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theclairvoyage · 24 hours ago

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Homecoming (i)

Joel Miller x f!reader

Freshly divorced and knee-deep in debt, you take a part time job at a local dive bar to make ends meet, which introduces you to a sexy, mysterious contractor. The attraction between you two is instant and painfully obvious - where will it take you?

WC: 10k

Warnings: Explicit - MDNI! eventual smut, eventual romance, mentions of divorce, infidelity, betrayal, alcohol consumption, smoking, adult language, no outbreak AU

Folks - as someone who is newly divorced, making this story has been a great way to channel all the post-divorce laments and feels into something fun and healthy. And makes the single life a little more exciting. Hope you enjoy! It will be multiple parts, but I'm not sure how many as of yet. Please request/message me about anything you please :)

Divider by the lovely @cafekitsune <3

Summer 2024

A lot of things felt different today.

The usual comfy, pillowtop mattress in your bedroom now felt like a long slab of sandstone, cold to the touch from the icy night.

The sparkly, bragworthy princess cut wedding ring on your finger now felt like a heavy, rusty band of aluminum and cubic zirconia.

But most of all, you felt different.

In the blink of an eye, you made a decision that shifted everything. The carefully shuffled deck of cards had fallen onto the floor, strewn about like the once put-together buildings of a small, Midwestern town ravaged by a tornado.

You hadn’t even told your best friend yet, nor your family. This was unusual for you—but today, you felt like bearing the weight of this choice on your own. And it was heavy, a 20-pound weighted vest stitched to the seams of your skin, dragging your shoulders down with each step.

Ending a marriage is never easy. It’s never the end goal, from the time you say yes, to the time you say your vows.

Your mind races back to the first date you had with your soon-to-be ex-husband, almost a decade prior. The sweet, chivalrous gentleman who had been too scared to kiss you goodnight now seemed like a very distant stranger. Pictures from that very first date are still stuck to the walls of your living room. Oh, how you dread peeling those pictures off the wall.

And though the stone of dread was burning massive holes in your stomach, there was a glimmer of hope in the corner of your mind. You weren’t sure what it meant, but you knew you’d ride it out of this house and onto the next part of your journey like a magic carpet.

Fall 2024

Divorce was many things, but expensive is not the one you worried about the most. Until now.

Sure, you no longer had to split your paychecks into your personal account and the joint account, so it made it seem like you had more money, but that wasn’t the case. Rent, car payment, utilities, student loans, and the list goes on. And on. And one income instead of two hurts.

Your day job was cushy. But the debts of having to close joint credit card accounts with balances, lawyer fees, and furnishing a new townhouse had sucked you dry. It was time to supplement that income until the debts were paid off. Your family had given you a bit of change, but you threw it directly into your now-empty savings account.

Now, you find yourself scrolling through Google, analyzing the part-time jobs in your area. Cashier. Cashier. Clerk. Call center specialist. Customer service representative. Bartender. Cashier.

Bartender?

You click on the ad for a part-time bartender at a local dive bar, The Home Stretch. It’s one you’ve been to before, usually after a long workday or on a random Friday night with your friends. 15-20 hours a week, and not much other information besides “Call the bar and ask for Steve if interested.” It’s reminiscent of a Craigslist ad, which disgusts and intrigues you.

You scrawl the number on a nearby Post-It note and stick it on the back of your phone. I’ll do it tomorrow.

And you did. Steve is a gruff man in his early 60s eager for some help behind the counter of a dive bar he inherited from his father. “Preferably someone with a nicer ass than mine,” he’d said. You chuckled over the phone and mentioned you’d been to the bar many times before.

“Good, won’t need to show you the whole thing, then,” Steve had replied. “Just come in whenever you have time this week, and we’ll get started.”

“Sure thing, Steve. Thanks a lot,” you replied, not realizing until after that he’d already hung up.

Later that week, you show up at the bar around 8:30 PM after a long day at the office. The door swings open with a loud creak, alerting everyone in the vicinity of your presence. Less than 20 pairs of eyes, mostly from middle-aged men, dart quickly in your direction, forcing you to pause. You gulp and force a weak smile that doesn’t reach your eyes.

An older bald man perched behind the bar stares at you a bit longer than everyone else. A pair of bent, yellowed reader’s glasses threaten to slip off the tip of his nose as he scans you. You see the lightbulb illuminate in his head as he recognizes you.

“Hey, I’m Steve,” he says brusquely, reaching a callused hand to shake yours. His grip is firm, but short, and you guess that’s how he is as a person, too.

“Hey, thanks for agreeing to meet with me,” you say, introducing yourself. He waves you off, like he had nothing better to do.

“Come back to the office and we’ll chat. Too many damn eyes out here,” he rasps, forcing a quiet chuckle from you. His reclusive attitude is a fresh shift from the fake cheery types you constantly deal with at work.

Steve leads you to a small office not far from the restrooms, a quick 20-step walk from the front of the bar. It’s stuffy and old and clearly hasn’t been updated since the early 80s. Wood panel walls, dirty linoleum floors, and a couple of file drawers stand out to you as you examine the small space. There’s no desk, but rather a cracked slab of countertop with three beat-up, green-cushioned barstools underneath. The only sound is the loud buzzing of the fluorescent lights above, which are caked with dead bugs and yellow stains. Gross.

Steve isn’t watching you but seems to read your mind as he shuffles some papers on the countertop. “I know, it’s a bit run down. It’s on my list,” he murmurs, chuckling quietly as he gestures at one of the barstools. You sit, expelling all the air from the cushion audibly. You can feel your cheeks burn with embarrassment.

Steve chuckles again. “Don’t worry, it’s not you, it’s the goddamn stools.”

A nervous giggle escapes your lips. Steve sits at the far stool and takes his glasses off before turning toward you.

“I’ll be honest, I have no plans to actually interview you. You want the job, you got it. You seem like a level-headed gal, and not to be weird, but you’re attractive. You’ll do just fine here.”

Confused, you tilt your head at Steve while cocking one eyebrow.

“Are you sure? I haven’t worked in a place like this since high school,” you hesitate, studying his face. He laughs again.

“I’m telling you, this job is a piece of cake. And you can pick your hours. Are you married?” He asks, nodding toward the tan line on your ring finger. You rub it absentmindedly as you shake your head.

“No, got divorced this summer. Tan line won’t go away,” you respond, giving him another weak smile. He sucks his lips into his mouth in embarrassment.

“Sorry. Glad I asked, though,” he says.

“It’s alright, you’re not the first and you won’t be the last to ask me that,” you say, smiling genuinely now. Steve lets out a bigger laugh, catching you off guard.

“In this joint? Yeah, that’s a guarantee.”

Your first few shifts at the bar were a little shaky, but easy, nonetheless.

Steve trained you on the POS system the first two shifts before handing you off to Jerrica, a middle-aged woman who reeks of cigarettes. She’s tall and thin, covered in tattoos, and has the brightest blue eyes, which are lined on the bottom with thick, black eyeliner. Her deep, raspy voice and serious face are intimidating, but you learn quickly that she’s a very kind soul.

She quizzes you on the POS system and where things are located around the bar. You answer seamlessly, impressing her.

“Smart as a whip,” she beams at you, flashing some yellowed teeth as she smiles.

“I have some good teachers,” you reply with a wink.

The next month or so is a breeze for you, and you’re raking in a lot of extra cash. The hardest part is balancing the two jobs—and the many men that frequent the bar. All of them stare at you, most of them are polite, and some brave enough to ask you for your number. Jerrica warned you it would be like this, though she knew you could hold your own if needed.

One chilly, fall Friday night, a group of younger men, likely close to your age, enter the bar. It’s pretty busy—Jerrica and you have been hustling nonstop since around 8 PM. You catch a glimpse of them as they shuffle in and settle at one of the pool tables.

One of the men meanders up to the bar, and you can feel him staring at you from the corner of your eye. Jerrica takes the lead and approaches him.

“Hey, sugar. What can I get for ya?” she asks, wiping down the counter as he surveys the selection of beer and liquor. He stops and snaps his gaze at you when you walk by with a bucket of ice, dumping it in the cooler next to Jerrica.

“Her, if she’s on the menu,” he quips, smiling at you, looking almost reptilian. You size him up and arch an eyebrow, your face screaming unimpressed.

“She’s not,” Jerrica and you respond in unison, and his sly smile quickly turns to an embarrassed frown.

“J-just kidding. I’ll take a couple pitchers of Coors Light,” he squeaks, looking down at his wallet as he fishes some bills out. His cheeks are bright red. You stifle a smile and return to the back to get more ice as Jerrica pours the pitchers for him. When you come back, he’s gone and facing away from the bar.

“Poor kid, guess we ruined his hopes and dreams,” Jerrica jokes, making both of you giggle.

“He’ll get over it as soon as he finds one of his regular type bimbos,” you say. Jerrica cackles.

“I’m gonna go smoke, be back in a few,” she says, patting you on the back as she slips out of the bar.

You scan the bar, surprised by how many people are here. College football fans flock here during the fall for the pitcher specials and greasy bar food, and there’s not an empty table in sight. Thankfully, most people have stuck with ordering the pitchers, so you haven’t had to mix a lot of drinks yet.

A grunt interrupts your thoughts, and you snap your eyes in front of you to a well-built, middle-aged man in a green and black flannel, hands shoved in the pockets of his worn Wranglers. Your eyes meet and lock for a second longer than you’d like before you clear your own throat, which has suddenly gone dry.

“Sorry. What can I get you?” you ask him, noticing the corner of his mouth quirk slightly.

“Eagle Rare, neat. Please,” he responds, silky voice making the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. Fortunately, you’re adept at hiding your emotions, so he doesn’t notice the sweat form on your hairline as you try to find the bottle and pour him a glass. Or so you think.

“Here you go,” you say, propping the glass in front of him. He doesn’t grab it, though, he just stares at you inquisitively. You force yourself to meet his gaze.

Oh.

You knew from his voice that he’d be attractive, but you didn’t expect this. He’s fine fine. Curly, chocolate hair, streaked with silver. Aquiline nose. Strong, square, clenched jaw lined with a patchy beard. Thick, tanned neck. Deep amber orbs staring into your soul. He’s stoic, yet the lines on his face tell you he’s experienced all the emotions. Your heart flutters in your chest, vibrating like the quick wings of a hummingbird. Your mouth opens before you can think of anything to say.

“You got a tab?” you sputter, breaking his hot gaze to return the Eagle Rare bottle to the shelf. You swear you see him smirk.

“Yes ma’am. Miller,” he murmurs, his voice a little deeper and quieter than before. He’s staring at you without a semblance of shame, and you can feel it burning into your back. You turn to enter everything in the POS system, taking deep breaths absentmindedly.

“Nervous?” The man asks, cocking his head to one side as he studies you. If you thought you were hot before, you’re feverish now.

“W-what? No… why would I be nervous?” You stammer, arching an eyebrow as you continue messing with the POS system, ensuring that you don’t make eye contact with him. Too bad for you, because he sits down on the stool in front of you and meets your gaze.

Fuck, he’s gorgeous. His eyes communicate so many different emotions to you; primarily, amusement. There’s a hint of mischief and something a little more dangerous, a little more smoldering behind it. He cracks a smile at you, revealing perfectly straight, white teeth. You need him to leave. Now.

He chuckles before answering you. “Just seem a little uptight, s’all,” he croons, smile reaching the corners of his Hershey’s Kisses-colored eyes. Their warmth is captivating and calming, almost as if they slow time. Ironically, that’s the last thing you want right now.

“Busy night,” you reply quickly, giving him a brief smile before pretending to organize the coasters and napkins next to the POS system.

“I’ll leave ya to it, then. See ya around,” he says, standing up and returning to his table in the back of the bar. You smile back at him, baring teeth this time, and nod before turning your back to him to restock the cooler.

It’s a good thing you don’t catch the way his eyes sweep your frame, lingering on your ass for a moment longer than he’d like them to. And your smile brought some heat to the back of his neck, so much so that he feels the need to cover it up with his hand as he saunters back to the table.

Dazed and confused, you barely register that Jerrica has returned from break until the stench of cigarettes threatens to give you a migraine.

“Hey, who is that guy over there?” you ask her, turning your back toward the man and pointing your eyes in his direction. She smirks once she sees him.

“Joel Miller, and he’s a hot commodity here,” she says, chortling quietly. Her eyes sweep back to you, and she lowers her head before continuing, devilish smirk on her face.

“You interested? He really doesn’t entertain any of the women here.”

Skeptically, you narrow your eyes at her before turning around to gaze at him again, which turned out to be a shitty idea because his intense eyes are already on yours. A quick panic sets in, and you whip around to face Jerrica. She chuckles.

“Oh, he might entertain you, though… just based on how he’s staring at you now,” she teases, trying hard not to laugh.

“Jesus. I’m taking my break,” you huff, snatching your phone from a cubby underneath the bar and walking toward the back patio before she can say anything else.

“I can help you with that!” Jerrica calls out to you, her voice drowning in the sound of the bar as the patio door slams shut.

Once outside, you close your eyes and inhale deeply. The brisk autumn air sooths your airways, and you can feel your heartbeat finally slowing to normal pace. The fire pit in the middle of the patio is calling your name. You plop down in one of the freezing metal chairs next to it and watch the flames dance, not noticing the squeak of the patio door as it opens.

“Mind ‘f I sit here?” A deep, rich voice asks, startling you from your trance. It’s that sexy rugged mysterious man, Joel Miller.

Fuck.

You shake your head and gesture to one of the chairs, not meeting his eyes. “No, go ahead.”

He half-smiles and pulls back one of the metal chairs next to you, sitting with an audible groan. You chuckle quietly.

“Somethin’ funny?” he asks, eyeing you inquisitively.

“Sounded like it hurt,” you tease him, still not looking at him. He laughs. Not only does it sound genuine, but it awakens something in your belly you didn’t expect. Something molten. You look at him, discovering that once again, he’s already looking at you.

“Finally,” he says quietly, almost an exasperated whisper, eyes traveling your face as he takes a sip of his whiskey.

“Hm?” you ask, confused. He finishes the glass before setting it on the empty chair next to him, swishing the spicy liquid around his mouth before swallowing. You study the muscles in his neck and jaw as they flex and groove. He turns to face you again.

“Y’been avoidin’ my eyes,” he says, tilting his head at you ever so slightly, as if silently asking you why.

The heat in your belly rises, enveloping your chest and neck. You scoot away from the fire to cool off.

“Oh, s-sorry. I try to keep my distance from customers. Makes work a little easier,” you stammer, hoping he’ll buy that. It’s not wrong, but it’s not the main reason you avoid his gaze.

“I see,” he says, raising an eyebrow at you that indicates he knows. His gaze flicks down to your hands, which are held up near the fire. “Are y’cold?”

The heat in your chest says no, but the shivering of your limbs says yes. You shake your head.

“I’ll be going back inside soon. I’ll be fine.”

He stands suddenly, and you wonder if you’ve upset him—that is, until you see him shrug off that green flannel.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Well-built doesn’t seem to cover what you see as he shows off his bare forearms and the muscles peeking from beneath his worn t-shirt. You can tell he’s done manual labor for a long time from the carving of his muscles and the scars that litter his tanned, freckled skin.

