#finally got the energy to work on this again

[uncuredturkeybacon]

𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚛 || 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which you’re both back and better than ever

part one - part two

The court is glowing under desert lights. Cool air blasts through the tunnels. Thousands of seats are filling with fans in shades of purple and orange.

But your world stays small.

Just one player. One jersey. One heartbeat you’ve missed beside you for four long games.

#5 – BUECKERS

She's back.

She emerges from the locker room in full warmup gear, muscular arms and shoulders exposed that may or may not have you feeling some type of way. Her face is calm but unreadable. You can see the shadows of the last week still under her eyes — not just from the concussion, but from the chest cold that hit her two days later like the universe wasn’t quite done testing her yet.

She walks toward you slowly, sneakers squeaking on polished hardwood. You smile when you see her.

“I was starting to forget what it felt like seeing you in game shoes.”

Paige stops in front of you. “You missed me.”

“I missed you yelling at me about your wrist tape being too tight.” She lifts her left arm slightly “I need it retaped.”

You try not to grin. “Called it.”

You're kneeling by the bench with your tape kit open, gently unwinding the wrap on her wrist as she stands in front of you. Her hand rests in yours like it’s second nature, like four games away didn’t happen.

“You ready?” you ask, eyes focused on the tape.

She doesn’t answer right away.

“Yeah,” she says finally. “I think so.”

“You don’t have to lie to me.”

She exhales, watching you finish the final wrap.

“I’m… nervous.”

You look up. “Good.”

Paige blinks. “Good?”

“You care. That’s all the nerves are. Your body remembering this matters.”

She breathes through her nose. Quiet. Soft. “I didn’t like watching from the couch.”

“I didn’t like sitting next to you knowing you should’ve been out there.”

She tilts her head. “But you didn’t push me.”

“I’ll never push you to break yourself.”

Her eyes soften.

“I think that’s why I trust you.”

You nod once, then test the tension of the tape.

“Wrist feels good,” you say. “What about your head?”

“Clear.”

“Breath?”

She inhales slowly.

“Strong.”

“Vision?”

She gives you a crooked smile. “You’re still the hottest person in the building, so yeah.”

You roll your eyes. “Perfect. She’s healed.”

It’s thirty minutes before the tip when you’re on the court with Paige. You step back to the sideline as Paige starts her rhythm work — one-dribble pull-up, spin footwork, step-back from the wing. You watch the way she moves. Smooth, but not flashy yet. Conserving energy. Testing the water.

After five reps, she glances back at you. You raise a hand with three fingers. She nods. The third shot she releases drops clean — net only. You nod back. She smiles.

“And there she is — Paige Bueckers back in the lineup tonight after a four-game absence. She’s missed time with concussion protocol and illness, but reports say she’s been full-go in practice the last two days.”

“You know what else? Look who’s back on her sideline. Assistant Y/N L/N. They’re locked in again pregame — I’ve watched that warmup routine evolve since the start of the season.”

“You can tell Bueckers is grounded when she’s got Y/N out there with her. That trust is rare between player and staff, especially in a rookie season.”

“It’s not just technical. That’s… connection.”

Back on the court, you hand Paige a water bottle as the buzzer sounds.

“First shift’s never going to be easy,” you tell her. “Don’t try to win the whole game in one quarter.”

She smirks, taking a sip. “You know me.”

“I do. That’s why I’m reminding you.”

She hands the bottle back and reaches out and quietly bumps her fist against your chest — right over your heart.

“You’ve got me?”

You bump hers in return. “Always.”

And as she walks toward the huddle, shoulders squared and tape firm on her wrist, you feel it again. The game beginning to breathe right now that she’s back.

You watch her breathe before tipoff.

One long inhale. One sharp exhale. Then her eyes lock forward.

She’s not looking at the defender. She’s looking past her. Through her. Like the court is already mapped in her mind.

You’ve seen this version of Paige before.

But never this focused.

Paige catches the ball on the left wing. Jab step. Hesitation. One hard dribble right.

Step-back. Pure.

3–0 Paige.

You raise your pen but don’t write anything. Not yet. You’re still calibrating her.

Next trip down, she floats through a stagger screen and slips between the Mercury help like water splitting over stone. Floater.

5–0 Paige.

You glance at the bench. Arike’s clapping. ZaZa’s yelling “She’s back!”

You don’t smile. You just watch. Because something’s happening.

“Paige Bueckers is cooking. She’s back from concussion protocol, back from illness, and back to being unguardable.”

“Look at her poise. Her shot selection. This isn’t just about getting buckets — she’s surgically taking apart Phoenix’s switches.”

“And yet—look at the score. Wings still trail by eight.”

Phoenix is doubling the wings. Collapsing paint. Playing downhill. They’re scoring in bunches while Dallas trades jumpers and loose rebounding effort.

Paige doesn’t flinch.

Corner three.

14–0 Paige.

She’s moving faster now. Calling for screens, ghosting behind Arike, back-cutting when defenders blink.

A steal. One dribble. Two steps. Reverse lay.

16–0 Paige.

She runs back down the court without a word. You catch her glance at you. You give one subtle signal from the bench — three fingers tapped against your hip. She nods.

Next possession she flares a screen. Lift from the elbow. Hesitation pull-up.

18–0 Paige. 7–7 from the field. Fifteen minutes. Zero misses. And still? Dallas is down by 11.

Timeout. Wings bench.

 The players walk in breathing hard, towel-wiping, frustrated. Paige sits. Wipes her face. Doesn’t speak yet. You squat next to her, clipboard angled, voice low and even.

“You’re perfect,” you say first.

She shakes her head. “We’re losing.”

“You’re still perfect.”

Paige blinks.

“I don’t want you to chase the game,” you continue. “You don’t have to be the fuel. You’re the flame. Let the rest of them catch up.”

She doesn’t reply. Just holds your stare.

“I’m not gonna tell you to score more,” you add.

“Then what?”

“I’m gonna tell you to make them play with you. Not behind you.”

Paige lets out a slow breath. One sharp motion.

“I got it.”

The streak breaks.

It’s a pull-up from the top of the key. Clean look. Great rhythm. It rims out. You don’t flinch. Neither does she. Paige backpedals on defense without looking at the scoreboard. She’s already reading the next coverage.

You mark the shot on your clipboard, quiet. First miss of the night. 7-for-8 now. Still flawless from the line. Still leading all scorers. But it’s the feel of the game that starts to shift.

Phoenix pushes the pace. Thomas lobs a skip pass to Sabally, who drills a transition three. Dallas calls timeout.

Phoenix 36, Dallas 28.

“It’s hard to ask more from Paige Bueckers. She’s got 20 of the Wings’ 28. That’s over 70 percent of the offense.”

“It’s a career-high already — and it’s not even halftime. But the problem is, she’s alone out there. Dallas is out of rhythm. Their defensive communication is breaking down, and Paige can’t plug every hole.”

You stay seated during the timeout. Not because you’re tired — because she isn’t looking at the coaches. She’s looking at you. And you nod. Not instruction. Not strategy. “You’re doing everything you can.”

She closes her eyes. Nods back. Then turns back to the huddle.

It’s her favorite set — a back screen from Nalyssa, quick flare from Arike. The defense overcommits. Paige slips under, curls to the elbow.

Catch. One dribble. Body bump.

Foul.

Bonus.

She jogs to the line. Phoenix is up six. The crowd is rowdy now, sensing blood. You watch her bounce the ball once, twice, roll her shoulders.

She’s breathing a little harder now. Still sharp, but fading slightly.

She sets her feet. Takes a deep breath. Spins the ball in her left hand.  First free throw — clean.

21.

Second shot — softer, high arc.

22.

She exhales. Turns. Jogging back on defense.

“That’s a career high for Bueckers. 22 points in just one half. The rookie is putting on a clinic.”

“And yet — Dallas is still chasing. They need stops. They need someone else to step up.”

The half closes with Phoenix pushing in transition. Westbeld launches a leaning three at the buzzer — it rims out.

Horn sounds.

Phoenix 42, Dallas 36.

Paige walks off the court slowly, jersey clinging to her back, towel thrown over her shoulder. Her teammates pat her back, but she doesn’t really react.

Not until she gets close to you. You don’t say “great job.” You just reach out and squeeze her wrist gently, thumb brushing over the tape. She exhales.

“Still down,” she whispers.

You nod. “But not out.”

The door shuts behind the last assistant, and the Phoenix crowd becomes a muffled thump behind concrete.

Everyone's quiet.

Some players are still breathing heavy, kneepads peeled halfway down, sweat soaking into towels. Others are slouched on the bench, water bottles in hand, eyes unfocused.

And Paige — she’s sitting on the floor against her locker, legs extended, towel over her shoulders, jaw set but eyes… distant.

Like she just ran through a wall for thirty minutes, and it still wasn’t enough.

Coach Koclanes clears his throat.

“Alright,” he starts, standing in front of the whiteboard.

No one moves.

“You’re playing soft on the boards,” he says, uncapping a marker. “They’re leaking weak-side every time and you’re not dropping fast enough. Maddy, you’ve gotta call out the baseline help. DiJonai—two of your switches were late. Arike—stop fading on those screens.”

No response.

He turns to the board and starts drawing lines, talking over himself. “We’re gonna run more 4-out, isolate Paige less. They’re gapping her now. She’s giving us points, but they’re baiting the overreliance. We switch to horns sets out of the timeout.”

Still no one speaks. Still no one moves. You’re standing near the side wall, arms crossed, watching. He finishes drawing. Puts the marker down.

“Got it?”

No one answers.

He steps back, jaw clenched, eyes scanning the room. It’s not mutiny. It’s silence. Worse. No one’s disrespecting him — but no one’s buying in, either.

He turns away from the board. “Okay, well—figure it out.”

He walks off to the corner, picks up his clipboard, flipping pages angrily. And that’s when you speak. You don’t raise your voice. Don’t announce you’re talking. You just start.

“Everyone look up.”

They do.

Paige sits up straighter. Arike turns her head. Nai drops her water bottle to her lap. The room slowly rotates to face you.

“We’re not losing because we’re soft,” you say. “We’re not losing because we’re outmatched. We’re not losing because Paige is doing too much.” You pause. “We’re losing because we’re disconnected.”

They’re really listening now.

“This team was never built around one shooter. Or one voice. But right now, it’s like we’re all watching the same show instead of playing the same game.”

You glance at Paige.

“She gave you 22 in twenty minutes. That’s not her bailing us out — that’s her asking us to come with her.”

You look back to the room.

“So the second half? Don’t let her be the only one playing like it matters.”

A few heads nod. Hines-Allen clenches her jaw. Nai leans forward.

You step closer to the board and erase one of Koclanes’s drawn sets with your palm.

“We simplify. Strong-side cut, baseline diver, weak-side read. Make the defense think for two seconds. That’s all we need.”

You meet every player’s eyes. “But I need everyone thinking.”

From the corner, Koclanes stares at you. Silent. Tight-lipped. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t stop you.

But the look on his face says it all. “They’re listening to you. Not me.”

And that? That stings.

Because he’s the head coach. And you’re not. But tonight? You’re the voice in the room.

You turn back to the team, more calmly now.

“We don’t need a miracle. We need trust. We need each other. That’s it.”

Paige stands first. Wrist still taped. Eyes still sharp.

“I’m ready.”

You nod.

So is everyone else now.

The final buzzer sounds.

Phoenix 93, Dallas 80.

You let the pen drop from behind your ear and slowly close the folder in your lap.

You’re still on the bench, same seat you always take. Second from the end. Close enough to shout plays, far enough to see everything. But you’ve barely spoken since the third quarter. You didn’t need to. You were watching her.

Paige.

Thirty-five points. Four assists. Six rebounds. One steal. First game back. Career high.

And yet.

It was never about the stat line.

She played the right way. Gritty. Composed. Committed. And when her teammates finally started moving with her instead of behind her, it looked like something real. Even if it came too late.

The locker room is quiet when the team files in.

Exhausted. Not gutted. But quiet.

Arike throws her towel at her locker without looking. Nai collapses into the bench like gravity’s heavier after losses. Luisa is already peeling her shoes off, muttering about spacing and switches under her breath.

Paige walks in slower. No strut. No ego.

Just bone-deep fatigue and a calm sort of fire still simmering behind her eyes.

She sits down across from you. Legs wide, hands on her knees. No words. Just the shared breath of someone who left it all on the floor.

Coach Koclanes enters last.

Claps his hands once.

“Alright,” he starts. Loud, performative. “Tough one tonight.”

Silence.

“We were right there,” he says. “Right on the edge. We just have to lock in on the details. Play together. Trust each other. That’s what separates wins from losses. Togetherness.” He paces once. “You show me a team that trusts each other, I’ll show you a team that wins games.”

He looks around. Still silence.

Not blank stares. Not open rebellion. Just… quiet disinterest. His voice slows. Like he’s realizing mid-sentence no one’s buying it.

“Let’s regroup tomorrow. Get your heads right.”

He claps once more. No one claps back. Then he turns and walks toward the staff hallway. No one watches him leave. You step forward.

“Hey,” you say.

It’s not a command. It’s not a speech cue. It’s just your voice. But every single head lifts.

“Look, we didn’t win,” you say. “No one’s sugarcoating it. We let Phoenix own the tempo. We didn’t adjust early enough. We let Bueckers carry too much too fast.”

You look at them, steady.

“But we didn’t quit. And that means something.”

A breath.

“To start the second half still down double digits and see you rally? Shift the energy? Move off-ball, make the second and third passes, talk through switches? That’s growth. That’s film we want to break down. That’s team basketball.”

Some nods now. Arike leans forward. NaLyssa wipes sweat from her temple but doesn’t look away.

“And that fourth quarter?” you add. “You could’ve let the deficit drown you. But you didn’t. You fought. You played. And most importantly — you played for each other.”

Paige shifts slightly. Not to draw attention. Just quietly proud. You turn toward her now.

“And one of you didn’t just show up tonight — she showed out.”

Paige blinks.

“Thirty-five points,” you say. “Career high. First game back from a concussion. From being sick. From sitting in street clothes watching us run in circles without her.”

The team chuckles softly. You smile.

“She didn’t try to be a savior. She just played the damn game. The way it’s supposed to be played. With trust. With poise. With fire.”

You glance around.

“I don’t care what the scoreboard says. That’s the kind of player who lifts this franchise.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then everyone claps. Soft at first. Then louder. Myisha starts it. Arike joins in. Nai’s standing now. Paige looks stunned. The locker room breaks into full applause.

She blushes, ducking her head a little, cheeks flushed redder than they were during the game. You catch her smiling into her towel.

And you? You just lean against the wall and let it wash over her.

He’s still in the hallway. Back turned halfway toward the room. Listening to the cheers that didn’t come for him. His jaw tightens. He steps back in just as the applause dies.

“You know,” he says, voice sharper, “this is all nice. But maybe if we spent more time listening to the people actually in charge, we’d be winning games.”

