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lovecla · 3 months ago

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IF YOU LOVE ME, LET ME KNOW | jack hughes.

00.3. how was your first night together?

➴ warnings: nsfw, rough sex, oral sex (f. receiving), use of the word slut, bit of humiliation, dacryphilia, subspace kinda?, protected sex, nipple sucking, curse words, aftercare, cockwarming, dirty talk.

➴ word count: 2.2k

➴ author’s note: i have nothing to say for myself… also, this is the first straight smut I write in YEARS. so pls bear with me… also2, im highly aware that jack is probably a cutie pie during sex (and dw!! we’ll get there eventually) but something abt this jack… makes me dizzy. hope u all enjoy!!

—♡

LEAVING the party with this man— you still didn’t even know his name— was probably the best decision you had ever made, after auditioning for that one show that changed your life back when you were thirteen.

The pretty boy drove you to his actual house and rested his hand on your thigh the entire ride. You could feel yourself getting wetter and wetter with the thought of letting a man, who you barely even knew, fuck you senseless.

Maybe Grace was right and you did have a little bit of a thing for humiliation.

Although nothing compared to when he opened the door of his huge house for you, and kissed you before he had even closed it properly. His kiss was bruising and angry, his hands gripping your waist with just the right amount of strength and you could swear you were melting in his arms.

“Fuck,” you moaned, sitting on his lap. “What’s your name?”

He laughed, eyes red and mouth swollen. “You don’t know who I am?”

“No?” You raised your eyebrow, smirking.

“I’m Jack Hughes.” He said, looking bothered by the fact that you didn’t know who he was.

“Hi, Jack Hughes,” you said, rocking your hips against his. “I’m Sophia.”

“Oh, I know who you are, baby,” he tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “That concert Nico went to? I was there too.”

Now that surprised you.

“Cat got your tongue, baby?” He was the one smirking now. You rolled your eyes.

“Less yapping and more fucking. I’m starting to think you’re full of shit.”

You barely had time to finish breathing after your sentence before he grabbed you by your waist, and lifted you, forcing you to wrap your legs around his waist.

He somehow managed to climb up the stairs while holding you and hell if that didn’t make you wetter. You could feel your panties sticky and glued to your intimate part, and honestly there wasn’t anything that you wanted more than to remove them.

He placed you in the bed, gentler than you’d expect him to, and you watched as he removed his suit, his toned abs making you clench around nothing. He pushed his somewhat long hair back before getting his hands on you again.

“Let’s get this monstrosity out of you,” he growled before almost ripping the jersey out of you. You laid on the bed now wearing just your bra and your mini-skirt. “Much better.”

You turned around, deciding that he deserved a show. Removing your bra, you actually moaned when you felt the cold air hit your hard nipples. You fought the need of touching them, and went straight to removing your skirt and panties, not letting yourself feel shy or embarrassed.

You felt Jack’s hands on you, turning you around and getting you on your knees. He looked at you like a predator and from just one look at his pants, you could tell that that man was packed.

“Here’s what you’re gonna do, baby,” he whispered, blue eyes staring down at you. “You’re gonna sit that sweet, needy cunt on my face, and I’m gonna eat you out until you’re coming. Then,” he stepped closer, not breaking eye contact. “I’m gonna fuck you fast and rough. That’s how I like it. And with that slutty face of yours,” he scoffed, eyes full of lust and desire. “I’m guessing that’s how you like it too.”

You bit your lips, nodding with your head, because you didn’t trust yourself enough to do anything besides moaning.

He removed the rest of his clothes and, yay, you were right, but also— fuck. You were right. His cock was big and thick and looked like it would reach your stomach and rearrange your organs.

Just how you liked it.

He laid on the bed and grabbed your hips, making you sit on his face, and when the tip of his tongue met your aching clit, you swear you saw stars.

You were holding yourself on the headboard, not wanting to hurt him. He looked like a great guy, and didn’t deserve to die because he suffocated during sex.

But it looked like he had other plans.

“I think I told you to sit your cunt on my face, didn’t I?”

“Yes, but—”

“Do as I fucking say.” Even though he said it, he was the one who grabbed your thighs and pulled you down, making your pussy cover his entire mouth.

Your moans were probably heard from across the street, but you didn’t care. It had been way too long since your last time and this? This was heaven. Jack was a fucking munch. The way he licked your clit and fucked his tongue inside you? Yeah, he knew what he was doing.

“J-Jack, fuck,” you heard yourself saying, eyes starting to feel wet and mind going all blank. “God, what the fuck.”

The wet noises could be heard whenever your moans came out softly, and his hands on your thighs only made it all better, because you knew it would bruise. You knew it would leave a mark there and it felt so good to know that this was the man marking you up.

You looked down by accident and you came right on the spot when you made eye contact with the man underneath you; it should have been embarrassing to look at him eating you out but it wasn’t anything like that. You felt owned and desired. You felt whole.

He removed his lips from your pussy, not before licking it a few times, and turned you around, him on top of you. He moved so he could grab the condom from the bedside table— fuckboy move, totally— and you watched as he put it on.

He kissed you one more time while he inserted himself on you, not really giving you the time to adjust. You felt your hole burning, and it felt good. You were so wet that the squelching sounds were almost embarrassing, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. He was hitting you on the right spots.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he murmured, slamming into you with force. “Pussy so ‘fuckin tight for me. Holy shit.”

“Harder, p-please,” you heard yourself saying and you saw how his bright, blue eyes were changing into a dark, ocean color. You saw danger in them.

“You’re still speaking so I guess I’m not doing my job the right way, huh?” He said, taking almost all of his cock out just to slam it back into you with strength.

Your mind was going to a very strange place where you couldn’t really think straight and even though that should be scary, you felt nothing but… free.

The pleasure was so fucking good and your pussy had never felt so satisfied, as corny as it sounded. He had his lips on your right nipple, sucking and biting, his right hand rubbing your clit fast and precise, while his dick slammed into you with the right amount of pressure.

You could feel the tension building up inside of you and you knew you were going to come again, and soon, but when you tried to say something, warn him, it felt like you had grabbed a stick of glue and glued your mouth shut.

But it was too much, your legs were trembling and your eyes were wet, tears cascading down your face. You knew your face was red and probably slutty like Jack had said but it didn’t matter.

“Poor slut can’t even talk, mhm?” You heard Jack mock you, and fuck if it didn’t make you clench your hole around his dick. “You liked being called that, didn't you? Little slut. My brainless, stupid slut.”

His hand started to move faster on your clit and you tried to close your legs, out of pure instinct.

“None of that, sweetheart,” he whispered in your ear, still fucking you rough and hard. “Keep those pretty, little legs open for me. Isn’t that what you’re here for? Letting me, a guy who you barely know, fuck you senseless.”

You were fully crying now, holding onto him with so much force, secretly thankful that he was a Hockey player and probably used to all the roughness.

“I-I’m gonna,” you mumbled, not even thinking straight.

“You’re gonna come on my cock, sweetheart? Yeah? Gonna make a mess for me and wet my bed sheets even more?”

You felt yourself nodding, biting your lips when you felt yourself coming. Jack was still fucking you, searching for his own release. He lifted himself just enough to grab you by your waist and slam himself into you, over and over again.

Your tits went up and down and your eyes went to the back of your head.

“Fuck, I’m gonna fill you up now, baby. C’mon, sweetheart, I’m gonna come, fuck.” Jack cursed, thrusting into you one last time, before coming inside the condom.

All you could hear were your sniffles and his breathing. Your legs were still shaking and your body felt the same way it did whenever you had a fever.

You could hear Jack moving, but you only acted when you felt himself removing his dick. “N-No. Please, stay. Just… for a bit?” You sounded fragile, almost insecure, and you hated it. It wasn’t anything like you, at all. You had guys and girls throwing themselves at you everyday— not that it mattered, you never took interest in any of them— so you shouldn’t act like a needy… slut.

But your fucked up brain couldn’t handle the thought of Jack leaving you. So, you did what you could. Begged.

You heard him chuckling and before your brain could tell you that he was laughing at your request, you felt him moving you both around and, without removing his cock from you, he managed to lay on the bed and let you on top of his, your head on the crock of his neck, your intimate parts still connected.

You sighed, content and full, feeling even better when he put the duvet on top of you both, making you snuggle even closer. He chuckled again.

“Feeling very cozy in there, right, sweetheart?” He mumbled, and you smiled, even if he couldn’t see. He smelled like sandalwood and something else, something that didn’t smell like a cologne or anything like that— just him.

You didn’t know how much time had passed, you probably snoozed after a minute or two, but you woke up startled, feeling empty because he had just removed himself from you. You whined.

“We need to clean you up, c’mon,” he said, rising from the bed and taking you with him. He didn’t seem to care that you were both naked and you looked like you had seen better days— your makeup was all smudged and your eyeliner was long gone. But you felt so freaking good. “I need you to pee. I’ll wait for you outside if you want.”

You looked at the man in front of you, who looked nothing like the cocky guy who hit on you not even three hours ago. He looked soft and gentle, and you were all here for it.

“That’d be great, thank you,” you said softly, and he kissed you on the forehead, before leaving and closing the door behind him. You looked at your reflection in the big ass mirror in front of you and sighed, smiling. You looked fucked but damn. You felt like you had just hit the jackpot.

And maybe you had.

You peed and cleaned yourself, trying to remove the remains of your makeup with wet paper. It didn’t do much, but it was better than going out there looking like Chucky’s bride.

You opened the bathroom door, feeling cold once again. Now that your body temperature was going back to normal, you felt cold walking around naked.

Jack was standing in the middle of the room, wearing a pair of gray sweatpants and nothing else.

It should be illegal for someone to look this good after rearranging my organs.

“I picked some of my clothes for you. You won’t be sleeping in my bed with Nico’s ugly jersey,” he raised his brow, looking truly upset with Nico’s shirt.

You smiled. “It’s fine. I’m not going to spend the night. That is against the rules of a one night stand.”

It felt stupid to say shit like that, but it was true. Now that the sex drive was going away, you regained some of your senses and confidence and you knew that being a clingy bitch wouldn’t get you anything.

“I mean, I can sleep in my guest room if sleeping with me makes you uncomfortable, but there’s no way in hell I’m letting you go back to your house alone at one in the fucking morning.”

“I know how to take care of myself, Hughes,” you heard yourself saying and you wanted to slap yourself. Where did the attitude even come from anyway? “Besides, I’ll just get an Uber.”

“The fuck you will,” he laughed— he actually laughed. You couldn’t believe it. “Lay down. With how hard I fucked you, you should be like Aurora from Sleeping Beauty anytime now.”

You suppress a giggle, giving in. So easy. “You’re annoying as fuck.”

“Funny, you didn't say that when I was eating your pussy.” He shrugged and climbed on the right side of his bed.

Your face went all shades of red.

“Come on, Sophia. Think about your poor consequences tomorrow.”

You rolled your eyes and climbed on his king sized bed. He wrapped his hands around your waist and you put your head in his chest, and listened to his heartbeat until you fell asleep.

He was right. You could manage the consequences tomorrow.

#jack hughes x you #jack hughes #jack hughes x reader #jack hughes x oc #jack hughes fic #jack hughes smut #IYLMLMK

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l0vergirlsw0rld · 3 months ago

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changes

dbf!loganxgrown!reader

a/n: my first resquest! i hope you like it <3 send me more requests pls pls!

wc:2.5k

FLUFF, AGE GAP, TABOO RELATIONSHIP

summary: you've had enough of the tension between you and Logan, your dad's best friend, so you decided to go confront him about it.

It’s funny how the past creeps up on you. One minute, you’re just a kid with scraped knees and big dreams, and the next, you’re staring down the barrel of decisions you swore you’d never make. But life’s got a way of pushing you into corners, and before you know it, you’re crossing lines you didn’t even know were there.

Logan’s always been a fixture in my life, like the smell of cigar smoke that clings to the walls long after the flame’s been snuffed out. A constant. Steady. Safe, in a way that most people never are. My dad’s best friend, the man who taught me how to throw a punch and how to take one. He was always there, just on the periphery, watching out for me in that quiet, gruff way of his.

But things change. People change. Or maybe, it’s just me. Because somewhere along the way, the way I look at him shifted. The safe, familiar lines blurred, and now I’m seeing things I wasn’t supposed to see—feeling things I wasn’t supposed to feel.

It’s like standing on the edge of a cliff, knowing full well that one wrong step could send you plummeting, but you can’t bring yourself to step back. And Logan… he’s the kind of danger you run toward, not away from.

I know better. I should know better. But when I’m around him, all that common sense goes up in smoke. Just like the end of his cigar, burning slow, smouldering—until there’s nothing left but ash.

You put down your pen with a heavy sigh.

Your diary, the safekeeping for all your thoughts and worries, had recently become your go-to place for your impure thoughts as well.

A part of you wished you could go back to the way it was before. It was simpler, more moral, and occupied a lot less of your mind than it did now.

But something had shifted between the two of you when you became a woman.

The way you looked at him was a big one. Now that you were in the adult dating pool as well, you couldn’t help but notice that Logan was an attractive man and a single one too.

You obsessively questioned why that was because, to you, he was the complete package; More than just tall, dark, and handsome.

You would catch yourself stealing glances when he wasn’t looking, the way his chest and abdominal muscles flexed beneath his shirt when he moved. The protruding veins of his forearms and hands, how his fingers were covered in callouses from work.

You had memorized the way his voice dipped into a low grumble when he said your name, how his hazel eyes darkened with something unspoken when they met yours.

The way he spoke to you also took a drastic turn. Keeping the conversation preferably to small talk, or once in a while he’d tease you and call you those annoying pet names from when you were little:

“Watch your mouth, sweetheart.”

“Come on princess, take a joke,”

“Kid, you’re gonna be the death of me.”

Another thing was the way you interacted with each other; you weren’t jumping into his arms as soon as he stepped through the door or being picked up and settled into his lap anymore, it was just a nod of acknowledgement or a slight touch on your lower back if he needed to pass by you.

Even the littlest amount of contact didn’t stop you from imagining what it would feel like if he didn’t stop himself from touching you. What it would feel like if he let go of that last thread of restraint that keeps him just out of reach.

When you lay alone at night, you couldn’t help but think about sitting on that lap again one day.

The lines between right and wrong blur every time he’s near now. It’s dangerous, this game you’re both playing in your heads.

The last time he’d been over, fixing something for your dad, you couldn’t help but notice how his gaze lingered on you a moment too long. How the air seemed to crackle with tension when you were alone in the room together.

“You alright bub’?” he’d tried to play it casually but his eyes… his eyes told a different story.

Bub, the nickname he had given you when you were younger.

“Yeah, just watching you,” you’d bit your lip, keeping your gaze locked on his.

He nodded, but the way his jaw tightened, the way his hands gripped the wrench a little harder, told you everything you needed to know. You could feel the weight of his gaze on your back as you left the room, your heart pounding in your chest, knowing he felt it too—the pull, the magnetic force that kept you two stealing glances here and there.

You close the diary with a soft thud as if shutting the book could somehow lock away the thoughts swirling in your head. But the truth is, there’s no escaping them—not when every interaction with Logan leaves you trembling with a flame you cannot control.

And now, sitting in your room, your diary clutched to your chest like a lifeline, you know it’s only a matter of time before something gives.

There is no better time than the present after all…Fuck it.

With a deep breath, you push yourself off the bed and glance at the clock. It’s late, but you know Logan’s still awake—he always is.

Part of you was set on going to see him now, to see if the tension you’ve been imagining is real, if he’ll react the same way as you will.

But another part of you, the part that remembers the little girl who used to jump into his arms without a second thought, holds you back.

Because once you took that step, there was no going back to the way things were before.

And maybe that’s what scared you the most.

You slipped out of your apartment, clutching your car keys so tightly that the metal might bend under the pressure.

What were you doing? You weren’t entirely sure yourself, but it felt as if your body was on autopilot—drawn to him like a moth to a flame.

Finding your car, you slid into the driver’s seat, your fingers trembling as you shot Logan a quick text.

Y/N: You up?

Your leg bounced nervously as you waited for his reply. How would he react? Would his voice of reason prevail, or would he finally admit to feeling the same pull that you did?

A moment later, your phone buzzed. Logan responded with a simple thumbs-up emoji.

Very on brand.

Simple, efficient, and direct. You thought.

With his green light, you pulled out of the parking garage and drove towards his log cabin up at Deer Lake. The hum of the engine was the only sound breaking the stillness of the night. The closer you got, the more your heart pounded against your ribcage, a steady rhythm that matched the thoughts racing through your mind.

You couldn’t stop replaying the last time you’d been alone with him, the way his eyes had lingered on yours just a fraction too long, the almost imperceptible tightening of his jaw when your fingers brushed his as he handed you something.

Was tonight the night everything would change?

As you turned onto the narrow, winding road that led to his place, the dense trees seemed to close in around you, the darkness thickening with each passing second.

The familiarity of the path did little to ease your nerves; if anything, it only heightened the anticipation.

You’d been here countless times before, but tonight was different. Tonight, you weren’t just visiting a family friend—you were venturing into no man's land.

Finally, the cabin came into view, the warm glow of the porch light spilling out into the cold night air.

You parked the car and took a deep breath, your hand hovering over the door handle as you tried to steady yourself.

There was still time to turn back, to pretend this had all been a bad idea, a fleeting moment of weakness.

But deep down, you knew you weren’t going to, you knew you didn’t want to.

With a quiet resolve, you stepped out of the car and made your way up the steps to his door. The sound of gravel crunching beneath your boots seemed louder in the stillness of the night.

You hesitated for a moment at the door, your hand raised to knock, when it suddenly swung open, revealing Logan standing there, backlit by the soft light from inside.

He was dressed in his usual white tank top and denim jeans. His tall presence filled the doorway, broad shoulders and familiar, rugged face, but it was the look in his eyes that held you captive. There was a flicker of something there—something that mirrored the pressure in your chest.

“Kid,” he said, his voice low and steady, but you could hear the tension beneath it.

“Can I come in?” You mumbled shyly.

He nodded, and you stepped past him into the cabin. The door closed behind you with a soft click, and suddenly the world outside felt very far away. It was as if you’d crossed over into a place where nothing but the two of you existed.

You followed Logan deeper into the cabin, the warmth from the fireplace offering a sharp contrast to the cold, restless night outside. He leaned against the table, returning his glass of whiskey in his hand.

Taking a deep breath, you decided to break the silence. “Logan… can we talk?”

He took a swig and looked up, his hazel eyes reflecting the flickering firelight. “‘Bout what?”

You hesitated, then stepped closer, your heart racing. “Logan, I see the way you look at me.”

He took a swig of his drink.

“... it’s okay. I’ve been looking too.” You stepped closer.

“I know, sweetheart,” He looked down into his drink. “...hard to ignore what’s goin' on between us.”

Your breath hitched: he acknowledged it.

“It is hard, and it’s driving me crazy... we can’t keep pretending like there’s nothing here. I like you, a lot, and I know it’s wrong but I can’t help it.” You fiddled with your fingers.

“Kid,” he began, his voice gruff, “it ain’t wrong to feel what you’re feelin’. Not with the way that things have changed between us.”

You swallowed, your heart pounding in your chest as you took another step closer, the tension between you thickening with each breath. “Then why have you been pulling away? Why do you keep acting like we can just ignore this?”

Logan’s jaw tightened, his hands flexing as if he was trying to find the right words. “I’ve been tryin’ to protect you…. Things ain’t as simple as they used to be. You’re not a little girl anymore, and I’m… well, I’m me. There’s a lot of weight that comes with this, darlin’. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want it too.”

Your heart ached at his words, and a relieved sigh escaped your body. “I don’t care about the weight, Logan. I just… I want to figure this out with you. I want us to be honest about what we’re feeling, even if it’s messy.”

Logan’s expression softened, a hint of vulnerability showing through his tough exterior. “You’re sure about this, princess? Once we open this door, there ain’t no goin’ back.”

You nodded, your voice steady despite the whirlwind of emotions inside you. “I’m sure. I want to see where this goes. I don’t want to keep pretending.”

Logan took a deep breath and pulled you close to him by your waist, the warmth of his touch grounding you. “Alright, we’ll take it slow and figure it out as we go.”

Logan’s gaze lingered on yours, and for a moment, the world around you seemed to disappear. The warmth of his hand on your waist, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the soft crackle of the fire—all of it faded into the background as you both stood there, suspended in the tension of what was about to happen.

You could see the conflict in his eyes, the war between the desire he’d been holding back and the protective instinct that had kept him at a distance for so long. But as you leaned in closer, closing the gap between you, something in his resolve seemed to break.

His hand moved from your waist to cup your face, his thumb brushing over your cheek with a tenderness that made your heart swoon. Your breath caught as his gaze flickered down to your lips, then back up to your eyes, as if silently asking for permission.

You answered by closing the distance, your lips meeting his in a kiss that was both gentle and intense, like the release of a storm that had been building for far too long. His other arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you even closer as if he couldn’t bear to let you go.

The kiss deepened, a slow exploration of all the feelings you’d both been holding back. There was a rawness to it, a hunger that had been denied for too long, but also a softness, an unspoken promise that this was only the beginning.

When you finally pulled back, both of you were breathless, your foreheads resting against each other as you tried to steady yourselves. Logan’s hand remained on your face, his thumb tracing the curve of your jaw as if he was memorizing the moment.

“Damn, kid,” he murmured, You could smell the whiskey on his breath. “That was...”

“Yeah,” you whispered, unable to find the words to describe what you were feeling. “It was.”

Logan’s eyes searched yours, and in them, you saw a mixture of relief, longing, and something deeper—something that told you that whatever came next, you wouldn’t have to face it alone.

Without a word, Logan’s hands slid down to your thighs, and with a strength that always amazed you, he lifted you effortlessly. A small gasp escaped your lips as he carried you over to the worn leather armchair by the fire, he settled you in his lap, just like you’d been longing for.

The warmth of his body against yours sent a shiver down your spine as you instinctively wrapped your arms around his neck. Logan held you close, his hand resting on your lower back, grounding you in the moment.