“Here,” he says, walking behind you to place the flannel over your shoulders. The act catches you off-guard, and you’re frozen in place. His hands smooth the fabric over your traps, sending electricity from the source to your spine. The scent of his flannel drapes you, also—a rich combination of amber, pine, and whiskey.

“Oh, that’s nice of you. Thanks,” you say, watching him as he walks over to the empty chair housing his empty glass. You smile at him once he makes eye contact with you, and his pupils dilate imperceptibly.

“Don’t mention it. I’m gonna order another whiskey, y’can wear it as long as y’need to,” he says, half-smiling at you again. You watch him as he re-enters the bar, paying close attention to how his jeans hug all the muscles below his torso and acquainting yourself with his confident saunter.

“Jesus,” you whisper to yourself, burying your nose in the collar of his flannel and taking a deep breath. The smell is so good, so unique—it’s not something you’ll forget easily.

You check your phone and notice that your 15-minute break is well over. Absentmindedly, you slip your arms in the sleeves of Joel’s flannel and head back inside. It’s still busy, but people have shuffled out, meaning the night is starting to end. Thank god.

As you step behind the bar, Jerrica smirks at you as she notices your new garment. You shake your head and roll your eyes at her before grabbing a pad of paper and pencil to take inventory of the coolers. She sidles up to you, giggling.

“Yeah—he’s interested in you,” she rasps, making your spine stiffen.

“He’s just being nice. It’s kinda cold out there,” you say, waving her off. She giggles again.

“Uh huh. You gonna keep it?” she teases. You shake your head before heading back into the kitchen toward the walk-in refrigerator, feeling his eyes on you. Your stomach twists and flips as you picture his face, arms, and hands from just moments ago on the patio.

When you come back with a basket full of beer, you notice his seat is empty. Disappointment rushes over you. You see a stack of cash and a receipt next to the POS system. Jerrica is pressing buttons on it.

“He left this for you,” she says, smirking at you again. She points toward the stack of bills and the receipt, which is flipped over. You notice some blue ink scrawled almost illegibly on the middle of the paper.

It’s a phone number; with an area code you don’t recognize. There’s a message underneath.

Call me sometime. Keep the flannel.

-Joel

Your chest feels tight, and your stomach is flipping in overdrive. You re-read the message probably 20 times before folding it into your pocket.

“I told you!” Jerrica says, pointing her index finger at you. “You better not let that one go.”

“I don’t even know him, and once he finds out I’m divorced, he’s probably going to change his mind,” you say, scowling at her. She huffs, irritated.

“He’s divorced, too. You forget he’s older than you. I’ve never seen him give his number to anybody in the 5 years he’s been coming here,” she says, impressed.

“I’ve been out of the game way too long, Jerr—I don’t even know how to approach this,” you admit, embarrassed. She grabs your hands and squeezes them.

“He’s a good guy. He’s not the frat boy type, obviously. Just call him and go from there,” she says, giving you a reassuring smile.

“Call him? What is this, 1995?”

She guffaws. “Honey, he’s old like me. He’s probably no good at that texting stuff.”

“I guess we’ll see,” you say with a snicker.

Later that evening, after a great close, you sink into the couch in your living room. The cushions envelop you, along with the borrowed flannel you’re still wearing. Joel’s scent is still clinging tightly to the fabric, entrancing you each time you inhale. That, and the lingering stench of beer and tobacco.

You check your phone. It’s late, and you need a shower. You sit up, rubbing your temples. Joel’s face invades your thoughts every few moments. Usually, when you meet someone new, you have a hard time picturing their face in totality—like you can only remember fragments. Your brain fills in the missing pieces with faces you already know, creating a strange amalgamation of a person.

Joel, though? Nope. You remember every detail, from his patchy salt and pepper beard to his tanned, lined forehead. You remember the way he looked at you, how his eyes bore into you like a laser beam. And each thought makes your stomach churn.

Perhaps it was too soon to get back into the game—though you were free now, and you had nothing but time. You enjoyed his attention and admiration—it was much different than the attention you didn’t receive during your marriage. And he was divorced, too, so maybe he had some words of advice for you.

Absentmindedly, you rub the skin on your empty ring finger. The tan line has faded over time, and you’ve grown accustomed to the absence of the once-heavy ring you wore. You turn on the shower and disrobe, tossing the stress on the ground along with the pile of clothes.

As you scrub the day away in your scalding shower, a thought emerges.

You step out, dry off, and reach for Joel’s flannel after moisturizing your bone dry, red skin. You button it up until you reach your chest, leaving a scintillating section of skin exposed. The flannel is long enough that it covers the most private parts of you, but the tops of your thighs peek out.

After checking yourself in the mirror 30 times, you pull your phone out and snap a mirror picture. You compose a message to Joel’s number, which is still unsaved, and type a quick sentence before attaching the picture.

I think I’ll keep the flannel if you don’t mind.

You crawl into your crisp sheets, put your phone face-down on your nightstand, and count sheep.

Saturday morning rolls around, and you’re squirming under the sheets. Not because you didn’t sleep well, but because a vivid dream surged through your mind. One that involved your hot, naked skin sandwiched between your sheets and the hot, naked skin of a familiar man.

As you lie there, you replay the montage of events in your head. His hot breath in your ear, whispering sweet praises. His teeth scraping the skin on your neck and chest, leaving little petechiae in their path. His strong hands gripping your ass as he plunges deeper into you, bringing you closer to the edge with each thrust.

You sit up and rub your eyes, grabbing your phone to check the time. It’s almost noon, and you’ll be back at the bar in roughly 4 hours.

3 new messages.

Suddenly, you aren’t groggy anymore, remembering the risque text you sent to Joel before you slept. Your stomach somersaults as you open the messages.

Joel: Jesus Christ.

Joel: Looks way better on you anyway.

Joel: What a nice way to wake up.

Your neck heats up at his compliments. You type a witty response.

You: Thank you. Surprised you can text more than 2 words at a time. You chuckle before putting the phone down and getting ready for the day, still clad in his flannel shirt.

Saturday night at the bar made Friday night seem like a cakewalk.

The place was packed wall-to-wall, teeming with drunk football lovers of all ages, races, and creeds. Jerrica and you barely had time to take your singular break—and Steve helped man the bar all night, which said a lot. One young bartender called in, and the other two showed up hungover, so they were worthless.

You half expected Joel to come, but he never showed up. You ignored the cold feeling of disappointment curling around your ribs, and instead reminded yourself that you really don’t know him, and he has a life of his own.

Now, it’s 1:00 AM, and the bar is starting to empty, lifting some weight from your shoulders. The place is filthy—bar food everywhere, chairs strewn about, trash littered on the floor and tables. Jerrica emerges from the patio, blowing the last puff of cigarette smoke out before stepping into the bar.

“I’ll clean up, hon’—you take your break,” she orders you, tone half serious, half playful. You nod, trading the towel you’d been using to wipe the counter for a bottle of beer. Steve doesn’t mind whether you have a drink or two toward the end of the night during your break, and you haven’t indulged until today. An ice-cold domestic beer sounded heavenly, like stumbling upon an oasis after trekking through the Sahara for days.

You step out onto the patio, plopping down in your usual chair in front of the fire pit. It’s cold tonight, but the heat from your sweaty skin keeps you from noticing. You kick your feet up onto a nearby chair and lean back, gazing at the stars while you take swigs of beer.

The patio door screeches as it opens, but you’re too tired to look up. Probably another patron needing a smoke break.

“Thought maybe y’weren’t here today,” a familiar, deep Southern voice fills the air. You snap upright in your chair, repressing the grin threatening to push against your cheeks.

“Could say the same for you,” you tease him, watching him approach you. He’s got a ratty, long-sleeved Texas Longhorns shirt on and the same beat-up Wranglers he had on yesterday. You take a slow sip of beer, catching the way his eyes lock onto your lips as they kiss the bottle.

“Watched the game at my brother’s. Figured it’d be a shit show at any bar within a 50-mile radius,” he says, swishing around the whiskey in his glass as he watches you.

“You’d be correct, sir,” you reply, tilting your head back to down the rest of your beer. Joel gulps audibly—hearing you address him that way and seeing your exposed neck do something to him, something he needs to stifle.

“Couldn’t resist stoppin’ by, though,” Joel says, ambling over to the chair occupied by your legs. The pitch and tone of his voice have changed, from friendly to raspy, almost sultry. Your pulse quickens. You raise an eyebrow at him.

“Why’s that?”

He chuckles lowly, his deep chocolate eyes transfixed on yours. The heat coming from them is enough to make you sweat, and his velvety laugh makes your core ignite.

“Think y’know why,” he responds, sipping his whiskey, eyes unmoved from you. The scenes from your dream emerge in your head, forming knots in your stomach. The hairs on the back of your neck prick your skin as they stand.

A few moments pass by before he sets his glass down on an empty chair. Hands free, he lifts your ankles up and sits in the chair, propping your feet on his lap. His thumb strokes the skin between your shoes and the bottom of your cargo pants, sending tiny sparks through the pores there. This is the second time he’s touched you, and both times it’s felt like mild electrocution.

“If you’ve come to retrieve your flannel, you’re out of luck. It’s not here,” you taunt him, steering the conversation where you both want it to go. His hand slips under the leg of your pants, stroking the skin on your shin and calves. You twitch at the new sensation.

“Ticklish?” he asks, stopping to grip your calf lightly. You shake your head.

“Wasn’t expecting that,” you admit, your voice quiet. The tension between the two of you is palpable, almost painful. The primal urge to jump onto his lap and kiss him has you in a chokehold. He grunts, interrupting your carnal thoughts.

“Heard you’re divorced,” he says, fingers massaging the tight muscles of your calf. It’s slightly painful, but the release of tension feels amazing.

“Is there a question in there?” you quip, raising a brow at him. With a laugh, he nods.

“Yeah, finalized a few months ago. Started working here to pay off some debt from the split,” you respond, trying to remain lighthearted.

“Been there myself. S’not a fun time. Got any kids?”

You shake your head. “Neither of us wanted them in the beginning, and then he changed his mind.”

He purses his lips, nodding slowly. “S’tough but makes the split easier when y’ain’t got any.”

“I take it you have kids?” you ask, curious. He nods again.

“Just a daughter. She’s in college now. Split up when she was real young,” he tells you, moving to massage your other calf. He lightly digs into your flesh, hitting a knot in your mid-calf. You yelp and grip the arm of the metal chair. Your reaction embarrasses you, and you clap your hand over your mouth. Joel’s pupils dilate ever so slightly, the corner of his mouth rising slowly in a devilish smirk.

“Sorry. That hurt?” he asks, switching from kneading to light stroking of your skin.

“Just tight, is all,” you reply, the heat from the back of your neck moving to your ears.

“Mhm. Don’t need that now, do we?” he says, increasing the pressure of the strokes as he tries to tackle the knot. His hands feel good, and you find yourself closing your eyes as he works the knot out. You resist the urge to moan as his fingers massage your tight muscles.

His fingertips slow their pace after a few minutes, stopping to rest at your ankle. You open your eyes and look at him.

“Reckon y’gotta get back in there,” he says teasingly, squeezing your ankle. You sigh heavily.

“I know. Thanks for the massage. What do I owe you?” you ask him, pulling your feet off his lap to stand. He watches as you adjust the waistband of your pants, accidentally revealing your navel to him in the process. He clutches the glass of whiskey in response.

“Another glass of whiskey,” he murmurs, before dropping his voice to add, “And maybe another picture of you wearin’ my shirt.”

Your heart jumps into your throat, and you force a swallow to shove it back down into your chest. You take a step toward him, and he stands from the chair. He’s a little taller than you, but not by much.

“I usually don’t send strangers multiple pictures of me… especially ones where I’m not wearing much,” you tease, watching the way his eyes trace your lips. You swear you hear a growl bubble in his throat.

“Guess I gotta work on that, then,” he says, itching to caress your lips with his finger.

“Well, you know where to find me,” you respond, sidestepping him to return to the bar, huge grin plastered on your face.

2:00 AM rolls around, and Joel’s still at the bar. You emerge from the office with your things to find him propped against the bar, chatting with Jerrica. He’s facing her, but his eyes move to you, sweeping up and down your frame as you approach.

“I’m heading out. You good to take me home, Jerr?” you ask her, clocking out on the POS system.

“Of course. Let me finish up here and we’ll go,” she says, squeezing your arm affectionately. She bids Joel farewell before finishing up her closing duties, leaving you two and the magnetism between you alone.

“I’ll take you, if y’want,” Joel offers, fishing his wallet out. He grabs a stack of bills and divides them, placing one half on the bar and giving the other to you. Warmth blooms in your chest. He tips you way too much, but it’s a kind gesture.

“Sure, I’d like that. It’s not too far from here,” you tell him, “Just let me tell Jerr.”

“Not a problem,” he says, hopping up, shoving his hands in his pockets as you walk over to Jerrica to tell her.

“Better get yourself a breath mint,” she whispers, pinching your arm lightly. You sniff your breath in the palm of your hand and wave her off.

“I’m good. Nothing will happen anyway,” you say, rolling your eyes. She giggles, pulling a stick of gum out of her back pocket.

“Just take it, and no tongue on the first one!” she teases you. Your neck flushes again, but you pop the gum into your mouth and make sure it’s chewed up enough to hide in your cheek before Joel sees.

You’re giddy as you exit the bar. Joel’s hand finds your lower back as he guides you out the front door and through the parking lot to a fancy pickup truck parked in the spot furthest from the door.

“You’re one of those people, huh?” you ask him. He chuckles.

“I could use the steps. S’lotta work fillin’ in paint chips from door dings, too,” he grumbles. He walks you over to the passenger door and opens it for you, offering his palm as leverage as you hop into the elevated seat. His hand is warm, and a little sweaty. You wonder if he’s nervous, too.

He trots over to the driver’s side and starts the truck, turning the volume knob down as Waylon Jennings croons over the speakers. You smirk at the small action, wondering if he’s embarrassed by his music choice or the fact that he was likely singing on his way here.

You guide him to your place, which is less than ten minutes from the bar. He’s a great driver—calm, smooth, and not too fast. His right elbow is propped on the center console, just inches from your arm, though you keep your hands clasped in your lap. Your nerves ignite as you get closer to your place, anticipating what may or may not happen once he drops you off.

He pulls in the driveway of your townhouse and parks the truck.

“I’ll walk you up, stay put,” he commands softly, getting out of the truck and walking to your door. He opens it, offering his hand again as you step down.

The knots in your stomach are so tight, it feels like you might throw up. You can’t remember the last time you were so nervous with a man, if ever. You let go of his hand once you’re on level ground, wiping your clammy palm on your pant leg. He follows you to the front door, hand locating your lower back once again.

“Do you want to come in? If not, it’s okay. I know it’s late,” you offer, gauging his face as you press the keypad to unlock the door. His flaming eyes and the clenching and rolling of his jaw say yes, but the stiffening of his shoulders betray his hesitation.

“Mind ‘f I use the restroom?” he asks, gaze flicking between both your eyes. You smile warmly at him and nod, not missing how his eyes lock onto your lips immediately.

“Not at all,” you reply, opening the door and pointing toward the bathroom, down the hallway beyond the living room and kitchen.

