#maybe he’s already got someone lined up | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

solrburst · 2 days ago

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the nanny — joel miller

pairing: joel miller x nanny!reader

summary: Joel is desperate for a nanny for Ellie, and you're his last hope.

tags/warnings: dad!joel, age gap, mention of death, alternative universe/no cordyceps, unprotected sex, oral sex (f! receiving), joel is a flirt, dirty talk

author's note: i love seeing flirty!joel almost as i love dad!joel

word count: 12k

The sun beat down heavy on Austin's cracked pavement when you pulled out the taxi. You could hear the cicadas buzzing like some lazy warning in the trees. The house wasn’t anything special—single-story, flat-roofed, a tired porch with an ashtray full of cigarette butts and a half-drunk beer sweating on the railing.

Joel Miller opened the door before you even knocked.

He stood there, filling the doorway with the kind of broad-shouldered presence that made people pause without knowing why. Dark hair just starting to go silver at the temples, thick lines drawn deep around his eyes. He looked like someone who'd seen too much too young and learned to say very little about it.

“You’re the nanny?” he asked, one brow raised, voice low and sandpaper-rough.

You blinked once. “Unless you’re about to offer me a better job.”

A beat passed.

Then—something flickered in his eyes. Not quite a smile, but not not one either. He stepped aside and nodded. “Come on in.”

The house smelled like wood, sweat, and something faintly sweet—maybe cereal. You caught the faint rumble of a TV from down the hall, something animated and overly loud.

Joel shut the door behind you and scratched the back of his neck. “Look, just to get this out of the way... she’s a lot. Talks back. Doesn’t listen half the time. Last one didn’t even make it to lunch.”

You let your bag drop to the floor by the door and glanced up at him, your voice easy. “So she’s seven?”

He exhaled through his nose, maybe a chuckle buried in there somewhere. “Somethin’ like that. Sometimes she talks like she’s twenty.”

Just then, a blur of limbs and tangled hair skidded into the hallway.

“Is this another one?” Ellie stood with her arms crossed, surveying you like a bouncer outside a bar. “You look like you smell like soap and Pinterest boards.”

You raised a brow. “You look like you snuck a Sharpie snack and tried to hide it with your hair.”

She blinked. Then snorted. “Okay, that was pretty good.”

Joel glanced between the two of you. His hand landed on his hip like he was bracing himself for another trainwreck—but Ellie wasn’t running off. Wasn’t screaming. In fact, she was smirking.

He muttered to himself, “I’ll be damned.”

Tommy’s voice floated in from the front porch. “You ready or what?”

Joel grabbed his keys from the hook and looked at you one last time, almost reluctant.

“You sure you’re good with her?”

You shrugged. “I’ve babysat worse. One kid tried to throw a waffle iron at me.”

Ellie’s eyes lit up. “Did you throw it back?”

You gave her a conspiratorial grin. “Only metaphorically.”

Joel exhaled slow. Then nodded once.

“I’ll be back around five. If anything goes sideways... call me.”

You saluted lazily. “Got it, Captain.”

And then he was gone, the screen door clattering behind him as his boots disappeared down the porch steps. You turned back toward Ellie.

“So, what’s your plan, boss?”

She cocked her head. “I was gonna trap you in the laundry room, but now I kinda wanna see if you can beat me at Mario Kart.”

You grinned. “Loser makes the winner a snack.”

“You're on.”

And just like that, Ellie Miller had met her match.

The living room was dark except for the soft blue glow of the TV, set to some old cartoon playing on mute. Joel pushed the door open slow, bracing himself for the worst: broken dishes, yelling, or silence—that kind of silence. The kind that meant another nanny had packed up and left without saying goodbye.

His boots creaked against the floor as he stepped inside. "Ellie?"

No response. Not even the usual clatter of her throwing something across the room in rebellion.

He moved further in, already unhooking his keys from his belt loop, mentally rehearsing the apology he’d have to send to Tommy for wasting another referral.

But then he saw you.

You were curled up on the edge of the worn couch, feet tucked beneath you, the glow of the TV playing across your face. Calm. Like this was just a Tuesday. No blood. No chaos. No broken spirits.

Joel blinked, mouth parting slightly.

You turned when you heard him and offered a low, casual, “Hey.”

He squinted. “Hey? That’s it?”

You nodded, stretching your arms with a small yawn. “Kid’s knocked out cold. Upstairs. Brushed teeth, bedtime story, everything.”

He looked at you like you'd just told him aliens landed in the backyard.

"Wait—asleep? It's not even eight."

“Early start tomorrow. School.” You said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Joel stepped into the kitchen without a word and opened the fridge just to give his hands something to do. The beer he’d left from the morning was still in there. He cracked it open, trying not to stare too hard at you over the rim of the bottle.

“I figured I’d walk into a war zone,” he muttered. “You didn’t run. Didn’t call. Didn’t leave a note taped to the fridge sayin’ you were done.”

You shrugged, leaning back a little. “Why would I? She’s a smart kid. Sharp. Just needs someone who doesn’t treat her like she’s stupid or fragile.”

Joel tilted his head at you, unreadable. “She usually eats nannies alive.”

“She tried,” you said with a smirk. “Came at me full sass by 3 p.m. I hit back harder.”

He let out a small grunt—maybe a laugh, maybe surprise. He took another sip of beer and looked toward the dark hallway like he still couldn’t believe Ellie hadn’t set something on fire.

“She was real quiet,” he said slowly. “When her mom left. Wouldn’t talk. Wouldn’t eat. Now she don’t shut up.”

“She talks a lot,” you agreed, smiling. “But she listens, too. If you speak her language.”

Joel leaned against the counter, arms folded. His voice softened a little, the tension loosening just enough to show through. “What, and you speak ‘ellie’ now?”

You shrugged. “I speak ‘chaos.’ Comes in handy with kids.”

For a few long seconds, he just looked at you. That quiet, heavy stare he had—like he was trying to see ten layers deeper than your skin.

Then, finally:

“You’re comin’ back tomorrow?”

You raised a brow. “Wasn’t planning on quitting. Unless you were gonna.”

A corner of his mouth twitched.

“No,” he said. “I think we’ll survive.”

You pushed up off the couch, grabbing your bag as you headed for the door. “Good. 'Cause she already asked if we could build a pillow fort after school.”

Joel walked you to the porch. The cicadas were still out. The street was still quiet.

You paused at the top step and turned back to him, eyes catching his in the porchlight.

“You’ve got a good kid,” you said.

He didn’t respond right away. Just nodded, slow. “She’s got a good shot now.”

And then you were gone.

But for the first time in a long time, Joel Miller didn’t feel like things were falling apart.

They might just be starting to fall into place.

The door swung open just as Ellie was kicking off her scuffed sneakers in the entryway, her backpack half-zipped and already sliding off her shoulder.

“Is she here yet?” she shouted toward the kitchen, her voice bouncing off the walls. “Dad! Is she here yet?”

Joel, standing at the stove with a dish towel over one shoulder, didn’t bother looking up. “Does it look like she’s here? Use your eyes, not your mouth.”

“But my mouth is faster!”

“Yeah, and that’s the problem.”

Ellie dropped her bag with a thud, already heading toward the front windows to check the driveway—just as your car pulled up.

“There!” she yelled, triumphant, sprinting back through the house like a tornado in fast-forward. “She’s here she’s here she’s here—!”

Joel had just turned down the burner on the skillet when the door opened, and you stepped in with the same relaxed confidence you carried like armor.

“Hey,” you greeted, a touch winded from dodging Ellie, who’d practically launched herself at you before you were through the door. “Did I miss the homecoming parade?”

“She’s been askin’ about you since the bell rang,” Joel said, nodding toward the hyper blur bouncing in your shadow. “Didn’t even want her snack. Which is how I know the apocalypse is near.”

“I saved my appetite,” Ellie declared proudly. “Dad made grilled cheese with bacon. He never makes grilled cheese with bacon.”

You raised a brow. “Is this a bribe, Miller?”

Joel shot you a look over his shoulder. “She’s been unbearable. Figure I earned the right to butter her up before I hand her over.”

“Smart,” you said, dropping your bag on the same hook as yesterday. “She’s got that post-school chaos energy. You should see what she did to the car ride playlist yesterday. Ruined Stevie Nicks forever.”

“I did not!” Ellie cried, whirling on you with wide, offended eyes.

“She put it on 1.25 speed,” you deadpanned. “Stevie Nicks sounded like a chipmunk with anxiety.”

Joel snorted, smothering the sound with a fake cough as he plated up the sandwiches. “You want one?” he asked you. “I made extra.”

You blinked, surprised. “You cook for the nanny now?”

“I cook for people who save me from losin’ my damn mind.”

You grinned. “Flattering.”

“I wasn’t tryin’ to be.”

You pulled out a chair at the table while Ellie dropped into hers, legs swinging under the seat. She was already talking a mile a minute about her day—some story about her science teacher and a broken Bunsen burner, a joke she told in front of the whole class, how everyone laughed (even the mean kids). She spoke with that spark in her voice again, the one Joel hadn’t heard in years. Not since before.

And you just listened. Asked questions. Teased her right back. Like it was easy. Natural.

Joel set the plate in front of you, still watching from the kitchen with a strange look in his eyes. Half guarded, half... something else.

“Thanks,” you said, catching his gaze briefly before biting into the sandwich. “Damn. This is actually good.”

He raised a brow. “You sound surprised.”

“I’m used to burnt toast and expired yogurts when I nanny for dads. This is, like, actual food.”

Joel just grunted and took his seat, digging in with a quiet shake of his head.

Ellie beamed between the two of you like she’d planned this entire lunch herself.

“So,” she said through a mouthful of bread and bacon, “after we eat, can we finish the pillow fort? I brought extra blankets from my room.”

“Only if we build defenses this time,” you warned, chewing thoughtfully. “Last night’s fort couldn’t have survived a sneeze.”

“That was a test run!”

Joel sighed, but he didn’t sound tired—more like resigned. A man accepting his fate. “You break anything, you fix it. That includes her,” he added, nodding toward Ellie.

“I’m unbreakable,” she declared proudly.

You caught Joel’s eye across the table.

“Yeah,” you said. “She is.”

And for a few quiet seconds, the three of you just sat there—sharing grilled cheese, half-smiles, and the smallest taste of something like peace.

The sun hadn’t even dipped below the horizon when Joel’s truck rumbled into the driveway, tires crunching over gravel. He was early—rare. The job site shut down sooner than expected, and Tommy had waved him off with a smirk that said, go home, see what you’ve been missing.

He stepped inside, boots already loosening, and heard it before he saw it.

Laughter.

Ellie’s, loud and unfiltered, practically vibrating through the walls. And yours, tangled with it, low and warm like the hum of a fire.

The house smelled like popcorn and something vaguely fruity—maybe bubblegum shampoo?—and as Joel rounded the corner into the living room, he paused.

Ellie was wrapped in a blanket on the floor, holding a flashlight under her chin like a horror movie cliché, while you crouched beside her, waving a sock puppet dramatically through the air.

“So then,” you were saying, voice low and ominous, “the terrifying Sockzilla sniffed the room and said... ‘someone forgot to flush.’”

Ellie howled with laughter, collapsing backward onto a pile of pillows, kicking her feet.

Joel leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, a slow smile creeping up without permission. You hadn’t noticed him yet. Neither of you had.

This wasn’t babysitting. Wasn’t even a job.

This was joy—something Ellie had stopped having for a long damn time.

“Sockzilla’s not wrong,” Joel said finally, his voice cutting through the laughter like gravel.

You looked up with a start, then grinned. “Hey. Didn’t hear you come in.”

“I noticed,” he said, stepping in. “Didn’t mean to interrupt the apocalypse.”

“You’re just jealous you missed chapter three: The Underwear Revolt.”

Ellie popped her head up from behind a pillow fort wall. “Dad, you’re early! Why?”

Joel shrugged, like it wasn’t a big deal. “Got lucky. Figured I’d beat the dinner rush.”

“You did,” you said, brushing popcorn off your knees. “I was just about to order pizza.”

Joel hesitated. For a half-second. Like the question had been sitting in his chest for a while now.

“You hungry?” he asked. “If you don’t got plans, I mean.”

You raised a brow. “You inviting me to stay?”

He shrugged, all rough edges and nonchalance. “Be a shame to kick you out before dinner. 'Specially after all the... sock trauma.”

Ellie was already nodding. “Yes, stay. Please. We’ll get the stuffed crust and everything.”

You looked between the two of them—the wide-eyed kid and the guarded man who, despite himself, was starting to open the door a little wider every day.

“Alright,” you said, settling back into the cushions. “But only if I get to pick the movie.”

Joel gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Long as it ain’t animated.”

Ellie gasped. “You love animated movies. Don’t lie.”

“That was one time—”

“You cried during Wall-E!”

“Everyone cries during Wall-E,” Joel muttered.

You just laughed. “Good to know I’m in excellent company.”

Joel shook his head, but the smile on his face lingered longer than it used to. He disappeared into the kitchen to grab plates, muttering something about “stuffed crust being a scam,” and Ellie launched into a detailed argument in its defense.

The sound of the tap running low and steady filled the space between you. The kitchen light hummed overhead, casting a soft golden glow across the sink. Joel leaned against the counter nearby, drying a plate with a towel he clearly didn’t intend to use efficiently.

Ellie had crashed hard—half-asleep on your shoulder during the last twenty minutes of the movie, mumbling something about “marrying a pizza slice” before you carried her upstairs with Joel trailing close behind, just in case.

Now the house was quiet again. The good kind.

You scrubbed at a stubborn streak of marinara on a plate, and he watched—hands busy, mouth quieter than usual.

Then, finally, his voice broke the silence.

“You ever think about teachin’?”

You blinked. “Teaching?”

Joel shrugged, rolling the dish towel and tossing it onto the counter. “You’re good with kids. Natural at it. Like you got this... translator chip in your head that turns all their nonsense into actual words.”

You laughed, rinsing the plate. “Is that a compliment?”

“It’s a rare one,” he said, voice dry. “Don’t waste it.”

You set the dish in the rack. “Honestly? I never planned on working with kids. Didn’t grow up thinking I’d be a nanny, that’s for sure.”

He watched you, brows slightly lifted. “Then how?”

You paused, thinking about how to phrase it. Your voice came softer now. “I had a little brother. Just a few years younger than me. Our mom was... not around much. And our dad was even less.”

Joel’s face didn’t shift, but something in his eyes tightened—quiet understanding. Shared terrain.

“So it was just the two of us most days,” you continued. “I’d cook, help with homework, break up tantrums... eventually you figure out what works. What doesn't. You learn when to joke and when to just sit next to 'em and let the storm pass.”

“Still sounds like teachin’,” he said quietly.

You smiled faintly. “Maybe. But I don’t like classrooms. I like people. One-on-one. The mess of it.”

Joel nodded, slowly. He reached past you to set a mug in the drying rack, his arm brushing yours—barely there, but it lingered just long enough to be noticed.

You didn’t move away.

He cleared his throat, voice lower now. “That brother of yours... where’s he now?”

Your hands stilled for just a second under the warm water. Then you shook your head, barely.

“Gone. Car accident. Years ago.”

Joel didn’t say sorry. He didn’t need to.

Just stood a little closer, like he was there instead. Holding the silence steady for you.

You glanced up at him—caught his eyes. Tired, thoughtful, always heavier than they let on. And for a moment, you saw it again—that thing underneath all his quiet. The grief. The grit. The fierce way he clung to the pieces that were left.

“You lost someone, too?” you asked.

He didn’t answer right away. Just nodded. Once.

Then: “Yeah. My other girl. Long time ago.”

Something settled between you—unsaid, but understood. Like a door had opened without either of you realizing it.

You reached for another plate.

“So,” you said softly, “two experts in surviving chaos walk into a kitchen…”

Joel gave a tired huff. “Sounds like the start of a bad joke.”

You grinned. “Might be. But so far, the punchline’s not half-bad.”

The last dish clinked into the drying rack, and you wiped your damp hands on a kitchen towel. The quiet had deepened into something different now—later, slower. Crickets outside the window. The kind of stillness that makes you notice things. Like how close Joel was standing. How neither of you had moved to say goodbye yet.

You glanced at the clock on the stove. “I should probably get going. It’s late.”

Joel shifted, like he’d been waiting for you to say it but didn’t love hearing it. His gaze flicked toward the hallway upstairs, then back to you.

“I’ll drive you,” he said simply.

You gave him a look. “I’m fine to wait for a taxi.”

“It’s late,” he repeated, like that settled it. “And Tommy’s swingin’ by in ten. I already texted him—he can keep an eye on Ellie till I’m back.”

You tilted your head. “So you planned this, huh?”

Joel just gave a small shrug. “Figured you might not argue.”

You didn’t.

The truck was warm from the afternoon heat, even with the windows cracked. The road stretched out in front of you in slow-moving darkness, the kind that hummed in your bones. Joel kept one hand on the wheel, the other draped loosely over the top of it, knuckles relaxed, thumb idly tapping against the worn leather.

Neither of you talked for the first few minutes.

Not because there was nothing to say—more like everything was sitting close to the surface, waiting to be picked at.

“You know,” you said finally, staring out the windshield, “this is the part where you usually find a way to ask more questions. Get to know me more. The classic ‘drive home’ move.”

Joel’s mouth pulled into a faint smirk. “That so?”

You nodded. “Yep. It’s the oldest trick in the book.”

He glanced at you sideways. “And you think I’m pullin’ tricks?”

You shrugged. “I think you don’t do anything without a reason.”

He didn’t respond to that right away. Just tapped his fingers against the wheel again, thoughtful.

Then: “Alright. What’s the book say I should ask?”

You grinned. “Favorite color. Deep childhood trauma. Last show you binge-watched. That kind of thing.”

Joel huffed under his breath. “Let’s skip the color.”

“Too intimate?”

He shot you a look. “You’re pushy.”

“And you’re avoiding.”

His smirk deepened, but he didn’t argue.

A beat passed. Then another.

“You really love her, don’t you?” he asked quietly, eyes still on the road.

You blinked. “Ellie?”

Joel nodded.

“Yeah,” you said. “She’s a good kid. Even when she’s being a pain in the ass.”

“She loves you, too. A lot.” His voice was soft now. Honest. “Didn’t think I’d see that again.”

You glanced over at him—at the weight behind that simple statement. He wasn’t just talking about Ellie.

“She needed someone,” you said. “Not a babysitter. Not a therapist.”

He didn’t say anything for a while. Just drove, the silence stretching and tightening like thread.

Then, as he pulled up in front of your place, he threw the truck in park but didn’t kill the engine.

You unbuckled your seatbelt, but didn’t move to open the door yet.

“Thanks for the ride,” you said.

“Yeah.” He looked at you for a second longer than he should’ve.

Then, low, a little hesitant: “You wantin’ to do dinner again sometime? When it’s not about Ellie?”

You paused, a beat of surprise flickering across your face.

He rubbed his thumb along the leather wheel, suddenly more focused on it than anything else. “Just figured... you already know where I live.”

You smiled. “Are you asking me out, Joel Miller?”

“Not if you’re gonna say no.”

You laughed under your breath. “I’ll think about it.”

Joel looked at you then—really looked. Quiet, steady, like he was filing away every part of your expression.

“I can wait.”

You opened the door, stepping out into the warm night air. But before you shut it, you leaned down again, one hand on the frame.

“Same time tomorrow?”

He nodded. “Yeah. Same time.”

You closed the door gently and walked up the path to your front door without looking back.

But Joel stayed parked for another minute longer than he had to.

Just in case you did.

You were halfway through a lazy Tuesday—hair still damp from a late shower, curled up on the couch with a book you’d been trying to finish for months—when your phone buzzed.

[Joel Miller: You free today?]

Three dots hovered. Disappeared. Hovered again.

Then:

[Joel Miller: I know I said take the week, but this kid’s gonna make me lose my fuckin’ mind.]

You grinned, already picturing him rubbing a hand down his face, sitting at the edge of the couch while Ellie bounced off the walls behind him like a Red Bull-fueled goblin.

Another message popped up:

[Joel Miller: I’ll pay you, obviously. Just for a few hours. I owe you double if you get her to eat something green.]

You laughed and quickly typed back:

YouHow desperate are we talking?

[Joel Miller: She built a catapult in the backyard. From my rake, a lawn chair, and duct tape. I think she’s trying to launch the neighbor’s dog.]

A beat passed. Then:

[Joel Miller: Please.]

You shook your head, already grabbing your bag.

When you pulled up, the front door was wide open, and Joel was standing just inside it, looking like he hadn’t slept in a week.

“Hey,” you called as you walked up the porch. “Still got all your limbs?”

He stepped aside to let you in, exhaling like someone who’d just been handed a lifeline. “Barely. I had to confiscate a slingshot made outta a bra and a curtain rod.”

You smirked. “Ellie’s going through her ‘evil genius’ phase. It’s healthy.”

“Healthy for who?”

Then, from upstairs: “Is that her?! Did you bring snacks?! I’m starving and Dad tried to feed me something called ‘quinoa’!”

Joel pinched the bridge of his nose. “That was a salad, for the record.”

“I’m suing!”

You covered your mouth to hide a laugh. “You really thought you didn’t need me for a whole week?”

Joel gave you a long, dry look. “I was cocky.”

You tossed your bag on the usual hook. “You were delusional.”

Ellie came thundering down the stairs, socked feet sliding on the hardwood as she nearly collided with the bannister. She saw you and lit up like a goddamn firework.

“THANK GOD. I’ve been stuck with the grumpiest man on earth for three days.”

“I heard that,” Joel muttered.

She ignored him, grabbing your hand like she hadn’t seen you in a month. “We have so much to catch up on. Did you see the finale of the space show? I cried for like an hour. Also I have a new joke. Also I drew something that looks exactlylike Joel if he were a potato.”

You raised a brow. “Sounds like we’ve got a full schedule.”

Joel watched the two of you move toward the couch like you’d never left, like this was just another day in your rhythm. You and Ellie falling into step, heads bent together, conspiratorial and effortless.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “You sure you don’t mind?”

You looked back at him over your shoulder.

“I do mind. But I like the paycheck. And the chaos.”

Joel’s lips twitched. “I’ll make you dinner again.”

“Deal,” you said without missing a beat.

And just like that, you were back—right where you were supposed to be.

The kitchen lights were dimmed low, just the warm underglow from the stove left on. You sat on one of the bar stools, elbows resting on the counter, a half-empty glass of water in front of you while Joel rinsed off the cutting board.

Ellie was upstairs with her headphones in, supposedly working on some drawing, but judging by how quiet it had gotten, you were 90% sure she’d passed out halfway through.

Joel reached for a towel and dried his hands slowly, glancing over at you.

“You always this patient with kids?” he asked, voice low and a little rough from the day.

You leaned your chin in your hand. “Only the weird ones.”

A smirk ghosted across his face. “So... all of ‘em?”

You shrugged, smiling. “Weird kids are the best kind. Smart enough to keep you on your toes. Emotional enough to make you question your sanity.”

Joel nodded, leaning his weight into the counter across from you, arms folded. “You ever get tired of it? Having to be the grown-up?”

You looked at him for a beat, something unreadable in your expression. Then:

“Sure. But then I hang out with Ellie and realize being a grown-up just means knowing when to pick your battles... and when to steal the last slice of pizza before a kid does.”

Joel gave a soft chuckle under his breath. He didn’t laugh often—not fully—but he was doing it more around you. You noticed. He knew you noticed.

“You took the last slice,” he said.

You raised an innocent brow. “I earned the last slice.”

“Could’ve split it.”

“That’s not how survival works, Miller.”

He looked at you then—really looked. Leaned just a little closer, elbows on the counter now, eyes darker in the low light.

“You always this mouthy after dinner?” he asked, a thread of something unmistakably flirtatious winding through the words.

You didn’t break eye contact. “You always this charming when you’re not pretending to be grumpy?”

His smirk deepened—but just slightly. Like he didn’t want to give too much away, not all at once.

“I’m not pretendin’.”

“Mm.” You took a slow sip from your glass. “Could’ve fooled me.”

Joel watched you for a moment longer, like he was weighing something behind his eyes. Something quiet and careful. You could feel it in the space between you, close but not crossing—yet.

“You got a ride home tonight?” he asked suddenly, casual but not really.

You gave him a slow smile. “Nope.”

“Good,” he said, pushing off the counter. “I don’t mind driving you.”

“I figured,” you said, your voice lighter now, teasing. “Since you texted me please earlier today.”

Joel paused mid-step, turning back with a dry laugh. “I was desperate.”

“You were cute.”

He shot you a look. “Don’t push it.”

You stood, grabbing your bag off the hook by the door. “No promises.”

As you stepped out into the night together, the space between you was quiet—but it buzzed with something new now. Something unspoken. And as Joel opened the truck door for you without saying a word, your fingers brushed his.

Neither of you pulled away.

The truck rumbled low beneath you as the tires rolled over the quiet neighborhood roads, streetlights blinking by in amber streaks. The windows were down just enough to let the night breeze in—soft and warm, thick with the smell of cut grass and sunburned pavement.

Joel’s left hand sat loose on the wheel, fingers tapping faintly to the beat of whatever old country song murmured low from the radio. His right hand rested near the gear shift, relaxed, steady.

You watched him from the passenger seat for a long moment, then turned back to the windshield.

“Can I ask you something?” you said, voice quieter than before. Less teasing. More... curious.

Joel didn’t look at you, but you saw the way his jaw tensed slightly. “You just did.”

You huffed. “Smartass.”

That earned you the faintest smirk.

A few more seconds passed before you asked it.

“Have you ever… tried to date anyone? Since Ellie, I mean.”

The question landed soft, but heavy. Not invasive. Just honest.

Joel didn’t answer right away. His hand flexed once on the wheel. Then he exhaled slow, eyes on the road ahead.

“Yeah,” he said finally. “A couple times.”

You didn’t rush him. Just waited.

“They didn’t stick,” he added, a little tighter now. “One of ‘em didn’t want a kid around. The other tried too hard to act like Ellie’s mom.”

You nodded slowly. “And Ellie?”

Joel’s eyes flicked to you, then back to the road. “She didn’t like ‘em. She never said it outright, but I could tell.”

You tilted your head. “How?”

“She got quiet. Moody. Didn’t talk to me for a few days after I had someone over once.” He gave a small, humorless laugh. “Think that was her way of votin’ someone off the island.”

You smiled faintly. “Smart kid.”

“Too smart,” Joel muttered, shaking his head. “She doesn’t trust easy. Doesn’t let people in quick. And when she does…”

He trailed off, his voice dropping quieter.

“When she does, she holds on tight. Doesn’t like change.”

You looked out the window, the dark sliding past like water. Then you spoke, soft but certain.

“She wouldn’t push me out.”

Joel’s hand paused mid-tap on the wheel.

You didn’t look at him. “I’m not trying to be her mom. I’m not trying to be anything, really. Except someone who actually sees her.”

Silence stretched between you—charged, thick, but not uncomfortable.

Then Joel said, “She does see you. More than you know.”

You turned your head. This time you caught him looking. Just a glance—but it lingered. A little too long.

“I think that’s what scares me,” he said.

You let that sit for a moment. Then, gently:

“You ever wonder if maybe... it doesn’t have to?”

Joel pulled into your driveway slowly, headlights washing over the front steps. The truck idled in the quiet, engine ticking softly.

He didn’t speak. Not yet.

Just sat there, fingers resting still on the wheel, like he was turning something over and over in his mind. Something fragile. Something real.

Then, low:

“Yeah. I wonder.”

Your hand brushed the door handle.

You didn’t move to open it yet.

Neither did he.

You watched him in the quiet.

His profile in the half-light—worn, strong, tired in the way only someone who’s carried too much can be. That little line between his brows when he was thinking too hard. The way his fingers stayed resting on the wheel like he hadn’t decided if he wanted to drive off yet—or stay.

Your mouth opened. Then closed.

Don’t say it, you told yourself.

You reached for the door handle, your voice low and a little softer than it had been in the truck all night.

“Thanks for the ride.”

Joel glanced over, eyes steady, unreadable. “Yeah. ‘Course.”

You hesitated a beat longer. Let the silence hold its breath.

Then you added, quieter—almost a whisper, but not timid.

“Before I say anything stupid.”

Joel’s gaze sharpened just a little. But he didn’t push. Didn’t ask. Just let you have your exit, same way he always did when you needed space.

You pushed the door open and stepped out, the warm night brushing your skin like a second thought. You didn’t look back, but you felt his eyes on you as you walked up the steps.

You reached the door, paused with your key in hand.

Then—just before you went inside—you turned back.

Joel was still sitting there in the truck. Still watching. Not driving off. Not letting go.

Then you slipped inside, the door clicking shut behind you, leaving the night quiet and the truck idling in your driveway—engine low, heart loud.

The bar wasn’t crowded, but it was loud enough to blur out the week behind you. Low music, dim lighting, the smell of cheap whiskey and warm bodies pressed too close to tables too small.

You were at the corner of the bar with a half-empty glass in front of you, one leg crossed over the other, the slow curve of a smile on your lips from some half-drunk joke your friend had just told. You weren’t really buzzed yet—but you were warm. Comfortable. Not thinking about work or tantrums or bedtime routines.

Which is exactly why the last voice you expected to hear behind you was his.

“Well, look at that,” Joel murmured, slow drawl just low enough to scrape across your skin. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

You turned, a flicker of something sharp and amused flashing through your eyes.

Joel stood there, casual as ever—but different. Not in a T-shirt stained with oil or dirt from the backyard. Not with a dish towel over his shoulder. No, tonight he was clean-shaven, sleeves rolled up, one hand tucked in his jeans pocket and the other resting on the edge of the bar.

Beside him was Tommy, already halfway through a beer, offering you a crooked, familiar grin.

“Hey,” he said. “Didn’t mean to crash the party.”

You shook your head slowly, eyes still on Joel. “Not crashing. Just unexpected.”

Joel raised a brow. “That good or bad?”

You leaned on your elbow, smirking faintly. “Guess I’ll let you know.”

Tommy snorted into his bottle and stepped away to give someone else a hug across the bar—leaving you and Joel standing just a little too close in the noise.

You tilted your head. “Where’s Ellie?”

“With Maria,” Joel said, sliding onto the stool beside you. “They’re doin’ some kind of sleepover thing. Face masks. Painted nails. That whole routine.”

You laughed. “Bet you’re relieved.”

Joel took a slow sip from the beer the bartender slid in front of him. “I am. She tried to paint my nails last weekend.”

“Should’ve let her.”

He looked at you then, over the rim of his glass, the corner of his mouth pulling up. “She said I’d look good in lavender.”

Your eyes narrowed just slightly, lips curling. “She’s not wrong.”

The music thumped low behind you, the chatter of the bar a comfortable hum around the edges. For a few seconds, it was quiet between you. Then:

“You look different,” he said.

You arched a brow. “Different how?”

Joel’s gaze dipped—just for a second. Over your bare shoulders. The dress you wouldn’t wear around Ellie. The slow confidence in your posture. The way you weren’t his nanny tonight.

“Just... different,” he said. Voice rough. Honest.

You leaned a little closer. “And you showed up to a bar instead of passing out in front of the TV with a beer and ESPN reruns. That’s new for a father.”

Joel chuckled, low. “Maria told us we needed a night out. She basically pushed us out the door.”

“Remind me to thank her.”

He looked at you again, longer this time. Like he was seeing the version of you that wasn’t just Ellie’s babysitter. Not just the calm in the storm.

The silence stretched—slow, charged.

You lifted your glass. “So what happens now? Do we pretend we don’t know each other that well, or do you ask me to dance and surprise the hell out of me?”

Joel didn’t smile—but he didn’t look away either.

“I don’t dance,” he said quietly.

You smirked. “Didn’t think you did.”

“But,” he added, tipping his beer toward yours, “I can buy you another drink.”

Your glasses clinked, quiet and deliberate.

And just like that, the rules shifted.

Tonight, you weren’t working.

The night was warm even inside the bar, and the music had shifted—something slow with a little twang, something with a beat that settled in your chest. You took another sip of your drink, then turned your body toward Joel, your legs crossed in his direction.

He was still watching the room like he didn’t quite trust it. Or like he was looking for an excuse to bolt before he said something he couldn’t take back.

So you leaned in closer, voice just loud enough to cut through the low thrum of the music.

“I think you’re lying.”

Joel’s eyes flicked to you, confused. “About what?”

“You do dance,” you said, grinning now. “You’re just too proud to admit it.”

He let out a small scoff. “I don’t.”

“You do,” you said, already sliding off the barstool. You held your hand out to him. “C’mon. It’s not a wedding. It’s not even a good song. Nobody’s watching.”

“I’m watchin’,” he muttered.

“Great,” you said, tugging him lightly. “Then you’ll have a front-row seat when I show everyone your two-step.”

Joel gave you that look—that tired, half-exasperated, half-amused look he usually reserved for Ellie when she roped him into something absurd.

But your hand was still out.

And his eyes lingered on it.

A beat passed.

Then he muttered something under his breath about peer pressure and stood, downing the last of his beer before sliding his hand into yours.

“Don’t expect twirls,” he warned.

“No promises,” you said, and led him out to the floor.

The bar wasn’t crowded, just a few couples swaying, the occasional off-beat shuffle. Nothing fancy. No one watching. Just you and Joel, the slow drawl of the guitar wrapping around the room.

He moved like he hadn’t done this in a long time—stiff at first, cautious—but his hand was steady at your waist, and the way he looked at you? Like there was no one else in the damn building.

You grinned up at him. “See? Not so bad.”

“Feels like middle school,” he muttered.

“I wouldn’t have danced with you in middle school,” you teased. “You would’ve been the kid standing against the wall with your arms crossed.”

He smirked. “I was that kid.”

“Exactly,” you said. “And now look at you. Livin’ the dream.”

The music played on, something slow and easy, and after a while his hand settled more naturally at your hip. You didn’t talk much. You didn’t need to.

Your chest nearly brushed his with every movement. Your fingers laced lightly with his. You felt his thumb draw the smallest circle over your side once. Just once. Like he didn’t mean to. Like maybe he did.

When the song ended, you didn’t move away right away. Neither did he.

You looked up at him, your voice softer now. “Told you I’d surprise you.”

Joel met your eyes—and for a moment, he didn’t say a damn thing.

Then, low:

“You always do.”

You left the dance floor still warm from the touch of his hand.

Joel trailed behind you, his fingers brushing the small of your back once before falling away. You made your way to the bar, ordered another drink—something colder this time, easier—and turned toward the front doors without a word.

He followed.

Outside, the air had dropped a few degrees. Still warm, but edged with something cooler. The kind of summer night that hinted at fall creeping closer. The street was quiet except for the neon bar sign buzzing above, and the distant hum of tires down the road.

You leaned against the brick wall just outside the door, drink in hand, eyes on the night sky. Joel came to a stop beside you, arms crossed loosely, his shoulder not quite touching yours.

“You do that often?” he asked after a few seconds.

You turned your head. “What?”

“Dance with strange men in bars.”

You smirked. “You’re not a stranger.”

He looked away, toward the parking lot. “Still.”

You took a slow sip of your drink, letting the quiet sit there for a moment.

“I don’t,” you said honestly. “It’s not really my thing.”

Joel glanced at you, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. “But you did tonight.”

“Yeah,” you said. “I did.”

His gaze didn’t leave yours this time.

“Why?”

You didn’t look away. Not now.

“Because you looked like you needed someone to pull you out of your own damn head.”

Joel huffed under his breath. “Not the first time I’ve heard that.”

“Won’t be the last,” you said, softer now.

Another pause. He shifted his weight, arms still folded, but his stance had softened. Less closed off.

You tilted your head slightly. “You ever think about what’s next?”

Joel looked over at you. “For what?”

“For you,” you said. “Ellie’s not a baby. She’s got school, friends. One day she won’t need a sitter.”

He gave a low grunt. “She’ll always need someone.”

“She has someone,” you said gently. “She has you. But you? I’m not sure you let yourself need anyone.”

His jaw worked at that, like the words caught somewhere between his chest and throat. “Don’t think I got the luxury of needin’ much.”

You stared at him for a beat.

Then, voice quiet but firm: “You do.”

He turned his head toward you, slow. His eyes found yours again, darker now, more focused.

The silence between you was loud. Louder than the bar, louder than the music. And when he spoke again, his voice was low, rough:

“You scare the shit outta me, y’know that?”

You blinked. “Because I speak the truth?”

He shook his head slightly. “Because I don’t know what the hell to do with it.”

Your hand slid down the side of your drink, the condensation damp on your skin. You looked at him—really looked.

“I’m not askin’ you to do anything,” you said. “I just... want you to stop pretending like this is nothing.”

Joel didn’t respond. Not with words.

But he looked at you like he’d been holding his breath for weeks. And maybe now, for the first time, he finally let a little bit of it go.

Joel still hadn’t looked away.

That silence between you had sharpened—not awkward, not empty, just full. Too full. The kind that vibrated between two people standing a little too close, not touching but thinking about it, both of them feeling the heat and pretending it wasn’t there.

You exhaled slowly and set your drink on the little ledge behind you. The words sat heavy on your tongue, but they came out smooth, low, like you’d been holding them in your mouth for days.

“But...” you started, and Joel’s eyes flicked up from your mouth to your eyes in an instant. Alert. Waiting.

“If I could ask you to do something…” You let the space between each word linger.

His jaw tensed.

You tilted your head just slightly. Your voice dropped to barely more than a whisper.

“…it’d be to kiss me.”

The moment cracked wide open.

Joel didn’t speak. Didn’t ask if you were sure. Didn't smirk or joke to cover it.

He just moved.

A slow step forward—then another. And then his hand was at your jaw, calloused thumb brushing the side of your face with aching care. His other hand came to rest at your hip, grounding you like he thought you might vanish.

Your breath caught—but you didn’t pull away.

“Don’t start somethin’ you can’t finish,” he said, voice rough, eyes searching yours like this was some kind of line he couldn’t uncross.

You whispered back, steady and certain:

“Then finish it.”

Joel didn’t hesitate after that.

He kissed you like he’d wanted to for weeks—slow, deliberate, no rush, no panic. Just the weight of it. The truth of it. His mouth warm, the scrape of his stubble against your skin, his body pulling just slightly closer like he couldn’t help it anymore.

And when he finally pulled back, just enough to breathe, his forehead rested against yours. His hand didn’t leave your waist.

Neither of you spoke.

Because whatever this was—it wasn’t nothing.

And now, neither of you were pretending otherwise.

His forehead still rested against yours.

His thumb brushed your jaw, slow and warm.

And your heart? Your heart was making a damn scene in your chest.

You cleared your throat softly. “So... I guess that’s a yes, huh?”

Joel pulled back just enough to meet your eyes again—close, still too close—and gave the smallest smirk. “You asked.”

You nodded. “Right. Yeah. Technically. I’m very persuasive. It’s a gift.”

He raised an eyebrow, silent.

You tried to hold his gaze. Really, you did.

But your brain was suddenly short-circuiting, and before you could stop yourself, you were rambling—

“I mean, it’s good that you finally kissed me. I was worried I’d have to start making PowerPoints. Slide one: reasons Joel Miller is scared of his own feelings.”

He huffed a laugh. “You done?”

“Nope,” you said, suddenly aware your hands were still resting on his chest. “I’ve got a whole bit about emotional repression and denim.”

Joel blinked, caught halfway between a groan and a grin. “Jesus.”

“It’s not mean,” you insisted, your smile crooked and too wide now. “It’s... lovingly observational.”

Joel stepped in again, closer—too close—and the way he looked at you then, it shut your mouth right up.

“You always talk this much when you're nervous?”

You blinked.

“I’m not—” You stopped. Glanced away. “Okay, maybe a little.”

Joel tilted his head. “That’s cute.”

You raised a brow, mock-offended. “Cute? Don’t patronize me. I’m dangerously charming. Irresistible, even.”

He leaned in, his voice barely brushing the shell of your ear. “You’re somethin’, alright.”

Your breath hitched.

He pulled back, looking way too pleased with himself now.

“Shut up,” you muttered, trying to hide your grin as you stepped away, just enough to breathe again.

Joel smirked. “Didn’t say anything.”

“Yeah, well, stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m yours already.”

He didn’t answer. Just looked at you—quiet, steady.

And didn’t deny it.

Joel lingered by the bar long enough to finish his drink and pretend like he hadn’t just kissed you outside like it was something he’d been aching for. Which, well—he had.

Tommy leaned an elbow on the counter beside him, grinning like a man who knew something.

“You look like you just saw God,” he said.

Joel didn’t look over. “You drunk?”

“Not drunk enough to miss the fact that you disappeared for fifteen minutes and came back lookin’ like someone pressed ‘reset’ on your mood.”

Joel sighed into his glass. “Drop it.”

Tommy leaned in, low and smug. “You finally kissed her, huh?”

Joel shot him a glare. “Don’t.”

“Didn’t deny it,” Tommy sing-songed under his breath, grabbing his coat off the back of a chair. “Go ahead. Drive her home. I’ll pick up Ellie in the morning. Maria’s probably already got her tucked in with a facemask and a mug of hot cocoa.”

Joel stared at him. “You're enjoying this way too much.”

Tommy patted his shoulder as he passed. “Yeah. I am.”

The ride to your place was quieter this time—but not the awkward kind. It was weighted. Full of those glances that lasted a little too long. That barely-there smile at the corner of Joel’s mouth whenever you said something under your breath just to fill the air.

He parked outside your place, engine idling low.

You didn’t move right away.

You looked at him. “Wanna come in?”

He hesitated—just for a moment. His fingers drummed against the steering wheel once.

Then he turned off the ignition.

Your place was small—modest, lived-in. It smelled like coffee and linen and something faintly sweet, like citrus. There were books stacked in odd places. A few records on a shelf. One lamp in the corner of the living room casting soft amber light over everything.

Joel stepped in slowly, his boots quiet on the worn rug.

You kicked your shoes off by the door and shrugged off your jacket, voice easy. “It’s not much, but the roof doesn’t leak and the heat works, so I’m basically royalty.”

Joel gave a quiet chuckle, eyes roaming the room. “It’s nice.”

“You want water? Tea? Whiskey that tastes like regret?”

“Whiskey,” he said without missing a beat.

You poured two glasses—no ice, no hesitation—and handed him one. Your fingers brushed his again. This time, neither of you played it off.

You both sat down on the couch, a little too close, knees nearly brushing.

He looked around once more. “This feels like you.”

You tilted your head. “What does that mean?”

“Comfortable,” he said. “Warm. Kinda messy in a good way.”

You smirked. “So I’m a throw blanket with trust issues.”

Joel’s grin was subtle, but it stayed. He sipped the whiskey. “Maybe.”

For a long moment, you just sat like that. Close. Easy. Quiet.

Then you looked over at him, eyes a little softer.

“You could’ve said no, you know. To coming in.”

Joel met your gaze. Steady.

“I didn’t want to.”

Your place had gone quiet.

The whiskey sat mostly untouched now, the glasses forgotten on the coffee table. You were curled sideways on the couch, one leg tucked under you, facing him. Joel hadn’t moved much, but you could feel the shift—the way his attention had settled entirely on you, like the rest of the world had faded into background noise.

He hadn’t said anything in a while.

He didn’t need to.

Your voice came out soft, somewhere between playful and a whisper.

“You’re thinking too hard.”

Joel looked up, eyes catching yours. “No, I’m not.”

“Liar,” you said, smiling.

“I’m thinkin’ about how easy this feels,” he murmured. “And how that probably means it’s a bad idea.”

Your smile faded into something softer. “Feels easy because it is. Doesn’t mean it’s not real.”

He watched you for a beat—longer than he should’ve. The quiet between you changed again. Tighter. Warmer.

Then Joel said, low, like it was pulling itself out of his chest:

“C’mere.”

He didn’t reach for you first. Just waited.

So you moved.

Slowly, like a tide pushing forward—your legs uncrossing, your hand finding his shoulder for balance as you leaned into him, heart loud but steady.

And this time, when you kissed him, it was different.

No nervous laughter. No questions hanging in the air.

Just mouths meeting like they’d been circling the same answer for weeks.

Joel’s hand found the side of your face, rough and careful, the way someone might hold something precious without knowing how. His other slid around your waist, pulling you closer until your knees brushed his thigh and your chest pressed to his. You felt the low rumble in his throat when you deepened the kiss—part surprise, part surrender.

You shifted in his lap slightly, one hand finding the back of his neck, the other pressing against his chest, steadying yourself against the solid weight of him.

