostly frustrating and old and bitter and every other foul thing you can reasonably muster, because he’s looking fed up with you not understanding something that he’s not explaining. 

Eventually, he manages to spit something out. “Don’t you have a… a boyfriend, or something? He don’t want you out here risking your safety anyway, does he?” 

“I… What?” 

Before you can even begin to unpack everything wrong with Joel Miller and his insane thought processes, a sharp crack bellows out from downstairs. Then muffled voices. 

Joel’s up and armed in the same second. He’s swift and quiet and lingering by the ladder with his finger on the trigger, expression going stone. And like he’s drilled into your brain a dozen times before, you’re ready to shoot and always a pace behind him. 

The voices below never become clear and instead fizzle out, like they’re not entirely stupid and put the pieces together that mean horses probably equal people. It’s so silent that you have half a mind to consider whether they might’ve left, or maybe both you and Joel were imagining things– a shared hallucinatory experience isn’t impossible, right? – but the idea is quickly expelled once the first shot goes off. 

It zips right by Joel’s head, narrowly dodging you both and suddenly you can’t hear a single damn thing besides the ring in one ear and your heartbeat in the other. Joel mutters something and you think it might be towards you, but he doesn’t take his eyes off the ground level for even a moment for you to confirm, so you drop down to your tummy because those sound like instructions Joel might give right now. His unfazed stance sort of proves you right, alongside the way his bullets start fucking flying as soon as you hit the floor. 

There’s a deep groan from somewhere you can’t see, behind the stack of piled up furniture on the first level, you think, then a choking sound afterwards. Some man’s voice curses while the other is gurgling. And he yells something that you don’t quite catch, a threat towards you and Joel, but the thumping in your chest is so fucking loud that you can’t even register it until the man’s body is halfway exposed at the far end of your line of sight. You don’t think before you pull the trigger and get him right in the kneecap. 

He fucking slams to the floor, chest first, mouth wide open in a scream that you can’t hear when he starts crawling away, inching across by his forearms until Joel gets him in the head. 

When the coast is clear, Joel climbs back down the ladder and does a scope of the surroundings before he gives you the go ahead to follow in suit. 

“Shit.” Your ears start working up again when the second body is at your feet and you’re careful not to step in the blood splatters. From the back of their heads, the two guys seem young– maybe strays you could’ve taken back to Jackson if they hadn’t made the first shot. 

Dumbasses, you think, though it isn’t entirely their fault. They could’ve lucked out with you on patrol, but they didn’t know they were up against Joel Miller. 

Joel gives a low, long whistle, like he’s just made real lightwork of these two and even checks their pockets for anything else on their bodies. He doesn’t find anything worth noting, but the sight alone reminds you of the stories you’ve heard. Joel Miller traveling across the country with Ellie, Joel Miller with a head-on aim and a ruthlessness when it comes to survival. To protection. 

And jesus fuck, you have to look away because now is definitely not the time to have something burning hot at the center of you. Instead, you offer to go back up and note this on the check-in sheet. 

“Wait,” he says, prompting you to glance back and meet his eyes again, and there’s something clearly on the tip of his tongue that he can’t seem to find the words for. 

How much time does he spend thinking through the lines before he says them? What is happening inside that mind of his?

Before anything else– the end of his sentence, the answers to your questions– you’re surprising the both of you with your own voice. “Joel!” 

Sprinting through the broken remnants of his two predecessors, a third wields nothing but a knife, but it’s enough. It’s enough to get Joel not once, but twice in the back before he’s even fully turned around with a gun up. 

There’s a hiss of pain from Joel as he stumbles, looking more annoyed than shocked at the interference, though the air shifts when you push forward, trying to get through when the man has his arm raised for another strike. It fucking slices you at the hip, the tip of it briefly jagged onto you until there’s another gunshot and he’s deadweight on the floor, bleeding at what should be his cheekbone. 

“Son of a bitch,” you say, or maybe Joel says it too, while you’re both wincing and panting and so fucking confused as to where that guy came from. 

He grabs you by the shoulder, obtaining your attention once more. “You alright?” 

You nod and his hand gives a squeeze, looking real plainly down at your ripped shirt with the blood starting to stain it, but there’s no way either of you can be helped before you’re sure that there’s really no more of them. He instructs you to stay put, to take a seat on the floor if you need to while he does a perimeter check, gun reloaded. The two massive slits go down his back and through his layers of clothes like a claw mark as he walks away.

If you don’t hear a gunshot or a yell, you figure everything must be alright. And by the time Joel comes back, you’re sure you can let down the guard, and even though you’re still bleeding, the cut is more so just an inconvenience to you now. 

He’s wincing a bit on the way back over to you, clear as day from your view on the floor, leaned up against a wall perfectly across from him. The slices on his back might not be as deep as your single one, but he sure seems entirely more worse for wear. 

“You shoot next time,” he says, looking more pissed off than he did when he left. 

“Get the first aid kit.” 

“You shoot. Y’don’t throw yourself in front of a knife like a dumbass. Use your damn gun.” 

“First aid kit. Please.” You don’t give him a chance to help you up either, standing on your own when he’s finally right in front of you, gun back in your holster. He only gives you that stare again, but this time laced with something else. The majority is that same intensity from before, and maybe you should feel a tad intimidated, but all you can focus on is the way blood must be trickling down his back. He finally does as you wish, though very much begrudgingly. 

The first aid kit is a standard box with any random health shit you can think of. They aren’t used often, but they’re handy if needed. When you first began patrols, you were actually stunned to discover that there was nothing of the sort on any route or trail. 

Joel fetches it as fast as he can manage, stifling the grunts along the way there and back. He reaches out for the fraying fabric of your shirt but you stop him before he gets that far. 

“You first,” you say. 

“Absolutely not.” He almost seems offended at the mere suggestion and reaches out again.

But you aren’t suggesting. You’re insisting. “I’m serious, let me see the cuts, Joel. No doubt they’re worse than mine.” 

And you must at least be right about how much they’re bothering him, because he gives in so easily. With a deadpan and exasperation, he shrugs off his outer layers, hanging them on the closest thing he can find, and turns around like this is the most troublesome thing he could be doing right now. When he lifts his shirt up to reveal his back, toned and thick and bloody as all hell, you swear you see stars. 

Oh, he’s hot. He’s so damn hot, but now is still not the time– which it never would be, but still, he’s bloody for god’s sake, and you’re sick for even letting the thought cross your mind. 

You’re fumbling around with the first aid kit, retrieving the rubbing alcohol and gauze and bandages, whatever you can think of. There’s even a little hand sanitizer that you apply before anything else. 

“Do you know what you’re doing?” He asks after a particularly sharp inhale, just when you drizzle the rubbing alcohol over the long stretch of wounds. With another hand, you’re wiping up the blood trails with a little towelette. 

“Not at all. But anything is better than nothing, I think. It’ll just get worse on the ride back if we don’t cover them up now.” 

His skin is burning, radiating with it while your hands move so slowly, uncertain of every next move but still managing to get the job done. The damage isn’t so deep into his flesh, but it’s widespread diagonally across his back, starting at the shoulder and extending down to his hip.

After a long period of silence, while you’re working with the gauze now, he heaves a real deep breath. “There usually aren’t… There’s never any trouble on this route. Not like that.” 

“I know,” you say, because it’s true, there isn’t. You’ve never encountered armed and dangerous raiders like that before, never on or off a patrol trail. In fact, in all of your time being scheduled for the past several months, you’ve really only come across infected or the occasional wanderer. And even then, you were never the one left to deal with them. “Next time, I’ll shoot. I just wasn’t… thinking straight, I guess. Wasn’t prepared.” 

Joel gives a grunt, his head starting to hang with your fingertips, your fingers, your palms working at his body. Your touch is featherlight, but you wonder, really, if he ever has another person’s skin on a part of him so typically covered up. He’s tense against you, each muscle straining with pain and discomfort, you assume, while you gingerly cover up the slits before blood can start oozing again. 

When you’re patching up the last of it, you finally speak up. “Hey, who was the genius who decided to put first aid kits on all the routes?” 

“The smartass, you mean.” With his back towards you, you have no idea what sort of expression he’s making, but you like to imagine that he’s at least a little amused. “Not the worst idea, but the burn cream seems like overkill.” 

You smile, even as your heart is still somewhere between racing and palpitating in your chest. “We use it all the time at the theater. Better safe than sorry.” 

He very carefully tugs his shirt back down, with your feeble help, once you’ve declared it good enough to ride back to Jackson. But then he’s facing you again, his fingers pinching at the torn up spot of your top, and you’re reminded of that aching nuisance– that pain dulling at your side. The stain of deep red has stretched further along the fabric in the time that you spent patching Joel up. 

