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chamisulgrape · 1 day ago

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watch me, watch me party on you 𖤐 [p.sh] pt.1

You and Sunghoon, the faces of two rival fashion brands, can’t stay apart after one night shared in the midst of New York Fashion Week.

☆ part one of party 4 u | part two [soon]

☆ pairing → sunghoon x afab reader

☆ word count → 6.8k

☆ tags → fashion industry setting, model au, nyfw, rivalry, lots of yearning and lust!, models falling in love during nyfw, confessions

☆ smut tags → porn with plot, barebacking (unprotected sex), blowjobs and foreplay, lots of spit/biting, squirting, use of petnames aka baby/darling, they're nasty and in love, minor dirty talk/degradation

☆ warnings → implied minor and subtle side relationship between sunoo and riki, who are the fashion designers in this au, please do not read if that upsets you in any way. you are not forced to read this in any way! hate comments and anything of the sort will be deleted and you will be blocked. not proofread

☆ a/n → hihi! this is a rewrite/revamp of another fic i have written previously on ao3, so if this seems familiar yes it is me! this is also my first time writing on tumblr since 2017-2018 when i wrote for bts, still learning my way around so pls be nice to me :3

minors pls dni.

♪ hope you walk in the party, cause i threw this party just for you.

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

"Are you nervous?"

You raise your gaze from the tape on the floor with your name on it, to meet Sunoo's calculating eyes. You swallow, and shake your head. "No."

You've trained your whole life for this opportunity. This is the moment they've been working towards for years. Now that it's in their hands, you're not going to ruin it. You're confident in your abilities, definitely, but what you're most confident in is making Sunoo and Riki proud.

"Good," Sunoo says, curt. He nods his head, looking over your suit—a careful and beautiful handcrafted piece, a piece in their latest and most criticized collection that is meant to exceed the norms of gender and all that alike—before calling Riki over. "You're our star. So go out there and make us proud."

Riki rushes over in seconds to peer over Sunoo's shoulder. "Everything good?"

Sunoo nods, brushing your suit off before disappearing to look after the other models.

Riki gives you a once-over just as Sunoo did, before running off and returning with a palette and a small makeup brush. You let him apply a sticky substance over your matte lips, and part them carefully when you're told not to smack. Riki uses his thumb to dab the corner of your lips and smiles. "You're perfect."

"Of course," you huff. "It's your guys' production. I wouldn't expect anything less."

Riki laughs and shakes his head. "That's what we like to hear. Don't tell Sunoo that, though. We don't want his ego skyrocketing any higher than it already has."

A staff member rushes up to them and gives the two of you a thumbs up. "Up in two."

Riki lets out a nervous breath. "You got this. Remember, loose—"

"—but not too loose." You finish. Riki reaches out to squeeze your hand once.

"Don't forget the pockets. And unclench." Riki frets over you some more before running off to find Sunoo.

The nerves don't hit you until there's less than a minute left. You're nervous, as anyone would be, but you're more excited. You want to be out there, showing that this is their brand. This is their debut. This is it.

It's Fashion week, it's New York, and you're going to make XO proud.

You stand tall and straighten your posture when you hear the music play, remembering what Riki said about unclenching and you relax your jaw.

"Go."

You do what you know best: you walk.

It's exhilarating; you live for it.

All eyes are on you—assessing and scanning over your outfit—like they're looking right through you. You can hear the questions already: What is XO? What do they stand for? What do you represent? You answer in the only way you know how.

You prove it by walking.

Like Sunoo said, you're their star. You're the face of XO and the person they specifically chose and nurtured and worked alongside for years, from the bottom of their brand up. You represent XO, and more importantly, you represent Sunoo and RIki.

There were no other candidates or options. From the very beginnings of XO, made in Sunoo and Riki's small studio, you've been there with them. They’ve come so far, to be holding a show amongst famous and respectable brands, and you are more than appreciative to be here with them. There’s nowhere you’d rather be than with the two people you cherish the most, doing what you love the most.

Towards the end of your walk, you spot him.

Sunghoon Park, face of PARADOXXX, sitting in the very front row.

You're not surprised that Sunghoon is here, no, you're more surprised that Sunghoon is looking right at you. Sunghoon isn't trying to look through you, nor is he holding his phone out to record like others are doing. Instead, Sunghoon's gaze is focused solely on you, and you feel as if Sunghoon is capturing the moment with his eyes instead.

Your heart almost stops when you meet Sunghoon's eyes. You look forward, trying not to let your gaze stray, but you can't help the way you keep taking subtle glances back towards Sunghoon. Your eyes are attracted to him, and you can't bring yourself to look away for too long. When your eyes meet for the third time, Sunghoon raises a brow, tilting his head slightly. You can feel your ears get hot, and you curse yourself for being distracted by him, but you can't help it.

Although there are over a hundred eyes on you, you can't feel as though Sunghoon is the only one really looking.

The last time your eyes meet as you near the end of your walk, Sunghoon winks. You make it your mission not to collapse until you get backstage.

"You're perfect! Perfect." Riki pulls you into a hug as soon as you make the turn backstage and then takes your hand to lead you further back and into a makeup chair. Sunoo comes shortly after, resting his hands on your shoulders and squeezing them lightly.

"Amazing, as always." Sunoo says, proud, before turning to Riki. "Retouch his lips."

Riki nods and Sunoo leaves with a kiss on Riki's cheek.

Later, as you watch through the TV to monitor the rest of the show, you notice that Sunghoon doesn't look at the other models the same way he looked at you. Sunghoon doesn't trap them with the same gaze he did you, nor does he look at any of the following models with the same eyes he looked at you with.

You can't get Sunghoon's eyes out of your mind, or the way he looked at you with want. Not a want of lust or greed or sin, but curiosity. A need to know.

Sunoo and Riki host XO's after party at DUMBO house that same night.

You're dressed in another XO outfit, one that Sunoo and Riki designed specifically for this event. They ditch the suit for a loose open blouse and a flowy pair of dress pants, and Riki chooses to do your makeup himself.

They take loads of pictures and videos for XO's social media accounts, and another ton of photos at the DUMBO House photo station before going off to meet the crowd of celebrities and contributors of the show.

"Have fun," Sunoo says, and proceeds to push a glass of champagne into your hands. "You deserve it."

You laugh, before your face falls. "Why does this sound like you're about to run off again?"

Sunoo shares a look with Riki before taking ahold of his hand. "Because we are. Have fun! Mingle!"

Your sounds of protest get lost on your tongue as Sunoo drags Riki away. You sigh, cradling your glass of champagne against your chest before going off on your own as well. You're stopped by various people asking for pictures or to congratulate you on the show today. You spend a few minutes talking to other models of the show and even Jang Wonyoung of IVE, before making your way towards the terrace.

The view from the terrace is breathtaking. You can see the river and the skyline from here, and you opt for setting down your glass to pull out your phone and snap a view pictures of the bridge and night sky. You're going through the photos you took when you're interrupted by someone sidling up next to you.

"Nice view."

You turn to see Sunghoon, in the flesh.

You startle, taken aback by their close proximity. Sunghoon tilts his head again, tongue coming out to wet his bottom lip, and you can't seem to look elsewhere. Unlike earlier during the show, you don't have to force yourself to look away now.

"Yeah, nice." You say, clearing your throat when your voice comes out hoarse.

Sunghoon takes a moment to sip from his own glass of dark liquor before speaking again. "You guys did great today. As always."

Your cheeks warm, and you look away from Sunghoon to down the rest of your champagne.

"Are you coming to our show tomorrow?" Sunghoon asks, and you turn to meet his gaze again. Sunghoon's hand has somehow gravitated towards you, now resting on your lower back.

"And if I don't?" You reply, fingers tightening around your empty glass when Sunghoon's fingers trace the open back of your blouse.

You know you'll be there, there's no way Sunoo and RIki are letting you miss out on a PARADOXXX show. But that's the thing about the game that you two are playing: you're the face of XO and Sunghoon is the face of PARADOXXX, two rival brands.

At the end of the day, the public knows that behind the rivalry and competition they like to fuel, Sunoo, Riki, Heeseung, Jake, and Jay are as close as best friends can be. They've been friends since grade school, and shared the same dream and ideas of opening their own brand with each other. The competition is fun for them, and they use each other as a way to keep their motivation and creative juices running.

(Also because they're all competitive bastards. You think that somehow they get off on winning.)

Still, you want to indulge the game you and Sunghoon seem to be playing by yourselves.

"I'd be disappointed," Sunghoon smiles softly, his hand falling from your back to rest on your waist. "I'd have loved for you to be there."

Your lips part at the sight of Sunghoon's smile. You knew that Sunghoon was pretty, handsome, and everything alike. Hell, you've known since high school, but Sunghoon has only gotten more attractive since, and you crave to know just how beautiful he is on the inside as well.

"Don't be too disappointed, Sunoo and Riki have already planned my outfit for tomorrow. You'll see me there." You grin, and you have to look away once Sunghoon smirks back. Damn you, for always being weak for pretty boys.

"Good," Sunghoon whispers.

"Good." You echo in reply.

They take a moment to bask in the scenery and view and each other, before Sunghoon breaks the silence again.

"Are we done with the small talk?"

Sunghoon squeezes your hand, and you wonder how you missed the fact that Sunghoon started holding your hand in the first place.

"What do you mean?" You tilt your head, feigning nonchalance. "We've only spoken a few words."

"I think a few words is enough, don't you think?"

"What do you really think?" You shoot back, and you know you're dangerously toeing the line between what you should be allowed to do, but it's exhilarating; the same way you feel when you're on the runway, you feel the longer you're in Sunghoon's presence.

"I think, Sunghoon starts, before using his grip on your hand to tug you closer until your chests are almost touching. He looks down at you, "That you should get to know me better."

"And you? Don't you want to know me better as well?" You ask, your glass of champange long forgotten as you hook a finger in one of Sunghoon's belt loops.

"I do, but I rather it be in the privacy of my hotel room." Sunghoon still has that wide, sharp grin on his face, and you find that you want to kiss it off of him, feeling the sharp edges of his fangs against your tongue.

Instead, you snort. "Wouldn't that be a headline? I can see it now. Us, faces of rival brands XO and PARADOXXX, seen eloping and spending a night together."

The smile you receive in return is blinding; melting and dripping warmth and love, and your heart threatens to pound out of your chest and into Sunghoon's hands. "Shouldn't we give them something new to write about?"

"Why should we?" You inch closer. You can almost feel Sunghoon's breath on your lips.

"I want you, and you want me. It's that simple." Sunghoon leans in, the tip of his nose barely grazing your own.

You reel back an inch, reveling in the way Sunghoon chases after you with a soft sigh. "Who said I want you?"

Sunghoon snorts this time, shaking his head lightly. "You've never been that subtle."

"And what about the others? I don't think they'll appreciate us leaving early, nonetheless being seen entering a hotel together."

"I don't think they'll mind that much, darling."

It's all you need to close the distance between you two, stealing the last syllable of Sunghoon's reply right off his lips in a chaste kiss.

The drive to Sunghoon's hotel is silent, and it takes everything in you to not jump Sunghoon right there in the back of the car.

You bite your tongue to hold back the small whimpers that threaten to come out as Sunghoon keeps his hand steady on your thigh, massaging the flesh there every so often and teasing over your crotch. Your eyes almost well up in frustration, and you have to dig your fingernails into your palm to keep you sane.

It feels like hours before you arrive at Sunghoon's hotel, coincidentally being your hotel as well.

"We don't have to take this to your room, mine is here too." You say once you're both in the elevator.

Sunghoon gives him a look of amusement. "Would you rather I do the walk of shame tomorrow morning? I have no shame in doing so."

You scoff, cheeks heating. "Shut up, you have. show tomorrow, it's fine. We'll do this in your room."

"You sound as if this is a job." Sunghoon crosses the elevator to take your hands into his, tugging him flush against his chest. "Am I not entertaining you?"

“You—” you huff. “You’re plenty entertaining. Entertaining and insufferable.”

Sunghoon hums, before surging forward to press his lips to yours. He bites down on your bottom lip softly before pulling away, laughing softly at the whimper you let out. “You don’t sound like you hate it.”

“I don’t.” You push Sunghoon off of you when the elevator dings, announcing their arrival to Sunghoon’s floor.

Sunghoon trails after you, catching up to you to wrap an arm loosely around your waist and steering them down the floor and in the direction of his room. When you arrive to his room, he pulls out his keycard to unlock the door. “Last chance to back out. Take one step in here and I’m not letting you go.”

You snort, pushing past him to enter the room yourself. “You’re so insufferable. Hurry up and give me what I came here for.”

“You’re so mean, darling. Here I am trying to sweep you off your feet, and you’re telling me you only want me for sex?” You hears Sunghoon whine as the door closes behind them. “Truly so mean.”

“Sunghoon. Come here and kiss me before I walk right back out that door.” You say, already having made yourself comfortable on the edge of Sunghoon’s bed.

Sunghoon throws his head back with a laugh, before shrugging off his blazer and throwing it elsewhere. He makes his way towards you stopping once he’s kneeling in between your legs, hands running up your thighs before stopping at your waist. “Didn’t know you were this impatient.”

“And I didn’t know you were this annoying.” You huff, frustrated, before grabbing onto Sunghoon’s blouse and crashing your lips together.

It’s more tongue and teeth than lips, but Sunghoon takes it in stride, matching your pace. Sunghoon’s hands stay on your hips, and you whine into the kiss in frustration.

“Sunghoon, when are you going to touch me?” You whine, leaning in to kiss Sunghoon again while reaching down to grab onto one of Sunghoon’s hands. You pout when Sunghoon pulls back, hands leaving you completely.

“Where do you want me to touch you?” Sunghoon says softly, before leaning in to nose at your neck. He licks along your collarbone, leaving small kisses as he trails down further.

“Everywhere.” You deadpan, and the laugh Sunghoon lets out in response tickles your skin.

“I’m trying to romance you,” Sunghoon leaves another kiss in the middle of your chest, and for once you're thankful that the blouse Sunoo and Riki put you in is wide open. “Yet you’re complaining.”

“You can romance me another day, Sunghoon. If you don’t get your dick inside me now, I’m going to wither away. Fast.” You sigh when Sunghoon untucks your blouse, and finally presses his palm against your skin. “I’m aging, Sunghoon.”

You can feel Sunghoon smiling against your skin, which frustrates you further. Sunghoon is so slow. You are this close to losing it, when Sunghoon finally stands. “You’ll let me sweep you off your feet another day?”

You groan and roll your eyes. “Yes! I’ll let you romance me whenever you’d like! Whatever it takes to get you to—” You pull at Sunghoon’s belt loop, tugging him closer so you can fumble with Sunghoon’s zipper. “—fucking take off your pants already.”

You hear Sunghoon laugh above you, then feel Sunghoon's hand come to rest on your head, before he runs his fingers down the side of your face. Sunghoon’s touch leaves your skin burning, and you forgets all about wanting to take his pants off when Sunghoon tilts your head up by the chin to run his thumb along your bottom lip.

Sunghoon presses down on your lip softly, the touch so soft, so intimate that your breath gets caught in your throat. Sunghoon is looking down at you with eyes so soft and filled with so much care and affection that your mind fills with static.

“You’re so pretty,” Sunghoon sighs. “So pretty.”

You flush, letting out a flustered scoff. You wrap your lips around Sunghoon's thumb and suck lightly. “Can I suck you off?” You mumble around Sunghoon’s finger, and the way Sunghoon brings his thumb down to press against your tongue almost has you gagging.

“Five seconds ago you were just telling me that if I didn’t get my dick inside of you you’d die. And now you’re asking to suck me off?” Sunghoon chuckles, shaking his head fondly.

“I changed my mind.” You pull your head back, making sure to keep your lips wrapped tightly around Sunghoon’s thumb, and pull off with a pop.

Sunghoon hums, wiping the spit you've left coating his finger on your cheek, and you scowl. You get a laugh in return, and immediately sit up straighter in anticipation when Sunghoon starts to unzip his slacks. Your mouth waters, saliva pooling under your tongue when Sunghoon finally pushes his pants down to his thighs. Your fingers tremble with the urge to reach out and grab onto any part of Sunghoon you can touch—his thighs, stomach, back, ass—but you restrain yourself by fisting your hands into the sheets.

Sunghoon clicks his tongue. “Baby,” Oh. You shiver, body tingling from your toes to the very top of your head at the pet name. Sunghoon reaches out to hold onto your wrists, bringing them to his thighs and exhaling through his nose when you run your hands up his skin. “Nobody said you couldn’t touch.”

You shudder in anticipation and excitement as you finally grope at Sunghoon’s legs freely, feeling the static in your mind spread to your fingertips as you run your hands anywhere you can get your hands on. Sunghoon is standing silently as he lets you touch his skin as you please, and it makes you whimper.

You swallow the saliva that keeps flooding your mouth at the thought of how good and nice Sunghoon is and how you want nothing more than to be good for him, too.

You hook your fingers under the waistband of Sunghoon’s boxers, looking up at him through your eyelashes as you pull lightly. “Please?”

You see Sunghoon swallow and tongue at his cheek, and your toes curl at the sight of Sunghoon twitching in his boxers. God, you want him so bad your body aches, craving Sunghoon’s touch everywhere; your body against his and Sunghoon’s pretty lips and tongue and—You just want so badly to be his, to belong to Sunghoon.

“Oh, baby, you don’t have to ask.” Sunghoon says softly, hand coming up, up, until his fingers are running through your hair. You can’t help the way you squeeze your thighs together to relieve some of your arousal, because nobody’s ever touched you like this before; nobody has ever touched you with so much affection and care and fondness like Sunghoon’s been doing.

You stand up and remove your fingers from where they were teasing Sunghoon’s skin to curl them around the sides of his neck instead, pulling him in for a soft kiss that says too many things at once. Sunghoon’s hands slide around your waist, fingers digging into your blouse lightly. You spin the both of you around, flipping your positions until Sunghoon is the one seated on the bed instead.

Sunghoon sucks in a breath when you disconnect your lips to drop to your knees between his thighs. You leave kisses on his thighs, biting and sucking to leave small marks you knows will be covered by Sunghoon’s outfit tomorrow. Sunghoon’s hand rests in your hair, and you preen when Sunghoon’s fingers tighten when you bite down too hard.

Impatient.

Sunghoon’s voice echoes in your mind, but you're already painfully wet and throbbing under your panties and you think if you wait any longer you’ll go absolutely insane. You waste no time pulling Sunghoon's boxers down, the sight of the gray fabric damp with a wet spot from Sunghoon’s precome shoves the last bit of sanity and patience you have out the window.

Sunghoon hisses as the cold air hits his cock and his voice breaks off into a low groan when you wrap your soft hand around the base, one hand digging crescents into Sunghoon’s thigh and the other holding his cock steady so you can lean down and lick a stripe up the underside. You moan when you get to the mushroom-top head, eyes rolling back at the musky scent of Sunghoon’s precome and sweat finally on your tongue.

