#furniture flyer

[alloflifeisbeautiful]

088

[heavy-machinery-studio-feed]

[dcxdpdabbles]

I don't know if you were planning on making any more but One Hell of a Good Bellhop is such a good fic and I would love to see more of it

(also I've been reading through your masterlist of posts so sorry for sending you so many notifs from liking them all) ❤️❤️

Charles smiles at the couple, eagerly looking through the clothes Danny had in the old employee lounge. Since they didn't have any more employees, the boy made the suggestion of setting up a gift shop, creating miniature nicknacks from the different eras he transformed the hotel into.

He sold costumes similar to whatever era he wanted the theme to be—this month, it was the Golden Age of Piracy, complete with a treasure hidden somewhere in the hotel for anyone to find—and the pirate costume could make a Hollywood costume designer weep with joy.

Charles didn't understand Danny's meta powers—not that he needed to. He figured he didn't need to. He just accepted that the boy could influence the hotel as if it were one of those video game home designs kids played.

He went to bed one night with the hotel Sally had adored so much falling apart, only to wake to it being in perfect condition, just like his memories. To find rooms set up with furniture and decoration that screamed wealthy—well, it just made his heart warm.

Especially when young people started wandering in, lured by Jazz and Danny walking the streets with flyers. It's been a long time since he saw the look of wonder in his guests' eyes as they took in his beloved hotel.

Danny seemed to really enjoy taking over the hotel. He somehow got the housing, the cooking, and the maintenance taken care of. He was always out of sight, but it let Charles sit at the front desk, resting his feet and watching life be breathed back into the hotel.

If Sally were alive, she would be sitting right next to him and cooing at the young couple holding up clothes against each other, faces flushed with love, as they try to select an outfit.

Despite being males, their excitement reminded him of his younger days when Sally and he would go on trips together whenever they stumbled across a bookshop.

His girl loved reading, while Charles had always fancied custom-made journals. Watching young people fall in love filled his heart with nostalgia; he was lonely.

Eventually, the couple finds what they like to wear for the pirate treasure hunt event and approaches the cash register, where Danny mysteriously appears. His young tenant was dressed in a black trench coat and skulled hat, looking like an authentic Black Beard pirate.

Charles has been watching the whole time, and despite it looking like he merely rounded the door behind the wall leading into the gift shop storage, Danny has literally blinked into existence.

Not that the two young men knew that. They merely paid for their outfits and what looked like a ship in a bottle. As soon as the payment was complete, Danny rounded the same wall and vanished. Charles turned his head to find Danny by the main entrance, holding the door open for a woman with a beaming smile.

He was now dressed to appear like a Cabin boy as he carefully led the new group to Charles for check-in. He didn't wait to hear the room number the group would be staying in before placing their luggage on a cart and vanishing down the hallway.

The woman and man with the three children looked alarmed, but Charles calmed them down by assuring them that their luggage would be waiting for them as soon as they were in their rooms. As he was finished adding them to the system, Danny reappeared to offer the startled couple a warm meal and hot chocolate for the kids.

Jazz, the sweetheart, taught Charles how to use the latest technology. She even modified the code to make the systems more user-friendly.

Charles was touched that she didn't fight his assistance to keep using a guest log book, even with their booking system, and went out of her way to find journals that fit Danny's chosen theme for the month. The kids seemed especially excited to write on parchment with quills afterward, as the adults were charmed by Danny's excellent cooking skills.

He was also in another outfit, this one looking more like a regular pirate member, though with a more green theme than the black of before.

"Are they triplets?" Mrs. Oblie asks as Danny fades from sight, only to appear at the gift shop, helping someone buy a signed treasure chest. He's back in a Black Beard outfit. "The three seem like hard workers."

Charles smiles. "It's the same person. Danny is a very hard worker."

"What?" Mr. Oblie gasps, twisting to stare at Danny and the direction in which Danny had taken their luggage. "How did he change clothes so quickly?"

"He was in the circus," Charles replies with a laugh. "He is used to quick changes. Plus, there are a lot of hidden passages way here."

He says the last bit like it's a big secret, winking at the children- one seems to be ten, the other seven- watching excitement bloom on their faces as they start looking around, attempting to spot the non-existent secret passages. The explanation isn't enough for Mrs. Oblie, but she doesn't argue further as she ushers her family into their room.

They will be down in a few hours so their kids can run around the hotel searching for a treasure. Mr. Oblie admitted over the phone that they hadn't had enough money for a vacation like he originally promised his eldest for her birthday, so this kid-friendly event was a lifesaver. Danny had claimed that it wasn't a lie- apparently, he can hear lies within the hotel, including the landline?- and had chosen to let the Oblie find some treasure even if they didn't win the main pot.

Charles wonders what face Mr.Oblie will make when his daughter finds the real diamond tiara that Danny set aside for her. Where on earth did the boy find something like that?

Charles didn't know and figured it was another part of Danny's meta abilities.

He turns towards the door, smiling as Jazz struts in. Her pantsuit is perfectly tailored, and her red hair falls gracefully behind her back. A few of the mingling guests are star-studded as she strides, her heels clicking on the ground like a bell.

If Danny was the ultimate bellhop who popped in and out of sight, Jazz was the hotel manager who commanded respect and awe. She was here for lunch, always arriving around one o'clock on the dot and the regulars who picked up on that fact always came down to get a glimpse of her.

Jazz and Danny were attractive siblings, but it wasn't mere looks that grabbed people's attention. They felt overwhelmingly alluring, like visiting Fae or a fallen star, as if somehow human but only just about.

Charles often wondered why someone like her was working as an assistant/secretary for an insurance company. She was far more capable than an entire management team.

She set up all their administration details. Charles had no idea how she could organize all their bills, supplies, advertisements, investments, and anything else he could think of for a business while booking appointments and filing claims for an entirely different company. To Charles, it was never about the money, but they were making a large amount now that the Fenotn children took over, and he offered her a position with better pay multiple times.

Jazz waved it away, saying she needed another job for her brother. He does suspect that she only stayed at Gotham Todd Insurance because of the young owner, whom her eyes tracked whenever Mr. Jason Todd walked through the building.

But Charles kept that theory to himself.

A soft clatter sounds from his elbow. Charles looks down to find a steaming plate of food, obviously done by Danny. He smiled at it, holding it up to Jazz as she neared. "Hi, sweetie; how's work going?"

"Hi, Grandpop," She beams, leaning over to hug him and gently kiss his cheek in greeting. "It's been a boring day. I finished this week's work in a few hours and just spent three hours preparing everything for Danny's next theme. Get this; he wants to do couples Cupid house for Valentine's Day."

She shakes her head fondly, in a way that reminds him so surreally of Sally that his heart squeezes. "Honestly, what goes through that guy's head?"

Charles beams back at her, hand curling around a glass of juice that zaps into existence in front of him like second nature. He hands it over to Jazz while she carefully cuts through her meatloaf.

"I think it's a wonderful idea," Charles tells her, leaning back in his chair. Jazz joins him as another plush chair appears at his side, and it takes him a moment to realize that Danny has restored the same club chairs from when the Gotham Fog Lodge originally opened.

These chairs were the ones that Charles and Sally used the first night they met by the fireplace of the hotel's main sitting room. They spoke for hours, and by the end of that night, he knew she was the one. Seeing the young lady he considered his granddaughter sitting in the same chair, Sally had adored so much, made her feel closer then ever before.

He wonders if he could die from how warm his heart glows.

"I think love is the greatest thing Gotham Fog Lodge can offer," Charles says, wiping some tears away. In return, jazz gives him a warmer smile, and Danny appears on his other side, placing a hand on his shoulder.

"Gotham Fog Lodge is great because you're here, Grandpop," Danny says, seemingly unaware of how the hotel brightens when he speaks. "You were the only one who was kind to us when we got to Gotham."

Charles hugs the two rascals to hide the few tears that fall from happiness. He has no proof, but he's sure Sally sent these wonderful children his way. How else could a smuck like him be this lucky?

[kitxhenringcutter]

The thing is, Tommy’s worried about Evan coming over to his house for the first time. He’s seen Evan’s loft. It’s all clean lines, modern appliances and details. What little sentimental odds and ends he owns are tucked away or so subtle than Tommy didn’t spot them the first couple of times he came over.

Tommy’s house, by contrast, is filled with the detritus one accumulates when they’ve gone no contact with everyone related to them and they’re trying to create a homey, family atmosphere out of thrift stores and the Pottery Barn catalogue instead of friends and family.

He’s a knick-knacker, an antique furniture collector, a throw pillow and afghan fanatic.

He doesn’t have much in the way of books, but he has shelves and shelves of notebooks, some full, some half-used, some untouched. It’s a habit he picked up when his first ever therapist (after he left the 118) coaxed him into writing everything down to make a little sense of the mess of contradictions, phobias, old prejudices, prejudices still clinging on and traumas that made it feel impossible to figure out what to talk about first when he sat down in that office.

There’s a small, awkward section of wall in his kitchen created when a previous owner of the house decided to add a laundry room (embarrassingly, his favorite room in the house for it’s sheer utility) and that’s where Tommy hangs his collection of coffee mugs. Some of them are Goodwill finds, some souvenirs, some band merch or creations by local artists he picked up at some market or other.

There’s five different varieties of protein powder constantly cluttering his kitchen counter because he ran out of room in the small pantry. His pots and pans hang over the tiny, rolling kitchen island, which is itself nearly taken over by a serving tray that holds his water filter, a candle, a decorative planter filled with his cooking utensils, a plastic case of toothpicks.

He still has a dvd collection, for heaven’s sake, and it takes up most of his sagging entertainment center. He should replace it, but it’s the first piece of furniture he ever restored and he’s having trouble letting go. Speaking of letting go, there’s a dog bed in the corner for a dog that passed away nearly ten months ago. He probably will at least hide that in a closet before Evan gets here.

Because he is coming over. No matter how nervous Tommy is, he’s not gonna come up with another excuse for why they have to postpone or meet at Evan’s instead. He gets the feeling he’s already made Evan a little wary, and with Evan’s relationship history and his fear of being too much, not enough, just left, Tommy will eat his own foot before he purposely exacerbates Evan’s fears.

If Evan looks around and decides Tommy is a hoarder or a slob or a million other nasty epithets Tommy’s brain is offering up like some cruel, self-sabotaging buffet- Well, they’ll talk about it. They’ll learn and adjust. Evan has never, ever been cruel to Tommy and it’s quite frankly laughable that he would start now.

That’s what Tommy tells the rogue half of his brain trying to rain on their parade. Another thing he picked up from his therapist - name the part of you that spews negative self-talk and talk back to it. Predictably, Tommy named his Vince. Shut the fuck up, Vince.

Evan’s shift ended twenty minutes ago and Tommy has chili on the stove keeping warm. Between showering and the drive over, Evan should be due at his door in another twenty-five or so. Tommy hides the dog bed, lights the kitchen candle, tries to find things to do with his hands so he doesn't watch the time like a hawk. They’ve had conflicting shifts for almost two weeks with only stolen moments and half-asleep kisses in between. Tommy misses his boyfriend. But a watched clock never ticks, or whatever.

His strategy works, because Evan’s knock on the front door actually startles him a little from the stack of unopened mail he’s sorting through. So many flyers for what feels like every home decor and craft store in the state.

Evan’s eyes are gentle and joyful when Tommy answers the door. “Hey.” He leans in to squeeze Tommy’s bicep and press a kiss to the wing of his cheek. Tommy can feel Evan’s mouth stretch into a smile against his skin.

“Hey, sweetheart.” Tommy wiggles his fingers under the strap of Evan’s duffel to take it from him and steps aside to let him into the house. His heart thuds in his chest.

Evan surrenders his bag and steps into Tommy’s home for the first time. If he notices Tommy holding his breath, he doesn’t comment yet.

He takes a look around while Tommy tries to look anywhere but his face. He doesn’t want to let on that he’s being a complete lunatic about this, that he let his anxiety take over for the better part of the day.

When Evan turns around to face Tommy again and slides his hands over Tommy’s waist, presses his fingers into Tommy’s back, nudging them closer together, his smile has split into a full grin. Tommy can’t help reflexively smiling in return. He can feel his cheeks flooding with warmth. It should be embarrassing that Evan still makes Tommy blush at the drop of a hat even all these months later, but if it helps Evan know deep in his bones that Tommy is gone for him, Tommy wouldn’t trade it for anything.

“It looks like you.” Evan draws his hands up and down Tommy’s torso in gentle strokes. “Cozy. Warm. Like…” He trails off and bites his lip, drops his eyes to Tommy’s chest.

Tommy hooks his fingers under Buck’s chin and lifts his gaze back up until their eyes meet in a move that’s become so routine it’s pretty much an inside joke between them. “Like what? Don’t leave me hanging.”

It’s Evan turn to flush a deep pink. He takes an unsteady breath in. “L-like home.”

An immense weight lifts off Tommy’s chest so quickly it almost steals his breath, but Evan has tensed up just a fraction, so Tommy hums softly, spreads his big hands over Buck’s wide shoulders and digs his fingers in to massage the tension back out. He slides deeper into Evan’s space to take his mouth in a chaste, lingering kiss, and he murmurs against his lips. “Glad to hear it.”

[betweenblackberrybranches]

An old flyer for the commercial daycare of a certain furniture store that takes care of children while the parents shop... Blaubeerland🫐🌞🫐

[coldhndss]

Moments with you

Rin Itoshi, Nagi Seishiro

Anon

Rin Itoshi

“Would you like a flyer?” A kind lady on the sidewalk smiled, offering you a small, decorated paper. Taking it from her hand, you listened as she began to advertise something.

“Our café is having its grand opening today.” She chirped as though reading rehearsed lines. “We’d love it if you could make it!”

Your eyes scanned the flyer for the location which seemed to be in walking distance. Seeing as you were taking a walk, you’d decided to walk the short distance to the café and head home afterwards.

Following the street names, you soon found yourself in front of a small, hole in the wall café. The exterior was covered in greenery which seemed to fit the image of the establishment, and plastered across the windows from the inside of the shop, were numerous flyers advertising the grand opening. Though, before you walked towards the door, someone’s voice called out to you from behind.

“Excuse me.”

Turning around, you were met with a boy who seemed to be around your age. Once you looked a little closer, he seemed to be holding the same flyer that you had been handed earlier.

“Are you familiar with this address?” He asked, turning the flyer towards you and pointing at the street name. It seemed he still hadn’t noticed he was standing right in front of it.

“It’s right over here.” Moving to the side, he was able to see the café that he had been looking for, and seemed a little embarrassed by the fact that he hadn’t noticed it sooner.

“Can I head in with you?” You joked. “I’m a little nervous to go in alone.”

“If you want.” Taking your side, he walked in front towards the door and you followed close behind. Stepping into the café, you were impressed by the interior – intricate woodwork layered the edges of the furniture, velvet cushions covering the seat bases, and a warm scent of coffee hinted with undertones of vanilla and caramel wafted through the air. Surprisingly, there were only a few customers other than you two.

A lady immediately rushed up, ushering you both to a table for two. Once she had set the table and the both of you sat, you decided to speak up, embarrassed to be encroaching on his space.

“I’m sorry to be bothering you like this..” You chuckled, placing your purse in your lap.

“It’s fine. I’m not doing much either way.”

Ouch, a ‘You’re not bothering me!’ wouldn’t’ve hurt.

Though, it surprised you to see someone like him in a café on his own. So you decided to start up a conversation after you had heard each other’s names and placed your orders.

“Are you meeting somebody here?” You noted his neat attire; he seemed pretty dressed up.

“No, why would I be with you if I was?” He sarcastically replied.

Laughing in return, you continued. “Well, you don’t look like a person with a sweet tooth.”

“Huh?” He squinted at you, his face nearly forming a scowl. “And what does such a person even look like?”

“Hm..” You tapped your chin in thought. “..Not sure.”

He sighed, exasperated. Though, you were sure some semblance of a smile had formed on his face. Moments later, the waitress brought your orders; slices of strawberry shortcake and chocolate mud cake, alongside English breakfast tea for him, and jasmine tea for you. The conversations between the both of you branched out into a multitude of different topics, hobbies, schools, friends and whatnot.

After you both paid for your drinks and sweets, he offered to walk you home as you said it was close by, taking your contact info in the meantime.

A promise was made to meet up again soon at the same café.

Nagi Seishiro

The pitter-patter of raindrops hitting the school building sounded throughout the walls as the sound grew heavier throughout the school day. Once the final school bell rang, the sound outweighed the chatter between students as they spoke over each other in an attempt to form conversations. Grasping your umbrella in hand, you stood in front of the school exit, wondering how you’d keep completely dry in this hurricane-like weather.

You opted to wait for a little while as you spoke to some friends, thinking that the rain might become lighter in 20 or so minutes.

20 minutes came and went, and you were one of the only students who hadn’t headed home yet. Most had gotten picked up by car, some wore full raincoats, and few left by umbrella. You had kept your umbrella in your bag for a while, not removing it in the case that you’d need it, despite it being hefty and taking up quite a bit of space. Though, it seemed that the rain had become lighter than before, so you decided to take this opportunity to head home immediately.

Standing in front of the doors in preparation to swing them open, you noticed another person to the side, standing in front of the doors, head faced down at his phone. Just as you were about to open the doors to leave, a ‘game over’ sound effect reached your ears and your attention was caught once more.

Just as you turned your head, he did the same, your eyes meeting. You smiled and waved, unknowing of what else to do. Though his eyes immediately shot to the umbrella you had in your other hand and he stepped towards you.