Joel kissed you like he’d forgotten how not to want you.

When he finally pulled back, it was only by a few inches—his breath warm on your lips, his hand still cradling the back of your neck like letting go wasn’t an option anymore.

You stayed like that, foreheads brushing, breaths mingling.

You whispered, “Told you you’d like lavender.”

Joel laughed under his breath—barely—but the sound was rougher now, lower.

And he kissed you again.

Slower.

Deeper.

Just want. And the start of something neither of you were going to keep pretending wasn’t there anymore.

The second kiss wasn’t shy.

Joel leaned in like he couldn’t wait anymore—like holding back had become unbearable. His hand slipped behind your neck, pulling you into him as his mouth met yours again, this time with no careful edges, no guarded tension.

Just need.

The taste of whiskey still lingered faint on his tongue, but it was overrun by something deeper—something that hummed in your chest when his mouth moved with yours, slow and sure. You let yourself melt into it, your fingers curling into the collar of his shirt, your knees brushing his thigh as you leaned in, chasing the warmth of him.

This wasn’t the kind of kiss that lived in hesitation. It was heat and breath and silence breaking open between you. His hand slid to your waist again, tugging you just a little closer, grounding himself in the feel of your body against his. You felt it in every inch of contact—how long he’d been holding this in.

You made a soft sound against his mouth without meaning to, and that was it—that was the moment something in him shifted.

Joel deepened the kiss, one hand tightening at your hip, the other threading into your hair as he tilted his head, breath catching as you moved with him. He kissed like a man who didn't get chances like this often—and wasn’t about to waste one now.

You pulled back only when the breathless ache hit your lungs, but even then, you didn’t move far. Your lips hovered over his, your forehead resting lightly against his.

“Joel,” you whispered, and his name in your voice sounded more like please than anything else.

His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth, like he could still feel the kiss there.

“You alright?” he murmured.

You smiled, flushed and bright-eyed, trying to keep your voice steady. “Yeah. Just… checking reality still exists.”

Joel huffed, his voice low and worn. “Still here.”

You touched your fingers to the collar of his shirt, idly brushing the fabric. “That felt like something we don’t walk away from.”

His hand stayed at your waist, thumb moving slow against your side. “I wasn’t plannin’ on goin’ anywhere.”

And without a word, you leaned in and kissed him again—slower this time, less desperate. Like it was yours now.

Like he was.

And this time?

He didn’t stop.

You were still pressed close, bodies tangled on the couch in the low light of your living room, mouths only barely apart. Joel hadn’t let go of your waist—his thumb still stroking slow circles against your side like he couldn’t stop touching you even if he tried.

And you, trying to find somewhere to put all that heat swelling in your chest, fell back on instinct: the joke. Your voice came out soft, a little breathless, still smiling. “Y’know, I think this means I’m officially sleeping with my boss.”

Joel’s breath hitched—just the smallest pause in his exhale—and you watched his face shift, something flickering behind his eyes.

Then he huffed a laugh, low and rough.

“Is that what this is?” he murmured, voice thick.

You grinned. “Well, technically, you hired me.”

He leaned in again, forehead almost brushing yours.

“And technically,” he said, tilting his head just slightly, “you’re not on the clock.”

“Mm.” You smirked, heart hammering. “Guess this is off-the-record intimacy, then.”

Joel made a sound in his throat—something between a laugh and a groan—and then?

He kissed you again.

Deeper this time. More sure. More greedy.

Like that dumb joke had snapped the last thread holding back the part of him that just wanted. His mouth met yours with no hesitation now, open and warm and intentional, and he kissed you like he couldn’t help it—like you being smart-mouthed and flushed and half-laughing under him was the most irresistible thing in the goddamn world.

You gasped softly against his lips, and he took that sound like an invitation, kissing you harder, one hand in your hair, the other guiding you closer until your body was all but in his lap. You wrapped your arms around his shoulders, pulling yourself in like the space between you had never existed at all.

He finally pulled back, just an inch, chest rising slow, his forehead against yours again.

“You keep talkin’ like that,” he rasped, “I’m not gonna stop.”

You smiled against his mouth, barely whispering, “That a threat or a promise?”

His mouth twitched.

And then he kissed you again.

Because of course he did.

He liked the way you teased him. Liked the way you said the wrong thing at the perfect time. Liked the way you didn’t try to make it smaller or simpler than it was.

And you?

You kissed him back like maybe, just maybe, you’d found someone who wanted all of you—bad jokes and all.

Your bodies moved through the small apartment like you’d been here a hundred times together, even though this was the first. Every touch was new and familiar all at once—slow kisses deepening with every breath, fingers finding skin like instinct.

Joel’s jacket hit the floor. Then yours.

He kissed you against the wall, hands bracing beside your head, your mouth parted under his as you laughed softly into it—nervous, breathless.

“Just so you know,” you murmured against his jaw, “I’m probably not some mind-blowing sex goddess. I mean, I could be, but there’s been very little peer review.”

Joel chuckled—low and warm, like gravel in his chest—and nipped gently at the corner of your mouth. “That right?”

You nodded, hands slipping under the hem of his shirt. “You, on the other hand, probably have war stories. Scars. Like... some kind of outlaw legend of Texas orgasms.”

That pulled a real laugh out of him. One that shook in his chest before he buried it against your neck.

Then he pulled back just enough to look at you, his voice rough, low, eyes darker than you’d ever seen them.

“Sweetheart,” he said, hands now at the hem of your shirt, sliding it up with slow, sure fingers, “you’re lucky if I last two seconds with you.”

Your breath caught, surprised—but your grin stayed.

He continued, words a little quieter now. Honest. Unapologetic.

“Truth is, I haven’t... gone this far with someone in a long time. Never let it get here. Not since Ellie came into the picture.”

Your voice softened. “Because of her?”

Joel nodded. “Because she didn’t like any of ‘em. Could feel it. Even when she didn’t say it. Also you can’t fuck someone in a house where a seven-year-old could walk in and ask why there's groaning on the couch.”

You snorted. “The ultimate mood killer.”

“Damn right,” he muttered, then leaned in, kissing you again—deeper this time, more urgent.

Your shirt came off. His followed.

Skin on skin now.

His hands were rough and reverent, moving slow over your sides like he was trying to memorize you. His lips trailed down your neck, his voice breaking a little as he added:

“Never gave myself the space to want like this. Not really.”

You stilled slightly, just for a breath. Your hands at his belt now, fingers fumbling—not from lack of skill but from wanting too much at once.

You looked up at him, eyes soft but steady.

“Then take it,” you whispered. “We’ve got time.”

Joel exhaled, voice low and tight.

“Yeah,” he said. “But I might still embarrass myself.”

You grinned, pulling him back down to your mouth. “It’s okay. I’ll write a glowing review anyway.”

He laughed against your lips.

And then there were no more jokes for a while—just heat, hands, and the sound of something breaking open between two people who had waited too long to let themselves want like this.

Joel’s mouth was on you again, breath hot against your neck as he backed you toward the bedroom—each step slow but heavy, weighted with the kind of want that’s been building too long to be gentle.

You were already bare from the waist up, his palms dragging over your skin like he needed to feel every inch or he’d lose his mind. The door clicked shut behind you, but neither of you stopped.

You tugged at his belt, breath ragged, but he caught your wrist before you could finish. Not to stop you—just to slow it.

“Not yet,” he said, voice hoarse.

Then he dropped to his knees in front of you.

Your back hit the bedroom wall as he pressed his mouth against your stomach, kissing lower—messy, open-mouthed, no restraint left. His hands gripped your hips, fingers digging into your skin, thumbs sliding under the waistband of your underwear, pulling it down slow.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured against your skin.

“Yeah,” you breathed.

He looked up once, eyes dark and focused. “Hold onto me.”

You barely had time to respond—his mouth was already on you.

Hot, open, hungry.

His tongue slid between your folds without hesitation, slow at first—like he was learning you by taste alone—then deeper, rougher, wet sounds filling the room as he buried his mouth between your thighs.

You cried out, one hand flying to his hair, gripping hard. Joel groaned at that—deep, from his chest—and pressed in harder, like your reaction lit something inside him he hadn’t felt in years.

His tongue circled your clit, lips sucking just enough to make your thighs tremble, then flattened against it in long, firm strokes. He devoured you like a man starving, like he didn’t give a fuck about finesse—just making you come.

And then his fingers joined in.

Two—thick, rough, his—sliding into you with a practiced curl, pressing right into that spot that made your back arch off the wall.

“F-fuck, Joel—”

“Yeah,” he growled, voice muffled by your skin. “That’s it. Give it to me, baby.”

You whimpered, hips rocking against his mouth, your hand still tangled in his hair as he fucked you with his fingers—fast, deep—his tongue never letting up on your clit, his other hand pinning your hip so you couldn’t escape.

Not that you wanted to.

You felt your body tightening too fast—an ache that had been simmering for weeks boiling over all at once, and he felt it. Pulled you tighter against his mouth, groaned again when you gasped his name.

“Come on,” he growled, lips slick.

You shattered.

It ripped through you hard and fast, hips jerking against his mouth, your whole body seizing around his fingers, pulse thundering in your ears. Joel held you through it—never easing up, never looking away. Just taking it.

And when you finally slumped forward, gasping, he pulled back slowly, fingers still inside you, watching your body twitch around them.

“You okay?” he rasped, mouth wet, voice rougher than you’d ever heard it.

You stared down at him, fucked-out and trembling, then managed a breathless smile.

“You... really weren’t kidding about the two seconds thing, huh?”

He grinned, slow and dangerous.

“Didn’t even fuckin’ start yet.”

And then he stood—tall, hard, eyes burning—and started undoing his belt.

Joel's pants hit the floor with a heavy thud, his hands already back on you—gripping your thighs, lifting you effortlessly, guiding you backward until your knees hit the edge of the bed. You dropped onto the mattress, legs open, body still pulsing from the aftershocks of his mouth and fingers.

He moved over you like a storm—pressing your legs open wider, dragging the tip of his cock through your slick folds, hissing through his teeth at how wet you still were for him.

“Jesus,” he muttered. “Look at you.”

You moaned under him, fingers gripping the sheets.

“Joel—”

“I got you,” he breathed, one hand sliding up your thigh, his other fist wrapped tight around the base of his cock as he lined himself up.

Then he pushed in.

Not fast. Not all at once. Just the thick head breaching you, then the slow stretch of him sliding deeper.

You gasped—hips twitching, breath catching sharp in your throat.

“Wait,” you whispered, voice a little cracked. “Just—just a second.”

Joel stilled immediately.

You felt the tension in his arms, the way his muscles locked down like he was holding himself back with everything he had.

“Fuck,” he groaned, voice tight. “You’re… tight as hell.”

You were full—so full—and not even all of him yet. He stayed buried halfway, his chest rising and falling hard as he leaned down over you, pressing soft kisses to your neck, your shoulder, your jaw.

“I’m not movin’,” he murmured against your skin, voice low and shaky. “Take your time. I’ll fuckin’ wait all night if I have to.”

His mouth dragged along your throat again—slow and hot—and he whispered between kisses, “You feel so good, baby. So fuckin’ good. Gonna lose my mind.”

You breathed him in—sweat and salt and something rawer—and let your hands slide up his back, nails grazing the hard lines of his shoulders. He held himself perfectly still inside you, but his lips never stopped—mouth on your pulse, then your jaw, your collarbone, whispering every filthy, reverent thing you never knew you wanted to hear.

You clenched around him, involuntarily, and he grunted—low and wrecked.

You smiled faintly, gasping, “You’re doing great for a guy who’s supposedly gonna last two seconds.”

Joel let out a strangled laugh, forehead pressed to yours.

“Say that again and I will come,” he growled.

You pulled his face back down to yours.

“Okay,” you whispered, voice hot against his mouth. “I’m ready now.”

And Joel pushed all the way in.

He bottomed out with a deep, shuddering groan—the sound ripped from his chest as your body took every thick inch of him, heat clenching tight around him.

“Fuck,” Joel hissed, voice ragged. “You feel—Jesus, you feel so fuckin’ good.”

You choked out a moan, legs wrapped around his waist, heels digging into his lower back like you wanted him even deeper.

“God, Joel—fuck me,” you gasped. “Hard. Don’t hold back.”

That was all it took.

His restraint snapped.

He gripped your hips with bruising force and pulled back—then slammed into you, rough and deep, the wet smack of skin on skin echoing through the small room.

You cried out, high and wrecked, arching up into him as his cock drove into you again and again, hard and unforgiving. He fucked you like he meant it—like it wasn’t just want, but need, years of it, buried under silence and control finally breaking loose.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he growled, mouth dragging against your ear. “You want it rough, baby? That what you’ve been thinkin’ about all night?”

You gasped out a laugh between moans, nails scraping down his back.

“I’ve been thinking about this every damn night,” you spat, eyes rolling. “That thick fuckin’ cock—stretching me open—you owning me.”

Joel let out a deep groan at that, hips slamming into you faster now, the rhythm brutal.

“You like gettin’ ruined, huh?” he muttered, breath hot on your throat. “Filthy little mouth but takin’ it so goddamn well. So fuckin’ perfect.”

“Yes,” you moaned. “Fuck—yes, Joel, fuck me. Make me come. Don’t you dare stop—”

He reached down between your bodies, fingers slipping over your clit, rubbing tight, fast circles, already knowing how to break you apart again.

“I’ll give you what you fuckin’ asked for,” he growled. “Gonna make you scream my name.”

And you did.

Your orgasm hit like fire—white-hot, sudden, unstoppable. You screamed for him as your body locked up around his cock, every nerve on fire, vision blinking out for a second like your brain couldn’t keep up.

Joel didn’t let up. If anything, the sound of your climax just pushed him over the edge.

“Fuck—gonna come,” he choked, fucking you through it, harder, faster, mouth open against your throat. “You’re so fuckin’ tight, I can’t—shit—baby—fuck—”

He slammed in deep one last time, his hips jerking against you as he came hard, spilling into you with a guttural growl, body shaking above yours.

It was raw—sweaty, breathless, every nerve buzzing.

He didn’t pull out right away.

He just stayed there—buried deep, panting, his weight braced on trembling arms, forehead against yours. His chest rose and fell against your breasts, hot skin slick with sweat.

“Holy fuck,” you breathed, laughing, wrecked. “Joel.”

He huffed, his voice a low rasp. “Don’t say my name like that unless you want round two.”

You smiled, wild and breathless.

“I do want round two.”

Joel kissed you—messy and hard—then whispered:

“Next time, I’m takin’ you apart slow. And you’re gonna beg.”

You’d let him.

Joel was still inside you, still breathing hard, still trying to recover—but you weren’t done. Not even close.

He was braced over you, chest against yours, lips brushing your jaw as he whispered some broken, half-lost Jesus Christ,like he couldn’t believe how good that had been. But your legs were still wrapped around his waist. Still holding him in. Tight.

You shifted under him, hips rolling up just slightly.

Joel groaned deep in his throat, already twitching inside you.

“The hell are you doin’?” he rasped, voice wrecked.

Your mouth brushed his ear, your voice low, hot, electric.

“Taking what I want.”

Then—you moved.

With one fast, strong shift of your thighs, you flipped him, using the leverage of his dazed body and your locked legs to roll him onto his back. He let out a grunt of surprise, arms falling open beside him as he hit the mattress.

You were already sitting up, straddling his hips, hands pressed to his chest, sweat-slick and flushed with that fucked-out glow. His cock was still inside you, already hardening again as you ground down, slow and deliberate.

Joel’s head fell back against the pillow with a growl, one hand dragging down his face.

“Fuck, woman—gonna kill me.”

You smirked, rocking your hips with dangerous purpose. “That’s the idea.”

His hands flew to your hips like instinct, trying to ground you—but you caught his wrists and pushed them back down to the mattress.

“No,” you said, breath hot. “I’m in control this time.”

Joel looked up at you—sweat-damp curls, lips parted, eyes blown wide with want—and nodded once, jaw tight.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Fuckin’ take it, then.”

And you did.

You started to ride him—slow at first, teasing, letting your body take him inch by inch again, grinding down in smooth, wet rolls that made his fingers twitch against the sheets.

“Look at you,” you murmured, rolling your hips deeper, nails dragging down his chest. “Big, bad Joel Miller—ruined underneath me.”

“Keep talkin’,” he growled, hips jerking up into you. “You know how fuckin’ filthy that mouth is?”

“I could stop,” you teased, breath heavy, leaning forward until your lips brushed his.

“You stop,” he hissed, “and I flip this fuckin’ bed.”

You moaned, loud, loving the way his voice cracked. The way he twitched inside you every time you clenched around him, teasing just enough to keep him right there—almost at the edge, but not quite.

You bounced harder, pace slamming down now, his cock thick and perfect, stretching you all over again, even better the second time.

Joel groaned, deep and wrecked. “Ride me, baby—fuck, that’s it. Take all of it.”

You leaned back, hands on his thighs, giving him the full view—your body slick with sweat, tits bouncing with every grind, lips parted, hair wild. His eyes were locked to the way you moved on him. The way you owned it.

“You love watching me fuck you like this,” you gasped.

“Yeah,” he snarled. “I do. Look at you. Fuckin’ perfect.”

You slammed down harder, faster—no rhythm now, just desperate, chasing that edge again.

Joel’s voice broke. “You gonna come again on my cock? Gonna soak me while you fuckin’ own me?”

“Yes,” you cried, hand flying to your clit, rubbing fast as you rode him, your body screaming for release.

Joel sat up at the last second, arms locking around your waist, slamming into you from beneath.

“Then come,” he snarled into your mouth. “Now.”

You screamed—his name, something filthy, something helpless—as your orgasm ripped through you again, harder this time, shaking, collapsing against his chest while your cunt milked him, spasming tight.

Joel swore loud, hands grabbing your ass, his hips jerking up into you as he came again—deep, hot, full—growling into your neck as you both clung to each other like the world might break if either of you let go.

You stayed like that. A tangled, gasping mess.

Until Joel leaned back, voice wrecked and satisfied and a little in awe.

“Well,” he rasped. “Remind me to piss you off more often.”

You grinned against his neck, body still trembling, utterly wrecked—and completely in control.

“Careful,” you whispered. “I’m just getting started.”

The room is still heavy with heat and breath when the silence cracks again—this time, your voice, a little raspy, a little smug, cutting through the aftermath like a blade laced with teasing.

You shift lazily on top of him, still straddling Joel’s lap, still warm and full of him. His chest is rising and falling beneath you, arms relaxed behind his head like a man utterly destroyed.

And you grin.

“Gotta say,” you murmur, dragging your fingers lightly over his chest, “you’re setting a dangerous precedent for how you treat your nanny.”

Joel huffs a laugh—dry and low, eyes still half-lidded, but that smirk returns. Slow. Dangerous.

“You know damn well this ain’t part of the job description.”

You lean down, your hair brushing his face, lips grazing his jaw.

“Really?” you murmur. “Because I’m feeling pretty compensated.”

Joel grabs your hips again, firm, but lazy. “You keep talkin’ like that, and I’m gonna add another round to your fuckin’ workload.”

You laugh into his neck, breathless. “Overtime?”

“Hell yeah,” he says, voice gravel. “But next time, I’m the one in charge again.”

You bite his shoulder, just enough to make him grunt.

“We’ll negotiate.”

He rolls you under him in one quick move, still grinning like a man who hasn’t smiled this much in years.

“You’re lucky I don’t put that in writing,” he mutters, kissing you again, slow now. “You’re the worst fuckin’ nanny I ever hired.”

You sigh dramatically against his mouth. “Well. You’re the best dad I’ve ever fucked.”

Joel chokes on a laugh and drops his forehead against your shoulder.

“Jesus Christ.”

And neither of you stop smiling.

#joel miller #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfic #joel miller fanfic #pedro pascal smut #the last of us #the last of us fanfic #joel miller smut #smut #joel miller x reader #gia writes joel ⋆ 𐙚 ̊.#gia writes smut ⋆ 𐙚 ̊.

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dixonsdarkelf · 2 days ago

Note

I'M SO HAPPY YOU FINISHED THIS 😭🖤

“You come here a few nights a week, we hookup and then…what? I don’t exist once your pants are back on? The one night you actually stay with me and I ask you to eat breakfast, I’ve suddenly crossed a line?” “That’s enough,” Joel muttered, jaw clenched tight.

It's already stinging. I can't wait for more.

“No, you’re not,” you said, and your voice cracked, not quite out of sadness, but rage. “You’re just—” your hand cut the air, motioning to all of him. “You’re existing, Joel. Going through the motions like you’re waiting for it all to be ripped away. You’re so damn scared of letting anything good happen that you’re choking the life out of it before it can even start.”

Okay Reader. Call the man out, why don't you?

“I’ll see you around, Joel,” you said. “I know my place. And maybe it’s just not with you.”

I'm in fucking agony 😭

But there was something about Joel that clung to you like smoke. It didn’t matter how many days you went without seeing him. He was still everywhere. Whether it was in the smell of pine when it rained, the creak of your porch steps when you’d hoped it was him, or the ache of your thighs the first time you tried to be with someone else and couldn’t go through with it. Because try you had. Over and over, you’d tried.

💔💔💔

You sank to your knees. Not for him, and not like that.

You really had me for a second there lol I was like damn.

You didn’t move, didn’t blink. You just sat there listening, because holy shit, you’d never heard this man talk so damn much. Never heard him unravel like this, like he couldn’t stop even if he wanted to. And it was pouring out of him now, fast and messy, as if trying to outrun the fear of messing it all up again.

I think this might be the most I've ever heard Joel talk lmao

“Goddamn,” he murmured, almost reverent. “She’s even sweeter than I remember.”

When I tell you I'm fucking losing it right now...

“There she is,” he said, pausing the flicking of his tongue, “Look at you, takin’ it so good, like always, baby,”

HHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

And then you heard it—gasping, raw, like it ripped itself from his chest. “I love you,” he groaned. “Fuck—I fucking love you.”

WHOA GODDAMN. I felt like I knew it was coming at some point & it still got me.

Neither of you spoke for a long moment. There was nothing to say. Just the feel of him still inside you, the heat of him wrapped around you, the echo of those three words still settling into the space between your bodies. You closed your eyes and let it all soak in. Because this time, you believed him.

Oh my heart 😭

This was so sweet, painful, and hot all at the same time. Thank you for this 🖤

Hi angel!

I’m here for a request, but not a typical one. I want to request that you finish something you’ve been working on but maybe are nervous that people won’t want it. Something YOU have always wanted to write.

Okay that’s it love you bye 🖤

𝐒𝐩𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐂𝐨𝐰𝐛𝐨𝐲

Summary: You tried to love Joel Miller the way he was. But eventually, the silence, the walls, the way he kept you at arm’s length… it broke something in you. So you let him go. || angst! fluff! smut! we got it all! MDNI 18+, Jackson!Joel, break up, joel is bad at feelings, makeup sex (eventually), pinv, love makin', lots of kissing cause I wanna kiss him, fingering, f!receiving oral, and yeah its a little corny idc, tiny mention of an age gap|| Inspired by Kacey Musgrave's song Space Cowboy a/n: taylorrrrrrr my angel girl I could cry ilysm. I’ve always had this thought that Joel Miller, at least at first, would be emotionally unavailable and like...not willing to really date. In p1, he’s constantly shutting Ellie down when she brings up Tess or Sam and Henry, Tommy when he offers him that photo of Sarah. Sure, by the end he’s more open, because Ellie made him feel something again. But I think being romantically involved would be hard for him at first. I've always wanted to explore that, and this been collecting dust in my wips since I wasn't sure how everyone would feel. so all this to say....here you go :')

For once, Joel Miller stayed the night.

Not by accident, not because he was drunk off his ass and you made him crash on your couch. No, you’d seen that version of him more times than you could count. But last night, after fucking you hard enough to leave dents in your drywall from sheer force of the headboard, he’d collapsed beside you, pulled you against his chest, and… stayed.

Almost like he meant to.

So god forbid you woke up the next morning with your cheek against his bare chest, your thigh slung over his hip, still foggy brained in the haze of sleep, and asked if he wanted to go grab breakfast at the dining hall.

You might as well have asked What are we?

Or worse: Will you be my boyfriend forever and ever, Joel?

Now he was out in your living room, shoving his boots on by the front door as sun poured in dusty light across the floorboards. You leaned against the archway in his flannel, bare legs out, nothing but the socks on your feet and silence in the air.

You watched him with narrowed eyes. To say you didn’t know what this was would be like saying the sky wasn’t blue. And you weren’t a liar.

Because you saw it, saw the same pieces being shunted between you. He was building it up again. Brick by brick. That impenetrable wall was back high and tight.

“I don’t get it,” you said finally.

He didn’t answer, only grunted.

Of course.

“That’s enough,” Joel muttered, jaw clenched tight.

The way he said made your stomach twist something ugly.

“Yeah,” you said, letting out a long breath as your voice flattened into something stale, “You’re right. That’s enough.”

You stepped in front of where he was sitting, his chin tilting up to meet your eyes for once. His brows furrowed, but he didn’t back down. He just looked at you like he didn’t understand why you were standing in the way of his exit.

“What do you want, Joel?”

He shook his head and leaned down to finish tying his boots. “Don’t want nothin’ from you.”

That stung more than it should have. “Trust me,” you said scoffing. “I got that message a long time ago.”

He stood, slow but abrupt, towering over you as if it was easier to loom than feel anything at all. “What is it you want from me, girl?”

“I want you to admit there’s something here!” you finally snapped, your blood beginning to boil, “I want you to act like all these nights mean something! Like I’m not just a warm body you crawl to when you’re lonely.”

His mouth opened, but nothing came out.

“I want you to talk to me. I want something real. But you don’t even try.”

“I am tryin’,” he said, eyes squeezing shut once before looking at you under heavy brows.

His jaw twitched, shoulders stiffening. That look in his eye—rage, grief, guilt—you weren’t sure which it was, but it burned cold and hard beneath the surface.

“You don’t know what it’s like,” he said quietly, but there was venom behind the words. “You don’t know what I’ve done.”

“Then tell me.” You stepped closer, letting your voice drop to something soft and gentle as you lifted your hands to his chest. You looked up into his eyes, now dark as storm clouds above a forest as you whispered, “Let me in.”

He didn’t answer, only stood there, breathing slow through his nose, his body rigid like he was waiting to be hit.

You shook your head, your hands falling back down to your sides in fists, “You always talk about space,” you murmured. “Needing time.”

You turned on your heel and stomped toward the door, yanking it open with a loud creak. Cold autumn air rushed in, hitting your bare skin and stinging your eyes.

“Well,” you said, voice low and bitter. “Your prayers have been answered.”

You swung your arm out toward the open doorway.

“You can have your space, cowboy.”

Joel paused for a long moment. Because maybe for once he realized you meant it. Like maybe he’d expected you to cave, to give him the same grace you always did. But you were tired.

Tired of not knowing what this was. Tired of not knowing what you were to him. Tired of the way he’d shut down and pull away when you could feel the good in him, the gold buried under all that iron.

You knew he was a good man. He just wouldn’t show it to you.

Slowly, he started toward the door. Time dragged as he approached you, whether that was because every step looked like it cost him something or you were cataloging every movement he made to store in your memory.

He reached the threshold and stopped, the morning light catching the edge of his face, soft and golden. He looked back at you, but you didn’t lift your eyes.

Then softly, just a whisper, he said your name. As if he knew it was the last time.

Finally, you looked up at him, biting your lip to keep back the tears.

“I’ll see you around, Joel,” you said. “I know my place. And maybe it’s just not with you.”

You couldn’t quite make yourself regret being with Joel.

Not even for a second.

You told yourself a hundred times in the days that followed that what happened between you and him had been real. Maybe not enough, maybe not lasting, but real. And sometimes that was all you got.

Roads were made to go down. Some just didn’t have a way back.

And if you’d been smarter, you would’ve remembered what the movies always tried to teach: the good guys don’t run away.

But the broken ones sure as hell do.

And Joel Miller had always been a runner. Even if he showed signs of want, of connection only through the nights with your name on his lips like prayer and he took your body like it was his salvation.

But when a horse wants to run, there’s no sense closing the gate.

In the weeks after you’d broken things off, you saw him everywhere. Yes, in the little things like the butcher’s stall that had a sign he’d made and the wooden figurines in your neighbor’s windowsill, but more than that, you actually saw him.

From across the market gathering whatever it was he needed one week, or the back of his head on horseback heading out with a patrol group, or his flannel at the edge of the community garden, nodding to someone like he was fine. Like nothing ever happened. He never looked your way, not once. But you looked at him.

And the days you didn’t see him were somehow worse.

You'd catch yourself worrying. Wondering if something went wrong on patrol, or…if he was holed up with another woman in a house that wasn’t yours, if he’d finally decided to try with someone easier.

Someone who didn’t ask him to talk. Someone who didn’t wear his t-shirts and expect breakfast the next morning.

Two months passed like that— slow and strange, like you were trudging through water. You kept to yourself, did your work, smiled at friends when they asked if you were okay. You told them you were tired, that you were busy. That you were fine.

But there was something about Joel that clung to you like smoke.

It didn’t matter how many days you went without seeing him. He was still everywhere. Whether it was in the smell of pine when it rained, the creak of your porch steps when you’d hoped it was him, or the ache of your thighs the first time you tried to be with someone else and couldn’t go through with it.

Because try you had. Over and over, you’d tried.

And on one stormy night, three sharp knocks slammed against your front door like warning shots.

You were curled up on the couch beside someone who was… fine. He was nice, respectful, said “please” and “thank you” and laughed at your lame jokes with his hand resting on your knee. You were trying, honest, to feel something. To find that spark again, to forget about the one you’d known all too well.

But you couldn’t force yourself to, could you? So when the knocks slammed into the wood of your front door, you were almost grateful, because the man on your couch had just been leaning in for what you were pretty sure was a kiss.

Eric? Aaron? Whatever his name was blinked, glancing toward the door. “You expecting someone?”

You shook your head slowly. “No.”

Another knock. More like a demand now.

“Let me just see who it is,” you said quietly as you crossed the room, your bare feet silent on the hardwood, and opened the door.

Joel nearly fell through it.

Rain clung to him, dripping from the hem of his jacket, pooling beneath his boots. Mud streaked up the sides of his jeans. His hair was soaked to his scalp, his eyes red-rimmed and glassy. There was something feral about them.

He didn’t even say a word as he stepped forward, grabbed your face with both hands, and kissed you.

It was messy and sudden and rough, tasting hot with whiskey, his stubble scraping your skin as he tilted your chin up, as if he had the right. As if you were still his. You froze for a heartbeat, maybe two. Because you had missed him. Missed him in ways you hadn’t even let yourself feel yet. But this…this wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. And the second that sick, hot twist of anger rose up in your gut, you shoved him.

“Joel—what the fuck—get off,” you snapped, trying to twist out of his cold, wet grip.

But he kept coming. Hands sliding to your hips, dragging you into him again, his mouth crashing against yours, slurring against your lips, “Missed you. I miss’d ya so fuckin’ bad, baby, I—”

You pushed harder this time, shoving at his chest until he stumbled back a step. He swayed, visibly disoriented, breath catching as he reached for the doorframe to steady himself. His eyes blinked slowly like the room was spinning. When he looked back at you, he looked confused. Like he didn’t understand why you were pushing him away.

Behind you, you heard the floor creak.

“Uh, what the hell is going on?”

Joel’s head jerked up at the voice.

The man stood from the couch, slow and cautious. His brows pulled tight, clearly trying to make sense of what he just walked into. Joel stared for a long moment. Then his whole body stiffened.

“What the fuck is this?” he asked, his voice lower now, that mean, Southern bite curling around the words.

You stepped into his eyeline immediately. “Joel—don’t.”

But he moved around you like you weren’t even there, sodden boots heavy on the floor as he stalked forward.

“Get the fuck out,” he said to the man.

The guy blinked, baffled. “Excuse me?”

“I said get the fuck outta her house.”

“She invited me—”

Joel began to move, an angry glower pinching his brows as he moved to get in his face, but you stepped between him, hands on his chest.

“Jesus, Joel,” you said, shoving him back again, “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Joel’s breathing was ragged, chest rising and falling fast. He turned toward you, eyes wild and heartbroken and far too open, “Can I talk to you?” his eyes glowered briefly at the man behind you, “Alone?”

“Man, you need to leave,” your guest said, annoyed.

You held up a hand. “It’s fine. I’m sorry. Just… please go.”

He looked at you for a long second, then scoffed, shooting one last glare toward Joel as he stepped out the door.

The second it closed behind him, the silence in the room was deafening.

Joel stood there in the middle of your living room like something unholy. Soaked to the bone and chest heaving. His eyes were red and full of everything he refused to say for the last two months.

The silence stretched, long and heavy.

“Baby, I–” he began, but you shook your head.

“I don’t want to hear it, Joel.” you squeezed your eyes shut, bringing your hands up to rub your temples, “Whatever it is you want to say, I need to hear it when you’re sober.”

You should’ve screamed, should’ve been angry. Hell, you should’ve thrown him back out into the rain and locked the door behind him.

But you didn’t. Instead, you stepped forward, carefully, slowly, wondering if he was just going to bolt again.

“Let’s just…get this off,” you murmured. Your fingers found the collar of his jacket, trembling a little from the adrenaline coursing through you as you tugged it down his shoulders. The fabric clung to his arms, soaked and heavy, but he didn’t fight you. And you didn’t realize til after you’d gotten it off of him that his eyes never left your face. Not once.

You hung his jacket up by your door, the fabric freezing and soggy. Then your hands moved to his flannel. The buttons were half-undone already. You didn’t ask, you just kept going.

And still, he didn’t stop you.

You pushed the fabric apart, palms brushing down the front of his chest, and God—he was so cold. But he was still him, even if the cold had gotten to him, had sunken into his skin.

You sank to your knees.

Not for him, and not like that. You just crouched down in front of him and tugged at the laces of his boots. The knot was sloppy and rushed like he had rushed in a fury to put them on. You undid it anyway, peeling each boot off one at a time, your fingers clumsy from the cold and the tension.

Neither of you spoke.

Not until you stood again, eyes meeting his. Something passed between you in that moment, raw and wordless. Maybe a kind of truce. Not forgiveness, just a single thread of mercy, offered in silence just for tonight.

Joel swayed again, catching himself with a heavy hand against the wall. His voice came out low and ragged, like it hurt to speak.

“I… I fucked up, okay?”

You could’ve screamed at him. Could’ve thrown every angry word you’d swallowed these past few months in his face. But instead, you just reached for the hem of his shirt.

“Lift your arms.”

He blinked, confused, but obeyed, sluggish and slow.

You pulled the soaked fabric up and over his head, dropping it to the floor with a wet slap.

“I’m tryin’ t’talk to ya,” he slurred, more firmly this time. “Yer not… listenin’.”

You poked him hard in the chest, “Because I don’t,” you poked again, “want,” a third poke, “to hear it, Joel.”

You poked him one last, hard time, his face turning into a grimace as his fingers wrapped around your wrist, but you kept going.

“So here’s what’s gonna happen. You’re gonna take a shower, and I’m gonna make sure you don’t bust your head open on the tub. Then you’re drinking some damn water and sleeping it off on the couch.”

He opened his mouth, but you cut him off with a sharp look.

“If you still wanna talk after that? When you’re sober and not dripping all over my floor? Then maybe I’ll listen.”

He stared at you for a long moment, rainwater still clinging to his skin, chest rising and falling. Then he nodded. Just once, his face falling, his eyes wide.

“Alright,” he said quietly. “Okay.”

You draped the blanket over him, tucking it gently around his shoulders. He was half-asleep already, sunk deep into the couch cushions, still damp around the edges but warm now, finally. Clean shirt and a pair of sweatpants he left behind many nights ago, water by his side, the softest throw you owned wrapped snug to his chest.

Joel blinked up at you slowly, lids heavy and uneven. His hair was still a little wet, curling at his temples. That same whiskey glow lingered in his eyes, glassy and soft.

“Yer so pretty,” he mumbled, words slurred as he watched you tuck him in, “Really miss’d ya.”

“Okay, Joel,” you said halfheartedly, not believing a word of it.

He blinked again, slower this time. “Even when I was t’dumb to say it… I always wanted t’come back ‘ere. To you.”

You froze.

Your throat tightened, but you forced a smile anyway. Brushed a dark hair from his forehead with careful fingers.

“Okay, cowboy,” you said gently. “Drink your water and rest. We’ll talk in the morning.”

He hummed, the sound low and content. “M’kay.”

And as you turned to leave, his hand found the edge of the blanket again, clutching it close.

You were up before him the next morning, the sky still a pale and silvery grey through the kitchen window when you set the kettle on.

You’d saved the last of the good coffee grounds for this, maybe because some part of you hoped he’d come back. Maybe because opening the jar, running your fingers through the coarse grinds, breathing in the bitter scent… it helped when you missed him.

The rich smell filled the room as it brewed, creeping into the corners of the house like a memory. You heard the low groan from the couch before you saw him. The rustling of blankets and the sound of his hand rubbing against his beard.

You poured a mug and walked over slowly.

He was hunched over, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. Bleary and still half-fogged. When he finally lifted his face, eyes squinting against the light, you held the mug out to him.

He blinked at it. Then at you.

“Thanks,” he said, voice rough with sleep and whatever was still left from the whiskey. He took it gingerly, careful to avoid your fingers.

You sat down in the corner of the couch, legs tucked under you, keeping a decent distance with your hands wrapped around your tea to ground you.

Joel took a sip from his mug, closing his eyes and exhaled a sigh, long and slow.

“Needed that,” he murmured, setting the mug on the table.

You nodded, watching him out of the corner of your eye. His beard was scruffier than usual, curling at the edges. Eyes rimmed in red, lashes still clumped from sleep. His face was carved in exhaustion, but even now, something about him still softened when he looked at you.

“I’m, uh…” he started, then shook his head and ran a hand through his hair. “I’m real sorry about last night. Feel awful.”

You gave a crooked smile. “Yeah, I figured the hangover’d be brutal.”

He shot you a look. “Not like that, smartass.”

Your smile deepened in spite of yourself. The silence between you hummed a little, something warm and bitter like old whiskey. You broke the gaze first, sighed, and stared down into your tea.

“So,” you said.

“So…” he echoed, rubbing at the corner of his jaw. His fingers rasped against the unshaven stubble. “I, uh… I ain’t so good at this.”

You nodded. That much, at least, didn’t need explaining.

“But I meant what I said,” he added quietly. “I’ve… ya know. Missed you.”

You lifted your mug again, stalling with a sip. You didn’t answer right away, and you didn’t plan to. The old version of you might’ve melted on the spot with so few words. Not this time. You needed more. Real words. The truth of it.

Joel watched you, waiting. Then waited some more.

The longer the silence stretched, the more agitated he looked. His mouth twitched, like he was finally coming to terms with the fact he was gonna have to work for your forgiveness.

He leaned back finally, one arm slung along the back of the couch, his eyes still fixed on you.

“Not gonna give me anythin’, huh?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you said, setting your mug down with a quiet clink on the coffee table, “I thought you came here with somethin’ to say.”

“I was drunk.”

“Drunk words, sober thoughts,” you said simply. “So let’s hear ’em.”

Joel let out a low groan, dragging his hand over his face again. “Okay,” he muttered into his palm before reaching for the coffee again.

He took another sip, holding the mug like it might shield him from what came next.

“I dunno all the shit I’m supposed to say,” he muttered finally. “It’s not…easy for me.”

You stayed quiet, letting him talk, even if the words came slow and uneven.

“I’m used to... keepin’ things in. Just dealin’ with whatever shit came my way. I never…never really had this before, someone who wanted to know what was goin’ on in here.” He glanced your way, tappin’ his temple.

“So when I started comin’ around here… and it felt good… felt, I dunno, safe… I think I got scared I’d fuck it up. Or that maybe I already had.”

You blinked slowly, processing the mess of it. His voice, low and gravelly, kept catching like it was tripping over things he didn’t know how to say. Like there were words he wanted to find but had never really practiced out loud.

“Joel,” you sighed, fingers fidgeting around your knees, “I just want to know…what it is you want. Because it seems like we want different things.”

His eyes found yours across the couch, setting his coffee down as he shook his head, and sat forward, leaning closer to you, “No, no. That ain’t it. I want this, I just…” he trailed off, rubbing his face into his hands. You almost felt bad, how hard this was for him.

Then, his eyes looked up, and he sat back. “Can you come here?”

You weren’t sure if you were ready for this part. Because part of you knew how fast you’d give in if you touched him. Knew how easy it would be to fall back into his arms and forget everything you’d been hurting over. But your chest ached for it. And the way he was looking at you, so raw and cracked open, it made you move against your better judgement.

Slowly, you crawled over. He shifted to make room and when you tucked yourself beneath his chin, his arm came around you like he’d been waiting. Both hands found your arm, rubbing gently like he could feel the chill under your skin.

It was odd, almost. Most of the times he’d pulled you in like this were when you were both naked, the post coitus hormones running high, limbs tangled up and skin flushed.

“Missed this,” he murmured, his voice warm against your hair.

You swallowed. You missed it too, missed him, even when he made it impossible.

He shifted just enough to tilt your chin up, fingers brushing along your jaw. His eyes searched yours, darker now but softer. You saw something there you hadn’t seen in the light before. Not when he wasn’t trying to hide it.

Then his gaze dropped to your mouth, and he leaned in.

The kiss was soft and careful, the kind that said he was still learning how not to ruin things.

You kissed him back, breathing him in, your hand fisting in his shirt gently.

But then you caught yourself and pulled away, your hand untangling from the fabric to rub your eyes, “Joel–”

“What do you need me to say?” he asked quietly. There was no bite, no sharpness in his tone. “What is it you want to hear?”

“I can’t just…tell you. I want to know what you want, not just…feeding me what I want to hear.”

His fingers stayed at your jaw, steady. He looked at you like he was searching for the right words, like he wanted to get them right this time.

“I want this,” he said. “I want you.”

His voice cracked slightly. He held your gaze, his hand still gentle on your face.

“I’m sorry I was an asshole before. I didn’t get it.”

You watched him closely as his brow pulled in. This time it wasn’t stubbornness, but something closer to pain.

“Let me try again.”

He must’ve taken your silence as hesitation, because he kept going, voice picking up like he was trying to get ahead of the panic building in his chest.

“I know how it looks, I know I’ve been—Jesus, I’ve been a fuckin’ wreck about this, and I didn’t know how to deal with it. With you. With what I feel when I’m around you. It’s not just… It’s not just wantin’ you in my bed, it’s everything.”

“I wake up thinkin’ about you. I walk around Jackson wonderin’ what you’re doin’, what you’re thinkin’ about. I’d hear someone say your name and feel like an idiot ‘cause it’d make me smile. And then I’d remember I fucked it all up. That you were done with me. That you should be.”

His gaze dropped along with his hand from your face.

“But then I’d remember...what the hell do I think I’m doin’, bein’ with someone like you? You’ve got this whole life to live. You’ve still got time. Options. People your own age who can give you things I can’t.”

He looked at you again, and this time his eyes were pained and earnest.

“What happens in a few years when I hit sixty, and you still got your life ahead of you? What happens when I’m gone and you’re—”

You cut him off with a kiss.

You surged forward and grabbed fistfuls of his shirt, pulling him into you, kissing him hard again, and again, like you could stop his words with your mouth. Like maybe if you kissed him enough, it would undo the ache in his voice.

“I was tryin’ to talk to you, you know,” he murmured against your lips, breath warm, a hint of a smile breaking through.

You nodded, laughing through the tears you didn’t remember letting fall. Your face was wet, your throat tight.

He pulled back just a little, his hand back to cradling your cheek. His eyes searched yours.

“I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s okay,” you smiled, “It’s just…I’m happy is all.”

And then he grinned back, and he was kissing you again and it was like something broke open in him. A dam cracked, all that restraint, all that aching hesitation he’d carried for months poured out in the way his hands slid into your hair, the way his mouth deepened against yours.

You barely had time to gasp before he was pressing into you, kissing you harder now, like he needed to make up for every second he’d spent staying away.

And he pushed you gently down onto the couch cushions, his palm cradling the back of your head as he guided you flat and braced himself above you. His body laid flush against yours, that familiar warmth of him enveloping you.

You felt the heat of him, the weight of him, every line of him sinking into you like he’d finally allowed himself to kiss you in the daylight.

You moaned softly against his lips, your thighs parting instinctively beneath him as he settled in the cradle of your hips. He dragged his mouth down your jaw, across your cheek, leaving heat in his wake, murmuring something low against your skin that you couldn’t quite catch—something desperate and grateful.

