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sexy-monster-fucker · 2 days ago

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I Don’t Love You, I’m Just Passing the Time

Dr. Gregory House x Doctor!Reader

Story Synopsis: Reader is a Doctor alongside House. They have known each other for years, mostly been dancing around being intimate with one another. Even though it is painfully obvious to their close friend, Wilson. After finally allowing their guards to fall, the Reader receives a letter inviting her for her dream position at her dream hospital. She has to make the hard choice of staying or going. angst/smut/nsfw/new relationships/minor fluff/typical hospital talk/situationship/

Part 1/Summary: Reader is woken in the middle of the night on the pretenses that her patient’s mother is distressed over some tests being run. Little does she know, House was the one behind it all.

CW: mentions of STDs, house being house, makeout, house being handsy, drug mention, situationship final boss

a/n: i just started episode one of house md, so apologies in advance if this is written out of character

~~~

"Did you seriously go behind my back and run tests on my patient?"

You folded your arms over your chest as you stormed into his office. Being called in from your bed because your patient's mother was distressed that her child had been brought back for testing that you had not informed them up. Still in your t-shirt, only having time to throw on a pair of jeans that you had laying on the floor. Not exactly the image of professionalism you normally showed. Running off pure adrenaline and rage as you tapped your foot on the linoleum floor.

"Well, good morning to you too, sweetheart," Dr. Gregory House, a fellow colleague of yours, snarked with a smirk. You had known him for years. Working alongside him even through all his questionable antics. Finding a close friendship in him and Dr. James Wilson. Somehow still annoyed when he would do something questionably ethical, even though it did not surprise you anymore.

"House," you chastised with tight lips.

"What if I saved your patient's life?"

"Since when did you care about other people's patients?"

"Touché," his eyebrows bounced as blue eyes darted to the side.

Your eyes lasered into him from across his desk. Waiting for some explanation as to why he felt the need to weasel his way into another one of your cases. Anger swirling around your stomach as the seconds ticked by.

"Your tits look good in that shirt," his eyes trailed down to your chest. Earning him an elongated eyeroll from you. His inability to not comment on your body any chance he got shining through. Cocky attitude gleaming behind his eyes.

"You think I don't know that?"

"You're standing here like you do."

"I'm standing here like I am waiting to hear your excuse," you growled. Jaw clinching as your temples flexed. Boiling under the layers of composure you were keeping.

"You left all your paperwork out. The whiteboard still had writing on it. How could I not tickle my fancy and see what you weren't? You should be thanking me. Kid's got chlamydia. Give her some antibiotics and she'll be fine," House shrugged.

"I ran tests for every STD in the book," you grimaced.

"When you hear hooves, assume horses not zebras, Y/L/N," his tone was teasing as he smiled. And you would be lying if you said that it did not make you want to smile back. House was a complete ass. Full of himself, condescending, and just not the most fun guy to be around. But you had grown fond of him. There was no other man alive who you would let talk to you the way he does, let alone flirt with you so much. And you liked him. The way his hair was disheveled, the way his beard ran softly down his neck, and how his eyes were always looking at you deeply. Denying yourself the reality of any sort of relationship, seeing as he was emotionally unavailable.

But you could still have fun with him.

"You're telling me it came back positive this time?"

"Yes. That's what happens when a real doctor runs tests. Instead of making interns do it," hooded eyes looked up at you.

Your tongue came out to glaze over your teeth. Closing the distance between you as you leaned across the table. Teeth grinding together as you stared into his eyes, "You woke me up to gloat?"

"I didn't wake you up. Remember? The mother was worried," he smirked, clearly admitting the false nature of your page.

"You lied to get me here so you could brag in my face," your brows pushed together as you scanned his face. Watching his eyes stare down the v-neck of your shirt as you leaned forward. Clearly fixated on your exposed breasts.

“You sleep without a bra?”

Your face flushes at the realization. In your rush to leave you had not even taken the time to throw on a bra. Understanding why he was so awestruck by your chest. Having a clear view of every detail.

You straightened your back and cleared your throat. Lips parted in embarrassment. Unable to look in his piercing blue eyes. You could see him snickering out of the corner of your eye. Loving how flustered he had you.

“Why did you want me here?”

“I was worried about your patient, of course. Maybe I just like messing with you. Maybe I just wanted to see you,” House bullshitted you. He was the King at it. Fastest way he knew how to get under people’s skin. But you were all too familiar with his game.

You walked around his desk, causing him to straighten his back and wonder what you were about to do to him. You took your place between his spread legs and the desk. Sitting on the edge directly in front of him. Head tilting to the side as you teased, “Did you really miss me that bad?”

House chuckled, rolling his neck as he thought of a response. Scooting his chair closer so that he could be against your legs. Almost close enough to touch you, head leaned above your lap. You caressed his chin with your pointer finger, prickly facial hair danced along your digit. Causing his eyes to fall shut for a moment. Lingering in your soft touch.

“Look, I get we haven’t been working many cases together. And I know it’s so hard for you to be away from me, but you can’t just pull me out of bed in the middle of the night,” you smiled, voice soft with a hint of joking.

“I’d rather be in bed with you,” House grinned. Earning himself another eye roll from you. You flicked his forehead. His brows furrowed together as an over exaggerated ‘OW’ came from him. You laughed as his hand came up to cup where you had hit him. Lines of his forehead thicker than before.

Now this is as the side of your relationship that had your feelings mixed all around. Yes, he was a womanizer to everyone. Of course he made non-stop remarks about your body and your looks and how you were “acting like a woman.” But this? This was something entirely different. A side of him that was genuine and enamored. His smile not riddled with self gratification and narcissism. Instead it was like he was actually enjoying being around you.

“You know I could sue you,” House smugly started, “It’s a hate crime to attack cripples.”

“Not when they deserve it,” you leaned forward as you spoke, closing the gap between your faces. Feeling your stomach flip when his smile softened as he looked in your eyes. Close enough to be breathing the same air. Both of you fighting to not breathe too loudly. Silence loomed over the room. You swallowed the lump forming as you contorted your jaw with thought.

House pushed himself forward, almost connecting his lips to yours. So close you had to hold your breath. Before he could you spoke, “I’m going home since my sleep was interrupted.”

He exhaled with an awkward smile as he leaned back. Looking away from you, out the small gap in his blinds. Piercing his lips together as he nodded. Nostrils flaring as his mind raced. Teeth clicking together, “Teasing little minx, aren’t you?”

Wide eyes looked back at you again. The corner of your mouth upturned when you saw his flushed face. Eyes wandering down to see the outline of his semi-hard in his jeans. Cheeks heating up at the sight as you blew your breath out in a giggle.

“You are just a horny old man,” you led his gaze back to you with your hand on his chin. His pupils were enlarged as they looked between yours.

Neither of you were willing to admit the tension between you. Writing it off as a mutual understanding of how the other behaved. Even when Wilson would point out every obvious sign of something else. Swearing he had never seen two people as smart as you be so stupid.

Knowing the real reason you never acknowledged it was a mutual fear. Fear of things becoming too real and you both growing attached. His dependence on the pills in his coat pocket. Your tendency to run at the first sign of vulnerability. Somethings do not work well together.

Even thought he knew more about you than anyone else. And the fact you had seen the scar that he refuses to acknowledge most of the time. Or even that you both had stayed over at the other’s apartment more than once. Finding comfort in the other’s presence. Watching him play his piano and closing your eyes to the relaxing melody. Allowing him to teach you some minor lessons when he wanted. Finding yourself shopping for food with his tastes in mind. Calling him when you just needed someone to talk to, even if he sounded annoyed the entire time.

“You’re basically dating,” Wilson had once said to you over lunch.

“Oh, God. Can’t a man and a woman just be friends?”

“No!” he had laughed with his exclamation, “Especially not you two.”

You had sneered at him in response, nose scrunched and eyes narrow. Wilson had put his hands up in a defensive position, “Okay— okay! Then explain why you got that.” He motioned to the red sucker on your tray.

“Because I knew House would… want… it..?” You realized what you were admitting as it left your lips. Cheeks igniting when he grinned at you. You brushed him off. Suppressing any and all thoughts and confusion that conversation brought about.

“It’s because I’m cripple, isn’t it?”

You rolled your neck along with your eyes. Sighing heavily with a laugh. Attention back on House when he grabbed his cane and stood between your legs. Resting the cane against the desk so both his hands could splay across your thighs. Figure towering over you now that he was at his full height.

“Not sure how that’ll go over with the P.C. Mob,” he joked as his nose traced your jawline. Heat from his breath trickling down your throat. You could not help but giggle at the sensation. Stubble tickling your skin as he examined your jugular. Feeling when his mouth would morph into a smile. One of your hands meeting his on your thigh, the other tangling in his hair.

“Greg…” your voice dropped to a sultry tone, stopping him in his tracks. Audibly swallowing as he held still. Shoulders rising and falling with each breath he took. Use of his first name was something you normally saved for when you were at home. Still interchanging it with his sir-name from time to time.

“Y/N…” he replied, lips painfully close to your skin. Your heartbeat thumped against your eardrums. Arousal pooling between your legs at the smell of his cologne. And how his fingers dug into your thighs. Stabilizing himself, but also just wanting to feel you.

“I have to go get some sleep,” you drawled, your hand running up his arm and resting on his shoulder. House hummed in response, lips finally resting against your skin with a soft kiss. Chills ran over your body. His lips grew more sloppy as your lip began to quiver. Teeth grazing the flesh as one of his hands ran up your torso. Groping at your chest. Kneading the plump meat of your breast in his large hand.

“Just sleep here,” House groaned into your neck, a hint of a whine in his tone. Lips turning greedy as they made their way to the base of your ear.

“I’m not a booty call you can make when you’re needing to get laid in the middle of the night,” you laughed. Hands coming up and cupping his face. Causing his eyes to meet yours again.

“Really? I thought you were one of the hookers,” House smirked, tilting his head with his words. Leaning back to see your face better. His teeth pulling his lip between them. Swiftly kissing your face to the corner of your mouth. Waiting for some sort of permission before planting them on yours. Big, ocean eyes looked into yours.

You turned to meet him. Lips interlocking. Electricity shot through your nervous system. His tongue split your lips as he lapped into your mouth. Groaning as he pressed his body into yours. Loving the way your legs instinctively welcomed him between them, how they softly wrapped around his waist. Stumbling back against the desk when his weight sunk against you. Arms wrapping around his neck to stabilize yourself. Eyes wide, looking into his. His breath came out shaky, “Fuck.”

His hand cupped the side of your face, lips finding their place on yours again. Open mouth kisses were shared between you for a moment. His hand hooked around the band of your shirt, pushing it up and revealing your bare breasts. Gawking at them before capturing one of your hardened nipples between his lips. You moaned at how perfectly he stimulated your body. Nails digging into his shoulders as you savored his mouth on your skin. Teeth bit marks into the tender flesh, sucking and licking the bruises after.

"I want to fuck you so bad right now," House breathed out, hands roaming your body as his lips placed themself back on yours. You giggled, kissing him back hard.

A sudden yawn escaped your mouth. The lack of sleep catching up with you all at once. You rested your head against his shoulder, eyes growing heavy. Fighting your urge to give into him. House harshly sighed, his hand petting your hair for a moment. Frustrated that your body was throwing a wrench in his plan. "You're seriously that tired?"

You nodded, blinking yourself awake, "I have to be in at six in the morning."

"That's just a few hours away. Can't we have a little fun? I'm sure your blood pumping will wake you up," House suggested. Grimacing when you doed your eyes up at him. Your need for sleep apparent by the way you blinked slowly.

"I can't come to work without a bra," you joked a soft laugh falling from you. House chuckled in response. Lips falling against the top of your head, trying his hardest to not get angry. And trying to ignore how his cock throbbed between his legs.

“I really want to stay, but I won’t be able to work tomorrow if I do,” you whined, sitting up and looking at him with hooded eyes. Sleepily pressing your lips to his again. Matured hand cupping your cheek, thumb rubbing circles into the warm skin.

“Go home, get some sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow,” House sighed, defeated by how sweetly sleepy you were. Sitting back in his chair once more, giving you the space to get off his desk.

You hopped off, planting one more tender kiss to his lips before heading for the door.

“Your ass looks good in those jeans, too,” House said as soon as you reached the door. Smiling when you gave him an annoyed glance over your shoulder.

