#i work almost every day and it’s exhausting

[ahqkas]

♯ I PLEDGE ALLEGIANCE TO MY DAD . . . for teaching me everything he knows ( dick grayson & jason todd as dads ! )

— fem!reader as mom, fluff, not edited, based on this req.!!

© ahqkas — all rights reserved. even when credited, these works are prohibited to be reposted, translated or modified

. . . DICK GRAYSON !

dick was always great with kids; his natural warmth, patience, and humor made him a magnet for them, even before he became a father. he often thought back to his days as robin, remembering how bruce wayne took him in and gave him stability, and he wanted to offer that same feeling ( and definitely more ) to his children.

when you two first talked about having kids, he was equal parts excited and nervous about it. dick worried about balancing family life with his vigilante responsibilities, but he couldn’t wait to start a family with you. he knew that no matter what, you’d face it together

your first child, a boy, inherits your husband’s bright energy and natural charisma. from the moment your son was born, dick was a hands-on dad. midnight feedings? no problem. diaper changes? a breeze ( well, almost ). he approached fatherhood the same way he approached everything else—with passion and a healthy dose of humor

he’s not just the dad who builds the coolest blanket forts or makes pancakes shaped like bats; he’s the dad who listens, encourages, and shows up, no matter how tired he might be after a long night of patrol. even when exhaustion clings to him like a second skin, his kids come first. if his son wants to show him the new drawing he made, dick will sit down and marvel at it as if it belongs in a gallery. if his daughter has a nightmare, he’s at her bedside in seconds, stroking her hair and whispering how she’s okay and nothing’s gonna hurt her while he’s here until she drifts back to sleep

he’s the dad who remembers every detail about his kids’ lives—their favorite bedtime stories, their least favorite vegetables, the songs that make them smile—and makes sure they feel seen and heard every single day. when he’s with them, he’s fully present, setting aside his worries about blüdhaven or the weight of his world. to them, he’s not nightwing; he’s just dad, their safe place, the person they know will always be there no matter what

he teaches your son how to ride a bike, holding the seat steady as those wobbly first attempts make an appearance. “you’ve got this!” dick encourages his son, jogging beside him. when the first scrape happens—knees meeting pavement in a blur of surprise and pain—he’s there in an instant, crouching down with the kind of gentle urgency only a dad can master

his strong arms wrap around his son in a hug that says, i’ve got you, even as tears well up in the young eyes. he’s quick with jokes to soothe the sting, brushing dirt and pebbles off tiny palms. “hey, you know what? you’re officially a biker now. all the pros have scars to prove it.”

it doesn’t matter if he’s running on just a few hours of sleep or if his legs are sore from the night before. he’ll stay on that sidewalk all afternoon if it means helping his son find the courage to get back on the bike

when your daughter is born, it’s as if a new light ignites in dick’s heart, one that’s softer and warmer than anything he’s ever felt before. from the moment he holds her—tiny, delicate, and swaddled in pastel pink—he’s utterly smitten by the baby. his breath catches in his throat as her little fingers curl instinctively around one of his. it’s the smallest thing, but to him, it’s everything. he gazes at her with an awe that rivals the first time he stood under a gotham sunrise after a long patrol as robin

every little thing she does—every yawn, every sleepy coo, even the way she scrunches her nose—melts him completely. he’s the first to volunteer for late-night feedings, cradling her against his chest while whispering soft lullabies. “it’s okay, princess,” he murmurs, his voice low and soothing, as if the sound of it alone could shield her from the world

she’s the spitting image of you, but she’s got dick’s sense of curiosity and mischief. as she grows, it’s clear she’s a daddy’s girl through and through. dick spoils her with affection, often carrying her on his shoulders or letting her “style” his hair, even if it means showing up to patrol with hair ties

she’s the one who always convinces him to stay for “just one more bedtime story,” and dick can never say no to those puppy eyes. he does all the voices, acting out scenes with a dramatic flair that leaves her giggling uncontrollably

family movie nights are a regular occurrence. dick lets the kids pick the movie, even if it means sitting through the same animated film for the fifth time. he doesn’t mind—he’s just happy to have everyone snuggled up together

. . . JASON TODD !

jason never thought he’d be a dad. gotham wasn’t kind to kids, and in his darker moments, he felt like it had swallowed the boy he used to be whole. he worried his own traumas—nights spent cold and hungry on the streets, the ache of betrayal, the sting of abandonment—might cast shadows over the kind of father he’d want to be. how could he teach love and trust when his world had been built on survival and second chances?

the thought of holding a child, so small and fragile, scared him more than any villain ever could. what if he didn’t have it in him to be the kind of dad they deserved? what if his sharp edges cut too deep, or worse, he failed to protect them from the city that had failed him? jason had spent so long fighting his way through life that the idea of creating a safe, warm space for someone else felt like trying to plant flowers in a wasteland. and yet, the thought of building something good—something untouchable by gotham’s darkness—stirred a longing in him he couldn’t ignore.

when you told him you were pregnant with your first child, he was stunned silent for a solid minute. then came the slight tremble in his hands as he cradled your face and whispered, “we’re really doing this?” you swore you saw tears in his eyes, though he’d deny it later

he threw himself into preparing for fatherhood. between patrols, you’d catch him reading baby books, jotting down notes in that same serious way he planned missions. ( “what the hell is a diaper genie, baby? is it a genie for diapers, or does it genie them away?” )

when your first daughter was born, jason held her for the first time with an awe. he whispered promises to her, things like, “you’ll never go through what i did,” and “i’m gonna give you the world, princess.”

jason’s daughters own him. his rough, serious ide of personality melts into a puddle of mush when they so much as giggle at him. one pouty face, and he’s done for

when they’re little, he becomes a human jungle gym. they’ll climb all over him, pull on his hair, and stick stickers all over his face while he sits patiently, letting them “decorate” him. ( “you’re turning me into a unicorn, huh? cool. just don’t let your mom take pictures—too late? figures.” )

as they grow, he keeps a close eye on everything, from their friends to the neighborhoods they walk through. he’s not overbearing but has serious dad-radar. if they so much as mention a creepy guy or a mean teacher, he’s all, “do i need to handle this? no? you sure? okay, but say the word.”

by age eight, they’ve both mastered basic self-defense, thanks to “daddy’s fun time karate sessions.” he makes it a game—lots of laughter and encouragement—but underneath it, he’s deadly serious

when they’re older, he teaches them how to change a tire, handle their own money, and, much to your exasperation, how to throw a punch. ( “jason, they don’t need to know how to disarm a grown man at ten years old!” “baby, it’s gotham. yes, they do.” )

he’s the kind of dad who makes pancake breakfasts on weekends, complete with smiley faces and way too much syrup

on father’s day, his daughters surprise him with handmade cards every year. jason’s tough demeanor cracks every time he reads their scrawled messages: “daddy, you’re my hero.”

and jason as a father to teenage girls? lord, help us all.

when his eldest goes on her first date, he plays it cool—for all of two seconds. he grills the poor kid with subtle threats hidden behind a charming smile. ( “so, you like my daughter? good. treat her right, or you’ll have a real bad night. understand?” )

you have to remind him not to tail them when they go out. “jason, they’ll know you’re following them.” “i’ll stay a block behind. they’ll never see me.”

but despite his overprotectiveness, he’s their anchor during tough times. when they experience their first heartbreaks, he is there with hugs, ice cream, and the kind of pep talks that make them laugh through their tears. “anyone who doesn’t see how amazing you are isn’t worth crying over. you’re the todd girl. we don’t settle for less.”

deep down, jason worries about failing them. he knows what it’s like to lose everything, and the thought of his girls experiencing even a fraction of that makes his stomach churn

[drowning-in-paragraphs]

I'M (NOT) FINE!

a/n: requests are open!

jude bellingham x gf!reader

warnings: fluff fluff fluff

summary: You absolutely loathe being sick—the sniffles, the coughs, the shivering... And Jude? He hates seeing you in that state even more. So, what's the solution? Simple: pretend you're fine. You put on your best “everything's okay” face, a face that could fool everyone... except Jude. Yikes. With his signature mix of teasing and tenderness, he refuses to let you suffer alone. He'll keep pushing, pestering, and caring for you until you finally admit you're not as fine as you want to be. And in the end, it’s his care and persistence that makes you feel a little less miserable.

You should’ve known better than to let Jude stay up so late watching Netflix with you the night before. Or maybe it was you who needed to rethink staying up until 2 a.m., curled under a blanket with a bowl of popcorn between you two as he whispered silly commentary into your ear.

Today was different, though. As the morning crept in through your bedroom window, an unusual weight seemed to settle behind your eyes. Your throat felt like sandpaper, and a tickling cough bubbled up every time you tried to swallow. But you refused to acknowledge it.

Outside, the wind rattled the windows, hinting at the kind of day that makes you want to burrow into blankets and disappear. Jude sat at the kitchen counter, scrolling absently on his phone, his focus darting to the ticking clock as he waited for you.

He hadnt miss that you’d been odd this morning—quiet and sluggish, the kind of quiet he noticed instantly. You weren’t the type to miss a chance to tease him over breakfast or steal sips of his coffee, so when you shuffled past him earlier, mumbling something about needing first a long shower, it planted a seed of worry.

He didn’t like when things felt off. Especially not with you.

When you finally emerged from the bathroom, hair damp and face freshly washed, you looked almost fine. Almost. Your usually bright eyes were shadowed with exhaustion, your cheeks were a bit pale and you were wrapped up in a hoodie far too big for you. One of his, of course.

Jude’s cheerful voice rang through the apartment as you shuffled into the kitchen, pulling your sleeves over your hands. “Babe, what do you want for breakfast?”

“Just toast,” you mumbled quickly. Your voice cracked on the last word, and you froze. Oh no. Jude turned to look at you, brow furrowing ever so slightly.

“Feeling all right, love?” he asked, his brow creased as he leaned back in his chair, studying you.

You smiled—quick, small, practiced. “Yeah. Fine.”

You walked straight for the kettle to pour yourself some tea, deliberately avoiding him. You could feel his gaze on you, like a silent interrogation. Your boyfriend lingered near the counter as you plopped two slices of bread into the toaster, biting the inside of his cheek like he always did when he didn’t believe you. He didn’t say anything, though—not yet.

Jude Bellingham was many things, you thought to yourself, but oblivious wasn’t one of them.

Unfortunately for you, that made this whole charade harder.

“Didn’t look like you slept well,” he said, pushing the conversation gently.

“I slept fine,” you replied too quickly, taking a sip of hot tea and keeping your eyes on the mug.

“Well, you look... I don’t know a bit tired.”

“I am tired. You made us stay up late.” You shot him a pointed look, hoping the deflection would work. It almost did. Almost. “But really, I slept fine.”

Liar. Liar.

He frowned, but before he could press further, you turned, flashing him a look that you hoped was convincing. “I promise, Jude. Don’t start getting all dramatic.”

“What? Dramatic?” He placed a hand to his chest, feigning offense, but his eyes never lost that sharp edge. “I’ll let it slide this time. But you’re not fooling me, you know. You’ve got that thing going on.”

“What thing?”

“That thing where you’re trying to act normal, but you’re just a little bit too normal.”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes. “You sound insane.”

He sounded just right.

“I sound attentive,” he countered, grinning, though his voice was still soft.

You turned back to your tea, gripping the handle a little harder than necessary. In truth, you could feel the early signs of sickness creeping in—your throat tickled, your head felt heavy, and warmth pulsed at your temples like a faint drumbeat. It wasn’t bad yet, but you knew it would be soon.

And that was exactly why you couldn’t let Jude in on it.

He was attentive—almost painfully so—and you knew he’d go straight into overprotective mode the moment he suspected something was wrong. He’d fuss. He’d worry. He’d probably cancel his plans and hover over you for hours like a mother hen.

You didn’t want him to cancel his plans. And you really didn’t want to be the reason he stressed.

So, when he looked away to grab his phone, you took the opportunity to stifle the cough that clawed at your throat, turning your head quickly and clearing it in a way you hoped sounded natural. A master plan.

But when you turned back, Jude was staring. Staring into you, frowning a little and questioning you with his eyes.

“What was that?”

“What was what?”

“That sound. Did you just cough?”

You blinked, feigning innocence. “No? I don’t think so.”

His brow furrowed, lips parting slightly as if to call you out, but you were already ahead of him, changing the subject. “Are you still meeting the guys later?”

He eyed you skeptically for a beat longer, before reluctantly sighing. “Yeah. We are supposed to meet at nine.”

“Good.” You smiled sweetly, though it was mostly a distraction. “Don’t let me keep you from it.”

The shift in his expression was subtle, but you caught it anyway—something in the way his jaw tightened, the way his eyes lingered a second too long on you. Jude had spent enough time with you to know your tells, and he wasn’t stupid.

He let it slide, again. For now.

The hours went on, and your act grew harder to keep up.

Jude had been in and out of the living room while you lounged on the couch, buried under a blanket and claiming you just wanted to “relax.” You were also clutching a steaming cup of tea that Jude had made for you. You hadn’t even asked for it, which was a sign he was already onto you. You scrolled your phone lazily, trying to appear normal, but you could feel him watching you.

He plopped onto the couch beside you, spreading his long and fit legs across the coffee table. “You’re acting weird.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yeah, you are.”

“You’re imagining things.”

He shot you a look. “You’re wearing two hoodies, a blanket, and you’re sipping tea in 26-degree weather. It’s summer.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but then came the moment you’d been dreading. You were mid-scroll when an itch seized your throat. You tried to suppress it—tried to swallow it down and breathe through your nose—but it was no use. The cough escaped, sharp and sudden, your body shaking slightly with the force of it.

Jude whipped his head toward you so fast you thought he might get whiplash.

“Got you.”

You froze. Slowly, you looked up to see Jude next to you, arms crossed and an annoyingly smug look on his face.

“I knew it,” he said, shaking his head.

You sighed, sinking lower into the couch. “It’s just a tickle. Don’t start.”

“Don’t start? No no no. Babe, you’ve been hiding that all day, haven’t you?”

“I haven’t been hiding anything,” you mumbled, avoiding his gaze.

“Alright, that’s it,” he said, scooting closer. “Let me feel your forehead.”

“No!” you blurted, immediately shrinking back into the cushions. “Don’t touch me. I—uh, I haven’t washed my face. Gross, right?”

He rolled his eyes. “Like I care.”

“Jude, I swear—”

“Stop being stubborn and come here.”

You hugged the blanket tighter, as if it could protect you. “I’m not coming, Jude.”

“You’re so damn stubborn,” he shot back, though his voice was tinged with affection. “Let me feel your forehead.”

You recoiled slightly, eyes narrowing. “I don’t have a fever.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“Then let me feel your forehead,” he moved closer to you.

You squirmed away from him, practically sliding down the couch as he reached for you. He only managed to grab your ankle, pinning you in place.

“This isn’t fair! You’re bigger than me!” you yelped, trying not to laugh at how ridiculous the two of you must look—him holding onto your leg while you squirmed like a fish out of water.

“I don’t care. You’re not getting away from me.”

You gasped for air as you finally gave up and collapsed back onto the sofa. Jude grinned in victory, his palm landing gently on your forehead before you could protest further. His grin faded as quickly as it appeared.

For a second, you both stared each other down, and in that moment, you realized how ridiculous this little standoff had become. He looked at you like he couldn’t decide whether to be exasperated or amused, his head tilting slightly.

“Y/N, you’re burning up.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Think again then cause you are.”

“Maybe I’m just hot,” you tried to joke weakly, but he wasn’t having it. His lips set into a thin line.

“Why didn’t you tell me you weren’t feeling well?” he demanded softly. His tone wasn’t angry—just disappointed. Somehow, that was worse.

You bit the inside of your cheek, your resolve wavering. “Because I don’t want you to worry.”

His expression softened instantly, and your heart sank.

“Babe,” he said, crouching down in front of you so he could look you in the eyes. “You know that’s not possible, right? I’m always going to worry about you. You’re not invincible, no matter how much you try to act like it.”

You swallowed hard, guilt and affection swirling in your chest. You didn’t want to admit it, but part of you was relieved that he’d seen through you.

“I just didn’t want you to cancel your plans,” you muttered.

Jude rolled his eyes fondly. “You think I care about plans more than you?”

You didn’t answer, because the look in his eyes told you he already knew what you were thinking.

“Come on,” he said finally, standing up and offering you his hand. “We’re taking your temperature.”

You groaned, throwing your head back dramatically. “Jude—”

“You’re done arguing.”

“Jude, I don’t need the thermometer,” you grumbled, but he was already standing up, mumbling something about how he would decide that. You slumped back against the couch with a sigh, pulling the blanket higher around your face.

“Up.”

You shot him a glare, but took his hand anyway, letting him pull you off the couch. You knew you’d lost this round, but as you followed him into the kitchen, you caught the small smile tugging at his lips.

And you couldn’t help but smile, too.

Ten minutes after, you both stared at the thermometer, you chewing the inside of your left cheek nervously, while Jude crossed his arms over his chest, his brow furrowing deeper by the second.

“38.9,” he read aloud, his tone flat but edged with concern.

“It’s not that bad,” you muttered, trying to wave it off, but the tightness in your chest and the dizziness that followed the cough made the words feel hollow.

His eyes snapped to yours, sharp and unyielding. “Not that bad? That’s literally a high fever.”

“Barely,” you quipped, attempting a half-hearted shrug, though the effort made your head feel heavier, and your limbs suddenly felt like lead. You had no choice but to lean against the counter for support.

“Y/N…”

“Jude, I’m fine,” you argued, turning to put the thermometer back on the counter like it didn’t just confirm his worst suspicions. “I don’t need a doctor, and I definitely don’t need you hovering over me.”

His lips parted, words on the tip of his tongue clearly sharp, but he held them back. Instead, he took a deep breath, his frustration melting into something softer, his gaze still filled with concern. Jude wasn’t having it. He stood up suddenly, towering over the couch where you moved and where now curled up. “That’s it. You’re going to bed.”

Your head whipped around, eyes narrowing. “I’m not going to bed.”

“Yes, you are,” he said firmly, already reaching for your hand to pull you up. “You need to lie down properly, not camp out here on the couch like you’re hiding from something.”

“Jude, no.” You tugged your hand away, shaking your head. “I’m fine here. I like the couch. It’s cozy.”

He raised a brow, clearly unconvinced. “The bed is cozier.”

“I don’t want to go to bed yet,” you said stubbornly, sinking deeper into the cushions as though you could become one with the furniture.

“You’ll feel better if you rest properly,” he argued, his tone soft but insistent. “And the sooner you rest, the sooner you’ll get better. That’s logic. You can’t fight logic.”

“I’m not fighting logic. I just don’t want to go,” you insisted, pouting slightly for effect. “The bed is boring. I’ll just lay there staring at the ceiling, and then you’ll make me drink disgusting medicine. No thanks.”

Jude exhaled sharply, rubbing his forehead in that way he always did when he was losing patience. You knew exactly how far you could push him, but it didn’t feel good to see that frustrated look in his eyes. You hated making him worry, but part of you didn’t want to be stuck in bed just yet, even if you could feel the exhaustion weighing you down.

“Jude, please,” you said, your tone softening, almost pleading. “I don’t want to be stuck in bed. I’ll rest here, I promise. Let’s just watch something, yeah?”

You offered him an innocent smile, though it quickly wavered when you felt another cough building. You turned away, covering your mouth as you hacked into the blanket. Jude’s hands twitched at his sides, but he didn’t press the issue—at least, not yet.

When you finally caught your breath, you glanced up at him warily, half-expecting him to scoop you up and carry you to bed despite your protests. He looked like he wanted to, but instead, he sighed again and sat back down on the edge of the couch.

He sighed deeply, clearly torn. His jaw worked as he considered your plea, the tension in his shoulders refusing to ease. Finally, he relented with a short nod, though his eyes still carried a hint of warning. “Fine. But only because I know you’ll sulk if I make you move.”

You flashed him a weak smile, already pulling the blanket tighter around yourself.

“But the second you look worse, you’re going to bed,” he added firmly.

You opened your mouth to say something, probably to complain, but another coughing fit cut you off—deep and rattling, like your body was staging a mutiny. Jude was on his feet in seconds, disappearing into the kitchen as you tried to catch your breath.

When he returned, he was holding a fresh glass of water and a bottle of cold medicine. “Here,” he said firmly, handing you the water first.

“Thanks,” you muttered, your voice hoarse. But when he held out the medicine, you grimaced. “Do I have to? I mean, maybe in a couple hours this will wear off...”

“Do you want to get better, or do you want to keep hacking like a 90-year-old chain smoker?”

“You’re so mean,” you groaned, narrowing your eyes at him.

“And you have high fever. Take the damn medicine.” He was loosing his patience, but it returned every time you smiled at him.

Reluctantly, you unscrewed the cap and took the tiniest possible sip, immediately pulling a face. “This is disgusting.”