He saunters down the hall, hopefully not noticing the way you’re checking him out, marveling at how well his jeans fit him and that goddamn suave walk of his. He shuts the door, and you exhale deeply, pressing your back against the now-closed front door.

You ponder the next steps as he’s in the bathroom. One, he could just leave. Two, he could kiss you goodnight, and then leave. Three, he could… well, you can’t think about option three, which closely resembles your dream from the previous night.

As you hear the sink in the bathroom turn on, you scurry over to the kitchen sink to wash your own hands, giving you a quick distraction from your nerves. The door opens as you scrub your hands, fingertips pressing hard into your palms to relieve some tension.

His footsteps approach you just as you’re drying your hands, your back facing him. He gets closer until you feel the warmth of his body radiating behind you. He takes the towel from you and places it on the counter before placing a firm, strong hand on your shoulder and turning you toward him.

Fuck. This is it.

Hand still clasped to your shoulder, he stares into your eyes and moves in closer to you. The proximity of him and the realization of what’s about to happen has you seeing stars in the corner of your eyes.

After what feels like eons, Joel’s lips finally meet yours, softly and pliantly. The kiss is tender, but deliberate, like he knows exactly what he wants, but needs to make sure you’re at his level before progressing. The hand on your shoulder wraps around your upper back, and his other hand grips your waist to pull you flush to him. His warmth is hypnotizing, and you melt into him, completely at the mercy of his touch.

You respond, wrapping your arms around his solid torso, feeling his strength and the span of his back as he deepens the kiss. His scent overwhelms you, giving you a euphoric head rush. He tastes like whiskey and mint, and you wonder when he slipped an Altoid or piece of gum into his mouth between the bar and now, like he knew this would happen. Butterflies scatter throughout your body at the realization.

His firm hand on your upper back moves to the other side of your waist, and he hoists you effortlessly onto the kitchen counter, taking you by surprise. You squeak, and he breaks the kiss momentarily to laugh, the deep, silky sound shooting straight to your core. His palms rub on your thighs before traveling up to grip your hipbones, calloused fingertips grazing bare skin between the waistband of your pants and the hem of your shirt. You moan lightly at the touch, spurring him on. His hands reach further under your shirt, stopping at your sides, thumbs swiping at the soft skin surrounding your navel.

Joel’s lips travel down your jaw and land on your neck, teeth grazing and tongue swirling on the sensitive skin. You moan again, louder this time, as his mouth sends shockwaves of pleasure up and down your spinal cord. He groans in response, gripping you tighter and kissing up to your earlobe. Your legs are hooked around the back of his thighs, pulling him close, and you feel his arousal on your hip.

You’ve never been kissed like this before, not even the first time you made love with your ex-husband, or on your wedding night. It feels surreal, almost cinematic—like you’re shooting a love scene with a hot stranger, ignorant to the surrounding cameras and crew. Your body is aflame with passion, burning you from the outside in—the flames twisting around each vein inside you, heating the blood that travels back to your core.

Joel breaks the kiss and presses his forehead to yours, panting. Both of you exchange labored breaths for a few moments as you recollect the last few minutes.

“Think I better get goin’,” he whispers, leaning in to kiss you gently before hoisting you off the countertop.

“Too much to handle?” you tease him, walking him to the front door. You hear him growl, and in the blink of an eye, he grabs your waist and pushes you against the front door before closing the gap between you, his hips flush with yours. There are only inches between your lips, but you can taste the hunger emanating from him as he stares into your eyes.

“You have no idea what I wanna do to you, darlin’,” he hisses, hands squeezing the globes of your ass as he leans in to kiss you again. You moan into his mouth before reaching up to tug at the curls on the nape of his neck, pulling his lips off yours. He sucks in a sharp breath.

Oh. He likes that.

Still clutching his curls, you rub your thigh against the erection threatening to bust his jeans. “I think I can guess,” you tease him, moving your leg up and down his length. His eyes close in pleasure, and he groans softly. You cup his jaw and bring him in for one more searing kiss.

“No need to rush things,” you coo, stroking his bottom lip with your thumb as he watches you, wrecked. He chuckles before letting go of you, throwing his hands up in surrender.

“Alright then. We’ll take it slow,” he rasps, smoothing curls out of his sweaty face.

“Does that mean you want to see me again?” you ask coyly, batting eyelashes at him.

“I’m lookin’ forward to it,” he replies, kissing you one more time before heading out to his truck.

Fucking hell.

Only been a few hours, but it feels like days

Only been days, but it feels like months

Life moves fast when you’re doing what you want

I guess I’m doing what I want, hope you’re doing what you want

The next four weeks didn’t go at all how you expected them to.

You worked at least 3 shifts at the bar each week, and Joel didn’t show up once. Worse, he didn’t text or call you, either. You went from understandable—because he’s probably busy—to confused, then upset, and finally, bitter.

And then you sat down and had a real conversation with yourself about expectations. Were they too high? Were you out of the game too long to scrutinize this logically? Were you being too clingy? You’d only texted him a few times, noticing that the messages hadn’t delivered normally, like he didn’t have service or blocked your number.

The fiery kiss you two shared lingered in your mind every day. The morning after it happened, you’re positive you’d lied in bed for an hour just replaying each moment before daydreaming about how the night would’ve progressed had he stayed over.

The combination of his rough and soft touches had you aching for him—the firm gripping of your hips as he lifted you on the countertop, the soft strokes on your delicate skin. The way his lips and tongue moved so smoothly with yours and the flaming trail they’d left on your neck and jawline sent shivers up your spine. And left you unbelievably horny.

Each time you’d thought of the passion, the feelings of regret and embarrassment soon followed. Though that was the single life, you figured. It was time to accept the new normal.

Now it’s Friday night, and you’re late for your shift at the bar. You’d left the office late after enduring a chaotic day, which put you directly in the crossfire of rush hour traffic. That, and a perfectly timed late fall, early winter freezing rain spell had immobilized traffic and put you a couple hours behind. You called Steve and Jerrica—they were understanding, of course. But the stress of your day and the feeling of letting the bar down had you in a foul mood.

You roll in at 8 PM, more than 2 hours after you normally come in. Flustered and frustrated, you power walk to the back office to drop your stuff off, noticing that it’s busier than normal. Finally, you make it behind the counter. Jerrica is pouring some pitchers but glances your way with a smile.

“Jesus, Jerr. I’m so sorry. It was an awful day,” you lament, pulling your unkempt hair out of your face. You looked a mess, wearing a slightly small t-shirt and old, ripped jeans. Not exactly cold-weather friendly, but that’s what you get for giving yourself 5 minutes to change.

Jerrica chuckles as she hands the pitchers off to customers. “I understand, hon. Really, it’s fine. We’ve had a good crowd tonight.”

“Thank god. Need me to stock anything?” You glance at the cooler, noticing that it looks a little barren.

Jerrica nods. “Please, and I’m low on ice, too.”

Eager to fix the mess you helped create, you start to work. Four buckets of ice, several trips to the fridge and back, and one sheen of forehead sweat later, everything is stocked. The bar is still busy, but a rare quiet moment where everyone seems to have a full drink gives Jerrica an opportunity to take a smoke break.

“Be back soon. Don’t hurt ‘em now,” she teases you, squeezing your upper arm as she trots toward the patio.

You take a moment to scan the tables, nodding or waving at most of the regulars. It’s a relief to work in a place like this, where the majority of them are nice, blue-collar folks just trying to relieve the tension of the American work life, and you know they appreciate the work you put in.

Your heart stops when you see a familiar head of curly hair atop broad shoulders in his usual spot. And of course, as usual, he’s already looking at you. There’s a smile on his face, and fuck, he looks good. He looks a little fatigued, obvious by the faint, dark circles under his eyes and overgrown stubble, but nonetheless thrilled to see you. The curls on his head are mussed and flattened in certain spots, like he had a hat on for a while and hasn’t had time nor energy to fix them.

And then you remember you haven’t seen or spoken to him in about a month, and the polar vortex swirls in your chest. You smile at him, though it doesn’t reach your eyes, and distract yourself with organizing the cash drawer, hoping that he feels the cold front.

Jerrica returns from break, sidling next to you. She must feel the ice emanating from you.

“He asked about you,” she says, not looking up at Joel. “Said he’s been crazy busy with work and hasn’t had good cell service where he’s been. Some odd job a few hours away. He seemed real sorry, honey.”

A heavy, resigned sigh escapes your lungs. You close your eyes and lean your head back, inhaling deeply before facing her. She was the first person you told about the kiss and the subsequent ghosting. She then let you know that Joel was a successful contractor who’d been running a business with his brother for years, a detail he neglected to share with you. You knew you were probably being harsh, but a little communication would’ve put you at ease.

“I get it, just wish he would’ve told me. It would’ve taken two seconds,” you say, closing the drawer and turning to face her. She mirrors you.

“You look exhausted, girlfriend. Take a break and take a beer with you if you need it.”

“Fine,” you reply, feigning stubbornness. Jerrica laughs before handing you a bottle of your favorite domestic beer. You grab your sweatshirt from under the register and slip out back.

Thankfully, it’s empty out here, leaving you alone with the crackling flames of the fire pit. And though the beer is the same temperature as the air outside, it feels damn good as it washes down your throat. You sit as close as possible to the fire, propping your elbows on your knees as the warmth invades your space.

Like clockwork, the patio door swings open and out comes Joel. Your back is facing the door, but you know it’s him—the familiar scent and staccato of his footsteps give him away. Two hands lightly squeeze your shoulders, making your scalp tingle and chest tighten. He starts rubbing them softly.

“These are tight,” he murmurs as his hands work up your traps and neck, shrinking the knots embedded in the muscles there. His deep voice is raspier than usual, like he’s been yelling.

“Been stressed,” you respond, closing your eyes as he rubs the stress out of you. You want to be pissed, but don’t have the energy to put up a front anymore.

“I can help ya with that,” he murmurs. You puff out a quick breath, frustrated—at him, and at yourself for being frustrated with him. Joel squeezes your shoulders a little tighter, leaning down. His beard tickles the skin on your temple, and your pulse quickens.

“’M sorry,” Joel hums, lips close to your ear, “I shoulda called, or let you know what was goin’ on. Been busy myself.”

“I understand, Joel. It would’ve been nice to know. I thought maybe it was me,” you answer quietly. He sighs in response, letting go of your shoulders and plopping down in the chair next to you.

He places a hand above your knee and squeezes lightly. “You did nothin’ wrong. The opposite, actually. I ain’t been able to get you outta my mind since I left that night,” he admits, chuckling softly. Finally, you bring yourself to look at him.

He looks exhausted up close, the sharp edges of him a little worn, but still ruggedly handsome. His eyes are less amber and more muted brown, like they haven’t seen the light in a few days.

“You look tired,” you say, reaching up to fix some of his messy curls. He closes his eyes as you touch him, like it provides him with instant relief.

“Like you wouldn’t believe,” he murmurs, pulling your hand from his head toward his mouth, planting a soft kiss on the top. The gesture floods you with guilt. He smiles at you, a silent It’s okay.

“Wanna make it up t’you,” he adds, kissing your hand again before returning it to your lap.

“I’ll allow it,” you tease him.

“Let me drive you home. Tommy has my truck, and it’s slick out there,” he asks, squeezing above your knee lightly. The now serious tone of his voice indicates that this is not a request, but a soft command. You cover his hand with yours and squeeze in response.

“That would be great,” you respond. “Though I’m going to need a long shower—I didn’t have a chance to take one in between jobs.”

He raises an eyebrow as he removes his hand from your leg, jaw clenching as he imagines what your body looks like naked and soaked. He can only imagine it’s perfect, given how good you look in clothes.

“Gonna make the rest of the night difficult,” he laments playfully. “Guess I deserve it, huh?”

You shrug, doing your best to stifle a smirk. It feels like time to head back in, and Joel senses it too.

“S’alright, I’ll be waitin’ for ya when it’s time to go,” he says, scooting closer to the fire. He turns to watch you walk back into the bar, and you catch him as you glance back right before the patio door closes, his eyes glued to your ass. Your cheeks and neck flare with heat.

The rest of the night was filled with nervous anticipation. You went from telling yourself that you’d get a repeat make out session from the first night, to entertaining the possibility of having sex with Joel. The thought of it frightened and thrilled you—it would be the first person you’d slept with since your ex-husband.

After a smooth night, closing time rolls around. After several mop buckets and restocks later, you emerge from the back office. Joel is waiting for you at the bar, the usual stack of bills propped on the counter in front of him.

“I wanna know details,” Jerrica whispers in your ear as she walks up with you. Your cheeks heat up again, and you widen your eyes at her, an unspoken Shut up.

“You’ll be the first to know,” you reply, sly smile playing on your lips. She giggles, waving bye to Joel as she makes one last round of the place before locking up. Joel is watching you approach him, equally giddy and nervous as you. He’d been thinking about what would go down tonight, too—and boy, he was ready to give you everything you wanted. The electricity between you fizzes in the air, like a firework moments away from exploding.

“Ready, darlin’?” Joel asks, standing from the stool and shoving his wallet in his back pocket. You nod, the nickname charming you.

Joel walks you to your car, and again, his hand finds home on your lower back. It’s a gentlemanly gesture, but the feeling of his hand on you makes your core throb. He opens the passenger door for you, offering a hand as you shift weight on the icy pavement and get in your car. You have a nice sedan—one of the only things you purchased on your own during the marriage, much to your ex’s chagrin.

Joel handles the slick roads like a pro, never losing traction. He remembers exactly where to go to find your townhouse. Throughout the ride, you find yourself growing sleepier with each passing streetlight. You’re so tired, you hadn’t noticed he laced his fingers with yours on the center console. It was sweet and domestic, like you’d done it a thousand times before.

You arrive, and like last time, Joel tells you to stay put while he trots around to open your door. Your eyes fight to stay awake—the stress of the day is threatening to drown you. Joel notices.

“Tired, sweetheart?” He asks, wrapping an arm around your waist as you walk inside through the garage.

“Me? Never tired,” you lie, sleep already taking over your voice. Joel laughs as he helps you walk up the few steps that lead into the kitchen.

“Let’s get you to bed, huh?” Panic sets in. You don’t want him to leave, and through the blanket of fatigue covering you, you feel guilty.

“Joel,” you say, turning around and putting two hands on his chest. He looks into your eyes, trying not to laugh at how sleepy you look.

“Hm?” He responds, smirking at you.

“Please stay with me,” you ask. The smile fades from his face as he notices the expression on your face, like you’re worried about him leaving in the middle of the night. He cups your face in his warm, rough hands, marveling at how gorgeous you are, even in your half-asleep state.

“’Course. I’m not goin’ anywhere.” You wrap your arms around his torso, burying your face in the crook of his neck. He responds immediately, enveloping you with his strong arms, kissing the crown of your head softly. He hoists you up, searching for your bedroom in the dim lighting of your place. He finds it, nudging the door open with an elbow before gently placing you on the bed.

“Let’s get you some clothes,” he soothes, flicking one of your nightstand lamps on. The low light paints him in an amber glow, and though your eyes are half-open, you watch him amble around your room.

“Top drawer,” you mumble, pointing at your dresser. He opens it up and pulls a big t-shirt out.