You arched into him, your hands sliding up his chest, and he caught one of them, threading his fingers between yours. He pulled back just enough to kiss your fingertips, slow and reverent, then your knuckles, one by one, all while holding your gaze.

"You’re so beautiful," he whispered, almost to himself, kissing the inside of your wrist this time, right over the spot where your pulse jumped.

Your skin burned under his gaze. You cupped his face with your free hand, thumb brushing his bottom lip slowly as your thighs lifted higher around his waist. You ground up against him, dragging friction against the hard outline of him beneath his sweatpants.

His eyes fluttered shut, breath catching. He exhaled like it had been held in his lungs for weeks.

“If you keep doin’ that,” he rasped, “I’m not gonna be able to take the time I wanna take with you.”

You smiled, warm and crooked. “Don’t want you to take your time,” you whispered, pulling him back down to your mouth.

His lips met yours again, deeper now, more urgent. One hand threaded through your hair, the other roaming your side as your tongue met his, soft and slick and hungry. He groaned into your mouth, kissing you deeper and deeper.

“Jesus,” he muttered against your skin, trailing kisses to your throat, “you feel so fuckin’ good beneath me, baby.”

“Missed you so much, Joel,” you breathed, eyes shutting as his teeth scraped your neck, the sting of it blooming hot under his tongue.

He was already fumbling with your shirt, pushing it up until you were bare to him, braless, chest rising and falling. His mouth latched onto your nipple without hesitation, all heat and need and reverence. You moaned, back arching, one hand gripping his hair.

“Missed you,” he echoed, voice rough, “Missed this.”

You looked down at him, gasping. He was so pretty like this—lashes low, mouth full, lips slick. Always so careful, making sure you felt good, that you were ready. That you wanted him.

He looked up at you, eyes dark with something that could only be described as devotion. “Wanna show you how much I missed it,” he said, kissing you hard on the lips before trailing back down your body. His tongue flicked out, slow, teasing, licking every inch he could get his mouth on until he reached the waistband of your pants.

Clothes disappeared fast, a blur of limbs and fabric. He hiked your legs up over his shoulders, settling between them like he belonged there. Because he did, after all.

“And don’t even get me started on her,” he said, voice playful now, pressing a kiss just above where you needed him most. “Missed her too.”

“Joeeel…” you mewled, already dizzy with how close he was.

He kissed the left side of your center, then the right, slow and careful. “Thought about her every night,” he murmured, mouth hot and close, “dreamed about how she tastes.”

And then he kissed your clit, and you jolted.

He moaned softly, like this was what he’d been starving for. His tongue flattened, dragging slow, wet strokes from your weeping entrance up to your clit, then back down again. When he pressed the tip inside you just a little, your hips rolled instinctively, your moan coming out sharp and breathless.

He let you move and grind against his mouth, his tongue, let you tangle your fingers in his hair and chase that growing pressure in your belly.

The sleep was gone now. Whatever haze he’d been in had burned off completely.

Joel moaned softly against your skin, tongue dragging another long stroke through your folds, savoring the taste of you like he’d been craving it since the second he left your bed two months ago. He kept going until your thighs trembled against his shoulders, your fingers twisting in his hair, breath stuttering out of your lungs in broken little gasps.

Then his mouth slowed. He pulled back just slightly, his lips brushing against your swollen center as he spoke, the tickle of his beard making you twitch.

“Goddamn,” he murmured, almost reverent. “She’s even sweeter than I remember.”

And then you felt his hand sliding up your leg, rough and broad, fingertips stroking the crease where your thigh met your heat. He watched you as he moved, mouth parted, eyes dark and focused, completely dialed in on the way your body writhed beneath him.

He pushed one finger in, nice and slow, and it felt like heaven and hell at once. That thick, slow pressure opening you, curling into that soft spot inside you with practiced ease. Like memory.

Your back arched off the couch. You whimpered, head rolling back. He’d always had the thickest fingers, one was all you needed to feel that tight stretch of him.

“Shit,” he groaned, watching your face as he moved it. “You feel that? How tight she still is for me?”

You could barely answer. You only moaned louder when he added a second finger, working you open, his knuckles brushing where your body fluttered around him. His fingers were so big and broad, callused, perfectly angled. They filled you so good it made your thighs shake.

He set a deep, unhurried rhythm that had the sounds of your wetness filling the room, obscene and beautiful as he brought his mouth back to your clit. He could feel the pulsing of your velvet walls around him as he continued pushing his fingers into you.

“There she is,” he said, pausing the flicking of his tongue, “Look at you, takin’ it so good, like always, baby,”

His lips pursed around your clit and sucked hard, making your breath stutter and stomach tense. Within seconds, you were arching and clamping down on his fingers, your nails digging into his scalp as he moaned against you.

Suddenly your whole body was locking up, thighs clamping around his head as you cried out, your release washing over you in a shudder that left you boneless and gasping. Joel kept moving through it, easing you down, letting you ride every last wave while he whispered against your skin.

“There you go. That’s my girl. Just like that.”

When your breath finally evened out, your eyes fluttered open and he was already moving up your body, slow and sure, kissing your skin as he went.

He pressed a kiss to your stomach, your ribs. Then up curve of your breast, all the way to your collarbone. Your throat.

And finally, your mouth.

Kissing you deep and full, he let you taste yourself on his lips. It was like honey and tang and the lingering taste of coffee on his tongue. He kissed you like he had all the time in the world, like there was no place else he'd rather be than between your thighs, tasting your breath and holding your face like it was something fragile, something his. His mouth moved slowly over yours, tongues sliding together, hands still trembling faintly with how badly he wanted you.

“Fuck,” he muttered against your lips, voice frayed. “I missed you. Missed you so goddamn much.”

Your fingers trailed down his chest, down to his waistband, dragging the pair of sweatpants down over his hips, not caring how clumsy it was. You needed him. You needed him now. He helped, kicking them off without hardly breaking the kiss. Your hand wrapped around him, hard and flushed and aching against your thigh.

“Jesus—” he groaned, his hips jolting forward into your palm, his forehead pressing into yours as his breath came hot and shaky, “Been a minute, take it easy,”

Your own body was on fire, soaked, aching for him. His voice, his hands, the weight of him over you was too much and yet not enough.

“Joel,” you whispered, “please.”

“Tell me you want it,” he said, and it didn’t sound like teasing. It sounded like pleading. His voice broke like it physically hurt him to ask. “Tell me you still want me.”

You nearly sobbed with need, “I want you. I’ve always wanted you.”

He reached between you to line himself up, the thick head of him dragging through your folds. You were so wet it made both of you groan, the slick sound obscene in the quiet room. He rocked his hips forward, just the tip pressing against your entrance.

“You’re so wet for me,” he whispered, his voice thick, breathless. “So warm.”

You writhed under him, thighs spreading wider, needing more. You could barely think.

“Joel– Jesus– please, just fuck me already.”

He smiled at that and sank into you in one long, devastating thrust, burying himself deep. You cried out, hands clutching at the nape of his neck as your body stretched to take him. Thick, hot, perfect. He filled you like he never left. Like he’d been made to fit.

“Shit,” he breathed, eyes squeezing shut as he bottomed out. “You feel like fuckin’ heaven. Always have.”

He stayed there for a second, shaking with the effort to hold back, “I’m not gonna last,” he admitted, voice strained, “Christ, been a while, huh?”

“You didn’t–?” you blinked up at him, catching your breath.

He shook his head, jaw clenched, a shiver running through him as he twitched inside you. “No. Couldn’t. Didn’t want to.”

He paused, looked down at you, eyes searching. “Did you?”

You cupped his face in your hands like he was delicate beneath your touch.

“No,” you said softly. “No one’s like you, Joel.”

Something shifted behind his eyes, something aching and raw and beautiful. His mouth fell to yours, kissing you deep, as your hips lifted to meet his.

And then he started to move.

He was slow at first, deep and dragging, every stroke deliberate, like he was trying to memorize how you felt all over again. You moaned into his mouth, your nails digging into his hair, your breath catching with every roll of his hips.

He dropped his head into the crook of your neck, his breath hot on your skin.

And then you heard it—gasping, raw, like it ripped itself from his chest.

“I love you,” he groaned. “Fuck—I fucking love you.”

Everything felt like it slowed down.

Your bodies didn’t stop moving, not yet, but something inside your chest pulled tight. Like your heart was trying to brace for impact. Like you hadn’t realized how badly you needed to hear it until it was right there, spilling out of his mouth in that low, broken voice, rough with disbelief and months of silence.

Something woke up under your skin, hot and bleary eyed, the kind of heat that lives dormant, that fills your throat and makes your pulse race. It had nothing to do with sex and everything to do with how this man was looking at you.

He was still inside you, still moving with that same steady rhythm, but his eyes were locked on yours now. Wide and dark and raw. His mouth hung open slightly like he was waiting for you to say something, anything, to tell him whether he’d just changed everything or ruined it.

Your hands came up slowly, almost in disbelief, and you touched his face, one palm to his cheek, the other curling into the back of his neck like you needed to feel he was real. Your voice caught in your throat before you could even speak, but somehow it pushed out.

“You love me?” you whispered, and the sound of your own voice didn’t even sound like yours.

“Yes,” he breathed.

Something cracked open inside you, something deep and hidden and too tired to be cautious anymore. You kissed him, harder than you meant to, your mouth catching his in a collision that felt like everything snapping. He groaned against you and kissed you back like it was instinct, like he’d been waiting for your permission to give in completely.

You pulled back just enough to breathe, your lips brushing his, your body still pulsing around him, still stretched wide and full, still needing more. “Say it again,” you whispered, not because you doubted him, but because you needed to hear it again. Needed to feel him give it to you without fear.

His hand slid to your jaw, holding you there, and his voice came softer now, steadier. “I love you.”

The words landed different this time. Less like an accident, more like a promise.

Your chest ached. You felt it rise up and out of you, that thing you’d been holding back for so long. “I love you too,” you said, and you didn’t have to think about it, didn’t need to second guess. It had always been there.

His head dipped and he kissed you again, deeper this time, not frantic like before but slow and thorough, like he wanted to feel every part of your mouth. His thrusts never stopped. They grew more purposeful now, more measured, like he wasn’t afraid anymore of where this was going, only desperate to take you with him.

He shifted slightly, reaching down to pull your leg higher around his waist, and the new angle made your whole body tense. He sank even deeper, drawing a low sound from your throat you hadn’t meant to make. You felt the build starting again, that tightening low in your stomach, that ache rising in time with every thrust, your body greedy for it, your hands clawing at him like you needed to hold on to something solid while everything else inside you fell apart.

You buried your face against his shoulder, your mouth open, your breath catching, your body clenching tight around him. He groaned your name into your skin, over and over, like it was the only word left in the world.

And then you came. Hard. Full-body, all-consuming, a wave that knocked the breath from your lungs and made your vision white around the edges. Your whole body trembled, and he held you through it, never breaking rhythm, never letting go.

He followed a second later, with a sound that sounded something close to a sob. He thrust deep and stayed there, grinding into you as he spilled inside, his whole body shuddering with the release.

You felt him lift his head to press his forehead to yours, felt the weight of his breath, the warmth of his skin, the thudding of his heart trying to slow against your chest.

You closed your eyes and let it all soak in.

Because this time, you believed him.

#❧ 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒹𝒶𝓇𝓀 𝑒𝓁𝒻'𝓈 𝓇𝑒𝒸𝓈 #joel miller #joel miller fluff #joel miller angst #joel miller smut #joel x you #joel miller x you #joel miller x reader #joel x reader #joel miller x you smut #jackson!joel #jackson!joel miller

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jo-com · 2 days ago

Text

──★ ｡𖦹°‧⭑ Love Triangle, Monaco Edition

Charles Leclerc x Fem!reader x Arthur Leclerc

୨ৎ Summary: Two brothers. One girl. And a chaotic comment section

୨ৎ Genre: SMAU

୨ৎ Notes: Some grammatical error and google translated french, hope you enjoy guys!

୨ৎ Fc: Beabadoobee & Random Pinterest Girlies

ARCHIVES ⭑.ᐟ

Missgirl_

❤️ 105k 💬 15k

Liked by Charles_Leclerc, Lilymhe, Arthur_Leclerc and others

Missgirl_ Tea anyone?

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Username What’s 4 + 4?

Username ATEE🔥 ❤️ by the Author

Username the only tea i need is of you and the brothers👀

Username no cuz same😔🤚🏻

Charles_Leclerc belle comme toujours🥰

Missgirl_ tu es plutôt beau toi-même😉 ❤️ by Charles_Leclerc

Username SOMEONE PLEASE TRANSALE THIS!!

Iamrebeccad on my knees rn as we speak

Missgirl_ I DO ALREADY🤭

Carlossainz55 ???

Lando what no drama?

Username SAME GIRL SAME

Username “I am just a girl” vibes

Username he’s a girls girls fr😮‍💨

Username girl you’re not giving. you’re snatching lives.

Username this is the kind of energy you get after emotionally destroying two leclercs and sleeping fine after 💅

…

Arthur_Leclerc and Charles Leclerc Posted a story!

Replies:

Y/N → Charles

Always second?? you woke up and chose violence huh 💀

Only because he had to hear it 😌 But for you? I’ll always be first in line.

Lando → Charles

Bro. It’s always the poetic ones you come for 😭 Let him have his sunset, damn.

George → Arthur

I support emotional vulnerability. But maybe next time, sunset without the subtext?

Alex → Charles

Bro. He posted vibes. You posted a hit.

Oscar → Arthur

Next time just post the sun and log off man 😭 Charles came in SWINGING.

Yuki → Arthur

You should’ve just captioned it ‘nice view’ and walked away 💀

Y/N → Arthur

Very poetic of you, Arthur. Is this a sunset or a love confession? 👀

Depends. Did it work? 👀😏 If not, I’ve got more metaphors and all night.

…

Username someone get them a ref before it turns into WWE.

Lando this is better than the Netflix series tbh

Username WHY R U EVEN HERE MAN😭

Lando For the drama duh🙄🍿

Username Charles waking up and choosing violence before breakfast✊🏻✊🏻

Username Arthur blink twice if your ego’s okay rn 😭

Username this whole exchange was not FIA sanctioned

Username and here I was just tryna enjoy a sunset 🫠

Username Y/N checking her phone like it’s Hunger Games out here.

Username Y’all, it was just a sunset. A SUNSET 😭😭😭

…

Missgirl_

❤️ 1.5M 💬 178k

Missgirl_ Sibling peace treaty signed under my supervision 🕊️✨

Tagged; @Charles_Leclerc and @Arthur_Leclerc

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lando What did it cost you… mentally?

Missgirl_ sanity, patience, and 2 espresso shots before 9am 😩

Username this is what F1 Drive to Survive WISHES it could capture

Username they’re literally just waiting for you to turn around so they can start again 💀

Username Fr giving those vibes😭

Username THE WAY SHES ON THE MIDDLE PIC IS WILD

Carlossainz55 Please tell me there was a team principal supervising

Missgirl_ you’re looking at her. it’s me. hi.

Carlossainz55 🤦🏻🤦🏻🤦🏻

Pierregasly They look like they’re planning who gets to post you on IG next

Missgirl_ joke’s on them — I’m posting me ✨

Username Ferrari garage turning into family therapy

Username The real Ferrari team principal: Y/N L/N

Missgirl_ I don’t get paid enough for this sht🙄

Username the fact that you had to fix Leclerc family affairs is wild

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lazysoulwriter · 3 days ago

Text

define this feeling ── pedro pascal .✦

requested! thank you. content: casual-to-something-more, soft angst, established situationship, Pedro catches feelings first, gentle reassurance, lots of quiet intimacy & tender humor.

---

Rain rattles against the kitchen window like a drummer who won’t quit, steady and insistent, turning the downtown lights outside into watercolor streaks. You’re propped on Pedro’s counter, sock-clad feet swinging while he searches his fridge for something resembling dinner. It’s the kind of easy, half-dressed weeknight you two have perfected over the last couple of months—just close enough to feel like home, just distant enough to keep anyone from labeling it.

Or so you thought.

Pedro clears his throat. “Okay, hypothetical.” He pulls out a carton of eggs, sets it down, then meets your eyes. They’re too warm for hypotheticals. “Let’s say two people… spend an embarrassing amount of time together. They cook, they kiss, they do other things—” You grin. “Extremely hypothetical so far.” He chuckles, but his knuckles drum the countertop. “And this has been going on for, what, seven… eight weeks?” “Ten,” you correct without thinking. Something flickers behind his smile—satisfaction, maybe hope. “Ten. Right. So at what point—” he breaks an eggshell with more force than necessary, yolk slipping into the bowl— “do they talk about what they actually are?”

Your heartbeat stutters. You’ve dreaded this conversation, convinced it would come from you first and break whatever fragile magic you’d been enjoying. Seeing the question in his eyes instead knocks the breath from your lungs.

“What we are?” you echo, stalling for time.

He nods, wiping his hands on a dish towel. “Yeah. Because I keep trying to file us under ‘casual,’ but it doesn’t feel like a file big enough anymore.”

You hop down from the counter, suddenly restless, and start lining up two mugs—his chipped Star Wars one and your stolen diner mug. A silly ritual that shouldn’t feel intimate but does. “I like… the way things are,” you offer carefully.

“I do too,” he says, voice low. “But I like you more.” When you glance over, he’s leaning against the stove, hair a little mussed, earnest brown eyes locked on yours. “And I’m starting to think—I don’t know—recipes probably need name labels, but people shouldn’t.”

Your laugh comes out shaky. “That’s not how labels work, Pascal.”

He sighs, tipping his head back toward the ceiling like he’s searching for a script up there. “Look, I’m not asking for an essay or matching tattoos. I just…” He steps closer, fingers brushing your wrist as if he can’t help himself. “Sometimes I want to introduce you as my something, and the words get stuck.”

There’s the thrum of rain, the tick of the wall clock, the wild fluttering of your pulse. You’ve protected this almost-relationship because you’ve seen titles ruin things—turning soft colors harsh, casual laughter into expectation. But you’ve also never seen someone tiptoe around your fears so gently.

You lift one shoulder. “What would you want to call me?”

“Depends.” He chews his lip. “Can I audition a few?”

“Audition away.”

He holds up an invisible cue card. “My girlfriend—too high school?” Your cheeks warm. “A bit.” “Partner?” he tries. “Grown-up but sounds like we started a law firm.” You snort. He brightens, encouraged. “Ooh, how about favorite person? Too sappy?” “It’s… adorable,” you admit, heart loosening. He tosses the imaginary card. “Okay, okay. Unpopular opinion: I sorta love girlfriend. I like that it sounds like you got promoted from friend to something secret and cool.”

You stare at him, this man who already knows your coffee order, your allergy to mango, the silly way you hum theme-park tunes when you’re nervous. The word girlfriend used to feel like a cage; now it sounds a little like belonging.

He laces his fingers with yours. “I’m not pushing you,” he murmurs. “I just need to know if we’re going in the same direction, or if I’m the only one who keeps picturing you borrowing my sweats five years from now and yelling at me for forgetting to record whatever prestige series you love.”

“That’s a very specific future,” you tease, voice wobbly.

“I’m a very specific man.” His forehead rests against yours. “So… what are we?”

Your answer tumbles out soft, certain, surprising even you. “I think… we’re two people who made something casual and then kinda accidentally fell into something real.”

He pulls back just enough to search your face. “Accidentally, huh?”

“An unplanned road trip,” you clarify, “where neither of us wants to turn around.”

His grin blooms, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “So… girlfriend?”

You inhale rain-scented air, feel his thumb tracing lazy circles on your wrist, and let the word settle on your tongue like sugar. “Yeah,” you breathe. “Girlfriend.”

Pedro kisses you before the final consonant finishes vibrating in the air—slow, deliberate, like he’s sealing an envelope. His hands cup your jaw; yours fist in the hem of his faded T-shirt, anchoring yourself to this new certainty.

When you finally break apart, he whispers, “Can we celebrate by making ridiculously buttery scrambled eggs and dancing to ‘Sway’ in the living room?”

You laugh, giddy. “That’s how you celebrate?”

“It’s the only way.” He taps your nose. “Stay over tonight?”

“Girlfriend privilege?” you ask, eyebrow arching.

“Exactly. Comes with free coffee in the morning and an illegally comfortable hoodie.”

“Then it’s a deal.” You squeeze his hand. “But tomorrow, I’m auditioning a label for you.”

He presses a kiss to your knuckles. “I’ll wear whatever name you pick, mi corazón. As long as it’s tethered to yours.”

Rain keeps drumming, eggs sizzle, and somewhere between the first bite and the last spin across the living-room floor, the word casual vanishes for good—replaced by the quiet certainty of something worth naming, worth keeping, worth growing.

---

✦ please do not copy, repost, or translate this work. © lazysoulwriter // i write with a lot of love and care, so please respect that.

---

taglist: @sarahhxx03 @lloydmustache @lolareadsimagines @greenwitchfromthewoods @silksepia @pascalswiftie @itstokyo-cos @mani-pedro @llsister @authorbriannarae13 @introvrtedjellyfish @aj0elap0l0gist @spencercmlover @cixrosie @cherrqbaby @cup-half-full-of-anxiety @joelmillerpascal @freakbobcult @sunlightpleasure@barnes70stark @mooniscrying @ohnaurshayla @croissantbakerylws @nellispunk @kasienka @taylorswiftsrep-blog @emerencedaily @byzyz @noovaarq @kristend512 @alltounwell @libbyaller @beaagiannelli @broad-shouldrs @oceanmcu @kysosa @melloispunk @jollycupcakeblizzard @angvlicsoulll @needz1nk @daddypascal17 @agustdpeach @mrsbilicablog @k4t13ispunk @hotdadlvr95 @lnnysnts @pedropascalfan221 @queenofklonnie22 @christinamadsen @ilovecheriies @stvr-bloom

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167 notes · View notes

smutmind · 2 days ago

Note

Shuhua when it doesn't fit if you'd be so kind

When it Doesn't Fit ft Shuhua

Shuhua X BBC The science wing was empty after five. Most students had rushed home. But not Shuhua.

She stayed late, as usual—glasses perched on her nose, her tight white lab coat hugging a petite, curvy frame. She scrawled formulas on her clipboard with purpose. Her black skirt was regulation-short, socks pulled to her knees, and her ponytail bounced with every step.

Marcus was already at the workstation, leaning on the counter, muscles tensed under his rolled-up sleeves.

“You’re late,” she said without looking up.

“You love it when I make an entrance.”

She clicked her pen shut. “We’re supposed to be testing pH levels.”

He glanced at the untouched beakers. “Looks like you had something else in mind.”

Shuhua walked over, heels tapping softly, eyes sharp behind the frames. “You’re stronger than me. Taller. Maybe smarter in some subjects,” she said. “But you don’t know how to handle someone like me.”

Marcus raised an eyebrow. “What kind of ‘someone’ are you?”

“The kind who experiments first,” she said, tossing her clipboard aside. “And takes notes later.”

Her fingers slipped under the hem of his T-shirt, trailing up. “I want to measure something.”

He didn’t resist. Just watched, breath slowing, as she pulled his shirt over his head and dropped it on the floor. Her hands trailed down the planes of his chest, brushing his waistband.

“You okay with this?” she asked.

“Shuhua,” he said quietly, “I want whatever you want.”

She smirked. “Good answer.”

With a practiced flick, she unclasped her own coat, letting it fall open. Her black bra cupped her breasts just right, and when she reached behind and unhooked it, they bounced free, soft and flushed from heat.

Marcus stared, reverent.

“Eyes on the subject,” she said, sliding to her knees in front of him.

She undid his jeans, dragging them down, revealing thick, dark length already pulsing against the fabric of his boxers. Her eyes widened, amused.

“Jesus,” she whispered. “You call this a control sample?”

She pulled him free—long, heavy, thick with heat. She wrapped both hands around the shaft and tilted her head. “I should log this into the system.”

Marcus groaned as her lips parted and she dragged her tongue along the underside.

“I want to see what you taste like when I do this slow,” she said, stroking the base.

She sucked the head into her mouth, teasing him with flicks of her tongue, cheeks hollowing just enough to make it messy. Her glasses slid down her nose as she bobbed deeper, taking her time, letting him throb against her tongue.

His hands stayed back—respectful. But his breathing grew heavier, hips twitching forward as she picked up pace.

“You’re holding back,” she said, breathless. “Don’t. I want the full reaction.”

He grabbed the edge of the counter, knuckles white, as she sucked harder, spit trailing down her chin. She pumped what her mouth couldn’t take, faster now, sloppier.

His body tensed.

“Shuhua—I’m gonna—”

She pulled off just in time, looking up at him with flushed cheeks and a wicked smile.

“Not yet,” she said. “Lab work’s not done.”

She stood, pulling off her skirt, revealing black panties soaked through. She turned, bent over the counter, and peeled them down slow.

“You gonna help me test if this thing fits?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder.

Marcus moved behind her, hand sliding along her bare thigh, tracing the curve of her ass. He lined himself up, tip brushing her entrance.

“You sure?” he asked.

She arched, breath hot. “You’ve got permission. Do your worst.”

He pushed in slow—too thick at first. She gasped, bracing herself against the counter as her pussy stretched, inch by inch.

“Holy shit,” she whimpered. “You’re gonna split me in half.”

“You okay?”

“More than okay. Don’t stop.”

He sank deeper, groaning at how tight she felt. Her body clenched around him, walls fluttering. She cried out, one hand flying to grip his forearm.

“You’re so big,” she gasped. “God—it’s too good—”

He rocked into her slow, then faster, hips slapping her ass, the wet sounds echoing off tile and steel.

Shuhua’s moans filled the lab, sharp and gasping. Her glasses fogged. Sweat dripped between her breasts. “Harder, Marcus—fuck—make me forget my name.”

He thrust harder, deeper, until her legs shook and she collapsed over the counter. She came hard, pulsing around him, body locking down as her orgasm slammed through her.

Marcus grunted. “Gonna cum—inside—”

She reached back, pulling him tighter. “Do it,” she cried. “Give me everything.”

He let go.

Hot spurts filled her—pulse after pulse, thick and deep. Shuhua moaned as she felt it paint her walls, dripping down her thighs, pooling inside.

They stood there, panting, skin sticky and flushed.

Best chemical reaction she’d ever seen.

#shuhua #shuhua smut #idol x bbc #male reader smut #asks

175 notes · View notes

seitmai · 2 days ago

Note

Many thoughts

“You weren’t part of the plan, little one. But you sure as hell ain’t a mistake.”

🥰🥰🥰

“Still quiet?” “Only when I don’t know what to say.” You raised your brows. “You always knew what to say back in school.” “No,” he said, and this time it came out slower. Truer. “I just knew how to listen.”

Being good at listening well is a special and untervalued skill!

“You always dance this quiet?” you murmured. “Only with people I don’t wanna let go of.” You smiled against his shirt. “That a line?” “No,” he said softly. “It’s the truth.”

He is so sweet 🥹🥰

You kissed him like maybe it was a mistake. He kissed you like maybe it wasn’t.

I love how sure he is about this

And you swore — just for a second — you saw something in his face that had nothing to do with lust. Something like hope.

🥺🥺🥺

“You don’t look fine.” Royal leaned back in his chair. “Got that half-glazed look like a man thinkin’ too hard about somethin’ that ain’t his to think about.” That landed. Harder than Rhett expected.

Uff

Not to Royal. Not to Perry. Not to Amy, who asked why he was quieter than usual and got a headshake in return.

Of course Amy notices

“I wasn’t—I didn’t expect to see you,” you said quietly. “Didn’t expect to see this either.” His gaze dropped to your stomach, then back up. “You should’ve told me.” You swallowed hard. “I didn’t know how.” “You could’ve called.” You shook your head. “And said what? That I left in the morning and came back months later with a bump?” Rhett didn’t flinch. “Would’ve been better than this.” You hugged your arms across your chest, suddenly very small in the wide-open aisle. “I didn’t think you’d want to know.” His jaw tightened. “You don’t know me at all if you thought that.”

This conversation between them is so tense, but I think it says a lot about them and what is between them

Finally, you said it. “It’s yours.” He nodded once. No surprise. He’d already known.

🥺🥺🥺

“Boy or girl?” “I don’t know yet. I didn’t want to find out alone.” That stopped him. Softened him. “You don’t gotta do this alone,” he said, voice lower now. Steadier. “I know you think this was nothin’. That I was just some night you regret. But you’re carryin’ my kid. And I ain’t about to be some ghost in her life.”

He truly cares and wants to step up, truly wants to not because he is asked too and that's so beautiful🥹🥰

“Well, too bad,” he said simply. “Because I’m here anyway.”

And he's here to stay

He didn’t look like the boy you’d stole glance at school. Didn’t look like he needed convincing. He looked solid. Real. Like someone who’d already decided he wasn’t leaving again.

He is very sure in his decision

“I don’t know when it started. Back in school, maybe. Maybe the night at the bar. Hell, maybe before that. But it wasn’t just about the night. You gotta believe me on that.” Your lips parted, but no words came. “I didn’t say anything because I didn’t wanna scare you,” he added. “Didn’t wanna break it before it even started.”

Oh he is so sweet 😭🥰😍

“And now there’s a baby in the middle of this, and I know you didn’t ask for me to be around. I know you’re strong enough to do this alone.” You were quiet. Breathing shallow. “But I don’t want you to,” he said. “Not just because of her—him—whoever they turn out to be. But because of you.”

I am obsessed!!! How he acknowledged that he very well knows she can do it alone but he really really wants to do this together with HER 😍🥹😭

He kept going. “You don’t gotta decide today. But I need you to know—I’m not runnin’. Not from this. Not from you.”

😭🥰😭🥰😭

He looked like he hadn’t rehearsed this part. Like the grocery aisle had been raw instinct, but this—showing up again—this was commitment.

Yes! And he is doing good 👏🏻

“I brought you dinner,” he said finally. You stared. “You’re serious?” He held up the bag like it was proof of intent. “You need help. And I didn’t think ‘I like you’ was gonna be enough if I didn’t show up again.”

He is putting in the work!

He really WANTS to work for it👏🏻

You folded your arms. “You can’t just show up with groceries and expect that to make this easier.” “I don’t,” he said. Quiet. Steady. “I don’t expect you to forgive me. Or fall into my arms. I’m not that stupid.”

🥹🥹🥹

“I just want you to know that I’m here,” he said. “That I meant what I said. I want to be part of this. I don’t wanna watch you do it alone when I can stand beside you.” You blinked, throat tightening. “You make it sound simple.” “It’s not,” he said. “It’s hard as hell. But hard things are worth stayin’ for.”

He truly is along gor the ride and whatever the outcome is 🥹

“I never stopped thinkin’ about you after that night. You disappeared, and I told myself I’d imagined it all — that it was just one of those things. But now... now I know better. And I’m not walkin’ away from that twice.” Your voice cracked before you even meant to speak. “And if I don’t know what I want yet?” His eyes didn’t falter. “Then I wait. I show up. I do the dishes. I fix the porch. I buy groceries. I wait.” You laughed once — a shaky, wet sound. “That sounds stupid.” “Maybe,” he said. “But it’s honest.”

Fair haha

Halfway through dinner, you said, “You always eat this quiet?” He looked up, eyes warm with the smallest flicker of something — relief, maybe. “Only when I’m nervous.” You paused mid-bite. “You’re nervous?” “‘Course I’m nervous,” he said, nudging his tray with his fork. “You’re smart. And strong. And pissed off. And pregnant. And sittin’ across from me after months of not speakin’. I’d be an idiot not to be nervous.”

🥰🥰🥰

“You don’t have to do that,” you said, watching him from the table. “I know,” he said. “But I want to.”

“I don’t expect anything from you,” he said. “Not tonight. Not tomorrow. But I want to keep showin’ up. However you’ll let me.”

"However you'll let me" 😭🥰

“I can do one step,” he said. “I’m good at steady.” You bumped his arm with your shoulder. “You’re also good at falling off bulls.” He smirked. “Falling for difficult things is kind of my brand.”

“Because no one’s waitin’ for me to mess it up.”

Smooth 🤭

🥺🥺🥺

“I’m not here just ‘cause there’s a baby involved.” You looked up at him. Eyes wide. Still guarded. “I mean it,” he said. “I’m here because I wanna be. With you. The baby’s just…” He hesitated. Then gave a lopsided shrug. “The baby’s a happy accident. You’re the part I was already wantin’. I just didn’t know how to say it.”

Because he wants it all or nothing, as long it's with her 🥰

I totally get her side too!

“I went home. Put the test in the trash. Took another one the next morning. Same result. And I just… kept going. Like it hadn’t happened.” You paused, trying to shape it right. Then: “I wasn’t scared of being a mom. I was scared of telling you.” Rhett’s voice came out low. “Why?” “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to blow up your life.” “You didn’t.” “I didn’t want it to feel like some trap. Like you owed me something just because I kept it.”

He didn’t speak. Just set the catalog aside and slowly stood — not rushed, not dramatic. Walked the two steps over. Then he sat down beside you on the floor, shoulder to shoulder, knees bent like he was settling into something he didn’t want to leave. He rested his arms on his thighs, voice steady. “I don’t feel owed. I feel lucky.” So he added, softer: “I’m not here to fix it. I’m here to stay. Even when it’s ugly. Especially then.”

You looked at him — really looked — and for the first time, you believed it. “Tried what?” “This,” you said. “You and me. Not just because of the baby. But... because we want to.” Silence. But not the bad kind.

I love that tery share these quiet moments of just comfort between them

It's like a confession he's been carrying with him for years

Rhett didn’t blink. Didn’t laugh it off. Just sat still like the moment was sacred. “I’ve wanted that since school,” he said finally. “You were always...” He trailed off, rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t know. Untouchable. Too smart. Too pretty. Too far outta my league to even look my way.” You blinked, stunned. “I barely knew you liked me.” “I barely knew how to act on it,” he admitted. “But I never forgot you.”

That's just so beautiful 🥰

And for the first time in a long, long while — it didn’t feel like you were gambling your heart. It felt like coming home to someone who’d been waiting for you to find the door.

“She’s really here,” you said, your voice barely above a breath. “She’s ours.” He nodded, eyes still on her. “Whole world in one tiny thing.”

🥰🥰🥰

The sun shone bright on the silver band on his ring finger. He hadn’t taken it off since the day you slipped it onto him, quiet and teary-eyed at the courthouse, both of you too choked up to make a big deal of it. He’d kissed your knuckles and whispered, This don’t change us. It just makes it official.

Ahhh I love that for them 🥰

🥹🥹🥹

Now it caught the light every time he held her. And God, he hoped she’d see it one day and know it meant safe.

“Your mama... she gave me a real chance. Took a risk lettin’ me back in. And I’ll spend the rest of my life makin’ sure she never regrets it.”

And he already showed that he is willing to put in the hard work for that

“I used to think a win meant stayin’ on the bull,” he murmured. “Now I think it looks more like this.”

I LOVED this story! It was so beautiful 🥰👏🏻

Rhett Abbott one night stand vibes with accidental pregnancy? Surprise me with how the ending turns out please 🙏🏻✨

Right Here

A/N: I definitely went overboard with this one 😭 scrapped three drafts before landing here — so this version? she’s the chosen one. Warnings: soft, protective Rhett coming your way. you're not ready and neither am I. i melt for this Rhett — like full-on puddle. Masterlist Feedback and reposts are appreciated ☀️

The baby was asleep when he started talking.

Not that she’d understand a word of it — all curled up in her cotton wrap, her fingers twitching against his shirt, her breath warm and even where it ghosted over his collarbone. But Rhett liked to think she’d remember the sound of his voice. The shape of it. The safety.

He shifted in the old rocking chair, boots planted firm on the creaky wooden floor — though the nursery didn’t look quite finished. Shelves only half-installed. A mobile still waiting to be hung. There was a paint roller in the corner and a small pile of unopened baby books someone had dropped off weeks ago. Maybe him. Maybe you.

He looked down at her — all six pounds of her — and smiled without teeth.

“You wanna know how you got here?”

The room stayed quiet. A cricket chirped somewhere near the baseboard heater.

“Well,” Rhett said softly, adjusting her weight in his arms, “That’s a long story. And not the kind I ever thought I’d be tellin’.”

His thumb brushed over the soft edge of her ear. So small.

“So small,” he whispered. “Didn’t think somethin’ so tiny could turn my whole life upside down.” He smiled, barely. “Just like your mama did.”

He leaned his head back, eyes tracing the ceiling fan that never worked quite right.

“She wasn’t supposed to stay, you know. Not that night. Wasn’t even supposed to look at me, let alone... God.” He let out a breath “I don’t even remember what song was playin’. Just remember her laugh. It was like drinkin’ somethin’ too fast — made my head spin.”

The baby sighed in her sleep.

“I didn’t mean to let her go, kid. I just didn’t know how to make her stay.”

The memory tightened in his chest like a rope.

One night. That’s what it had been. One stupid, beautiful night. And in the morning — she’d left. Quiet as sunrise.

No note. No number.

Just the smell of her on his shirt and the shape of her still carved into the sheets.

He blinked. Swallowed hard.

“I told myself not to chase her. Thought if I kept busy, if I stuck to riding and kept my head down, I’d forget.”

His voice cracked slightly.

“But I didn’t. Not once.”

He looked down again — at her tiny fists, her sleep-pink mouth.

“You’ve got her eyes,” he whispered. “Big and soft. Like you see more than you should.”

He kissed her forehead.

“You weren’t part of the plan, little one. But you sure as hell ain’t a mistake.”

The chair creaked as it rocked. Outside, the sky was turning bright over the ridge.

“And if she won’t tell you how it happened,” he said, brushing a thumb over the baby’s cheek, “I will.”

—

The music was loud. Too loud for the size of the room, too loud for how late it was, but no one seemed to care — not the old jukebox wheezing out another George Strait hit, not the drunk couple trying to two-step on scuffed wood floors, not the college kids tossing back shots they couldn’t afford. The Wabang bar hadn’t changed. Not in years. Probably never would.

Rhett didn’t come here much anymore.

He was nursing a beer in the farthest corner of the room, half in the shadows, half pretending to care about the pool game in front of him. Someone was shouting about a scratch, someone else laughing too loud. He felt the thud of bass more than he heard it. His boots tapped once. Twice. Then stilled.

And then he saw you.

Across the room. Laughing at something a friend said. Hair tied up, strands falling loose, cheeks warm with heat and liquor and the kind of confidence that made his throat tighten. You were wearing a denim jacket and a black tank top, and for a second — just a second — you looked right at him.

And smiled.

Rhett blinked.

That smile hadn’t been meant for him. Couldn’t’ve been. He hadn’t seen you in years. Not since school. Not since that awkward period where he’d liked you a little too much and you’d barely known his name. You ran with a different crowd. The smart ones. The ones who didn’t stay.

But you were here now. And walking toward him.

Shit.

“Rhett Abbott,” you said, dropping into the seat across from him without asking. Your voice was soft and surprised, like you weren’t entirely sure you were doing this. “I thought that was you.” He stared for half a beat too long. “Hey.”

That was all he could get out. Hey.

You laughed again. “Don’t sound too excited.” “No—I mean. Yeah. I just—didn’t expect…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “What are you doin’ here?” “Visiting. Friend’s birthday. Thought I’d stop by the old haunts.” You gestured to the room. “Didn’t think I’d see you. You look… the same.” “That good or bad?” You tilted your head. “That depends. You still ride?” His mouth quirked. “Sometimes.” “Still quiet?” “Only when I don’t know what to say.” You raised your brows. “You always knew what to say back in school.” “No,” he said, and this time it came out slower. Truer. “I just knew how to listen.”

You looked at him differently then. Like the game had changed. Like maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t a mistake.

“I always thought you didn’t like me much,” you admitted, nursing your drink now. “You were kind of… intense.” “That mean I scared you?” You laughed. “A little.” He smirked, eyes drifting down and back up. “Still do?”

You didn’t answer. Just looked at him — like you were trying to decide if this was dangerous, or if you wanted it to be.

The jukebox whirred into a slower song. Something mournful. Something sweet.

You held out your hand. “Wanna dance?”

Rhett looked down at it, then back at you.

And for once, he didn’t think. Didn’t second guess. Didn’t play it safe.

He stood and took your hand.

—

The floor was sticky. The music was old. But the way you fit against him, the way your head dipped toward his chest — it felt brand new.

“You always dance this quiet?” you murmured. “Only with people I don’t wanna let go of.” You smiled against his shirt. “That a line?” “No,” he said softly. “It’s the truth.”

The dance slowed, the music fading into something else. You didn’t move. Neither did he.

Outside, the air had cooled. You walked together, neither of you saying much. The kind of silence that buzzed between skin and breath. When you got to your car, you paused. Unlocked it. Didn’t open the door.

“I don’t wanna go home yet,” you said. Rhett leaned against the passenger side. “You wanna ride?” You looked up at him. “Where?” He met your eyes. “Anywhere you want.”

—

The truck smelled like pine and leather. You didn’t turn on the radio. Just let the wind and gravel speak for you.

He didn’t ask where you wanted to go. Just drove.

And you didn’t stop him.

The motel was just outside of Wabang. Old sign flickering, vending machine humming near the front desk. Rhett didn’t even flinch when the clerk handed him a key — Room 6 — didn’t ask questions, didn’t offer explanations. Just nodded, paid in cash, and led you up the crooked concrete steps.

The room smelled like stale AC and cheap soap.

One lamp. One bed. One heartbeat between yes and no.

You stood there for a second, keys still in your hand. “I don’t usually do this,” you said.

Rhett didn’t move. Just looked at you.

“Me neither.”

You turned to face him.

The light hit him just right — tired, tan, a little older than you remembered. The kind of man who looked like he’d seen too much and still chose softness anyway.

He didn’t touch you first. You did.

You kissed him like maybe it was a mistake. He kissed you like maybe it wasn’t.

There were no loud declarations. No fumbling urgency.

Just a quiet look.

A question in your eyes.

An answer in his touch.

When he undressed you, it was careful. Slow. Like he didn’t want to spook the moment.

When you pulled his shirt off, he didn’t say a word. Just looked at you.

And you swore — just for a second — you saw something in his face that had nothing to do with lust.

Something like hope.

—

The morning light hit too hard through the cheap motel curtains.

You were already dressed when Rhett stirred, still tangled in the sheets. He watched you pull your jacket on like you couldn’t get it done fast enough. Like if you moved quickly enough, you could leave the night behind entirely.

“I wasn’t gonna wake you,” you said softly, eyes on the floor. “You leavin’?” You hesitated. Then nodded, “This doesn’t need to be anything.”

He sat up slower than he meant to, fingers gripping the edge of the mattress like it might hold him up.

“Right,” he said, even though it didn’t feel right. Not at all.

You gave him the kind of smile people give at airports or funerals — polite, distant, already halfway gone.

“Take care, Rhett.”

You left without looking back.

—

He didn’t go home. Not right away.

Drove for a while. Long enough to burn through a quarter tank. The day felt dull around the edges, like sound underwater. By the time he pulled into the ranch yard, the sun had barely cleared the ridge.

The kitchen smelled like coffee and something burning. Royal sat at the table, flipping through paperwork. Cecilia moved silently at the stove, frying eggs she wouldn’t eat.

Rhett stood in the doorway, unsure why he’d even come in.

“You’re late,” Royal said without looking up.

Rhett didn’t answer.

Royal glanced up, eyes sharp. “You hungover or just stupid?” “I’m fine.” “You don’t look fine.” Royal leaned back in his chair. “Got that half-glazed look like a man thinkin’ too hard about somethin’ that ain’t his to think about.”

That landed. Harder than Rhett expected.

Royal kept going. “Whatever it is, drop it. You’ve got a ride next week and I don’t need your head three counties away.”

Rhett didn’t answer. Just nodded, slow.

Cecilia set a plate down in front of him. Toast. Eggs. The kind of comfort she never named.

She didn’t say a word — just looked at him, once, with something like knowing in her eyes.

Then she walked away.

—

He didn’t talk about it again.

Not to Royal. Not to Perry. Not to Amy, who asked why he was quieter than usual and got a headshake in return.

Instead, he trained harder. Rode more.

Got thrown off a bull in Sheridan and got back on like it didn’t matter.

Told himself it didn’t. Told himself it was better this way.

He hadn’t seen her since. Didn’t expect to.

