#chapter probably 18 part 1

[britcision]

AND HERE WE ARE! Totally getting this out in February well done team! And this is gonna be our last chapter before a wee teeny tiny time skip and Jason’s finished core! What a beautiful day 🥰

We’re getting another two-parter too, because Danny and Jason refused to let me get to the end of this lil introductory arc without at least one more pile of abject fluff! But finally, we’re ready to begin the plot!

Once again, the link to the AO3 version is in the first chapter and the 15th chapter; you can see it in the text for the link if you wanna subscribe to be told when it updates 😁

First Chapter:

Previous Chapter:

——————

So That Just Happened part 1

Back in her own room on the other side of the country from Gotham, Sam Manson reclined back into giant, coffin shaped body pillow her beloved girlfriend had given her when they moved and contemplated her phone.

The brand new Wayne-chat was blowing up satisfactorily, although apparently Tim was a massive stalker too. That was probably a good thing; it meant she hadn’t actually nuked Tuck’s chances with his nerd-crush. Now they could bond over their mutual stalker tendencies.

But, did that make her revenge less effective?

It wasn’t like she was actually out to ruin his life, but she’d kinda like to leave a mark. Something that would make him think twice about letting her think he and Danny had fucking died in Gotham in her absence.

Or. Well. Gone radio silent in Gotham, which was probably actually worse because if they were dead she’d know exactly where they were.

The Wayne chat were all pretty sure Tim and Tucker were together too, and Sam’s new best friend Babs had even pulled up the feed from their living room tv somehow. Sam wasn’t exactly the tech wizard Tucker was, but… after seeing that, she disconnected her and Val’s TV from the wifi.

And settled in to remote watch Tuck get his ass kicked at Spiderheck, apparently. At least for a little while; until something else on her phone caught her attention.

It was… almost funny. While she knew she was a whole three timezones away, she’d never really felt left out before. Like maybe she should have stayed on the east coast…

Not that she regretted it, of course. She had a good job, a good school, a wonderful girlfriend who’d been so excited to get into a good school and really go to town on the business department.

(Apparently there were posters of Val’s face in the ethics classrooms. Sam refused to ask if they were golden example or dire warning.)

She was just… a long way away. Even a long portal away, and… being back with the guys, even in Gotham, made the quiet of their comfy little apartment seem lonely.

Huffing, she turned and traced her fingers through the leaves of her mimosa plant on the windowsill beside the bed. They curled gently shut at her touch, and made her smile. Just like always.

She was happy to be home. She wasn’t technically liminal enough yet that it was her haunt, but… well, for all the jokes Val made, Sam had to admit she’d put down roots. She loved her job at the greenhouses, and her internship at the botanical gardens.

She loved scaring the hell out of the dudebros in Val’s business classes who thought ethics were a waste of time. She loved sharing messages with Jazz about the boys, laughing that even three hours ahead, Tuck and Danny still couldn’t get up before them.

She was kinda considering texting Harley about Timblr too. Not like, for any particular reason; if Tim’s family weren’t gonna embarrass Tucker enough, Harley probably wouldn’t either. She’d probably think it was adorable.

Or, y’know, worrying evidence of obsession. Psych types worried about stuff like that, usually.

Sam was kinda also considering sending Harley Jazz’s number. Jazz might still be skating just on the neurosurgery side of the line, but she’d always been big into psychology. Big enough to try and triple major, and only drop to major-major-minor after the third pre-exam meltdown.

And she could use having someone else do the shrink bit on her a little more often. Although really, for that Sam should make her a professional appointment; friends didn’t ask friends to psychoanalyze their overprotective pseudo-sisters. And Jazz could use more friends.

Jazz could use a transfer to a specialty that would let her sleep once in a while, a more stable supply of fresh ecto, and about six weeks in a meditation retreat to get the accidental telepathy under control, but more friends would be good too. And less stubborn insistence on her second try for double majors.

Maybe the switch to psychiatry full time would be good for her? Or psychology. Sam was a little fuzzy on the difference, which one Jazz was currently still minoring in, and which one Harley did.

(Jazz’s current second major was neurosurgery, which Jazz insisted was totally less taxing alongside a neurology major because it was the same body part. She was the only person in her class attempting the double major though, so.)

Humming tunelessly to herself, Sam flicked back into the group chat. Babs was still sharing the feed… brows drawing in, Sam frowned at the little spider figures still fighting to the death. Now, she wasn’t as big of a gamer as she used to be, but she was pretty sure Spiderheck didn’t actually offer red berets.

Snorting a laugh, she flicked back out of the chat and opened a new one, adding both Jazz and Harley. All it needed was the perfect name… something that would grab both of their attention.

Obvious. Child’s play.

Snuggling back into her coffin pillow, Sam grinned down at her phone screen.

Danny Has A Boyfriend chat was live.

**

Having eight legs wasn’t exactly the same as suddenly having four new ones, or two new legs and two new arms. While the first two were definitely functioning as “hands”, being the ones to pick up and use all of the weapons, Tim had quickly learned that he could grip with any of the eight “feet” that were available.

Yeah, spinning a laser staff all the way down one side of his body and up the other was fucking cool.

He’d adjusted pretty quickly during their “practice” round, while they all got used to the web slinging and worked out how to open the boxes and use the weapons.

(Tucker had swung himself into the lava by accident, so they’d started a second round.)

Tim felt pretty much ready to go, although if he was honest with himself… his only actual complaint was that he didn’t have a camera.

Conner had asked Tuck at the start of their second round if his powers had been nerfed to make it “fair”. Tucker, sweet innocent Tucker, had managed to convey a sidelong look even looking at even without a face on their little blob bodies and said he didn’t think Conner needed a nerf.

He just needed to understand how the powers worked, and they could be incorporated into the system. Which, well, was like catnip for Conner.

At least Tucker seemed a lot less flustered about talking to him while they were both spiders, because Conner had started talking his ear off about TTK and hadn’t stopped since.

Tim was kinda considering swinging over and taking them both out, just to get the game moving. But Conner was cute when he got really into something, and being a headless little spider body did not seem to have changed that.

He spent the time practicing with the webs instead, spinning and tossing himself around the map. It was pretty similar to using a grapple, although he wasn’t exactly sure whether or not the web was coming from his own body.

If it was, it was coming from inside a foot, which wasn’t how actual spiders worked… but Tim was pretty sure that was on Spiderheck, not Tucker.

Being able to run around upside down was the biggest change for him, and pretty cool. Tim scuttled around under a couple of the higher platforms for a while, planning his strategy.

Honestly, he was pretty sure TTK was going to wind up fucking Conner over rather than making anything easier for him. You’d think that flying would be an advantage in Spiderheck, at least as far as avoiding lava or an out of bounds, but Tim knew pretty explicitly how far it took Conner to stop.

It wasn’t exactly on a dime, and in this game? The pace didn’t exactly allow for imprecision.

And they were wasting time talking about it rather than getting used to having an extra six hand-feet.

Still upside down, Tim twisted until he could see the other two spiders. Which was when he learned that… they did kinda have their faces on them. Just, instead of being in a face position, on the front of his body that he was seeing out of, it was just sorta… plastered across the body.

Like a photo skin mapped onto a flat blob.

He considered letting the other two know; if anyone walked into the room, they’d probably be able to see their little faces on the screen. If they were just standing around talking.

Also, the pictures’ mouths weren’t moving, which hadn’t been weird when Tim was listening to them talk and didn’t think they had mouths. Kinda was to look down on Conner’s smiling face and hear his voice at a mile a minute.

Tucker probably already knew, and might have done the faces on purpose? And if he hadn’t, it was gonna be pretty funny to see what happened when he noticed.

He’d gotten progressively better at actually talking to Conner the longer he wasn’t actually looking at him, and the focus being on the game had helped too. Face in the game? Probably gonna throw him again.

And it was probably time to get things actually moving, so he could enjoy that.

Humming softly to himself, Tim scuttled across to the loot crates, found himself a double ended lightsabre, and dropped down on Tucker and Conner’s heads.

**

“Sooooooo…” Danny clapped his hands, doing his best to make his broad grin at least look a little innocent as he floated sideways into Jason’s field of view, “not that that wasn’t adorable and dramatic and everything, super touching, buuuut…?”

He almost laughed as Jason jumped, having apparently forgotten Danny was there for a hot second, then pulled his hand back from Lady Gotham’s to glare at him. The Lady herself didn’t bother hiding her chuckle, settling back to recline once more on a cloud of smog.

“Was there something you needed, Phantom?” She asked with a dry amusement.

Danny shrugged innocently, sticking his hands in his spectral pockets. Much more dangerous than regular pockets, but he’d not been doing more than blob wrangling lately.

“Not so much what I need, just, y’know, trying to keep things on track. I dunno if you’ve got other plans for the night Jay, but we were with Frostbite for a while and if you did…” he trailed off, and Jason grimaced.

���Not what you’d call set plans, but…” Jason trailed off as well, and Danny could feel the guilt even before it tried creeping in.

Nope, not having that. He’d almost talked himself into that bullshit already tonight, none for Jason. He nodded airily, floating up to drape an arm over the larger man’s shoulder.

“All I’ve gotta do is get to bed before midnight, so I’m not rushing now that Tucker’s found himself a new ride.” Waggled eyebrows punctuated that comment with enough emphasis that Jason snickered, darker feelings pushed aside without finding purchase.

“What, you don’t wanna go watch that train wreck in person?” Jason teased with a lopsided half smile.

Danny pulled a face, both at the thought of Tucker’s goddamn disastrous attempts at flirting and… well, the possibility of running into Bruce again. Maybe Constantine.

Danny was maaaaaybe kinda avoiding the wizard since he’d started collecting the other contracts on his soul; it wasn’t like he wanted them for nefarious purposes, it was just fucking weird. He didn’t like owning people. Not even overgrown Sour Patch Kids in trench coats.

(At least Constantine was still alive though. Those unlucky souls who died still bound to Pariah damn near went through a full reboot. No memories, no personality, none of what Danny would have thought of as like, the core components of a soul.

So far nothing anyone had done had been able to help them, and Danny had a nasty feeling the final answer would be Ending them. The Observants didn’t want to, they were perfectly happy with a thrall army so long as they controlled it, but Danny was firm.

No slaves, no thralls. If the only way he could free them was through a final and permanent death… he would.

But Clockwork was still looking, and so long as the ancient of time thought there might be a way… Danny held out hope too.)

For now, he shook his head quickly, holding up both hands.

“No way man. Bruce already hates my guts, I’m gonna keep a healthy distance.”

For both their sakes, really. Jason’s mood every time Bruce had spoken to him today kinda proved he hadn’t listened to Danny’s advice and stepped up. Not that Danny had exactly expected him to; again, hated his guts.

Jason pulled a face but didn’t bother to argue; he’d probably rather not actually deal with the old man for a third time either. Instead he just shrugged, turning his attention back to Lady Gotham.

“Do you know what time it is in Gotham now, my lady?” He asked, and the really weird thing was that it didn’t actually sound weird.

Danny always felt awkward and formal whenever he tried to address a ghost by their title, and Lady Gotham was the very worst because she never bothered to hide when she was laughing at him. Which was, y’know, every time he said it.

(He wasn’t gonna just call her “Gotham” though. That would be worse, so he just sucked it up.)

On Jason’s lips, words like “my lady” just sounded right. Danny flashed back for a moment to snow in a graveyard, and Jason knelt before him quoting Shakespeare. There was something in Jason that was just made for flowery language and dramatic proclamations.

Lady Gotham clearly agreed, bestowing a fond smile upon Jason before inclining her head back for a moment, those red on black eyes glowing suddenly brighter. Looking into the living world, or right up Clockwork’s ass?

“It’s coming to ten o’clock,” she said softly, something almost like regret in her tone. The smile that she turned back to them was softer, sadder.

Danny’d feel bad about being the one to point it out, except, yeah. He’d had to. Ghosts in general didn’t exactly think about time. It was a problem for the living, so - him. And Jason.

Who didn’t seem nearly so sorry with the answer. He nodded, fingers beginning to drum against his thigh.

“Time for a few more questions, then.” That wasn’t a question, and if Danny was completely insensate or possibly locked in a sensory deprivation tank he might have warned Jason about talking to a powerful spirit like that.

It’d need to be a damn good tank for him to miss all the signs though; Jason was so in the good books. Lady Gotham just smiled and nodded, gesturing once more with her traffic cone.

“Of course. And, of course, we will have plenty of other opportunities to speak. I may spend much of my time here, but now that we have been introduced… I can also speak to you there, if you would like?”

It was a delicate question, and Danny hesitated, suddenly wondering if he should… well, elaborate again.

“Uh… yeah, sure? I’d like that?” Jason asked, clearly confused by the reticence, and that made up Danny’s mind.

“She’s not going to sound the same,” he explained quickly, giving Lady Gotham a quick smile. She smiled back, gesturing for him to continue, because none of the damn older ghosts explained shit for themselves.

Danny totally didn’t roll his eyes.

“Like, the way we talk to her in the Infinite Realms is kinda the abstract? She looks kinda human,” he added, gesturing vaguely at the Lady.

Jason’s brows furrowed for a moment, but he felt more curious than concerned.

“So… she’s an anthropomorphic personification, but not in the living world?” He asked, and Danny’s eyes nearly crossed.

He turned to Lady Gotham, hoping that this might be some weird city slang, and she laughed at him. Again.

“Yes,” she agreed with Jason instead, which absolutely did not help. “It’s easier for me to speak with you here, using eyes and ears like your own. But building and maintaining this shape in the living world is… complicated.”

“Because her real body there is the city,” Danny added, privately resolving to ask Sam what the fuck Jason was talking about later.

Honestly, Jason would probably get along real good with Mr Lancer. They both liked weird words.

At least he actually looked a little confused too now; Danny had freaked the first time Lady Gotham talked to him out in the city itself. He gave Jason a consoling pat on the shoulder.

“You’ve gotta see it to believe it, man. Just… it’s gonna be weird.” Not the most helpful, sure, but Danny was doing his best!

Jason nodded slowly, willing to table it for now, and refocused on Lady Gotham, something darker now welling in the purpose building inside him.

“So you said the Joker wasn’t from the Curse,” he said bluntly. Danny flinched, more from the lack of any aura inflection than the remnants he could feel.

Yeah, a lotta Gothamites hated the Joker specifically, but if Danny had even the faintest doubt of who’d killed Jason… the black, leaden lump of Death in Jason’s aura wiped it out.

Lady Gotham stilled too, her own smile fading as she regarded Jason. Those red and black eyes were suddenly so much older, so much sadder.

“Yes,” she agreed softly, lowering her traffic cone to rest at her hip. “Are you sure?”

‘Are you sure you want to know?’

Or ‘Are you sure you want to know now?’

Danny wouldn’t put money on which she’d intended, but it didn’t take a genius to know the answer to both. Stubborn, emotionally repressed, and self destructive as hell, bat-training only left one answer.

Jason nodded firmly now, his jaw clenching.

“Yes.”

Lady Gotham studied him for a moment longer but didn’t argue, inclining her head gently.

“Then I will be brief. While the Curse has always been part of the city, feeding on fear and despair, in recent years we have both felt… something else. I told you of the malevolence on the land?” She asked, and Jason made a soft, impatient noise.

“And that it’s where the Curse comes from, yeah. And that the Joker is different,” he prodded.

Danny made a face. He was usually very much on the side of blunt answers, and knew full well that the Lady wouldn’t actually like, break Jason for being mouthy. He was very, very used to seeing favouritism from the outside, and Jason was clearly a firm favourite.

Maybe because he was currently Gotham’s only actual part ghost child? (To be fair, Danny didn’t think that’d change much in the fullness of time; Jason was his favourite of all the bats alive or dead.)

Whatever it was, his interruption only brought a flicker of a smile to the Lady’s lips, which vanished just as quickly.

“Yes. The Curse is indeed the original manifestation of that malevolence, given form and now, purpose. But even that malevolence came from somewhere; Gotham lies on a crack between worlds, older than time. Every world in the multiverse exist along certain markers; certain weak spots. Gotham is one of them.”

“Of course it is,” Jason grumbled beside him and Danny shifted closer, brushing their shoulders together.

Personally, he figured that if Gotham was a weak point in the universe and all the bad shit just leaked through, they were probably doing pretty well for themselves. Then, he’d seen the depths of the Ghost Zone; he knew what else could be trying to leak through.

Which, obviously, meant the good luck had to end.

“When the Joker died,” Lady Gotham continued, only to be cut off by a startled “What?!” from Jason and a totally-super-dignified squawk from Danny.

“You are not gonna tell me that asshole’s a ghost!” Danny moaned, dragging his hands down his face. Honestly, if he’d missed a whole actual ghost in the city for an entire year too, he was never going to live it down.

Like any of the other ghosts had any fucking clue what it was like being half alive… or living fully inside a city spirit’s haunt. Let them visit Lady Gotham’s and see what they sensed.

“Who the hell killed the Joker?!” Jason demanded, something weirdly like panic spiking through anger. “It wasn’t fucking Bruce-”

Lady Gotham silenced them both with a pointed look, shadows growing suddenly long and dark under her stare. Then she returned her gaze to Jason, her expression sombre.

“The Joker is not a ghost, nor a halfa. Bruce Wayne resuscitated him, which may be all that kept him from becoming a manifestation himself; he was killed not only in Gotham, but by a nexus point, in rage and revenge and hatred.”

There was something dark in Lady Gotham’s eyes now, something black and burning and for half a second Danny could swear he felt that rage himself, deep in his chest.

“Something else leaked through in the short time that he was dead,” she went on, her gaze firmly locked on Jason’s and Danny couldn’t imagine just how much the older-younger halfa was feeling under its full force. “Something small, and hungry, and craving death because it was denied his - the death I believe would give it shape.”

It wasn’t enough for Jason, that much was obvious; bitterness-frustration-grief hung in the air in a cloud almost thicker than the Lady’s smogs, and this time Danny gave in to temptation.

Let his own soothing-sorrow-loss twine through, even if he didn’t exactly understand the cause of the feeling. Jason startled a little, knocked from grumbling something that hadn’t been for anyone but him, but his hand reached back for Danny’s. Squeezed tight, even as the bitterness deepened.

His eyes narrowed, he remained focused on Lady Gotham though.

“Of course. Of course he fucking brought the clown back, even after someone did the world a fucking favour,” he hissed through his teeth, then raised his voice more clearly. “So, what? No one can ever kill the Joker, or Gotham gets another curse? Who’d fucking notice at this point?”

A genuine sorrow and pain passed across Lady Gotham’s face but she schooled it, kept her own aura calm and composed… or at least in closer than they could feel. There was probably a reason she’d put space between them again.

“Not quite, but close,” she agreed softly, those red bat eyes somehow more gentle even against the black pupil. “This other entity is already here, growing each day. Every violent death in Gotham is being consumed by it, which I will admit has strengthened the truce between the Curse and myself. Neither of us wish to feed it any more than necessary.”

Danny’s brows furrowed at that and he tried to think back to everything that Frostbite had ever told him about spirits. Not the dead-people kind, but the Neverborn; entities, concepts, ideas given form. Like time, and cities.

“So… when did the Joker die?” He asked cautiously, and felt surprise jolt through Jason. Lady Gotham gave him a quick glance, and cocked her head at Jason himself.

“Not so long after Jason did. A matter of months, less than a year, though he was dead less than a few minutes.” There was something in her tone, a weight on the words that made Danny think he was on the right track… but that she didn’t want to say it.

Which. Well. That was all kinds of bad fucking news if an entity as old as Lady Gotham was wary of speaking it into being. Luckily, Danny was just a fucked up little half ghost who had absolutely no supernatural tie ins to things like belief.

And he believed in just laying all the cards on the table before he decided if he had to flip it.

“That’s really young for any kind of belief spirit,” he said bluntly, watching Lady Gotham’s eyes. Saw… just a hint of something, creasing the corners, and seriously considered reaching his aura to hers for the first time today.

It’d save so much time to just get the message through feeling, but… if she preferred words, the words had to be important, and Jason probably needed words.

Fuck, they’d all need words, because this was going to be a goddamn bat-briefing if Lady Gotham was filling them in, and Mr Emotional Repression Is My Soulmate was not going to be up to aura reads.

Chewing his lower lip, he thought through the next stage a couple times before speaking slowly, watching for any hint he was still on the right path.

“If… it’s grown fast enough that you both noticed… it’s not new?” He tried, wondering briefly if he’d retroactively doomed them all by thinking about “what else could break through” from the depths of the Zone.

Lady Gotham shook her head though, gesturing impatiently through her smoke to clear it… maybe the first sign he’d ever seen that she didn’t control it entirely.

“No. That much, we are both certain of. This entity… it is new and unformed, with no Name of its own. At the moment, all of the fear it wreaks is only feeding belief in the Curse, which is why it only has death. But there is already a will there, long before it should even have awareness. And it wants to grow.”

“Oh great, so Joker’s got a Pitty 2.0 but his is on the outside,” Jason quipped, irritation sparking through him… and Danny was kinda glad to see it, honestly. Just a little flash of the guy he’d been getting to know in all the dark.

Even Lady Gotham managed a brief smile, and didn’t actually bother refuting it; closing her eyes for a moment, she waved her hand and the clouds of smog between them solidified briefly into a model of the city. Buildings only, but with horribly empty shadows between them.

“The Joker’s death gave it an entrance, and his revival denied it his shape, his Name, and the fear he commands. But it is no longer fixated on killing the Joker - and it was, for several years. It pushed him before it had the power for anything else, driving him further, feeding poison to those around him, trying to have him killed so that it could become The Joker, the pure essence of every bloody mark the clown left on Gotham. And it very nearly succeeded,” she added softly, her gaze turning back to Jason with an almost tangible sorrow.

Something in Danny’s gut iced over, and suddenly he was really, really glad he didn’t know what she was thinking.

**

Bruce looked better as he rose from the table, Diana decided, watching her old friend closely. For all that he’d come with an actual reason for his doom and gloom (for a change), his attitude during the briefing was positively relaxed compared to their own discussion that followed.

He would still be worrying and fretting, she knew him too well to believe anything else, and… she knew why. While Diana had no children of her own (though she had met and heard of other versions of herself who had), she did dearly love her own proteges, and those of her friends.

She remembered Jason as the young, sweet boy who’d stumbled over every word he said to her and stared at her like she’d hung the stars. She remembered Bruce’s grief, Batman’s rage, and the shadow that hung over the Dark Knight with every step until Tim Drake took him to heel.

She knew that there was too much there, the guilt and pain and loss and grief for Bruce to see Jason objectively, and she didn’t begrudge him that. Nor did she condone it.

It only hurt both men, and while she would not give her opinion when it wasn’t wanted… well, she was aware Bruce spoke to Clark of his worries around Jason much more often than he would to her. This time though, she’d had no choice.

She knew the man well enough to know what was truly scaring him in this situation; that Jason would be taken from him again. He was at least as upset by this “Danny” boy as the thought of war with an entire realm.

It would have been cute, if he wasn’t a grown adult man who prided himself on critical thinking. Or actively forcing his son away with his own actions at every turn.

Still, there was one piece of counsel she could give. The thing he hated the most of all was a mystery. And while she also didn’t usually condone his stalking-as-a-sign-of-affection…

“Batman.”

He stopped in the doorway but didn’t look back, still as a statue. At least he was listening.

A fond smile pulling across her lips, Diana shook her head. Let the formal tones of Wonder Woman return to the voice of a friend.

“You see many dangers in the unknown. Perhaps you might reassure yourself by getting to know young Danny Fenton as a person, rather than a potential threat.”

He stayed frozen in the doorway for a moment longer, then nodded his head sharply and swept away.

Diana stifled a chuckle. Honestly, for all Constantine had come to her as if the world were about to end… all of their problems with this Infinite Realm were perfectly clear to her.

The American government had overstepped drastically with their Anti Ecto Acts and would be brought to heel.

The new ruler of the Infinite Realms had turned their head in this direction, and guided them to what must be fixed.

And young Jason Todd, while far from the only hero who had died and returned, had been chosen by this ruler to be favoured with protection, in exchange for service.

Of course, it may all blow out of control and become as dire as her dear friend already seemed to believe it was, but for all Bruce was constantly creating contingencies and backup plans, he very rarely had to use most of them.

She turned her attention to John Constantine instead, the magician seeming much less inclined to make himself scarce than usual. At least he had also calmed considerably, and was even smiling in his own crooked fashion after Bruce.

“You know he’s gonna go stalk that poor kid even more now?” He asked sardonically, pulling another cigarette from his pack but not reaching for the lighter.

Diana hesitated for a moment.

She’d meant for Bruce to talk to Danny, preferably directly. But Bruce did not like talking to new people; not without thorough research and a chance to prepare.

Then she shrugged.

“If it will keep him from disrupting our already tense situation with the Infinite Realms, better that he distract himself with more fatherly concerns,” she said simply.

Constantine snickered again, then frowned.

“Wait, fatherly concerns? For some kid his boy’s known like, a week?”

This time, Diana didn’t bother to restrain her smile, glancing down at the phone in her pocket.

“Merely a week, perhaps, but according to Wonder Girl they have already been caught at least once without their trousers.”

Which hadn’t been part of the official presentation, of course. Nor apparently whatever Bruce had already shared with Constantine, as the mage promptly nearly swallowed his unlit cigarette and began choking.

Diana gave him a carefully gauged slap to the back, sending the now soaked and crumpled smoke across the meeting table, but politely did not laugh.

**

Jason was pretty sure he was going to puke. Or scream. Maybe both.

It wasn’t bad enough that Bruce had refused to kill the Joker, to stop him from killing anyone else, no, he’d fucking brought him back to life. Given the fucking Joker the chance that none of his victims ever got.

None of them except Jason.

And now apparently even wanting the bastard dead was all part of some master fucking plan to make the fucking asshole even worse.

He’d wanted Bruce to be the one to avenge him from the second Tallia pulled him out of the Lazarus Pit, but when he’d come to Gotham… when his plans to carve out his turf, provoke the Joker with an old alias, set the trap had suddenly become stuffing heads in a bag…

He’d thought about it. A lot. About just hunting the fucker down, putting a bullet between his eyes, and leaving him in the Batcave deader than dead.

Had nearly done it, but no. He’d wanted… he’d wanted Bruce to choose him. To put him first, to say he loved Jason more than some moral stance, to value Tim’s life more, and Steph, and Cass, over the fucking scum who would have happily killed every last one of them with a smile on his face just to see if Bruce finally broke.

And Bruce hadn’t.

Bruce had nearly killed him.

And in and around that whole mess, he’d never gotten around to actually thinking about how his fucking daddy issues had saved the Joker’s life for… years, by now.

Jason wasn’t killing anymore. Not like, actively. Intentionally. Not because he thought Bruce was right; something, someone, had to be willing to stand up for the people of Gotham and actually stop fuckers like the Joker from killing them.

But… well, Crime Alley was his territory, and a scared enemy, a cowed enemy who’d seen their life in Jason’s hands and knew just how easily he could end it was more useful than dealing with the power vacuum, or the next million upstarts who’d think they knew better, would be better, and could take on the Red Hood themselves.

Ironically, keeping fuckers like Black Mask and Great White Shark alive and in power (at severely reduced scale) saved him time. Kept him from dealing with all those upstarts himself.

That was how Waylon had put it, back when Jason was considering adding to his bag of heads. It was… like farming. Keep them low, but keep them stable. Break anything new they went for, or anything that got on his turf.

Let them harvest some of the power hungry fucks who thought they could take a piece of the Alley.

And then Dick had noticed. And reached out. And didn’t stop until Jason gave in and reached back.

When Danny came to Gotham. Somehow, it all swung back around to Danny.

And the fact that if he actually believed what he told Bruce, he could have gone to kill the clown himself at any time since returning to the city.

And he never had. The time wasn’t right. Something came up. Something went wrong, or broke, or distracted him before he thought too hard about it.

Killing the Joker hadn’t even been in his original plans for his triumphant return. He’d just wanted to take back the Alley, prove his point to Bruce. Keep his home safe.

When had killing the Joker become such a big part of the plan? Who the fuck had gotten into his fucking head, redefined him as the last moment of his fucking life, demanded his new life be all about how the last one ended?

Eyes narrowing, he looked searchingly into Lady Gotham’s face just in time to catch her slow nod, like she’d heard every thought. Like he’d been speaking aloud.

“I could not stop it from reaching to you,” she said softly, her voice heavy with sadness, “but I could… distract. Get in the way, make its path harder. That you did not give in…”

Something soft, something proud flickered in her eyes again, and it made him want to squirm.

“You may not have consciously known that you fought yet another enemy, yet you triumphed regardless. My dear Jason…” she sighed, heavy with sorrow, and reached out a hand again as though to cup his face.

Jason found himself moving to meet her before he even thought about it. Stopped himself just before it actually got him anywhere.

He wasn’t done being angry yet. He wasn’t even sure he’d actually started. If he could ever, would ever, be angry enough for this.

There was something building in him like a tide, riding high on resentment and his spiralling thoughts. It wasn’t green tinted like the pit rage, his vision was still clear… if anything, it felt sharper, like everything had been dialled up to eleven. Like the terrible, roaring anger was seeking a target.

“I am sorry that you have been robbed of your justice in this way,” Lady Gotham said quietly and once again Jason’s focus narrowed down with her intensity, like she was the only real thing in the world, “that even your own emotions of this, your death, have been used against you. It is…”

She hesitated, actually looking to Danny for help herself for the first time. Judging from the sudden low horror Jason could feel from the other man, he might actually be under reacting.

Or the tide was still rising.

He felt like razing the whole city to the fucking ground, with his own hands, brick by brick. Or puking. Or screaming until his lungs ripped out of his chest, if only he could move.

It felt like something had reached into his brain and cranked up the contrast, made the already neon brights of the Ghost Zone brighter, the shadows darker, the very air prickling at his skin like needles with the urge to do something.

Because if he moved, did anything, he wouldn’t be able to stop. Not when every muscle ached to tear the whole universe apart.

He was almost a passenger in his own skin as something else, a different, slow boiling rage barely under control clamped him in a vice.

“So y’know we talked about not asking about how ghosts died?” Danny said slowly, his voice suddenly low and hoarse.

Jason managed a stiff nod, every muscle twanging tight with tension. It had been pretty important, pre-Ghost-Zone.

And he could put the pieces together, right from the tight hot center of that ball of rage that he was pretty sure was his own core.

“This is worse,” he said gruffly, not bothering to look over. Didn’t have to, when he could feel the face Danny was pulling through the worry-worry-fear-anger-horror still surrounding him.

He… fuck. He was a little afraid of what he might do, if there was even an ounce of pity on Danny’s face, and honestly that panicked him more than anything else. All the rage wanted was a target, and he didn’t think he’d be able to choose what it was.

Danny nodded anyway, making a conscious effort to try and reign his aura in. Like he couldn’t hear the subtext, feel it in Jason’s, or like he could and didn’t care.

It left him feeling cold, icy and alone, but still relieved under the echoing slam of rage in his veins. A little more alone in his own head. A little less watched. Judged. Not good enough.

“Like, worse than worse, dude. Ghosts will throw down and rip each other apart just for fun and no one’s actually hurt, but… you don’t fuck with somebody’s death. You just don’t. It’s the worst thing you could do to a ghost, worse than Ending them. Not even Pariah Dark…”

“Exactly,” Lady Gotham hissed, baring her teeth in something not even remotely a smile, full cheeks and lips suddenly gaunt and hollow as the teeth became fangs. It lasted barely a moment, a flicker before it faded, but it snapped Jason straight out of his fury with a sudden shock of terror.

She’d been intimidating before. Effortlessly, gracefully powerful and commanding, the kind of person people would beg to step on them without a hint of aggression. Those teeth though… just the moment of that rage, of something so powerful suddenly nothing but raw, feral danger…

It wasn’t even directed at him but it still felt like a bucket of cold water down his spine. An instant urge to duck his head, show his throat, convince this much larger predator that he wasn’t a threat.

She was immediately contrite, turning her head away as her face cast into shadow, only the red pupils still visible.

“My apologies. It is… less personal for me than it is for you, yet it seems still too close to my heart.”

Forcing himself to swallow, Jason took a couple of deep, heavy breaths. The anger was still there, kind of. He could feel it in an almost distant way, past the hammering of his heart, but it wasn’t all he was anymore.

It was just… a feeling now. One he was in control of.

The shadows were just shadows again. The green of the Zone no longer blinding.

He blew the last breath out slowly, and let the remnants of the anger go with it.

“No, uh… it’s fine. I think that helped, actually,” he said awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck and suddenly embarrassed at just how tense he’d become.

Justified, apparently, from both the other ghosts’ reactions, but that didn’t mean Jason wanted to feel so out of control. How close to just… being carried away by the anger.

No matter what anyone else said, no matter what the damn Pit or Joker-monster or whatever the fuck else tried to do, Jason Todd was not going to be defined by rage.

For one thing, he’d never live it down.

Danny sagged beside him, relief as tangible as that last breath flowing out of him, despite the core of concern underneath. That was fine; Jason was still concerned too.

And maybe thinking about his stash of ecto-candies again, but he honestly didn’t feel half as drained this time. He wasn’t even scared of Lady Gotham anymore - that moment had ended as soon as it started. As soon as she’d tucked those terrifying needle-like teeth away. Now she just looked…

Proud. Proud, and fond, and so, so sad. Like Alfred had been the first time he presented Jason with his very own Robin suit for the field.

It choked something inside Jason just a little, made his throat tight and breath hitch.

“You are so much more than anyone gives you credit for, Jason Todd,” she said softly, her sclera softening briefly to a bright, sunshine yellow. Like the cape he’d drowned in as a boy flying from her rooftops, “and they all think far better of you than you believe.”

That caught him up for a moment, confusion pulling into the absolute fucking mess of emotions he was pretty sure he was projecting to all and sundry.

Then Danny sighed heavily and draped himself sideways over Jason’s shoulders like a particularly lanky and bony scarf.

“Yeah, yeah, and your ghost mom is fucking terrifying. Did not need that reminder, Ladyship,” he tossed at Lady Gotham with a cheeky wink, effectively steam rolling the tension yet again.

Jason could have kissed him, but from the angle Danny had flopped on, his options were armpit or hip, and neither appealed.

Sassy comebacks, he could handle. Reassurances that people didn’t think he was a complete sack of shit, apparently not.

The whole batfam were just perfect poster kids for mental health, alright?

The Lady herself laughed softly and inclined her head, not arguing the point.

“Of course. Still, I am sorry Jason.”

He cut her off this time, raising both hands and stopping just short of reaching for the back of his neck again, which was about where Danny’s waist was sat.

“Don’t be. I… think I needed to be knocked out of my head there. I really do feel better now,” he added, and Danny huffed a noncommittal noise and ruffled his hair.

“Yeah, well. You’re allowed to be pissed about it,” Danny informed him like he wasn’t sure if Jason actually knew that.

Which, obviously, Jason absolutely wasn’t. He had a pit ghost baby to teach good habits to, and Danny still had no idea what Jason was like when he actually lost control of the anger. But he could appreciate the sentiment.

And deflect like a Robin.

“Oh, is that a royal decree?” He asked archly, and while this noise was no more coherent than the last it was decidedly more whiny and drawn out into wordless protest.

Which still ended in a very quiet “yes.”

Luckily, quiet enough that Jason could pretend he didn’t hear it.

“Anyway, I’m good. Still gonna kick this thing’s ass for messing with my head, and maybe put it in a blender, but for now I’m good. Chill vibes only for Pitty,” he added with a roll of his eyes when Danny made a confused little chirping sound.

Lady Gotham chuckled softly to herself and nodded, resettling herself to recline on her smog clouds once more.

“Indeed. You currently have more pressing concerns; as little as I enjoy the present situation, it can wait. The Curse and I can monitor this new being’s behaviour through the rogues it has affected; they are noticeably becoming more violent, while the Curse is swaying the rest towards being less. For contrast,” she added before Jason could ask.

Which… might actually explain why Riddler had tossed a broken game box at Croc and the Wayne gala rather than trying to fix it. He’d stripped most of the interesting stuff according to Tim’s report, sure, but Nygma never let a thread go.

So he wasn’t gonna be on this new bad guy’s kill list.

Nor would Waylon, and Harley had been more destructive than homicidal for years. Already making a mental list on the events he’d caught wind of in the last few weeks, Jason didn’t even realise the conversation had moved on without him until Danny stuck a wet finger in his ear.

“What the actual fuck!” Jason demanded, trying to shrug the ghost off his shoulders. And while there was deadass no weight to Danny in this form, it was frankly unfair that he just rolled with the movement like he also didn’t have bones, snickering.

“You had Resting Bat Face,” he explained with a grin, twisting upwards to look down at him in a way that actually really shouldn’t have been doable with a human spine - and Jason had grown up around Dick Grayson, who ran the limit of everything a human spine was capable of.

“He does best with a problem to solve,” Lady Gotham noted with a sly amusement. “This one, however, has no time limit as yet. If I thought you would listen, I would have insisted on telling you at a later date.”

And that was just pointed enough that Jason rolled his eyes, feeling his cheeks flush in spite of himself. He just… liked to have all of the information. It’s not like he was Bruce.

“Yeah, well, I like to know what I’m dealing with,” he grumbled, folding his arms and scowling at Danny. Who grinned back and ruffled his hair.

“Well, either way. Not like you need to pull the spandex back on imminently, right? There’s plenty of bats around,” he offered hopefully, and Jason felt a quick pang.

Danny… really didn’t want him to have to be a vigilante. He could taste it in the hope, in the worry, in everything his king was putting off. For some reason, he seemed to think Jason had come back to life and left the masks behind.

Like he hadn’t even thought about why Jason was still in fighting shape to be his fucking knight in the first place.

He knew he’d be annoyed if it was anyone else trying to insist he stay out of the game. He’d shot at Dick more than once for suggesting he go home when he was injured; the rest knew better than to say a word.

He hadn’t even considered giving up the vigilante life when he came back from the dead… except that brief period when he’d sort of been a rogue. He’d never even been a normal crime lord, most of them were way less hands on.

If he looked at the future now, he couldn’t imagine ever giving it up. The rogues would apparently literally always be a problem; the city would always need protectors.

That thought had never made him sad before, and yet…

Was it really the first time anyone had suggested he’d done enough? He’d died, and sure Jason was back now, but Danny seemed to really, actually believe he could stop wearing the mask.

That he’d given enough, given everything, and could and should just have a peaceful life now.

It made him almost ashamed to admit that he’d never even considered the possibility.

For all Jason railed against teen heroes, he’d only stopped being one for a temporary villain arc. Which was apparently at least partially supernaturally motivated, which was fun.

It’d shut Bruce up if Jason ever dragged that out in an argument, but Bruce already thought Jason was too volatile and susceptible to being controlled. Never mind that he hadn’t actually killed the Joker and started the apocalypse or whatever, all Bruce would hear was “someone else made Jason a villain so it could happen again”.

He’d probably try and take Jason off the case of this mystic whatever that was feeding on death. Fuck that noise. Until Bruce got a face to face with Lady G, Jason probably wouldn’t even tell him the details.

(Honestly, if there was even half a chance of avoiding that subject altogether, he’d take it. Bruce got ornery about magic in his city in a way none of the Robins had ever enjoyed dealing with, and that had been back when he and Jason had a good relationship.

Now… well, Constantine had been sticking around, so hopefully he could handle that mess and Jason could just get the actual work done.)

He gave Danny his best reassuring smile anyway, rolling his eyes and reaching to try and ruffle his hair. Found that he actually couldn’t quite reach with the way Danny was twisted around him, which was kinda weird.

“Yeah, yeah, I heard Frostbite. Side effects of the forming core could be pretty much fucking anything, and til Pitty pops out I’m not even gonna do research on anything that’ll set us off.”

Which wasn’t the same as saying he wouldn’t start the case. He could arrange what he already knew, start a plan of action, and organise his next steps without doing any additional research, after all.

Something about Lady Gotham’s delicately arching eyebrow let him know that she, at least, was onto his bullshit. Lucky for Jason, Danny just accepted the words, grinning and twisting around to wrap his whole head in a hug.

And then flowed back off his shoulders like a fucking liquid before Jason could worry about having to breathe.

“That’s great! Oh, and we should set up your haunt too! That’ll help!” Danny enthused brightly, clapping his hands and doing his best impression of a totally solid human that was apparently not his default.

Maybe it was a ghost thing.

Just so long as he never did it in human form, Jason could ignore that he definitely shoulda felt a ribcage being squeezed like that…

And no, Jason absolutely wasn’t wondering about what else Danny could use that noodley flexibility for. Totally not letting Dick know either… for competitive gymnast reasons, definitely.

No one wanted to deal with that.

And then his brain fizzled to a halt as Danny’s actual words penetrated and a sliver of concern slipped in.

Because… yeah. They’d talked about haunts. It was practically the first topic on the list; what to do in someone else’s haunt, what to never ever do even near someone else’s haunt, what a haunt meant to a ghost.

It was soul-underwear again, one of the most sacred parts of a person’s soul; their truest, actual home. Fortress and power source.

Halfas had to have them too, since Danny and Frostbite had both insisted that keeping and maintaining his haunt were going to be vital to his health while his cores stabilized. As in, Frostbite told him not to leave it for long and suggested redecorating as a soothing activity.

(Danny’s was officially Amity Park, which had not escaped Jason’s notice when he was apparently being put on haunt-arrest. It might have been an older halfa thing; very few ghosts actually stayed in their haunts all the time, although Jason could see the temptation.

It also might have been something else, and Jason had this thing about secrets and surprises down the line. He’d ask later, if he couldn’t work it out himself.)

Danny called Crime Alley Jason’s haunt, and that had felt right from the first time he’d said it. Crime Alley was his, his territory, his space, his home more than anywhere else. He knew it inside and out, could feel its moods and taste the changes in the air when something went wrong.

Baby ghosts usually couldn’t claim a haunt of any size as their own, but Jason knew that the Alley belonged to him.

That was before he’d met Lady Gotham. And if she was the spirit of the whole city… maybe he’d been wrong? Maybe it was just through her that he knew it so well?

He found himself looking to her uncertainly, searching her face in case there was any trace of displeasure. Any sign she didn’t want another ghost’s haunt in… well, what was kinda her physical body.

He couldn’t see or feel anything, but when she’d already been so careful about keeping her feelings her own… no better time to ask, really.

“Yeah… about that…” this time he did scratch the back of his neck, Danny safely down beside him. Which was about when he realized that he had no clue how to word the question.

Haunts were personal, he knew that much.

Then again, Lady Gotham said she was his ghost-mom. That had to include stupid questions. Blunt it was.

“Is it weird if I have a haunt in the city? I mean, it’s obviously your city, duh, but how do I… it feels like I’m squatting in your closet,” he said finally, giving up on not being just the most awkward creature in a thousand mile radius.

Danny’s mouth opened and closed a few times, excitement fading to a confused fascination as his words sunk in.

“Y’know, that’s a really good point… except it’s more like he’s squatting in your kidneys,” he pointed out to Lady Gotham, turning to face her too.

Lady Gotham chuckled softly and took a slow drag from her traffic cone, which had almost stopped smoking.

“Ah, I forget the limitations of a halfa’s knowledge… all ghosts begin with a haunt within their parent’s, Jason. From the moment you returned to my arms I opened up the Alley for you, and it has been yours ever since.” She paused to blow out a long plume of smog, which shaped itself into a tiny row of very familiar buildings.

Jason didn’t have to see more than a couple to know what they were; he could feel it right down to his core.

“When you are older, stronger, you may desire another, although being in the mortal world is already a degree of distance, but Crime Alley will always be your first,” Lady Gotham continued as Crime Alley bloomed from the smog before them, tiny and yet more than just an image, more than just a replica; the real thing in the scope of her power.

There were no lights in tiny windows, nothing moving through the smog, and yet it was still clearly alive. No, filled with things that were alive, people and noise and even the rats.

And it was his. His beating heart.

Lady Gotham’s smile was a tender beacon in the fog, her hands coming up to caress the smoking Crime Alley and gently waft it in his direction.

“Every crumbling brick, every pothole, every shadow. It is a heavy responsibility, and one I shall share with you until you decide you no longer need my help, but it will always be yours, Jason. It would not have accepted anyone else.”

The cluster of smoggy buildings fell apart as they reached Jason and for a moment he nearly panicked trying to keep them together, but… he was suddenly washed in a wave of old, familiar scent.

Not the burned rubber and pollution of all the rest of the smogs, the constant smell of the city. This was… floral. Soft, and sweet, and chemical in the way that cheap perfumes always were because they couldn’t have afforded the good ones.

Watered down, because they could get even that so rarely that she would begin refilling the bottle with water when it was barely half empty. Catherine Todd’s favourite perfume.

It hadn’t covered the stink of cigarettes and worse coming from the very walls of their apartment; he’d only smelled it when she was holding him close. Shielding him from Willis’s rage, tucking him into bed, cuddled up on the couch to wait out the rain or sickness.

The smell of home.

It brought tears to his eyes, the pressure of the day threatening to spill over and overwhelm him again.

Intellectually, it felt like another moment that should have been terrifying. More than any show of teeth, this was her strength. Who and what she was, she could break him with a wave of her hand, a wisp of smoke, and yet…

He felt warm. Comforted. Wrapped in her smile and at peace in a way he hadn’t in… fuck it had been years.

There was something else too, a layer under the flowers that only the deepest detective-trained parts of him tried to pluck apart; it was part of the home smell, inextricable, but it didn’t make sense. Wasn’t the perfume. Just the very faintest hint of baking far away, and Catherine Todd had never been able to afford…

Oh.

Of course not. Because Catherine Todd, his mother in every possible sense of the word but one, had never met Alfred.

**

So, the good news: Tucker was currently in the lead for Spiderheck. Bad news: they’d finished the first set (Tim won, but he’d been two ahead from the start which was cheating), and… the game had ticked directly over into another set.

They hadn’t been planning on changing any settings, so it was fine, and Conner and Tim hadn’t noticed anything wrong.

But… Tucker was beginning to worry, just a little. He’d done video games before, with Danny and Sam; no worries, they’d taken a turn directly in pretty much every game they’d played together.

Just, y’know, he knew Danny and Sam really well. And Tim and Conner were really cool, and he understood a lot more about how the Supers worked than he ever had before? But, maybe that was why he’d kinda screwed up.

Because he wanted things to be fair, and didn’t want them to think he’d given himself extra advantages. So they were all spiders, all the same.

And he wasn’t completely sure where the meta controls were?

Danny and Sam always insisted he have a version of the controller somewhere, so they could flick to the menu (and sometimes run riot there too). Last time they did Spiderheck, he’d put the buttons on his stomach, so Danny and Sam could try and hit them for an extra level of difficulty.

But he wanted to be fair. Didn’t want extra powers. And, apparently, technopathy had sorta maybe converted that wish into him not being able to feel it while he was spidered up.

All his combat moves were fine! The break, grab, web commands were smooth and easy, just like every other time he did them. Different attacks, no worries. And, obviously, he hadn’t stood still and tried to look for the code, because they were playing Spiderheck and that was a really easy way to get wiped.

Dodging another swinging attack from Tim, he scuttled at top speed across the platform and jumped behind a box. No weapons here, and he scanned quickly for the next spawn point.

Which, normally, shoulda shown up on two levels; the normal game vision, and the white lined underlay of the code, which he could always see through from top to bottom of the level.

(This was usually an active impediment rather than an advantage in Spiderheck; it was way too hard to know what he could stand on.)

He couldn’t see one, just the platform above and the wall behind.

Maybe he should take an early death, just to give himself a little time to work this out. Just so he could stop worrying. He was 21, he’d had these powers for years, he totally knew how they worked by now.

He just, maybe, might have gotten overconfident.

Danny would never let him live it down if they all had to be rescued from Spiderheck.

And, way more importantly, Tim Drake-Wayne and his super hot boyfriend would only remember him as the loser who couldn’t even control his powers.

Nope. Absolutely not.

A loud buzzing heralded the arrival of one of the spinning laser traps, and Tucker made up his mind. Just one early death. No worries. He had a two win lead, and honestly he’d rather lose the set than admit he’d fucked up.

Scuttling “away” from Tim’s probable next attack, Tucker scurried into the path of the spinning laser trap.

And saw, at the very last second, Conner swinging in from the other side, directly into a laser.

Shit.

**

Sam was comfortably snuggled down into her pillows and thoroughly enjoying the chaos her new chat was creating when she finally heard the door. A little too buried to easily get up, or look particularly graceful doing it, so instead she stuck a hand straight up into the air.

“In here, love!”

And, like the angel of mercy that she was, Val only made her wait ten minutes to get out of all of her winter gear and put the kettle on before coming to save her from her fate.

“Not the fastest rescue I’ve received,” Sam teased, even as Val hauled her easily to her feet. Val grinned back and pulled her in for a quick peck.

“I wasn’t aware I was being timed. I can do better.”

“I bet you can,” Sam laughed, draping her arms around her girlfriend’s shoulders. Val gave her another, deeper kiss, then drew back enough to press their foreheads together.

“So, how was Gotham? I saw Danny made the front page,” she teased back, and Sam hesitated.

In amongst all of their various plans for disaster, it hadn’t really come up that whatever they did at the party, it was sure to make the gossip rags. Front page though? That was probably an achievement.

And, given what she herself had done, really annoying.

“What, they gave the front page to him? I blatantly accused at least two CEOs and Lex Luthor of weaponizing misogyny, with citations, and Danny got the front page?” She huffed, drawing back and folding her arms, fully intent on turning away to sulk, but not remotely objecting when Val’s arms snuck around her waist and pulled her back in.

Val’s chin tucked in over her shoulder and the taller woman snickered.

“I know, right? Sadly cold hard facts just fade away in the face of a scandal.” Val sighed dramatically, then dropped a kiss on the side of Sam’s neck. “You’re on page seven. It’s mostly about your parents, but using Lex’s name got a couple other points in. Oh, and Vicki Vale did a three page piece on how Brucie Wayne specifically upholds the patriarchy. I think she quoted you.”

Sam considered that for a moment, her arms automatically coming around to cover Val’s for a brief squeeze. It wasn’t like she’d actually been planning to change anything at the gala. Mostly she’d just wanted to be heard.

It could be an interesting starting point, though. Especially since she got to pick her outfit for the next gala; her mother hadn’t even specified that it had to be a dress on the document, which was definitely a peace offering.

Cass Wayne had looked really good in that suit.

Her cheeks suddenly hot for absolutely no reason, Sam twisted in Val’s arms to kiss her again.

“I’m sorry my mom’s… the worst,” she finished lamely, wrapping her arms around Val again.

The whole fall-from-grace thing may have been seven years ago, and Val had more than moved on, but. Well. Sam didn’t exactly believe all the scars had healed.

Especially when Val stilled for a moment in her arms.

Then she chuckled, wrapping her arms a littler tighter around Sam and lifting her off her feet.

“Hey, at least she’s not actually a bigot. It’s always nicer to be hated personally than in general, y’know?” She teased, echoing something Sam was pretty sure Danny had said to her back in her Phantom-hunting days.

Sam huffed and wrapped her legs around Val’s waist too, raining kisses down on her face.

“Yeah, well, she can still shove it up her ass. You’re my date for the next gala, if you actually want to come.”

Which.

Well.

Was about when she realized that the next gala was probably going to be extra interesting, after all their shenanigans. Maybe they should have been more discrete? More careful?

Her worry must have shown on her face, because Val gave her a very gentle bounce to shake her out of it.

“Hey. Samantha Manson. I would be delighted to go to the next gala with you, and tell all the little journalists that yeah, I’m that Val,” she said firmly once Sam had refocused on her. Then she grinned. “I’ll even be on my best behaviour and not one up Danny until the second one.”

That made Sam laugh again, hugging on tight even as Val turned and easily carried her through to their little kitchenette and sat her up on one of the counters.

“Hey, did you get that autograph from Harley for me by the way? I wanna send it to my dad for his birthday,” she added, sneaking another kiss and then pulling a pair of mugs next to the steaming kettle.

Sam considered hopping off the counter. Didn’t bother, reaching behind herself instead to pull her favourite tea for the month and drop a bag into her mug.

“Yeah, a couple actually. And she said if we wanna meet Ivy she’ll let us know when they’re back on the west coast, but it won’t be any time soon.” That hadn’t been particularly surprising, but it still made Sam a little sad.

Just another reminder that they were on the outside looking in all the way over here.

Valerie stilled, coming back and resting both hands on Sam’s thighs.

“Do you miss being on the east coast?” She asked quietly, those gorgeous green eyes so large and gentle.

Sam hesitated a moment longer, then sighed and let her head thunk back against the cupboard behind her.

“Honestly, I think I just miss being closer to everyone. It’s not far for Danny with the Zone, but if you or I wanna visit anyone we have to hop on an airplane or spend weeks driving, neither of which are good for the environment. We just… get forgotten out here, stuck out of the loop.”

Val raised an eyebrow, a smirk on her face but eyes still soft with understanding.

“Oh, like you’re one to talk. I thought I’d pick up a new phone and rejoin the group chat that day, but suddenly I gotta wait nearly a week for “new secrets”,” she teased and Sam sighed, shaking her head. Not quite able to lift all the way out of her funk.

“Yeah, I know… it probably woulda been fine, Danny shouldn’t have dropped anything at all in the main chat if he didn’t want everyone to see it, I just…”

“Wanted to be more sensitive than he is,” Val finished the sentence, leaning in for another kiss. Not needing to reach up even with Sam sat on the counter. “That’s why I’m still dating you.”

It did pull a smile from Sam anyway and she draped her arms over her girlfriend’s shoulders again.

“For some reason. So, what did you think?”

Val shrugged, her hands sliding up to settle around Sam’s waist.

“About a new halfa? Probably sucks for him. Especially when he’s gotta come out as dead to his family. The Waynes aren’t exactly known for being stable,” she pointed out when Sam snickered.

Which was a fair point.

“They’re actually worse when there’s more of them,” she mused, glancing back towards the bed where she’d left her phone, “and the oldest’s a cop now.”

This time it was Val’s turn to snicker.

“Yeah, I heard. Tuck already sent me the blow by blow of you eviscerating the poor guy.”

Sam preened. Deservedly.

“Hey, you know me, I’m not gonna play nice just cuz I’ve been dragged to some social function.”

The snicker turned to a chuckle as Val leaned in, rubbing their noses together.

“And you know me, baby girl, ACAB all the way, and I still think that should extend to the Justice League. Heard half of Batman Inc also showed up, did you let them have it too?”

“You know I did,” Sam purred, locking her ankles behind Val’s back and nipping playfully at her lower lip. Val laughed, her hands creeping slowly up the small of Sam’s back.

“That’s my little leopard. Tea’s done.” And then, totally unfairly, she reached back with one hand and pulled Sam’s ankles apart, slipping free with a laugh as Sam pouted. “Hey, you’d be more upset if I let it over steep.”

“I can make more tea,” Sam grumbled, finally slipping off the counter, but a rebellious smile made it onto her face anyway. Val toasted her with the french press.

“True that, darling, but I’m not wasting the good coffee beans. Daddy asked me four times if I was sure about taking the train but honestly, he’s a state away now, it’s not worth a flight.”

Setting her teabag aside, Sam squirted in some vanilla agave syrup and took a deep breath. Gotham was fine, but no hotels could match her home tea stash. Not even the Waynes could.

“Beautiful, strong, environmentally conscious, and a Daddy’s girl. How did I land you again?” She asked innocently as Val dropped creamer into her own mug.

“By being all of those but the last one,” Val countered easily, taking a mug and holding an arm out for Sam to tuck under. “Now c’mon, if I’m going to the next gala you need to tell me allllll about a certain cutie Cassandra Wayne,” she cooed, making for their couch.

Sam’s face flushed red and she made to duck away instantly, but those damn vigilante muscles made it so hard.

“Okay, veto, you’re not allowed to do that anymore! My mom is trying to hook me up with her!” Sam did not whine. She. Protested. With dignity. Totally no idea why Val snickered, holding her coffee up and away in her other arm.

“Yeah, that’s the point. How funny would it be if Danny and I both stole a Wayne from you?” She asked with a vicious grin.

Which… did make Sam pause. Because that would be really funny. And Cass would almost certainly be down for it; she wasn’t as loud or attention seeking as any of the boys, but Sam could recognize the wicked gleam in anyones’ eyes when they enjoyed the chaos.

Then she sighed.

“No, we have to be good for the next gala. Otherwise no one’s going to listen to what I actually have to say.”

Val hummed an agreement, guiding her to sit on the plush, well loved cushions. It was an old couch, and a hand-me-down from Sam’s work, but it was just too good to pass up. They could both lie comfortably side by side on the seat, if they snuggled just a little, and the back was wide and plush enough for two throws.

“Okay. The gala after that, then. It’ll make our slow burn long distance romance all the more compelling,” she added when Sam snorted, finally releasing Sam to sink comfortably into oblivion.

Sam swatted at her and put her tea down on the table.

“You’re dreadful. I love you. We’ll ask Cass, lemme just get my phone and I’ll hook you into the group chat with her, Steph, and Babs. They’re Wayne family friends,” she added at Val’s questioning noise, “I haven’t met Babs yet, but Steph is great. You’re gonna love her.”

“Only if we’re going for some three’s company action,” Val snickered as Sam jogged to the bedroom, flipping her girlfriend off as she went.

**

Jason was quiet as they left the Zone. It wasn’t entirely unexpected, especially after the day he’d had and the emotional whiplash.

Danny was doing his very best not to let it bother him. He remembered the early days of being a halfa, how much he’d second-guessed himself, how much every new change and discovery had rocked his world. And he’d been a teenager, all hormones and fire and energy.

He hadn’t even been dead a month before shit got weird.

Jason was twenty-two, and had already been dead for almost seven years. Danny’d like to think he’d found ways to cope, but seven years in himself he was pretty sure he still hadn’t.

Whatever Jason had dealt with in those six and a half years was being ripped up in front of him day by day.

If there was anything he wanted, anything he needed, Danny would be there for him in a heartbeat. Before he could even have to ask, if possible. Aaaand the only thing he couldn’t do that for was if Jason needed space.

Lady Gotham had been able to open them a portal directly into Jason’s apartment; Danny preferred to aim high enough to miss walls and buildings on the way back, but it was her city. She knew exactly where everything and anything was - the portal had been in the back of Jason’s front door.

Danny totally wasn’t jealous. He could come back out almost at the same place he’d gone in, if he was quick. And he could go intangible anyway.

It was still really cool to watch the city spirit do it, the way the realms opened easily and willingly at her touch. She’d given Jason a token, a coin that had to be at least six hundred years old that showed the city’s skyline. Apparently he could use it to get in touch with her, or get back to the Zone on his own if Danny couldn’t take him.

Danny was fine with that. For sure.

The Infinite Realms were dangerous, but the token should bring him straight to Lady Gotham, in an emergency. And then Danny could follow and find her, and find Jason. It was a super reasonable backup plan.

He still found himself hovering in the doorway, unsure if Jason wanted him to stay or go while the other man shrugged out of his coat, boots, and shoulder holster that Danny had totally missed this entire time. And then walked directly into the bathroom.

Danny hovered a little closer, entirely unknowing what exactly he’d do if Jason was crying. Or screaming. Or beating a hole in the wall away from prying eyes. Or, actually using the bathroom for its intended purpose, apparently.

Because Danny forgot Jason was still in mandatory human form at all times.

He couldn’t hear anything from inside the bathroom with the door shut anyway, not even movement or the sink running. But then again, Jason’s family knew Superman personally. That probably lead to some inside jokes and really specific precautions.

Danny hovered back to the door. Stared around at the incredibly clean, well organized display of video games and weaponry on the walls, the double shelf of books.

This, he was beginning to suspect, was a third, larger, more expensive apartment. The furniture and room layouts were about the same, but he was like 80% sure the apartment they’d played MarioKart in hadn’t had as much stuff.

This one had some dishes waiting by the sink though. Given how well organized everything else was, they stuck out.

…

Five minutes. Jason was still in the bathroom.

Danny hated waiting. If he was going to stick around, he could justify it by helping out. He rolled up his sleeves and got to work.

———————

Part two imminent! All my love to the tag list, you’ll be following the link on this one so you don’t get both separately

Part 2:

Tag list: @welcometosasakiworld @someonebored0100 @stealingyourbones @starkcravingmad @frostedthroughghost @akikkobara @rainbowbunny0159 @littlefeather345 @violet-catsarelife @serasvictoria02 @wolfjackle @blacksea21090 @secretdestinywerewolf @anime-hipster-the-amazing @undead-essence @skitscratched @blackroserelina @snoodly-boop p @mayoota-blog @xysidhe e @little-apricot-the-writer @chaoticmistake @the-legal-shipper r @bun-fish @aroranorth-west  @demon-cat-goes-woof @perfectwastelandcreation @onyxlightdragon @larks-and-katydids @peachesandcreamfemboy @jesus-camp-the-sequel @may-rbi @mothman-the-mothman87 @viyatrix @stargirl1331 @idfk-man10 @thedepressedrobin @skulld3mort-1fan @rootsmudge @ravenshadow17 @cankoking g @phantom-dc @mentalcarebear @magic-pincushion @redamancyardor r @lyra689 @itsparadoxlacuna @alcorbearson @asphyxia778 8 @why-must-i-be-like-this @tkiesai @greenpyrowolf f @frivolous-pastel

[buckysleftbicep]

for better or for worse (1) 𐙚 b.b

pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x fem!reader (fake marriage au)

warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors, dni, sexual tension, one bed trope,

summary: you and bucky are forced to play newlyweds at a luxury honeymoon resort. he’s controlling, you’re reckless, and now you’re sharing a bed. the problem? it’s getting harder to play pretend. and you’re not sure either of you will survive what comes next.

word count: 2.5k

author's note: hi my loves! this is one of my uncompleted series, and i'm posting in hopes i could be motivated to complete it! if you'd like for a chapter two, let me know! your support means a lot to me <333

series masterlist

“You can’t be serious.”

Your voice cut sharply through the room, echoing off the concrete walls of the team's briefing room. The table was scattered with dossiers, mission files, half-drunk coffee, and exactly zero logic as far as you were concerned.

Val didn’t even blink. She just sat there at the head of the table, calm as ever, the faintest glint of amusement betraying her otherwise impassive face. “Dead serious.”

You folded your arms, glaring. “Out of everyone here… him?”

“I’m flattered,” Bucky muttered beside you, tone flat as a dry desert. He didn’t even look your way, probably didn’t want to see the way your eyes narrowed like you were about to throw something sharp at him.

Val’s smirk deepened. She leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table, fingers steepled under her chin like a cartoon villain with far too much power. “You two have unresolved issues, so congratulations. You’re married now.”

Yelena let out a full snort of laughter, clapping a hand over her mouth like she was watching a slow-motion car crash.

John gave a low, gleeful whistle. “Oh, this is gonna be good.”

“Why can’t you send Walker?” you snapped, jerking a thumb at him. “He already looks like he belongs on a honeymoon with his ego.”

“He have emotional capacity of wrecking ball,” Alexei chimed in, voice thick with his Russian accent, waving a hand dismissively. “Very destructive, not subtle.”

“No, I don’t—” John started to protest, indignant.

Yelena rolled her eyes. “You cried at Fast and Furious 7, and it wasn’t even the sad part.”

John scowled. “It had layers.”

She dropped a thick file onto the table. Glossy surveillance photos slid free, including a few charred, smoking blueprints and a shot of Raskovic toasting champagne in a cabana.

