#this got way longer than I expected anyway

[solrburst]

cowboy daddy — bull rider!joel miller x reader

𝒮ummary: At a dusty rodeo under a burning sun, you got lost from your friends and found Joel Miller instead

𝒲arnings: idk how to tag it but reader continues the action after he comes, semi-public sex, oral sex (m! receiving), multiple orgasms, unprotected sex, small town, reader is soft and feral, masturbation, dirty talk, age gap

𝒜uthor’s 𝒩ote: i've been obsessed with elsie silvers' books so i had to do it i'm sorry

𝒲ord 𝒞ount: 14,8k

The sun hung low like a burning brand in the sky, casting gold over the dust that curled and drifted in the air. The grandstands of the fairgrounds were packed, filled with the sounds of country rock and distant hoots from half-drunk cowboys and girls with rhinestones on their jeans. The scent of fried food and sweat clung to everything, thick and familiar.

You hadn’t planned to lose your friends. It was supposed to be a carefree Saturday—a little too much seltzer, too much flirtation, and too many selfies taken under the banner for the “State Bull Riding Finals.” But somewhere between the snack stand and the beer tent, they vanished into the crowd. You didn’t panic, though. You drifted instead, letting the music guide your hips and the heat kiss your skin, your crop top tied just right above your navel, your denim skirt fluttering dangerously high with every step. You knew how you looked, and the trail of glances you left behind proved it.

Then came the roar. A surge of excitement, collective and hungry. You turned, drawn toward it like a moth to fire, and slipped through the crowd until you stood by the edge of the arena fence, right as the announcer’s voice cut clear through the speakers:

“Now y’all hold your breath for this one—eight seconds of hell comin’ up with the one and only, the undefeated, Joel Miller!”

You weren’t expecting him.

The man that strode into the center of the arena wasn’t just some local boy in too-tight Wranglers. No, this one carried the kind of weight that made every inch of the world feel smaller. Broad shoulders, thighs like pistons under faded denim, a salt-and-pepper scruff shadowing a jaw that looked carved out of goddamn Texas itself. His eyes were hidden under the brim of a worn, black hat—but you felt him anyway.

He mounted the bull like he’d done it a thousand times—because he had. The animal twisted beneath him, already wild with rage, hooves gouging the dirt, snorting steam like a demon. The gate opened. Time shattered.

You’d never seen something so fucking beautiful.

The way his body moved with the bull—controlled chaos, all muscle and instinct. Eight seconds felt like a lifetime. The crowd counted down, breathless. He lasted. He always did. And when he dismounted, dust coating the sweat on his arms, his hat flew free—spinning once, twice—before landing at your feet, just on the other side of the rail.

You leaned down, fingers brushing the brim. It smelled like sun, leather, and something darker—masculine in the most dangerous way.

Then you heard his voice. Low and slow, like whiskey poured over ice.

“Looks better on you, darlin’. Keep it.”

Your eyes met his. There was a curl at the corner of his mouth—half smile, half dare.

You gave him a smile as sweet as pie, lashes fluttering just enough to bait the hook.

“Might be the first thing I’ve stolen that no one’s tried to take back.”

He raised a brow, those stormy eyes lingering on you longer than polite. “Well… maybe I don’t want it back.”

Your fingers gripped the hat a little tighter.

And just like that, something started. Not a spark—no, this wasn’t delicate. This was heat and dust and the promise of something wild.

Joel Miller had noticed you. And you weren’t planning on letting him forget.

The fair had started to melt into late afternoon, that honey-colored hour where everything looked softer, slower—like time itself was leaning back with a drink. You’d wandered off from the arena, Joel’s hat snug on your head, brim tilted just low enough to make you feel like trouble. The stalls stretched out along the grass, strung with fluttering pennants and rows of handmade goods—leatherwork, turquoise jewelry, candles that promised to smell like bonfires and bad decisions.

You stood before one of them, idly thumbing a braided bracelet, pretending to care about the craftsmanship while your other hand toyed with a red lollipop between your lips. You liked how it tasted—sugar and cherry—but you liked even more the way men looked at you when you sucked on it slow, tongue tracing the hard curve before slipping it back into your mouth with a soft pop.

That’s when you felt him.

Not saw—felt.

The air changed. Heavy. Like gravity pulled harder when he walked near. You didn’t even have to turn your head to know it was Joel. You felt that same weight you’d felt in the ring—like some old god in denim, slow and carved from dust.

“Heard red’s your color.”

You looked over your shoulder, the sucker shifting between your lips, eyes half-lidded beneath the brim of his hat now snug atop your head. Joel stood there, arms folded across his chest, forearms thick and sun-kissed, his white tee clinging to a chest built to hold sin. He was grinning like he’d been looking for you—and like he wasn’t the least bit surprised to find you right there, in his hat, licking candy like you were born to torment.

“Was wonderin’ when you’d come lookin’,” you said, voice syrupy, playing dumb with your eyes all lit up. “Didn’t think it’d be so soon.”

“Ain’t lookin’ for my hat.” He glanced down at you, gaze slow like a drag off a cigarette. “Figured it found the right head. But I was wonderin’ what a girl like you’s doin’ out here all alone.”

You stepped a little closer to the stall, just enough to make him lean in to hear you better. The lollipop clicked against your teeth as you pulled it free, letting your lips linger on the glossy red tip.

“Didn’t know I was alone. Figured you were watchin’ since the arena.”

Joel’s brows ticked upward, amused. His eyes didn’t move from your mouth.

“Might’ve been. Hard to look away when someone’s wearin’ my hat, suckin’ on candy like that.”

You smiled slow, that soft, sweet expression that always got people to underestimate you. Then, tilting your head, you held the lollipop out toward him between two fingers.

“Wanna taste?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you, that long, unreadable look that said he was weighing his options—or maybe the trouble you came with. Then he stepped forward, real close, shadows and heat wrapping around you both.

Joel didn’t take the candy. He leaned in, just enough to speak low into your ear, his breath warm.

“Darlin’, if I start tastin’ you, that sucker ain’t the first thing I’ll be wantin’.”

And then he leaned back, not touching you, just looking at you like he already owned your next move. Like he knew you’d follow, whether you meant to or not.

The sucker stayed in your hand. Your heart kicked up under your ribs.

Something in the air snapped tighter between you two.

The tension hummed, a slow-burn kind of heat that didn’t demand anything—it just waited, sure as a storm in a dry sky. Joel stood there in the dying sunlight, all rough edges and coiled charm, and you felt his gaze settle heavy on you again—like you’d been branded by it.

He tipped his chin toward the back of the fairgrounds, where the floodlights were starting to flicker on over a spread of lawn chairs, pickup trucks, and coolers. Laughter drifted through the air, along with the twang of a guitar and the occasional clink of glass bottles.

“We’re settin’ up by the trailers. Cold beer, good company. You oughta come.”

It wasn’t a question.

You twirled the lollipop back between your lips, leaning a little on one hip. That crop top rode higher, teasing the smooth line of your waist. You didn’t say yes right away—no, you let the silence stretch, watching him, letting him want the answer before you gave it.

Then you gave a soft shrug, playful.

“Sure. Long as no one minds me showin’ up lookin’ better than all the other girls.”

Joel chuckled, deep and rough, like a growl wrapped in velvet.

“Sugar, you walked in lookin’ better than the rest. They’ll live.”

You fell into step beside him, the brim of his hat shading your face as you walked across the fairgrounds. He didn’t touch you—but he didn’t need to. The way he moved beside you, easy and tall, the occasional sideways glance full of unspoken things—it was enough.

The closer you got, the louder it became. Three trucks were backed up in a horseshoe around a crackling firepit, chairs and blankets scattered around, and a big cooler overflowing with beer and melting ice. Joel’s buddies were already gathered—broad men with sunburnt arms and worn-out boots, laughing like they hadn’t known hard days.

One of them spotted you and let out a long, appreciative whistle.

“Well damn, Miller. You didn’t say you were bringin’ a dessert.”

Joel didn’t even look at the guy. He just reached over to grab two beers from the cooler, popped them open with a bottle opener hanging from his belt, and handed one to you with a little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Play nice,” he told them, calm but firm.

You took the beer, nails clinking against the glass, and let your lips curl slow around the rim before sipping. You could feel every pair of eyes on you, but your attention didn’t stray from Joel. Not for long.

“So,” you said, tilting your head, your voice a teasing whisper meant only for him, “you always share your toys with the boys?”

He grinned, finally letting his eyes drag slow over you.

“Ain’t a toy if it bites back, darlin’. And somethin’ tells me… you bite real good.”

The night stretched ahead, thick with heat and the smell of smoke and beer. Someone strummed a guitar, another tossed firewood onto the flames. But you? You leaned into the curve of your chair, beer in hand, and let the hat tip forward to shadow your grin.

You were right where you wanted to be.

And Joel Miller? He was definitely lookin’ at you like the game had only just begun.

The fire cracked behind you, throwing golden shadows across Joel’s broad chest. The beer bottle in your hand was sweating, beads of condensation rolling over your fingers as you nursed the last few sips. You’d laughed at some story his buddy Tommy told—something about a steer getting loose and chasing a drunk out of a porta-potty—but your eyes had stayed mostly on Joel. The way he sat, heavy and relaxed, one arm draped over the back of his folding chair like he owned the whole damn county. He hadn’t stopped watching you either.

You swirled the last of your beer in the bottle, then let your voice cut low, sweet, just enough to make him lean in to hear.

“So… where does a cowboy like you sleep on the road?”

Joel didn’t answer right away. Just cocked his head a bit, eyes narrowed, amused and curious like he was tryin’ to read your angle.

You smiled, teasing your bottom lip between your teeth, then looked out toward the edge of the field where a row of trailers sat under flickering sodium lights. You nodded toward them.

“I wanna see it,” you said softly. “Your trailer. Where you sleep.”

Joel’s lips curled into something not quite a smirk, not quite a smile. More like a knowing. His fingers reached down into the cooler again, pulling out another bottle—cold and dripping. He popped the cap against the edge of the metal grate by the fire and handed it to you without a word.

You took it, brushing your fingers along his in a way that said this ain’t innocent.

Then he stood. The firelight caught his frame, tall and cut from something older than time—something that didn’t bend easy. He jerked his head slightly toward the trailers.

“C’mon then.”

You followed, your boots crunching soft in the grass, that little skirt of yours swaying with every step. He didn’t walk too fast. Didn’t walk too slow. Just kept beside you, matching your pace like you’d been walking together for years.

When you reached his trailer, it was exactly what you imagined—beat-up in a charming way, streaks of red dust on the aluminum sides, an old Texas flag decal peeling off the back. He swung the door open and motioned you in with that big hand of his, letting you go first.

The inside was dim, a narrow space full of lived-in scent: leather, sweat, and faint cologne. A small bed in the back corner, sheets messy, denim jacket tossed over the edge. There was a shelf lined with personal things—a few old rodeo belt buckles, a photo pinned to the wall of a much younger Joel, clean-shaven and grinning next to a bull the size of a truck.

You wandered in slow, looking around like you belonged there.

Joel leaned against the doorframe, watching you with arms crossed, his beer dangling from one hand.

“Didn’t figure you were the type to get real interested in travel accommodations.”

You looked back over your shoulder, lips brushing your beer bottle.

“Maybe I just wanted to know where the big Cowboy Daddy, Joel Miller, lays his head down after a long, hard ride.”

He laughs. Loud, and it looked like just the view of you amused him.

His eyes dropped to your legs, then to your mouth. Real slow. That silence fell again—thick silence. The kind that begged for something to break it. A breath. A whisper. A touch.

“You always this curious?” he asked, voice rough.

You turned fully, letting the light from the tiny trailer window catch the curve of your waist, the sweet, sharp smile on your lips.

“Only when it’s worth it.”

Joel took a long drink of his beer, then set it down on the counter. You could feel the shift—he hadn’t moved yet, but something in him had. Like a bull behind the gate.

The air inside the trailer felt tighter than it should’ve—low ceiling, narrow walls, but that wasn’t it. It was the weight of Joel’s stare. The way his shoulders filled the doorway like he was trying real hard not to let anything in—or let you out.

You’d wandered your way to the little counter near the sink, fingers dancing along the edge of a battered cutting board, an old coffee mug, a half-used bottle of cologne that smelled like cedar, smoke, and sin. You took a sip from your beer, slow, savoring it like the pause between heartbeats. You could feel him watching your mouth.

“Ain’t much, but it’s home when I’m on the road,” he said.

You looked over your shoulder, head tilted, giving him that same syrupy smile that made most men melt—and always got them to show their hand.

“Not bad. Cozy. Probably gets a lotta use.”

Joel stepped closer, boots whispering across the linoleum. His voice dipped low.

“Only when I got someone worth sharin’ it with.”

Your lashes fluttered just enough to tease, but your mouth quirked into something sharper. You turned, leaning back against the counter, your hip jutting out just enough to catch his eye.

“Lotta women think they’re worth it, huh?” you murmured.

He didn’t answer. Just stepped in, slow and steady, like you were a skittish mare he didn’t wanna spook—but he still intended to saddle. His hand came up to the counter beside your waist, the other brushing a loose strand of hair from your face.

“Can’t lie, darlin’. Ain’t been starvin’ out here.”

Then his eyes dropped to your lips. And he leaned in.

That smell—dust and leather and just a hint of beer—wrapped around you. His mouth hovered a breath from yours, just close enough to make your pulse skip. You let it hang there. Let him think he had you. Then you tilted your head back—not away, but just enough.

Your eyes met his, a flicker of fire behind the softness.

“You fuck a woman in every town you stop in, don’t you?” Your voice was honeyed, sharp beneath the sweetness. “Flash a grin, tip your hat, make ‘em feel special for a night—then ride out like a ghost.”

Joel didn’t blink. But that smile? It changed. Less wolf, more… curious.

“And you think you ain’t like them.”

“No,” you said, voice velvet-wrapped steel. “I know I’m not. You want me, cowboy, you gotta earn me.”

There was a pause. Heavy and deep.

Then Joel laughed—low and warm in his chest, like he hadn’t heard something that real in a long damn time.

“Well,” he said, drawing back just enough to breathe, “guess I picked the right girl to hand my hat to.”

Your lips curved, slow and wicked.

“Guess you did.”

He didn’t try to kiss you again. Not yet.

But the promise hung thick in the air, clinging to every slow glance, every breath.

And Joel Miller? He’d never had to earn a damn thing before.

But he looked at you like maybe this time… he wanted to.

Your phone buzzed against your thigh, tucked in the waistband of that tiny denim skirt. The vibration broke the heat in the air, snapped the taut string stretched between you and Joel. You looked down slowly, reluctant, fingers brushing over the screen.

[Maddie: girl where the HELL are you?? we lost you like hours ago 😭]

[Maddie: we’re at the Ferris wheel—text me NOW]

You smiled faintly, a little breath through your nose. Damn. You’d forgotten they even existed.

Joel leaned back slightly, still close enough to feel the heat of him, his hand resting easy on the counter beside you. He glanced at the phone, then back at you, one brow raised.

“They send out a search party?”

“Somethin’ like that,” you murmured, tucking the phone away again, your fingers brushing over his wrist as you stepped slightly back—not far, but enough to signal it.

He nodded once, jaw flexing like he didn’t love the idea of you leaving—but he wasn’t gonna stop you, either.

“That friend of yours got a leash on you?”

You gave him a slow grin, stepping around him toward the trailer door, beer bottle still dangling from your fingers. The sway in your hips wasn’t an accident.

“No one’s got a leash on me, cowboy.”

You paused at the door, glancing over your shoulder, eyes lit with something dangerous.

“But don’t worry. I remember the way back.”

Joel watched you go, one hand coming up to rub the back of his neck, his mouth pulled into a smirk that looked equal parts amused and intrigued.

“I bet you do.”

You stepped out into the thick summer night, the fair still glowing in the distance, the sound of music and laughter calling you back. Joel’s hat still sat snug on your head, brim casting shadows over your grin.

You didn’t look back again.

Didn’t have to.

He was already planning on seeing you again.

The morning cracked open mean and loud.

It started with the slamming of a cabinet door. Then the sharp clink of glass bottles rattling in the sink—half-empty, sticky, the smell of stale liquor already thick in the air before the sun had fully risen. You moved through the kitchen with your jaw tight, boots hitting the linoleum with purpose, your little bag slung over one shoulder. Eyes down. Don’t engage. That was the rule.

But of course, your dad was already drinking.

“Where the hell do you think you’re goin’ dressed like that?” his voice slurred out from the recliner, worn leather groaning under his weight.

You didn’t stop moving.

“Out.”

“Rodeo again?” he barked, dragging himself up with a grunt, bottle clutched tight. “What, you think some goddamn cowboy’s gonna fix your life?”

You froze at the door, back to him. Your fingers curled around the strap of your bag tighter.

“You wouldn’t know anything about fixing lives,” you muttered, voice sharp and flat. “You just burn everything down and wait for someone else to clean it up.”

That set him off.

“You little bitch—”

Glass shattered. Something thrown. Not at you—but close enough to make the wall rattle. You didn’t flinch. You’d stopped flinching years ago. Just sucked in a breath, jaw locked hard.

“Mom left you,” you said, voice cold now. “And all you’ve done since is try to drown me in her place.”

Then you turned the knob. Walked out.

The sun outside was blinding compared to the nicotine-stained dark behind you. Your boots crunched the gravel of the drive. But what stopped you wasn’t the light.

It was the rumble of an old truck engine.

And Joel Miller, leaning against the driver’s side, one boot hooked over the other, arms folded across his chest like he’d been there a while. The hat you wore last night still sat snug on your head, shielding your eyes—but you didn’t miss the way his gaze moved over you. Not hungrily. Not like the men who looked too long at gas stations. It was measured. Careful. A quiet, burning kind of look.

“Hey,” he said simply. “Was just about to knock.”

You blinked. A full second passed before your body remembered how to move.

“What the hell are you doin’ here?”

He pushed off the truck, that easy gait of his moving him toward you. He looked good—too good for a morning this fucked. Flannel sleeves rolled to his elbows, jeans dusty, the lines of sleep still soft in the corners of his eyes.

“Asked around town,” he said. “Figured if I didn’t find you, I’d spend the day wonderin’ if you were real or somethin’ I dreamed up.”

Your mouth twitched. Almost a smile. Almost.

He asked for you around the town. Motherfucker.

“You borrow this too?” you asked, nodding to the truck.

Joel gave a low chuckle.

“Yeah. Tommy’s. He’s still drunk from last night. Won’t notice it’s gone ‘til it’s too late.”

The screen door behind you groaned. You didn’t look back. Joel’s eyes flicked to the sound but didn’t say anything—didn’t need to. He’d seen enough.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low now, serious.

You lifted your chin.

“I will be when we’re not standin’ in this goddamn driveway.”

Joel held your gaze for a moment, then stepped back and opened the passenger side door.

“Then get in.”

You didn’t hesitate.

You climbed in, tossing your bag in first. As you slammed the door shut, the house behind you might as well’ve been a hundred miles away. Joel circled the front of the truck, climbing in behind the wheel, the engine growling to life.

The silence between you settled soft. Heavy.

After a minute, Joel glanced over, one hand on the wheel, the other relaxed near the gear shift.

“You don’t gotta talk about it.”

“Good,” you said quickly, cutting him off. Then, after a beat, quieter: “But thanks.”

He nodded. Eyes back on the road.

The truck pulled onto the gravel road, dust trailing behind you like smoke. Ahead, the fairgrounds waited. The noise. The lights. And Joel—Joel wasn’t looking back.

Neither were you.

The truck rolled down the long stretch of two-lane road, the kind that cut through fields and dust like it had nowhere important to be—but today, it had you. The open windows let the wind snake through, lifting strands of your hair, tugging at the brim of Joel’s hat still perched on your head. The same one he’d let you keep the night before.

Your arms were folded tight across your chest, your body turned slightly toward the window, jaw clenched like it had been all morning. That fight still clung to you, like smoke that wouldn’t wash off. Joel didn’t press. He didn’t say a damn thing about the bruised look behind your eyes. But he saw it.

And after a few miles of silence, he decided he’d had enough of it.

“Y’know,” he said, voice easy, drawl thick and smooth, “if you were mine, I wouldn’t let you leave the house wearin’ that skirt either.”

Your head snapped toward him.

He was smirking now, eyes still on the road, like he hadn’t just thrown a match into dry grass.

Your brow arched, mouth twitching like you wanted to be mad—but couldn’t quite stop the smile threatening to crawl across your face.

“You flirt with every girl you pick up outside their daddy’s house, or am I just special?”

Joel let out a low chuckle, one hand drumming against the steering wheel. You saw the way his eyes cut toward you—amused, admiring.

“Nah. You’re special. I don’t chase girls who bite back. Usually I like ‘em soft.”

“And I’m not soft?”

“Not even a little,” he said, slow and glancing at you again, grin spreading wider. “You’re sugar-coated mean, darlin’. All that sweetness up front, but underneath? Ain’t nobody taming you.”

You looked out the window, but the smile finally cracked through. It started small—just the corner of your mouth—but Joel caught it.

“There she is,” he said, real quiet. Like the sound of that smile meant more to him than the rest of the damn day.

You shook your head, huffed a laugh.

“You got a bad habit of knowin’ exactly what to say.”

“No, I just pay attention.”

He reached over, real casual, and brushed his fingers just once against your thigh—low and slow. Not grabby. Not pushy. Just a reminder he was there.

The rodeo grounds were coming into view up ahead. Flags flapping in the breeze, trailers lined up like soldiers, the dust already rising from boots and hooves.

But in that truck, in that moment, there wasn’t any noise. Just the sound of your quiet laughter returning. The faint blush on your cheeks you didn’t bother hiding.

Joel smiled too, his hand slipping back to the wheel.

“Yeah,” he said. “That’s better.”

The rodeo grounds came into focus like a scene from some dusty postcard—trucks lined along the fields, folding chairs popped open under shade tents, the air buzzing with the low drone of generators, country music bleeding from too many speakers at once. Dust rose in lazy spirals with every step of a boot.

Joel swung the truck into a gravel lot behind the competitor trailers. The second he threw it in park and stepped out, it was like blood hit the water.

She spotted him fast—a blonde, tan like leather, long legs poured into skin-tight jeans, with lips glossed up and ready to be kissed. One of those rodeo girls who knew exactly what her hips could do when she walked, and she walked straight up to Joel before you had a chance to even get out of the passenger side.

“Well look who showed up early,” she purred, sunglasses sliding down the bridge of her nose as she looked him up and down. “Joel Miller, back again. Still makin’ bulls look tame and hearts look breakable.”

You rolled your eyes. Subtle, but not subtle enough.

Joel stood easy, relaxed in the heat, arms hanging loose at his sides—but you saw the shift in his eyes. He glanced at you through the windshield. Then back at the woman.

“’Preciate the compliment,” he said, voice even. Then, casual as anything: “But I’m here with my girl.”

You blinked. What?

The woman cocked her head, all that sugar in her smile suddenly turning brittle.

