#and i hate having one on one conversations about it

[chryso-poeia]

The light, alone, will not comfort you or liberate you / the same darkness that you fear: is also in you, expressed differently, to a different degree or suppressed differently. None of us are harmless, none of us are entertainment centers for others, none of us need permission to be who we are. Some of the most powerful people on earth are absolute scum, but they got to where they are because of their belief and readiness to take what is theirs. So, you’re not perfect either, that would make life too boring and people, too stiff, if they always feared mistakes, even though i’ve also had major issues with that too. Only i’m relentless in gaining insight. Confidence like that is about internal permission.

Realness flows. the difference is how principled you are. But similar to said ’scums of the earth’, you get to take what you want for yourself and claim your right to own yourself and your space. You get to forgive and forgive yourself delusionally, until you are only ever freer. This edge can seem dangerous, or even immoral, but it holds the freedom that a lot of people look for. This is your experience. Learn to laugh at it, even when it’s cruel. You are still here, you better use that body, that mind, that heart, that fucking passion. Ignite, fucking ignite!

Even when it would have felt villanous or bad to give yourself the fucking permission to just be, without needing to have opinions on everything, or be a shining beacon of morality or righteousness. Conversely, if you dislike/hate someone or something, own it, your feelings are yours, this is the ownership. Own your shame, own yourself fully, scream it out. And If you’re sensitive, that sensitivity should be directed to yourself, for yourself. Not wasted on those that can’t hold space for you. You are the only one that can carry you and your weight, dear. You know you, like god. Let your nervous system rest, get it out of you though, it’s very important to express and connect to others.

What you attempt to control, controls you. Own the shadow, proclaim it is you. What’s looking back at you says ”I protect who i am, in order to afford being all that i am. I am soft but i am vicious.”

This idea of your part as savior, was not pre-written. But you experience this life, and you cannot deny the profoundity in front of you, so well as protecting your right to live it as you please. If they can’t swallow the delicious playful lightness of your authenticity, you don’t have to be around for when they vomit it up. They can say that you caused it, when they don’t have your agency or understanding. The understanding that says ”I can get the fuck up outta their way if we don’t vibe, without needing to let them know that, because i am confident in me.”

Whether i try to make you not judge me or not, doesn’t matter, you’ll judge me anyway and i can’t control that, especially when i’m not present:’so judge me. Show me your pain by how you fear me, because you don’t understand, love yourself first, not my job. But if i seem merciless, it’s because i needed that mercy. If i am merciful, it’s a byproduct of me having been merciful to myself FIRST.

I’m talking about integration. About holding space for the illusion of contradiction, when really, light feeds darkness and vice versa. Neither one would function without the other. If you can’t hold this contradiction; atleast to some degree: you will be controlled by others and to a greater degree, the world.

And then.. eventually, the narratives can fade and what’s left is the painfully human aspect of how connected we are, how similar we are, what a mess this is and what we can make of it, playfully, how we seek love, how we are afraid and how we can meet each other… as we cry out for help in so many veiled ways, a loving energy can emerge in that meeting. It could be loving. Either way, we’re all adorable as we try to shield ourselves from others that mean us no harm.

Fear is weaponized ignorance and contradiction. Bring presence, bring healing, bring understanding, bring mercy, bring trust. You can dance with it, dance with fear, dance with all of it. It already is an inexplicable cosmic dance, move with it.

The light in the dark.

[adelliet]

Joel Miller x f!reader

MILLER'S ABYSS

Summary: Your sister is marrying one of the Millers — but you despise the other one, and the feeling is mutual. Still, family is supposed to stick together, not tear each other apart. So, over time, the two of you grow closer… far closer than anyone ever expected.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, enemies to lovers, age gap (not really mentioned), strong language, nicknames (goor girl…) praise kink, sexual tension, oral sex ( f receiving ), creampie, rough unprotected sex ( p i v ), harassment, mention of weapons and alcohol

A/n: Hello! I swear to god I wrote a long ass novel. I am really sorry for anyone, who decided to read the whole thing…anyways if you have any ideas, suggestions, or anything else, feel free to text me. Also, I apologize for any grammar mistakes or phrases that might not make sense—English isn’t my first language :3 But I hope you enjoy the story! <3

Masterlist

You’ve been around since the very beginning of your sister’s relationship with Tommy.

From the moment she started gushing daily about how beautiful his eyes were, how no man had ever smiled at her the way he did, how kind and attentive he was. You witnessed it all — the blissful highs and the inevitable lows. The fights, the breaks, the tearful late-night conversations about breaking up… though they never actually did.

You were there for every moment, even the ones you wish you hadn’t been. Kate had never been shy about sharing even the most intimate details of her relationship with you. She had no filter, and unfortunately for you, that included describing her and Tommy’s sex life in disturbingly vivid detail.

Once, you even caught them in the act in your own house. But hey, that’s a memory you can kind of laugh about now… sort of.

So when she told you Tommy had proposed, you weren’t surprised — not in the slightest. You were happy for her. You loved your sister more than anything, and you knew she had chosen the right guy. Honestly, you were just relieved she hadn’t chosen his brother — Joel.

From the first moment those grumpy, judgmental eyes met yours, Joel Miller had been a pain in your ass. Arrogant. Insufferable. Always had something snarky to say about you at every family gathering. And sure, you gave it back. You were never the type to sit there and take it. Which is exactly how this rivalry had formed. Let’s just call it what it is: you and Joel were enemies.

Until now, it wasn’t really a problem. You could ignore him, roll your eyes when his name came up, and pray you wouldn’t be seated next to him at dinner. But now that your sister was officially going to be a part of the Miller family, officially taking their name, sharing their home, their holiday dinners, that made you, like it or not, a part of their family too. Great.

And if that wasn’t enough, your sister had been relentlessly pushing you to make peace with Joel. “For her.” As if you owed it to her to get along with a man who seemed to exist solely to piss you off.

She guilt-tripped you into it, like she always did, and you hated that it worked. Because as manipulative as she could be, you loved the hell out of her. And you knew this meant the world to her. But Joel? Joel was still a jackass, pre-wedding or not, he wasn’t going to change.

You were still at home when Kate barged into your room like she owned the place — which, technically, she almost did, considering how often she was there. Dressed in a soft green sweater and jeans, she looked casual, relaxed, and maddeningly excited.

Meanwhile, you were half-dressed, still holding a flat iron in one hand and a look of pure dread on your face.

“Come on,” she said with a cheerful grin. “It’s just dinner.”

You narrowed your eyes at her in the mirror. “It’s never just dinner when Joel’s involved.”

Kate sighed dramatically, flopping down on your bed like some exhausted mother of the bride. “You two need to get over this weird… war thing. He’s really not that bad.”

You raised an eyebrow. “He once referred to me as ‘extra baggage’ in front of your entire family.”

“Okay, yes, that was… not his finest moment. But he was joking,” she admit, but still tried to save it.

“Oh yeah, nothing screams hilarious comedy like being publicly insulted.”

She sat up, crossing her legs under her. “Please, babe. Just try tonight. For me. If you can survive one dinner without threatening to stab him with a fork, I swear I’ll never ask you for anything ever again.”

You let out a dry laugh. “You say that every time.”

“And yet you keep saying yes,” she smirked.

You groaned. She was right. You hated how much you loved her. With a final puff of frustration, you turned off the flat iron, stood up, and grabbed your jacket. “Fine. But if he calls me ‘baggage’ again, I’m pouring wine on his lap.”

Meanwhile, Joel is going through the exact same thing. Tommy’s been in his ear all week, pressuring him to play nice. To “just give her a chance.” Tommy’s been acting like he’s the victim, like he’s stuck in the middle, practically begging Joel to make the effort. So now you and Joel are both being dragged into this under the pretense of a “family bonding” dinner.

By the time you two got to the Miller house, it was already dusk. The porch light was on, casting a warm glow over the wood panels and old swing seat hanging to the side. Tommy opened the door before you even knocked. He immediately scooped Kate into his arms, greeting her with a kiss that lasted a bit too long for your taste.

“Jesus, get a room,” you muttered under your breath.

Tommy chuckled. “Evenin’,” he said, giving you a nod.

You gave him a polite smile. “Hey.”

Then came the moment your blood turned cold. Joel stepped into the doorway, leaning casually against the frame. His hair was slightly damp like he’d just showered, and his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. He didn’t say anything — just looked at you. You looked back. And there it was again, that mutual expression of ugh, it’s you.

Kate and Tommy exchanged matching looks and leaned into your ears simultaneously.

“Be nice,” she hissed at you.

“Don’t start anything,” Tommy whispered to Joel.

You both scoffed.

Dinner prep was a disaster waiting to happen. For some unknown reason, probably Kate and Tommy being evil geniuses, you and Joel were tasked with setting the table and bringing out the food. The tension in the kitchen was unbearable.

“Could you not stand in front of the fridge like a statue?” you snapped.

“I’m getting the damn salad, princess,” Joel grumbled, pulling out the bowl and practically shoving it into your arms.

You glared. “Try using your words instead of your muscles, Neanderthal.”

He rolled his eyes. “Don’t tempt me to go back to grunting. Might actually be more productive.”

The more you moved around each other, the worse it got — bumping hips at the counter, brushing arms when reaching for the same spoon, and more than once, you two knocked elbows hard enough to make you both wince.

“Watch it,” you muttered.

“You watch it,” he shot back.

“Jesus Christ,” you both said at the same time, throwing your heads back in sync. Which, of course, only made things worse because now you were in sync, and that was not acceptable.

Finally, Kate came in and clapped her hands. “Enough! Can you two just pretend not to hate each other for one night? Please?”

You and Joel both grumbled something under your breath and carried the last dishes to the table in stony silence.

Dinner was… exactly what you expected. You sat across from Joel — naturally. Your jaw was clenched the entire time, and you were very aware of every fork and knife placement, just in case they needed to become weapons. The air was so thick with tension it could’ve been sliced like the roast chicken on the table.

Kate and Tommy tried to salvage the evening with small talk.

“So…” Kate started, glancing between you and Joel, “how was everyone’s day?”

“Fine,” you said flatly.

“Work,” Joel replied, same tone.

Tommy tried to step in. “Hey, did you two know you both listen to Johnny Cash? I found out the other day when—”

“I liked him first,” you snapped.

Joel raised a brow. “Didn’t realize it was a competition.”

“Everything is a competition with you.”

Tommy looked between you both like a tennis match was playing out on the table. “O-kayyy…”

Kate, bless her heart, still tried. “Oh! What’s one thing you two have in common, hmm? Let’s start there.”

You both said nothing.

Joel took a slow sip of water and said, “We both hate this dinner.”

You nodded. “He’s not wrong.”

Kate sighed, Tommy just reached for the wine bottle, shaking his head. They both knew this is going to be a long night.

Dinner was mostly quiet — painfully so. The clink of forks against plates and the occasional hum of conversation from Tommy and Kate filled the room, but that was about it. You and Joel barely spoke.

Occasionally, your eyes would meet across the table, sometimes with passive annoyance, other times with flat-out disgust, and sometimes with something neutral. But even neutrality between you two felt tense, like a ceasefire that could end at any moment.

Tommy tried to lighten the mood a few times, making dumb jokes about the food or poking at Joel’s cooking skills.

“This chicken dry, or is it just me?” he teased with a grin.

Joel gave him a look. “If it’s dry, it’s ’cause you didn’t baste it. That was your job.”

Kate laughed, trying to follow up. “At least you two managed not to kill each other in the kitchen, right?”

No response. But they tried again.

“So,” Kate began, clearly reaching, “any plans this weekend?”

“I work,” you said.

Joel echoed, “Same.”

Another silence fell, heavier than before. The kind of silence that made your jaw ache just from clenching it so long. No matter how hard Tommy and Kate tried to spark something between you two — laughter, small talk, anything — the tension in the room snuffed it out before it could catch fire. It wasn’t just awkward. It was chemical.

You and Joel in the same space were like two opposing forces, constantly repelling, constantly charged. Too close and it sparked. Too far and it still lingered in the air like static.

After dinner, as expected, you and Joel were once again exiled to the kitchen, this time to wash the dishes.

Kate had literally clapped her hands and said, “Bonding time!” before shoving the dirty plates into your arms. You didn’t even have time to argue before she and Tommy disappeared into the living room, probably to laugh about your misery.

Now you stood next to Joel, the two of you shoulder-to-shoulder at the sink.

He washed. You dried. Silence.

The sound of running water filled the space, along with the occasional clink of a fork against a plate. You hadn’t said a single word since you entered the kitchen, and neither had he.

The mood wasn’t angry, though. Not anymore. It was something else. Something you couldn’t quite name.

You turned your head slightly, and your gaze drifted downward, toward his hands.

You didn’t mean to stare, but something about them caught you. His hands were large, strong, weathered. The veins stood out beneath the tanned skin, pulsing slightly as he gripped a soapy plate. His knuckles looked a little bruised, like he’d been working with tools recently, or maybe throwing punches. There was hair on his forearms, just enough, and the muscles flexed subtly as he moved, the way a man’s body does when he doesn’t even think about it.

You swallowed. Your eyes lingered on his fingers. Long, sure, and steady. You imagined, just for a split second, how they would feel against your skin. What they would do if they weren’t holding a dish, but holding you. You bit your lip.

The kitchen faded around you. The water noise dimmed. Everything felt slow, heavy, thick like honey. Your chest tightened, your stomach dropped, and something low and electric buzzed between your legs — a tension that coiled and pulled without warning, warm and unwanted and there. You weren’t even breathing right.

You didn’t realize he was speaking to you.

“Hey. Plate.”

Your head snapped up, too late. He was holding a clean plate, expecting you to take it. But your hands stayed frozen, and when he let go, it slipped. The crash was loud.

Porcelain shattered against the floor in a sharp burst, and you gasped, stepping back automatically.

“Shit,” Joel muttered under his breath, already reaching down.

You moved forward, instinctively trying to kneel, but his hand shot out fast, palm pressed against your hip to stop you.

“Don’t,” he said firmly, his voice low — not angry, not annoyed. Protective. You froze in place.

He crouched and swept up the shards quickly, moving with precision, barely saying a word. He worked silently, efficiently, like it was nothing, but his jaw was tight. His eyes flicked up at you once, his brows furrowed. His expression was angry and confused all at once.

He stood back up after dumping the last of the shards into the trash bin, wiping his hands on a towel with a sigh, sharp and fed up.

Then he turned toward you with that same ever-present frustration in his eyes.

“What is wrong with you?”

You blinked at him, speechless.

“What, were you daydreamin’ so hard you forgot how to use your hands?”

His tone wasn’t playful. It wasn’t even annoyed. It was accusatory, like you’d done it on purpose, just to piss him off.

You didn't answer. You couldn't. Your body was frozen in place, the towel still clenched in your fingers, your lips parted like you might say something — but no sound came out. You weren’t even mad. Not this time. Because underneath all that embarrassment, all that tension, was confusion.

What the hell was that?

Why had you been staring at his hands like they were goddamn poetry? Why had your brain short-circuited and your body reacted like that — like you wanted something from him?

From Joel fucking Miller.

You didn’t understand yourself right now. At all.

Joel scoffed under his breath when you didn’t respond and brushed past you without another word, tossing the towel over the edge of the sink and leaving you standing there — warm, unsettled, and angry at no one but yourself.

After you and Kate finally left the Miller house and inhaled the fresh night air, Kate looped her arm through yours. She looked up at you with that too-knowing expression.

“Well?” she asked, her voice casual, but the look on her face said spill it.

You gave her the look — that don’t start with me kind of face.

Kate exhaled, long and exaggerated. “Seriously? What is it gonna take for you two to stop acting like mortal enemies?”

You didn’t answer right away, just stared out at the sidewalk ahead.

“I know he’s annoying,” she went on. “I know he’s pushy, and grumpy, and rude as hell, but Jesus, he’s not the devil. He’s just Joel.”

You finally spoke, voice lower than usual. “I get it. Okay? I get it. You’re marrying into his family, I’m technically gonna be stuck with him for the rest of my life, blah blah blah.”

She smirked. “So you’ll try?”

You sighed. “I will. But only if he does, too. I can’t be the only one putting effort into something we both clearly hate.”

Kate made a noise between a laugh and a groan. “Fair enough. But God, I swear, if you two ruin the wedding photos with your death glares…”

Back inside the Miller house, Joel was slouched on the couch, legs spread out, beer in hand. Tommy returned from the kitchen with two more beers and plopped down beside him.

“So,” he said, cracking open a bottle. “What the hell happened in there?”

Joel didn’t even look at him. “She dropped a plate.”

Tommy squinted. “She dropped it?”

Joel shrugged. “I handed it to her, and she just… didn’t take it. Let it fall. Her fault.”

Tommy gave him a really, man? look. “You think maybe she was distracted or somethin’? Maybe you distracted her?”

Joel scoffed. “You think she was distracted by me? Please. If anything, she was probably daydreamin’ about strangling me.”

Tommy raised a brow, clearly not buying the sarcasm. “You ever think that maybe the reason you two can’t stop fighting is because there’s somethin’ else going on?”

Joel shot him a glare. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” Tommy said, leaning forward with that big-brother patience, “that you’ve been on her case since day one. And maybe it’s not just because she annoys you.”

Joel opened his mouth, but Tommy cut him off.

“I’m serious, man. The wedding’s in a few days. Can you do me a favor and try to get along with her until then? I don’t need you two turning the rehearsal dinner into a goddamn war zone.”

Joel looked away, jaw clenched. He didn’t say anything for a while. Just took a long drink from his bottle.

Eventually, he muttered, “I’ll think about it.”

Tommy rolled his eyes. “Better than nothing, I guess.”

The tension between you and Joel hadn’t eased in the slightest since that night at the Miller household. If anything, the silence had grown louder, more hostile. Kate and Tommy, of course, refused to give up on their master plan to “bring the two of you together,” as if your lives were a cheesy rom-com and not a daily emotional battlefield.

With the wedding quickly approaching, they decided the best way to force bonding would be through responsibility. Specifically: seating arrangements and wedding invitations. Apparently, this critical task needed the undivided attention of you and Joel. Together. Alone. In their house. Because of course.

Kate and Tommy conveniently had an appointment in town, something about last-minute candle holders and music rehearsals, and “oh no, what a shame, you guys will just have to hold down the fort!” Kate practically squealed while Tommy tried to look like it wasn’t part of their evil plan.

So there you were, sitting stiffly at the Millers’ dining table, stacks of RSVP cards, envelopes, and color-coded guest lists spread out in front of you. Joel sat across from you, equally still, equally uninterested in being here.

The silence was thick. Occasionally, one of you would mutter something like, “He’s allergic to nuts, right?” or “That name’s spelled with an ‘e’.”

Minimal communication. Minimal eye contact. Maximal contempt.

You let out a heavy sigh as you picked up a fresh stack of blank envelopes. “Y’know, this would’ve been so much easier if the world hadn’t ended,” you muttered under your breath. “A few clicks and everyone would’ve had a damn email invite. Done in five minutes.”

Joel raised an eyebrow. “You miss the internet that bad?”

You shrugged. “I miss not having to do this shit by hand, yeah.”

He scoffed. “It’s a wedding. People used to do this all the time.”

You shot him a look. “People used to do a lot of dumb things.”

Joel raised both hands in mock surrender, then muttered, “Including arguing about paper.”

A few beats passed in silence again before you looked up, a smirk tugging at the corner of your mouth. “This whole thing’s weird, isn’t it?”

Joel looked at you cautiously. “Which part?”

“All of it,” you said. “Two people falling in love in this… mess. Choosing each other. Wanting to celebrate it. Feels like some part of the old world pretending it still exists.”

He didn’t respond, just kept his eyes on the page in front of him.

You watched him a second longer, then said, “I mean… what does that even mean anymore? Love. You think it still means the same thing it used to?”

Joel finally looked up.

You met his gaze, and the words slipped out before you could think twice, not really curious, more mocking than anything else. “What does love even mean to you, Joel Miller?”

He stared at you, his jaw slowly tightening.

You added with a touch of venom, “Have you even ever been in love? Or are you too emotionally constipated for that, too?”

He froze. The look in his eyes darkened, and the air between you changed.

“The hell did you just say?”

You didn’t flinch. “I called you a pussy, Joel.”

His nostrils flared. “Say it again.”

“I said, you’re a pussy.”

The silence that followed was dense, almost buzzing. Joel’s eyes drilled into you, and for a second, you weren’t sure what he was going to do. Yell? Walk out?

But instead, he leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, voice low and sharp.

“You wanna talk big, huh? Then tell me, what does love mean to you, sweetheart?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

He raised his eyebrows. “Yeah. Since you’ve clearly got all the answers.”

You hesitated, heart skipping. Your mouth opened, then closed. You looked away.

“That’s what I thought,” Joel said.

You stared at the table for a long moment, heart pounding in your ears. Then, before you could stop yourself, your voice broke the silence.

“Love is… when you can’t breathe right unless that person is in the room. When you’d rather fight with them than be at peace with anyone else. When you want to see all the ugly parts of them and still stay. And when their pain… feels like yours.”

You didn’t dare look up, not right away. When you finally did, Joel was staring. Not blinking. Not moving. Just looking. Like he’d never really seen you until now.

He cleared his throat suddenly, shifted, and said, “Huh.”

Then he nodded. Once. Turned back to the list. The moment lingered. Hung between you like a string, pulled taut.

Then he spoke again.

“Love’s when you wanna walk away but something keeps pullin’ you back. When you can’t stop thinkin’ ‘bout how they laugh… or how mad they get. When you know it’s messy and it still feels like home.”

You didn’t say anything. You couldn’t. Something inside you had shifted.

But before it could settle, before the warmth could sink in…

Joel muttered, “Still doesn’t explain why you act like a damn gremlin every time I speak.”

You scoffed. “Because you speak like a man who’s never been hugged.”

“Then maybe you should try it sometime,” he shot back.

You rolled your eyes. “Oh, please. I’d rather hug a cactus.”

“Figures,” Joel said. “Prickly little thing like you would.”

Still, despite the insults, the two of you finished the task. The guest list was done. Invitations sorted. But the words exchanged, the raw ones, clung to the air. And you didn’t quite know how to feel.

You had just gotten home, the front door clicking shut behind you with a soft thud. Your shoulders slumped immediately. The moment you stepped into your own space, a small but safe corner of Jackson, you let out a sigh that had been bottled up since you left the Miller house.

The silence here was different. Not tense or charged like it had been with Joel. Just… quiet.

You slipped off your jacket, toed off your boots, and dropped your bag on the floor without ceremony. The thought of Joel’s voice, his eyes locked on yours when you told him what love meant to you…it haunted the back of your mind like a persistent shadow. You shook your head, trying to return back to reality.

A knock at your door pulled you from your thoughts. You already knew it was her.

Kate stood there with a small smile, holding a container of something vaguely edible and homemade. “Peace offering,” she said. “And no, you don’t get to say no.”

You let her in, and a few minutes later you were both curled up on your couch, the dish of food forgotten on the coffee table. Kate had that look, the one she wore when she was trying to act casual, but her whole soul was bubbling with questions.

“So…” she said, dragging the word out dramatically. “How’d it go?”

You blinked, already mentally preparing your response. “Fine.”

Kate narrowed her eyes. “Fine?”

You nodded. “We didn’t kill each other. That’s a win.”

She stared at you, and you could practically hear her brain doing somersaults. She knew something was wrong. You've never looked so confused.

Kate pulled her legs up onto the couch and faced you fully, expression softening.

“You look… tired,” she finally said, trying to keep her tone light.

“Long day,” you replied simply, brushing it off.

Kate gave you a small smile, one that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “How was the… invitation thing?”

You shrugged. “It’s done.”

There was a pause. You didn’t elaborate. And she didn’t press. You could feel her gaze lingering on you, trying to read something on your face, but you didn’t let her see it. Whatever was still spinning inside you, the strange heaviness, the warmth that shouldn’t have been there, the ghost of Joel Miller’s voice, that was yours. Yours alone.

Kate leaned back with a sigh, folding her arms.

“I know you don’t want to talk about him,” she said softly, “but I just… I need to ask.”

You looked at her, guarded.

“Do you think it’s ever going to change? Between you and Joel?”

You didn’t answer right away. You looked at your hands, picked at a loose thread on your sleeve.

“Some things don’t change,” you said quietly. “Some things just… stay broken.”

Kate’s face twisted, the fight going out of her. She blinked quickly, but it didn’t stop the tears that started forming.

You looked over, guilt blooming in your chest. “Kate…”

“I just wanted it to be perfect,” she whispered. “My wedding. This whole day I’ve been dreaming of since I was a kid. I wanted everyone I love to be there and to be happy and whole.”

“You will have that,” you said firmly, even if your voice shook a little.

She shook her head, wiping her cheeks as the tears finally fell. “Not if you two are at each other’s throats the whole time.”

You stayed quiet, watching her break down in front of you — your strong, soft-hearted sister who tried so hard to keep everyone together.

“I know I sound dramatic,” she laughed bitterly through her tears. “But I don’t want to remember walking down the aisle and seeing you scowling in one corner and Joel brooding in the other.”

You reached out and took her hand. “You won’t. I promise.”

Kate sniffled. “You can’t promise that.”

“I can promise I’ll try,” you said. “I don’t know what he’ll do, but I’ll try. For you.”

That seemed to help — not fix it, not fully, but soften the edges of her sadness. Her grip on your hand tightened.

Kate wiped her cheeks and let out a breathy laugh. “You better try, because if not, I was going to threaten you with the world’s ugliest bridesmaid dress.”

You snorted. “I’d wear it. Just to ruin your photos.”

She gasped in mock offense, then started laughing, a real one this time. You joined her, and for a few minutes, the air was lighter. Less pressure. Less ache.

At least for now.

The bed creaked softly beneath him as he shifted for the third time in five minutes. Joel lay on his back, eyes fixed on the ceiling of his dimly lit bedroom, the moonlight cutting across the room in a cold stripe. The air was still, thick with silence, and yet his mind was unbearably loud.

He’d tried everything. Rolling over. Flipping his pillow. Forcing his thoughts toward patrol routes, inventory lists, anything functional. But no matter what direction he turned, you were there. Like a ghost he hadn’t asked for but couldn’t exorcize.

Your face hovered behind his eyelids. Not angry or sharp the way it often was — but softer. Lit with that rare, fleeting smile you gave Kate. Or the way your head tipped back when you laughed at something that actually caught you off guard. That sound — fuck, that sound — warm and bright like the first day of spring after a brutal winter.

And then there was the way you touched your hair, that unconscious little motion, fingers gliding through it, tucking it behind your ear or sweeping it out of your eyes. You didn’t even know you did it. But Joel did. He’d seen it. Noticed it. Memorized it like a fool.

He pictured you leaning over the table earlier that day, shirt riding up just enough to reveal a strip of bare lower back. His gaze had lingered. Too long. He knew that. He hated that.

Your ass—round, perfect, smug in those tight jeans—had haunted him every time he closed his eyes since.

He shifted again, jaw clenched now, heat starting to pool somewhere low in his belly.

No. No, no, no.

But it was already too late. His body wasn’t asking for permission — it was responding. A twitch of pressure, a slow tightening beneath the waistband of his briefs. His breath caught as he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to banish you from his brain.

Didn’t work.

You stayed, and now you were closer — the imagined warmth of your skin, the sound of your voice in his ear, teasing, smug. The tilt of your mouth. The curve of your hips as you stood with one hand on them, rolling your eyes at something he said.

His hand fisted the sheets.

“Goddamn it,” he muttered, voice rough, hoarse with frustration — and something else.

He turned onto his side, dragging the blanket higher, willing his body to calm down. But it wouldn’t. Every time he shut his eyes, there you were — sometimes laughing, sometimes biting your lip, sometimes looking up at him with that fire in your gaze that made him feel like he was being dared to cross a line.

He groaned, low and miserable, rolling onto his back again.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. You were infuriating. You were stubborn, impulsive, mouthy. You didn’t like him. He didn’t like you.

But your voice still echoed in his head, that quiet answer you’d given when you talked about love. It had knocked something loose in him. Something buried. Something he didn’t want to name.

Joel cursed under his breath again and threw an arm over his eyes, as if blocking out the light might also block you. His body was still betraying him — hard now, pulsing and persistent, refusing to let him pretend.

He didn’t know what was happening to him. Why it was happening. Why it was happening, because of you.

He hated you. Every fiber of you. Every sound that came out of your mouth was insufferable, every sentence laced with that arrogant, sarcastic tone that made his blood boil. Your eyes, your posture, your voice, your goddamn presence—he hated it all.

So why the hell is he fucking hard right now? Why couldn’t he stop thinking about you?

Why did the image of your lips slightly parted as you chewed on your bottom one haunt him? Why did the memory of the soft curve of your waist, revealed when your shirt lifted just a little too high the other day, replay in his mind like some sick punishment? Why did he remember the sway of your hips when you walked away from him in irritation, those tight pants hugging your ass so perfectly it should’ve been illegal?

And why did his cock throb every time he let the image linger? It was torture.

He shifted in his bed again, groaning under his breath. Sheets rustled around him, clinging to his sweat-slicked skin.

He closed his eyes. He opened them. He closed them again. You were still there—in his head. Laughing, glaring, rolling your eyes, teasing him with that attitude that made him want to pin you to a wall and shut you up with his mouth.

He threw an arm over his face. Growled.

“Fuckin’ hell…”

Sleep definitely wasn’t coming tonight.

The next morning arrived like a slap in the face.

You were walking through Jackson, hands tucked into your jacket pockets, breathing in the chilled air. The sky was pale and clouded, the usual buzz of early activity around you—a couple of kids running down the path, dogs barking, someone hauling wood nearby.

You were just going to the store. That was it. Simple. In and out. Until your eyes landed on him - on Joel.