“His last shipment,” Val continued, “levelled half a research compound in Tunisia. I need charm, subtlety. Not testosterone."

You let out a disbelieving huff and gestured vaguely in Bucky’s direction without looking at him. “And you think this has charm?”

“I ooze charm,” Bucky said flatly.

You finally turned to glance at him. “Yeah, I can see that. Real honeymoon material.”

Yelena grinned wide, leaning across the table toward you like she was settling in for the drama. “This is going to be so entertaining.”

“Better than reality TV,” Ava added, her boots kicked up on the table, legs crossed lazily.

Alexei clapped his hands together, beaming like someone’s very drunk uncle at a wedding. “Marriage is beautiful thing, bond of love. Trust."

You turned your gaze back to Val, still hoping against reason that she would crack and admit this was some twisted, long-game prank. “There has to be another way.”

She gave you that look. The one that always meant: I could have you killed and get away with it. And then she smiled, teeth sharp and polished.

“Not unless you want to tell the weapons dealer you’re siblings who sometimes make out.”

You blinked, as John gagged audibly in the background.

“…Fine,” you muttered, jaw clenching.

Bucky didn’t even react. He just let out a grunt, pushing his chair back slightly. “Let’s get this over with.”

With a dramatic flourish, Val produced two small velvet boxes from her bag and slid them across the table. “Congratulations, Mr and Mrs Barnes. Honeymoon begins in twenty-four hours. And if either of you screw this up, if he suspects anything, you’re both done. There are no second chances with Raskovic. None.”

You flipped open your box. Inside, a slim platinum band gleamed under the overhead lights. It looked delicate, elegant, like something a real wife would wear, if she didn’t want to commit murder against her husband before check-in.

Val’s voice was cool as steel. “Play the part. Laugh. Kiss. Look like you can’t keep your hands off each other. Be convincing.”

“Oh, we’ll be convincing,” Bucky muttered as he slid the ring onto his finger, his voice almost too casual. “Won’t we, sweetheart?”

You didn’t answer.

You were too busy imagining what it would feel like to punch your fake husband in the face.

Six Hours Later

“Tell me again why I agreed to this,” you muttered, yanking your suitcase behind you as the team's transport SUV barrelled down a sun-drenched coastal road, the ocean stretching endlessly beside it like a taunt.

The scent of saltwater mixed with the heat of the asphalt, the resort town glinting in the distance like something out of a luxury magazine ad you would never willingly sign up for.

Bucky’s voice cut through the silence from the driver’s seat. “Because you have a hero complex,” he said, one hand firm on the wheel, the other draped lazily across the armrest like he wasn’t wearing a metaphorical wedding ring that made your eye twitch. “And you like pretending you don’t.”

You scoffed, adjusting your sunglasses as you shot him a glare. “Because I was assigned to this.”

He didn’t miss a beat. “Because you’re reckless and don’t listen to orders.”

Your head snapped toward him, the suitcase thudding into your shin as you turned in your seat. “Because you're a controlling jackass who never takes the stick out of his—”

“Children,” came John’s voice through the SUV’s overhead comms, the speaker crackling just enough to ruin the moment. “Behave. Uncle Walker’s listening in.”

You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt.

“I’m placing bets,” Yelena chimed in, the sound of chewing echoing faintly behind her smug tone. “Three days before they fuck. Two before they kill each other.”

“Both, maybe same night,” Alexei added almost cheerfully in the background, as if he were discussing weather patterns.

You let out a long, exasperated breath and turned back to the road, jaw tight, sunglasses hiding the slow blink of disbelief at your life choices.

Bucky didn’t look at you, but you could feel the smugness radiating off him like heat from the dash.

“You should rest,” he said, casting a sidelong glance your way. “You’re crankier than usual.”

You crossed your arms, slumping just enough to make your annoyance known. “Maybe I’d be in a better mood if I wasn't married the most aggravating man on the planet.”

Bucky smirked like you’d handed him a trophy. “I didn’t realise I outranked Walker.”

“I’m flattered,” came John’s voice again, low and mildly wounded. “Thanks, guys. Warms the heart.”

Twenty Minutes Later – Resort Arrival

The second your foot hit the ground, you nearly choked on the air.

The resort was obscene—like someone gave a billionaire an unlimited budget and said, go nuts.

The entrance was framed with cascading white orchids, marble walkways that looked freshly polished gleamed under the golden tropical sun, and an honest-to-god quartet played soft jazz somewhere near a sculpted garden arch.

Fountains bubbled lazily with rose petals floating on the surface, and in the distance, gauzy white silk cabanas shimmered beside an infinity pool that looked like it led directly into the ocean. Uniformed staff moved like clockwork, trays of champagne glasses catching the light like diamonds.

Bucky stepped up beside you, duffel slung over his shoulder, and took it all in with an arched brow. “Great,” he muttered under his breath. “We’re in a Bond villain’s wet dream.”

You snorted before you could stop yourself. “Try not to glower too hard. We’re supposed to be happy newlyweds, remember?”

His gaze flicked to you, mouth twitching like he wanted to laugh or maybe bite. “Try not to stab anyone with your heels.”

You didn’t reply. Not because he was right, but because the stilettos Val made you pack could absolutely be used as a weapon. And likely would.

Inside, the air conditioning hit like a blessing. The check-in lobby was all white marble and gold accents, with soft lighting that made your skin glow unnaturally perfect.

A stunning concierge greeted you with the kind of practiced smile that made you want to start lying immediately.

“Welcome to El Alma Dorada, Mr. and Mrs. Barnes,” she said, hands clasped over a sleek tablet. “We’ve been expecting you.”

Before you could even fake a smile, Bucky’s hand slid into yours.

It was warm—calloused, solid, and entirely too steady. You blinked down at the contact just as he turned on a grin so smooth it knocked the wind out of you.

He leaned in a little, close enough that you could smell his cologne, feel the press of his thumb brushing slow, affectionate circles against your knuckles.

“Couldn’t wait to get here,” he said easily, voice pitched low and full of some fabricated warmth. “Isn’t that right, babe?”

Your mouth went a little dry.

“…Uh—yeah,” you stammered, smile slow to appear as you forced yourself to lean into his shoulder like it was second nature. “We’re just so excited to start our new life together.”

His hand squeezed yours—subtle, but firm. Reminding you.

Play the part.

You turned your head just enough to rest lightly against his bicep, stretching your grin until your cheeks ached. “So excited.”

The concierge giggled, clearly charmed. “Your honeymoon suite is ready, and the champagne has been chilled. You’ll find rose petals and—”

“Perfect,” Bucky cut in smoothly, his voice suddenly thick with something intimate, possessive. “Can’t keep my hands off her.”

Your stomach flipped so fast it made you dizzy.

There was a cough—stifled, but unmistakable through the comms. Someone was definitely listening.

Probably Yelena. Or John, trying not to laugh himself into an aneurysm.

“Aw,” Yelena cooed through the comms, voice syrup-sweet. “You two are so cute I’m gonna throw up.”

And told yourself not to murder your fake husband until at least after the complimentary breakfast.

The suite was ridiculous.

Floor-to-ceiling windows wrapped around half the space, bathing the room in warm, golden afternoon light. The ocean shimmered beyond the glass in postcard perfection, the view so breathtaking it too pristine to be real.

The ivory stone floors gleamed under your heels, each click echoing faintly as you stepped further inside. Silk-draped furniture was arranged like a magazine spread, and on the private balcony, a plunge pool glistened like a sapphire.

A bottle of vintage champagne waited on ice by the sitting area, and just past that, a trail of red rose petals led delicately toward—

“Oh, hell no.”

You stopped in your tracks, eyes locked ahead, body gone still.

Bucky stepped in behind you and raised a brow as he followed your line of sight. He didn’t say anything, just strolled past with calm and tossed your suitcase beside his own like the room didn’t feel like a honeymoon-themed fever dream.

The bed, if you could even call it that, was massive. King-sized, or maybe some custom size beyond your comprehension. It was piled with pristine white linens, oversized down pillows, and a tufted headboard that screamed expensive sin.

The rose petals continued onto the mattress like an arrow pointing straight to your worst nightmare.

Just one bed.

Of course.

You let out a slow, withering breath. “Real polite of you,” you muttered dryly as Bucky moved toward the closet like this was just another mission and not the set of some soft-core romance movie.

“I’m your husband, remember?” he shot back without looking at you, voice dripping with sarcastic charm that made your eye twitch.

You stepped further into the room, suitcase wheels clicking softly across the marble as your gaze remained stubbornly on the bed. “One bed,” you said, mostly to yourself. “Of course.”

“I’ll take the couch,” Bucky said immediately, nodding toward a chaise lounge in the corner.

It was upholstered in gold-tinged fabric, delicate and ornamental. Clearly decorative. Barely big enough for one leg, let alone a super soldier.

You turned and stared at him like he’d grown a second head. “What are we, five?”

His brow rose. “I just figured—”

“We can share the bed,” you cut in, voice quieter now, trying not to sound as reluctant as you felt. “It’s not like we haven’t been in worse situations.”

He paused. Something flickered in his eyes, too quick to name. Surprise, maybe. Something unreadable, something that made your stomach tighten for half a second.

But then it was gone, shuttered behind the same mask he always wore when things got a little too real.

“Sure,” he said, easy as anything. “Whatever you want, princess.”

You rolled your eyes and turned toward the vanity, focusing on unpacking anything just to keep your hands busy. “Don’t make it weird.”

“I wouldn’t dare.”

The words came out smooth, sarcastic, like everything else from his mouth—but the undertone lingered. He moved toward the bathroom, muttering something under his breath about needing a shower.

And then—like he knew you were watching—he reached up and began undoing the top button of his shirt.

Your fingers froze on the zipper of your bag.

One button. Then the next. Then the next.

You watched—damn it, of course you watched. It wasn’t the first time you had seen Bucky shirtless, but this wasn’t mid-mission or after a fight.

There was no adrenaline. No distraction. Just him, standing in honeyed sunlight, undoing each button with casual ease like he wasn’t setting your pulse on fire.

He shrugged the shirt off one shoulder, then the other, folding it neatly before placing it at the edge of the bed. His left arm remained wrapped in a sleek black compression sleeve, but the shimmer of gold vibranium still peeked through.

His chest was broad and solid, scarred in places, inked in others. Each line of muscle moved with practiced grace, abs flexing slightly as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

You tried not to stare. You really tried.

And then, just to finish you off, the bastard looked at you.

“Want me to leave the door open while I shower?” he asked, tone light. Innocent. Too innocent.

Your mouth went dry. “Why the hell would I want that?”

He smirked, eyes glittering with amusement as he tilted his head. “Thought you might want to join me. Water pressure’s supposed to be incredible.”

You narrowed your eyes, but the heat rising up your neck betrayed you. “You wish.”

“I do, actually.”

You jerked your gaze to the minibar, to the flowers, anywhere that wasn’t his bare chest or that infuriating mouth. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

He stepped closer as he passed—barefoot, because of course he was—his voice lowering to a near whisper. You could feel the warmth of him as he brushed by, feel the smugness radiating off every inch.

“Just say the word.”

Then he disappeared into the bathroom, the door clicking shut behind him with frustrating calm.

You stood there for a long beat, staring at the etched floral pattern on the wall. Your heart thumped uncomfortably, your skin too warm, your thoughts, well, they didn’t belong anywhere near a mission file.

This was going to be a problem.

Your earpiece crackled to life.

“Hey lovebirds,” Yelena said sweetly, voice soaked in amusement. “Remember the comms are still on, yes? We can hear everything.”

You groaned, ripped the tiny device from your ear, and tossed it onto the nightstand like it had personally betrayed you.

“What the hell have I gotten myself into?”

a/n: here is me hoping you enjoyed this chapter! love ya and stay safe out there!

[whoevenisjavier]

EROTICA

part 1 | part 2

pairing: no outbreak!joel x reader

The plan was to finish your thesis. You didn’t actually want to meet a neighbor with a past you can google and a history caught on tape. Or did you?

a/n: the adult content t-shit gave me ideas. btw, my first story here and I swear this is not a TED talk about morality. critical thinking? yes, bc the story needs it. moral lectures? absolutely not. porn? you'll see. this is just for fun — enjoy, i guess. the storys finished already, so I'll post the next chapter soon.

additional tags/warnings: 18+, mdni. reader is 26, joel is 50ish. no outbreak. joel is a dad. conversations about porn. inaccuracies about joel miller (I know his parents aren't chilean but bear with me). javier peña is there too. do I have to add anything else here? I don't know how to do these things.

wc: 9k

This time, your parents aren’t waiting for you at the bus terminal like they’ve done every year for the past three. It’s a good thing, a sign you’re standing on your own now, with your own car, but you still miss seeing their smiles through the fogged-up bus windows.

That moment always made you feel like you belonged somewhere.

Driving through the streets of Lake Placid on your way home feels like walking through your childhood memories. The stores look almost the same, sometimes with a fresh coat of paint, and the people, though not exactly familiar, are the daughters and grandsons of the adults you grew up around before moving to New York. Their faces carry just enough resemblance to make you do a double take.

When you park in your parents’ driveway and pick up your phone for the first time in two hours, there’s a message from your mother.

“We’re in the backyard having a welcome barbecue for the new neighbor! You can go up to your room and rest if you want some time alone or come eat. Can’t wait to see you. X.”

You smile as you step out of the Jeep, the door creaking behind you, and breathe in the cold, clean air rolling down from the mountains and the lake that wraps around the village where you were born. Your parents’ house sits above Mirror Lake Drive, right at the edge of the hill on the northeast side of the village, and from your bedroom window on the second floor, you can see the lake and the distant peaks of the High Peaks.

A far cry from the view outside your New York apartment: nothing but gray swallowed up by buildings. It’s the perfect setting to finally finish your thesis.

As you grab your two suitcases from the back seat, your eyes wander to the house next door, which had been empty for the past three years, mostly because the previous owners were asking too much for it.

Buying real estate in Lake Placid takes careful thought, since turning a profit is unlikely even with upgrades and expansions – the village is just too isolated. So if you’re buying here, it’s not for the money. It’s because you want a life far away from the city.

The house in question is a larger and more luxurious version of your parents’, made of gray stone, with cute white-framed windows, and for the first time in months, you see the lawn freshly trimmed and a new pickup truck parked in the driveway.

Probably the new family your mom mentioned.

The house is empty when you walk in, but you can hear laughter and voices drifting up from the backyard. You head the opposite way, climb the stairs to your room, drop your bags, take a shower, and spend a good while debating whether to sink into sheets that smell like home for the first time in ten months or go downstairs and find something to eat.

Hunger wins.

You throw on a warm sweater and go down. When you open the back doors, six pairs of eyes turn toward you, but it’s your mother’s squeal that makes you smile, followed by the tight hug she and your father give you.

“There’s our girl,” your father says to the others, wrapping an arm around your shoulders as he says your name. You give a small wave. “She always comes home for the holidays.”

The couple sitting together you recognize. They’ve been friends with your parents for years.

But you don’t know the woman who smiles sweetly at you, and you definitely don’t recognize the man, at least twenty-five years older than you, who keeps a neutral expression as he sips from a beer can. He doesn’t seem particularly friendly, but maybe that’s just the impression left by the slightly graying mustache and broad shoulders.

Two minutes later, you’re settled into a lounge chair with everyone in the backyard, a warm burger on your plate and a cold beer in your hand.

“I told Joel he’d have trouble with the house,” says the sweet-smiling woman to your parents, continuing the conversation they were having. “But he really wanted a place here, so I just supported him.”

“What kind of trouble are you having with the house?” your mom asks Joel — the mustached man, now officially identified.

“Nothing major,” Joel replies in a deep, firm, polite voice. “Had to redo the plumbing in two of the bathrooms and fix the heating in the kitchen sink, but it’s all fine now.”

“And are you liking it here?” you venture. You glance at the woman. “You and... your wife?”

Joel gives a faint smile.

“Tess isn’t my wife. And yeah, I’m liking it. It’s peaceful. Not too many teenagers. Feels like paradise.”

“What’s with the teenage hate?” you ask, half-joking, half-serious, silently filing away the Tess isn’t his wife detail.

“Fewer teenagers means fewer cell phones.”

Your response is a light laugh that earns a slight eyebrow raise from Joel, but you go back to your burger and let him be.

The conversation between the adults shifts to Fleetwood Mac, Lake Placid families, suggestions for places Joel should check out, and gossip about someone’s daughter who apparently got knocked up by the neighbor’s grandson, or something like that. You listen in, partly because you’re curious about the latest news (true or not) in the town you grew up in.

Your parents mention that you’re staying longer this time to get a change of scenery and finally work on your thesis, and that’s when the dreaded question comes. From Tess.

“And what’s your thesis about?”

Your mother holds back a laugh, because despite the seriousness of the topic, the initial reactions are always the same.

“I study anthropology,” you say. “My thesis is about the influence of pornography on male behavior over the years.”

That’s because the way men acted around you had always bothered you. When you were ten, wearing a cute chiffon skirt to the grocery store, they stared. When you were fifteen, walking home from school in your uniform, you heard disgusting things shouted at you on the street.

It wasn’t until you got older and realized that behavior like that isn’t natural (and why would it be, if women don’t do it?) that all your anger turned into the foundation for your research.

Tess raises her eyebrows and smiles slightly while the older couple gasps in surprise. Joel doesn’t react at all, except for rubbing the condensation on his beer can with his thumb.

“That’s a very interesting topic,” Tess comments, glancing at Joel, who briefly looks at her, then back at you. “Do you have any conclusions yet?”

“A few,” you say, though you already know the core of your research is the objectification of women’s bodies for the industry’s gain. “But I don’t want to bore you—”

“What’s your research method?” Joel cuts in before you can finish.

“Sorry?”

“Your research method. The system you’re using for the thesis.”

“Mixed methods,” you say, but you sense something more behind the question. Something slightly aggressive that you can’t fully pin down. “I did some fieldwork in New York.”

“Did you interview anyone from the industry?”

You shake your head.

“No one agreed. At least not the newer actors and actresses. The more established ones charged absurd fees just to answer ten questions.”

Joel says nothing, and the silence is broken when your father makes a joke about the topic. Everyone laughs—including you.

The barbecue lasts another hour at most before people start saying their goodbyes. Your mom wraps up two burgers for Joel, and he thanks her sincerely.

Then he turns to you and says:

“Good luck with the thesis, sweetheart.”

You nod, and you could swear you catch a faint smirk at the corner of his lips before he waves goodbye and walks off.

You run into Joel again at the market three blocks from home, standing in front of the fruit display, looking stuck between red grapes, green grapes, and oranges.

Joel’s voice comes suddenly from your left.

“What deep philosophical truth are you hoping those grapes will reveal to you?”

You startle, turning toward him with your hand over your heart as if that could slow it down. Joel raises one eyebrow as he begins placing seedless green grapes into a plastic bag.

He’s wearing worn jeans and a plaid flannel shirt over a white T-shirt. Thin-rimmed glasses rest on the strong bridge of his nose.

He smells like pine and something expensive that you guess it’s aftershave.

“Hi,” you say first, then quickly add, “I was trying to decide between grapes and oranges.”

“Grapes are sweeter this time of year.”

“But I like sour fruit.”

“Then go for the oranges.”

“But grapes are easier to eat. More practical.”

Joel gives you an impatient look, and you answer with a laugh. You grab a plastic bag and start selecting oranges.

After a short silence, while Joel ties off his grape bag and begins picking oranges too, you ask:

“Are you liking it here?”

Joel murmurs:

“There are some interesting things. Sarah likes it.”

“Your wife?” you ask quickly. Too quickly.

“My daughter. Just turned fifteen.”

Oh. Great. He’s a dad. You glance at his hand but see no ring. Joel notices.

“What’s with the marriage obsession?” he asks, although not rudely.

You shrug.

“I’m just curious. And you’d better brace yourself. The older ladies in Lake Placid are going to eat you alive with questions about your relationship status.”

“Really? Why do you think that?”

You freeze with your fingers wrapped around a particularly juicy orange. Without meaning to, you basically confessed that you think he’s a catch: attractive, polite, middle-aged, apparently wealthy, and tall. What other reason would the ladies have to shift their attention from their knitting?

You avoid his eyes.

“You bought the house that had been on the market for years. They’ll want to know who the buyer is,” you say, a half-truth.

He grunts, as if to say he doesn’t care about any of that, ties his orange bag, and places it in the cart. He glances at your basket, scanning the hygiene items (specifically the pads) and the chocolate bars.

“Did you drive here?” he asks.

You shake your head. He does too.

“Then let’s go. I’ll give you a ride home. It’s raining.”

His tone doesn’t invite objection and you don’t want to argue. Silently, and after grabbing a bag of green grapes too, you follow him through the market. He picks up a box of chocolate cereal, milk, kale, and oats, and then you both head to the checkout line.

You pay for your items first, so you end up waiting under the automatic doors, arms crossed beneath the blasting air conditioner.

People come in shaking umbrellas, mumbling about how unexpected the rain is or how cold the drops feel.

Older women walk in, spot Joel, and start whispering to each other with that smile every woman — no matter her age — immediately recognizes. The universal woman-smile.

He, seemingly unaware to all of it, pays with his card, grabs the bags with one hand, and walks over to you.

“Need help?” he asks, motioning toward your three bags.

You shake your head. He nods once and tilts his head toward the door, signaling for you to follow him across the crowded parking lot.

His pickup truck is parked near the exit, looking big and sturdy. You both get in at the same time. The inside smells good but feels stuffy from the rain, so he turns on the A/C and runs his hand through his graying hair to shake off the water.

“It rains a lot here,” he mutters as he starts the engine and buckles his seatbelt. You do the same. “Not sure I like this humidity.”

“Where were you living before?”

“Los Angeles.”

Your eyebrows rise. You can’t picture him with the stereotypical California vibe. It doesn’t fit.

So you ask the million-dollar question:

“What did you do there?”

The sound of the windshield wipers is your only response for a few seconds. Long enough for you to wonder if you crossed a line.

“A bit of everything,” he finally says, and you understand that he doesn’t want to talk about it. Yeah. You were being nosy.

Weird. Joel is weird, and everything about him makes you feel like you should think he’s an assassin, or a retired California mobster, anything that would kick your survival instincts into gear. You probably shouldn’t be sitting in a closed space with him like you’ve known him for years.

“Nothing illegal,” Joel adds when your silence starts to stretch.

That makes you laugh.

“Very reassuring.”

He smirks. At a red light, his fingers tap lightly on the leather steering wheel.

“How’s the thesis going?” he asks.

“Honestly? I haven’t opened the file since I got here.”

“Procrastinating?”

You hum in agreement, resting your head against the seat.

“I think I’m stuck.”

“Yeah? Why?”

“I need to watch some films to move forward.”

He freezes. Then he lets out a low chuckle. You defend yourself:

“I’m serious. I need to understand which narratives work best and why, and connect that to how they influence real-life behavior.”

“Makes sense,” Joel says.

“It does,” you reply, a little proud. You glance at him. The shape of his nose, the mustache, the gray-streaked beard. Then you add, “But it feels weird watching porn in my parents’ house, even if it’s for educational purposes.”

“Porn isn’t always for educational purposes?”

You gasp in horror.

“No!” you exclaim. “Porn is not educational. People don’t have sex like that in real life.”

“Hm…”

“You disagree?”

“I do,” he says plainly. “People do have sex like that.”

“I didn’t mean physically, Joel. Sex is easy: a good position, one thing inside the other, and done.” You catch yourself, because not all sex involves penetration, and something about Joel makes you think he wouldn’t mind sitting through a lecture on inclusivity if it came to that, but you add: “What I meant is that sex doesn’t happen like that. It’s not normal to open the door for the pizza guy and two seconds later be bent over the couch.”

“Says who?”

The frustrated growl that escapes you seems to amuse him. You know he’s teasing, and his grin proves it, but you can’t resist continuing.

“Not to mention the incest plots or the underage fantasies. Do you really think sex happens like that?”

His smile disappears instantly.

“You’re changing the subject.”

“No, I’m not. You can’t separate porn genres like some are less harmful than others, because even the ones that seem ‘harmless’ fuel the same industry that writes those sick scripts.”

“We’re here.”

He cuts you off with that simple phrase, and when you look out the window, you realize he’s right. You’re in front of your house. You turn your gaze back to him, and he meets it firmly, returning all the intensity you just threw his way.

You swallow and reach for your bags.

As if you hadn’t just delivered a monologue on the ethics of pornography, you simply say:

“Thanks for the ride.”

He doesn’t respond. You step out of the truck and walk to the door of your house, feeling like a kid who just got scolded, which is ridiculous. But even more ridiculous is the fact that Joel only drives away after he sees you walk safely inside, even though he literally lives next door.

You meet Sarah — Joel’s fifteen-year-old daughter — the next day.

After running along Mirror Lake Drive, you get home with your lungs burning and your body drenched in sweat, the elastic band of your pink sports bra stuck to your back. As you’re kicking off your sneakers at the door, you spot a pair of pink Converse, way smaller than anything anyone in your family would wear.

In the kitchen, there’s a skinny, unfamiliar girl sitting at the counter, two open books spread across the marble, her curly hair pulled up into two puffs.

She lifts her head, and her brown eyes hit you with a soft echo of familiarity.

“Hi,” you say, as if it’s totally normal to have a stranger in your house.

She waves back. Before you can ask “who are you?”, your mom walks into the kitchen and calls your name.

“This is Sarah, Joel’s daughter. Sarah, this is my daughter I was telling you about.”

Sarah gives you a shy little smile, and you smile back, a bit frozen by the fact that you’re standing face-to-face with Joel’s daughter. You’re not even sure why it freezes you.

“Joel had to spend the night out because he needed to go to New York, and he asked if Sarah could stay with us,” your mom explains.

“I’m old enough to stay alone, but my dad’s crazy,” Sarah chimes in, and you laugh.

You don’t think she’s old enough to stay alone, especially in a new town, but you don’t say that.

What you do say is:

“So, Sarah... what are you studying?”

Sarah needs help with her social studies homework, so after you shower and change into something comfortable, you sit down next to her and go over the assignments together. That’s when you realize she’s ridiculously smart and funny, slipping little jokes into the conversation, blending internet memes with historical facts, and talking to her turns out to be genuinely easy and fun.

Your mom serves dinner, you both eat, and then you settle onto the couch with your Kindles, each of you leaning against an end and your feet meeting in the middle of the cushions.

You’re in the third chapter of Ghost Radio when she calls you.

You peek over the top of your Kindle to let her know you’re listening.

“How old are you?” she asks.

“Twenty-six.”

She looks up at the ceiling as if doing mental math. Then, reaching some conclusion, she raises her eyebrows.

“Why?” you ask.

“No reason,” she shrugs, turning back to the book she was reading. Another question follows, this time without looking at you. “Are you dating anyone?”

“No. I ended my last relationship six months ago.”

“Was he older?”

“No,” you say with a laugh. “I mean, yes, but only by about three years. Why do you ask?”

Sarah wiggles her feet like she’s a little too excited about something.

“Just scientific curiosity,” she says, but her tone sounds more like a villain plotting something mischievous.

The next morning, Joel comes to pick her up at eight o’clock. You’re the one who opens the door since your parents left early to go to the farmers’ market to buy honey and vegetables.

He’s standing on the porch, wearing a thick leather jacket, jeans, and heavy boots. He looks exhausted, and the two-day beard growth makes him even more intimidating.

“Good morning,” you say.

Joel looks you up and down in your pajamas: heart-printed pants and a tank top. You realize too late that you’re not wearing a bra.

“Good morning,” he replies, lifting his eyes back to your face. “I’m here to get Sarah.”

“She’s finishing breakfast. Come in.”

Before he can protest, you turn on your heel and walk away, leaving him no choice but to step inside and follow you to the kitchen. You hear his slow, hesitant footsteps as he returns to the room filled with the smell of butter and coffee.

Sarah is sitting at the counter, devouring pancakes. Joel walks over, presses a kiss to the top of her head, and they exchange a few quiet words before he says something that makes her nod and hop down from the stool, leaving the kitchen.

You hear her going upstairs, probably to grab her things.

“How was the trip?” you ask, filling a mug with coffee and placing it in front of him on the marble.

Joel stares at the pink mug like it’s a threat but eventually wraps his big hands around it. You take a sip from your own cup and look at him over the rim, just the counter between you two.

“Good,” he says simply. He gestures toward the coffee. “Thanks. I needed that. Drove back and forth without stopping to rest.”

“Just thinking about it makes my back hurt.”

“I want my bed.”

You watch him over your cup, blowing on the surface of the coffee. You imagine him in the silence of his own house, in his bedroom, in his own bed. You wonder what color the walls are, what the sheets look like, and whether he sleeps clothed or not.

“Sarah’s really smart,” you say, pushing away the mental images.

That earns a small smile from him.

“She’s fantastic, my girl. But she’s cocky, so don’t tell her that.”

“She takes after someone.”

“I’m not cocky.”

“I’m joking,” you say lightly, offering peace because you don’t want to relive the animosity from the last time you saw him. “Is the coffee good?”

“Very.”

“Want to take some pancakes? Bet you’re hungry. I’ve eaten, Sarah’s eaten, and my parents always grab breakfast out when they leave early.”

Joel drums his fingers against the ceramic, looking like he’s fighting an internal battle, as if accepting food from you would be a terrible crime. Still, you take his silence as a yes and start stacking the remaining pancakes into a thermal container.

When you’re done, you walk around the counter and hand him the container with both hands.

“Here.”

Joel takes it with his left hand. With his right, he reaches out and gently pinches your chin between his thumb and forefinger.

“Thanks, sweetheart,” he says quietly, and you freeze.

He walks past you, saying something to Sarah, who apparently has come back downstairs. Feeling a warm flutter deep in your belly, you turn and follow them to the living room. You hug Sarah goodbye, promise to send her books for her Kindle, and then walk them to the door.

You smile when Joel thanks you for looking after Sarah and asks you to pass his thanks to your parents as well.

You watch them cross the lawn between your gardens, and just before Joel enters his house, he turns to look back at you.

You could swear he deliberately and slowly sweeps his gaze over your body, from your feet to your head.

And then he goes inside.

And you have to mechanically force yourself to close the door.

That same night, you start watching the films.

As you work through your research, you put together a report listing the names of the ten most famous stars from each decade between 1970 and 2020, five male, five female.

You already have a pretty clear idea of what defined the main point of pornography in the ’70s: the start of structured scripts and absurd, fantastical narratives that, one way or another, tied a woman’s pleasure directly to a man’s. Like in Deep Throat, where they came up with a story about a woman whose clitoris is located at the back of her throat. You can already guess what the most "effective" method of stimulation would be.

Porno chic was created to make adult content more palatable to the general public, especially as debates about the legality and morality of filming started to gain traction during that decade.

Sitting on your bed with your laptop open in front of you and your tablet resting on your lap for notes, you watch the films at 1.5x speed while eating green grapes.

You knew you might get aroused watching them, because dopamine responses are inevitable, but apparently there's nothing about '70s pornography that even remotely stirs your body. It feels like you're watching a National Geographic documentary.

You can't push away what Linda Lovelace wrote in her autobiography about the most famous film of that time, the one that made millions of dollars: There was a gun pointed at my head the entire time, she said.

You swallow hard and return to your notes.

By the end of the first week of this stage of your thesis, you finish watching the films from the '90s. You note the radical shift in the female body ideal — all the actresses with breast implants — and the peculiar aesthetic of VHS tapes, since this was the era when films started being widely distributed in that format.

What stands out most, though, is the shift in perspective. Gonzo-style pornography centers the camera exclusively on the man, making him the sole focus, and by extension, reducing women to mere tools for male pleasure. The camera's focus on women's bodies is restricted almost entirely to their genitals, which explains a lot about the birth of violent pornography during that time.

If women exist solely for male pleasure, then it’s no problem if they’re violated, right?

And just like that, the normalization of male domination in pornography begins, which, of course, spills over into social behavior.

You shut the laptop in front of you and lie down on the bed, closing your eyes. You doubt even a sixteen-year-old boy has seen as much porn as you have in the past few days, and there’s still so much left to do.

You reach for your tablet and pull up the list of male stars from the 2000s.

Tyler Cross, Javier Peña, Max Thunder, Ryder Grey, and Clint Fury.

Is there someone in the industry whose only job is coming up with these ridiculous pseudonyms?

You get up, leaving everything behind, and head toward the kitchen to find something to eat. It's already past eleven at night, your parents are asleep, and the only light in the living room comes from the lamp. On tiptoe, you’re halfway to the kitchen when the doorbell rings.

You freeze like you're in the middle of a crime scene.

A doorbell ringing at eleven at night in Lake Placid? Something must be on fire.

When you open the door, it’s Joel standing there on your parents' porch, looking anxious.

“Hi,” he says. Another meeting where you're in pajamas and he's fully dressed. “It's dangerous to open the door in the middle of the night like that.”

“Great way to start a conversation. I'm calculating how many seconds it'll take me to get to the kitchen and grab a knife.”

You get a somewhat tense smile.

“I’m still not used to these small-town habits.”

“I get it. I would never open the door for anyone after eight p.m. in New York, but here it’s normal.”

He nods, then asks,

“Were you sleeping?”

You wrap your arms around yourself as a cold breeze sweeps by.

“No, I was studying. Is everything okay?”

“I need a favor,” he says bluntly. “Sarah’s asleep, and I have to head back to New York. Can you stay at the house tonight?”

“Is everything okay?” you repeat.

“My brother’s wife just went into labor. He asked me to be there. I should be back tomorrow night.”

Your eyes widen, and Joel nods as if to say, “Exactly, got it?” You hold up a finger to ask for a minute, then run upstairs to grab your slippers, your robe, and your phone. When you come back, Joel is still on a call but waits patiently until you close the door before leading you to his house.

He lets you step inside first, and even with the urgency of the situation, it feels a little like you’re a twenty-year-old girl walking into a guy’s house for the first time, especially when Joel shuts the door behind you, finishing up his call.

The house is warm, clearly lived in by a family. There’s a big rug in the living room, a brown leather couch, and pictures of Sarah hanging in the hallway: lifting a soccer trophy, carrying a skateboard, the two of them at the beach. A line of photos shows her growing up, from a baby all the way to now.

The last photo is of her at Jewtraw Park, right here in Lake Placid.

“You can sleep in my room if you want. If that’s too weird, the couch is really good too. I left some blankets and a pillow right there,” he says, pointing to the armchair. Then he adds, “Everything’s clean. The guest rooms aren’t ready yet.”

You roll your eyes.

“I know, Miller. Relax. I’ll manage.”

“Okay. Give me your number. I’ll text you so you have mine. And if you need anything, call me.”

You say your number, and he types it into his old, barely-hanging-on iPhone.

“Thanks,” Joel says, genuine. “Really.”

You smile and give his arm a quick rub without even thinking about it.

“No problem. Just let me know if you need anything.”

After showing you where Sarah’s room is, where the extra blankets are, and telling you about ten times you can eat whatever you want, he leaves. You quickly text your mom, explaining the situation and letting her know you’re staying at Joel’s, then settle down on the couch.

Little signs of Joel are scattered around the house. The reading glasses forgotten on the coffee table, the suede jacket hanging by the door, the boots by the entryway, the faint smell of the same lotion you caught on him at the store.

You feel a little like a criminal as you get up and start quietly wandering through the rooms.

The kitchen is beautiful and organized, but there are a few dishes left in the sink. Since you’re still awake, you start washing them.

You move on to the dining room, all wood furniture and a classic chandelier, and then to a small office off to the side. It feels almost too empty except for the bookshelves. Just a desk with a laptop sitting on it, making you think it doesn’t get much use.

You head upstairs.

Sarah’s door is closed, but you walk softly down the carpeted hallway to the room at the end.

You push the door open, heart pounding like you’re about to find a monster or worse: Joel sitting on the bed saying, “Snooping where you shouldn’t be?”

Instead, you find a huge bed neatly made with gray sheets, dark curtains, and matching desks on either side. There’s a closet and a door leading, you assume, to a bathroom.

It’s empty in the way you’d expect a fifty-year-old man’s bedroom to be.

You almost give in and crawl into his bed but force yourself back downstairs, turn off the main lights, and curl up on the couch, which really is pretty comfortable.

It takes a while to fall asleep in a strange house, but when you finally do, your dreams are filled with gray beards and gray sheets.

You wake in the middle of the night to the ping of your phone. You rub your eyes, still dazed from sleep, and grab the phone from the pillow beside you.

4:47 a.m.

It’s a text from an unknown number:

“Hi. Joel here. Sorry for the hour, I hope you’re sleeping. I just got to New York. Please let me know when Sarah wakes up. I’ll need to call her.”

A sleepy smile tugs at your lips at how formally he writes, no abbreviations at all. You save his contact as Miller.

You type back:

“hey. don’t worry. I’ll let you know. everything ok over there?”

“Why are you awake?”

You don’t tell him it was his text that woke you.

“New place… light sleeper.”

“I see.”

An “I see” with a period and everything. Then another message:

“Yes, everything’s fine. I’m in the waiting room, and Tommy’s with his wife. She’s been in labor for seven hours.”

You type: “ouch. hoping all goes well. lmk if u need sth”

“What kind of vocabulary is that?”

“don’t you have bigger things to worry about, grumpy?”

The impossible happens: Joel Miller sends you a smiling emoji.

You reply with one sticking its tongue out.

His next message comes in text again:

“Tell me about your thesis.

“you’re really curious about it.”

“It’s an interesting topic.”

“sure… men and their obsession with porn.”

“I’m not obsessed with porn. I don’t even remember the last time I watched it.”

Your fingers freeze over the keyboard. This sounds way too intimate.

You type back:

“last time I watched was this afternoon.”

You get a single question mark in response: “?”

You clarify:

“for my thesis. I’m at the stage where I have to watch films.”

“Oh. How are you doing that?”

“picking stars from each decade and watching two movies for each. starting with the 2000s tomorrow.”

Joel reads your message but doesn’t reply right away, which is odd. He had been responding immediately. You wonder if something’s happened at the hospital, if everything’s okay with his sister-in-law.

You stare at the screen until it goes black. Three minutes later, his reply pops up:

“Who are the stars from the 2000s?”

“looking for suggestions?”

“No.”

You open your report from iCloud and copy the list of male and female stars from the 2000s. You send it over.

He reads it. Another little pause.

“I see.”

Then another question:

“And how are you watching? Like a documentary?”

“yeah, pretty much. I put on the films, watch them critically, and take notes.”

“And they don’t affect you?”

“in what way?”

He reads the message but doesn’t answer. After ten minutes of staring at the ceiling, you take a deep breath and type courageously:

“are you asking if I get turned on?”

Again, no response.

Still, you type back:

“i do. it’s inevitable and natural. but only starting with the '90s films. the ones from the '70s and '80s were way too gross for that.”

This time, a reply comes.

“Gross?”

“yeah. the men were really disgusting. it’s obvious they had no idea how to have sex to actually please a woman.”

“I see.”

You picture Joel Miller, tall and broad-shouldered, sitting in a sterile hospital hallway, texting you about porn while waiting for his nephew to be born.

The thought makes you smile to yourself. You burrow deeper under the blanket and decide to be a little bolder.

“do you have a favorite genre of those movies?”

“To watch?”

You frown. What else would it be for?

“yeah”

“I don’t watch them.”

“okay, but if you were going to watch one today, what type would you choose? one with a storyline, straight to the point… what? help me out for the research.”

You almost chew on your lower lip as you watch the little “typing” bubble appear and disappear three times. Finally, he sends a simple response:

“No storyline, not a lot of talking. Something filmed in the morning, in bed, right after waking up.”

“morning sex?”

“Yes.”

Before you can stop yourself, your mind fills with images of Joel’s bed, the same gray sheets now rumpled and tossed aside. The cold morning light pouring through the window, the scent of him still on the fabric, the warmth of sleepy skin, the scratch of his beard against the sensitive part of your neck.

A big hand adjusting and lifting your leg into the right position, low, sleepy moans filling the space.

You snap your eyes open wide.

“got it,” you type back, heart racing.

“Do you have a favorite genre?”

“i hate porn,” you reply.

“Okay. But if you were going to watch one today, what would you pick?”

He’s throwing your own question back at you, meaning you can’t dodge it.

You type the whole answer at once but hesitate a dozen times before finally pressing send, knowing Joel will understand exactly what you mean and exactly what you like. It’s probably not right to tell your parents’ neighbor, who’s at least twenty years older, but you don’t take it back.

“in the car. an age gap where he looks a little older than her, slightly graying, and he’s desperate for her, desperate to do things to her in the backseat.”

“Things?”

“you know what I mean.”

“Say it clearly.”

“desperate to go down on her.”

And again, he responds:

“I see.”

Your cheeks burning, you turn off your phone screen.

But another message buzzes through:

“Good choice.”

You cross your legs and lock your phone again.

The next time you wake up, it’s to Sarah poking your cheek with an insistent little finger. She’s standing over you by the couch, looking at you like you’re a science experiment.

The sunlight pouring through the living room windows makes you wonder if it’s already past ten.

“What are you doing here?” she asks, still poking your cheek.

Yawning, you answer,

“You’re about to have a baby cousin.”

Sarah squeals.

Joel calls her twenty minutes later, right after you text him—carefully avoiding rereading the messages you sent each other during the night—that she’s awake.

Afterward, you eat breakfast together, and Sarah gets ready for school, where she’ll stay until six in the evening. You wait until the bus picks her up before going back to your house, crawling into bed, and sleeping a little more.

When you wake up again, it’s time to log onto a video call with your boss, even though you’re technically on vacation.

You help your mom with some work in the garden, bake muffins, and by late afternoon, you lock the door to your bedroom, find a cozy spot in bed and open your laptop again.

2000s.

Now all the actresses definitely have implants, bleached hair, heavy makeup, thin eyebrows, and elaborate hairstyles: exactly the fantasy for any guy with a DVD player and one hand free.

But it’s also the beginning of the internet era, meaning access to all of it is even easier than it ever was with VHS tapes.

Roleplay everywhere. Boss and secretary, student and teacher, best friend's mom, best friend's dad. A fantasy world that definitely fried a lot of men’s brain circuits.

You start with the male stars.

First up is Tyler Cross. He's a tall actor with spiky, gelled hair, a tribal tattoo on his left bicep, and a defined six-pack.

You watch a POV movie, new at the time, and another where he plays the older brother’s best friend. It’s set in a girl’s pink-walled bedroom, teddy bears thrown to the side, and it’s all absolutely disgusting.

You glance at the clock after finishing Tyler Cross’s films. 5:55 p.m. You figure you’ve got about fifteen minutes before Sarah gets home, so you decide to at least start Javier Peña’s movies.

You type his name into the search bar.

The results flood in. One of the first titles you see: No Overtime for the Babysitter: Daddy Comes Home Early!

You roll your eyes. Great, now they’re coming for babysitters’ labor rights too.

You click the movie. It takes a moment to load.

The cover stares back at you while the loading icon spins.

The actress is gorgeous, with breasts you immediately envy and long black hair. Her lips, glossy and slightly open, look like she’s mid-moan. She’s one of the first actresses you’ve seen who isn’t drowning under a pound of makeup.

The scene starts with her dusting some furniture in the living room.

She’s wearing a mini-skirt and a light blue crop top made of thin fabric that shows her stomach. Definitely very appropriate attire for her job.

The sound of a door unlocking fills the room, and then it swings open.

The actress sighs:

“Oh! Mr. Peña! You’re home early!”

The camera pans to Mr. Peña. You blink at the screen.

Javier Peña has that classic '80s kind of handsomeness. He’s tall, lean but broad-shouldered, his dark hair messy in a way that somehow suits him. The thick mustache above his tight lips and the long sideburns give him the look of an old-school movie star, and you have to double-check the release date of the film. 2002.

He’s wearing a button-down shirt and a loose tie, his gray blazer slung over his left shoulder. But it’s his brown eyes that catch you, because they’re familiar. It feels like you know them.

“The meeting was canceled,” Peña says, tossing the blazer onto the couch. “My daughter’s asleep? You can go now.”

The gasp that escapes your mouth is quickly muffled by your hand when Javier Peña’s voice fills your ears through the headphones, because you immediately realize where you know it from.

The voice is a little softer, younger, with more of an accent, but it’s the same voice.

Joel Miller’s voice.

“She is,” the actress says sweetly, crossing the room. Javier looks her up and down, from her bubblegum-pink painted toes to the way her chest strains against her top. “Are you sure, Mr. Peña? You seem really stressed out. Can’t I help you with something?”

You freeze where you are, heart hammering against your ribs. Holy shit.

“Help how?” Javier asks, raising an eyebrow, pretending to be disinterested.

She smiles, grabs his hand, and leads him to the couch, urging him to sit.

You’re almost ready for her to drop to her knees in front of him, because that would be the obvious next step, but that’s not what happens. The actress — Mila, her name — circles behind the couch, leaning over him to start unbuttoning his shirt.

“You’re so tense, Mr. Peña,” she says, pouting as she undoes each button. “Taking care of the house by yourself, your daughter…”

The shirt falls open, revealing a firm, broad chest.

“So responsible… No one to help you out…” She leans in and whispers against his ear: “No one to suck your cock.”

The shocked laugh that bursts out of you is immediately covered by your hand again.

Javier’s shirt falls completely open, and he takes Mila’s hand, guiding it straight to his pants, her long red nails vivid against the gray fabric.

“I’ve got you for that.”

“Mmm…” the actress moans, massaging him through the fabric. She runs her hands back up his shoulders. “That’s right. You do.”

She moves to kneel in front of him, but Javier clicks his tongue and says:

“Take off your clothes.”

You feel a pulse low in your stomach. The actress smiles and obeys.

Once she’s fully naked, she starts to kneel again, and Javier spreads his legs wider, tossing his shirt aside.

She massages him through his pants for a few more seconds before tugging the zipper down and pulling his pants down with both hands. He’s not wearing underwear, of course he isn’t, and suddenly, you’re staring straight at Joel Miller’s cock.

Large, hard, slightly veiny, every inch of it.

Javier shifts on the couch, gathers all of Mila’s soft hair into one hand, and with the other, guides himself to her mouth, and—

Someone knocks on your bedroom door and you nearly slap the laptop closed.

“Honey, I think Sarah’s getting home from school. Aren’t you going to greet her?” your mom asks.

“I am,” you say, but your voice comes out too soft. You clear your throat and try again: “I’m going, Mom. Just a second.”

“Okay!”

Your mom leaves you sitting there, staring at the wall with wide eyes and a racing heart, so much slick between your legs you have to stand up, clean yourself, and change panties before going downstairs to greet Sarah.

She gets home, you both go into Joel’s house, you make her a sandwich, and she heads upstairs to shower. You stay on autopilot, your head still completely full of Javier Peña... and Joel Miller.

Holy shit.

The man was a porn actor.

And apparently, a very successful one, because you distinctly remember seeing that his films topped the charts for years. Is he still doing it?

You rub your eyes and fight the urge to shove your fist in your mouth and scream.

The irony is almost too much. Fate is throwing a former porn star into your lap when it knows all too well the thesis you’re writing, and all your hatred for the industry.

You order pizza for you and Sarah. You eat while watching a cheesy teenage romance movie that keeps her glued to the TV. When she’s yawning hard, you ask if she has any homework (she doesn’t) and send her off to brush her teeth and get into bed.

She hugs you goodnight and heads upstairs. You hear her brushing her teeth, then the door to her room closing.

You take a deep breath. Pull your phone out of your pocket. You type in the search bar: Javier Peña. The image results flood the screen.

Joel Miller in a thousand different styles. At industry parties in clothes that scream early 2000s, at photoshoots with other actresses, even holding up a trophy that reads—

You lean in closer to make sure you’re not misreading it.

Longest Cumshot of 2006.

Wow. Congratulations.

The Google summary confirms it: Joel Miller, born in 1981 in Arlington, Texas, to Chilean parents. Porn actor, best known as Javier Peña. Joel Miller became an advocate for porn actresses’ rights, one of the main reasons he left the industry in 2010.

One of his last public appearances as Javier Peña was in 2016, co-hosting an adult film awards show alongside Tess Servopoulos, his former career agent. Since then, very little is known about Joel Miller, though several producers have tried to lure him back with massive paychecks, even for solo work.

You hear the key turning in the lock.

You lock your phone at record speed and sit up straight on the couch, eyes wide open. Joel will probably think that you’ve been doing cocaine on his coffee table.

He walks in, shrugging out of his coat, and looks at you.

“Hey,” he says, kicking off his boots. “Everything okay?”

You nod, then try to use words:

“Hey. Yeah.”

Joel gives you a strange look, glancing up the stairs.

“Sarah’s asleep?”

You nod again.

Oh, Mr. Peña. You must be so tired. Can I help you? My God. You’re the babysitter working overtime.

“Are you really okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Um… I…” you rub your hands over your thighs. “I’m just tired. That’s all. Is everything okay with your sister-in-law?”

“She’s fine. I’ve got a nephew now,” Joel murmurs, collapsing onto the couch across from you, legs spread, hands over his eyes. “And he’s so small. I almost didn’t have the nerve to hold him. I don’t even remember Sarah being that tiny.”

“Ha ha.”

At your awkward laugh, Joel drops his hands and studies you carefully, narrowing his eyes. He watches you for a moment, like he’s seeing right through you.

Joel says,

“You found out who Javier Peña is.”

You freeze, hands clenched in your lap. Joel rubs his temple with a heavy sigh and sits up straighter.

“Which one did you watch?”

You swallow hard.

“The babysitter one.”

“You’re gonna have to be a little more specific than that, sweetheart.”

“The film’s from 2002. I think the actress’s name was Mila? She was trying to comfort you about being a single dad.”

Joel raises both eyebrows.

“I know the one,” he says with a dry, humorless laugh. “Right. Here it is. I was Javier Peña for ten years. I guess I still am, when the paycheck’s good enough. I made porn movies. They’re out there.”

“Still are?”

“Not for films. Just for appearances or special gigs at awards shows.”

“Oh.”

He says your name firmly.

“That industry is your thesis. You know those actors and actresses are real people. I’m one of them. Are you going to stop treating me like a normal person now?”

“It’s weird,” you say softly. “Sorry, Joel, but it’s weird seeing you like… that… and then coming here and seeing you being Sarah’s dad, being… Joel Miller.”

“Okay.”

“Don’t be mad at me.”

“I’m not,” he sighs, collapsing back onto the couch. “I’m way too tired to be mad, honestly. We can talk more about it later if you want. I’ll even help you with your thesis if you need. But not tonight.”

“Okay.”

“Thanks for staying with Sarah, seriously,” he says, shifting back into Dad mode. “Let me pay you.”

“No way,” you say quickly.

He opens his mouth to argue, but you cut him off:

“You said you’d help me with my thesis, right?”

He just looks at you. You explain,

“I’ll take that as payment.”

Slowly, he nods. And just like that, you have a deal.

That night, you head upstairs again and lock the door.

You open your laptop, type Javier Peña into the search bar, and scroll through the films. One title catches your eye: Neighbors: The Lust Lives Next Door.

The irony.

The title is ridiculous, sure, but the movie isn’t. He’s the married woman’s neighbor, and when her husband goes out of town, Javier shows up at the door asking if everything’s alright because he heard a noise and got worried.

He’s wearing tight jeans and a short-sleeve, light pink button-down shirt.

They head upstairs to check the bedroom.

She sits at the edge of the bed while Javier kneels down to look under it, but when he straightens up again, he sees the actress isn’t wearing any panties. Of course.

Two minutes later, Javier spreads her legs and goes down on her for a good while, his dark eyes locked on hers. And you could swear the moans are real. Either that, or she’s a damn good actress.

It’s when Javier starts whispering in her ear, loud enough to be picked up by the mic, but low enough to sound private, that your own fingers hover at the waistband of your pajama shorts.

He grips her thigh firmly, legs wide open, about to sink into her, both of them watching where they meet.

“Like this?” Javier asks.

She nods.

He licks his fingers and touches her clit. Her left leg trembles slightly.

“Sensitive? You’re not gonna come again for me?”

You swallow your shame and remind yourself that no one will ever know about this.

You slip your hand into your panties.

You close your eyes, listen to Javier whispering filthy things into the actress’s ear, and feel your pulse thudding in your ears and the slickness between your fingers.

[missadangel]

MAKE HIM DISLIKE LOVE YOU

Harry Castillo x Reader (The Materialists)

Chapter 1: Blind Date

series masterlist next chapter

Summary: You work as a housekeeper in a rich family's mansion and often have to deal with their spoiled daughter. One day, she asks you to pretend to be her on a blind date with a guy her dad picked out for her. Your mission is to make him not like you so he won't want to marry her. But here's the twist: will Harry end up hating you, or could he actually fall for you? That's the real question. Warnings: 18+ (smut, MDNI) kinda romantic comedy stuff, fluffy, angst, lying, soft and caring Harry Castillo, Lucy as his ex, John as Lucy's ex, wealth, expensive gifts, drinks, money, cars, language, sexual tension, oral sex, p in v sex, kissing, slow burn, power imbalance, I might have missed some warnings; I will update them in due time. Word Count: 4.8k for now, There will be a part two if you guys like it, but I'm not sure about the rest. Sorry for the poor writing; that was quick. authors note: I am not sure about his name. If there's any update, I will edit. English is not my native, so please be nice; this is my third fanfiction. Thank you for the reblogs, comments, and likes. Love you all!

"Ugh, this dress is so last season! Are you serious? Everything here is out of style—get rid of them! Call Elliot and have them send me another dress, or I'm going to be really pissed!"

As if tossed at you like a used handkerchief, another dress worth thousands of dollars—perhaps only worn once—landed in your hands. You sighed as you looked at the elegant dress you were now holding, the Gucci label glinting under the light.

"Story of my life," you mumbled.

Working as a housekeeper in a millionaire's house was hard enough, but dealing with his spoiled and ill-tempered daughter was exhausting. Yet you were determined that it would soon be over. You could no longer endure this physical and psychological torture. With the money you had saved, you planned to open your own restaurant—fulfilling your dream. You just needed to save a little more and hang in there a bit longer.

Your boss was a decent, kind man, but his daughter was so unbearable that every housekeeper assigned left the next day.

How do you even tolerate her? 

Because you didn’t have the luxury of quitting and waiting for a new job. You were still young and trying to establish yourself in the business. The extra pay you received was simply to endure her antics. Your kind millionaire boss had even promised you all the support you needed, suggesting you could quit your day job and focus solely on managing his daughter’s affairs. But how could you have known it would be so challenging? Still, you managed to get through each day and believed you could endure this for just a little while longer. After all, you had survived three challenging years already, right?

The mansion was enormous, and everything inside was meticulously organized. Everyone—housekeepers, gardeners, cooks, and even the owners—followed a disciplined daily routine. 

Except for the young lady of the house.

You never knew when she would wake up or come downstairs to join her family at the dinner table. She was stubborn, mean, and unpredictable, and you had to manage her behavior just as you managed her dresses, her dates, and her friends. Because you were responsible for her, there were times when you wished you could handle all the housework yourself and let someone else take care of her demands. Despite being just an ordinary housekeeper, your name was the one that echoed the most throughout this vast mansion.

Why? 

Because the young lady constantly called on you to fulfill her never-ending requests. And it was one of those moments again. Since it was evening, you guessed she was probably getting ready for a night out at the club, and you felt a surge of annoyance as you rushed to her room.

"I can't believe I was a size 8 before starting this job; now I'm down to a size 6," you mumbled to yourself, quickly making your way up the stairs.

One of the cleaners dusting the vases in the hallway shot you a wink and let out a sigh. Man, you’d do just about anything to be in her shoes, just taking care of that vase!

As soon as you knocked on the door, the young lady Melanie opened it, pulled you inside by the arm, and slammed the door shut behind you. You were taken aback—had you made a mistake? It had only been two hours since you last saw her; you had picked up her clothes off the floor and taken them to the laundry room. She had seemed content, busy texting on her phone. What could have possibly happened in such a short time?

“Is something wrong?” you asked, your eyes wide. For some reason, she looked super tense and nervous.  

“You’ve gotta help me,” she said almost desperately, which caught you off guard; it was pretty rare for her to ask for help like this, very rare.  

“Of course, if I know what’s going on…” 

“Remember that thing we did with the senator's son? I need you to do something like that again.”

You froze for a moment. She was referring to something you had helped her with before—something you weren't very proud of.

“Oh, but—” you frowned. “You said I’d never have to do anything like that again.”

Years ago, you had done your best to disguise yourself as Melanie to turn off the senator's son and prevent him from marrying her. It had worked, but lying to someone was a real headache. Thankfully, Melanie's father hadn’t suspected a thing, but the thought of risking it again felt scarier than anything else.

“I know, I know, but I’m in a tough spot. My dad has been speaking with a matchmaker again to arrange a match for me. After the scandal at the club last time, he's determined to marry me off for sure. Please, I need your help.”

How could she still act so childish in her late twenties? As she looked at you with those pleading eyes, memories of all the times she’d yelled at you and scolded you flashed in your mind. It was fine when you were more like her special assistant instead of just a housekeeper, but now it feels like you’re just a toy to her. When she wants to have fun, she plays with you—almost like you’re her little slave or something.

“I’m not here for that,” you said firmly. “That is not my job.” Your patience was running thin, and this was just too much.  

“But you’re supposed to help me,” she shot back, stubborn as ever. “And it’ll be easier this time, I promise.” 

You narrowed your eyes and said, “We got caught last time when the guy found out and cursed both of us. Do you have any idea how hard that was for me? And if your father discovers what we’re up to this time…”

She replied with a grin, “We won’t get caught this time because I already sent them your photo instead of mine. Besides, you know how my father is strict about always having my picture removed from newspapers and magazines.”

“You did what?” you wailed.

“Chill, it’s all figured out. I’ve been working on this since last week. You’ll have dinner with the guy, pretend to be me, scare him off, and boom! He won’t want to hear my name again. Easy peasy!”  

You rolled your eyes. “But he’s surely seen your photo somewhere; he can’t be that clueless.”  

“No, he’s a very busy businessman. He has lived abroad for years and has just returned from France. He’s looking to set up his business here in New York,” she said as she opened her laptop and pulled up a webpage with information about the man. “It seems he’s also looking for a suitable match,” she continued, glancing at his photo and pursing her lips.

You froze when you looked at the photo; he wasn’t at all what you expected. He appeared to be a mature, charismatic, and intelligent man. But how could you sit opposite this man and pretend to be someone else? The thought made you shudder, raising the tiny hairs on the back of your neck.  

“As you can see, he’s much older than me. I don’t think he’ll tolerate disrespect. If you’re disrespectful to him, he might get annoyed and just leave the table,” she said with a chuckle.

You laughed too, but for a different reason. You were sure that if she went to the meeting herself, he would get up and leave when he saw her personality.  

“I think you should go; maybe he won’t like you,” you suggested.  

She narrowed her eyes at you like she'd just caught you saying something crazy. “He won’t like me? Seriously?” She flipped her hair over her shoulder with a cocky grin. “Anyway, I can’t risk it. I don’t want to marry him or anyone else, and I definitely don’t want to be stuck in the same room with that old man.” 

As if I want it so much, you thought.  

“Come on, please do this for me! I promise I’ll be good; I won’t make you work too hard. I’ll ask Dad to give you a nice raise,” she said, clasping her hands together and trying to look cute.  

Well, good raise would mean you could quit your job and bail out of here earlier, right? You crossed your arms and glanced back at the laptop screen, staring at the photo of that guy—Harry Castillo. You made a decision that you had no idea would change everything in both his life and yours.

“Fine. When’s dinner?” you said, feeling a bit anxious.  

“Oh, you’re the best! I knew you couldn’t say no!” she said excitedly. “This Saturday.”  

“But that’s only two days away,” you pointed out, feeling even more nervous.  

“Don’t worry, I’ll get you all set. Just make sure you displease him,” she grinned.  

You sighed deeply, already sure you’d regret this choice.

“Don’t you think this dress is a bit… exaggerated?” you muttered, looking at yourself in the mirror.  

It was an elegant burgundy dress—strappy, satin, and adorned with pearl details—the kind of designer item you could never afford, even if you worked your entire life.  

“Am I trying to make him hate me or make him fall for me?” you asked, frowning.  

Melanie rolled her eyes. “Don’t worry; he’ll never fall in love with you,” she said arrogantly. This was typical behavior for her, so you chose to ignore it. “As much as you want to annoy him, remember that you represent me. I don’t want anyone gossiping that Melanie Johanson is wearing a lame dress,” she continued while picking out a matching purse.  

“But everyone knows I’m not you, except that poor guy.”  

“I don’t suppose you were planning to wear one of your own skimpy outfits,” she remarked. “Do you want our game to be exposed?”  

That was too much—being scolded and being forced to do something so ridiculous for this spoiled girl.  

“Fine, go to that dinner yourself then,” you said, slipping off your heels.  

She grabbed your arms. “No, no, no, please. Okay, I’m sorry I was rude. But I need you; no one else would do something like this for me.”  

“It’s good that you realize that,” you muttered.  

“Here, take this; it’s time,” she said, giving you a smile.  

Honestly, putting up with Melanie’s constant demands, cleaning up after her, and covering for her felt like child’s play compared to what you were facing tonight. 

A nice raise, you keep telling yourself trying to soothe yourself. I’m doing this for my restaurant; I’ll get it started someday.

The restaurant was one of the most famous, expensive, and luxurious places in New York—somewhere you would never normally set foot in. But tonight, thanks to Melanie’s name, you could easily get in. You were overwhelmed by the incredibly polite behavior of the restaurant staff.  

Melanie may have been extravagant and reckless, but she had thought of almost everything for tonight—from the driver who brought you here to the all restaurant staff. 

All this effort was for one purpose: to rid herself of the matchmaker’s match.  

When they took your fur coat at the entrance and told you that Mr. Castillo was waiting for you, you took a deep breath. After one step inside, when you saw him, you nearly backed away. Harry was busy on his phone, scribbling notes in his small notebook. He looked really sharp and stylish—way more handsome and appealing than in the photo.

Damn.  

You wanted to escape; you wished to put an end to this nonsense before it even began. Without realizing it, your feet started to move backward. Just then, you turned around and accidentally bumped into the waiter behind you, causing him to drop the champagne glasses he was carrying on his tray. The glasses shattered, and champagne spilled all over his outfit. You cursed yourself for the mishap.

Before you could even respond, the waiter apologized. “No, it was my fault; I’m sorry,” you said nervously, trying to wipe off the champagne from his clothes.

The other waiter and the staff stared at you in shock. 

Yes, you were a wealthy lady now, but what harm was there in being polite?

"No, ma'am, I should have been more careful," he said before turning and walking away.

"Miss Johnson?" said a soft, deep voice. 

You turned around to meet him and felt almost breathless. There he was, few inches taller than you, with broad shoulders, curly hair, deep-set brown eyes, a sharp nose, and an attractive appearance. 

"Melanie, right?" 

"Y-yes," you stammered, batting your eyelashes. 

And that smile! For a moment, the world seemed to stop; all the sounds in the restaurant faded, and you almost forgot why you were there. 

"I'm Harry," he said, holding out his hand. It took you so long to look at his face that you nearly forgot to acknowledge his hand. He laughed again, that wonderful smile lighting up his face. "My hand has been waiting for a while," he said teasingly. 

You felt your cheeks flush as you realized what he meant. "I'm sorry," you replied, quickly reaching out to shake his waiting hand. His hand was big and warm. "I hope I didn't keep you waiting too long," you mumbled, feeling embarrassed. You knew you needed to work up the courage. 

