#something something shared pain is half a pain

[adelliet]

Joel Miller x f!reader

MILLER'S ABYSS

Summary: Your sister is marrying one of the Millers — but you despise the other one, and the feeling is mutual. Still, family is supposed to stick together, not tear each other apart. So, over time, the two of you grow closer… far closer than anyone ever expected.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, enemies to lovers, age gap (not really mentioned), strong language, nicknames (goor girl…) praise kink, sexual tension, oral sex ( f receiving ), creampie, rough unprotected sex ( p i v ), harassment, mention of weapons and alcohol

A/n: Hello! I swear to god I wrote a long ass novel. I am really sorry for anyone, who decided to read the whole thing…anyways if you have any ideas, suggestions, or anything else, feel free to text me. Also, I apologize for any grammar mistakes or phrases that might not make sense—English isn’t my first language :3 But I hope you enjoy the story! <3

Masterlist

You’ve been around since the very beginning of your sister’s relationship with Tommy.

From the moment she started gushing daily about how beautiful his eyes were, how no man had ever smiled at her the way he did, how kind and attentive he was. You witnessed it all — the blissful highs and the inevitable lows. The fights, the breaks, the tearful late-night conversations about breaking up… though they never actually did.

You were there for every moment, even the ones you wish you hadn’t been. Kate had never been shy about sharing even the most intimate details of her relationship with you. She had no filter, and unfortunately for you, that included describing her and Tommy’s sex life in disturbingly vivid detail.

Once, you even caught them in the act in your own house. But hey, that’s a memory you can kind of laugh about now… sort of.

So when she told you Tommy had proposed, you weren’t surprised — not in the slightest. You were happy for her. You loved your sister more than anything, and you knew she had chosen the right guy. Honestly, you were just relieved she hadn’t chosen his brother — Joel.

From the first moment those grumpy, judgmental eyes met yours, Joel Miller had been a pain in your ass. Arrogant. Insufferable. Always had something snarky to say about you at every family gathering. And sure, you gave it back. You were never the type to sit there and take it. Which is exactly how this rivalry had formed. Let’s just call it what it is: you and Joel were enemies.

Until now, it wasn’t really a problem. You could ignore him, roll your eyes when his name came up, and pray you wouldn’t be seated next to him at dinner. But now that your sister was officially going to be a part of the Miller family, officially taking their name, sharing their home, their holiday dinners, that made you, like it or not, a part of their family too. Great.

And if that wasn’t enough, your sister had been relentlessly pushing you to make peace with Joel. “For her.” As if you owed it to her to get along with a man who seemed to exist solely to piss you off.

She guilt-tripped you into it, like she always did, and you hated that it worked. Because as manipulative as she could be, you loved the hell out of her. And you knew this meant the world to her. But Joel? Joel was still a jackass, pre-wedding or not, he wasn’t going to change.

You were still at home when Kate barged into your room like she owned the place — which, technically, she almost did, considering how often she was there. Dressed in a soft green sweater and jeans, she looked casual, relaxed, and maddeningly excited.

Meanwhile, you were half-dressed, still holding a flat iron in one hand and a look of pure dread on your face.

“Come on,” she said with a cheerful grin. “It’s just dinner.”

You narrowed your eyes at her in the mirror. “It’s never just dinner when Joel’s involved.”

Kate sighed dramatically, flopping down on your bed like some exhausted mother of the bride. “You two need to get over this weird… war thing. He’s really not that bad.”

You raised an eyebrow. “He once referred to me as ‘extra baggage’ in front of your entire family.”

“Okay, yes, that was… not his finest moment. But he was joking,” she admit, but still tried to save it.

“Oh yeah, nothing screams hilarious comedy like being publicly insulted.”

She sat up, crossing her legs under her. “Please, babe. Just try tonight. For me. If you can survive one dinner without threatening to stab him with a fork, I swear I’ll never ask you for anything ever again.”

You let out a dry laugh. “You say that every time.”

“And yet you keep saying yes,” she smirked.

You groaned. She was right. You hated how much you loved her. With a final puff of frustration, you turned off the flat iron, stood up, and grabbed your jacket. “Fine. But if he calls me ‘baggage’ again, I’m pouring wine on his lap.”

Meanwhile, Joel is going through the exact same thing. Tommy’s been in his ear all week, pressuring him to play nice. To “just give her a chance.” Tommy’s been acting like he’s the victim, like he’s stuck in the middle, practically begging Joel to make the effort. So now you and Joel are both being dragged into this under the pretense of a “family bonding” dinner.

By the time you two got to the Miller house, it was already dusk. The porch light was on, casting a warm glow over the wood panels and old swing seat hanging to the side. Tommy opened the door before you even knocked. He immediately scooped Kate into his arms, greeting her with a kiss that lasted a bit too long for your taste.

“Jesus, get a room,” you muttered under your breath.

Tommy chuckled. “Evenin’,” he said, giving you a nod.

You gave him a polite smile. “Hey.”

Then came the moment your blood turned cold. Joel stepped into the doorway, leaning casually against the frame. His hair was slightly damp like he’d just showered, and his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. He didn’t say anything — just looked at you. You looked back. And there it was again, that mutual expression of ugh, it’s you.

Kate and Tommy exchanged matching looks and leaned into your ears simultaneously.

“Be nice,” she hissed at you.

“Don’t start anything,” Tommy whispered to Joel.

You both scoffed.

Dinner prep was a disaster waiting to happen. For some unknown reason, probably Kate and Tommy being evil geniuses, you and Joel were tasked with setting the table and bringing out the food. The tension in the kitchen was unbearable.

“Could you not stand in front of the fridge like a statue?” you snapped.

“I’m getting the damn salad, princess,” Joel grumbled, pulling out the bowl and practically shoving it into your arms.

You glared. “Try using your words instead of your muscles, Neanderthal.”

He rolled his eyes. “Don’t tempt me to go back to grunting. Might actually be more productive.”

The more you moved around each other, the worse it got — bumping hips at the counter, brushing arms when reaching for the same spoon, and more than once, you two knocked elbows hard enough to make you both wince.

“Watch it,” you muttered.

“You watch it,” he shot back.

“Jesus Christ,” you both said at the same time, throwing your heads back in sync. Which, of course, only made things worse because now you were in sync, and that was not acceptable.

Finally, Kate came in and clapped her hands. “Enough! Can you two just pretend not to hate each other for one night? Please?”

You and Joel both grumbled something under your breath and carried the last dishes to the table in stony silence.

Dinner was… exactly what you expected. You sat across from Joel — naturally. Your jaw was clenched the entire time, and you were very aware of every fork and knife placement, just in case they needed to become weapons. The air was so thick with tension it could’ve been sliced like the roast chicken on the table.

Kate and Tommy tried to salvage the evening with small talk.

“So…” Kate started, glancing between you and Joel, “how was everyone’s day?”

“Fine,” you said flatly.

“Work,” Joel replied, same tone.

Tommy tried to step in. “Hey, did you two know you both listen to Johnny Cash? I found out the other day when—”

“I liked him first,” you snapped.

Joel raised a brow. “Didn’t realize it was a competition.”

“Everything is a competition with you.”

Tommy looked between you both like a tennis match was playing out on the table. “O-kayyy…”

Kate, bless her heart, still tried. “Oh! What’s one thing you two have in common, hmm? Let’s start there.”

You both said nothing.

Joel took a slow sip of water and said, “We both hate this dinner.”

You nodded. “He’s not wrong.”

Kate sighed, Tommy just reached for the wine bottle, shaking his head. They both knew this is going to be a long night.

Dinner was mostly quiet — painfully so. The clink of forks against plates and the occasional hum of conversation from Tommy and Kate filled the room, but that was about it. You and Joel barely spoke.

Occasionally, your eyes would meet across the table, sometimes with passive annoyance, other times with flat-out disgust, and sometimes with something neutral. But even neutrality between you two felt tense, like a ceasefire that could end at any moment.

Tommy tried to lighten the mood a few times, making dumb jokes about the food or poking at Joel’s cooking skills.

“This chicken dry, or is it just me?” he teased with a grin.

Joel gave him a look. “If it’s dry, it’s ’cause you didn’t baste it. That was your job.”

Kate laughed, trying to follow up. “At least you two managed not to kill each other in the kitchen, right?”

No response. But they tried again.

“So,” Kate began, clearly reaching, “any plans this weekend?”

“I work,” you said.

Joel echoed, “Same.”

Another silence fell, heavier than before. The kind of silence that made your jaw ache just from clenching it so long. No matter how hard Tommy and Kate tried to spark something between you two — laughter, small talk, anything — the tension in the room snuffed it out before it could catch fire. It wasn’t just awkward. It was chemical.

You and Joel in the same space were like two opposing forces, constantly repelling, constantly charged. Too close and it sparked. Too far and it still lingered in the air like static.

After dinner, as expected, you and Joel were once again exiled to the kitchen, this time to wash the dishes.

Kate had literally clapped her hands and said, “Bonding time!” before shoving the dirty plates into your arms. You didn’t even have time to argue before she and Tommy disappeared into the living room, probably to laugh about your misery.

Now you stood next to Joel, the two of you shoulder-to-shoulder at the sink.

He washed. You dried. Silence.

The sound of running water filled the space, along with the occasional clink of a fork against a plate. You hadn’t said a single word since you entered the kitchen, and neither had he.

The mood wasn’t angry, though. Not anymore. It was something else. Something you couldn’t quite name.

You turned your head slightly, and your gaze drifted downward, toward his hands.

You didn’t mean to stare, but something about them caught you. His hands were large, strong, weathered. The veins stood out beneath the tanned skin, pulsing slightly as he gripped a soapy plate. His knuckles looked a little bruised, like he’d been working with tools recently, or maybe throwing punches. There was hair on his forearms, just enough, and the muscles flexed subtly as he moved, the way a man’s body does when he doesn’t even think about it.

You swallowed. Your eyes lingered on his fingers. Long, sure, and steady. You imagined, just for a split second, how they would feel against your skin. What they would do if they weren’t holding a dish, but holding you. You bit your lip.

The kitchen faded around you. The water noise dimmed. Everything felt slow, heavy, thick like honey. Your chest tightened, your stomach dropped, and something low and electric buzzed between your legs — a tension that coiled and pulled without warning, warm and unwanted and there. You weren’t even breathing right.

You didn’t realize he was speaking to you.

“Hey. Plate.”

Your head snapped up, too late. He was holding a clean plate, expecting you to take it. But your hands stayed frozen, and when he let go, it slipped. The crash was loud.

Porcelain shattered against the floor in a sharp burst, and you gasped, stepping back automatically.

“Shit,” Joel muttered under his breath, already reaching down.

You moved forward, instinctively trying to kneel, but his hand shot out fast, palm pressed against your hip to stop you.

“Don’t,” he said firmly, his voice low — not angry, not annoyed. Protective. You froze in place.

He crouched and swept up the shards quickly, moving with precision, barely saying a word. He worked silently, efficiently, like it was nothing, but his jaw was tight. His eyes flicked up at you once, his brows furrowed. His expression was angry and confused all at once.

He stood back up after dumping the last of the shards into the trash bin, wiping his hands on a towel with a sigh, sharp and fed up.

Then he turned toward you with that same ever-present frustration in his eyes.

“What is wrong with you?”

You blinked at him, speechless.

“What, were you daydreamin’ so hard you forgot how to use your hands?”

His tone wasn’t playful. It wasn’t even annoyed. It was accusatory, like you’d done it on purpose, just to piss him off.

You didn't answer. You couldn't. Your body was frozen in place, the towel still clenched in your fingers, your lips parted like you might say something — but no sound came out. You weren’t even mad. Not this time. Because underneath all that embarrassment, all that tension, was confusion.

What the hell was that?

Why had you been staring at his hands like they were goddamn poetry? Why had your brain short-circuited and your body reacted like that — like you wanted something from him?

From Joel fucking Miller.

You didn’t understand yourself right now. At all.

Joel scoffed under his breath when you didn’t respond and brushed past you without another word, tossing the towel over the edge of the sink and leaving you standing there — warm, unsettled, and angry at no one but yourself.

After you and Kate finally left the Miller house and inhaled the fresh night air, Kate looped her arm through yours. She looked up at you with that too-knowing expression.

“Well?” she asked, her voice casual, but the look on her face said spill it.

You gave her the look — that don’t start with me kind of face.

Kate exhaled, long and exaggerated. “Seriously? What is it gonna take for you two to stop acting like mortal enemies?”

You didn’t answer right away, just stared out at the sidewalk ahead.

“I know he’s annoying,” she went on. “I know he’s pushy, and grumpy, and rude as hell, but Jesus, he’s not the devil. He’s just Joel.”

You finally spoke, voice lower than usual. “I get it. Okay? I get it. You’re marrying into his family, I’m technically gonna be stuck with him for the rest of my life, blah blah blah.”

She smirked. “So you’ll try?”

You sighed. “I will. But only if he does, too. I can’t be the only one putting effort into something we both clearly hate.”

Kate made a noise between a laugh and a groan. “Fair enough. But God, I swear, if you two ruin the wedding photos with your death glares…”

Back inside the Miller house, Joel was slouched on the couch, legs spread out, beer in hand. Tommy returned from the kitchen with two more beers and plopped down beside him.

“So,” he said, cracking open a bottle. “What the hell happened in there?”

Joel didn’t even look at him. “She dropped a plate.”

Tommy squinted. “She dropped it?”

Joel shrugged. “I handed it to her, and she just… didn’t take it. Let it fall. Her fault.”

Tommy gave him a really, man? look. “You think maybe she was distracted or somethin’? Maybe you distracted her?”

Joel scoffed. “You think she was distracted by me? Please. If anything, she was probably daydreamin’ about strangling me.”

Tommy raised a brow, clearly not buying the sarcasm. “You ever think that maybe the reason you two can’t stop fighting is because there’s somethin’ else going on?”

Joel shot him a glare. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” Tommy said, leaning forward with that big-brother patience, “that you’ve been on her case since day one. And maybe it’s not just because she annoys you.”

Joel opened his mouth, but Tommy cut him off.

“I’m serious, man. The wedding’s in a few days. Can you do me a favor and try to get along with her until then? I don’t need you two turning the rehearsal dinner into a goddamn war zone.”

Joel looked away, jaw clenched. He didn’t say anything for a while. Just took a long drink from his bottle.

Eventually, he muttered, “I’ll think about it.”

Tommy rolled his eyes. “Better than nothing, I guess.”

The tension between you and Joel hadn’t eased in the slightest since that night at the Miller household. If anything, the silence had grown louder, more hostile. Kate and Tommy, of course, refused to give up on their master plan to “bring the two of you together,” as if your lives were a cheesy rom-com and not a daily emotional battlefield.

With the wedding quickly approaching, they decided the best way to force bonding would be through responsibility. Specifically: seating arrangements and wedding invitations. Apparently, this critical task needed the undivided attention of you and Joel. Together. Alone. In their house. Because of course.

Kate and Tommy conveniently had an appointment in town, something about last-minute candle holders and music rehearsals, and “oh no, what a shame, you guys will just have to hold down the fort!” Kate practically squealed while Tommy tried to look like it wasn’t part of their evil plan.

So there you were, sitting stiffly at the Millers’ dining table, stacks of RSVP cards, envelopes, and color-coded guest lists spread out in front of you. Joel sat across from you, equally still, equally uninterested in being here.

The silence was thick. Occasionally, one of you would mutter something like, “He’s allergic to nuts, right?” or “That name’s spelled with an ‘e’.”

Minimal communication. Minimal eye contact. Maximal contempt.

You let out a heavy sigh as you picked up a fresh stack of blank envelopes. “Y’know, this would’ve been so much easier if the world hadn’t ended,” you muttered under your breath. “A few clicks and everyone would’ve had a damn email invite. Done in five minutes.”

Joel raised an eyebrow. “You miss the internet that bad?”

You shrugged. “I miss not having to do this shit by hand, yeah.”

He scoffed. “It’s a wedding. People used to do this all the time.”

You shot him a look. “People used to do a lot of dumb things.”

Joel raised both hands in mock surrender, then muttered, “Including arguing about paper.”

A few beats passed in silence again before you looked up, a smirk tugging at the corner of your mouth. “This whole thing’s weird, isn’t it?”

Joel looked at you cautiously. “Which part?”

“All of it,” you said. “Two people falling in love in this… mess. Choosing each other. Wanting to celebrate it. Feels like some part of the old world pretending it still exists.”

He didn’t respond, just kept his eyes on the page in front of him.

You watched him a second longer, then said, “I mean… what does that even mean anymore? Love. You think it still means the same thing it used to?”

Joel finally looked up.

You met his gaze, and the words slipped out before you could think twice, not really curious, more mocking than anything else. “What does love even mean to you, Joel Miller?”

He stared at you, his jaw slowly tightening.

You added with a touch of venom, “Have you even ever been in love? Or are you too emotionally constipated for that, too?”

He froze. The look in his eyes darkened, and the air between you changed.

“The hell did you just say?”

You didn’t flinch. “I called you a pussy, Joel.”

His nostrils flared. “Say it again.”

“I said, you’re a pussy.”

The silence that followed was dense, almost buzzing. Joel’s eyes drilled into you, and for a second, you weren’t sure what he was going to do. Yell? Walk out?

But instead, he leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, voice low and sharp.

“You wanna talk big, huh? Then tell me, what does love mean to you, sweetheart?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

He raised his eyebrows. “Yeah. Since you’ve clearly got all the answers.”

You hesitated, heart skipping. Your mouth opened, then closed. You looked away.

“That’s what I thought,” Joel said.

You stared at the table for a long moment, heart pounding in your ears. Then, before you could stop yourself, your voice broke the silence.

“Love is… when you can’t breathe right unless that person is in the room. When you’d rather fight with them than be at peace with anyone else. When you want to see all the ugly parts of them and still stay. And when their pain… feels like yours.”

You didn’t dare look up, not right away. When you finally did, Joel was staring. Not blinking. Not moving. Just looking. Like he’d never really seen you until now.

He cleared his throat suddenly, shifted, and said, “Huh.”

Then he nodded. Once. Turned back to the list. The moment lingered. Hung between you like a string, pulled taut.

Then he spoke again.

“Love’s when you wanna walk away but something keeps pullin’ you back. When you can’t stop thinkin’ ‘bout how they laugh… or how mad they get. When you know it’s messy and it still feels like home.”

You didn’t say anything. You couldn’t. Something inside you had shifted.

But before it could settle, before the warmth could sink in…

Joel muttered, “Still doesn’t explain why you act like a damn gremlin every time I speak.”

You scoffed. “Because you speak like a man who’s never been hugged.”

“Then maybe you should try it sometime,” he shot back.

You rolled your eyes. “Oh, please. I’d rather hug a cactus.”

“Figures,” Joel said. “Prickly little thing like you would.”

Still, despite the insults, the two of you finished the task. The guest list was done. Invitations sorted. But the words exchanged, the raw ones, clung to the air. And you didn’t quite know how to feel.

You had just gotten home, the front door clicking shut behind you with a soft thud. Your shoulders slumped immediately. The moment you stepped into your own space, a small but safe corner of Jackson, you let out a sigh that had been bottled up since you left the Miller house.

The silence here was different. Not tense or charged like it had been with Joel. Just… quiet.

You slipped off your jacket, toed off your boots, and dropped your bag on the floor without ceremony. The thought of Joel’s voice, his eyes locked on yours when you told him what love meant to you…it haunted the back of your mind like a persistent shadow. You shook your head, trying to return back to reality.

A knock at your door pulled you from your thoughts. You already knew it was her.

Kate stood there with a small smile, holding a container of something vaguely edible and homemade. “Peace offering,” she said. “And no, you don’t get to say no.”

You let her in, and a few minutes later you were both curled up on your couch, the dish of food forgotten on the coffee table. Kate had that look, the one she wore when she was trying to act casual, but her whole soul was bubbling with questions.

“So…” she said, dragging the word out dramatically. “How’d it go?”

You blinked, already mentally preparing your response. “Fine.”

Kate narrowed her eyes. “Fine?”

You nodded. “We didn’t kill each other. That’s a win.”

She stared at you, and you could practically hear her brain doing somersaults. She knew something was wrong. You've never looked so confused.

Kate pulled her legs up onto the couch and faced you fully, expression softening.

“You look… tired,” she finally said, trying to keep her tone light.

“Long day,” you replied simply, brushing it off.

Kate gave you a small smile, one that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “How was the… invitation thing?”

You shrugged. “It’s done.”

There was a pause. You didn’t elaborate. And she didn’t press. You could feel her gaze lingering on you, trying to read something on your face, but you didn’t let her see it. Whatever was still spinning inside you, the strange heaviness, the warmth that shouldn’t have been there, the ghost of Joel Miller’s voice, that was yours. Yours alone.

Kate leaned back with a sigh, folding her arms.

“I know you don’t want to talk about him,” she said softly, “but I just… I need to ask.”

You looked at her, guarded.

“Do you think it’s ever going to change? Between you and Joel?”

You didn’t answer right away. You looked at your hands, picked at a loose thread on your sleeve.

“Some things don’t change,” you said quietly. “Some things just… stay broken.”

Kate’s face twisted, the fight going out of her. She blinked quickly, but it didn’t stop the tears that started forming.

You looked over, guilt blooming in your chest. “Kate…”

“I just wanted it to be perfect,” she whispered. “My wedding. This whole day I’ve been dreaming of since I was a kid. I wanted everyone I love to be there and to be happy and whole.”

“You will have that,” you said firmly, even if your voice shook a little.

She shook her head, wiping her cheeks as the tears finally fell. “Not if you two are at each other’s throats the whole time.”

You stayed quiet, watching her break down in front of you — your strong, soft-hearted sister who tried so hard to keep everyone together.

“I know I sound dramatic,” she laughed bitterly through her tears. “But I don’t want to remember walking down the aisle and seeing you scowling in one corner and Joel brooding in the other.”

You reached out and took her hand. “You won’t. I promise.”

Kate sniffled. “You can’t promise that.”

“I can promise I’ll try,” you said. “I don’t know what he’ll do, but I’ll try. For you.”

That seemed to help — not fix it, not fully, but soften the edges of her sadness. Her grip on your hand tightened.

Kate wiped her cheeks and let out a breathy laugh. “You better try, because if not, I was going to threaten you with the world’s ugliest bridesmaid dress.”

You snorted. “I’d wear it. Just to ruin your photos.”

She gasped in mock offense, then started laughing, a real one this time. You joined her, and for a few minutes, the air was lighter. Less pressure. Less ache.

At least for now.

The bed creaked softly beneath him as he shifted for the third time in five minutes. Joel lay on his back, eyes fixed on the ceiling of his dimly lit bedroom, the moonlight cutting across the room in a cold stripe. The air was still, thick with silence, and yet his mind was unbearably loud.

He’d tried everything. Rolling over. Flipping his pillow. Forcing his thoughts toward patrol routes, inventory lists, anything functional. But no matter what direction he turned, you were there. Like a ghost he hadn’t asked for but couldn’t exorcize.

Your face hovered behind his eyelids. Not angry or sharp the way it often was — but softer. Lit with that rare, fleeting smile you gave Kate. Or the way your head tipped back when you laughed at something that actually caught you off guard. That sound — fuck, that sound — warm and bright like the first day of spring after a brutal winter.

And then there was the way you touched your hair, that unconscious little motion, fingers gliding through it, tucking it behind your ear or sweeping it out of your eyes. You didn’t even know you did it. But Joel did. He’d seen it. Noticed it. Memorized it like a fool.

He pictured you leaning over the table earlier that day, shirt riding up just enough to reveal a strip of bare lower back. His gaze had lingered. Too long. He knew that. He hated that.

Your ass—round, perfect, smug in those tight jeans—had haunted him every time he closed his eyes since.

He shifted again, jaw clenched now, heat starting to pool somewhere low in his belly.

No. No, no, no.

But it was already too late. His body wasn’t asking for permission — it was responding. A twitch of pressure, a slow tightening beneath the waistband of his briefs. His breath caught as he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to banish you from his brain.

Didn’t work.

You stayed, and now you were closer — the imagined warmth of your skin, the sound of your voice in his ear, teasing, smug. The tilt of your mouth. The curve of your hips as you stood with one hand on them, rolling your eyes at something he said.

His hand fisted the sheets.

“Goddamn it,” he muttered, voice rough, hoarse with frustration — and something else.

He turned onto his side, dragging the blanket higher, willing his body to calm down. But it wouldn’t. Every time he shut his eyes, there you were — sometimes laughing, sometimes biting your lip, sometimes looking up at him with that fire in your gaze that made him feel like he was being dared to cross a line.

He groaned, low and miserable, rolling onto his back again.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. You were infuriating. You were stubborn, impulsive, mouthy. You didn’t like him. He didn’t like you.

But your voice still echoed in his head, that quiet answer you’d given when you talked about love. It had knocked something loose in him. Something buried. Something he didn’t want to name.

Joel cursed under his breath again and threw an arm over his eyes, as if blocking out the light might also block you. His body was still betraying him — hard now, pulsing and persistent, refusing to let him pretend.

He didn’t know what was happening to him. Why it was happening. Why it was happening, because of you.

He hated you. Every fiber of you. Every sound that came out of your mouth was insufferable, every sentence laced with that arrogant, sarcastic tone that made his blood boil. Your eyes, your posture, your voice, your goddamn presence—he hated it all.

So why the hell is he fucking hard right now? Why couldn’t he stop thinking about you?

Why did the image of your lips slightly parted as you chewed on your bottom one haunt him? Why did the memory of the soft curve of your waist, revealed when your shirt lifted just a little too high the other day, replay in his mind like some sick punishment? Why did he remember the sway of your hips when you walked away from him in irritation, those tight pants hugging your ass so perfectly it should’ve been illegal?

And why did his cock throb every time he let the image linger? It was torture.

He shifted in his bed again, groaning under his breath. Sheets rustled around him, clinging to his sweat-slicked skin.

He closed his eyes. He opened them. He closed them again. You were still there—in his head. Laughing, glaring, rolling your eyes, teasing him with that attitude that made him want to pin you to a wall and shut you up with his mouth.

He threw an arm over his face. Growled.

“Fuckin’ hell…”

Sleep definitely wasn’t coming tonight.

The next morning arrived like a slap in the face.

You were walking through Jackson, hands tucked into your jacket pockets, breathing in the chilled air. The sky was pale and clouded, the usual buzz of early activity around you—a couple of kids running down the path, dogs barking, someone hauling wood nearby.

You were just going to the store. That was it. Simple. In and out. Until your eyes landed on him - on Joel.

He was a little far off, working on a newly constructed cabin. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing thick, sun-kissed forearms, and you watched, breath hitching as his muscles tensed with each swing of the hammer. The way his biceps bulged, like fucking granite, as he brought the tool down with precision and force.

You knew it was wrong, but… your eyes wandered lower. Watching the way his back flexed beneath his shirt, the curve of his ass in those damn jeans, the way his hair bounced slightly with the movement, sticking to his sweaty forehead. The veins in his hands, so prominent, so… masculine, wrapped around the handle of that hammer like it owed him something.

Your stomach twisted. You swallowed hard. Your thighs pressed together. Your panties were… wet. Unmistakably. You could feel it. You were pulsing. And it was because of Joel fucking Miller.

You stared for a moment too long, heart racing, body betraying you in every way it could. Then it hit you like a truck, the embarrassment, the fury.

You tore your gaze away, eyes wide, and stormed forward like your feet could carry you out of your own body.

What the hell was wrong with you? Why were you reacting like this to him? You hated him. He was rude. Cocky. Infuriating. Not even that attractive.

So why the hell was your body acting like it wanted him inside you?

You cursed under your breath. Not at Joel. At yourself.

By the time you entered the store, you were still flustered, heart thudding in your ears. You pushed a cart forward and moved through the aisles like you were on autopilot, scanning for what you needed. Your brain was still somewhere else entirely.

That’s when someone spoke behind you.

“Hey—uh, sorry, do you know which flour’s better for, like, sourdough bread? The brown bag or the white one?”

You blinked and turned around. There was a guy. Kinda cute. Probably around your age. Tall, lean, with soft features and warm eyes. His voice was kind, curious. Not annoying. Not Joel.

You glanced at the two bags in his hands, then pointed to one. “The brown bag’s whole grain. It’s heavier. Depends what you want, but for sourdough? White’s probably safer.”

He smiled. “Thanks. I’m Hank, by the way.”

You nodded, giving a small smile back. “Nice to meet you.”

And that was it. Just… nice.

You continued your shopping, finishing quickly, keeping the interaction in the back of your mind, but it was faint. Not because Hank wasn’t lovely, but because Joel was still in your system like venom.

You paid, stepped outside with your bag in hand, and started the walk home, your mind looping the same awful thought:

Why did your body want the one person your brain wanted to strangle? You had no answer. Just the echo of his name in your head and the heavy, traitorous thrum in your chest.

The sky had long since darkened into a deep navy, the stars peeking shyly through the scattered clouds above Jackson.

Inside your home, it was warm—quiet. A soft amber glow bathed the living room from the single lamp you’d turned on, casting long shadows against the walls.

You were curled up on the couch, wearing nothing but a loose oversized T-shirt that draped just over your hips and a pair of simple cotton panties. Your legs were bare, tucked under you as you sipped from a mug of coffee that had gone lukewarm long ago, but the comfort it offered hadn’t worn off.

The silence was calming, the kind that followed an emotionally messy day. You breathed out softly, your body finally beginning to unwind—until a knock pulled you back into reality.