“Hello.” He greeted. “Are you going home?”

“I am, did you need something?”

He rubbed his neck, seeming a little shy to speak. “Do you think I could use your umbrella as well?” He muttered. Actually, you couldn’t tell if he was embarrassed, or exhausted. Though, you knew that you might’ve been in the same situation if you hadn’t brought an umbrella.

“Sure. The rain is pretty heavy, isn’t it?”

He swung open the door, the two of you stepping outside together as you opened the umbrella. You held it over your head and he stood to your shoulder, ducking under to fit. You laughed, offering for him to hold it instead. He complied, and you both walked outside the school grounds together.

Struggling to hear your voice through the sound of the surrounding rain, he leaned over a little. “You’re very organised” He sighed. “You remembered to bring an umbrella with you”.

You shrugged, brushing it off. “It’s been in my bag for a while just in case”.

You had never met him, although you feel as though you've heard of him before. His name was familiar to you for some reason.

“You said your name was Nagi, right?” You asked as the two of you stopped at a red light. “Are you the person who sleeps in class?”

“Hm… probably, yeah.” He responded, looking ahead at the road. “I guess I'm always tired."

You laughed, poking him in the arm. “Are you getting enough sleep?”

“I think so.” He replied, thinking to himself. “I don’t do much when I get home, so, probably.”

You began to wonder what exactly he does. You’d heard of him from classmates, but you'd never thought of interacting with a person who seems completely out of it a lot of the time. Though, he was kinder than you expected, albeit seeming a little lazy. He didn’t note anything specific he did other than play games on his phone and occasionally hit the arcades as well.

“Well no wonder you’re so pale.” You scolded. “You’re practically a shut in!”

Nagi sighed in defeat, knowing that you weren't exactly wrong. On that note, you decided to propose a hangout day together outside of school. After exchanging contact information with him, he seemed a little more relaxed than before.

“You’re not going to ignore my messages, right?”

“No ma’am.”

Closing the umbrella as the two of you reached your home, he handed it to you as the rain had become much lighter. Sliding his hoodie onto his head, he waved goodbye to you, thanking you for the umbrella. He faced you with a blank expression, his eyes looking into yours, filled with a glimmer of light that wasn’t there before.

[runninriot]

when it's love, it lasts forever

another fill for my @steddiebingo card

prompt: mixtape | rated: T | wc: 1.733 | tags: post Vecna, established relationship, romantic fluff, reminiscing about the past | also on ao3

   “Oh my God!”

Eddie’s stunned voice filters in from the other room, causing Steve to stop what he’s doing. He sighs, feels mocked by the piles of clothes still scattered around the room, waiting to be organised into the newly put up dresser.

Steve cracks his neck and rolls his shoulders, trying to ignore the dull ache in his muscles. He is tired. Exhausted from the long drive, physically drained from loading and unloading the van, from carrying boxes and furniture – there’s so much that still needs to be done, which is why he hates to leave his task unfinished.

But curiosity wins, so he walks into the living room to find his boyfriend sitting on the floor with his back turned, surrounded by boxes he was supposed to unpack. Instead of him stacking up the bookshelf like he said he would, it seems like something else must’ve caught his attention. Not that that’s new; Eddie gets so easily distracted sometimes. Steve doesn’t mind, has long since learned to keep up with his boyfriend’s antics – he’ll get there eventually and a little distraction doesn’t hurt anyone.

   “What you got there, babe?” Steve asks when he walks closer, trying to look over Eddie’s shoulder to see what’s gotten him all excited.

   “I can’t believe you still have that.”

Eddie blinks up at him with big, round eyes that have gone all soft, revealing the small treasure he’s cradling in his hands.

It takes Steve a moment to recognise it but when he does, his heart does a little flip.

   “Oh.”

He crouches down to get to Eddie’s level, can’t help but smile when his eyes catch the familiar drawings on the paper inlay peeking through the plastic case – the two bats in the centre, one with nails and one with wings; a heart in the top left corner with their initials in its middle, and a scatter of flowers to fill the empty space. Eddie’s handwriting at the top, ‘THIS IS MUSIC!’ screaming back at them in bold letters.

   “Of course, I kept it,” Steve finally says after clearing his throat, feeling oddly sentimental now. “I kept all of them. Everything.”

It’s true. Steve has kept every little piece of memorabilia he collected over the years. From the movie theatre ticket stub of their first unofficial date to the little note Eddie had left after spending the night at Steve’s for the first time. From the faded and wrinkled flyer of the first Corroded Coffin show Steve ever went to, to the mixtape in Eddie’s hands.

Maybe he should feel embarrassed about it, but instead of making fun of him for being such a sap, Eddie just smiles, eyes so full of love that Steve’s insides turn into a mushy, gooey mess.

   “This one’s my favourite,” he confesses, stroking a thumb over the case whose scratched surface shows all the signs of passing time and overuse.

   “It was all I listened to for weeks.”

He’s not even exaggerating, knows every song on the tape by heart from listening to it on repeat. Played the cassette so many times it’s a miracle it didn’t break, unwind or outright combust.

   “God, I remember how nervous I was to give it to you. So scared you’d hate it.”

Steve remembers, too, can see it so clearly before his mind’s eye.

After spending months in physical recovery – after Death had unsuccessfully tried to snuff out his life – Eddie had finally gotten the all clear from his doctors. ‘I’m as good as new,’ he’d announced when he entered the Harrington home, a six-pack of beer in one hand, joking about being ready to get drunk on his first sip after having been forced into abstinence for so long.

Eddie and Steve had become quite close during their time of healing, when everything kind of seemed on hold while Hawkins slowly came out of the state of shock it had been trapped in for months.

For the most part, people had thankfully remained unaware of the true horrors, eating up the highly dubious cover-up stories they’d been fed by the government. But Steve and Eddie and their little band of misfits had a lot of coping to do. Kept holding on to each other, finding strength in the support of their tightly knit circle of friends to deal with all the shit they’d been through together.

Despite everything, Steve would be lying if he said that he wished none of it ever happened because without it, he never would’ve learned what true happiness feels like. Would’ve never gotten to know Eddie the way he had after the almost-end of the world.

It was then, in their time of dealing with the aftermath of their final war against hell, something had started to sprout and bud inside of Steve.

Something that grew and kept growing until it was in full bloom, impossible to ignore anymore. Until, with a bang and a crisis and a lot of emotional support from Robin, Steve finally realised that what had blossomed over time, was actually love. Love born out of trauma and friendship and trust and survival.

They hadn’t talked about it then, that day Eddie came to celebrate his newly recovered life with him. But even though his own feelings had yet to be formed into words to be spoken aloud, Steve had noticed a shift in Eddie’s demeanour over the course of their growing closeness. Had this lingering impression that maybe he wasn’t the only one having to deal with a riot of unsorted, confusing feelings.

He could sense how nervous Eddie was that day. Could feel the crackling tension between them when they were sitting side by side on the back porch, brushing fingers when passing their shared cigarette from one to the other.

    ‘Got something for you,’ Eddie had said after finishing his beer, cheeks red, eyes cast down to where his right hand kept playing with the pocket of his jean vest.

   ‘What is it?’ Steve had asked in return, sounding breathless for reasons unknown to him at the time.

That’s when Eddie retrieved a cassette from his pocket, a mixtape he said he’d made just for him, with songs that reminded Eddie of Steve and songs he wanted Steve to listen to because they meant something special to him. And all Steve could do was stare. Stare and wonder and hold his breath, scared of opening his mouth, of possibly saying something he’d regret. Not realising how long he must’ve stayed quiet. So long in fact, Eddie started to pull back the hand holding the tape.

   ‘It’s- it’s stupid. Sorry.’

After weeks of fighting himself, Steve couldn’t hold back any longer. Couldn’t fight the urge anymore, the overwhelming need to break down the last remaining barrier that had kept him from finally telling Eddie the truth.

Only he didn’t say what he wanted him to know and instead, balled his fist in Eddie’s shirt to pull him in, crashing their lips together without warning. Kissing him in a way he’d hoped would be enough for Eddie to understand what he was trying to tell him. Pouring all his feelings into every press of lips, letting love spill from his tongue.

Love Eddie reciprocated in a way that was almost too much for Steve to handle – unashamed and unfiltered, confessing his feelings like it was the easiest thing to do.

That night, after Eddie had gone home, Steve lay in bed, not asleep but with his eyes closed, listening to the mixtape Eddie had made for him. Letting the music take him back to the moment in the Upside Down, brushing shoulders with the frazzled, doe-eyed man on the run – ‘Ozzy Osbourne? Black Sabbath? He bit a bat’s head off onstage?’ – laughing at himself for how clueless he’d been about so many things.

Steve has learned a lot since then. Not only about the seemingly endless list of things Eddie’s interested in but also, more importantly, he learned so much about himself.

   “Wanna listen to it while we ignore the mess and get to the good part of finally having an apartment to ourselves?” Eddie winks at him, the mischievous glimmer in his eyes telling Steve everything he needs to know.

   “You mean jumping into our new, giant bed so you can cuddle me until I fall asleep?”

   “Something like that, yeah.”

Tomorrow, Steve will be mad at himself for letting Eddie seduce him with his dorky charm, when he wakes up to the chaos of all the boxes still unpacked. And Eddie will be mopey as hell when he realises that they haven’t even recovered the coffee maker and cups from whatever cardboard prison they’re still stuck in.

But right now, none of that matters. Not when they’re kissing and touching each other to the sound of the music that means so much to both of them, memories locked in songs, every beat of drum a matching tune to their hearts’ rhythm. Sating their hunger for flesh and that deeper kind of love. Holding each other close in the comfort of their intimate bubble of you and me while Eddie – Van Halen, not Munson –  strums his guitar and sings along to the voice of Sammy Hagar, filling the background with a song that feels like it was written for them.

    How do I know when it’s love?

    I can’t tell you but it lasts forever.

    How does it feel when it’s love?

    It’s just something you feel together.

Later, when the music has long stopped and Steve allows sleep to slowly take a hold of him, he remembers the words and silently agrees. Love isn’t something that can be categorised into how or when or why. It’s something you just know is there because you can feel it in every part of your being. It’s something you can share through touch, and show through little things, and express with words – but even without all of that, there’s no doubt that their love, just like the song rightfully claims, is made to last forever.

It’s the essence of Steve’s existence, the one thing he can always hold on to, no matter what. This love for a man whose appreciation for life – after almost losing his fight against death – makes every day extra special. A man who constantly reminds him of how beautiful life is, and continues to make it so.

[ronwestbreeze]

live in gotham they say... | the cat lady on 13 queen street

summary: what idiot willingly moves to gotham city of all places? you, apparently. word count: 2.4k warning: none! just chaos hehe author's note: so, with this story, i technically posted this last year but wasn't happy with it so I ended up deleting it. but now I'm bringing it back and hopefully I can flesh out more ideas this time! let me know what you think, leave comments, and enjoy!

AO3 | next

Upon arriving at 13 Queen Street, you first noticed how quiet it was. There were a few distant shouts and curses coming from different apartments here and there, some of the streetlights kept flickering on and off, and sure a few gutter rats were running about—but it wasn’t an awful-looking place. Shady? Maybe. Compared to Chicago, this was nothing.

The apartment was nice though! It's a lot nicer than the ones you saw before arriving here.

“Hi! I’m here for the cat-sitting job you advertised. I saw a flyer and I thought, ‘Hey, I like cats, so why not?’ you know? Cats are cute, right? I find them incredibly adorable, a lot more than dogs actually! So cute I want to take them for myself—not that I want to take your cats or anything! Just that they’re cute and I really, really….”

You were nervous. That much was clear when you had rehearsed this at least a dozen times in your car, and yet someone you still messed up on the delivery. Yeah, that checks out.

I want to take them for myself? What kind of idiot would say that to someone looking for a cat sitter? You, apparently.

You cleared your throat awkwardly, “…Anyway, you’re looking for a cat sitter?”

The owner of the flyer was a woman who looked to be in her mid to late thirties. Raven short hair, smooth—practically perfect copper skin, and cunning feline-shaped eyes. She was leaning against her doorway with a mixture of amusement and a glint of something else you were too nervous to decipher—too afraid to be staring too long and ending up looking like a creep.

“My flyer’s only been out for a day. I’m surprised someone responded so fast.” The woman hummed, raising a slick and neat brow.

You shrugged while fiddling with your hands, “Yeah, well, I’m willing to take any job right now—I’m new to the city, which means I’m pretty much broke and could use the cash—you know how it is, right? Wait—that’s rude, sorry—of course you probably don’t know how it is. I don’t why I would even assume such a thing—I just met you and I’m already making assumptions—“ 

The woman furrowed her brows and you then realized you had gone and rambled again. 

You cleared your throat nervously and shifted on your feet, “As you can tell, I’m pretty much desperate—do I look desperate to you?”

A pause and a blank stare later, the woman waved a dismissive hand. “Not at all.” She then glanced over her shoulder to something inside her apartment that you couldn’t see before speaking, “Why don’t you come in and meet my babies, hmm?”

“Yes, yes!” You nodded quickly, stumbling into the apartment behind the lady.

Now common sense and basic survival skills should’ve told you not to enter a stranger’s home, especially one that was situated in one of the shadier parts of the city. Hell, this could be some type of trap to lure desperate college-aged women into some secret underground sex trafficking type shit. And you would’ve willingly waltzed right into it.

Then again, you were living in your cat which had been nearly towed at least five times now. It was pretty safe to say you were willing to take your chances.

The inside was surprisingly nice, although it could’ve been because of the aesthetic of the furniture. There was a large window to your right with a view of the grungy streets and next to that window was a dining table with mismatched chairs. To your left was a nice sized kitchen and further ahead was a small living room.

And of course, the cat furniture and the cats roaming about. There were about four you counted. And their piercing gaze pinned you in place.

The woman strolled toward her kitchen as she spoke, “The one with gray fur is Duchess, she’s the nicest one of the bunch. The darker gray is Isis, Otto is the Siamese, and the black one with indigo eyes…” She smirked at said cat who was sitting on the counter next to her as she grabbed a large bowl. “Well, she’s mostly a stray. Doesn’t give her trust to just anyone and hates the other cats. I call her Hecate.”

Hecate was the one staring at you without blinking while the other cats lingered around your feet, sniffing at your worn sneakers.

Awkwardly, you waved to Hecate, “Um, well, they’re all very pretty—oh sorry, I’m being rude, I’m—“

“y/n.” The cat lady smirked at your dumbfounded expression. “You mentioned it earlier when you said you needed money.”

“Oh.”

The cat lady then grabbed a carton of milk from her fridge and began pouring it into the bowl. “Oh? Was that something I shouldn’t know?”

“No, no, no, I just forgot!” You crossed your arms tightly around you. Hecate was still staring at you to the point where you didn’t want to move an inch, afraid you would somehow take the wrong step. “To be honest, I didn’t even realize I said my name—I don’t remember much of what I say whenever I start rambling and I kind of need people to stop me before I go overboard with it, you know—“

“Selina Kyle.” The cat lady cut in, turning to face you with a curious gaze. “A pleasure to meet you…aren’t you a little young to be wandering around a city like this? Much less wandering into people’s homes, telling them everything about yourself? That’s a bit dangerous, kid.”

You smile sheepishly, a little self-conscious under both hers and Hecate’s gaze. “Well, it’s like I said before. I’m kind of desperate. Plus, I doubt you would put a flyer out for a cat sitter to then murder me, right? Seems like very little trouble for nothing, do you think?”

“You’d be surprised.” Selina hummed mysteriously as she set down a large bowl of milk on the floor. All the cats, save for Hecatye, gathered around the bowl. “Quite naive of you to think otherwise.”

At that, you frowned. She was right. It was kind of naive. Even for you. This was the first time you had been on your own and already you felt like you were screwing something up. Hell, you’ve barely started living.

Hecate was still staring.

“I guess so…” You pressed your lips together. “Um, anyway, I know all CPR and how to use and find first aid kits in case something bad happens to the cats—God forbid—I’m really adaptable, I’m a team player, I can be a leader when it comes down to it, and I—“

“You’re watching cats, kid.” You’re not submitting a job application to Big Belly Burger.” Selina pointed out. Her stare was similar to Hecate’s. Unblinking and keen. Almost as if they were both trying to see through your soul.

“…Uh, right.” You scratched the back of your neck and wiped your sweaty hands against the fabric of your jeans. You needed to get it together, how embarrassing would it be to have a mental breakdown in front of a stranger? “Um, can I use your bathroom?” Selina tilted her head, brows raised curiously. Almost as if she were about to ask you something.

Instead, Selina gestured toward the hallway that sat between the kitchen and the living room, “Second door to the left.”

You mumbled out a ‘thank you’ before rushing down the short hallway. Once you got to the bathroom, you immediately turned the cold water on and splashed it against your face. A small curse left your lips, “There’s no way you’re gonna get this job now, not if you keep acting stupid, stupid!”

The next few seconds were spent with you trying to calm down. You checked your hair, pinched your cheeks, and practiced positive affirmations to yourself until you were stable enough and ready to go back out there.

There was no going back at this point. Not after everything it took to get you to this moment. You would not go back. That was out of the question.

With that promise in mind, you came out of the bathroom with a lot more confidence in your steps. Only to find the only ones waiting for you were her cats.