You suck lightly, tongue digging into the slit, already addicted to Sunghoon’s scent and smell and taste. Your lips are slick from the drool from your mouth dribbling out the corners of your lips and down Sunghoon’s cock, and you hear Sunghoon let out a shaky breath above you. You take a glance up and are frozen in place at the sight of Sunghoon with his head thrown back and his pretty throat on display. You make a mental note to remember to taste him there later too.

Sunghoon’s head falls forward when you take him deeper into your mouth, and you're obsessed with the way Sunghoon looks when he’s getting his dick sucked—when you're the one doing it. How his brows furrow, how his lips turn pink and raw from being bitten down on, how he sounds moaning your name when you swallow around his cock.

Sunghoon releases his bottom lip, tongue peeking out to run over it as a way to soothe it. You preen again when Sunghoon finally has his eyes and gaze on you, and it makes you think back to the show earlier today, when all of Sunghoon’s focus was on you. God, the thought makes your blood run hot, and you makes it your mission to prove to Sunghoon just how much you like when Sunghoon looks at you—how much you love when Sunghoon makes you feel like you're the only person there.

“So pretty—god, you’re so perfect for me.” Sunghoon tightens his fingers in your hair and uses the grip to pull you further down onto his cock, until your nose is buried into Sunghoon’s finely trimmed hair. You try to express how much you love this—Sunghoon using you and pulling your hair and praising you—but it only comes out as a weak moan that has Sunghoon's hips bucking forward. Sunghoon curses when you gag around him. “Fuck, you feel so good.”

You whine and rub your thighs together to relieve some of the ache in your core, fingers tightening where they’re already digging into Sunghoon’s thigh. You pull your head up to swirl your tongue around the tip again before going down, making sure to squeeze Sunghoon's balls ever so lightly and softly as you do, and the throaty moan you get in return has you pulling off to shove your face against Sunghoon’s hip in need.

“Sunghoon—Sunghoon, please. Fuck me now, I can’t take it anymore—please.” You whimper against Sunghoon’s shirt, dampening it with your saliva. “Sunghoon, I want you. I need you so bad.”

You feel Sunghoon shake, tremble, before you're pulled up by the hair and into a rough kiss. Sunghoon tugs you forward so hard that your teeth clash against each other as Sunghoon falls back onto the bed, bringing your body with him.

You moan, needy, as you crawl over Sunghoon’s body to situate yourself on Sunghoon’s thighs. You reach between them to stroke Sunghoon’s cock and swallow down the groan he lets out at the feeling. You suck at Sunghoon’s tongue when it enters your mouth to lick along your teeth and trace your lips. You grind against Sunghoon's palm when he rips your hand away from his cock and presses his palm against your core, instead.

“Off. Take it off,” you pant against Sunghoon's lips and tug at his blouse. You pull back to trail wet kisses down Sunghoon’s neck as he pulls the fabric up, only pulling away to help Sunghoon lift the shirt over his head and diving right back in to lick along his collarbones.

You runs your hands greedily all over Sunghoon’s chest and shoulders, moaning at the feel of his skin. Sunghoon's body is hot and damp with sweat and you can’t resist sucking and tasting every part of him that you can get your mouth on.

“Baby—I have a show tomorrow.” Sunghoon breathes out, sounding just as hot and bothered as you feel. “No marks.”

You whine in response. “But you taste so good.”

“Yeah? Won’t look so good walking tomorrow like this.” Sunghoon laughs, softly, before bringing you back up to pull you in for another kiss. “You’re so cute. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Me walking down the runway with your marks on display for everyone to see. Everyone knowing that you did this to me?”

“Want it so bad—want you so bad.” You say in between kisses. You nod, letting out soft exhales into Sunghoon’s mouth as Sunghoon pushes his palm harder against your core, letting you rut your clit against his hand. “Sunghoon, fuck me already.”

“You’re so—”

“—impatient, I know. Hurry, I said please.” You interrupt, and Sunghoon laughs again, the sound ringing in your ears like a symphony. You don't think you’ll ever get enough of Sunghoon. “Sunghoon, now.”

“Are you always this impatient with other people? Or am I just special?” Sunghoon teases, moving to remove your blouse and throw it somewhere across the room. You ignore the fact that Sunoo and Riki would skin you alive if they knew their precious shirt was on the floor of a five-star hotel room while you fraternize with the face of their rival.

You shiver when your chest is completely bare, nipples hardening at the feeling of cold air against your skin. Sunghoon leans down to take one into his mouth, tugging lightly with his teeth. “No—ah—I’ve never wanted anyone as badly as I want you.”

Sunghoon laps at your nipple, and you keen during a hard suck. He's running his hands all over your back, and you can’t stress enough how addicted you are to having Sunghoon’s hands on you. Sunghoon pulls off with a loud pop, instead moving to leave marks in the middle of your chest. You can feel the way you're dripping into your panties, soaking through the fabric, hips grinding down against Sunghoon's palm.

“That’s cute. You’re so cute. Just for me.”

Just when you're about to get more impatient, Sunghoon reaches down into his pants to pull out a condom. You scoff. “Were you planning this?”

Sunghoon pats your thigh with a hand, and you gets the hint to hop off of his thighs and onto the bed. You crawl further, until the back of your head hits the soft pillows. Sunghoon removes his pants fully, leaving him completely naked, and your cheeks warm at how shameless he is.

“Maybe.” Sunghoon is kneeling in front of your legs, working on getting your pants off. “Asked Jake for it before the after party.”

“Oh.” You frown down at him. “How often do you do this that he just gave it to you?”

Sunghoon smiles, all teeth, before leaning down to press a kiss on your bare knee. “Don’t be jealous, darling. I told him who it was for.”

“And how do I know that you said me? For all I know, you could’ve had it ready for anyone else.” You pout when Sunghoon laughs against your knee. “It’s not funny.”

“Baby, I don’t want anyone but you. I’ve wanted you for years.”

And oh, “Oh.” Your breath hitches at the confession.

Sunghoon hums, the vibrations tickling your inner thigh. He kisses his way up to your stomach, sucking a mark right above the waistband of your panties. Your mind is swirling, thoughts of how long you've wanted Sunghoon, and now how long he's wanted you. They could’ve been doing this much sooner.

“Hey,” Sunghoon’s voice breaks you out of your thoughts. “We’ll talk about this later, yeah?” You nod, licking your lips. “Eyes on me.”

You haven’t taken your eyes off of him for as long as you can remember, but you nod. God, you think you might love Sunghoon. You don’t think about it for too long, not after Sunghoon pulls off your panties in one go, adding them to the pile of collecting designer clothes on the floor.

Sunghoon exhales, running his hands up your thighs. “You’re so pretty. Fuck.”

You whine, shy. “Don’t stare.”

“Why not? You’re mine, aren’t you?” Sunghoon says, raising a brow when you release more wetness onto the sheets.

“Yeah—I’m yours,” your voice comes out shaky. “Always have been.”

“I know, baby.” Sunghoon leans down to kiss your stomach, before coming up to kiss your lips too. “I know.”

You whimper against Sunghoon's lips, choking on a moan when Sunghoon ghosts the pads of his fingers down your slit. You can feel how wet you are, the wetness making the slide easier as Sunghoon slides two fingers against your clit, moving them slowly in between open mouthed kisses.

You're barely kissing at this point, more panting into Sunghoon's mouth and Sunghoon licking along your lips, but you can’t seem to be bothered when Sunghoon is touching you like this—fingers gently massaging you, rubbing slow circles against your clit—like you're his.

“Good, fuck, Hoon—you’re so good.” You throw your head back, and Sunghoon dives in to nibble at your neck and suck lightly at your jaw. “Can you touch me now? Please?”

“I am touching you.” Sunghoon emphasizes with a pinch to your clit. “More?”

“Hoon, no, here,” you reach down between you two to wrap your fingers around Sunghoon’s wrist—whimpering when Sunghoon’s hand leaves your clit—to push him lower, lower until Sunghoon’s fingers are ghosting over your hole.

Sunghoon inhales sharply, applying the lightest bit of pressure where you need him the most. “God.”

Seconds pass before Sunghoon reels back to rip open the packet of the condom with his teeth, spitting somewhere off the side of the bed. Sunghoon calls for you, “Baby, c’mere.”

You reach for him, arms coming around Sunghoon’s neck and pulling your bodies flush against each other. Sunghoon hoists one of your legs around his waist, firm grip under your thigh.

“Fuck, you’re perfect.” Sunghoon leans in and noses at your jaw before running a finger down your slit.

You hold Sunghoon tighter when he finally pushes the tip of his finger in, hole clenching around the digit. You moan, voice cracking when Sunghoon slides his finger in deeper, crooking it before adding another.

“Hoon—Sunghoon, add another. I can take it, please.”

Sunghoon kisses your earlobe before pressing his lips against your temple. “I know you can—god, you’re so tight.”

You clench around Sunghoon’s two fingers weakly, pressing your hips down against his hand in an attempt to get him deeper, to feel fuller. You throw your head back when Sunghoon adds a third finger alongside the two, moaning when Sunghoon scissors his fingers.

“I’m ready, Hoon. Please, please, need you now.” You rock back against Sunghoon’s fingers, whining when you feels Sunghoon’s cock twitch against your thigh.

“I barely even stretched you out, baby.”

“Sunghoon, I can’t wait anymore—please,” you beg. “Hurry, baby, Hoon.”

You hear Sunghoon let out a low groan against your temple, and you let out a soft laugh. “Baby? Is that what did it for you?”

“Could say the same to you.” Sunghoon removes his fingers from your hole, leaving you empty and clenching around nothing. “It’s just you, I like whatever you call me.”

“Stop being so cheesy—fuck me already.” You can feel your ears getting hot again, and hopes that Sunghoon doesn’t see right through him.

“Hold on, I need to get the condom—”

“No! I’m clean. Wanna feel you inside me, please."

Sunghoon groans against your neck. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

“C’mon, Hoon, hurry.”

Sunghoon inhales again, leaving one last kiss against your neck before he pulls back, your arms falling onto the bed. Your stomach churns with anticipation and arousal, and you can already feel the pool of wetness you've left under the both of you. Sunghoon isn’t doing any better, and you can feel the sticky spot of precome he’s left on your thigh as well.

You reach down to run two of your fingers through the mess on your thigh before bringing it to your mouth, sucking around your fingers and moaning at the taste. Sunghoon’s lips part, and then he’s surging forward to taste his own precome off your lips.

“You’re so hot, god, I’m so lucky.”

You whine, wrapping both of your legs around Sunghoon’s hips to cage him in. You moan in unison when Sunghoon’s cock brushes against your clit, and your mouth waters at how thick and warm and heavy Sunghoon feels against him.

You reach between them to wrap your hand around Sunghoon’s cock, guiding the head to your slit to rub it against yourself a few times before pushing the tip into your hole, barely, still teasing.

“Fuck.” Sunghoon moans, and you can’t resist pushing the head completely inside.

You keen, throwing your head back against the headboard as you feel Sunghoon finally entering you slowly, stretching you and filling you up just how youwanted. You moan at the feeling of being so full.

“Ah! Sunghoon—feels so good, so big,” Your head lolls to the side, tongue slipping out when Sunghoon finally bottoms out.

Sunghoon’s thumb swipes against your lip, pushing the spit that’s dribbled out from the corner of your lips back into your mouth, keeping the tip of his thumb inside. Your eyes roll back when Sunghoon moves, slowly, pulling back until the head of his cock catches against the ridges and walls of your entrance and slamming back inside in one go.

You wail, and Sunghoon pulls his thumb from your mouth so he can hear the sounds better. “Fuck, fuck—oh my god, Sunghoon, baby,”

“Yeah? You’re so tight. You feel so good around me—god, could fuck you like this every day.” Your moans rise in pitch with each thrust Sunghoon delivers, and by the end of his sentence, you're practically screaming. “You’re so fucking loud, you want everyone on the floor hearing you get fucked like this? Hearing you getting fucked by me, moaning like a bitch, hm?”

Your mind goes blank. All you can hear and feel and taste is SunghoonSunghoonSunghoon.

Sunghoon groans, throwing his head back when you tighten and clench around him. “All the people who saw you walk today don’t even know that their precious model cries and moans like a whore in bed. All for me, just for me.”

You're delirious. “Yes! Yes, Hoon—oh god, just for you! I’m yours, all yours only yours—”

“You’ve never been anyone but mine. Wanted you so bad for so long, now that I have you I’m not letting you go.”

You let out a loud sob, nodding your head vigorously. It sounds so tempting, so delicious—the thought of being owned by Sunghoon—being Sunghoon's own personal model. Just Sunghoon's and no one elses.

The thought has you seizing up, and before you know it, you're squirting all over Sunghoon's cock, fluid splashing against the sheets and spilling down Sunghoon's balls. Sunghoon moans loudly at the sensation of your walls fluttering but doesn’t let up. His thrusts and rhythm don’t falter, instead, he seems to get rougher, fucking you harder through your orgasm to milk you through it.

You whine in sensitivity, each thrust has Sunghoon’s cock abusing the spongey spot in your cunt, and you can't help the way you shake, releasing small spurts of wetness out around his cock.

Sunghoon hikes your legs higher, the angle causing his cock to hit deeper, filling you up even better than he did before. Your eyes well up with tears; the overstimulation hurts so good.

“Fuck, you look so pretty crying with a cock inside you.” Sunghoon curses, hands coming to hold your hips, using the grip and the new angle to piston his hips faster into your hole. “‘m close—gonna fill you up how you wanted, yeah?”

You nod, hooking your ankles around Sunghoon’s back and pulling him closer, deeper. Sunghoon groans, one hand coming up to wipe at your lashes where your tears are collecting so prettily for him. “Sunghoon, baby, fill me up. Want your cum inside me—want it inside, cum inside. Wanna feel you inside me for days.”

Sunghoon pulls you in for a kiss, all tongue and teeth before pushing his hips flush against yours, burying himself deep inside of your hole as he finally cums.

The warmth of Sunghoon's cum inside of his hole has you shuddering, finally content at the feeling of Sunghoon filling you up to the brim.

“Wish I could plug you up, have you come to my show tomorrow all plugged up with my come still inside of you. You’d like that, huh?” Sunghoon says against your lips, and you clench around Sunghoon’s cock, causing you both to moan lowly. “Next time, baby.”

The kisses turn soft, and you melt against the pillows at the feeling of Sunghoon's lips against yours. You sigh against Sunghoon’s mouth, hands holding his jaw to keep him close.

After a few minutes, Sunghoon moves to pull out. You whine, trying your best to clench to keep Sunghoon and his cum plugged inside of you.

“Baby,” Sunghoon chuckles. “We can’t stay like this forever.”

“Please?” You tug him back down and onto the sticky mess between you, grimacing when it smears against both of your skins. “It’s fine, we can clean tomorrow.”

“No.” Sunghoon fights back, but makes no move to get up or pull out.

“Baby, please?” You beg, voice soft, and your eyes widen when you feel Sunghoon’s cock twitch inside of you. “Sunghoon!”

“You’re just so—” Sunghoon lets out a breath, rolling his hips slowly. You full-body shudder, and blame Sunghoon for the way white hot arousal shoots throughout your body again. “Can’t get enough of you. Want you like this every day.”

“Sunghoon,” you sigh when Sunghoon pulls out an inch before rolling his hips forward, the head of his cock rubbing against your abused walls lightly with each thrust.

It’s slow and sensual and intimate, and after a few minutes you're brought to your third orgasm of the night, another load of Sunghoon's cum filling your hole up.

“God, you don’t know what you do to me. I think I like you too much.” Sunghoon says after you’ve both bathed and are lying in bed. Sunghoon’s arms are wrapped around you and your head is resting on his shoulder.

You look up at him, only to find him already looking at you. This time, it’s your turn to say:

“I know.”

Sunghoon laughs softly, lips curling up at the corners in a soft grin before he leans down to press his lips against your forehead.

“You’re going to be the death of me.”

You grin back. “Wouldn’t that be a headline? Sunghoon Park, death by love.”

“And who said that I love you?” Sunghoon raises a brow, amusement and fondness and everything swirling in his eyes.

“You’re not that subtle, Sunghoon.” You lean up to kiss him softly, once, twice before burrowing your head into Sunghoon's chest.

Sunghoon pulls the covers over your shoulders and pulls you closer to him, as if you weren’t already as close as you can be. “Wouldn’t you know?”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Wouldn’t I know?” You repeat after him.

The two of you fall asleep like that minutes later, legs and limbs tangled together. You think your poor, weak heart has already jumped out of your chest and into Sunghoon’s welcoming hands a long, long time ago.

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

XO sunoo and riki's brand PARADOXXX heeseung, jake, and jay's brand DUMBO house soho house's third nyc club, located on the edge of the east river + where a designer named peter do hosted his after party during nyfw 2 years ago!

a/n: my first fic here is done! listened to party 4 u the whole time while writing this, it almost made me insane. thank you so much for giving this a try if you did! pls reblog/leave me asks or anything :3 that would make me very happy! part 2 will be out soon hehe

#chamisulgrape #party4u series #enhypen smut #park sunghoon smut #sunghoon smut #enha smut #sunghoon x reader #enhypen x reader #sunghoon fluff #sunghoon imagines #sunghoon scenarios #enhypen scenarios #enhypen fanfic #enhypen fic #sunki au

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lieutenantsluvr · 12 hours ago

Text

what the quiet hides | oneshot

masterlist

pairing: jackson!joel miller x f!reader

❝ I'm the escape to somethin' that's worse I am the shadow drivin' the hearse ❞

synopsis: Joel struggles to readjust to life in Jackson—a quiet life untouched by the constant specter of death that once followed him. Learning to live as someone who's no longer a killer is no easy thing. When does a monster cease to be a monster? Simply put, when you love it.

a/n: i'd like to say this is the semi parallel universe as death trapped, clad happily—in other words, you know him, you know the terror he's caused, the lives he's taken. hell, you probably encouraged some of it. you aren't someone random. you're important—important enough that he keeps you an arms length away. I like writing the reader as someone who is just plain tired. you want to love, but you're also exhausted from the hell you've been through—and joel can be a frustrating man. you love him, definitely, but at the end of the day you're tired of the wall he's forcing you behind.

warnings/tags: heavy fluff, angst, sexual suggestions, implied intercourse, semi-established relationship, reader is downbad for joel, he's traumatized ofc, lots of dialogue, you play with his hair, something about domestic reader and joel makes me start crying andshitting at the same time

w/c 10.2k

“You have to talk to him,” Tommy says, low and slow, teeth grazing his bottom lip like the thought’s gutting at him. At this point, it’s less a suggestion and more a quiet plea. His fingers twitch against the warm surface of his coffee mug—white, plain. Trembling just slightly. Nervous energy in every motion.

“I don’t know who you think I am to him,” you say, the words scraping out of your throat like sandpaper. You inhale sharp and dry, coffee clinging to the back of your tongue like a ghost. “Whatever he’s doing, whatever he’s not saying—that’s on him. That silence? It’s his choice.”

“Maria’s on my ass—” he starts, but you cut him off before the rest can tumble out.

“I know how she feels about him, Tommy. I know how the whole damn town feels about him.” The words spill out hot, too fast, like you’ve been holding them in too long and they’re finally clawing their way free. “But I can’t just—fix it. He hasn’t said a word to me since we got here. Hell, I don’t even live with them.”