You didn’t flinch. You assumed, without question, that it was Kate. Probably coming to drop off something or chat about the wedding. So you padded lazily to the door, not thinking twice about how little you were wearing. Your shirt clung to your body slightly, the thin fabric doing little to hide the curve of your breasts or the faint outline of your nipples beneath it. You didn’t care. It was just Kate.

But it wasn’t Kate.

The second the door opened, and you locked eyes with the man standing there, your breath caught. Joel Miller. And he looked stunned.

His eyes scanned you—fast at first, like he knew he shouldn’t—but then slower, more deliberate. They flicked down your body, taking in the exposed skin of your legs, the hem of the shirt barely grazing your thighs. The hard peaks beneath the soft fabric. Your bare feet. Your collarbone. His mouth parted slightly, and for the briefest moment, he forgot whatever the hell he was doing there.

You noticed. You definitely noticed.

Your expression flattened into a scowl as you exhaled, annoyed. “The fuck do you want?”

That snapped him out of it. He blinked, shifting his weight awkwardly from one foot to the other, clearly trying to summon the familiar arrogance that always kept him armored around you.

“Trust me,” he muttered, voice low and gravelly, “I’d rather be anywhere else but here.”

“Great,” you snapped, already pushing the door to shut in his face. But his large, calloused hand caught the wood with ease, pushing it back open like it was nothing.

You glared but didn’t resist. There was no point. You couldn’t overpower Joel Miller, and honestly, you were too tired to try.

“Tommy sent me,” he finally said, voice returning to its usual gruff cadence. “Said we need to go grab some shit from the woods. Decoration stuff. For the wedding.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Why me?”

He shrugged, unapologetic. “Apparently, you’re a woman. Which means you’re supposed to be better at this crap than me.”

You scoffed dramatically, rolling your eyes, and turned to glance at the clock hanging in your living room. “It’s nine-fucking-p.m. Are you stupid?”

“I worked all day,” he bit back, voice edging toward exasperation, though his gaze never left your bare thighs.

You mumbled under your breath, “Yeah. I noticed.” Your eyes flicked down to the floor quickly.

Joel tilted his head. “What was that?”

“Nothing,” you replied with a fake sweet smile, lips curling with venom.

He sighed. “Are you coming or not?”

You knew damn well that if you said no, not only would he keep annoying you, but so would Kate and Tommy, and eventually, you’d cave. So you made the only rational choice—gave a dramatic sigh and stepped back into your house, leaving the door open behind you.

“Wait here,” you muttered over your shoulder.

Joel stepped inside, his boots heavy against your wooden floor. He didn’t say anything. Just took in your space with a kind of silent judgment that felt oddly intimate. It was homey. Clean. Warm. He liked it more than he should’ve.

When you returned a few minutes later, your body was dressed in a black button-up shirt that clung to your figure, paired with tight black jeans that hugged your hips and ass like they were tailor-made. You tossed your hair back and brushed your hand along the wall, grabbing your jacket.

Joel saw you. swallowing hard when he felt the blood in his body rush somewhere it really shouldn’t.

“Let’s go,” you said curtly, pushing past him and stepping out the door. He followed. Silently.

The truck rumbled to life, headlights cutting through the inky black night as Joel pulled out of your driveway. You sat in the passenger seat, arms crossed, gaze fixed out the window.

Silence. Thick silence.

Not the peaceful kind from earlier. This one was charged, buzzing under your skin like static. The air between you crackled with unspoken things, heavy tension that neither of you dared to slice through. Questions, feelings, memories—none of them had names, but they were all there, pressing into the cab of the truck like ghosts refusing to stay dead.

You didn’t look at him. He didn’t look at you. But both of you felt it. Every second ticked by like a countdown to something inevitable. Something neither of you were ready to admit.

The road stretched out endlessly ahead, swallowed by the dark trees on either side. The only sound filling the truck was the steady hum of the engine and the occasional crunch of gravel beneath the tires. You sat with your arms crossed, your body angled slightly toward the window, your gaze locked on the shadows flashing by. The silence was thick. Claustrophobic. And entirely unbearable.

Finally, Joel broke it.

“What’d you do today?”

His voice was neutral. Uninterested, even. He didn’t look at you—kept his eyes on the road, one hand resting lazily on the wheel, the other draped over the armrest. Just a casual question, thrown out into the air like it didn’t mean a damn thing.

You turned your head slowly toward him, an incredulous smirk pulling at your lips. “Really?”

Joel glanced at you once, then again, brows drawing slightly together. “What?”

A laugh burst out of you, short and bitter, as you shook your head in disbelief. “You’re seriously trying to ask me about my day?”

He didn’t respond immediately. You could tell he was debating it. Trying to find a retort that wouldn’t sound weak. But before he could even open his mouth, you beat him to it.

“You don’t even care.”

Your voice was quieter now, almost defeated. You turned your head back toward the window, watching the world blur past, soft shadows and moonlight playing tricks on your vision. For a moment, there was only silence again. Heavy. Tense.

“…I don’t,” Joel finally admitted, his tone dry, “but it’s better than this annoying-ass silence.”

You let the corner of your mouth twitch. The bastard had a point. You let a few seconds pass, then finally gave in.

“I went to the store.”

Joel gave a quiet grunt of acknowledgment, a slight nod that was barely perceptible.

“I met someone. Hank.”

Another grunt. Another nod. But this time… his grip on the steering wheel tightened. Just a little. Barely enough to notice. But you saw the way his forearm flexed, how his fingers wrapped more firmly around the leather. It was subtle. But there. A small flash of something ugly and hot in his chest. Jealousy? No. That couldn’t be. Why the hell would he be jealous?

“Is he cute?” he asked.

You didn’t even hesitate. “Not bad. Might give him my address if I see him again.”

That did it. Joel’s knuckles went white on the wheel, his jaw tightening so hard it ticked. His whole body tensed like a wire pulled too tight.

You knew exactly what you were doing. And you liked the reaction a little more than you should have.

“What about you?” you asked, voice suddenly lighter, almost teasing. “Meet any girls today?”

“Huh?” Joel glanced over at you quickly before looking back at the road.

“Come on, you know… did you meet someone new? Maybe someone young and smiley and way too optimistic for her own good?”

Joel let out a huff of air—half a laugh, half a scoff. “Not into that crap.”

“Not into what? Dating?”

He gave a slow nod. “Yeah. Who the hell would date a grumpy old bastard like me?”

Your eyes met for a second too long. And something in your chest… shifted. He didn’t say it like a joke. He wasn’t fishing for pity. He was just being honest. And you saw it, really saw it, in his expression. That quiet loneliness that clung to him like a shadow he didn’t know how to shake.

“Don’t be stupid,” you muttered. “I’m sure someone would.”

You weren’t sure why you said it. It came out before you could stop it. Before you could build your usual wall of sarcasm and spite.

Joel’s mouth twitched bitterly. “Wish I was as naïve as you.”

And god, you hated how that made you feel. That burning in your throat. The aching behind your ribs. He was so frustrating, so guarded, so closed off—but in moments like this, you could almost feel how much it cost him to let anything through.

You wanted to hug him. You wouldn’t, of course. But you wanted to.

Joel pulled the truck to a slow stop, the gravel crunching under the tires as the headlights hit a clearing at the edge of the woods. “We’re here,” he muttered, already pushing open his door without a second glance.

You followed a few seconds later, slamming the passenger door a bit too hard and catching up with him.

“So,” you asked as you reached his side, “what exactly are we looking for?”

“Shit for the wedding. Kate wants it to be all… nature-themed or whatever. So twigs, berries, moss, mushrooms. Forest crap.”

You arched a brow. “Romantic.”

Joel didn’t reply. He just handed you a small burlap sack and started heading deeper into the woods, boots crunching over fallen leaves. You walked with him in silence, collecting whatever looked remotely wedding-appropriate. The air was damp and smelled like earth. Leaves brushed against your ankles. Moonlight filtered through the branches in silvery streaks.

Then, suddenly—snap. The sharp crack of a stick breaking echoed nearby. Joel froze. His body went rigid, hand instinctively reaching for his pistol. In a second, the weapon was drawn, held steady, and aimed at the darkness beyond the trees.

You jumped, stumbling back a step and grabbing onto Joel’s arm without thinking. “Shit—what was that?”

“Do you have a gun?” he asked, eyes scanning the shadows.

“Do I look like I have a gun?!”

You moved closer to him, practically hiding behind his solid frame. Your heart was thudding like crazy, adrenaline crawling under your skin.

Joel didn’t move for a long beat, waiting. Watching. But nothing came. Just the wind brushing through the leaves and the chirp of a distant bird. Slowly, he lowered the gun.

“Probably just an animal,” he muttered, but you saw the way his shoulders remained tense. Still alert. Still ready. After a few more seconds, he glanced back at you. “You ever even held a gun?”

You raised a brow. “Do I look like I have?”

Joel sighed heavily and handed you his pistol. “Here.”

You stared at it like he’d just handed you a live snake. “What the hell am I supposed to do with this?”

“Aim,” he said flatly, giving you the simplest instruction imaginable.

You blinked at him. “Come again?”

He didn’t repeat it. Just raised an eyebrow. His expression said don’t argue. So you tried. Kind of. You awkwardly lifted the gun with both hands, your arms stiff, elbows out, your grip all wrong.

Joel let out the most exhausted sigh you’d ever heard, rubbing a hand down his face. “Jesus.”

He took the pistol back, turned it in his hands, and then showed you how to hold it properly.

Feet apart. Elbows relaxed. Grip tight but not too tight. Then he placed the gun back into your hands and watched you. But even so, you were still holding the gun wrong.

Your hands were trembling. Not much, but enough that he noticed. Enough that you noticed. The gun felt heavy, unnatural. Like it didn’t belong in your hands. Joel sighed.

He stepped behind you. Closer than he ever had before. You could feel the heat of his body pressing along your back, his chest brushing against your shoulder blades, his breath — warm and unfiltered — ghosting across the curve of your neck.

Then came his hands.

Big. Rough. Calloused. They slid over yours like they’d been made to fit there — palms swallowing yours completely, fingers curling around the outside of your own to adjust your grip. His thumbs pressed down gently, firmly guiding you, correcting you. You couldn’t breathe. You didn’t breathe.

His beard scraped softly against the edge of your cheek as he leaned in closer. His voice was low, almost a whisper. “Like this. Keep your elbows down. You’re stiff as a damn board.”

You didn’t hear the words.

You just heard him. The low rumble in his chest. The scent of him — cedar, sweat, something smoky and old and undeniably male. The warmth of his body pressed against yours in the cold woods.

And something inside you snapped. Or maybe it awakened.

A pulse flickered deep in your lower belly. Then it dropped lower. Heat bloomed between your thighs, a slow, aching throb that made your breath hitch and your knees feel just a little weaker. You clenched without meaning to — your muscles tightening instinctively, reflexively — and you felt it in your underwear. The wetness. Already.

Fuck.

Your face was on fire. You were sure of it. Your cheeks burned, your ears burned, even the back of your neck was hot — but you didn’t move. Couldn’t move. Because if you did, you’d have to step away from him. And you didn’t want to.

Your heart was hammering inside your chest, pounding against your ribs like it wanted to get out. Your thoughts were chaotic, messy, breathless, spinning.

And when he adjusted your fingers again, his thumb grazing along the sensitive skin between your thumb and forefinger, you couldn’t help the tiny sound that escaped your throat — a breathy, almost inaudible gasp.

Your skin was soft. Warm. He could smell your shampoo, something faint and floral that made him want to bury his face in your neck. He tried to focus on your stance, on the gun, on anything except the way your ass pressed back slightly against his hips, or the tiny hitch in your breath, or the fact that he could feel your pulse through your wrist.

His cock twitched.

The heat spread through him fast — like gasoline catching flame. His hands were supposed to be steady, but they started to shake. Just a little. His jaw clenched. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from your cheek, the curve of your jaw, the way your lips were slightly parted. You looked flustered. Flushed. He saw your chest rising and falling faster than before.

And he felt it.

Your body stiffening. That subtle shift of your hips. That soft, barely audible sound that slipped from your throat.

Jesus fucking Christ.

You were turned on. And now he couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. All he could do was stare at the back of your neck and fight the overwhelming urge to bend his head down and press his mouth there. To see if you’d make that sound again, louder this time.

His cock was already hard. Thick and aching behind his jeans, pressing against the inside of his thigh. And all because of you. Because of the way your body felt under his hands. Because of the way you smelled. Because of that little gasp.

He had to pull away. Now. Before he did something really fucking stupid. But his hands didn’t move. They wouldn’t move.

Instead, he lowered his voice again, leaning closer, his lips grazing your ear.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “Just like that. You’re doin’ good.”

Your body shivered. And Joel knew, with complete, devastating certainty, that he was royally, irreversibly fucked.

You turned around slowly, pulse loud in your ears, breath caught somewhere between your ribs and your throat.

His face was so close you could feel the heat radiating off his skin. Your noses almost brushed. The small space between you felt volatile, like a match hovering over gasoline.

His eyes met yours and you swore time folded in on itself. Everything narrowed down to that one unbearable moment of stillness, your shared breath, the roughness of his exhale fanning across your cheek, his scent laced with sweat and cedar and tension.

You weren’t breathing. You didn’t want to. You wanted to stay right there, suspended in the heaviness of that electric, untouchable almost.

And just when you swore he might tilt his head that tiny bit to close the distance, crack. A branch snapped not far from where you stood.

Joel moved instantly, instinctively. He stepped in front of you, arm extended protectively as his eyes scanned the trees.

Your chest rose and fell, rapidly now, the illusion shattered but the heat still simmering under your skin.

He didn’t look at you when he spoke. “We’re done here,” he said, his voice gravelly, low, but tight. “Let’s go. Ain’t smart to be out here after dark.”

You nodded, mute. There was nothing to say. You followed him through the trees, the pressure in your chest still coiled tight like a loaded spring.

The silence in the truck was worse than the previous drive into the woods. Neither of you said a word. You didn’t even try. The memory of his hands on yours haunted your skin. The way his body pressed behind you. The way he felt. The way your body had responded.

You shifted in your seat, thighs pressing together, breath shaky. From the corner of your eye, you saw his grip tighten on the wheel.

He was thinking about it too. You knew it. You felt it. Like the air between you still crackled with something unnamed and unbearable.

When he pulled up in front of your house, the engine idling, you turned your head to him.

“Thanks,” you said, voice barely audible. He didn’t look at you. Just nodded once.

You got out quickly, afraid your legs might give out if you didn’t move fast. Your fists were clenched as you stormed into your house and slammed the door behind you.

Joel watched until the porch light flicked on. Then he drove off. He had to.

Because if he didn’t leave right now, if he stayed even a second longer in that truck with the memory of your body pressed into his and your eyes looking at him like that, he wouldn’t be able to think. He wouldn’t be able to stop himself.

And he sure as hell wouldn’t be able to hide the growing ache in his jeans.

The next morning came like a slap. You didn’t sleep much. Every time you closed your eyes, your mind dragged you back to the woods. His breath. His voice. That moment.

You sat now on a little wooden stool, knees tucked under you, watching Kate twirl in front of the mirror in a champagne-colored dress.

“What do you think?” she asked, holding the fabric out by her sides like she was floating.

You smiled. Or at least you tried to.

“It’s perfect,” you said.

And it was—for her. It hugged her curves beautifully, made her look like a springtime goddess. She looked happy. Radiant.

You wanted to be happy with her. But you couldn’t stop thinking about Joel. You couldn’t stop thinking about his voice low in your ear. His hands gripping yours like they belonged there.

The way he pressed into your back, firm and controlled, but just barely. You swallowed hard, shifting on the stool. Your thighs pressed together and stayed there. Your fingers dug into your own knees.

God, what would it be like if he said things like that in a bed? His voice rough, that little growl he did in his throat when he was trying not to let something slip.

“That's it,” he’d say again, but slower this time, with your legs around his waist. His hand around your neck. His body heavy over yours. His—

“Hey?” Kate’s voice broke straight through your filthy mind like a cold slap of water. Your head snapped up. She was watching you in the mirror, a little frown on her face.

“You okay? You zoned out like… hard.”

You blinked. Forced a laugh. “I’m fine. Just tired, I think.”

Kate turned toward you, dress swishing with her. “You sure? You look kinda pale.”

You smiled again. “I’m good. Promise.”

She squinted for a second longer, then let it go. “Okay. Well, you better wake up before tonight. Everyone’s gonna be at the bar. You are coming, right?”

You hesitated. “I don’t know, Katie…”

“Don’t you dare bail on me,” she said, walking over and poking you square in the forehead. “It’s my last free Saturday before wedding chaos hits full force. You’re coming. No excuses.”

You sighed, lips pressed together. “Fine. I’ll go. For you.”

“Damn right it’s for me,” she grinned, turning back to the mirror, completely unaware of the storm behind your eyes.

Because she had no idea that the only thing keeping you from vibrating out of your skin was the image of her future brother-in-law. His voice, his hands, the pressure of him against your back, his body between your thighs, his cock filling you as he growled against your neck—

You clenched your fists again. You were not okay. And tonight, you were about to walk into a room full of people, awesome.

The bar buzzed with life. Music pulsed in waves from the overhead speakers, something upbeat and forgettable, and people swayed and shouted and laughed, glasses clinking against each other, beer sloshing onto tables and sticky wooden floors.

You were perched on a high stool at the edge of the chaos, your drink half full and your nerves stretched thin.

You’d let Kate drag you here. You hadn’t wanted to come. But the smile on her face as she danced in a small circle with her friends made it all worth it. You were here for her.

But even now, even under the dim golden lights and the noise, your mind flickered like static back to the woods. Joel’s hands. Joel’s breath. Joel’s words. Your thighs pressed together. You took a bigger sip of your drink.

“Thought that was you,” a familiar voice said behind you. You turned and saw him, Hank. That cute guy from the store. You almost forget about him, because your mind is currently full of Miller.

“Hank,” you said, forcing a tight smile, trying to hide your overthinking and zoning out every five second.

He held a drink in each hand, his leather jacket unzipped just enough to show the collar of some aggressively loud shirt underneath.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here,” he said, sliding onto the stool next to you without asking.

“Yeah… my sister dragged me out.”

“Ah,” Hank chuckled. “Lucky for me.” He slid one of the glasses toward you. Whiskey. Neat. You nodded politely. “Thanks.”

You didn’t ask for it, but you took a sip. Because refusing would be more exhausting than drinking.

Hank talked, mostly about himself. Occasionally he asked you a question, but he never waited for the answer before launching into another story. Still, it was noise. Noise was good. Noise kept you out of your head.

“You’re quiet,” Hank said, tilting his head. “You mad at me?”

You blinked back to the present.

“No,” you said quickly. “Just… tired.”

He smiled. “You need to loosen up.”

You tried to smile back. But then his hand landed on your thigh. It wasn’t casual. It was deliberate. Heavy. You froze. Your pulse quickened.

You shifted, a small movement—polite, non-threatening, clear. But he didn’t move his hand.

Instead, he leaned in closer, the alcohol on his breath making your stomach twist.

“You look so fuckin’ good tonight,” he murmured, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Bet you feel good too.”

You jerked back. “Hank, don’t—”

He grabbed your wrist, quick and tight, and leaned in.

“Relax, sweetheart. We’re just talkin’.”

“No,” you said, firmer now. “Let go.”

His expression changed. Gone was the charm. What replaced it was flat. Cold.

“You wanna cause a scene?” he whispered.

And then you felt it. Something cold and sharp pressing against your ribs. Your eyes snapped down.

A knife. Small, dirty, folded out from a pocket tool. But real. Panic bloomed in your chest like poison.

“Let’s go,” Hank whispered, teeth clenched in a smile. “Now.”

You nodded. What else could you do?

He guided you off the stool, the knife barely brushing your side as a constant reminder. No one noticed. No one cared. The music was too loud. The lights too low.

He steered you toward the back of the bar, toward the restrooms.

Your heart thundered. Your stomach churned. You were already running through what you’d say, what you’d do, how you’d get out—

“Let her go.”

The voice split through the air like a shotgun. You turned, Hank right after you.

And there he was, your savior. Joel.

Shoulders squared, jaw clenched, eyes black with rage. His hand hovering near the holster on his hip. Not on his gun, at least, not yet.

Hank laughed. “C’mon, dude. We’re just talking.”

“I said let. her. go.”

He stepped closer. Each footfall was silent but devastating, like the pressure drop before a tornado hits. His voice had lowered now, dangerously calm.

Your breath caught. You didn’t even realize tears had formed in your eyes until you blinked and they fell.

Hank looked between you and Joel. He weighed his chances. And then, he shoved you.

You stumbled back—but before Hank could bolt, Joel moved. One hand slammed the knife out of Hank’s grip, sent it skittering across the floor.

The other grabbed the front of his jacket and shoved him into the wall so hard the drywall cracked behind him.

“You ever touch her again,” Joel growled, face inches from his, “I’ll break both your fuckin’ arms. And that’ll be merciful.”

Hank didn’t speak, didn't fight, didn't move. He was shaking, his eyes wide open like he just saw a ghost. He was so fucking scared.

Joel dropped him with a final shove and turned toward you, chest rising and falling fast. You stood there frozen, still shaking, tears streaking your cheeks now.

“Hey,” he said softly, all that rage melting into something gentler. “You alright?”

You nodded quickly. He stepped closer, slowly, as if approaching a scared animal. “Come on. I’ll take you home.”

You followed him without thinking. Out into the night. Into the truck. The door shut behind you, and silence filled the cab.

But this silence wasn’t awkward. It was heavy. Comforting. You let out a shaky breath and leaned back against the seat.

Joel didn’t speak. He just drove, his hand occasionally flexing on the wheel like he still hadn’t shaken off what he’d just done.

When the truck rolled to a stop in front of your house, you reached for the handle, but something in your chest seized. You looked over at him.

“Do you wanna come in?” you asked softly. “I… I could make some coffee. As a thank you.”

Joel hesitated. You saw it all over his face. His jaw flexed, his throat bobbed. He shouldn’t go. He knew he shouldn’t. But his eyes dropped to your lips. Just for a second, and that was enough for him to decide.

“…Yeah,” he said, voice rough. “Alright.”

You unlock the door with slightly trembling fingers, the echo of the evening still buzzing in your bones. Joel follows close behind, silent but solid, like some kind of ghost who bled warmth instead of cold.

“Make yourself comfortable,” you say softly, stepping inside and beginning to shrug off your jacket.

Joel doesn’t speak. He just nods and quietly peels off his own coat, hanging it neatly by the door. You move through the familiar space of your kitchen, the air oddly still. Behind you, you hear the chair scrape softly against the floor as he sits down at the small table.

Joel's eyes were glued on you, burning through your clothes, lingering on the curve of your spine, the swing of your hips. It’s not like before. It’s different. Hungrier.

You reach for the coffee tin without looking at him. You know exactly what kind of coffee he likes.

Which is stupid. Because this is Joel. The man you were supposed to despise. And yet here you are, pouring the water, adding just the right amount of grounds, without needing to ask a damn thing.

The silence wraps around the room, thick and buzzing with the unsaid. You can feel him watching your every move. When the coffee’s ready, you grab two mugs, pour them evenly, and walk over to him.

You set his mug down, sitting across from him, your fingers wrapping around the warmth of the ceramic. You both take the first sip in tandem. Then, quiet. The kind that presses in, like fog.

Finally, you speak. You felt like you have to, after being saved. After practically everything.

“Thanks for earlier,” you murmur, your voice a little raw. “That was… Hank.”

Joel’s jaw shifts slightly. His eyes darken. “Figured.”

You let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Didn’t think he’d be that type.”

He leans back a little, cradling the mug in one hand. “A lot of men like him are out there. Even now. You give ‘em power, they use it to corner someone weaker.”

The words sit between you, bitter like the coffee on your tongue. You nod, slowly. “How’d you even see me? No one else noticed.”

You watch the flicker of hesitation pass behind his eyes, the clench in his jaw. “I just… saw you.”

You raise an eyebrow. “In that whole crowd?”

He meets your gaze, lips twitching slightly. “What can I say? You kinda stand out.”

You smirk, mock-offended. “Was it my clothes or the way I awkwardly clung to the wall?”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Bit of both.”

You both chuckle, and something shifts. The ice melts. The air gets warmer. It’s not like before. It’s lighter, easier, safer.

Joel finishes his coffee, setting the mug down gently. “I should get outta here. You’ve had one hell of a night.”

You nod, standing with him. “I’ll walk you to the door.”

But as you turn to lead him out, your sock catches on the edge of the rug and your balance tips.

“Shit—!”

You stumble forward, instinctively reaching out, but Joel is already there—his arms snapping around you, pulling you tightly against him.

Your chest slams into his, and his hands steady you, one firm on your waist, the other wrapped just under your ribs.

You’re both laughing at first. A light, breathy kind of laugh, like the end of a good joke. But then you look up at him. And suddenly, it’s not funny anymore.

His face is so close. Again. Like in the woods.

Your noses almost touch. His breath brushes your cheek. One of his hands tightens slightly on your hip, grounding you. His other hand firm against your back, your palms flat against his chest.

You looked up into his eyes, and for a moment, nothing else in the world existed. Just the two of you, breathing the same charged air, close enough to feel the heat rolling off each other. You didn’t know if it was a good idea. Hell, it probably wasn’t. This would ruin everything. Complicate the wedding. Complicate Jackson. Complicate… him. You.

But you didn’t move. Neither did he.

His eyes kept dropping, from your eyes to your lips, back up again, then down. Every time he looked at your mouth, it felt like fire ran through your veins. His thumb brushed along your spine like he was grounding himself, and you swore your knees nearly gave out from just that.

Then, like something broke inside him, he kissed you.

It was sudden, deep, and full of something too big for either of you to name. It wasn’t soft, not really. It was controlled. His mouth moved against yours like he was trying to remember how to be careful. But the second he felt you lean into it, tilt your head and let out that quiet, needful sound from the back of your throat, he was done.

He pulled back just a fraction, like he was afraid to have gone too far. Like he was waiting for you to push him away.

But instead, you grabbed the collar of his shirt and yanked him back in like a wild thing that had been starving for this. Your lips crashed into his and there was no more hesitation, no more thinking.

Only need.

The kiss turned feverish — teeth, tongues, breathless groans swallowed between your mouths. His hands were everywhere — gripping your waist, sliding under the hem of your shirt, fingers pressing into your skin like he needed to memorize every inch.

You couldn’t stop. Didn’t want to. Your body was reacting like it had waited a lifetime for this. You were pressed up against him, feeling the hardness straining against his jeans, the way his hips rolled into yours with unconscious desperation.

Somehow, you stumbled backwards through the hallway, bumping into walls, laughing through your gasps and moans as he kissed your neck, your jaw, your mouth again. His hands slid down your thighs and lifted you up like you weighed nothing, your legs wrapping around his waist.

His mouth never left yours, the kissing is harder now—urgent, uneven. The hallway dimly lit by the golden hue of a single lamp in your kitchen blurred behind you as he carried you toward your bedroom.

Your fingers twisted into the collar of his shirt, knuckles white, and his breath hitched when your teeth grazed his bottom lip. His hips pressed into you as you gasped softly into his mouth, your thighs squeezing around him. The friction made your body jolt with a pulse of heat that spread through your stomach like wildfire.

He kicked the door to your room open, then brought you down to the bed. Not gently. Not softly. There was no time for that.

Your bodies hit the mattress with a thud, your hair splaying out beneath you like a dark halo. He hovered above you for just a second, both of you panting, eyes locked, your chests rising and falling in unison. Then his hands were on you again—rough, wide palms pushing under your shirt, dragging it up. His touch was everywhere. Greedy. Desperate.

You sat up to help him, tearing the shirt over your head and tossing it somewhere behind you. Joel’s gaze dropped to your chest, dark and feral, his breath catching hard as if he’d just been punched in the stomach. His hands, already trembling slightly, moved with surprising reverence as he reached behind you to unclasp your bra.

It slid down your arms slowly, and the moment your chest was bare, Joel exhaled shakily like he was in physical pain. Like he’d been imagining this for far too long. He didn’t say anything, didn’t need to. His expression was torn between reverence and hunger. You watched his throat bob as he swallowed thickly.

Then, his hands came up to cup you.

They were big, calloused, and the contrast of his roughness against the softness of your skin made you shudder. He traced the curves with his thumbs, gentle at first, then firmer when he saw how your body arched into his touch. Your breath caught again, a small, sharp sound that broke the silence like a dropped glass.

Joel leaned in, lips parting as he pressed his mouth to the swell of one breast, then to your nipple, hot, wet, insistent. Your head fell back with a whimper as his mouth worked in slow, teasing circles. His hand kneaded the other breast, his thumb flicking expertly, rhythmically, and your legs began to shift restlessly beneath him.

Your fingers found his hair, tugging.

Not to stop him, to beg for more. The sensation was overwhelming, grounding and floating you at the same time. He groaned low into your skin, and you felt the sound vibrate through your ribs, down your spine. Your hips lifted off the bed involuntarily, searching for contact, for pressure, for anything.

Joel paused only to look up at you—his lips shiny, his expression undone. You couldn’t breathe. He looked like sin, and you wanted to drown in it. His hand slid down your side slowly, possessively, as if mapping you. Memorizing you.

With a firm but gentle hand, he urges you backward until your spine meets the mattress. You obey without protest, eyes locked on his, heart thundering in your chest. He follows you down, hovering above you, and then he’s on you again, his mouth returning to your chest, latching onto a sensitive nipple like he’s starving for it.

His tongue swirls, wet and deliberate, flicking over the peak until you whimper. Then he sucks, slow and deep, and your back arches as pleasure shoots through you like a live wire.