~~~

[END//Part 1] -> Part 2

// Thank you so much for reading!! This is my first time writing for Dr. House, he is my current new obsession. I’ve got most of this story scripted out and I’m excited to continue it. If you are interested in being tagged in the future, or have a request of any kind, let me know! Comments and Reblogs are appreciated //

{tags}

@megangovier ~ @iwmflbb ~ @houseslollipop ~ @ooom4rie ~ @yourgirlcarol ~

#house md #dr greg house #gregory house #greg house x reader #dr house x reader #dr house #hugh laurie #Hugh Laurie x reader #fanfic #sexymonsterfics #part 1 #james wilson #dr james wilson

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nakidoriii · 2 days ago

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See you Later, Mr. President (Part 3)

Hawks x Reader Mini Series

Part one

Part two

WARNINGS: sexual tension || MDNI

You slowly open your eyes to your hotel room. Keigo was still asleep while having his arms wrapped around you. You turn to face him, loosening up his grip on you. You lay your head on his chest as you look at him while he sleeps. You started to get flashbacks of last night in your head causing you to feel embarrassed. You still can’t believe you fucked the ONE person your employer said not to fuck.

“Good morning, Y/N.” A groggy Keigo says.

“Good morning Kiego.” You say as you sit up.

You crawl on top of him, placing your ass right on his crotch. You look down at his chiseled abs and his body covered in scars. You wanted to know where every scar came from. He places his hands on your ass and hums in delight.

“What’s your plans for today?” He asks while looking up at you.

Two unexpected knocks at your door make you flinch. Keigo furrowed his brow and mouthed the word, “housekeeping?”

You shake your head no because you know they come in the middle of the day. You get off of him and put on your robe. You answer the door to reveal Ashido and Ochako.

“Ohh, good morning Ashido and Ochako.” You say it loud enough so Keigo can hear you.

Kiego jumps out of the bed and onto the floor. He lands as soft as he could but you could still hear him.

“Good morning. Is someone here, Y/N.” Ashido asks with a smirk on her face.

“No…. Just me. I overslept! I completely forgot we were going shopping together. How about I meet you all at the cafe down the street? It’ll take me 20 minutes to get ready.” You redirect Ashido.

“Yea that’s fine but what’s that?” Ochako pointed at the dark hickey on your collar bone with a giggle.

Now why the fuck would Keigo give you a hickey? This is supposed to be a secret thing and he marked you?

“It’s a hickey.” You honestly say.

“From?” Ashido says.

“I’ll explain at the cafe!! You two are so nosy. Give me 20 minutes and I'll meet you there.” You express.

“Okay okayyy, tell mister hottie I said good morning.” Ashido says as they begin to walk away.

You close the door and say, “I completely forgot I made plans with them last night.”

Keigo comes out of the closet completely dressed in his suit and says, “They don’t know it’s me so we’re all good.”

“Damn, I didn’t even hear you put on your clothes.”

“Yea, I’m stealthy. What are you wearing today?” He asks as he takes a seat on the bed.

“Something that covers up this HICKEY.” You pout at him and cross your arms.

“Oh… haha… Sorry about that. I clearly lack self control…. I mean we both do.” He explains.

You roll your eyes and say, “That’s not a genuine apology, Keigo.”