“What now?” he asked with a grin, his voice a little more seductive now as if the kiss had made it harder for him to hold back.

“What happened to start slow?” You tightened your grip around his neck.

A small, almost shy smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he leaned in to kiss you again, this time slower, savouring every moment. The world outside could wait. For now, all that mattered was this—just the two of you and the beginning of something you both knew you’d been waiting for.

ty so much for your request reader <3

🏷️: @megangovier, @back2thebasics

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asapeveryday · 7 months ago

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SHOCK FACTOR★彡 Part 1

Next Chapter.

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Rival!Reader

Warnings: swearing

Summary: After a close game and a couple bad decisions, the media has pitted you and Paige against each other. When you finally meet off the court you’re not sure what to expect…

A/n: got many requests for some sort of rival player type-thing!!! I combined some ideas to please the masses :) there will be more parts obv. This chap is pretty long so sorry for that!!

___________________________________________________________

“This question here is for Paige again. Now, is there anything you have to say about the little altercation near the end of the third quarter with number 3 on USC? it was quite a tense moment!”

The blonde smirks to herself, her hand rubbing her forehead. “There ain’t much to say. I went for the ball and obviously she did too. I’m not tryna give anything up, I jus personally think I got it first but that doesn’t matter anymore.” She shrugs. “Thas it.”

There’s a pause for a moment, before she opens her mouth again. “I will say though, ion have much patience for players who can’t control their language.”

Her teammates share looks at this comment, and the reporters attempt to press further but Geno ensures Paige doesn’t talk for the rest of the press conference.

“(Name) how many times have you watched this fuckin video.” JuJu comes up from behind you, scaring the shit out of you and snapping you back to reality.

“I haven’t watched it that much.” You roll your eyes. “I just…never mind.”

“It’s time to move on, shit like this happens. Jus gotta keep on that grind.” She says, sitting down beside you. Despite being a freshman, Juju was naturally mature. You and her had become a popular junior/freshman duo both on and off the court. You pushed her harder and she kept you on your toes.

“I’m moved on.” You huff.

“No you’re not…look at yo hands gripping your phone.” She laughs and you roll your eyes.

The issue wasn’t the prolonged tussle for the ball when your team played UConn, it wasn’t Paige barely regarding you, or her shading the occasional curse you’d let slip during a game. These things all fuelled what really was bothering you. The way you responded.

TWO WEEKS EARLIER, POST UCONN GAME

“Where’s JuJu? Prolly eating or something she’s lowkey a big back.”

You laugh at your roommates response to the question. It had been a weird couple of days since USC faced UConn, usually there wasn’t a lot of buzz around women’s college games but this year was different. The media was all up on everyone, especially UConn since Paige returned in better health for her senior year. You decided to go live to have some fun and interact with your viewers, even though your mind was elsewhere.

“What were your thoughts on how you guys played Connecticut?” You read aloud from the chat. “Um, they’re great. I mean it was pretty close. Me and the girls did what we could and we’re gonna kill it next year, so.” You say, perfectly passive and normal. In your head you were furious at how close the game had been, but there was nothing you could do.

Near the end of the third quarter, you and Paige had a little tussle for possession of the ball. You could’ve sworn you’d gotten it before pale skinned hands darted out for the grab, almost stealing it from you before your instincts kicked in and managed your grip. You vividly remember the yells from teammates, coaches and the stands as you and Paige momentarily wrestled for the ball, her tongue sticking out between her lips and her eyes determined before number 3 on her team tore her away.

Grazing your hand against hers at the end of the game was humiliating, and she was undoubtedly looking forward to it; holding your fingers a moment too long before letting out the most agitating, self-fulfilled “good game” with a smile that would’ve warranted a punch to her teeth had you not been on camera.

You didn’t bother to smile back, but muttered a perfectly timed “bitch” just as her hand let go of yours. Nobody heard it except you and her, and the subtle change in expression from haughty to straight faced was a beautiful sight for sore eyes.

“They keep asking about the thing with Paige.” Your roomie reads, and you shove her. “Bro why’d you say that out loud…now I have to address it.” You whisper to her, annoyed. She wasn’t on the team, and didn’t think about things like that.

She shoots an apologetic look, and you decide to act like nothing happened. The damage is done though, because now all the comments are about Paige.

“You handled the press good after.”

“If I was you I would’ve taken it off the court ngl”

“You were wrong for that!”

“What happened with Paige???”

“The way she was looking at u after….mm”

“Did you see what she said on the panel?”

Scanning through the various questions you found it harder and harder to not think about it. Basketball is a contact sport, things like a fight for the ball weren’t rare. Sure it was a little aggressive, but nothing you weren’t ready for. Paige seemed ready herself, her hands gripping the already-in-your-grasp ball, her eyes shooting you the coldest look they could muster. You’d already seen edits of her all over social media, tousling with you for a moment before being dragged off by Aaliyah.

JuJu walks into your dorm and sits next to you, reading the comments as well. She slightly shakes her head at all the mentions of Paige, but greets the chat nevertheless.

Fuck it. It’s late night, you’ve been getting annoyed by all of this attention on Paige and you, and people weren’t gonna forget about it anytime soon. One comment won’t hurt.

“Did I see what Paige said on the panel?” You read out loud. JuJu shoots you a look. “Yeah…I did. ” You say, suspicious as possible. “Ion know…i jus don’t have much patience for that swiper no swiping shihhh��..stuff.” You mock Paige, then catch yourself before fully saying shit. Two digs at the blonde at UConn in one sentence, one for her statement and the other for her criticism on your swearing.

You, your roommate and JuJu all look at each other for what seems like an eternity before bursting into an explosion of laughter. You were just being petty, it didn’t seem like a big deal at the time.

It kinda was.

PRESENT TIME

You’ve always loved east-coast America. It has a different kind of feel, especially during spring. The weather was getting hotter and everyone is hyped for summer break, at least those without classes. You and some of your teammates were going on a little Big East road trip, and of course the east meant places like New York, Michigan, Boston, Rhode Island, Connecticut.

God, you weren’t ready for Connecticut. The media was really eating you and Paige’s (non-existent) beef up, and you wondered if it would translate into real life. What was worse was that you had a friend who went to UConn who you were seeing for sure.

“I am not coming to your school.” You said hastily over the phone.

“Chill.” Elaine, your friend responded. “Nobody wants you here anyways.”

“Shuttuppppp it’s not funny.” You whine, knowing she was joking but hoping there was no truth in the statement. You could handle the smoke of a mini rivalry, but confrontation was just awkward.

“Just be ready. The minute you’re in town let me know, we can go to my favourite bar.” She laughs.

“Got it.” You respond happily. You were gonna have a fun night out, things were gonna be chill. You’d maybe have a drink…maybe get hammered. It was gonna be good.

“You should go live.”

“No fucking way.” You shake your head. The bar was crowded, but nice. You understand why your friend wanted to take you.

“Are most of these people UConn kids?” You ask.

“Yeah.” Elaine responds, looking around. “This is like the Storrs hangout spot on a Friday night. Anyways, I’ve missed seeing your lives.”

“I know, I know.” You rub your head. “I literally can’t though. Like, I’m on a social media ban. Goddd, after that last live you don’t get how much shit I got.”

“I thought it was funny!” She says, and you smile. “Oh my god (Name), did you see her tweet after.”

“BYE.” you cover your face, laughing. A couple hours after the live, Paige had tweeted some sort of passive aggressive very targeted thing about how God has her back when people give her a hard time or something like that. You’d almost died when it showed on your TL.

“Have you seen all the edits comparing me n her.” You manage to get out between laughs. Sure, you didn’t have the spectacular reputation Paige did. The girl had started her college career stronger then literally everyone else, and she was top pick to begin with. Her return to the court was well anticipated, even by you.

Still despite that, you had a certain sparkle in game. You played flashy, but you could back it up. Your freshman year you were very much an underdog, a stark difference from Paige, but your sophomore year had been very different, and this year as a junior you were getting recognition that almost gave you whiplash. Your talent was undoubted.

“I think both of you guys are being extra careful on socials now.” Elaine says. “I mean Paige is pretty active, but when they go live the minute your name is brought up, which it always is, she like…mysteriously disappears from view. It’s actually funny.”

“Whatever.” You say, taking a swig of your drink. “As funny as it is, I’m tired of all this shit, it’s unnecessary. Let’s forget about her.”

Elaine lets out a cough, before covering her face. “Pfft. Um, yeah. Let’s forget about it.”

“What….what is it?” You say, raising an eyebrow. Your friends eyes are stuck behind you. When you turn on the barstool as conspicuously as possible, you feel your stomach physically lurch.

“You’re fucking kidding.”

“We have great luck.” Elaine muffles a laugh.

You spin back towards her, talking through bared teeth. “You brought me to Storrs’s most popular bar on a Friday night…Storrs…fuck. That’s their campus? Seriously??!”

“Don’t be mad.” She sheepishly smiles. “I don’t pay that much attention to them…I didn’t think it through.”

“Boo, you whore. Even I know they’re like, bar-fiends.” You grumble, putting your head down. “God, just put your head down, cover me, something. I’m not tryna do this right now.”

Covering your eyes and keeping your back to the group, you ask. “How many of them are here. Tell me exactly who.”

“Umm, I don’t know all of them.” She says.

“Bitch just tell me…I swear to god.” You sneer, casually attempting to turn, discreetly letting your eyes graze the masses before they meet a pair of blue ones.

Shit.

Her eyes hold yours for a moment too long. Her hair is down instead of her signature ponytail and braids. She’s dressed casually, and posed confidently. Her expression is one of surprise…then amusement…and then something you can’t quite recognize. When her friends start to follow her gaze, you finally turn away.

“Elaine, I’m gonna fucking kill you.”

“Calm down, it’s fine. You always say you can handle the smoke, right?”

“Yeah when I’m in California I can…not when I’m in a UConn infested bar with Paige fucking Bueckers and her cult staring me down.”

“They’re really staring. Oh, KK just pointed at you.” Elaine says, looking at them obviously. You fix your posture and adjust your hair at this.

“Are they like…coming over?”

“Yep.” She murmurs under her breath, indicating they’re close.

“Umm, hey.” A voice says from behind you. It’s low, almost raspy. You remember it being way more strained and arrogant on the court. In the bar, it was almost attractive.

“Hey.” You say, as cool as possible. Turning to face Paige and her teammates usually wouldn’t have intimidated you, you could hold your ground and you were confident in yourself, but here? On their turf? With none of your own teammates? And a couple drinks in you? Your body was already tingling, and you were terrified you would say something to dig your hole deeper.

“Think I could get a picture?” Paige says. She sounds likes she’s severely forcing herself, arms crossed and drink already half empty despite just entering the bar. Azzi’s face breaks into an amused smirk beside her, and her other friends hang back with giggly expressions.

“A…picture?” You say, confused. The three of you stare at each other for an awkward moment before you break the silence. “Sorry…that was rude of me, my bad. I just wasn’t expecting that.” You laugh. “If you actually want a picture I can do that for you.”

“Thanks.” Paige smiles, but there’s no happiness behind it. When she poses by you, her hand just hovers above your waist. She can’t even bring herself to touch you. You give your best smile as Azzi takes the picture on Paige’s phone.

When she shows it to the two of you, you realize why Paige might’ve wanted that picture.

“You’re gonna really shock everyone when you post that.” You say, laughing. Paige’s face finally breaks to a more authentic smirk that sends shivers down your spine. It’s like the one she wore when you two were facing each other on the court. Proud, confident, ready for anything.

“Never let em’ know your next move.” She says, eyes piercing yours.

As the night goes on the bar gets more and more busy, you have to yell over the music for Elaine to hear you. You’re not exactly trying to talk to her though, because she’s mostly talking about Paige.

“You know she’s sort of a campus heart-throb right?”

“What??” You yell, although you’ve perfectly heard what she’s said.

“She’s. Hot. Maybe you should flirt with her a little.” Elaine says.

You just shake your head. “I’m gonna get another drink.”

Your luck is spectacular for the night, because there are no barstool seats left except one a little too close to Paige, who’s sitting alone and waiting for her drink. You silently curse, but are thankful her team isn’t there too. You sit by her as confidently as possible, avoiding her gaze.

She’s watching you indubitably, noting every move you make. Your posture as you sit, the Polaroid behind your clear phone case, the way your lips move when you ask the bartender for your favourite drink, these are all thinks she seemingly makes note of.

You can’t help but overhear her scoff at your drink choice, to which you finally turn and acknowledge her, raising your eyebrow.

“Out of everything you could’ve ordered you got that?” She says, haughty as ever.

“Not everyone is trying to get white-girl-wasted.” You respond curtly, eyeing her Dirty Shirley.

Paige scoffs. “You don’t talk as big as you do on your lives.”

Shrugging, you respond “Someone asked a question and I answered, simple as that.”

“Ion know bout that one.” She rolls her eyes.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I think you’re just feining for people to talk bout you.”

This bitch. You internally think, brows furrowed at her statement. “Wouldn’t have even been brought up if you hadn’t let your fatass ego get in the way of your media training during that press conference.” You sneer. “Now that is feining for people to talk..”

“Someone asked a question and I answered.” She smiles, sending a hot flash of anger throughout your body. “Simple as that.”

“You think you’re so smart.” You grumble out, turning your head from her. The sheer arrogance is radiating from her body, it’s annoying you to no end.

“I am.” She says, as if it’s common knowledge. “Plus, I’m not the one who started twisting words. That was you, remember?”

When your drink is finally set in front of you, you make a point to get up from the stool and grab it, sending Paige a steely look. “Good talk, Bueckers.”

“Aye, wait a sec.”

You’re already walking away, taking a big gulp of your drink when she slides off of her stool and catches up, walking beside you. You don’t miss how her eyes flick to your mouth when you wipe it clean, facing her begrudgingly.

“Why’re you even here?” She asks. “Visiting yo girlfriend?”

“Who, Elaine?” You laugh, Elaine being the straightest girl you know. “Why’re you so interested?”

“Wasn’t expecting to see some California girl in Storrs. You sure you weren’t plotting on seeing me?” Paige grins, taking a step towards you. She’s taller then you, and the way she tilts her head downwards when she speaks gives you an unrecognizable feeling that you’re planning to blame on the alcohol.

“I got up close and personal with you once, and it was enough.” You smile, holding her stare. She chews on the straw of her Shirley, her expression both amused and something else.

“Ion think so.” She mumbles.

“You don’t have to think.” You respond, looking her up and down for a moment. It feels like an eternity passes as you two challenge each other, the air gets thicker by the minute and you finally break away from her, walking as confidently as you can, far from where she can see you.

You don’t see Paige again after that, presumably because her and her friends went elsewhere. Laying in a hotel room next to your teammates, you can’t help but think about the blonde and how odd your interaction was. She had this way of looking at you like she knew exactly what you were thinking, even though you knew damn well she knew nothing except for how you were on the court. Still, despite how her voice made your skin itch and her mannerisms induced the need for violence, there was something else you couldn’t quite put your finger on.

As if reading your mind, your phone began to vibrate uncontrollably. You check your notifications to see a sea of messages and a couple more alien ones on Instagram.

paigebueckers started following you.

paigebueckers tagged you in their story.

jujubballin sent you a story.

jujubballin sent you a message.

kenzie_4bs sent you a story.

kenzie_4bs sent you a message.

You accept Paige’s request and view her story, which features the picture of you and Paige. You sitting and her standing, her hand just hovering above your waist, her face a curt close-mouthed smile and yours wide and genuine. It’s an interesting photo which she’s captioned “Cali meets Connecticut!”

You scoff at her version of being witty, and immediately cringe at the sheer amount of traction the post has gotten already, with at least 50 people in your inbox within the first 15 minutes of the post coming out. The messages range from “The crossover we needed!!” To “Ik you wanted to punch her white-ass” and frankly it was all too much for you. Social media, Connecticut, the messages, Paige.

She seemed to be the main article of stress in your life the past couple weeks and it seemed to smart to keep a distance from her from this point onward.

The girl really knows how to induce that shock factor.

#Spotify #fanfiction #fanfic #paige bueckers #uconn wbb #rpf #paige buckets #azzi fudd #storrs #usc wbb #usc #university of southern california #university of connecticut #paige bueckers x reader #x reader #paige x reader

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netherfeildren · 6 months ago

Text

FABLE OF THE DOG : 1. The Two Headed Calf

Series Masterlist;

Pairing: Joel Miller x FMC

Summary: Welcome home and buck up, cowgirl.

Rating: Explicit 18+

Content Warnings: Cowboy/Heiress AU; Slowburn(ish); Original Characters; Alcohol & Drug Use; Discussions of Grief; Daddy Issues; Graphic Descriptions of Vomiting; Description of a Dead Body; Death of a Parent; Parental Neglect; Older Man/Younger Woman; Jealousy; Past Teenage Crush; Unrequited Pinning; Yearning and Longing Galore; Boss’s Daughter; Complicated Family Relationships; A Home is a Place but ALSO a Person!; Found Family

A/N: Disclaimer, I know nothing about Wyoming and it’s geography, ranching, or being a cowboy and just made all this up. Any and all misrepresentations are fallacy of my laziness.

The FMC tag was decided because she has a last name. It was just too difficult for me to speak in depth about her father without giving him a name, and thus her one too. After that decision was made, she kind of went away from me and devolved into her own person who I have come to be quite obsessed with. It’s still written in ‘you’ format, anyhow.

I’ve been having a whole lot of fun with this, I hope you do too.

Word Count: 10K

Read on AO3

1: The Two Headed Calf

“She’s been shut up in that house goin’ on three days now, Joel,” Tommy says as the two brothers make their way across the lawn.

The ride had been long and hard, and Joel is tired—he levels a dark look at him. “Just sayin’. Nothin’ you find in there’s gonna be pretty to look at.” He raises his hands in surrender at the brooding glare, that non-confrontational shrug that’s set Joel on edge since they were boys.

“One of you’s should’a gone in there. Made sure she’s okay.”

“The housekeepers’ve been keepin’ an eye. And Frank tried to go in there and check on her himself, but she’s angry as a barn cat. Hissin’ ‘nd yowlin’, and just bein’ downright scary as hell, to be honest. You should be prepared is all I’m tryin’ to say.”

“Her father just died, Tommy. I’m not expectin’ pretty sights right now,” Joel gruffs, trying to swallow the panic that flutters in his throat as they crest the final hill up to the big house.

The beautiful stone, oak, glass monstrosity that’s stood as monument to this place, this home that is not truly his, for over a decade now. The Kelly Ranch. The sky above is still a sultry, yawning blue, deep and tired, basking in the throes of dawn as the sun just now makes its way over the crest of the Tetons in the distance so that the house sits for just a moment longer in its pool of shadowed blues.

Joel pauses on the border of that somber darkness, afraid suddenly of what awaits him inside; boots glued to the ground with the gum of cowardice. He doesn’t want to see her broken. He doesn’t want to see her hurting. But there’s no other recourse, he knows this. The death of the estranged father she’d fought with all her life, the inheritance of this world that seems suddenly too big for just one orphaned girl, all alone now.

He’s afraid that he’ll walk into that house he’s always seen as other and home all wrapped into one—that Olympus that was so far removed and out of reach even when he walked through it’s halls to the man who’d given him sanctuary and salvation, to the man he knew mistreated her sometimes, didn’t love her enough—and not have the capacity to recognize her, this girl who’d always been familiar and stranger all in one also.

Joel Miller suddenly feels afraid of the memory she exists as in his mind, in the face of the woman he knows she is now.

When he lets himself in the back kitchen door, it’s still nighttime within. The cool dryness of the AC cranked up to inhuman temperatures makes him shiver once while sprouting a damp sweat along his nape. He should’ve showered before coming, should’ve washed the ride and the days of camp off his skin before walking into her presence, but all he’d managed were his hands and face. There’d been panic to make sure she was well, if not then alive, at least. But he should be more presentable for her.

Hell, he should’ve been here for her when she came home for the first time in two years to the house where her father had died. He should’ve been here when the man died.

But the herd had needed moving. He hadn’t thought it’d all happen so quickly, thought he had more time, that they all had more time. He’d hoped she wouldn’t return at all, if he was being honest. There was nothing here for her. Nothing except memories of a gilded and loveless, already motherless childhood. The reality of all she was set to inherit. The truth of an aloneness Joel didn’t know if she was prepared for.

He moves through the house slowly, afraid to disturb the ghosts and the silence. The interior, immaculate and beautiful and solemn. Something out of a movie picture or the gloss of a magazine. Something covered not in dust but in sadness. The stairs are silent as his spinning mind makes up for the creak, the boots she’d sent him on his last birthday hit the richly piled rug at the top, and the hallway to the bedrooms yawns long and frightening in front of him. Two grand a pop, the boots—Lucchese, he’d looked them up on the iPhone she’d sent him the year before. A gift giver, generous to a fault, kind to a detriment. She sent something to all the ranch hands that’d worked for her father since she was a girl. Something for the entire ranch at Christmas. And all he managed each time was a perfunctory thank you card, like he did every year because he remembered, years ago, in her little voice, polite people send thank you notes, Joel, my grandmother told me so. Last year he’d written that they were too much, that she shouldn’t have, that he was grateful. There wasn’t much else to say.

That was the extent of their communication, familiar and stranger in one, the far removed golden child of the Kelly. They’d all called him that, the Kelly, for as long as he’d known the man. As if he was some Scottish laird of old, ruling over his clan and half the world. Egotistical, was what it really was. He’d thought himself a god among men, in the face of his only child. Ridiculous was what Joel saw it all for, a put on play, a farce.

And wonder of wonders, she was entirely unlike him because of course she would be. Of course a man ruled by nothing more than ego and narcissism had been sent his polar opposite in the form of his only child. Kind hearted, was what she was—sending him a birthday gift every year. Remembering them all here always no matter how far she’d gone. He sent her a thank you note for each benevolence in return, a word of respectful gratitude for the fact that a person like her could ever remember a dog like him.

Sometimes, Joel had wanted to go to him, the old man, Oswald Kelly, and ask him where his daughter was, why he wasn’t looking for her, keeping her closer, caring for her. He wasn’t the sort of man that could’ve ever understood such callous behavior towards one’s child.