The room stiffens.

Paige’s smile fades slightly. Maddy glances at the floor. Arike raises an eyebrow but doesn’t speak.

You say nothing. Because you don’t need to.

Koclanes looks around. Waiting. Expecting someone to jump in. Someone to agree. Someone to apologize for being inspired by the wrong voice.

But no one does. He exhales through his nose.

“See you all at tomorrow.”

He walks out again.

This time? Not a single head turns.

Paige walks up to you, towel around her shoulders, hair damp with sweat. She doesn’t speak at first. Just stands beside you. “You know he’s gonna try to push you out eventually.”

You don’t flinch. “Let him try.”

She looks over.

“You’re the reason this team’s still breathing.”

You glance at her hand, resting next to yours on the bench. So close it touches, barely.

“And you’re the reason I never back down,” you say softly.

Her lips part slightly. Eyes bright. Shoulders soft now.

“You think they’ll remember tonight?” she asks.

“They already do.”

The room is bright, white, and humming with reporters. Camera lenses click. Recorders are already running. Every folding chair is filled.

Behind the table, three name placards.

PAIGE BUECKERS | GUARD CHRIS KOCLANES | HEAD COACH Y/N L/N | ASSISTANT COACH

You’re seated far right. Koclanes is in the middle. Paige is left of him, legs crossed at the ankle, Wings polo tucked clean under her warmup jacket, bottle of water unopened on the table.

The press doesn’t waste time.

A reporter in the second row raises her hand, eyes already on Paige.

“Paige, congrats on the career high. First game back, no missed beats — what clicked for you out there?”

Paige shifts the mic closer, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

“I think… I just trusted my prep,” she says. “My team did a great job creating space. I felt good physically. Once I hit a couple early shots, I got into a rhythm.”

She pauses, glances at you briefly.

“And honestly, I’ve been waiting to play for a while. Four games on the sideline builds up a lot of… urgency. I didn’t want to force it. I just wanted to be solid.”

The reporter smiles. “Well, solid turned into 35.”

Paige smiles a little. “Could’ve traded 10 of those points for a win, though.”

Light laughter from the room.

Next question.

A different voice, more pointed.

“Coach Koclanes — Dallas gave up 93 points. What went wrong defensively?”

Koclanes adjusts his mic.

“Well, you know… it’s about effort. And togetherness. You can’t win in this league without being synced. Defensively, we weren’t connected. Not just schemes — I mean the emotional commitment. The buy-in. If we’re all on the same page, maybe it’s different.”

You stare ahead, still.

The reporter frowns. “So… was it a lack of effort?”

Koclanes shrugs. “Maybe. Or maybe it was us being too in our heads. We focused too much on individual matchups and forgot the team responsibility. When that happens, breakdowns follow.”

Another reporter chimes in, skeptical.

“Do you take any accountability for the defensive game plan tonight?”

He leans forward. “I take accountability for the whole team. That’s what being a head coach means.”

But the way he says it? It means nothing.

Someone turns to you.

“Coach L/N — same question. What do you think went wrong out there?”

You adjust your mic, calm, composed.

“I think we lost the tempo battle,” you say, voice steady. “Phoenix dictated the pace early. We were slow to adjust. They ran smart pick-and-roll variations that pulled us off help and punished our recovery.”

Reporters start writing.

You continue.

“We didn’t communicate well on switches. Rotations were late. Weak-side coverage fell apart on early drives. That’s not about effort — that’s about timing, discipline, and trust. And we’ll address that in film.”

You don’t look at Koclanes when you say it. But you feel his glance shift your way. The room stays quiet.

You finish. “We’ve got the tools. But we’re not using them together yet.”

Another hand raises.

“Coach L/N, can you speak to Paige’s performance tonight? From a developmental standpoint?”

You glance at her. She’s watching you now, subtly. You keep your tone clean. Grounded.

“Paige was efficient. Smart. Patient. She didn’t rush into shots. She read second-level defenders, punished hedges, used angles. But what stood out more was how she adjusted between quarters.”

You pause.

“She scored 35, but she also made reads that didn’t show up on the box score. Got us into rhythm when the offense stalled. Created gravity off-ball. That’s growth. That’s leadership.”

Paige looks down briefly. The tiniest smile at the edge of her mouth.

You finish simply, “She played like a veteran tonight.”

The room quiets again. Then applause. Soft, respectful. A few murmurs of agreement from reporters. The balance in the room is obvious now.

They heard Koclanes.

They listened to you.

As the media coordinator calls it, Paige gets up first. She tucks her chair back quietly, waiting for you at the side wall.

Koclanes lingers behind, still pretending to check his notes.

You and Paige walk out side by side — and the air feels different. Lighter. Steadier. Even in loss, the room belonged to her. And maybe — just maybe — a little bit to you too.

You’re in the team hotel, eighth floor, room key in one hand, backpack slung over one shoulder, and two hours of film notes waiting on your laptop.

It’s just after midnight. Most of the team’s already upstairs — some watching movie together, some passed out in their rooms. Paige had slipped you a quiet smile in the lobby before disappearing into the elevator with Maddy and Arike, a half-empty smoothie in her hand.

You’re heading toward your room when you hear it.

“Coach L/N.”

You stop.

He’s standing near the vending machines down the hallway, arms crossed, eyes sharp.

You sigh softly. “Chris.”

He walks over.

“You got a second?”

You glance toward your door. “Kind of late for a staff chat.”

“Won’t take long,” he says, tone clipped. “Just figured we should clear the air.”

You raise an eyebrow. “About?”

“About tonight. About what you did in the locker room. And the press conference.”

You tilt your head. “What I did?”

He steps a little closer. Not threatening — just trying to make his voice carry.

“You undermined me.”

You pause.

“Did I?”

“You erased my plays off the board mid-halftime.”

“They weren’t working.”

“I’m the head coach.”

“And I’m the assistant coach whose players weren’t listening to the head coach.”

He doesn’t like that. You see the tension rise in his jaw.

“You think I don’t know what’s happening?” he says. “You think I don’t see the way they look at you instead of me? You’re not the voice in charge. I am.”

You shrug. Calm.

“Then maybe act like it.”

That sets him off.

He steps in. “You think you’re some locker room savior? You think Paige drops 35 because of you? You’re overstepping. You’re coddling her. You’re turning the team against—”

“Hey.”

A voice cuts through the hallway.

You both turn.

It’s Paige.

Standing by the elevator. Arms crossed. Hoodie zipped halfway up. Behind her? DiJonai. NaLyssa. Arike. You glance at them.

Koclanes stiffens. “This is a private—”

“Actually,” Paige says, stepping forward, “it’s not.”

She walks toward you, calm but blazing. “If you’re gonna say this stuff, say it in front of us. Because we were all in that locker room. And we all heard the difference.”

Chris blinks. “Heard what?”

Arike answers, arms folded. “You giving us the same generic talk you’ve been saying since camp. Togetherness, effort, togetherness, togetherness. That ain’t coaching. That’s deflecting.”

Nalyssa nods. “We needed real adjustments. We needed accountability. We needed someone who actually gave us a way forward. L/N gave us that.”

DiJonai’s quieter, but when she speaks, it cuts, “We trust her. Period.”

You don’t speak yet. You don’t need to. Because this isn’t your fight. This is the team’s answer.

Chris’s face cycles through disbelief, frustration, wounded pride. He opens his mouth like he wants to pull rank — but he must see it in Paige’s eyes, in Arike’s stance, in DiJonai’s dead-serious tone.

The room’s made its choice.

He turns to you, voice lower now. “You happy?”

You look at him evenly.

“No,” you say. “I’m not happy we lost. I’m not happy the team’s fractured. But I’m proud of them for finding their voice.”

He scoffs. “You think you can run this team better than me?”

“No,” you reply. “I think the team is showing you who they want to be led by. And it’s your job to listen before you lose them for good.”

He stares at you.

Then turns, mutters something under his breath, and walks away.

Paige steps beside you the second he’s gone.

“You okay?”

You nod. “You didn’t have to step in.”

“I didn’t,” she says. “We did.”

She turns back to the group. “Let’s go upstairs. We’ve got practice tomorrow.”

The girls nod. Arike leads the way. But before Paige follows them, she leans in quietly and says, just for you, “You didn’t undermine him.”

You look at her.

“You just did your job better.”

[hauntedbyjoel]

Stay A While

pairing: joel miller x f!reader warnings: eventual smut | oral (f & m) | unprotected sex | dirty talk | praise | mutual longing | pining | slow burn | causal intimacy | soft but charged tension | no outbreak word count - 7.3k summary - You rent a guesthouse by the beach, needing space to figure things out. He lives in the main house—quiet, distant, and kind in ways that surprise you. Slowly, something shifts.

part one part two

𓇼𓆉𓇼

You don’t even remember typing the last sentence.

Something about Q3 projections. Client engagement. Numbers and buzzwords that used to mean something—now just static in your head. You stare at them like they might rearrange themselves into a reason to keep going. They don’t.

Across the office, someone laughs a little too loudly. Over by the breakroom, the microwave beeps and nobody moves. Your inbox pings again.

URGENT: NEED FINAL REVIEW BY 3PM. Appreciate your hustle.

You close the email. Not out of defiance. Just... fatigue. Everything feels like noise.

The coffee in your cup is cold. You drink it anyway. No creamer left in the breakroom and no energy to care. You stare at the screen and pretend to read something important while you try not to cry from a place that doesn’t even feel emotional—just... tired.

It’s not that the job is terrible. It’s fine. Everyone says you’re lucky to have it. Good benefits. Steady pay. A team that uses too many emojis in Slack but means well enough. It’s not bad.

But you hate it.

You hate the way it’s slowly eaten pieces of you in exchange for... what? PTO you never use? A title no one outside of work understands? Deadlines you never chose?

You open a browser tab.

“Quiet places to stay near the beach.” You’ve searched it before—every other week, like clockwork. Like maybe this time there’ll be something new. A way out.

There’s a little house on the coast. Too expensive. A cabin in the woods. Too isolated. A pastel Airbnb with ‘good vibes only’ in the header image. God, no.

You close the tab.

Your eyes flick to the sticky note on your monitor—“Your passion will lead you.” You don’t even remember who wrote it. Some old team meeting, probably. You peel it off and crumple it into your palm. You hold it there for a while.

Your phone buzzes.

A text from Jules:

Jules: Made the mistake of swimming after lunch again. I’m 90% seaweed now.

You smile, half-hearted but real. You text back a simple “RIP”, then pause for a second, staring at her name.

Without thinking too hard, you press Call.

She picks up on the second ring. “Hey, what’s up?.”

“You’re not seaweed, you’re just dramatic,” you say, flopping back in your chair.

“I am seaweed. I’ve accepted it. I’m part of the ecosystem now.” Jules sounds like she’s walking—wind in the background, maybe seagulls too. “Are you alright?”

You hesitate, then shrug. “Yeah. Just... needed to talk to someone who isn’t obsessed with productivity metrics.”

“Say no more,” she groans. “I got dive-bombed by a pelican this morning, so let’s talk about that instead.”

You laugh, and for the first time today it doesn’t feel forced.

The conversation wanders—lunch spots, bad music, someone named Eli who forgot to anchor the kayak rental dock again. It’s easy. Familiar. Until you’re quiet for just a little too long.

You hesitate, chewing your lip. The silence stretches just long enough before you say it. “I’ve been thinking about taking time off. Like, not a full break, just… remote. For a while.”

Jules doesn’t skip a beat. “So come here.”

You snort. “You’ve been saying that for two years.”

“And I’ve been right for two years. I’m overdue for being smug.”

You stretch your legs out under the desk, voice softer now. “I’m serious, though. I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.”

“Then stop trying to figure it out,” she says. “Come stay for a bit. Reset. I know a guy. Well, I know of him. Joel. He rents out this little guesthouse sometimes—it’s nothing fancy, but it’s quiet and like... weirdly peaceful. I can ask around.”

You blink up at the ceiling tiles. “Would he be okay with that?”

“He doesn’t even know me. It’s word-of-mouth type stuff. I’ll see what I can find out. You just say the word.”

You let your eyes close.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “Okay.”

You hang up the phone and sit there for a minute, letting the silence settle. The overhead lights buzz. Your back aches. The office is nearly empty now, just the cleaning crew and the low hum of someone’s forgotten desktop fan.

You stand up slowly. Shut your laptop. Slide it into your bag.

No announcement. No grand exit. Just… leaving.

The sky outside is dusky pink by the time you get home—your apartment still exactly as you left it: keys in the dish, shoes kicked off halfway to the door, a half-finished coffee cup on the counter you meant to rinse out this morning. It smells like lavender laundry detergent and burnt toast. Familiar. Still.

You drop your bag by the door and pull out your phone again.

Jules: Asked around. Guesthouse is open. Told ‘em you’re chill and don’t throw parties. It’s yours if you want it.

Your fingers hover over the screen.

Then:

You: I want it.

You toss your phone on the bed and open your closet. Not frantically—just... automatically. Like your body already knows what to do even if your brain is still buffering.

You grab the canvas duffel from under your bed. The one you always told yourself you’d use for a weekend getaway that never came. You don’t pack much. A few outfits. A swimsuit you haven’t worn in two summers. Your laptop. A couple books you keep rereading, even when they don’t hit the same.

Toiletries. Chargers. That old hoodie you wear when you’re pretending everything’s fine.

You stand there for a moment, staring down at the bag.

It doesn’t feel impulsive. It doesn’t feel like running away. It feels… necessary. Like your body hit its limit before your mind caught up.

You don’t know what’s waiting there. You don’t know how long you’ll stay.

You just know you need to go.

𓇼𓆉𓇼

You spot her before she sees you—leaning against the side of a weather-faded Honda with the windows down, one foot propped against the tire, hair tied up in a messy knot. She’s scrolling through her phone and squinting at the sun, sunglasses sliding halfway down her nose.

When she looks up, she smiles like this is just another Thursday. Like you didn’t just leave your whole life behind.

“Hey,” she says, casual and warm.

You manage something close to a smile. “Hey.”

She opens the trunk without comment, just nods toward your bag. “Throw it in. The AC barely works and I’m already sweaty.”

You toss your bag into the trunk and slide into the passenger seat. The inside of the car smells like sunscreen and sand, and there’s an empty iced coffee cup wedged between the seats. Jules pulls out of the airport lot without turning on the music. The windows are cracked just enough to let in the salt air.

Neither of you talks at first. You’re grateful for that.

Outside, the landscape shifts from traffic and chain stores to palm trees and beautiful beaches. The sky is wide and pale, hazy from heat. You pass weathered houses on stilts, homemade signs for bait shops and beach yoga, kids on bikes in swimsuits still dripping from the ocean.

It’s not quiet in the way you expected. It’s the kind of quiet that has texture—wind through seagrass, tires on gravel, gulls somewhere above you, calling out like they own the place.

