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mrpenguinpants · 3 months ago

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Sakura, did they...set off your romance sensor?

— "Oh, listen, this boy here…whenever he senses anything romantic…he goes beet red in the face!!" - Tasuku Tsubakino (Ch.66)

— Hayato Suo, Hajime Umemiya, Jo Togame

[Masterlist]

Wow, my windbreaker brain rot has shot me into a whole new timeline where I can sit down and write. Not gonna lie, not my favorite but it is what it is. I've beat my first fic for a fandom nerves.

Hajime Umemiya

When Umemiya had called a rooftop meeting, Sakura had been through them enough to know what to expect. Umemiya would either show up late or be completely off-topic until someone, mostly Hiragi, stepped in to direct the meeting to its actual purpose. Most of the time, the distractions would be on his plants or his giddy plans of having another barbeque with everyone. It used to be annoying, Sakura once believed the reason why Umemiya was so unserious was because he didn't care. But he knows better now than to take that carefree smile on the surface level. Deep down, Umemiya is a great leader who knows when it's time to get serious.

But this...

Sakura's cheeks are already turning pink.

This is a bit too much for him. He hasn't leveled up enough for this.

"The Three Sisters is a method of gardening that involves planting corn, beans, and squash together. The corn provides support for the beans and squash, the beans add nitrogen to the soil, and the squash's sprawling vines create shade and discourage pests too. It's really quite fascinating, don't you think so Ume?" you ask, lightly petting the leaves of his most recent tomato plant sprout. Your eyes downcasted as you thumb away bits of dirt that happened to be blown by the wind onto the greenery. Perhaps it's because you're one of the few people who entertain Umemiya's rapid obsession with his garden, even going out of your way to tell him facts to better his plot and compliment him on his efforts. Heck, Sakura has seen Umemiya crying because Nirei has told him that his saplings look bigger each time. While Sakura does not doubt that those feelings and expressions were genuine, the look Umemiya is giving you, a look you're not even seeing, feels different. Umemiya himself is different.

"Yeah..." Umemiya responds in a soft tone, his voice almost a whisper. Their usually talkative leader who won't shut up for half a second, who talks over people, is currently so distracted that it's kind of embarrassing watching him. He's been staring at you, eyes zeroing in on your fingers as they brush against the leaves, almost entranced by the sight. Sakura would give anything to leave right now, this second-hand embarrassment is too much. Luckily, Umemiya finally seems to register that you and he aren't alone despite the fact he was the one who called the meeting in the first place. His head perks up confused, hands on top of his knees, as he's greeted with varying expressions from his grade captains. Hiragi in particular looks like he's having both a stomach ache and the urge to slap the back of Umemiya's head. The urge is only partially restrained when you also look up, sending them all a little wave. Hiragi isn't going to slug Umemiya if you're there to see it, it's the pride of a man to not get beaten up in front of his crush.

"Oh shoot, you're all here already? Why didn't you say anything?" Umemiya whines, standing up while dusting his pants free of any lingering dirt. He extends a hand to you, not before rubbing his palm furiously on the back of his shirt, to help you up, "I'll see you later?"

"Mm, sure. Good luck with your new sprouts. Remember to remove the bottom leaves once the plants are over 3 feet tall. I'll be upset if they develop fungus issues," you pat Umemiya's cheek gently, ignoring the way that Umemiya completely melts openly at the gesture. You turn to nod at the rest of them, offering another wave goodbye, as you pass them to exit the rooftop. The resounding sound of the door closing finally sets them back on track.

"We did," Hiragi speaks up as soon the vibrations in the air fizzle out with an exasperated expression, referring back to Umemiya's first question, "You were too busy staring. We've been here for almost ten minutes, you idiot."

"Sorry, sorry, my bad," Umemiya laughs easily, his hand rubbing the back of his neck. Although he's been clearly called out, Umemiya doesn't seem the slightest bit ruffled. Sure, he looks a little bashful but Sakura doubts that he'll tone it back much to the embarrassment of any onlooker. Maybe one day, he'll be able to look that happy with his own feelings on display.

A sudden clap has Sakura jolting back to reality, Umemiya's loud voice returning back to something familiar, "Now then, come sit! I prepared some snacks for us all to share."

Everyone else seems used to Umemiya's behavior and they easily follow him, completely disregarding your and Umemiya's interactions as if they never happened. Sakura doesn't really get it but if everyone else is unbothered, it'd be seriously uncool if he said anything. He lets out a sigh, whatever. It's none of his business anyway.

"Sakura, why are you blushing?" Nirei, the bastard, pipes up behind him. Suo, the even worst bastard, laughs behind his hand like he's some rich Victorian lady.

"Huh, no I- I'm not." Sakura's cheeks went from pink to red, now that he's been caught. He looks away, avoiding eye contact, "S-Shut the hell up!"

Hayato Suo

"Mr. Customer, if you're dissatisfied with our menu, you're more than welcome to leave."

Sakura blinks, head jerking up as he crosses the threshold of Café Pothos. Initially, he assumed those words were directed at him even though it wouldn't make sense. He quite likes the menu despite only ordering the same thing each time. But no, when Sakura looks up it's to a rather unexpected sight. Suo sits at the bar counter, back ram-rod straight and his hands folded in his lap, with that ever-pleasant smile on his lips. Across from him stands a worker Sakura has never seen before. He always assumed that Kotoha was the only employee, but today seems to be full of surprises. A green apron with white ties, sleeves rolled up to the elbow, and hands fisted against the hips.

"The bakery across the street would love to hear your complaints, Mr. Customer."

---

There is something about the new worker and Suo that keeps Sakura glancing back at them after he's sat himself in a secluded corner. Perhaps it's because it's a new face he has yet to meet at a place he frequents so often. It's normal to be curious right? Or maybe it's Suo being here alone. He's never seen the man "out in the wild" before. They aren't even looking at him, Suo hadn't even looked up when he first opened the door although Sakura is sure that Suo is aware of him. He's creepy like that. The new worker, however, whips an annoyed glance at Suo before letting out an irritated huff, arms crossing over the green apron, and glaring down at Suo’s smiling face. A face that would remain ever-pleasant in any given situation.

Regardless...

"Is this your version of service? It must be hard on the customer," Suo chuckles, a slight tilt of his head that bounces his tassel earring. Suo's laugh, however, causes Sakura to feel a hint of surprise. It's not a laugh he expects the man to give, yet at the same time, it suits him.

"That's because you're a terrible customer and a pain in the ass." The worker sneers, leaning in so the two of them are face to face.

Suo seems to be difficult for anyone to handle.

"It's busy today," Kotoha says, appearing out of thin air and scaring Sakura half to death. A plate of steaming omurice slides in front of him because he really does only order one thing here. It's not a great conversation starter, but it's nice of her to break the odd tension that has settled over the cafe. Kotoha is also looking to the side, watching the scene of her co-worker and Suo bickering and arguing. Passive aggressive comments are being flown out, scathing remarks padded with polite voices, so much so that the two of you don't seem to register anyone else around. Completely wrapped up in your world of irritation versus amusement.

"What…are they even arguing about?" Sakura chances to ask, his eyes still glued to the curve of Suo's smile, red eye focused solely on you. His hand idly reaches for his spoon, scooping up a bit of rice and egg, yet it hovers in the air ideally. Suo has his head tilted and is leaning somewhat in the worker's space. His eyes don't stray, watching each shift in facial expression carefully to gauge whether his words are having their intended effect. He looks like he's having way too much fun.

"Oh, that." Kotoha giggles, placing her palm on the table. She too looks like she's having way too much fun, "They always go back and forth like that. It's like a game of cat and mouse with those two. They're both stubborn as hell so it's a constant power struggle between them. Although, I wonder what they're arguing about this time. They always bicker at each other when we change shifts."

Kotoha shakes her head, a fond smile on her face. She glances briefly at Sakura before her eyes drift back to the other two. She raises her hand, finally cutting the bubble between you and Suo.

"Hey, I'm back from break. Thanks for covering for me," she calls, waving her hand in the air. The frown that was permanently on your face melts away when you break eye contact with Suo, returning to a more neutral blank look. You only nod to Kotoha, flashing up a thumbs-up, and you move to head back to the kitchen. But not before sticking your tongue out at Suo over your shoulder as you disappear through the doorway. Sakura blinked surprised, he had somewhat expected a different reaction than something so...tame. His eyes drift to Suo and he can feel his cheeks heat up.

He doesn't think he's seen Suo look happier.

Jo Togame

"See, you peel off the seal on the cap. Remove the ring from the little plastic piece you use to push the marble. Then, with your thumb, press down, and poof, the marble drops and you can enjoy!" you grin as you move slowly for Sakura to see your hands with each instruction. The fizz of carbonation and the clink of the marble hitting the glass amplified louder in the abandoned auditorium. A few other shishitoren members are loitering, but only you and Sakura are sitting up on the edge of the stage. After the embarrassment of not knowing how to open the ramune Togame had given him, he sought you out to explain it to him. Sakura didn't think he could stomach it if he went back to Togame again for help. He follows your movement, his fingers removing the thin seal. Popping the ring off the marble pusher, and with his thumb, pushes on the marble. His thumb slips a few times, but you're patient as you coax him to try again. With his third attempt, he feels the marble give, the rewarding sound of bubbles popping.

"Thanks..." Sakura mumbles, a faint blush on his cheeks as you cheer your ramune's together as you take a swig.

"No problem," you say nonchalantly, leaning your weight back on your arms. With the bottle held in your hand, you watch Sakura, who is intently staring at the drink on his own. The silence between you isn't exactly uncomfortable, but you can sense the slight embarrassment oozing off him. "Soooo... how's it taste?"

He gives a soft hum before taking a small sip, the fizzy liquid leaving a tingling sensation on his tongue. It's not as sweet as he thought it’d be. It's rather subtle for a soda. He takes a longer sip this time, the fizz tickling his nose and bubbles popping against his lip. Looking at you sidelong, he can see you already staring at him excitedly. You weren't kidding when you said you were a big fan of this.

"It's sweet, I guess," his voice soft as he shrugs. A few strands of his white hair fell in front of his face. His eyes glance up at you as you stare at him intently, waiting for him to continue. He awkwardly bites the inside of his cheek. It still feels weird having people who actually want to hear his opinion, even if it's as small as a drink. "A bit strange… The flavor is nice, but the fizz is new."

He takes another sip, careful with the angle he tilts the bottle lest the marble block the opening. He doesn't really understand the appeal of the marble. It's a nuisance. The fizz was the best part of the soda, but the clinking made it impossible to drink it quietly. Besides, he holds the ramune bottle out, how the hell do you even get it out? Does he need to throw it against a wall to break the bottle? He doesn't want to get broken glass everywhere since someone could accidentally step on it.

"Is the marble irritating you?" you ask, laughing quietly under your breath to not set Sakura off into another tomato-faced explosion.

"No!" he answers with a quick hiss, cheeks flushing. He can feel you stare at him as a smirk dances across your lips. He can already envision the teasing you’re concocting to make him react. He gives another soft huff, refusing to look at you, as he fidgets with the bottle. He doesn't want to ask you to help again. He already feels like a helpless idiot. Instead of commenting, you swing yourself upwards, planting your hand on your knee. The other hand, wrapped around the bottle, moves to your lips as you down the rest of your drink. The fizz of bubbles pops in the air while Sakura looks at you bewildered. Weren't you supposed to drink carbonated drinks slowly or you'll stomach hurt? Did you become immune or something from drinking so many?

"Come on, let's go. I still haven't finished my ramune 101 class," you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, winking over your shoulder which sends Sakura into another pink mess, as you slide off the stage.

"W- What do you mean we’re not done?" he stammers quickly, flustered as he scrambles up to follow you. He feels a bit dizzy from going from a sitting position to standing too quickly. He grips the bottle in his hand and takes a few quick steps to catch up to you as you stride to the doors leading outside the auditorium. You laugh again when he rushes to catch up. His quick reaction time betrays his small stature. It's kinda cute.

"It means I'm gonna teach you how to get the damn marble out, genius" you tease, shoving his shoulder as you reach the doors. Opening them, the two of you were met with the cool outside air. It's refreshing after being indoors for so long and the auditorium has gotten you both hot and stuffy. Hence the initial ramune drinks. You quickly take his hand, ignoring the screams, as you drag Sakura to the side of the building. "Togame! Are you sleeping still?"

"Huh?" a tired voice answers groggily from the other side of the wall. Togame is sitting on the ground next to the wall with his back against the auditorium. He has his legs stretched out, his head leaning back on the wall, rubbing his eyes to clear the ever-constant droop in his eyes. He looks as if he is napping before being rudely interrupted, "I was..."

"Oops. Hehe, sorry," you chuckle, hands raised up in a mock surrender although you don't particularly look apologetic. To be fair, Togame doesn't look upset either. Only gives you and Sakura a sleepy smile and nods as he raises his arm high to stretch. His green eyes drifted to the bottles of ramune in your hands with a curious tilt of the chin. In response, you beam at him, rattling the marble inside the glass bottle before handing it to him. "Please, if you could."

Togame snorts as he takes the bottle. There's a hint of playfulness in his tired eyes as he shakes the bottle a few times, letting the marble inside thump against the glass. It's funny watching the marble rattle around. It reminds him of a little toy marble maze he had as a child. He flicks his gaze to look at Sakura, who stands off to the side stiffly. The poor kid looks ready to bolt at any second when given an opening. His own half-finished bottle lays limply in his hand, the marble reflecting off the sun's light.

"You know you just have to twist the cap in the opposite direction right?" he says, wrapping his fingers around the blue lid and twisting the cap off. Turning the bottle over, he catches the marble from the opening into the palm of his hand. He extends his hand, sliding the marble into your waiting ones. "I know you're strong enough to do that."

"Yeah, but my hands get cramps and it's impossible to move it!"

"I don't think that's how that works...But if it really is too hard, you can keep coming to me."

Sakura stands by, feeling out of place as you go back and forth with Togame. Yet, he doesn't feel like an intruder this time, merely an observer. He looks down at his own bottle, hands moving to twist the cap off while making sure he doesn't spill the drink.

It's easy. It pops right off with barely any effort. Sakura has quite literally seen you throw a man double your size over your shoulder.

The marble reflects his face messily, but there's a shine of red glinting off the surface.

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skeltnwrites · 4 months ago

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The Shape of Family ‧₊˚❀༉

As a single dad, Steve’s world revolves around school drop-offs, bedtime rituals, and tee-ball practices—and he's struggling to keep up. But you're always there, happily lending a hand when he needs it most. / part one masterlist

part two - at the rec center's fall festival, you and steve finally make plans to hang out 11k

a/n - how did this end up twice as long as the first chapter this was supposed to be a short one!! general warnings/tags here

── .✦

Utah’s pretty this time of year. Fall is in full swing. The maple and cottonwood mellow into rich shades of orange, there is a constant crush of leaves underfoot, and the crisp scent of pine needles mingle with the breeze. Your neighbors go all out to decorate. Pumpkins are for sale on every corner and the apple orchards buzz with families for the harvest. This kind of weather has every brush of sunlight feeling like a hug you didn’t know you needed.

The rec center hosts an annual fall festival, bringing hayrides, corn mazes, and costume contests. And though you wouldn’t normally volunteer on a Sunday, Steve’s hard to say no to. It’s not like he begged you or anything, a half-shrug and simple “If you want to” was enough convincing.

You’d volunteer with or without Steve. You have the time and the goodwill and thus it’s a cork on the end of your monotonous work-week. But there’s no denying that Steve makes it a hell of a lot more enjoyable. He’s the sunrise after a long night, guiding you into the days ahead. And yeah, maybe you’re romanticizing too much. Too caught up in the way his tongue sticks out when he’s concentrating or how he mumbles to himself when he forgets you’re near. But working with him is delightful, nonetheless.

You and Steve are friends now. Well, work friends. You’ve never actually hung out outside of the rec center but there isn’t a Friday that one of you doesn’t mention it while you eat lunch in his office. You’ve learned trivial little things about him, like his favorite brand of pen, the store he buys his groceries from, and how he likes his coffee– hot enough to burn, with as much sugar as he can get away with without attracting strange looks. You ask about Penelope often and he’s very open; eager to rant and rave about the latest details of their lives. She visits every now and then, usually too sick or naughty to be at school. So you’ve come to know her just as much. That she loves Barbies and Salt-N-Pepa and insects but not the furry ones.

Being in each other’s lives is routine at this point– parking beside his car, leaving sticky notes on his desk, setting your bag in his office. It would be crazy to say you love him, you don’t, obviously, but you feel like you could. And you know you’d be devastated if he left the center. Your shift assignments are arranged so they almost always thread with his.

He’s always hated asking for help, but then you came, puttering into his office with a lovely smile and open arms and suddenly it’s not so bad. He’ll ask for your assistance on more projects than not: your advice, your creative eye, your hands to hang something that he most certainly could do alone.

Like now, you trail only a few paces behind Steve, cradling a wicker basket full of decorations. He billows a tablecloth over the nearest picnic table, considering your dispute over the best holiday.

“I dunno, I’m more of a Christmas guy,” Steve shrugs, smoothing out a ripple in the fabric. “The music is just inarguably better. You get to open presents and eat delicious food. Not really a contest in my book.”

You hum, centering a plastic pumpkin.

“Penelope is like the queen of Halloween, though.” The corners of his eyes crinkle with mirth. “This morning, she told me she wished she was born on Halloween so she could go trick-or-treating on her birthday.”

You wear a similar expression, gaze flicking over to Penelope. She’s not far, crouched in a strip of dirt, parting a pile of leaves to search for ladybugs and other creatures. “I bet she’s excited for all that candy.”

“That’s all she’d eat if I let her. I’ve already scheduled a dentist appointment for her in November– But, I’m just as bad, she gets her sweet tooth from me,” he admits.

“Figured. The amount of Reese's wrappers I find in your trash.”

He squeezes your shoulder playfully, not hard enough that you should need to squirm away but you do. “Whatever. Why are you going through my trash anyway, weirdo.”

You click your tongue, “I wasn’t going through your trash! They are on the top where anyone could see.”

“Mhmm, whatever you say… dumpster diver.”

Joan, the youth counselor, whisks over to interrupt with arms full of mason jars before you can retort. Steve smothers his smirk with an answer to her question. Your tongue prods the inside of your cheek to prevent your own.

It’s like this with Steve, now. Teasing and taunting each other like schoolchildren. A game of tug-of-war, where every knowing glance and light-hearted jab pulls the rope just a little tighter between you. It’s as thrilling as it is nerve-wracking.

It’s not much later when guests filter into the festival. The earliest glow of sunset mists the courtyard in gold. There’s cider stations and pumpkin carving and a whole bunch of apple bobbers fighting to win a pumpkin pie. Monster Mash bleeds from several speakers lining the trail to the tented area you find yourself in. People dance and laugh and drink. It’s a very successful event for the rec center.

Steve plops down on the bench across from you, Penelope at his hip. A silent, self-invitation he knows you won’t decline— you enjoy their company more than people-watching. He seems to find you no matter which way you drift, even through a sea of townsfolk.

A big scoop of chili is spooned from his paper bowl into a second. “Blow on it,” Steve reminds, planting it in front of Penelope.

She does blow on it, a spray of more spit than air that merits her a shoulder nudge to knock it off.

Penelope simpers over her steaming food as Steve offers you an apologetic look. Last you saw her, she was waving her way up the stairs to the costume contest. She’s since been bundled up– a tiara traded for a knit beanie and the gown from her dress-up bin crammed underneath a thick sweater and spilling out the hem.

The string lights bathe their faces in a white glow. It highlights the beauty mark on the slope of Penelope’s cheek, like a half of Steve’s pair in the same spot. It’s not often you get to just enjoy their company. No scrambling about deadlines or standards. It’s a calm you could get used to. But Steve’s always ten steps ahead, already plotting which crew needs the most tending to when he’s finished eating. He’s selfless like that. Your feet ache from running around, but Steve’s probably worse.

“Penelope, is that what you’re wearing on Halloween?” You ask.

Her chin presses into the neckline of her sweater. “No,” she recalls, mouth full of sauce. “I’m being Dorothy.”

Steve swipes a napkin across her lips before anything drips.

“From The Wizard of Oz?”

“Mhmm,” she grins, popping the spoon out of her mouth.

“Very cool. Did you get your costume yet?”

She nods, glancing at Steve, “Daddy made it.”

Steve’s in his own little world, slurping his belly full of warm food and basking in the second of peace he‘s been given. But he blinks back into reality at your questioning stare, leaning in to hear you over the boisterous laughs of nearby people.

You try to reel in your surprise, soften your features. “You made her costume?”

“Oh,” he waves a dismissive hand, “I just sewed a shirt to a dress. Nothing fancy.”

“Still– that’s really cool, Steve.”

He stirs his food, voice torn with guilt. “I dunno. It’s cheap.”