The last time she’d been here, over two years ago: less than forty eight hours that had ended in screaming so terrible they’d all heard it down from the barn, sitting in uncomfortable, swollen silence, the spinning of tires ringing as she yelled at her father that he was never going to see her again, the man’s echoing laugh as she’d fled him.

Joel hadn’t seen her on that visit, it’d been so quick and angry. Flying down on the jet from New Haven for her father’s seventieth birthday and not even making it long enough for the festivities. This was what her life was, as he’d observed it from a distance for all these years, the singular daughter of this great house, coming to her father, attempting joy and finding nothing but disappointment at the end of him.

She’d been right, a knowing streak running through her. Kelly had never seen her again, and Joel didn’t know if the old man had regretted it or not, the anger and the estrangement and the lack of love. But the last time he’d spoken to him, hours before setting off on their move, the herd always came before everything else, the ranch was all that mattered is what the man had always said, with death scratching at the window, his frail and withered body licked down to almost nothing from the austere and imposing figure Joel had always known him as, he’d asked for her. His only child. Do you think she’ll come, Joel? The dying man had asked him. My daughter, do you think she’ll come see me? Joel had lied a lie he hadn’t known was one, said she would, that he’d call her as soon as he was back.

In the end, he hadn’t even afforded her that decency, a personal call.

He comes to her open bedroom door now, pitch dark as grief within, and the stench of sorrow and liquor seeping from the living grave. He looks down the long and empty hall for a brief second, wishing it didn’t have to be him, that again, he didn't have to see her any way other than okay. And he realizes that there’s something about her, as she will exist now, that makes him cowardly. Something about this house without the man who’d granted him the absolution of a hiding place all those years ago, who’d understood and sheltered Joel in the midst of his own past grief, that makes him cowardly. The house feels wrong without Kelly within it, wrong with only her as its holder now.

Joel steps into her dark, and it’s a battleground—

—You are silent and motionless in the blue room.

Nothing of the gleaming splendor that dresses the rest of the home sleeps in here. There are clothes everywhere, an exploded suitcase lies open and massacred in the middle of the plush white rug, a turned over bottle of red wine bleeding into your clothes. Shredded pages with scratched on writing slashed across them, the dusted white mounds of crushed pills, as if you’d smashed each one individually beneath the thumb of your grief. The sight makes him more afraid, the scent of weed and cigarettes heavy in the air, as he takes the final step towards the wrecked bed, and a single small foot hangs limply from the edge.

He stares at it long and hard for a second, afraid, afraid again, still, of what he’ll find. He says your name once, short and gruff like a dog’s bark. It’s what he feels like. Animal, bestial, lacking any sort of cognizance amidst this minefield. His heart beats against his spine, and he thinks he should do something else, shake you, check for a pulse, his bones throb inside his skin. He needs to fucking move, but the smell of smoke is so cloying he’s choking on his own tongue.

Your ankle twitches.

And Joel sucks in a sigh of relieved air without panic, saying your name again. His voice is level now, maybe gentle, no more barking dog. His eyes move up the length of one pretty leg, and then quickly, he averts his gaze when he gets high up enough he’s met with soft-creased asscheek covered in silk. Swallowing his tongue, his eyes roll in their sockets, looking for anything else to look at besides the sight of panty clad ass. He steps closer again, gripping the edge of the sheet to pull it over your scantily clad body, eyes flitting to the silver spun clock on the nightstand, the warm glow of the hall light shows that they have two hours to get you sober and presentable before the funeral.

Joel should have been here. He does not feel that he is even here now. And the guilt eats at him like acid. The fear too.

“Darlin’, you’ve gotta get up now,” he says softly, taking hold of your shoulder, scalded by the feel of fragile skin, realizing with the suddenness of a gunshot that you’ll be the Kelly now. He gives you a gentle shake, “We’ve gotta get you ready,” and his heart pumps blood like a machine. The sight of the dry liquor bottle toppled on the nightstand, the shattered glass glittering the floor in crystal, the empty pill bottles, it all taunts him. His guilt is a cacophony in his mind. He knows he’s going to have to stick his fingers down your throat, make you spit it all up, that you’ll hate him for all of this afterwards, but when his gaze meets streaked rust, dark and shocking against the white sheets, he’s kicked into terrified action.

He turns you over, your head lolling sickeningly in unconscious stupor, hair a tangled mess strewn about your face so that he has to dig for your eyes, parting the curtains of your fringe to uncover you. He focuses on your closed eyes, the too long lashes clumped together, lips cracked and parched.

He should’ve fucking been here.

Smoothing his fingers along the lengths of your arms, he keeps his eyes on your face and averted from all the skin that keeps peeking out below, searching the divots and slopes of your arms for hurts. When he gets to your right hand, battleground of a long ago broken hurt, he finds the drying crust of blood, the ragged split in the soft, small palm, thankfully shallow.

His eyes smart, looking down at the broken glass, feeling the tear in you.

Gripping you gently below the elbows he pulls you into his arms, cradled like a child, light as loss. Your head lolls again, neck crooked at an unnatural angle as he carries you into the restroom, careful of your head, knocking the lights on and putting you down in front of the toilet bowl. He pulls your camisole to rights, making sure everything is covered, and gathers your mess of hair as carefully as he can, trying his best to not snag the fragile strands in his too rough hands, but gripping you firmly in position. And ignoring the sound of your awakening cry, he sticks two fingers into your slack jawed mouth and down your throat until he feels the hot rush of vomit.

Crouching behind you, his thighs bracket you, keeping your form from slumping over as you empty the poison from your belly, flushing the alcohol soaked bile as you struggle. He wipes his messy hand on the leg of his jeans and rubs soothing circles on your back, his fingers woven through the soft silk of your hair to keep your head in place and your face clear. His heart thumps in rhythm with your heaves, your too quick, panicked breathing. There seems to be not enough oxygen for the two of you and your grief in the too small room of the commode, and Joel gasps like a dying fish, trying to swallow calm breaths.

When you finally stop your heaving, you rest your arms at the edge of the gleaming porcelain, head hung low, defeated, wracked with shivers or silent sobs, he isn’t sure, a strange and horrible keening noise, so small he barely catches it, held in your throat. There’s the finest down of peach fuzz that covers the tender slope of your vulnerable nape, and it makes Joel feel suddenly, just as vulnerable, just as unprotected. At a complete loss for how to help you.

“Finally decided to show your face,” you croak, voice ragged with your sick.

His fingers tighten once around your shoulder, a panicked tick of reminder that he’s here now, that he’s him. “I was moving the herd. It had to be done. Your father, he—” he stutters, trying explain, tripping over his own guilt ridden words. “I didn’t think it’d happen now, so fast, that you’d get here so soon. I thought we had more time.”

We.

Your skin seems to cool by the second beneath his fingertips, and then you’re shrugging his touch away, huddling closer to the porcelain bowl, further away from him.

“Get out.”

“Let me explain. I—” And he’s begging now. He can hear the note of it in his voice. Begging for forgiveness. For a chance.

“I don’t want to see you.” You don’t say his name. “Get out.” It feels worse than anything.

“I’m here now. I didn’t know— I didn’t think.” He reaches to grab for you again, but you turn to face him suddenly. Wiping the back of your hand against your mouth, pushing your heels at his shins to kick him away. Your eyes are red rimmed, the hollows beneath bruised with lack of sleep. But fire spits from the deep color, all anger and hurt.

“Go deal with your fucking ranch,” you fling the words at him. “It’s all you care about anyways.” And they weren’t shivers, he sees now, they’re tears tracked as proof of all his guilt, all his lacking, along the slopes of your fine grained cheeks.

Your, you say. As if this place and anything in it has ever been his. He’s never wanted any of it like that, only ever seen a thing that needed taking care of, and him, with the ability to care for it.

“I needed you,” you whisper as if the thought comes along on a second wind of anger, a realization that sends your voice breaking, hitching, your chest caving in on itself as the tears come faster and faster now. “He’s dead, and I needed you.”

“I’m sorry,” he begs. “I’m so sorry.” His voice breaks now too. He thinks he’ll cry now too, for the man who he also lost, who despite it all meant something to him, as well. For you, who’s lost even more. For Joel’s own guilt.

But he doesn’t think you see any of that, not his apology, not his regret, not his own grief. You turn away from him again, laying your temple down again on your forearm. “Get out. I’ll be ready soon.”

And so he goes.

Your father is made small and withered in death.

One of the wealthiest men in the entire world. A stranger, a titan, a nightmare of a man.

It wasn’t something you’d ever considered, that a human body could look so colorless and frigid and not alive. Like a shock or a ringing bell, it’s a realization that you’re an orphan now. That you’re all alone.

You feel something like a memory of regret. Or something that’s like the idea that you should feel regret, that you should feel guilt for how it was between the two of you. But all that is overshadowed by the reality of what you weren’t. All you feel even more, or in actual reality, is the old loss of what you’d never been to each other. That, you realize, is the seed of your grief. That long ago wound, that child’s understanding that he wasn’t like all the other fathers, that he’d never care for you the way other children were cared for.

Looking down at the frozen face that looks nothing like the one he’d worn the last time you’d seen him, the wispy thatch of hair that hadn’t been so jarringly white before sickness had ravaged his body, you realize that this is no new loss, it is only a continuation, a reopening of a very old one.

The cavernous cathedral at your back is silent, vacated by the sea of people that had congregated here earlier. And with sickening curiosity, you uncoil an arm from where you’ve got it wrapped around yourself, reaching out to press a finger against the ice cold back of his hand. Shockingly not alive; he feels made of rubber.

Everyone that’d been here to bid farewell to this behemoth turned slip of a man, to catch a glimpse of you, packed like teeth into Jackson’s grandest cathedral; business men and heads of state from around the world, the oldest family names in the country, figures of the highest echelons of wealth and society, vipers circling the barrel—half the world here to see this person who was supposed to have been your father but was really only a stranger.

You take your hand back, and you don’t say goodbye as you turn away from his body. There’s no farewell to really tell.

And at the back of the church, hiding in a bright ream of sunlight, Joel stands propped against the face of a saint. Dark and silent and maybe even more far removed than your dead dad. Watching sentinel. Oswald Kelly’s hovering man—come to watch over him one last time.

The silk of your stockings slide against each other at the junction of your thighs, the hiss of your skirt around your calves as your reed thin heels click against the stone, and you pull your armor as tightly around yourself as you can. There’s a hollow echo inside of everywhere and everything, your mind like a gong, reverberating, and his gaze is so steady, hazel bright, deeply shaded by the lip of his dark hat, beckoning you towards him from beneath the brim.

Large and strong and steadfast, your heart gives a painful, longing thump—stupid, writhing thing—and you can only bear to look him in the eye for a second, and if you were to really think about saying goodbye to that father that never really was, lying behind you, slipping further and further away, you’d say it to the man that always stood as his shadow before the world, before you ever said it to the man himself.

The drive back home is cast in frigid silence and made all the more uncomfortable because you can practically hear Joel’s brain clicking and ticking away with worry.

He’d sent your car and driver away with a harsh word while you collected your final goodbyes and words of respect from the last smattering of people congregated and waiting for the newly birthed heir to one of the greatest fortunes in the world.

Hovering over your shoulder, he’d kept anyone from stepping too close or getting too friendly, so close you could feel the heat of his chest through the silk of your blouse, and then going suddenly full on aggressive when a reporter from the New York Times had approached, fishing for a quote on the future of the Kelly empire. Ushering you away with a hovering hand at the small of your back before the man could get half a question out, he’s opening the truck’s door for you as a haze descends over your eyes, the distant shutter and flash of cameras bursting in your peripherals, a latent hangover and sleep deprivation and not enough to eat in the last forty eight hours causing you to sag in his hold. Then it’s only his big fist wrapping around the span of your wrist as he lifts you into the truck, your eyes downcast and unable to take in sight or sound, vision all a blur. You murmur a barely there thank you with his hand fitting at the dip of your waist, big body blocking yours entirely from prying eyes trying to catch a glimpse or a stumble, and for a single second, your entire weight is suspended in his hold, allowing you to bypass the struggle of balancing your high heel on the step up, and then you’re sliding onto the leather of the seat, the whisper of your cashmere and silk rustling around you as he handles you like a child being spirited away from the scene of a crime.

The door shuts gently behind you, face turned away from the flashing lights, the watchful eyes of the whole world, and worst of all, the assessment of his concerned gaze. All you’re afforded are thirty seconds of privacy to let out a single gasping sob.

And now, an hour and a half of silent purgatory.

You slip your heels off, flexing your smarting toes against the damp of your stockings and tuck your folded legs beneath you on the seat. Paying the frantic energy of his anxiety and lodged words no mind, you consider instead: your new reality. The burden of it all means very little to you now. The last of your worries is being readied for entombing as the two of you speed down the eighty nine, zinging past the bright Wyoming green. The thrum of his truck drowns out your thoughts, brand new, probably over a hundred grand, only the best for your father’s right hand man, and the Kelly Ranch insignia emblazoned proudly on the sides. A brand for the whole world to see just who exactly is being whisked away to her old home turned brand spanking new grave.

You might be feeling a little bit dramatic. But then again— you’d just put your last remaining parent in an actual grave, surely that provides you some allowances.

Out of the corner of your eye, you can see his big paw gripping the leathered steering wheel in a death clutch, knuckles white with his frustration at the dilemma you pose, his own discomfort. You’re sure if he thought you wouldn’t catch him, he’d be squirming in his seat.

You do something to him sometimes, you know this. Not in any way you’d like, not in any interesting way, that of a woman affecting a man, but something respectfully harrowing. Maybe something a little bit like fear.

There has existed between the two of you, always, that strange intimacy of two people who’ve known each other for a very long time, and yet, have always remained at a far removed, arms length distance from one another.

A professional intimacy of sorts. Your father’s foreman, shadow, fixer. The man who guarded that treasure trove you’d inherit one day, today; the thing your father loved most in the world. Two people who’ve known each other a long time, and yet, don’t really know each other at all.

There has always been, however, the fact of the birthday.

The birthday. Your birthday.

The way you’d latched onto that small, immense, detail when you’d first discovered it at fourteen, when he’d newly arrived at the ranch and the true weight of your first real crush had really hit you, it was probably not entirely healthy. But you’d thought yourself in love with your father’s man, the first figure of the male species who’d ever drawn your attention in such a way.

He’d never paid you any mind; you were the boss's daughter, a figurehead or a responsibility, maybe a nuisance, although he’d never ever treated you as one. But the day someone had let slip it was his birthday, on the same day as yours, your teenage heart had swelled with the naive hope of fate. It was meant to be, the two of you were connected, so on and so forth, swallowed by girlish innocence and made buoyant by fantasy.

But you’d had something to share with someone, which was what really mattered. Something tangible, even if only in your inexperienced little mind, something to wield as comfort so that the first time your father had forgotten your special day, fifteen, and what a tender age it had been, you’d had something to cling to. That's when your gifts to him had started. It was your way of making sure there was at least one person in the whole world who’d remember that was your day too. That you were alive, that you mattered. A reminder of yourself. And as the years and birthdays passed, sometimes, when he sent those coldly gracious notes of his, you’d wished you could’ve written back with honesty. Said something like, I’m so lonely, wish you were here, wherever it was in the world you’d found yourself at the time.

And of course, he was gorgeous and older, strong and patient and capable, entirely unattainable. Impossible to forget. You’d gone so far, traveled wide, gotten yourself an overpriced education that would probably serve you for nothing, had lovers and parties and splendor, and always, you remembered your gifts for him, you remembered him. It was the single most important detail of your birthday every year.

The leather creaks beneath his fist again, chapped knuckles set to burst before he flexes his fingers out, long and straight. Thickly built hands, strong, made for working or hurting, on a man who you’ve never seen be anything but stoically patient.

He was strange in that way, neither wholly impulsive nor precisely intentional in his mannerisms. More so, it was that there was something extremely neutral about him, a middle buoyancy of personality. Strict with the cowboys, exacting, wielding his title as ranch foreman with an iron fist and your father’s blessing, and yet still, quiet, serious, with that patient gentleness about him. You’d seen it in the way he’d handled Ellie when she’d first come to the ranch, young and skinny with that hollow look of trauma kids who’d seen things they shouldn’t have shamed adults with. She’d been a little older than you, and with an air you’d not understood, a sort of lived past you’d been naive to the existence of, frightened when confronted by it, and yet inevitably, the two of you’d become fast friends eventually.

You’d even experienced it yourself, on two treasured occasions, that gentleness that you’d held onto for years. Nurturing the memory of him in your mind like a delusional bloom.

He stretches his hand again, wheel caught between his thumb and forefinger, cinching it there, back and forth. His nails are meticulously clean, cut to the quick, and you imagine he must spend a great deal of time cleaning himself up when he works so hard at getting himself so dirty most days.

You can see him sneaking glances at you, and he coughs once, a clearing of his nervous throat. Averting your gaze, you turn your face away so that you’ll be able to watch him through the reflection in the window. He monopolizes the space in the cabin of the truck, broad shoulders and hulking form, all the fine leather smell washed away in the scent of him. That bay rum aftershave he’s always worn, the one with the distinctive notes of bay leaf, cloves and citrus. An old fashioned scent, masculine and crisp.

You’d snuck into the bunk once with Ellie, before he’d moved into the foreman’s cabin, before Switzerland, when the two of you were still girls running rampant and free through the ranch, clutching desperately at the last vestiges of any sort of happy childhood you could scrounge up for one another. You’d peeked in his things, found a whole world of Joel shaped curiosities. The glass etched bottle of aftershave, a hole spotted t-shirt with a burnt orange longhorn across the front, Flannery O’Connor’s The Complete Stories—something you found comforting, knowing he could read about the small, the freakish, real life; thinking that perhaps he was homesick for the comfort of the South, hungering for a taste of the life he’d had then, through books. And then, in a spine cracked copy of Suttree, the pages almost falling apart beneath your fingertips, dog eared and well loved, her picture tucked between the pages.

It had been the first time you’d done something you knew you shouldn’t have and actually regretted it, looking down at that green eyed photograph.

You’d run back to your room after that, ashamed and something a little bit like jealous, desperate to know who she was, desperate for someone to keep a picture of you like that—as if they loved you. And years later, you’d found the scent for yourself. The little molasses glass bottle you still have and pull out on occasion, when you’re feeling extra bad, extra lonesome, extra far away from the whole world, just for a reminding of home.

Beside you, he sighs again, coughs again, brings you back to himself and the present. Just spit it out already, you think exasperatedly, say something, anything else besides how sorry you are.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there,” he starts, and you roll your eyes, scoffing quietly.

“You already said that.” Sullen. Mullish. You wish you were a child who could still throw a tantrum and get away with it. Letting your eyes go unfocused from his reflection in the window, you brood at the sight of everything that’s yours now as he turns off the highway, passing below the iron eave of the Kelly Ranch entrance. Eight hundred thousand acres of pristine Wyoming land nestled into the deep valley surrounded by the Grand Tetons mountain range.

“Well, I’m sayin’ it again.” He’s driving too fast, and you refuse to turn and look at his face. Your heart beats blood in your ears, and you screw your eyes shut to the dizzying blur of green legacy, not wanting to see any of it—him.

Your belly swoops, going slightly nauseous and gurgling.

“I didn’t think you’d get here so quick.” He swallows, “Hell, I didn’t think it’d all happen so damn fast.”

“I was already in New York,” you tell him, voice clipped with breathlessness. “I left Paris last week.��

“What? I didn’t know— I—”

“Why would you?”

“I would’ve called you. I would’ve gotten you out here quicker.”

“Ellie called. It’s better like this, Joel.” Finally letting yourself say his name out loud, it feels wrong and molten on your tongue, a heaviness being spit up from the depths of your stomach. “We don’t have to pretend anymore. He’s dead now.”

“There’s no pretending. He wanted to see you—”

“Please, stop.”

But he urges on unheeded: “He told me so before I left. Told me—”

“Stop,” you snap. Finally turning to look at him and hating him for it. For how gorgeous he is, for all the things he’s always made you feel for as long as you can remember what it was to feel something for a man, for all he did or did not have with your father when you had none of it or so much of an entirely different thing. “Stop. I don’t want to hear any of it. It doesn't matter anymore, Joel.”

“But you should know. You deserve to know that—”

“What?” Because that one hurts. “I deserve to know what?” That he actually had loved you but had just never been able to show it? That now it was too late? That the only person the great Oswald Kelly had ever been able to speak to of the supposed care he had for his only daughter was the hired help? You’d read once that one should never let their parents anywhere near their real humiliations. You’d tried your damndest to follow that as soon as you’d grown up. “It’s not your place,” you seethe with teeth bared, an animal shoved into a corner and made to fight for its life, deciding you won’t ever let Joel near them either.

He spits a cursing, growled sound of frustration, but doesn’t continue. The two of you find yourselves at an impasse, and you turn back to your windowed mirror of him, eyes pinching hot, filling with tears. One of the things your father disliked most about you, your easy tears, and a single salt marred inadequacy tracks down the slope of your cheek, dripping off the edge of your jaw into the bandaged cup of your palm, and you breathe slow and measured through your open mouth, watching the fog cloud grow and shrink against the glass obscuring your vision of him.

The last time you’d missed your mother, the one you’d never known, in any sort of real and true way, you’d been eighteen. Returning to an empty house after celebrating your high school graduation in a far off school, alone.

In the midst of your sophomore year, you’d been sent away to a Swiss boarding school. It had been something worse than devastating, losing your life in Wyoming, the only home you’d ever know, Ellie, the other people on the ranch… But it was far removed enough that you couldn’t bother, where you couldn’t ask for things like attention or consideration. The education had been excellent, the upbringing desperately lonely ending on a whimpering sigh despite your many accomplishments. You’d wanted her very badly then indeed, your mother. To have been there, to have helped you pick your dress, kissed your cheek after watching you walk across the stage. To have wiped your tears when she told you that your father wasn’t there because he was busy managing the whole world, but that he was proud of you, that he’d have been there if he could. You’d wished she could’ve been there to lie to you so that you wouldn’t have needed to lie to yourself.