“You hungry?” Jules asks eventually, glancing at you as she turns onto a smaller road. “We can stop before I take you to the house.”

You nod. “Yeah. I could definitely eat.”

She takes you to a place with a cracked vinyl sign and a handwritten chalkboard menu out front. It smells like vinegar and something fried, and you already feel your hair starting to frizz in the heat.

The two of you sit at a shaded picnic table with water-streaked plastic cups and paper baskets of food between you. Jules picks at a plate of fries and orders a lemonade so sour she winces with every sip. You get grilled shrimp, something light.

Neither of you is in a rush.

It takes a few minutes before the conversation settles into something real.

“I still can’t believe you actually did it,” Jules says, brushing crumbs off her lap. “I mean, I knew you were close, but…”

You shrug. “I didn’t quit, exactly. Just asked to go remote for a while. My boss said I looked like I was about to pass out on a Zoom call, so.” You gesture vaguely. “Here I am.”

Jules raises an eyebrow. “And they let you?”

“Yeah. Shockingly, they don’t care where I answer emails from, as long as I keep answering them.”

She leans back in her seat and watches you. “I’m glad you’re here.”

You give a half-smile. “I feel like I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“Then you’re doing it right.”

You blink. “That easy?”

She nods. “You’ve been so stuck trying to figure it all out. What if you don’t? What if you just… exist for a while?”

You pick up a shrimp, tear the tail off slowly. “You’re starting to sound like someone who eats seaweed and meditates on a paddleboard.”

“I’m starting to live,” she says. “There’s a difference.”

She tells you about her work—marine conservation, public education. She gives talks to tourists about nesting sea turtles, organizes cleanups, curses at jet skis under her breath. It’s all stuff she used to talk about back in college like it was some distant dream.

Now she’s just doing it. Barefoot, usually.

“You really like it here,” you say.

“I really like me here,” she corrects.

And that hits harder than you expect.

The drive to Joel's is quieter. You lean your head against the window and let her navigate through narrow side roads lined with tall grass and crooked mailboxes. There’s a rhythm to this place already, like it doesn’t care what time it is.

When she turns into the driveway, you sit up.

The house is simple—single-story, pale siding, a wide porch mostly in shade. A gravel path curves around to a second structure tucked behind it. The guesthouse is smaller, boxier, but clean and cared for. No frills. No clutter.

“That’s you,” Jules says, pulling up in front of the smaller house. “Joel lives in the main one.”

You glance out the window. “Is he home?”

She shrugs. “Probably. He’s around a lot, working. Keeps to himself. Doesn’t do the whole neighborly chit-chat thing, but I’ve never heard a single bad thing.”

“Sounds perfect.”

You step out of the car and stretch your legs. Jules grabs your bag from the trunk and sets it on the porch for you.

“You’re not gonna introduce me?”

She laughs. “I don’t know him. I just heard he had a place. Told a guy at the coffee shop my friend needed a quiet rental, and two days later he left a note saying the guesthouse was unlocked.”

You blink. “Seriously?”

“Small town.” She shrugs. “People hear things. People help. No one wants to make it weird.”

She glances toward the main house. The blinds are drawn. Somewhere behind it, you hear a faint, steady rhythm—maybe a hammer, maybe something heavier. Not loud, just… present.

“He’s harmless,” she says. “And honestly? Quiet might be exactly what you need.”

𓇼𓆉𓇼

The first morning you wake up in the guesthouse, it takes a second to remember where you are.

The light hits differently here—muted through gauzy curtains, soft and golden, like it filtered through the ocean first. The ceiling fan ticks gently above you, blades slicing through the air at a pace that feels patient.

You reach for your phone out of habit. No new messages. No calendar pings. No blinking notifications. For a split second, you panic—then remember: it’s Saturday. You got here on a weekend.

You told your team you’d be online Monday morning. Said it like it was no big deal. But now, standing here in someone else’s t-shirt with the sun warming your arms through the window… Monday feels like it might be a century away.

You make coffee in the small, slightly temperamental drip machine on the counter. The mugs are mismatched—one with faded sailboats, one that says “I’m crabby before caffeine” in peeling red letters. You pick the least offensive one and step outside barefoot.

The porch boards are warm under your feet. Everything smells like sun—salt and wood and something faintly green. You sit on the top step, cross your legs, and wrap your fingers around the mug like it’s the only thing anchoring you here.

The quiet isn’t exactly peaceful. Not yet. It’s unfamiliar. Expansive. It stretches out in front of you like something you’re supposed to do something with.

You don’t.

You just sit there and listen to the wind push through the dune grass. To the porch creak when you shift your weight. To the absence of anything that needs you.

Later, you half-unpack.

You open drawers just to see how they close. Leave your bag unzipped on the floor. Put a book on the nightstand you probably won’t finish. You don’t organize anything—you just scatter yourself around the room like you’re testing the space.

The guesthouse feels clean, but not in a rental kind of way. There’s intention to it. Like someone still cares about the way it looks when no one’s watching. You notice it in the way the towels are folded, the soap dish resting perfectly straight.

At some point in the late afternoon, you crack a window open. The air that slips in is heavier now—still warm, but with a little weight to it. Like it’s tired, too.

And then you hear it.

A low, steady bzzzzzt drifting across the property. Not jarring—just present. There’s a rhythm to it. Like someone who’s done the same motion so many times it no longer takes thought. A pause. Then again. And again.

It’s not constant—just consistent. The sound comes and goes, sometimes broken by the scrape of wood or a hollow thud. Somewhere behind it all, barely there, music plays. Not loud enough to make out lyrics. Just a muffled melody, anchored by a low voice and something with strings. Bluesy, maybe. Old.

You glance toward the main house without meaning to. Just for a second.

Through a break in the trees, past the far side of the porch, you catch movement—slow, deliberate. A man with his back turned, walking from what looks like a detached garage or shed. Barefoot in the grass. A loose-fitting T-shirt hangs low over work-worn jeans. He’s carrying something under one arm—a length of wood, maybe. You don’t squint. Don’t crane your neck.

It’s not interesting. Just part of the place. Just... what’s happening here.

Still, you find yourself pausing at the counter longer than necessary. Your fingers trace the rim of your coffee mug. The window stays open.

He knocks that evening. Just three times. Soft, spaced out like he almost changed his mind halfway through.

You open the door and he’s there—solid, quiet, uncomfortable in a way that doesn’t seem like insecurity. More like he just doesn’t do this very often.

Up close, Joel looks a little older than you’d guessed. Sun-worn, beard neatly trimmed, hair graying at the temples in a way that doesn’t look curated. His face is unreadable—not guarded, exactly. Just... still.

He holds out a paper bag. His other hand rests awkwardly on the back of his neck, thumb grazing the edge of his shirt collar.

“Welcome,” he says, low and flat like he rehearsed it once and decided that was enough.

“Thanks,” you say, blinking a little too slowly. You didn’t expect company. You’re barefoot, wearing sleep shorts and a tank top you’ve had since college.

“I’m Joel.” He jerks his chin toward the front house. “I live out here.”

You nod. “Nice to meet you.”

He shifts, like he might bolt.

“Should be everything you need in there,” he says, nodding toward the house. “But if not... I’m around. Just knock.”

You reach for the bag and he seems almost surprised you’re taking it. Inside, you find a small jar of amber-colored honey, a bunch of clipped herbs—basil, mint, rosemary—and a small, handmade cutting board. The wood is pale, sanded smooth, warm under your fingertips.

“I made that,” he mutters, almost too low to catch. “Just... had scraps.”

You run your fingers gently over the edge. “It’s beautiful,” you say, looking back at him. “Really. Thank you. That’s… thoughtful.”

He nods, once. Then again. His eyes drop slightly, and when they come back up, his ears are flushed just a little pink.

“Most people like the quiet out here,” he says. “Gets easier, after a while.”

You smile—soft, tired, but sincere. “It already feels better than where I was yesterday.”

He holds your gaze for a second too long. Not intense—just surprised. Like he hadn’t expected you to say that.

“I’m glad,” he says, voice low. His hand flexes slightly at his side, like he’s not sure what to do with it.

You nod. “Thanks again. For all of this.”

He just nods once more, and then he’s gone—turning back toward the main house without another word, feet quiet over the gravel, his shoulders tight in a way that doesn’t read like discomfort. Just restraint.

You set the bag on the counter and pull out the cutting board again. Turn it over in your hands. It’s simple, but carefully made. Clean edges. Sanded smooth. Someone spent time on it.

You brush a thumb across the surface once before setting it down beside the stove.

You’re not sure what you expected—maybe nothing at all—but this feels... kind. Quietly so.

You open the jar of honey, just to look at it. Then you put it away and rinse your mug.

The house settles again around you, soft and still.

And for once, you let it.

𓇼𓆉𓇼

You sleep later than you meant to.

The light is already full and soft when you open your eyes, the kind that suggests it’s closer to mid-morning than anything ambitious. The ceiling fan ticks overhead, blades slicing through the air in a rhythm that’s starting to feel familiar. You roll onto your back and stare at the ceiling for a long while, letting your thoughts drift somewhere quiet.

No alarms. No meetings. No expectations.

It’s Sunday.

You make breakfast in bare feet—eggs cooked a little too long, toast with too much butter, coffee in the mug with the sailboats on it. You eat standing at the counter, leaning against it like there’s nowhere else you need to be. The house is still. The air smells like citrus and toasted bread. You pull your hair up, throw on a tank top and shorts, and decide to give yourself the day. No pressure. No plan.

You do small things. Finish unpacking. Fold your clothes neatly into the drawers you didn’t touch yesterday. You pause over a notebook you’d almost forgotten about—half-filled, tucked into a bag pocket. You leave it out on the table with a pen on top.

You light a candle you found tucked in one of the kitchen drawers—lavender and something woodsy—and let it burn while you open windows to let the air in. Sweep the kitchen. Wipe down the bathroom sink. Rearrange the three books you brought twice before deciding not to read any of them.

Time starts to slide.

By noon, you realize you should probably get groceries. You haven’t had a vegetable in days and you’re down to one sad heel of bread. You grab your tote bag, slide your sunglasses on, and walk into town.

The road is mostly empty. A few bikes pass you. One kid on a skateboard. The heat clings but the breeze helps, and there’s something grounding in the sound of your own footsteps. It smells like salt and sunscreen and dry grass. You pass houses with porches draped in windchimes and laundry lines fluttering in the sun. There’s a hand-painted sign for a café you make a mental note to try later.

The store is small and old-school, with handwritten signs and wire racks that squeak when you turn them. You pick up the essentials—fruit, bread, a cold drink, something salty for later. A small journal with a linen cover catches your eye near the register. You don’t need it. You buy it anyway.

At the checkout, the woman behind the counter glances at you and smiles.

"New in town?"

You nod, setting your bag down. "Just for a little while."

She rings up your things, slow and easy. "Well, welcome. Hope you stick around."

You smile. "Thanks."

You walk back slower than you came. The sun's higher now, the heat sinking into your shoulders in a way that feels earned. You carry your bag in one hand and a bottle of cold tea in the other, condensation dripping down your wrist.

Back at the guesthouse, you put everything away without thinking too much about it. You make a sandwich—avocado, tomato, a little lemon—and eat it on the back steps with your feet in the grass. The sounds are the same as yesterday—birds, breeze, the distant hum of something mechanical.

Joel must be working again. You hear the faint buzz of a tool starting and stopping. The occasional scrape of wood or clatter of metal. No music this time.

You don’t look.

Instead, you wander.

The edge of the property curls into a small patch of shade where two trees lean slightly toward one another. Between them, strung with thick rope and a little sag, is a hammock. You don’t know if it’s meant for guests, or if Joel uses it, or if it’s just been there long enough to belong to the landscape now.

But it’s empty.

You climb in slowly, testing the tension. It sways just enough to make your stomach shift, then settles. You close your eyes. Breathe.

It smells like pine needles and sun-warmed rope.

You don’t fall asleep, but you stop keeping track of time.

Eventually, the light begins to shift. You hear the soft rustle of branches overhead and the distant creak of the guesthouse porch when the wind changes. Nothing pressing. Nothing loud.

You stay right where you are.

Eventually, hunger pulls you out of the hammock. You stretch your legs, brush off your shorts, and wander back toward the house, pausing once to tip your face into the breeze.

As the sky starts to turn the color of pale grapefruit, you head out again—this time toward the beach.

You walk slowly, toes sinking into the sand, the air cooler now, salty and soft against your skin. The tide is low, and the waves lap gently against the shore, folding and unfolding themselves in a quiet rhythm. You don’t swim, don’t sit. Just walk. Let your feet carry you past bits of driftwood and tangled seaweed, past shells you don’t stop to collect.

You don’t think about much.

Just the sound of the water. The way it feels to be small in the best kind of way.

Dinner is simple. Something easy. You can’t remember the last time it tasted this good.

𓇼𓆉𓇼

Your first Monday in the guesthouse starts with light and birdsong instead of traffic.

You wake before your alarm, blinking at the ceiling like your body hasn’t gotten the memo that the rules have changed. For a moment, you expect the old rush—shower, clothes, keys, commute. But it never comes.

You make coffee and sit at the kitchen table with your laptop, the windows cracked open just enough to let the morning air in. A soft breeze rustles through the trees. Your inbox is full, but not urgent. You reply to a few things, flag some others, and fall into a rhythm that doesn’t feel punishing.

It’s not the work that ever drained you. It was everything around it—the noise, the pressure, the way the office swallowed whole days and spit them back out in meetings and recycled air. The elevator rides, the fluorescent lights, the sound of someone reheating fish in the breakroom microwave.

Now, you keep your camera off for most of the morning. Nobody seems to mind.

In the afternoon, you join a Zoom meeting with your camera on and your feet tucked under you. Someone from your team—Rachel, maybe, or Erin—squints at the screen and says, “You look really relaxed. The change of pace must be helping.”

You smile. “Definitely. It’s been nice to breathe a little.”

Someone else nods. “Glad you're settling in.”

The meeting moves on.

You eat lunch on the porch with your laptop balanced on one knee. You start a list of things to do later, but you forget about it almost as quickly.

The day goes fast.

At one point, you hear the sound of Joel’s saw in the distance. Not constant. Just there. A soft reminder of something happening outside of you.

You don’t look.

By the time you shut your laptop, the sun has already shifted to that late-afternoon gold. You stretch your arms above your head, roll your neck, and wander inside to change.

Jules picks you up just after six.

“First day on the beach payroll,” she says when you slide into the passenger seat. “How does it feel to not be rotting in a cubicle?”

“Less fluorescent,” you say. “Less... everything.”

She takes you to a little place near the water with plastic chairs and string lights overhead. You order wine and grilled fish with citrus slaw. She talks about the tourists, about the guy who keeps trying to name starfish after himself in her marine tours, about how she still hasn’t figured out if her neighbor owns a rooster or is just playing one through a speaker.