“Wait, I need to shower—I ne—,” you stammer, before Joel shushes you.

“S’okay. Y’can shower in the morning. Let’s get you to sleep, sweetheart,” he coos, helping you sit up. You feel like a helpless baby, but you’re so exhausted. You’d have slept in your jeans if he wasn’t here.

He undresses you, peeling the sweaty shirt from your torso. His breath catches in his throat at the sight of your half-naked torso, dotted with tattoos and soft skin, mesmerized at how your old t-shirt bra complements the tone of your skin and the curve of your breasts. You’re beautiful, even in your rattiest clothes. He pushes the soft tee over your head, doing his best not to ogle. You unclip the bra underneath the shirt, pulling it through one of the arm holes. Joel chuckles.

“S’magic, how y’all do that,” he says, making you giggle. You lie back, ready to fall asleep. Joel pats your leg.

“Y’can’t sleep in jeans. What d’ya sleep in?”

“Panties,” you mumble, eyes closed. “Middle drawer.”

Joel clears his throat uncomfortably and opens the drawer, impressed with the variety of underwear he sees folded in it. He pulls a pair of blue cotton and lace panties and returns to the bedside, trying like hell not to imagine what you’d look like with these on. And though his desire for you is strong, he is ever the gentleman, wanting never to overstep your boundaries. He pauses next to you. You sit up, exhausted but aware of his hesitation.

“I’m gonna use the restroom, darlin’. Be right back,” he assures you, his soft, deep voice caressing your eardrums. He steps into the bathroom connected to your bedroom and shuts the door softly.

You take the cue and peel your jeans and underwear off, replacing them with the blue panties, appreciating his respect for you and your privacy. You lie back down and turn your lamp off, your tired eyes quickly welcoming the darkness that paints the room.

Half-asleep, you slip under the sheets on one side of the bed, back facing the bathroom door. Moments later, Joel emerges quietly, and the telltale clink of a belt buckle tells you he’s taken his jeans off. Though moonlight seeps through your blinds, it’s not enough to see him as he prods toward the bedroom door to shut it.

He gets into bed and reaches for you immediately, the warmth of his body cloaking you like another blanket. You reciprocate and wrap your arms around him, inhaling deeply as he nestles you against his chest. The scent of him is hypnotizing—amber, pine, cedarwood, and whiskey. A blend that is eclectic and brooding, yet warm and romantic. He strokes your hair as you melt into him, your legs tangled together under the crisp sheets.

He presses his lips to your forehead and whispers goodnight before sleep finally takes over you.

Taglist: @burntheedges, @tuquoquebrute, @syd-djarin, @danaispunk, @anoverwhelmingdin <3

#joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x you #pedro pascal fandom

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maya-caffrey · 3 months ago

Note

hi hi hi writing request if you're up for it: can i get a neal caffrey x reader where they're undercover posing as a couple and things get too real too quick? fluffy angsty whatever, full creative liberty. thank you x -🌻

anon i would love to

This ain't the Chelsea hotel

pairing: neal caffrey x fem!reader words: 4.3k song: I'm writing this inspired by ttpd as you can tell, specifically the lyric "At dinner, you take my ring off my middle finger And put it on the one people put wedding rings on And that's the closest I've come to my heart exploding" summary: an undercover mission brings up some unresolved feelings a/n: this is sorta inspired by johnny and dora from Brooklyn 99, and there's sort of an angst ending i am sorry but it will get better soon i promise

"Neal and (Y/n), you’re going in as a couple.”

Peter’s voice was calm, authoritative, as if he’d just assigned them to file paperwork instead of infiltrating a high-society gala crawling with millionaires, con artists, and, somewhere in the crowd, an international art thief.

(Y/n) froze, mid-sip of her coffee. “I'm sorry, what now?”

Neal, of course, leaned back in his chair, smirk firmly in place. “I mean, it makes sense. Look at us—irresistible charm, devastating good looks—who wouldn’t buy it?”

“You forgot insufferable ego,” she shot back, slamming her cup on the table. It was aggravating to be around Neal Caffrey, and she’d be lying if she said she didn’t love every second of it.

Peter held up a hand, cutting off the argument before it could spiral. “Enough. You’re the best fit for this assignment. The mark likes power couples, people who look like they’ve got secrets. Neal’s the smooth-talking art expert, and (Y/n)—you’ll play his fiancée, a curator from an old-money family.”

(Y/n) groaned, glaring at Peter. “You know this is going to go to his head.”

“Oh, absolutely,” Peter said dryly. “But you’ll manage. You always do.”

Neal turned to her, his smirk widening. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll go easy on you.”

"That's okay baby, I can handle you." No, she can't. This could end badly.

"Oooh, competition? you're gonna lose, you, know?"

"Hey, if I'm going down, I'm taking you down with me, Caffrey."

"Right, and one last thing. (Y/n), try not to fall in love with me."

"Won't be a problem."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"And you're promising, that this is strictly work?"

"I swear, Moz! It's not like that," Neal replied, pacing the length of his apartment, the small box in his hand feeling heavier than it had any right to.

"It's hard to believe that when you're holding a real diamond ring in your hand," Mozzie argued, incredulous about Neal's intentions in this case.

"It's for authenticity"

"Right, because the suspect would definitely notice if she wore a cheap American zirconia."

"Mozzie. It's not like that."

"I believe you"

"I don't think you do."

Mozzie didn’t respond, simply giving Neal a pointed look before taking a long sip of his wine.

Neal let out a sigh, his grip on the box tightening. He was done trying to convince Mozzie, who always had a knack for cutting to the heart of things Neal would rather not think about. Because as much as he repeated the words it was just for the case, a nagging voice in the back of his mind whispered that maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t.

His gaze dropped to the ring, the glint of the diamond catching the light. It was just for authenticity. No ulterior motives.

Right?

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Alright. The moment we enter that room we're on high alert. Peter and the team are in the surveillance van two blacks away to remain inconspicuous. He's usually after wealthy power couple types so we need to be really convincing. Got it?"

“Uh-huh. Yes,” Neal replied, nodding a little too quickly. His words were automatic, half-hearted at best, because his attention was decidedly elsewhere.

She looked stunning—more than stunning, really, though he would never admit it outright. The soft glint in her eyes caught the streetlights at just the right angle, making them sparkle for a fleeting moment before fading again. The dress she wore was elegant, understated, but perfectly fitted to the role they were about to play. Neal found himself momentarily mesmerized, the lines between the act and reality blurring just a bit more than they should have.

(Y/n) shot him a suspicious glance. “Neal. Focus.”

“Totally focused,” he said, his trademark grin sliding into place to cover the fact that he had absolutely not been paying attention to anything she’d just said.

She narrowed her eyes at him, but after a beat, she turned back toward the building looming ahead. “You’d better be. The second we step into that gala, we’re in character, and I’m not carrying this assignment on my own.”

“Of course not,” Neal quipped, following her lead, his voice taking on the smooth confidence he wore so well. “I’ll be the perfect fiancé. You’ll swoon. Just wait.”

She shook her head in surrender and walked towards the door before she felt a delicate hand pull at her wrist.

"Wait, I almost forgot," he said, taking out the velvet box that made his pocket weigh heavier than it should have.

"What?" she asked, completely oblivious.

"This," he said, flipping it open to reveal the princess-cut diamond ring inside. The sharp sparkle caught the light between them, but it was nothing compared to the flash of surprise in her eyes.

Her lips parted slightly, but no sound came out.

He swallowed, his heartbeat thrumming loudly in his ears as he took her left hand in his, the warmth of her skin making him falter for just a moment. His fingers brushed hers, gentle but deliberate, as he slid the ring onto her finger.

No break in eye contact.

Her gaze locked with his, questioning, searching, unsteady. The seconds stretched long, heavy with something unspoken, as his thumb brushed against the band, settling it into place.

Still no break.

The moment lingered, charged, as if the world had shrunk to just the two of them under the streetlight. His breath hitched, his confidence—usually so bulletproof—wavering under the weight of how utterly real this felt.

Neal shifted, suddenly nervous, but he didn’t step back. His eyes flicked to her lips, then back up to meet hers again, the line between fiction and reality blurring with dizzying speed.

Finally, he broke the silence with a soft, almost uncertain laugh, a hint of tension bleeding into his words. “For authenticity, right?”

(Y/n) blinked, the spell broken. Her lips curved into a small smile, but her voice was quieter than usual when she replied. “Right. Authenticity.”

But neither of them moved for a moment longer, caught in the fallout of something they couldn’t quite name. If this was just pretend, why did it feel so real?

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They entered the grand ballroom arm-in-arm, the weight of their roles pressing against them. Neal’s hand rested lightly at the small of (Y/n)’s back, his touch electric even through the layers of fabric.

“You’re tense,” he whispered, lips brushing her ear, sending shivers down her spine. She instinctively closed her eyes and let it linger before remembering she had to respond.

“You try wearing a dress and pretending to be in love with you all evening,” she shot back, her voice sweetened by a practiced smile for the benefit of their audience.

Neal leaned closer, the humor in his tone giving way to something deeper. “You’d be surprised how easy that could be.”

"The dress or-"

"The last part. Obviously the last part."

"Just making sure," she responded, stifling a laugh. Remembering why they were here in the first place, she quickly scanned the room, she found their mark in the middle of the dance floor.

"Neal, 2'o clock, dance floor."

"Yeah, I see him. You ready?"

"Do, I have an option?"

Neal extended his hand, a devilish glint in his eyes as he slipped seamlessly into his role. “In that case, (Y/n), may I have this dance?”

(Y/n) smirked just for a moment, his outstretched hand a reminder of the precarious game they were playing. She placed her hand in his, his fingers warm and steady as they led her toward the dance floor. “Let’s get ourselves a criminal,” she replied, trying to keep her voice steady.

The music swelled, slow and haunting, wrapping around them as Neal’s hand slid to her waist. His fingers pressed against the fabric of her dress, firm but careful, like he was afraid to break something fragile. His other hand cradled hers, his thumb brushing the back of her hand with maddening lightness.

“You’re holding on a little tight there, don’t you think?” she teased softly, her voice catching when his eyes locked on hers, warm and unflinching.

“Just making sure you don’t get away,” he replied, his words playful, but his tone laced with something heavier.

They moved in sync, the world around them dimming until it felt like the music existed just for them. Each step brought her closer, the space between them dissolving until her chest almost brushed against his. His breath was warm against her temple, and her head tilted slightly, just enough for her to catch the faint, intoxicating scent of his cologne.

“You’re good at this,” he murmured, his voice barely audible.

“It’s just part of the job,” she whispered back, though her words wavered under the intensity of his gaze.

“Right,” he said, his hand slipping a fraction lower on her waist. “Just the job.”

Her pulse quickened as his fingers tightened slightly, drawing her closer still. Their faces were mere inches apart now, his eyes flicking to her lips for the briefest of moments before returning to hers. The tension between them was almost unbearable, charged and unspoken.

(Y/n) swore he was about to say something—something real, something that would tip this balance they always stalled on—but his gaze shifted over her shoulder.

“(Y/n),” he said abruptly, his tone cooling as his eyes fixed on something behind her.

(Y/n) blinked, the spell breaking as she followed his line of sight. Their mark stood on the edge of the dance floor, watching them with quiet intensity.

“He’s noticed us,” Neal said, his hand loosening its hold on her waist.

“Good,” she replied, her voice steadier than she felt. “That’s the idea.”

And just like that, they were back in the game, palpable tension vanishing into thin air.

As the song came to an end, the mark stepped toward them with his date, a woman dripping in diamonds and disdain.

“Charming performance,” the mark said smoothly, offering a practiced smile. “You two must be new faces around here.”

“Guilty as charged,” Neal said with a grin, slipping effortlessly into his persona. “We’ve just been admiring the company.”

“Why don’t you join us on the rooftop?” the mark offered, gesturing toward the glass doors that led to a private terrace. “It’s quieter. Easier to talk.”

Neal and (Y/n) exchanged a quick glance before following. On the way, Neal caught her glancing at her hand, her thumb brushing lightly over the diamond ring he had slipped on earlier.

“Admiring your fiancé’s taste, sweetheart?” he teased under his breath, his voice tinged with both humor and something sharper.

(Y/n) jerked her gaze away, her cheeks warming. “Just making sure it looks convincing,” she muttered, but the way her hand lingered over the ring betrayed her words.

Neal leaned closer, his smirk softening. “It looks perfect. You look perfect.”

The heat in her cheeks deepened, but before she could respond, the doors opened, and the crisp night air swept over them. They stepped onto the terrace, the stakes of their mission suddenly more palpable than ever.

The mark led them to a table on the edge of the terrace, a private spot where the city lights shimmered below. He took a seat, his date following suit, and Neal and (Y/n) joined them. The air was cool, and the tension in the space was almost tangible. The mark’s eyes flicked between them, his gaze assessing, calculating.

“So,” he began, his voice smooth, “tell me, how did you two meet? I’m always curious about these stories."

Neal leaned back in his chair, putting on his best charming smile. “It was one of those chance encounters, really,” he began. “I was at an auction, looking at some early Renaissance pieces when she walked in—just like that.” He snapped his fingers, his eyes glinting. “She had this aura about her—class, confidence, and this fire in her eyes that made me want to get to know her. I knew the moment I saw her, I’d never let her slip through my fingers.

Y/n) raised an eyebrow, a little taken aback by how smooth he was. “Not exactly how I remember it,” she replied, her tone light but sharp. “He was chasing after a piece of art that had already been sold. I caught him, and after some back-and-forth, we ended up negotiating a deal. And well, the rest, as they say, is history.”

The mark chuckled, intrigued. “So, love at first sight then?”

Neal and (Y/n) exchanged a glance, both knowing that this was the moment they had to sell it. Neal leaned forward, his voice dropping a notch as he spoke to the mark.

“There’s something about her. Something that keeps me coming back, you know?” he said, his eyes never leaving (Y/n)'s face. “She’s strong, sharp—doesn’t take crap from anyone. And that’s something you don’t find every day.”

(Y/n) turned toward him, her heart beating a little faster at the raw honesty in his words. She wasn’t sure if it was part of the act or something real underneath it, but the heat between them flickered for a second.

“And what do you see in him?” the mark asked, his tone now laced with genuine curiosity.

(Y/n) hesitated for a moment, unsure how to answer without giving away too much of her own feelings, but when she looked into Neal’s eyes, something clicked. They were here together, playing a part in a dangerous game, but the way he was looking at her made her forget that for a second. She could feel the weight of his gaze, the vulnerability he was letting slip, just for her.

“I see someone who challenges me,” she replied, her voice softer than usual. “Someone who pushes me to be better. And, you know, someone who’s got this charm that… well, it works on me. I’m not proud of it.”

Neal’s grin spread, his eyes flashing with something unreadable. “Works on me too,” he said, his voice lower now, as if the words were meant for her alone. “We balance each other out. When I'm with her, I feel complete, you know?”

The mark seemed satisfied with their answers, his eyes narrowing slightly. “You two really are a convincing pair. Almost makes me believe in the whole ‘love at first sight’ thing," he laughed. His date, lost in her phone, barely seemed to notice, leaving the moment to hang between them.