Peering down from your balanced perch atop the deck’s bannister, you survey the deep bed of Lily of the Valley, destroyed beneath the vindictive soles of your bare feet. He’d planted them for her all around the house after she’d died, her favorite flower.

You’d always hated them.

And that was the thing of it all, which you’d learned when you grew old enough to recognize such things like disdain. He couldn't stand you because you reminded him of her. Clichéd and old and tired. An excuse for being a neglectful father. The daughter who was too much like her dead mother, and thus did not deserve to be loved.

You tip your head back, nursing at the lip of fine aged Macallan, and the sky is a glass mirror of blackened silver streaks. You’re almost positive that all the stars in the Milky Way are visible from right here at this very spot in the heart of Wyoming. The sight makes your broken heart feel full and falsely mended.

You’re certain you’re painting a pretty picture right now: tipsy on a bottle of your dead dad’s sacredly hoarded whiskey that probably cost as much as someone’s house, staring up at the stars in your newly inherited home with a whole unappreciated life full of possibilities ahead of you. Basking in the title of your newly minted— orphan-hood? Orphan-ness? A peer of the orphans.

You snort softly, sucking on the bottle again, letting the heat of it settle in your belly, smolder in your heart. Your head feels full of bubbles and sugar and sad.

There’s a part of you that feels a little ridiculous, despite the circumstances. You’re good at compartmentalizing, good at being objective of your realities. Obviously: sad because your father is now dead, and it’d been nine months and eleven days since you’d last spoken to him. Sad because he’d never given a shit about you. Sad because you’re alone, dumped by the stupid French jockey boyfriend who you’d not even liked very much, just a few days before this whole pathetic ordeal of acquiring your orphan-hood, yeah, that’s what you’re sticking with, had occurred. Not to mention the army of looming lawyers and financial advisors and various heads of business vying for your attention, waiting for the what next?

And Joel.

A one man army of looming Joel.

So you’re feeling morose, blue, maybe a little spoiled, but brought low and cut short. Depressed and unsatisfied with your life thus far.

Poor little rich girl. Poor little orphan. Poor little me.

What you want?

Someone to care.

Someone to love you.

Hard to come by. Impossible to buy.

The stars gleam purple silver, winking at you. The bracketing black so dark it swallows the eye. Another taste of the nutty bouquet of smoked apple oranges, and soon you’ll be tipsy enough you won’t be able to balance your butt on the bannister’s ledge anymore. Maybe you’ll go humpty dumpty over the edge and crack your skull against your mother’s valley of destroyed Lily’s.

You laugh again with sound now, not crazy, only an orphan, ha, but you think that it’s only that it feels shockingly as if you’ve fallen through the surface of your life. As if you are still falling with nothing and no one to grab on to, to help stabilize you. A really terrible, shit-out-of-luck feeling.

Your eyes continue their infernal leaking, and you blow your nose loudly on the inside of your sweater. You’ve given yourself three days to do whatever the hell you want, be as disgusting as you may. When the three days are up you’ll plan to get your act together, take responsibility and hold of your life and become the woman you should be.

Who that is? Still being decided.

You think that maybe you’ll buy another jet before that time’s up. Or an island. Something ridiculous. Maybe you’ll sell the goddamn ranch.

You eye the dark rolling hills of the valley with seething suspicion. Let’s see what Joel says about that. You, marching up to the highway entrance and spearing a For Sale sign in the dirt of the largest privately owned cattle ranch in the continental United States. Way more than that God forsaken surly frown is what you’d get.

So long, Joel, it’s been swell. I’m done with this place. It’s time to pack it up and find some new hunk of land to care about more than you care about me or anything else.

Maybe you’ll be real funny and put up a Craigslist ad.

And it isn’t that you don’t love this place, the only home you’ve ever known. You do. In a way that is passionate and consuming and irreconcilable. Everything about it, the serenity, the guarding mountains and the deep woods, the home you’d been born in, that both your parents had died in. You do love it in your way.

It’s only that every man you’ve ever loved—loved—had always cared more about the place than he’d ever cared about you.

For the longest time, most of your youth until you’d decided that you officially felt an adult, you’d thought you’d hated your father. There was just so much anger and resentment and the resound of his ever furious words and insults and endless disappointment. The echo of no mother ringing so loudly in your ears that the confounding feelings had all been mistaken for hatred. But with age and distance and life, you’d realized you didn't hate him. You never had. You thought, actually, and this was a very good and mature thought of yours, that you were the only person in the whole world that had ever seen him as only a man and not a god.

He was only a man, full of greed and grief and missing the mother of the child he’d probably never wanted. Nothing more or less.

Maybe it was that you felt sorry for him. Not in the way of pity, but in the way of one person feeling empathy for another in a clinical and helpless sort of manner. And a numb, detached sort of sadness. A longing for something that you’d never had and had always wanted but eventually learned to live without.

Ultimately, his disappointment had turned on him, and now it was all you felt you had for him at the end of it all.

But, for some reason, and an annoying one at that, you do think that, if you try very, very hard, you could bring yourself to hate Joel Miller. There’s satisfaction in that possibility, vindication—resentment that even now, as practically strangers, you know he’d be able to pull that sort of feeling out of you which could result in hatred. Something strong and overwhelming and not easily escaped.

Your stomach rumbles, and you smile blithely at all your inherited legacy, filling the hollow with more drink. Three days to behave very badly, as badly as you can. The whiskey is so good, and swishing it around in your mouth, you tip your head back further, gurgling it loudly at the back of your throat.

“What the hell are you doing?”

You jerk, scrambling to keep your balance, choking a little on smokey apples and your own spit. A trickle of the golden amber liquor drips out of the corner of your mouth as you find him hiding in the dark across the deck. Accustomed to drooling over him, you wipe it away with the back of your hand.

“Having a party. Would you like to join?”

“Are you drunk again?”

Tough crowd. Ugh. “Never mind. You’re not invited. Go away.”

“You need to go inside and go to bed.”

You tip your chin at him, putting on doe eyes. “Alright. And are you going to be my new daddy also?” You say in a baby voice.

Fucking Christ, you hear him whisper under his breath, turning away to run an exasperated palm over his mouth. Frustration seethes off of him like sulfur. He’s tired. Of you maybe. Of the whole circus this place has become in the past few days—and rightfully so.

“What do you want? I’m extremely busy, if you can’t tell.”

“Just thought I’d check on ya.” Courteous, always the gentleman, bullshit. You roll your eyes at him.

“I don’t need you to check on me.” And you, ever the child. One day you swear you’ll grow up.

But it can’t be said that you’re entirely selfish either. You have considered the fact of Joel’s own grief at the loss of your father. After all, they’d been much closer than you’d ever been to him for many years. And maybe, in his own cold and removed and superior way, your father had seen this man who you’ve thought yourself in love with since you were a teenager, as something like a son.

Probably, that’s just your own wishful thinking: that Oswald Kelly had ever been capable of such tender feelings.

Maybe the fact of Joel’s own grief is the thorn beneath your nail bed that’s making you so angry with him, so needing of his attention. Maybe it’s that he’d failed to fulfill your silly and girlish fantasy that upon receiving the news of your only remaining parents death, he’d have been here waiting for you, at this home he’d guarded for you for so long, ready to take you into his arms and console and care for you.

When instead, he’d been off doing what he’d always done for as long as you’d known him. Protecting your father’s interests, his legacy.

“Is this how it’s going to be?”

“How?”

“You, being difficult.” Driving me fuckin’ crazy— he adds again under his breath.

“I’m an orphan now, Joel.” You’re becoming quickly addicted to the word. “I think I should be afforded a tiny bit of leeway to drive people fuckin’ crazy,” you mock his Southern drawl. Enough of your time had been spent in Europe over the past two years, kissing Europeans, that you’d sloughed off the last of your American twang; something of a vaguely European lilt peppering your words every now and then that Ellie likes to tease you for whenever the two of you speak on occasion.

A muscle under his left eye twitches at the jab, and you take another deep swig of the bottle, provoking him with your gaze. Wishing you had whatever it is a woman needs to entice this man. Like the fucking vet. Fucking world renowned, brilliant, highly coveted, beautiful veterinarian. You know about her. You’re sure he thinks he’s been discreet over the years with their whatever they’ve had, Tess, but you know.

Maybe you’ll be insane and irrational and possessive, taking advantage of your three crazy days, and fire her with your new found power. See what he has to say about that. Ha.

Ha. Ha. Ha.

Obviously not.

Despite your current hysteria, your goal is not to send the ranch head over heels into a tailspin.

But the imagining is soothing.

“Want some?” You hold the heavy crystal out towards him in a peace offering, held precariously between two sweaty knuckles. “It’s probably worth as much as your truck. Would be a waste for me to finish on my own.” You eye what’s left of it, about half, and give him a sheepish grin. It really is very good.

He looks at you for one long, solemn moment, always so silent and pensive, this strange enigma of a man. You get to watch in real time as he loses whatever fight it is he’s trying to fight against you, victorious when he shrugs and comes over slowly, resting his butt against the bannister—a carefully respectful distance away from you.

When he takes the bottle from your swinging clutch, gripped from the base, careful not to touch you in any way, you see the real sad in his eyes. The dim lights bleeding out through the big windows of the family room without a family shine on his face in strips and bursts. A shadow here, golden warmth there. He’s got more lines around his eyes than you remember from the last time you’d been this close to him. Smile lines made bright white in the center and gold burnished at the edges from too much sun. There’s little bursts of silver threaded at his temples now too, a gleam here and there in his dark beard. Forty four years old, he’d turned on your last birthday.

You dig your nails into the soft meat of your palms, and your belly smolders as he brings the bottle to his lips, tasting the exact place your own mouth had just been moments ago. You press your knees together as hard as you can, head a little woozy with the color of his eyes; the most gorgeous green, caramel hazel.

You’d graduated two years ago with a degree in art history and had done absolutely nothing with it since. It was just that everything appeared boring and pointless and shallow. Your whole life had one day suddenly seemed just a little silly. Useless, overpriced degree, nothing to be done with extensive knowledge in color theory when your world is expecting such different things from you now.

But you sure as hell can appreciate the color of his eyes in extensive and meticulous detail. There is that.

Watching the slow slide of the amber liquor down the bottle-neck, the long pull of his lush mouth, the ripple of his strong throat, and the way his eyes go a little wider, shocked at how good it is. You laugh soft: “I know, right.”

He takes another pull, another swallow. That’s what you want to be—swallowed just like that. “Damn, that’s good.” His mouth is a little wet, bottom lip shiny with thousands of dollars worth of your father’s favorite whiskey, and his eyes are sad.

You’d said you were going to be bad, but you don’t want to be bad to him. “I’m sorry,” you whisper.

He swallows again, tipping his head towards you, trying to catch your too soft words—he’s got a bad ear, you know why—and turns to peer at you from beneath his low pulled brow, the tip of his tongue peeking out to swipe at the drop of liquor you wish you could suck off his tongue.

“You’ve got nothin’ to be sorry for.”

The first time he’d shown you that gentleness of his: You’d fallen from your horse at school in your junior year. Something had frightened the beast, and she’d bucked you, sent you flying ten feet in the air, ragdoll-like, before you’d landed badly on your right arm, a comminuted fracture in your radius that you’d needed surgery to fix. At your insistence, and with only a few weeks left to spare, you’d been sent home for the remainder of the semester. Your father had been incensed but eventually allowed it. He’d been away from the ranch on business, after all, at no risk of being truly disturbed by you. But when you’d been readying to return to Switzerland at the end of the summer, arm healed, courage not, you’d not been able to get back on a horse no matter what you tried. Joel had helped you, before they’d shipped you off again. Trotted the corral with you for hours and hours before you’d finally been able to relax and sit on your own without tears and vertigo. No questions or admonishments, nothing but the quiet burr of his deep voice, guiding you and the mare along.

It had been a kindness unlike any you’d experienced in maybe your whole life.

“I’ve been bad.”

“Nah. You couldn’t ever be.”

The second time: “Did today make you think of Sarah?” Years after you’d found that green eyed photograph, he’d shared her with you.

His gaze turns suddenly sharp, but you’re not worried you’ve stepped in unbreachable territory. “Yeah.” The echo of her name rings around the two of you.

“In a bad way or a good way?” He takes another long swig, a low whistle through his teeth and a shake of his head before he’s handing the bottle back to you—again, carefully.

“Both.”

You take your own swallow, slicking your tongue all around where his just was, and you’re drunk for real now. Drunk on a man.

“Do you ever regret telling me about her?”

“Nah.” He tips his head back, looking up at the thick beams of the deck’s awning. He’s got the longest lashes you’ve ever seen on a man, thick and curling. The deepest voice you’ve ever heard too, sultry, a bedroom voice. A voice for fucking. Your belly swirls and dips, and you want so much you’re dizzy with it.

Heart beating like it’s about to burst, out of breath on the verge of hyperventilating, you can taste his mouth in your mouth, the imagination flavor of it. This is what it must feel like to die. This is what your father must have felt like three days ago, this agony.

His Adam’s apple bobs, and it’s so pronounced, the skin of his throat sun pebbled. There isn’t an inch of him that isn’t all rough-hewn man. “You needed to hear about her then, I s’pose.”

Yes. “You told me when I needed you to.” After that lonely graduation, the last time you’d missed her really very badly, longed for a mother. Alone, alone, alone little girl.

“You were missin’ your momma somethin’ fierce. Needed to know you weren’t the only one that felt like that sometimes.”

You laugh a not-laugh, butt scraping against the railing, slipping off your perch, socked-feet thudding beside his gifted boots. The pleasure you feel whenever you see him use one of the things you’ve given him is indescribable.

“Silly,” you say with barely any sound, his bad ear reaches for your voice again. “At the time it felt like I was the only person in the whole world that had ever felt like that.”

“We all feel like that at one point or another, I reckon.”

“Will you miss him a lot?” You ask looking up at him, the beautiful profile, the strong jaw. You’ve always wondered how he sees you. If he’s ever thought you were beautiful. Other men do, it’s a common thing, a nothing sort of thing. There are always men, there will always be men. But this singular man—this one is not like the rest.

“Maybe. Can’t tell yet, don’t think. But it felt wrong earlier, walking through his house without him in it.” His house, not yours.

“Do you wish he’d been your father?” And he turns to look down at you at that, gaze snapping, and you can tell you’ve shocked him with the question. But you’d always wondered.

“No. Never,” he says with such assuredness, an uncompromising shake of his head.

And the answer doesn't necessarily shock you in turn. You don't think anyone could have ever wanted a father like that. But it also doesn't help you understand what it was that lived between them either.

He sighs, perhaps reading the confusion in your gaze. “He helped me at a time when I needed it real bad. Gave me a place and a purpose and a thing to do and take care of. You get me? It was gratitude—maybe. He saved me in a way, after Sarah. Nothing more.” He thinks for a moment, and then, “Perhaps it was that we understood each other about certain things.”

You gaze across the sprawl of dark land as far as the eye reaches, that point of no return where the earth shoots up into the sky, purple blue behemoths in the shape of mountains.

From this spot, rooted to the deck of your family home, it seems like the whole world is yours to keep. Also, like you’ll never be able to touch any of it with fingers or taste or meaning.

Your love for this place is complicated—tied up in the people, the memories, the could’ves and should’ves, the whole dreamscape idea of the monument of childhood and all it’d really never been. The time away had felt eternal, like you’d never really been here to begin with, like the young girl who’d grown up on this land had never really existed. But you’d not forgotten them, this, despite your distance. Your home, the father that wouldn’t want you, Wyoming and all its splendor, the people you’d left behind, Joel and Ellie and shared birthdays that meant a secret world to you. Morsels of small happinesses interloped amidst a largely lonely and sad childhood. That’s what it was at its core.

“Would you be angry with me if I gave it all away?”

He thinks for a moment, maybe you’re making him sadder, but then finally says with a swallow, “No. It’s yours to do with as you please.”

You eye the quarter of whiskey left, but your belly isn’t hungry for its warmth anymore. You want something heavier now.

“Could you even do that—legally—sell it or somethin’?”

“Probably not. He probably tied it to my fucking life. Sell and die.” You mime your name in an imitation of your fathers deep voice, frowning at yourself the way he’d always frowned when he looked at you, but it pulls a laugh from him, and the painful memory is worth it. “But I have a billion dollars to spend now. More?” You tap your chin—you want to make him laugh again. “Gotta think of something interesting to do with it all.”

His mouth slides into an easy half grin. Like the moon—that beautiful. And he turns to face you fully. “You’re gonna be just fine. You know that, right?”

You turn to face him too, gripping the bannister for dear life. “What? Will you make sure of it?”

“That’s my plan.”

“How’re you gonna do that, d’you reckon?” The American twang bleeds back into your voice, and you’re all swollen lush on the inside, heart a beating fist in your chest.

“Haven’t gotten that far, if I’m bein’ honest with you.” God. His eyes, the strong bridge of his nose, his mouth. He’s so tall your head has to crook back to look up at him. “I’ll figure something out.” And after another pensive second, and still with that soft, sloped eye smile, he asks, and nicely, “Will you stop drinking now—for me?”

“Maybe tomorrow,” you say with the same sort of smile in return.

And then suddenly, like vomit again but maybe more humiliating this time: “Did you respect him?” Because you don’t know all the things about him that there are to know, but you do know that Joel Miller’s respect is a thing hard earned.

He clicks his tongue, and you hear the pop of his jaw as he shifts it like he’s chewing on an honesty. His eyes, his eyes, they’re serious, mercurial, warm and deep also. You worry he won’t answer, that he wouldn’t want to disappoint you or something, but then: “No,” said real simple like.

“Why not?”

And the way he looks down at you, you know already, and it makes that falling through the surface of your own life feeling rise up inside you again, makes your ears pop with embarrassment. Ah. “He never did a very good job of hiding the way he treated you, sweetheart. I couldn’t ever respect a man like that.”

This is reality right here, this is you falling through your life, this is the realization that it wasn’t only you imposing yourself, your existence, on someone with gifts they didn’t want or ask for. Joel had seen. Joel had understood.

Someone else had noticed that you exist, and it had been him.

What else had you ever wanted?

And in the blink of a desperate, yearning eye, drunk on a man still, you’re throwing yourself at him, pressing your mouth hot and heavy to his, kissing him full on the way you’d dreamt of since you knew to dream of such things.

Chapter 2; Sugar, Not so Sweet

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#fable of the dog fic #vic fic #joel miller fanfiction #Joel Miller x FMC #joel miller smut #Joel miller angst #the last of us AU

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cevansbrat0007 · 4 months ago

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Forgive me Britt, but i cant get this filth thought out of my mind-- Andy fingering a needy Baby Girl at some outdoor dinner. I just need him fingering her someplace risky, under the table

Helping Hands

Summary: Andy helps you relieve some tension while out on date night...

Warnings: Mature Themes, Smut, Andrew Barber Being A Menace, Fingering, Manhandling, Semi-Public Sex, Daddy Kink, Reference to Oral Sex, Cursing, Minors DNI

A/N: Prompt brought to you courtesy of a Reader Request. This fic features Andrew Barber from my Growing Pains Series. Semi-proofread, not beta'd. All mistakes are my own. Likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated. Thanks for reading!

“What has gotten into you?” Stifling a giggle as you push your boyfriend away when he attempts to whisper more kisses behind your ear. He was definitely in rare form tonight, and he was only on his first glass of bourbon.

“It’s been three days.” Andy murmurs, toying with one of your curls. “Three whole fucking days since I’ve seen my baby girl.”

“Well, you’re acting like it’s been forever.” You pick up your menu, intending to finally decide on a cocktail only to hit him with it when he starts up again. “Behave.”

“Are you seriously telling me you didn’t miss me?” He smooths your curls away from your nape before burying his face in the crook of your neck. “Because I missed you.” While his words come out muffled, you can’t help but shiver at the gentle graze of his teeth along your sensitive flesh. “So much.”

“Omigosh!” You quickly jerk away when you spot your waitress making her way towards you. “Would you – Andrew – we are in public!” Smiling, you try to right your appearance by smoothing your hands over your skirt.

“Mmhm…” More heated kisses from him elicit more sweet giggles from you. “Why do you think I requested a table in the back?”

Andy’s free hand goes to settle on your waist, effortlessly pulling you closer to him just in time for your server to reach your table.

“Hey there!” The charismatic brunette chirps, tapping her pen against her notepad. You were pretty certain her name was Paula. “Did you decide on your drink yet? Or can I get you started on some appetizers?”

“I think I’ll go with the pomegranate martini. As for appetizers…” You cast a sideways glance at your boyfriend who is now making a concerted effort to look innocent while examining his own menu. “I think we’re still deciding. Any recommendations?”

“Ooh. Good question!” The woman takes a moment to think. “The house-made nachos are always a hit, as are the pan fried oysters, and people love our sweet, gingered chicken wings. But my personal favorite would probably have to be…the herb crusted crab cakes served with our house-made remoulade.”

“Oh yeah? Any of those sound good to you, Big Man?” You rest your chin on his shoulder while you wait for him to make a decision.

“Eh, I think I’m still gonna need a minute. But I will take another bourbon when you bring out her martini.”

“You’ve got it! Still sticking with Bulleit?”

“Yep. Appreciate it.” He winks at your waitress before sending her on her way, which allows him to turn his attention back to you.

You’re grateful when you receive your drink in what feels like record time. “I did miss you.” You reassure your man after taking your first sip. Cupping his jaw, you lean up to brush your mouth over his own. You moan softly when you feel his lips curve, letting you know just how much he appreciates your show of affection.

“Fuck, how do you always manage to taste so sweet?” He murmurs, more to himself than to you.

“It’s the drink, honey.”

“Nah, baby girl. I’m pretty sure it’s all you.” Still grinning, you don’t stop him when he decides to adjust your positions so that you’re now sitting between his thickly muscled thighs as you both rest on the bench. “Tell me about your day. Catch me up.”