He was a little far off, working on a newly constructed cabin. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing thick, sun-kissed forearms, and you watched, breath hitching as his muscles tensed with each swing of the hammer. The way his biceps bulged, like fucking granite, as he brought the tool down with precision and force.

You knew it was wrong, but… your eyes wandered lower. Watching the way his back flexed beneath his shirt, the curve of his ass in those damn jeans, the way his hair bounced slightly with the movement, sticking to his sweaty forehead. The veins in his hands, so prominent, so… masculine, wrapped around the handle of that hammer like it owed him something.

Your stomach twisted. You swallowed hard. Your thighs pressed together. Your panties were… wet. Unmistakably. You could feel it. You were pulsing. And it was because of Joel fucking Miller.

You stared for a moment too long, heart racing, body betraying you in every way it could. Then it hit you like a truck, the embarrassment, the fury.

You tore your gaze away, eyes wide, and stormed forward like your feet could carry you out of your own body.

What the hell was wrong with you? Why were you reacting like this to him? You hated him. He was rude. Cocky. Infuriating. Not even that attractive.

So why the hell was your body acting like it wanted him inside you?

You cursed under your breath. Not at Joel. At yourself.

By the time you entered the store, you were still flustered, heart thudding in your ears. You pushed a cart forward and moved through the aisles like you were on autopilot, scanning for what you needed. Your brain was still somewhere else entirely.

That’s when someone spoke behind you.

“Hey—uh, sorry, do you know which flour’s better for, like, sourdough bread? The brown bag or the white one?”

You blinked and turned around. There was a guy. Kinda cute. Probably around your age. Tall, lean, with soft features and warm eyes. His voice was kind, curious. Not annoying. Not Joel.

You glanced at the two bags in his hands, then pointed to one. “The brown bag’s whole grain. It’s heavier. Depends what you want, but for sourdough? White’s probably safer.”

He smiled. “Thanks. I’m Hank, by the way.”

You nodded, giving a small smile back. “Nice to meet you.”

And that was it. Just… nice.

You continued your shopping, finishing quickly, keeping the interaction in the back of your mind, but it was faint. Not because Hank wasn’t lovely, but because Joel was still in your system like venom.

You paid, stepped outside with your bag in hand, and started the walk home, your mind looping the same awful thought:

Why did your body want the one person your brain wanted to strangle? You had no answer. Just the echo of his name in your head and the heavy, traitorous thrum in your chest.

The sky had long since darkened into a deep navy, the stars peeking shyly through the scattered clouds above Jackson.

Inside your home, it was warm—quiet. A soft amber glow bathed the living room from the single lamp you’d turned on, casting long shadows against the walls.

You were curled up on the couch, wearing nothing but a loose oversized T-shirt that draped just over your hips and a pair of simple cotton panties. Your legs were bare, tucked under you as you sipped from a mug of coffee that had gone lukewarm long ago, but the comfort it offered hadn’t worn off.

The silence was calming, the kind that followed an emotionally messy day. You breathed out softly, your body finally beginning to unwind—until a knock pulled you back into reality.

You didn’t flinch. You assumed, without question, that it was Kate. Probably coming to drop off something or chat about the wedding. So you padded lazily to the door, not thinking twice about how little you were wearing. Your shirt clung to your body slightly, the thin fabric doing little to hide the curve of your breasts or the faint outline of your nipples beneath it. You didn’t care. It was just Kate.

But it wasn’t Kate.

The second the door opened, and you locked eyes with the man standing there, your breath caught. Joel Miller. And he looked stunned.

His eyes scanned you—fast at first, like he knew he shouldn’t—but then slower, more deliberate. They flicked down your body, taking in the exposed skin of your legs, the hem of the shirt barely grazing your thighs. The hard peaks beneath the soft fabric. Your bare feet. Your collarbone. His mouth parted slightly, and for the briefest moment, he forgot whatever the hell he was doing there.

You noticed. You definitely noticed.

Your expression flattened into a scowl as you exhaled, annoyed. “The fuck do you want?”

That snapped him out of it. He blinked, shifting his weight awkwardly from one foot to the other, clearly trying to summon the familiar arrogance that always kept him armored around you.

“Trust me,” he muttered, voice low and gravelly, “I’d rather be anywhere else but here.”

“Great,” you snapped, already pushing the door to shut in his face. But his large, calloused hand caught the wood with ease, pushing it back open like it was nothing.

You glared but didn’t resist. There was no point. You couldn’t overpower Joel Miller, and honestly, you were too tired to try.

“Tommy sent me,” he finally said, voice returning to its usual gruff cadence. “Said we need to go grab some shit from the woods. Decoration stuff. For the wedding.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Why me?”

He shrugged, unapologetic. “Apparently, you’re a woman. Which means you’re supposed to be better at this crap than me.”

You scoffed dramatically, rolling your eyes, and turned to glance at the clock hanging in your living room. “It’s nine-fucking-p.m. Are you stupid?”

“I worked all day,” he bit back, voice edging toward exasperation, though his gaze never left your bare thighs.

You mumbled under your breath, “Yeah. I noticed.” Your eyes flicked down to the floor quickly.

Joel tilted his head. “What was that?”

“Nothing,” you replied with a fake sweet smile, lips curling with venom.

He sighed. “Are you coming or not?”

You knew damn well that if you said no, not only would he keep annoying you, but so would Kate and Tommy, and eventually, you’d cave. So you made the only rational choice—gave a dramatic sigh and stepped back into your house, leaving the door open behind you.

“Wait here,” you muttered over your shoulder.

Joel stepped inside, his boots heavy against your wooden floor. He didn’t say anything. Just took in your space with a kind of silent judgment that felt oddly intimate. It was homey. Clean. Warm. He liked it more than he should’ve.

When you returned a few minutes later, your body was dressed in a black button-up shirt that clung to your figure, paired with tight black jeans that hugged your hips and ass like they were tailor-made. You tossed your hair back and brushed your hand along the wall, grabbing your jacket.

Joel saw you. swallowing hard when he felt the blood in his body rush somewhere it really shouldn’t.

“Let’s go,” you said curtly, pushing past him and stepping out the door. He followed. Silently.

The truck rumbled to life, headlights cutting through the inky black night as Joel pulled out of your driveway. You sat in the passenger seat, arms crossed, gaze fixed out the window.

Silence. Thick silence.

Not the peaceful kind from earlier. This one was charged, buzzing under your skin like static. The air between you crackled with unspoken things, heavy tension that neither of you dared to slice through. Questions, feelings, memories—none of them had names, but they were all there, pressing into the cab of the truck like ghosts refusing to stay dead.

You didn’t look at him. He didn’t look at you. But both of you felt it. Every second ticked by like a countdown to something inevitable. Something neither of you were ready to admit.

The road stretched out endlessly ahead, swallowed by the dark trees on either side. The only sound filling the truck was the steady hum of the engine and the occasional crunch of gravel beneath the tires. You sat with your arms crossed, your body angled slightly toward the window, your gaze locked on the shadows flashing by. The silence was thick. Claustrophobic. And entirely unbearable.

Finally, Joel broke it.

“What’d you do today?”

His voice was neutral. Uninterested, even. He didn’t look at you—kept his eyes on the road, one hand resting lazily on the wheel, the other draped over the armrest. Just a casual question, thrown out into the air like it didn’t mean a damn thing.

You turned your head slowly toward him, an incredulous smirk pulling at your lips. “Really?”

Joel glanced at you once, then again, brows drawing slightly together. “What?”

A laugh burst out of you, short and bitter, as you shook your head in disbelief. “You’re seriously trying to ask me about my day?”

He didn’t respond immediately. You could tell he was debating it. Trying to find a retort that wouldn’t sound weak. But before he could even open his mouth, you beat him to it.

“You don’t even care.”

Your voice was quieter now, almost defeated. You turned your head back toward the window, watching the world blur past, soft shadows and moonlight playing tricks on your vision. For a moment, there was only silence again. Heavy. Tense.

“…I don’t,” Joel finally admitted, his tone dry, “but it’s better than this annoying-ass silence.”

You let the corner of your mouth twitch. The bastard had a point. You let a few seconds pass, then finally gave in.

“I went to the store.”

Joel gave a quiet grunt of acknowledgment, a slight nod that was barely perceptible.

“I met someone. Hank.”

Another grunt. Another nod. But this time… his grip on the steering wheel tightened. Just a little. Barely enough to notice. But you saw the way his forearm flexed, how his fingers wrapped more firmly around the leather. It was subtle. But there. A small flash of something ugly and hot in his chest. Jealousy? No. That couldn’t be. Why the hell would he be jealous?

“Is he cute?” he asked.

You didn’t even hesitate. “Not bad. Might give him my address if I see him again.”

That did it. Joel’s knuckles went white on the wheel, his jaw tightening so hard it ticked. His whole body tensed like a wire pulled too tight.

You knew exactly what you were doing. And you liked the reaction a little more than you should have.

“What about you?” you asked, voice suddenly lighter, almost teasing. “Meet any girls today?”

“Huh?” Joel glanced over at you quickly before looking back at the road.

“Come on, you know… did you meet someone new? Maybe someone young and smiley and way too optimistic for her own good?”

Joel let out a huff of air—half a laugh, half a scoff. “Not into that crap.”

“Not into what? Dating?”

He gave a slow nod. “Yeah. Who the hell would date a grumpy old bastard like me?”

Your eyes met for a second too long. And something in your chest… shifted. He didn’t say it like a joke. He wasn’t fishing for pity. He was just being honest. And you saw it, really saw it, in his expression. That quiet loneliness that clung to him like a shadow he didn’t know how to shake.

“Don’t be stupid,” you muttered. “I’m sure someone would.”

You weren’t sure why you said it. It came out before you could stop it. Before you could build your usual wall of sarcasm and spite.

Joel’s mouth twitched bitterly. “Wish I was as naïve as you.”

And god, you hated how that made you feel. That burning in your throat. The aching behind your ribs. He was so frustrating, so guarded, so closed off—but in moments like this, you could almost feel how much it cost him to let anything through.

You wanted to hug him. You wouldn’t, of course. But you wanted to.

Joel pulled the truck to a slow stop, the gravel crunching under the tires as the headlights hit a clearing at the edge of the woods. “We’re here,” he muttered, already pushing open his door without a second glance.

You followed a few seconds later, slamming the passenger door a bit too hard and catching up with him.

“So,” you asked as you reached his side, “what exactly are we looking for?”

“Shit for the wedding. Kate wants it to be all… nature-themed or whatever. So twigs, berries, moss, mushrooms. Forest crap.”

You arched a brow. “Romantic.”

Joel didn’t reply. He just handed you a small burlap sack and started heading deeper into the woods, boots crunching over fallen leaves. You walked with him in silence, collecting whatever looked remotely wedding-appropriate. The air was damp and smelled like earth. Leaves brushed against your ankles. Moonlight filtered through the branches in silvery streaks.

Then, suddenly—snap. The sharp crack of a stick breaking echoed nearby. Joel froze. His body went rigid, hand instinctively reaching for his pistol. In a second, the weapon was drawn, held steady, and aimed at the darkness beyond the trees.

You jumped, stumbling back a step and grabbing onto Joel’s arm without thinking. “Shit—what was that?”

“Do you have a gun?” he asked, eyes scanning the shadows.

“Do I look like I have a gun?!”

You moved closer to him, practically hiding behind his solid frame. Your heart was thudding like crazy, adrenaline crawling under your skin.

Joel didn’t move for a long beat, waiting. Watching. But nothing came. Just the wind brushing through the leaves and the chirp of a distant bird. Slowly, he lowered the gun.

“Probably just an animal,” he muttered, but you saw the way his shoulders remained tense. Still alert. Still ready. After a few more seconds, he glanced back at you. “You ever even held a gun?”

You raised a brow. “Do I look like I have?”

Joel sighed heavily and handed you his pistol. “Here.”

You stared at it like he’d just handed you a live snake. “What the hell am I supposed to do with this?”

“Aim,” he said flatly, giving you the simplest instruction imaginable.

You blinked at him. “Come again?”

He didn’t repeat it. Just raised an eyebrow. His expression said don’t argue. So you tried. Kind of. You awkwardly lifted the gun with both hands, your arms stiff, elbows out, your grip all wrong.

Joel let out the most exhausted sigh you’d ever heard, rubbing a hand down his face. “Jesus.”

He took the pistol back, turned it in his hands, and then showed you how to hold it properly.

Feet apart. Elbows relaxed. Grip tight but not too tight. Then he placed the gun back into your hands and watched you. But even so, you were still holding the gun wrong.

Your hands were trembling. Not much, but enough that he noticed. Enough that you noticed. The gun felt heavy, unnatural. Like it didn’t belong in your hands. Joel sighed.

He stepped behind you. Closer than he ever had before. You could feel the heat of his body pressing along your back, his chest brushing against your shoulder blades, his breath — warm and unfiltered — ghosting across the curve of your neck.

Then came his hands.

Big. Rough. Calloused. They slid over yours like they’d been made to fit there — palms swallowing yours completely, fingers curling around the outside of your own to adjust your grip. His thumbs pressed down gently, firmly guiding you, correcting you. You couldn’t breathe. You didn’t breathe.

His beard scraped softly against the edge of your cheek as he leaned in closer. His voice was low, almost a whisper. “Like this. Keep your elbows down. You’re stiff as a damn board.”

You didn’t hear the words.

You just heard him. The low rumble in his chest. The scent of him — cedar, sweat, something smoky and old and undeniably male. The warmth of his body pressed against yours in the cold woods.

And something inside you snapped. Or maybe it awakened.

A pulse flickered deep in your lower belly. Then it dropped lower. Heat bloomed between your thighs, a slow, aching throb that made your breath hitch and your knees feel just a little weaker. You clenched without meaning to — your muscles tightening instinctively, reflexively — and you felt it in your underwear. The wetness. Already.

Fuck.

Your face was on fire. You were sure of it. Your cheeks burned, your ears burned, even the back of your neck was hot — but you didn’t move. Couldn’t move. Because if you did, you’d have to step away from him. And you didn’t want to.

Your heart was hammering inside your chest, pounding against your ribs like it wanted to get out. Your thoughts were chaotic, messy, breathless, spinning.

And when he adjusted your fingers again, his thumb grazing along the sensitive skin between your thumb and forefinger, you couldn’t help the tiny sound that escaped your throat — a breathy, almost inaudible gasp.

Your skin was soft. Warm. He could smell your shampoo, something faint and floral that made him want to bury his face in your neck. He tried to focus on your stance, on the gun, on anything except the way your ass pressed back slightly against his hips, or the tiny hitch in your breath, or the fact that he could feel your pulse through your wrist.

His cock twitched.

The heat spread through him fast — like gasoline catching flame. His hands were supposed to be steady, but they started to shake. Just a little. His jaw clenched. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from your cheek, the curve of your jaw, the way your lips were slightly parted. You looked flustered. Flushed. He saw your chest rising and falling faster than before.

And he felt it.

Your body stiffening. That subtle shift of your hips. That soft, barely audible sound that slipped from your throat.

Jesus fucking Christ.

You were turned on. And now he couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. All he could do was stare at the back of your neck and fight the overwhelming urge to bend his head down and press his mouth there. To see if you’d make that sound again, louder this time.

His cock was already hard. Thick and aching behind his jeans, pressing against the inside of his thigh. And all because of you. Because of the way your body felt under his hands. Because of the way you smelled. Because of that little gasp.

He had to pull away. Now. Before he did something really fucking stupid. But his hands didn’t move. They wouldn’t move.

Instead, he lowered his voice again, leaning closer, his lips grazing your ear.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “Just like that. You’re doin’ good.”

Your body shivered. And Joel knew, with complete, devastating certainty, that he was royally, irreversibly fucked.

You turned around slowly, pulse loud in your ears, breath caught somewhere between your ribs and your throat.

His face was so close you could feel the heat radiating off his skin. Your noses almost brushed. The small space between you felt volatile, like a match hovering over gasoline.

His eyes met yours and you swore time folded in on itself. Everything narrowed down to that one unbearable moment of stillness, your shared breath, the roughness of his exhale fanning across your cheek, his scent laced with sweat and cedar and tension.

You weren’t breathing. You didn’t want to. You wanted to stay right there, suspended in the heaviness of that electric, untouchable almost.

And just when you swore he might tilt his head that tiny bit to close the distance, crack. A branch snapped not far from where you stood.

Joel moved instantly, instinctively. He stepped in front of you, arm extended protectively as his eyes scanned the trees.

Your chest rose and fell, rapidly now, the illusion shattered but the heat still simmering under your skin.

He didn’t look at you when he spoke. “We’re done here,” he said, his voice gravelly, low, but tight. “Let’s go. Ain’t smart to be out here after dark.”

You nodded, mute. There was nothing to say. You followed him through the trees, the pressure in your chest still coiled tight like a loaded spring.

The silence in the truck was worse than the previous drive into the woods. Neither of you said a word. You didn’t even try. The memory of his hands on yours haunted your skin. The way his body pressed behind you. The way he felt. The way your body had responded.

You shifted in your seat, thighs pressing together, breath shaky. From the corner of your eye, you saw his grip tighten on the wheel.

He was thinking about it too. You knew it. You felt it. Like the air between you still crackled with something unnamed and unbearable.

When he pulled up in front of your house, the engine idling, you turned your head to him.

“Thanks,” you said, voice barely audible. He didn’t look at you. Just nodded once.

You got out quickly, afraid your legs might give out if you didn’t move fast. Your fists were clenched as you stormed into your house and slammed the door behind you.

Joel watched until the porch light flicked on. Then he drove off. He had to.

Because if he didn’t leave right now, if he stayed even a second longer in that truck with the memory of your body pressed into his and your eyes looking at him like that, he wouldn’t be able to think. He wouldn’t be able to stop himself.

And he sure as hell wouldn’t be able to hide the growing ache in his jeans.

The next morning came like a slap. You didn’t sleep much. Every time you closed your eyes, your mind dragged you back to the woods. His breath. His voice. That moment.

You sat now on a little wooden stool, knees tucked under you, watching Kate twirl in front of the mirror in a champagne-colored dress.

“What do you think?” she asked, holding the fabric out by her sides like she was floating.

You smiled. Or at least you tried to.

“It’s perfect,” you said.

And it was—for her. It hugged her curves beautifully, made her look like a springtime goddess. She looked happy. Radiant.

You wanted to be happy with her. But you couldn’t stop thinking about Joel. You couldn’t stop thinking about his voice low in your ear. His hands gripping yours like they belonged there.

The way he pressed into your back, firm and controlled, but just barely. You swallowed hard, shifting on the stool. Your thighs pressed together and stayed there. Your fingers dug into your own knees.

God, what would it be like if he said things like that in a bed? His voice rough, that little growl he did in his throat when he was trying not to let something slip.

“That's it,” he’d say again, but slower this time, with your legs around his waist. His hand around your neck. His body heavy over yours. His—

“Hey?” Kate’s voice broke straight through your filthy mind like a cold slap of water. Your head snapped up. She was watching you in the mirror, a little frown on her face.

“You okay? You zoned out like… hard.”

You blinked. Forced a laugh. “I’m fine. Just tired, I think.”

Kate turned toward you, dress swishing with her. “You sure? You look kinda pale.”

You smiled again. “I’m good. Promise.”

She squinted for a second longer, then let it go. “Okay. Well, you better wake up before tonight. Everyone’s gonna be at the bar. You are coming, right?”

You hesitated. “I don’t know, Katie…”

“Don’t you dare bail on me,” she said, walking over and poking you square in the forehead. “It’s my last free Saturday before wedding chaos hits full force. You’re coming. No excuses.”

You sighed, lips pressed together. “Fine. I’ll go. For you.”

“Damn right it’s for me,” she grinned, turning back to the mirror, completely unaware of the storm behind your eyes.

Because she had no idea that the only thing keeping you from vibrating out of your skin was the image of her future brother-in-law. His voice, his hands, the pressure of him against your back, his body between your thighs, his cock filling you as he growled against your neck—

You clenched your fists again. You were not okay. And tonight, you were about to walk into a room full of people, awesome.

The bar buzzed with life. Music pulsed in waves from the overhead speakers, something upbeat and forgettable, and people swayed and shouted and laughed, glasses clinking against each other, beer sloshing onto tables and sticky wooden floors.

You were perched on a high stool at the edge of the chaos, your drink half full and your nerves stretched thin.

You’d let Kate drag you here. You hadn’t wanted to come. But the smile on her face as she danced in a small circle with her friends made it all worth it. You were here for her.

But even now, even under the dim golden lights and the noise, your mind flickered like static back to the woods. Joel’s hands. Joel’s breath. Joel’s words. Your thighs pressed together. You took a bigger sip of your drink.

“Thought that was you,” a familiar voice said behind you. You turned and saw him, Hank. That cute guy from the store. You almost forget about him, because your mind is currently full of Miller.

“Hank,” you said, forcing a tight smile, trying to hide your overthinking and zoning out every five second.

He held a drink in each hand, his leather jacket unzipped just enough to show the collar of some aggressively loud shirt underneath.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here,” he said, sliding onto the stool next to you without asking.

“Yeah… my sister dragged me out.”

“Ah,” Hank chuckled. “Lucky for me.” He slid one of the glasses toward you. Whiskey. Neat. You nodded politely. “Thanks.”

You didn’t ask for it, but you took a sip. Because refusing would be more exhausting than drinking.

Hank talked, mostly about himself. Occasionally he asked you a question, but he never waited for the answer before launching into another story. Still, it was noise. Noise was good. Noise kept you out of your head.

“You’re quiet,” Hank said, tilting his head. “You mad at me?”

You blinked back to the present.

“No,” you said quickly. “Just… tired.”

He smiled. “You need to loosen up.”

You tried to smile back. But then his hand landed on your thigh. It wasn’t casual. It was deliberate. Heavy. You froze. Your pulse quickened.

You shifted, a small movement—polite, non-threatening, clear. But he didn’t move his hand.

Instead, he leaned in closer, the alcohol on his breath making your stomach twist.

“You look so fuckin’ good tonight,” he murmured, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Bet you feel good too.”

You jerked back. “Hank, don’t—”

He grabbed your wrist, quick and tight, and leaned in.

“Relax, sweetheart. We’re just talkin’.”

“No,” you said, firmer now. “Let go.”

His expression changed. Gone was the charm. What replaced it was flat. Cold.

“You wanna cause a scene?” he whispered.

And then you felt it. Something cold and sharp pressing against your ribs. Your eyes snapped down.

A knife. Small, dirty, folded out from a pocket tool. But real. Panic bloomed in your chest like poison.

“Let’s go,” Hank whispered, teeth clenched in a smile. “Now.”

You nodded. What else could you do?

He guided you off the stool, the knife barely brushing your side as a constant reminder. No one noticed. No one cared. The music was too loud. The lights too low.

He steered you toward the back of the bar, toward the restrooms.

Your heart thundered. Your stomach churned. You were already running through what you’d say, what you’d do, how you’d get out—

“Let her go.”

The voice split through the air like a shotgun. You turned, Hank right after you.

And there he was, your savior. Joel.

Shoulders squared, jaw clenched, eyes black with rage. His hand hovering near the holster on his hip. Not on his gun, at least, not yet.

Hank laughed. “C’mon, dude. We’re just talking.”

“I said let. her. go.”

He stepped closer. Each footfall was silent but devastating, like the pressure drop before a tornado hits. His voice had lowered now, dangerously calm.

Your breath caught. You didn’t even realize tears had formed in your eyes until you blinked and they fell.

Hank looked between you and Joel. He weighed his chances. And then, he shoved you.

You stumbled back—but before Hank could bolt, Joel moved. One hand slammed the knife out of Hank’s grip, sent it skittering across the floor.

The other grabbed the front of his jacket and shoved him into the wall so hard the drywall cracked behind him.

“You ever touch her again,” Joel growled, face inches from his, “I’ll break both your fuckin’ arms. And that’ll be merciful.”

Hank didn’t speak, didn't fight, didn't move. He was shaking, his eyes wide open like he just saw a ghost. He was so fucking scared.

Joel dropped him with a final shove and turned toward you, chest rising and falling fast. You stood there frozen, still shaking, tears streaking your cheeks now.

“Hey,” he said softly, all that rage melting into something gentler. “You alright?”

You nodded quickly. He stepped closer, slowly, as if approaching a scared animal. “Come on. I’ll take you home.”

You followed him without thinking. Out into the night. Into the truck. The door shut behind you, and silence filled the cab.

But this silence wasn’t awkward. It was heavy. Comforting. You let out a shaky breath and leaned back against the seat.

Joel didn’t speak. He just drove, his hand occasionally flexing on the wheel like he still hadn’t shaken off what he’d just done.

When the truck rolled to a stop in front of your house, you reached for the handle, but something in your chest seized. You looked over at him.

“Do you wanna come in?” you asked softly. “I… I could make some coffee. As a thank you.”

Joel hesitated. You saw it all over his face. His jaw flexed, his throat bobbed. He shouldn’t go. He knew he shouldn’t. But his eyes dropped to your lips. Just for a second, and that was enough for him to decide.

“…Yeah,” he said, voice rough. “Alright.”

You unlock the door with slightly trembling fingers, the echo of the evening still buzzing in your bones. Joel follows close behind, silent but solid, like some kind of ghost who bled warmth instead of cold.

“Make yourself comfortable,” you say softly, stepping inside and beginning to shrug off your jacket.

Joel doesn’t speak. He just nods and quietly peels off his own coat, hanging it neatly by the door. You move through the familiar space of your kitchen, the air oddly still. Behind you, you hear the chair scrape softly against the floor as he sits down at the small table.

Joel's eyes were glued on you, burning through your clothes, lingering on the curve of your spine, the swing of your hips. It’s not like before. It’s different. Hungrier.

You reach for the coffee tin without looking at him. You know exactly what kind of coffee he likes.

Which is stupid. Because this is Joel. The man you were supposed to despise. And yet here you are, pouring the water, adding just the right amount of grounds, without needing to ask a damn thing.

The silence wraps around the room, thick and buzzing with the unsaid. You can feel him watching your every move. When the coffee’s ready, you grab two mugs, pour them evenly, and walk over to him.

You set his mug down, sitting across from him, your fingers wrapping around the warmth of the ceramic. You both take the first sip in tandem. Then, quiet. The kind that presses in, like fog.

Finally, you speak. You felt like you have to, after being saved. After practically everything.

“Thanks for earlier,” you murmur, your voice a little raw. “That was… Hank.”

Joel’s jaw shifts slightly. His eyes darken. “Figured.”

You let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Didn’t think he’d be that type.”

He leans back a little, cradling the mug in one hand. “A lot of men like him are out there. Even now. You give ‘em power, they use it to corner someone weaker.”

The words sit between you, bitter like the coffee on your tongue. You nod, slowly. “How’d you even see me? No one else noticed.”

You watch the flicker of hesitation pass behind his eyes, the clench in his jaw. “I just… saw you.”

You raise an eyebrow. “In that whole crowd?”

He meets your gaze, lips twitching slightly. “What can I say? You kinda stand out.”

You smirk, mock-offended. “Was it my clothes or the way I awkwardly clung to the wall?”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Bit of both.”

You both chuckle, and something shifts. The ice melts. The air gets warmer. It’s not like before. It’s lighter, easier, safer.

Joel finishes his coffee, setting the mug down gently. “I should get outta here. You’ve had one hell of a night.”

You nod, standing with him. “I’ll walk you to the door.”

But as you turn to lead him out, your sock catches on the edge of the rug and your balance tips.

“Shit—!”

You stumble forward, instinctively reaching out, but Joel is already there—his arms snapping around you, pulling you tightly against him.

Your chest slams into his, and his hands steady you, one firm on your waist, the other wrapped just under your ribs.

You’re both laughing at first. A light, breathy kind of laugh, like the end of a good joke. But then you look up at him. And suddenly, it’s not funny anymore.

His face is so close. Again. Like in the woods.

Your noses almost touch. His breath brushes your cheek. One of his hands tightens slightly on your hip, grounding you. His other hand firm against your back, your palms flat against his chest.

You looked up into his eyes, and for a moment, nothing else in the world existed. Just the two of you, breathing the same charged air, close enough to feel the heat rolling off each other. You didn’t know if it was a good idea. Hell, it probably wasn’t. This would ruin everything. Complicate the wedding. Complicate Jackson. Complicate… him. You.

But you didn’t move. Neither did he.

His eyes kept dropping, from your eyes to your lips, back up again, then down. Every time he looked at your mouth, it felt like fire ran through your veins. His thumb brushed along your spine like he was grounding himself, and you swore your knees nearly gave out from just that.

Then, like something broke inside him, he kissed you.

It was sudden, deep, and full of something too big for either of you to name. It wasn’t soft, not really. It was controlled. His mouth moved against yours like he was trying to remember how to be careful. But the second he felt you lean into it, tilt your head and let out that quiet, needful sound from the back of your throat, he was done.

He pulled back just a fraction, like he was afraid to have gone too far. Like he was waiting for you to push him away.

But instead, you grabbed the collar of his shirt and yanked him back in like a wild thing that had been starving for this. Your lips crashed into his and there was no more hesitation, no more thinking.

Only need.

The kiss turned feverish — teeth, tongues, breathless groans swallowed between your mouths. His hands were everywhere — gripping your waist, sliding under the hem of your shirt, fingers pressing into your skin like he needed to memorize every inch.

You couldn’t stop. Didn’t want to. Your body was reacting like it had waited a lifetime for this. You were pressed up against him, feeling the hardness straining against his jeans, the way his hips rolled into yours with unconscious desperation.

Somehow, you stumbled backwards through the hallway, bumping into walls, laughing through your gasps and moans as he kissed your neck, your jaw, your mouth again. His hands slid down your thighs and lifted you up like you weighed nothing, your legs wrapping around his waist.

His mouth never left yours, the kissing is harder now—urgent, uneven. The hallway dimly lit by the golden hue of a single lamp in your kitchen blurred behind you as he carried you toward your bedroom.