“I can handle it,” you say before he can lift the shirt to get a proper look at the injury, and even you’re able to hear the indecision in your voice. 

“Let me,” he mutters, like it’d be a bigger inconvenience for you to not cooperate, so you do. Though you’re not quite prepared for the sucker punch of air tickling at the battered up skin, nor for the grit of Joel’s teeth. “Jesus.” 

“It… it didn’t feel that bad before…” You pin your shirt up just enough to give him access to the gash, trying not to writhe against the rough pad of his fingertips framing it. 

He sighs for like the fifteenth time since you’ve started patrolling today. “Should’ve let me help you first. You’ll need stitches, I’m sure.” 

“Shit, alright.” You’re wincing just looking at it, at the mere idea of having to present it to the medical volunteers back in Jackson. “We can just patch it up now and I’ll go straight to the clinic.”

“Not an option,” Joel says, real stern with his gaze fixed pointedly at you. There’s no time for you to react, no room left to argue or object when he’s already reaching for the suturing needle in the kit– which, holy fuck, you never thought you’d regret adding. “Be damned if it gets infected before we even get back.” 

You’re gently ushered up against the wall, flush against it to keep you sturdy, while Joel drops to his knees with a low oof. Level with your hip now, the view from up above is undeniably godlike, but the entire situation is making it rather difficult to enjoy. 

“Really? Right now? With that rusty needle?”   

“It ain’t rusty,” he says, a tick of irritation in his voice, “and you know it. Just stay still for me. I’ll be gentle.” 

“If I get tetanus, Joel, I’m so serious, I’ll be so pissed–” And you’re instantly silenced by the heat of his hand pressing to your side, drawing a thin gasp from you. It’s big and unafraid, calloused skin catching onto your softness and pinning you down to give him a better angle. The warmth spreads across your surface area, dribbling down to a place you try desperately to ignore, and instead you think about how you could use this sort of heating pad whenever you’re cramping. 

It feels like it’s all happening so fast, but really Joel’s going nice and slow, focused solely on his task. He’s applying the lightest pressure to your side just to keep you steady when the needle makes its first thread. 

“Holy shit– “ You’re panting, “slow down–” 

“I really can’t go any slower than this. Quit squirmin’.” 

With nowhere else to turn, your shirt is being absolutely wrung out in your grip, knuckles furiously pale around it. You hear yourself huffing, not entirely there enough to even try and fake bravery in the hands of Joel— he’d be doing the same damn thing if he had a needle and thread going through his fucking skin, you’re sure. 

You try to watch the way he moves, never as shaky as your own hands, and so much larger than the thin curve of metal between his fingers. It works as a distraction, but only for a little while, before you see the string disappearing and reappearing fucking through you, and you have to give that up. 

So you watch him instead. The concentration that pinches his brows, the strain in his jaw. The little curl that’s fallen out of place and hangs over his forehead amidst the mess of things. Yeah, you think that this could be the last thing you see before you die and you’d be pretty happy about it. 

But it’s not enough. It’s not enough to stifle the heaving or the jerks of your body as you will it to freeze between him and the wall. Joel’s hands are slow but now it’s too tantalizing, too tedious, and you try to distract yourself by talking instead. 

“Earlier,” you start without even filtering yourself, “you… you asked me about– about a boyfriend.” When he doesn’t so much as blink, the words keep tumbling out. “Had one. But broke up– with him– few months ago.” 

It’s silent for a moment before he catches the conversation and tosses it back. “Broke up with him, huh?” 

You have no idea if he’s curious or just being kind, trying to encourage the diversion, but you don’t care very much either way. The rambling is better than nothing. 

“Mhm. Just weren’t– shit– weren’t compatible.” 

“Yeah?” He’s splitting the work in two, tying off the first half of the sutures now and sparing you a glance before he moves on over to the other side. 

“Fuck, only halfway done?” You’re practically whining as you tilt your head back against the wall and resign to your fate. “Yeah, just… different beliefs and– stuff–” 

Joel gives a soft curse before you feel it. The needle briefly snags on your skin and you’re seeing straight flashes of white, tumbling you into a descent of humiliation when you’re babbling again. “Incompatible in– in bed, too.” 

He says something— or, you think he does, but it’s getting hard to make things out with the muffled buzz of adrenaline in your ear. So you don’t say anything else, just go rigid and take the stitches while his hand stays tight on your skin, feeling like it’s pushing you even further into the wall, until it finally eases up. It gives you a little tap when he’s done tying off the finish. 

“All good,“ he says, though it sort of comes out like a question. 

You brave a peek at the work, and it’s a fucking mess of red, but the stitches are actually the only thing that look alright. 

“Not bad.” There’s a false confidence instilled into your words now, like you weren’t just withering away a few moments ago. “For someone not wearing their glasses.” 

“Take it easy,” he mutters, glaring between you, up above, and the tummy in front of him. “You should be thanking me for takin’ care of you. And for bein’ a good listener.”

If that’s what he calls good listening, you wonder what his disinterest really sounds like. Regardless, your face goes flushed, because you never meant to overshare— never meant to cross that line you both silently drew half a year ago, even if he was technically the first to bring it up. 

“Fair enough. Please just— forget what I said.”

He blows a little breath that tickles your skin in the crossfire, then digs through the first aid kit again. “Don’t know about that. Information is burned into my brain now.” 

“Please,” you say, laughing a little even as he wipes at the blood with a disinfectant towel. “I’d hardly call him being bad in bed such life-altering information.” 

“Oh? Now that, I really won’t forget.” And it’s his turn to give a little chuckle, though never losing his focus when it comes to cleaning you up. 

“No— shit, I’m sorry… I’ll just shut up now.” 

Then— and you’re pretty sure you must be imagining things— his hand flat against your injured side goes ghost, making its presence known in only the faintest brushes as it moves across your stomach and plants itself on your other hip. To keep you sturdy, you think, to keep you sturdy. 

But Joel looks up at you, with no particular tone or expression that might betray his thoughts, and says, “No, go on.” 

Mother of god. “What?” 

Your hands drop a bit of your shirt and you flinch when it lands against the wound. 

“Hey, now, be careful with that,” he says and all but swats your hand away, pausing the cleaning to nudge the shirt back up with his knuckles until you grab onto it again. And in light of your speechlessness, he continues, “You said he was bad in bed. Tell me about it.”

He focuses back on your cut again while the cogs in your brain are desperately trying to turn. They’re working with new information, new options and possibilities that you’ve only ever considered in the middle of the night, when you’re in bed and all you can think about is how good Joel looked on patrol that morning, or how much you miss seeing his face. How he’s been looking down lately and all you want is to hold his cheek and smooth the frown out. To give him somewhere soft to come back to after a long day, or somewhere soft where he can be as rough as he wants. You’ve thought about it all. 

Every scenario and fantasy you’ve ever had with your hand between your legs flips through your head like a movie, then landing here, with Joel Miller on his knees and his hands halfway up your shirt. 

“He just… he didn’t try at all…”

“He didn’t try at all?” He repeats, and he’s giving you that look again. The one that sends a chill down your sternum and leaves the rest warm. 

“He didn’t know how to… I never— with him— he didn’t care—“

“Never?” You hear the firmness in his voice, see the crease in his brows. His hand on your hip grounds you while the other’s finished up its care for the blood, not that that’s even on your radar anymore. 

Though, is it a bad time now to remember that there’s three dead bodies in the room? That fact somehow makes being the object of Joel’s attention so much more satisfying, albeit reckless. 

The shake of your head tells him every answer he needs to know, you’re sure, but he asks again after an agonizingly long beat. “Not once?” And his hand somehow slides further around your side, getting a better grip on you, bringing you back down to earth. 

“No,” you say, more sheepish than anything else now. “Stayed with him for half a year though. That one’s kind of on me.” 

“Yeah. That is on you.” 

“You’re not supposed to agree with me,” you blurt, exasperated. “You’re supposed to… I don’t know, make me feel better, or something.” 

The faintest… something lifts at the edge of his mouth. “Am I now? You want me to be nice? To make you… feel all better?”

God. Your legs are on the very last brink before they might give out completely. You really don’t think you can take any more, but with a tight throat, you take the leap anyway. 

“Yeah, make me feel better.” 

There’s a sweep of silence before he obliges– before there’s a long exhale hitting the sensitive skin of your torso, and before his fingertips are tracing the button of your jeans. 

Take them off, take them off, take them off– 

And he does, sort of. He pulls every barrier down your thighs and leaves them at the knees, slow but fast– faster than you can even think, too lost in the way his tough hand glides up and down your leg. It slips along the side, then makes its way around the front to the innermost surface. 

“Oh, please–” 

Joel hushes you, meeting your eyes when he wills your thighs apart.