“Costumes are better homemade. The ones in the stores are tacky. I bet it looks amazing.”

Fragments of a smile find his lips, more a peace offering than a true one.

“I painted my shoes red and I put so much glitter on them so they sparkle,” Penelope adds cheerfully.

“You did?”

She nods, shining with pride.

“It’s been two weeks and I’m still finding glitter everywhere,” Steve comments, more amused than he lets on. He can’t be that mad when they’re little reminders of his favorite person in the world.

“Are you dressing up?” You ask him.

He huffs, side-eyeing Penelope. “Yes.”

A glint forms in her eyes, a sly little smirk beneath. “Daddy is going to be the lion because he’s hairy.”

You laugh and Penelope joins you because Steve has a funny pouty face.

He rolls his eyes. “Tell ‘em who’s your Toto?”

“Cinderella!”

“No way!” You match her level of excitement. “Does she have a costume?”

“No, but I have a basket for her to sit in.”

You coo, “I bet Cinderella will love that.”

Steve snorts because he knows you know Cinderella will in fact not love that.

Cinderella is supposedly the grumpiest animal he’s ever met. She was a quick, unfortunately painful, lesson on boundaries for Penelope– not to pet certain areas or animals as a whole. Steve described her as an old, scraggly thing with a temper flaring unpredictably from one moment to the next. He wasn’t a cat person to begin with, growing up in a house with no animals probably started his revulsion to having fur on his clothes; but at two and a half, Penelope begged to feed the stray on their porch and she just kept coming back.

Steve wanted a dog when he moved out, if anything at all; but in four years he’s learned more about sacrifice than any speech his parents tried to drill into his head. And Cinderella is practically Penelope’s best friend now. She sets aside birthday money for new cat toys– the crinkly ones are her favorite– and sneaks the cat through her bedroom window from time to time. She even cradles her like a baby, not without protest and the occasional scratch, of course, but Penelope knows the risk.

“I told her Cinderella probably won’t want to come trick or treating but she can still take a picture with her at home.”

“I told you she will want to go because there’s candy.”

“Yes, but I told you cats can’t have candy,” Steve jabs her side lightly.

Penelope only pouts. “That’s sad. I think she would like candy.”

“It is,” he agrees, slotting a rogue strand of hair behind her ear. “But it makes them sick, remember? So we can’t share with Cinderella.”

Her cheek melds with his sleeve, begrudgingly agreeing with a sigh. “Can I get my face painted?”

Steve traces her line of sight to the ring of kids swarming the face painter. It’s not far. He can see well enough to recognize most of the children. Many are younger than Penelope too.

But Steve hesitates, “Can you wait until I’m done eating? I’ll go with you.”

“Daddy,” she whines, pinching his arm hair. “You take forever.”

Penelope’s got magical little eyes. You don’t know how Steve ever says no.

“I can take her,” you offer, stacking trash on your plate. “I’m done anyway.”

“No, it’s okay.” He deflates with a sigh, curling into his ribs so he can see her face. “You can go by yourself–”

Her frown washes away just as fast as she peels herself off of his arm.

“But! You have to come straight back when you’re done and you have to stay where I can see you. ‘Kay?”

“‘Kay!” She beams, nearly tripping on her dress as she swings her legs over the bench and breaks into a run.

Steve can’t hide the wobble in his smile as hard as he tries to be strong. Most of the hardships he’s faced as a parent are foreign to you, but clearly, this isn’t easy for him.

“She’ll be fine,” you reassure with a ginger squeeze to his wrist. “We aren’t far if she needs something.”

He nods, still locked in on Penelope. “I know, I know. I’m trying really hard not to be a helicopter parent as she gets older. It sucks though, feeling like she doesn’t need me anymore.”

“Steve,” you deadpan, prying his attention back. “That’s… silly. You’re her dad, of course she still needs you. Maybe not all the time or as much but she’ll always need you.”

“I dunno. I feel like she grows an inch every time I turn around. I never thought I’d say this, but I actually miss when she was in diapers. She’s cute now, but God was she cute then.” He chuckles to himself, eyes swinging from Penelope to you and then back.

“I believe it,” you grin, admiring his girl. Her cheeks are red from the cold, like two tomatoes framing her lips. She might like to wear your jacket, you consider, but she’s so small, perhaps she’ll overheat from too many layers.

Penelope scrambles into the chair when it’s her turn, talking a mile a minute to the face painter. A funny wave of emotion roves over you. There’s affection and joy and and then something heavier and harder to describe.

“I’ll have to show you her baby pictures sometime.” You hear the parting of a true smile. “There’s this one– it was her first birthday– I gave her a whole cake and she just demolished it. Had it in her hair and her eyelashes and in between her toes. She was so damn happy.”

You exhale a happy hum, turning back to Steve. He’s propped on his elbows now, close enough to discern each eyelash from the next. It doesn’t startle you as much as it just scrapes the words right off your tongue.

He’s reading you, churning, and chasing the right words all in between the blink of an eye. “We should hang out, you know? Like actually– We always talk about it but…” He shakes his head, trailing off.

He’d let the words be carried with the wind if you wanted. It’s hard to imagine you’d say no, but people have surprised him in worse ways. Just when he thinks he knows someone, truly knows them, they cut him off like he’s no more than a dying branch. The ghosts of past someones and somethings still haunt him. It makes being so forward with you all the more difficult.

You wear a whimsical sort of grin that you hide behind the brush of your hand, fighting your own flood of emotions. “Yeah– I mean, yeah. When?”

Excitement flares across his features. “What are you doing on Halloween? You could come trick-or-treating with us?”

“Probably just home handing out candy– but Steve, I don’t want to intrude on Halloween. It sounds really special to Penelope.”

“You wouldn’t! No way, Penelope would be thrilled if you came. She talks about you a lot, you know?”

“No she doesn’t,” you grin madly into your palm, peering over to her. Her face is dressed in a bright shade of orange now. With her pudgy cheeks, she reminds you of a little pumpkin.

“She does! Swear it– on my life.” He’s not lying. He can’t hold your eyes when he lies, even about silly things.

You huff, feeling foolishly giddy. “I don’t have time to get a costume, Steve.”

“Nonsense. We can find you one. I’ll make it if I have to. The Tin Man and The Scarecrow are still up for grabs.”

You swallow, washing the sudden dryness from your throat. Why does Steve have to be so damn cute and sweet all at once? “I dunno. Would it be fine if I didn’t dress up?”

He chuckles dryly. “Penelope won’t have that, I can tell you that much. Plus if I’m going to be tortured into some itchy lion onesie I expect you’ll do the same.” He’s teasing, which is typical for you both, but it’s like you’ve forgotten how.

“Steve.”

“Come on. If not for me, for Penelope. She’ll love it.”

“Okay,” you settle. But you aren’t really settling. He could ask you to dress up on any other day of the year and you’d do it.

Penelope races over– a tabby cat with long whiskers and a pastel pink nose– yelling, “Daddy, look!”

Steve beams at her like he stuck a lightbulb in his mouth, somehow brighter than before. “I see! You look so pretty, princess.”

“I’m like Cinderella.”

“You are!” He pats her former seat beside him until she sits.

Her long lashes flutter questioningly.

“Nell, don’t you think we need, I dunno, like a Tinman or a Scarecrow to go with our costumes on Halloween?”

She tracks his gaze over to you, adopting your smirk. “Are you coming trick-or-treating with us?” Her voice is uneven and bubbly with anticipation.

“Do you want me to?” You ask genuinely.

Penelope’s tongue wriggles in her mouth like she can’t find the proper words to express what she feels. But she nods in this bashful way against Steve’s shoulder that surprises you.

“Are we being shy now?” Steve remarks, pulling her into his arms effortlessly to peck her hairline.

“No,” she whines against his sweater, overjoyed to be smothered in love. Dry paint creases with her scrunched face. It’s an adorable sight. You keep wishing you had a camera on you because this is the kind of thing Steve probably puts in his photo albums.

The moon climbs the sky quickly, draping the party in a silver veil. Many stay for the campfire and the promise of smores. But the later it gets, the crankier kids become for their parents. Penelope’s no exception, whining and clinging to Steve until he agrees to hold her. And he tries to work still, but his arms are starting to burn and stamping hayride tickets isn’t easy one-handed so he makes the hard choice to leave before cleanup.

He feels awful, apologizing to several of his coworkers on the way out but most are too drunk on cider or too high on festive cheer to care. Besides, he’s paid a salary, doing this out of the kindness of his heart. He has no obligation to be here– you’d reminded him of that multiple times. But the festival does feel empty when they leave, even with half the town still around.

ᯓ★

Steve lives in a quiet pocket outside of town on a curvy, secluded stretch of road. The directions he’d scrawled out on a receipt weren’t as useful as you’d hoped as one of the street names you were intended to turn on was smudged beyond legibility. But you made it, parked in front of a white house with a similarly white picket fence. Steve’s beamer is idled to your right. It’s strange seeing it somewhere that’s not the rec center. But it’s a familiar comfort between so much new.

There’s a tire swing knotted to the oak tree in the yard, a collection of painted rocks in the pebble-lined path up to the house, and two carved pumpkins set outside the door, caving in on themselves but not yet rotting. A lot of love is shared here.

Penelope answers the door when you knock. She’s half dressed– stockings hugging a pair of fleece leggings and a flowy pajama tank top. Her eyes outline your costume and light up with approval.

You sport a flannel and denim overalls stuffed with prickly straw straight from the local farm, courtesy of Steve. But Penelope ogles your face paint more than anything– a stitched grin and two circles for blush. You hope it’s not scary looking.

She doesn’t know how to let you inside– she’s not supposed to answer the door after all– so she hangs clumsily off the door handle until you ask, “Can I come in?”

“Yes,” she teeters out of the way, closing the door behind you with a sweeping grin— the mischievous kind that makes you wonder what she’s up to.

The foyer is situated between the living room and kitchen, both of which are missing Steve.

“Where’s your dad?”

“Umm. Cleaning?”

“Oh. Are you getting ready to go?”

“Yes, but I can’t find my shoes,” she makes a strangled face and shrugs with her entire wingspan.

“Do you want me to help you look?”

She nods, “I think they’re in my closet.”

Penelope sprints up the stairs easily, leaning over the railing at the top until you hesitantly follow. You hope he won’t mind. You were technically let in.

It reeks of chemicals upstairs. You stifle a cough and hope it’s Steve, not some science experiment in Penelope’s room. But you don’t worry long. The culprit swings around the corner, juggling several bottles of solutions and sprays. Steve would’ve barreled straight into you had you not thrust your arms out in defense, but still, all his things scatter across the floor.

“Christ, you scared me.” He kneels, tucking a roll of paper towels against his chest. “Nell, you can’t answer the door without me.”

“I looked in the window.”

You hand him a sanitizer and shimmy your hat back into place. It’s too big and far too floppy, sagging over your brows no matter how you situate it. Amusement draws his cheeks up as he realizes. You look ready to plop yourself in the middle of someone’s crops and he’s in a tee and jeans you might find him in any other day. His smiley-staring only makes you feel sillier.

“The straw’s really a nice touch, huh?” Steve teases, picking a sandy stem from your collar with his free hand. He’s got that smirk you so often find on Penelope’s lips.

You yank the strand from his grasp and poke the column of his throat with it. “I’m definitely more itchy than you’ll be.”

His fingers encase the entirety of your fist like a shell. They’re knobby and mannish, stout against your own. But there’s a tenderness to his hold as he eases your fist away. You don’t push back, though you contemplate it. He’s never touched you for so long; he’s basically holding your hand.

“Could’ve been the Tinman,” he says, releasing your fingers at your thigh.

You suck in, like fuel for a reply, and exhale a breathy, nervous laugh. “And paint my entire body gray? No thanks.”

He chuckles, eyes darting behind you. “Well, you look great. You like it, Nell?”

You’d almost forgotten she was there. She’s quiet as a mouse when she wants to be.

Penelope bobs her head behind you, patiently watching from the doorway to her room. “I have oh-ralls like that.”

“You do,” Steve confirms, fidgeting with the nozzle on the disinfectant bottle. It reminds you of the smell.

“You kill someone?”

He stiffens. “What?”

You flick the bottle of Windex, serious facade fading. “Smells like you’re trying to cover it up.”

“Oh! No,” his shoulders soften, “Just a little spring cleaning… in fall.”

You hum gaily. “I like your house.”

“You do?” His voice is light, buoyant with relief. “I can give you a tour. A proper one.”

“I would but I’ve promised a patient little lady I’d help her find her shoes first.”

Penelope beams when you glimpse at her. “I think they’re in my closet,” she shares with Steve.

“I think so too,” he says, eyeing past her. “What happened to cleaning?”

“I was but I had to find my costume first.”

“It’ll be easier to find when your room’s clean.” He sends you a look, “Don’t let her trick you into cleaning for her. She’s sneaky.” Steve whispers the last part, loud and teasing.

“I’m not sneaky!”

“Mhmm. I’ll go get ready and then come help you, Nell.”

“Then trick-or-treat?”

“Yes,” he starts down the stairs, “Yell if you need me.”

Penelope tows you into her room by the arm, unphased by the clinking of toys crammed behind the door. Anything in her way gets kicked or shoved aside without a second thought. It’s like her toy chest exploded, a kaleidoscope of pink and purple across the carpet. And no wonder it’s a mess; she starts chucking things out of her closet, adding to the pile spilling out like an avalanche—books, stuffed animals, barbie dolls, baby dolls, and so so many clothes.

You squeeze by a play tent, scanning the floor.

“They’re red and sparkly, ‘member?” Penelope calls from behind her closet doors.

You tip a beanbag over with your foot, “I remember.”

She babbles to herself as she looks, just like Steve does– little hums and scraps of thought that are hard to catch. It’s a funny thing, to see it translated from one human to another.

It doesn’t take long to find the shoes, wedged underneath her bed with numerous other things. You go prone against the floor to dig them out and hold them up by the straps. “These it, Pen?”

She gasps vibrantly. You wish you got up in time to see her face.

“How did you know they were under there!” She shrieks, snatching them from you.

“Just had a feeling,” you sit up properly, happily watching her slip the flats on.

She practically twinkles, clicking her heels together like Dorothy.

“They look stunning! You painted these?”

“Yes,” she skips over to her dresser, shuffling through drawer after drawer. Anything folded surely isn’t anymore.

“You’re a talented artist.”

“I know. Daddy says.” Penelope yanks out a blue line of fabric. “My dress is so pretty. I’m going to be the prettiest Dorothy for Halloween.”

“I know you will! You should give your dad a big hug for making such a pretty dress.”

She buckles into the costume as fast as she can, patting the skirt down with a satisfied grin when it’s on.

After several compliments and much debate, you’re able to convince her Dorothy would have a clean room. Penelope puts a few things away, but she’s easily distracted. And it’s hard to blame her with so many toys about. So you do most of the cleaning, but you’re happy to. It’ll make Steve happy– lest he finds out it was you– which makes you happy.

The floor’s mostly cleared when Penelope decides Steve’s taking too long; it’s time for your house tour, with or without him. And when he doesn’t answer her shout it’s decidedly without him. She shows you downstairs first– the living room, the kitchen, the half bath, her favorite hiding spot underneath the stairs. All the while she explains her very detailed and strategic trick-or-treating plan. Staying out until midnight is the priority, she doesn’t seem to care if it’s past her bedtime, and filling several bags with candy is also high on the list.

“And this is Daddy’s room.” She jerks the door knob several times before yelling, “Daddy!”

“What?” Steve calls, muffled.

“Let us in!”

“I can’t hear you– hold on!”

Steve unlocks the door donning the promised lion onesie and a pair of sneakers. It’s ridiculous how handsome he looks even with a stupid fur collar and tail.

“Cute,” is all you manage to say. He takes it as teasing, rolling his eyes, though you really mean it.

“Can you help me? I can’t get my whiskers right.” He taps the cap of an eyeliner pen against his cheek where he’s drawn two lines.

“Sure.” You take the stick and follow him through his room to the master ensuite.

“Wait!” Penelope shouts and waves vaguely at the room. “This is Daddy’s room.”

You pause to look it over, jovially commenting, “Wow! Very nice.”

And it is nice. There’s a rustic set of furniture striped in blue and green accents; paired well with the framed floral prints above his dresser. And the bed’s made, only slightly surprising, topped with a Care Bear’s quilt you assume is Penelope’s.

In the bathroom, Steve leans against the counter, arms braced behind him on the sink rim. You shuffle in front of his legs, skimming knees accidentally. He has no abhorrence for physical touch, you know that for certain. He’s touchy with not just you, but everyone in the office. An arm around the shoulder, a pat on the back, a gentle squeeze to the arm– he gives these out like candy on Halloween. But even so, touching him isn’t always easy. It’s vulnerable, runs the risk of rejection.

Steve smiles at you, ever-patient and encouraging when you stall awkwardly.

“Sorry,” you whisper. Talking any louder feels illegal when he’s so close. You cup his jaw and steady your opposite hand against his cheek, picturing the line how you want it.

But just when you press into his skin and flick the pen, Penelope slams a drawer shut, startling you enough to flinch. The ink slants all the way behind his ear like a jagged nail.

You gasp and recoil, “Shit.”

Penelope gasps twice as loud and Steve crumples into laughter, even more so when he turns to view the damage in the mirror.

“Oops,” you chuckle nervously, thumbing at the black streak. “This washes off right?”

“Yeah, don’t worry. I’ve redone it like four times.”

You douse your finger in water and work the pad across his happy cheek gently.

He’s watching you. You don’t see, just feel it in the fringe of your peripherals. It’s not like he has many places to look when you’re a hair’s breadth from his nose. But he might as well press a magnifying glass against your face, point out every pore and blemish and hair you're insecure about.

Your cheeks burn and the beginning prickles of sweat coat your upper lip. You brushed your teeth before you arrived, but how could you forget a mint? And what about an extra layer of deodorant? That wouldn’t have hurt. You glance at Steve anxiously and his eyes jump to Penelope. For once you’re grateful not to keep his attention.

Penelope digs through his cabinet on a quest to find nothing in particular.

You pull away to judge your first line as Steve opens his mouth. “Nell, go get your brush and hair ties.”

The top half of her face pops up over the cupboard door like a puppet. “But I want my hair down.”

“I still have to brush it. And I thought you wanted the bows?”

She considers his words– her prior words– brows pinching before she shrugs, “Okay.” The cabinet door thuds against its hinges as it claps shut, and not a second later, Steve’s bedroom door slams as Penelope charges out.

“You would not believe how often I tell this kid not to slam the doors,” he scoffs, though it’s devoid of any real anger.

You take his chin again, packing away a grin. You have to focus. “Don’t move,” you prompt.

He’s relaxed in your hold. Still as a stone, maybe apart from the slight tug of his lips when you resume drawing.

“Tickles,” he murmurs when you lift the nib.

You print another three to match the trio on his right. It’s not bad, but you wouldn’t say it’s good. The angles are skewed weird and one’s shorter than the rest. But if he wants them any better, you might not be the best person to ask.

“How’s that?” You draw back, searching for any smudges.

He spins, briefly inspecting his reflection before facing you again. “Perfect! Thank you!”

Perfect is definitely a stretch.

Steve’s a perfectionist. You’ve seen it innumerably in the office. How he’ll spend hours revising something only to ruminate on an insignificant detail after. And with Penelope, every parenting decision is subject to endless second-guessing, as if her health and happiness hinges on the smallest nuances.

But as much as he’s a perfectionist, Steve would never judge you in the same way he might himself. Your whiskers truly are perfect in his eyes, not for the shape or size, but because you drew them– wonky and all.

The ink warps around his smile. You study his face under the guise of checking your work. Steve’s a handsome guy. An inviting kind of handsome, with shallow laugh lines and the start of stubble stippled across his jaw.

“Wait,” you square his shoulders, brushing the nape of his neck to reach for his hood. The lion’s mane is laid gently over the top of his hair.

“Now it’s perfect.”

He smirks. “Sexy, huh?”

“Should leave this unzipped a little. The cougars will love that.”

Steve laughs, harder than you think you’ve ever heard him. It’s so contagious even Penelope joins your hysterics when she returns, though she hasn’t a clue what you’re laughing about.

“What’s so funny?” Penelope lurches into his legs with a handful of hair things.

“We just think my costume’s kinda silly. Here, baby.” Steve heaves her onto the counter and props her right in between the sinks.

Her dress pours over her crossed legs like a layered cake, baby blue and white gingham. Steve really did a great job with the stitching; you can’t even tell it was done by hand. And Penelope hasn’t complained about the fit once so it must be comfortable too.

“Face forward please,” Steve reminds gently for a third time when Penelope twists her neck to speak.

Penelope frowns at his reflection. “You’re pulling too tight.”

“Sorry. You have to stop moving though.”