Jude snorted. “Medicine’s not supposed to taste like candy.”

“It should,” you muttered with a dramatic pout, glaring at the medicine bottle like it had personally wronged you.

Jude rolled his eyes, fighting back a grin as he took the glass from your hands. “Well, when you invent miracle medicine that tastes like chocolate, let me know. Until then, take it properly.”

You groaned but relented, though your face twisted in disgust. “I swear this stuff is just punishment in a bottle.”

“You are such a dramatic,” he countered, leaning back against the couch and crossing his arms with a smug expression.

“I’ll get you back for this,” you threatened weakly, pulling the blanket tighter around yourself.

Jude’s grin widened. “I’m counting on it.” He settled back down beside you, his hand finding its way to your back, rubbing slow circles that felt unexpectedly soothing. With a sigh, he grabbed the remote and flicked through channels, trying to find something to watch since you were clearly avoiding the idea of going to bed—much to his dismay.

The movie started playing, but you weren’t really watching it. You were fighting the drowsiness creeping in, but your body seemed to have other ideas. The fever had started to set in fully, and it made every movement feel sluggish and lethargic. You burrowed deeper into the blanket, your skin hot and clammy, and instinctively you leaned into Jude’s side, seeking the cool comfort of his presence to counter the warmth suffocating you.

He didn’t miss it. His arm immediately instinctively curled around your shoulders, pulling you closer to him, as if he could offer some comfort against the fever that seemed to consume you. You shifted, nestling your head against his chest, feeling his steady heartbeat. His hand gently brushed against your arm, the coolness of his skin providing a brief relief from the heat radiating off yours. You closed your eyes, too tired to keep up the act, but you could still hear the sound of the movie playing softly in the background.

He could feel your body trembling, your warmth pressing against him in a way that only made his concern grow. “Baby, you're shivering,” he murmured softly, his voice low and filled with worry. His hand moved to your forehead once again, his fingers cool against your skin as he traced the lines of your face, his thumb brushing over your cheek.

You didn’t have the energy to argue, too tired to offer your usual deflections. Instead, you let out a soft sigh, closing your eyes as the weight of your body seemed to pull you deeper into the couch. Your breath was slow but labored, each inhale a bit more shallow than the last.

Jude didn’t miss the way your body seemed to sink into him, the way you let yourself fall into his arms without resistance. The quiet, unspoken admission that you needed him, even when you refused to admit it aloud.

“And you are burning up,” he said, his voice low and gentle.

“I know, it’s okay,” you mumbled, though your teeth had begun to chatter slightly, betraying your words. You buried your face against his shirt, feeling the slight chill of his body against yours.

He shook his head, tightening his arm around your shoulders. “It’s not really okay, love,” he whispered, voice full of concern. The touch of his hand against the back of your neck, cool and soothing, sent a wave of comfort through you, but it didn’t stop the shivering.

You tried to smile up at him, but it was weak. “I’m fine here, Jude. Honestly.”

He wasn’t convinced. He could feel the heat radiating off your body, and the way you were leaning into him for that extra bit of coolness only confirmed what he already knew.

He stared down at you, a mixture of tenderness and frustration swirling in his gaze. “You’re not fooling anyone, you know,” he whispered, brushing a lock of hair away from your face. His hand lingered, fingers tracing the curve of your jaw with a softness that contrasted with the firm set of his jaw.

You tried to smile, but the effort was half-hearted, your lips barely lifting.

“Right. That’s enough,” he said suddenly, untangling himself from the blanket and standing up.

“Juuude,” you protested weakly, trying to clutch at the soft fabric as if it could somehow shield you from the inevitable.

“Don’t even start,” he interrupted, shaking his head with a small but stern smile. “I let you win with the couch thing before, but now? Non-negotiable.”

You glared at him half-heartedly, the fever clouding your ability to stay upset. “You’re so smug.”

“And you’re so stubborn,” he countered with a grin, brushing a stray lock of hair from your forehead, his touch lingering just a moment longer than necessary.

His hands rested gently on your knees, his gaze steady as he met your eyes. “Come on, love,” he said, his voice quiet but insistent. “Let me take you to bed. You’ll sleep better, and I’ll stay with you. Okay?”

You hesitated, staring up at him through fever-fogged eyes. There was something so comforting in his touch, in the way his thumb brushed over the inside of your knee as if he could ease the discomfort from your body with just a gesture.

“Can’t we just stay here a little longer?” you asked, your voice barely a whisper, vulnerable and tired. You were falling asleep in the couch.

Jude’s heart ached at the sound of it, but his resolve didn’t falter. He reached down, gently cupping the back of your head and pulling you up to your feet. “No more fighting, baby.”

Before you could protest further, he lifted you effortlessly into his arms, one arm supporting your back, the other under your legs. You instinctively wrapped your arms around his neck, leaning against him as if your body could draw strength from his.

“Jude!” you gasped in surprise.

“Shh,” he soothed, walking you toward the bedroom with gentle steps. “You’re not getting out of this. I’m taking care of you.”

You pressed your cheek against his shoulder as he carefully laid you down on the bed, tucking you under the covers with the same tender care he always showed. As he reached for the blanket, smoothing it over your shivering form, you closed your eyes, feeling a sense of safety that you didn’t want to admit you’d needed.

“Promise me you'll rest,” he said after a long moment, his voice barely above a whisper, as if speaking any louder might disturb the fragile quiet between you.

He brushed his hand across your forehead, feeling how much warmer you were now that you were lying down. His fingers lingered, caressing your skin in slow, soothing motions. He let out a quiet sigh, looking down at you with a softness in his eyes.

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you let out a quiet breath, feeling the warmth of his hand caressing you. It felt so comforting that you couldn't resist, your body finally surrendering to the heaviness of your fatigue.

“Promise me,” he repeated softly, his fingers tracing idle patterns along your back.

“I promise,” you mumbled, your voice thick with the weight of exhaustion.

“I’ll always take care of you,” he replied, his voice low and tender. He leaned down and kissed your forehead lightly, the feeling of his lips against your skin almost a promise.

You felt your eyelids grow heavier, and the warmth of his presence slowly lulled you into a deep, feverish sleep. Jude stayed beside you, his hand resting protectively on your back as he settled beside you, never once breaking contact.

And as you drifted off, you felt a quiet sense of gratitude wash over you. You were sick, yes, but you were also cared for in a way that made everything feel a little more bearable. With him so close, it was hard to stay awake, and soon, your breathing evened out into the deep rhythm of sleep.

[capuccinodoll]

Honey love, dark eyes

♡ Chapter nine ♡

Summary: You confront Travis, and with each passing day, you begin to feel more like yourself. The company of your favorite girls fills your days with warmth and laughter. Someone knocks on your door. WC: 12.0k A/N: OKAY. I had planned to post this over the weekend, but I just couldn’t waittt lol and since I didn’t post for two weeks, here’s part 9 as a little gift for you <3 Don't forget to follow me on capuccinodollupdates for updates!

Monday. Your knuckles throbbed as you hammered on the door, the echo reverberating through the hallway. Three times, then another six—or was it seven? You weren’t sure. All you knew was the sharp sting in your hand as you finally dropped it to your side. Your breath remained steady, but you could feel emotion clawing its way through your calm exterior. Your foot betrayed you, shifting restlessly against the wooden floor.

Something had shifted, something you couldn’t quite place. You’d spent the entire night staring at the ceiling, your mind racing while the hours stretched endlessly. By the time your alarm screamed to life in the morning, you felt more wired than exhausted, like your restlessness had seeped into your bones. At work, nothing held your focus. The papers on your desk blurred together, the words losing their meaning as your thoughts wandered elsewhere. You checked the clock obsessively, willing the minutes to pass, but even when the day finally crawled to an end, the unease clung to you.  

What the hell was going on with Joel? His behavior had been erratic, disjointed—like he was holding something back. Every glance, every word from him felt layered, deliberate, but never enough to give you clarity. It was maddening, the sense that there was a piece of the puzzle you hadn’t been given, something vital he wasn’t saying. 

“Ask him,” he had said yesterday, brushing you off with a cryptic shrug. But you weren’t someone who could just let things go.

Now, the door creaked open, and there stood Travis, his expression a mix of curiosity and something softer, almost tentative. His damp hair clung to his forehead, droplets still glistening at the edges. He looked freshly showered, the scent of soap faintly wafting in the cool air between you. His gray T-shirt was inside out, the seams and tag clearly visible, as if he’d thrown it on without much thought. He wore dark blue sweatpants that hung loose around his hips and no socks or shoes, his bare feet planted firmly on the hardwood floor.

He blinked at you, his eyebrows knitting together when he caught sight of your face.

“Hey,” he said, your name falling from his lips with a question mark at the end. “Are you okay?” His voice held genuine concern as his eyes flickered over your face, trying to decode your expression.

Your mouth felt dry, your throat tight. You couldn’t bring yourself to smile or reassure him. Instead, you stood frozen, your arms wrapped around yourself as if bracing against an invisible wind.

“Did something happen?” he asked again, stepping slightly closer. He tilted his head, his gaze searching. “Come inside. It’s freezing out here.”

But you didn’t move. Your feet were rooted to the ground, defying his invitation.

“What happened between you and Joel?” you asked, your voice steadier than you felt inside. 

He paused, the question clearly taking him off guard. “What?”

“You talked to Joel, didn’t you?” You tightened your arms around yourself, your tone low and deliberate, trying to keep your emotions in check. “I know you did. He told me.”

That wasn’t entirely true. Joel hadn’t told you much of anything, just enough to leave you spinning. Blurry fragments of his words had lodged themselves in your mind, their edges sharp enough to cut. Still, you had pieced together enough to confront Travis now.

Travis’s eyes narrowed slightly, his body shifting against the doorway.

“What exactly did he tell you?” he asked, his voice cautious but far from confused. He wasn’t lost—he knew exactly what you were referring to.

“Enough,” you replied, your voice hardening despite yourself. The anger that had been simmering beneath the surface was beginning to bubble over. “Don’t play dumb, Travis. What did you say to him?”

For a long moment, he didn’t respond. His lips pressed together, his jaw tight. Then he exhaled through his nose, glancing briefly at the floor before meeting your gaze again.

“Look, I… I talked to him, okay? He... we had a conversation.”

“What kind of conversation?” you pressed, taking a small step forward. “Why would he tell me to ask you if nothing happened? What did you say to him?”

Travis leaned against the doorframe, rubbing the back of his neck as if trying to work through the tension there.

"He showed up late Saturday night,” he admitted, his voice softer now, carryin’ a hint of regret. “While you were sleepin’, I answered the door. Didn’t wanna wake you."

Your stomach twisted at his words. You could picture it too vividly—Joel standing on the other side of the door, his face shadowed by some unspoken emotion. You swallowed hard, pushing the image away.

“What did he want?”

“He wanted to talk to you,” Travis said simply, though the hesitation in his voice suggested there was more to the story.

“And?” You tilted your head, your eyes narrowing. “What did you tell him, Travis?”

"I told him you needed some space,” he said, the words spillin’ out in a hurry. “That you didn’t wanna see him.”

You stared at him, your chest tightening. “That’s it? You expect me to believe that’s all you said?”

Travis’s gaze faltered for a fraction of a second. He straightened slightly, squaring his shoulders.

“I might have… implied some things,” he admitted reluctantly. 

“Implied what?” Your voice was sharper now, your frustration cracking through. “What the hell did you say to him, Travis?”

His jaw clenched, his hands curling into fists at his sides.

“I told him you were movin’ on,” he said at last, his tone a bit defensive. “That you and me… that we spent the night... you know, uh—”

A sharp laugh escaped you, though there was nothing humorous about it.

“Unbelievable,” you muttered, shaking your head. “So you lied to him? Why? To hurt him? To make yourself feel better?”

“’Cause he deserves it!” Travis snapped, his voice risin’. “After the way he’s treated you, the way he’s acted… He don’t get to just waltz back into your life like nothin’ happened. Someone needed to put him in his place.”

You took a step back, your arms dropping to your sides.

“And you thought that someone should be you?” you asked, your voice cold. “Do you even realize what you’ve done? This isn’t your fight, Travis. It never was.”

“Why do you care so much about what that prick thinks?” Travis’s voice was tight, each word laced with frustration. “Why does it matter if he thinks somethin' happened between us? We’ve been dating for weeks, haven’t we?”

“Because even if something had happened, it would be nobody else’s business,” you shot back, your voice trembling, though whether from anger or disbelief, you weren’t sure. “You had no right to talk about us behind my back, Travis, to talk about me that way. That’s a line you don’t cross. If there’s anything between us—anything at all—it stays between us. That’s how respect works. But you… you just threw it out there like it was some weapon to hurt him.”

“Respect?” Travis repeated, his eyebrows shooting up in disbelief. “Joel don’t respect me, so why should I give it to him?”  

"I know, you’re right," you said, your voice steady but firm. "I know Joel’s been awful to you from the start, but that's not the point!” you snapped, takin’ a step closer. “Why’d you even say it, Travis? To piss him up? To win some kind of imaginary contest? What exactly did you think you’d accomplish?”

His face darkened, the accusation hitting a nerve. “You’re really asking me that?” he said, his voice rising slightly. “Why the fuck did you agree to go out with me, anyway? I think we both know it’s not me you want to be with.”

The words hung in the air like a sudden drop in temperature. You felt your breath catch, your pulse roaring in your ears.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” you demanded, but your voice lacked the sharpness you’d intended.

“It means you never stopped wantin' him,” Travis said bluntly, his jaw set. “You say you like me—liked me—but let’s be honest. That’s not enough, is it? You’re still hung up on Joel, no matter how much you try to pretend otherwise.”

“I liked you because I thought you were decent,” you countered, your voice quieter now but no less firm. “Because I thought you wouldn’t pull shit like this.”

“Decent,” he repeated bitterly, the word dripping with sarcasm. “That’s what you look for in someone? Decency?” He let out a sharp, humorless laugh, shaking his head. “Guess that explains why Joel’s still got a hold on you.”

“Don’t turn this around on me, Travis,” you warned, your tone icy. “This isn’t about Joel. This is about you, and the fact that you dragged me into your petty grudge match with him. You told him we slept together to hurt him, didn’t you? That’s all this was to you. Some sick way of proving a point.”

“Maybe I did,” he admitted after a long pause, his voice defiant, though his eyes gave away the guilt behind his words. “Maybe I wanted to see him squirm for once. God knows he deserved it. And truth be told, I sure did enjoy watchin’ him die a little inside.”

“Deserved it?” You laughed sharply, shaking your head in disbelief. “At my expense? You really enjoyed pissing him off, didn’t you? You thought it was worth it to drag me into the middle of your shit, just so you could watch him lose it.”

“I wasn’t trying to drag you into anything,” Travis argued, though his tone lacked conviction. “I was protecting you. Standing up for you. Again, Joel doesn’t get to just walk back into your life after everything he’s done and act like nothing happened.”

“Protecting me?” you repeated, incredulous. “You think lying to him about us is protecting me? If you wanted to protect me, you would have stayed out of it completely.”

“I didn’t lie,” he shot back, his voice rising again. “Not really.”

“Oh, give me a break,” you said, throwing your hands up. “Don’t try to split hairs with me, Travis. You knew exactly what you were doing, and it had nothing to do with me. This was all about you and your bullshit rivalry with Joel. What’s next? Are you going to pull out a ruler and measure dicks with him? Honestly, If you’d just punched him square in the face, it would’ve been far more decent.”

Travis’s face fell, the anger draining from his expression in an instant. Guilt settled in its place, heavy and unmistakable. He opened his mouth to respond but then closed it again, the silence between you thick and suffocating.

You took a step back, your arms crossing over your chest again. “I don’t even know what to say to you right now,” you said quietly. “I thought I could trust you. I thought you were better than this.”

“I’m sorry,” he said after a moment, his voice softer now, almost pleading. “I screwed up. I was angry, and I let it get the best of me. I didn’t mean to—”

You let out a slow breath, feeling the weight of his words press against the knot already forming in your stomach. You shook your head, trying to hold onto the edges of your resolve.

“You had no right to meddle in my business with Joel,” you said, your gaze fixed on the floor. The words felt sharp, final, as though speaking them aloud might make them easier to believe.

When you looked up, his eyes were on you, calmer now but no less intense. The familiar shade of blue in them seemed darker, clouded with something unspoken. He stood there, silent, watching you like he was waiting for something—permission, maybe, or understanding.

“I know everything with him is… difficult,” you continued, your voice quieter now, tinged with something softer. “And I know it’s been unfair. But it’s between him and me. It always has been.”

Travis sighed deeply, running a hand through his hair in frustration. He pushed himself off the doorframe and took a step forward, then stopped, his hands hovering awkwardly by his sides. His lips curved into a faint, bitter smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“I just don’t get it,” he said, shaking his head. “I don’t get why you even agreed to go out with me in the first place. Why drag me into all this? You could’ve just spared me the trouble, saved me from wastin’ my time, from wastin’ energy on somethin’ I was never gonna win.”

The words hit you harder than you expected, cutting through your carefully constructed armor. You forced yourself to meet his gaze, your voice softer now, though still firm.

“Why would you need to win anything, Travis? This isn’t a competition. It never was.”

“Really?” he asked, his voice cold, though the hurt behind it was unmistakable. He laughed quietly, shaking his head. “Doesn’t feel that way.”

You took a step closer, trying to close the gap—not just the physical space between you, but something deeper.

“I liked you, Travis,” you said, your words deliberate, each one carefully chosen. “I’ve always liked you. Don’t doubt that for a second. And don’t think I used you. That’s not what this was.”

He looked at you for a long moment, his lips pressed tightly together, his expression unreadable. Then, finally, he nodded, his jaw tightening.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, his voice softer now. The words carried something heavier than before, as though he’d just realized how little they could do to fix this.

You swallowed hard, your throat tightening.

“Me too,” you admitted. The weight of the moment hung heavy in the air between you, thick and oppressive. “I’m sorry if I made you feel like you didn’t matter. Or like you were… caught in the middle of something you never signed up for. That was never my intention.”

“But?” he prompted, his voice quiet but firm, like he already knew what was coming.

You smiled faintly, though there was no humor in it. Only sadness.

“But this is as far as it goes,” you said, your voice steady despite the ache in your chest. “And it needs to stop here. For both of us.”

Travis nodded slowly, his lips pulling into a thin, resigned line.

“You’re right,” he said, his voice barely audible. He looked at you, his eyes heavy with something you couldn’t quite name—regret, maybe, or acceptance.

You didn’t say anything else. There was nothing left to say. Instead, you turned and walked away, your footsteps soft but deliberate. You felt his gaze linger on you as you left, heard him murmur another apology under his breath, though it did little to dull the raw discomfort still settling over you.

The walk home felt interminable. Each step dragged, your feet moved mechanically while your mind spun, heavy with the weight of what had just happened. The crisp air bit at your cheeks, and the faint hum of distant traffic filled the silence you carried. When you finally reached your home, you shut the door behind you with a soft click, leaning against it longer than you should have. The quiet of your home surrounded you, thick and expectant, as if it had been waiting for you to process everything.

You shrugged off your coat and kicked off your shoes, leaving them in a messy pile near the door. Your fingers paused on the hem of your sweater as you headed to the bathroom. The mirror caught your reflection, and you froze. You were startled by how tired you looked—your hair tousled from the wind, shadows ringing your eyes. You didn’t feel like yourself, and seeing that weariness staring back at you was jarring.

The shower’s hot spray offered a small reprieve. You stood under it longer than you probably should have, letting the water drum against your skin and the steam fill the room until it was hard to breathe. You tried to think, to pin your feelings down, but everything slipped away, as if you were trying to hold water in your hands. Anger at Travis still simmered under your skin, but there was something else, quieter and harder to name—a gnawing mix of pain and confusion.

When you finally stepped out, your skin was pink from the heat, your hair damp and sticking to your neck. You wrapped yourself in your thickest robe and walked barefoot into the kitchen. The house felt colder now, the chill seeping through the floor and nipping at your ankles. You filled the kettle and set it to boil. The small ritual of making tea steadied you. The soft whistle of steam was oddly soothing, a thread of normalcy in the chaos of your thoughts.

Back in your bedroom, you sat on the edge of the bed, wrapping your hands around the mug as if its warmth could sink into your chest. You sipped slowly, your eyes locked on a spot on the wall you weren’t really seeing. Travis’s words played on repeat in your head, each one sharp and heavy, making your chest ache. But then your thoughts drifted to Joel—his voice, his face, the way he lingered in your mind even when he wasn’t there. You tried to untangle your feelings, to make sense of them, but everything was a mess. You felt stuck, suspended between anger, regret, and an ache you didn’t want to name.

By the time your tea had cooled, you set the mug on the nightstand and crawled under the covers. You curled into yourself, as if trying to protect your body from the storm inside your mind. Sleep came in fits and starts, your dreams restless and fragmented.