“Not really,” he said with a grin. “Shall we head to our table? Or do you want to stay here all night?” 

“S-sure,” you said sheepishly. 

Well, there wasn't much you could do about it. This wasn't just about him being wealthy or handsome. Even if it was a fake date, it had been years since you'd been on a date, and you didn’t know many men in your life. 

Dinner was harder than you expected. Even though you and Melanie had practiced what you should and shouldn't say, your fears came to light. Harry seemed kind and understanding, and it was difficult to lie to him, which made you hate every minute of it. It got worse when he started grilling you with questions, and you weren't sure how much longer you could keep up with this silly game.

When you excused yourself to go to the restroom, you called Melanie. 

"What do you mean he hasn't left the restaurant yet?" 

"I don't know; the conversation got a little long, and he kept asking questions about me, I mean you." 

"Do something to make him hate you already!" 

“But how? Throw wine at him? This is all ridiculous. I think we should just tell the truth.”

"Don't you dare!" she barked.

Her voice was so loud that you had to smile apologetically when the other women in the ladies room looked at you strangely, hearing your end of the conversation. 

"What am I supposed to do? Our plan isn't working." 

“What's up with this guy? He should’ve bailed by now.” Melanie grunted.

“He seems nice—I doubt he’d be rude like that.” 

“Rude! That’s the ticket; just be rude enough that he can’t stand it.” 

“What? Seriously?” 

“Yep, you heard me. Just be as rude as you can.” 

You let out a sigh, really wishing you could just bang your head against the wall right now.

“I said do it, or you'll ruin everything. Call me when you’re done.” 

“But what am I gonna— Hello? Darn it!” 

Beep… Beep… Beep… 

She hung up. 

You’ll have to be rude, how wonderful! But she was right; you needed to get rid of this man for the night to end and for you to return to your normal life. Why did he have to be so nice and kind? If he could ever act like a jerk, you would have done it by now, but he was just too sweet. As you looked in the mirror, you thought of all the rude things a lady wouldn’t normally do. Ah, that sounds familiar; it reminds you of Melanie herself. The very thought of her actions made you smile nervously. You took a deep breath and left the restroom.

Encouraging yourself, you gazed at Harry's handsome face from afar.

You can do it, you can do it...

Your first move: act indifferent.

You changed your facial expression as you approached the table and deliberately looked away from his face. He was smiling warmly at you. No, you couldn't look at him; it would only complicate everything. You were about to apologize for being late, but no, you can’t. Instead, you pulled your chair noisily on purpose, scraping its legs on the floor to create an annoying sound. You sat down and crossed your legs, positioning your body so it wasn't fully facing him. Harry seemed surprised by this sudden shift in your mood, but he didn’t comment.

A little later, as your desserts were served, he looked at you, “I like chocolate cake too, especially with pistachio sauce. We have similar tastes,” grinning at you.

You looked at him and then at the waiter. “I don’t want this,” you said angrily.

“But ma'am, you ordered it,” the poor man replied sheepishly.

“I’ve changed my mind,” you said. “I’ll go with the tiramisu,” you added after a quick look at the menu, making sure to glance away casually.

“Sure, I’ll change it right away,” he said, taking your plate and walking back.

“Are you all right?” Harry asked, concern creeping into his voice.

“I’m great,” you lied, forcing a fake grin.

He didn’t ask any further questions, but he seemed to suspect something had changed. When the waiter brought your dessert, you decided to eat it rudely. You were sure Harry would be disgusted as you devoured your dessert quickly and rather rudely as if you were starving. You didn’t look at him again until you finished your plate. When you finally glanced up, your stomach feeling a bit nauseous, the look on his face was not what you had expected. He was smiling at you admiringly.

What the hell was that? 

Shouldn’t he have shown disgust or displeasure, just like the people at the next table who were staring at you with disdain?

But not Harry, not him. Why, God, why? 

As if teasing you, he laughed and reached for a napkin on the table, wiping the remnants of dessert from the corner of your lips. “You’ve got quite the sweet tooth, don’t you, sweet girl?”

How could he be so nice, even after everything? 

“Want to eat mine too?” he joked again. Clearly, you were amusing him instead of grossing him out. Ugh, just what you needed. Why was this so hard? 

“It’s the cream in it,” you said, a bit defensive. If you were going to get into a battle of words, you might as well dive in. 

When he looked at you, confused, you thought you saw a glimmer of hope. Maybe you could annoy him with your gourmet knowledge. 

“The Marsala wine is in the cream; it’s a secret recipe,” you said, trying to sound smart. 

Harry paused eating his dessert, rested his elbow on the table, and gave you an admiring look. “Interesting. I didn’t know you were into cooking. That wasn’t in the info.” That familiar warm smile was back.

Crap. Another mess-up. 

“I get it—you’re keeping it under wraps from your dad. I want you to feel comfortable talking about your hobbies when you’re with me.” 

When you’re with him? Damn, that was supposed to be the first and last time you saw him. You started playing with your fingers in your hair out of nervousness. 

Think, think, think. All you had left was to use the only card you had.

“Look, Harry, I’ll be frank. I don’t plan to see you again.”

Suddenly, he stopped. “Didn’t you like me?” he asked softly.

Was it possible not to like this man? But damn it, you had to lie. You looked away; it was hard to read his expression.

“You’ve probably heard about me from the tabloids. I’m not the type of woman to get attached to just one man. My father put me up to this matchmaker thing; I didn’t intend to.” You admitted this indirectly. He deserved a little honesty, didn’t he? “I’ve had and will have many men in my life. I don’t plan to get married. I mean, you’re not special. I don’t want you to get the wrong idea.” 

When you looked at his face timidly, you realized you got the reaction you had been waiting for since the beginning of the night. His smile vanished; his expression hardened, and the color of his eyes darkened. 

But why did your heart squeeze when you should have felt relieved?

When they brought your coat, you thanked them and turned to Harry for the last time. You would probably never see him again. You felt fortunate to have had the chance to meet and get to know this man, even briefly. He would probably forget you anyway; why would he remember you? 

“Can I give you a ride home so we can end things on a good note?” he asked, sounding a bit unsure.

You definitely didn’t see that coming. You paused, trying to figure out what to say. It would’ve been easier to just say no, but his eyes were so mesmerizing that if he’d asked you to spill all your secrets right then, you might have done it without even thinking.

“Sure,” you replied, feeling shy.

When the valet brought Harry's car around, your jaw dropped. This black, late-model Mercedes Benz S was probably worth hundreds of thousands of dollars. Your interest in cars stemmed from your childhood; your mother always complained that you didn't like dresses and jewelry like other girls—rather, you liked cars. It was clear you were different, and you had always been that way.

Just like the situation you found yourself in now. Maybe there was something wrong with you.

The two of you were silent the entire ride. You didn’t look directly at him, but you could feel his gaze on you out of the corner of your eye. However, you were more captivated by the interior of the car. When would you ever get to ride in such a luxury vehicle again? It wouldn’t hurt to take a closer look. As you glanced towards his side to check out the control panel and see how much horsepower the car had, he caught your eye, causing you to quickly turn your head away. You had to suppress your curiosity.

"We’ll turn right here," you said as you approached the junction. Down the street, the giant mansion loomed, so close to your destination. You stole a quick glance at him, realizing this might be the only time you would see this man in person. You wanted to remember his handsome face. 

Suddenly, Harry slammed on the brakes, and the car screeched to a halt. Your eyes widened in surprise as you looked at him, startled that he had stopped so abruptly near the mansion. What had caused him to suddenly halt? He didn’t say a word, just stared at you, and his eyes seemed to communicate something intense. Was he angry and no longer wanting your company? 

You unbuckled your seatbelt and reached for the door handle, only to find it locked.

“Stay still,” he said as he unlocked the car doors. 

What was he implying? He walked around the front of the car, reached your side, and opened your door. 

Was this chivalry? If so, why did he stay away from the mansion?

“Aren’t you getting out?” His voice was kinda cold.

You didn’t know how to respond. You stepped out of the car without saying a word.

“Thanks for the ride—” 

Suddenly, he grabbed your arm—not roughly, but with a firm, questioning grip. His gaze was intense, but why did he look that way? Had he figured it all out? Maybe he was about to confront you for making a fool of yourself. After all, you had been willing to be open, and now you felt you deserved it. But you didn’t have the courage to meet his eyes, so you lowered your head. 

“You were lying, weren’t you?”

Shit. 

You swallowed hard; this was the moment you had dreaded.

“I-I…”

What were you going to say? How would you even say it?

You were fucked.

Suddenly, Harry pinched your chin with one hand, forcing you to look at him while his other hand rested on your waist. He tilted his head toward you, his hot breath brushing against your face, making your heart race. His lips were dangerously close to yours, and you could feel your throat going dry. What the hell was he going to do? Kissing you or scolding you? After what felt like an eternity, he pulled you closer by the arm around your waist and kissed you.

It had been a long time since you kissed someone, so you were almost shocked by his sudden kiss. No matter how hard you tried to stop yourself, you finally closed your eyes and surrendered to him completely. Your surrendering gave him courage and he deepened the kiss, his hot tongue licking your lips and forcing them apart. While his expert hand lingered on the swell of your breasts teasingly, you moaned and opened your mouth for him and when his tongue touched yours, you could still taste the chocolate from the dessert he had just eaten. 

But suddenly, Harry pulled his head back, breaking the kiss and all contact. Instinctively mesmerized, you leaned forward, eyes closed and mouth agape. When you finally opened your eyes, you caught him snickering, and as the embarrassment of the situation hit you, you wished you could disappear. You instinctively pressed your hand to your burning lips and pressed hem together. Harry licked his lips and grinned. "Just as I predicted. You lied to me. There's no way another man has touched you recently."

For a second, your mind went blank, and you just stared at him, blinking in confusion. What the heck did he mean by that? "Y-you... w-what..." Great, now you couldn't even put together a simple sentence.

What next?

Just then, your phone started ringing. When you opened your purse to get it, Harry reached for it before you could. Fortunately, you had saved Melanie in your phone under a special nickname, not her real name. Harry laughed, raising his eyebrows in surprise and amusement. "Trouble?"

Yes, you had saved her as trouble.

"Can you hand my phone back, please?" you said, holding out your hands, but he caught them with one hand and gently pushed them away. 

“Your trouble can wait,” he said, rejecting Melanie’s call. He dialed a number on your phone, but realized what he was doing when his own phone started ringing.

“There, now you have my number,” he said, handing your phone back to you.

You frowned and grabbed your phone angrily, "What makes you think I’d actually call you?" 

Harry shrugged, pursing his lips. “Shouldn't I call you before I come to pick you up for our next date? I guess I could just come by your house and honk the horn instead.” 

“What?” you exclaimed.

He grinned.

You took a deep breath to release some of your tension. “Harry, why are you doing this? There won’t be a next date; I told you that.”

“One chance,” he said firmly.

“A chance of what?” 

"I want you to give me a chance. A real date. If, at the end of the night, you still feel the same way, I promise you’ll never see me again."

You shook your head. "But why? You’re a man who can have any woman you want. You’re rich, handsome, and kind—why waste your time on someone who doesn’t want you?"

You saw something in his brown eyes, something you couldn’t quite identify, but it was intense. “Because you're different from others,” he said sharply. “True, women are not unattainable for me; they are always around. But what I want is someone special, and I feel that you are the one. There’s something about you that has ignited something in me I haven't felt in a long time. I must admit, I'm surprised; I never thought I’d be attracted to you after reading the news about you, but it seems I was wrong. Can you give me a chance? Please?”

Oh, Harry, there’s so much you don’t know, you thought. Your heart was fluttering at the thought of saying yes, but how could you? How dare you? You weren’t Melanie, the daughter of a wealthy businessman; you were just an ordinary girl.

“You know I won’t leave without hearing your answer, right?” He grunted.

Just then, you heard a car approaching, and you freaked out. That was Melanie’s dad’s car. Your heart nearly stopped.

“You have to go, like, now!” you yelled in a panic.

“First, say yes,” he replied, frowning.

"Si, yes, okay, alright! But please, go now!" you urged, pushing him toward the back of his car. He chuckled in response.

You crouched down to hide your face as the other car drove toward the mansion and pulled him down with you.

“I want you to know I’ve never done anything like this in my life,” he admitted, snickering.

“Is that so funny?” you snapped.

"Okay, I get that you don’t want your dad to see us like this, and I’m curious why, but since you said yes, I’ll be a good guy and leave."

“Yes you do that,” you said with a sigh.

Harry took his phone out of his pocket and waved it before getting into his car. “You’d better answer it when I call,” he said, getting inside. He winked at your puzzled expression and started the engine. His car quickly disappeared from sight along the road. You turned toward the mansion, exhaled deeply, and murmured to yourself.

“I'm so fucked.”

thanks for reading, likes, comments, reblogs are appreciated ❤️

[softaestluv]

Grease & Grime Won’t Break Your Bones

You never thought you were attracted to grease and grime, sweat and exhaustion, definitely needed a shower and scrub, but no one has worn it like he is.

Mechanic! Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x fem!reader

This chapter does contain explicit smut, 18+ content!

Tags: Rough sex, Unprotected sex, Creampie, Paying for services with sex, Vaginal fingering, Oral sex, Office sex, dirty, greasy, grimy, sweaty, mechanic

Pt. 1, Pt. 2, Pt. 3, Pt. 4 (final part!)| Ao3 | masterlist

A kiss, brush of lips, tongues and teeth.

Wandering hands, firm and steady on your hips— possessive, greedy.

Heavy eyes and shallow lungfuls, trembling fingers and a drowning pulse.

Scorching fever, yearning, aching for something more.

Every morning before work, languid kisses pressed between the oil and cloth fabric of Simon’s truck seats. Awkward angles and smashed positions. A clean Simon, all mouth wash and redwood soap, taste of morning tea on his tongue. Sweeter and longer kisses, gentle hands and a smoothing tongue, soft voice and honeyed croons.

Swoops butterflies low in your core, tightening your chest, hiding smiles between his lips.

Every evening when he picks you up from work, frantic kisses pressed against your front door and his broad chest. Indecent, shaming your neighbors with such a desperate act. Your mechanic Simon, dirty, filthy; sweaty and stained, salty on your tongue. Rough and brutal kisses, pinching hands and clashing teeth, deep timbre and gritted demands.

Burns warmth in your core, nudging your thighs together for any stimulation, quiet gasps and mewls swallowed between his lips.

Never more, never any less.

The first time he dropped you off at work, you were hesitant, swallowing over a thick lump in your throat because you wanted more from the night before. You didn’t know how to ask, or if you even should.

His fingers were reassuring when he held your chin, a murmured, ‘have a good day f’me, okay?’

Then he had stamped a kiss against your mouth. It was supposed to be chaste, you knew that, but you didn’t want it to end just yet, didn’t quite get your fill. You probably shouldn’t have made out in the parking lot of your job or perched yourself in his lap either, but you did. Scratched at the insistent craving in your lungs before running into your work building late.

When he had walked you to your front door after picking you up, you wanted to invite him in, you did invite him in. He declined, shaking his head with a soft chuckle, and a brush of his knuckle against your cheek— just droppin’ you off sweet’art.

And like a man contradicting his words, he pressed you flat against the wood of your door, drowned you in his saliva, dragging his mouth, fangs and all, against yours feverishly each time. Barely managing to pull away to bid you farewell.

It went on for a week, mindlessly feeding your fire with make out sessions in his truck and your porch, like two desperate teenagers trying to quench their thirst.

A week was all it took for Simon to fix your truck, had your engine running like new, but a gnawing itch dug at the back of your skull as you stood in his office. You couldn’t find it in yourself to be excited, not with the imminent lack of pre-work kisses and murmurs, any post-work bites and promises in your future.

As if your truck being fixed was the end of it.

A knot formed in the pit of your stomach as you aimlessly nodded along, pinching your lips between your teeth as Simon explained the work he did on your truck. You didn’t really care, your shitty old pick up was the last thing on your mind, even more so when he kept talking with his hands, thick fingers spread wide with each gesture, dipping into even thicker wrists. Solid forearms, veins curled over each curve, right up to each bicep.

Covered in stains— “Y’alright, bird?”

Your mouth fell open, darting your eyes back to his, “Yeah, yeah I-,” you fluttered your lashes, taking a deep breath, “So, what happens now?”

You mean between you and him, not your stupid truck, and you’re sure he knows that, but all he does is huff a laugh, closing the thin distance between the two of you. Bullies you right up against his desk without a care, hands landing on either side of your hips, consequently boxing you in.

“Well,” He pauses, bending his head to the crook of your neck, brushing the bridge of his nose up the delicate skin, drawing rapid goosebumps, “You still owe me f’my services.”

“A twirl?” You breathe, unsure.

“Go on, then.”

It’s hard to spin eloquently caged against his broad chest and the desk, but he doesn’t seem to mind when the plush of your body rubs against the front of his coveralls. Stopping you when your ass faces him just like he always does with a sturdy hand on your hip, except this time you’re pressed right up against his slowly thickening cock.

Your poor cunt, greedy and desperate clenches around nothing over his bulge. You’re sure he can feel it because he exhales a fucking deep chuckle, blurs your eyes with embarrassment.

And then those same hands are nudging you forward, your palms falling flat against the wood with a gasp as he lays his chest over your back. He’s warm against your cool skin, working in the sweltering garage all day while you sat in his conditioned office. The contrast stings your flesh, makes you painfully aware how hard he had been working to fix your truck. The callouses and scars on his hands evident enough, and the thought suddenly makes every touch even more searing. Taking care of your shitty inconveniences without a second thought.

His fingers skim the seam of your pencil skirt, trailing just a little lower to trace against your knee, rakes chills down your legs, “Had t’work a little harder this time.”

You inhale a sharp breath between your front teeth, “Yeah?”

“Mmh, gonna have to do more than just a little spin, love.” He hums, slowly hitching the fabric of your skirt to your hips.

“Yeah?” You repeat, your default answer when his hands are on you.

Simon laughs again, vibrates your back, “Yeah, baby.”

He hooks his fingers in your ruby red panties and tugs them down your thighs. A sticky string of your arousal clings to the fabric, beads in two when the material pools at your feet.

“Let’s see,” He purrs, “Did two oil changes free of charge.”

His hand smooths against the swell of your ass, thumb resting just under the curve, kneading the flesh gently before leaning back. Drags his eyes steady over your ass, and spreads your pussy open with a stamp of his thumb. You squeak, a bit humiliated at your compromising position; it makes an unbearable warmth bloom down your chest, but you like it.

Can’t do anything but like it when he’s ripping the stitches of your vulnerable flesh bit by bit with the reverence in his irises, the hunger seeping into his almond-shaped eyes as he stares at your pussy.

His thumb sweeps through the seams of your pussy and brushes right up against your sensitive clit. He’s firm on the puffy mound, petting confident strokes against the bead, makes you stutter over your breaths with each new shape like he fucking knew how you liked it already. Your legs spread wider at that, head nodding forward against your chest as you succumb, surrender to the sensation.

This is what you had been waiting for. This. His stained fingers on your clit, drooling over his thick digits.

You had been so well-behaved, let him trace your figure with teasing hands, make you late to work every morning, unfocused and wet in the chair in your office, leave you a breathless mess against your front door, so you like to think you deserve this. Deserve to lay against his desk and let him do whatever he wants to you.

“Fixed your air con.” A finger presses into your poor empty cunt.

Your fingernails dig into the wood.

“Got you a new set of tires.” A second finger joins the other.

A moan scrapes against the back of your throat, pushed straight out from the stretch, knees bumping against the desk as you slump slightly.

The first several drags are slow, using the time to coat his fingers in your slick, agonizing to the insatiable ache you need absolutely smothered. Your puffy walls clamp onto his fingers, using your pussy to ask him to press harder, deeper, further, just like you know his deft fingers can.

He gives you exactly what you want, but he makes an embarrassing show of it. Curls his fingers right where he needs to make your pussy squelch loudly, pulls them out just so he can see your slick cling to his skin, connecting the two of you with a dribbled string. Smears it on your pussy, swiping your clit with each movement over and over again.

Then, he follows the string straight to the source, licks around the digits buried in your sopping folds. You’re already wet, a sticky mess, and it only gets worse when soft lips encase your clit. Your knees out right buckle under you, body weight slumped against the desk when his teeth brush against the bead, coaxing your clit out of the hood by nipping, sucking, toying with it while he plunges his fingers deep.

Yeah, yeah, this is what you deserve.

You’re so close off that, gooey, tacky delicious honey washing over you, panting and shaking under him, toes curled uncomfortably in your heels. Your moans echo off the thin walls, and you struggle to remember if Johnny was still in the shop before Simon bent you over his desk within the brink of an orgasm.

The thought leaves your mind as soon as the strokes turn languid, nothing but really hooking his fingers in your walls as a placeholder while he unbuckles his coveralls. You whine, protesting even though the sound of clanking metal promises a better outcome, something bigger, thicker, because you were so fucking close.

He shushes you, tutting his tongue against the roof of his mouth, “None of tha’, takin’ what you owe me.”

His words make you moan, bobbing your head, yeah, yes, you’ll let him take as much as he wants if he keeps your pussy stuffed. You fidget heel to heel in anticipation, looking over your shoulder to watch. It’s a sight, all beefy muscle, tan lines and freckles, damp chest hair and pubes. Every move is determined, fueled with a purpose, shown in the way his arms flex, his brows furrowed.

You practically fall flat against the desk when you see him free his cock, fat and reddened, leaking with precum. The shaft is thick, a slight curve to it, barely fits in the palm of his massive hand. But all you can focus on is the girth, smacks hard against his fucking belly button.

“And now your bloody engine.”

His cockhead pressed to your entrance.

“Tell me, sweet’art, how’d you plan on payin’ all that?”

“With this,” You whine, arching your back, so your pussy rubs right up against his tip.

He hums, hand on your back pressing your hips flat against the desk, so your cheek is flush with it, “You mean this pretty little cunt, huh?”

You nod pathetically, scratching your skin against the wood because you don’t think you quite have it in you to use your words, confess that you’re willing to use your pussy. And he doesn’t push for you to, takes it as a good enough answer.

The stretch stings, makes tears well in your eyes, but it’s hurts so good. You squeeze your eyes shut, focusing on the burn, really drown yourself in the feeling of being so full. It’s a slow start, shaping your spongy walls to take his full length, moist lips mapping shapes against your neck in encouragement to take it all.

You think you’re ready for it, clenching around him, bucking your hips and pleading with quiet words for more— please Simon, I can take it.

Then, he’s just fucking brutal, unforgiving.

Your teeth knock together with the first determined thrust, your eyes snapping open in shock because you were not ready for that. It tears the breath straight out of you, hurts your lungs from the force. Rips a cry of his name from your core, your chest, your throat because you’re sure you’ve never been fucked like this.

Each thrust is harsher than the last, hip bones painfully slammed into the desk with each smack of his cock. The sound of his balls slapping against your flesh, loud and obscene, echoes how aggressive he’s really fucking you.

The gooey honey from his fingers and tongue turns to white, hot, searing pleasure. Borderline painful, as he forces you to take it with no where to run, so you just lay there and take it like a good paying costumer. Accept the onslaught until his hand bands around your throat, curls around the small muscle, and arches your back as much as you physically can so his mouth can press hot against your ear.

“D’ya think I’d jus’ be done with you too?”

You nod, squeak a strained ‘yes’ because you had thought that. Anxiety pinched your chest before his cock split you in two, before he made you his.

“Can’t get rid o’me that easy, sweet’art,” Simon grits through each word, “Work in grease and grime; you’re stuck with me now, baby.”

The words remind you of how dirty he is, how dirty you are for liking that fact. Even more so when his other hand tugs your shirt and bra low, digging indents into your breasts, and you can see how filthy his hand is from work— the same hand that was buried in your pussy moments ago.

Oil, dirt, sweat, grease and grime smeared on your skin, all over your dainty skirt and white blouse. Marking you as his in more ways than the dark hickeys he leaves on your neck and bruised fingertips on your hips.

It numbs your thoughts to nothing but the way you know his cock is just as filthy. Fucking you into a slippery, sticky mess with each rut of his hips. And then he hoists your foot onto the desk, hits a gummy spot that has you arching, quivering in his grasps. Blinding you and consuming you whole.

Your body decides that’s all you can take, squeezing so tightly around Simon as your orgasm becomes ferocious and unbearable. You seize up, Simon dropping his forehead against your shoulder as he tries to fuck you good and well through it, cussing under his breath. Everything’s fuzzy, blurry, and hazy; you’re dizzy, every part of your body melted into the sensory receptors of your body.

You don’t even realize you’re doing it, what words you’re saying, but you’re babbling for him to finish in you, cum inside you, taint your delicate flesh with every thing he possibly can.

It’s a few more shallow thrusts before his fingers are digging harsh into your hips, sharp teeth pinching against your shoulder. Warms your already scorching cunt with his spend, bucking his hips deeper with each new spurt.

Even after you milked him for all he’s worth, he rocks his cock into you again and again. Slower, softer, more careful from the way he was just bruising your cervix seconds ago. Relishes in the way your folds flutter overstimulated around him, middle and index finger tracing around where the two of you meet, where your pussy stretches so pretty for him, like he doesn’t want to slip out just yet.

Your fingers tangle into his on your hip, “Don’t think I paid my full debt yet. If you take me home, I can really show you how grateful I am.”

You’ve never seen him speed faster to your house, ripping the keys from your grasps when he deems you took long enough to open your door. It makes you laugh, finding it quite hilarious how eager he is to fuck you all night, a trucks engine worth of orgasms.

That night you let him fuck your mouth, slobbering and choking over his fat cock as he carves the shape into the back of your throat. Sucking the salty taste clean from him.

When morning comes he fucks you again, even though your pussy is sore and swollen, your muscles contracting painfully with each movement from overuse. The way he coaxes your orgasm out of you is worth it all, the way he kisses you goodbye soft and sweet after a shower at the door is even more so.

His promises to return later that night with his thumb rubbing tender strokes behind your ear are even better. Except this time you don’t have a theoretical debt to pay or a shitty pick-up, just a simple guarantee.

masterlist ✎ᝰ.ᐟ

[starmapz]

what you know - ch13: tribulations || r. sukuna

❦ ryomen sukuna x f!reader [college au] [ongoing series]

❝ you've heard his reputation and you've seen first-hand the way he's late to class if he even bothers to show up. paired with him for the most important project of the year, you choose to give him the benefit of the doubt- but maybe that's more than he deserves when your perfect grades depend on him, or maybe there's more to the aloof and irritable sukuna than meets the eye. ❞

❦ cw ; mdni, 18+ only. contains explicit sexual themes and content. use of alcohol. use of cannabis. use of nicotine/cigarettes. angst. hurt/no comfort. hurt/comfort. minor injury. family trauma. smut. slow burn. anxiety. panic attacks. mentions of difficulty eating. legal drama (likely with inaccuracies). tags will be updated as series continues.

❦ additional tags ; college parties and themes. sukuna ooc warning as this is a realistic take on modern sukuna. reader is fairly preppy and implied to be smaller than sukuna, but he's 6"11.

❦ words ; 16.2k.

❦ a/n ; it's heeeere!! so before everyone reads i just wanna give a small update. chapter 13 and 14 were written all at once and ch14 should be ready in about a week. they were originally intended to be one chapter, but 36k words felt unreasonable for a single chapter LOL, so i've split them in two. they do read somewhat as a part 1 and part 2, so the second part of the legal battle will be out next week. as well, please note that the legal details are heavily based off of a mix of canadian and australian laws and processes, so it may not match up with your local laws. with that out of the way, enjoy!

main masterlist || series masterlist || previous chapter || next chapter

The sound of your text chime has you cracking your eyes open before dawn even breaks. You hardly even recognize the sound, so accustomed to having your phone on vibrate. With a weak groan, you flip onto your side, peering at your phone.

It’s not even six in the morning yet, and you barely got home by midnight.

Your eyes slip down to the message previews, and you frown. Taking a moment to let your body adjust to being awake, you plop down on your mattress, draping your arm over your eyes. In hindsight, probably not the greatest idea as you jolt back awake when another text arrives.

Pulling your phone off the charger, you squint at the bright screen.

5:39 AM Kuna || yujis awake

5:39 AM Kuna || he keeps banging on their door but cho wont answer

5:52 AM Kuna || sorry

Dragging your hand over your face in an effort to wake up, you stare at the messages once more before typing your response.

5:54 AM You || Why are you sorry?

5:55 AM You || I’ll be there soon

His response comes fairly quickly in spite of the chaos you’re sure is taking place in his apartment.

5:59 AM Kuna || its early and shit

Pushing yourself out of bed to get ready, you find a small smile pulling at the corner of your lips.

6:01 AM You || I told you to text me, didn’t I?

6:02 AM Kuna || yeah

6:02 AM Kuna || thanks

That’s the last message you receive from him as you shower, put on a hardly noticeable amount of makeup, and throw on a comfy pink hoodie and leggings. If you could drive in a cocoon of blankets, you’d probably do that too, but you digress.

You’re standing in front of his door barely a half hour later, having gotten ready faster than ever in an effort to help. You’d definitely figured Yuji would sleep in longer, but Sukuna isn’t a particularly lucky man, so here you are before the sun has risen.

The look on his face as you open the door speaks to his luck as well. Defeat is emboldened across his features, etched into the dark circles under his eyes. A white V-neck that’s so thin you can make out his chest and shoulder tattoos beneath it hangs over his shoulders, while a pair of black sweatpants adorns his lower half. They hang so low on his hips that you can make out the band of his boxers, and lord knows you don’t need your mind going any further than that.

He may be attractive, but at the end of the day, you can’t let yourself get hurt again. Not like that.

“Hey,” he grunts tiredly, swinging the door open as the sound of Yuji sobbing fills your ears.

Shooting him a sympathetic look, you follow him inside without a word, where he leads you to Yuji. The boy is slumped against the door to his and Choso’s room, tears and snot trailing down his face as he sobs and hiccups, calling out his brother’s name between wails. Sukuna clearly tried to calm him down, based on the blanket tucked around the little boy and the plush clutched in his hands, as well as a pile of tissues that surrounds him.

Your heart drops at the sight of the little boy who holds such a dear place in your heart so devastated as he cries out for Choso. You want nothing more than to hold both kids close and let them know everything will be alright.

With his eyes shut tight, the little boy hasn’t spotted you yet.

“How long has he been crying?” You whisper to Sukuna, trying to figure out the best way to work through the situation.

Sukuna casts a glance at his phone in his pocket. “Since five.” Tucking his phone back into his pocket, he sighs. “Don’t wanna pick the lock n’ force Cho out if I don’t gotta,” he shrugs.

In all honesty, you’re a bit shocked at how strangely calm he is handling the situation, as well as how reasonable he’s being. You can’t be sure what exactly it is that’s dulling his sharper edges, between the dejection in his tone, how long this has been going on, or the weariness plaguing every movement he makes. On the other hand, it’s those same reasons that have you worried for him as signs of life seem to drain from his eyes more and more each time you see him as of late.

You spend one more moment examining Sukuna before turning your attention to Yuji.

Leaning down in front of him, you finally gain his attention. His sobs turn to sniffles for a moment as he peers at you with a lidded expression, having completely exhausted himself already. He whispers your name questioningly between gasps as though he doesn’t quite believe it’s you, wiping his nose on the back of his hand.

“Hey sweetheart,” you greet him with a soft smile. Before you can even begin comforting him, in a flurry of blankets and arms, he’s clinging to your leg, gripping you with as much force as he can manage. With a sad smile, you hug him as best as you can with him stuck to your leg like glue.

“I- m-missed-” he sobs, gasping to catch his breath, “you.”

“I missed you too, Yu.” Your voice is tight as you rub his back gently, blinking in your best effort to keep yourself from crying at the sight of the sweet boy hugging you with all his might.

“Do you wanna tell me what’s going on, honey?”

He backs up an inch, wiping his face again with his hands. With a hiccup, he barely manages to get out a very broken explanation of what’s going on. “Cho-” a sniffle, “won’t-” a broken sob, “let me innnnnnn,” he bawls, his words devolving into full sobs once more.

Settling on the floor in front of him cross-legged, you extend your arms, offering him a hug that you’re sure he needs. He clambers into your lap in a flurry of tears, burying his face into your shoulder.

Maybe a pale pink hoodie wasn’t your brightest choice of clothes all things considered, but that’s the least of your concerns.

Quietly hushing the little boy, you hug him tightly and rub his back. His entire body shakes violently in your arms as he’s wracked with sobs, gasping for air between each one.

“Shh, it’s okay, honey.” Your voice is quiet and gentle, gradually soothing his sobs into quiet cries and gasps. Even as he begins to calm down in your arms, he doesn’t move, clinging to you like a lifeline.

Sukuna hasn’t moved either, frozen in place as he watches the way you effortlessly calm his brother down. He can only blink as he watches you, his mind moving too groggily, too slowly, to properly process just how well you understand Yuji. But really, it’s not just Yuji, is it? It’s Choso too, and even Sukuna himself.

Deep in thought, the tattooed man scowls to himself, as yet again he finds himself considering Uraume’s words. At least before the fight, you liked him, right? Do you still, now? Does this prove that? Does last night prove that?

His heart beats in his throat at the thought and he has to swallow to choke down the feeling, because it reminds him of a much bigger question he’s been avoiding.

Why is he chasing the answer like a damn bloodhound? Does he want you to like him?

His eyes trail the length of your back as he watches the way Yuji clings to you, his fingers buried in the fabric of your pink hoodie. Your shoulder is already stained in snot and tears, but he knows you don’t mind. You’re so painfully accommodating of his family that self-reproach constricts Sukuna’s chest and he finds himself unable to move. Unable to do anything but watch.

Time and time again, you’ve told him to reach out, that he should ask for help, even as recently as a few hours ago, and yet seeing you sitting on the floor before him doing something that he should be able to do himself sends guilt straight through his heart. With the full force of a fist, it hits his chest and knocks the breath straight from his lungs.

He knows he’s only one person, that they aren’t his kids and this whole situation has just been a case of winging it from the beginning, but this is the one thing he should be able to do as a brother.

Basking in his shame and frustration, he fixes you with a scowl that isn’t made for you. 

Why are you so selfless?

Why is he so selfish?

Why is he taking up all of your time when he has no right to ask for it?

Gritting his teeth, he scratches at his stubble-dotted jaw, finding the wherewithal to sit at your side on the floor.

You cast him a glance, surprise flickering in your eyes as he takes a seat beside you. His expression is more familiar, sitting somewhere on the spectrum of grumpiness, though you’re not sure where his sudden attitude came from. In this particular moment, that’s the least of your concerns.

Yuji shuffles back slowly to look at you with glossy eyes and puffy cheeks. “I- I-” He stammers between sniffles, wiping his tears on his sleeve. “I wanna see-” he hiccups, “- my brother,” though between all the tears and his sniffles, it comes out more like ‘bwother’. “Is he-” he sniffles, “is he mad at me?”

“No, sweetie,” you soothe, “I don’t think he’s mad.” You rub his back, leaning back to get a better look at him. His chest is heaving as he struggles to catch his breath, his eyes flickering every which way across your face as he tries to make sense of everything. Unfortunately he’s far too young and naive to figure out the bigger picture, which only makes everything more difficult. “I think your brother’s sad, Yu, just like you.”

He wipes his face again, a string of… saliva (?) sticking to his sleeve as he pulls back. “Sad? Why?”

You take a deep breath as you search for an answer that a five-year-old could understand. “Do you remember the person who came by to talk with Kuna yesterday?”

Yuji nods, hiccupping.

“Well, Choso didn’t like something they said.”

“Why not?”

You suppose you should have seen that coming. Children are always looking for answers where there are none.

“I don’t know yet, sweetheart. I’m gonna see if we can talk to him, okay?”

“Okayyy,” Yuji whines, rubbing his eyes.

“Why don’t you go sit with Kuna?”

Yuji stares at you for a moment as he contemplates your words before nodding, crawling off your lap in a bundle of the blanket he’s wrapped in. He grabs his plush tiger before slowly approaching his older brother.

Sukuna may not be able to provide the words his brother needs to hear, but he does still open his arms and let his brother cuddle into his chest. You shoot Sukuna a reassuring smile before pushing to your feet to knock on the door to the kids’ room. There’s no way Choso isn’t awake given Yuji’s wailing, and you’d wager a bet that he even heard everything you said just now.

Still, there’s no reply to your knock.

Turning back to Sukuna, you can see that Yuji is on the verge of tears once more and shoot him a reassuring smile before tilting your head to Sukuna. “Did Choso eat last night?”

Sukuna shrugs. “Dunno. I shoved some shit under the door but I didn’t hear him move.”

“Why don’t we make some breakfast and see if we can get him to come out for food and a talk? He’s gotta be hungry.”

Sukuna mulls over the option before nodding. “Y’want pancakes, Yu?”

“Yeah,” the boy sniffles, wiping his tears. “With lots ‘nd lots of syrup.”

Sukuna lets out something between a hum and a scoff, effortlessly setting his little brother on his feet and pushing up to his full height. “C’mon,” he urges, leading the way into the kitchen. You cast one last glance at Choso’s locked door before following Sukuna.

The brutish man begins gathering ingredients, setting them on the counter beside a large mixing bowl while Yuji grips the counter, just barely tall enough to see what Sukuna’s doing.

“Let’s get your hands washed,” you encourage Yuji, turning on the tap and lifting the little boy up so that he can reach the kitchen sink. Making sure he uses soap, you place him back down on the floor. He wipes his hands on his very messy hoodie, effectively negating anything the handwashing had done in the first place, but it’s not like you can get into his room to get him changed into something clean.

Sighing, you lead him to the table and lift him onto a chair. A bead lizard sits on the table in front of him, and he entertains himself with it for the time being.

Returning to Sukuna as he washes his hands, you follow suit, turning towards him to take the hand cloth from him.

“You’ve got a little-” you point at his shoulder, covered in stains from Yuji’s sobs.

Glancing down at his shirt, Sukuna grunts with a frown before evaluating your outfit. “We match,” he comments dryly, rolling his shoulder to emphasize the drying patches on your shoulders. “You need a new shirt?”

“Um-” you glance over at Yuji, before shaking your head. “No, I have a feeling these aren’t the last tears that’ll be on my hoodie,” you surmise with a tight-lipped smile, trying to keep light of a situation that clearly has the whole family worn to the bone, with nothing left to give.

Sukuna hums again, about to ask you to cut some bananas for the pancakes when Yuji turns towards you, weakly calling your name.

Turning your gaze to the little boy, you scoot a chair up next to him and give him your full attention. “What’s up, Yu?”

He sniffles, swallowing a lump in his throat. “Um- I made-” he pauses, holding the lizard he’d been playing with earlier up to you. “Made this for-” he stammers again, hiccupping, “-for you.”

Holding your hand out, you delicately take the bead lizard from him. One of its legs has four toes rather than three, and its tail is slightly lopsided, but it’s positively too cute.

“Um-” Yuji continues, his eyes dropping to his lap. “-but then you were-” as if the memory alone shakes him to his very core, his lower lip wobbles, parting with a sob. “-you were goooone,” he cries again, clinging to your side. It takes all of five seconds before he crawls off of his chair into your lap.

“Shhhh,” you soothe, smoothing his hair back off his forehead and rubbing his back. “I know honey, I’m sorry,” your throat is tight as he wails in your arms. “I’ve been busy with work and school, but I never stopped thinking about you, Cho, and Sukuna, you know that?” You tell him, leaning back in an effort to see his face. With puffy cheeks, he swallows a sob as he looks up at you. Holding your wrist out, you show him your bracelets, letting him fiddle with them. “See? I always had you with me.”

Sukuna’s spoon comes to a halt in the mixing bowl as he watches your interactions with Yuji. He damn-near drops the utensil too, fumbling with it until he can set it down. His heart doesn’t just flip or flutter as usual, no, it hammers in his chest when you utter something so sweet that it’s sure to cause him a cavity.

He lifts a hand up to his chest, the feeling of his heart beating erratically resounding through the tips of his fingers. His lips part as he stares down at the bowl in front of him, blinking at the half-mixed batter.

“‘M always with you,” Yuji repeats the sentiment in agreement with you between broken gasps and sobs, reaching up to fiddle with your friendship bracelets.

Sukuna can only watch the interaction from the corner of his eye as he struggles to run from something that he fears has been creeping up on him for a long time. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind sits a realization that he’s never once bothered with because it simply couldn’t be true. Now, though… His crimson eyes flicker towards you. Your features are soft as you smile for his little brother, giggling as the child gently tugs at the twine around your wrist.

A month. A full goddamn month you kept those on. You were resigned to never seeing Sukuna again and still, you kept them on. You never deleted his number. You kept him in your thoughts when your company had an open position. He knows you needed the help for your own gain, but he’s not foolish enough to think there’s no coincidence in the fact that you called him, let alone even thought about him.

He’d spent so long running that he’d never stopped to consider how he felt about all that.

His brow furrows as he turns his attention back to the batter, glowering as if it’s personally offended his whole bloodline. He doesn’t have the fucking time for this.

In an attempt to keep up his pace and continue running from his thoughts, he unsteadily grabs the spoon again and mixes the batter with a fervor that catches your attention as you cast him a questioning glance. He’s too busy scowling at the batter to notice, but you figure he’s simply stressed.

“Your big brother knows how to reach me if you kids ever need me, okay?”

You jolt at the sound of metal clattering behind you. Twisting in your seat, you catch a glance of Sukuna muttering curses to himself as he picks the spoon back up, his brow bunching up more intensely by the moment.

You make a mental note to ask him what’s up later, turning your attention back to the little boy on your lap as he slowly turns the twine tied around your wrist. His breathing begins to settle again, satisfied with your explanation as he explains the reasoning behind his color choices with the bead lizard. You listen intently, because if you don’t, his words sound more like hoarse mumbles, difficult to make out.

Yuji explains in great detail that he designed the lizard for you out of pink and purple beads, because those are the prettiest colors, just like you. You’re grateful in that moment that Yuji is too busy looking down at his creation and Sukuna is behind you, because tears finally do prick at the corners of your eyes. Yuji is positively precious and you can’t deny the fact that you adore him as though he’s your own family.

Maybe that makes things messy given your shaky connection to Sukuna, but you can be there if the kids need you, at the very least.

“Ready in two,” Sukuna mumbles behind you, barely audible.

“I’m gonna go talk to Choso, okay sweetie?” You gently let Yuji know as you set him back in his own chair. He nods, sniffling as he watches you head back towards his room.

Knocking on the door again, you wait to see if you get an answer, but there’s nothing. As far as you can tell, Choso isn’t even in the room.

“Cho?” You call gently, letting him know it’s you. “Please come have some breakfast. Kuna made you some pancakes.”

It’s deathly silent behind the door and you’re beginning to wonder if he’s somehow managed to run away, but that doesn’t seem feasible in an apartment. Not to mention that given what Choso’s upset about, you can’t imagine him leaving.

Trying again, you keep your tone gentle, but loud enough that you’re sure he can hear. “I’ve missed you, Choso. I’d love to see you,” you offer, but there’s not a sound to be heard. Frowning, you begin to wonder if picking the lock might be the only option. “Cho sweetheart, I’m worried about you. Remember when we talked about using words when you’re upset?”

From beneath the door, you just barely catch a hint of a shadow. Relief floods through you as you realize he’s there and listening to you.

Knowing that he can, in fact, hear you, you lower your voice to try to have a conversation more with him than the whole apartment. “It’s okay to need space, Cho, but it’s important to ask for it,” you explain. It’s moments like this that you can tell he’s learned a couple of bad habits from Sukuna. “Pushing everyone away when you’re upset isn’t good for you.”

The shadow beneath the door moves again.

“Do you want a hug, sweetheart?”

Click.

The door creaks open just enough to make out Choso’s face peeking through the gap. The room behind him is dark, the curtains drawn. He must have been laying in bed all night and morning.

You smile softly, pushing gently on the door to see if he’ll let you in. He hesitates for a moment before relenting, but the moment the gap is wide enough for Choso to slip through, he gingerly pads across the floor and hugs you.

Behind you, Sukuna and Yuji exchange a few words in the kitchen, followed by the sound of Sukuna’s footsteps behind you, but they stop a short distance away.

“I’m sorry,” Choso murmurs, silent tears trailing down his face as he hides his face in your hoodie.

“It’s okay sweetheart,” you soothe, holding him tightly. “I’ve got you.”

You don’t dare pull back first as he quietly shakes in your arms. He clearly needed this, but didn’t know how to seek comfort from Sukuna, and Yuji simply doesn’t understand.

Satisfied that Choso’s at least okay, Sukuna backs away to serve pancakes to Yuji, giving Choso whatever space he needs. Even if he’s guilty for entrusting this to you, he doesn’t have the luxury of being picky when it comes to his brothers’ well-being.

You can hear the clinking of forks and knives and occasional muttered conversation in the kitchen as the other two brothers eat breakfast. It takes a couple of minutes, but Choso’s breathing gradually evens out. With a final deep breath, he takes a small step back, his vision trained on the ground.

Smiling gently, you move his long hair from his face to see him better. He coughs into his elbow quietly, his voice hoarse as he speaks for the first time since last night, or perhaps even longer knowing the withdrawn child. “I thought you and Kuna weren’t friends anymore,” he murmurs, his voice cracking midway through his sentence as he wipes his tears.

“Why not?” You query, curious what Sukuna told him. Choso is far too smart for his own good if Sukuna didn’t say anything. Lying to the little boy about what happened isn’t your first choice, but you will if it helps his mental health.

He shrugs, though there’s clearly something on his mind.

“Everything’s okay,” you assure him, smiling. “What would make you feel better? Do you want breakfast, or do you wanna talk?”

“Can we-” he pauses, clearing his throat, “- can we talk?”

“Of course,” you assure him, turning to lead the way to the kitchen to talk with his brothers, but he stops you with a tug on your sleeve.

“Just you?”

Tilting your head sympathetically to his situation with his little brother and his horribly emotionally constipated older brother, you nod. He leads you back into his room, leaving the door open just a crack. You can hardly make out the floor with how dark the room is, hissing as you step on a toy dinosaur. It would be a triceratops you stepped on, wouldn’t it?

Shaking the horned dinosaur from your poor foot, you make your way to the window and crack it open. It’s still fairly early but dawn offers enough light that at least you aren’t stepping on the stegosaurus next, or the squished fruit snacks that Sukuna must have slid under the door.

Choso squints slightly as he sits on the edge of his bed. Taking a seat beside him, you’re able to finally get a good look at him. He’s still in a hoodie and a pair of sweatpants, so you can only assume he laid in bed all night and couldn’t be bothered to change into pajamas. His hair is unkempt and oily, and his face speaks nothing more than utter defeat.

Though it doesn’t show much in Yuji’s personality (yet), it’s clear that Choso’s picked up a lot of Sukuna’s traits over the years. Unfortunately it seems that includes his tendency to shut others out and attempt to deal with everything on his own, which is just about the worst lesson he could have picked up from the eldest brother.

Choso kicks his foot out, his brow furrowed as he organizes his thoughts before speaking.

“Do you think Kuna can win?” He whispers hoarsely.

You can’t afford to hesitate as you reply. “Of course. He’s putting a lot of work into getting a good lawyer and putting together evidence.”

Choso nods, blinking down at his mismatched socks as he wiggles his toes in front of him. “I don’t get it,” he murmurs.

“Don’t get what?”

“Why she wants us.”

That’s a question you’re vastly unprepared for, and horribly devastated by. A child should never need to question their parent’s love. Is the right answer to comfort him and offer a reason she might want him, or to vilify her further when that’s clearly what Choso’s already thinking? Is there a right answer at all?

“I don’t have an answer for that, Choso,” you reply with painful honesty.

Choso’s brow furrows, scowling at the triceratops that nearly took you out. No wonder the poor kid locked himself away if his thoughts are plagued with wondering whether his mother even loves him.

And if she does love him, you’re sure he hopes she’ll let him go. No child deserves to handle this sort of pressure, or these sorts of thoughts. In the short time you’ve known Sukuna and subsequently his brothers, they’ve all been through a lifetime of hardship, and you can only imagine the things that would do to a twelve-year-old. He’s been forced to mature too quickly, and it’s apparent in the way that he struggles with the weight of that maturity that he doesn’t really know how to handle it.

Sukuna’s a good parental figure, at least where it matters, but he can’t teach either of his brothers how to handle something of this caliber when he can’t even handle it himself. He may have had a few extra years to grow accustomed to life, but he was still just a kid when he lost his dad. How was he meant to learn this lesson himself when no one was there to teach him either?

Choso’s eyes flit around the room in thought, but he doesn’t seem to know where to go with his thoughts or how to organize them.

“Do you want to talk about her?” You set the cards on the table, offering him the opportunity. You don’t want to push him into anything, but you hope he’ll heed your words about talking through his issues regardless. It seems to comfort him more than a hug, from what you’ve gathered.

The little boy is silent for a moment, rubbing one of his eyes with his knuckles. “Um- I don’t know what to talk about.”

“Anything,” you offer him a smile. “This is about you, Cho. I just want to help get your mind off of things.”

In the bleak darkness of the room as light very slowly begins to peek through the blinds, it becomes glaringly obvious just how much of a weight this little boy carries. It’s as though he thinks he has his own duty to uphold, one that he silently and without protest holds tight to his chest.

“I don’t remember her very much,” he croaks, clearing his throat. He kicks his feet a couple of times as he contemplates his words. “I remember playing board games with her and Dad.”

“What board games?” You query, keeping the conversation going.

Choso hums in thought. “Monopoly and Life,” he murmurs.

“Life is fun.” No comment on Monopoly.

Shrugging absently, Choso falls back into a steady silence. It’s hard to tell if he wants to stay on this subject at all given his curt replies, but between the raspy timbre of his voice and the fact that he seems to have repressed the memory of her, you can’t blame him.

“I- I really don’t remember her,” he whispers, shaking his head. He wasn’t that young when she left as far as you’d gathered that he shouldn’t be able to remember her at all, but the thought of him locking the memory away tightly feels painfully realistic. Maybe he’d even thrown away the key, given how distraught he is over the lawsuit. “She went on a business trip before Dad got sick, and- um- she never came back. Dad said she was making lots of money so we could be happy.”

Sukuna had never told you exactly what happened, just that she was gone the moment things got tough. She may have never been fond of Sukuna, but from what you can piece together, you can’t see why she wouldn’t like her own children. Still, you find yourself asking the same question as Choso previously had.

It can’t possibly be money that she wants the kids for. Sukuna’s made it pretty clear that the government aid doesn’t help enough to offset the cost of caring for kids, so it has to be out of love, right? Pettiness towards Sukuna maybe, but real love to be willing to take the kids back.

She sure has a funny way of showing her love, but you can’t possibly begin to imagine what else could bring this on.

Maybe she only ran overseas out of fear of losing her husband? It’s cowardly, but it’s the only explanation you can find in a situation where there’s no sense to be found.

Yet… didn’t Choso say she left before Jin got sick?

It doesn’t alleviate any of your doubts surrounding her motives.

“Did you talk to her on the phone?”

“Um- usually every week. When Dad did.”

“I’m sorry, sweetheart.” Really, what more can you say? There’s nothing easy about this situation, especially in the eyes of a child that’s been able to do nothing but sit back and watch as his life is decided for him.

When was the last time Choso really got to be a kid? Christmas?

Your heart drops at the mere thought.

“I miss Dad,” Choso mousily whispers, his shoulders dropping as a silent tear falls from his cheek, down the tip of his nose. He wipes another tear on his sleeve and yawns. You wonder if he slept at all last night in spite of being locked in his room. “Dad always knew what to do.”

That’s twice now that you’ve heard that same phrase from the trio of brothers. Your heart drops to the pit of your stomach at the hole his departure left in their family.

“Dads are like that. They’re good with advice,” you agree, doing your best to keep yourself neutral, letting Choso come to you with the details he wants to share. The more he can get his thoughts in order on his own, the better off you think he’ll be.

“He always made soup whenever we felt bad.”

With a lopsided smile, you tilt your head to look at the little boy. “Is that where you got your cooking skills from?”

To your surprise, something glimmers in Choso’s eyes. A hint of life. A hint of more than the dull fog he’s been cocooned in. He shakes his head with a hummed ‘mh mh’. “It was just in a can.”

“There’s nothing better than a plain can of soup when you’re sick.”

Choso nods. “Yeah. Or when you just feel sad.”

“Huh, I guess soup is a cure-all,” you hum in an attempt at keeping the air lighthearted. Choso’s opening up bit by bit and the last thing you want is to bog down the flow of conversation.

Choso begins kicking his feet consistently, bracing his hands on the edge of the bed. “Kuna makes good soup, too.”

“From a can?” You query.

Choso shakes his head.

“From scratch?” Your brows raise. It’s not that Sukuna’s a bad chef by any means, he’s actually got the craft down. In fact, your reaction doesn’t come from surprise at all. Sukuna’s a great chef, and if he had the money for the ingredients and the time to cook, you don’t doubt that he would go the extra mile to take care of his brothers. He already does if he can.

Your reaction is purely from the realization that Choso’s love of cooking likely doesn’t come from Jin. It comes from Sukuna.

“Um- I think so. I mostly just put things in the pot.”

You find yourself smiling at the thought. Choso loves cooking because it’s how he bonds with his older brother. Just like he loves Pokemon because it’s how he bonds with his younger brother.

“Kuna’s a good chef, isn’t he?” You encourage him, willing a reaction. To your delight, he blinks a few times and nods.

“The best,” he whispers.

Your eyes flicker up at the sight of a shadow under the door. Wood creaks beneath heavy footsteps that slowly retreat, the shadow dissipating. 

“Well you know, your chef brother made you some pancakes,” you tell him softly, moving a hand to rub his back encouragingly. “They’ll be cold if you don’t eat soon.”

Choso looks up at you now, a series of emotions flooding his worn out eyes. Sadness, uncertainty, confusion, and fear all swirl within deep brown irises. It’s clear he’s still braving the mess that is his mind, but he’s wading within the emotions rather than pushing them down until there’s nothing left to feel but emptiness. You’d much prefer this to the blank stares you’ve been getting so often.

He finally nods, finding it in himself to hop off of his bed to his feet as he heads for the kitchen.

“Can you hit the light?” You ask before daring to move a muscle. There may be more light than before, but that stray stegosaurus that you know is in here somewhere is too daunting to ignore. With the light on, you avoid stepping on any horned beasts or stray lego and follow after him to the kitchen.

Yuji and Sukuna still look like the better part of a disaster, obvious tear trails covering Yuji’s face, while Sukuna leans against the kitchen counter cutting a banana so slowly you’d almost think he forgot what he was doing. Because he has, in fact, forgotten.

The sound of footsteps pulls the man from his trance as he turns to see Choso. Relief flickers through his eyes as he shoots you a look that says thank you.

As Sukuna finishes up what he’s doing, Yuji cries out for Choso, hopping down from his chair to barrel into Choso at full force. Nearly toppling over, the middle brother embraces Yuji with a hint of a smile. It’s heartwarming, despite the tense air that continues to hang over the family.

Yuji’s words tumble out of his mouth in a flurry as he hugs the brunette, tears trailing down his face again. Choso may be the one who hasn’t used his voice for the better part of two months, but Yuji’s words are somehow more hoarse. “I missed- y-you, Cho, please-” he sobs, catching his breath in a flurry of gasps. “- Don’t leave me,” he gasps.

Your own expression falters as you feel uncertainty tug at your own heart strings. There’s a lot to unpack within Yuji’s words as well, and while you know most of the situation they’re in goes over his head, he’s a smart kid, too. You can’t help but wonder if he’s handling everything worse than he lets on.

“‘M sorry, Yu,” Choso mumbles between Yuji’s pleads, toppling down onto the floor as his little brother squeezes him tighter.

Sukuna remains silent as he sets down three more plates at the small dining table, cutting through the quiet only to inform the three of you, though mostly you and Choso, of breakfast. “Come eat,” he mumbles just loud enough to be heard over Yuji’s cries.

Neither of the boys are paying Sukuna any mind as Yuji hugs his older brother.

You take a step towards Sukuna as he opens his mouth, likely to tell them again that breakfast is ready. “Give them a moment,” you whisper softly. You lean in close enough to keep those words between the adults, but your close presence is gone before he has the chance to appreciate it.

And Sukuna, he’s just not sure what he’s even meant to make of that thought. When has he ever needed to stop to appreciate you being close to him?

He supposes since he tore into you over something that seems so trivial now.

He swallows hard as he turns his attention to his little brothers. You kneel beside them, gently rubbing Yuji’s back as you talk to him with so much care that Sukuna’s chest tightens.

“Your brother just needed some time to be alone, right Choso?”

The little boy nods.

“In the future if you need space, you’ll talk to your brothers, right?”

“Right,” Choso hoarsely agrees.

Sukuna scratches at the back of his neck. His brother’s voice sounds foreign to him in a way that he can’t quite identify. The twelve-year-old’s never been all that chatty, and he’s been quieter than normal since Sukuna had explained the lawsuit to them, but this is likely the longest single period of time he’s gone without so much as moving. He almost sounds sick. He almost looks sick.

Is Sukuna that bad of a guardian?

He averts his gaze to the large window by the table, pushing his worries down into the plague of other doubts he harbors. He doesn’t have the luxury of worrying about that, not when his opposition is a mother who didn’t even answer a call coming from her deceased husband’s phone.

The kids deserved better, but Sukuna has to remind himself that you’re right. You’ve told him time and time again and he has to start listening to you. His brothers want to stay with him. They love him.

And he loves them, too.

His gaze flickers to you as you smile at the boys. Sympathy, care, and something akin to sadness all swirl within your eyes as you take a seat at the table. Sukuna takes a seat beside you, leaning on his elbow.

As the boys both make their way to their respective seats and begin cutting into their pancakes (or in Yuji’s case, picking up a whole pancake on his fork and taking a bite), Sukuna can only watch in relief. He can’t remember the last time Choso and Yuji both seemed okay, despite the lines of dried tears running down their faces. Letting out a breath, he shuts his eyes as the air around him seems to lighten and he feels like he can breathe again.

You watch from your peripherals as Sukuna relaxes and finds it in himself to eat. His pancakes are more dense than yours and likely filled with protein, probably to make up for the fact that you rarely see him eating lunch.

Breakfast is silent, but words don’t need to fill the space for the meal to surround you all with an unspoken warmth.

Yuji finishes first between the boys, kicking his feet (im)patiently as he waits for Choso to finish.

“Will you play with me, Cho?” He asks, the moment the middle brother’s fork hits the plate.

Gingerly nodding, the two boys begin to hop down from their seats.

“Go change your shirt first, Yu.”

He turns to face Sukuna. “Why? This one’s clean.”

Sukuna’s lip curls in disgust. “No, it’s not. Go change.” He casts a glance at Choso, who’s still in yesterday’s clothes as well. “You too, Cho.”

Choso glances down at his clothes and nods, following slowly after Yuji to their room.

With an exasperated huff, Sukuna runs a hand over his face, shoving his plate forward on the table. There’s too many things on his mind and you’re at the center of them all. Hell, even the familial shit that you shouldn’t be a part of, he somehow ties back to you.

About to offer you a shirt again, he opens his mouth, but you voice your thoughts first.

“I should head out. Shoko and I are studying today and I need to get a couple of things together and printed,” you explain, picking up your plate and getting to your feet. “And change my hoodie,” you mumble as an afterthought, one step ahead of Sukuna.

As you set the plate in the sink with a gentle clank, Sukuna taps his fingers on the table with a grimace. A part of him wonders if you’re lying, though he has no right to think you might be. The only reason he even finds himself doubting your words is because he wants you to stay, which he realizes isn’t fair given your tense relationship.

Casting aside his doubts, he slides his chair out and gets to his feet. He trails after you, standing a short distance away as you throw your coat on and stand at the door.

If ever there was a time that the scar in your friendship was visible, this is it. There’s an ugly rift that stands between you, and for all the clawing and biting that Sukuna’s tried to tear through it, you patch it back up each and every time.

It’s not fair.

He wants to believe that, anyway. Every fiber of his being wants to believe that sentiment.

But it is. And he needs to live with that. If this is all you ever are to him, a distant kindness that exists in a vacuum of space that lives between you, then he supposes he can deal with that. He sucks in a sharp breath, shoving his hands in his pockets.

Silence stretches between you after pulling on your boots. Sukuna’s scowl is aimed at the floor, unable to meet your gaze.

“The court date is next week, right?” You finally break the silence.

“Yeah. Thursday.”

“Do you have any more meetings before that? Will the kids be okay?”

Sukuna inhales. Long, and drawn out. “Yeah. Uh- the lawyers exchanged documents n’ shit last week n’ ordered a house study. It’s Tuesday.” He pauses, mulling over the process. “Then the court date.” Pulling a hand from his pocket, he scratches the back of his head, unable to meet your gaze. Choso won’t be fine, he knows that much, but he can’t bear the thought of taking up your time anymore. “Yeah, they’ll be fine,” he lies.

His response seems off given his lacking confidence and frustrated scowl, but he’s always been tough to read, so you give him the benefit of the doubt, but there’s still one thing you made a mental note of earlier. “What about you?”

Something unrecognizable flickers within those cherry irises before he nods. “Yeah. I’m alright.”

You smile, and for a moment he swears the world falls away under his feet, leaving just you and him. “Good. I’ll catch you later, then. Text me if that changes, okay?” With a pointed look, you wait for his nod before you turn to head out.

Before you can shut the door fully, Sukuna grabs it, barely stopping you in time. “Hey, uh-” he second-guesses himself before finding his resolve. “Will you come to the court? I can have someone there… for support.”

Your expression softens from surprise to sympathy as you nod. The idea of Sukuna being alone, without even the support of his brothers, doesn’t sit well with you. “Of course.”

Relief clouds his senses. “I’ll send you the details,” he gruffs out. You nod, attempting to shut the door again, but his hold on it is steady. “Thanks.”

You can’t help but smile. You’d have to be a fool not to see the effort he’s putting into fixing his mistakes. There’s obvious changes in the way he’s thinking through his words and reactions before he says or does anything, and he’s making an effort to let you in.

It warms your heart, and it makes it every bit more difficult to pull away each time as you feel your resolve beginning to wear away. Though you do need to study.

“You’re welcome, Kuna.”

His lip quirks into the barest hint of a smile the moment the nickname slips effortlessly past your lips. He nods, relenting and finally letting you shut the door. The sound of the lock flipping behind you is the last noise you hear from the apartment as you make your way to the library to get some printing done for your study session.

–

“Wait up!” Shoko calls out as she falls into step with you on campus the following Tuesday, catching you off-guard. “You headed to work?”

“Yep! Don’t you have class right now?” You query as she follows you to your car.

“Prof’s sick,” she shrugs. “My next lecture’s in, like, four hours.”

“That’s brutal,” you grimace. “Are you gonna study more?”

She nods. “Toji asked for help in his Physical Sciences class, so I’m meeting up with him in a few.” Glancing at her phone, she shoves it back in her pocket after noting the time. “Anyway, did you hear from Sukuna after all that shit over the weekend?”

You nod. “Yeah, a little bit. He’s been updating me on his brothers.”

Shoko hums along, waiting for you to continue as she senses you’re withholding something.

“He asks a lot about my day and how I’m doing.”

Her brow raises. “You know, when you mentioned he seemed like he was actually trying to fix things a couple of weeks ago, I didn’t think it’d last.”