It’d be uncomfortable to contort your hips any further; scary, too, with the scummy surroundings and your wounds in mind. But he does all the work for you. His fingers hold your pussy taut, letting the cool air hit it while he gets a good look, like he’s appreciating a piece of art. And when he licks his thumb and swipes it across your clit, he fucking laughs at the jump of your body. 

“He never found you right here, huh?” His voice is low and nearly silent, warm against your pelvis. “Don’t worry, I’ll be nice.” 

And– oh fuck– 

Your head spins when his fingers drag along your slit, from your clit to the fluttering space that fucking needs him– needs him like a fish needs water, like you need air. 

Torn between taking in the magnificent sight in front of you and shutting your eyes in resignation, you opt for feeling him instead. Your hand goes to his hair, tangling in the styled strands when his fingertip presses up against you, no doubt collecting the wetness of your cunt. 

A gasp inflates your chest as he pushes in, slow at first then all at once. You hear yourself moan with each knuckle that hits your ring, until there’s no more to give. 

“Joel–” 

“Hush,” he murmurs and presses a kiss to your thigh that has them trembling. And his hands are so fucking big, you realize, when he’s knuckle-deep in your pussy and his thumb can play around with the cusp of your nerves. He toys with it a little while his finger starts to pump– wriggling in and out, in and out, in and out– 

You shouldn’t be so loud here, but how can you even worry about that when your voice is accompanied by the slick noise of your own body? 

His free hand keeps you still when he picks up the pace, his stubbly cheek on your leg, and he keeps fucking kissing it. They’re gentle but purposeful plantings of his lips, to distract you, you think, when he’s nudging another finger inside. Two long forces of nature now– middle and ring, if you had to guess it– so deep that your lower belly is giving mini spasms at the stretching intrusion. 

“Oh, shit—” 

When your knees buckle in, he pushes your hips straight back and really does pin you to the wall this time. There’s a sharp, briefly sinking feeling at the inner flesh of your thigh and a delicious pressure inside of your cunt that has your back caving in, gasping for air. 

“There we go, pretty girl,” he practically fucking coos and goes directly at your clit again, giving tight brushes with his thumb. “I know it’s hard, you can do it.” 

“I– we’re– on pa–trol,” you can’t help but remind both him and yourself, though you make no effort to stop the way you grind back down onto his hand and moan out into the open. 

He kisses your skin again, thumb applying more vigor and picking up the pace as it flicks back and forth. “I know,” he says, hot breath fanning your already hot center, and it shocks you when there’s a wet heat that trails up the inside of your thigh, stopping right where it has you pulsing. “Nobody’ll hear us. So you're gonna start worrying or keep taking my fingers?” 

And, fuck, that ultimatum has you gripping his hair to brace yourself while he fucks up into you. 

“Fingers– fingers–” you decide without a second thought, involuntarily tightening down on them while they massage your plush walls, abrasive to the softness with their tough exterior and decades of wear. “Fuck, they’re so– big–” 

He’s too busy suckling in the crevice of your leg and cunt to immediately respond. Instead, he lets you fill the space with humiliating mewls and cries, before you hear him mumble low against you. “You could take it bigger, I bet.” 

“I could, I could– fuck– I could–” 

“Take it easy.” He pushes on a sweet spot inside of you, leaving you delirious, leaving your chest aching and your gut tensing familiarly. “Cum right here, first. Show me how you like it.” 

You really don’t even need to show him, because he’s right fucking there– evident in the way a thick whine rolls from the back of your throat. But you move your hips with his hand anyway, hearing him groan with his teeth sunken into the sensitive part of your thigh as you practically rut against him. 

“Come on, pretty girl, give it to me.” 

Then, chanting his name like it’s the only thing on your mind, your pussy fucking squeezes and you cum– maybe harder than you ever have before. 

Your thighs clamp shut around his hand and you’re doing all but seizing, moaning somewhere in the background of it all while your jaw goes slack. His motions never relent and he’s saying something, lips moving against your skin while he coaxes out every inch of pleasure like he’s drawing it from your clit. 

“Joel, jesus— fuck” you nearly whimper and he’s hushing you again, kissing all over your thigh in the come down when you’re suddenly empty, nothing but your own arousal left between your legs. 

“I’ve got you,” he says, mouth trailing the way back up to your tummy, avoiding the slice. He pulls your bottoms up with him, grunting when he has to get off his knees. 

He looks so kind when he redoes the button of your jeans, like he didn’t just have you crumbling around his fingers. And when he finally meets your eyes again, angled a bit downwards at you now, you have half a mind to ask him when you can try out that… bigger idea of his– shame be damned, you guess. 

But he once again distracts you with his sheer audacity when he licks up the side of his fingers. Not a single word more, just that tongue of his, tasting up the residue of your pussy, which is still throbbing in the aftershocks. 

He’s breathing hard through his nose and that’s when you notice the bulge in his pants– not with your eyes, but through the way Joel presses it hard against your good hip. You gasp and he grunts, and you’re about to take matters into your own hands when he drags a step backwards. 

“I’ll mark the stragglers on the sign-in sheet. We’ll head back to Jackson to get help for the bodies.” There’s a long stare that he gives you, and his cock is clearly still hard, begging for your touch, but he turns around anyway. 

Up against the wall, you’re left to wait and wonder if you might’ve hallucinated the whole thing— or if that seriously fucking happened, and it’s changed everything for the worse. 

But when Joel climbs back down and guides you out of the building with a firm hand on your side— and when his dick doesn’t relent until you’re on the damn horses— you let yourself hope for another patrol like this. Though, maybe without the injuries. 

[summer-fire]

Ok maybe it’s my fault for putting this playlist on shuffle because Venus as a Boy -> Orinoco Flow is. Something

Spotify if you don’t get Shania Twain off my fucking speakers I swear to god

[fluentmoviequoter]

Walk Dates

Requested Here!

Pairing: Tim Bradford x fem!reader (+ Kojo and r's service dog)

Summary: You and your service dog meet Tim and Kojo during a walk. The dogs force you and Tim to keep meeting, but neither of you mind. When you're late for a walk because of an emergency, Tim decides he would like to be more than walk-buddies.

Warnings: r has a service dog for unspecified reasons, r passes out and goes to the hospital, mostly fluff! unplanned Shania Twain reference

Word Count: 2.8k+ words

Masterlist | Tim Bradford Masterlist | Request Info/Fandom List

“Match my shoes or complement?” you ask your dog.

She barks once and raises her left paw to point to the grey booties you’re holding. You nod and put the other pair away before kneeling before her. She raises one foot at a time so you can put her shoes on to protect her paws from the concrete outside. Your doctor told you going on walks could be beneficial for your mental and physical health, and your service dog seems to enjoy them just as much as you do.

“Ready to walk?” you ask as you stand.

Rather than barking to answer, she runs to the end cabinet in your kitchen and sits. Her leash and your small medical bag are inside, and you shake your head in amusement. Once your bag is on your back and her leash is clipped to her harness, you exit the back door and lock it behind you.

“Let’s go, girl.”

Tim sighs as he shifts his truck into park. His shift was hectic, but he knows Kojo has been trapped inside and would like a walk. The weather is nice today, so it would do Tim some good to get outside too, he thinks.

As Tim suspected, Kojo is bouncing excitedly and full of energy when he enters. Kojo runs to the shelf holding his harness and leash, then back to Tim. “I know, I know. Let’s do it, buddy,” Tim tells Kojo.

They leave a few minutes later, and Tim takes a deep breath as Kojo leads the way. The neighborhood isn’t busy this time of day, so Tim can relax a bit and follow Kojo rather than dictate where they go while actively looking for any threats.

Your service dog stops when another dog barks happily. You look away from the butterfly you were watching and smile when you see a man walking a dog. His dog seems interested in meeting your dog, and you click your tongue to signal her to keep walking.

“Kojo, no,” the man says, pulling the leash tight to his side.

“Hello,” you greet kindly.

“Hi,” the man replies, dipping his head in greeting. “Kojo.”

“Beautiful dog,” you add.

“He thinks that means he can do whatever he wants. Sorry, he likes meeting other dogs.”

“He’s fine,” you promise.

“She’s working, Kojo,” he whispers harshly.

“He can come over,” you offer. “She’s sweet, and she can multitask.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

The man loosens his grip on the leash and steps toward you. Your dog wags her tail quickly, slapping your leg every time she does. She sits, and Kojo flops down as they introduce themselves as dogs do.

You extend your right hand and tell the man your name and your dog’s name.

“I’m Tim, and that’s Kojo,” he replies. “We usually have more manners.”

Your dog steps over Kojo’s back legs to stand over him, and you chuckle as you say, “We don’t.”

“I haven’t seen you over here before.”