At some point, you ask, casually, "Do you know anything about Joel? The guy who owns the place."

Jules leans back in her chair. "Not really. He’s kind of a local fixture, but he keeps to himself. Builds furniture, mostly. Some people say he sells it out of state."

You nod. "He dropped off a cutting board the day I got in. Didn’t really stick around."

"Yeah, that sounds like him," she says. "He’s not unfriendly. Just... private. Been here a while. Doesn’t talk much."

You let that sit. Not because it means anything. Just because it's something to file away.

You let her talk. You let yourself laugh. You let the breeze lift your hair and the wine loosen your shoulders.

It doesn’t feel like a milestone. It doesn’t feel like a reward.

It just feels good.

You head home with the last of the light still clinging to the sky, salt on your skin, and no plans for tomorrow except doing it all again.

𓇼𓆉𓇼

He shows up again on Tuesday.

Late morning. You're mid-email, one hand wrapped around your coffee mug, rereading the same sentence twice when there’s a knock on the door. It’s light—tentative. Like last time, like he’s still not sure if he should be doing this at all.

You hesitate, push your chair back, and cross the room. When you open it, Joel stands on the porch with his hands in his pockets. No paper bag this time. No offerings. Just him.

“Hey,” he says, voice low. “Sorry to bother. Just wanted to check in. Make sure everything’s alright in the place."

You blink, then nod, holding your mug against your chest. “Yeah. Everything’s good. No issues.”

Joel gives a short nod. His eyes shift toward the trees, like he might leave immediately. But he doesn’t.

“I don’t usually rent it out this time of year,” he says after a beat. “Heard someone was looking for somewhere to stay. Figured the timing worked out.”

You lean a little into the doorway. “It did. It’s been... a really good reset.”

Joel glances down, thumb skimming the edge of his jeans pocket. “I’m not much of a host,” he says. “Wasn’t sure if I should stop by. But figured I should check in, at least."

You smile, soft. Not too much. “I appreciate it. Everything’s been really comfortable. Quiet.”

He nods again. "Good."

For a second, neither of you says anything. The wind rustles through the trees, and a bird chirps somewhere off to the left. Joel shifts his weight. The porch creaks faintly under his heel.

“Place is nice,” you add. “Feels lived in. In a good way.”

That makes him glance back toward the house. “Built most of it myself. Added the guesthouse a few years back. Didn’t think I’d use it much, but...” He shrugs. “People end up needing space."

You take a sip from your mug and nod. “Seems like a good place for it.”

Joel rubs the back of his neck. “If anything needs fixing—drawer sticks, windows squeak, anything like that—I’m around. Workshop’s just behind the shed."

You follow his gesture. You hadn’t really looked beyond the trees yet, hadn’t thought about what was back there. But now you notice it—a wide structure tucked in the shade, low roof, stacked planks leaning against the outer wall.

“Thanks,” you say. “I’ll let you know.”

You glance at him again, not expecting to find anything new—but this time, your eyes catch on the way his hands shift slightly, like he’s not sure what to do with them. They’re rough. Not just callused, but visibly worn. Small scars along his knuckles. A tiny cut near the base of his thumb, half-healed.

He notices your glance but doesn’t comment. Just clears his throat softly and lifts his eyes to yours for a second.

“I didn’t know I could feel this... still,” you say, before you really think about it.

Joel nods slowly. “Yeah. I get that.”

You didn’t mean to say it. You don’t follow it up. And he doesn’t ask.

He nods once more, then hesitates like he might say something else. He doesn’t. Just lifts a hand in a half-wave and steps down off the porch.

You watch him walk back across the grass, slow and steady, barefoot like always. He disappears behind the line of trees, swallowed by the quiet.

You shut the door gently.

You try to get back to work, but it takes a minute.

Your coffee's gone lukewarm. The email you were writing doesn’t seem important anymore. You sit at the kitchen table and stare at your screen while the cursor blinks. It takes three tries to remember what you were even supposed to say.

Not because of him. Just... because the interruption broke whatever shallow concentration you had going. You close the laptop for a while and step outside instead.

The hammock is warm in the sun. You sit sideways in it, feet on the grass, journal balanced on your knees. You don’t write much. A line or two. Something about the trees. Something about the quiet.

Eventually, you wander inside, rinse out your mug, and grab a peach from the fridge. The rest of the day stretches ahead of you, soft and slow.

You don’t see him again that day. But you think about the way he stood on the porch. Like he didn’t quite belong there, but showed up anyway.

It wasn’t much. Not personal.

But something about it lingers.

You go back to work with the window open. The saw starts up again around two.

You don’t look. But you hear him.

By late afternoon, the light shifts. The workday winds down, email closed, another empty mug sitting by your keyboard. You stretch, fingertips pressing into the tight knots in your neck.

Out on the porch, the breeze has picked up. You step outside with a glass of water, blinking against the sun.

Down near the workshop, the truck is pulled up closer. Joel’s there, dragging the hose across the gravel. A bucket waits nearby, sponge in hand.

You catch yourself watching almost instantly.

He moves the way he always seems to—unhurried, steady. Shirt sleeves shoved high, forearms slick with water. The damp fabric of his t-shirt pulls faintly across his back when he leans forward into the cab. Broad shoulders, trim waist, the slow flex of muscle beneath sun-warmed skin.

It’s... more than you expected.

Not that you’d expected anything. He was just the landlord. Someone you barely knew.

But now your gaze lingers, and it’s hard to blame the sun for the warmth climbing up your neck.

He straightens, lifts a hand to the back of his neck. The small shift draws your eyes again before you can stop them.

You glance away fast, glass poised halfway to your lips. Take a too-long sip, hoping it’ll cool whatever heat is rising under your skin.

It doesn’t.

You didn’t think of him that way. Until just now, maybe you hadn’t thought of him much at all.

But now the image sticks. And when you head back inside, it follows you a little too easily.

𓇼𓆉𓇼

The rest of the week settles into a kind of rhythm.

Not rushed. Not structured, really. Just… easy.

Mornings start with coffee on the porch, the air still cool enough to warrant a sweatshirt most days. You read there sometimes, legs curled beneath you, the hum of cicadas rising with the sun. The sound of the saw picks up mid-morning more often than not—low and steady from across the yard. After a few days, it blends into the background, like the soft rustle of the seagrass or the gulls overhead. You can’t say it bothers you.

Work stays quiet. Manageable. It’s easier here—something about the space between things. The absence of constant pinging and half-conversations and calendars stacked to the minute. You knock out your to-do list early most days, freeing the afternoons for… whatever feels right.

Sometimes that means walking down to the beach with a book tucked under your arm. Other days it means errands in town—a new bag of coffee, a browse through the little shop that sells lavender soaps and sea glass trinkets. You’ve started to recognize faces. A few hellos here and there. It’s nice.

You see Joel more, too. Not deliberately. It just… happens.

There’s a run-in at the mailbox midweek—he’s heading out as you’re heading back. A nod, a quick “hey,” an easy smile. A few words exchanged about the weather, about the stretch of warm days ahead.

Later, you catch him outside the workshop, arms full of lumber. He shifts the load with a quiet grunt, glances up as you pass on your way to the hammock. Another nod. Another smile. You can’t help but return it.

There are other moments, too. Small ones.

You’re trimming back the hedge one afternoon when you hear his voice nearby, low and even. On the phone, maybe. You don’t listen in, but the cadence of it draws your ear. You glance over without meaning to, catch the edge of him framed in the workshop doorway—one hand braced against the frame, the other at his hip.

You look away fast. No reason to stare.

Still, your gaze drifts that way more often than it used to.

Another morning, you catch a whiff of sawdust and soap on the air as you cross the drive. Not close—just enough to register. Enough to linger.

You tell yourself it’s nothing. You’re just paying attention more, that’s all.

But later, curled in the hammock with your book resting open against your chest, you realize you haven’t turned a page in several minutes. Your eyes keep flicking toward the workshop, half-expecting movement.

You sigh, shake your head, force yourself back to the words on the page.

When the truck door thuds shut later that day, you’re already looking toward the sound before you can stop yourself.

A glimpse through the porch rail—the steady motion you’ve started to recognize. The faint rise and fall of his voice. Familiar now, in a way it wasn’t before.

Funny how that happens.

Nothing more to it than that.

At least, that’s what you tell yourself.

But you don’t go back inside right away. The sun is soft now, the porch warm beneath your legs. You let the minutes stretch, listening to the faint rhythm of his voice, the shuffle of movement from across the yard.

A soft scrape. The low creak of a hinge.

You glance over again. The workshop door’s fully open now, sunlight spilling across the worn boards inside. Joel moves through the space, a rag in one hand, sleeves pushed high.

Your gaze lingers longer than it should. You shift in your seat, fingers curling against the armrest.

The bag from town still sits just inside the door—lightbulbs you’d grabbed on a whim. You hadn’t meant to let them sit this long, and the porch fixture had been dim since your first night here.

A small thing. A small excuse. But enough.

You stand, brushing your hands lightly over your thighs. The path feels shorter than usual as you cross the yard.

The door stands open ahead of you, the hum of the radio low beneath the quiet.

You pause at the threshold, one hand on the frame.

“Hey,” you call, voice light. “Do you have a second?”

Joel looks up, straightens from the bench. His brow lifts faintly.

“Yeah,” he says. “Everything alright?”

You shake your head quickly, offering a small smile.

“All good. Just—” you lift the bag slightly, “—thought I’d check about the porch light. I grabbed some bulbs, wasn’t sure if there’s a trick to it.”

Something shifts in his expression then. Shoulders easing, mouth tugging faint at one corner—something warmer than before.

“Good timing,” he says. “I’ve been meaning to get around to that. Come on in.”

The words catch something low in your chest, loose and warm.

You step inside.

The scent greets you first—cedar and oil, the sharper bite of fresh sawdust. Thicker here, grounding.

Light cuts through the room in long strips, painting the floor in soft gold. Tools hang in careful rows above the benches, handles worn smooth from use. The faint hum of the old radio plays beneath it all—low and steady, like a heartbeat threaded through the air.

Joel sets the rag in his hand aside, straightening as you approach.

“What’d you grab?”

You pull the box of bulbs from the bag, fingers brushing the cardboard edges.

“Just the basics. Didn’t know if they’d fit.”

“Let’s see.”

He reaches for the box, and for a beat, your hands meet—his fingers brushing over yours as he takes it. Warm. Calloused. A flicker of heat trails up your arm before you can think.

Neither of you acknowledges it. But the air feels different now.

Joel lifts the box, tipping it in his hand.

“Yeah, these’ll work.”

You nod, glancing past him toward the bench. Your gaze lingers longer than it should—on the broad planks laid out across the surface, the sharp gleam of steel, the soft curl of wood shavings beneath his arm.

“You working on something?”

He shifts, setting the box aside. “Chair.” He gestures to the half-built frame clamped at the center of the bench. “Trying to get the joints right.”

You step closer, drawn without thinking.

“It’s beautiful,” you murmur, tracing the clean lines with your eyes.

Joel watches you a moment, something flickering beneath the steady look.

“Appreciate that.” His voice is quieter now, a rougher edge beneath it. “Lot of time goes into these.”

You glance up. He’s closer than before—only a foot or two away now, warmth radiating between the space that isn’t quite space anymore.

“I can tell.” You rest your hand light on the edge of the bench, grounding yourself. “I didn’t know you built everything here.”

Joel’s mouth lifts again, softer this time. “Yeah. Most of it. Took a while to get set up.”

There’s a pause then—a full one. Not awkward. Just… aware.

Your breath slows, skin prickling beneath the light cotton of your shirt.

Joel shifts again, reaching for a small chisel. Your gaze follows without meaning to—the way his hands move, strong and precise, veins cutting sharp beneath his skin.

He glances at you, catches your eyes lingering.

You look away fast. But not fast enough to miss the faint rise of color beneath his scruff.

He clears his throat. “You wanna see how it fits?”

You nod. “Yeah.” The word comes easier than your breath.

He picks up the seat slat, turns toward you—closer now. As he angles it into place, his shoulder brushes yours—light, brief, but enough to send your pulse climbing.

You don’t move. Neither does he.

The moment holds there, stretched thin across the soft weight of the room.

Then—carefully—Joel steps back.

“Still needs some shaping,” he says, voice rougher than before.

You nod, fingers brushing the edge of the wood. “It’s… really nice.”

Another pause.

Joel’s gaze lingers on you, steadier than before. For a breath, neither of you moves. The air feels weighted now, thicker between the strips of light.

You glance down, smoothing your fingers along the grain of the seat.

“How long does something like this take?” you ask softly.

He shifts, arms folding loosely across his chest. The movement pulls his shirt taut across his shoulders, draws your eye before you can catch it.

“Depends,” he says. “Piece like this… week or two. If the wood cooperates.”

You glance up again, meeting his gaze. The edges of your breath catch faintly, but you hold it steady.

“I don’t think I realized how much goes into it.”

Joel huffs a quiet breath, something between a laugh and a sigh. “Most people don’t.”

There’s a shift in him now—shoulders looser, voice warmer. You can feel it in the way the air hums between you.

Your gaze flicks back to the shelves along the wall. Jars of nails and screws. Planes and clamps worn by use. The space feels different now—not just a workshop, but his. A reflection of the hands that shaped it.

“You’ve been doing this a long time?”

Joel nods. “Yeah. Picked it up young. Stuck with it.” His mouth lifts faintly. “Guess I like making things that last.”

The words settle low in your chest. You don’t know why, but they do.

You glance back toward him. He’s watching you again—not guarded, not unreadable, just… there. Present in a way that makes your pulse hitch.

And maybe it’s the way the afternoon light catches the curve of his jaw. Or the quiet between your words. Or the way your shoulders brush again as he shifts to reach for another tool, close enough that you can feel the heat of him.

Whatever it is, you’re suddenly aware that you’re standing closer than you’d meant to. That you haven’t moved.

Neither has he.

Another beat, full and slow.

Then—reluctant but even—you draw in a breath.

“I should probably let you get back to it,” you say, though your voice is quieter now.

Joel watches you for a second longer.

“Yeah,” he says, but there’s something softer beneath it. Something that feels like it might have asked you to stay if the words were easier to reach.

You step back slowly, fingers brushing once more along the edge of the chair.

“Thanks. For showing me.”

His mouth lifts again, the faintest tug of warmth. “Anytime.”

And when you turn for the door, you can feel his gaze follow you—steady and low, trailing after you as you cross the sunlit yard. 

You don’t let your steps quicken. No sense in it. And maybe next time, you won’t leave so soon.