“Good girl,” he murmurs against your skin, voice gravelly and full of reverence. “So fuckin’ sweet.”

Your thighs press together as heat pools between them. You can barely focus, your hands fisting into the sheets as he alternates between each breast—suckling, kissing, grazing them with the barest edge of his teeth. Every touch makes you writhe, your body hypersensitive, your breath short.

You moan his name, barely a whisper, and he growls softly in response. His lips are warm, skilled, knowing. There’s nothing rushed in his worship; he’s savoring every second, and it drives you wild.

Eventually, his mouth releases you, leaving your skin damp and flushed. But he doesn’t move far—only lower, lower still, lips grazing a path down your torso. He leaves a kiss beneath your ribs, then another just below your navel. Each one sets off sparks in your belly. Your breath hitches as he pauses, right above the hem of your panties.

He glances up, eyes catching yours. “You want this?”

Your nod is immediate, shaky. “Yes.”

He hooks his fingers beneath the fabric of your panties, dragging them down your thighs with excruciating slowness. As he slips them off, he holds your gaze, and then he brings the panties to his lips, kisses the damp center, and tucks them into his back pocket with a smug glint in his eye.

And then he lowers his head again.

You barely have time to process before his mouth is on you—warm, wet, divine. His tongue dips between your folds, exploring you with devastating thoroughness. He licks a slow stripe up your slit, groaning against you like he’s the one being pleasured.

His tongue is rough, textured, dragging deliciously across your most sensitive parts. Every flick, every swirl, every subtle change in rhythm makes your hips lift off the bed, your thighs trembling around his head.

He moans into you like you taste like salvation. One of his hands pins your hip down gently, the other resting on your thigh, keeping you open for him.

“Fuck, baby,” he breathes between licks, “you’re drippin’. So damn perfect.”

Your hands fly to his hair, fingers threading through the strands, anchoring yourself as your body threatens to unravel. Every sound you make, every twitch and gasp, seems to fuel him. He buries his face deeper, devouring you like he’s memorizing the way you taste, the way you tremble.

And god, you can’t stop moaning—his name, half-formed pleas, incoherent gasps. You can’t think. All you can do is feel.

You’re flushed, your legs shaking, your chest rising and falling in ragged breaths. He slides his tongue over your clit, slow and firm, circling it in ways that make your toes curl.

His mind is a mess of craving and possessiveness. He wants to make you come on his tongue, over and over, until you forget anyone but him has ever touched you. You can feel it in every movement, every low sound he makes against you—he’s not just giving you pleasure. He’s claiming you.

The pressure builds fast and fierce, and your thighs clamp tighter around his head. He doesn’t stop. He just groans into your heat, sending vibrations through you that make you cry out, teetering right on the edge.

And just before you fall, he pulls back slightly, eyes glazed with lust, lips glistening.

“You gonna come for me, sweetheart?” he whispers.

“Yes—Joel, please—”

He just smiled devilishly, before his mouth is on you again, relentless. And you break. Your orgasm slams into you like a wave crashing over your body. It’s not soft or sweet—it’s violent, intense, a full-body convulsion that steals your breath and bends your spine off the mattress.

Your mouth opens in a scream, but all that comes out is a strangled moan, broken and raw. Your thighs tighten around Joel’s head, trembling uncontrollably, and your fingers yank at his hair as if anchoring yourself to reality.

The pleasure rips through your core in sharp, overwhelming pulses. Each one sends another shock down your spine, through your arms, your legs, your fingertips. Your vision whitens at the edges. You can’t hear anything but the pounding of your own heart, your ragged gasps, and the obscene wet sounds of his mouth still working you through every last wave.

Joel groans like a man starved, like you are the only thing that’s ever mattered. He doesn’t stop until you’re whimpering from overstimulation, your whole body twitching beneath him. When he finally pulls back, his beard is damp, his lips swollen and slick, his chest heaving.

“Jesus,” he mutters, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes glued to you. “You’re fuckin’ beautiful when you come.”

Your chest rises and falls rapidly, your pulse thudding in your ears. The room tilts a little as you try to breathe through the aftershocks. Everything feels too much, your skin is flushed and hypersensitive, your muscles limp and tingling. You can barely keep your eyes open.

“Joel…” you whisper, dazed. You blink up at him just in time to see his hands at his belt. He unbuckles it slowly, eyes locked on yours the entire time, like he’s daring you to look away.

You don’t.

The sound of the leather sliding free is sinful—low, threatening, full of promise. He lets it fall to the floor with a soft thud, then pops the button of his jeans and drags the zipper down.

You watch, helpless to do anything else. He’s broad, powerful, and glowing with heat—shoulders wide, stomach lined with a thick trail of hair that disappears beneath the waistband he’s tugging down. His cock springs free, thick, flushed, already leaking, and your mouth waters just looking at him.

But he’s not done.

He shrugs off his shirt slowly, working each button free with frustrating patience. And when he peels the fabric off his shoulders and tosses it aside, you nearly forget how to breathe.

All muscle and scars and raw masculinity. His chest is dusted with dark hair, his abdomen hard and sculpted, veins visible on his forearms as he braces himself above you. There’s a faint sheen of sweat on his skin, making every dip and ridge of his body gleam under the soft light.

You stare, dazed and aching, lips parted as your eyes trace every inch of him.

“Like what you see?” he asks, voice rough, almost teasing, but there’s a strain there. He’s barely holding it together. You nod, unable to speak.

And he smirks, just a little, before leaning down to kiss you again, the heat of his bare skin pressing against yours. Then, he crawled up your body, eyes dark, jaw clenched. His control is fraying, shredded to the edge. You can see it in the way his arms tremble slightly, in how fast he’s breathing.

“I can’t wait anymore,” he growls, forehead pressed to yours. “I need to be inside you. Now.”

You nod frantically, legs already parting for him.

He doesn’t even bother with teasing. He just grabs himself. Thick, hard, flushed at the tip, and guides his cock between your thighs, rubbing the head slowly through your slick folds. He groans at the contact, voice shaking.

“Fuck… You’re so wet for me.”

And then, he pushes in. The stretch is unreal. You gasp, eyes flying open as he sinks into you inch by inch. He’s thick, hot, and pulsing with need. Your walls clench around him automatically, your nails digging into his back as he slowly pushes deeper.

“Jesus Christ,” he hisses, every muscle in his body rigid. “You feel like heaven.”

The sensation is overwhelming. Your body tries to adjust, but he’s so big, so deep already. You bite your lip, crying out when he bottoms out, pelvis pressing flush against yours.

You’re full. Stuffed. You feel every vein, every twitch of him inside you.

Joel doesn’t move at first, just leans over you, forearms braced on either side of your head, chest heaving as he fights to keep control. His forehead rests against yours, sweat starting to gather at his temples.

“You okay?” he murmurs.

You nod, breathless. “Yeah. Please—Joel, move.”

That’s all he needs. He starts slow—long, deep thrusts that make your breath stutter, your nails dig into his skin. The sounds of your bodies fill the room: skin against skin, your wetness coating him with every stroke, the soft gasp and grunt of every movement.

But it doesn’t stay slow for long.

Joel groans low in his throat and suddenly snaps his hips forward—hard. You yelp, eyes rolling back. He does it again. And again. Then he loses the last of his restraint.

He fucks you hard, fast, mercilessly. The rhythm ruthless, pounding into you so deep your legs shake around his waist. The bed creaks beneath you, the headboard knocking softly against the wall, but you barely register it.

You can only feel him—his cock driving into you with unrelenting force, your pussy clenching with every thrust.

His grip on your hips tightens, bruising. He watches your face twist with pleasure, your mouth open in gasps and cries, your fingers clawing at his shoulders.

“That’s it,” he pants, voice hoarse. “Take it. Just like that. Good fuckin’ girl.”

You can barely form words. Your mind is gone, wrecked, your entire world narrowed to the feeling of him inside you—stretching, filling, owning every part of you.

He leans down, capturing your mouth again, and fucks you so hard you feel like you’re going to shatter around him.

Then, he pulls out slowly, just for a second, only to flip you onto your stomach.

You barely register the motion before his hands are on your hips, strong and commanding, dragging your ass up until you’re on your knees, chest still against the mattress.

You whimper at the loss of him, but then he’s there again—his cock thick and hot as he drags it through your slick folds from behind.

“Joel—” you breathe, barely able to form the word.

“I can't hold back,” he mutters, voice like gravel. “Need you. Need this.”

He thrusts back into you with no warning, making you scream into the sheets.

He’s so deep, so thick, the angle making it feel impossibly intense, like he’s splitting you open all over again.

Your arms give out, your face pressing into the mattress as he starts to move. And it’s brutal. No finesse, no patience. Just raw, driving thrusts that shake your whole body.

He’s fucking you like a man possessed. Like he’s trying to bury himself so deep you’ll never forget the shape of him. You won’t.

His grip on your hips is bruising, fingertips digging into your flesh as he slams into you again and again. Your skin stings, your scalp prickles—until suddenly, he grabs a handful of your hair, yanks your head back, and you sob at the mix of pain and pleasure.

“You take it so fuckin’ well,” he growls behind you, breath hot against your ear. “You were made for me.”

Tears spill from your eyes, uncontrollably, shamelessly. From the intensity, from the feeling of being completely and utterly taken. Your body can’t keep up. You’re trembling, overwhelmed, moaning brokenly as every thrust punches another cry from your throat.

He leans over you, rutting into you deeper now, rougher. His chest presses against your back, one arm wrapping around your waist to keep you pinned in place while the other stays tangled in your hair.

You feel yourself spiraling again, your second orgasm rising so fast it almost hurts. Your vision blurs, the mattress soaked with your tears as you sob, “Joel, please, I’m—God—I’m gonna—”

“I know, baby,” he pants into your neck. “Come for me. Wanna feel you fall apart.”

It tears through you like lightning, your body locking up before shattering into trembling convulsions. You scream—loud, raw, broken—back arching hard against him. You’re gushing, pulsing around him, your slick flooding down your thighs as your body clenches around his cock.

You’re sobbing, half-coherent, and Joel curses—low and wrecked.

“Fuck—fuck—you’re squeezin’ me so goddamn tight—”

He’s close. You can feel it in the way he moves, the frantic pace, the desperation in every thrust.

Then his hips stutter. He growls your name like a curse and slams into you one final time, burying himself to the hilt as he comes.

It’s not soft—it’s violent. His entire body shudders behind you, his hands gripping you like you’re the only solid thing keeping him grounded. You can feel the heat of him spilling inside you, filling you up as he lets out a low, strangled moan against your skin.

You both collapse.

Joel slumps over your back, breathing hard, his body heavy and trembling with aftershocks. Your legs are jelly, your vision blurry with tears and sweat, your heart pounding against the mattress like it’s trying to break free.

Everything’s quiet, except for your breathing, your sobs slowly calming, and the soft curses Joel whispers as he presses his lips to your shoulder, over and over again. His body still draped over yours, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths. You can feel his heartbeat pounding against your back, can feel the way his arms tighten around your waist as if he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

Eventually, he shifts—pulls out of you gently, muttering something soft against your shoulder that you can’t quite make out. You’re too dazed, too shattered, your limbs heavy and slow like you’ve been drugged. He disappears for a moment.

You barely lift your head when he returns with a towel. Joel doesn’t say a word. He just nudges your legs apart, cleans you carefully, almost reverently.

His touch is gentle, surprisingly so. No roughness, no urgency. Just patient, quiet care. He wipes between your thighs, along your trembling skin, and when you flinch from sensitivity, he whispers, “Shh, I got you,” like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You don’t look at him. You can’t.

Once he’s done, he tosses the towel aside and pulls the blanket up over both of you. You barely notice him crawling in beside you until you feel the weight of his arm wrap around your waist, tugging you back into his chest.

Your eyelids are heavy.

Your body is sore, humming with satisfaction and confusion and something dangerously close to contentment. His warmth seeps into your spine, his breath soft at the nape of your neck. You think he might kiss your shoulder again, but he doesn’t. He just holds you, skin to skin, until you drift off to sleep in his arms.

It’s been three days.

Three days since you let Joel Miller into your home. Three days since you let him see you—all of you. Three days since he touched you like you were something sacred and ruined you all at once.

Tomorrow, your sister’s getting married. Tomorrow, she becomes a Miller. But tonight… tonight is the last night she’ll fall asleep with your name still matching hers.

And all you can think about is him.

Not the ceremony. Not the dress. Not the decorations you spent hours picking out.

Only him. Only that night.

The taste of his mouth. The feel of his body. The way he said your name like a prayer and a curse all at once.

It should’ve been nothing. A mistake. A one-time moment of insanity. You could’ve stopped it. Should’ve. But you didn’t. You let him in. You invited the devil to your doorstep, and you didn’t slam the door in his face.

You let him fuck you like you meant something. And worse—you liked it. You hate yourself for that. Because now? Now you can’t even look at him.

He tries. You see it. A polite nod, a soft “hey,” a wave from across the street. You ignore it all. You keep your eyes down. Pretend not to hear him. Pretend he doesn’t exist—because if you don’t, if you let yourself remember even a second of what happened that night, your chest might split open.

He saw you. Really saw you. And he did things to you no one’s ever done before. Things you didn’t know you wanted, let alone needed.

And now… he’s just walking around Jackson like nothing happened. Like he’s fine.

But you’re not.

You’re a mess. A storm barely contained behind a polite smile. Because every time you shut your eyes, he’s there. That mouth. Those hands. That voice in your ear whispering “good girl” as you came around his tongue.

What the hell were you thinking?

Sleeping with your sister’s future brother-in-law? With your enemy? It sounds like a sick joke. A bad decision spun wildly out of control. And the worst part? You’d do it all over again in a heartbeat.

You should’ve said no.

When Kate looked at you with those sparkling eyes, veil clipped into her hair, all glowing and giddy and “Can you do me a favor?” You should’ve said it right there. No. But you didn’t.

Because tomorrow she gets married. Tomorrow she becomes someone’s wife, and you’d cut off your own arm to make sure her day is perfect. So now you’re stuck in Joel Miller’s truck. Alone. With him.

You sit curled up on the passenger side, arms crossed, body tense like a coiled spring. You haven’t spoken since you got in. Haven’t looked at him once. He tries though.

“Hey,” he said when you climbed in. “You look… nice.” You didn’t answer.

“You sleep alright last night?”

You made a noncommittal grunt and turned your face to the window.

He’s still trying, glancing over occasionally, fingers drumming on the steering wheel like he’s searching for the right rhythm to break the silence. But you give him nothing.

Because what the hell is there to say? That you still feel his hands on your body when you close your eyes? That your throat tightens when you hear his voice, because it reminds you of how it sounded whispering filth in your ear while he ruined you? That your entire body clenches at the thought of him inside you again?

No, there’s nothing to say. But the universe doesn’t give a fuck about timing. Because just as you pass the city limits, the sky cracks open. One fat drop hits the windshield. Then another. Then it’s a full-on storm.

Rain lashes at the glass, fast and blinding, and Joel slows down immediately. Thunder growls somewhere above, deep and low like the sound of something ancient waking up.

“Shit,” he mutters. “Gotta pull over.”

He steers the truck down an overgrown path and finds an old garage, half-collapsed, but enough to get out of the worst of the storm. The rain slams into the tin roof above you, loud and wild. You’re safe, but it feels suffocating.

Joel turns off the engine. Silence falls, except for the storm. He exhales slowly, then speaks.

“You gonna keep pretendin’ I don’t exist?” he asks quietly.

That’s it. You snap. You whip your head toward him, the heat in your chest rising like boiling water. “What do you want me to say, Joel?!”

He blinks. You’re already throwing the door open, going straight to the rain. You needed a fresh air, one that doesn't smell like Joel's car. His door slams right behind you.

“What are you—,”

“Hey, remember that time you fucked me senseless and now I can’t breathe without thinking about it?” You step out into the rain. “That I feel like a complete idiot because I invited you in and now I can’t even look at myself in the mirror?!”

The cold hits you like a slap, rain soaking your clothes instantly. You welcome it. He follows, his voice sharp through the downpour. “I didn’t plan it either! You think I woke up that morning hopin’ to lose my fuckin’ mind over you?!”

You spin on him. “You didn’t stop me!”

“I couldn’t!” he shouts back, eyes wild, hair already soaked. “You looked at me like you wanted it. Like no one ever looked at me before and I couldn’t—” He stops himself, jaw tight.

You stare at him. The rain pours around you, drumming on the roof, the truck, the gravel. Your chest heaves. Your teeth clench. Everything is raw, exposed, trembling.

“This was a mistake,” you say, but your voice breaks halfway through. He steps closer.

“You don’t believe that.”

“I have to,” you whisper.

Joel’s hands reach out slowly, like approaching a wounded animal. His palms settle on your wet cheeks. “Look I get it…,” he says softly, “but I ain’t sorry for what we did, and I defenitely do not regret it.”

Your breath catches.

“Do you?” He asked, his brown chocolate eyes made your knees weak, and you knew the answer damn well, but it was just hard. Hard to admit that you have feelings for Joel fucking Miller. That you feel something more, and unfortunately, it's not hatress.

“I don't—” you start, but then he kisses you.

Hard. Desperate. Wet mouths clashing in the rain like something out of a dream you’d never admit to having. His hands hold your face like he’s terrified you’ll vanish. Your fingers dig into his shirt, nails catching fabric. There’s nothing gentle about it.

It’s all tongue and teeth and years of hate folding into hunger. You kiss him like you’re punishing him. He kisses you like he’s begging for mercy.

When you finally break apart, you’re both panting.

Foreheads pressed together. Rain dripping from your lashes. His hands stay on your face. Yours clutch his jacket.

“I’m so fucking mad at you,” you whisper.

Joel smiles. “Yeah. I know.”

The morning sun filters in through sheer curtains, soft and golden, bathing the room in light that feels almost sacred.

Kate stands by the mirror, surrounded by laughter, perfume, and a blur of ivory fabric and flowers. Her wedding dress hugs her figure perfectly—delicate lace at the shoulders, tiny buttons running down the back, and a soft, flowing skirt that pools like clouds around her feet. Her hair is curled and pinned, a few loose strands framing her glowing face, and in her hands is a bouquet of wildflowers tied with satin.

She looks like something out of a dream. You watch her, heart pounding, throat tight with nerves. It’s now or never.

“Kate,” you say gently, stepping forward.

She turns to you, bright-eyed. “Yeah?”

Your hands are shaking. You swallow hard. “I need to tell you something. And I should’ve told you sooner, I just… I didn’t know how.”

She blinks. “What is it?”

You inhale slowly. “It’s about me and Joel.”

She was quiet, her eyes full of expectations and lips sucked nervously into a thin line.

“Me and Joel are… kinda together,” you sigh, heart hammering in your chest, fully expecting a meltdown. But instead, she squeals.

“Oh my god, why didn’t you tell me sooner?! This is—this is amazing!” She throws her arms around you, nearly knocking your breath out. “I knew there was something! You’ve been acting so weird! But this, this makes me so happy!”

You’re stunned. “Wait… you’re not mad?”

She pulls back and beams. “Mad? Are you kidding? I ship this. Hard.”

You burst into laughter, nearly crying from the relief.

“You’re insane,” you whisper, wiping your eyes.

“I’m your sister, it’s my job,” she grins.

The wedding ceremony is set beneath an arch of flowers, surrounded by rows of chairs filled with friends and family. The sun is just starting to dip lower, casting long shadows, the sky streaked with pink and lavender.

You stand at the altar as a bridesmaid, bouquet clutched tightly in your hands. You’ve never worn a dress like this before—it’s soft, elegant, pale lavender—and your hair is pinned back, a few curls brushing your cheek. Your palms are sweaty. Your heart’s full.

Across from you, Joel stands in a dark suit, tie slightly loosened, that damn rugged charm still impossible to ignore. And then, the music starts. Everyone rises. You turn your head, and there she is.

Kate walks slowly down the aisle, hand wrapped around your father’s arm, veil trailing behind her like a whisper. Her eyes are wide, lips trembling with a smile, and she looks so happy, like every fairytale in the world decided to make a cameo in her life today.

You feel it before you realize it, tears welling in your eyes. You blink rapidly, but they fall anyway, slipping down your cheeks in quiet streaks.

Then you glance sideways. Joel isn’t looking at the bride. He’s looking at you.

His eyes are soft. Warm. His lips curve into the smallest smile—just for you. One corner up, the kind that says I’m here. I see you. I’m yours.

You smile back, heart blooming.

And in that moment, standing in the golden light of your sister’s wedding, mascara streaking your cheeks, hands still trembling from the weight of it all, you realize you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

With him. With all of it. And finally, finally, it feels like the chaos was worth it.

Hii! Thank you so much for reading!

I hope you guys enjoyed it! If you have any suggestions, don’t hesitate to let me know! I’d also be super happy for any feedback; whether it’s a reblog, comment, like, or even a follow.

Have a lovely day!

LOVE YA! 🥮🍂

[gay-dorito-dust]

More demon brained Vergil?? (The chokehold this man has on me. It's unimaginable.)

I will live and die by demon brained Vergil. Seriously this man has no clue what he’s doing when it comes to human flirting but demonic courting? This man is knowledgeable on all fronts.

Vergil bites and he scents you, his ‘mate’ or ‘partner’ for possessive and territorial purposes. This is well known enough for it to have been an inside joke, especially with how often you walked out of your shared room with almost painful bite marks upon your neck and shoulders, only to tell people that they were ‘love bites.’

but that was mainly stuff that many people got to see the aftermath and not what this man does behind closed doors.

He makes nests! Yes! Vergil makes a nest of your clothes when you leave for a mission if your a demon hunter or for work in general, he takes clothes that you had in your wardrobe and make a nest of them upon your shard bed with your pillow being the first piece to be added.

His demon side wanted to be closer to you and if he couldn’t do that with you literally, then he’d gladly use your clothes, more specifically clothes that you have worn beforehand and still held your scent and warmth, as a substitute and rub himself against them. Even going so far as to fall asleep in them becuase while he might not admit it, he did indeed miss you and will get huffy when your clothes stop smelling like you and loose your warmth.

Vergil is a clingy half demon, he knows this and doesn’t want to admit to it, but everything that you’ve ever lost place of or just thought was long gone was in this man’s possession instead. Anything that had your essence on was his by association, nobody else’s.

He’ll growl and his eyes will become even more icy blue when someone touches your stuff, getting it muddied with their ugly scent that smelt like acid to him, where as yours was sweet, unique and something that could put him at ease at a simple sniff.

Another well known one is that he purrs, growls and or chirps depending on what you were doing, it’s not like he’s actively doing it because this is all natural to him and his demonic heritage, if anything he found anything human too foreign for him since his long, long stay in hell. (I will literally never let anyone forget this fact)

So Vergil does this really unique noise just for you, it’s a noise he’s noticed that demons onto did towards their mates, something made only for them to find the other should they be at long distance from one another, letting them know that they were there and were okay. A meaning to being the two mates together and differentiate themselves from other demon mates nearby doing the same thing.

And so Vergil would make this noise, which was like a chirp and an almost howl like nose that only you would recognise and come looking for him, an act that itches his demon brain greatly, seriously if his demon tail was out it would be wagging happily at the attention of his mate recognising his sound and coming towards him.

His brain: ‘my mate is coming! They heard me! They recognise me! My mate! My beloved mate whom I’d kill and slaughter for! They’re here! Hi! Gimme kiss! Gimme kiss! Gimme my mate! MY MATE!’

Him: 😐 I’m glad you’re not hurt. Now let’s go.

Will show off his demon wings and spread them as far as they can go in order to impress you when he devil triggers, it’s adorable seeing this hulking blue demon stand before you, showing off his big ass wings in hopes of impressing you with the array of colours that went into them.

This is something he’d do pre-relationship kinda like a preening peacock but don’t be surprised when he does this when he’s your mate/partner, encouraging you to touch them and trace the patterns there.

Demon grooming! Again try imagining this blue demon combing his claws over you, preening/grooming you on the odd occasion now and then before silently asking for you to do the same for him, looking at you with those almost puppy dog like demon eyes of his.

Or just imagine Vergil straightening your clothes, making sure clothing was out of place, making sure your shoes were properly tied so you wouldn’t hurt yourself. This was his version of demon grooming outside his devil trigger by making sure you’re looking presentable before you leave the house. It’s cute watching him act so serious about removing that one stray fluff on your clothes to the point he growls in frustration, but it only him showing his care through his unique way.

[sugussugar]

imagine coming home with suguru after a late night of dinner and drinks with shoko and satoru.

you're exhausted. your eyes are drooping shut, your legs feel abnormally heavy, you swear your skull is shrinking in size at the pain of your headache, everything hurts and all you want is sleep.

and suguru, ever the gentleman that he is, refuses to let his baby do anything while in this state. (← or in general at that.)

he starts by carrying you from the car to inside the house, cooing as you begin to fall asleep. he steps inside the bathroom with you nestled in his arms and places you on the toilet, meticulously undresses you, ridding your body of any clothes jewelry or accessories.

he sets you in the tub, delicate as ever, making sure all he thinks about is how fragile you are and how much care he must handle you with, and cleanses your entire body for you; whispering soft: “no no, baby. you get your rest, i'll take care of everything.” every time you so much as think to lift a finger.

he would be so tender when drying your body, kissing all along your body as he goes while murmuring quietly into your skin: “you're so beautiful... so perfect.”

he rubs a vanilla scented lotion into your skin afterwards , using that as an excuse to litter your body with even more kisses before picking you up and strolling off to your shared bedroom.

he doesn't get you dressed, something he insisted wasn't necessary: “sleeping naked is much more intimate, my dove.” or something like that. (you were half asleep when he said it) however, he does pick you out an outfit for tomorrow and folds it up neatly on your dresser.

you're laying in bed, quickly losing consciousness as he does that until you're startled by him gently tapping your cheek: “no no, lovely. i still need to brush your hair. sit up for me?”

he doesn't give you time to respond, already slowly hoisting your body upward into a sitting position, cautious not to startle you too much.

he then brushes through your locks, starting from the bottom and making his way to the top, kissing the back of your head then whispering: “doesn't that feel nice?”

afterwards, he lays down in bed with you, pulls you close, and finally grants you your wish of sleep.

[reidscherrygirl]

೯⁺ 𖥻 𝓟 𝗔𝗥𝗧𝗬 𝟰 𝗨 ! ᰋ

ꨄ︎ 𝒫airing : : 𝒮pencer reid x reader

ꨄ︎ 𝓢ynopsis : : you’re like a cherry. small, tempting, easy to eat, but with a pit at the center. very sweet on the surface, but you might leave a bitter aftertaste if someone isn’t careful. & maybe, despite spencer reid & his eidetic memory, he forgot that. there were no strawberries left▰so he reached for the cherries.

ꨄ︎ 𝒞ontents : : angst. spoilers( maeve ). her = maeve unrequited love. one sided-love( ? ) emotional neglect. grief/mourning. unhealthy coping mechanisms. friends to almost lovers to situationship to strangers. rebound relationship. rebound!reader. unresolved trauma. self worth issues. implied depression. implied sex. abandonment themes. no comfort. reader leaving( not the fbi ). no happy ending( ...unless? ). doesn't give off the angsty vibe( in my defense, i'm more of a fluff girlie ).grammatical errors. ooc. song lyrics mentioned. quotes from pinterest mentioned. reader be legit a people pleaser. spencer is kind of a dick. lowercase. use of "&". not proofread( none of my works are ). english isn't viana's first language.

ꨄ︎ 𝓦ord count : : 2k+

ꨄ︎ 𝓒ase file shelf.

ꨄ︎ 𝒲hispers of viana : : sorry for describing reader as a cherry in the synopsis 😭 please blame pinterest,,,. it wasn't supposed to be this long but i got carried away. i also have no idea if it gives off party 4 u,,, because it kind of gives off mirrorball,, IDKDID. oh & can u guys tell that i tried to be poetic but quit. yeah, i'm no shakespeare. &&& i wasn't planning on posting this because it seemed,,, bland,,, but @yeoniverseee wouldn't stop spamming me, so wow. party 4 u is finally out of prison. USGHSH so bare w me indygis one💔 this is my first ever angst ( & i suck at writing angst ). also, the you always let him in & he always visits part is so michaelia coded lawd. ( guess who finished rereading the naturals in just one day ) @dntaed read the naturals already plsplsplspls🤞🏼🤞🏼/j

𝓨ou tell yourself it's okay.

you tell yourself every time his hands linger on your skin, every time the gentle sweep of your waist doesn't hold him fast, every time the silence following your laughter draws out too long & he backs away with a muttered apology about papers or a case or some distant pain he neglected to share. you smile through it all.

because he's at least making an effort, right? you are, too. you always are. always going the extra step, always showing up on his doorstep when you feel like he most needs you, always acting like you don't notice how his eyes are seeing right through you. acting like the hands that hold you in the dark aren't clutching cold with guilt.

he doesn't kiss you in the mornings. that's how you know it's not real. he never does. even after long nights tangled together, bodies pressed close as if closeness could buy out for the sections of him you can't touch. he always sneaks away when the sun comes up. & you let him.

it began perhaps three or four months following her passing. you can't utter her name. he won't, either. not with you.

you swallow her ghost every time you say nothing. you keep her between your ribs, where your hope used to be.

he was mourning, & you were seeking to aid. individuals like you▰those who speak perhaps too blunt sometimes, who dig their nerves deep beneath control & calculation & bullheaded kindness▰you do not necessarily comprehend how to display love. yet you tried.

you sat with him at first, quiet. made coffee. touched his wrist gently when he winced. & slowly, things began to change.

he kissed you once when he was exhausted. you reassured yourself it meant something.

you told yourself his breath in your mouth was a promise. it didn't.