“Our walk times differ daily,” you explain. “I should start coming out now, though, because there’s no one else.”

“That’s why we love it.”

Your dog stands quickly and presses her nose into your thigh. Time to go home. “That’s my cue,” you tell Tim. “Maybe we’ll see you and Kojo on another walk soon.”

“That’d be nice. Enjoy the rest of your day,” Tim agrees. You smile as your dog leads you back the way you came. Tim is nice, his dog is adorable, and they exude comfort. You truly wouldn’t mind running into him again, you decide.

As you leave, Tim watches you go, and Kojo does too. Kojo looks up at Tim and pants happily.

“Good boy, Kojo,” Tim compliments. “But we need to talk about your manners. Service dogs can’t always hang out, bud.”

Kojo tilts his head as his ears perk, and Tim shrugs. He doesn’t know why you have a service dog, but it doesn’t matter. You do.

“We’re both going to be thinking about them for a while aren’t we?”

Kojo barks in return, and Tim sighs. There are worse things to think of.

Tim falls asleep thinking of you and wakes with a smile on his face. Kojo jumps onto his bed with his leash in his mouth, and Tim assumes he’s thinking about you and your dog, too. When Angela and Lucy started joking that Tim and Kojo were exactly the same, just different species, he didn’t expect to prove them right so easily.

“Fine, fine,” Tim concedes when Kojo moves to stand on his chest. “A quick walk before work. They won’t be there, though.”

Tim shakes his head as Kojo leads him to the same stretch of sidewalk where they met you last night. You’re nowhere to be seen, as expected, but Kojo keeps walking.

“Good morning, Kojo.”

Tim looks up quickly when he hears your voice, and your smile is stronger than any coffee he’s ever tried. He returns your smile and steps closer. Kojo greets your dog happily, and they step into the grass-covered yard beside you.

“Good morning to you, too, Tim,” you add.

“Good morning. Didn’t expect to see you so soon.”

“This one couldn’t stop thinking about Kojo,” you explain, pointing to your dog. “And my doctor wants me to walk more, so win-win.”

“They’re best friends now, aren’t they?” Tim asks.

You turn at the same time as him, and your arm presses against his as you watch your dogs play together.

“They certainly are. Do you think they’ll keep waking us up to see each other?”

“Kojo will.”

“She will, too.”

“Well, I have to get to work, but it was great seeing you. Kojo appreciates your early morning walk.”

“What do you do?” You scrunch your nose and add, “Sorry, if that’s too personal you don’t have to answer.”

“Not at all,” Tim assures. “I’m a cop.”

“I knew it,” you reply.

“What about you?”

You give him a quick overview of what you do but leave out the part where sometimes your dog won’t let you. She does her job a bit too well sometimes and she’s already pulled you away from Tim once.

“Have a good day at work, Tim,” you say. “See you around.”

“You, too.”

Over the next week, you and Tim meet on walks once or twice a day. Your dog seems attuned to Kojo’s schedule and leads you to Tim every time you go for a walk. Within a week, you and Tim decide to walk together rather than stand in one place and interrupt your walks.

“I- this may be too forward,” Tim begins as you walk beside him.

“May not be,” you counter.

“Would you want to exchange numbers? It could be easier to let these two partners in crime meet up if we can talk before,” he suggests.

“Don’t call them partners in crime! Then you’d have to arrest them.”

“I’m sure they’d get off with a warning.”

“Tim!” You chuckle before agreeing to exchange numbers.

When your fingers brush Tim’s as you hand him your phone, you suddenly understand why your dog wants to see him and Kojo every day. You could get used to life at his side.

“I tried to leave last night to run to the store, but Kojo wouldn’t let me pass his leash,” Tim tells you as he returns your phone. “Had to take him for a walk before I could go get dinner.”

“Is he that convincing?” you inquire.

“He’s that bossy.”

“I wonder if he gets it from you,” you muse playfully.

“His former owner. Friend of mine from work, so I can blame that on her.”

“But all of his good traits are from you?” you guess.

Tim shrugs with a smile, and you bump your shoulder against his. These walks are doing you more good than your doctor anticipated. Your dog hasn’t alerted you to any health-related threats in days, which you attribute directly to walking with Tim and Kojo.

“Tim…” could we be more than neighbors who walk their dogs together?

Tim says your name, matching your tone as you return to your starting place.

“I just wanted to ask if we could meet again tonight. For another walk, to wear them out before bed?” you suggest, rather than saying what you want to.

“Text me the time.”

You nod and return home with a smile on your face. Though you have plenty you could do, you waste most of the day staring at the clock and looking forward to meeting Tim and Kojo again.

The leash hangs limply from your hand after you retrieve it from the cabinet. Your health took a sudden dip about an hour ago, but you’re trying to stay strong enough for the walk. Paws thud on the floor behind you, and when she presses her snout firmly into your thigh, you lower your hand toward her head.

“I know,” you mumble weakly. “I know, girl. But we can walk, right?”

She barks before she tugs on your shirt with her teeth. You shake your head, and she wraps a paw around your calf. Despite your need to see Tim, you know she’s right, and you carefully lower to the floor. As soon as you sit, your dog licks your cheek and presses her nose to your chest, but her whines are muffled as your eyes flutter closed.

Tim has never been more excited to walk Kojo than he is today. He had a rough day at work, so he doesn’t hesitate to take Kojo out as soon as he arrives home. They get to your meeting spot early and wait. As your suggested time comes and goes, Kojo gets antsy. Tim pulls his phone from his pocket, but he doesn’t have any messages from you. He sends you one, but it goes unread until he turns the screen off.

Kojo starts pulling on his leash a few minutes later. His nose is lowered to the ground, so Tim gives him some slack in his leash. Kojo walks through your usual route but passes the place where you and Tim part ways. He stops in front of a house several blocks from Tim’s and looks at the yard before he leads Tim to the door.

“What are you doing, Kojo?” Tim asks.

A dog barks inside, and as the barking continues, growing louder as the dog nears the door, Tim recognizes the sound of the bark. It’s your dog. She scratches against the door and whines, and Tim realizes that if you’re late and your service dog is upset in your house, something happened to you.

He leads Kojo off the porch and calls for an ambulance as he rounds the house. The side door is unlocked, and as Kojo steps inside, Tim sees your hand against the floor, with a leash beside it. Tim pushes the door open quickly and barely manages to catch it before it breaks the window behind it. Tim drops Kojo’s leash, and Kojo lies beside your legs to provide comfort to you and himself. Tim has known for over a week that Kojo loves you but seeing you like this makes Tim question how he feels about you.

Tim says your name but gets no answer. “Hey, girl,” he tells your dog instead. “What do I need to do? Show me.”

She presses her nose against your pulse point, and Tim follows suit on the other side. Your heart rate is elevated, and your slumped position is likely making it hard to breathe. Tim gently moves you into a more comfortable position as Kojo moves with you.

Your dog moves away from you and pulls a cabinet open before dragging a small backpack to Tim. He unzips it and sees medication, water with minerals and electrolytes, and a small booklet with instructions on what to do in case something like this happens.

Tim lays the book open and begins working through the recommended actions. In his mind, he pleads with you – begs you – to come back to him. He can hear the sirens on the ambulance approaching when you finally blink your eyes open.

“Tim?” you ask softly. “What are you doing here?”

“You didn’t meet us on the walk,” he answers. “Kojo got worried.”

“Just Kojo?” you ask knowingly, brushing a thumb over the crease between Tim’s eyebrows.

“Ambulance is here,” Tim tells you. “You’re gonna be okay.”

You see your bag beside him and whisper to thank him. “Sorry, I missed our walk.”

“You’ll have to make it up to me when you feel better,” he replies.

His hand slips into yours as you and your dog are taken to the ambulance. He asks the EMTs which hospital they’re taking you to before he kisses your temple and heads back into your house to clean up the mess he made. The deep scratches on your front door will have to wait, but he was nearly as upset as your dog when he got inside. Kojo whines at the door with his leash dragging behind him, but Tim says, “We have to wait. She’ll call when she’s ready.”

The moment you get discharged, you call Tim. He agrees to pick you up before you even ask, and he and Kojo are waiting for you in the lobby when you’re pushed out of the elevator in a wheelchair.

“You can still walk, right?” Tim checks.

“Yes,” you promise. “And I’ll need lots of walks to feel better.”

Tim frowns, and you rush to tell him that you’re teasing. You feel much better, thanks to him, and the doctors said he helped you properly and with plenty of time to spare.

“They think I should keep you around,” you add quietly.

“Kojo would happily become your second service dog,” Tim replies.

“Thank you, Tim,” you say as he helps you into his truck. “For everything.”

He nods once before closing the door, and you sit back to watch Kojo get comfortable beside your dog in the backseat. He would look cute in a service vest and booties.