You pause, breath shaky, eyes fixed on anything that isn’t him.

“I traveled across the goddamn country with him—and Ellie,” you say, softer now, voice rough at the edges. “And this is where we ended up. Right here. Barely a word between us.”

The silence that follows chews at your throat. You try to swallow it, try to make it into something cleaner. Something that hurts less.

“You’ve known your brother a hell of a lot longer than I have,” you say, voice low, frayed at the edges. You drag a tired hand down your face, like maybe the weight behind your eyes will go with it. It doesn’t. Your fingers find the mug again, still warm, still useless.

“So, why don’t you tell me what the hell I’m supposed to do?”

The words hang there—sharp, bitter, hollow in the way grief is hollow. You’re not angry at Tommy. Not really. But the question is more than a plea; it’s an admission. You're out of road. Out of maps. And out of whatever thread was holding all this together. Before there was a plan, a mission. Now? Nothing. It's all freewill.

Tommy doesn’t speak right away. Just stares, jaw tight, like he’s weighing the truth against the damage it’ll cause.

“I think…” he starts, then trails off, eyes dropping to the mug in his hands like maybe it’ll give him courage. “I think he’s scared. And Joel… don’t know how to talk when he’s scared.”

You scoff, dry. “Yeah, well. I don’t know how to wait around for someone who won’t even look at me.”

Tommy doesn’t rise to meet your frustration. He lets it pass, steady and silent. He understands—probably better than anyone ever could. He shared blood, breath, and a womb with that man. But more than that, he sees the truth for what it is. Sees it clearer than you’re ready to admit. Two people, equally wrecked, equally stubborn, and completely in love. It’s written all over both your faces, even when you won’t look at each other.

A few heartbeats drag by in silence. Heavy ones. Worried ones.

“Have you talked to Ellie?” he asks finally. Not so much a question as a sideways shuffle—dodging the heat of your words, giving himself something safe to stand on.

“Every day,” you reply, with a tired breath. Your fingers tap out some nervous rhythm against the table, soft and restless. “She drops by. Talks shit. Makes me laugh.”

You pause. The next part stings, but it’s true, and you owe the truth to Tommy, even if it’s ugly.

“She makes jokes, too. About Joel and I—says we’re professionals at pretending the other one doesn’t exist.”

A humorless chuckle slips out before you can stop it. “She’s not wrong.”

Tommy doesn’t smile. He just looks at you like he’s waiting for you to say the one thing that matters most. The thing you keep dancing around like broken glass on a kitchen floor.

“I think she gets on him about socializing,” you mutter, words slipping out like they’re trying to escape your throat before your heart can catch up. “Hell, I know she does.”

And still, he doesn’t come around.

The confession comes quiet, bitter, reluctant.

Truth is—you miss him. God, you miss him more than you’d ever admit out loud.

You miss the almost-smiles, those fleeting little ghosts of warmth he used to give when no one else was looking. You miss the gravity of him—how the air changed when he was near, how the silence always seemed heavier, fuller. You miss the scent of coffee on his skin, like he carried the morning with him wherever he went.

You miss the way his eyes found you in a room like they were built for it. Always watching. Always knowing. Seeing right through you without ever asking too much.

You miss that laugh—barely a breath, a half-hearted exhale that said more than words ever could. You used to live for that sound. Now it’s just an echo in your skull.

And those eyes. God, those deep, forest-dark eyes. Like dusk caught in human form. The kind that made you feel seen. The kind that burned. The kind that made you want to stay.

You drag your fingers across your mug again, fingertips numb from the cold now. You’re not even drinking the coffee. Just holding onto it like it might hold you back.

“Tommy, I—” you start, voice catching on the edge of something you’re not sure you want to say. “I don’t want to look desperate. I don’t want to seem like I need him. Knowing damn well he doesn’t need anyone, not really.” You swallow, trying to shake the weight off, but it’s there. Always there.

A long, suffocating beat of silence stretches between you.

And then, quieter, as if saying it aloud makes it more real: “I don’t want to… get hurt.”

The words hang in the air, brittle with honesty, and they taste bitter on your tongue. The weight of them presses down on your chest like something you’ve been carrying too long, but never dared to unpack.

Tommy doesn’t rush to answer. He leans back in his chair, hands resting on his knees, his eyes searching your face like he’s weighing something heavy. He knows this—he’s been here before, watching people break without ever meaning to.

“Hell,” he says, voice quiet but firm, like he’s been carrying this truth for a long time and it’s finally time to share it. “You’re not the only one scared of gettin’ hurt. We all are. Joel, me, you, Ellie…” His gaze softens just a fraction, the edges of his expression sharpening with something that feels like regret. “We all keep our walls up, ‘cause it’s easier than lettin’ someone in and watchin’ ‘em leave. Easier than lettin’ them hurt you.”

A pause, long and measured, before his eyes flick to the empty space between you both.

“But you know what, kid? You can’t keep livin’ like that. You can’t keep waiting for the hurt to come before you decide to feel anything. ‘Cause it’ll eat you alive, piece by piece.” He leans forward, elbows on the table, voice softer now, a little more worn. “You can’t fight what’s real. Not forever.”

You laugh—more of a bitter chide than anything else. The sound of it barely even feels like yours.

“What, you think your brother loves me?” Your eyes lock with Tommy’s, deadpan and heavy with a kind of dark amusement, though the smile you offer is anything but genuine. It’s a fragile thing, a mask you slip on just to hide the ache beneath.

Tommy’s expression hardens at your words. For a moment, there’s a sharp edge to his gaze—something that goes beyond the casual brotherly concern. It’s raw, almost desperate, like he’s reaching through the layers of sarcasm and deflection, trying to make you see the truth.

“You think I don’t see what’s goin’ on here?” His voice drops, low and urgent, as if every word matters too much to waste. “I’ve only watched you two—hell, for a few months, tops—and I see it. The way you look at him. The way he looks at you.” He shakes his head, frustration in his tone. “But neither of you want to admit it. Both of you too goddamn stubborn to let the walls down.”

Tommy leans in, eyes locked on yours, a kind of plea in them that cuts through the sarcasm.

“Look, I know my brother,” he says, his voice strained with a rawness you don’t often hear from him. “He’s broken. But goddamn, he cares about you. He wouldn’t let himself care, but he does. And you—” He pauses, “You’re no better. I know you’re scared of getting hurt. Hell, I get it. But if you don’t stop pushin’ him away, you’ll lose him before you even get the chance.”

You'll lose him before you even get the chance.

A beat of silence hangs in the air. His voice softens, almost pleading.

“I want this for you both. I want you to make it work.” He exhales sharply, like the weight of it all is finally catching up. “But you’re gonna have to stop running, or you’ll end up with nothin’ but regret.”

You're gonna have to stop running. You'll end up with nothin' but regret.

You shift uncomfortably in the diner booth, your eyes drifting over the busy room, lingering on the Tipsy Bison—a familiar chaos of voices, laughter, and clinking glasses. It's louder than usual today, the air thick with chatter and the smell of fried food. You don’t even register it, though. Your mind’s elsewhere, caught in a storm of what-ifs.

“It’s complicated, Tommy…” you start again, voice hesitant, like you're not sure if the words will come out right—or even if you want them to. “What if Ellie doesn’t want us together? What if—”

Your throat tightens, and you break off. There’s a lump there, one you can’t swallow down no matter how hard you try. Ellie. She's a part of this too, in ways you can't ignore, in ways that make the whole thing feel like walking on glass. You can’t just pull Joel out of the wreckage of his past without considering her, without wondering if you’re tearing apart something she holds together.

Shit, maybe you're making excuses at this point.

“I don’t want to make things harder for her, or him,” you mutter under your breath, eyes flicking back to Tommy’s. But even you can hear the uncertainty in your voice. It doesn’t feel like you’re talking to him anymore, but to the fear inside you.

Tommy’s gaze hardens, but there’s something in his eyes—an understanding, mixed with the frustration of seeing you wrestle with the same doubts he’s been carrying for a while now. He leans forward, hands pressing into the table as he speaks, voice low but firm.

“Ellie’s not gonna stop you from doing what you feel is right,” he says, the words carrying a heaviness that suggests he’s had this conversation with himself a thousand times. “She’s smart. She knows what’s goin’ on between you two. Hell, she probably sees it clearer than either of you do.” He exhales sharply, “And if you think for one second that you’re doin’ her any favors by staying away, you’re wrong.”

He pauses, staring at you with a kind of raw honesty you don’t often get from him. “Ellie’s already lost enough people in her life. She knows the damage of keepin’ people at arm's length. And I think she wants you and Joel to make it work. She wants him to stop runnin’. But you—” Tommy leans in closer, voice growing softer, more insistent. “You gotta stop runnin’, too. The both of you are too goddamn old, and scared of gettin’ hurt to even take a chance on what could be good.”

He pulls back, letting his words hang in the air, thick with the weight of everything unsaid. “If you’re waitin’ for things to be perfect before you let your guard down, you’re gonna be waitin’ forever. And by then… it’ll be too late.”

Christ.

You exhale—deep, shaky. The kind that comes from somewhere buried, where you've been holding it all too tight for too long. Your forehead drops into your hands, elbows on the table, the weight of everything finally pressing down.

“You gotta stop clocking me like this, Tommy,” you mumble through your fingers, voice muffled, worn thin with exhaustion. There's no bite to it—just a hollow kind of resignation. The truth hurts worse when someone else says it out loud.

For a second, neither of you speaks. The noise of the Tipsy Bison hums around you, distant, like you’re underwater.

Tommy leans back, arms folded, and when he speaks again, it’s quieter—gentler.

“I’m not tryin’ to call you out. I’m just tired of watchin’ two good people pretend they don’t want the same damn thing.”

“Fine.” You say it like a weight’s being dragged out of your chest. Your eyes flick up from the mug, settling on Tommy—guarded, but less so than before. “I’ll try.”

The words taste strange coming out, like they don’t quite belong to you yet. But they’re real. And for the first time in what feels like weeks, the wall you’ve been holding up cracks just a little.

You lean back in the booth, staring past Tommy now, past the crowd, into the blurry space where you let yourself imagine something different—something softer.

“I don’t know what the hell I’m gonna say to him,” you admit. “But I’ll try. If he still wants to hear it.”

. . .

It’s later now. The sun’s long gone, buried beneath the horizon, leaving the sky painted in shades of deep blue and silver. The moon hangs heavy above Jackson, casting a soft, almost mocking glow over the dirt roads and still porches. The air’s thick—hot in that suffocating way that clings to your skin. You tug at your shirt, the fabric damp and stubborn where it sticks to you, like even it doesn’t want to let go.

Joel’s house stands quiet in front of you. Still. Heavy. That same heavy stillness he wears like armor. He's intimidating. Fuck, even his house is.

You stare at the door like it might lunge at you. Every nerve in your body is screaming at you to turn around. To walk back home. To pretend like this never happened. But your feet don’t move.

You can’t run anymore. Not from this.

Your hand rises before you even realize it—slow, shaking just enough to betray you—and you knock.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Each one lands like a heartbeat, louder in your chest than it is in the air. And then nothing. Just silence pressing down on you like a second skin.

You swallow hard, already halfway regretting it—but it’s too late now. You’re here.

And he knows it.

You wait, your breath catching somewhere between your ribs and your throat, like your body can’t quite decide whether to brace for impact or run. The seconds stretch—long and hollow—and just when you’re about to turn away, the door creaks open.

But it’s not him.

It’s Ellie.

You blink, your posture faltering ever so slightly. She’s standing there barefoot, hoodie slung half-off one shoulder, a brow raised like she’s been expecting something, just not you.

“Oh—” you exhale, breath slipping out in a sigh you didn’t mean to let go. “El, hey.”

Ellie leans on the doorframe, chewing the inside of her cheek for a second, eyes scanning your face like she’s reading a book she’s already halfway through.

“Hey,” she says, casually enough, but there's something knowing behind her tone. “Tommy send you?"

You glance past her, instinctively, but don’t see him. Just low light and a half-finished glass of water on the table inside.

“Is he here?” you ask, softer than you meant to.

Ellie nods, jerking her thumb over her shoulder. “Yeah. He’s in his room. Pretending he’s not listening.”

She steps aside, wide enough for you to enter, then adds, dry as ever, “Try not to break anything, yeah?”

“Yeah, ’boutta wreck your house,” you tease, giving her a gentle nudge with your shoulder.

Ellie snorts, but her smirk is soft. “Figured. Thanks for the warning.”

You step just inside the doorway, letting the air of the house settle around you—familiar and heavy all at once. The door clicks shut behind you, but it still feels like the world’s wide open, pressing against your back.

“I’ve missed you,” you say, the words leaving your mouth on an exhale like they’ve been sitting in your lungs for weeks. Maybe longer.

Ellie’s smirk fades, and her eyes meet yours, more serious now—older, somehow. “I know,” she says, simple, sincere. “Me too.”

You nod, pressing your lips together to keep the ache at bay. “I know things have been… weird.”

“Yeah,” she agrees, shrugging one shoulder, “Weirds definitely the word.” Then she looks at you again, more gently this time. “But it doesn’t mean they’re broken.”

A silence passes between you, one that feels less awkward and more like mutual understanding. She takes a step back toward the hallway and jerks her chin toward Joel’s room.

“He’s not gonna bite,” she says, almost teasing—almost. “Probably.”

You stand there, staring down the hallway like it’s the mouth of hell itself—dark, quiet, unforgiving.

“Well,” you mutter, squaring your shoulders with mock solemnity, “just so you know… you’re in my will.”

Ellie quirks a brow, arms crossed, already bracing for the punchline.

“And if I don’t come back from this,” you go on, dramatic, waving a hand toward the hallway like you’re heading into battle, “I want you to have my jacket. The one with the fleece inline."

Ellie scoffs. “Wow. Generous.”

“Also, my stash of knitting spools. And—” you glance over your shoulder, dead serious for a beat, “—burn my journal. Don’t read it. I mean it.”

Ellie’s laughter finally breaks through, light but real. “You’re such a dork.”

You flash her a shaky smile, one that barely masks the pounding in your chest. But it’s enough to steady your feet. Enough to take the first step down the hallway.

“Yeahhh,” you breathe, voice low now. “… You're my dork.”

And then you're moving—one slow, inevitable step at a time toward his door.

You take those few agonizing steps toward his door, each one louder in your ears than they should be. The hallway feels longer than it is, stretched by nerves and silence, the soft creak of the floorboards underfoot like a countdown.

You stop in front of the door—his door—and for a second, you just stand there. Your hand lifts before you can talk yourself out of it. A soft knock. Barely audible.

Your voice follows, thinner than you meant. “Joel…?”

Silence.

Then something shifts behind the door. A quiet sound—maybe the creak of floorboards, maybe just your own heartbeat in your ears. The air feels too still, like the house itself is holding its breath.

You swallow. Everything in you feels crooked, like you’ve walked into the middle of something fragile and sacred and utterly unknown. Your knuckles hover near the door again, but you don't knock a second time.

Instead, you speak—awkwardly, gently. “It’s… just me.”

Still nothing. But you know he’s there.

Because that silence? That’s Joel’s kind of silence. The kind packed with meaning. The kind that makes you want to run and stay all at once.

“I guess you could say… Tommy got to me.” You offer it like a half-joke, your voice barely carrying through the door, but it’s all you’ve got. “Wouldn’t shut up, really.”

Nothing yet. Not a sound. But you keep going, because if you stop now, you won’t start again.

“I wanted to talk about… things.” The words stumble out in a rush, awkward and unpolished. You wince the moment they leave your mouth, like you already hate how vague they sound. “About us. About what happened. About what… didn’t happen.”

You let out a shaky breath, one hand ghosting against the doorframe.

“I don’t even know if you want to hear it. Maybe you don’t. I wouldn’t blame you. But I… I’ve been carrying it. All of it. And it’s getting heavy, Joel.”

There’s a quiet inside that doesn’t feel empty—it feels held. Like someone’s standing just beyond the door, rooted in place. Listening.

You lean your forehead against the door, lowering your voice like a secret. “I miss you. Even when you’re right in the same room, I still miss you.”

“I know things have been awkward since we came back… since Salt Lake City.”

The words slip out, slow and uneven, like they’ve been stuck in your throat for months.

“I’ve thought it over a million times in my head,” you admit, your voice softening, fraying at the edges. “What I could’ve done. What I should’ve said. If I made you upset, angry… shit, happy.”

You laugh under your breath, bitter and breathless. “I don’t know. You never told me.”

There’s still nothing from the other side of the door. But you don’t stop. Can’t.

“I don’t want it to be like this,” you whisper. “This thing between us. This silence. I want us to be whatever we were before.”

You pause, your hand resting on the wood like it might anchor you. “Friends?” you offer, the word clumsy on your tongue, too small for what you really mean. “I don’t know.”

And it’s the truth. You don’t. All you know is the ache in your chest and the ghost of what you had—whatever it was—flickering in every quiet second he doesn't speak.

“But I’d rather fumble through it with you… than keep pretending I don’t care.”

You pause, chest rising, falling. Waiting.

The silence is thick—almost suffocating now. Like the walls are leaning in, like the air is pressing too close.

And you know.

You know it deep in your gut, in the stillness that follows your words like a cold wind after a flame.

He won’t talk to you.

He’s not going to.

Maybe he never was.

You pull your hand back from the door like it burned you. Your fingers curl into your palm, like they’re trying to hold something that’s already slipping through.

Your throat tightens, and you bite down on the lump rising there, hard enough to hurt. It’s all unraveling now—the hope, the effort, the trembling truth of how much you wanted this to go differently.

But it didn’t.

And maybe it never would.

You hear it before you see him—a deep, guttural clearing of his throat. The kind of sound that carries years of whiskey and smoke, rough around the edges, just as familiar as the gravel in his voice.

You freeze.

And then you turn—slow, too slow, as if your body can't quite catch up to the pounding in your chest.

Your eyes fall first to a chest too broad, just a little too close. The worn fabric of his shirt stretches tight across his shoulders, and for a second, you forget how to breathe.

But it’s when your gaze rises—slowly, reluctantly—that the air hits you like a punch.

It’s him.

Standing there.

You blink, the words coming out softer than you meant, almost lost in the rush of your heartbeat. “Oh.”

The stupid thing is, you thought he’d been in his room, behind that door. You thought he was keeping his distance.

He was never in his room. He was right fucking behind you.

You clear your throat, the sound cutting through the thick air. Your fingers curl into fists, but you don’t look away. Not now. Not when you’ve come this far.

“I had… a lot to say to that door… in case you couldn’t tell,” you say, your voice smooth, confident—maybe even a little too sassy. But it's a mask. And for once, you're not hiding behind it.

Joel's eyes flicker, dark and unreadable, like he's weighing the space between the two of you. His jaw tightens, and there's a flicker of something in his gaze—a mixture of anger, sorrow, and something softer, something dangerous. He steps forward, closing the gap between you, but not too much. Just enough to remind you he’s there, that he's always there. Even when you don’t see him.