& now it's this. whatever this is. the team doesn't question. but they're aware. you can see in the looks. the soft gazes from jj. the raised eyebrow from emily. the way derek half grins at you, always like he's holding back some thought he knows better than to express. & penelope… she doesn't exactly hide her pity.

& pity tastes worse than anything.

you were trained to read people. not like how spencer reads people. not genius level profiling & eidetic memory. no, you picked it up in the quiet spaces. in silences that warned you who could be trusted, in eyes that did not meet yours. you learned to know when someone was going to depart.

he has not departed. but he's never stayed.

sometimes he calls you in the middle of the night. you don't even ask anymore. you just come. & he lets you curl around him like warmth might burn the sorrow out. he never says her name. he never has to. you can feel it in the way he touches you with fingers like ghosts.

months ago, you overheard him.

you weren't supposed to. you didn't mean to, light steps from habit. the door was left slightly ajar. he was discussing something with alex.

“it doesn't matter what she looks like. she's already the most beautiful girl in the world to me," he stated.

his tone was quiet, filled with something you couldn't define.

he has no idea of what this person looks like, & is already the most beautiful in his mind, you▰someone who he has worked with for years▰could never top that.

you didn't cry then. you just closed the door. waited an hour before walking in & pretending you hadn't heard.

& now, tonight▰tonight he doesn't come home. not until late. you wait anyway, because that's what you do. wait & hope & pretend. when he finally walks in, looking like exhaustion & something rawer, you open your mouth & asked, "are you okay?"

& he stares at you like that's the incorrect question.

"i'm fine."

you despise that word. more than anything. it's the word that you both use when the truth is too painful. for spencer reid, “i'm fine” is a call for help.

"you forgot we had dinner."

he doesn't even flinch. "i didn't forget."

& there's the truth. he didn't forget. he just didn't show.

"i waited," you say quietly. "if you were arriving late, you could've at least told me.”

he touches his hair. "i know. i'm sorry. the day just got▰"

"don't lie to me."

that makes him flinch. his lips shut, eyes narrowing. but there is no anger there. only that weary, endless pain you've learned too well.

"i didn't mean to lie."

"but you did."

he breathes out, slow. "i'm not ready. you know that."

you swallow past the lump in your throat. "& what am i? a distraction? a placeholder?"

his silence is too long. it's everything.

you laugh. "i thought maybe… maybe one day, if i stayed, if i loved you hard enough, you'd see me." you whisper like it’s a secret you’ve said a thousand times before.

his face changes. pain. guilt. "i do see you."

"not like that."

he takes another step forward. you take a step back.

"don't," you tell him. "don't touch me unless you mean it."

he stands still. you can see it. the panic, the guilt, the uncertainty. all of it knotted in the air between you.

"i didn't mean to hurt you."

"but you did."

he doesn't deny it.

you wipe your face, realizing too late that you're crying. "i know she meant everything to you. i know you're still grieving. but i thought maybe i could help you heal. not. not be the wound you keep cutting open."

his hands twitch. like he wants to reach for you. but he doesn't.

"i'm sorry," he says. & it's silent. genuine. "i thought i was fine. but every time i see you, i feel like i'm stealing something i don't deserve."

"you think i don't know that?"

he's taken aback.

"you think i don't know i'm just a rebound? you think i don't notice the way you wince every time i tell you i love you?"

he shuts his eyes.

"i wish you didn't," he whispers.

you laugh once more. bitter. "so do i."

there's silence. the kind that chokes. the kind that stabs you. the kind that bleeds & you didn't even realize it until he's drifting away once again.

you press your fingers into your wrist just to feel something steady.

you don't tell him to go. he does anyway.

& when the door shuts, you let yourself collapse onto the couch. fingers curled tight in the pillow. trying to recall how to breathe.

because you'll take it. every piece. every touch. every half truth.

until you can't anymore.

but god▰you love him so much it destroys you.

you had fallen off your pedestal many times, broken so many times you think there's no repair for your soul; but no one needed to know that. your cries, the guilt you feel whenever a case comes up, how ashamed you feel because every mistake you make is equal to a person's life.

you have fallen countless times, you played a very risky gamble that left you a permanent wound.

you, a special fbi agent from the bau, will die your mother's daughter.

it doesn’t stop after that night.

you wonder maybe it should've. maybe that would've been simpler. but instead, everything settles into this odd performance, a dance neither of you planned but both of you remember now. & it's uglier than ever. you don't kiss him when he arrives at your doorstep. he doesn't hold you afterwards. you speak less. touch less. feel less▰or perhaps you simply pretend to.

but still you let him in.

& he still visits.

you lie to yourself & say it's alright. that it doesn't mean anything. that this is no longer love, that it perhaps never was, not at all. it's just a craving, a comfort, the warm buzz of flesh & breath & quiet you've become dependent upon. you don't meet his gaze when it's finished. sometimes you don't even say goodbye. simply throw on a blanket & turn toward the wall until he gets up & leaves in silence.

& he always does.

he never sleeps over anymore. not that he ever really did.

& somewhere along the way, you give up trying.

you don't brew his coffee the way he likes it. you don't ask about the topics he's very much educated at. you don't hold his hand when he shakes. you don't send him books you think he'd enjoy or those stupid little riddles you used to text him at 2 a.m. you stop arriving first thing after a tough case. you stop asking if he's alright, because the answer will always be the same.

you still love him. he's your best friend ever since you joined the team, & that's the worst part. you still love him like it's your last breath. but love doesn't mean what it used to.

it's just a quiet ache in your chest now. a thing you carry like a scar.

a scar you dress up in perfume & pretend is perfume.

one evening, he approaches you & you're already half-naked, eyes far away, movements automatic. you don't even glance at him. just drag him down next to you like it doesn't matter. like you don't matter. & then he lightly touches your shoulder, as if to speak, but you roll over before he can.

you don't look at his face. but you sense the tension. the hesitation.

he doesn't return for a week afterwards.

& that's when you received an offer

ncavc▰national center for the analysis of violent crimecriminal investigative analysis program. a split personality job. one foot in the field, the other in behavioral data & strategy. it's ideal for you. something that's like both an escape & a test. the unit is smaller, younger, located out of quantico's satellite offices. not the bau. not him.

you don’t tell him at first. you tell hotch, of course. & emily. you tell penelope over coffee, & she gasps & hugs you & almost cries, & you smile through the lump in your throat. derek claps you on the back & calls you “big shot,” & even rossi gets a little sentimental. jj was emotional, to say, at least. telling you that you better visit her every now & then.

but you avoided spencer.

perhaps you're a coward. perhaps you don't want to witness his expression when he knows this is it.

because it is. you know. this is the time where the almost turns into never. the maybe turns into no. the what if turns into goodbye.

you inform him three days prior to the transfer.

you wait until late, when you know he'll be in his desk. the team's dispersed for the evening, penelope already gone with emily & jj, & derek's somewhere plundering the vending machine. your footsteps sound too loud as you get closer to the bullpen, heart pounding harder than it should.

he doesn't even look up when you knock softly. just hummed softly as greeting & continues reading whatever file is in his hands.

you linger a second too long before uttering it.

"i'm leaving."

that cuts through.

he blinks, looking up. "what?"

you let out a breath. "i was offered a role at the ncavc. it's settled. i will switch over next week."

the quiet lands like a punch. the kind that rebounds.

he lowers the file into his hand with deliberation. "you're not joking?"

you nod. "no, i'm not."

he glares at you, eyes darting across your face as if perhaps he's looking for the part of you that's lying. but you're not. not this time.

"why?"

you shrug. "because i want to. because it's a good chance. because i'm good at this, & because it's a once in a lifetime opportunity.”

you don't say because it kills me to be around you. you don't say because i no longer want to wait. you don't say because when i look at you, i recall how desperately i wished for you to choose me & you never did.

you simply fold your arms. "it's not personal."

it is. you both know that.

he nods, clenching his jaw. "congratulations, then."

that is all he says.

just like that.

you wait another second, expecting▰something. anything. but nothing happens. so you turn & go away.

the team gave you a party two days later.

penelope organized it, of course. there are balloons & streamers & a gold banner that reads "GO SAVE THE WORLD, SUPERSTAR" in glittering letters. someone brought cupcakes. derek delivers a speech that's half jokes, half actual feeling. emily hugs you for longer than is necessary. jj hugged you just as tight. tighter, even. rossi says to you that he's proud of you, that your instincts are better than most people's & he knew that from the beginning. hotch smiles. you swear it's almost warm.

& you, you try to have a good time. really. you do.

you laugh at the jokes. you pose for photos with everyone. you take a sip of punch from a paper cup & smile like your heart isn't racing in your ears.

spencer hangs back the rest of the time.

you catch him staring at you once, chatting with derek about something, laughing at one of his idiotic jokes. you don't glance away. you don't approach him, either.

you haven't said a word since the announcement.

you wonder if maybe that's best.

but later, when you're standing by the food table, refolding napkins just to have something to do, jj approaches beside him.

they speak softly for a few moments. you can't hear what they're saying, but you notice the tension in spencer's shoulders, the way he keeps looking your way like he wants to bolt.

jj's voice is steady, but soft. serious. her hand brushes against his elbow, & he jerks away like it hurts.

you look away before you see any more.

"you could've gave a chance to let her in, spence."

his jaw clenches. "it wasn't that easy."

"it was. you made it harder."

he remains silent.

jj lets out a sigh. "she waited for you. for years. & when she finally gave up, you let her. that's what stings the most, i think."

he gulps hard.

"were you in love with her at some point?"

"i was. maybe. before▰" he was then cut off by the blonde.

"then why didn't you tell her?"

he shakes his head. "i don't know. i▰ she was always focused on her job, maybe i felt like she didn't want any distractions. maybe because she deserves better.”

jj doesn't respond for a second. then she says softly, "maybe you should've let her decide that."

& then she leaves.

( spencer will recall every word jj said for the remainder of his life. )

the party slows down gradually.

bit by bit, the team began leaving. lights get a bit hazier. penelope gives you a big hug that is scented like strawberry perfume & frosting. derek pecks your head & makes you promise to stay in contact or he will track you down. emily gifted you a snoopy mug for your new workspace. rossi tucks a note in your bag reading remember, best profiles are ones that come from the heart & not just the head.

& then there's just you & spencer.

kind of.

he stands by the windows, arms folded, looking out like the night would provide answers.

you stand by the door, coat clutched in your hand, uncertain. he looks your way, & for a moment, there's just you two. all the yelling & years & hurt between you.

he gives a single nod.

you nod back.

this is the most you've spoken in days that's just,, okay.

& it's everything.

you turn & go out the door.

you don’t look back.

he does.

he always will.

© reidscherrygirl

[mirisss]

Not So Little Anymore

Non-idol Nishimura Riki (Ni-ki) x 2 years older! female reader

Warnings: Niki is down bad for the reader, Niki is 2 years younger than reader (so reader is an 03-line), some jealousy, insecurities, Niki being angry, eating, food, reader is shorter than the guys, reader passing out, Niki injuring his arm (nothing serious), I think that’s it,  

Wordcount ≈ 14.5 k (I got carried away, as usual) Not proofread, also I wrote like 10 different versions of this so at this point, I'm not sure if everything is correct for this story but I think it is

Obsessed with Niki at the moment so I had to write this

Also featuring the other Enhypen members and some &team members, mostly Nicholas and K(Kei). 

Please reblog and like!

Third Person POV

From the beginning, (Y/n) had always thought of Niki as the “kid” of the group — younger, a little clumsy, full of endless energy and reckless smiles. Even now, when she looked at him, she still saw the boy who used to trip over his own feet trying to keep up with the older guys. To her, Niki had always been something sweet, something safe, someone who needed her looking out for him — not someone to fall for.

But Niki?

He had stopped being a boy a long time ago, at least in his own eyes.

At almost twenty, with a frame that stood tall and broad, with eyes that burned a little too intensely whenever she was near, Niki wasn’t that little kid anymore.

Not that (Y/n) seemed to notice.

She still ruffled his hair sometimes. Still smiled at him like he was made of something breakable. Still called him “little one” when she was teasing — something that made the rest of their friends either wince or fight the urge to laugh.

Because everyone knew.

Everyone but her.

Heeseung, Jay, Jake, Sunghoon, Sunoo, and Jungwon had all picked up on it ages ago — the way Niki’s eyes would soften when he looked at her, the way he sat a little closer than he needed to, the way he’d stiffen with quiet jealousy if she laughed too brightly at one of them. It was written all over him, plain and painful.

But (Y/n) never saw it.

To Niki, the others were all men in her eyes — strong, confident, worthy of her admiration. But him? He was just… Niki. The little brother. The kid who followed her around and looked at her like she hung the stars herself.

It wasn’t fair, really, the way his heart ached every time she glanced past him.

But that didn’t stop him.

He would make her see.

Someday soon, he would show her he wasn’t just the “cute younger guy” anymore.

He was hers — if only she would realize it.

~~~

The living room of the shared house buzzed with low conversation and the sound of a movie playing half-forgotten in the background. It was a little cramped — eight people living together in a house meant for six — but somehow it worked. They fought, sure, over stupid things like dishes and bathroom schedules, but at the end of the day, they were family.

Even Heeseung, who had graduated last year, still lived with them.

He said he was “too emotionally attached” to move out, though everyone suspected it was more about the fear of missing out.

Tonight, they were all gathered around — Jake sprawled across the floor, Sunghoon and Jay sharing the bigger couch, Sunoo and Jungwon squished together on the other end, (Y/n) perched comfortably between them, and Niki sitting alone in the old armchair by the window.

He tried not to look too miserable.

He failed.

“So then,” (Y/n) was saying, waving her hands animatedly, “he shows up twenty minutes late, and when I asked if he got stuck in traffic, he just said, ‘Nah, I lost track of time playing video games.’”

The group groaned collectively.

“You’re kidding,” Sunoo said, making a face. “That’s so—ugh.”

“And!” (Y/n) continued, her voice rising with disbelief, “he spent the whole dinner talking about himself. I don’t think he asked me a single question. Not one!”

Jake whistled low. “Oof. Major red flag.”

Jay shook his head. “People have no game these days.”

Niki bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to hurt, trying to keep the words locked inside. Of course he didn’t deserve you. No one does.

His hands tightened around the armrests of the chair, knuckles whitening.

He wished he could just say it — scream it if he had to — that she didn’t need to waste her time on idiots who didn’t even see her properly.

Because he saw her.

Every little thing.

Every smile, every sigh, every frustrated roll of her eyes when she thought no one was watching.

But he stayed quiet.

He always did.

“Honestly, (Y/n),” Sunghoon said with a teasing grin, “at this rate, you’re gonna have to lower your standards.”

“Or raise them,” Heeseung offered, smirking. “You deserve someone who actually pays attention to you.”

Niki’s chest twisted at Heeseung’s words, half wanting to hug him, half wanting to punch a wall. Yeah. Someone like me.

(Y/n) laughed, tossing her head back a little, unaware of the silent storm brewing just a few feet away. “Maybe I should just stay single forever. Less hassle.”

“Or,” Jungwon piped up, glancing meaningfully at Niki, “maybe someone closer than you think already likes you.”

The room went still for a split second.

(Y/n) laughed it off, thinking Jungwon was just being playful.

“Aww, Wonnie, if you’re volunteering, you’re a little too young for me,” she teased, ruffling his hair.

Niki felt like sinking into the floor.

“Hey!” Jungwon protested, slapping her hand away with a mock glare while everyone else chuckled.

Niki stared down at his hands, jaw clenched.

Too young.

That’s how she saw him. Always had. Always would.

The movie flickered across the screen, ignored.

The others fell back into easy chatter.

But Niki sat there in his chair, sulking quietly, heart pounding, wishing he could be brave enough to change her mind.

One day.

Just not yet.

~~~

The kitchen was bathed in soft morning light, a golden haze slipping through the windows. (Y/n) stood in front of the cabinets, pajama pants hanging loose on her hips, hair still messy from sleep, and a deep frown creasing her features.

She hopped lightly on her toes, fingers stretching toward the highest shelf, where — cruelly — her favorite cereal had been stashed. She barely brushed the bottom of the box before it shifted farther out of reach.

“Ugh,” she groaned under her breath, glaring up as if the cereal had personally offended her.

Behind her, footsteps padded softly against the floorboards. Niki strolled into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes sleepily, hair sticking up a little in the back. He caught sight of her struggle instantly and smirked — a slow, lazy smile that lit up his whole face.

Perfect.

Leaning casually against the counter for a second, arms crossed, he watched her jump again — completely ineffective but adorable.

Then, pushing off the counter, he stepped up behind her.

“Need some help, shorty?” he drawled, voice still husky from sleep.

(Y/n) turned, blinking up at him, clearly just noticing he was there. “Huh? Oh—” she started, but before she could finish, Niki reached effortlessly above her, muscles in his arms flexing slightly beneath the loose sleeves of his t-shirt as he grabbed the box in one smooth motion.

He handed it to her with a cocky little grin.

And for just a heartbeat, he lingered close — close enough for her to notice that he had gotten taller than her. Way taller. Close enough for her to see that the angles of his face weren’t those of a boy anymore but of someone growing into his own.

But if (Y/n) noticed, she didn’t show it.

She just grinned, taking the cereal from his hand. “Thanks, skyscraper,” she said teasingly, ruffling his hair before turning away to sit at the table.

Niki froze.

Hair ruffled. Again.

He stared after her, heart dropping straight into his stomach.

Skyscraper.

Thanks.

No second glance. No lingering look of surprise at how tall he’d gotten, how broad his shoulders were now. No blush, no flustered stammering. Nothing.

Just the same old (Y/n).

Niki dropped heavily into the chair across from her, sulking without even trying to hide it this time.

“You’re welcome,” he muttered under his breath, resting his chin in his hand as he watched her pour her cereal, completely oblivious to the battle raging inside of him.

One day, he promised himself.

One day she would look at him and see.

But for now, he shoved his frustration down deep, focusing instead on memorizing the way her nose scrunched a little when she concentrated on pouring just the right amount of milk.

Still his girl.

She just didn’t know it yet.

~~~

I’m really glad you like the tone so far!

And yes — I completely understand what you’re asking: you want Niki’s insecurity about being younger, especially after what (Y/n) said about Jungwon, to be a little more obvious here. I’ll weave that in naturally through Niki’s dialogue and inner frustration without making it feel forced.

Here’s the updated version of that part of the story:

(Y/n) scarfed down the last few bites of her cereal, totally oblivious to the stormy cloud hovering over Niki’s head. She checked the time on her phone and jumped up with a little gasp.

“Ah! I’m gonna be late!” she said, shoving her bowl into the sink with a loud clatter.

Niki stood up halfway from his chair, almost like he wanted to say something — anything — to make her stay just a little longer. But all he managed was a quiet, “Good luck,” as she hurried out of the kitchen, throwing him a distracted thumbs-up over her shoulder.

The second she disappeared down the hall, the kitchen door swung open again — and in strolled Jake and Sunoo, both looking far too energetic for this early in the morning.

Jake immediately caught sight of Niki’s face and snorted. “Man, you look like someone kicked your puppy.”

Sunoo dropped himself dramatically into the seat next to Niki, eyeing him with a knowing smirk. “Or like someone stole your girl.”

Niki scowled, slouching further down into his chair. “Shut up,” he muttered.

Jake laughed as he made his way to the fridge. “Bro, you’re so obvious it’s painful. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were gonna start crying into your cereal.”

Sunoo leaned forward, resting his chin in his hand. “Seriously, what’s eating you this time? She just thanked you.”

Niki let out a bitter, humorless laugh. “Yeah. She thanked me. Called me ‘skyscraper’ like I’m some little kid who just happened to get tall overnight.”

Jake raised an eyebrow. “You did get stupid tall overnight.”

“That’s not the point!” Niki groaned, running a frustrated hand through his hair. He stared at the tabletop like it had personally betrayed him. “She still thinks of me as a kid. She doesn’t see me, not really.”

Sunoo tilted his head. “She’ll come around, Niki. It’s just gonna take a little time.”

Niki shook his head, bitterness rising in his throat. “No, you don’t get it,” he muttered. “The other day — when we were all in the living room — she said Jungwon was ‘too young’ for her.”

He looked up at them, voice tight. “Jungwon. He’s only a year older than me. If he’s too young for her, what the hell does that make me?”

Jake’s teasing grin faltered slightly, replaced by something softer.

Sunoo winced. “Damn. That’s rough.”

“I’m never gonna be anything more than the kid she grew up babysitting,” Niki mumbled, sinking lower into his seat.

Jake crossed his arms over his chest, thinking. “You’re taller than half the guys she’s dated,” he said eventually. “You’re more mature than most of them too, even if you don’t always act like it.”

Sunoo smiled encouragingly. “And honestly, you grew into your face pretty nicely,” he teased, elbowing him lightly. “You’re not the same kid anymore.”

Niki didn’t look convinced.

He let out a sigh, propping his forehead against the table dramatically.

“One day,” Jake said with a small shrug, grabbing a carton of juice from the fridge, “she’s gonna look at you and realize you’ve been standing there the whole time. Waiting for her.”

“Yeah,” Sunoo chimed in, patting Niki’s back. “And until then, we’ll be here… making fun of you mercilessly.”

Niki groaned again into the wood. “Best friends ever.”

Jake laughed, ruffling his hair as he passed. “You’re welcome, skyscraper.”

And as the early morning light filled the kitchen, Niki stayed slumped over the table — stuck between wanting to grow up faster and desperately wishing (Y/n) would just finally see that he already had.

~~~

The final class of the day was always a drag, and today was no exception. The low hum of the lecture hall filled the air, students already half-zoned out before the professor even started speaking.

(Y/n) trudged in, dragging her backpack behind her like a defeated soldier. She slumped into her usual seat, rubbing her tired eyes.

A soft thud on the desk in front of her made her look up.

Niki stood there, holding out an iced tea and a small bag of snacks — her favorites.

No words, just a quiet offering.

Her whole face lit up in surprise, a sleepy smile tugging at her lips. “Oh my god, you’re a lifesaver,” she said, taking the drink eagerly. Without thinking, she reached up and ruffled his hair — again — like she always did. “Such a good little kid.”

Niki stiffened.

The words hit him like a punch to the gut.

Little kid.

Good little kid.

He forced a strained smile as he dropped into the seat beside her, but inside he was burning. He stared straight ahead as the lecture began, arms crossed tightly over his chest, tapping his foot in a restless rhythm against the floor.

(Y/n) sipped her tea happily at first, then glanced sideways at him.

He wasn’t smiling.

He wasn’t joking around like he normally did.

He wasn’t even pretending to listen to the lecture — he was just sitting there, sulking, a storm cloud practically hanging over his head.

Frowning, she leaned over and whispered, “Hey… you okay?”

He opened his mouth, ready to brush it off, when another voice cut through the small space between them.

“Hey, (Y/n).”

They both turned.

Standing next to their row was Nicholas — tall, handsome, charming. He was friends with Jake and Heeseung, a familiar face around their house parties and study groups. He flashed (Y/n) a confident smile, running a hand through his perfectly styled hair.

“I was wondering,” Nicholas said casually, “if you’d wanna grab coffee with me sometime? Or, uh—tea,” he added quickly, glancing at the drink in her hand with an easy laugh.

Niki felt something ugly twist in his chest.

Before (Y/n) could even answer, Niki was already shoving his books into his bag with jerky movements.

She turned toward him, startled. “Niki—”

But he didn’t look at her. He didn’t say anything. He just stood up, slinging his bag over his shoulder roughly.

And then he was walking away, his long strides carrying him toward the door without a single glance back.

(Y/n) watched him go, confusion knotting in her stomach.

Nicholas shifted awkwardly beside her. “Was it something I said?”

She shook her head slowly, forcing a small, distracted smile. “No. It’s not you. Sorry.”

But even as she turned back to face Nicholas, her thoughts lingered somewhere else — trailing after Niki’s retreating figure and the hurt he hadn’t even tried to hide.

~~~

(Y/n) shifted awkwardly in her seat after Niki left, still feeling the strange weight in the air he’d left behind.

Nicholas, seeming to pick up on the tension, scratched the back of his neck and gave her a sheepish smile.

“Uh — just to be clear,” he said, lowering his voice, “when I asked you out… I meant like, as friends. Not, like, a date date.”

(Y/n) blinked in surprise before laughing softly. “Oh, thank God.”

Nicholas grinned. “No offense — you’re super hot and all. Just… not really my type, y’know?”

She snorted, taking a sip of her tea. “Right back at you.”

The easy banter melted the lingering awkwardness, and when the lecture ended, they decided to walk to a nearby café together. It was nice — casual, relaxed. Nicholas was easy to talk to, which was probably why he got along so well with the guys at the house.

But still, somewhere in the back of her mind, (Y/n) kept replaying Niki’s sudden exit over and over.

It bothered her.

More than she wanted to admit.

As they sat down at a small table with their drinks — hers a sweet tea, his a plain coffee — she hesitated for a moment before blurting out, “Hey… do you have any idea what’s going on with Niki?”

Nicholas lifted his cup, thinking for a second.

“I mean…” he shrugged, noncommittally. “He seemed fine earlier when I saw him. Maybe he’s just tired? It’s been a long week for everyone.”

(Y/n) frowned, swirling her straw in her cup distractedly. “Yeah, but… he usually doesn’t just storm out like that.”

Nicholas looked at her carefully, choosing his words.

He had his suspicions.

It wasn’t exactly hard to notice the way Niki’s eyes always followed her around the house, or how he lit up the second she smiled at him — or, conversely, how he visibly deflated when she joked about him being a kid.

But Nicholas also knew it wasn’t his place to say it out loud.

Not like this.

Not when it clearly wasn’t something (Y/n) had figured out for herself yet.

So he just smiled a little and said, “Maybe he’s just… dealing with stuff. You know how it is. Sometimes people have bad days.”

(Y/n) nodded slowly, not entirely convinced, but letting it go for now.

Still, the image of Niki’s face — the way he wouldn’t meet her eyes, the frustration written all over his shoulders — stayed with her.

And for the first time in a long time, she wondered if maybe there was something about Niki she hadn’t quite been seeing.

~~~

Later that evening, the house was filled with the delicious smell of dinner. (Y/n) and Jungwon were at the kitchen counter, working together to prepare a meal. The chatter between them was light and easy, with Jungwon laughing at something (Y/n) said.

Jake, on the other hand, was sprawled out on the couch, looking half-dead from an entire day spent immersed in math. His eyes were barely open, and his hand instinctively reached for the bag of chips beside him as he mumbled something incoherent, too tired to care about anything else.

When the boys came back from the gym, they didn’t say much. Heeseung and Sunghoon exchanged a few words with Jungwon and (Y/n) as they grabbed snacks from the pantry, but there was something about Niki that stood out. He didn’t laugh along with the others. He didn’t joke. He just silently moved around, quietly trying to help clear the table after dinner, like he was trying to make himself useful to avoid being asked about the obvious injury on his arm.

It wasn’t until he pushed himself to the sink that (Y/n) noticed.

“Wait a second…”

She froze, eyes narrowing as she looked more closely.

Niki had a bandage wrapped around his bicep, and the way he was holding his arm — stiff, almost guarded — immediately caught her attention. Her heart skipped a beat.

“Hey, what happened to your arm?” she asked, her voice soft but laced with concern.

Niki didn’t immediately look up. He was pretending to focus on rinsing the dishes, his expression unreadable.

“It’s nothing.” His voice was flat, dismissive.

(Y/n) didn’t buy it. She was already moving closer, her hand gently resting on his shoulder as she guided him toward one of the chairs at the kitchen table.

“Niki.” Her voice softened, more insistent now. “Come sit down. Let me look at it.”

He hesitated for a moment, but when she gently urged him again, he sighed in defeat and sat down.

She knelt in front of him, her fingers gently peeling back the edge of the bandage to see the injury underneath. The muscle looked strained, and even just touching it caused him to wince slightly.

“You’re hurt,” (Y/n) said softly, frowning as she studied him closely. She felt a sharp pang of worry — for him, for how much he was clearly hiding.

Niki looked away, trying to pull his arm back, but she was insistent. “I’m fine,” he muttered, his tone stiff. “Just… strained it while lifting weights.”

“That’s not fine,” she said, looking up at him, her face now marked with genuine concern. She got up to grab some soothing ointment from the medicine cabinet. As she walked back toward him, she couldn’t help but lightly scold, “You’re so reckless sometimes, Niki. You should have known better than to push yourself like that.”

Niki clenched his jaw. He was starting to get frustrated, his shoulders tight with the tension he couldn’t seem to shake off. He’d been trying to just get over it — to bottle everything up — but the more (Y/n) hovered over him, the more it felt like he was going to snap.

She sat down beside him, gently applying the ointment to his strained muscle, her touch soft but firm.

But then he couldn’t take it anymore. He pulled back, his voice sharp with frustration. “Stop!”

(Y/n) blinked in surprise, her fingers pausing. “Niki?”

“Stop treating me like a kid,” he snapped, his gaze fierce. “I’m not a kid anymore. I’m an adult.” His chest rose and fell with the intensity of his words. “I don’t need you to coddle me. I don’t need you to act like I can’t take care of myself.”

For a moment, there was silence between them. His words hung heavy in the air, the hurt and frustration in his voice undeniable. (Y/n) opened her mouth to say something, but he quickly stood up, his movements stiff as he threw his hands in his pockets.

“I’m not your little brother, (Y/n). I’m not… the kid you grew up with. I’m me.” His voice was raw, laced with an anger he hadn’t quite known how to release until now.

(Y/n) stood frozen, her heart pounding. She had no idea how to respond. This wasn’t the Niki she was used to.