After a few days of hourly check-in messages from Tim, you feel as good as new. You text Tim as you leave your house, and inhale deeply as you enjoy your first walk since your impromptu hospital visit. Your doctor scolded you for even trying to leave when you knew that you needed to act, but when she heard you talking to Tim, she understood why you put someone else before yourself. You’re not supposed to do that again, though, doctor’s orders.

“Hey,” Tim greets when you turn a corner.

“Hi,” you reply. “Care to join us for a walk?”

“We’d love to.”

As you walk side-by-side with Tim, you allow your arm to press against his and your hands to brush as you move along the sidewalk. You talk to Tim about his day, he asks about yours, and along the way, you lose track of time. When you notice the sun dipping below the horizon, you realize that it’s time to get home.

“I needed this, Tim. Thank you,” you tell him as your turn to return home.

“Let me walk you home,” he offers. “Kojo and I can’t let two lovely ladies walk home alone in the dark.”

“Well, thank you.” After a few steps, you remember that you never told Tim where you live. “How did you find me?” you ask.

“I didn’t. Kojo did. He’s obsessed with you.”

“The feeling is mutual, Kojo,” you tell him.

His tail wags faster at your attention, and you chuckle as Tim shakes his head. It seems like you reach your house much faster than usual, and it’s time to say goodbye to Tim and Kojo again.

“Would you like to go on a date?” Tim asks quickly as you stop by your door. “With the dogs?”

You open your mouth to reply, but Tim continues talking before you can.

“These walks are nice, but I’d like to try something more… if you’re willing,” he finishes.

You smile as you open your door. Leaning against it to keep it open, you say, “I’m willing. As long as the dogs are there.”

“Like they’d let us meet without them,” Tim scoffs.

“I’ll try not to have a medical emergency this time.”

“I’ll pick you up Friday night, around the same time as our walk?” Tim suggests.

“Sounds perfect. Goodnight, Tim, Kojo.”

“Goodnight,” Tim replies. As he turns to lead Kojo home, he says, “Say goodnight to our girls, Kojo.”

Our girls. You smile long after Tim leaves. If the walks impacted you this much, dating Tim will make spending time away from him and Kojo infinitely harder.

You text Tim before you fall asleep, looking forward to your first real date.

What happened to letting service dogs work?

Just before you drift off, you read Tim’s reply and your smile grows.

We’re her number 1 helpers. Besides, someone had to encourage you to take those walks your doc recommended.

A picture of Tim and Kojo accompanies the message, and suddenly, Friday seems an eternity away. You’ll just have to take as many walks as possible between now and then.

[pagesfromthevoid]

Sources of Strength | j. s. | Finale

Jake Seresin x school counselor!reader

Word Count: 2.5k

Warnings: SO MUCH DOMESTIC FLUFF

Author’s Note: Once again, thank you for all the love for the Top Gun boys and their ladies in education. I think Rooster needs to meet one next…Also, almost ended this with a shitty joke because it felt in character but I DID NOT so if you're interested in what it is, hmu lmao (ps this gif specifically does something to me fuck)

Masterlist | Talk to Me! | Coffee?

“I’m offended that Baby on Board didn’t ask me to be a groomsman.”

“I can only imagine why he didn’t,” she comments sarcastically, finishing up the wing of her eyeliner. 

“How is it fair that I have to watch my girlfriend walk down the aisle with Rooster?” Jake continues to complain as he adjusts his tie in the mirror. 

“Oh, I asked for that,” she clarifies and the look of genuine betrayal he has on his face in the mirror is worth it. You’d think after six months, he’d have learned better. It wasn’t her idea; she just didn’t argue with it. “I’m just kidding –you’re so easy to rile up. It’s cute.”

Jake turns and leans against the counter, narrowing his eyes at her. “You’re an asshole.”

“And yet you still keep me around,” she counters, standing up straight to look up at him. Then she fixes his tie again, hands trailing down his chest when she finishes. “You look handsome, you know.”

His hands are on her hips without question, pulling her against him. When he tries to bunch up the fabric of her bridesmaid dress, though, she swats his hand away. Jake lets out an over dramatic groan, throwing his head back. He mumbles something about her being a tease.

“No, no —not until after the ceremony and the pictures. Then you can ruin my makeup. But not before.”

“That a promise, darlin’?”

Much to Jake’s immediate relief, she is not walking down the aisle with Rooster, but instead with Fanboy. He knows better than to let something petty like that get to him. And usually he doesn’t even clock her interactions with other men; while he’s always got an eye on her, it’s rarely because of jealousy. Though, Rooster might be the damn exception. However, something about a wedding and the aisle got to him –especially because her bridesmaid dress is the lightest pink it can be without being white. But it’s close enough, and Jake thinks he’s going to get her down the aisle himself one day.

When she passes by him, she winks playfully before taking her spot in the lineup of bridesmaids. Phoenix is Bob’s best man, to absolutely no one’s surprise, in her own pink gown with Rooster beside her and another guy that Jake doesn’t know. The maid of honor is a woman he doesn’t know either, but Halo and his girl are lined up behind her with bright smiles on their faces.

And somehow, they convinced Maverick to be the officiant.

Everyone turns when the processional starts, but Jake’s watching Bob from the corner of his eye. If anyone asks, it’s because he’s absolutely going to give him shit for his reaction to seeing his bride. But the truth is that he’s a sucker for first looks. Always has been.

So when the doors open and the bride steps into clear view, Jake grins ear to ear when Bob covers his mouth and starts to tear up. Because that is how you react when your future wife walks down the aisle –and Jake thinks he’s going to have the same reaction when his girl does the same.

He’s been thinking too much about marrying her –he’s not going to deny it. It’s hard not to think about it, even though they don’t even live together. She’s at his place more often than not anyway, and he doesn’t need to live with her to know that she’s ruined him for anyone else. 

No, no –she’s it for him. He knew it after the second date.

“You can all be seated,” Maverick announces, smiling as the bride and groom face each other. “I…I’m honored that I was asked to marry these two. But I’ll be honest, I have no idea what I’m doing so it will probably be quick. Though, I don’t think either of you mind being married sooner,” he teases, looking between the two with a smile.

A beat passes, and Maverick seems to pick up the thought he needs to finish.

“I’ve spent most of my life in the sky. High-speed, high-stakes, not exactly the kind of job that lends itself to slow, quiet moments like this. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that when you find something –or someone –that makes you want to stay grounded, that’s rare. That’s real.” For a moment, he glances at Bob, then he looks to the bride with a knowing smile. “You two…you’ve got something solid. Not flashy. Not showy. Just steady. And trust me, that’s the stuff that lasts. Love like that isn’t about grand gestures or perfect conditions. It’s about showing up every single day. Especially when it’s hard. Especially when you don’t feel like it. Especially when you’d rather eject,” he adds, with a faint smirk. “Sorry. Had to get one in.”

The crowd chuckles, and Jake rolls his eyes some –but he’s smiling as he looks at his girl now, who's tearing up already. Maverick continues, softer now.

“I don’t have some long speech prepared. That’s not really me. But I will say this: you’re not just promising to love each other today. You’re promising to choose each other –every day after this one. That takes guts. That takes commitment. And from where I’m standing, I don’t see two people hoping this works out. I see two people who already know it will.

“So… let’s get to it. You both prepared vows, right?”

She’s the one that nods first, wiping her eyes gently with a small laugh. “I…yeah, I wrote this letter like a week after you deployed,” she explains, taking out a piece of paper that’s been folded one too many times. “I never sent it. But I’m…I’m going to read it to you, because I think it’s the only thing I can say that’s perfect for this moment.” She stops and takes a breath, but for the next few moments, it’s like neither of them know anyone else is in the room with them.

“‘Bob, you’ve only been gone a week and it feels like I’ve lost a part of myself,’” she reads, and her hands are shaking as she does. “‘I wish I could explain better that you not being home is like taking all the air out of my lungs and throwing me in the ocean. Which is very dramatic and I’m very aware of that, but it’s the best analogy I could come up with. I’ve been too scared to tell you that I think you’re it for me, though I think you already know that. You always do know these things before I do, what with the mind reading powers you seem to possess.

“‘But the moment you walked away the other day, I think I realized how serious I am: you’re it. I’m going to marry you one day. I don’t know when, and I don’t know how it’ll happen. But I am going to marry you, and I am going to be a military wife which is very weird for me to think about. But anywhere you go, I’ll go. I love you, and I’ll love you every day until I can’t. And even then, I’ll probably try. 

“‘Just come home. That’s all I ask. I’ll see you soon. I love you.’”

Jake doesn’t take his attention from the couple, but there’s no way there’s a dry eye in this room. He’s trying to keep his composure, but goddamn it’s hard. But it’s Bob who looks like he’s not going to be able to keep himself steady. 