“You talk to doors often, now?” His voice is rough, like it’s been sitting under layers of dust and regret.

You shrug, trying to keep the snark, the bravado, up even though it’s crumbling under the weight of his stare. "I thought I’d give it a shot. Guess it didn't work."

Joel exhales sharply, rubbing a hand over his face like the whole world’s suddenly too damn heavy. Because it is. Your presence alone is heavy. His shoulders are stiff, tense, like he’s holding back an ocean of things he doesn’t want to say—or maybe things he’s too terrified to admit.

“You don't know what you're asking for,” he mutters, voice low, gravel rough. "You think you do, but you don’t."

Your heart kicks in your chest, but you don’t flinch. “I think I just want you to talk to me.”

Joel's eyes narrow, his chest rising with a deep breath. You see it—the way his gaze flickers toward the floor, the way his hands twitch like he’s holding himself back from doing something he’ll regret. “You don’t know what it’s like. What I’ve done. Who I am. I—” He pauses, shaking his head like the words won’t leave him, even though they’re clawing at his throat. "I'm not the man you think I am."

You take a step forward, closer, but just enough to show him you’re not afraid. You’re not backing down this time. “I don’t think you're a damn saint, Joel. I know that. I've seen that.” Your voice softens, just a fraction. "But I don’t care about that. I care about you. And I want to fix this. Whatever this is."

Joel’s eyes flick to you—deep, tortured—and for a second, just a second, you see it: the war inside him, the cracks that he’s been trying to keep sealed. His lips press tight, and you can almost feel the weight of his self-loathing hanging between you like a wall too thick to break through.

“You don’t know what I could do to you.” His voice is raw now, quieter. Dangerous. "I ain't good for you."

You shake your head, every bit of your soul pushing back. “You don’t get to decide that for me.”

The silence settles between you again, thick and heavy, but you don’t look away. Not this time. Not when you’re finally here, finally saying it. Whatever happens next—whatever he says, whatever he does—you’ll face it. You’ll face him.

“What do you think you’re going to do to me, Joel?” You exhale sharply, feeling the anger bubble in your gut, each word sharp as glass. “Break my heart? Shit! You’re halfway fuckin’ there!”

The words leave you faster than you can control them, a slip of frustration, of everything you've been bottling up for far too long. You hope it doesn’t come off as a confession, but the weight of what you just said lingers in the air between you. The ache you’ve been carrying around—growing like an open wound—is bleeding out. And you hope to God it doesn’t hit him wrong. That whatever oozed from your heart doesn’t make him pull away even more.

You wipe your palms against your jeans, trying to ground yourself before the next words come out, but they do anyway.

“I don’t know what we are, or what I want us to be—but I do know I can’t go without talking to you. Seeing you.”

Your voice is quieter now, but still laced with the same fire. The same desperation.

“Tommy coming to me like you’re already halfway in the ground, begging me to get you to talk to somebody around here. Fuck, Maria thinks you’re a liability.”

You’re pushing, and you know it. But it’s not without reason. The words burn like gasoline on your tongue, and part of you is waiting for him to snap—waiting for that goddamn wall to crack, for any emotion to spill out of him. Anything.

You pause, just long enough for the words to settle between you, before they fall out, heavy and reckless.

“Thinkin’ that if I walked right into that bar and grabbed the first man I’d see… would you do anything about it?”

Joel’s gaze hardens as you speak, each word you throw at him building tension between you like a fuse to a bomb. He’s still standing too close, but this time, it feels like more of a challenge than an invitation.

His jaw tightens, his fists flexing at his sides as if he's trying to hold onto something—control, composure, whatever's left of him.

“You think I’m going to break your heart?” His voice is low, a rough growl that cuts through the air, but there’s something strained in it—something raw, something rabid. “You think I don’t know what I’m doing to you?”

He steps closer, a fraction. “You really think I want to keep you here in this mess?” His eyes burn, a flash of anger now, but something darker, too—fear, regret, maybe guilt. It’s hard to tell with him. But you see it there.

He runs a hand through his hair, tugging at the roots like he's pulling the anger and pain out of him, trying to keep it from spilling over. His words are like gravel now. Rough, jagged.

“Tommy came to you about me, huh?” His voice drops a little, bitterness creeping in.

“Figures. He’s always had a way of making everyone else carry my weight.” He shakes his head, eyes flicking away momentarily, before settling back on you. “Maria can think whatever the hell she wants. She doesn’t know a damn thing about me. About what I’ve done.”

He doesn’t back away from your challenge. If anything, his presence becomes more imposing, like he’s daring you to push harder.

“Do you really think I wouldn’t care?” he mutters, his voice quiet but thick with something unspoken. His eyes narrow, hard and unyielding. "Do you really think I wouldn’t do anything about it?"

His fingers twitch at his sides, but he doesn’t touch you—doesn’t move a muscle, as if holding himself back from something he can't control. The silence between you swells. He’s trying to choke back whatever’s clawing at him, and you can feel it in the way he holds himself, rigid and cold.

“I’ve never wanted you to walk away," he says, his tone softer now, "But I’m not the kind of man who deserves you. Not the way you think. I’m trying to keep you safe, and you… you just don’t get it.”

A beat of silence passes.

“Please,” you breathe, the word escaping more like a crack than a whisper, jagged and raw.

Your voice trembles under the weight of it, tears burning behind your eyes—thick and hot, pressing hard against the dam you’re trying so damn hard to keep in place.

“Just let me help.” It slips from you like a split thread, like hope stretched too thin. “Let me do something.”

You blink, once, twice—but the tears don’t fall. Not yet. They just sit there, glassy and defiant, blurring the edges of him as you fight to keep them at bay.

“I don’t want to beg,” you murmur, softer now. Almost ashamed of how close you are to breaking.

But it’s already there—in your voice, your eyes, the way your hands tremble like they’re reaching for something that might never reach back.

Joel doesn’t answer right away.

His face shifts—barely—but you catch it. A flicker of pain that cuts through the stone of him. His mouth opens, then shuts again, like the words hurt too much to form.

“You think I want you to beg?” he growls, but it’s not anger. Not really. It’s fear dressed in anger’s skin. His hands flex, jaw tight, like he wants to grab something—you, maybe—and shake some sense into both of you.

“I hear you talk like that and it makes me feel like I already broke you.”

His voice is low and uneven, the kind of sound that comes from a man who hasn’t cried in years but might start now if he lets go for even a second.

He shifts, takes a step back like he’s trying to create distance between your pain and his guilt, but it doesn’t work. It never works. He may not want it to work.

“You wanna help?” he mutters, not looking at you. “You are the help. Just being here, standing there—looking at me like I’m not… like I’m not some monster—I don’t deserve that.”

He finally meets your eyes again, and this time, there’s no armor left. Just Joel. Just the tired, hollowed-out man beneath all the grit.

“I don’t know how to let you in without ruining you.”

There it is. The truth.

But even then—he hasn’t walked away.

You pause, eyes locked on him, heart pounding so loud it might as well reverberate through the damn room. He looks like something cornered—scarred and tired, a man built of walls too high and wounds too deep.

A feral thing, wounded. Backed into himself. An animal.

“Do…” you falter, swallowing the tightness in your throat. “Do you trust me?”

It's not a weapon. Not a trap. Just a question.

Laid at his feet like an offering. Like maybe, if he says yes—just maybe—something in both of you can finally rest.

His brow furrows slightly, like he doesn’t understand how anyone could still ask him that. How anyone could look him in the eye and mean it.

Then—quietly, a rasp, low and broken like gravel over ash:

“…Yeah. Yes.”

His voice shakes on the word.

“God help me, I do.”

He looks at you like it costs him something to admit it. Like handing you that truth took a piece of him he’ll never get back.

Your breath stumbles out, ragged and quiet, and then—you move.

You reach for him with care, like he’s something fragile under all that roughness. He is. Your fingers wrap around his wrist, steady and deliberate, guiding it upward with a kind of grace that feels almost reverent. Like you’re not just moving his hand—you’re inviting him in.

You press his palm to your skin—just there, along the slope of your collarbone, your jaw. Not forceful. Not demanding.

It’s not control. It’s not surrendereither.

It’s trust. A quiet way of saying: I’m not afraid of you.

Not like you’re afraid of yourself.

And he feels it—how you don't flinch, how you don’t recoil. How you let him in, even here.

Your voice comes low, breath warm, eyes searching his like you’re trying to stitch together something he’s long since torn apart.

“There’s a moment,” you murmur, “before and after someone learns the truth of you… the real you. What you’ve done. What you carry.”

“And in this moment… this world after?”

You tilt your head into his hand, just slightly. Just enough.

“I still choose you.”

Joel doesn’t speak.

Doesn’t blink.

Just stands there, frozen in the raw gravity of your words like they physically hit him—like you knocked the air clean out of his lungs. His hand stays where you placed it, warm and heavy against your skin, but his fingers twitch—once, like he’s unsure if he should pull away or hold tighter.

He should walk away. That’s what the voice in his head screams—the voice that’s always screamed. The one that’s kept him alive through blood, betrayal, and loss. Sarah.

But for the first time in years, he ignores it.

Because the way you're looking at him? Like he's not just a wreckage of a man? It breaks him.

His palm spreads wider, thumb grazing the edge of your jaw like he’s memorizing it, religiously.

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” he rasps, voice low, nearly pleading, almost broken. “You think you do, but—God, darlin’, you don’t.”

Still, he doesn’t pull away.

He steps closer.

So close the heat from his chest radiates through your skin like fire licking at every nerve. His breath fans against your face, hot, unsteady.

"I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve you.”

And then, something shifts—snaps.

His other hand comes up fast, almost desperate, cupping the back of your neck, pulling you in. Not rough—not this time. But there’s a bite to it, a hunger barely contained. His forehead leans against yours, the closeness almost unbearable.

“You’re gonna regret this,” he mutters, barely audible. “One day, you’ll see me for what I really am.”

Fuck, you hope so.

His mouth hovers near yours—right there—but he stops. Breath trembling, lips barely apart. Waiting.

For you to move. To choose him again. Even now. Even like this. It's selfish. He doesn't care, he wants to be selfish. Selfish with you.

You lean in, slow and surrendering, your hand resting over his—where it cradles your jaw.

Your body leans into his, like a tide drawn to the gravity of something larger, heavier, older than reason.

It's not an act of bravery.

It's not even hope.

It's desperation—that aching kind. That aching, pathetic kind of deal people make with the devil when they’re too tired to run anymore.

If he wanted you whole, he had you. And if he wanted to ruin you? You’d let him.

Because some part of you knows… he already has. And you're still here, reaching for him like ruin is worth it if you end up with him.

Whatever restraint he was holding cracks apart, splintering into ash. He surges forward—not rough, not angry, but hungry, lips crashing into yours with years of silence and grief behind it. His mouth claims yours like he’s been dying for it, like the taste of you might pull him back from the edge he’s lived on for too damn long.

His hand slips to the back of your neck, the other anchoring at your waist, pulling you tight, flush, his. There’s nothing gentle about it, not after everything. It’s messy. It's flawed.

It's real.

When he finally breaks the kiss, it’s only by a breath, foreheads touching, eyes shut.

“You ruin me,” he whispers, voice frayed. “Every damn day.”

He moves his weight forward, free hand pushing down on the bedroom handle. A quick push and it's open, softly guiding you inside.

The moment the door clicks shut behind him, a quiet weight settles between you—backing you into the cool, dim light of the bedroom. His hand still grips your neck, but it’s softer now—more possessive than forceful, as though he’s trying to make sure you’re real, choosing him.

His lips graze your ear, his breath uneven against your skin. The heat from his chest against your back makes it feel like the world outside doesn’t matter—like it’s just the two of you, everything else lost to the storm inside.

His hand slips from your neck, trailing down the curve of your spine, a soft press against the small of your back, urging you closer. And still, he doesn’t speak—only guides you to the bed, each movement slow and deliberate, like the space between you matters.

When your legs hit the edge of the mattress, he pauses. He doesn’t push you down. He stands there for a moment, breathing, letting the tension settle like dust between you.

Joel runs a freehand through his hair, eyes not leaving yours. “I’m not the man you think I am,” he says, voice low, broken. "I can’t be."

He steps closer again, his presence overwhelming.

“But if you’re here,” he breathes, “if you’re still here… then I guess we both got somethin’ to prove.”

His lips meet yours again, this time gentler, more desperate. As if he’s trying to hold onto something fleeting—something he’s terrified of losing, even as he’s the one pushing you away.

. . .

The morning light slips through the cracks in the blinds, casting soft slivers of gold across the room. The chirping birds outside are a reminder of the world that continues spinning, oblivious to the quiet, intimate war that’s just been fought between you and him.

The ache in your body? It tells its own story—one of tangled sheets, and a bit more aggression than you thought he'd unleash.

You stretch a little, muscles sore but in the best way, the warmth of his body still lingering like an imprint. A soft, lazy yawn escapes your lips as your eyes flutter open, trying to gather the fragments of last night while the day begins to creep in.

The familiar blue comforter. The dark walls. The desk cluttered with wooden shavings, remnants of the life he’s built—a life that always felt like a fortress to keep people out, but last night? Last night, you breached it. You might have even been the main character of it.

You glance over your shoulder and, sure enough, his weight is there beside you. The soft, steady rise and fall of his chest beneath the faded sheets. You must have rolled over at some point in the night, tangled yourself up in him without even realizing it. His arm is draped lazily over your hip, like it belongs there—like you belong there.

The faint marks on his collarbones—darker now in the pale morning light—are yours. A trace of the night’s heated exchanges.

That was you.

It feels almost surreal, the contrast between the man he’s always been—gruff, distant—and the one you just saw, the one you touched, held. The one who let his guard down and let you in.

You can still feel him on you, in you. His weight, his warmth, the echoes of his lips against your skin.

The stillness of this moment is almost too much, too peaceful for the chaos you both carry inside. But for now, you don’t think about it. You don’t think about what happens after—about where this goes, what he really means when he says he doesn’t deserve you, or what the hell happens when everything falls apart again.

Instead, you focus on the weight of his hand against your skin, the feel of his chest rising and falling beneath your fingertips, the soft rasp of his breath so close it makes your pulse quicken. You close your eyes again, breathing him in, and for once, the world outside feels just far enough away.

You lift your hand slowly, carefully, as if any sudden movement might shatter the fragile quiet around you. One fingertip escapes the safety of the blanket and drifts toward him—toward that single curl that’s fallen stubborn across his brows. You brush it back, gentle, and it coils around your finger like it knows you. Like it wants to stay there.

He doesn’t stir.

You stare at him—really stare—and something settles in your chest. Heavy. Bitter. Tender.

It's cruel, you think. Unforgivably cruel, that the world has been so merciless to a man like this. A man who carries so much weight in his shoulders, in the lines carved deep around his mouth and eyes. A man who’s learned to bury softness just to survive.

Because the man before you now? Lying there half-wrapped in sheets and sleep, his hand resting against your hip like it’s the most natural thing in the world—he's nothing like the monster he thinks he is. He feels sweet.

Sweet in the way his fingers twitch in his sleep, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go. Sweet in the quiet tension of his jaw, even now—like he’s still fighting demons. Sweet in the memory of his mouth on yours, rough, desperate, demanding.

It’s almost unbearable. It feels like something holy.

Your fingers drift lower, slow and reverent, tracing the hardened edge of his jaw—rough with stubble, sharp from years of clenched teeth. It’s not a perfect jawline, not clean or pretty, but it’s his.

Your thumb grazes the corner of his mouth, then down, brushing gently over his bottom lip. He stirs just slightly, not fully waking, but reacting. His breath hitches faintly, and you pause, holding your touch steady.

You wonder if he’s dreaming. If, in that dark, quiet place behind his eyes, he still sees fire. Blood. Regret. So, you touch him like you can rewrite it.

"Handsome," you murmur, more to the moment than to him.

Because he is. Handsome in a way the world would never see. In the way he loves, fiercely and silently. In the way he breaks apart at night and still holds people together by day. Always a protector. Never protected.

You lean forward just enough to press a barely-there kiss to the corner of his mouth—soft, chaste, real.

And when you pull back, his eyes are open. Heavy-lidded. Watching you. He heard you.

His eyes don’t move at first—just stay fixed on you, heavy and unreadable, like he’s still trying to wake up from something deeper than sleep. You feel the weight of that stare settle into your ribs, slow and silent.

Then, finally, he blinks. A breath. A shift in the sheets.

"Good morning," you whisper, a little softer this time—as if saying it too loud might break the spell of him staying.

You try to lighten it, teasing to fill the silence. "I can’t promise I wasn’t doing anything weird while you were sleeping,” you murmur, your voice playful, lips curling as you roll onto your stomach. Elbows press into the plush give of the mattress, propping yourself up just enough to face him.

Only then does the flick of your gaze drop—chest bare, collarbone exposed. The comforter barely modest where it rests along the dip of your spine. He’s just as bare. Both naked. Still.

Joel exhales through his nose—soft. His hand flexes slightly where it’s still tangled in the sheet between you, then reaches, slow and unsure, to tuck the corner of the comforter back across your back. His knuckles drag against your skin. Not by accident.

“You always talk this much in the mornin’?” he rasps, voice thick with sleep and gravel.

You watch the way his eyes settle on you again, less guarded now, like whatever armor he wears hasn’t quite returned to him yet. He sees you—not just in his bed, but here. Still here.

“Only when I wake up next to someone handsome,” you murmur, "…which doesn't happen often."

Joel huffs a breath—something between a scoff and a laugh—and drags a hand down his face. He doesn't say anything right away. But then his fingers drift toward you again, rough palm finding your hip under the covers.

You move closer—slowly, deliberately—testing the weight of the morning, the strength of what last night left behind. The sheet shifts with you, sliding down your back just enough to expose more skin to the chill of the room, but you don’t care. He’s warm.

Your hand drifts upward, fingers threading into his curls—messy from sleep, soft in a way that doesn’t match the rest of him. You let your nails scrape gently against his scalp. Soothing and affectionate.

He leans into it. Barely. But he does.

"Regret your decision yet?" you whisper, voice teasing at the edge, daring him to pull back. To throw up walls. But there’s tenderness laced in the words, too—a crack in your own armor.

Joel’s eyes flicker open wider, finding yours in that hazy glow of morning. His jaw works for a second, like he’s chewing over every version of no that he doesn’t know how to say right. Then, his hand slips from your hip to your waist, palm warm and grounding.

“No,” he says, low and solid.

Then quieter—more broken: “Just scared you’re gonna wake up and regret yours.”

And there it is—laid bare between you. Not lust, not anger, not even love.

Fear.

He doesn’t say more. Doesn’t need to. The silence after his words says everything: he’s afraid he’ll ruin this. Ruin you. That whatever passed between you last night was a kindness he’s not meant to keep.

But his hand stays. And his eyes stay. And so do you.

You study him in silence, eyes drifting across the lines etched into his face—Every scar, every shadow, you take in as if remembering them.

Then, softer, a little teasing: "What's your favorite thing to eat for breakfast?" Your smile curves as you lean deeper into the sheets, the warmth between you still lingering in the air.