He gets up and stands behind you, pressing his body to yours. He gently kisses the side of your neck and mumbles, “I’ll make it up to you when we meet again. I promise.”

Everytime he gave you attention like that, it made you so weak in the knees. It took every fiber in your body to control your urges when he touched you.

“Mhm, okay Mr.President.” You say acting like you were unimpressed by him.

He lets out a laugh and says, “Get dressed. I’ll leave like 20 minutes after you so nothing looks suspicious.”

You nod your head and begin your process. While you got ready, you and Keigo talked and got to know each other more. He didn’t say this out loud but he found out that he adores watching you get ready. He paid attention to the products you were using for your skin and what make up you put on. He even took note of what songs you put on to get ready too.

“How do I look?” You say posing for him.

“Too fucking good.” He says as he takes in your outfit.

You wore an off the shoulder grey sweater with a lace cream colored cami underneath to hide the hickey. You paired with a jean mini skirt. You pulled your hair up into a relaxed bun, leaving a few locs in your face.

“Okay, I gotta go.” You grab your purse and rush over to the door, Kiego following directly behind you. You slide your sneakers on your foot, holding onto Keigo as you fix your shoe.

“When am I seeing you again?” He blurts out.

“At work tomorrow.” You say innocently.

He scoffs and says, “Y/N, when am I seeing you again outside of work?”

Oh, right. He wants to hook up again. You pause for a second and think if you want this to be a one time thing. How are you two going to hide this? You can’t be seen in public together so it would be just a no strings attached situation, right?

“How about Friday?” You give in.

“Okay, I’ll see you then.” He lifts your hand to his mouth and kisses it.

You give a half smile back and say, “See you.”

You open the door and rush over to the cafe where Ashido and Ochako are. You can’t help but to feel weird about all of this. There’s a bit of guilt and confusion in your mind from the night you had with Keigo. Once you get there you, bow and apologize profusely to the both of them.

“I’ll accept your apology once you give me the details!” Ashido pouts.

“Sit down and stop apologizing. I ordered what you usually get.” She slides your drink over to you as you take a seat next to her.

“Thank you for ordering this.” You say before you take a quick sip, realizing you haven't drank anything today. “All you need to know is that it was a one night stand and I don’t think he’s interested long term anyway.”

There was some truth to your lie.

“Do you want it to be long term?” Ashido asks.

“I don’t know… In a perfect world yes but...we work to…two different schedules and it just doesn’t seem like it’s a good idea.” You explain.

“…Hm, I don’t know, I think you should try. If he seems interested in you and you like him, why not?” Ochako says.

“Says the girl who can’t ask out someone she’s been crushing on for over A DECADE.” Ashido interjects.

“Wait, Deku? Ochako, it's been that long?” You didn’t know much of the story behind Ochako’s feelings for him. Usually, you‘re not one to pry but you’ll do anything to keep them from talking about your night with the president.

“Yea, Deku. The green haired one you met last night. She has literally had feelings for him since U.A.” Ashido says.

Ochako takes Ashido's scolding and knows that she’s right. It’s just tough because she feels like it’s been so long and if he liked her, he would have made a move by now. Once everyone finished their drinks, you all headed out to the mall. You spent the day shopping with the girls and found some really cute outfits for work.

***************************

Keigo laid in your bed while he waited to leave your hotel room. He’s resisting the urge to snoop around. He’s not looking for anything specific, he just wants to know more about the things you like.

“I shouldn’t…” he says out loud to himself. He sits up on the bed and places his hand on his face. He was contemplating. If he still had his quirk, he would have done it already. He likes knowing everything.

“Nah, I’ll chill.” He says to himself. He does get up and write a note for you though. He grabs a napkin off the coffee table and grabs a pen from your desk. He starts writing. He was thinking about the night you two shared. Even though it was amazing for the both of you, he knew you had some qualms about it.

‘Y/N , thank you for a great night. Stop by my office in the morning whenever you get to work. I look forward to seeing you again. -Keigo’

***********Next Day***********

“Ohayou Gozaimasu, Y/N. The president would like to see you.”

You were avoiding him. You saw the note he left you but you just couldn’t bring yourself to go to his office.

“Arigatou Gozaimasu, I’ll be there in a moment.” You respond.

His receptionist bows and leaves your office. You let out a deep sigh and finish typing your email. The truth is you don’t know how you feel about pursuing a relationship with him. You worked so hard to get where you are within the company. It’s not worth losing your position for a man, however you can’t hide from him forever. You get up and check yourself out in the mirror hung up in your office. You were wearing a white blouse with a black vest and black mini skirt. Sheer stockings covered your legs along with ballet flats on your feet.

“I hope he doesn’t make this hard.” You whisper to yourself as you fix your hair.

You walk out of your office and take the elevator up to his, anxiously tapping your foot as you pass each floor. The doors open to his receptionist sitting outside his office.

“I’ll buzz you in.” She says.

You walk up to his office door and open it as you hear the buzzing. Knots started forming in your stomach as you saw him sitting at his desk. His suit jacket was off, so you got to see him in his fitted white button down. He looks up at you and smirks.

“You wanted to see me?” You say closing the door.

“Yes, I thought I made that pretty clear.” He states.

You stood there with nothing to say, unable to make eye contact with his strong gaze.

“What’s up, Y/N? Did I do something wrong? You avoiding me?” He says with concern in his voice.

“No….I’m not avoiding you… I just..” you stammer.

He stands up from his desk and walks over to you. He stands directly in front of you, your bodies a hair's breadth away from each other.

“You just what?” He says under his breath while staring you directly in your eyes.

“I just don’t think…. We should be… seeing each other like this.” You confess as you share a breath with him.

“Yea? Why not?” He softly caresses your face.

“I could lose my job.” His hand slides from your face and down to the collar of your shirt. He pulls your collar to the side to reveal your collarbone. He lets out a chuckle once he sees the hickey he marked you with.

“I wouldn’t let that happen, Y/N. Do you think I would let them fire you?” His voice dropped down an octave as he closed the gap between you two. His hands resting on your waist as he pulls you close to him.

“I don't think you have jurisdiction over that, Mr. President.” You wrap your arms around his shoulders, giving in to his seductive nature.

He smacks his teeth and rolls his eyes at your comment. “I have as much power as they do over your job. I have so much power that they sent you over here to keep tabs on me. Not that I’m complaining.”

He wasn’t wrong, they did send you to as a physical reminder. Your job was to assist the commission on closing the deal with your company, answering any questions they had and helping them fill out any paperwork. You’re meant to be here no more than a few months.

“I’m not keeping tabs on you, Mr. President. I’m here to assist the commission on closing a deal. That’s it.” You say as his hands begin to rub up and down your back.

“Assist is a nice word for rush.” He chuckles. “Be honest with me, Y/N. If seeing me didn’t cost you your job, would you continue seeing me?”

You sat in silence for a moment to think. If you say yes, you know Keigo is the type to run with it. You can already hear him saying, ‘So go out with me.’

“No, I wouldn’t.” You state.

He scoffs and says, “You're such a bad liar, sweetheart. Be honest.”

You roll your eyes and look up at him and say, “If you know the answer, why do I have to say it?”

He grabs your face and squeezes your cheeks together. “Because I want to hear you say it.”

You push his hand from your face and walk away from him. He smiles at the fact that he’s lowkey pissing you off. You lean up against his desk and say, “I would continue seeing you if my job wasn’t at stake.”

He walks up to you, closing the space between you two once again and says, “That’s all I needed to hear, pretty girl. Don’t worry about your job, it’s not going anywhere. Trust me when I say that, okay?”

You stare into his eyes as he promises you that everything will be okay. You believe him more than you’ve believed anyone.

“Okay.” You mutter as he places his thumb on your chin to pull you into a heated kiss. His hands grab on your ass as his tongue caresses yours. You placed your hands on his chest, tapping on his firm peck. He stops kissing you and clears his throat.