“It was pretty boring to be honest.” You offer him a taste of your martini which he declines. “I’m still working on the media plan for that one bakery’s grand opening. It should’ve been done last week, but the owner keeps changing her mind on a few key aspects.”

“Mm.” Andy presses a kiss against your bare shoulder. “You think Sugar & Spice is ever gonna open?”

“Some days I wonder. But that’s really it. Oh, and my boss told me to expect a new account to land on my desk tomorrow. So there’s that too.”

“How many accounts does that make you responsible for now?”

Too many. Although you’re pretty loath to admit it to anyone else but him.

“I can manage it.” You tell him, not missing the way his fingers are skimming along the inside of your thigh, beneath your flimsy little skirt. “You know my boss –”

“Can be an asshole.” Andy finishes for you, just he reaches your clit. He strums his thick fingers over the sensitive bundle of nerves, delighting in the tiny whine that gets stuck in your throat. “Have you noticed how tense you seem to get whenever you talk about the prick?”

“Y–yeah.” Instinctively, you try to squirm away, only for you to belatedly realize that you’re pretty much trapped. It’s obvious that your man has you right where he wants you. And he has no intentions of letting you go anytime soon.

After all, wasn’t this why he’d chosen a seat in the back? And between the dim lighting and the setting of the sun, he was probably rather confident that nobody would notice a damn thing.

“Don’t, baby. Someone’s gonna see us...ooh…” You allow your head to loll back against one of Andy’s broad shoulders as he grows increasingly more bold.

“Now, do you really think I’d let that happen? You really think I’d ever let someone else – a stranger – see you like this?”

Oh God, his touch feels so good. You’d missed it – missed him – over these last several days. Which let you know that you were becoming equally as codependent as he was.

“No.” Your eyes threaten to roll back in your head as those same wicked fingers dip beneath the fabric of your soaked panties.

They glide through your wetness, reveling in your slick, tight heat. Andy groans in disapproval when your thighs clench together, making it more difficult for him to have his way with you.

“C’mon, princess. Be a good girl and let me in.”

“Andy…”

Your breathy little moan is like music to this man’s ears. You know it, and so does he.

“I’m just trying to help you relax.” He purrs, nipping at your ear with his sharp teeth. “That’s all. Relieve some of this built up tension.”

“One of these days, you’re gonna have to learn how to keep your hands to yourself.” You warn, even as a familiar warmth pools in your belly the longer he plays with your traitorous pussy..

But Andy doesn’t stop. Instead, you’re treated to the erotic sensation of his palm grinding against your swollen bud while his index and middle fingers continue their intimate exploration.

“Someone…someone’s gonna see.”

However, even though you protest, there’s also a small part of you that finds the idea of potentially being watched to be rather…titillating. You gush around him as he grips you tighter, subtly thrusting his impressive erection against the small of your back.

“Just give me one good one.” Comes Andy’s sensual rumble. “Just one good one for Daddy and I promise we’ll save the rest for tonight when I’ve got you back at my place, in my goddamned bed, where you belong.”

It was moments like this that had you seriously convinced that you were going to end up moving-in with this man sooner rather than later. A fact that no longer scared you as much as it once did.

“Please…Andy…” Your thighs begin to shake as you feel that coil tighten in your belly, threatening to snap in favor of pleasure so exquisite you’re all but guaranteed to see stars.

“What’s my name?” He picks up his pace, those dangerous fingers pumping in and out of your silky heat with expert precision. Each turn, each flick of his wrist threatens to be your undoing.

“My…yes, please!”

“Say it.” Andy’s voice drops an octave as you continue to writhe beneath his careful ministrations.

“Let me – oh shit, Daddy!” The words come on the heels of a breathless sob. “Please lemme cum.”

This proves to be exactly what your boyfriend wants to hear. And you know this because swiftly adjusts his movements so that he can reach that special place inside you, the one that usually has you speaking in tongues when it’s just you and him behind closed doors.

“Fuckin’ do it, princess.” He snarls, burying his face once more in the crook of your neck. “Soak me. Give me something sweet to get me through the rest of this dinner.”

“Ooh!Yes!Yes!Yes!”

Unable to help yourself, you finally do as he asks. But thankfully, Andy has enough sense to capture your mouth and swallow the scream that is only mere seconds from escaping your throat. Literal sparks dance behind your eyes as wave after wave of delicious-feeling pleasure crashes over you.

“Drench me, sweetness. Atta girl.”

The obvious pride in his voice has you clenching your walls around him in silent askance for more. And you can’t help but whimper when he removes his fingers from your heat, leaving you feeling empty. At this point, you would even be willing to get your food to-go if it meant getting another a taste of how good he’d just made you feel on a fucking wooden bench in the back of this gorgeous, but thankfully dimly lit, restaurant.

Your body gives an involuntary shudder when you watch Andy raise his wet fingers to his full lips before sucking them into his mouth. He moans as your own sweet, earthy flavor comes alive on his tongue.

A promise of what was to come.

‘That was…wow.” It takes you a second to actually catch your breath, but it does nothing to still the heart that is currently hammering in your chest. “I can’t believe we just…”

“Shh.” He murmurs, pressing a soft kiss just behind your ear. It was his favorite place to kiss you, other than…well…you know. “Here comes our waitress.”

“Hiya!” Paula chirps before catching sight of your only half drunk drink. “Aww. Not a fan of the pomegranate martini?”

“It’s delicious.” You rasp, still finding your voice as Andy continues to hold you close. “We’ve just been doing a lot of…”

“Talking.” Your boyfriend chimes helpfully.

“So much talking.” You agree, not the least bit ashamed of the lazy smile that ghosts your lips. “But I will take another. You good with your bourbon, babe?”

“So good.” Your smile only widens when you feel him press a kiss against your damp brow.

“Wonderful.” She jots down a note on her pad of paper. “And did we manage to decide on an appetizer?”

“Oh yeah.” One of his brawny arms encircles your waist. “We’ll take the crab cakes.”

“Excellent choice.” She beams, again jotting another note. “And for your mains?”

You and Andy exchange covert glances, neither one of you feeling the least bit ashamed at your supposed indecisiveness.

“Sorry…but we’re gonna need another minute.”

END

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getitoutofmymindwrites · 5 months ago

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New beginnings | joel miller x f!reader, 7.8k

Summary: What happens when you run into that handsome stranger from the bar at Trish’s house? Where do the two of you stand two years after this unexpected encounter?

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, some back and forth on the timeline, mutual pinning, light angst, slow-burn, a smidgen of fluff, cursing, Joel being kind of a prick, Joel being an idiot, insecurities, let me know if I missed anything!

A/N: Part two of the I don’t even know your name series and yes, I know it’s been a long time coming, sorry about that! I’m confident (well, aren’t you a bold one?) that the third part will be coming much, much sooner! Thank you for taking the time to read anything I write! Love you all!

Dividers by @strangergraphics

Main Masterlist | Series Masterlist

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BEFORE

You know that warmth. You remember it. His warmth. His large, calloused hand completely encircles yours as you formally introduce yourselves. If his reflexes weren’t fast enough, you’d still be staring at him, unable to believe he’s standing right before you.

The storm of all those memories overwhelmed you and Joel realized that, unlike the rest of your company who continued to stand behind your back in blissful ignorance. Your mind had become detached from your body, which seemed to make decisions of its own; you were ready to do anything at this moment.

If he chose to show his hand and acknowledge you, you would follow his lead. If -by some miracle- he chose to lean in and kiss you, you would reciprocate. If he chose to pretend he didn’t know you, you would put up with it. You would do anything to be good for him, no common sense left in your dazed mind. But his face is serious and his warm, dry hand is firmly on yours, squeezing it lightly, in a silent form of communication, I know; it’s ok; get a grip; what the fuck. He doesn’t let go of your hand, acting as an anchor, until you decide you feel grounded enough to handle the situation. It’s at that moment that you can tell he’s waitin’ for you to be in control of the narrative. Whatever you say, goes.

You take a deep breath and tell him your name, as you finally release your hand from his and move aside to let him enter the house. The muscles between his eyebrows and around his mouth twitch imperceptibly, almost in disappointment, you think. His scent as he passes by you, hits your nostrils and your memories flood back into your mind, even stronger than before. Your body tenses and you feel your nipples tighten against the fabric of your bra. You begin to wonder how you’re gonna make it through the night.

You all move into the living room while dinner is being prepared, except for Trish who excuses herself to the kitchen. Tommy sits on the couch next to you while Joel is standing in front of the window with his arms crossed over his chest and Sarah is relaxing in her favorite spot, on some big fluffy cushions randomly scattered on the floor next to the fireplace, scrolling through her phone.

“Trish, do you need a hand?” you try to keep your voice steady, although you desperately need an excuse to leave the room. No such luck. “No babe”, comes the wrong answer, “I got it, you chill and have fun!” Why she has to be such a good friend is beyond you. You smile awkwardly and look everywhere but in Joel’s direction. Tommy puts you all out of your misery by asking you about your relationship with Trish.

“Oh, we’ve been best friends for a long time, done pretty much everything together,” you explain, deliberately raising your voice for the last part, “it’s starting to get unhealthy if you ask me,” you look towards the kitchen entrance, waiting for her reaction. “You’re not moving outta here any time soon, missy, so stop whining!” comes the reply from the kitchen. You grin as Tommy and Sarah laugh. Joel just stares at you with a scowl on his face.

“Are you staying long?” Tommy continues.

“Tommy.” Joel warns him.

“I’m just making conversation sunshine, ‘mnot being nosy!”

“It’s ok, really, no problem at all.” you intervene, feeling sorry for Tommy, still avoiding looking directly at Joel. “I’ll be out of her hair, as soon as I find a place to move to..”

“No, you won’t!” Trish protests. “Yes, I will!” you deadpan, “I told you it was getting unhealthy.”, you wink at Tommy before you could stop yourself. Why the hell did you wink at him? You need to calm down before you do something stupid. Joel’s fingers tighten, clutching his arms tighter to his chest. Shit, you don’t think straight when you’re stressed. Tommy seems to like it, though.

“Maybe we could help you”, Tommy offers, “we see lots of places ‘cause of our job, we could keep you in mind if something good comes up.”

“Tommy.” Joel drags his brother’s name across his tongue as a warning. You look at him quizzically for the first time since your handshake, wondering what they do for a living. Fortunately, you work up the courage to ask Joel directly, before Tommy has time to protest to his brother again.

“I’m a contractor” Joel informs you with the slightest hint of annoyance, as if he was reluctant to share this mundane information, “and Tommy works with me.”

“Oh, that’s cool!”, you raise your eyebrows in admiration, your eyes brightening. He takes his eyes off you and you wither inside.

“Well, never heard that one before. Joel is cool.” Tommy says in mocking surprise, giggling. You look flustered and Joel looks annoyed. “She didn’t say I was cool.” he frowns at his brother, “I know my job is far from fancy, you don’t have to just say that.” he turns his reply to you, displeased with your comment.

God, you feel like a little child in his presence, he can’t just chastise you like that, you have two kids of your own, you’re an adult, for Christ’s sake. “I know I’m not,” you say defensively and you start to get irritated. This is how the night is going to unravel? “I mean it. I have always admired people who can build and repair things with their own hands. Three pairs of eyes are now looking at you, all of them quite surprised.

Joel has absolutely no confidence in himself to start a conversation with you right now, but his curiosity gets the better of him. So, “How so?” is the next thing that comes out of his mouth.

Your eyes widen slightly in startlement at his sudden elaboration, you hadn’t expected him to continue the conversation. “Uh,” you sigh, raising your brows in deep thought and shaking your head slightly, “maybe it has something to do with my dad, he was always good at fixing things. I don’t know, it made me feel safe, taken care of. Still does, even the thought of it. I always thought that if the world ever came to an end, your kind would be the ones to survive.” you shrug, unable to look Joel in the eye and fidgeting with your fingers on your lap, the answer more intimate than you intend it to be. But you give it anyway, for him.

You want him to know that you would never lie or make fun of him. That night, however indifferent it was to him, made him indelibly etched in your memory. And even though your interaction was so brief, one night out of the thousands in your life, it made you feel something for him. Childish as it may sound, you felt he deserved your respect in some way.

There’s a moment’s silence in the room, Joel staring down at his feet, not wanting to look emotional. Taken care of. He can’t get the words out of his head; it’s what he felt for you that night, what he wanted to offer you before his chance was torn apart by the fucking knoc-

“Our kind?” Tommy intervenes once more.

“Yeah,” you try not to blush, but you can feel the heat in your cheeks, “you know, resourceful, competent, reliable.” Sarah tries to hide her grin behind her mobile phone, sneaking glances in Joel’s direction, little devil, while Tommy looks so pleased with your perception of their profession.

“Then you should definitely keep us close, take full advantage of us,” Tommy fills the silence, now his turn to wink at you, oh god, what a mess, “I’m in the same business, too, like Joel said.” Subtle. “We’d be more than happy to help darlin’, right Joel?” he turns to look at his older, brooding brother. Joel seems lost in thought or uninterested in answering. “Right?” he presses eagerly. Joel slowly raises his head, looks deep into your eyes and says nothing more than “Right” in a deep drawl of a voice. You feel the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. He makes you feel so small but you feel a glob of arousal pooling on your underwear, making you wonder what the hell is wrong with you.

Tommy turns to you expectantly, his eyes shining under the lights in the room.

“Maybe I intend to.”, you smile softly, glancing briefly at Joel before turning your eyes back to Tommy. Joel’s body stiffens, giving you the impression he’s trying to hold something back.

“Is it something particular you’re interested in, so we know what we’re looking for?” To your and Joel’s dismay, Tommy doesn’t let up. Your eyes turn briefly to Joel for help, but he looks down again, his arms still stiff across his chest, as if they had a mind of their own and were capable of murder if he let them go at his sides.

“Uuuuh,” you laugh nervously, “anything will do considering my situation, I can’t really be picky.”

“What’s bothering you, sweetheart?” Tommy frowns worriedly. Joel stiffens at the sound of the endearment.

Where do you start with what’s going on in your life right now? Only one person -apart from Trish- seems to know and he doesn’t look very happy at the moment. “Well, Tommy, I’ve two kids, two little girls and I can’t find a place that is decent enough, at a good price and owned by someone who doesn’t mind renting their property to a single mom.” Tommy’s brows are raised so high in shock, they would touch his hairline if they could. “Goddamn, how the hell did that happen?”

“How did what happen?” you ask confused. “You,” he says, his eyes roaming all over you in a definitively not subtle way, “being a single mom with two kids. What the hell did he d-”

“Tommy.” Joel’s tone is more raised this time, shooting daggers at his brother, warning him again to drop it. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ” Joel mutters through his teet, a look of disbelief on his face at his brother’s lack of discretion and if you weren’t already looking at him, you wouldn’t have heard it.

Trish comes out of the kitchen before you or Tommy can react.

“Ok guys, let’s move it to the dining table.” she clasps her hands together, “Dinner will be ready in ten!”

While everyone’s attention is focused on Trish, including yours, Joel’s eyes penetrate you in a silent command to look at him. You feel him staring at you and you turn your attention to him. He continues to stare at you as he asks Trish if she has any tools to fix her bathroom cabinet, since Tommy forgot the one thing he was supposed to remember. He takes his eyes off you as the others laugh at his accusation and turn to look at him.

“Yeah, I think I have a small toolbox in the supply closet upstairs, next to the bathroom. I don’t remember exac-”

“That’s ok Trish, I’m going to check on the girls anyway, I’ll help Joel look for it.” you take the opportunity to excuse yourself.

You stand up carefully, feeling your legs go numb and praying you don’t trip and make a fool of yourself in front of everyone. Joel follows behind you as you go up the stairs. You can feel the tension between you, his body heat almost warming your back. He can’t be that close though, can h-

As soon as you reach the door to the bathroom, he opens it in a hurry and pushes you in, grabbing hold of your arm as he follows suit. You gasp at his gesture and turn to face him. His eyes bore into yours, searching for something. His arms are clenched in fists at his side, giving you the impression he’s trying to control himself.

You’re both silent, despite a vocabulary so vast, none of the words seem to fit your thoughts and emotions. “You’re OK.” He speaks first. It’s not a question, not a reassurance. It’s a statement of fact. You look confused, trying to work out where he is going with this. He thought you would break down at the sight of him? Well, he wasn’t wrong, but he didn’t need to know. “Of course I am, why wouldn’t I be?” It comes out harsher than you intended.

You see in real time a series of thoughts crossing his eyes, something fragile and vulnerable in the air. But it passes as quickly as it came.

“Nothin’, nothin’.”, he shakes his head and closes his eyes, trying to clear his mind. He opens his eyes with a sigh and looks at you. You stare at each other for a good minute and then you both realize that you are together again, the two of you, in a small bathroom, behind a closed door. Your brain is blank, the only thought crossing it is to say something, say something, say something, but he beats you to it. “It’s best if we don’t tell them we know each other.” Is he serious right now? From all the things he could have said, this is what he came up with? You bite the inside of your cheek in frustration, “Well, I think we’re already past that, that firm handshake at the front door made that quite clear.”

“You played along, though. So, don’t go around accusing m-”

“Hey, hey, I’m not accusing you of anything, where is this even coming from?” you frown in confusion. He wanted you to admit you knew him in front of everyone? In front of his daughter? “Hey, guys, how do you know each other?” “Oh, we almost fucked in a bar bathroom!”. That would have gone well.

“Yeah, I’m just sayin’-”

“Look, Joel, there’s nothing to say. It’s not like I was going to shout it over the rooftops anyway.”

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”, he looks offended for some reason.

“Means that there’s nothing to say.” you insist sternly. “Literally.”

He laughs nervously, obviously irritated. You don’t understand why, you thought you were making his life easier. What does he want from you? “Right, right,” is all he gives you, nodding his head a few times. You raise your hands in resignation, your eyebrows raised to your forehead, your mouth open, not knowing how to navigate the situation.

“What is your problem, what do you want me to say? You pretended not to know me when you saw me and you just told me, like 30 seconds ago, not to mention anything to anyone! I think I’m doing all right so far, don’t you? How am I pissing you of exactly?” your anger makes you raise your voice slightly.

He’s all over you in a second, pinning you between his body and the bathroom door. “Keep your goddamn voice down.” he grits through his teeth, his one hand a clenched fist at his side, the other next to your head, palm flat on the door. The sudden invasion of his scent in your nostrils and the fan of his breath on your lips is all you can register, but his words come back to you and your anger boils in your gut.

“Watch your tone with me, I’m not some child you can intimidate.” you shoot back. That seems to snap him out of his headspace and he backs away slightly. He exhales loudly from his nose and rests his forehead on his outstretched arm, the other now resting on his hip. His unruly locks are so close to your face that you can practically smell his shampoo. You clench your fist to resist running your fingers through his soft hair. “Shit,” he mumbles through closed eyes, he really doesn’t seem to be able to keep his eyes on you long enough, “’msorry”.

He smells so good, so delicious, that it takes every ounce of strength you have not to wrap your hands around his broad torso. You want this moment to yourself, to wrap your arms around him and comfort him, to plant kisses all over his face, to nuzzle your forehead where his thick neck meets his shoulder, to breathe him in. The corded muscles bulging under his tanned skin make you salivate. This guy is pissing you off and all you can think of is how you’d die to touch him. Great. You rest your head on the door behind you, close your eyes and grit your teeth, trying to regulate your breathing.

“’Msorry” he mutters again, shaking his head. He looks so worried and uncomfortable, you decide to give him another chance. Maybe he’s confused, too. You both had to make a call at such a short notice, with his whole family looking at both of you expectantly to introduce yourselves. It was the logical thing to do. Wasn’t it?

Maybe he’s afraid you’d expose your naughty deeds in front of his daughter. After all, no parent wants their child to know that they’ve almost had sex with a stranger in a bar. You totally understand. And to be honest, you did leave him all hot and bothered back in that bathroom and run the opposite way, so why would he want to be in the same room with you? He probably feels insulted by your reaction that night.

Or maybe- how did you not think of this before? Maybe he has a wife. But he’s not wearing a ring. Not that it matters, lots of people take their rings off at some point. Maybe he has a girlfriend. Wouldn’t she be here with them for dinner if that was the case? With him? He doesn’t look the type, either. The cheating one. But you hardly know him, you don’t really know much about him beyond what he told you about his past that night.

“Joel.” you call his name looking at him through your lashes, your head still resting on the door.

“Hm” he hums, still in the same position.

“Joel, hey.” you try to get his attention again, this time lifting your head to look straight at him, a gentle smile on your face.

His eyes finally meet yours in a subtle, tired hey, the corners of his mouth turning up slightly.

You hold each other’s gaze taking each other in, and you both laugh softly in a quiet understanding. But this feels so warm, so soft and tender, is he really that angry with you? He must be, otherwise why the tension? You should try and put him at ease.

“Look, I understand this is awkward and unexpected; I do. But we’re fine; we’re gonna be fine, Joel.” Damn, the sound of his name in your mouth. “I won’t say anything, really, don’t worry. We’ll have a nice meal, we’ll make the typical minimum small talk and when this night is over we’ll be out of each other’s hair, you won’t have to see me again if I can help it, I don’t mean any trouble, seriously.”

And there it is again, the disappointment. “Yeah, no, I know. Sorry I snapped at you.”

Joel looks as if he’s going to say something more, but at the last moment he changes his mind.

You nod in acceptance of his apology. “Let me hand you that toolbox, before they start wondering what’s taking us so long, hm?”

“Sure.”

“Do you need any help?”

“No, it’s fine.”

“Ok, I’m gonna check on the girls and then head downstairs.”

Joel nods as he takes the toolbox from you, careful not to touch you and crouches down on his knees to inspect the damage to the cabinet. You glance in his direction one last time, admiring his wide, strong form kneeling on the floor and then close the door behind you quietly.

“Fuck.” you both exhale on either side of the door.

Two rotations of the earth around the sun had passed and Joel had become a constant in your life. He came and went like the seasons, with an orbit of his own.

Winter.

His orbit was longer and colder. The distance between you grew, more so emotionally, as if something was holding him back. The domesticity of it all was too much for him, scratching at old wounds he tried too hard to keep buried. He always cared, always kept an eye on you, but from a safe distance.