He grunts—barely more than a sound, but it’s a start.

“You ask a lotta damn questions,” he mutters.

The bed shifts as he moves, sitting halfway up with the sheet tangled around his waist. His back’s to you now—broad, scarred, tense. Like he’s already regretting last night, or maybe just the part where it meant something.

He runs a hand through his hair, rough. “Don’t got a favorite,” he says, after a beat. “Food’s food.”

But it’s a lie, and you both know it.

Another beat.

“… Pancakes,” he adds gruffly. “With butter. None o’ that syrup crap.”

He doesn’t turn around. Doesn’t let you see the look on his face. Keeps his voice flat like it doesn’t matter. Like you didn’t just break something open in him he’s been holding shut for years.

"So, I'll make pancakes." You stir, sitting up against the sheets. Softly—you lean over and embrace him in warmth. Hugging him from behind. Bare chest pressed against scarred and ripped skin, hands softly tracing against his hips.

Joel stiffens under your touch like he's not used to it—like the idea of someone holding him just to hold him sets off alarms he can’t quite silence. Your cheek rests between his shoulder blades, skin against scar, breath against memory.

He doesn't move at first.

Then his hand lifts—hesitates—and finally lands on yours, resting where it’s wrapped around his hips Not gripping, not pulling you closer. Just there.

“I didn’t ask you to,” he says. Gruff.

You can feel his heartbeat—strong, steady. Alive.

“Pancakes,” he repeats, quieter this time. And you catch the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smile, but close enough.

“Don’t burn ‘em.”

His voice is softer now. Still rough, still Joel.

You slide from the bed in a hush, the sheets whispering behind you. Before distance can settle in, you lean in close and press a kiss to his temple—fleeting. Like it might ward off the ghosts for just a moment.

Your bare feet tap gently across the worn hardwood, and the air bites a little colder when you aren't caged against the warmth of him. The room is dim and quiet, dust caught in slivers of early morning light. It smells like old wood, whiskey, faint cedar. Him.

You scan everything—the way he lives, the wooden spooled mess he doesn’t clean up. Everything here is stitched with the weight of a life survived, not lived.

Your hand finds his flannel slung over the back of a chair, worn soft from time and habit. You slip it on — oversized and heavy with warmth—and spin once as you finish buttoning it up, grinning through a small exhale.

“Feelin’ like Joel Miller already,” you say, half to yourself, half to him.

From the bed, he lets out a small scoff. Doesn’t sound amused. Doesn’t sound angry either.

“Careful,” he mutters, voice raspy with the morning. “That ain’t somethin’ you wanna catch.”

You glance back at him — the way he’s still sitting there, one arm draped over his knee, body cut from shadow and silence. He watches you like you're some dream that he doesn't know how to comprehend.

“I dunno,” you say, quieter now. “Might be worth it.”

He looks away, jaw tight. Like he wants to believe you but doesn’t trust belief.

You round the corner, still in his flannel, steps light, almost playful—until the smell of coffee hits first. Familiar, grounding. But something else follows, quick on its heels. A shift. Presence.

“Joel? Did you make coff—” You stop.

She’s already there. Leaning against the counter, mug in hand, eyes too sharp for someone her age.

Ellie.

Your breath hitches half a beat, and you straighten instinctively. She somehow still manages to fill the room like she owns it — like she’s been here longer than time itself.

She nods toward the two mugs on the counter, smug as anything. “Made you coffee,” she says. Then, with a shit-eating grin and a wiggle of her eyebrows: “I guess the talk went well… last night.”

It’s not even a question. You blink, caught between embarrassment and a laugh. “Jesus… Ellie.”

“Not quite,” she shrugs, sipping from her mug. “But thanks.”

You lean against the frame of the doorway, tugging the flannel a little tighter around you. She catches the motion—notices it’s Joel’s—and her eyes glint with mischief.

“What time did you… get back last night?” you ask, trying to recover.

She shrugs again. “Early enough to hear him snore like a dying bear. Which, by the way, you might wanna get checked out. I thought something was in the walls.”

You let out a soft laugh despite yourself, shaking your head.

There’s a pause — just enough time for the teasing to fade. She looks at you for real now. Not cruel. Not guarded. Just watching.

Ellie nods, satisfied enough for now. Then she pushes the second mug toward you.

“Drink up, Flannel Thief,” she says. “You’ve got a reputation to uphold.”

Your eyes practically roll in your head. "Listen… I can't be teased about this forever… Can't you just say… ew gross old people, and get on with it?" You lean against the countertop, fingers reaching for pancake things. Measuring cup… bowl… something to mix with…

Ellie snorts, clearly delighted, and sips her orange juice with exaggerated smugness.

“Oh no, no no. See, you wish that’s how this worked,” she grins, watching you pull out a mixing bowl like it’s part of a comedy routine. “But unfortunately for you, I’m a mature and emotionally evolved young woman who believes in holding adults accountable… for being disgustingly affectionate in my presence.”

You groan, grabbing the nearly empty pancake mix box and shaking it, “You're 15.”

“Old people sex,” Ellie says flatly, grinning into her mug. “Right in the next room over. You should be ashamed. Honestly.”

You shoot her a look, but there’s no heat in it. “Alright, alright, Jesus. I’m already dying inside.”

She shrugs. “Then my work here is done.”

You start pouring contents into the bowl. She watches, but it’s not really about the pancakes. There’s a lull. Not awkward, just quiet—and when she speaks again, her tone’s softer. But still unmistakably Ellie.

“I’m just saying,” she murmurs, “I’ve never seen him sleep past dawn unless he was half-dead or actually happy.”

You stop whisking for a second, glance over. Her eyes are downcast, but not sad. More cautious and hope. Like she’s letting herself believe in something for once.

You offer a small smile. “Well… he’s still in bed, so either he’s dead, and I murdered him… or you’re stuck with me a little while longer.”

She doesn’t smile back right away, but her voice comes light:

“I guess I’ll deal.”

Behind you, you hear the floor creak — heavy, slow steps — and you know it’s Joel before you even turn. You don't look right away. You just pour the batter onto the skillet and ask over your shoulder:

“You want one pancake or two, old man?”

Joel stands in the doorway like he’s been there a minute, just listening. His hair’s a mess — that soft, grizzled kind of disheveled that only makes him look more like himself. The blue robe hangs open over a threadbare white T-shirt and those familiar flannel pants, one tie dragging against the floor. He scratches the back of his head like he doesn’t quite know what to do with his hands.

You turn to face him fully, spatula in one hand, the smell of browning batter filling the quiet between you.

“Or none at all,” you add, eyebrow raised, “since you think my cooking is sooo bad.”

His eyes flick between you and Ellie — who’s already pretending not to watch while sipping from her mug like it’s the most dramatic scene in a movie.

Joel exhales through his nose, like it’s taking every ounce of restraint not to be dragged into the teasing.

“You burn toast,” he says simply.

You gasp. “It was one time.”

Ellie raises a hand. “It was two. That I know of.”

Joel just walks to the table and sits down with a grunt, clearly satisfied with himself. “I’ll take two. Since you’re wearin’ my damn shirt, might as well feed me too.”

You shoot him a look over your shoulder, but there’s a smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. “Cute."

Joel grumbles something under his breath, but there’s a warmth in his eyes when he looks at you. Tired, guarded, but not closed off like before. Not entirely.

Ellie leans back in her chair, hands behind her head, eyes gleaming.

“This is so weird,” she mutters. “But also… kinda nice.”

Joel gives her a side-eye. “You don’t like it, you can go live with Tommy.”

She snorts. “Please. Free food and emotional bonding? I’m thriving.”

You plate up the pancakes and slide a stack in front of each of them, sitting across from Joel, your knee brushing his under the table. For the first time, the room feels full. Not just lived in—but alive.

You sit quietly, trying to act like it’s nothing—just breakfast, just fuckin' pancakes—but your fingers twist together in your lap beneath the table. It’s stupid. How nervous you are. Not just for him to like it, but for her to like it. Like somehow their approval means this whole fragile, reckless thing has weight.

Joel eats like a man who doesn’t want to admit he’s enjoying it. No theatrics, no compliments—just steady bites and the occasional small nod, like his silence is the only permission he knows how to give.

Ellie? She’s less subtle. She drowns hers in syrup and makes dramatic noises of satisfaction with every bite, clearly enjoying the chance to be chaotic.

“Not bad, Flannel Thief,” she says through a mouthful. “A solid seven-point-five. Could be higher with chocolate chips.”

You chuckle lightly, the knot in your chest loosening by a thread. “Next time, then.”

Joel’s fork slows, just for a second.

You catch it. You always do.

Next time.

You glance up at him again, eyes following the shape of his arms, those worn-in muscles that always carry more than just weight. They carry history. Guilt. Survival. Safety. Everything you never thought you'd find again.

Then your gaze reaches his face, and he’s already watching you.

Those brown eyes—soft in the morning light, a little wary, a little tired—but still warm. Still him.

You try to hide how much you’re looking. How much you want this to be something real.

“Y’know,” you murmur, voice just for him, “you don’t have to eat it out of guilt. I can handle the truth.”

Joel snorts softly, wiping the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. “Ain’t guilt. Just quiet. You oughta try it sometime… maybe next time.”

But there’s the smallest twitch at the edge of his mouth. The ghost of a smile, buried under years of practiced gruffness.

And for a moment, it feels like maybe. Just maybe. You're not the only one hoping this sticks.

masterlist

a/n2: this has been in my notes app ... ignore mistakes pls

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carelessflower · 3 days ago

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Magnus is Alec's life and Alec is Magnus's death

One minor post to dive into this new theory I have. We know there are a lot of parallels and symmetries between malec: angel/demon, moon/sun, introvert/extrovert, silver/gold, etc Then I start thinking deeper into this tendency of their dynamic to push and pull each other, and come to this

1. Magnus is Alec's life

City of Bones

In the sense that Magnus has helped save Alec's life countless times, it was established in their small breadcrumbs in one of their earliest interaction, when he saved Alec from the demon poison. One can say this quite literally set the foundation of their relationship, as Alec asked Magnus out while visiting Magnus to say thank you for saving his life

City of Heavenly Fire

He also saved Alec again during the gang's journey to Edom, even though Magnus wasn't present. Alec's hallucination, caused by the demons, includes a lot of people, yet Magnus is the one who snaps him out of it, insisting that life is worth living more than fantasy.

The Red Scrolls of Magic

Magnus also brings life to Alec in a metaphorical sense, "breathing a new life" into him. Opening his eyes to new beauties, chances, and people, letting Alec know that yes, he is built for storybook moments too

Queen of Air and Darkness

Magnus is his biggest muse, inspiration. Magnus makes him strive every day to make the world a better place. Alec wants to be better for Magnus, for their family, he loves him so much, he will bend and break the narrative for the future in which Magnus can be happy

2. Alec is Magnus's death

The Red Scrolls of Magic

City of Heavenly Fire

On many occasions, when Magnus has a near encounter with death, he remembers or thinks about Alec. Is it because somehow Magnus got the worst luck in existence and keeps kissing death every two months and stressing his friends and family out? Maybe. But this kind of proves Alec is present a lot during Magnus' perceived final hour

The Red Scrolls of Magic

Many times, people have told Magnus Alec will be "the death of him", referencing how his angelic blood and family will make him eventually choose his shadowhunter community above all else, and abandoning Magnus (not featured pictures, cause honestly there are like a lot). I kind of find it interesting how it ties up to Magnus's perception of himself, and eventually of Alec, like when he's kind of implying Alec should prioritize his life over Magnus's here

City of Heavenly Fire

Magnus's letter to Alec

Death, of course, can translate to other things, not just a physical one. The death of one's old self, a transformation, aligning with how Magnus is describing Alec's presence in his life here

3. We Have to Talk About The Black and White Impermanence

The Lost Book of The White

For the sake of my argument, let's theorize White Impermanence as "life" and Black Impermanence as "death."

The Lost Book of The White

Alec eventually succeeds in his trial, and he is able to give "death" to Magnus. And we also know this is true because-

Queen of Air and Darkness

In Thule, Alec did kill Magnus after he turned into a demon. And after Alec's "life" is gone, he is gone too

The Lost Book of The White

I don't see people talk about this a lot, but from the way I interpret it, Magnus, too, has his own trial with the sword in The Lost Book of the White, and he passes it. He gives "mercy" to Alec, making Shiyun spares Alec's life. By submitting to Sammael, he literally gives "life" to Alec, while Alec brings "death" to him via death of the self, because Magnus's biggest fear is becoming a demon (stated he would rather be killed than that)

tag list: @magnus-the-maqnificent @literallytypogod @hoezier-than-thou @sociallyineptbibliophile @queenlilith43

@khaleesiofalicante @wandererbyheart @raziyekroos @onetimetwotimesthreetimess @alexandergideonslightwood

@noah-herondale-lightwood @elettralightwood @dustandducks @deliciousdetectivestranger @delightfullyterrible

@letsgofortacos

@kita-no @thelightofthebane @secrettryst @goldendreams3 @cityofdownwardspirals

@stupidfuckindinosaur

@i-have-not-slept @rinadragomir @potato-jem @kasper-tag

@banesapothecary @culiehua @fatiguedcoffee

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eph-em-era · 6 hours ago

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is it bad writing or are you just sad?

I see a lot of people talking about this episode being bad writing, which it isn't. You are sad and you're angry and you're using the tag of 'bad writing' because you didn't want it to happen. Let's talk.

buck and eddie reunion happened off screen - Yeah. Don't I wish I also saw that? absolutely. does it make logical sense with a) filming budgets, time and episode space and b) the arc of the episode? Yeah. It does. This is an episode about Athena. It's an episode about her dealing with the loss, which is why we get a ton more from her and a ton less from everyone else. the madney and bathena moments were tiny too.

to include a buck and eddie airport scene you have to

get location permission for an airport, and aviation spaces often include more specific permissions than other spaces

get extras for the scene

get security

block out time in the schedule for that filming with your actors

pay for all of those things

aside from those complexities - a scene like that almost certainly would have been cut for time, as they have FORTY TWO MINUTES for an unrelated plot which is why they didn't shoot it

the b-plot - I see a lot of people talking about this b-plot as being something emergency-related just shoved in, or 'mocking the fans'. it's a LIKE STORY. 9-1-1 does them all the dang time, grouping similar stories together on screen. this b-plot was about athena learning to recognise that bobby was actually dead, that even if things seem unfair and seem like they shouldn't have happened, sometimes people just die and it's awful and it makes no sense but they do; alongside having space and compassion for death even many years after the fact.

also, the woman in the b-plot was being held! they were being compassionate to her! they weren't treating her like she was crazy, they were being deeply kind in a moment of terrible tragedy. they weren't mocking her grief.

buck isn't sad enough - you have seen two days two weeks after bobby died. grief is not quantifiable and everyone does it differently. if you do not think that buck's not holding that grief right down at the moment - you could see it in his face at the funeral - you're kidding yourself if you think this is the end of it. athena is coping in her way, eddie in his, hen in hers, chim in his. this is how buck is coping.

they should have started this episode the moment after the last one finished - that's terrible television writing, no they shouldn't have. having people constantly talk AT each other might be useful for fandom, but makes no sense on screen. you need to show these emotions rather than have conversations about emotions, and they absolutely did

eddie should have been there earlier - eddie diaz needed a reason to come home, to break free from the living life day by day that was him living with chris in el paso. he needs to reach out and actively fight for himself now. now that bobby is gone, he feels guilt that he wasn't there, and he's going to spend more time reaching for the things he wants

realism/creative decisions - you read the phrase "real stakes" and took "realism" from it. they're two entirely different things. the show has settled into an isolated system. a death, after eight years, is a very creative decision, actually, because it pulls us free from the entropy. now, we're scared. now the characters are scared. it feels more fleeting, and people are more likely to take risks, to live, to reach for the things they want. why after eight years? cause now you care.

the leaked script - it was april fools day and you were coping. i think doing that thing after doing so much genuine empathy and tragedy would have absolutely cheapened the death

bobby buried in minnesota - his family died not even a decade ago. if you think he would have preferred to have been buried in an LA plot, with no-one that he knows, i think you're kidding yourself

bobby should have been on screen more - he's dead. i'm sorry, but he's dead. the scenes we saw of him? they were of a worthy man, one clearly well loved and important. a man with good principles and a good heart. but he is dead. the story has moved to focus more for those who are living.

the actors were laughing and having fun on set - because they're actors and this is a tv show

I am sad too! I am genuinely sad too! i think this was a beautiful episode and did truly as much as it could with a grief storyline, honoring those who were living as well as the one who has gone. i don't doubt it will continue to do so throughout the rest of the show. bobby is dead. there's no takebacks. it is not bad writing, you are just hollowed out by grief.

this is television. they have 42 minutes to tell a story. you set your expectations for canon based on the bounty we have in fanon, and that will NEVER be possible to achieve.

#911 #9-1-1 #911onabc #buddie #sort of

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johanna-swann · 3 days ago

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I had an interaction on bucktommyblr yesterday where I "called someone out" for posting a screenshot of another user's post and calling them annoying. It didn't sit right with me because as far as I could tell the "annoying" person was just genuinely invested in the story even though they don't closely follow or watch the show themselves (yet).

In my opinion the whole "taking screenshots as proof and then shit talking other fans right here out in the open" is a bad and unnecessary idea to begin with. You can just block those accounts instead of riling up more people. This is already a fandom that's very prone to hate and toxicity and I'd advise to de-escalate, not be the cause of more trouble. In this case it was even sadder because the person with the screenshot just made a lot of assumptions about the op of that post and assumed the worst of them. Bad faith readings are not constructive to anyone.

I bring this up now because bad faith readings and not calling out mutuals for their behaviour is what drove me from the Buddie fandom. People over there assume the worst of Bucktommy shippers, constantly read everything we do in the worst way possible and nobody calls out their friends when they take it too far. Quite the opposite, they egg each other on. It baffled me how god damn toxic the Buddie fandom got and how the vast majority of shippers just went along with it without speaking out against it.

I'm not going to be like that. I'm going to tell you when I think "Hey maybe this is something to vent about in private". When I see borderline problematic behaviour tm in the Bucktommy tag, I will say something about it. I'm not going to keep my mouth shut just because we're on the same side of a ship war. If you're nasty to other fans just because you find them annoying then we're not on the same side. Also newsflash, we're tumblr fan girls (gender neutral). We're all fucking annoying.

I have no interest in watching the Bucktommy fandom fall into the same patterns as the Buddie fandom did. Now the person I talked to yesterday blocked me (I think) and you know what, fair enough. That's exactly what I mean, if somebody annoys you, block them. But I hope that others might be more open to taking friendly, well intentioned criticism for what it is. There's plenty of fandom related hate out there, what we need is more kindness.

#911 abc #911 discourse #bucktommy

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proshippers-against-censorship · 2 days ago

Note

I’ve seen someone making a long post to “address” proshippers, but the post is completely biased and implies proshippers want to normalize “harmful ships”. They also go on about how fiction can affect someone's reality in different ways which uhm yes? No one says otherwise?