“That’s…weird…” You mumbled, looking around for Selina. You hadn’t heard the front door open or close while you were in the bathroom so she couldn’t have left the apartment, right? One of the cats, Isis, brushed past your leg and you offered a small smile toward the feline. “Hey, do you know where your owner went?” Isis just purred, looking up at you with a blank stare. “Is this a test? Should I start cat-sitting now—“

The rest of your words remained stuck in your throat when your legs were suddenly kicked out from under you. Your back hit the wooden floor first and a pained cry left your life from the sudden impact.

“Fuck!”

A foot then pressed against your chest, keeping you pinned down to the floor. You, after gathering your senses, realized that it was the cat lady who was standing over you with a vicious glint in her eyes.

She smirked in amusement, “Did you think I was going to fall for the whole innocent tourist act? You guys need to start stepping up your game.”

“What—“

“Enough games, sweetheart.” Your chin was grabbed by the woman, her sharp nails digging into your skin. You were forced to look Selina in the eyes. “I’m not fond of hurting kids, so I suggest you hurry up and tell me who sent you before things get pretty ugly.”

You couldn’t believe this. Minutes before, you were just here to apply for a cat-sitting job just to have enough money to eat for the night and you were being pinned down and interrogated like you were some undercover agent.

“Silence isn’t smart right now.”

You felt Selina’s nails dig deeper into your skin, causing the words to quickly tumble out of your mouth, “A-Are you some sort of cop? I-I don’t know what y-you want with me—“

“Cut the act, kid. It’s not workin’ anymore.” Selina scowled now, her foot pressing harder against your chest, making you blanch. “Now tell me, who sent you?! Was it Penguin? Black Mask?” She narrowed her eyes. “A Falcone?”

“A mailman?” You blurted out, wincing at the nails digging into your skin. “I-I asked him for some directions before coming here cuz I got lost—“

“You’re gonna continue playing dumb?” Selina frowned. “Not smart, kid.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” You cried out squeezing your eyes shut. You didn’t want to cry. But you also didn’t want to get killed because of some paranoid cat lady. Penguin? Black Mask? Falcone? Did this woman expect you to know these names? Were you supposed to?

No, if you did that then that would make your situation a lot worse. But it seemed no matter what you said, the cat lady wasn’t going to believe you either way.

Finally, Selina removed her foot from your chest. You took that chance to scramble away until your sore back hit the back of the couch. “L-Look, I don’t know what’s going on or what I did to upset you, but I can leave! I-I don’t have to pet sit your cats! I can find another job—no big deal!”

“You’re not gonna make this any easier, are you?” Selina tsked, narrowing her eyes. “Whoever your boss is, he should hire better actors.”

You scrambled to your feet, hands raised in surrender. “No one sent me! I don’t work for anyone, okay? I’m telling the truth—“

Before you realized what was happening, Selina had sent a kick to your stomach, knocking you over the couch and onto the wooden coffee table. It broke underneath you the moment you landed and you didn’t dare move an inch after that, arm now trembling in pain from landing on it wrong.

This was happening. You were getting your ass kicked by a cat lady. How did you end up here? How did you get to the bottom so fast in such a little amount of time?

Selina now stood over you—you didn’t even try another attempt at getting away from the woman. You just lay there and closed your eyes.

“Giving up so soon?”

You let out a pained sigh. “Actually, I’m just gonna lie here now…yeah…you can go ahead and kill me…serves me right for not looking at the flyer properly.” You winced when you tried moving just a little bit. “Apparently, I missed the ‘crazy cat lady who knows martial arts. Beware!’.”

Perhaps it was never meant to be. Perhaps you had been way in over your head from the start. Starting a life at the bright age of nineteen? Alone? Without any support from your so-called family? How on earth did you ever think you would be able to do this?

“Hmm, interesting.”

With the sound of Selina’s voice, which surprisingly sounded thoughtful compared to before, you squinted one of your eyes open to find her looking at something on your stomach. Now that you realized it, something slightly heavy was now sitting on your abdomen and you could’ve sworn it wasn’t there before.

At first, you thought it was the woman’s shoe that was on your stomach, but when you peeled your eyes all the way open and slowly raised your head to look, instead you found a black ball of fur with a pair of indigo eyes lying comfortably on your stomach.

Selina huffed, her posture loosening, “Well. Looks like Hecate is a better judge of character than I am.”

You blinked, watching her walk back to the kitchen to grab a wine glass from her cabinet. As if everything that had happened only seconds ago was nothing. You glanced from the cat lying on your stomach toward Selina again who was pouring herself some wine.

“What…what the fuck just happened?”

Selina sipped her wine, “Looks like Hecate’s fine with your presence. And the other don’t seem to mind you around them. I’d say you got the job.” She tilted her head curiously. “You still want the job, don’t you?”

At that point, it didn’t matter how much pain you were in how much your back was sore when you moved, or how her arm screamed in protest every time you lifted it. You scrambled to your feet and rushed out of that apartment as fast as you could, not daring to look or step foot in that place ever again.

This was the first job you applied to. And it was the first interview you had ever run out of.

It was a sour start to your new life in Gotham City. You just hoped that it would get better from here.

[nylqnder]

𝐒𝐔𝐍 𝐓𝐎 𝐌𝐄 | 𝐉𝐀𝐌𝐈𝐄 𝐃𝐑𝐘𝐒𝐃𝐀𝐋𝐄

summary: attempting long distance makes it clear to you and jamie that you need each other

warnings: loneliness, sad jamie, kissing, tiny bit of cursing

word count: 1.19k

Jamie was sprawled out on his bed in his cramped apartment in Philadelphia, staring blankly at the empty walls. He hadn’t decorated yet, let alone had the proper furniture. His bed was simply a mattress on the floor, his coffee table doubling as a kitchen table.

Jamie had been in Philly for about a month now. You’d think a month was enough to adjust to a new city, and while he had settled into a routine and gotten comfortable with all of the city’s quirks, something still felt off.

It was you. He missed you deeply. Your laughter, your presence, your comfort. You were his anchor. But you were tied to your job over 2,000 miles away in Anaheim. You guys had discussed this before he left, that 3 months wasn’t that long and you could withstand it. Then, at the season's end, you’d talk about your future together.

However, here you both were, on opposite sides of the country, distance putting a strain on the both of you.

Jamie did his normal pre-game routine with you on his mind. He thought of the fact that you were probably at work right now, wrapping up final tasks, before heading home and putting on the Flyers game. It was a miracle he found someone as supportive as you, willing to put up with the long days and stress that being a professional athlete could bring.

Each game he played knowing that when he got home he wouldn’t be coming home to you made them harder and harder. The facetimes and calls were not enough anymore and the strain on Jamie was starting to show in his gameplay. Today’s game was horrible. Jamie was benched for almost the entire third after he gave up 3 separate turnovers. Amidst the rowdy Philadelphia crowd, upset that their team was losing, his mind wandered to you. It was always you.

Jamie kept to himself while getting changed and showering, truly wanting to go home just to call you. After an unbearable 5 minutes with the media, Jamie trudged out of the locker room, shoulders slumped and spirits in the basement. Walking down the hall, Jamie feels an arm hook around his shoulders.

“Why the long face?” Cam asks.

Jamie shrugs off Cam's arm, his mind still reeling. "Just had a rough game, man. Ready to get out of here."

Cam flashes him a sly, knowing grin. “It’ll pick up soon, bud.” He says.

Jamie ignores his teammates' words, continuing down the halls of the Wells Fargo Centre. As he turned the bend, greeted by a myriad of voices, there you were.

Jamie could’ve sworn he was seeing things, maybe reaching a point of delusion. But there you were, standing with his teammates' girlfriends. Jamie’s heart lifted upon seeing you, the weight of a thousand worlds falling behind him as he headed straight for you. When he reached you, his arms enveloped you in a tight embrace.

The world around him fades away leaving only you two suspended in this moment. His touch is firm yet gentle, a silent declaration of his need for your presence, your comfort.

“Hi, James.” You say softly into his chest. Your delicate tone nearly sends Jamie over the edge, the reality of everything catching up to him, tears threatening to prick at his eyes.

“Hi, baby.” He says softly. You guys stay there for a few more moments before you force Jamie to walk to his car with you.

Deciding you had so much to talk about, Jamie drove you to a park to walk around while you guys spoke. You intertwined your fingers with Jamie's, drawing strength from the reassuring warmth of his touch. The weight of your words hung heavy in the air, a tangible reminder of the struggles you had endured during your time apart.

“So, what are you doing here?” Jamie asks, his grin having still not faded since first seeing you.

“I had to see you…” You tell him. “So I took two weeks off.”

“You did what?” Jamie asked.

“Jamie, I missed you so much, it was almost unbearable.” You confessed, your voice conveying the pain it had truly caused you. “With the time difference and our weird, conflicting schedules… I had to come and see you.”

Jamie's expression softened, his gaze filled with empathy as he listened to your words. He understood all too well the pain of separation, the relentless tug of loneliness that pulled at his heart with every passing day.

“Y/n, I missed you too. I’ve been fucking miserable.” Jamie said, a small chuckle escaping as he recounts the past couple of days. “It's like… no matter how many times we talk on the phone or text each other, it's never enough. I need you here with me, physically, emotionally… I just…”

Jamie suddenly stops walking, turning to face you.

“Marry me.”

The words were out of Jamie’s mouth before he knew it, the both of you sharing the same shocked reaction to his words. The unexpected proposal makes you freeze, your heart skipping a beat. Despite them being blurted out, Jamie knew that they were real feelings.

“W-what?” You ask. It felt as though time stood still as you processed his words. Jamie takes both of your hands in his, his eyes glimmering.

“I’m serious. Marry me.” He says again. “These last couple of months have been…fucking hell on earth. I’ve been miserable. And for a while, I couldn’t figure out what was wrong. At first, I thought it was the lack of sun… or maybe it was taking me a little longer than I thought to adjust to a new city. But it was you. I couldn’t bear not having you with me.”

Your heart was pounding in your chest, jaw open slack as you were processing his words.

“I want you here in Philly, with me. And whatever it takes.” Jamie says. “You can get another job here, in Philly, I’m sure the guys of their wives have connections here and they could help. Or don’t work! I can support you, I don’t care. What I’m trying to say is-”

You cut off Jamie’s rambling, pressing your lips to his, effectively shutting him up. Your lips melded together, picking up as if you had never been separated. As you parted, a small smile graced your lips. Jamie’s eyes scanned your face, desperate to read what you were thinking.

"Yes," you said, your voice steady with resolve. "Yes, I will marry you. And yes, I will come live with you in Philadelphia. We can figure everything else out later.”

Jamie let out a huff of relief before scooping you up in his arms and spinning you above the ground. You squeal, your laughter ringing like a melody in Jamie’s ears.

“Oh my god, I have a wife!” Jamie cheered loudly.

He leans down pressing a kiss to your lips, holding you close once again. As you held each other close, the weight of loneliness lifted from Jamie's heart, replaced by the comforting certainty of your presence.

“I love you so much.” Jamie whispers against your lips.

[aviiarie]

˚ ₊ ‧ ♡ HAUNTED HOUSE — feat. lyney event masterlist.

synopsis. your new house is a bit strange. doors keep slamming, there's whispering in your ears, and you have the distinct feeling you're unwelcome here. warnings. none (?) notes. requested by anon. ghost!lyney au. gn!reader. 2.2k words. IM SORRY THIS IS LATE. i was busy and forgot :((

“Four bedrooms, two bathrooms—not including an ensuite in the master bedroom—and a very large garden. There’s a lake towards the south of the property, and it is within walking distance of the local town.” The real estate agent flashed you a dazzling smile. “This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Houses of this quality aren’t typically offered at this price.”

You looked around, admiring the delicate architecture. The paint might have been peeling in some places, but the arched windows and carved pillars gave the place a timeless and elegant atmosphere. With a little fixing, the house would return to its former glory in no time.

“Why is it priced so low, then?”

“While it is still in good condition, the house will require a lot of upkeep. There are renovations and repairs that need to be done, but nothing that isn’t salvageable.” The woman explained.

The reasoning wasn’t unplausible, but it still didn’t sit quite right with you.

“Is there not any other reason?” You pressed further. “You told me there weren’t any other buyers lined up. Why is that?”

Her smile dropped minutely, and her hands clutched her clipboard tighter. “I-I suppose that would be the fault of its… um, reputation.”

“Reputation?” You frowned.

“Oh, just silly rumours. It’s nothing to be concerned about, but the townsfolk are a superstitious lot.” She replaced her smile, gesturing to the front door. “Shall we look at the interior now?”

-----

It wasn’t a difficult decision to make. She was right, it was an unmissable opportunity; there wasn’t a chance that you were going to find a house as nice as this one on a budget as tight as yours.

You moved in over the weekend, settling all of your belongings in the spacious, already furnished rooms. The inside of the house was just as pleasant as the exterior, filled with expensive-looking furniture covered with dusty sheets, and hanging chandeliers that cast a warm glow over every room. Even the gardens, covered in dead leaves and debris, were oddly quaint.

It was perfect, almost too perfect.

“Mail… got to check the mail…” You muttered, fumbling for the key to the mailbox. It was your third day, and you had already almost fully settled in. Most of your possessions were out of their boxes, and almost all of the rooms had been cleaned and dusted.

When you opened your door, there was a woman stood on your porch, staring up at the house with a melancholic expression. She looked much older than you—in her fifties, perhaps—with ash-blonde hair streaked with gray, violet eyes and pale, wrinkled skin. On her left cheek was a faint, star-shaped mark, like a tattoo that had long-since faded.

“So, it’s true…” The woman murmured, eyeing you up and down. “They finally sold the place…”

“Can I help you?” You asked hesitantly. She stared at you for a long time, before shaking her head.

“No… just reminiscing.” She straightened up, pulling her cardigan tighter around herself. “Good luck. He is fickle, but not unreasonable. I hope for your sake you are able to reason with him.”

Bewildered, you watched as she shuffled back down the street into the direction of the town. Her words made no sense, but her tone was enough to make you uneasy. The way she spoke of a ‘him’ made it sound like there was someone for you to be wary of, a hidden face to fear.

When you made it to the mailbox, it took a few turns of the key for the lock to click open. You peered through the slot, fishing out a flyer, two letters, and a folded piece of paper shoved into the corner of the box. The flyer was a promotion for a new pizza shop downtown, the letters were both bills, but the last item caught your attention most of all.

Tucking the others under your arm, you unfolded the note. The paper was fragile, almost crumbling under your fingers, but you managed to pull it open anyway to reveal an old advertisement that looked to be cut out of a newspaper.

Lyney & Lynette’s Magic Show. The title was printed above a cartoon drawing of two magicians, with one holding a large top hat and the other pulling a rabbit out of it. At the bottom, in much smaller text, was the date of the performance: February 2nd, 1985.

Despite being decades old, the advertisement was still intact and fully readable, even if the colours were slightly faded. And yet, as you moved your hand, you noticed a smudge of black on your fingers.

You flipped the paper. On the back there was a simple message, scrawled in fresh black ink: GET OUT OF MY HOUSE.

-----

The note should have been your first sign to leave, you didn’t pay it much mind. Instead, you crumpled the paper up and threw it in the garbage bin outside, chalking it up to some kid trying to play a trick on their new neighbour.

You had more important matters to concern yourself with, namely the attic that you had yet to clean. It was filled from top to bottom with enough dust to make you cough and splutter as soon as you opened the trapdoor. Still, you pushed forward, covering your mouth with a cloth as you cleaned away the dusty furniture and boxes that were stacked along the side.

Leaning against the attic window was what looked like a frame, half-covered in another white cloth. With a gentle tug, the fabric was pulled free to reveal an oil painting, depicting a family portrait. There were four figures, a tall woman with white hair and sharp eyes, a young boy with a blonde bob and grave expression, and a pair of slightly older children with matching ash-blonde hair.

The dust covering the frame was twice as thick as the rest of the attic, as if the painting hadn’t been touched in decades. With the fabric shielding the family from view, it was as if whoever lived in the house previously had hidden them away, out of sight.

Absently, you stretched out a hand, intending on wiping away some of the dust with your fingertips.

Crack.

The sudden noise made you jump, pulling your hand back to your chest. With a pounding heart, you looked over to where a floor-length mirror, one that was leaned against the wall only five minutes prior, had fallen onto the floor and shattered to pieces.

“No!” You hissed, leaping to your feet. You hurried down the ladder to grab a garbage bag and broom from the kitchen, returning to sweep up the broken glass and quickly dispose of it.

In your rush, you never noticed that the oil painting had been covered up with a cloth once more.

-----

After that, the strangeness kept adding up.

Doors slammed at random times of the day, glasses shattered in your hands before you could take a sip of your water, whispers sounded from the corner of your room in the middle of the night. You couldn’t keep telling yourself you were overthinking things, not when the signs were so clear.

Whatever apparition was haunting your house, you could sense how unwelcoming it was to your presence. There was an anger that hung in the air, as if it resented you for simply being there. It didn’t seem as though it was trying to harm you—not directly, at least—but it was clear that it was hell-bent on driving you out. When scaring you didn’t work, it seemed to redirect its strategy to irritating you instead.

One morning, you woke up to find all your left socks missing. With a scowl, you put on a mismatched pair and walked to the store to buy several new pairs.

The next day, all of the furniture in the living room had mysteriously moved to the bathroom, including the television. Unfazed, you simply curled up on the armchair and watched your favourite show right there.