Your fingers twisted into the collar of his shirt, knuckles white, and his breath hitched when your teeth grazed his bottom lip. His hips pressed into you as you gasped softly into his mouth, your thighs squeezing around him. The friction made your body jolt with a pulse of heat that spread through your stomach like wildfire.

He kicked the door to your room open, then brought you down to the bed. Not gently. Not softly. There was no time for that.

Your bodies hit the mattress with a thud, your hair splaying out beneath you like a dark halo. He hovered above you for just a second, both of you panting, eyes locked, your chests rising and falling in unison. Then his hands were on you again—rough, wide palms pushing under your shirt, dragging it up. His touch was everywhere. Greedy. Desperate.

You sat up to help him, tearing the shirt over your head and tossing it somewhere behind you. Joel’s gaze dropped to your chest, dark and feral, his breath catching hard as if he’d just been punched in the stomach. His hands, already trembling slightly, moved with surprising reverence as he reached behind you to unclasp your bra.

It slid down your arms slowly, and the moment your chest was bare, Joel exhaled shakily like he was in physical pain. Like he’d been imagining this for far too long. He didn’t say anything, didn’t need to. His expression was torn between reverence and hunger. You watched his throat bob as he swallowed thickly.

Then, his hands came up to cup you.

They were big, calloused, and the contrast of his roughness against the softness of your skin made you shudder. He traced the curves with his thumbs, gentle at first, then firmer when he saw how your body arched into his touch. Your breath caught again, a small, sharp sound that broke the silence like a dropped glass.

Joel leaned in, lips parting as he pressed his mouth to the swell of one breast, then to your nipple, hot, wet, insistent. Your head fell back with a whimper as his mouth worked in slow, teasing circles. His hand kneaded the other breast, his thumb flicking expertly, rhythmically, and your legs began to shift restlessly beneath him.

Your fingers found his hair, tugging.

Not to stop him, to beg for more. The sensation was overwhelming, grounding and floating you at the same time. He groaned low into your skin, and you felt the sound vibrate through your ribs, down your spine. Your hips lifted off the bed involuntarily, searching for contact, for pressure, for anything.

Joel paused only to look up at you—his lips shiny, his expression undone. You couldn’t breathe. He looked like sin, and you wanted to drown in it. His hand slid down your side slowly, possessively, as if mapping you. Memorizing you.

With a firm but gentle hand, he urges you backward until your spine meets the mattress. You obey without protest, eyes locked on his, heart thundering in your chest. He follows you down, hovering above you, and then he’s on you again, his mouth returning to your chest, latching onto a sensitive nipple like he’s starving for it.

His tongue swirls, wet and deliberate, flicking over the peak until you whimper. Then he sucks, slow and deep, and your back arches as pleasure shoots through you like a live wire.

“Good girl,” he murmurs against your skin, voice gravelly and full of reverence. “So fuckin’ sweet.”

Your thighs press together as heat pools between them. You can barely focus, your hands fisting into the sheets as he alternates between each breast—suckling, kissing, grazing them with the barest edge of his teeth. Every touch makes you writhe, your body hypersensitive, your breath short.

You moan his name, barely a whisper, and he growls softly in response. His lips are warm, skilled, knowing. There’s nothing rushed in his worship; he’s savoring every second, and it drives you wild.

Eventually, his mouth releases you, leaving your skin damp and flushed. But he doesn’t move far—only lower, lower still, lips grazing a path down your torso. He leaves a kiss beneath your ribs, then another just below your navel. Each one sets off sparks in your belly. Your breath hitches as he pauses, right above the hem of your panties.

He glances up, eyes catching yours. “You want this?”

Your nod is immediate, shaky. “Yes.”

He hooks his fingers beneath the fabric of your panties, dragging them down your thighs with excruciating slowness. As he slips them off, he holds your gaze, and then he brings the panties to his lips, kisses the damp center, and tucks them into his back pocket with a smug glint in his eye.

And then he lowers his head again.

You barely have time to process before his mouth is on you—warm, wet, divine. His tongue dips between your folds, exploring you with devastating thoroughness. He licks a slow stripe up your slit, groaning against you like he’s the one being pleasured.

His tongue is rough, textured, dragging deliciously across your most sensitive parts. Every flick, every swirl, every subtle change in rhythm makes your hips lift off the bed, your thighs trembling around his head.

He moans into you like you taste like salvation. One of his hands pins your hip down gently, the other resting on your thigh, keeping you open for him.

“Fuck, baby,” he breathes between licks, “you’re drippin’. So damn perfect.”

Your hands fly to his hair, fingers threading through the strands, anchoring yourself as your body threatens to unravel. Every sound you make, every twitch and gasp, seems to fuel him. He buries his face deeper, devouring you like he’s memorizing the way you taste, the way you tremble.

And god, you can’t stop moaning—his name, half-formed pleas, incoherent gasps. You can’t think. All you can do is feel.

You’re flushed, your legs shaking, your chest rising and falling in ragged breaths. He slides his tongue over your clit, slow and firm, circling it in ways that make your toes curl.

His mind is a mess of craving and possessiveness. He wants to make you come on his tongue, over and over, until you forget anyone but him has ever touched you. You can feel it in every movement, every low sound he makes against you—he’s not just giving you pleasure. He’s claiming you.

The pressure builds fast and fierce, and your thighs clamp tighter around his head. He doesn’t stop. He just groans into your heat, sending vibrations through you that make you cry out, teetering right on the edge.

And just before you fall, he pulls back slightly, eyes glazed with lust, lips glistening.

“You gonna come for me, sweetheart?” he whispers.

“Yes—Joel, please—”

He just smiled devilishly, before his mouth is on you again, relentless. And you break. Your orgasm slams into you like a wave crashing over your body. It’s not soft or sweet—it’s violent, intense, a full-body convulsion that steals your breath and bends your spine off the mattress.

Your mouth opens in a scream, but all that comes out is a strangled moan, broken and raw. Your thighs tighten around Joel’s head, trembling uncontrollably, and your fingers yank at his hair as if anchoring yourself to reality.

The pleasure rips through your core in sharp, overwhelming pulses. Each one sends another shock down your spine, through your arms, your legs, your fingertips. Your vision whitens at the edges. You can’t hear anything but the pounding of your own heart, your ragged gasps, and the obscene wet sounds of his mouth still working you through every last wave.

Joel groans like a man starved, like you are the only thing that’s ever mattered. He doesn’t stop until you’re whimpering from overstimulation, your whole body twitching beneath him. When he finally pulls back, his beard is damp, his lips swollen and slick, his chest heaving.

“Jesus,” he mutters, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes glued to you. “You’re fuckin’ beautiful when you come.”

Your chest rises and falls rapidly, your pulse thudding in your ears. The room tilts a little as you try to breathe through the aftershocks. Everything feels too much, your skin is flushed and hypersensitive, your muscles limp and tingling. You can barely keep your eyes open.

“Joel…” you whisper, dazed. You blink up at him just in time to see his hands at his belt. He unbuckles it slowly, eyes locked on yours the entire time, like he’s daring you to look away.

You don’t.

The sound of the leather sliding free is sinful—low, threatening, full of promise. He lets it fall to the floor with a soft thud, then pops the button of his jeans and drags the zipper down.

You watch, helpless to do anything else. He’s broad, powerful, and glowing with heat—shoulders wide, stomach lined with a thick trail of hair that disappears beneath the waistband he’s tugging down. His cock springs free, thick, flushed, already leaking, and your mouth waters just looking at him.

But he’s not done.

He shrugs off his shirt slowly, working each button free with frustrating patience. And when he peels the fabric off his shoulders and tosses it aside, you nearly forget how to breathe.

All muscle and scars and raw masculinity. His chest is dusted with dark hair, his abdomen hard and sculpted, veins visible on his forearms as he braces himself above you. There’s a faint sheen of sweat on his skin, making every dip and ridge of his body gleam under the soft light.

You stare, dazed and aching, lips parted as your eyes trace every inch of him.

“Like what you see?” he asks, voice rough, almost teasing, but there’s a strain there. He’s barely holding it together. You nod, unable to speak.

And he smirks, just a little, before leaning down to kiss you again, the heat of his bare skin pressing against yours. Then, he crawled up your body, eyes dark, jaw clenched. His control is fraying, shredded to the edge. You can see it in the way his arms tremble slightly, in how fast he’s breathing.

“I can’t wait anymore,” he growls, forehead pressed to yours. “I need to be inside you. Now.”

You nod frantically, legs already parting for him.

He doesn’t even bother with teasing. He just grabs himself. Thick, hard, flushed at the tip, and guides his cock between your thighs, rubbing the head slowly through your slick folds. He groans at the contact, voice shaking.

“Fuck… You’re so wet for me.”

And then, he pushes in. The stretch is unreal. You gasp, eyes flying open as he sinks into you inch by inch. He’s thick, hot, and pulsing with need. Your walls clench around him automatically, your nails digging into his back as he slowly pushes deeper.

“Jesus Christ,” he hisses, every muscle in his body rigid. “You feel like heaven.”

The sensation is overwhelming. Your body tries to adjust, but he’s so big, so deep already. You bite your lip, crying out when he bottoms out, pelvis pressing flush against yours.

You’re full. Stuffed. You feel every vein, every twitch of him inside you.

Joel doesn’t move at first, just leans over you, forearms braced on either side of your head, chest heaving as he fights to keep control. His forehead rests against yours, sweat starting to gather at his temples.

“You okay?” he murmurs.

You nod, breathless. “Yeah. Please—Joel, move.”

That’s all he needs. He starts slow—long, deep thrusts that make your breath stutter, your nails dig into his skin. The sounds of your bodies fill the room: skin against skin, your wetness coating him with every stroke, the soft gasp and grunt of every movement.

But it doesn’t stay slow for long.

Joel groans low in his throat and suddenly snaps his hips forward—hard. You yelp, eyes rolling back. He does it again. And again. Then he loses the last of his restraint.

He fucks you hard, fast, mercilessly. The rhythm ruthless, pounding into you so deep your legs shake around his waist. The bed creaks beneath you, the headboard knocking softly against the wall, but you barely register it.

You can only feel him—his cock driving into you with unrelenting force, your pussy clenching with every thrust.

His grip on your hips tightens, bruising. He watches your face twist with pleasure, your mouth open in gasps and cries, your fingers clawing at his shoulders.

“That’s it,” he pants, voice hoarse. “Take it. Just like that. Good fuckin’ girl.”

You can barely form words. Your mind is gone, wrecked, your entire world narrowed to the feeling of him inside you—stretching, filling, owning every part of you.

He leans down, capturing your mouth again, and fucks you so hard you feel like you’re going to shatter around him.

Then, he pulls out slowly, just for a second, only to flip you onto your stomach.

You barely register the motion before his hands are on your hips, strong and commanding, dragging your ass up until you’re on your knees, chest still against the mattress.

You whimper at the loss of him, but then he’s there again—his cock thick and hot as he drags it through your slick folds from behind.

“Joel—” you breathe, barely able to form the word.

“I can't hold back,” he mutters, voice like gravel. “Need you. Need this.”

He thrusts back into you with no warning, making you scream into the sheets.

He’s so deep, so thick, the angle making it feel impossibly intense, like he’s splitting you open all over again.

Your arms give out, your face pressing into the mattress as he starts to move. And it’s brutal. No finesse, no patience. Just raw, driving thrusts that shake your whole body.

He’s fucking you like a man possessed. Like he’s trying to bury himself so deep you’ll never forget the shape of him. You won’t.

His grip on your hips is bruising, fingertips digging into your flesh as he slams into you again and again. Your skin stings, your scalp prickles—until suddenly, he grabs a handful of your hair, yanks your head back, and you sob at the mix of pain and pleasure.

“You take it so fuckin’ well,” he growls behind you, breath hot against your ear. “You were made for me.”

Tears spill from your eyes, uncontrollably, shamelessly. From the intensity, from the feeling of being completely and utterly taken. Your body can’t keep up. You’re trembling, overwhelmed, moaning brokenly as every thrust punches another cry from your throat.

He leans over you, rutting into you deeper now, rougher. His chest presses against your back, one arm wrapping around your waist to keep you pinned in place while the other stays tangled in your hair.

You feel yourself spiraling again, your second orgasm rising so fast it almost hurts. Your vision blurs, the mattress soaked with your tears as you sob, “Joel, please, I’m—God—I’m gonna—”

“I know, baby,” he pants into your neck. “Come for me. Wanna feel you fall apart.”

It tears through you like lightning, your body locking up before shattering into trembling convulsions. You scream—loud, raw, broken—back arching hard against him. You’re gushing, pulsing around him, your slick flooding down your thighs as your body clenches around his cock.

You’re sobbing, half-coherent, and Joel curses—low and wrecked.

“Fuck—fuck—you’re squeezin’ me so goddamn tight—”

He’s close. You can feel it in the way he moves, the frantic pace, the desperation in every thrust.

Then his hips stutter. He growls your name like a curse and slams into you one final time, burying himself to the hilt as he comes.

It’s not soft—it’s violent. His entire body shudders behind you, his hands gripping you like you’re the only solid thing keeping him grounded. You can feel the heat of him spilling inside you, filling you up as he lets out a low, strangled moan against your skin.

You both collapse.

Joel slumps over your back, breathing hard, his body heavy and trembling with aftershocks. Your legs are jelly, your vision blurry with tears and sweat, your heart pounding against the mattress like it’s trying to break free.

Everything’s quiet, except for your breathing, your sobs slowly calming, and the soft curses Joel whispers as he presses his lips to your shoulder, over and over again. His body still draped over yours, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths. You can feel his heartbeat pounding against your back, can feel the way his arms tighten around your waist as if he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

Eventually, he shifts—pulls out of you gently, muttering something soft against your shoulder that you can’t quite make out. You’re too dazed, too shattered, your limbs heavy and slow like you’ve been drugged. He disappears for a moment.

You barely lift your head when he returns with a towel. Joel doesn’t say a word. He just nudges your legs apart, cleans you carefully, almost reverently.

His touch is gentle, surprisingly so. No roughness, no urgency. Just patient, quiet care. He wipes between your thighs, along your trembling skin, and when you flinch from sensitivity, he whispers, “Shh, I got you,” like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You don’t look at him. You can’t.

Once he’s done, he tosses the towel aside and pulls the blanket up over both of you. You barely notice him crawling in beside you until you feel the weight of his arm wrap around your waist, tugging you back into his chest.

Your eyelids are heavy.

Your body is sore, humming with satisfaction and confusion and something dangerously close to contentment. His warmth seeps into your spine, his breath soft at the nape of your neck. You think he might kiss your shoulder again, but he doesn’t. He just holds you, skin to skin, until you drift off to sleep in his arms.

It’s been three days.

Three days since you let Joel Miller into your home. Three days since you let him see you—all of you. Three days since he touched you like you were something sacred and ruined you all at once.

Tomorrow, your sister’s getting married. Tomorrow, she becomes a Miller. But tonight… tonight is the last night she’ll fall asleep with your name still matching hers.

And all you can think about is him.

Not the ceremony. Not the dress. Not the decorations you spent hours picking out.

Only him. Only that night.

The taste of his mouth. The feel of his body. The way he said your name like a prayer and a curse all at once.

It should’ve been nothing. A mistake. A one-time moment of insanity. You could’ve stopped it. Should’ve. But you didn’t. You let him in. You invited the devil to your doorstep, and you didn’t slam the door in his face.

You let him fuck you like you meant something. And worse—you liked it. You hate yourself for that. Because now? Now you can’t even look at him.

He tries. You see it. A polite nod, a soft “hey,” a wave from across the street. You ignore it all. You keep your eyes down. Pretend not to hear him. Pretend he doesn’t exist—because if you don’t, if you let yourself remember even a second of what happened that night, your chest might split open.

He saw you. Really saw you. And he did things to you no one’s ever done before. Things you didn’t know you wanted, let alone needed.

And now… he’s just walking around Jackson like nothing happened. Like he’s fine.

But you’re not.

You’re a mess. A storm barely contained behind a polite smile. Because every time you shut your eyes, he’s there. That mouth. Those hands. That voice in your ear whispering “good girl” as you came around his tongue.

What the hell were you thinking?

Sleeping with your sister’s future brother-in-law? With your enemy? It sounds like a sick joke. A bad decision spun wildly out of control. And the worst part? You’d do it all over again in a heartbeat.

You should’ve said no.

When Kate looked at you with those sparkling eyes, veil clipped into her hair, all glowing and giddy and “Can you do me a favor?” You should’ve said it right there. No. But you didn’t.

Because tomorrow she gets married. Tomorrow she becomes someone’s wife, and you’d cut off your own arm to make sure her day is perfect. So now you’re stuck in Joel Miller’s truck. Alone. With him.

You sit curled up on the passenger side, arms crossed, body tense like a coiled spring. You haven’t spoken since you got in. Haven’t looked at him once. He tries though.

“Hey,” he said when you climbed in. ��You look… nice.” You didn’t answer.

“You sleep alright last night?”

You made a noncommittal grunt and turned your face to the window.

He’s still trying, glancing over occasionally, fingers drumming on the steering wheel like he’s searching for the right rhythm to break the silence. But you give him nothing.

Because what the hell is there to say? That you still feel his hands on your body when you close your eyes? That your throat tightens when you hear his voice, because it reminds you of how it sounded whispering filth in your ear while he ruined you? That your entire body clenches at the thought of him inside you again?

No, there’s nothing to say. But the universe doesn’t give a fuck about timing. Because just as you pass the city limits, the sky cracks open. One fat drop hits the windshield. Then another. Then it’s a full-on storm.

Rain lashes at the glass, fast and blinding, and Joel slows down immediately. Thunder growls somewhere above, deep and low like the sound of something ancient waking up.

“Shit,” he mutters. “Gotta pull over.”

He steers the truck down an overgrown path and finds an old garage, half-collapsed, but enough to get out of the worst of the storm. The rain slams into the tin roof above you, loud and wild. You’re safe, but it feels suffocating.

Joel turns off the engine. Silence falls, except for the storm. He exhales slowly, then speaks.

“You gonna keep pretendin’ I don’t exist?” he asks quietly.

That’s it. You snap. You whip your head toward him, the heat in your chest rising like boiling water. “What do you want me to say, Joel?!”

He blinks. You’re already throwing the door open, going straight to the rain. You needed a fresh air, one that doesn't smell like Joel's car. His door slams right behind you.

“What are you—,”

“Hey, remember that time you fucked me senseless and now I can’t breathe without thinking about it?” You step out into the rain. “That I feel like a complete idiot because I invited you in and now I can’t even look at myself in the mirror?!”

The cold hits you like a slap, rain soaking your clothes instantly. You welcome it. He follows, his voice sharp through the downpour. “I didn’t plan it either! You think I woke up that morning hopin’ to lose my fuckin’ mind over you?!”

You spin on him. “You didn’t stop me!”

“I couldn’t!” he shouts back, eyes wild, hair already soaked. “You looked at me like you wanted it. Like no one ever looked at me before and I couldn’t—” He stops himself, jaw tight.

You stare at him. The rain pours around you, drumming on the roof, the truck, the gravel. Your chest heaves. Your teeth clench. Everything is raw, exposed, trembling.

“This was a mistake,” you say, but your voice breaks halfway through. He steps closer.

“You don’t believe that.”

“I have to,” you whisper.

Joel’s hands reach out slowly, like approaching a wounded animal. His palms settle on your wet cheeks. “Look I get it…,” he says softly, “but I ain’t sorry for what we did, and I defenitely do not regret it.”

Your breath catches.

“Do you?” He asked, his brown chocolate eyes made your knees weak, and you knew the answer damn well, but it was just hard. Hard to admit that you have feelings for Joel fucking Miller. That you feel something more, and unfortunately, it's not hatress.

“I don't—” you start, but then he kisses you.

Hard. Desperate. Wet mouths clashing in the rain like something out of a dream you’d never admit to having. His hands hold your face like he’s terrified you’ll vanish. Your fingers dig into his shirt, nails catching fabric. There’s nothing gentle about it.

It’s all tongue and teeth and years of hate folding into hunger. You kiss him like you’re punishing him. He kisses you like he’s begging for mercy.

When you finally break apart, you’re both panting.

Foreheads pressed together. Rain dripping from your lashes. His hands stay on your face. Yours clutch his jacket.

“I’m so fucking mad at you,” you whisper.

Joel smiles. “Yeah. I know.”

The morning sun filters in through sheer curtains, soft and golden, bathing the room in light that feels almost sacred.

Kate stands by the mirror, surrounded by laughter, perfume, and a blur of ivory fabric and flowers. Her wedding dress hugs her figure perfectly—delicate lace at the shoulders, tiny buttons running down the back, and a soft, flowing skirt that pools like clouds around her feet. Her hair is curled and pinned, a few loose strands framing her glowing face, and in her hands is a bouquet of wildflowers tied with satin.

She looks like something out of a dream. You watch her, heart pounding, throat tight with nerves. It’s now or never.

“Kate,” you say gently, stepping forward.

She turns to you, bright-eyed. “Yeah?”

Your hands are shaking. You swallow hard. “I need to tell you something. And I should’ve told you sooner, I just… I didn’t know how.”

She blinks. “What is it?”

You inhale slowly. “It’s about me and Joel.”

She was quiet, her eyes full of expectations and lips sucked nervously into a thin line.

“Me and Joel are… kinda together,” you sigh, heart hammering in your chest, fully expecting a meltdown. But instead, she squeals.

“Oh my god, why didn’t you tell me sooner?! This is—this is amazing!” She throws her arms around you, nearly knocking your breath out. “I knew there was something! You’ve been acting so weird! But this, this makes me so happy!”

You’re stunned. “Wait… you’re not mad?”

She pulls back and beams. “Mad? Are you kidding? I ship this. Hard.”

You burst into laughter, nearly crying from the relief.

“You’re insane,” you whisper, wiping your eyes.

“I’m your sister, it’s my job,” she grins.

The wedding ceremony is set beneath an arch of flowers, surrounded by rows of chairs filled with friends and family. The sun is just starting to dip lower, casting long shadows, the sky streaked with pink and lavender.

You stand at the altar as a bridesmaid, bouquet clutched tightly in your hands. You’ve never worn a dress like this before—it’s soft, elegant, pale lavender—and your hair is pinned back, a few curls brushing your cheek. Your palms are sweaty. Your heart’s full.

Across from you, Joel stands in a dark suit, tie slightly loosened, that damn rugged charm still impossible to ignore. And then, the music starts. Everyone rises. You turn your head, and there she is.

Kate walks slowly down the aisle, hand wrapped around your father’s arm, veil trailing behind her like a whisper. Her eyes are wide, lips trembling with a smile, and she looks so happy, like every fairytale in the world decided to make a cameo in her life today.

You feel it before you realize it, tears welling in your eyes. You blink rapidly, but they fall anyway, slipping down your cheeks in quiet streaks.

Then you glance sideways. Joel isn’t looking at the bride. He’s looking at you.

His eyes are soft. Warm. His lips curve into the smallest smile—just for you. One corner up, the kind that says I’m here. I see you. I’m yours.

You smile back, heart blooming.

And in that moment, standing in the golden light of your sister’s wedding, mascara streaking your cheeks, hands still trembling from the weight of it all, you realize you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

With him. With all of it. And finally, finally, it feels like the chaos was worth it.

Hii! Thank you so much for reading!

I hope you guys enjoyed it! If you have any suggestions, don’t hesitate to let me know! I’d also be super happy for any feedback; whether it’s a reblog, comment, like, or even a follow.

Have a lovely day!

LOVE YA! 🥮🍂

[butyoudidthis4what]

Would You Believe Me If...

Jack Abbot x F!Reader

3.5k || All my content is 18+ MDNI || CWs: mentions of alcohol; reference to sex; mental health issues; reader is not having a great time; reader doesn't like beer; depression; being sad for no articulable reason; self-hate; ass grab; kissing with tongue; little to no editing/proofreading; Jack being the BEST; hurt/comfort type situation (reader's brain is the hurt, Jack is the comfort)

Summary: Jack sees the sadness you're hiding from everyone and pulls you aside to talk and love on you.

AN: I was sent this ask and inspired to write whatever this is!!!! A short little fluffy comfort fic! I very much agree with that anon that Jack is very much an "On purpose. On purpose I am going to care about you" and "I never loved you on accident?" man. He would see all of you, good and bad, and still love you. I tried to give him that kind of vibe in You're Okay too and we see it here again (I hope, I don't really know what I'm doing anymore). I have absolutely zero fucking clue what the end is or where that came from but here we are friends. ALSO there is a very small Star Wars nod in here since I’m posting on May 4th! Thank you for reading!!

Jack’s eyes find you the second he hears you laugh. 

Quite literally a second because he’s always keeping an eye on you when you’re out together, not controlling or because he cares who you’re with. He just always wants to know where you are relative to him, just in case something happens and he needs to get to you. Military training, he supposes.

His eyes find you because he knows that laugh. It’s not your real laugh. It’s fake, the one you put on when you’re not super present and are hiding your sadness. To anyone else it’s very convincing, they don’t blink at it. 

He narrows his eyes a little to watch you better as you chat with McKay, Samira and Parker. Your smile doesn’t reach your eyes and he can see your leg bouncing under the picnic table, can see the way you chew on the side of your cheek every so often. 

“You gonna pay attention to this conversation or just stare at your girl all day?” Robby asks Jack. Most of the crew is at a local park for a picnic celebrating Dana’s birthday.

“I’ve been paying attention and heard everything you said. Unlike you I can multitask.” Jack finally lets his eyes leave you as he turns to look back at Robby. Shen and Whitaker stifle laughs. Everyone knows it’s not true and just Jack giving Robby shit. You have to be able to multitask to be a good emergentologist, and Robby is one of the best, Jack’s told him that many times. 

“I agree though,” Jack nods at Robby. “The patient satisfaction scores are bullshit. They should automatically be a ten or whatever the highest thing on the fucking form is if they’re brough in via ambulance and survive.”

“People come in by ambulance for really stupid things that don’t really require us saving them,” Whitaker observes. 

“And people walk in with injuries they really should have come in an ambulance for,” Robby shrugs. “It would even itself out.” 

“Exactly,” Jack nods. He looks back over at you for a second and then stands up. “I’ll be back.”

“Sure you will,” Robby drawls, smirking. 

Jack ignores him as he starts walking over to you. “Hey,” he says to the group as he reaches you, sets his hands on your shoulders from behind and squeezes. You feel a little better already, just from being closer to him. The rest of the group continues chatting as he leans down to speak just to you. “Take a walk with me for a few minutes?”

You furrow your brows, tilt your head and look back a little to see him. “Um, sure. Is there a reason why? Are you sure? It seemed like you guys were having a good conversation.” You flick your head towards Robby, Shen and Whitaker. 

“I’m sure. And does there need to be a reason why I want to take a walk with my girl?” He turns his head a little more and places a soft kiss just below your ear. 

My girl. Even though you’ve been together for a while now it still makes you a little dizzy to hear. 

“No, I guess not.” You give him one of those fake smiles and he knows it’s not because you’re trying to fool him, not really, deep down you know better than to even try by this point, but because you’re in public. Have to keep up appearances. 

“Well I know not, so.” He leans back up and moves his hands from your shoulders. “I’m stealing her for a minute.” He nods at the group. It pulls some smirks but nobody says anything, they all just nod. As you get up Jack finishes off the little bit of cider left in the bottle you were nursing. 

Once you’re up Jack laces his hand with yours and leads you over to the park’s path, walks down it a ways with you in silence before pulling you off it. He walks with you on the grass until you come to a spot where the ground starts to slope down, the top of a little hill that provides a nice view of the sun setting over the city. You’re more than far away enough that nobody can hear or see you.

“What’s up?” You titter a little, clearly a bit nervous. 

Jack nods at the ground and you both sit, feet out in front of you, grass and soil dry from the heat of the day. “You were totally spaced out and not really there.” He eyes you carefully. “You’re back now, for the most part, but I wanted to see what’s up away from everyone.” 

You push your bottom lip out a little and shrug, shake your head. “I’m f-” Jack gives you a look. “I don’t even know why I bother trying,” you mutter. 

“Neither do I. But I get it. Wanting to hide it and not let me see because you know I don’t like seeing you upset. I feel the same.” He squeezes your leg gently and doesn’t press when you’re quiet for a bit as you think of what you want to say. 

“Would you believe me if I said I didn’t know?” you murmur. You already know the answer but you’re using the question as an answer itself.

“Yeah.” Jack pauses and cocks his head at you, catches your eyes and holds your gaze as he speaks. “Would you believe me if I told you it was okay not to know?” He already knows the answer but he’s using the question to tell you it’s okay. 

You let out a breath through your nose and shake your head a little as you look away from him and out at the city, Jack doing the same. “I know it is. Rationally. But the irrational side of my brain doesn’t.”

You see Jack nod out of the corner of your eye. He gives you space to think, sits in the background buzz of the park with you, hand running up and down your thigh to ground you, remind you he’s here. 

“I’m just sad.” You shrug. You aren’t teary, don’t even have the urge to cry at the moment. It’s a hollow sadness. One that just vaguely aches and makes you tired. “There’s no reason for it. Just am.” 

“Would you believe me if I told you that’s okay too?” Again, he knows the answer but uses the question to make the point. 

“Is it though Jack?” You reply quickly. It surprises him, catches him off guard. 

He turns back to study your face, see if he can read what this is from your profile. He has a feeling he knows where this is going. 

“It doesn’t feel okay,” you continue. “Not even for me, but for you. It’s not fair to you. For me to just randomly be sad sometimes and unable to explain why. Because fuck Jack, I just want to sit here and be sad. I just want to sit here and be sad and maybe cry if I can get past whatever fucking emotional brick it is that’s stopping me from doing so. But what I don’t want is for you to have to sit here with me in it.” 

Jack lets your words hang in the air for a few seconds so that you know he’s really listening and taking them in, but not so long that it feels like he’s having to think of a response.