“Oh?”

Joel turned then, motioning toward the truck. His eyes met yours through the open door—steady, warm, the barest flicker of something smug just behind them.

“Yeah,” he said. “She’s the one wearin’ my hat.”

Your heart did a dumb little flip before you could strangle it.

You stepped out slowly, making sure your boot hit the gravel just loud enough to announce your entrance. You didn’t strut—but you didn’t hurry, either. The sun caught the edge of your bare legs, skirt riding dangerously high as you adjusted the hat slightly, just to drive it home.

“Hey,” you said, keeping your tone mild, but your eyes were sharp when you looked at the woman.

The blonde gave a little smirk, the kind that meant she was chewing on jealousy but didn’t want to choke in public.

“Didn’t know Joel had a type.”

“He didn’t,” you said, stepping up beside him. “I’m the exception.”

Joel gave a quiet chuckle, then reached out and rested his hand low on your back—real easy, real sure.

The other woman’s smile twitched, brittle and breaking. She gave a tight shrug, turned on her heel with a swish of hair and attitude, and stalked back toward the trailers.

As soon as she was gone, you tilted your head toward him, lips curving.

“Your girl, huh?”

Joel looked down at you, eyes dark and amused.

“Would’ve said it earlier, but figured I’d ease you into it.”

You snorted, looking away before he could see the way that heat was crawling up your neck.

“You’re real full of yourself, cowboy.”

“Nah,” he said, leaning in just enough to murmur it against the brim of his hat on your head, “just full’a good taste.”

And with that, he stepped around you, grabbing his gear from the back of the truck like he hadn’t just branded you with two words in front of half the damn rodeo.

But that hand on your back? That lingered.

And so did the grin on your lips.

The rodeo grounds buzzed with noise and heat—riders tightening ropes, bulls kicking up dust in their pens, announcers testing mics with long drawls echoing from the PA. Joel slung his duffel over one shoulder, the weight of it resting against his thick frame like it belonged there. He was already shifting into game-face mode—less flirt, more steel. Focused.

You could see it in the way his jaw set, his shoulders squared. All that swagger he wore like a second skin turned just a little more serious.

“I gotta get over to the prep stalls,” he said, jerking his chin toward the far end of the arena where the riders gathered behind the chutes. “Get my gear set, check the draw. You good gettin’ to the stands?”

“The what?” you asked, squinting.

“The grandstands,” he said, half-smiling. “Where my folks watch. C’mon, I’ll show you.”

He reached for your hand without asking, like it was the most natural thing in the world, his fingers curling around yours as he led you through the maze of trailers, hay bales, and riders hollering across the dirt.

The grandstands loomed up ahead—metal bleachers already packed with people in cowboy hats and sunburns, waving programs and drinking from sweaty cups. Joel brought you right up to the fence that divided the crowd from the arena, then turned to face you.

“You sit right up there, center row,” he said, nodding to a spot with the best view of the chutes. “Ain’t hard to find. I’ll be able to see you from the ring.”

You looked up toward the seats, then back at him. His face was in shadow from the sun behind him, but his eyes were clear. Focused. Present.

The air between you turned still for a moment. The sound of everything else—boots stomping, bulls bellowing, distant country music—faded to a dull thrum behind your ribs.

You stepped close.

“Hey,” you said softly.

Joel looked down at you, brows raised.

And then, without asking, you reached up and kissed him.

Not shy. Not sweet. Sure.

Your hand slid up his chest, fingers brushing the collar of his flannel as your lips met his—warm, firm, and steady. Not long. Not sloppy. But full of a promise. You tasted dust and leather and beer and him.

When you pulled back, his eyes hadn’t moved. They stayed locked on yours, quiet heat in every inch of that gaze.

“For luck,” you said, voice low.

He huffed a breath through his nose—half-laugh, half-growl—and smirked.

“If I ride that bull clean, it’s ‘cause of that damn kiss.”

You turned toward the stands, boots clicking against the wood as you climbed the steps. Halfway up, you looked back.

Joel was still watching you.

And even from that distance, you could see it:

That kiss wasn’t leaving his mind anytime soon.

The crowd was already humming before his name was even called.

You sat center row just like he told you, legs crossed, elbows resting on your knees, heart thudding faster than it had any right to. The sun was dipping low, casting long shadows over the arena, and the dust in the air glittered like gold as the announcer’s voice rang out over the speakers.

“Ladies and gentlemen, next up—hold on to your goddamn hats—we got Joel Miller comin’ to the ring!”

The crowd erupted, a swell of hoots and whistles and stomping boots. You didn’t cheer—not yet. You just leaned forward, fingers curling around the edge of the metal seat as the chute gate creaked open and there he was.

Joel.

Mounted on the back of a bull that looked like it was forged in hell—massive, muscles twitching, eyes wild. But Joel sat like stone. Perfect form, one hand in the rope, the other lifted, loose but ready. His legs locked, his core tight. He looked like a man about to go to war with something ancient.

And then the gate blew open.

The bull burst into the ring like a living explosion, hooves slamming the dirt, muscles bucking in furious rhythm. But Joel didn’t falter. Not once. His body moved with the beast like he wasn’t fighting it—like he’d become part of it. The crowd screamed as the seconds counted down, the announcer barking into the mic, but none of that reached you.

You didn’t hear a damn thing.

You just watched him ride.

Eight seconds. Clean. Sharp. Perfect.

When the buzzer sounded, he threw himself off in a practiced dismount, landing heavy in the dirt but already rising again like gravity didn’t matter. The bull stormed off, wrangled by the pickup men, but your eyes were only on Joel.

He looked up toward the stands.

Right at you.

And then, grinning like the devil just gave him permission to sin, he jogged toward the fence—straight across the arena, brushing off the dirt clinging to his shirt and jeans. The crowd was still cheering, but it thinned around you as he stopped right below the railing where you sat.

“Well?” he called up, breathless, chest heaving. “You see that ride?”

You leaned down toward him, your face only a few inches from his. The brim of his hat still sat low over your brow.

“Told you it was the kiss.”

Joel reached up and gripped the top rail of the fence, hoisting himself halfway up with one powerful pull. He was still covered in dust, shirt damp with sweat, curls sticking to his forehead.

“Think I earned another one,” he said, low and rough.

You didn’t make him ask twice.

You leaned in and kissed him right there in front of everyone—hot, full, lips pressed to his like you weren’t in the middle of a cheering stadium. His hand came up, strong and warm on the side of your neck, keeping you there just long enough to turn heads and raise eyebrows.

When you finally pulled away, your mouth tingling, breath caught in your chest, Joel grinned.

“Told you I’d ride clean.”

“Told you,” you whispered, “you had to earn me.”

His eyes narrowed, smirk curling wider.

“Think I’m startin’ to.”

And with that, he dropped back down into the arena dirt, tipping his head once as he turned and walked off—leaving behind a roar of noise, a cloud of dust, and you, heart pounding, smile wide, and lips still tingling with his.

The announcer’s voice boomed over the loudspeakers, barely cutting above the thundering crowd:

“And with a score of 92.7, your winner tonight—Joel Miller!”

The stands erupted, boots stomping against metal bleachers, hats flying into the air, people slapping each other’s backs and hollering like they’d all known him forever. You didn’t holler, though. You just smiled—slow and sure—watching him stand there in the dirt, backlit by the last lick of sunlight, dust curling around his boots like smoke around a flame.

He didn’t milk it. He wasn’t the type to throw his arms in the air or shout victory.

He just looked up toward the grandstands. Toward you.

And that was louder than anything else.

Later, after the arena started to clear out, after he shook a dozen hands and signed a few shirts for sweaty, wide-eyed kids, Joel found you again. You were leaning against the side of his borrowed truck, arms crossed, that crooked smile playing on your lips.

“So,” you said, “gonna ride off into the sunset or what?”

He snorted, grabbing a bottle of water from the backseat and downing half of it in one go.

“Sunset can wait. My back’s soaked through and I’m covered in three layers of dirt and pride.”

You quirked a brow. “What’s your plan then?”

“Trailer,” he said simply. “Gotta get outta these clothes before they stick to my ribs.”

He paused. Looked at you. “C’mon. Ain’t askin’ for anything. Just… I don’t feel like goin’ back there by myself.”

That last part was quieter. Almost under his breath. And it hit a little deeper than you expected.

You didn’t say anything at first. Just pushed off the truck and nodded.

“Alright, cowboy. Lead the way.”

The walk back was quiet, the noise of the rodeo fading behind you like a dying song. The trailers sat in a crescent under strings of yellow lights, buzzing soft with mosquitoes and late-night air. His was toward the end, the same beat-up metal box you remembered from the night before.

He opened the door and stepped inside first, shrugging off his gear and tossing his gloves onto the counter. You followed him in, the door clicking shut behind you.

Inside, it was quiet and warm. The smell of leather and sweat thick in the air, mixed with something softer now—something like soap and the faint echo of cologne on his clothes.

Joel peeled his shirt off with a grunt, the cotton sticking to his back before finally sliding free. His skin glistened, damp with sweat, the muscles in his back catching the low lamplight as he tossed the shirt aside. You watched him without shame, eyes tracing the curve of his spine, the faded scars that whispered stories you hadn’t heard yet.

“Told you I wasn’t gonna do anything,” he said without turning, voice low, rough. “But hell, if you keep lookin’ at me like that…”

You smirked, stepping closer just enough to grab the water bottle he’d left on the counter. You brushed past him, cool plastic trailing his bare side.

“Didn’t say I didn’t want to look,” you said lightly.

He turned then, a towel slung over one shoulder, hair damp with sweat, chest rising and falling slow.

“You want me to step out while you clean up?” you asked, though your voice wasn’t exactly eager to leave.

Joel shook his head.

“You stay.”

And so you did.

You sat at the edge of the bed while he toweled off, pulling clean clothes from the little cabinet above the sink. A fresh shirt, soft with wear. Loose sweats that clung to his hips in the right ways. No tension. No pressure. Just quiet.

He didn’t try to impress you now. He didn’t need to.

He just let you be there.

And somehow, that felt more intimate than anything else could’ve been.

The trailer filled with the soft, rhythmic hiss of running water—the kind of sound that drowned out everything else, muffling the world to a low, warm hum. You sat on the small bench by the narrow bed, one leg crossed over the other, his hat still resting comfortably on your head, tilted just low enough to shade your eyes.

Joel had disappeared behind the thin sliding door at the back of the trailer, the space where the cramped little shower was hidden—barely big enough for a man his size to move in without bumping an elbow or two. You heard the low creak of the faucet handle, the thunk of something (probably his elbow) knocking into the wall, and then the sound of water hitting skin.

The image came easy—him, head bowed under the spray, steam curling around thick shoulders, water gliding down the ridges of his back, dripping over the curve of his spine, soaking into the faint trail of hair that disappeared beneath his waistband. You didn’t try to fight the heat curling low in your belly.

But still, you stayed put.

Mostly.

You glanced at the wall separating you from him, lips twitching as the water shut off with a sharp squeak. A beat passed. Then the door creaked open again.

And there he was.

Joel stepped out, steam rolling into the trailer behind him, clinging to his skin like a second layer. A single white towel was slung low around his hips, barely knotted, just enough to keep from slipping—though not by much. Droplets still clung to his chest, trailing down the defined lines of muscle, soaking into the towel’s edge. His hair was damp, darker with water, a few strands clinging to his temples. His jaw was freshly scrubbed but shadowed, that permanent 5 o’clock scruff giving him a wild, worn edge.

You didn’t look away.

Not even close.

He caught your gaze instantly. And for a moment, he just stood there, towel hanging on his hips, heat lingering on his skin—and something darker sparking behind his eyes.

“You enjoyin’ the view, or should I come back out with jeans on?” he asked, voice low, a teasing rasp undercutting the question.

You tilted your head, slow smile blooming on your lips as you leaned back on your hands, legs still crossed.

“Depends. You plan on droppin’ that towel anytime soon?”

Joel huffed a quiet laugh through his nose, shaking his head as he moved toward the little drawer near the bed, pulling it open and grabbing a pair of soft, well-worn gray sweatpants and a black T-shirt.

“You’re trouble,” he muttered, not even trying to hide the grin.

“So I’ve been told,” you said lightly, watching as he turned just slightly—just enough for the towel to shift low, low enough to flash a dangerous line of hip, the kind of line that invited sin and poor decisions.

You bit your bottom lip and looked away finally—just long enough to breathe.

He noticed.

“Ain’t doin’ it to tease,” he said behind you, voice quiet but rough. “Didn’t think you’d mind.”

You looked back at him. Really looked.

The towel still hung in place, barely. His eyes, though? They weren’t pushing. Not hungry. Not leering. Just watching you like he wanted to be seen, like it didn’t bother him if you looked—so long as you were the one lookin’.

You stood slowly, walking past him to grab the water bottle you’d left on the counter, brushing close enough to feel his damp heat radiating off his skin.

“I don’t mind,” you said, voice soft but pointed. “But you already knew that.”

Joel didn’t move. Just let you pass. But when you turned back, he was still watching you with that low-burning, steady heat.

He didn’t need to touch you to make you feel it.

And even when he turned to pull on his clothes, that damn towel still clinging for its final seconds—your eyes followed.

You weren’t in a rush to look away again.

Joel pulled the soft black T-shirt down over his head, the fabric clinging for a moment before settling across his broad chest. He scrubbed the towel through his damp hair, chest still faintly damp, his scent filling the narrow trailer—soap, skin, something deep and warm that made the air feel heavier.

You sat again, this time perched casually on the edge of the little bench, watching him with that same half-smile playing on your lips. You weren’t trying to be subtle, and he wasn’t pretending not to notice.

As he tucked the last of his things back into his bag, Joel glanced your way.

“Alright,” he said, rolling his shoulders. “You dragged me to the grandstands, into a kiss, and halfway to hell with that look you keep givin’ me. Think it’s only fair I let you pick where we go next.”

You tilted your head, expression thoughtful now. The playfulness dulled just a little as something softer crept into your gaze. Not shy. Just real.

“There’s a place,” you said. “Bit of a drive.”

Joel raised a brow, one arm hooking around the back of his neck as he leaned against the counter, waiting.

“There’s a lake. Little ways outside town, tucked in the woods off the back roads. Ain’t many people know about it. My mom used to take me out there sometimes. After she left…” you hesitated for a moment. “I started goin’ there alone. Just to breathe.”

Joel didn’t speak right away. Just nodded, slow, understanding etched in the hard lines around his mouth.

“Sounds like the right kind of place.”

“It is,” you said, eyes flicking up to meet his again. “I don’t usually bring people there.”

He stepped closer, one hand resting easy on the edge of the counter beside you.

“You don’t usually do a lot of things you’re doin’ lately, huh?”

Your lips curled slightly, and you gave a slow shrug.

“Guess you’re the exception too.”

That earned a real smile from him, wide enough to show the edges of his teeth.

“Alright then,” he said. “Show me this lake.”

You nodded, standing again as he grabbed the keys off the hook near the trailer door.

“You drive,” you said as you passed him, brushing your shoulder just slightly against his chest. “But you better not bitch about the roads. They get rough near the trail.”

Joel opened the door with a huff of amusement.

“Darlin’, you think I’m scared of a little dirt road after ridin’ a thousand pounds of pissed-off bull?”

You glanced back at him as you stepped into the cooling evening, boots hitting the grass with that same lazy sway in your stride.

“Fair. But just wait. This place don’t like to be found easy.”

Joel grinned as he followed you out, locking up the trailer behind him.

“Neither do you.”

And with that, the two of you disappeared into the slow-falling dark, headed down a road most people wouldn’t bother finding… but Joel Miller was already the kind of man who chased what others couldn’t hold on to.

The drive took a while—long enough for the heat between you two to settle into something slow and comfortable, like sun-warmed honey. The roads had narrowed into little more than dirt paths wound through tall trees, the kind that curved and dipped like the woods themselves were trying to hide something.

And then the lake appeared.

It wasn’t big, not something you’d find on a map with a name and a dock and a rules sign hammered into the ground. Just a deep stretch of water nestled quiet among the pines, still and shining under the blush of the setting sky. Fireflies already winked in the tall grass, and the air smelled like earth, summer, and something faintly sweet.

Joel killed the engine.

You slid out first, stepping onto the wild grass barefoot now, your boots left in the truck. The hat—his hat—still sat on your head, tilted at an angle that made your eyes almost smug beneath the brim.

He followed slower, still moving like a man who expected the ground to shift beneath him at any second, always carrying tension in his shoulders. But when he looked around—at the water, the trees, you—some of that weight seemed to roll off him.

“Well,” he muttered, “hell. You weren’t lyin’. Place is damn near perfect.”

“I don’t lie, Joel. I just don’t share easy.”

You dropped into the grass with a soft oof, stretching out on your side before propping yourself up on an elbow. Joel eased down beside you, one leg outstretched, the other bent just enough for balance. His arms rested behind him as he leaned back, eyes on the water.

For a long second, neither of you said anything. It wasn’t awkward. Just… settled.

Then you spoke.

“So,” you said, voice a little softer than your usual sass. “Tell me somethin’. What made you wanna travel the country to get thrown around by angry livestock for a livin’?”

Joel chuckled, the sound deep in his chest.

“You make it sound like I’m out here tryin’ to get killed for fun.”

“Aren’t you?”

“Nah. I’m just too damn stubborn to do somethin’ safe.”

You raised a brow.

“That’s the whole reason?”

Joel shifted, pulled a blade of grass from the ground and started to twist it between his fingers.

“Nah… My brother and I, we grew up rough. Ranch work, every kinda odd job you can think of. When I was sixteen, this old guy down the road—real bastard, had a mouth like a belt sander—he paid me fifty bucks to ride a bull named Whiskey Jack ‘cause his regular guy didn’t show.”

“And you said yes?”

“Hell yeah. I needed gas money and I was dumb as rocks.”

You laughed, leaning into the side of his arm.

“So you just climbed on?”

“Didn’t even have the right boots. Slid right off that bastard after three seconds and nearly cracked my jaw on the chute rail. Thought I’d never do it again.”

“But?”

“But next week I was back. And I stayed on for five seconds. Then six. Then eight.”

You were grinning now, teeth catching your bottom lip.

“So, what—you just fell in love with the pain?”

Joel looked over at you, eyes dark but amused.

“No, sweetheart. I fell in love with the fight. The noise, the crowd, the way it all goes quiet when the gate opens. Nothin’ else exists in that moment but holdin’ on.”

You let that sit for a second, staring at him.

Then you smiled.

“You’re deeper than you look, Miller.”

He snorted.

“Don’t tell anyone. I got a reputation to uphold.”

You scooted just a little closer, your bare leg brushing his denim-covered thigh.

“Don’t worry,” you whispered. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

Joel looked down at you, and for a moment, he didn’t smile. Didn’t smirk. Just looked. Like maybe he’d found something even quieter than the inside of that ring.

“Thanks for bringin’ me here,” he said low. “Even if it’s just to make me spill my life story.”

You grinned, head tilted.

“I didn’t bring you here to talk, cowboy.”

Joel’s brow rose, interested. “No?”

“Nah. I brought you here so you’d shut up and let me admire how good you look in the moonlight.”

Joel laughed then—deep and warm—and leaned just a bit closer.

“Darlin’, you keep flirtin’ like that, I’m gonna forget we’re sittin’ next to a lake and not a motel bed.”

You batted your lashes, all mock-innocence.

“Who said anything about stoppin’ you?”

And just like that, the quiet between you turned electric again—laced with heat, with laughter, with something new simmering slow beneath it all.

And the lake just sat there, still and calm, reflecting back the kind of night you both weren’t ready to end.

The air had turned thick with silence again—but not the peaceful kind this time.

It was charged. Hot. The lake shimmered under the rising moonlight, pale and glass-still, but everything between you and Joel felt like it was rolling just under the surface, waiting to break.

You stared at him, really stared. His face softened in this light—less hardened cowboy, more man. His jaw was still shadowed, lips still curled in that half-damn smile, but his eyes had stopped playing games. They were locked on you. Watching you think.

And you’d thought long enough.

Your fingers brushed against his knee, light at first—then firmer, a glide up over the denim toward his thigh as you sat up, knees tucked beneath you in the grass. Joel didn’t speak. Didn’t move.

He was waiting.

And you didn’t ask.

You just leaned in and kissed him.

Hungry. Desperate. Like every look he’d thrown you today had carved away your patience until nothing was left but fire and need. Your lips crashed into his, full and open, tongue sliding against his in the kind of kiss that tasted like possession. Your hand gripped the back of his neck, fingers threading into the damp curls there, holding him close like you’d waited your whole goddamn life to finally stop holding back.

Joel groaned into your mouth, low and broken, his hand coming up to your waist, squeezing—firm, possessive, like he’d wanted to do it since the minute he saw you in that skirt. You didn’t give him room to talk, didn’t give him breath. You kissed him like you were trying to drag something out of him. Something real.

You pulled back just enough to whisper against his mouth, your voice dark and breathless.

“I’m so fucking tired of pretendin’ I don’t want this right now.”

Joel’s chest rose hard beneath your hands, his breath hot as it hit your cheek.

“Then don’t pretend.”

You kissed him again—deeper. Slow but dirty, the kind of kiss that made the world tilt, made your thighs squeeze tight where you knelt in the grass. His hands slid up under your top, rough palms skimming hot skin, but he still held back. Still let you lead, like he knew you needed to.

You dragged your lips down to his jaw, kissed the scrape of stubble, bit lightly beneath his ear.

“You drive me crazy, Joel,” you breathed. “You look at me like you wanna ruin me… and then don’t.”

He laughed—dark and low, voice cracked.

“Don’t tempt me, sugar.”

“Who says I’m temptin’?” you murmured, dragging your teeth over his throat. “I’m beggin’.”

He groaned again, louder this time, and the sound of it settled deep in you. His hands clenched around your hips like he was fighting every damn instinct in his body.

And still… he didn’t pull you down. Didn’t flip you over. He just kissed you back like it meant something. Like he’d waited just as long to feel something real.

The grass was cool against your knees, but your body burned like fire beneath the moonlight. Joel lay back on his elbows, legs spread wide, sweatpants shoved low on his hips, chest rising with uneven breath as you settled between his thighs.

He was already hard—thick and heavy in your hand as you gripped him, your touch bold, unforgiving, like you weren’t here to tease anymore. No more pretending, no more playing soft. You wanted him wrecked—and he knew it.

Your lips hovered just over the head, and you let your breath hit him before your tongue did. He twitched at the heat of it, groaned low in his chest as your tongue flicked once—slow, deliberate—then again, dragging up the underside with purpose, tasting sweat, salt, skin.

“Shit,” Joel muttered, his head falling back, hand sliding into your hair. “You ain’t takin’ it slow tonight, huh?”

You looked up at him through the brim of his hat still perched on your head, eyes glinting, mouth curling just slightly around him.

“Don’t want slow,” you breathed, voice thick. “Want to feel you lose it.”

And then you sank down.