(general you applies)

Fiction CAN but doesn’t always influence someone’s morals, ideals, thoughts etc. but I’m begging this person and other antis to understand that our morals are shaped by the world around us, we learn to tell right from wrong very early in our lives and don't and shouldn't need fiction to tell us that.

A lot of people play violent video games, some become violent, some don’t, what matters is if the person who becomes violent either lets fiction affect themselves or if they’re unable to distinguish fiction from reality for other reasons

this isn’t even a proshipper argument, these are facts. Proshippers understand that and will not blame fiction for influencing someone to commit crimes because fiction is a tool, it may be able to influence someone to commit a crime, but it is not the cause of it.

This is also why we blame abusers for harming children - we don’t ban candies because someone used them to harm a person/child, we hold the abuser accountable.

Second: Proship has never been about saying “it’s okay to ship adults x minors in fiction”.

Proship only came to be because anti-shippers came first and started to harass people based on on what they liked in fiction, which still holds true to this day (I was already in fandoms when it started). Not all antis harass people, but a lot use their feelings of disgust to go after specific targets (hint: it’s rarely the privileged and ablebodied who are attacked). This is documented on both Wikipedia (yes, I know) and fanlore

(Loud and volatile) Antis have caused and still cause tremendous harm, which they often downplay, or they find many excuses why repeatedly slandering someone as “pedophile” or why pushing the narrative that (C)SA survivors are only valid if they cope with their abuse in “pure and wholesome” ways only is justified - but this is quite impossible because coping in itself is always going to be complicated, messy, and never wholesome or pure (its abuse, hello? Abuse is not pure?)

Finally I would like to make this clear: no one says you have to be fine with everything you see online, and no one is forcing you to interact with or to accept people you don't or will never really like or understand. “I don’t want proshippers to interact with me” is a completely valid boundary and you don’t have to have a reason for saying this either

You can support someone’s human rights without supporting the individual themselves.

at the end of the day these boundaries are yours to control. Block people, mute tags, scroll away if you don’t like something/someone, and please do not look for people to argue with because it breaks your own set boundaries. You can’t expect people to respect yours when you come to them first.

Last but not least: don’t forget that at the end of the day that we’re all human people, and that no one from either side is perfect or always innocent. Don’t blindly trust people based on labels alone, even if they claim to be on “your side”

I would also suggest to stay educated on the topics of moral panics and what defines propaganda. The more someone believes that they don’t need to inform themselves and that they know what a moral panic or porpaganda is when they spot it, the more suspectible they will become to it

Education is power. Use it.

#good post anon #proshippers against censorship #jackal barks #proship please interact #proshippers please interact #proship positivity #proship #proshipper safe #proshipping #proshipper #anti anti #ask #asks #pro stance

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hivemuthur · 24 hours ago

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I just wanted to say how appreciative I am that someone has called out the infantilization of Viktor’s character. It makes zero sense to me, and also kinda insulting as someone who struggles with illness and is also antisocial with that also being always paired with ‘oh you’re obviously sheltered and stupid right’

like he’s a literal scientist what do you mean he doesn’t at least know the basics of sex if we want to say he’s a virgin let alone freaky shit that I myself (as a virgin) know quite a bit about cause I researched (like what I’m sure a very smart scientist would do👀). it’s also kinda weird he can’t just be a normal sexual being like aside from dom/sub crap, he’s kinda fetishized in a lot of writing for both sides of the spectrum cause I personally don’t love the hardcore stuff on either side it’s super unsettling. That’s why your writing is enjoyable for me cause yes you lean more on the ‘dom Viktor’ spectrum, but you still have so much complexity in the dynamic that it’s not always who’s in ‘charge’ but the actual relationship between them and the softness you portray that they have for each other is just ‘chefs kiss’ I just think it’s really great writing honestly. So anyway I just wanted to say (the super long version) I appreciate your writing and opinions thank you <33

Hi Anon! Thank you, I'm very glad you enjoy my writing and that you think Viktor has some dignity in it, even when we put him in situations.

Infantilization IS a sexual fetish, and a valid one for that matter, and while it's not taken out of context and consensual on both sides it's pretty much ok, it just doesn't align with my own personal HC about Viktor -> the discourse in which his curiosity would be overshadowed by his disability. Disabled people are hot and fuck, and that's it. Like you, I also knew a lot before having sex for the first time. And yeh, it's just me, I don't like my men whimpering from the start, I like to see them whimper DESPITE being on the dominant side.

Furthermore, I think if we are to fetishize someone, fictional characters are the safest bet. And it's fun, and it's interesting. Personally, I don't read Dom/sub stuff as 'crap', it's a completely valid form of sexuality, just like vanilla. I don't like the 'normal' label on sex that is non-kinky, because it underlines that there is something wrong with the d/s dynamics. There isn't. It's totally ok to want to give away/take over control in bed and it doesn't really matter what form it adopts. It can be very healing. As long as both partners can consciously consent it's basically all good. When I write, I am mostly interested in the emotional aspect of it and how it impacts the rest of character's lives, but I know not everyone is and some people just want to read some kinky porn and that's fine, it's a form of entertainment. Reading smutty fanfiction is probably one of the very few ethical ways to consume pornography anyway.

My irk is out of context fetish-cruising and giving fetishes some false representations, but again - that's just me. You know, that part where characters feel guilty for having a fetish in the first place. I've learned to block accounts and hide tags that don't rock my boat. When I can't see it it can't hurt me. Also, 'hardcore' is a pretty subjective territory, it all depends on our adrenaline tolerance. I have done some crazy shit in my life and some of it stayed with me as my personal-favourite bed activities. I don't like sexual judgement and purity culture. Just as I don't judge people who are vanilla as 'repressed,' I don't want to be judged as 'unsettling' or 'weird.'

So yeh, I do fetishize Viktor. Mostly as a person who is curious about pushing boundaries and who is on the dominant side of things. I am good with him being represented as ace, sub, or a virgin, as long as it's done well, all of those representations are valid and people clearly need them if such media exists. And again, it's subjective, it's just my taste in writing/reading. I don't like him infantilized out of context, but I would read it as harmful if done with any character honestly.

But I live solemnly by fetishization of people. That thing where you are down bad for someone so hard, when you love them so much, everything they do is hot. And you take them apart and adore each part of them, from their toes to the tip of their head, and you stare at them when they are asleep because you can't believe how fucking lucky you are. What is it, if not fetish? Love is fetish to me.

#asks #viktor hcs #viktor headcanons #sort of #this is me a die hard gamer #everything has to have lore #sex has to have lore or I'm not interested

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nanamisexyslut · 2 days ago

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Tension in the Air

quick summary for y'all : Things are getting complicated. Between lingering glances, unspoken feelings, and unexpected confessions, you're stuck between two very different guys Nanami Kento, the calm and quiet but somewhat possessive neighbor, and Renji Abarai, the one with a past he’s still carrying but is trying. Emotions are rising, tensions are high, and nothing will be the same after this chapter...

tags : nanami x fem!reader, renji x fem!reader, romantic tension, slow burn for now, bit of angsty romance, unrequited love, emotional conflict, and cross over between jjk, aot, and bleach (eventually nana)

quick note : the word count on this is apt 10.4k and i have a lot of the story written down already I just wanted to give a bit of lore before the smut :D but this is my first time making a fan fic y'all so bear with me and please enjoy.

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It’s the first day of my sophomore year, and I wish I could say I’m excited, but I’m not. My body’s running on fumes, my brain has been on autopilot since June, and the monotony of my routine is starting to take its toll. Balancing full-time work with a full-time course load is no joke. Every day feels like a loop: early mornings, long commutes, rushing through traffic, only to be greeted by a parking ticket waiting for me like a cruel welcome mat.

Then, the usual rituals—circling the parking lot for a space, hauling my bag up stairs, weaving through crowds of students to get to class, and finally sitting in a room filled with people who either talk too much, don’t talk at all, or just rub me the wrong way. And yet, I show up. Deep down, I know I have to. I want a future. I want a real career. I want to make my parents proud. They left everything behind—their language, their culture, their comfort—to give me a shot at a better life. I owe it to them to at least try.

So, I sit in my car for a moment, hands gripping the steering wheel, and take a deep breath.

The kind that tries to cleanse your spirit but mostly just fogs up the windshield.

Then, I grab my bag, shove the door open, and walk across campus toward my law class. The hallway is familiar—too familiar. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, and a swarm of students moves around me like bees. The scent of burnt coffee and cheap cologne fills the air. As I enter the lecture hall, I spot them—my usual crew. Some familiar faces from last semester already gathered in the same corner of the room like they never left: Shoko, Nanami, Rukia, and Gojo.

Gojo is the first to spot me, of course. With that unmistakable grin, he jumps up and throws his arms wide like he’s about to give me a bear hug. “Y/L! We missed you so much!” he practically shouts across the room. “How was your summer?”

I smirk, slinging my bag over my chair. “It was fine… How about you, Satoru?” I ask, giving him a half smile—somewhere between genuine and exhausted.

He plops into the seat next to me, sunglasses pushed up on his head, still the same dramatic whirlwind of energy. “Oh, you know me—annoyed a few professors, found the meaning of life in a microwave burrito. The usual.”

Shoko rolls her eyes and mutters something under her breath, while Nanami gives me a nod of acknowledgment—his version of a warm welcome. Rukia pats the empty seat beside her, and I slide in, already feeling a little lighter. Maybe today won’t be so bad after all.

I sink into my seat and thank God I’m next to Rukia—my best friend, my ride-or-die, my soul sister. We’ve been inseparable since childhood. She's practically family. Rukia is everything I’m not—confident, fearless, poised. She’s beautiful without trying, ambitious without being arrogant, and walks through life with a sense of certainty I envy more than I’ll ever admit. Where I overthink, she acts. Where I doubt, she decides. Sitting next to her makes everything feel a little less overwhelming.

Gojo is across the room, already causing chaos with our mutual friend Geto. Typical. Meanwhile, Shoko and Nanami are seated just beside us.

I can feel Nanami’s gaze on me before I even look up. It’s subtle, but it lingers. There have always been little rumors that Nanami might have a crush on me. I never took them seriously. He’s too composed, too aloof. Whenever we hang out, whether with the group or one-on-one, he keeps a polite distance, like there’s a wall between us only he can see. Not that I’ve ever been that into him… right?

Okay, I’ll admit he’s attractive. Not in a conventional, heartthrob way, but in a quiet, powerful kind of way. He’s tall, built like someone who lifts for function, not attention, and always carries himself like a man who knows exactly who he is. He’s brilliant, listens more than he speaks, and is loaded—though I swear that’s not important. He’s never let me pay for a single thing, and, yeah, I like that. What really gets me, though, is how respectful he is. To every woman. The way he softens his tone, the way he actually listens. There’s something insanely attractive about a man who knows when to shut up and just let a woman speak. Dominant, but not overbearing. Obedient, but not weak. But all that said, he’s never shown real interest in me. Not enough to believe the rumors.

“Alright, class! Get into groups of three!” Professor Hange calls out from the front of the room, clapping her hands for emphasis. The sound of chairs scraping, conversations bubbling up, and the shuffle of bodies fills the room like a wave. People are pairing off quickly, forming tight clusters.

Rukia and I glance at each other, realizing we’re one short.

“Who doesn’t have a third?” Hange asks, scanning the room. We raise our hands.

Professor Hange points toward the back. “Abarai! Please form a group with Miss L/N and Kuchiki.”

I turn to see him approaching. Tall—maybe 6’2, with a lean, muscular build that says he spends time in the gym but doesn’t brag about it. His crimson red hair is pulled back in a ponytail, a black headband covering the ink on his temples. His expression? A storm brewing. Like he’d rather be anywhere else than walking toward us.

Renji Abarai. He looks like trouble. And judging by the way his eyes narrow slightly as he approaches our table, he’s definitely not thrilled about being paired with us. He stops in front of us, arms crossed over his chest. “Guess I’m with you two,” he mutters, voice low and rough.

Rukia raises an eyebrow and leans back in her chair, clearly unimpressed. I, on the other hand, look up at him with a mix of curiosity and guarded interest. Something about him intrigues me—the quiet confidence, the sharp edge in his voice, the way he carries himself like he doesn’t owe anyone an explanation. He’s got that smug, slightly challenging air, like he’s already sized me up and decided not to be impressed. But he’s not rude. Just rough around the edges. Still, I’m not put off by it.

“Renji,” he says, nodding slightly. “Y/L,” I reply, offering a small smile. His lip quirks into the faintest smirk. Not warm, not cold. Just enough to say, I can’t read him.

After a beat, I clear my throat and offer, “We could do a case where a whistleblower leaks confidential documents from a pharmaceutical company. The files reveal that the company was hiding a life-threatening side effect of one of its best-selling drugs. The leak ends up saving lives but the whistleblower hacked into private servers to get the information and shared it with the press, which violates federal law. Now the company is suing for damages and pressing criminal charges. Our job would be to defend the whistleblower in court.”

Rukia nods slowly, impressed. “That’s actually solid. We could argue public interest versus corporate confidentiality.”

Renji leans back in his chair, arms crossed. “Risking legal punishment to save lives… I like it.”

And just like that, we’re locked in.

Class wraps up for the day, and the sound of chairs scraping and notebooks closing fills the room. I gather my things, slinging my bag over my shoulder. Rukia and I exchange numbers with Renji before we all head out together, walking down the hallway toward the warm afternoon light.

“We should figure out when to meet and work on the assignment,” Rukia suggests, checking her calendar.

“How about we do it at my house?” I offer, shrugging casually. “My parents wouldn’t mind, especially since it’s for school. I don’t think they’ll try to burn the house down or anything.”

Renji raises an eyebrow, his voice tinged with annoyance. “You still live with your parents?”

I’m not offended, though I sense a slight judgment in his tone. “Yeah,” I say honestly, “It doesn’t bother me. I’m planning to transfer to Y University after this year. It’s just cheaper to stay home for now and figure out housing once I graduate. Law school’s gonna drain me enough as it is.”

Renji opens his mouth to reply, but before he can, a familiar voice calls out from behind.

“Y/L!” Gojo jogs toward us, a grin plastered on his face. “Me and the crew are gonna grab some pizza—you guys coming?”

“Pizza?! I’m down as fuck,” Rukia grins, already convinced. I laugh and nod.

“I’m in.”

I glance at Renji, giving him a tentative invitation. “Hey, Renji… wanna come with us?”

The group goes quiet for a second. I feel their eyes on me, especially Nanami’s. They all look slightly confused, like my invitation came out of nowhere. But I don’t think it’s weird. He’s my partner for the assignment. I’m just trying to be friendly. It’s not like I invited a serial killer or something.

Renji looks startled, almost caught off guard. His eyes widen, and for a second, he just stares at me, clearly processing.

“Thanks, but I’ve got other plans tonight,” he says, his voice softer than I expected. “Still, I appreciate the offer.”

I smile and nod. “No problem.”

Rukia and I wish him a good night, and we part ways at the edge of campus. As we head to our cars, The night is calm, the cool air brushing against us. Nanami quietly falls into step beside me, like he always does. It’s never something we plan—he just ends up there, walking me to my car like it's his natural place to be. He doesn’t do that for anyone else. I’ve never asked why but I don’t mind.

Rukia shoots me a look when we near the lot, her grin giving everything away. “I’ll meet you guys at the pizza shop,” she says, voice light and teasing as she walks off.

I roll my eyes, but I don’t stop her. Nanami and I keep moving in silence. His presence feels heavier than usual—quiet, sure, but charged with something I can’t quite name.

When we reach my car, I unlock it and turn to him. “Do you want a ride to yours?” I offer, casually. “It’s the least I can do for you walking me to mine.”

Nanami pauses for a beat. “Yeah,” he says, voice low. “I’ll take you up on that.”

We both get in, and the moment the doors close behind us, something shifts. The night seems quieter inside the car, the windows framing the stillness around us. I start the engine, but don’t drive off yet.

He turns his head, meeting my eyes. “To the pizza place. You didn’t have to invite him.”

I raise an eyebrow, unsure if I heard him right. “Renji?”

He nods once. His expression is unreadable, but his jaw tenses slightly. “He’s not really part of the group. Yet you brought him in like he was.”

I blink, thrown by the edge in his tone. “I was just being polite. We’re working on the same case. It felt… fair.”

Nanami looks away, eyes on the windshield now. “Fair,” he repeats under his breath, like it tastes bitter in his mouth. “Sure.”

Something in his voice makes my pulse skip. He doesn’t raise it—he never does—but there’s a tightness behind the calm, like he's working hard to keep himself in check.

I glance over at him, trying to read him. “You don’t like him.”

“It’s not about liking or disliking,” he replies evenly, still not looking at me. “I just don’t think you see him clearly.”

The air in the car stills.

I search his profile for a hint of something more—jealousy, concern, maybe even hurt—but all I find is that same calm mask he always wears. Except now, it feels like a shield.

I speak carefully. “He’s just a classmate, Nanami.”

He finally turns his head to look at me again, and this time, the softness in his gaze catches me off guard. “That’s not how he sees you.”

My breath hitches. For a second, neither of us speaks. The tension hums between us—charged, quiet, almost intimate.

Then, he leans back in his seat and looks away. “But it’s none of my business,” he adds, more to himself than to me.

I grip the steering wheel, heart racing. The engine hums softly beneath us, but the silence is louder.

I smirk a little, turning to face him fully. “Ouu… is that jealousy I hear, Nanami?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just gives me a slow glance out of the corner of his eye. “No,” he mutters, almost convincing. “Just didn’t want him acting like he does in class, that’s all.”

I raise an eyebrow, amused—and a little intrigued. “So you do think he’s kind of a douche.”

Nanami lets the smallest smirk show, like he’s trying not to, but it slips through. “Maybe I do.”

I laugh under my breath, the tension softening just enough to breathe. It was tight in the car for a minute there—tight with something unspoken. Something that lingered between what we said and what we didn’t.

I pull out of the lot, merging onto the street as we head toward the garage. The silence returns, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s thoughtful. Weighted.

Then, out of nowhere, Nanami speaks again—softer this time. “Y/L… do you ever feel like you’re just… barely holding it together?”

The question cuts through everything else. I glance at him, heart tugging a little at the look on his face—so calm on the surface, always so composed. But there’s a flicker of something in his eyes now. Something quieter. Raw. And it shakes something loose in me.

“All the time,” I admit, voice low. “It feels like if I let go for even a second… everything would fall apart.”

He shifts slightly toward me, his posture still reserved, but something in him reaching. Tentatively, he extends his hand and gently takes mine. His fingers wrap around mine, warm and steady. His thumb strokes once across the back of my hand—slow, deliberate, grounding.

“You don’t have to do it all alone,” he says, voice low. “Let someone carry it with you. Even if it’s just for a little while.”

My chest tightens—not from sadness, but from something that feels like safety. Like softness I didn’t realize I’d been craving. I turn to face him more fully, one hand still on the wheel, and lift my other hand to his cheek. My palm rests there, light but certain, the warmth of his skin meeting mine.

His breath hitches, eyes fluttering shut for the briefest second before opening again—brighter now. Softer.

A faint blush tints his cheeks, and it’s… honestly kind of adorable.