That same night, you stumbled out of your room to pour yourself a glass of water, only to realize that the cups and glasses were stacked on top of the refrigerator. You didn’t even bother to drag a chair over to retrieve them, you just found a decorative teacup out of the display cabinet, and sipped your water out of that.

It was persistent, but unlucky for it, you were stubborn. This was your house now, and you weren’t going to let some ghost scare you off.

The final straw came when you were relaxing by the fire, reading a book. It was a long day at your new job, and coming home to a warm house was a dream come true. But you had barely opened up your book when all of the lights above you flicked off, and the fireplace was suddenly snuffed out.

The room was plunged into a thick darkness, and your precious warmth was stolen away, making you shiver. Something inside you snapped, and the annoyance you’d built up over the past month finally made you crack.

“That’s it!” You shut your book with a click, slamming it down on the table.

You stood, scanning the darkened room. The shadows of the furniture loomed across the walls, twisting into ominous shapes by the moonlight spilling through the blinds. “I know for a fact you’re here, so listen. I don’t care what vendetta you have against me, but this needs to stop. I’m not going anywhere, this is my house now.”

There was long pause, before you spoke again. “You can hate me as much as you want, but I am not going to let you push me around.”

You glance around, waiting for some shift in the shadows, some sign that the spectre was hearing what you were saying. “Am I clear?”

The room fell into quiet again. It stretched on for what felt like hours, leaving you wondering if there truly wasn’t anything there at all, and whether it was just your paranoia getting to you again. The air was thick and tense, the only sound being the distant ticking of a clock from another room.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

Finally, a voice cut through the silence. “…It is my house, actually.”

Your head snapped to the side, finding the faint, flickering image of a man sitting on the side of the couch with his arms crossed. He looked young, in his early twenties at the oldest, and was dressed in some sort of stage costume. On his cheek was a small teardrop marking, standing out against his pale face.

“Who are you?” You blurted out before you could stop yourself.

“Should I not be asking you that question?” The man raised an eyebrow, annoyance etched across his expression. “Considering you are the one who is trespassing on my property?”

“It’s not your property if you’re dead.” You said bluntly, internally wincing at how insensitive it sounded. Still, knowing how much he had put you through halted any pity you felt for him. “I bought this house, therefore it's mine.”

“It is mine.” His eyes narrowed. “I lived here for years. If it is not mine, it is my brother’s or my sister’s. You are neither of those people, so you are not welcome here.”

“Clearly neither of them want it, or else they’d already be here.” You countered. “I’m living here now. You’re going to have to get used to it.”

He glared at you. The edges of his image blurred and wavered, becoming indistinct. “That’s easy for you to say. Do you know how frustrating it is, having a stranger barge into your home? Having them rearrange your furniture, disturb your belongings? Sure, I’ll get used to you sifting through my family’s heirlooms and tossing them aside like they’re nothing. I’ll get used to it all.”

The anger in his voice didn't hide the trace of pain behind his words. He was clearly just frustrated, and you couldn't exactly blame him.

“Look, I’m sorry,” You sighed, shoulders slumping. “I know… I know it must be hard for you. And...”

You chew the inside of your cheek in thought, looking away from him to observe the empty fireplace. There were still embers flickering at the bottom, even after the flames had been extinguished.

“We don’t have to be friends,” You turned back to him, smiling hesitantly. “How about you consider me your… roommate?”

The man stared at you unblinkingly. The proposition looked like it offended him just as much as the idea of giving up his house did, but there was something else that you couldn't quite figure out in his expression.

Was it... loneliness?

It made sense, in a way. Being trapped for however long since he'd died, without another soul to accompany him, loneliness was inevitable. You could only imagine how he felt, holing himself up in his house and lashing out at anyone who dared to disturb him. Even with the anger clouding his face, there was still a longing in his gaze at your proposal.

“A fresh start then.” He broke out into a sharp, painfully fake smile, and held out his hand in offering. “My name is Lyney. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

🏷️ taglist: @tragedy-of-commons, @mollzaj, @wystiix, @mikashisus.

© aviiarie 2024. do not copy, repost, translate or use my work to train ai

[gimmethatagustd]

sunday smut book club

The cute librarian at Yoongi's local library hosts an adults-only book club. As a fanfiction smut writer himself, Yoongi is intrigued.

Pairing: Librarian Namjoon x Fanfic writer Yoongi

Rating: Explicit

Genre/Trope: Strangers to lovers, smut, humor, crack

Words: 7,150

Content Warning: Yoongi writes BTS fanfic and BTS consists of only the vocal line, they're both idiots lol, super meta, somewhat difficult conversations about sexuality, anal sex, anal fingering, rimming

A/N: This is dedicated to that one time Yoongi highkey implied that he wrote queer fanfic, and to all the fanfic writers in the world doing the devil's work 🙏🏽 god bless. Also, Sunday Smut Book Club is a real thing at a bookstore near where I live. I feel like I should go one day 👀

Disclaimer: Yoong's character is on the ace spectrum. This depiction of asexuality isn't representative of all asexual people's experiences, so please keep that in mind.

୨୧┈┈┈୨୧

SUNDAY SMUT BOOK CLUB

NAMSAN PUBLIC LIBRARY

SUNDAYS AT 3:30 PM

୨୧┈┈┈୨୧

The flyer is unexpected, to say the least. No frills, yet hardly discreet, it’s a plain sheet of white paper with large bold lettering, underneath which is a tactless cartoon clipart of a half-peeled banana propped up against a plump peach. 

Yoongi looks over his shoulder to quickly survey the coffee shop. Satisfied that no one is nearby, he rips off the slip of paper at the bottom of the flyer with the QR code – presumably for details about the club and how to get there. 

Yongsan-gu isn’t far, and Yoongi has enjoyed visiting Namson Park, even going to the library a few times in college. It’s scenic and gorgeous in warm weather when the flowers bloom, and it’s nice enough to sit outside on the unique furniture and architectural structures. Yoongi thinks he remembers Hoseok mentioning something about attending a few creative writing workshops there as a teen. 

Needless to say, it’s not the type of place Yoongi expects to host a smut book club. He’s intrigued nonetheless. How could he not be? He’s just spent the last two hours working on his newest chaptered fanfiction – if one can call staring at a blank document while trying to decide how to begin the first smut scene of a story “working”. 

Yoongi thinks so, and so do his Twitter moots, thank you very much.

Folding the slip of paper, Yoongi tucks it into the pocket on the back of his phone case for safekeeping and steps out of the dimly lit cafe into the sunny spring day. 

Tomorrow is Sunday. Yoongi promised himself that he would finish the newest chapter of his fic by the end of the day, but he’s wondering if now he should hold off until he joins this odd book club. Perhaps reading smutty, published novels will help Yoongi find the inspiration he needs to write the smut scene that has been giving him hell for an entire week. 

The thing is, Yoongi doesn’t particularly enjoy sex. It’s a bit gross, really, if you think about it. In theory, sweaty bodies smashing together to exchange fluids and possibly love sounds attractive. Yoongi loves reading a good smut scene and has even gotten off on some – who hasn’t? But the moment he’s presented with the opportunity for real sex, he usually thinks he’d rather read about it instead. 

Not having sex doesn’t bother Yoongi much, but not being interested in it certainly makes writing about it a lot more difficult. 

Yoongi doesn’t bother touching his fic for the rest of the day. 

Even once he’s back at his apartment, he puts his restless energy toward tidying up before Hoseok comes over. It doesn’t take long, though Yoongi can feel himself stretching it out, stalling, so he doesn’t have to think about his fic until the very last minute when Hoseok is buzzing to be let in. 

“I am so pissed off,” Hoseok huffs as he stomps through the front door and kicks off his shoes. 

“I am so pissed off,” Hoseok huffs as he stomps through the front door and kicks off his shoes. 

Yoongi grabs Hoseok’s backpack before it slips off his shoulder and holds it until he hangs up his jacket. Hoseok comes with a certain energy that is typically positive, but when stormy, it can sweep through like a tornado. 

Today, his complaints are whines rather than the anger he claims he has. 

“What happened?” Yoongi asks, following Hoseok into the living room as though he’s the guest and not the other way around. 

“Didn’t you see? Taehyung went live for five seconds. Literally five seconds while I was getting off the bus, and I missed it.” 

With a roll of his eyes, Yoongi flops onto the couch while Hoseok gets comfortable sitting on pillows on the floor at the coffee table. He’s already pulling his laptop out, only pausing when he notices the Turtle Chips Yoongi put out for a snack. 

“You can watch it later,” Yoongi points out, only to be hit with a chip in the middle of his forehead. 

“Watching it later doesn’t feel the same!” 

“He couldn’t possibly have done anything in five seconds.” 

Turning around, Hoseok glares at Yoongi. “He showed his forehead. Which is best when seen live.” 

Hoseok isn’t wrong, but Yoongi has tried to force himself not to obsess over consuming BTS content immediately anymore. He’s a working adult; he can barely keep up with watering his plants, let alone knowing when Kim Taehyung is live on Weverse.  

Jungkook, though… 

Yoongi makes time for Jungkook. 

“What are you gonna work on? That Jinkook hockey AU?” Hoseok asks between chomping on chips. 

With a loud sigh, Yoongi turns on the couch so he can lie down while watching over Hoseok’s shoulder at his Vmin urban fantasy slow burn. Hoseok is a fic writing machine. He’s already at 30k, and they haven’t even fucked yet. 

“I never want to write fic ever again. It’s too hard,” Yoongi laments. 

Hoseok leans his head back so he can look Yoongi in the eyes. He’s smiling, of course, because he thinks Yoongi is full of shit. 

Yoongi is full of shit.

“You wouldn’t even know what to do with your life if you didn’t write fic. What hobby would you do instead? Hmm? Work out?” 

Snorting, Yoongi flops onto his back and stares up at the ceiling. His Jinkook hockey AU barely has any hits, anyway. Maybe no one would care if he didn’t finish it. 

“I wish I could ovulate.” 

Hoseok coughs hard enough that Yoongi feels it in his chest. 

“Excuse me? You what?” 

“If I could ovulate, I’d get horny from my hormones, and then I’d be able to write this smut scene,” Yoongi explains simply. 

“So you wish you were an omega. Guess what, friend. You are.” 

Hoseok doesn’t even care when Yoongi smacks him in the back of the head, demanding he take the comment back. Undeterred, he cackles and types away on his fic. 

“I would be an alpha. I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Yoongi grumbles, primarily to himself because Hoseok has decided to take control of the Bluetooth speakers to play his favorite fic writing playlist.

Tonight, Yoongi will beta the chapter Hoseok is writing. Tomorrow, he’ll focus on forcing himself to finish the stupid smut scene.

Everything will be fine. 

Yoongi is so concerned about his fic as he travels to Sunday Smut Book Club that he forgets he doesn’t even own the book they’re reading, nor has he read it. Honestly, he can barely remember what book the flyer said they’d discuss this month. 

In reality, it isn’t an issue. Yoongi is sure plenty of new people have joined the club in the middle of a book. He’s a fast reader, so catching up won’t be much of an issue. Still, he feels weird walking into the meeting room on the third floor of the library empty-handed, aside from his writing journal and a pen tucked behind his ear. 

Luckily, Yoongi arrives early, so there’s no one else in the room except one man sitting at a round table with a thick hardcover book and an open notebook. His dark hair falls in his face, obscuring his features, though Yoongi can tell that the man is striking just from what he can see. 

As a writer, Yoongi enjoys people-watching, which allows him to create stories and imagine characters for later use. Based on the man's broad frame and how he hunches over with his forearms on the table, Yoongi thinks he must be very tall. He wears a white buttoned shirt with the sleeves folded and pushed to his elbows, exposing tan skin. When the man shifts in his seat, Yoongi catches sight of a library ID badge clipped to a belt loop of his black slacks. 

Yoongi should say something. This is clearly one of the librarians and most likely the one leading the book club. Yet he can’t make a sound or move from the doorway. He should have brought Hoseok with him.

Humming to himself, the librarian thumbs at the cap of his ink pen while he reads what’s written in the notebook, flicking the pen repeatedly until the cap breaks off. 

“Oh shit,” the librarian curses. The small piece of plastic flies across the room, forever lost to the dark carpet that matches its color. 

Standing up, likely to go search for the broken cap, the librarian finally notices Yoongi hovering in the doorway. 

“Oh shit,” he repeats, dropping the pen so it clatters on the table next to the notebook. “Sorry, do you need something?” 

Put on the spot, Yoongi takes a half-step backward. The librarian looks confused, making Yoongi feel like he shouldn’t be here. Did he get the room number wrong?

“I’m here for the book club?” Yoongi squeaks out and is absolutely appalled by how his voice cracks. How embarrassing. He’s a grown man, and he can’t even say the word smut out loud to a librarian.

The librarian is gorgeous, which doesn’t help Yoongi’s sudden stage fright. His sharp eyes grow and round out in confusion, and his tan cheeks brighten with a dusty rose undertone, though Yoongi doesn’t know what he has to be embarrassed about. It was only a pen cap. 

“The book club? Oh! The Sunday Smut Book Club!” The librarian claps his hands together, making Yoongi flinch. “I’m so sorry, but that book club doesn’t start until next week.” 

Given how winded he feels, Yoongi might as well be the ink pen cap flung across the room. Of course, he worked himself up to come to this event and skipped out on writing his fic, only to get the date wrong. 

“Well, okay,” Yoongi says slowly, avoiding the librarian’s gaze to examine the room instead. He’s not sure what to do now. 

“There’s another book club in about two hours if you want to stick around. It’s about queer literature.” 

“Are you leading that one?” Yoongi asks and immediately regrets how unintentionally flirtatious the question sounds when the librarian’s face turns pinker. 

“I am,” the librarian confirms with a slight bow of his head, “Kim Namjoon. It’s nice to meet you…” 

“Min Yoongi.

“It’s nice to meet you, Yoongi-ssi.”

Internally, Yoongi is considering how good a meet-cute fic this would be. A smut book club is creative, he supposes. It's unconventional for a public library, he figures. Meeting a hot librarian is cliche, but cliches are entertaining for a reason. If this was one of Yoongi’s Jinkook fics, he would have written Seokjin immediately laying his charm on a flustered Jungkook who keeps fiddling with his glasses and giggling at Seokjin’s stupid jokes. 

It's too bad real life isn’t as charming. Instead, Yoongi sits woodenly beside Namjoon as he shows Yoongi the list of novels he’s considering for the queer book club. 

“Some of them aren’t explicitly queer, but there are queer themes or perhaps are written by authors who were presumed to have been straight or in the closet,” Namjoon explains with his chin in his hand. “Sad, really. If I wrote a great novel and historians erased my queerness from it after I died, I’d haunt everyone.”

To be fair, some of the novels do look interesting. Yoongi takes a moment to scribble down the titles and authors in his journal, keenly aware of Namjoon watching him flip through pages filled with story notes before he can find a blank one.

"So, are you a writer?” When Namjoon smiles, his cheeks dimple. Yoongi feels heat creep up his neck like needle pricks.

"Umm... yes?"

"Cool! What stories do you write?"

Yoongi swallows. "I, uh, I write... a lot of different things."

“Oh, you must be a great writer to have a diverse portfolio!” Namjoon eagerly leans toward Yoongi. “What kind of things?” 

Do not say fanfiction do not say fanfiction do not say fanfiction do not say–

“I write gay fanfiction!” Yoongi blurts out. 

This is not how the story is supposed to go. It’s all wrong. Yoongi's face is hot, and his heart is in his throat, but worst of all, Namjoon is silent. 

“I know it’s weird, and I normally don’t–” 

“I love that!” Namjoon beams, his warm eyes crinkled at the corners from smiling. “What fandom do you write for?” 

Do not say BTS do not say BTS do not say BTS do not say–

“Uh, BTS…” 

What the fuck about this guy is making Yoongi spill all his secrets? Most of his closest friends don’t even know he writes fic.

Yoongi expects the judgment that typically comes after admitting to writing real-person fiction, but Namjoon surprises him again. 

“That’s really cool,” Namjoon says with another dimpled smile. “I used to read fanfiction, though I haven’t in a long time. I spend most of my time with literature that no one is writing fanfiction about.” 

“I don’t know, I’m sure there’s some super gay dead dove based on ‘The Cask of Amontillado,’” Yoongi says with a laugh. 

“The MCD warning would be a terrible spoiler.” 

“Bury your gays, literally.” 

Namjoon barks a laugh at such a terribly accurate joke, pretending to wipe tears from his eyes. He seems well-versed in fandom culture, though Yoongi shouldn’t be surprised. Plenty of published novels can barely hold a candle to the fanfiction Yoongi has read over the years.

By the time the first member of the queer book club shows up, Yoongi has already helped Namjoon recover the password to his old AO3 account and sent him a few fics he hopes Namjoon will like. It feels good to share his hobby with someone new, even if Namjoon doesn’t know much about BTS. 

“Good fiction is good fiction,” Namjoon had said simply, and it made Yoongi happy to remember that there are cool people in the world. He shouldn’t have been surprised that he’d find such a person at the library. 

Most people would enjoy waking up to the love of their lives every morning. Unfortunately, Jungkook doesn’t know that Yoongi exists, so Yoongi has the second best thing to wake up to: 

[AO3] Comment on hat trick beauty namu94 left the following comment on hat trick beauty : I binged this until 4 AM despite needing to get up at 7 AM. I feel like I’m dying, but it was positively worth it. The tension was so wonderfully unbearable that I chewed through my mattress. Thank you for sharing your secret with me ;)

If Namjoon chewed through his mattress after reading Yoongi’s fic, then Yoongi eats his entire mattress after reading Namjoon's comment on it. He probably rereads the comment fifteen times throughout the duration of getting ready in the morning, holding his phone in one hand while he struggles to put on his clothes and brush his teeth with the other.