Your mouth took him deeper, stretching wide as your jaw opened around the weight of him. The sound was obscene—wet, eager, your spit mixing with every movement as you took him farther, one hand gripping the base, the other pressed to his thigh to keep him right there.

Joel’s groan was rough and sharp, pulled straight from his gut.

“God damn, girl—”

You didn’t stop. Your head bobbed, slow at first, then faster, your rhythm building with every low curse that slipped from his mouth. You wanted him undone, trembling, wrecked by the feel of your throat tightening around him, by the wet heat and the way your tongue curled under the tip just right.

You moaned around him, and the vibration made him jerk, his hips flexing before he grabbed the back of your head and groaned again—trying not to thrust, not to take control.

“Keep lookin’ at me like that and I swear—fuck—”

You held eye contact, never breaking it, your lips stretched around his cock, cheeks hollowing with effort and hunger. Spit dripped down your chin, shining in the moonlight, but you didn’t wipe it. You let it stay, let him see the mess you were making of yourself for him.

And he watched you—eyes blown wide, mouth parted, chest rising like he was already chasing the edge.

“You want it that bad, huh?” he growled, voice hoarse, fingers tightening in your hair. “You want me to come down your throat?”

You moaned again—louder. A yes without words, mouth full and greedy.

You could feel it in him—the tension, the twitch of his hips, the way his muscles coiled. He was close. You didn’t let up. You sucked harder, deeper, filthy sounds filling the still night around you.

Joel choked out a broken curse, his head falling back as his grip on your hair tightened.

And then he came.

Hard.

His body tensed, jaw clenched, a guttural groan ripping from his chest as you swallowed every bit of it, never pulling back, never breaking eye contact. You kept going until he twitched from overstimulation, until his thighs trembled beneath your palms.

Only then did you finally pull off—slow, messy, a string of spit and release still clinging to your lip.

You wiped it with the back of your hand, licking it off as you grinned.

“Told you,” you whispered, breathless. “I don’t do things halfway.”

Joel was wrecked—chest heaving, eyes dark, his voice barely a growl.

“Jesus… You just ruined me.”

“Good,” you whispered, crawling up to straddle his lap. “That was the plan.”

You were still straddling his lap, the curve of your thighs flush against his hips, your breath ragged, lips wet from where you’d ruined yourself on him. Joel’s chest rose slow beneath you, and he looked up at you like he hadn’t caught his breath yet.

But something had shifted in his gaze.

That control you took? He was about to take it back.

His hand slid up your bare thigh, slow, possessive—fingertips dragging just under the edge of your skirt. He didn’t ask. Didn’t check. He just looked at you, that rough kind of stillness settling over him. One hand cupped your jaw, thumb brushing your lip.

“Open,” he said softly, and when you parted your mouth, he slipped his thumb in—watching you suck it, wet and slow, your eyes locked to his.

“Good girl.”

His voice dropped lower, a gravel drag through your spine.

Then both hands moved. One grabbed your waist, grounding you in place. The other dipped between your thighs, fingers sliding under the hem of your skirt and dragging the soaked cotton of your panties to the side.

“Look at you,” he muttered, voice thick. “You’re drippin’, darlin’. You got that messy just from suckin’ me off?”

You couldn’t answer. Didn’t have to. Your body spoke for you—hips twitching at the first touch of his fingers sliding through your slick, teasing just outside where you needed him.

He leaned in, lips grazing your throat, the stubble on his jaw scraping your skin in the best kind of burn.

“Want you to ride somethin’ now,” he murmured. “And I ain’t talkin’ about my cock… not yet.”

His middle and ring fingers slid inside you—slow at first, deliberate, curling deep with that exact kind of pressure that made your spine arch. You gasped, thighs twitching around his wrist, and he grinned.

“There it is,” he whispered.

He didn’t move them yet. Just kept them buried in you, palm flat against you, thick fingers pulsing with subtle pressure—making you feel the stretch, the shape, the slow burn.

“Now ride.”

You met his eyes—your lips parted, chest heaving, legs trembling—and obeyed.

Your hips rolled down against his hand, grinding slow over his fingers, deeper, needier. Joel didn’t move them for you. He just let you do it, watched you work for it, mouth half-open, eyes burning.

“Fuck,” he muttered, watching the way you rocked on him. “Look at you, baby. Filthy little thing, makin’ yourself come on my fuckin’ hand.”

Your hands clutched at his shoulders, fingernails digging into muscle as you moved faster—moaning, riding the pressure, the angle of his palm hitting your clit just right with every roll of your hips. His fingers curled, and you cried out.

“That it?” he growled. “Right there?”

You nodded, desperate, lips trembling.

“Say it.”

“There—fuck, Joel, right there—don’t stop—”

He didn’t.

He kept his fingers steady, curling deep, his thumb pressing tight against your clit, grinding up into you as your rhythm turned frantic—your thighs shaking, body tensing, that release building sharp and fast, right under your skin.

“You gonna come for me?” he growled, lips at your ear now, voice tight. “Right on my fuckin’ hand like a good girl?”

You shattered.

The orgasm hit you hard—hips jerking, hands clutching him like a lifeline, your moan drawn-out, unrestrained, wrecked. Joel held you through it, didn’t pull his fingers out until your body trembled and your head fell against his shoulder, gasping for breath.

Slowly, so slowly, he slipped his fingers free—and brought them to his lips.

Sucked them clean, watching you the whole time.

“Tastes like trouble,” he said, voice hoarse. “Think I’m startin’ to like it.”

You laughed against his neck, dizzy and full of heat, your voice wrecked.

“You haven’t even seen half of what I can do.”

Joel smirked.

“Then don’t stop now.”

The lake shimmered in the dark like a secret, moonlight sliding across its still surface, broken only by the occasional flick of a bug or ripple of wind. Joel sat back in the grass, legs stretched, fingers flexing in the leftover heat of you still pulsing down his hand. His shirt clung slightly to his chest where your body had leaned against him, his breath still ragged, pupils still blown.

You leaned back, breath shallow, looking over your shoulder toward the water. The corners of your mouth curled like you were about to say something wicked.

“I wanna swim.”

Joel raised a brow, still catching up. “Now?”

“Mmhm.” You slowly pulled the hat from your head and set it on his chest. “You stayin’ here, cowboy, or you comin’ in?”

But you weren’t waiting for an answer.

You stood, legs shaky but defiant, skirt still hitched high from where he’d had his fingers buried in you. Your shirt clung to your back, your thighs gleamed in the moonlight, and you walked toward the edge of the lake like it owed you something.

And then—slow, deliberate—you grabbed the hem of your top.

Joel sat forward.

You peeled the shirt off, over your head, dropping it in the grass without looking back. No bra. Just bare skin kissed by the moon, your back arched slightly, your hands slipping down to the waistband of your skirt.

You pushed it down slow. Tantalizing. Unashamed. The cotton panties followed, dragged down over your hips and thighs until you stood at the lake’s edge completely naked, moonlight painting every inch of you in soft silver and shadow.

You looked back over your shoulder, eyes gleaming with something half-feral, half-mocking.

Calling him again, but silently.

Joel was frozen for a second. Just a second. Then he stood, slow and deliberate, his eyes never leaving your body. The shirt was off in one pull. The sweats dropped low. But you were already stepping into the water—hips swaying, the cold making your nipples stiffen, your breath hitch just enough to make him twitch with want.

The lake swallowed you, one step at a time, until the water came to your breasts. You turned, hands skimming the surface, watching him through heavy lashes.

“You gonna keep starin’,” you said, voice low, sultry, “or you finally gonna come in here and do somethin’ about it?”

Joel’s voice was thick, hoarse.

“You keep undressin’ like that in front of me, girl, I ain’t gonna be doin’ a damn bit of swimmin’.”

You gave a dark little laugh, then waded deeper—slowly, deliberately, until you dove under and came up slick with water, your hair darkened and clinging, your body gleaming wet in the moonlight.

You looked like sin. Wild. Untouchable.

Joel stepped into the water, muscles coiled, hands flexing like he wanted to grab you the moment he got close enough. The chill made his breath catch, but his focus never broke—he was locked onto you like a predator scenting blood in the water.

You swam backward, just out of reach, teasing.

“You look like you’re thinkin’ real hard, Miller.”

“Tryin’ to decide if I wanna drag you under or pin you against that rock right there.”

“Who says you can’t do both?”

His eyes darkened further. Your body ached from the inside out—not just from what he’d done, but from what you knew was coming next.

Joel was in front of you now, chest heaving. He reached out, grabbed your waist under the water, and pulled you flush to him with one sharp motion.

Skin on skin. Wet. Hot.

Your legs wrapped around his waist like instinct, and you grinned, wicked and wild.

“Told you I don’t share my lake,” you whispered, mouth against his jaw. “But maybe I’ll make an exception… just this once.”

Joel growled low in his throat, lips finding your neck, his hands gripping your ass beneath the water, dragging your hips tight against the hard length of him pressing into your stomach.

“You’re gonna be the fuckin’ death of me.”

“Then die slow,” you breathed, biting his earlobe.

And just like that—the lake stopped being peaceful.

It became a battlefield.

And you were already winning.

The water wrapped around you both like silk—cool, dark, quiet—but the heat between you was anything but. Joel’s hands were tight on your waist, holding you against him, your bare chest pressed to his, soaked skin sliding on soaked skin, every breath shared, every heartbeat tangled.

You were weightless in the water, legs around his hips, the hard length of him pinned tight between your bodies. And your mouth—god, your mouth—was all over his.

You kissed him like a storm. Not sweet. Not slow. Your lips crushed against his with the hunger of someone who’d waited too long, wanted too hard. His beard scraped your chin, his tongue met yours in deep, messy strokes, and the water sloshed around you as your bodies moved, tangled, greedy.

Joel groaned against your mouth, one hand slipping down to your ass, squeezing hard again, grinding you against him, while the other cradled the back of your head, keeping your mouth right there, right where he wanted you.

“Fuck, baby,” he growled between kisses. “You don’t stop, I ain’t gonna last.”

You smiled into him—wet and smug—then leaned back just enough to see his face. Moonlight cast silver across his cheeks, but his eyes were pure black heat. You dipped one hand between your bodies, under the water.

He gasped—sharp—as your fingers wrapped around him.

“Then don’t stop me.”

Your grip was sure, smooth beneath the surface, the water letting your hand glide effortlessly along the hard length of him. You stroked him slow, tight, then faster, just to feel the twitch in his thighs, the catch in his breath. His head dropped to your shoulder, teeth grazing your skin, groaning like he was pained by how good it felt.

“Goddamn,” he muttered, voice rough in your ear. “You do that again and I’m takin’ you right here in this fuckin’ lake.”

“Thought that was the idea.”

Your hand pumped him harder now, teasing your thumb over the head, squeezing just enough to make his hips stutter in the water. His breath hitched again—sharp, torn from him—and his hands tightened on your waist, fingers bruising as he fought for control.

“You tryna make me lose it, sugar?”

You leaned in, bit his lower lip, then whispered against his mouth:

“I wanna watch you lose it.”

And you kept stroking—relentless, greedy, your own body rocking slightly with the water, breasts pressed to his chest, your core aching against his stomach. You felt the tension coil in him, deep in his abdomen, his thighs starting to tremble under the pressure of holding back.

He kissed you again—hard—like it was the only thing keeping him grounded, like if he let go of your mouth he’d lose himself completely.

And with your hand wrapped around him under the water, you were in control now.

“You close?” you whispered, lips brushing his.

“So close,” he growled, eyes screwed shut, hips twitching under your hand.

You stroked him harder, faster, water slapping softly between your bodies.

“Then give it to me,” you whispered, voice dark, low. “I want it, Joel. Right here.”

The lake no longer felt like water—it felt like heat, like tension about to snap.

Joel snapped.

In a flash, his hand was in your hair, fisting it, dragging your head back with a sharp yank that forced a gasp from your lips. His other arm scooped under your thighs, lifting you in the water like you weighed nothing. He slammed your back against the nearest slick rock jutting from the waterline, your legs still wrapped tight around him.

“You want it?” he hissed against your mouth, hot breath sliding down your throat. “You want it that filthy, that rough? Right here in the fuckin’ lake where anyone could see?”

You nodded, panting, eyes wide, lips parted—shaking and ready.

“Do it, Joel. Take me.”

His hand slid between your bodies, gripped your thigh and yanked it higher, opening you wider as he thrust forward and buried himself in one brutal, claiming push. You cried out—loud, no shame, no restraint. He didn’t wait for your body to adjust—he knew what you wanted.

And he gave it to you.

Hard.

The water slapped against your bodies with every savage roll of his hips, his chest flush against yours, teeth gritted as he fucked into you like he’d been starving. You were already raw, already oversensitive from grinding on his fingers, but now—

His hand stayed tangled in your hair, pulling, keeping your throat exposed while his mouth marked your skin with open, wet kisses and bites that bordered on bruises. You dug your nails into his back, clawing at him as your legs locked around his waist.

“Look at you,” he snarled, voice all gravel and sweat. “So fuckin’ pretty… cryin’ on my cock, beggin’ me like it’s the last thing you’ll ever feel—”

“F-fuck, Joel—yes—yes, I want it like this—don’t stop—don’t you dare stop—”

He slammed into you harder, each thrust driving a helpless sound out of your throat, your voice turning ragged as your body shook against the rock.

“You feel that?” he growled in your ear. “That’s mine. You’re mine.”

“Yours,” you gasped, barely able to speak. “Yours, Joel. Fuck— don’t let me go—”

His rhythm broke, hips faltering, hand moving from your hair to your jaw, gripping your face as he kissed you—devoured you—growling low in his throat like a man unhinged.

“You come with me, baby,” he hissed. “You feel me come inside you—say my fuckin’ name—say it—”

“Joel,” you cried, shaking. “Joel, fuck, I’m—”

You came hard, clenching around him, body arching off the rock as the wave of it hit, loud, messy, feral. Joel followed with a grunt that turned into a half-roar, slamming deep as he spilled inside you, holding your hips tight, driving himself as far as you could take him—like he wanted to leave a mark.

The lake rocked around you, quiet now but for the sounds of panting, the water lapping gently against the shore.

He didn’t pull out right away.

Didn’t speak.

Just held you there in the moonlight, still trembling against him, your lips against his throat, your body wrecked and soaking and satisfied.

“Holy fuck,” he finally whispered, voice rough as sandpaper.

And he kissed you again.

Your bodies stayed locked in the water—his chest heaving against yours, arms still tight around your waist, your thighs wrapped snug at his hips. The night air clung heavy to your wet skin, steam rising between the heat of your breath and the chill of the lake. Moonlight danced on the rippling surface, but beneath it, the tension didn’t fade.

Joel was still inside you. Softening slowly. The aftermath of that raw, ruthless high pulsed through both of you—but you weren’t satisfied. Not really.

Not yet.

He leaned his forehead to your shoulder, chuckling low, exhausted.

“Jesus… I need a fuckin’ minute.”

You smiled, wicked and wet, dragging your fingers through his curls as you whispered close to his ear.

“You’re not gettin’ one.”

“Sugar,” he huffed, voice ragged and rough. “I just emptied every damn drop I had in me.”

You rocked your hips once. Just enough. Felt the stretch of him still inside, not ready… but not unwilling.

“You didn’t pull out,” you murmured, rolling again, slower this time. “You’re still in me. That means I can go on.”

Joel groaned. One of those deep, broken sounds, like your words physically hurt.

“You’re evil.”

“No,” you breathed, biting down on his jaw, “I’m needy.”

You gripped his shoulders and started to move.

Slow.

The water cushioned you, made everything slicker, smoother. His cock wasn’t hard—yet—but it was there, thick and sensitive, twitching with every shift of your hips. You moved carefully, deliberately, grinding yourself against him with slow rolls, feeling him start to twitch, to grow again.

He hissed between his teeth, hands flying to your waist.

You moaned, soft but sharp, mouth right at his ear.

You kissed him—open, messy—tongue sliding against his as your hips kept rocking. The water sloshed between you. You felt him hardening again inside you, inch by inch, your body coaxing him back from that edge of spent exhaustion into something new.

Joel cursed into your mouth, bucked his hips once in reflex. His fingers dug into your ass now, squeezing.

“Goddamn, girl. You ain’t human.”

You laughed—a low, breathy sound against his cheek—and sat up straighter on his lap, water dripping down your chest, your back arching as you ground down harder, the tip of him brushing deep inside.

“Not right now,” you whispered. “Right now I’m just a hole wrapped around your cock.”

His hands snapped to your hips.

And his breath caught like he was ready to burn again.

The water rocked around your bodies, small waves rippling out into the darkness as you rode him—slow, deep, relentless.

Joel leaned back against the rock, lips parted, eyes glassy and dazed as he watched you above him. His hands stayed on your hips, fingers slipping on your soaked skin, but his grip was loose now. Weak.

You were in control.

And you wanted it that way.

He was hard again—not as thick, not as furious as before—but enough. Just enough. Enough for you to keep him inside, to grind down on him and take what you needed while he stared at you like you’d stolen every last thought from his head.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he breathed, voice hoarse. “You’re gonna bleed me dry.”

You didn’t slow. You clenched around him harder, dragging your body in slow, punishing circles, the water rocking with your movement. Your hair clung to your cheeks, dripping onto his chest as you leaned down, breath ghosting over his mouth.

“Good,” you whispered. “I want every last drop.”

Your pace picked up, steady and deep, your thighs trembling now, knees digging into the smooth lake stone under the water. The friction of him inside you was maddening—your body raw from the first time, aching now, but you didn’t stop.

You couldn’t.

You bounced harder, breathing faster, fingers clawing down his chest as you started to unravel again. Joel’s head fell back against the rock, neck exposed, eyes fluttering half-shut.

“You feel so good,” he groaned. “So fuckin’ tight… baby, I can’t—can’t even move…”

“You don’t have to,” you panted, riding him now with broken rhythm, your voice shaking. “Just lay there. Let me come on your cock like it’s mine.”

His hips twitched, barely a thrust, more like a reflex—but it was enough. The extra push made you cry out, your fingers gripping his shoulders, your whole body tensing around him.

“Joel—fuck—I’m coming—”

And you did.

You collapsed against him, arms locked around his neck, your thighs shaking as you pulsed around him, drawing him in deeper, milking every inch. You buried your face in his throat, moaning into his skin, your whole body melting against him as the orgasm shook through you like a fever.

Joel didn’t say a word.

Didn’t need to.

He just held you there—soft, drained, wrecked—his cock still buried in you, twitching weakly, his hands twitching where they gripped your ass.

You stayed like that, tangled and soaked in moonlight, floating half in the water, half in each other.

He finally exhaled, voice a ghost against your cheek.

“You’re gonna be the death of me.”

The lake was still as glass when you finally pulled yourself off of him—slowly, shakily, his cock slipping free with a quiet, spent twitch. Joel groaned low in his throat, head still tilted against the rock, arms splayed out in the water like he couldn’t remember how to move. He looked wrecked. Beautifully, fully wrecked. And you? You were trembling and grinning, your thighs sore, your skin tingling with the kind of heat that lingered long after the fire burned out.

“Stay there a while,” you murmured, breathless, voice tinged with a wicked edge. “You look real pretty like that.”

He gave a lazy half-laugh, half-growl as you turned away, water lapping at your waist as you waded back to shore. Every movement sent more water dripping down your bare skin—between your thighs, down the insides of your legs, slick and unmistakable.

You reached the grassy bank and stepped out, skin glistening in the moonlight. The wind kissed your body and made you shiver, but you didn’t flinch. You just walked with slow purpose across the soft grass to where your clothes lay strewn—discarded like old thoughts.

You picked up your panties first, still damp from before the lake even touched you. Slid them up over your thighs, pulling the soaked fabric snug between your legs, ignoring the slick mess beneath that still clung to you.

Then came the skirt.

It stuck to your wet skin, the denim heavy and damp as you shimmied it up your hips and fastened it. Your shirt followed, clinging to your chest as you pulled it over your head, your nipples pressing clearly against the cotton, soaked through.

No fixing your hair. No shame.

You moved with the quiet confidence of someone who knew they’d been the storm that ruined a man and left him grateful for the wreckage.

You glanced back toward the water as you slid Joel’s hat back onto your head—tilted low, eyes shadowed, smirk curling your lips.

He was finally standing now, sluggishly dragging himself to the shore, water pouring down his body. Still bare. Still caught somewhere between pleasure and exhaustion. His eyes met yours—and lingered.

You held his gaze as you adjusted the skirt’s hem with two fingers, smoothing it over your hips.

“You comin’?” you asked, voice sweet as sin.

Joel exhaled hard through his nose and dragged a hand down his face.

“Hurry up, cowboy. I wanna watch you die slow.”

And with that, you turned away from the lake, walking barefoot through the wet grass—clothed but still wild, soaked to the skin and grinning like a woman who knew exactly what kind of chaos she carried in her hips.

He followed.

The ride back was quiet—but not awkward. It was the kind of silence that came after something intense, after bodies had been pushed past their limits and souls tugged just a little too close together.

You sat curled in the passenger seat, legs pulled up, arms wrapped loosely around your knees. The denim of your skirt was still damp, sticking to your thighs, your shirt clinging to the curve of your back. Your skin smelled like water, grass, and him. Joel’s hat was still on your head, pushed back slightly now, exposing the bruised swell of your lips and the mess he’d left in your expression.

He didn’t talk much. His hand rested on the top of the wheel, fingers drumming every now and then. His other was in his lap, tapping idly, like he had too many thoughts and not enough words. The headlights cut through the darkness in long silver beams, washing the trees in and out of view.

The town came into sight quicker than you expected—familiar signs, empty roads, cheap lights flickering over storefronts that shut hours ago.

And then your street.

He pulled up in front of your house without a word, engine idling.

You didn’t move to open the door.

Just sat there in the hush between you, watching his profile as he stared out the windshield, jaw tight again. The easy charm from earlier had slipped somewhere on the drive. All that slow, hungry mischief replaced now with something heavier.

You finally broke the silence, voice softer than you meant it to be.

“You stayin’ in town? Or was this all just a ride through?”

Joel didn’t answer right away.

Didn’t look at you.

“Nah,” he said eventually, low and blunt. “I’m movin’ on. Next stop’s Amarillo.”

You felt something in your chest shift—small and sharp.

You nodded slowly, turning to look out your own window now. The porch light buzzed, flickering faintly. You hated that sound.

“Figures,” you muttered. “You ride in, break the bull, break the girl, then disappear.”

Joel’s voice came rough beside you.

“That what you think this was?”

You looked back at him, your face unreadable.

“I don’t know what this was.”

He didn’t speak. Just stared at you now, eyes darker than before, not angry. Not sorry either.

Just honest.

“I don’t stay long, sugar,” he said, voice lower. “I don’t belong in one place. And I don’t drag people along when I go.”

You leaned forward, resting your forearms on your knees, watching the keys jingle slightly in the ignition.

“So that’s it?”

Joel shifted in his seat, glancing over at you again. His jaw flexed, lips parted like he wanted to say something else.

But he didn’t.