[jessesluvr]

HI JULES, ITS ME AGAIN, YOUR FELLOW JESSE LOVER

I just had the biggest brained idea ever, Jesse x single mom!reader? Like maybe the reader adopted a baby found or a young toddler? I adore dad!Jesse.

a soft place to land | jesse x reader

author's note : hello my lovely !! tysm for requesting !! dad!jesse has me in a chokehold, and i'm glad him and i have 5 kids together. i'm living the dream. inbox + requests are always open !

summary : a single mom in jackson slowly falls for her best friend jesse, who’s always been there for her and her adopted baby girl. through sleepless nights, soft kisses, and shared morning routines, they become a family without ever needing to say the words.

word count : 3k

the first time you saw her, she was curled beneath the rotted frame of an overturned sedan. a tattered blanket covered half her body, her legs muddy and bare. she wasn’t crying. just watching you with these wide, scared eyes and clutching a ragged stuffed lamb to her chest like it was her last lifeline.

you didn’t think. you dropped your rifle, crouched low, whispered soft nothings as your heart pounded in your throat.

“i’ve got you,” you murmured, lifting her into your arms. “i’ve got you, baby.”

by the time you reached the jackson gates, your entire world had shifted.

two weeks later, the baby—now affectionately called emmie by nearly everyone in town—is still glued to your chest more often than not. she barely lets anyone else near her.

except jesse.

you have no idea why. maybe it’s because he didn’t come in with too much energy or loud praise like everyone else. he just sat beside you on the steps of the greenhouse one afternoon, letting emmie size him up from the safety of your lap.

“she’s a good judge of character,” you said when she reached out with chubby hands to touch the collar of jesse’s coat.

he smiled and tugged gently at her hand. “so i’ve finally got someone in this town who doesn’t roast me on sight. feels nice.”

you laughed, heart fluttering. you’d known jesse for years—best friends from patrol, always teasing, always steady—but watching him offer emmie a piece of his granola bar like it was a peace offering?

something bloomed inside you that you didn’t know had been waiting.

“she’s been sleeping a little better,” you tell jesse one morning when he shows up at your porch with two mugs of tea.

you’re wearing an oversized sweater, hair braided back in a sleepy twist. emmie is wrapped to your front in a soft sling, her head tucked under your chin.

“your sweater collection is getting dangerously close to mine,” jesse teases, handing you the tea.

“i’ll take that as a compliment,” you murmur, sipping carefully. “you’re the coziest person i know.”

he laughs, and it’s soft in that way he only is around you—less performative, more real.

“you know i’m just here for the baby, right?” he says as he reaches out to boop emmie’s nose.

you raise an eyebrow. “sure, jess.”

that’s how things fall into place.

jesse starts showing up more. for emmie, you tell yourself.

to help you fix the leaky pipe in your kitchen. to carry your laundry basket. to walk you to the garden and back so you can get sunlight while she naps. he makes you laugh when you’re exhausted, and he listens when you cry.

it’s never dramatic, never overwhelming. he just… fits.

one night, she’s teething and screaming and nothing works. you bounce her, sing to her, rock her in your arms until your knees give out. and when you slump onto the floor in the nursery, heart cracking from helplessness, jesse shows up.

“i brought the chamomile,” he whispers, holding up a tiny jar of dried herbs.

you blink at him. “how did you—?”

“ellie told me. said you looked like shit.”

“she’s got such a way with words.”

jesse smiles, then gently kneels beside you and takes emmie from your arms.

to your shock, she lets him.

“you go lie down,” he says softly, already swaying back and forth with a practiced ease that melts your bones. “i got this.”

and you do something you haven’t done in weeks.

you rest.

later that night…

you find jesse still in the nursery, emmie fast asleep on his chest, his hand resting protectively on her back. he’s dozing in the rocking chair, head tilted, soft snores filling the quiet.

your throat tightens.

you kneel beside him, carefully brush a curl from emmie’s forehead, and whisper, “you’re kind of perfect, you know that?”

jesse doesn’t open his eyes, but you swear you hear the faintest smile in his voice when he murmurs, “only for you.”

it starts snowing on a wednesday.

fat flakes drift down from the sky like feathers, blanketing jackson in white by mid-afternoon. you and jesse are in the backyard, emmie bundled up in layers of mismatched knitwear that makes her resemble a puffball more than a toddler.

“she can barely walk in that thing,” jesse laughs as emmie waddles toward him with outstretched arms.

“she’s got the balance of a drunk goose,” you say, grinning as you chase after her, snow crunching beneath your boots. “be nice.”

“i am being nice. that was affectionate goose-slander.”

emmie lets out a squeal when jesse scoops her up, spinning her gently in a slow circle. her giggles burst through the cold air like bells, her cheeks flushed and bright.

your chest aches in the best way.

you catch jesse looking at you over emmie’s shoulder—not in the casual way friends look—but with something else. something warm. intentional.

you pretend not to notice the way it makes your heartbeat stutter.

later, jesse stays for dinner.

he’s been doing that more often. he never assumes, never oversteps—just helps you set the table while emmie toddles around with her stuffed lamb, humming nonsense songs. you catch him sneaking her bites of his cornbread when he thinks you’re not looking.

“she’s already spoiled,” you warn, raising an eyebrow.

he shrugs. “she deserves to be.”

you glance at emmie—smeared face, milk mustache, clapping her little hands when she makes jesse laugh. “yeah,” you whisper. “she does.”

after dinner, you carry emmie to the tub and settle her into the warm water with a small splash. she flails and kicks in delight, sending soapy water over the edge.

you’re wrestling her slippery limbs when jesse peeks in.

“need a second pair of hands?” he asks, already rolling up his sleeves.

“i wouldn’t say no,” you murmur, grateful.

he kneels beside you, and together you gently soap emmie’s curls and rinse them, both of you working in perfect sync. she splashes him on purpose and cackles when he feigns betrayal.

“this is payback for the cornbread thing, huh?” he says, wiping his face with a towel.

you giggle. “she’s got your number.”

he laughs, but then he looks at you—really looks—and something changes.

his hand lingers on the towel, close to yours. his eyes soften.

“you’re doing so good with her,” he says quietly.

you swallow. “i’m trying.”

“you’re not just trying. you’re giving her a life she never would’ve had.”

you blink rapidly, willing your emotions to behave. “i didn’t even think i’d be a mom. not like this.”

“i think she picked the right person.”

your heart flips.

you look at him. “you really think so?”

jesse nods. “yeah. and for the record... i think i would’ve picked you, too.”

you don’t say anything.

you just reach for the towel and hold it out for him to dry emmie’s curls.

that night, after she’s asleep, you sit beside jesse on the porch swing with two mugs of cocoa. the wind whistles, but you’re both wrapped in a blanket, shoulders pressed together, watching the snow fall.

neither of you says anything for a long time.

and then, quietly:

“jess?”

“hmm?”

you glance at him. “what are we doing?”

he’s silent for a beat. “what do you mean?”

“i mean… this. you. me. emmie. it feels like something.”

he finally turns to face you, and his eyes are full of that same warmth he always carries when he looks at her—at you.

“it is something.”

you bite your lip. “but what if it scares me?”

jesse shifts so he’s fully facing you, hand reaching to take yours. “then we take it slow. you don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for. i’m not going anywhere.”

the wind picks up. you grip his hand tighter.

“you’ve always been there,” you whisper.

“always will be,” he promises.

and for the first time in a long time, you believe it.

you wake to the sound of whimpering.

it’s subtle at first—soft little cries through the baby monitor on your nightstand—but they grow quickly, sharp and distressed. you’re out of bed before your feet fully hit the floor, already pulling on your sweater as you rush across the hall.

emmie’s cheeks are flushed bright pink. her skin is damp with sweat, and her breaths come in hiccuping gasps between sobs. the moment you scoop her into your arms, you know.

she’s burning up.

“oh, baby,” you whisper, rocking her against your chest as she cries harder. “shhh, i’ve got you. i’ve got you.”

you don’t hesitate—you pull on your coat with one hand and emmie pressed against your chest with the other, then step out into the freezing night and sprint down the porch steps.

you’re halfway to jesse’s place before you realize you didn’t even grab shoes.

he opens the door on the second knock.

hair tousled, half-asleep in a thermal shirt and sweatpants—but the second he sees your face, he’s wide awake.

“hey—hey, what’s wrong?”

you can’t hold back the panic in your voice. “she’s got a fever. i didn’t know what to do—i didn’t know who else—”

jesse’s already moving, reaching for emmie with gentle hands. “come inside. sit down. we’ll figure it out.”

you follow him in, heart pounding.

he lays emmie on his couch and presses the back of his hand to her forehead. “okay. we keep her cool but not cold, and get her to drink something. stay with her—i'll get the kit.”

you nod and sink onto the floor beside her, whispering reassurances while jesse returns with a cloth and a thermometer.

when he finally coaxes emmie into sipping water and the fever starts to dip—just slightly—you let yourself breathe again.

you’re still sitting on the floor when jesse crouches beside you and brushes your hair out of your eyes.

“she’s okay,” he says gently. “it’s probably a bug. kids get fevers all the time.”

you nod, but your throat’s tight. “she just looked so small. i panicked.”

his brow furrows, and his voice drops low. “hey… you’re not alone in this, okay?”

you look at him, eyes glassy. “sometimes it feels like i am.”

“you’re not,” he says again, firmer. “i’m here. i’m with you.”

he sits beside you on the couch, and for a while, you both watch emmie sleep—sweat-soaked but peaceful now, curled in a blanket between you.

you lean your head on his shoulder, exhausted. “i’m sorry i showed up like that.”

he chuckles. “you showed up barefoot. in the snow.”

“i didn’t even realize.”

he turns his head and rests his cheek on the top of yours. “you don’t have to apologize. if it were me, i would’ve run to you, too.”

your chest goes warm.

he shifts slowly, carefully—not enough to wake emmie—but enough that his hand finds yours where it’s curled in your lap. he threads your fingers together without asking.

it’s the softest touch you’ve ever known.

“can i ask you something?” he murmurs.

you nod against his shoulder.

“have you really not noticed how long i’ve been in love with you?”

the breath you take catches in your throat.

you shift just enough to look at him, and your heart stutters at the openness in his face. the way he’s not joking. not teasing.

you’re not sure what answer he expects—but you give him the only one you have.

“i have,” you whisper. “but i didn’t think i deserved it. not now. not like this.”

his expression breaks into something so tender you could weep.

“hey,” he says, squeezing your hand. “you deserve love especially now. and it doesn’t scare me. you and emmie… i want to be part of that. i already feel like i am.”

your throat tightens again.

“i feel like you are, too.”

he leans in, slow, careful—giving you space to pull away.

you don’t.

his lips press to yours like a question. and you answer with the smallest, sweetest hum against his mouth, your fingers curling in the front of his shirt.

the kiss is slow and unhurried—warm and soft and years in the making.

when you finally pull back, both of you are smiling.

you lay your head on his chest while his arm wraps around your back, and you rest there together with emmie asleep between you—your daughter, your heart, your home.

it doesn’t feel scary anymore.

it just feels like yours.

you wake up wrapped in jesse’s hoodie.

it smells like cedar and snow, and something unplaceably warm—like home. you’re tucked up on his couch under a flannel blanket, your legs tangled with his, one of his arms heavy around your waist.

emmie is curled between you both, fast asleep, her little thumb tucked in her mouth and her cheek resting against your chest.

you’re not sure how long you’ve been like this.

but you know, without a single doubt in your bones, that you’ve never felt safer.

jesse stirs when you shift, blinking sleepily at you with messy hair and soft eyes.

“hey,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep. “how’s our girl?”

you smile so wide it aches. “still warm, but better.”

he looks down at emmie, smoothing a gentle hand over her curls. “tough little thing.”

you watch him for a moment—his tenderness, the way his whole face softens when he looks at her—and something clicks in your chest. like a puzzle piece settling in.

“you said our girl,” you whisper.

he stills.

then he looks up at you, and there’s no panic in his face—just certainty.

“i meant it.”

your heart swells.

you bite your lip, blinking back the rush of emotion. “i want that. i want you here. i want this.”

he grins, sleepy and shy all at once. “you’ve got me. both of you.”

and then he leans in and kisses your forehead—slow and sweet—and you melt into him with a quiet laugh.

“i hope you know she’s gonna be obsessed with you now,” you tease. “there’s no going back.”

“i’m counting on it.”

by the end of the week, emmie’s fever is completely gone.

you find jesse in the kitchen one morning, standing at the stove with emmie perched on his hip, stirring scrambled eggs while she babbles nonsense and smears banana on his flannel sleeve.

she’s wearing one of his beanies, pulled all the way down over her ears. it’s way too big.

you freeze in the doorway, arms crossed, smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.

he looks up and catches you watching.

“what?” he grins. “she said she was hungry. i obey.”

“she can’t even say hungry.”

“she said guh guh guh. close enough.”

you walk over, brushing your fingers over emmie’s hair as she beams up at you.

“you’re ridiculous.”

“she likes when i wear the apron.”

“she also likes chewing on rocks.”

jesse laughs and kisses emmie’s temple. “yeah, she’s got questionable taste.”

you glance down at the pan. “you’re… actually a pretty good cook.”

“i’m full of surprises.”

you roll your eyes. “sure. what other secrets are you hiding?”

he leans in close, dropping his voice to a mock-conspiratorial whisper.

“i can braid hair. i build rocking horses. and i know all the words to ‘wheels on the bus.’”

you blink. “okay, that’s actually hot.”

he grins, wide and delighted. “finally, something impresses you.”

you laugh into his shoulder and wrap your arms around his waist. emmie pats both of your faces in approval.

that night, jesse doesn’t go home.

you ask him to stay before the words even finish forming in your head.

“would you—do you wanna just… stay here tonight?”

his eyes meet yours, and he doesn’t hesitate.

“yeah. i’d love to.”

he sleeps in your bed that night, emmie between you again, holding both your hands as if tethering you together.

the next morning, she sits on his chest and drools onto his chin, and jesse groans like he’s been mortally wounded.

“she’s eating me alive,” he groans.

“she’s claiming her territory.”

“bold of her, considering i did the dishes.”

you curl beside them, laughing softly, the smell of woodsmoke and warm baby shampoo filling the room.

“i think she already claimed you, jess.”

he looks at you then—truly looks—and his voice is steady.

“so did you.”

winter melts into spring, and jesse never really leaves after that.

he moves in slowly—first his toothbrush, then a pair of boots left by the door, then a collection of mugs he insists are better than yours. you catch emmie reaching for him in her sleep. you start to fall asleep with your hand on his chest every night, like it’s second nature.

no big declaration. no ceremony.

just a family becoming one.

bit by bit.

soft and certain.

one sunny morning, emmie takes her first real step.

she’s standing on wobbly legs between you and jesse on the front porch, arms outstretched, and she lets go of the railing and waddles straight into jesse’s waiting arms with a squeal of joy.

you clap your hands to your mouth and cry.

jesse laughs and kisses her all over her face as she giggles, triumphant.

then he looks over her head and grins at you, eyes bright and shining.