When you woke, pale winter light filtered through the curtains, and the clock on your phone read 5:00 p.m. The realization sat heavy in your stomach, though you weren’t entirely sure why.

You lay there, staring at the ceiling, as a decision started to take shape. You needed to talk to Joel. You needed answers—clarity—something to cut through the fog that had settled over you. The thought filled you with both dread and determination, but you knew it was the only way forward. Avoiding this had only left you feeling more tangled.

Swinging your legs over the side of the bed, you headed into the kitchen. The quiet of the house felt like both a comfort and a weight pressing down on you. You grabbed a glass of water, leaning against the counter as you tried to gather the resolve for the conversation you had been putting off. After a few seconds, you forced yourself to stop thinking about it.

Then, after pacing your home for what felt like hours, the walls pressing in closer with every loop around the living room, you decided you needed air. Staying inside had begun to feel suffocating.

You didn’t have a plan when you left, not really. The streetlights buzzed faintly in the cool dusk, casting a yellow haze on the cracked pavement. The air had that sharp, metallic chill of autumn, biting at your cheeks and pinching your nose. You pulled your scarf tighter as you walked, hands buried deep in your pockets, letting your feet lead without much thought.  

Eventually, you found yourself standing in front of the small, unassuming cinema tucked between a bookstore and a closed bakery. The marquee flickered with a mix of indie titles and old classics. You chose something without paying too much attention, just handed over your card and took the ticket without caring about the plot or reviews. It wasn’t about the movie, really—it was about the act of sitting in the dark, of letting someone else’s story take up the space in your head that Joel’s had been occupying for too long. 

The air inside was warm and thick with the scent of buttered popcorn, wrapping around you like a familiar embrace. With your snacks in hand—popcorn and chocolate, the perfect blend of sweet and salty—you found a seat near the back, where the dim glow of the screen felt like a shield from the outside world.

The movie began: 16 Candles. Molly Ringwald appeared, her face falling as her family forgot her birthday. You watched, though your focus wavered, the story blurring into the film’s grainy texture. For long stretches, you weren’t even sure what was happening, your mind slipping in and out of the narrative.

But none of that mattered. For those few moments, tucked away in the darkness, you weren’t thinking about him. And that was enough.

When the credits rolled, you stayed seated for a moment longer, watching the names scroll by in white letters against the black screen. There was something soothing about the rhythm of it, the anonymity of all those people who had come together to create something for strangers to sit and lose themselves in. Finally, you stood, stretching your legs as you shuffled out into the night.

Your stomach growled as you stepped onto the street, and you realized you hadn’t eaten since lunch. Without much deliberation, you turned toward your favorite restaurant, the one you always went to when you craved a little indulgence or comfort. It wasn’t far—just a few blocks away—and the walk, though cold, felt like a balm. The restaurant’s warm light spilled onto the sidewalk, a beacon against the deepening dark.  

Inside, you slid into a familiar booth by the window, the worn leather cushioning a kind of second skin to your movements. The server greeted you by name, smiling as they handed you a menu, though you barely glanced at it before ordering your usual. The predictability of it felt steadying, a ritual that didn’t demand any extra thought.  

As you waited, you let your eyes wander. The restaurant was only half-full, a quiet hum of conversation blending with the clink of silverware against plates. You imagined snippets of lives that weren’t yours—a couple arguing softly over shared appetizers, a man engrossed in his phone, a table of friends laughing too loudly. You didn’t envy or resent any of it.  

When your food arrived, the first bite was a revelation, reminding you just how hungry you were. You ate slowly, savoring every forkful, letting the warmth spread through you like a kind of healing. You didn’t check your phone once, didn’t let your thoughts circle back to Joel or any of the messy, unresolved tangles waiting for you at home. Instead, you let yourself exist in this small, fleeting moment of peace.  

By the time you left, your body felt heavy with contentment, your mind quieter than it had been in days. The streets were quieter now, too, the city winding down into its nighttime lull. You took the long way home, the cold air stinging your cheeks but waking you up in a way that felt good. And for the first time in what felt like ages, you felt good.

That night, you slept like a baby.

*

Tuesday. The afternoon found you typing away at your laptop, the steady rhythm of keys filling the otherwise quiet living room. The soft knock at the door startled you out of your focus. You paused, turning your head toward the sound, squinting as if that might help you see through walls.

Resting your palms on the table, you pushed yourself up and walked to the door, curiosity flickering. Who could it be? You weren’t expecting anyone. When you opened it, a warm smile tugged at your lips before you even realized it.

“Hi,” Sarah greeted, her usual brightness dimmed slightly by a rare shyness. She stood there, clutching a paper bag against her chest, the faint rustling hinting at its contents. “I was home alone and thought… I don’t know, maybe I could come over? Hang out for a bit? They just put 13 Going on 30 back on Netflix, and I thought we could watch it. I brought snacks.” She lifted the bag slightly, a hopeful grin spreading across her face. "Just if you can, obviously."

You tilted your head, stepping aside to let her in. “Of course. That sounds perfect.”

She walked in, brushing past you with an air of quiet confidence, though her smile betrayed how pleased she was.

As she made her way to the kitchen, you asked, “Does your dad know you’re here?”

“He’s working,” Sarah replied casually, already unloading her treasures onto the counter. “I left him a note. He won’t mind.”

You followed her, leaning against the counter as she spread out an array of treats: chocolates, chips, two popcorn bags, Doritos, and a generous stash of her favorite sour gummies. She seemed so at ease in your space, like it was as much hers as it was yours.

“Wow,” you remarked, surveying the haul with mock astonishment. “This is a feast.”

Sarah grinned, shrugging like it was no big deal. “I wasn’t sure what you’d be in the mood for, so I brought everything.” She paused, holding up a bag of popcorn. “You can’t watch 13 Going on 30 without chocolate, right?”

“Absolutely not,” you agreed, reaching for the bag to help her. As you moved around the kitchen together, the air between you felt light, easy. She chattered about her day, slipping seamlessly between topics, while you found yourself laughing at her sharp, funny observations.

By the time the snacks were ready, the living room was glowing softly in the dim light of the TV. Sarah settled onto the couch, pulling a blanket over her legs, and patted the spot next to her. You joined her, the warmth of her presence a quiet comfort.

As the opening credits rolled, she glanced at you, her expression serious for a moment. “Thanks for letting me come over. I just… I didn’t feel like being alone today.”

A sharp pang settled in your chest at her words. You realized just how much you’d missed her these past few weeks. The two of you hadn’t spent much time together lately, and the thought of Sarah passing her afternoons alone tugged at you in a way you couldn’t ignore. 

You remembered how it used to be. How she’d spend hours with you while Joel was at work, her chatter filling the silences in the house, her presence a comfort you’d come to treasure. You loved those afternoons—the way she’d casually sprawl on your couch, teasing you about your tea obsession or insisting on picking the music. But then, gradually, the visits stopped. She probably sensed something was wrong between you and her dad. Sarah was perceptive like that. Too perceptive.

It killed you to think she felt caught in the middle of something she didn’t fully understand. And because of that, you hadn’t pushed her to come back. You didn’t want to make her feel uncomfortable or burdened.

You met her gaze, offering her a small, reassuring smile. “You’re always welcome here, honey. Always. I've missed you a lot.”

Sarah’s expression softened, but she hesitated, her fingers fidgeting with the candy bar in her hand. “I missed you too,” she admitted quietly, her voice almost tentative, as if she were afraid of saying it out loud. “I wasn’t sure if… you know, if things were okay.”

“Of course they are,” you said quickly, stepping closer and resting a gentle hand on her arm. “With me and you? They’re always okay. I hope you know that.”

She looked up at you, her lips curving into a faint smile, though a flicker of uncertainty lingered in her eyes. “It’s just… I didn’t want to bother you, especially with everything going on. Dad doesn’t say much, but I can tell something’s been… weird.”

Your heart squeezed at her honesty, and you took a steadying breath.

“Things have been complicated,” you admitted, choosing your words carefully. “But none of it changes how much I care about you. You mean so much to me, and I’m glad you’re here, really.”

Her smile grew a little wider, the vulnerability giving way to a familiar brightness. “Okay,” she said softly. Then, almost teasingly, she added, “You’re stuck with me tonight, by the way. I brought enough snacks for a sleepover, just sayin'.”

You chuckled, the sound light and easy, as if a weight had lifted from the room. “Good. I wouldn’t have it any other way.” 

The movie played on, its quick-witted humor keeping the two of you entertained. You couldn't count the number of times you'd seen it, though you'd guess it was well into double digits. One of your favorite comedies, it had been an instant hit with Sarah when you'd introduced her to it on a lazy Saturday morning. Since then, she'd occasionally tug at your sleeve, asking for another watch, usually with the promise of snacks you both knew you'd overdo.

As the credits rolled, you noticed the remnants of your indulgence: a half-eaten chocolate bar in your hand and Sarah carefully organizing the bag of sour gummies on the coffee table. She tucked the gummies away with an air of exaggerated responsibility, declaring it a strategic move to ensure there were enough left for another movie night soon.

Feeling the sugar settle uncomfortably in your stomach, you pushed off the couch, announcing, “I need water. Want some?”

Sarah stretched, her arms flopping dramatically onto the cushions. “Yeah, please. But a small glass. I don’t want to explode.”

The kitchen light felt sharp after the dim glow of the TV. You grabbed two glasses, filling one as Sarah called your name from the other room. Her tone was curious, a little tentative. Before you could answer, you heard her feet padding toward you. She appeared in the doorway, her hands fluttering slightly as though brushing off invisible crumbs from her shirt.

“Can I really sleep over?” she asked, stepping closer.

You handed her the glass of water. She accepted it but didn’t drink, her bright, questioning gaze fixed on you.

“Of course,” you said, leaning back against the counter. “But your dad has to be okay with it. Don’t you have school tomorrow?”

She shrugged one shoulder, sipping the water. “Yeah, but I’ve done it before. He won’t care.”

“Well,” you said, tilting your head, “you should still ask him.”

She tilted her head right back at you, mirroring your expression. “Why don’t you ask him? You’re the adult.”

You almost laughed at her logic. “If he’s at work, I doubt he’ll answer a call. Just text him.”

Sarah shook her head decisively, the same way she did when you suggested vegetables for dinner. “He hates texts. Besides, I don’t have my phone with me. And anyway,” she added, spinning on her heel toward the bathroom, “you’re the one who’ll need to explain it if he says no.”

Her retreat left you holding your glass of water, staring at the space where she'd stood. You glanced at the clock on the wall: just after six. Joel would probably be home soon. You could wait and let her handle it, or maybe save yourself the hassle and send him a quick text yourself.

From the bathroom, Sarah's voice floated out. “Hey! Don’t forget to ask, okay? But, like, be convincing. Say we’ve had so much fun.”

“Oh my God,” you muttered, half-laughing, Sarah’s earlier comment still replaying in your mind.

The kitchen was dim, and your eyes rested on a blank patch of wall, thoughts moving like syrup. Dinner. You needed to decide. Pasta sounded good—something carb-heavy, comforting. Maybe that spaghetti recipe you loved but hadn’t made in ages.

The refrigerator door creaked open, releasing a blast of cool air that brushed your face as you leaned in. You scanned the cluttered shelves, the faint hum of the appliance the only sound filling the quiet kitchen. Your fingers absently scratched your cheek as your eyes drifted over jars, old takeout containers, and a tangle of half-used bags of ingredients. 

A bottle of soy sauce caught your attention, slumped in the door shelf, its label peeling at the edges. You stared at it for a moment, trying to recall when you’d last used it. Christmas before last? Maybe even earlier. It looked so out of place now, like a forgotten relic from some half-hearted attempt at cooking you'd long since moved on from. Had it really lasted this long? You wondered if it was still good.

You were still debating dinner options when Sarah returned, her footsteps soft against the tile. She was drying damp hands on her jeans, smearing faint water trails on the dark fabric. Sliding onto the stool at the kitchen island, she leaned forward, resting her chin in her hands.

“So?” she asked, her tone equal parts casual and sharp. “What did he say?”

“Huh?” You straightened, caught off guard.

“You called him, right?”

“I... no, I didn’t.”

Her brows lifted slightly, the edges of a smirk tugging at her lips. But when you didn’t follow up, her amusement faded. A shadow of something more serious crossed her face.

“I knew it,” she said flatly, her voice quieter now.

“Wh—”

“I knew something was wrong with you,” she interrupted, her words deliberate. “But no one ever tells me anything.” Her face scrunched into a frown, the kind that tugged at your chest because it was so distinctly hers—and so distinctly Miller.

“No, honey,” you said softly, stepping closer and leaning your elbows on the counter. Now at her eye level, you tried to hold her gaze. “It’s not that simple. What’s been going on between your dad and me... it’s just complicated.”

Her frown deepened, her lips pressing into a hard line. “It’s always complicated. That’s what you grown-ups say when you don’t want to explain anythin'.”

You sighed, your nerves making your voice tight. “It’s something between adults.”

She leaned back slightly, crossing her arms in a way that made her look older than twelve. “Yeah, but you got involved, didn’t you? And now it’s all weird.”

The directness of her words landed like a jab, though there wasn’t anger in her tone—just sharp observation. She had that way of cutting through pretenses, seeing things for what they were, or at least how they felt to her.

“I heard you guys the other day,” Sarah said, her voice cutting through the quiet like a blade.  

Her words sent a cold rush up your spine, landing squarely at the nape of your neck. You froze, unsure of how to react.  

“Sunday,” she clarified, her tone even but pointed. “When you came to my house. I heard you. I was on the stairs, and my dad didn’t notice. Neither did you.”  

Your mouth felt dry. “What... what did you hear?” The question came out faster than you intended, betraying your nerves.  

Her eyes, sharp and unblinking, stayed fixed on you.

“I heard my dad,” she began, carefully measuring each word. “He was saying a lot of... angry stuff. About Travis. About you. Accusing you of—of going off with him.” She paused, hesitating before adding, “And he said you told him you didn’t want to be friends with him anymore. He sounded hurt.”  

The mention of it made your stomach twist, and your eyebrows gave away your unease before you could school your expression.  

“Did you?” she asked, her face an uneasy mix of curiosity and sadness.  

You took a breath, looking at her and realizing there was no point in lying.

“Yeah,” you admitted quietly.  

“Why?” Her voice wasn’t accusatory, just earnest, like she truly wanted to understand. “What did he do to you?”  

You bit the inside of your cheek, unsure how to condense the mess of emotions into something a twelve-year-old could grasp without oversharing. The words churned in your head, bumping into each other, refusing to settle.  

“We argued,” you said eventually, each word feeling like a step on unstable ground. “And your dad said some things. Mean things. And... I said some things too. We hurt each other.” You paused, swallowing hard. “But it hurt me a lot. Too much. And I told him that.”

Sarah studied your face for a long moment, her expression softening into something thoughtful.

In a quieter voice, she asked, “Was it because you guys like each other?”  

The question caught you off guard, and a laugh bubbled up despite yourself—a small, surprised sound that you tried to stifle.  

“Something like that,” you said, glancing at her with a faint smile.  

She mirrored it, her lips curving up in a way that felt both hopeful and uncertain.  

You exhaled, your gaze dropping to the counter.

“We’ve been friends for so long, and... it’s complicated when something else happens. Or even when you think something else might happen.” You paused, trying to find the right words. “There’s a lot to figure out. A lot to fix, I think.”  

Sarah nodded slowly, her expression thoughtful, as if she were piecing together a puzzle. Then she scratched the back of her neck in a way that was both casual and deliberate, like she was working up to something.

“He’s been downright unbearable lately,” she said, her tone more matter-of-fact than annoyed. “In a bad mood most the time. And when he’s in a good mood, it’s like... I dunno, feels kinda fake or somethin’. Not real convincing.” She shot you a glance, her face lit up with that mix of mischief and sincerity. “Usually, I like teasin’ him—it’s fun. But lately, I just... I dunno, I can’t bring myself to do it. He looks so bad. I feel sorry for him.”

Your eyebrows lifted, and you tried to hide your amusement at how bluntly she was painting Joel’s misery. Poor guy didn’t stand a chance under her scrutiny.

“Well, that’s probably for the best,” you said, smiling as you reached out to rest a hand over hers. “Don’t bother him too much. Go easy on him, okay?”

“Yeah, I guess,” she muttered, her fingers tapping lightly against the counter. Then her gaze lifted to yours, her bright eyes sharp and curious. “But it all kind of makes sense now.”

You tilted your head. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, I knew something was wrong right after his birthday,” she explained, her voice gaining momentum. “He wouldn’t tell me anything when I asked, though. So I tried Tommy. But he wouldn’t tell me anything either. He said Dad wouldn’t want him to.” She paused, looking almost shy now. “And I didn’t want to ask you. I thought you might get mad.”

“That could never happen,” you assured her gently.

She nodded, but there was still a flicker of hesitation on her face. “It’s just... it was obvious something was up. I dunno, you guys never fight. At least not like that. So I figured it had to be something big. Something... weirder.”

Her words hung in the air for a moment before she continued, her voice lighter now, like she was sharing a secret.

“Then I went to Irina’s house and told her about it. She said it was obvious—it had to be because you were in love, like in Love, Rosie.”

Your eyes widened in surprise. The thought of Sarah sitting with her friend, dissecting your tangled mess of emotions, was almost too much to process. The tenderness you felt was quickly overtaken by guilt for dragging her into something so complicated.

“I hadn’t seen the movie, though,” Sarah added quickly, shrugging like that detail was crucial to the story. “So we watched it that afternoon. Dude, I think she’s right.”

Her tone shifted, turning serious but hopeful, her eyes sparkling with a kind of naive certainty. “You have to leave Travis.”

Her sudden declaration caught you completely off guard, and a laugh burst out of you before you could stop it.

“Sarah!” you said, still laughing, covering your mouth as you tried to collect yourself.

She grinned, looking more pleased than embarrassed. “What? I’m just saying what everyone else is probably thinking.”

You shook your head, still laughing, and reached over to ruffle her hair. “You’re too smart for your own good, you know that?”

Sarah ducked away from your hand, smoothing her hair with exaggerated care, as if the ruffle had ruined her carefully curated look.  

“Yeah, I know,” she said with a little shrug, her tone light but pointed. Then she glanced up at you, her eyes sharp. “So, are you gonna leave him? I mean, I’m pretty sure Dad would be thrilled.”  

“Oh my God,” you gasped, caught between surprise and laughter. 

She didn’t miss a beat. “He’s the obstacle, isn’t he?” she said, gesturing broadly with one hand, as if the answer were painfully obvious. “And you love my dad. It’s simple.”  

“Uh—I... I think this is a bit too much to unpack,” you stammered, feeling the heat creep up your neck.  

“Why?” she asked, her face falling slightly into an expression of disappointment. “What’s wrong with it? I already know everythin'. I’m not stupid. I’m not a baby.”  

“It’s not that,” you said quickly, softening your tone. “It’s just... there’s a lot of stuff you don’t know, and it’s complicated.” You shifted uncomfortably, trying to find the right words. “Look, I’m not dating Travis. Not anymore. But even so, I thought your dad was dating Sienna.”  

“Sienna?” Sarah repeated, tilting her head in confusion. “You mean the one from the bank?”  

“Yeah,” you said, nodding.  

Sarah snorted, like the idea itself was absurd. “Dad’s not dating Sienna. I overheard him and Tommy talkin' about it, like, a month ago.”  

“You love spying on your dad, don’t you?” you teased, glancing at her with raised eyebrows.  

“I wouldn’t have to spy if everyone didn’t keep secrets from me,” she shot back, mimicking your tone with a smirk. Then she added, “Forget about Sienna. He stopped seein' her right after his birthday.”  

“Oh, really?” you said, arching an eyebrow.  

“Yup,” she said, leaning forward, her expression turning mischievous. “Oh, what a coincidence, right? Right after your fight.” She reached out to poke your hand, a playful glint in her eye.  

You froze for a second, smiling faintly, but your mind was racing. Joel had stopped seeing Sienna? Over a month ago? Why hadn’t he said anything? He’d had plenty of chances to mention it, plenty of openings to set things straight. But he hadn’t.  

“Well,” you said finally, straightening up and brushing the thought aside. “It’s his life. And you,” you added, pointing an accusatory finger at her, “have nothing to do with this. Got it? You and me, we're okay. Always.”  

“Okay, okay,” Sarah said, holding up her hands in mock surrender. She raised her glass to her lips, pausing before she added, “But you have to let him know I’m staying over. Now.”  

“Fine,” you said with a sigh. “But I’m texting him, not calling him.”  

Sarah rolled her eyes dramatically, like you’d just suggested the most tedious thing imaginable.

“Okay,” she said, drawing the word out. “Apparently, we’re doing this one step at a time.”  

You smiled despite yourself, turning to open one of the wooden cabinets on the wall.

“One step at a time sounds about right,” you said, more to yourself than to her.