—

It was the kind of day that didn’t ask much. Overcast sky, wind low and steady, that late-autumn chill sliding down the back of your neck like a warning. Rhett wasn’t even supposed to be in town — just running an errand for Perry, picking up horse feed and a new belt buckle he didn’t need.

He didn’t plan on seeing her.

Didn’t plan on freezing in the middle of the grocery aisle, one hand around a can of coffee he wasn’t sure he’d even grabbed.

But there she was. By the end cap near the bakery. Reaching for something on a high shelf.

She looked the same, but softer. Hair pulled back in a low knot. Jacket zipped halfway. She turned slightly as she adjusted her footing and—

His breath caught.

There it was.

Not obvious, not dramatic. But there. A soft curve beneath her coat.

A bump.

She didn’t see him at first. He should’ve walked away. Turned around. Left it alone.

But he didn’t.

He took a step forward. Then another. And then—

“You gonna tell me?”

She froze.

Didn’t turn right away. Just let the sound of his voice sink in like a stone.

When she did face him, her eyes flickered — surprise, guilt, something else he couldn’t name.

There was a long silence.

Finally, you said it. “It’s yours.”

He nodded once. No surprise. He’d already known.

“Boy or girl?” “I don’t know yet. I didn’t want to find out alone.”

That stopped him. Softened him.

“You don’t gotta do this alone,” he said, voice lower now. Steadier. “I know you think this was nothin’. That I was just some night you regret. But you’re carryin’ my kid. And I ain’t about to be some ghost in her life.” You flinched. “Her?” He shrugged, eyes never leaving yours. “Guessin’.” You blinked fast. “I wasn’t asking for anything, Rhett.” “Well, too bad,” he said simply. “Because I’m here anyway.”

You stared at him — not sure if you were angry, relieved, or just stunned.

He didn’t look like the boy you’d stole glance at school. Didn’t look like he needed convincing.

He looked solid. Real. Like someone who’d already decided he wasn’t leaving again.

“I don’t know what this is,” you whispered. Rhett took a breath like it hurt to let it out. “I like you.”

You blinked.

“I don’t know when it started. Back in school, maybe. Maybe the night at the bar. Hell, maybe before that. But it wasn’t just about the night. You gotta believe me on that.”

Your lips parted, but no words came.

“I didn’t say anything because I didn’t wanna scare you,” he added. “Didn’t wanna break it before it even started.”

He looked down, then back up — eyes steady.

“And now there’s a baby in the middle of this, and I know you didn’t ask for me to be around. I know you’re strong enough to do this alone.”

You were quiet. Breathing shallow.

“But I don’t want you to,” he said. “Not just because of her—him—whoever they turn out to be. But because of you.”

You looked at him then. Really looked.

“I’m not gonna break you,” he said softly. “Even if I already cracked something that night.”

Then, lower now. Barely above a whisper, but it landed like thunder:

“I want to be responsible for this. For you. For them. I know it’s not simple. I know I messed up by not sayin’ it sooner. But I’m sayin’ it now.”

You swallowed hard, something in your chest twisting sharp and sudden.

He kept going. “You don’t gotta decide today. But I need you to know—I’m not runnin’. Not from this. Not from you.”

—

The knock came just before dusk.

Not loud. Not urgent. Just... there. Like he didn’t want to scare you off.

You stood at the window for a good ten seconds before opening the door.

Rhett stood on your porch, holding a brown paper bag and a half-flustered expression.

He looked like he hadn’t rehearsed this part. Like the grocery aisle had been raw instinct, but this—showing up again—this was commitment.

You stepped aside wordlessly, letting him in.

The kitchen was small, warm. Lived-in, but tired. Dishes drying by the sink. A plant you weren’t sure was dying. Mail on the table you hadn’t opened.

Rhett unpacked without asking where things went. Two frozen meals. A loaf of bread. Oranges. Ginger tea.

“You researched what pregnant people eat?” you asked dryly. He paused. Scratched the back of his neck. “Nah. Asked that lady at the checkout. The one with grandkids. Real loud voice.” You snorted. “Mrs. Henley?” “That’s the one,” he said, almost sheepish. “She said oranges help with heartburn. Scared the hell outta me, honestly.”

That earned the smallest smile from you.

He glanced around, his fingers tapping the edge of your counter. “You got anything that needs fixin’? Leaky faucet? Broken hinge? Lights out?” “Why?” “Because I’m standin’ here and I wanna do somethin’ more than just breathe the same air as you.” You folded your arms. “You can’t just show up with groceries and expect that to make this easier.” “I don’t,” he said. Quiet. Steady. “I don’t expect you to forgive me. Or fall into my arms. I’m not that stupid.”

You swallowed.

He took a step closer, but not too close.

The silence sat thick between you.

Then he said it. Soft. Unapologetic.

—

You didn’t ask him to stay.

But you didn’t ask him to leave either.

The sun dipped low outside, turning the kitchen gold. Rhett stood awkwardly by the counter, his thumbs hooked in his belt loops like he didn’t know what to do with himself now that the groceries were unpacked and the speech was over.

You broke the silence first. “You hungry?” He blinked. “What?” “You brought food,” you said, softer this time. “Might as well eat it.” He nodded once, slow and cautious, like the offer might disappear if he moved too fast. “Yeah. Alright.”

You microwaved the meals he brought — chicken something for you, beef stew for him. He stood by the sink the whole time, watching the timer count down like it mattered. When it beeped, he jumped a little. You pretended not to notice.

You both sat at the table like strangers trying not to be.

You didn’t know what to say to that. So you didn’t. But your lips curled, just slightly. Just enough.

After you both finished, Rhett grabbed a paper towel and wiped down the counter. Like it was his house. Like he belonged there.

“You don’t have to do that,” you said, watching him from the table. “I know,” he said. “But I want to.”

He threw the towel away. Then turned to face you again. Hands at his sides. Shoulders square. Still unsure.

“I don’t expect anything from you,” he said. “Not tonight. Not tomorrow. But I want to keep showin’ up. However you’ll let me.”

You were quiet for a long moment.

Then you stood. Crossed the room. And leaned back against the counter next to him.

“Okay,” you said. Just that. No fanfare. His head turned, eyes searching yours. “Okay?” You nodded. “Okay. One step at a time.”

He exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for hours.

That made you laugh. Really laugh.

And it felt like the first true thing between you since that night.

—

It started with the screen door.

You’d mentioned, offhand, that it creaked every time the wind hit it. Not as a complaint. Not even really expecting anything. Just one of those things people say when they’re tired and trying to ignore the things that bother them.

Two days later, it was fixed.

No note. No fuss. Just... fixed.

And then came the squeaky bathroom faucet. Then the broken fence post near the back gate. Then the step on the porch that’d always slanted left until suddenly, quietly, it didn’t.

You never asked him to do any of it.

But he did.

He stopped by every few days now. Always with a reason.

Brought extra milk once. Said he “accidentally bought two.” Dropped off a hammer the second time. Claimed he “forgot it last time,” even though you were pretty sure it hadn’t been there at all.

And once — just once — he showed up with a tupperware of stew and mumbled something about “Cecilia made too much.” You didn’t question it.

You started leaving the porch light on without thinking about it.

—

One night, you found him sitting on your steps, your dog curled up next to his boot, watching the wind move through the trees like it was a story worth hearing.

He didn’t knock. Didn’t call. Just sat there with the kind of quiet you didn’t mind.

You opened the door and leaned against the frame. “You’re just gonna sit there all night?” He looked up, sheepish. “Didn’t wanna bug you.” You gestured toward the couch. “You wanna come in or not?”

He smiled — small, crooked — and followed you inside.

—

The living room felt warmer with him in it. He didn’t say much. Just took off his boots, set his hat on the counter without thinking, and leaned back into your secondhand couch like it remembered him.

You brought two mugs of tea and sat beside him, knees almost touching.

“I didn’t think you’d keep coming,” you said softly. “Didn’t think I’d be able to stop,” he replied, just as soft.

You looked at him — really looked.

At the faint scrape on his knuckles. At the way his shirt pulled at the shoulders from work. At the way he exhaled like he hadn’t had a quiet place to land in a while.

He caught you looking. Didn’t flinch.

“You always stare this much?” he asked, voice low. “Only when I’m trying to figure someone out.”

He leaned back on the couch, one arm stretched over the cushion, his fingers drumming lightly against the fabric.

“I’m not that complicated.” You raised a brow. “That’s what complicated people say.”

He smiled at that. Small. But real.

“I just like bein’ here,” he said. “That’s all.” You tilted your head. “Why?”

He looked around the room — at the dim lamp, the mismatched throw pillows, the chipped mug on the table still holding yesterday’s tea bag. Then back at you.

“Because no one’s waitin’ for me to mess it up.”

That quiet landed deeper than you expected.

But before you could say anything, he added, softer:

“I’m not here just ‘cause there’s a baby involved.”

You looked up at him. Eyes wide. Still guarded.

“I mean it,” he said. “I’m here because I wanna be. With you. The baby’s just…” He hesitated. Then gave a lopsided shrug. “The baby’s a happy accident. You’re the part I was already wantin’. I just didn’t know how to say it.”

Your breath caught somewhere in your chest. He looked nervous now, like he’d gone too far.

But you didn’t pull away. Didn’t run. You just let your foot rest against his, and this time, you didn’t move it.

And he stayed.

—

It came out quiet.

Like most true things do.

You were sitting on the floor in the living room, sorting through the week’s mail, legs folded under you. Rhett was on the couch behind you, flipping through a hardware catalog he had no intention of ordering from. It was just background noise. Just a way to fill the silence between what had already been said and whatever was next.

You set an envelope down and said, “I found out on a Wednesday.” Rhett looked up. “Yeah?” You nodded, eyes still on your hands. “I didn’t feel right. Thought maybe I was just tired, maybe stress, maybe—hell, I don’t know. But something told me to go pick up a test.”

He didn’t say anything. Just sat forward slowly, elbows on his knees.

“I didn’t even wait until I got home. I used the gas station bathroom down by that old diner. Locked the door. Waited. Shook the whole damn time.” You let out a quiet breath. “Didn’t need to wait the full three minutes. It showed up quick.”

Rhett stayed quiet.

You looked down at your fingers. “I didn’t cry. I didn’t smile either. I just... sat there. For a long time.”

Still nothing from him. Just presence. Just patience.

He didn’t speak. Just set the catalog aside and slowly stood — not rushed, not dramatic. Walked the two steps over.

Then he sat down beside you on the floor, shoulder to shoulder, knees bent like he was settling into something he didn’t want to leave.

He rested his arms on his thighs, voice steady. “I don’t feel owed. I feel lucky.”

That stopped you. Fully stopped you.

He glanced over. “If you hadn’t told me? If I’d never known? I’d be walking around not even realizing I had this chance. You.” You swallowed, throat tight. “It didn’t feel like a chance. It felt like a mess. And I was already halfway drowning in it.” Rhett nodded. Quiet. “I’m not afraid of mess.” “I am,” you said. He didn’t look away. “Then let me be the part that’s steady.”

You didn’t answer right away.

So he added, softer: “I’m not here to fix it. I’m here to stay. Even when it’s ugly. Especially then.”

You looked at him — really looked — and for the first time, you believed it.

—

You turned to him, slow. Careful.

“What if we tried?”

He looked at you. Really looked. Like he wasn’t sure if he’d heard right.

“Tried what?” “This,” you said. “You and me. Not just because of the baby. But... because we want to.”

Silence. But not the bad kind.

Rhett didn’t blink. Didn’t laugh it off. Just sat still like the moment was sacred.

“I’ve wanted that since school,” he said finally. “You were always...” He trailed off, rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t know. Untouchable. Too smart. Too pretty. Too far outta my league to even look my way.” You blinked, stunned. “I barely knew you liked me.” “I barely knew how to act on it,” he admitted. “But I never forgot you.”

You swallowed, suddenly breathless.

“And now you’re here,” he added, voice dropping. “Asking me what if. After everything. After the mess. After the one night I never stopped thinkin’ about.” He smiled — slow, soft, disbelieving. “This don’t feel real. It feels like a dream I’m afraid to wake up from.” You shifted closer. “Well… what if it’s real?” He reached for your hand then. Fully, deliberately. “Then I’ll do whatever it takes to hold onto it.”

Your fingers curled around his. Steady. Sure.

And for the first time in a long, long while — it didn’t feel like you were gambling your heart. It felt like coming home to someone who’d been waiting for you to find the door.

—

The house was quiet except for the sound of her breath.

Tiny, rhythmic. Almost like wind through cotton.

She was asleep against your chest, her body curled up like a comma, one hand fisted in the fabric of your shirt. You hadn’t moved in twenty minutes. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t.

Across the room, Rhett sat cross-legged on the floor, still in his work shirt, still dusted in hay and dirt from a day he didn’t complain about. His eyes were locked on her — your daughter — like she was the sun coming up over the ridge.

“She’s got your mouth,” he said softly. You looked down. “You think?” “Yeah,” he nodded. “That stubborn little pout? That’s you.” You smiled, exhausted but full. “She’s got your frown when she sleeps.” He chuckled. “Poor thing.”

The lamp threw soft amber light across the floorboards. Everything felt warm, lived-in, quiet in a way neither of you had known before.

Rhett shifted up onto the couch beside you, careful not to jostle her. One arm draped behind your shoulders, fingers brushing your neck like a whisper.

“She’s really here,” you said, your voice barely above a breath. “She’s ours.” He nodded, eyes still on her. “Whole world in one tiny thing.”

You looked down at her — at her sleep-heavy face, the rise and fall of her breath. You still couldn’t believe something so new could feel so right.

“She changed everything,” you said. Rhett let out a quiet breath. “Yeah. And somehow made it all make sense.”

The baby shifted, sighing softly, and you both stilled — protective without speaking, already moving in tandem without having to try.

—

The baby in his arms stirred, bringing Rhett back to the now.

She was heavier these days. A little bigger. A little louder when she wanted something. But in that moment, cradled against his chest in the quiet, she was still. Warm. Safe.

The house around them was hushed — not the tense kind of silence he used to know, but the good kind. Familiar. A hum of peace under the floorboards.

The late morning light spilled through the window. Golden, soft-edged. It lit up the room in streaks — caught the dust in the air, glinted off the framed photo on the mantel, and landed square on his left hand where it curled around her tiny back.

The sun shone bright on the silver band on his ring finger.

He hadn’t taken it off since the day you slipped it onto him, quiet and teary-eyed at the courthouse, both of you too choked up to make a big deal of it. He’d kissed your knuckles and whispered, This don’t change us. It just makes it official.

Now it caught the light every time he held her. And God, he hoped she’d see it one day and know it meant safe.

Steady.

Staying.

Rhett rocked slowly in the old chair, voice low and careful.

“And that,” he whispered, brushing his lips to her forehead, “is how you came to be.”

He looked down at her — same stubborn pout, same tiny fists — and smiled to himself.

“Wasn’t part of the plan, sweetheart,” he said. “But you’re the best thing I never saw comin’.”

She shifted, one arm flopping up against his chest like she knew she was being talked about.

“I didn’t know how to be a dad,” he went on. “Didn’t even know if I was gonna be good at any of this. I still don’t, some days. But then you cry, or smile, or fall asleep on me like this, and I figure... maybe I don’t have to know everything. Maybe just bein’ here is enough.”

A beat.

“Your mama... she gave me a real chance. Took a risk lettin’ me back in. And I’ll spend the rest of my life makin’ sure she never regrets it.”

His thumb brushed gently over her back. She sighed in her sleep. Like she already believed him.

Rhett leaned back a little further, gaze catching again on the wedding band. It felt heavier in the sunlight. Not in a burdensome way — just real. Earned.

“I used to think a win meant stayin’ on the bull,” he murmured. “Now I think it looks more like this.”

Another pause. No rush.

“You were a happy accident, darlin’,” he said. “But you’re the best thing that’s ever been mine.”

His voice dipped even lower, almost a promise.

“You’re ours. All the way.”

And outside, the wind moved through the trees, steady and light — as the sun kept shining.

369 notes · View notes

maybankslover · 2 days ago

Text

saw it coming- drew starkey

drew starkey x ex!girlfriend

drew starkey x singer!reader

warnings: kinda angst, mentions of infidelity but it doesn't actually happen, drew not being a good partner with someone else. fluff. this is all fiction.

summary: she knew she wasn't the one for him, they all saw it coming.

she knew she had known for years she wasn't the one he'd marry. maybe it was because she tries so hard to be cool, to fit in his life and family, to get along with his mom even when they both know the older woman didn't really like her.

maybe she should've been less cool, less chill maybe if she had drawn the line. if she had asked to be displayed in public not as a company, not as someone he wouldn't hug for a picture but exposed for once and for all as his girlfriend. if she asked him to not keep everyone guessing.

it was funny at the start being "secretive" and all, it was funny to read the theories but it wasn't funny anymore and the lamp was being turned off.she was quite young when they started dating, freshly twenty and he was already pushing into his late twenties.

maybe she should've known, there were all so many songs about it but he was so tall and handsome as hell. everyone and their mother would've ignored the age difference too.

almost three and a half years together when she started to ask for more.

"so i was thinking about posting this picture, can i?" she showed him a picture that showed her resting against his chest with a small bouquet of flowers in hand.

"isn't it too intimate to show? like I love it but for us." he replied and she nodded.

"no yeah you're right." he hummed and kissed her cheek. she didn't include anything about him in that photodump.

"i have a netflix event next week, want you to come with me." she watched him as he prepared to leave her house. "you free on friday?"

"is there a dress code?" he laughed.

"as if you'll ever follow them baby." she smiled at him and welcomed the kiss he pressed to her lips.

when friday came along she already knew the drill.

"what's up?" one of his cast mates hugged her. "it's been a long time since i last saw you."

"finished filming last month." the one's beside her nodded as they remembered what drew had told them.

"heard it's quite a big project." she felt so comfortable with them, they included her in pictures and gatherings.

"it's pretty cool. one of the things i've enjoyed the most to make if i'm being honest." the conversation didn't last long as the cast was called to go on stage.

the pictures the next day looked the same as always, his hands inside his pockets never touching her waist, shoulders or any part of her body.

"why can't you just hug me for a picture? everyone already knows we're together." she had every right to be as angry as she was right now.

"don't want anyone going on and about on our relationship." he shrugged his shoulders, they both knew that was a lie.

"everyone knows about us, everyone talks about us." she ironically laughed. "are you ashamed of me?"

"god no baby no." he rushed to her side and placed his hands on her cheeks. "i love you alright?"

"i love you too but sometimes you make me feel awful drew." he sighed.

"i'm sorry for that but i'm not ashamed of you." she believed the lie he told her.

he did love her in his own weird way but she sometimes made him feel embarrassed of how she acted in public.

maybe it was on his thirty-first birthday when he realised, without actually letting the thought come through, it was probably time to start settling down as if having a girlfriend for the past three years wasn't serious enough. she didn't feel the shift on him.

she should've.

she saw it coming but not in the way it unfolded. schedules, as usual, got busy this time of the year, she was doing promo and he was filming another movie and a music video.

that music video was the shift, not for her but for him. when he met the singer he would be working with it was like a light ignited inside him that said 'this is the one'.

she was so pretty, nice and genuine. there wasn't a show around her when the cameras weren't on, down to earth and extremely similar to him.

both born and raised in a big family, tons of siblings and extended family. she had just received her degree as a kinder-garden teacher when her career blew up.

that was the one for him, he knew it. such a particular thing doesn't really has an explanation on how he felt.

and she hadn't said anything because she knew he had a girlfriend of some kind but she felt it in her gut. he was the one for her too.

"hope to catch up sometime." she said, giving him a hug. "thank you for being part of this."

"it was a pleasure to work with you. maybe we'll coincide in the same city." he smiled back before they said their goodbyes.

he went back to his apartment in los angeles with a clear thought in his head. it was moment to end his three year long relationship, the girl he had been stringing along all this time and he knew he was an awful person for not releasing her sooner but she was never the one for him.

for the plans of a family he wanted to have someday. she wasn't the one he saw as the mother of his kids.

so when two days after she came back from the promo of her movie three weeks from the last time they had seen each other, he sat her down.

"what i'm going to say isn't easy and i don't expect you to be alright with it but this is how i've been feeling for a while now, this isn't working for me anymore." he sighed as he looked her eyes lose the sparkle they'd whenever she looked at him.

"what do you mean?" it was obvious what he meant.

"i want us to break up. this isn't what i want for myself anymore." he knew the conversation wouldn't end in her agreeing just because even if he wanted it to be that way.

"is there someone else or what happened in the past three weeks?" he denied with his head.

"there isn't anyone else. it's about me and what i want for my future." she scoffed.

"three years drew. three and now you realise that i'm not the future you want?" she stood up. "you can actually go fuck yourself."

"hey i'm not being mean to you." but he was being mean to her. "i know it's fucked up but it's what i feel and i'm sorry i'm hurting you because i love you even if this isn't what i want anymore."

“drew shut up.” her voice raised a bit.

he tried to say something else but she didn’t let him.

"don’t say my name. i j-just go, please leave." he sighed but followed her orders.

“I’m sorry.” he wasn’t.

they met a week later at her place to give eachother their things back.

"was there someone else?" she sighed. "at any point, was there someone else?"

"no, there wasn't. i can promise you there wasn't." at least he was honest in what he was telling her.

five months later she was still mourning what they had been. what they could've been if she hadn't been so permissive from the very start.

five months later he was having dinner with the singer from that music video, he had taken his time before going out again. didn't want to rush it, to fuck it up by starting something with someone else fresh out of his relationship.

they were playing some game that ended with them asking random questions and losing the train of how it had started.

"so old man" it made drew laugh. "you were in a relationship last time we saw each other. six months ago?"

"yeah."

"what happened?" it was normal for her to be curious, she was interested in him but wasn't interested to get herself into a threeway kind of mess.

"wasn't what i wanted for me anymore, couldn't see the future i want with her." he sighed. "she's a great woman but not the one i wanted to have a family with." he looked at his glass of wine.

"I get it." his sight shifted towards her this time. "ended my last relationship for the same reason."

"how long ago?"

"a year, we were together for two and a half i think." he nodded signaling for her to continue. "realised a bit late that he didn't really had a brain in his head and only wanted me for the ibiza nights i could get him into" her shoulders bump up for a second. "so i decided i won't ruin my life with some lowlife who would in the long run."

"different goals" he said and she agreed.

"already have my career, my success and i want more in my private life someday too, he wasn't the one to create that with."

they locked eyes without saying anything, there was like a secret moment of understatement there weren't any words to be said. their night continued, laughing and chattering as if they had known each other their whole lives.

“so drew listen i had a great time but i don’t want to dive into anything if you aren’t over your last girl.” they stood on the front door of her house. “because i’ve been there, hung over a guy that used me to get over someone else.”

“I get it and you don’t have to trust me because you don’t really know me but i know i’m over her.” she gave him a small smile. “I would like to keep seeing you if that’s alright with you.”

“yeah i’m alright with that.” he didn’t expect the kiss on the cheek she gave him, lingering there for a moment. “ ‘night starkey.”

“goodnight sweetheart.” he walked back towards his truck. “see you soon.”

many coffee dates in deserted places. late night drives by the beach, secret kisses in the privacy of her home and oh if it didn’t feel like love.

‘he keeps a picture of you in his office downtown’ taylor swift’s lyrics as the background of their lazy sunday morning. drew still in bed while she stood in his kitchen making breakfast wearing the shirt he discarded on the floor when they came back from dinner last night.

“hey pretty girl.” a sleepy smile on his face as he saw her walk inside the bedroom.

“the toasts are a bit burned.” he chuckled. “but the rest it’s alright, I think.”

they ate in silence, the birds could be heard outside the window.

“I’m going home next friday for my mom’s birthday.” drew said placing his plate on the bedside table.

“are you gonna drive or you’ll be taking a flight?” she didn’t think much about it they’ve been dating for almost five months only and they didn’t met the other one’s friends yet.

“I’m gonna drive but i wanted to ask you something.” she gave him a nod. “I want you to come with me, only if you want of course.”

“isn’t really a question.” she smiled at his soft laugh. “you want me to meet your family? like for real?”

“yeah for real.” he smiled back. “I want them to meet you.”

“I want to meet them too.”

right there they knew what it was, love, true love.

the days before the upcoming trip she wrote three whole songs.

“do you think i’m going too fast?” she asked her best friend on the phone.

“nah honey i think he loves you so good it was inevitable for you to fall in love so quickly.” vic saw the glimmer in her friend’s eyes, the smile in the pictures she sent her. the look in his eyes when he looked at her in some silly video.

she was nervous to meet his family, one of his sisters was still close with his ex-girlfriend, what if they didn’t like her and they missed the girl from before?

back in new york city a brunette received a message which content broke her heart. from his younger sister.

text

b ‘i wanted to tell you before you found out via instagram or somewhere else.”

b ‘he brought a girl home. It’s pretty serious, i’m sorry’

he took a girl home when he said he preferred to spend time alone with his family most of the times he went back home, an excuse to not bring her along. now she knew what she should’ve realised all those years back, she didn’t know how to get clean even after more than ten months later.

his family adored her, their interaction seemed straight out of a christmas movie.

“I hadn’t seen him so happy in ages.” his mom said in a moment they were left alone right before everyone would say their good night to go to bed. “thank you, he’s my boy again.”

“you’ve done an amazing job with drew, i’ve never had a boyfriend as amazing as he is.” the older woman involved her in a tight hug.

“he’s never had a girlfriend as genuine as you.” it felt so real, the possibility of a future together.

two weeks later when her family found out she had gone to north carolina to meet his family, they insisted of having a reunion to meet him. the man on the screen who was making her come back straight home to him.

“I’ve never seen him like this.” his friend madelyn said, the group of outer banks castmates watched as the couple who had reached their year anniversary, they had met her a small number of times but she had grown in all of them.

“It’s like a light is around him everytime you see him with her.” jd added. “I’m happy for him.”

they had managed to keep it as lowkey as possible, people were already talking about them running in the same circles but nothing about them actually being together had come out.

“I want to play you something. I’m writing the new album.” her music room was a big representation of who she was. the things adorning the walls, the little details on her guitars.

he loved everything about her. so he sat down on the floor, right in front of her.

‘you are everything to me and I, I would die for you’

she tilted her face up a flicker of light on her cheeks.

‘I'd give up all I have, in exchange for who I love more than anything’

he was trying so hard to not let a tear fall.

‘how could I never let you know? I would die for you’

and he failed terribly.

“Baby?” she said softly in the same way she always talked to him.

“I love you so fucking much.” she laughed at his words.

“I love you so fucking much more.” he pressed a firm kiss to her lips.

maybe he had been a shitty boyfriend to someone else but she couldn’t say the same. he was the best man she had been with, he felt as a forever kind of love.

“I want to stop hiding.” she didn’t expect him to say those words. “just want to hold your hand in public and all that romantic shit people do.”

“I’d like that.” a fight of kisses unfolded in the instruments filled room.

but a walk wasn’t their ‘hard lunch’ it was him posting a photo dump, the first one of them both on the backstage of his new movie.

drewstarkey

liked by ynln, madelyncline, danielgraig and 2.236.002 more

drewstarkey ‘life lately. pretty girl spotted’

comments have been restricted

ynln ‘love you pretty boy’

shit blew up on twitter real fast and a girl who he had now forgotten still wondered what it was that she was missing, what the beloved singer had for him to choose her.

“it doesn’t matter anymore, we told you for ages he didn’t love you in the same way.” one of her friends said and she knew he was right, it had only taken him a year and a half to post his new girl.

It only took him two years to marry her. It’s true when they say a man always knows, he knew from the start she was the one for him and the forgotten girl knew from the start she was never the one.

drewstarkey & ynln

song beauty and the beast by celine dion and peabo bryson

liked by sabrinacarpenter, brookestarkey, taylor swift and 4.569.023 more

drewstarkey & ynln something happened… two and a half from our very first day with the very first movie we ever watched.

tale as old as time

comments have been restricted.

If you see it coming baby, just run. It’ll never be you.

It’ll be the one who fits he’ll actually love, don’t settle for someone who won’t settle for you.

the singer and the actor had found eachother, fate working in their favor even when they felt bad karma would be coming for them it never did.

fate and soulmates can't be stopped from finding the other.

please if you liked it reblog! it helps me a lot

taglist: @droppedyourhnd @congratsloserr @rafesbabygirlx @gillybear17 @theoraekenslover @silkylovey @frankoceanluvr11 @ethanthequeefqueen

#maybankslover #outer banks #obx #drew starkey #drew starkey angst #drew starkey fluff #drew starkey boyfriend #husband!drew #drew starkey x singer!reader #drew starkey imagines #drew starkey imagine #drew starkey one shot #drew starkey one shots #drew starkey fic #drew starkey x reader #drew starkey x fem!reader #drew starkey x y/n

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mcrdvcks · 19 hours ago

Note

congrats!!! maybe frank castle headcanons with reader who takes every mutt home and cares for it?

while writing this, since i've never wrote for frank before, i repeated "goddammit red" in my head multiple times to hopefully get frank in character, lol.

send an ask for my 2,000 followers celebration!

warnings/tags: stray dogs, soft!frank, protective!frank (?), fluff

At first, Frank thinks it’s a one-time thing. You show up with a skinny, muddy mutt and he just stares at you. “...That thing better not have fleas.” You roll your eyes and wrap it in a towel. He mutters but lets it stay. One night, tops.

It is not a one-time thing. Two weeks later, there’s a three-legged pit bull on the couch. A month after that, a wiry mutt with one ear and a suspicious limp. You say, “he followed me.” Frank says, “you brought him.” You don’t deny it.

He pretends to be annoyed, but he’s already bought extra dog food. He grumbles when he steps in fur. He curses when they bark at the mailman. But he also builds a ramp for the pit bull’s bad leg and cuts up hot dogs for treats when you’re not looking.

He’s extremely protective of you—so when he realizes these mutts make you happy? It’s over. You’ve won. You’ve got bruises and exhaustion and scars from a hard life, and these dogs make you soft. He’ll tolerate anything that gives you peace.

Sometimes he watches you patch them up—gently wiping their paws, checking their teeth, whispering nonsense to keep them calm—and he swears you’ve got actual magic in your hands. “You’re not scared of anything, huh?” he mutters. You smile at him. “No. You’re here.”

He starts naming them. Secretly. You give them names like “Muffin” or “Pebble.” Frank calls them “Tank,” “Sniper,” or “Old Man.” They respond to his names more often than yours, and you pretend not to be bitter about it.

He draws the line at more than five. “No more.”

You show up with number six two weeks later, soaked and shaking. Frank glares. You shrug. “…You can name him,” you say. Frank sighs, runs a hand down his face. “Looks like a goddamn Winston.”

Frank has a reputation in the neighborhood now. Not as the Punisher. Not as the terrifying guy in the black hoodie. As the “grumpy guy with the rescue dogs.” Kids wave from the sidewalk. Old ladies leave bones in baggies on the gate. Frank pretends not to notice.

You think he doesn’t care—but then you catch him training them. Hand signals. Gentle commands. Low whistles. One day you walk in on him teaching them to stay behind cover. “They need to know how to survive,” he mutters. You don’t argue. You just kiss his shoulder and sit down beside him.

He learns every one of their routines. The pit bull likes warm towels fresh from the dryer. The mutt with the bad ear only eats if someone sings near her. Winston is scared of thunder, but calms down if he can sit in Frank’s lap (Frank insists he’s “just lettin’ him up this once”).

You patch up every stray you find, and Frank watches like he’s seeing something holy. There’s blood on your sleeves, dirt on your knees, and you’re whispering, “you’re okay now, sweetheart,” like it’s a promise you’ll make true. He falls in love with you a little more every time.

Sometimes you fall asleep on the couch with a pile of dogs, and Frank just… stands there for a second. His whole world right in front of him. You, snoring softly, a mutt drooling on your sock. He quietly tucks a blanket around you both, clicks off the lamp, and sits nearby. Just in case.

Eventually, he just stops arguing. You bring one home and he doesn’t even lift his head. “What’s this one’s deal?” “Blind in one eye, hates men.” “Sounds perfect.”

Turns out that German Shepard—who you named Stella—really hates men. But the only guy she likes? Frank. The first time the two of you took her to the vet she nearly bit off the vet’s hand when he was trying to get her temperature.

Frank didn’t flinch. Just put a calm hand on her scruff, murmured, “Easy, girl. You’re good.” She stopped growling instantly. You stared at him like he’d just parted the Red Sea.

He buys a bigger couch. Doesn’t even mention it. Just installs it one day while you're out getting supplies. You stare at it in disbelief. “We don’t have guests.” “Didn’t buy it for guests.” He points at the pack, already sprawled across it. “They were fallin’ off the old one.”

Frank becomes the pack leader without trying. They follow him from room to room. Sit when he whistles. Wait for his signal before eating. One of the new ones—missing a paw—won’t go outside unless Frank carries her. He does. Every morning. Without fail.

You catch him sewing up a torn stuffed animal one night. It belongs to the anxious mutt who can’t sleep without it. You don’t say anything. Just lean against the doorframe and watch him fix it like it’s mission-critical.

#2000 followers celebration #frank castle #frank castle x reader #the punisher #punisher x reader #punisher #frank castle x you #frank castle headcanons #frank castle fanfiction #frank castle fanfic #punisher fanfic #punisher fanfiction

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vandme12 · 2 days ago

Note

Ronin x Reader, where ronin puts on a personal show (Hehe, a LIL murder in alleyway) for reader because they need inspiration?

TW : BLOOD, GORE

Beauty of Rot, Beauty of Him - Ronin x Reader

You were dumb.

Like, really dumb.

"Hey, can anyone with experience killing someone with a crowbar DM me?? it’s really important!! tysm."

You posted that. On a dark web board. Like some beginner in need of a walkthrough.

An ask for how to kill a person. With a crowbar.

And as it turns out? The best fucking mistake you ever made.

Error: UNKNOWN. Error: Not So Unknown Now. Error: You Got a Boyfriend Out of It.

Because someone did message back.

Not just someone. The Butcher. Your Butcher. Now your boyfriend. Rotten God of Uptown’s back alleys, crowned in cartilage and martyrdom, crowned in blood.

They say he gores people like he’s stringing violins from intestines, splashes the brickwork with bone-shards and sin. Swings that crowbar like a conductor, splatters skull into halo, makes murder into gospel.

And now? He’s yours.

You still remember when he dropped a key into your DMs like it was a gift from the Devil himself — well, maybe it was. A server. A red room. A laugh.

Don’t be so Obvious smh you’re Gonna Get Caught — that’s what he said. Right before giving you access to a Discord/j full of serial killers.

Butchered usernames. Gutted profile pics. Everyone trying to one-up each other in filth and finesse. You, though? You got something better. You got Ronin.

It’s been ten months since that fateful crowbar moment. Ten months of selfies Ten months of late-night convos about blood viscosity. Ten months of soft-spoken I love yous whispered between ruptured lung sacs.

Romance is bleeding. And your boy wants to treat you.

No dinner. Just a murder.

goreboy: hopin to see ya darlin

You feel it in your bones — not fear, not nausea. Anticipation.

Your own personal red room. You joked about it once — and Now, he's gonna put on a show.

You don’t know who the target is. Might be a monster. Might be some guy who cuts lines at the bank's Ronin never tells you until the blood’s already pooling.

That’s part of the fun. Inspiration on impact.

You're wearing boots that can step through brain matter. You took a shower before this, which was stupid. You’ll be showering in blood anyway.

You turn the corner.

There he is. Leaning against the brick wall like some kind of death-dealing delinquent Cupid. Crowbar slung over his shoulder. Eyes bright, blackhole-shiny, grin split open across his face like a peeled fruit.

He’s all gore and glamor, all ruin and romance, a boy made of butcher cuts and fucked-up poetry.

"Heya, Darlin," he drawls, teeth white like an Angel's ruin

You smile. You’ve always been ready.

You DMed him first, obviously. No shame. No fear. Just that familiar static in your lungs, that high of being this close to something filthy.

you:

hey butcher boy u swingin that crowbar tonight or just compensating again

goreboy

oh look. it’s my favorite little freak. thought i smelled ink and desperation u comin or what? red carpet’s wet. might be brain. might be yours. let’s find out.

you:

damn do u flirt with all your victims like this or am i special

goreboy:

only the ones who write poetry about spinal cords and call me cute after i break a jaw sideways hurry up darlin. don’t keep the devil waitin.

He always knew just how to say I missed you.

And then it dropped. The real thing. No flirting this time, not exactly.

Just:

EXECUTIONER: "come to Purgatory. tonight. bring whatever weird notebook shit u scribble in. I’ll give you something worth writing about." "devil says hi, btw.

"lil mean tonight. love that. keep talkin shit and i’ll carve your name in someone’s ribs. wanna see?"

He always knew just how to say I missed you.

And then it dropped. The real thing. No flirting this time, not exactly.

—

You pack a bag.

Notebook

Pen

Knife (not to use. just in case.)

A dream.

You saw him before you really saw him.

The man—his prey, his canvas—was huddled near a dumpster, shaking like a leaf in acid rain. Eyes blown wide, lips parted in a silent scream, knees buckled in a prayer that wouldn’t be answered. Sweat clung to his brow. His hands were bound, taped in a trembling little bow, like a gift no one wanted to unwrap.

And then there was Ronin.

He wasn’t even touching him yet.

No, Ronin was pacing slow, crowbar dragging behind him like a leash, metal shrieking against the concrete just enough to set teeth on edge. His steps were too measured, too graceful—it was a dance. A fucked-up, symphonic ballet of menace.

He didn’t even look at you as you stepped into the scene. Just kept circling.

Like a shark in a kiddie pool.

"Oh God," the guy whimpered. "Please, man, I didn’t do anything—"

Ronin tilted his head, cracking his neck with a sickening pop. Still no words. Just a smile. That smile—the one that made your spine tighten and your thighs clench. Not out of fear. Not entirely.

You crept closer, notebook in hand, but the man saw you now—you, not Ronin—and his face twisted.

"You—you’re just standing there?! Help me! This guy’s insane!"

You blinked, like a deer caught in headlights made of raw meat.

"I’m with him," you said quietly. Then added, "Kind of a date."

The man screamed.

Ronin cackled.

"Fuck, Darlin.. he gasped between laughs. "You’re really gonna make me blush sayin’ sweet shit like that."

You felt your face heat up, but not with shame. Not even guilt. Just... thrill.

"You’re scaring the hell out of him," you muttered, crouching behind the safety of your notebook.

Ronin raised a brow, licking blood from the side of his thumb like frosting. "I am the hell. C’mon. Say that one again."

You scribbled, breath uneven. Quoting yourself like a freak. “You’re scaring the hell out of him.” Then added in shaky ink: He is the hell.

The victim whimpered louder, rocking side to side now, muttering prayers like they were protection spells. You honestly couldn’t blame him. You felt the tremble in your own bones too. But it wasn’t fear—it was awe. That knife-edge thrill of watching a master at work.

You looked up.

Ronin was closer now. He’d stopped circling and was crouched in front of the guy, crowbar in one hand, the other under the man’s chin, lifting it with casual gentleness. It was obscene, the contrast. Like a lover about to kiss.

"Tell me a story," Ronin whispered to him. "Tell me why your blood’s gonna be special."

The guy was sobbing now, babbling nonsense. Ronin leaned in closer. "No? Then I’ll tell you one."

He turned to you, eyes glinting.

"You wanna write this down, Darlin"

You didn’t say yes. You didn’t have to.

Pen kissed page. And Ronin began.

"Once there was a man who liked to lie. Said he never hurt nobody. But lies?" He brought the crowbar up and rested it against the man’s cheek. "They rot the tongue. They rot the heart. I’m just the gardener."

CRACK.

You jumped.

The guy screamed. Blood bloomed across the bricks, painting the wall in fast, arterial strokes.

You’d never seen anything more horrifying. You’d never seen anything more beautiful.

You wrote that down too.

Ronin didn’t stop—not for a while. He moved like a conductor, crowbar rising and falling to an unheard symphony. The victim’s screams grew hoarse, then wet, then stopped altogether. The sound of metal on bone filled the air like church bells.

By the end, it didn’t look like a body.

It looked like art.

Red. White. Pulp. A rose garden of gore.

Fuck the guy's still alive.

Ronin finally straightened, shirt soaked, crowbar slick. He looked sated. Not tired. High.

And then, impossibly—he turned to you. Soft.

"You alright?"

You stared at him. Then down at your notebook. At your handwriting—jagged, fast, shaking. At the sketches in the margins. At how much you’d written. How inspired you were.

He steps back into frame like it’s stage left. Wipes the smile off his face and puts on something worse—an expression that’s all serenity. Peaceful. Reverent. Like a man praying before he wrecks something holy.

And that poor fucker on the ground? He’s trembling so hard his bones might rattle apart. You wonder if he even knows what's coming. Or if Ronin’s already told him. Whispered it sweetly in that honeyed voice, dripping rot like nectar, how he was going to make him into something worth remembering.

Ronin lifts the crowbar.

Not like he’s about to kill a man.

Like he’s about to paint.

CLANG.

It smashes into the ground beside the guy’s ribs again—just a tease. A wet warning. You watch as blood speckles the concrete. Not even from the hit—just from the fear. He’s bleeding from the nose now. A stress rupture. Ronin looks delighted.

“There it goes,” he says softly, watching the crimson dribble down. “Like clockwork.”

You find yourself breathing harder.

And you’re writing.

You don’t even realize it at first, not consciously. The pen scratches across the page like it has its own mind:

“He doesn’t kill for fun. He kills for structure. For design. For detail.” “Each bruise has placement. Each scream has volume.” “He doesn’t kill people. He erases them, makes meaning of them.”

Ronin kneels again. Cups the guy’s chin like he’s posing a doll.

“Don’t pass out now,” he hums. “We ain’t hit the chorus yet.”

You whisper, half-joking, “Tell him it’s for art.”

Ronin doesn’t even glance your way this time. Just smiles wider.

“It’s for art,”

The scream that rips out is pure animal.

You flinch. And then—you don’t. Because it’s addictive. The sound of it. The feeling of being here.

Watching Ronin twist something alive into something raw. Something else.

You’re starting to wonder if this was always inside you. If it just needed the right person to peel the skin back and expose the nerves. You look down at your page.

You’ve drawn him.

Not the man on the floor. Ronin.

Sharp cheekbones. Bloody hands. Wide grin like a god with no church but his own red room. There’s a halo of crowbars around his head like a saint of carnage. And beneath it, you’ve scrawled:

“I think I love him.”

You almost laugh at yourself.

But you don’t tear the page out.

Ronin’s looking at you now. Not saying a word. Like he knows what you wrote. Like he could taste it through the air.

He stands slowly. The guy’s still breathing—barely. He’s not dead yet. You think Ronin’s waiting on you.

“Darlin’,” he says, voice slick with mirth and menace. “You wanna pick the finishin’ touch?”

Your breath catches. He’s offering you the last stroke.

You stare. You blink. You swallow.

Then you nod.

“Yeah.”

You don’t know what you’ll choose yet. But you know you’ll write about it after.

You’ll write all of it. Every inch of this living nightmare.

Because you were never the hero of this story.

You were just looking for a muse.

And you found him—in blood and concrete, in screaming men and the lullaby of breaking bone.

You found him.

Your devil. Your butcher. Your art.

At first, just to remember. A little scratch of ink, a reflection. Something poetic to keep the nausea away. But it didn’t stay poetic, not really. Your hand cramped from the speed, from the need, and the page bled black with words the way the floor bled red.

You weren’t just watching anymore. You were documenting. You were translating murder into metaphor. Gore into gospel.

“He paints with pain. That’s the medium.” “He composes screams like violin notes, each snap of the bone a crescendo.” “His hands aren't hands. They're brushes. He doesn’t kill. He curates.”

You glanced up from the notebook and saw it again—how Ronin tilted his head just before he struck, admiring the posture, the pleading, the panic.

And you got it.

The way the crowbar slid through air—how clean it sounded, the whistling hush before impact. The way he didn’t grunt or pant. Ronin didn’t labor. He moved like he was dancing, like his body already knew where the final stroke belonged.

“He kills with rhythm.” “He kills with grace.” “He doesn’t need a reason. The act is the art.”

You looked at the man he was killing—not the man. The canvas. The collapsed figure with his face bent inwards and his ribs shifting like a broken accordion. And somehow, some rotten part of you—

—you thought it was beautiful. You understood him. You thought, “This is how he loves.”

And still, you wrote.

“I saw the art.” “I saw the beauty.” “I saw how he kills.” “He kills like a lover—softly at first, with admiration. Then all at once, with devotion.”