“Sorry, I couldn’t help myself.” He says.

You wipe your dark brown lip liner and clear gloss off his lips with your thumb and say, “Don’t get us caught, Mr.President.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. Now that that’s figured out, can I see you tonight?” He asks.

“I’ll be in touch.” You walk away from him and head to the door.

Here’s part three of the mini series!!! I hope you all are loving it! Part four will have some drama I think.. or more smut, I’m still thinking about it lol!!! Leave comments on how you’re feeling :) love u my little nakidoris ❤️

Masterlist

Please do not steal or alter my writings ©️

#keigo takami #mha hawks #keigo x reader #hawks mha #mha #hawks #mha oneshot #hawks x reader #hawks x black!reader #hawks fluff #nakidoriiiwrites #black coded reader #x black y/n #keigo x y/n #hawks smut #mha smut #keigo takami fluff #keigo takami x reader #takami keigo

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whiskeyandwant · 2 days ago

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Whiskey and Want |dbf!Joel x f!reader| | 18+ MINORS DNI | {series masterlist} {last chapter}

Chapter 4: The Buzzkill | wordcount | 3.5k {TLOU AU, modern-ish, no outbreak, Sarah lives!} series chapters: one. two. three.

| a/n | Chapter 4!! Drunken car rides home with Joel! What could go wrong? Things are gettin' a lil steamy now. Hope this chapter messes with your head as much as I want it to. apologies in advance. Your comments and reblogs are making my heart so happy, I'm glad you're enjoying my first lil fanfic (: xox - Liv “Joel reaches up, cupping your face in his calloused hand. His thumb drags over your bottom lip, pressing lightly, tugging it downward. Your lips part slightly, breath shuddering against his fingertips. ‘What was that, huh?’ His voice is a low drawl, thick with amusement. ‘Thought I was the pathetic one?’”

Warnings/tags: 18+ only, minors DNI, slow burn, forbidden romance, angst, yearning, Alcohol aftermath, intoxication, vomiting, kissing, straddling, sexual tension, age gap dynamics, strong language, emotional vulnerability, mild injury (fall) aftermath. series warnings after the fic. reader uses she/her pronouns and has hair. no major physical descriptions of the reader. no use of y/n but has the nickname Bird, Birdie, etc. reader has a backstory.

You don’t move over to the passenger seat.

Instead, you stay in the middle of the bench, your bare thigh just barely brushing against the sweatpants Joel threw on before coming to get you and Tommy from the bar. The tequila still lingers in your stomach, but it’s not the only thing making you feel woozy. The air in the cab is heavy, warm—it smells like Joel, even with the little tree-shaped air freshener hanging from the mirror.

You zone out, watching the winding road as you drive toward home, slipping in and out of sleep. Every so often, you jolt awake, your head going slack and crashing toward your chest. Joel hasn’t said a word. He just keeps his eyes on the road, hands at nine and three, lips pressed together in a quiet hum.

He flipped on the radio when you pulled out of Tommy’s complex. It plays softly, tuned to some classic dad-rock station. You recognize the late-night host’s voice from being in this exact situation before—riding home drunk, half-asleep with your dad.

From the corner of your eye, you watch Joel until the steady hum of the truck’s engine, mixed with the rhythm of his breathing, lulls you back to sleep.

You wake up again, this time to the sound of Joel mumbling. You notice the faint vibration against your cheek, you must have rested your head on his shoulder while you slept. Half-opening your eyes, you realize you’re in the drive-thru of a fast-food restaurant. Joel pays at the window, and you let your eyes drift shut again, leaving your head where it is, trying to ignore the way he smells; like lavender and musk.

Judging by the passing scenery, you’re only about five minutes from home when a sudden panic jolts you fully awake. You untangle the arm you somehow wrapped around Joel’s, carefully moving his hand from where it rests, palm up on his thigh. Squinting against your blurred, doubling vision, you turn your head toward him and whisper in his ear,

“Joel.”

You feel his whole body tense. The hand on his knee scrunches the fabric of his jeans, and the knuckles gripping the steering wheel turn white.

“What do you need, darlin’?” he asks, caution in his voice.

“Pull over.”

He turns to look at you, his nose just inches from yours. His expression catches somewhere between intrigue and terror.

“Why do you want me to pull over? Your daddy’s gonna lose his mind if I don’t have you home soon.”

“I’m gonna throw up.”

The second the words leave your mouth, you snap your head away from him, fumbling with your seatbelt as you lurch toward the passenger door. Joel cranks the wheel hard to the right, jumping a curb and bringing the truck to a rough stop halfway onto the sidewalk. You barely get the door open before you’re heaving, stomach acid and cranberry juice burning your throat.

Fucking awesome.

You try to push him away, but Joel insists on helping. He holds your hair back, rubbing soothing circles between your shoulders. It’s clear this isn’t the first time he’s done this.

Of course, it isn’t. Joel always picked Sarah up from the bar, or any party she went to. He preferred it—never trusted her to take a cab home from the city.

Honestly, it’s surprising you haven’t ended up in this position before tonight. You and Sarah went out most nights whenever you were both home.

Once you’re sure you’ve emptied your stomach, you drag yourself back into the truck. Sliding back into the middle seat, you rest your head on his shoulder for the remainder of the drive. Neither of you say a word.

Joel just lazily drapes an arm over the back of the seat.

Before long, Joel pulls into the driveway.

He tugs you from the cab, setting you down, but your knees buckle like a newborn fawn’s—weak, wobbly, Jello-soft.

He huffs, exasperation sharp, and scoops you up before you hit the ground, cradling you like it’s nothing.

“Hold onto my neck,” he mutters, and you do, fingers sinking into the soft curls at his nape.

Your head spins, booze-soaked, and a memory flickers—three years back, right after Mom died, you spiraling into vodka stolen from Dad’s stash night after night, chasing numbness until it became your only lifeline. You’d been drowning in it, dependency creeping in as grief hollowed you out, barely 22 and already cracking. That night, he found you half-passed out on the porch, bottle tipped over, voice breaking as he whispered, holding back tears,

“I can’t lose you too, Birdie.”

The next day, he’d turned to Joel, pressing the key into his hand with a hollow, desperate look.

“You’re family, Joel—keep her from breakin’ like she did…” He stopped, eyes wet, the unspoken weight of her absence hanging between them.

You try to blink it away, clinging tighter now as Joel digs out that same key—a copy he’s had since then. He’s been Dad’s rock ever since her silence took hold, and you know this closeness is a shard in that fragile trust.

With a quiet click, the door unlocks. He carefully shifts sideways, making sure not to knock your knees against the frame as he carries you inside. His footsteps are light as he moves through the living room, lowering you onto the couch like it’s nothing. He’s still strong, handling you with ease, but he’s smart enough not to haul you upstairs and risk throwing out his back. Maybe when he was thirty, he wouldn’t have thought twice. But now? Pushing closer to fifty, his knees and back have the final say.

You roll onto your side, hugging a throw pillow and burying your face in it.

Joel heads into the kitchen, reaching into the cupboard above the sink. He grabs a bottle of whiskey and the ibuprofen, then pulls down two glasses—one for alcohol, one for water. He shakes out two pills, one for now, one for the morning.

There’s no need to be quiet. Your dad is half-deaf, could probably sleep through an artillery strike without stirring. He’s the heaviest sleeper you’ve ever met—a huge perk when you were a teenager. You never even had to sneak out; you just left and came back. He never had a clue. And your mom? She checked out of being a parent long before you hit your teens.

Joel settles beside you on the couch, pulling your legs across his lap. His fingers move to the buckle of your shoe, and at the first brush of contact, a shudder rolls through you—goosebumps prickling across your skin. It feels too intimate. You think about telling him to stop, but you don’t. Instead, you just watch as he slips off both heels and tosses them beside the couch.