“Wow, I…,” Bob stammers out, and his hands are shaking as he wipes his eyes. “Wow. Okay. That’s…that definitely puts mine to shame,” he manages to laugh, looking down at his feet as he pulls out his own paper and unfolds it. “I uh, I’m not great at writing —that’s your speciality. I just…,” he takes a deep breath, collecting himself. Then he finally gets to his vows. 

“The first time we met, at your school event, one of my first thoughts was that I didn’t see a wedding ring and that I could fix that. It was just an off hand thought, because you were…the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. You still are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.

“I am not someone who dives headfirst into things —I plan everything. I know every outcome but you…you I never planned for,” he admits, and his hands are trembling as he puts the paper back into his pocket. “But I knew after our lunch that everything I did from that point on, I’d have to plan for you being there too. And I was right.

“Seeing you when I got back from deployment only confirmed every decision I’d made up to that point —you’re my home. Anywhere you are is where I belong. And I promise that as long as you’ll have me, I’ll do everything in my power to give you the life you deserve.”

From the corner of his eye, Jake can see that his girl is eyeing him. He shoots her a wink, but turns his attention back to Bob and his bride, who are exchanging their rings and watching each other like no one else is in the room. And there might as well not be when Maverick says they can kiss —because the two are on each other without hesitation and the room erupts in applause. 

The reception is where things get real exciting. Mr. and Mrs. Floyd disappeared after their photos, which took only twenty minutes of the hour-long cocktail hour. They both come back right when it wraps up, and Jake jokes that they were getting their wedding night started early. She elbows him playfully as the couple is introduced for the first time, and share their first dance. Jake wants to tease them; tell them that they managed to choose the cheesiest song. He can’t though, because to be fair, Shania Twain is the best choice, objectively speaking.

“We could take a page outta their book,” he continues, pulling her in by the waist. “You did promise me.”

“I’d like at least one dance with you,” she confesses, wrapping her arms around his neck. The way she’s looking at him –like he’s somehow the only person she sees –makes him want to give her anything and everything she asks for. 

Doesn’t mean he won’t play hard to get though. It is their favorite pastime, after all.

“Would you believe me if I say I got two left feet?”

“My god,” she gasps, putting a hand over her heart like she’s scandalized. “Lieutenant Jake Seresin isn’t good at something? Where’s Bradley, he needs to know —,” 

She’s pulling away, and he’s rolling his eyes as he pulls her flush against him, gripping her hips a little tighter than before. Keeping her from running off and being the menace that she damn well is. 

“One dance,” he offers, holding a finger up. “Then you’re mine for the night.”

“I’m yours almost every night,” she reminds him as he leads her out onto the dance floor with the other couples. 

“Not every night,” he counters as he takes her hand and takes the lead. 

“And whose fault is that?”

He thinks Bob absolutely chose the playlist, with the amount of classic country songs playing, but Jake isn’t complaining. Especially as they start swaying gently under the lights. He can feel the warmth of her hand in his, the easy way she fits against him, like this is just something they’ve always done. The music hums around them, slow and steady, like it’s working up the nerve for something too.

Six months. That’s how long he’s been holding it in –rolling it around in his chest like a stone he’s not sure is smooth enough yet. He’s said a hundred other things; You look beautiful. I miss you. Be safe. Stay the night. But not that. Not the one thing that’s been right there every time he watches her tuck her hair behind her ear or call him out on whatever cocksure thing he does to get her attention. 

He shifts a little to look down at her, just for a second. Her eyes are closed. She’s just…here. With him. Trusting him. And somehow, that’s the part that almost undoes him.

He’s scared, which is ridiculous. He’s been in dogfights in the sky; actual fights on land. Done some objectively stupid things, and taken even more objectively stupid risks that could have killed him –and yet telling her how he feels is the scariest thing he’s probably ever going to do.

Because if she doesn’t say it back…If she laughs, or she panics, or God forbid –doesn’t believe him –,

Jake exhales, steadying himself, feeling the words rise again in his throat like they’ve been waiting for permission to be said.

“I love you,” he finally confesses, voice soft but sure as he lifts her chin to meet his gaze. 

It’s that look she gives him –it’s that look she gives him that stops time. Her eyes open slowly, and Jake sees everything all at once: not an ounce of surprise –no, of course she’s not surprised he loves her. The look is something else. It’s something gentle. Like she’s been waiting, too. Like the words settle into place somewhere deep in her, grounding her. Her brows lift just slightly –not in disbelief, but like hearing him finally say it means something more to her.

She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away. She just looks at him like he’s the safest, most reckless thing she’s ever wanted.

“I know,” she admits back, and Jake blinks a few times. Waiting for her to say it back. But she doesn’t –not yet, at least. “I’ve known for a while that you love me, Jake.”

“Then why haven’t you said anything?” He asks, hand cupping the base of her jaw gently as he does. 

“Because I wanted you to figure it out yourself,” she explains, but she’s reaching up now, tugging on his tie to pull him closer to her. His hands drop to her waist, holding her close to him. “I love you too, for what it’s worth.”

“Yeah?” He asks, because she knows damn well he needs that validation. 

“Since that first date,” she reassures, smiling brightly as she wraps her arms around his neck and presses her lips to his. 

It’s warm and familiar, kissing her, but there’s something new –something deeper. It’s not rushed or hungry; it’s steady –promising something that Jake is sure wasn’t there before. His hands settle at her waist like they’ve always belonged there, and hers stay locked behind his neck. There's a quiet exhale between kisses, a shared breath that says everything he needs to know about their future. And when they part just enough to look at each other, their foreheads touch and they’re both grinning like fools. 

It’s not their first kiss –but it’s the first one that feels like forever.

-----

Taglist: @theladybiers @jackiehollanderr

———

Top Gun x Teacher Universe -> Bradley Bradshaw

[victoriansecret]

Why were Mark and Shania born in separate centuries?

Because never the Twain shall meet.

[dreamwatch]

Ramblin' Gamblin' Man

Written for @corrodedcoffinfest

Day #20 - Prompt: Under The Covers | Word Count: 979 | Rating: M | CW: period typical homophobia (alluded to) | POV: Steve | Pairing: Steddie | Tags: secret relationship, sharp suits, Steve Harrington is stupid for Eddie Munson, Fluff but make it lustful

Steve’s at the Grammys. Holy Shit.

It’s not the first time Eddie’s been here, but it’s the first time he’s brought Steve. He walked the red carpet alone last time, the rest of the band ahead of him with their wives and girlfriends, Eddie playing up the bachelor angle. Steve watched from their home. 

Tonight they’re ’best friends if anyone asks’, which Eddie thinks is unlikely because there are some big names here and like, who the fuck are they in the scheme of things?

They’re not nominated for anything; Eddie said they’d been asked to play a cover of Ramblin’ Gamblin Man and both Wayne and Steve’s dad are big Bob Seger fans so the band said yes. See, its little things like that that make him want to climb inside Eddie and never come out. Any other act is thinking about the prestige, Eddie’s thinking about whether his family would like it.

He loves this man so fucking much.

The band are sitting about ten rows back; he’s got a clear view of Sheryl Crow from his seat, and he’s pretty sure that’s the back of Whitney Houston’s head over to his left.

His new phone is buzzing in his pocket. Robin is obsessed with sending him messages. Tonight so far:

‘Is Stevie Nicks there?’

‘If she is please tell me she’s hot.’

‘Shit I think I just saw you!’

‘Is that Sheryl Crow in front of you?’

He deletes them to make space for new messages, hopefully something about how their friends are at the goddamn Grammys and not whether Shania Twain has a nice ass. (She does, he looked.)

Eddie taps his arm. “Okay, we have to go get changed.”

“Huh? Why?”

They’re wearing their ‘Corroded Coffin smart attire’, essentially their usual clothes minus the rips. They’re not exactly scruffy, per se, but… Steve’s in a suit here, you know? (The suit is borrowed, but it’s all about the effort.)

Eddie grins at him. “You didn’t think I was performing at the Grammys in this, did you?” He pulls at the long sleeve tee he’s wearing under his new leather jacket. 

“I mean, yeah, I kind of did.”

Eddie tsks. “For shame, Steve.” He leans in, achingly close, his breath tickling Steve’s neck. “Wish me luck.”

Just for a second Steve thinks about kissing him. Fuck everyone else, fuck the fans, the industry, he just wants to kiss his man publicly. But he doesn’t. Instead he shifts so his lips are practically touching the shell of Eddie’s ear.

“Good luck,” he whispers. 

Eddie shivers. Steve laughs.

The boys all leave, and now it’s Steve and The Wives.