“What do you wanna eat?” you asked, your voice carrying lightly across the kitchen as you moved to open the fridge.

Sarah leaned against the counter, considering. “Anything but those frozen pizzas. You always burn the edges.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “That happened one time.”

“More than once,” she corrected, raising an eyebrow.

“Fine,” you conceded. “How about spaghetti?”

Her face brightened instantly, a flicker of excitement breaking through her otherwise composed demeanor.

“Yes! And I’ll help, right? You look like you might need it.”  

You gasped in mock offense, reaching for a pot. “Excuse me, what’s that supposed to mean?”  

She shrugged, a playful grin tugging at the corners of her mouth.

It was settled. You gathered ingredients while Sarah volunteered herself as sous-chef, which meant chopping the vegetables in the most chaotic but enthusiastic way possible. You handed her a knife with explicit instructions to please be careful.

“You sound like my dad,” she teased, carefully slicing a bell pepper.

You turned to the speaker on the counter, deciding that cooking deserved a soundtrack. Soon, music filled the small space, bright and upbeat, shifting the energy in the room. Sarah hummed along while you stirred the pot.

When she seemed distracted, her focus entirely on the bell pepper, you slipped out of the kitchen and grabbed your phone from the coffee table in the living room. Unlocking it, you scrolled through your messages until you found Joel’s name.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard, the words forming and dissolving in your mind. You didn’t want it to sound too formal or hesitant. Just normal. Neutral.

Finally, you typed:

Hi Joel. Sarah’s here, spending the afternoon. She wants to know if it’s okay with you if she stays over. Let me know.

Short. Concise. Clear.

You hit send and placed the phone back on the counter when you returned to the kitchen.

“All done,” you said, gesturing toward your phone with a tilt of your head.

Sarah glanced up, a satisfied smile spreading across her face. She gave a small nod before turning back to her chopping.

Minutes passed, filled with the clatter of knives and the soft simmering of the sauce. You reached for your phone to change the song—Sarah had requested something from her playlist, Just like heaven by The Cure—and just as you did, it vibrated in your hand.

A message popped up at the top of the screen:

Joel. Tell her I said yes, but I want her home early. She’s got school tomorrow.

You turned the phone toward Sarah so she could read it. She gave a mock salute, grinning. “Thumbs up for Dad,” she said, returning to her vegetables.

“Baby steps,” she added after a moment, a little quieter, her back turned to you.

The words hung in the air. You watched her for a beat, the ease of her movements, the way she navigated the kitchen like she belonged there. Something about the moment felt fleeting and important, though you couldn’t quite pin down why.

*

Wednesday. You glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall as you took your first sip of coffee, the warmth of the mug seeping into your cold fingers. 6:32 a.m. The early light was still soft, casting a pale glow through the window where you’d cracked it open just a few centimeters. The cool morning air was refreshing, carrying with it the earthy scent of dew and dawn. It was one of those little rituals you cherished—the quiet, the crispness of the day unfolding just for you.

Sarah was sitting on the stool at the kitchen island, her eyes still half-closed in that sleepy haze. She rubbed them with her left hand, the fingers of her right curled around a steaming cup of tea. The warmth of the tea contrasted with the chill in the room, and she looked small and vulnerable in that quiet moment, as if she hadn’t quite yet fully woken.

You moved around the kitchen with practiced ease, still wearing your pajamas under a soft, worn robe. You set a plate in front of her, the familiar breakfast she loved—toast, scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, and strawberries, their juicy red flesh cut into generous chunks. She didn’t even need to ask; you knew she’d devour them, just like when she was little. Joel had always been the one to pile up bowls of fruit for her, and she’d always gobbled them down, leaving a trail of sticky fingers and bits of fruit on the house’s surfaces. He used to scold her lightly, but it was always with that soft tone of affection, as if he couldn’t help but love the chaos she brought. Her favorites had always been strawberries and grapes—nothing else really compared.

Sarah took a bite of bacon, chewing contentedly, and looked up at you, her expression curious despite her full mouth.

“When do we watch another movie?” she asked, the question spilling out before she’d even swallowed.

“What movie do you wanna see?” you asked, keeping the conversation light.

“I dunno, one I haven’t seen,” she replied with a shrug, her eyes flickering to her fork. “A love one, or a horror one.”

You chuckled and nodded. It seemed like Sarah’s movie preferences had always swung between the extremes—either something heart-wrenchingly romantic or something terrifying enough to make her jump. You could see the appeal in both, honestly.

You’d gone to bed early last night, after a quiet dinner. Sarah had somehow managed to wriggle her way into your bed before you even realized it, and when you’d turned off the light and whispered goodnight, she hadn’t been quiet for long. She’d started in, talking about everything on her mind. The dramas at school. The boy Irina liked. A teacher she hated, mostly because she was rude and had bad breath. Her upcoming science project, which she was convinced was going to be her masterpiece. And then came the questions—questions you knew had been lingering in her mind all evening.

“Since when do you like my dad?” was one of the first ones, and you froze, unsure of how to respond. If you were being honest, the answer was probably “since forever,” but that didn’t seem like something you could just say to a twelve-year-old.

“How do you know if you like a friend?” she had asked next. “Do you wanna get married, anyway?” and “Does anyone else know about this?” The questions had kept coming, innocent yet sharp, until your tired eyes could barely stay open. You had asked her, gently, to go to sleep. She’d needed to get up early too, after all.

Now, Sarah was hugging you tightly at the door as she left, her face still warm with sleepiness. School started in an hour, and you knew Joel was waiting for her next door, probably with a mug of coffee in hand, ready to help her get through the morning rush.

After she left, you went back upstairs to your room and found yourself standing in front of your closet longer than usual, picking out what to wear. You couldn't really explain it, but something about spending time with Sarah had recharged you. The normalcy of it—her chatter, the comfort of your shared space—it gave you a sense of balance.

Then, as you stood there with your clothes half-chosen, a thought popped into your head, and a smile tugged at your lips. It was perfect—next movie night, you’d introduce Sarah to Twilight. The whole saga. You were sure she’d love it. She adored stories like that, all angsty romance and supernatural drama.

With that thought, you finished getting ready and went off to work, feeling lighter, more cheerful. It was one of those mornings that made the whole day seem a little bit brighter. You were sure it would fly by.

*

Thursday. It was quiet, one of those days that seemed to pass without making much noise but still felt like it had been worthwhile. The morning was calm, and there was something almost comforting about the gentle rhythm of the hours.

At work, you moved through the usual tasks, keeping busy without feeling overwhelmed. You found yourself drifting in and out of conversations, but one particular subject caught your attention: the interns gossiping in the break room. They were whispering about one of the assistants, the one who’d caused a scene in the kitchen last time with a very public meltdown over a misdelivered order. You overheard snippets of their conversation as you nibbled on your sandwich, hearing that the assistant was apparently having an affair with her boss’s husband. You couldn’t help but listen, half-amused, half-worried for her and her boss. The way they spoke about them, with such casual cruelty, made you feel bad for the two women, but at the same time, it was hard to not be intrigued.

You chuckled to yourself as you returned to your desk, but that quiet moment of levity was soon overshadowed by something worse. Later in the afternoon, you saw the same assistant leave the office in tears, her eyes red-rimmed as she hurried past your cubicle. You heard the boss, loud enough for the entire office to hear, scream in her wake, "How ungrateful some people are!" It hung in the air long after she had gone, an uncomfortable silence settling in as everyone pretended to be busy.

When you finally got home, you decided to go for a run. The cool air outside felt refreshing as you laced up your shoes and hit the pavement. It wasn’t a long run, just enough to stretch your legs and clear your head. By the time you returned, sweat on your brow, you felt more awake than you had all day. You took a hot shower, the steam washing away the weariness from your muscles, and for a moment, you felt light.

It was around mid-afternoon when Sarah knocked on your door, her face slightly flushed from the brisk walk over. She held a notebook under her arm, her usual look of determination replacing the exhaustion from earlier in the week.

"Hey, can you help me with my lit homework?" she asked, a bit sheepish but trying to hide it with her usual confidence.

"Of course," you said, gesturing for her to come inside.

As she set up at the kitchen table, she launched into a detailed account of the latest school drama. It was the same pattern—some new gossip or rumor, something about a classmate or a teacher that she found funny or ridiculous.

"Guess what?" she asked, leaning in conspiratorially. "Irina and Julian almost kissed in the hallway today."

You laughed, shaking your head. "Irina and Justin? No way."

"Yeah, I saw them, but then they just... didn’t." Sarah smirked. "I think Julian got scared. You know, like how he does when he talks to girls."

You couldn’t help but smile at her observations. She was so sharp, so aware of everything around her. You had no idea how she’d gotten so good at reading people, but it was impressive. Once you helped her finish her homework, she packed up her things, her expression shifting from casual to slightly more serious.

“I gotta go home,” she said, glancing at the clock. “I still need to work on my project. I’m not done yet.”

“Alright, I’ll text you later,” you replied, smiling at her as she grabbed her bag. “Good luck, love you.”

“Thanks, love ya too,” she called over her shoulder as she left. "I’ll let you know if I need anything else. Bye!”

With Sarah gone, you spent the rest of the afternoon in quiet solitude. You curled up on the couch with a bowl of snacks and started watching Bridget Jones’s Diary. The jokes felt like old friends, and by the time you’d gone through half of the movie, you were feeling light and at ease, the stresses of the day melting away.

For dinner, you opted for the ease of take-out. The thought of cooking felt like too much effort after such a peaceful afternoon. You ordered your usual—Chinese food, always comforting. After the long workweek, it was exactly what you needed. You ate in silence, savoring each bite, the day’s quiet moments stretching into the evening as you let your mind wander.

*

Friday. “No way!” you shouted, your voice coming out louder than you’d meant, and your eyes went wide as saucers. You stepped through the doorway, disbelieving for a moment, before you saw her standing there, grinning like she hadn’t a care in the world.

Without thinking, you wrapped your arms around her neck, pulling her into a tight hug. The warmth of her body against yours felt so familiar, and the sudden surge of emotion made your chest tighten in the best way. You squeezed her just a little harder, like you were trying to absorb her energy, like she could somehow make everything else feel lighter again.

“What are you doing here?” you finally breathed, pulling back just enough to look at her face. You searched her eyes, needing some explanation, still a little stunned.

Cassie’s smile spread wider, her cheeks flushed, her eyes sparkling with that same irrepressible energy you remembered. She still had that look—like she was always on the verge of something exciting, something unexpected.

“I ran away from home!” she declared with an enthusiasm that made her words feel even bigger. She placed her hands on your shoulders, bouncing on her heels like she couldn’t contain the rush of whatever had made her do this. “I just left. I needed to come back. I can't even begin to explain how much I've missed you!”

Her words hit you in a way that made your heart swell, the kind of feeling that caught you off guard, leaving you without a response at first. You just stared at her, as if trying to piece together what she was saying, still not quite believing it.

Without hesitation, you stepped aside and ushered her in, the familiar comfort of her presence filling the space in a way only she could. You watched her, feeling that strange mix of happiness and disbelief, as if she were an apparition you hadn’t expected to see again. It was like time hadn’t passed at all, and you were suddenly back in a world that had felt a little emptier without her.

As she settled her things around the room, Cassie started talking, filling in the blanks of her sudden arrival. She told you everything.

Bruno, her boyfriend, had been cheating on her with a coworker. Cassie had suspected it for weeks—finding a couple of odd messages on his phone was the first hint. But two days ago, she'd gotten the proof she needed when she came across a receipt for an underwear purchase. The whole thing felt so cliché, like something out of a bad rom-com, but the more she thought about it, the more she couldn’t ignore it. That’s when she started searching through his things. She rifled through his office, checking drawers, until she found a stack of small, folded notes hidden in the back. One of them had a kiss—bright pastel pink lipstick, the kind she hated. That color felt like an insult, like it was mocking her. So, in her frustration, she waited for him to come home, gathered everything up, and laid it out on the bed—evidence, neatly arranged like a cruel puzzle. Bruno denied everything at first, of course. He always did. But after a while, he cracked. She didn’t need to say much. The lies tumbled out of his mouth, and she just listened, her blood boiling. In the end, she destroyed every suit he owned—ripping them to shreds before kicking him out of the apartment they’d shared.

That night, in a mix of fury and disbelief, she impulsively booked a plane ticket, packed her things in a hurried mess, and left. Twenty hours of travel later, and now she was lying in your bed, talking a mile a minute. She had no concept of jetlag, or maybe she just didn’t care. The adrenaline was still running through her veins, and the weight of everything that had happened was only starting to sink in.

You both lay there for a while, and then, out of nowhere, Cassie asked about Joel. The question caught you off guard, and for a long moment, you didn’t answer. You tried to collect your thoughts, but when you finally spoke, your voice came out softer than you expected, almost muffled by the weight of it all. You told her about Sarah’s news, about Joel and Sienna. 

Cassie’s expression didn’t shift much at first. She seemed unsurprised, but a little relieved.

“Told you she wasn’t a real threat,” she said, nodding as though confirming a private thought.

But then you mentioned Travis. His name hung in the air, and Cassie’s reaction was immediate. Her eyes widened, her lips parted slightly. She sat up in bed, her posture tense, like she hadn’t expected that at all.

“That son of a bitch,” Cassie muttered, her voice muffled by the pillow as she shook her head. “Who does he think he is, running around talking about you like that?”

You sighed, frustration bubbling up again. “I don’t know. I really don’t. It caught me off guard. I never thought he’d be that kind of person.”

Cassie sat up slightly, propping herself up on her elbow, eyes narrowing in a way that was both intense and oddly endearing.

“And why the hell didn’t Joel ask you about it? Why the hell did he believe some man he loathes?” She made a sharp gesture with her hands, as if dismissing the very idea. “Lately, his brain’s working like a mashed potato.”

You couldn’t help the short laugh that escaped your lips, but it was more out of frustration than amusement.

“That’s exactly what I thought! Why didn’t he just ask me? I asked him a million times, ‘What the fuck are you talking about, Joel?’ and he wouldn’t tell me a thing. Nothing!”

Cassie closed her eyes for a moment, a deep sigh leaving her, as if trying to pull herself together before speaking. When she opened her eyes again, her expression softened, but there was a sharpness in her gaze.

“Because he was hurt. And angry. And he clearly didn’t feel like working things out with you at that moment. The best he could come up with was to blow up at you and make you feel as bad as he felt.”

You stared at her, the weight of her words sinking in slowly, and the room seemed quieter, somehow, as if everything was still in that moment.

“But why? Why did he go that far?” you asked, almost to yourself. The silence lingered.

Cassie shrugged, a look of genuine sympathy in her eyes.

“People are dumb when they’re hurting. But that doesn’t make it any easier.”

You leaned back, exhaling slowly, your thoughts swirling in frustration and confusion. Then, as if a weight had settled in your chest, you found yourself asking, “Why didn’t you come sooner? It would’ve been so much easier to figure this out if I had you here with me.”

She looked at you, her smile softening before she hugged you tighter, her voice quiet.

“Stop, you’re gonna make me cry,” she teased, but there was a genuine warmth in the way she held you. “I was going to come for Christmas anyway, as a surprise. I didn’t plan on running away from Bruno first.”

You laughed, shaking your head, the tension easing just a little.

“I’m glad you came early, though. I missed you so much.”

Cassie grinned, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

“Are you telling me it’s a good thing Bruno cheated on me? That’s why I came early?”

You playfully swatted her leg, laughing again.

“No, I’m not saying that. But I’m glad you dumped him. You deserve someone who actually knows how to treat you.”

Her grin widened, and for a moment, everything felt right again. But then she leaned in, her expression turning serious.

“And you need to patch things up with Joel,” she said bluntly, her voice just a little too firm. “Or I’m going to lock you two in a room and force you to talk. Honestly. And stop acting like kids.” Her eyes narrowed slightly, but not at you—more like she was holding herself back from giving you a motherly lecture.

“I know,” you confessed, sitting up straight and running a hand through your hair. You knew this conversation wasn’t over. “I’ll talk to him. I promise.”

The rest of the day passed in a blur of endless conversation, the kind that felt both exhausting and comforting in equal measure. Cassie had so much to tell you, her words tumbling out one after the other like she couldn’t stop once she’d started. She spoke about her life in Italy—how she’d adapted to everything, how much she missed the simplicity of being back here, with you, in the same bed, talking about everything and nothing, like when you were younger. Her laugh was the same, a little higher pitched when she was genuinely happy, and it made you feel like time hadn’t passed at all.

As the hours drifted by, the conversation shifted seamlessly into memories. You both laughed and sighed as you reminisced about the time you first met, when you were both eleven, so awkward and unsure of yourselves, and how you’d ended up in Austin, drawn by your own separate pulls, yet still somehow close enough to see each other almost every day. Cassie had lived in a small downtown apartment back then. You had found a place nearby, just far enough to need a car to see each other, but close enough to drop by without any effort. You spent hours together in those days—sometimes talking, sometimes just existing in the same space. You never lived together, though. 

Cassie was too social, too often hosting friends and acquaintances, always surrounded by people. You, on the other hand, had always been quieter. You preferred solitude, the peaceful comfort of being by yourself in your own space. It wasn’t that you didn’t enjoy Cassie’s company—quite the opposite. But you liked the balance of your lives: hers filled with chatter and life, and yours with quiet and space.

Now, with her sitting across from you, it felt like nothing had changed. You were still as close as you’d always been, still managing to keep the balance between her vibrant energy and your calmer, quieter presence. You felt a warmth spreading in your chest, the kind that came from having the best of friends beside you when you needed them the most. The fact that you didn’t know how long she would be staying only made you happier. It was a gift, this unexpected visit. 

Cassie’s voice broke through your thoughts. She’d stopped talking for a moment, her gaze softening, eyes closing briefly as she leaned back on the couch, a contented smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. 

“I feel better here,” she said, her voice quiet, as if the weight of her words was grounding her.

You didn’t respond right away. Instead, you smiled, letting the moment linger. You picked up your glass of wine and took a sip, letting the music fill the space between you before returning to the thread of your conversation. You started talking about old friends—those people you used to see all the time but had drifted away from. Faces and names from a past life, now reduced to half-remembered moments.

After a while, Cassie went to the bathroom, and for the first time in hours, you were left alone with your thoughts. The soft hum of the music seemed louder now, the words settling into your mind like an unspoken invitation. 

You needed to talk to Joel. You had to. 

The thought was like a knot in your stomach, tight and anxious. How could you even approach him? How could you talk to him again without feeling humiliated? 

This was it. The last chance. If he treated you badly again, if he shut you out again, you wouldn’t try anymore. If he didn’t want to listen to you, then fine. You weren’t going to beg. You weren’t going to chase after someone who didn’t care enough to meet you halfway. You could feel your resolve hardening, the idea of giving up no longer feeling like a loss, but a relief. You had done everything you could. The rest was out of your hands.

If he didn’t want to listen to you... well, that was his problem. Fuck him, then.

*

Saturday. “I’ll get it!” Cassie shouted from downstairs, her voice carrying easily through the house. 

You were in your room, towel drying your hair after the shower. Cassie had spent half the afternoon thrusting bottles of creams, serums, shampoos, and hair treatments at you, insisting with dramatic conviction that they were, and you quoted, “the best thing in the fucking world.” Reluctantly, you’d agreed to try them, and now your entire being smelled like vainilla and coco.

Downstairs, the door creaked open.

“Joel,” Cassie said, surprised but not unpleasantly so, a smile spreading across her face as she took in the figure on your doorstep. 

Joel blinked, visibly startled. His brows furrowed before relaxing, his expression softening into something almost amused. A soft smile.

“Cassie? What are you doing here? When did you get back?” 

She stepped aside slightly to greet him with a quick, casual hug that he received.

“Yesterday,” she said with a shrug, her eyes narrowing just enough to hint she was already gathering pieces of a puzzle Joel didn’t know existed. “Last-minute decision, you know. Want to come in?”

Joel hesitated, shifting his weight awkwardly. “No, I—uh, is she—” 

“She’s here,” Cassie interrupted, her tone smooth, deliberate. She tilted her head toward the stairs and called your name in a shout. Then, turning back to Joel, she grinned. “She’ll be down in a second. How’s Sarah? She must be huge by now!” 

Joel’s face lit up at the mention of his daughter, the tension in his shoulders loosening.

“She’s great. Yeah, she’s huge—almost taller than you,” he teased, lifting a hand to indicate Cassie’s height. 

Cassie rolled her eyes but laughed. “I want to see her. We should steal her for a girls’ night soon.” 

“Anytime,” Joel replied with a small smile, genuine now. “She’d love that.” 

Cassie zipped her coat with theatrical precision.

“Perfect. Let’s plan it.” She reached for her beret and adjusted it snugly, her gaze flicking briefly toward the stairs. 

You appeared at the landing, one foot on the top step, dressed in black pajama pants and an oversized sweater that hung loose on your frame. Your hair was dry, neat, and slightly glossy—courtesy of Cassie’s insistence. 