“she walked to me.”

you wipe your eyes. “she walked to her favorite person.”

he carries her over and cups your face with one hand. “nah. that’s you.”

you kiss him—soft, slow, full of every quiet thank-you your heart can’t say out loud.

and emmie laughs, sandwiched between you, her chubby fingers grabbing both your faces like she never wants to let go.

you don’t think she ever will.

you don’t think you will, either.

[crowttore]

Dottore/ random boner/ miscommunication/ can be with character, reader or oc. It's up to you/ doesn't have to result in a scene but it's obviously nsfw because of the content.

😊

-Caprisun urethrae anon

Surprisingly, this didn't result in anything but embarrassment for Dottore jsakghkgs but honestly it'd be funny to write the resolution and have that be nsft

Tags: Random boner, lack of proper communication, suggestive at the end (exactly one boner mention), 600 words

'Just a little further to the right' Dottore took a deep breath, trying with all his might to still his quivering hands long enough to slide the final disc properly into place. It was delicate work unless he wanted the volatile mixture of electro and anemo to shock him half to death.

'Too far' 'Of course'

No matter how much time passed, his first instinct when reaching a complication would always be to curse in his old tongue. Step two was to identify points of improvement before inevitably trying again and getting it right.

'Too far again'

Dottore rubbed his eyes, trying to ignore how they'd long since begun to sting, before once more examining the misaligned piece. Realistically, it would make little difference whether he left it for tomorrow or got it fixed tonight. A night of rest would undoubtedly help his motor skills.

It was human to make mistakes, and Dottore was better than that.

After twenty more minutes of countless attempts (and a fair few kicks to the metal exterior of their now fully functional energy conversion device) Dottore sank back in his chair with a satisfied groan.

"Sounds like someone is having a good night, Lord Harbinger?" Dottore immediately recognized your voice, sitting up a little straighter and attempting to shake his no doubt disheveled hair back into place. He would have to reprimand you for entering without knocking.

"Careful," he warned, curiosity washing away the exhaustion in his bones at the sight of your disbelief, "we wouldn't want anyone thinking you delight in the misery of your superiors, would we?"

'No cocky remark? No reply at all? How curious.'

Your silence only served to pique Dottore's interest further, studying your nervous shuffling and the way you seemingly refused to let your eyes linger for more than a few seconds. A mere courier, you'd never shown interest in the work he did, even as you brought countless reports and correspondence back and forth between Dottore and Pierro.

"…Is this a bad time?"

The softness of your voice only made Dottore frown. "So there is a purpose to your visit, go on then."

"Just a message. It can wait until morning." Once more, far too avoidant compared to how he knew you. And a message that could wait, yet you'd still taken the trouble of travelling well into the night instead of stopping at the border between Snezhnaya and Nod-Krai? Unlikely.

Perhaps you'd noticed his exhaustion and mistaken it for annoyance? Maybe an explanation would put you at ease. "Now is fine, I just spent longer than desired inserting-"

"Doctor!" You interrupted, snapped, causing him to momentarily lose track of the explanation, his confusion only increasing when you took the opportunity to continue in a scandalized tone, "I don't want to hear about it! Archons above, just tell me to go, you don't have to tell me anything about your predicament."

At least you were acting more like yourself.

As though time had slowed down, Dottore followed your line of sight to his lap, immediately trying to suppress the heat creeping up his face. He cleared his throat, adjusting his legs before swiftly giving up and snatching a book to cover the obvious tent in his pants.

Regrettably, you were already halfway out the workshop before he could croak out a weak 'tomorrow then'. His head fell to the table in defeat, this would be a nightmare to sort out. Hopefully, you had enough decency to keep it to yourself until he could properly explain.

[genericpuff]

Yo???? I just got off of bupropion??? It was so ass. I know medicine reacts differently to different people but DUDE.. 😭

Also it kind of sounds like an evielution but like medical themed.

yeah it. seems to be a pretty hit-or-miss drug, some people swear by it and others cite it as the worst medication they've ever been on 🫣 for the first like 2 months it was REALLY rough, but it seems to have finally levelled out for me, and I think it's actually working now ??

but I had to start drinking coffee again because the fatigue has just not let up and I just can't deal with being exhausted all day LMAO but IDK it's also hard to tell if that's a symptom of the bupropion OR a symptom of just not being on stimulants anymore (now that I've been medicated for going on a year it's almost hard to remember what it was like pre-meds but I do recall being tired a lot just from like, ADHD fatigue and energy delay)

but unlike when I used to drink coffee pre-stimulant, I am finding myself being more productive than before. I'm hoping that means the bupropion is doing its job, but I think it's also being helped along by the work I was able to do to restructure how I operate, from making some recent big life changes (going independent with my tattooing which has done WONDERS) to figuring out what works for me to get me to hunker down and focus while I was on stimulants (so even though I'm not on them now, they gave me the help I needed to sort of... exposure therapy my way to productivity ig?? because a lot of my problems with taking on tasks just has to do with that overwhelm and uncertainty at the beginning, and wrapping up the final details at the end. the stimulants gave me the steam to get going so now that even though I'm not on them anymore, I have better coping mechanisms that I developed during my time on them that still work pretty well without them! ... but coffee also helps LOL and if anything I prooobably will go back on stimulants eventually, but right now, I'm doing okay !)

It's a process, but it's been worth it. Even when things don't work, that's one step closer to figuring out what will :') I hope you figure out what works for you, too!!! Healing and growing isn't a straight line - even if it feels like you're 'dipping' or 'slowing', you're still moving forward even if it's not always at the pace you want! Don't fall for the pits! Keep going!! <3

[bamtor1sss]

❝ SOMEONE OLDER, GUYS MY AGE JUST AREN’T THE SAME 2 ❞

— pairing: 𝗌𝗈𝗈𝖻𝗂𝗇 𝗑 𝖿.ᐟ𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋

𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗋𝖾: 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖻𝗂𝖽𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝗋𝗈𝗆𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 ⸝⸝ 𝗀𝗋𝗎𝗆𝗉𝗒 𝗑 𝗌𝗎𝗇𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖾

warning :age gap, petnames, slightly suggestive, small make-out, fluff, not proofread!

continuation from Colder .ᐟ

wc 1.3k

a/n: i really love this fic concept and i just wanted to do something short and sweet! i’m in the fluff mood. what can i say~

Soobin was a happy man once he started seeing you. your little doe eyes lighting up did way more to him than you’d ever know, he’d stop by the café just to give you a hug and a quick kiss and bid you a good morning before heading off to work. 

he’d even buy you little gifts—your favorite snack or drink, too big gifts—a brand new-off the shoulder sweater that you’d been wanting for weeks that was insanely priced out of your budget. 

he told himself he’d never forget the day you tried the sweater on, tears nearly pouring from your eyes from how happy you were. you hugged yourself and spun around chanting “it’s so warm!!” “so cozy!!” “it’s like i’m getting an infinity hug from you binnie!”you said jumping as you hugged him, despite refusing the gifts, he’d still go out his way to give you things. he happily wanted to spoil you with expensive items, even though you adamantly declined him and lectured him. telling him how you didn’t get with him just to let him spoil you. he’d nod, leaving his hands on your waist. totally not listening to what you were saying.

you were younger than him by so many years, he thought it was so adorable when you tried to lecture him, he’d completely look at you with heart eyes—cut you off with a kiss mumbling about how he couldn’t help himself.

you really loved him—for him. and not for the luxury gifts. 

he couldn’t really help himself, not when you were so young and energetic. having you call him past midnight full of energy while he was barely able to keep his eyes open was so cute to him.

he’d pick up the phone even if he was sleeping, just to hear you. like now for instance. soobin was finally able to sleep after a painfully long day—he worked overtime, drove through traffic, and just his luck. the elevator to his apartment was in repair which meant he had to walk up a few flights of stairs. and once he got into bed he fell asleep instantly until—his phone buzzed. you were calling him, he groaned to himself. taking a deep breath before replying,

“mm yes princess?”  he said breathlessly, the vibrations felt through your side of the phone. his voice rough and full of sleep. 

“oh! binnie did i wake you up?” he sighed, he would be annoyed if he hadn’t imagined the cute pout on your face you probably had right now. “no you didn’t. how are you?” he yawned, turning in bed. “ahhh~ i’m okay! i’m a little restless honestly and i caaan’t sleep” you said with a sigh. “i wish you were hereee~ you’re like a big plushie!” you giggled. soobin couldn’t help but smile “mm—im a big plushie?” “mhm! you’re like a human heater that can move too” you said softly “i miss youu” he smiled to himself at your words “you know i miss you more” he yawned again, groaning softly into the mic “princess, i love you but you know i have to work in the morning mkay? i love you” he said those last three words in a sing song voice. you giggled “i love you moreee!” he huffed “im sure you do—mm good night my love. i’ll be sure to text you in the morning” 

he ended the call smiling to himself. he probably ended up having a sweet dream about you later that night. 

if there was something else soobin loved it was your voice—he could listen to it for hours and. in fact, he would invite you over just so you could sit all prettily over his lap, leaning onto his chest, idly playing with his hair. he’d sit there all focused totally not listening to what you’re saying, adding in the occasional ‘hmms’ and ‘i agree’. 

soobin often worked twelve hour shifts and the consistent overtime absolutely tired soobin out. just having you around—leisurely talking about your day and twirling your fingers in his hair was enough to lull him to sleep so easily. which to you seemed like the most romantic date ever. you wanted nothing more to be wrapped up in him—bringing some sort of comfort. 

“today was really busy, i had so many orders and i had to make a lot more pastries today-“ soobin leaned his head onto yours and sighed. feeling completely relaxed, “i’m- m’listening, don’t stop speaking” he mumbled softly, hugging tighter like you were some emotional support plushie. you smiled to yourself seeing him slowly drift asleep, speaking quieter and leaning down into him.  

soobin after a while woke up to you buried deep into his chest, fast asleep. he smiled to himself, hugging you tighter. thank god he has the day off tomorrow so he could see you all sleepy in the morning.

and when you did wake up? he was stoking your hair, your head slowly shifting up to meet his eyes. “mm good morning” you yawned stretching a little. “did my little princess sleep well?” you nodded smiling instantly “of course  i did! got to sleep with my little human heater!” you giggled, shifting your legs so you could be on top of him more. 

soobin moved his arms around you, “mm little heater? there’s nothing little about me” you paused, soobin noticed and he smirked. you on the other hand? you laughed burying your head in his neck “soobbbiin!—that sounds so suspicious” 

you laughed. 

he grinned, lifting your face up.

“come on. seriously? what’s little about me? do you not know? do i have to tell you?” he brought your face closer to his lips, not giving you a chance to reply. your lips almost touching—your breath hitched and you nodded.

he kissed you slow, both hands cupping your face. “mm-! wait bin- we—“ he pushed his tongue into your mouth, you didn’t fight it. you sighed softly. one of his hands moved from your face to your back, his large hand covering so much space. rubbing up and down the expanse of your back. when you finally gained a distance from his lips, the loss of contact making him whine.

“bin—we-didn’t brush our teeth” you panted, lips glossy. “do we have too—my little bunny taste sooo sweet?” he whined, hugging you closer. “mhm! germs are real, mkay? kisses afterwards” he pouted.

his lips found your neck again kissing down it “okay-just-one-more-kiss” he said between kisses. you giggled- “binnie! mm—don’t tempt meeee!“ 

which in fact he did, but you willingly let him. he’s just too sweet and cute to say no too!

-

ˋ°•*⁀➷ @lwriina

a/n : please please please reblog or comment if you liked~ also if you have any fic requests please send them my way!! ^^🤎

[inawickedlittletown]

Through The Darkness To The Dawn (BuckTommy) - 7/8

Notes: Yes, you did see that this was originally two parts. Well, after 8x18 I really wanted to continue it. Summary has been updated and I hope you guys like it.

Title comes from Nobody Knows by The Lumineers.

Summary: S8 finale fix it fic. Buck is grieving, Eddie is the worst, and Tommy is the soft place that Buck needs to deal with it all.

Words: 4.5k

Read on Ao3

Part One - Part Two

Part Three - Part Four

Part Five - Part Six

-

Part Seven: So, Can I Call You Mine Now, Darling, For A Whole Lifetime?

Buck hit a lot of traffic on his way back to Tommy’s. He’d started shaking a little about halfway there when whatever had helped him yell at Eddie had started to fade as he remembered that he had actually yelled at Eddie. He’d thought to go back to Maddie and Chim simply because they were closer, but the thing was that what he wanted was Tommy. 

When he got there, he moved on autopilot, grabbing the box and then walking up to the house. He entered and the next thing he knew was Tommy wrapping him up in his arms and holding him as Buck got the words out “Half my stuff was already packed up. That’s what I walked into when I went back there.” 

He felt the way that Tommy stiffened a bit and how his arms held him just a little tighter. Buck had no idea how long they stood there until Tommy led him into the living room where Tommy’s laundry was half folded on the coffee table and the couch. 

“What do you want to do?” Tommy asked, gently. 

Nothing. He wanted to do nothing. He wanted to not have to deal with Eddie again and for Bobby to be alive and for him and Tommy to still be boyfriends. Only one of those things was possible and actually well within his grasp. He stared at Tommy and there was so much understanding there, so much care. 

“Well I have to get all my stuff out of there,” Buck said. 

“You realize he’s not legally allowed to just kick you out like this, right?” 

Buck didn’t have the energy for a fight over a house that didn’t feel like it was his. Had Eddie just come to him and told him he was planning on moving back, Buck would have offered to move, would have started searching for a new place right there and then. It was the way that Eddie had gone about it and that he’d gone and started packing his stuff like none of it mattered and it was just inconveniently in Eddie’s house. 

“I can’t live there,” Buck said. “Even if I went back there and Eddie had unpacked everything and he told me he was going to look for a new place, I can’t stay there.”

Tommy hummed. “We can put most of your stuff in my garage,” he decided. “Maybe a few things in the spare room too. I mean it, Evan, you can stay here as long as you want.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“Yes.” 

Buck looked at Tommy, really looked and tried to find anything in his face that said he felt differently and that he might change his mind or regret it. There was nothing. 

“It won’t be for long,” Buck said. “A few weeks, tops. I’ll find somewhere new. I know you don’t want to live with me so I—”

“I said I wasn’t ready for it,” Tommy said. 

“Right, so we shouldn’t. I’m going to find a realtor and get started on finding an apartment, I promise.” 

Tommy grabbed his hand. “Evan, when I said that I meant that we could work towards moving in together someday because I want to and because you wanted to and because like you said, why be apart when we can be together?”

“Oh,” Buck said. 

This man loved him. Buck loved him back. Neither of them had said it again since that night or even breached the topic of what it meant. Buck couldn’t stay with Tommy on even a temporary basis without them discussing it. They couldn’t keep skirting around the subject and maybe even hoping it would go away. 

“I meant it,” Buck said. 

“Meant what?” 

“When I said that I love you.” 

Tommy looked a little shocked, but his lips curved into a smile. “I love you too, Evan, and I think we both know that I’m interested.” 

“Me too,” Buck said. “So, we give this a try again? Us?”