Neal glanced at (Y/n), an almost imperceptible shift in his expression as he studied her. There was something different in the way she held herself tonight. She was usually the composed one, but now… he couldn’t quite read the look in her eyes.

“So, what happens next?” the mark asked, his voice smooth, as he leaned back in his chair.

Neal tilted his head, his smile never faltering. “Now? Now we enjoy the view.” He gestured out toward the city lights that sparkled beneath them, a million possibilities flashing in the distance. “What’s a good evening without a little bit of beauty to go with it?”

(Y/n) nodded, her fingers tracing the edge of her wine glass absently. “And a little danger, I’d say,” she added, her voice laced with a quiet challenge.

The mark raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Danger, huh? What’s dangerous about a couple like you two?”

Neal chuckled, but it was a touch colder this time, more calculated. He turned his eyes on (Y/n), watching the way she tilted her head, as if she was on the edge of saying something important. Then, with a glance that felt almost too intimate, he spoke again. “We’ve got a history, you know? We don’t talk about it much, but we both know... some things you don’t just walk away from.”

(Y/n) blinked, her breath catching at his words. She hadn’t expected him to go that far with the act. The sincerity behind it—whether it was all for the mission or something more—hit her unexpectedly. But she kept her face neutral, answering with equal weight. “Yeah. Some things... they follow you.”

The air between them thickened, the words hanging heavy in the space. The mark watched them, an unreadable expression on his face as he exchanged glances with his date. It wasn’t quite suspicion, but something deeper. Curiosity, maybe. Or recognition. But before anything could be said, the mark stood, taking a step toward the edge of the terrace.

“You two are something else,” he said with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m going to grab another drink. You stay here.”

Neal and (Y/n) exchanged a glance, one that said everything without needing words. As soon as the mark and his date were distracted by the bar, they slipped away. It wasn’t much—just enough of a gap for them to make their move. They walked quickly, low and quiet, blending into the flow of people.

They passed a row of velvet curtains and slipped behind them, into a hallway that led to the back stairwell. The sound of voices echoed from the main room, but it was the sound of a briefcase being handed over that caught Neal’s attention.

There he was—the mark, shaking hands with someone in a dark suit. The transaction was swift, almost too clean. Neal’s eyes narrowed.

“Something’s off,” he whispered to (Y/n), barely audible.

But before they could pull back into the shadows, a shift in the mark’s posture had him looking their way. Neal froze, his gaze locking with the mark’s. There was a flicker of recognition in the man’s eyes, followed by a narrowing of his gaze.

In that moment, they both knew they had been spotted.

Neal didn’t hesitate. He grabbed (Y/n)’s wrist, pulling her in close. “Trust me on this,” he muttered, his breath warm against her ear.

Before she could even respond, his lips found hers in a kiss that was far from gentle. It was urgent—desperate, even, and as their bodies pressed closer, the danger of being caught only made it more intense. Their kiss was a cover, an act. But damn, it felt real. The mark was approaching them now, too close for comfort, but Neal barely registered the thought. He pushed her against the nearest wall and "got carried away" as he traveled towards her neck. Her hands found his hair, gently playing with them, for the act, of course.

(Y/n)’s heart raced as the world around them seemed to blur. They were acting, but in that moment, there was a sense of something more—something raw beneath the surface. He left her neck and locked her yes in a gaze, before returning back to her lips. Her pulse thudded in her ears, and when Neal pulled away, her lips felt like they were still burning from the kiss.

The mark was now standing just a few feet away, his brow furrowed in confusion but not yet suspicious enough to call them out. Neal, ever the charmer, quickly recovered, a half-smile spreading across his face.

“Sorry,” he said, voice low and teasing. “Got carried away. But you know how it is, right?” He gestured to (Y/n), his hand slipping possessively around her waist as he spoke directly to the mark, hoping his calm demeanor would sell the story.

The mark studied them for a beat, a silent assessment passing between them. Finally, he shook his head, smirking. “You two really are something else, huh.”

Neal’s grin stretched wider, eyes flicking to (Y/n) for just a moment, as if to say: We’re good.

They turned, following the mark back into the chaos of the night, but the weight of what just happened settled between them—unspoken, but palpable.

The sound of pounding footsteps echoed through the terrace as the FBI moved in, swarming around them with practiced efficiency. Neal felt the brief rush of adrenaline still pumping in his veins, but now it was mixed with something else. He and (Y/n) had done their job, the mark had fallen into their trap, and the briefcase—the one they’d been waiting for—was in his hands, a key piece of evidence that sealed the deal.

But then, there was that kiss.

It had been... unexpected. Real. No longer just an act.

The team moved quickly, surrounding the mark, taking him into custody. Peter gave Neal a brief, knowing nod before he led the mark away. He didn’t say anything; the job was done. The mission was complete. But Neal’s mind wasn’t on the bust. He was focused on (Y/n), the way her breath had caught when their lips met, the look in her eyes that he couldn’t quite place.

Once the area had cleared and the sound of distant voices faded, he turned to her. (Y/n) was leaning against the railing, her arms crossed tightly as she stared out over the city, the glow of the streetlights flickering in the distance. There was a cold distance in her posture that wasn’t there before, a wall he hadn’t seen her put up.

Neal swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. “(Y/n)...”

She didn’t look at him right away. When she did, her gaze was unreadable. “We did our job, Neal. That’s what matters.”

There was a tightness in her voice, the way she was shutting down again, retreating behind the walls she always kept so perfectly in place. It made his chest tighten.

“I know,” Neal replied, his voice softer. “But that kiss…” He trailed off, unsure of how to continue. He was a conman, a man who lived in deception. But that kiss—that had felt different.

(Y/n) sighed, pushing herself off the railing and turning to face him fully. “It’s part of the job, Neal. You know that. It’s always part of the job.”

Her words were clipped, but her eyes betrayed her. They were too wide, too vulnerable, like she was trying to convince herself as much as she was convincing him. Neal didn’t buy it. Not this time.

“Is it?” he asked quietly, his voice low, almost hesitant. “Because that didn’t feel like part of the job to me. It felt like—” He stopped himself, trying to find the right words. “Like something real.”

Her expression flickered, just for a moment, like she was considering telling him something—something more than what she was letting on. But she quickly masked it, her gaze hardening again.

“It wasn’t real, Neal,” she said, her voice sharp, like the edge of a blade. “It was a job. You know that.”

Neal’s breath hitched. “But what if it was? What if it wasn’t just the mission? What if we’re both—” He cut himself off, staring at her, his chest suddenly tight with a feeling he couldn’t quite shake. “Look, I don’t want to make this more complicated than it has to be. But I can’t just act like that kiss was nothing. I can’t pretend it didn’t mean something.”

(Y/n) took a step back, her jaw clenched, clearly struggling with something she wasn’t ready to face. “You’re just confused, Neal,” she said, her words laced with frustration. “We’re good at what we do. We can sell this. We can sell anything. But that kiss? It doesn’t mean what you think it does.”

Neal shook his head, his frustration matching hers. “Why do I feel like you’re trying so hard to convince me of that?”

She stepped forward, her eyes locking onto his. There was no hiding now. “Because I don’t need you to start thinking that this is something more than it is,” she said, her voice shaking just a little. “I don’t need to feel like I’m... I’m letting you in. I don’t want that. We can’t have that.”

“Why not?” Neal asked, his voice quieter now, softer. “Why can’t we have that?”

For a moment, (Y/n) didn’t say anything. She just looked at him, as if trying to find the words to explain something she couldn’t. She wanted to—he could see it in her eyes—but something held her back, something she was afraid to admit.

“Because I can’t,” she finally said, her voice trembling with something raw, something real. “Because I can’t let you in, Neal. I can’t let myself... care. I’ve spent too long keeping everything at arm's length. It’s easier that way. It’s safer that way.”

Neal felt his heart twist. He had no answers, no solutions. He couldn’t fix this. He wasn’t sure if he even wanted to.

But as the silence stretched between them, he couldn’t just let it go. “So, what happens now?” he asked quietly. “Do we just go back to being... partners? Nothing more, nothing less?”

(Y/n) looked away, biting her lip as she thought it over. “I don’t know,” she said finally. “I don’t know if we can just go back to what we were before. But we have to try.”

Neal didn’t argue. He couldn’t. There was too much at stake. Too much left unsaid.

“I don’t think either of us can walk away from this without something changing,” he said, the words coming out as more of a confession than a statement.

Her eyes flickered to his again, softer now. “Maybe that’s true,” she murmured. “But that doesn’t mean we can act on it.”

Neal took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “I don’t know what’s happening between us, (Y/n). But I don’t think I can just pretend it’s nothing anymore.”

She nodded slowly, her gaze dropping to the floor for a moment before meeting his eyes one last time. “Neither can I,” she said quietly, as she took off her ring and placed it in his hand.

And then, before either of them could say more, Peter’s voice echoed from behind them, sharp and thunder-like.

“Jesus Christ, what happened in this mission?” Peter inquired, leaning against the doorframe, clearly amused.

Neal shot him a glare, but there was no real heat behind it. Peter was just being Peter. But as the moment lingered, both Neal and (Y/n) knew the truth. They had crossed a line. They’d let the job get too close. And now, whatever happened next… they couldn’t go back to pretending it was just a mission anymore.

a/n: I hope you liked it, this was my first request so I got carried away T_T, I'll make a part 2 for closure if this does well <3

#white collar #neal caffrey #neal caffrey x reader fluff #neal caffrey x reader #neal caffrey fluff #white collar x reader #peter burke #maya writes #requested #🌻 anon

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lilly-onthevalley · 2 months ago

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Earrings & Jewellery

I'm incredibly privileged to have grown up with a grandmother who loved high-quality ear piercings. When I was a child, I would always gawk at her diamond collection and her deep emerald studs, which she would keep safe and secure. Prized gifts from past lovers.

One of my favourite things is my jewellery. I would go broke for a good real black pearl. I would fly back to Bridge of Allen to meet the family jeweller who crafted my silver and pink-purple fresh water pearl bracelet. I would run to Poland to find another Torah necklace to remind me of the dear old lady who I would source my vintage jewellery from and my pleasurable years of studying Judaism.

Whenever I walk around, my stack is always a conversation starter because of how it stands out, all rings, earrings, and bracelets. I wear on average 3-5 rings and 4 bracelets, all silver, some with diamond or zirconia. I wear the silver cartier wedding band I got as a gift every day, depending on where I'm going, lol. I also have a signature symbol, which I'll gate keep.

I implore everyone to have a signature charm. It could be a shell design, a flower, a sea horse, a star, anything that feels lucky to you or blessed. Whenever anyone sees the symbol, they will automatically think of you, and whenever you'll see it, you'll remind yourself of the luck and personal significance it has to you. My middle finger ring has my symbol, and so does my everyday necklace. I'm about to get studs with the same.

When you get jewellery, I always recommend finding someone with a passion for it. I don't see the point in going to a mass market jewellery store that will sell you fake jewellery that tarnishes the second summer hits or if you swim. Invest in the metals. 90% of my jewellery is from random old men with a long-time passion for craftsmanship. It's not always pricey. You will not be charged $100+ for starter hoops or a plain stud. Take the leap, and you'll never have to do it again. Furthermore, with these types of jewellers, if you ever need maintenance such as shining, anodising, oxidation, cleaning, repairs, etc, they have your back. The secret to shiny white icy silver and white gold is in the shining, it's necessary. Google is your friend, if you start now you'll be sorted till 60!

Having multiple piercings is thought by the tiktok wealth gurus to not be classy, and quite frankly, I disagree. There's an art to creating a good piercing stack, which adds to your allure.

As a woman of colour from a country with a very proud history of adornment and multiple local high jewellers who's hearts ache to capture Africa into a singular mental piece, I cannot subscribe to that narrative in good faith.

Currently, I have 2 piercings on each ear, which will increase to 5 on 1 and 4 on the other. I have scheduled my piercing dates and contacted all my jewellers to let them know what's up and that I want to come in to see what they have going on for the new season. I'm terribly excited.

When it comes to a good stack, you can never go wrong with diamonds, zirconia, or diamanté. Play with different cuts. Marquise cuts are trending right now in the piercing and engagement ring communities. Furthermore, pearls are something that never goes out of style. I love a good real pearl because of lustre. A fresh pearl will have multiple colours at times, which are enhanced based on the angle of the light around you. Similar to diamonds or clean zirconia and diamanté. Diamonds and stones like it are cut with different facets to play with the brilliance. A certain cut can cause a fire, not in the literal sense but the effect whereby multiple colours are seemily present within the stone because of the refraction of light. This is especially important with engagement rings.

When it comes to individual earrings, I would recommend these types.

Very dainty, very light, very sweet. A stack of these is a sight to behold. Especially on dark skin. I absolutely love how Anok Yai and Adut Akech style their piercings.

A good account on Instagram to get inspiration on what a good classy stack looks like is Maria Tash. I'm utterly obsessed.

When it comes to pearls, here is a colour guide. I believe in jewellery shopping from different countries. My favourite places to get my hands on some pearls are the coasts of Scotland and the UK online markets. You will find the cheapest, pinkest, fresh water pearl jewellery. My friend loves a deep dark pearl and stalks Asian jewellers to find some to add to her collection. I admire her tenacity. They aren't as easy or cheap to find as pink and purple pearls.

🪽

#self care #levelup #leveled up mindset #leveling up #hypergamy #moodboard #levelling up #hypergamous #level up #lilly rambles

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blond-yallternative · 8 months ago

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TSC boys will be TSC boys (ft. Cody, my beloved nb)

Low-stakes fanfic in which 3 backliners (Cody, Lucas, and Jean [included against his will]) bet 3 strikers (Jeremy, Nabil, and Derrick) that if the backliners can keep the strikers from making any successful shots on goal during a team exercise, then Jeremy will get his ears pierced.

Of course Jean balls out and so do the other 2 so the strikers lose.

Jeremy is deathly afraid of needles (in my head), and Nabil can't join them because he's going home to eat dinner with his family, but Pat joins in last-minute.

Pls be kind this is my first ever fanfic (⁠╥⁠﹏⁠╥⁠)

By the time practice was over and they had all showered, changed, and dispersed to their cars, it was past six in the evening. The drive to their destination took less than fifteen minutes, and soon they were pulling into the parking lot of a low, dingy strip mall that looked like it had needed a fresh coat of paint about two years ago. The studio that Nabil had Googled for them was nestled in the far right corner under a large sign emblazoned Black Eye Tattoo. Between the second and third words, a large eye gazed out over the parking lot with a swirling design where its iris and pupil should’ve been. After they parked, Jeremy drummed his fingers on the steering wheel out of time with the pop song on the radio as he stared up at the sign. A few moments later, they spotted the rest of the boys and Cody heading towards them, and Jeremy twisted the key to kill the engine with a long-suffering sigh. He shooed Derrick off his car when he tried to strike a provocative pose on the hood, and Pat held the door of the place open for all of them as a doorbell chimed over their heads.