Like the time you came home late from work and cursed yourself for not cooking dinner in advance. You were starving, but the thought of making something to eat seemed like too much trouble; you were exhausted. Thank goodness the girls had their dinner ready, all you had to do was heat it up. Two minutes after you let yourself in, the doorbell rang. You rushed out of the bathroom and opened the door to a takeaway, its temperature indicating that it had just been delivered to your doorstep. You looked around but saw no one. You were pretty sure it was a mistake, but then your phone vibrated,

Eat, while it’s hot.

Did you leave these outside?

Yes.

Why?

Trish told me you were caught up at work, thought I’d save you some time.

You just kept staring at the screen, your heart warm but your mind confused. A second text came while you debated what to answer him.

Need to take better care of yourself.

No, why ‘d you leave?

Summer.

His orbit was shorter and warmer, like a pleasant summer breeze. He was around more, more involved in your life.

Like the time he was in on your house hunting trip.

Like when he talked you into buying a house and not renting because he found one for you that was beautiful and ideal and close to Trish’s so you wouldn’t be alone and your daughters would love it and it was a family house. Yes, the house was a ruin. OK, maybe not a ruin, but really old. It was beautiful, but it had definitely seen better days. It needed a lot of renovation.

“Joel, I can’t afford this.” you said as you looked around, almost pained to have to say no. It was a really lovely house.

“Listen to me-” Joel tried to make his point but you interrupted him anyway.

“I am listening to you, that’s how you convinced me to consider buying a house instead of renting an apartment. But if I do, I’ll use up all my savings, I can’t afford a renovation of this magnitude,” you continued, looking around the house, moving from room to room, imagining how you would have decorated it if it was yours.

“I’m gonna help you with that.” he said bashfully.

“How are you going to do that, Joel?” you rolled your eyes at him.

“Do you remember what I do for a living?” Joel teased you and you glared at him.

“I’m not sure, I think you mentioned something about a contracting bussiness?” you mimicked him. “Joel, I’m serious. Of course I would choose you and Tommy if i could afford it.” you said in despair, eyes wide, hands in the air as if you’re pleading with him. Which you were.

“I’ll do it in my spare time.” he suggested, looking down at his feet, avoiding eye contact and hugging his chest with his arms, as if trying to protect himself from the vulnerable position he had put himself in.

It took you a minute to register what he was implying. Your jaw dropped, unsure of what to say when you did. Your heart ached with warmth and your breath caught in your chest. It was too much.

“There’s no way I’m accepting this, you know that.”

“I really don’t min-”

“Absolutely not, not in a million years.”

“Goddamn, you’re stubborn!” he snapped, not used to not getting his way. Take the fuckin’ help, goddamn it. Your eyes looked glazed, you never had the ability to deal well with people snapping at you quite well. Especially people you cared about. Joel felt your discomfort and immediately regretted his temper. Soft things needed gentle handling. And you were soft. So soft for this world. For him.

He stepped closer to you and engulfed your hands in his with a deep sigh. “Look, I’ve done the calculation. This is the best deal you can get. The price of the house is fair. In fact, between you and me, it’s low. And I’ve already worked out what needs to be fixed.” He paused, breathing in and exhaling a little harder. “I want to do this. For y- for the girls”, he stuttered and you looked down to where your hands met. These hands. His hands. Big and warm and capable. Capable of renovating your house, capable of holding your hands in his, capable of taking you apart piece by piece. Were they capable of putting you back together again?

Your whole body tingled with another wave of warmth at his touch. But it was too much. It was always too much with him. The unbearable distance or the suffocating closeness. All because he wouldn’t make up his damn mind. He couldn’t do that to you. Give you a glimpse of affection and then pull away. Because you were sure he would eventually. As he had done so many times before. This time you had to protect yourself. So you pushed him away the only way you knew how.

You tore your hands from his tender grip as you attacked him in a raised tone pointing at him. “We are not your responsibility!” You regretted it the moment you spat it out. You didn’t have to be so harsh. So quick to anger. Please, please be angry with me. Scream at me. Turn your back and walk away. Make me feel like shit.

He looked at you in shock, his eyebrows raised, a hint of sadness on his face. And something else, more subtle. As if in understanding. As if he could hear your thoughts. You were not his to care for. You were not his to protect. “I know that.” he sighed, squeezing the back of his neck in embarrassment.

“Joel,-” you tried to take it back, there were not many things you hated more than what was happening right now. The fact that you couldn’t take back what you had just said. You felt terrible.

“Look,” he interrupted you, raising his arms in resignation. “I’m just trying to help. You moved states alone with two kids, starting from scratch. I just thought maybe I could ease some of the burden. It’s the decent thing to do.”

“Joel, you are cutting yourself short. This is beyond decent. Trish and you- and- and- Tommy and Sarah of course,” you mumbled embarrassingly, “you’re all I have and you have supported me in more ways than I can count. That’s why I can’t be a burden to you.”

“I didn’t mean you were a burden.”

“No, no, I know, this is not on you, this is me, I-”

His face was full of concern as he waited patiently for you to speak your mind.

“I don’t want to be a burden. Or to feel like one. Even if I know-, I know I’m not that to you. I know that. But just the thought of the possibility makes me freak out. That’s why I need to keep everything under control, because if I give it away, even a little, I don’t know how I could ever repay this kindness. I don’t even know if I’m worthy. I’m not-” your voice broke at this confession and you took a breath to recover, “my life is not easy to navigate, I don’t want anyone to stress over me.”

Joel seemed shocked for a moment, not believing what he was hearing. “You think you’re not worthy of kindness? That’s very cruel coming from someone like you.”

“Someone like me?”

“Yeah, someone good and kind and caring.”

“You must have me confused with someone else.” you joked, feeling uncomfortable at his praise.

“Darling, if I had known anyone else like you, I would have held on to them for dear life," he spat, before realizing what he had said. He laughed awkwardly, frowning at the slip of his tongue and looked around the room to avoid your gaze. Why don’t you hold on to me, then? was all you could think of, but you didn’t dare ask him. So you moved on, protecting the friendship.

“I just- Jesus, I don’t know why I’m telling you this,” you murmured through your teeth, “I was brought up to be strong, never to ask for help, otherwise it was considered a weakness. I learned to do everything myself. By the time my parents grew out of their own insecurities and urged me to be more open, more vocal, it was too late for me to change.” Why on earth are you telling him all this? Why did you mention your parents?

“So, you do kindness, but you don’t accept kindness.” Joel observed and you realized that you had never made that connection.

“I- I don’t know how to receive it; what to do with it.”

In the end, he practically forced his help on you, bit by bit, one sweet word at a time, day by day, until the house was a home. Everywhere you looked you saw Joel’s efforts.

You saw the care with which he worked on this house as if it were his own. You heard his laughter as you forced him to take a break and shoved food into his mouth, knowing he hadn’t eaten all day. Every step you took on the hardwood floors reminded you of his broad back as he knelt down to replace the old floor. Every shower you took was a painful reminder of his massive, veiny hands sweating as he reinstalled the hardware. Everything felt like Joel, even in his absence.

NOW

“What is this party for, again?” you call out from her bedroom as you apply your lipstick in front of her vanity mirror. You almost didn’t come, but you knew she’d drag your ass back to her place if you didn’t.

“This is fooor..” Trish replies from her en-suite bathroom as she searches for a good excuse, unable to find one. “You know what, I don’t need a reason to have a party! Think of it as a chance to see each other more!”

“Trish, we can do this without a million people around us and me leaving my kids with a babysitter.” you roll your eyes in fake exasperation.

“Your kids are gonna be just fine. They want you to have a good time.”

“They’re four and two years old, dude.”

“Well, in that case, they want you to find them a daddy.”

“Oh my god, Trish! Seriously?” you snort at her comment.

“That’s what’s the party’s all about! You finding yourself a daddy; if I’m being honest-”

“Please don’t!” you beg her to stop.

“-you need it more than they do. That is so perfect! I actually have a couple of guys in mind and they’re a bit older, just like you like ‘em-”

“What?” you swallow tightly and you’re glad she can’t see your face right now. “What are you talking about?”

Trish pops her head through the door and wiggles her eyebrows, “They’re about Joel’s age, is what I’m talking about.” You shake your head in denial, your eyes are closed in frustration. “Trish..”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, there’s nothing going on between you; that’s why you’re both hot and flustered every time you’re in the same room.” Your shoulders slump down but you don’t answer because this is getting old.

“What, nothing to say for yourself?” Trish weighs up your reaction and lack of response.

“Frankly, I don’t know what else to say to you.” you shrug in defeat.

“Fine, then find someone to fuck, tonight. That would clear up the air.. for all parties.” Thankfully, you’re saved by the bell, “Jesus..” you mutter to yourself as she leaves you once again to open the door for the first guests.

The party is a success by Trish’s standards, as the house is overflowing with guests. Some of them you knew, most of them you didn’t.

Joel is somewhere in the crowd, chatting to a couple of ladies who have trapped him between them, ogling him like vultures. You make it your mission to rescue him, judging by the desperate look on his face and the furtive glances he throws your way.

As you move to head to his direction, an arm gently encircles your elbow. You turn to see who it is, and are greeted by a stranger. Tall, broad, sweet brown all over his features. He exudes an earthy and secure aura.

“Hi.” the stranger smiles warmly at you, looking deep into your eyes.

“Um,” you blush, why on earth are you blushing, “hi!” you say back. Original.

“I’m Marcus, a colleague of Trish’s.”

“Oh, hi, nice to meet you!” you tell him your name and shake his hand.

“I knew I was right.” he says amusedly, as if talking to himself.

“About what?”

“Trish gave me your name and told me to come find you.”

“Excellent tracking skills, are you a detective or something?”, you tease him playfully.

“Yeah, something like that..”

“Oh- I-” the words catch on your tongue.

“But I had a great lead, wasn’t that hard, to be honest.” he adds.

“Can you share it with me, or you’ll have to kill me if you tell me?” you joke. He was so easy to talk to.

Marcus tips his head back, laughing, “I wouldn’t resort to such methods; let me buy you a drink and we’ll call it even.”

You look down at your hands, your cheeks red from his attention, rolling the bottle of beer you are holding between your palms, too tightly.

“I mean, not right now; I’m sure we could work something out if you’d indulge me.” he adds sheepishly, somehow sensing your train of thought.

God, he’s adorable and not too bad to look at. Actually, he’s quite handsome. “Well, I’ll have to see if your lead is worth my time first.”

Panic rushes through you as you realize the sound of what you said while trying to be funny, and you try to correct it quickly. “Not that- oh gosh-” you feel so embarrassed, but Marcus laughs heartily and shakes his head from side to side.

“Shit, sorry, it was a joke, that’s not the only reason I would go out with you-” Isn’t it? What are you doing? What is he doing to you? Where is Joel? Shit, Joel.

You steal a glance in his direction and he’s already watching your interaction with Marcus, his face hard and unreadable.

“Isn’t it?” Marcus’s voice draws your attention back to him, your eyelids flattering in confusion. He grins, pleased, but so sweet it’s impossible to roll your eyes at him. Your shyness pours through your body language, making Marcus want to comfort you.

“Hey, hey, it’s cool, don’t worry about it. I know it was a joke; I liked it.” he says honestly, “And even if that was the only reason I’m sure by the end of the night you would have changed your mind.” he gives you a lopsided smile, but there’s no smugness on his face.

When he starts to speak again, Trish interrupts, effectively shutting him down. “What took you so long, I thought you couldn’t find her!”

Marcus smiles again, warmth and familiarity washing over you instantly, “Oh, I found her, quite quickly.” his eyes twinkling.

Trish smirks as if she’s realized something, “Come on, I need you outside.”, she grabs your arm and pulls you along, “I’m gonna steal her for a bit, sorry to interrupt.”

“It’s OK, I’m confident I can find her again.”, Marcus winks at you and your heart skips a beat.

You start to walk away, but abruptly turn back, your curiosity overpowering you.

“Never told me about that lead.” you ask him, your eyes wide and wondering.

Marcus bites the inside of his cheek, looking briefly down and then meets your gaze with a hunger in his eyes. “Oh, I had to find the most dazzling woman in the crowd.”, he shrugs as if it was the most self-evident fact in the world. “Mission accomplished.”

You replayed your interaction with Marcus in your mind as you helped Trish light the lanterns on the porch. He had been so kind, direct and sweet, making you feel seen. What bothered you was your reaction. Your insecurity, your inability to believe that he was talking about you. The urge you had to fight when you thought of looking around the room to make sure he wasn't referring to someone else.

What bothered you most was that although it had been two years since you had separated from your husband, you had never felt insecure about yourself. He couldn’t make you feel that way. Of course you doubted yourself at first, looking for your share of the blame, but his actions spoke louder than words, and you couldn’t blame yourself for everything, even if you tried.

But Joel did. He made you feel insecure, vulnerable. With his mixed signals and his constant back and forth, he managed to drive you crazy. What did he want from you? Why couldn’t he make up his mind? Why weren’t you enough? Were you too much?

Maybe it wasn’t just Joel. Maybe anyone in his position would have the same concerns. Perhaps Marcus would do the same if he found out about your family status. Where did that come from? You don’t even know the guy, stop it.

“OK,” you hear Trish behind you, “all set, let’s get back inside.”

You nod, but as you turn to go into the house, Trish comes close, a mischievous look on her eyes and lips. “Maybe, uh..” and she pauses dramatically making you furrow your brow in puzzlement. “Maybe I was wrong about the age gap, huh?”

Oh, god.

“He’s one of the good ones; I approve.” she winks at you and slaps you on the ass cheek, ushering you into the house while you roll your eyes the hardest you could manage.

“Ok, now I need to know.” He laughs heartily, his eyes wrinkling, his whole face lighting up. It didn’t happen very often. It made your heart swell that you were the one making it crinkle with laughter. You loved that face.

“What?” you reply, unsuccessfully fighting back a laugh, dragging out the vowel. You had had a few beers and were relaxed and comfortable around him. You were both standing near the stairs, giving yourselves a bit of privacy from the crowded party. You were still visible to everyone, but it was a little quieter than the constant buzz throughout the house.

“Well, you’re obviously mad at him-” Joel states matter-of-factly, as he leans his back against the wall behind him, but you interrupt before he can finish, “No, I’m not!” and slap your hand on the railing next to you for good measure.

“Uh, uh, uh, none of that,” he looks at you mischievously, “but you never say anything bad about him. So, which one was he?”

“What on earth do you mean, Joel?” and you half whimper his name, thanks to the alcohol in your system, making his cock twitch. God, the things he wants to do to you.

Joel inhales sharply, trying to keep his composure, because he really needs to know what kind of an idiot husband you had chosen to place by your side only to be betrayed; a side he would die to be by. If only he had been the right man for you.

“Which half was he?”

You burst out laughing, finally figuring out what he means. You’re impressed that he still remembers, although it makes sense since you sort of insulted him that night. You know you can’t lie for shit, so you brace yourself, anticipating his reaction. You can almost see the face he’s going to make.

“Actually..” you start, prolonging the suspense, not on purpose, but because you are choking on your own giggles. It’s going to sound so pathetic, but for some reason you can’t wait to tell him how you’ve been deliberately putting yourself down for years. “Yeah...?” His eyes are fixed on you, amused, but you can see the agony underneath.

“He was both.” And you can barely contain your laughter, almost snorting.

He is still at first, as if some invisible remote control has paused the whole scene, waiting for the oh, I’m kidding. When that moment passes, his eyebrows go up so high, his forehead fills with wrinkles. His jaw drops open and he actually looks shocked to the core, almost frightened.

“Both? BOTH?” he practically hovers over you in frustration. “So, emotionally unavailable and bad sex.” he says again, incredulous that someone like you would ever choose someone like your ex.

“Joel!” you chastise him, slapping him on the shoulder, looking around you to see if anyone has overheard your conversation.

Joel fake hisses at your fake hit and taunts you with his laugh.

You shake your head dismissively, “What can I say? You know me, I don’t go halfway, I go all the way.” you reply between laughs, pumping your fist in victory.

He shakes his head in mock despair, then looks down for a few seconds, as if he’s making his mind up for something and then up at you through his lashes. “Oh, baby,” he sighs, “you really need someone to take good care of you” his voice drops, his eyes still holding the amusement but there is a hunger behind his words.

You inhale sharply and then hold your breath as your brain fantasizes about him taking good care of you, right now. You stare at each other for a long time, as if there’s no one else around, and finally you break the silence. A slight anger begins to glimmer in your chest, but you try to push it down. “Well, no such luck on that front.” you drop the bait and see where it takes you.

He can’t say things like that and expect you to do nothing. A small glimmer of hope tries to climb over the uneasy feeling inside you. It sinks its claws into your heart, scratching at the surface of your well-hidden desire. Maybe this time he’ll take a chance on you. Maybe this time he will ask you. Maybe. You try to push that away as well.

“Maybe you should put yourself out there more.” There he is. He’s pulling back, again. It’s fucking exhausting. You know you should be more patient and see where this goes, but your anger is boiling fast, ready to pour out of every pore. He started it, so you might as well finish it.

“Unless, what I need is in here.” Please, please, don’t make me regret this. Over and over, like a mantra.

He swallows so hard you can see his Adam’s apple bobbing, his knuckles turning white around his beer bottle. His eyes keep darting between yours, searching for something.

“Pretty sure it’s not, if you know what’s good for you.” Did he just say that? Your pulse rises and you hold back the tears that tend to gather so easily at your waterline. How could he say that to you? But you recover quickly, he won’t see another drop of tears from you. Not ever again.

“What, you don’t like Marcus?”

“Who?” you see Joel’s body stiffen at the man’s name, his eyes frantically scanning yours for an answer and revenge never tasted better. You would say you were drunk on power if it weren’t for the damn beers.

“Marcus, Trish’s colleague from work, she introduced us tonight- well- not exactly, but- anyway.”, you dismiss your own comment by waving your hand in the air. “Maybe you’re right. I should start giving people a chance. Maybe I’ve waited long enough.” There’s someone interested in you. He’s interested in you and he’s shown it. You deserve to be happy. You deserve to feel the look of desire in someone’s eyes. But you’d rather it was Joel’s.

Check mate. His move now.

“Are you sure you want to lead with Marcus?” His voice full of mockery. “You don’t even know the guy.”

“Oh. So, let me get this straight.” you counter. “I should get myself out there and I should do it with someone I know. Let me think.” you take a deep breath and in that short time of in and out through your nose, you debate whether you should say it. Joel seems to catch up with what you’re thinking, raises his hand and purses his lips, but before he can speak-

Fuck it.

“Are you offering?” You ask playfully, with a saccharine smile. Sometimes you really wish you were not so direct. But you couldn’t deny the sweet satisfaction of nailing him to the wall, when you saw the look of mortification on his face. The time for regret would come, but it was not right fuckin’ now.

Joel is speechless, his eyes widen and his mouth opens and closes without a sound. He clearly thought you’d back down. Maybe he thought you liked this dancing around. Maybe he thought he had more time on his hands. Or maybe he didn’t expect you to finally confront him head-on. Still playful, but head-on.

He takes a deep breath and tries to compose himself. He starts to say something, but you don’t catch it because out of the corner of your eye you see Marcus approaching you quickly. If a higher power was listening tonight, it was focusing on the wrong part of the story.

Just before he enters your personal space and you excuse yourself, you linger slowly over Joel, touching his waist with one hand. You feel the warmth of his skin through his shirt and under your palm. You take your eyes off his and look at his plush lips as your face comes dangerously close to his. Your lips brush the space between his earlobe and his neck and you painfully accept this is probably the most you will ever have of Joel Miller. His breath hitches at the feel of your soft lips and the puff of air as you whisper in his ear, “Relax Joel, I wasn’t counting on you.”

That hurt.

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husbandhoshi · 10 months ago

Text

TO GROW LOVE (AND EAT IT TO THE CORE)

pairing: mingyu x gn!reader wc: 8.1k summary: your whole life, you've only wanted one thing. then you meet mingyu. suddenly you want too much, and you wish the summer never ended. notes: farmer!au, established relationship, angst/hurt/a little comfort

this is a birthday fic for my one and only cat @wuahae ! yes this is about half a year late but what can i say. all good things come with time. thank you for being so kind, funny, and thoughtful (and patient)! not a day goes by where i’m not thankful for our friendship :)

and a million thanks to hana @wqnwoos and jackie @97-liners for helping me with edits. literally you guys are insane writers and i will never stop looking up to you.

i. strawberries (the summer we were young)

When a strawberry is ripe, the seeds push out from the heart of the fruit, as if it's bursting from the inside out.

This is one of the few and only things you've learned by living in Seogwipo, where strawberry season comes like a supernova. The May sun, full and heavy, peels into summer, and the roadside farms open their doors, trying to catch stray vacationers from Jeju City on the other side of the island.

That being said, there are approximately two things to do here. One of them is farm. The other is pretend like you have a life, which is your childhood friend Yizhuo's favorite thing to do when she's back from university on summer break.

Today, this involved convincing her ritzy, too-good Seoul friends that they're missing out on this side of Jeju. (Missing out on what? You're not sure. Perhaps the chipped paint of the mural walls, or the endless flat-topped stretches of seagrass. Yizhuo isn't fooling anyone, but you've always liked stretching your legs out in the bed of her pick-up, even on the long drive to nowhere.)

Unsurprisingly, her friends quickly came to the same conclusion. Just one look at your local strawberry patch, with none of the glamour of the bloated tourist traps in the city, and they decided they'd rather spend the afternoon at the beach.

It was then, between the fragaria blooms, when you met Mingyu. He asked for your name, and the rest was history. Yizhuo and co. scattered like the grasping hands of an overripe dandelion and you learned that he was, one, the newly-graduated son of a pair of local farmers, and two, very, very attractive. Almost too much so, especially for a place like this.

Now he holds up a berry, a bright red murder between his fingers, and tells you to try it.

"You must be delusional if you think i'm taking food from a stranger," you laugh, perched on the fence bordering the field. It sprawls before you, melon stripes on the sunbaked ground.