“It is okay. I promise you it is.” As much as he loves eye contact he knows it would be a little too much for you right now so he doesn’t push you to look at him or try to catch your gaze. “And it’s okay for us to just sit here. We can just sit in the sad. I hate seeing you be sad and struggle, yes. But sometimes you just need to sit here and feel it. And I want to be there next to you when you do. You don’t have to be okay and happy all of the time. You’re allowed to just sit here and be sad or whatever emotion you want to be. You don’t constantly have to be working towards being better when you get sad like this. We can stay here for a bit. I’m not going to let you or us unpack and move here, but we can visit sometimes. You can feel whatever it is you need to feel in front of me and with me. I want you to.”  

You let out a shaky breath. You know that what he’s saying is true. At least part of you does. But it’s so hard to accept. 

“And there are very few things in life that I have to do anymore, sweetheart.” He gives your leg a little squeeze before resuming running his hand up and down it. “You’re not holding me hostage or keeping me here against my will. I know I don’t have to sit here with you while you’re sad and don’t know why. I don’t feel like I have to. I choose to. I choose to sit next to you here in the sadness the way you do for me when I want to sit and be sad and not know why. I choose you.” 

“You should choose better.” It’s whispered. “You deserve better.” 

Jack starts shaking his head before you even finish the word better. 

“Yes, Jack, you do,” you say before he can get anything out. “Because you’ve been through so much already. You deserve to be with someone better. Someone easier to love who isn’t constantly putting you through shit like this. I know you love me, Jack, I promise. I never doubt that. But sometimes I don’t understand why you love me. Why you love me when I can be so fucking awful and all over the place and sad randomly for no reason. Do you see that Jack? Do you really see me? What you put yourself through by loving me?” 

Jack’s hand stills and squeezes your thigh again, longer this time, but still at the perfect pressure. He hurts, physically, his heart hurts seeing you like this, hearing your voice and knowing how much you mean what you’re saying. He hates it. He wishes he could take away your pain. But he can’t. All he can do is try to help and try to make you feel a little better and at the very least not let you be alone in it. 

He adjusts his position so that he’s turned toward you a bit more, the side of one of your legs and one of his pressed together. 

“Darling, the way you see and feel about yourself is not the way I see or feel about you. Just like the way I see myself and feel about myself is not the way you see or feel about me. We’re our own worst critics, as fucking cliché as that shit is. And I love you and mean this with all the love in the world, but you’re right. You can be awful at times. But the only person you’re ever awful to is yourself. Like you are right now.” You can feel tears start to form behind your eyes at that. Not because it’s mean and his words have hurt you. Because he’s right and you know it. 

He takes in a deep breath and looks out at the city for a moment before his gaze returns to you. “I don’t put myself through anything by loving you. I’m not burdened by loving you. And of course I see you, I always have,” he says with a heavy conviction. “You think I fell in love with you by accident? Or blindly? With my eyes closed?” 

You swallow thickly, can feel his eyes on you. “No.” Tears sting at your eyes now. “But still. You shouldn’t have to do this with me. I shouldn’t be work. But I am.”  

“Oh honey,” Jack breathes out softly. He takes a second and then shifts, sits a bit further up and grabs your legs, pulls them diagonal a bit and you a little closer so they can rest on top of his and you can look at each other better.   

“I need you to listen to me, yeah? Really listen.” Jack holds your face with his hands, thumbs brushing over your cheekbones for a second while he looks you in the eyes. “Loving you is not the chore that your past has made you think it is.” He squeezes your face a little. “It’s not a chore at all. It’s a fucking privilege.” 

That gets a few tears to slide down your face and Jack’s thumbs are quick to wipe them away.

“And I know you can’t see that, and that you might never be able to see that. But it’s okay, because I do. And I will tell you it over and over and over and over until you understand why Robby tells me nicely to shut the fuck up sometimes.” He gives you the smallest knowing smirk.

You laugh at that, and it’s watery, and through your tears, but it’s real. You love the way he does that. Knows when to instill just enough lightness into this serious of a conversation to keep you grounded and from getting completely overwhelmed, but also knows when it’s not appropriate in a serious conversation. 

“I’m sorry,” you whisper through some tears and shrug at him. 

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Jack whispers back. He leans in and kisses your forehead, lets his lips linger there before pulling them away and resting his forehead against yours.

“You have to repeat this speech a lot.”

“I know.” He says it so matter of fact as he pulls his forehead from yours to look at you better. His hands leave your face and take yours in his, fingers tangling together.

“It makes me feel really bad. Like it’s going to push you away. Or like you’re going to think I don’t trust you or your love or-”

“I don’t think that, nor will I. I understand, baby. I really do. Because I feel the same way sometimes. I don’t care that you need reassurance at times. It doesn’t make me feel like you’re questioning me, or my love, or our love. It doesn’t make me feel like I’m the problem or somehow doing something wrong or not doing enough or anything else. It makes me feel like sometimes your brain’s chemicals get a little fucked up. And you know what? So do mine. I think we’ve had this conversation at least a time or two with the roles reversed. I think you have to repeat a version of the speech I’m giving you right now a lot. And do you care?”

You shake your head gently. “No. I would give you it every day if you needed me to.” 

“Guess what?” he whispers.

“So would you?” You give him a little pout and big doe eyes that show how much you love him and it’s so adorable he has to smile a little.

“Yeah. So would I.”  

He leans back in but this time he gives you a kiss on the lips, lingers just long enough before he breaks it and nuzzles his nose against yours. You keep your eyes closed as he pulls away, a little smile on your face. You open your eyes just in time to see the nearly beaming smile it pulls from Jack. 

The two of you sit there for a few more minutes before you finally turn to look at him. “We should go back.” 

“Yeah?” He raises his eyebrows at you. “We can stay longer.” 

You shake your head. “No, I’m ready.” Jack nods, gently moves your legs off his and stands up before holding both hands out to help you up. 

Instead of taking your hand and starting to walk back though he slips his arms around you, slides his hands in your back pockets and pulls you right up against him by your ass. He raises his eyebrows and smirks a little, a slight bobble of his head when it makes you gasp in surprise. 

His hands leave your pockets and slide up so that they’re wrapped around your waist, keeping you close to him. You rest your hands on his chest, look up at him knowing he wants your eye contact. Jack smiles when you give it to him. 

“I see you. I see all of you. Even the parts you don’t want me to see. The parts you’ll never show anyone else. And I did before I fell in love with you. And I still chose to jump head fucking first into being in love with you and even right now, sitting here in the sad with you, I’d make the same choice without a second thought.” One of his hands comes to hold your jaw, thumb on one side of your chin, his other four fingers on the other side, index finger right in front of your ear and the other three just below your ear and on your neck. “I choose you. All of you. Not just the you that you like and think is good enough. I choose all of you because I love all of you and I know that all of you is more than good enough. I choose you and I will always choose you and I know I’m lucky to get to make that choice. I love you.”

Jack kisses you then, hand tightening just a little to hold you still for him. They’re chaste at first but turn deeper, his tongue running over one of your lips, a silent question. You let your hands run up his chest and over his shoulders before sliding your fingers into his hair, playing with the curls at the nape of his neck and open your mouth for him in silent answer, just enough for him to slip his tongue in and taste you, let you taste him. The taste of you pulls a groan from deep in Jack’s chest and you shiver. You only pull back when you’re desperate for air and Jack chases your lips with his. It makes you giggle.

You can feel him smile against your lips as he rests his forehead against yours again.

“Thank you,” you murmur. “And I choose you too. I love you.”

“I know.” You feel him smile a little wider against your lips before he gives you another kiss. 

You bite your lip as he pulls away, let your eyes open back up slowly to his grin. Jack grabs your hand and leads you back towards the path.

It hits you a few steps in. “You taste like cider.”

“Yeah,” Jack nods.

“You don’t like cider. You don’t drink it.”

“Yeah,” Jack shrugs slightly. “But I was drinking beer and you hate the taste of beer. And I knew I was going to kiss you like that so when you got up from the table I finished off your cider so you wouldn’t taste the beer on me.”

You beam up at him and he just smiles, can feel your happiness. He knows it hasn’t made it all better, that you might still be sad overall, that it might linger for a while.

You walk in a comfortable silence for a minute until you break it. 

“They’re going to think we fucked, probably.” You smirk a little at Jack. 

“You wanna play into it?” He’s so unfazed and stoic about it. So Jack. “I can go grab some little twigs to put in your hair, a leaf, some grass.” 

You burst out laughing. Properly. Fully. Real.

“Twigs?!” For some reason him saying the word twigs is hysterical to you. 

“There’s my favorite sound,” Jack laughs with you. “Well, one of them, anyway.” 

“Oh?” You glance up at him as your laughter trails off. 

“You would have been making another one of my favorite sounds if we had in fact fucked,” he says nonchalantly, swinging your hands a little.

“Oh,” you breathe. You can feel the smirk radiating off him. “Do you have more favorite sounds?”

“Course.” You see him nod out of the corner of your eye. “You saying my name. You saying you love me.” He squeezes your hand. “And the sound of your heartbeat when I rest my head on your chest.” 

You bite your lip at that. It’s so sweet it almost makes your heart ache. “Awwwww!” You squeeze his hand and lean into him. “You’re such a romantic, pookie.” 

“Ha!” The pet name catches him by surprise. “No.” Jack shakes his head at it, but his smile gives him away.

“Pookie is cute!”

“Do you understand the actual level of shit I would get from Robby if he ever heard you call me pookie? I’d have to get a new best friend and a new job.” You giggle at him. “You’re laughing but I’m serious.” 

“I’ll go into work with you one day this week and conspire with Myrna to come up with an even better nickname than fruitcake for Robby if you’ll let me call you pookie sometimes.”

Jack stops walking and looks down at you, pretends to eye you up for a second before giving you a little smirk. “Come up with something really good that’ll drive him up a wall and I’ll consider it.”  

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I'm so sorry but the thought of hearing him say twig just sent me at the time I wrote this. I have no idea why. Anyway, I hope this was okay and you enjoyed and thank you so much for reading!!

You can find my Masterlist here for more Jack! Requests are closed while I catch up, but apparently if you just send in an ask with your thoughts about Jack I may be inspired and write something! I love chatting with you guys and likes/reblogs/replies are super appreciated and motivating!

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[pa-nd-em-on-iu-mp-an-da]

I'm going to be honest; I used to hate being able to speak Welsh. Thought it was pointless because no one spoke much of it around my area and most of my friends are English speakers.

I don't know when, but it just somehow clicked that I'm lucky to be able to speak it, to read it and understand it, because the amount of bastards who speak Welsh to bitch about others or have private conversations in front of me just to be shocked when I turn around and speak Welsh back is just *chefs kiss*.

Plus, Welsh is older than English. And they've stolen enough from other countries that it'd be a crime if one of the last surviving languages of the Brythonic Era of Britain died out.

On the topic of English people being shitheads towards Welsh people - This fucking dude today on AITA

[lacedwithsuguru]

❦ pt. eight — electric feel > pt. seven here

a/n: bit of a lengthy one again! 4.8k wc woooo. sorry for the late update, life's been crazy T_T.

“what the fuck were you thinking?”

“hey, relax. she’s had one hell of a night.”

your brother's date was sitting in the passenger seat, attempting to soothe your brother while he scolded you from the driver's seat. her hand caressed his bicep as she tossed a worried glance back at you.

apparently, she’d seen the two of you kiss and asked your brother if you two were an item—to which your brother searched for you around the banquet, spotting you, and followed you up the elevator to hear the conversation unfold.

“when did this even start?” he gritted out, donning a glower at the thought of his little and best friend being an item, hands gripping the wheel. the mere sight made your chest tighten, stomach twisting in humiliation.

in truth, you hadn’t given much thought to how your brother would fit into all of this, as selfish as it sounds. you knew it, too–from day one, you’d downplayed his friendship with sukuna and wiggled yourself inwards with barely a flicker of thought of how it could all come crumbling down, just like it had tonight.

clutching your shoulders to keep yourself from falling apart, you realized you’d forgotten utahime’s shawl and cursed lowly, wiping your damp cheek and sniffling audibly.

taking a glance at his rear view mirror, your brother watched as you slinked yourself in your seat, obviously not up to answering, and exhaled, running a hand through his hair as he prepared himself for his question. “did he pressure you?”

“what?!” you squealed out, shocked at his accusatory nature as if that wasn’t his best friend. how could he even question this? “n-no. he didn’t pressure me to do anything.”

he nodded to himself, relieved that sukuna wasn’t making you do anything you didn't want to, slightly disappointed in himself for lowering his closest confidante to such a standard unlike him. your brother was just so incredibly furious at the fact that the girl he’d decided to mess with this week was you–throwing away any amount of respect he had for sukuna. 

and although the age gap wasn’t anything crazy, simply two years, he didn’t like the idea of his younger sister having something with his best friend who he knew was a seasoned and experienced guy. of course, you weren’t without your own encounters but sukuna was simply a guy to be rivaled with.

not to mention, his anger was so extended as he honestly felt at blame for this. though it seems like the two of you have a messy preceding history, he was the one who'd suggested you be his date tonight.

“stop coming up with excuses to hate him for this,” you muttered after a couple of stiflingly silent moments. his date practically melted into her seat, eyes drawn to her window as if the entertainment in the car didn’t have her by the ear. “sukuna is an asshole, but he’s not that much of an asshole.”

his gaze flickered back to you before focusing on the road. it pisses him off that there was something between the two of you that he hadn’t noticed. “how long?”

you wiped your nose with the back of your hand and scowled. “a couple of months. but we aren’t and have never been anything so stop stressing.”

“you’re my little sister. why the fuck would i not worry about what goes on with you?”

you stilled, a familiar sense of guilt flooding you. how could you blame him? the two of you hid your interactions from him despite being two of the most important people in his life. 

he doesn’t have to know, you’d once said to sukuna. you had no excuse to be upset with him when you’d been so blatantly disrespectful of him.

“i’m sorry,” you whispered out, tears stinging your eyes again.

“you should be. you should’ve-,” he sighed, catching himself being somewhat out of line for this. “i wish you would’ve told me.”

“look what happened when you found out, though!”

for a moment, silence hung in the air, before his date snorted a chuckle, catching herself and readjusting in her seat, casting the two of you a wry look. “sorry.”

you and your brother exchanged a glance in the mirror, a pained expression on his face and your eyes flickered to his hand, still covered in sukuna's blood.

your knee bobbed up and down as you fidgeted absentmindedly with your gold necklace, your mind reeling back to the rooftop. sukuna was definitely upset with you, but there was something else there.

a certain... desperation, a frustration he couldn't hold back. a frustration you'd never bore witness to. it was so unlike the brute of an indifferent man. why was he so angry that you'd kissed him, immediately deflecting the blame right back at you.

you'd only kissed him as part of the deal, a grand finale to ensure you had done your part.

right?

fuck. even questioning it was making you queasy. had there possibly been another reason you wanted to kiss him? a kiss maybe you would never have the pleasure of knowing again.

the hum of the car silenced, your brother twisting the keys in his ignition before the vehicle stilled. "i'm gonna drop her off,” he said, motioning to his date. “head upstairs, alright?"

breaking you from your trance, you nodded, gathering the heels you'd kicked off in the backseat and waving your brother and his date goodnight.

the studio apartment was eerily quiet and you dragged your feet to your bathroom, flickering the blinding fluorescent lights on. scrutinizing your look in the mirror, you peeled off your outfit, allowing them to drop to the floor and showering.

the rest of the night was completed in mechanical, empty movements. your eyes were dull and bloodshot, slinking into pajamas and slipping under your sheets.

there was a part of you that wanted to pick up your phone and call him, to see if he'd made it back home safely, or even to the hospital with the damning case of his injuries, or maybe start up another argument that the two of you were far too tired for.

you didn't know a part of you just wanted to hear his voice.

it seems that every interaction you have with him is so unbelievably draining and toxic. you cursed yourself for being so drawn to him despite your dissonance. you clashed and clashed, yet lingered around one another despite it.

even if you were to entertain the thought of sukuna liking you, a thought you didn't even have the guts to utter, it was too fucking messy.

he was a selfish asshole, most of the time. he was sufferable when he wasn't teasing you carelessly, when he called you pea in that coaxing tone, when he was determined to pursue his passion, when he had the glint of mischief in his eyes that made your stomach flutter in anticipation, when his lips pressed into yours-

fuck. what are you thinking?

you pulled your sheet over your head with a groan, the mental exhaustion of the day suddenly pressing into you.

sleep. you had to sleep.

—

the night was miserable.

you'd spent half of it tossing and turning, overthinking every last interaction with sukuna, and the other in a half-awake state where you couldn't fully rest.

you huffed, glancing at your phone to check the time and let out a shaky breath, blessed that you didn't have any lectures for the day.

it was around eight am when you'd pushed your sheets from your form and got yourself ready for the day. though, it was incredibly hard to pretend everything was normal after the night you'd had.

it seemed that your brother left earlier, you heard him cluttering around in the kitchen and a part of you was still nervous to face him. he deserved a proper apology from you, and one from sukuna.

"sukuna..." you sighed out, staring at your bowl of cereal you had no appetite for. it was driving you up a wall in frustration at this point. you were so restless that you paced around your room for twenty minutes, huffing over your outburst and his before attempting to just drone out your mind with a tv show.

that didn't help much either. you knew you loved the last of us, incredibly excited for the second season, but cursed when you couldn't process a thing.

short breaths left your lips as a permanent frown stamped your face, picking at your cuticles.

which is why you eventually found yourself standing in front of sukuna's door with a plastic bag in hand.

your hand hesitated above the doorbell, twitching before you dropped your hand.

what're you even doing? you just cursed the man out for the nth time last night and now you were standing in front of his apartment.

no... this wasn't a good idea. you shouldn't be here.

your feet shuffled backwards before you caught yourself and stilled, biting your lip, and then released a sigh thick of worry and unease.

you should be here. or else it was going to drive you mad for the rest of the day. it was selfish, but you allowed yourself to be so around the cynical man.

in a quick movement, you jammed your finger into the doorbell and dropped your hand, your heart racing a million miles a minute.

a few moments of silence passed and you checked the time. what if he wasn't home? it was an odd hour of the day and he was probably away at classes this tuesday morning or his kitchen job.

your shoulders drooped after a solid two minutes passed before you slowly turned on your heels, padding away and resigned to the fact that you were going to be in a fit of anxiety for the day to come.

but then, the sound of locks undoing echoed in the empty and dim corridor, the door propping open and a heavy sigh before your eyes met.

"pea...?" he questioned, almost in awe as if he had been dreaming. likely a possibility as you'd visibly just woken him from his slumber.

there was a prominent black splotch on his right eye, a bruise along his cheekbone and his bottom lip was split, dried blood patched along it.

you could only assume he had matching bruises along his abdomen but he was sporting a white tee shirt, along with grey linen slacks.

you gave him a small smile, relieved to see he was home but disappointed to see his rough state. your brother sure did a number on him last night.

"you gonna let me in?" you quirked, hoping he could sense your teasing, your fingers twitching with nerves.

"oh, uh.. yeah. come in," he replied, voice thick with sleep and his usual frown coloring his expression.

he stepped to the side, running a hand through his disheveled bed head of hair as you shuffled in, slipping your loafers off and padding into his studio with your socks. it was pretty dark inside as he opted for black out curtains along the entire flat.

it was fairly clean and you clasped your hands, eyes mulling over his decorations. you hadn't visited since your brother forced him to host a christmas party three years ago and you were invited along, slinking to the back corner of the party and admiring him from afar.

"over here," sukuna spoke, breaking you from your familiar ogling nature and heading towards his bedroom.

you could feel your breath hitch in your throat at the intimacy, your feet stationary. his bedroom...?

his eyes flickered back to you when you hadn't followed him, making note of your hesitation before he sighed. "not gonna jump you in there," he casually spoke with a hint of annoyance before disappearing inside.

a shaky breath left your lips as you willed yourself to move forward, following him down the hall and into his bedroom.

it was a sleek black room with red and grey adornments here and there, his bed still holding signs of his rest. he disappeared into his bathroom to brush his teeth and wash the remains of sleep from his eyes before he stepped back into the bedroom.

pointing towards a poster, you could feel your heart bloom from the familiarity. "you listen to basement?"

"fuckin' love 'em," he casually replied.

your eyes creased with excitement. "i've never met anyone else who listens to them," you whispered, fiddling with the bag in your hand. "they're touring in july, i'd kill to see them."

"yeah?" he replied with a tilt of his head, eyes glinting with something you couldn’t quite place. "me too."

after a moment, you'd settled on the edge of his bed, emptying the contents of your plastic bag atop his comforter and he sat beside you, watching you work.

"i stopped by the pharmacy," you spoke quietly, grabbing an ice pack and looking up at him. his eyes watched you carefully place it against his cheek, earning a wince from the jarring cold and flinching. "you're alright, big guy," you teased with a giggle, this time pressing gently on his skin.

he scowled at the sting, then slowly rested his face against the pack as the pain began to numb. your eyes were focused on his battered skin, yet his were carefully trained on your face.

the way you leaned over onto him, placing a hand absentmindedly on his thigh to stabilize yourself, using your small fingers to brush his stray strands of hair up his forehead-

"you're running a little hot," you commented with a frown, before standing up and stepping towards his window, pulling the drapes open and allowing the light to flood in.

sukuna doesn't know if he was dreaming, but in that moment, you looked to be an angel, your skin shimmering with golden light as you gave him a carefree smile, his eyes narrowing from the harsh illumination.

plopping down beside him as if you weren’t actively knocking the wind from his lungs, you cocked your head at his solemn expression and quieter than usual nature, worried you were crossing some sort of boundary showing up like this. you never knew what was going on in his head, and in the past, that sort of territory seemed forbidden to pass tread on.

but things have changed so incredibly quickly between the two of you, you wanted some sort of understanding as to who he is, and where you stand in his life.

"who am i to you?" you posed quietly, sorting through the bag for an antiseptic wipe. you didn't have it in you to face him directly in the moment.

sukuna was quiet, still. his mouth slightly parted as he wasn't sure of how to answer your question. his hands turned clammy at the inquiry, a sudden lightness in his gut.

you tore open the small plastic bag and pulled the wipe up to his face, still avoiding eye contact as you dragged the wipe across his lip carefully. he flinched again, yet you had no comments to reassure him as you could just barely slow the racing of your heart.

you hadn't meant to, but you bumped into his abs and he huffed in pain, bringing a hand up to his side.

eyes darting down, your eyebrows bunched. "here, too?" you coaxed, and he reluctantly nodded. guilt twisted in you at the sight of his pain, bringing a hand up and below his shirt to feel for the injury. once you'd blindly found it pretty high up his torso, you signalled for him to hold his shirt up.

instead, he pulled the tee up and over his head, flinging it to his ottoman.

shoving aside the movement you normally would’ve found incredibly hot, you steeled your mind to focus on the issue at hand–his battered state. your gaze landed on the spot, a nasty bright purple splotch painting a large area of his right side. as you pulled out the antibiotic ointment and worked it with your cold hands onto the spot, he replied to your question from earlier.

"you're you," he responded, eyes drifting into yours with his heart racing. he breathed your name out quietly and you winced at the sound. your hands gliding over his bare skin had him holding his breath in a manner he’d never done before. "you're my best friend's little sister and... and-."

"and what?" you interrupted, your voice flat but hushed, doing everything possible not to let him see you falter. the hesitation he sported had you stuffing your frustration deep into your gut. "what is it that you want from me? what do you see me as?"

this time, you matched his gaze and you could feel your heart in your throat. something about his expression was all-telling, despite his fear of uttering it. revisiting the same conversation from merely hours ago without the yelling had you tapping your heel against the ground.

he doesn't know what possessed him to do so at the moment, but he brought a hand up to your cheek and rested it there, fingertips caressing the exterior of your ear.

and something in you cracked, giving into his warm touch as you sighed, tears pricking your eyes as you melted into his hand.

your eyes searched his, pleading for mercy. 

if only he could be the key to the cage you’d built around your heart thanks to him, long-awaited relief from your pain.

but instead, sukuna staked you in the heart between the gaps of the cage bars with his silence.

he pushed forward, pressing his lips against yours, a throaty growl from the recesses of his lungs pushing up and out.

almost immediately, your lashes fluttered closed, a soft whine left you as he pushed you backwards, his large form caging you below him and weighing you into the mattress.

your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling his head closer as your noses bumped into each other. the taste of copper entered your mouth, your tongue swiping his bruised lip and moaning once he slid that wet muscle between your parted lips.

the sound had sukuna groaning, a large sweeping motion of his hand impatiently tossing the contents from the pharmacy to the floor and resting a palm against your thigh.

your fingers dropped from his hair and danced along the bulging muscles of his biceps, his massive form weighing down on you having your mind spinning.

kneading the plush of your thighs, the familiarity of his large hands caressing you sent pangs of hurt into your heart. flickers of the night in the kitchen flashed in your mind, but you willed the image away.

suddenly, you found yourself desperately fiddling with the hem of his sweats, a prideful grin making its way across sukuna's lips as he peppered your jawline with love bites.

lifting himself from you, he dropped his sweats, leaving him only in his briefs.

from where he stood, you could see the bulging imprint of his length, your eyes widening at the size and your lips falling.

sukuna ran his tongue over his lower lip before pulling it between his teeth, his eyes ravenous to see you splayed out across his bed. now, he needed to get you naked.

you matched the glint in his orbs, tugging at your own leggings and tearing them off with the help of sukuna, then your hoodie pulled up and over your head.

you wore a plain white cotton set, and you would've opted for something a tad bit more scandalous had you known this was going to unfold. a timid expression colored your face, heat rising from your neck to the crown of your ears as you felt yourself turn shy under his watchful gaze.

around sukuna, you knew it was futile to slow the race of your heart, but now it was thrumming at such a speed it scared you.

his curled finger latched onto the hem of your panties, large thumb ghosting over the bow adorning the front with a perverse smirk. “dress like this for all your boyfriends?” he quirked, though the playful lilt was laced with a sense of insecurity and genuine wonder.

you shook your head as you peered up at him, blown pupils trained on his lips.

the sight had blood rushing south, feeling the delicate touches of your finger pads tracing his muscles that tensed under each graze. god, if only you knew the effect you had on him.

you didn’t. you were as oblivious to his feelings masked by indifference as the next person, shrinking yourself to the belief that the actions you were about to perform were solely lust-driven, though a part of you knows how much of a lie that was.

sukuna himself was shoving his racing thoughts of what you really mean to him to the deep recesses of his mind, more than ready to sabotage whatever was flickering between the two of you to a darkness just for a taste of you.

using his large hands, he curled all ten fingers around the hemline of your panties and tugged them down at a teasingly slow pace, eyes dancing with utter mischief at your impatient state. it took every ounce of dignity you held not to whine.

sitting up on his knees, he held your lower garment in his hand, pulling it up to his face and… sniffing.

your orbs widened, pushing up on your elbows in an attempt to snag them from his grasp. “what the hell are you doing?” you shot, though it lacked any power as you scrambled towards him to steal them back.

unbothered as always, an arm of his easily reached out of your range and watched you struggle for your underwear, your expression blatantly laced with embarrassment. he chuckled lowly, eyeing you down the bridge of his nose. “nuh uh. finders keepers,” he drawled, cocking his head and reveling in your distress.

after a few moments of him basking in your suffering, you pulled back and fell back on your heels, glaring up at him with a pout and crossed arms. “give ‘em back,” you scowled.

the man was clueless as to why he was so adamant on teasing you, a moment once heated turned incredibly playful. “nah. think i’ll be keeping these,” he cocked a brow to which you shivered, watching as he leaned over to his drawer and placed them gently as if they were a treasure he was locking away with special care.

resigned to the fact that you were stubborn but sukuna was damningly impossible, you dropped your arms and gave him a roll of your eyes. “pervert.”

that caught his attention as he found himself looming over you once more, inching closer until your back hit his comforter. “oh really? and who’s the one wearing lace panties as if you wanted me to tear ‘em off?”

you grimaced, knowing you were innocent in this case as you hadn’t premeditated this yet it looked bad, words failing you.

he hummed, bringing a hand to brush a stray hair from your face. “s’what i thought,” he cooed, his tone turning soft.

you batted your eyelashes at him in confusion as he admired you silently, his expression reflecting the rumination of his mind. however, you decided on staying quiet. there was only silent acquiesce on your end.

“you drive me crazy, woman,” he whispered suddenly after a few moments of lingering silence, his fingers tracing the outline of your lips as he gained a distant look in his eyes.

again, you stayed quiet, hoping it would force the truth from his lips.

“i don’t know why, but,” he continued, his hand cupping your cheek as you melted in his embrace. “ever since that fuckin’ night in the kitchen, you’ve been a leech in my thoughts.”

bringing your hand up, you playfully smacked his bicep at the comment in defense. “leech?”

he chuckled, the smile so easy finding its way to his lips that it looked out of place for a man like him. “you know what i mean,” he shrugged lazily.

you cocked a brow in challenge. “i’m afraid i do not.”

his eyes flitted across your face, as if it held the answer to his inner turmoil. you were nervous he’d find a way to avoid it once more, but he started again. “you’re my best friend’s little sister. you’ve been off-limits from day fuckin’ one,” he snorted at the thought, though it sounded dejected. “i’d always been drawn to you and your energy, the fact was plain as day for me. thought it was ‘cause you resembled the best parts of your brother i’m… was, friends with, but nah. there was always something else that stuck, and i never entertained the fuckin’ prospect until late.”

you stilled, feeling your body tense up under his drawn out confession, anticipating each word that trickled from his lips. he must’ve sensed your nerves, a hand of his finding its way to the top of your head and stroking slowly, a movement you could never expect from sukuna.