There’s a mild curve to his lips. He’s not aggravated with her fidgeting, in fact, quite the opposite. Maybe because you’re around, he’s in too good of a mood to spoil with something as trivial as his daughter's hair. But regardless, it’s endearing as it is entertaining to care for Penelope. He loves being a dad, even when it’s frustrating. And you can see the love as he braids her hair– how he cards through knots from the ends up and slowly sections off pieces to tackle one at a time.

“I’m not moving.” Her chin droops as she scratches the polish from her nails.

Steve cups her jaw, steering it back up. “You are, monkey.”

“Monkey?” She chortles, seeking your gaze in the mirror to see if you also find the nickname funny.

“Yeah,” Steve murmurs, seizing the rubber band from between his teeth. “Monkeys move a lot.”

“Do they have tails?”

“Mhmm.”

“You have a tail 'cause you’re a lion.”

Steve hums and bends back, evaluating his performance. “There. You look so gorgeous, Penelope.”

And he really has done a great job, especially with all her wiggles. Steve takes a lot of pride in styling his hair– much of his confidence derives from it. And he tries to extend that care to Penelope; to teach her how gorgeous she is and that she deserves to be nurtured.

Penelope shakes her head disapprovingly. “I’m Dorothy now, Dad.”

“Oh, sorry.” Steve turns toward you instinctually, happy to catch your smile.

“You look very very pretty, Miss Dorothy,” you correct.

She slides off the counter, aided by Steve’s hand. “Can we go now?”

Penelope waits patiently in the foyer for Steve to gather everything needed to leave. This lasts for all of about ten minutes before Penelope is halfway out the front door, too excited to wait any longer.

“Wait, Nell!” Steve shouts from beside you in the kitchen.

You’re choosing snacks and filling water bottles. Steve doesn’t really need to pack a bag for Penelope anymore, she’s a year and a half past diapers, but he likes to feel prepared.

When Penelope doesn’t answer, he meets her on the porch to explain, “I’m almost done. And we still have to take pictures.”

“I don’t wanna. I’m ready to leave.”

“Well, we aren’t leaving until I get a picture of Dorothy.”

She sighs, lugging herself back inside like she’s got bricks for shoes. “What about Cinderella?”

“Go and look– get the treats.”

She scrambles into the kitchen, snagging a jar of cat treats from the counter quickly. You shoulder the backpack and follow her out. Steve joins you not long after, two flashlights and several glowsticks in hand.

“No Cinderella?” Steve asks, unzipping the bag pressed to your back to stock with more things.

“No,” Penelope pouts, vigorously shaking the jar in the air. “How can I be Dorothy without Toto.”

He yanks the zipper back up, then pats her head, “Keep calling. Where’s your jacket?”

“I don’t need it.”

“You will. It’s gonna get cold later. When it’s dark.”

“It’ll mess up my costume. Dorothy doesn’t wear one.”

“Let's bring it, just in case. I’ll carry it.”

Steve jogs back inside, coming out this time with a camera around his neck, a jacket over his shoulder, and a plushie in hand.

“Here,” he sets a blue stuffed dog on Penelope’s lap. “Backup Toto.”

Penelope glares up at him, insulted. “This isn’t Toto.”

“I know. But if we wait for Cinderella we might not have time for trick-or-treating. Why don’t we bring the treats? See if she’s started without us?”

Penelope deflates, stuffing the dog in her wicker basket.

“Can I take your picture now?”

“Why, Daddy?”

“So I can remember how beautiful you look tonight.”

A petulant bow creases her lips as she peers up. Round, sullen eyes connect with his.

Steve squats in front of her, taking her much smaller free hand in his. “I know you’re sad about Cinderella but she’d still want you to have fun, right? And she might show up later. I just want to get a picture now so I don’t forget.”

Penelope nods and Steve kisses her forehead, standing and backing up a few paces.

“Smile, baby. Please?” He blinks at her through the viewfinder.

She offers a strangled face– more of a toothy open mouth than a smile; not even close to wide enough to round her cheeks or crescent her eyes like the real deal. But it’s funny and just as cute. Steve snaps a photo and the expression drains from her face as fast as the camera’s flash.

You wander behind Steve and her eyes flick to you. You try funny faces first, frowning so deep your jaw aches, pulling the tip of your nose up like a pigs, winking terribly, but none of it works. Your fingers arch into bunny ears behind Steve’s hair and you stick your tongue out at the back of his head, but still, no dice.

You have a really awful idea. You’re pretty sure you might die of embarrassment. But it’s worth it to get Penelope to smile.

“Hey, Penelope? Remember when you told me dinosaurs are silly?”

She nods.

“Well, I have a really good dinosaur impression. Can I show you?”

She nods again, equally jaded.

You take a deep breath and shake your head, mentally preparing yourself and simultaneously erasing Steve from existence for the moment. A feral screech erupts from the back of your throat, the kind of sound you didn’t know for sure you could make.

Steve buckles in his crouch, barely catching himself on the pavement with his free hand. A chorus of emotions ripple his features. He’s shocked and then amused and finally focused on capturing the picture, but what resonates the most is a fondness for you.

You cup a hand over your mouth, rendering a string of different noises, inspired by several animals because what the hell does a dinosaur sound like anyway? You haven’t the faintest clue at the moment.

Penelope fuses her lips together, unbreaking.

“Come on Nell, I see that smile,” Steve rallies.

But she doesn’t give up easy. She’s like Steve in that way.

As a last resort, you press your lips to your mouth, blowing a raspberry and screwing your face in disgust. “Oh my God, Steve! Did you just fart?”

He gapes at you, then Penelope, tickled and tongue-tied for comebacks. He can’t think straight, not when you’re making a delightful fool out of yourself, on his behalf, especially. As far as he’s concerned, Penelope’s smiling now or at least failing awfully at hiding it. So he takes several photos of her as she unravels into a giggly heap on the driveway.

Certainly one of them is photo-album-worthy, but you continue your stunts anyway. “Goodness, what did you eat today?” You backpedal a few steps, fanning the surrounding air, partially to hide your own laugh. “Penelope do you smell that?”

“Ew! Daddy!”

You aren’t sure if Penelope actually believes you or if she just wants to join the fun but either way, she’s convincing.

“I didn’t do it!” Steve defends, dropping the camera on its sling and raising his hands in surrender. “I think it was Penelope this whole time.”

You gasp. “Penelope!”

“I didn’t!” She cries, shaking her head aggressively. “I promise, I didn’t!”

“I dunno. The closer I get the more stinky it smells.” Steve slinks up to her with outstretched hands that threaten tickles.

She screams when he snatches her up, swearing up and down, “I didn’t, Daddy!”

He’s well-practiced at being the tickle monster; knows every sensitive strip of skin to target. She was doomed from the start. Giggles spill out in jagged layers punctuated with gasps of air. Steve tickles her all the way down the driveway to the car, out of breath himself by the time he sets her on the trunk.

Penelope deliriously eyes his hands where they rest on the beamer.

“You ready to go trick-or-treating, Little Miss Dorothy?” You ask.

She nods, dimples deepening with mirth.

“Here. Will you start it?” Steve fishes his keys out of his pocket and tosses them to you. “Come on, pretty girl.”

She slides into her car seat happily, bouncing with excitement as he buckles her in. Steve’s told you before it’s not always so easy.

“I really didn’t fart,” Penelope says.

He chuckles, sewing a kiss to her cheek, “I know, baby. We’re just kidding.”

Steve settles into the driver’s seat, depositing the stack of developed polaroids in your lap. You shuffle through as he backs out, flashing him your favorites; the best is one where she’s planted a hand on her hip and is rolling her eyes. You adore this little drama queen more and more every day.

The drive’s only a few minutes, just to a denser part of the neighborhood to avoid long stretches with no houses. Steve parks against an empty grass lot behind another car. This area’s already bustling with kids which adds to Penelope’s anticipation.

“Daddy, look– it’s Minnie Mouse!”

Steve inspects the crowd through the window. “Yeah, you remember when you were Minnie Mouse?”

“I was?”

“Mhmm. You had ears and I painted your face. You were little.” He unbuckles, grabbing the backpack stashed at your feet.

“Oh. Am I still little?”

He pauses to melt, just to himself and only a bit. It’s too early to be sentimental– a long night of fun awaits. Steve cranes over his seat to see her face. “Yes, you’re still little. But you’re growing a lot. I think you might be as tall as me, one day.”

“Nooo,” she giggles, waving her foot at him.

“I dunno,” he sing-songs back, squeezing her shoe before turning back around.

Steve distributes a handful of glowsticks, shoving a few extra in Penelope’s basket. You guys start down the block as the sun sinks below the treeline, more than enough time to complete Penelope’s plan which she reminds you of. She takes Steve’s hand, then yours, and it strikes you suddenly how much you appear as a family to outsiders. It’s not an unwelcome feeling, just a strange one.

At the first house, Penelope knocks hard and declares to the elderly woman who answers, “Trick or treat!” She repeats it, insisting with wide eyes that she deserves two pieces of candy for her double effort. And the woman can’t resist her charm, obliging with a handful of pieces. Steve jokes it off, calls her a bargainer, but you gawk at the interaction.

At the second house, she points to you and Steve, arguing you deserve candy too since you’re both in costume. And it works, scoring you each a piece that ends up in her tote anyway. By the third, you can’t keep a straight face, her antics are hilariously cute and you compliment Steve for raising such a little mastermind.

You fall into a routine steadily, loafing along the road with Steve while Penelope trots up to each house.

“Last year she was Snow White and the year before a cat,” Steve explains when you ask.

“She likes princesses’.”

“Less so now but yeah. She used to say she wanted to be a princess when she grew up.”

“Can’t blame her.” You watch her fondly from afar. She picks a piece of candy off the ground and debates before tossing it in with the others. “What does she wanna be now?”

“Changes all the time. Last it was a detective.” He beckons Penelope over. “Nell, what do you want to be when you grow up?”

She fiddles with her basket handle. You’ve done two streets and it’s almost full. You're starting to think you’ll have to buy a pillowcase off of someone.

“Umm… Can I be a trick-or-treater?”

“What!” Steve flips her braid over her shoulder, “That’s just for one day, goofball.”

“Well… then,” she hums, squinting at the surrounding swarm of characters and creatures. “Maybe a pirate?”

You and Steve share a look of amusement. You do that a lot now. It’s instinctual. Finding each other's eyes, even in a room full of people it’s easy. Sometimes there’s just too much joy not to share.

“Daddy, how many houses are left?”

“There’s quite a few on this street. You tired?”

“No. Can I see? I want to count.”

She doesn’t seem tired to you but Steve’s able to read her with the tiniest details. It’s like he’s got superpowers sometimes– dad superpowers. But maybe he’s just guessing, it’s getting closer to bedtime.

Steve boosts her onto his shoulders with a hefty groan about “getting old” which you bicker over because he’s only twenty-six.

Penelope counts eleven houses, eight with lights on, but buzzes about a particular home illuminated with rainbow LEDs and a giant spider. And it’s even cooler than she described up close, mansion-like, decked out with spotlights and decorations taller than you and Steve combined.

A motionless clown holds a bloody bucket of candy outside. Their decorations are so extravagant, it’s hard to tell what’s real and what’s fake. But you’re pretty sure the clown just blinked and you make sure Steve’s aware of that, not that he was letting Penelope go alone anyway.

Steve scoops Penelope up before she gets very far up the driveway despite her complaints.

“I’m not scared, Daddy,” she assures. And there’s nothing that tells you she is– she’s just as cheery and bright-eyed as before.

“I know, princess.” He rubs her arm, scanning for other statues with the potential to come alive. “I’m kinda scared, though.”

She tips her head at him, puzzled because it’s always the other way around. But her arms coil around his neck, a loving press of affection that she learned from him.

And whether he’s actually afraid to be jumpscared or just subconsciously ingraining in her that it’s okay if she is, you aren’t really sure. Probably both, and either way, it warms your insides.

The clown cocks its head slowly when Penelope reaches in the bowl.

She cocks her head back, innocently amused. “Trick-or-treat?”

The clown nods, pushing the bowl toward her.

Steve sags just a hair but remains very much on high alert.

You mouth your appreciation— “Thanks.” Thanks for not scaring my coworker-friends-child who I’ve grown really fond of and would hate to see cry.

“Daddy, can we go in there?” Penelope points to a tunnel opening, fringed with black streamers and flashing lights– some sort of haunted house walk-through that wraps around the home.

“No, baby. That’s for big kids.”

She spots a group of teenagers exit the other side, screaming, laughing, and doubling over each other into the grass.

“I really wanna go– please, I’ll be so brave. I’m not even scared,” she pleads, flashing him a wobbly frown.

But there’s no expression she could pull right now that would change his mind, not when he hears a chainsaw buzzing inside. She could throw herself on the ground and kick and cry and he’d still refuse. He knows enough kids that have been traumatized by horror-movie-type creatures and characters; he’ll be damned if his daughter becomes one of them.

Penelope sulks for a few houses but she has loads more candy to collect and decides not to waste her time for too long.

“Can you hold this?” She thrusts her basket toward Steve. It’s overflowing at this point; you’ve all started cramming candy in your pockets, hoping it’s cold enough outside that nothing melts. Steve’s been beating himself up for three blocks for forgetting the backpack in the car.

“Sure,” he says, retracting his hand from his pocket.

But before he takes it, you joke, “Better keep an eye on him. He might eat some when you’re not lookin’.”

Penelope studies him for a long moment before shifting the bag toward you.

“Penelope! You don’t really believe that do you?” He scoffs, breathily laughing.

You cackle as she shrugs and sprints to the next house.

Steve bumps your shoulder, snaking a hand in the basket to steal a pack of M&Ms off the top. “Blowin’ my whole operation.”

“Steve,” you scold and bump him back. “Don’t get me in trouble.”

“She won’t notice.” He waves you off, tearing the wrapper with his teeth. “But if she does I’m saying it was you.”

You whack his arm, glowing bright as the moon, “Asshole.”

Penelope doesn’t complain about her feet aching once the whole night and you know they probably do because yours started hurting forever ago. Surely she gets some kid-sized Oscar for that. And Steve being the great dad he is offers to carry her on the way back to the car anyway.

“Daddy?”

Steve hums, hoisting her up where she slips.

“Can we go trick or treating tomorrow?”

He glances at you, confirming you also hear this cuteness. “No, baby. Tomorrow’s not Halloween.”

“I know, but we should still go. I bet lots of people still have candy. Like, leftovers.” She yawns into his shoulder where his fur hood has been tugged down to warm his neck and double as a makeshift pillow.

“Don’t you have enough candy?”

“No. I need more Reese’s for you.”

“You’re gonna give them to me?”

“Only some. I like them too.”

“That’s kind of you.”

Her eyes are half-lidded and struggling, but she’s still awake as Steve stows her into her car seat. She chatters sluggishly to keep herself up and you and Steve entertain it; it’ll make bedtime easier if she doesn’t fall asleep in the car. Perhaps handing her a pack of Smarties was overkill because apparently, it has enough sugar to wire her longer than the five-minute drive home.

No slower than Steve can lock the front door, Penelope dumps the contents of her bag on the floor. A bouquet of candy wrappers, big and small, enough to last her months if she’s patient.

“You can have five more pieces tonight.”

Penelope smirks at Steve before he’s even finished. “Ten?”

“Six. But you have to brush your teeth for twice as long.” Before she can rebuttal he shakes his head. “Final offer.”

“Fine,” she huffs, combing through her pile. She sorts them into categories while Steve prepares her bath. It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown is already on– Steve has a bad habit of forgetting to turn the TV off when he leaves– but you find the remote when Penelope asks you to turn the volume up.

“You can have these,” she announces, pushing a chunk of her goodies toward you. It’s mostly things she doesn’t like: twizzlers and dark chocolate and anything with peanuts. But she did sneak in one of your favorites you’d mentioned earlier that night. She really is a sweetheart.

“Thank you, Penelope. That’s very nice of you.”

“These are for Daddy,” she points to a second pile, smacking loudly on the gummy bear she just decapitated. “He loves chocolate but he got a cavity once because he ate too much.”

“Are you talking about me?” Steve hollers, clambering down the stairs two at a time.

“No?” Penelope giggles.

His hands snap to his hips once he treks into the living room. “Alright, it’s bath time then bedtime Miss Dorothy.”

Penelope looks utterly betrayed. She’s only eaten three things and– “It’s not even late yet,” she whines.

He pretends to check his watch, “It is.”

It’s not but she can’t tell time yet.

“Can we watch Oz, Daddy, please? There’s no school tomorrow, ‘member?”

“We watched it last night, peanut. Why don’t we watch a Halloween movie?”

Peanut, pumpkin, princess, he calls her all sorts of cute things. Is it wrong to wish he called you cute things too?

“I wanna watch Oz. I’m Dorothy so we have to.” She drags out the last syllable until she runs out of breath.

Penelope’s over-tired. Delirious and whiny and easily hysterical when she doesn’t get her way. And it’s not that Steve thinks he should give in when she’s like this, he’s just tired too. And you’re here and it’s the weekend so what will one movie really do? He can guarantee she’ll fall asleep during it anyway.

“Okay. Only if you’re super-duper fast in the bath.”

She shouts and whizzes upstairs.

Steve diverts his attention to you, “You wanna stay? I can make popcorn.”

Of course, you’d love to stay, and not just for the promise of popcorn, but you’re afraid if you do, you’ll never want to leave.

“Are you sure?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” He makes a face– a ridiculously lovely one. “Go sit. We’ll be quick.”

They aren’t quick but there are photo albums on the coffee table that you’re happy to look through in the meantime. You flick through beats of their life like stills of a movie. There are baby photos, school pictures, movie stubs, plane tickets, and several people you don’t know the names of. It’s weird– getting snippets of things about them you had no idea of. You’re filling the gaps as you go.

Penelope returns first, frolicking her way to the entertainment center in fresh pajamas. She’s on a mission by the looks of it, making a mess of the VHS collection in the cabinet. By the time Steve arrives, most of the films are splayed across the carpet.

“Oz is already in, silly goose. We watched it yesterday remember?”

Penelope drops the tape in her hands, “Oh.”

Steve hunches over her, slotting the films away one by one. She doesn’t help much, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

Penelope clambers onto the couch beside you and Steve beside her. It’s a long sectional, enough room for several others. But Penelope scoots in right beside you so you're hip to hip. And Steve makes himself comfortable more in the middle cushion than the farthest.

His onesie has been traded for sweats and his whiskers scrubbed away– though a faded, gray smear crosses his jawline. You consider telling him, or licking your thumb and scratching it away yourself, but it makes you feel less weird to be the only one still in costume so you let it stay.

“I like these,” you tug the cotton pant leg of Penelope’s outfit. It’s a matching set, frilly and plaid with a black cat stamped to the torso.

She tucks her lower lip away sheepishly and pushes her crown into your shoulder. Her hair's damp, soaking your sleeve cold, but you fawn at the affection more than anything.

“Did you find that picture? From her first birthday? I think it’s in there.” Steve gestures toward the closed album in your lap with the remote but remains glued to the TV.

“No, I didn’t finish looking.”

“I wanna see,” Penelope arches over your legs, prying the book open.

Steve rewinds the film to the start and pauses it so he can look too.

You thumb the plastic sheet over a recent image of Penelope scrunching her nose at the camera, a riot of stickers across her face.

“RoRo!” She taps the photo beside it. It’s a haphazard blur, most likely captured by Penelope; you make out the shape of Steve first, then the less angular, slightly shorter person– a woman, RoRo. You think Penelope’s mentioned her before but nothing about the picture rings any bells.

“Mhmm. That’s Robin. Remember this was at the airport?”

“Is that when we got pizza?”

“Yeah!” Steve rubs her arm. “You have a good memory.”

You turn the page, revealing a set of grainy, blue-tinted photos from the same roll of film. Steve looks young for his age now, but he looked like a baby then. Strangely though when there’s an actual infant in his arms. He was thinner then but even softer in the face. Not unhappy, per se, but maybe missing a lightness he has now.

“This was on my twenty-third birthday,” he explains. “Look how little you were!”

“Did I eat cake?”

“No, you were too young, baby.” He chuckles, pointing to another photo. “You tried a banana for the first time in this one.”

“I like bananas.”

“You didn’t used to.”

Steve and Penelope share slices of their pasts fondly. You study the photos, compare these reflections to the people you find yourself next to. There’s an unexpected pinch in your chest– not getting the chance to know these versions of them, it makes you sad. But it’s a happy sort of sad. You’re grateful to know them now.

Penelope begs to flip through another album but Steve decides it’ll be too late to finish The Wizard of Oz if they do. His true reluctance stems from how emotional the first one made him– though you’ll pretend not to notice for his sake.

Steve bets Penelope an extra Reeses that she’ll fall asleep by the time Dorothy meets the scarecrow. It’s unfair, really. You tell Penelope not to pinky promise it but she does. And she loses awfully, yawning within five minutes and startling herself awake within ten. You scoff when Steve starts carding through her hair– her guaranteed snooze switch. It’s evil and you tell him so. So of course, that finishes her off long before Scarecrow makes an appearance; she curls into Steve’s side and digs a heel into yours. Poor girl never stood a chance.