Thirty minutes later the sound of a trashy high-hat fills the auditorium, lights flashing in time to the thu-thu thump bass drum pattern. Despite Jeff being their lead vocalist it’s Eddie, with his raspier, bluesier voice, that’s taking the lead tonight, and doesn’t that just make Steve’s heart fucking cry out with pride? And you know, Eddie, his Eddie, singing at a nationally televised event should be the thing he’s concentrating on, and it is! It is. But when the lights go up the first thing he actually notices is—

“Holy shit, they’re wearing suits!” 

Bonnie says it before anyone else gets a chance. He imagines the four of them are a picture right now, side by side, eyes on stalks because their men are all on stage at the Grammy’s wearing blacks suits, crisp white shirts and… fucking sunglasses. 

Look, he’s seen Eddie in a suit. It was a nice suit, but he looked about as comfortable as a priest in a lingerie store. This is not that.

These are sharp tailored suits, fitted to perfection. Eddie has too many buttons undone on the shirt, some of his chest exposed, that old Fender guitar pick necklace replaced with a solid silver copy (the original with Wayne). The stage lights hit his mirrored Ray Bans, the chain, the rings. But Steve can’t take his eyes off that fucking suit.

He’s going to devour him.

Eddie’s not a frontman, says he loves being able to just do his thing and let Jeff take care of the crowd. But he has a feeling things might change after tonight. 

The audience are on their feet, and Steve grabs the girls so they can head down to the backstage area. They have passes but even then he has to pull the ‘pregnant ladies coming through’ card to get them back to the green room. And when they get in there--

They’re still dressed in those fucking suits.

Eddie spins toward him. “Hey! What did you—“

Steve doesn’t give him a chance to finish the sentence, he has his hands on Eddie’s face and he’s dragging him in for a long, deep kiss, Eddie’s eyes wide and cross eyed.

When he finally comes up for air he realises Jeff, Gareth and Matt are all getting much the same treatment from their wives.

“You’re never taking this off, understand?” Steve says breathlessly. “Never.”

“What… the suit?”

“Duh, the suit, yes the suit. You’re never taking it off. I don’t care what you’re doing, mowing the lawn, taking the trash out, washing the car, don’t care. This,” he says gently pulling at a very expensive lapel, “is never leaving your body.” He goes in for another kiss. “God the things I’m going to do to you tonight.”

“In the suit?”

“Fuck yes, in the suit! Told you, you’re never taking this off.”

Eddie’s grin is slow and mischievous. “This is really doing it for you, huh?”

“You have no idea.”

It’s doing it for everyone. There are three respectable married ladies here, mothers no less, acting like groupies at an Aerosmith gig. 

Steve squeezes his hips. “Let’s go.”

“Sunglasses: on or off?”

Steve wants to sink his teeth into him right here.

“On. Definitely on.”

The song:

The inspiration:

[rach067]

Forever and For Always - Leah Williamson.

Warnings: suggestive, brief mentions of sex. Fluff overall.

Autumn evenings with Leah.

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

In your arms

I can still feel the way you want me when you hold me

I can still hear the words you whispered when you told me

I can stay right here forever in your arms

It was an autumn evening and Leah came home after practice. You worked from home today so that gave you plenty of time to prepare dinner before she arrived. You were humming the song that was playing over the speaker when the blonde opened the door. She heard the music and headed to the kitchen where you were singing “Always and Forever” by her favourite Shania Twain. She smiled in awe of the sight in front of her. She kept falling in love with you after 5 years of relationship. 

And there ain't no way

I'm letting you go now

And there ain't no way

And there ain't no how

I'll never see that day

She started to remember the first time she saw you, at a game at Meadow Park. You worked at Arsenal Media Department, but you were more behind the scenes, that’s why she didn’t know you until that day because you were taking the place of a coworker of yours. With your camera around, you started taking pictures to players and fans, when she caught you taking a picture of her. When you took the camera out of your face and you locked eyes, she felt as if the world stopped right then. Little did she know you felt the same way. The smile you both had was evident to everyone but yourselves, Viv still teasing both of you about it to this day. She thought you were beautiful, but when she began to know you and found out you were really funny and a bit introverted, with a huge intelligence, she fell in love deeper than she could even think about. She remembered the first date, and how you both couldn’t hold back your giddy smiles, and then the second date, at Finsbury Park, a picnic you organised so thoughtfully because you lowkey knew about her pickiness when it comes to food (but of course you didn’t tell her until the end of the day). And after that day, the fourth came, and the fifth, the sixth and many more dates, then a four-day sleepovers… Let’s just say you couldn’t stop seeing each other, you couldn’t get enough of each other.

One day, you drove together to London Colney and Beth caught you both. She didn’t stop teasing the blonde until the end of the day.

While admiring you singing, she thought about the moment she told the girls. She was nervous but really excited. Everyone was so happy for her and Viv told everyone the first interaction you had, everyone pouting at the cuteness, Leah on the other hand blushing really hard. When she told her family, Amanda explained how she saw her happier recently, how at peace she seemed, which Leah agreed.

Coming back to reality, she left the backpack on the floor and slowly approaching you, she wrapped her arms around you. You startled a little bit, but you knew she was her, the perfume impregnated the room. You melted at her embrace and touch, unable to function whenever she was near. After all these years, you still blushed and relaxed whenever she was around. She calmed you down. You smiled at her, even though she couldn’t see your face.

'Cause I'm keeping you forever and for always

We will be together all of our days

Wanna wake up every morning to your sweet face

Always

Mmm, baby

She sang into your ear, delicately, leaving kisses on your cheek and neck. She held you tighter, as if she didn’t want to let you go. She didn’t want to let you go, and you didn’t want to let go. You were hers. She was yours. For as long as you both decided.

Turning off the kitchen, you turned around and face her. You smiled like an idiot and held her face, touching her smiling lips as well.

"Hi… "- You said whispering.

"Hey… "- She murmured, holding you even tighter. You didn’t think it was possible to hold you that tight, considering you were not small.

"You know, I appreciate your effort, but I really want to breathe." - You said chuckling.

"And you are, what makes you think otherwise?" - She asked nonchalantly.

"The way you’re holding me, for example."

"I just want to have you close, that’s all. Coming home to that sight was enough to never want to let you go."

"Cheeky…" - you blushed hard.

"You love it."

"That I do."

With that, you closed the small gap and kissed her. “Finally” you both thought in unison. The kiss was slow, delicate, as if you were afraid of breaking her. You smiled at the kiss, and Leah took that as a sign and she put you on the counter.

"That’s better." - She smirked caressing your thick thighs. 

She was still gentle with you, she didn’t want to ruin the mood, but really happy to kiss you and have this moment with you. Today was a rough day and she wanted nothing more than to have dinner and cuddle with you until you both drifted off to sleep. The way she was touching you was something you never experienced before, and you began to think how did you spend too much time without it. Se was gentle, good. She loved you with every fibre of her soul, and she reminded you that every single day. 

When you were in need for air, you separated from each other slowly, locked eyes and smiled. The same way you did when you both first met.

In your heart

I can still hear a beat for every time you kiss me

And when we're apart, I know how much you miss me

I can feel your love for me in your heart

"I missed you today…" - The blonde defender confessed under her breath. She was never afraid to express her feelings to you, but she would be shy sometimes. Something only happened with you, and you felt lucky and happy to see this side of her.

"You saw me this morning, darling." - You said caressing her face.

"Yes, but… you didn't come with me to work and I couldn’t sneak in your office." - She answered with a pout. You couldn’t resist and kissed her pout slowly.

"Oh, baby… That needy still?" - You asked cheekily.

"Of course, what kind of question is that?" - she scoffed as if it was the most normal in the world.

It was, at least for her. She wasn’t afraid to shown PDA in front of friends and family. You were more discreet but she knew how much of a touchy person you were. You are happy she confided this to you.

"I missed you too, you can’t imagine… That’s why I’m going to show you." - You said pecking her lips one last time and turning around to prepare the meal.

"Oh, honey, I appreciate it but I’m not in the mood today, training was tough." - she said sadly, thinking you were talking about sex, because both of you loved night sex before bed, but today she was so tired.

"So you don’t want to taste the sweet meal I prepared for you? I can save for tomorrow." - You said smirking, knowing she couldn’t say no to the dinner you cooked today. 

"Oh, you’re talking about food…"

"Yes, babe, I wanted to do this for a while anyway, but a little bird told me that today was tiring so enough reason to do it, just go to our room and put the clothes I left on the bed, then come here and wait. We’ll have time for that tomorrow if you’re up to, since is your free day…" - you chuckled and explained to her, smiling.

"My girl, you’re the best." - She kissed your cheek and headed to your shared bedroom.