“i ignored it, shoved it somewhere deep,” he continued, cocking his head in thought as he studied your ear though you knew he wasn’t registering any imagery as he was so lost in thought. “seeing you in the kitchen, something in me responded to those feelings and i must’ve mistaken lust for…” he trailed off, feeling a rock sit at the bottom of his stomach as he met your gaze. he didn’t know how to voice it, reluctantly drawing his lip between his lips. “thought that’d be the last of it. get it out of my system.”

his cherry irises were now trained on yours, blown wide to match yours as your chests both began to heave with the sudden tension in the air. 

“...but?” you pushed on, a hand squeezing his bicep as if to milk the remnants of information from him.

in an instant, a display from sukuna had your heart crushing in your chest, seeing his head tilt as his lip trembled ever so slightly. “i can’t get you out of my fuckin’ head,” he sighed, as if the thought frustrated him. “can’t get’cha out of my system, can’t ignore you, can’t think of a single other person…” he confessed, his eyes glossing over and his body thrumming with energy.

in that moment, you felt your heart blossom, that hope of what you may be to sukuna coming to fruition. “...you like me?” you squeaked out, your body flushing at the acceptance in your voice.

“yeah, the fuck did anything i just said mean to you?” he shot back, though it lacked any sort of anger as he could barely conceal his grin and rolled his eyes, feigning annoyance.

flicking his forehead, you could feel your shoulders drop from the monumental stress you’d been carrying, finally conscious of what goes on in the mind of such a guarded man. bringing a hand down to your side, he tickled your side and you released a fit of giggles that had you smacking his chest.

a deep rumble left his chest through his lips, warming you immediately as his head dipped into your neck and his breath fanned across the skin. you hummed quietly, lifting your fingers to tangle through his salmon locks. 

“you like me,” you whispered, feeling his lips pepper gentle kisses along the column of your neck, angling your head to the side to allow him better access.

he hummed in response, the resonant and hoarse sound sending a throbbing feel to your core that had you parting your legs and wrapping them around his waist. once again, his hands found purchase at your thighs, though this time it didn’t have you heartbroken or fighting back tears, rather blooming.

his gentle presses of his lips against your jaw had your stomach fluttering, tugging his locks tightly to meet his gaze. “you like me,” you spoke, your tone matter-of-fact and breathy.

a scowl met his expression, frowning. “ya gonna say it back, or what?” he grunted, pinching the fat of your thigh.

you giggled, the sound aching something beautiful in sukuna’s chest, before tilting your head in thought. “hmmm, i dunno,” you mulled over, bringing a hand to your chin to add to the dramatic flair.

sukuna sighed heavily with exaggeration, as if the thought had him frustrated. however, your playful banter with him gave him a peek into your heart. “do i gotta beg you, woman?”

nodding your head slowly with narrowed lids, you considered it. “you know, maybe i’d like that.”

sukuna clicked his tongue, knowing he’d never begged anyone for anything ever, though you made the action sound tempting.

bringing his head down to yours, he captures you in a kiss where he breathes into your mouth, “...can i fuck you?”

❦ m.list > pt. nine

tags: @samoankpoper21 @nina-from-317 @l0v3m3-p13as3 @kunasthiast @poopooindamouf @sukubusss @actuallynarii @teenbreakup @linaaeatsfamilies @funicidals @weeezeerrss @uncertainlyours @for-hearthand-home @bnbaochauuu @beomgyusonlywife @federicaakira @joh-ahae @entumtum @ravenpumpkin1 @minascasket @zeunys @zaynerider @gojoscumslut @xixflower @riahlynn-102 @celestial--atlas @girlexpensive @noooo-onee @hyacinthzie @minasuniverse @emochosoluvr @katsukiseyebrows @wrldtups @terralupa @redfairyyy

[adhdduckie]

bloodied kisses - m.g. x reader

photo creds to @cribabey w perms.

my masterlist reqs open!!

synopsis: mark grayson, who removes himself quietly from your life as if he was never in it in the first place. as if he wasn't your best friend for years and years. who shows up to your house for the first time in months, beaten and bruised.

wc: 3.8k

a/n: i finished it, posted it, and then i deleted it by accident. had to rewrite ending and i hate myself rn because i deleted it.

your friendship with mark had started when you'd first moved in, just down the road. you'd been young, still baby faced at 11.

you'd been helping your mom move the boxes out of the moving truck when you heard a small "you need any help?"

it made you jump, seeing how you'd not heard him approaching, and when you turned around to face him, he saw the fear on your face and quickly apologised, "oh my god, i'm so sorry. my mom told me to come help"

you'd told him it wasn't a big deal, and he'd introduced himself to you. you'd done the same.

after that, he'd come over so many times, and soon enough, you'd been inseparable.

you'd joined his school once the summer was over, and you spent lunchtimes with william and mark together, always talking about that comic mark loved, seance dog.

while you didn't like the comics as much as they did, you loved to hear them talk about them, especially the way mark got so animated when arguing with william about it.

you realised at some point at a lunchtime during school that you'd liked him a lot more than a friend. he'd been leaning forward talking to you, and when he'd gotten too close, you'd gotten nervous. your heart thumping, palms sweaty kind of nervous.

and that made you scared. he was your friend, first and foremost, and your feelings for him were pushed down, deep, deep, deep. locked in a little box where your heart would have been, in a bigger box, in a bigger box. which was then locked in large steel chains.

a little bit of an overkill, but you really weren't risking shit.

your friendship was sweet, mark was sweet, and he especially was sweet to you. mark was too sweet, too good to you.

kind, charming and funny, always cracking jokes to you in class, teasing you just enough to get you flustered, but only as a joke, which he would say.

it hurt a little, but as you said before, friendship was more important to you.

problem was, as soon as you hit 16, he'd stopped. stopped talking to you in the halls, stopped talking to you in class, stopped coming over. he'd dodge you in the halls, and pretended not to be home when you'd come over.

william didn't get it either, saying how mark wouldn't tell him why he'd been avoiding you, and goddamn, it hurt.

you'd been hurt, so hurt, and you'd had enough. he stopped responding to your messages, and had just stopped leaving you on read, opting instead to leave you on delivered.

that was the last straw for you. so you stopped trying. stopped looking for him the halls, stopped going over to his house to look for him, stopped messaging him, and stopped sitting with them at lunch.

and as soon as you'd disappeared from their normal table at lunch, mark had gone back to sit with william.

you'd seen it happen first time. sitting next to a guy who'd been begging you to sit with you at lunch for months, you'd zoned out from the boring conversation as soon as he'd started. he was going on about something about being on the football team and being the MIP of the team, but you weren't listening.

your eyes were on mark as he made his way through the hustling and bustling cafeteria, his yellow shirt underneath his blue sweater always standing out.

his sleeves were pushed up his forearms, and you'd been able to see the muscle in them, flexing as he carried his tray with one hand. you hated how it still invoked the butterflies in your stomach, and it pissed the hell out of you.

you dragged your eyes forcefully away from him, trying to pay attention to jacob and whatever he was saying about his football. but no matter what happened, your eyes went right back at mark.

him laughing, talking with william and just acting completely unaffected by your absence.

'fuck him'. you thought to yourself.

and just as easy that mark had come into your life, he disappeared from it.

a year had passed since then, and it was easier than it was before, but still not as easy as your friendship had been.

you still loved him, which pissed you off to no end, despite his completely lack of care for you.

initially you had tried to smile at him in the halls as you'd walked by in different directions, but he always stood straight, ignoring you completely, eyes ahead as you stumbled over your steps.

you told yourself it was for the better, that you didn't want his attention anymore, but that little box in of your heart ached every time you thought that.

william and you still spoke, but you'd found another group of friends, only ever talking to william when mark wasn't around.

and then, there was a new superhero.

invincible, (cue title card) or so he called himself. quite frankly, mark was horrible at hiding his identity.

ducking out of class, only minutes later invincible arriving on a scene. he had the same hair, same build and height, and that same….mark feeling.

but you didn't tell anyone, you didn't say anything to anyone, and god, why did it matter if you knew who he was. he wasn't your mark anymore, you weren't even friends.

you'd watched him as he changed over time, growing taller, broader and stronger.

you couldn't help but notice, and yet again it was something you cursed your stupid little heart box for.

in the halls it was easier to notice, he'd shot up over the summer, especially now that he's got his powers.

it's crazy to think that mark is invincible, especially the guy who was once your mark. well, he's no longer your mark, as you should be able to tell due to the complete and absolute avoidance of you.

still, with absolutely no reasoning whatsoever behind it.

william, even a year later, still urges you to speak to mark. but you refuse, saying that "it was completely unwarranted," And that "you didn't do anything that deserved this kind of treatment." all that could have possibly happened would be that he had enough of you.

he just stopped liking you and that there was absolutely no other reasoning behind it. which lowkey sucked but still, men ain't shit (says you who literally sometimes still cry remembering about how fucking upset you were when he just disappeared out your life.)

william is done. he really is. he's had enough of both you and mark, how mark just refuses to talk to you and how you just fucking won't talk to mark either.

it's not really your fault. you tried, you really did, messaging him, showing up, just anything you used to do together.

debbie, who you still see around occasionally, gives you a sad smile sometimes, like she knows what's happening. but you never ask, because maybe you don't want to know. but you also do, which is a big problem.

you're currently just hanging around at williams, watching TV with him when there's a news alert. 'Breaking, invincible in fight with (generic) villain'

you watch with bated breath, watching mark, or invincible, getting absolutely beaten up, quite frankly, and youre really worried for a moment there that you're gonna be attending a funeral.

but somehow, like normal he always managed to get out of it, but it leaves him bruised and bleeding. you're so irrevocably fucked, you want everything in the world to pause just so you can check if he's okay.

but you have to remind yourself you can't do that anymore, he's not your friend.

you're tired, so unbelievably tired. you're missing your conversations together, you're missing just being near him, being allowed to look at him with more than just stolen glances. you're just tired, and you want it all to go back to normal.

fuck normal, honestly.

you're done. with worrying and you don't want to see the news. knowing mark got out is enough, and you want to go home to cry.

william doesn't get why all of a sudden you're so tired, and you bode both him and rick goodbye as you leave, not really wanting to third wheel anymore.

rick's sweet, he is, but you just want to be home alone now, and not with anyone else.

the trek back home isn't a long one, but you soften the walk with some music. it's dark out, a little earlier than usual.

just as you reach your house, you look up to your room to see the light is on, and the windows open, which is strange because you swear you switched it off just before you headed out and closed your windows.

you can see the light shining down through the large oak tree in your front yard, and the way the light filters through the leaves is gorgeous.

you can see the curtains billowing from the night air, and you furrow your brows.

might have been a slip of the mind, you reckon.

nevertheless, you unlock your front door, setting down your coat on the hangers, dropping your keys onto the mantle, before heading into the kitchen to make yourself some quick noodles.

your parents are out again, on a date night, most likely. they won't be home for awhile.

as you're waiting for the water to boil, you're standing there rather impatiently. you just want to collapse into bed, it's been a tiring day.

your hands itch for your phone, to search up if invincible managed to get away compltely alright. but you won't. you have to remind yourself that you don't care, that you can't care.

next thing you know, you're letting out a sigh of relief, seeing that invincible got away alright, and then you're swearing at yourself for even caring.

but it's hard to switch it off like a switch, you just can't do that.

once your noodles are done, you're halfway up the stairs when you hear a shuffle coming from your room.

you freeze.

you're waiting for the sound to come again, and when it doesn't, you think it's just a trick of your mind, and you keep walking up.

stopping right at your door, something makes you pause but you're not sure what it is or why you're pausing, but you force yourself to move past it. you push open your door.

it takes your eyes a moment to adjust to the rather bright light all of a sudden, coming from the rather dark hallway. once your eyes do adjust, you see it.

mark.

he's sitting on the floor of your room, holding a hand to his stomach, eyes closed as he rests his head on edge of your bed, his jaw sharp, his neck taut.

his mask is off, flung to the side. you can see it in the corner, and it's covered in blood. his or someone else's, you're not sure.

but the absence of a large abundance of blood on his face makes you think it's someone else's.

"what the fuck." you say, more annoyed than anything else.

then you process the blood. it's on your floor, which is stone, so it's not so bad to clean up, but his suit is torn, and he looks like he's in pain.

"what the fuck, mark." You repeat, and only then does he open his eyes, to look at you.

"hey." he says.

a year and a couple months and all you fucking get is a "hey" like it's only been hours since he's seen you last?

"don't 'hey' me." you snap, setting down your quick noodles and your glass of water, before you think again, picking it up and passing the glass of water to him. he takes it with a grateful look, trying to smile at you.

even his teeth are stained with blood. his injuries look a lot worse in person, rather than on TV.

you stare at him for a while, before you walk to your bathroom, grabbing your first aid kit that you'd once run out to buy once when mark had fallen from the tree in your front yard when you were 13, the one you had used to clean up his cuts back then.

it had sat unused for four years, just waiting to be used again, in the corner under your sink. you have to brush the dirt off of it.

then you have to wash your hands, for the fear of infection.

you come back out, pulling out everything you think you might need.

"what the fuck are you doing here, mark." you snap at him again, pissed that he just shows up after 16 months of absolutely nothing, pretending that everything's fine when he's covered in blood, and this is the first time you've seen him up close in a year.

you're taking out your scissors, cutting the cloth around his cuts, trying to stop the fabric from sticking to it. you hate how close this makes you, hate how it makes the box in your chest ache, hate how you want to be closer.

"i wanted to see you." he groans, when you pull a certain strip of fabric away from a particularly deep cut. even his voice has changed. it's deeper, far more self assured, and somehow just more…mark.

"you wanted to see me?" you scoff, setting your scissors down and picking up some antiseptic cream and a piece of gauze. "you haven't spoken to me in 16 months. you've ignored and dodged me at school, you've left me on read for months, and. you just show up, bleeding and beaten in your invincible suit just completely out of the blue?" you can feel your throat close up as you finish speaking, tears pricking at your eyes.

you rub at them with your sleeves, making sure that your hands remain clean. you put just a little too much iodine solution on the gauze, pressing a little bit harder than you need to.

he lets out a hiss of pain, and it doesn't make you feel better, unlike what you were hoping. "fuck you, mark" you say to him again.

he's silent. he's just staring at you, his face unreadable.

you can see how much he's changed since the last time you were this up close.

you avoid his eye contact, knowing that if you made eye contact with him, you wouldn't be able to hold back 16 months of anger and pain back.

"will you just fucking say something?" you demand, bandaging him up with the rolls and rolls of bandages, basically wrapping him up like a mummy.

"mark. please." you beg.

you feel his hand cup your jaw, making you look up at him, his eye contact making you nervy, tears threatening to spill over your lash lines.

he swallows, mouth dry before he says; "i just… couldn't be around you anymore."

that admission makes you crumble, and you automatically assume the worst. but the way he's handling you now, so soft and gently is at odds with his words.

"what..do you mean?" it's your turn to swallow now, and you realise how parched you really are.

he sighs, as your eyes hone in on a cut on his upper eyebrow, and you're picking up the gauze and iodine solution again, shuffling closer.

you're hesitant to dab at his eye, holding out the gauze out for a moment, to see if he's alright with you being this close to him.

he nods, once, but you notice. of course you notice. you can count the amount of tiny tiny scars he has on his face from here.

you can see the one that's just under his brow , the one he got from a branch when he fell down from the tree, the one you'd helped him clean.

you dab slowly, gently. you've slowed down a little, waiting for his response. you're trying to avoid direct eye contact with mark, but you can still feel his eyes zeroed in on you.

"mark, what do you mean." you repeat, demanding answers. you've had enough of this cat and mouse, where he's constantly running from you. you're not letting him go till you're getting your answers.

he sighs, seeming to understand that you aren't letting go.

"you know, i just couldn't control myself. i want you. like desperately. like more than a friend, more than a best friend. i knew it was more than you were willing to give me , so i tried to distance myself. and once i did, it was harder for me to go back to normal, so i couldn't."

wow. okay. erm. not what you were expecting. but still, that was still a completely dick move.

"you want me?" you ask him, shy. you're hopeful, needing him to say it. the chain around the boxes of your heart snaps.

"i don't just want you, I need you. do you know how much it killed me to see you sitting with that tool jacob?? you smiling at whatever he was saying, but still looking at me? do you know how hard it was for me to pretend like i didn't see you in the hallways? like it wasn't suffocating to walk by you and not talk to you?" your outer heart box splinters.

you want to say something, you really do, but you can't get anything in with the way he's rambling

"my heart squeezes every time i look at you, and it killed me to stay so far away from you." he says, looking up at you again. your hand has stilled from where you were dabbing at his cut, and you're breathless. when the admission sinks in, another shell around your heart breaks.

"i fucking love you, and i never said anything because i didn't want to ruin our friendship." he whispers, like it's hard for him to say it. it probably is. the final box that was keeping your feelings locked up and tucked away, just fucking breaks. you're crying, and you're trying not to show him.

"and i know, i ruined it by walking away, but i didn't want to ruin it by telling you i loved you. and i'm sorry, i'm sorry… i just can't stay away anymore. it really took me almost dying to realise how much i've been needing you." he says to you, his hand cupping your jaw again. his other hand reaches up to your cheek, and his thumb brushes away a tear.

his head is no longer resting against your bed edge, and now he's sitting up rather straight. he's moving into your space, he's so close you can feel his breath fanning across your lips. he smells like blood and the minty spider man toothpaste he's been using for years. he likes to pretend he uses adult toothpaste, but he used to always go back to it.

"i'm sorry," he whispers, and you can feel the words on your lips. "i'll do anything it takes to make it up to you."

"it really took you almost fucking dying to apologise, huh?" you say, voice cracking, brittle from tears. you're trying to play it off, make it seem a little funnier to show him that it's okay. well it's not okay, but you get what he means.

he's trying, and he's always been bad with feelings, and you know this. 16 months will take forever for him to make up for, but you just want him back. you want him back in your life. you want to sit with him at lunch again, you want to be close to him again.

he laughs, and even he sounds like he's been crying.

"you're too good to me." he says, and you're glad he knows it, because if it was anyone else, they'd have been dropped like hot potato.

when you rest your forehead against his, his hands move to your waist, and he lifts you so easily onto his lap. you forget he's a superhero now, and it's too easy for him it's unfair.

you swat him lightly on the chest, apologising when you hear him grunt in pain.

"are you going to kiss me?" you ask him, voice hushed, excited, nervous.

he laughs, and pulls you closer before he captures your lips in his.

he tastes just like he smells like; metallic and minty, a taste so addicting you don't want to come up for air. he somehow tastes sweet in your mouth too, and he groans when you bite him lightly on his bottom lip.

his hands are warm and heavy on your hips, and your knees are pressed against the stone floor on each side of his hips.

your hands tangle into his hair, pulling lightly at his roots. when your nails scratch gently at his scalp, he groans into the kiss.

his groan vibrates through him into your mouth, and you smile against his lips.

he's unrelenting, all fierce kisses and licks, as if he's trying to devour you.

he licks slightly at the line between your lips, and you open, pliant and obedient for him, his tongue snaking in to meet yours, dancing together.

he tastes sweet, if you haven't said before.

when you finally have to break away for air, you rest your forehead against his, breathing hard. he presses a chaste kiss to the corner of your lip, and you kiss another to the scar above his eye, underneath his brow, that he got when he tried to climb the tree up your yard into your room, the one he'd fallen down from.

"this alone isn't going to make up for 16 months," You tell him, despite the smile on your face. "you're not magically forgiven."

he leans in again, smiling against your lips as he whispers, "i know."

later, you're both lying on your bed, both of you tired and exhausted, leaning into each other, when he whispers to you, "weren't you surprised that i was invincible?"

"not really." you respond, not opening your eyes. your head is resting on his uninjured shoulder, face tucked into the crook of his neck.

"why not?" he asks. you think about telling him that you recognised him almost immediately, from the curve of his back, the strong line of his jaw, and the light scar underneath his jaw.

but those things had only been memorised by you because you'd spent more timing staring at him then talking to him, so you decided not to tell him that. maybe you'd tell him one day. instead, you tell him, "i recognised your voice immediately."

he huffs in response.

a/n: goddamn i locked in for this. i had literally posted it and then tried to edit it to check word count but then accidentally deleted it and had to rewrite the entire thing from the kiss scene onwards. i was crying lowk.

anyway. hope you enjoyed!! as always, thank you if you made it all the way down here!!!

as always, likes and reblogs are appreciated, and let me know if you have any comments!! i love reading them.

[jungkoode]

𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 21

˗ˏˋ birthday shots ˎˊ˗

"Jungkook’s friends, Jungkook’s birthday party… It’s all honestly not what you expected. But then again, Jungkook keeps twisting your expectations of him, once and once again."

next | index

⋆｡°✩ chapter details ✩°｡⋆

word count: 8,4k

content: jungkook having friends, feeling out of place, pretty girls, judgemental people, tae/hobi/jk protecting the peace, shared secrets, nicknames gaining an intimate layer, stubbornness with spicy food, drinking, doing shots and jungkook being both attentive and protective.

✧ author's note ✧

Aaaand we’re finally here. The party. The build-up. The chaos potential. The birthday. After 20 chapters of yearning, character dissection, awkward eye contact, and conversations that say everything and nothing at the same time… we are officially entering the next arc: actual real-world social interaction. Which, if you’ve been paying attention, is every character’s personal hell. Including mine.

First of all—yes, this is Jungkook’s party chapter. Yes, it’s a pivotal one. Yes, I was pacing around my flat in a hoodie muttering “okay but what would he wear” like a deranged method actor trying to get into character. And yes, there are about 15 new people here. But please don’t panic. You don’t need to memorize them all. This isn’t a fantasy war council. You’re not about to be quizzed on the name of Jungkook’s friend’s cousin’s dog. They’re not here to steal the plot—they’re here to color it.

Jungkook’s different social groups, clashing and blending like some unhinged Venn diagram of his life. They each say something about him and the many versions of himself he keeps—because, as always, this isn’t about the party. It’s about him and her, and us, and the very inconvenient reality of human attachment.

Now. Tessa (and yes, Stuti, when you read this… the name comes 100% from you hahaha).

Yup. That girl from the library. She’s here. She’s breathing. She’s talking. And she’s not a villain.

I know, I know, fanfiction is riddled with the evil-rival-love-interest trope. The girl who eyes you up and down with thinly veiled contempt. The passive aggressive bitch who “just happens” to sit on his lap or call him baby in front of you. The girl whose entire personality is “threat to the main couple.” And listen—I could never.

Tessa isn’t like that. Because most people aren’t like that. Attraction doesn’t automatically equal competition, and not every woman who talks to a man you like is an enemy. That’s such a tired, flat, boring cliche. I’m not writing this story to project misogynistic tropes onto women so we can feel smug about someone else being “the wrong one.” I don’t want you to root against her. I don’t want you to root against anyone, really. Maybe Mia, but that’s what she’s for. She’s your pressure valve. You need someone to hate. That’s what makes the rest bearable.

Tessa’s presence is not a betrayal. It’s just reality. Jungkook is allowed to be liked. He’s allowed to explore. And so is Nix. She’s not some pushover sainted martyr of “true love.” She’s a girl. She’s confused. She’s a little guarded. She’s still trying to understand herself.

There’s no jealousy because there is no claim. There’s no relationship, no commitment, no confessions, no secret “we’re basically already in love” subtext. There’s just this slow, painful, glacial slide into a kind of closeness that might one day become something else—but hasn’t. Not even close. This chapter is about a possible beginning of something resembling tentative friendship. We are barely out of enemies-to-mildly-tolerating-each-other zone. We are in the “do I text you or is that weird” era.

Don’t rush it. Don’t expect it. That’s not the story I’m telling.

Nix being unbothered isn’t character growth. It’s just honesty. It’s consistency. I’ve spent 20 chapters building a girl who’s emotionally guarded, private, and painfully aware of the dynamics she allows herself to engage in. She’s not “cool with it” to be cool—she’s just not invested like that yet. And that matters. We’re not jumping stages for drama. We’re walking, slowly, through the psychology of two people who don’t even know what they want. Let them be confused. Let them be messy. Let them take their time.

I’m writing slow burn with psychological realism at its core, and that means actions have context. If you came here expecting love confessions and possessive meltdowns and “he’s mine stay away” drama… wrong story, babes. I want you uncomfortable. I want you squinting at every interaction wondering if it means something. I want you to question how affection develops, really. Slowly. Subtly. Almost invisibly, until it’s all you can think about.

The story isn’t about dramatic betrayals or Big Plot Twists. It’s about tension. About two people orbiting each other in their own broken, stumbling ways. It’s about glances that last too long and words that don’t come out right and the way your heart knows something long before your brain does. It’s about patterns, and Jungkook’s are catching up to him.

You don’t need to like everyone. But you should understand them. And that’s what I’m asking of you here. Because these characters aren’t plot devices—they’re real to me. They’re studies. They’re messy. And god, I love them for it.

So yeah. Welcome to the party. The masks are on, the music’s loud, and no one knows how to behave when they’re being watched. Especially him.

Enjoy. Suffer. Stare at the page like you’re decoding a sacred text. That’s the vibe.

And as always…

You’re here to suffer. I’m here to deliver.

You’re welcome.

⋆｡°✩ read on✩°｡⋆

ao3

wattpad

You never realized a person could contain so many versions of themselves until you saw Jungkook surrounded by his friends.

"SURPRISE!"

The word explodes through the small ramen shop, followed by cheers and laughter as Jungkook freezes beside you. 

His fingers quickly pocket his phone, eyes widening with a genuine shock that transforms his entire face. 

Gone is the perpetually amused, slightly condescending roommate you've come to know. In his place stands someone younger, almost innocent—lips parting in stunned delight, eyes crinkling at the corners.

It's fucking weird is what it is.

"Holy shit," he breathes, a laugh bursting from him as Taehyung launches himself across the restaurant, wrapping Jungkook in a hug that nearly knocks him over. "What the fuck?"

Hobi follows immediately, bouncing on his feet like an overgrown puppy before throwing his arms around both of them, turning the duo into a chaotic tangle of limbs and laughter. 

Even Yoongi gets up, offering a slow clap before joining with a more restrained but no less genuine embrace—the kind with back pats that guys do when they want to prove they have exactly two emotions: hungry and sports.

You hang back, suddenly aware of how many strangers are packed into this place. 

The restaurant is full of people—at least a dozen beyond the ones you recognize—all focused on Jungkook with varying degrees of excitement. Some are already raising drinks in toast, others taking photos, a couple shouting things you can't quite make out over the general chaos.

"P-Kill! Happy birthday, man!"

"Proofs! You made it!"

"Proofy, get over here!"

What the actual fuck are these names? 

You frown, trying to connect these bizarre nicknames to the Jungkook you know—the one who leaves his dirty dishes in the sink and plays his music too loud and once tried to convince you that Kraft mac and cheese was "technically gourmet."

None of this computes.

Jungkook catches your confusion as he disentangles himself from his friends, eyes flicking toward you with that familiar half-smile that somehow feels like a private joke.

"Hey," he says, suddenly at your side again. His hand brushes your elbow briefly—not grabbing, just a light touch that seems oddly grounding in this chaos. "These are my friends. Guys, this is my roommate."

He says your name easily, no ‘Phoenix’ or ‘Nix’ in sight, and it's weirdly jarring—like hearing a song you know played in the wrong key. 

Not technically wrong, just... off.

The next few minutes are a blur of names and faces, most immediately forgotten as you try to keep track of who's who in this bizarre alternative universe where Jungkook is apparently the center of a large social circle. There's a group of guys—gamers, apparently—who keep calling him those weird nicknames.

"These three idiots," Jungkook explains, gesturing toward a trio of guys who look like they haven't seen sunlight in months, "are my Steam friends. My username is ProofedToKill, so that's where all the dumb nicknames come from."

Of course, that tracks. He's always yelling at the TV when he plays Call of Duty in the living room. You've had multiple arguments about it, usually ending with him putting on headphones and you turning up your music out of spite.

"Don't start," he warns, but there's no real edge to it. "I've already heard all your anti-shooters propaganda."

"It's not propaganda if it's true."

He rolls his eyes but doesn't take the bait, already being pulled toward another group by Taehyung. 

"Come on, there are more people you should meet."

You follow, because what else are you going to do? Stand alone by the door like some kind of abandoned pet? 

Besides, you're curious now. Curious about these other fragments of Jungkook's life that you've never been privy to before.

The space is packed, noisy in that way that forces everyone to talk slightly too loud. Sensory overload city. People keep touching Jungkook—hugs, shoulder claps, high fives—and he's letting them, which might be the weirdest part of all this. 

Since when does he like being touched by people who aren't naked?

"Jungkook!" a female voice exclaims, cutting through the noise. A tall girl with auburn hair moves toward him with the confident grace of someone who's never tripped over her own feet in public. "Happy birthday!"

She wraps him in a hug that makes you realize just how tall she is—like, almost his height tall—and beside her, another girl—smaller, with short black hair and glasses—offers a more reserved greeting.

"Hey Tessa, hey Diana," Jungkook says, looking genuinely pleased to see them. "Didn't think you'd be here!"

Tessa. 

The library girl. The one he was doing that group project thing with.  The one who kept laughing too loud whenever Jungkook said something that probably wasn't even that funny.

"Taehyung invited us," she explains, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Hope that's okay."

"Of course it's okay," Jungkook says, and you hate how sincere he sounds. 

Where's the sarcastic asshole you live with? Who is this pod person?

"We brought you something," Diana says, holding out a small bag. "Just a little thing."

Jungkook accepts it with a thanks that sounds almost shy, and what the fuck? Since when is he shy about anything?

"Oh, this is my roommate," he adds, suddenly remembering your existence. 

He says your name again, and you force a smile because what else can you do in this bizarre social ritual?

"Nice to meet you," Tessa says with a warmth that feels genuine, which is almost worse than if she'd been fake. At least fake would make sense. "Jungkook's mentioned you before. You're in English Lit, right?"

He's talked about you? To her? 