“She had a lot of fun tonight,” Steve utters. It’s alarming at first, how his voice eclipses the TV like there isn’t a child snoring against his stomach. But she doesn’t stir. He knows she won’t.

“Did you?” You ask, skating between a whisper and not.

“Very much. You?”

“Mhmm. Loads,” you answer without hesitation. It’s possibly the easiest question anyone’s ever asked you. “I think Penelope’s right.”

He quirks an eyebrow against the front of the couch. His cheek is sinking further into the cotton like he might fall asleep.

“We should go trick-or-treating tomorrow too.”

His lips wane into a soft smile. If he wasn’t so drained he might laugh too. “What should we be? Penelope has a strict no-repeat costume rule.”

You hum, scraping your memory for the best costumes you’d seen. There were Power Rangers and Ghostbusters and several Batmen with their Catwomen. But the image of one young family sticks out the most in your mind. A young pair of parents with their son and daughter decked in moody black and white.

“Addams family?”

“Who’s who?”

“She’s Wednesday. Obviously.”

Steve chuckles, accidentally too loud and Penelope twitches against his thigh. He draws her against his chest readily and strokes her spine with the back of his hand. “Obviously,” he whispers.

“You’re Morticia and I’m Gomez, though.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. She’s tall and pretty. Strong jawline, kinda sassy. I think you’ll make it work.”

You’re flirting. You know you are as soon as you say it. And you don’t mean to, it just happens; the words come intuitively as blinking. Your brain does all sorts of crazy things around Steve.

“You think I’m pretty?” He’s smiling hard. You can’t tell if he’s serious or not.

“Pretty sassy, yeah,” you deflect. It’s a safer truth than admitting you do think he’s pretty.

He rolls his eyes. “My mom says Nell gets her attitude from me. Says it’s payback for how I was as a child.”

You gawk emphatically. “Were you a bad kid Steve Harrington?”

“I wasn’t bad– just needed attention I think.”

You hum. It’s a little surprising since you know Steve’s an only child to wealthier parents. You’d pegged him to be spoiled in both money and attention.

“Are you close with your parents?”

He shakes his head, “Not really. Talk every now and then.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be. I came to terms with it a while ago. Even more after she was born.” He skims his lips against Penelope’s head. “I can’t imagine not being in her life. You know, not really knowing her? Not knowing her favorite things or when she’s hurting or what she’s up to every second of the day. I don’t think that’ll ever change.”

“She’ll be so grateful to have that kind of relationship when she’s older.”

“Yeah, maybe. Like way older.” His shoulders droop as he sighs, “She already thinks I’m smothering her. Wouldn’t hold my hand yesterday because she’s ‘too big’ she said.”

“Already?” You laugh.

“I know!” He groans. “I almost cried.”

“She loves you. Kids just show it in strange ways.”

“Yeah… She forced me to hold a slug last week.”

“You held it?”

“I had to! She was so excited to give it to me.”

“Aww. You’re a good dad.”

Steve's eyes caper down and his cheeks pinken. “I’m trying to be.”

Apart from the movie and an occasional sleep sigh from Penelope, silence swallows the room. It’s a comfortable silence; the kind you only get around people you’ve known forever; It feels like you’ve known Steve your entire life. You have to remind yourself it’s only been a few months. Remind yourself this is the first time you’ve ever even hung out.

You find yourself drifting to the future. A future, with Steve and Penelope. Vacations and school events and hiking trips and movie nights and so much more. It’s silly. It makes your heart want to rip itself from your chest.

Steve clears his throat. Your fantasy is only partially dissolved. “I’m gonna take her upstairs. Put her to bed.”

You lean forward and press into your knees, gearing to stand. “Okay. I should get going. It’s late.”

“Stay for a minute. I’ll walk you out.”

You have no reason to decline but even if you did, you aren’t sure you would be able to. Saying no to Steve is as hard as saying no to Penelope. They have the same puppy-dog eyes– brown and soft as sun-baked clay. That must be it.

Steve strains to stand with the added weight. He’s strong but Penelope’s four now and having growth spurts like there’s a race to be the tallest kid in school. She clings to him instinctually, slotting her face into his neck like it was sculpted specifically to be her pillow. Her gangly legs sway against his thighs as he slowly climbs the stairs and disappears onto the landing.

You don’t notice Steve’s return. He’s much quieter than before, taking softer steps and more calculated movements. He doesn’t have the buffer of his body heat to soothe Penelope back to sleep if she wakes. The palm on your shoulder startles you.

He whispers an apology from behind the couch, voice sweet and buttery as caramel. You let him guide you the short distance to the front door– expecting it to end there– but he presses into a pair of laced sneakers thrown beside the entry table.

The night’s chill is jolting, even in your coat. It’s easy to forget the months are slipping into winter when Steve’s around. He radiates warmth, not just in sun-kissed skin and honeyed eyes, but in his tone and his touches and every aspect of his spirit. And it bleeds like a fire. Brushes your cheeks like flames and stirs perpetually in your belly like magma.

He walks you the entire length of his driveway to your car. Probably would’ve opened the door for you if you didn’t beat him to it.

“Thank you for inviting me Steve,” you say, lingering in the threshold of your open door.

“Thank you for coming. I’m really happy you came. So is Penelope.”

“As much as I am looking forward to The Addams Family next year, we should plan something… maybe a little sooner?”

“Mmm. Let me check my schedule first,” he teases, rapping his fingers against the roof of your car.

“Whatever, boss-man.”

You still don’t get in. There’s a stretch of silence, not awkward, just a placeholder for when the right words come. And they don’t. Not tonight anyway. You could hug him? Peck his cheek? Pat his back as he might yours?

You settle for a safe and simple tight-lipped smile. He appreciates it just the same.

“See you Friday?” He asks.

“See you then.”

Steve guides the door closed after you settle in. He waits until your taillights have completely fizzled out in the shadows of his street to stroll back up to his house.

He thinks of you as he locks the front door and again as he finds your hat on the sectional and a third time as he slips under his sheets. Steve isn’t sure what to do. He feels sick. His heart is hammering and his gut twists itself in knots like it does when he’s afraid. He hasn’t quite figured out what about you is so scary but how can he possibly wait until Friday to find out?

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington fluff #dad steve harrington #steve harrington #coworker steve harrington #stranger things fic #stranger things #the shape of family #skeltnwrites #my work

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joelmillerisapunk · 7 months ago

Text

Watermelon Sugar

Dbf/neighbor/daddy!Joel Miller x f!reader

Masterlist

Wordcount: 6,522

Summary: At the annual neighborhood barbecue, you can't ignore the sparks flying between you and Joel Miller, your dad's best friend. What starts as playful flirting leads to a secret, steamy encounter that leaves you both wanting more.

Warnings: 18+, age gap, unprotected p in v, m! oral recieving, soft but dom daddy!Joel, Joel calls reader baby and sunflower, use of daddy, light choking, hair pulling, and spanking. And a lil aftercare. Reader has hair and wears a bikini.

Notes: I've been slow over here and a little inactive due to adulting ughhh, but thank you all for your love and support 🥰 I truly appreciate all of you! tysm @joelslegalwhre & @evolnoomym beta reading for me. Smooching you both forever. Divider by @saradika-graphics

You stand in front of your mirror, fidgeting with the hem of your shirt. The annual neighborhood barbecue is a tradition you've always looked forward to, but this year, it feels different. Ever since you can remember, Joel Miller has been a fixture in your life—a man who could make you laugh with a single look and who always seemed to know when you needed a friend. But lately, the glances you exchange feel charged with something new, something you're not quite ready to name.

As you dab on a bit of perfume, you catch your dad's voice in the hallway, calling out that he's heading over to Joel's early to help set up.

“Be there soon!” You yell back.

—

As you step out of your front door, the warm summer breeze brushes against your skin, carrying with it the mouth-watering aroma of grilled meat and freshly cooked burgers from the neighborhood barbecue, hosted by none other than Joel Miller - your dad's best friend and neighbor, the one youve had a crush on forever. You can't help but feel a flutter in your stomach as you walk towards his house, knowing that he will be there waiting for you.

Your heart races as you approach the familiar scene; tables filled with food and drinks, kids running around playing games, and adults chatting animatedly under the shade of trees. You spot Joel standing near the grill, his broad shoulders moving up and down as he expertly flips burgers on the sizzling hot coals. His tanned skin glistens with sweat from all his hard work preparing for today's event.

"Hey there!" Your dad calls out when he sees you approaching. "Just in time! We were just about to start eating."

You take a moment to admire Joel's form; how strong yet gentle he looks handling those flaming hot coals like they were nothing more than pebbles in a stream; how those little black shorts sit on his body just right, how that white baggy shirt hangs over his big broad shoulders hugging his thick neck just right. Damn it. Why does he have to look so good?

As you draw closer, the heat from the grill is almost as intense as the warmth that spreads through you at the sight of Joel. His head looks up for a moment as he sees you approach, a wide grin spreading across his face.

You take a plate from the stack and start to serve yourself, trying to keep your hands from shaking. The array of food is impressive: potato salad, corn on the cob, fresh fruit, and an assortment of desserts that would make any food lover weak in the knees. But your focus is on the grill, where Joel is now plating a burger that looks like a work of art.

"Here ya go, sunflower," he says. The nickname, worn in like a favorite pair of jeans from years of use, still makes you feel like you’re the only person in the world. "I added a secret sauce.” He whispers, his voice low and conspiratorial. “Tell me if it's as good as I think it is.” He winks, his eyes sparkling with anticipation, and you can't help but feel a flutter in your chest.

As you take the burger from Joel, your fingers touch briefly, sending a jolt of electricity through your body. You try to brush it off as static, but deep down, you know it's more than that. You take a bite of the burger, and the flavors explode on your tongue. The sauce is tangy and sweet, perfectly complementing the grilled meat's smoky flavor.

"Mmm," you moan, closing your eyes in appreciation. "This is incredible."

Joel's eyes light up with pride. "M’glad you like it." His eyes follow every movement of your lips, every chew, every swallow. It's as if he's savoring every moment of this interaction.

You try to ignore the flutter in your chest, telling yourself it's just appreciation for a good meal. But deep down, you know it's more than that. Joel has always been kind to you, always looked out for you, but now, as your eyes lock in a silent understanding, you sense something different. Something forbidden.

"So, you really like the sauce?" he inquires, a playful smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he wipes his brow with the back of his hand. The gruffness in his voice sends a shiver down your spine despite the summer heat.

You nod eagerly, your taste buds still dancing from the burst of flavors. "Mhmmm! What’s in it?”

Joel chuckles. "That's top-secret information, darlin', Ain't gettin’ it outta me that easy."

With a mischievous glint in your eye, you walk behind the grill and up to Joel. “How about we make a deal? You give me the secret sauce recipe, and I'll show you something I know you wanna see.”

"Alright, you've got my attention."

Slowly, with deliberate grace, you begin to lift your shirt just enough for him to catch sight of the vibrant pattern of your bikini top beneath—your fingers deftly move towards one side strap of this bikini top; teasingly pulling at it as if contemplating revealing even more than intended

"Fuck - " he breathes out, quickly shaking his head to compose himself before grabbing your arm to stop you. "Your dad's right there, the hell you doin'?”

With a mischievous wink, you let the strap snap back into place, leaving just enough to his imagination. "Maybe later then," you tease “If you wanna see the rest come find me Mr. Miller.”

Joel watches you step back and saunter away towards the pool, your words hanging in the air like a challenge. The playful sway of your hips is hypnotic, and he can't help but stare as you make your way over to the pool. He shakes his head, trying to clear the fog of desire that's clouding his judgment. "Christ," he mutters under his breath, turning his attention back to the grill, but the sizzle of the meat does little to drown out the sound of your laughter carried in the breeze.

He glances over at you, watching as you settle by the pool, your legs dangling in the water. You're a vision, your hair catching the sunlight, your smile bright and inviting. He tries to focus on the task at hand, serving people, and making small talk, but his eyes keep drifting back to you. He can't help it; you're like a magnet, drawing him in against his better judgment.

He watches as you reach for a slice of watermelon on your plate, its vibrant red color promising a burst of sweetness. The juicy fruit is cool and refreshing in the summer heat. As you take a bite, the watermelon's juice is so abundant that it escapes your lips, trickling down your chin.

In an attempt to catch the runaway droplets, you quickly bring your hand up to your face. But in your haste, another stream of juice breaks free, trailing a path down your neck and disappearing into the valley between your breasts. The sensation of the cool liquid against your heated skin makes you gasp softly, making Joel groan under his breath. He watches you with an intensity that borders on feral. His grip tightens around the spatula he's holding as he takes in the sight of you, flustered and trying to contain the watermelon's sweet rebellion. His mind races with images he knows he shouldn't entertain—images of him licking away those sticky trails left by nature's candy on your skin; his hands following suit to ensure not a single drop is wasted; his lips tasting every inch they cover until there's no trace of watermelon left.

His body reacts before he can stop it—a sudden twitch in his pants that thankfully goes unnoticed by everyone else due to his strategically placed apron tied securely around his waist. He takes a deep breath to regain control over his runaway thoughts while simultaneously adjusting himself discreetly under the cover of fabric.

Taking the opportunity to step away from the grill, Joel grabs a cold Corona from the cooler, the bottle sweating as much as he is. He approaches you but stops for a split second to watch you. The sight of you lying there, your body still glistening with juices, makes his heart race.

"Thought ya might be thirsty," he says, handing you the beer, his voice deeper than usual.

You look up as he approaches, your eyes sparkling with mischief. "Took you long enough," you say, a teasing lilt in your voice as you take the beer and sip it.

He sits down beside you, his heart pounding in his chest. "You're playin’ with fire, y’know that sweetheart?" he warns.

You just smirk, leaning back in your chair, your gaze locked onto his like a little puppy.

"You keep lookin' at me like that, and we're gonna have a problem," Joel says, his voice a low rumble.

"What if I want a problem?"

His intake of breath is sharp, and you can see the effect your words have on him. His jaw clenches, and there's a flicker of something dangerous in his eyes—something that tells you he's teetering on the edge of control. You watch as Joel quickly gets up from his chair and walks away. He rounds the corner of the house before disappearing.

You wait for a moment before you put your beer down beside the one he left and casually stand up to follow him.

Around the side of the house, away from prying eyes, Joel is leaning against the wall, his chest rising and falling with each heavy breath. The moment he sees you, his eyes darken.

"What are we doin' here?" he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

You close the distance between you, your body brushing against his. "Something we both want," you reply confidently, your hand coming up to rest on his chest.

He captures your wrist, his grip firm but gentle. "This is wrong," he murmurs, though the conviction in his voice is wavering.

"Does it feel wrong?" You challenge, your fingers tracing the contours of his muscles through his shirt.

For a moment, he doesn't respond, his gaze dropping to your lips. Then, with a groan of surrender, he closes the gap between you, his mouth crashing onto yours in a hungry, desperate kiss. His hands roam your body, exploring every curve as if he's memorizing you by touch. You respond with equal fervor, your hands tangling in his hair as you pull him closer, deepening the kiss. The taste of him, a mix of beer and the sweet tang of barbeque sauce, drives you wild.

Suddenly, Joel breaks the kiss, his breath coming out in ragged gasps. "We can't do this here," he says, glancing around to make sure no one has followed you.

You nod, your breath hitching as you realize the gravity of what you're about to do. "Then take me somewhere we can," you whisper back, your hand slipping into his.

With a groan that sounds almost pained, Joel takes a step back, pulling you with him as he leads you away from the party and towards the detached garage at the end of the driveway. His grip on your hand is firm, almost possessive, sending a thrill of anticipation coursing through your veins.

The inside of the garage is cool and dimly lit compared to the bright sunlight outside. It's filled with tools and gardening equipment—a testimony to Joel's many hobbies. The door lightly closes shut behind you, sealing out the world and the sounds of the party. The air is thick with the scent of oil and wood, a heady mixture that only adds to the intoxicating atmosphere. Joel wastes no time, pressing you against the cool metal of a parked truck, his body a solid wall of heat against yours.

"You've been drivin’ me crazy all day," he growls, his hands gripping your hips tightly. "Teasin’ me like that in front of everyone."

You can feel the evidence of his arousal pressing against you, and it sends a shiver of excitement down your spine.

His lips crash onto yours once again, demanding and dominant. His tongue sweeps into your mouth, claiming you with an intensity that leaves you breathless. You can feel his stubble rough against your skin.

"You're playin’ a dangerous game, baby," he murmurs against your mouth.

He spins you around roughly, pressing your chest against the truck's hood. You can feel the cool metal against your overheated skin. His hands tangle in your hair, giving it a gentle tug that sends a jolt of pleasure and pain straight to your core.

"Tell me whatcha want," he commands, his voice a low rumble in your ear.

"You," you gasp, arching your back to press closer to him. "I want you, Joel."

He rewards you with a slow grind of his hips against yours, the friction making you moan. "You want me to fuck ya, sunflower?" he asks, his voice thick with desire.

"Yes," you whimper, your hands gripping the edge of the hood for support. "Please, Joel."

He chuckles darkly, his lips tracing a path down the side of your neck. "Beggin’ already? I thought you liked playin’ hard to get." You feel his teeth nip at your skin as he speaks. Your body trembles with need, your breathing coming out in short bursts. You don't understand why this feels so right, but you don't question it anymore. "Stay still," he orders, his voice firm.

You force yourself to comply, your body trembling with anticipation. He takes his time, his fingers tracing maddeningly slow patterns on your skin. When he finally reaches beneath the fabric of your bikini top to palm your breast, you can't help but let out a moan of relief.

"That's it," he encourages, his thumb circling your nipple. "Let me hear how much you want this."

His other hand slides down your body, slipping beneath the waistband of your shorts. You're already so wet for him, and when his fingers brush against your clit, you can't help but buck your hips.

"Fuck, you're so responsive," he groans, his fingers circling the sensitive bundle of nerves. You're panting now, desperate for release. But he denies you, pulling his hand away just as you're about to tip over the edge. "Not yet," he says, his voice stern. "You don't come till I tell ya to."

He spins you around once again, his eyes dark with lust as he takes in the sight of you. "I wanna see you baby," he says, his hands tugging at your shorts. "All of you."

You help him undress you, your hands shaking with need. Once you're standing before him in nothing but your bikini, he takes a step back to admire his handiwork.

"Goddamn, you're beautiful," he says, his voice filled with awe. "Now, get on your knees."

You do as he says, the concrete floor cool against your skin. You hear the zip of his pants and then them falling to the ground along with his boxers as he steps forward, his hands fisting in your hair guiding you to his cock. "Open up," he commands, his voice gruff. "Show me how much you want this."

You part your lips obediently, taking him into your mouth. He's big and hard, and the taste of him is intoxicating. You swirl your tongue around the head of his cock, eliciting a groan from above and then take him entirely until he's hitting the back of your throat.

"That's it, sunflower," he praises, his hips thrusting gently. "Just like that."

You look up at him, your eyes locking onto his as you take him deeper. His grip on your hair tightens, and you can tell he's struggling to last. "Fuck, you look so good with my cock in your mouth," he says, his voice strained.

Your hands grip his thighs, feeling the muscles tense under your touch as you bob your head, taking him deeper with each stroke. The salty taste of his arousal mixes with the lingering sweetness of the watermelon, creating a heady combination that has you moaning around his length.

"Feels so damn good baby," Joel groans, his voice echoing in the quiet garage. His eyes are locked on yours, filled with a raw, unfiltered desire that sends a thrill through you. You feel his thighs quiver under your hands, and you know he's close. But before he can reach his peak, he gently pulls you away, his cock slipping from your lips with a wet pop.

"Up," he commands as he pulls you to your feet, his hands roaming your body once again. He unties your bikini top, letting it fall to the ground, and then he's cupping your breasts, his thumbs teasing your nipples. "Tell me you want this," he says, his eyes searching yours. "Tell me you want me to fuck you baby."

"I want it," you assure him, your voice trembling with need. "I want you to fuck me, Joel."

With a growl, he lifts you onto the hood of the truck and with a hunger in his eyes that matches your own, Joel hooks his fingers into the sides of your bikini bottoms, his gaze never leaving yours as he slowly begins to peel them away. The fabric slides down your legs, leaving you completely exposed to him. He tosses the bikini bottoms aside, his hands returning to grip your thighs, spreading them apart as he steps closer.

"You're so fuckin' wet for me," he murmurs approvingly, his fingers tracing the seam of your cunt. You can feel yourself growing warm at his words, but you don't have time to feel self-conscious because he's leaning in, capturing your lips in another searing kiss as his fingers continue their exploration.