She had never seen him like this — so angry, so frustrated. But more than that, it hit her hard: maybe she had been the one holding him back all along, treating him like someone he wasn’t anymore.

The room felt tense, the air thick between them. (Y/n) finally took a breath, her voice quieter but still filled with worry. “Niki… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you feel that way.”

He didn’t answer, his back to her as he stood by the table, his jaw clenched tight.

It felt like the walls between them had gotten taller in just a few seconds. He had always been the younger one, the “little brother” to everyone. But now… the truth was clear. He had changed, grown, become someone different, someone who was no longer content to live in the shadows of others.

And (Y/n) wasn’t sure how to deal with that.

~~~

The sound of water running filled the otherwise quiet kitchen.

(Y/n) stood at the sink, mechanically washing dishes, her shoulders slightly hunched and her head bowed. She blinked hard a few times, willing away the stinging in her eyes — but it didn’t help much.

She didn’t even hear Jungwon approach until he was right beside her, towel in hand, quietly taking a plate she had just washed.

“You okay?” he asked gently, his voice low so that only she could hear.

(Y/n) startled slightly, then gave a weak smile. “Yeah… yeah, I’m fine.”

Jungwon raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “You don’t look fine.”

That was all it took.

(Y/n) let out a shaky breath and bit her lip, focusing a little too hard on scrubbing the next plate.

“I think I upset Niki,” she said quietly, her voice trembling just a little. “I… I didn’t mean to. I just… I’m worried about him. And he got mad. Really mad.”

Jungwon nodded, taking the plate from her hands and setting it aside to dry.

“What happened?”

She sniffled softly, drying her hands before leaning against the counter. “I saw he hurt his arm, and I got worried. I guess I was treating him like… like I always have. You know? Like a little kid who needed taking care of. And he just… snapped. Said he’s not a kid anymore. That he’s an adult now.”

Her voice cracked a little on the word adult, and Jungwon could see the genuine worry in her eyes.

She wasn’t upset because he yelled.

She was upset because she had hurt him, even without meaning to.

Jungwon sighed, resting the towel over his shoulder, thinking for a moment before he spoke.

“(Y/n)…” he started carefully, “we’ve all seen it happen. Niki growing up, changing. He’s not the same kid he was when we all first met.”

(Y/n) glanced up at him, her brows knit together tightly.

“You’re not wrong to care about him,” Jungwon continued. “But…” He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “You’re the only one who still treats him like he’s stuck in time. Like he’s still that teenage boy who needed someone to tie his shoelaces for him.”

He gave a small, almost fond smile at the memory.

“But he’s different now. He’s taller than all of us, stronger. He’s been through stuff you haven’t seen. And… as one of the youngest in this house, I get it.”

He picked up another plate, drying it absentmindedly as he spoke.

“When people look at you like you’re still a kid, even when you’re trying your hardest to prove you’re not… it kinda feels like they don’t see you. Not really. It hurts.”

(Y/n) stared down at her hands, guilt blooming in her chest.

“I think,” Jungwon said softly, “he just wants you to see him for who he is now. Not who he used to be.”

The silence stretched between them for a moment before Jungwon gave her a little nudge with his elbow.

“You’ll figure it out,” he said gently. “You care about him. That’s the most important part.”

(Y/n) finally let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding, blinking quickly to clear her eyes.

“Thanks, Wonnie,” she murmured.

He smiled warmly at her, grabbing another dish.

“Anytime. Now hurry up — if we leave these last dishes for Jake, they’re gonna be sitting here ‘til morning.”

Despite everything, (Y/n) laughed softly, and the heaviness in her chest lightened just a little.

But even as she scrubbed the next plate, she couldn’t help but wonder:

When did Niki grow up so much… and how had she missed it?

~~~

The afternoon sun cast a warm glow over the campus yard, where groups of students gathered between classes, laughing and talking. (Y/n) sat at a table outside the café, picking half-heartedly at her sandwich as her gaze wandered across the lawn.

And there he was.

Niki.

He was with a group of friends, laughing easily, tossing a soccer ball back and forth. His body moved with a natural grace, all long limbs and effortless strength.

She watched as he spun the ball on his finger, grinning proudly when his friends cheered, then danced around in a mock celebration, his familiar laugh floating through the air.

It was the same laugh she remembered from when he was younger — pure, loud, a little uncontrollable. But everything else…

Everything else had changed.

His face was sharper now, his jawline more defined. His features had matured, lost the roundness of youth. His hair was longer, messily styled in a way that somehow made him look even older, even more untouchable. His shoulders were broad, his posture confident without being cocky. Even the way he laughed felt different — freer, maybe, like he wasn’t trying to impress anyone anymore.

And his voice — when he called out to one of his friends — was deep, low, and rich with a maturity she hadn’t fully registered until now.

(Y/n) felt a tight knot form in her chest as she watched him, a strange cocktail of emotions swirling inside her.

When did this happen?

When did he grow up so much… and how had I missed it?

The thought gnawed at her.

Maybe she hadn’t missed it.

Maybe… she just didn’t want to see it.

She rested her chin on her hand, her sandwich forgotten.

When he was younger, he’d clung to her side like a shadow — eager for attention, desperate for affection. He used to beam whenever she praised him, used to puff up with pride if she called him her “little man.”

She had been important to him back then.

Someone he needed.

But now…

Now he didn’t need her like that anymore.

He had friends, dreams, a life that didn’t orbit around her.

He had become someone independent, someone strong, someone who could stand on his own without needing her to hold his hand.

And that realization cut deeper than she expected.

Maybe she had kept seeing him as a boy because it was easier.

Because if he grew up…

If he didn’t need her anymore…

Where would that leave her?

A small, bittersweet smile tugged at her lips as she watched Niki toss the ball high into the air, laughing when one of his friends missed it.

He was still her Niki.

But he wasn’t a boy anymore.

And if she didn’t figure out how to see him for who he was now…

She was going to lose him.

Not as a little brother.

Not as the boy who needed her.

But as the man who had been standing right in front of her all along — hoping she would finally see him.

~~~

Niki wasn’t in a hurry to go home.

He knew he should be — he knew he owed (Y/n) an apology for snapping at her.

It wasn’t her fault she saw him that way.

But even knowing that, the sting of her words, her touch — ruffling his hair like he was still a kid — made something heavy settle in his chest.

He wasn’t ready to see her yet.

Not if it meant standing there while she smiled that soft, maternal smile at him again.

Not if it meant feeling like nothing he did would ever make her look at him differently.

So he stayed out.

Played a few more rounds of basketball at the gym with some friends.

Grabbed late night food at a 24-hour diner.

Laughed at dumb jokes, scrolled mindlessly through his phone.

Anything to avoid going home to her.

It wasn’t until past midnight that Niki finally gave up.

His legs ached, and the exhaustion was catching up with him.

He trudged up the familiar walkway to the shared house, his bag slung loosely over his shoulder, hoodie pulled up to shield him from the chill in the air.

Pushing the door open quietly, he was greeted by the soft hum of the TV left on in the living room.

He paused in the doorway, his heart sinking at the sight before him.

There, curled up on the couch, was (Y/n).

She was fast asleep, still in her clothes from earlier, her head tucked against the armrest.

Even in sleep, her expression wasn’t peaceful — her brows furrowed slightly, her lips pressed into a thin line.

And —

Was that… tear stains on her cheeks?

Niki stood frozen for a second, guilt flooding his chest.

He swallowed thickly, running a hand through his hair.

Idiot, he cursed himself.

Despite still feeling like he needed space, he couldn’t just leave her like that.

He crossed the room slowly, crouching down beside the couch.

“(Y/n),” he whispered softly, reaching out to gently shake her shoulder.

She stirred, blinking blearily at him, her body slow and sluggish from deep sleep.

“Niki?” she mumbled, her voice hoarse and small.

“Yeah,” he said, voice low, almost hesitant. “You should go to your room. It’s late.”

She sat up slowly, rubbing at her eyes.

For a moment, she just looked at him — and in the haze of sleep, maybe in the haze of regret too — she whispered, so quietly he almost missed it:

“I’m sorry, Niki… for treating you like a kid.”

Niki’s heart squeezed painfully in his chest.

He hadn’t expected her to say anything.

Not now.

Not like this.

For a second, he didn’t know what to do.

The part of him that was still angry, still hurt, wanted to retreat.

But the bigger part — the part that had been hopelessly, stupidly in love with her for as long as he could remember — just wanted to wrap her up in his arms and tell her it was okay.

He exhaled slowly, standing up straight.

“Come on,” he said, voice softer than before, offering her his hand. “Let’s get you to bed.”

(Y/n) gave a small, tired nod and took his hand without hesitation.

Her fingers curled trustingly around his, just like they used to when he was little and she was the only person he’d ever looked up to.

But this time…

This time, Niki didn’t feel like a little kid being led around.

This time, he was the one steadying her.

And maybe… just maybe…

things were starting to change.

~~~

The tension between Niki and (Y/n) lingered, a heavy thing that settled between them like an invisible wall.

They had talked — in a way — but it wasn’t enough to clear the air completely.

Not yet.

The others noticed, of course.

Shared glances across the dinner table, silent conversations with their eyes.

But no one said anything out loud.

And maybe that was why it was so easy for everyone to miss how exhausted (Y/n) was getting.

At first, it just seemed normal.

Exam season was brutal.

Everyone was running on fumes, pulling all-nighters, surviving off instant noodles and cold coffee.

But as the days wore on, Niki started to notice the little things.

The way (Y/n)’s head would droop during study sessions.

How she’d stare blankly at her notes, blinking slow and heavy.

The dark circles that had bloomed under her eyes like bruises.

The way her hands would tremble when she thought no one was looking.

Still, he convinced himself she’d be okay.

(Y/n) was strong.

She always pushed through.

But today…

Today was different.

Their shared class had a big presentation — the final one before exams.

The room was packed, students nervously shuffling papers, tapping their feet.

Niki sat toward the middle, restless, his knee bouncing under the desk.

When it was (Y/n)’s turn, she stepped up to the front of the room, clutching her notes in shaking hands.

Niki sat forward slightly, sensing something off immediately.

She looked… fragile.

Pale.

Her voice, usually steady and confident, was thin and wavering.

As she spoke, Niki’s eyes never left her.

He saw everything.

The slight sway of her stance.

The way she gripped the edge of the podium like it was the only thing keeping her upright.

The way her sentences started to blur together, her eyes unfocused.

His chest tightened.

Something wasn’t right.

Then, just as she wrapped up her last sentence, it happened.

Her knees buckled.

Her body tilted sideways.

And before anyone else in the room even processed what was happening, Niki was already moving.

He didn’t remember standing up.

Didn’t remember pushing his chair back so fast it screeched against the floor.

All he knew was that suddenly he was beside her, catching her just before she hit the ground.

“(Y/n)!” he gasped, panic surging through him.

He cradled her head carefully, easing her down as gently as he could.

Her face was deathly pale, her breathing shallow but steady.

The professor rushed over, the class erupting into murmurs and concerned whispers.

But Niki tuned it all out.

It was just him and her.

“Hey, wake up,” he whispered, brushing a strand of hair from her face with trembling fingers. “Come on, (Y/n)… please…”

She didn’t stir.

Heeseung, Jay, and Sunghoon appeared out of nowhere, pushing through the crowd.

Jay knelt beside him, his face tense.

“She needs to get to the nurse. Now.”

Niki didn’t hesitate.

Carefully, he scooped her up into his arms, ignoring the sting in his strained bicep, ignoring the shocked gasps from their classmates.

(Y/n) was light — too light — and limp against him.

“Move!” he barked, voice rougher than he’d ever used in class, clearing a path as he carried her out the door.

His heart hammered against his ribs with every step.

All the tension, the anger, the awkwardness from the past few days melted away, replaced with one overwhelming thought:

I can’t lose her.

~~~

The sky outside had long since fallen into darkness, the faint glow of the campus lights filtering through the small window of the nurse’s office.

It had been four hours since (Y/n) first passed out, and finally, her lashes fluttered open.

The room swam before her eyes, the world moving sluggishly as her body struggled to fully wake up.

For a moment, panic clutched at her chest — unfamiliar ceiling, sterile smell of antiseptic — where was she?

But then… she felt it.

The solid, grounding weight in her hand.

Slowly, she turned her head, her vision clearing just enough to see a familiar messy head of hair resting on the edge of the bed, Niki’s fingers still loosely intertwined with hers.

Even in sleep, he held on.

Her heart ached, too full with something she couldn’t name.

Without thinking, she lifted her free hand and ran it through his hair, her fingers gently brushing against his scalp in a soft, affectionate touch.

Niki stirred almost immediately.

Blinking blearily, he sat up straight, his eyes finding hers with a sharpness that instantly shifted into frantic worry.

“(Y/n)!” he gasped, sitting up so fast he almost knocked his chair over. “Are you okay? Are you dizzy? Does your head hurt? You need water— wait, don’t sit up too fast!”

She blinked at him in stunned silence.

He was… yelling at her.

Half-scolding, half-panicking — but there was no mistaking the authority in his voice.

He wasn’t the kid she used to babysit anymore.

This was a young man, one who was terrified for her but standing steady, not running away from the fear.

“(Y/n),” he huffed, exasperated after seeing her still dazed expression. “You scared the hell out of me.”

His voice cracked just a little on the last word.

Her chest squeezed painfully.

“I…” she started, her voice hoarse. She had to swallow before she could speak properly. “I’m sorry, Niki.”

He shook his head immediately, squeezing her hand lightly.

“You should be apologizing to yourself, not me,” he muttered. “You push yourself way too hard.”

For a moment, she just stared at him, the tenderness of his scolding washing over her like warm water.

Then, slowly, she smiled — soft, tired, but genuine.

“Thank you,” she whispered, her thumb brushing over the back of his hand. “For staying with me.”

Niki’s gaze softened at that.

He squeezed her hand again and shrugged like it was obvious.

“Of course I stayed,” he said. “You hate being alone when you’re sick.”

(Y/n) froze slightly at that.

Her smile faltered for half a second.

That was… something she had told him years ago.

Back when she first started babysitting him, when he was just a little boy clinging to her side, scared of thunderstorms and fevers.

She had never mentioned it again.

Not once.

And yet, he remembered.

All this time.

She blinked rapidly, forcing back the sudden sting of tears that weren’t from exhaustion this time.

Instead, she let herself smile wider, a soft, touched kind of smile that made Niki’s heart stutter.

“You remembered that?” she asked, voice cracking slightly.

He ducked his head shyly, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand.

“Yeah,” he mumbled. “I remember everything about you.”

The words hung between them, thick and heavy and unspoken.

For the first time, (Y/n) looked at him — really looked at him.

And for the first time, she didn’t see the boy who needed her.

She saw the man who had always, quietly, chosen her.

~~~

The moment (Y/n) stepped through the front door, she was ambushed.

Jake was the first to reach her, throwing his arms around her like a koala, nearly knocking the air out of her tired lungs.

“Don’t ever do that again!” he whined dramatically, pulling away to look at her face as if to double-check she was really standing.

Before she could even respond, Sunghoon was there, gently ruffling her hair and scolding her with a worried frown, while Sunoo hovered by her side, shoving a blanket into her hands.

Jay appeared from the kitchen, a proud smile on his face.

“I made your favorite,” he announced. “You’re eating everything, no arguments.”

Heeseung leaned over the couch with a soft grin. “And we got snacks. Like, a lot of snacks. Enough for a whole week of feeling sorry for yourself.”

(Y/n) felt her heart swell at the sight of all of them — her odd, chaotic little family — fussing over her like she was something precious.

She laughed, the sound a little hoarse but genuine, and let herself be guided to the couch where Jungwon had already made space for her.

The evening passed in a warm, happy blur.

The boys kept the conversation light, switching between ridiculous debates about movies, funny childhood stories, and bad impressions of each other.

(Y/n) found herself relaxing, her body still weak but her heart lighter.

The fatigue of the past week started to lift, replaced by the familiar comfort of being surrounded by people who loved her.

And yet, somewhere in the middle of Jay arguing passionately with Jake about whether cereal counted as soup, something flickered at the back of her mind.

A memory.

Or maybe… a dream?

The nurses office.

Niki’s voice, low and serious, saying:

“This is just what you do for the person you love. Being in love makes you stupid.”

(Y/n) stiffened slightly, the blanket slipping a little off her lap as the memory came into sharper focus.

Had she imagined it?

Had she been so out of it that her brain invented the words she had secretly wanted to hear?

Or had Niki actually said it?

She wasn’t sure.

But even the thought — even the possibility — made something stir deep inside her.

Something unfamiliar.

Something terrifying.

Something… exciting.

Almost as if pulled by a force she couldn’t control, her eyes drifted across the room.

And there he was.

Niki.

Leaning back in the armchair, long legs stretched out in front of him, laughing at something Heeseung had just said.

The golden light from the lamp softened his features, but it didn’t hide how sharp they had become — the strong jawline, the way his nose crinkled when he smiled, the way his entire body moved with a casual confidence he hadn’t had just a few years ago.

(Y/n) stared at him, really stared, and suddenly, her heart gave a small, traitorous skip.

It had never done that before.

And in that instant, she realized —

Maybe it wasn’t that Niki had changed.

Maybe it was her who was finally seeing him for who he truly was.

~~~

Of course! Here’s the continuation, keeping the emotional tone and flow consistent with your story:

After two full days of being confined to the house — much to her frustration but to the boys’ immense relief — (Y/n) was finally feeling well enough to step back into the world of university life.

Wrapped in a cozy sweater and with a strict promise to “take it easy” weighing heavily on her shoulders, she headed onto campus, the spring morning air crisp and fresh.

Yet as she walked, her thoughts weren’t on classes or exams.

They were on Niki.

Specifically, on the words that had been haunting her ever since that night in the nurse’s office.

“This is what you do for the person you love. Being in love makes you stupid.”

Had he really said it?

Or had her feverish, delirious mind invented it because deep down, she wanted it to be true?

She needed answers.

And she needed someone to help her untangle the knot that had formed in her chest — someone outside of her chaotic household, someone she could trust to be honest with her without immediately running off to tell Niki.

There was only one person she could think of.

Nicholas.

Their last conversation had been easy, natural, and she had a feeling he could help her make sense of the whirlwind inside her.

So the second she arrived at campus, she started looking around, scanning the familiar courtyard until she spotted him sitting at one of the picnic tables under a tree, laughing with two other guys she vaguely recognized — EJ and Yuma.

Without much thought, she hurried over, slowing only when she got close enough to not look desperate.

“Nicholas,” she called softly.

His blood red dyed hair bounced as he turned at the sound of his name, his easy grin lighting up his face.

“Hey, (Y/n)! Feeling better?” he asked, his tone genuinely kind.

“Yeah, a lot better, thanks,” she said quickly, shooting an apologetic smile at EJ and Yuma before adding, “Would you mind if I steal him for a little bit?”

The two boys shared a look, then chuckled, waving her off like they already knew better than to get involved.

Nicholas stood up without question, slinging his backpack over one shoulder.

“Of course. You okay?” he asked as he fell into step beside her.

“I… don’t know,” she admitted, fiddling with the sleeve of her sweater. “That’s kind of why I need to talk to you.”

He raised an eyebrow but didn’t push, following her toward a quieter corner of campus where they could sit under the shade of a tree away from the rush of students.

Once they sat down, Nicholas gave her his full attention, his usual teasing demeanor replaced with something more serious and patient.

“Alright. What’s on your mind?”

(Y/n) hesitated, chewing on her bottom lip.

How was she even supposed to bring this up without sounding ridiculous?

But Nicholas waited, no judgment in his eyes.

“It’s about Niki…” she finally said in a small voice.

Nicholas leaned back, crossing his arms loosely.

“Figured.”

She gave him a half-hearted glare, but her heart wasn’t really in it.

“I… I think he might feel something for me. I mean— I don’t know for sure. And even if he did, it’s not like I ever… I mean, he’s younger and I always just…” She trailed off, frustrated with herself.

Nicholas chuckled softly.

“(Y/n), slow down. Breathe. Talk to me.”

She did, inhaling deeply before explaining everything — the words she thought she heard, the way Niki had taken care of her, the way he had yelled at her with worry in his voice, the way he had changed in her eyes seemingly overnight.

The way her heart had jumped for the first time.

When she finished, she sat there, staring at her hands in her lap, feeling vulnerable and stupid.

Nicholas was quiet for a moment before he spoke, his voice gentle.

“You know… sometimes the people we’re closest to change right in front of us, and we don’t notice because we’re so stuck on how they used to be.”

(Y/n) swallowed thickly, nodding.

“And honestly?” Nicholas continued with a small, knowing smile, “If you’re feeling even a little bit like your heart’s skipping because of him… doesn’t that already tell you something?”

She looked up at him, wide-eyed.

Nicholas shrugged, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“You don’t look at someone like that unless you care about them a lot more than just a friend. Or a kid you used to babysit.”

The words hit her harder than she expected, a lump forming in her throat.

Nicholas laughed a little to lighten the mood.

“Besides, Niki’s not exactly subtle. If you even think he said something like that about love, I’m willing to bet he meant it.”

(Y/n) bit her lip, her heart pounding.

She still didn’t know exactly what to do — but for the first time, it felt like she was seeing the path ahead a little more clearly.

Nicholas nudged her with his elbow.

“You’ll figure it out. Just… don’t take too long. Some things are worth being a little brave for.”

And as she sat there, the sun shining through the leaves above them, she realized he was right.

Maybe it was time she stopped being afraid of seeing Niki for who he had become — and maybe… for who he had always been.

~~~

What (Y/n) didn’t see — too caught up in her whirlwind of emotions as she sat talking with Nicholas under the tree — was a figure standing across the campus yard.

Niki.

He had just been on his way back from grabbing some lunch, planning to maybe — just maybe — find a way to talk to her if he spotted her.

But now, there he was, frozen in place, a bag dangling from his fingers as he watched her sitting with Nicholas, their heads bent close together, deep in conversation.

The sight made something sharp twist in his chest.

He couldn’t hear what they were saying from this distance, but he didn’t need to.

It was the way she leaned in, the way Nicholas smiled at her — relaxed, easy, familiar.

He felt the jealousy and insecurity bubble up inside him like a volcano about to erupt.

Did she like him? Was that why she had gone looking for him?

Had he lost before he even had a chance?

The irrational urge to storm across the grass and pull her away was almost overwhelming.

His fists clenched at his sides, his heart thundering in his ears.

“No,” he told himself, trying to take a deep breath. “You can’t just… pull her away like that. You don’t even know what they’re talking about.”

But the ache didn’t lessen.

Until—

He saw it.

Nicholas reaching out, ruffling (Y/n)’s hair, laughing as he did — the same way (Y/n) always ruffled his hair when she was teasing or comforting him.

And just like that, something inside Niki deflated.

Nicholas didn’t like her — at least not in that way.

The gesture was too casual, too brotherly.

It wasn’t the way you touched someone you had romantic feelings for.

Relief flooded through him, enough that his tense shoulders relaxed slightly.

But even then, a small twinge of jealousy remained, stubborn and bitter.

It wasn’t just about romance.

Nicholas could talk to her easily.

Could make her laugh.

Could listen to her worries without the complicated mess of emotions weighing every word.

And Niki wanted to be that person for her.

More than anything.

He stayed there for a while longer, watching from afar, the bag of food forgotten in his hand, before finally turning away with a heavy heart.

He would give her time.

Time to figure things out.

Time to maybe… start seeing him the way he saw her.

He could only hope she would.

~~~

Before Nicholas left to rejoin his friends, he gave her a warm, brotherly smile and said,

“If you’re really thankful, do something for him. Something that shows you see him — not as a kid, but as Niki.”

(Y/n) tucked those words into her heart like a secret treasure.

It was a great idea.

Only… what exactly should she do?

She wanted it to be perfect — something that said thank you but also quietly whispered I see you now.

She thought about buying him movie tickets — he loved going to the theater after all — but almost immediately scrapped the idea.

Too basic.

Too safe.

Too impersonal.

Niki deserved more than a quick trip to the movies.

He deserved something that really showed she had been paying attention.

Her mind buzzed with possibilities as she walked to her exam room, heart pounding for reasons that had nothing to do with the test.

By the time she sat down and the papers were handed out, her brain was running in two different directions.

One half struggled to answer questions about history and theories and dates.

The other half — the bigger half — was tangled up in thoughts of Niki.

What was his favorite thing lately?

What made him light up the way she loved seeing?

What could she give him that no one else could?

Her pen tapped restlessly against the desk, her foot bouncing under her chair.

Every few minutes, she caught herself staring off into space, lips pursed, mind painting images of Niki laughing, Niki dancing, Niki pulling her into conversation with that bright-eyed eagerness that was all his own.

At this rate, she was going to fail her exam.

But honestly?

For once, it didn’t even matter.

(Y/n) knew one thing for sure.

She needed to find the perfect way to show him she saw him.

Not as the little boy she used to babysit.

Not as the younger guy who trailed behind her and the others.

But as Niki.

Someone who mattered.

Someone she maybe — just maybe — was starting to see in a whole new light.

~~~

Even as (Y/n) pushed open the front door of the house, her mind was still a messy swirl of half-formed plans and dead ends.

She dropped her bag by the stairs and slipped her shoes off, half listening for any signs of Niki — but the house was unusually quiet.

Good.

She wasn’t ready to face him yet — not until she figured this out.

Without even thinking, her feet carried her to Sunoo’s room.

If there was anyone she could trust with this — someone who wouldn’t judge her messy feelings and would actually help her — it was Sunoo.

They were the same age, they understood each other, and most importantly, Sunoo was amazing at stuff like this.

She knocked lightly before peeking in.

“Hey… can I steal you for a second?” she asked in a small voice.

Sunoo blinked up from his phone, immediately sensing her seriousness.

Without a word, he got up and followed her into her room, where she shut the door behind them.

“Okay, what’s going on?” he asked, sitting cross-legged on her bed.

(Y/n) sat beside him, fidgeting with the hem of her sweater.

“I need your help. It’s about Niki.”

Sunoo’s eyes widened a little, curiosity sparking instantly.

“Go on,” he urged, like he was settling in for a juicy story.

“I want to… do something for him,” she said slowly. “To say thank you. And… to show him I don’t just see him as a kid anymore.”

Sunoo’s smile softened at that.

He could see it — she was trying so hard, her heart on full display, even if she hadn’t realized it herself yet.

He hummed thoughtfully, tapping his chin.

“Okay. It has to be personal. Thoughtful. Something only you would think to give him.”

(Y/n) nodded eagerly, hopeful.

“Exactly. But I don’t know what!”

They sat in silence for a moment, until suddenly Sunoo’s face lit up like a lightbulb.

He snapped his fingers.

“His dance shoes!”

(Y/n) blinked, confused.

“What about them?”

Sunoo laughed gently.

“You haven’t seen them up close lately, have you? They’re completely worn out. He keeps meaning to get new ones but keeps putting it off. Either because he’s too busy… or because he spends his money on other people instead of himself,” Sunoo said knowingly.

(Y/n)’s heart squeezed at that.

It sounded just like Niki.

Always giving. Always putting others first.

“Buy him a new pair,” Sunoo said, grinning. “Something he can actually use — and something that shows you see the real him. The dancer. The dreamer. The guy who’s grown up right in front of you.”

(Y/n) didn’t even hesitate.

She bolted upright, grabbing her bag from the floor.

“I’m going now before the stores close!” she said, excitement rushing through her veins.

Sunoo laughed as she nearly tripped over herself on the way out.

“Make sure you pick something stylish!” he called after her.

“You know he has standards!”

“I know!” she yelled back, already halfway out the door.

The sky was darkening fast as she raced down the street, her heart pounding for reasons she didn’t dare name yet.

This wasn’t just about saying thank you anymore.

This was about showing Niki — really showing him — that she saw him for everything he was.

And maybe, just maybe, it was about showing herself too.

~~~

(Y/n) practically ran the last block to the store, the “20 minutes until closing” sign glaring at her from the window as she yanked the door open, setting off the little chime above. A tired employee looked up from behind the counter but said nothing, just offered a polite nod. She gave a breathless smile in return and bolted for the back, where the athletic shoes were lined up in neat, glossy rows.

Her eyes scanned the shelves in a panic. Too flashy. Too boring. Not the right cut. Not his vibe.

It was like the clock was taunting her — every tick slicing her focus thinner.

But then — there they were.

Black with subtle gold accents, breathable but durable, made specifically for movement. They weren’t flashy, but they had personality. Stylish without screaming for attention.

Just like Niki.

She grabbed the last pair in his size, hugging the box like it was a golden trophy and practically sprinted to the register.

“Cutting it close,” the cashier joked as she rang it up.

(Y/n) gave a sheepish laugh. “I needed something perfect.”

“For a boyfriend?” the cashier teased with a knowing grin.

She hesitated… and then smiled softly.

“Something like that.”

With one minute to spare, the receipt printed, the shoes were bagged, and she was back outside — the store lights flickering off behind her as the lock clicked shut.

Standing on the sidewalk, the evening breeze brushing her face, she looked down at the bag in her hand.

A small box. But filled with so much meaning.

Please like them, she thought. Please understand what I’m trying to say.

Because this wasn’t just a thank-you gift.

This was her first real step toward showing Niki that she saw him now — not as the little boy who clung to her side all those years ago, but as the man he was becoming.

As someone who mattered to her.

She took a deep breath.

Now she just had to give them to him.

~~~

Earlier that afternoon at the University Dance Studio

The sharp beat of the music echoed through the studio as Niki spun, landed, and slid across the floor with practiced ease. Sweat clung to his neck, his breath steady but strained, his eyes locked on the mirror in front of him. The competition was just days away — everything needed to be perfect.