What the fuck has he said?

"Yeah," you manage, because apparently your vocabulary has been reduced to monosyllables in the face of all this unexpected social interaction. "English major."

"That's amazing," she says, and she actually seems to mean it. "I'm in Film too, but I've always loved literature. What's your focus?"

Before you can answer—thank god, because you haven't prepared a thesis statement on your academic interests for a birthday party—Hobi appears with a tray of shots, announcing that it's time for the birthday boy to start celebrating properly.

So, of course, the whole crowd moves towards him, shots being thrown back easily. You find yourself suddenly on the outside of it, still standing with Tessa and Diana but no longer the focus of their attention.

It's a relief, honestly. 

You've never been good at this kind of thing—large groups, small talk, unfamiliar social dynamics. 

It's like being dropped into a play where everyone else knows the script and you're just… improvising. Kinda hoping you don't accidentally say the wrong line and reveal yourself as the impostor.

Your eyes wander around the restaurant, taking in the details you missed—it’s actually a cozy place, warm wood and soft lighting, with private booths along one wall and a long table down the center where most of Jungkook's friends have gathered. 

You can smell the sizzling of pans working through different ingredients—garlic, onion, ginger… But your eyes end up on Jungkook anyway.

He swallows down a shot, grimacing at the burn. 

Someone passes him another. 

Someone else claps him on the back. 

He's at the center of all this attention and he's... thriving in it. Laughing, talking.

It’s strange, seeing him like this. So carefree, so loud (although he’s always loud but this is a different kind of loud?)—so in his… element. 

You can’t help but feel out of place.

Because, truly. Do you even fit in here? Are you an element? Part of his element? Or whatever this is? 

This morning you were agonizing over whether you could be friends with the guy you've been fucking. 

Now you're standing in a room full of people who already are his friends, who've known him much longer than you have, who see a completely different side of him than the one you get.

It's... a lot.

You pull out your phone, needing something to do with your hands, but the screen stays dark. Okay. Dead. Fantastic.

"You okay?"

The voice at your elbow makes you jump. 

It's Jungkook, somehow back at your side despite the crowd still demanding his attention.

"Fine," you say automatically. "Just... observing."

His eyes scan your face, more perceptive than you'd like. "You look like you'd rather be literally anywhere else."

"Not true. I can think of at least three places that would be worse." You tick them off on your fingers. "The DMV. An insurance seminar. Dinner with my parents."

That gets a laugh out of him—a real one, one you seem to be getting out of him more and more often. 

“Fair enough. Come on, let me get you a drink. It'll help with..." 

He pauses, purses his lips as he tilts his head at you.

"With what, exactly?"

"The whole 'I'd rather eat glass than make small talk with strangers' vibe you're giving off."

"I'm not—" you start to protest, but he's already pulling you toward the bar, his hand warm against your lower back.

"It's fine, Phee," he says, the familiar nickname slipping out naturally now that you're momentarily separated from the crowd. "Not everyone's into the whole big social scene. You don't have to pretend."

You want to argue on principle—deny that he knows you that well, that he can read your discomfort so easily—but it would be pointless. 

He's right. 

You do hate this. 

And the fact that he noticed, that he came back to check on you instead of just leaving you to flounder on your own...

It's annoying. Or it should be. 

Instead, it feels weirdly considerate.

"I don't need a babysitter," you mutter as he flags down the bartender. "Go enjoy your party. I'm perfectly capable of standing in a corner judging people on my own."

"Maybe I'm enjoying my party more over here." 

He orders something you don't catch, then turns back to you with that half-smile that's somehow more familiar than the broad grin he's been flashing at everyone else.

“Besides, if I leave you alone too long, you might decide to ditch, and then who would I blame when I need an excuse to escape Hobi's karaoke demands?"

"Yoongi seems like a good scapegoat."

"Nah, Yoongi secretly loves karaoke. Just pretends to hate it so people will beg him. It's weird."

The bartender slides two glasses toward Jungkook—whiskey is one, by the look of it. 

The other one is… 

Vodka cranberry.

He remembers?

You lick your lips. Nervous suddenly. Maybe. Or not really. Just uncomfortable, because here it is again. Jungkook being attentive, doing these stupid kind things that completely shatter the reputation you have built for him in your head. 

"You really don't have to babysit me," you say again, but you take the drink anyway. "I'm fine."

His eyes search yours, more serious than usual. "I know you're fine. Maybe I just want to hang out with you."

Something shifts in your chest—a small, uncomfortable flutter. 

“Why? You have a dozen other people here who actually like you."

"Ouch." He presses a hand to his heart, mock wounded. "And here I thought we were making progress on the whole friendship thing."

"The jury's still out on that one."

"Uh-huh." He takes a sip of his whiskey, eyes never leaving yours. "Well, consider this evidence for the 'pro' column: I noticed you were uncomfortable and came to rescue you instead of letting you suffer in silence."

"Maybe I prefer suffering in silence."

"No one prefers suffering in silence, Nix. Some people just don't think they deserve better."

The way he says it makes something twirl uncomfortable inside your chest.

You take a large drink instead of responding, welcoming the burn as it slides down your throat.

“Make sure to finish that quickly. Get ready for the party games.”

"There are going to be party games?"

"That’s only the beginning."

"So," you say, swaying your glass slightly, watching the burgundy liquid catch the light, "ProofedToKill, huh? Didn't know I was living with such a badass."

"No? I thought you knew how badass I am.”

“You’re bad, and an ass. That doesn’t make you a badass. Different word.”

He laughs, low and warm, and you can’t help the smile that forms on your lips without conscious input.

"You know what it actually means?" he asks, leaning back against the wall. 

You raise an eyebrow. "That you're secretly a hitman with terrible grammar?"

"Hilarious." He rolls his eyes, but there's no real irritation behind it. "It's a baking term, actually."

"A what now?"

"Baking. You know, that thing people do with flour and heat instead of burning the place down.”

“If you bring up the candle incident one more time—”

He makes a zipping motion over his mouth, and your lips twitch with the effort of chuckling. 

“Wait, are you seriously telling me your super tough gamer name is about... baking?"

He sighs, looking down at his glass. "When you're making bread—sourdough specifically—there's this stage called 'proofing.’ It's when the dough rises, develops flavor. If you overproof it, it collapses. If you underproof, it's dense. But if you get it just right..."

"You've... proofed to kill?" you finish, unable to keep the disbelief from your voice.

"Exactly." He grins, clearly pleased that you've made the connection. "Perfect proofing. Killer bread. It's a whole thing."

You stare at him, genuinely speechless for perhaps the first time since you've known him. 

This man—this infuriating, cocky roommate who struts around like he owns every room he enters—has a gamer tag based on fucking bread-making. 

And he's admitting it. 

Voluntarily. 

"So let me get this straight," you say slowly. "Your badass online persona, the one all your friends call you by, is actually a baking pun?"

"In my defense, it's a really good pun. And most people assume it's about, you know, being good at shooting things. Which I also am." He shrugs, cockiness slipping back into place.

“You’re so weird,” you mutter, but you know he doesn’t take it seriously.

"Been doing it since college. The whole sourdough thing at midnight." He confesses, glancing around briefly, like he's checking to make sure no one else is listening, then lowers his voice. "My mom taught me. She had this whole recipe she'd developed over years, this perfect sourdough method. Made the best bread you've ever tasted."

Again that softness, almost reverence when he speaks about his mom. 

It always catches you off guard. You've never heard him talk like this before. Never heard him talk about his family at all, really.

"After she..." he continues, then stops himself, shaking his head slightly. "Anyway. I keep trying to recreate it. Haven't quite nailed it yet."

Neither of you speak for a couple of beats. His gaze is still fixed on his drink, and then he takes a sip, like his mind is somewhere else completely.

“Is that why you stress-bake at 3 AM? Trying to get the proof right?"

His eyes meet yours, surprised.

Maybe a little grateful for the redirect. 

“You’ve noticed?”

“I mean, I just went to the bathroom one night and saw you fighting the dough, so…”

He chuckles, gaze back on his glass. “Yeah. It's... meditative, I guess. Helps me think."

"Weird way to think, but okay."

"Says the person who reads the same depressing Kafka story fourteen times and calls it 'processing.'"

"It's a good story."

"It's about a guy turning into a giant bug."

"And it speaks to the alienation inherent in modern existence. Your point?"

He laughs again, shaking his head. "God, you're such a fucking English major."

"And you're a secret bread nerd. We all have our crosses to bear."

His smile shifts into something different—softer around the edges, almost vulnerable. "Don't tell anyone, okay? About the username thing. I have a reputation to maintain."

"What, you mean your friends don't know your tough gamer handle is actually about your sourdough obsession?"

"Only Yoongi knows. And now you." He drums his fingers on the glass once, twice. "That's enough oversharing on my part for the day, I think. Sooner or later it's going to have to be your turn, you know, Pyx?"

Great. A new variation of your nickname. Does he ever stop coming up with them?

"My turn for what?"

"Sharing something real." His eyes hold yours, steady. "Friendship goes both ways, Nix."

You scoff, ignoring the way your heart rate picks up slightly. "I share things."

"Like what? Your coffee order doesn't count."

"I told you about the IUD."

"That's medical, not personal."

"It's literally inside my body. How much more personal can it get?"

He sighs, but he makes it dramatic this time. "You know what I mean. Something that matters to you. Something real."

You do know. That's the problem. He's asking for exactly the kind of vulnerability you've spent years carefully avoiding. The kind that gives people ammunition, that creates expectations, that leads to disappointment when you inevitably fail to meet them.

But he just told you about his mom. About bread and baking and usernames that mean more than they appear to. He offered something real—small, maybe, but genuine.

And isn't that what this whole friendship experiment is supposed to be about?

You open your mouth, not entirely sure what's going to come out, when a crash from across the restaurant saves you. Hobi has somehow managed to knock over an entire tray of drinks, and the resulting chaos immediately draws everyone's attention, including Jungkook's.

"Shit," he mutters, already half-moving. "I should go help before he makes it worse."

"Go," you nod, equal parts relieved and strangely disappointed. "Your public needs you."

He hesitates, eyes still on yours. "We're not done with this conversation."

"Pretty sure we are."

"Pretty sure we're just getting started." He stands fully, but doesn't leave immediately. "Come join, okay? Whenever you’re ready.”

You watch him weave through the crowd toward the spill, already calling out something to Hobi that makes the other man laugh despite the mess. It's strange, seeing him like this—in his element, surrounded by people who know him in ways you don't.

ProofedToKill. A baking pun turned gamer tag. A piece of his mother he carries with him, encrypted in plain sight.

You take another sip of your vodka cranberry, wondering what else about Jungkook you've been missing all this time.

Eleven people crammed around a table is basically psychological warfare in restaurant form.

You're somehow stuck directly across from Jungkook, because apparently the universe has a shitty sense of humor. 

Next to him, Tessa has claimed her territory, her long legs perfectly positioned under the table while yours are already cramping from the weird angle. Of course.

At least you've got Yoongi on your left—a silent, grounding presence in the chaos. When you'd awkwardly hovered near his chair, he'd just grunted and shifted slightly to make room. 

In Yoongi-speak, that's practically a formal invitation with calligraphy and shit.

Diana sits on your other side, petite and prim, her small hands already arranging her napkin with quick movements. She keeps glancing at Tessa across the table with an expression you can't quite decipher—somewhere between admiration and mild disapproval.

The menu in Yoongi's hands looks worn and slightly sticky, but your stomach is basically staging a revolt after hours of nothing but ibuprofen and vodka. You lean over, scanning the options without asking permission because fuck it, you're hungry.

The spicy ramen section catches your eye immediately. 

Your stomach gives another impatient growl.

"I want those," you announce, pointing at the spiciest option on the menu.

Yoongi barely blinks. "Cool. I didn't ask."

You roll your eyes and lean back in your chair because, okay, whatever. Rude ass. Though honestly, there's something almost refreshing about his complete lack of social polish. 

At least you always know where you stand with him, which is approximately nowhere.

A movement across the table draws your attention. 

Jungkook's eyes have lifted from his own menu, catching yours with an intensity that feels weirdly intimate in the crowded space. His gaze flickers down again almost immediately, but not before you notice the corner of his mouth tilting upward.

What's he laughing about? Stupid. He's stupid.

"I kinda wanted the spicy ones too," he says, looking up again. "Maybe we can share?"

You squint at him suspiciously. "Huh? No. I want the bowl entirely for me."

Diana makes a soft sound beside you—half laugh, half disbelief. 

“I can't believe you can eat all that."

The words hang there for a moment while your brain processes the judgment packaged in her innocent-sounding comment. 

Did she just really—

"C'mon Diana," Tessa cuts in swiftly, laugh warm and genuine, "not everyone has a small stomach like you."

Diana scowls, her delicate features pinching together. "I just think that's a lot to eat."

"Bro, I could eat two bowls in one sitting," Jungkook says.

"Make that three," Taehyung adds from Jungkook's other side. "You're a fucking goblin, Kooks."

"Three? Amateur," one of the gamer guys—Steve? Sean?—chimes in from the end of the table. "Remember that time after the tournament when you ate four bowls of ramen and then threw up in my car?"

"That was food poisoning," Jungkook protests. "Totally different situation."

"Your face was poisoned."

"What does that even mean?"

"Your face... poisoned... my eyes," the guy finishes lamely, clearly losing his train of thought.

"Ten points from Slytherin for that weak-ass comeback," Hobi declares, raising his beer like a wizard's wand. "Jungkook requires better trash talk in his honor."

"Oh shit, we're using Hogwarts points now?" another one asks. "When did we switch systems?"

"Since I just decided, and I'm the dungeon master."

"That's D&D, you uncultured swine," Taehyung sighs, long-suffering. "Completely different franchise."

"Whatever, they're all just wizard nerds," Hobi says with a dismissive wave.

"That's wizard king to you, peasant," Jungkook corrects, puffing out his chest.

“Do you all... actually play these games?" Diana asks, voice faintly disdainful.

"Only when we're not busy with our super cool and important adult lives," Taehyung says, deadpan.

"I just don't get the appeal," she sniffs. "Sitting inside all day, staring at screens—"

"Yo," Hobi cuts in smoothly, somehow managing to sound both friendly and firm at the same time, "different strokes for different folks. Some people climb mountains, some people slay digital dragons. Both valid." 

Diana shifts uncomfortably under his gaze. "I guess."

"Besides," you find yourself saying, "it's literally his birthday. Maybe, I don't know, let him enjoy things without the judgment?"

The words come out sharper than intended, surprising even you. 

Since when do you jump to Jungkook's defense? Since when do you care if someone judges his nerdy gaming habits?

Jungkook looks equally surprised, eyebrows raised slightly as he studies your face. Then his expression shifts into something softer, almost appreciative.

"Exactly. Today's about celebrating you," Tessa adds, turning to Jungkook with a warm smile. "And apparently your inhuman ability to consume ramen."

"It's my superpower," he says solemnly. "With great appetite comes great indigestion."

A ripple of laughter moves around the table, breaking the awkward moment. Diana still looks sulky, but at least she's dropped the subject.

The waiter appears then, ready to take orders, and the conversation splinters as everyone tries to decide what they want.

"You really getting the level five spicy?" Yoongi asks quietly while the others debate.

"Yeah. Why, think I can't handle it?"

He snorts. "Just checking if I need to order extra water for when you inevitably start crying."

"I do not cry from spicy food."

"Everyone cries from spicy food if it's actually spicy."

"Well, we'll see, won't we?"

He shrugs, a barely perceptible movement of one shoulder. "Your funeral."

"Comforting as always, Yoon."

The ghost of a smile flits across his face before he returns to his default expression of mild disinterest.

Across the table, Jungkook is in the middle of a heated debate with Taehyung about... something involving a game you've never heard of. His hands move animatedly as he talks, face lit with genuine enthusiasm. One of his friends keeps trying to interject, but Jungkook and Taehyung are in their own world, talking over each other and somehow still understanding perfectly.

He looks so unguarded.

So... normal. Like any other twenty-something guy arguing about video games with his friends.

Not that you care. It's just an observation.

"So you're Jungkook's roommate," Diana says, drawing your attention back to her. Her tone suggests this is somehow both surprising and slightly concerning.

"Yep." You keep it brief, hoping she'll take the hint and drop whatever line of questioning is forming behind those judgmental eyes.

No such luck.

"And how did that happen exactly? Through the university housing board?"

"Craigslist, actually."

Her eyebrows shoot up like you've just admitted to finding the apartment through a demonic summoning ritual. 

“Oh! Isn't that... dangerous?"

"Not really. The apartment was already Yoongi and Jungkook's. I just answered the ad for the third room."

"Still," she persists, "moving in with two guys you don't know. That's brave."

The way she says ‘brave’ makes it clear she means ‘stupid,’ but you're not in the mood to defend your housing choices to someone who probably thinks spicy ramen is too adventurous.

"Not really. Yoongi's background check was pretty thorough," you deadpan. "Only had to provide three references, a blood sample, and my complete genetic history."

Diana blinks, clearly unsure if you're joking.

"It's true," Yoongi confirms without looking up from his phone. "Her midichlorian count was acceptable."

"What’s… midichlorian?" Diana asks uncertainly.

"It’s a real scientific test," you say, keeping your expression perfectly serious. "Very exclusive."

She frowns, increasingly confused, and you feel a small, petty satisfaction at her discomfort.

"They're fucking with you," Taehyung calls from across the table, apparently tuned into your conversation despite seemingly being absorbed in his argument with Jungkook. "It's a Star Wars reference."

"Oh." Diana forces a laugh that doesn't reach her eyes. "Right."

"Ignore them," Tessa says kindly. "They operate on their own wavelength sometimes."

"Especially these two," Hobi adds, gesturing between Taehyung and Jungkook. "Like an old married couple, but with more shouting and fewer financial benefits."

"What do you mean fewer financial benefits?" Jungkook protests. "I've been carrying his broke ass in-game economy for years."

"That gold farm was my idea!"

"Your idea crashed the server and got us banned for a week!"

"Details," Taehyung waves dismissively. "The point is, I'm the brains of this operation."

"And I'm the beauty," Jungkook fires back, striking a pose that makes Hobi snort water through his nose.

It's all so... easy. The banter, the inside jokes, the casual way they navigate each other's personalities. They've clearly had years to develop this rhythm, to learn each other's edges and how to fit together despite them—or maybe because of them.

Something twists in your chest, sharp and unexpected. You busy yourself with your water glass, suddenly very interested in the condensation gathering along its sides.

The waiter returns with drinks, setting them around the table. You're grateful for the distraction, for something to do with your hands besides fidget awkwardly.

"Alright," Hobi declares once everyone has a drink, lifting his glass. "To the birthday boy! May your K/D ratio remain impressive and your hairline unreceded."

"Here's to another year of Jungkook being Jungkook," Taehyung adds, raising his own glass. "God help us all."

"To Kooks," Tessa says, her voice softer but no less sincere. "Happy birthday."

Glasses clink around the table, a chorus of echoed sentiments following. You lift your glass automatically, catching Jungkook's eye as you do. He's watching you, before he smiles—small and surprisingly genuine.

"Thanks for getting me here," he says quietly, just for you.

"Don't mention it," you reply, equally quiet. "Seriously. Don't. I'll deny everything."

His smile widens, and for a moment, it feels like you're back in that booth from earlier—just the two of you, everyone else fading to background noise.

Then Taehyung jostles his arm, demanding his opinion on something, and the moment breaks. 

You take a sip of your drink, trying to ignore the strange feeling that's settled in your chest.

It's probably just hunger. Or the vodka from earlier. 

Or the fact that you've been in this loud, crowded restaurant for what feels like hours now, surrounded by people you barely know, playing a role you're not quite sure how to perform.

Yeah. That's definitely it.

The server arrives with a ridiculous number of bowls balanced along his arms like some kind of food-based Cirque du Soleil performer. Steam rises from each one, carrying scents that make your stomach growl with embarrassing volume.

A massive, angry-looking bowl lands in front of you, the broth practically glowing red. It looks like someone liquefied the sun and threw in some noodles as an afterthought.

Perfect.

Two bowls slide in front of Jungkook—your spicy demon soup's twin and something much more reasonable looking, probably miso based on the color.

"Hungry much?" you ask, eyeing his double order.

"Growing boy," he shrugs, already reaching for chopsticks.

Taehyung, meanwhile, receives... a plate of curry rice? 

"Seriously?" You can't help the judgment that leaks into your voice. "We're at a ramen place and you ordered curry?"

He shoots you a look that could curdle milk. "Some of us have taste beyond 'hot noodle soup.'"

"Some of us aren't afraid of flavor, dickasso."

"Bold words from someone currently holding weapons-grade capsaicin," he fires back, gesturing at your bowl. "Does your taste even function, or did you burn it all away with your sad little Hot Pockets diet?"

"At least I'm not too precious to eat what the restaurant specializes in."

“This is objectively superior."

"Only if your objective is being a pretentious dick."

"I prefer 'discerning connoisseur.'"

"You would."

You hate that banter with Taehyung is starting to become more and more comfortable. Like verbal sparring with someone who actually knows how to return a serve, instead of just standing there getting hit in the face with the ball. 

Not that you like him or anything. His whole vibe—artsy, too cool for school, judgmental as fuck—is objectively annoying.

But maybe also a little entertaining. 

In small doses. 

Very small.

Across the table, Hobi watches this exchange with undisguised amusement, head swiveling between you. 

"I feel like I'm witnessing the beginning of a beautiful friendship," he says, grinning widely. "Or a homicide. Hard to tell."

"Definitely homicide," Taehyung and you say in unison, then glare at each other for the coordination.

You turn your attention back to your ramen, inhaling the spicy steam before digging in. The first bite hits like a kick to the teeth—pain followed immediately by pleasure. 

It's fucking delicious despite feeling like you just licked the surface of the sun.

"Good?" Yoongi asks, watching your face with what might be the ghost of amusement.

"Incredible," you manage, already reaching for more.

Across the table, Jungkook dives into his own spicy bowl with enthusiasm, slurping noodles with zero concern for how it looks. A drop of broth escapes, clinging to his lower lip.

You're about to say something—point it out, make fun of his complete lack of eating etiquette, something—when Tessa reaches out, casual as anything, and swipes her thumb across his lip.

"Messy," she says, the word warm with affection.

He tilts his head toward her, smiling in a way that can only be described as flirtatious. 

“That's my brand."

You purse your lips, returning your attention to your own food. 

Whatever. Let him preen over a pretty girl paying attention to him. His loser ass probably never gets that chance.

Although... that's a lie and you know it. 

The guy is annoyingly good-looking and he knows it. He's probably used to girls fawning over him, cleaning his face like he's a toddler who can't be trusted with utensils.

"Whatcha looking at, Phee—" He cuts himself off abruptly, eyes widening slightly. "—asantly surprised by how spicy that ramen is? Your face is getting red."

Smooth recovery. Not.

"Just thinking about how long it's been since I've had decent ramen."

You grab your water glass, suddenly very aware of the burning sensation spreading across your tongue. 

It's fine. Totally manageable. Nothing to worry about.

"Knew it," Yoongi mutters beside you.

You set the glass down with more force than necessary. "It's not spicy."

"Uh-huh." He doesn't even bother looking up from his own bowl. "That's why your face is the same color as the broth."

"It's warm in here."

"Sure it is."

"I can handle spice."

"Never said you couldn't."

"You implied it."

He finally glances at you, expression as bored as ever. "I implied you're a liar, not a spice lightweight."

"I'm not—" Another wave of heat crashes through your mouth, cutting off your protest. "Fine. It's a little spicy."

The corner of his mouth twitches in what might be a smile on anyone else. "A little."

"Shut up and eat your boring miso."

Amazingly, he actually laughs—a short, quiet sound that's there and gone so quickly you almost think you imagined it. 

But no, that was definitely a laugh. From Yoongi. Directed at something you said.

Huh.

You return to your ramen, determined to finish it despite the way your sinuses are starting to protest. 

It's a matter of pride now. You said you could handle it, so you'll handle it, even if it kills you.

Which it might. But what a way to go.

You glance up, seeing how Jungkook and Tessa have their heads tilted toward each other, engaged in what looks like a very amusing conversation based on her laugh. She keeps touching his arm, casual little points of contact that seem to arrive at perfectly timed intervals.

She's good at this, you'll give her that. The whole flirting thing. Not too obvious, not too reserved. Just the right amount of interest without seeming desperate.

Huh. He might get laid tonight then. Not by you. 

Good for him. 

"You're staring again," Taehyung says, his voice pitched low enough that only you can hear. "Plotting his murder or just generally disapproving of his existence?"

"Just wondering how someone with the personality of a half-deflated balloon animal manages to function in society," you reply smoothly.

"Years of practice and an excellent support system." He gestures between himself and Hobi, who's busy trying to convince one of the gamer guys that yes, there is in fact sake in the sake bomb he just drank. "We've been managing his personality disorder since freshman year."

"Sounds exhausting."

"It is." His eyes drift to where Jungkook is now showing Tessa something on his phone, both of them laughing. "But he has his moments."

You turn your attention back to your food. Halfway through, you make the tactical error of taking a large bite just as Hobi says something particularly funny, causing you to inhale sharply—and sending a piece of chili directly into your windpipe.

Coughing. So much coughing. 

Your eyes water immediately, turning the table into a blurry mess of colors and shapes as you desperately reach for your water again.

"Easy there," Yoongi says, actually sounding a little concerned as he pushes your glass closer. "Small sips."

You manage to get the water down between coughs, the cool liquid offering minimal relief to your burning throat.

"You okay?" Jungkook asks, leaning across the table with a frown.

Great. Now everyone's looking at you. Perfect. Just what you wanted. All the attention.

"Fine," you rasp, waving a hand dismissively. "Went down the wrong pipe."

"Maybe you should try something less lethal," Diana suggests, eyeing your bowl with thinly veiled judgment. "Like the mild shoyu."

"I'm good with my life choices, thanks."

"Not all of them, I hope," Taehyung mutters, just loud enough for you to hear.

You kick him under the table, aiming for his shin but probably hitting the table leg instead based on his lack of reaction.

"If you die from ramen, I'm not cleaning out your room," Yoongi says matter-of-factly.

"Noted. I'll make sure to haunt you specifically."

"Bold of you to assume I'd notice the difference."

"What, between me alive and me as a ghost?"

"You already have a resting bitch face and make weird noises at night. How would I tell?"

You choke again, this time on your own surprise. 

"I do not make weird noises at night!"

"The walls are thin."

Heat creeps up your neck, and it has nothing to do with the spice level of your food. 

“I don't—that's not—"

"Relax. I meant the way you talk in your sleep."

Oh. That's... marginally less mortifying.

"I talk in my sleep?"

"Constantly."

"About what?"

He shrugs. "Mostly nonsense. Something about pencils last night. Very intense opinions on pencils."

"I don't have opinions about pencils," you protest. "Intense or otherwise."

"Tell that to your subconscious."

The conversation shifts as one of the gamers—Ryan? you think?—slams his empty sake cup on the table with more force than necessary.

"Yo!" he announces, loud enough to get everyone's attention. "We should do shots. Birthday shots for the birthday boy!"

A chorus of approval goes up around the table. Even Diana looks on board with this plan, probably because alcohol is the one thing that might loosen up whatever's holding her personality together.

"The birthday boy needs birthday shots," Hobi agrees, already signaling the waiter.

Taehyung groans. "Please tell me we're not doing that ridiculous 'one shot for each year' tradition. I'm not carrying his drunk ass home again."

"That was one time," Jungkook protests.

"One time too many. You kept trying to pet dogs that weren't there."

"I was seeing through the space-time continuum to where dogs would eventually be."

"You threw up in my shower."

"I cleaned it!"

"With my loofah!"

"I replaced it!"

"After I used it!"

You watch this exchange with growing amusement, the rapid-fire back-and-forth almost dizzying in its intensity. It's clear this is a well-worn argument, trotted out for entertainment value rather than actual grievance.

"Fine," Taehyung concedes dramatically. "Birthday shots. But I'm not responsible for any hallucinated canines or bathroom incidents."

"Deal," Jungkook grins, then turns to Tessa. "You in?"

She laughs, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "I should probably pace myself. Early class tomorrow."

"Responsible," he nods, mock serious. "I respect that."

"Unlike some people," Taehyung mutters, glancing pointedly at Jungkook.

"It's my birthday. I'm legally exempt from responsibility for twenty-four hours."

"That's not a law."

"It's the law of birthdays, Tae. Everyone knows this."

Ryan—definitely Ryan—flags down the server successfully this time, ordering a round of shots for the table. 

“Even for the responsible ones," he insists when Tessa tries to decline. "Just one. For Proofs."

She relents with a smile, rolling her stupid pretty eyes. 

"You too, Miss Spicy Ramen," Ryan says, nodding toward you. "Unless you can't handle your liquor either."

Is that a challenge? It sounds like a challenge.

"I can handle my liquor just fine," you say.

“Debatable,” Jungkook mutters, the menace.

"Oh, fighting words," Hobi laughs, clapping his hands together. "I sense a story here."

"There's no story," Jungkook says quickly.

"I think we've found the first drinking game of the night," Hobi declares. "Most embarrassing Jungkook stories. Winner gets... I don't know, bragging rights and my eternal respect."

"That's not fair," Jungkook protests. "I'm the birthday boy. I should be exempt from humiliation."

"Birthday boy gets birthday roast," Taehyung counters. 

Even Yoongi cracks a smile at that, which might be the most shocking development of the evening so far.

Five shots in and the room has developed that particular tilt that makes everything both sharper and blurrier at the same time.

"Next round!" Seth announces, grinning as he surveys the damage he's caused. 

Seth, as you've learned through increasingly slurred introductions, is one of Jungkook's film school friends—tall, blonde, and way too enthusiastic about drinking games for someone his size. 

"Embarrassing stories! Laugh and you drink!"