One finger circles your entrance before pushing inside, making you gasp into the kiss. He adds another finger, stretching you deliciously as he establishes a rhythm that has you writhing on the hood of the truck. His thumb finds your clit again, rubbing it in time with his thrusting fingers.

"Joel," you moan, your hands fisting in his shirt as pleasure builds within you. "Please..."

He chuckles against your mouth, clearly enjoying the effect he has on you. "Please, what?" he teases, even as he adds another finger, filling you even more. "Tell me what you need."

"I need... I need you inside me," you pant out, barely able to form coherent thoughts with the way he's playing your body like a finely tuned instrument.

Joel's eyes darken at your words, and he withdraws his fingers, leaving you feeling empty and needy.

You ready for me, sunflower?" he asks, positioning himself at your entrance.

You nod eagerly, your body aching for him. "Yes, please."

With a groan, he pushes forward, filling you in one slow, deliberate thrust. The sensation of being stretched and filled by him is overwhelming, and you can't help but cry out at the intensity of it. He stills for a moment, allowing you to adjust to his size.

"Fuck," he groans. "You feel even better than I imagined."

As the initial shock of your union subsides, Joel begins to move, his hips setting a rhythm that sends waves of pleasure coursing through your body. Each thrust is a sweet invasion, a claim that leaves you breathless and begging for more.

"Look at me," Joel commands, his voice gruff with need. You lock eyes with him, the intensity of his gaze searing into your soul. "Who do you belong to?" he asks, his pace increasing with each word.

The question hangs in the air between you, heavy with implication. You know the answer he wants, the answer that feels right in this moment. "You," you gasp out, your voice barely above a whisper. "I belong to you, Daddy."

A shudder runs through Joel at the sound of the word Daddy falling from your lips. "That's right," he growls, his hands gripping your hips tightly as he drives into you with renewed vigor. "You're mine, sunflower. Say it again."

"I'm yours, Daddy," you moan louder this time, surrendering yourself to him completely.

The words, once taboo, now feel like a secret language between the two of you. With each thrust, Joel reaffirms his claim on you, his movements becoming more frenzied as he chases his release.

"Harder," you beg, your nails digging into the flesh of his back. "I need more."

He responds with a growl, increasing the intensity of his thrusts. The sound of skin meeting skin echoes in the garage, mingling with your cries of pleasure and his grunts of exertion. "Is this what ya need?" he pants, his hips snapping against yours with bruising force.

"Yes," you cry out, your body coiling tighter and tighter with each powerful thrust. "More... I need all of you."

In response to your plea, Joel reaches up and wraps his hand around your throat, applying just enough pressure to make your heart race and your head spin. The sensation of being restrained by him sends a jolt of adrenaline coursing through your veins. It's a thrilling mix of fear and excitement that heightens the pleasure coursing through your body.

"You like that baby?" he rasps out, his eyes searching yours for confirmation even as he continues to pound into you relentlessly. "You like it when Daddy chokes you while he fucks your pretty little cunt?"

You nod as much as his grip will allow, your breath coming in short gasps as stars dance behind your closed eyelids. "Yes," you manage to choke out.

The world around you seems to blur into a haze of pleasure and desire as Joel continues to claim your body with an almost feral intensity. His grip on your throat remains firm, yet gentle enough not to cause harm, serving as a potent reminder of his control over you. The sensation of his fingers wrapped around your neck only adds to the overwhelming tide of ecstasy that's building within you.

"Come on, sunflower, come for me." Joel grunts, his voice strained with the effort of holding back his own release. "Wanna feel this pretty little pussy squeezin’ Daddy's cock.”

His words are the final push you need. With a cry that echoes off the walls of the garage, your orgasm crashes over you like a wave, causing your entire body to convulse with the force of it. Your inner muscles clamp down around Joel's shaft, milking him as he continues to drive into you with powerful thrusts.

As the waves of your orgasm begin to subside, Joel isn't done with you yet. He pulls out, leaving you feeling momentarily empty, but before you can protest, he's flipping you over onto your stomach with a strength that leaves you breathless. Your body is still trembling from the aftershocks of your climax as he roughly pulls you up, positioning himself behind you.

"You think we're done?" he growls, his voice thick with lust. "I ain't even close to being finished with this sexy body of yours."

His hands grip your hips tightly as he lines himself up with your entrance once again. With one powerful thrust, he's inside you, filling you completely and causing you to cry out in a mix of pleasure and surprise. The new angle allows him to go even deeper than before, hitting spots that make your toes curl and your breath hitch in your throat.

"Fuck," he groans, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hips as he sets a brutal pace that has the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing around the garage. "You feel so fuckin' good like this."

One hand releases its grip on your hip and tangles in your hair instead, pulling it just hard enough to tilt your head back and expose the long line of your neck. His lips find the sensitive spot where your neck meets your shoulder, kissing and nipping at it as he continues to pound into you from behind.

"Such a good girl," he praises between thrusts, his voice a low rumble against your skin. "Takin’ Daddy's cock so well.”

His other hand comes down on the curve of your ass with a sharp smack that makes you gasp and push back against him for more. The sting of the slap only adds to the overwhelming sensation of fullness as he drives into you again and again. Each smack is followed by a soothing caress that sends shivers down your spine and makes a heat pool low in your belly once more.

"You like it when I spank this naughty little ass?" Joel asks wickedly as his hand comes down on the other cheek, this time eliciting another moan from deep within you. "Answer me, baby girl."

"Yes," you manage to gasp out between thrusts, your body shaking under his relentless assault . "I love it when you spank me, Daddy.”

The sound of your admission seems to spur Joel on even more. His thrusts become wilder, more uncontrolled, as he chases his own release. The hand in your hair tightens, pulling your head back further, forcing you to arch your back and take him even deeper. The sensation is overwhelming, and you can feel another orgasm building within you, a tidal wave of pleasure that threatens to sweep you away.

"That's it, baby girl," Joel growls, his voice ragged with desire. "Come for me one more time."

His words are all it takes to send you tumbling over the edge once more. Your body convulses beneath him, your inner walls clamping down around his shaft as wave after wave of pleasure courses through you.

Joel lets out a guttural groan as he feels your orgasm milk his own from him. His hips stutter against yours as he buries himself deep inside you, his cock pulsing as he finds his release. You can feel the warmth of his seed filling you, marking you his in the most primal way possible.

For a moment, the only sounds in the garage are the ragged gasps of your breathing and the pounding of your hearts. Slowly, Joel releases his grip on your hair and hip, his hands gently caressing the skin he'd so roughly manhandled just moments before.

"You okay, sunflower?" he asks, his voice soft and filled with concern as he carefully withdraws from your body.

You nod, still trying to catch your breath. "Yeah," you manage to say, your voice shaky but filled with a satisfaction that you've never felt before. "I'm good. More than good."

Joel chuckles softly, pressing a tender kiss to the nape of your neck. "You're more than good, baby girl. You're incredible."

He helps you to your feet, his arms wrapping around you to steady you when your legs threaten to give out beneath you. His eyes scan your body, taking in the marks he's left on your skin—the redness where his fingers had gripped you, the faint handprint on your ass, the love bites that dot your neck and shoulders.

"Let's get ya cleaned up," he says, his tone gentle as he leads you over to an old sink in the corner of the garage. He turns on the water, testing the temperature with his hand before wetting a clean rag and using it to gently wipe away the evidence of what just happend.

You watch him, your heart swelling with emotion as you take in the tenderness of his actions. This is a side of Joel you've never seen before—a side that's caring and attentive, a side that makes you feel cherished and loved.

Once he's satisfied that you're clean, he helps you dress, his hands lingering on your skin with each article of clothing he helps you into. When you're fully clothed again, he pulls you into his arms, holding you close as he presses a kiss to the top of your head.

"You're so beautiful, sunflower," he murmurs, his voice filled with awe and admiration. "Inside and out."

The warmth of Joel's embrace and the tenderness in his voice make your heart flutter with a mixture of joy and trepidation. You're standing in a moment that feels both surreal and more real than anything you've ever experienced.

"Joel," you say, your voice still shaky from the intensity of your encounter, "what does this mean for us now?"

He pulls back slightly, his hands cupping your face as he looks into your eyes with an intensity that takes your breath away. "It means," he begins, his thumbs stroking your cheeks gently, "that I can't ignore these feelings any longer. It means that I want to be with you, truly be with you, in every sense of the word."

Your heart leaps at his words, but reality quickly sets in. "But what about my dad? What about everything else?"

Joel nods, understanding the weight of your concerns. "I know it's complicated," he admits. "And I don't have all the answers right now. But I do know that I can't go back to pretending there's nothing between us, that you're just my best friend's daughter.”

You smile at that, feeling a sense of relief wash over you. "So... where do we go from here?"

"First," he says with a grin, "we get back to that barbecue before your dad sends out a search party." He gives you one last lingering kiss before stepping back to survey the scene. "Then we figure this out together—away from pryin’ eyes and family gatherings."

With a nod of agreement, you follow Joel out of the garage, your hand securely tucked in his. The world outside seems different now—brighter, more vibrant, as if your encounter has somehow altered your perception of reality. The sounds of laughter and music from the barbecue drift towards you, a stark contrast to the intimate silence you've just left behind.

As you approach the party, Joel gives your hand a reassuring squeeze. "We'll take this one step at a time," he whispers, his voice barely audible over the noise of the gathering. "Okay?"

You nod, grateful for his presence and his promise. Together, you reenter the party, blending seamlessly into the crowd as if nothing has changed. But everything has changed, and you can't help but feel a thrill of excitement at the secret you now share with Joel.

Throughout the afternoon, you catch each other's eyes from across the yard, exchanging knowing smiles, and subtle touches whenever possible. Your dad, none the wiser, chats happily with neighbors and friends, his laughter mingling with the sounds of summer.

As the sun begins to set, casting a warm golden glow over the neighborhood, you find yourself standing next to Joel by the grill once more. He hands you another beer, his fingers brushing against yours in a silent gesture of affection.

"So," he says, nudging you gently with his elbow, "how's that secret sauce treatin ya?"

You can't help but chuckle, the memory of your earlier exchange bringing a flush to your cheeks. "I think it's safe to say it's the best sauce I've ever had," you reply with a wink, taking a sip of your beer to hide your smile.

Joel laughs, shaking his head in amusement. "Well, I don't know about that," he teases. "I might have to give you a few more samples before you can make such a bold claim.”

But before you can retort, your dad saunters over to join you by the grill. He claps Joel on the back affectionately and turns to address both of you.

"You two look like you're up to no good," he says with a smile. "What are you plotting over here?"

Your heart skips a beat at his words—does he suspect something?—but Joel seems unfazed as he throws an arm around your dad's shoulders with brotherly affection.

"Just discussing some top-secret barbecue business," Joel replies smoothly, giving your dad a reassuring squeeze before releasing him and turning back to tend to the grill once more.

—

Eventually, as the crowd begins to thin and the night grows deeper, your dad announces that it's time to start cleaning up. You join in, helping to gather plates and cups and fold tables, all the while feeling Joel's gaze on you.

Once the last of the guests have said their goodbyes and the yard is returned to its peaceful state, your dad claps Joel on the back, thanking him for another successful barbecue. "You outdid yourself this year, Joel," he says with a smile.

Joel returns the smile, though his eyes flicker to you for a brief moment. "Always happy to host," he replies, his voice steady despite the undercurrent of emotion that passes between you two.

Your dad turns to you, his eyes tired but content. "I'm gonna head home, kiddo. You coming, or are you gonna help Joel clean up?"

You glance at Joel, who gives you a small nod, understanding the silent question in your eyes. "I'll stay and help out, Dad," you say, your voice calm and composed. "You go get some rest."

Your dad chuckles, shaking his head. "Always the responsible one, just like your mother. Alright, I'll see you in the morning."

With a final wave, your dad heads off down the street, leaving you and Joel alone under the starlit sky. The moment his figure disappears into the distance, the air between you seems to crackle with anticipation.

Joel steps closer, his eyes searching yours. "You okay?" he asks, his voice low and intimate.

You nod, a small smile playing on your lips. "Yeah, I'm good. Just... processing everything, I guess."

He reaches out, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear. "We don't have to figure it all out tonight," he says softly. "But I want you to know what happened between us... it wasn't a one-time thing for me."

Your heart swells at his words, the warmth of his touch igniting a fire within you. "It wasn't for me, either," you admit, your voice barely above a whisper.

For a moment, you simply stand there, lost in each other's gaze, the world around you fading into insignificance. Then, with a shared look of understanding, you both begin to tidy up the remaining mess, working side by side in comfortable silence.

When the last dish is washed and put away, and the yard is once again pristine, Joel takes your hand, leading you to the porch swing. The night is quiet now, save for the distant sound of a dog barking and the soft rustle of leaves in the gentle breeze.

You sit down next to him, the swing creaking slightly under your combined weight. His arm wraps around your shoulders, pulling you close as you both look up at the stars.

As you sit there, nestled under Joel's arm, the stars twinkle above, casting a serene glow over the quiet neighborhood. You feel a sense of peace and contentment that you've never experienced before, a feeling of being exactly where you're meant to be.

"It's beautiful tonight," you murmur, your head resting against Joel's shoulder.

“It sure is," he agrees, his voice a soft rumble. But when you tilt your head back to look at him, you realize he's not looking at the stars. He's looking at you. His eyes trace the contours of your face, drinking in every detail as if to memorize you, to etch this moment into his memory forever. The corners of his eyes crinkle slightly, a silent indication of the smile he wears in his heart, a smile that reaches out to you, enveloping you in its embrace.

"Joel..." you begin, unsure of what to say next. There are a million thoughts swirling in your head, a million questions about what the future holds for the two of you.

He seems to sense your unease and gives your shoulder a gentle squeeze. "We'll figure it out, sunflower," he assures you again.

You take a deep breath, letting the comforting weight of Joel's arm around you anchor you to the present moment. The uncertainty of the future looms ahead, but for now, you choose to bask in the warmth of his affection.

"I know we will," you reply.

Joel's smile is soft. "That's my girl," he says, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "Brave and beautiful.”

The gentle sway of the porch swing and the rhythmic chorus of crickets lull you into a state of peaceful tranquility. Your eyelids grow heavy, and despite your best efforts to stay awake, you find yourself succumbing to the pull of sleep.

Joel notices your drowsy state and smiles softly, his eyes reflecting a tenderness that makes your heart flutter. "Come on, sunflower," he whispers, his voice a soothing balm to your weary senses. "Let's get you inside." With surprising gentleness, Joel scoops you up into his arms, cradling you against his chest as he stands from the swing. You let out a sleepy protest but quickly settle against him, your head resting on his shoulder as he carries you into the house.

He navigates through the darkened rooms with ease, making his way to his bedroom. He lays you down on the bed, pulling back the covers so he can tuck you in.

You watch him through half-lidded eyes as he moves around the room, turning off lights and setting an alarm for the morning. When he's satisfied that everything is in order, he begins to undress, shedding his clothes until he's standing in nothing but his boxers. The sight of him—all hard planes and toned muscles—makes your breath hitch in your throat despite your sleepy state.

Joel catches your gaze and chuckles softly. "Like what ya see?" he teases gently as he slips into bed beside you.

You nod, your cheeks flushing with a mix of embarrassment and desire. "Always," you admit, your voice barely above a whisper.

Joel's eyes darken at your confession, but he makes no move to act on the attraction that still crackles between you. Instead, he reaches out, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear. "Get some sleep, sunflower," he says softly, his fingers tracing a gentle path down the side of your face.

You nod again, snuggling deeper into the covers as Joel turns off the bedside lamp, plunging the room into darkness. The bed shifts slightly as he settles in beside you, the heat of his body a comforting presence in the cool room.

As you drift off to sleep, you feel Joel's arm wrap around your waist, pulling you back against his chest. His breath is warm against the nape of your neck, and he lulls you into a deep, peaceful slumber. In the quiet darkness of the night, with Joel's protective embrace surrounding you, you feel safe and cherished. The worries and uncertainties of the future fade into the background, replaced by a sense of contentment and belonging and you know this is exactly where you were meant to be.

#joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller #joel miller x f!reader

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florencemtrash · 5 months ago

Text

Club Rats and Cigarettes: Part I

Azriel x Modern Reader

Summary: When Azriel stumbles into a new world with his brothers, the last thing he expects to find is a mate. But she has a hell of a way of making a first impression, and Azriel can't help but fall in love with someone who feels familiar in a strange world.

Warnings: Violence, mentions of drug use

Masterlist of Masterlists

Author's note: I had a thought. I wrote it. Here ya go!

Y/n leaned back against the motley wall covered in indie movie and band posters 10-layers deep. Humidity caused the paper to lift away from the brick, curling like steam off coffee before being frozen in place by the next slather of paste. Y/n felt the sharp, glue-soaked edges poke through the mesh of her shirt.

Looking left and right she saw a few stragglers heading towards the club — three girls huddled in fake-fur coats with freshly-shaved legs trembling in the October air, and a group of college boys dressed in the same jeans, sneakers, and pale collared shirts. They flickered in and out of the darkness as the streetlights hummed with the effort of keeping their failing bulbs alight. A handful of skeletal cars sat beside busted parking meters or half-hidden in the employee parking lots of the closed down street. During the day when the restaurants were open, inoffensive jazz battled it out with the reggaeton blaring from the trendy taco joint at the end of the block, and Kpop dancers pressed themselves against the screens posted by the corn dog restaurant’s windows, neon lights announcing that they were “OPEN!” But right now the neon was just another sad shade of grey. Even the sky’s colors were muted by packed clouds threatening rain.

Music shook the pavement, but it came up from the sub-basement club deep and muffled. Y/n felt its vibrations pass through the soles of her boots, up her stocking-clad legs, and into her chest where her heart rumbled like a car without a muffler.

A flash of flame revealed her glitter-coated cheeks and cobalt-blue eyeshadow. The color slipped and slid across her skin still tacky from club sweat until it was a pale wash of blue extending up to her temples and down to her cheekbones. A cloud of smoke covered her soon after as she lit her cigarette between nail-bitten fingers. A fresh coat of black polish glittered like stones, already chipping towards the tips. Menthol crisp bled into her lungs along with a breath of cold air perfumed with car exhaust and day old restaurant grease. She licked her lips and found that she did not mind the taste of lip gloss, mint, and char.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw a boy with salt-white hair and shy, bent shoulders slink over to her trying to make himself as small as possible. “Can I bum a cigarette?” He asked, shockingly polite despite the black band t-shirt that read “Anarchy now!” and the careful spikes gelled into his hair and tipped green and black.

Y/n wordlessly held out her pack and he plucked one out before hesitantly reaching for a second. She held out her lighter next and soon there were two plumes of smoke wafting into the air as music faded in and out with each body that passed through the rusted paint doors. Drunk giggles followed voices hoarse with drink and screaming. Heels clicked down the street, some heavy as a bass drum and others high and piercing like castanets.

A quick flash of lightning splintered over the sky, followed seconds later by a dull crash like furniture toppling over.

“One mile,” The boy said, leaning over. He smelled like bleach, aftershave, and surprisingly, cherries. The overly sweet ones that came out of a jar and decorated the tops of ice cream sundaes.

“What?”

“You can count how far away lightning is from the thunder. Every five seconds between lightning and thunder is one mile.”

Another flash painted the sky purple followed shortly by crumbled eruptions of noise.

“That one was close by.”

Y/n took one last drag before putting out her cigarette on the wall. The paper smoldered and was scarred black, but never burned. “Guess that’s my cue to go back inside then.”

The boy nodded, smiling and looking her up and down a little too closely. Then his eyes sharpened, red-rimmed and squinting, as he glared into the street beyond her.

“Do you see that?”

Y/n twirled around on her heels, staring down the street to where it ended in shadow. It looked… darker than it should, although she couldn’t explain why. Like she stood before the throat of an animal. The darkness seemed to pulse and writhe, muscles clenching down on invisible meat. Then she felt stupid for having listened to him at all.

“Don’t fuck with me,” she growled, pushing the salt-haired boy aside and slipping back inside the club.

The music and heady scent of perfumes, cologne, and sweat punched her in the face, and she remembered why she’d chosen to stumble outside to begin with.

She moved in between bodies sparkling like disco balls, stealing body glitter as she went. She felt the tiny particles stick to her skin, tacky with sweat. Someone’s hand brushed against her wrist, but she swatted them off, pressing forward in search of her friends. She didn’t trust them to stay still, not in a place like this, nor did she trust them to check their phones, so she just kept searching the packed dance floor. Raised platforms crowded with plastic couches and spray painted tables hit her at eye level, but none of the platform heels and combat boots looked familiar. She thought a head of red corkscrews might have belonged to Cecelia, but it was only the changing lights reflecting off bleach blond hair.