“From the top,” he called, trying to push through the growing ache in his arms and legs. Jungwon looked at him worriedly from across the studio but didn’t protest. Everyone knew better than to argue when Niki was like this — focused, relentless, a little bit dangerous to himself.

As the music kicked in again, Niki launched into the choreography. Halfway through the set, he pushed off for a quick jump-spin combo, but as his foot hit the ground, a sickening rip echoed beneath the music.

His body faltered.

He stumbled, barely managing to catch himself. Looking down, he saw it — the sole of his right shoe had torn completely from the upper. It flapped uselessly as he stood there, frozen.

“Niki?” Jungwon rushed to his side. “You okay?”

Niki didn’t answer. He just stared down at the ruined shoe, his jaw tightening.

“Damn it…” he muttered, voice low but sharp, like he was trying to hold in something bigger.

“You’ve had those forever,” one of the other dancers commented carefully. “Guess it was time.”

“Yeah,” Niki bit out. “Just not now.”

He dropped the shoe on the bench with more force than necessary and grabbed his bag, ignoring the looks from the others. Jungwon scrambled to follow him.

Back at the house – Present time

The front door slammed hard enough to shake the entire living room.

Heeseung jerked upright from the couch, nearly dropping his phone. “What the hell?”

Jay peeked out from his room, brow furrowed. “Is that—?”

Before either could finish their thought, Niki stormed through the house, expression thunderous, one shoeless foot only in a sock, the other still in the ruined sneaker. His dance bag was slung aggressively over his shoulder, and he didn’t say a word as he stomped past them and slammed his bedroom door shut behind him.

Jungwon entered seconds later, breathless and clearly flustered. He dropped his own bag by the door and held up his hands like he was surrendering.

“He’s pissed,” Jungwon sighed. “His shoe gave out mid-practice. Ripped all the way open.”

Heeseung winced. “No wonder he looks like he wants to murder someone.”

Jay crossed his arms, leaning on the doorframe. “Can he even get new ones in time?”

“Nope. He has a full day of classes tomorrow,” Jungwon explained. “No time to go out, and he doesn’t want to skip practice, so…”

“And if he doesn’t have shoes,” Heeseung finished, “he can’t perform.”

“He said he’s not dropping out,” Jungwon muttered. “But I honestly don’t know what he’s planning.”

The three of them exchanged looks — worried, helpless ones — unsure what to do. Niki was the kind of person who didn’t ask for help, who bottled things up until he burst. And now, with the competition looming and everything else boiling beneath the surface…

“He needs a win,” Heeseung said quietly.

None of them knew that one was already on its way — wrapped neatly in tissue paper, swinging from a black paper bag in (Y/n)’s hand as she rushed home with a gift that might be more perfect than even she realized.

~~~

When (Y/n) stepped through the front door, the familiar chaotic noise of the shared living room greeted her like always — the sound of her roommates yelling over each other about which team would win the soccer match currently blasting from the TV. Jay and Heeseung were standing, practically nose to nose, arguing over a replay, while Jungwon sat on the arm of the couch like a referee, munching popcorn and trying to keep the peace.

But one person was missing.

Niki.

Normally, he’d be sitting cross-legged on the carpet, eyes locked onto the screen, fists clenched as he yelled at the players like they could hear him. But now, the spot where he always sat was empty.

Before she could ask where he was, Sunoo appeared at the end of the hallway, spotting her. His eyes widened slightly, and he immediately walked toward her, grabbing her wrist gently. “Come with me.”

Without a word, (Y/n) followed him into her room. He closed the door behind them and turned to face her, voice low and serious.

“He’s in his room,” Sunoo said. “And he’s in a bad mood.”

“What happened?” she asked, concerned.

“His shoes broke. During practice. Jungwon said it happened mid-routine, and it wasn’t just a tear — the sole ripped clean off.”

(Y/n)’s eyes widened. “Oh no…”

“He was already kind of on edge,” Sunoo added. “And then when he found out he doesn’t have time to buy a new pair before practice tomorrow… He stormed in here, slammed every door in his path, and hasn’t come out since.”

(Y/n) let out a long breath, her heart racing now. She glanced down at the paper shopping bag still in her hand, the new shoes tucked safely inside. She had bought them just in time.

“Sunoo,” she whispered, her voice full of disbelief. “I didn’t even know… I just— I thought it would be a nice thank you. I didn’t know he needed them.”

Sunoo smiled faintly. “Well, lucky him then.”

She nodded slowly. “Do you think… he’ll talk to me?”

Sunoo paused for a second, thoughtful. “Maybe. He probably doesn’t want to talk. But you’re you.” He gave her a look. “If anyone can get through to him, it’s you.”

Her grip tightened on the bag.

“Thanks, Sunoo,” she said softly, and then turned toward the hallway, her pulse thudding in her ears.

She had no idea how this would go — if he’d even open the door for her. But she knew she had to try.

Because for the first time, it wasn’t just about a thank you gift. It was about showing him that she saw him — truly saw him — and that maybe, just maybe, she was ready to stop seeing him as the boy he used to be… and finally acknowledge the man he was becoming.

~~~

(Y/n) stood in front of Niki’s door for a moment, her fingers clenched tightly around the shopping bag handles. Her heart was thudding like it might break free from her chest. Finally, she lifted her hand and knocked — once, twice, soft but firm.

“Go away,” came the muffled grumble from inside. His voice was flat, defeated.

She closed her eyes briefly, then pressed her forehead gently against the door. “Niki… it’s me.”

There was silence.

Then the faint creak of bedsheets shifting. Footsteps. A pause.

“…Fine,” he muttered. “Come in.”

Her hand trembled slightly as she turned the knob. As she stepped in, she instinctively tried to hide the shopping bag behind her leg, but Niki’s eyes were already on her. He was sitting on the edge of his bed now, hair messy, one socked foot bouncing in frustration. His gaze flickered to the bag, but he didn’t say anything.

(Y/n) made her way over and sat beside him. The air between them felt thick, quiet but not cold.

“How are you doing?” she asked gently, keeping her voice soft.

He let out a humorless laugh. “Bad.”

There was no point in pretending otherwise.

“I thought you might say that,” she said, her voice a little brighter this time. “So I… might have something that could cheer you up.”

He turned to look at her, skeptical but curious. “What?”

She gave him a sheepish smile. “Close your eyes first.”

He gave her a look — one that clearly said Really? — but slowly, reluctantly, he closed his eyes with a huff.

(Y/n) reached down and placed the bag into his hands. “Okay,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “You can open them now.”

He opened his eyes.

Pulled apart the tissue paper.

And then he froze.

There, nestled inside the bag, was a brand-new pair of dance shoes — sleek, clean, high-performance, perfectly his style. He stared at them for a long second, like he couldn’t quite believe they were real. His fingers ran along the fabric slowly, reverently.

He didn’t speak.

“…Do you like them?” she asked, almost timidly.

His head turned to her, eyes wide. “You… how did you know?”

“I didn’t,” she admitted. “I just wanted to get you something to say thank you. For helping me. For staying with me. I didn’t know your old ones broke until I came home.”

Niki blinked hard, still trying to take it all in.

“I know it’s not much,” she continued, suddenly nervous. “And it doesn’t fix everything I said before, or how I—how I made you feel like a kid. But… I don’t see you that way anymore. Not really. Not after everything.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then, Niki carefully set the shoes aside, his fingers lingering for a second before turning fully to her.

“You didn’t have to do this,” he said quietly, his voice deeper than she remembered. “But you did. And I… I can’t tell you what it means to me.”

His expression was soft now — no longer guarded, but honest.

And for the first time, she saw him not just as someone she used to care for, but someone who had grown into himself, piece by piece, day by day.

And maybe… someone her heart was slowly starting to beat for.

Niki moved before he could think.

In a heartbeat, he reached out and wrapped his arms around (Y/n), pulling her into a sudden, desperate hug that knocked the air from her lungs. The motion sent them both toppling gently backward onto the bed, her landing half on top of him, half against the mattress.

(Y/n)’s breath caught, her heart thudding wildly in her chest. She could feel the steady rise and fall of his beneath her palms — his chest, broader and firmer than she remembered, reminding her once again just how much he’d changed.

She blinked, stunned, her hands splayed against him as if unsure where to go.

“You’re… hugging me,” she mumbled, a little dazed.

He didn’t let go. If anything, his arms tightened around her, holding her like he was afraid she might slip through his fingers.

“Just for a minute,” he murmured, his voice muffled in her shoulder. “Stay. Just for a minute.”

And she did.

How could she not?

The warmth of him, the quiet rise and fall of his breath, the weight of everything unsaid hanging gently in the silence — it made her chest ache in a way that was entirely unfamiliar. Her eyes fluttered shut, her cheek resting lightly against the side of his neck. She could feel his heartbeat too, and it felt just as fast as hers.

For the first time, there was no tension, no pretending, no need for words.

Just them.

Close.

Still.

Breathing.

Together.

~~~

After a few quiet minutes, Niki finally loosened his hold, though he did so reluctantly. He wished she could stay like that — in his arms, head on his chest, fitting so perfectly like she belonged there. He had imagined this moment a thousand times in the quiet of night, wondering what it would be like to hold her like this, to be close to her without pretending he didn’t want more.

And now that it had happened, it already felt too far away.

(Y/n) slowly sat up, smoothing her shirt, her eyes lingering on him with a softness he hadn’t seen before. She smiled — small, warm, meaningful — and then stood.

She reached out her hand to him. “Come on, let’s go eat dinner. The others are probably already halfway through it.”

He looked up at her, her hand extended in front of him, her eyes waiting. For a second, he just stared — not at her hand, but at her. The way the light hit her hair, the gentle curve of her smile, the way she didn’t treat him like a kid in that moment, but as someone she wanted to be around. Maybe even needed.

And just like that, his mood shifted.

How could it not?

It was her.

So, he took her hand — without hesitation, without a word — and stood up, their fingers briefly brushing as she turned to lead him out of the room.

Of course he would follow her.

He’d follow her anywhere, if she asked.

The sound of laughter and casual bickering floated from the kitchen as they approached, the warm aroma of Jay’s cooking still lingering in the air. Heeseung was seated with Sunoo and Jungwon at the table, chopsticks in hand, arguing over who had eaten the last piece of grilled chicken, while Jake, already on his second helping, was too invested in his food to contribute.

As soon as they stepped in, all eyes shifted to them — just for a second. A subtle glance. The quiet kind of acknowledgment that didn’t need words. Maybe it was the slight flush on (Y/n)’s face, or the way Niki walked a little closer than usual, or how their shoulders almost brushed as they sat down. Whatever it was, it was noticed — especially by Sunoo, who offered her a small smile and a very knowing look across the table.

(Y/n) passed Niki a bowl of rice before serving herself. “Eat,” she said gently, nudging him. “You’ve been sulking all day.”

He snorted under his breath, shaking his head but accepting the food. “Only because my shoes died a dramatic death.”

“You mean exploded mid-dance move,” Jungwon muttered with a grin.

The table burst into light laughter, and the tension that had been sitting on Niki’s shoulders all day began to ease.

(Y/n) looked over at him just then — really looked — and caught him smiling again, mouth full, eyes shining, the way they used to. Her heart fluttered unexpectedly, something soft blooming quietly in her chest.

She didn’t know what would happen next.

But for the first time in a while, she wanted to find out.

~~~

The last few days leading up to the competition passed in a blur — a mix of early lectures, late-night practices, stress naps, caffeine, and mounting nerves. (Y/n) had only caught glimpses of Niki in passing, but he had always offered her a small smile or a wave, and somehow, that had been enough to make her entire day feel a little lighter.

Now it was Saturday. The auditorium was buzzing with excitement, teams filling the backstage areas while the stands quickly packed with students and supporters. (Y/n) sat in the middle of their group, surrounded by Sunoo, Jay, Jake, Heeseung, and — freshly returned from a trip to see his family — Sunghoon, who was currently leaning in as Sunoo gave him a very animated rundown of everything he had missed. His eyebrows rose higher with each sentence.

“Wait—she got him shoes?” Sunghoon whispered.

Sunoo nodded eagerly. “And they cuddled.”

“Cuddled?”

“Fully horizontal.”

Jay elbowed them both. “Shut up, they’ll hear you.”

(Y/n), sitting just a few seats down, was trying to focus on the stage setup and pretend like her ears weren’t burning.

Meanwhile, in the locker room, energy was high. Music blared from a portable speaker, sneakers squeaked against tile, and sequins glinted off a few team jackets under the harsh fluorescent lights.

Niki sat at the end of a bench, lacing up his brand new shoes — the shoes (Y/n) had given him. Just the thought made his fingers slow down. They fit perfectly. They were light, flexible, made for dancing. She had really paid attention. Every time he looked at them, he felt something warm settle in his chest, no matter how nervous he was.

Jungwon flopped onto the bench beside him, stretching his arms overhead.

“You good?”

Niki shrugged. “Just… usual nerves.”

Jungwon smirked. “Well, I’ve got a deal for you.”

Niki gave him a side glance. “What kind of deal?”

“If we win this thing,” Jungwon said, his voice dropping conspiratorially, “you ask (Y/n) out.”

Niki nearly choked on air. “What?!”

Jungwon just grinned. “You heard me.”

“Are you insane?”

“She’s clearly been looking at you differently lately,” Jungwon said, nudging him with an elbow. “You’ve grown up. She sees that. You’re not the kid from two years ago.”

Niki shook his head, voice low. “She’s just being nice.”

“No, she’s not,” Jungwon countered. “You carried her to the nurse’s office like some kind of romantic anime lead. She got you shoes, man. She cares.”

Niki sat there in silence, staring down at the laces in his hands.

“She’ll say no,” he muttered.

“She might,” Jungwon admitted. “But she also might say yes.”

For a moment, all Niki could hear was the thudding of bass outside the room, the muffled cheers of the crowd, and his own heartbeat. Then he let out a shaky breath and nodded once.

“Okay. If we win, I’ll do it.”

Jungwon clapped him on the shoulder. “That’s my guy.”

Just then, one of the coaches poked his head into the room. “You’re up next. Line up.”

Niki stood, rolling his shoulders back, his nerves momentarily overtaken by adrenaline. He took one last glance down at his shoes before jogging after his team, Jungwon falling into step beside him.

And somewhere in the stands, (Y/n)’s eyes scanned the stage, waiting for him to appear — completely unaware of the quiet deal that could change everything.

~~~

(Y/n)’s eyes never left the stage.

As the music started, the crowd’s energy shifted — a hush falling over the audience as the beat dropped and the team began to move. But to her, it was like no one else existed. She was completely captivated by Niki.

His movements were sharp, powerful, yet impossibly fluid — like water sculpting through air. Every motion was precise, confident, with that same fire she’d only recently noticed in him. And somewhere between a spin and a leap, he locked eyes with her. Just for a second.

Then he winked.

Her breath caught in her throat. Heat rushed to her face as her heart skipped a beat. Did anyone else see that? Her hands went to her cheeks automatically, trying to calm the sudden flush rising beneath her skin.

Sunoo leaned closer. “He winked at you, right?” he whispered with a grin.

“I—I think so?” (Y/n) stammered, not taking her eyes off Niki as he moved with such control and confidence, as if he owned the stage.

After the final pose hit and the music cut out, the crowd erupted into cheers. The entire group on stage panted, sweaty and grinning as they bowed, and then jogged off backstage. (Y/n) stood with the rest of their friends, clapping and hollering with all their strength.

The waiting period before the results felt like an eternity. The announcer took their sweet time, calling out other teams for various smaller awards first, dragging out the suspense.

Niki, backstage, paced in the hallway with Jungwon and the rest of their team, still buzzing from the performance.

“You nailed it,” Jungwon said. “Seriously, that solo? People are gonna talk about that one for weeks.”

Niki didn’t answer, his mind already jumping ahead — to (Y/n), to the wink, to the ridiculous deal Jungwon had made with him.

And then the announcer’s voice boomed across the speakers:

“And the first place winners of this year’s University Dance Showcase… Team Zenith!”

A roar exploded through the auditorium. (Y/n) shot to her feet with the others, screaming as loud as the rest of them, clapping so hard her hands stung. She turned to Jay, who was hooting beside her, then to Sunoo, who was bouncing on his toes. Her eyes finally landed on Niki again as he and Jungwon returned to the stage for the winner’s photo — and he looked straight at her, smiling from ear to ear, like he couldn’t believe it either.

Somewhere between the nerves and the thrill of victory, Niki found it. The hope.

Maybe Jungwon had been right. Maybe she had seen him. Maybe, just maybe, she’d say yes.

~~~

Now, several courses and endless rounds of chatter later, Niki found himself deep in conversation with Kei, the captain of the university’s dance team and one of the most respected upperclassmen in their department. Kei wasn’t just a skilled dancer—he was a solid mentor, calm under pressure and always able to read people better than they read themselves. Over the last few months, he and Niki had grown close. Kei had seen the way Niki danced with a different kind of energy whenever (Y/n) was in the room, had caught the glances, the silent yearning in his eyes. Niki had even confessed to him once, in a moment of vulnerability after a grueling practice, that he was in love with her—had been for a long time.

So when Niki leaned in now, animated and passionate as he recounted the adrenaline of the competition and their team’s unity, Kei listened with an amused smile.

“You were on fire out there, you know?” Kei said, swirling the ice in his glass. “I haven’t seen you dance like that in months.”

Niki laughed softly, rubbing the back of his neck, “It felt different this time. Like… I had something to prove.”

Kei raised an eyebrow knowingly. “Or someone to impress?”

Niki didn’t respond to that, only looked down with a shy smile and a shake of his head.

Just then, Kei’s eyes drifted past him and softened. “You’re not even noticing, are you?”

“What?” Niki asked, confused.

Kei gave a slight tilt of his head toward Niki’s shoulder. “Look.”

Turning his head slightly, Niki’s breath caught. (Y/n)’s head was resting gently against his shoulder, her eyes closed, her breathing soft and even. Somewhere between the shared bites of food and the conversations around them, she had grown quiet and slowly dozed off.

Niki froze. Completely and utterly froze. He didn’t even dare to move his arm.

She was sleeping… on him.

His heart skipped more than one beat, the sensation of her warmth against him, her presence this close, made everything else around him fade. She looked peaceful, and her hand was loosely curled in her lap, her body turned ever so slightly toward him—as if she had naturally gravitated to where she felt safe.

Kei leaned in again, voice low. “You’ve waited for so long, Niki. I know it’s scary, but… she doesn’t treat just anyone like this. She trusts you. She’s comfortable around you. That’s not nothing.”

Niki swallowed hard, unsure what to say. His free hand rested near hers, aching to reach out, to hold it, but he stayed still.

“You think…” he whispered, barely audible. “You think I have a chance?”

Kei smiled softly. “You already had one. You just have to be brave enough to take it.”

Niki looked down at (Y/n) again. Her lips were slightly parted in sleep, her lashes fanned out across her cheeks, and the faintest smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. She looked like home. And for the first time in a long time, he felt something warm bloom in his chest that drowned out the doubt.