Just reached up, touched the brim of his hat still on your head—soft, a little trace of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Keep that. Somethin’ to remember the ride.��

You looked at him for a long second. And though you weren’t the crying type, something pulled tight in your throat. Not sadness.

Just… that ache that came when something good wasn’t meant to last.

You opened the door, boots hitting the gravel.

And as you stepped out, you didn’t say goodbye.

Didn’t slam the door.

You just walked up the drive with his hat still on your head, knowing damn well he was watching you the whole way.

And in the silence behind you, the engine eventually rumbled low… and carried him away.

It had been twenty-six days. You’d counted—at first without meaning to, then because you couldn’t stop.

Twenty-six days since you felt his hands on your body.

Since he kissed you like he needed oxygen and you were the only air left in the world.

Since you rode him in a moonlit lake, shaking, soaked, and so wildly yourself it scared you now.

You told yourself it was just a passing thing. He was a drifter, a rider, a man made of dust and distance. Joel Miller didn’t stay. He warned you. And you weren’t the kind of girl who chased after someone who made it clear they wouldn’t look back.

But the hat still sat on your nightstand.

You hadn’t worn it since the night he left. It felt wrong, like it only had power when he put it on you. So it stayed there, untouched, a reminder you pretended not to look at every morning.

And then—on a Wednesday that felt like any other—you walked out the back door of the small diner you worked mornings at, still wearing your apron, the sky thick with heat and early sun, and you saw him.

Leaning against a familiar truck.

Same one. Same dented door.

He was wearing a soft gray shirt, jeans that looked road-worn, and boots with dust that didn’t belong to this town. His arms were crossed, and his eyes—those goddamn eyes—were already locked on you the second the screen door banged behind you.

You froze, one hand still gripping the door frame.

“You son of a bitch,” you whispered, heart slamming against your ribs.

Joel didn’t smile. Not yet. His face was unreadable, jaw clenched, tension in his shoulders. Like he’d driven through three states without breathing right. His voice when it came was low, tired, real.

“Couldn’t get you outta my fuckin’ head.”

Your throat closed up. Everything inside you twisted—heat and ache and something dangerous.

“You said you don’t stay. Said you don’t drag people along.”

“I don’t,” he said, stepping forward. “But I ain’t been the same since I left. Couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t ride right. Couldn’t even look at another girl without seein’ you in my lap, smilin’ like you owned the fuckin’ world.”

You blinked, breath shallow.

“So what, you here to pass through again? Get your fix, then disappear?”

Joel moved until he was right in front of you, towering, heat rolling off him in waves.

“I didn’t come back to fuck you.”

“No?”

“I came back ‘cause every mile I put between us felt like a mistake. And I don’t do regret. Never have. But you—” he exhaled hard, hands flexing at his sides, “—you got in me. Deep. And I ain’t runnin’ from it anymore.”

You stared at him. Your lip curled into a slow, dangerous smile.

“Took you long enough.”

Joel’s grin broke through finally—sharp, boyish, relieved.

“Still got that hat?”

“Sittin’ by my bed,” you said, stepping close enough for your voice to drop. “Right where I left it.”

He touched your cheek then. Rough hand, gentle grip.

And this time, when he kissed you?

It wasn’t a goodbye.

It was a beginning.

Joel’s lips were still on yours when he pulled back just enough to breathe—barely an inch between your mouths. His thumb was brushing along your jaw, calloused, reverent, like he still couldn’t believe you were standing in front of him again. Like maybe he’d been dreaming you every night on some godforsaken highway, and now he was scared he’d blink and wake up alone again.

“I ain’t good with words,” he murmured, voice thick, low, “but I been drivin’ on autopilot for weeks, thinkin’ about your voice, your laugh, the way you look at me like you know what I’m gonna say before I say it.”

You didn’t move. Just let his words settle over your skin like a second heat.

“Thought if I got far enough, I’d stop thinkin’ about you,” he said. “But you got inside me like roots. Stuck.”

You tilted your head just slightly, teasing, though your voice shook under it.

“You here to tell me you love me, Miller?”

He huffed a dry laugh, but there was something raw under it.

“I don’t know what the hell this is. But I know I don’t want it without you.”

Then he looked at you fully, steady and real.

“Come with me.”

The words hit different. They weren’t casual. They weren’t a question tossed into the wind. They were solid. Heavy. And they landed deep.

Your breath caught, heart skipping once.

“You serious?”

“I don’t say shit I don’t mean,” he said. “It won’t be easy. Livin’ outta a truck half the time. Worn beds, bad food, long roads. I’m not a man who settles—but I’ll make space for you. I want you in my seat. Next to me. Laughin’, bitchin’, wearin’ my damn hat like you own it.”

He stepped even closer, hand curling around your waist.

“You ride with me, I won’t leave again. I’ll stay—wherever you are.”

You blinked once, swallowed hard.

Then you smiled. Slow. Dangerous. Certain.

“Drive me home. Gimme ten minutes to grab the hat and some clothes.”

Joel grinned like the tension finally broke.

“That’s my girl.”

And just like that, your world shifted again. Not by force. Not by fate.

By choice.

His.

And now yours.

[orellazalonia]

The Weight of Being Forgettable

Summary: You quietly resign, hoping for peace or maybe to be missed, but no one reaches out in the end. You're forgotten just as silently as you existed. However, both you and them recognize the aftermath of being unremarkable. [Part 2 of Always There, Never Seen]

Disclaimer: ANGST, Kidnapping, More descriptive writing rather than dialogue.

Word Count: 2.1k+

Main Masterlist | The One You Don’t See Masterlist

You didn't expect a moment to come. No dramatic breaking point, no cruel words shouted across a room. Just a Tuesday.

The coffee pot had gone untouched again, something you only noticed because you were the one who always refilled it. You stood in the kitchen with the same bland mug in your hand, watching the last drop of dark, bitter liquid slide into a cup you hadn’t even wanted. You were exhausted, in that way that didn’t show. Not physically. Not even emotionally.

Just… worn.

There had been a moment that morning when you stood outside the meeting room and realized: if you walked away right now, no one would stop you. No one would call. No one would ask where you'd gone. You weren't angry. You were just… done.

So you typed it up.

The resignation was short and neat. No frills. You didn’t name names, didn’t leave jabs or guilt. You wrote, “Thank you for the opportunity. I hope my work has been useful. My last day will be Friday.”

Signed and that was it. You sent it at 2:12 PM. There was no hesitation or fanfare, just a quiet email in a quiet inbox. A ghost slipping out through the back door. You half-wondered if anyone would notice before Friday.

Back at your desk, everything looked the same. A little tin of peppermints. A notebook with neat, blocky handwriting. Sticky notes with reminders no one else had seen fit to write down. You glanced around at all the things you’d done, all the problems you’d solved before anyone else noticed they were problems.

And then, the strange part. You felt… relief. No one begged you to stay. No one came running down the hall. The world didn't collapse without you. But for the first time in a long time, the weight wasn’t yours to carry.

By Wednesday, no one said anything.

There were a few auto-replies to your resignation email. One from HR and one from some higher-up who never remembered your name. You finished your shift quietly, filed things neatly, and closed out your checklists with the same care you’d always used.

By Thursday, someone asked where the coffee filters were. You weren’t there to answer.

By Friday morning, you’d cleared your desk. Left nothing behind except a printed version of your resignation on the chair, just in case anyone missed the email. You’d timed it carefully: left during a team debrief, so you wouldn’t have to walk through goodbyes no one was going to offer anyway. You rode the elevator down alone, the hum of its descent feeling like a slow, gentle goodbye.

Even with your absence now, the Tower didn’t stop moving. Missions went on. Briefings happened. The usual chaos rolled forward.

But small things started to go wrong.

The meeting room wasn’t booked in time. Natasha showed up to a double-booked training session and walked out silently annoyed. Clint missed a follow-up appointment because the reminder never got sent. The printer jammed twice. Steve’s requested dietary order was delivered late, and with the wrong items. Sam realized a report had never been filed, one you always used to clean up after hours without being asked.

Still, no one panicked. These were just little things. Little things that piled up.

By the end of the week, someone said, “Didn’t she used to handle this?” in that vague way people talk about furniture that’s been moved. Like they know something has shifted, but can’t quite name what.

Bucky passed your old desk once and stood there longer than expected. You’d always kept it tidy with that little tin of peppermints that he never took but always glanced at. The chair was pushed in. The drawers were empty, but he didn’t say anything.

She noticed however. The one he liked. She brought it up in the common room, late one evening. “Hey,” She asked, “Dud we ever figure out what happened to her?”

Someone blinked. “Who?”

“The one who used to…” she gestured vaguely, “…keep everything running. She was always here.”

A pause.

“Oh,” Someone else said. “Yeah. She left.”

And that was it. No party. No sadness. Not even a group email. Just silence where your presence used to be. But slowly, they began to realize that the silence was louder than expected.

Because there was no one left who knew how to keep the floor lights from buzzing. No one who stocked the exact tea Wanda liked. There was no one who stayed late so others could leave early.

The foundation had stepped away. And only now did they realize what they had leaned.

-

Weeks passed. Not many, just enough. Enough for the new intern to forget to attach the mission brief Bucky needed. Enough for the kitchen to stay out of oat milk for three mornings in a row. Enough for minor cracks to widen.

Still no one said your name out loud.

It wasn’t out of malice. More like discomfort. Like the building didn’t know how to speak of someone it had let disappear so quietly.

She, the woman Bucky still laughed with in the training room, started taking on some of the tasks. Not officially, but out of instinct. She noticed the first cracks. Noticed the second. She filled in what she could. But the foundation you’d built was always more than anyone realized.

Across the Tower, people started asking quiet questions.

“Hey, who used to handle these reports?” “Didn’t someone used to refill the med kits?” “There was someone who… what was their name again?”

But no one had the answer.

Bucky didn’t say much. He noticed the gaps the way you notice bruises forming: slowly, steadily, and without warning. One day he reached for the right packet of tea and found the shelf bare. It hit harder than he expected.

He stared at the empty space for too long. Once, he found himself opening his mouth to ask you something, only to remember mid-sentence, that you weren’t there. You hadn’t been for a while now. And he never really got to know you.

He thought, once, to ask where you'd gone. But didn’t. Not because he didn’t care but because he wasn’t sure he deserved to. The silence you left behind wasn’t loud. It didn’t demand attention. It crept in slowly, like a chill that only settles once the fire’s gone out.

Eventually, someone new was hired. Someone louder. More visible. They joked a lot and got people’s names wrong. They were liked immediately. The cracks you left weren’t filled, just covered.

But the Tower never felt quite the same. And if anyone noticed? They kept it to themselves. Just like you always did.

-

Meanwhile, you thought it would feel lighter now. You told yourself it would.

The resignation was supposed to be your moment of quiet reclamation, stepping away from a place that never made room for you. And in some ways, it was. There were no more emails at 3 a.m. No more long hours watching everyone else get noticed while you stayed invisible in the background.

But the silence didn’t go away. It just changed addresses.

Your apartment felt bigger now. Colder. It echoed in the wrong ways. Mornings dragged on to the point where you didn’t get out of bed until the sun was well into the sky, and even then, it was usually for coffee you didn’t finish.

There were no messages. No calls. No quiet “Hey, are you okay?” from anyone who’d worked beside you for years. You’d told yourself not to expect anything, and you didn’t. But it still stung.

You scrolled through job listings with numb fingers. “Team player.” “Self-starter.” “Thrives in fast-paced environments.” You checked boxes and rewrote cover letters, and every word felt like a lie. You weren’t really a team player because you were the person the team never noticed.

When people asked how you were doing, you smiled. Said, “Good.” And everyone believes it if you say it with enough clarity. The truth stayed quiet like it always had.

Some nights, you wondered if they noticed you were gone. Not just the missing reports or forgotten appointments but you. The person who stayed late, who remembered the small things, who kept the Tower going without ever asking to be seen.

But you already knew the answer.

No one had reached out. No one had asked you where you went. You didn’t even blame them. Not really. You just wished you hadn’t wanted to be seen so badly. You wished your heart didn’t ache for a version of yourself that maybe never existed. Someone important, someone valued, or someone that people remembered.

Instead, you spent your days in cafés where no one knew your name. You read the news in the corner of quiet libraries. You went on walks just to keep yourself moving. Because if you stopped, if you stayed still too long, you might disappear entirely.

And part of you wondered if that would really make a difference to anyone. So you kept moving.

Not healing. Not rebuilding. Just… existing. You’d left quietly and the world had kept on turning. Just like you always knew it would.

However, your normal routine broke on a Wednesday. You hadn’t expected anything from the day, not peace, not purpose. Just a walk through streets you didn’t love but had grown used to accompanied with a pair of headphones, an old playlist, and a jacket too thin for the wind.

You’d built your mornings this way on purpose. You couldn’t be useful anymore, but at least you could be moving.

You were halfway through your loop when the van pulled up.

It didn’t screech to a stop. Didn’t come with a crash or chaos. Just a quiet slide beside the curb. The back door opened, and hands reached out with no hesitation.

You didn’t even scream at first.

Shock held you still. Your mind scrambled for something, logic, maybe a pattern, anything familiar, but it never came. Just the pavement vanishing from under your feet, cold air in your lungs, and cloth pulled over your face. You could hear a voice muttering, “Got her,” like you were an object, not a person.

You tried to fight, of course. But you weren’t trained. No combat skills. No enhanced strength. Just muscle memory from years of carrying coffee trays and filing paperwork.

It wasn’t enough.

When you woke, you came to with the kind of headache that bloomed behind your eyes in a slow, dull, and heavy sort of way. The light overhead wasn’t fluorescent. It was colder than that. Artificial. The kind that hummed in a way that got under your skin.

Your wrists weren’t tied. You weren’t in chains. Just a room. Stark white, sterile edges. A thin cot. A small tray with water and a protein bar sitting untouched beside you. It wasn’t meant to feel like a cell. But it did.

You didn’t scream. You didn’t call out. You just sat there, quietly. Waiting. At first, you thought, someone will come.

Maybe Natasha would notice your name in a briefing file and raise an eyebrow. Maybe Steve would frown and say, “Didn’t she used to work with us?” Maybe Bucky would finally look up and remember that girl in the back room who always had the right intel before he needed it.

You imagined Tony cross-referencing coordinates and catching the glitch in a camera feed. You imagined Sam flying low, scanning streets, muttering, “This doesn’t feel right.”

But the hours passed. Then a day. Then three. And you slowly began to understand: No one was coming.

Not because they couldn’t. Not because they didn’t care. But because they didn’t know. You were no longer on the rosters. No longer in the comms. You weren’t even part of a security clearance group anymore. You had wiped your hands clean and left quietly.

To them, you were gone before you disappeared.

There wouldn’t be a mission presented with your name as the victim to save. You didn’t matter enough to track. You weren’t an Avenger. You weren’t an asset. You were the quiet one in the hallway. The background hum. The afterthought. And now, nobody at all.

The realization wasn’t a crash. It was a slow, silent exhale. It wasn’t grief. It was confirmation and it made something deep inside you shut down.

You moved back on the cot and stared at the ceiling. Letting the hum of the light fill the silence that no one else seemed to want to, you thought to yourself: This is what it’s like to vanish completely.

[kamospeach]

(any pics without tags are bc i didn't know who they belonged to!)

plot: you wouldn't believe who you ran into

content warning: nothing yet

dean's (aka peachy) yap: are we ready?

if anyone asked how you got here, you wouldn't even know what to say. how did it come down to you being 3 inches away from gojo's face? how did you end up in his apartment, draped in his clothing? how did you end up finding out the nerd wasn't so innocent? how did you end up falling in love with him?

4 years ago

"there's an anime club... on campus?" you asked, brow furrowed in confusion. you couldn't believe your ears. who came up with that corny idea?

"yes! they're recruiting! isn't that so exciting?" she gushed, and you nodded slowly, not really relating to her excitement. it's not that you weren't into anime, but join the club? hell no. you weren't ashamed that you watched anime. if anyone asked you, were willing to nerd out? but you weren't willing to throw yourself in the line of fire for immediate bullying.

"for you, yeah." you nod with a laugh as you hiked your purse up on your shoulder. "what nerd came up with that weird shit anyway," you said and your friends mouth opened and closed no words leaving. your friend never answered your question, but satoru gojo surely did. slamming his hands on the table, clearly angry.

"this nerd." your face was frowned up as you looked at him. your first inital thought was: 'he's a nerd?'. but his glasses and sweater vest really pulled it together. but he was a lot nicer looking than the rest of the nerds around this university. "if you don't want to join then don't join but you don't have to talk shit about it."

"it's really not that serious." you shrug turning to look at your friend who was giving you a look. "i mean my friend is joining so just be happy about that," you said trying to take the attention off your shit talking. At any other time, you would have stood ten toes on your opinion. but this nerd was intimidating, and he was very good-looking.

present time

this was how you and gojo became academic rivals. from your first year all the way to your junior year, where it felt like you had every single class together. 4 out of 6 of your classes were online, so the two that were in person were now with none other than satoru gojo.

"i don't think gen z is addicted to social media. i think we intentionally spend a lot of time on the internet," you said, and satoru laughed, and you turned to look along the desk. he sat at least 10 people down from you, and you weren't in the mood today.

"i disagree our generation's reliance on social media has become so pervasive that functioning without it would pose significant challenges. it has shaped our social and cognitive habits in ways that are difficult to reverse," he said, and you scoffed, not even in the mood to argue with him today. after class, you felt a hand on your shoulder, and you turned around, seeing it was gojo.

"what do you want?" you asked, not in the mood for gojo to berate you for not being as articulate or smart or poised or strong-willed or whatever his big brain could think of.

"i'm surprised you didn't argue back today. turning over a new leaf?" he asked, and you snorted, perish the thought you had the urge to grow up.

"i'm just not in the mood to argue today. it's about to be our final year, let's figure out how to get along." you offered a truce, and a serious one at that. truthfully, you did feel like you had grown out of the silly little arguments you and satoru previously engaged in.

"right... well, if you can prove to me using social media is a choice and not an addiction, i'll take your proposal seriously," he offered, and you nodded, not opposed to the idea.

"how will you monitor it?" you asked, and he smirked, leaning over you as you deleted your social media.

"guess i'll just have to spend every moment of every day with you," he says, and you look up at him in utter disbelief. there was no way he expected you to tolerate him any longer than your regular and already lengthy class.

"hell no!" you said, and he sighed.

"how else will i make sure you don't cheat me? we'll just have to figure out things to do." and that you did for the rest of the week you and gojo were hip and hip. arguing about every little thing, where to eat lunch this day, and should you get smoothies this day.

“gojo, please, i’m tired. i want to sleep,” you begged as gojo skimmed through the books in the library. he didn’t care about your pleas; he just wanted to find his book. so he kept on looking and looking until he found the one. you were silently celebrating, thinking gojo didn’t notice.

“don’t get too excited. i need to go to the gym,” he smiled, and you scoffed. what nerd goes to the gym, you thought to yourself, only to find out not only was he athletic, he was also ripped? he even tried to encourage you to join his workout.

“no thanks, i’m not in the right clothing.” you shook your head and crossed your legs as you watched gojo lift the weights. “why do i have to follow you around? why can’t you follow me?” you asked, and he hummed, pretending to think on what you said.

“i mean, i could, but i don’t want to be cordial, you do. plus i don’t want to,” he says, letting out a deep sigh. he wiped his face with the hem of his shirt. unfortunately for you, you were flashed a full rack of abs. 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8?!

the spit got caught in your throat as your eyes moved towards the thick trail of white hair leading into his workout shorts. you didn’t find him as attractive as you did right now. the way his lean body flexed and glistened in sweat under the gym lights.

your core was practically begging to see it from a different angle. preferably on top of you.

“no… no,” you whispered to yourself, attempting to rid yourself of the impure thoughts. which only caught gojo’s attention, turning to look at you.

“you talk to yourself? i mean, it’s okay if you do, but you could’ve warned me,” he said with a cheeky smirk that usually would make you wanna throw up. except this time, it made your lower body tingle with desire.

“no." was all you could get out without it sounding shaky and desperate. he just laughed to himself, not noticing the effect he had on you. after gojo's little workout, you both found yourselves at a cafe. sitting across from each other, he had a shit eating grin while you wore a stern face.

"what's wrong now, sweets?" he asked, head condescendingly tilting to the side. you were fed up with running behind gojo for a whole week. you had enough of looking like a lost puppy; it was time to put your foot down.

"look here, satoru gojo we need to make some rules," you said, and his smirk grew larger as he sipped at his drink.

"i like the way you say my first name," he said as his big blue eyes glistened under the artificial light. the air in your lungs seemed to get thicker. no way he was flirting with you right now. "what are the rules?" he asked, and you cleared your throat, ready to set your boundaries.

"first this challenge is only going to last 3 months which is the rest of the semester." you start and gojo hums mumbling a 'you sure you can last that long?' which only made the nasty thoughts in your head double no triple! "second one week i'll follow you and the other you'll follow me. but if we have important meetings we'll have to work it out with one another. don't get in each other's way, just act like friends who can't stand being away from each other."

"sure," he agreed without even thinking as you nodded to yourself, proud that you set boundaries between the two of you. staying off social media for 3 months would be hard for you, but you would never admit that to gojo.

"maybe we should... uh, get to know each-" you were cut off by a group of guys walking over to the two of you, a guy with long hair, a guy with pink hair, and a guy with two pigtails.

"no way we caught satoru on a date!" the one with the long hair laughed, making gojo wave them off. they all sat at the table looking between the two of you.

"it's not a date, and if this were a date, you all would be very out of line to be sitting at the table with us," he said with a slight attitude, giving the group of men a sharp glare.

"we knew this wasn't a date, satoru. you haven't been on a date since i've met you," the guy with pigtails said, rubbing his stomach. "i'm hungry."

"me too! let's get something to eat and put it on ryo's card," the long-haired one said, making the pink-haired one, who you assumed would be ryo, look up.

"says who?" his voice was deep and gravelly, actually very attractive. but honestly you preferred gojo's saccharine, cocky, condescending, and arrogant tone. you looked up at the tall man, only for you to feel a kick on your leg. you quickly turned to gojo, giving him a side-eye.

"it's rude to stare y/n," he said his familiar cocky smirk returning to his face. you rolled your eyes not in the mood to deal with his bullshit today, especially not in front of all these people.

"whatever, gojo, take me home," you said, now irritated that he embarrassed you in front of his friends. you began to stand until you felt a light grip on your wrist.

"you can't leave yet. satoru hasn't introduced you to us." now, his voice you could get used to: sultry, smooth, caring, and just overall sexy.

"let go of her wrist, suguru," he said, making this 'suguru' release his grip on you, allowing you to freely move. "we'll make the introductions quick so we can get out of here. geto, choso, sukuna," he said, pointing to them all and standing.

gojo didn't know if he was more embarrassed or jealous. embarrassed because they leaked his slow, unexciting, and nonexistent dating life. or jealous you looked at sukuna with such awe from his deep voice. or from the way geto softly grabbed your arm, using his voice to seduce you. 

he didn’t care after a while, he just wanted to get the two of you out of there. and so that’s what he did, grabbing your hand, practically dragging you out of the cafe. pulling you to his car, opening the passenger door for you to get in (that was the first time he’s done that out of the whole week).