“Yeah,” Tommy said. “That’s what I want, Evan, more than anything.”

Buck wanted to imagine that it could be as easy as that, but that had sort of been their problem the first time around. Buck had been kissed by a man in his kitchen and his entire self-concept had shifted. He’d been so focused on how new it all was and Tommy had gone with it too, let Buck set the pace. They hadn’t dug deep and then when it was all falling apart Tommy had run and Buck had made an attempt to cling that just pushed Tommy out faster. 

“And you don’t still think I could have feelings for Eddie?” Buck checked. 

Tommy laughed. “No, Sweetheart, I really don’t. I don’t think I ever really did. I just let my insecurities and fears take over when what I should have done is talk to you.” 

“Yeah,” Buck said. “Why did you think that?” 

It wasn’t like Buck wasn’t aware that sometimes people got confused about him and Eddie. But usually that came from people looking in on their friendship and their closeness. He hadn’t expected it to come from Tommy and then followed up by Maddie like it was something Buck actually had to consider. 

“Jealousy isn’t logical,” Tommy said. 

“What did you have to be jealous of?” 

“How close you were, how you would drop anything to be there for him, how our plans didn’t matter if he needed you…I don’t know, it’s…I knew you were with me and everything but I just couldn’t help but wonder if one day you’d look at Eddie and realize that you had feelings for him all along and I was just a placeholder.”

Buck could understand that. Not completely in the same way because he had never been in any relationship where he wondered if his partner was interested in someone else. More because he knew what it was like to feel like you weren’t enough for someone. He hadn’t been enough for his parents, even for Maddie at one point, he had definitely not been enough for Abby. For Ali. Even for Natalia when she couldn’t see past Buck’s death to everything else that he had to offer.

“I yelled at him,” Buck said. 

“At who?” 

“Eddie,” Buck revealed. “Right before I left. Maddie said it wouldn’t be crazy if I had feelings for him and I realize now that it’s because from the very start I was always giving and giving and giving to Eddie. And why would I do that if I didn’t feel something more for him? But I don’t.” 

Their hands were still linked and Buck loved the feel of Tommy’s hand. How big it was, how strong. The first time they held hands while walking side by side, Buck had been in awe of how good it felt and how different too. Women’s hands were soft and dainty. Always smaller than his. Tommy’s hands were a little bigger than his and lightly callused in places. He squeezed Tommy’s hand. He remembered wanting to hold Tommy’s hand, wanting to intertwine their fingers together. Buck hadn’t felt that way about Abby or Ali or Natalia or even Taylor. Not that it had felt like a task to hold their hands, he just hadn’t felt as excited. As elated. 

“When he first moved here and started at the 118,” Buck said, “Eddie had problems with figuring out care for Chris, and I had known him maybe a week and I got him in contact with this great home aid. Carla. She, uh, she took care of Abby’s mom. And I think ever since then, this friendship has been nothing but one sided. But I would be there for anyone at the 118, it’s just that none of them ever needed me like that. Eddie always did.” 

He didn’t add that it had felt good to be needed and that it felt good when there was someone that appreciated Buck’s help and that welcomed him into their family. Buck had met Chris and loved him at once. He’d met Eddie’s Abuela and Tia and they had welcomed him in too. 

Tommy hummed in response. “Everyone else always had someone else to turn to.”

“Yeah,” Buck said. “But if Hen ever called me needing something I would have dropped everything to be there for her. Same with Chim. Ravi, too. That wasn’t unique to Eddie. Hey, I would drop anything for you too.” 

Buck knew that Tommy would understand that. He was like him in that regard and it was one of the reasons that Buck loved him. Even after Buck had hurt him, he’d still come when Buck called. 

Tommy tugged him closer, leaned forward and kissed his forehead. “You’re just good, Evan Buckley, and you want to be needed. But it can’t just be you giving and giving and giving and never getting anything back. An empty glass can’t quench anyone’s thirst.”

“An empty glass can’t quench anyone’s thirst,” Buck repeated. “I, uh, I like that.” 

“Someone said that to me once,” Tommy said. “I honestly can’t remember who it was, but it was true for me and it’s true for you. I told you once I was jealous of the 118 and I guess that extended to the part Eddie played in your life too. Do you remember that weekend we both magically had off?”

Buck definitely remembered that. How excited he and Tommy had been to find out they had a whole weekend off together. Their schedules had rarely aligned so perfectly. 

“I was going to fly us out to Napa,” Tommy admitted. 

“But we didn’t,” Buck said. 

Tommy’s smile turned a little wistful. “No, we didn’t.” 

Buck had to think back to what had happened that weekend. He couldn’t remember it that well, just that the whole week he had been excited because he was going to spend it with Tommy. When his shift ended on Friday he had driven straight to Tommy’s house. Tommy had told him to pack for the weekend so they didn’t have to go back to Buck’s loft. It wasn’t his first time sleeping over at Tommy’s, but they had spent more time at the loft for some reason. Convenience? Buck actually didn’t know why. 

“Friday night was great,” Tommy said. “We made dinner together and didn’t watch a movie.” 

Buck laughed. Sex had never been a problem with them. Actually, Buck was a little surprised at himself for not having tried to start anything more physical than cuddling with Tommy any of the nights he’d slept over. It wasn’t like he didn’t want Tommy and like he hadn’t thought about it especially when he was laying in his arms surrounded by his scent and his warmth and knowing how easy it could be. It was, he realized, because with Tommy intimacy and love didn’t just come through having sex. He felt just as loved and just as cherished without losing an article of clothing just because he was near Tommy. That was something that he didn’t think had ever been present with someone else. 

“I made breakfast the next morning and I was going to tell you about Napa, but when you came out of the room you were on the phone—”

“With Eddie,” Buck finished. 

Recalling suddenly, waking up to his phone ringing and answering Eddie’s call. Eddie, who was missing Christopher and who had tried to call and talk to Chris only for Chris to refuse to talk to him. Eddie, who was feeling lonely and wondering if Buck had plans because maybe they could hang out? But Buck had told him, right? He’d told him that he was spending the weekend with Tommy and how much he was looking forward to finally having some alone time. Eddie had still interrupted that and worse, Buck had let him. Buck hadn’t even checked with Tommy before answering and committing both of them to going on a hike with Eddie. 

“Oh,” Buck said. 

Tommy’s smile was a little sad as he shrugged his shoulders. “Evan, it was like that all summer. So why wouldn’t I think that maybe you had feelings for the guy?” 

“Tommy, why didn’t you ever say anything? Or ask me?” 

Tommy hesitated before he answered, but he seemed to steel himself. “Because I didn’t want to know the answer. I’ve had that answer before and so I thought if I could just hold onto you for as long as possible then maybe it would be okay and at least I got to be with you for a time even if it didn’t last.” 

Buck’s chest hurt. His whole being hurt because he could see it so clearly. Tommy’s fears and the way that Buck fed into them without meaning to. 

“And then I asked you to move in with me,” Buck said. 

“Yeah. I couldn’t live with you no matter how much I wanted it, knowing that one day I would have to move out so you could be with someone else. It didn’t even have to be Eddie. It could have been anyone. But I had convinced myself that there would be someone else eventually because that’s what’s always happened before.” 

Buck had no idea how he was supposed to unpack all of it, but he did understand it and that’s what made him feel even sadder. He understood it perfectly. It was a bit unhinged and unreasonable and Tommy could have just talked to him. But he didn’t. He held it all in and maybe his fears just grew and grew and Buck had given him no reason not to believe the worst. To expect the worst. 

“I never had feelings for him. Not once,” he said, watching Tommy to make sure he heard it and believed it. 

“I know that now,” Tommy said. “God, the way I would judge you if you did.” 

Buck laughed. He had so much sympathy suddenly for Shannon and for Ana and for Marisol. Of everyone outside of Chris, he’d had a front row seat for all of it and he couldn’t even imagine dating someone like Eddie male or female. 

“Do you realize, that I knew Eddie for years before I met you and not once did I question if I could be attracted to men?” Buck asked. 

“I was being irrational,” Tommy said. 

“It was all you, Tommy. You opened my eyes to my sexuality and I nearly broke Eddie’s ankle over it. I kinda want to break Eddie’s ankle right now for making you feel like you didn’t have all of me and for so many other things.” 

Tommy laughed at that. “So, you said you yelled at Eddie?”

He should have yelled at him sooner. What he would give to go back to last summer when his life had looked so different. His biggest problem was Gerrard. Bobby had survived a fire and a heart attack. Buck was dating the hottest man he’d ever met. He had already known even then that his relationship with Tommy was different than any other that had come before. Things had been so good. But Eddie was hurting. Eddie was missing Chris. Had Buck felt guilty that he was so happy when Eddie was suffering? Probably a little. So, he’d tried to be there for Eddie because Eddie was all alone and Eddie was always calling and needing him and Tommy was amazing because he’d go along with it without once complaining. 

Buck hadn’t realized how it came off to Tommy or how much of that had ruined Tommy’s plans. It’s not like Buck had meant to hurt him, but Tommy had just been so accommodating even when he didn’t need to be. 

“I yelled at him. Wish I’d done it sooner. I was just trying to leave because I couldn’t even look at him or my stuff or that house, but he just followed me outside. So I yelled at him. I, uh, I told him I’d get my stuff out soon. I think I told him he wasn’t my friend.” 

He could tell almost at once that Tommy didn’t immediately know what to say. Where Buck could see that maybe one day he and Eddie could work things out, he knew that for Tommy it was different. Eddie had dropped him as a friend the moment that Buck and Tommy broke up, as if their friendship had depended on them being together. 

“What now?” Tommy asked. 

“Well, I have to get my stuff out of there. Not today. I can’t return there today. Soon, though.” 

Tommy nodded. “I’ll help. We can get you packed and out of there in no time.” 

“Uh. yeah. That sounds good. I can let Chim know too and Ravi. More hands will get it done faster. But I don’t even want to think about it anymore tonight. I’m so tired, Tommy.” 

“So don’t,” Tommy said. “We deal with that tomorrow. I think if you’re going to be my boyfriend again that we should go on a date? How does that sound?” 

“Perfect.” 

He could forget everything and everyone else and focus on the man in front of him. Bobby had told him once that Tommy was good for him and Buck knew, more certain than he’d ever been about anything else, that Bobby was absolutely right. Even after they broke up, Bobby had never once said a bad thing about Tommy. Not that any of the others had exactly. Instead, they had all avoided talking about Tommy after the initial questions about the break up that Buck had refused to answer. When all Buck told them was that Tommy dumped him which…well, looking back Buck had been hurting and maybe what he said wasn’t entirely accurate. Buck wished he’d talked to Bobby about it, but talking about the way that things ended had been too hard especially when Buck didn’t fully understand it all that well either. 

Now, he wished that he could tell Bobby that he and Tommy were going to try again. Maybe it was something he could say to the stars when they came out that night. 

They went out for dinner. The easiest and laziest last minute date, but neither of them was feeling up to being creative. The restaurant was intimate and clearly aimed at couples. It was a rooftop with fairy lights strung above them, dim lamps and candles supplementing a little more light. Light instrumental music played over all of it. 

“So, how many proposals do you think have happened up here?” Buck asked as soon as the waitress took their orders and walked away. 

Tommy shrugged. “Hundreds. Do you think one might happen tonight?” 

“Do you know something I don’t?” Buck asked back. 

“We only just got back together, Evan. I’m not proposing.”

“Yet,” Buck said. “Right? Is marriage…is that something you want? Someday, I mean.” 

He didn’t mean for them to fall right into discussing something as heavy and important, but it was one of the things they had never talked about the first time around. Marriage had never been some goal for him or anything. At one point, Buck had sort of decided that he wouldn’t care if he never got married as long as he found someone to spend his life with. But it was definitely something he could imagine with Tommy. Rings. Commitment. Announcing their love to the world. It didn’t mean he needed it, but it was an option. 

“I do,” Tommy said and laughed, ducking his head. “I always thought I would end up married to a woman and if not miserable then at least making the best of it. I mean, for so long gay marriage was illegal or only recognized in certain states. How could I have ever thought that I would ever feel like I could admit to my sexuality and then also have the right to marry a man? So, yeah, Evan, I’d like to get married. Someday.” 

Buck inhaled. He forgot sometimes that there was a deep queer history that he just didn’t know a whole lot about. Marriage equality had only happened in 2015. Ten years ago. Where had Buck even been then? Travelling somewhere around the country? Certainly not around anyone that made a big deal about it because that he would have remembered. 

“What, uh, what was it like for you when marriage equality happened?” 

Tommy chuckled. “It was a relief. I was on shift that day. It was kinda crazy, but mostly because everyone was celebrating literally out in the streets. Every call we went to that day there were rainbows. It was amazing, Evan. I’ve never told anyone, but it gave me so much courage to see people declare their truth and their love. To feel the importance of it. It was already legal in California, but it was different for the whole country to get that right.” 

“There’s so much I don’t know,” Buck said.

Tommy grabbed his hand, giving it a squeeze. “There’s no big test at the end that declares how queer you are, Evan. Lots of people don’t know all the tiny wins that lead to the big ones. They don’t know about the quilt or stonewall or the lavender scare. I don’t even know all the particulars. You don’t have to know everything to respect it and understand that despite everything the world as it is today is better than what came before.” 

That did make him feel better, but that didn’t mean that Buck wasn’t going to finally start doing some research. He didn’t know why he hadn’t wanted to before, but he should even if he was just getting some surface information. 

“So, marriage is on the table, then,” Buck said. 

Tommy smiled, squeezed his hand again and then let go enough to feel out for his fingers, touching the ring finger and circling right where the ring might go. 

“One day,” Tommy said. 

“One day,” Buck repeated. He leaned forward over the table to kiss Tommy, but the kiss didn’t last long because someone made a loud noise at the other side of the restaurant. 

They both looked over, alert and ready just in case they were needed, but it was just a young woman who had just been proposed to. She had clearly accepted. 

“Not like this,” Tommy said as she threw herself at her new fiance and he caught her. 

“Well, you’ll have plenty of time to plan it.” 

“Why am I planning it? You could ask me.” 

“But what if I want to be asked?” Buck shot back. 

“So you’re putting it all on me?” Tommy asked. His lips were quirking up in amusement. 

Buck nodded. “I think we’ve done enough at my pace, so when you’re ready for us to get engaged, I know I’ll be ready.” 

It was more than a little wild to be talking about getting engaged, let alone married when they were on a second first date, but Buck couldn’t help but think about Bobby and Athena. They’d married after only a year of dating, been engaged for less than half of that time. They still hadn’t had anywhere near enough time together. Buck wanted him and Tommy to make the best of the time they got because there was always that possibility that one of them wouldn’t make it home. Buck knew that all too well. 

Nothing wholly as serious came up for the rest of the night. They enjoyed their meals, shared a tiramisu for dessert, and when Buck asked, Tommy drove them out to the nearest beach. 