He didn’t know what would happen next. But in that moment—sitting there with the girl he’d loved for what felt like forever, her head on his shoulder and Kei’s words echoing in his mind—he finally began to believe that maybe, just maybe, this story wasn’t one-sided after all.

~~~

The cool night air wrapped around them as they walked side by side, the soft hum of laughter from their roommates fading ahead as the group slowly made their way back home. The streetlights cast a golden glow across the pavement, their shadows stretching behind them in rhythm with each step.

(Y/n) had just woken from her nap not long ago, still slightly groggy but smiling as she listened to Niki talk. Their conversation meandered from silly jokes to random memories—things they’d both long forgotten but now laughed about like it was yesterday. It was easy, it was natural. Like it always was with him.

But even as he joked with her, Niki’s mind was racing. His heart beat too fast. His palms felt clammy. Every step brought them closer to the house—and closer to him missing his chance.

Then, just a few minutes from their street, he reached out without thinking and gently grabbed her hand.

She stopped, her head tilting slightly as she looked up at him. “What’s wrong?”

Niki didn’t answer at first. He was looking at their hands, hers soft in his, fitting perfectly like they were always meant to be there. He forced himself to look up, into her eyes, the nerves threatening to choke his words before they could leave his mouth.

“I…” he started, then paused, inhaling deeply. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to say. Something I’ve been holding back for a while.”

(Y/n)’s expression shifted—curious, attentive.

Niki’s voice was quieter now, more vulnerable. “I know we’ve been… close for a long time. And I know I haven’t always acted like someone worth taking seriously. But these last few weeks, I’ve realized just how much you mean to me.”

He looked down again, then back at her with a determined softness in his eyes.

“So… if you’re not already seeing someone, I was wondering if maybe you’d want to go out with me sometime. Like… a real date.”

The words hung between them in the silence, fragile and full of hope.

Niki waited, heart thundering in his chest, eyes locked on hers, afraid to breathe too loud and scare the moment away.

(Y/n) stood frozen for a heartbeat, eyes searching his. Her mind was still catching up with her heart—two weeks ago, this would’ve seemed ridiculous. Just two weeks ago, she still saw him as the eager, wide-eyed kid who used to follow her around, begging for more playtime, grinning whenever she ruffled his hair. She had clung to that version of him because it was familiar, safe… easy.

But now?

Now she saw him. The real him.

The one who had stayed by her side when she was sick. Who remembered the smallest details she hadn’t even realized she’d told him. Who held her with such gentleness and conviction that she felt safe in a way she hadn’t in a long time. The boy was gone. In his place stood someone who had grown up right in front of her, someone patient, kind, and quietly brave.

Her eyes drifted down to where he was still holding her hand. She brought her other hand to it, cupping his palm gently in both of hers. It was warm—larger than hers, strong, but still soft. Familiar and new all at once.

She could feel how tense he was, holding his breath like the world was hinging on what she’d say next.

And maybe… it was.

She looked up at him, her heart suddenly calm in the center of its storm.

“Yes,” she whispered.

Niki blinked. “Wait—yes?”

A small smile tugged at her lips. “Yes, Niki. I’d love to go out with you.”

His breath finally released in a shaky laugh, his whole body relaxing like he’d just been told he could breathe again. The glow from the streetlights danced in his eyes as he grinned—wide and boyish but unmistakably different. Older. Real.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to hear that,” he mumbled, almost to himself.

(Y/n) chuckled softly. “Well… you finally got your answer.”

And hand in hand, they took the final steps home, hearts full and lighter than ever before.

[enterthetadpole]

Enterthetadpole's "Long Awaited" Solo Completed Sherlock BBC Fandom Stories List

Hi everyone!

Now that I am really trying to put focused effort on completing my WIPs, I have decided it may be helpful to create a list of my (for now) finished solo and collaboration stories in the Sherlock fandom. There will be links below, along with a little blurb about the story, and as an extra bit of fun, I will also add some trivia/BTS about the story itself.

As far as the collabs, they will go in a separate post because my collab partners deserve their own posts for me to gush on and on about.

But first, here are the stories that I have battled alone with the help of many cheerleaders.

Ok then, let's go!

Completed Solo Stories

Far Away From Casual

Summary:

One-night stands aren't something that John does anymore. He's too old and Afghanistan took more out of him than he thought was possible. Unfortunately, a night of laughs and lots of drinks changes things.

Words: 19,828 Chapters: 18/18

Johnlock AU Different meeting. Light and comical with a fairly emotionally mature Sherlock, a "still figuring himself out" John, and Harry, Mike and Mycroft in the mix.

Fun Facts/BTS: I spent the better part of a year and a half just trying to get an idea of what this story was going to be about. It was a Fandom Trumps Hate auction story, and I struggled hard as to a plot to go with. Then finally it came to me one day. The visual was of Sherlock Holmes, asleep in bed , naked with a bruise in the shape of a hand on his ass. I laughed, couldn't get the image out of my mind, and a fic was born!

Just Before Christmas

Words: 1,014 Chapters: 1/1

Summary:

John left the clinic after a long Christmas Eve shift to come back to a dark and empty flat.

Small little ficlet about the warmth that comes from caring about the people you are with, and how a little tree can make a big difference. John and Sherlock are friends only, with maybe a little bit of wondering under the surface.

Fun Facts/BTS: This story came after a long bit of writer's block that was helped along by me reading the stories of Berty and listening to @podfixx. The inspiration for the tree came from my own little store bought tree gotten that same year. The book cover for this ficlet also is a photo of that same tree.

Through the Silence

Words: 11,547 Chapters: 12/12

Summary:

John watched the best man he ever knew fall from the rooftop of St. Bart's but refused to give up hope that somehow Sherlock may still be alive. If he was, John would find him. No matter what or who stood in his way.

Fairly heavy angst. John Watson in pain and self-destructive. Multiple POV shifts for the first half of the story. Post Reichenbach.

Fun Facts/BTS: This story was a very difficult one for me to write, not because of the subject matter itself, but because of the mood I would need to be in/get into to keep the overall flow of the story intact. The story is one of my first real attempts at more descriptive and poetic prose. Also, perhaps it isn't noticed, but the POV changes to only John's POV after a very specific realization occurs.

The Sh- Word

Words: 1,971 Chapters:1/1

Summary:

What happens when Sherlock accidentally has both a tranquilizer dart and a John Watson in the same flat? Chaos, and perhaps something more.

Pure crack fic. Out of his depth Sherlock and Understandably Oblivious John.

Fun Facts/BTS: This is technically part of a two-part prompt connected to @elldotsee. I actually used my spouse as a "test body" for this story. My spouse is a wonderful person who knows the insane writer they married.

The Theoretical Argument of Cats and Cake

Words: 575 Chapters: 1/1

Summary:

Cats, cakes, John's exasperation and Sherlock deducing everything. In no particular order.

Small ficlet about John and Sherlock being essentially John and Sherlock. Also featuring Molly's cats.

Fun Facts/BTS: This ficlet was completed at my first @221bcon, and I share Molly's love of cats as a fellow cat mom myself. Have a problem with it? Fight me.

Detachable

Words: 2,563 Chapters: 1/1

Summary:

John has only been dating Sherlock for three weeks. He doesn't deserve this type of humiliation, and yet here we are. Poor John...

More pure crack. Sherlock being peak Sherlock. John being baffled, embarrassed, but still in it for the long haul.

Fun Facts/BTS: The other ficlet that was directly connected to @elldotsee. There is a podfic that goes with this story that I adore so much. This is also one of the fic pieces I direct readers to who are interested in my stories, but unsure of what to read first. This story is my writing style in a small, digestible package. I suggest not swimming for at least three hours after consumption.

The Christmas Notes

Words: 2,821 Chapters: 25/25

Summary:

Sherlock writes notes to John. John tries not to strangle Sherlock. Insanity ensues.

Grumpy Sherlock. Patient John. Feelings realized through passive-aggressive notes.

Fun Facts/BTS: This was a series of writing prompts by Kat for the Xmas 2020 Collection. It was fun having to think of a different letter idea for every day in December up to Christmas. Would do it again. 10/10 no notes.

A Spark of Clarity in a Very Specific Moment in Time

Words: 927 Chapters: 1/1

Summary:

John is a very observant man. When one lives with Sherlock Holmes, one has to be...

Another crack ficlet, starring Sherlock's slumbering nudity and John's internal screaming. I regret nothing.

Fun Facts/BTS: This story came to life because of a photo of Benedict as Sherlock sleeping on the BBC Sherlock famous sofa. Sherlock being starkers was added by me. You're welcome.

Dissecting The Universe

Words: 37,163 Chapters: 29/29

Summary:

Series Four of Sherlock and so much pain has left what Benedict and Martin had in nothing but ruins. However, perhaps things can change if a series of events occur to make everything good, bad and unspoken float back up to the surface.

A real person fanfic that I still placed in the BBC Sherlock section because it is Freebatch (Benedict Cumberbatch/Martin Freeman) but it is centered around the Sherlock series. Lots of inside jokes and behind the scenes plot points.

Fun Facts/BTS: It was a lot of fun switching between character perspectives in this story, and how Ben and Martin may have dealt with the fandom and fallout. I understand that RPF isn't for everyone, but I did try to make this story as respectful as possible, and none of Ben or Martin's children ever directly appear in the story.

However Improbable

Words: 15,748 Chapters: 15/15

Summary:

Dr. John Watson had been through many things in his life, but can anyone truly prepare for meeting the world's only consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes?

This is a different first meeting AU. John is freshly out as Bisexual, and Sherlock is very direct about his feelings. Also Harry has both an attitude and a cat.

Fun Facts/BTS: Harry's cat Ginger ended up becoming a real-life cat for me. We adopted an orange cat about two years after this story began, who ended up being named Ginger before we changed her name to Mousaka. However, unlike the Ginger in the story, Saka is a lot less grumpy but just as feral.

Thank you for taking the time to read my fandom stories. I appreciate all, and reblogging is always such a help. Please let me know if you want to be tagged or not be tagged!

@peanitbear @copperplatebeech @naefelldaurk @dragonnan @lisbeth-kk @sgam76 @kettykika78 @binx72 @butterflygrl62 @dw91165 @izhunny @helloliriels @starkraivennemad @wizama @jobooksncoffee @safedistancefrombeingsmart @totallysilvergirl @johnyouareamazingyouarefantastic @discordantwords @ghostofnuggetspast @notjustamumj @friday411 @calaisreno @mydogwatson @redmondcollege @daziechane @chinike @ninasnakie @whatsnext2020 @writeoutloud @kccarmine @lololollywrites @chocolamousse @kittenmadnessandtea @lolcarina @chriscalledmesweetie @7-percent @jbaillier @missdeliadili @meetinginsamarra @khorazir @cumbercurly-blog @13monkton @thalialunacy @221beloved @johnlockismyreligion @imnova @notjustamumj @a-victorian-girl @onesmallfamily @snowfilly1 @readingwithgwen @izhunny

[readerattheend]

Cale makes it so that everyone in his 'family' can do whatever they want.

He says it several times, of course: "Do whatever you want" and "Why are you even asking?"

He gives people choices, options, opportunities-- sometimes for the first time.

He uses information: Taylor Sten got the option to walk and live because he learned about the Crown Prince's ancient power.

He uses money, manpower, and other resources: Rosalynn can use her ridiculous magical potential because he gave her the people she needed to cut ties with her royal responsibilities and the magic stones to unlock her fullest power.

He uses threats: The Dragon Half-Blood and Clopeh were practically worshipping Cale the moment he spared their pitiful lives because they finally got to choose something. The Half-Blood's choice was between a long painful death and a short painful death, and Clopeh's choice was a choice of legends.

He uses sheer audacity, sheer bastard insanity: Crown Prince Alberu is free to laugh and feel crazy and do things he could never do behind the stuffy role and the stuffy mask he wore to protect himself and his interests. Alberu can smile, run around as a giant lion tiger monster, go to battle in his pajamas wielding a weapon from another world, and laugh at all of his enemies at home and abroad to their faces because Cale just gets him and gets him out there.

(He probably only got as far as he did with Alberu because he shared his secret side with him and learned Alberu's secret nearly from the start, so for the first time Alberu was accepted by a human being who treated him normally(?) and actually made his life easier unlike pretty much everyone else who he had to wheedle and trick to do the same)

He does it for everyone in his family, and I'm just naming a few of the ones that stuck with me.

[pankowcrumbs]

Shared hotel room X Will Poulter

MasterList

Will Poulter Masterlist

There’s a certain ache that settles in your chest when something good ends. Not the sharp, clean pain of heartbreak, but the slow, quiet kind. The kind that follows a final take, a group cheer, the clink of champagne glasses and confetti in hair. The kind that comes with knowing tomorrow, you won’t wake up and head to set to see the same people you've seen every day for six months. The kind that creeps in when you're standing across from someone you've grown used to, maybe even too fond of, and pretending like it hasn't meant something.

That was me. At the wrap party. Half-buzzed, half-bewildered, and entirely too focused on Will bloody Poulter across the room.

He looked unfairly good for someone who’d just downed three gin and tonics and attempted (poorly) to moonwalk to an 80s playlist. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, hair a mess from the humidity and dancing, cheeks slightly flushed. He was laughing at something the director had said, and I hated that I could pick his laugh out of a room full of people.

We’d been co-stars for six months, filming a drama that was part love story, part psychological spiral. Most of our scenes together were emotionally intense. I’d kissed him more times on camera than I had any man in real life this year, and still I didn’t know how to ask him out for a drink.

Not that I needed to. We’d shared drinks. Shared dinners. Shared playlists, private jokes, quiet glances across trailers, and the kind of electric silence that always said too much.

But we were careful. Too careful.

Now, the party was thinning out. Robin, our producer, had disappeared hours ago, and the crew were beginning to peel off in taxis and Ubers, still laughing, still tipsy. I spotted Will heading for the lifts and, without even thinking, followed.

“Oi!” I called, hurrying after him in my heels that had begun to feel like medieval torture devices. “You’re not escaping without saying goodnight, are you?”

He turned, smile blooming. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

We stood there for a beat, both slightly swaying. The lobby was quiet now, fluorescent lights buzzing. My dress, once perfectly styled, was slipping off one shoulder. His top button had come undone.

“Good party,” I offered, mostly just to fill the silence.

“Yeah,” he said, nodding. “We made it.”

“We did,” I agreed, though it didn’t feel like a victory. It felt like something was slipping away before I’d even had a chance to hold it properly.

The lift dinged, doors opening. We stepped inside together. Floor seven.

There was a comfortable silence at first until the doors opened again with a soft chime, and I stepped out… only to wobble slightly on my heel. My clutch tipped sideways, and I watched, in horror, as my room key slid from my fingers and slipped clean through the crack between the lift and the hallway floor.

“Oh, shit,” I muttered, crouching uselessly to peer into the gap. It was gone. Fully, irretrievably gone.

Will hovered behind me, eyebrows raised. “Did you just… drop your keycard into the void?”

“I did,” I sighed, defeated. I stood up and faced him, suddenly all too aware of how close we were. My voice came out softer than intended. “I should probably go back down. To reception. Get a new one.”

He nodded slowly. “Probably.”

But neither of us moved.

The hallway was quiet. Somewhere down the corridor, a door shut. The carpet was thick underfoot, soft. I realised I was still holding my shoes in one hand.

Will looked at me really looked at me and then he held out his hand.

“Or,” he said gently, “you could just stay with me.”

I blinked. “Are you sure?”

He nodded. “Yeah. I mean only if you want to. No pressure.”

I looked at his hand for a second, then placed mine in it.

“Okay.”

His hotel room looked identical to mine, but stepping inside felt strangely significant. Like crossing a threshold that we’d hovered at for months but never dared to step over.

He flicked on a lamp, casting the room in a soft amber glow. I kicked off my shoes and laughed, mostly from nerves.

“Well,” I said, standing awkwardly in the middle of the room. “This is very platonic and not at all filled with unresolved sexual tension.”

He grinned and rubbed the back of his neck. “Should I… put on the telly or something?”

“No,” I said quickly, then added, “I mean unless you want to. I don’t mind.”

He walked over to the mini fridge instead, pulling out two tiny bottles of something. “To the most anticlimactic invitation ever?”

“To hotel lift voids and poor footwear choices,” I said, clinking my bottle against his.

We both drank.

The awkwardness lingered at first. Neither of us really knew where to sit. I perched on the edge of the bed. He stayed standing, leaning against the desk, arms crossed.

“I was kind of hoping you’d follow me, you know,” he said after a pause.

I looked up. “Yeah?”

He nodded. “I didn’t want the night to end.”

The confession hit me square in the chest.

“I didn’t either,” I admitted. “It’s been… weird. Finishing.”

He sat beside me on the bed, close but not touching. “Yeah.”

We were both quiet for a moment. I could feel the warmth of him next to me, the slow rise and fall of his breath.

“You ever think…” I started, then stopped.

“What?” he asked, turning slightly.

I hesitated. “You ever think maybe we were both too scared to… try?”

His gaze flicked to mine. “Every day.”

I turned my head, and suddenly our faces were close. Too close. Or maybe not close enough. Our breath mingled, his eyes searching mine like he was trying to find permission.

“You can kiss me,” I said, voice barely above a whisper.

He didn’t hesitate.

It wasn’t dramatic or rushed. Just… soft. Real. His hand came up to my cheek as he leaned in, lips brushing mine like a question. I kissed him back like an answer.

It felt like everything we hadn’t said finally falling into place.

When we pulled apart, his forehead rested against mine.

“I’ve wanted to do that since the second callback,” he said, breathless.

“Me too,” I whispered.

He kissed me again. Deeper this time. His hands found my waist, pulling me gently closer, and I let myself melt into him. It wasn’t perfect our teeth bumped once, we laughed into each other’s mouths but it was ours. It was overdue and kind and slow, like we both knew we didn’t have to rush now.

Somehow, we ended up lying side by side on the bed, fully clothed, his arm draped loosely over my waist.

“This might sound mad,” I murmured, “but I’m kind of glad I dropped my key.”

He smiled into my hair. “I’ve never been so grateful to a elevator void in my life.”

We both laughed.

Sleep came slowly, but when it did, it was with the comfort of knowing he’d still be there in the morning. No scripts, no trailers, no pretending.

Just Will. And me.

[sleepberries]

Roommates Who Definitely Aren't Hooking Up (Except They Are)

(7067 words, Teen, College AU, No Capes/Powers AU)

Peter Parker was having a problem. The problem was six feet four inches tall, had shoulders that could block out the sun, and was currently standing in their shared dorm kitchen, cooking breakfast without a shirt.

Again.

"Morning," Jason Todd said without turning around, spatula working expertly as he flipped what smelled like blueberry pancakes. "Coffee's fresh."

"Thanks," Peter managed, his voice only slightly strangled as he tried not to stare at the expanse of muscled back on display. The problem—Jason—had a truly unfair number of muscles, all of which seemed designed specifically to short-circuit Peter's brain.

Peter grabbed a mug from the cabinet, pointedly focusing on pouring his coffee rather than on how the morning light played across Jason's bare shoulders. Or the way his sleep pants hung low on narrow hips. Or the fact that if Peter reached out, he could trace the line of that one particular muscle that curved around Jason's—

"Sleep okay?" Jason asked, glancing over his shoulder with a small smirk that suggested he knew exactly where Peter's thoughts had wandered.

"Fine," Peter lied, taking a too-large gulp of coffee and immediately burning his tongue. "Ow—shit!"

"Careful there," Jason said, turning fully now, pancake forgotten. "You okay?"

Peter nodded, eyes watering. He was not okay. He was the opposite of okay, because now Jason was facing him, which was infinitely worse than Jason with his back turned. Facing-him-Jason meant Peter had to deal with abs and chest and that little trail of dark hair that disappeared beneath—

"Earth to Parker," Jason said, waving the spatula. "You in there?"

"Yeah," Peter said quickly. "Just... tired. Stayed up late finishing that biophysics problem set."

Jason made a sympathetic noise. "The one you were swearing at around 2 AM? Sounded intense."

"You heard that?" Peter felt heat creep up his neck that had nothing to do with the coffee. "Sorry if I kept you up."

"Nah," Jason said with a casual shrug that did interesting things to his shoulder muscles. "I was awake anyway. Reading."

Of course he was. Because Jason Todd, pre-law student with a literature obsession, apparently never slept. Peter had lost count of how many times he'd stumbled to the bathroom at 3 AM to find Jason still up, sprawled on the couch in the communal lounge with a book, looking unfairly attractive despite the late hour.

It was entirely unfair. Especially since they were supposed to be just roommates. Just normal, platonic roommates who definitely weren't thinking about each other in any way that involved less clothing than they currently wore.

Not that Jason ever wore much clothing to begin with.

"Pancakes?" Jason offered, sliding a plate across their small counter. "Unless you're too busy staring into space."

"Thanks," Peter said, accepting the plate and pointedly keeping his eyes on the food. "You didn't have to cook."

"I was up," Jason said with another one of those casual shrugs. "Besides, watching you attempt to feed yourself is painful. Last week you ate cereal with water because we were out of milk."

"That was one time," Peter protested. "And I was desperate."

Jason laughed, a low rumble that Peter felt in places that roommates definitely shouldn't be feeling things. "You're always desperate, Parker."

There was something in the way Jason said it—a certain inflection, a certain look in his eyes—that made Peter wonder if they were still talking about breakfast.

But that was ridiculous. They were roommates. Just roommates. Very platonic roommates who occasionally cooked for each other and sometimes watched movies together and never, ever thought about how the other one looked without clothes on.

Except for the fact that Jason was currently half-naked, which made the "not thinking about it" part exceedingly difficult.

"Don't you own shirts?" The words escaped before Peter could stop them.

Jason's eyebrow lifted in that infuriating way of his. "Several. Why? Am I making you uncomfortable?" There was a challenge in his voice, a hint of something dangerous that made Peter's pulse jump.

"No," Peter said, stabbing a pancake with more force than necessary. "Just wondering if you've heard of this revolutionary concept called getting dressed."

"Says the guy who walked around in nothing but a towel for twenty minutes yesterday because he 'forgot' his clothes in the dryer."

Peter felt his face heat. "That was different. I actually needed clothes."

"And I don't?" Jason's smile was sharp enough to cut. "Maybe I like the freedom."

Peter made a non-committal noise around a mouthful of pancake, because saying "I like it too, please never change" seemed inappropriate for 8 AM on a Tuesday.

The truth was, living with Jason was an exercise in restraint that Peter was increasingly worried he was failing. They'd been randomly assigned as roommates at the beginning of the semester, and Peter had spent approximately fifteen seconds in Jason's presence before developing what could only be described as a catastrophic crush.

Four months later, the crush had evolved into something deeper, more visceral, that tightened Peter's chest whenever Jason did... well, anything. Laugh at something on TV. Furrow his brow while studying. Exist.

It wasn't just that Jason was gorgeous, though he absolutely was. It was everything else—his sharp wit, his surprising gentleness, the fierce intelligence behind those blue-green eyes. The way he could discuss Russian literature for hours but also throw himself into heated debates about whether Han shot first. The way he made sure Peter ate when he was deep in a coding spiral, casually dropping sandwiches next to his laptop without making a big deal of it.

The fact that he was standing in their kitchen right now, still shirtless, looking at Peter like he knew exactly what Peter was thinking.

Which was impossible, because if Jason knew what Peter was thinking, they wouldn't still be standing on opposite sides of the kitchen.

"You got class today?" Jason asked, leaning against the counter in a way that made his abdominal muscles do things that should be illegal before noon.

"Yeah," Peter said, forcing his eyes back to his plate. "Biochem at nine, then that comp sci seminar I told you about."

"The one with the professor you hate?"

Peter smiled despite himself. "Dr. Walters doesn't hate me. He just thinks I'm 'squandering my potential' or whatever."

"His loss," Jason said with a casual ease that made something warm unfurl in Peter's chest. "You're the smartest person I know, Parker. If he can't see that, he's an idiot."

Before Peter could respond—not that he knew how to respond to casual praise that made him want to both preen and hide his face—there was a knock at their door.

"That'll be Tim," Jason said, making no move to put on a shirt as he headed for the door. "He's borrowing my notes for Professor Gordon's class."

Peter took the opportunity to gulp down the rest of his coffee and get a grip on himself. It was just another Tuesday. Just another morning with his unfairly attractive roommate who walked around half-naked and made him pancakes and said nice things that made Peter want to climb him like a tree.

Totally normal roommate stuff.

"Oh good, you're both here," Tim Drake said as he walked in, giving Jason an exasperated look. "Would it kill you to put on a shirt?"

"Possibly," Jason said with a grin. "I'm conducting an experiment."

Tim rolled his eyes, nodding a greeting to Peter. "Hey, Peter. How's it going?"

"Fine," Peter said, grateful for the distraction. "Just enjoying my roommate's nudist tendencies before class."

"I'm not a nudist," Jason protested. "I'm just comfortable with my body."

"And making sure everyone else is uncomfortable with it," Tim muttered, earning a laugh from Peter.

"The notes are on my desk," Jason said, ignoring the comment. "Help yourself."

As Tim disappeared into Jason's bedroom, Jason turned back to Peter with a thoughtful look.

"Am I really making you uncomfortable?" he asked, his voice pitched low enough that Tim wouldn't hear. There was something in his expression—a vulnerability that rarely showed through his usual confidence.

"No," Peter said honestly. "I was just giving you a hard time."

Jason studied him for a moment longer, then nodded, seeming satisfied. "Good. Because I'd hate to think I was crossing a line."

"No lines crossed," Peter assured him, even as he thought about how many lines he'd like to cross, given half a chance. "We're good."

"Good," Jason repeated, and there was something in the way he said it—a certain heat in his gaze that lingered a beat too long—that made Peter wonder if they were having two entirely different conversations.

But before he could analyze it further, Tim returned with the notes, and the moment shattered.

"Got 'em," Tim said, oblivious to the tension. "Thanks, Jay. I'll get them back to you before the exam."

"No rush," Jason said, his easy smile back in place. "Peter, you better get moving if you want to make that 9 AM."

Peter glanced at the clock and swore under his breath. "Shit, you're right." He shoved the last bite of pancake in his mouth and grabbed his backpack. "Thanks for breakfast!"

"Anytime," Jason called after him, and Peter tried not to read too much into the way his voice lingered on the word.

Just roommates, he reminded himself as he hurried down the hallway. That's all they were. And that's all they would be.

No matter how many times Jason cooked shirtless pancakes.

"So let me get this straight," Ned said later that day, as they huddled over lab notes in the library. "Your roommate—the hot one with the muscles—"

"As opposed to all my other roommates?" Peter interrupted.

"Fair point. Your only roommate, the objectively hot one, cooks you breakfast shirtless on the regular, and you're still trying to convince me there's nothing going on?"

Peter sighed, rubbing his temples. "Nothing is going on, Ned. We're roommates."

"Roommates don't typically have sexual tension thick enough to cut with a knife."

"There's no sexual tension," Peter insisted, knowing he sounded unconvincing even to his own ears.

"Uh-huh," Ned said, clearly not buying it. "That's why you texted me at 2 AM last week about how, and I quote, 'his arms should be classified as lethal weapons.'"

"I was sleep-deprived," Peter mumbled. "And possibly delirious."

"And the time before that when you called me in a panic because he wore reading glasses and you 'weren't prepared for that level of hotness'?"

"They were unexpected glasses! No one looks that good in glasses, Ned. It's not natural."

Ned gave him a pitying look. "You know the whole floor has a betting pool going on when you two are finally going to hook up, right?"

Peter froze. "They what?"

"A betting pool," Ned repeated slowly. "Currently at over two hundred dollars. Gwen's got money on this weekend, by the way. Said something about the sexual frustration reaching critical mass."

"That's... that's ridiculous," Peter spluttered. "We're not—there's no—we're roommates!"

"So you keep saying," Ned said, turning back to his notes. "All I know is that if you don't make a move soon, I'm going to lose twenty bucks to Miles."

Peter stared at him in betrayal. "You bet on us too?"

"Hey, I'm just being realistic. I've seen the way he looks at you when you're not paying attention."

Peter's heart did a complicated flip. "How... how does he look at me?"

Ned glanced up, a knowing smile spreading across his face. "Like he's thinking about all the ways he could take you apart," he said bluntly.

Heat rushed to Peter's face. "That's—you're exaggerating."

"I'm really not," Ned said. "Look, Pete, I get that you're in denial or whatever, but literally everyone can see it. The guy wants you. You want him. What's the problem?"

The problem, Peter thought but didn't say, was that he was terrified. Terrified of being wrong. Terrified of ruining the easy companionship they'd developed. Terrified that if he gave in to this thing between them—this electric current that seemed to buzz whenever they were together—it would consume him entirely.

"It's complicated," he said instead.

"It's really not," Ned countered. "But sure, keep pretending. Just know that when you finally crack and jump each other, I expect full details. For science."

"You're the worst friend ever," Peter groaned, burying his face in his textbook. "Can we please talk about anything else?"

"Fine," Ned agreed, taking pity on him. "But just so you know, if you don't make a move by next Friday, I'm out twenty bucks and my dignity."

"Your dignity was already questionable," Peter muttered, earning a pencil thrown at his head.

As they turned back to their work, Peter couldn't help but think about what Ned had said. Was it possible? Did Jason really look at him that way when he wasn't paying attention? And if he did, what was Peter supposed to do about it?

The thought followed him through the rest of his classes, a persistent whisper that made it impossible to concentrate on anything else.

By the time he made it back to the dorm that evening, he'd nearly convinced himself that Ned was exaggerating. That this thing between him and Jason was just a product of his own overactive imagination, fueled by too many late nights and not enough social interaction.

Then he opened the door to their room and all rational thought fled.

Because Jason Todd was doing laundry.

Shirtless.

Again.

"Oh, hey," Jason said, glancing up from where he was folding a dark t-shirt. "Didn't hear you come in."

Peter stood frozen in the doorway, his backpack dangling limply from one hand as he tried—and failed—not to stare.

It wasn't fair. It really wasn't. The dorm lighting should be unflattering—it was for literally everyone else on the planet. But somehow, under the harsh fluorescents, Jason looked like he'd stepped out of a magazine shoot. All golden skin and defined muscle, moving with a casual grace that made Peter's mouth go dry.

"You okay?" Jason asked, pausing mid-fold. "You look a little..." He trailed off, gesturing vaguely.

"Fine," Peter said quickly, forcing himself to move, to act normal. He dumped his backpack on his desk and grabbed his water bottle, suddenly desperate for something to do with his hands. "Just a long day."

"Professor Walters giving you trouble again?"

Peter shook his head. "No, it was fine. I just..." Just spent the whole day thinking about you, he didn't say. Just can't stop staring at you, he definitely didn't say.

"Just tired," he finished lamely.

Jason studied him for a moment, those eyes too perceptive by half. "You sure that's all it is?"

There was something in his tone—a certain knowing quality—that made Peter wonder, not for the first time, if Jason could read his mind. If he could see the thoughts that raced through Peter's head whenever they were close.

"Yeah," Peter said, aiming for casual and missing by a mile. "Why? Is there something else it should be?"

Jason shrugged, the movement rippling across muscle in a way that made Peter's fingers itch to touch. "You tell me, Parker."

And there it was again—that challenge, that hint of something dangerous lurking beneath the surface. It made Peter's pulse quicken, made heat pool low in his stomach.

"Nothing to tell," Peter said, his voice steadier than he felt. "Just a normal Tuesday with my normal roommate doing his normal shirtless laundry routine."

Jason's lips curved in a slow smile. "Is that what this is about? The shirt thing again?"

"There's no 'shirt thing,'" Peter protested.

"Really? Because you seem pretty fixated on it," Jason said, taking a step closer. "Almost like it bothers you."

"It doesn't bother me," Peter insisted, even as he took an instinctive step back.

"No?" Another step closer. "Then why are you looking at me like that?"

"Like what?" Peter's voice was barely above a whisper now.

"Like you can't decide if you want to run away or..." Jason trailed off, now close enough that Peter could feel the heat radiating from his bare skin.

"Or what?" Peter asked, unable to help himself.

Jason's eyes darkened, his gaze dropping briefly to Peter's mouth before meeting his eyes again. "Or something else entirely."

They stood there, frozen in a moment that stretched taut between them, charged with possibility. Peter swore he could hear his own heartbeat, hammering against his ribs like it was trying to escape.

All he had to do was lean forward. Just a few inches, and he could find out if Jason's mouth tasted as good as it looked. If those hands felt as strong as they appeared.

The sound of a door slamming down the hall shattered the moment.

"I should finish this," Jason said, gesturing to the laundry, his voice rougher than usual. "Got a paper to write tonight."

"Right," Peter said, stepping back, trying to ignore the disappointment that settled heavy in his chest. "I've got stuff to do too."

As Jason returned to his folding, Peter retreated to his desk, pretending to focus on his laptop while his mind spun with what had—or hadn't—just happened.

Just roommates, he reminded himself firmly. That's all they were.

But as he stole glances at Jason's back, watching the play of muscle as he moved, Peter couldn't help but wonder how much longer they could keep pretending.

By Friday night, Peter was at his breaking point.

The whole week had been a study in torture. Ever since that moment with the laundry, something had fully shifted between them—a heightening of awareness, a new electricity in the air whenever they were together. Nothing had happened, not really, but Peter felt like they were balanced on a knife's edge, teetering closer to... something.

It didn't help that Jason seemed determined to drive him crazy. Walking around in those low-slung sweatpants. Stretching in ways that made his shirts ride up. Standing too close whenever they were in the kitchen together, his heat wrapping around Peter like a physical touch.

And the looking. So much looking. Long, intense gazes that made Peter feel stripped bare, exposed in a way that should have been uncomfortable but instead left him aching for more.

It all came to a head at the floor party thrown by their RA.

"You're coming, right?" Jason asked earlier that day, leaning against Peter's doorframe in a way that emphasized the long line of his body. He was wearing one of those ridiculous Henley shirts that should have been illegal, the sleeves pushed up to expose forearms that Peter had definitely not spent hours fantasizing about.

"To Doug's thing?" Peter asked, pretending to be absorbed in his biochem textbook. "I don't know. I have a lot of work..."

"All you do is work," Jason said, crossing the room to perch on the edge of Peter's desk. "Come on, Parker. Live a little."

He was too close. Peter could smell him—that distinctive mix of leather and something spicy that always made his head spin.

"Fine," Peter agreed, mostly to end the conversation before he did something stupid, like lean forward and press his face against Jason's neck. "But I'm not staying long."

Jason grinned, a flash of white teeth that made Peter's stomach flip. "We'll see."

And now here they were, crammed into Doug's room with what seemed like half their floor, red solo cups in hand as music thumped from portable speakers. Peter had lost track of Jason about twenty minutes in, which was both a relief and a disappointment.

"Having fun?" Gwen asked, materializing at his side with a knowing smirk.

"Thrilling," Peter deadpanned, taking a sip of his beer. "Nothing I love more than watching Chad from 306 attempt to dance."