“Who is it?” you asked, taking another step before freezing halfway down. 

Your eyes landed on Joel. He stood stiffly, his posture uncertain. The smile he’d worn moments ago dissolved into something more unreadable, almost guarded. You felt a small knot tighten in your stomach.

“I’m going for a walk,” Cassie declared suddenly, breezing past Joel with a mischievous glint in her eye. “Nice seeing ya, Joel.” 

He nodded, but his attention stayed fixed on you. 

In less than a moment, Cassie was gone. The silence she left behind felt sharp, almost heavy. You forced yourself to move, descending the final steps slowly, deliberately, until you were close enough to meet Joel’s gaze without leaning forward. 

He looked different somehow. The dark jeans and heavy green flannel shirt he wore felt familiar, but his expression didn’t. His face was etched with something hard to place—nervousness, maybe, or regret. 

His eyes - oh my God, his eyes. 

You crossed your arms, leaning slightly against the doorframe, forcing yourself to sound steadier than you felt. “Joel, what happened?” you asked, your voice almost a whisper, though the question felt louder than anything you could have said. "Need somethin'?"

He exhaled, a sharp, controlled breath, his gaze flicking briefly to the floor, as if searching for something to say, then back to you. His brows flickered with indecision before he spoke, his voice low and careful, like each word was a step he wasn’t sure he could take.

“I... I know you probably don’t wanna see me,” he said, his voice low, almost strained, his eyes dark and heavy with something blue. “But I... I... can we talk? Please?”

[sinful-sonnet]

Between Duty & Desire

Dbf!Joel Miller x babysitter f!Reader

word count: 5.7k

A continuation of this post

Warnings: smut, hair pulling, unprotected piv, I’m too lazy to add anymore lel

-

“You shouldn’t be doing that,” you say softly, though your voice betrays how much you don’t want him to stop. Your words are barely a whisper, but he hears them

Joel leans closer, the warmth of his breath brushing against your ear. “You’re too tense, sweetheart,” he murmurs. His voice is deep, velvet smooth, laced with exhaustion from the day but undeniably tender. His thumbs work against the knots in your shoulders, and you feel your resolve crumbling with every stroke.

“Joel,” you start, his name falling off your tongue before you can stop yourself. His hands still for a moment, and you swear you feel him tense behind you. It’s a line crossed—one you both acknowledge in the stillness of the room.

But then his hands resume their motion, slower this time, his touch more deliberate. “There you go,” he murmurs, almost like he’s soothing himself as much as you. “That’s better.”

You tilt your head to glance up at him, your eyes meeting his. The way he looks at you—soft, yet intense—makes your heart race. “You don’t have to take care of me,” you manage, though the words feel hollow.

“Don’t I?” His voice is soft, but his tone holds weight. He leans down, just enough so that you catch the faint scent of sawdust and soap clinging to him. “You’ve been lookin’ after Sarah all night. Least I can do is look after you.”

The air between you feels charged, heavy with unspoken words and desires. You should step away, remind yourself why this is a terrible idea. But instead, you let his hands linger, his touch grounding you in a way you didn’t realize you needed.

“Joel…” you whisper again, his name trembling on your lips. This time, it’s not a warning—it’s a plea.

He leans down further, his voice low and full of something you can’t quite name. “Tell me to stop,” he says, his fingers grazing the curve of your jaw. “And I will.”

You don’t. Instead, you turn slightly toward him, your breath hitching as his thumb brushes the corner of your mouth. The world narrows to just the two of you—the quiet hum of the house fading into nothingness as his eyes search yours.

“Sweetheart…” he starts, his voice barely above a whisper, but the sound of it sends a shiver down your spine.

And then, as if the pull is too strong to resist, his lips ghost over yours, hesitant but full of promise. It’s tentative, a question, waiting for an answer you’re too far gone to deny.

Your breath catches, and for a moment, the world feels like it’s standing still. Joel’s lips hover so close to yours that you can feel the heat radiating from him, but something in you snaps back to reality. You pull back abruptly, standing so quickly that the chair scrapes against the floor, breaking the quiet tension of the room.

“I—uh—should go,” you stammer, your heart hammering in your chest as you gather your books and shove them into your bag, your movements frantic and clumsy.

Joel straightens, his brow furrowing in confusion and something else—maybe regret. “Sweetheart—wait,” he says softly, his voice laced with concern.

You don’t look at him as you zip your bag shut, slinging it over your shoulder. “It’s late. I shouldn’t be keeping you up,” you say, trying to sound casual, but your voice betrays the swirl of emotions inside you. “Sarah’s asleep, so… my job’s done.”

“Darlin’, you don’t have to rush out,” Joel says, his voice gentler now, but you can hear the tension beneath it. He steps closer, his hands twitching like he wants to reach out but knows better.

You finally glance at him, forcing a polite smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. “Have a good night, Mr. Miller,” you say, your voice steady but distant, like you’re building a wall between you.

His jaw tenses at the formality, but he doesn’t stop you as you move toward the door. You can feel his eyes on you, heavy and searching, but you don’t look back.

“Drive safe,” he murmurs as you step outside, his voice barely audible over the quiet click of the door closing behind you.

As you make your way to your car, the cool night air bites at your skin, grounding you. Your hands shake as you start the engine, and as you pull out of the driveway, you can’t help but glance at the house one last time. The lights in the kitchen window glow softly, and you wonder if he’s still standing there, watching you leave.

Your chest aches, and you grip the steering wheel tighter, willing yourself to push the memory of his touch, his voice, and the almost-kiss out of your mind. This is for the best, you tell yourself, over and over, like a mantra.

But as you drive away, you know deep down that this moment will haunt you—his presence lingering like a shadow you can’t shake.

•

The next time you’re at Joel’s house, you feel different. Stronger. The fresh haircut and perfectly polished nails you decided to get are just surface changes—they symbolize a shift inside you, a decision to stop running and face things head-on. If Joel wants something from you, he’s going to have to show it. You won’t back down this time.

Sarah is asleep, tucked into her bed after a fun evening of games and giggles. Now, you’re sitting at the dining table again, but this time, you aren’t hiding behind your books or keeping your head down. Your posture is relaxed, your chin lifted. You’re ready.

When the door finally opens, you hear the familiar sounds of Joel’s return—the keys hitting the dish, the heavy thud of his boots. You don’t flinch, don’t rush to look busy. Instead, you wait, your heartbeat steady but your anticipation building.

Joel walks into the room, and the second he sees you, his steps falter just slightly. His eyes flicker over you—your hair, your nails, the way you’re sitting so calmly, waiting for him. His gaze lingers for a beat too long, and you see something flicker in his expression, something he’s trying to hold back.

“Evenin’,” he says, his voice low and familiar, but there’s a roughness to it, like he’s caught off guard.

“Evening, Mr. Miller,” you reply smoothly, your tone steady but with just enough of a challenge to make his brow twitch. You know he hates when you call him that now, and it’s exactly why you said it.

He exhales sharply, shaking his head as he sets his bag down on the counter. “Didn’t we talk about that?”

“We did,” you reply, leaning back slightly, your eyes meeting his with a calm confidence. “But you didn’t exactly say much about anything else, did you?”

That catches him off guard. He pauses, his hand still resting on the counter, his eyes narrowing slightly as he processes your words. “What’re you tryin’ to say, sweetheart?”

“I’m saying,” you start, standing up slowly and stepping around the table, closing some of the distance between you, “that I’m done pretending nothing’s going on here.”

Joel’s jaw tightens, his eyes searching yours. “And what exactly do you think’s goin’ on?” he asks, his voice softer now, like he’s afraid of the answer but can’t stop himself from asking.

You take another step closer, tilting your head slightly as you look up at him. “That’s up to you to tell me, Joel,” you say, your voice steady but your heart racing. “You keep looking at me like this, saying things that make me think you want something. But I’m not gonna sit here wondering anymore. You want me? Prove it.”

The room feels electric, the air thick with the weight of your words. Joel stares at you, his expression unreadable, but you can see the battle playing out behind his eyes—the push and pull of what he wants versus what he thinks is right.

Finally, he takes a slow step toward you, his eyes locked on yours. “You sure you’re ready for that?” he asks, his voice a low rumble, filled with both caution and desire.

You don’t look away, don’t falter. “I’m standing right here, aren’t I?”

For a moment, it’s like the whole world has stopped, the only sound in the room the quiet hum of the fridge in the kitchen. Then, Joel reaches out, his hand brushing lightly against yours, his touch tentative but charged with meaning.

“Alright,” he murmurs, his voice almost a whisper. “You want me to prove it? I will.”

“I’m waiting” you bat your eyelashes innocently at him

Joel's lips twitch into a faint smirk at your words, but there's a flicker of something deeper in his eyes— hesitation, caution, desire all tangled together.

He takes another slow step toward you, closing the distance until you can feel the heat radiating off him.

His gaze drops to your lips, lingering for a moment before locking onto your eyes.

"You're somethin' else, you know that?" he mutters, his voice low and rough, like he's struggling to hold himself back.

You tilt your head, a teasing smile playing on your lips as you bat your eyelashes again. "Maybe," you say softly. "But you're still stalling, Joel."

His jaw tightens, and you can see the internal battle raging within him. He's not a man who rushes into things, but there's something about the way you're looking at him-challenging him, daring him-that's unraveling every ounce of his restraint.

"I don't think you know what you're askin' for, sweetheart," he murmurs, his voice dropping even lower, almost a growl. "This ain't somethin' we can just take back."

You take a small step forward, your confidence unwavering. "Maybe I don't want to take it back."

That's all it takes. In an instant, Joel's resolve shatters. He closes the remaining space between you, his hand coming up to cup your jaw with a tenderness that makes your breath hitch. His thumb brushes against your cheek, and his eyes search yours one last time, as if giving you a chance to stop him.

But you don't. You're done hesitating, done running.

"I'm waiting," you whisper again, your voice steady but laced with anticipation.

And then his lips are on yours, firm yet gentle, like he's been holding back for far too long.

The kiss is slow at first, tentative, as if he's testing the waters.

But when you lean into him, your hands resting against his chest, he deepens it, his other hand sliding to your waist to pull you closer.

It's overwhelming-the way he smells, the way he tastes, the way his touch sets every nerve in your body alight.

You've imagined this moment, but nothing could have prepared you for how real, how intense it feels.

When he finally pulls back, his forehead resting against yours, you're both breathless.

His thumb strokes your cheek again as he whispers, "There. That enough proof for you?"

You let out a shaky breath, a smile tugging at your lips. "It's a start."

Joel chuckles softly, the sound vibrating against your chest. "Careful, darlin'" he murmurs, his voice warm and teasing.

"You might just get more than you bargained for."

You meet his gaze, your confidence never wavering. "I'm counting on it."

-

You don't wait for him to make the next move. Instead, you close the small gap between you, pressing your lips against his once more. This time, there's no hesitation. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt as you slide your tongue along the seam of his lips, teasing him, challenging him to let you in.

Joel groans softly, a low, rough sound that sends a shiver down your spine. He opens his mouth to you, his tongue meeting yours in a slow, deliberate dance that makes your head spin. His hands tighten on your waist, pulling you even closer, like he can't stand the thought of any space between you.

The kiss deepens, becomes hungrier, more urgent. His lips are warm and soft, his stubble scratching against your skin in a way that's intoxicating. You feel his hand slide up your back, fingers brushing lightly against the nape of your neck as he tilts your head to deepen the kiss even further.

You pour every ounce of your frustration, your desire, your longing into the kiss, and he matches you beat for beat. It's raw and electric, a fire that's been simmering for far too long finally igniting.

When you finally pull back for air, your chest heaves as you struggle to catch your breath. Joel's forehead rests against yours, his dark eyes searching yours with a mix of desire and something softer, something deeper.

"Sweetheart..." he murmurs, his voice hoarse and filled with something you can't quite name. "You really are somethin' else."

You smirk, your confidence burning bright.

"Told you I was waiting."

He chuckles, low and warm, his thumb brushing along your jaw. "You sure you're ready for everything that comes with this?" he asks, his tone serious despite the teasing edge.

You nod, your resolve unshaken. "I'm not backing down, Joel. Not anymore."

His grip on you tightens slightly, his gaze holding yours. "Alright," he murmurs, his voice steady.

"Then let's see where this goes."

-

Your heart pounds as you look up at Joel, his grip firm but not controlling, his dark eyes studying you. Something inside you flares—a mix of confidence and curiosity. You want to see if you can take charge, see how far he's willing to let you lead.

You press your hands against his chest, pushing him gently but firmly back until the edge of the table catches him. He raises an eyebrow at you, a faint smirk playing on his lips, but he doesn't resist.

"What are you doin', sweetheart?" he asks, his voice low and rough, laced with curiosity and amusement.

You tilt your head, your eyes sparkling with mischief as you climb onto his lap, straddling him, your hands gripping his shoulders. "Showing you I'm not afraid,"

you say, your voice bold, unwavering.

"I'm not just gonna let you call the shots, Joel."

His smirk widens, his hands instinctively settling on your hips, fingers pressing into the fabric of your jeans. "That right?" he drawls, his tone teasing but edged with something darker, something thrilling. "You think you're in charge now?"

You lean in, your lips brushing against his ear as you whisper, "For now."

Without waiting for a reply, you kiss him again, this time with more force, more determination. Your tongue slides into his mouth, tangling with his, and you hear a low growl rumble from his chest. His hands tighten on your hips, pulling you closer, but he lets you set the pace, lets you take the lead.

You trail your hands up his chest, feeling the solid muscle beneath your fingertips, and his breath hitches when your nails scrape lightly against his skin through his shirt. You kiss him harder, your teeth nipping at his bottom lip before soothing the spot with your tongue. He lets out a soft curse, his grip on you momentarily tightening before he reins himself in.

His eyes darken, and for a moment, you think he might flip the script on you, take back control. But he doesn't-at least not yet. Instead, he lets you continue, his hands roaming your sides, his lips parting for you every time you claim him.

You feel powerful, exhilarated, but there's an undercurrent of tension, a silent promise in the way his fingers grip your waist. Joel might be letting you take charge for now, but you know it's only because he's allowing it. There's a storm brewing in his restraint, and you can't help but wonder what will happen when it finally breaks.

Joel pulls back from the kiss, his breathing uneven, his forehead resting against yours. His grip on your waist tightens just enough for you to feel the quiet power in his hands—a reminder that while he's let you take the lead, he hasn't truly surrendered.

His eyes lock onto yours, smoldering with an intensity that makes your breath catch. There's heat there, yes, but also something deeper, something unspoken that makes the air between you crackle.

"You're somethin' else," he mutters, his voice low and rough, the Texan drawl thick enough to send a shiver down your spine. "Pushin' me like this... You sure you know what you're gettin' into?"

His words hang in the air, a challenge and a warning all wrapped in one. But you're not backing down. Not now. You lift your chin slightly, your eyes never leaving his as you tighten your grip on his shoulders.

"I know exactly what I'm doing," you say, your voice steady but laced with a teasing edge. "The question is-do you?"

Joel chuckles softly, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. "You've got a sharp tongue, darlin'" he says, his hands sliding up your sides, slow and deliberate. "But let me tell you somethin!"

His grip shifts, his hands settling firmly on your hips as he leans in, his lips brushing against your ear. His voice drops even lower, a whisper that sends heat pooling in your stomach.

"There's only so much of this I'm gonna let you get away with," he murmurs, the warning clear in his tone. "You keep pushin, and I'm gonna remind you who's really in charge here."

The words send a thrill through you, but you're not ready to give in yet. You lean back just enough to meet his gaze, your lips curling into a defiant smile.

"Maybe I want you to remind me," you say, your voice soft but daring.

Joel's eyes darken further, his grip on you tightening just enough to make your heart race. For a moment, he just stares at you, his expression unreadable, as though he's deciding whether to rise to your challenge or let you keep playing this dangerous game.

Then, with a suddenness that leaves you breathless, he flips the dynamic entirely. His hands grip your waist firmly, lifting you effortlessly off his lap and setting you on the edge of the table. He steps between your knees, his hands braced on either side of you, caging you in.

"You've had your fun, sweetheart," he drawls, his voice low and commanding, his eyes burning into yours. "Now it's my turn."

Joel's lips trail down your neck, the warmth of his breath sending a shiver down your spine as he nips and sucks at the sensitive skin just below your ear.

Each touch is deliberate, possessive, as though he's staking his claim. You tilt your head back slightly, letting him have his way, the sensation overwhelming and intoxicating.

His hands slide up your thighs, the roughness of his palms a stark contrast to the softness of your skin. His grip tightens as he pulls you closer to the edge of the table, his strength undeniable as he presses his body flush against yours. The solid heat of him grounds you, even as your heart races.

"You're mine, princess," he growls against your neck, his voice low and rough, sending a jolt of electricity straight through you. "And don't you ever forget it."

His words make your breath hitch, the possessiveness in his tone igniting something deep within you. You want to challenge him, to push back against his dominance, but the way he holds you, the way he speaks to you, makes it impossible to do anything but surrender—for now.

Your hands slide up his chest, gripping the fabric of his shirt as you pull him closer. "Is that so?" you whisper, your voice daring but breathless. "Then maybe you should show me, Joel."

His eyes darken at your words, his gaze locking onto yours with a fire that takes your breath away. "You keep askin' for it," he mutters, his voice low and dangerous, "and I'm gonna give it to you. But you better be ready for what comes next, sweetheart."

The challenge in his words makes your pulse quicken, but you nod, your confidence unwavering. "I can handle it."

Joel smirks, a wicked, knowing grin that sends heat flooding through you. "We'll see about that." His lips crash against yours again, his kiss searing and unapologetic, leaving no room for doubt about who's in charge now.

Joel's kiss is overwhelming, consuming, leaving no space for thought or hesitation. His lips are firm against yours, his tongue demanding as it tangles with yours. He's not holding back anymore-every touch, every movement speaks of a man who's been pushed past his limits.

His hands grip your thighs tighter as he presses you more firmly against the edge of the table, his body flush against yours. The way he moves, the way he holds you, leaves no doubt in your mind—he's in control now, and he's making sure you know it.

"You've got no idea what you've started, darlin'" he growls against your lips, his voice thick with a mix of frustration and desire. "But you're gonna find out real quick."

You gasp as his lips return to your neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin before he sucks just hard enough to leave a mark. The sensation sends a shiver down your spine, and you can't help the soft moan that escapes your lips. His hands slide up further, his thumbs brushing against your hips, teasing you, testing your resolve.

"Still think you're the one in charge?" he murmurs against your skin, his voice dripping with smug amusement.

You tilt your head slightly, your breath hitching as you try to regain some of your earlier confidence. "Maybe I just wanted to see if you could keep up."

Joel chuckles, a low, rumbling sound that vibrates against your neck. "Keep up?" he repeats, pulling back just enough to meet your gaze, his eyes dark and piercing.

"Sweetheart, you've got no idea what you've gotten yourself into."

His words are a promise, a warning, and a challenge all at once. He presses his forehead against yours, his breath warm against your lips.

"You think you can push me like this and come out on top?" His hand slides up, cupping the side of your face, his thumb brushing against your cheek with a gentleness that contrasts sharply with the intensity in his eyes. "Let me make somethin' real clear."

His lips crash against yours again, this time even more commanding, more consuming. His kiss leaves you breathless, his hands gripping you like he's afraid to let go. It's a battle of wills, but one you're losing-and you're not even sure you mind.

Joel's kiss grows fiercer, more demanding, as he takes full control. His tongue delves deeper, exploring your mouth with a hunger that leaves you breathless. His teeth catch your bottom lip, nipping just enough to send a jolt through you before soothing it with his tongue, as if he's both punishing and rewarding you for pushing him this far.

His hands grip your hips firmly, pulling you even closer, until there's no space left between you. His body pins you against the table, his weight pressing you down as his hips grind against yours. The friction is electrifying, sending heat surging through you, and you can't help the soft gasp that escapes your lips.

"You feel that?" he murmurs against your lips, his voice rough and low, dripping with desire. "That's what you do to me, sweetheart. You've been teasin' me, pushin' me-and now, you're gonna take all of it."

The evidence of his arousal presses firmly against you, a stark, undeniable reminder of just how much power he has in this moment. But it's not just physical-it's the way he looks at you, the way he touches you, the way he speaks to you. Every word, every movement is calculated, deliberate, meant to show you exactly who's in control.

Your breath catches as his lips trail down your neck again, his teeth grazing your skin before he sucks hard enough to leave another mark. His hands roam your body, possessive and firm, as if he's memorizing every curve, every reaction. He's relentless, and you can feel yourself surrendering completely to him, letting him take whatever he wants.

"You wanted this, didn't you?" Joel growls, his voice a mixture of amusement and raw desire. "You wanted me to take control, to show you who you belong to."