“Thank you,” I whisper. “Really.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t pull away. His eyes stay on mine like he’s trying to memorize something. Like he doesn’t want to forget this moment.

Then, almost shyly, he says, “You look really beautiful tonight.”

My breath catches. Of all the things he could say—he chose that. And he means it. I see it in the way his gaze dips slightly, in how it lingers, taking in every detail like it’s precious.

“You really think so?” I murmur, almost teasing, but I can’t stop the small smile spreading across my face.

“I do,” he says, firmer this time. “I always think so. But tonight… I don’t know. You just look like you. And I love it.”

He’s still holding my hand. My fingers are curled gently into his, and his cheek is warm under my touch. My heart’s beating so loud I swear he must hear it.

“I like when you blush,” I say softly, letting the corner of my mouth curve. “It’s cute.”

He doesn’t smile, not fully—but there’s a softness in his expression that says more than he probably ever will out loud. A moment passes. Then, he gently pulls away, opens the door, and steps out into the cool night air. He pauses, glancing back at me through the open car door.

“I’ll see you there,” he says, quiet but certain. “Drive safe.”

“You too,” I reply. “Drive safe.”

I watch as he walks to his car, hands in his pockets, posture tall but thoughtful. There’s something unspoken in the way he walks. Like his mind is still back here in the car. With me.

As I pull away, his words echo in the quiet of my chest.

“You don’t have to do everything on your own.”

But I do… don’t I?

And yet… I can’t shake the feeling that Nanami is starting to make me question that.

The local pizza joint is buzzing when we walk in—cheap neon lights flickering above cracked vinyl booths, the smell of garlic and grease clinging to everything like secondhand smoke, and some guy’s remix playlist rattling the walls. It’s chaotic, messy, and way too loud. Basically, Gojo’s natural habitat.

Rukia and I spot the group immediately. Nanami, Shoko, Geto, and Gojo are already crammed into a booth, half the table buried under greasy paper plates and half-empty soda cups. Gojo’s holding court with both hands, already halfway into some dramatic retelling.

“—and then I said, ‘It’s Satoru, but I am the G.O.A.T., so like… fair,’” he finishes, grinning. He spots us and points with his cup. “There they are! The brave scholars. Pizza’s hot, but your entrance is hotter.”

“Relax,” I say, sliding into the booth beside Nanami. He shifts slightly to make space, and our shoulders brush. He doesn’t pull away. Neither do I. “We had to park three blocks away thanks to Gojo’s cult following.”

Rukia collapses beside me, already reaching for a slice. “Honestly, this pizza is healing my soul after Professor Hange tried to crush it.”

Shoko leans in, interested. “What scenario did you guys end up with?”

“We picked the pharmaceutical whistleblower case,” I say, wiping my hands. “It’s messy. Layered. Legally complicated with a moral kick.”

“We’re defending the whistleblower,” Rukia adds. “They broke the law, yeah—but they also saved lives. The kind of case that makes you think.”

Geto nods. “Classic ‘gray area’ pick. Definitely a thinker. You two are going to start a civil war in class.”

Shoko raises her drink. “Respect. That’s a tough case to pull off in front of Professor Hange.”

Then Nanami speaks, his voice calm and measured. “You both chose well. It’s the kind of scenario that demands clarity and conviction. You have that. Especially you, Y/L.”

My head turns slightly. That last part—it lands soft but sharp. Nanami’s not the type to say things just to say them. I meet his gaze for a second, and something tightens in my chest.

Rukia catches the shift and grins. “Nanami, was that almost a compliment?”

He glances at her, then back to me. “It was an observation.”

Gojo nearly chokes on his drink. “Wow. Compliments and emotional insight? What’s next, Nanami? A mixtape?”

Gojo grins, sensing the shift. “Look at that. Emotional support wrapped in legal analysis. If that’s not flirting, I don’t know what is.”

I shake my head, cheeks warm, and reach for a napkin—only to brush my fingers against Nanami’s. He doesn’t pull away. Neither do I. It lasts only a second, but the contact stays with me like heat.

Gojo notices, of course. “Almost as spicy as you inviting Renji to join us. Didn’t see that plot twist coming.”

My smile falters. “What?”

“Oh yeah,” Shoko grins. “You went out of your way to invite him after class.”

Gojo leans in like he’s narrating a soap opera. “Bold move. The loner with the bad attitude? You’re playing with fire, Y/L.”

I shake my head. “It wasn’t like that. I just thought it could be a good time to get to know him and work on the project.”

Nanami’s quiet beside me, but something shifts in the air around him. I glance over. His jaw’s a little tighter than before, though his expression remains unreadable.

And Gojo? He’s having the time of his life.

“Careful, Nanami,” he teases. “Sounds like you’ve got competition now.”

Nanami lifts his drink slowly, unbothered. “I’m not worried.”

“Which is exactly what someone with a crush would say,” Shoko adds, smirking.

Rukia’s gaze flicks between us like she’s watching a long-simmering plot finally boil. “He’s been sitting next to her for ten minutes and hasn’t looked away once.”

Nanami meets my eyes again, steady and quiet, and I feel the spark of something there—unspoken, but real.

Gojo leans across the table like he’s offering a toast. “To Y/L: making bad boys feel seen and emotionally repressed boys feel things.”

I groan, nudging Rukia with my foot under the table. She just laughs and keeps eating.

The night spins out into more laughter and chaos. Somehow, Nanami and I end up doing most of the cleanup while everyone else argues over who’s paying the tip. He passes me a stack of cups, his sleeve brushing against my wrist. I glance at him. He’s calm as ever, but there’s something in his eyes—steady and unreadable, like he’s waiting for me to say something I haven’t figured out yet.

As we head out, Gojo stretches dramatically. “We need to do this more often. Who knows, maybe Renji will show and grace us with a whole sentence.”

I laugh, but something about the comment lingers. I remember Renji’s face when I invited him—surprised, like no one had ever bothered before. There’s something under the surface with him, and I want to understand it.

Still, as we leave the pizza place and the cool air brushes against my skin, it’s Nanami’s presence I’m aware of. He walks close—not too close—but when his hand brushes mine again, light and quick like a question, I let it happen.

Rukia and I make our way back to my car, the neon fading behind us.

She bumps me with her shoulder. “Soo… Nanami, huh?”

“Don’t.”

“He was watching you, Y/L. Like you were the last piece of evidence in a case he couldn’t solve.”

I sigh, unlocking the car. “He’s just… thoughtful. That’s all.”

“Uh-huh,” she says, smirking. “You sure he wasn’t thinking about how to plead guilty to falling for you?”

I groan. “We’ve got to meet with Renji tomorrow. Focus on that.”

But my hand still tingles from where it met Nanami’s, and his voice echoes in my mind like a quiet truth I’m not ready to name.

“Oh yeah,” she grins. “You ready for that adventure? I still can’t believe you invited him. Gojo’s face looked like you brought home a stray cat.”

“Maybe I did.”

We both laugh, but the truth is I’m curious. Renji’s reaction to my invite has stayed with me. Something about the way he hesitated… like he wasn’t used to being included.

The next day, we meet at my house. I tidy up the living room more than necessary and pretend I’m not overthinking it. My parents greet Rukia warmly, already used to her presence, and then the doorbell rings.

Renji walks in, backpack slung over his shoulder, still wearing that headband, still looking like he walked straight out of a fight scene. But when he sees us, he gives the smallest nod.

“You got snacks?” he asks, eyeing the kitchen.

Rukia grins. “Of course. We’re not savages.”

We settle in, papers, laptops, and printed case details spread across the table. Renji reads through the packet silently, then looks up.

“You two seriously wanna defend this guy?” he asks, one brow raised.

I nod. “Yeah. He did the wrong thing… but for the right reasons. That’s the whole point of the dilemma.”

He leans back, arms crossed. “I like that. Makes it hard. You could win the class with this, if we do it right.”

Rukia whistles. “Was that... encouragement?”

Renji smirks slightly. “Don’t get used to it.”

And just like that, the energy shifts. Not totally warm, not cold either—just possible.

Just as we’re settling deeper into our materials, I hear the soft creak of the hallway floorboards my parents.

They step into the living room with warm smiles. My mom wraps me in a quick hug, brushing a kiss on my forehead, while my dad ruffles my hair like I’m still sixteen. It’s automatic, comforting, and a little embarrassing with company around.

“We’re heading out for a bit,” my mom says. “Don’t work too hard.”

My dad adds, “Make sure your guests are comfortable. There’s plenty of snacks in the kitchen, and if you get hungry, order something. Here” he slips a folded bill into my hand, insisting before I can even object. “Just in case.”

“Dad, I work full-time,” I whisper, glancing toward Renji and Rukia. “I can handle it.”

He smiles, but it’s the kind that means I shouldn’t push it. “Just take it. That’s what parents are for.”

They hug Rukia goodbye my mom always loved her and then turn to Renji. My dad offers a polite wave. “Nice to meet you. Good luck with the project, and help yourselves if you need anything.”

Renji nods stiffly. “Thanks.”

As soon as they leave, I tuck the cash into my wallet and try not to feel like a child.

“If you guys get hungry later, just let me know,” I mumble. “My dad gave us some money to order food.”

Rukia smiles and bumps my shoulder. “Your parents are always so generous. I love that they still look out for you.”

Renji, on the other hand, raises a brow. “They lend you money like that? Even though you work full time?”

I hesitate. “Y-Yeah. I think they just want to make sure I’m okay.”

He doesn’t say anything, but the look on his face says enough. Disapproval. Maybe even confusion. And honestly? It grates on me. This—this—is exactly why I hesitate to talk about my family around people like him. My parents don’t see generosity as enabling; they see it as love.

I clear my throat and change the subject. “Let’s focus on our project.”

We sit around the low coffee table, laptops open, case files laid out between us like a war plan. The fictional scenario is complex. A whistleblower illegally leaked documents that revealed a pharmaceutical company’s cover-up of a dangerous side effect. Lives were saved, but laws were broken. We’re tasked with defending the whistleblower justifying their actions within a legal framework that wasn’t designed for heroics.

Rukia and I start outlining arguments based on public interest, whistleblower protection statutes, and moral obligations in corporate accountability. But Renji?

He crosses his arms, clearly unconvinced.

“I still think the guy should’ve gone through legal channels instead of hacking in,” he says. “There were other ways. He broke federal law.”

“He had to,” Rukia argues, flipping through her notes. “All the proper channels were either compromised or too slow. People were dying.”

“There’s still a system,” Renji insists. “If we start defending people for breaking the law just because it feels right, where does it end?”

I sigh. “It’s not about ‘feelings.’ It’s about the greater good. The case is messy for a reason it forces you to weigh morality against legality. That’s literally the point.”

Renji shrugs, clearly not buying it. “Doesn’t mean I have to agree with it. If you want the class to take us seriously, we better come up with more than just some idealistic speech about ethics.”

Rukia leans back, arms crossed, frustrated. “Wehave the legal foundation. Whistleblower statutes, First Amendment protections, even case precedent. You're acting like we’re making this up out of thin air.”

“And you’re acting like he’s some martyr,” Renji shoots back. The tension builds, sharp and steady. i bite back my irritation. “Look, if you don’t like the argument, that’s fine. But this is the scenario wechose. So either help us strengthen it, or come up with something better than just ‘follow the rules.’ Because that’s not going to win us anything.”

Renji stares at me for a second. Then maybe for the first time his expression shifts. Less combative. More… thoughtful.

“Alright,” he says slowly. “Then let’s find a way to make the law work in his favor, without sounding like we’re excusing a crime.”

Rukia and I exchange a look. Not exactly a win, but not a loss either.

We get back to work, the room quieter now less about arguing, more about building. And somewhere in the middle of all that silence, I realize Renji’s not impossible. He’s just guarded.

But even guarded people have reasons for how they see the world.

And I’m starting to want to know his.

After nearly two straight hours of bouncing ideas around, debating case law, and refining our argument, Rukia throws her head back and groans dramatically.

“I’m starvin’ like Marvin right now,” she says, placing a hand on her stomach like she’s about to wither away.

Before I can answer, Amora my fluffball of a cat leaps up onto the couch, landing gracefully right beside Renji. I tense, expecting her usual routine a few seconds of observation followed by a tail flick and a dramatic exit. She's never been much of a social cat… especially not with men.

“Don’t worry,” I say, waving a hand casually. “She’s nice just doesn’t really like”

She hops directly into Renji’s lap.

And trills. Loudly. Constantly. Like he’s the first warm lap she's ever known in her life.

My jaw drops. “Wait. You’re saying… she doesn’t like men?” Renji asks, petting her awkwardly as she rubs her face all over his hoodie.

“I—I mean yeah,” I mutter, squinting like I’m seeing a glitch in the Matrix. “She’s never even trilled on Nanami. I don’t think she’s trilled for any guy. She’s kind of a feminist.”

“Well,” Renji says, giving her a couple of gentle strokes, “seems like she’s taken a liking to me.”

Rukia dramatically smacks her hand against the couch. “GUYSSSS. I’m really hungry right now.”

I jump a little. “Oh my god Rukia, I’m sorry, I forgot you were dying.”

She rolls her eyes but smirks. “Starvation makes you invisible, apparently.”

I turn to Renji. “You hungry?”

He nods once. “Yeah. I could eat.”

We gather our stuff and pile into my car. As I pull out of the driveway, the late evening air is warm and quiet, the street lamps giving everything a slightly golden glow. Rukia turns in her seat, eyes lit up mischievously.

“Y’know what else I’m craving?” she says, already smirking.

I glance over. “What?”

“Kava,” she says like it’s a secret between us.

My face lights up. “Oh thank god, I was hoping you’d say that. We’re literally about to pass the place.”

I glance at Renji in the backseat. “Renji, do you know what kava is?”

“Yes,” he says a little too quickly, almost offended like I just asked him if he knows what water is.

I blink. “Okay. Well. A lot of people don’t, so I was just—whatever. You want some?”

“Sure. I don’t mind.”

We park, and the three of us walk up to our usual little kava spot, a chill place with low lighting and reggae humming softly from inside. Rukia orders a single shot. Renji and I both go for doubles.

He looks at me like I’ve committed an act of bravery. “Double?” he asks.

I shrug. “Yeah. One doesn’t do anything to me anymore. I’ve built immunity.”

They call out our names and hand over the little cups of earthy, bitter liquid. We take them back to the car in silence, each one holding our shot like it’s some ceremonial chalice. I laugh to myself thinking how ritualistic it all feels.

We hop back into the car and head to In-N-Out. It’s a long line, as always, and the car settles into a peaceful quiet. There’s no music, just faint conversation about kava how it makes me and Rukia a little nauseous if we haven’t eaten first, how we still love it anyway. Renji listens, occasionally chiming in, but mostly seems to be observing. Taking us in.

After we get our food, we drive back to my house and park in the driveway. Before heading in, we all step out with our shots, the porch light casting soft shadows on our faces. One by one, we knock them back. The taste is bitter, muddy, but the feeling that follows is warm. Grounding.

Thankfully, I remembered my Hydro Flask, so we each rinse out our mouths like seasoned pros.

Back inside, we settle around the dining table. The smell of fries and burgers quickly fills the room, blending oddly well with the soft hum of leftover incense my mom lit earlier. Rukia is already tearing into her meal like it’s her last. Renji eats slower, quieter, but he’s relaxed more than he was earlier. Amora is back, curled up near his feet like she’s claimed him.

I watch them both with curiously.

Something about tonight feels different. Less like an assignment, more like a beginning of something I can’t quite name yet.

After we finish eating, the effects of the kava start settling into my body like heavy fog. My speech slurs slightly, and every time I move my head, the world shifts with it slow and blurry, like a dream with a bad frame rate.

Rukia, of course, has already knocked out cold on the couch, curled up like a cat. Lightweight. Classic. Renji, meanwhile, looks completely unfazed calm, composed, chewing the last of his fries like nothing’s touched him. Not even the kava.

I glance at Rukia again and notice how awkwardly her neck is tilted. Guilt tugs at me, and I slowly get up, adjusting her so she’s lying comfortably with a throw pillow under her head. But as soon as I stand, the nausea rushes in like a tidal wave. My stomach flips.

I stumble toward the backyard door, shove it open, and run out into the cool night air just in time to throw up everything I just ate.

Behind me, I hear quick footsteps and feel someone gently gather my hair out of the way and start rubbing soothing circles on my back. His touch is surprisingly steady. Grounding.

“Hey,” Renji says softly. “Are you okay? Do you need water?”

I glance up at him through watery eyes, nodding weakly. I must look a mess sweaty, pale, eyes teary from throwing up. But he doesn’t flinch. He just nods and rushes back inside.

A minute later, he returns with a cup of cold water. I rinse my mouth and barely have time to breathe before another wave of nausea hits. Two more rounds of throwing up follow before I finally slump forward, exhausted and embarrassed.

“You don’t have to watch this,” I say between shaky breaths. “I’m fine. Just go back inside.”

“I don’t think you are,” he replies, voice calm but concerned. Not annoyed. Not grossed out. Just steady.

He helps me to my feet, one arm gently supporting me as we walk back into the house. Every step feels like it takes more energy than I have, but he doesn’t let me fall. He sits me down at the kitchen table, grabs a napkin, and hands it to me as I rest my head against the cool surface.

“I’m sorry,” I mumble into the table. “I don’t usually throw up in front of people. Especially not people I barely know.”

Renji pulls out the chair next to me and places a reassuring hand on my back. “It’s okay. I’ve dealt with worse. Just take it easy, alright?”

I manage a weak laugh. “Kava doesn’t usually hit me this hard, but maybe two shots was pushing it tonight.”

“Maybe stick to one next time,” he says, his tone softer than usual. “Even if it ‘doesn’t work,’ like you said.”

I groan and bury my face in my arms. “God, this is so embarrassing.”

He leans back a bit, watching me quietly. “You don’t need to be embarrassed. You’re human. And, for what it’s worth, you handled it better than most.”

That surprises me not just his patience, but the way his voice drops when he says it, like he's not just saying it to be polite. He means it. It’s so different from the version of him I’m used to seeing in class the blunt, borderline abrasive guy who seems like he doesn’t have time for anyone.

Right now, though, he’s not like that at all.

He’s just here.

And for some reason, that makes me feel a little less alone.

I sit there with my head down, arms folded like a makeshift pillow on the kitchen table. The nausea’s fading, but in its place is a heavy wave of embarrassment. I can feel Renji’s eyes on me, steady and unreadable.

“I know you probably didn’t expect this when you agreed to come over for a group project,” I mumble, barely loud enough to hear.

He shrugs lightly. “I didn’t expect to get head butted by your cat either, but here we are.”

I laugh just a little and lift my head enough to glance at him. He’s still sitting next to me, his posture relaxed but eyes a little softer than usual.

“You’re really not as mean as you come off,” I say before I can stop myself. “Like… you can be intense, yeah. But tonight you’ve been gentle.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just runs a hand through his hair and looks down at the floor.

“I’ve seen people go through worse,” he finally says. “If someone’s throwing up from something that’s supposed to make you relax, I figure there’s more going on under the surface.”