Ronin turned to you again. Bloody, heaving, smiling.

“You writin’ sonnets over there, Darlin?” he asked, tilting his head as the body gave a last twitch behind him. “Wanna read me one when I’m done cleanin’?”

Your mouth was dry. You licked your lips.

“I’m trying to keep up.”

He laughed. Low and pleased and ruinous.

“Darlin, if you keep writing like that, you’re gonna make me fall for you all over again.”

You looked down.

Your notebook was nearly full.

It was done.

The body lay still, sunken into itself like it was praying to the wrong god and got exactly what it asked for. Blood pooled like a frame around the chaos. Art, in the Butcher’s gallery. A ruined masterpiece.

You closed your notebook with a little snap, pen still trembling between your fingers.

“Thanks,” you said, soft. Honest. Like someone just cooked for you, and you meant it.

Ronin dragged the crowbar down the wall with a lazy scrape, shoulder slouched, chin lifted—swaggering toward you like a wet saint. Blood dripped from his chin like it was meant to. His eyes flicked over you with that look, like he was checking if you still breathed the same after watching him do what he was made for.

“C’mere,” he said, voice sticky with play. “You wanna help me sow ‘im up?”

You wrinkled your nose. “Nah.”

His brows raised. “Aw, how mean, Darlin’. I put on a show for ya, and you fuckin’ mean?” His voice pitched mock-wounded, but the grin was sharp, wicked—flirting. “Y’ain’t even gonna stitch the finale?”

You laughed, stupidly charmed. Your stomach was still a mess, your knees weak, but God—

Even if the Devil's scary, he can be cute.

He can be romantic, in that rotten way that makes your heart thump for all the wrong reasons. He’s the worst kind of sweetheart. The kind that calls you “Darlin” with a mouth still stained from slaughter. The kind that murders and flirts in the same breath.

He really is the god of gore.

He shrugged, licking blood off his bottom lip. “Next time, then. I’ll make it extra messy. You can pick where I break ‘em.”

And despite the stench, despite the twitch in your gut, you smiled and tucked your notebook closer to your chest.

“Deal,” you whispered.

#killer chat #kc #killer chat x reader #killerchat #killer chat ronin #ronin x reader #ronin beaufort #kc ronin x reader #kc ronin #killer chat ronin x reader #ronin killer chat #killer chat ronin beaufort #ronin beaufort x reader #ronin x #Ronin x reader #kc x reader #kc fic #kc ronin beaufort x reader

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colouredbyd · 11 hours ago

Text

Off-Script

chapter 1: scene 11, take 1

celebrity!sirius black x celebrity!reader

synopsis: in which one audition changes everything, and you find yourself growing up in the spotlight—alongside sirius black, a boy with a voice like smoke and a name the world won’t forget. the fame is loud, the rumors louder, and somewhere between the endless cameras and the harsh media, the lines begin to blur: between who you are and who you’re expected to be.

and, along the way, everything goes off-script.

warnings: anxiety, nervousness, cringe movie scripts (i tried my best), panic attacks, overthinking, and emotional vulnerability. disclaimer: this chapter features minors as characters since it’s intended as a flashback to how they first met; in later chapters, the characters will be older and adults.

wc: 4.8k next chapter

“Hi, I’m James Potter.”

Your head snaps up, eyes meeting a pair of round glasses and a grin so effortless it almost annoys you.

He’s tall, charming in that boyish way that makes you think he’s never had to try too hard at anything. And he’s holding out a hand like the two of you haven’t been sitting in the same holding room for the past hour, like you didn’t just watch him high-five every casting assistant and crack a joke with the lighting guy and befriend the green-screen lady.

You blink, gather your breath, and take his hand. “I’m Y/N—”

You hesitate for half a second, but it’s more instinct than insecurity.

“You look nervous,” he says, dropping into the seat beside you without waiting for an invitation.

He doesn’t say it unkindly—it’s more of an observation, like he’s stating the weather or that you’ve got a pen tucked behind your ear.

“I’m fine,” you say, but your thumb is still pressed against the margin of the script, smoothing over the same corner you’ve been folding and unfolding since you walked in.

“It’s the lines, isn’t it?” James leans over, peeking at your script.

“Everyone always gets stuck on that one monologue. It’s a beast. I couldn’t get through it without sounding like I was about to cry. Still can’t, but maybe that’s the point.”

You glance at him, surprised. “You struggled with it?”

“Oh, absolutely,” he says easily. “I’ve been in this industry since I was in diapers and I still choke on the heavy stuff. My parents keep trying to convince me it’s all about breathing and honesty. But I think sometimes it’s just about surviving the scene.”

You try not to look visibly shocked. Of course you know who he is. Everyone does. Euphemia and Fleamont Potter—famous for their string of Emmy-winning series and flawless box office runs—are the brains behind this very show. Stranger Things. The dark, nostalgic, terrifyingly brilliant project that people have already started calling “genre-defining.” The Potters are its creators, directors, and executive producers. And James? He’s practically royalty.

You wonder, briefly, if he knows how impossible it is for someone like you to be here.

Because you didn’t grow up on studio lots. You didn’t take acting classes at age three or have your face printed on casting calls by age six. You came from a town where dreams like this stayed dreams. No famous family. No connections. Just a voice in your head telling you to try.

Now you’re here. Sixteen years old, freshly cast as one of the leads in the most anticipated show of the year, with a role that’s raw and strange and full of psychic powers and bleeding noses. You’re not even sure how you got it.

They haven’t officially announced the cast yet. There’s still one final audition round left, but the assistant told you it’s more of a chemistry read—just to see how you and the others move together. Still, the thought of it makes your heart pound.

This isn’t just a dream come true. It’s a dream with teeth.

James nudges your elbow lightly. “You’re gonna be brilliant, by the way.”

You blink. “What?”

“The scene. The whole thing. I can tell.” His smile softens, less flashy now, more real. “You’ve got this look in your eyes. Like you’ve already lived it.”

You don’t know what to say to that. So you just nod, and for the first time since you arrived, the room feels a little less sharp. The walls stop closing in.

James grew up with cameras in his face and scripts in his hands. This is his normal.

But he doesn’t make you feel small. He doesn’t throw it around like it means more than your quiet, trembling hands or your desperate need to belong.

“Are you nervous?” you ask, half-joking.

He grins. “Always. That’s how I know it matters.”

You smile back, the knot in your stomach loosening just a little.

“You want to run lines?” he offers, already pulling out his own copy of the scene, edges covered in messy ink.

You nod.

And for the first time since you got the call, the weight lifts. A little.

You’re still the only one who didn’t come from a famous family. Still the only one whose name means nothing in a casting room.

But James Potter is sitting beside you, reading your name like it belongs here. And maybe that’s a start.

You and James run lines for what feels like both forever and no time at all.

He reads with an ease that doesn’t feel showy. There’s no smugness, no performance for the sake of impressing you—he just lives in the scene.

He trips over words sometimes, laughs at strange directions, makes faces when something doesn’t make sense. It makes you feel lighter, like maybe this isn’t so impossible after all. Like maybe you don’t have to be perfect to be good.

At some point, your shoulders stop tensing at every noise. The studio hallway grows louder as more crew members shuffle past—assistants with clipboards, stylists with tangled garment bags, someone dragging what looks like a lighting rig across the floor—but their movement blurs into the background. You’ve got a rhythm now. A steady back and forth between pages, voices, breath.

Then a voice cuts through the hallway: “Remus Lupin? Scene ten, take nine—you’re up.”

James looks up and grins. “You’ll like Remus. He’s good. Kind of freakishly good, actually.”

But you don’t really hear James. Because after Remus, it’ll be you.

You try not to stiffen, but your fingers tighten around the script in your lap. You glance toward the casting room door—the one they’ll call you through next—and suddenly it’s harder to breathe.

James must notice, because he bumps your shoulder lightly. “Hey. You’re fine. You’ve got, like, twenty minutes.”

You nod, swallowing hard. “I think I’ll step out for a bit. Get some air.”

“Good idea,” he says easily, already gathering the pages between his fingers. “Don’t go far, and don’t psych yourself out.”

You smile, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

The hallway is more crowded than when you first arrived, a blur of unfamiliar faces and tangled equipment. You walk briskly, turning toward the exit sign at the far end—except when you get there, it leads to another corridor, not outside.

The studio’s layout is a maze of white-painted walls, steel beams, and swinging doors with production labels. Voices bounce from room to room. The air is warm with stage lights and static.

You try another hallway. No exit. Just more people—tech crew, assistants, actors already in costume. Someone offers you a bottled water. Another brushes past you with a headset and a frown.

Still no fresh air.

You keep moving, further from the noise, until you find a stairwell tucked between two heavy doors. You climb, following the scent of dust and metal, up past the wardrobe floor, past the locked rehearsal studios, up to a plain gray door that hums faintly with the wind behind it.

It opens to the rooftop.

It’s quieter here—distant sirens, a low hum from the city beyond the studio walls. The sky is overcast but soft, the kind of light that makes everything look washed in nostalgia. You step forward slowly, as if not to disturb it.

From up here, the lot looks small. Even the casting room—the one that holds your future inside its four thin walls—seems like it couldn't possibly contain something as heavy as your dream. You sit down against the ledge, script still in hand, the pages fluttering slightly in the breeze.

You close your eyes for a moment, just to remember how it feels to breathe when no one is watching.

But when you open them again, you realize you aren’t alone.

There’s a figure already at the far end of the rooftop, perched at the edge, his back to you. His legs dangle over open air, casually swinging like the hundred-foot drop beneath him means nothing.

You blink, startled. He hadn’t made a sound—not even the creak of movement on the metal ledge.

Your breath catches. “Hey—careful, you’ll fall off.”

The boy doesn’t move. For a second, you think maybe he didn’t hear you.

But then he sighs—loud and pointed—and turns his head slightly, just enough for you to catch a glimpse of his face.

His eyes are red. Not tired, not irritated—red. The kind that only happens when someone’s been crying for a long time and didn’t have time to fix it before being seen.

“I’m fine,” he says flatly. Not annoyed. Not grateful. Just… blunt.

You take a step closer, slowly, like you’re trying not to spook a wounded animal. “You’re not really supposed to be sitting like that.”

“Then don’t look,” he mutters, eyes flicking back toward the skyline. His voice isn’t sharp, but it cuts anyway.

He’s dressed like someone who was supposed to be somewhere important earlier—pressed shirt, blazer half-slipped off one shoulder, tie loose and crooked. But his hair’s a little messy, and there’s a scuff on one of his shoes, and he looks like he got into a fight with the day and lost.

“I just—” You hesitate, but the words come anyway. “I didn’t think anyone would be up here.”

“Clearly.”

You bristle, despite yourself. There’s a part of you that wants to walk away. Let him stew in his rooftop silence and whatever disaster he’s currently avoiding. But there’s something in his posture—how rigid his shoulders are, how he won’t look at you—that stops you.

So instead of stepping back, you step forward. Right up to the ledge.

And then you climb onto it.

His head snaps toward you. “What are you doing?”

You settle beside him with more stubbornness than grace, gripping the edge for balance as your legs dangle beside his. “If you get to sit here, so do I.”

He frowns, the sharp line of his jaw tightening, a muscle twitching as if caught between restraint and something more volatile. “You could fall.”

“So could you,” you answer without hesitation, your voice calm but firm.

“That’s different.”

“Is it?” you tilt your head, meeting his eyes. “How?”

He opens his mouth like he has the answer ready—like he always does—but nothing comes. His jaw locks again, and for a moment, silence stretches between you, taut as wire.

“Because—” he starts, and then falters. The words catch in his throat. And when he speaks again, it’s thinner, almost like fear is threading through it. “Because I’ve been up here before. I know where the edge is.”

You glance out at the city skyline, the wind brushing against your cheek like a warning, and then back at him. “Then show me.”

He looks at you for a long second, a storm flickering in his gaze. Like he’s weighing the urge to lash out, to say something cold or careless to make you leave.

But something in your expression stops him. Because you’re not backing down. And maybe that’s what makes him pause. Maybe that’s when he sees it—the same quiet storm behind your eyes that mirrors his own. That same mix of anger and aching, of being brave when all you want to do is run.

His shoulders drop slightly, the tension bleeding out in a slow, reluctant breath. When he speaks again, it’s not angry anymore.

“You shouldn’t have done that.”

“You shouldn’t be up here alone,” you say, your voice soft but unwavering.

He huffs, a half-laugh that doesn’t reach his eyes. Still, he doesn’t look away. “You’re impossible,” he mutters under his breath, shaking his head.

“And you’re not?” you counter, the corners of your mouth tugging upward just a little.

His eyes flick to you again, sharper this time. Curious. Like he’s trying to make sense of you, to figure out why you keep showing up in all the places he thought he’d locked away for himself.

“What are you even doing up here?” he finally asks, voice low, frayed at the edges.

You shrug, trying to keep your tone casual even though your hands are starting to feel numb from the wind. “Auditions. I needed air.”

That gets his attention. He turns to you more fully, brows pulling together. “Wait—you’re here for Stranger Things?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

His stare sharpens. “Who are you cast as?”

You hesitate, just for a breath. “The girl. With the powers.”

His mouth drops open slightly. “Fuck.”

You blink. “What?”

He lets out a humorless laugh and rubs a hand over his face. “Just… of course. Of course it’s you.”

You narrow your eyes. “Why? What’s that supposed to mean?”

He doesn’t answer right away, just tips his head back toward the sky like it might answer for him. Then, with a sigh, he mutters, “I’m her love interest, Mike.”

There’s a beat of silence. A breeze cuts through, and suddenly you’re hyper-aware of how close you’re sitting, how this rooftop feels like a stage you didn’t mean to step onto.

“Wait,” you say, squinting at him. “So… who are you?”

He pauses for just a second too long. “Sirius. Sirius Black.”

You blink again, harder this time.

“You’re—Sirius Black?”

He grimaces. “Unfortunately.”

And that’s when it hits you. The name. The face. The headlines.

The Sirius Black. Probably the most well-known teen actor of his generation. Star of a dozen indie films, two major franchises, and one Oscar-buzz drama that made everyone collectively lose their minds when he was fourteen.

His mother, Walburga Black, hosts one of the most watched reality TV empires in the country, her name basically synonymous with Hollywood gossip.

His father, Orion Black, was once a golden boy actor in the 80s, now the executive force behind Black Pictures—one of the biggest production companies in the industry. The entire family reads like a film credits list. His uncles are actors. His aunts are Oscar-nominated. His godfather is the face of an entire perfume brand.

And you… you had to pick this rooftop.

“Oh,” you say faintly, the word barely brushing past your lips. “That makes sense.”

He snorts, bitter and tired. “Does it?”

You look at him again—really look. There’s a glassiness to his eyes, a kind of weight that doesn’t come from call sheets or cameras but from something older, quieter, and heavier. And for a moment, you’re not sure if he’s laughing at you or at himself.

“I mean,” you murmur, gaze steady, “it explains the dramatics.”

That earns the faintest twitch of a smile—subtle, almost like it slips through before he can stop it. “You’ve got guts,” he says, the words curling just slightly at the edges, “I’ll give you that.”

You don’t know who laughs first.

Maybe it’s him—Sirius Black, perched on the edge of a rooftop like it’s just another stage, muttering something dry that slices through the silence and all your tension with it.

Or maybe it’s you—because everything suddenly feels absurd. The audition, the pressure, the hours spent holding your breath, the way the city breathes beneath your feet.

You glance at him. He’s not smiling wide, not beaming, but there’s something there now—something pulled from beneath the stormcloud eyes and sharp cheekbones. A warmth that could almost be mistaken for light.

And then it hits you.

Your entire body jolts with the realization.

“Shit,” you breathe, the word tumbling out before you can stop it.

He glances over, one eyebrow lifting. “What now?”

“My audition,” you murmur, eyes already darting to the crumpled script poking out of your dress pocket. “Your name’s on my pages.”

He stares at you. “What?”

“You’re in the scene I’m auditioning with.” You fumble for the paper, smoothing it open between your hands. “It’s the one with the girl and the boy in the woods—the flashlight, the whole speech about being scared and doing it anyway.”

He leans slightly to peek at the page, and then groans. “Oh, that one.”

You nod. “That’s you.”

He shrugs, utterly unfazed. “Great. You’ve got it covered.”

“No, I don’t. I need to run it, with you.”

“I don’t rehearse,” he says simply, like it’s a personal philosophy.

You blink. “I’m sorry?”

“I don’t rehearse,” he repeats, dragging a hand through his hair. “Never really needed to. I show up, hit the mark, say the lines. People seem to like it.”

You just stare at him.

“Sirius fucking Black,” you mutter under your breath, turning toward him with a look that could split the moon in half. “You are going to rehearse with me.”

He looks almost amused. “Am I?”

You’re already climbing off the ledge, your white dress catching in the wind as you move fast, fueled by panic and adrenaline and something that feels dangerously close to raw determination.

“Whoa, whoa—hey!”

Before you can plant your feet back on the gravel safely, a hand grabs your wrist—tight, steady, pulling you back just enough.

“Fuck, be careful, angel,” he mutters, the words rushed and low like they’ve leapt out of him uninvited.

You pause.

Not because of the nickname (though it sparks something strange in your chest), but because he said it like he meant it. Like for half a second, the idea of you falling scared him more than anything else in this moment.

He’s still holding your wrist when you look at him.

“I’m fine,” you say, softer now. “I’ve got it.”

He lets go, slowly.

And then you square your shoulders, adjust the pages in your hand, and lift your chin. “We’re doing this scene.”

“I just said—”

“You are going to rehearse with me!” you repeat, voice sharper now.

“Because I am going to get this fuckass role. I don’t care how many Emmys your uncle has, or how many magazine covers your face is on. I didn’t crawl my way into this building to have some nepotism prince brush me off like I’m decoration!”

His eyes go wide, a flicker of something wild and admiring sparking in them.

And then he bursts out laughing.

Full, deep laughter. The kind that echoes off the rooftop walls and makes your blood boil.

“Stop laughing!” you snap.

He just keeps laughing, wheezing now, hands on his knees. “You—you just said fuckass role.”

“I’m serious!”

“No, I’m Sirius.”

You groan, glaring.

He holds up his hands in mock surrender, still grinning. “Okay, okay. You’re terrifying.”

“Good.”

He straightens up, brushing off the edge of his jeans. “Fine. Let’s rehearse. But only because you threatened me.”

You cross your arms. “I did no such thing.”

“You dragged me off a ledge like some kind of homicidal fairy.”

You shrug. “Desperate times.”

He looks at you for a long moment. The wind plays with the edge of your dress, your hair, the papers clutched in your hand. And you swear he softens—just slightly. The edge in him easing, curiosity replacing arrogance.

“All right.” He tugs a folded script from the inside pocket of his leather jacket and waves it in the air. “Let’s see if you’re any good, then.”

Your eyes narrow. “I’m excellent.”

“We’ll see.”

You step back, flipping to the right scene, clearing your throat. The wind tugs at the corners of your script and your dress, but your hands are steady now. He leans against the ledge, eyes half-lidded and unreadable, and waits for you to begin.

The rooftop isn’t a stage. The city doesn’t quiet for your lines. No one’s watching.

But you speak like someone’s listening.

And when you finish the scene—when the last word hangs between you, raw and electric—Sirius doesn’t say anything for a long time.

He just looks at you.

Like he sees something he didn’t expect.

Like maybe, you belong here after all.

Sirius taps the edge of your script with a knuckle. “Alright, angel. Scene 10. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

You raise a brow. “Just like that?”

“Just like that,” he says, dropping into an easy stance like he’s done this a thousand times before.

His posture shifts, the smirk tucks itself away, and suddenly he’s someone else entirely—Mike, the boy trying to hold a flashlight steady while the world around him falls apart.

You take one breath, then another, then step into the moment.

Scene 10. Forest. Mike and Eleven, side by side in the dark.

The lines you’ve memorized a dozen times spill out, but this time they don’t feel rehearsed. Sirius listens like he’s never heard them before, and when he speaks, it’s with a weight that grounds the scene.

The words aren’t magic—but they do something close. The space between you vibrates with the rhythm of shared silence, tension, emotion. It’s short, but by the time you reach the last line—“It’s not about what we lost. It’s about what we’ve still got.”—the quiet that follows feels earned.

Sirius exhales and gives you a crooked smile. “You’ve got timing.”

You shrug, but your heart beats louder than before.

Without a word, he grabs the scripts from your hands and plops down cross-legged on the rooftop floor. “Let me see.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Are you always this—”

“Collaborative,” he cuts in, uncapping a marker from his jacket pocket. “Now sit. We’ve got work to do.”

His annotations are a mess of arrows and looping words. He circles beats, draws dashes for pauses, and jots little notes like don’t rush this or breathe here. His handwriting is barely legible, but the edits are precise, focused.

“Pause here. This line’s too heavy to throw away,” he murmurs. “And this? Keep your voice low. Not scared—just… holding back.”

You watch him, amused. “You always direct your scene partners?”

“Only when they can actually act,” he says, glancing up.

You snort. “Is that a compliment?”

“Don’t push it.”

The corner of your mouth quirks, and he flips to the next page.

Scene 11.

He hums. “Ah. That one.”

You know immediately. The basement scene. The one where Mike—Sirius’s character—fake proposes to Eleven, your role, just to get her to talk again. You’ve read it so many times that the dialogue is practically carved into your bones.

He reads over the first few lines and chuckles. “This is so dumb.”

“It’s not dumb,” you argue lightly. “It’s sweet. In a stupid, manipulative way.”

Sirius makes a face. “Exactly.”

Still, he stands, brushing dust off his jeans. “Come on, then. Let’s get this over with.”

You both take position, scripts half-forgotten at your feet.

He steps into the part quickly, voice shifting into something earnest and awkward—Mike trying to coax Eleven out of silence with a ring made from a candy wrapper and desperation.

“Okay,” he says, kneeling dramatically. “Since you clearly won’t talk to me like a normal person… I guess there’s only one thing left to do. I hereby propose. Like—on one knee and everything.”

You fold your arms. Stay silent.

“Wow. Rejected without mercy,” he mutters, then softens. “You haven’t talked to me in. Do you hate me?”

You look down, breathe. “No.”

“You’re mad?”

“No.”

“Then why—”

“Because I’m scared.”

The words slip out soft, but true. And Sirius looks at you differently this time—more like Mike, less like the boy who called you angel and handed you his marker.

A silence follows that isn’t awkward, only real.

Then Sirius lets out a low whistle. “Damn. You’ve got this.”

You let yourself smile. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

“Please,” he grins. “I’m Sirius Black.”

You roll your eyes, but something in your chest loosens. For the first time, the role doesn’t feel like something you're chasing. It feels like something already yours.

Sirius plucks your script off the ground again, flipping back to Scene 11 like he isn’t still grinning from your fake rejection five minutes ago.

“Well, angel,” he says, stretching out on the rooftop like it’s his living room, “if you’re gonna turn me down, at least let me immortalize it.”

He grabs his marker—still uncapped, still bleeding slightly at the edges—and scribbles something in the margin next to your line: SAY IT LIKE YOU’RE LYING TO YOURSELF.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you ask, leaning over his shoulder.

He shrugs. “Exactly what it sounds like. Don’t act like you’re scared of him—act like you’re scared of what he means.”

You blink at him. “Since when are you an actor and a psychologist?”

He grins, toothy and easy. “Since five minutes ago. I’m multitalented.”

You’re still laughing when the rooftop door slams open behind you.

A crew member stands in the doorway, breathless and wide-eyed. “There you are—we’ve been looking for you for ten minutes! Are you out of your minds? You’re both up next!”

Your stomach drops.

Sirius just stretches, calmly dusting off his jeans. “We got a little carried away. It’s fine.”

“It is not fine!” the woman shouts, already dialing someone on her headset. “Come on, let’s go!”

You scramble to your feet, panic rising like a tide you can’t swim against. Ten minutes. That’s forever in this world—enough time for a casting director to change their mind, to offer your role to someone shinier, someone with the right last name.

You clutch your script to your chest as you follow Sirius down the narrow stairwell, and your thoughts spiral with every step—they’re going to hate me, I ruined it, I lost it, I lost it—

“Hey.” Sirius’s voice cuts through the static, and then—his hand on your wrist.

He stops midway down the stairs, turning you to face him. “Hey. Look at me.”

You do. His eyes are steadier than you’ve seen them all day, quiet in a way that feels almost reverent.

“You’re fine. You haven’t lost anything. Just breathe, alright?”

You shake your head, heart pounding too loud in your ears. “They’re going to be mad. They’re going to say I’m unprofessional—”

“Shh.” He shifts his grip, then with his free hand, pulls the marker from his pocket again.

And slowly, gently, he starts drawing stars along the inside of your wrist—five-pointed, slightly smudged, looping together like constellations only he can see.

It takes you a second to notice that your breathing’s slowed.

The panic eases.

You glance down at the ink-dusted trail of stars blooming across your skin. “How did you… know to do that?”

Sirius freezes for a beat too long.

Then he looks away, tucking the marker back into his pocket. “My brother. Sometimes he… gets like that.”

You want to ask more, but something in his expression tells you not to. His shoulders stiffen, the familiar armor sliding back into place. The charm, the cool detachment—it’s all back by the time you reach the studio door.

But the stars stay on your wrist.

The second the studio doors swing open, chaos swallows you whole.

It’s brighter than you expect—overhead lights casting a sterile glow across the soundstage, voices overlapping as crew members rush to and from set, someone shouting about blocking, someone else dragging a lighting rig across the floor. You blink against it all, suddenly unsure where to look, where to stand, how to exist.

And then—

“There you are!” James.

He jogs over, looking mildly out of breath, strands of his messy hair falling over his glasses. Relief flashes across his face when he sees you, and then it shifts—warms—when his eyes land just beyond your shoulder.

“Sirius,” James breathes.

And Sirius lights up.

Like a switch flipped. The edges of him soften, melt. That cool indifference disappears entirely as he grins, almost boyishly, and throws his arms around James in a way that’s too fast to think about and too real to be scripted.

“God, I haven’t seen you in forever,” Sirius mutters into James’s shoulder, and you swear—for half a second—he sounds like a different person.

“Thought you were ditching the project,” James teases, clapping him on the back.

“Almost did.”

James pulls away, looking over at you. “You met Y/N, yeah? She’s playing the girl with powers. She’s incredible.”

You smile, shy under the weight of his praise. But before you can say anything—

“Hello, darling.”

A voice, smooth and warm and unmistakably in charge, cuts through the air. A woman strides over, sharp black heels clicking on the floor. Her hair is pinned up perfectly, lips a red that looks expensive, and the way everyone parts around her—it tells you everything you need to know.

Euphemia Potter. The director.

She reaches for your hand like you’ve already earned the role and says your name like she’s been waiting to meet you for months.

“I’ve heard about you,” she says, voice honeyed. “And I just want you to know—don’t worry about a thing. You’re here because you belong here. Okay?”

You nod, not trusting your voice. But something in your chest eases.

“And this,” she says, glancing over her shoulder, “is my husband, Fleamont. Producer. He’ll pretend he’s not a softie, but he cried over Scene 9.”

He gives you a polite smile and a knowing wink.

Before you can process any more, a crew member in a headset appears beside you, clipboard in one hand, clapperboard in the other.

He looks between you and Sirius, then lifts the board slowly.

“Alright,” he calls out, voice carrying across the set, grounding the room in sudden stillness.

A spotlight clicks on overhead.

The crew goes quiet. Everyone freezes.

You take your mark. Sirius takes his.

And the board rises.

“Scene 11, take 1.” Snap.

The clap cuts through the silence, sharp and final.

And in that breathless second after the sound dies—everything begins.

Sirius turns to face you in the darkened basement set, his expression already shifting. The cameras roll, the lights hum, and the line between fiction and reality dissolves like sugar in water.

And just like that, the scene begins.

a/n: idk why i cringed so much writing this (i promise pt 2 is much better) anyways, thoughts?

oh and, before anyone comments it; no reader won't be bald like eleven, she has hair.

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noforkingclue · 3 days ago

Note

Hi there! I saw you’re accepting requests again! 😄

From the prompt list you just reblogged, would you be willing to write something for Tommy Shelby with: ❛ want me to model these for you? ❜ ??

Thanks so much if you’re willing to! ❤️

Of course! Thank you for requesting :D

Sorry it took so long to write but I hope you like it!

Title: Presents

You paused when you saw the box on your desk. You had come into the office early to catch up on some work and the last thing you were expecting was this. You slowly approached it, half expecting it to disappear or maybe it was a trap and it would-

“It’s not going to explode.”

You jumped as Tommy’s voice cut through the silence. It was strange seeing everything so quiet. You were used to the hustle and bustle, of people shouting and swearing and a thick layer of smoke hanging in the air. You looked over at Tommy who was leaning against the wall, cigarette between his teeth. He pushed off the wall and walked over.

“Why is it on my desk, Mr Shelby?” you asked

Tommy was silent for a moment as he approached. He blew out a stream of smoke as he stood next to you.

“Open it.” he said at last

The tone of his voice told you that there was no room for argument. Automatically you did so and your breath hitched at what you saw. You gently trailed a finger against the thick fabric of the coat. The other day you had mentioned to Polly about needing a new coat. You had your current one for years and the were only so many repairs and patching you could do before you had to admit defeat and get a new one.

You certainly weren’t expecting this.

“Mr Shelby-” you started

“Don’t,” he interrupted firmly, “can’t have you freezing to death.”

You pulled the coat out of the box, almost too afraid to touch it. You knew that it was way out of your price range. You could never afford something like this even if you saved all you could for a year. Which only left one question.

“Why?”

“Why,” Tommy took another drag from his cigarette, “can’t have Polly’s protege freezing to death.”

You held the coat up and noticed a matching scarf at the bottom of the box. You smiled faintly at him and held them out.

“Want me to model these for you?”

You could’ve sworn that Tommy stiffened briefly. For a second you wondered if you had overstepped an invisible line. Then again, who else had Tommy bought gifts for? Maybe his family but that was different. You weren’t family. You were just someone that Polly saw promise in and took under her wing. Then, after what felt like hours, Tommy nodded.

“Show me,” he said, his voice low, “to make sure it fits.”

You took off your old coat and slipped on the new one, wrapping the scarf around your neck. The coat fit perfectly and a small part of you was concerned about just how well it fit. You spun around, the coat twirling around and you stopped facing Tommy. He was sitting down, still smoking, and looked you up and down.

“Perfect.” you said

“Yes.”

“Thank you. I don’t know how I can repay you, Mr Shel-”

“Tommy.”

“Huh?”

“Tommy. No more ‘Mr Shelby’. That’s how you can repay me.”

“Ok, Tom-”

At that moment the door flung open and you recognised the loud voices of Arthur and John. Whatever spell Tommy seemed to have you under was shattered in that instance. You took a step away from him, suddenly feeling self conscious in a coat that you could never afford.

“Well fucking look at you.”

A strong arm was flung over your shoulders and you were roughly pulled against Arthur. You could feel your cheeks get warm under his and John’s stares and you shrugged off his arm.”

“Who’s been fucking buying you presents,” Arthur continued, although from the smirk on his face, you could tell that he already knew, “you got a fucking admirer now.”

“Better be fucking careful,” said John with a smirk, “gotta make sure you trust him.”

You rolled your eyes and smiled at them.

“Very fucking funny,” you said, “I didn’t know you two were capable of getting in this early.”

Of course you knew what they were both capable of, both inside and outside the business. Now that the peace of the office was shattered you saw Tommy slink off in his own office. Your fingers curled into the sleeves of the coat as Arthur and John went off to do their own work. Quietly you said to yourself,

“Thank you, Tommy.”

#fanfiction #peaky blinders #reader insert #request #thomas shelby #tommy shelby #thomas shelby x reader #tommy shelby x reader

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hola-didi · 2 days ago

Text

🕸️ Saints and Spiderwebs — a slow-burn Peter Parker x Reader series. Post NWH events.

Y/N has officially landed in New York City—jetlagged, starving, and already regretting everything. Luckily, her cousin shows up with balloons and zero boundaries. As Y/N settles into her new “cozy” apartment, she’s greeted by mismatched mail, questionable environment, and a surprisingly soft-eyed neighbor who’s supposed to be quiet and cryptic—but mostly just looks like he hasn’t slept since the events of the blip.

It’s her first day in motion after everything fell apart. Oh yeah, and Spider-Man has already made a special greeting.

Welcome to Queens, baby.

Prologue: Mail Mixup

Time has erased everything in my heart Every memory left by heartbreak My wings grow from the root Because I blindly believe in you

– RBD

---

You landed at JFK ten minutes early, which meant absolutely nothing.

Because those ten minutes? You spent all of them—and would undoubtedly spend more—pressing through the suffocating line to escape. It took thirty-five minutes just for your gate to open. Another fifteen to shuffle through the jet bridge like cattle, blinking under the fluorescents like you were being rounded up.

Then came the slow, buzzing shuffle through customs. The artificial chill. The TSA agent who looked at you like you’d smuggled three bricks worth of your life in your carry-on. Your suitcase came out last, obviously. The baggage carousel sputtered like it was on life support. A toddler vomited near your shoes in the rideshare queue, and no one bothered to help.

By the time you finally emerged into the terminal, the air smelled like burnt coffee, bleach, and whatever hope had been left behind by the last flight. Someone coughed behind you—deep and wet. Someone else was already shouting into their phone like the world was ending. You adjusted your hoodie, hugged your backpack to your chest, and muttered the smallest of affirmations that you’re almost out—not even full words. Just a rhythm in your throat.

You had forgotten how loud New York could be. Not the honking taxis or the man outside Terminal 4 yelling someone’s name—but the kind of loud that settled inside your chest. The kind that pulsed behind your ribs like the city was trying to rewrite your heartbeat in its own tempo. You didn’t feel ready. But then again, you hadn’t felt ready in over a year.

Estella, your cousin, had texted you something vague—“still stuck in traffic sorry ily”—so you stood there alone, hugging yourself like it might anchor you. She’d said something about an extra shift the night prior. You didn’t blame her. You didn’t blame anyone, really.

Except maybe yourself—for thinking this move would feel different once you got here.

It didn’t.

This was just for school. Maybe two years after. Long enough to collect some adult experience, maybe stop crying every time someone mentioned your life in Los Angeles like it hadn’t been carved out of you piece by piece with everything that happened. You were here because it was all you could do. You were here because going back wasn’t a real option.

You barely made it ten feet outside of arrivals when a girl bumped into your shoulder, muttered a distracted “sorry,” and kept moving. You waved her off with a tired smile, even though you weren’t sure who you were waving at.

And then you saw it.

A flyer. Slapped onto one of the terminal columns like an afterthought—cheap black-and-white ink, curling at the edges, starting to fade. A woman was missing. Not much older than twenty-seven. Pretty, with tired eyes and rose earrings you’d probably compliment if you saw her in real life. You stared longer than you should have.

Your mom used to say, “When people go missing, the world doesn’t stop. It just learns to step around the issue of the person. But it’s always a good virtue to keep an eye out. Even if it means it’s only you.”

You hadn’t understood that when you were little. You thought it was a saying about virtuous saints. Or about lost dogs. Or about watching your cousins in the grocery store.

Now you did.

You stepped back into the current of bodies—tired travelers, screaming toddlers, the scent of cheap perfumes and colognes—and let yourself be carried toward the exits, toward Queens, toward whatever version of yourself was still waiting on the other side.

You slowed near the arrivals corridor, adjusting your backpack, suddenly aware of how long you’d been standing still. Your shoulders ached from the flight. Your ankles throbbed with that dull, airplane-born stiffness. You hadn’t eaten since Denver. Even then, barely. A single bag of trail mix and a coffee that tasted like burnt paper. You didn’t feel hungry, exactly. Just…off. Like your body hadn’t caught up with where you were. Like you left something vital in the proces of coming here. You were two seconds away from shedding tired tears for no reason at all.

And then—

“THERE SHE IS!”

You flinched. A few heads turned. Then came the unmistakable thwap-thwap-thwap of balloons slapping each other into cartoon-like chaos as they bobbed above the crowd like a floating punchline. Curly hair—courtesy of being half Puerto Rican from her mother—pulled into a loose ponytail. One balloon read WELCOME HOME, another one had YOU FUCKING DID IT, which didn’t make sense in any practical way, but of course it did.

Of course she would.

Estella.

“Move! Excuse me! Family emergency! Five-year reunion coming through!” she bellowed like she had diplomatic immunity, hauling a floral tote roughly the size of a ukulele case. You stood there—half amused, half mortified—and didn’t even get a chance to brace yourself before she crashed into you in a full-body hug that knocked every molecule of air from your lungs.

It wasn’t just a hug. It was a homecoming in human form.

“I thought you’d be taller than me,” she said, pulling back and inspecting you with all the gravity of someone inspecting a priceless statue in a poorly lit museum. Then she beamed. “Nope. You’re perfect. Never mind. Forget I said anything.”

You rolled your eyes, trying not to smile. “And I thought you’d listen when I said no surprise gifts.”

She scoffed and handed you the balloons and a suspiciously heavy bag. Of course. Estella had always been a gift-giver, even when you didn’t want gifts—especially then. Even as kids, when she visited for holidays, she was the one handing you a glittery lip gloss or a beaded skirt from Marshalls, even if it didn’t fit. Even if you fought about it later. That was her love language: small rebellions disguised as generosity.

“What’s the point of picking up my cousin after a year of not visiting and five years of being literally blipped from existence,” she said, deadpan, like she hadn’t just punched you in the chest with that sentence.

It struck a nerve. You wished it hadn’t. You blinked it off like a contact lens out of place.

“Girl, we weren’t even aware of it until we came back,” you replied, voice too casual to be real.

Estella clicked her tongue. “Yeah, well. Time is of the essence. I’m not wasting another second. I missed you.”

She kissed your cheek and looped her arm through yours like she’d never stopped doing it, like no years had passed. Like the space between seventeen and eighteen had been a nap. You barely had time to breathe. Her perfume hit you—soft, sweet, and a powdery violet fragrance. Something citrusy underneath. It smelled like memory. You couldn’t name which one.

It should’ve made you cry. But Estella, in her typical chaos, didn’t give you the room.

“Welcome to New York, bitch!” she grinned. “Come on. I parked illegally. We’ve got, like, fifteen minutes max before the car gets towed or ticketed or hit by a bus.”

You let her steer you toward the sliding doors, half-laughing, half-floating. Something inside your chest began to unclench. Not heal. Not fix. Just…shift. Like breathing with one lung after holding your breath for too long.

Outside, New York howled. Car horns. Muffled music. The screech of tires on wet pavement. The scent of hot grease, exhaust, and possibility.

And Estella—Estella was humming “Shower” by Becky G like you weren’t standing under a slate-colored sky with half-zipped luggage and seventy pounds of uncertainty. She hoisted your bags into the trunk of a rust-colored Camry, kicked the back door shut with the heel of her boot, and climbed in like she’d been rehearsing this day in her head for years.

Perhaps, to her, this wasn’t a welcome. It was a declaration.

As the car pulled away, you glanced back through the window. The interior smelled like Amarige perfume and old coffee, warm and oriental and somehow comforting. The seatbelt clicked with that gritty resistance all old cars have—like even the mechanics were tired. The windows fogged slightly at the corners where cold air met weak heat, a halo of condensation softening the outside world.

The city moved like it was always running late. Cabs honked in aggressive harmony, sirens wailed somewhere distant, and the sky hung low and gray like a blanket of grey and blue watercolors. In the cupholders, two half-full water bottles splashed with every bump. A tiny Smiski bobblehead was glued to the dashboard, nodding with unbothered consistency like it understood the rhythm of chaos better than you ever would.

You shifted in the passenger seat, trying to find a position that didn’t make your spine throb. Queens rolled past your window—rusted stairwells, crooked scaffolding, laundry clinging to cold railings, pedestrians in heavy coats darting across intersections like they had somewhere to be at a certain time.

“So,” Estella said, flicking her turn signal even though no one in this lane gave a shit, “how’s your brother?”

You blinked out of the window’s blur. “He’s okay,” you said. “Still trying to get the shop up and running again. Business is slow, but…Diego is Diego: working hard. We both are.” She nodded, glancing at you for a second too long before returning her eyes to the road. “You two got closer after the world went to shit, huh?”

You shrugged. “It’s only the two of us now. So, yeah.”

You didn’t mention the way he’d packed your bag for you, folding each item with the quiet desperation of someone trying not to cry. You didn’t mention how long it took to save up enough to afford this flight—and how you weren’t sure if it meant freedom or abandonment. Or how you’d both pretended the hug at the airport was just a normal goodbye. All you knew was that five years vanished like a sleight-of-hand trick, and now time felt like a dare you weren’t sure you wanted to take.

You rubbed the edge of your thumb, a nervous habit you’d inherited from someone who wasn’t here anymore.

“He told me to go,” you said. “Said I deserved a restart.”

Estella smiled, but it was the soft, almost sad kind. “Considering he’s one of the only ones who didn’t fucking evaporate, I’d say that says a lot coming from him.”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

She swerved into the left lane evading a brief collisison and muttered something under her breath about drivers not knowing how to merge. The Smiski bobbled like it nodded in agreement.

“What about you?” you asked, mostly to change the subject. “How’s work?”

Estella rolled her eyes in slow motion, no venom behind it whatsoever. “Same as always. Twelve-hour shifts, aching feet, and zero thank-yous. I’m on nights most of the week. Trying to squeeze in classes between rounds.”

“You’re still in school?”

“Yeah. Picked up where I left off. Almost done now. Another year and I’ll finally be an RN. Until then, I get yelled at by old men and clean things I won’t describe in polite company.”

You laughed—real, full-bodied—and Estella grinned like she’d just won a personal bet with herself. “I don’t know how you do it,” you said. “Well,” she replied with a dramatic toss of her curls, “someone has to. Besides, the patients are sweet. Most of them. And I get free pudding from the cafeteria when no one’s looking.”

The light turned yellow. Estella floored it anyway. You barely noticed. Outside, the city shifted. Queens giving way to Midtown. The buildings got taller. The shadows longer. People moved quicker, like they’d been born walking with purpose. You leaned your forehead against the window. “How’s the city been...you know. Since everything?”

Estella exhaled like she’d been waiting for someone to ask. “Worse,” she said flatly. “For a while, it felt like things were getting better. Like maybe after the Blip, the Snapback, the cleanup—maybe we’d get a second chance. But eight months later, Spider-Man got blamed for blowing up half a block and everyone lost their goddamn minds. Again.”

You turned to her. “What? Wait—what happened?”

“Girl, do you not keep up with the news?” she said, snapping her head toward you.

“There’s always something about New York popping up on media. I can’t keep up with everything,” you shrugged.

She honked aggressively at the car in front of her. “People saw him take down, what, five villains in one night? One of them launched a bus through a window. And still, half the city calls him a menace. The other half thinks it was staged. Like he planned the whole thing for PR or something. I’m exhausted just listening to people argue about it.”

“Do they know who he is yet?”

“No,” she said, eyes narrowing as she switched lanes again. “That’s the weirdest part. There’s this weird collective déjà vu going around—like people sensing they used to know who he was. Like the name and face were out there. And then, poof. Nothing. No articles. No mugshots. Not even a bad Photoshop on Reddit.”

“That’s weird,” you said.

“Right?” she leaned in, like spilling gossip. “And it’s not just my tía’s Facebook conspiracy page. My boss—two master’s degrees—swears it’s a government cover-up or some multiverse shit. One of the patients said Spider-Man’s a clone. Another said he’s secretly a Skru—OH YOU DICKHEAD!”

She leaned on the horn as a Lexus cut her off. You chuckled.

“Anyway,” she huffed, straightening in her seat. “I think he’s a hero—granted, also a part-time walking traffic violator. But what do I know? I’ve only lived here my whole life.”

You looked up just in time to see the city open up before you—Manhattan rising like a hallucination from a Hallmark movie. Glossy glass windows. Sharp angles. That anxious, brilliant skyline that always looked like it had somewhere better to be. You hadn’t been to New York since you were fourteen, back when visiting Estella’s family meant summer break, bodegas at midnight, and trying not to look too touristy. Back before everything cracked.

Estella let out a low whistle. “Still looks the same, huh?”

You weren’t sure if she meant Manhattan or the city itself. This strange machine of people and traffic and sirens that didn’t stop moving even when half the world did.

“Yep,” you said, tugging your hoodie tighter around your face. “Same as always.”

And then—something thunked across the hood of the car.