You can barely form a coherent thought, let alone a response. All you can do is nod, your hands gripping his shoulders as you cling to him, completely at his mercy.

Joel then lifts you up and carries you to the living room. He lays you down on the couch, positioning you so that you're bent over the arm. He stands behind you, his hands quickly unbuttoning and removing your pants.

He lets out a low growl as he takes in the sight of you, completely at his mercy and vulnerable to his touch.

“God, look at you,” he murmurs, his voice rough with desire. “Bent over like a good girl for me.”

He groans as you push your ass against him, the feeling of your body against his making him even harder. He grabs your hips, holding you still as he leans over you.

“Needy little thing, aren’t you?” he murmurs, his breath hot against your ear. “Can’t get enough of me, can you?”

Joel grabs a fistful of your hair and pulls “tell me how much you need me darlin’”

You gasp as he grabs your hair, the sting of his grip sending a jolt of pleasure through you.

“I need you so much,” you whimper, your voice shaky with desire. “Please, Joel.. I need you to touch me.”

He circles his fingers around your clit, applying just enough pressure to make you moan. He knows your body well, knows exactly how to touch you to make you squirm and beg for more.

He continues to tease you, his lips moving up to your ear as he whispers in a low, husky voice.

“That feel good, princess?”

You nod frantically, your body arching against his touch as you let out a needy whimper.

“Y-yes, Joel.. please.. more..”

He smirks against your skin, pleased with your response. He loves the way you beg for him, the way you give yourself over to him completely.

He continues to circle your clit with his fingers, his touch growing firmer as he increases the pressure.

“Such a good girl,” he murmurs, his voice low and filled with satisfaction. “Begging for me like that..”

He leans down, his lips moving to your ear once again as he whispers in a low, commanding tone.

“Say it again,” he growls. “Tell me how much you need me to make you feel good.”

You shiver at the command in his voice, your body trembling with need.

“I need you so badly,” you whimper, your voice shaking with desire. “Please, Joel.. I need you to make me cum. I need you to make me feel good..”

You whimper in response, unable to do anything but let out a series of desperate, needy sounds as his fingers continue to work their magic against your clit. You're completely at his mercy, your body trembling and your mind filled with a haze of pleasure.

He knows he has you exactly where he wants you, completely surrendered to his touch and his control.

He moves quickly, unable to wait any longer to be inside you. He grabs your hips, positioning himself at your entrance as he looks down at you with a mixture of hunger and desire.

“I can’t hold back anymore,” he growls, his voice rough with need.

Joel pushes into you in one swift, powerful thrust, filling you completely in one movement. He lets out a low groan, his fingers digging into your hips as he struggles to control himself.

“God, you feel so good..” he murmurs, his voice ragged with pleasure. “So tight and perfect around me..”

He begins to move, his thrusts slow and deep at first, savoring the feeling of being inside you. But as his control starts to slip, his pace quickens, each thrust becoming more and more forceful.

“You like this don’t you darlin,” he growls, his voice possessive and dominant.

You nod desperately, your mind consumed by the pleasure he’s giving you. Every thrust sends waves of ecstasy through your body, making it hard to think or speak.

“Yes.. I love it,” you manage to gasp out, your voice hoarse with pleasure. “I love feeling you inside me..”

He grins, pleased by your response. He can feel your body trembling beneath him, can feel you clenching around him as he drives deeper and deeper into you.

“That’s it, princess,” he murmurs, his voice filled with possessive satisfaction. “Let me hear you say it.. tell me how much you need me to claim you..”

You just let out a loud moan as you come undone.

He groans as you come around him, your body clenching tightly around his cock. He continues to thrust into you, struggling to hold back his own release as he looks over at Sarah's door, making sure it's still shut.

He doesn't want her to see or hear any of this.. he doesn't want anyone to know how he's claiming you, how he's making you his in every way possible..

He grabs your hips, pulling you back onto him as he thrusts harder and faster, chasing his own release. He's close, so close to the edge, and the sight of you coming undone beneath him only pushes him further.

“Fuck.. I’m gonna fill you up,” he growls, his voice strained

His grip on your hips tightens as he continues to pound into you, his pace becoming erratic and desperate. He can feel his orgasm building, the pleasure building up until it’s almost unbearable.

“Take it.. take all of it,” he grunts, his voice hoarse with need. “I’m gonna fill you up so good, princess..”

His hips stutter and his grip on you tightens even more as he reaches his peak. With one final, deep thrust, he buries himself inside you and cums with a guttural groan, his release spilling into you in hot, pulsing waves.

He leans over you, his body trembling as he rides out his orgasm, his face buried in your neck as he tries to catch his breath.

Joel leans over you, his strong arms braced on either side of you, his body trembling as he lets the intensity of the moment consume him. His forehead presses against the back of your neck, his warm breath ghosting over your skin as he tries to steady himself, both of you still caught in the aftershocks of everything you’ve shared.

For a long moment, the room is filled with nothing but the sound of his labored breathing and the faint hum of the world outside. His face remains buried against your neck, his stubble scraping lightly against your skin in a way that feels both grounding and intimate. You can feel the weight of him, his warmth pressing into you, a tangible reminder of the connection you’ve just forged.

“Sweetheart…” he finally murmurs, his voice low and gravelly, tinged with both exhaustion and something softer. His hand slides down to rest on your hip, his touch gentler now, almost reverent.

You turn your head slightly, your breathing still uneven as you meet his gaze over your shoulder. His dark eyes are softer now, the fiery intensity replaced with a quiet tenderness that makes your chest tighten.

“I told you,” he says softly, his lips brushing against your ear. “You’ve got no idea what you do to me.”

You let out a breathless laugh, your body still tingling from the overwhelming sensations. “I think I might have an idea now,” you reply, your voice teasing but filled with warmth.

Joel chuckles softly, the sound low and rumbling as he shifts slightly, wrapping an arm around your waist to pull you upright against his chest. He holds you there, his grip firm but comforting, as if he’s afraid to let go.

-

Joel steps back, his hands lingering on your waist for a moment before he finally lets go, his touch warm and steady despite the nervous laugh that escapes him. He rubs the back of his neck, his expression softening as he looks at you, a mixture of concern and tenderness in his eyes.

“I got a little carried away there,” he admits, his voice low, the faintest hint of guilt creeping in. “Are you alright?”

You turn to face him, brushing your hair back from your face as you meet his gaze. There’s no hesitation in your voice when you reply. “Yes, I’m fine.” You offer him a small, reassuring smile before adding, “But… would it be okay if I took, like… a bath? Maybe?”

Joel blinks, his lips twitching into a faint smile as he lets out a soft chuckle. “’Course it’s okay,” he says, his voice warm and genuine. “You don’t even have to ask, sweetheart. Go on—I’ll make sure Sarah stays asleep.”

You nod, your smile growing as the tension in the room begins to ease. “Thanks, Joel.”

He gestures toward the hallway. “Bathroom’s down the hall. I’ll grab you some towels.”

As you head toward the bathroom, you hear him rummaging through a closet, his quiet movements a comforting presence even as you step away. When you reach the door, he appears a moment later with a neatly folded towel in one hand and a soft smile on his face.

“Here,” he says, handing it to you. His fingers brush against yours briefly, and for a moment, his gaze lingers, his eyes searching yours as if to make sure you’re really okay.

“Thank you,” you say softly, your voice steady but laced with sincerity.

Joel nods, stepping back to give you space. “Take your time,” he says. “I’ll be here if you need anything.”

You close the door behind you, the warmth of his presence still lingering as you turn on the faucet and let the sound of running water fill the room. As the tub begins to fill, you take a deep breath, letting the events of the evening wash over you. Whatever happens next, you know one thing for sure: Joel cares, and that thought alone makes you feel a little more grounded.

A/N: \(//∇//)\ i seriously can’t get enough of dbf!joel…send me to horny jail now

[woozinhos]

hi. love reading your works, short but definitely good fics.

would love to request some 'just the tip' moments with bestie dk that ends up with him pounding you until dawn

guys I actually have a problem when it comes to writing about dk I’m gonna put a poll out soon if you guys would like me to start writing longer fics instead of writing multiples ones daily :)

As the night grew late, both you and DK were exhausted from a long day. Despite your tiredness, DK couldn't help but crave your touch.

He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close and nuzzling his face into your neck.

"I just want to be inside you," he murmured, his voice heavy with sleep. "Even if it's just the tip."

You could feel his hardness pressing against your lower back, even through the fabric of his clothes.

He began to grind against you, seeking some sort of relief.

"Please," he whispered, his breath hot against your skin. "Just the tip, I promise."

You knew you were both too tired for anything more, but the thought of DK using you even just a little was too tempting to resist.

"Okay," you whispered, arching your back slightly to give him better access. "Just the tip, then we sleep."

DK let out a sigh of relief as he slid the tip of his cock between your folds.

He held you close, his chest pressed against your back as he slowly started to move.

"You feel so good," he murmured, his lips brushing against your ear. "Even just like this."

He kept his movements slow and gentle, just enough to give him the friction he needed.

His breath came in soft pants against your skin, his grip on you tightening as he fought to control himself.

"I love you," he whispered, his voice filled with a mix of affection and exhaustion.

"You're my everything," he murmured, his hips moving in small, circular motions. "My light, my comfort, my love."

He buried his face in your neck, his lips leaving a trail of soft kisses along your skin.

"I don't know what I'd do without you," he confessed, his voice muffled.

As DK continued to move against you, his movements grew more urgent and needy.

He was panting heavily now, his body trembling with the effort of holding back his release.

"Please," he whimpered, his hips jerking forward involuntarily. "I'm so close."

"Can I please...?" he gasped, his fingers digging into your hips. "Can I fuck you properly? Just for a minute, I promise I'll be quick."

You could hear the desperation in his voice, the raw need and desire that he was struggling to control.

"Please," he repeated, his voice cracking. "I need you, I need to feel all of you."

Without waiting for your answer, DK shifted his position, his cock sliding further into you.

He let out a strangled moan as he finally bottomed out, his body trembling with the effort of holding back.

"You feel so good," he gasped, his hips moving in slow, deliberate thrusts. "So perfect for me."

He started to move faster, his thrusts becoming harder and more desperate.

His hands roamed over your body, touching and caressing every inch of skin he could reach.

"I love you so much," he panted, his lips finding your ear again. "You're mine, all mine."

DK let out a groan as he heard your moans, his grip on you tightening even more.

"That's it," he whispered, his voice strained. "Let me hear you, let me hear how good I make you feel."

His pace quickened, his hips slamming into you with a force that was almost brutal.

He was close, you could tell by the way his breaths were coming in short, ragged gasps.

"I'm going to cum," he grunted, his fingers digging into your hips so hard that it was almost painful. "I'm going to fill you up, just like you deserve."

With a final, deep thrust, DK reached his peak.

He buried himself inside you as he came, his body trembling and his muscles tensing as he emptied himself into you.

He let out a long, drawn-out moan, his face contorted in pleasure.

As he came down from his high, DK collapsed on top of you, his chest heaving with exertion.

He buried his face in your hair, nuzzling against you as he struggled to catch his breath.

"Thank you," he whispered, his voice filled with gratitude and exhaustion. "You're amazing."

He wrapped his arms around you, holding you close as he slowly pulled out of you.

He shifted so that he was spooning you, his body pressed against yours from behind.

"I love you," he murmured, pressing a gentle kiss to the back of your neck. "So, so much."

He pulled the covers over both of you, cocooning you in a warm embrace.

DK snuggled closer, his arms tightening around you as he settled in for the night.

"Sleep now," he whispered, his voice heavy with exhaustion.

[revelboo]

Me at your post:

Question. Have you ever thought about writing for the Constructicons? (Not with Prowl though). I think it would be hilarious.

Rewatched their G1 episodes today. Title is the song ‘Drive’ by The Matches. An attempt was made

Drive

Constructicons x Reader

• “I’m just saying. A little appreciation.” Exchanging a look with Long Haul, Scavenger tries to ignore Hook’s grumbling as they work. Pushing against a tree until the wood splinters and breaks so he can dove it over and drag it out of the way. Pausing to tip his head up at the night sky and wonder where home is. “We’re out here busting our afts and do we get any thanks?” Hook demands. No. What they’d gotten was their energon rations cut because in the Decepticon hierarchy, they’re not much higher than Insecticons. He doesn’t like it, but understands. Being forged here on this miserable mudball not Cybertron means being looked down upon. And he has no idea where Cybertron is among those glittering stars. Can it be home when he’s never set ped there?

• “We do our job. A fragging good job,” Scrapper says, trying to keep the peace as Bonecrusher utters a harsh laugh and Mixmaster just shakes his head at him. Like he doesn’t see the scorn. Knows the others think he’s oblivious, but he’s knows they’re looked down on until they’re needed. Devastator demands their respect, but on their own? They’re second class citizens. If even that. Some of the other Decepticons are all too happy to sneer at them, to assume that since they didn’t come from Cybertron they’re less.

• Bending to gouge up a handful of soil and to intake through his vents, separating out the individual components in his head, Mixmaster growls. Scenting those trace amounts of energon that are the whole reason they’re out here in the middle of nowhere. “No one wants to hear that, though,” Mixmaster mutters. “They want us to work and keep quiet. It’s here.” Glancing at his brother when Bonecrusher bumps him. “They’re scared of us,” Bonecrusher growls, beginning to aggressively clear the land of trees, movements sloppy and giving away that he’s been into the high grade. But they all know it’s Devastator that’s feared, not them. They’re tools. Nothing more. Disrespected and mocked by the rest of the Decepticons. Something they all feel and that gets compounded when they’re combined. That dissatisfaction growing every time they combine, spreading and feeding on itself when they separate again. Reaching a boiling point with no outlet to let off some steam. Except to destroy something. And there’s nothing here but trees.

• Exhausted and not even tempted by the hot, greasy smell of fast food in the bag in the passenger seat, you go over the list in your head again. Trying to remember if you’ve gotten at least a little something for everyone. That you’re ready for the upcoming holiday. You’d volunteered to work the day before for the extra cash, but you keep wondering if you’re forgetting something. Distracted you almost miss the huge, dark shape that comes sailing out of the woods. Slamming a foot on the brake as your car slides with a scream of tires, a tree slams into the road ahead of you and goes end over end in a shower of pine needles and broken branches. What? Toggling your emergency lights on, you put the car into park and get out, wincing at the biting cold. And your breath catches as it sinks in that a tree chucked like a javelin even though there’s no wind, no plausible explanation, nearly took you out. Squinting into the dark woods, your skin prickles as a red glow flares in the shadows. Then five more.

• Hears Bonecrusher laugh and Long Haul turns to follow his stare. Sees the tiny shape through the trees silhouetted by the headlights of the car behind them. There’s no way the little human can see anything more than the glow of their optics. But there’s a whisper of excitement twisting through him as Scrapper says, “Bottle of engex to whoever squishes it before it ruins everything.”

• Heart in your throat as those red glows shift and a branch cracks, there’s a roar from the trees that crackles through you and you forget the car. Forget everything beyond the animal need to get away. Running as trees crack and get uprooted with thunderous noise behind you to send you racing across the road and into the woods on the other side in a blind panic. Don’t even know what’s chasing you, only that you don’t want to find out. Is this what a rabbit feels like with hungry foxes snapping at its heels?

• Heavy peds tearing up dirt and leaves as he tries to overtake Hook, Scavenger hears Mixmaster calling out to the organic. Laughingly saying they only want to play. You’re surprisingly fast for being so small, but even noisier than Bonecrusher somehow. Energon pumping through his lines as you break from the trees, just a little shadow silvered by the moon, almost unreal looking as you pelt through the tall grass. Catches a glimpse of terrified eyes when you glance back and then you go down, disappearing completely.

• “Where’d it go?” Hook growls, reaching to push Scavenger out of his way as the rest of his brothers catch up and he realizes there’s a sheet drop, the ground giving way so suddenly you hadn’t seen it in time to react. Leaning down to look at the still form lying in the shallow stream at the bottom, there’s a momentary flicker of disappointment. Because chasing you had made him feel more alive than he’d felt in a long time. The hunt a high almost as sweet as combining.

• Lingering at the edge of the ravine, spark pulsing still with the excitement of your fear, Scrapper’s aware of Mixmaster and Bonecrusher shoving at each other. Of Long Haul and Scavenger both still staring down at their quarry. Turning away to order them back to work, he hesitates as Scavenger bumps his arm with a fist. “It’s still alive.” And he hears the low, pained sound from the little human. “Pretty fun to chase,” Long Haul adds, shooting him a look. Primus, are they wanting to keep you? Like a pet? All five of his brothers are staring at him now. Waiting for his decision. And groaning in defeat, he gestures at the drop. “Fine, but I’m not cleaning up after it.” Because you’re a distraction, something to keep them from dwelling on how unhappy they all are.

[saphiccarma]

- The Red Means I Love You

Relationships - Mob Boss!WandaNat x Reader

Summary - You almost get killed again before some comfort with your girlfriends.

Warnings: Violence but nothing really

Pt.1 Pt. 2 Pt. 3 Pt. 4

The rifle was shoved firmly against your shoulder, the material pressed through your tactical suit. You twisted a nob, fixing the scope and letting it adjust properly before exhaling slowly. You had done this hundreds of times before. This was nothing.

Just another person to kill, another person to cross off the list that Natasha gave you. It was someone irrelevant. You had no idea who they were, or how important they were, but all that mattered was Natasha told you to do it. You didn't dig into their life at all - you soon learned that it only made things worse. Even as is, guilt throbbed in your stomach as you waited for your target to show themselves. The cement was hard from where you laid against it. Your shoulders ached from sitting out here all day.

Earmuffs quieted the world around you. The bustling of the streets as people went about their day. Birds circling overhead as they flew around in search of food. Music blaring from the apartments below you. It was all silenced by the muffs you wore. That was a dangerous thing, you couldn't hear a single thing - it left you vulnerable. Natasha had told you to leave them off whenever you weren't shooting, but you were too exhausted to remember.

Natsha had been working you into the ground.

Day and night on jobs. Whatever she wanted you to do. Kill someone? You would do it. Spy on someone for days straight? Yes ma'am. It was never a question of how morally bad the task was. Morals didn’t matter in this line of business. You knew better than to question her. Your body ached with a constant dull pain from constantly moving. You were always doing something. Whether it was in bed or out in the world or training with someone else. There was never a minute for rest for you.

Even still, that was not an excuse to get sloppy.

Evidence of that was a knife pressed against your throat and the earmuffs ripped from your head.

"Hi again," a voice whispered in your ear and you instantly knew who it was, muscles locking up tighter than before, "It's nice to see you." The cool metal dug into your skin, almost deep enough to draw blood but not quite. Your fingers twitched from where they sat on the rifle. "Now, I'm going to remove this knife, and you are going to stand up slowly, hands off the gun."

You waited with bated breath as she removed the knife from your skin, and you heard her take a few steps back. Carefully, you stood, removing your hands from the rifle. The instant you turned around and caught a glimpse of her taunting smirk, you reared your hand back and swung. It landed solidly against her cheek, her head snapping to the side.

She chuckled, spitting blood out onto the ground, "So that's how you want to play it?"

There wasn't even a second for you to react before she was lunging at you, throwing a payback punch. Your cheek throbbed with a newfound pain. The fight that ensued was a mix of grace and pure brutality. Rio's eyes were alight, a devious glint in them that promised pain. You were only focused on not dying.

Her punches landed nearly every time, but she rarely threw them - only when she knew they would hit. It was a smart tactic; you had to give her that. She was a good fighter, graceful in every movement she made. You admired that. Natasha taught you to be graceful, but you leaned on the side of being aggressive. It was odd since you didn't like violence. But that didn't matter when in a fight, as seen now.

The two of you traded blows, Rio dodging yours with little laughs, taunting you. Frustration boiled inside of you and your movements grew less strategic. They were desperate blows; you could tell you were losing. There was no way you could win this. But you weren't someone to give up.

Blood leaked from your lips from a nasty right hook and Rio had a black eye already forming. Both of you stood, breathless, for a moment, taking each other in. Rio had more time, expertise, she was more experienced. You barely had a year, maybe not even that, while she had who knows how long. You didn’t stand a chance.

For a moment, a crazed grin split your lips to match Rio's. Adrenaline pumped through you, buzzing beneath your veins and making you feel alive. There was a rush of what almost felt like joy. Although it was more like exhilaration - joy was the wrong word. There was no joy in fighting. It only lasted for a brief second before the two of you were at it again, dancing around each other in a skilled dance. Eventually, Rio got the better of you.

Shoving at your shoulders, Rio pushed you into a planter box. You spluttered as the wood dug into your bag and knocked the wind out of you. Rio stood above you, licking blood from her lips, and her eyes shining with pure mischief.