“Me either,” you admit, kicking at gravel as you approach your car. “I honestly thought I was just being stupid by letting him back in even a little bit,” you chuckle in embarrassment, mostly to yourself. “But now I’m not so sure.”

“I just can’t believe he’s proving me wrong,” she shrugs. “Didn’t I tell you people like him don’t change?”

You nod. “You and Kento both did at girls’ night.”

“Okay, you gotta admit it was good advice at the time.”

Reaching your car, you open the door and toss your bag in before turning back to her. “At the time, it made me feel a lot better,” you agree with a chuckle.

“Not so much anymore, huh?” She laughs along with you.

“Not so much,” you click your tongue, fiddling with your keys.

“Some fucking guy, that Sukuna.”

Your brows raise and tilt your head in some form of agreement, your thoughts preoccupied with the pending lawsuit. After a brief silence, Shoko pipes up again.

“You still like him?”

You find her gaze, your brow furrowing in thought. “I do, it’s just…” You trail off, searching for words to describe the strange limbo you’ve found yourself in. “I guess it just feels like I’m kinda getting to know him again?” You try to explain with a small tilt of your head. “Does that make sense?”

“Like, because you didn’t see him for a month, or because he’s acting differently?” She queries.

Poking your tongue into the side of your mouth, you narrow your eyes in thought. “Both? I guess I’m still getting used to him making the effort to be a good friend.” Your keys jingle between your fingers. “Okay, wait. Do you remember when I told you that Sukuna’s kind of a different person when he’s actually being himself?”

“Mhm.”

“Sometimes I see that side of him for a moment here and there, but… sometimes I’m not quite sure who I’m talking to.” You pause, contemplating exactly what you mean by that. “He’s definitely putting in effort and being nice, but sometimes I don’t recognize him at all.”

“Isn’t that mostly a good thing?”

“I don’t know,” you hum, dragging your boot through the gravel and kicking up dust as a small remainder of the last snowfall flicks onto Shoko’s shin. She shoots you an unimpressed look as you lean down to brush her pants off while you continue. “It’s just weird. I guess it’s just that, like-” you pause as you stand back up and brush your hands off. “- Sometimes things are back to normal and everything is great, but sometimes…” you shake your head, shrugging. “I’m not even sure if he knows who he is.”

“Do you think the stress is getting to him?” Shoko clarifies.

“That could be it,” you agree as she makes sense of your rambles.

“Is he that much different?”

“I mean, the Sukuna I know is still there,” you chuckle. “He’s still quiet and kind of a dick sometimes,” you explain, recalling how quiet and standoffish he’s been in the lunchroom to your co-workers since starting at the publishing house. “I think he’s actually thinking about what he’s saying more, though. Like he’s trying to be better.”

The thought brings you back to Saturday night when he’d snapped at you, only to reel himself back in. He’s still the same man, he’s still sharp and hardened, and he’s definitely still got walls up that he’s not letting down anytime soon, but it’s like he’s more aware of that fact now.

You chew on your bottom lip briefly, recalling the way he’d been unusually calm upon your arrival on Sunday morning when you went to help the kids. “But sometimes it seems like he’s just a different person. He’s not angry or anything either. He’s just not there at all.”

“Well, shit.” It’s the best Shoko can offer. It does sound like stress. Like he’s being beaten down and flattened into something he’s not.

You nod, casting a glance at your phone. “I gotta go, but text me? I’ve got some time at work today.”

“Sounds good. I’ll text you when I meet up with Toji.”

“Catch you later,” you grin cheerily as you turn towards your car.

After your conversation with Shoko, you barely have enough time to rush home, change, and make the bus in time to get to the office.

You’re at your desk seconds before your shift starts, panting after rushing up the stairs.

Amused, Yuki’s brow raises from where she sits at her desk opposite you. “Running a bit late?”

“Yeah, I lost track of time.” Taking a moment to catch your breath, you lean back in your chair, staring at the ceiling.

“You know no one cares if you’re a bit late, right?” She chuckles.

“I know,” you sigh, “but I want to make a good impression, maybe keep my position.”

Yuki’s eyes shine as she smiles at the thought, but she’s quickly distracted by movement behind you. Smirking, she motions past you with her pen when you finally lift your head.

Staring at the back of your head is a familiar pair of crimson irises, his expression unreadable and aloof. The muscular man’s hair is disheveled, hardly pushed back with strands falling over his forehead and into his line of sight as though he hadn’t had time to use hair gel. His shirt is also particularly wrinkled today, overall looking like he’s had a morning.

He extends his arm towards you, a familiar cup held within his hand. His hand lingers for a moment as your fingers brush when you pull the cup from him, holding its warmth between your hands.

“You’re a lifesaver,” you grin.

He hums, a hint of a smile playing on the corners of his lips although it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Thank you, Sukuna.” You take a sip, smiling as warmth floods you, seeping into your very bones. “It’s perfect.”

“Good. You got a moment?” He asks, eyes flickering to Yuki in a silent question of whether he can borrow you. Yuki just shrugs, careless as ever.

“Yeah, let me just log in.” You move quickly to get settled before grabbing your drink and following after Sukuna. He leads the way to his office, shutting the door behind him and leaning against his desk.

Somehow the fact that he’s not as put-together as usual with hair askew and his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, you find your thoughts spiraling more than they usually do.

Or maybe it’s the fact that you’ve come to the realization that Sukuna’s not just trying to be better for you, or for his brothers, but he’s trying to be a better version of himself in general, and that only endears you to him more.

He takes a sip of his own drink, grabbing it from his desk, only to hold it out and stare at the label with a wrinkled nose.

“Did they get your order wrong?” You tilt your head questioningly.

Sukuna squints at the label, holding it a bit further back. “It has a caramel shot in it,” he mutters in reply, clearly bothered.

“Do you… need to get your eyes checked?” You raise a brow questioningly.

“Probably,” he grumbles.

“You should do that. Our benefits cover it.”

“We have benefits?”

You purse your lips. “Yeah…? Sukuna, did you read the contract at all? Even I get them and I’m an intern.”

Shrugging, he smirks. “I skimmed it.”

That’s the Sukuna you recognize. Stubborn, a little sly, but full of life in spite of his quiet demeanor.

Rolling your eyes, you giggle to yourself. “Go get your eyes checked.”

His smirk remains in place as he hums, quietly watching you laugh as though he’s trying to commit the scene to memory.

You quiet down, leaning back against the door to his office. “Anyways, what did you wanna talk about?”

“Mm,” he hums in acknowledgement, his smirk dissipating as he grows more serious. “Can you be at the courthouse on twelfth street at ten on Thursday?”

“Oh,” a lump forms in your throat at the realization that the court date is growing painfully real now. “Yeah, of course.”

Sukuna lets out a breath, nodding. He crosses his arms over his broad chest, the material of his shirt pulled taut.

And this is the shirt that actually fits him correctly.

Not fair.

“Thanks, princess.” His voice is uncharacteristically soft, the sharp edges of his features seeming somewhat dulled and almost sweet as he gazes down at you.

You can’t help the smile that graces your lips as you nod.

The silence that follows allows you to get a good look at Sukuna. Although he seems to be more at ease at the publishing house and the hours he’s working between this and the occasional shift at the auto shop aren’t nearly as grueling as they used to be, life continues to take its toll on him. His eyes lack their sharp and cunning glimmer, and every movement he makes borders on languid.

“How are you holding up?”

He knows what you’re really asking. You may as well say ‘what’s wrong?’. It’s a fair question, but it’s one he hates to answer because even now his shoulders are tense and his chest aches. He’s had a headache since dawn rolled around on Monday morning.

“I’m fine,” he lies, brushing the question off as he turns back to his desk.

Sukuna’s not easy to read by any means, and anyone else probably would have believed him, but you see right through him. He doesn’t give you the chance to question him as he leans over his desk. “My lawyer doesn’t think we’ll be there long on Thursday.”

“Why not?” Your brow furrows. “Shouldn’t it be long?”

He grinds his teeth in frustration as he replies. “I don’t really get it, shit’s fucked. I guess this isn’t even the real trial, this is some sort of conference bullshit,” he explains. “It's supposed be for us to come to an agreement, but Kaori’s lawyer laid out the shit they’re asking for and it’s not fucking happening.”

“What does she want?”

“Sole custody with no visitation.”

Your eyes widen, taken aback. “You wouldn’t even be able to see them?”

Sukuna chuckles darkly, his knuckles going white as he drags his fingers across his desk until they’re directly under him, crinkling a blank piece of paper beneath him. “She’s never liked me and she made sure I knew, even as a kid.”

“I’m so sorry,” you offer sympathetically. Much like your talk with Choso the other day, you’re not sure what more to offer.

He flashes you a glance of acknowledgement, grunting. “It’s whatever. Point is, it’ll be the first time I’ve seen her in years and her lawyer’s gonna push for a full trial.” He can only shake his head in exasperation. “Her evidence is just bullshit from my school records n’ whatever.”

She’s clearly using whatever force is necessary to take the kids out from under Sukuna’s nose, leaving a slimy feeling in the pit of your stomach. What could she possibly have against her own step-son to pull this kind of move against him? She’s purposefully backing him into a corner, and you see now why his lawyer had their work cut out for them despite the case seeming like an obvious decision to anyone who’s met Sukuna and his brothers.

Picking up his iPad and shoving the papers on his desk aside, he turns on the screen and taps around the device. “You won’t believe how much this bullshit costs, too,” he grumbles. “I swear she’s doing it on purpose.” He taps on the screen a couple of times, his mounting frustration becoming obvious as he taps harder each time. “She’s fuckin’ dragging everything out, too. This all just leads to another fucking court date and more fucking money for my fucking lawyer, and she’s putting Choso n’ Yuji through so much shit, and-”

As Sukuna’s rambling grows in intensity, you push off from where you were leaning against the door, running your hand over his rigid back as he faces away from you. He stiffens, his speech cutting off the moment your fingers run along the muscles. “It’ll be okay. You’ll win,” you smile reassuringly, dropping your hand and stepping off to the side to see his face as he fiddles uselessly with his iPad.

“And if I don’t?”

“You will.”

His temple twitches as he grits his teeth, his gaze fixed on the device in his hands. “And if I don’t?” He growls. His brow is pulled together in a tight furrow, and although his eyes blaze with frustration, it’s not directed at you.

“If you don’t…” you chew on your lip, gingerly reaching out to soothe your thumb over his hand that’s fidgeting with the volume buttons on the side of the iPad, clicking them with enough force to damn-near break them. His fingers steady as you run your thumb over his knuckles like second nature. “Then you’ll figure things out.”

His eyes flicker wildly around your face, as though he’s searching for something. He swallows hard, his gaze returning to his desk.

“Don’t worry about that, okay? You can face that if it comes to it.”

He inhales sharply and nods, twitching his fingers into yours, only for you to pull away. He knows you mean well and he still appreciates your support, but it serves as another reminder of what he’s lost.

“Right,” he agrees, turning his attention to the iPad as he opens his latest project.

Peeking over the screen, you catch a glimpse of a character that you recognize instantly despite having never seen it before. “Is that Baby Whale?”

“You can just ask to see it, brat,” he grumbles, pulling the device out from under your nose as though you’re Yuji obnoxiously trying to get a peek at whatever Sukuna’s working on.

“Sorry,” you grin innocently.

Rolling his eyes, Sukuna tilts the screen towards you. A sweet little purple whale beams at you with pink rosy cheeks. You’re forced to bite your lip in an effort to stop yourself from giggling at the sight of the brute before you who’s drawn the most cutesy character you can possibly imagine. There’s nothing wrong with it by any means, but it’s definitely not his first choice of character, you’re sure of that.

“Yeah, it’s Baby Whale. Do you guys ever get original shit or should I be worried about gettin’ a fast porcupine or some shit next?”

“Mm, I’d worry. We get them here and there, but…” you shrug.

“Great,” he sighs, reaching down to his desk to hold up a few of the pages he’d just printed to get Maya to sign off on. “Here.”

Your eyes light up as you sift through the pages. They’re for a horror-type series of some sort, as far as you can tell, of two children on an adventure, though you aren’t quite sure what it’s a knock-off of, if it is one. Each cover has a vastly different environment, from a jungle beneath a volcano to an abandoned cityscape. Though it’s not in Sukuna’s traditional sketchy charcoal style that you’ve grown to love, they’re still gorgeous. The painterly effect he’s given them is stunning, reminiscent of a watercolor painting.

“These look amazing,” you breathe, sifting through the pages. You come to land on one cover of the two kids in a crystalline cavern with a lizard crawling towards the reader of the novel.

He hums. “I don’t mind the job when I’m not drawin’ knock-off shit.”

So it is original. “I mean, even when you are, it’s gotta be better than stocking shelves, right?” You ask, gaze trained on his artwork.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Still owe you for this.”

“I thought we talked about this,” you smirk, raising a brow as you come to meet his gaze.

He lets out a breath through his nose in somewhat of a laugh. “Thanks, princess.” He pokes gently at your arm as you smile at him and for a moment a familiar air of comfort settles over you. It’s gone before Sukuna can really relish in it, though, as you pull away with a sigh.

“I should get to work. Let me know if you need anything?”

Sukuna frowns as you retreat. “Yeah. See ya at lunch.”

–

You’ve passed the courthouse a number of times on your way to get-togethers with friends across the city, but it’s never seemed to loom over you quite like this. From what Sukuna mentioned, this conference thing seems to be little more than a formality and a requirement and you’re pretty sure no decisions will be made today, unless his step-mother has some sort of miracle change of heart.

From the way Sukuna’s described her, you don’t get the feeling that’s likely.

Having never been to the courthouse yourself, you arrive decently early in case you need to fill out forms, or something of the sort.

It never really occurred to you just how little you know about the world of legal proceedings until you’d found yourself online researching proper attire. You’d landed on something you would usually wear to work anyway, a pale white blouse and a pair of fitted slacks that hug your hips in all the right areas.

A pair of simple black heels adorn your feet as they click across the ground. A stark flash of pink catches your eye, the man himself leaning against the smooth faux brick of the courthouse, smoke spiraling into the air. His head leans back against the outer building wall as he watches the smoke billow and rise.

A suit jacket hangs over his shoulders, a tie done up to his neck, though he seems to have tugged it a bit loose. His hair is pushed back out of his face with gel, though it’s so long it’s somewhat unruly anyway as a few strands still tickle his forehead.

You can’t deny that your heart palpitated once, maybe even twice at the thought of how handsome he looks with his broad shoulders pulling the suit jacket taut. It gets harder to deny your own feelings when every time you see him, he continues to prove that he has changed, and you find yourself forced to listen to the blood roaring in your ears as your heart rate skyrockets.

“Hey,” you greet him, catching him off-guard. His head whips down, his eyes trailing your outfit and lingering a moment too long on your hips. Any other day, he’d mentally scold himself for staring, but his mind is such a mess that he hardly realizes he’s doing it until you jut your hips out expectantly with a hand on one side when he doesn’t reply.

His eyes shoot up to meet your gaze, flitting down to the shy smile you wear, having blatantly noticed the way he checked you out. Clearing his throat, he grunts in reply.

Your cheeks are warm, even as you consider the emotions drawn across his face. You can’t say for sure what’s going through his mind, although you can make an educated guess when the muscles in his forehead twitch. He isn’t quite scowling, nor does he wear the familiar pride on his sleeve that you’ve grown accustomed to.

It’s exactly what you mentioned to Shoko.

This isn’t Sukuna. It’s not the frustrated man who masks his unease and fear with anger, lashing out needlessly. But it’s also not the sly and cocky asshole who’s surprisingly thoughtful and conscious of others.

It’s like he’s someone else, someone you can’t identify and don’t know how to help. His fear isn’t getting the best of him, his anger isn’t overflowing and misdirected with nowhere to go. Those, you know how to handle. But now, he’s simply lost.

“How are you feeling?”

Grateful for the nicotine calming him enough to give you a competent answer, he tilts his head in a semblance of a shrug. “Fine, I guess. Not like there’s any point in this bullshit.”

With a grimace, you take a step towards him. “Do you really think this is for nothing?”

Sukuna inhales deeply as he takes a drag of his cigarette, holding the smoke within his lungs as he considers your question. “She’s tryin’ to bleed me dry of cash. That’s all this is. If she really cared, we’d settle shit here.”

“Shit,” you breathe. Sukuna casts a glance at you, but ultimately chooses not to comment on your choice of word. “I really thought this was meant to be the actual trial,” you admit.

Blowing smoke over his head to keep it out of your face, he nods. “I did too. My lawyer explained it last week and I meant to tell ya, but then shit happened and Choso,” he motions his hand lazily through the air before dropping it at his side. “I dunno. I don’t get the point of all this shit.”

“Your lawyer just told you last week that this isn’t the full trial?” You gape. Had Hiromi steered Sukuna in the wrong direction? Shouldn’t he know this?

He shrugs again. “Nah, I just didn’t get it.”

“Oh.” Fiddling with your thumbs, you nod. “So what’s after this?”

Dropping his cigarette on the pavement at his feet, he stomps it out, grinding his foot on it. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he shakes his head, frustrated with the system. “We wait a couple of months until the actual trial.”

“A couple of months?” You’re not sure if their family can make it through waiting a couple more months with Sukuna and Choso acting so distant that even Yuji’s been affected. It’s strange to think that a system meant to take every precaution and is bleeding them dry. Of money, of time, and of life.

Sukuna seems to share your dismay as he adds, “at least we get more time to prepare, I guess.”

Whispering an ‘I guess’ in agreement, you let Sukuna usher you inside with a hand on your lower back. Though he drops his hand as you head through security and check-in with a clerk at a grand wooden desk in the center of the large lobby.

It’s not long before you’re sitting in a couple of uncomfortable wooden chairs in a room full of strangers. Sukuna deliberately sits near a woman with a short brown bob, leafing through paperwork as she reviews the case she’s working on, although he doesn’t say a word to her.

“Is that your lawyer?” You ask, tilting your chin towards the woman beside Sukuna in a pristine-looking suit. She’s the definition of confidence as she flips through what you assume are notes, which helps settle your nerves a bit.

Sukuna nods, clearing his throat. “Yeah, uh, Ms. Harte,” he addresses her before introducing you both.

She smiles warmly at you, extending a professional hand. “Mr. Sukuna mentioned you would be here to support him. I’m glad you could make it,” she shakes your hand firmly.

“It’s nice to meet you,” you greet her in return. Though you have no part in the proceedings, it’s at least nice to know that Sukuna and the boys are in good hands. Sukuna definitely owes Hiromi a favor, though he doesn’t need that reminder now.

“Case number 2493, Sukuna versus Itadori.” A clerk with a clipboard in his hands waits for both parties to join him, and it’s then that you see a face so painfully familiar, yet completely foreign. You’ve never met her, but you recognize her instantly. Choso is a spitting image of Kaori Itadori, with deep umber eyes and dark brown hair. Yuji, on the other hand, clearly got Jin’s genes.

Beside her is a tall man in a full beige suit, sporting a well-kept graying beard. He walks with the same confident gait as Ms. Harte on Sukuna’s opposite side, but he carries himself with an air of superiority that you assume only money can buy. Money that Kaori clearly has, if the massive diamonds adorning her collar are anything to go off of.

Sukuna’s step-mother eyes him with disgust before her gaze trails the length of your form. A chill runs up your spine, sending ice straight through your veins that matches the look in her eyes. She regards you with so much disdain, yet it’s the mild interest that gleams in her eyes that makes your skin crawl.

The clerk leads the way down a hall to a small room labelled ‘Private Meeting Room 2’. Within the room is one long table with a number of chairs on either side. Both parties take their seats on the same side of the table, keeping a small distance between one another. Sukuna’s lawyer advises you to take a seat and keep to the back of the room, as you can’t participate in the discussion.

From your seat, you can see the way Kaori folds her hands in her lap, grinning at her lawyer as she laughs at something he says. The stark contrast to Sukuna’s silence as he leans over the table is immense, but in contrast to the nerves you expected him to have, he keeps a straight  face.

In the informal meeting room setting, there’s no need to rise as an older gentleman in judges’ attire enters the room. His pale blond hair thins at the sides of his face, gentle wrinkles accentuating his features. He takes a seat on the opposite end of the table, the soft edges of his eyes crinkling as he evaluates both parties and yourself.

You’re grateful for the intimate setting of the meeting, as it eases your own nerves. While the courthouse itself does no favors to settle the growing discomfort in your stomach, the small room has an almost cozy feel to it. There’s an air to the man before you that he wants to help and understand the case that sits well with you, as well.

“Judge Marcos will be overseeing this case conference this morning in the matter of Sukuna versus Itadori,” the clerk begins the session.

The judge settles back in his chair, clasping his hands over the documents laying in front of him. “The purpose of this conference is to come to a resolution before the matter goes to a trial.” He proceeds to explain that a case conference aims to narrow down issues prior to a trial and that this will be a more open conversation with more wiggle room than a traditional trial. He then confirms that disclosure of all evidence has taken place. With all expectations set on the table, the judge sits back as Kaori’s lawyer begins.

“Your Honor, my name is Richard Cahn and I represent the applicant, Kaori Itadori.”

Ms. Harte follows suit at Sukuna’s side, sitting upright to introduce herself as the counsel for Sukuna, the respondent.

“Counsel for the applicant, please begin.”

With the court, if you can even call the small meeting room that, now in session, mounting tension fills the air. It’s overbearing, the way the gravity in the room seems to drag down on every person in the room, yourself included.

“Your Honor, my client is seeking sole guardianship with no visitation rights of her children Choso Itadori and Yuji Itadori. We have reason to believe that Mr. Sukuna is a negative influence on the children for a number of reasons and it is Ms. Itadori’s maternal right as their mother to raise her children,” Mr. Cahn begins without faltering, introducing their points succinctly.

Clearing her throat, Ms. Harte responds with equal clarity. “Your Honor, my client is more than fit to be their guardian, as he has demonstrated over the past three years. The children’s needs are met, they are in school, and Mr. Sukuna has a clear record with no need to raise any concern regarding his abilities. My client would like to remain in sole custody of the children, however he is open to Ms. Itadori having visitation rights as their mother.”

Of course, she left out the part where that portion is much to his dismay and he’d only grant that right at the request of the kids. That’s not for the opening statements, though.

Much like Sukuna anticipated, Kaori is unwilling to cooperate. Every single option is shut down before the conversation can begin. Although he remains as an unbiased third party, even the judge seems somewhat perturbed at the obvious disdain shared between Sukuna and Kaori. Their dislike of one another runs far deeper than even that of most ex spouses that end up in this room.

What starts as a polite and orderly conversation primarily between the lawyers quickly devolves into some sort of familial tension that clearly extends beyond the courtroom. You can’t see either of their faces from your position at the back of the room, but you can feel the heat radiating from Sukuna as he seethes through each deceitfully polite performance from Kaori, but even she begins to crack when Sukuna pushes back.

“Your Honor, with all due respect, I won’t tolerate any settlements. I don’t feel comfortable leaving my children in the hands of my step-son,” Kaori repeats herself for what feels like the fifth time as the judge attempts to find a middle-ground, but she’s completely unwilling to budge. Even visitation rights for Sukuna seem to be so far off the table they may as well be six feet in the ground, along with any love she may have had for her step-son.

“You didn’t have a problem with it when I couldn’t reach you three years ago,” Sukuna quips, his anger clear through his tone although he remains even. He may be anxious as hell and equally furious, but knowing that this is all for naught and his lawyer may as well be a bill whose total increases by the second, his frustrations grow fiery.

“Ryomen, we’ve provided all the medical documents that were requested as proof of my illness and I would appreciate if you didn’t dismiss them.”

“Oh, bullshit!” Sukuna finally bursts, slamming his hand flat on the table.

“Mr. Sukuna,” the judge warns sternly, leaning over the table. “I expect proper courtroom etiquette, even here. We’re here to discuss the matters at hand, not your opinions of the applicant.”

Sukuna’s chest rises and falls as he physically bites his tongue to keep from saying something he’ll regret. Leaning back in his chair, he casts a glance at the door, desperate to escape from this room. Unlike the rest of the legal proceedings, this whole conference just serves to piss him off.

“Apologies, Your Honor, my client is simply stressed as he cares very deeply for his brothers,” Ms. Harte steps in, clearing her throat to put Sukuna’s thoughts into a court-approved statement. “While my client was unaware that Ms. Itadori was ill, he did use multiple methods of contact to reach out, and Ms. Itadori didn’t respond.” Turning to address Kaori, she clasps her hands together. “Should it not be your responsibility to inform your step-son and husband of your new contact?”

Kaori’s lawyer pipes in. “As we stated earlier, she was required to change all contact information and moved closer to her office upon starting with her new company. She shared her contact information with her husband, however it seems he didn’t share this information with Mr. Sukuna, or save her updated number before passing.”

The tattooed brute has to physically mask his scoff. He coughs into his elbow, shaking his head. He’d called from both his cell and his dad’s cell, he’d sent letters both from him and Choso, he’d emailed, and even searched social media. How convenient that she somehow had everything accounted for. That’s not even mentioning the additional money Sukuna spent to have land titles for her name pulled just to see if she had purchased new property, only to come up blank.

She had completely and utterly dropped off the face of the earth. As far as Sukuna was concerned back then, she made her position on her family clear.

As far as Sukuna is concerned now, he’ll do everything in his power to show her not to fuck with him. He doesn’t care how much his chest tightens, he doesn’t care if it feels as though he’s watching everything around him as nothing more than an observer outside of his own body. He doesn’t care if his mental health suffers for all the shit she’s putting him through.

He’ll move heaven and earth to save his brothers from her.

The judge frowns, having heard this argument already. The meeting room is running in circles like a dog chasing its own tail, they were never going to get anywhere at this rate.

“Mr. Sukuna did his due diligence and has taken care of the children for three years, they are healthy and cared for and there is no evidence against-”

“I’ll believe that when I see the house study,” Kaori interrupts, the first phrase to come from her that feels genuine as she diverts her attention to a small window at the edge of the room. Sukuna’s hand balls into a fist on the table.

“Ms. Itadori. Let the respondent finish.”

“Thank you, Your Honor. There is no evidence to disprove my client’s ability to care for the children. No one has ever expressed any concern to him. The children attend school with good attendance and have remained healthy over the years. Mr. Sukuna earns more than enough to keep a roof over their heads and put food on the table,” Ms. Harte continues.

“Your Honor,” Mr. Cahn addresses the judge. “I would like to see the house study before coming to any conclusions.”

Sukuna sighs, leaning back further in his chair. Kaori’s lawyer had pushed for a rush assessment, but even with the rush, it isn’t meant to be ready anytime soon.

“My son Choso has always been easily influenced, and I worry while he’s under Sukuna’s care.”

Sukuna’s fist hits the table. “Please-” he gripes.

“Mr. Sukun-” The judge tries to interject, but it’s no use.

“You never cared, you’re just feeding them the bullshit they want to hear!” He snarls, flipping in his chair to face her. “You care about them about as much as you care about me!”

“Mr. Sukuna. I understand being emotional in this situation, but I will not allow this behavior to continue. We will proceed without you if you feel the need to act without respect.”

Sukuna shoots Kaori one last glare before sitting back in his chair. He’s not doing himself any favors by lashing out, but he can’t help but feel as though this entire system is playing a game against him and he isn’t even aware of it. It’s as though everyone is a puppet in Kaori’s little game and the kids are prizes to be won.

Rubbing his eyes, the tattooed man sighs. “Sorry… Your Honor.”

“Ryomen, I’ve always cared about you,” Kaori sends him a disingenuous look of sympathy. Her lips curl into a false smile, but to any outsider, Sukuna knows it would appear genuine.

Even to you, it’s hard to tell.

Gritting his teeth, Sukuna keeps his gaze set dead ahead. If he doesn’t keep his cool, he knows he’ll be thrown out of the room. “Do you know when I realized you didn’t give a shit about me?”

“Watch your language,” Ms. Harte warns quietly at his side in an attempt to keep the judge at bay.

The conversation doesn’t exactly pertain to the case, but the judge remains silent. Sukuna’s question is met with no opposition.

Kaori swallows, watching with a furrowed brow as Sukuna’s adam’s apple bobs when he swallows. “Dad told me to go find you at my grandfather’s funeral. He was cryin’, needed some time alone. Do you remember where you were?”

Kaori’s eyes flicker down to the table. Her tongue swipes across her lower lip before she bites it momentarily.

“Do you remember where you were?” Sukuna pushes in a growl now, leaning over the table.

“Objection, Your Honor, this is not pertinent to the case,” Kaori’s lawyer speaks up, setting his foot down as he realizes that this doesn’t bode well in their favor.

“Where were you, Kaori?” He snarls, his voice gravelly as he grips the arm of his chair with white knuckles.

“Objection sustained. Mr. Sukuna, stay focused please.”

Sitting back harshly in his chair, Sukuna’s practically shaking. You may not be able to speak, but certainly as his support person, you can support him, right? Gingerly, you slide your chair forward quietly, wincing as it scrapes lightly against the floor. It catches Kaori’s attention as she shoots you a glare. You have half a mind to shoot that same glare back but that’s not important right now.

Close enough to reach Sukuna, you slip your hand over his much larger one that still grips the arm of his chair. Your fingers slide between his, slotting so easily into place as though they belong there. Your heart does a flip at the thought, but you keep your attention fixed on Sukuna and his needs.

From the corner of his eye, he glances down at your hands. His chest continues to heave in frustration, but as the conversation rolls back around to the subject of the kids and points begin getting reiterated and repeated until Sukuna’s hardly even paying attention anymore, he finds himself beginning to calm down. His shoulders gradually slouch, his fingers folding over yours as he gives your hand a grateful squeeze.

Kaori should be grateful to you, because Sukuna’s sure he would have torn into her if you weren’t here. He would have been thrown out, sure, but at least for once he might get answers to his own mistreatment by his step-mother.

How can the judge not see that the information is relevant? He huffs to himself, earning a couple of looks, but no one mentions it.

After hearing about Sukuna’s supposed inability to care for the kids for the fourth time, the judge finally raises a white flag.

“Coming up on the end of our time, I see we aren’t getting anywhere. A trial date will be scheduled for after the house study is received. Any further evidence must be submitted via the official disclosure process both to the court and each party.”

Your friend sighs at your side. Another two hours of his lawyer’s time. Another bill. More money down the drain. He knew how this would play out from the beginning.

“I would suggest you continue mediation between now and then to see if you can come to an agreement. I encourage you to attempt to understand one another outside of the court,” the judge adds, but Sukuna can’t even bear to look at Kaori. It’s of no use, and everyone within the room is well aware.

“I will issue my endorsement for a trial in writing. This matter is now adjourned.”

Breathing out a disdainful sigh, Sukuna squeezes your hand once, before untangling his fingers from yours as he pushes up out of the chair. It’s hard to get a read on him as you follow him out of the meeting room into the lobby. Standing off to the side, you allow him a few minutes to speak with his lawyer, watching the way he seems painfully frustrated as he lazily shrugs his shoulders. Even from this angle you can tell every time he rolls his eyes.

As Kaori and her lawyer approach Sukuna, his shoulders tense.

“I’m sorry the circumstances couldn’t be better, but it’s good to see you aga-”

“Don’t pretend like you give a fuck!” Sukuna barks, turning heads. Your eyes widen as all attention is suddenly on your group. Even standing off to the side, you find yourself shrinking away from the prying eyes.

“Ryomen, you know this isn’t what I wanted,” Kaori replies evenly, easily keeping her cool under Sukuna’s searing gaze.

He scoffs, waving his hand through the air in exasperation. Always the picture of a calm and perfect wife, of course she had Sukuna’s father wrapped around her finger while she went off and did her own thing. Jin could never be that upset with her so long as she batted her lashes and doubled down on her innocence.

“I don’t fuckin’ know what you want,” he mutters, laughing dryly as he casts his gaze to the side of the courthouse. His voice returns to a reasonable level, though it drips with venom. “So, what the fuck is it, then? You want money, you want to tear me down because I know what you fuckin’ did?”

His step-mother’s eyes darken in such a subtle way that an outsider might not even realize her smile is a facade. Nothing more than painted lines on a meaningless canvas. You can’t help the way a shiver runs up your spine as you slowly make your way back to Sukuna’s side when you notice security is keeping a watchful eye on him for any more disruptions. He should consider himself lucky he’s even still in the building at this rate.

Settling beside your friend, you can feel just how red hot his fury is. Kaori casts a curious once-over of your form as you stand alongside her step-son with a curious smile that doesn’t go unnoticed by Sukuna as he steps between you. He knows he asked you to be here, but he’s not about to let Kaori say a single damn word to you. You may be his support, but you won’t be involved in whatever lies she’s brewing.

You can only blink in surprise as Sukuna’s hand finds your forearm without glancing back, keeping you safely behind him where she can’t even so much as glimpse at you. Blinking up at him, you can only make out the edges of his tattoos and a glint of the uneasiness that sidles his anger.

“That was a long time ago, Ryomen. I want us to be able to move past that.”

“Yeah? Is that why we’re here? To move past everything?” He hisses in a mocking tone, his hands balling into fists at his sides.

“You wouldn’t have cooperated if I tried to work with you on this, sweetheart.”

Even from your spot behind him, you don’t miss the way your friend visibly recoils at the term of endearment. “Don’t fucking call me that,” he hisses.

“Mr. Sukuna, I think it’s in our best interest-” Ms. Harte makes an attempt to de-escalate the situation, to no avail.

“You don’t give a shit, do you?” Sukuna blows past his lawyer’s warning, his voice rising in decibels. “Cho and Yu don’t want this!”

Kaori remains eerily calm as she shoots Sukuna the most fake sympathetic stare you’ve possibly ever witnessed. “They’re kids. They’re too young to know what they want.”

“They’re smart!” Sukuna barks.

Stern voices sound behind you and you cast a glance at the quickly incoming security guards, where Sukuna will surely be ushered out.

Not that he cares at this particular moment. “They don’t care about you! They don’t even know you!” He continues, his jaw tightening. “You never even fucking visited! Don’t you know how many Christmases Cho spent asking if you called or mailed something?” Sukuna waves his hand through the air, his eyes wild with rage. If Kaori’s affected by his words at all, it’s carefully masked. “You fucked your own family!”

“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” a large man in a black security vest is followed closely by two other equally large men as they approach the brutish man in front of you.

In such a blind rage, their words don’t even register to Sukuna.

“If you gave a single shit about Jin, about any of us, you would have been there for the funeral,” he snarls, his chest heaving.

The security guards slowly advance towards Sukuna as Kaori replies. “I wanted to be there. I wish I could have been.”

The lawyers continue to try to defuse the situation, all the while the security guards’ intensity increases as they get infinitely closer to grabbing him and physically throwing him out. The guards may be big, but you can only imagine a man like Sukuna is still daunting.

Setting your hand on his back, Sukuna straightens, casting a glance at the guards that he’s now overly aware of, only to realize it’s not their hand. His head whips towards you as he gains clarity on the situation, his crimson eyes blazing with rage. Subtly leaning into your touch, he raises his hands in surrender, addressing the guards.

“I’m leavin’,” he mutters, his hands falling down to his side with a plop as they collide with his slacks on either side. “Thanks, Ms. Harte,” he mutters as he turns to make his way out.

The security guards follow him closely, tensing as he turns back to Kaori for one moment, his tongue poking into the side of his cheek as he contemplates something. “I didn’t tell him, by the way.” He examines her face, some sick form of satisfaction pooling in his chest as her mask breaks for a moment. Her eyes widen slightly, her lips parting, but Sukuna doesn’t want to hear whatever she has to say.

You cast a glance between the two, not daring to ask any questions with Sukuna ready to blow a fuse.

Stalking through the security checkpoint at the front of the building, he pushes the large wooden doors with enough force to cause them to slam on their hinges as you follow him out into the cool outdoor air.

“Fuck!” He barks straight up at the clouds above, dragging his hands through his hair as he stares up at the overcast sky. His fingers tangle in the pink locks, tousling the strands as more hair falls out of place. “She’s such a fucking-” He cuts himself off, only because you’re still at his side. Huffing loudly, he leans over the masonry fence at the edge of the stairs out front of the courthouse, his hands covering his face.

You’re silent as he remains there for a moment, coming up slowly beside him. Leaning on your hip against the smooth brick beside him, you peer over at him.

Sensing your presence, Sukuna’s hands drop, crossing over one another out in front of him. Letting out a breath, he absently cracks his knuckles, staring at the bare winter trees that extend in front of you. His chest heaves with every breath he lets out, his muscles tensing with each time he barely holds back the choice words he wants to say about his step-mother.

You stay silent at his side, offering quiet comfort in your presence, but it’s your hand on his bicep that truly calms him. His entire demeanor shifts as your hand gently rubs up and down his arm in a soothing motion. With one long inhalation, he tilts his head to look up at you.

He’s not sure why he expects to see a look of disappointment. Deep down, some part of him expects you to retreat back into your shell after he caused a scene, but you only peer down at him with understanding and what might even be grief. He’s not sure why he would even suspect you to regard him with disappointment when that’s not who you are. You get him.

His brow furrows further the longer he stares at you, growing frustrated with himself for projecting his own negative thoughts onto you.

“What’s on your mind?” You query at the sight of his glower.

Averting his gaze, he shakes his head. “Nothing.” He shifts slightly into your touch, reaching up to rub your hand with his opposite one. With one last pat on your skin, he stands upright, rolling his shoulders back as he turns away from you to face the courthouse with a huff. “I should let you head back,” he mutters, barely audible.

“Actually, um-” you pause, shamelessly watching the way he raises a large, veiny hand to his shoulder to attempt to rub at a knot in his muscles. Tearing your gaze away, you push down the uneasy flip that your stomach does at the realization that the grumpy man standing in front of you has changed and even if things are never the same as they once were, you’re happy to stand by and support him and his family. After all, you don’t need to let him carve the same place in your heart that he once had, right? He can be important to you without holding such a big piece of your love.

If anything, maybe the distance between you will help you overcome your feelings and be what he clearly needs.

A friend.

It may hurt to know your feelings aren’t reciprocated, but you’re happy to hold him dear as a friend if it’s all you ever are to one another. Once you overcome your infatuation, you’re sure you can find a comfortable place within his life that makes sense for you both, rather than hoping for something that will never work.

As you hesitate with the mess in your mind, Sukuna turns to face you, raising a brow expectantly.

“Sorry, um- did you want to grab lunch? I’m hungry.”

His eyes widen briefly at your offer. Not an offer for help, or support for his siblings or what he’s going through. Just an offer to hang out. To be friendly.

He’d have to be an idiot to say no.

“I, uh- I can’t really afford lunch. I’ll just-”

“I’ll pay,” you offer without thinking twice.

His brow furrows as frustration crosses his features.

But he’d have to be an idiot to say no.

“Sure. What’d you have in mind?” He gruffs in spite of his standoffish expression.

“A new ramen place opened up near me that I’ve been wanting to try but their hours are awful so I can never go after class or work, but I bet they’re actually open right now.”

“Whatever you want,” he agrees. “Lead the way, princess.”

As you shyly avert your eyes at the nickname with a sweet smile crossing your lips, two things occur to Sukuna as he follows behind you to your car.

The first; he’s never considered himself a particularly lucky man, but when it comes to your place in his life, he may have won the lottery. He can still see your walls, he knows he hasn’t patched the bridge that stands between you, but at least if he treads carefully you’re still there and for that he’s beyond grateful.

And the second; no matter how tense his muscles are, no matter how empty his bank account is, no matter how badly he wants to tear into Kaori in a courtroom and have the judge take his word for how shitty she is, you still manage to make him smile.

main masterlist || series masterlist || previous chapter || next chapter

❦ a/n ; i put together some husband!wyk!sukuna headcanons if you wanted to check those out here and i put together a playlist here <33

helloooo!! thanks for all the patience with the delay between chapters, i appreciate it <33 it gave me the time to not only write out both ch13 and 14, but also ensure they fit well with one another and all the details make sense.

a lot of research went into this and i want to thank my two absolutely lovely followers @/aagathokakologicall and @/notcharliw for all their help with the legal details as well! information on proceedings isn't super readily available and they were a huge help! i also took a few liberties to try to make sure the processes are easy to follow and interesting for the audience, so hopefully i've pulled that off here! i was hoping to land somewhere between tv drama and realism.

if you notice any errors in the legal processes... no you didn't :) LMAO

i say it every time and will continue to say it: thank you so much as always for all the love for wyk <33 it makes my day and it's a big driving factor in my motivation to write, so thank you. i appreciate you all and i hope you enjoyed 🫶

❦ taglist ; OPEN. please comment here or on the masterlist if you would like to be tagged. age MUST be easily visible on your blog.

@yenayaps @kunascutie @aiicpansion @fushitoru @gojoscumslut

@hellish4ever @cuntyji @theonlyhonoredone @catobsessedlady @timetoletmyimaginationfly

@clp-84 @coffee-and-geto @candyluvsboba @favvkiki @gojodickbig

@spindyl @ohmykwonsoonyoung @kyo-kyo1 @officialholyagua @jeonwiixard

@ieathairs @cinnamxnangel @nessca153 @aerareads @after-laughter-come-tears

@tillaboo @thepassionatereader @erencvlt @v1sque @a-girl-with-thoughts

@lauuriiiz @blueemochii @paradisestarfishh @erenxh @call-me-doll8811

@toulouse365 @dabieater @janrcrosssing @satsattoru @moonchhu

@privthemis @captainsarcasmandsass @ryomeowie @vitoshi @kunasthiast

@axxk17 @toratsue @bluestbleu @yuji-itadori-fave @totallygyomeiswife

writing & format © starmapz. art © 3-aem. dividers © adornedwithlight & cafekitsune

[celestie0]

gojo satoru x reader | college au [18+]

kickoff ch.12 how you get the girl

ᰔ pairing. college au - soccer player! gojo x film major! reader

ᰔ summary. gojo satoru is the most popular guy on your college campus. he's tall, funny, hot, not to mention he's the most talented soccer forward the school has seen in years. but he's also a frat dude, which puts him in a world very different from your own, as he spends most of his nights partying while you spend most of yours working on your annoying film major assignments. but when he reaches out to you for a favor, you realize that helping him out might have something in it for you too.

ᰔ warnings/tags. 18+, fem reader, fluff, angst, smut, college au, fraternities, sororities, partying, drinking/alcohol, romance, jealousy, pining, slow burn, opposites to lovers, friends to lovers, she falls first he falls harder, gojo being an idiot, marijuana use, sexism, sexual harassment (verbal only)

ᰔ chapter. 12/x (probably 18)

ᰔ words. 11.3k

a/n. man the color scheme for this chapter is kinda giving BRAT lolol...i mean gojo IS brat. anywho, i don't have much to say at the beginning of this chapter but i do have a LOT to say at the end of it sooo see y'all at the bottom!! hope u enjoy. also BIG THANK YOU to @whereflowerswenttodie who beta read parts of this chapter for me n convinced me not to scrap it lol

nav. masterlist

☾·̩͙꙳ moodboard no.1 :: ♬.*ﾟplaylist

11:03am you: hi! 11:03am you: good luck today 11:03am you: incase i don’t see you

11:05am Gojo Satoru: Why wouldn’t you? Aren’t you gonna be on the field for your newsletter shots?

11:07am you: i mean yes but idk where i’m gonna be stationed so 11:07am you: it might not be on UTokyo’s side of the field

11:08am Gojo Satoru: Okay then I’ll look for you before the game starts

11:10am you: no pls don’t. coach yaga thinks i distract you. i don’t want to get yelled at again. he scares me :(

11:12am Gojo Satoru: Haha you’re silly 11:13am Gojo Satoru: East side entrance at 2 11:13am Gojo Satoru: Be there

11:14am you: or be square?

11:15am Gojo Satoru: Yea whatever shape you wanna be in is fine cutie

It’s a bright sunny day outside, perfectly blue sky with a scattering of fluffy clouds seen outside the window of your shared room in your apartment, and you realize spring is fully here from the way birds chirp past the glass. You’re stuffing your camera case full of chilled Kodak film rolls, your last stash left, and it’s the last piece of equipment you pack before slinging the strap over your shoulder and heading out the door.

Mina had offered to give you a ride to the stadium since your car’s still at the shop, but you’re happy you opted for the bumpy bus ride and although you come close to low-grade concussions from the bang of your head to the window at every other speed bump, the music in your ears while someone else is operating a public transport vehicle helps you think creatively before shooting shots.

It was surprise enough that Mina of all people was going to this game, and when you questioned her about it in the morning, she looked at you like you were absurd to assume anyone from UTokyo wouldn’t be at this game, and sure enough, it’s all anyone on Instagram has been repping on their stories or talking about in the bustling minutes before lectures. Even Utahime was going to this game, and she hates all intercollegiate sports. You knew the game was a big deal, given the way Coach Yaga was yelled at via email by the Dean of UTokyo to make sure the team wins today because a multimillion dollar Nike sponsorship would be greenlit by the prospect (for some reason you were cc’d in an email chain among divisional higher-ups, but you weren’t opposed to snooping in on conversations that were entirely outside of your tax bracket).

It’s because it’s the second to last home game before the season ends, and apparently this has been statistically the best season the UTokyo D1 Men’s Soccer team has played since the new millenia. No pressure to the players on that fact, but failure wasn’t much of an option for them anymore. 

And you can feel the stakes the second you step inside the stadium. Packed would be an understatement, there were people flooding the aisles, overbooked for the sake of the university pocketing an extra buck no doubt, but spectators could care less since they were able to at least get in on the basis of that irresponsibility in the first place, despite the stadium’s capacity having long been reached before the pregame festivities even start. Banners and signs drape over railings with the school’s striking blue and golden colors, every single replay screen is lit up and brightly pixelated at every north, south, east, and west entrance for inclusive viewing. As you pass VIP security and make it into the lower field-level entry, the scattered chants from the crowd amplify in volume and you almost wince a little to yourself from the noise. The stadium felt like a living, breathing entity, pulsing with the collective heartbeat of everyone inside. 

You’ve never been more overstimulated in your life, except instead of finding it frightening, it was electrifying. And for once, you think you can understand what an athlete must feel when playing on their own home turf surrounded by those that are wholeheartedly rooting for them.

Hana is quick to spot you, panic clear across her face as she regards you with a couple pages with your assigned vantage points, a rushed briefing session, and then she’s darting down the sidelines to make sure equipment is set up appropriately where needed. She’s understaffed, given you told Utahime about Kai’s little intervention last week and she made a nasty point to the university (and possibly a handful of legal threats) and they relented in firing him. So now the three of you were down a photographer, and the extra work shows in the instructions she gave you as you skim the sheets. 

A glance at your phone tells you it’s close to 2pm, and your eyes take in the expanse of green on the field. UTokyo’s players practice kicking shots off to the right goal post, while YCU’s players practice shots off to the left. You can’t spot where Gojo is, but you faithfully head down to the East Side entrance like he asked you to. 

When you round the corner, you almost crash right into an Ichiko mascot, but swiftly dodge, and then you stop in your tracks when you see Gojo standing right at the concrete entrance. He’s leaning back against the adjacent wall, arms crossed at his chest, and he’s stretching his neck side to side with a creased brow, an intense look in his eyes, lost in serious thought, scanning the wall across from him like he’s mapping out plays in his head. 

When you approach him and catch the corner of his eyesight, he leans off the wall and flashes you one of his so extremely charmed to see you grins on reflex, and suddenly there’s nothing your senses seem to pick up on except him. Like everything else around you just disappears.

“Hey, you,” he says when he comes up to you, and you walk him like a dog back to a corner that’s tucked further away from noises and sights. You lean your back against the wall now, the coolness of concrete seeping through the fabric of your shirt, and he stands a step in front of you. Your hands toy with the strap of your camera.

“Are you ready to win today?” you ask him, and look off to the right into the flourishing seats that are still being filled to the brim, “clearly there’s no pressure.”

He breathes in deep, and releases it slowly, like there really was tension to relieve. “We’ve got no choice but to win.”

“Is that something Coach Yaga says to you guys often?” you ask him, because the man recited the same thing about five times in that email chain. “Also, apparently you take years off of his life.” Another thing he recited about five times in that email chain.

Gojo only addresses what he wants to address, as per usual. “Yeah, it’s something he says to us often.” 

“So,” you say, “what did you want to talk about?”

He looks at you puzzled, tilting his head to the side. “Nothing. I just wanted to see you.”

It’s hard to assume that he didn’t have something to talk about with the intention of telling you to meet him here, because this is the same place you confessed to him a few weeks ago, and so is also the place he so painfully rejected you. But maybe he doesn’t think about these kinds of things as much as you do. “I see.”

His tongue pokes to his cheek as he studies your anticipating expression, and then he sighs, his shoulders slumping slightly. “What are we doing? I mean, I like you, and you like me too, at least I hope you still do. Why don’t we—…why don’t we just give it a go already? I don’t see how we can move forward if you won’t at least let me take you out on a date.”

Your hands stop fidgeting with your camera strap from his words, and you lick your lips, suddenly unable to keep eye contact with him so your gaze drifts down to his chest in front of you. His uniform is clean, no smudges of dirt or grass, just pure white fabric underneath heat-pressed blue and golden accents, and of course, that signature number 10. You’re sure he’s all you’ll ever think of when you see that number now for the rest of your life. 

You know when you want something so bad you don’t know what to do once you have it? Because it almost seems too good to be true? 

“I just wanted to let stuff between us breathe for a little bit,” you confess, “it’s just, it was a lot to deal with. Being around you when I thought you didn’t want me the way I wanted you. I don’t know if this is odd to say, and maybe I’m overthinking it, but I just feel like somewhere along the way, I kind of…forgot who you were for a little bit.” This kind of vulnerability would have you running away with your tail between your legs with anyone else, but not with him. Not after everything. 

His expression softens, melting away that confrontational energy he had earlier, and he nods slowly. He opens his mouth to speak, but he can’t seem to find words. The presence of them is there, though, you can feel them. But what good are his thoughts if not voiced? 

“I just wanted to spend a little bit of time getting to know you again, I guess.” You squeeze your arm in reassurance of yourself because he wasn’t giving it to you. You let out an awkward laugh. “I don’t really know what I’m saying right now, to be honest.”

You can tell he’s at a crossroads, and you think back to this week and his efforts to get you to open up to him again. You know how he feels right now, because it’s exactly how you felt when he rejected you. Like when someone is so close, yet so far, you can feel that they’re within arms reach but never truly. And they’re slipping away for some reason that you may never know, but all you can do is assume that it’s a fault of your own. You’re not really sure what he can do to make you feel secure about this whole thing anymore, and you can see the slight panic in his eyes when he realizes that too.

“I don’t mind waiting,” he tells you, rushed with a desperation entirely contrary to his words, “what’s a week or two when I want to spend a lot more of those with you anyways.” But he takes a deep breath, like he’s already mentally preparing himself for an agonizing wait in his head.

There’s a sound over the stadium speakers, something technical and sporty and goes entirely over your head in dismissal, but to Gojo it seems to have a different effect, as he’s suddenly attentive and stands up straighter, that focused expression on his face from earlier resurfacing. You realize he needs to get back to the field. 

“Can we continue this conversation after the game?” he asks you hastily, already turning towards the center of the stadium. And he adds an obligatory, “sorry.”

“Yeah, sure,” you quickly agree, suddenly feeling like you’re taking up his time. 

He gives you a small smile, unsure in its presentation but pure in its intention. But he can only take one step towards the field before you reach out and pinch the fabric of his jersey to keep him still. He feels the tug of it and fully faces you once again. 

“Um. Just a sec,” you say, “I have something to give you before your game.”

“Oh?” he looks at you with interest, “I fucking love things.” 

“You have to close your eyes though.”

“…what is the thing…” He squints at you with a what are you up to expression.

“Just close your eyes!” you snap at him.

“Okay, okay, jeez,” he holds his hands up in front of him in surrender, shaking his head to get his hair out of his face and then he closes his eyes. “You’re scary as hell sometimes. Excuse me for being cautious.”

You roll your eyes, useless because he doesn’t see it, and then take a step towards him. You cup his jaw with the palm of your hand, his cheek twitching slightly from the unexpected contact, and then you raise on your tiptoes to press your lips to his cheek. It’s short and sweet with the sound of a peck.

“For good luck,” you whisper, then you quickly lower yourself back onto your heels, take a step back and tuck some strands of hair behind your ear. The ground suddenly interests you.

He opens his eyes, blinking a few times with shock and his hand comes up to brush the tips of his fingers against the spot you kissed him, and then his gaze goes comically dazed when he reaches out to hold you. “Alright, c’mere you,” he says, closing his eyes and puckering his lips as he leans down to kiss you but you laugh and push his face away.

“No no no, only on the cheek for now,” you say with a small laugh.

He does nothing to restrain his frustrated groan. “You can’t do something that cute and then expect me to be chill about it.”

“If you win, then, maybe I’ll let you kiss me for real.”

“Maybe?”

“Yes. Maybe.”

He’s close, towering over you near this bustling east side entrance that he seems to like so much, and his eyes drop to your lips. “Alright. I like those odds.” 

You give him a smile and slip away from him to get back towards the field, and you feel his eyes on you as you walk away.

The pregame events are a blur, with blaring music accompanied by the sounds of the sports announcers clipping across the speakers, finally quieted down in time for the players to line up on the field for the national anthem which was then followed by UTokyo’s alma mater. 

You’re stationed on the same side of the field as Minato, UTokyo’s side, while Hana is covering the sidelines of the opposite end with the opponents goal post. Minato’s filling up a cup of Gatorade for himself at the athlete’s station and then he comes back around to find you.

“Are you ready to take your shots? I see Hana wanted you to shoot on film today,” he says to you as he sloshes around Glacier Freeze in a flimsy plastic cup.

You twist your aperture dial with your thumb. “Yesss, all set. I’ll try to keep up.” 

He nods at you in approval.

The atmosphere feels nerve wracking. Something felt different about this game, the stakes feeling high. Well, of course they’re high, because if they lose today then they’re out of the tournament. But the stakes feel high for other reasons too, an energy you can pick up on but can’t quite discern. 

Your eyes drift across the field where you can see a referee placing a ball at the center of the field. Off to the right, you can see Gojo standing with a few of his other teammates, including Geto, Nanami, and Choso, and they’re all gesticulating to various corners of the field as they discuss what you can only imagine have to do with their plays for today. And you realize— it’s their last college soccer season. Their second-to-last official home match before the championship, and for those of them that haven’t qualified for the national league, it may be their second-to-last match of this caliber for the rest of their lives. One of the final chances that they have to prove something of themselves. The determination was palpable. 

The chief referee’s whistle cuts through the air with three short chirps, and that gathers the attention of all the players on the field. UTokyo wins the coin toss, choosing to kickoff, and YCU’s players choose to attack the left side goal.

Your stomach churns with anticipation, the crowd hushing too as all the players take their places on the field. If you feel nervous, you can only imagine how the athletes feel. There’s a rhythm that you’ve learned over the past couple of months getting to know the sport, where players stretch out their necks and kick out their feet and take subtle deep breaths as they survey the stands. Idle moments before the start of the match where they have no choice but to look forward and only forward, so they take a moment to stay in the present for as long as they can gather. You’ve never been much of a sports spectator, and perhaps you’ve only recently had some personal interest in the team, but you realize you feel pride in your school as you stand behind chalk sideline and see UTokyo’s colors scattered across the field in uniform. And fuck, you wanted them to win. You wanted them to win with fierceness and wrath, and it’s a desire you share with the crowd. 

Gojo spends a minute talking to the referee before the black and white striped man pats him high on the back in the good sport and urges him towards the center of the field. He lifts his foot up onto the ball, rolling it back and forth underneath the spikes of his cleat, and you can see it in his eyes, even from all the way over here, that he seems to have different ideas in mind for this game too. High stakes. Pre-determined, set with will, evident in the clench of his jaw and the concentrated furrow of his brow as he surveys the field with his eyes, and you’re lost in the sight for what feels like forever because you can hardly register the chirp of the ref’s whistle. 

And then the kickoff starts. 

The ball is tapped to Geto to start the play, and the first few minutes were intense as the ball was passed back and forth between UTokyo’s players, placing pressure on YCU’s defense as they inched closer and closer towards the goal. A pass between UTokyo’s #4 was intercepted by YCU and the ball was rushed down towards the left side, the crowd’s horror evident in the uproar as they raise to their feet in fearful anticipation, and with ruthless offense, YCU’s forward takes a clear sink shot towards the goal, and the crowd holds their breath before they watch Choso lunge for it in air, gloved hands firmly grabbing the ball and then pulling it to his chest with a possessiveness you can only expect to see from a skilled goalie, before he crashes down into the ground and the crowd releases relief in the form of rowdy roars.

Ten minutes in, with everyone on their toes, each team tested each other’s defenses. UTokyo were known for stellar offense, especially within the past few years with players like Gojo Satoru and Takuma Ino joining the league as powerful forwards, but UTokyo’s overall offense was still statistically second to none other than YCU. And the pressure YCU was putting on UTokyo’s defense was wearisome to say the least. You glance to see Nanami, who is UTokyo’s best defensive player, huffing and puffing as he stands between two light-footed YCU players in an attempt to guard, and fails an attempt to steal the ball before it gets to the feet of YCU’s striker #6, passed in a split second off to his teammate, with a fake so seamless that it has Choso just a couple inches away from touching the ball before it’s sent flying into the net. 

The noises from the crowd are still loud, but dampened in spirit. 

With the referees hand signal up in the air, the current score is confirmed. 0-1, YCU. 

Coach Yaga calls for a sub, in which he switches Nanami out for who you believe is a 2nd-year defensive player name Yuta you’ve seen around practice with a promising statistical record for interceptions, and you watch as Nanami takes the bench before he swipes the sweat off his face in exhaustion. God. Just fifteen minutes into the match, and YCU already has UTokyo’s defense winded from play. 

You bring your camera up to your face, forgetting for a moment that there was still a job to do here, and you position the direction of the lens towards the center of the field, where Gojo takes his place at the ball once more. Yuta briefly passes by him, signaling some play to him by holding up a number three, likely something Coach Yaga asked him to pass on to Gojo, and you see him briefly nod, his mouth slightly agape as he breathes slowly and pulls his jersey up to wipe at the sweat at his forehead. 

The referee chirps the whistle, Gojo taps the ball to Yuta, and the play starts. 

YCU immediately puts pressure on UTokyo’s offensive play once more, with eager movements to steal the ball, but it’s passed between UTokyo’s players with ease, more practiced and more sure. The kind of play that you and the rest of the school was used to seeing from them. However, Geto loses the ball on a left-back pass, but right when YCU makes attempts to cover field in a long-shot kick towards the left, Yuta intercepts the ball and swiftly passes it to Gojo.

The crowd immediately rises to their feet in anticipation, watching as Gojo shuffles the ball down the field, dangerously close to off-field boundaries, a signature tactic he uses because he knows there’s not a single player in the league that can match him in precision and control to keep the ball in-field on a steal, and he swiftly passes it towards Geto with a side-swept kick, beelining down towards the goal post, in perfect time for Geto pass-back to meet his feet and when Gojo was this close to a net, there was no stopping him. 

He draws his right foot back, and explosively kicks the ball forward, chipping the grass under it in the motion, and it’s sent flying towards the goal, and then threaded past the goalie right to the back of the net. The cheers that erupt across the stadium rumble the ground beneath you. 

1-1, even match.

UTokyo spends no time celebrating, other than a few pats to Gojo’s back as he nods in acknowledgement, no emotion on his face other than pure concentration and greed. The greed to win, like a righteous sin. He stretches his neck out, panting slightly as he takes his place towards the right side of the field and the referee chirps his whistle to signal YCU to start the kickoff.

They quickly make attempts in moving the ball towards their scoring-end of the field, but face push-back from UTokyo’s defense, unable to make it much further past the midfield line, and you bring your camera up to take a snap of Gojo, who you see is still standing off to the right side of the field. But when you position it and peer through the viewfinder, that space he once stood at was empty. You pull your camera down, and blink at the sight, and then the crowd is picking up in volume once more.

Gojo sprints down the flank, cutting past every defender, and moves towards YCU’s attacking goal, which was a shocking place to be for a center forward, but you could feel his desire and determination to steal this back-and-forth ball, and succeeds when YCU makes an open pass, thinking they were in the clear, only to have Gojo sneak in at the last moment and get the ball at his feet. 

The play moves by in a flash, a blur that you or anyone else in the stadium could hardly keep up with it, movements so fast you were shocked a human being was capable of even running that far in such a short amount of time, and in an almost embarrassingly easy play, Gojo makes a fool out of YCU’s defenders as he slips the ball through the legs of his last obstacle before he struck it with sharp precision, sending it soaring to the corner of the goal, past the outstretched arms of the goalie, and into the net. 

2-1, UTokyo.

It was electrifying, the feeling that strikes through the stadium, one that reaches you in your own blood. You’re shocked, standing here, after witnessing Gojo score two goals within the matter of minutes, against one of the top three teams in the league. It’s a shock that reaches everyone, including Coach Yaga who’s standing about ten feet down the line from you, his arms crossed, and you see his eyes for the first time as he takes his sunglasses off to get a better look at what he’s seeing.

You trail his sight, dragging your gaze across the field until it lands at Gojo, who is barely acknowledging the encouraging pats and shakes and goodhearted shoves that his teammates were giving him, because he was focused. It might sound crazy to say, but you swear his eyes looked like a fiercer shade of blue, like they were lit up, and you’re insanely glad you’re not one of YCU’s defensive players at the moment because you feel fearful of him even just standing on the sidelines. 

Your gaze trails back to Coach Yaga, who slowly puts his sunglasses back on but his brows are narrowed tightly as he crosses his arms over his chest tightly.

The “athletic zone”... You’ve heard of it before. A state of pure focus, of peak performance, where an athlete experiences optimal concentration and a sense of effortless control over their actions. In which they perform at their highest level, where time slows down, any and all distractions fade away, and they’re completely immersed in their sport at hand. At the task at hand.

Coach Yaga seems to pick up on the fact that Gojo was on the edge of tapping into that state. 

YCU makes a substitution, and you watch in anticipation as they begin the kickoff. 

There’s fire in their veins with desperation to even out the score once more, rushing the ball down the off-field line, one of their center forwards mimicking Gojo’s signature attack pattern, and Yuta struggles to keep up with the expert dribbling of a fourth-year player with more experience on him, so much so to where he completely leaves the ball unguarded and there’s an open shot, but Geto places pressure at the last moment, in a fierce battle for the ball, before YCU’s center forward loses the ball over the goal line. 

Choso picks the ball up, tapping on it harshly a few times as he surveys his eyes down the field, and all offensive players begin to shuffle towards their attacking goal in anticipation for the goal kick. He signals his hand down and then holds up two fingers in the air before placing the ball down on the six-yard box. He tightens the strap of one of his gloves, eyes squinting, and you follow his gaze down to a part of the field where you note UTokyo’s best aerial players are located and being guarded by YCU’s defense. And with complete trust in his team, that’s exactly where he kicks the ball. 

Geto makes first contact with the ball, his chest colliding with two other YCU players as his head comes out on top and he headbutts the ball closer towards the inner field, and Gojo immediately gains access to it with a bounce of his knee. The crowd holds their breath, fear that they’ll lose the ball to a steal in the split second it spends floating in the air, but Gojo urges it forward with a bounce off of his chest and then rushes it straight down towards the goal post. 