Estella screamed. You jolted sideways, banging your knee on the glove box. Outside, through the windshield, a blur of red and blue flipped midair and landed—actually landed—on the crosswalk sign like gravity was a suggestion.

“Are you kidding me?” Estella groaned, slamming the brakes. “He does this every damn time I’m driving!”

“Sorry, ma’am!” came a cheerful voice from somewhere above the Camry, light and annoyingly sincere.

You blinked. “Is that—?”

“Speaking of,” Estella muttered, jabbing a thumb toward the windshield, “Spider-Man. As much as I think he’s a hero, I stand by what I’ve always said—he’s a part-time traffic hazard with a full-time Spider-God complex.”

Across the street, the webline snapped forward like a rubber band. You followed the motion—someone was weaving recklessly through foot traffic on what you assumed was a stolen CitiBike, a glittery pink Hello Kitty backpack bouncing against their shoulders. The thief barely made it half a block. Spider-Man swooped low, kicked off a street vendor’s cart, and yanked the bike sideways mid-air. The rider tumbled—mostly unharmed—into a nest of trash bags with a yelp that sounded like “I’m sorry!”

A few people clapped. Someone cheered. The guy behind you honked, obviously.

Estella sighed like this was a weekly inconvenience. “Anyway. What were we talking about?”

You didn’t answer.

You were watching him. The way Spider-Man knelt beside the kid—probably saying something dumb but honest—and then, without an outro, disappeared straight up the side of a building like it was second nature. Like he didn’t have to think about how to move.

“The city,” you said finally, biting back a laugh. “Not changing.”

– – –

The apartment building was exactly as Estella had described it: dingy, rustic, and the living embodiment of crushed expectations.

It was the kind of place that made you laugh softly under your breath—not because it was funny, but because if you didn’t laugh, you might start asking what the hell you’d done.

It wasn’t so different from what you’d seen in L.A.—those chipped stucco walkups in Venice, the weirdly artistic duplexes in Echo Park, the closet-sized apartments in Los Feliz where “quirky” meant the plumbing screamed in the middle of the night. Still, some part of you had been hoping this one would feel…homey. A little lived-in. A little warm.

But so far, all it felt was tired.

Estella was still in the process of decorating your shared flat, and you appreciated that—but you already knew no amount of throw pillows could cover up the dread of the faintly haunted vibe leaking out of the stairwell. The walls looked like they’d seen things. Probably smelled them too.

You followed her up two narrow flights, wheezing halfway thanks to your overstuffed suitcase and the stamina of someone who hadn’t walked more than a block in two weeks. “So how far’s the nearest station?” you huffed, grunting as you dragged your luggage one step at a time.

Estella, already halfway up the stairs and pulling your other suitcase with slight more ease, turned with a shrug. “Five-minute walk. Tops. I still gotta buy you a taser, though. Crime’s a never-ending musical out here, and girl—there’s Broadway but it’s not Broadway.”

You nearly topled over laughing, handing off the heavier bag.

You were grateful for the help as the second landing finally came into view. The door to the first apartment opened just as you reached the top. A woman stepped out—maybe mid-twenties, blonde wavy hair cut into a stylish bob, the kind of cheekbones people paid good money to contour around. She had piercing blue eyes and the kind of face that instantly gave you the feeling she baked for her neighbors but had no problem keying a car if crossed.

She smiled brightly. “Stella! Hi! This a friend of yours?”

Estella waved. “Hi, Bambi. No, this is my cousin—Y/N. She’s moving in with me.”

Bambi grinned and stepped closer, her keys jingling in her hand like she wanted you to feel instantly included. “Nice to meet you, Y/N! I’m Bambi. I live down here with my two girl friends and my maniac toddler. Jordan’s three but thinks he’s thirty.”

“Nice to meet you too,” you said, reaching for the handshake. “I’m from Vernon—California.”

Bambi blinked. “Huh?”

You smiled. “Los Angeles.”

“Oh my god—no way!” Her eyes lit up. “I’ve always wanted to go. Like, ever since I saw La La Land. I mean, I know it’s fake or whatever, but like—dreamy, right?”

You laughed—soft and genuine. “Yeah. Dreamy.”

“So what brings you all the way over here?” she asked.

“I’m starting classes at SUNY.”

Bambi gasped. “Holy shit, congrats! That’s big. You’re gonna be slammed for sure. We’ll have to do a girls’ night sometime—me, you, Stella, my roommates. Maybe when Jordan’s at his dad’s and we’re not all crashing from our day jobs.”

“Yeah,” you said, still smiling. “That’d be cool.”

Behind you, Estella let out a not-so-subtle grunt as she hoisted the last of your bags up the final step. Bambi winced in sympathy. “Alright, I’ll let you girls get settled. Welcome to the madhouse!” She waved as she headed toward the stairwell, her keys still jingling.

You watched her go. For the first time since landing, something in your chest lightened. Maybe, just maybe, this wouldn’t be a total disaster.

“She’s nice,” you murmured, grabbing one of your bags.

Estella nodded, breathless. “She’s the most tolerable one out of the three. Especially on a Friday night when the hallway turns into a tequila-fueled soundscape of crying and trap music.”

You laughed again.

“Anyway,” Estella said, motioning toward the far end of the hallway with a tilt of her chin, “we’re over there. Third door past the mail slots. Hope you like yellow.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

She grinned. “You’ll see.”

You spotted it before she even said a word—the fall wreath hanging crookedly on your new apartment door. The kind with fake orange and yellow leaves and a little wooden sign that read “Welcome Fall,” in swirly script. You smiled. Not because you liked it, exactly, but because it made everything feel a little less anonymous. A marker. A tether. You were here. You had a new home.

Estella stopped short in front of the wall-mounted mailboxes and groaned like someone had just personally offended her.

“Seriously?”

You rolled your suitcase to a pause and leaned over her shoulder. Two envelopes stuck out of your unit’s mailbox—one yellowing credit card preapproval, one with a mere name, a pizza coupon, and a tri-fold pamphlet about GED opportunities. Estella yanked the stack free like it owed her money.

“They always do this,” she muttered. “You’d think apartment numbers were rocket science.”

“Why, what happened?”

She held the stack out for you to see. “This guy’s mail keeps getting thrown in with ours. Happens at least once a week. I end up walking three flights up just to shove it back in 187’s slot.”

You raised your eyebrows, then nudged your luggage toward her. “Here,” you offered, reaching for the mismatched envelopes. “I’ll bring it to him.”

Estella gave you a long, flat look. “Y/N, you’ve been here for like—an hour and a half. You’re gonna get lost between here and the hallway.”

You rolled your eyes and wiggled your fingers in a give-it-here gesture. “I need to get familiar with my routes somehow. Might as well start now. Besides, it’s just a door number, not a maze.”

She snorted. “Regardless. I wouldn’t go making first impressions on this guy. Might scare you more than him.”

You tilted your head. “Why? Is he a grump?”

“No, not exactly,” she said, hesitating. “He’s more like…how do I put this without sounding mean? Uh—kinda…serial killer quiet.”

You blinked. “Wow. That was not not mean.”

“I’m just saying,” she huffed, tucking the rest of the mail under her arm. “Every time I run into him, he’s the same. Doesn’t talk. Doesn’t wave. Just nods, smiles maybe a bit, and disappears. Like he has nothing else to do. Super quiet.”

You shrugged. “I’m quiet.”

“Yeah, but you’re like college student quiet. He’s possible recluse hiding bodies in his closet quiet.”

You raised a brow, unconvinced. “So are you giving me the mail or not?”

Estella groaned dramatically and handed over the envelopes like they had germs. “Whatever, nena. I’m just trying to spare you the jump scare.”

You grinned at the nickname. Nena—the one she’d called you since you were nine after her mom referred to you as such when you were trying on her heels during summer visits. It was affectionate. It was patronizing. It was deeply Estella. You wouldn’t change anything about it.

“Thanks, but spare me, Stelly. I’m eighteen, not two. I can handle myself.”

“Famous last words,” she muttered under her breath as she juggled the keys and unlocked your new apartment door with a soft click. You turned toward the stairwell with the mail in hand. “Okay. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

“A minute, tops!” she called after you. “And if you’re not, I’m grabbing whatever I deem self-defense worthy and dragging your ass back down here.”

You waved a hand without looking back, already making your way down the hallway toward wherever the hell apartment 187 was—equal parts curious, tired, and just stubborn enough to commit.You walked up three flights of stairs—past peeling walls, humming radiators, and the faint smell of wall paint and something faintly burnt. It was the scent of everyone else’s homes mixed with each other. Familiar, in an odd way. Like the background noise of a city you inhabit as you walk in it.

You stopped at the landing, eyeing the identical wall of mail slots. Most were dented, rusted, or stuck with years-old stickers. You scanned them for 187 and, ironically, found it directly in front of you—close enough for it to be chest-to-chest.

You reached for the slot.

Then—

“ S’cuse me, Miss—are you dropping something off?”

You turned, half-startled, expecting Estella’s infamous serial-killer intro to come true.

But it wasn’t a grumpy old man. Or a Dahmer copy. Or anyone half as ominous as she’d made him sound.

Instead, it was a boy.

Your age, maybe a little older. Brown curls, one falling into his eyes. Warm, fast-moving eyes—quietly restless, like they were used to scanning rooftops or exits or people’s tells without meaning to. Wiry build. Runners’ body, not a lifter’s. A gray sweater hung a little loose around his frame, sleeves tugged down to his wrists. Sneakers, jeans. Nothing threatening. Just...something that suited him.

You held up the mail awkwardly. “Sorry—wrong delivery. These were in our box by mistake. Are you apartment 187?”

He glanced at the envelopes, then back at you. For a moment, it felt like he was trying to remember you from somewhere. Like he was looking through the letters, not at them.

Then he blinked and offered a quick, sheepish smile. “Yeah, that’s me. Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

You laughed once, quietly. “You didn’t. I just wasn’t expecting anyone to actually appear. My cousin said you were, like, a cryptid.”

He chuckled and rubbed the back of his neck. “Let me guess—Estella?”

“Guilty,” you nodded, handing him the mail. “She said your mail ends up in our box a lot.”

He nodded with exaggerated tiredness. “Constantly. I’ve been trying to figure out if it’s a sorting issue or bad luck.”

You laughed again—less nervous this time. “I figured I’d deliver it before it stacked up to a legal dispute.”

“Well,” he said, eyes brightening just a touch, “I appreciate it.”

You shifted your weight on your feet, suddenly aware of how empty your hands were. “I just flew in about an hour ago. Traffic was hell and we got Spider-Manhandled on the way here.”

He raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Spider-Manhandled?”

“Thunked our car. He was chasing some dude with a glittery Hello Kitty backpack. I don’t think it was a high-level threat situation, but he made it dramatic.”

He barked a laugh. “Sounds about right. Honestly, that’s probably the most New York welcome you’re gonna get.”

“I’m not sure if I should feel honored or deeply unsettled,” you said, grinning.

“Both. It’s tradition.” He paused. “Where’d you fly in from?”

“Vernon. Just outside of L.A.”

“Damn. So how are you not jetlagged right now?”

You blinked. “Who said I’m not? I’m planning to pass out with one shoe still on.”

He laughed, genuinely this time, and extended a hand. “I’m Peter, by the way.”

You shook it without hesitation. “Y/N,” you said. And it came out with a strange kind of relief—like the name was something you’d been holding in too long for the time the two of you spoke.

Then—

Frantic footsteps from the stairwell.

You turned just in time to see Estella appear on the landing, one hand clutching the railing, the other brandishing pepper spray.

“One minute, I said!” she cried, panting. “Do you know what happens when a Native-Californian gets lost in a New York apartment complex full of—”

She stopped mid-rant, eyes locking on Peter. You froze. The horror set in like syrup.

Your face flushed hot. Tomato red. Firetruck red. Embarrassment in its final form.

“Stelly,” you hissed, “I told you I’d be down in a few—oh, forget it.”

Peter, for his part, looked like he was either trying very hard not to laugh or bracing for Estella to mace him. Maybe both.

You didn’t dare meet his eyes.

You untangled your hand from his and backed away. “Nice meeting you, Peter! I gotta go...unpack!”

Your voice cracked upward like it had just hit puberty.

Peter smiled, polite but amused. “Bye, Y/N. Bye, Estella.”

You shoved Estella down the hallway. She was still gawking between the two of you.

“Not even an hour here and you’re already flirting with the neighbors?” she stage-whispered. You slapped a hand over her mouth, throwing you both off guard. “I am not!” To your unknown relief as you were both walking back, no one but the two of you heard Estella’s comment.

By the time the both of you were past the door, Estella had already begun flinging open every curtain and turned on every light like she was warding off potential ghosts who could’ve very well been haunting the place. She was barefoot, balancing a box of assorted mugs in one hand and her phone in the other, yelling at her Bluetooth speaker to “connect already, you little shit.”

You dropped your bag by the door and exhaled slowly, letting the aroma of faint lemon-scented cleaner and Estella’s rose-scented diffuser ease you back into something that almost resembled calm.

“This is the living room-slash-everything room,” she said, gesturing like a proud real estate agent while nearly tripping over her own slippers. “I still haven’t gotten the futon cushions delivered but that’s coming Tuesday. The kitchen works but the oven hates me. And your room’s a shoebox but I put up twinkle lights, so it’s legally cozy now.”

You smiled with a roll of your eyes and pulled your suitcase toward the hallway. “Legally cozy. Wow, thanks.”

Unzipping your luggage, you began unpacking slowly—folding shirts into half-empty drawers, stacking jeans on the bare shelf, pulling out the small bag of toiletries and navigating which door was the bathroom and closet. You heard Estella clattering around in the kitchen, muttering about needing to buy salt and how the olive oil might actually be expired.

“So,” she called out from somewhere near the sink, “important things to remember as a new New Yorker: Don’t look tourists in the eye, bodega cats outrank you, and if someone starts singing on the subway—just ignore it. Do not ask questions.”

You snorted, setting a framed photo of you and Diego on the nightstand. “I grew up in a tourist hotspot too, y’know. What else?”

“Oh, and if the guy—specifically the one at the corner store across our street—calls you ‘mami,’ that’s a compliment. Not harassment. At least from him. You’ll get used to it.”

“I’ll brace myself.”

“I’m also redoing the bathroom shelves this weekend and adding more hooks in the entryway because I know you’re gonna have a hella lot of jackets. Also we’re doing brunch with my mom’s side after church. And tonight, I’m ordering pizza. But tomorrow we’re hitting up this deli to celebrate our big milestone of moving in together or I will scream.”

You smiled, the corners of your mouth twitching with something unfamiliar. Maybe comfort.

As you tucked the last sweatshirt into a drawer, you turned toward the half-covered window that overlooked the shared stairwell balcony. The city was beginning to blur into dusk—gray bleeding into dark blue.

You leaned against the wall. “Peter didn’t seem cryptic like you said,” you brought up casually. Estella poked her head around the corner, eyebrows raised. “Girl. Did we not just have this conversation?”

You shook your head. “No, I mean…yeah, maybe he’s kinda quiet. But it’s not creepy. It’s something else.”

She didn’t laugh or scoff like you half expected. Instead, she leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed loosely. “Yeah,” she said after a beat with a hint of realization. “I can maybe see what you mean. I mean, I think he has no one...Like, literally, I don’t think anyone ever comes by for him. He lives alone. No roommates. No friends. No family. No mail except junk. No packages. Just...him.”

You nodded.

The window glowed faintly now, the sky behind it tinting the stairwell in shades of steel and a lavender highlight from the street lamps. You let your fingers press lightly against the frame of your drawer where you still lingered.

“I wonder he lost someone, too,” you said, quiet and unsure if you meant it out loud.

Estella stood for a moment longer, then turned back toward the kitchen. “Well,” she said, voice lighter again, “On the brightside—that’s the first I saw him smile in the last few months I’ve been here! Maybe you showed up at the right time!”

You smiled softly. “Anyway—are you in the mood for meat lover’s pizza, or meat lover’s pizza? Those are the only acceptable answers.”

You laughed. “Meat lover’s pizza.”

“Good. Tomorrow, we feast on Mr. Delmar’s magic sandwiches and maybe I’ll let you buy your own MetroCard like a grown-up.”

You sat on your bed, cross-legged, as Estella rustled through the drawer for the takeout menus. You watched the light spill softly against the railing of your fireescape balcony and let your thoughts settle, for once, without rushing to fix anything.

Outside your apartment, the stairwell stayed still. Quiet.

Upstairs, out of sight, three floors up. Peter’s door remained closed. He was laid back on his bed, the unopened mail now tossed to the side. One envelope—thicker, familiar—he tore open slowly. Inside were photos. Ones he’d ordered weeks ago. Printed on matte paper. Grainy, imperfect, tangible.

He sifted through them.

One of May, her smile sunburned and mid-laugh with him at the corner in the familiar form one takes when taking a quick selfie. It was the day she picked him up from the airport after Europe.

The last one he ever took of her.

Peter traced the edge of the photo with a finger. Something clenched and burned behind his ribs. He didn’t let himself think past May. Not to Tony. Not to Ned.

Not to MJ.

He clenched his jaw and looked at the clock.

5:00 p.m.

Time to go. Spider-Man could start patrol early tonight.

He always could, when he didn’t want to remember.

---

a/n: Thank you guys for reading !! Stay tuned for chapter 1 !!

EDIT: I was contemplating between two songs to attribute this fic to, as well as the NAME. Originally, when I posted this, it was to Bad Bunny's "DtMF" with Saints & Spider-Webs as the Title—BUT—"Another Day That Goes," by RBD (my literal childhood) was the song I was also on the verge of choosing for both title and name. After showing this to a friend, she told me that the upcoming Spider-Man Movie's rumored to be called A Brand New Day (And the RBD song sounds almost identical to the meaning)—SO, I'm changing the song, but we're still keeping this title OG 😎

That's all folks!! Stay Tuned !!

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daegudrama · 2 days ago

Text

Title: Just for the Weekend Part 2

Pairing: Reader/Min Yoongi

Summary: When a chance encounter at a music festival turns into something deeper, you find yourself pulled into a whirlwind with Yoongi—a stranger who feels too familiar. Between stolen moments, electric chemistry, and a bond that feels effortless, you're left questioning everything you thought you knew about love and connection. With the festival winding down and the last day creeping closer, one thing is certain: what started as unexpected might just be the most thrilling, dangerous, and real thing you never saw coming.

Word Count: 10,809

Release date: 6/13/25

A few hours later, the desert sky is painted soft and peach as Yoongi stands in the shuttle line, hoodie pulled tight and sunglasses shielding his tired eyes. He shifts on his feet, heart thudding hard, arms crossed trying to keep it together. He checks his phone again. 6:58 a.m.

You’re still sleeping, curled up in the tent he snuck out of like a man on a mission.

The shuttle finally arrives. Yoongi climbs on and keeps to himself the whole way. At the store, he heads straight for the pharmacy aisle. Grabs the Plan B box first. Then a Gatorade. Then condoms—just in case you aren’t pissed off and do want to have more amazing sex with him. Then, for good measure and to give the guys a reason not to grill him too hard, some more alcohol, and peanut M&M’s, because you mentioned craving them the night before.

The cashier doesn’t ask questions. Neither do the security guards when he gets back to the checkpoint. One glance at the Plan B box and they just nod and wave him through like he’s a soldier returning from battle.

When he gets back to camp, the sun is up but the tent is still zipped shut. Jimin, Taehyung, and Jin catch sight of Yoongi, of the bag in his hand, and exchange a knowing look before retreating toward the showers to give the two of you privacy.

Yoongi exhales and ducks back inside the tent.

You’re still asleep, blissed out and warm under the blanket. He kneels beside you, eyes soft. Then he leans down and presses a kiss to your cheek, and your nose, and your temple.

You stir. Smile. “You’re back…”

Then, all at once, it hits you. Like a slap.

Your stomach flips as last night flashes through your mind—his mouth on yours, your legs around his waist, the ache between your thighs. The high of it. The way you didn’t think. The way you didn’t stop.

Your chest tightens. You bolt upright. “Shit. Oh my God—Yoongi—we didn’t—fuck, I’m not on birth control.”

Your voice shakes. You feel cold and flushed at the same time. You’re supposed to be careful. You’re supposed to be the one who always has things under control. And now—

“I know,” Yoongi says, quiet, already reaching into the bag.

You freeze, confused. “Wait…how do you know?”

“Taehyung mentioned it last night. Then Jimin told me what you said.”

You stare at him as he pulls the box from the bag. The Plan B. Your breath catches.

Some of the panic eases, but not the guilt. Not the feeling that you’d let something slip. That somehow, despite everything, you’d let yourself be careless. And yet, his quiet preparation, the way he thought of you before you even had the chance to panic—makes your heart flip over in your chest. It’s nice, you think, maybe a little dangerous, to be cared for like this. To be held in the hands of someone who sees the fall coming and reaches out first.

You blink, eyes stinging a little, but you manage a nod. “Okay. Good. Thank you.”

Yoongi brushes his thumb over your cheek, his touch grounding. “We’ve got it covered. You’re okay.”

You nod again, more slowly this time, heart pounding but beginning to settle. Your hand closes over his. You still feel shaken, but he’s here. He didn’t run. And that means something.

It means everything.

You take the pill with a sip of Gatorade, then pause and glance at the bottle. “You got my favorite flavor.”

Yoongi shrugs, a soft smile tugging at his mouth. “You mentioned it yesterday.”

You spot the candy next. “Wait…are those M&M’s?”

He nods. “You were talking about them in line at the beer tent.”

Your heart flips again. “You remembered?”

He just nods like it’s nothing, even though it clearly isn’t. “Yeah. Figured it might help.”

The two of you settle, sitting cross-legged on the blanket, shoulders brushing as the morning light pours in soft and golden. You talk for a while—nothing heavy. Just music, the festival, the weird dream Yoongi had before the thud woke him up. You feel steadier. Safer. Like the sharp edges have rounded off again.

Eventually, Yoongi stretches out beside you, resting on one elbow, eyes on yours. “So,” he says casually, “when was the last time you had sex before last night?”

You laugh, surprised. “Over a year ago. Maybe longer.”

His brows lift. “Seriously?”

You nod, slightly embarrassed. “Yeah. I didn’t think I’d be breaking the streak this weekend, that’s for sure.”

Yoongi smirks. “Glad I could be of service.”

You shove his shoulder playfully, but your grin gives you away. “Don’t get cocky.”

“I mean,” he leans in a little, voice low, “you did look pretty cocky last night too.”

Your cheeks heat instantly. “Yoongi.”

“What?” he grins, eyes dancing. “Just saying. I wouldn’t be mad if we accidentally broke that streak again. Soon.”

You bite your lip, pulse kicking up. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” His gaze drops to your mouth. “You make it hard to think straight. I keep wanting more.”

You inhale, heartbeat wild. “Then maybe stop thinking.”

Yoongi hums. “Dangerous suggestion.”

“Maybe,” you murmur, your fingers brushing his. “But it’s been a reckless kind of weekend.”

His lips curl. “Best kind.”

And you smile, for real this time, because the storm is past and you’re still here. With him.

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

By 10am, the tent is stifling, so you both emerge blinking into the sunlight to start the process of getting ready for the day’s shows. Jin passes you a mirror and a makeup bag while Jimin sits braiding Taehyung’s hair into uneven plaits.

Before anyone gets far, you plant your feet and hold up a pack of electrolyte powder like it’s holy scripture. “Nobody drinks a drop of alcohol until they drink this. I’m not babysitting your dehydrated asses.”

Groans and protests ring out but you’re firm. You go around personally handing everyone their bottle, watching each sip with your hands on your hips.

Once they’re halfway compliant, you finally duck into your tent and change into your outfit for the day— a high-waisted denim skirt, platform boots, and a pink crop top that reads RM's Princess in bedazzled silver gems.

You mix yourself a drink in a red solo cup, humming as you stir in some lemon and a splash (or maybe a few good glugs) of vodka. You turn to rejoin the group—only to choke on your sip.

Yoongi is standing there. In. The. Exact. Same. Shirt.

You burst out laughing, nearly spilling your drink. “Oh my god, are you kidding me?!”

Yoongi looks down at his top, then up at you with that tiny smirk. “What? I thought it suited me.”

Jin claps once, pointing between you. “One of you is going to have to change.” He breaks into his trademark windshield wipers laugh, wheezing.

“You change,” you say, still grinning.

“Absolutely not,” Yoongi replies. “I look fantastic.”

“You look deranged,” Jimin says. “But like, hot-deranged. I support it.”

Taehyung’s mouth is full of cheese puffs but he mumbles, “Couples who match stay together.”

Your grin doesn’t fade, but something shifts behind your eyes. You laugh it off, of course you do, but your brain is already running in quiet little circles. Couples who match...

You wonder, fleetingly, if that’s what this is—just matching outfits and shared drinks and banter under the sun. A weekend thing. A festival thing. Something the heat and the music and the glitter makes feel bigger than it is. But then Yoongi catches your eye across the camp and tips his cup toward yours with a wink. And your heart does that stupid thing again. That little leap. That little what if.

You don’t let yourself linger on it. Not right now. Not when everyone’s buzzing and beautiful and the day’s only just begun.

But even as you turn away, even as you toss your head and join the noise, the thought lingers like the taste of lemon on your tongue: What if this doesn’t end with the weekend? You push the thought out of your head and join back into whatever the boys are doing.

You and Yoongi slip out of camp earlier than the others, drawn by the promise of the photo booth at the camping hub and the kind of light that only exists before noon at a festival—soft and golden, before the sun gets too mean. The walk is easy, the mood light.

Halfway there, you veer toward a slushie truck with a hand on Yoongi’s wrist. “Free samples,” you grin. “It’s fate.”

He raises an eyebrow, skeptical, but follows without complaint. The slushie hits your tongue like a miracle—icy, syrupy bliss—and you both moan dramatically in unison, then laugh at yourselves.

“Okay, worth it,” he admits, wiping his mouth.

At the photo booth, there’s no line, just a breeze curling through the open tent flaps and the hum of a nearby speaker playing an old Shinee song. You drag Yoongi inside and sit close, your knees knocking.

First photo: you grab his face and smash your cheek to his, grinning so wide it crinkles your eyes.

Second photo: you twist and kiss his cheek, and he plays along, covering his mouth with both hands like he’s scandalized.

Third photo: he turns to you gently, fingers curling along your jaw. His kiss is soft and slow, perfectly timed with the shutter.

When the strips print out, you both reach for them at the same time, and you can’t stop smiling. They’re perfect—warm light, flushed cheeks, the kind of photos that don’t need filters. You tuck yours carefully into your phone case.

From there, you head toward the front gates, even though they won’t open for another hour and a half. Moonchildren are already gathering, their shirts, signs and purple hearts giving them away immediately. You feel the same low thrum of excitement vibrating in your bones—the deep knowing that today is his day.

Yoongi carries the bigger bag, the one you over packed this morning. It’s stuffed with snacks, two handheld fans, sunscreen, a small blanket, a sweater, wet wipes, a portable charger, and whatever else you thought might save you from wilting later. The main stage is brutal during the day, no shade at all until sundown—but you’ll survive. You always do. For RM, you would stand on the sun.

While you wait, your competitive instincts kick in, and you start arguing about who should sprint for the barricade once the gates open. It’s inevitable that one of you will have to stay behind while they check the larger bag.

“I’m faster,” you say, confidently.

“You’re chaotic,” Yoongi counters. “You’ll trip over your own excitement.”

“You have the bag!”

“I’ll throw the bag.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Watch me.”

You're both bickering through grins, shifting on your feet as more fans trickle in. The sun climbs higher. The gates stay shut. The moment pulses with potential—of a show, of a day, of whatever this thing is between you and him that neither of you wants to name just yet.

The second the gates open, you're off like a shot.

Dust kicks up under your boots as you sprint for center barricade, weaving through the early rush of festival-goers. Behind you, you can hear Yoongi shout something—probably a warning—but you don't stop. Not when you've got a perfect opening and the barricade in sight.

Security pulls him aside because of the oversized bag, and you throw a quick glance over your shoulder to catch him holding up his hands in mock surrender as a guard rifles through the snacks, fans, sunscreen, and extra layers. You’ll owe him for this later.

The front row is already dotted with a few familiar faces—Moonchildren, RM fans just as eager as you are—but it isn’t packed yet. You slide in between two people with a breathless, elated laugh, your fingers locking around the cold metal bar.

Fifth. You’re the fifth person on center barricade.

You take a second to catch your breath, chest rising and falling as the heat of the sun starts to press down on your shoulders. But your grin doesn’t fade.

Yoongi jogs up a moment later, bag slung back over one shoulder, scowling half-heartedly. “Unfair. You’re fast.”

“You’re lucky I saved you a spot,” you tease, nudging your hip against his. “They could’ve filled up.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He pulls out one of the fans and hands it to you, then cracks open a bottle of water. “At least tell me I didn’t haul ass across a field for nothing.”

You flash him a smile, eyes already trained on the stage being prepped. “You didn’t. We’ve got a perfect view. Center barricade. It’s happening.”

He bumps your shoulder and settles in beside you, matching your grip on the rail. The rail you soon won’t be able to touch because it’s too hot. Around you, the pit starts to fill, voices buzzing with excitement, music thrumming in the background like a heartbeat.

The first act starts and the heat becomes harder to ignore. You're sweating already, but the energy in the crowd helps distract you. The sun is relentless. You twist your hair up and Yoongi quietly hands you a hair tie from the bag. His fingers brush the nape of your neck and linger for a beat too long. When you glance at him, he's already looking at you, a slow smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth.

He doesn’t seem the type to be touchy in public, but something about the heat, the music, the way you look right now—it short-circuits his restraint. He lets his fingers brush your hand when you reach for your water. Presses his knee against yours until the contact feels permanent. During the second set, he hooks an arm around your waist without thinking, tugging you back against him. You lean into it without comment.

Taehyung appears first, glitter across his cheeks and a flower crown askew on his curls. He thrusts an extra crown toward you. "Put it on, Post-It Princess," he says with a wink, and you do, laughing as the petals tickle your forehead. Jimin and Jin aren’t far behind, weaving through the crowd to find you.

Jin takes one look at you and Yoongi and raises an eyebrow. “Well, someone’s in a good mood,” he says.

Jimin just beams and pulls out his phone. “Selfie time.”

The four of you cram together, sweaty and glowy and chaotic. Yoongi ducks out of the frame but you catch him smiling as he watches you.

Jimin brings you a tray of skewers and lemonade he hustled from a vendor. “Eat before you pass out,” he says, holding a skewer to your lips like it’s a test of loyalty. You take a bite and make a satisfied noise.

When you finally open the bag Yoongi carried all morning, you grin. Everything is exactly where you packed it. None of the snacks have been touched. “You guys didn’t eat anything?” you ask.

Yoongi shrugs. “Figured you had a plan.”

Your chest warms. Silly, maybe. But it feels like being seen.

Between sets, Yoongi sinks down beside you. Then, surprisingly, he stretches out and rests his head across your lap. Your fingers move to his hair without thinking, brushing through the soft strands as he closes his eyes. His face is peaceful in the hazy light, lips parted just slightly.

You glance up and Jin is watching with a knowing look. He doesn’t say anything, just smiles and nods like: yeah, we see it.

As the third set begins, you can feel a light buzz building from the drinks, the sun, the joy. The pit is full now. Your friends dance around you, spinning and shouting lyrics, completely alive.

Yoongi stands behind you now, arms on the barricade on either side of you, close enough that you feel his breath when he leans in and murmurs, “Still okay?”

You nod, pressing your head back to his shoulder. “Perfect.”

When the next act ends, the stage goes dark for setup. There’s one more performer before RM. Taehyung, Jimin, and Jin take off to meet friends or hunt down food, but you and Yoongi stay. The pit is electric, buzzing with the promise of what’s coming.

He doesn’t move far from you. Instead, he takes your hand, fingers interlaced lazily while the sun begins its descent.

And you sit there, center barricade, flower crown wilting, glitter smudged, heart full.

Yoongi stretches out beside you, his head resting on the barricade while you sit, the heat of the day starting to soften as the sun lowers. He’s quieter now, just taking everything in, but his eyes flicker to you every now and then, as if he can’t help himself. His gaze holds, and when it does, you feel a subtle warmth creep into your skin.

You glance at him, still catching your breath from the last set, and feel an unspoken pull between the two of you. For someone who isn’t big on PDA, Yoongi’s been a little...touchier today. His fingers brush against yours, not by accident, and his arm grazes your shoulder more than once. Every time it happens, your heart skips a beat.

“What?” you ask, voice teasing but laced with a hint of curiosity.

Yoongi gives you a half-smile, leaning in a bit closer. “Nothing. Just thinking about last night.”

You feel your breath hitch at the mention of it, heat flooding your face. You’d been so caught up in the chaos of the day that you hadn’t really thought about the way his lips had felt on your skin, the way he’d kissed you with a hunger that had made everything else disappear. The way his hands had touched you like he didn’t want to let go, even for a second.

“What about last night?” you manage, trying to sound casual despite your racing heart.

Yoongi’s eyes glint, and his voice lowers, almost a growl. “You were...distracting.” His words linger in the air like a challenge, and you feel the space between you both heat up.

You look away for a second, collecting yourself, but the grin that spreads across his face tells you that he’s enjoying this, enjoying the way he’s getting under your skin.

“You should’ve known better,” you say, leaning closer to him, voice dropping to match his tone. “I warned you, I’m trouble.”

“Oh, I know,” Yoongi replies, the corners of his lips curling as his gaze flicks from your lips to your eyes. “That’s what makes it interesting.”

A beat of silence passes before you, feeling the heat of his words settle in your chest. You bite your lip, letting the tension stretch between you before you pull out your phone.

“Come on,” you say, breaking the tension but still feeling that electric hum between you. “We’re taking selfies. We look too good today to not document it.”

Yoongi groans dramatically. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You love it.” You smirk, pointing the camera at both of you. “Smile. You’re too cute to ignore.”

He rolls his eyes but doesn’t move away. When you click the first picture, his eyes flicker over to yours, mischievous and playful. You angle the phone again, snapping more shots as you both get into it, laughing and leaning closer with each picture.

“Wait, hold up,” you say, narrowing your eyes. “I think we need one more...but this time, I want to see if you can do better than that grumpy face of yours.”

Yoongi leans in a little more, his breath brushing your cheek as he whispers, “I think I’ve been holding back all day. Want me to show you?”

Your stomach flutters at the challenge in his voice, and before you can think twice, he leans in to kiss your temple, his lips lingering there a moment too long. The camera clicks as the moment catches on film, and you pause, your pulse racing.

For a second, neither of you says anything, the air thick with the unspoken.

“Damn,” you murmur, breaking the silence, “we really do look good together.”

Yoongi hums, a playful smirk still tugging at his lips. “Told you.”

You check the photos, your fingers trembling a little. You swipe to the next one, seeing the way Yoongi had caught your eye just as he kissed your cheek, and something inside you tightens—something that’s been building ever since you met his gaze for the first time today.

You’re still reeling a bit from how close everything feels—how close he feels—when you notice Yoongi unlock his phone, thumb lazily scrolling through something with a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He shifts his position slightly, letting his leg press against yours as he gets comfortable again.

You glance down, curious, and your eyes immediately widen. You clock it instantly—that’s AO3.

Worse: you recognize the fic. Instantly.

He scrolls past a banner you know by heart, a stunning red-and-black graphic with clean font and jagged lines of war paint across a pair of silhouetted faces. Your heart jumps into your throat.

“Wait.” You practically launch yourself sideways, staring at the screen. “Is that—War? By glosswrites?”

Yoongi freezes. Like, full body goes stiff, thumb hovering mid-scroll.

You gasp. “It is! Oh my god. I love that fic! That’s, like, one of my top five Namkook fics of all time. No, scratch that, top three. Glosswrites is a genius. Their prose? The dialogue? The pacing in the siege arc? Unreal.”

Yoongi clears his throat and stares down at his phone like he wants it to disappear. His ears go red. “Uh.”

You narrow your eyes. “Why do you look like you just got caught with your hand in the cookie jar?”

He shifts again, clearly flustered. “...I wasn’t gonna say anything.”

You blink. “Say anything about what?”

He hesitates. Then, in a voice so low you almost don’t catch it: “I’m...glosswrites.”

You stare.

Then, your hand flies to his shoulder. “SHUT. UP.”

Yoongi winces but laughs, turning away slightly like he can hide the way his cheeks are turning pink. “I didn’t think you’d read any of my stuff. Or recognize it.”

“You idiot, of course I recognize it!” You hit his arm lightly, half-scolding and half-overjoyed. “Are you kidding? You wrote Kingdom Come, Saltwater and Bone, and that absurdly emotional post-apocalyptic Namseok fic, didn’t you?”

He nods sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. That one got away from me.”

You gape at him, still trying to wrap your head around it. “Yoongi! I have cried real tears over your fics. I’ve stayed up until four a.m. refreshing the tag for an update. You made me care about political intrigue.”

Yoongi laughs again, eyes crinkling. There’s something in his expression that’s half embarrassment, half soft pride. “Damn. I really wasn’t expecting this reaction.”

“I’m obsessed with your writing,” you say, tone a little breathless. “You make heartbreak feel like poetry.”

His smile falters just a little, turning more sincere. “Thank you. Really.”

There’s a long beat where neither of you says anything. You’re still buzzing with the revelation. You look at him differently now. This person you’ve been falling into all day is also the architect of worlds that have lived rent-free in your head for years.

And he’s looking at you like he’s relieved you know.

You shake your head, grinning. “I can’t believe I hooked up with glosswrites.”

Yoongi chuckles, rolling his eyes. “Please don’t say it like that.”

You lean in closer, teasing, “Glosswrites. Kiss me again.”

“Stop,” he mutters, but he’s laughing, his ears still pink. “You’re gonna ruin my mystique.”

“Oh babe,” you say, curling an arm around his shoulder, “it’s too late for that. You’re mine now, and I know your secret.”

“Guess I’ll have to kill you,” he murmurs, tilting his head to rest against yours.

“Mm, let me reread Saltwater and Bone first.”

He groans, but his hand slips into yours without a second thought.

The sound system booms to life again, pulling you both back to the present. The stage lights flash in rapid bursts as the next artist steps up—someone with a strong cult following and a gritty, underground sound that makes the whole pit come alive with renewed energy.

You shift, stretching your legs while Yoongi leans against your side, still scrolling absently on his phone, probably checking comments. You glance at him with a smirk.

“Still reading your own reviews, glosswrites?”

He groans into your shoulder. “You're never letting this go, are you?”

“Never. I feel like I need to re-read everything now that I know it’s you. The longing scenes? The angst? Yoongi. You wrote that stuff.”

He lifts his head and raises an eyebrow. “And?”

You lean in, dropping your voice. “And now I can’t stop thinking about the scene in War where Jungkook says, ‘If I die, I want it to be with your name in my mouth.’ You wrote that.”

Yoongi flushes, and you grin with wicked delight.

“Stop looking at me like that,” he mutters, biting back a smile.

You nudge his knee. “Can’t help it. You’re hot and emotionally devastating. What a combo.”

The set on stage builds slowly—dark synths, flashing strobes, heavy bass that makes the ground tremble beneath your feet. The artist before RM throws the crowd into a frenzy with two unreleased tracks.

“I produced one of these,” he says casually, just loud enough for you to hear over the music.

You whip toward him. “What? Which one?!”

He just shrugs with a smug little grin, eyes sparkling.

By the time the set winds down, the anticipation in the air is tangible. People are chanting, screaming, checking their phones and recording the stage. Everyone knows who’s next.

The giant LED screen flickers to black for a long moment.

Then a low hum begins to rise—like the sound of static filtered through deep water. The bass line pulses faintly under it, then grows. A single spotlight flares center stage, casting a long, stretched shadow.

You grab Yoongi’s hand instinctively, and he laces his fingers through yours.

And then—RM.

He steps out from the smoke, hoodie half-zipped, chain catching the stage lights, posture calm but charged like a storm about to break. The entire crowd loses it. People are screaming, hands in the air, crying, chanting his name.

RM raises a mic. No fanfare. No big opening drop.

Just:

“Let’s talk.”

The pit erupts.

Yoongi whistles low. “He always knows how to start.”

You nod, eyes locked on the stage, already breathless. “God, he’s so cool.”

Yoongi leans toward you, still holding your hand. “He really is.”

RM launches into Intro: Persona, his voice crisp and sharp, weaving between the lyrics and the beat with practiced ease. The crowd sings every word like it’s gospel, and your heart thuds in time with the music.

There’s something powerful and raw about watching him perform—like he’s stripping himself bare in front of thousands and daring anyone to look away.

You glance sideways. Even Yoongi, for all his calm, has that look on his face—the one he only gets when something is really hitting. Like admiration, pride, and a little awe all at once.

RM rolls seamlessly into Do You, and the crowd surges forward like a wave. His delivery is sharp, rhythmic, full of bite—words slicing through the heat and dust as he prowls the stage. He spits each lyric with the kind of conviction that makes you feel like he’s aiming them right at your chest.

“You do you and I’ll do me,” he shouts, and thousands scream it back.

You and Yoongi jump and shout right along with them, your hands still loosely clasped between you. It's sweaty, chaotic, overwhelming—but it’s perfect. The kind of moment that feels like it belongs to just the two of you, even with thousands of people pressed in on all sides.

By the time Yun comes on, the sun has dipped low enough to give the stage an eerie golden glow. RM's tone shifts—slower, weightier. His voice pours over the crowd like honey and thunder. The visuals on the screen behind him flicker with old video footage: abandoned alleyways, dried fields, a shot of a cracked statue’s face.

You blink through the heat, suddenly aware of how still it’s gone in the pit. Everyone's listening.

RM pauses between verses and says, “For the ones still figuring themselves out...I’m right there with you.”

The silence that follows is reverent. You feel it sink into your skin.

Yoongi leans in and murmurs, “He’s good at this part. The unraveling.”

You nod slowly. “He makes being lost sound like a roadmap.”

There’s no reply from Yoongi, just the brush of his thumb along the inside of your wrist, grounding you as RM transitions into Forg_tful. The melody is softer, almost tender, like a lullaby for every scar you thought would never fade.

He sings, not just raps—his voice fragile in the best way, like something made of paper and light.

You feel the sting in your throat before you even realize you're getting choked up.

Yoongi squeezes your hand. You glance at him through blurred eyes, and he doesn’t say anything—just gives you that quiet look of his, like he sees everything and won't ask a single question you’re not ready to answer.

Then the bass drops back in for Still Life, and the crowd roars to life again.

RM grins wide under the lights, bounces across the stage, and yells, “Y’all still alive out there?!”

The pit answers with pure chaos. You scream, jump, laugh—and when Yoongi pulls you into his chest with both arms slung around your waist, you don’t even think, just melt into it.

He mouths the lyrics along with RM, pressed close to your ear:

“I’m still life / But I’m movin’.”

And in that moment, you are. Every part of you is alive, humming, held, understood.

The lights dim again, and you think maybe it's time. Maybe it's really happening.

Then the synth line from Joke hits like a warning shot.

The crowd erupts. Yoongi jolts upright beside you, and you both instinctively grip the barricade as RM walks out under a wash of white light, already spitting bars like the stage is on fire. His presence is magnetic. He’s commanding every inch of the space, making the mic an extension of his body. His tongue twists with impossible speed and precision, each word slicing through the air like shrapnel.

You don’t even try to sing along—you just scream and jump and grab Yoongi by the wrist as the bass drops and the entire pit moves like one living thing. It’s chaos. It’s glorious. It’s RM unchained.

As the song ends, RM breathes heavy into the mic, smirking like he knows exactly what he just did. He lets the silence linger, soaking in the energy. When he speaks, it’s soft, reverent.

“This next one’s for the people who’ve ever felt a little out of place,” he says, his voice quieter now, lower. “You’re not alone.”

Then the first notes of Lonely float out. The vibe stays up because this song is a fucking bop. The crowd only gets louder as he sings, “I’m fucking lonely, lonely, lonely…”

RM bounces around the stage, lit only by soft blue lights. When it ends, he doesn’t speak right away. He takes in the crowd with a look on his face like he can’t believe this is actually happening.

And then: "This is the last one."

The opening strings of "Wild Flower" begin, delicate and trembling. The crowd doesn’t scream—they exhale. As if they’ve been holding their breath for years.

RM closes his eyes when he sings the chorus. Youjeen’s voice pours from the speakers like thunder wrapped in velvet, and the entire field seems to swell with the sound. The visuals behind him erupt—images of fireworks blooming into flowers, wild and free, petals carried by wind and ash.