“what’s gotten into you?” you asked, and he scoffed, looking out the windshield, not paying you any mind. he thought he hid his emotions better, but maybe not, since he practically rushed the two of you out of there.

“what are you talking about?” he asked, pressing on the gas, going way over the speed limit. it’s not that he didn’t want you around, he just wanted you out of his car. your perfume was suffocating him, clouding his better judgement to not admit- no…no. it was all his imagination, yeah imagination.

“i mean you got a little flustered in there when choso said you hadn’t been on a date in forever.” you tease and gojo chokes on his spit, making you giggle a little from his shocked reaction. making a swift turn pulling up outside of your apartment. “aww, kicking me out so soon?” you jokingly asked and he huffed as you laughed, climbing out of the car.

“bye, y/n,” he said, still looking forward not daring to spare you a glance.

“bye, satoru!” you say knowing how you saying his name affected him.

‘fuck’ he thought to himself, i need to get home now!

to be continued...

one two three four five six

taglist (open):

@grignardsreagent @stardollwrites @iiluvvslutss

[munchhmm]

Split Ends

cutecute ugh this made me wanna cut my own hair tbh ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ hope you enjoy ✧

Pairings: Luffy, Zoro, Shanks, and Smoker x F!reader

Warnings: Slight cursing >؂•̀

Credit to @cafekitsune for dividers! first pic is mine

Word count: About 3.4k

Luffy •̀ᴗ-

Thinks you did it on purpose.

Realizes it happened in a fight and is deeply touched.

Unbothered, to him you’re still super cool.

Admires the sacrifice and doesn’t look into the physical change much.

Ruffles through it like he’s playing with a child’s toy.

Makes a comment about not having hair bows everywhere now.

Small gusts of wind sweep the cobblestone pathway as you make the long, agonizing walk back to a nice, warm bed. The stars and moon were covered by clouds tonight—just your luck.

First, a seagull steals food directly out of your hand during the walk further into the island, followed by a million bug bites. Then comes the new unintentional fashion statement.

While attempting to block a skilled enemy, your back to the wall, trapped, he takes the advantage and slices your mid-back length hair to where it was now no longer than your jaw.

On the walk, there were a few stores with glass windows and muddy puddles from previous rainstorms. The glances you caught in these reflections were conflicting. A quick dig in your bag showed no hope of avoiding the million questions the crew would ask—hell, you would’ve worn a bonnet at this point. If, for whatever reason, you had one?? :0

Small wrong-but-corrected turns quickly became “Oh shit, where am I?” real quick. Thinking maybe a late-night local would help, you start looking around a street that had been familiar from earlier today. The search is short; an older man stands at the front of a flower cart, slightly bent over from age as he swept the stone flooring around his stall. Islands like this one had some skeptics—it was the only way to survive sometimes. You never blamed them, but still, it was important to be on guard yourself.

A small smile spreads across your face as the old man looks over. He tilts his head and quickly puts his broom up, attempting to walk away with the unsold stock for the day.

“Hey, it’s me from earlier! Y/n! I promised to buy some of your flowers next time I visit, remember?”

The words came out a bit louder than expected, causing the man to walk a bit faster in the opposite direction.

“Liar! You look nothing like that girl I met today!” he says without even turning his head to look your way.

Even though he didn’t mean anything by the comment, it still hurt. Am I unrecognizable or something? It’s really not that big of a difference.

Clearly, asking for the compassion of others got nowhere, but after a bit more searching, you finally found the inn everyone was staying in for the night. All you wanted to do was come in unnoticed and sleep until the crew forgot what you looked like altogether.

“Excuse me, ma’am, we have to check all room cards before going up the stairs.”

This confused you—no one had mentioned anything about checking cards after every time you leave the inn. Still, you comply and hand over your card.

The worker takes the card into a back room for a few minutes. You immediately knew something was up. Before you could lean over the counter to ask what was going on, Luffy comes down the stairs into the lobby.

“Hey, Y/n! Woah, wait—is that you?! What happened to your hair?!”

His words echo loudly around the wooden walls, his signature smile brightening the room.

“Long story. Let’s just say I need to train more instead of staying up late eating food with you.”

A sigh follows your words as you continue to wonder about where that lady went to.

“Anyway, I need to get my room key back so I can go to bed. I’ll explain everything in the morning.”

Luffy rings the bell sitting on the counter a million times to get the worker’s attention. Finally, she pops around the corner, phone and keycard in hand.

“Is she with you? I don’t remember her checking in with your friends earlier.”

The woman is looking only at Luffy, ignoring your presence altogether by this point.

“Yeah, of course she’s with us! Just give her the thingy back so we can go!”

You try to calm Luffy down by putting your hand over his, gently pulling him up the stairs with you after the worker gives the card back over.

The inn was small, taking no time to get around the corner to your room, two doors down from Luffy’s. He stops you before the key in your lock turns all the way, a soft look on his face.

“You look really good! I’m sorry someone got close enough to do that though. I’ll give you my hair if you want!”

A small laugh falls from your lips, hugging Luffy with a huge grin.

“Thank you, kinda needed that. I feel like maybe it doesn’t suit me.”

You feel a hand cup the back of your head and ruffle the newly chopped locks, his own laugh being felt through the whole of his chest.

“Anything suits you—even if you had a mohawk! Oh my god, wait—get a mohawk!”

Sleep suddenly didn’t feel as important. If anyone said something mean about the new look, you know now that Luffy would take care of it.

The rest of the night you sit on his bed and share stories of imaginary hair monsters and whose would be the strongest.

“Mine would be because he can stretch!”

“Luffy, you can’t make them all be just like you. That’s not fair!”

“Fine, but then yours are always gonna win—that’s not fair!”

He may not be the best with words, but Luffy’s always there to make you laugh and feel protected.

Plus, he bought you a mini straw hat for your “mini hair,” making you wear it all the time—so you had no choice but to accept it, but now a little less begrudgingly thanks to him.

⋆˚࿔𝄢ৎ୭

Zoro ˃⤙˂

Notices right away but doesn’t comment at first.

Understands the sacrifice.

Finally says something when no one’s around.

Smirks when he finds you fixing it slightly in the mirror later.

Pokes fun at you just like he always has.

Comforting a bit stiffly, if you don’t like the change.

“Holy shit, where did he go this time?!” You huff the words quickly, stomping up and down the tree line, looking for any sign of Zoro from the side. Nami knew he was going to get lost; she knew you were going to yell at him for being annoying. Guess she didn’t want to deal with him either.

The mission was simple: find the lookout for the enemy and report back to the ship. But it was also the most frustrating task to ever be given with someone who can’t follow the most basic of directions.

“I should put a leash on that guy—bet he’d just get tangled up in it like a puppy…” you grumble to yourself as your pace slows, tired from walking back and forth for well over twenty minutes now.

Snap!

A branch breaking, barely audible. “Surely that must be Zoro, right?” you thought, stepping cautiously closer to the sound. Before you can react, the enemy lunges toward you with a loud chuckle, causing leaves on the shrubs surrounding him to rustle violently.

Stumbling backwards but still alert, you bring your blade in front of you, preparing to face the unknown man.

“This was the point of finding his lookout… I know nothing about this guy’s fighting style,” you thought while gripping the handle of the blade tighter, shaking slightly.

The fight proved to be a challenge, running a bit into the wooded area just to catch small breaths between constant clashes. He was quick—too quick—teasing by cutting small bits of your hair as you run further into the trees.

By this point, Zoro had found pieces of said hair scattered across the grassy floor. At first, he was confused, then slightly concerned.

“Is she cutting her hair as a trail to lead me to her?” he thinks while quickly following the chopped locks into another area. Surprisingly, Zoro actually found you. Though the tracks were short, it was impressive he even managed to recognize it was your hair.

He works quick, helping you defeat the guy with little effort. After the enemy falls to the ground with a loud thud, tired, you lean against a tree to finally feel the air in your lungs, looking at Zoro while huffing quietly.

“So what was that about?” he asks plainly, like he doesn’t have the ability to put two and two together. You point to the man on the ground with your sword, still out of breath and barely able to talk.

“He followed me, cutting my shirt and hair just to see how fast I’d run.” The words come out strained and hoarse as you slide your back down the tree, taking a sitting position next to your weapon.

“Well, it’s good he did, I guess—otherwise I wouldn’t have found you.”

He sits next to you while holding a piece of your hair in his hands, running fingers around the now jagged ends.

“It’s not good! My hair is up to my shoulders!” you say, still struggling slightly.

Zoro doesn’t look at you. Instead, he places the bits of hair from his hands into yours.

“It was a needed sacrifice. Doesn’t look bad either.”

A small blush dusts your face. Zoro didn’t say much, but he never had to—the understanding and feelings were there. You lay your head on his shoulder. He stiffens at first—he always does, aw—but doesn’t move, letting you get comfortable as he closes his eyes.

“Thank you, mosshead,” you say with a smile, forgetting for a bit that both of you were on a mission.

The moment lasted for a bit, Zoro falling asleep under the weight of your head on his shoulder. You stand, collecting personal items from the enemy to bring back to the ship. Hopefully, it’ll give some intel.

He feels you move, opening his eye and watching. Realizing he’s woken up, you turn around and tilt your head at him.

“What is it?” you ask, slightly confused.

Zoro stands himself, grabbing supplies and slinging bags over his shoulders.

“Just thinking about how the hair kinda suits you.” He says the words like they’re no big deal, but the red tint on the tips of his ears tells a different story.

You look away before slowly turning back to him, not knowing what to say at first.

“Hush, you’re just saying that.” Joking seemed to be the easiest way to avoid the awkward air, and Zoro caught on.

“Yeah, you’re right—it’s actually kinda weird.”

He can feel you playfully rolling your eyes as you walk ahead, then turning to walk alongside him.

“Can’t have you getting lost again now, can I?” you poke his arm while he sighs and smirks.

“Yeah, yeah, alright, bowl cut.”

The rest of the walk back to the ship was mostly quiet except for a few teasing comments—all of them innocent. And when the crew crowds you after getting home?

Zoro sits off to the side, smirking, knowing he was the one who got to be there for the salon trip.

⋆˚࿔𝄢ৎ୭

Shanks ◜ᴗ◝

Literally the biggest smirk ever.

Starts buying little clips to keep the flyaway hairs off of your face.

Treats the new cut like a rebirth, drinks for everyone.

“I lost an arm, you lost some hair. Can we call it even, sweetheart?”

Marks it in his calendar and plans to celebrate the date every year.

Makes sure it’s known the stars shine only for you.

It had been two days since the big fight on the previous island. The crew had mostly calmed down by this point, going back to their normal routines and tasks.

Shanks, on the other hand, has not.

His new obsession was your now mid-neck-length hair that was bestowed on you during the mission. For days now Shanks has done nothing but make flirty comments and fluff your hair with his fingers as you walk by. Not that you minded his attention—you loved it, actually—but this change in appearance had shaken you a bit; sitting in the mirror for hours the first night back just staring at yourself. Shanks noticed; he always did when you didn’t act like normal. This gave him an ache in his chest, seeing you doubt yourself when he never has or will.

The plan for a party is always set in motion after a mission, so it came as no surprise that you saw multiple crates of supplies scattered around the deck instead of being inventoried. What you didn’t know was that this celebration was going to be different. It was for you.

Later that night the mumbling and secret glances finally get brought to your attention; you wonder around the ship, asking why everyone is looking at you funny—no true answers ever came.

Finally, you find Shanks, swilling a drink as he leans against the railing. The air was cool but comfortable, blowing his jacket slightly in the wind. He looks at you and flashes a sly grin.

“So you finally made it to your party, huh?” You stop in your tracks, face draining of color.

“Did he just say… mine?” you thought over and over again in the span of seconds, mind racing with anxiety.

The red-haired man steps closer, tilting your chin so you’re forced to look into his eyes. “A new chapter deserves a fun time, no?” The words drip off his tongue like he’s panting, color coming back to your face in the form of a blush.

A few crew members are watching from the side, either acting casual or full-on spy mode. Shanks notices but says nothing; if anything, he wanted everyone to see how flustered he could make you feel.

The night was amazing—good food, plenty of drinks, laughing and old stories. The people were buzzing with energy, not a problem in sight.

Well, except for you.

Thankful was an understatement; you were grateful beyond words, but was it really this big of a deal? The money and energy spent to set this up in your honor? At some point you slip away politely, saying you need to use the restroom. Instead, the walk led you to the upper deck—quiet and peaceful, only the sound of gentle waves and creaking wood.

He finds you there, knowing at some point the social atmosphere would overwhelm you. At first he doesn’t say anything, just sits beside you with his drink in hand. You glance at him with a smile, trying to seem in a better mood than you actually were.

“Not what you expected? We can have a better one next time; maybe even hire some entertainment?~” A small laugh escapes your mouth, falling onto the surface of the water like a boulder.

“It’s wonderful, thank you. I just feel silly for making a fuss over a bad haircut.” You lean your head onto your hand as your elbow rests on the railing, looking over the empty horizon like it was a movie. Shanks stands while placing his drink on the floor, rubbing your shoulder silently as he sets his head on top of yours. “It’s beautiful. Hair is important and symbolic; you deserve to let the world know your sacrifice.”

His words finally get through, realizing this whole time the change was what really scared you. His touch is comforting, everything about him makes your heart skip. You turn around, pressing the side of your face to his chest.

“Let’s go back, I wanna drink all your liquor~” Shanks chuckles softly, taking your hand and leading you down to the lower deck with the rest of the party. “I’d gladly let that happen, you’ve earned it.”

After a night of sweet conversations and way too much alcohol, you finally come to terms with this new chapter—especially with the way Shanks looks at you so lovingly while you fix your hair the next morning, styling it how he recommended.

“You look adorable, sweetheart.”

“Yeah, well… Maybe it was for you.”

⋆˚࿔𝄢ৎ୭

Smoker •᷄ᴗ•́

Tries to lecture you but also comfort you(?) at the same time. **he’s so weird**

His cigar burns without a puff while he looks at you.

Furious at the person who did it, but to you he’s strangely soft.

Silently offers to bring you to a salon at the next island, then hopes you don’t take it the wrong way.

Sighs when you pout but gives you a warm, understanding smile.

May not show it, but deeply thinks you’re one of the strongest he knows.

Calm waters flow against hardened steal metal of the marine ship, a natural white noise everyone was used to. Calm, relaxing, no threat in sight. Just the stretch of endless opportunities scattering the sea and sky.

None of this concerned you though, starting at the reflection for longer than you had anticipated, the thoughts poured in.

“Why this? Couldn’t it have been my arm or something instead?”

Connecting beauty to certain things even if it was wrong or stereotypical made your heart clench in a way only extreme guilt can give. It’s not like you thought these things of others, but that didn’t stop them from thinking those things of you.

The whole ship was warm, very warm, you kept the door open to let in what little gusts of wind willing to come your way inside, sulking in the comfort of your small dorm.

Smoker walks by, keeping a firm eye on every crew member, making sure no one was injured or missing **in the worse case scenario**.

Finally he comes by your room, door mostly open but still pulled closed enough to give the “I need privacy” vibe. You had shut yourself off for a few days now, hating the battle against a bunch of smug pirates who dared touch you, even more so they took something away, they cut your innocence like it was a stick of tawed butter. No emotion, unless they got the sick kick out of the interaction.

Smoker noticed, he watched silently, keeping distance, clenching his jaw at the sight of your discormfort. This was the best time to confront you, no one around to give looks or unwanted comments.

Slowly, he knocks on your half opened door, hearing the stifled whimpers coming from inside. it broke him, never willing to show it unless you asked.

When you answer, hair cut to a sharp angle, eyes puffy from small tears escaping on their own, he softens immediately, putting out his cigar and politely pushing his way through the doorframe.

“Why is this bothering you so bad? Nothing’s different,” His voice is stern but understanding, shifting his weight so his body is leaning against the closest wall in your quarters. “I just… Yeah the change is weird, but look…” The hesitation in your voice is apparent, turning to a mirror and showing Smoker the uneven slice made on the strands hanging off your head.

“It’ll be weeks before we port again, i feel ugly… it’s lopsided and weird.” The words come out choked and shaky, like the whole ocean is in your throat begging to come out.

“Well, why don’t we fix it?” He rubs the back of his head, flustered in the most mature way possible, heartbroken at the sight of you upset like this. Smoker may be tough but his shell breaks around you, even if it’s a bit scary.

Before you know it, the vice-admiral is behind you, standing in the bathroom with a pair of scissors and the most annoyed but loving look on his face. Sheer precision and focus, glancing every now and then at your reflection, looking for an uncomfortable reaction in case he needs to stop.

No talking, just the sounds of snips and dusting of shavings fill the room as you watch his face in silence, heart melting at the fact this man is willing to at least try and make you feel better.

The finished product isn’t perfect, but it’s so much better than before. besides, he did it for you right? The gruff man holds your face, surprisingly soft for someone of his stature, tilting your head to inspect his work thoroughly.

“Tch, not my best work but it’ll do till we get to the next island right?” He’s gentle but naturally stern, your heart skips again, causing a blush to make its appearance. Looking in the mirror, Smoker did better than expected. As he said it wasn’t perfect, a few strands stay untouched in fear of making a mistake, honestly the best thinking.

You smile while a tear drips down your cheek, overwhelmed by the act of kindness. “You’re the sweetest, I love it!” Two warm arms wrap around him, sweet and fragile compared to him. His stiff exposure melts a bit without realizing, wrapping his own pair of arms around you, smelling your hair with a smile. “Good, now cheer up and set the others in line like you used to.”

The air was thick, almost like a bubble surrounding both of them. You give a playful laugh and admire the trim one more time before heading for the door. “As you wish, Vice-Admiral.”

He knows you follow orders for the sake of the job, but he also knows you do it for him. That will never change as long as he can help it.

[sharkian-fics]

I've been thinking about a new au that I hope to write someday, but it'll be a while. So have this post about it instead.

Warning now for age gap and power dynamics

It's when he's 19 that Grian caves and resorts to something he'd hoped he would never have to do. He's between jobs and desperate to scrape up enough money for rent, so he hesitantly makes an account on a camming site. He's not really expecting much - he knows he's not really one to look at, and he's incredibly inexperienced - but if he can at least get enough for rent...maybe it'd be worth it.

Scar's 47 when his wife finally pulls the rug out from under him and demands a divorce. He knows his marriage has been failing, and it's only grown more obvious as his two kids - 18yo and 19yo - go off to college, leaving the two of them home alone. He'd tried to save it, but it was a lost cause from the start.

Now, freshly divorced, Scar finds himself alone for the first time in over 20 years, in an empty apartment he'd gotten while they finalized the divorce. The house had always been under her name, and he'd graciously let her keep it without a fight. He doesn't need a big house, and he's got plenty of money to get his own place anyway. He's just not used to being on his own.

It only takes a few days for him to get a little frustrated. He'd been married for over 20 years, and while his marriage has had issues for quite a bit of it, he and his ex had sex pretty frequently in an attempt to fix it. It clearly didn't work, and now whenever he's horny he doesn't have a wife he can just turn to. He has to rely on his hand and deal with it himself.

He figures he may as well have a little fun with it, though. He looks through some sites before finding one that looks promising. He finds his eyes drawn to the barely legal category, and doesn't give it a second thought before he's clicking through the different videos and livestreams. He supposes there's one good thing about this - his wife has aged, and he has too, but at least now he can freely look at people much younger than him.

He wonders, briefly, about finding another wife. Someone much younger, who can give him more kids. Sure, he got a vasectomy years ago, but he could always just get it reversed and knock up a pretty young girl to give him some more kids. Maybe later - for now, he plans to soak in the single life a bit longer.

He looks through some of the streams, mostly bored, nothing catching his attention. They're all pretty, sure, but nothing really jumps out to him. At least, not until he sees hers. No - his, he thinks, as he reads the description. Seems like he's a trans guy. Well, that's fine. He's not picky. So long as they're pretty.

And this guy very much is. He's also very inexperienced, and while that's sometimes a turn off for him, with this guy, he's just endeared. It's clear he doesn't really know what he's doing, but that he's at least trying to make the experience good for the - he quickly checks - 5 viewers. 6, now, as he pulls it up into fullscreen. He eagerly watches the videos, watches the way his thighs shake as he tries to ride the toy. Watches the way the toy glistens with his slick when he pulls himself up, and watches as he slams it in, and the delicious way he cries out.

He gets a few donations, but not many. It's pretty obvious how desperate this kid is for the money if he's doing all this while clearly having no idea what he's doing. He hasn't even cropped his face out of the frame to give himself at least some privacy, meaning Scar can see exactly the way his face flushes a pretty red that spreads to the tips of his ears and down to his chest as Scar sends in a donation that's far more than what he'd been getting previously. He stumbles his way through a thank you, voice stuttering and eyes wide.

Grian had been doing this for almost two weeks, to only a few viewers and donations. He'd almost given up - sure he was making some money, but he always felt kind of...weird whenever doing these livestreams, both during and after. He just wasn't sure if it was really worth it when he wasn't making much off of it. But then someone joins and donates a couple hundred dollars in a single donation, and.....oh. Maybe it is worth it, actually.

By the time he ends the stream, the same person has donated a couple more times. He's easily got enough for rent now, as well as a good head start on the following month's rent. He can hardly believe it - just as he'd thought about quitting, someone comes in and donates a bunch. He can't help but wonder if there's some kind of catch, but...he can't just not message whoever had donated so much and thank them.

Grian sends them a quick message thanking them profusely for the donations, and even admits that he'd been thinking about quitting. From there, the two continue to talk. Grian learns his name - Scar, though whether that's his actual name or just a name to go by, he doesn't know - and that he's recently divorced. He doesn't explicitly know Scar's age, but he's mentioned that he has kids that recently started college, so he's gotta be quite a bit older than Grian. The thought makes him feel warm.

Scar gives him some tips on how to attract more attention to his streams. Things to say and do to make him more appealing. He suggests using more toys, and Grian admits he only has the one. He'd splurged on it once a while ago, after he got tired of having to rely on his hand. Scar offers to send him money for more, if he lets Scar pick what toys he buys. Grian, feeling almost drunk on the attention Scar is giving him, agrees.

Weeks pass. Grian continues to stream, and Scar is there for each one, commenting on his body and sending more money. Eventually, he offers to pay him for custom videos and pictures. Grian, desperate for the money (and Scar's attention), agrees easily. He sends videos of him using the toys Scar made him buy, or moaning and saying his name, or the way his cunt gapes a little after he uses the biggest toy Scar made him get. He gets soooo flustered whenever Scar compliments his body. Slowly, he stops streaming and focuses solely on Scar. He never got nearly as much money from anyone else that he gets from Scar, anyway.