She dipped into the corner where a line of scantily clad girls with lanky legs waited for the bathroom. Ducking beneath the overhead speakers helped dull the noise, and if she climbed up two rungs of the barrier surrounding the DJ’s booth like a fighting ring, she could make out more of the crowd. Four stationary spotlights lit up the corners of the club pulsing red, blue, pink, and purple. A man in leopard print briefs was climbing onto one of the poles there, shredding his policeman’s shirt down the center as a woman in a zebra-print coat eagerly shoved a handful of dollar bills into his underwear. A drag king had his hot pink fedora knocked off by a drunk college student stumbling towards the bathrooms with a hand over his mouth. All over there were faint pinpricks of light followed by subtle releases of vape pen air, adding hints of watermelon and strawberry to the air.

It was because she stood half-hanging off the DJ’s booth that she caught sight of the three men that entered one after another like the mob. Dressed in all black, they were better suited for a funeral than a club, save for one thing… their wings.

Y/n blinked in confusion. There had been flyers hung up around the library and grocery stores about some anime convention being held in the city, but this place was a little out of the way for hardcore cosplayers. The most severe looking of the three lifted his nose to the air, then stumbled back in shock. As the strobe lights passed over his awe-struck expression, Y/n caught the glint of knives sheathed across his chest and at his side.

Fuck. She looked up to the booth, but the DJ and the guys in ripped t-shirts bobbing their heads around him didn’t seem to notice.

“Hey!” She dropped back onto the floor and tapped the shoulder of a barrel-chested man with the word “security” printed over his shirt in all caps. “I think those three guys brought knives in here.” She pointed in their general direction with one chipped, black fingernail.

“The fuck?!” He gently pushed her aside, shouting something into his earpiece as he shoved his way into the crowd. People took a second to read the sign on his shirt before parting to make way for him. One guy with bright pink hair and studded lips even tried to kiss him on the cheek as he passed.

Suddenly, this corner of the club didn’t seem so safe anymore. There was a splash of pale light on the floor as a bottle girl in a black leather catsuit slipped out of the kitchens. She swayed her hips back and forth, a bottle of tequila swishing in its frost-rimmed bottle against her hip. She moved up the stairs to the platform where a private bachelor party was going on, heels clicking like beetle wings rubbing together. Y/n slipped into the shadows closer to the kitchens and waited for someone — anyone — to answer the text she’d typed out with shaky fingers.

Azriel had never heard music like this before. He didn’t even know such a sound could exist. Someone had weaponized the bass tones so it felt like a punch to the gut. A male’s deep voice, grainy and harsh, was indistinguishable from the crashing of cymbals and a strange, high clang that skittered over steady drums like a stone over water. Through layers of sound he could just make out the soft sighs of a female as she tried to tie the chaos together with her voice.

All around him were sweaty humans decorated in shiny, colorful clothes that sparkled as they spun and jerked about. He stood a head above most, although every so often a male or female in eight-inch heels would pass by at eye level, looking him up and down like he was a meal and they were starving.

“Hey there handsome.” Someone had found the courage to slink up to Cassian’s side — a male with pupils blown open wide enough to swallow his pale blue irises. There was alcohol on his breath and something else, something sweet and bitter at the same time. The human male smiled, teeth white and straight. Azriel had never seen a human with teeth so perfect. He was handsome — wiry and slim with a flush to his cheeks that accentuated the smattering of freckles across his tan skin. “Did you come here alone?” Rhysand and Azriel’s presence did not seem to deter him. “Did you want to leave here alone?”

Cassian sputtered in surprise. He’d never been propositioned by a male, let alone a human one.

“I’m-I’m a mated male.”

The male raised his brow, taking full stock of the skin-tight leathers Cassian wore. He took a deep drag of an oddly shaped pipe that lit up in the dark. “Ok. If that’s what you’re into.” A cloud of smoke spilled from his mouth — the source of the sweet and bitter smell on his lips. His eyes slid over to Rhysand, who only smirked and stuck a hand into his pocket. “And you? It doesn’t look like you’re into the leather stuff.” Then he seemed to reconsider what he’d said, looking between Cassian, Rhys, and Azriel like he’d figured out the final piece of the puzzle. He blinked in surprise, tipped back his head, and laughed. He was still laughing as he turned and walked away into the crowd.

“What the hell was that?” Cassian asked. Azriel shrugged, shaking his head.

“It’s a strange place we’ve landed in,” Rhysand remarked, although the comment was unnecessary. “I expect the strangeness touches everything here. Even the people.” He marveled at the scene before him. The only comparable place in Prythian was Rita’s, but even that paled in comparison to the sight before him.

Rita’s was a pleasure house with music and drinks to spare, but everything here was… more. The music was louder, the smells an assault to the senses, and the lights changed every second and made the dancers flicker in and out of existence. Even the people seemed to have more substance to them, more color.

Azriel loved it.

He loved the uneven floors that sucked at the bottoms of his shoes, the pulsing lights that made his eyes swim, and the sound blaring in his ears that drowned out all other thoughts. And something in the air smelled crisp and sweet to him, despite all the other competing scents that had Cassian and Rhysand wrinkling their nose in distaste.

He strained his neck to catch better hold of the scent. His shadows clung to his body like children, hiding in the folds of his leathers. This world was not made for them, and they worried that if they strayed too far they would be left behind.

Amren had warned them that this world was different, that its magic was different. But she hadn’t been here in thousands upon thousands of years. Who was to say what had changed in her absence and what had stayed the same?

Get in. Find what you need. Get out. Had been Nesta’s command before strumming The Harp. That’s how the three brothers had found themselves at the end of a narrow lane with boxes of metal and brick on either side. The club had been a logical next step — it was the only establishment that still whispered of life in the otherwise dead neighborhood.

One shadow dared to explore the club, slipping past a broad-shouldered man with a scowling face and sniffing at half-full glasses of liquor with bright umbrellas laying against their salt-coated rims. Then it had caught sight of something that had it scurrying back to its master.

Mate. The lone shadow hissed into Azriel’s ear. Mate.

Azriel’s fluttering bird heart dove into his stomach, carrying with it all reason and restraint. There was no possible way… no. No? Right?

Az? Rhysand steadied his brother as he stumbled back.

She’s here? Azriel breathed. If it weren’t for his powers, Rhysand would never have heard the soft sigh escape Azriel’s lips as he searched the crowd desperately. Azriel tipped his head back, breathing in the comforting scent that held new meaning. My mate. She’s here.

What?!

Azriel ignored Rhys and dove into the crowd, head swiveling this way and that as he tried to find a familiar face he’d never seen before.

Az! Wait! But his brother was gone, and the crowd closed over the empty space he’d left behind like a healing wound.

Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Rhysand cursed.

“Hey man! Where did you get your wings? They’re fucking awesome!” A plump male with cornflower blue hair and matching eyeliner piped up from behind Cassian’s back. Cassian whirled around in anger, feeling the ghost of a finger slide down his spine. No one touched his wings without his say. No one.

The male startled back in fear. Upon seeing Cassian at his full height, he cowered against the wall, clutching a crinkled red cup against his chest. Cassian blinked in surprise. The male was wearing a black and white dress, the starched apron and collar crisp and clean.

“Someone call the police. Now!” Someone hissed behind him.

“What seems to be the problem?” Rhysand spoke coolly. At the moment Cassian turned back to Rhysand, the maiden-male scuttled away and upstairs into the cold night. Rhysand examined his fingernails, an action that had the guard’s ruddy face turning white as he saw they were armed to the teeth.

The male’s arms hung loose and ready at his sides like two boulders, fists opening and closing slowly. “You guys need to leave. And before you say anything — I don’t give a shit if those weapons are fake or part of some Halloween costume, you can not bring them here.”

“What fool would carry fake weapons?” Cassian asked seriously.

The male’s face lost even more color. “Out. Now.”

“There’s no need for—” Rhysand’s brows shot towards his hairline, violet eyes flickering up like a cat’s. Cassian, I can’t control him.

His brother’s eyes widened. What do you mean?

His mind — I can’t get into it.

He’s only human!

Clearly.

The male moved forward then to grab at the knife hanging from Cassian’s side and on instinct, Cassian swung. His fist met the corner of the male’s jaw cleanly and he sank like a stone, crumbling to the floor.

A female with glowing white lips nearby let out a strangled shriek, twisting her ankle as she grabbed her friend and sprinted towards the glowing red exit sign. All around her people began taking notice of the guard’s dark shape on the black floor and the two males that hovered over him, knives sparkling in the ever changing lights.

I had hoped that the humans would not notice, Cassian explained. More alarmed cries erupted around them. He leaned down, carefully checking the male’s pulse. He was still alive, just knocked out cold.

The music dimmed and then went out completely leaving an empty hole in the air that blew against the back of Cassian’s neck. Overhead lights turned on shortly after, burning with a fluorescence that had everyone hissing in pain.

Things looked much better in the dark. In the dark no one noticed the sticky stains littering the floor, or the gum wrappers, and plastic straws, and crushed cups; the dusty strobe lights and haphazard paint jobs that left the walls bubbling with air pockets. They were also less likely to notice the three fae in their midst — 6-foot-everything and looking like they stepped out of the world’s most expensive LARPing tournament. It didn’t help that Cassian was kneeling over the man he just rendered unconscious.

Confusion led to confused panicking, and then plain panic as people began pushing towards the exits in droves.

I think they noticed. Rhysand looked over the crowd as they fluttered around him, but try as he might, he couldn’t enter anyone’s minds. Not even one. He didn’t like the oily vulnerability that followed, naked and unnerving.

Cassian slung the unconscious male over his shoulder before he could be trampled beneath pairs of dusty white sneakers and stripper heels. Then it would seem it’s time for us to leave.

Where are you? Azriel cursed at no god in particular. He didn’t know which of them existed in this realm, if any did at all.

This way. His shadows whispered, urging him towards the back corner of the club.

A battered door swung open and shut to the rhythms of females in skintight leather carrying chilled bottles in their hands. Thousands of signatures had been scrawled against the door in neon paint, and Azriel watched one of the females sign her name — Ava — in bright orange before kissing the door and slipping inside to grab another bottle.

Just to the right of the door stood another female in ripped stockings. Bright blue glitter painted her eyes and cheeks. She bounced back and forth on the balls of her feet, playing with a hole in her sleeve as she held a shiny black box up to her ear.

“WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU MEAN YOU ALREADY LEFT?! I’M THE DESIGNATED DRIVER!” She yelled into the box. Her eyes kept shifting over the club. Her lipstick, already blurred from time and dancing, smeared further as she bit her lip. A swipe of her sleeve on her cheek left a faint trail of plum-colored lipstick. She slammed her finger down on the box and for one moment, the glow it let off shot across her eyes. She looked close to tears.

Azriel froze, feeling a pressure in his chest tighten and then burst apart. He felt her fear — her anger at being abandoned by her so-called friends. It was more overwhelming than the music. If it weren’t for the thin crowd of strangers in front of him blocking his path, he might have dropped to his knees and crawled to her.

Mate. The bond sang in his chest. Mate.

Screams broke through the music, high and panicked, and the magic of the moment crashed all around him. The darkness broke, harsh white light colliding with them and rendering the glitters and colors the humans adorned pale and lifeless. But not his mate. She sparkled brighter in the resulting chaos, eyes narrowing in a dare as she caught Azriel staring. She was a prey animal ready to bolt. A worm preparing to turn and reveal its teeth.

Sharp cracks of plastic on linoleum rattled the ground as leather-clad women sprinted for the kitchen door brandishing empty bottles like weapons. Y/n raced after them.

The door flapped shut behind her before Azriel had the sense to move his feet and follow, calling out, “Wait! Please!”

He was doing this very poorly. He knew better than to chase a female like this. Sickness twisted in his stomach as he slammed into metal doors and ran through hallways crowded with glass bottles, aluminum cans, and wrinkly lemons stacked precariously in wooden crates.

To your right. A shadow whispered in his ear.

Azriel slid to a stop in front of a heavy metal door, its edges frosted over with cold.

It locks from the outside.

Azriel ripped the door off its hinges and was blasted in the face by a wave of cold. Frigid air curled out of the edges of the room and slithered over the floor like smoke. A young female in a pink tutu yelped in surprise and dove for the corner of the room, hiding behind racks of beer bottles. It wasn’t his mate.

She was just a frightened female who’d hidden in the fridge, not knowing she was trapping herself in the process.

“Here.” Azriel said, quickly ripping a coat off the wall hook and tossing it towards her. She reached for it with shaking hands and lips, mumbling out a confused “Thank you?” as Azriel turned and hurried away. The door was no more. She could walk out of the freezer whenever she pleased now.

Azriel chased after his mate’s scent, stumbling through grey, blank hallways that belonged to the insurance company next door. He strained his ears to hear the tell-tale pounding of her boots, but came up empty. A dull red light told Azriel to “EXIT” as he pushed against a door groaning from rust and disuse.

He was outside once again, breathing in car exhaust and restaurant refuse.

And something sweet.

He heard the rush of air a second too late.

A bottle slammed into the side of his face, cracking and cutting his skin. Tequila washed over the wounds. It burned like a bitch.

Azriel didn’t let out a groan of pain, but he did stumble, landing on his right knee with a twinge of soreness.

The female — his mate — stared at him in horror as blood began to pool at his temple and drip down the line of his jaw. She held the shattered neck of the bottle in her hands. Her shoes were gone, toes curling against the pavement with cold.

Gods, she was beautiful.

Cassian was a blur of movement, knocking the bottle out of her hand and wrapping his arms around her arms. She screamed, squatting down before shooting back up and locking her knees. The top of her head slammed into Cassian’s nose. A brutal, bloody crack had Cassian stumbling back, gripping his nose.

“FUCK!” He swore.

She whipped around and sprayed a mist in his eyes that had him cursing like a madman and slapping the palms of his hands over his eyes.

“FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!”

Rhysand stepped forward and cornered her against the wall. Violet eyes glittered with something bordering fury and amusement.

“No.” Azriel moved between Rhys and his mate before she could spray him too. “No one touches her.”

Rhys backed up immediately. This is her?

It’s her.

He could hear her heartbeat quicker than a rabbit as she flattened herself against the wall, holding her spray out in warning. Cassian moaned in annoyance, wiping the tears that kept leaking out of his eyes.

I do not like the humans in this world. Cassian complained, sniffling. Even his nose burned.

As if Nesta wouldn’t have done this given the chance. Rhysand said.

…I see your point. Cassian muttered.

Be careful around this one.

Because she’s a menace?

Rhysand smirked, flicking dust off the sleeve of his jacket. Because she’s Azriel’s mate.

Cassian straightened. His eyes darted back and forth between Rhysand, the blood dripping from Azriel’s head, and the human female.

Oh. Cassian thought, suddenly embarrassed. We have… not made a good first impression.

You think?! Azriel all but growled.

Her fight or flight response was running out — her energy draining. She could feel it in her leaden limbs and the faint slowing of her heartbeat as the three men kept looking around like they were seeing each other for the first time.

And they kept looking at her in mixtures of shock, concern, and — surprisingly — affection.

What sick fuckery is this? She dug her fingernails into the brick, searching for cracks like she might be able to pull out a piece and throw it at them, or find some hidden portal through the wall and back into the safety of the inside.

Were they going to kidnap her? Was she about to be shoved into a bag and tossed into some dingy trunk? But then why the wings? It was too dark to see them in their entirety, but they looked meticulous and expensive and very memorable — not ideal for kidnapping. Was this a LARPING thing? Were they Satanists? Was that how this worked?

The one in front turned. The one she’d attacked with a bargain bottle of tequila. The blood had stopped flowing and darkened against his tan skin. Hazel eyes, bright and piercing as a copper penny, looked out from a face made of elegant, serious lines. His was not a face that smiled often, beautiful as it was. The burly, rugged one looked like he was made for laughing. Smile lines gently graced his cheeks and temples. But maybe those were scars. He sported many of them, like pale whiskers over his skin. The third was the most put together of the three. Instead of strange, leather armor, he wore a suit of velvet over something stiff and protective that hugged his trim waist and broad shoulders, and his eyes were violet, not hazel.

The elegant, unsmiling one coughed awkwardly, shifting to hide his wings. Shockingly, they slid closed behind his back, the movement so smooth it looked real.

“I am…” His voice was a deep, gentle caress. “I am so very sorry. I did not mean to frighten you as I did. Please, forgive me.” He was… alarmingly polite, and his accent was… pleasant, although impossible to place — all soft rolls of the tongue complimented by the rich timbre of his voice. “ Please.” He spoke the last word quietly, urgently.

Y/n said nothing. Her arm was beginning to get sore from holding out the bottle of pepper spray. Although, it can’t have been that effective if the rugged one was already recovered. Maybe it had expired without her realizing?

“My name is Azriel,” the man spoke again quickly and gently. Even his name sounded odd. “And this is Cassian—” He pointed to the burly one,“And Rhysand.” The last of the men tilted his head in a mock bow.

“A pleasure.” The violet-eyed one said. Rhysand’s voice was weighed down with sultry charm. He purred the words more than spoke them.

“Pleasure,” Cassian copied, gruff but kind.

Y/n remained silent. Somewhere in the distance, sirens wailed. The pretty one — Azriel — stepped forward and pulled out a sleek, small blade from the belt about his waist. Y/n was about to spray him in the face when he twisted the blade so that the handle faced her.

“This will do more damage than the little bottle you carry,” he promised. “I hope this will make you more trusting of me. I swear to do you no harm. I’ll even make a bargain, if it would make you trust me long enough to explain.” His wings twitched nervously and Y/n found she couldn’t draw her eyes away from them and how real they looked.

The three men kept looking at each other furtively. Conversations, complex and unknowable, hide in every twitch of their eyes.

“Speak out loud,” Azriel snarled at them finally. “You’re frightening her.”

Rhysand smiled apologetically at the female. “We need to leave. Now. You can hear the humans coming as well as I can.”

Y/n bristled at that, and a detached feeling of horror came over her. “Are you not… are you not human?”

Cassian gawked at her, speaking his wings out far and wide. “Do the humans of this world have wings?”

She sputtered to answer, fear giving way to curiosity. Azriel took advantage of that, moving close enough that he slid the blade into her hand. It was a cool, welcome weight against her hot, sweaty skin. Up close she saw he had freckles dotting the high corners of his cheeks and that his hair came alive with dark tendrils of smoke that wafted off his skin like steam. They wrapped around her and she heard their strange whispers in her ears like white noise.

“We’re not human. We’re not even from this world.” The sirens were only a block away now and Azriel swore beneath his breath. More of those dark tendrils shot out like shadows and dulled the noises of incoming fire trucks, cop cars, and EMTs. “I swear to you that I will explain more, but we must go. Please.” He took hold of her wrist, angling the blade he’d given her right beneath his last rib.

It was a dramatic declaration — if she wanted to kill him and run away, he would let her.

Y/n swallowed thickly, her mind thick with fog and the dying embers of adrenaline. “I—I parked a few blocks down that way. I can take us somewhere else.”

Azriel breathed a sigh of relief and she pulled away from him, taking with her any shred of comfort he’d felt since coming to this world.

Somehow they managed to walk the quarter of a mile to her car without being stopped once by another living soul. She suspected it had to do with the shadows that now poured off of Azriel’s skin and trailed after her. She could feel them licking at her heels like curious dogs… or blood thirsty wolves.

She gripped the knife tightly in her hand, stretching her fingers to wrap around the steering wheel as she drove through familiar roads on autopilot. Azriel watched her curiously as she stopped at a red light and clicked her blinker on.

None of the men looked comfortable squished into her tiny sedan, wings tucked in so tight they cramped. Cassian’s boot was stretched out on the center console, almost reaching the gear shift. Rhysand was hunched over in the back seat, pressing his forehead against the cool metal of the headrest in front of him to keep from getting sick.

“What is this cursed thing?” He grumbled, then promptly shut up when Y/n took them down a local road with craters that had them jolting and jerking for a mile. “This metal box… I do not like it.”

Azriel and Cassian ignored their brother. Az was too busy paying attention to his mate and politely explaining the complexity of their situation, and Cassian was too busy looking out the window at the houses that passed by. He could hear the unfamiliar hum of electricity like a dragonfly's wings.

By the time she pulled the sedan down a beaten road to a quiet, homely one-bedroom house, her mind was swimming with words and phrases she could barely string together — Koschei, fae, Illyrians, seers. It was worse than when she’d spent two all-nighters cramming for an exam in college fueled by nothing but Red Bull and desperation.

Before the keys were even out of the ignition, Rhysand was spilling out of the car and breathing in gasps of clean, woodsy air. Gravel crunched under his feet. Once this road had been paved, but time and weather had broken up the asphalt until only chunky black rocks remained. Green grass, not yet killed off by Autumn frost, grew in uneven tufts up to Y/n’s squat, brown-sided house, skirting around the makeshift garden in the backyard before disappearing into the woods beyond. Neighboring homes inched as close as they could to the main road, half-submerged in golden brown trees that trembled in the wind.

The porch steps creaked, flexing in the center like backs ready to break, but they’d recently been cleaned and painted over with a fresh coat of white. The front door had been given similar treatment, although it was painted green. A small Autumn wreath hung from a nail.