You’re openly crying now, and so is the person next to you. Even Yoongi wipes under his eyes with a quiet sniff.

When RM hits that final “I just wanna be—wanna be a rock,” the sound is deafening. Every voice joins him. It feels like release. Like peace. Like defiance and surrender all at once.

And then it’s over.

He bows once, deep and long. “Thank you,” he says. Just two words, but they ring with everything.

The lights fade.

Yoongi turns to you slowly, tears still shining in his lashes. “Holy shit.”

You nod, voice gone, heart too full to speak. You just grab his hand and hold it like an anchor.

Because this? This was everything.

You're both quiet for a moment after RM’s set—still soaking it in. The field feels like it’s buzzing, but neither of you rushes to leave. You and Yoongi just stand there, shoulder to shoulder, a little dazed, like waking up from a beautiful dream you don’t want to forget.

Eventually, he bumps your hip with his. “Drink?”

You nod, and he threads his fingers through yours like it’s second nature. Like he needs the contact just as much as you do.

You wind your way through the crowd, his hand never leaving yours, until you find a drinks stand. He orders something fruity, you go for something cold, and then you’re wandering off toward the far corner of the venue with your cups in hand, the music from the other stage just a distant thump now.

You settle in a grassy patch beneath the shadow of an art installation—some kind of massive chrome sphere that reflects the setting sun. The sky is stained gold and peach. Yoongi flops down dramatically, his legs sprawled wide, his cup tilted toward yours like a toast.

“To Namjoon,” he says, voice a little rough.

“To Namjoon,” you echo, tapping the rim of your cup to his.

You sip in silence for a beat before Yoongi reaches out, resting a hand on your thigh like he’s just placing it there for a second. But it lingers. His thumb moves—slow little circles that make your breath catch. He’s watching you, too. Lazily. Like he’s savoring something only he can taste.

“I can’t believe I’m sitting here,” he murmurs. “With you. After that.”

You raise an eyebrow, teasing. “You sound like you’re about to write a poem.”

He leans in. “I might. But it’d get me banned from AO3.”

You almost choke on your drink. “Yoongi.”

He just laughs—quiet, low, and pleased with himself.

And then his lips are on your neck. Not rushed. Just soft, lingering kisses along your jaw, the edge of your ear, down to your collarbone. The warmth between you builds, a slow simmering thing. You shift, knees brushing, his hand sliding higher. His touch isn’t desperate—it’s confident. Comfortable. He knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

“You’re trouble,” he says, barely a whisper.

“And you’re a menace,” you reply, catching his chin and pulling him into a kiss that tastes like fruit and heat and something a little dangerous.

When you pull back, breathless, cheeks flushed, you say, “We should walk.”

He stands with a groan, offering you a hand. “Yeah, before I do something regrettable right here in the grass.”

You giggle, but take his hand anyway. Together, you wander off again—this time toward the Always Tampax pop-up. It’s impossible to miss: glowing neon letters, loud music, and the heavy thump of bass pulsing from within.

Inside, it’s a fever dream.

The walls are lined top to bottom with pads, tampons, and menstrual cups. There’s a glowing dance floor in the middle. People are grabbing boxes like they’re free drinks. A DJ is spinning under a giant tampon chandelier.

You burst out laughing. “Is this…the tampon club?”

“Looks like it,” Yoongi says, spinning a box in his hand. “Best stocked club in town.”

“Take as much as you want!” a worker calls out, dancing past in a glittery jumpsuit.

You take a few packs, stuffing them into your bag. Yoongi grins and grabs one for himself too. “Emergency stash. Never know.”

Your cheeks hurt from smiling. You stumble out the back exit, still laughing—and freeze.

There’s a trailer behind the pop-up. Sleek. White. A sign taped to the door reads: REAL BATHROOMS. FLUSHING TOILETS. SINKS WITH SOAP. Like a mirage in the desert.

No one else is around.

You exchange a look.

The stall is tiny, barely enough room to turn around in—but that only makes it worse. Or better.

He’s on you as soon as the door locks—mouth hungry, hands fast, pulling you in like he’s waited all day. You gasp into the kiss, fingers tangling in his hair. The energy between you is heady, electric, a continuation of everything RM’s set stirred up.

Yoongi presses you against the wall, one hand on your hip, the other slipping up the back of your shirt, warm and firm and just a little possessive.

“You looked so fucking good watching him,” he growls against your throat. “Could barely keep my hands to myself.”

“You didn’t,” you manage to whisper, smiling into his mouth.

He kisses you again, slow and deep this time. Not teasing anymore. Just wanting.

Yoongi doesn’t waste time. His hands are on your waist, then your hips, pulling you flush against him as your back presses to the metal stall wall. You barely have time to gasp before he’s kissing you—hot, deep, like he needs it. Like he’s starved for it.

“You’ve been driving me crazy all day,” he breathes into your mouth.

You smile against his lips, teasing. “Just by existing?”

“Worse,” he mutters, fingers slipping beneath the hem of your shirt, palms sliding up the bare skin of your back. “Looking like that. Laughing like that. Dancing on me during RM’s set like you wanted to break me.”

You tug at the drawstring of his shorts in retaliation, laughing softly as he groans. “Maybe I did.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you, flushed and breathless. His pupils are blown, lips swollen. “Say the word,” he whispers, voice raw.

You don’t hesitate.

Then it’s frantic—your mouths crashing back together, your fingers yanking his shirt up, his hands everywhere at once. You’re not sure who reaches first, but suddenly he’s pulling a square foil packet from the pocket of his shorts with a smirk and a half-laugh.

“Gotta be safe this time,” he says, almost sheepish, but his voice is low and rough.

“Seriously?” you whisper, breath catching, half-laughing, half-turned on beyond reason.

“Girl Scout energy,” he murmurs, already yanking your skirt up for easier access. “Always prepared.”

Your breath stutters as you help him, both of you moving fast and clumsy, like you can’t get close enough quick enough. Clothes shoved aside just enough. Skin against skin, heat meeting heat. The stall is small, but you make it work—bodies pressed together, hands braced against cool metal, your mouths locked like you’re afraid to stop.

When he finally sinks into you, you gasp—biting your lip to stay quiet, forehead pressed to his. Yoongi groans low and broken, his hands gripping your thighs to anchor himself.

“Fuck,” he whispers. “You feel like a fever dream.”

Your response is lost in a moan you muffle against his neck, your nails digging into his back as he starts to move—slow at first, teasing, until your hips catch his rhythm and he picks up pace. The cramped space only heightens everything—every breath, every whisper, every desperate sound. The stall rocks just enough to make you both laugh mid-moan, trying to stay quiet and failing miserably.

You whisper his name like a prayer, over and over, and he kisses you every time like it’s the only thing grounding him.

By the time it’s over, your clothes are disheveled, your lips swollen, and your heart’s pounding like you’ve just sprinted the length of the main stage.

Yoongi kisses your cheek, your jaw, your shoulder. Reverent. “That…was insane.”

You grin, cheeks hot. “I can’t believe we just did that.”

He leans back slightly, fixing your hair like it matters, and smirks. “Tampon club forever.”

You laugh so hard you have to bite your knuckle to keep quiet.

Then you flush, wash your hands in the tiny sink, and steel yourselves.

The walk back through the Always Tampax pop-up is a blur of flashing lights and pulsing bass. You both try to look casual, but you're giggling like teenagers, bumping shoulders, doing everything not to meet the eyes of the employees handing out free pads and tampons.

Yoongi grabs a box off the wall on your way through, still smirking. “Souvenir?”

You swat his arm, breathless with laughter. “Shut up.”

It’s around 11:30 when you and Yoongi slip out of the pop-up, blinking against the dark sky now lit only by strobes, projections, and the glittering glow of festival signage. The grounds still buzz—like the desert itself is vibrating with leftover energy. You lace your fingers through his as you start heading toward the Red Bull Mirage, half-thinking the others might’ve migrated there.

You’re right.

Jimin, Taehyung, and Jin are in rare form, leaning on the pop-up bar, absolutely plastered and shamelessly flirting with the Red Bull reps like they’re auditioning for a music video. Taehyung has glitter on his collarbones and no real sense of volume control; Jimin is twirling his sunglasses like it’s a dance prop, and Jin…well, Jin is shirtless, loud, and demanding samples like a celebrity chef at Costco. He is still sipping from his fish shaped flask.

You groan affectionately and lean into Yoongi. “Our children.”

“They need supervision,” he deadpans, and you can’t help but laugh.

Despite yourself—and the reality of your bank account—you buy a round of vodka Red Bulls for the group. A poor financial choice, maybe. But the day’s been good. Better than good. And, frankly, they deserve it. Especially if they’re going to be hearing you and Yoongi rustling around the tent again later tonight.

Taehyung shrieks when he sees the drinks and throws himself dramatically into your arms before snagging one. “You’re a goddess,” he says. “An angel. A sugar mama in desert form.”

“You’re disgusting,” you mutter, but you’re grinning.

The five of you wander off, still laughing, and collapse onto a stretch of grass tucked behind one of the smaller art installations. The music from nearby stages pulses in the distance, layered with ambient lights and bursts of laughter from strangers.

You sit in a loose circle. Jimin and Taehyung are falling all over each other, limbs tangled as they drink and giggle and whisper. Yoongi’s pressed against your side, head resting on your shoulder, one hand lazily draped across your thigh. His touch is gentle now, warm and grounding.

Jin, glowing with sweat and pure Jin energy, is animatedly recounting his wildest moments from the Yuma tent earlier. Something about a stilt-walking DJ, a guy in a fur coat, and a beat drop so filthy it made a stranger cry.

“I swear to god,” he says, gesturing wildly with his cup, “I saw someone propose and someone puke in the same five seconds.”

You snort. “Festival romance and reality, hand in hand.”

Everyone laughs.

The circle quiets after a while. You finish your drinks slowly, the buzz setting in just right. The night air is cool now, breezy against the heat that still lingers on your skin. Yoongi turns his face toward your neck, pressing a soft kiss just below your ear. No one comments. No one needs to.

You lean back slightly, just enough to take it all in.

The lights. The music. The taste of Red Bull still on your tongue. The thrum of bass in your chest. Your friends—beautiful and ridiculous and yours. Yoongi, solid against you, warm and safe. You feel cracked wide open in the best way, joy spilling out where stress used to sit.

And for the first time in months, you feel whole.

So damn happy you could cry.

You’re just starting to debate whether to lie back in the grass or gather yourselves when Jin suddenly claps his hands like a dad at a cookout.

“Alright, my turn to contribute to this night of decadence,” he announces, wobbling to his feet. “Who’s hungry?”

All hands go up immediately.

“I saw a dumpling stand near the dome installation,” Jin says, eyes gleaming. “And a taco truck. And maybe some kind of fusion birria thing that made me emotional just walking past it.”

“God bless you,” Jimin whispers, reaching out like he’s seen a vision.

“I’ll be back in ten,” Jin says heroically, adjusting his nonexistent shirt and sauntering off into the crowd, looking like the drunkest bachelor at a wedding.

Yoongi’s still nestled close to your side, and you rest your head against his for a moment. His thumb rubs lazy circles over your wrist, the two of you content in your bubble of music, heat, and late-night joy.

When Jin returns, he comes bearing glory: two brown paper bags overflowing with tacos, dumplings, spring rolls, and something covered in sauce and cheese that no one can name but everyone accepts like gospel.

You relocate to a quieter spot, closer to the edges of the venue, away from the last stage still thumping. You all drop to the ground again, forming a loose circle lit by the soft ambient glow of a nearby art sculpture shaped like a glowing rib cage.

The food is divine—warm, salty, spicy, greasy. Perfect.

Jimin moans through a bite of his taco. “This is the best decision you’ve ever made, Jin.”

“I’ve made a lot of good decisions,” Jin says smugly, licking his fingers. “Like taking my shirt off. You’re welcome.”

Taehyung is curled up next to Jimin, messily devouring a dumpling with chili oil all over his lips. “We should eat like this every day,” he mumbles.

Yoongi passes you a spring roll and brushes a stray hair behind your ear. “You’re glowing,” he says quietly, just for you.

“It’s the sauce,” you say with a grin.

“It’s not.”

You don’t say anything, just lean in and press a soft kiss to his cheek before going back to your food. You’re full, a little buzzed, and absolutely basking in the warmth of the moment—your friends, the food, the lights, the air heavy with music and memories already forming.

For now, there’s nowhere to be but here.

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

You leave the venue in a loose pack, Jin leading the way like some kind of wine-drenched tour guide, still narrating his culinary triumphs as you all wind your way through the glowing art installations and past the last of the festival stragglers.

Taehyung has one arm slung around Jimin’s waist, the other hand holding a half-finished canned cocktail he snagged from someone on the way out. Jimin’s sipping from a tall cup of something neon and probably deadly, but he looks radiant under the moonlight, giggling as Tae nuzzles into his neck.

You’ve got your own drink, something citrusy and way too strong, and Yoongi's sipping from a flask he swore he wasn’t going to bring. You bump hips a few times as you walk, your bodies naturally leaning toward each other.

"You're a menace," you murmur as he takes another swig.

"You're the one who made me drink water before the bathroom incident," he fires back, smirking. "I consider this revenge."

The path to the campgrounds is alive with other festival-goers—groups with glow sticks, couples wrapped in dusty hoodies, someone playing guitar near one of the towers with a turtle on it. It all feels like one long afterglow, stretched out and humming.

When you reach your cluster of tents, Jimin immediately ducks into the supply tent and emerges like a champion.

“Who wants shots?” he sings, holding up a sleeve of tiny red solo cups in one hand and a full bottle of tequila in the other.

The answer is everyone.

You grab a small bag from your personal cooler and begin distributing water bottles, each prepped with Liquid I.V. and labeled in black Sharpie. You shove one into Yoongi’s hand before he can even think about touching a cup.

“Hydrate first, cowboy,” you warn.

He pouts but obeys, cracking the bottle open and downing half of it. “You’re so responsible when you’re tipsy. It’s alarming.”

“It’s the Virgo moon,” you reply without missing a beat.

Everyone takes a seat in the makeshift circle between tents, the fairy lights overhead blinking softly. Jin takes his shot like a champ. Taehyung downs his with a flourish and then demands a second. Jimin’s perched in Yoongi’s lap, teasing him as he sips water, and you’re already reaching for the next round.

The night isn’t winding down—it’s evolving. Buzzing. Glowing. And none of you are ready for it to end.

The tequila makes quick work of everyone.

By the second round of shots, Jin’s thrown his arm around Jimin’s shoulder and is dramatically reenacting the moment he got trapped in a crowd of shirtless ravers at Yuma earlier. “I thought I was going to die in there. Sweaty. Hot. Glitter in places I didn’t know could hold glitter.”

“Oh no,” Jimin says, resting his chin on Jin’s shoulder. “Poor baby. Do you need…mouth-to-mouth?”

“Only if you’re the one giving it,” Jin fires back with a wink.

Taehyung gasps like he’s been personally betrayed, grabs Jimin by the jaw, and kisses him square on the mouth in retaliation. It’s warm and playful and sloppy—Jimin laughs into it, kissing back just as dramatically before turning and grabbing Jin by the collar.

“Fine. You get one too,” he says, kissing him with a flourish.

Jin whoops, nearly tipping over from where he’s perched on a folding chair, and Taehyung cackles as he pours more tequila into a waiting solo cup. “We’re starting a revolution,” he declares, pointing at no one in particular.

“Of kissing?” you ask, already laughing.

“Of joy,” Taehyung corrects. “And bisexuality.”

The night is electric with that kind of high that only comes from heat, alcohol, and too much love between friends. You’re pressed into Yoongi’s side, his arm around your waist, both of you sharing the same fleece blanket someone dragged out of a tent earlier.

He leans in close, his voice low in your ear, “Are they always like this?”

You glance at him and grin. “Honestly? This is pretty tame.”

He laughs, squeezing your hip. “I love it here.”

There’s music coming from someone’s Bluetooth speaker—something funky, bass-heavy, perfect for slow dancing or grinding or just drunkenly swaying. Jin’s trying to convince Taehyung to start a strip tease, while Jimin dramatically pours shots for an invisible audience.

You and Yoongi just watch it all, cheeks sore from smiling, toes curled into the dusty grass. He kisses the side of your head. You nudge your nose into the collar of his hoodie.

Jimin flops down in the grass again and throws his legs across Taehyung’s lap. “I love you idiots so much,” he declares.

“Shut up and take another shot,” Jin says, but his grin gives him away.

You look around the circle. There’s dirt on your calves, glitter on your arms, the faint sting of sunburn under your shirt—and you’ve never felt more beautiful, more alive, more surrounded by your people.

Yoongi leans in. “Third shot?”

You raise your cup. “Let’s make it four.”

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

The music from someone’s Bluetooth speaker fades in and out with the breeze, but you’re barely listening. Not when Yoongi’s knee keeps bumping into yours. Not when his fingers graze yours every time he takes a sip of his drink.

You glance over, catch him already looking at you. His dark eyes unreadable and lips parted like he might say something but changes his mind. You don’t look away.

“Quit staring, menace.” you murmur, nudging his leg with yours.

“Can’t help it.” He smirks, but it’s slow and lazy, the kind that says he’s been thinking things he probably shouldn’t say out loud. Not here. Not with everyone still around.

Your cheeks burn, but you don’t shy away when he shifts closer, his thigh brushing yours again, firmer this time. You can smell his cologne now—warm and woodsy, familiar. Dangerous.

“You keep lookin’ at me like that,” you say, voice dipping lower, “and I’m gonna think you’re trying to get in trouble.”

He laughs under his breath, eyes dropping to your mouth like gravity’s got a grip on him. “Maybe I am.”

There’s barely a beat of silence before he adds, quieter now, just for you. “Wanna sneak off?”

The words settle in your stomach like a spark looking for fuel.

Your gaze flicks to the others—Jimin dancing, Taehyung throwing popcorn at him—and then back to Yoongi. His hand rests lightly on your leg, fingers splayed over the denim of your skirt, thumb tracing lazy circles that make your breath catch.

You pretend to consider it, teeth tugging at your bottom lip. “Lead the way.”

Yoongi’s grin sharpens, eyes gleaming with something wicked as he stands and offers you his hand like it’s a promise. You take it without hesitation.

Yoongi already had someone prepare a space, and it was honestly kind of perfect. The back seats of Jin’s SUV are folded down flat, covered in thick blankets, extra hoodies, and a couple of pillows he must’ve stolen from the tent earlier. All the windows are blacked out with jackets and towels tucked into the edges, and with the trunk door shut, the sound of the outside world dulls to a soft hum.

You crawl in first, laughing under your breath, and Yoongi follows right after, pulling the door shut behind him with a definitive thump. The space around you feels stolen—intimate, secret. The air is warm from the heat of the day and still carries that electric buzz from earlier. You're both drunk, skin flushed and nerves on fire.

He settles next to you and immediately reaches out, brushing hair behind your ear and tilting your chin toward him. “You’re so damn pretty,” he murmurs, just before kissing you.

The kiss starts slow, but Yoongi’s never been good at hiding what he wants. His hand cups your jaw, his thumb dragging over your cheekbone while his mouth deepens the kiss, breath hot against your lips. Your fingers dig into his side, feeling the warmth of his skin under his shirt as you push it up and out of your way.

He shrugs out of it, eyes locked on yours, then leans back in, dragging his mouth across your neck, open-mouthed and deliberate. His hands are all over you—exploring, gripping, sliding under layers. Every touch makes you more restless, more eager, your hips shifting against his with growing urgency.

You let out a breathy laugh when he groans softly, burying his face in your neck for a second before pulling back just enough to say, “Gotta be safe this time.” He pulls a condom out of his shorts pocket and tosses it to the side like a promise. The look in his eyes is serious, dark, and full of heat.

Clothes come off slowly, messily, with whispered encouragement and breathless gasps between kisses. Your hands roam, learning the shape of his back, the way his muscles tighten when you drag your nails lightly down his spine. His mouth returns to yours, then to your collarbone, then lower.

The two of you move together in sync, laughter dissolving into low moans and hushed curses. The SUV rocks gently, and you both muffle your sounds against one another's skin, too far gone to care who might hear. You feel everything—every roll of his hips, every gasp against your neck, every lingering touch that leaves your body on fire.

And when it’s over, the windows are fogged, your bodies tangled, chests rising and falling in a warm, slow rhythm.

You lie there in the afterglow, cheek pressed to his shoulder, both of you grinning.

“You think they heard us?” you murmur.

Yoongi kisses your forehead. “Jin said the car muffles sound. He sounded confident.”

You burst out laughing and slap his chest lightly before pulling your clothes back on, piece by piece. You’re still wrapped up in blankets in the back of Jin’s SUV, limbs tangled, clothes lazily half-on, the smell of his skin still clinging to yours like warmth after the sun’s gone down. The windows are fogged, the outside noise a muffled thrum behind layers of cotton and metal. It feels like you’re the only two people in the world.

Yoongi shifts beside you, pulling the blanket higher over your shoulders. His fingers trail along your spine in slow, absent circles. You think he's about to fall asleep—his breathing is even, his body loose against yours—but then he speaks, voice low and unsteady.

“I need to tell you something,” he murmurs.

You lift your head from his shoulder, instantly alert. “Yeah?”

He hesitates. You can feel the tension gather again in his body, like a string being slowly pulled taut. He looks up at the ceiling of the car, then over at you, eyes soft but serious.

“This isn’t just…this isn’t just amazing sex to me,” he says, quietly but clearly. “I know it might look like that, like we’ve just been vibing and hooking up and having fun, but it’s more for me. It’s been more.”

Your breath catches a little. His eyes don’t leave yours.

“I keep trying to play it cool, like I can just ride this out until the festival ends and deal with it later, but I don’t want to anymore. I don’t want to go into tomorrow wondering if this is only what it’s been under the stars and the lights and all the noise. I need to know if this… us…is something real or could be. I need to know if I’m not the only one feeling it this deeply.”

The words hang in the air, heavy and trembling. You’ve never seen him look quite like this—open, exposed, vulnerable in a way that’s different than physical nakedness. Like he’s offering up something delicate, and trusting you not to break it.

“I think about you all the time,” he continues, quieter now. “I hear you in my head. You’ve got this—this hold on me. A soft spot that I didn’t see coming.”

It’s like hearing the lyrics of a song that always felt too close to home. Something quiet and aching, raw at the edges. Your throat tightens.

“Yoongi…” You sit up slightly, cupping his cheek, feeling the faintest tremble in his jaw. “I feel it too. I didn’t know how to say it, but I do. It’s not just the festival. It’s not just the sex. It’s the way you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention. It’s how you make me feel safe without trying.”

His eyes search yours, like he’s waiting to be sure, like he’s not quite ready to believe he didn’t screw this all up.

You lean in, pressing your forehead to his, your nose brushing his. “It’s you. You’re what’s real.”

Yoongi lets out a breath like he’s been holding it in for days. His hand slides into your hair, and he kisses you—not with hunger this time, but with something slower. Deeper. Like a promise.

Outside the SUV, the party is still going. Laughter, music, someone yelling about needing more tequila. But here in this little cocoon, it’s quiet. Sacred. A pocket of time that belongs just to you two. And in the soft dark, with your fingers threaded through his and your head resting on his chest, you know—this is the start of something.

You’re reluctant to move at first, wrapped up in Yoongi’s warmth, his words still echoing in your chest, but eventually, the rising sounds of laughter and music outside coax you back into the world. It’s almost 2am, but the camping area is alive, pulsing with leftover energy from the festival grounds.

Yoongi stretches with a quiet groan and opens the hatch of the SUV. Cool air rushes in, a sharp contrast to the warmth you’d been curled up in. You blink against the dim lights from scattered lanterns and strings of fairy lights zigzagging across tents.

As soon as your feet hit the grass, Jin’s voice cuts through the air like a siren.

“Well, well, well,” he drawls from his lawn chair, a half-empty White Claw dangling from his hand. “Look who’s decided to rejoin society.”

Taehyung, draped over Jimin like a living scarf, wiggles his eyebrows dramatically. “Must’ve been a religious experience in there. You both look very…cleansed.”

Jimin dissolves into laughter, clutching his stomach.

You try to keep a straight face but end up giggling as you lean into Yoongi. He smirks, but before he can fire back, Jin holds up a finger.

“I swear to God, Min. If I find so much as one mystery stain in my backseat, you’re paying for a full detail. Inside and out.”

Yoongi raises a hand in solemn promise. “Noted. Full detail. Deluxe package. Wax and everything.”

That gets a loud cheer from the group, and someone tosses Yoongi a beer, which he catches with ease.

As the teasing fades into chuckles, a familiar beat starts up from a Bluetooth speaker nearby—something bassy and smooth, enough to get heads nodding and hips swaying without much effort. Someone’s doing cartwheels in the distance. Someone else is offering glow sticks.

Yoongi turns to you, drink in hand, eyes still soft beneath the mischief. “Dance with me?”

You nod, sliding your hands into his as he pulls you gently into a little pocket of space between tents. The grass is cool beneath your feet, and the air smells of sunscreen, booze, dust and faint traces of festival food. Around you, groups of campers are still laughing, dancing, and clinging to the magic of the night like it might slip away if they stop.

He sways with you, hands low on your waist, lips brushing your temple once, then again. You close your eyes and let it all soak in—his body pressed to yours, the gentle thump of music, the hum of laughter, the occasional flicker of fairy lights above your heads.

Nobody wants day two to end. Not yet. Not when it’s been this good.

Not when tomorrow night means goodbye to this little dreamworld.

The music rolls on, one song blurring into the next like warm waves. The five of you move between lazy dancing and lounging, circling back to the foldout chairs and the soft patches of grass where someone’s laid down another blanket.

Jin eventually throws on a hoodie—still shirtless underneath—and starts making hot ramen with his tiny camp stove, dramatically narrating the entire process like a street food vendor on TikTok. Taehyung joins in as his sous-chef, passing him seasoning packets like they’re sacred scrolls.

Jimin, emboldened by a second vodka soda, clambers into Yoongi’s lap for approximately two seconds before collapsing beside him and laying his head on your thigh. “You guys are too cute,” he mumbles, poking at Yoongi’s knee. “Disgusting. Inspiring. Beautiful. Ew.”

You laugh and run a hand through his hair while Yoongi just shrugs like he’s being unfairly persecuted. “We’re in our honeymoon era,” he says, which earns a dramatic fake gagging sound from Jin.

“Already planning the registry,” you add sweetly, and Jimin slaps your knee with a groan.

By now, someone from another camp has brought over more snacks—half a bag of marshmallows, some chocolate bars, and a pack of mango-flavored Hi-Chews. You trade them for one of your Liquid IVs, and the barter economy is thriving.

Taehyung disappears for a minute and comes back with a little handheld disco light, the kind that projects neon sparkles onto the sides of tents. He sets it down in the middle of the blanket like a disco campfire, and for a few minutes you all sit and stare at it like it’s the most mesmerizing thing you’ve ever seen.

Yoongi curls his fingers around yours. You lean against him, shoulder to chest, legs tangled. It’s comfortable in a way you didn’t know you needed—like even though the night’s been loud and wild, this quiet glow, this warmth, is the best part.

“This has been the best night,” Jimin sighs dreamily, eyes closed.

“No,” Jin counters, holding out the instant noodles with the gravitas of a king. “Now it’s the best night.”

You all eat noodles straight from the pot with chopsticks and plastic forks, sharing bites and making dramatic noises of appreciation. No one mentions the hour, or the ache in their feet, or the fact that tomorrow is the last day. You’ve all silently agreed to pretend time doesn’t exist.

•Part 3•

36 notes · View notes

miirily · 3 days ago

Text

It Almost Worked

It Almost Worked - Chapter Three

Pairing: Megumi Fushiguro x f!reader

Summary: "You clear your throat first. “So. You’re Fushiguro.”

His jaw ticks once, maybe at the edge in your voice, maybe not. “Yeah. That’s me.”

That’s it. No ‘hey,’ no ‘nice to meet you,’ no ‘sorry about almost decapitating you with a door the other day.’ You wait, maybe for a ‘sorry’ or an ‘about the door thing’, but it doesn’t come either. Instead, he walks past you, brushing close enough that you catch the faintest trace of fresh laundry and rain."

Content: MDNI, college!au, mentions of death and loss, loss of parent(s), absent parent(s), angst, hurt/comfort, loneliness, aged-up characters, age difference, fluff, eventual smut (more warnings will be added as the story continues).

AO3 - Masterlist - Chapter One - Chapter Two - Chapter Three - Chapter Four (coming soon)

Chapter Three: Only a Minor Catastrophe (word count 9.9k)

Friday arrives before you know it, slipping in on a soft spring breeze that carries the scent of cherry blossoms and the distant sounds of a city stretching awake. The faint light of early morning slips past the curtains as you sit up, blinking the sleep from your eyes. Excitement thrums through your veins, steady and quiet, but pulsing nonetheless.

You hop into the shower to rinse away the last remnants of sleep, the hot water grounding you. There’s something comforting about the routine: Shampoo, body wash, then sun cream, a touch of blush, mascara, and gloss. You pick a loose white shirt and your favourite black wide-leg pants, paired with sleek black Onitsuka sneakers that sit in Yuji’s hallway. Simple. Clean. Comfortable, like Utahime had advised.

By the time you walk into the kitchen, Yuji is just dragging himself out from under his blanket on the sofa, hair a wild halo and eyes still heavy with sleep. You grin, already placing two bowls of overnight oats onto the low table, your favourite recipe: rolled oats soaked in almond milk, topped with a rainbow of fruits, a sprinkle of nuts, and a glistening drizzle of honey.

“Whoa,” Yuji mumbles, rubbing his eyes and perking up at the sight. “You trying to impress your big brother?”

You chuckle as you sit beside him. “I need the energy boost more than anything. Can’t pass out mid-shift from nerves.”

He gives you a crooked smile, one side of his hair sticking up like a horn. “You’ll crush it.”

As the two of you eat, a moment of calm settles between spoonfuls and casual banter. It reminds you of yesterday, your so-called day off that had disappeared in a blink. You’d spent hours on the phone with Mina, her shrieks of excitement almost deafening when she heard about your job trial. She’d been practically vibrating through the speaker, demanding every detail and teasing you relentlessly about “the brooding Tokyo boys” you’d apparently run into already.

You’d kept her on the line as you scrolled through apartment ads together, the two of you dissecting each photo and floor plan like it was a murder scene. Most of the rent prices had made your stomach twist—was this rent or ransom?—but then you’d stumbled on that one dorm listing. It looked half-decent. Open space. Shared kitchen. Clean enough in the pictures, though you knew how misleading those could be.

Your thumb had hovered over the “Send Application” button for just a second too long.

You usually got along with people just fine, could carry a conversation with strangers without breaking a sweat, but sharing a bathroom with six others? And if they didn’t wash their dishes? If someone ate your labelled yoghurt?

Still. Tokyo wasn’t cheap, and this was an open door. You’d pressed "Send" before you could overthink it again.

Now, the weight of all that planning feels distant, replaced by a rush of adrenaline humming quietly beneath your skin. This is the first step. Trial day at the café. New beginnings. Maybe even a second chance at the kind of life you didn’t know you needed.

You dig your spoon into the oats again, the almond milk softening everything into the perfect balance of creamy and crunchy. Yuji munches happily beside you, his socked feet propped lazily on the low table, the left proudly sporting a hole like it’s some kind of statement piece. You roll your eyes at the sight, fondness curling into your chest as you stretch out your legs beside his.

“You really need to let those socks die in peace,” you say with a smirk, nodding at the tragic fabric hanging on for dear life.

Yuji looks down, toe wriggling through the hole. “Nah, they’ve still got some life left in ‘em.”

You hum as you take another bite, savouring the sweet tang of banana and raspberry against the mellow oats. The warmth in your stomach matches the morning light spilling through the windows.

“What’s your plan for today?” you ask, turning your head slightly toward him.

He shrugs one shoulder. “Helping Gojo clean up the last of the boxing hall. You know, now that the renovations are done, we gotta prep everything before the kids come in. Equipment’s all over the place. Think he wants to polish the floor too.” He pauses to shovel another spoonful in. “Then we’ll probably grab lunch. He said he knows this new soba spot.”

You smile at that. “Sounds fun. If he lets you not carry the entire ring on your back again.”

Yuji snorts. “No promises.”

He sets down his bowl and turns to you, eyes bright, a smudge of honey on his lip. “I can pick you up after your trial shift, by the way. If you want.”

You blink at him, touched by the offer. “Yeah? That’d be nice. Thanks.”

He grins, proud of himself like he just offered you a ride to the moon. You lean back, your shoulder bumping into his gently.

“So,” you say casually, “did you text your friend? Fushiguro? About working the same shift as your favourite baby sister?”

Yuji mumbles a sound around his spoon and nods. His mouth is still half-full of oats when he finally swallows and replies, “Yeah, I messaged him yesterday.”

You raise a brow, waiting. “And?”

Yuji shrugs. “Didn’t answer.”

Your face twists. “He what?”

“It’s normal,” Yuji adds quickly, waving his spoon like it’ll explain things. “That’s just how Megumi is. He’s not much of a texter. Probably saw it. Maybe thought ‘cool’ and moved on. It’s not personal.”

You scoff, setting your bowl aside. “So I’m getting evaluated in total silence by some guy who doesn’t even reply to your texts?”

Yuji chuckles, stretching his arms behind his head. “He’s not broody. Okay—he is, a little. But he’s not a jerk. He’s just quiet. Serious, y’know? If he really thought it was a big deal, he’d say something. Or at least grumble.”

Still, the knot in your stomach tightens ever so slightly. You try to push it down; after all, not everyone is as loud and open as you and Yuji. That doesn’t make them unkind. And Fushiguro must be decent if he’s friends with your brother, right?

Still.

You glance at your phone charging on the counter, the minutes ticking closer to your shift.

You can do this. Even if it turns out that he has the emotional range of a block of tofu.

Yuji puts his spoon into the empty bowl with a theatrical sigh, rubbing his stomach like he just walked out of a five-star buffet. "Man," he groans dramatically, "chef’s kiss. Best breakfast I’ve had in a long time."

You huff a small laugh, nudging his shoulder with yours again, this time softer. “You say that every time I cook.”

“Because it’s true every time.”

He stretches lazily, arms reaching up over his head as his hoodie rides up, exposing a sliver of his toned stomach. His feet slide off the table with a quiet thump as he leans back with a satisfied grin.

Your eyes drift across the living room, Yuji’s hoodie tossed carelessly on the floor next to his gym bag, a pair of socks peeking out from under the low table, the ever-growing dust bunnies beginning to reclaim the top of the small bookshelf beside the TV. Even back home, that shelf has always made you roll your eyes; it’s meant for books, but is mostly stuffed with PlayStation games, worn manga volumes, and a small army of action figures, some of them posed dramatically mid-battle.

Your gaze lingers longer on the framed photo perched at the centre of the shelf. You, Yuji, and your grandfather, arms around each other, eyes crinkled with laughter. It’s the same photo Yuji uses as his profile picture. You remember that day so clearly, how your grandpa had grumbled about “too many candles,” how Yuji had teased him about being ancient, how your own cheeks had hurt from laughing so much.

You look different in the photo. Not just your hair, longer now, or the style of your clothes. But in your face. There’s a lightness there, a sparkle in those big green eyes that’s hard to find in the mirror these days.

Your thumb moves slowly across your palm, a familiar absent-minded motion. You miss him. Every day, in quiet, ordinary ways. In the way you make breakfast, in how you answer a question, in how you and Yuji sit side by side, your bickering gentler now. Grief doesn’t scream anymore. It just whispers, persistent.

Yuji follows your gaze and his face softens. “Hey,” he says, nudging your knee with his. “He’d be proud of you, y’know?”

You blink and turn toward him, caught off guard.

“This job, school, moving here. You’re doing all of it on your own,” he says, voice quieter now, but no less certain. “He always said you had guts.”

You smile, but it trembles a little. “Yeah… he also said I had no patience.”

Yuji snorts. “That too. You’ve got range.”

You pick at the skin of your thumb again, right at the base where it’s always the driest, where old scars from similar habits lie faint beneath the surface. Your nails are short, clean, but your thumb is a battlefield of nervous energy. You don’t even realise you’re doing it at first. It’s instinct. Reflex. A quiet ache that your hands remember before your mind does.

Your bottom lip tucks between your teeth. You taste cherry, sticky and artificial from the gloss you’d applied earlier. It’s faintly sweet, almost jarringly so. Like a mask trying to cover up something bitter underneath.

The familiar weight settles in your chest, low and heavy and old. Not panic, not sadness exactly, but something like failure. The fear of it. The memory of it. The feeling of being the one who drops the ball, who lets someone down without meaning to. It bubbles quietly, pressing up against your ribs like a wave you’ve held back for too long.

Your eyes drift again to the framed photo. Your grandfather’s eyes, stern, weary, but kind, meet yours through the glass. As a kid, you hated how much like him your eyes were growing to look. That same sharp gaze, the permanent pinch of responsibility at the corners. A life of stepping up because no one else would.

You never got to be a kid for long.

Growing up with a father who vanished in every way that mattered and a grandfather who was too old, too tired, and too damn stubborn to be anything close to gentle... it leaves its marks. Not in bruises, but in the silence. In the way you never wanted to ask for anything twice. In the way you learned to keep your voice level and your needs quieter. In the way you worked harder than anyone expected because you never wanted to be the reason someone sighed or looked tired or rubbed the bridge of their nose in frustration.

You aren’t a people pleaser.

You don’t live to make others happy. You don’t crave gold stars.

But you do crave self-sufficiency. You crave being seen as capable. As not a burden.

You don’t want anyone to have to clean up after you, emotionally, financially, or otherwise. And that makes even the smallest stumble feel like a damn landslide.

Next to you, Yuji starts humming something off-key, probably some anime opening you don’t recognise. His world is simpler, lighter, even after everything. Maybe because he never let it get to him. Maybe because he never carried the same guilt of being raised.

You shake your head gently and exhale, then you straighten, slowly easing your thumb away from your mouth, the slight sting from the picked skin grounding you. You blink once, then again, locking the photo into place in your mind and giving the smallest of nods. To yourself. To your grandfather. To the version of you that still wants to prove something, even if you haven’t figured out what yet.

“I’m gonna go get ready,” you say, your voice casual, almost airy.

Yuji makes a small noise of approval, still scrolling through something on his phone, one socked foot bobbing to the beat of his own rhythm.

You slip into the bedroom, your steps quiet. You take one last glance at the mirror, cherry gloss still shining, a soft crease between your brows as you slip into your sneakers.

You’re still grieving, still healing. But you’re also growing.

You just have to keep going.

And that? You’ve always been good at.

>>><<<

You're grateful for that little voice in your head that told you to check the forecast this morning. The sky had been an innocent grey when you left Yuji’s flat, barely threatening. But by the time you step off the train and make your way toward Café Momonoki, the clouds have opened like a trapdoor, unleashing rain in sheets. Your umbrella holds up valiantly, your shoulders and bag staying dry but your jeans betray you, the hems soaked and sticking to your ankles from the short sprint across the street.

Still, as you close your umbrella and shake it off, letting droplets fly harmlessly to the side, you feel oddly calm. Settled, even. Maybe it’s the soft ding of the café door as you enter. Maybe it’s the warm air hitting your cheeks, the subtle hum of conversations, the low music drifting from a speaker somewhere near the back. Or maybe it’s just the smell, coffee beans, vanilla, and something faintly spiced, like cinnamon or cardamom. You inhale and feel the tension you didn’t realise you’d been holding melt from your shoulders.

You scan the space instinctively. The café looks the same as when you first visited, cozy, with high walls and warm wood accents, pale cream curtains drawn slightly to keep the rain-dimmed light gentle.

Your eyes land on Utahime first.

She’s crouched slightly beside a table near the window, speaking with an elderly woman wrapped in layers of soft knits. Utahime’s expression is all warmth and patience, her body angled to truly listen, not just hear. She nods occasionally, a smile touching her lips, her long black ponytail swaying slightly as she moves.

You don’t interrupt. You keep walking quietly toward the counter, setting your umbrella in the holder near the door. Outside, the storm still rages, the echo of thunder distant but steady, yet within these walls everything feels calm, focused. Like a place with its own heartbeat.

Behind the counter, Maki’s the first to notice you. Her eyes lift from the swirl of steamed milk she's perfecting, and a smile blooms across her face. She leans into the young man beside her and nudges him gently with her elbow, something conspiratorial in the motion.

He’s slim and composed, standing with a quiet kind of elegance. His hair is pale blonde, nearly white in the soft café lighting, falling straight around his face in smooth strands. A black medical mask hides the lower half of his face, but his eyes, bright and foxlike, crinkle with amusement as Maki flashes something on her phone. Whatever it is, it earns a shared, muffled snicker between them, the sound blending with the hiss of the espresso machine.

You watch them, momentarily transfixed, your own smile blooming cautiously across your face. You assume, with a certain naivety, that this must be Megumi Fushiguro. He doesn’t look grumpy at all. On the contrary, he looks like someone who’d hand you a perfectly foamed latte with a wink and say something too clever for this early in the day.

You offer him a small, polite smile, just in case.

He notices, and his gaze flickers to you with something gentle in it. He smiles, or at least his eyes do. It's enough to make your shoulders drop half an inch, the tension you didn’t know you were holding easing just a bit.

So this is Fushiguro. Maybe Yuji was exaggerating. Maybe all those gruff, emotionally constipated stories were just brotherly teasing.

But then Maki turns toward you, smile still playing at the corners of her mouth, and completely shatters your assumption.

“Hey, glad you made it through the rain, y/n,” she says, as though you’ve done this dance before. “This here’s Toge Inumaki. Early shift hero.”

Your brain skips a beat.

“…Oh.”

You’re quick, just barely fast enough to tuck the surprise behind your smile, but your voice still comes out a little lighter, higher than you’d like. You nod to Toge with exaggerated casualness, clutching the strap of your bag like a lifeline. “Nice to meet you.”

Toge waves, warm and wordless, and you realise with dawning awkwardness that you’ve just smiled at the wrong boy like you knew his deepest secrets.

Maki puts down her phone and tosses you a neatly folded black apron. “You’ll meet Fushiguro in a minute. He’s in the back changing.”

The apron arcs through the air with practised ease, and you catch it mid-flight. The fabric is soft in your hands, worn in a way that feels comforting, like something that has seen dozens of shifts and stories, absorbed the quiet rhythm of the café already. You nod dumbly, too preoccupied with the wave of secondhand embarrassment still rising in your chest to muster a clever reply.

Maki’s already pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose, expression dry but not unkind. She jerks her thumb over her shoulder in a loose gesture toward the back. “You can toss your stuff in the office and get that apron on. No rush. Toge and I’ll be here for another hour or two. Figured I’d walk you through the basics on the espresso machine before you and Fushiguro take over for the late shift.”

You manage a tight smile, apron clutched in both hands now like it might anchor you to the floor.

“Thanks,” you say, your voice low but steady. “Sounds good.”

You make your way toward the back, your wet sneakers squeaking on the wooden floor, fingers brushing along the edge of the counter as you pass. Every sense feels sharper than it should; the scent of citrus from a just-peeled lemon at the bar, the click of Toge refilling the grinder, the murmur of rain still needling the windows.

You slip through the doorway with a soft exhale, the sound of the café dimming behind you. The back office is small and cluttered in the way a lived-in space often is: Spare aprons hung like sentries near the coat hooks, a half-empty bottle of iced tea on the desk next to a dusty laptop, a calendar with tiny scribbled notes in the margins.

You place your bag gently on a low shelf, shrug off your thin rain coat, and unfold the apron, slipping the strap over your head with hands steadier than you expected. You glance into the small mirror propped against a stack of menus and smooth down your hair, tucking a loose strand behind your ear as you twist it into a low bun.

The sound of footsteps approaches, measured and unhurried, and then the quiet creak of the door opening behind you.

You freeze for a breath, heart flicking against your ribs like a moth at a window. Then you turn.

You strongly will yourself not to let your mouth fall open, not even a fraction, as the guy steps out of the adjacent changing room, shoulders squared under the weight of casual disinterest. He’s focused on his phone, thumb tapping something quickly before he flicks on airplane mode and pockets it.

But you know that face. You’d recognise that tall, lean frame and the way his dark hair juts in untamed directions from anywhere. Especially from two days ago, when he had nearly smashed the café door into your face without a flicker of apology.