Yoongi is pretty sure every AO3 writer obsesses over sweet comments; who wouldn’t?

But perhaps he’s overdoing it when he’s at work and still can’t close out of AO3, now rereading the chapter to imagine what it may have been like for Namjoon to read it for the first time. 

“Getting a little Monday morning smut in?” Hoseok’s sudden presence over Yoongi’s shoulder startles him in his seat. 

“What!” 

Yoongi quickly exits out of the internet browser and deflates when he realizes he didn’t save his progress on the project edits he was working on for his boss.

“Don’t try to hide from me as if I’m not in the fandom trenches with you all the time,” Hoseok chastises. 

Finding out that his coworker is Army was probably the coolest thing to happen in Yoongi’s professional life. Finding out that his coworker also writes fanfiction was undoubtedly the greatest thing to happen in Yoongi’s professional life – and maybe in his personal life, too. 

Unfortunately, it means Hoseok is always on his case. 

“I sent Namjoon ‘hat trick beauty’ after I told him I’m having a hard time with the…” Yoongi looks around the office to see if his coworkers are paying attention to him before whispering, “ Smut .” 

Yoongi has managed to delay the smut in his fic and convinced himself that it was so he didn’t sacrifice the plot, rather than the truth that he just doesn’t know what to do about the scene. 

It has taken Yoongi over a month to work up the courage to show Namjoon his writing, and now he clings to every piece of feedback Namjoon gives him. Part of him wonders if Namjoon is simply being nice.

However, it’s doubtful that Namjoon’s praise is a lie. His kindness seems to grow exponentially with every book club meeting– for the Queer Book Club and Sunday Smut Book Club, since Yoongi regularly attends both now on alternating weekends, not because of Namjoon, of course. Yoongi attends both because he is passionate about literature and learning smut techniques. 

Of course. 

“That’s a weird way to woo your librarian crush.” 

“That’s, that’s not what I’m doing.” Hoseok raises his eyebrows as Yoongi sputters.

He’s not trying to woo Namjoon, right? Yoongi doesn’t even know how to woo anyone; he’s not sure he’s ever wanted to. 

“Maybe it should be what you’re doing. You said writing smut would be easier if you were horny, right?” 

“Hobah!” Yoongi hisses, swatting at Hoseok, who nimbly dodges each blow. “We’re at work.” 

“Oh, hush. No one is paying attention to us.” Hoseok rests his butt against Yoongi’s desk and waves his hand. "As I was saying, maybe Namjoon can give you a little inspiration, if you get what I mean.” 

“This is all very presumptuous. We’re talking as if Namjoon even… likes me or whatever…” Yoongi cringes, scrunching his nose. 

With a loud sigh, Hoseok pushes himself off Yoongi’s desk. He claps his hand over Yoongi’s shoulder, giving him a light squeeze. 

“You’re adorable. Who wouldn’t like you?” 

It sounds easy when Hoseok says it, but Yoongi watches him walk to his desk with a sinking feeling in his stomach. It’s far more complicated than just two people liking each other. Other people may find a crush exciting, but it stresses Yoongi out.

With a sigh, Yoongi returns his focus to his work and tries to push all thoughts of fanfiction and Namjoon to the back of his mind. 

The thing is, fanfiction and Namjoon are the two most exciting aspects of Yoongi’s life at the moment, so ignoring both is virtually impossible—especially when, by the end of the week, Yoongi is back on the bus to the Namsan Public Library. 

Yoongi feels like he’s quickly descending into madness the closer the bus gets to the dreaded destination. It doesn’t help that Hoseok is in his ears, attempting to give him a pep talk over the phone. 

“You just need to remember that most people like to fuck.” 

Snorting, Yoongi adjusts his wireless earbuds when the bus hits a bump in the road.

“What? I’m serious! A lot of people don’t get caught up in the logistics, you know? If they want to pursue someone, and it’s consensual, then why not? That’s what PWPs are. Life doesn’t need a plot, hyung. It can be all porn.” 

“I know all this. It just sounds fake,” Yoongi says with a huff as he prepares to get off the bus at the next stop.

Yoongi is a plot guy. His life is tagged “Eventual Smut,” and his readers are 50 chapters deep without even a chaste kiss. 

He’s positive he could never force himself to hook up with a stranger. This little plan he’s managed to let Hoseok convince him to do with Namjoon, who is hardly more than an acquaintance, is already going against everything that feels natural.

The stuff Yoongi does for his art – and silly crushes, apparently. 

Arriving early, Yoongi knows to head to the back of the library on the first floor, where the librarians’ offices are. Namjoon’s is conveniently located at the end of a long hallway Yoongi isn’t supposed to go down. The other librarians recognize him at this point, considering how many Sunday afternoons he has spent distracting Namjoon from his job, so they don’t comment when Yoongi ducks his head and slips through the “Employees Only” door.

Namjoon sits at his desk like Yoongi expects, with at least a dozen books stacked around him. He has to lift his head to peer over a stack when Yoongi slowly closes the door behind him. 

“Hi, you’re early!” Namjoon beams with crinkled eyes and dimpled cheeks that make Yoongi’s stomach flutter. Namjoon is handsome and sweet; Yoongi doesn’t need to be a sexual being to know that. 

“Is that okay?” Yoongi asks the floor as he pulls the sleeves of his thin sweater over his knuckles. He’s so nervous that sweat accumulates in his armpits.

“Of course, hyung,” Namjoon says softly. “Work is always more enjoyable when you’re around.”

Somewhat comforted by Namjoon’s reassurance, Yoongi takes a deep breath and walks up to Namjoon’s desk. He grips the edge and tries to calm his frantic heart. It’s nearly impossible. There’s Namjoon in his librarian taupe knit cardigan with the sleeves rolled up to show off tan forearms and hair neatly parted to frame his face. He’s scholarly-cute. Yoongi might not experience sexual attraction, but Namjoon can intellectually stimulate him – and that’s even better. 

When Yoongi remains silent, Namjoon’s kind smile morphs into a frown. 

“Are you okay–” 

“Will you fuck me?” 

The blush of pink across Namjoon’s cheeks and the bright sheen in his eyes make Yoongi consider that, perhaps, he might not hate this as much as he thought he would. That’s assuming Namjoon accepts his proposition rather than kick him out for being a pervert. 

Shit, he sounds like a pervert, doesn’t he? How do other people do this without wanting the ground to open up and swallow them whole from embarrassment?

“Um, for literature’s sake?” Yoongi tacks onto his initial request when Namjoon doesn’t respond. “Actually, this is really stupid, oh god. I’m,” Yoongi looks around the room to keep his eyes away from Namjoon’s face. “I’m… just gonna leave… now…” 

Namjoon grabs Yoongi’s forearm when he turns to leave, knocking a stack of books onto the floor. The loud crash makes both men jump, though Namjoon uses the momentum to stand up at his desk. 

“I thought you weren’t into…  that?” Namjoon asks slowly. He speaks like he’s not sure how to express his thoughts. Yoongi thinks he’s close enough. 

“I’m not…” 

The thing is, Hoseok was sort of correct, though Yoongi doesn’t want to admit it. Sometimes, Yoongi uses porn to help him write smut scenes when he can’t conjure up the ideas himself. Real sex, he supposes, is the best form of research – even if Yoongi normally avoids it. 

“Then why?” There’s another silent question beneath the spoken one: Why me? 

Yoongi locks eyes with Namjoon and realizes how endeared he is by the discomfort they’re both holding, each for a different reason. With faces flushed with embarrassment and eyes bright with uncertainty, Yoongi and Namjoon complement each other well. 

“Hobi said it could help me get the inspiration I need to write the smut for ‘hat trick beauty,’” Yoongi trails off, his eyebrows furrowed in irritation when laughter bursts from Namjoon.

“Wait, you’re serious? Really?” Namjoon’s fingers slip from Yoongi’s forearm when Yoongi tugs out of his grasp. 

“Don’t laugh at me.” 

Namjoon’s expression drops. “I’m sorry.” 

Yoongi hasn’t ever asked someone to fuck him before. It’s somewhat embarrassing to be laughed in the face over it, and it’s definitely demoralizing. 

Yoongi pulls at his sleeves with a sigh, forcing sweater paws as if to cover more of himself from the awkwardness. 

“Hyung, really, please talk to me,” Namjoon gently encourages. 

Namjoon’s arm falls to his side, but he moves from behind his desk to stand in front of Yoongi on the other side. The distance is respectful, yet Yoongi wants him closer. 

“It seems like a bad idea to force yourself to do something you don’t like simply because it might inspire you.” 

“I just want to try it,” Yoongi explains, still avoiding Namjoon’s gaze. “Other people can hook up with strangers, so why can’t I? It doesn’t seem like it should be a big deal.” 

Namjoon frowns. “That’s not how sexuality works.” 

“I don’t care. I think it’s all stupid.” 

Yoongi knows he sounds ridiculous without needing to see Namjoon’s amused look. He’s merely being honest; being so different from what most of society thinks people should be like can sometimes be frustrating. It makes life difficult in ways other people just don’t understand. 

Namjoon is hot. He’s tall and muscular, with pecs that make his shirts stretch and thighs that threaten to rip his pants. He’s well-read and eloquent. What more could a person want in a man? Yet here is Yoongi, chewing on his bottom lip as he finally forces himself to look Namjoon in the eyes, at war with himself over what he’s doing. 

“You seem to be overthinking the scene and this,” Namjoon suggests with a sweep of his hand between their bodies. “This isn’t me saying I wouldn’t enjoy being with you, hyung. My answer would be an easy ‘yes’ if it weren’t for the circumstances.” 

Heat floods Yoongi’s face when Namjoon’s voice lowers, his tone making Yoongi’s stomach flip. Yoongi may not experience attraction like most people he knows, but his body will react to the right stimulus. 

“I like you,” Yoongi whispers, suddenly aware of how closely he stands next to Namjoon. He can smell Namjoon’s cologne, which is clean and somehow sensual, with notes of vanilla and sandalwood. 

“I like you, too,” Namjoon admits his feelings more confidently than Yoongi had. 

“So… that’s supposed to be enough, right?” 

With a small smile, Namjoon shrugs. 

“It’s supposed to be whatever you want it to be, I guess? Sexuality is a spectrum, hyung. It’s okay if sometimes you feel one way and other times you feel differently. If you want to try something new, that’s okay, too.” 

If Yoongi were impulsive and more sure of himself than he is, he would have kissed Namjoon for being so smart and reasonable. 

“I guess being… intimate is easier when it’s on my own terms.” 

Namjoon hums in understanding. 

“You have agency. It doesn’t feel like you’re being forced or that it’s an expectation.” 

Namjoon’s reassurance gives Yoongi the courage he needs. After this, no one will be able to say that Yoongi isn’t dedicated to his craft. 

“Well, let’s get to it,” Yoongi announces with his head held high. 

Namjoon’s eyes sparkle with mirth, but he holds his laughter in when he asks, “Would you like a pen and paper to take notes?” 

“Shut up; that’s not funny.” 

It is, though, and Yoongi can’t help but grin when Namjoon reaches across his desk to grab a little pack of sticky notes and an ink pen. Perhaps if Yoongi’s life was a fic, it would be crack. 

Despite Namjoon’s joke, the atmosphere in the room thickens with tension. Yoongi may be the only one who senses it. Namjoon seems relaxed, still smiling, even as his sharp eyes roam over Yoongi’s frame. He and Yoongi have both said so much and so little. 

“Can I kiss you?” Namjoon asks as he steps forward, shortening the distance between them and making every hopeless romantic reading the fic Yoongi’s writing in his head swoon. 

How could a strange meet-cute have worked in real life? 

Yoongi doesn’t think his life would be a cliche fic, but if it could, he’d want it to be just as charming as it is predictable – but in a comforting kind of way, not boring. He’d want his life to be the kind of fic you read when you want something that you know won’t hurt you because every path is already paved, lit up by neon lights that tell you to keep going, that everything is going to be okay. 

Yoongi loves fics like those. They feel how Namjoon’s hands feel when he holds the small of Yoongi’s back and cradles the side of his face as he pulls him into a kiss. Namjoon is sure and slow as he eases Yoongi into a deeper kiss so their lips and tongues can move in a familiar dance, even if this is the first time they’ve danced it together. 

Maybe their relationship is a fast burn, Yoongi thinks as Namjoon slips his hand beneath his sweater to slide his fingertips across his waist. 

For some reason, it doesn’t feel rushed with Namjoon. It isn’t hot and heavy, bodies smashing against bodies. It’s just Namjoon, slow and patient, hooking his arm beneath Yoongi’s thighs and gently lifting him onto the edge of Namjoon’s desk. 

“This is where I usually stop writing,” Yoongi whispers against Namjoon’s soft lips. He wishes he could speak things into existence rather than write them. It doesn’t seem fair that there’s a disconnect between his brain and body. 

Namjoon doesn’t get angry. He doesn’t even seem disappointed when he asks, “Do you want to stop?” 

Yoongi wants, and yet he also doesn’t. It means the same thing both ways.

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

Yoongi bites Namjoon’s bottom lip, not to be sexy, but to shut him up. It makes Namjoon moan anyway, and Yoongi remembers that even though he doesn’t like sex, he’s always been pretty decent at it.

Funny how life works.

“How do you want to do this?” Namjoon pulls away to monitor Yoongi’s expression.

“I don’t like being naked,” Yoongi states curtly, still expecting judgment that will never come.

Namjoon rubs along Yoongi’s bare waist with his thumbs and firmly nods.

“Clothes on; got it. Anything else?”

The rest is embarrassing, but Yoongi knows he has to communicate his needs if he wants this to be a positive experience. He has very little practice speaking up. No one has ever asked him these questions, and his previous partners certainly weren’t concerned with making sure Yoongi was comfortable. Sex was always a point of contention and typically a means to an end. 

“I, um, have a hard time relaxing. And then I get distracted.” Despite how hotly his face burns, Yoongi tries to keep his tone casual and unbothered.

“Proper foreplay; that would have been a given,” Namjoon says with a wink, making Yoongi roll his eyes to hide further embarrassment. “Is that all?”

It’s hard to be self-reflective when Yoongi knows he’s moments away from having sex with his relatively new friend in the library after not letting another person intimately touch him in at least two years.

Likely noticing that Yoongi is quickly tumbling into overthinking, Namjoon gently squeezes his waist and lifts him off the desk.

“I’m sure this might be difficult for you to understand,” Namjoon says as he slowly turns Yoongi around to face his desk, “But I wanted you the moment I saw you, hyung.”

Yoongi is thankful that Namjoon is standing behind him so he doesn’t have to suffer from being too shy to look at him. It is difficult to understand.

“I don’t know what to say to that,” Yoongi admits truthfully. He feels silly saying so, but his heart is light when Namjoon chuckles, and the sound vibrates against his back through Namjoon’s chest.

“You don’t have to say anything. I just wanted to express my attraction to you so you know that this isn’t just me doing you a favor.”

Closing his eyes, Yoongi shakily exhales when Namjoon presses him against the desk and rests his chin on his shoulder.

Namjoon tilts his head slightly. When he speaks, his lips brush the side of Yoongi’s neck.

“Can I eat you out?”

“Oh, uh, yeah.”

Yoongi is breathless already, and it makes him cringe. He doesn’t like how sex makes him feel vulnerable and delicate.

“Cool,” Namjoon responds with a quick kiss to Yoongi’s neck before he gets on his knees behind him.

There’s something about how casual Namjoon is as he reaches up to unbutton Yoongi’s jeans and pulls them down until they rest just below his ass — only removing his clothes enough to make the important parts accessible. Namjoon’s behavior minimizes the severity of the moment. He makes sure Yoongi isn’t more exposed than he needs to be and doesn’t make a fuss over what they’re about to do. 

It’s nice. It keeps Yoongi from making this out to be a bigger deal than it needs to be and keeps him out of his own head. 

It’s difficult for Yoongi to move since his jeans are pulled to the middle of his thighs. Luckily, Namjoon is fully capable of handling Yoongi on his own. He presses on Yoongi’s back to guide him forward until he’s bent at his waist over the edge of the desk. The position forces Yoongi to put his ass on display.

Satisfied, Namjoon runs his hands up Yoongi’s thighs until he reaches his ass and squeezes each cheek in his hands.

“Did you prep before you came?”

Of course, Yoongi did. He hasn’t had sex in years, and he rarely uses toys when he masturbates, which already isn’t a frequent occurrence. But Yoongi can’t tell Namjoon any of this, though not for a lack of trying. As Yoongi opens his mouth to respond, Namjoon runs his flattened tongue in one quick swipe across Yoongi’s rim. 

Being vocal feels vulnerable to Yoongi. He doesn’t like expressing his pleasure during sex; it feels embarrassing, maybe even a bit emasculating, though he doesn’t know why he reacts this way. Rather than curse or moan, Yoongi lets out a quiet hiss through his clamped teeth and grabs onto the edge of the desk to hold himself in place. 

When writing fanfic, Yoongi often fluctuates between descriptive smut and smut that glosses over the details for something more vague. It all depends on his mood and how easily he feels like the words come out of him.

Can Yoongi imagine it? Or does he struggle to conjure the image vividly enough to write it down in a way his readers will like? 