Jean was more than a little intimidated by the woman standing behind the counter inside. Her jet black hair hung in choppy bangs over her forehead but the rest was tucked behind her ears, making it easy to see the neon rings that stretched her earlobes to twice the normal size. Her haughty gaze didn’t change as the six of them filed through the door and crowded the small lobby space. Pat and Derrick flopped down on the low, bloodred velvet couch set against the far wall, so Jean and Jeremy leaned against the front windows. Cody and Lucas eagerly approached the front counter. The air felt near-frigid after the California heat outside, and Jean savored the sunshine warming his back.

“Aren’t you gonna go check out the options?” Derrick asked Jeremy, who cringed. “I’d rather not look at any of this until absolutely necessary,” he said, and Derrick smirked. At the counter, Lucas and Cody were explaining the situation to the indifferent-seeming woman. Jean squinted to read the cursive scrawl on her metal name tag. Cherie, with a little hand-drawn border of black flowers and vines.

“All the stones here are available for lobe piercings, organized by size,” she said, dragging her finger in a line over one section of the glass counter that separated her from the lobby. Jean listened a little closer than he normally would, but her voice carried no hint of a French accent. “All our metals are surgical-grade steel, and they come in silver, gold, rose gold, or black finishes. No difference in price.”

“What’s the cheapest option?” Lucas asked. Cherie gave him an unimpressed look that said she was sick of servicing poor college students, but she tapped a black fingernail against the glass. “This one, three millimeter cubic zirconia. $65.”

“That’s quite the chunk of change for two little holes,” Pat muttered from the couch. Jean figured he hadn’t meant to be overheard, but Cherie said, “One.”

The group looked at her. She clarified. “The $65 is for one piercing. And that doesn’t include tip,” she added, giving them a pointed look. When half the group made a sound of disbelief, Jeremy shushed them with a “Hey, guys.”

Lucas rounded on Cody. “So you’re loaded or something?” he asked, gesturing to their heavily-studded face.

Cody grinned. “My friend’s aunt owns a tattoo shop. She does mine for free.”

Lucas slapped his palms on the counter and sighed in dramatic relief. “Well, call her up then!”

“Dude, she lives in Arizona.”

Lucas sank to rest his head on his flattened hands in defeat. In the end it was decided that Jeremy would only be getting one ear pierced, but even when Cody and Lucas pooled the cash in their wallets they could only come up with $59.37. With a sigh, Pat chipped in a $20 bill to cover the rest plus tip, and Cherie swiped up the money to store it in the cash register. She surveyed all six of them now standing closer to her counter, and sighed. “You all want to come back, don’t you?” They nodded, and Jeremy said meekly, “Yes ma’am, if that’s okay.” She sighed again but tossed an impatient “Come on, then,” over her shoulder as she strode towards the back. She led them to what appeared to be the largest of the individual rooms of the main part of the studio, and bade Jeremy to sit on the black-cushioned chair in the center. There was one smaller plastic chair to the left of it, and Pat pushed Jean towards it before he could make a beeline for the back of the room. Jean sat as Cherie told the rest of them, “I’m going to need some space. Go stand in the corner over there.” The four of them obediently shuffled over and leaned against the graffiti-covered wall.

Cherie asked the room, “What’s the finish?”

“Uhhhhh,” Lucas droned, and Jeremy looked to Jean, of all people. Cherie repeated the options to him. “Silver, gold, rose gold, or black.” Jean thought for a moment, studying Jeremy’s face.

Well, it was not going to be black. But which of the other three? He narrowed his eyes, considering. Spray-painted daffodils, the Trojan statue from their first walk through campus, and a yellow cardboard dog flashed through his mind. “Gold,” he said decidedly, and Cherie nodded in agreement. Jeremy smiled at Jean, but the expression was a bit tight.

“And which ear am I doing?”

“Which one’s the gay ear?” Derrick asked, and Lucas snickered. Jeremy twisted in his chair to give them a look, but Patrick doubled down on it. “If the shoe fits, my friend,” he said with a shrug. “Cody, make them stop,” Jeremy complained, but Cody was too busy laughing along with Lucas. Jeremy sighed and faced forward again. “I’ll just do the right ear. I normally sleep on my left side.” After a beat he added, “Please don’t tell them whether or not that’s the gay ear,” and Lucas and Cody’s laughter rang out again.

He held still when Cherie commanded, and then inspected the purple dot she marked on his right ear with the handheld mirror she passed him. He turned and tucked a stray curl back so Jean could see it, too. It looked perfectly centered, so Jean nodded.

Satisfied with her preparations, Cherie swiveled on her wheeled stool to rub hand sanitizer over her hands and pull on black latex gloves. At the snap they made against her wrists, Jeremy winced. “I like your nametag,” he said randomly, and Jean heard one of the boys snicker. Jeremy continued hurriedly, “You know, Jean here is French. You two might get along.”

“Ooooh, parlez vous français?” Cody said in a ridiculous high-pitched voice. Lucas laughed maniacally as Derrick replied, “Oui oui, monsieur dumbass.” Jean looked around to see which of the instruments in the room he could use to put himself out of his misery as quickly as possible, but Cherie laughed, too.

“I don’t speak French, actually. This is just what my grandpa used to call me. I don’t even pronounce it correctly, I know, but I still like it.” The entire room turned to look at Jean in anticipation.

He gave Cody and Derrick a flat look. “I’m not going to say it.” Various sounds of protest arose from their corner, but Cherie started fixing the gold stud onto a long, sharp instrument and Jean saw Jeremy’s face go positively ashen. When she looked up, Cherie saw it too.

“Are you afraid?” she asked bluntly, and Jeremy didn’t hesitate before nodding. The boys giggled from the corner. She kept her eyes on Jeremy, her expression unchanged. “That’s not a problem. It’s better if you look away, not close your eyes.” She dug her heels into the floor to wheel herself closer to Jeremy’s right side. “Would you prefer if I counted down, or just did it?”

Jeremy swallowed. “A countdown, please.”

Jean could practically feel the anxiety radiating off him with every breath. With a sigh, he shifted his chair to be parallel with Jeremy’s, and didn’t face him as he rested an elbow on Jeremy’s armrest. He cleared his throat. He could feel Cherie and Jeremy’s eyes on him but refused to look their way, and after another second he felt Jeremy’s hand curl under his arm to grip his bicep. His palm was warm and even sweatier than Jean expected, but Jean didn’t pull away. He ignored the whispered conversation happening in the back of the room.

“Ready?” Jeremy nodded with a tense set to his jaw. Jean grimaced at the crushing grip his captain had on his arm but didn’t let himself move an inch.

“Okay. Three, two, one,” Cherie said calmly, and Jean blinked in surprise. She had pushed the needle easily through Jeremy’s ear right after two. Jeremy blinked too, then loosed an exaggerated sigh of relief and said, “Dang, that actually wasn’t so bad! Do you do that trick with everyone?” His grip slackened, but he didn’t take his hand off Jean's arm.

“Only the wimps,” Cherie said matter-of-factly, and Jeremy laughed, a little giddy. The boys and Cody peeled off the wall to come admire the stud, and Jeremy only removed his hand from Jean when Cherie passed him the mirror again. Jean tried to be subtle about rubbing the now-sweaty inside of his arm against his shirt, but Jeremy was turning his head this way and that to see the piercing from different angles, completely oblivious. Cody gushed compliments, and Derrick said, “Yeah, gold was definitely the right choice.” Patrick clapped a hand on Jeremy's shoulder in approval.

Jeremy swung his legs over to hang them off the chair and face Jean with a beaming smile.

"What do you think?"

Jean considered the sparkle of the little earring in Jeremy’s lobe, bright against his flushed skin, and met Jeremy’s eyes. “It suits you,” he said simply. And it was true.

Somehow, Jeremy’s smile grew, and the stud twinkled like a miniature star as he kicked his feet.

As they all spilled back into the lobby a staggered chorus of “Thank you, Cherie!” arose from all five of the others. Pat already had his hand on the horizontal bar of the front door when Jean realized they had all turned to look expectantly at him again. He sighed and faced the counter.

“Merci, ma chérie.”

The sweet smile that curved Cherie’s lips seemed to soften her entire hardcore appearance, and she waved them all out amidst the chiming of the doorbell and the others’ whoops of triumph.

#tsc #aftg #exy #aftg fandom #all for the gay #jeremy knox #jean moreau #cody winter #nora sakavic #the sunshine court #this is such a weirdly specific idea but pls humor me i love these boys more than my life rn #it was in fact the gay ear

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ofdarkestdesires · 1 year ago

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Baelz when Bast comes back.

“You stole the book, left no message—I swear, I was this close to smashing down Caine’s front door to start searching his Castle for you—do you even know how worried you made your mother and me?!”

“Darling, don’t bring me into this.”

#the zirconia family

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freeusemuses · 5 months ago

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Yor: *giggling, and dancing in the rain* How could anyone hate the rain?

Lupin: *looking like a drenched cat* ON GOD, THEY TRYIN TA DROWN ME IN THIS HO!! I CANNOT SEE!!

#the zirconia family #lupin zirconia #yor briar

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asexxxualerotica · 3 months ago

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So with the girls being matchmakers have they ever tried doing so for Rosemary? Any issues when they try?

Scarlet: “What about this one?” (holds up her scroll)

Bast: “Mmm, no, not quite. Hot, but he’s just got a bit of a douche bag stink on him.”

Shrike: “No, no yeah—I see it, he’d be too self-centered, no way Rosie’d go for him.”

Bast: “This guy, though, what about him?” (holds up her scroll)

Scarlet: “Oh my~ mmm, wouldn’t mind giving him a ride mysel—ow!”

Shrike: (smacking her) “No, no! This is for Rosie, who would absolutely eat him up—nice call, Bast!”

Bast: (smug shrug) “I try.”

#scarlet zirconia nikos (oc muse)#shrike zirconia branwen (oc muse)#bast zirconia belladonna (oc muse)#the zirconia family

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clownazon · 9 months ago

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Dumping thoughts on you all because I can

Gonna ramble about characters / ocs as Steven universe gems because I can — do I care about actual Steven universe? Not really unless they’re my faves — so this is gonna be strictly gems and their roles..maybe fusions , haven’t decided yet — mostly headcannon based for my own little gem hierarchy and what not BLAHNLAH IM BABBLING IM SORRY

Lottie..because of her family she’s high class/aristocratic BUT she could potentially be ‘defected’ (or the only KNOWN one). She could bee a pyrope or maybe a sapphire

Roy is a little different — he specifically gives me sapphire vibes.. he’s orange or like a Padparadscha sapphire — he also reminds me of a ruby

Carmen would also be a Pyrope or maybe a Bixbite! Very crabby and high class

Richardddd..you shall be a helidor because I say so /silly

GONNA GRAB MARCO FROM MER /silly — Marco makes me think quartz (specifically Smokey quartz or Biggs Jasper) but also surprisingly he gives me lapis vibes for some reason ?! He seems like he would love to be a lapis — controlling water and being able to fly

Regina would be a morganite or maybe a little defective zirconia! Short and stout, overcooked..

^^ Evermore would also be a ‘fake diamond’ (aka a zirconia) in that case

REGANNNN makes me think of quartz too, specifically carnelian or citrine! Maybe pyrite too would be cute :3

Rachel gives me angelite vibes !!! Or moonstone!

Corduroy O’Dile makes me think of Calcite, but then a bad accident happened where he got cracked (something to reference him losing the company)

HANNA!!! Hanna also gives me citrine vibes but I could also see her as an opal!!!!

KEVINNNN gives me Pearl vibes

UMMMMMMHMHMH THATS ALL I HAVE AT THE MOMENT

And these are the people who own the ocs smiles @merwynsartblog (Marco), @totally-not-a-tickle-blog (m!roy) , @dismissivedestroyer (Regan, Regina and Rachel), @bulldog-geckorahhhhh (Corduroy), @luzxii (Hanna)

Here’s the little custom made chart I used :3 made by @_BeeBunnie_ on Reddit

#gem au spooky month!

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sylver-drawer · 7 months ago

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The Abandoned Princess [WMMAP x TAE]

Original Fic written by Helxium | Rewrite/Continuation (with permission) by SylverDrawer

“In desperation, Jennette revealed herself at the ball only to be cast aside, spiraling a fight between him and Viscount Patterson. After her world shatters, Anastasius sends Jennette away with his dying breath. When she wakes up, however, she finds she is no longer in the empire of Obelia—but the empire of Castina. Thrust into a world of strangers far from what she once called her home, perhaps she may come to know what it truly means to be a family.”

(1/?) Chapter One | And so, the world crumbles apart.

The first thing Jennette felt was warmth. Not the warmth she longed for—that fuzzy feeling that bloomed in her chest like the first flower of spring, or the delicate touch of a hug—but warmth. A scalding heat, like boiling water left on an ignited stove, splattered onto her cheeks and all she could make sense of was the sight of red. Fingers fitted too tightly between flesh, right between the ribs, and the brunette can only see the god forsaken crimson of those fingers coated in blood. Had she not collapsed already, her knees would have given in. It soaks quickly, seeping into the finely sewn fabric of the embroidered velvet lined with gold thread—but it’s not nearly as gilded as the two royals’ hair, blessed like the sun. No, it is a dull oxidized and tarnished gold, more so resembling the hair of the man in front of her. Yes, the man who she thought she knew well, yet never at all. A man who’s eyes, dimming by the second, mirror a similar diamond shine to the two royals behind him.

Perhaps the man’s golden strands of hair and jeweled eyes were not as pretty as the Emperor and Princess’, murky and clouded, like a gemstone that failed to be polished properly. But why—why is it only now that she sees how clear they are when they reflect her?

Jennette’s lips tremble as they freeze like the first snow, face paling while unconsciously shaking her head softly. And so her words come out, cracked, and fragile.

“Wh… why?”

The Emperor’s curled fist forced between the man’s ribs, pulsing with a flickering aquamarine blue veil that scorched away the flesh and bone around it, twisted out roughly. With such intensity, it’s no wonder the man’s body falls, dark red spilling from his lips down to his chin. He falls against her, strands of his golden flax hair tickling her neck as the nauseating scent of metal stings her nose. Jennette can’t help but raise her trembling fingers against his chest as he weakly heaves into her shoulder, her blue zirconia eyes slowly rising to meet the Emperor’s.

The blood of Viscount Patterson drips onto the disgustingly pristine ballroom floor from his gloved fingertips. They’re mocking her—Jennette. Silk white gloves, dirty, yet the hands inside remain clean even when blood is spilled so cruelly. And those jeweled eyes—a diamond dust storm, with a frostbitten sharpness, as if submerged in venom—stare back apathetically.

“You dared to call me your father with that uncouth mouth of yours? Well. Here’s your real father—a traitorous reprobate, doomed to damnation…!”

Jennette’s eyes began to sting, her vision glossing over as her fingers trembled, clinging on to the Viscount—no. Clinging on to her father. Her father, who the Emperor had just stabbed a hole into. Her father, who was now bleeding out against her shoulder. Her father, who’s breath was getting weaker by the second, his body, cold.

As she felt her dress grow heavy, soaking in her father’s spilled blood, Jennette couldn’t understand. She just couldn’t understand it. All her life, it was all she ever wanted—this simplest, little thing. Ever since her first breath, she longed for a family. A father who’d smile at her warmly, a bright little sister who she could spoil rotten and adore—even if it took an eternity, it was an eternity she’d wait for. But this—the girl she thought of as such, avoiding her gaze with a knowing guilt, and the man she thought of as her father, hands dirtied with her actual father’s blood—just what did she do to deserve this, this cruelty? From the moment she was born, she wasn’t even allowed her mother’s warmth—and now her father will perish, coddling her with all the warmth he has left.