You wonder what sight he sees right now. Where you’re dead center, at no angle, lunging towards the sight of an open goal with a sole goalie standing in the center, anticipating to block your shot, and three defenders on your tail. There’s no room for error, no time to think, only instincts that you cultivate in the last leading milliseconds. They say that, in sports, athletes channel one hundred hours of practice in just a brief second on the field. A split second success that was years in the making. You can’t even imagine possessing that level of perfection in your body, or possessing that level of confidence that you can follow through with it in a moment as dire as this.

It was unreal, the way Gojo fades away from all the defenders, and faces no fear when confronted with the sight of the goalie in front of him while drawing his foot back to kick the ball. You lift your camera up at the last second, no time to think about aperture or ISO, just like he had no time to second-doubt a single twitch in his muscles, and his foot makes contact with the ball so harshly that you can hear the explosive sound even among the delirious cheers from the crowd, before he hook, line, and sinks it straight past the goalie’s head, rushing by like a scarcely deflected bullet, and into the net behind him. 

3-1, UTokyo.

The whole stadium is momentarily speechless, all players and referees and recruiters and reporters and coaches and employees alike, before the most deafening cheers you’ve ever heard in your life scatter across the stands.

There’s a moment of brief reprieve, where the players can catch their breath while YCU makes yet another substitution, as if they’re just trial-and-erroring it at this point, and the cheers in the stadiums remain idle as you can’t tear your gaze away from Gojo.

It’s one of those moments where you realize that someone who you thought was so familiar to you was actually someone you hardly knew at all. You knew he was a talented soccer player, everyone on campus knows it, potentially one of the best to ever grace the league, and the amount of times you passively watched his plays on a lecture hall projector screen as your professor enthusiastically broke them down during class, even before you met him, was good enough for you to realize that he was insane, a one-in-a-million, a talent you cannot replicate, one you have by divinity. One you were born with. 

And yet, somehow, getting to know him these past couple of months, he just felt so human. For someone so seemingly beyond you, he felt so…close? In those moments where it was just the two of you, it was hard to imagine that he was capable of such greatness, and that so many people were rooting for him with wholehearted tears in their eyes and cheers from their hearts, because most of the time, when he was with you, he was just a dorky idiot. You find that your heart is beating fast in your chest, that feeling of being unsure of what to do with what you’ve been wanting resurfacing powerfully. 

“This is insane,” you hear Minato say from beside you and you jump a little from your thoughts being interrupted.

You twiddle with your camera straps. “I know…almost done with the first half and we’re up 3-1…I thought YCU are number one in offense for the league?”

“Oh, yeah, I mean, yes, that is insane too. But what’s even more insane is that three of the goals so far have been scored by one player.” He tips his chin towards the right sight of the field and you trail his line of sight. “By Gojo Satoru.”

Your brow furrows as you watch Gojo, his hands on his hips and his mouth slightly open as he indulges in a few shallow breaths to gain energy while YCU prepares for kickoff. Three goals, by just one player. Your eyes widen when you realize that is insane, especially for a D1 semi-final qualifying match.

“You know what the divisional record is for most goals scored by a single player during a championship match, y/n?” Minato asks you as he lifts his camera up to take a picture of the area Gojo was standing in. 

You shake your head and wait for his response.

He drops his camera down and glances at the photo on his screen. “Four. During Keio Uni vs. Osaka Uni, near the beginning of the tournament back in 1997 by Osaka’s center forward number 24, Yuji Nakazawa. Meaning no one’s managed to beat that record since the new millenia, for a couple decades. Although a few players came close.”

You blink at him, and Minato is jerking his chin over in the direction of Gojo again.

“I think he’s trying to beat the record.”

You can only widen your eyes at Minato in realization, and then the chirp of the referee’s whistle draws everyone’s attention back to the field. 

The sports announcers go wild on the speakers, the crowd raving all the same, standing to their feet like the team just won the championship match.

“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!! We are watching HISTORY in the making!! Gojo Satoru, UTokyo’s very own 3-year consecutive MVP, has scored his 34th goal of the season, highest of any player in this year’s season so far, and is now on the road to beat the league’s long-standing record for most goals scored by a single player in a championship match since 1997!!” And the crowd roars even louder as you stare out at the field in awe.

YCU starts the kickoff following the prompt short chirp of the referee’s whistle, and with two minutes remaining on the clock for the first half, make desperate attempts to book it down the field towards their attacking goal, one of their midfielders making a clumsy attempt to strike the ball to the net in the final minutes of the half, and Choso easily catches it in his arms, right before the buzzer of the timer sounds, and the match moves into halftime. 

All of UTokyo’s players immediately flock towards Gojo in sportful glee, finally having a chance to surround him and harass him with harsh pats on his back and ruffles of his hair for his play in the first half. Choso even puts him in a headlock because they all don’t know what else to do with their excitement and adrenaline rushing through their bodies. Their win for today was basically confirmed with the way he was playing. 

You catch a glimpse of him through the crowd of people, and he has a boyish grin on his face, reveling in the embarrassing amount of attention from his teammates, that focused look from before dissolving into his normal self again. But you can see through him, as well enough as you’ve learned to at least, and you can tell he’s not satisfied. He’s thinking it’s not enough. There’s still more to be done, and it’s not time to celebrate yet. 

His eyes scan down the sideline until they find you. 

Your heart jumps a second in your chest. He stands up straighter, despite his teammates still clinging to him, and there’s a twinkle in his eyes when your eyes meet. 

Cheerleaders take their place out onto the field, performing their numbers with loud music blaring, and the recruiters seated at their white tables get up to roam across the sidelines in discussion with referees and with Coach Yaga and with whatever players they can sink their greedy teeth into, as well as sneak at refreshments while they’re at it. You can see off to the right that Hana has reunited with Minato and she’s showing him some of the shots she took over at the opponent's side. 

UTokyo’s players start to make their way to the benches to grab for towels and drinks of water and to sprawl across in rest, and you hear loud familiar laughter approaching as you watch the players sprawl across the benches, so you avert your eyes towards the source of the sound. 

You see Gojo approaching the benches, two of his teammates slung with their arms around him in some type of adrenaline-drunken glee as they talk dramatically and theatrically which Gojo entertains with his own drunk-off-of-adrenaline glee. And you raise an eyebrow at his demeanor when he makes eye contact with you.

“There’s my freaky little photographer,” he says, and he’s standing up straight and—wait, is he puffing his chest out as he makes his way towards you? Oh for fucks sake.

Gojo has always been confident around you, for as long as you can remember, but in the fair few moments he’s been cocky, he’s been a menace. And you can only assume the testosterone-induced high of being on the verge of breaking a league record in front of the entire school then subsequently getting homiesexually praised by his teammates for the better part of the past five minutes, not to mention with the crowd and the reporters feeding his ego with a spoon across the speakers, he’s been transformed into the final boss of cocky.

His teammates surround you too, their hands on their hips as they assess you and Gojo when he meanders right up to you, arms held out to hug you, a sleazy sight you’ve seen probably six times this week, and you feel a rush of warmth in your cheeks as you place a hand on his chest to keep him away.

“You’re sweaty and gross, please stay away from me,” you reprimand him, “this is an expensive lens that is not humidity-proof.” 

“Hey, you’re the girl that Kentaro socked in the face with a ball the other day at practice, right?” one of his teammates asks, leaning in towards you to take a closer look at your face.

“Oh yeahhh, ‘cause Satoru wasn’t paying attention,” another one of his teammates chimes in teasingly, hardly heard over the loud remix playing in the background as the cheerleaders continue to perform on the field. 

You shrink a little from where you stand. Gojo’s got an irritated look on his face and he’s shrugging his teammate’s elbow off of his shoulder.

“I really hope you’re getting my good angles,” his teammate to the left comments before winking at you, and you purse your lips together. 

The one on the right leans in too, looking at your cheek with an assessing look in his eye. “At least it didn’t leave a scar on your cute face—”

Gojo shoves the both of them back and away from you by elbowing them in the chest, and they make deep eugh noises before stepping away and rubbing at their sternums with pouts on their faces.

“Get the fuck away from her,” he grumbles, “she’s mine.”

Your cheeks flush slightly with warmth at the attention, and you watch as his teammates scurry away to adhere to some social hierarchy Gojo seems to possess over them.

You raise an eyebrow at him. “Yours?”

“Yes. Eventually. Whatever, did you see me out there?” he turns his torso towards the field and points behind himself with his thumb, “when I—”

“Oh god, you know what’s soooooooooo super sexy to me?” you interrupt him. “When guys are humble.”

“Oh c’monnn,” he curls his arm around your waist and pulls you to him, to where you stumble a little on grass and he holds you when you fall into him with more clumsiness than grace. “Tell me you aren’t at least impressed by me.”

You pout, because you are, and you’d really like to give him some reassurance and validation, but for some reason his cocky attitude is setting you off. “Satoru,” you sigh, wiggling a little in his hug, but he holds you tighter, “I’m working right now. Cut it out.”

He lets go of you at that, sober enough from the adrenaline to realize you’re being serious, but he steps into your space so only you can hear him. “What? Are you embarrassed?”

“Of what?” Your face twists with confusion.

“Of me. Are you embarrassed of me?” he asks.

“No. Why would I be embarrassed of you?” you ask with sharpness.

“I don’t know, just, sometimes I feel like you’re always annoyed by me,” he says with a sigh. “It’s like, you’re really sweet sometimes, and then kinda rude out of nowhere, and it’s sort of messing with my head.”

You pout. “You were messing with my head for weeks.”

“And I’m sorry about that,” he quickly interjects, like he already knew you were brewing up that counterargument, “but you don’t have to act like you’re all disinterested and indifferent just to get back at me for it.” He places his hands on his hips and wipes his temple on the round part of his shoulder when he feels a drop of sweat trickle down from his hairline. “You don’t have to act embarrassed around me either.”

“I’m not embarrassed,” you deny, and your cheeks feel hot, and for some reason you feel angry. “In fact, I’m the one that should be asking you that question. Because I still very clearly remember that time you said I was just someone you know in front of your friends.”

He groans and tilts his head back with frustration. “Can you just let that go? Things have changed between us since then. Move on.” 

“You kissed me and then pretended I was just a stranger to you in front of your friends,” you grit as you cross your arms. “That’s the level of sincerity that I know from you, Satoru.”

“Oh, okay, so there’s nothing else I’ve done that shows you that I’m serious about you?” he asks rhetorically with incredulity, throwing his hands up in the air in disbelief.

No. That’s not true, not true at all. But he’s pissed you off now and so all logic was to the wind. “Doesn’t matter. If you’re not embarassed of me, and if you’re really serious about me this time, then fucking prove it.” You’re speaking out of spite, and you fear you’ve just set him off too.

“Fine,” he says, and he grabs the microphone straight out from a passing reporter’s hand, replacing it with a gatorade bottle. The reporter stares at the bottle he’s now holding with confusion. “I will.”

“W-Wait—” you squeak out, feeling the hair at the back of your neck bristle in anticipation and a shiver gets sent down your spine. The cheerleaders are making their way off the field at the end of their routine, and you can hear the thumps across the loud boisterous speakers when Gojo whacks his palm to the microphone to make sure the thing was on before he jogs to the center of the field.

The crowd is already cheering, ecstatic to see the afternoon's star player and pride & joy of their school, and Gojo takes a moment to soak in all the glory in comical appreciation with bowing towards all 360 degree angles of the stadium.

“Uhhh,” you hear Choso from beside you, who’s strapping his thick goalie gloves tightly to his wrists, “Why the fuck does Satoru have a microphone while standing in the middle of the field.”

“It can’t be for any publicly decent reason,” Geto muses.

All you can do is watch.

“Hi, uh,” Gojo starts, static blaring slightly across the speakers and the crowd winces with him, “sorry. I’m Satoru, Gojo Satoru, you might know me from—uh, the game you’ve been watching?”

Cheers all around, because as if a single person wouldn’t know who he is. The stands were rowdy and most definitely drunk off of sidestep beers the stadium has been serving all afternoon long. 

Gojo is about to continue speaking, when he catches sight of the table of recruiters in the corner of his eye and he turns to face them out of respect. “Oh, yeah, uh, number 10,” he tugs his jersey up at the shoulder to stretch out the fabric, the 1 and the 0 flattened in view, “division player ID 233-997. Coach Yaga keeps my business cards in his purse if you want one.”

“SAAAAATTOOORRUUUU!!!!!” you hear Coach Yaga yell from somewhere in the distance.

“Anywho,” Gojo continues, and the music dims slightly, so he glances at the stop clock on the screen, which shows him he’s got roughly five minutes left to pull off whatever idiocracy he had in mind before the second half of the game starts. “Just here to say that there’s this girl I really like.”

The crowd gets louder, almost deafening, and sonically mostly feminine in (delusional) hope he’s gonna name call one of them.

Gojo’s voice is crisp and clear through the speakers as he clarifies. “She’s standing over there,” he says as he nonchalantly points to your exact latitude and longitudinal direction, “with the big camera slung around her neck that looks like it could pull her down to the center of the earth. Yeah. She’s super cute and I really like talking to her.”

“Uh-oh,” Geto murmurs from beside you, and you glance at him to try to get a read on the situation but you can’t.

Gojo starts to pace across the center of the field now, like he’s working the crowd. “But get this—she thinks I’m not fuckin’ serious about her!!!”

The crowd groans with him in unison. Yep, most certainly drunk. Or high off of glee. Either way, he’s playing them like a violin.

“Huh?” Gojo’s voice sounds distant now, away from the mic, and you can see on the large pixelated screen that he’s being interrupted by someone that looks like one of the videographers, “oh, what’s that? This is being broadcasted? Uh-huh. Oh. I’m not allowed to cuss? Oh fuck, okay. Er— shit, okay. Wait—shoot, okay.”

Choso’s smirk is heard from beside you, and you catch Geto and Nanami shaking their heads in your periphery.

“LIKE I SAID,” Gojo continues into the mic, “the girl I like thinks I’m just messing around, so. Uh. To show her that I’m serious about her, I’m gonna…” He looks up at the sky to ponder, and you can hear people shouting all sorts of suggestions of nonsense from the crowd. And instead of saying proclaim my undying affection for her through a romantic soliloquy straight from my heart in the presence of the entire school, he says—“I’m gonna strip. Yes. Down to my tighty whities, Imma strip.”

H–

Huh?!?!?

You don’t even have time to be horrified or scared, you’re just bewildered beyond belief that that’s what he came up with.

What the fuck kind of reassurance did you ask for. And what the fuck kind of reassurance were you about to get?

The crowd goes wild, it’s no surprise to say everyone and their mothers wants to see him naked, even the straight dudes would dig it for the gym inspo. And he points straight to you, sleazy look on his face and you’re going to ignore the fact that he just winked at you too as he crosses his arms to hold the hem of his jersey and pulls it up over his head in the most raunchy and slutty way a man can take his shirt off.

The music manager is quick with the bit, and is most definitely a fellow Gen Z college student, because Justin Timberlake’s SexyBack (ft. Timbaland) starts playing across the speakers and the crowd goes ballistic.

“Ayo why’s Satoru Magic Mike’ing the field right now?” one of his other teammates calls out through a mouthful of protein bar, “What the fuck did I miss?”

The cameraman does God’s work in a hella zoom-in of Gojo’s sweat glistened abs, then pans up the naked expanse of the perfect taut skin across his chest, and you can’t help but stare even among all your horror. It’s like when a male bird embarrasses the fuck outta himself to attract a female bird sitting on a perch, except instead of within the context of a NatGeo documentary, this was your real life. Everyone wants him, but he’s making a fool out of himself for you. 

He pretends to stretch his arms up into the air, a cover-up to flex his biceps, and then he kicks his cleats off, and the socks come off too. Entirely unnecessary, as showing one's ankles is simply too slutty, but alas he’s a whore. And when his thumbs dip into the waistband of his shorts, and there’s anticipating screeching from the crowd, he finally gets chased by security. 

Except he’s an intercollegiate D1 athlete, why the fuck wouldn’t he be able to outrun a bunch of dudes in black?

The camerawork on him is phenomenal as he runs across the sidelines of the field, eliciting a wave down the bleachers. So good in fact that you’re pretty sure the camera man could shoot for the Olympic track and field, with the way the stadium’s got a clear sight of Gojo mouthing the lyrics Them other fuckers don’t know how to act from the song still blaring with satirical rage on his face as he makes a fool of the men chasing him around the perimeter of the field.

And then he does it, drops his shorts, discards them with a kick, and he’s down to his tighty whities as promised. Cameraman has got to be displaying some previously undiscovered level of talent as he zeroes in on a shot of said tighty whities, with Gojo’s—forgive me, I need to be crass—huge bulge prominent in Big Dick Energy fashion except his tighty whities have little red hearts in rows across the fabric so do with that duality what you will.

He’s outrun security with a steady grin on his face as he eats up the drunken crowd’s cheers and riots and roars and you feel like you’re the only sane person in this stadium, or maybe you’re just not used to the fanatics of a college sports crowd. You peep the men in black trailed all the way on the left side of the field where they abandoned their pursuit of Gojo.

He taps imaginary pockets at his thighs, very muscular thighs you take indulgence in noticing, as if he expected to find something there, and he looks around when he doesn’t. He shrugs and grabs the microphone of the next passing sports commentator he spots, and then he makes his way back to you.

His breathing is a little shallow, and he inhales deep to catch his breath. “Baby.” The crowd SCREAMS at the way he purrs the word into the mic. “Will you do me the honor,” he’s huffing and puffing, heard across blaring speakers, “of being my lawfully wedded girlfriend?” And then he holds the mic to your lips.

“W-Wha—” you stutter, and there’s chanting across the crowd with words that barely make sense until you finally realize they’ve started to yell say yes! say yes! say yes! “Oh my gosh, okay, yes, fine, now please, for the love of god, put some freaking clothes on!”

The crowd goes wild with cheerful glees, and Gojo shoots fists up in the air in celebration as he runs all the way towards the center of the field with high knees, and you’re gawking at the sight, before he falls backward onto the grass and makes delirious snow angels on the ground. You see Coach Yaga’s vein popping in his neck from pure agitation as he storms off towards the center of the field to knock some sense into Gojo, but you know that Coach Yaga can’t kick him out, because they still have a game to win. The perks of being the most valued player in the league is getting to act like an absolutely insane idiot because you know they still need you in the end to bring it home.

You glance to the right, seeing his teammates nodding slowly then getting back to wrapping athletic tape around ankles and stretching out shoulders, with immediate acceptance of his actions like it wasn’t even out of character for him to do. And you realize again that you don’t know Gojo as well as you think you do.

And then the halftime timer is up.

You see Gojo approach the benches in a quick jog, squeezing some water into his mouth with his green gatorade squirt bottle, and when your eyes flit up to the screens on all four entrances, you see that the cameramen are still all focused on him accompanied by the continued buzz of conversation among the crowd following his public spectacle. But he seems to already be past any semblance of embarrassment as he takes the attention with ease, before he glances up to make eye contact with you and then lightly jogs right up to you.

“Did that prove to you that I’m not embarrassed of you?” he asks you, cocking a brow with a smug look on his face as he gets all up in your personal space. 

“I don’t know, but I’m certainly thoroughly and expeditiously embarrassed of you now,” you say, cheeks feeling flush when he leans forward so he can make eye contact with you at eye level. “I’ll have to move to a different country.”

His grin is relaxed. “Yeah well you asked for it.”

“Maybe. But I underestimated what a lunatic you are.”

“You’re my girlfriend now, you’ve gotta get used to it.”

Your heart skips a beat in your chest. “Satoru–”

“Tomorrow,” he cuts you off, “Hinode pier. I’ll pick you up at six. It’s a date, so wear something cute. And preferably easy to take off.” And then he’s attentive to the chirp of the referee’s whistle in the air before jogging backwards towards the feel and eventually turns on his heel towards the field while you’re left with warm cheeks and a heart that felt like it was moving at a mile a minute.

The timer for the second half refreshes on the screen while you loosely hold your camera in your shaking hands. It occurs to you that you haven’t taken a single photo of him before the start of the kickoff, and so you bring the piece of consolidated metal up to your eyes, peering through the viewfinder and focusing it on the center of the field. And there he was. Your muse.

Gojo lets out a breath, which you can see even from here that it’s shaky and staggered with resistance, and he lifts his jersey up to swipe at the sweat trickling down his face as he eyes the ball underneath YCU’s player’s foot just prior to the start of the second half. There it was—that look again of pure focus. 

3-1, forty-five minutes on the clock. And the referee chirps the whistle to start the second half.

It’s immediately evident that YCU has returned to the field following halftime with renewed energy, pressing high down the flank relentlessly past UTokyo’s defense, so fast it was hard for anybody to even keep a steady eye on the ball with the fluidity of their passes. The persistence pays off in the fake double-pass that slips past Geto’s feet, a moment of hesitation in the broken flow of UTokyo’s defense, and one of YCU’s strikers has the perfect line of shot towards the goal before digging his foot under the ball and sending it flying towards the corner of the goal post, scoring themselves a goal within just the first five minutes of play.

3-2.

The pressure mounts at the next kickoff, and with about seven minutes of solid play, with back-and-forth passes, multiple attempts at both goal posts to no avail on either side, it was clear that exhaustion was bustling in the veins of all the players.

One of YCU’s offensive players seems to capitalize on this, jumping on a defensive lapse of a pass Nanami attempted to make towards Yuta, and the ball is swiftly stolen then raced back towards the goal post. Choso prepared himself at the line, light on his feet paired with a solid stance, but in a millisecond of a moment, YCU’s offense unexpectedly passes the ball to a player racing up the midfield, and the player chips the ball neatly into the exposed corner of the goal despite Choso’s attempt to lunge for it in mid air.

Equalized, 3-3 game, momentary shock across the players’ faces, and the crowd bustles with something that sounds less like glee and more life fear. YCU was prepared to live up to and hold onto their title as the league’s number one offense, and as Minato explained to you during your time working in this job, an offensive team isn’t good at scoring goals, but rather exceptional at breaking down the other team’s defense.

Your eyes zero in on Geto, who stands in the center of the field for kickoff, and he’s huffing and puffing. He's the lead of defense for the team, and you can only imagine the level of pressure he feels right now. He glances around to his players, over to Nanami who seemed to share the same level of exhaustion, and then he glances towards Gojo who stood in front of him off to the right. Except you notice that Gojo looks relaxed, albeit still exhausted, but there’s a composed expression on his face even in the moment of heightened stakes. With locked eyes, Geto nods at Gojo and raises two fingers up into the air to signal a play, of which Gojo seems to respond to by closing more distance between him and the goal post prior to the kickoff, positioning himself almost directly in front of it, to which YCU’s defense immediately begin to guard him in a tight radius. 

The kickoff begins, with Geto making a few passbacks with Nanami as they close distance towards the field before passing it off to UTokyo’s string of offense and then receding back to their defending goal. UTokyo continues to close distance, raising stakes for YCU as their defense begins to falter under pressure, and the ball gets passed to Gojo, who only keeps it in possession for less than three seconds before he passes it back to Yuuji, a risky decision to make in the second half of a semifinal match, but the first-year swiftly unleashes a powerful shot that rockets past YCU’s goalkeeper, up towards the corner, except–

It bounces off the metal of the goal post, shot off with projectile speed back towards the center of the field, but with razor-sharp reflexes, Gojo headbutts the ball in air, twists his torso and strikes the ball with his foot past a dumbfounded goalie who can’t even move an inch to guard the ball that he already knew was going to sink right into the goal, and that’s exactly what it does. 

The stadium erupts with the momentum.

4-3, UTokyo. 

It was a sweet moment, one you manage to capture on camera of Gojo running up to Yuuji and ruffling his hair in reassurance, despite the missed goal. Your heart feels warm in your chest, feeling your own sense of melancholy that this was one of the last times they’ll ever get to play together on a team. 

Your eyes widen when you glance at the scoreboard, realizing that he’s tied. Gojo is tied for the most goals scored during a championship match. There were less than three minutes left on the clock. UTokyo either preserves their lead, or they risk moving into overtime, which, judging by the exhaustion on the UTokyo players’ faces in the wake of YCU’s relentless offense this entire game, moving into overtime would be a hefty, hefty risk. 

YCU’s center forward takes his place in the center of the field, fire evident in his eyes as he glances across the field. YCU are light on their feet, channeling everything in their bodies into these last moments of the game as they prepare to start the kickoff. You glance across UTokyo’s players, and although they look spent, there was a resolute look to all of them. It wasn’t the time to give up or feel at ease even near the end of this grueling battle. Now was the time to play. 

The referee chirped his whistle, and the kickoff began.

YCU immediately presses hard, as all their other plays have been all game, in their desperation to score. You can already see UTokyo’s midfielders move sluggishly in comparison to YCU’s offense, a drag to their feet as YCU pushes past the first layer of defense towards their attacking goal. Geto takes an aggressive approach, making moves to steal the ball while Nanami and Yuta guarded both flanks, and there was a relentless pass-off happening that ate up more than a minute of the remaining time.

Nanami succeeds in stealing the ball, but immediately loses it under his feet by a YCU midfielder, who makes a broad pass down the sidelines to YCU’s star forward who then powerfully kicks the ball towards the unguarded area of their goal, a dangerous shot that was clear towards the crossbar and Choso makes a leap for it, high into the air, his glove brushing against the ball, the entire crowd holding their breath in anticipation–

And the ball lands in the net. 

4-4, tied game. With one minute and seventeen seconds left on the clock. 

There was no time wasted in getting back to center field. No time spent dwelling in the horrific roars of the crowd as they watch with anxiety and fear. No time spent to process or consider or signal any plays. Not even a single second used to catch breath. When there is this much at stake, an athlete thrives on momentum. 

To your surprise, Gojo isn’t the one that takes place at the center of the field to start the kickoff. Yuta stands there instead, and you notice his eyes are erratic as he surveys all corners of the field. 

The referee chirps his whistle. 

Yuta immediately passes it off to the side to UTokyo’s midfielder, who curls it towards their attacking goal with a swift pass to Ino, who closes distance towards the goal, but one of YCU’s defender slips in, undoing any progress they had made in their offense by stealing the ball and sending it back towards mid-field. Forty-three seconds. The crowd’s roars heightened as YCU continued to push forward, thirty yards now from scoring, and UTokyo’s defense was desperate to stop them but their momentum was cracking in the wake of their exhaustion. 

It was a moment you don’t think you could ever fully or truly recall, one that you wish you had focused all your energy and attention to so that you could commit it to memory for the rest of your life. The image of Gojo pushing all the way to ten yards before their defending goal, a place where no center forward should really be at in a game like this, but it was exactly what their defense needed. It was exactly what the team needed. It was exactly what the school needed. For the ball to be in his possession.

With twenty-two seconds left on the clock, he steals the ball from right under YCU’s offensive feet, and then charges towards the opposite side of the field. The crowd rises to their feet, thunderous roaring that overtook any and all senses, as Gojo weaves through forwards, center forwards, midfielders, and defenders, covering the entire span of the field in lightning time. Fifty yards, forty yards, thirty yards, twenty hards, ten yards–

In a moment you couldn’t believe, he digs his foot underneath the ball, and sends it flying out towards the goal. There was not even a margin of an inch in which it slipped past the goalie’s hands, past his head, and swiftly flew right into the net.

With three-two-one seconds, the match was over. 

5-4, UTokyo’s win.

The final whistle blew, and for a moment, there was silence. As if the world paused to catch its breath. Then, all at once, the crowd erupted with glee that shook the entire stadium at its core. Flags waving, scarves held high, toasts of beer held up to the sky, it was deafening, and it almost makes you want to cry. Thousands of voices shouting in unison, celebrating the hard-fought victory of their school’s team. A type of pride that was fostered, and well-deserved, and long-lived.

You quickly glance towards the field again, and see Gojo standing right at the same spot where he had kicked the last and final goal, staring towards the net. You can’t see the expression on his face, but it surprises you how still he is. Like a statue, staring at the goal with the ball tucked into its corner. The very epitome of what it means to succeed in this sport was right in front of him, and it seemed like he wanted to soak the visual in for as long as he could.

His trance is abruptly interrupted when his teammates swarm in, rushing over like a wave of pure adrenaline. They slap him on the back, ruffle his hair, shout his name, the sounds of gleeful disbelief mixed with exhausted sighs of relief swarming into the air. And Gojo finally melts away from the tension of the match and into the celebration as he weakly returns the embraces of his teammates while he catches his breath. 

“IT’S OFFICIAL!! IT’S OFFICIAL!! UTOKYO’S VERY OWN GOJO SATORU HAS OBLITERATED OSAKA UNIVERSITY’S RECORD FOR MOST GOALS SCORED BY A SINGLE PLAYER IN A CHAMPIONSHIP MATCH!!” 

The speakers are blaring the voices of the sports announcers, along with ambient music to match the intensity of the match that everyone had just witnessed. 

You should probably be doing your job. You know, take a picture of the huddle of players on the field as they bask in the glory of a close victory, but instead your feet start moving on their own. Like a magnet drawn to him, you make your way towards Gojo, only a slight hesitation in your step as you stop about ten feet away, suddenly unsure. But when he makes eye contact with you, all that fear melts away.

He hastily pats the backs of some of his teammates, acknowledging their praise at the center of the huddle before tightly squeezing past them to make his way over to you. Your heart is beating fast in your chest, feeling an almost overwhelming sense of pride in your school’s team, but more importantly, in him. What was the acceptable thing to do? Run to him, into his arms, and hug him while he twirls you around? Tackle him to the grassy ground? Kiss him like your life depended on it? You have no clue what the acceptable or sane or normal thing to do is. But he’s made his decision for you when he walks right up to you, his hands holding your waist as he pulls you towards him. He smells earthy, of grass and salt and sweat and of all the hard work he poured into today, the wear and tear of the game evident in the wear and tear of his jersey. He only manages to huff out an exhale at the sight of you, like some relief washing over him just by looking into your eyes. Forget the fact that the crowd was all watching and that all of the screens you could see past his head were focused on the two of you, because all you could hear or see or think was him.

“I believe you owe me a kiss,” he says, huffing as he catches his breath but that doesn’t stop the smile that makes its way onto his face.

You nod your head, giving him your own version of a sweet smile as your arms slide up past his shoulders, crossing behind his neck, and he leans down to kiss you.

You hear a swell from the crowd, some teasing comments off in the distance from some of his teammates, you’re pretty sure you hear Coach Yaga yelling at him to get back to the benches, but it all melts away with the feeling of him smiling against your lips as he kisses you at the center of this stadium.

It was a moment so pure, so sweet, so picture perfect, and for once, you’re not the one behind the camera taking the photo. You’re the one that’s in it.

.

.

.

.

.

[end of kickoff ch12]

a/n. aaa thanks a lot for reading!! pls the fucking public stripping scene was so stupid i apologize on behalf of kickoff gojo for his behavior 😂😂 i’ll put him in his cage dw this chapter had some of what i consider to be the most challenging aspects of writing for me (internal conflict, grand public gesture, sports jargon) and so writing it felt like an uphill battle the ENTIRE time i wrote it and edited it. i considered scrapping it sooo many times cuz i just wasn't happy w it...but whatever i can't expect to be 100% happy w every chapter i put out there haha. i think kickoff has become a lil sacred for me since i've been working on it for a while now but likeee...sometimes u just gotta say fuck it we ball (tbh kickoff gojo probably says that to himself before a match) anywho, i am veryy thoroughly excited for what i've got planned for the chapters to follow, especially moving into the last angsty arc before the end of the series!! so i look forward to picking up momentum w this series again :0 honestly chapters 10 through 12 were the most difficult things i've written so far for a lot of reasons, but i have a feeling things will go more smoothly for me creatively going forward since what i've got planned falls well within my writing comfort range oh also there seems to be a little confusion about the number of chapters left, as i know i had originally said 12, but i anticipate that there will be about 18 chapters of kickoff total!! so still around six chapters left before the end :)) much lovee thanks for reading!!

OH WAIT ONE LAST NOTE I'M SORRY i didn’t really have a way of organically incorporating this into the story n i’m not sure if i’ll get a chance to in the upcoming chapters, so i just wanted to share this part of ch7 (gojo’s pov chapter) that is relevant to this chapter:

During the thrilling semifinal match between Keio Uni, Gojo’s father’s team, and Yokohama Uni during the end of his senior year, spectators witnessed a game that most college soccer enthusiasts would deem was a once-in-a-lifetime watch. Both teams engaged in relentless offense, and Gojo’s father was on his way to shatter the record of the most goals scored in a single championship match within the history of the league, but when he received a call from his wife during a timeout with the most life-altering news he could have ever heard, he abandoned everything on the field that day to go home and be with her. Grainy footage from the televised broadcast still exists online today—the moment he sprinted across the field, confused players glancing in his direction, amidst the uproar of the crowd. She called to let him know she was pregnant. 

the record that gojo broke in this chapter is the same record that his father almost broke before he got the call that he was going to be a dad :0 

➸ you're all caught up!

additional notes. please do not pressure me for updates or ask when i will next update (read rules); taglist is currently closed (consider subscribing to the story on my ao3 for email updates if you'd like! :0)

taglist:

@megumisdivinedogs @witchbybirth @avatarl0v3r @mwtsxri @asherheed

@wynney @delulux3 @higurumapet @zombriesworld @xenop0p

@phoenix-eclipses @who-can-touch-my-boob @mo0nforme @reagan707 @lost-resonance

@foulprincesscycle @luniunia @alekssashka7 @beabadobeee @thexmistress

@tsukikourito @pickuptruck01 @gabriiiiiiii @4y3sh4 @tiredflame132

@cliosunshine @btszn @izayas-rings @semra4 @ethereally-lyann

@drthymby @bbyxxm @fvsm4x @sadmonke @zoinks1010

@joemama-2 @horisdope @banenemilk @nanasukii28 @spindyl

@ri-sa20 @thexmistress @mwtsxri @ritsatoru @sashisuslover

@chwesuh-imnida @megumisthirdog @imjustaweirdnerd @angelicscribe

[taglist is closed]

[yslgreen]

The Tides Between Us

Part 1 | Part 2 Pairing: dbf!Joel x fem!Reader | dbf!Tommy x fem!Reader

SUMMARY: The Millers’ beach house was supposed to be a fun getaway : a week of sun, drinks, and celebration for Joel’s 50th birthday. But after that night with Joel, everything’s suddenly… awkward. Joel is cold and distant, because Joel knows better. He won’t cross that line—not with his best friend’s daughter, not when you’re half his age. He’s made his share of mistakes, but this won’t be one of them. But Tommy? Tommy’s never been one for restraint, all too willing to take what Joel won’t.

WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI (smut not yet in this chapter, but will happens !), no outbreak au, no ellie, dbf!joel, dbf!tommy, age gap, no use of y/n, angst and tension, forced proximity

A/N : I really wanted to write something with a bit more plot this time, so here we are! This is a multiple-chapter story—probably less than ten chapters. No smut… yet. Don’t worry, there will be. I’m just building up the tension first. The main pairing is Joel x Reader, but there will definitely be some Reader x Tommy moments too because, honestly, I’m greedy like that. I just love both Miller brothers way too much.

Here on AO3 | Wc : 6.4 k

The music in your headphones is loud—too loud, probably. The kind of volume your dad would raise an eyebrow at, launching into that familiar warning about hearing loss and how time has a way of collecting the debts you don’t think about when you’re young. Usually, you’d listen. Not just because he’s right, but because you’re the kind of daughter who tries to be considerate, who keeps him company on long drives, who fills the silence so he doesn’t feel it.

But not today.

Today, you let the music drown everything out. The hum of the car, the crash of the waves in the distance, and even your dad’s occasional small talk that you only half hear. You haven’t spoken much the entire drive. Not because your dad hasn’t tried—he’s been talking on and off for hours about the weather, the beach house, and how crazy it is that Joel’s turning fifty in a few days. You nod when it feels like you should. Offer the occasional "mm-hmm" or "yeah." But you keep your eyes out the window, your fingers curled tight in your lap, and your headphones firmly in place—like they might be enough to block out not just sound, but everything else too.

Your dad, thankfully, doesn’t push. He’s too busy grinning at the open coast, tapping the steering wheel in time with a rhythm only he can hear. He’s excited—really excited—to be here. Like this trip is nothing but sun and friends, and easy laughter. And you? You just wanted the ground to open up and swallow you whole.

“Almost there,” your dad says, glancing over with a smile.

Outside the car window, the coastline blurs past. Blue and white and gold. Waves breaking gently against the sand. You press your forehead to the window, the glass warm against your skin. If you close your eyes, you can almost pretend you're somewhere else. You wish you were. You’d almost asked to stay home. Almost faked a reason. Work, a sudden cold, anything. But it’s Joel’s birthday on Saturday, and this trip to the Millers’ beach house has been set in stone for months. There was no getting out of it.

Not without raising questions.

And the last thing you want is to talk about what happened.

The music shifts, softer now. Your playlist seems to know exactly when to turn cruel. You close your eyes, leaning your head back against the seat, hoping the hum of the road and the thrum of the bass will pull you under. Just for a little while. Just long enough to forget where you’re going.

The gravel under the tires changes the sound of the road, and your eyes open before you even think about it. When you open your eyes, you take in the familiar sight. The beach house comes into view,  just beyond the trees like something out of a postcard: weathered wood, wraparound porch, soft white trim. It hasn’t changed much since the last time you were here. A fresh coat of paint, maybe. Some upgrades—knowing the Miller brothers, they've probably fixed a few things over the years.

You wish your dad would keep driving, just keep going past the house and back to Austin. Anywhere but here. Of course, he doesn’t. Instead, he steers the car toward the driveway, where two trucks are already parked. The sound of the tires crunching on the gravel must’ve reached inside the house, because two figures are already waiting on the porch, silhouettes outlined against the fading light.

For a split second, you wonder just how easy it would be to push your dad out of the car, slam the door, and drive away. How much of a scandal would it cause? How far could you get before you couldn’t hear the waves anymore?

But you don’t. Of course you don’t.

You take off your headphones and dare to look toward the men. You see them—Joel and Tommy—waiting. Joel stands with his arms crossed over his chest, broad and unmoving. Tommy leans against one of the porch railings, more relaxed, smiling. Your fingers twitch in your lap.

The car shuts off. “C’mon, kiddo,” your dad calls, already out of the car and waving toward his old friends with that easy, familiar enthusiasm.

You sit frozen in the passenger seat a moment longer. There’s no going back now. You’re here. You open your door, and the smell of the salty air hits you, sharp and bracing. It feels like it might help you breathe a little easier. You trail behind your dad toward the porch, where he’s already wrapped Tommy in a hug, already launching into a story about the drive down and how damn good it is to finally be here.

You glance at Joel, standing slightly apart, arms still folded across his chest like a barrier. “Hey,” you say, quietly, forcing the word out past the knot in your throat. You try to make it sound casual, normal. Like your skin isn’t prickling. Like you didn’t spend the entire drive rehearsing what you’d say to him, and none of it was that one-word greeting.

His eyes flick to yours. One second. That’s all it takes. One second, and you know you shouldn’t have come.

Because in that second, everything that happened two nights ago is right there in the look he gives you—unspoken, sharp, heavy. It lands like a punch to the ribs. His expression doesn’t change, but it doesn’t have to. You feel it. He gives you a nod, barely a dip of his chin, tight-lipped, polite. Like you’re a stranger. Someone he met once and forgot the name of. No recognition. No warmth.

Just distance. And it was your godamn fault.

You go still, your fingers curling into your palms. You’re not sure if it’s embarrassment or shame or some awful combination of both, but you know you hate it. 

Joel turns to your dad, clapping him on the back, saying something about how good it is to see him. His voice is steady, casual, even warm. Like he didn’t just look at you like he wished you weren’t here. Like he didn’t flinch from the sound of your voice.

You stay where you are, a half-step behind the moment, behind the laughter and ease, suddenly unsure of what to do with your hands or your face or your heart. 

Luckily, you don’t have to think too long—one strong arm wraps around your shoulders, pulling you into a side hug before you can even react. Tommy smells like sun and cedarwood, familiar and warm.

“There’s my girl,” Tommy says warmly, ruffling your hair with the same easy affection he’s always had. “It’s so good to see you.”

“You too, Tommy,” you reply, nodding, grateful for the warmth, for the normalcy, even if it’s only from one of the brothers.

“Been too long,” he says with a chuckle, pulling back just enough to give you a full look. “What’s it been—two years?”

“About that,” you murmur, a small smile tugging at your lips despite everything.

“Yeah, last time was your college graduation party, right?” Tommy grins, shaking his head.

“Surprised you remembered,” you tease, raising an eyebrow. “You were pretty torched.”

Tommy chuckles, looking at you with mock offence. “Let’s not act like you weren’t taking as many shots as me.”

“Well, it was my party,” you say with a smirk. “Couldn’t let you steal the spotlight.”

He laughs, a warm sound that takes some of the tension out of the air, and you both linger in that easy familiarity you always had.

He glances toward the car. “You got a bag?”

“Yeah, let me grab it,” you reply, starting to step toward the car.

But Tommy, always the gentleman, is quicker. He’s already walking toward the backseat, reaching for the handle before you can even move. “Let me get that for you,” he says with an easy smile, pulling it out before you can even protest. You raise an eyebrow but can’t help the small laugh that escapes. “Least I can do,” he adds, looking at you with that teasing glint in his eyes.

You roll your eyes but smile. “Aw, well, thank you,” you reply, playing into the gesture with a hint of reverence, enjoying the ease of his kindness. “Such a gentleman.”

Tommy shrugs nonchalantly, his grin widening. “Hey, I’ve got a reputation to uphold.” With one hand firmly holding your bag, his other hand gently finds its way to your back, nudging you lightly forward. “C’mon, let’s get inside.”

You step inside, your footsteps muffled by the worn wood floors, and the familiar scent of salt air and pinewood fills your senses. The Millers have had this house for over a decade now, and over the years, they’ve poured their hearts into turning it into something more than just a beach house. It’s a home.

The once rustic, weather-beaten cottage has transformed into a warm and inviting space—still weathered, still with a bit of that old charm, but now it feels polished, lived-in. The wooden beams stretch across the ceiling, giving the place a rustic yet comfortable feel. A couple of large windows allow the sunlight to flood in, casting soft golden hues across the room, making everything feel just a little bit cozier.

You take it all in, feeling that pang of nostalgia as your eyes drift over the old pieces that have remained untouched—the faded armchair in the corner, the rough-hewn wooden table where you remember so many evenings spent laughing with Sarah. 

Tommy sets your bag down on the couch with a gentle thud before heading toward the open space that leads into the kitchen “You want a drink?” he calls over his shoulder, his voice light.

“I wouldn’t say no to a glass of water,” you reply, the heat still hanging in the air, even though it’s mid-September. It’s not the oppressive heat of Austin, but it’s enough to make you long for something cool.

You follow him into the kitchen, but as you step through the doorway, you freeze. Your dad and Joel are standing against the counter, beers in hand. The casual chatter between them is normal, but the moment you walk in, the air changes.

Joel doesn’t look at you. He shifts his weight, takes a sip from his bottle, and stares somewhere to your left—out the window maybe, or at nothing at all. It’s purposeful. Calculated in the way only Joel Miller can be. You see the clench in his jaw, the tightness in his shoulders, the way he keeps his eyes away from yours. And it stings.

Because usually, he’d be the one to welcome you into the house. He’d tease you for probably sleeping the whole ride down, ask what you’ve been up to, and how work’s been treating you lately. He would’ve welcomed you in with his usual gruff but warm presence,and he’d smile—really smile—and say something like, "Glad you made it, sweetheart." And you’d pretend to roll your eyes just for show, even though it always warmed you, always meant more than it should have.

You force yourself to keep moving, your steps steady, your hands a little too tight at your sides. The kitchen feels like a space too small now, the air thicker than it should be. You try to ignore the ache in your chest, pretending like it doesn’t bother you as you walk toward the counter where Tommy’s already filling a glass with water. 

“Want a beer instead?” Tommy asks, flashing a grin as he nods toward your dad and Joel, both already halfway through theirs.

“Water’s fine,” you say, taking the glass from him with a faint, grateful smile. “Thanks.”

Tommy raises a brow, his voice playful. “You, turning down a beer? That doesn’t sound like the girl who drank me under the table last time I saw her. You’re sick or something?”

You huff a quiet laugh, about to come up with some clever response, something light to match his tone, but your dad beats you to it, speaking over his bottle rim like it’s just a casual joke.

“Let her be,” your dad says with a laugh. “She’s probably still hungover from a couple of nights ago, right? Should’ve seen her—had to spend all of yesterday holed up in her room.”

You freeze—not visibly, not in a way anyone might call out—but inside, everything goes tight. That night. Two nights ago. You don’t even have to look at Joel to know he heard it too. You do anyway. Your gaze flicks toward him before you can stop it.

You catch the slightest shift in his posture. He’s still leaning against the counter, but now his jaw is clenched tightly, his whole body radiating tension. He takes another sip of his beer, like it might somehow drown out the memory of what just resurfaced. The one you both want to forget, but can’t.

How are you going to survive this week with him acting like you barely exist? The thought tightens your chest, leaves you cold, but you can’t blame anyone but yourself. You’re the one who decided to ruin everything. You were the one who let it all spiral out of control

You force a smile, trying to sound nonchalant. “Let’s just say that,” you reply, keeping your voice casual despite the tightness in your chest. You need to get out of this kitchen—out of this space, away from Joel—and fast. “I should take a nap again, actually,” you add, hoping the excuse sounds believable enough.

Tommy quirks an eyebrow, amusement flickering in his gaze. “That bad, huh?”

You nod, even though it's not the hangover you're running from, “Yeah,” you mumble, already taking a step toward the door. “I’m staying in Sarah’s room, right?”

Tommy gives you a nod. “Yeah, let me show you.”

You raise a hand, shaking your head lightly as you start to walk away. “It’s cool, I remember where it is. Thanks, though. See you in a bit.”

Tommy doesn’t press, letting you slip past him. Your dad’s voice drifts in from the kitchen, making some lighthearted remark about something you don’t quite catch, but it doesn’t matter. You can barely focus on anything but the knot in your stomach.

You grab your bag off the couch, feeling its weight a little heavier than you expect. You take the stairs two at a time, eager to get as far away from the kitchen, from them, as possible. The rhythmic thud of your footsteps echoes through the house as you push yourself upward, hoping that getting out of their sight will ease the nervous beating of your heart. As you head upstairs, you feel the weight of someone’s gaze lingering on you. You don’t pause long enough to figure out whose it is.

The room looks just as you remembered it. The large bed, a quiet space that’s only yours until Sarah arrives in a couple of days. After retrieving your headphones from your bag, you toss it on the floor, not caring where it lands. You fall onto the bed with a soft thud, immediately pressing play on whatever music was playing earlier. The familiar hum of the song slips into your ears, the first few notes trying to drown out the thoughts clawing at your mind.

You close your eyes and try to focus on something—anything—that isn’t that night. But you can’t escape it. You can’t forget it.

You still see him outside the bar, waiting for you like he had so many times before—leaning against his truck, arms crossed, that soft smile pulling at his mouth when he saw you. You still hear the low rumble of the engine, still feel the warmth inside the cab, the way his presence always seemed to fill the space beside you.

The ride had felt so normal at first. Comfortable. Familiar. You’d been drunk—more than you wanted to admit.

“Shouldn’t drink so much, sweetheart,” he had said, voice low, gently teasing. And God, you wish you’d listened. Because if you had, you wouldn’t be hiding in your room right now, trying to forget the way everything went wrong the moment his truck pulled into the driveway.

You roll over, burying your face in the pillow like it might push the thoughts out for good. You try to think of anything else—what the ocean looked like on the drive down, how Tommy hugged you, how the sun felt on your arms earlier—but it’s no use. Eventually, sleep takes you, but it’s restless, fragile. Even in your dreams, Joel's voice follows.

You’re pulled from sleep by the sound of knocking—soft, measured, just persistent enough to cut through the low hum of music still playing in your headphones. It takes a second for your eyes to open, longer for your brain to catch up. The room is dim, cast in the fading blue light of early evening, and for a moment, you forget where you are, the comfort of the bed unfamiliar.

“Yeah?” your voice croaks out, rough with sleep as you tug the headphones off and let them fall to your collarbones.

The door opens a crack, and Tommy’s voice follows—low, familiar, gentle in the way people speak when they know you’ve just been asleep. “Hey. Dinner’s ready. You hungry?”

You blink at him, still caught between dreaming and now. Part of you wants to say no—the idea of going back downstairs, of seeing Joel sit in your chest like a weight. But your stomach decides for you, a low, traitorous rumble breaking the silence.

“Kinda,” you mutter, sitting up and brushing a hand through your hair, trying to shake off the sleep.

Tommy leans casually against the doorframe, his smile easy as his eyes flick over you. “You look like hell,” he teases, not unkindly, nodding toward your mess of tangled hair and sleep-flushed cheeks.

You roll your eyes. “Thanks.”

He grins, unfazed. “Still pretty though.”

You pause, caught off guard. Tommy’s never been shy about giving out compliments, always quick with a warm word or a wink, the kind of guy who says what he thinks without thinking too hard about what it might mean. 

You manage a soft, awkward laugh, brushing a hand through your hair again just to have something to do. “You’re full of shit.”

“Maybe,” he says with a smirk, “but I’m not wrong. Come down when you’re ready—we ordered pizza.”

You nod, offering a quiet, “Okay.”

Tommy gives you one last glance before disappearing down the hall, the door left slightly ajar behind him. His footsteps fade, and the house slips back into silence, save for the muffled hum of conversation and music downstairs.

You sit there for a while longer, staring at the wall, your heart beating just a little too loudly in your chest. You don’t want to face Joel. But you’ll have to. You can’t hide in this room for the rest of the trip. No matter how badly you want to.

The low hum of conversation grows louder with each step as you head downstairs, laughter spilling from the dining room into the hallway. You square your shoulders, pull on your best game face, and step into the room.

The three men are already seated around the table, mid-conversation, half-empty beer bottles and scattered plates marking the relaxed chaos of a shared meal. The last seat is next to Tommy, right across from Joel.

Of course.

You slip into the chair quietly, murmuring a soft “Hey” to no one in particular. As you glance up, your gaze catches Joel’s for just a second, just long enough for your heart to skip a beat before he looks away quickly, his expression unreadable.

“Here’s my sleeping beauty,” your dad says with a grin, his voice light as he opens one of the pizza boxes, the aroma filling the air. He slides it to the center of the table. “Thought we lost you to that nap.”

You manage a smile, tossing in a half-hearted eye roll. “Just resting my eyes.”

“To think you’ll still be able to sleep in a few hours,” he adds playfully. “Ah, to be young.”

Tommy reaches over, taking your plate and effortlessly piling a few slices of pizza onto it. You murmur a quiet “thanks” as he slides it back toward you, but just as your fingers hover above your plate, Joel’s hand moves with surprising speed. Without a word, he plucks one of the slices off your plate and adds it to his own.

Tommy raises an eyebrow toward his brother, a curious look flickering across his face, but Joel doesn’t even spare you a glance as he responds, his voice matter-of-fact: “She doesn’t like mushrooms.”

It’s such a small thing. So trivial. But somehow, the fact that he remembered something like that, something so insignificant, makes your breathing a bit heavier. You swallow hard, trying to ignore the flutter of emotions. This shouldn’t be a big deal, but somehow, it is.

You force your attention back to Tommy, who’s now looking at you, waiting for confirmation. “Yeah,” you say, trying to shake off the sudden tightness in your chest, “I still don’t understand why anyone would like them.”

“Been picking them out of her plate forever,” your dad chimes in with a grin, shaking his head. “You’d think that with age she’d learn to like them.”

You shrug, grabbing your plate and resisting the urge to roll your eyes. “You should be happy. More for you guys, right?”

Your dad chuckles, pointing his slice at you like it’s a moral victory. “You’re right, hon. More for us. Well, more for Joel right now.” Joel doesn’t say anything, just takes a bite of the slice he stole from your plate, indifferent.

Your dad reaches for another slice, glancing across the table. “So, when’s Sarah joining us?”

“I'm picking her up early Saturday morning,” Joel says, and there’s an instant softness in his voice, that particular warmth that only shows up when he talks about his daughter. A quiet pride you’ve always found yourself drawn to.

“Great!” your dad says, lighting up. “You know what you wanna do Saturday night? Anything planned to celebrate your birthday?”

Joel shrugs, lips tilting just slightly. “Nothin’ fancy. Barbecue, some beer. Keep it simple.”

Tommy snorts. “You say that every year, and every year you end up grilling enough to feed half the damn neighborhood.”

Joel smirks. “That’s ‘cause your ass keeps inviting everyone.”

The table bursts into easy laughter, and you join in, trying your best to seem casual. Like nothing’s wrong. Like your heart isn’t hammering a little too hard in your chest every time Joel lifts his eyes—though he still hasn’t looked at you once.

“Can’t believe you’re turnin’ fifty,” Tommy says, shaking his head like it’s the most unbelievable thing in the world.

Fifty.

The number echoes louder in your head than it should. Joel will literally be twice your age on Saturday. Not that you’ve counted. Not that you’ve done that math more than once. Not that it ever mattered when you looked at him.

Joel huffs a soft breath through his nose, unbothered. “Believe it. My back sure does. It’s gonna be your turn soon anyway,” Joel adds, tipping his head toward Tommy with a smirk.

Tommy snorts. “Still got a few years to enjoy before I hit the old man club, thank you very much.” He lifts his beer in mock celebration. “To youth.”

“To denial,” Joel mutters, earning another laugh from your dad.

You smile automatically, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. Your gaze drifts back to Joel—again—before you can stop yourself. He still isn’t looking at you. His jaw’s tight in that way you’ve started to recognize, and his eyes stay fixed on his plate like there’s something deeply fascinating about pepperoni and mushrooms.

If everything was normal, if that night hadn’t happened, you’d have already jumped in—teasing him about his age, asking if you need to start talking louder so his old ears can hear you, calling him old man like you liked to do. You would’ve leaned into the way he always gave it right back to you, sharp and playful. But now the words stay stuck behind your teeth. 

The rest of dinner unfolds quietly, the conversation staying light and safe. You barely speak, and when you do, it’s only to your dad or Tommy—never to Joel. He mirrors you perfectly, carefully steering clear of any moments that might force a glance or a word between the two of you. It’s almost surreal how easily you both slip into this unspoken truce, acting like strangers sharing a meal rather than two people who have known each other for years—two people who, until just a few days ago, would have been playfully teasing each other about nothing and everything.

When everyone finishes eating, you seize the chance to escape the table. You gather the plates, insisting you should at least help with the dishes since you didn’t contribute much during dinner. Your dad waves off your concern with a grin. “Ordering pizza doesn’t need much help”, but thank you when you insist. In the kitchen, you drop the plates into the sink and turn on the water, letting it run warm as you grab the sponge. You’re grateful for the simple task—scrubbing at dried cheese and crust instead of sitting in silence across from Joel. It’s a relief to be doing something, anything.

You barely hear the footsteps behind you before a voice speaks up, low and easy.

“You rinse, I dry?”

You glance over your shoulder to find Tommy standing beside you with a dish towel in hand and a smile on his face. You smile back, grateful it’s him and not—

“Deal,” you say softly, passing him the first rinsed plate.

You fall into an easy rhythm, the clinking of ceramic and the soft splash of water filling the space between you. If Tommy noticed how quiet you were during dinner, he doesn’t mention it. He just dries the plates with casual efficiency, stacking them neatly beside him.

“How’s work been?” he asks, as you pass him a glass. “It’s nice you got some time off to come out here.”

You nod, rinsing off the soap. “It’s been good. Busy. I had a bunch of vacation days piling up, figured I should finally use them.”

“Glad you did,” he says with a smile. “It’s nice having everyone together. Joel won’t admit it, but I know he’s real damn grateful you came.”

Your hands pause just for a second under the running water before you force a casual nod. “Yeah. It’s nice.” You try to keep your voice steady, your expression neutral.

Tommy doesn’t seem to notice—or maybe he just gives you the grace of pretending not to. He moves on easily, drying another plate.

“Can’t wait to see Sarah,” you add, maybe a little too quickly.

Tommy grins. “You and me both. She’s been goin’ on about this trip for weeks. I think she’s more excited to see you than us old guys.”

You laugh softly. “She actually texted me earlier, asking if we’d gotten here yet. Said she wishes she was already here.”

“Damn shame she couldn’t cut out a few days early,” Tommy says, shaking his head.

You gasp, mock-offended. “You want her to skip class? She just started college, Tommy. What kind of terrible influence are you?”

Tommy smirks, tossing the dish towel over his shoulder. “Fun’s part of the college experience, ain’t it? I’m just helpin’ her get the full package.”

You narrow your eyes playfully. “Yeah, pretty sure skipping class and listening to her drunk uncle isn’t in the college brochure.”

He lets out a low laugh. “Drunk uncle? You wound me.”

“If the shoe fits,” you shoot back with a grin.

Tommy leans a hip against the counter, crossing his arms with mock offense. “I’ll have you know, I’m not just the guy who got too drunk at your graduation party. I’m a man of many facets.”

You scoff. “Says the man who once tried to convince me tequila was a form of hydration.”

He holds up a finger. “In my defense, it was very hot that day. Heat stroke was a real threat.”

You both break into laughter, the sound echoing off the kitchen tiles, easy and warm. Tommy was in his forties, but he’s never once treated you like a kid—not since the first time you met him, back during your freshman year of college, when you came out to the beach house for the first time. From the second you met him, it had just clicked. He’d made you laugh within five minutes, offered you a beer ten minutes after that, and by the end of the first night, you were already teasing each other like old friends.

You didn’t see each other often—vacations, holidays, the occasional long weekend—but it didn’t matter. Every time Tommy was there, you knew it was going to be a good time. He was your friend—older, sure, but a good one. One you were glad to have around for the next few days.

As if reading your thoughts, he nudges you gently with a grin. “Anyway, you’re gonna be stuck with us for the next few days until she arrives. Be nicer, and I just might keep you company,” he teases.

You roll your eyes but can’t hide the smile tugging at your lips. “Keep me company, huh? Sounds like a threat wrapped in a promise.”

“Rude,” he laughs, shaking his head. “Come on, what else are you gonna do without me? Go fishin’ with your old man and Joel?”

You keep scrubbing the dishes, hoping not to freeze every time you hear Joel’s name.

“Why, because you’re not gonna go with them?”

“Not if you ask me to stay with you.”

You glance at him, smirking. “You don’t like fishin’, do you?”

“Can’t stand it.”

“So I’m just your excuse, huh?” You grin.

He shrugs with a smirk. “I’d say it’s a mutual arrangement. But hey, what did you have planned for the next few days anyway?”

“Goin’ to the beach,” you say, nodding toward the sea outside like it’s the most obvious plan in the world. “Tan next to the pool, maybe?”

Tommy grins, shaking his head. “Great. You’re definitely gonna need help with sunscreen.”

You scoff, “I’m not a kid, I can handle that myself.”

He leans in a little, voice dropping just enough for you to notice. “Doesn’t mean I can’t help you anyway.”

You shoot him a look, catching that familiar smile tugging at his lips—the one that’s always there, warm and easy. For a moment, you wonder if there’s something more behind it than just friendly teasing. Your eyes linger on him, taking in the way his brown eyes hold yours, steady and something just a little softer. His dark curls fall just so, still thick and mostly untouched by grey—unlike Joel’s salt-and-pepper hair. You bite the inside of your cheek, stopping yourself before your thoughts drift too far toward the older Miller brother. Forcing your eyes away, you focus on the last few dishes in the sink, grateful for the distraction.

“Stop slacking off and keep drying,” you order with a smile.

“Yes, ma’am,” he replies, flashing you a grin before picking up another plate.

You roll your eyes at the “ma’am” and reach for a spoon sitting in a used coffee mug in the sink. Without thinking, you dip it too fast under the running water—and a splash flicks out, dribbling over both of you. Mostly Tommy, who blinks in surprise as droplets trickle down his cheek.

He looks up at you, a slow, mischievous grin spreading across his face. “Is that how it’s gonna be?” he teases, one brow arching.

Before you can even open your mouth to protest, he scoops up a handful of water and flicks it right back at you. You yelp, startled, and duck just as the splash hits your cheek and drips down your neck.

“Now it’s on,” you warn, readying your own counterattack.

But before you can move, the fridge door swings open. You hadn’t even heard Joel come in. He grabs a beer, his eyes flickering between Tommy and you—mostly settling on Tommy, like he can’t quite bring himself to hold your gaze for more than a second. The tightness in your chest returns.

“You guys know there’s a dishwasher, right?” Joel finally speaks. You hadn’t expected him to say anything.

Tommy just chuckles. “Eh, where’s the fun in that?” he replies, shrugging.

Joel says nothing, only giving a brief nod before heading back to the dining room with your father. Tommy’s gaze flickers between Joel and you, then back, like he’s about to say something—but he doesn’t.

“Let’s finish this,” he says finally, breaking the quiet.

You both fall into a comfortable rhythm, moving through the last dishes with easy motions. Tommy starts talking about the perfect weather forecast for the weekend. “Perfect to get that tan going,” he says with a grin just as you finish rinsing the last plate.

You can’t help but smile, the tension in your chest loosening just a bit. It’s good to have Tommy here. Its easy with him. 

After talking a while longer in the kitchen, he finally says goodnight, rubbing the back of his neck and explaining he arrived early this morning and really needs to catch up on sleep.

When he asks if you’re heading to bed too, you shake your head and tell him you’re going to stay up a bit longer, wanting to steal some quiet time before the next day. He smiles warmly, that easy grin that always makes you feel a little lighter, and says again how glad he is you’re here. 

You watch him disappear up the stairs, the sound of his footsteps fading away. For a moment, you stand there, listening to the quiet hum of the house settling down for the night. Then your gaze drifts outside to the small terrace just beyond the kitchen door, which leads to the pool, and beyond that, the beach.

Without really thinking, you step outside and settle into one of the lounge chairs int the corner, your eyes immediately drawn to the distant horizon where the ocean meets the night sky. The slow, rhythmic crash of the waves reaches you, barely visible but clearly heard. The salty air is cool against your skin, carrying the scent of seaweed and the faintest hint of summer.

You lean back, letting the chair cradle you, the steady rise and fall of the waves becomes a steady rhythm to anchor your thoughts. You stay there for a long while, watching the dark water shift and shimmer under the moonlight, letting the night wrap around you like a soft blanket. 

Your moment of quiet is broken when the door creaks open, and there he is—the source of your anxiety—stepping out into the night air. Joel takes a few slow steps forward and leans against the railing, his gaze fixed out toward the dark sea. He doesn’t see you—thankfully.

You watch him without really thinking, as you always do when the chance comes. The way the salt-and-pepper strands of his hair catch the cool ocean breeze, tousled just enough to soften his usually rugged look. His broad shoulders ease into the lighter, softer fabric of the button-down shirt he’s traded for the familiar flannel—something different, but in a good way. You find yourself wishing things were normal enough for you to have said it the moment you arrived: Lookin’ good, Miller.

Your eyes stay fixed on his profile as he pulls a cigarette from a pack, lighting it with practiced ease. The small flicker of flame dances over his sharp features, momentarily illuminating the shadows on his face. It’s been a while since you saw him do that.

“I thought you quit smoking,” you say before you can stop yourself. 