Y/n fumbled with the keys, fingers shaking and numb from the cold.

“Here,” Azriel murmured, gently taking them from her. His shadows could have unlocked the front door in less than a second, but he was in no mood to test his mate’s patience and understanding. The fact that she’d driven them to her home in the dead of night was testament to the uneasy trust she’d placed in them.

A disgruntled meow greeted them as they filed into the short and narrow entryway. Cassian bumped into the entry dresser with his wings and nearly jumped out of his skin when the dark monstrosity that sat by a ceramic dish full of rings hissed.

It was the fattest cat Cassian had ever seen.

Acidic yellow-green eyes narrowed at him, as if sensing his judgment, and the cat’s whiskers twitched along with its pink button nose.

“Jefferson, be nice.” Y/n reprimanded the cat, scooping up its rotund body into her arms. The cat swatted her shoulder once, then consented to being held. He did not like strangers in his house, even if they were Y/n’s guests. “This is Jefferson.” She looked behind her back to the rest of the house. “And this is my home.”

She busied herself preparing for her unexpected guests. She scoured the bathroom closet for spare toothbrushes, towels, and lotions, and pulled out the thickest blankets she could find. One person could sleep on the pull out couch, the other two would have to fight for the best spot on the floor.

Azriel watched her as she moved. It was not a large house — it was barely even a cottage — and it took his shadows a short time to familiarize themselves with your home.

A lumpy couch, wicker armchair, and coffee table made up the living room, tied together by a retro rug that may have once been white, but was now a respectable beige. Four mismatched chairs huddled around a scratched wooden table near the kitchen, one of which carried a stuffy cushion that held the imprint of Jefferson’s soft body.

The cat watched them from the kitchen counter with its piercing eyes, and did not seem at all concerned when a stray shadow wound around its tail.

Pathetic. All of them! Were the cat’s thoughts. Master will not like this.

His eyes did soften when Y/n returned from her bedroom, arms heavy with blankets and sheets and pillows. Azriel quickly relieved her of her burden, promising that they’d spent nights in worse conditions than a heated house with bedding and clean floors.

She seemed charmed by that and almost smiled. Almost.

“There’s leftovers in the fridge if you get hungry, and the bathroom’s by the front door. I’ve already put some toothbrushes and towels in there if you need them.”

“Thank you,” Azriel said softly, tilting his head in a faint bow. His brothers followed suit before busying themselves laying out blankets and pillows like they’d done this a thousand times before — which they had.

Y/n nodded curtly and swept a judgmental Jefferson into her arms before disappearing into her room. Azriel heard the lock click into place and the rummaging of drawers as she pulled out an extra can of pepper spray, a pair of scissors, and the three knives she’d taken from the kitchen. She bolted her windows and drew the curtains closed and even stuffed a towel into the space beneath her doors just in case.

She was meticulous and careful despite her generosity, and Azriel found himself smitten at her resourcefulness.

Stop thinking about her and go the fuck to sleep, Az. Cassian grumbled. He could feel the longing dripping off of Azriel’s shoulders. She’ll feel more comfortable if she knows we’re asleep.

How much would you like to bet she kills us in the night? Rhysand asked, and then seemed amused by the prospect of it.

I’d worry more about the cat. Cassian chuckled. Then he turned over onto his stomach and was out like a light. Centuries spent in war camp barracks and makeshift battlefield tents had taught him to steal sleep wherever and whenever he could.

Rhysand was quick to follow suit, although centuries as a High Lord had pampered him just a little.

Azriel stayed awake, waiting to hear your heartbeat and breathing slow to a comfortable pace. But it never happened. Not even as the sunlight trickled in and touched the light-bleached floors.

#azriel x reader #azriel x y/n #azriel shadowsinger #azriel x you #acotar fanfiction #acotar #have I ever gone clubbing like this?#no #but can I imagine it?#Yes!

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atelierlili · 6 months ago

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Gale and Katniss in District 13.

Gale: Ew, we're having cream of corn again. I hate how mushy it is.

Katniss: *sniffles* It's the exact same shade as Peeta's eyebrows.

Gale: The what-

#Gonna make a gag comic of this later #before I foget #I can't get Gale being the victim of Everlark divorce out of my head lmao #everlark #katniss everdeen #the hunger games #thg

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sturnsdoll · 10 months ago

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𝙂𝙄𝙍𝙇𝙔 𝙂𝙁 ˚୨୧⋆｡ - M.S

(headcannons!)

pairing: matt x girly/hyperfem!reader

warnings: hc's, sfw and nsfw but they are labelled as such.

nsfw warnings: dom!matt, sub!reader, implied spanking, dirty talk, mostly just super suggestive.

authors note: multiple people requested a matt version so here you go <3

SFW !

ೃ⁀➷ one of the first things matt loved about you was the way you express yourself through your style.

ೃ⁀➷ how could he keep his eyes off you with bows dangling and intertwined through your hair, belt loops or pretty much anything else you could stick em' on

ೃ⁀➷ watching you lay peacefully against your pink silk sheets never fails to lure him into crawling under your matching covers to cuddle and stroke your perfectly cared for hair into further relaxation.

ೃ⁀➷ anytime your cake-esque fragrance is sprayed around him he has to pull you into him. he's addicted to it like crack. he has to bury his face into your neck, inhaling like he'll never be graced with it again.

ೃ⁀➷ anytime he's out he's looking for things you'd accesorize with..

ೃ⁀➷ matt would be searching through every color of ribbon in every store he's in for a color, size or texture that you don't have.

ೃ⁀➷ matt would want to buy you makeup because he knows how good you feel about yourself while wearing it.. not saying he'd be good at picking out the right shades but hey, he tries right??

ೃ⁀➷ matt loves watching the bottom of your skirt dance and twirl while you bounce around your room with your fav artist playing..

ೃ⁀➷ you hum the lyrics while organizing your closet that's drowned in shades of pink..

ೃ⁀➷ "need help sweetheart?" "i'm okay, thanks" and even though he knew you were sincere from the sweet grin on your pretty lips, he'd get up from the comfort of your bed to assist anyways. he couldn't let your pretty little head get too exhausted now could he?

ೃ⁀➷ he knows how capable you are though, there's no doubt. he enjoys taking care of you but knows your more than able on your own

ೃ⁀➷ he would try his hardest to be assertive when he's angry but it was always impossible.

ೃ⁀➷ mid arguement you'd find yourself inching closer till you reach him. you take his hand. he can't ignore your perfect shiny acrylic nails (that he paid for) grazing along his palm to slowly interlock with his longer, masculine fingers.

ೃ⁀➷ "i'm sorry matt, i'll make it up to you. " you'd apologize sincerly.

ೃ⁀➷ before he could even think about saying no, your lashes batting up at him with doe eyes beneath them would usually force him to the final decision of teaching you how to behave another way...

NSFW !

ೃ⁀➷ "you think you look all innocent don't you?" now your backed up and corned against your makeup table. a few lipglosses knock over when the back of your thighs hit the table, your hands coming behind to steady yourself.

ೃ⁀➷ you'd nod your head. matt's dry laugh makes wetness pool beneath your skirt faster than you're willing to admit. "we'll see how much of a good girl you really are then yeah?" then next thing you know you'd be holding off your orgasms, being left begging for at least the 3rd time in a row.

ೃ⁀➷ and it never took much to get him going.

ೃ⁀➷ matt and you would be with his friends and all it'd take would be a graze of your perfect nails against his jeans for him to crave them wrapped around his dick.

ೃ⁀➷ your perfect pink lips pouting at him as you asked to go home early..

ೃ⁀➷ your eyes telling him you weren't wearing the shortest skirt you could find for no reason.

ೃ⁀➷ matt never really cared about you doing much for him sexually. making you feel good is what got him off. you were his princess and you needed to feel as such, in and out of the bedroom.

ೃ⁀➷ contradictory to that though, being a princess means being a bit of a brat and he knows how to deal with you when needed.

ೃ⁀➷ if it came to it, he'd pull you out of any social event (dinner, party, hangout, doesn't matter) and take you to his car.

ೃ⁀➷ your sweet demeanor never stopped him from ruining you.

ೃ⁀➷ "you think that shit's cute?" you quickly mutter back a "no" while knowing damn well that being bent over his lap in the backseat as your tears of pain and pleasure ruined your makeup was exactly what you were hoping for.

ೃ⁀➷ "who's dog was in here?" nick would ask matt the next day, eyeing at the nail shaped imprints in the seat cover. chris' head whips around from the front to spot your hair ribbon discarded on the floor. he put two and two together. "matt, there's absaloutely no way dude... in nick's seat seriously?!"

(sorry if any of the tags didn't work) tags ᥫ᭡ : @mattsrod @sturncakez @sturniololovesss @sturniolosstar @sstvrnioloo @watercolorskyy @pettydollie @sturniol0s @6ix9inewiturmom @sonicsmacks @orangelala

#matt sturniolo #sturnsdoll #sturniolo triplets #matt sturniolo smut #matt sturniolo x reader #matt sturniolo headcannons #matt sturniolo x girly reader #sturniolo fanfic #sturniolo triplets fanfic

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sabrinasopposite · 1 month ago

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you'll always find a way back home ❀

clark kent x reader (miley stewart summer au)

❀ summary: being a cali-girl has its advantages—surrounded by beaches, parties, and sunshine. Y/N loves her life there, but she forgets that deep down, her roots lie in the opposite: Smallville. Her summer takes an unexpected turn when she returns to Smallville for her summer break and crosses paths once again with her childhood enemy, Clark Kent.

word count: 6,755

There’s always the best of both worlds—one filled with glamour and the other, well, the opposite of it. The same could be said for Malibu and Smallville. Malibu embodied glamorous salt air, the sound of waves, and the endless rush of life. Smallville, on the other hand, was different: cows, meadows, and pure silence—the opposite sides of existence.

For Y/N, the feeling of living in two different worlds wasn’t a big deal. She had left one world behind at the age of seven, spending the next ten years in Malibu. Salt air, endless beaches, and the golden glow of the sun—it was a life she had carved out for herself, a world she had seamlessly become part of. The rush of city life, the hum of vibrant streets, and the pulse of constant motion nourished her soul in ways she could never have imagined as a seven-year-old. The sprawling metropolis of Malibu felt like a living, thriving entity at the edge of the world.

Before Malibu, there was only Smallville. The life she had known as a child was painted in shades of green—vast, open fields stretching endlessly in every direction. The land was quiet, so silent it could almost swallow her whole. Days were spent wandering dusty roads on horseback, the sun scorching the back of her neck, while the sound of crickets and rustling corn served as her only soundtrack. It was a life where the horizon never seemed to change, and the sense of being trapped within the narrow confines of the small town’s heartbeat was ever-present. A world of barns, hand-me-down denim, and the thick scent of earth—the very soil seemed to anchor her in place, a constant reminder of who she once was.

Then came the transformation. She shed the weight of Smallville like an old, weathered coat and replaced it with the sleek, gleaming allure of Malibu. Gone were the cowboy boots—now she walked in strappy sandals. The scent of hay gave way to the salty tang of the ocean breeze. Her hands, once calloused from farmwork, now held delicate silk fabrics and the soft sheen of designer handbags. Dusty roads became wide, pristine boulevards, and the simple country air was replaced by the intoxicating aroma of city life.

And she liked it.

Hell, she loved it.

She loved being a city girl, a Cali girl.

She had long forgotten the quiet winds that swept through Smallville’s open fields, the scent of grass and earth underfoot, and the cool embrace of the night sky.

Yet, as summer break loomed, she envisioned herself spending it with friends at the beach or going to parties. But plans took an unexpected twist, like a tornado without warning. Her father, Robbie, appeared with his ever-stubborn insistence. He informed Y/N and her brother, Jackson, that they were heading back to Smallville for a celebration—Martha Kent’s birthday.

Martha, Robbie’s childhood friend and the ever-kind, patient woman, had invited them to join the Kents for the occasion. Y/N wasn’t thrilled. Her original summer plans had promised excitement, filled with the laughter of friends and the sparkle of club lights—the kind of plans Malibu always encouraged. Smallville, though? It felt like a relic of the past, a place where time stood still.

“I don’t want to go,” Y/N protested, her voice sharp with frustration as she flopped back onto the couch. “I had plans. I was going to hang out with my friends, hit the clubs, you know, actually have fun.”

Robbie raised an eyebrow. “This is important, Y/N. You haven’t seen Martha in years. She’s been asking about you. You’re going, and that’s final.”

Y/N crossed her arms, glaring at him. “You’re really going to make me spend my break in a field with cows and tractors?”

Her brother, Jackson—the ever-peacemaker and, somehow, the most annoying brother—glanced over with a sympathetic smile. “Come on, Y/N, it’ll be fun. Like old times. You can hang out with me, catch up with everyone, and maybe the fresh air will do you some good.”

Y/N groaned, slumping into the cushions. “I don’t need fresh air. I need a beach, not cornfields.”

But her father wasn’t listening to her complaints. “Pack your bags. We’re leaving in an hour.”

The truck rumbled along the familiar winding roads of Smallville, the scent of dust and fresh air filling the cab. Y/N leaned against the window, her fingers idly tracing patterns in the condensation. Outside, fields stretched endlessly in all directions, dotted with grazing cows and the occasional weathered barn. The sight should have been nostalgic, but to Y/N, it only deepened her annoyance.

It had been years since she’d been here, yet the quiet of the countryside felt almost suffocating. The stillness pressed against her like a heavy blanket, the kind that made it hard to breathe. Smallville seemed frozen in time—its unchanging landscapes a stark contrast to the vibrant motion of Malibu.

She glanced over at Jackson, who was scrolling through his phone in the passenger seat, annoyingly unbothered by their sudden detour into the past. Robbie sat behind the wheel, humming along to a country station on the radio, clearly in his element. The whole scene made Y/N’s skin itch.

She sighed, the sound loud enough to get Jackson’s attention. He smirked without looking up from his phone. “You okay there, city girl?”

“Fine,” Y/N muttered, shifting in her seat. She wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of knowing how irritated she was. But in truth, she wasn’t fine. The weight of Smallville’s simplicity—the fields, the dirt roads, the lack of anything remotely exciting—was already settling over her like a cloud.

The truck slowed as they passed the familiar white sign welcoming them to Smallville. Y/N’s stomach twisted uncomfortably. The memories she’d worked so hard to bury began clawing their way back to the surface: the laughter of kids on the school playground, the smell of hay bales during harvest, the quiet nights spent staring at the stars because there was nothing else to do.

She shifted her gaze back to the window, trying to drown out the flood of emotions with the rhythmic crunch of the tires on the gravel road. “Why couldn’t we just send a card?” she grumbled under her breath, earning a chuckle from Robbie.

“It won’t kill you to be here for a few days,” her father said, his tone equal parts teasing and firm. “Besides, Martha’s been looking forward to seeing you. She’s practically family, Y/N.”

Y/N rolled her eyes. That was the problem. Smallville wasn’t just a place she’d left behind—it was a version of herself she’d buried, a girl she didn’t want to be anymore. Being back here felt like opening a door she’d slammed shut years ago, and she wasn’t ready to step through it.

As the truck turned down a familiar dirt road, the Kent farmhouse came into view. It looked exactly as she remembered—whitewashed walls, a wide wraparound porch, and the iconic red barn standing proud against the horizon. Y/N could already picture Martha’s warm smile and open arms, the way she’d welcome them with fresh pie and a hug that felt like it could squeeze the air out of your lungs.

Her father parked the truck and hopped out, stretching with a contented sigh. “We’re here,” he announced cheerfully.

Y/N stayed put, gripping the door handle but not opening it. The idea of stepping out and being enveloped in the reality of Smallville made her stomach churn. She wasn’t ready to see the barn, the fields, or the people who would ask her questions she didn’t want to answer. She wasn’t ready to feel like the little girl who used to belong here.

“Y/N?” Jackson’s voice broke through her thoughts. He was standing outside now, leaning against the truck with a knowing look on his face. “You coming, or are you planning to live in the cab?”

With a heavy sigh, Y/N pushed the door open and slid out. The warm summer air wrapped around her like a blanket, carrying with it the faint scent of freshly cut grass and the soft rustle of leaves in the breeze. It was as if Smallville itself was welcoming her home.

She shoved her hands into the pockets of her jeans and trudged toward the house, muttering under her breath, “This is going to be the longest summer of my life.”

The Kent farmhouse was just as Y/N remembered it, a picture-perfect postcard of rural life. The white picket fence framed the yard, the flowerbeds bursting with color, and the iconic red barn standing tall against the clear blue sky. Despite herself, she felt a twinge of warmth at the sight of it all.

Martha Kent stood on the porch, her apron dusted with flour, waving enthusiastically as the truck pulled to a stop. Y/N couldn’t help but smile a little. Martha’s energy was infectious, and her kind heart had always been a constant source of comfort during Y/N’s early years in Smallville.

“Y/N! Jackson! Oh, it’s so good to see you both!” Martha exclaimed, rushing forward with open arms. Robbie got out of the truck first, grinning as Martha pulled him into a quick hug before moving on to Y/N and Jackson.

Y/N braced herself for the inevitable bone-crushing hug, but when Martha wrapped her arms around her, it wasn’t suffocating—it was warm and reassuring, like stepping into the sunlight after a cloudy day. “Look at you! You’ve grown into such a beautiful young woman,” Martha said, pulling back to get a good look at her.

“Thanks, Martha,” Y/N said, her voice softening in spite of her earlier annoyance. “It’s nice to see you again.”

“And Jackson, my goodness, you’ve shot up like a weed!” Martha added, giving him a playful nudge.

Jackson grinned, always happy to be the center of attention. “It’s good to see you too, Mrs. Kent.”

“Now, none of this ‘Mrs. Kent’ business. You know you can call me Martha,” she said, ushering them toward the porch.

The house smelled like freshly baked apple pie, with hints of cinnamon and nutmeg lingering in the air. Y/N couldn’t deny that it felt nice—familiar, even. Martha’s home had always been a safe haven, a place filled with warmth and kindness.

As they settled into the living room, Martha brought out a tray of lemonade and cookies, chatting animatedly with Robbie about old times. Jackson joined in, sharing stories of their life in Malibu. Y/N stayed mostly quiet, sipping her lemonade and letting the conversation flow around her. She liked Martha, but being back in Smallville was like stepping into a pair of old shoes that didn’t quite fit anymore.

“Clark’s not here, by the way,” Martha said suddenly, glancing at Y/N with a knowing smile. “He’s somewhere.”

Y/N froze, her fingers tightening around her glass. Of course, Clark Kent would come up eventually. He was practically Smallville royalty, and Martha couldn’t help but dote on her son.

“That’s… fine,” Y/N said quickly, trying to keep her tone neutral.

Clark Kent was the most annoying boy next door, y/n has ever known. He was always teasing her about her farming skills, or pulled pranks with Jackson on her. Y/N always teased Clark that he couldn’t speak properly to girls, or that he looks like a grandpa. It was always forth and back.

Martha chuckled softly, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “I seem to remember the two of you didn’t get along very well as kids.”

Jackson snorted. “Didn’t get along? That’s putting it mildly. Clark was always teasing her—pushing her to the hay, hiding her toys, calling her ‘city slicker’ even though she wasn’t from the city back then.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, annoyance was clear on her face. “Yeah, well, he was a terror. I’m surprised he didn’t get himself kicked out of kindergarten.”

Martha laughed, clearly amused. “Oh, he’s grown out of that phase, I promise. He’ll be happy to see you.”

Y/N highly doubted that. The last time she’d seen Clark Kent, they’d been seven years old, and he’d shoved a frog into her lunchbox, resulting in her shrieking so loudly the teacher had to call the principal and Y/N pushed him later as revenge to a lake. The memory still made her cringe.

“Well, let’s hope he’s matured,” Y/N said in a sarcastically tone, setting her glass down on the coffee table.

Martha patted her hand gently. “I’m sure you’ll both get along better now. People change, Y/N.”

“Sure they do,” Y/N replied, though she wasn’t convinced. If Clark Kent was still the same smug, teasing boy she remembered, this summer was about to become a whole lot more complicated.

After the small talk in the living room had run its course, Y/N found herself wandering toward the window, gazing out at the sprawling fields behind the Kent house. Her eyes drifted to the paddock near the barn, and her breath caught when she spotted a familiar figure—Blue Jeans, her old horse.

The years hadn’t dulled his striking appearance. His glossy black coat gleamed in the sunlight, his white star-shaped marking standing out proudly on his forehead. Her heart squeezed as memories of riding him across the fields rushed back—those carefree days when the world felt vast and full of possibilities.

“He’s still here,” Y/N murmured, more to herself than anyone else.

Martha, who had been tidying up, looked over and smiled warmly. “Of course, he is. Robbie couldn’t bear to part with him after you guys left. He’s been here ever since.”