"You're cute," She whispered, a tugged her knife out. Your fingers tug into the planter box at the sight of it, chest heaving as you tried to regain your breath. The knife was pressed onto your neck, "Listen to me," Rio crouched and then leaned until she was right in front of your face, breath warm, "This is not a battle you will win. I was sent to kill you, but you're fun, so I'll leave you alive for now." Her words sent a flash of desperation through you and panic seized your thoughts. Gasping, you went to grab at her wrist. You weren't sure what you were going to do, but before you could Rio pulled back, smirking furiously before she was gone. Just like that she was bolting down the stairs.

That did not just happen.

You shut your eyes for a moment only to open them a second later. The sun was slowly setting, the sky a dusty pink with a few hues of blue in there. It was beautiful sight, unlike the blood that slowly leaked onto your lips, metallic and salty as you licked it. Rio had nailed a solid punch to your nose. It mixed with the blood that slowly bled from your lips as well, a small cut there.

Slowly, you shoved yourself off the planter box, groaning at the throbbing pain, but you snatched up your rifle and made your way down the roof. Time to head home. Your motorcycle was waiting for you once you climbed down the several flights of stairs. Going down was just about as hard as going up.  The helmet fit snuggly on your face, almost too snuggly that it was pressing against all your bruises. Regardless, you sped off, making your way to the house.

Natasha and Wanda had been doing digging for months, searching for some evidence as to what was going on. Danvers clearly had a part in it, from what you could tell, but Stark had gone radio-silent ever since that man came to the doorstep of the base. Another name that came up frequently was Agatha, and now this scuffle with Rio only made things clear they were part of it. You had to tell Wanda and Natasha, and maybe you could have some more quality time together.

As busy as they were, they made time for you. Slowly Wanda became part of your routine. She was confusing at first. Hot and cold, sweet and harsh. You never knew what to expect from her, but that was part of the excitement. However, a routine slowly built that you were familiar with. Wanda became as important of a part of your life as Natasha.

Your motorcycle buzzed to a stop as you parked it in the driveway, sliding your helmet off. The rifle strap dug uncomfortably into your shoulder; it was heavy for your tired body. Making your way to the door, you fumbled with the key in your pocket, pulling it out.

Key in lock. Key in lock. Turn the key.

It wasn't that difficult, but your fingers trembled around the key, and you eventually got the lock to turn.

You stumbled into the house, droplets of blood staining your hands and dirt underneath your nails. After you first killed someone, Natasha began sending you out on more solo mission, killing more people. It still hurt, a dull ache constantly thrumming in your chest. Tears would swell in your eyes at night when you lay awake, breathless and naked, while Natasha and wanda slept on your sides. But you were able to shove all the emotions down in favor of the sweet praise you got from your girlfriends when you got home. It made all killing worth it - at least that's what you told yourself.

Your fingers fumbled with the latch on your holster, finally pulling your gun out after a moment. It left the holster with a soft click, and you set the gun down on the table next to the door, taking your belt off next. You dropped the rifle next to the door and threw your keys onto the table so that they clattered softly.

Sinking to your knees, you fell face first onto the cool, wooden floor and turned so that your cheek was resting against it. The cold soothed the warm fire pulsing through your veins. You exhaled slowly, your eyes fluttering shut and you could hear soft footsteps coming down the stairs. You didn't have to look up to know it was Wanda, and she glided past you smoothly, heading into the kitchen. Her vanilla scent lingered. It had become a routine now, where you would just collapse on the floor.

It was part of your process. There was a familiarity to just lying on the floor, something plain and simple. Absently, you picked at your own fingernails, trying to erase the feeling of violence on them, the lingering trail of blood you slowly began to leave. You were so different from where you first started out, despising the business but being forced into it. Now you were killing people for a living. The thought of it made your insides churn anxiously and your eyes flutter shut. It was what you had to do. It made your girlfriends happy. Now that - that made butterflies erupt in your stomach whenever you thought of them. They were perfect.

For the next several minutes, maybe half an hour even, you let the floor comfort you. Swallowing thickly, you pushed yourself off the floor, legs shaky beneath you. It nearly physically hurt, you wobbled towards the living room, hoping on of your girlfriends would be there. Sure enough, you saw Natasha's hair pulled into a loose ponytail, a book resting in front of her from where she sat elegantly on the couch. Her legs were tucked beneath her as she flipped the pages. You staggered over, limbs screaming from the physical battle you just had, and- didn't make it. You fell just before you were able to land on the soft cushions, instead your knees sinking to floor and head landing on Natasha's shin.

You knew she glimpsed your face, but she didn't ask about the blood or the bruises, just offered quiet comfort. You appreciated the lack of questions. If she asked you weren't sure if you would be able to form a coherent answer, not with how exhausted you were.

Her bare skin was cool in a comforting way. You whined into her skin, head limp and body sore with dull pain. Her soft laugh echoed above you as her hand slid into your hair, gently tugging on all the tangles. The touch made your eyes close once again, leaning into her. She brushed her hand through your hair rhythmically, occasionally teasing the hair on your neck and scratching with her fingernails, but still gentle. She lulled all your worried thoughts with a soothing touch. Then after a few minutes, her fingers grabbed at your hair, tugging your head back. You whined petulantly, eyes opening reluctantly.

"Up." Her words were hardly directed at you, eyes still trained on her book, but you obeyed the command. The minute you were on your feet, Natasha spread one of her arms out, a silent invitation. Her eyes were still trained on the book, but you knew she was waiting. You fell into her lap; your legs bracketed her hips as your head landed on her shoulder. She hummed, pleased, and her arm snaked around you, stroking up and down your back while the other held her book.

You sat there for a while, listening to the soothing beat of her heart that was clear and steady beneath you. Every minute or so her hand would love your back to turn the page of the book, the ruffling sound just barely audible to your fuzzy mind. You could feel the fog slowly coming over, all worries leaving you completely with every second that ticked by. There was nothing coherent in your head, just absorbing Natasha's quiet comfort.

Your hands had buried into her shirt at some point, and lips began teasing her neck. It was nothing special, just a needy girl searching for something intimate without starting something you didn't have the energy to finish. Natasha's skin was pulled between your teeth as you alternated between softly biting and shallow sucking. Even as you did something, your eyes were squeezed shut, and soon enough even those small movements stopped.

Wanda came in, her footsteps soft as her baggy pants swished around her ankles. She wore a soft smile on her face, eyes amused as she took in the sight of her wife and you on the couch. Her hands found your hair the minute she came over, sinking onto the couch next to you, drawing a small sigh out of you. You shoved your face further into Natasha's neck. Wanda laughed, amused, but the sound hardly reached your ears.

"Sweet girl," she whispered, "It's time for some food."

It was as if you didn't register her words, still drawn into a certain headspace by Natasha's soothing movements. Natasha gave her wife an amused smile, finally looking away from her book for the first time and setting it down on the side table. Sighing softly, Wanda pecked Natsha on the cheek. Then it evolved into more, their lips melding together and tongues clashing. Both of their bodies pressing against you woke you up a bit and you began squirming in Natasha's lap.

They both chuckled against each other's mouths but otherwise ignored you. You whined quietly and sat up so that you could grab Natasha's collar, politely shoving Wanda away, before you pressed your lips onto Natasha's.

"There's our girl," Wanda mumbled, her hand in your hair tugging you back. An immature sound escaped your mouth as your eyes finally opened. Wanda raised a brow, questioning if you really wanted to go down this road when you protested to her hauling you up. And as unsteady as your legs were, you let her guide you into the kitchen. A warm meal was ready for you. But instead of heading to the table, she led you to the sink, her hands gripping your waist until she hauled you up onto the counter.

You made a small sound of protest, still surprised at her strength. Wanda pulled a cloth from the counter and ran it under the sink water. Gently, she pressed it against your face, softly hushing you when you flinched and whined. It was cool against the warmth of your skin from being shoved in Natasha’s neck, but it helped dull the pain that pulsed through your cuts. She dabbed away at your wounds, cleaning them up softly while Natasha plated some food for the three of you.

"What happened?" It was phrased as a harmless question, but there was a dangerous undertone to Wanda's words. You hesitated, eyes flickering down to look at the ground. Wanda pressed down particularly hard, and your gaze snapped back to her with a glare, "What happened?"

You shook your head, "Nothing."

Wanda sighed but let it go and in turn you let her guide you to the table, setting you down at a chair for food. You inhaled slowly. Everything was fine. You were fine. It was all going to be fine.

Taglist: @macaroni676 @gaylorvader @ashadash0904 @sunshine-makes-flowers-grow @wolfangnight @rosekjsses @jessycatatiana

[sageyxbabey]

Every Move You Make

MDNI John Price x Fem!Reader | your husband likes to watch you

Inspired by @the-californicationist who so graciously tagged me with the idea "Price comes home and watches you finger yourself." Teehee c:

WC: ~900 (this is entirely not proofread it might be a bit shit i'm so sorry)

CW: none, really. just mutual masturbation and piv

At last, you allow yourself to melt onto your sheets. Freshly showered and free from work for the day. You should have two hours until your husband makes it home. More than enough time to help yourself release a bit of… pent-up tension. You wriggle your pants off, graceless in your exhaustion, and begin circling your fingers gently over your clit. No need to rush.

You’re finally in the throes of your pleasure, that slow build of warmth and electricity in your core just beginning to culminate into something absolutely delicious, when–

You jolt at the shift in weight at the end of the bed. Eyes flying open, you lock gazes with your husband, one knee resting on the mattress but otherwise preternaturally still, like a wolf waiting for his prey to bolt. He’s early.

“John,” you pant.

“Sorry, love. Didn’t mean to startle you.” His rumbling voice is almost as dangerous as the smile slowly spreading across his face. “Don’t stop on my account.” He moves slowly, sinking his other knee into the bed and shifting forward until your thighs lay over his. 

You don’t move, enthralled by the look on your husband’s face. He’s so very hungry.

 Normally, John would have slapped your hands aside by now and taken over for you. Wasn’t that one of the benefits of having a partner? Orgasms that you didn’t have to give yourself? 

He raises an eyebrow, looking between your face and your glistening cunt, “Well? I want to see the show I almost missed out on,” he grumbles.

Ah, it was going to be like that today.

Your fingers dip into the slick arousal pooling at your entrance before returning to dance over your clit. Your eyes never leave John’s face, but his stare is fixed upon the movements of your hand, licking his chops. He hums, big hands stroking over the sensitive skin of your thighs, soothing you like a wild animal. He’s burning you alive, you just know it. Every nerve ending lights up at his touch like iron filings following the pull of a magnet. There’s no stopping the moan that crawls out of your throat, and your pussy clenches pitifully around nothing. 

Empty, empty, empty.

You need your husband. You need your John inside you. 

When you’re finally considering begging, you watch him bend his head forward. “Stop,” he says. 

‘Thank fuck,’ you think. At last, your husband is going to take care of it, and you can relax–

You hear him spit. You feel wetness land on your clit and meander down to your opening.

“Alright,” he whispers with a short nod, “Continue.”

You blink at him owlishly, frustration building with each pulse of arousal through your swollen clit. It’s only now that you realise John has shucked his work trousers down to the mid-thigh without your notice, one large hand fisted tightly around his cock. You tease yourself again, this time with the wet gift he has provided you, and his hand starts to move.

You stop. He stops. You speed up, he speeds up.

He smirks, a low chuckle escaping him. He looks like a dragon billowing smoke. “Thank you for finally catching on, love, I was worried you’d leave me to play all by myself.” That smile from earlier turns into a full-on grin, just a little too toothy to be innocent. 

Dangerous, your husband.

That’s okay. You’ve always liked it when he puts those teeth around your neck.

“Don’t worry, darling,” you sigh. His eyes snap to your face for a moment at your words, before they focus back on his prize. “I’ll always play with you,” you croon. Your free hand trails a path from your knee to your centre, one fingertip circling lazily around your entrance. Your husband’s eyes narrow viciously. 

“Don’t,” he growls. His hand stills on the base of his cock, watching. Waiting. Hunting.

You laugh and thrust two fingers inside yourself.

You barely get to crook them before John snaps, massive paw wrenching your hands from your flesh, notching himself against your cunt before sliding home in one smooth stroke. You’re not laughing now. You’re shrieking. 

“You little fucking minx, you just couldn’t help yourself. Are you happy?” He asks, the weight of his hips pinning you open beneath him like a butterfly under glass. You’re grinning like the cat that got the cream, cheeks burning with mirth. Your husband chuckles darkly at the sight.

“Of course you’re fucking happy.” John pulls out until he’s barely inside of you, “Can never let me sit back and watch, can you? Always so desperate to have your husband inside of you.” He drives his point home with a brutal thrust, and you wail at the feeling of his tip popping past the tight ring of muscles just behind your entrance. 

“Yes,” you cry. “Always want you inside, need you inside…” Your words trail off into moans, clawing at John’s shoulders until his entire body is draped on top of you, crushing you into the mattress. It takes barely a minute before you’re bearing down on his cock with a blinding orgasm.

You let your wolf devour you that night.

tag list:

@universitypenguin @teenagellamaangel @frogtowne

[akookminsupporter]

I'm rewatching Jungkook's Wlive but with ‘official subtitles’ this time, and I've realised he struggles with imposter syndrome. I had noticed it before, but I often saw it more as him being humble about his achievements, impact, and talent rather than a feeling of self-doubt. It really stands out how much he downplays himself, even when he’s done something incredible. It’s almost like he doesn’t fully believe he deserves the recognition he gets.

Both he and Jimin seem to ‘suffer’ from this the most within the group, in my opinion, and it’s interesting—and honestly a bit sad—to witness. They’ve achieved so much as solo artists and as members of BTS, and yet they seem to constantly question whether it’s enough or if they’re truly worthy of the love and admiration they receive. It’s sad that they think this way because it’s clear to anyone watching how extraordinary and talented they are, but at the same time, it also feels like this mindset is part of what makes them who they are.

That desire to always do better, to never settle, seems rooted in their constant questioning of themselves in many ways. It pushes them to improve every day, striving to achieve this personal ideal of perfection they’ve built in their minds and while it’s inspiring to see their work ethic and dedication to be and do better as artists, I can’t help but wonder if it’s exhausting for them to carry that pressure all the time. Is it healthy? Probably not, but it’s definitely a huge part of what keeps them moving forward and reaching new heights.

Having said all that, it's bittersweet, really. Their self-doubt may fuel their greatness, but I can't help but wish they could see themselves the way the rest of us do—flawed, perhaps, but already perfect in so many ways.

[in-the-multiverse]

While almost everyone carves wooden things, Golden Fool went for shiny. He was the one and only goldsmith on the server and took pride in making beautiful jewelry. It was mostly for himself: dozens of bulky rings so he could flaunt a new combination every week, chandelier earrings ranging from gothic to floral, torque and festoon necklaces when he felt extra fancy, simpler and lighter necklaces on the days that called for a minimal (but still quite stylish) look

The gemstones that were skillfully embedded in them came from…around the server. Didn’t matter where, everything was his anyways. He stood clear of the “cursed” crystals the wizard man had. Ugly plastic

No one else was allowed to wear his jewelry. There were, however, very few exceptions

Milkman isn’t one to wear big, fancy shmancy gold. He likes how they look, but honestly- they’re too clunky and noisy for him. The first thing Fool made for him were gold buttons to replace the wack plastic ones on his jacket. Just a pop of color, a little glamour with a geometric pattern. Halfway through the smithing process, Fool had an idea for a matching gold patch on his hat. Then two extra buttons for the end of his jacket sleeves as well. He tailored them in with care

They were small, dapper, perfect, and Milkman loved them. His partner admired the new look in the mirror. There was an extra shine to him —and not just literally— confidence lit up his face, he had an extra pep in his step as he walked around the server, and those long hours Fool spent making the ornaments look just right became very worth it to see Milkman a little happier

Every now and again, Milkman came to him with a sheepish request for new gold. He promised he was doing his best to not accidentally fall into the void. It held up to be true. As the months went by, void deaths become scarce and the occasional creeper was to blame for lost accessories. And every time he asked for new ones: Fool gave the same deep sigh, crossed his arms and asked “So what design would you like this time?” Milkman always complimented the speed it took for them to be created, and he was delighted by the extra surprises thrown in

Fool didn’t tell him about the hidden chest filled with an array of golden buttons, patches, gemstone hat charms, and hat pins. He saw this coming

In the early days, Vintage wanted to wear dangle earrings with cherry wood flowers. It took a lot of trial and error. During a hangout, she carved off more than expected, kept trying to save it as a smaller design, kept misjudging cuts, until her earrings became sad little chunks. It had been a long week and she almost gave up on wood carving right then and there

Fool sat down next to them and shared a handful of stories where he screwed up gold smithing. Like- taking a sip of molten gold instead of the cup of coffee that was right next to it, or that time he sneezed while etching a very complicated pattern and continued one millimeter off, one exhausted afternoon he chipped off gold from his skin instead of his project—ouch—, and boy was he glad no one else was around the day his (unchecked) workstation collapsed on itself and he had to literally play the floor is lava. With each retelling, he was met with a surprised laugh and the frustration eased from Vintage’s shoulders. She wasn’t alone in making mistakes. If Fool went through it and still made amazing works, it wasn’t hopeless for her

He taught her a couple tricks to get 3d shapes a little closer to what she imagined in her head. Gold smithing and wood carving were very different processes, but any idea began at a sketch

Two weeks later, Vintage gifted him a charm bracelet. It was decently detailed and adjusted nicely to his wrist. Not shiny, but their pride at finally making something look cute and the time they spent on it was more than enough to graciously wear it. A couple days later, Fool surprised her with a beaded bracelet, gorgeously flower themed. They could be matching!

Vintage adored it and showed it off to anyone who stopped to have a conversation with her. When the others yearned for a cool shiny thing like hers, she gave a sweet smile and teased them for being on Fool’s enemy list. Because even if birch was on neutral grounds with someone, it was only a matter of time before crime and chaos fell their way. Anyone who wasn’t a friend was kept at arm’s length. Which meant— no shiny for youuu

One day it disappeared. Must’ve gotten lost in cherry’s god awful storage system. Vintage felt so, so sorry they lost it. They knew Fool spent precious time on it and they’d hate to be a bother asking for another one. But Fool shrugged it off, it was no biggie, really. In fact, it gave him the opportunity to indulge in designs he sketched out. By the end of the week he made a new friendship bracelet, charm necklace, and cuff ring that suited her unicorn horn nicely. Vintage was so happy she nearly cried, she thanked him over and over and promised to keep them in a better place

A few weeks went by, and she was utterly distraught at losing them. All of them. She swore up and down they were in her enderchest, she did wear them out one fancy evening, must’ve forgotten to put it back. They said they checked all over cherry kingdom and retraced her steps, but no shiny :(

Again they lamented to Fool, and again he workshopped another few accessories to replace those. By the 4th time, he started to question her genuineness. His gifts never lasted longer than 3 weeks, it seemed more like a scheduled “disappearance”. It was by chance he spotted her strolling on the edge of the shopping district with her new jewelry. She clasped them off, held a fistful of his work over the edge, and let it drop

He stopped talking with Vintage after that. She’d been acting weird lately anyways. Their handcrafted bracelet went to the void, too

And when Milkman accused him of working behind his back— oohhh

Fool stormed up to the hidden chest and melted everything back into a pot of liquid gold. It was his and he could do whatever he wanted with it. Have it ready to be refurnished into new accessories for himself. Milkman would never get anything new, either

When the Halloween Ball rolled around, he made sure to wear the most exquisite gold he’s ever made. He wanted eyes on him. He wanted people to feel jealous when they looked at him. He wanted admiration like no other and hoped it would draw the others to him. Novelty was the gateway to trust. Just. Everyone to give him another chance

Look at how incredible his gold smithing was! Didn’t you want something shiny too? Didn’t you want to be his friend?

Eyes definitely looked in his direction. But the longer the night dragged on the more self conscious he became. People kept their distance. Fool swatted away any naive hope that dared fester in his lonely soul. Of course they did. They should. Everyone was hiding something, exchanging whispers and glances that could only be about him. How dare he dress himself as a spectacle, and beckon attention when none of them deserved it. Everyone had a weird thing going on with them. Everyone had it out for him. What else did the void want? More of his jewelry? His kingdom? They had to be working together. They wanted to take more from him. He couldn’t trust these…these—

A glint of gold called to him

Amongst the crowd, a singular hat pin shined underneath the chandelier lights. Milkman was lost in his own world, giggling and dancing with someone else

Fool heard the gold on his skin crack and crumble

The greedy one having a love language of gift giving was a pretty big deal

The Librarian knows this, and they know they aren’t here to be a replacement. They leave his goldsmith workshop alone

Let it collect dust

[jks1uv]

𝑆𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝐺𝑜𝑜𝑑 ; steven grant | one-shot |

summary: you reckon your boyfriend deserves something good after the terrible day he’s had.

pairing: fem!reader x steven grant.

trope: established relationship + guy has a bad day, girl makes it all better.

genre: fluff + mild angst + romance.

warnings‼️: donna’s bitch ass 😒 i HATE her bro oh my godd + crude language + steven’s had it rough + suggestive (they make-out for a lil bit, reader wears lingerie) + heavily implies sex.

word count: 1,761.

random disclaimerrr: heard MashedPotato’s full Birthday x Pillowtalk remix on soundcloud & GYAT they cooked 🙏🏽 italics = steven’s inner thoughts & bold = marc’s inner thoughts. psa: steven grant is my pretty princess 😊 happy reading! ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ ♡ © 2024 @jks1uv

────♡♡♡────

Steven’s upset. You hate when he’s upset. In your eyes, he deserves nothing but good things and a full night’s sleep.