Then, he nudges your shoulder.

“Sit up.”

When you don’t move, he sighs, grabs your wrist, and pulls you upright.

“Here, drink this.”

He presses the glass of water into your hand, holding out the pill in the other.

“Like I was saying earlier, cowboy—you ain’t my daddy.”

“You see him around right now? No, he’s sleepin’ while I take care of you. Now drink the damn water.” His voice is even firmer this time.

You oblige, placing the pill on your tongue in front of him and tipping the cool glass to your lips. You sip, then chug the rest. You hadn’t realized how thirsty you are until the liquid touches your tongue—parched, like a neglected houseplant or someone rescued from the Sahara.

Joel takes a slow sip of whiskey, watching you over the rim of his glass.

“Atta girl. Finally fuckin’ listenin’ to me.” His voice is low, a gravelly purr.

The praise makes your heart—and your pussy—throb.

It also makes you choke on your last sip of water. You double over, coughing into your elbow, eyes watering.

“You good, kid? Don’t go dyin’ on me now; I just got you home safe,” Joel says, half-amused, half-concerned.

“I’m fine. Went down the wrong pipe.” Your face burns with embarrassment.

“Mhm. Alright, whatever. Eat.”

He hands you a grease-stained brown paper bag. The smell alone makes you salivate. You reach inside and shove a handful of fries into your mouth, sighing softly as the salt and grease coat your tongue. Joel, thankfully, either ignores it or does a good job pretending to.

“You want some?” you ask, mouth full, holding out the box of fries.

“Nah, I’m good. You need the carbs to help soak up all the liquor in ya, kid.” He chuckles softly. “You’re gonna feel it tomorrow.”

“I’ll be fine. I barely ever get hungover.”

“Enjoy it while it lasts. You hit my age, you go out drinkin’ like you did tonight, and you’ll feel it for a week.” He takes another sip of his drink, and you watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows.

You smirk.

“Oh yeah, so true! I keep forgetting you’re an old man.”

Joel doesn’t laugh. Just stares at you, unreadable. Then, slowly, he moves his hand from the arm of the couch down to your ankle, wrapping his fingers around it. He squeezes once before tracing slow, lazy circles into your skin.

“You’re on mighty thin fuckin’ ice, brat,” he mutters, exhaustion making his voice even growlier.

For a second, you consider pushing him further just to hear more of it. But then you remember how pissed he got earlier at the bar. Maybe best to let it go.

“Thank you,” you murmur. “For bringing me home. And buying me food. And holding my hair, even though you didn’t need to do any of those things.”

Joel snorts.

“I didn’t need you to tell me to take you home from the bar. Watchin’ you dancin’ on an old man told me you were plenty ready to leave.”

His expression twists slightly, like the memory alone makes him taste something sour.

“Tommy’s not that much younger than you. If he’s old, you must be ancient,” you tease. “And if it’s any consolation, I was only doing that to keep him from breaking some poor kid’s nose.”

Joel just watches you talk, nodding along as you babble.

“That’s why I texted you. He almost beat up some guy for hitting on me.”

“Well, did he deserve it?” Joel asks.

“Not really. He was pretty harmless. Tommy must’ve been jealous.”

Joel hums in agreement, still absentmindedly rubbing your lower legs, every now and then dragging his fingers down to your feet. It’s a harmless act—a paternal instinct, you tell yourself. It reminds you of the nights your dad would sit at the end of your bed, rubbing your shins to ease the growing pains that left you sobbing.

Your eyelids feel heavy.

You close your eyes and let yourself sink into the warmth of Joel’s touch.

“Where’s my phone? It was in my jacket last time I saw it,” you ask him.

“Oh, must still be in the truck. I’ll go get it, hold on,” he answers.

“No, it’s fine. I’ll grab it—I need to change out of this stupid dress anyway. You stay.”

You shift off his lap slowly, swinging your legs over his knees. The movement is careful, measured, and when your bare skin grazes over his crotch, you feel the way his body stiffens beneath you. He doesn’t say anything, he just watches, expressionless—but you don’t miss the way he swallows hard, his grip tightening for a second on his glass of whiskey before he sets it down.

As you head for the door, you glance back. Joel’s adjusting the throw blanket over his lap, his jaw clenched like he’s trying to will himself into stillness. You don’t say anything, but a knowing smirk plays at your lips as you step outside. //

The air is cooler than you expect, the contrast against your warmed skin sending a small shiver down your spine. You climb into the truck and grab your jacket from the floor of the cab, but as you lift it, something catches your eye. A crumpled sticky note, partially stepped on. You smooth it out between your fingers and immediately recognize the handwriting.

Thank you for supporting our small business—Sweet Berry Farm.

Your lips twitch into a small smile as you remember the bouquet of sunflowers Joel brought you the day you came home. They’re still sitting on your nightstand, petals a little wilted now.

You swing the truck door closed and step onto the porch, deciding to light a cigarette since you’re already outside. The porch swing creaks under your weight as you sit, leaning your head back and taking a slow drag. The tobacco is sweet on your tongue, the warmth settling low in your belly, making everything feel a little easier, a little looser. The quiet hum of the night wraps around you, and you get so lost in it that you don’t hear the front door open or close.

You only notice Joel when the swing shifts beside you.

“Your daddy know you smoke?” His voice is thick, a little rough around the edges.

You pause, cocking your head slightly.

“What he don’t know won’t hurt him.”

“I ain’t tellin’,” he murmurs, plucking the cigarette from your lips before you can react. He brings it to his own mouth, inhaling, the ember flaring bright, a red glow pulsing like a heartbeat.

“Too pretty to be smoking, though, darlin’,” he adds, exhaling, the smoke shimmering unnaturally in the dark.

You should roll your eyes, should brush him off, but you don’t. You just watch. The way the smoke curls from his lips. The way his chest rises slow and steady, broad and strong. The way his fingers linger near his mouth before offering the cigarette back to you.

Your mouth goes dry, and your thoughts scatter. Can he taste my chapstick? Why does he make smoking look so good? What do his lips feel like? What do they taste like?

You reach for the cigarette, but Joel notices the way you hesitate. His lips twitch.

“You still in there? You’re starin’,” he drawls, holding it just out of reach.

Real smooth, fucking weirdo.

You recover quickly, snatching the cigarette back with a huff.

“Not staring—zoning out. Headrush. Don’t flatter yourself.” You take another slow pull, but the warmth in your face betrays you. The heat that started in your chest is lower now, simmering beneath your skin, and when you shift in your seat, pressing your legs together, Joel notices.

His eyes flick down, then back up. He leans in, just enough that you smell the faintest hint of whiskey.

“Whatever you say, kid.”

His voice is low, teasing, and you officially lose any chance of pretending you have the upper hand. He knows exactly what he’s doing—he’s enjoying this.

You keep passing the cigarette between you, his fingers brushing yours each time. When it burns down to the filter, you stomp it out and flick the butt into the yard. You pull your phone from your pocket, exhaling slowly, but when you glance at the screen, your stomach drops.

Your eyes widen at the first notification.

(1:08AM)T-Mills: Had a lot of fun tonight, bird. We should hang out more. 😜 Srry Joel's such a fuckin’ buzzkill. 🙄

Your stomach twists. Whatever reaction flickers across your face must be obvious, because before you can even think to hide it, Joel leans in. His eyes flick over the screen, and before you can pull away, he snatches the phone from your hands.

“Is he fuckin’ hitting on you still? Jesus Christ.”

His voice is sharp, edged with something rougher, something possessive. His whole demeanor shifts—shoulders squared, jaw tight, fingers gripping your phone like he’s about to snap it in half. You can’t tell if it’s scaring you or turning you on.

“Joel, give me back my phone. Who cares if he is, anyway?”

You reach for it, but he jerks his arm away, forcing you to grab at his forearm in a weak attempt to pry it from his grip.