While talking to Grian, Scar soon finds that he's...not all that great at this whole internet safety thing. He talks about the college he goes to with enough detail that Scar's able to figure out which one it is, and he's not even in the same state. He eagerly gives out information like his name and birthday, clearly enamored with all the attention Scar is giving him and desperate for more of it. It doesn't take much work to find a small house near the college, and for him to get a transfer from his work to one closer to it. (I don't really know what his job is. The important part is that it pays him Very Well lmao). He no longer has a wife and kids tying him to any location, so he moves in as quickly as possible.

Once he's moved in, he tells Grian, who's surprised at first. But he can't help but feel so, so flattered to know that someone moved just for him. And also feels like he's suddenly in way over his head - all he wanted was to make a couple extra bucks while in between jobs and now someone's moved for him.

In the past, Grian's bounced between jobs, never able to hold one for longer than a few months. A little after he started the camming, he got one at a nearby coffee shop. Between the money from that and from Scar, he's been able to fund his rent, HRT, and at least some of college. He's still desperate for more, though, wanting to get through college with the least amount of debt as possible. So when Scar offers for them to meet up, for Scar to pay even more for the chance to actually fuck him...well, what other choice does he have?

He'd been sort of hesitant at first -it feels a little like he's crossing a line if he actually meets up with the guy he's been talking to and sending videos and pictures to in exchange for money - but Scar had managed to wear him down, and now he's...kind of excited. Especially at the prospect of more money.

They'd started to talk about the details, when and where they'd meet up (Grian at least had the sense to suggest meeting up in public first), but they had to put their planning on pause when Grian had to go to work. Scar, of course, knows where he works. And maybe he can speed up the process a bit by meeting him there.

He goes up to the counter where Grian is, taking his order and, when he asks for his name, Scar tells him and gets to watch the way Grian pauses for a second, voice stuttering a little and eyes wide. Scar just smiles at him and asks when he gets off work, if he's got time to talk then.

When he walks away, one of Grian's coworkers who overheard at least some of their conversation is concerned and asks if Grian is okay, if he needs someone to walk him home after his shift or if they need to call the police or something. Grian, embarrassed, waves them off, says it's fine, that he knows the guy and had been hoping to see him, all while his heart is pounding and he keeps sneaking glances at him.

He's never seen what Scar looks like before. Though he'd tried, Scar had always refused. If their conversation about meeting up hadn't been interrupted by him needing to go to work, Grian would've pressed for a picture of him. Wouldn't have let Scar meet him without it. But with it happening when he wasn't expecting it...The first thing Grian notices is that he's hot. Salt and pepper hair, face and arms crisscrossed with scars, piercing eyes as he watches Grian's every move.

Throughout the shift, Grian can't help but look up at Scar every so often. He stays there the whole time, having brought a laptop to at least pretend like he's doing work, but really he's mainly just checking Grian out. When his shift finally ends, he kinda stiffly walks over to Scar, who gestures for him to sit. Grian glances at the counter, but the coworker that had expressed concern for him had already left a couple hours before, if a bit hesitantly.

The two of them start talking, though Grian's a bit quiet because he doesn't want anyone to overhear. Scar makes it clear upfront that he wants to fuck him, preferably as soon as possible. So that day they end up going to Grian's apartment. It's probably one of the only times they do it there - Scar can barely stand to see how shitty his apartment is, and the bed hardly even fits them. But it'll do. Scar's wanted to fuck Grian since the moment he saw them. He's not waiting a moment later now that he's finally got the chance.

Grian never thought his life would lead him to this. When he started that first livestream, he didn't expect it to eventually result in him being bent in half and fucked into by a guy more than twice his age. But he cant help the way it just feels so good. It's clear Scar's experienced, that he knows exactly how to thrust into him, his fingers rubbing circles around his clit with the right amount of pressure. He's bigger than most of his dildos (except for the very large one), and it fills him up so well.

Now, Scar and his ex had known for years that they didn't want more kids, so he got a vasectomy years ago. And he knows he could (and should) tell Grian, but...he wants to push just how desperate Grian is for the money. So when Grian tries to get him to wear a condom, he says he'll pay more for him to let Scar come inside. He'll pay double! Surely coming inside him once won't get him pregnant.

Grian's faced with having to weigh his desperation vs the fear. He could really use the extra money, but if he gets pregnant...in the end, though, his desperation wins, and he agrees. Scar smiles.

He likes the thought of filling Grian with his cum, even if he knows he can't actually get him pregnant. He doesn't do it then - doesn't want to scare his new toy away - but he's able to convince Grian to let him fuck him raw the next time, too. And many times after that. It's on one of these times that he really plays into the idea of it all. Pretends like he's gonna breed Grian, knock him up, make sure he stays with him. He's raised kids before. He knows how to do it, could easily raise a couple more with Grian at his side. He's been so, so lonely ever since his wife and kids left him...and if his current kids don't want anything to do with him, he may as well make more, right? If Grian's carrying his child, surely he won't walk out on him like his wife did.

(Cue Grian learning he has a breeding kink, even if he's terrified of actually getting pregnant)

He's sooooo scared of getting knocked up, but...surely just letting Scar do it a few times is fine, right? He's offering to pay so much extra, and Grian needs the money. That's how this all started. All for the money, and now he's getting regularly fucked by a guy who could've, in other circumstances, been something like a father figure to him, who gives him attention and that he likes talking to.

Scar keeps pressing to let him come inside, and it...scares Grian a little bit, but surely it's fine, right? Scar's always talking about how it feels so much better without a condom (Grian's never had sex with a condom, so he doesn't know what it's like), and how much Scar likes watching the way his cum drips out of him after. And he's constantly saying that with the way Grian clenches around him, he's practically milking his cock. Grian can't deny that feeling Scar come inside him feels good...

Part of what makes him so worried though is that he's been on T for some time now so he's not been getting his period for months. He has no idea what his cycle is, no idea if he's ovulating, if he's anywhere close to getting pregnant or if it's already too late. He breaks down crying about it eventually, blubbering through tears that he doesn't want to get pregnant, he's too young, he still has to finish college. It's then that Scar finally takes pity on him and tells him about the vasectomy. That he can't get Grian pregnant.

Grian's relieved to find that out, but he's also...kind of pissed? This has been going on for weeks now. He's questioned so many things. Are his tits more sensitive? Is he gaining weight or is it just his imagination? Even if he knows it'd be way too soon anyway, he can't help but wonder. He wonders why the hell Scar didn't tell him sooner.

Eventually, Scar offers for Grian to move in with him. He's a little closer to the college, and to his work, and it means Grian wouldn't have to live in his shitty apartment anymore. This definitely feels like crossing a line, but...what other choice does Grian have? He's been to Scar's place. It's where they usually have sex now. It's far nicer than his apartment. And being near Scar more often...he says he'll still pay him, so now he might get even more. Maybe he really will be able to finish college without any loans...

In the months since the divorce, Scar has had to get used to coming home to an empty home for the first time in 20+ years, so why not fill it with Grian? This'll give him easy access to him now too. And now he doesn't have to come home from work to an empty house. When Grian moves in with him, they share the bed, of course. And every morning, Scar eats him out before he goes to work. Sometimes Grian wakes up, sometimes he doesn't. He just looooves the sounds Grian makes, and it's the best way to start his day. Sometimes, on the days that he doesn't wake up, Scar will also fuck him and leave him with a sticky mess between his thighs and money on the bed stand. He also sends him to class or work with cum in his cunt and a plug keeping it in, sometimes with cum running down his thighs.

Okay last thing (for now) about these guys. They are soooo weird about each other. Grian's never really had many friends growing up and he's always had a bad relationship with his parents, but now he's got someone he can look up to, who gives him attention he's never gotten elsewhere. Even if that someone just so happens to regularly fuck him. And then Scar, who'd felt stuck in a failing marriage with kids who barely talked to him, now has freedom that he hasn't had in over two decades and a pretty little thing to give attention to.

---

Hehe :3 that's all I'm going to share of this au for now (though it's certainly not all I've thought up for it) but this thing is 3k and I have to end it somewhere. I'll probably make more posts about them. My freaks. Feel free to send asks about it too, I swear I'll get to them lol. I am thinking about them sooooo much. A fic will be written eventually.

[erikawrites13]

"Fast Tracks and Hidden Truths" " -“Love and Thunder”

Part 4

So you know- "English is not my first language. I have dyslexia. Let me know what you think about it, please."

Young Sebastian Vettel x journalist (reader) Enemies to Lovers and Slow Burn

Part 4 of ? Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

The rain finally began to ease, droplets slowing to a gentle drizzle that misted around you like a soft curtain. You pulled Sebastian’s jacket tighter around your frame, feeling the lingering warmth like a secret between you.

Just then, a familiar voice cut through the damp air, smooth and teasing. “So, what you’re just going to keep that?”

You turned, spotting Sebastian leaning casually against the side of the Red Bull transporter, that infuriating smirk back in place.

“Feels better on me anyway,” you shot back, raising an eyebrow. “You want it back?”

He stepped forward, eyes sparkling with challenge. “Maybe I do.”

You tilted your head, pretending to consider it, though your heart was already racing. “Oh? And what’s the price?”

His grin deepened, a slow curve that promised trouble. “Come find me after the race. If you’re still wearing it.”

A beat passed. The kind where time stretched and the world blurred around the edges.

“I’ll hold you to that,” you said softly, the teasing edge fading just enough to let something warmer through.

Sebastian’s smirk faltered just for a moment before he shrugged with that devil-may-care attitude you knew so well.

“Good. I like a challenge.”

He reached out, just fingertips brushing against the jacket’s cuff a touch light and deliberate before turning on his heel.

As he disappeared again into the paddock chaos, you stayed rooted, fingers brushing where he’d touched you, the heat spreading in a way the rain never could.

Maybe this rivalry wasn’t so simple anymore.

Maybe, just maybe, it was about to get a whole lot more interesting.

Time skip

The roar of the crowd still echoed through the Silverstone paddock, even as the rain returned in heavy bursts, falling sideways now, driven by sudden gusts of wind. The race was over, and Sebastian had won convincingly. Dominantly. The kind of win that shut people up and made the headlines write themselves.

And you were still wearing his jacket.

You caught him just off the pit lane, still flushed from victory, champagne-slicked hair messy under a backwards cap, fireproofs clinging to his frame. His usual cocky confidence was on full display except when his eyes landed on you, and something flickered behind them.

“You again,” he said, breathless and grinning, walking up like you were the one person in the paddock he wanted to see not that he’d ever say it.

“Me again,” you replied, lifting your recorder halfway. “Winner of Silverstone. You’ve got ten seconds before the next outlet claws their way over here. Make it count.”

He leaned in, the mic nearly brushing his lips.

“You’re still wearing my jacket,” he said, low and unbothered, ignoring your question entirely.

Your lips twitched. “Still fits better on me.”

“Not sure I agree,” he muttered, his eyes dropping just for a fraction of a second to your mouth. Then back to your eyes. “But I guess I’ll allow it.”

You shook your head, clearing your throat. “Focus, Vettel. You just won your second race here. What’s going through your mind right now?”

He looked at you for a long beat, longer than any professional distance should allow. Then, with a slow, infuriating grin, he said, “Right now? That I should’ve asked for your number instead of my jacket.”

You blinked — not expecting that. Not from him. Not now. But before you could form a response, thunder cracked across the sky like a cannon shot, followed by a new surge of rain. The media line broke, everyone scattering, shielding their cameras and running for shelter.

You cursed, scrambling to cover your recorder. “Great.”

Sebastian was already beside you, hand grazing your lower back as he leaned close, shouting above the rain. “Come on! I’ve got a room upstairs. Dry. Warm. No microphones.”

You hesitated. Only for a moment. But the storm made the choice for you.

Cliffhanger! Don't hate me, next part comes soon with a bit of heat!

[emmiesoverthemoon]

i never really did

pairing: junhan x reader wc: 1.9k. summary: you and junhan are longtime rivals, always clashing in the studio— until one late-night period to catch up on a partner task stretches too long and the tension finally snaps. tags: eventual smut. soft dom junhan. enemies to lovers. college au.

here damn @burlesquerade

the room smells like dust and varnish—strings, wood, that faint metallic hum of instruments not yet played. it’s too early for this. the campus’ studio is cold, sterile, with flickering fluorescent lights that buzz just slightly louder than junhan’s presence in the corner.

he’s already there when you walk in. headphones on. work book open. he does not look up when you enter.

you drop your bag with just enough force to make a point. “you could at least pretend you hate this as much as i do.”

his pencil halts mid-stroke.

“i do,” he replies quietly, without inflection. “i just don’t complain about everything, unlike you.”

you scowl. “that’s not noble. that’s boring.”

finally, he glances over. no smirk. no frown. just that unreadable calm that somehow manages to feel smug anyway.

your professor paired the two of you together for this semester’s songwriting project. you are chaos and impulse. he is vigilence and silence. oil and water, pretty much. and yet— every time he plays something, you find yourself listening too long. every time you add a line, he hums it under his breath like it got stuck in his head.

neither of you say it, but the tension between your styles makes something real.

you perch across from him, arms crossed. “so what, we’re just doing verse one today?”

he shrugs. “not sure, we can do as much as possible if you have a melody that actually works this time.”

you narrow your eyes, but pull out your notebook. “at least i bring ideas.”

he does not argue. he just plugs in his guitar to the nearby amp, testing the strings gently, the quiet riff curling between you like smoke. his fingers are elegant, precise, and you catch yourself staring.

you look away first.

and you feel it again—that strange heat in your chest, not quite anger. not quite admiration.

something dangerous. something inevitable.

you try not to look at his hands again.

it feels stupid, really, the way your chest tightens every time his fingers slide up the fretboard. there is nothing special about it. just movement. just sound. but the notes linger in the room longer than they should, and his gaze flicks toward you like he knows.

you clear your throat and drop your eyes back to the page. “we need to include a bridge, the brief says,” you say, more to the paper you’re reading than to him.

he replies with nothing at first. the silence stretches, frays, tugs at the edge of your nerves. then, quietly, he strums something softer. it is slower than the verse he was playing previously. hesitant, almost shy. and pretty in a way that makes your stomach flip.

you glance up. “is that new?”

he nods. his eyes train on his pick, he doesn’t look at you. “made it last night.”

you want to ask if he wrote it thinking of this song. of this project.

of you.

but that would mean admitting you care more than you pretend to.

and you would rather drop out entirely than do that.

instead, you hum along, trying to catch the rhythm. your voice wavers a little, but he doesn’t flinch. just adjusts the chord progression to match you.

for a moment, his presence feels easy.

strange, absolutely.

but easy.

and then he speaks.

“you always rush the high notes.”

you blink. “and you always write in a key that’s too low.”

“i like the way it sounds,” he murmurs.

“yeah?” you challenge, tilting your head. “or you just like making things harder for me.”

he looks at you then, properly. his gaze is steady, unreadable, but not cold. his voice is softer than you expect when he replies.

“you always handle it. i know you can.”

your breath catches. not because of what he says, but how he says it. low. certain. a quiet admission that slips under your skin before you can build your next defense.

and then, like nothing happened, he goes back to playing. like he did not just disarm you with such simple words.

you watch his profile in the studio light. something shifts in you.

and god, he is so beautiful when he thinks you’re not looking.

not everything that starts as rivalry necessarily has to stay that way…. right?

the hours slip by in fragments. verse, pause. pre-chorus, silence. bridge, stillness. your voices loop the same melody until it becomes muscle memory, until you forget whose line came first. the sky outside bruises purple, and still, neither of you have a desire to leave.

your phone buzzes. a text, to which you ignored. you glance at the time. too late to be just practice.

you both are sitting closer together on the studio’s couch now. not closer much by much, per-se, but just by a subtle shift. his knees angled toward yours, his arm brushing against the notebook you abandoned somewhere between lyric drafts. he does not touch you. not quite. but every time his fingers strum another chord, you feel the vibration in your bones.

you tilt your head, watch him. his hair falls into his eyes and he does not push it back. his mouth is set in concentration, lips parted slightly as he hums the bridge you wrote earlier. it sounds better in his voice.

“try it with the harmony,” you murmur.

he glances at you, then plays the first few notes again. this time, your voice joins his, softer than usual. for once, you are not trying to one-up him.

you are just… letting whatever happens happen.

and whatever does happen.

your eyes meet when the last note fades. you are both quiet, like if anyone speaks, the spell will snap.

his gaze drops to your mouth for half a second. you feel it like a lightning strike.

“what?” you whisper, breath catching.

he shakes his head. not a no. not quite. more like a silent war behind his eyes. his fingers flex around the neck of the guitar. “nothing.”

but it is something.

it’s the way the air tilts between you. the way your knees brush again, this time on purpose. the way he exhales, slow and shallow, and his eyes do not leave yours.

“you’re doing it again,” you murmur.

his voice is low. hoarse. “doing what?”

"looking at me like that."

he does not deny it. does not move away.

“like what?”

“you don’t look like someone who hates me,” you add, quieter now.

“maybe i never did,” he confesses. he said it so quiet, so gentle.

and that—that—is what breaks it.

you lean in before you mean to. he meets you halfway. his hand cups the back of your neck, tentative at first, like he is still unsure. but your lips find his like they have always known the way. soft, then harder. slow, then hungrier.

he quickly moves the guitar off his lap and lays it to the floor without breaking away. once it’s situated, he moves you to straddle him.

you kiss him like you’re falling apart.

he kisses back like he’s there to collect the pieces.

and for once, there’s no noise between you. just breath. just skin. just this.

his kiss deepens until it swallows you— slow and hot, all breath and tension and long-held want finally breaking loose. the guitar lies forgotten on the floor, notebooks scattered, and the only thing you can feel is him— his hands on your hips, his mouth trailing warmth down your throat.

you’re still straddling his lap, his back pressed against the creaking leather of the studio couch. it smells like dust and old songs. it smells like him.

“do you want to keep going?” he asks, low against your neck.

you nod your head instantly. “please don’t stop.”

his breath shudders. “okay. okay, come here.”

his hands slip under your shirt again, slow and sure this time, sliding it up and over your head. he takes a second to look at you— eyes heavy, reverent, like he is seeing you for the first time and memorising every detail.

“you’re so—” he swallows. “wow, you’re unreal.”

you kiss him before he can get shy with it. his fingers curl around your waist, thumbs brushing up your spine. when you shift against him, your hips press to his— friction blooming hard and dizzying.

he groans into your mouth, hands guiding you into a slow grind. “that’s it,” he murmurs. “keep moving like that.”

you roll against him again and he sucks in a breath— sharp, shaky. his self-control is unreal, and still he gives it all to you. still, he’s holding you like you’re something sacred.

“can i taste you?” he asks, barely a whisper. “here?”

you nod. breathless. dazed. and he lays you back across the couch.

he lowers himself slowly, kissing down your stomach, your thighs, until you are squirming under his mouth. the room is dead silent except for the subtle creak of vinyl and the soft, wet sound of his tongue lapping into you—slow, unhurried, like he is playing your body by ear.

you moan— quiet at first, then louder when his fingers slip in, curling in time with his tongue.

“jun—god—”

“i’ve got you,” he breathes against you. “let go for me.”

you do— shaking, thighs clenching around his shoulders, breath coming in gasps as your orgasm crashes over you, sharp and messy.

he groans softly, still licking you through it, still holding your hips down with gentle strength.

when he finally comes up, mouth glistening, eyes dark, you are barely holding yourself upright.

“still with me?” he asks, brushing his thumb over your lip.

“yes,” you pant. “need you inside me.”

his jaw tightens. he kisses you again— messy, deep— and you fumble for his jeans. he helps, tugging them down just enough, and pulls a condom from his wallet—hands trembling.

“you sure?” he asks one more time.

“yes. fuck. please.”

he lines himself up, slow and careful, easing in with a low groan that sounds like it’s been waiting in his chest for weeks.

you cry out— full, stretched, perfect. he stills, breath caught.

“you feel—” he chokes on the words. “so so good.”

he starts to move, slow and deep, one hand braced behind your head, the other wrapped around your thigh. the couch shifts beneath you with every thrust, the quiet rhythm echoing in the otherwise still room.

he leans close, panting against your neck. “wanted this for so long,” he murmurs. “wanted you.”

you cling to him, nails digging into his back. “jun, i’m—”

“yeah?” he whispers, you feel his lips curl to a smirk against your skim. “come for me again. let me feel it.”

you do— your whole body tightening, pulling him in deeper as you fall apart for him a second time.

his orgasm follows after you fast, hips stuttering, moaning your name into your mouth as he spills into the condom, fingers gripping you like he never wants to let go.

the silence afterward is soft. buzzing. sacred.

you lie tangled on the couch, half-naked and still catching your breath.

he brushes your hair back, presses a kiss to your temple.

“we’re still in the studio,” you mumble, dazed.

he huffs a quiet laugh, burying his face in your neck. “no one’s coming in. they know i book it late.”

“you planned this?”

“i hoped this would happen eventually,” he murmurs. “but no. not like this.”

you glance up. “regret it?”

his eyes meet yours, gentle and warm. “not for a second.”

outside, the sky is black and the building is quiet.

inside, you’re finally still.

and he is still holding you. like he means to keep doing it. always.

this is my first xdh work so if its bad don’t tell me im newgen to this fandom🫩😀

shout out to jay for helping me ily

[fredshechinger]

If you fall, I will catch you — steddie

pairing: steve harrington/eddie munson rating: M word count: 6.5k content/warnings: 18+ MDNI, trans!eddie, bisexual!steve, coming out, abusive parents, lots of crying, depression, self harm scars, hospitals, showers, cuddling, first kiss, hurt/comfort, wounds, sexual thoughts on ao3

summary: Eddie pretty much moves into Steves house after being discharged from the hospital. Showers are had and things are revealed.

Ever since Eddie woke from the coma, Steve had not left his side. Besides literally getting dragged home to take a damn shower every once in a while by Robin. It was … surprising. The first thing Eddie saw when he woke up was Steve, curled up, sleeping in a very uncomfortable looking chair next to his bed. That had truly been the last thing he expected. You know, besides being alive. He's still not quite sure if he IS alive. But apparently, he didn't die in the upside down, only barely though. He suffered severe blood loss when Steve, Robin and Nancy got to him and Dustin. Steve wasted no time throwing Eddie over his shoulder and taking off to the portal. After that, getting Eddie to not bleed out and into the hospital was a blur for everyone. No one really knew how they did it. But they did. And Eddie was extremely grateful to all of them. But especially Steve.

The thing is, he didn't want to die back there. But he also didn't not want to die. He liked life, music, his friends, even the little brats. But it was exhausting. Life was exhausting. Hiding who you are, who you are attracted to, meanwhile getting bullied for your entire life for just fucking existing? Not conforming? Yeah, it sucked. 

Only two people in his life knew about him, his uncle Wayne and his lifelong best friend Gareth. And yet with every insult thrown at him in school, every shove, every punch, he feared everyone knew as well or that it was only a matter of time before people found out about him. 