Y/N couldn’t help the faint smile that tugged at her lips. Blue Jeans had been her constant companion during her Smallville years, a source of comfort when the quiet got too loud. She suddenly felt a tug of nostalgia and longing that she hadn’t anticipated.

“I’m going to go see him,” she said abruptly, grabbing her phone and heading toward the door.

The heat of the sun kissed her skin as she walked across the yard, the scents of hay and earth growing stronger with every step. When she reached the paddock, Blue Jeans was grazing lazily near the fence, his tail swishing against the flies.

“Hey there, boy,” Y/N called softly, leaning against the wooden fence. Her voice wavered slightly, a mix of excitement and nervousness. “It’s me, Blue Jeans. Remember me?”

The horse’s ears twitched, and he lifted his head to look at her. His dark eyes, once so full of trust and familiarity, now stared at her with a distant curiosity. Y/N felt a pang of disappointment.

“It’s been a while, huh?” she said, stepping closer. She reached out a hand, hoping he’d recognize her scent or the sound of her voice. “I’ve missed you, you know.”

Blue Jeans regarded her for a moment longer before snorting and turning his head away, clearly uninterested.

“Come on, don’t be like that,” Y/N murmured, slipping through the fence and into the paddock. She approached slowly, her hand outstretched, but as soon as she got close, Blue Jeans startled. His ears pinned back, and before she could react, he bolted across the paddock, his hooves kicking up clouds of dust.

“Blue Jeans, wait!” Y/N called, her heart sinking as she watched him gallop toward the far side of the field.

She stood there for a moment, the weight of his reaction pressing down on her. He didn’t remember her. The bond they’d shared—the one she’d thought would last forever—was gone.

Frustration welled up as she stopped near the edge of the pasture, catching her breath. She hadn’t expected this—her own horse, the one she’d ridden through countless childhood summers, didn’t even know her anymore.

Movement on the far side of the field caught her eye. A rider was approaching swiftly on a sleek black horse, cutting across the open space with practiced ease. They seemed to have noticed Blue Jeans’ runaway gallop and were moving to intercept him.

Y/N squinted, trying to make out the rider. The sunlight glinted off the black horse’s glossy coat as the figure leaned low in the saddle, guiding the animal with effortless precision.

The rider expertly maneuvered their horse, heading off Blue Jeans before he could get any farther. With a firm but gentle pull of the reins, they brought him to a halt. The black horse stood steady, calm in its dominance, while Blue Jeans pawed at the ground, uncertain but no longer running.

Y/N stood frozen, watching the rider stroke Blue Jeans’ neck and murmur something she couldn’t hear. She felt a pang of gratitude mixed with curiosity.

As the rider turned and began leading the two horses back toward the barn, Y/N finally got a better look. The tall figure was dressed in a simple flannel shirt, jeans, and boots. The confidence in his movements stirred something vaguely familiar in her memory, but she couldn’t place it right away.

When the rider dismounted, handing Blue Jeans’ reins to her, Y/N finally got a clear look at his face—and her breath caught.

Clark Kent.

Of course, that was him.

He looked different—taller, broader, more confident—but the smug little smirk on his face as he approached was unmistakable.

“Lost something?” he called out, his voice carrying across the field.

Y/N crossed her arms, her jaw tightening as Clark brought both horses to a stop in front of her. Blue Jeans looked calm now, his ears twitching as Clark dismounted and handed her the reins.

“Your horse didn’t seem too thrilled to see you,” Clark said, his tone light but with that teasing edge she remembered all too well.

Y/N snatched the reins from his hand, glaring at him. “He just didn’t recognize me. It’s been a while.”

Clark raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “Sure, if that’s what you want to tell yourself.”

She huffed, focusing on stroking Blue Jeans’ neck instead of responding. Clark’s black horse snorted behind him, and Y/N couldn’t help but notice how well-trained and strong the animal looked.

“What are you doing here, anyway?” she asked, trying to sound casual but failing to hide her irritation.

Clark shrugged, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “I could ask you the same, city girl. Perhaps I was riding but I didn’t think I’d end up saving your horse in the process and I am still waiting for a ,thank you,” His tone sarcastically as ever.

“Thanks,” she muttered begrudgingly, avoiding his gaze.

“You’re welcome,” he replied, his tone annoyingly cheerful.

As Clark mounted his horse again, he glanced back at her with a grin that made her blood boil. “Good to see you again, city girl. Try not to lose him next time.”

With that, he urged his horse into a trot and rode off, leaving Y/N standing there with Blue Jeans and a swirl of emotions she didn’t want to unpack.

“Great,” she muttered under her breath, tugging lightly on Blue Jeans’ reins. “Welcome back to Smallville.”

Y/N walked slowly back toward the barn, Blue Jeans obediently following behind her, though he was still skittish from the brief escape. Her thoughts were racing, the familiar, maddening presence of Clark Kent bringing all kinds of feelings she’d hoped were buried. She couldn’t believe it—after all these years, he was still the same teasing, infuriating kid she remembered. Only now, he was taller, more confident, and somehow, even more irritating.

As she reached the barn, she heard the sound of hooves approaching again. This time, it was slower, more deliberate. She glanced over her shoulder, and sure enough, there was Clark, riding his horse back toward her.

He pulled the reins as he stopped a few feet away, his eyes narrowing with that mischievous glint she remembered so well.

“So, Malibu, huh?” he said, his tone light and teasing, as if he was trying to provoke her. “I actually didn’t even recognize you earlier. Thought you were some California tourist passing through.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, trying to ignore the heat rising in her cheeks. “You’re not the first person to make that mistake,” she muttered, stroking Blue Jeans’ neck a little more forcefully than necessary.

Clark chuckled, clearly enjoying her discomfort. “No kidding. You look nothing like the girl I used to torment.” His gaze shifted up and down, inspecting her with an expression that felt far too knowing. “You’ve definitely changed. I barely recognized you without the pigtails and the dirt on your face.”

Y/N couldn’t suppress a huff of frustration. “Oh, I’m sure you’ve been really paying attention,” she shot back, her voice laced with sarcasm. “Why would I want to look like that annoying little girl you used to pick on?”

Clark grinned, clearly enjoying every second of this. “You know, I never understood why you were so touchy about me teasing you. It was all in good fun. You were, what, seven? Not like you’d remember any of it now.” His eyes twinkled as if he was savoring the memory of their childhood rivalry.

“Trust me,” Y/N replied, her tone sharp, “I remember plenty. And just because I don’t look like that girl anymore doesn’t mean I’m not still the same person.”

Clark leaned back slightly in the saddle, crossing his arms over his chest. “Right. Of course. But it’s hard to see past the whole… Malibu vibe. You’ve got the whole ‘I’m way too cool for Smallville’ thing going on.” His grin widened, and Y/N couldn’t tell if he was teasing her or genuinely poking at something he knew would get under her skin.

Y/N glanced at him, narrowing her eyes. “I’m not too cool for Smallville,” she said slowly, “but maybe it’s you who can’t see past the small-town life. Maybe it’s you who hasn’t changed.”

Clark raised an eyebrow, seemingly unfazed by her comment. “I changed. I’m just not *bragging* about it like you are.” He made a sweeping gesture with his hand, indicating the way she stood in front of him, her posture more confident, her clothes undoubtedly a far cry from the ones she’d worn all those years ago. “I mean, Malibu does wonders for a person.”

Y/N felt her cheeks flush but refused to back down. “I’m not bragging. And for the record, there’s more to me than whatever you think you see from your small-town perspective.” She met his gaze, refusing to let him get the best of her. “You know, I didn’t ask for this visit. I had better plans than standing here in the dust, talking to the same person who made my life miserable when we were kids.”

Clark leaned forward in the saddle, his expression softening slightly. “Hey, I’m just messing with you. I didn’t mean anything by it. But seriously, Malibu… It must be a whole different world from here, huh?” His tone was more genuine now, though still laced with that teasing undercurrent. “I bet it’s *pretty* hard to leave it all behind.”

Y/N hesitated. For a moment, the teasing and the rivalry faded, and she could hear the underlying curiosity in his voice. “Yeah,” she admitted, her shoulders relaxing just a little. “It’s... different. It’s all the things people think it is—beaches, sun, parties. But it’s also lonely. Harder than people realize.”

Clark’s smile faded, and he gave a small nod, as if he understood more than he was letting on. “I get it. Doesn’t matter how shiny things are. Not every place feels like home.”

Y/N looked at him, surprised by the change in tone. For a moment, it felt like they weren’t just two childhood enemies standing in the middle of a field—they were two people who, in their own ways, were just trying to make sense of their worlds.

But before she could say anything more, Clark seemed to snap back to his usual self. “Well, I’ll let you get back to your horse,” he said with a wink. “Just don’t lose him again, okay? I don’t want to have to rescue you next time.”

Y/N scowled. “You’re lucky I’m not punching you right now,” she shot back, but even as she said it, there was an undeniable hint of a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

Clark laughed, a light, carefree sound that made Y/N realize how little she actually knew about the boy who had teased her for so long. “I’ll be around, city girl. Don’t go getting too comfortable.”

Y/N watched him go, the sting of their old rivalry still there but somehow not as sharp. Maybe Smallville wasn’t as small as she remembered after all.

Over the next few days, Y/N found herself spending more time with Clark than she’d expected. Every time she tried to avoid him, he seemed to find a way to show up, like some kind of cosmic joke. And despite her best efforts to maintain her distance, she couldn’t help but feel a strange pull toward him. It was the kind of pull that only small towns seemed to foster—familiar, unspoken, and inescapable.

It started innocently enough. Martha had insisted that they all help with the chores around the farm, and, of course, Clark had been the first to show up, grinning like a cat that had gotten the cream.

“Ready to get your hands dirty, city girl?” he’d teased, standing at the entrance of the barn with his sleeves rolled up, looking like he belonged there more than anyone else.

Y/N shot him a glare, arms crossed. “I’ll have you know, I’m perfectly capable of doing chores, thank you very much.”

He chuckled, clearly not convinced. “I doubt you’ve done a real day’s work in your life,” he shot back, leaning against a barrel of hay. “I mean, Malibu’s great and all, but I don’t think they teach you how to muck out a stall out there.”

She clenched her jaw. “You’d be surprised what I can handle.”

And handle it, she did. After a little grumbling, they worked side by side, shoveling hay, cleaning out the barn, and feeding the animals. At first, it was awkward—Y/N wasn’t used to the rhythm of farm life anymore, and Clark didn’t hesitate to point out every little mistake she made.

“Oh, you missed a spot,” he’d tease, always with that smirk of his, as he wiped his hands on his jeans. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it, city girl.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, but the truth was, she liked the banter. It reminded her of her childhood, when everything was simpler, when everything had felt like a game.

“Look, if you think I can’t do this, just wait until I show you how it’s done,” she said, determined to prove him wrong.

Clark raised an eyebrow. “Oh really? I’m waiting.”

And then, to his surprise, Y/N had grabbed the pitchfork and shoveled with more precision than he had expected. She might not have grown up with the same skills as him, but she knew how to get things done.

When they finally took a break, Clark leaned against the barn wall, wiping his forehead. “Alright, I’ll admit it. You’re not as bad as I thought. Maybe Malibu’s *not* all you are.”

Y/N smirked, a spark of competition in her eyes. “Told you so.”

Their time together continued like that—moments of teasing and lighthearted jabs followed by quiet, almost comfortable silences. They’d ride together out in the fields, their horses’ hooves beating a steady rhythm on the dirt. Clark would always make sure to *just barely* stay ahead of her, giving her a playful wink when she caught up.

“You know, I’ve always been better at this than you,” he would say, his voice a mix of challenge and amusement. “You used to be so slow. Guess Malibu's not doing much for your speed.”

Y/N would roll her eyes. “You really need to stop talking about the past, Kent. I’m faster now. Catch me if you can.”

And then she’d race ahead, her heart pounding in the excitement of the chase. Clark would grin and follow, effortlessly keeping pace with her, never really pushing to overtake her. They were both competitive, in their own ways, but Clark’s subtle teasing always managed to keep her on her toes.

One afternoon, after a long ride, they returned to the barn, both a little winded and flushed from the exertion. Clark tied the horses up, and when he turned to Y/N, he caught her looking at him for a moment longer than she intended.

“What?” he asked, his grin widening as he noticed the lingering look.

“Nothing,” Y/N replied quickly, her heart unexpectedly fluttering. “I was just thinking how *different* it is being here. It feels… good, I guess. Like it fits.”

Clark didn’t miss the tone in her voice. “Glad to hear it,” he said quietly, his smile softer now, like he wasn’t just teasing her for once. “You know, Smallville has a way of doing that to people. It’s like it gets under your skin.”

Y/N swallowed, feeling her heartbeat quicken. “Yeah, I guess it does.”

And then, almost as if to remind her that some things never really changed, Clark stepped closer, leaning in just a bit too close for comfort. “I’m still way better at riding than you, though,” he said, his voice low with that playful challenge. “I mean, you did need me to catch your horse earlier.”

Y/N huffed, trying to stay unaffected by the closeness. “I don’t remember asking for your help.”

He flashed a grin, his eyes lingering on her face for just a beat too long. “I’ll remind you of that next time I rescue you from your own horse again.”

The air between them shifted, a silent tension hanging in the barn as they stood in the afterglow of their ride, the sound of the horses settling in the background. Y/N felt a knot tighten in her stomach, but before she could respond, Clark seemed to snap back into his usual playful demeanor.

“Well, I’d better go help my mom with dinner,” he said, a little too casually. “You know, so you don’t think I’m just here to torment you all day.”

“Too late for that,” she retorted, though her lips twitched into a small smile.

And as Clark walked away, Y/N found herself watching him longer than she probably should have. It wasn’t just the way he’d changed physically—stronger, taller, more confident. It was the way he seemed to settle back into Smallville with a comfort that felt almost... easy. The way they both fell back into their old rhythm of teasing and rivalry, like time had stood still, despite everything.

But somewhere beneath the playful jabs and the teasing grins, Y/N couldn’t ignore the fact that maybe—just maybe—Clark Kent had grown up in ways she hadn’t expected. And that left her wondering if there was more to the new Clark than the boy who used to torment her so many years ago.

The next day, after a hearty breakfast at the Kent farm, Clark suggested they go on a ride to a place he thought she might like—a small waterfall hidden away just on the outskirts of town. He’d mentioned it casually, like it was no big deal, but Y/N could tell there was something about this spot that meant more to him than he was letting on.

They saddled their horses and set off, the cool morning air whipping past them as they rode side by side through the fields. The peaceful rhythm of the horses' galloping hooves against the dirt seemed to melt away all the tension that had lingered between them the past few days. It was easy, comfortable, in a way Y/N hadn’t expected. There was something about being on horseback, moving through the wide-open space, that made her feel connected to this place again—like she was finding pieces of herself she had forgotten.

Clark led her down a narrow path that wound through trees, and soon the sound of rushing water filled the air. They emerged from the trees and reached the small clearing. There, nestled between moss-covered rocks, was a hidden waterfall, cascading down into a crystal-clear pool below. Sunlight filtered through the trees, casting dancing shadows on the water's surface. It was quieter here, the only sound the rush of water and the occasional birdcall.

“Wow,” Y/N breathed, momentarily stunned by the beauty of it. “This is... amazing. I never thought a place like this would be hiding right here.”

Clark smiled, clearly proud of the spot. “Told you. It’s one of my favorite places. Not many people know about it.”

He dismounted, tying the horses to a nearby tree, and then looked over at Y/N. “You should come down to the water. It’s the best part.”

Y/N hesitated for just a second, eyeing the small, clear pool at the base of the waterfall. “I don’t know, Clark. It looks kind of... cold.”

Clark grinned. “It’s refreshing. Trust me, you’ll love it. Besides,” he added with a mischievous glint in his eyes, “you could use a little adventure. Also don’t you have beaches in Malibu?”

Y/N raised an eyebrow, her own grin tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Oh, don’t even start with that again.”

But before she could protest any further, Clark was already walking toward the water’s edge, kicking off his boots and rolling up his sleeves. Without warning, he jumped into the sea with a splash, sending water flying in every direction. Y/N couldn’t help but laugh at the sight of him, drenched but clearly enjoying himself.

Clark poked his head out from the water, eyes sparkling. “Come on, it’s not so bad!”

Y/N shook her head, still laughing at the sight of him. “You’re crazy,” she called, but even as she said it, she found herself grinning. There was something about seeing him so carefree, so unguarded, that made her feel... lighter, like the tension between them from their childhood had completely evaporated.

After a beat, she hesitated. She hadn’t planned on going into the water, but part of her felt like maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe it was time to let go of her reservations and enjoy the moment.

With a resigned sigh, Y/N slowly walked toward the water, kicking off her own boots and rolling up her sleeves. She dipped a toe in, testing the water, and winced at the coolness.

“See? Not that bad,” Clark teased, grinning like a boy who had just won a victory.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” she muttered, but before she could fully make up her mind, Clark swam closer to her, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

“Race you to the waterfall,” he said, his voice light with playful challenge.

Without waiting for a response, he splashed through the water, making his way toward the base of the waterfall.

Y/N’s competitive spirit flared up instantly. “You’re on!” she shouted, charging after him.

The water was cold, but the rush of the challenge and the sight of Clark splashing ahead of her made her forget the chill. She pushed forward, splashing water everywhere, and as she caught up to him, she could hear him laughing. The sound was carefree, filled with the kind of joy that she hadn’t heard from him in years. It made her heart flutter in a way she wasn’t quite prepared for.

Clark reached the waterfall first, turning back to look at her. “I knew you were slow.”

Y/N shot him a mock glare. “Not funny.”

But before she could protest further, Clark lunged toward her and, with a quick move, grabbed her around the waist and pulled her into the deeper part of the sea. Y/N yelped in surprise, but her protest was cut short as she found herself falling into the cool water, completely submerged for a moment.

She came up sputtering, her hair plastered to her face. “You jerk!”

Clark was already laughing, his eyes full of playful amusement. “Couldn’t resist,” he teased. “You’ve got to admit, it’s fun.”

Y/N wiped the water from her face, but as she looked up at him, something shifted between them. The teasing glint in Clark’s eyes softened for a moment, and for a beat, there was something in his gaze that made her heart skip.

He reached out, pushing a wet strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering on her skin for just a second longer than necessary. “You know, I’ve missed this,” he said, his voice quieter now, the teasing gone, replaced by something more genuine.

Y/N swallowed, her heart pounding in her chest. “Missed what?”

He smiled softly, his eyes locking with hers. “To tease you the whole time?”

Y/N’s lips curved into a chuckle, shaking her head. “Really? That’s all you’re going to say?”

Clark chuckled, tilting his head as he moved a bit closer. “What exactly do you want me to say, then?”

Y/N found herself looking into his eyes for a moment longer than usual, her breath catching. There was something about his tone, something flirtatious but also not, and it made her feel... strangely open to the moment.

She let out a soft breath, her lips curving into a small, genuine smile. “Like that you missed me,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Clark’s gaze softened, a hint of something more real flashing across his expression. For a moment, the world seemed to slow down around them. The teasing was gone, replaced by an unspoken understanding, something deeper than the playful back-and-forth that had defined their relationship for so long.

Clark hesitated for just a heartbeat, before his smile widened. “I think I can say that,” he said, his voice gentle, but there was still that glimmer of playfulness there. “I missed you, Y/N. Even if you were always a little... annoying.”

Y/N’s chest tightened, a mix of warmth and something else she couldn't quite place. She tilted her head, her voice playful but soft. “You’re still teasing me.”

Clark’s expression shifted, and for the first time since they hang out the whole time, he seemed to be a little more serious. “Maybe I am, but it’s because I... I don’t know, I like seeing you smile. You don’t even know how much I missed you.”

Y/N’s breath caught again. She hadn’t realized how much she’d longed for something genuine from him, something that didn’t involve teasing or childish rivalries.

She reached up, brushing her fingers lightly against his arm, before letting them fall back to her side. “Well,” she said, her voice softening, “I missed you too, Clark. In my own way.”

Clark didn’t say anything for a moment, as if letting the weight of her words sink in. Then, without warning, he gave her a crooked grin, his tone returning to that teasing edge she was so familiar with. “So, does that mean you’ll forgive me for all the cowboy or malibu jokes?”

Y/N rolled her eyes, but this time, the smile on her lips was different—gentler, warmer. “Maybe. But only if you promise not to throw me into the water again.”

Clark laughed, the sound light and easy. “Deal. But just so you know, it was totally worth it.”

Y/N couldn’t help but laugh along with him, her heart feeling lighter than it had in a long time. The moment had shifted from playful banter to something much more. Something real.

And for the first time, Y/N wasn’t sure if she wanted to let go of this new side of Clark—this side that made her feel seen, not just as the girl from Malibu, but as someone who could still be a part of Smallville, in her own way.

Maybe it was true, that you’ll always find a way back home.

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