Can Yoongi write a smut scene that accurately (and sexily) portrays the way Namjoon grips his asscheeks, gently hooking his thumbs in his hole to spread him open as he languidly flicks and swirls his tongue inside of him? Or would Yoongi skip over it, instead focusing on the heat that coils in his stomach when Namjoon worships him with his lips, each moan a quiet declaration of admiration spoken against his wet, flushed skin? 

On the verge of overthinking, Yoongi is relieved when Namjoon switches up the foreplay. He hears the smacking sound of Namjoon’s lips and then feels two spit-slicked fingers slip inside him. 

“Can you reach the top drawer?” Namjoon’s voice is rough and raw, gravelly in sound, different from the gentle, intentional way he normally speaks. 

Nodding and lifting up on his tiptoes, Yoongi reaches forward to fumble with the drawer handle. Namjoon’s fingers follow the movement, slowly easing in and out of Yoongi but never hitting the spot Yoongi knows he needs to hit if he wants this to be worth it. 

“There should be a little bottle of lube.” 

Yoongi snorts when his fingers bump into the travel-size bottle. How convenient. 

“Why do you have this here?” 

Namjoon squeezes Yoongi’s thigh and rakes his blunt nails over the soft skin just hard enough to make it tingle. 

“I don’t know. Maybe I thought about this happening,” Namjoon offers, probably with a shrug, but Yoongi doesn’t see him, just passes the lube behind him. “Not exactly like this, but…” 

Nothing more needs to be said.

Namjoon makes quick work lubing Yoongi up, massaging his rim and walls with confident strokes even after fumbling with the bottle. Yoongi is pretty sure other people like drawn-out sex that optimizes pleasure, but he prefers sex that is straightforward. That’s where all the fluff additions come in. If he gets the main points of sex down, kissing, fingering, and dick-in-ass, then the other stuff can be added later. 

So Yoongi is thankful when Namjoon stands up behind him without making a fuss – no declarations of how nice Yoongi’s ass is, how his hole sucks in Namjoon’s fingers with ease, how pretty Yoongi’s dripping, neglected cock is. 

It’s all silliness in real life, too porn-y for Yoongi’s liking.

“Are you ready?” Namjoon asks against the curve of Yoongi’s shoulder as he pulls his wallet from his back pocket to retrieve a condom. Again, how convenient. Do sexual people actually carry lube and condoms around? Is it just Yoongi who is perpetually unprepared? 

“Yeah,” Yoongi pants, already feeling like he’s tipping over the edge. He can’t remember the last time he had such a thorough prepping, and it’s making him sweat. “Wait – I need to look at your dick. For the literature.” 

Namjoon throws his head back in bewildered laughter as Yoongi twists around to get a good look at what is honestly a monster between Namjoon’s legs. Still wearing all his clothes, Namjoon has his pants unzipped and pushed down his hips just enough to pull his cock out. File this away under the “Has a Big Dick” tag on AO3, good lord. 

Yoongi must make a face because Namjoon’s laughter starts up again. Namjoon’s cock bobs from the shake that ripples through his body with each chuckle. 

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Namjoon covers his cock with his hands. “You’re making me feel self-conscious.” 

“You have a big dick, okay. I’m just thinking about how uncomfortable it will be to sit at my desk to write later.” 

Curling both lips into his mouth and looking up at the ceiling to stop himself from laughing, Namjoon exhales loudly through his nose. 

“I must say, I haven’t gotten anything like that before.” 

Waving the comment away, Yoongi turns back around and leans forward with his forearms on the desk. 

“Come on. Queer Book Club is going to start soon.” 

“Of course, Yoongi-ssi.” 

Yoongi does his best not to think too hard when Namjoon slowly thrusts inside him. He tries to focus his attention on the sensations he feels: the stretch of Namjoon’s thick cock opening Yoongi up, the press of Namjoon’s fingertips to Yoongi’s skin where Namjoon grips his hip bones to use as leverage when he pulls back and thrusts again, the continuous prodding of his prostate that will eventually turn into a build-up of pleasure.

It’s easier than Yoongi expects. He keeps his eyes closed and lets his body rock against the desk, making himself slack in Namjoon’s hold. There’s no need to do anything more; Namjoon takes over. 

“Fuck, you feel so good, so tight,” Namjoon grunts quietly.

Somehow, it feels like Namjoon knows not to drag this out. He goes hard and fast, fucking Yoongi with enough force that more books fall off the desk. Yoongi strongly hopes no one comes in to investigate the racket they’re making. They may as well be tearing the whole library down.

The sex is objectively good; Yoongi knows that. He can feel his orgasm quickly approaching, partially because he hasn’t had sex in so long and also because Namjoon is good at what he does. The thing is, it isn’t mindblowing like Yoongi has always been led to believe sex is. Sometimes he can’t even focus on the literal feeling of sex; he can only tell that it’s doing something to his biology that’s going to make him cum.

Usually, the emotional attachment he has to the person he’s sleeping with is what gives sex meaning to Yoongi – and even then, it isn’t always that important. 

Namjoon slides one palm up Yoongi’s back to bunch up his shirt and give himself something to hold onto. 

The pull tightens the collar of Yoongi’s t-shirt around his neck. It doesn’t completely cut off his airway, but it applies pressure that makes his breathing shift into shallow gasping. Breathplay isn’t something Yoongi has ever experimented with; strangely, it’s what pushes him over the edge. 

Yoongi cums all over the side of the desk with a choking sound that makes Namjoon let go of his shirt. 

“I’m so sorry,” Namjoon huffs as he presses one hand on the desk's surface and uses his other to hold Yoongi still. “You should have said something.” 

“I’m fine; just hurry up,” Yoongi insists, still winded and trying to catch his breath. 

Luckily, Namjoon doesn’t take long to finish. Yoongi nearly squirms away from him by the time Namjoon pulls out, his entire body on edge from the pleasure verging on overstimulation. Overstim is great to write about, but it's annoying to experience in real life, in Yoongi’s opinion. 

Writing two orgasms is also annoying, Yoongi thinks as Namjoon throws away the condom, hiding it deep in the trash can, just in case anyone notices it. Simultaneous orgasms are a smut writer’s dream. Yoongi wonders how often it happens in real life. If anyone can accomplish it, he feels like Namjoon could. 

Namjoon looks cute with sweaty hair and a pink tint to his tan cheeks. He looks at Yoongi with a strange mix of lust, adoration, and sheepishness when he tucks his cock back in his pants and passes Yoongi a handful of stray napkins to clean up the mess he’s made on the desk. 

“This wasn’t well thought-out,” Yoongi mumbles, face burning like a wildfire when he is confronted with his own cum. “I might throw up.” 

“It’s natural,” Namjoon laughs. 

“It’s gross.” 

What’s really gross is the sweet look Namjoon maintains as Yoongi finishes his task and does his best to straighten himself out, double-checking his pants for stains and brushing away his hair from his face. Going to Queer Book Club after this is going to be a disaster. Yoongi considers skipping. 

“So, do you feel better?” There’s another question under the surface: Did I do okay?

Kissing isn’t sex, but it’s intimate more often than not and isn’t on Yoongi’s list of his favorite things to do. Despite that, he gets on his tiptoes to kiss Namjoon – a peck that’s quick and easy to back out of and one that grows the grin on Namjoon’s face tenfold. 

“It was alright,” Yoongi says with a shrug when he pulls away. “When I have another smut scene to write, I’ll keep you on my list of people to contact for help.” 

“Ah, I’m sure you won’t need help anymore. You took notes, didn’t you?” 

When Yoongi meets Namjoon’s gaze, he’s met with the dimpled smile he’s become enamored with. This isn’t a good end to a fic, Yoongi thinks as he helps Namjoon clean up his office and prepare for their book club, but that’s okay. This is only the beginning of Yoongi and Namjoon.

[heavy-machinery-studio-feed]

[werepuppy-steve]

woke up thinking about how we don't know if steve even lives at his house on loch nora anymore. what if part of his dad cutting him off was also kicking him out? he's got enough money from the government saves up from the previous two years, he could leave hawkins in the dust and get a place in indianapolis.

but he doesn't. two years of government hush money also means there's a chance of it coming back. so he stays. he temporarily moves in with dustin and claudia before dustin leaves for camp. they set up the spare bedroom for him and claudia helps him look in the paper for job listings. there's a flyer for starcourt in the inserts with "now hiring!" in bold yellow letters. he figures it wouldn't hurt.

he starts at scoops and meets robin, gets tortured a little. but it's fine because the kids are safe and his pockets end up being a little heavier this time around. an "apology" of sorts for being a casualty of the cold war, they said.

when his face is all healed and he can see out of his left eye again, claudia (who i hc to be in real estate) helps him look for properties. by the middle of october, steve is signing the papers for a mortgage on a little two bedroom (bc of course dustin is going to have a room there) tudor on the outskirts of hawkins. he doesn't have much in the means of decorating, but with the help of claudia, dustin, robin, and the rest of the party (including karen wheeler, which surprises steve a little), steve ends up with a cosy little home filled with knick knacks and furniture that were either thrifted or donated. absolutely none of it matches, but for the first time in what feels like his entire life, steve has something that is his.

[psychedelic-ink]

ㅤㅤㅤ✦ 𝐇𝐎𝐎𝐅𝐁𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐒

ㅤㅤjoel miller x f!reader x jack daniels

genre: smut, minors dni, dude ranch au, modern au

word count: 7.7k

summary: joel challenges jack to make you into the finest there possibly is in two days.

warnings: threesome (mfm), mlm dynamics, some jealousy, outdoor sex, piv, oral sex, dirty talking

a/n: happy birthday @fuckyeahdindjarin 🎉 I hope you enjoy you slutty cowboys--both of them nearly gave me a heart-attack while writing ❤️‍🔥 this gif was made my the lovely @pedrorascal who I am so grateful for helping me out preparing your this bday surprise!

**dividers by @saradika

You take a breath and sneak out of the cozy room. It had been hard parting away from your cozy bed. The warmth provided by the hand-knitted blanket and the scent of delicious wood made you want to never leave. They’ve really done a great job decorating the rooms of the dude ranch. It still holds the Western theme you love, but it's also adorned with rustic charm, from the weathered leather furniture to the handcrafted wooden accents, creating a welcoming atmosphere.

It had been a couple of days since your arrival. You were tired of... well, everything and desperately needed an out. You wish you could say that it happened like in the movies— a divine sign that made you come here, but no. There was no divine intervention, no mysterious flyer sticking to your face. You had to do an endless amount of research to find the perfect place, and when you were done, you picked the ranch that had the least foot traffic. You were running away from people. Choosing the most touristy one would defeat the purpose—you wanted to be alone.

And you were glad that you did. The place was amazing. Surrounded by large mountains and wide fields. This place wasn’t so people would come and see what was what. It was an actual ranch with actual people working all the time. Accepting guests was the side hustle and not the other way around. 

There were two cowboys that you constantly saw: Joel Miller and Jack Daniels. Both charming, both handsome enough to make you want to scream. Jack had been personally assigned to you, but Joel was always around, watching, observing, and, of course, running his mouth. You’ve grown accustomed to their odd friendship... rivalry? It was actually kind of cute to see Jack turn all red whenever Joel said something to undermine him. And the other seemed to know that well.

Two talented cowboys. And you, who had no idea what the hell you were doing. 

Which is why you were escaping your room like some kind of criminal at the brink of dawn. Joel’s teasing wasn’t only reserved for Jack, you got your fair share as well and it was even worse when Jack chimed in—the two seasoned horse riders letting you know just how out of your element you were. You needed to train without those two constantly spitting quips your way.

You silently make your way to the stables and blindly reach out towards Honeydust, the palomino Jack had gotten you accustomed to. You gently guide her away from the other horses. The rose-pink light of dawn has begun to trickle through the open windows, painting Honeydust’s coat in a gorgeous hue. You regret not bringing your phone; you would’ve loved to show Jack and Joel later on.

“Alright girl,” you mutter as you pat the side of her face. She whinnies slightly and digs her hoof into the ground. “It’s you and me. Let’s show them how it’s done.” 

As you reach for the saddle, you smile to yourself. You might not be that good at horse riding yet but you did learn some things—like the value of a good saddle. You take a moment to inhale the scent of it— a mix of leather, hay, and a hint of earthiness.

Honeydust stands patiently, seemingly aware of your fumbling attempts to secure the saddle. You take a deep breath, remembering the lessons Jack patiently gave you about saddling up. Slowly but surely, you manage to get everything in place. As you tighten the cinch, you feel a sense of accomplishment. A week ago, you hadn’t been able to do this. Maybe you're not a full-on cowboy, but you're determined to learn the ropes.

With the saddle secured, you grab the reins and lead Honeydust out of the stable, into the cool morning air. The sky is a canvas of pastel colors—blues, pinks, and golds blending together as the sun inches higher. It's a breathtaking sight. You pat Honeydust on the muzzle and press your cheek against her, watching the sky.

“Isn’t it beautiful,” you whisper to her. “Honestly I’m gonna hate going back. It’s been a couple of days and I’m already attached to this place.” 

Honeydust snorts and shakes her head. You smile wide as you pat her again, “You’re right. No room for sentimentality.” 

Mounting Honeydust, you settle into the saddle, adjusting to the feel of it beneath you. The quiet creak of leather is drowned out by the sounds of the waking ranch. Birds chirp in the distance, and you take a deep breath, your lungs filling with the fresh scent of the outdoors—

But then you’re slipping. 

And then falling. 

With a loud, sharp gasp, you find yourself unexpectedly upside down beneath Honeydust's belly. Panic sets in as you register the proximity of her powerful legs, your eyes widen, your heart pounding loudly in your chest. Honeydust remains still, your body still miraculously hanging to the saddle. 

Your heartbeat starts to slow, you take a deep breath. You’re fine. You’re okay. You just forgot to fasten one of the belts. 

“Need any help there, sweetheart?” 

Fuck. Busted. 

“I’m fine,” you answer, emphasizing the latter. Jean-clad legs come into view. “Just. . . trying a new riding style.” 

“Is that so?” Joel drawls, amusement dripping with every word. “And what would you call this one? The hangin’ fool?” 

“Rude.” 

His hips cock to the side and you see him placing both hands on his narrow hips, “Would it be better if I called it the hangin’ beauty?” 

“Yes actually, it would.” 

Your cheeks warm as he steps closer. You try not to stare, or perhaps that’s just you lying to yourself, but whatever your true intention was your eyes linger right over his crotch. Even with the thick jeans and the belt buckle, you know he’s packing underneath there. You can especially tell now since this is the closest you’ve ever been to it. Your mouth waters. Your brain delving further into sinful imagination when his low chuckle echoes in your ear. 

“A’right then beautiful, let’s get you out here.” he stops for a beat, his knuckles brushing down the outer part of your leg. You shudder, your legs tighten around Honeydust. “Unless you wanna show me this new ridin’ style of yours?” 

“You know what, I think I’ll take a rain check on that.” your voice is shrill and pitchy. Your eyes start to throb. “Especially since all the blood in my body is currently in my head.” 

“Oh shit—Okay, just gimme a sec.” he slides his hands under your armpits. “A’right now let go.” 

“What?” 

“Just let go, sweetheart. I got you. You’ll be okay, promise.” 

With a sharp breath, you close your eyes and loosen your legs. Joel's arms wrap further beneath yours, drawing you closer. You feel the tightening of his biceps, feel the huff of his breath against your cheek. He takes a step back and suddenly unbalanced, he falls backward, pulling you along.

With a huff, Joel lands on his ass, and you find yourself comfortably nestled against his chest. It takes you only a second for your gaze to find his. You hold your breath and so does he. His hand pleasantly curls around your waist, keeping you from moving away. His chest is firm under your own, your nipples tightening when you shift a bit, the graze of fabric makes you shudder. 

His other hand comes to brush a strand of loose hair behind your ear. You swallow not once but twice. The warmth of Joel’s palm cradles your cheek and a slow breath exits your lungs. 

“You a’right?” 

“Y—Yeah. . . thanks for helping me out.” 

“My pleasure.” His voice is deep, hoarse even, and it scratches your ears just right. You find yourself drawn to him. Your eyes dropping to his lips and back up to meet his heavy-lidded gaze. His lips part. The divot in the middle of his bottom lip more prominent than ever. You lean in without a thought, he mimics you, coming in closer and closer. Your chest heaves. Your heart beating madly against your chest. 

“What the hell are you two doin’ canoodling here?” 

You jerk away, your eyes lingering on Joel long enough to see the disappointment in his gaze. His eyes close slowly and he takes a ragged breath. Shifting slightly you see Jack holding a hay bale. His eyes are narrowed, his brows knitted together as his gaze flits between you and Joel. You chew the inside of your cheek, embarrassment heating you from the inside out. 

“We ain’t canoodlin’,” Joel answers, agitated. “I found her hanging upside down under Honeydust’s belly. Who’s fault do you think is that?” 

Jack’s mouth opens and closes, his cheeks suddenly flushed. His gloved hands tighten around the hay as he pushes it up his arms. Then finally, with a softened gaze, he turns to you. “Are you okay?” 

“I’m fine,” you reply, your heart currently beating in your throat. “I just forgot to fasten the other side of the saddle.” 

Joel squeezes your waist and you’re suddenly hyper-aware that you’re basically on his lap still. “It’s not your fault, sweetheart. You have a shit teacher.” 