You immediately catch the way he freezes at the sound of your voice—his shoulders stiffen, the casual ease he carried just moments ago vanishing in an instant. Maybe you should’ve stayed silent, but you knew he would’ve noticed you sooner or later. You watch as he hesitates, the faintest flicker of uncertainty crossing his face before he finally turns around.

You wait, the silence stretching between you, expecting him to say something—anything. Maybe a sharp comment about why he’s out here, smoking, when you both know he promised Sarah he’d quit over a year ago. “Stop smoking or I swear, I’ll do every drug I can find in college.” You’d been surprised it actually worked. You hadn’t seen him with a cigarette since.

But he just stands there, cigarette dangling loosely between his fingers. His eyes lock onto yours, sharp and unreadable. For a moment, you want to shrink back, disappear into the shadows of the terrace. There’s a hardness in his gaze, icy and distant.The kind that clearly says you’re not welcome here.

This is the first time all day he’s really looked at you, not the quick, passing glances. Usually, when Joel’s eyes meet yours, it stirs something warm beneath your skin, a familiar comfort. But tonight? It sends a different kind of shiver, one that sinks deep and unsettles you. You see the quiet judgment in his eyes, the disappointment. 

You hesitate but force the words out. “Can we talk?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he takes a long, slow drag from the cigarette, the smoke curling around him. His jaw tightens as he exhales, the ember glowing brighter for a moment before he flicks it off the railing with a sharp motion.

“Nothing to talk about,” he says coldy. There’s no warmth. No hesitation. No trace of the Joel you knew. Without another word, he crushes the cigarette beneath his boot, his eyes not even meeting yours as he turns away.

You watch him disappear through the door, the image sinking deep into your chest. Somehow, it pulls you right back to two nights ago, when all you could do was stand frozen, helpless, as he walked away from you. That same ache rises now, the desperate urge to call him back, to stop him before he is out of reach.

But just like then, you don’t move. You don’t say a word. Because you know, deep down, this mess is yours. You’re the reason he doesn’t want to stick around—because you couldn’t keep the way he makes you feel under control. Because you couldn’t stop yourself from wanting what you couldn’t have.

[7-deadly-cats]

killing me softly | 18

K M S M A S T E R L I S T | <- P R E V I O U S | N E X T ->

✿ G E N R E ✿ she fell first, he fell harder | slice of life | drama

✿ P A I R I N G ✿ s1!rafe cameron x overthinking!reader (f)

✿ C O N T E N T W A R N I N G ✿ swearing, suggestive language & themes, hints at jjpope, cursed chat pics, mention of abusive household (aka rafe's), hints at reader getting turned on lmao, gentleman!rafe, reader one sec away from hyperventilating, slightly jealous!reader, awkward!rafe (um.. you'll see why), also FLUFF

✿ S U M M A R Y O F L A S T P A R T ✿ after rafe dropped you off at the beach, cara dragged you to meet sarah, kiara and cleo. everyone was nice, though kiara questioned what was going on with you and rafe. in the restroom of bob's iceshack, cara admitted she wasn’t sure if she wanted to hook up with jj. your conclusion: she was torn between him and topper. later, rafe texted saying he saw sarah’s story and wanted to pick you up an hour later. after some back and forth, you agreed on 7:30pm. still, you couldn’t help but wonder why he was suddenly so eager. after hanging out with the pogues for a while, you dipped. john b offered a ride for tomorrow’s open air movie night. back in rafe’s car, he called them losers but backed off when you questioned it. after some pushing, he finally admitted he felt like everyone was choosing sarah over him. you tried to reassure him and concluded (internally) that ward cameron was the root for his issues. during your late night drive you got mcdonald’s, and finally, he dropped you off with a surprise: a my little pony bracelet from a gas station to prove he wasn’t playing you. in bed, you showed the bracelet to the girls in the new group chat. last surprise of the day: the mirror selfie from rafe aka the same one you’d stared at earlier.

✿ W O R D C O U N T ✿ 13.5k+ (longest chapter yet help + max use of chat screenshots so prepare for a LONG reading session)

✿ A / N ✿ GUYS I TRIED WITH THIS ONE BUT i kinda feel like the second half sucks, and also it feels extremely rushed if we take the pace of the other days of the week into consideration but well guess it wouldn't have made sense to drag out sunday for no reason. i also feel like i fucked up the ending by the direction i've chosen but i kinda gave up lmao. i probably could've explored the full potential of this setting and, IDK AHHHH. dw there's gonna be a part 2 of the event. anyway, have fun reading and PLEASE lmk what you think, this chapter gave me sm anxiety <3

✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿

a little warning: avoid the comment section bc of spoilers 🤣

✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿

W E E K O N E // S U N D A Y 1 1 : 1 7 A M

"Okay, where did we leave off again?" you asked Cara as you made yourself comfortable in your little windowsill nook. "My brain is so full, I can’t keep track of anything anymore."

Cara chuckled. "Oh, I know exactly what it’s full of. Mr. ‘Let me give the girl I like a friendship bracelet so it’s not too obvious that I’m completely down bad for her.’"

A giggle slipped out and your cheeks instantly flushed. "You're gonna lose it when I tell you this next part."

“She’s already losing it,” came a voice, and your heart dropped to your stomach.

OH MY GOD, now that you saw the wall behind Cara… NO WAY. GIRL ACTUALLY SPENT THE NIGHT IN JJS WONDERLAND OMGGGG.

Cara scoffed, amused, and turned her phone to show JJ pulling a shirt over his very bare chest. You were so glad he at least had boxers on.

“Say hi and get out,” she said.

JJ looked up with a “Hey, my room,” and winked into the camera with a big-ass grin when he spotted you. “She’s even louder in bed.”

Too. Much. Information.

You just stared, stunned, and gave him an awkward little smile.

Cara rolled her eyes and turned the phone back to her face. “Chop chop, Dig’s waiting for his morning walk.”

“Not sure the leash’s even usable anymore.”

GUYSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS.

Cara stared flatly into the camera. “He's joking.”

OKAY THEN.

“Okay, okay. The leash only almost came into play,” JJ called out, followed by a loud “Hey!” as Cara threw a pillow at him.

“Out. Now. This is a girl-to-girl talk,” she said. “Village idiots not allowed.”

JJ chuckled. “More of a jester anyway.”

Then came a soft thud, which you took as him finally leaving the room.

“Okay, where were we?” Cara looked into the camera with a blinking smile.

You blinked back. “So, I guess, you don’t wanna—”

“Nope.”

“Aight.”

Cara cleared her throat. “Sooo, the last update I got from you and Loverboy is basically just what you'd said in your voice memo last night. He brought your bag back, then you guys spent the afternoon together. He dropped you off, picked you back up later, and by the end of the night practically proposed, right?”

Um… something like that.

You’d obviously left out a lot in that memo. As sweet and welcoming as the Pogue girls were, you’d literally only known them for a day, and you didn’t exactly feel comfy going full overshare just yet. And considering one of them was Rafe’s sister, you weren’t gonna bring up his little hate-rant about her or start gossiping about him behind his back.

But Cara was different. She was your best friend. You could tell her everything.

And you did. You told her about lunch with your parents, your trip to Bulk & Bloom and Barry’s pawn shop, your full-on spiral that you and Rafe had talked through in the car, and of course your evening trip to McDonald's and how he'd walked you to the front door like a freaking gentleman.

You did leave out his angsty little moment in the car, though. He’d opened up to you so honestly, you didn’t want to betray that trust. Plus, it felt… special. Like something just for the two of you.

But the important stuff? Oh, you shared that.

Your parents basically already adopting him, Barry’s well-meant warning, OH and obviously the insanely awkward moment when Rafe had caught you scrolling through his chat with Kelce.

AND OF COURSE, the most insane, messed-up, crazy thing he’d said: that you were a cute chick and he’d (quote) bend you over in the backseat of his car if you said the word.

“WHAT!?”

Your phone speaker peaked just a little.

You chuckled, cheeks flushed. “Well, yeah, he—”

“WHAT?”

Another laugh escaped your mouth. Cara stared at you, eyes wide and jaw dropped like you’d just told her Harry Styles invited you to his private villa.

“GIRL, I—” She exhaled like she’d just sprinted a marathon. “I don’t even… holy fucking shit, like, oh my Jesus Christ, good Lord and all the heavens above.”

When Cara started praying, you knew shit was actually insane.

You giggled. “Now imagine what was going on in my head. The fact I managed to function after that is honestly one of the seven wonders of the world.”

"The fact that you didn’t immediately jump him and rip his clothes off—that is the miracle," she shot back, still staring at you like she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. "I MEAN WHAT? Like, my kitty would’ve gone straight to—"

“OKAY!”

Cara shook her head like a madwoman. “Y/N! That boy is so down bad for you, how do you not see it?” She sighed, shaking her phone. “Like HELLO? Rafe Cameron said out loud that he’s into you.”

"Sexual attraction and having a crush are two completely different things," you argued.

Cara frowned dramatically. “How oblivious do you wanna be? Yes.” You heard frantic tapping sounds as she smashed at her screen. “He gifted you a fucking bracelet. Rafe Cameron. The guy who’s known for doing absolutely nothing for any girl, like, ever. What more do you need? He said you’re cute. He said he likes you. He said he ENJOYS spending time with you. And what else? OH RIGHT, that he wants to hang out even after your little project dates are over AND THAT HE WANTS TO CLAP YOUR CHEEKS.” She shook her head like she was malfunctioning. “THIS SCREAMS GET READY TO BE MY GIRLFRIEND.”

Did it?

UM, YEAH, KINDA DID.

Fucking hell, Cara could really make even the most chaotic shit sound like it followed cold, hard logic.

But here's the thing: Rafe was a direct guy. If he had no problem saying he’d sleep with you, surely he wouldn’t have a problem saying he was into you like that (hypothetically speaking, of course).

Which kind of threw her whole argument out the window again.

You shook your head. “This sounds more like, ‘I’ve never had a female friend before, and now that I do, guess I’m gonna keep her around.’”

“So you do realize he wants you,” Cara replied.

You let out a tired sigh. “Yeah, I guess, but not like that. I don’t know how to explain it… I just think he likes the idea of having a girl around.” You tilted your head. “Like with Topper and Kelce, he’s this kinda toxic-bro-masculine-alpha type. And I guess he misses the fun flirty energy." Then you remembered his emotional outburst last night. “And I feel like with me, he also doesn’t put on a front. I don’t know.”

Cara stared you down, deadpan. “That is literally the ideal foundation for a relationship.”

“Or for a really good friendship,” you countered.

How were you supposed to explain to her that this poor boy probably just wanted someone to see him for who he really was? Like, the frustration he let out last night—the way he basically admitted, without saying it directly, that he was scared of being abandoned.

And that could always happen in a relationship. In a short-term hookup? Inevitable. But a good friend? Ideally, that was someone you could have for life. And the fact you were a girl—just a side note in the whole equation.

“Yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah.” Cara rolled her eyes. “So what you’re telling me is, he puts in all this effort just so he can call you his friend and still flirt for fun? Make it make sense.”

"Yeah, but, C," you said with a chuckle. "That's literally how our friendship works too. We both put effort into each other, that’s what friends do, and don’t even get me started on the flirting. Like according to your logic, I should question your intentions as well."

Cara curled her lips. "... okay, you kinda have a point there."

You nodded with a See? look on your face.

"But," she continued, "we’re girl best friends. You and him? That’s a whole different thing."

You raised an amused brow. "Are you seriously trying to tell me that a guy and a girl can’t have a platonic relationship?"

Cara scowled. "No, of course not, but—"

"But I’m okay with the way it is," you said with a soft smile. "I have no problem with just being friends with Rafe. Honestly, it might even be better this way. I don’t have to worry about screwing it up, or God," you chuckled nervously, "all my other insecurities."

Cara let out a sigh. “You really are the biggest mystery to me, girl. You’ve been crushing on this guy since fifth grade. And now, when you finally have the chance to actually make something happen, like, he’s literally offering you the perfect foundation, you just settle for the easiest option.”

Less risk of being disappointed. Less chance of embarrassing yourself. Less chance to lose whatever it was you two had built in just a few days. Accepting Rafe as a friend was the easy choice, yeah, but it was also the safest.

But you knew exactly what Cara would say to that: she’d start pushing you to take a chance, make a move, break out of your shell for once.

"Okay, look at it this way," you said with a playful eye roll. "A relationship can always grow from a friendship. Does that help?"

You doubted that would actually happen, but at least it would shut Cara up for now.

She chuckled and wiggled her shoulders. "Friends to lovers? Uhh, now you got me." She raised her eyebrows with a lopsided grin. "So… does that also apply to us, orrrr…?"

You quickly steered the conversation back to her. More specifically her evening with the Pogues, dinner at the Chateau later on, and eventually the magical night she had with JJ. Kiara, Pope, and Cleo had left at some point, leaving just Cara, John B, Sarah, and JJ behind.

The exact details and noises from that night, however, Cara could gladly keep to herself.

Anyway, her dad called a little later to tell her to come home—her grandparents were visiting to celebrate her mom’s birthday belatedly. With a quick "Oh shit, we’ll text later", your little call came to an end.

You’d barely touched the ground with your feet, just getting off your windowsill corner and ready to change out of your sleepwear into something actually wearable, when your phone buzzed again.

And what greeted you? Yeah…

Geez, it wasn’t even noon and your pulse was already at 180.

First Cara fueling your delusions, then Rafe and his newfound hobby (or more like obsession) with your reaction pics (UM THE FACT THAT HE'D DOWNLOADED PINTEREST FOR IT???) and how he instantly went into full-attack mode just at the mention of you being in the girlies’ group chat, like bro, we get it, you’re terrified of abandonment but PLEASE CALM DOWN I AIN'T GOING NOWHERE. And then back to Cara, aka the fact that you’d now have to endure the drive to the open air event without her.

Honestly, that last part was the least of your worries because if you'd managed to survive half of Kelce’s party solo (okay, with Topper, Molly, and Rob), then you could totally handle a short car ride.

No, what really had you spiraling was how comfortable Rafe had gotten with you in just one day. Like, hello? First the mirror selfie last night, and then those reaction pics this morning (okay, more like noon, oops), AND THEN THE FACT THAT HE STRAIGHT UP ADMITTED (or hopefully joked) that he'd had a little private session this morning, DUDE COME ON.

HELP AND THE FACT THAT THAT SENT YOU INTO INSTANT BRAIN CINEMA MODE OF A HALF NAKED, HEAVY BREATHING RAFE, BOXERS AROUND HIS ANKLES, EYES CLOSED, HEAD PRESSED BACK INTO THE PILLOW OR DESK CHAIR (WHO KNEW), HAND AROUND HIS—NOPENOPENOPENOPEHELPPP

Jesus Christ, suddenly there was a tingling sensation in your lower body and the urgent need to open the windows to cool your body down because your cheeks? On fucking fire. Not even mentioning the heart rate and that warm, funny feeling between your—OKAY ENOUGH HOLY SHIT.

You gotta be ovulating or something because that? What the actual fuck.

HAHAHAHHAA ANYWAY.

Lunch.

✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿

"How's Rafe?" That was one of the first questions your dad asked once you all sat down in the dining room.

Great. Not even here you could escape the topic.

To make things worse, both your mom and dad were giving you this smirky look that screamed You were out late last night: Should we be getting excited about our future son-in-law?

UGHHH. It was so awkward, and if you even dared to give a shy smile or deflect it, it would only make everything ten times worse.

So you just shrugged and poured yourself a glass of water. “He’s doing okay, I think.”

Your dad let out an amused breath. “And his cheek? That looked pretty nasty yesterday. He should’ve iced it right away, then it wouldn’t have swollen like that.”

Trust me, I told him.

“Yeah, it looks worse than it is,” you said, adding, “he popped an ibuprofen yesterday.”

He had, actually. Swallowed it right in the McDonald’s parking lot with a Coke Zero. Like seriously, how was this guy even still alive?

You half expected them to hit you with a “You two were gone a long time—what exactly were you doing?” or some other nosy questions. But instead, the energy at the table shifted.

Your mom raised her brows slightly, concern (???) flickering in her expression. “And… at home? Is everything okay there too?”

um… what.

Your dad seemed to catch the confusion on your face. “It’s just, we've been wondering...” he let out a dry chuckle, “I’ve seen bruises, cracked ribs, busted faces—pretty much everything—my whole career. And that bruise? If he’d actually been hit with a golf club, I probably would've been patching him up in the ER Friday night.”

Oh. So your dad had seen right through Rafe's lie.

Well, of course, he had. Taking care of people was his job. He had to know the difference between different kinds of wounds and bruises.

But from the way your parents were hinting at it… did they actually think Rafe was getting hit at home? That was… wow.

But telling them what really happened aka Rafe almost starting a fight—you really didn’t want to paint him in that light. Didn’t matter that he’d stood up for you.

“No idea,” you said, furrowing your brows as you poked around your plate. “I think things are fine at home too.”

Your mom tilted her head with a soft smile. “But you don’t know for sure?”

Your overthinking, spiraling, constantly-needing-answers issue? Mhm, yeah, you definitely got that from her.

“No, I mean, I barely know him,” you replied. “Are you seriously thinking he’s getting abused at home or something?”

Then again… okay, you didn’t know Ward personally, but something in your gut told you there was something off about him. Especially after the realization you'd had last night: Him probably being the root of Rafe’s issues.

Your dad leaned back. “Well, speaking as a dad, I’ve got a feeling there’s tension at home. I’m not accusing Ward of hitting his kids, I’m just guessing Rafe’s relationship with him is… strained.” He shifted in his seat. “And my gut? It’s never been wrong.”

O-kay. So apparently your parents had picked up on the same thing after interacting with Rafe once. Wow.

“Ward’s always been a difficult person,” your mom added. “Back in college, he was super ambitious, driven, competitive. Always pushing. Expecting the best results from himself and everyone around him. And anyone who held him back or got in his way? Didn’t stay in his way for long.”

Obviously he hadn’t killed anyone, so you just assumed he either threatened, manipulated, or schemed his way around people.

Your mom sighed. “And truth is, I know Rafe’s not exactly an easy kid. Rose told me he often takes off for hours and doesn’t come home until midnight. And school? Apparently not going so great either.”

Something about talking about Rafe behind his back like this… it just didn’t feel right.

“Rose isn’t his mother, though.” Shit. What a dumb thing to say.

Your mom furrowed her brows. “She tries to be. It’s not easy for someone like her to reach someone like Rafe.”

"Someone like him? "You raised your brows.

What the hell was that supposed to mean? And why were you suddenly feeling so defensive, HELP.

“Y/n,” your dad’s voice was gentle but firm. “Rafe seems like a good boy, I’m not doubting that. But it just feels like… something’s off. And the most likely explanation is that things at home aren’t exactly stable.”

He pressed his lips together, a flicker of hesitation in his eyes. “I’m not trying to accuse Ward of anything or scare you, but… when I wanted to check the skin on Rafe’s cheek, he flinched when I raised my hand to do so. Not a dramatic reaction, just this quick startled blink, but in my head, every alarm bell went off.”

And that made your heart clench in the worst, most painful way.

Sure, maybe your dad had misread a harmless blink or twitch but deep down, you knew that wasn’t it. And the thought that Rafe might actually be getting hit by his own dad… GOSH, THIS BOY.

Drug problems, anger issues, and a toxic household? This guy didn’t need a girlfriend, he needed a loving family.

No. He needed a real dad.

“That doesn’t mean the bruise had to have come from home,” your dad continued, and his tone softened a little. “Honestly, I just assume he got into some testosterone-fueled fight at whatever party you were at.” He chuckled. “Thinking back to the way I used to look after I boxed with the guys from the 44th… that bruise is practically a scratch.”

Not your dad just casually dropping new lore.

Your mom rolled her eyes, mock-annoyed, the corners of her lips twitching with a smile. “I was the one who had to play nurse back then.”

OKAY NOPE YOU DID NOT LIKE THAT SMILEY LOOK ON HER FACE. DID NOT NEED TO KNOW THAT.

Luckily, your dad circled back to the actual point: “We’re just concerned. We’re both parents—we notice when something’s off with a kid. As a doctor who’s seen lots of children with seemingly perfect parents, I can tell you: eyes never lie. And Ward may be a great family man, but that doesn’t automatically make him a great father.”

He let out a heavy breath. “Abuse can show up in so many ways, not just physically. So if you ever notice anything, please don’t hesitate to come to us, okay?”

Well, this sunny Sunday just got very not sunny, very fast. Like… how did we go from “How’s your hopefully-soon-to-be boyfriend?” to child abuse—HELLO??

You didn’t even know what to say.

You were touched by their concern, the way they weren’t judging Rafe in the slightest. But also overwhelmed by how heavy the topic had just gotten. Sure, your parents did always notice this kind of thing right away but now that your suspicions had basically been confirmed by them...

Yeah, that didn’t sit well with you at all.

Of course, none of you really knew what was going on in the Cameron household. But if all of you had arrived at roughly the same conclusion, then either you were all operating on the same overthinking, assume-the-worst type of brain…

Or something was actually going on.

Both, you thought bitterly.

So all you did was nod with a somewhat forced smile and said, “Okay.”

Your parents nodded, seemingly relieved. And of course, since you were already on the topic of Rafe, they circled back to yesterday. Asking questions like, “So where did you guys go afterward?”, “How’s your school project coming along?”, “Did Cara give you that cute bracelet?” and dropping comments like, “He seemed very smiley around you,” and “Feel free to invite him over for dinner again.”

And just when the conversation was dangerously close to veering into the Safe Sex territory, you excused yourself from the table, mentioned that you’d be going to the Open Air tonight, brought your plate to the kitchen, and thanked Mary for the food.

Back in your room, you exhaled.

Wow. Apparently, there was no such thing as a break this week. But the fact that your parents thought you and Rafe would look cute together? AKCKKANFALJKD.

Also, the whole thing about how you both apparently glowed around each other? If Cara had said that? Yeah well, no, delusional queen just back again with her delusions. But your parents? Who were basically professionals when it came to reading people—your dad being a literal doctor, and your mom a CEO in sales, aka someone who had to be good with people—If they said Rafe liked you?

Fuck, then it had to be true.

Okay okay, he had kinda already said it twice himself—once just yesterday in the car—but STILL OMGMGM.

Okay okay, calm the fuck down.

You just became friends, no need to start building your wedding Pinterest board.

You played with the bracelet around your wrist as you sat down at your desk, smiling to yourself like a damn idiot at the soft rustling sound.

The way it fit just right around your wrist and how FUCKING CUTE IT LOOKED. Gosh, the fact that Rafe had thought of you when he'd spotted it, and then actually bought it for you and gave it to you AHHHHHH. AND JESUS, THEN HE'D BEEN ALL CUTE AND AWKWARD AND NERVOUS WHEN HE'D HANDED IT TO YOU.

HELLO??? Rafe fucking Cameron being awkward AND nervous around you??? As much as that made the butterflies in your stomach go into full freak-out mode, more than anything, it made you feel like a total winner lol.

I’m fine. I’m cool. Completely chill.

SMNJXWNDVHSJDKMXOIASJCDAVLSAÖ.

You would never get over this.

Well, you had to at least try for the next few hours. Because more important than giggling to yourself in your room like some hopelessly lovesick little girl was actually getting ready for tonight.

Okay, it was barely past 1 PM, buuuut you’d gladly take all the time you could get.

Sooo, Cara was probably busy with family stuff right now—spending the day with her grandparents and parents and all—so yeah, no chance of calling her.

Molly maybe? You knew she was also coming tonight because you’d heard her talking about it at Kelce’s party. AND HOLY SHIT YOU DESPERATELY NEEDED TO KNOW WHAT WENT DOWN BETWEEN HER AND KELCE OGMGMGM.

Never mind. Her little Bitmoji was currently chilling at Kelce’s place on the map, so there was your answer.

So Molly was out too. Sure, she’d probably be happy to chat with you—hell, Kelce too probably—but you didn’t want to interrupt these lovebirds (hookup partners??? soon-to-be-married??? WHO KNEW).

Hm. Okay.

Six hours until the boys were picking you up.

Well, you could always sit out on your balcony and sketch a little. You hadn’t really had the chance lately. The past few days had kept you on your toes so much that you'd barely had the energy to sketch a stick figure. And on top of that, the art project with Rafe had kinda sucked most of your creative brain juice dry too.

Senior Year was already a lot and it had barely even started yet. And now The Gloaming was right around the corner—next Friday, to be exact—and well, you were really not looking forward to that.

Midsummers was at least really nice, casual and fun. Dressing up in cute summery dresses, getting tipsy on overpriced prosecco and wine, giggling over boys in suits, and it just had this soft, fairycore kind of vibe to it.

The Gloaming, on the other hand? A school event.

Unlike Midsummers, it wasn’t held at the Cameron Estate, but at a big event venue on the North Side near the beach. One the mayor himself dubbed “Garden Eden.”

It was purely a Kook event, which… yeah, made sense, since it was organized by the Kildare Academy, which was technically a Kook school. But like, couldn’t they have at least teamed up with the South Side High School?

Sure, some Pogues would show up but only as workers. Bartenders, cooks, waiters, janitors who had to clean up everyone’s mess the next morning.

Anyway, this whole class division thing was deeply rooted in the Outer Banks. No point in getting all worked up about it.

And the worst part about The Gloaming? The absolutely RIDICULOUS amount of GOSSIP surrounding it. Gossip at KA was always present, but for some reason, this event turned everyone into real-life Gossip Girl contestants or whatever.

Who went with whom, who cheated on who, who wore the cheapest dress, whose parents were getting divorced, which guy bagged the most girls, and a bunch of other completely braindead nonsense you honestly wanted to stay far, far, far away from.

Unfortunately, your parents loved going. Catching up with old classmates, schmoozing, socializing, and Cara did too. So yeah, they always dragged you along. Plus, it was basically an unofficially mandatory high school event. No way you were risking a dip in your GPA just because you skipped it.

SPEAKING OF GPA.

SHIT.

Shitshitshitshitshit. THE MATH TEST TOMORROW.

Fuck.

You’d completely forgotten. Mrs. Richman had even given your class a friendly reminder last Monday.

Shit.

Well yeah, of course you’d blocked it out. Right before that class, Mr. Smith had put you in a project group with Rafe, and that had basically hijacked your entire brain.

Okay, okay, okay. No panic.

You’d sit down now, study a bit for the next five hours and thirty minutes, and then you’d still have half an hour to get ready for the Open Air.

HAHAHAHAHA TOTALLY DOABLE.

That was, if Rafe wasn’t constantly sending you random reaction pics slash memes slash kinda very suggestive fairycore-slash-emo-wolf pics.

Apparently, Pinterest was his new hobby.

Good for him (and honestly, kinda cute), but not for you. You had a math test to prep for.

And as much as you wanted to send stuff back because RAFE USING THOSE PICS IN THE FIRST PLACE AHHHHHH, you really couldn’t afford to fail math.

So you decided it was time to shut down his spamming.

With a laugh, you switched your phone to airplane mode and set it on the edge of your desk. No reply, because this would go on forever if you didn’t put a stop to it yourself.

This seriously required your maximum amount of self-control not to keep texting him, because GOSH, this felt like some kind of cute little silly version of Rafe.

You basically had the privilege of witnessing firsthand how he discovered Pinterest for himself—or, well, the cursed side of it—and all that just because of you. It was kinda wholesome. Like a dumb little boy realizing for the first time that dinosaurs were cool.

GIRL, STOP DRIFTING OFF.

You seriously needed to focus now. (Well, not your fault Rafe kept spamming your phone hihihihi.)

So you kinda half-focused, somehow managed to study your math book, worked through a few exercises, and even half a practice test until you finally gave up around 5:30—because, in the back of your mind, Rafe and the Open Air event kept spinning in loops.

You’d totally have some more time to study later tonight or tomorrow morning.

Hahahaha. Yes. Definitely.

You turned the airplane mode off again and—Jesus Christ. 200+ messages from the girls' chat and 33 from Rafe.

You quickly skimmed through both.

The girls were just discussing plans, departure times, pre-drinks yes or no, who should be picked up first, some opinions on the movie choice for tonight (Barbie), and other stuff you kinda just skimmed past (sorry girlies, I'm in a rush).

And Rafe? A bunch of cursed and weird-ass pics that just got progressively worse, him complaining about not being able to get rid of them, plus some teasing about you being a nerd because you were studying on a Sunday, bla bla. You left those on read too. (Not sorry about it.)

You jumped in the shower, dried off fast, and dumped a whole load of clothes onto your bed. Because—

WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU SUPPOSED TO WEAR TONIGHT AHHH.

Okay okay, the basic facts:

Occasion: Open Air Movie Festival When: Evening/night Movie: Barbie (main movie) and then Transformers Weather: Actually nice, sunny, warm, but a little breezy People: Both Kooks and Pogues, maybe even some Tourons

Conclusion: I DON’T FUCKING KNOW.

Something casual and chill would be the smart move, considering you’d probably be sitting or lying most of the time. Best to throw on a jacket too, just in case. There’d probably be blankets, but still.

And of course, no sweatpants look.

You kinda wanted to dress up a bit, but still keep the vibe right. OKAY NO YOU JUST WANTED TO LOOK PRETTY. With Rafe being there and... yeah. Just Rafe.

Shit.

Now it’s official. You were picking your outfit based on a guy.

A guy you didn’t even need to impress, because, well, technically you were friends now. And you didn’t dress up for friends… right?

Okay, maybe you did it for special occasions. But you didn’t hope that said friend liked your outfit and maybe... MAYBE gave you a compliment.

NOOOOOO I’M FALLING BACK INTO MY DELUSION HOLE AHHHH.

HOW COULD YOU NOT? HIM SAYING HE’D BE DOWN TO BEND YOU OVER KIND OF IMPLIED HE’S ATTRACTED TO YOU AT LEAST A LITTLE SO…

…SO WHAT NOW?

Were you the one sending mixed signals now by dressing up a little even though you’d made it clear you weren’t into short-term hookups?

...maybe.

Anyway. HAHAHAHAHAHAHHA (i’m going crazy.)

You tried on some different outfits, scattering your clothes all over the room, and in the end, narrowed it down to two options—both of which included a dress. Because YEAH WHY NOT.

One was more chill and the other a little cuter, but both showed some leg hihihi.

You took pics of both and were just about to send them to Cara for input when Sarah beat you to it:

These girls, dude. Feeding into your delusions without a single shred of shame.

Also, holy shit, they all looked so fucking gorgeous in the outfits they’d picked out. Now you had an even harder time choosing which one you should go with.

Okay, no time left. It was already almost 6:30.

So, a coin toss it would be.

You assigned each outfit to one side of the coin, then flicked that thing up into the air, nearly smacked yourself in the forehead trying to catch it, but managed to trap it between your hands and…

That should do.

✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿

"Shiiii, look at you." Kelce was the first to speak as you opened the door of the white Range Rover parked outside your house.

Rafe had called you 10 minutes earlier to say they were on their way. You’d thrown your things together in a rush, said goodbye to your parents (who wished you a fun night), and waited in the driveway because no way were you risking one of them ringing the bell and getting wrapped into some awkward parent chat.

You smiled shyly and gave them a soft “Hey” as you slid into the seat behind Topper’s, next to Molly. Kelce was next to her, and Rafe sat in the passenger seat up front (of course, sitting in the back would’ve probably bruised his ego).

"That dress suits you so well," Molly said with a warm smile, and you chuckled.

She looked so unbelievably sweet herself. Her red curls hung wildly on her shoulders, and her red lipstick made the whole color pop even more. She was wearing the cutest pastel green skirt and a white corset blouse you'd ever seen and KELCE’S HAND WAS RESTING ON HER THIGH AJDNJKWNJDKW

And Kelce? Wearing a pink shirt, probably to match the Barbie movie but honestly, they looked like COSMO AND WANDA and it was just SO SWEET.

"Thank you," you said, unable to hide your grin. "I love your outfit too."

Kelce squeezed her thigh (AND SHE CHUCKLED) and added, "I deserve half the credit, I helped her pick it."

You could practically feel how much Rafe wanted to gag. Also… you felt a little (a lot) disappointed that he'd only turned his head once to glance at you without saying a word, BUT NOT GONNA LET THAT RUIN YOUR MOOD RIGHT :))))))

"So, Cara’s already gotten a ride, I heard," Topper said, the bitterness in his voice slicing straight through the mood.

You fiddled with your bag strap and nodded. "Well, yeah, she’s..." Shit. You didn’t actually know what excuse she’d given Topper, considering she was riding with John B.

"She prefers hanging out with little Pogue rats now," Rafe finished for you, dry amusement in his tone.

You couldn’t help but frown. If it was already starting like this…

"Ayo, bro," Kelce said with a chuckle, kicking Rafe’s seat. "You better behave tonight. Keep going like that and you’ll end up with a Dalmatian face full of bruises."

Wow, how was Kelce the voice of reason here? Internally, you were thankful because it meant you didn’t have to address it yourself.

Rafe scoffed and shook his head. "Not holding back if one of those fuckers starts provoking me."

Are we sure you’re not the one starting things, boy?

“Dude, don’t make me play peacemaker tonight,” Kelce shot back. “Gotta concentrate on my date.”

Molly chuckled, and you did too. THEY WERE SO CUTE.

Then your heart sank as Kelce leaned forward, pointing toward Rafe with his thumb while looking at you. "Your job tonight."

…What?

You blinked and smiled awkwardly.

“It’s not hard,” Kelce went on with a grin full of white teeth. “Keep him hydrated, stop him from talking to people, and bring up golf every now and then. That usually distracts him.”

Topper and Molly both laughed, and oh god, it was so hard not to laugh too as Rafe turned around with a scowl—first looking at you, then at Kelce.

"You’re gonna be the first fucker I beat up tonight," Rafe said, crooked grin on his lips.

Kinda cute how he always acted like Kelce pissed him off when in reality they had this weirdly wholesome friendship behind the scenes.

Kelce held up his hands as Rafe turned back around. "Ayy, thought you might appreciate the company of a pretty lady."

PLEASE.

Your cheeks heated up because that sounded dangerously like Kelce trying to play wingman or matchmaker, and somehow that made the whole situation SO FREAKING AWKWARD.

"I'd appreciate if you shut the fuck up," Rafe said, still frowning as he looked straight ahead.

This boy was so dramatic, holy shit.

THEN AGAIN, HE HADN’T DENIED WHAT KELCE HAD SAID, SO CLINGING TO THAT FACT HAHAHAAH #goingmoreinsanebytheday.

Topper cleared his throat. "So, uh, back to Cara..."

That earned a round of groans from everyone.

After some teasing of Kelce and Rafe, and some attempts at cheering Topper up by Molly and you, you all got tired of that topic (thank god because you just felt so bad for Topper), and a few minutes later you arrived at your destination anyway.

The huge gravel parking lot was already filled with cars. Some girl was directing Topper in and assigning him a spot for his big-ass Range Rover, which, as you’d found out, happened to be his mother’s.

As the engine shut off, everyone got out. Kelce helped Molly out of the car, and Topper held the door open for you while you struggled a little with your dress.

"Thanks," you said with a polite smile and slung your bag over your shoulder.

Topper looked like he was about to say something (judging by his expression, probably trying to get a moment alone with you to talk about Cara), but Rafe suddenly appeared at his side, grabbing his shoulder with a crooked grin.

"Aight, enough whining about Hall," he said, nodding toward the entrance. "Cheer the fuck up and go find another chick inside. Or go annoy Kelce and Molly, I don't give a shit, but stop dragging us into it."

Such tact. Truly award-worthy. Though, to be fair, that actually sounded like Rafe’s version of wanting his friend to feel better.

Topper pressed his lips together, clearly debating whether to argue, but in the end, he just sighed and nodded. "I'll go join the others."

With that, he walked off.

As much as you felt sorry for him, it wasn’t your place to speak for Cara’s feelings, so you were actually kinda thankful for Rafe’s little lifeline.

SPEAKING OF RAFE.

Dude was eyeing you with the smuggest grin ever, blue eyes locked on yours before letting his gaze drop down your outfit (and soul, the way his stares always felt so intense) for a second.

And the way he just nodded, his eyes landing back on yours, DUDE WHAT.

"What?" Heat rose to your cheeks and you smiled sheepishly.

Rafe shook his head, lips tugging into a downward smile. "Nothing. Just curious who you dressed up for."

HUH. NOT HIM CALLING YOU OUT LIKE THIS. THIS WAS SO FUCKING EMBARRASSING BYE.

You let out a nervous chuckle and shook your head too. "Myself?"

Somehow, you both seemed to know that was bullshit, and now you just kinda wanted to curl up into fetal position and stay there for the next one billion years.

"Bold choice for a self-date," Rafe said with a shit-eating grin.

You couldn’t tell if that was a compliment or a smooth way of saying, “Next time, pick something else.”

Hey, I kinda wanna die right now.

"Shit, don’t look at me like that." Rafe chuckled boyishly. "You look good, alright? That dress suits you."

...

:)

EDNCSKJDXCHNFEWJSKLFCHNVDLAKGSNJVSÖKLFDHXUVWDIUEOPSAXM;POSWLSCKUCJGFKD

Cheeks hotter than the sun, but you didn’t care because OH MY GOD. You couldn’t even hide your smile, and you also didn’t care that you probably looked like some stupid fucking idiot while doing it, but WHO CARED.

"Thank you," you said, gripping the strap of your bag.

AND THEN you mustered up the courage to look him over as well. Not as obviously as he had, because that guy just seemed to have zero shame, but well, you did appreciate the view.

Even if he was wearing one of his probably thousand polo shirt variations again, it suited him just as well as the other 999. Paired with some more or less basic white shorts that really showed off the tan on his legs and some matching white Dior B57 sneakers.

Kinda low effort but that guy pulled it off like crazy. And him deciding to wear his hair as curtain bangs again BECAUSE OF YOU (yes, you'd never forget how he’d admitted that yesterday) kinda made your heart rate shoot up even higher.

Rafe raised his brows when you met his eyes again, and you felt caught and awkward, but still, you managed to say, "Looking fresh yourself."

That made the cutest laugh escape his lips, and you could literally feel the butterflies in your stomach dancing to that soft sound.

"I'm just gonna assume that’s a weirdly executed compliment and you're not just making fun of me," Rafe said with a lopsided smile.

You shrugged. "Maybe it’s both."

"Aight." Rafe then eyed your jacket. "Might wanna take that off though. They’ve got blankets and stuff in there, you know."

You let out a soft laugh, raising your brows. "And I’m just gonna assume this is your weird way of caring about me being comfortable and not just a way to get me undressed."

DID YOU ACTUALLY JUST SAY THAT OMMGMFMMF.

Rafe himself was the biggest confidence boost you could get, and his boldness kinda rubbed off on you.

He chuckled. "It’s both."

ALRIGHT, DUDE.

Okay, honestly, you were kinda starting to sweat under the jacket. First, it was still super warm despite the time, and second, Rafe’s flirty comments (yes, let’s just call them that) were turning your entire body into a heatwave.

With flushed cheeks, you let out a soft giggle and awkwardly tried to take off your jacket while still holding onto your purse without dropping both.

"Jesus, give that shit to me," Rafe said, grabbing your purse with one hand while helping you out of your jacket with the other.

"Ayo, you lovebirds coming?" Kelce’s voice boomed from a few steps ahead. "Seats are filling up, you’ll have to share one soon!"

UGHHH PLEASEEEE DON'T MAKE THIS EVEN MORE AWKWARD.

"Gonna kill that fucker someday," Rafe muttered as he handed you your purse back, eyeing the bracelet on your wrist with a silent smile.

You chuckled sheepishly and slung your bag back over your shoulder, blinking in confusion when he kept holding onto your jacket.

Rafe's gaze drifted over your now-exposed upper half for a second before he looked back at you with a smug grin, tilting his head toward the others. "Come on, before I lose interest in the movie altogether."

DUDE. You REALLY had to get used to this kind of apparently harmless flirting without immediately spiraling into that one very specific overthinking rabbit hole. Like—he couldn’t just make comments like that and then--

The sudden touch of his hand on your back yanked you out of your thoughts, a buzzing warmth settling over your whole body. He gave you a gentle nudge forward and you fell into step beside him, already missing the heat of his hand the second he let it fall away.

As soon as you reached the ticket booth, it found its place again as Rafe softly guided you past the grumpy-looking line toward Kelce, Topper, and Molly.

"Finally," Kelce said with a wide grin as he took two tickets. "Thought you—"

"Shut your ass and keep moving," Rafe cut in, softer than usual.

Topper was up next and followed the other two through the archway. Muffled voices and soft music already drifted from inside.

You reached for your wallet automatically, but Rafe had already stepped in front of you, placing your jacket on the counter. "Two tickets, and this to coat check."

You blinked. "You don't have to—"

"Yeah, yeah," Rafe said, eyes focused on his wallet as he handed the cashier forty dollars. "Keep the change."

No way. He was paying for you again AND tipping the kid behind the counter twenty-five dollars?? First the McDonald’s food and now this? What, why, how.

Plus, um ... you kinda needed that jacket later…

Rafe took two pink tickets and a tag with the number 69, grinning like a five-year-old (grow up please), and handed you one. "Just shut up and take it."

And you did (with a "Thank you" nonetheless) while your heart practically exploded in all directions. Then you followed him through the archway onto the event space.

Dozens of people were already scattered across the area—locals and even some tourons—chit-chatting, laughing, lounging in groups or pairs. Some had already claimed a spot in front of the massive screen on floor cushions or deck chairs. A few had even brought their own blankets and pillows.

To the side were the restrooms and food stalls selling popcorn, nachos, and other snacks, plus all kinds of drinks from water to vodka-energy, and a variety of rental blankets and pillows.

And strung up between trees and posts were dozens of fairy lights and pink paper lanterns (clearly Barbie was the more anticipated movie tonight). It looked gorgeous, and cozy, especially now with the sun halfway down the horizon.

Which, as a matter of fact, made the whole setting feel... a little too intimate.

The others were nowhere to be seen, and it was just you and Rafe now, standing near the entrance. And the fact that he'd been all gentlemanly earlier didn’t help—THIS ALMOST FELT LIKE A FUCKING DATE, JESUS CHRIST.

OKOKOKOKOKOKOKOKOKOKOK CALM DOWN. JUST LOOK AROUND, MAYBE I CAN SPOT--

"I guess you'll want some snacks and shit like that."

Your head snapped back to him, suddenly very aware of how exposed you felt without your jacket, without Topper, Kelce, or Molly AROUND AND AHHAHAHAHHAHAHAHHAHAH.

The only thing grounding you was the bag on your shoulder, which you were now holding onto like your life depended on it.

"Um, yeah, sure," you said, internally begging your brain to chill the fuck out.

WHY DIDN’T HE CARE WHERE THE OTHERS WERE THOUGH??? HELLOOO YOUR FRIENDS ARE GONE, PLEASE LOOK FOR THEM.

With a simple "Aight, come on" from Rafe, you followed him toward one of the snack stands, trying to maintain a respectful distance.

This time, there was no one for Rafe to cut in front of, so the two of you just stood there AND YOUR BRAIN COMPLETELY BLANKED ON EVERY TOPIC KNOWN TO MAN.

How was he so chill while you almost debated asking him what brand of microwave he’d recommend because you LITERALLY had nothing else to think of HELP.

Nervously, you hugged yourself, trying to ground yourself by gently pinching the skin on your upper arm.

"You cold?"

You met his raised eyebrows and instinctively dropped your hands, giving him a small, smiley shake of your head. "Wh—no. No."

Rafe eyed you for a long second before saying, "You're being weird."

NOT HIM CALLING YOU OUT OH MY GOD.

"You're always weird, but this is weird-weird," he added, dry amusement in his tone.

You let out a strained chuckle. "Okay, maybe I am kind of cold."

ughhhhhhhhhhhh. Please believe me, please believe me, please—

"Well, then we’ll buy a fucking blanket. Jesus Christ, you gotta chill."

oKAY.

WAIT—WE?!?!?!?!?!

You had zero time to spiral over that because suddenly, you two were up. WAIT—YOU TWO??? NO. RAFE. RAFE WAS NEXT. HELP. WHAT’S GOING ON.

He ordered some nachos with salsa dip and a large diet coke and then turned to you with an expectant expression.

WHAT. NO FUCKING WAY.

No no no no no no. Him paying AGAIN felt so insanely weird for no reason. You stepped forward and grabbed your wallet, and he looked at you like you just insulted his entire bloodline.

"That's some disrespect," he said, raising an eyebrow, though the amusement in his tone was undeniable.

You couldn’t help but chuckle. "I just... you really don’t have to—"

"Shit, only thing I wanna hear right now is your order," he cut you off, and the cashier's barely hidden smile just made the whole thing ten times more awkward.

And because you really didn’t want to drag this painfully awkward situation out any longer, you just told her your snack and drink choice.

Rafe placed two twenty-dollar bills on the counter and added, "And a blanket. Large."

The pretty cashier girl glanced between the two of you, lifting a brow with clear amusement. "We only have small ones left."

YOU’VE GOT TO BE FUCKING KIDDING ME.

PLEASE ASK FOR TWO. PLEASE FUCKING ASK FOR TWO.

"Yeah, well, one of those then."

[Insert brain explosion sound here.]

You could literally feel the adrenaline flooding your body, nerves tingling and buzzing, butterflies flying around all confused and bumping into each other like WHAT DO YOU MEAN ONE.

You kinda felt like hyperventilating but all you did was smile with the most strained expression because what :) else :) were :) you :) supposed :) to :) do :)?????!?!??!!

Rafe took the change and shouldered the blanket bag over one strap, then reached for his snack order.

You grabbed yours too and followed him, your nerves shot to hell. You honestly felt like some helpless prey knowing it was about to get devoured but having no idea when.

Your cheeks burned hot and you were pretty sure your blood pressure was sky-high, except you had no idea why you were freaking out so much. All you could hear was your own heart pounding in your chest and ears.

You almost didn’t even notice that Rafe had stopped, or rather, that he’d been stopped.

Wait, no. Rafe had stopped because you’d been stopped.

Cara had grabbed your arm, halting you in your tracks, a huge grin on her face as she greeted you both.

Shit. And JJ was next to her, waving with a smile.

Your half-panic attack vanished instantly, now replaced with a new, different anxiety: Rafe freaking out, saying some dumb shit, or worse, starting actual shit with JJ. Or JJ not keeping his mouth shut. Or even worse, the other Pogues showing up.

But they didn’t. And all Rafe did was...stay quiet, other than giving Cara a casual "'Sup."

WHICH MADE YOU ALL THE MORE CONFUSED BECAUSE WHAT THE FUCK WAS UP WITH HIM TODAY.

"Already said hi to Kelce and Molly," Cara said, eyeing you with a grin that basically screamed I-see-one-blanket-and-your-jacket’s-missing-soooo-wink-wink. "Also spotted Topper, but didn’t wanna interrupt his chit-chat with Ruthie."

RUTHIE’S HERE? OF COURSE SHE’S HERE.

Rafe scoffed. "He’s salty 'cause you turned him down."

Cara blinked, genuinely looking a little guilty. "I didn’t turn him down. I just already promised someone else I’d join their group. And last I checked, his car only has five seats anyway."

"Could’ve thrown Kelce in the trunk," Rafe shrugged.

Dude.

"Or someone could’ve gotten cozy on a lap," JJ added with a smirk. Directed at you.

DUDE.

Rafe finally tensed and you found yourself relaxing (girl, are you okay???) because that was a sign he wasn’t some polite and gentleman-programmed clone of himself.

But before he could snap at JJ, Cara stepped in. "Or Topper could stop acting like a drama queen just because I turned down his invite," she said with a frown, though you knew better. She felt bad.

Rafe tilted his head, and the air shifted in a way you did not like. Great. Now you had to de-escalate this?

"I’m sure he’d still appreciate it if you say hi later," you said with a smile that was clearly meant to signal pls-this-is-getting-weird-fast.

Cara, thank god, got the message and sighed dramatically. "Guess you’re right." Then she looked at her wrist like there was a watch. "Oh no, movie’s starting soon. Gotta grab our snacks before we miss out."

Oscar goes to her for sure.

You just nodded, smile still strained. "Right."

"Okay, see you two later!" she grinned at both of you, then grabbed JJ by the arm and dragged him off toward the food stalls.

Bomb successfully defused.

You turned back to Rafe and he looked at you with a boyish grin. "Didn’t know she had piercings."

Wh—OH. WHAT.

You stared at him blankly.

Had he seriously checked out her tits? Okay, no judgment, like Cara had gone braless today and her boobs looked legitimately perfect—like GODDESS-LEVEL—in that pink dress of hers, and even you couldn’t help but notice the second she'd walked up but...

You didn’t like that Rafe had.

Of course, of course he could look. He was a guy after all, and what else did they ever see beyond tits and ass, and yeah, Cara was an absolute bombshell, but…

Hm.

HM.

A weird feeling spread through your stomach and the butterflies just kinda sat there now, not sure what to do or how to feel.

"Well, yeah, I guess," you said, and it was so painfully obvious how the slight bitterness in your voice still came through. So you tried to compensate with a smile, but you probably looked like someone being held at gunpoint. "She got them a few weeks ago."

Rafe seemed way too entertained by that and just nodded with a wide grin. "Bet that hurt."

"It’s a sensitive area, so... yeah," you replied, trying to sound casual and failing miserably.

An awkward silence started creeping in, adding to the sudden clenching in your chest, and you felt huge secondhand embarrassment for yourself. For being JEALOUS of your own best friend, especially when you and Rafe weren’t even a couple in ANY WAY and just UGHHHH.

Can I be normal for ONE FUCKING SECOND, please.

"Ayo, Rafe!" Kelce’s voice suddenly echoed from somewhere deeper inside the event space.

You and Rafe both looked up and spotted him somewhere between the seating area in front of the screen, waving with both arms.

Relief washed over you, and without waiting for any comment from Rafe, you started walking toward Kelce through the rows of bean bags, lounge chairs, and picnic blankets.

You found Kelce sitting on one of the lounge beds in the back rows… and Molly on a different one (?). A second later, you felt Rafe’s presence beside you.

Kelce patted the spot next to him, a huge grin on his face. "We saved you one of the best spots. Didn't want you sitting on some uncomfortable floor pillows. Bad for the spine, you know."

...no. Just. NO.

NONONONONONONONO.

There was no way you were gonna lie down on a damn shared lounge bed with RAFE, barely wide enough for two people. NOPE. NO. NO THANK YOU.

OKAY YES HOLY SHIT YES, BUT ALSO NO NO NO.

And Rafe—this NONCHALANT FUCKING GUY—didn’t give a single fuck. After Kelce had gotten up and moved over to sit with Molly, Rafe just dropped the blanket bag onto the bed and placed his nachos and Coke on the holder on the left side like this was the most normal thing ever.

You just stood there frozen, your heart SCREAMING AT YOU TO JUST SIT DOWN while your brain was spiraling, throwing thoughts and questions around, with the two big monsters called fear and anxiety looming over everything like a cold storm—

“Come on, Y/n.”

Molly. Her voice was soft and quiet next to you. “Enjoy yourself a little.”

She looked up at you with her sweet smile and kind eyes. There was a gentle understanding in her expression, and beneath it, this warm encouragement—like she got it. Like she really understood what was happening inside your head. The panic, the confusion, and mostly the sheer anxiety about this whole... situation.

And somehow, just that little sentence and her sweet smile were enough to bring a tiny bit of quiet to your brain.

YOU COMPLETELY UNDERSTOOD WHY KELCE HAD IMMEDIATELY FALLEN FOR HER BECAUSE DUDE.

“You waiting for an invitation or what?” And then there was Rafe with his passive-aggressive bullshit, already lying back with his legs up, shoes off, sipping his stupid Coke Zero.

Remember: he’s just a dumbass. Sure, he might be the biggest crush you've ever had, but deep down he's just a dumb little stupid boy. You had absolutely no reason to feel intimidated or nervous around him.

WELL YOU HADN’T—UNTIL HE'D DECIDED TO BE A GODDAMN GENTLEMAN TODAY WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK.

Okokokok whatever, I’m gonna move now and just sit down. Yeah, yeah, a little smile, mm-hmm, that’s it. And now I’ll set my stuff down on my side. Okay, done. Oh shit, my drink nearly slipped hahah. Whatever, it’s fine. Now I’ll hang my bag on the hook at the side and then I'MGONNATAKEAPLACEJUSTINCHESAWAYFROMRAFEOKOKOKOKOKOKOKOKOKOKOK.

DONE.

KJDEWFBGVJKWRBGFVWSJKBHFCSKWHBFESQHRL.

You smoothed out the fabric of your dress, let your hands fall into your lap, and leaned not at all tensely against the pillow backrest, staring straight ahead like a normal person because everything about this was completely normal.

:) yes, normal :)

Oh, wait. Your shoes.

You kicked them off and tossed them into the grass, and because you could feel Rafe’s burning gaze on you the whole time, you finally met his eyes—and he looked so fucking done with you it was almost hilarious.

He didn’t even look pissed. Just straight-up The-Office-style deadpan, like he was staring directly into some invisible camera, and that camera was your eyes.

"You know, at this point, you might as well just sit in the grass," he said, walking that fine line between annoyance and amusement.

And okay, he kind of had a point. You were sitting so far to the right your right leg was basically hanging off the edge of the bed.

I’m so fucking embarrassing holy shit.

You gave him a sheepish smile, and your heart sank when his brows furrowed.

"Are you seriously scared I might try some shit?" He actually sounded hurt beneath all that faux offense, and now you felt like the biggest idiot alive.

You shook your head instantly, heart racing. "No, no, of course not." An embarrassed smile crept onto your face. "I just—"

"Some minion fucker said shit to you," he stated, voice and expression softening just a little now.

Nodding at that painfully accurate guess felt humiliating. Sure, by now he knew your brain was a little fucked up, but not being able to just sit next to him? So fucking ridiculous.

You forced yourself to scoot a little closer, away from the edge, feeling like the most embarrassing human being on earth.

“Okay, stop,” he said, clearly trying to keep his frustration in check. He motioned to his chest. “I’m not gonna sit here with you acting like I’m holding you at gunpoint, alright? So if you’d rather go join Hall and her lapdog,” he made a shooing motion with his hand, “go for it.”

Your heart clenched at how disappointed and lowkey sad he sounded rather than mad or annoyed. And he’d been so nice today anyway, all smiley and chill, and now he looked like someone had popped his favorite balloon. Or, more accurately: like you had.

Of course you WEREN’T scared he’d try anything. Not in the slightest, oh my god, no, it was just…

NOTHING. There wasn’t a single damn problem except you and your own damn head.

Fuck that. Seriously, fuck your brain and every thought it ever created. Just—fuck it.

Shaking your head, you said, “What? No. No! I’m fine here. It’s… I’m just being stupid, okay?”

Rafe gave you a look like he was considering getting up and sitting somewhere else, but his gaze softened into a smile. He tapped his head. “Nah, it’s your fucking asshole brain feeding you stupid shit.” He sighed, then shook his head again. “Can’t believe I even have to say this shit, but if it helps you chill the fuck out: I’m gonna keep my hands to myself, alright?” He picked up the blanket bag and moved it toward you. “And this was meant for you anyway. I don’t need it.”

Okay no.

You did NOT want him feeling like he needed to explain himself just to not be seen as a creep because YOU KNEW DAMN WELL HE WASN’T.

JESUS CHRIST. You were the one putting people into shitty situations like this. And Rafe, of all people—this guy probably had to put up with your bullshit more than anyone else these past few days.

Furrowing your brows, you scooted closer and grabbed the blanket bag, opening it up and tossing that stupid thing to the side. You tried spreading the fluffy pink blanket across both your legs, but it was so awkwardly rolled together you kinda failed and a giant ball of fluff just landed squarely on both your laps.

“The fuck are you trying to achieve here?” Rafe said, half annoyed, half amused, watching you struggle with the small-ass blanket.

You leaned forward, trying to figure out which side was up. “Proving to you that I’m not uncomfortable around you.”

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, letting out a strained breath as he gently slapped your hand away from awkwardly fumbling with the blanket. In one smooth motion, he spread it lengthwise across both your laps.

Then you realized—it was still too warm for a blanket, especially a fluffy one like this, and you could already feel sweat creeping onto your skin. Thank god, Rafe felt it too.

“Okay, point proven,” he said with a soft scoff. “Now can we ditch this thing before I get a fucking heatstroke?”

You let out a chuckle and nodded, pulling the blanket off and tossing it to the foot of your seat.

As you shifted positions, the background music faded and the sound of the movie started. Wait, no, just some commercials. The voices around you gradually died down anyway, and the last people were finding their seats.

The air between you and Rafe finally settled. Back to as normal as it could get. And so fast too, like, you never really had to be afraid of anything with him, because even if you got into a dumb little argument, you two always somehow figured it out right away.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw him tilt his head toward you, hands resting on his stomach. “Have you seen the movie before?”

You tilted your head toward him too, adrenaline spiking the second you realized how close you were. Elbows just a few inches apart, his face still at a respectful formal distance but close enough for you to see the blue pattern in his stupidly pretty eyes.

And god, his cologne in the air between you.

You smiled and shook your head softly. “You?”

“Nah,” he said, and Jesus, his gaze was always so intense. “Didn’t even wanna see this crap, but Wheezie insisted I come.”

A soft chuckle escaped your lips. “She seems more and more likeable every time you talk about her.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, and he scratched his jaw. “She says the same about you.”

OH MY HOLY FUCKING GOD. HE TALKED TO HIS LITTLE SISTER ABOUT YOU???? AHUJCHDNSKCHNKEHVBSFD WHAT.

His gaze drifted back to the screen as the actual intro to the movie started playing. A woman’s voice narrated something over the scene of girls playing with dolls, but you weren’t really listening.

You were too aware of Rafe sitting right there, the scent of his cologne, how relaxed he seemed—and still thinking about that almost hurt expression he had earlier.

You stared blankly at the screen, biting the inside of your cheek. He’s actually trying to make me feel comfortable, and I made him feel like I was grossed out or scared of him.

Your heart pounded in your chest as you tilted your head toward him, eyeing his calm profile for a second. The softness of his skin, his cute little lashes, the focused look in his eyes—and the violet-tinted bruise on his cheek that almost looked like a blossom.

“Rafe,” you said quietly.

You almost melted at how soft he looked when he turned his head toward you. Big blue eyes staring at you, almost scared of what you were about to say.

"I’m sorry about earlier," you said with a soft look. "I acted like an idiot. Probably made you feel like one, too."

Rafe shook his head and waved it off. “Nah, it’s alright. I’m used to your shit by now.”

Nope. That didn’t sit right with you.

You pressed your lips together, turning your body to face him in a sideways position, legs pulled up toward you. His eyes flicked briefly to the curve of your hip before meeting your gaze again, clearly trying not to smile.

A rush of adrenaline surged through you, but you kept your gaze steady, your expression serious. “Still. I didn’t want to make you feel like you had to explain yourself.”

Rafe let out an amused breath. "Chill, okay? Seriously, I didn’t mind."

How was he sometimes so chill, and other times made a whole issue out of something that wasn’t even one?

"Or do you need me to shut up the asshole minion in your head?" he said, lips tugging into a downward smile.

You let out a quiet chuckle and fidgeted with the bracelet on your wrist. "I think I managed that myself, but thanks."

He pulled a mock-pained face. "Sucks. Would’ve loved to smash that guy’s face in."

Another soft giggle slipped from your lips, and with that conversation wrapped up, you turned back to your original position. The fabric of your dress had ridden up slightly, giving a peak at your thighs and you quickly tugged it back down with an awkward motion.

Barbieland was now being introduced on the screen, showcasing all the different Barbie variants.

And then it was Rafe who shifted, leaning forward to grab the blanket.

You eyed him with a confused smile as he pulled it back over both your legs. “So you are in fact cold” you said, amused, heart racing at the sweet gesture.

Rafe looked up, almost startled, as he pulled the blanket over his lap as well. “What? Yeah, no, just... feels more comfy.”

…

Oh.

You just stared at him in slight disbelief, then amusement, then full-on embarrassment, knowing exactly what the two of you were now sharing under that blanket.

"What," he said quietly, brows furrowed with an almost accusatory tone. “It’s not like I control that shit.”

You should probably be weirded out. No, actually—FREAK OUT, PANIC, stand up and leave. But instead, you just pressed your lips together, trying not to chuckle at how genuinely awkward he looked. And probably felt.

Shit, you actually felt sorry for him.

So, in a weak attempt to make him feel better, you mirrored his movement, pulling your side of the blanket over your lap too and quietly shifting your gaze back to the screen, where the stereotypical Barbie was just being introduced.

Your heart was racing nonetheless, because like... not Rafe getting hard at the most random-ass moment during a Barbie movie. And not you lying just a few inches away from him and OKAY MAYBE KINDA PANICKING A LITTLE.

nONONONONO. Stuff like that happens all the time. He probably felt just as embarrassed as you did. Honestly, maybe even more.

Okay. Just ignore it. It'll probably go away soon, right?

Keeping your focus on the movie was kinda hard though, with how uncomfortable you felt in your current position, neck all tense because you were lying too low, and being on your back felt awkward in general.

So now you had two options: either turn on your side, facing Rafe, or turn your back to him. And given his current…situation, you weren’t really sure which one was worse.

Shit, but you really couldn’t lie like that anymore, and you didn’t wanna risk a cramp or something just because you were too scared to move. So you decided to turn onto your side—facing him—because, well… you didn’t wanna make him feel bad by turning away.

Grabbing the pillow behind you, you slid one hand underneath it and rested the other next to your face. There. Much better.

"You doing that shit on purpose now?" Rafe asked, and your head snapped toward him, catching him glancing at the curve of your hip again, now hidden under the blanket.

You let out a baffled little laugh, shaking your head. "What? No. This is just more comfortable."

“Yeah, shit. Not for me,” he muttered, and poor boy actually looked like he was suffering.

Nerves buzzing, you just stared at him cluelessly, your heart racing at the possibility that you were the reason for his current situation. "I... what do you want me to do?"

"I don’t know, stop moving." He looked so genuinely embarrassed, wearing that little scowl, that somehow it didn’t feel that weird. Okay, it did, but not as much as you'd expected. And honestly, right now, you just wanted to make him feel a little less awkward.

"Well... maybe turning on your side might help," you said quietly, with a barely hidden smile. "Might ease the pressure, considering—"

"Please just shut the fuck up," Rafe muttered, his face contorted in the most dramatic frown possible. On screen, stereotypical Barbie was now getting ready for her day. Then, after a beat, he did in fact shift downward a bit and turned to face you, mirroring your position.

For a moment, you just stared at each other. A respectful distance between you, but still close enough to feel his breath on your hand. He looked at you like he might actually murder you if you dared open your mouth, and you tried your absolute best not to laugh.

“Did you know,” you whispered, trying to keep a straight face, “Mr. Martin’s buttcrack always peeks out when he tries to write on the upper half of the board.”

Rafe stared at you, deadpan, very obviously trying to suppress a smile. You decided to go one further: “Looks like a dark hairy caterpillar from afar.”

His features softened almost immediately as a baffled chuckle escaped him, the blanket on your side lifting a little as his body shifted onto his back. He dragged a hand over his face in annoyed amusement, letting out a quiet, "What the fuck."

You held back a smile, glancing up at him with raised brows, feeling a little proud for getting those soft chuckles out of him from time to time. “Did that help?”

Rafe looked at you with a crooked smile, amusement glimmering in his eyes. "Shit, yeah, it did. I’ll probably never get hard again with that cursed image now burned into my brain."

“Imagine him in a tankini, that should do the trick,” you offered, and Rafe’s face twisted in disgust.