Gwen laughed, following his gaze to where a lanky sophomore was indeed flailing enthusiastically to the beat. "Riveting entertainment. But I notice you're not watching Chad. You're scanning the room for a certain tall, brooding roommate."

"I am not," Peter denied automatically.

"Sure," Gwen said, clearly not believing him. "That's why you've checked the door every time it opens for the last ten minutes."

Peter sighed, giving up the pretense. "Is it that obvious?"

"Only to everyone with eyes," Gwen said cheerfully. "If it helps, he's been looking for you too. Kept glancing over here until Tim dragged him into some debate about—I don't know, something pretentious and literary, probably."

Peter's pulse quickened. "He was looking for me?"

"Don't sound so surprised," Gwen said, nudging him with her elbow. "The guy's into you. The whole floor knows it."

"We're just—"

"Roommates," Gwen finished for him, rolling her eyes. "Yeah, yeah. Keep telling yourself that. Meanwhile, I've got twenty bucks riding on tonight being the night you finally admit you want to climb him like a tree."

"Ned told me about the betting pool," Peter groaned. "It's disturbing, you know that? And probably unethical."

"What's unethical is watching you two dance around each other for months," Gwen countered. "It's painful, Peter. Like watching two particularly oblivious butterflies circle each other without landing."

"That's... a weird metaphor."

"I'm a little drunk," she admitted. "But my point stands. You like him. He likes you. Stop being dumb about it."

Before Peter could respond, there was a commotion at the door—someone new arriving. But it wasn't Jason. It was their floor don, the graduate student responsible for maintaining order in their dorm.

"Shit," Gwen muttered. "It's Barbara. Who invited her?"

"No one," Peter said, watching as the redhead scanned the room with narrowed eyes. "I'm guessing someone complained about the noise."

"Great," Gwen sighed. "Party's over, I guess."

Sure enough, Barbara was making her way through the crowd, confiscating drinks and issuing warnings. As she approached their corner, Peter felt a hand close around his wrist.

"This way," a familiar voice murmured in his ear, and then Jason was tugging him toward a side door that Peter knew led to a small hallway with supply closets.

"What are you—" Peter started, but Jason shushed him, pulling him through the door just as Barbara turned in their direction.

The hallway was dark and narrow, barely lit by a single emergency light. Jason led him a few steps down before opening one of the closet doors and gesturing for Peter to enter.

"Seriously?" Peter whispered. "A closet?"

"Unless you'd rather explain to Babs why you're at an illegal dorm party," Jason whispered back. "She was my foster brother's girlfriend. Trust me, you don't want that lecture."

"Fine," Peter relented, slipping into the small space. Jason followed, closing the door quietly behind them.

The closet was tiny—more of a cupboard really—lined with shelves of cleaning supplies and barely big enough for one person, let alone two. Especially when one of those people was Jason Todd, whose broad shoulders seemed to take up most of the available space.

"This was your plan?" Peter whispered, pressed uncomfortably against a shelf of paper towels. "Hide in a closet?"

"You have a better idea?" Jason whispered back. In the dim light filtering through the crack under the door, Peter could just make out the outline of his face, close enough that he could feel Jason's breath on his cheek.

"No," Peter admitted. "But this is..."

"Cramped?" Jason suggested, shifting slightly. The movement brought their bodies into full contact, chest to chest, thighs to thighs. "Sorry about that."

He didn't sound sorry. He sounded... amused. Maybe even pleased.

"It's fine," Peter said, his voice strangled. It was very much not fine. Every nerve ending in his body was suddenly, acutely aware of everywhere Jason touched him, which was everywhere. "Just... how long do we need to stay here?"

"Until the coast is clear," Jason murmured. "Shouldn't be too long. Babs isn't known for lingering."

"Great," Peter said weakly. A few minutes. He could handle a few minutes of being pressed against Jason in a dark closet without doing anything stupid.

Probably.

"So," Jason said after a moment, his voice still low. "Having fun at the party?"

Peter let out a strangled laugh. "Are we really making small talk right now?"

"Would you prefer we stand here in awkward silence?" Jason countered. "Because I'm flexible."

The word "flexible" conjured images that Peter absolutely did not need in his head right now, not with Jason pressed against him from chest to knee.

"Small talk is fine," he managed. "Uh... how's your paper going? The one for Professor Gordon?"

"Finished it this afternoon," Jason said. "Now I'm free all weekend. You?"

"Just that biochem lab report, but it's mostly done."

"Good," Jason said, and there was something in his voice—a certain quality that made Peter's skin prickle with awareness. "So we're both free this weekend."

"I guess so," Peter agreed, not sure where Jason was going with this.

"Interesting," Jason murmured. "Very interesting."

Before Peter could ask what was so interesting about their mutual lack of plans, there was a sound from outside—footsteps passing by the closet door, accompanied by Barbara's voice giving what sounded like a stern lecture.

Jason tensed, instinctively moving closer to Peter as if to shield him. The movement pressed them even more firmly together, Jason's thigh slipping between Peter's in a way that made heat shoot up his spine.

"Sorry," Jason whispered, his mouth right next to Peter's ear. But he didn't move away. If anything, he seemed to settle more firmly into the position, one hand coming to rest on Peter's hip as if to steady him.

Peter's heart hammered against his ribs. He was sure Jason could feel it, given how close they were standing. Could probably feel the way Peter's breath had quickened too, coming in shallow pulls that couldn't quite fill his lungs.

The footsteps and voices faded, but Jason didn't move. His hand remained on Peter's hip, thumb stroking small circles through the fabric of his jeans.

"Jason?" Peter whispered, the name barely more than a breath.

"Hmm?" Jason's voice was lower than usual, rough around the edges.

"The coast is clear," Peter pointed out. "We could... probably go now."

"We could," Jason agreed. His thumb continued its maddening circles. "Is that what you want?"

The question hung between them, loaded with meaning that went far beyond their current situation.

"I..." Peter started, then stopped, his courage faltering.

"Because," Jason continued, his voice dropping even lower, "I've been thinking. About what Ned said to you the other day."

Peter froze. "You heard that?"

"I came to find you in the library," Jason admitted. "Overheard part of your conversation. The part about... how I look at you."

Mortification flooded Peter, hot and sharp. "Oh god. Jason, I'm sorry, I didn't—"

"He's right," Jason interrupted. "About how I look at you. Has been for months."

Peter's breath caught in his throat. "What?"

"I said, he's right," Jason repeated, his hand sliding from Peter's hip to the small of his back, drawing him impossibly closer. "I do think about taking you apart, Parker. Every fucking day."

The words sent a jolt of pure heat through Peter's body. "You... you do?"

"Yes," Jason said simply. In the dim light, his eyes were dark, intent. "The question is, what are you going to do about it?"

And there it was—the challenge laid bare, the line drawn in the sand. All those months of tension, of wanting, of pretending, distilled into a single question.

Peter had spent so long convincing himself that this couldn't happen, that they were just roommates, that he'd almost started to believe it. But standing here, pressed against Jason in the dark, feeling the solid heat of him, the steady beat of his heart—there was no more pretending.

"This," Peter said, and closed the distance between them.

The first touch of Jason's lips was electric, a shock to Peter's system that had him gasping into the kiss. Jason made a sound—low, hungry—and then his hands were everywhere, tangling in Peter's hair, sliding down his back, gripping his hips to pull him closer.

Peter responded with equal fervor, months of pent-up desire breaking free as he wrapped his arms around Jason's neck, pressing up on his toes to deepen the kiss. Jason tasted like beer and mint and something uniquely him, addictive and perfect.

"Fuck," Jason breathed when they finally broke apart for air. "Do you have any idea how long I've wanted to do that?"

"How long?" Peter asked, his voice wrecked.

"Since the first day," Jason admitted, pressing his forehead against Peter's. "When you walked in with your stupid science puns on your t-shirt and that smile, talking a mile a minute about biochem like it was the most fascinating thing in the world."

"That long?" Peter whispered, awed. "But you never said anything."

"Neither did you," Jason pointed out, nipping lightly at Peter's bottom lip. "Figured you weren't interested. Until I started noticing the way you looked at me when you thought I wasn't paying attention."

"So the shirtless thing," Peter said suddenly. "That was on purpose?"

Jason's smile was wicked in the dim light. "Had to test my theory somehow."

"You're evil," Peter accused, but he was smiling too, his hands sliding under Jason's shirt to finally, finally touch bare skin. "Do you know how many cold showers I've taken because of you?"

"Tell me more," Jason murmured, his mouth trailing down Peter's neck in a way that made coherent thought difficult.

"The pancakes," Peter gasped as Jason found a particularly sensitive spot below his ear. "The laundry. That time you washed our dishes wearing those jeans that should be illegal in all fifty states."

Jason laughed against his skin. "And here I thought I was being subtle."

"There is nothing subtle about you, big guy," Peter said, tugging Jason's face back up to kiss him properly. "Nothing at all."

They lost themselves in each other after that, the closet forgotten as hands explored and mouths tasted and small, breathless sounds escaped into the darkness. Peter felt dizzy with it, with the reality of Jason's hands on him, Jason's mouth on his neck, Jason's body pressed against his own.

All those months of wanting, of pretending they were just roommates, just friends, dissolved in the heat between them. This, Peter thought hazily as Jason's hand slipped beneath his shirt, mapping the contours of his stomach with hungry fingers. This was inevitable.

They were so absorbed in each other that they didn't hear the approaching footsteps. Didn't register the voices until it was too late.

The closet door swung open, flooding the small space with light.

"See? I told you they'd—OH MY GOD."

Ned's voice, followed by several gasps and one whoop of triumph.

Peter and Jason froze, caught in a tableau that left no room for misinterpretation—Peter pressed against the shelves, Jason's hand up his shirt, both of their lips swollen and hair mussed.

"Um," Peter said eloquently.

"Well," Gwen said from somewhere in the gathered crowd. "I believe this means I win the pool."

"Technically," Tim's voice chimed in, "you said they'd hook up this weekend. It's still Friday night."

"They're clearly hooking up," Gwen argued. "Look at them!"

"We can hear you," Jason pointed out, making no move to release Peter or remove his hand from under his shirt. If anything, he seemed amused by the whole situation, a small smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

"So," Ned said, crossing his arms with a smug expression. "Just roommates, huh?"

Peter buried his face in Jason's shoulder with a groan. "Can everyone please go away so I can die of embarrassment in private?"

"No way," Gwen said cheerfully. "This is the most entertaining thing to happen all semester. Four months of watching you two pretend not to want to jump each other, and now this."

"We weren't pretending," Jason said, finally withdrawing his hand from Peter's shirt but keeping him close with an arm around his waist. "We were in denial. There's a difference."

"A very fine one," Tim muttered.

"Can we please discuss this somewhere other than a closet?" Peter pleaded.

"I don't know," Jason said, his voice pitched low enough that only Peter could hear. "I'm kind of enjoying having you pressed up against me like this."

Peter felt heat flood his face. "You're not helping."

"Not trying to," Jason admitted with a grin.

Eventually, they extracted themselves from the closet, enduring a chorus of catcalls and knowing looks as they made their way back to the party, which had resumed after Barbara's departure.

"So," Peter said once they'd found a relatively quiet corner. "That happened."

"It did," Jason agreed, his hand finding Peter's and lacing their fingers together. "Any regrets?"

Peter looked at him—at the man who had been driving him crazy for months with his shirtless cooking and his intelligence and his unexpected kindness. The man who apparently had wanted him just as badly all this time.

"Only that we didn't do this sooner," Peter said honestly. "We wasted a lot of time pretending."

Jason's smile was slow and promising. "We've got plenty of time to make up for it."

"Is that right?" Peter asked, unable to keep the challenge out of his voice.

"Absolutely," Jason murmured, stepping closer, uncaring of their audience. "Starting now, if you want."

Peter was acutely aware of the eyes on them, of the whispers and knowing smiles. But with Jason looking at him like that—like he was the only thing in the room worth seeing—it was hard to care.

"What about our 'just roommates' cover story?" Peter asked with a grin. "Pretty sure we just blew that one."

"I think it was blown the minute we got caught making out in a supply closet," Jason pointed out. "Besides, I'm tired of pretending."

There was something raw in his voice, something honest that made Peter's chest tighten.

"Me too," he admitted softly.

Jason's hand came up to cup his face, thumb brushing gently across his cheekbone. The touch was surprisingly tender for someone who had, minutes earlier, been pressed against Peter with rather less innocent intentions.

"Then let's stop," Jason said simply.

And he leaned down to kiss Peter again, right there in the middle of the party, in full view of everyone who had spent months watching them dance around each other.

Someone—probably Ned—let out a whoop. There was scattered applause, a few catcalls, but Peter barely registered any of it. He was too caught up in Jason—in the feel of his mouth, the warmth of his hand on Peter's face, the solid presence of his body so close.

"Get a room!" someone shouted.

Jason broke the kiss, a wicked smile playing at his lips. "Actually," he said, loud enough for those nearby to hear, "that's not a bad idea." He turned to Peter, his voice dropping. "What do you say, Parker? Want to get out of here?"

Peter's heart hammered against his ribs. "Where would we go?"

"I know a place," Jason said, his smile turning secretive. "Our room. With a locked door and no audience."

"Sounds perfect," Peter managed, his voice embarrassingly breathless.

Jason took his hand, leading him toward the door. As they passed Tim and Ned, Jason paused.

"Don't wait up," he said with a meaningful look that made Tim roll his eyes.

"Wasn't planning to," Tim replied dryly. "Just try to keep it down. The walls in this place are thin."

Peter felt his face heat, but Jason just laughed, a low sound full of promise.

They made their way back to their room in record time, hands clasped between them. As soon as the door closed behind them, Jason had Peter pressed against it, his mouth hot and demanding.

"Still just roommates?" Jason murmured against his lips, his hands sliding beneath Peter's shirt to map the contours of his back.

"Definitely not," Peter gasped, arching into the touch. "Unless roommates do this sort of thing regularly."

"Not any roommates I've ever had," Jason said, his voice rough as he trailed kisses down Peter's neck. "But then again, I've never had a roommate like you before."

"Is that a compliment?" Peter asked, his head falling back against the door as Jason found a particularly sensitive spot below his ear.

"Absolutely," Jason confirmed, biting gently at the spot. "You drive me crazy, Parker. Have since day one."

The confession sent a thrill down Peter's spine. "Same," he admitted. "Especially when you do your shirtless cooking thing."

Jason pulled back slightly, his eyes dark with promise. "That was entirely on purpose, you know. Noticed the way you looked at me that first time, when I came out of the shower without a shirt. Thought I'd test the waters."

"Evil," Peter accused again, but he was smiling. "I knew it."

"Says the guy who just happened to need something from the laundry room every time I was doing laundry," Jason countered, his hands now working at the hem of Peter's shirt. "Think I didn't notice that pattern?"

"That was... coincidence," Peter lied, lifting his arms as Jason tugged his shirt over his head.

"Sure it was," Jason murmured, his eyes darkening as they swept over Peter's now-bare chest. "Just like it was coincidence that you spent twenty minutes in that towel last week."

"Maybe I really did forget my clothes," Peter suggested, his breathing hitching as Jason's hands skimmed down his sides.

"Maybe," Jason allowed, pressing a kiss to Peter's collarbone. "Or maybe you were trying to drive me as crazy as you were."

"Did it work?" Peter asked, his hands sliding into Jason's hair.

Jason looked up at him, his eyes serious suddenly. "You have no idea," he said softly. "I've been losing my mind over you for months, Parker."

There was something raw in the admission, something vulnerable that made Peter's chest ache.

"Me too," he confessed, cupping Jason's face. "I thought... I thought it was just me. That you were just being you, and I was reading too much into it."

Jason shook his head. "Not just you," he said firmly. "Never just you."

And then they were kissing again, deep and desperate, months of pent-up tension finally finding release. Peter lost himself in it, in the feel of Jason's hands on his skin, Jason's mouth against his own, Jason's body pressing him against the door.

"Wait," Jason said suddenly, pulling back. Peter made a noise of protest, trying to follow his mouth, but Jason held firm. "Need to ask you something."

"Now?" Peter asked, breathless.

"Now," Jason confirmed, his expression serious despite the flush on his cheeks and the dishevelment of his hair where Peter's hands had been. "Are we doing this?"

"I thought we were already doing this," Peter said, gesturing vaguely between them.

"Not this," Jason clarified, his hand coming up to cup Peter's cheek. "This. Us. Because I need you to know—this isn't just physical for me. It's not just about wanting to get you into bed."

Understanding dawned, and with it, a warmth that spread through Peter's chest like sunlight. "Oh," he said softly.

"Yeah, oh," Jason echoed, a small smile playing at his lips. "So I'll ask again. Are we doing this? For real?"

Peter looked at him—at the man who had been driving him crazy for months, who cooked him pancakes and made sure he ate during finals week and apparently had wanted him just as badly all this time.

"Yes," he said without hesitation. "We're definitely doing this."

The smile that broke across Jason's face was like nothing Peter had seen before—open, unguarded, genuinely happy. It made something in Peter's chest catch, a feeling too big to name expanding inside him.

"Good," Jason said softly. "Because I'm kind of crazy about you, Parker."

"That works out well," Peter replied, his own smile so wide it hurt his cheeks. "Since I'm kind of crazy about you too."

Jason kissed him then, gentler than before but no less intense. And as Peter melted into it, he couldn't help but think that for all the pretending they'd done, for all the months of "just roommates" and casual touches and longing looks, this—the truth between them, finally acknowledged—was infinitely better.

"You know," Tim said the next morning, when he encountered them in the hallway, Peter wearing Jason's shirt and sporting a rather telling mark on his neck, "if you two had waited one more day to finally get your act together, I would've won fifty bucks."

"Sorry to disappoint," Jason said, not sounding sorry at all as his arm wrapped possessively around Peter's waist.

"I'm not," Peter said with a grin. "Gwen said she's buying coffee for everyone with her winnings. Silver lining."

Tim rolled his eyes, but there was affection in the gesture. "Took you long enough, anyway. The 'just roommates' act was getting old."

"We weren't acting," Peter protested. "We really thought—"

"That you were just roommates, yeah, I know," Tim interrupted. "Meanwhile, the rest of us had to watch you two eye-fuck across the room for months."

"We did not—" Peter began, but Jason cut him off.

"We absolutely did," he admitted shamelessly. "Still do." As if to prove his point, he gave Peter a look that made heat rush to his face.

"And that's my cue to leave," Tim said, making a hasty retreat. "Use protection!"

"Your friends are the worst," Peter groaned, burying his face in Jason's shoulder.

"Our friends," Jason corrected, pressing a kiss to the top of Peter's head. "And they're not wrong. We were pretty obvious."

"Apparently to everyone except ourselves," Peter agreed.

They made their way to the dining hall, hands linked between them. As they walked, Peter couldn't help but think about how much had changed in the span of twelve hours. Yesterday, they had been "just roommates"—at least in their own minds. Now they were... whatever they were. Together, certainly. Beyond that, Peter wasn't sure he had the right words yet.

But as Jason held the door open for him, his smile soft and private, Peter realized it didn't matter what they called it. They had time to figure it out.

"What?" Jason asked, noticing Peter's thoughtful expression.

"Nothing," Peter said, leaning up to press a quick kiss to Jason's cheek. "Just thinking that for all the pretending we did, the truth is much better."

Jason's smile widened, his hand finding Peter's again. "Couldn't agree more, Parker. Couldn't agree more."

END NOTES: Thanks for reading y'all! I'll be posting this simultaneously on AO3 here!

[bimbowshmimbow]

𝐀 𝐃𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐆𝐚𝐦𝐞 (Part 2)

────୨ৎ────

dadsbestfriend!joel x f!reader

Part 1

Warnings: MDNI, dad’s best friend, age gap (legal), post-smut intimacy, soft!Joel, secret relationship, fluff, emotional tension, hand touches, subtle jealousy, kitchen scene, implied smut

You were still buzzing.

Not from the wine. Not from the laughter outside or the music humming on your dad’s speakers. But from him. From Joel. From the way your hands had scrambled over his flannel, the way he’d pressed his mouth to your neck, and the way you’d whispered his name like a sin.

That shed should’ve felt cold and nasty. Unforgivable.

But it hadn’t.

It felt like home. Or something close.

You hadn’t seen him since.

He’d slipped out first — buttoning his shirt with slow, shaking fingers, like he already hated himself for what he’d done. Didn’t say a word afterwards. Just looked at you, all flushed and messy and full of his touch, and disappeared, but you did share that moment right after, it sort of confirmed things. You thought.

So you washed your face. Fixed your hair. Changed into a soft sundress — something easy, innocent, like nothing happened — and came back to the party like your whole world hadn’t shifted on its axis.

It’s late when you go inside. The kitchen is dim, yellow light buzzing, and you’re half-heartedly digging in the fridge for lemonade when you hear the screen door creak open.

You already know it’s him.

He doesn’t say your name. Just stands in the doorway for a beat, like he’s trying to decide if he’s allowed to want this.

Then he shuts the door behind him. Clicks the lock.

Your breath catches.

“Hey,” you say, too quiet.

Joel steps toward you. Slowly. Cautiously. Like you might run if he moves too fast.

“You alright?” he asks. His voice is lower now. Soft. Careful. “After earlier.”

Your heart flutters.

You nod.

“Are you?” you whisper.

He doesn’t answer right away. Just stops in front of you and reaches out — hesitantly — to brush a loose curl behind your ear. His fingers linger at your jaw, rough but warm. Familiar.

“Shouldn’t’ve let it happen,” he mutters, mostly to himself. “But I ain’t sorry it did.”

You step into his chest. It’s instinct. His hands go to your hips automatically.

“I didn’t want you to stop,” you admit.

He groans. It’s low and pained, like the words cut him open.

“Don’t say things like that, sweetheart.”

“Why not?”

His grip tightens — just a little. Enough to remind you he’s there. That you’re not dreaming.

“‘Cause I want you again,” he says. “Right now. Against that counter. In my truck. Hell — I don’t care where. But you’re too sweet for that, aren’t you?”

You look up at him, lip caught in your teeth.

“You didn’t treat me like I was too sweet in the shed.”

Joel chuckles — low and dangerous — and you feel it all the way to your toes.

“That was me losin’ control,” he says. “This—” he presses a hand to your back, gently guiding you to lean against the kitchen counter “—this is me takin’ my time.”

He kisses you this time. Not hungry. Not greedy.

Just soft.

Like it means something.

And when you whimper, hands tangling in the hem of his shirt, he pulls back just enough to rest his forehead on yours.

“We’ll figure this out,” he whispers. “Whatever this is. We’ll do it right.”

You nod, and he presses a kiss to your temple — careful and reverent — like he already knows he’s yours.

[gay-dorito-dust]

We need more bitting for those silly goofs 🙏your last one made me think about it the entire day !!! if possible this time pre relationship 🤔 bless ya cause you re pumping dmc content like your life depends on it and I'm loving it ♥️♥️♥️♥️

the fic that annon is referencing is right here:

The fic

Dante

Biting can still be a thing that happens with Dante before your relationship, but I think that it’s more playful and stupid, such as him asking you to bite him harder to see whether he could handle it.

His demon side could definitely handle the hardest of bites you could possibly muster, but his human side cannot obviously. He’s dramatic as fuck about it but then again it’s Dante, when is he not dramatic about something.

‘You almost bit my finger off!’ He cries.

‘You’re a half demon, you can heal.’ You reminded him and he stops acting as though he’s in indescribable pain.

‘Oh yeah I can.’ He then stares at the finger that was now fully healed from your bite mark, wiggling it for the sake of wiggling his finger and smiling.

‘I fucking hate you.’ You say.

‘I’d say that’s the first step to slowly getting you to admire you like me.’ Dante retorts and you’re left wondering how this red coated fool could even be allowed to be like that in general, all the while fighting back a smile of your own. You had to admit the man had charm.

He only nibbled on your fingers, but still this is only playful and doesn’t mean any more than that, playful.

Biting between you two wasn’t seen as a claim or anything, it was seen as something as silly and goofy and something you did when there was nothing better to do then bother the other person. Biting is a form of fun for you both pre and post relationship that wasn’t in any way sexual, not at all, just something that is done when one or the other is bored.

He will still probably fake moan as well because again it’s Dante, he’ll try to publicly humiliate you whenever possible for a laugh you can share about later.

Vergil

There’s most likely no chance in hell that Vergil would bite you or you bite him pre-relationship.

After all biting is more of a claiming of something that’s already been pre-established between two demons, a reminder to all that they were taken and a challenge for those who never get the message. That’s how it is in his demon brain.

So him biting you before a relationship isn’t something he’s willing to do at all, he’ll most likely still be looking at ways to win you over however he can, whether that’s through poetry and notes of any kind or just being within your presences whenever he could.

If Vergil has interest in you then biting is the last thing he’d do when there’s other ways of winning your affections, of winning you over such as showing off his strength during combat, or taking care of the demons causing you the most issues and piling them in front of you in hopes of praises or acknowledging of his power.

Though while biting is off the table, scenting is not, he will scent any clothing you may have in hopes that other demons or humans will know that you were already within the sights of another, that and they should fuck off if they didn’t wish to meet an unfortunate end. The image of him scenting your stuff is enough to have him embarrassed to how low he has stooped in order to hopeful claim a partner/mate of his own, but also a taxing time as he was trying to make sure every inch of your clothes had his scent and only his.

If he found you with a scent that wasn’t his? He’s re-scenting your entire wardrobe until it was gone and replaced by him. It’s bothersome as it was tiresome but Vergil knew it would be worth it in the long run, for your protection and progression of your future relationship.

He has other ways of staking claim to things that are his or will be his in future.

[lauracantsleep]

Drive.

Synopsys: Truth be told, he didn't think twice before springing into action. Trouble would come, it always would. They were sitting in the eye of the storm, and he had to make sure that someone would be there to care for Lena. Certainly, it wouldn't be Baz. With Smurf in jail, Pope was all she had.

A/N: posted this on ao3 a few days ago and figured I could share it here as well. season two pope broke my heart, completely shattered it - so obviously I decided to write about it lol. it has been over a decade that I've written fiction with the intention to share, so bear with me. english is not my first language and this wasn't beta-read. also this is not a x reader/oc fic, more like a tiny character study.

set during 2.12 | 1 .4k words | ao3

╰✧˖°°.☾.˖✧･ﾟ･⋆.｡.˖･ﾟ･✧˖.☾.°°˖✧˖°°.☾.˖✧･ﾟ･⋆.｡.˖･ﾟ･✧˖.☾.°°˖✧╮

Maybe he wasn't the best option for her. There's nothing in his life that could assure him that the man he sees in the mirror would be a good father, but he loves her — of that he is sure of. More than her own father does, as much as it pains him to admit it. But not more than her mother did.

Pope's head feels heavy, like his brain is too compressed inside his skull. It wants to get out, he wants to get out, but there isn't a way. It's how he's felt for years now, maybe his whole life, if he were to be honest. He doesn't know — Pope doesn't feel like he knows much these days.

Gripping the sides of the sink, his head falls. Arms straining under a lavender shirt as he breathes in and out. Pope doesn't particularly enjoy looking in the mirror, doesn't do it often, because why would he? He knows what he looks like, there's no need for a reminder. The mirror shows him what he already knows. The hollows under his eyes a testament to all the things he can't undo. There’s a fracture in him, a crack that never healed right. Or maybe he just wasn't born right - he considers that every now and then.

Everything is a blur, all the things that could have been his, but aren't. His wife, his daughter, his home. All thrown away, life moving on without him during his years inside, doing time alone.

"Uncle Pope?" Pope raises his head with a sharp inhale, finding in the mirror a small figure holding onto the door frame behind him. Half in the hall, half here with him.

Lena watches him with cautious eyes — much too cautious for someone her age, he notes. Her voice is but a whisper. She's been quiet lately — a result of living with his brother, who made for a less-than-ideal father.

"Hey," his voice quieter than usual, still hoarse from screaming into his pillow during the night. He couldn't sleep. "Did you finish packing?" Pope turns around, moving towards her. Lena looks up at him and nods, seeming unsure as to what to do now. "Good girl, Lena."

If there's any pain in his body, and not just the ever-present mess in his head, he doesn't feel it now. Not with Lena looking up at him, so fragile. She looks just like her mother, he sees it all the time. The resemblance kills a part of him everyday. A shot to the heart, lack of oxygen. Suffocating inside his own self. Catherine raised a beautiful girl. His girl. Pope opens his mouth but the words don't come, not at first, lodged in his throat. As they stare into one another, this is one of the moments when he wishes he knew what to say. Wishes that the right words would come. Something that could make things better. Something to prove to her that he would fix everything (but that would be a lie).

"Are we going to Disney?"

"No. No, not to Disney." The words come out with a struggle, but as softly as ever with her. It's only with her that he can be this way. He used to speak to Catherine like this too, when they were young. And then when they were adults, when Baz wasn't around. It happened a lot once his mother started training him. "But we are going someplace nice, alright."

When he reaches out, his hand hovers, adjusting, hesitating. Pope touches her the way you’d touch a bruise — barely there, all weight held back. No grabbing. No claiming. Nothing like  her.

But then his palm settles on top of her head, stiff at first before softly patting it once, twice. Lena is not afraid of him, she looks at him with trust, knowing he'll be there to check for monsters under the bed, to take her to school and be there on time to pick her up. His fingers loosen, threading carefully through her hair — just as soft as her mother’s. The realization hits him like a punch to the throat. For a moment, it's harder to breathe, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, his thumb brushes her temple, once, a silent apology for everything she’s lost, twice, a promise to do better.

Lena gives him another nod, lips sealed. Pope exhales through his nose. He’ll have to work on that, undo all the damage his brother had done.

"Is Mommy gonna be there?"

His throat moves, feeling tighter. He swallows hard, like he’s testing the gentleness of his voice before letting it out. Words don’t come easy to him, but for her, he tries. "No, mommy is not gonna be there, Lena. But she wished she could be there with us. It's what she would have wanted."

Another lie. He can't seem to stop. A part of him believes that it's because she's too young, fragile, innocent. He can't exactly tell her that her mother is dead and worse, by his hands. No, he can't do that. Maybe someday she will know, and when that day comes, she will hate him. Pope knows that. But until then, he is gonna give her a chance at a life. Something his mother didn't do for him, something he stopped Catherine from doing when she had the chance.

"Okay", her voice comes as a whisper.

Lena doesn't cry. She hasn't cried in a while, save for the nightmares. He's there for her when she wakes up in the middle of the night, afraid of a bad dream. 'It's the man, I can hear him outside', she told him once. Pope knows exactly what she's talking about. He doesn't need to close his eyes to remember her voice, calling for Catherine from the car while he dug the grave to bury her mother in.

Monster, the voice inside his head screams.

Yeah, he's aware.

By the time they leave, the house is bare of anything that matters. Chair still in the hallway from when he was guarding her door, after giving up on sleep. Toys and clothes are packed in a suitcase and Lena's backpack. Pictures of her and Catherine. Some with Baz and Smurf. Anything else is replaceable.

Andrew has his shades on as he closes the trunk, dark lenses hiding whatever flickers behind his eyes as he scans the street. Inside, a final packed gym bag sits beside a suitcase — closed all the way, all zippers to the same side. Another black gym bag is there, though the inside stores no clothing. He barely glances at it. His cut. Lena is strapped to her child seat in the back of the car — something nondescript, the kind of car you wouldn't look at twice, just until they're clear to buy a new one somewhere his family can't trace.

The door slams shut as she reaches for the green case on the seat next to her — a new tablet, something to keep her occupied. Andrew adjusts the mirror as he gets into the driver's seat, making sure he sees her. She seems okay, he tells himself. It could be worse. It's his mess, it's his ruin, but he won't let it touch her.

They hit the road with the California sun setting behind them. His old phone is thrown out the window. A cartoon in Spanish is playing from the tablet, the silly and loud noises taking over the interior, but he doesn't mind. Lena's a child, she's meant to be loud. Those headphones are no good for her. There are studies about that. And about all those hours she's been spending glued to a screen. Yeah, she doesn't need that. He'll get her some books when they're home, new crayons — the good shit, not that crap he used to colour with Julia — and stuffed animals to keep her entertained. He saw a play kitchen at the mall — maybe she could open a restaurant. The shadow of what could have been the beginning of a smile brushes past his lips.

He would give her a new life.

Truth be told, he didn't think twice before springing into action. Trouble would come, it always would. They were sitting in the eye of the storm, and he had to make sure that someone would be there to care for Lena. Certainly, it wouldn't be Baz. Half the time he forgot he had a daughter. With Smurf in jail, Andrew was all she had.

Maybe he wasn't the best option for her. Maybe he could never love her more than her mother did, but Andrew loved Catherine, and he loves their daughter too. He'll love her for both of them. And no one would find them, no one would touch her, no one would get past him. It's just him and his daughter now.

Andrew and Lena.

(his fingers tap the steering wheel once, twice)

They'll be alright.

[ame-in-the-rain]

luis just give him a little kiss on the forehead why dont you

[toxiccaves]

<3

[chaos-in-one]

Nah because lately I have seen so many people unironically say “AFABS can’t identify as transfem, only AMAB and intersex people can!” and like

It’s so telling that they don’t know jack shit about what being intersex is or is like Intersex people can be AFAB. In fact it’s SIGNIFICANTLY more common that intersex people are either AFAB or AMAB, only having that they’re intersex listed on their birth certificate and not having male or female put on there is really fucking rare in comparison to the number of intersex people who are AMAB or AFAB

Intersex =/= right in between male and female (in fact the intersex variation that is *exactly* in between the two does not exist in humans from what I understand)

Intersex =/= ambiguous genitalia

Intersex is a term that covers a wide variety of conditions. While there *are* intersex people who where born with ambiguous genitalia (many of which have surgery forced on them to make them fit more in the boxes of male and female so they can assign them one or the other at birth) a lot of intersex people also do not have that. There’s intersex people whose difference is in their hormones, or chromosomes, or gonads, in a way that doesn’t show an immediately obvious difference in genitalia. Hell, a lot of those groups of intersex people don’t have it confirmed that they are intersex for years, sometimes even DECADES. There are several variations that don’t show symptoms until puberty or adulthood, and some who don’t cause overtly outward symptoms at all and the only way people find out is through medical tests.

And guess what? It’s not particularly easy to get a test for that shit. A lot of doctors will not listen to patients who say they suspect they might be intersex unless they believe the person is being damaged by their symptoms. Hell, there’s intersex people who NEVER get diagnosed because of this.

So, long story short, if you think all intersex people are allowed to use a label (like the example given at the beginning), don’t say people of a certain AGAB can’t use the same label as a whole because intersex people can be either of the two binary AGABs.

[fayewoodss]

George's Google theme being light blue gawd