The eyes of the princess she thought she knew are avoidant. It was just the other day when those jeweled eyes twinkled in excitement at the chocolates and milk tea she had made for her. Ah. Jennette sees the truth now—she was being deceived from the very beginning. There was never a chance of them becoming family from the start. As a bitter darkness creeps into her throbbing heart, Jennette wonders if their friendship was also a lie. Did the princess have fun telling Jennette those “I love you”s and “I miss you”s halfheartedly? Did the princess enjoy taking advantage of her naivety, placating her love-starved self with festival whims? Did Athanasia enjoy watching her cheeks warm at the slightest affirmation, stringing her along while fully intending for that affection to remain unrequited?

As something inside of her cracks, the stinging heat of Jennette’s tears fall. It was true after all—that Athanasia was Claude’s daughter, for only a child could be as cruel as her father.

Jennette’s eyes wavered to the magician, arms extended protectively over the gilded princess, whose gown was decorated in the best satin ribbons and most expensive jewels. He told her once, the only time she spoke with him, that he despised nobles like her. Yet there he was, shielding the highest woman in the empire all while condemning her—a girl whose gown was soaked in her father’s freshly spilled blood. It was comical, and she wondered if he thought so too—that it was only natural she ended up this way. Jennette was ‘dirty’, after all from what he announced to the world only a moment ago, demented and monstrous. If this pain that pricked at her heart like his dear Athanasia’s beloved rose thorns was inhuman, what would he call himself—he, who rejects humanity with his venomous apathy. She once thought him a boldly honest individual, but she sees now he is a feeble hypocrite, just like the nobles he so despises.

And to the other side of the princess, was Ijekiel. Her Ijekiel—no, she supposed he was never hers from the beginning. Always a soft and gentlemanly disposition, satiating her childish whims, but Jennette knew all along. Those amber eyes never once reflected her. Ijekiel was no actor, yet those recited smiles and false pleasantries could’ve fooled anyone. Anyone, but her. Fifteen years together, but she can’t bring herself to call it the end. After all, how can you end a relationship that you never had? Jennette loved him, that cruel kindness, those false smiles, and the hand he held out that always felt cold. She wanted them to be something, for her to be something to him. He’s watched, all those fifteen years, in that cage-like mansion, all of her tears whilst cupping her loneliness—but in those fifteen years, he dare not relieve it, nor spare her even a fraction of the warmth he gave to her.

She’s spent her whole life, snuffing any of her desires and suffocating her loneliness all for the happy family he and the Duke promised—and it all crumbled. Jennette would not have longed so strongly for such a lie had she been loved by the Alpheus’ normally. Even if it were for just one moment, she would have been content with that. Everything she resolved to, everything she worked hard for—it never existed in the first place. Even now, at her lowest point, Ijekiel’s wavering and always passive eyes—eyes that always, always, always watched—are motionless for her sake, yet so ready to act when beside the Princess.

And there, the closest in proximity, yet the coldest of all—the Emperor. Claude. Jennette thinks back now, to their first meeting. It was just over a year ago, wasn’t it? Vividly, she remembers her feelings of that night, overwhelming in which she held close to her heart day after day. The Debutante Ball, so dazzling it was, full of lily-like laddies and finely groomed men. She could almost smell the marbled floral perfume, wafting in the air as nobles danced the night away. And in the midst of the garden of sparkling flowers, they danced most brilliantly—a pair of gilded royals, with eyes of jeweled starlight. Under the chandelier’s glow, they shone like the sun, blindingly so, with eyes full of love and warmth.

But from the very beginning, she was never spared that same warmth, isn’t it so? How the princess’ twinkling eyes dimmed and faltered as if frozen in place as she held that primrose ribbon the royal had dropped—how Obelia’s deity-like ruler’s gaze iced over, devoid of amusement or interest—she knew both of them were cold, but she thought she could melt that icy wall separating ‘them’ and ‘her’. Jennette thought she could find her way into their hearts, like they easily already nestled into hers. She dared to hope, dared to believe.

How foolish she was. He knew from the beginning didn’t he? They all did.

Jennette’s eyes sting, a cold panic enshrouding her hiccuping chest as if being thrown into a frozen lake. It’s painful. Frantically looking around to the nobles standing idly by, bystanders, witnesses to the girl’s inquisition, a sinking sensation fills her chest. Just moments ago, she was greeted with smiles by her peers. As everything crumbles apart, their eyes show a certain twisted apathy, as if they were looking upon an animal who had snuck in, wearing a human’s flesh. Were the wizard’s words true? That she seduced others with her ‘black magic’, like some devil? The reality in which all the kindness, all the smiles and all the warmth you’d offer even a stranger, was fabricated in the end? Such a fact was painfully clear to Jennette, now—that in this cold ballroom littered with people, there was no one who would care to keep her warm. It crept in, in bits and pieces, gradual, until the fear of being alone devoured her completely. The brightly adored Athanasia, the omnipotent Emperor, and her beloved Ijekiel—from the very beginning, she was being used and deceived without a care.

“Is that such a sin…?” Jennette manages weakly, her cold and dry lips trembling. She casts her gaze up, as if staring into the face of god, himself. Her revealed zircon eyes shook, glazing over like the polished facets of a jewel. “Was wanting a family such a sin, deserving of such cruelty? To crave the love between parent and child, sister and sister—unconditional love that everyone takes for granted… is that really something I can never have?”

The Emperor is so close, only a mere few feet away, yet his eyes are so distant—so detached, when he takes his bloodied hand and reaches for the sword at his hilt. The handle is impractically gilded, as if it were more closely a decoration than a weapon with purpose. Smoothly, it slides out from its golden sheath, and Jennette sees her reflection in it. It's thin and dull with a matte finish like poorly tempered chocolate, cheaply obscuring her image. The Emperor would never take an actual sword to an imperial gathering, but even with an unpolished blade, it would certainly kill her—though flimsily breaking after one use. Ah. Such a thing, it’s just like her, isn’t it?

“Fool.”

It’s just one word, and it feels like the end of the world. His Majesty says it with such resolute firmness, unfeeling, as if she wasn’t even worth pity or hate. She was nothing.

“There is no future where a wretched creature like you, born from a curse, could ever be happy. Your existence will breed misery to all in which you know. It is your fate to be unloved.”

Cheap metal drags against the marble, scratching the surface. The blood from his hand drips down onto the blade, and Jennette sees her distorted reflection covered in blood. This can’t be. Is this really it? Is this really her fate—to die loveless and alone, just as she’s lived? Thick iron floods her nose, putrid, and her father’s body against her is stiff. He’s truly gone now, and she is all that is left.

“Since you claim to want your family so much—“ The Emperor lifts the sword, staring down the blade and into the pitiful girl’s cracked zircon eyes with cold venom. “—shall I send you to hell with him?”

Jennette clings to the stiff and cold corpse of her father, and sobs, choking on her own tears while slowly shaking her head.

“No. No, I—“ she rasps. “I don’t, I don’t want to die…!”

Even after everything—after a life plagued with only despair and loneliness, longing for something that never existed, the girl still believes. Even as her only family, the only one who would willingly give his life to protect her, is dead—Jennette wants to believe. That someone in this cruel and twisted world, or even someone outside it, will love her.

The Emperor’s jeweled eyes narrow, a sheen upon them. For the first time, the corners of his lips upturned—wickedly amused, in cruel disbelief. A low scoff.

“You don’t want to die?” It’s then when Claude raises the dull sword, a shadow cast on his face as his eyes glow dangerously. “As if you had a choice.”

Jennette thinks she hears the princess’ voice yell out before the sound of cut air pierces her ears. A high pitched ringing resounds in her head, hazy and distorted, a darkness born of desperation swirling in her heart as a tear falls down her stained cheek. It happens oh so quickly—she feels her world begin to tremble, every emotion inside her in disarray, and all the walls she’s built up for fifteen years crumbles away. Her blood rushes backwards, her head filled with some sort of pressure as a feverish blaze overwhelms her chest and fills her lungs. Every finger begins to ignite, a tingly sensation vibrating within them as she clutches the terrifyingly cold body against her. A chill washes over her flushed skin, and she can barely make sense of the loud and intense beating of her heart, thumping erratically like a rampaging storm. All her senses are being overwhelmed, so much static and noise reverberating in her ears, and all she wants is for it all to just stop.

Dark gusts of wind spew from her, spiraling from her collapsed feet, forcing Claude to step back and shield himself. The darkness pours out like a broken dam in the form of numerous tendrils and limbs, reaching out mindlessly like a child’s hand that was never held.

The hurricane of black magic lashes out—slicing marble pillars, clawing at the walls, tearing and pulling at the curtains—and the crowd of bystanders break out into panic, nobles in their fancy gowns and tight suits pushing and tripping over each other selfishly. Cracks form in the walls, pieces of it crashing into the previously unblemished flooring. Concentrated mana breaks the glass, tightly fitting through and reaching out of the windows like a bird forced in a cage. Imperial guards on standby try to calm the nobles, guiding them outside the hall under the Knight of Crimson Blood’s orders.

Claude’s formal attire is nicked at, littered in frayed slashes and ruined, but no blood is drawn. He peers behind him—his rose, the beloved princess—protected behind a makeshift barrier with the Wizard and Son of Alpheus. He makes eye contact with the magician, livid red eyes boring holes into the royal. The wizard murmurs something; a command, sharply under his breath, and Claude understands—kill it.

He turns his gaze back to it—the Chimera—spawned from his bastard brother and that whore. Claude’s hand grappling at the cheap decorative sword twitches, his fingers growing itchy, and he takes a moment to think through it properly. Multiple layers of mana drenched in darkness cover its heart—the main body deep within, captured in some sort of trance—and the corpse. How useless, protecting something that’s already dead. He’ll have to get past the limbs lashing out, as well. Had he brought his imperial sword, he wouldn’t even have to think and could rip into it easily—but this crappy thing is flimsy and weak, it’ll break before he reaches the core.

To finish this quickly, he’ll have to use his fist as he did before—though the darkness is irritating and burning his skin gradually. He wanted to avoid doing so messily as it seemed his daughter was still fond of that thing somehow, but her safety takes priority.

Just as he takes a step forward, his diamond eyes slightly widen.

“… foolish.” The scattered bits and pieces of Jennette’s mind come together as the bloodied hand of the corpse cups her cheek softly, weakly, directing her to him. His skin is pale, a grimy gray that shouldn’t belong to a human being, with thin and bloodied lips. Flaxen hair with strands of gold stick to his cheek and forehead because of the dried blood, but she can see it—his aquamarine eyes that always reflected her, and the weakest of a smile. “How foolish, the both of us.”

In her chaotic state, she can see the bits of his mana and life force holding on, though the body has long given up—the mana and soul of her father—fighting death itself for her. Jennette’s lips tremble and she holds his weakened hand, so cold and stiff to the touch. He coughs up more blood, blood that splatters into her neck, and panic is added into the chaos.

“Don’t—!” Jennette sobs, more hot, stinging tears, staining her face. “Don’t—don’t move, I’ll, we’ll make it out together so…!”

Flickering hope and desperation—the slightest, slightest possibility they’ll live and be happy together—grounds her. Nevertheless, the light in his eyes grow dim—dying, withering like a decayed leaf in autumn—and her heart palpitates in her chest as he slowly shakes his head, an almost soft yet regretful smile etched into his lips.

“—No,” he rasps. “Not together.”

In the dark storm of black mana that surrounds them protectively, pulsing thick like oxidized blood, a different color of mana mixes in. A white light, pure and gentle, one you’d expect to clash with her mana, instead melds into it as if guiding her instead. It’s alien to her, different from the ‘kindness’ the Princess and the others have offered, yet so heartbreakingly comforting and warm that it makes her eyes well up with tears. All sense of feeling in her limbs begin to fade as a prism of colors, shimmering with whimsical whirls, envelop her.

Meeting Anastasius—her father’s—fractaled eyes, Jennette chokes out a barely audible “why?”.

“Why…?” He echoes, his eyelids faltering as he fights to remain awake just a little longer. A ghost of a smile remains on his face now, a bit mysterious with the slightest bit of amusement. “Why, indeed.”

It’s the last thing she sees, burning the image and carving it into her soul—her father’s smiling face, knowing and true—before her vision ripples with light and a symphony of quiet, incoherent murmurs whisper in her ear. The world disappears beneath her feet, and everything goes white.

—♢♦︎♢—

Silence encaptures the ballroom, now mostly empty if not for the royals and their companions left within. The dark storm, filling the place with black mana, had completely settled, the only thing left being the damage it had caused. In the center, neither the Chimera or the Corpse remained. A dark trail, like charcoal shavings, lead to where they once sat—but otherwise, their bodies were gone completely, as if they were never there in the first place.

Claude puts the sword away, back in its sheath at his hip. A useless thing—couldn’t even use it in the end, he supposes. The Emperor turns his body, casting his gaze to his daughter as the magician’s barrier slowly fades away.

“What,” the young lord, of snow white hair and amber irises, speaks first, a cautious and conflicted expression upon his face. “What just happened…?”

“Whatever the hell it was,” the irritated magician, ruby eyes and long obsidian hair, responds. “It’s over. They’re gone.”

“Gone…?” It’s all Athanasia mutters, feet stiff as if they were planted roots, digging deep into the pristine royal ballroom floor. Her diamond gaze doesn’t leave the place the girl once stood and, one by one, flashes repeat in her mind. Jennette’s sudden reveal of her lineage and gemstone eyes with Duke Alpheus quickly behind her with a shocked and dreaded face, Ijekiel slowly following behind with one of resolute confidence without the speck of regret—and then just as Claude rejected Jennette, casting her aside after she threw herself at him, he suddenly appeared. That man that had been lingering around the Alpheus mansion who resembled her dad so much, whose charcoal locks dispersed into a gold similar to theirs with eyes of jeweled luster, abruptly charged toward her. If Lucas and Ijekiel hadn’t leapt to her side to defend her, she didn’t know what would have happened.

And then Lucas began letting everything out, his irritated temper getting the best of him. About the spirit that resided alongside that man—who was apparently her uncle—and about Jennette, the truth of her identity and origins and what she was, that Athy had kept hidden as well. She watched, as with each word Lucas had spilled, how the girl’s face fell and began to swell up with tears, crying out in denial.

At some point, they locked eyes—Jennette and Athanasia, as if pleading for her to deny it. And all she did was look away in a drifted off stutter, guiltily.

Jennette collapsed to her knees, alone. The lovely princess, who should’ve been showered in love and spoiled to perfection, was alone. As her father strided toward the brunette, all Athy could think about was how she stood to the sides, protected by Ijekiel—who was supposed to be by Jennette’s—and Claude, wearing a cruelly cold and unfeeling expression as he firmly denounced her. There the lovely princess was, collapsed to her knees without a single luxury of love or riches, and a cruel thought went through Athy’s mind as she watched the mirror of herself—how glad she was, that she wasn’t in Jennette’s place.