Groans mixed with cheers ripple around the table, which has somehow gotten messier and louder with each passing shot. Empty glasses create a small army between plates. Someone knocked over the soy sauce earlier, and no one's bothered to clean it up.

"Oh, oh, OH!" Taehyung practically bounces in his seat, raising his hand like an overeager student. "I have one."

"This'll be good," Yoongi mutters beside you, the most he's spoken in twenty minutes.

Taehyung clears his throat dramatically. "Picture this: Eighth grade. School talent show."

"No," Jungkook groans, head dropping into his hands. "Not that one."

"Yes, that one." Taehyung's grin is borderline evil. "Our boy Kooks here decides he's going to impress Minah Park with a dance routine."

"I'm begging you," Jungkook says, voice muffled through his fingers.

"To what song, you ask?" Taehyung continues, undeterred. "None other than 'Milkshake' by Kelis."

Ryan lets out a bark of laughter, immediately reaching for his shot.

"Oh my god," Diana whispers, eyes wide.

"Did he know what the song was about?" Tessa asks, already giggling.

"That's the best part," Taehyung says, pausing for dramatic effect. "He thought it was literally about making good milkshakes. His mom helped him with the routine."

The table erupts. Even Yoongi snorts, reaching for his shot glass with resigned dignity. You're trying—genuinely trying—to hold it in, pressing your lips together, but then you make the mistake of looking at Jungkook's mortified expression and it's over. Laughter spills out, and you grab your shot, tossing it back with a wince.

"His mom found out what it meant halfway through the performance," Taehyung continues, wiping tears from his eyes. "Her face—I wish smartphones existed back then."

"I hate you," Jungkook mutters, but there's no heat behind it. "So much."

"Did Minah like it at least?" Hobi asks, still chuckling.

"She transferred schools the next week," Taehyung says solemnly. "Unrelated reasons, allegedly."

Another round of laughter, another round of shots.

"My turn," Hobi declares once the chaos subsides. "Let me tell you about the first time I met this guy."

"Which version are you telling?" Jungkook asks warily.

"The true one," Hobi says with a wink. "Picture it: 2021. Dance studio on 8th. This scrawny kid walks in, says he needs to film a project for his class."

"I wasn't scrawny," Jungkook protests.

"You were a twig with hair," Hobi dismisses. "Anyway, he sets up his equipment, very professional, very serious. Then my advanced hip-hop class starts, and halfway through, he abandons his camera to try and join in."

"Oh no," Tessa whispers, delighted.

"Oh yes," Hobi confirms. "He jumps in, full confidence, absolutely sure he can keep up. Two eight-counts later, he slips, takes out my star student, and they both crash into the mirror."

"It didn't break!" Jungkook interjects.

"It cracked," Hobi corrects. "Still there. I call it the Jungkook Memorial Spiderweb."

You laugh despite yourself, drinking quickly to hide your smile when Jungkook shoots you a betrayed look.

"What about you, Yoongi?" Seth asks, refilling glasses with alarming efficiency. "How'd you meet the birthday boy?"

Yoongi regards the question like it's asked him to explain quantum physics. 

“Music production seminar. He needed help with a film score." He shrugs. "He wasn't completely terrible."

"From Yoongi, that's basically a marriage proposal," Hobi stage-whispers.

"Wow, such a beautiful story," you deadpan. "So moving. So detailed."

Yoongi raises an eyebrow. “Not all of us need a thousand words to make a point."

"Clearly." You snort, then immediately regret it when the room spins slightly. 

"What about you, new girl?" Seth asks, suddenly focused on you with an intensity that feels both flattering and vaguely predatory. "Got any good Jungkook stories from the roommate archives?"

All eyes turn to you, expectant. 

You scramble for something suitably embarrassing but not too revealing.

“Oh, I’ve got plenty,” you say, the alcohol making you bolder than usual. “But I have to live with him, so I’m weighing the entertainment value against the revenge factor.”

“Coward,” Taehyung coughs into his hand.

"Yeah, tell us the real dirt," Seth presses, leaning forward with a grin that suggests he's hoping for something scandalous.

You narrow your eyes, suddenly protective of the weird dynamic you share with Jungkook. These people don't get to know about the late-night arguments over the TV volume, or the silent coffee maker standoffs, or the way he sometimes hums in the shower when he thinks no one can hear.

"Sorry to disappoint," you say with exaggerated sweetness, "but I value my security deposit too much to reveal his darkest secrets."

"Cop-out," Seth accuses, but he's smiling.

"Another round!" Ryan announces, refilling shot glasses with something that smells vaguely like cinnamon and regret. "Tessa, you laughed at the dance story, you owe one."

“I didn’t!” she protests, but she’s fighting a smile now. “I was just… appreciating the story.”

“Liar! Your lips twitched. That’s a drink.”

She shakes her head, still smiling. “No way. I have that early class, remember?”

Before Ryan can argue further, Jungkook smoothly grabs her shot and downs it in one fluid motion. 

“Problem solved,” he says, setting the empty glass back on the table with a decisive clink.

Something about the gesture—casual, protective, maybe a little possessive—makes your stomach twist in a way that has nothing to do with the alcohol or spicy ramen. 

Seth slides another shot toward you. “Here, you need a refill.”

You stare at it, trying to do math through the fuzzy haze of alcohol. 

How many shots have you had? Four? Five? You've lost count, which is probably not a great sign.

But everyone’s looking at you, waiting, and you’ve never been good at backing down from a challenge—especially when you’re already tipsy and your judgment is shot to hell.

You reach for the shot, hesitating only slightly. It burns going down, making you cough and sputter in a way that is definitely not attractive, but whatever. You can handle it.

Probably.

“Another round!” Seth calls. “Funniest pet stories. Go.”

And so the new game continues, stories flying around the table with increasing volume and decreasing coherence.

You lose track of who’s talking, everything blurring into laughter and voices and the clinking of glasses.

“Oh, and remember when Jungkook tried to sneak into that bar with his cousin’s ID?” someone is saying—maybe Ryan? The faces at the end of the table are swimming a bit. “The bouncer took one look at the picture and said, ‘This says you’re 5’4” and Filipino.’”

More laughter, more shots. The room spins again when you tilt your head back to drink.

“Another one for you,” Seth says, sliding a fresh shot in front of you after you laugh at something Hobi said. His hand lingers near yours on the table, fingers almost but not quite touching. “Don’t tell me you’re backing down so soon?"

The challenge in his tone hits some stupid part of your brain—the part that's been responsible for most of your worst decisions. 

So of course you grab the shot.

"Just getting started," you declare, tossing it back with more confidence than coordination. 

Seth grins, clearly pleased by your response. "I like you. You're fun."

"I'm a goddamn delight," you agree solemnly, which makes Taehyung snort into his drink.

The next round comes with someone telling a tale about Jungkook getting locked out of his dorm freshman year wearing only a towel. Hobi recounts the time Jungkook tried to learn breakdancing and sprained both wrists. Jungkook retaliates with something about Taehyung and body paint that has everyone howling and reaching for their drinks.

You keep pace, determined not to be the one who can't hang, even as the room develops an interesting spin and your tongue feels increasingly disconnected from your brain.

"Another one!" Seth declares, sliding a fresh shot in front of you.

You stare at it, hiccupping slightly. The thought of one more makes your stomach perform an acrobatic maneuver. 

"I don't know..."

"Come on," he urges, eyes bright with that specific drunk intensity people get when they're determined to make everyone else as wasted as they are. "Don't quit now."

You hiccup slightly, staring at the shot with growing uncertainty. 

Your stomach churns in warning.

But your pride is a stubborn, stupid stupid thing.

Before you can decide, Jungkook’s arm shoots across the table, grabbing the shot and downing it in one quick movement. His eyes find Seth’s, narrowed and unmistakably warning.

“I think she’s good,” he says, voice deceptively casual.

Seth raises his hands in mock surrender. “Just keeping the game going, man.”

You stare at Jungkook, confused by the intervention. He catches your look and shrugs, a simple ‘what?’ in his expression that somehow makes you frown harder.

The game shifts again, someone suggesting “Never Have I Ever” as a change of pace. Your brain struggles to keep up with the new rules, everything moving a little too fast, a little too loud.

“Never have I ever…” Seth taps his chin thoughtfully, eyes finding yours again. “Been skinny dipping.”

You groan internally. Of course he’d pick something designed to make people admit to being naked. Typical.

Those who have done it drink, including Jungkook, which makes Tessa raise her eyebrows in a way that seems both surprised and intrigued. 

You remain still, glass untouched, which somehow feels like a victory.

The questions continue around the table, growing progressively more suggestive as everyone’s inhibitions lower. 

A fresh shot appears in front of you, courtesy of Ryan, who’s moved on from the game and is now just passing out alcohol indiscriminately.

“Drink up!” he declares. “We’re celebrating!”

You stare at the shot, swaying slightly in your seat. The room feels too hot, too crowded, too everything. Your brain is sending out warning signals, but they’re muffled under layers of alcohol and stubbornness.

Jungkook is watching you, expression unreadable but lips pressed together in what might be concern. 

He knows you shouldn’t drink that. 

You know you shouldn’t drink that. 

But admitting it feels like losing somehow.

So you reach for the glass. Fingers clumsy.

Suddenly it’s gone—snatched away by a hand behind you.

“She doesn’t want any more, broski.”

You whip around so fast the room spins alarmingly, but there’s no mistaking that voice, that attitude, that general aura of ‘fuck around and find out.’

Yeji throws back the shot with 0 problem, slamming the empty glass on the table with a decisive clink. 

Behind her, Irya and Jimin hover like backup, taking in the scene with varying levels of amusement.

“Surprise.” Yeji grins, sharp and protective. “Happy birthday, dickhead,” she adds, nodding at Jungkook. “Mind if we crash the party?”

goal: 600 notes

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© jungkoode 2025 no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[satocidal]

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷Cult Leader and his what?

a/n: just my thoughts about cult suguru and his assistant - i'll expand on this so soon because you need to have a meet ugly version of these two

But I always love to imagine Suguru Geto, cult leader! Suguru, to be specific with a non-sorcerer reader, again for the specifics, his personal assistant. It’s Big Bad Suguru, at the prime of his cult era right, 27-28 and just a fresh out college/in their last year reader (in my thoughts, it is a 7-8 year age gap) who somehow find each other and it just works, very well for them.

Nobody would be more shocked than Suguru of course - a monkey? In his office? In his surrounding, in a way that not even sorcerers were provided the privilege to? In his personal space? It beat all his logics - but he rarely cared for that when his documents were so perfectly arranged, when you were ever present at his beck and call, because maybe, it kind of serves his ego.

And because he does adore it when you use cutesy crafts on his documents (pretends he allows it because nanako and mimiko like it).

Thus, somehow, unlucky or not - you two work along, why, how, when and what don’t matter because it works.

Suguru is very non-chalant about it too, chime in with polite good mornings to everyone and then, maybe glance at you once. You would think he’s mean, rude even, manipulative in the very least - but Suguru maintains his relations well, if he’s chosen to trust his work force and his very ideas and plans with you (because of course, he loves rambling about that all the time) - he makes sure you can offer the same trust.

After all, that’s the basic idea of his cult too, isn’t it? Always trust in suguru. 

One would think he'd be mean, but i don't think Suguru truly is capable of that - especially since you are a college student (let it be, that you needed the money he'd giving); he has first hand experienced stress, albeit a different kind but he's no stranger to it - sure, distant could be a word to describe the intial phases of your relation.

But that's only prompted because he's unsure of how he'd end up reacting around you, you know? because you are such a stark reminder to everything he's left behind - reminder of what he wants to hate.

Still and yet, he tries and so do you.

It was a simple job, comparatively - and he paid handsomely, and through and through, he did make sure you weren’t dead anyways + rest of his family was actually open to talk to you, so that was endearing too. 

You can’t really see curses either right, so sometimes, if he’s chatty - mid-procession he’ll start muttering to you about the issue, or if not that, bitching about the wealthier suckers that come to him.

I like to think initially, Suguru would be hesitant still - but you have the skill set and since he forces you to not talk (you tried, it didn’t work) - you offer him a great listening partner. And thus, slowly, the distance slowly blurred.

Some late night work meetings where he caught you staying up late has him questioning your classes the next day, he begins asking about those classes itself, allowing you to work on some assignment if he has nothing for you to do - eyeing you carefully as you work. He begins allowing your lateness in the morning, especially if you look like you were running on less sleep - because he knows and understands.

Simple glances turn to muttered ‘mornings’ when you hastily provide him with the whatever-cult-leaders-do-schedule and the bitching about work-partners turns into slow conversations, just about anything. 

I like to think Cult Leader! Suguru would have the softest heart for his little assistant, despite what everyone believes.

[inanimateinsanitywiki]

it would be really funny if mephone's intent with knife was that he was gonna be the type of "bully" character who gave people wedgies and shoved people in lockers and that was it, but then something went horribly awry and the bit went too far and now knife is concocting all of these mechanisms and schemes for the sole purpose of torturing and killing people in the most painful way possible because he thinks it's funny and is constantly being tormented by the uncontrollable urge to cause immense amounts of violence even when he tries to stop doing that in the future. "we could have been anything but you made us broken" mephone did not tell you to put marshmallow in the brazen bull. you did that of your own volition.

[endstar]

The aus relax in the meeting room. Doing their own thing and trying to find ways to entertain themselves… they let the young demon do as he pleases, not minding the free help. They lay about mainly just fiddling with puzzles and, sharpening blades they haven’t had too used for an uncomfortable amount of time …

Eventually, survivors guilt Doug speaks.

𓆟"….so… how we feeling about this?"𓆟

∞"what do you mean? About this weird sudden pocket of okayness?"∞

The fish shakes his head no, his frils quivering slightly with mild nervousness.

𓆟"no… I mean… all of this. Everything. From the sudden appearance of our beloved anxiety demon, to the death of… Hundreds of us. I mean… We haven’t had time to think about how we feel, have we?"𓆟

A malak grumbles.

⚠︎"wow.. a lovely thought coming from you, mr feels."⚠︎

Doug stands up, his tail slashing slightly and he wails in a quiet town.

𓆟”I’m being serious for once! I really hate this! And that… cat… is not the only reason I don’t! And I know I’m not the only one here who feels the same way!"𓆟

The other AUs look down, their expressions grim as they hold their pocketed weapons and small bits of comfortable armour for comfort… they could never seem to take it off now. The fish man paces anxiously.

𓆟"Lucifer left us again! All of them did, because what? Because there’s a shit ton of new gods that they freed? We all know SHE is no coward, and she knows how to get around problems! FUCK, I think she did this intentionally! And now we’re falling into a trap, and there’s NOTHING we can do because we are completely DEFENCELESS in this situation!"𓆟

He pulls on his frills

𓆟"Wh-whats worse now to me is that… we’re even MORE below then now! We’re NOTHING. Just a bunch of burdens…"𓆟

His malak approaches and puts his hand on his shoulder slowly.

𓆟"…don’t say that… we’re not burdens, we’re just…"𓆟 He sighs. 𓆟"…listen… Lucifer could’ve left us at any point in time… he hasn’t. He loves us."𓆟

𓆟"NO HE DOESN’T! HE ONLY LOVES HOW HE FEELS AFTER HE HELPS A PERSON!"𓆟

His Malak flinches back at his Doug’s outburst, his ears pinning.

𓆟"…we’re not his friends. Not anymore… or.. maybe we never were… we are only his stress balls, his way of… both feeling better, and feeding his perceived obligation with his overwhelmingly strong moral code… I know I’m not the only one who sees it. He helps people, he acts like their friend…”𓆟

𓆟"…then he leaves."𓆟

The meeting room is silent, as people try to find an argument to save Lucifer… most unable to find an actual other than Lucifer being traumatized… that he’s stressed. But… only they can get someone so far… and they are all too scared to go talk to the newfound God… he isn’t as friendly as he seems more to them… to cover up this conversation they use their tactic that helped hide their traitors… their thoughts of being allowed and covering up the conversation, only being able to be heard if someone is intentionally listening in.. and with how they’re “protectors” have been doing? They know they won’t.

Even CK can’t defend Lucifer here, well… he can with the whole stressed and traumatized argument, but… survivors guilt has made it clear that he won’t take that for an answer... he respects Lucifer… but he can’t help but admit the poor demons trauma screws them over quite a bit.

𓆟"…I saw that nowhere Doug Lucifer made friends with crying the other day. I don’t know nowhere, but… I have a funny feeling I know why."𓆟

A beirce speaks up.

𓅨"listen… just… give it time… Lucifer is a good person, and he’s gaining new powers and abiliti—"𓅨

𓆟"sure! But is he a good friend? Calling someone your friend doesn’t make them a friend forever!"

The multiverse is full of infinite possibilities...

Most worlds tend to connect through similar builds. Through stories, people, themes...

It's no surprise seeing a stranger to the multiverse. What IS surprising, however, was his condition. Covered in deep wounds, limbs twisted and torn, and he appeared to be drowning in his own blood by the time he was found. Holy weapons were embedded in his skin, and the flesh sizzled liked bacon around it.

He had red skin, gray hooves, horns that looked far too round and circular to have normally grown out of his head. His long pointed tail is covered in hand prints, and there are bones exposed out of his back. He lays face first in a pool of his own boiling blood, barely breathing or moving.

@ask-underfazverse

Cry’s come from the mass amounts of strangers, many just back away to cowedly to do anything, but a few step up, and begin to heal him. Mainly the younger, less evil Malak’s, a few Doug’s that are just simply concerned, and only one Bierce.

Dream Malak very hurriedly takes him to his hospital, with the help of the others.

[heavens-whore]

DEALER

Joel Miller x f!reader x Tommy Miller

Summary: Your dealer boyfriend Tommy asks you to meet with his business partner for a little exchange.

A/N: THIS TOOK FOREVER OMG. This has been in the drafts for like a year if you can believe that. I need to thank my beautiful friend Sini (who is unfortunately not on tumblr 💔) for proofreading and encouraging and constructively criticising. I already have an idea for a second part to this so let me know if you want it ! also my ask box is open so come talk to me!!

Word Count: 4.2k

Warnings: 18+, DUBCON, semi-public, car sex, unprotected sex, creampie, fingering, Tommy getting cucked over the phone; mention of guns, violence/blood, drugs, criminal activity in general

It was another one of those nights. Tommy had come home with a fresh, open gash on his forehead and busted lip. Your heart dropped down to your stomach the second you laid eyes on him. You immediately rushed over, inspecting the wounds with his face in your hands. He assured you it was nothing, that he was fine, but you still practically dragged him upstairs to let you patch him up.

You sat him down on the bed and stood in between his legs, inspecting every scratch on his face like you had a doctorate in medicine.

‘I hate this, Tommy… You know how much it scares me.’ He hissed in pain and winced as you dabbed some disinfectant to the gash, you mumbled an apology

‘It’s fine, sugar. I promise. I’m fine.’ He reluctantly let you clean him up, probably thinking it would shut you up, but his nonchalance always felt like a stab to the heart.

‘I mean it. You never tell me anything and you come home late with all these cuts and bruises. Of course it scares the shit out of me, what do you expect?’

Even though you didn’t say it directly, he knew what you were referring to. You’d had this conversation with him countless times before, like when you had noticed his knuckles all cut up, or the bruises he could hide under his clothes, or when you realized that he carried his gun with him wherever he went. He would just tell you the same things over and over. It wasn’t exactly his dream career, but it’s fine. It’s just business, it’s not as dangerous as you think. This is all just part of the job, it’s what pays the bills. He knew you worried about him anyway, despite how many times he told you not to. He could see that sad glint in your eyes every time he came home late at night to find you awake on the couch, and knew you had pictured the worst. He knew what it meant every time you hugged him a little tighter at the door before he left. You loved him. You needed him. 

He gently grabbed your wrists, his large hands easily encircling them. He gazed up at you with softened eyes.

‘Look at me, sugar. It’s just the job. I can handle it, you know that. I told you that a million damn times.’ He was using that tone he always uses when he wants you to calm down. And it always works. That soft, gentle whisper with the right amount of certainty and assuredness. He could’ve told you the world was ending in that tone and it would’ve been okay. ���And I know you don’t like seein’ me hurt and all, but I’ll be fine. You don’t need to be worryin’ all the time. I’m strong, I can take it.’ He said the last part with the hint of a smirk crossing his bloody lips, a subtle tease in an attempt to lighten the gloomy mood that hung in the evening air. 

‘I’m still gonna worry, Tommy.’ He noticed the quiver of your lip and the faint sheen of a tear in your eye that threatened to spill down your cheek. He sighed and pulled you into his lap. Your limbs immediately curled around him as naturally as an instinct, and his responded in kind. He stroked your back soothingly, whispering how much he loved you, how he would always come back to you and would never leave you. He squeezed your thighs, kissed your neck, the comforting whispers turned into little gasps, and the night ended with your clothes on the floor, and the two of you tangled up in each others’ bodies.

Nights like those were a common occurrence- he’d come home all bloody, you’d patch him up, then you’d hold each other until the sun rose. You weren’t afraid of him, you were afraid of what he did. You knew exactly what they would say- what did you expect? You should’ve ran for the hills the second he told you about his whole business. Naive little girl. It could only end in tears, if not much worse. You knew you should’ve ran. But you didn’t. They didn’t know what you knew. 

They hadn’t been there on the night you met, at the bar you worked at. They hadn’t seen the way he protected you from a creepy old drunk customer who wouldn’t leave you alone. They hadn’t seen his charming smile when he met your parents for the first time. The way he shook your father’s hand confidently, and hugged your mother, kissing her cheek politely as he welcomed them into your apartment. They hadn’t seen how he’d slaved all day in the kitchen, preparing a meal that would impress them. The way he wouldn’t let you lift a finger to help him, insisting that you let him handle everything so you could relax. He told them he was a contractor, that he worked for his brother. It wasn’t exactly a lie, that was his front- his “laundromat”.

You’d seen his hands balled up into fists, scars adorning his knuckles from throwing punches, but those were the same hands that brushed away your tears and held you with such tenderness whenever you needed them to. You had overheard strings of foul threats flowing so freely from his lips when he took calls in another room and hoped you were out of earshot, but those were the same lips that whispered sweet nothings to you on Sunday mornings while you were still half-asleep, curled up in his arms.

It was getting late and Tommy wasn’t home. You held out on dinner in the hopes that he might be back in time for you to eat together, but it was another one of those nights. You were standing at the sink, cleaning the small array of kitchen utensils you had used to prepare your own meal when the buzz of your cell phone cut through the silence in the house. His name lit up the screen, and you answered.

‘Hey.’

‘Hi, baby. You okay?

‘Yeah, I'm good. Just finished dinner. You on your way home?’

‘No, uh, not yet. I’m a little tied up here.’

‘Oh… Is everything alright?’

‘Yeah, no, it’s fine, sugar. don’t worry ‘bout me.’

Normally you would’ve rolled your eyes at his mantra, but his tone was hesitant. You knew he was building up to something, and you knew you wouldn’t like it.

‘Tommy, what is it?’ There was a moment of silence and he sighed audibly through the phone. 

‘I uh… I need you to make a delivery for me, honey. You think you could do that for me?’

‘A delivery?’ for a moment it didn’t register. Then the penny dropped, and you fell silent, frozen in place. 

‘I know, baby, I know. I would normally get one of the guys to do it but none of them can right now. I know it’s a lot but I wouldn’t be asking if it wasn’t important. Please, baby.’ There was shame oozing from every word. 

‘What am I delivering?’

For a moment there was more silence.

‘It’s probably better if you don’t know.’

The package was hidden in a nondescript grey shoe box, tucked into the corner of the closet, where he had directed you to look. A brown paper parcel, wrapped in layers of tape, giving no indication of its contents. The weight of it felt like a grenade in your hands. It could have been a grenade, for all you knew. You elected to carry it inside the box to avoid suspicions. The chances of anybody seeing you with it were slim, but your mind was spinning with visions of flashing blue lights and cops and handcuffs.

You stopped the car, right where Tommy had instructed you to. The place was exactly as you had imagined it- a dark alleyway, lit only by your headlights and the dull glow from a flickering streetlight nearby. Grimy exposed brick surrounded you on each side, slick with the rain that hammered down on the hood of your car. Aside from the constant drum of the downpour, it was silent, the archetypal place for an interaction like this. You picked up your phone and hit the call button on Tommy’s contact, lifting the phone to your ear. After a few moments, the dial tone stopped and his voice came through the speaker.

‘Everythin’ alright, sugar?’

You peered out at your surroundings through the teary glass of the windshield. 

‘Yeah, um.. I’m here, but I don’t see anybody.’

‘Just wait, he’ll be there soon, okay?’

‘I don’t like this, Tommy. Why does it have to happen at the set of a slasher movie?’

You heard him chuckle lightly through the phone.

‘S’just to keep you safe, darlin’. Don’t want nobody seein’ you.’

You let out an unamused laugh. Right, no witnesses. Perfect. 

A sharp knock on the fogged glass snatched your attention. You dropped the phone and a small scream escaped you. Your heartbeat was ringing in your ears as your hand, slick with sweat, moved to roll down the window. You knew immediately that this was your guy, just from looking at him. He was tall, although hunched over slightly to peer into the car, broad shoulders bending to lower him down. 

‘You Tommy’s girl?’

You stared up at him like a deer in headlights, frozen in the drivers’ seat. You nodded slightly, practically trembling with fear. He opened the passenger door and sat down in the seat beside you. 

You stared at him in silence for a moment, watching his dark brown eyes trail down from your eyes to your lips, then from your lips to your chest, then from your chest to your hips. The sides of his lips curled up into a sly smirk before his eyes met yours again. ‘I knew he was sendin’ me some presents but they ain’t normally this cute.’ You broke eye contact, weary of giving him the wrong impression as remembered what you were here for and reached into the backseat to grab the shoebox.

‘I um.. I have it.. What you want..’ You shoved it towards him, desperate for him to take it, get out of the car, and for all this to be over. His eyes fell slowly from yours to the package in your hands as you offered it to him. He took it from you, took one look at the parcel inside and nodded, seemingly satisfied with it. Then he placed it on the dashboard of the car, and turned back to face you.

‘He tell you ‘bout my payment?’

Payment? Tommy didn’t say anything about that. And shouldn’t he be paying you for the delivery? Dread was filling your stomach as he sucked in a deep breath, evidently reading your wide-eyed expression as confusion. The glint of a pistol caught your eye, the silvery metal glinting in the weak light. You gasped at the sight of it as he took it out of his pocket, and placed it in the cupholder and held his hands up, reading the virginal fear in your eyes. ‘Look, I ain’t gonna hurt you.. Don’t wanna mess up that pretty lil’ face of yours. But I ain’t leavin’ this car without some kinda deal.’ 

With shaking hands, you started to search for the phone you had dropped onto the floor beneath the driver’s seat, seeing Tommy’s name still on the screen- the call was still active. You held it to your ear.

‘Tommy w-what’s this about a payment? How much do you owe him?’

Another moment of silence. Your heartbeat was ringing so loud in your ears, you barely heard his voice coming through the speaker.

‘Just go with it, baby.’

The metallic clink of your passenger’s belt caught your attention, 

‘Tommy, h-he’s-’

‘ know, baby. Just go with it.’

His darkening eyes burned into yours. “Put him on speaker.” 

You obliged, and for the first time, you allowed your eyes to explore him. His mannerisms were like Tommy’s, as was his tall nose and intense gaze. Your thighs were pinned to each other, a guilty fire igniting in the pit of your stomach as you watched his veiny, calloused hands unbuckle his belt while he spoke into your phone, his voice low and gravelly.

‘Sent me a real pretty one, brother. Real cute.’ His voice addressed Tommy, but his deadly gaze was fixed on you.

‘Real sweet, ain’t she, Joel?’ Tommy’s words crackled through the speaker, and your heart dropped. He set you up for this.

When your eyes met back with Joel’s, he patted his lap. You knew what to do, his instructions were clear. You climbed across the centre console shakily, arranging your knees on either side of his thighs. You held yourself slightly above his lap. The thought of another man touching you in this way felt wrong, like a magnetic repulsion was holding you back from him. He rested his hands on your hips, letting out a soft sigh as his eyes roamed your body, your chest, your waist, your hips, your thighs. 

‘Work of art, Tommy.” 

‘Yeah, she’s somethin’ else.’

You bit down on your lower lip hard as your heart twisted with angst and fear in your chest. Joel’s hands squeezed at the flesh of your hips, eliciting a soft gasp.

‘Relax, darlin’. I won’t bite.’ 

‘It's okay, sugar. He ain’t gonna hurt you. Promise.’

‘Course not. Your man would kill me if I did.’ You doubted he was exaggerating. With that, he pulled you down into his lap, leaving no space between you. A small whimper escaped your lips, the rough texture of his jeans teasing you through your panties. ‘This the first time you’re deliverin’ for him?’ You nodded. He raised his eyebrows, his intoxicating gaze travelling across your collarbones, down to your chest. Joel took the phone out of your hand and placed it in the cup holder, next to his gun. His hands gripped your thighs and gradually moved up under the hem of your skirt, stroking your skin. He brought his lips to your neck, his facial hair scratching against the skin. ‘Got a lot to learn ‘bout this trade.’ His rough hands travelled up to your centre, rubbing you softly through the fabric. He let out a low whistle, feeling the dampness between your legs. ‘More into me than you let on, ain’t you, darlin’?’  

A soft sigh came through the speaker of the phone, a sound you knew well. 

‘She ain’t as innocent as she looks, brother.’ A sharp pain stabbed at your chest, hearing Tommy’s voice. He’s allowing this? He isn’t infuriated by just the thought of another man’s hands all over you? Touching you in the place only his hands are allowed to go? The thought enraged you, but you only had the resources available. So you rocked your hips and let out the sweet little whimper you had been holding in, Joel’s thickening hardness beneath you caressing every nerve. He let out a small grunt too, the same grin playing on his lips as he watched your hips grind into his. 