"No, my name is Mingyu," he replies. "No idea who delusional is." His smile, all bright lip and snaggletooth, tears into the scarlet belly of a newly picked strawberry.

"We all know what happened to Persephone."

"Well, if the underworld was a strawberry patch, I wouldn't mind being stuck there for all of eternity."

"What're you picking all these for, anyway?" you ask, watching Mingyu struggle with his too-big straw hat between the vines. His woven basket bleeds over with little berries.

"Jam. I make it on the very first day of every summer."

"Why?"

"You ask a lot of questions for someone who trespassed on my farm. You're cute, but I won't let you off easy."

He laughs at how you balk, clearly red-handed. You're not sure how to tell him you don't think you were supposed to be here either. You don't do things like sit in the back of trucks, trespass, or talk to pretty farmer boys who take a fancy to you, but it's the summer before you graduate and you're not even sure how long you'll have to continue making bad decisions.

"Are you gonna take my first-born now?" you joke instead. The daylight runs down the rim of Mingyu's hat, trickles down his brow, and you wish you could pour the image of him into a jar and keep it forever.

"No, but I will invite you in for some fresh jam on toast. I baked a loaf this morning." and when you say nothing, he continues. "The strawberries are only good once a year. It's the best you'll ever have. Promise."

It's a whine and a half, and somehow you convince yourself this will be the last bad decision you'll make. You've been here long enough to know that good things don't come twice in Seogwipo, and he is unlikely to be an exception.

Yizhuo blows up your phone, you tie the gingham apron around Mingyu's tiny waist, and the basket turns to blood in the saucepan.

Mingyu is right. Love comes to you in that kitchen, high and red like the sun, and the jam never tastes as good as it does that summer.

ii. watermelon (hollowed out, like a magic trick)

"A good watermelon sounds like a heartbeat."

You watch Mingyu heave the fruit, small and striped, out of his grocery bag. It joins the array of egg sandwiches and banana milks you picked up from the store together earlier. (There should have been chocolate Pepero too, but you split the box on the walk).

You're on a picnic, sprawled out on the outcropping overlooking the water. The path up is basically right behind your house, but you had never cared to visit. It had always been the local makeout spot, a schlocky teen crawl for those with nothing better to do, and yet, with Mingyu stretched out beside you, it seems newer. More exciting.

You're still just friends, or at least that's what you told Yizhuo. But ever since you sat on Mingyu's kitchen counter and ate from his jam-covered spatula, you don't think you've gone a week without seeing him. It's been almost two months, which seems so long and yet not long enough—he makes it easy to be greedy.

"See?" He thumps the watermelon with the heel of his palm. "Try it."

You already went through this entire charade at the grocery store, right in front of all the local aunties, but you indulge him. There's little point to triple checking if it's still ripe, but you think he just likes hitting it.

"It sounds good," you say. "But how are we even gonna eat it? We don't have a knife."

"Watch this." Mingyu procures a coin from his pocket. "You didn't learn this in elementary school? I feel like everyone was doing it."

"Here?" you ask, incredulous.

"Yeah, here. I grew up here too, you know."

He holds the edge of the coin to the skin and slams his palm into it once more, so that it lodges itself into the rind, and begins dragging it around the fruit. You start to wonder if he bought the watermelon just to show you a party trick—not that you mind, though. The strain of his biceps peeks through his rolled up white tee, and you remember why he was able to stop you with just one look back when you first met.

"No way." The watermelon is so ripe, it bleeds around the incision. "I feel like I know everyone here. And I definitely would have remembered you."

"I was probably, like, two grades above you," he replies. "And my parents shipped me off to live with my cousins after elementary school. They said I should get out of Seogwipo and experience the real world."

"Good call. There's nothing here." You watch Mingyu spin the melon over to cut through the other side. The coin catches the sunlight, and it looks like gold. "I wish I left for university. The one here is so small."

"Really?" He pauses to show you his handiwork. The two melon halves roll over on their backs, their cut edge cruel and jagged. "Cool, huh?"

"Impressive," you say. "Honestly. I really didn't think that would work."

"I didn't either when I first saw someone do it. But I’ll try anything once," he replies, ripping open the packaging of the plastic spoon from the bag. "I can't believe you don't like it here."

"You do?"

"Yeah. A lot." He shoves the spoon in his mouth, and you watch the watermelon juice pool around his lips. "I missed home. The trees and the tall grass and the ocean. All the fruits. Everything. I learned to ride a bike, right down there by the water."

"Hm." He passes you the spoon. You don't want to hog it, so you carve out a piece bigger than you need. "Are you gonna work at the farm?"

"Maybe. Haven't decided yet," he says. "I think I want to be here, though. Maybe do something with food, but I want to be home."

"That's funny, because I think I’ve always wanted to live a different life. Or at least one somewhere else."

"You want to go to law school, right?"

"Yeah." Mingyu is right. The watermelon is all sugar, and you would almost feel guilty for eating it if it wasn't technically good for you. "I’ve always wanted to be a lawyer. It's something about the people watching, I think."

"That’s really cool," Mingyu says, mouth full but no less sincere. It's then that you notice your shoulders are almost touching, and your heart crawls back up to your mouth. "You know what you want. I admire that."

He makes it sound like a compliment, but you're sure it's a curse.

You think of your parents. There's a permanent wrinkle ironed into their foreheads, the paper crease of expectations and high standards. It's not that they didn't care, but their kind of care was a humbled sort, made heavy by a hard life. It didn't help that your big sister Seohyun went straight from Yonsei to work a big tech job in San Francisco and never once looked back.

But you can't blame any of them—wanting has always been a hereditary failing. Sometimes Yizhuo will catch you frowning at nothing, and then you remember that life isn't a performance and every day ends at the same time no matter how hard you work. But you don't know how to tell her that the only thing you can do sometimes is want, because otherwise you wouldn't really have much at all.

It seems like the exact opposite of how Mingyu lives—everything about him seems to pass like the seasons. Maybe that's why you can't seem to get enough of each other.

"Thank you. Really." You dig the spoon into your half of the melon. There isn't much left. "You're way too nice to me."

"It’s not hard to be," he laughs. "Maybe you're just too hard on yourself."

You're losing track of the distance between the two of you. You can almost feel the heat playing off his skin.

"Maybe."

It's then, under the veil of summer, where you meet Mingyu's gaze and, finally, things seem close to simple.

All you know are his eyes, heavy with sun, and then the slow, slow move of his lips against yours. He tastes like August, long and sweet, and for once you know what it's like to not only want, but to have, and to have again.

The ocean sings on the horizon, and the watermelon bellies weep.

iii. adzuki beans (or, the blood of a headless taiyaki)

Mingyu eats taiyaki headfirst because he says it hurts less.

"That makes no sense," you tell him, your pinkies linked. You never really liked holding hands, but yours fits so perfectly in Mingyu's and there's some girlish, childlike shine to it when you watch his finger search for yours after just a moment separated.

"What do you mean."

He breaks your gaze to eye a red bean taiyaki, like an unwilling predator sizing up their prey. It's the lamest, most embarrassing iteration of National Geographic you've ever seen, and yet you cannot find any fiber within yourself not deeply in love with the lion.

Fall is a forgiving place for your relationship to settle. You're now a senior at university and he's started his gap year. Gap implies he's in the middle of something, but in true Mingyu fashion, he leaves it up to fate, or chance, or something not nearly as kind (whim).

"Taiyaki isn't alive. And why would you want to pretend it is? Eating gummy bears would become an extinction event."

"It kind of is." He holds out the tail end of the taiyaki, the pastry almost explicitly flayed open, in front of you to eat. "Why does the Haribo bear have a face? Why do the gummy bears live in a gummy forest?"

"Great, so now I can’t even enjoy gummy bears without feeling like a serial killer?"

You dig your pointer into his shoulders, broad from all the time he spends on the farm. To think that his hands, big and weathered, were made to pick berries (and now wrap around your pinky finger) is bruising, if not ridiculously funny.

"It's a crime of passion. Gummy passion. Prosecute that."

He kisses your cheek and your heart almost squeezes into two.

The terrible thing about being with Mingyu is how seemingly endless his affection is. Now he's feeding you in public and buying the two of you matching socks (cat and dog, to be exact), although you'll admit it's a little charming, even if the neighbors do gossip.

He's sweet, too sweet, and his kisses stick to the back of your throat.

But you can't be fooled. There's an unsaid violence to the way Mingyu loves. (The meticulous spiral of the peel he carves when you ask for him to cut you an apple. The grind, decisive and cruel, of a knife against a cutting board. A pair of canines against your neck, your jaw.)

Even now, he bites the head off another unwitting taiyaki before stuffing it back in the bag.

"We're still splitsing, right?" he says, with perhaps 1% of his mouth available for speaking and the other 99% murder machine.

Splits, he always says before you share food. You never had the heart to tell him that it's in the same family as mines or sharesies or takebacks—silly childhood relics, ones that no one uses anymore because they don't mean anything.

This time, you don't hear him because you're thinking about the law school fair you went to before Mingyu picked you up. The future is so close, it scares you. A year from now, what ground would you be standing on? Would it smell like this—the peat, the thread-spool fields, the balm of the ocean? Would you still have Mingyu's finger wrapped round yours?

"Have you decided if you're staying at the farm?" you ask.

"Not really." He uses the back of his hand to wipe off his chin. "If my sister decides to take over, I’m actually kinda thinking of going to pastry school instead of getting a masters."

Mingyu had been toying with the idea for some time after you had talked about it on the outlook. It started off as a joke (September; a galette), then a what if (October; green tea mochi), and now it sits at a kinda.

"Kinda?"

The word gathers speed in the pachinko machine of your mind. You never liked being a kinda person. For Mingyu, it seems like a luxury of a word, but for you, it's really just another thing to hide behind. Kinda talented, kinda ambitious, kinda just there. You're always one foot in, one foot out of something better.

"Yeah, kinda. Why?"

"I dunno. What if we both end up leaving?"

"Maybe. You still want to, right?"

You would be lying if you said you didn't—it's what you always wanted. Seogwipo has been a sun-rot, too-small crutch for you, but you would also be lying if you said you weren't terrified that you'd eventually come back, limping like some doomed Icarus, unable to truly make it in the real world.

Then you think of the pockmarked farmland beside your home, lacy with the fall harvest. Even now, you can trace the endless blue of the coastline all the way there, cut through all the maybes and just let the sound of the ocean fold you into sleep like you were a child again. You wonder if Seohyun, all the way on the other side of the world, ever misses it.

"I’m not sure," you say, because, as much as you don't like it, it's the only answer you have.

"It's ok. You'll figure it out. You always do." He squeezes your cheeks together between his thumb and index, laughing at how they pillow out underneath his fingers. "Screw pastry school. I could come with you. Who else would keep you fed?"

Mingyu's complete and unfounded belief in you makes you feel something close to betrayal. How could he say any of that? With what proof? Only someone like Mingyu would be able to hold the wrinkled fruit of your unremarkable life between his palms and see something better than that. Maybe it's because he grew up on a farm. Either that, or he already cares for you too much, too painfully.

Secrets are easy to keep when they look like yours. At least here, in the pit of your stomach, you can keep count, take attendance of them, all your tittering, small anxieties. Some days it feels like your ribs are pressing out, but it's better than cutting everything loose to spill out over what little you do have control over.

You can handle a little pressure. You have to.

What concerns you is the hand Mingyu's got across your chest. With one look, he just might gut you. A twist of the heart-knife, and all those carefully wound insides carved out in an instant—maybe he'd pity you, but worse than that, he'd likely be disappointed.

For you, expectation has always stood taller than shame, and the idea that he sees something past you makes you want to run away.

"I could be a house husband," he says as easily as ever. "You'll be off saving the world, arguing with whoever, and I'll be there to run you a bath afterwards."

"Let's not get too ahead of ourselves," you reply, binding up the strange, hollow feeling in your stomach with a laugh.

There's a scared little girl hiding inside you, and whether Mingyu sees her or not hurts the same. A spade is a spade. You can only pretend so long.

You look at the taiyaki floating in their wax paper bag, blinded and wrought open by the same grin that now peels you down, and you're not hungry anymore.

iv. winter pears (rotten, outside your parents' house)

Mingyu's family loves Christmas.

You think it's because of the pear trees they have in the front yard. They stand bravely before the house, all emerald ash and wisdom in the December freeze. Run your palms over the knobs and it's like you can see into a sleepy visage of simpler days past. (Below its heart, carved: 1982, the year the farm was bought. Along the tangle of the roots: gyu waz here, in an unsure, childish scrawl.)

Winter comes to the countryside crawling on its hands and knees. On days it doesn't snow, there's a mist, boggy and clingy. You've come to realize the cold is more of a threat than a promise, and so the pear trees still bear fruit; the silvery branches hang heavy, faithful.

The first day of December, Mingyu's parents had tasked the two of you with decorating the farmhouse, a duty you took very seriously. You wrapped Mingyu up in string lights and watched him blink in and out like your own personal firefly.

It wasn't until you watched the rafters, the barn doors, the joyous vault of the ceiling all glow, like a spectacular firework, that you finally started to understand why Mingyu was so into the holidays.

It was in the yellow blush of the string lights that you had your first pear from the tree, which Mingyu insisted was a holiday tradition. We make poached pears, he said, mid-bite. You simmer the pear in syrup until it gets so soft, you can cut into it with a fork. Just like butter.

That same night, he kissed you, mouth hot and trembling and tasting of honey, and pressed you against the bark so hard, you could feel the grit of its veins against your skin.

You think December became your favorite month, and pears your favorite fruit.

So much so, that for the entire month, you try to put away your worries about law school applications to celebrate with Mingyu and his family.

You learn his mom makes the best hot chocolate (a cinnamon stick and a dogged devotion to the whisk), and that Mingyu has no clue on God's green earth how to ice skate. (He careens right into your chest the first time. You spend the next hour with him attached to you like a backpack—he manages to find the most impractical ways to do anything, which you somehow admire the most). On Sundays, Yizhuo ditches her Seoul friends and instead accompanies you to the mall two towns over, where she watches you compare different ties and watches and collagen creams as you decide on gifts for his family. (Lilac is so last year, she'd say, stirring the straw of a watered-down milk tea.)

It's not until the weekend before Christmas when you realize just how serious things have gotten. Your feet understand the meander of the dirt path to the farmhouse, your bones the scent of the yellow-skinned apple, the faded wildflowers. Your palms crave the plush of the rug they have in front of the fireplace. Hell, you can't even eat soondubu without thinking of the kind Mingyu's dad makes, with extra anchovies and green onion.

You don't think about what this means. There are ten days left in December and love poured from a full cup never seems to run out.

"Please let me carry some of those," Mingyu wheedles. "Oh my god. I'm like the worst boyfriend in the world."

"No, you are not." you make your way up to his doorstep, taking care to one-two step over the stray roots of one of the pear trees. It's second nature to you by now. "The moment I hand you a box, you are gonna start trying to figure out what it is."

He harumphs and plucks the big one off the top anyway, the one he knows you can't reach. "I didn't even know you were getting us gifts. You didn't have to."

"It's the least I could do. Who shows up to a holiday dinner emptyhanded?" You stop at the front door. "And stop shaking it," you laugh, using the tip of your boot to nudge his shin.

"Okay. Okay," he says, saccharine, adoring, before grabbing the doorknob. "Ready? Are you nervous? You shouldn't be nervous, right? It's not fancy or anything, if you were worried about that."

And that's the thing that wedges itself between your ribs. Mingyu and his whole family are like this. They love and worry and love again; it presses deep into you, fills you, and overflows.

So here you are, standing in your nicest dress and balancing a stack of gifts you hope will amount to something, never enough but something, to repay the people who you feel have loved you more than you deserve. It's all you really have. You do your best, and yet you know when that door opens, it'll all be washed away in a high-tide flurry of hugs and laughter and the familiar press of Bobpul's wet nose against your leg. They're just those kinds of people—they would be just as happy if you didn't bring anything at all, and somehow that makes you feel even more guilty.

"No, no," you wave him off. "I’m fine. Excited."

When Mingyu opens the door, everything goes just as you expected. His sister takes your coat, your gifts are whisked away to the tree (Aji has already figured out which one is his), and his parents descend upon you in a choking swell of warmth and charity.

We baked some fresh bread for your parents (—Thank you so much, but you really shouldn't have.). You look so beautiful in that color (—No, no, you flatter me too much.). Mingyu better be taking good care of you (—He is. He really, really is.).

The kitchen is gauzy with cinnamon, anise. They must be making their famous poached pears, which Mingyu remarks on, just like clockwork.

Dinner passes the same way. It bubbles over with affection, and you feel swallowed by an impossible yearning. This—a full table and a hand to hold underneath it—did you deserve this? And could you keep it?

For an instant, you picture yourself, years later, at this same seat. Mingyu would be fussing over the rice cakes, his apron still gingham because it reminds him of the day you two met. His parents, grayer but no less happy, bickering over the shade of tinsel on the tree. And the dogs, coiled at your feet like they are now. The vision laps at your bones like you're a raft in a storm.

You're pulled back into the moment when Mingyu squeezes your hand, grounding and insistent. "Mom asked how school was going. I told her I think you're basically the smartest person I know, and I’m pretty sure you're getting into whatever law school you want."

Mingyu's parents laugh, and they cut through their pears.

"Oh, sorry," you say. "Um."

Clink. Knife meets flesh, meets porcelain. Your cheeks are hot. You wanted to talk about anything other than yourself tonight. Clink.

"The top programs are a reach, but it'd be nice." clink. "I just want to get in somewhere."

"They’re all so far away," Mingyu's mom remarks. "So grown up. Any school will be lucky to have you. You'll get into all of them."

Clink.

"Or maybe you can stay here." You watch the prongs of Mingyu's father's fork disappear into the pear. "Keep us old folk company."

"No, no, I think Mingyu should take notes and get off his lazy ass," his sister says, teasing. "Going back to the city will be good for him."

"So you can, what, burn down the kitchen again?" Mingyu grumbles, and the whole table seems to boil over with laughter.

"We’re kidding," his mom tells you. "No matter where you go, I’m sure you'll do great. We can even throw you a party at the end of the year. For graduating."

Clink. Clink.

There's a horrible uneasiness writhing around in your stomach. It's pear and syrup and clove and a blackness, an anxious, selfish one that sucks up all the generosity of the evening and turns it into shame.

Mingyu's mom is talking about throwing you a graduation party, something you didn't even think to do for yourself, and here you are, thinking about the shaking moment you open your rejection letters and the lonely path you'll draw on your way back home.

It's ok. They missed out, Mingyu would say, pouring you a consolation drink, and then it would be over. You'd go home and sit on your bed and the trifold piece of paper would go round and round your head like it was in a washing machine.

Your heart, an inventory of tasks and goals and tally marks. Things you've taken and things you've owed. It's a soft, boneless excuse. Be grateful. Give them that, at least.

Clink.

Dessert ends before you can tell his family not to get their hopes up. Mingyu's mom sends you off with your loaf of bread and a kiss on the cheek, and the moment is gone.

"Gyu," you call out on the steps in front of the house.

There are words at the seam of your lips. You want to tell him you're sorry for worrying so much. For making the whole dinner about you and then very possibly having nothing to show for it when it matters. For the heaviness in your chest. Your cowardice. But none of it comes out.

Instead you watch Mingyu pull at the leaves of a pear tree, watching the frost-filigree they get at the end of the season. He looks over his shoulder and smiles at you, as if he's on the hazy cover of a magazine. His eyes bend so wonderfully at the corners when he looks at you, and it breaks your heart.

"You had fun, right?" he asks. "My parents like you a lot, you know. I think they really do."

But that's the problem, you want to say. You all do, and I have no idea why.

Some of the pears are beginning to rot now. You watch one drop off the vine, and it caves to the pavement like it was made of nothing at all.

v. wild barley (grows like weeds)

In March, you play house.

Your parents leave on a two week trip to see relatives, and Mingyu takes it upon himself to make sure you survive.

It's a kind, blinding charade.

(7 am, breakfast. You usually don't even eat breakfast, but you wake up to doenjang and a smile, one that presses itself to yours until you're wearing it on the long walk to school.)

(4 pm, the stretch between lunch and dinner. You're muddling through another useless club meeting when Mingyu sends you a picture of him in your mom's apron, making kimchi. Kiss the chef, he texts you. You promise to, over and over and over.)

It's good until it isn't.

That isn't to say that it's Mingyu's fault. In fact, it's never really Mingyu's fault, and that's the worst thing about your relationship. Sometimes you wish he was worse just so there was someone else to blame.

(1 am, a fridge-cold glass of water and a hand on the column of your spine. Can't sleep? He asks. Just had a weird dream, you say.

It's a lie. You're a liar.

You miss your parents and the first wave of acceptance letters comes out in two days. You're not like him. Sleep has never been a cure for the exhaustion you're feeling, and you have no way of telling him that however warm the bed is won't fix that.)

It's on a Thursday afternoon when you open your mailbox and see the tiny, thin envelope that you've been expecting for the past week. You don't need to open it to know what it says, and yet you do it anyway.

The sun is white, a ghost in the spring sky. The ocean bleeds into the overcast, the curly barley stands tall around your feet, and you let the worst letter you've gotten in your life fall upon your shoulders, word by terrible word.

Then you close it, pinching the seam shut, and draw up your brave face. Nothing left to do but be brave. You're convinced you've used up all the sadness in your relationship—spend in pennies and the well still runs dry. Mingyu will cup your cheek and call you darling, pouring into your emptying basin, holey and broken.

You see him now through the kitchen window, Venus in his clamshell of a kitchen. Galbijjim day, he had said this morning. Now, he waves at you, glittery with recognition.

Your throat feels like crumpled paper.

Mingyu smiles at you, hazy through the glass. Your cheeks hurt and your mouth is paper mache, but you smile back anyway.

///

The letters come one after another.

You know what the envelopes hold and yet you keep opening them. The little folder you keep stashed in your bottom drawer gets fatter every passing day because you can't help but revisit your misery, almost as if you need to remind yourself it exists.