And then the bloody scene unraveled, freezing Athanasia in her place as her warm father cruelly stabbed a hole into her uncle, who had leapt to Jennette’s protection. Athanasia glanced over to the pool of blood that still remained, and the dripping red coating Claude’s fist. The moment he appeared, she expected death—Athy couldn’t lie to herself about that. But it scared her a bit, the brutality of her father that she had never seen before—the most powerful man in the empire, who could’ve used his magic to do the job as he always had before, but instead used his bare hands—as if he wanted to feel the man’ life slip away himself.

But when Claude started walking towards Jennette with a blade in hand, a fear crept inside of Athanasia. The sight of Jennette sobbing on her knees, prostrated before him as Claude told her how unloved she would forever be—Athy couldn’t help but feel a sense of dread. It was familiar—familiar because this had happened to her. A painful realization grappled at Athy’s heart, that if she stood there and let Claude kill her, she would be no different from the people who let Athanasia get executed. The people who let her get executed, after living a lonely and loveless life.

So she couldn’t help but call out in protest—but it was too late. Before she knew it, there was chaos, blades of black magic clawing at the walls, destroying everything in sight, suffocating the room with mana to where Athy could hardly breathe—and then nothing. Nothing at all remained of the two.

Nothing was left. Jennette’s bashful smile haunted Athy’s mind, flushed cheeks and fingers fiddling with the cheap string bracelet she had bought her on a whim, and a rush of emotion overwhelmed the gilded princess.

“… find them.”

Lucas looked over to the princess’ mumbling. “Hah?”

Athanasia’s diamond eyes gleamed, and she jumped at the magician, grabbing at the collar of his robes.

“I said—find them! There has to be a magic trail—or something, right?! So find them! Find…” The brightest, warmest, joy-filled smile she had seen, with soft brunette locks outlined by the glow of bursting fireworks. Athy trailed off, fingers loosening as she gazed into Lucas’ eyes, and he huffed.

“Fine! Wait here,” he grumbled, gently tearing her hands away from him, and stepping unevenly toward the room’ center. Ijekiel watched Athanasia cast her gaze toward the center, desperation and guilt laced in her usually sparkling jeweled eyes, and he looked back toward his father—who had been knocked unconscious halfway, laying against one of the walls. Among all of the cracked and slashed concrete, the area above his father’s discarded body was unusually untouched—as if Jennette couldn’t even hurt him in her blind outburst. A mellow feeling enveloped Ijekiel’s chest—preparing for when his father wakes to the disappearance of the girl he had raised for nearly two decades.

Lucas approached the center, following the charred trail and where it stopped. He crouched down, a pale hand against the marble with a scrunched up nose in disgust—as if he had touched something dirty. He grumbled to himself, huffing as he focused his great mana. The longer he let his mana analyze the trace of the remains, the more his narrowed eyes and furrowed eyebrows began to raise.

“… hah? It’s not here.”

“I know she’s not here, Lucas, so go find her—“

“No.” The magician's firm, deadpan response silenced the princess. “The Chimera isn’t here, nor is the spirit or the corpse. Their magic just… stops.”

Lucas stands up, focusing the reach of his mana and extending it. His eyes glow, filled with crimson red mana that sparks around him.

“Teleportation would still leave some trace. With how unstable both of their mana was, something would’ve been left—and they wouldn’t have been able to go far anyway.” The red light fizzles out, extinguished like a flame, and he turns toward Athanasia—whose eyebrows are raised in shock and confusion. “They’re gone. Like they were just sucked up by some void.”

“Then…” Athy’s jeweled gaze wavers, lowering to the ground. On the ground, by her heel, is a little pendant—thin and weak, rusted, made from a cheap metal—but one she recognizes, a small frayed purple thread stuck onto the loop. “Where… did she go?”

—♢♦︎♢—

Something funny is hanging from one of the trees of the Rass estate.

A strange storm, the biggest in over a decade they say, happened. It lasted from yesterday morning to the ungodly hours of last night. The second son of De Rass was out practicing his sword training when it happened—some murky clouds and a few drops of rain, but sudden showers weren’t too unusual. And then an emergency announcement from the temple came out, and he was ushered inside right before it got worse. Unpredictable, apparently the priests were making a fuss about it, his father mentioned during dinner. Claims of the world ending, that Vita has forsaken us, a premonition of some great blessing or calamity—yadda yadda, not really Carsein’s problem. The biggest issue was that he was holed in all day yesterday because of it—an onslaught of hail knocking on the rooftops, the outdoor training grounds littered with frozen sleet, constant flashes of lightning splitting the sky that could probably give his uncle a heart attack at his old age (no disrespect to his majesty though), booming thunder and the noisy pitter patter of rain practically washing the walls and windows—it was honestly a miracle he slept through most of it. Either way, by the time he woke up at the break of dawn, everything had gone back to normal. The gravel of the training grounds were barely damp, but no longer frozen thanks to Castina’s predominantly warm weather. The walls and rooftops were dripping a bit, but overall there was not really any damage—well, besides the single window that broke during the storm.

Otherwise, normal. The clouds parted quickly, and a beautiful sunny day was born. Good. He could continue his training from yesterday.

At least, that was his plan until his mother—her mystical, sky blue hair that neither he or his brother inherited combed neatly over her shoulder, and equally glass-like blue eyes sharply narrowed—held him back.

“Something doesn’t feel quite right, yet,” she murmured.

“Feels fine to me…” The Duchess glared pointedly at her youngest before letting his shoulder go.

“You can go, but be alert. There’s still something out there.”

Which is how he found himself staring up this tree. ‘Something’, indeed. It was an ordinary tree, an older oak with moderately dark ribbed bark and little colonies of lush moss climbing up the base. The roots were a bit bulbous, digging neatly into the grass and disappeared under the dirt. In opposition, its thick limbs split into numerous smaller branches that reached up into the sky, shadowed by the bushels of leaves. Like he said, an ordinary tree, just outside of one of the Rass gardens on the way to the training grounds.

The only not-so-ordinary thing was probably what caught his eye. Among one of the higher branches, sturdy with a thicker base, was something swinging. It was light—the fabric of what he thought was a dress anyway, swaying softly like freshly aired out sheets. That was the first weird thing. A drop of water lands right above Carsein’s eyelid, and he forces that arctic blue eye shut out of instinct. The tree is still obviously wet, as well as the ground. That fabric swaying in the wind? An ornate pattern involving marguerite flowers with gold embroidery curling around the waist, an addition to a fine and silky material with delicate lace and ruffles. There’s a large dark stain trailing from her shoulder to the dress skirt, but he’s not one to question a stranger’s clothing choices. Either way, Carsein doesn’t know much about dresses, but he knows what wet clothes look like. That dress is dry.

Carsein looks to the ground, and finds a tattered ribbon. Crouching to pick it up, he stares at the fabric in his hand and compares it to the person in the tree. There’s more torn pieces of cloth higher up, and that combined with the pieces of branch at his feet, you’d almost think she fell from the sky. That’s impossible though, so Carsein dismisses the thought immediately.

Upon closer inspection of the ribbon held up to the person in the tree, it’s a very nice dress, too. Or, at least it was. He’s been to his fair share of balls and social events, as well as gone out to town with Tia once or twice, so he can tell the difference between decorated gowns versus day-to-day casual outfits. The second weird point, he guesses—what’s someone doing at the Rass estate wearing a formal ball gown? He'd be less surprised to see a sword smuggled in the tree.

The mop of tangled messy hair, is brown. Nothing to make note of, pretty ordinary in itself, some kind of chestnut. It wasn’t the signature bold red of the Rass family, or the snow white of the Monique’s. His name escapes him—Allen? It’s not a spring green like his family’s either. In addition, not even close to the blue of the royal family’s hair. So, it’s a plain and ordinary hair color you could pretty much find on anyone. That being said, Carsein doesn’t really recall any family friends with this kind of chestnut brown hair. With the shadow of the tree and the leaves stuck in her hair, he can’t really make out her face either. He tilts his head, eyes trailing her folded over figure to her legs, where a shoe is missing—the other, nearly falling off. After doing a vague glance nearby, he doesn’t see its pair. The redhead laughs nervously to himself—third, how did she get up there with only one shoe?

“Hey,” Carsein calls, brash, with a hand next to his mouth to project his voice. The lady doesn’t move. A peckish feeling starts creeping up on him, some kind of nervousness in his gut. This is a real girl, right? And not a ghost? He looks back at the fabric in his hand, and clutches it. Get a hold of yourself Carsein, that’s stupid. Carsein casts his gaze up again, his shoulders dropping in a sigh. He’s not going to be here all day trying to wake her up, right?

Carsein pauses, running his hand through his hair, the cogs in his brain turning. Her clothes are dry, even though it was just storming out, which means she must’ve arrived recently right? Carsein’s eyebrows furrow, thinking back to the horror stories Kaysian told him of noble ladies who admired him too much, and the lengths some would go through to get his attention. This isn’t one of them… is it?

“Hey, if you’re doing this to get attention, cut it will you? It’s dangerous up there…” The young redhead calls out again, louder. No stir. Carsein scratches his head. The boy starts weighing his options, the different possibilities, and comes to the conclusion that it’s too complicated to dwell on it any longer. He should’ve just followed his gut from the beginning.

So the definitely refined young gentleman, second son of De Rass, kicks the tree roughly like some brute.

“I’m being serious here. Come down, or I’ll…” The oak tree rumbles, the leaves and flimsy branches shaking as a result of his act of violence. He shouldn’t be surprised—really, he shouldn’t—but he is, when the hanging figure begins to slip. Carsein��s turquoise eyes widen, catching a sliver of sunlight from between the leaves as he faces the consequences of his rash actions. As the figure’s weight shifts, toppling more toward her lower half, she slides off of the branch like some potato sack and it’s then when Carsein faces the reality—the girl’s actually unconscious.

In a perplexed panic, he steps back, hot adrenaline pumping through his veins trying to predict where she’ll fall. It happens quickly—her softened jawline scratches against the bark, her fingertips leaving the branch’s edge, and Carsein reaches out, arms extended with a wide and grounded stance.

This isn’t a romance novel, so she falls inelegantly, in one fell swoop, and Carsein doesn’t catch her like a gentleman should. There isn’t a flutter of the heart, unless you count the teen’s pulse palpitating out of head racing panic. The figure’s only heeled shoe that was left falls, hitting the ground and he hears it disturb the dirt with a muffled flop. What he comes in contact with first is her waist, and he hates how his first thought is how small it is, before he grasps the rest of her torso and pulls her close. Everything above her neckline hangs over his shoulder, her toes limp as he just barely lets them touch the ground. Carsein’s hands scramble against her back, knotting his fingers clumsily into her tangled hair and losing his balance a bit, but regains it just as quickly. She’s light, dangerously so. He could probably say he’s held swords heavier than her—some exaggerated thought, but it really does feel like it. Her bare feet drag against the path, and he lowers himself slowly to his knees to readjust his hold on her more comfortably.

She’s a frail little thing, fragile in his arms, and it reminds him of when he saw Tia for the first time—a weak thing she was, with a gloomy disposition at the back of the room, decorated in pretty clothes like some doll. That’s just what this girl is, Carsein thinks, examining her figure. Doll-like, with pale, porcelain-like skin that’s cold to the touch—frozen. An uneasiness builds in his chest, fearing he may have just discovered a corpse, before catching the barely noticeable rise and fall of her chest.

A long sigh, and the immediate release of tension. She’s nothing like the array of crazed women his elder brother described—who would be much older—to his relief, though quickly grumbling to himself about his stupid paranoia. Her figure is that of a growing girl’s, long and thin limbs more petite than Tia’s, but he can tell she’s closer to his age than hers. Carsein stares with a pointed look in contemplation, before shifting the arm that wasn’t supporting her, to move the incoherent and messy chestnut strands from her face. When he consciously intertwines his calloused fingers through them, the first thought he has is that they’re soft. Despite the tangles and speckles of bark from the oak, her brunette strands are fine and thin like a spider web’s thread. Moving her bangs, cut bluntly like a fan, he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t speechless for at least a second.

He’s not an idiot, so he knows she’s pretty. That’s not quite it though—she’s pretty, but not beautiful or gorgeous in any way. His mother, for one, is gorgeous—at least that’s what his father says—sharp cat-like eyes, fine eyelashes, higher cheekbones, thin lips, etcetera, etcetera. Tia is also beautiful with her feathery locks like fresh snow, twinkling eyes like polished amber that seem to set ablaze the moment she holds a sword, a sharper jawline accompanied by soft cheeks and fuller lips—not that he’s looked at them, definitely not—but they’re all different somehow in a way that Carsein has to think hard about. The girl here though, she’s a wishy-washy mix. Her cheeks, a little plump with baby fat, are softly rounded and feel like rose petals. There’s remnants of something familiar on them, a bit crusty and brick colored, but he can’t really tell what it is exactly. Her upper and lower eyelids are puffy though, practically the only color in her body, rosy and flushed as if she had been crying all night. Weird. Carsein’s eyes travel from her closed eyes to her slightly parted mouth—short eyelashes and thin, dry lips, practically devoid of color.

“Hey…” Carsein is irritated now, shaking her shoulder roughly. She may not be a stalker of his brother’s—or maybe she is, who knows how crazy girls his age are—but it doesn’t change the fact that it’s creepy. “Hey, you, wake up!”

He sees her lower lip tremble, and one of her eyelids twitch as she stirs. The girl’s thin eyebrows furrow, pressure building between them. Her eyelashes flutter open, finally, and—oh. The girl, so doll-like—her eyes open only a sliver, but that’s enough for Carsein’s breath to lodge up in his throat. He’s never seen such a myriad of colors before—a vivid marbled aurora trapped inside a prism, how the sunlight dances in them, glittering like the intricately cut facets of a jewel. Her eyes are reminiscent of diamonds, the finest jewel known to man, but even that almost feels insulting. The fractaled light caught within them spirals with rainbow-like hues, so much more brilliant than the simple luster of a diamond. It’s honestly more disturbing than beautiful to the redhead, yet he can’t seem to look away.

The girl’s eyes waver, unfocused—at least, he thinks so, since he assumes that darkness in the middle is the pupil—and she breathes out. Her breath is a bit raspy, like a wheeze—oh, her throat is probably dry. Crazy, since she was in the middle of a storm—or maybe not since her clothes aren’t wet in the slightest. Her lips seem to move, trying to form words, but nothing comes out. After a moment of struggling, the eyes she had barely managed to open, flutter shut again and her neck goes slack, drained of whatever energy she had. Carsein kneels there, uncomfortable, until he sighs of relief when her chest softly rises and falls again.

The boy looks up to the sun peeking between the leaves, and grumbles to himself. Putting his weight onto his feet, he straightens his legs and stands up securely. The redhead thinks to himself about the weirdness of this situation, and what exactly this means for the future, as he begins walking back towards the manor, the mysterious and weird young lady comfortably carried in his arms.

One thing’s for sure—Carsein isn’t getting any practice today.

#who made me a princess #wmmap #suddenly became a princess one day #sbapod #wmmap au #wmmap fanfic #the abandoned empress #abandoned empress #wmmap jennette #wmmap athanasia #carsein de rass #crossover #crossover fic

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