“Excuse me?” Jack’s tone is enough to have you scrambling off of Joel’s lap. If looks could kill, Joel would be dead right now. On your feet, you move towards Honeydust, and with great comfort, she nuzzles your chest. Joel smiles lazily when Jack drops the bale of hay and walks up to him. “You better take that back, old man.” 

“Yeah?” his eyes glow with mirth. “Make me.” 

Involuntarily you cover your mouth with a hand. Is it bad that you’re secretly enjoying this? The amount of testosterone in the air is thick enough to cut with a knife. 

Joel slowly gets up, as if he has all the time in the world, and faces Jack. He’s slightly taller than the latter, smile still tugging at his lips as he tilts his head ever so slightly down. Jack’s nostrils flare. 

“You want me to knock you out in front of our guest?” 

“I’d love to see you try.” 

Joel takes another step closer, his chest nearly flushed against the other, he jerks his head to the side and places his hands on his hips. You swear you see Jack’s skin darkening with a deep shade of red from his chest to his neck. His jaw is wired tight, the muscle there twitching. 

“How about this,” Joel grins. “You manage to make our sweet girl here a full-on cowgirl in two days and I’ll eat my words right outta your hand, Whiskey.” 

Jack huffs and clicks his tongue, “Don’t call me that.” 

“It’s your name isn’t it?” 

“It ain’t and you know it.” 

“Your parents shouldn’t have named you Jack Daniels,” Joel rolls his eyes, “Do we have a deal or not?” 

You hold your breath when Joel extends a hand. Jack’s eyes briefly find yours, his fingers twitching. The morning chill is still in the air and despite it, beads of sweat appear on your skin. Two days. Two days and you still don’t know how to put on a saddle right. With a small shake, you attempt to warn Jack but that only makes him smile. 

He turns to Joel, “Deal,” he answers, taking his hand. “Two days. Be ready to eat your words, old man.” 

They shake on it and as they do Joel gives you a not so subtle wink. It reminds you of just how close the two of you were a mere couple of minutes ago. You avert your gaze, suddenly shy to face him, and think about what might’ve happened if Jack hadn’t interrupted. 

When Joel leaves, Jack lets out a long sigh and turns to you. 

“You slipped, darlin’, really?” 

“In my defense, it was early.” 

“Fuckin’ hell.” He shakes his head but you see the way his lips curl upwards ever so slightly. “Anyway, wait for me here and I’ll be right back. We gotta get you into tip-top shape because I ain’t gonna lose to Joel.” 

“I warned you, you know,” you softly kick the dirt with the tip of your boot. 

Jack’s tongue moves over his bottom lip, a shudder crawls up your spine and heat pools between your legs. He grips the bale of hay and throws it over his shoulder. 

“That’s why I accepted the challenge, sugar. No guest of mine is gonna leave here without feelin’ like they can conquer the world.” 

“Jack this is impossible I’m never going to get the hang of this.” 

“With that attitude you sure ain’t gonna.” 

With a crooked smile, Jack watches as you draw your shoulders together and stomp your boot against the soil. The lasso is tight between your fingers, the tips of which are chafed from turning the lasso again and again in an attempt to loop the rope around one of the wooden posts. He tilts his head to the side when you turn to him, a pleading expression etched onto your beautiful face.

"This is never going to happen," you huff. However, instead of keeping his eyes locked on yours, his gaze drops to where your flannel hugs your breasts, the poor buttons struggling to keep it all together. His cock swells at the thought of licking them, sucking on your hard nipples while the sweetest noises flee from your lips. "Jack?"

He doesn’t hide the fact that he’s been staring at your gorgeous tits, he drags his gaze back slowly, his smile only growing upon seeing your parted lips and glazed eyes. “Yeah, sugar?” 

“We’re never going to win this thing with Joel,” you say and he doesn’t fail to notice how breathless you suddenly are. “How am I supposed to learn to do everything a cowboy can in two days? Seems a bit unfair.” 

“Not everythin’,” he struts towards you and peels the lasso from your fingers. “We just need to cover the basics. No one is expectin’ you to catch a knife in mid-air with a lasso.” 

Your brows furrow, “What? You’re saying you can actually do that?” 

“‘Course I can,” he chirps back. “Unlike you, I’m a top-notch cowboy.” 

His heart breaks a little when he sees how defeated you look, with a small nudge to your shoulder, he draws your gaze back to him. “Want me to show you again darlin’?” 

“Sure but I’m not sure it’ll do me any good. I’m horrible at this.” 

With a reassuring grin, Jack steps back, unwinding the lasso he took from you. He takes a moment to adjust the coils and then demonstrates the art of lassoing, the rope flying through the air in a graceful arc before landing perfectly around a wooden post.

“You see, it's all in the wrist,” he explains as he smoothly tightens the loop, making it look deceptively easy. He repeats the motion a couple of times, each throw precise and controlled.

“You know who’s really good at this?” he asks, returning his attention to you. “Joel.”

You snort, “I feel like that man is good at everything. But I’m not sure why you’re telling me that.”

“Well, you know who used to suck at it—me.”

“You?” you raise a sole eyebrow, and a teasing smile touches your lips. “You who can catch a knife in the air, supposedly, that is.”

“It takes a lot of practice, sugar. That's what I’m tryin’ to tell ya. I sucked at it. Couldn’t even do one loop. Then the old timer helped me out.”

“Joel?”

Yup," he says, noticing your shock. He had been shocked too when the man had shown him how to properly do it. It was both amazing and terrifying. Jack had never had someone care about him enough to actually show him how it's done instead of letting him struggle on his own. "And eventually, I got the hang of it. So will you.”

You smile wholeheartedly and take the lasso from him, “Thanks, Jack. I. . . I appreciate it. You actually really respect him, don’t you? Despite all the banter and arguing.” 

“That’s just how I show love, darlin’.” 

“You never argue with me.” 

His eyebrows tilt up, along with the corner of his lips. You avert your eyes as you loosely hold the rope in your hand, the exercise quickly forgotten. Jack closes the distance until there's only a breath of space between you two. He entertains the idea of lifting your head by the chin, forcing your gaze upon him, but he refrains. He wants you to listen to him and oblige.

“Look at me, darlin’,” His eyes shine with delight when you do, he leans closer. “You want me to fight you?” 

Your brows furrow, your lips forming the most adorable pout, “No. Of course not.” 

“You sure?” This time he does cup your cheek to keep your gaze fixed on him. His pinkies move towards your neck, drawing soft patterns up and down your skin. You visibly shudder, a soft breath escaping your lips. “I see how you watch when Joel and I start to bitch and moan at each other, sugar. You sure you’re not into it even a little?” 

He knows your answer. But he allows you to giggle and escape his hold anyway. “You’re ridiculous,” you say and as a response Jack wants to touch on the fact that you can’t look at him anymore, however, he’ll allow you to escape him for now. 

“Come on then, now that you got your giggles on, let’s see you at least pull in one of those cones.” 

While you attempt to just do that, Jack ends up regretting teasing you because he ends up thinking about Joel instead. It’s hard to admit that the constant bickering is the obvious telltale sign of something more. And he knows there’s something. Joel only weaponizes his tongue when you’re around. Or someone else for that matter. But when it’s just the two of them it’s different. It’s lingering touches and heavy scotch-filled conversations. Sometimes Joel would even whisper so he wouldn’t wake the others. Jack shivers as he remembers how Joel’s lips felt against the shell of his ear. Downright sinful. 

It always remained at that, however. Touches and looks and talks. Nothing more and nothing less. 

“Jack,” you say, your voice drawing him away from thoughts he’s happy to be drawn away from. “How did you end up here? Like with Joel and the rest.” 

“It’s not much of a story. I was lookin’ for a job and came here lookin’ for one.” He lifts his hat and combs his hair back with his fingers. “I actually met Tommy first. Joel doesn’t like the hiring process and says his younger brother is a better judge of character. I met him after I was hired. Then I met the little munchkins.” 

“You mean Sarah and Ellie?” 

“Yes ma’am I do,” he reaches forward, letting his fingers nearly brush yours. He chuckles, "I also know what you're doing, so stop stalling and throw the damn lasso already."

You take your bottom lip between your teeth and all Jack wants to do is pry it away from the sharp edges, "Oh, are we arguing? Should I add this moment to my journal?” you manage to lock your gaze with his, a grin spreading across your face. “Does this mean you love me?" 

He takes a step closer, leaning ever so slightly into your personal space. A hint of a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth, he breathes, "How 'bout this? You throw that rope, and I'll kiss you, sweetheart. Then you’ll really know what I feel."

Your eyes widen, "You’ll... excuse me?"

A wicked glint in his eyes, he quips, "I'll kiss you, full-blown on the lips. And believe me, it'll be my pleasure to lay one on you."

"Just throw the rope? Aren't you selling a bit short?"

Jack takes another step towards you and you can feel the heat radiating from him. His voice low and husky, he counters, "Fine then, manage to actually lasso something, and then I'll kiss you."

"You're mean. You said you'd only do it if I threw it." You challenge him by taking a step closer and he’s delighted to see it. 

Cupping her face in his hands, he grins, "Changed my mind. And you have yourself to blame for it."

With all his heart Jack wishes for you to make the throw. Something primal and ugly in him finds extreme joy in being the one to kiss you first. He hated to admit it, but his heart broke a little when he found you and Joel together, lips almost about to touch. He hated feeling like an outsider. Especially when it came from Joel.

With a determined glint in your eyes, you take a deep breath, and let it out slowly. Gripping the lasso in your hands, you start to swing it in a circular motion above your head. It’s sloppy and uneven but he can see how much care you’ve put into your stance. Jack watches intently, noting the way you shift your weight from one food to another, a subtle smile playing on his lips.

As the lasso gains momentum, you release it at just the right moment. It sails through the air, forming a perfect loop. Jack's eyes follow its trajectory, silently urging it to find its mark. The loop descends gracefully, and, with a satisfying thud, it settles around a nearby plastic cone and you pull it towards yourself, the plastic moving with ease. 

A triumphant grin breaks across your face as you complete the throw. “I did it,” you gasp in a low tone, panting. Your head suddenly snaps towards him, a shit-eating grin plastered over your perfect lips. “I DID IT!”  

Jack only smiles as he leans in and cradles your face in a rush. He crashes into you, lips meeting yours in an eager, lingering kiss. He teases the seam of your mouth with the tip of his tongue. Just a brief preview of how badly he wants this to happen. His hands slip to your ass, kneading the plump flesh, his cock stiffens at how you moan into his mouth. You press against him and Jack can’t help but roll his hips to feel more of you. It’s been so long. Too long since he felt something warm and tight around his cock. 

He parts away by dragging his lips down to your chin and from there to your neck. He nips at your pulse, feeling it beating against his mouth. 

“Jack,” you breathe. “I—Wow—” 

“Kissin’ is one thing I’m better at,” he chuckles deeply into your ear. “Among other things.” 

He holds you by the neck and gently pulls away. He can’t get enough of the expression you’re giving him; pupils blown and lips slightly parted. Your chest heaves heavily, your pulse beating wildly under his palm. Jack brushes your lips together, smiling upon hearing you whimper. 

“Now, throw that lasso again and I’ll give you another kiss.” 

And it all comes down to horse riding. You should be surprised but you’re not. 

The sun was finally setting over the ranch. A subtle chill settling at the base of your snake as the sun went down. It had been a tiring day full of lasso throwing, ax throwing, and knotting. Your back ached and when the final challenge finally befell you all you wanted to do was go back to your room and sleep. The only thing that gave you an ounce of energy was Jack’s proud smile after every challenge that was won. Joel seemed genuinely impressed. And you were genuinely surprised to find yourself acing every task. Seeing how smug Jack got made your heart flutter and stomach draw tight. 

The two of you had done a lot of kissing that day. It hadn’t gone any further but deep down you really wanted it to. 

You feel a deep sense of Deja Vu when you find yourself staring at Honeydust with a saddle in hand. You take a deep breath, fingers tightening around the leather. The open air gives you a sense of calm, the cloudy sky a pleasure to gaze upon.

Jack touches the small of your back, goosebumps rising across your skin at the gentle touch, “You got this darlin’ don’t worry so much.” 

You briefly glance at the track Joel and Jack had set up for you. Wooden fences stand tall at various intervals, creating a series of jumps that make you sweat just by thinking about them. Your eyes linger on the strategically placed cones that form a zigzag pattern. 

“Honestly no matter what happens I’m impressed,” Joel cuts in, cupping Honeydust’s cheek. Your gaze moves deftly from the track to the man standing before you. As always, he looks amazing in his red and yellow flannel. “You’ve done well sweetheart.” 

“Maybe you should just forfeit and accept we won then,” you answer, smiling. Joel shakes his head. 

“Someone is sure of herself.” 

“Hell yeah, I am.” 

“Look at that,” Jack pipes. “Soundin’ like a true cowboy already.” 

You expertly secure the saddle onto Honeydust's back. The leather feels cool beneath your fingertips as you tighten the straps, ensuring a snug fit. Adjusting the stirrups, you make sure they're the perfect length for your legs. As you stand beside the horse, you can feel the intensity of Joel and Jack's gazes on you. Their eyes trace the curves of your movements, a subtle tension lingering in the air.

With everything in place, you take a deliberate breath and swing yourself onto the saddle. The leather creaks slightly under your weight as you settle into position. Honeydust shifts beneath you. You catch Joel's gaze, and a sly smirk plays on his lips. His eyes linger a moment longer than necessary, you let out a puff of air, your legs tighten around Honeydust..

"Remember, just go with the flow. You and Honeydust are a team," Jack advises and with that, you head off. 

Gently nudging your heels against the horse's side, you urge Honeydust into a graceful gallop around the track. The steadying thud of her hooves pounding against the dirt creates a harmony that molds with the song of the wind, transporting you to a place of serenity. Each hurdle makes your heart jump with excitement. The jumps seem impossible at times. As you zigzag through the cones, you can feel Honeydust's muscles tense and relax under your hands, transitioning from one step to the next with the gracefulness of a dance—

A sudden jolt disrupts the rhythm, and you find yourself tumbling to the ground. You let out a deep groan as your back hits the earth and with the corner of your eye, you see Joel taking hold of Honeydust’s reins, calming the poor palomino. Jack’s face comes into vision a second later. 

"You okay, darlin'?" When you nod and begin to get up, his worry turns to frustration as he glances at Joel. "This was supposed to be about teaching, not pushing her to the damn limit."

"I didn't mean for her to fall, Jack. So don’t act like that was my intention."

“No, your intention was to make me look like I don’t know what I’m doin’.” 

Jack, eyes still glued on Joel, helps you up. Your head is still spinning a little from the adrenaline rush but other than that you feel fine. Your eyes flitting between both men, your stomach twists and turns at how they’re both glaring at each other. This time is different from the arguments. This time they both genuinely look like they’re about to explode. Joel has his jaw tight while Jack has both hands in tight fists. “Guys. . .” 

"Why you gotta make everythin’ personal?" Joel snaps, ignoring you all together. “It was just meant to be a harmless bet.” 

Jack's eyes narrow, he tears his hand away from yours and your heart drops, "You're the one who makes it damn personal by goadin’ me all the damn time."

“That’s. . .” Joel’s eyes grow soft, his demeanor changing entirely. You watch the furrow between his brows relax, his shoulders sagging ever so slightly. “I’m—” 

“Can it,” Jack hisses through gritted teeth and raises a hand. “I don’t want your apology, I just wanna go. Unless you think I’m gonna be bad at that too.” 

You reach out, head still spinning, your fingers graze the back of his jacket and he slips from between your grasp. You part your lips to call out to him. To tell him to come back. But Joel takes a hold of your hand and lowers it with the shake of his head. 

“I know where he’s goin’. Let’s go.” 

“Are you telling me he has a brooding spot?” 

“He does.”

The sun had set. The crickets now singing under the starry night, but Joel can't focus on any of it. He can’t because he might’ve actually screwed everything up for good this time— which would be typical of him.  

After months of contemplating whether he should take the next step or not, he’d finally made Jack snap. That had never been Joel’s intention, obviously. But he wasn’t the best at flirting. Never had been. And when Jack came into his life, all fresh faced and a lashing tongue, he couldn’t help but fall for him a little. 

You’re walking just a little bit behind him, trying to keep up. He can feel you staring at him. Your eyes curious like a newborn gazelle’s. 

“If you stare any harder I’m gonna start blushin’ sweetheart.” 

“I’m. . . I wasn’t. . .” 

“Sure you were,” he sighs. “It wasn’t my intention to be hard on him you know. It just. . . sorta happens. I care a lot about him and I just want him to. . . “ He clamps his mouth shut. What was he supposed to say? How he was hoping that all the teasing would finally push Jack into his arms? How he wanted to do more than touch Jack when he knew no one else could see. 

“You want him to. . .  what exactly?” 

“I don’t know,” he says through gritted teeth. “It’s complicated between us.” 

“You both have a crush on each other and don’t know what to do about it. It’s not that complicated.”

Joel’s mouth opens and closes— then opens again. “And how the hell do you know that?” 

“Because he talks about you a lot,” you answer with a soft smile. “He said he cares about you. And about your opinion.” Joel’s eyes narrow as you rub the back of your head, your eyes dropping to where you would be taking your next step. “I just don't know where I fit in all of this.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“You and I almost kissed,” you say finger moving between you two. “Jack and I actually kissed. And well. . . I don’t want to get in the middle of anything. It might be a bit sudden but I like you guys, I care about you, and want you guys to be together if that’s what you want.” 