Your shoulders tense, instinctively tightening like you’re bracing for cold water. Your eyes narrow just a touch, barely perceptible, but enough that if someone were watching closely, they’d catch it.

Then he looks up.

It’s subtle, the flick of his gaze lifting to meet yours, but it knocks something sideways in your chest. His eyes are a sharp, dark blue that seem to take in more than they let on. There’s a millisecond, a tiny crack in his otherwise unreadable expression, where something like recognition glints there. Surprise, maybe. Guilt? You’re not sure. But it’s gone too fast to name, and it leaves you wondering if you imagined it.

He blinks once, expression quickly smoothing into something unreadable. His face is so still it could be mistaken for indifference, but there’s something alive under the surface, coiled, watchful. Not defensive, not unfriendly. But cautious.

You feel the press of your tongue against your top teeth, taste the faint remnants of cherry lip gloss, and force your hands to unclench at your sides.

He finishes tucking his phone into the deep pocket of his apron and exhales softly through his nose. Still, there’s no apology hovering in the air between you. Not even a sheepish smile.

You clear your throat first. “So. You’re Fushiguro.”

His jaw ticks once, maybe at the edge in your voice, maybe not. “Yeah. That’s me.”

That’s it. No ‘hey,’ no ‘nice to meet you,’ no ‘sorry about almost decapitating you with a door the other day.’ You wait, maybe for a ‘sorry’ or an ‘about the door thing’—but it doesn’t come either. Instead, he walks past you, brushing close enough that you catch the faintest trace of fresh laundry and rain.

He doesn’t look back, just tosses over his shoulder, “You ready to learn how not to burn espresso?”

Your mouth almost falls open then.

But instead, you smile, tight-lipped and dry.

“Absolutely, partner,” you say, brushing past him to follow into the warmth of the café, the air now feeling a touch heavier and your trial shift promising to be anything but boring.

>>><<<

The first hour of your shift passes so quickly, it feels like time’s playing a trick on you.

Outside, the rain has grown heavier, pounding against the café’s windows in angry waves, a rhythmic percussion that should’ve been distracting. But inside, in the warm hum of Café Momonoki, you hardly notice. The glass fogs slightly from the warmth within, cocooning the space like a gentle barrier between your new reality and the drenched world beyond.

You’re behind the counter with Maki, who’s all precision and calm competence, her black apron spotless even as her hands move with ease. She moves like someone who’s been doing this long enough to make it look easy, but not so long that she’s lost the spark of pride in it.

“This one’s a beast,” she says, patting the espresso machine with something that almost resembles affection. The thing is gorgeous; sleek chrome and matte black, a hulking, expensive-looking piece of equipment that hums with quiet power. The machine’s many buttons and dials glint beneath the overhead lighting, like the cockpit of some strange caffeinated aircraft.

You nod, trying to soak in every word, every gesture, fingers brushing over the handle of the portafilter like it’s some sacred object.

Maki talks you through it step by step: grinding the beans, not too fine, not too coarse, letting you feel the texture between your fingers, dark and rich and earthy. She teaches you how to level and tamp the grinds evenly, the pressure precise and firm, “like you mean it, but not like you’re trying to win a fight,” she says with a grin. You chuckle nervously, and repeat the movement. Again. And again. Until your hands start to remember.

Then it’s on to steaming milk. You learn how to tilt the pitcher just right, how to stretch the milk gently, listening for that faint whisper instead of an angry hiss. She shows you how to watch for the rolling whirlpool, and how to stop right when the temperature's perfect, no scalding.

“You’ll feel it,” she tells you, guiding your hand to the side of the pitcher so you can gauge the warmth yourself.

And she’s right. You do feel it. The timing, the texture, the rhythm, it begins to sink into your bones.

Meanwhile, just to your left, Toge moves like a ghost. Silent, composed, almost ballet-like in his smooth movements. You catch glimpses of him out of the corner of your eye as he refills the pastry case, his gloved hands gently placing golden-topped blueberry muffins and slices of cheesecake like he’s arranging gemstones. Each piece is positioned with precision, the display case slowly transforming into a magazine-worthy spread.

Behind the counter, toward the far end near the register, Utahime and Megumi work in unison—quiet, efficient, deliberate. They speak in low voices as they perform the cash transfer, counting, cross-checking, logging each step with professional ease. Utahime occasionally smiles softly, her voice calm. Megumi doesn’t speak much, but there’s a subtle attentiveness in the way he listens, in the small nods and glances he offers her, serious and focused.

Only two customers linger: the elderly woman you saw earlier, now slowly stirring her tea with contentment written in every line of her face, and a young couple near the back, sharing an umbrella propped against the seat beside them and two steaming mugs between their clasped hands. The storm outside has turned the café into a sanctuary, and even the low jazz humming from the speakers seems to soften into something more intimate, more alive.

You’re barely aware of the dampness clinging to the hem of your jeans anymore. Your umbrella rests folded next to the entrance, forgotten, droplets of water slowly trailing down to the floor. Your skin, warmed by the gentle heat of the café and the machine at your side, no longer prickles with cold.

You glance up, catching your reflection in the espresso machine’s polished surface, big eyes focused, expression steady, lips pulled into a small smile you hadn’t even realised was there.

Toge and Utahime call it a day around 1:30 p.m., their voices soft as they prepare to leave after having finished their early shift. Toge shrugs on a black Nike puffer jacket that makes him look even slimmer beneath its bulk. He adjusts the straps of his mask with pale fingers, his eyes crinkling in that ever-gentle, wordless smile of his as he waves at you from the door. You lift your hand in return, mirroring the gesture.

The rain is relentless, sheets of water blurring the view beyond the glass. As Toge steps outside, his shoes splash into shallow puddles, and for a moment you watch his silhouette sprint toward the station, head down, arms slightly raised like wings. Then, just like that, the mist swallows him whole.

Utahime lingers. Her shift technically over, she still moves with unhurried purpose as she takes a seat beside the elderly woman she’d been speaking to earlier. The two exchange soft words, familiar and warm, like old friends with time on their hands. A cup of green tea rests between them, steam curling into the dim light. Occasionally, Utahime casts a glance your way—not scrutinising, not invasive, but observant in that quiet, thoughtful way of someone weighing potential. Her expression is neutral at first, but a soft smile begins to settle on her face each time your eyes meet and quickly dart away. There’s a gentle approval in it. A quiet reassurance. She’s watching you with the eyes of someone who wonders if she made the right decision and knows, already, that she did.

Maki, meanwhile, is still on shift, methodical in her tasks but never unkind. She takes a brief break from restocking the syrup shelf to guide you once again through the motions of the espresso machine. Her teaching style is firm but encouraging, her voice low and even, her sense of humour always waiting just beneath the surface. At some point she leans against the counter, arms crossed loosely over her chest, watching the front entrance with a raised brow.

A tall man walks in, droplets trailing off his soaked beanie, his AirPods Max clamped securely over his ears, soft bass thumping faintly even from where you stand. His coat is oversized and drips from the sleeves, but he doesn’t seem bothered by the storm. He approaches the counter with a distracted nod, gaze on the laminated menu hanging above your head.

Maki steps aside and motions for you to take the order. Your pulse picks up. Your first solo drink. You square your shoulders, smile politely, and take his order—tall cappuccino, extra hot. Got it.

You move through the steps carefully, your hands remembering the rhythm Maki taught you. Grinding. Tamping. Pulling the shot. You glance at the crema blooming golden in the tiny cup, the hiss and whirl of the steam wand rising beside it. You measure the temperature by feel, just like Maki showed you, and when the milk hits that perfect warmth, you pull it away and begin to pour.

Your first attempt at latte art turns out more like a hopeful swirl than a design, but the foam is thick, smooth, and delicate. You cap the cup and hand it over with both hands.

The man takes it with a nod of thanks, barely glancing at you before retreating to the window, but you don’t mind. Because when you turn back to the counter, Maki is watching you, one brow arched, a small smirk twitching at the corner of her lips.

“Not bad,” she says, and nudges your elbow. “Next one, you’re doing the heart.”

You laugh softly, a bit breathless but buzzing with pride. Your first cappuccino. Made by you, served at your first real job in Tokyo.

Megumi remains mostly silent, a quiet figure moving with quiet purpose, his back perfectly straight as he crouches in front of the pastry display, pen poised between slender fingers. His brow furrows ever so slightly as he jots down the internal temperature of the small fridge, then stands to check the readings on the larger one by the counter. There’s a rhythm to his movements, a certain sharpness that doesn’t feel harsh, only meticulous, like he’s tuned out the world to focus entirely on each ticked box, each wiped surface, each fraction of routine.

From your side of the counter, you try not to stare.

You really do.

But your eyes flick toward him again and again, pulled by the quiet precision of it all, the way he wipes down the marble tables with firm, efficient strokes, the dishcloth folded neatly into quarters in his palm. There’s something composed in his every action, as though he’s decided exactly how much energy to give the world and nothing more. His expression never shifts, his gaze flicking calmly between surface and cloth and waste bin, over and over like clockwork. It’s mesmerising in its own odd way.

You don’t even notice how you’ve zoned out a bit until Maki’s voice filters back into focus.

“…I mean, I’ve still got to figure out how I’m going to balance shifts here with starting my master’s next week. Sports Econ is no joke.”

You blink and glance at her, nodding, piecing together the sentence. “That’s exciting, though. You’ve seem like the organised type.” You offer her a small smile and add, “I’m about to start my first year in Biochem, actually.”

Maki hums, her dark green eyes flicking toward the espresso machine she’s halfway through wiping down. “Biochemistry, huh? I could never.”

You chuckle softly, the inside of your palm still warm from where you'd just refilled the coffee grinder. “I like knowing how things work,” you offer. “Like… really work. But I get why most people hate it. Chemistry is unforgiving.”

“Still,” Maki muses, flicking her cleaning rag over a drip tray with quick, confident swipes. “You must be smart.”

You duck your head slightly, muttering a soft “Trying to be,” before your gaze slips again to where Megumi has now moved to the condiment bar to refill the sugar dispenser.

At 2:30 on the dot, Maki unclips her apron with one sharp tug, folding it crisply before draping it over the hook near the back office door. “Time for my escape,” she sighs with a stretch, her voice light and dry. “You two have fun.”

You laugh softly but it’s Utahime’s voice that draws your attention again. She stands from her seat beside the elderly woman, gently patting the woman's shoulder with a word of goodbye before moving toward you and Maki. “I’ll drop Maki off,” she says kindly, slipping into her coat. She turns her attention to you. “You and Fushiguro will close at six. He’ll show you the full shutdown routine. You’ll get the hang of it quickly.”

You nod, trying not to look like you’re caught off guard. “Of course. Sounds good. Thank you again for today, Utahime-san.”

“Utahime,” she corrects with a wink. “We’re all on a first-name basis here, remember?”

Maki opens the door with her shoulder as Utahime follows her out, the rain still coming down hard beyond the glass. Before the door swings shut, Utahime calls over her shoulder, “Don’t hesitate to ask Megumi if anything feels confusing. And I will call you tomorrow about our further plans.”

And then they’re gone, just the whisper of the chimes above the door and the sudden, soft quiet that settles over the café.

You glance toward the other end of the room, where Megumi has just finished refilling everything at the condiment bar. He doesn’t look over, doesn’t say anything, just straightens his back and picks up the rag to start polishing the glass display case.

Reliable. Your eyes linger on the way his hands move, quick, precise and calm.

If there’s tension between you, leftover awkwardness from your last encounter, he shows no sign of it. But then again, maybe he just doesn’t care. You exhale slowly, gripping the edge of the counter and letting the sound of rain and quiet movement fill the space. Seven p.m. feels both too far away and not far enough.

But the hours drip by with all the urgency of snails dragging themselves uphill in the rain.

Outside, the downpour remains relentless, grey sheets of water making rivers of the pavement and fogging up the windows of the café until they blur the world into vague outlines. You’re silently grateful for the weather as it means fewer customers, fewer variables to juggle. It means you can practise, focus. Breathe.

The espresso machine hums like a living creature at your side. You stand behind the counter, sleeves rolled to your elbows, brows furrowed in concentration as you grind fresh beans for your third cappuccino of the afternoon. The hiss of steamed milk fills the air, sharp and steady, and your hands move with quiet determination. You tamp, lock, and press, your motions still a little slow, but growing smoother each time. Megumi stands nearby, leaning one hip against the far end of the counter, arms crossed.

He watches. Always watches.

Not in an intrusive way, no, but with a quiet sort of attention that never seems to waver. His eyes follow your movements, and every so often, he speaks.

“Steam wand’s too deep. You’ll get big bubbles that way.”

You adjust.

“Stop the shot five seconds earlier next time. It’ll taste cleaner.”

You nod, grateful for the feedback, even if his tone is dry, bordering on flat. There’s no warmth to his words, no real encouragement either. But there’s something in the way he stays close, in the way he doesn’t leave you to flounder, that tells you he isn’t indifferent. Just… guarded.

Still, it’s a far cry from Maki’s easy confidence or Toge’s quiet cheerfulness. Megumi doesn’t offer casual stories or unnecessary compliments. He doesn’t fill the silence with chatter. And the silence stretches long.

Too long.

You fill it out of reflex.

“So… do you usually work Fridays?” you ask as you pour foam into a tall, ceramic cup. The milk is too thick this time, but you pretend not to notice the lopsided heart it leaves behind.

“Sometimes.”

“Is it often this quiet?”

“Usually not on Fridays, no.”

You glance at him. “You don’t like talking much, do you?”

His eyes flick to yours, something unreadable crossing his face. “Not unless I have something to say.”

Your lips twitch. “That’s fair.”

He says nothing.

You try again. “Maki said you’ve been working here a while. Do you like it?”

“It’s quiet. Pays well enough. Better than most places.”

You suppress a sigh. The conversation feels like trying to skip stones across a swamp; every question sinks almost immediately. But something stubborn in you refuses to let the silence take over. You’ve never been good at coexisting with quiet. It leaves too much space for thoughts to wander where they shouldn’t.

“So you know my brother,” you try, offering a cautious smile as you start another drink. A vanilla latte this time, your favourite, one you’re determined to perfect.

Megumi’s brow lifts slightly, but not much else about his expression changes. “Yuji?”

You nod, pouring the espresso into the cup and reaching for the milk. “He told me you were the friend working here. Guess he was right.”

Megumi nods. “We train together. He’s loud.”

You laugh softly. “That’s one way to describe him.”

This time, a faint smirk tugs at the corner of Megumi’s mouth, but it vanishes just as fast as it came. You blink, momentarily caught off guard. So the stone skipped once. That’s something.

As the hour inches forward, you serve a handful of customers, each time thanking the rain for the sparse crowd and the opportunity to focus. You make two more cappuccinos, an americano, and another vanilla latte, slowly building confidence with each cup. Megumi steps in occasionally to adjust the grinder or offer a quick demonstration, but always with that same reserved air, his voice low and calm.

By five, the café has slipped into a rhythm. The chairs Megumi has already put up remain stacked on some of the unused tables, and the golden glow of the overhead lights feels oddly intimate against the backdrop of the storm. You find yourself wiping down the counter just for something to do, occasionally glancing toward Megumi, who is double-checking inventory notes in the back office doorway.

You wonder if this is what working with him will always feel like. An atmosphere just shy of tense, held together by politeness and practicality. Still, something in you isn't discouraged. You’ve seen how people bloom in unexpected soil. Maybe Megumi is just that: unexpected.

You press the cloth down over a stray ring of water on the counter and breathe out slowly, preparing yourself for the next and final task of the day: Closing.

As if reading your thoughts, or maybe just finely attuned to the rhythm of the quiet café, Megumi straightens from where he had been studying the inventory list. He turns toward you, the sleeves of his work shirt rolled neatly to his elbows, revealing long, toned forearms flecked with droplets from cleaning earlier.

“I’ll start with the pastry case,” he says, his voice level and clipped as usual. “You should watch. You’ll have to do it alone when you close.”

You nod quickly, falling into step beside him as he moves toward the glass display where a few last pastries still sit in neat rows, some already missing from their trays, the blueberry muffins picked at, the cheesecake a little sad-looking under the yellow light. The café is nearly silent save for the low hum of the fridge and the occasional groan of pipes hidden behind the walls. Outside, the rain is relentless, crashing against the windows like waves, the grey world beyond smudged and shapeless.

Megumi crouches in front of the case and pulls it open with the same precision you’ve come to expect from him. He moves efficiently, hands calm and sure, his expression one of complete focus. One by one, he removes the leftover pastries with small silver tongs and slides them into translucent containers lined with parchment paper, which he stacks in the small fridge under the counter. His fingers are deft, the kind of deliberate motion that comes from repetition and a sense of quiet perfectionism.

“You throw out the ones that don’t keep,” he says. “There’s a list in the back office—shelf life. Cheesecake’s two days, muffins three, cookies four.”

You nod, eyes fixed on his hands, taking mental notes with sharp attentiveness.

“Every item gets boxed before six,” he continues, voice still low, still neutral. “Labels go on the lids. Date, time, initials.”

He gestures with a chin-nod toward the label maker perched by the pastry fridge. You can’t help but wonder how long it took him to memorise all this and how long it might take you.

Megumi finishes and closes the display with a soft click, standing up and wiping his hands on a clean cloth. He tosses the used tongs into the sink basin behind the counter and then turns to the espresso machine.

“Next.”

You follow.

The warmth from the machine hits you as you step beside him. The scent of coffee is stronger here, nutty, rich, and comforting. Despite the quietness between you, there’s something oddly grounding about Megumi’s presence. Like standing beside a steady clock. He doesn’t rush. He just moves.

“This gets cleaned every day,” he says, pointing at the group heads and portafilters. “Wipe down, run hot water, then backflush. Use the cleaning powder every second night.”

You nod again, watching as he unscrews and pulls out various pieces with practised ease, placing them in a container for soaking.

“This—” he holds up the steam wand “—you wipe after every use. End of the day, purge it and clean with the small brush. If you skip this, it clogs.”

His gaze flicks to yours briefly, sharp and direct.

“Noted,” you say softly.

Megumi moves down the line, showing you what gets a surface wipe, what goes into the industrial dishwasher, and what gets hand-washed in the smaller sink. You mentally catalogue each step, the rhythm of this end-of-day ritual beginning to settle into your bones.

As the minute hand ticks toward six o'clock, the sky outside deepens to a bruised indigo. The café has fallen into a hush so still it almost feels sacred, like the quiet breath of a space that’s just finished telling its story for the day.

You roll up your sleeves beside Megumi and grab a clean towel, stepping in to help him wipe down the counter and finish loading the dishwasher. There are no more customers now, no distractions, only the two of you in this small circle of golden light and steady motion.

And though he hasn’t smiled again, and hasn’t offered anything resembling warmth, Megumi doesn’t stop you when you step beside him. Doesn’t flinch when your hands move near his. You’re not sure if it’s a truce, or just routine, but either way, it’s something.

At exactly 6 p.m., Megumi strides toward the entrance and flips the door’s hanging sign from open to closed. The faint clack of the lock echoes through the empty café as he turns the key and slides it into his apron pocket, rain still thrumming steadily against the windows like a thousand fingertips drumming in unison.

The golden lighting of the café casts soft shadows across the warm wooden tables, now bare of plates or cups. The elderly woman, the couple, even the man with the beanie, all long gone, leaving only the soft scent of roasted beans and steamed milk lingering in the air. It feels like the café is exhaling around you, letting itself rest.

You glance toward Megumi, who already moves with mechanical efficiency. He’s gathering salt and sugar shakers with one hand while wiping down the tables with the other, shoulders loose, posture straight. He never hurries, yet he never wastes a second either. You follow his lead, moving toward the condiment bar near the counter. A clean towel slung over your shoulder, you spray and wipe with quiet focus, collecting stray lids, wiping syrup smears from the counter edge.

Across from you, Megumi stacks chairs onto freshly wiped tables, two at a time, steady and silent, the legs clicking softly against the wood. The broom follows next, the slow scratch of bristles against the floor marking time.

But the silence is starting to itch again.

You pause for a second, your hand stilling on the syrup bottle.

“So,” you begin, tone deliberately casual, “what do you train together?”

Megumi doesn’t look up at first, his brow furrowed as if the question doesn’t land.

You clarify, shifting your weight. “You and my brother. Yuji.”

That gets his attention.

He straightens just a little, one brow lifting as his gaze flicks to you. “Oh. Karate,” he says after a pause, voice low, a little rough, as if unused to casual conversation. “Started last year.”

You hum quietly, letting the knowledge settle. The idea of Yuji tossing punches beside this quiet, storm-eyed guy tugs a soft smile onto your lips.

“Thought it might be something like that,” you say. “He’s been so into training lately. Makes sense now.”

Megumi doesn’t respond immediately. He just keeps sweeping, finishing his methodical work without lifting his head. The soft scrape of the broom fills the space again, and it feels like maybe that’s it, that the quiet will fold itself back around you like a second skin.

But then, just as you’re rinsing out your cloth at the sink, he speaks again.

“Tell him I said hi,” he says simply, almost offhandedly, like it’s nothing.

But there’s a slight tilt to his voice. Not warmth exactly, but something genuine. A flicker of ease. Of acknowledgment.

You glance back at him over your shoulder, surprised and maybe a little touched. The masked storm of his demeanour has a seam in it now, just faint enough to see through if you squint.

You nod, smiling faintly. “I will.”

The clock ticks gently overhead. The rain outside begins to taper, thinning from a roar to a hush. You dip your cloth into the hot, soapy water once more and wring it out slowly, the weight of it familiar in your hands.

You both move behind the counter again in silence, the café now cloaked in that end-of-day hush, where everything feels slower, like the world itself is winding down with you. The air smells like faint vanilla and warm wood polish, the soft pitter-patter of the dwindling rain outside muffling the sounds within the café like thick velvet curtains.

Megumi slides open the register drawer with quiet fingers and begins counting the cash inside. He mutters the numbers under his breath, his voice low and steady, barely audible over the hum of the espresso machine powering down. Every few counts, he jots a figure down with a ballpoint pen, his handwriting precise and angular. He doesn't rush, doesn't even glance your way, just sinks into the kind of quiet focus that feels natural to him.

You, meanwhile, stretch on your tip-toes, tongue poking out the side of your mouth in sheer determination as you try to refill the café’s massive coffee bean grinder for the early shift. The bag of beans is heavier than you expected, and it shifts in your hands mid-pour. You gasp, just a breath, and in the same instant, the bag jerks slightly to the side.

A sharp clatter rings out as beans tumble, not into the grinder as you intended, but everywhere.

The sound is deafening in the quiet café, beans ricocheting off the metal grinder, bouncing across the counter, skittering across the floor. Some even ping against the register drawer. You take a step back like you’ve been struck, heart stuttering in your chest. The bag hangs limp in your hands. Your breath catches.

Megumi turns sharply, startled by the sound, his head whipping toward the noise.

His brows draw together in a frown, eyes flicking from the spill to you. Your shoulders lock tight. Shame rises like bile in your throat, hot and humiliating. You feel heat creep up your neck. He just swept. He just explained everything. He’s probably regretting letting you touch anything at all.

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

Megumi’s expression flickers, just once, and then smooths out, schooled into impassivity. He clicks his tongue softly, and the sound feels like a pinprick, sharp and small but somehow cutting.

“It’s fine,” he says evenly, already moving toward the spill. “Don’t worry.”

But then, almost like he’s trying to lighten the tension, maybe to cut through the absolute mortification that’s written all over your face, he adds dryly, “Only a minor catastrophe.”

It’s clearly a joke. A weak one, yes, but an effort. Something not cruel.

But you can’t even register the attempt. Your mind is buzzing too loud, a storm of panicked thoughts crashing over you—you screwed up, you ruined the clean floor, now he’ll think you’re careless, maybe even Utahime will find out, maybe they’ll decide you’re not worth training—

Your hands begin to tremble slightly as you set the bag of beans down carefully like it might break.

“I’m sorry,” you say softly, voice caught in your throat. “I didn’t… I’ll clean it up. I didn’t mean—”

Megumi straightens with a slight tilt of his head, his gaze finally settling on you, not frustrated, not annoyed. Just observant. Quietly so.

“It’s not a big deal,” he says again, his voice firmer now. He crouches beside the counter, already collecting the scattered beans with both hands. “Seriously.”

You swallow thickly and kneel down beside him to help, the beans clicking softly against the floor as you begin gathering them into your palm. You risk a glance sideways. Megumi is scooping beans into a nearby dustpan with steady hands. His jaw is relaxed now, the earlier frown gone. Not once does he sigh or complain.

Maybe this isn’t a disaster. Maybe it’s just part of the job. Still, your heart’s beating a little too fast, and your breath comes a little too shallow.

Still, your heart’s beating a little too fast, and your breath comes a little too shallow.

Megumi doesn’t look at you like you’re a burden. He doesn’t sigh or scold you. He doesn’t make you feel like you ruined anything, not truly. He just picks up the beans with calm hands, his movements quiet and measured, and even offers you the dustpan when you fumble with your own. There’s no edge to him, no frustration bleeding through. He’s just… helping.

And yet, you begin to feel like shit.

Minor catastrophe. The words clang in your mind like metal on metal.

It was a joke. You know that. The same way you know Maki would’ve cackled and slapped your shoulder, or Yuji would’ve knelt down beside you and called you “Bean Queen” for the rest of the week. It was meant to soften the moment. It was Megumi’s version of cutting you some slack.

But your brain latches on anyway.

Because your hands slipped. Because he just swept. Because you want to be good at this, efficient, focused, and reliable. You want to be the person others don’t have to pick up after. But here you are, on your knees, gathering beans like a clumsy kid on their first day.

By the time the counter is spotless again and the grinder refilled, properly this time, you can barely look him in the eye. He says nothing about it, and that silence is almost worse than if he had. You’re too inside your own head to say much more than a muted “thanks” when he hands you the last scoop.

Megumi rises, dusts off his apron, and gestures toward the register. “I’ll show you how to close it out.”

You nod, your voice swallowed in your throat.

He takes you through the process with the same focused clarity as earlier in the day. He points at the numbers on the slip, where to enter them on the form. Shows you the drawer's locking mechanism, and how to print the final report. You do it step by step, your fingers mechanical, your brain fogged with the residual shame of messing up something so basic.

When it’s time to put the cash away, Megumi walks you to the back office, unlocks the small gray safe tucked beneath a cabinet, and steps aside so you can store the bills and coins yourself. It’s a gesture of trust, and you feel it. But still your chest stays tight.

You don’t say much. Just nod again, biting the inside of your cheek to keep your expression neutral, your shoulders slightly hunched as you lock the safe and hand the key back to him.

You’re quiet now. Not sulking, just retreating.

And Megumi notices.

He doesn’t say anything, but he watches you. The slight draw in your shoulders. The dimmer light in your eyes. The silence that suddenly feels less peaceful and more protective.

But then Megumi moves toward the changing room without a word, the hem of his black apron fluttering lightly with his steps, quiet and deliberate. The back office falls into a hush, only the soft thrum of rain outside and the gentle hum of the refrigerator filling the air now.

You let out a long, barely audible exhale and begin untying your apron. The knot behind your back slips loose too easily, like everything today. You fold the soft black fabric, slower than necessary, eyes downcast, lashes lowered to hide the heavy look building behind them.

You keep your head bowed as you slide your phone from your back pocket and wake the screen.

The brightness almost stings your eyes after so long.

The group chat with your friends is on fire—photos, voice messages, excited rambling. Mina had apparently gone to some pop-up shop in Sendai and is now flooding the chat with overpriced accessories and a blurry video of someone who might be a minor YouTuber. Normally, you’d smile at their chaotic banter. Maybe send a voice message back.

But not right now.

Not with your heart still pressing painfully against your ribs.

Your eyes drift to a single message from Yuji, time-stamped half an hour ago.

“sry 🥲 gojo left the damn windows open at the gym n we’re drying the floor still… can’t make it to the café”

You stare at the words for a long beat, thumb hovering.

You bite your lip hard, the cherry gloss now all but gone, replaced by the faint taste of bitterness. Normally, this wouldn’t faze you. Wouldn’t. You’d understand, hell, you do understand. Yuji's always running around, always doing five things at once. You’d just shrug it off, maybe toss him a teasing “you owe me” later.

But today?

Today, you bite back the sting rising behind your eyes.

You’d looked forward to his familiar smile, the dumb jokes that never fail to make you laugh even when they shouldn’t, the comfortable warmth of his voice on the walk back. You wanted to talk about your first shift, even the stupid coffee bean spill. You wanted to share that moment with someone who would laugh and say it wasn’t a big deal.

But he won’t be there.

Your throat tightens. You blink up at the ceiling, your vision blurring just a little. You press your lips together and tilt your head back slightly, swallowing past the ache.

The sound of the changing room door creaking open again pulls you back down into the room. You turn quickly, tucking your phone into your coat pocket, willing yourself to look composed again.

Megumi steps out, dressed in plain black jeans and a dark gray hoodie now, damp from the humidity in the air. His hair is still slightly tousled from when he’d raked a hand through it. His eyes meet yours briefly, and then shift away, polite but unreadable.

You give a small, forced smile that barely lifts your mouth. He doesn’t call you out for it.

Instead, he picks up his umbrella from beside the door and reaches for the café lights.

“Ready?” he asks simply.

You nod, and your voice, when it finally comes, is barely above a whisper. “Yeah.”

The quiet jingle of the café door chimes softly one last time as you and Megumi step outside, the humid breath of early evening air curling around your faces. The storm has passed, at least most of it. Now, a light drizzle dusts the pavement, faint and rhythmic, like the last murmurs of a conversation that had gone on too long.

Behind you, Megumi locks the door with two sharp clicks, testing the handle before slipping the key into his coat pocket. You glance down as your black Onitsuka sneakers squeak against the damp concrete, the sound embarrassingly loud in the hush of the nearly deserted street. You wince at it.

You reach up and pull out the tie holding your hair in its low bun. The strands, slightly damp from the thick air, fall heavily over your shoulders. You run your fingers through it absently, trying to shake out the stiffness, the tension that’s been coiled there since the moment the beans spilled across the café floor.

Megumi adjusts the straps of his black backpack, his shoulders shifting under the weight. For a second, just one, his gaze flickers across your face. You feel it. That brief, flickering pause. Like he’s about to speak.

His mouth twitches, uncertain, and he looks like he wants to say something. You can see it in the crease between his brows, in the way his fingers twitch slightly at his side. Maybe to tell you that the spill wasn’t a big deal. That you did okay, more than okay, for a first shift. Maybe even to ask if you were alright.

But then, as quickly as it came, the softness vanishes from his face. His posture straightens like a line drawn in ink. His jaw tenses, and he runs a hand through his unruly hair, pushing it back in one sweeping, habitual motion.

“Thanks for your work today,” he says, voice flat but not unkind. “Maybe I’ll see you around. If Utahime hires you.”

You open your mouth, words catching behind your teeth—that’s it?—but you never get to say them.

Because he’s already turning. No wave. No glance back.

His steps are quick and measured as he walks down the street toward the subway station, the hood of his jacket pulled up against the drizzle. He doesn’t ask which direction you’re headed, doesn’t even pause to check.

Your teeth grind together so hard your jaw aches. And then, finally, the dam breaks.

The tears spill hot and fast, stinging as they mix with the fine rain on your cheeks. You don’t sob. Don’t shake. Just… leak, like something cracked and no one cared to fix it. The kind of tears that slip past your defenses quietly, unseen but relentless.

You wipe at your face roughly, but it’s no use. Your throat closes tight, and the sting of disappointment burns behind your ribs.

You had done your best. You tried. But all you feel is foolish. Invisible.

Alone, again. And in the soft hiss of rain and the quiet rumble of a passing train in the distance, you wonder, not for the first time, if this new beginning might end the same way all the others have: with a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes, and a silence you don’t know how to fill.

#jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen x reader #megumi x reader #megumi x you #megumi x y/n #megumi fushiguro #jjk megumi #jujutsu kaisen megumi #jjk x reader #jjk fanfic #jjk angst

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chocochiffonnn · 8 hours ago

Note

ok now hear me out!! going off of the whole jakes a rope bunny (no one's surprised) thing, how would hyung line react to you trying tying them up😇

i definitely find this interesting cuz i feel like theyd ALL react differently to being tied up for

but just for reference, and for visual representation, here y’all go😽

warnings: SUGGESTIVE content, different scenarios that do not align with one another lol, cursing, mentions of sex and fucking, some rather dirty stuff

LEE HEESEUNG

Lee Heeseung would more or less be enjoying the idea of being tied up, even treating it as a game. He feeds into the idea of playfulness.

In his defense, he just knows you couldn’t get hold him, even if his wrists are all cuffed up, even if his limbs are all tied together. He takes pride in the fact that he can and will take control.

Maybe he’d even laugh. He’ll find the absolute joy in seeing you try.

Imagine this now— Lee Heeseung as a cop and you as his partner. Correction— former partner. There was no question about it, the evidence as clear as day. You betrayed him.

There was this stillness lingering in the air, in the far corner of the police station. You made no grand entrances, simply revealed your truest identity in front of him in the middle of the night. Bare. Raw. With no one else around.

“I always knew you were trouble.”

He huffs, shifting slightly in the way you positioned him uncoomfortably so. His head was on the desk, he leaned forward, hands behind his back as the cuffed restrained him there.

His tone was cool, lax and laid back. “You do like to strut your heels with so much sound, you know? Irks me a little.”

You frown, pressing your leg which situated at his lower back, tightening the grip on his head. “Stop treating this as some sort of game, officer.” you seethe.

“Oh? No more Heeseung now? I must admit, I’m a little hurt.”

Sarcastically, you rolled your eyes and fixed your position. You pulled Heeseung’s weight, pushing him down to sit at his own chair. There was this loud thud, followed by a gentle chuckle from Heeseung. This was damn insufferable. Years of working with a senior officer, only end up going behind his back and working against his principles was a damn pain.

You didn’t want to get attached, but your weight pressing against him was enough of an indication already— you were fighting your own urge.

And Heeseung?

He didn’t have to fight much, really. He knew this would happen, knew that one way or another you’d turn your back on him like usual.

There was this odd sense of playfulness in his stomach. Out of all the murders and crimes he’d play justice for— nothing felt more thrilling and dangerous than this. Your leg pressed against his abdomen, both hands trapping him against the arm rest.

Then?

He smiled. Oh he fucking smiled.

“This is so fun.” he whispered, keeping his gaze still at your face which faltered the tiniest bit. “You don’t have to be doing all this, you know? I can take you just fine without these cuffs.”

“Shut the fuck up.” You seethed.

“Why? Cat got your tongue?”

“I’ll be the one to cut your tongue if you don’t shut it.”

Heeseung chuckled, licking his lips. His bangs fell to his left eye, the other gazing at you intensely. This was like a game of cat and mouse. It was all so damn fun.

“You can cut it, do anything you want.” Heeseung’s chest flexed slightly inside his tight uniform. His fucking words always made you feel on fire. So risky, and feral all at the same time.

“Do anything you want with me, I don’t mind.”

He sighs, getting comfortable on the chair. He knows he’d have to be here for hours, might as well feel at home.

“I’d like to see you try.”

PARK JONGSEONG

At first, Jay would be the type of man to be confused. He’d most definitely be someone to question your actions, but go with it regardless because if it’s something you’d want to do, he’ll let you do it.

He’s an act of service type of guy. You want to tie him up? Sure. You want to be on top? Go ahead. As long as it’s something you enjoyed— he didn’t mind. But he questioned a lot. He was someone curious, stood his ground when he believed necessary.

He doesn’t let you take all control, but he lets you have fun, too. Someone who strives for perfection when it comes to himself, but when it comes to you, sloppy or messy— he doesn’t really mind. He does love to correct on it, though.

Picture this, you laying on top of Park Jongseong’s lap. It was a lazy Sunday afternoon, and you had nothing much to do but keep him company in his apartment. You’d been scrolling on your phone for hours now, seeing a certain video appear on your feed—

Jay’s waist lay comfortably on your lower back, occasionally drifting down there to caress. “Can I try something?”

You look up from your phone.

Jay’s brow quirked, “what is it?”

Then, with a straightforward response, you answered, “can I tie you up?”

“What?” His response was in absolute disbelief, chuckling at the thought. You showed him the video clip you saw, of a woman tying his partner up for… God knows whatever what reasons.

Jongseong’s eyes were focused, intent on analyzing the video. Then, he says, “sure, go ahead.”

“What?”

He shrugged. “Tie me up, baby. I don’t mind.”

“You’re agreeing that easily?”

This time, it was your turn to be in sudden disbelief. “It’s just for fun, right? Go ahead.”

Jay’s fingers threaded through the waistband of your useless shorts. He smiled, tilting his head to the side and waiting for you. “I- I’ll just get a rope or something then.”

He nods, you get yourself off of him only to stumble just a little bit. Jay had always been someone so particular, but it was never hard to get him to agree to do something. When it came to this though? It was a surprise.

You came back with a piece of rope, from god knows where. Jay was simply looking at you with pure amusement in his eyes, maybe a little teasing, too. “You sure you want to do this baby?”

You nodded. “I kind of just want to try…”

Then you straddled Jay with your legs on either side of his hips, he takes it upon himself to place his wrists near you, “let’s see how well you can do, then?”

Something about his words felt oddly condescending, but you know he wasn’t like that. He’s always been competitive, maybe he was trying to tell you to beat him at his own game.

But your fingers fumbled, your hands felt a little clammy as they tried to keep his wrists together. It wasn’t even anything sexual, but in the back of your mind, tying Park Jongseong up like this was sexual in every way.

The nervousness in your face was painfully obvious, Jay chuckled, reaching up to peck you on the cheek. “Tie it together, and…”

His calloused hands reach towards yours, placing them on the small rope. You did your best, you really did. But with the way he instructs you so carefully and gently made you want to lose your damn mind.

You wish he wasn’t so gentle with you, god.

“See? Now, what do you want us to do with this?”

His wrists are intertwined, the rope as clear as day. You blushed a little, shifting beneath his chest. But Jay’s eyes went wide, swiftly clamping his tied hands to yours and whispering, “don’t move.”

“What?”

And you felt it. Something poking down there.

“Shit,” he cursed, wincing a little.

“You got me into a bit of a sticky situation baby. You oughtta help me with this.”

And you know that by the end of this session— he’ll have you on top or beneath him.

Who knows?

PARK SUNGHOON

Sunghoon would act nonchalant over it at first. Let’s be honest here, it’d get him anticipated but he tries to hide it as best as possible. Intrigued and curious, hidden beneath unfazed words and expressions. But in the long run, perhaps he’d be the one to suggest it again to you.

He’s shy about it, yes. But he tries not to show it.

Imagine this— you and Park Sunghoon are models for a brand magazine. Cameras shuttered in every direction, the lights blinding you in every way possible. But you were trained to keep still, to act professional.

You’ve worked with him before. Park Sunghoon and his ridiculous undaunted posture, speech— everything. At first, you thought it was some sort facade, turns out he really barely reacts to everything.

When the director tells you to position one leg over his thigh, straddling him on one side, you almost lost your composure. “W-what?”

He takes it upon himself to let you straddle him, tightening his grip around your waist. “Like this.” he instructs.

“Then grab this.” a staff nears you, handing you a pair of a silky red ribbon, “one for his covering his eyes, the other for his arms.”

The staff does as what’s instructed, assisting Sunghoon’s arms so that it was in a cross position, the silky red tie wrapping around his wrists while the other covered his vision red.

This felt like a scene from an erotic movie.

“Hold his tied up arms with your right hand, the left hand on his shoulder. Also— tie it a little lighter, please.”

Your pupils went wide, fumbling with silk ribbon. You felt a little odd doing so, it’s like you were torturing him or something in all the wrong ways.

“Well?”

The man belows you whispered, tilting his head. “Go do what the director instructed you to do.”

“W-what—“

“Tighten it up.” Sunghoon mumbles— huskily so, gently tugging at your freezing wrist and guiding your hands. “I’ll stay still, don’t worry.”

So you do as your told, you adjust the ribbon a little tighter, but your position was beyond the boundaries of comfort, sitting on his muscular right thigh. He was ripped and shredded, it felt damn unfair.

“Yes, good, and turn your back, Y/N.” You do as your told, lifting your bottom up slightly. But Sunghoon was quick, snaking his connected wrists around youe head and down your waist, keeping you down on his thigh.

He mumbles, confidently— “he said to sit on my thigh.”

But the pink in his ears most definitely betrayed his confidence.

The camera clicks on a count of three, with your uncomfortable position on sitting on Sunghoons thighs, the other gripping his biceps. You feigned the fiercest pose you could muster— but this was simply too much.

“You good?”

Sunghoon mumbles, though he couldn’t see you, he could feel your subtle shift beneath him. “I should be the one asking you that..”

Sunghoon’s lips part a little, then it forms into a smile.

“Well, this is a little weird, but… I’m not saying I don’t like it.”

SIM JAEYUN

Sim Jaeyun would be the most expressive one out of all. We can go as far as saying he can pass as a switch. He doesn’t necessarily love being tied up, but the thought of you doing it to him will make him hard.

He whines. He begs. He pleads.

But not in a pathetic way. It’s an odd thing to imagine, but think of at as having sex with someone who’s needy, but still in his absolute right mind to control you.

He isn’t shy to show you what he has, what he’s been craving for all day. He loves to vocalize it– with the ‘yeah’s, and, ‘mmh’ all of that. He’s very showy, too. His drive for intercourse goes beyond belief.

Imagine this, you attending one of the school’s frat parties. The music was booming, loud, noisy. The smell of alcohol and sex present in the room.

In the back of your mind, you almost wish you hadn’t stepped foot into the small circle forming at one room.

“Truth or dare, Y/N?”

A blockmate asks, keeping her gaze as she awaits your answer. You felt the people in the very same circle look at you with much anticipation, but not quite as intense as one certain gaze a couple of steps ahead of you.

There was no doubt about it.

From the corner of your eyes, you can even see him wet his lips with his tongue as his grin turned into a smirk.

God, he was enjoying this.

“Dare.” you say loudly, your mouth betraying you. The person who’d asked you knew and felt it. The glances. The signals.

Eventually, she says, “I dare you to tie Sim Jaeyun up.”

There was a chorus of cheers from the audience, the voices even overlapping the sound music. You knew it woud come to this. The moment where you’ll be punished for simply looking at him for far too long.

Standing your ground, you made your way towards him, the huge lump on your throat getting bigger. The person who dared you hands you a handkerchief with a mysterious grin. The banters, the arguments, yet the not subtle looks since the night started had already been noticed by everyone in the room.

Fortunately for you, it seemed Sim Jaeyun didn’t seem to mind. He watched as you kneeled in front of him. “Turn around.”

His brow rose. “Pretty demanding?”

But he does as told, spinning around and putting his hands behind his back. There was this tension, from you, from him— from everyone. You didn’t take too long in tying his adorned wrists together. You couldn’t get comfortable, not yet.

Not when the very same person adds, “and I dare you to sit on Sim Jaeyun’s lap the duration of the game.”

You looked at the person who spoke, “you can’t do two dares—“

“Sit on my lap.”

“What?”

Your head turns to Jake now, “you heard her,” Jake says, clicking his head towards the criminal of such words. “That’s not how the game works—“

“In case you haven’t been noticing, nobody’s been following the rules for a while now, princess.” he says, low, rough.

“Don’t call me that.” You seethed, rolling your eyes. Jake feigns amusement, eyes travelling from yours, to his lap and back to you. You had to follow the person who’d dared you, given the consequence was to take not one, not two, but three whole shots of fucking vodka.

And you seriously did not want to get drunk tonight.

So you do as told, inching ever so closely to Jake who was way too amused and entertained for his own good. His legs were crossed, you sat in the middle, your lower back pressing against his leather jacket.

God, you can smell Jake’s scent all over.

A mix of something musky, vodka, and… Some other perfume you couldn’t quite name.

The game goes on like normal, the whole hype of your dare dying down just a bit. But the tension lies not within the game, but here between you and Jake. Somehow, he felt all the more intoxicating.

You hear a slight ruffle from behind, assuming it was him attempting to move from his tied wrists. Then, a sudden weight pressed on top of your shoulder, followed by something warm and oddly sticky on the nape of your neck.

“Mmh. I wish I could get these off of me right now, princess.” he mumbles.

“J-Jake, stop that… People will see.”

“Yeah? Let them.” He grins, biting down on the small mole situated at your neck. “You should tie me up more often.”

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