“Oh, I fuckin’ care. He knows better.”

Joel scoffs, shaking his head like he’s personally offended. His grip tightens around your phone, and then he mutters,

“You’re off limits, and he knows that.”

Your brain short-circuits.

Off limits?

Your hands go slack, any fight draining out of you. What’s the point? He’s stronger—he could keep it from you all night if he wanted to. You watch as he unlocks your phone, swipes to the camera, and snaps a picture of himself flipping off the screen. Then, he types out a message and hits send.

(1:27AM) You: Get fucked, Tom—The Buzzkill 😉

You huff out a laugh, shaking your head.

“You guys are both fucking pathetic.”

It must hit a nerve, because Joel’s expression changes instantly. His eyes darken, pupils blown wide—so wide, you swear you can see the whole damn moon reflected in them. But this time, he doesn’t look angry. Just… intense.

Heat licks up your spine.

Joel reaches up, cupping your face in his calloused hand. His thumb skims across your cheekbone, fingers trailing lower, slow and deliberate, tracing down the side of your neck. Your breath falters in your throat, and before you can stop it, a quiet whimper slips past your lips.

For fuck’s sake.

Joel grins.

“What was that, huh?” His voice is a low drawl, thick with amusement. “Thought I was the pathetic one?”

His thumb drags over your bottom lip, pressing lightly, tugging it downward. Your lips part slightly, breath shuddering against his fingertips. He doesn’t move any closer, just stays right there, hovering. You’re sharing air now.

You’re inches away from something irreversible.

You try to say something—anything, but before you can find the words, Joel closes the gap. His lips meet yours, rough and consuming, and you swear your pulse is loud enough to drown out the whole city.

Your body ignites.

You press into him, mouth parting wider, pulling his bottom lip between your teeth. You bite down, just enough to feel resistance before you soothe it with a slow drag of your tongue.

Joel’s fingers tighten around your jaw, tilting your chin up, deepening the kiss. His tongue slides against yours, tasting, exploring, claiming. His other hand grips your thigh, fingers digging into the flesh, pulling you closer. Your own hands find their way into his hair, twisting into the curls at the base of his neck, tugging just hard enough to draw a low growl from his throat. The vibration shoots through you like lightning, settling deep in your core.

It’s not enough.

Your pussy aches, you’re desperate for some kind of friction, anything to get some relief. You continue mapping out his mouth with your tongue, never breaking the kiss until you turn to swing your knee over his thigh. You hover, hands planted against his shoulders, thumbs pressing into the space between his collarbone and traps.You settle over him, straddling his lap. Or at least, you try to.

Joel’s hands clamp down on your hips, holding you still.

“Can’t do that, darlin’.” His voice is rough, strained. “S’not right. You’re drunk.”

His hesitation threatens to snap the moment in half, dragging him back to reality, but you refuse to let it slip away that easily. Your breath is still heavy, your heart beating relentlessly as you meet his gaze.

“I’m sober enough to know what I’m doin’.”

Joel exhales hard through his nose, shaking his head.

“Sure, but I don’t think you have a fuckin’ clue what you’re gettin’ yourself into, little bird.”

His pupils are still blown wide, but his face is serious again—his mind warring with his body. You can see it. The restraint tightening in his jaw, the way his fingers flex against your skin like he’s debating whether to push you away or pull you closer.

“We shouldn’t be doin’ this, your daddy’s gonna have my fuckin’ head.”

You tilt your head, voice dropping to a whisper.

“I’ll never tell, cowboy.”

That’s all it takes.

He breaks.

His hands tighten on your hips, dragging you down as his mouth crashes into yours. A sharp whine escapes from the back of your throat, swallowed up by the heat of his lips. Your nails dig into his shoulders, anchoring yourself against him, his pulse beneath your fingertips racing.

His tongue dances on yours, slow, like he has all the time in the world to take you apart piece by piece. The taste of whiskey lingers, sharp and heady.

You shift, rolling your hips against his thigh—chasing friction, desperate for more. He growls into your mouth, fingers surely pressing bruises into your skin as he holds you there, letting you feel exactly what you do to him.

Then—

Creak.

Joel tenses beneath you.

You barely have time to react before—

The swing creaks too loud, the night bending around you.

Snap.

The porch swing collapses beneath you both. You plummet backward, limbs tangling with his as you hit the ground.

And just before your head smacks against the siding of the house—

You wake up. (I'm so sorry for this please don't hate me I promise I'll make it up to you)

series warnings!!! fluff, smut, angst,unprotected p-in-v (please wrap it up), f/m masturbation, fingering, large but legal age-gap (joel is in 40's reader is in mid 20's), size kink?, choking, pervy!obsessive!joel, pervy!mean!Tommy, possessive/rough sex, vomiting, alcohol intoxication, praise, sex on the phone, drinking/smoking, strong language, sneakin around, lowkey obsessive and reckless Joel, blackmail, competency kink, risky sex, infidelity/implied, semi-public sex, breeding kink lowkey, overstimulation, a tiny bit of coercion, dirty talk, oops its a creampie, brief mentions of grief and implied suicide, Tommy is a jerk in this one, guilt and betrayal, bar-fights @yesjazzywazzylove-blog @brittmb115 @mystickittytaco @your-nightmaredoll @leenieweenie12 @jokesonthem

#dbf!joel #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller fic #dadsbestfriend!joel #tlou fanfiction #joel miller x you #joel miller angst #dbf trope #tlou smut #tlou fic #joel miller x oc #joel miller fluff #tlou x reader #dbf!joelmiller #joel miller

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firefly--bright · 2 days ago

Text

forwards, beckon, rebound.

jean kirstein x fem!reader, modern a.u.

summary ; falling in love with jean kirstein was too easy. realizing and living with it, however, was more difficult than ripping your own heart out of your chest - veins and all. warnings ; unrequited? love, mentions of alcohol at the end, a little angsty. a/n ; im not doing well LMFAO its okay guys...its okay.... i have another thing im going to post tn before going on an undecidedly long hiatus so!! i hope you guys enjoy this <3that being said i think college will be the death of me also mini thank you to @\samepictureofjeankirsteveryday on instagram!! i wasnt going to post this fic originally but she lowkey made me want this baby to see the light of day :3 taglist ; @holding-infinity-and-a-book , @mrsnobodynobody , @hopeless-anti-romantic-again , @jeanscremebrulee , @berrijam , @happxme , @cherrypieyourface , @imgayandshesanime , @moonmalice , @kivernova , @potaho3frog , @xakilicious , @katestrophes , @gojo-ana , @ppushable, @candleohappiness , @zombiefiedskeivy , @1ovede1uxe

masterlist is in pinned post! ✿ enter my taglist! ✿ requests for headcanons are open! ✿

middle tile art creds ; @ppushable beloved

Falling in love with jean kirstein wasn't too much of a task.

Realising you were in love with jean kirstein, however, proved to be a big one.

You dont realise it at first. Of course not, that would be too easy and stupid. You couldn't give yourself the permission to do that - to intrude on someone else's life so easily without guilt; because liking someone, romantically or platonically, has always been a selfish act, one that you were hesitant to commit. It felt like a crime, really. The first time he sat next to you on the couch despite there being more than enough room on the other side of it, cushions perfectly clean and waiting, he sat next to you.

Nothing came out of it. He sat next to you the whole night - the first night you two got close and talked about your stupid lives even after everyone had called it a night, with two glasses empty of any beverage, already long gone under inattentive care, because you’d rather look at him. His hand was in the air, actions drawing themselves in the space around him, claiming the place to be his without hesitation. He’d say something, you’d make a bad joke, he’d stifle a laugh and lie through his teeth about it not being funny. You’d say something unimportant, his elbow would be on the back cushions of the couch, supporting his head, hand tangling through his hair - not that you were staring at it when your eyes pleaded for something else to focus on. He’d lick his lips absentmindedly, nodding to your story. He’d make a silly, offhanded comment that you’d milk out into another joke, and he’d stutter his responses. The night went on, drowsily, and you decided to reluctantly surrendered to sleep as his eyes slipped closed to your voice, head directly on the back cushions. As if he had forgotten the conversation that occurred two minutes ago - “And.. i mean, yeah, i get it, but- are you.. Are you falling asleep?”