He tapped a finger against his temple. “That weird-ass minion in your head is worse than the shit-talking one.”

You let out a soft giggle, and your heart did a little jump when you saw him smiling along too.

Rafe then fully shifted onto his back again and tried adjusting the blanket higher up, but since it was stretched lengthwise over both of you, your feet ended up exposed. A soft breeze hit them, now that the sun had finally dipped below the horizon.

"Okay, you gotta scoot closer if we both wanna fit under here," he said, scoffing at your expression. "Shit, relax. Thanks to your overly detailed description of Martin’s wrinkly, hairy caterpillar buttcrack, I'm probably gonna be impotent for the next few weeks."

NOT RELAXING IN THE SLIGHTEST RIGHT NOW.

“But I can get up and grab my own blanket if you want,” he added more seriously, catching your baffled look.

WHY WAS HE SO SWEET TONIGHT OH MY GOD.

Okay. This is your chance for SOME CLOSENESS WITH HIM. He might’ve had a boner just now HAHAHAHAHA and you were still kind of shocked at yourself for how weirdly chill you'd reacted, BUT LET’S JUST IGNORE THAT AND USE THIS FUCKING CHANCE GIRLLLLL LET’S GOOOO.

Quietly, you shook your head with a nervous smile, grabbed your pillow, and scooted closer to him. While you kind of struggled to figure out how exactly you were supposed to lie next to him that close, Rafe grabbed the blanket and turned it so that the long side actually covered the length of your bodies.

Okay, lying on your side wasn’t really possible here, so you turned onto your back. But now your upper arms were awkwardly pressed together, both of you with your hands resting on your stomach, and your hips were touching, too, AND JESUS CHRIST HIS BODY FELT SO WARM.

But hey, at least you were both covered now, even if you were pretty sure he could hear your heartbeat, with how loud it was pounding in your chest.

Barbie was now at the beach with her friends, the Kens were doing some beach stuff or whatever BUT YOU COULDN’T REALLY FOCUS.

Also, his elbow was digging uncomfortably into yours, so you tried adjusting yours, which made him move again AND JESUS CHRIST THIS WAS AWKWARD.

“Shit, wait,” Rafe said with a quiet scoff and leaned forward. “This isn’t working.”

You just blinked at him, afraid he’d actually get up now to grab his own blanket.

Instead, he gently grabbed your shoulder, signaling you to lean forward for a second. Which you did—letting him take the lead because your brain had gone completely blank at THIS ABSURDLY CLOSE PROXIMITY.

Rafe grabbed your pillow, scooted into a more upright position, then leaned back again, his right arm now resting on the low backrest, his head supported by his hand. With the other, he placed the pillow in the now empty space, half on his shoulder and under his armpit, and gestured to it.

GUYS.

“There,” he said. “You okay with that?”

JUST SAY YES AND LIE DOWN, NO SECOND GUESSING.

So you did. Heart hammering so loud you didn’t even hear yourself speak. You smiled—half anxious, half excited—and leaned back again.

Since he was lying slightly elevated on his back, you had to scoot down a little, your head pressing against the pillow, your left shoulder half resting on his chest, and you folded your hands comfortably on your stomach. Your elbow ended up resting against the side of his hip because of that, and you expected him to shift away...but he didn’t. And NEITHER DID YOU because acknowledging it would just make it worse and—

GIRL. RELAX.

Your body was relaxed. Rafe’s warmth helped you ease into it, and the fact that he was so chill made it even easier. BUT YOUR MIND? YOUR MIND WAS SCREAMING, RUNNING IN CIRCLES, SETTING EVERYTHING ON FIRE BECAUSE YOU WERE BASICALLY HALF-CUDDLING WITH RAFE RIGHT NOW.

It’s fine. It’s cool.

Everything’s completely chill.

Actually, yeah, literally chill. Your skin had goosebumps, both from the situation and the drop in temperature over the past half hour.

And then a whole firework erupted on your upper right arm as you felt Rafe’s arm behind you shift, to pull up the blanket on your side and cover the rest of your upper body, AND HIS FINGERS BRUSHED YOUR SKIN AS HE DID SO AND—

You held your breath.

Because.

THIS FUCKER just left his arm there. Not back on the armrest, not casually elsewhere—no, right there, lightly resting on your right shoulder, his fingers playing with the sleeve of your dress.

OKOKOKOKOKOKOKOKOKOKOK.

You bit the inside of your cheek so hard you tasted blood because WAS THIS EVEN REAL?! WAS THIS ON PURPOSE OR WAS HE JUST SO FOCUSED ON THE MOVIE HE DIDN’T NOTICE? AHHHHHHHHH

But you let him.

You let him because you wanted this. Being close to him, feeling the warmth of his body, all cozied up. Your heart was racing, fluttering like it didn’t know whether to panic or melt. Every brush of his arm sent little sparks down your spine, too much and not enough all at once.

Because, as a matter of fact, it wasn't enough. Now that you’d had a taste of this feeling—of how it felt being so close to him—it was like something inside you had been lit up. There was this deep urge and longing to completely turn toward him, fully cuddle up, put your hand on his chest, drape a leg over his, bury your head in his chest and just inhale his scent and UGHHHH.

But you were a coward. A scaredy cat, too afraid he’d push you away. Especially because this right here? It was toeing a fine line between “we’re just cold and sharing a blanket so obviously we scoot closer” and “considering we’re just project partners who happened to agree on being friends, this was way more intimate than necessary.”

Hey, funny thought here: what if you just did it? :)

Because HE clearly never gave much thought to how his little flirtations affected you. He made it damn clear it was all just for fun. So maybe you could just… cuddle with him. For fun.

Worst case? He’d say something like “You wanna get into it now or what?” and then you’d just awkwardly laugh and go “Sorry, just felt more comfy like this” and scoot back into your old position.

Remember? With Rafe, you never had to be afraid of doing some dumb shit or embarrassing yourself.

FUCK IT.

You pressed your lips together and pushed yourself up on your elbow, ignoring the pang of disappointment as his arm slipped back onto the backrest, his expression confused. DOESN’T MATTER, PUSH THROUGH GIRL. Adrenaline shot up as you grabbed the pillow that had been under his arm and silently placed it across his ribs, READY TO LAY DOWN—

—only for him to stop you with a crooked smile, your heart dropping straight through the floor.

You froze. Completely. Like your body had hit an invisible wall. Eyes wide, breath hitched, you just… stared at him. You didn’t dare speak, didn’t dare move, afraid that even the smallest word might expose you in the worst way possible.

“Shit, you're gonna suffocate me with that thing,” Rafe said with amusement and moved the pillow to the side. Then he gestured toward the now free space on the side of his chest. “There.”

Your whole body buzzed as his right arm returned to your upper arm, now gently nudging you toward him.

Ignoring every voice of reason and panic in your head, letting yourself be guided into him, turning your body toward his, resting your head against the side of his chest, your shoulder naturally tilting in, your arm daring to settle on his upper stomach.

Every nerve lit up, hyperaware of the rise and fall of his breathing beneath your cheek, the heat of his skin seeping into yours through his shirt. It was terrifying and euphoric, like stepping off a ledge and realizing, just for a second, that maybe you liked the adrenaline you felt while looking downward.

And then you almost exploded, because this guy took it a step further. His left hand remained casually on his thigh, but his other arm wrapped around your back, HIS HAND NOW RESTING ON YOUR BLANKET-COVERED WAIST.

Okay. You were officially done for :)))))))

Your heart was racing, pounding so loud it felt like drums in your ears, pulse probably skyrocketing, and let’s not even talk about the adrenaline—you’d probably need the ER in the next few seconds.

And the craziest thing was how he'd just accepted it. He'd let you do this. Hadn’t said anything dumb, hadn’t made a joke. Instead, he just laid there, snacking on his nachos and sipping his Coke Zero occasionally, the only things he said being how stupid Ken looked and acted and how weird his rivalry with the other Ken was.

But you didn’t have the heart to tell him that, actually, that was exactly how you saw him and Kelce. So you just stayed quiet, chuckled softly whenever he made another snarky remark, and soaked in this surreal moment that would be over again in about 60 minutes.

And when his left hand absentmindedly started playing with the bracelet dangling from your wrist, you didn’t say anything either—too afraid to ruin whatever this was.

Because somehow, it felt like the little agreement of friendship you made just yesterday was already, very slowly, starting to slip away into something you were too afraid to name.

Or maybe. Maybe, this was just what it looked like when two people, thrown together by coincidence, trusted each other enough to get this comfortable without needing to put it into words.

Little did you two know—it was both.

✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿

✿ A / N ✿ imma be real, i feel like i fucked up their whole dynamic with the last scene aka them lying on the bed and cuddling and ughhh, and i also feel like you can feel through the writing how impatient i grew with the ending of this ch. idk maybe i should've postponed this and actually think it through but i kinda lost my mind with this one and now it seems like i skipped over some steps. idk maybe i'm just tired or biased bc of how long this chapter is so what do you guys think? bc i'm srsly considering reworking the last part HAHAHAHAH #heart'sactuallyracingrn

✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿

K M S M A S T E R L I S T | <- P R E V I O U S | N E X T ->

✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿

T A G L I S T F O R M (taglist for this series is CLOSED but you can sign up for my other stuff through this link)

@ursogorgeous13 @my-name-is-baby @moneybaby07 @jjasmiineee @sttaejoon-blog @vogueprincess @princesspeaxhh @wtfisastiles @wefelldowntherabbithole13 @rafes4 @kathryn-maraudersversion @wuluhwuhmaster @torturedtypewritersdept @sfotiegiuls @ltristessedureratoujours @stoned-writer @lunaleah @akobx @cokewithcameron @b00klvrs @rafesdrew @mattyskies @yktayy9669 @beabafreakbee @c1gsafterwhat @drewstarkeyswife-7 @wtfdudesblog @akobx @wintercrows @miaaaoa @setmefreemyg @pogueprincesa @chimchimjiminie16 @drewstarkeysrightarm @wtfdudesblog @wolfstarsimpxx @emmiesummers @brycesfav @ayy1234567 @rgeraldg @stanseventeen @louvrgirl @chaoticromantic @drewstarkeysrealwife @drewstarkeyswifehoe @psychicnatural @mysticbby2009 @oreocheescake-12 @miniiminie @drunkinthemiddleoftheday @drewstarkeyywife @persiar9

[conclover]

Mr. Tenna x GN! Reader | Static Hearts Part 1

Next chapter

Summary: Just a weird dreamcore fanfic with the lovely Mr. Tenna from Deltarune.

Warnings: This turned out to have more of a sexual undertone than I thought it would. So, just in case: +18. Yandere if you squint your eyes.

Notes: Yet another pathetic old man for the collection <3

Word count: 2K

The room was dim, lit only by the colorful flickering glow of the old television. You were slouched deep into the couch, barely able to grasp anything since it was almost 2:15 a.m. The only energy you had left was just enough to flip through channels, searching for something either interesting enough to keep you awake or dull enough to finally lull you to sleep.

CLICK.

“Mom, I love this dress. I don’t care what you say. This is the dress of my dreams—”

CLICK.

“He was a normal guy. Very caring with everyone in the neighborhood. How could we have possibly known he was a—”

CLICK.

“And then we take our dough that’s rested for at least two hours, and we—”

CLICK.

“Tired of scrubbing those impossible stains? From blood to any other type of—!”

Your thumb paused. Weird.

CLICK.

“Who killed them?”

The audio glitched for a second.

“W̸͈͉̜̏ḧ̸̢̧̻̥͐̉̇̐ò̸̫̱̠́̌͝ͅ ̶̡̥̹̟͊̉͆͠w̴̰̤̔̆̍ą̴͓̞͎̌̉s̵̩͙͉̭͛͋̆͂ ̵̧̼̪̳̄ȋ̶̩́̉t̶͈̠͍̃?̶̟̖̹̙̓̅͛͑͠ ”

A high pitched whine cut through the room.

“W̶̗͖͈̑̈́̏͠A̷̛͚͖͕Ş̵͖̜̖̮̃̂͒ ̸̡̲̪̟̀͊Ĩ̸̯̻͍̻̈̀̂͜͝T̴͎̍͘͘ ̸̟̙̰̪͛Ÿ̶̡̳̥̯̗͆̈́͠Ö̶͕̖̦̠͊̄̑̈́U̴͓̦͇̾?̷̨̧̼̭̾̌̓ͅ ”

Then, silence.

You blinked, suddenly more awake. The haze in your head cleared just enough to realize something wasn’t right.

“Alone on a Friday night?” a chipper voice echoed from the television, though it was warped, barely cutting through the thick hiss of static.

Your breath caught as your vision tunneled.

“Me too!”

The static wasn’t only on the screen anymore. It was around you, inside you, crackling at your fingertips. You could feel it everywhere, surrounding you.

You tried to move and tried to reach for the remote. But the static cocooned you, with its warm electricity, wrapping itself tight around your body and thoughts.

“Now, now... Don’t change the channel... we’re just getting started…”

The voice coiled around you like a soft blanket, whispering straight to the back of your mind. It was comforting in a way that felt too precise, like it knew you. Like it knew exactly how to speak to you.

It smoothed over your fear and pulled you gently toward the edge. And as the static wrapped around you like a warm blanket against your skin, you let your eyes slip shut and surrendered to the voice.

...

Darkness.

That’s all you remember. Not how you got here. Not how long it’s been.

“Ladies and germs!”

A voice sliced through your thoughts, bright, sharp, too close. It caught your attention without even trying, like it was wired into your nerves.

“Let’s have a big round of applause for our lovely contestant!”

A crowd erupted around you, if you could call them a crowd. Their shapes were odd, all teeth, horns and shadows. Demons, maybe. Or something worse. But they cheered like this was their favorite part of the night.

You blinked, your body suddenly lighter, more alert, like the energy of the place was crawling under your skin.

“Where the fuck am I?” you asked, your voice oddly clear, stronger than it should’ve been.

H̴̛͙͖̖̦̯̮̘̿̚À̵̡̧̟̪̪̻̹̺͔͈̥̫̼͙̆̋̿͒̓̈́̈̇̀̌͋̒̌́H̸̨͚̥̭̱̳̺̬̰̹̥͔̅̓͑̌̾̍͑͆͐̕͜Ȁ̴̘̩̞͚̭̏̆̍̅̈̒͋H̴̢̡͉̘̲̖̙̭͇͈̃̈́̋̽̎͛̀͝͝A̵̙̼̻̣̗̰͈͛͗̒͒͆̀̆͝ͅH̵̢̧͚̮̦̤͇̤͇̞͔͊̉Ḁ̶̰̜̜͇̖̤͙̖̗̀H̴͙̫̗̟̗̝̮̯̒͛̊́̏̔͛̃̍̕͘͘͝Ą̶͎̩̣̼̺͎̼̻̻͈̫͇͎̦́̃͌́̎̀̾̉͋̽̌͋Ḥ̴̨̧̝͇̭̦̞̌̽͊͋̃̋͋̂ͅẮ̷̧̮̻̻̪͖̝̰̥̑͠H̶̢̨̩̰͕̭͈͍̫̱̚ͅĀ̴̢͍̼̙͚̐͝Ḩ̸̨̧͇̪̝̗̬̳͚̲̤̖͛́̈̓͘͘͜A̶̛͖̪̺̤͕̒̿̈̉̈́̊̂͜͠H̴̡̛̛͔̺̙̤͖̿̔̿̀̎̾̃̅͗̐A̵̪̫̩̓̾̓̐̐͂̚͝Ḥ̷͖͓̗̖̳̹̪̱̙̙͉̰̱̈́͋̅̔̔͜Ả̴̬̇̆̆̑̂̇

Color exploded across your vision. Neon lights pulsed. Spinning signs hung from nowhere. Glittering confetti surrounded you. It looked like something out of a retro game show from a fever dream. It was probably a quiz show, if someone had built it from dead channels and nightmares.

But where was the host?

“Oh, you’re too funny,” he said, voice twice as odd than the crowd cheering.

He was closer now, his voice curling in your ear like heat.

“You’re on the show, of course!”

Gloved hands slipped around your shoulders, firm and gentle, fingertips pressing just a little too long against your collarbone as he leaned in.

“Mmm. There we go,” he murmured, his lips close to your ear. “Center stage suits you!”

He guided you forward slowly, almost like a dance, his body brushing lightly against yours as he walked you to the podium.

The podium gleamed under the spotlight, elegant and ominous. Below it, a nameplate. Your name. Already there. Etched in with the kind of certainty that sent a chill up your spine.

“Don’t be nervous, sweetheart. This is your moment. I know you can do it…”

His voice was smooth as velvet, reassuring almost. His fingers ghosted along the small of your back, just long enough to make your breath hitch.

Then he stepped in front of you and for the first time, you saw him fully.

He had no eyes, but his smile was expressive enough to speak in paragraphs. And his head... it was a literal television!

This has to be a dream.

“You’ve got this,” he murmured, trailing a single gloved finger along your jaw.

You grabbed his gloved hand, not to push him away, but to demand an explanation for all of this. But he only smiled, gently slipping from your grip to begin the show.

Now he was standing across the stage, perfectly lit by a snapping spotlight, as if he’d always belonged there. The crowd erupted again as he twirled his microphone with lazy, practiced flair. He soaked in the attention like he was born for the spotlight.

You turned to the microphone in your own podium, hoping maybe speaking would wake you up from whatever the fuck was this.

“Hey,” you said, your voice surprisingly steady. “I have a question—”

Before you could finish, the host raised a single finger, his TV screen face focused sharply on you.

“Oh, I didn’t realize we’d swapped roles,” he said, flipping casually through a set of cue cards that hadn’t been there a second ago. “Next time you’ve got original ideas, darling, feel free to spring them on me right in the middle of the show. That’s the perfect time.”

H̴̛͙͖̖̦̯̮̘̿̚À̵̡̧̟̪̪̻̹̺͔͈̥̫̼͙̆̋̿͒̓̈́̈̇̀̌͋̒̌́H̸̨͚̥̭̱̳̺̬̰̹̥͔̅̓͑̌̾̍͑͆͐̕͜Ȁ̴̘̩̞͚̭̏̆̍̅̈̒͋H̴̢̡͉̘̲̖̙̭͇͈̃̈́̋̽̎͛̀͝͝A̵̙̼̻̣̗̰͈͛͗̒͒͆̀̆͝ͅH̵̢̧͚̮̦̤͇̤͇̞͔͊̉Ḁ̶̰̜̜͇̖̤͙̖̗̀H̴͙̫̗̟̗̝̮̯̒͛̊́̏̔͛̃̍̕͘͘͝Ą̶͎̩̣̼̺͎̼̻̻͈̫͇͎̦́̃͌́̎̀̾̉͋̽̌͋Ḥ̴̨̧̝͇̭̦̞̌̽͊͋̃̋͋̂ͅẮ̷̧̮̻̻̪͖̝̰̥̑͠H̶̢̨̩̰͕̭͈͍̫̱̚ͅĀ̴̢͍̼̙͚̐͝Ḩ̸̨̧͇̪̝̗̬̳͚̲̤̖͛́̈̓͘͘͜A̶̛͖̪̺̤͕̒̿̈̉̈́̊̂͜͠H̴̡̛̛͔̺̙̤͖̿̔̿̀̎̾̃̅͗̐A̵̪̫̩̓̾̓̐̐͂̚͝Ḥ̷͖͓̗̖̳̹̪̱̙̙͉̰̱̈́͋̅̔̔͜Ả̴̬̇̆̆̑̂̇

“First question, cutie. What is the name of this show’s host?”

His voice rang out playfully, echoing across the set. The screen behind him glitched slightly, displaying four answer choices, each one flickering in that old school game show font.

A) MR. TV GUY

B) MR. LIL’ NOSE

C) MR. TENNA

D) MR. EMAIL

The lights dimmed, the demons went silent and his smile widened.

You stared at answers, unsure if you were supposed to laugh or run. None of them made any sense, but one of them felt just plausible enough.

“Mr... Tenna?”

You hovered your hand over the button, then pressed it down.

A chime sounded, loud and triumphant.

The host, Mr. Tenna, lit up like someone had just proposed to him on live television.

“Ohhh, you sweet thing! How did you know?” he cried, clapping his hands with delight, his grin stretching impossibly wide.

He spun in place, his red suit catching the light, with a smirk that practically dripped from the edge of the screen.

“Next question! Pay attention, darling.”

Mr. Tenna brought the cue card closer to his screen like face, squinting theatrically as if struggling to read it, though of course, he had no eyes.

“What is Mr. Tenna’s biggest... fear?”

A) Loneliness.

B) Being forgotten.

C) No one loves him.

D) Betrayal.

“Stop. Don’t answer.”

Mr. Tenna’s smile froze. Then, just for a second, the screen that was his face went blank. Completely lifeless. His shoulders slouched. Arms limp. Static buzzed faintly in the silence.

“You know what?” he said suddenly, snapping back to life, posture upright, voice sparkling with renewed enthusiasm. “I actually loved your enthusiasm!”

Without warning, he tossed his cue cards high into the air like confetti. They fluttered down in slow motion, catching the stage lights like paper snow. He strode toward you with a spring in his step, that same feverish energy returning to his every movement.

“My enthusiasm?” you asked, voice a little smaller than before.

“Uh-huh,” he cooed, clasping his hands together with something disturbingly close to adoration.

A faint blush glowed across the lower corners of his screen, making his appearance oddly endearing and almost charming.

Tenna turned, glancing offstage, though there was no visible place like that, just darkness.

“Mike, bring the polygraph!”

His voice rang out with the giddy excitement of someone hosting a game they’d waited centuries to play.

Somewhere in the shadows, something began to stir and just like that Mr. Tenna vanished.

“Don’t you worry about a thing, my dear,” his voice cooed softly, suddenly right against your ear. “This won’t hurt a bit. It’s just for fun.”

Before you could react, you felt gloved hands slip around your waist. They moved with urgency, moving up your torso to fasten a strange belt just above your chest. Cool metal brushed your skin as electrodes were carefully pressed to your fingertips. He gently guided your hand back onto the podium, holding it down for a moment longer than necessary.

“Just be sure not to move...” he whispered, voice dipping into something lower, almost dangerous, “...as it could affect your results negatively.”

The last thing he placed on you was a blood pressure cuff. He cinched it tighter than it needed to be, enough to make a point. And you weren’t in much of a position to complain.

Then his warm lips hovered by your ear.

“Oh, and one more thing... I want sincere answers. Am I clear?”

You nodded carefully, trying not to shift too much beneath the wires and straps.

His gloved hand cupped your face with an unsettling gentleness, and without warning, he gave your cheeks a soft, playful squeeze.

“Good contestant!” he chirped, like he was praising a pet.

H̴̛͙͖̖̦̯̮̘̿̚À̵̡̧̟̪̪̻̹̺͔͈̥̫̼͙̆̋̿͒̓̈́̈̇̀̌͋̒̌́H̸̨͚̥̭̱̳̺̬̰̹̥͔̅̓͑̌̾̍͑͆͐̕͜Ȁ̴̘̩̞͚̭̏̆̍̅̈̒͋H̴̢̡͉̘̲̖̙̭͇͈̃̈́̋̽̎͛̀͝͝A̵̙̼̻̣̗̰͈͛͗̒͒͆̀̆͝ͅH̵̢̧͚̮̦̤͇̤͇̞͔͊̉Ḁ̶̰̜̜͇̖̤͙̖̗̀H̴͙̫̗̟̗̝̮̯̒͛̊́̏̔͛̃̍̕͘͘͝Ą̶͎̩̣̼̺͎̼̻̻͈̫͇͎̦́̃͌́̎̀̾̉͋̽̌͋Ḥ̴̨̧̝͇̭̦̞̌̽͊͋̃̋͋̂ͅẮ̷̧̮̻̻̪͖̝̰̥̑͠H̶̢̨̩̰͕̭͈͍̫̱̚ͅĀ̴̢͍̼̙͚̐͝Ḩ̸̨̧͇̪̝̗̬̳͚̲̤̖͛́̈̓͘͘͜A̶̛͖̪̺̤͕̒̿̈̉̈́̊̂͜͠H̴̡̛̛͔̺̙̤͖̿̔̿̀̎̾̃̅͗̐A̵̪̫̩̓̾̓̐̐͂̚͝Ḥ̷͖͓̗̖̳̹̪̱̙̙͉̰̱̈́͋̅̔̔͜Ả̴̬̇̆̆̑̂̇

“Let’s continue then,” Tenna said smoothly, turning on his heel with a little flourish.

He strolled back toward the screen, not to far, but still close enough to watch you.

“With my very special, improvised questions crafted just for our star contestant...” he purred, spreading his arms like a magician about to pull a dove out of a hat.

He stepped closer again, until his screen was just inches away from your face. His glow bathed your skin in soft static. You didn’t move, couldn’t. You simply tried to breathe, to brace yourself for whatever came next.

“Where do you want to be right now?” he asked, voice softer this time, almost curious.

He tilted his head ever so slightly, like he was scanning you.

A) ON THE TV!

B) IN MY HOUSE???

C) ON THE BACKSTAGE ALONE WITH MR. TENNA.

D) CLAPPING AMONG THE CROWD.

Your heart told you one thing. Your nerves another. But Tenna... he was watching you closely. So you swallowed hard and pressed the button for A.

“Yes! Excellent choice. You’re telling me the truth,” he gasped, clapping his hands together like a delighted host with his favorite contestant. “But you know…”

He turned slightly toward the audience, voice dipping into a conspiratorial purr.

“I would’ve also accepted C.”

H̴̛͙͖̖̦̯̮̘̿̚À̵̡̧̟̪̪̻̹̺͔͈̥̫̼͙̆̋̿͒̓̈́̈̇̀̌͋̒̌́H̸̨͚̥̭̱̳̺̬̰̹̥͔̅̓͑̌̾̍͑͆͐̕͜Ȁ̴̘̩̞͚̭̏̆̍̅̈̒͋H̴̢̡͉̘̲̖̙̭͇͈̃̈́̋̽̎͛̀͝͝A̵̙̼̻̣̗̰͈͛͗̒͒͆̀̆͝ͅH̵̢̧͚̮̦̤͇̤͇̞͔͊̉Ḁ̶̰̜̜͇̖̤͙̖̗̀H̴͙̫̗̟̗̝̮̯̒͛̊́̏̔͛̃̍̕͘͘͝Ą̶͎̩̣̼̺͎̼̻̻͈̫͇͎̦́̃͌́̎̀̾̉͋̽̌͋Ḥ̴̨̧̝��̭̦̞̌̽͊͋̃̋͋̂ͅẮ̷̧̮̻̻̪͖̝̰̥̑͠H̶̢̨̩̰͕̭͈͍̫̱̚ͅĀ̴̢͍̼̙͚̐͝Ḩ̸̨̧͇̪̝̗̬̳͚̲̤̖͛́̈̓͘͘͜A̶̛͖̪̺̤͕̒̿̈̉̈́̊̂͜͠H̴̡̛̛͔̺̙̤͖̿̔̿̀̎̾̃̅͗̐A̵̪̫̩̓̾̓̐̐͂̚͝Ḥ̷͖͓̗̖̳̹̪̱̙̙͉̰̱̈́͋̅̔̔͜Ả̴̬̇̆̆̑̂̇

Tenna glanced back at you, his smile flashing with the glow of his screen.

“You’re good at this, aren’t you...”

He took a slow step closer, then another, until his presence practically buzzed against your skin. A gloved hand slipped casually around your waist, fingers resting there like he had every right.

“Let’s make this more difficult.”

He turned his head just enough to gesture toward the glowing screen, then brought his face back to yours, closer now, watching for the tiniest twitch in your expression.

The question appeared behind him: who have you been longing for?

A) Elnina and Lanino. They come in the same pack.

B) My ex.

C) Mike.

D) Mr. Tenna!

Oh my. How did I get myself into this?

You couldn’t tell if the audience was laughing or glitching. Either way, Tenna was grinning.

“Oh, how spicy,” he said, his voice practically brimming with joy. “I love these kinds of questions. They put the contestants right under the spotlight where they belong.”

He gestured upward, and in an instant, a searing beam of light dropped down on you, hotter than before.

“Now then. Tell us, sweetheart...” he said, his voice lowering in your ear like a secret. “Who has your heart been aching for?”

The light above you seemed to burn a little, or maybe that was just the flush creeping up your neck.

“We’re dying to know.”

You swallowed before answering.

“Mr. Tenna.”

He froze. Not with fear, but with intrigue. You’d answered so quickly, and that alone seemed to catch him off guard. The edges of his smile wavered just slightly, like a corrupted frame struggling to hold itself together.

“I don’t know anyone,” you continued, voice quiet. “Except for you.”

You looked up at him, as if expecting him to stop this nonsense. But he didn’t. If anything, your vulnerability lit him up even more.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he stammered, his voice losing some of its usual smoothness, his hand awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck. “Careful what you confess in front of a live audience.”

H̴̛͙͖̖̦̯̮̘̿̚À̵̡̧̟̪̪̻̹̺͔͈̥̫̼͙̆̋̿͒̓̈́̈̇̀̌͋̒̌́H̸̨͚̥̭̱̳̺̬̰̹̥͔̅̓͑̌̾̍͑͆͐̕͜Ȁ̴̘̩̞͚̭̏̆̍̅̈̒͋H̴̢̡͉̘̲̖̙̭͇͈̃̈́̋̽̎͛̀͝͝A̵̙̼̻̣̗̰͈͛͗̒͒͆̀̆͝ͅH̵̢̧͚̮̦̤͇̤͇̞͔͊̉Ḁ̶̰̜̜͇̖̤͙̖̗̀H̴͙̫̗̟̗̝̮̯̒͛̊́̏̔͛̃̍̕͘͘͝Ą̶͎̩̣̼̺͎̼̻̻͈̫͇͎̦́̃͌́̎̀̾̉͋̽̌͋Ḥ̴̨̧̝͇̭̦̞̌̽͊͋̃̋͋̂ͅẮ̷̧̮̻̻̪͖̝̰̥̑͠H̶̢̨̩̰͕̭͈͍̫̱̚ͅĀ̴̢͍̼̙͚̐͝Ḩ̸̨̧͇̪̝̗̬̳͚̲̤̖͛́̈̓͘͘͜A̶̛͖̪̺̤͕̒̿̈̉̈́̊̂͜͠H̴̡̛̛͔̺̙̤͖̿̔̿̀̎̾̃̅͗̐A̵̪̫̩̓̾̓̐̐͂̚͝Ḥ̷͖͓̗̖̳̹̪̱̙̙͉̰̱̈́͋̅̔̔͜Ả̴̬̇̆̆̑̂̇

“Ahem... Next question.” He tried to sound more authoritative, but his voice came out softer, like he was still trying to collect himself.

He quickly grabbed some cue cards from the floor, flipping them over a little too fast, his fingers trembling just enough to betray his nerves.

“Okay, okay…” He muttered to himself as he scanned the questions. “Who would you choose... if you had to kiss someone... in this room?”

A̴̛͚̬̙̗̳̭̅̔̊̀́͗̈́̄̈́̃̇A̴̞͍̫̹̣͖̮̗̠̳͖͔͂̈́́̑͜A̶̹͇̯̝̰͎̣̯̅̾̽́̈̓̅̇͗̆͋̀͘̕͝Ą̷̻̘̝̥̱̪̯̗̮͕̩̳͒̍́͛̋̊̈́͊͂̀͘̕A̶̜͓̾̉̆̈̑̎̊͂͗̎͘A̶̛̼͖̜͖͔͇͇̼͚̖͎̎̊̅͗́̈́̒̆́̎̾͐̓̈Ȃ̸̢̡̨̮̮͓̱̟̹̤̘̼̬̙͗̍̈́̃̑͆͝Ă̶̙̈͑́́̉́̊͘Ą̶̢̧̲̟̫̟̝͔̱͉̲̭̜͗̑̋̄̄͂̿̈́̄̽͐̈́̚A̶̛̭͍͍̞͈̬̻͈̱̱̲͎̍́̈́ͅA̷̳̟̠̞͔̦̒̆̂́͋͊̕A̴̰͍̪͆̐̔̀͆̈͐̂̑̀̃̽͘͝͝Ẁ̷̗̼̭͙͓̦͈͕̘̠͊W̵̠͈̮͛̕͝Ŵ̵̨̗͕͖̣̺̘͍̞̓̇͆̌͒̃̑̽͠Ẇ̸̪̝̺͊̒̉́ͅW̴̡̨͙̖̬̰̱̟̪̠͙͔̒̈́͊͊͌̿̑̔͗

Then, looking back at you, his smile reappeared, but it was a little more strained now, corners twitching with a nervous energy.

“Just kidding! Just kidding! It’s a silly ques—”

“Mr. Tenna,” you said quickly, already understanding the game, already seeing how this would unfold.

Tenna’s expression faltered. His smile flickered briefly, like he was processing the answer but didn’t quite know how to handle it.

“Oh, dear,” he breathed, his hand sliding to his collar and tugging it as if the air had suddenly grown warmer. “You sure know how to keep things interesting.”

He turned on his heel, facing the audience with a sudden flourish, clearly in desperate need of a breather.

“And with that...” he declared, still a little breathless, “...we’ll be right back after the commercial break!”

He didn’t wait for the cameras to cut. No final wink. No flashy exit. Just a quiet turn and a quick walk toward the edge of the stage. So you decided to follow him, just to get more answers.

Backstage was… bizarre. It didn’t have the chaos you would have expected for a place like this. It actually looked cozy with potted plants and comfy couches. And people. Or… something close to people.

Among them stood a curious couple that looked like they were made for each other. Like the moon and the sun, though the moon was actually... a cloud?

They noticed you staring at them and the taller one gave you a polite nod.

“You lost, love?” asked the taller one, his face oddly shiny, like he’d just returned from a luxurious vacation somewhere far too sunny for this kind of place. His smile shimmered with the same glow, just slightly too perfect to feel real.

You blinked, still stunned to be meeting these… people. Weather systems? TV spirits? You weren’t sure.

“I’m looking for Mr. Tenna,” you said cautiously. “Have you seen him?”

The other one leaned in, voice warm and breezy. “Hmm. I don’t know. He’s never left a show like that before.”

“Very rare,” the taller one added with a knowing smile. “And very cute.”

The cloudy one, her white hair subtly shifting with looping wind currents gazed lovingly at her partner.

“They have to be together or something,” she whispered to the sunny man.

You blinked surprised. “I just met this man like… ten minutes ago.”

The couple looked at eachother with an unreadable expression only they could understand. Then, in perfect sync, they lifted their arms and pointed towards a door.

“He went that way.”

...

Next chapter

[suhkusa]

A SECRET ALLIANCE - A HAIKYUU SMAU

pairing. sakusa kiyoomi x reader

smau warnings. college au!, angst, fluff, subjective/questionable humor, ooc probably, strangers-to-lovers, slight enemies-to-lovers (if you squint), some written content

status. COMPLETE!

synopsis. Your love life has never been too interesting— or good. But after downloading an app that allowed you to talk to strangers online, you find yourself entangled with anonymous user IMOAsukas. The catch? He’s part of your college’s volleyball team.

INTRO.

1. THEWURLDISMINE

2. JANE THE VIRGIN

3. EMBARRASSING

4. GOOD NIGHT

5. HELP ME!!!

6. MISSION K.M.S

7. ABOUT TIME

8. #REAL

9. BREATHE [📝]

10. BIGGER (SAKUSA KIYOOMI)

11. LIKABLE PERSONALITY

12. SILLY GIRLY FANTASY

13. SICK AND TWISTED

14. SPOILER WARNING [📝]

15. SKY DADDY

16. COINCIDENCE

17. DICK APPOINTMENT

18. LIGHTLY SHAT

19. SEVERELY DRUNK

20. MESSY

21. CRASHING OUT [📝]

22. I’M MARRIED!!!!!! [📝]

23. HAPPY WIFE HAPPY LIFE

END.

specific warnings will be specified each chapter

© all writings belongs to suhkusa 2024. do not repost or change.

[xmunsonlovex]

Somewhere I Belong pt. 2

Summary: After your heated kiss at The Hideout, you're aching, and eager to continue your date with Eddie. You hope he wants the same.

pt.1

Word Count: 6800+

Pairing: Eddie Munson x Shy Fem!Reader

Warnings: 18+ MDNI. smut. making out, grinding, oral (f!receiving), fingering, brief hand job, some dirty talk, role-playing (short lived, because neither reader or Eddie can't hold it together.) Eddie is anxious of reader seeing his scars, reader second guesses herself a lot and opens up to Eddie, fluff.

a/n: here's pt. 2! I am shocked and so appreciative of how well received pt.1 was! Thank you to all who read it and commented/reblogged. I didn't feel 100% with how this part was coming along, but after reading it over hundreds of times...I think I am happy with it. I am planning on a part 3, which will most likely be the final chapter. As always, please let me know what you think <3

Dividers by: saradika-graphics

You’re pacing your living room, hands clammy as you run them over yourself, trying to calm the anxiety you’re feeling. Eddie said he’d be over in about 30 minutes, mentioning that he had to drop off the guys first since they rode with him to the bar, and then he wanted to take a quick shower, not wanting for you to smell the sweat and smoke that usually stuck to his skin after his performances at The Hideout. On the drive home, you had replayed the kiss from earlier in your mind at least a thousand times, smiling to yourself at the prospect of continuing it at your place. You made sure to tidy up, not wanting to take the next step of this date in a messy house. Would he even care how your house looked? Probably not. You weren’t sure where this would lead to, but you were pretty hopeful. You could see yourself dating Eddie, and wondered if he felt the same. You had a feeling he did. 

“I can do this..” You mumble, looking out your window to see if Eddie was home yet. He wasn't, his van was not there and the lights inside of what you assumed was his bedroom, are off. 

You thought about changing into something a little bit more provocative, though you didn't really have anything like that in your possession currently. Well, you did have a satin camisole with a lace trim at the bottom and matching shorts, that quite literally left your ass cheeks hanging out. It was gifted to you by a friend before you made your move to Hawkins. She said it would help in getting you lucky. At the time, you laughed at the ridiculousness of it, but now, it was looking like a real possibility. You’ll have to call her up and thank her. Hmm. If you wore it, maybe you could opt out of wearing any undergarments. That'd fry Eddie's brain, you're sure. You're so deep in thought that you don't hear Eddie's van drive up. He’s quiet this time, his music is off and he purposely shuts his door softly, going up the steps, into his trailer. He didn't want you to know he was there. Yet. 

Eddie turns the shower on, making it a bit nippier than usual to calm the heat that radiates from his body. He feels like a damn teenager again, dealing with raging hormones as you consume his thoughts at every hour of the day. He's had a throbbing erection ever since your heated kiss, which was so rudely interrupted by Gareth. He tilts his head back as his hand glides over his cock, washing away the salty sweat that clung to his skin after his performance, and lets out a soft moan, shuddering at the firm grip. A relief he’s sure you'd be amazing at giving him. He bets your delicate hands would feel great on him, stroking him as he'd guide you through it. He really likes knowing that he'd be your first at everything, if you'd have him, of course. Eddie had a lot of things he wanted needed to do to you. He needed to taste every inch of you, imagining that you’d taste heavily on his tongue. Needed to know your scent, have it pervade his nostrils. Eddie was completely infatuated with you, and wasn't sure how he could act normal around you anymore. Not after that kiss. You had left him smitten. 

The blinds in your bedroom swiftly moved, causing the curtain to ripple at the movement. This paused the whirlwind of thoughts that were going through your head. You crease your eyebrows because you know they only did that when the doors in the trailer would open and shut thereafter. You had noticed this happen when Eddie came in one day earlier in the week to look at the faucet in your bathroom, and when he closed the door, the blinds shook. You still hadn’t heard Eddie’s music blaring from his van though, so you walked to the living room, now dressed in your “provocative” clothes you decided to put on, and looked around. The front door was still shut closed, and there was no sign of anyone breaking in while you were in your bedroom. This would be quite possibly the worst time for someone to break in, while you stand there in this barely there outfit and no weapon nearby to protect yourself. Shit. Maybe I should have locked the door.

“Mmm, my, my. What have we got here? Looking so lonely, princess.“ Eddie’s voice says from behind you. “Didn’t your mom always say to lock your doors at night? A lot of bad, scary guys out there, baby.” He grins mischievously, his eyes slowly scanning your figure. His throat becomes dry at seeing your nipples poke through the thin fabric of the camisole. 

“Holy shit Eddie, you scared me!” You had jumped when you heard his voice, gripping the edge of the kitchen counter, your lower back pressed up against it. He lets out a dark chuckle, like he’s enjoying playing this “bad, scary man who just “broke in”. 

“You wanted me to walk right in..well, here I am, babe.” He’s acting so confident but inside, he's ready to bust at the seams. “And I gotta say, you look like a meal. I could devour you right about now..” He takes a step closer to you, reaching out to run his thumb over your lower lip. “The whole ride home, I just..couldn't wait to see you. Wanna continue what we started..” You whisper as you look at him, noticing that his eyes are darker, filled with lust. You’re sure you look desperate, you definitely sound it. His lips form into a teasing smirk, running his tongue along his canine tooth all while his pants are feeling tighter and tighter. “I'm going to take my time with you. If you’ll let me, I'll untie your sensuality. I'll open up your heart, and satisfy my greed.” Eddie says, his breath hitting your neck as he’s pressed up against you, placing both hands next to yours on the kitchen counter, enclosing you with his body. You can distinctly feel his hard-on poking you against your mound. His lips are inches, if not centimeters, away from your skin, waiting for you to give him the ok to continue. He is a gentleman, after all. 

“I’ll-I will let you, Ed’s.” You say, all breathy and feeling weak in the knees. You're thankful he's got you pressed up against him because you were certain you'd drop onto the floor into a puddle of your own arousal. You feel his hot, wet mouth on your neck, giving you your very first hickey, causing you to let out a quiet moan. “You like how that feels?” Eddie smirks, moving one of his hands to hold onto your waist, gripping it as he goes in for another hickey, running the tip of his tongue over his mark, proud to make you his. To show everyone you belong to him. 

“Yes. That feels nice..” You’re certain he knows that you’re practically putty in his hands.

“Can't wait to lay you down and show you just how much you’ve consumed my mind. All the filthy thoughts I've had of you. Do you know how many scenarios I played in my head while I fucked my fist?” His smirks, running the hand he had on your hip down over your ass, giving it a hard squeeze. He doesn't miss the soft whimper you let out, making him growl lowly as he lunges forward to kiss you deeply, holding you in his arms. Your tongues are wrestling when he feels you grind against him, which nearly makes him short-circuit, about to lose the little composure he had left. “Fuck..” He mumbles, and sees you place both your hands over his chest, leading him to your couch. You’re currently super grateful to have that annoyingly large couch you had previously complained so much about. Eddie gently plummets down on the soft cushions, and immediately your eyes fall towards the prominent tent in his jeans. You're giddy knowing you caused that, and feeling empowered by the little confidence boost you’ve gained. Yet Eddie notes the obvious nerves while your hands tremble a bit just as you’re about to take off those small shorts.

 “Baby…you don't have to do anything you don't want to do. I'm fine with stroking one out, looking at you just like this.” He smirked and chuckled, hoping he hasn't caused you to think otherwise. That’s the last thing he’d want. 

“I know. I..I mean, I am a little nervous but...” You let out a soft chuckle, feeling chills run up your spine as his hand softly strokes the outside of your thigh. “But I want to at least do something tonight. Who better to guide me..than you..” You blush and lean over to pull down your shorts, letting them pool around your ankles. “Darlin’, you flatter me- oh fuck..” Eddie groaned, taking in your bare lower half as his eyes followed your movements. You chew on your inner cheek, hands nervously grabbing at the edge of the camisole you're about to remove. 

“I..want to grind on you..” 

“You can do anything you want to me, sweetheart. You could fucking shoot me, and I'd thank you for it.” He scoffed, thinking you could do no wrong in his eyes. You were perfect to him.

“Heh..uhm. Well, it’s something I saw in a video one time. I‘d like to try it.” His eyes are wide and lips are parted. You watch porn? You were indeed perfect.

 “Go for it, sweetheart. Experiment on me, but first..” He leans over to grab your shorts that you had stepped out of, and bunches them in his hand, feeling a damp spot on the crotch of them. A smirk forms on his face as he looks at the shorts, noticing the wet spot and puts it up to his nose, inhaling deeply and he lets out a satisfied sigh. God, you smell so sweet. 

“Eddie..!” You’re embarrassed, covering your face with your hands. 

“What? D’you know how long I've wanted to smell you?” He’s got that shit-eating grin, content in now knowing your scent, feeling like he’s hit a jackpot. He's definitely saving those shorts for himself. She won't mind.

You softly laugh, and let out a heavy sigh through your nose as you pull the camisole over your head, now standing fully nude for Eddie. The speed in which you undressed yourself for him honestly left you astounded. You know it went against everything that you kept telling yourself, but you came to the conclusion that Eddie made you feel safe, that he’d never want to hurt you. You bite your lower lip at how he’s staring at you with hungry eyes, his mouth practically watering as he watches every small movement you make. 

“I fear I've died and gone to heaven because holy shit, sweetheart. You're perfect.” His cock is painfully hard, ready to burst through the tight confinements of his pants when you walk over to him, and straddle his lap. He is able to feel your heat through the thick fabric of his pants, which makes his hips involuntarily thrust up, feeling like a damn dog in heat. 

“May I?” You ask, tugging on his belt, but wait for him to respond before you start to unbuckle it.

“Yeah.” Eddie breathes, though he's hardly paying attention to what you're even asking in that moment. He's too busy watching your delicate hands pull his zipper down, admiring how gentle you're being while you were appreciative of how patient he was. You felt you were moving at a snail's pace, at least that's how it felt like in your mind since you wanted to savor the moment. Eddie's sight had moved towards your breasts, admiring how supple they looked and how perfect they'd fit in his mouth. His eyes slowly trailed back down to your hands again, and then back up to your face, smiling at your blushing cheeks. “You're so beautiful..” He whispers and in your giddy state, you lean over to kiss him. Before he knew it, his cock was sprung free and you let out an audible gasp. 

“W-what? What's wrong?” Eddie looked at you, wondering if you suddenly had seen his scars. He wasn’t ready for that conversation yet. 

“You're so big..” You say, and reach out to wrap your hand around his width, able to feel him throb against your palm. The velvety skin felt smooth and warm as you make out the thick vein that was on the underside of his cock as you start stroking him, watching him crease his eyebrows, biting his lip. You wondered how he'd even fit in you when it came time for that, especially since you couldn't barely fit 2 fingers inside yourself.

“You're doing great, Y/N.. “ He spurs you on, grunting with each stroke you give him, which has him a whiny mess as you squeeze the head of his cock gently, spreading the pearlescent precum around, much to your curiosity. You gently press his cock down against his lower tummy, and maneuver your cunt over the underside of his shaft, sitting on him and do an experimental roll of your hips, earning a groan from both you and Eddie. “Fuck. I’m going to be honest, I don’t think I am going to last very long...” He’s watching you as his hands find purchase on your upper thighs, keeping you in place. You start rocking your hips forward in a more fluid pace, grinding yourself on him and moaning at the sweet relief you feel everytime your clit rubs against his cock. The friction you feel is borderline intoxicating, nothing you've ever felt before when you'd touch yourself. Despite the lack of experience, you weren't totally clueless, knowing you enjoyed how elated you'd get after an orgasm. You loved chasing that feeling.

“You're so wet, baby. Can't wait to eat that pretty pussy of yours. Bet you taste so sweet, like a delicious dessert..” Eddie grins and watches you, seeing how your breasts moved with the way you were gliding up and down on him. It had him incredibly, and embarrassingly close to cumming.

All that's heard in the small trailer is your moans along with Eddie's heavy panting as his grip on your thighs move to your hips, tightening his hold on you. “Faster..” He grunts, observing the trail of slick you're leaving on the underside of his dick the faster you grind. You're leaning over him now with both your hands on his chest, holding you up as you chase your own pleasure and orgasm, knowing you're about to reach that peak. “Fuuuck..” Eddie breathes out, gripping your hips even harder now as his cum spurts out onto his stomach, a large load from being virtually teased all evening. The image of him orgasming,  because of you…topples you over the edge. “Eddie!” You moan out, shutting your eyes tightly as you cum. Your movements come to a halt when you feel yourself a bit overstimulated, never being able to handle crossing that line. You're both trying to recollect yourselves, heartbeat thumping in your ears from the intensity of it all. 

“Was it everything you wanted it to be?” Eddie breaks the silence, smirking and chuckles, looking down at his stomach, seeing the mess he made, and then the mess you made on his cock. That brought him joy. Knowing that he barely touched you. That you used him to get off, he loved it. He could get used to that. 

“Yes..that was amazing..” you giggle and let out a deep, satisfied sigh, a small smile spreading on your lips as you stand up. Your legs are still wobbly from the intense orgasm, and you walk over to the lining closet, pulling the door open and grab a couple of hand towels to clean up. You're walking back to Eddie, and see him watching you like a hawk. “Babe, next time, I do the honors. Pretty thing like you shouldn't have to worry about cleaning this up.” Eddie says as he grabs the towel from your hands and cleans himself up. Next time. You like the sound of that. 

“Such a gentleman.” You blush as you grab the camisole, slipping it back on, and chuckle at Eddie who is frowning at you. “I had such a nice view.” He tsk, and stands up, pulling his pants back up, though he leaves them unbuckled. You’re both staring at one another, a small gap between you two. He’s looking at you, really looking at you as his hand reaches out to caress your cheek. He’s not sure how he got so lucky, to have a pretty thing like you honestly interested in him in a romantic sense. He closes the gap, and kisses you tenderly, never getting enough of his lips on yours. 

“We will take things at your pace. If…if you want to continue this. I’m-I don’t even know if you liked me enough to wanna do this again. You had fun, right?” Get it together Eddie, she’ll really want to go on another date now after this rambling.

“Eddie, relax.” You chuckle, smiling fondly at him. He’s so cute. “Yes, I had a lot of fun tonight. Between the concert, and well...” You blush and bite your lower lip. “I was actually going to ask.. if you’d like to spend the night? I have a few horror movies. Maybe pop some popcorn.” 

“Hell yeah, I’ll stay the night. I’ll get the popcorn, you pick the movie.” He kisses you, and walks into the kitchen, looking in all the cupboards for the popcorn box, making himself familiar with where everything was in your trailer. “Ah-ha.” He spots it, and grabs one packet and puts it in the microwave, pressing enter. He watches as you walk past him towards your bedroom,and admires the nice view of your ass, smirking as it jiggles with each step you take. The loud popping of the popcorn pulls his attention off of you in that moment, and he leans over to grab a large enough bowl to fill with the buttery popcorn. You come back around, dressed in just an oversized band tee. “Iron Maiden? You’re full of surprises, honey.” Eddie grins amusingly, as he throws the popcorn bag into the trash. “You have no idea.” You sweetly smile and open your fridge to pull out 2 soda cans, and walk over to the living room, placing the sodas on the coasters that were on the coffee table.

 “I picked Texas Chainsaw Massacre..”

“Going straight for the kill, huh? A classic.” Eddie chuckles and sits down on the couch, getting comfortable as he pats the seat next to him. You realize he still makes you nervous, and you’re not quite sure why. You literally got yourself off on him not even an hour ago, and he’s seen you fully nude now. You suppose that it's because this is the first time you’ve hung around with someone you actually like. And now he’s spending the night? Yeah, you understand why you have butterflies. Regardless, you muster up a smile, albeit a shy one, and sit next to him, thighs touching as you sit back and press play. 

The rest of the night is filled with stolen glances and little pecks here and there, barely paying attention to what’s going on in the movie. You really did intend on watching, but alas, it was just background noise at this point as you two sit there making out, not being able to keep your hands off of each other. It’s close to 1am, and you can hardly keep your eyes open. The movie had long been over, as you lay on Eddie. He’s running his fingers through your hair, and you’re listening to his heartbeat as if it's a lullaby, putting you to sleep. “Let’s head to the room. I reckon we won’t sleep comfortably here if we drift off.” He says, patting your butt to get you to get off of him. Not that he minds, but he moves around. A lot. He’s afraid he’ll knock you over in the middle of the night in his deep sleep. Your hum makes him think you agree with him though, as you stand up, and grab his hand to help pull him up with you. Eddie puts the popcorn bowl and empty soda cans in the kitchen sink, a task for the morning to deal with, and soon you both are in bed, under the thick blankets after brushing your teeth together. 

Eddie’s comfy in your plush bed. Smells much nicer than his, like you had recently washed the sheets, and they’re so much softer. He guesses you use fabric softener? He may have to invest in it if it truly works this well. This whole time he thought it was just a gimmick, but if he plans on having you sleep over too, well..he’ll do what he must.

“G’night Eds..” You say sleepily, laying on your side, facing him.

“Night, sweetheart.” He whispers, and leans over to kiss the top of your head, wrapping his arm around you to keep you warm. The trailer got quite cold, much colder than his, he noticed. His AC was something he usually would hold off on repairing. It was an expensive fix and most times, he slept naked anyway. He didn’t see the need to ever service it but if he was going to have you over like he intended, he definitely had to get it fixed. Eddie kisses your head one last time before you’re both out, soft snores heard shortly after. 

It's not even 10am the next morning and Eddie is already all over you. His body Is hovering over yours, holding his weight up by his forearms. He's giving himself a pat on the back for working out his arms at least. He fills your neck with soft kisses, low groans escaping him as he runs his hand up your thigh, wanting to make you feel like his goddess. That wasn’t an issue because you had never felt this desired in your adult life. 

“Eddie..” You sigh with a sleepy smile. 

“What..?” He grins, moving his lips to the other side of your neck, giving it the same treatment. “Thought I'd wake up early and enjoy the morning with a little morning breakfast.” He smirks, kissing down your neck and throat, peppering kisses along your collarbones. 

“I..I haven't showered this morning though.” You say, as you look at him. It was your routine ever since you were in school. An early morning shower to wake you up and get you ready to tackle the day. 

“You did last night? I smelled that fancy body wash on you when I broke in.” He chuckled, shrugging nonchalantly as he continued to make his way lower on you. 

“Yeah, but-”

“Babe. You're fine. Ya’ gotta let it marinate overnight so it tastes perfect, anyway.” He licked his lips, and you gasped out loud. “Eddie!” You playfully smack his upper arm, shaking your head as you see him continue moving on south, a playful grin on his face as he pushes your shirt up around your waist. You've done no real effort in stopping him though, your curiosity getting the best of you. “Please?” He is practically begging now, wanting nothing more than to put his tongue deep in you. He sees you spread your legs a little more, and makes out the small wet spot on your panties already. “I'll take that as a yes?” He says as he lingers over your clothed pussy, pressing a soft kiss to the top hem on your underwear. “Yes.” You nod, biting your lip in anticipation. His gratified look calms your nerves as he takes another deep inhale of your scent, sticking his tongue out to teasing flick at your clit over your underwear. his eyes are stuck on yours as he gauges your expressions, which you were already feeling euphoric with that light touch of his. 

“I'm going to take these off.” He says, hooking his fingers into your panties and slowly slides them down your legs, sitting up a little to toss them to the side of the bed, then looks at your pussy, all spread out for him. “Mm..” he lays on his stomach again, and holds your inner thighs wide open as he licks a slow stripe up your folds, wrapping his lips around your clit to give it a nice suck. The moan that left your throat was downright pornographic, making you flush with embarrassment. Eddie could tell, and he’d do anything to help break you out of that self conscious shell you hid behind. His bruising grip on your thighs keep them wide open for him, making you wince in pain and pleasure as he flicked your clit with his tongue, before he slid it into you, his nose bumping into your swollen bud as he relished in your taste. “Fuck, fuuuuck…” You’re writhing underneath him, and grinding on his face as you're already so close to that sweet finish line. 

“Yeah? You like that..?” Eddie groans as he pulls away from your dripping cunt and instead, slowly inserts his middle and ring fingers inside you. “Shit baby, you're so fucking tight..” The obscene sounds that were heard from him fucking you with his fingers should have made you recoil, should have made you want to curl into a ball and hide, but you were feeling too much ecstasy to even care at this point. “Can't wait to stretch you out with my cock, princess..” He groaned, resting his head on the inside of your thigh and looked up at you, a big smirk on his face knowing he's got you right where he wants you. Fucked out with your juices all over him. 

“You gonna cum for me, baby? I can tell you’re close. Squeezing my fingers so good..” He leans in to suck on your clit hard while he keeps fingering you, curling it upwards towards that spongy spot that makes you see stars. “Ed-Eddie! Fuck..I'm cumming..!” You all but yell, gripping his hair as the intense orgasm washes over you. Your heart is beating rapidly and your pussy is throbbing, but Eddie hasn't refrained from moving his fingers, or tongue for that matter. He's licking up every drop you gave him, making sure as to not waste a single bit of your delicious nectar. Your heavy breathing is music to his ears as he places a gentle kiss to your mound, kissing up to your lips, and smiles.

“Morning.” He chuckles, watching as you come down from your high. 

“Oh my god.” You softly laugh, and kiss him in return, tasting yourself on his tongue. “I could get used to being woken up like that.” 

“Consider it done. Every morning, my duty is to sneak into your trailer, hide in your closet while you sleep and then wake you up by feasting on your pussy.” He happily smiles, which causes you to heartedly laugh at his silliness. “Wouldn’t be a surprise if you tell me, now would it?” You play along, biting at your inner cheek. You’re certain Eddie has now picked up on most of your nervous habits. The inner cheek chewing, playing with your fingers, the lip biting, stuttering. You got teased for it a lot in school, yet Eddie finds it cute and endearing.

“You don’t have to be nervous around me, babe. It’s just me. Your cute neighbor...and…maybe boy..friend?” He says the last part as a question, in hopes that he isn’t overstepping. He knows he can do that often, from what others have told him, anyway. Being that obnoxious metalhead kid in high school gave him that title. You look at him, as that familiar reddish blush spreads over your cheeks, the one that he finds so cute. “And I just want to assure you that I know we’ve only known each other for what..a week now? But it’s been the best week of my life, Y/N. I-I don’t get many opportunities that come up for me like this. Meeting a genuinely nice girl…who’s actually into me? Most would say hell hath frozen over now that Eddie Munson got a girlfriend..” He chuckled, pouring his heart out to you. He felt you needed to hear this, so you wouldn’t doubt yourself so much. He could tell you did that often, just like he did to himself. ”I like you..if it wasn’t obvious enough with how much I like to be around you, and in you.” He grinned, reaching out to grab your hand and pulled you up, so that you’d be closer to him.

“I promise I’ll never hurt you..because I feel…you’re quite..apprehensive about that.” He says softly, tucking your hair behind your ear.

“I..yes. I am. This would be my first relationship, like I’ve said. I saw the pain my mom went through when it happened to her. Her previous relationships. One was abusive..one cheated multiple times. She never deserved that..” You softly speak, looking at your hands as you shook your head. “ I don’t..think I could handle that pain, if it happened to me. I know I’m still young..but..” You hesitate continuing to open up, like you normally did with anyone. You sometimes wondered how you even had friends. 

“Talk to me, babe. If we’re going to be build this friendship, this relationship, we gotta get things out in the open. Be honest with each other." Eddie says, stroking your hand. 

“Well, I told you a little bit about my life back at home when you took me to the farmers market. ‘Know that I basically had a rough high school experience. I was that shy, quiet kid in school..ever since forever basically. I did have friends, but kids were so mean. Then I started high school and fucking christ..” You sigh, looking at Eddie, who remained looking at you, trying to be comforting. The more you thought about it, the more you became disappointed in yourself. Why did you let it affect you so much? “I-I guess I had really low self esteem all through my school years. Never had someone show any interest in me, not even an anonymous note in my locker…like they do in the movies, you know?” You chuckle, biting your lip as you feel the emotions start to overwhelm you, so many memories of those days replaying in your mind. “One  time I ask a guy I liked to hang out, I thought maybe he’d be into me a bit. But he literally laughed in my face after turning me down. Saying he didn’t date my kind. Whatever the fuck that meant.” The tears are forming, as you tilt your head up and sniffle, not wanting to cry in front of him. Not again, anyway.

“Baby, here. Look at me.” Eddie’s calm voice pulls you from your negative thoughts. A nagging voice that was always there, saying you weren’t good enough. “I don’t know those people…they sound like absolute fuckers, but I will say…I gotta thank them. You know why? Because you said you left that life at home wanting to escape, wanting to start a new life. Well, I wouldn’t have met you if that didn’t happen. I know that’s selfish, but give me a chance to..show you how good I can love you. Let me erase all those negative thoughts you have in your pretty head. You deserve to feel good about yourself. To be treated like the angel you are.” He says, stroking your cheek, hoping he’d have some success in taking you out of that dark corner you always seemed to gravitate towards. 

“Whatever happened in high school, those idiots…are just that. Idiots. I am no stranger in being the laughing stock for those football players or cheerleaders. I imagine you can tell I was not a popular guy by any means.” He chuckles. You smile softly at him, at his efforts to help you get out of that slump. 

“I-I know. I gotta leave that behind in the past. I just…tend to second guess myself with everything. Always questioning things..” You sigh, and cross your legs, feeling his hand on your back, softly caressing it as he tilts his head to the side a little, pressing it up against yours. It’s a quiet gesture, him giving you some time to express your next words, if needed. You knew he was right, knowing this is what you moved to Hawkins for. To make a new life, a new beginning, and whatever life threw your way, you’d handle it as a new person. And that’s exactly what life did. 

“Now, let’s enjoy this lovely day, yeah? It’s actually a perfect Sunday.” He stands, and extends his hand out for you to grab, and pulls you up with him. 

“After a quick shower, please.” You beg, wanting nothing more than to wash away last night’s, and this morning's, depravity but mostly just to feel refreshed and clean.

“Go ahead. I gotta check on some things at home. Meet me there, ok?” Eddie kisses you, and grabs his keys from the kitchen counter. “Oh shit, I forgot to take care of this.” He looks at the mess in the kitchen sink, knowing he said he’d handle it in the morning. He had to be better about that.

“I got it. I’ll see you in a bit, Eds.” You smile as you walk to your front door, opening it for him. He turns to kiss you before jogging over to his trailer, blowing you another kiss and then goes in. Truth is, he didn’t want to shower with you, not yet. He’d have to explain those damn scars he was so self-conscious about, and get into everything that has happened in Hawkins over the last few years. What if that made you want to leave? He couldn’t have that, no. He knows eventually he’ll have to tell you, especially when you’re ready to have sex with him. No way is he fucking you with a shirt on and no pants, like some fucking moron. He battled with the thoughts in his head, knowing he was being a bit of a hypocrite since he, quite frankly, told you to open up to him, and spill whatever was in your head, and here he was, not telling you everything he had dealt with in his young life on earth. A soft sigh escapes him as he steps into the shower and turns on the water, rubbing his face and groans frustratingly, at himself mostly. He couldn’t remember the last time he had a girlfriend. Sometime during his first senior year attempt, he thinks. Since then, it’s been pretty lonely. Now that he’s got you pretty close to wanting to be in a relationship with him, he had to get his shit together. Tell you all about his life, the bullshit he endured in ‘86. He definitely had to keep his trailer clean. He’d turn into a bit of a slob after Wayne moved out. Well, he was never tidy, but the state of his trailer left him ashamed, especially since yours was so neat. 