And there ain't no way (And there ain't no way)

I'm letting you go now

And there ain't no way (And there ain't no way)

And there ain't no how

I'll never see that day

'Cause I'm keeping you forever and for always

We will be together all of our days

Wanna wake up every morning to your sweet face

Always

You were too engrossed plating the dish you didn’t notice Leah standing in the kitchen island admiring you. Her hand was holding her head and she was smiling so hard. You looked up to her and smiled back at her.

"You alright babe?" - You asked curiously.

"Yeah, more than fine." - She replied still smiling.

"Perfect. There you go." - You said handing her the plate.

"Thank you, baby."

"Anytime." - You answered.

In your eyes (I can still see the look of the one)

I can still see the look of the one who really loves me

(I can still feel the way that you want)

The one who wouldn't put anything else in the world above me

(I can still see love for me) I can still see love for me in your eyes

(I still see the love)

You both stayed silent during dinner, but you couldn’t stop stealing glances at each other. When you were finished, Leah took the plates and washed them.

It was 7:30pm so you started to wind down, preparing yourselves to sleep.

Cuddling in bed you were reading a book while Leah was daydreaming about the life she wanted to build with you. For quite some time she started to think about all the ways she wanted to proposed to you, but she couldn’t find the best option. Every idea she had would be of your liking, because she knew you and she knew you would love every one of them, but she wanted it to be perfect. It was you we were talking about. The love of her life, her best friend, her lover. The girl she liked for a year but was afraid to tell her until that said girl, you, implied it and confessed her feelings so that it was easier for her. She never got shy when it came to shared her feelings for anyone else, but with you, she felt incredibly nervous she didn’t want to jeopardise what was going on between you two, friendship, situationship… She cared for you too much she didn’t want to lose you, she didn’t want to risk it. It took her a lot of courage, the complaints of her friends and your own encouragement (so difficult for you but worth it in the end) to finally ask you out, because deep down you knew she wanted to do it herself, so you let her.

For the five years you had been together, both of you took the initiative in everything, and Leah was so happy and proud of you because she knew how hard it was for you to do it.

She didn’t notice you put your book down and started looking at her. You were so in love with her and were so happy to had found her. Your life when you moved to England was hard. Leaving your family and all you had known until then behind was hard. Getting the job at Arsenal was a breath of fresh air for you, and getting to know her was more than you ever dreamed of.

"Penny for your thoughts, babe?" - You asked, intrigued.

"Nothing, it’s nothing." - She replied.

"Oh, it can’t be nothing if it makes you frown that way." - you sit up and looked at her concerned.

"I just, I love you so much. You make me so happy. It feels so good to be loved by you."

"Oh, Leah, I love you. You can’t imagine how much. Honey, what is it" -  You pouted. You caressed her face and she surrendered at your touch, leaning her head to your hand.

She kept silent, but she was smiling a bit. You are starting to figure out what she’s thinking about and you are trying to hold back your tears. She avoided your gaze for a second. You took her chin up. She saw you crying and she lost it. You could read each other’s minds, so you found the courage to answer for her, even though you were so nervous.

"Whatever you are going to say or ask, it will always be “yes”, Leah." - She looked at you surprised and she relaxed, a weight lifted off of her shoulders.

Smiling, she stated:

"Marry me. Be my wife. Choose me." - She almost pleaded. Seeing her like this was something unexpected, but it melted your heart seeing her so vulnerable.

"Leah Williamson, I was yours the second my eyes met yours that day at Meadow Park. I chose you the moment you asked me to go on a date with you for the first time. I chose you when you asked me to be your girlfriend. I choose you everyday. I will gladly be your wife."

With that, you close the small gap that was separating you and sealed the deal with a sweet and soft kiss. Your lips confessing what your hearts had been feeling for quite some time, something that words can’t say most of the time.

When you slowly and sadly pulled away, she looked at you and smiled excitedly. 

"You can’t imagine how much I’ve been thinking about all the ways I could ask you this."

"And you simply chose the best option." - you finished matter-of-factly.

"Really?"

"Le, this is us, simple, beautiful. I wouldn’t want it any other way. Because it wouldn’t be us."

"I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life with you."

"I can’t wait either, you cheesy."

"You love me, you cheesy."

"Sometimes I can’t really believe you are with me. I can’t believe you love me." - You confessed silently, almost as if you were afraid of saying out loud.

"You better start believing, my girl. Because I am planning on doing it for the rest of my life."

"I can’t wait."

You kissed each other softly, enjoying the night and imagining the future together.

Oh

I'm keeping you forever

Got to keep you, baby

Oh, forever

In your arms

[marvelwitchergilmore]

Big Spoon

Summary: Joel Miller x fe!Reader -> Joel is going through some things and you're there to hold him.

Disclaimer: comfort fluff with a dash of extra fluff and Shania Twain. Mentions of gardener!Joel and reader being the big spoon. Eluding to Joel's panic attacks, but no big descriptions. This had been in my drafts for a few days though not completely proof read. It's also Pedro's birthday so, Happy Birthday!! ❤.

You’d been watching Joel for the last few weeks, ever since he’d disappeared in the middle of Maria’s Festival Toast. 

You had been there to watch their rocky relationship turn into a passive acceptance before finally becoming like an actual family. Which was how you knew Joel wouldn’t have left in the middle of one of her toasts. 

But he did. 

Then he left in the middle of dinner one day. He’d been laughing and joking with you on patrol barely two hours before. He’d been hanging up bunting with one of your neighbours when you’d gone to fetch something from the storage room. By the time you came back, he was outside, standing alone, holding onto the wooden post to keep himself steady. 

“Are you-”

“I’m fine.” His words sounded harsh, but you knew he didn’t mean it. He brushed whatever had brought him outside, off, and turned around to you. “Sorry, it’s nothing. I’m fine.”

“Okay. But you know you can still talk to me-”

“Joel!” Maria came running outside. “Please, Henry needs your help.”

“I’ll be there in a minute.”

“He’s trying to use a nail gun.” You and Joel shared one look before running inside after Maria. Joel held the door open for you to run under his arm and inside, him hot on your heels. 

“Harry! No!”

As the weeks continued, you noticed Joel disappearing more and more. And you had a feeling you knew why. 

Walking inside his home, you let the familiar scent of him wash over you. The leather from his winter jacket and the fresh bergamot scent wafting from the warm laundry by the sofa.

You grew fresh plants in your garden and had given Joel homemade scented detergent every month in exchange for his help at making sure you had someone who knew what they were doing when working on the school building. 

You called out but when no-one replied, you went in search of Joel. 

Even if he wasn’t in a talking mood, you could always hear him. Tinkering away at something, walking up and down the landing from room to room. One day you’d even heard him singing. Not like a broadway power ballad or anything; just a quiet sing-along to one of the songs on a Shania tape you’d found for Ellie months ago. 

He’d been planting fresh chillies in his back garden at the time and you’d hung around by the back door, leaning on the edge, just watching. It wasn’t often you just got to watch Joel. Most of the time you were pottering about with him. Patrols, mending and fixing, painting, teachinging. Whatever it was, you were both usually busy at something. 

But not at that moment. 

In that moment you just got to drink in the moment of Joel – a man you had once seen accept the idea that he would never find even an ounce of normality or happiness – softly singing and humming along to Shania Twain. 

For a while, you wondered what it would have been like to meet him back in Texas, long before the outbreak. Maybe in a bar, maybe he’d ask you to dance and you’d let him slip his hands a little lower than your waist during one of the slower dances. You’d taste the whiskey on his breath when he’d finally kiss you, the second hand buzz of the alcohol warming you from the chilly night air. 

Watching Joel in his element was one of your favourite memories. 

You slipped your boots off at the bottom of the carpet stairs before ascending them. Your footsteps were soft as you climbed each one until finally you got to the landing and searched each room.

Then you found him. 

The bedroom door slightly ajar, you walked inside. He was on his side, fast asleep. 

“At least someone is getting some rest,” you thought to yourself. 

From the tired look in his eyes for the past two weeks, you’d figured he hadn’t been sleeping much. Whenever one of your late night talks with him ran a little too long and landed with you, yet again, naked and by his side in bed, you knew he was asleep. But on the other nights? If it hadn’t been for the tired look in his eyes, you wouldn’t have known if he was sleeping or not. 

But you knew right now. 

You also knew he needed to stay in bed. Even if he woke up, he needed to be comforted. 

So you climbed in with him. 

Laying a soft hand on his arm, he woke for a moment. In the silent movements, he rolled over and you lay beside him, your hand sliding around his middle before laying your head against the middle of his shoulders. 

The tension in his body eased the minute you did so, just before he took your hand in his and held it tight against his heart. 

Then he was out like a light. 

Soft, even breaths. Steady rise and fall of his chest. Steady drum of his heart. 

For the first time in weeks, Joel Miller was finally experiencing a sense of calm.