“No, no. of course not. Just… resting my head. Go on.”

“Your voice just got deeper, man, stop lying-”

“No! Im.. im serious. Im listening. Keep going.”

“Right,”

“Come on, i wanna hear you.”

“... oh. Right, so then…uh.”

“Mhm.”

“Uhm…right so, i got, what she was saying, but then again, why would she need to-”

And the conversation followed with just you speaking, a little hushed, pretending not to notice how his breathing evened itself out completely, his finger twitching every so often. Pretending not to notice, really, because that's all you'd been doing all this while.

That was your first offense, you suppose. Pretending the love wasn't there. Pretending he isn't this easy to love, this easy to find your way back to. His presence was the one thing you looked forward to with each large group hangout until it was just the two of you - he’d asked you to accompany him going grocery shopping. “Connie wants some stupid fucking water gun.”

You had laughed, unserious at first. But his voice did’nt waver through the phone, making you wonder out loud, “wait, for what?”

He sighed. You could almost feel his breath through the speaker. “April fools is coming up. Your guess is as good as mine,” he said, “anyway, i’ll come pick you up in ten?” he questions, as if you’d ever refuse. You could. You really could. But part of you wanted to know why connie would need the gun and what exactly he’d do with it just so you could be prepared incase of oncoming attacks. But the other part - the bigger, more selfish, more hesitant one - wanted to spend time with him because the aspect of just going grocery shopping sounded appealing.

Appealing, as if it was something more.

Maybe it was. Jean had a way of making every task of yours feel special. His eyes were always on your movements, something you appreciated, his blatant observation an endearing trait after you’d been gone unnoticed for long enough for you to feel non-existent entirely.

You dressed appropriately. Made sure your hair was good enough. Swiped a finger over your eyebrows to shape them before heading out. He was waiting under your apartment, back resting against the shining metal of his car, thumb hovering over his phone as he waited. Your shoes clicked - did they squeak or did they click? The dirt seemed interesting. - and he looked up at you before smiling. “Where do you think the best place to shop for a watergun could be?” an important question. You hummed in faux thought, mind only filled with his cologne, and the fact that his feet were only a couple inches from yours, “i dont know. Did connie not say where? Considering he’s such an expert?” you said, and he snorted. “Right. He just gave me a very specific model to look for. And the money for it, surprisingly.”

You made a joke about stealing the money and buying something “pretty for himself” which was met by slightly reddening cheeks and a scoff. “I look pretty in anything. I mean-” he stuttered over his own words, stumbling over consonants until he landed on, “i- we should..uhm, go. Before it gets too late.” you wanted to ask what you could possibly be late for, but he opened your door for you before you could say anything, and sped-walked to his side of the car. It was the two of you, the silence of his car, waiting to be broken.

He asked you to play a song. You played careless whisper. He laughed. A full-bellied, deep hearted chuckle that you were sure you’d keep hearing over the course of the next few months if not your lifetime.

When april finally did come, with a summery breeze to accompany it, connie’s prank set itself ablaze. The “prank” being that he and eren would go around - “no, the point is that no one can see it coming!” - college campus, spraying their elaborate victims with a not-so-discreet snicker, not realizing that the cold water was a treat rather than a trick. “If that’s the point then youre fucking failing because your shiny bald head and his fucking stench is enough to let everyone know youre coming from miles away,” jean had said, hands folded over his chest. Armin stifled a laugh while you snickered in broad daylight, unashamed.

Maybe that was your second offense - finding him fucking funny. It wasnt even your fault, in all honesty, it should be his for being witty and quick on his feet to make a remark that he knew would make you break. And you knew he was out to get you because sometimes he’d lean in close to your ear and whisper the joke against the loudness of the rest of the world - in a language and words only you could hear and understand and almost wait for his prize. Youre not sure if your laugh was his prize or the pride that came with the idea of being funny was, but you presented it to him without hesitation either way.

How you couldn't realise you were in love with him in those moments always made you question your own instincts.

It felt like a crime. Little offenses that would add up to one big debt towards the big national system that was out to get you - letting your yearning run rampant and unchecked while you sat on the floor, wondering, questioning, untrusting of your own feelings. What else could you do, really? When your love had been dormant for so long without any interaction, was it really your fault that it did not know when to wake up and tell you that it was real? Your crimes didn't matter. The number of them, their destruction. It wouldn't have mattered if the love would’ve just told you what it was instead of concealing itself under layers of disregard and faux indifference.

And the worst part is that it didn't even escalate. His actions remained the same and so did your unnerving, unnatural feelings, laying bare-boned in front of you. He’d call you late at night, usually on tuesdays or fridays, and ask you, surprised, what you were doing up this late. You were always up this late, you'd say, even if it was him who called. Youd turn the question to him and he’d tell you about how he couldnt sleep because he was playing a game with your friends.

“Why are you whispering” he had asked, ever keen about your every action.

“Sasha’s asleep on my lap,” you said, your hand in between her brown hair, conditioned and soft between your fingers.

“That doesnt answer my question.” he said. You could hear his blatant smirk through the phone.

“I dont want her to wake up,” you said, a smile of your own creeping on your face, slowly, carefully. It was meant to be there, though, however much you didnt want it to be, like moths to a beautiful flame.

He hummed. Fluttering of patterned wings flying towards a bright orb. “What else?” god, its like he wanted you to peel apart and let him observe the shredded, unmoving pieces. Maybe he really did.

“We watched the perks of being a wallflower,” “oh?” “yeah, sash said she wanted me to see it-” “you’ve never seen that movie before?” “i mean, i did now,” you muttered, voice now only a little bit higher, smile growing only a little bit wider. Moths to an open, inviting flame.

“Jesus. Thank god she did. Did you cry?” he asked, eager. “Do you want me to cry? Thats telling-” “-no i dont want you to cry,” “hey, im not shaming your fantasies, im just-” “my fantasies dont involve you crying.” you pause before speaking again. “Right.” “i mean- they.. They involve you - like all of you guys, hah, just..not crying. Happy,” you hum. The moths get dangerously, hopefully closer to the burning flame. Its painful and its warm. “Whatever. Did you cry?” he asks, and you allow him a laugh at that. You wonder if he has moths of his own. Maybe dragonflies. They suit him better, you think for a split second, before his fire invites you again with a calloused hand, crackling firewood. “See, the fact that you’re not answering is more of an answer.” You shrug, knowing he cant see it. Part of you wonders if he knows you well enough to commit your actions to memory - enough to know when you're doing them, enough to predict them like a well choreographed dance. “I cried a little. Like, one tear, and then i stopped,”

“Right, sure.” “you know, you forcing an answer out of me is also more of an answer.” you say, flipping the conversation over on it’s head, the dancers doing a somersault on the thin cracks in your ribs.

“what? How?” “now i know you cried while watching it-” “i did not-” “-or else you wouldnt want me to be as miserable as you-” “i didnt cry, i dont even know what youre talking about,” “i can literally ask sasha.” “you wouldnt…do that,” he says, unconfident. you suck in a dramatic breath, pretending to get ready to shout sasha’s name, before he interrupts you with a slight terror behind his teeth, “okay, i cried like, a little,” he says, his voice a little static, but you could hear the expression he was making behind the layers of faux cockiness. You hum knowingly. “Just a little,” “dont sound like that.”