“Fuck..” Eddie mumbles, grabbing a 3rd bag to fill with trash that was on the coffee table and the floor surrounding. “Shoulda just told her I’d meet her back there..” He sighs, annoyed that he was breaking a sweat after his shower, and groans when soda drips all over his hand from a half full can. He’s ready to throw it across the room when your soft knocks against his door causes him to pause. Maybe if he stays completely still, you won’t see him through the blinds but that doesn’t seem to work when you knock again and yell out, “Eds, I can see you!” a soft giggle heard from behind the door. “Comin’.” He stands and walks over to let you in, a shameful look on his face as you take in the condition of his trailer. “I uh…the maid took the week off.” He says, joking to hide the humiliation he feels when you take a step in and cross your arms. “The week, or the whole year off?” You chuckle and grab the trash bag from his hand, smiling. “I’ll help.” You say and ignore his protests that you don’t have to, that this was his mess he had to straighten out. “I like cleaning. So, good luck with convincing me otherwise.” You smirk and kneel by the couch, starting to toss empty beer cans into the bag. 

Eddie pulls a lawn chair next to yours that sits by your small vegetable garden, facing the open area of grass and the start of woods further down. You’d yet to go exploring in there. “So, you sit out here, and just watch the sunset?” He says, handing you the bottle of water that you requested, and takes a seat beside you, extending his legs out as he cracks open the can of beer for himself. “I do. It doesn’t take too long, since the tall trees kinda hide it after a bit, but it looks beautiful. Relaxes me after a day at work.” You say and turn your heads towards him, admiring his side profile. You really liked his hair, a wild mane that fit his wild personality perfectly. Those full lips that kissed you so tenderly, yet feverish in need. The heavenly bulbous tip of his nose that bumped into your clit repeatedly when his tongue was lapping at your pussy. 

“You know darlin’, you can always take a photo. They last longer.” He teases with a grin, watching you quickly look straight ahead.  

“Oh, fuck off.” You softly laugh, and take a sip of water, holding his hand when he reaches out to grab it, needing to have some part of you in his grasp. It was comforting to him, as it was for you. What better way to enjoy the Sunday evening than with your cute neighbor, watching the sunset from the comfort of your backyard. 

A sigh is heard from Eddie. "Alright. Time to tell you about the upside down.."

[pboogerswbb]

SO IT GOES - chapter 18

Paige Bueckers x oc Warnings: language, angst Wordcount: 4.3K A/C: hey everybody! this will be the last part of the before london section - think of it as book 1. thank you everyone who’s read all of this and been supporting me, i appreciate you endlessly! please send me your thoughts on the chapter or live reactions because i LOVE those so much <333 also thank you for being so patient with me, if you didn’t know my charger broke so i had to write this chapter on my phone lmao. i’m gonna take a teeny break from so it goes to write something else and then get back to it :) i love you guys, thank you for everything <3 i’ve really poured my blood and sweat into this series

-

Before London

Her world comes crashing down. I can tell because she’s clutching to me as if the past three weeks never happened, hyperventilating. Her face is pressed into my shoulder, my hands holding her like no time ever passed. It took the world ending for her to come back to me. I just wish it didn’t take that much.

“Breathe Izzie,” I comfort her, my own panic subsiding to comfort the girl in my arms. Seeing her fall apart made me want to hold it together. Like I wanted to be the strong one for her.

“Remember, in and out with me,” I whisper, my chest expanding against her as I inhale slowly. She copies me, her breathing more ragged and shaky. Eventually, I feel her calm down. Good. There wasn’t much time to waste.

Pulling back I’m shocked to see how horrified she looks. There’s a tingling on my skin from where she pressed against me. She buries her face into her hands, sighing. “What am I going to do?” She murmurs.

“Hey, not you. We,” I remind her, watching the video one more time before putting my phone down. There was no way to twist this. It’s clearly me and Izara - and according to the comments, everyone else figured it out too.

Yoooooo knew they were together since may nooooo my wife paige come home Omg! Paige is gay?

Izzie is pacing in a small circle, heels clicking against the concrete floor. She’s freaking out. I had never seen her like this - Izzie always had solutions to everyone’s problems. She always knew what to do. It wasn’t easy seeing her this way. I had to figure this out for her sake.

”What are you doing?” She asks teary eyed as I lift my phone to my ear, shushing her gently. I listen to the rhythmic slow beep until a familiar voice answers. My PR agent.

”Hey, sorry to call you outta nowhere. I’m in a bit of a situation.”

”What are you doing?” She whispers, her voice trembling. I simply raise my hand, silencing her. I would never do that normally, but in this situation she allows it.

In a hushed voice I explain the situation to my PR agent while Izzie paces around me, hands thrown over her head. I couldn’t even let myself feel ecstatic over getting her to talk to me again. It was all because this was more serious than I could comprehend.

”What did she say?” Iz asks before I’ve even had the chance to fully hang up.

Taking a deep breath, I meet her gaze. ”She said we gotta assume everyone here has seen it,” I say. Her face twists and her eyes begin to well up. ”Everybody except Linda. We gotta make sure no one tells her.”

”There’s no point she’s probably already seen it,” Iz sighs.

”Linda? On social media in the middle of a work day? Ion think so.”

The girl thinks, looking at the low ceilings of the hallways for a while. ”I guess but what about when she gets home.”

”Ok maybe I’m wrong but Linda doesn’t seem like the type to scroll on TikTok or stan Twitter,” I chuckle hoping to earn at least a smile from her. I don’t.

”I don’t know Paige,” she says. Hearing my name from her lips feels ecstatic. Like I could’ve died right then. ”It’s risky.”

”It’s the only chance you got,” I whisper. I wish it wasn’t true. And I couldn’t help but feel partially responsible for all this. I had been in a mood that day. I should’ve been more clear-headed, less drunk, more sensible. What were we thinking kissing out in the open like that?

”My PR team is gonna get that video down. Even if others are posting it, they’ll make sure we don’t end up on TMZ or something,” I comfort the girl. But she’s barely listening.

”But what about all the people that are reposting that shit?”

”All we can do is report and hope for the best Iz.”

Goosebumps rise on her skin when I say her name. But it doesn’t matter, because she’s nearly hyperventilating again.

”Fuck. Holy fuck,” she whispers more to herself, turning her back on me and pushing her dark waves back anxiously. 

”Iz,” I mumble, touching her arm cautiously. She pulls back, turning to me.

”This is all your fault you know,” she says harshly, her voice trembling. ”You were a mess that day. I was just trying to calm you down.”

”Bro,” I chuckle dryly, shaking my head. She hates when I call her that. I’m immediately defensive, the guilt underneath gnawing at me. ”Now maybe I misremember but I’m pretty sure you kissed me.”

”Because you were acting like a bloody lunatic!” She shouts. I hush her, praying to God no one heard the way it echoes around the desolate halls. Izara quiets down, burying her face into her hands again. What are we doing? I know she’s fighting me because she’s completely freaked out.

”We gotta stop screaming and make a plan,” I tell her calmly. She stands there quietly defiant until she realises I’m right. ”I’ll talk to my people, you talk to the media team.”

”What if they don’t listen?” She asks me, a hint of vulnerability shining through her exterior.

”Why wouldn’t they?” I reply, placing a hand on her shoulder. She lets me, despite still avoiding my gaze.

”Everybody loves you Iz, and I mean that. Never heard anyone say a bad thing about you.” It’s true. Every word. She had people on her side so easily.

Finally her green eyes stop scanning the room, landing on mine. They’re still the same, even behind the glossiness of a few tears. Reminiscent of Connecticut. Of the overwhelming vibrancy that I sometimes missed here in Dallas. The feeling when you glanced outside in the summer and your eyes were met with such intense greenery of the trees and the grass that you couldn’t bear to look away. What made it even more beautiful was knowing in only a few months it would all be gone, the view turning from orange to yellow as everything that lived dies, reminding you that everything that was alive and flourishing is there only for a fleeting moment until the pure white cover of snow buries everything that’s dead underneath it. That’s what her eyes were - that short moment, a little piece of home.

”Hey,” I whisper softly. ”Don’t give up just yet.”

Izzie nods slowly, looking straight at me. ”Okay.”

-

“Hey, Rike,” I call as I jog over, my mind stuck on how Izara’s holding up.

I had been circling around College Park for what felt like hours - though it hadn’t even been 40 minutes. Izzie had taken a cab to the office to explain our situation to the marketing team, and anyone we hadn’t thought of. I hadn’t heard of her ever since she left, which was making me nervous, on top of the uncomfortable bubbling in my stomach. 

”I was just looking for you,” Arike replies as her eyes widen.

”Me too. Hey uh, to ask but,” I mumble, scratching the back of my head.  I hated asking for favors. ”Could you talk to the team-”

”Already done,” she says. ”And the practice player, coaching staff too.”

I always knew Arike had my back. But not like this. She had truly become my sister, and this was proof.

”They all love you two. No one’s gonna say shit,” she comforts me, patting my shoulder. 

”Thanks bro,” I smile, letting out a sigh of relief. Maybe we could pull this off. No one’s gonna tell.

”Course,” she shrugs easily. ”You know I got you. You’re family, both of y’all.”

-

My heart’s pounding in my chest, each beat like something trying to claw itself out of me. slamming my sternum painfully. Deep breaths, slow down, I remind myself, imagining the weight of Paige pressed against me. It felt almost good enough to make me forget about everything, almost.

I tie my hair up clumsily, my waves overstimulating me. The office seems eerily desolate, having me walk around for a while until I run into Ava, her blonde hair recognisable anywhere.

”Ava,” I sigh, relieved, hurrying to her. I wish I hadn’t worn heels today, my feet already aching. I hadn’t anticipated all this running around.

”Zari! I thought you were in College Park-”

”Can we sit down? Please?” I ask abruptly, interrupting her. She’s surprised by the seriousness in my voice and it shows in her face.

”Of course, what’s up?”

I lead us into an empty office room, pulling out a chair for her. I’m far too nervous to sit down myself.

”Have you seen it?” I ask carefully, looking at the carpeted floor. I can’t believe I was in this situation. Of all people. The sensible, careful Izara. I swear I’ll never be careless again.

There’s a confused look on Ava’s freckled face. ”Seen what?”

Shit. Sighing I dig my phone out of my purse, my ears burning with embarrassment. I look for shock or surprise but to my confusion, Ava watches the video, expressionless.

”Caleb owes me 20 bucks,” she chuckles, handing the phone back.

”Huh?”

She giggles. ”We had a bet, I knew there was something going on with y’all.”

Of course. Like it was ever really a secret. I feel so stupid. Who was I kidding thinking we could keep this on the low.

”Right well,” I mumble, my cheeks turning hot. ”Well it’s everywhere. And I really, really can not let this get to-”

”- Linda,”  Ava finishes my sentence, picking up on my concern.

”Yeah,” I nod. ”I just, I know it doesn’t make it better but it’s not just messing around. I really care about her and I know I’m asking for a lot but-”

”Zari. I’m not telling nobody,” she comforts me. ”And I’ll make sure no one else does. If it’s up to me Linda will never see that, okay?”

I nod, relieved. 

”I’ll also make sure those posts of the video get taken down okay?” Ava smiles, wrapping an arm around me and patting my back. She’s the one managing the algorithms and viewership so her help will be everything.

”Oh my goodness you’re shaking,” she comforts me. I notice the trembling of my legs that are indeed weak, barely holding me upright.

”It’s pretty stressful,” I chuckle coldly, my eyes burning as I hold back tears. Suddenly, the sound of my phone vibrating against the table makes me jump. It’s Paige.

“Hey,” I answer. The rumbling of traffic comes through before her voice.

“Hey, I’m driving over. All good at College Park.”

“Here too,” I say, smiling bye to Ava as she leaves me to talk with the blond. “Just gotta wait for the PR team to get out of their meeting.”

“You tell Trey yet?” She asks. Oh shit. Trey. 

“I haven’t seen him,” I admit. A moment of silence falls upon us.

“I’mma be there in like 10 minutes okay?”

“Paige,” I start, feeling a throbbing ache in my shoulder. “It’s okay, you don’t need to come here.”

The line goes silent, the quiet hum of the road and traffic coming through. 

“You don’t want me to?”

Reaching over to my neck I massage the tension but it doesn’t go away. Is that really what I want? Why is it so hard to figure it out?

“No, I need you here,” I finally accept. Despite the tension and the mess between us it was clear that I needed her. That her presence made everything better. That’s just what Paige is like. She brings the sun with her wherever she goes.

-

I’m picking at my skin when the blonde emerges into the empty office lobby, holding two cups. She looks surprisingly serene considering - though it wasn’t her job that was on the line.

“What’s this?” I ask as she hands one of the cups to me. It feels warm against my skin.

“Coffee, black,” she says absentmindedly, taking a seat in the chair next to mine, taking a sip of the frappucino she got for herself.

I do the same, feeling the warm bitter taste fill my mouth. It’s just how I liked it. My heart throbs. Mind overflowing with the memories of our little habit. Of Paige getting up half an hour earlier than she needed just to go pick up some coffee for me on the way to work.

”Better?” Paige asks, sprawled comfortably next to me. I can feel the heat of her thigh tingling against mine but I can’t be bothered to move, or to pretend like I didn’t need her. I felt myself fantasizing about some reality where Linda would understand. Where me and the blonde could just be together. No complications, no excuses, no goddamn hiding. It would be so much easier to let myself fall in love with her in a reality like that.

”Much better,” I mumble. ”Thanks.”

”It’s just a coffee Iz,” she murmurs, shrugging it off.

”No,” I shake my head. ”You don’t have to be doing this. You could easily just leave me to handle it myself. But you didn’t.”

My eyes meet hers, blue and vibrant like the ocean. 

She shakes her head, brows furrowing gently. ”I wouldn’t do that,” she whispers. ”It’s half my fault… Okay a lil more than a half.”

She chuckles a little looking at her feet. ”For what it’s worth I am sorry for that night.”

Paige looks regretful, playing with her bracelet. 

”Me too.”

A throbbing ache runs along my spine to my shoulderblades, the tightness making it hard to breathe. Absent-mindedly my hand shoots to my neck, pressing and rubbing. Paige glances at me.

”Your shoulders again?” She asks. Honestly the only time in my life they hadn’t bothered me was probably when Paige would give me daily massages. Something about her got me to finally relax.

”Again,” I chuckle awkwardly. Without hesitation Paige’s warm and familiar hands replace mine, massaging the knot out of my shoulderblade. My body melts, the tension easing in my face and neck.

”Thank you,” I hum, letting my eyelids close. Pretending just for a moment that we were us again.

”That’s funny,” Paige says smiling, ”You sound more British again.”

I smile too, her fingers now pressing down on the nape of my neck. ”I suppose. It’s probably because I haven’t been around you.”

Sounds of steps stop us, Paige pulling away as two people from marketing walk by, smiling at us knowingly as they greet us. Sighing, I lean back in the chair and rub my forehead.

”It’s like everyone’s watching us,” I mumble quietly.

”Guess I’m used to it,” Paige replies. She’s right, it’s only new to me. Somehow she’s been handling this since high school.

”Did you um, get the chocolate?” She asks, fiddling with the hem of her black shorts.

”Yeah,” I hum, thinking of the note attached to it. I felt completely stuck between two roads, not sure which one to take. On the other hand nothing about us made sense. But still I wanted her more than anything. I couldn’t imagine ever being able to want anyone like I want her. 

It was like my entire life had been split into two - the time before Paige and the time after. Everything before felt irrelevant. She had come into my life with a crash, when I most needed her but didn’t know I did. She had irrevocably changed me. I don’t know how I could go back to before.

”It was amazing, I can’t believe you remembered,” I continue.

”Course I did,” she huffs, leaning her head on the wall behind us, cracking her knuckles. Terror washes over me. I realise how badly I need our plan to work. Because if it doesn’t I’ll lose her forever.

Paige opens her mouth before closing it, and opening it again.

”I meant what I said, y’know.”

I lift my gaze from my crossed ankles to her, to find her already looking over. She seems hesitant, gathering courage.

”In that note,” she adds, cheeks red. ”I’m not going anywhere.”

I can feel it in the way my heart throbs, the way my eyes burn, the way my eyes are glued on her angular face, the way my slender fingers slide between her’s like a habit I could never break and the way her touch send shivers up my spine - I love her. I do.

Paige’s breathing is shallow, glancing downward to our hands that are locked together. Neither of us have to say it. We both feel it.

The moment I wish would go on forever is cruelly interrupted by the buzzing emerging from the pocket of her shorts. With one hand she digs the phone out, reading the screen grip remaining on mine.

”Shit, I got practice,” she whispers, as to not disrupt the moment. Her voice is hoarse and vulnerable. I wanted to listen to it forever.

”Okay,” I hum, standing up with her. ”I’ll wait for Trey here.”

Paige looks at me once more before enveloping me into her arms, nose buried into my hair and inhaling unashamedly. I do it too, allowing myself to breathe her in. Sandalwood and musk and deodorant.

”It’s all gonna be okay,” she whispers. And I believe her.

Paige kisses my forehead before pulling back, letting go of my hand. Her touch leaves my skin burning. Even before she goes, I already miss her.

”I’ll call you Paige,” I hum softly.

”Okay. I’ll see you later Iz.”

And she walks away, leaving me alone in the hallway.

I’m nearly nodding off in my chair, head lulling back as my eyelids grow heavy. I glance at my phone once more. No text, no call. Just the sent receipt under the tens of texts I had sent Trey. Our one missing link to get this all to be over.

Standing up, I roam around the office, finding Caleb and Ava editing a video for Youtube.

”Hey, have you seen Trey?” I ask, rubbing my face tiredly.

”You lost me 20 bucks,” Caleb jokes, having bet against me and Paige being romantically involved. Ava chuckles.

”It’s not on her if you’re completely blind.”

I wish I had it in me to find this as fun as they did, but I just wanted to finish this and go home.

”Trey? You seen him?” I ask again, ignoring their jokes.

”I think he’s upstairs,” Caleb answers. ”Some sorta meeting.”

Finally. ”Thank you.”

In a rush, I hurry to the elevator, impatiently spamming the button to the upper floor. 

“C’mon,” I mutter to myself, ready to get this over with.

Finally the doors slide open. Stepping out into the new floor, I begin to hurry along the corridors when from around a corner Trey emerges, his face buried into his phone nearly bumping into me.

“Trey!” I say with relief. “I’ve been looking for you!”

He looks uneasy, avoiding my gaze. Much like he had ever since I rejected him.

“You know I’ve been texting you too,” I huff lightheartedly, poking his phone.

“I saw,” he murmurs, voice uncharacteristically low and quiet. I chase his gaze, finally catching his brown eyes.

“I need to talk to you,” I say more seriously. Trey bites down on his lower lip, shutting his eyelids and rubbing his face.

“I’m in a hurry okay?”

“It won’t take long,” I tell him, placing a hand on his forearm so he won’t walk away.

“Zari, I gotta go,” he spits, pushing past me. Wow, I knew I hurt him when I rejected his kiss but I didn’t realise his ego was that fragile.

“Seriously?” I ask, annoyed now. “Trey, it's been weeks. Let it go.”

He turns, growing irritated. “Nah, I’m sick of you and your little mind games.”

“Mind games?!” I hiss condescendingly, crossing my arms over my chest.

“You been toying with me and Paige ever since you moved here!”

He knows? I glance around before shushing him, praying to God nobody heard. Of course he knows.

“I don’t know what you’re implying,” I whisper angrily.

“I saw your little video.”

Shit. Heart throbbing in my chest I swallow, wanting to crawl into my skin and disappear. Kissing my teeth I look down trying to find the words.

“Look, Trey-“

“Save it. Can’t wait for you to be back in London.”

Hold on. “What?”

I take a step closer to Trey, who’s looking at me heavy lidded.

“You broke the rules Izara,” he says with a low voice.

The realisation hits me like a ton of bricks. No fucking way. Of course. My stomach drops. My pulse thunders in my ears.

“You told her,” I whisper, waves of anger washing over me. It took a lot for me to be enraged - but right now I was livid. I dig my nails into the palms of my hands, nearly drawing bloos.

Trey looks uneasy, eyes flickering away from me. “Rules are rules Izara.”

Tears fill my eyes, welling up by my bottom lashes. I should’ve listened to everyone who hated Trey. Because they were right. He’s disgusting. I truly hate him.

“Don’t act like you care about rules. You did this because you couldn’t handle the fact that I do not have feelings for you,” I hiss, pointing a finger at him. “You’re disgusting.”

The ringing of my phone breaks off my voice, like a bad omen. Trey grins. I want to kill him.

“Must be Linda,” he says before turning and disappearing into the elevator.

My hands shake as I grab my phone - the screen lit up, proving Trey right.

-

Paige,

Remember that roadtrip we took? Driving with no plan or destination with the windows down, being stuck in that gross hotel, the storm, the night we spent together? I think about that all the time. With anyone else I would’ve been terrified. I’m no good without a plan (Lord knows). But with you I never cared about a plan. You’re so sure, so certain, so comfortable and steady it made it safe to feel out of control sometimes. That’s a gift I’ll carry with me forever. I never had that with anyone.

I never thought this is how my time in Dallas would turn out. Deep inside I want to blame someone. I want to blame Trey, and maybe when you hear about what happened you will too. But we shouldn’t. Because there’s no one to blame but me. I’ve been smart all my life. I should’ve been smarter. But something about you makes it impossible to be smart.

Still, despite everything that happened I don’t regret any of it. This summer has been the best of my life. Getting to know you has been the greatest blessing. I’d never say it to your face, but you’ve taught me more about myself than anyone.  I’ve never been loved so well, and I’ll never forget that. But my past is still haunting me. It’s just not our time.

I’m sorry it turned out this way. I know you’ll find someone and make her the happiest girl in the world, like you did me. And I’ll always regret not doing more to make us work. For not telling you how I love you. And I’ll have to live with that.

I hope you find your person who can love you how you deserve. Just know there are no hard feelings with you and me. I think no matter what it wasn’t meant to work. I don’t belong in Texas… but then again does anyone?

I’m sorry. I told you I’m not good at goodbyes.

Yours, Izzie

Reading through the letter one more time, I fold it in half and slide it into Paige’s apartment through the mail slot. For a moment I lean my forehead against the wood panels on the door, as if it’s Paige. But it’s not. And I’ll never lean my forehead on her again. I’ll never look into the blue of her eyes, I’ll never taste her lips.

A tear falls down my cheeks as the elevator takes me to the ground floor for one last time. I bite down on my lower lip to stop it from trembling, watching the driver lift my bags into the trunk. 

The cab drives through Dallas, through the neighbourhoods that had once been unfamiliar. Now I know the streets and the weather and the drive-thru barbeque place that has the best ribs. But London was calling me home. There was nothing left for me here anymore.

My heart aches, thinking about the disappointment in Linda’s voice, telling me she had no chance but to let me go. That she expected more of me. 

But the ache is nothing compared to what I feel when I think about Paige. My sweet, funny American girl. Her laughter echoes in my head, and I let her linger. My nails dig into my seat, like they did into Paige’s skin. 

I wouldn’t forget the summer I spent with Paige Bueckers until the day I die, that I know for certain. She would haunt me for the rest of my life, pieces of her existing in every person I meet. But no one will ever measure up, no one will ever be her. And maybe in another life we’ll grow old and grey together. And that’s the only thought comforting me as the clouds part, the plane circling above Thames, the London Eye and Buckingham Palace when we approach Heathrow.

-

taglist: @wbbgetsmewetter@thaatdigitaldiary@pb524830@bueckersfive@lupinqs@sierrale8ne@d3arapril@lovegalor333@avvwritesstufff@rosemariiaa@bueckers22@taylynbueckers44@unadulteratedcyclepaper@rizzlerbuckets@wosolipa@bridgetloveswomen@paiges-1vur@slut4uconnwbb@xxloveralways14@bueckersbitch@janaelalfysblunt@omg-imtumbling@angryflowerwitch@ohbueckers @enchantingesme @ohmybueckers @potatobears-world @st4yyyy @wnbawag @maryjanewatsons @naeswrrldd @she-is-my-unrequited-love34 @paigebaby5 @gayflygirl @saverdelrey @xoxosierralane @katemartinsfuturewife @nicebellee @everyonewatchesuconnwbb @cowboybueckers

[midnightquips]

Dangerously Close

Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: Bucky & Y/N are undeniably attracted to each other. Seemingly the only way these two are getting together is with some extreme meddling.

Themes: mutual pining, teasing teammates, possessive Bucky, Thunderbolts chaos, friends-to-lovers-but-stupid about it, pining (a lot)

🔴 MINORS DNI 🔴 Warnings: 18+ content, eventual smut, dirty talk, praise kink, jealousy, soft aftercare, pwp, piv sex, unprotected sex

💫 Dangerously Close Masterlist 📌 Sign Up for TAGLIST

Chapter 1: Sparks & Sandwiches

Part III

It’s 2:47 a.m. and you’re awake, lying flat on your back. Your eyes are focused on the ceiling of the room, brain stuck replaying the exact moment Bucky wiped caramel from your thumb like it was the most normal thing in the world.

It wasn’t. Not for you.

You turn over with a sigh and bury your face in the pillow. It’s not just that one moment. It’s a culmination of all the little moments. His hand casually resting on your lower back in the kitchen, the way he says your name when he’s not being flirty. The heat in his eyes when you catch him watching you train.

It makes you feel hot all over and more than a little dizzy.

But then you have to snap yourself to reality again that he’s Bucky Barnes. Ex-assassin. Avenger. Thunderbolt legend. The broody heartthrob of the entire compound.

And no matter how much Yelena hypes you, you’re… well, you. New to the team. Confident, sure—but not delusional. It’s almost crazy to assume that he actually wants you like that.

Not when he’s like that.

You think he doesn’t even realize it, how natural of a flirt he is. You heard him call Ava darling last week. You saw him smirk at a journalist during a press debrief and practically knock her out with just a look.

And yeah, he touches people. You’ve seen him rest his arm on Alexei or Bob’s shoulder every now and then. That’s probably just his thing.

You roll onto your back and continue to stare blankly at the ceiling. Stop thinking about this.

You cover your face with a blanket, groaning in frustration. You are so screwed.

Three floors below, Bucky Barnes is in his own version of hell.

Wiping caramel from your thumb has only triggered a string of fantasies. He dreams of your mouth, of your thighs.

Not in some slow, artful, wistful kind of way. No. These dreams are filthy. Your curves straddling his lap on the couch. Your fingers tugging in his hair while you ride his face. Your laugh in his ears as he presses you against the kitchen counter and slides into you, whispering how long he’s wanted you.

He wakes up sweating, panting.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, rubbing a hand down his face.

It’s been years since he had a dream like that. And never one this vivid. He can still smell the caramel on your skin. Still feel your thighs around his head. Still hear the hitch in your breath when he touched your waist earlier.

“Stop,” he groans aloud, as if that will make it go away.

It doesn’t help that you’ve been touchy lately. Not clingy. Just... familiar. A hand on his shoulder when you pass behind him. A quick brush against his arm in the kitchen. Gripping his bicep when Bob makes a joke that sends you laughing too hard.

And you never pull away.

Not once.

That does things to him. Desperate, unhinged things.

He’s going to combust.

The next morning is unusually quiet. Bob and Ava’s still asleep. Yelena is running. John’s probably outside yelling at the sky and doing push-ups.

You find yourself alone in the kitchen, which is always comforting you. It doesn’t last long because Bucky soon walks in.

He finds you humming under your breath, standing barefoot in front of the stove in an oversized Duran Duran tee that hits mid-thigh, legs bare from the short shorts. You’re making omelets. 

And Bucky’s pretty sure this is how men die.

“Morning,” you say, not turning around.

“Hey.” His voice cracks and coughs. “Smells good.”

“You always say that.” You glance over your shoulder and smirk. “I’m starting to think you only hang around me for the food.”

“I hang around you for a lot of reasons.” he says casually

You pause.

Turn. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

The two of you just… stare.

The pan sizzles. You’re the one to look away first. “Distracting me will only result in a burnt omelet for you.”

He steps closer until he’s at your back again, a place he’s become too fond of. “I really don’t care.”

You elbow him gently. “You will when you’re hungry in an hour.”

He laughs softly, suppressing the incredible urge to just steal a kiss. “You’re something else, you know that?”

You shrug and flip the pan. “Takes one to know one.”

The spell is broken when you hear steps coming down the hallway and soon enough, then others walk in.

Yelena flops across the kitchen island, still damp from her shower. “Please tell me there’s coffee.”

“There’s always coffee,” you say, sliding a mug toward her.

She perks up. “God, you’re perfect.”

“Absolutely.” Bucky mutters before he can stop himself. He pauses in shock.

The room goes quiet.

Even the toaster pops awkwardly.

You turn slowly, orange juice in hand. Heat rising up to your cheeks.

Bucky opens his mouth, closes it and then attempts to say. “I meant—like—I meant because of the coffee—Jesus, never mind.”

Yelena grins into her cup.

Alexei strolls in with a yawn. “What did I miss?”

“Bucky’s giving Y/N compliments before 9 a.m.,” Yelena says.

“Ah,” Alexei replies, rubbing his hands together. “We are making progress.”

Bucky groans and continues to noisily eat his breakfast, silently signaling that he will throw that for to anyone who tries to approach him again during breakfast.

That afternoon, training is mercifully light—mostly debriefs and paperwork.

You’re halfway through reading a mission summary when Yelena drops onto the couch beside you and whispers, “He’s going to break if you keep wearing shorts like that.”

You don’t even look up. “What do you mean?”

“You know WHO I mean.” Yelena nods at you

You shake your head in disbelief, “Your imagination is running wild again.”

“All I’m saying is I just think you should be prepared for spontaneous combustion.” she insists

You sigh, “Stop.”

“Make me.” she teases

You glance over. “Okay. What do you want?”

She grins. “To help.”

You look at her suspiciously, eyes narrowing, “That’s not ominous at all.”

“No, seriously. I just think it’s tragic that two people who clearly want to climb each other like trees are stuck in this weird little dance.”

“No, we do not. Stop. He might hear.” you say quickly, looking around to make sure no one could hear

Yelena raises a brow slyly. “He had a dream about you last week. Called your name in his sleep.”

You freeze. “You’re making that up.”

“Am I?” she smirks. “I was walking past his room. The door was cracked open. I have excellent hearing.”

You blink.

Yelena might tease a little too much but she wasn’t a liar. You just didn’t know what to do with this information.

So, you blink again. 

“Are you okay?” she asks, clearly enjoying seeing your malfunction

“Uhm maybe,” you say, a little breathless. “No, I don’t know.”

Later that night, Bucky finds himself sitting on the compound roof, legs dangling over the edge, holding a beer he hasn’t even opened. He just needs air. Space. A little time to not think about your legs, your face, your smile. Your presence has been overwhelming for a 106-year old man and he is clearly on the edge of his sanity. 

He also needs space from the teammates before they kick him out for being grumpier than he already is.

“Brooding again?”

He doesn’t even need to turn. Alexei’s larger than life personality boomed through his voice.

“I’m fine,” Bucky mutters.

Alexei drops down beside him with a long, dramatic sigh. “You young people are exhausting.”

Bucky snorts. “Says the guy who faked his death six times.”

“Seven,” Alexei corrects. “But who’s counting?”

They sit in silence for a moment.

“She is lovely,” Alexei says at last. “Y/N. Very warm. Very funny.”

“I know.”

“Very beautiful.”

Bucky clenches his jaw.

Alexei smiles knowingly. “Ah, there it is.”

“What are you getting at?”

Alexei shrugs. “You want her. She wants you. But neither of you do anything. I’m thinking perhaps I should assist.”

“I don’t need—”

“I’ll be subtle,” Alexei waves a hand. “Small things. Gentle nudges. Maybe I get you both drunk and put on slow music. Classic Soviet technique.”

Bucky groans. “Please don’t.”

“No promises.”

Another beat.

“She cooks like my mother,” Alexei sighs wistfully. “I would marry her myself if you weren’t already drooling over her like Labrador.”

Bucky looks down at the unopened bottle in his hand. “It’s not just that.”

“I know.”

“I think about her all the time.”

“I know.”

“She thinks I flirt with everyone.”

Alexei raises an eyebrow. “Do you?”

“Not like this.”

Alexei smiles. “Good. Then you won’t mind if I meddle. Just a little.”

“I will literally kill you.”

Alexei stands, brushing imaginary dust off his jeans and having fully decided on his own volition. “As long as it’s after the wedding.”

Taglist: @mrsnikolestan @killerwendigo

[hoshifighting]

       tutor!woozi + spanking

— where woozi gets tired mad tired from your disinterest while he tutors you.

WARNINGS: +18, smut, ass-spanking, fingering, crying, teasing, squirt, nippple pinching, rough sex, mentions of body fluids (cum/squirt), overstimulation, jihoon is mean.

KINKTOBER MASTERLIST

part 1 / part 2 (coming soon)

“you’re late.” jihoon’s voice is sharp, arms crossed like he’s been rehearsing this whole 'mad professor' act for hours. the second he swings the door open, his expression makes it clear he’s been dying to chew you out. you blink at him, leaning against the doorframe like you couldn’t care less.

“relax, lee,” you grin, walking past him, purposely brushing your shoulder against his arm. “i’m here, aren’t i?”

he rolls his eyes, shutting the door with a click, and you can almost hear him clenching his teeth. he throws himself onto the couch like he’s doing you a favor just by being there. you follow, plopping down next to him way too close for his comfort.

“you waste my fucking time, y’know that?” his voice has that edge of annoyance, the one that kinda makes you wanna push him even more, just to see if he’ll snap. “i could be doing literally anything else right now. anything.” he’s got this glare that’s sharp enough to cut glass, but all you can do is bite your lip and shrug like it doesn’t faze you.

“aw, come on, jihoon, don’t be so dramatic. you love this,” you tease, crossing your legs and tapping the spot next to you nudging him to get closer, but he just ignores. “besides, it’s not like i asked for that much of your time. just a few hours.”

he looks at you for a second, probably debating whether or not to throw you out, before he finally sighs and takes a seat. “you’re always distracted,” he mutters, grabbing the history textbook from the coffee table and flipping it open, not even bothering to look at you as he starts going over the material. “we’ve been over this chapter three times, and you still can’t tell me the difference between the renaissance and the enlightenment. do i look like a clown to you?”

you smirk, leaning back on the couch. “actually, you look like—” you pause, dragging your eyes up and down his figure slowlywatching he stiff when you don't finish the phrase. “—someone who could be a lot more fun if you’d loosen up a little.” you swear you see his eye twitch at that.

“i’m serious,” he snaps, and there it is—that flicker of irritation that you’ve been pushing for. he looks at you, eyes flickering down to the short skirt that rides up your thighs as you shift in your seat. “you can’t focus for shit, and i’m not here to waste my time. either you take this seriously, or you leave.”

“oh, i’m taking it very seriously,” you say, biting your lip again as you lean in, your arm brushing his. you always do this—those 'casual' touches . “it’s just hard to focus when you keep talking so much. i mean, what was it again? ‘the rise of intellectual movements in europe’? yeah, sounds really sexy coming from you.”

he bites the inside of his cheek, clearly trying to keep it together, but you can tell he’s close to breaking, plunging his hairs out of his head or something.

“you think you’re cute, huh?” he says, voice low and strained. “if you knew all this shit, why’d you even ask me to tutor you?”

you grin, crossing your legs a little tighter as you tilt your head. “oh, i knew it already. i just wanted an excuse to get close to you. i mean, come on, jihoon. you really think i’m that dumb?” you laugh, watching as his jaw clenches, his eyes narrowing at you.

“you’ve gotta be kidding me.” he tosses the textbook onto the table, crossing his arms again as he leans back. “so this was all just a game to you?”

“not a game,” you say, shrugging. “more like…an experiment. i saw you present your project last week, and, honestly? you looked sexy as fuck up there. figured i’d see if you’re just as hot when you’re trying to teach.”

jihoon takes a deep breath, his eyes locking with yours, and for a second, you think he might actually kick you out.

you lean closer, pressing your arms together so your cleavage’s practically spilling out, and for a second, you see jihoon’s resolve crack. he doesn’t say it, but you can see it in his eyes—the fuck it that’s so loud in his mind, you’re pretty sure even the aliens up there heard it. without another word, his hand is at the nape of your neck, fingers curling as he pulls you down, flipping you so fast your chest hits the couch. your hips land right on his lap, and you gasp in surprise, not expecting him to actually snap like this. but the look you give him over your shoulder—god, the devilish smile that curls up your lips—he knows you’re getting exactly what you wanted.

“you think this is funny?” he growls, his hand coming down hard on your ass, the sound echoing through the room as you let out a choked moan. your body jolts from the impact, but you don’t even have a second to recover before his palm meets your skin again, harder this time. “huh? think you can play your little games and just walk away?”

he slaps you again, harder, and the sting radiates through your body, your muscles tensing as you arch back into him. “jihoon—”

“don’t ‘jihoon’ me now.” another slap. your skirt rides higher with each hit, and you can feel yourself starting to drip between your legs, coating you, but it’s like he knows exactly what he’s doing. “you’re not as smart as you think you are.”

you open your mouth to protest, but then his hand lands harder than before, the force sending your skirt flying up, and he freezes. for a second, you think maybe you’ve won—until you realize he’s staring at your bare ass, his breath caught in his throat. “you’re not even wearing panties?” he scoffs, his hand gripping your hip, and it’s almost painful how hard he’s holding you. “seriously? this is what you came here for?”

you bite your lip, looking back at him over your shoulder again, and his eyes are burning into you. before you can respond, his hand’s back on you, spreading your legs apart so wide you can feel the cool air hitting your pussy. “you’re unbelievable.” he scoffs.

then, without warning, his hand smacks against your pussy, and the shock makes you yelp, your hands gripping the cushions tight. the wetness on his palm is undeniable, and you swear you see the corner of his mouth twitch up in a smirk. “look at you. already soaked, and i’ve barely touched you.”

you whimper, trying to move, but he keeps your legs spread, his hand coming down again. “you like this, don’t you? acting all tough, like you’re in control, but all it takes is a few slaps, and you’re dripping for me.”

his words are low, almost a growl, as he brings his hand down again, harder this time. your body jerks forward, your fingers digging into the couch, but the sting—too good to ignore. each slap has you biting back a moan, your thighs trembling, but the wetness only gets worse, slicking his hand as he keeps going.

“see?” another hit. you gasp, your chest pressing into the couch as you arch your back more, needing the friction, the release. “so fucking wet. what would people think if they saw you like this? spread out like this—begging for a fucking slap? really?”

his hand comes down once more, but this time, he lingers, fingers brushing against your swollen folds, slick with cum.

jihoon keeps going, each slap making a wet smack as your juices connects with his fingers and palm. every time he brings his hand down on your pussy, another thin line of your slick sticks to him, pulling back with a sound that has your cheeks burning. he’s relentless—alternating between slapping your ass and spreading your swollen lips just to smack your clit directly. it’s brutal, the way he’s working you, and all the while, he doesn’t stop talking.

“look at this mess,” he mutters, his hand squeezing the curve of your ass before landing another sharp slap. your skin’s so red, stinging from the constant impact, but that only makes the wetness between your legs worse, dripping onto his thigh. “you thought you could just tease me and get away with it, huh? acting all cute, playing dumb—but you’re the one who can’t even control yourself now.”

your body jerks with every hit, the sharp sting spreading through your thighs, making you cry out. you can feel how soaked you are, your wetness practically running down the inside of your thighs, and it’s so embarrassing, but the way he’s looking at you, all smug.

"fuck," you whimper, feeling the heat pooling in your stomach. you need him—god, you need him so so so so fucking bad, his cock, anything to fill the aching void between your legs. but instead, all you get is another slap, harder this time, making your whole body jolt forward.

“needy little thing,” he growls, spreading your cheeks apart with both hands just to watch as the slick drips from your hole, down to your clit, and onto his thigh. the sight makes him groan low in his throat in approval, and you try to protest, humiliated by how wet you are, but he just laughs. “embarrassed now? after all that shit you’ve been talking?”

his thumb finds your clit, circling it slowly, teasingly, and you squeak in surprise, your hips bucking against his hand. he looks up at you with this exaggeratedly thoughtful expression, like he’s debating something serious. “hmm… so, should i finger you now, or keep spanking this little pussy? decisions, decisions…”

your breath catches in your throat as he dips a finger into your folds, running it along your slick entrance before slipping it inside, and you can’t help the way your walls clench around him. “fuck, jihoon—please,” you gasp, and he scoffs, adding another finger, curling them just right.

“please, what?” he taunts, his fingers working you expertly, slow but deep, making sure you feel every inch. “you’re the one who asked for this. i’m just giving you what you wanted.”

his fingers slide in and out with ease, coated in your slick, the obscene sound of it filling the room as he pumps them faster. your pussy clenches around him, every curl of his fingers hitting the g'spot inside you, and you can’t stop the moans spilling from your lips, hips moving on their own to meet his thrusts.

“feel that?” he murmurs, his thumb circling your clit again as his fingers fuck into you. “so tight, so fucking wet. bet you’ve been dreaming about this, hm? me, fucking you with my fingers, making you beg for more.”

he thrusts his fingers deeper, spreading them inside you, and you cry out, your grip tightening on the couch. “fuck—yes, yes, jihoon—”

he smirks, leaning closer so his breath is hot against your ear. “and what do you want next, huh? my cock? think you can handle that after getting off just from my fingers?”

you don’t even answer, just nod frantically as you feel the pressure building, your walls clenching harder around him. each thrust of his fingers sends sparks shooting up your spine, your wetness dripping down his hand, and you can barely think straight, let alone form words.

“you’re gonna cum?” he growls, fucking you faster with his fingers, his thumb rubbing tight circles on your clit. “gonna cum just from my hand. so pathetic.”

jihoon’s fingers are buried inside you, his long, perfect digits moving inside you non-stop, curling against that spot that makes you whimper like a bitch. you’ve spent too many nights obsessed with those hands—those slender fingers that always seemed to be calling you from the depths of your own fantasies. and now they’re inside you, fucking you, and it’s so much more than you ever imagined.

you’re a mess, your pussy squelching with each thrust. your eyes burn with tears, you can feel your orgasm coming, creeping up from the pit of your stomach, but there’s something else, something more.

“fuck, jihoon,” you sob, your voice shaking as his thumb circles your clit again, driving you higher and higher. but it’s like your body’s betraying you—there’s this pressure, this unfamiliar heat building between your legs, and you don’t know what’s coming, but it’s terrifying in the finest way.

his fingers continue their assault, squelching louder with each thrust, and just when you think you can’t take it anymore, the pressure snaps. a gush of liquid escapes you, soaking his hand, the sound loud in the room as your body convulses, your orgasm crashing over you. you cry out, burying your face into the couch, as you realize what just happened. you fucking squirted on him, on his couch, on his floor.

jihoon doesn’t say anything at first. he just watches, his eyes wide, lips slightly parted in surprise. his fingers don’t stop, though. they keep moving inside you, coaxing out more spurts of liquid until they weak. each spurt feels like it's shaking you to your soul, and you want to hide, want to melt into the couch and disappear from the embarrassment, but he’s not letting you go anywhere.

“are you fucking serious?” he mutters under his breath, but there’s a hint of fun in his voice. his clean hand reaches for your head, fingers tangling in your hair as he yanks you up just enough to see your face. you’re flushed, eyes darting everywhere but at him, your body tremblinge.

“are you embarrassed?” he asks, scoffing as his hand tightens in your hair, forcing you to meet his gaze. “really? after everything, this is what’s got you hiding?”

your breath hitches, but before you can even think to respond, his free hand comes down on your ass, hard. the slap stings, making you jolt, but he doesn’t stop. he lands another, and another, the sound of flesh on flesh mixing with your rough breathing. “answer me.”

“jihoon—” you gasp, but he’s not having it. his hand moves from your ass to your breast, getting under your blouse and bra, pinching your nipple between his fingers, hard enough to make you squeal.

“i said, answer me,” he growls, his fingers twisting the sensitive nub until you’re squirming beneath him. “were you embarrassed? or were you just so fucking turned on by cumming all over my hand like that?”

“i—i wasn’t—fuck, jihoon!” you cry out, the words tumbling out of your mouth without thought as his fingers twist cruelly at your nipple, making it hard to think straight.

“don’t lie to me,” he warns, pulling your nipple harder as his fingers start working you again, faster now, his hand still slick from your release. “you loved it. look at you—fucking soaked. i bet if i pulled out my cock right now, you’d make an even bigger mess, right?”

you can’t deny it. the thought alone makes your thighs clench, your pussy fluttering around his fingers, and he feels it. he knows exactly what he’s doing to you, and you hate that you love it so much. his hand on your breast leaves for a moment, only to slap your ass again, this time harder, making you buck forward with a cry.

“that’s what i thought,” he mutters, yanking your head back by your hair as he shifts behind you. you can feel him now, the thick outline of his cock pressing against your ass. “you wanted this. you’ve been teasing me, fucking with me for weeks, and now look where you are—about to get exactly what you deserve.”

his hand moves between your legs again, this time not to slap but to tease, his fingers sliding through your folds, gathering your slick. he rubs your clit, once, twice, then pulls his fingers away, leaving you throbbing, hurting for more. you whimper in protest, but he just scoffs.

he pulls your legs apart wider, positioning himself behind you. you try to turn, to look at him, but his grip on your hair keeps you in place, your face pressed into the cushions as you feel the blunt head of his cock pressing against your entrance.

he doesn’t ease in slowly. he’s rough, pushing into you with one hard thrust that has you gasping for breath, your pussy stretching around him, and even though you are prepared enough, the burn makes you cry out. he fills you so good your walls clamp down around him, trying to adjust on his thick girth.

“hmm fuck yes,” jihoon groans, his voice weakened as he grips your hips, holding you still. “so fucking tight. you’ve been teasing me all this time, and now you’re taking my cock like a good little slut.”

he starts moving, his thrusts rough and no mercy, each one pushing you harder into the couch. his hands find your ass again, slapping it with each thrust, and the sharp sting only drives you higher, makes you wetter. you can feel the slickness coating his cock, dripping down onto the cushions, and you’re a mess of moans and cries, hardly competent to form words.

“jihoon—oh fuck—” you sob, your hands gripping the couch. each time he thrusts into you, it feels like he’s hitting deeper, the angle perfect, making you drool.

“yeah? you like that?” he growls. “you like me fucking you like this? slapping your pretty little ass while you squirt all over my cock?”

your voice is poorly there, mumbling things that don’t even make sense. “so full… so—jihoon… fuck… it’s—”

you’re trying to say something, but the pleasure is too much, your brain too clouded to form a coherent thought. he laughs as he flips you onto your back with ease. your body’s boneless at this point, sprawled out beneath him, and he takes a second to drink in the sight of you—your fucked-out expression, the way your lips part in a soft smile.

“you still got a smile for me, hm?” he teases, but there’s something fond in his voice, something almost soft. for a second, it feels like he might lean down and kiss you, but instead, his hand wraps around your throat, and he tugs your bottom lip between his teeth—his pretty and pearly white teeth that you loved during his briefs smiles, or when he bit your lip.

you pout, tilting your head slightly, desperate for his lips, but he just grins.

“bad girls don’t get kissed,” he says, he tightens his grip on your throat just enough to make you gasp, your eyes wide as he watches your reaction. “you haven’t earned it.”

before you can protest, he slams into you again, hard, making your body jerk against the couch. each thrust is deliberate, punctuated by his voice, growling out words like a promise with every snap of his hips.

“you’re—such—a—fucking—mess.”

his pace is brutal, the sound of wet skin slapping against wet skin fills the room, and all you can do is take it, your body arching beneath him, your moans spilling out uncontrollably.

jihoon doesn’t slow down. he leans over you, his mouth finding your breasts, sucking hard on the soft skin there. you can feel the bruises forming under his lips, the red marks blooming with each rough kiss, each bite, and you know they’ll turn blue soon enough, the evidence of his touch lasting long after he’s done.

“fuck,” you whimper, your nails digging into his arms, trying to ground yourself. “jihoon—i’m gonna—fuck, i can’t—”

“yes, you can,” he growls, not letting up for a second. his hand moves from your throat to your waist, pinning you down as his hips slam into yours with a cruel beat. “you’re gonna cum for me again, aren’t you? go ahead. let go.”

you don’t have a choice. the pleasure builds and builds until it snaps, sending you spiraling into another orgasm, your body trembling, your walls fluttering around him. jihoon watches, his eyes dark, his grip on your waist tightening as he fucks you through it, his hips never faltering.

“shit,” he hisses, his own release catching up to him as he pulls out, stroking himself once, twice, before spilling his cum all over your stomach, the warmth of it sticky against your skin. he groans, watching as it drips down your belly, his chest heaving.

for a moment, it’s quiet. your body is still shaking, your mind somewhere far away, but you feel his hands again—this time, softer. he’s cleaning you up with a towel he found somewhere, wiping away the mess he made, his touch surprisingly gentle after everything.

“you okay?” his voice is quieter now, the edge gone, replaced by something almost tender. he looks down at you, brushing a strand of hair from your face as you nod, still too dazed to form a proper response. you give him a weak smile, and he chuckles softly, shaking his head.

you think for a second that maybe he’ll kiss you after all—something soft, something to soothe the bruises he left behind—but instead, his expression shifts. his hand finds your shoulder, pushing you lightly as he mutters, “good. now get out of here.”

you blink, confused, sitting up slowly. “what?”

he smirks, grabbing a couple of books from the coffee table and tossing them into your lap. “you heard me. unless you want another good fuck, don’t come running after me. not for anything else.”

you raise an eyebrow, scoffing as you gather your clothes, slipping back into them without another word. his gaze never leaves you, watching the way you smooth out your skirt.

“right. see you around then.”

he doesn’t respond as you walk out, but you can feel his eyes on you until the door clicks shut behind you.

[slowdrawl]

Shear Luck | joel miller x f!reader | [masterlist] {18+ minors DNI}

|part 1| The first cut is the deepest |2.5k words| Joel Miller, single dad, came into your salon for a haircut, but he never expected to leave with a crush. Sarah's alive, tension's are high, the jokes are bad and the chemistry is crazy!

Fluff ?✔️ Slow burn? ✔️ Age gap? ✔️ Puns? ✔️

sprinkle in a little bit of smut 🔥 and dbf!joel energy and BOOM. You got this sweet-feel good fic.

“What’re we doin’?” You ask, making eye contact with him in the mirror. “Hopefully performin’ a miracle,” he replies in a tired Southern drawl.��� |A/N| I was at work today blowdrying my clients hair and this storyline came to mind, I thought I'd end up just doing a one-shot but when I started writing I immediately fell in love with these two, so I decided it would span over a few shorter chapters. I hope any of you that stumble across this love them too.

Warnings: Mild language, flirting, fluff, puns, age gap (Joel's 38, reader's 23). eventual smut, daddy kink (if you squint) alcohol use.

It’s Saturday, your back is screaming, feet killing you from two kids haircuts after a marathon balayage, you’re hunched over like a gremlin, salon empty now. It’s just you, sweeping up glitter-dusted hair. You’re beat, the clock is mocking you, and you don’t remember the last time you ate, or if you ate today at all. You check the clock, 5:45 fifteen more minutes till close, “finally” you mumble to yourself. Your phone has 4 missed calls and 5 missed texts, half of them probably trying to get a last-minute appointment.

Who the fuck takes walk-ins on Saturday?

The door chimes open and you curse under your breath, turning to face the front desk; you throw on your best customer service face and stop dead—oh.

The fake customer service face drops and turns into something a hell of a lot more sincere when you see him.

The gentleman that just walked in is your type, tall, rugged as hell—medium-length wildly curling hair that’s got a few silver streaks right at the temples. His beard is patchy like he's been at it with dull scissors, and he’s got a flannel thrown on over a faded Pink Floyd tee paired with dark-wash jeans—covered in sawdust no doubt. He looks tired and devastatingly handsome, he's probably got a decade on you at least. You can smell the pine on him from the front door.

He walks in quietly towards the front desk, looking down at his shoes, hands in his pockets, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else.

“I need uh—you got time for one more cut?” His eyes lift from the floor to meet yours, big, round, and coffee brown.

“Only if you say please,” you give him a smirk, “and you gotta give me your phone number first.”

He freezes for a second, looking back at you and cocking his head to the side, eyebrow raised, half-confused, half-intrigued. He opens his mouth to speak but you cut him off before he gets a chance.

“Need to put you into the computer system,” you say with a wink clicking open a new client profile.

You watch as his face relaxes, shoulders drop, he breathes out half a chuckle before saying “It’s Joel, Joel Miller,” handing it off to you like you’ve won something.

He gives you his phone number and you type it into the system, setting him up a profile.

“Alright, big guy, looks like you’re officially my last victim of the week, come on in,” you smile and gesture towards the salon, walking behind your chair and patting the leather seat. “Okay, let's see what we’re working with then, sit”

His boots shuffle across the laminate and he sits down heavy into the chair, slouching down low, without you needing to ask him to.

Thank god, my shoulders are already screaming.

You pick up a comb and start raking through the mess on his head, coarse, wavy, dark hair speckled with, you guessed it. Sawdust.

“What’re we doin’? You ask, making eye contact with him in the mirror.

“Hopefully performin’ a miracle,” he replies in a tired Southern drawl.

You can see he’s exhausted, his voice is flat and rough.

“Sounds good to me, turnin’ water into wine costs extra though, that alright?” You try to crack his shell but he just stays silent.“Tough crowd, damn—okay—rough day cowboy?”

“Somethin’ like that, rough week,” he replies, looking at the mirror, avoiding your gaze.

You start trimming, keeping it longer, it looks good on him. “Well you’re in luck, I’m about to make it a lot worse! You get to end it with my bad jokes!” You grin, trying to get him to bite but he still doesn't, you’ll get him though.

“Why’d the client tip extra?” Silence. You snip louder, “The bangs were a real blast— get it?”

His lips twitch, just barely but you’ve almost got it so you barrel on. “how about: I told my last client he had a head like a bowling ball—smooth and full of holes… Yeah, he didn’t laugh either.”

A smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth—finally, a low rumble of a laugh breaks through, and you beam. “There it is! Thanks for humoring me. I like to think of this gig as more than haircuts—it’s dinner and a show, except there’s no dinner, no show, and most folks leave thinking, ‘What the fuck’s wrong with her?’ But they always come back.”

He chuckles again, deeper this time, shaking his head. “You should do comedy,” he says, voice gravelly, warming up.

“Yeah, you know I tried stand-up for a bit,” you say, grabbing the trimmers to get the few stray hairs on his collar. “Realized I’m more of a sit-down girl—better at bad puns than punchlines.” You place your hands on his shoulders and squeeze, “Wash time.”

“Nah, don’t need that, 'm fine” he protests.

“Not askin, Mr. Miller, I’m tellin. Come on let's go, move it.”

He gets out of the chair with a groan, and you walk him over to the shampoo sink, guiding his head down into the bowl, dragging your nails slightly up his neck as you do it. “Hairs like a sawdust magnet by the looks of it.” You turn the water on and let it trickle over his hair, grabbing some ‘manly’ shampoo, tea tree, and mint instead of flowers or grapefruit, or whatever other girly shampoo you’ve got on the back bar.

You massage slow circles into his head, lightly scratching your fingernails into his scalp, a soft grunt escaping despite himself. The radio’s blasting dad rock, Springsteen, maybe—and he mutters, “Good taste,” voice lazy now. Unsurprising, doesn't usually take long to make em’ end up like putty in your hands.

“Only the best for my VIPs,” you tease, massaging longer than necessary, watching his jaw slacken. He fuckin’ loves it, you can tell—but he’d never admit it. You rinse, towel him off, and bring him over to the chair again. “Gotta style it now,” you use a paste, sweeping it back and off to the side, sharp but not like a cop. “Beard next,” you say, grabbing clippers, and he stiffens.

“Ain’t gotta—” he starts but you’re already in his space, getting halfway between his legs for a closer look, combing it out. His breath hitches for a second, rough stubble under your fingers, your chest brushing against his shoulders. You feel him tense, anxious, but he doesn’t pull away.

“Relax, Joel, I’m a pro,” you murmur, trimming it neat, square along his jaw, full but tamed, “At least that’s what everyone keeps tellin’ me.” Up close he’s gorgeous, like he was carved out of stone, but still soft. Lines jagged, dark eyes—you step back, smirking.”Okay, done. You outta’ pay me double for making you look so good, wife’s gonna be one happy lady!”

He stands up, rubbing his jaw, checks over himself in the mirror and smiles, barely but he smiles. “No wife to impress, my kids gonna be happy though, she was gettin’ embarrassed to be seen with me.” He reaches into his pocket, pulling out his wallet. “Double huh?” he says, handing you two twenties instead of one, a real grin tugging at his lips now; showing off a dimple in his cheek. “Fair.” He lingers, eyes on you for a beat too long.

“See you next time, cowboy, nice meetin’ you,” you yell at him as he heads for the door, boots scuffing, leaving you buzzing.

Later when you’re at home you lay on the couch watching SNL with your dad, you pull out your phone to shoot off a text to your friend Kim.

(9:45PM)

You: Hot older dude, probably mid/late 30’s idk im guessing, came in today. quiet, sexy as hell, laughed at my stupid jokes.

(9:49PM)

Kim: ok!!!! 🤔🤔he tip big??

(9:49PM)

You: yup, im fucked! 😩

(9:50PM)

Kim: i mean… lets hope you are, eventually at least 😉

You smile down at your phone, replaying your interaction with Joel. He feels familiar, but you can’t place your finger on it so you shrug it off—probably just a regular type, lotta’ blue-collar guys in Austin.

//

Two Weeks Later

It’s Saturday again, your booking system’s got “Sarah M., trim + straighten” in midday. A 10-year-old bounces in, curly hair a mess, and trailing behind her is none other than Joel, hands in his damn pockets again.

“She wants it straight,” he says, low with a hint of flirtiness to it, winking when Sarah’s not looking. “I’d probably fuckin’ burn her tryin’.”

“Smart man,” you laugh, settling her into the chair. She’s chatty—her eyes shining as you flat-iron her hair, turning her curls into sleek waves instead.

“It’s like you’ve got magic in your hands!” she squeals, twirling it, and you laugh.

“You wanna be a hairdresser now, kid?” you ask, and she nods, beaming. Joel just watches, leaning against the counter, smirking.

Sarah groans, “Dad stop staring at her, you’re being weird,” but she giggles anyway.

You give Joel a wink and shake your head at him “dang, Joel, called out tryina’ flirt by your kid, you need to step up your game old man.”

When Sarah's hair is sufficiently straight, and the ends are trimmed neat she rushes out to the truck, making sure to swipe about 6 lollipops on her way past the front desk. Joel lingers again, voice dropping down low. “You do house calls, darlin’”

You grin, leaning close. “You wish cowboy. Gotta take me to dinner first at least.”

“That so?” he drawls, stepping nearer, invading your space, eyes glinting. “You’d wanna be seen in public with an old man like me?

“First of all, don’t even know how old you are, wouldn't exactly call you an old man. Secondly, try me.” you shoot back, and he chuckles.

“38, probably old enough to be your daddy.” he laughs, “and you?”

“Didn’t take you as the kinda guy to be into that,” you reply with a wink, leaning in just a bit closer.

Okay brave, we see you, girl, make him sweat!

You continue, “I’m 23, my dad’s still got a few years on you.”

You see watch him swallow and his eyes widen, jaw opens like he's about to say something but can’t.

He just bites his lip, like he doesn't want to regret what might come ou,t he gives you a nod and turns on his heels to the door. But before he leaves he stops for a second to look back and says “You don’t know much ‘bout me darlin’, not yet,” smiling again, he adds “I’ll think about that dinner,” and he’s gone.

//

Another week and Joe’s back again, showing up at the end of the day; just as you’re about to clock out. His hair is a little wild again, beard creeping back to chaos, clothes a mess—that rough handsomeness hitting you like a brick.

“I thought you’d be closed,” he says, rubbing his neck like hes almost embarrassed to be there. “Got a thing this weekend,” settling into your chair. “Make me extra pretty.” He jokes, actually jokes with you, how rare!

“I think most of us have ‘a thing’ this weekend, fourth of July n’ all,” you tease. “Hot date or what?” Sit down, handsome, ill make you into a real heartbreaker.

He grunts, settling in, body too big for the space, cape snapping as you drape it over him.

He snorts, eyes meeting yours in the mirror, dark and steady, maybe with a flicker of something in thiem. “No date, just a…thing. Don’t need Sarah to give me shit about lookin’ like a caveman.”

His tone is casual, but theres a dodge there, you let it slide, snipping away.

“Big, brooding, Joel Miller—so mysterious,” you say, hovering close, breath brushing his ear as you cut. “Thank god you’ve god me, huh?” you flash him a grin and he chuckles, warm, loosening up.

“Capes a little tight darlin’, you tryin to choke me?” he says, hooking a finger in the front of the cape. You undo the snaps and let out a low chuckle.

“Sorry honey, didn’t mean to, usually charge extra for that.” You say real low, giving him a wink.

“Ah, theres that comedian comin’ out again.” he says, voice dipping a bit, “Keepin’ me entertained.” His hand shifts under the cape, brushing your thigh—accidental, maybe? But he doesn't move it fast, and your heart jumps.

You tidy up the sides, cutting half an inch off the top.

“Okay let's go wash it, no fighting,” you say ripping the cape off. You bring him back to the sink and lean him back, scratching his nape with your fingernails a little rougher than last time, purposeful, just to see him shiver. You wash, fingers deep in his scalp, massaging watching his gruff expression melt away, noticing how the frown line between his brows softens.

He exhales a groan, and it makes you smirk, “Purrin’ again, huh? I got you hooked now.”

“Keep dreamin',’’ he mutters, weak—lazy, his hands unclench in his lap. You hum along to the radio, Led Zepplin, this time Ramble On low in the background.

You bring him back to the chair and style it, a little slicker this time, more pomade.

“There, now if you don't get too crazy tonight, this might stay lookin' good till tomorrow,” you say, “beard needs a bit of work still.” You clean up his neckline, and trim his mustache, leaning in extra close this time to get a good look—or maybe for him to get a good look—you wore a lowcut shirt today. You tilt his chin up and catch him swallowing—hard, adams apple bobbing, his dark eyes flicking up to you. You feel the heat of him under his stubble.

“Careful.” He warns, drawl low, but he doesn't pull away.

“Always am,” you murmur, cleaning up his neckline, and framing it up just right. You oggle again. He’s stupidly good looking, smile lines, plush lips, faint scars, coffee eyes—and you step back, smirking. “There, too pretty for your own damn good, owe me double again”

“You’re a magician,” he says, handing you forty bucks again with a flirty “worth it.’

“Damn straight,” you say, leaning against the counter, knee brushing his thigh, close, casual, but the air’s thick now. “So, this ‘thing’—gonna tell me, or keep me guessing?”

“You’ll figure it out, darlin’. You’re a smart girl,” his hand hovers near yours nearly touching it, then it drops. “See you around, be good.” and he leaves.

You’d be lying if you said that you didn’t sulk a little when he left, no mention of dinner, no ‘house call’ comment to be heard.

You’ll live, girl calm down.

You immediately text Kim again.

(7:03PM)

You: DILF strikes again, i need him biblically. 😩

You laugh at yourself as you flick off the open sign and head for the door, heart still racing from that damn smirk of his.

(7:07PM)

Kim: oh you’re down BAD bad huh? I need to see this guy 😂

You lock up, grinning like an idiot, wondering if Joel Miller’s worth all this trouble.

Spoiler: he probably is.