Him skipping P.E. wasn't just because he hated it and that he was lazy. And no, it also wasn't because he would pop a boner in the locker room from seeing naked dudes, like everyone said that's the reason why he's never there. Fuck, he wishes that was it. That would at least mean he had a dick. But no, he was already sweating more than enough in his makeshift binder and he would NOT change in front of everyone, let alone take a goddamn shower. Like that wouldn't be a sure fire way to get assaulted and probably killed right then and there. Nope, nope not even going there right now, Munson. Absolutely not. 

Anyway, Steve . Jock, Arrogant, Asshole Steve, who was in fact neither of those things. Well, he was a Jock, and a little bit Arrogant. But he's forgiven because he is also legit the sweetest, most caring person Eddie had ever met. And isn't that a surprise? He can't even hate him anymore. Not an asshole AND saved his life? He's going to be the death of Eddie. Which, ironic.

After another agonizing two weeks in the hospital he was finally cleared to go home. Which opened up a whole different can of worms. He didn’t technically have a home anymore. The trailer was gone. Wayne didn't know he was still alive, and isn't allowed to know until Hopper manages to clear his name for good. So, he can’t go live with him in his new fancy government paid apartment. And staying in the Hospital for any second longer was also not an option. So when Eddie asked the Party where the hell he was gonna go, Steve immediately volunteered his house. And to be fair, it makes sense. Steves parents are never home, in fact they have never evenonce called their son to ask if he's alright. Or even still alive after the “earthquake”. How fucked up is that? And he thought his parents sucked. Well, they do but that’s for a different day.

So with no one to have any better option, Eddie pretty much moved into Steves house for the foreseeable future. Which posed a number of problems for Eddie, but he also can’t complain about living rent free in someones house now can he? 

Thankfully the house is huge . It has like 5 bedrooms and 4 bathrooms, who even needs all that space for 3 people? But right now, he’s glad rich people are weird like this. He gets his own room with a connected bathroom. Which is also big, it has a shower and a tub. Eddie doesnt know if all the other bathrooms do as well but at this point he wouldn't be surprised if they did. 

Steve’s room was right opposite Eddies temporary room. Steve said something about being closer when Eddie needed help, or he could hear if he fell down or something. He’s starting to understand why the kids all call him Mom, he truly is a Mother Hen. 

Most of Eddies wounds have closed up, but moving around is still exhausting and painful. Especially since the Demo-bats decided to give Eddie an impromptu top surgery with eating half his tits and the doctors finishing the rest. Not that anyone knows about that part. Conveniently, they did see Eddie nearly being torn to shreds so having his chest still bandaged because it took the most damage isn’t too far fetched. 

He only got a look at his new flat chest a handful of times while changing the bandages. It’s mangled as hell, more scars than anything else. But he sure as hell isn't gonna complain about free top surgery. Even if the circumstances were not the greatest. Scars are metal and he’s gonna rock them come summer, what are a few more to his already scarred body?

The first two days after getting out of the hospital Eddie spent mostly sleeping, eating, and watching TV. He doesn't really have much energy and Steve encourages him to rest, makes him food and gets him water. Which he felt slightly bad for as Steve himself was also still recovering from his injuries. While they weren't as bad as Eddies, it still can’t be pleasant to be moving around this much. 

But now he’s starting to itch. It's been nearly a week since his last shower and his little cat baths are starting to get less effective. The thing is, he’s kinda scared to take a shower. At the hospital he took two showers, both times with a nurse who helped him. She was supposed to only be there the first time because he was still very weak and could barely stand. He did get dizzy and nearly passed out when he tried to lean down to wash his legs. Thank god for the nurse and her quick reaction time that he didn't slip, fall and split his skull open on the tile. The second time he was still nervous and asked for her help again, which she very kindly did. He did get dizzy again, not as bad at the first time and she helped him with his hair because he could not (and still can’t) lift his arms up high to do so. So yeah, safe to say he’s scared he's gonna pass out and also not be able to wash his hair properly, which it really, really desperately needs. 

But a nurse at a hospital who sees people's junk every day is different than asking the man in whose house he currently lives in, who also has no idea he’s trans. And gay. And who he has a super mega crush on. Maybe he could just … leave his underwear on? Would that be weird? Would Steve think he’s weird? Well, weird is better than outing himself and probably getting kicked out. 

What other choice does he have? 

— 

Later that evening, they both sat on the couch watching a movie. Eddie wasn’t really paying attention as he was too busy trying to gather every bit of courage he has to ask Steve to help him shower . 

Eddie cleared his throat, “Hey, uh … can you maybe do me a favor? Not like you don’t already do with me living here and all…” Eddie started to ramble. Of course, even when he thinks about what exact words he was going to say he’s gonna fuck it up anyway.

“Sure, what's up?” Steve cut his rambling off, smiling at Eddie. “I… I need to take a shower.” Steve looked at him a little confused, not quite understanding what Eddie was getting at. 

“And I can’t do it alone yet. I can barely lift my arms to get a shirt on. I can't wash my hair and also in the hospital I got really dizzy every time and I just don't want you to deal with me splitting my head open and bleeding out, again .” Steve blinked at him, processing the words as a blush crept up his cheeks. “Oh. Oh yeah, sure. I can totally do that. No problem-o.” 

“Really? You don’t … mind?” 

“No. Of course not. You need help, I’m here to help. You wanna do it now?” 

Eddies heart started to pound in his chest. Right, asking was one thing, but actually doing it was another. Oh, this is going to be terribly awkward. “Yeah, I do. Or after the movie if you wanna finish it.”

Steve laughed at that. “To be honest, I wasn’t really paying attention to it anyway. So, let’s go upstairs. I’ll get you some of my shampoo, because I just realized you don’t actually have anything and I’m a bad host.”

—

After gathering everything Eddie might need, they found themselves in the bathroom connected to Eddies room.

“So, how do you wanna do this? Do you just want me to stand by in case you need help or do you like … want me to get in with you?” Steve said with a blush creeping up his cheeks again. 

Seems like he didn’t think about this much further either.

Logically Eddie knew Steve only needed to be there to help him wash his hair, watch him behind the shower curtain in case he passes out, maybe help him wash his legs. But part of him wanted to see how far he could take this. Without completely and utterly embarrassing himself. And potentially outing himself. “Can you … get in here with me? I can just … not turn around?” Eddie stuttered. “Oh! Yes. Sure. Uh… do you need help undressing as well?”

“Just my shirt, the rest I can do myself.” Unfortunately.

Steve nodded and stepped closer to Eddie. He lifted his arms up to Eddies waist, he hesitated for a moment before he took the hem of Eddies shirt in his hands and slowly lifted his shirt up. Scarred skin, bandages and tattoos revealed themselves as Steve lifted the shirt higher and higher. Eddie thinks he caught Steve looking at his torso a few times, but maybe that was just wishful thinking. Slowly Steve slipped his head through the opening, following both of his arms. Finally, with the shirt off, Steve discarded it somewhere on the floor.

“We should probably take those bandages off. Getting them wet would be a mess and we need to change them after this anyway.” Eddie froze before slightly nodding. He hoped the scars on his chest looked just like the other bat bites to Steve. 

Carefully Steve undid the bandaged around Eddies chest. He was so slow and careful, Eddie got goosebumps everytime his fingers slightly touched his exposed skin.

With his bandages off, Steve threw them in the bin and carefully examined Eddies wounds. If Steve only knew what he was actually looking at under all that mangled mess. Eddie shudders at the thought. Steve, probably thinking Eddie is getting cold, immediately starts to remove his own shirt. Eddie just stared at him, transfixed. He should move, turn around. Stop staring at that wonderfully hairy chest that just got revealed.  

“My eyes are up here, you know.” Steve said with a smirk. 

Eddie mumbled out an apology and quickly turned around. Cheeks burning and red. 

Eddie took his pants and socks off, leaving his underwear on for now. Suddenly feeling very self conscious and scared again. This was a bad idea, Munson. 

Of course Steve knew something was wrong immediately. Like he can feel the energy shifting in the room. He slowly approached Eddie, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Hey, it’s okay. I was just joking, you know. I don’t … I’m not mad at you.” Steve said quiet and careful. Eddie let out a huffed laugh at that. Yeah no shit, Eddie knew Steve wasn’t homophobic, his best friend is a lesbian for fucks sake. And yes, Eddie knew. And Robin knew about Eddie being queer as well, they clocked each other the second they met. Wasn’t that difficult to figure out. But that’s not what Eddie was worried about. Well, a bit embarrassed, yes, because he didn’t wanna be the weirdo making a move on a straight guy, but not worried about Steve hating him for being gay. 

Eddie was silent for a few seconds too long for Steves liking “Eddie, can you please look at me? I promise, it’s okay.” 

Immediately, Eddie turned around. Eyes going wide as he realized how close Steve was. He could practically feel Steve’s breath on his face. 

Taking a few steps back to put some distance between them, for Eddies sanity and complete lack of self control to not do anything stupid like kiss those stupidly beautiful lips right in front of him.

“Okay.” is all Eddie said, he didn’t know what else to say.

Steve smiled at him wide. Eddie smiled back and once again turned around to slip into the shower. Hidden by the shower curtain, Eddie gathered all the courage in the world to take his boxer briefs off. Like ripping a bandaid off, he practically ripped his underwear off of him and threw it onto the floor. Steve took that as a sign to step into the large shower as well. Eddies back was to him, so he couldn’t see Steves eyes roaming all around his body, soaking him in. 

Awkwardly Eddie turned the shower on and stood under the stream. He was still extremely tense. One wrong move and it would be over. But the water felt good as he aimed his face at the shower head. Silently Steve reached for the shampoo bottle, opening it and squirting a good amount of the liquid into his hand. 

Eddie was so lost in his own thoughts and the water pouring down on him he forgot Steve fucking harrington was behind him in the god damn shower. Naked. That was until he suddenly felt hands in his hair. He flinched forward so hard, nearly hitting his head on the wall in the process. 

“Shit! Eddie! Are you okay? I’m sorry I should have warned you.” Steve sounded panicked and genuinely sorry. He put his hand on Eddies shoulder again. 

The warm hand on his shoulder felt like it was burning him. He slowly stood back up, starting to feel dizzy from the sudden movement. He swayed slightly and Steve immediately put his arm around Eddies waist to steady him. 

“You’re okay, I got you. I’m not gonna let you fall.” Tears started to prickle at Eddies eyes. Being in Steves arms, having him whisper encouragements in his ear, Eddie wished he didn’t have to hide himself. Could stay here, in his arms, forever. He wishes he could just crawl into Steve and never come back out again. Knowing Steve would keep him safe and warm. Unconsciously Eddie started to lean back into Steve, whose arms tightened around Eddie. Steve rests his forehead against the back of Eddies head. 

Both of them enjoying the moment for a few seconds. Needing the comfort and closeness of the other after all that happened in the past weeks. 

Eddie slowly came back to himself, while still enjoying this position they are in, he also realized that yes, that was Steves dick currently pressed again his lower back. Heat started to rise to his cheeks again. Just a few inches further and he could just slip right inside him, Eddie wouldn’t resist. Would probably beg for Steve to take him. He felt himself get wet at the thought, wanting nothing more than to arch into Steve, rubbing his ass all over his cock. Getting it hard, sliding in between his ass cheeks. 

So lost in the thought Eddie didn’t realize he was actually slowly rubbing against Steve. Just small little movements, but at the sharp intake of breath right by his ear he stopped. Frozen in place. Fuck. Eddie scrambled away from Steve. Well tried to at least, but Steves arms tightened around him. Keeping him in place. “Stay. Please.” Eddie felt his knees go weak at the desperation in Steves voice. How could he say no to that? Eddies heart was pounding in this chest as he nodded and leaned back into Steve. 

At that Steve sighed happily, burying his face into Eddies wet mess of hair. 

Eddie was confused. Needing comfort was one thing, but pretty much begging Eddie to stay after he started grinding his ass on his dick was another. His mind was racing, his heart continuing to pound against his chest.

Eddie doesn’t know if it's been minutes or hours that they’ve been standing there in the shower under the stream. Water not even going cold, being rich must be nice, Eddie thought.

Slowly Steve let go of Eddie, taking a step back. “I’m going to wash your hair now, okay?” Eddie, already missing the warmth of Steve against his back, only nodded. 

Repeating the motions from earlier, putting the liquid onto his hands and putting them into Eddies hair. This time, he was prepared for it. He didn’t flinch, instead he leaned into it. Letting out a small sigh at Steve massaging the shampoo into his scalp.

Eddie loved the feeling of Steves hands on him. His fingers massaging his scalp, running them through his long hair. It felt absolutely heavenly and Eddie wished he would never stop. But unfortunately, Steve was satisfied enough with his work. “I’m gonna wash this out now, alright?” Eddie just nodded. Steve took the showerhead and carefully rinsed his soapy hair out. Taking his time, making sure it’s all out. Eddie thinks he never spend this much time in the shower, let alone for his hair alone. But with Steve, he doesn’t mind. It’s nice.

All too soon his hair was deemed shampoo free and the showerhead was back on the wall.

“Uh… Do you mind if I also just take a quick shower while I’m already in here?” Steve asked nervously. 

“Yes! Sure, yeah. Totally fine with me!” Eddie squeaked out. God he really needs to get a grip on himself. 

“Okay cool. If you feel dizzy or weird again, just say something. I’m right here.”

“Thanks, Steve.” Eddie smiled, Steve was so thoughtful and just cared so much . 

As quickly as Eddie was able to with his limited mobility, he scrubbed his body down. Already starting to feel so much better than earlier. Careful to not turn around to reveal anything, or to stare at Steve washing his body right behind him. Oh god. For probably the first time in his life he was glad he didn’t have a dick so he couldn't pop a boner right then and there at the mere thought of Steve Harrington sliding his hands over his soapy muscled body. God, Eddie wanted to be the one doing that. So bad.

He stood under the showerhead trying to let the hot water ease away the thoughts. It was only somewhat successful. 

“I’m gonna … get out while you, you know. Finish your shower.” Eddie said pointing his thumbs towards the shower curtain. 

“Wait with your hair til I'm done, I’ll only be a minute.” Steve said, already stepping into the spot Eddie left behind to rinse his body off. 

Eddie quickly grabbed the towel and wrapped it around his waist and let out a breath. Safe. He was safe now. 

His hair was dripping wet, running down his back and leaving a puddle on the floor. But true to his word, Steve emerged from the shower not a minute later. The second the curtain opened Eddies eyes widened and he turned around to give Steve some privacy. 

He could hear Steve quickly toweling himself dry. Suddenly everything went black and Eddie panicked for a moment until he heard Steve chuckling and realized he just threw his towel onto Eddies face. At that Eddie turned back around, ready to argue until his eyes were met with a half naked Steve, only in boxers and his hair still damp. And holy shit, maybe he should have gone to P.E. at least a few times only to see this .

Steve, seemingly unaware of Eddies thoughts, grabbed the towel and started to dry his hair. And Eddie just stood there, frozen. His eyes still stuck on Steves slightly damp chest, that was so, so close to him. At this point he wouldn’t be surprised if the puddle at his feet wasnt from his hair but from the way his pussy was just dripping from this entire experience. He couldn't wait until he was alone in bed later to get some relief because holy shit.

When his hair was mostly dry Steve stopped and hung up the towel. “You okay there, Eds?” Steve said when he turned back around. Worried with the way Eddie was just … standing there. Zoned out. He came closer again just as Eddie finally came back to himself. He stumbled backwards, his lower back hitting the sink as the towel caught and fell to the floor. Too busy focusing on the pain in his back, Eddie didn’t notice until it was too late.

“Fuck! That hurt.” Eddie rubbed the spot he hit with his hand. Face screwed in pain. This was gonna leave a bruise. 

Suddenly, he realized he was standing butt ass naked in front of Steve. His eyes went wide and he quickly picked the towel up to cover himself. 

Way too late though as Steve has surely seen everything already. Eddie was scared to look at Steve. He was quiet, too quiet. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“I’m sorry, Eddie.” Huh? What? What the fuck was Steve sorry for? Eddies head snapped up to look at Steve with a very confused look on his face. But all he could see on Steves face was … worry? Sadness? 

“W-What are you sorry for, Steve?” 

“Your thighs." Oh. Oh. Steve wasn't concerned about the lack of dick between Eddies legs but his … self harm scars. 

Eddie just blinked at him. That's what he was worried about? That’s what he cared about? He’s been clean for a while now, he didn’t even think about the scars most of the time. Sure some nights are harder than others and he got some bad thoughts, but he never acted on them.

“They’re old. Uhm … It’s fine, I’m fine! I promise.” 

“I’m still sorry you had to go through that. That must have been a bad time.” Steve said quietly, looking down. 

Yeah, no kidding. It fucking sucked. He was super depressed. Hating his body, hating himself. Getting bullied, hit, shoved. Blinking back tears at those memories, Eddie stepped closer to Steve. “Thank you, Steve. Yes. It was a … bad time. And frankly, I didn’t think I would even make it this far. But I’m glad I did. I’m glad I met you, and the kids. And all the others. Even if the circumstances were less than ideal.” 

Steve looked back up into Eddies eyes, unshed tears in his eyes. He suddenly lunged forward, putting his arms around Eddie and burying his face into his neck. Eddie was stunned for a few seconds but put his arms around Steve in return. There was clearly an underlying thing here that Eddie didn't know. But right now, it doesn’t matter. Steve needed this, needed the comfort of another person. Even if that person was Eddie.

After a few minutes Steve pulled back. No more tears in his eyes, but still looking sad. Eddie wanted to ask so badly what was wrong. But he needed to ask another question more urgently. 

“So … You don’t mind?” Steve tilted his head to the side like a confused puppy. 

“Don’t mind what?” 

“Uh … the very obvious lack of dick between my legs?” Eddie asked, dumbfounded. He couldn’t possibly have missed it when he very clearly looked around that area. Seeing his scars and all.

“Oh.” Oh? Oh? That’s all he had to say? 

“I mean, I am a little confused but … You don’t need to explain yourself to me if you don’t want to. You clearly didn’t want me to know so … I wasn’t going to push, Eddie.”

And that? That was not the reaction he expected. Ever.

“I can explain. It will probably be a bit uh confusing but … I trust you.” At that Steve smiled, he missed seeing that smile even for this short period of time. 

“I appreciate that. But again, you really don’t need to. Or don’t need to, now . You can take your time. I’m not gonna tell anyone anything. I promise.”

Eddie was still a bit taken aback by the response. He nodded before saying “I’m gonna tell you, but first let’s get properly dressed. And I would prefer not having that conversation in the bathroom if that's okay.” 

“Yeah! Of course that's okay! Take your time, I’ll be uh … in my room.” Steve said.

When Steve started to leave, Eddie looked around the bathroom and realized he didn’t have any clothing besides the dirty clothes he had on before. They didn’t think about getting Eddie any clothes. 

“Steve! Wait!” Eddie almost yelled. 

Steve immediately turned around, worry all over his face again. "What's wrong? Are you okay? Do you need to sit down? Need water? Need me to carry you to bed?” And woah alright, that's a lot to unpack. Another time.

“Shit, I’m sorry. I’m okay, I just don’t have any clothes? And I really don’t wanna put those dirty hospital clothes back on.” 

“Oh god, Eddie. I’m so sorry I didn’t even think about that! You can borrow some of my clothes until we get you some. Wait here, I’ll be right back!” Steve said, rushing out of the door in the direction of his room.

A few minutes later Steve came back into the bathroom carrying a pile of clothes. Eddie looked up from where he sat down on the toilet seat. 

“I know my clothes aren't really your style but I tried my best to choose stuff you wouldn't mind too much?” Steve said, fidgeting with the clothes in his hands.

Sweet, Sweet Steve. Like Eddie would complain about wearing any of Steves clothes. Okay well, he would definitely complain about those polos but even then, it would be worth it just to be wearing his clothes.

Eddie laughed, “Thanks Stevie. I promise not to complain too much about your choice of clothing.”

Steve handed him the pile of clothes with a smile. “I’ll be in my room when you’re ready, okay? Take your time.” With that Eddie was alone in the bathroom, staring at the clothes in his hands. 

Dropping the towel Eddie stepped into Steve's boxershorts. Next he put on the grey sweatpants and an old school shirt. Really? Steve put Eddie into his old swim team shirt? Eddie wanted to hate it so bad, but he couldn’t. It felt … oddly intimate to be wearing this shirt. At the feeling of the shirt on his chest Eddie flinched in pain. Right, in all this chaos they forgot to rebandage his chest. With a huff Eddie put the towel up to dry and took the med kit in the cabinet with him to Steves room.

The door to Steves room was slightly open. Eddie just stood there, staring at the half open door. Is he really going to do this? Tell Steve about him? He only really knew the guy for like 3 weeks, and most of that he wasn’t even conscious. But Steve didn’t seem to be freaking out, or otherwise he probably would have already kicked him out. No. He told Eddie that he didn’t even need to tell him anything. Steve was safe. He trusted him. 

With a deep breath Eddie lightly knocked on the door while he opened it. Steve was sitting on the edge of his bed, seemingly lost in thought as he startled at the knock. 

“Uh before anything, could you help me bandage my chest again? We kinda … forgot about that part.” 

Steves eyes went wide, “Oh shit yes of course! I’m sorry I completely forgot. Come here, sit down.” He gestured next to him. 

Eddie sat down next to him as Steve immediately went to help him with his shirt. 

They were both silent during the entire thing, but it wasn't an uncomfortable silence. Not at all. Steve seemed focused on his task and Eddie just watched him. Watched his big hands wrap the bandages around his chest, holding it in place as he taped the ends down. His hands were huge and spread across Eddies chest made them look even larger. He had to suppress a noise at some filthy thoughts that made their way into his head.

When Steve was done he helped Eddie back into his shirt and went to throw the trash away. 

Steve sat down next to Eddie again, and now with nothing to do the quiet got awkward. Eddie didn’t know how to start this. Didn't even really know what to say if he was being honest. He’s never really done it like this. 

“So. I’m … You know. Fuck .” Eddie shook his head. He was supposed to be good at talking.

“It’s alright. Take your time.” Again with that.

“Okay so. I wasn’t exactly born a boy? But I never associated with being a girl. I fucking hated it. I’m a guy. My body just didn’t get the memo.” Eddie sighed.

“When I was like 9 I kept telling my parents that I’m not a girl. I’m a boy. And at first they just laughed it off, you know? Probably just a phase. But no, it wasn’t. I didn’t stop saying it, telling them to call me Eddie. Stop buying me girls clothes. They didn’t like that.” Steve put a hand on his back in support. 

“They were both drunks. My mom was an addict and overdosed when I was 10. That was kind of the catalyst of everything. My father … he was never a good man. Been in and out of Prison my whole life. He didn’t take it well when she died. Kept telling me it was my fault. That I killed her with my bullshit. He hit me a lot when he was drunk. One day he said if I wanna be a boy so bad why do I still have long hair?” Tears were now falling from his eyes at the memory. Steve gathered him into his arm. Rubbing his back, telling him it’s alright. Eddie just let himself cry into Steves neck for a few minutes. He leaned back to continue his story, Steve still having his arms loosely around him. 