Alas, he can’t have both.

He sighs into the phone and you can hear the exhaustion in it. You can almost feel it, too.

“‘m just ready to come home to you.” He chuckles dryly.

“Oh.”

You don’t know what to say to that.

It’s times like this when you wish you could handle another person’s problem.

You know how much of a bitch his boss, Donna, is. You don’t believe her. You can’t fathom just how annoyingly rude, pathetically rude, and disrespectfully rude someone can be, let alone to Steven.

He’s your golden boy, the best man alive. The love of your life.

How can someone hurt the feelings of a guy that doesn’t have a single bad bone in his body?

To know he’s being treated like shit and know you can’t do anything about it irks your soul.

“Alright, love, I’ve gotta go. But I’ll see you tonight?”

You beam at his reminder. “Mhmm.”

“I love you.”

You’ll never get tired of hearing that.

“I love you.” You echo with butterflies swarming around your ribs.

You end the call and think about every time Steven’s had to go through a rough patch because of her; the Devil incarnate.

And maybe that’s a bit of an overkill but you digress. She is a bacon dripping, miserable, awful, obtuse angle of a two-faced cunt.

And you know what else? Maybe you will do something about it.

────♡♡♡────

Your boyfriend is exhausted.

It’s nothing like tiredness after a night’s work of acting as Khonshu’s right hand, but it’s something.

His eyes threaten to close on him not too long before his body starts to weigh heavier each step he takes.

Just gotta make it to the elevator.

He’s hopeful, but it doesn’t last long. There’s a dreaded sign that forms the letters he wishes weren’t there.

Out of order. Use the stairs.

He stares blankly at the white piece of paper with the black, bold words staring right back at him. As if it’s mocking him.

He sighs deeply and begrudgingly moves up the four flights of stairs. Every time he blinks, he imagines his bed.

It's not too hot but not too cold.

You’re in your designated spot right next to him, curled up under the blanket watching some movie.

Steven fishes for his key to open up his little paradise.

It’s almost dark. The only sources of light being the outside hallway he stands in and the faint orange tint emitting from the direction of his bedroom.

“Love?” He calls out.

You don’t answer him. You want him to come to you and see for himself so you wait. Patiently, excitedly.

He closes the door and passes by his reflection where Marc is telling him to follow the light.

She’s in there, I can feel her.

“I know.” He hums softly.

Steven can feel Jake’s curiosity.

The mysterious man doesn’t talk much but when his presence is needed, his actions tend to speak for him.

Steven knows this because he could feel the restlessness in the brooding man when you wouldn’t pick up your phone— a curse of your ringer always being on silent mode.

“What’s going on-?”

His mouth dries up. His jaw goes slack and his eyes are cartoonishly large.

Wide awake now, huh?

Steven doesn’t bother to answer. Not when he’s too busy gawking at you.

You’re on your side, an elbow propped up to give your head an angle of his entrance. Your legs are slightly bent at the knee and your other arm rests on the curves of your side.

Lacy red lingerie and the warm, rich smell of amber cloud his senses.

You see him visibly change; his shoulders drop their tension, he straightens up his back a bit and the muscles on his face relax.

You definitely don’t miss the way his dark eyes run a trail across your body and when they meet your eyes, you recognize him.

“Go back inside, Marc.”

He scoffs. “Oh, come on. Seriously?”

Your face doesn’t change and when he realizes he won’t change your mind, he retreats.

“Alright, alright.” He raises both hands to show complacency.

“But I’ll be watching.”

He winks at you and before you can scold him, he’s gone. Left just as fast as he appeared.

Your sweet Steven is still blushy and nervous, his gaze darting all around the room. From the candles to the rose petal covered bed.

He picks up a petal and blinks.

He’s touched.

“All this… f’me?” He asks so gently, it melts your heart.

You sit up at the front of the bed; he’s between your knees and he looks down at you while you look up at him.

“Why, you expecting someone else?” You lightly tease.

You press a kiss into the side and he smiles bashfully.

You stand from the bed and he backs up a bit to give you space but you quickly close it.

Your arms wrap around his neck and he gulps. His hands are a bit shaky but he still has an ounce of courage to place them on your hips. His fingers subconsciously press into the flesh.

You pull him closer and his eyes zero in on your painted lips.

“I know you’re probably tired from today,” You murmur. “but I don’t want you to think about that right now.”

You pry a stubborn curl away from his face and bask in his gaze. The pad of your finger traces along the edge of his nose and he laughs through his nose.

His chin turns downwards but you tilt it back up. His eyes look back and forth between yours, searching for the comfort he’s desperate for. And you give it to him.

You press a soft kiss to his forehead, one to his nose, and a last one to his lips.

He melts into your affection and his mind slips away from the terrible recollection of that day’s past events.

His hold on your hips warm your cold, almost-naked body. Your lips intertwine with his and you hear him mumble.

“What did you do?” He muses.

You throw your head back and giggle incredulously.

“What did I just say!”

He smiles at the sound of your joy but he couldn’t help himself. He had to know.

“You’re in a better mood than I am, that means something.”

You roll your eyes playfully and kiss him breathless.

You grab a fistful of his luscious curls and he groans into your mouth as you tug lightly.

You take a couple steps backwards and almost have him when the familiar snap of a bra strap breaks you apart.

You wince. “Ow- what the fuck-?!”

That look on your boyfriend’s face tells you it isn’t that gentle, sweet-natured man you adore.

“Marc.” You warn.

“I’m sorry, honey, I had to! You look so fucking beautiful right now and I’ve always wanted to do that-”

You place your palm on his lips, shutting him up.

“Okay, look. You’re gonna give him the body for the rest of the night and I will see you tomorrow morning. Sounds good?”

He raises an eyebrow at your directions and grabs a handful of your thighs, pulling you flush against him.

“You’re so hot when you’re bossy. You know that?”

“Yeah.” You smirk.

He quickly pecks your lips and you can’t help but smile at his eagerness.

“Tomorrow morning.” You promise.

Before Steven changes his mind, you turn around and push him on the bed, quickly climbing on top of him.

His eyes grow once more at your actions.

“Please, Steven. No more interruptions this time.”

He sits up and watches you sit down his lap.

“O-okay.”

His heart speeds up as you plant your hands on his shoulders once again and work your way up.

Your kisses stain his neck and he shudders under you.

It’s strange, how he can never get used to your affection. All his life, all he’s ever wanted was tender care and now that he’s got it; he doesn’t know how to act.

You hear him grunt and sigh, he even turn and angles his head so you can have more access.

You’re man’s a quick learner.

His hands wander your back, leaving trails of goosebumps in their wake.

Your lips touch his jaw and he’s putty in your hands. They graze over the skin a bit before you whisper, “You with me so far?”.

“Mhm.”

He’s on autopilot.

He feels the familiar sensation of your grin on his skin and he pulls back to see it in all of its glory.

He’s staring at you but all you see back in his eyes is the woman who’s most deserving of it.

It’s kind of poetic, actually.

────♡♡♡────

You know how people say sex leaves your skin with a sort of ‘afterglow’? Like, there’s a visible light in your face, skin, and eyes. One that can’t be ignored.

“Is there something on my face?”

Well, he can’t not wonder out loud. The man’s been getting stares, sly grins, even a pat on the back from the janitor.

You really don’t know.

Steven rolls his eyes.

“I don’t think I would’ve asked if I knew, mate.”

Marc huffs amusedly at his sass but answers him nonetheless.

It has to do with your… activities last night.

Steven feels his face warm at the mention but what did that mean?

An afterglow, Steven. It’s literally all over your face.

“Bollocks.” He whispers.

Yeah, she had plenty of those.

Steven groans at his crude remark. “That’s what we’re doing. Seriously?”

But it couldn’t be that obvious… could it?

His train of thought are halted to a full stop as he hears his boss yelling at some poor chap.

Remind me, why can’t you just quit?

“Because I love my job too much to let someone sway me away from it.”

Steven’s watching as Donna carries a box full of her own stuff and is being escorted… outside?

He looks around and finds a coworker watching the spectacle as well.

“Pardon me, but what’s going on?”

“You didn’t hear? A child found her dildo amongst the stuffed toys.”

Wow.

“I beg your pardon?”

Now this was something he did not see coming.

“I’m being set up!” Donna cries. “Please, you have to believe me!”

Steven’s having a hard time believing this but one thing he knows for sure: you don’t play about him.

[jezabelle9299]

Freshly fallen S.R x FEM! reader

Overture- You and Spencer are both outside your hotel when it starts snowing

CWs- Snow and winter, it's described as being 20 degrees because I'm an uncultured American that uses fahrenheit, but that's -6 degrees celsius.

A/N- All of finals week it was snowy and beautiful-- and it has RAINED almost all this week. Which is evil, and illegal actually because how dare (Super cute divider from @anitalenia)

After a week stuck in Boston, you were finally going home in the morning. Sleep after a case that long was elusive at best, and tonight– felt wholly impossible. But the hotel had a small, and beautiful garden just outside the lobby with some very nice– albeit freezing cold benches. You noticed them, along with the garden, on your way in on the first day of the case, but hadn’t had a spare second to spend any time there. 

Now though, despite it being only 20 degrees, the fresh air was the only thing that could clear your head, and the frost bitten leaves made the perfect setting. You packed your things, put on a jacket, and headed downstairs. After an hour or so, you hear someone come up. After briefly reaching for a pepper spray you didn’t have on you, you realized it was just Spencer. Terrifying in a completely different way, you really weren’t prepared to see him. 

In sleep shorts and a tank top, barely covered by the jacket you’d zipped halfway, you were no vision. Spencer was still in his work clothes, and he looked perfect. 

“Oh. Hey Spencer.” He could see the relief on your face when you ank back into the bench, pulling one leg up under you.

“Hey– I didn’t mean to startle you, I’m sorry.” He shoved his hands into the pockets of his dress pants, and on his watch– over the sleeve of his cardigan– you could see the time; 1:26 am. Even later than you thought. 

“It’s ok, I just wasn’t expecting anyone to be up at this hour.”

“I thought the same, what are you doing here? And more importantly, aren’t you cold?” You let out one dry laugh, whether or not you were cold was hardly more important. 

“Not particularly, and I couldn’t sleep, so here I am.”

“Me neither, nightmares and all.” There was a long moment where you tried to figure out what to say, how to make it better– but you couldn’t come up with anything. 

“Wanna sit with me?” He nodded, and you both sat in a comfortable silence for a while, the exhaustion and the weight of the past week leaving you both with much to think about, and no energy to get those thoughts out. And if that wasn’t enough, you had an unfortunate habit of getting quiet around Spencer. Always afraid to say the wrong thing, because you liked him— more than any of the other team members, more than the boyfriends you’d had, and you just weren’t ready to mess it up yet.

After a while in the silence, something caught your eye. Only for a second before it was gone, you weren’t sure if it was even real. 

“Spencer, did you see that?” He saw you perk up in your seat, and when you started looking around, he was worried something else had startled you. With him sitting right next to you— what or who else was out at this hour?

“See what?”

“Well I don’t want to jinx it.”

“You can knock on the wooden part of these benches, please tell me.” Spencer was looking around, always landing back on you– trying to figure out what was wrong.

“There it is again–it’s snowing. I love the snow.” The last part was more of a whisper than anything else. You didn’t want to interrupt this perfect moment.

“You know I’ve never actually seen it snow?”

“What do you mean? You live in Virginia, it snows every year.” He tore his eyes from the falling snow to look at you while he was talking– only to notice how the snow melted as it hit your cheek, and becoming fixated on it, on you. He always was, but right now– if you told him that he was hallucinating this whole thing because of the freezing temperature, he’d believe that this was all a dream– it was too perfect to be real.

“It only snowed 8 days in the last year, 3 in January, 2 in February, and 1 in March, April, and December. I was on cases for every single one of them.” It didn’t surprise you that he knew that, or that he wasn’t home any of those days, during the 4 months you’d worked there, you’d spent more time in random hotel rooms than in the office and your apartment combined.

“The whole time you grew up, it didn’t ever snow?”

“No, I’m from Vegas, and I was at Caltech in the winter, and MIT in the summer– so this is actually the first time I’ve ever seen it snow in person.”

“So– what do you think, does it live up to all of your wildest expectations?”

“I think it’s absolutely beautiful.” His face wasn’t fixated on the snow falling though, it was still focused on you. 

By the time the leaves were encapsulated with frost, the ground fully dusted with snow, you and Spencer were much closer than before. Cuddling for warmth, but also because it was just so easy to be close to him. 

[backinmyphase]

Part 1

Thinking about how obsessed King of Curses Sukuna is with you, you, who was originally just a gift from a village.

Lord Sukuna, who is oblivious to the reason why he treats you differently, who thinks you are just the most intriguing person he had seen in years. He didn't know it was over for him the moment he saw your standing there, anger obvious behind your loosely mask. You looked at him with these challenging eyes and raised your head, making that snappy comment. Normally he would have killed you right then and there.

But he didn't. In fact he doesn't even know why he had burned down that village for you.

And now you were sitting in his estate, always with that scowl on your face.

Why did he allow you to eat with him? Why did he order you to eat with him? He doesn't know. But he didn't want you to eat without him, which he just can't explain to himself.

He couldn't explain why he made sure Uraume was watching over you. Didn't know why he gave you your own chamber, so many new clothes and why he gave you permission to go inside his library. Something inside him was just telling him that was right.

And that something inside of him was so angry to see you falling into yourself. To see you neglecting your health over weeks.

It was evening.

Like always, there was a big dinner prepared for the king and he had ordered you to eat with him. But you didn't touch your food, no you just sat there, looking at your plate to avoid his gaze. Oh, he didn't like that.

He stopped eating, narrowing his eyes on your cowering figure. "Why are you not eating."

"Not hungry." your voice was hoarse but still snappy like always.

"You need to eat."

He glanced at Uraume, who shook their head. A silent note you didn't have any sickness.

You picked at the food, but still no sign of actual eating. And god, did it drive him crazy. You were driving him crazy. Your never leaving scowl and your constant denying of everything he had laid out. He just didn't get you.

He didn't know why he even bothered. But he still spoke up.

"What is on your mind?"

You looked up at him. There was no scowl, like he thought, no there was just a shimmer of exhaustion and maybe frustration.

"What am I even doing here, my Lord?" your voice didn't have any sharp in it. "I'm no servant for you, no concubine, not even a jester or anything like that. Why am I here?"

Silence flooded the room. Because you had just asked the question Sukuna asked himself every day. Why did he even bring you here?

He was clueless. Or that was what his brain was telling him.

He inspected you, your almost pleading eyes and he didn't like how you looked at him. He didn't like the almost hopeless look in your eyes.

"Did you want to stay with these people, is it that?" he took a sip of wine.

"No, we both know it's not that." you muttered, taking a deep breath. "Why do I not work for you? Why are you so -"

He raised an eyebrow at you as you struggled to find the right word. Then you finally shook your head.

"Why are you so nice to me?"

He couldn't help but chuckle, a grin following. "You mean, why has the King of Curses not killed me yet?"

You scoffed. "Yes."

"Well you see," he stopped for a moment, before speaking again. "I find you fascinating. And I like to know what I find fascinating."

You rolled your eyes, another thing he only liked when you did it. "So I'm here to be watched like an animal because the King finds me exotic, how kind."

He started to grow impatient, he didn't know why. "You think I would let a meekly animal into my library and give them their own chambers? You think lowly of me."

You started to blink at him, confusion visible on your face. It was his turn to scoff now.

"You're fascinating because I don't get you. And I want to know you. That's why I brought you here." At least that's what he thought.

You turned completely silent, your eyes now looking down onto your plate again.

"That's why you don't 'work' for me, I don't want you to. I don't need you to." he took another sip. "You just shouldn't get your hands dirty."

He looked at you, waiting for a response. Watching how you avoided his gaze, how you gulped. For a second your eyes flicked up to look at him, but went down immediately as your eyes meet his.

"Stop." you were muttering again.

"What?"

"Staring at me like that."

"Why?" He grinned, lowering his voice. "You know I like to stare."

He saw a faint tint of blush on the part of your face he could see. You were silent for a while until you cleared your throat. "I can't eat with you staring at me like that."

. . .

"Alright, I can leave you alone to eat." he stood up. "But you have to now. Eat."

A small chuckle escaped you. "Is that an order?"

"No, it's a request." With that he turned around, leaving to go to his chambers.

You waited til he left the room to breathe. Your body finally relaxing. You looked at Uraume.

"He sounds like he is in... Does he know how he sounds?"

Uraume shook their head. "No, he has no clue. But he wants you to eat, so please do."

@thequeenofcurses

[paperyowl]

Rockon, It's not Quite A Rookie Mistake (E)

This is all @louvemeanyway's idea. I read it and couldn't stop myself. All mistakes are mine.

(Full fic on a03: https://archiveofourown.org/works/61489714/chapters/157191994 )

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As soon as he opened the door, the bar's smoky haze seemed to almost physically cling to Deacon's jacket. He breathed in and found the air stale and heavy with the scent of malty beer. Usually, the smell evoked a faint tendril of distaste, the expectation of finding his shoes sticking to the floor with one of the next steps. But tonight, the familiar scent offered a perverse comfort, and Deacon embraced it.

He'd stormed out after another fight with Annie. Her words - sharp, accusing - were still echoing in his ears. So were his own responses. Deacon knew he shouldn't have lost his cool like that.

He hadn't wanted this for them. Deacon never asked her to drop out of law school, but he'd been grateful for her support - he had accepted Annie's sacrifice as something that was for the life they'd build together. The kind of decision Deacon would match one day, evening out the scale between them. Somehow.

But after the discussion that had escalated so sharply earlier, Deacon had wished for the first time that he'd pushed back harder, that Annie never made this choice. She hadn't used it as a weapon tonight, but Deacon had seen the unspoken accusation in her misty eyes: Annie had wanted to fling it at his head like dealing a physical blow.

And he had responded with anger. Deacon hadn't meant to yell. It just happened, stupid words exploding from him in a moment of frustration. He didn't care to go over them anymore. Neither of them had been entirely rational.

Deacon sighed. He'd been working double shifts for weeks, barely seeing daylight, let alone Annie. And every time he walked through the door, exhaustion clinging to him like a shroud, he saw the flicker of disappointment in her eyes. It was a constant reminder of his failures, of the promises he couldn't keep.

He could almost see the way, Annie stood in their living room with her hair braided back and the nightshirt doing nothing in the way of providing physical armour to their escalated argument. She had wrapped her arms around herself like a barrier when Deacon had tried a gentle approach - a defensive gesture that made her seem even softer and fragile in her nightshirt. Guilt had twisted like a knife in his gut.

Deacon hadn't pushed her. He'd been doing enough of that for the night - and wasn't he the one who was supposed to soothe and calm and protect her? This was the woman he wanted to marry. He'd made a right fool of himself. Grabbing his jacket and keys, Deacon told Annie he'd get some air and to not wait up for him.

He didn't have a goal in mind when he first got in the car. But then he remembered the bar just far enough away from the headquarters and the neighbourhoods that a lot of his colleagues favoured. A good place to calm down, get his head on straight.

Deacon perched on a stool at the bar, the worn wood an odd comfort beneath his palms. He nursed a beer, trying to get his mind to settle into something less destructive. Guilt was a strong contender among the emotions sneering unhelpful comments in his head. He'd yelled at Annie when she'd done nothing to deserve that. Not his finest hour.

He half regretted not ordering something stronger, something to numb the ache in his chest and the anger simmering in his gut. But Deacon knew better. He needed a clear head, not a drunken haze. He'd finish his beer, try to get himself under control, then head back home. Sleep on the couch, buy her flowers in the morning, apologize. They'd both be sorry about having such a stupid argument in the first place.

Deacon hated that this dance had become so familiar in the last few years.

"Rough day?"

The voice addressing him was smooth, laced with a hint of amusement, and Deacon turned to find its source. Leaning against the bar beside him was a man with a confident smile. He was all broad shoulders, sharp angles and easy charm, with eyes that seemed to dance with mischief. Something about him was warm , inviting.

[foreverdolly]

okay! so i’m finally free from pinball and am just working my regular 9-5 now. updates will be fast approaching! i’m off tomorrow, so be on the look out for savage bonds 😏

[thebirdandhersong]

Lol