“It’s not your job to worry about us.” Joel huffs, his guilt gnawing at him. “But I get what you mean. We. . . we didn’t intend to put you in that position. I can assure you this wasn’t some twisted game we were tryin' to play. I can't talk for Jack but I care about you. And I care about him if that makes sense. But I fear that me being emotionally constipated might’ve ruined it with him. He gets mad every time I open my mouth.” 

“That’s because you tease him all the time and honestly he’s not doing any better than you.” Joel’s eyes go wide when you suddenly cradle his cheeks and bring his face towards your own. “And you haven't ruined anything Mr. Miller. You just need to tell him exactly what you’ve been telling me.” 

“You think so?” 

“I know so.” 

Before he can reach he feels the soft touch of your lips. You kiss him slowly—tenderly. Joel follows your lead, parting his lips, he allows you to slip your tongue inside. He sucks on your tongue, enjoying the way your body presses against his. 

When you pull back, you’re completely dazed.

“Now what was that for?” he asks.

“To keep everything even” you answer, smiling. “Now let's go get our brooding cowboy.” 

It doesn’t take long for that to happen. They find Jack sitting on the ground, his back pressed snugly against the wooden fence. He’s staring at the stars. The gentle light streaming down his face and down his neck, Joel’s heart skips a beat at the sight and he feels as though he can’t breathe. 

Only when they walk closer does he notice the bottle of whiskey. He lifts the bottle to his lips and takes a swig, Joel’s eyes follow the way drops of amber trickle down his sun-kissed skin. 

All Joel wants to do is lick the bitter drop off of him. 

The two stop before him. Neither of you knowing what to do or what to say. Joel attempts to apologize by parting his lips and that is the exact moment where Jack finally meets his gaze. 

“I know,” he says curtly. “Sit.” Jack extends the bottle of whiskey. Joel, without a word, sits down and takes the bottle. Just as he’s taking a swig, he notices you’re about to leave.  Thankfully Jack stops that from coming to fruition. “And where do you think you’re goin’? Sit your ass over here.” 

Joel almost cackles at how shocked you look. With the tiniest yelp escaping your lips you sit down right next to Jack. Taking a mouthful of whiskey, Joel extends you the bottle. You take it and chug it down immediately—Jack snorts and finally Joel feels comfortable enough to laugh alongside him. 

“Calm down darlin’, it ain’t runnin’ away.” 

“Sorry,” you hiccup, shoving the bottle into Jack’s chest. “I’m nervous.” 

“Well, don’t be,” Jack sighs and his head falls back against the fence. “I shouldn’t have reacted that way. I—” 

“We know,” Joel says with a fond smile. He throws his arm over Jack’s shoulder and cups the back of his head, his hat tumbling to the ground—it was now or never. 

For the first time, Joel brings their faces together without the tease of what he might or might not do. He kisses Jack tenderly, softly. Just like how he wanted to treat him during all those nights they were alone together. Jack digs his fingers into Joel’s shirt, nails nearly biting into the skin. Much to Joel’s surprise, the other man tastes sweet. Their tongues move together, still unsure but eager to explore. 

When Joel opens his eyes ever so slightly, he sees you staring in awe. 

He nearly breaks away laughing. But also, he can’t really blame you for your expression. 

It really does feel magical. 

You hold your breath. Every nerve ending you have is buzzing with want and arousal. The space between your legs pulsing as you watch Joel tilting his head, slipping his tongue through Jack’s eager lips. Deep down you feel like you’re intruding. That this is a tender moment that should just be between the two men but you can’t help but stay there, like a deer in headlights, watching.  

You shudder at the sound of Jack moaning, his hands grip Joel’s shoulder and host himself up the older man’s lap. He grinds down, swallowing Joel’s gasps, he parts away, a trail of saliva connecting the two. You’re still holding your breath. The tips of your fingers numb, your brain a whirlwind as it registers the sight before you. 

“Stupid old man,” Jack rasps, tilting his head to the side. “Gettin’ all sappy.” Then his heavy gaze finds your struck ones. He reaches out and in a dream-like state you take his hand, his fingers hastily close around your wrist and tugs you towards him. Your gasp is caught in your throat when he kisses you. The taste of Joel and whiskey still heavy on his tongue. 

A hand that doesn’t belong to Jack trails up the curve of your ass and squeezes. A choked-out moan drops from your lips only for Jack to shove his tongue between them. He sucks on your tongue and nips at your bottom lip all the while rolling his hips over Joel’s lap. 

“God, look at you two,” Joel groans, giving your ass another firm squeeze before moving his attention to Jack’s spread thighs. “I want to watch you eat that pretty pussy up, Jack. Bet you want that too. . .” 

Joel palms Jack’s cock through the denim, stroking him with a smug smile. Jack parts away from your lips with a whimper. His chest heaves. “Yeah,” he gasps, staring into your eyes, and his hips jerk, chasing the heat of the other’s palm. “Want you to make a mess of me, sugar.”

“Please,” you answer albeit not really needed. Your body falls back to sit on your heels, Joel crashes his lips against the younger cowboy’s, drinking the noises in like a starved man. He rips his flannel open while straightening himself, the momentum of the movement forcing Jack to grip Joel’s shoulders. He slides off of Joel’s lap, the kiss breaking when he directs his full lust-addled attention to you. 

His gaze is enough for you to start struggling with the buttons of your jeans. You kick them off in a rush and before you can take off your shirt Jack is already laying you down upon the soil, the stars above blinking down at you with mischief. Joel sitting close, pulls your head so you’re nestled comfortably above his lap. His hands cradle your face, thumbs stroking your skin gently. It’s a complete contrast compared to how Jack is. He slides your panties to the side, the pad of his thumb resting right above your clit, he stares at your from between your spread-out thighs. 

“Fuckin’ delicious,” he mutters right before delving in. He drags his tongue slowly up your folds while tenderly stroking your clit. Your back arches off of the earth, your eyes fluttering closed as he goes back down, only to kiss you tenderly. He takes his time with you. His jaw moving and tongue teasing your fluttering entrance. Your breath catches in your throat, your chest rattling, Joel shushes you while praising Jack at the same time. 

When your eyes finally open, you find Joel looking down at you. His thumb traces the underline of your bottom lip and moves down until he reaches the hem of your flannel. Flattening his thumb over your stomach, he pushes the fabric up until he exposes you to the sky completely. He cups both your breasts and smooths his fingers over your tingling nipples. 

“So hard already. . . you must really like what he’s doin’ down there huh?” 

Tears stinging the corner of your eyes, you nod. Your silent reply is answered with a sharp bite to the inside of your thigh. Your body jolts, a gasp of pain rattling your throat. Joel smiles. “I think he wants to hear you, sweetheart.”

“I love it,” you moan and as a reward, he pinches your nipples. 

“Good girl.” 

Jack presses his tongue deeper, your body clenching at both the words and the movement. He groans into your cunt, the bridge of his nose brushing your aching clit deliciously as he swirls his tongue. Your stomach coils tight and you push more of yourself into Joel’s palms, your mouth drops wide. You want more. You need more. You want them both to take and take and take—take until you forget your own damn name. 

“Joel. . .” you breathe. He looks down at you curiously. “I want to suck your cock.” 

Jack stops only for a moment before his eyes flutter closed and loses himself in you. Vaguely you can see the way he grinds down, a groan reverberating between your legs. Joel sucks in a breath and exhales from his nose. “You sure?” 

Your answer is ready on your tongue, and as soon as you give it to him, he expertly unbuttons himself. The tip of his cock pushes against your lips and your breath hitches. Precome smears over the soft flesh, your tongue darting out for a taste, you end up tasting from the source instead. Joel’s hips stutter. 

“Holy fuckin’ hell,” his hips jerk a second time, this time thrusting himself deeper into your mouth. You feel him leaning over, a second later you understand he’s reaching for the other man who is working you toward your orgasm. “Jack com’ere—Let me taste her.” 

Jack doesn’t make Joel repeat himself and unwillingly pulls himself away from between your legs. Your tongue swirls around Joel’s cock as Jack kisses him deeply. He licks himself deep into the older man’s mouth, stealing a moan deep within Joel’s chest. While Jack steals the breath from Joel’s lungs, he pushes two fingers into you with ease. Your eyes rolling, you take more of Joel into your mouth, prompting the other to instinctively thrust deep enough to make you choke around him. 

He parts from Jack with a gasp, “Fuck, that’s it, sweetheart, choke on it.” he says through gritted teeth. Both men look down at you with dark eyes, the shadows caused by the moonlight caress their backs, deepening every crease of their faces. You shudder. 

You’re surprised to see Jack dipping down, lower from where you’re sucking Joel’s cock, he sucks the tender skin of the base, and the sound that Joel makes almost feels inhumane. 

But Jack doesn’t linger. He pulls away from both of you, his torso tall between your legs, he strokes himself at the sight of your mouth full of the man he admires. 

“You like having your mouth full, darlin’? Such a dirty girl allowing two men to have you like this out in the open.” 

You whimper and nod, eyes flooding with tears as Joel shoves himself deeper. Spit and precome trickle down from where his cock stretches your lips. 

“Fuckin’ filthy,” Jack says giving himself a firm squeeze before swiping his palm over the head of his cock. With his other hand, he follows the contour of your leg, reaches all the way to your hip. “You’re ‘bout to feel much fuller.” 

He shoves himself inside you with a single thrust; your channel tightens around him, a moan escaping your throat. Your mouth is pulled away from Joel briefly, gasping for air, before he pulls you back. He adjusts his hips and slides back into your mouth, kneading the back of your neck.

“You feel that? How hot and wet you are? Both of us stretching you?” Jack's voice is gruff as he thrusts into you; your eyes close as pleasure radiates through your body, your skin left tingling. You can hear Joel moan and pant in the background, his cock throbs above your tongue and you hollow out your cheeks.

Your eyes flutter as Jack's cock glides in and out of you; his plunges getting deeper with every thrust. You feel overwhelmed by both of them. You’re left breathless and spinning. You feel only them and nothing else. 

You grip onto Joel to keep yourself teetered to the moment as Jack's movements become more desperate, Joel matching him thrust for thrust. With each gasp, Joel's cock slides further down your throat. 

The tightness inside your body grows; waves of pleasure cascade through you. The pressure builds and builds and builds—You’re so close you can taste it. Jack presses a palm over your mound, adding pressure as he draws quick and tight circles around your clit. Your throat convulses around Joel’s cock and he pulls out, his length resting comfortably above your lips. You breathe heavily against him, his cock slick and warm on your skin. 

“Atta girl,” he coos. “Just a bit more. . . Show us how pretty you look when you come.” 

You feel the pressure between your legs mounting with each hard thrust from Jack, your moans becoming louder and more desperate. Joel encourages Jack to go faster, and with each plunge you feel the tension in your core build higher and higher. 

And finally the coil snaps. 

Your whole body trembles and shakes. Your orgasm still rolling over your body like a violent wave. Jack pumps his hips into yours as he digs his hands into your hips. He keeps thrusting relentlessly, pushing himself as far in as he can before he pulls out. His jaw goes slack, cock gliding over your mound, he spills over your skin. You shudder at the trickle of his seed. 

Joel’s cock slides across your lips, teasing you. Your tongue darts out and quickly wraps around him, you tilt your head to take in all of his length. You push your mouth onto him, bobbing your head up and down until he groans. His hips buck erratically and at the same time you feel the touch of Jack’s mouth against the side of your neck. 

You swallow everything that he offers you, savoring every moment of the taste of him. You stay close to him until his breathing returns to normal, his thighs shaking underneath you as he pulls out. 

“Holy shit,” Jack chokes out as he collapses on top of you, head right above your chest. Joel wipes the sole tear that had escaped you eye and smiles. You bring his palm to your lips and kiss the rough skin. 

“It’s going to be hard walking away from all of this,” you whisper, shuddering when Jack’s mouth moves against the side of your breasts. 

“Who says you have to walk away?” 

You don’t have it in you to go into the details of your life and how you have to go. Or entertain the idea that maybe the things that you thought were important aren’t as essential that you thought after all. It’s pure chaos and right now all you want is to feel their warmth against your bare skin under the stars. 

For now, you are content and feeling grateful for the two amazing men who coincidentally made themselves an inseparable part of your life.  

[gpcwsl]

Warnings: short.

Caitlin Foord x Reader:

Title: Against The Odds

MasterList

The community center buzzed with the energy of volunteers preparing for the upcoming charity football event. Y/N moved with quiet efficiency, juggling tasks that ranged from directing setup crews to arranging stacks of flyers. She had little interest in the spotlight. She thrived in the background, ensuring that things ran smoothly while others took the credit.

It was a quiet life in a quiet town, and that suited her just fine.

But her routine was about to be disrupted in ways she couldn’t have imagined.

The arrival of Caitlin Foord changed the atmosphere instantly.

As the celebrated footballer stepped through the doors of the community center, the room seemed to brighten. Caitlin was magnetic, her confident stride and easy smile drawing every gaze. Wearing her Matildas jersey and her trademark charm, she exuded the kind of effortless charisma that made people gravitate toward her.

Everyone, that is, except Y/N.

Caitlin approached her table, where Y/N stood surrounded by stacks of flyers and a clipboard in hand. “Hey, you’re the coordinator, right?” Caitlin asked, her Australian accent as smooth as her smile.

Y/N barely glanced up. “Yes. I’m managing logistics.” She handed Caitlin a pile of flyers without preamble. “Can you distribute these to the tables by the entrance?”

Caitlin blinked. She wasn’t used to such brusque treatment. Most people fawned over her or at least gave her a moment of recognition. This woman acted like she was just another volunteer.

“Sure,” Caitlin said, recovering quickly. “Happy to help.”

As Caitlin moved off, she couldn’t resist looking back. Who was this woman, and why was she so… unaffected?

Later that evening, the weather took a sudden turn for the worse. Thunder growled in the distance, and a torrential downpour turned the streets into rivers. Caitlin had planned to head back to her hotel in the city, but the storm had other ideas.

“You’re not driving in this,” Y/N said firmly when Caitlin mentioned leaving.

“Got a better idea?” Caitlin challenged, though she already knew the answer.

Y/N sighed. “There’s a spare room at my place. It’s not fancy, but it’s dry.”

“Guess I’ll take you up on that.”

Y/N’s home was modest but cozy, filled with well-loved furniture and a lingering scent of fresh coffee. Caitlin looked around, intrigued by the glimpse into her host’s life.

“You’re not a fan of small talk, are you?” Caitlin teased as Y/N handed her a blanket for the guest bed.

“Not particularly,” Y/N replied, her lips twitching into the faintest smile.

Despite the rocky start, the storm forced them into an unexpected companionship. Over cups of tea and the soft rhythm of rain on the roof, Caitlin shared stories of her life as a professional athlete—the highs, the lows, and the constant pressure.

Y/N listened intently, her quiet presence a comfort Caitlin hadn’t known she needed.

The following day, the storm showed no signs of relenting. Trapped indoors, Caitlin found herself drawn to Y/N’s quiet strength. The two spent hours talking—about the charity event, their favorite books, and their vastly different lives.

“I don’t get it,” Caitlin said at one point, her voice thoughtful. “You’re smart, organized, obviously passionate. Why keep such a low profile?”

Y/N hesitated, then shrugged. “I like helping from behind the scenes. The spotlight… it’s not for me.”

Caitlin studied her, seeing for the first time the vulnerability beneath the surface. “You don’t have to be in the spotlight to shine, you know.”

Y/N’s cheeks flushed at the unexpected compliment.

The next day, the roads finally cleared, and Caitlin returned to the city for the charity match. Y/N thought that would be the end of their brief connection.

But then someone posted a picture online—a candid shot of Caitlin and Y/N together at the community center. Within hours, the image was trending, with tabloids speculating about Caitlin’s “mystery companion.”

Y/N was horrified.

“I didn’t sign up for this,” she told Caitlin over the phone, her voice trembling with anger and fear. “I don’t want to be part of your world.”

“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” Caitlin replied, her tone pleading. “But you are part of my world now, whether you like it or not.”

Caitlin drove back to Y/N’s town that same night, determined to fix things. She found Y/N at the community center, stacking chairs in a futile attempt to burn off her frustration.

“Hey,” Caitlin said softly, stepping into the room.

Y/N looked up, her expression guarded.

“I get it,” Caitlin continued. “You didn’t ask for any of this. But I’m not here because of the headlines or the attention. I’m here because I like you. The real you.”

Y/N’s eyes softened, but she remained silent.

Caitlin took a step closer. “I know my life is messy. I can’t promise it’ll ever be easy. But I’m willing to fight for this—for us—if you are.”

For a long moment, the only sound was the rain tapping against the windows. Then Y/N nodded.

“Okay,” she said quietly. “Let’s try.”

The days that followed weren’t easy. Y/N struggled with the attention, while Caitlin juggled her demanding career with her desire to protect their budding relationship. But through it all, they leaned on each other, learning to navigate the challenges together.

At a post-match press conference weeks later, Caitlin surprised everyone by dedicating her performance to “the unsung heroes who keep the world running—like the ones at our community centers.”

Y/N watched from the sidelines, her heart swelling with pride.

As Caitlin stepped off the stage, she found Y/N waiting for her, a rare smile lighting up her face.

“You’re incredible, you know that?” Y/N said softly.

Caitlin grinned, pulling her into a hug. “Only because I’ve got you.”

And for the first time, Y/N didn’t mind being in the spotlight—because with Caitlin by her side, it didn’t feel so overwhelming.