“He held me down and cut my hair off that day. I cried so damn much. I yelled at him too. I guess that was his final straw as he pretty much dumped me on Waynes doorstep the next day. Not even telling him about it first. I mean how fucked up is that?” Eddie laughed in disbelief. “Wayne was in shock at the state I was in. He knew my father wasn’t the greatest man. But he didn’t think he was gonna stoop that low. And I didn’t trust Wayne at first. I mean why would I? I barely knew the man and he was my fathers brother after all. But he was so kind. And patient. Nothing like him at all. He didn’t question why I wanted to be called Eddie. He just … accepted it.” 

“I’m glad you have him. He sounds like a great guy.” Steve said, smiling at him. 

Eddie nodded, “He is. I don’t know where I would be without him. But anyway. Yeah that’s pretty much it I guess? Not born a boy but still … a boy?” Eddie grimaced. Why did he say it like that. Stupid brain.

“Thank you for trusting me with this, Eddie.” Steves hugged him, pretty much smooshing him into his chest. And if Eddie wasn’t still injured he would have just accepted it. But alas, he was injured and it hurt. “As much as I like the hug and I’m glad you dont mind. You’re kinda hurting me here.” Steve immediately let him go, looking guilty. “Shit Eddie, I’m sorry I forgot. Are you okay?” Eddie nodded, “Yeah. I’m okay. I promise.” And for the first time in Eddies life he actually believed himself when he said that. 

“So …” Steve started, looking nervous as he fidgeted with the hem of Eddies shirt. 

“While we are pouring our hearts out here, can I tell you something as well?” 

“Yeah, of course. You can tell me anything.” Eddie said serious. 

“I think … No. I know . I’m … bisexual?” Steve said, unsure. 

“For knowing it you sound very unsure about it.” Eddie replied with a smirk.

With a smile Steve said, “Shut up. I do know. I just didn’t know the term til like … a week ago? Robin told me about it after I had a “sexuality crisis” as Robin liked to call it. Not that I think it was a crisis really. I kinda knew I was into guys? I just didn’t know you could like both? Does that make sense? I feel like I sound stupid.” Steve looked down nervously. “You do not sound stupid. This shit can be super confusing, believe me, I know. I’m glad you got there in the end though.” Eddie smiled, lightly jabbing his elbow into Steves side.

“So you don’t … mind?” Steve said, repeating Eddies earlier words.

Eddie just stared at Steve. He can not be serious right now. 

“Steve. Steve. Are you serious? Do I mind? You do know who you’re talking to? I just told you I’m trans and you think I have a problem with you being bisexual?” 

“I don’t know! Maybe?” Steve mumbled. 

“Alright. First, no Stevie I do not mind. And second, You do know I’m gay right? Like, I really didn’t think I was hiding that very well.” 

“You … I mean. I had an Inkling. And the rumors in school … But I didn’t want to assume anything!”  Steves cheeks heating up as he hid behind his hands, and Eddie thinks it's the cutest thing he has ever seen. Oh, he was down bad. 

With a low mumble Eddie said “Cute.” Smiling like an idiot. This could not have gone any better, he was so relieved. And also Steve was into guys! Holy shit! Does that mean Eddie might actually have a chance? Alright, don't get your hopes up Munson that doesn't mean he likes you .

Eddie stifled a yawn, not wanting the moment to end, but Steve caught it anyway. Looking at the clock on his nightstand that showed 11pm already, Steve said with a  gentle smile “We should probably head to bed huh? You still need to rest and this was a lot.”

Knowing Steve was right, Eddie reluctantly agreed and nodded his head. He didn’t want to be alone though. Nights were the hardest. He knows his body needs rest but the nightmares just didn’t let up. More often than not he woke up crying and hyperventilating at the images in his head. Chrissy floating up the ceiling, her eyes completely white. The creatures in the upside down. The Demo-bats ripping Eddie to shreds, he would feel all the pain every time. But the worst of the dreams was when they involved Steve. Steve drowning in lovers lake. Steve getting ripped to shreds instead of Eddie. Bleeding out in Eddies arms, not being able to safe him. It was awful, and he hated it. The memories of the nightmares bringing fresh tears to his eyes, he immediately turned his head and stood up. Steve had seen enough of Eddie crying today. 

“I’m gonna … go to my room. I guess. Uh … good night, Steve.” Eddie said awkwardly pointing towards the hallway, trying his best not to let the tears fall.

“No wait! You can … stay here? If you want?” And after a moment added a small “Please.”.

Eddies heart nearly bursts into pieces at that, Steve sounded so desperate and sad. Fuck, he probably also had nightmares and needed comfort in another person. Wiping his eyes on the borrowed shirt, he turned back around to a miserable looking Steve. Yeah no, he can not just leave him alone like that. Absolutely not. “Yeah. I can stay.” 

And Steve just beamed at that. Sadness leaving his eyes as he warmly smiled at Eddie. 

Eddie slipped into Steves bed, under Steves bed sheets. And all he could smell was Steve. He sighed happily, how will he ever be able to sleep in his own bed ever again after knowing how this feels?

Meanwhile Steve got up to turn the light off, on the way back to the bed he stripped off his shirt and threw it somewhere in the direction of a chair. When he reached the bed he lifted the covers up and slipped under them turning to face Eddie. 

It was dark but the moonlight let enough light in so they could still see each other. Eddie felt giddy with happiness, something he never thought he would feel. 

Suddenly Steve shifted closer, their faces nearly touching at this point. Eddie could feel Steves breath on his lips. Slowly Steve leaned his forehead against Eddies, closing his eyes. One of his arms came to rest on Eddies waist while the other soughed out Eddies hand.

Their fingers intertwined under the blanket and Eddies heart skipped a beat. He doesn’t remember ever holding someones hand and never thought it could be this nice. To just touch someone and be close. He felt like he was touch starved, pressing closer to Steve, needing more. Steve chuckled as his hand that was at Eddies waist slowly crept up to his face. 

Cupping Eddies face in his hand, he slowly leaned forward closing the gap between the two and pressing his lips to Eddies. It was so slow and gentle. Just a soft press of lips against his. When Steve started to lean back again, Eddie immediately chased his lips again, bringing a chuckle out of Steve. “Needy aren't we?” He teases. But Eddie just nodded dumbly. Steve pressed another light kiss onto his lips, making Eddie sigh happily. 

When they parted, Steve pulled Eddie closer to him, holding him in his arms. Eddie laid his head on Steves chest and smiled as Steve pressed a kiss to the top of his head. “Sleep well, Eddie.”

[luvyuuma]

Welcome to writing for &team!! I hope you enjoy it and remember to have fun 🤭

I can’t get over how much Nico would def say “you’re legally obligated to keep holding me” like that sounds so baby girl of him! What are your thoughts my love?

AUTHOR'S NOTE: thank u!! yes! he definitely would say something like this HAHAHA thinking of making this into a full ass fic IDK anyways hope u enjoy this one <3

SYNOPSIS / when you break your arm, your ex-best friend nicholas is the one who shows up to the hospital and sits by you for hours. then, he confronts you about the distance you were in between the two of us.

TW / none

WC / 1.1k words

PAIRING / nicholas x gn!reader

touch-starved &team prompt list

Nicholas + “you’re legally obligated to keep holding me” + "I can't remember the last time I did this with someone"

“Are you okay?” he asks for the umpteenth time.

You sigh exaggeratedly. Had you not broken your arm, you would’ve attacked Nicholas by now.

“Sorry, sorry,” he says quickly, eyes growing wide.

“I told you already, Nicholas. You should go home. I’ll be fine here,” you tell him.

Nicholas shakes his head profusely, “I can’t leave you like this.”

“You’re killing me, you know that?” you deadpan, looking down at the bed tray in front of you. Jelly-like pudding stared back at you, reminding you that hospital food is indeed food cooked in Hell.

“I won’t be able to sleep if I stay home, knowing I could’ve stayed with you longer.”

You look up again.

He’s staring at you, all innocent-like but you can read between the lines. Being friends with Nicholas for three years gave you a deep insight on who he really is. Smart, kind and takes care of you in a way you had never expected anyone to. It’s the fact that you wouldn’t have to ask either—he just does things around you while you simply existed.

It didn’t stop there.

It got intense at some point.

Brief touches—holding your waist to get past you, patting your head, hugs that lasted an eternity and night of sobriety at a party that felt like drunkenness. You swore that night you were about to kiss, Nicholas was about to tell you something but it slipped away.

It’s been months…

You’d distance yourself from him since. It was turning into something you weren’t sure you wanted.

He’s your best friend. He’s like a brother to you.

Then, you started craving his presence. It’s true, what they say. You only want something when it’s gone; when it was there, you had no trouble using it and now that it’s gone, you walk around forever craving it.

However, you were lucky.

You’d broken your arm and you needed someone to get your toiletries for you. Nicholas is the only one with a spare key to your apartment. The only one who would care enough to bring it to you.

So that’s why you’re sitting here—you on the hospital bed with unappetising dinner and he’s dragged a chair next to you. You’ve been like this for hours, catching up on what you missed out on the last few months.

But neither of you mentioned the distance you had.

Someone had to.

“What—“

“What happened to us?” he interrupts you.

You’re flabbergasted.

Nicholas sees it in your face. 

“I don’t know what you mean,” you respond. 

It’s easier than bringing it up yourself. Confrontation was not your strongest suit. Acting like everything is okay? You’re the most confident.

“Yes,” Nicholas says. “You do.”

“Nicholas, you should really go home now,” you murmur, putting your head down.

A beat and a half of silence saunters slowly past the two of you. The faint shuffling of the nurses getting by, the buzzers in the background and the cold, sterilised hospital air renders you still. As if breathing even a little louder would dirty the air.

You feel your heart beat out of your chest when Nicholas lifts your face up. Gently. He does everything so gently. Oh, how you missed that.

He forces you to look into his eyes.

And, you can tell. You can tell how much this scares him. After all, the line between friends and lovers is so thin and blurred and who would know better than the two of you?

“Please. Talk to me, Y/N,” he pleads with you, eyebrows sewing in.

You can’t find your voice.

“I miss you. I miss us.”

You’re shattered.

“I…I miss you too, Nicholas,” you finally speak.

His eyes light up slowly as he tries to fight back a smile. Ultimately, he fails. 

Nicholas pulls you into a bear hug.

“Hey, my arm is broken!” you yelp.

He’s careful of your arm, of course but you had to put it out there.

“No!” he exclaims. “You’re legally obligated to keep holding me—broken arm or not.”

You scoff. But you can’t argue. Your face is in his chest, taking in the scent you weren’t around for for so long. You missed this, you missed him.

You’ve felt so lonely in your being that you didn’t realise how much you needed this. All those months of isolation. Sure you were around people, but they didn’t compare to him.

“I can’t remember the last time I did this with someone,” you utter.

“Me too.”

Pulling away from him, there’s a new expression on his face. 

Reverence.

He hesitates, like he’s weighing everything. Then he speaks.

“Let me take you out, Y/N. Just once. I’ll make it worth your while,” Nicholas says. He says everything like he’s pleading you, begging for permission.

Your heart skips a beat, “Yeah, yeah, whatever you say.”

“You don’t believe me?!” he asks, offended.

“Mmm, let’s say that,” you tease.

“Oh, you better be ready when your arm is healed.”

“Can’t wait.”

[thecandymaticart]

A silly little idea I had

[iwritenarrativesandstuff]

Ok, I think I have a pretty good idea of why a lot of Akechi's dialogue is... like that.

So, even before his confidant truly started, I noticed that he has a real knack for directing the flow of a conversation. This is very fitting for someone who is both a detective and skilled at interviews - when there is a topic and a goal, Akechi is in his element.

All this to say, he's actually kind of controlling when it comes to conversational flow. He probes for information, or turns the conversation around to a particular topic, usually the Phantom Thieves. He manages to take a few of Joker's dialogue options and spin them so they sound mildly incriminating in the context he's placed them in - the only way to truly get around this is to pick answers that feign indifference, and even then, that's more than a bit telling. He's clearly very good at this kind of thing.

But then, we get conversations where either Joker does something he didn't expect, or else he doesn't have a particular goal in mind - and the conversation stutters. In the first instance, Joker does something (a particularly egregious example is putting his glasses on him and fluffing his hair in rank 3) which both leaves him wrong-footed and no longer in perfect control of the situation. He just kind of... freezes, for awhile. It's hilarious. He has no idea how to respond.

He picks up control again in the phone call afterwards, having chosen to play into it, turning this "fooling the crowds" into a kind of game or secret between them. Nice save.

But in instances where there isn't an obvious topic and the goal is somewhat nebulous, for instance, that one Leblanc scene, it becomes pretty apparent that Akechi doesn't have the right "script" to go off of. Again, it's particularly notable in that scene, because I'm fairly sure he didn't have any specific reason to be at Leblanc, other than him looking for a quiet spot now that public opinion has turned on him. And because there isn't anything specific he's digging for, he kind of just ends up throwing things at the wall to see what will stick. Probing for any kind of recognizable reaction that he can jump on and work with, and that just doesn't really happen in this scene.

He references Sae, a woman in a respectable position, to Sojiro, but instead of that netting a welcome, it earns his ire, given Sae's recent actions against him. He then tries to greet Joker, his... rival? friend? enemy? person who at least seems to somewhat enjoy spending time with him? But Joker's responses are somewhat short, and Akechi practically wilts. He tries to commiserate by oversharing. He tries to involve Futaba and reaches out for the only topic of interest he can think of around "young people". He compliments the coffee. He compliments Joker. He tries to invoke that connection between them. None of it is really sticking, nor does it serve as a jumping off point for him to steer the conversation, or even really start one.

So, he basically just ends up having a one-sided chat with himself and then leaves. Hilarious. Also a little sad, if I'm being honest. It's really giving "guy with no friends who only knows how to speak to adults" energy. If there's no specific purpose to the exchange, or he is not in control of its direction, he seems to be kind of out of his depth. He succeeds only in being a little awkward and confusing, more than anything.

[tyliocellier]

Closed starter for @noiranamnesis

To direct a truly great performance is difficult. To direct the perfect performance is impossible. That was what he had been told by his mentor years ago and rather than take it as the humbling piece of advice it was intended to be, Tylio had internalized it as a personal challenge instead. Because he knew that it was possible. Perfection did exist. He witnessed it with his own eyes when he visited the Palais Garnier for the first time and saw his first ever ballet performance. To simply call it a performance would be a disservice, it had been a lifechanging experience for him. That day, he had the pleasure of bearing witness to what turned out to be the most skillfully performed rendition of Odette he'd ever see and it was also the rendition he would spend the rest of his life training people to recapture...

...with mixed results.

Finding the right swan was difficult. No, it was grueling. Last year's Odette was good, perhaps even great but she was not perfect. This year he was once again holding auditions. It was the second round today, and he honestly wasn't sure what to expect. There had been a few decent candidates but he had yet to find someone who was capable of capturing the essence of both the white and black swan. Most people believed they were capable of only one. It was his job to find the exception.

"It's your turn, miss...", he briefly glanced at the paper in his hand, before looking up and back at one of the dancers who'd been waiting by the sidelines. "...Beauséjour." A faint smile showed on his face as he realized the name was French. Dancers from all over the world traveled here for a chance at a proper education, it was not a given that his students were French. Most of them were international, which was why he held his classes in English. He gestured towards the dancefloor with one hand, while the pianist on one side of the room began to play. "Show me your white swan."

[decisions-at-3am]

Maybe I stopped smiling, When I looked around. Finally realising, No one cared if I did.

[mississpissi]

im asking you to explain :mic: abby and her dad go

ok this all started w bulks post about “abby” meaning “father’s joy” and it got me thinking about the contrast between cecil’s relationship with his mom versus the relationship i imagine between abby and her dad. fair warning that this mostly exists in my head but u bet ur burger im still gonna try to back up my ideas w quotes from the text (AP lit and lang babey).

first of all, looking at cecil’s relationship with his mom is super important. one of the first things we hear about her is that she used to hide from cecil for days and that she covered all the mirrors in their house (33). she also tells cecil to “beware, be warned, be wary”, which she apparently says to everything and cecil interprets to mean that she’s proud of him. we also hear in “Homecoming” (55) that cecil looks forward to seeing his mom every year at the homecoming game and was disappointed when he wasn’t able to. in “It Sticks With You” (182), we learn their mother would take them into the woods and walk quickly, cecil saying, “I think she wanted to lose us in the shadowy labyrinth of tall trees.” she would leave flowers at the base of the same old tree every time. she would ignore cecil’s questions. in “Bedtime Story” (132), which im convinced is about cecil (but that’s another post), cecil says “he just wanted his mother to show interest in his curiosity.” and even if that story isn’t about him, it is a story his mother would tell him at night, one he never heard the end of. in the traffic section of “Pioneer Days” (143), cecil tells a story of a boy left behind, abandoned by his family, left with nothing but a snake. im also fairly certain this is about him (cecil loves to tell his own story without ever really telling it). 

most revealing is what cecil says in “Ghost Stories” about his mother and her death. we learn their mother left when cecil was 14 (whatever that means), that cecil “thought that Mom would be back at any moment, like maybe she was away on business. Or out for a walk. Or just hiding.” He says, “And Mom flew away, when all other defenses failed her.” we learn she returned many years later, sick and old and “sorry”. we learn that she died soon after in a way that was “mundane”, that cecil was at work when it happened. we learn that cecil mourned her passing.

all of this paints a picture of a relationship that was strained, full of pain, downright abusive. and we see cecil, as he does so often, retrofit this pain to be something more palatable. she was hiding because she was proud. she didn’t speak to him because she was focused on something else. her defenses had failed her. she was struggling with alcoholism and mental illness. she was playing a game. she covered the mirrors because of pride. she came back! her death was inevitable. he misses her. he grieves her. he loved her. she might have loved him. he makes excuses for her because to do anything else would be to admit that he had experienced immense pain- to re-experience this immense pain. better to change the story.

now abby. 

we don’t know nearly as much about abby as i wish we did. we know she “approach[es] life with a total practicality,” that she will save her pain for when she is in private (It Devours!). steve says, “With Abby around, I can't imagine a bad thing that could happen" (89). we know her relationship with cecil has been tumultuous, that she leaned on cecil and then on steve as she raised janice. in “Bedtime Story”, the sister in the story fought with her brother, telling him she hated him. “she would wrestle him to the ground and pull his hair.” after the boy is buried in the ground, the sister often visits the tree he becomes. she plants flowers, removes beatles from his bark, reads in his shade, plucks his fruit. she visits with a man and a child, visits with joy and with tears in turn. this sister, this abby mourns her brother and tries to protect him, fights with him, loves him. 

and, again, in “Ghost Stories”, we learn that abby was “reserved and controlling”, that she dropped out of college when their mom left to raise cecil, that she blamed him (that cecil blamed her for not being their mom). we learn that abby was there when their mother died, that her death prompted cecil and abby to reconcile their differences. we learn that cecil and abby are both haunted by their family. 

here’s where i diverge from what we really have. 

we haven’t really heard from abby. everything we know of her we’ve learned from cecil and steve. but i have to imagine she resented their mother, that she hardly wanted to drop her plans for her future to raise her younger brother.  i hardly have to imagine what it’s like to have that kind of responsibility thrust upon you when all you wanted was to live your own life. i have to imagine watching your mother die, your mother who just reentered your life after years of neglect, would hurt, would be complicated, would cut deep.

i imagine mr. and mrs. palmer bringing home their first born child, naming her “Abby”, naming her “father’s joy”, naming her after the pride that swelled in her father’s chest. i imagine mr. and mrs. palmer doing their best to raise their daughter in a town as hostile as night vale. i imagine them wanting a sibling for their daughter, someone to keep her company when they couldn’t. i imagine abby struggling with the idea for a moment, then embracing her brother wholeheartedly. i imagine mrs. palmer naming their son “Cecil”, naming him “blind”, naming him after the future she saw.

i imagine abby, her father’s joy, watching as he brought his son to “work in the pasture” with him (132). watching as her brother was injured by his curiosity, watching as her father avoided him in his anger. watching her mother hide from her brother. i imagine abby realizing she would have to be the one to patch him up, even while both parents were still home. i imagine abby hearing her father promise that he “would give [his] life for [his son]”, hearing him say her brother could never be a doctor because “he feared for the boy's future patients”. i imagine her wanting her father to offer his life for her, to invite her to the pasture. i imagine her becoming more reserved over time, realizing her brother needed more help and attention, willing to step into the background because she loved him, because she wanted to be strong for her family. i imagine her doing everything she could to live up to her name, to be someone worthy of the joy of her father.

i imagine abby, her father’s joy, watching him leave. maybe she knew why, maybe she was simply left. i imagine abby watching her mother slowly fall into paranoia and fear because of her brother, because of what she had seen. i imagine abby following her mother into the woods, placing flowers on the trunk of a tree she recognizes, trying to keep cecil distracted by playing a game with him. i imagine abby making sure cecil got to school, got food when their mother was hiding from him. i imagine abby finding out her mother too had left, left her with now full time responsibility for cecil. i imagine abby becoming controlling because she had to, because she had lost control over so many other aspects of her life. i imagine abby channeling what she could remember of her father, trying to be strong, reliable- ignoring that he had stopped being that very suddenly. i imagine abby yelling at a teenage cecil, telling herself that it was better than ignoring him like they had. i imagine abby finding out she was to become a mother, a mother without a father, a mother to a daughter who had more needs than she could handle on her own. i imagine abby finding a man who wanted to help, who could provide a stability cecil was unable to, for all his enthusiasm. i imagine abby, kicking her drunk brother she had raised out of her wedding, not willing to look him in the face for years without seeing her father, seeing her mother, seeing ghosts.

and i imagine abby listening to her brother describe their father on live radio. i imagine her cleaning up after the dinner steve made, hearing about a man with a “thin mouth… [and] threatening, beckoning eyes” (192). hearing about a man, their father, her father, going into the forest with a shovel, digging himself out of the ground. i wonder if she put the pieces together retroactively or if she’d had them all along. i imagine her waiting for the shower to cry. i imagine her hearing that cecil received a photograph of their father (201, 219). i wonder if she went to see it, if she was able to, if she even wanted to see it. i wonder if she listened in, checking that her brother was taking care of her daughter, only to hear that her father, the man who’s joy she had once been, was actually talking to cecil (224). i wonder if she wondered why he was reaching out to cecil and not her. i wonder if she called cecil after, or if she knew he meant it when he said, “I refuse to look into it further.” i wonder if she hopes that when cecil is made to remember their father, she gets to as well. i wonder how long she was her father’s joy, and how long she spent grieving whatever changed that.

most of all, i wonder if WE’RE EVER GONNA GET TO HEAR ABBY’S FUCKING VOICE!!

[skyeateyourdonuts]

weeoo

[raccooncityriots]

Ugh, do I want to go through all the stuff that I stuffed in the attic and never got unpacked when I moved back years ago to try to find my gundam seed necklaces for the movie?? I have to go up there anyway today but man I’ve got no idea where they’re actually at.