You breathe out a laugh, smile reaching your eyes, your cheeks pushing against the phone on your ear. “Sound like what?” “like…like youre judging me,” “im not judging you! Im all for crying.” “just not enough for you to do it?” “i’ll cry when i need to.” “and when’s that?” “i dont know, maybe when they declare that, like, all chocolate has lead in it or something, and they ban it.” there was another pause. You gauge his reaction, a flash of regret for your statement, and then a laugh from his end, crystal clear. Even with the phone hindering your view of him, its perfect - the happiness resides in his chest, and it makes it’s way out because of you, crawling into your arms through the shitty microphones that the big companies cant seem to perfect, and youre afraid it’ll catch a hold of you and you would never be able to shake it away; the feeling of his laughter in your chest, shared and kept and bottled up in the shape of something familiar but terrifying and real. You dont realise youre also laughing a little by the end of it.

“That wouldn't stop you from still eating it.” he says. “Fair point,” you reply, playing with a strand of sasha’s hair between your fingers. Your love has always been louder than you would've liked it to be, its shouts keeping you awake at night, the harmonies - or lack thereof - disrupting your usual schedule. It had to find a way to get out, and you weren't sure where to put it once it did. Where your love could find a place to rest without urgency, silent under a warm gaze. You didn't know where to find it.

you suppose your next offense - and it was a big one this time, staring at you in the face until you were too scared to look away - was actually noticing.

not that you didn't before. it wasn't unknown, the fact that he put meticulous effort into his appearance, combing his hair a certain way, wearing different colours that he knew worked, smelling nice. he was the one who made it known, a pretentious boastful laugh about how he'd bought a new perfume after sasha pointed it out, telling the table of five that he actually had the money to buy it and he was going to use it to it's fullest extent. but then you started noticing the unimportant details, the natural ones that came as a habit to him but became holy to you. waving a hand through his hair after it unravelled from its former position throughout the day, wearing the bracelet you had hastily and ironically made for him as if it was a part of his own wrist, regardless of if it matched his outfit or not, his perfume wearing off sometime in the middle of the day, but the residue of it could only be smelt when you were sitting close to him, brushing his shoulder with yours. All the unimportant things, you think, a big weight on your already hesitant shoulders, weak under the boulder you were trying to push.

The way his voice dipped when he muttered something he knew was unimportant but wanted to be known anyway (you wouldn't tell him you would always keep those mutters in mind - chanted scriptures until they're all your tongue and ears remember). The way he fidgeted with his rings sometimes, slipping them off of his finger and and onto the next, continuing to do that until all his fingers had worn the jewellery (one time it slipped and fell through his fingers, an unnoticeable action, and his fingers hovered mid empty air, grasping metal that had slipped away). The unimportant scar on the front of his right shoulder, only to be seen when he wore a tank top during the summer, when he’d told you he’d saved a dog from a car accident with red cheeks and ears - a telltale lie. You let the statement lay in front of you before smiling with an exaggerated, proud puff of air, after which he had immediately went back to his story to correct it. The reality was that he tried diving into a pool once - only for his shoulder to be scraped up on the diving board, along with his jaw, as he fell. He said this ungracefully, scratching the back of his neck and waving his hand as if it wasn't a big deal - and you would agree, it wasn't a big deal. yet. There was always a yet. You wanted to write down all his words, through his stutters and higher-pitched words, his unintentional pauses, and etch them into your spine. What good were your bones if not to be carved under a weathering, hopeless love that could never prevail? What good were your lungs if not to build a home out of unbreathable air?

Unimportant. You’d call your love that; a universal truth. You couldn't give yourself the permission for more than that, for an offense greater than the one you’d already guiltily committed.

Falling in love with jean kirstein was out of your hawk-eyed control. Realising you were in love with jean kirstein was an unmistakable, out-of-question, universally bound reality that you couldn't escape. Or maybe one you didn't want to escape.

You weren't hopeful of a reciprocal or even a secure future. You were never quite the hopeful one, and maybe that's why you chalked yourself up to a non romantic person who’s forbidden to use those big movie words with the big important meanings and the confident and hearty laugh after a confession. Being a romantic took a hell of a lot of hope, something you fundamentally lacked, something that you could never live up to.

So this was it. Staring at you in your face, his eyes brown and a little golden at the edge like a pot of pouring honey, warmth under those tones, unhidden with full and weighted importance that you never had the permission to receive. His shoulder - the scarred one - is pressed up against the wall and the party is loud and his cup is almost empty, his first drink of the night, and his cologne is fading away only a little, a strand of his hair falling on his forehead. And this wouldn't be a big issue if it wasn't for the fact that you were thinking about it all, the unimportant parallels and the god like, important-unimportant words, etched into your hesitant and tired vertebrae. His smile is soft. Has it always been? Were you deserving of that? After all of your committed offenses?

“This punch is fucking disgusting,” he says, changing the previous topic, smelling the drink in his hand. You were incapable of speaking, of using your big mouth and small words. “Its.. interesting,” you finally muttered, looking down at your own cup, your thumb rubbing gentle, controlled back-and-forths on the rim of the cup. you‘re not sure how he even heard you but somehow he always does.

“I can make a better one for you,” he says, as if he doesn't have anything better to do. “No, im good. I dont want to get… y’know,” you say, eyes pointing to the vague direction of a now-shirtless connie, waving the shirt in a loop over his head disregarding the beat and rhythm of the song completely.

Jean’s eyes remain on his friend for a while. “Yeah i wouldn't want to get…that either,” he says, and you snort an unattractive laugh, and when you look back up, he’s laughing with you. Smiling at your unimportant sound, his hand holding the cup by its rim and dropping his elbow down so the cup rests somewhere near his thigh.

Unimportant. All of it. But somehow holy. Human condition.

He moves towards the kitchen either way, claiming something about having non-alcoholic fruit beer in the fridge just for “this”. He says “this” as if its a confession, something he’s been meaning to get off of his chest, “this” like he knows your unimportant and off-handed comment about not wanting to drink from last week and carrying it around like an effective poem, life altering with every sentence. He says “this” like it's important. Somehow holy, human condition.

And he follows through, with whatever his “this” meant, and hands you a can of some kind of soda. A sip later, you find out its peach flavoured, surprisingly addictive, not too sweet. You steal a glance at the front of it, a bright and vibrant logo greeting you with a smiling mascot of a peach with sunglasses. You look back up at him with a raised eyebrow. “This was a conscious decision?” you ask, turning the front of the can to him so he could see what you were referring to. A smile split his face, followed by faux annoyance and an eyeroll, “thank you, jean, for always thinking of me,” he says, high pitched, and the implications are not lost on you, and he continues when all you do is smile with a breath of laughter, “thank you, jean, you bought me my favourite flavoured drink-” “thank you, jean kirstein, my saviour, for thinking of me,” you say, the sound getting lost somewhere in between your mouth and his. His smile hangs on his face with pride, an action you unknowingly put there.

God, and falling in love with jean kirstein was so easy. Easier than breathing, more conscious than involuntary blinking, more natural than your fidgeting hands.

But realising you were in love with jean kirstein was more uncomfortable than the act of being alive, more conscious than the fact that your voice could produce a sound that occupied space, more careful than your hesitant thoughts.

Everything chalked up to this; loving jean kirstein was easier than any feat you couldve ever done. Any holiness, any prayer, any selfish and hopeless act of greatness that was trapped in your veins.

Realising you’d always love him, realising maybe you’d always be stuck in this limbo was the only thing that proved to be difficult. You're a creature of habit - habitual sighs, rhythmic steps, habitual solitude - and you'd never been prepared for this. But it was okay.

Being in love with jean kirstein - and realizing you’d always love him - was okay. Habitual. All offenses could be just those - offenses. Habitual. You’d learn to live with it as you did all other things.

✿

#jean kirstein x reader #jean kirstein #jean kirschstein x reader #aot #jean kirstein x you #shingeki no kyojin #attack on titan #jean kirschtein #modern au

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