‘That’s it. There you go, just relax. Ain’t gonna hurt you.’

His hands snaked around your waist, squeezing it as his lips met your collarbone, decorating it with his light and lustful kisses, fanning the flames that were growing between your thighs. Your head rolled back, he mumbled against your skin, ‘Gonna give you a lil’ souvenir, darlin’.’ He sucked lightly on the skin at the base of your neck, eliciting another soft noise from you. 

‘Best not be markin’ up my girl, Joel.’

‘Too damn late. She likes it, don’t you, sweetheart?’

You nodded, mumbling a soft ‘Mhm,’ loud enough that Tommy could hear, and you knew he did. His groan came through the speaker, and you could see the vision clearly. His head rolling back and resting on the back of the couch, jeans at his knees, and his hand wrapped around the base of his hard cock, but not moving it to savor his release for later. 

Joel’s thick fingers tapped your thigh, directing you to sit up. You lifted your hips, whimpering desperately at the loss of friction.

‘Don’t think I can wait much longer for this.’ He grumbled as he pushed his jeans down to his knees. You looked down to see the huge tent he was pitching beneath your lap, and his hand palming it. His lustful eyes were trained on yours, his jaw slacking as he took in your features, his voice reduced to a desperate whisper. ‘Real fuckin’ pretty.’ 

His fingers tugged at your panties and you let him pull them down, his fingers immediately returned to your heat, your jaw slacked at the sensation of them tracing your clit without the limits of the cotton. ‘Like that, huh?’

‘What you doin’ to her, brother?’

‘Just playin’ with her lil clit.’

‘You like it, sugar?’

Joel saw your mouth opening to reply to Tommy and applied more pressure, eliciting a gasp from you. 

‘I love it.’ your voice came out breathy and ragged from the pleasure as his fingers drew circles around it. 

Joel withdrew his hand from your clit and tugged his boxers down to his knees, letting his erection spring free and slap his tummy. The length of it almost reached his belly button. He wetted his lips with his tongue, his carnivorous eyes gazing up at yours. 

‘You ready for me, darlin’?’

You nodded eagerly, feeling him lining himself up for entry. He pulled your hips back down hard, and you cried out from the stretch of the intrusion and tried to squirm, but his big hands restrained you, holding you still against him. All you could do was whimper desperately, your nails carving deep crescents into his shoulders while your arousal soaked him. Joel picked up your phone and held it up to your jaw.

‘Tell him how big it is.’ His tone was commanding and dominant as his eyes watched your expression intently, watching how your features contorted in both pain and pleasure.

‘So fuckin’ big, Tommy.’

His groan rattled through the speaker of the phone

‘Bigger than mine, baby?’

Joel’s rough hands squeezed your thighs hard.

‘Yeah.’

‘Fuck.’

The corners of Joel’s lips twitched up into that same cocky grin as before, his hands travelling up to your hips and pulling them against him, then pushing them back out again, urging you to move. You immediately obliged. You ground your hips slowly against him, still adjusting to his size. Little grunts of pleasure escaped him as he watched you, his jaw tense and clearly holding back.

‘C’mon, darlin’. I’ve heard you can do way better than that.’ The same pain stabbed at your chest, the thought of Tommy going into detail about your sex life to his brother filling your mind with hot, white rage. So you showed him exactly what he had heard about. Your hips moved faster, feeling every inch of his manhood reaching your depths- deeper than Tommy ever could. You let your noises grow louder, let them drip with lust and pleasure, and made sure your boyfriend could hear it through the phone- made sure he could hear the difference. 

Joel’s teeth nipped at the sensitive skin on your neck, his facial hair scratching you lightly as grunts of pleasure rumbled from his throat. He guided your hips with his hands, occasionally bucking up into you, jolting louder whimpers out of you each time his head dug even deeper.

‘Tight lil’ pussy. My brother ain’t stretchin’ you out enough? Feel like a damn virgin.’

Tommy’s voice came through the speaker at that.

‘Tight, ain’t she?’

Joel growled, his dark eyes watching as you swallowed him up over and over again. 

“Won’t be for long.”

He started to buck his hips, fucking you from below. You stopped moving, letting him use you, take what he wanted. Grunts and whimpers fell from both of your mouths, and the windows of your car became cloudier than they already were, save for a desperate handprint and a drop of condensation trailing down from it. Joel was still holding the phone to your ear, letting your noises drip through the phone. The audio was clearly enough fuel for Tommy, his heavy breathing giving you the perfect indication of what the scene was like back home.

‘Fuck, you sound so pretty, baby.’ Tommy’s voice was gravelly and soaked in desire. You gushed down below but not for him. Your eyes met Joel’s again, and you began to move, your hips meeting his half way. His head fell back against the headrest, his predatory gaze trained on you. His rough hand moved from your hip, up under your shirt and his thumb rolled over the stiff bud, before grasping your breast roughly.

‘You gonna tell him how good it feels, darlin’?’ he nudged your cheek with the phone, urging you to speak into it.

Your voice had become a trembling, whining mess. ‘Feels so fuckin’ good, Tommy. So good.’ 

‘Yeah? I fuck you better than he does?’ You nodded in response and Joel nudged your face with the phone again, silently commanding you to verbalise it.

‘Yeah, so much better.’ You heard Tommy groan in pleasure and knew you had to dig deeper to get back at him for getting you into all this. Although a part of you wanted to thank him- it really was better. “Fuck, so much deeper. So much harder.”

Joel’s hips started pumping up into you roughly, his grip on you getting tighter, possibly leaving bruises under his fingertips. You moaned as the pain blended with the pleasure he was giving you as he held the phone back to his own mouth.

‘You gonna let me fill up your girl, brother?’

‘You better fuckin’ not, I’ll fuckin’ kill you.’

Joel’s eyes burned into yours, and you could almost see the wheels turning in his head. You looked at him and nodded, and he immediately hit the red button on the screen, then tossed your phone to the empty driver’s seat beside you. Both of his hands gripped your hips tightly, and sweat dampened the skin of his thighs.

‘Bounce on it for me.’ You did. The car started to shake with the force of your movements. If this part of town wasn’t so empty, you’d be expecting a knock on the foggy window from a cop. ‘You gonna let me fill you up? Don’t let him scare you, he ain’t gonna lay a finger on neither of us.’

You nodded, picking up the pace of your hips to meet Joel’s quickening thrusts. His tip kissed your cervix over and over and you cried out from the sensation. He snaked his strong arms around your waist and pulled you closer so your chest was flush against his. 

‘You want that? You wanna go home to my brother with it all leakin’ out of you? Bet he’d hate that.’

You nodded, your eyes were locked onto his and you could feel that flame in your stomach turning blue. You whispered, your voice dripping with lust.

‘Wanna piss him off real bad.’

Joel’s teeth gritted as his cock twitched inside you, and with a few more thrusts he erupted, painting your insides white with his release. You fell apart at the same moment, gushing around him with loud whimpers. The force of the orgasm wracked through your body and shook you to your core. He didn’t give you much time to recover before he tapped your thigh, silently commanding you to pull off him. With your body still trembling from the force of your release, you moved back to the driver’s seat and watched him as he tucked himself back into his jeans and buckled his belt. 

‘Pleasure doin’ business with you, sweetheart.’

He picked up his pistol out of the cup holder and tucked it back into his pocket before taking the box and turning to open the door. But your mind weighed heavily with the exchange, so you stopped him.

‘Wait..’ Joel turned to face you, an impatient expression written on his features. ‘..What did I just deliver?’ He stared at you for a moment, not following. ‘The package..?’ He looked down at the box in his hands for a moment before offering it to you.

‘Open it.’

Cautiously, you reached out and took it from him. With slow hands you opened it and started to tear the brown paper wrapping off the parcel, and were met with another paper package inside. But this one was white and blue, with bold letters sprawled across it, spelling out the word “sugar”. Your brows knit together in confusion as you picked it up. 

‘…The fuck is this? Coke?’

You held it up to let Joel see what was wrapped up beneath the paper. He shrugged nonchalantly.

‘Says it’s sugar.’

You stared dumbfounded at the small white bag in your hand. It obviously wasn’t the white powder you thought they sold. And what, Joel couldn’t buy his own groceries? The same vile dread filled your stomach when you concluded that the sugar was just a prop. There was no delivery- your body was the exchange. Joel’s eyes clearly read the realisation on your face and his lips curled up into a smug smirk as he placed a cigarette between them and opened the passenger door, stepping out into the rain.

‘See ya round, sweetheart’

[better-setterv2]

𝒜𝒸𝒸𝒾𝒹𝑒𝓃𝓉𝒶𝓁𝓁𝓎 𝒴𝑜𝓊𝓇𝓈

Authors Note: Hey everyone! This is my very first post on Tumblr. I’m still figuring out how everything works on here, so apologies if the formatting’s a bit off. If you have any feedback, let me know. Thanks so much for reading and I hope you enjoy! P.S I honestly hate this...Lots of love xx

Summary: Reader gets added into the f1 group-chat by mistake

Warning: none

MASTERLIST

Pt1, Pt2

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ

You never meant to end up in that group chat.

One minute you were scrolling through your messages and the next, a swarm of notifications flooded in. GIFs, memes and inside jokes that made no sense from a group chat named GridBanterGC 🏁. Apparently, someone named MadMax had meant to add someone else. You were the wrong number. The usernames presented were even more confusing; HoneyBadger, SmoothOperator, Pastry and a lot more.

[MadMax has added unknown user to GridBanterGC🏁]

MadMax: don’t worry guys I finally added Alex

Norrified: Are you sure? Because that is not Alex’s number man

SmootherOperator: that isn’t even close to Alex’s number HAHAHA

Pastry: Who did you even add?

User: um…hello?

Hulk: what have you done Max?

Baguetteboi: Uh...hi there. What’s your name?

User: Why would I tell randoms my name? Do you guys even have brain cells?

MrSaturday: Fair. As a matter of fact we do have brain cells! Well, some of us.

But before you could press leave chat, a message caught your attention.

Hammertime: Do I even bother asking what happened? Ignore them newbie, feel free to leave or stay. I promise we don’t bite.

You smiled as you read his message, feeling a warm connection despite not knowing who Hammertime actually was.

MadMax: Sorry guys I didn’t mean to add them. Bloody fat thumbs…

HoneyBadger: How do you even stuff up that bad?

User: You’re telling me you dragged me into this stupid group-chat with idiotic names accidentally?

Pastry: Exactly.

User: You can easily just block me, problem solved. Honestly what are you guys, 14 year olds who don’t think?

Hulk: we just got roasted…by a random in like 5 seconds

Hammertime: Leave the newbie alone. Anyway, don’t mind them. You’ll get used to the chaos. If you need a break, hit me up or I can tell these wildlings to stop harassing you.

You felt a small flutter in your chest at the message, wondering what kind of person he was behind the screen.

You didn’t know much about Hammertime just his kindness and the way he made you feel welcome. But there was something about him that was starting to intrigue you more than the others.

The conversation shifted to random memes and more lighthearted jokes, but you kept finding yourself glancing at Hammetime’s name whenever he spoke, the soft mystery he exuded pulling you in.

You set your phone down with a soft sigh, wondering how long it would take to figure out who those people are behind the screen.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡

The next day, the group chat was its usual chaotic self. You sometimes commenting throughout. But this time, there was something different.

You didn’t just see the jokes and memes, you saw Hammertime’s messages first. He was calm, cool, collected and somehow in the mess of it all, you found yourself looking forward to his next message.

But what really caught you off guard was a message from Hammertime that afternoon.

Hammertime: Funny how someone can show up by accident and still end up being the best part of the day unlike the rest of you

You blinked at the message, unsure how to respond. Your fingers hovered over the keyboard, but for once you didn’t know what to say.

You typed back and erased your reply twice before finally settling on;

User: Is that your way of saying you’re glad I’m here?

Seconds passed. Then a minute. Your phone buzzed again.

Hammertime: Maybe. Don’t let it go to your head though.

SmootherOperator: stop flirting you two, that’s my job

You laughed quietly, pulling your knees to your chest as you sat curled up on your couch. There was something different about him or whoever he was. Polite, thoughtful, with this quiet sort of charm that didn’t try too hard.

You didn’t even know his real name, but somehow that didn’t seem to matter. You smiled to yourself, heart fluttering just a bit. You didn’t know who Hammertime really was…but maybe you didn’t need to. Not yet.

For now, the mystery was enough.

[nicohii]

(Actor! Caleb x Writer! Non-MC reader part 2. And I'll probably make this a series, this is unedited I am so sorry)

part one here

Your phone vibrates two weeks later with a familiar contact photo popping on the screen. You don't have the strength in you to let the call die so you pick up. 

"Hey" , Caleb starts.

"Hey" you softly answered back 

"I was just wondering if.... I mean... I was just... I just wanted to say sorry. I didn't mean that. Not that way. You're writing is perfect. It's very mean of me. I'm sorry. "

You can imagine him fidgeting on the other line. You chew on your bottom lip before muttering an, "It's okay. It's fine. You know, I can never hate you, C."

He exhales through the mic. "Let's catch up? Soon? We can play that new game you talked about that just got released, yeah? Like old times? "

"Sure. Like old times "

You turn the call off and stare into the ceiling of your kitchen. Puffing out the breath you've holding. It's something you've been mulling over and over for the past couple of months, the idea of the world beyond Caleb. He's your muse, but sometimes, love doesn't really reach the one's you want it to doesn't it? And maybe that's the universe telling you the unspoken. 

The years have come by with you artistry focused on whom the heart beats for, but really what happens after that? He's made it clear (kinda) and maybe it's time. 

So you gather whatever's left of dignity you have and make a vow to yourself. Love isn't just some boy (turned man) you have pined for your entire life, maybe there's a differenr form of it out there for you to find. So you forgive yourseld for the pain you blame yourself for. 

The world is big, you forgive and you try, you will try, and you will get by. 

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

Actor! Caleb sees you for a brief while during Comic con, and you're currently discussing with backstage staff. You wave at him before going back into a deep conversation, he stares at you for a while before coming down back to Earth when a figure zooms past him to run into your arms.

Actress! MC pratically latches into you, arms around your neck as you spin her around. Two friends reunited.

He hates the tinge of jealousy, of whom, he isn't sure. Like, it's okay to see his ex hug you and you return it with no hesitation and she gets to talk to you with no awkwardness whatsoever. But like, come on, how come she gets to hug you like that but you can't even look at him in the eyes? How is that fair? He can feel his pout come in, he wants to sulk, to tell her to back off and ---

"Hey guys, you're up." A staff tells him and his co-stars, MC finally let's go of you and you exchange schedules before she joins them on stage.

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

Actor! Caleb, who sways the whole room with his charm and humor. Honestly, he is every PR reps dream client; knows how to answer the crowd to warm them up but not spill any major spoilers, he's updated with fan theories and what not and knows how to work around them. They announce a renewed season but don't spill any date yet.

Alongside him though, equally entertaining the crowd with their exchange of inside jokes and quips, is his co-star, Actor! Sylus.

A particular fan asks him a question, something about his future projects to which Actor! Sylus replies with, "I think I want to try directing some time in the future."

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

Actor! Sylus who pats him on the shoulder as they go down the stairs and into the backstage booth. He sits down with Actor! Caleb and Actress! MC in the dressing room to cool down.

"So directing! Do you have any genre in mind?" Caleb asks as he opens his bottled water as Sylus wipes his face with make up remover.

"No, not yet, I do however, have my interest on one writer's portfolio. I like the vulnerability and emotional rawness, you know?" The man replies which makes his other two companions stare at him.

"What? I have range too you know, this action-packed roles get too dull."

It's MC who shrugs, "I mean, that's true. Do you have a name for this writer of yours? "

Actor! Caleb who feels an ugly feeling in his chest when Sylus says your name. The deep crease in his brow makes MC snort. He asks her with his eyes and she just gives him a shrug. He asks Sylus why, only to be replied with, why not?

"You should watch their screenplays, it's like... an ode, a series of love letters to someone, nothing more screams art than that right?"

Actress! MC who watches everything in amusement before elbowing him, "Well, you better lock in, Colonel."

What does that even mean?

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

Actor! Caleb who spends a whole month watching your screenplays, from your earliest works, episodes, indies, shorts, feature films, everything that has your goddamn name on it.

Actor! Caleb who freezes in his couch when it finally makes sense. Who feels like he's drowning when the credits finally roll in. He finds it hard to breathe and suddenly the room feels too big and empty, like his skin begs for a familiar pair of arms to hold him.

It's there, the messages hidden perfectly well only for him to find, the little details that you have picked from real life, from moments -- moments you have shared with him. Inside jokes that only he knows the punchline to.

How can you tell him you can't capture love well when... when all he feels is the overwhelming warmth of your yearning? Have you always loved him this much? Have you always looked at him with these eyes? Almost like he was something so precious even he can't see it himself? How can you stand by with all the hurt and ---

He almost feels dizzy from standing up too fast, taking his phone from his kitchen table. He dials your number, the call doesn't go through. He dials again.

It's around the third missed call that you send him a text.

"In a meeting. Ttyl."

"Who? "

It's the longest three minutes of his life.

"Producer. Director. Anyway, I'll prolly gonna do a raincheck on that game night. Need to write a new project. Sorry."

"Is Sylus directing? "

There's three dots. Before it stops. It comes alive again.

"Yeah. How'd you know? "

tagging everyone who asked (and commented ) on the first part (ily guys sm)

@mcdepressed290 @lillycore @wegottastayfocus @raendarkfaerie @fishwasher8 @persephonejeon @his-ocean-emissary @maskedbunni

[changeling-droneco]

#i fully used the jkr stuff to hopefully get some allos to actually pay attention and I am not ashamed#i would do it again in heartbeat

Honestly it's nothing to be ashamed if even one person saw that going down and decided to look deeper into aspec stuff or at least put forward a bit more of an effort to support it, totally worth it. Talking about some of my own experiences under the cut, it's a bit heavy with serious themes therefor, cut.

I got pretty lucky back then due to being a rather smaller blog at the time who mostly just reblogged other people back then so I dodged anything specifically targeting me but it really did feel like every other day someone I followed would reblog just something super aphobic out of the blue and I'd have to block them. I changed my icon to the ace colors back then as a part of being prideful of my identity yes, but also as a show of "you can't make us go away" I genuinely thought over whether it was worth the potential attention and hate from other queer people.

I remember finding cool lesbian blogs or whatever and having to check their faq or info or just search asexual and nine times out of ten be met with some cheeky aphobic response about how we weren't real or that our acceptance was heavily conditional like "ace" or "aro" was just an unimportant additive to our REAL label. I remember the gore and the sheer amount of sexual violence. I remember being TERRIFIED in june because it all got SO MUCH WORSE and more violent during pride an instinct that took me YEARS to get over.

I was there for the Thomas Sanders stuff and the tldr is someone sent an ask going all "hey what do you think of ace people" and thomas sanders the gay tiktok star was like "yeah ace people exist I support them" and then he IMMEDIATELY got accused of being a groomer pedophile and people dug for MILES to find anything even SLIGHTLY incriminating, he took a selfie that featured his butt? pedophile.

He was "cancelled" basically overnight the moment he said that with everyone complaining about how he was being homophobic by just acknowledging we exist. Like, right before that he was SUPER popular and hyped up but the moment ace people popped up? nope, he's a gay class traitor now. Genuinely despicable, no one ever apologized for THAT either.

It's still kinda hard to talk about this stuff, I was one of the luckier ones who dug my heels in but was also small enough to go under the radar, we lost a lot back then.

We were begging people to understand that to the rest of the world we were also seen as something wrong, something incorrect, something that needed to be fixed through pills and conversion therapy or sexual violence, and all we got was victim blaming and telling us that the language we used wasn't made for us and it was actually lesbophobic of us to use that language of corrective rape actually!

Oh also also any teenager who associates with Asexual has clearly being groomed by the Asexual Agenda tm because asexuality is purely about just SEX obviously and thats GROSS because obviously talking about kids and teens about sex in literally any capacity is bad. so we're cancelling sesame street for having an ace flag in their pride video because it's pedophilia did you know sesame street promoted pedophilia?

Plus that teen girl who got MURDERED in part for being asexual? not only are we going to spam the tags with her murder picture, we're going to gaslight everyone about how it was JUST about misogyny the asexual stuff had nooothing to do with it. It wasn't like we were constantly getting threats of assault and death. I remember you Bianca, and I'm so fucking sorry your memory was used to hurt your own community.

We're still here though with our black and white rings, and we'll always be here, but I know this shit comes in cycles, I'm just waiting for us to end up on the chopping block again.

I guess you could call tumblr's support for us very.....all or nothing

Honestly, I am pretty frustrated by the "haha why would anyone hate ace people" responses to Rowling's tweet.

Don't get me wrong, the support is nice. But if you want to be an ally, you have to do so on our terms, not yours. And that means actually engaging with the aspec community, not just posting positivity every now and again. And what those responses highlight to me is what I've known for a while; you guys only support aspec people when it's easy and convenient.

It's easy to support aspec people when it's J.K. Rowling being awful again. It's easy to support us when it's just reblogging an "aspec people are queer" post.

But what about when we are talking about amatonormativity and the relationship hierarchy? When we are discussing the enforcement of compulsory sexuality? When we are pushing for greater awareness and support for aspec identities that are not asexuality or aromanticism? When we are criticizing terminology that you use but harms us? Because I can tell you right now, I rarely see allo people engage with those posts.

Why do people hate asexuality (or any other aspec identity)? Because it challenges the societal norms that benefit them. And that is uncomfortable and scary. So they turn to hate and oppression in order to assure that the changes we push by just openly existing never happen.

That means that to be a good aspec ally, you can't just make a positivity post every now and again, and you can't just laugh about how stupid aphobes are. You have to openly challenge the societal norms that harm us, even if they benefit you. Including but not limited to:

The idea that romantic and sexual attraction is the default state of being (amatonormativity)

The idea that a romantic, sexual relationship completes a person

People in marriages receiving special privileges and benefits

The idea that platonic, familial, etc. attraction are default states of being

The idea that not feeling some form of attraction must be compensated for through another form of attraction

The idea that love (not just romantic) is inherently morally good, while not feeling love is inherently a moral failing

The idea that any one form of relationship is inherently more important or deeper than any other (relationship hierarchy)

The idea that any one thing makes someone human

The idea that not having sex is shameful or infantile

The idea that having sex without romantic love is callous

Gendered divides of sexual and romantic attraction

Other aspec people please feel free to add on/challenge any of this. Allo (not aspec) people please feel free to ask questions.

I've placed some resources for learning more about these topics under the cut.

Amatonormativity:

[1] [2] [3] [4] [5 - also in the Loveless section] [6 - also in the Compulsory Sexuality section]

Marriage Benefits:

[1]

Other Aspec Identities:

[Aplatonicism] [Afamilialism]

Loveless:

[1] [2 - also in the Amatonormativity section] [3] [4] [5]

Compulsory Sexuality:

[1 - also in the Amatonormativity section] [2]

Relationship Hierarchy vs Relationship Anarchy:

[1] [2] [3]

Oppression:

[1] [2] [3]

Miscellaneous:

[1] [2]

Books and Video Essays:

An Ace Discourse Retrospective by Jenny Geist

Ace: What Asexuality Reveals about Desire, Society, and the Meaning of Sex by Angela Chen

Refusing Compulsory Sexuality: A Black Asexual Lens on Our Sex-Obsessed Culture by Sherronda J. Brown

[reigningm4x]

I think the thing that makes me the most angry is the double standards and hypocrisy when it comes to Max. I get it, I am a hater at heart, I get not wanting the team/driver you hate to do well. But everything that Max was doing in 2023 that he got SO much hate for cause he was dominating, and moves that he continues to get hate for simply cause he's the one doing them, and how he wasn't overly loud in his celebrations....all things that people and Sky pundits went on and on about. And now that it's Mclaren, it's all fine for them to do.

And yet Max is STILL their main topic of conversation. They have the best car yet can barely get past Max. They have the best car yet victimize themselves into believing they are underdogs. They have the best car and it somehow makes Norris think he has the right of way on track. It's infuriating.

[florvaine]

— tied him down to my queen bed !

Shoto’s always open to help you - even if it’s torture having to sit through it.

sub!shoto todoroki x fem!reader

warnings: bondage/shibari, 🚨‼️ PATHETIC ‼️🚨 shoto, how whiney can i make this grown man?, no actual smut this guys just needy thats it hit post

a/n: this is self indulgent ngl 😋

wc: 1.3k

One thing about Shoto is that he is willing. If you called him at two in the morning before the sun even thought of rising, if he was halfway across the globe, he'd find a way to get to you as soon as he could. It's one of the many reasons why you love him.

There was one time that you had a wardrobe malfunction at an important event, so you called him. In a matter of minutes he made his way into the women's bathroom with a whole new outfit for you. He stayed by your side for the rest of the night. What you found out later was that he cut an important interview short to get you that change of clothes.

It took a while to figure it out, but through many slow conversations, he revealed that he likes being useful. He enjoys being the first person you call for and finds pride in your trust of him. The undying loyalty of him being more than just a husband but a partner to be with forever, come ripped seams or life-threatening situations. Shoto thrives in chivalry, especially for you.

There's an underlying emotion of being the opposite of his father, a man who Shoto can't forgive to this day even if the rest of his family does.

In shorter terms, if there's some way that Shoto can serve his beautiful, strong, lovely wife, he will.

But it's moments like these that he hates it.

The second you came up to him just before he was about to leave for the gym, Shoto knew by the glint in your eyes that he wasn't anymore.

You pressed up against his back, wrapping your arms under his and to his tapered waist. Over the black compression shirt he wore, you (not very subtly) dragged your manicured nails along the muscles on his abdomen.

"Where are you going, dressed like that?" You hummed, a hand sliding down to thumb at the waistband of his grey joggers, hanging low on his hips.

Shoto knew that you had a certain affinity for this specific outfit and was hoping he could escape before you saw. As soon as he felt your hands glide across the material of the shirt, he sank back into you slightly. A heat crosses wherever you leave your touch, causing the two-toned man to let out a breath.

Shoto turned his head over his shoulder to look at you, almost immediately noticing the way you look back at him. Eyes half-lidded, lips pulled into a glossy, unsuspecting smile. Your whole expression showed expectation.

"Nowhere," he muttered.

Like that, his fate was sealed. More precisely, his fate was sealed by soft crimson rope wrapping around his limbs. Shoto let you pose and prod and pull at him onto the bed with forceful love. His head bowed like a knight to a queen until you gently grasped his jaw to look him over.

With every length you tie, every splitting junction from a knot you tied, you create an intricate design over top of his mundane clothing that he just wishes would disappear.

Laying thick twine steadily against his broad shoulders, past his flexing arms, across his sturdy chest and down his sternum, you make careful bonds at his joints and set him up like a model for an artist.

Eventually you finished the final knot. You had got Shoto pent up, his arms and hands tied behind his back, and forced his rideable thighs to bend underneath the strips of scarlet. Diamonds sat along his arms, and a heart – which you had been reading on how to do recently – sat in the middle of his chest. The string wasn't pulled tight enough to hurt but enough to slightly hinder his movements and keep him where he was.

By the time you've finished and stepped back to admire your work, Shoto's huffing and puffing with need. He can't hide it; the tips of his ears flushed along with his neck, and pressing a hand to either side of his face showed how he was reacting.

It feels as if you're holding him down, the thread replaced with your hands cupping, holding, gliding along his body as he just wants to rid himself of his shirt and trousers to get as close to the feel as he can. But he can't, the binding reminding him of his dilemma.

You avoided placing pressure where he needed it. A familiar print pressed against the clothing of his trousers, both from his want and the ropes that led from his hips to the back of his legs.

It's not very often that Shoto gets like this, all desperate and pliant, but when he does, you take your time.

He holds back whines from the back of his throat as you graze lightly over his torso. You watch fascinated at the way your hands send ripples along his skin underneath his clothing. One of your hands lingers around his thin waistline, feeling his reactions underneath slivers of rope. The other moves smoothly up to his face, and with a tender grasp, you direct his bowed head upwards. And oh, what a sight it was.

A crystalline layer covers azure and gunmetal irises, lashes pronounced with low eyelids. The scar around his eye was slightly more prominent from his dishevelled hair, wine and chalk fusing together to form a slight pink if you focused. His thin eyebrows pulled together and up with a look of utter hopelessness. There were small breaths exiting his parted lips, and a pink overlaid his cheeks and the tip of his nose.

"Look at you," you mumble with a loving smile on your face.

With the hand from his torso, you lift it and card through his hair softly, settling on his lap. Shoto inhales sharply, reacting with a slight movement of his hips underneath you. He's been craving any sort of contact from you that wasn't fleeting and replaced with thread, and now it's overwhelming.

You're so close to where he needs you, and you know it. It's difficult not to ignore the hardness that rested beneath you, but you settle light kisses across the warm and cold expanse of his face.

"Please," he whimpers out as you sneak your fingertips underneath the collar of his t-shirt.

The needy man gulps for air that doesn't seem to exist, Adam's apple bobbing and drawing your attention. In seconds you draw your lips down from his jaw and settle around his neck, light loving pecks transforming into wanton and messy. Taking your time to pick and choose where to mark him, leaving light cerise plumes of skin in your wake and smoothing over sensations with your tongue like a cat.

Shoto can't handle it. Whines release from his mouth, vocal cords pulled in a way to allow for the high-pitched sound to echo around your shared bedroom. The warmth of you sat on him, but not where he needed you; the feeling of love transferred to his skin through your lingering pecks to his face and the stinging and smothering reoccurring touch of teeth and tongue.

You pull away, lips just hovering over his as he breathes heavily. "So pretty, so beautiful."

The praise pulls a sound from him before you push your lips against his fully. With that you slip a hand underneath the material of his joggers, and Shoto knows exactly why he waits to serve, existing in limbo to your beck and call.