They walked hand in hand out onto the sand and down just short of where the water was rushing up onto the packed sand.  

“You’re right about the stars,” Tommy said, breaking the silence they’d been in for a while, “they are brighter here.” 

Eventually, Buck came to a stop at a spot far enough from anyone else that was out on the beach late at night. He turned to stare out into the darkness. The waves rose and crashed back down, but they gathered up more water and went again. Maybe that was what life was. Getting knocked down and not staying down no matter how much you wanted to. He felt Tommy move and then his arms were wrapped around him. Buck leaned back into his chest and felt Tommy kiss the side of his head. 

They didn’t speak for several minutes. The sounds of the waves and the birds was enough. Buck looked out to what stars he could make out. 

‘I think you’re right, Bobby, I am going to be okay,’ Buck allowed himself to think. 

“We should get back,” Tommy said eventually, his hands rubbing over Buck’s bare arms which admittedly did have goose bumps. “Before we’re both cold.” 

“You’re wearing three layers,” Buck pointed out, but he allowed Tommy to steer him in the direction they had walked and then grabbing his hand when they wound up side by side. “And I know of a way that we can keep each other warm.” 

Tommy’s fingers tightened on his own. “I guess that makes it worth it to get cold first.” 

The drive over felt like it went on forever, especially with Tommy’s hand resting on his thigh looking gorgeous as he drove, his eyes attentive to the road but flicking over to Buck every once in a while. What would it be like to just take off…the two of them on the road going wherever it took them? Or maybe not even just a road but the sky? 

“We should go to Napa,” Buck said. “We can both take some time off and just go places together, but that one is right at the top of the list.” 

“Yeah?” Tommy asked. 

“Yeah,” Buck answered. “We can make a list. Places and things we want to do. I’ve been all over this country but I don’t think I ever really appreciated a lot of it. Then I was in Peru. Then I came back here and I got this job and I haven’t had a break since. Maybe that’s what I need.” 

The hand on his thigh squeezed. “I’d like that.” 

The last ten minutes of the drive were silent and Buck knew that there was a lot for him to deal with. Moving his stuff out of Eddie’s house. Making a final decision on if he was taking a transfer. Really considering going for the Captain’s exam. Beyond that there was a life that Buck wanted. One where he wasn’t alone. One where he was happy. One where he would always miss Bobby, but he wouldn’t stop living. One where Tommy was at his side. 

When Buck kissed him, the moment the door of Tommy’s house closed behind them, he wanted Tommy to know that what Buck intended was for them to get every second of time they could together. When their clothes came off, a telling trail leading to the bedroom, it was less hurried desperation and more care to touch and explore and reconnect. Buck loved him and he wanted to show him. 

[areyoufuckingcrazy]

Helloooo! Happy Tuesday! I was wondering if you could do a Single mom reader x Wolfe pack(but romantic Helix x Reader) where she has a kid who bites? I think it would be super cute and funnny if the reader had to board the ship to help with medic things but she needed to bring her kid with her and she’s like “I’m so sorry he has a biting problem right now” and the Wolfe pack is just loving this kid.

Thank you and love your work! Pls never stop writing because honestly it’s the highlight of my day!

“He Bites, Just So You Know”

Wolffe Pack x Single Mom!Reader

The hangar bay of the Star cruiser smelled like fuel and sterilizer. You shifted your medic pack higher onto your back and adjusted your grip on your son’s hand as the bay doors hissed open.

He was two and a half. All big brown eyes, stubborn energy, and sharp baby teeth. You were pretty sure he was trying to chew his way through the galaxy lately.

“I really appreciate the escort,” you told the clone commander waiting with his squad just inside the ship’s main corridor. “But I’ve got to warn you—my kid has a bit of a biting problem right now.”

Commander Wolffe arched a brow. “Define ‘problem.’”

“Teething? Frustration? Territory defense?” you offered with a half-apologetic smile. “He doesn’t mean to hurt anyone, but he will latch on if he’s overwhelmed or if you’re not paying attention.”

The little boy tugged your arm, trying to wiggle out of your grip. “Mama. I don’t wanna go this way. It smells like socks.”

“Yeah, well, it’s either this or I drop you off with the angry Ithorian daycare lady again.”

He froze. “She said I was feral.”

“She wasn’t wrong, buddy.”

Behind Wolffe, the rest of his squad exchanged looks. Sinker stifled a snort. Boost looked delighted. Comet, standing in the back, leaned forward just enough to whisper, “Did he really bite someone?”

“Multiple someones,” you said flatly. “Mostly me. Once a senator. That was awkward.”

Wolffe huffed, like he was already rethinking everything.

Your son squinted up at them all, clearly sizing them up. “Are those soldiers?”

“Yes,” you said, already bracing.

“Can I have one?”

Comet made a strangled sound.

“I meant a helmet!” your son added quickly.

“Oh, thank stars,” you muttered.

⸻

You were three rooms deep into medbay inventory. Your son had a tablet, snacks, and instructions to stay exactly where you left him in the quiet crew commons.

When you came back out?

He was sitting cross-legged on the floor in the hallway surrounded by clone troopers. Like he’d just… collected them.

Sinker was holding out a ration bar like a peace offering. Comet was showing him how to tap a helmet’s voice modulator. Boost was teaching him how to make a paper snowflake out of gauze. And Wolffe? Wolffe stood back with arms crossed, expression unreadable—but not exactly annoyed.

You slowly crouched down, eyeing the half-chewed ration bar in your kid’s hand.

“Did he bite anyone?”

“Technically? No,” Comet said. “He threatened to bite Boost.”

“He said if I didn’t let him tap the vocoder, he was gonna ‘go full Gungan on me,’” Boost said, clearly holding back laughter.

You sighed and ruffled your son’s hair. “That checks out.”

“He’s… funny,” Sinker said, glancing down at your boy. “Weird. But funny.”

Your son yawned and leaned up against his leg like a sleepy tooka. You blinked.

“He just… did that?”

Sinker shrugged like it was no big deal.

You looked over at Wolffe, who finally met your eyes. His voice was quieter than you expected when he said, “He’s not bothering anyone.”

You nodded. “I’ll keep him on a leash next time.”

“You don’t need to,” Wolffe said, then paused. “We’ve had worse visitors.”

That made you laugh. “Really?”

Wolffe gave a dry smile. “Once had to escort a senator’s pet nexu kitten. This kid’s practically standard issue compared to that.”

⸻

He fell asleep curled up in a corner of the bunk you were sharing. Crumbs on his shirt, tablet on his chest, one of Comet’s gloves clutched like a stuffed toy.

You smoothed his hair back and glanced up when you heard someone outside your open door.

Wolffe.

He nodded to the kid. “He settle down okay?”

“Yeah. No biting,” you whispered. “Small miracle.”

He hesitated. “He’s… a good kid.”

You raised a brow. “That a professional opinion, Commander?”

“Personal.”

Something about the way he said it made you pause.

You smiled, just a little. “He likes you guys. Not sure how much that says about him.”

Wolffe gave a tired, quiet laugh. “Says enough.”

[syntheticsymp]

Reader having an alter

okay this gave me an idea esp after reading your recent fic-

Separated from the nikto pet series, what about a soldier reader who's alter is a happy go lucky person but is still equally threatening?kinda like thanos from squidgames when he gets high lol

I did some research into squid games and thanos because of this ask, and now I am fighting the urge to dye my hair purple. Thank you for introducing me to thanos I am adding him to my collection of psychos asap

---

At first, Nikto hated you.

You were so happy all the time, bouncing around KorTac base, making conversation with a bright smile. Everyone liked you, hell, you even got that weird recluse Konig to talk to you.

But smiles don't win wars, and they won't save you on the battlefield. From what Nikto had seen, you'd probably try to befriend the enemy and get shot in the face. It was almost a pity that you were going to die so soon, but then again, Nikto couldn't feel pity for you when you signed up for this job.

Soon, you were deployed on your first mission. It was nearly a month without you with no word from the squad. Eventually, it was reported that your entire team was Killed in Action. Nikto shrugged it off, it happened all the time in his line of work. Just another mission gone south, nothing to freak out over.

But a week later, you showed up. Covered in blood, still sporting that stupid smile.

Rumors got out not long after Shepard ushered you away. Apparently, after your team had gotten killed, you played dead until you could go in and finish off the enemies. The recruits said you had wiped out an entire base after being shot multiple times.

Nikto didn't believe it for a second. But that didn't stop him from being curious.

Once you were fully healed, you were put back on the field. Since your last mission hadn't finished you off, he had assumed this one would. He was once again proven wrong.

Every mission you had been sent on had been a suicide mission.

And every time you came back.

It was weirdly infuriating. It just didn't make sense. The same person who smiled and waved at him in the hall for no reason, the one who brought the team coffee using money from their own waller, the one who had talked recruits through panic attacks and lit up whatever room they were in could not be the same person described on the field. There had to be something else going on.

Requesting you on his team for the next mission was the first time he had ever asked anyone to accompany him. And everything went as expected. The helicopter ride over he had barely kept from throwing you over the side because of your cheerful chatter, and gearing up had been no different.

It was only once you stepped foot in the building you were infiltrating that a switch in your mind seemed to flip. The air around you even felt different. The energy that usually surrounded you turned sour, dangerous.

The mission was a simple operation. Clearing out a base of terrorists, leaving no one behind. Every operative approached these differently, some choosing stealth to sneak in undetected, others going around the back to take the enemies by surprise.

You did neither. In fact, you did something even he wasn't crazy enough to do.

You walked in through the front door and started shooting.

No prelude, no hint of fear as you watched the bodies hit the ground. You holstered your gun as soon as you had the opportunity, instead choosing to tackle the soldiers with your knives or bare hands, tearing into them however was bloodiest.

Nikto could kill so easily because he felt nothing.

But you?

You enjoyed every bit of the carnage in front of you.

The rest of the mission was a blur. Nikto hardly even had to do anything, since you were taking all the good kills. The enemies never stood a chance against you. It finally clicked into place how you had kept surviving, refusing to die like a cockroach, clearing out your enemies like an exterminator. It was brutal, and he was fascinated. There weren't many people he actually saw as an equal, but he might have to make an exception for you.

However, the real kicker was on the ride home. You were sitting, completely drenched in blood, humming some happy toon that was getting on Nikto's nerves as you dug around in your pockets. You were back to normal like nothing had happened in the first place, and he had no idea what to make of it.

Then you produced a handful of little white things from your pocket. It took a moment for him to realize that they were teeth. Human teeth.

"I picked some trophies up on the way out!" you said like it was the most normal thing in the world. This was something he would do. Not you. "Do you want one? That way we can remember our first mission together."

Sentimental drivel. But he took one regardless, offering a small grunt as a thank you. You gave him the least bloody one, keeping the teeth with gums still attached and blood stained for yourself. God only knows what you were going to do with them, but Nikto wanted to learn.

...

Now, when you waved to him in the halls, he'd dip his head ever so slightly. You had earned his respect on the field, moreso than any other operative in this place. And his alters, well, they couldn't help being curious as to what else you were capable of behind that bright smile.

[skmhlml]

Black sapphire cookie x news reporter reader smut hc please

Black Sapphire cookie x F!reader |Smut Headcannons|

💟 Black Sapphire Cookie exudes an overwhelming dominant aura, regal and composed, but under that jeweled exterior is a man who burns with deeply restrained desire.

💟 He views you as something precious and worthy of being protected, but also possessed. He doesn’t share, and his touch is both a claim and a promise.

💟 While usually cold and imperious to others, you unlock a different side of him— obsessively attentive and quietly passionate. He doesn’t always vocalize affection, but he shows it in overwhelming, sensual ways.

💟 Control is everything. He guides your body with an expert’s patience, taking his time to memorize every shiver and sigh.

💟 He has a penchant for tying your wrists with shimmering ribbons, either made from enchanted thread or infused with sapphire energy. It’s not just restraint—it’s artistry. “Be still, my jewel. I’ll show you why no other touch will ever satisfy you again.”

💟 He calls you “my gem,” “darling crystal,” “my treasure” while ravishing you, eyes heavy with heat as he watches your reactions.

💟 Black Sapphire believes pleasure should be earned. He’ll bring you to the brink over and over, watching you unravel while he remains composed.

💟 He’s extremely fond of being between your thighs, his icy blue eyes staring up while his mouth works with slow, intentional hunger. He does it for hours.

💟 Once he does allow you to finish, he doesn’t stop. His deep, methodical thrusts continue until your body is trembling and limp against him. He loves breaking your composure, leaving you whimpering his name like a prayer.

💟 Your first time together is nothing short of a ritual. He’s patient, meticulous, treating your body like the sacred relic it is to him.

💟 He doesn’t rush, instead watching you squirm under his intense gaze. His fingers trail over your skin like ice, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

💟 He asks softly, “Have you ever truly been claimed before?”, before burying his face between your thighs, determined to make you sob before he ever enters you.

💟 When he finally slides in, it’s with one deep, careful thrust, holding your hips in place as you clutch at his arms, breath stolen.

💟 He makes it clear: this is permanent. He won’t allow anyone else to touch you ever again— not now that you’re his.

💟 Maybe someone got too close. Maybe you laughed a little too sweetly at another Cookie.

💟 His rage is controlled, cold, and burning. He doesn’t lash out— he waits until you’re alone.

💟 When he takes you, it’s rougher. He bends you over, whispering sharp commands, his usual soft praise replaced by growled dominance.

💟 Black Sapphire thrives in control. He has a throne room, and he makes you kneel at his feet, dressed in fine silk or nothing at all.

💟 He strokes your cheek with gloved fingers while you look up at him, pupils dilated and desperate. “Good girls wait patiently.”

💟 If you’re obedient, he rewards you with his mouth, fingers, and eventually, his slow, deep thrusts— deliberate, designed to push you toward the edge.

[timetravelwitch]

Rex showing favoritism towards Emmet?

What? Nooooo, he would never

[seryonn]

Prompto from ffxv ♡

[elkkiel]

i fucking swear idc what i have going on this week. i'm gonna draw a fucking cat for my stupid mental health. bc it's officially been over a month since i've been able to draw anything (like I've got 1 wip but I could only work on it for a few hours on one day) and it is making me Very Very Sad Inside ✌️

[hassianlovebot]

i got my first fit so i did a little photoshoot!!

[starbuck]

we didnt sit near each other at the goats show but you had so much energy it made me so happy !! you were the only other people getting tf into aisle and you just looked so happy i hope you enjoy life like that a lot more. also the cowboy hat BANGED it looked sick as hell

THANK YOUUUUUUUU!!!!!!!

i *WAS* so happy!! i was honestly trying to keep my hopes low for this show bc it was a john and peter duo when i booked it and i wasn’t sure how the change would change the vibe of the setlist but, needless to say my expectations were WILDLY exceeded!!!!!!!

i hope you had fun as well!!

[captainrayzizuniverse]

🍽️