My throat tightens a little. Not from nausea this time, but from the honesty in his voice.

“I work full time,” I say quietly. “And I study full time. And sometimes… the pressure builds up. Kava just helps me feel like I’m not drowning for a few hours.”

He nods. “Yeah. I get that.” A pause. “You don’t strike me as someone who ever lets yourself fall apart.”

I look at him, startled. “What makes you say that?”

He meets my eyes. “Because even tonight, when you threw up, you still tried to get back up and fix things. You’re always managing something. Even your guilt.”

That hits harder than I expect it to. I stare at him for a second, unsure of what to say, but I don’t have to. The quiet between us feels almost… safe.

A soft snort breaks the silence.

Rukia, groggy and still half asleep, shifts on the couch. “Did someone say guilt? Or is the kitchen spinning?”

I turn to look at her, grateful for the interruption. “You good?”

“Define good,” she mutters, rubbing her face. “Why does my mouth taste like stress?”

Renji smirks. “Kava.”

“Gross,” she groans, sitting up and pointing at me. “You puked, didn’t you?”

I nod sheepishly.

She squints between us, then grins. “And Renji stayed with you?”

He rolls his eyes. “She needed water. It’s not that deep.”

“Mmm,” she hums knowingly. “That’s not what it looked like from this couch.”

I throw a napkin at her and she laughs, falling back against the cushions. The weight in my chest lifts a little. But I don’t miss the way Renji’s eyes linger on me before he looks away like he wants to say something else but doesn’t quite know how.

Later, when we walk him out, the porch light hums above us and the night air is still cool.

“Thanks for tonight,” I tell him, quietly. “For staying. For being patient.”

He looks at me for a long beat before nodding.

“See you in class,” he says. But it sounds like there’s more behind it.

As he walks away, I watch his figure fade into the darkness, my stomach finally settled but something new turning quietly in its place.

Renji had finally left, and Rukia and I were sitting cross-legged on my bed, the soft glow of the lamp casting shadows around the room. The quiet hum of my ceiling fan was the only sound as we both relaxed, my thoughts still lingering on the mess from earlier.

I glanced over at her, noticing the mischievous smirk on her face. "What?" I asked, half-expecting her to make some joke about how awkward the whole throwing-up incident was.

Rukia shrugged, but her grin only widened. "You know, I wasn't exactly asleep."

I blinked at her, caught off guard. "What? You—what are you talking about?"

"I wasn't knocked out," she said, her voice light and teasing. "I was awake the whole time. And I heard everything."

I groaned, dropping my head into my hands. "Rukia, please don't tell me you overheard all of that."

She leaned forward, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "Oh, I heard plenty. Especially when you were out in the yard with Renji."

My stomach dropped, the memory of that whole interaction rushing back. "No way," I muttered, the embarrassment creeping up my neck.

"Oh, yes way," she teased, crossing her arms. "And honestly? The way Renji was looking after you? It wasn’t just because you were throwing up. You could practically feel the guy's concern. It was pretty obvious, you know?"

I shifted uncomfortably, the realization hitting me slowly. "Rukia, come on. He's just my partner. He was being decent."

She raised an eyebrow, not buying it for a second. "Okay, but, like, he stayed the whole time. After everything, after seeing you at your worst, he didn't bail. He was worried. For you." She paused, letting the words settle in. "And when he was helping you back inside? That wasn't just being 'decent.' That was him making sure you were okay."

I felt my face flush. "I don't know, Rukia. I don’t want to make it into something it’s not. It’s just… it’s just Renji."

She looked at me with a knowing glint in her eyes. "Yeah, but that 'just Renji' guy? He's got more feelings than you're giving him credit for."

I sat up, my mind racing. "You really think so?"

"Come on, Y/L," she said, her voice dropping to a softer tone. "I’ve known you forever. You’re not blind. You felt it, didn't you? The way he looked at you? The way he made sure you were okay? He might not say it, but there’s something there."

I bit my lip, the weight of her words settling in. "I don't know… It just feels complicated. I don't want to make things weird."

Rukia shrugged but gave me a thoughtful look. "I get it. It’s not easy. But just don't be surprised if something happens, alright?"

I sighed, my thoughts swirling. "Yeah, I won’t be… but I don’t know if I’m ready for any of that."

She leaned back against the headboard, her voice teasing but with a hint of sincerity. "Well, just keep your eyes open. It’s not every day a guy sticks around when you’re throwing up in your backyard."

I smiled, shaking my head. "You’re ridiculous."

Rukia just grinned, unfazed. "Maybe. But I’m also right. Just don’t say I didn’t warn you."

I stared at the ceiling for a moment, the conversation settling in my mind. Part of me wanted to brush it off, but another part of me couldn’t help but wonder if Rukia might be onto something.

The next day, I was sitting in class, trying to focus on the lecture about precedent and case law. But my mind kept drifting back to last night, specifically what Rukia had said about Renji. I couldn’t help but glance over at him during class, watching the way he took notes so intently, his jaw clenched in concentration. He looked like he was in his own world, which, honestly, he probably was. But there was a quiet intensity to him today, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that Rukia might be right about something.

I quickly looked back to the front of the room when I felt my face heat up, hoping no one noticed me staring. But the feeling didn’t go away. My thoughts kept drifting back to Renji—his hand on my back, his concern as I was throwing up, the way he made sure I was okay. It wasn’t anything huge, nothing overt, but there was something about the way he acted that felt different than I expected.

Rukia, sitting next to me, nudged me with her elbow and gave me a smirk. I looked at her, and she raised an eyebrow, a silent question in her eyes.

"What?" I muttered, trying to act like I was paying attention to Professor Hange.

She glanced at Renji, then back at me, her voice low. "How’s your project going?"

I glanced at her, trying to keep my cool. "It’s fine. We’re making good progress. Just talking about the moral dilemma in our case."

Rukia leaned in a little closer, her voice still quiet but full of mischief. "Is it just me, or does Renji seem a little… different today?"

I froze for a second. "Different how?"

She leaned back, her gaze flicking to Renji. "I don’t know, maybe it’s just the way he’s been around you since last night. I don’t know. But I’m just saying, don’t be too surprised if things get a little more complicated than you’re expecting."

I let out a breath, frustrated but also curious. "Rukia, can we please just focus on the project?"

She grinned at me, clearly enjoying this. "Sure, sure. But don’t say I didn’t warn you."

Just then, Renji looked over at us, catching my eye for a moment. He seemed distant, almost like he was unsure of how to act. My stomach flipped. For a second, I couldn’t tell if he was looking at me because he had something to say or if he was just zoning out. The whole thing felt oddly intense, and my heart rate picked up.

Professor Hange started calling on groups, and I snapped back to reality, suddenly focused on the task at hand. It was our turn. Renji stood up, his usual air of calm confidence intact, but there was something else in the way he held himself today. Something I couldn’t quite put my finger on.

I took a deep breath and glanced at Rukia, who was practically vibrating with excitement. "Okay," I whispered to her. "Let’s do this."

We stepped to the front of the class, ready to present our case. But as we spoke, I couldn’t help but feel the weight of Renji’s presence beside me, his quiet attention on me as I talked through the details of our project. There was something in the air—something that felt like the beginning of something complicated, whether I wanted it to be or not.

The presentation finishes, and a sense of disappointment settles in my chest. I can’t help but reflect on how it went, and how it didn’t go as smoothly as I’d hoped, especially with Renji. Sure, we got a solid 90%, but there was tension in the air, especially on his side. His answers felt stiff, and his usual confidence seemed almost forced. I tried not to show it, but I could feel the nerves bubbling up—nervous about how we did, nervous about what the professor thought, and especially nervous about the fact that I’ve always prided myself on getting the best scores. I work alone for a reason; it’s easier that way.

I quickly slide a note to Rukia, my hand trembling slightly as I scrawl down the words: “I’m going to try to talk to Renji by myself after class, so please don’t wait for me.” I look at her, and she raises an eyebrow, smirking like she knows exactly what’s going on. Her thumb goes up, and she winks at me, clearly excited by my decision to finally approach him. I can’t tell if it’s because she’s eager to see how this plays out, or because she’s just amused at the whole situation.

When class ends, Renji immediately stands up and walks away from the table without even looking at me. It’s like he’s in a rush to escape. I can’t let it slide this time—not with everything that’s been building up. My heart races as I quickly stand and follow him out of the classroom.

“Hey, Renji!” I call, my voice a little shaky as I catch up to him and tug on his sleeve.

He turns sharply, his eyes narrowing for a split second. But then his expression softens when he realizes it’s me. There’s something about the way he looks at me that makes my stomach flip.

“What’s up?” he asks, his voice still a little guarded, like he’s bracing himself for something.

I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself. “Are you okay? You seem off today.”

His eyes flicker to the side, and I can tell he’s debating whether to brush me off or actually talk. After a long pause, he exhales sharply and starts walking toward the small creek behind the college campus, not looking at me but clearly expecting me to follow.

I hesitate for a moment before walking alongside him, trying to keep up with his longer strides. We reach the creek, and he stops at the water’s edge, staring down at the flowing water with a tension in his shoulders that I can’t quite place. The air is cool, and there’s a calmness to the sound of the creek that contrasts with the weight of the moment.

“I’ve been thinking a lot, you know?” Renji’s voice is quieter than usual. His hands are shoved deep into his pockets, and he kicks a small rock into the water. “About… everything.”

I watch him, trying to process what he’s saying. “Everything? What do you mean?”

He rubs the back of his neck, looking uncharacteristically unsure of himself. “I guess I’ve been holding this in for a while… and it’s stupid, but back in high school, I never had the guts to say anything. And I don’t even know why I’m bringing this up now, but…” He looks at me, his gaze serious, almost vulnerable, and my heart skips a beat.

“Renji…” I start, but he cuts me off.

“I liked you. A lot. Back in high school. And I didn’t know how to tell you.” He looks away, like he’s embarrassed, but there’s a quiet sincerity in his eyes. “I just—I never thought you’d even notice me, you know? You always had it together. And I was just that guy. The one nobody really paid attention to. But I watched you. I always did.”

I stand there in stunned silence, my mind racing. I never realized—never even considered that Renji might have felt that way. It’s like everything falls into place, all the little moments I brushed off as nothing suddenly making sense in this one confession.

“You liked me?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper. I don’t know why it surprises me so much, but it does. I thought I had him figured out. I thought he was just the brooding guy who didn’t care about anything, certainly not me.

“Yeah,” Renji says softly, running a hand through his hair. “I just never thought I had a shot. And now here we are, working together, and I don’t know… it just feels like the right time to say it.”

There’s a long pause, and I can feel the weight of the air between us. I don’t know what to say. My thoughts are a jumble. I’ve always known Renji as the guy who kept to himself, the one who didn’t show much emotion. But hearing this—this part of him that I never knew—makes my chest tighten.

“I had no idea,” I finally manage to say, my voice softer now. “You never let on.”

Renji looks at me, his gaze intense but vulnerable. “I never thought it mattered, not with everything else going on. And now it feels weird, like I’m just dumping this on you. But I needed to get it out.”

I swallow, my emotions a mix of surprise, confusion, and something else I can’t quite place. “Renji, I—I don’t know what to say. I never thought… you’d feel like that.”

He shrugs, looking down at the water again. “It’s okay. I don’t expect anything from you. I just needed you to know. I’ve been holding this in for too long, and I don’t want to keep pretending I’m some guy who doesn’t care.”

We stand there for a while, the quiet of the creek filling the space between us. I don’t know what comes next, but I know one thing for sure—this conversation, this moment, has changed everything.

The moment still hangs between us, a quiet weight that lingers in the air like morning fog. Renji's confession, raw and vulnerable, is something I wasn’t prepared for, but it’s also something I can’t shake. My heart beats louder than I want it to, and I take a deep breath before speaking, needing to break the silence.

“Well, thank you,” I say gently, my voice sincere. “Thank you for being open with me. I know it’s never easy to admit your feelings, especially when you’re not sure how the other person will take it. That takes a lot.”

Renji nods slightly, but doesn’t meet my gaze. His eyes remain fixed on the water, like it’s easier to talk to the creek than to me. I shift on my feet, feeling the weight of this conversation pressing in on me.

“And…” I continue, my voice lowering, “I’m sorry I never noticed you back in high school. I wasn’t trying to ignore you. I just—I was too focused on grades, on being the best. I didn’t want to date. I wasn’t really interested in anyone. Honestly, I don’t even remember much about high school. It wasn’t a great time for me either.”

Renji finally looks at me then, and I can see something flicker in his eyes, a softness I’m not used to. It’s like I’m seeing him for the first time, really seeing him.

“I do appreciate that you think I have everything together,” I say, offering him a small smile. “Because I try. I really do. But most of the time, I feel like I’m drowning in stress I create for myself. I put so much pressure on doing everything perfectly that I forget to breathe.”

He looks at me now—fully. And there’s something in his expression, some kind of recognition, like we’ve both been burning quietly under the surface for too long.

“But,” I say, taking a careful step closer to him, “even if I didn’t notice you then, I notice you now. I don’t think you’re a guy who doesn’t care. I think you’re just… selective. Careful with who you give your energy to. You’re guarded. And that’s okay.”

Renji swallows, his jaw tightening as if he’s holding something back. I let the silence stretch for a moment before gently asking, “But what made you that way? Why do you get so defensive?”

He exhales slowly, his hands tightening in his jacket pockets. For a moment, I think he won’t answer. But then his voice comes, quiet but steady.

“I guess I learned early not to expect people to stick around,” he says. “My mom left when I was twelve. Didn’t even say goodbye. One day, she was just gone. My dad was around but checked out—worked too much, drank more than he worked. I basically raised myself. Got in fights a lot. Stopped talking much. Stopped trusting people.”

My heart tightens at his words. It’s hard to imagine him like that, the Renji I know, this tough guy who’s always been around, with such a lonely past. I bite my lip, letting him continue.

“And when I did trust people—friends, girls, whatever—they’d flake. Or lie. Or only stick around when it was convenient. So I stopped showing how much I cared. Started acting like I didn’t. It was easier that way. People can’t hurt you if you act like you don’t give a fuck.”

I don’t interrupt him. I just listen, my heart aching for him. I don’t know how long we stand there, the sound of the creek filling the space, but it feels like time itself is slowing down.

“Then college came around. New start, right?” He laughs, but it’s bitter, without any humor. “Except I still felt like I was just passing through. Then we got paired up. You… you treated me like I mattered. Like I had something to say. It threw me off.”

I’m silent for a long time. The weight of his confession settles over me, and I realize I’ve never really understood Renji before today. I’ve always seen him as the tough guy, the one who doesn’t care, but now I see there’s so much more beneath the surface.

“I’m sorry,” I say softly. “For everything you went through. For not noticing back then. For not knowing now, until today.”

He shakes his head, not looking at me. “It’s not your fault. It’s just… I didn’t expect to care this much. About this project. About how you see me. But I do. And that scares the hell out of me.”

I step closer, placing my hand gently on his arm, grounding both of us in the moment. The contact is brief but meaningful, and I feel the pulse of something—something honest, something real.

“I see you now, Renji,” I whisper. “I really do.”

For the first time since we started this conversation, he looks at me with nothing to hide. His eyes are open, raw, and vulnerable. And in that moment, everything shifts between us. Quietly, undeniably. Something that might change everything.

My heart flutters under the weight of his gaze, and instinctively, I turn my head away, trying to calm the warmth that spreads across my face. But I steady myself, and when I speak, my voice is quiet but firm.

“I promise I won’t leave. And I won’t hurt you.”

When I look back at him, I see his ears have turned a faint shade of red. He’s caught off guard by my words, but then he smiles—softly, almost shyly. It’s a smile that feels like it’s just for me, and I can’t help but smile back.

I reach for his hand. His fingers are warm, large, rough, the kind that could easily span the width of my shoulder. I cradle his hand in both of mine, my thumbs tracing slow, soothing circles along his skin. It feels like a quiet promise between us, something that might grow into something more. Something steady.

For a moment, the air between us is calm, the tension replaced by something lighter, something more sincere.

“Let’s start over. As friends,” I say softly. “You don’t need to rush anything. Time is on our side.”

Renji’s posture shifts, relaxing in a way that I’ve never seen before. It’s like a weight has lifted from him, even if just a little. The walls he’s spent so long building seem to have cracked, even if just a bit. I can’t help but blush, overwhelmed by how tender the moment feels.

He reaches up, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear, his voice low. “Okay.”

But then, just as easily as he’s opened up, Renji clears his throat, a small grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “We should head back up. Pretty sure this area’s restricted. We could get arrested.”

My eyes widen. “Wait, what? Seriously?”

Renji laughs, the sound warm and teasing. “Kidding. Mostly.”

I swat his arm lightly as we start walking back toward the lot, the tension between us replaced with something lighter, something real. Something that, maybe, can last.

As we near the parking lot, he glances at me from the corner of his eye. “By the way… I like the way you cut your hair. It suits you. Makes you look professional. And pretty.”

My face flushes, the compliment hitting somewhere deep in my chest. “Thank you,” I murmur, smiling softly.

He walks me the rest of the way to my car, and as I fumble for my keys, I notice a familiar vehicle pulling in beside mine Nanami’s.

And just like that, the night shifts again.

Nanami steps out of his car just as I’m about to unlock mine. He’s calm, composed, as always, but something’s different. There’s an edge to him tonight, an intensity that wasn’t there earlier.

“I didn’t see you after class,” he says, his tone even but slightly clipped. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

Before I can respond, his eyes flick to Renji standing beside me. The air tightens, like the space between us thickens in response to his attention. Nanami nods at him, offering a quick, half-hearted dap. Renji returns it with a casual “Later,” then glances back at me.

“Get home safe, yeah?” Renji says, his voice a little softer than usual.

“You too,” I reply, and Nanami mutters the same under his breath just before Renji heads off into the night.

As soon as he’s out of earshot, Nanami turns back to me. “Is there something going on between you and Renji?”

His voice isn’t accusing, but there’s something in it—a hint of suspicion, maybe, or maybe just the edge of something deeper. I blink, caught off guard by the question.

“Why does it matter?” I ask, sharper than I intended. “Why are you suddenly questioning my relationship with him?”

Nanami doesn’t flinch. He just leans back slightly against my car, arms crossed, staring at me like he’s trying to solve a puzzle. His gaze is unwavering, too knowing. It’s like he can see right through me.

“Y/L,” he says quietly, voice low and serious, “don’t tell me you’re this blind.”

I freeze. “What are you talking about?”

He sighs, a deep, frustrated breath, and then, without warning, takes off his glasses.

That’s when I know something’s different. Nanami never takes off his glasses unless it’s serious—unless he’s letting his guard down.

“You really don’t know?” he says, his eyes meeting mine without a single flicker of hesitation. “Y/L, I’ve liked you for a while now.”

I just stand there, stunned, the world suddenly too loud around me. The quiet hum of the street, the leftover heat from the day—all of it fades into a buzzing, static noise in my ears. My heart races.

Are you serious?

That’s all I can think. This can’t be real. This feels like a fanfic someone else wrote, and forgot to warn me about.

And I’m the main character—completely unprepared for this plot twist.