Mingyu is none the wiser. Today he decides he'll put off pastry school for one more year. "It doesn't feel like the right time," he says, rolling a log of burdock kimbap up. "You know what I mean?"

No, you don't. You never really do.

You do know, however, that it would feel really fucking bad that, come the end of the year, to have nothing. All your friends would be going somewhere—even Yizhuo opened her acceptance to an MFA program in Shanghai yesterday—and you would be here, still, feet firmly planted in the muddy Jeju dirt like they always had been.

"Hey, don't look so disappointed." he jokes. "Don't tell me you're already trying to get rid of me."

You're not, you really aren't. But part of you wonders if it's just a race to the bottom. If you got rid of him before he decided he wanted to get rid of you, maybe it would hurt a lot less. One less letter for the folder.

"Never. But imagine if you picked up a French accent at pastry school. Then I’d consider it. Maybe."

You watch his knife rock back and forth on the cutting board as he cuts the kimbap.

"Some for you. And more for me," he says, in what you can only describe as someone attempting to speak French when they've never heard it before. "Unless you want more, mon cherie."

He brings the plates to the table, his grin nothing short of dizzying.

"I’m irresistible, huh? Still wanna leave me now?"

"You're gonna have to try a little harder than that, I think."

The words roll off your tongue, easily, traitorously.

You watch the kimbap disappear off of Mingyu's plate.

Going, going, gone.

///

Seogwipo is always dark at night, only kept alive by the glow of the moonlit sea.

You can't sleep. Again. And so you sit out on the steps in front of your house, letting the twilight wrap around you like a blanket.

You got your last letter back earlier today. You held your breath and tore it open like you would a birthday card with money in it.

Waitlisted.

It was surely better than a rejection, but some naive, child-eyed part of you thought that if you had just closed your eyes and hoped hard enough, things would work out the way you had planned. Tragically, it wasn't enough this time. You wanted and wanted and you thought maybe that would mean you'd come close to deserving it.

Your parents called today. After managing to sideline the issue of basically the rest of your entire life, they had finally cut through your sad little charade. No good news yet, huh?

No, but—

It was always like that with you. No, but it's not as bad as you think. No, but give me a chance. No, but I’m trying. I've been trying.

You wish things didn't come out of you so complicated. That you could be like Seohyun, who could go through school with her eyes closed and still graduate at the top of her class. Instead, you parade around your little failures, trying to convince people it all could mean something only if they squinted. See? It isn't so bad.

You think you're past the point of crying about it. Your stomach hurts, you're cold, and most of all, you just want to go back to bed. Plus, although Mingyu sleeps like a log, you think he's developed a sixth sense for whenever you get up too early.

Time to be brave, you've been telling yourself, although you don't know who you're pretending for anymore.

So you nudge the front door open—it's so old, it wails if you come at it with any more force—and, to your surprise, see the light above the kitchen sink turned on.

It's not very bright, but it's enough to make out Mingyu's broad silhouette, back turned to you as he makes a cup of tea. He's humming one of his made-up songs.

"Mingyu?"

"There you are," he says, turning around. "Just came out to check on you. And make you some tea."

The kettle whizzes. Your gut twists.

You still haven't said anything to Mingyu. To manage your own disappointment was one thing—you don't think you could handle another person's. And yet when he stands there, Pororo mug between his huge hands, you feel as if you are holding a knife, big and guilty and bloody.

"I-I'm fine, Gyu. Honest." you watch his expression flicker, unreadable in the persimmon lamplight. "Sorry you had to come out. It's chilly out here."

"You know, you can tell me what's going on. I won't judge."

No, no, no. This is the last conversation you wanted to have, with the last person you wanted to have it with.

You feel feverish. You think your hands are shaking.

"Mingyu, I swear—"

"Whatever it is, we can fix it. I know we can."

That almost makes you want to laugh if you didn't want to cry so bad. Of fucking course he would say that. Mingyu, who treats life like it's the watermelon trick he showed you on the outlook, wants to put a bandaid on this whole thing, as if that could come close to fixing it.

He'd tell you to curl up on the couch with a bad movie while he orders takeout. Kiss you on the top of the head. It's ok, baby. Just another bad day for the person who has the worst luck in the world. Another lump of problems for him to try and make better. If he isn't sick of you now, he sure would be soon enough.

"It’s okay," you say, steeling your voice. "It really isn't a big deal. Let's just go back to sleep."

You try to walk away, but the hardness in Mingyu's eyes roots you down to the tile.

"Stop doing that."

"Doing what?"

"Pushing me away," he swallows. "Like you always do. I know something's going on."

"I’m not, i just—"

"You just what? You can't help it?"

"No, I—"

"Because you like to know that you can? That you can say whatever and then watch me come back?" A fragmented, heavy silence thrums between you. He's looking at you like he's daring you to say something, anything. His gaze is black. "What am I good for if you can't tell me anything?"

There's that familiar, stinging pressure behind your eyes. You think you're crying, but you're not sure. Maybe you've been crying this whole time.

"Fine," you bite. Your blood feels like hot metal. "You really wanna know? I didn't get into law school. There. Happy now?"

Mingyu looks stung.

"W-why didn't you tell me?"

Because I thought you would stop loving me. I thought you would have finally had enough.

"Because it's not all about you, Mingyu."

The words, selfish and damning, burn your tongue. Mingyu is right. This is what you always do. You fuck up and then make everyone else hurt for it.

"I'm sorry," Mingyu says. His voice doesn't sound like his. Instead, the words seem to hang in the air, trembling and holding their breath, waiting for an apology you can't give yet. "I shouldn't have—"

"It's ok." You swallow hard, and it hurts. "Let's just go back to bed."

It's getting colder and colder. You think there's a little hole in your sock, right above the cat's whiskers.

Mingyu doesn't reach for you as he passes to get to the hallway. Maybe he doesn't know how to anymore.

The Pororo cup is left abandoned on the counter. You walk over and read the label on the tea bag—barley, because you have class tomorrow morning.

You pick it up, let the ceramic buzz between your hands with whatever warmth it has left, and hold it to your lips.

It's cold now, but all you can think to do is drink it. Erase all the evidence that tonight ever happened, and maybe it'll be nothing more than a bad dream in the morning.

There's honey at the bottom of the cup. It sears the back of your throat, but you drink until there's nothing left.

vi. the peach blossoms (without fail, bloom every August. I miss you.)

You broke up the next day.

Even now, you remember what happened. You had woken up early that morning to make your own breakfast because you couldn't allow Mingyu to give you any more of himself. Your hands could only hold, shatter, so much.

"Mingyu, I think we should...." You looked at the zigzags of jam on your toast, angry and uneven. "I think we should stop seeing each other. For now," you had added, as if that made anything better at all.

Somehow that seemed more merciful at the time. Really, you think it just showed your cowardice. If you were going to break his heart, you might as well have gone all the way the first time.

Maybe it was a good thing that Mingyu saw right through you. He always did.

"So that's it, huh? You're just gonna give up on us?"

"No, I just...need some time."

"How long?" he asked. "Be honest with me. Because you know I’ll wait."

"I don't know." You couldn't meet his gaze. His eyes reached and reached over that kitchen table and you denied him even that.

"Don't you always know?" he asked, pitifully, desperately. "Don't you want this to work?"

And you did. In fact, you don't think you had ever wanted anything more, and it was that that scared you. You had already lost law school—you couldn't let the only other thing in your life let you go. So you pulled the trigger first.

"We should just end things. I'm sorry. I can't give you what you need."

He packed his bag within the hour, and you think everything, from then on, froze inside you. You didn't move from your seat until your parents came home from the airport later that day and asked why there were two plates of toast still on the table.

You think you knew, someplace, inevitably, this would happen. You, who only knew hunger, had reached deep inside Mingyu and rooted out a love you didn't think you were worthy of having. And yet you still ate from the vine, bite after guilty bite, until you couldn't take any more. The only time he asked you for anything at all, you couldn't give it to him—such was the irony of your relationship.

Maybe you were doomed the moment the first strawberry hit your tongue, just like you had said, all that time ago.

About a month later, you got another letter in the mail. Chungnam National University Law School, it read. This one was fat, in one of those brown envelopes lined with bubble wrap. Somehow, miraculously, that position on the waitlist had turned into an acceptance. You held the package to your chest and cried, loud and with abandon, as if taking a deep breath after almost drowning.

Ironically, the first person you wanted to tell was Mingyu. But the good news you needed to save your relationship came too little, too late. Perhaps that meant it had no legs to stand on in the first place, but that didn't stop you from missing it. Instead, you told Yizhuo, and she drove you to Jeju City and treated you to dinner. "You should just call him," she had said. "Hey, don't look at me like that. He'd probably pick up on the first ring."

The city is swathed in August's crimson summer—peach season. The narrow streets are lined with peach trees, the fruits glowing like fat drops of sunlight. All you do these days is plan for your eventual move to Daejeon and the start of a life that seems newer and shinier than your own. But surrounded by the cicada song, the velvet treeline, the rain-soaked asphalt, somehow you think you're going to miss Seogwipo more than you think.

(Fickle, fickle heart. You always needed things to be taken away to really be able to appreciate them. Somehow, all that wanting had boiled down to something more satisfying, more filling.)

You wonder how Mingyu is. Now that you think about it, he seems just as much a part of Seogwipo as the farm he lives on. It was only last summer when you had first met him in the field, set on fire by the strawberry harvest. You think about him now, peddling around that ridiculous wicker basket to make jam. Maybe talking to another pretty girl, someone as naive, cruel as you had been.

Not long ago, you considered calling him to apologize, but that'd just be another thing to be selfish about. A little time and some warm weather, and I’m calling to finally wash my hands of you. That's what it would sound like, no matter what you said. Still, it didn't stop you from thinking of him, every flower, every season.

"You know, I always wanted to grow peach trees. But I think we've always been a pear kind of family."

Mingyu. If a voice could cut through air, it'd be his.

You whip around, half-believing you're hearing things. Certainly that would be easier, but you're learning that there are some things you can't run from.

And like a picture, Mingyu stands tall, golden, framed by the peach blossoms. Not a thing about him has changed. Not even the way he looks at you.

"Mingyu," you breathe. Unfortunately, none of the times you replayed your last conversation with him help you come up with something to say, because in none of them did you anticipate him coming back. "W-what are you doing here?"

"I live here, silly."

"No way," you reply, scrambling. "Crazy, because I live here too."

You both laugh nervously, a silly, bubbly thing, but you feel like you're going to throw up. It's only now that you realize you're kind of on the walk to his place. Seogwipo has never had places to hide.

"I...um." You try and disentangle the guilt from the nostalgia from the scent of the peaches and the warmth on his face. They all look the same. You missed him. "I got into law school. In Daejeon."

"I heard," he says. "Not surprised at all. I always knew you would."

"Thank you. I mean it." The cicadas buzz around you, as if they know they have an important silence to fill. "You're staying in town, right?"

"Actually, I decided to apply to culinary school. It finally felt right, you know? I'm leaving at the end of the summer, but it's just in Jeju City. I couldn't leave the island."

"Thank goodness. I don't know if you could tell, but I kind of always hoped you would. I don't think I’ve ever eaten better food." Your voice wobbles, but it gets there. "You'll do amazing."

Then time stretches and forces you to recognize, reckon with, the moment you're in. You wonder if he feels the same way you do—bruised, overripe. If there's still a space in his heart for you.

Deep breath. Life only gives you so many chances.

"Mingyu, I’m sorry. I'm sorry I couldn't make us work. You deserved better." Saying it feels like peeling the skin of your heart back. There's still a palpable distance between the two of you—you think that had always been there—but it feels more comfortable in a way it never did before.

"Don’t apologize," he says, easily, as he always does. Everything seems to flow off him like water, and you think that's the part of him you loved the most because it was the one thing you couldn't touch. "We loved each other. I think that much was true."

A jasmine breeze curls through the trees, sending the blossoms fluttering around you like ink in water. The very first time you met Mingyu, you thought the image of him, haloed with the sunset, was the one you wanted to keep forever. And yet, somehow, you don't think you'll ever forget the way he looks right now.

"Will you ever come back to Seogwipo?" you ask.

"I was gonna ask you the same thing—you were always the one who wanted to get out of here." He grins, ear to ear. "Of course I'm coming back. There's nowhere I'd rather be."

"Yeah. I think I know what you mean."

The sea, the clay dirt, Mingyu. Even yourself, clumsy and care-worn. You think, somewhere along the line, you forgot how to love. But you're learning—one step at a time.

"Friends," you say. "Let's be friends. If you'll let me."

"Thought you would never ask. Gladly. Always." The space between you seizes, like it's holding in a breath. Maybe one day, you'll think of closing it once more, but you like where you stand now. You can admire him better from a distance, without your fingerprints all over him. He stuffs his hands in his pockets, something he does before he gets ready to leave. But before he does—"I'll see you soon, okay? You better come back. Promise me."

For the first time, you see the honesty in his eyes and you really, truly believe him.

"Promise."

The Seogwipo sun is high and red in the sky when you wave Mingyu goodbye. It feels like you're coming to an end of a long summer, but you're not afraid. You watch the wind dance through the peach blossoms, their branches never searching, never wanting, and you finally feel as if you've arrived home.

#literally on my hands and knees begging for the tags to work #mine #mingyu #mingyu x reader #mingyu x you #mingyu angst #seventeen angst #mingyu imagines

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concreteburialplot · 25 days ago

Text

Cruel

Pairing: Nicholas x F!Reader

Masterlist: here | Crossposted: ao3 | Word Count: 5.7k

Warnings: Cocky Asshole!Nick, stereotypical cliché rockstar behavior, toxic af, petnames, fingering, oral (f receiving), p n v, cream pie, canon big fat co-, dramatic and cliché, ~making love~, happy ending, lightly edited, [you deserve better than men like this!!!], 18+ MDNI

Summary: Your long time on-again/off-again love finds you the second his tour bus reaches home. Even with your walls up, he charms his way into apartment and back into your heart.

A/N; Not my best work but this wip has been sitting in my drafts for over a year, finally decided to let it see the light of day. Enjoy 💕 Also… this almost became a Jake Kiszka fic…

“You paint a picture of us, just to burn it. Fool, I’m a fool if the shoe fits.”

- Cool // Gracie Abrams

The minute the GPS was set to home, there was a buzz on your phone that had been absent for the past two months. You unlocked it mindlessly, thinking nothing of it, but the second you read it your heart sunk to your stomach.

❌DO NOT ANSWER❌:

Gonna be back in town around midnight.

See you then?

Absolutely not. Why would you do that to yourself again. Yet, against your better judgement, you answered.

No.

You sent back simply, with your heart pounding in your ears.

He replied almost immediately. The speed of it made your heart flutter but you had to remind yourself that he was probably just bored on a tour bus. That you were probably just the easiest option after having an endless pick of groupies on the road.

Oh, c’mon don’t be like that

We could have fun

The thought of having him again sent a wavering behind your ribs that you quickly tried to squash down. You tugged your bottom lip between your teeth in thought. No, no, no – you repeated in your head like a mantra.

You: I don’t have fun with you.

Nick: It sure didn’t seem like that before I left

It was a half lie. While you did have fun together, he always came at a cost. He was never yours, not fully. Right before tour was always the worst.

While he was home everything felt different – domestic even at times, and each time you convinced yourself it’d be different, that that time would be the one to stick, that he would stay yours. But then weeks leading up to tour things would change, he’d grow distant, and fights would spawn out of nothing. In an instant, he wasn’t the man you were in love with. Love wasn’t a word you ever threw around in your label-less relationship, but it was felt, at least on your end. Regardless, sex was the one thing that always kept you two together – but it made you weak and pliable.

You: That’s not true and you know it

Nick: Just let me see you, we can talk about it

You mulled it over in your head. Your heart wanted nothing more than to see him again but that was exactly the reason you needed to resist. It was a war between your head and your heart and for once, your head was winning. You were sick of the rollercoaster of loving him, sick of getting your heart broken repeatedly. This tour was the biggest and longest they’d ever done, almost double their usual length, and the fallout with him before he left was the most damaging it’d ever been. The extra time apart allowed you to process the pain and assess the relationship. You’d been able to accept it for what it was and come to terms with the fact that you’d never have him the way you’ve always craved. While he was away, you grieved the crumbs of your situationship and chose yourself for once. Though, the pain that bloomed from that decision felt like a betrayal to your heart in the moment, but you knew it was for the better.

You know it’s for the better.

You: I don’t want to see you, Nicholas.

Nick: I wasn’t aware we were lying to each other now

Heat rose to your cheeks and your stomach churned in anger and pain as your brain flooded with infinite memories of him lying to you.

You: Oh, that’s fucking rich coming from you

Nick: Just let me see you

You: No. Why the fuck should I let you

Nick: I wanna talk Nick: I have something for you

You: I don’t want anything from you

Though, you’d be lying if you said you weren’t curious. Sometimes he’d bring you little nothings from his travels, but nothing notable or worthy of being a bargaining chip.

Nick: Just let me see you.

As much as you didn’t want to admit it, his persistence was wearing you down. It’s a horrible thing to be lovesick for a man who gives you just enough slices of dopamine to make you forget why you were mad or cautious in the first place. It was toxic and thrilling all at once. It was nothing but lies – both from him and yourself. Your heart was beginning to feed you false truths like: he could just come over, you’d call him on his bullshit and let him leave without him getting to you.

You gave into him, like you always did.

You: Fine. But you leave when I tell you to. Nick: No problem. See you in an hour.

You mentally scolded yourself, but you couldn’t help but feel the flurry of butterflies running rampant in your stomach.

After a while, you checked the time and noted that about an hour and a half had passed. Fear and disappointment trickled down your spine at the idea that he might not even show up after you gave into him like a fool. It made you sick to your stomach even though it wouldn’t be the first time he’d done that.

About 10 minutes later you heard a knock at the door and adrenaline spiked in your bloodstream. You took a look in your full-length mirror and smoothed out your silhouette. While you fed yourself the lie that nothing was going to happen, your hands chose a flowy sundress that laid mid-thigh.

When you opened your door, you were met with Nick in comfy clothes, clearly fresh from off the tour bus. As indifferent as you should’ve been, you couldn’t help but take notice of how good he looked with his hair up in a messy bun. Still, just the sight of him felt like a dagger through your already bleeding heart. It was a torturous duplicity being so in love with him, yet so heartbroken from just looking at him. All the work you did to suppress and heal your wounds crashed back down to square one. The second he spoke you knew you’d made a horrible mistake.

“Hey.” He smiled and you could tell he suppressed a smirk.

“Hey.” You replied flatly. Your resiliency was already begging to falter. You hadn’t heard his voice in months, and it stirred something in you – something both vicious and compelling. You came to realize that this was a dangerous game you chose to play.

His eyes fluttered down your frame, soaking in the vision of you completely. “You look,” He paused, and you expected something vulgar, but he surprised you. “Fantastic.”

A peachy hue grew on the tops of your cheeks at the compliment, and you silently reprimanded yourself for letting him get to you already.

He stepped closer to you, brushing your hair just behind your bare shoulder to admire you fully. “All this for me?”

And just like that, the flutter in your stomach fell along with the edges of your lips. Your eyes begged to roll at the question, but you restrained it to just a scowl. “What are you doing here, Nick?”

“To see you silly.” He said nonchalantly while his crystal eyes held something more you couldn’t place – it was like a glint of something deeper than he was letting on. “Now let me in, won’t you?”

You sighed and stepped aside to let him past you. “You said you wanted to talk?” You pressed against the door to close it behind you. When it clicked into place you rested flat against it with your arms crossed.

His head tilted around the small space to take it in, even though it wasn’t drastically different, any remanence of him was gone. Then, he met your eyes again to answer your question. “That’s what we’re doing, isn’t it?”

You groaned, unraveling your arms to ball your fists at your sides. “You’re so fucking infuriating.”

So much for keeping your cool.

He huffed out a maddening laugh. “All worked up, are we? Must’ve been really frustrated while I was gone.”

“Actually, it’s been real fucking peaceful.” Your arms crossed back over your chest. “What do you want, Nicholas?”

“I wanted to see you.” He said earnestly, this time with less smugness to it. “And to give you this.” His arm went behind himself and into his back pocket only to pull out a palm-sized stuffed black cat. He held the sitting stuffie in his hand on display.

Your heart sunk the second your eyes landed on the stuffed toy. Both anger and heartache bubbled into your stomach, into your veins and all across your skin. Your shoulder muscles stiffened reflexively. “Why the fuck would you bring me that?”

The truth was that the cat contained more than just stuffing – it represented a past floating idea of a shared black cat between you. Whenever you two were at your best, you discussed adopting one together. You’d keep it at your place since he’s so often away from home, but it would be shared nonetheless. It never happened of course, but there he was holding a physical placeholder for it.

“I saw it and thought of you.” He said infuriatingly nonchalant, though you couldn’t tell if the ignorance was genuine or not.

You crossed the threshold between you and snatched the stuffie from his hand. You squeezed it by its sides in front of his face, “This is cruel, and you know it.”

While you were fuming, there was still a small pathetic part of you that swooned at the fact that he remembered such a small thing.

He reached out to graze up your jaw to your chin. “Even when you’re pissed at me you’re beautiful.”

You smacked his hand away from you, not wanting anything to do with him or his dizzying games. “You are such a fucking prick, and you know it. You know what this little toy means to me, and it means nothing to you.” You nearly spat at him while you shoved a finger into his sternum.

He grasped your wrist, keeping it in place as he stepped forward. “Who said it doesn’t?”

The air between you seemed to dissipate, leaving your throat barren of oxygen. Yet, your self respect held strong against his convincing words. “You’re a liar. A cruel liar.”

He closed the gap between you further until his lips were hovering just above your own. “I’m not lying.” Your nose filled with his scent – peppery cologne, weed and beer. It wasn’t the most pleasant mixture of smells, but it was him and he was something you’d missed and longed for the past two months. His smell and his proximity had your chest swirling with love and desperation. You wanted – no – you needed him to be telling the truth this time. It had to be the truth.

“I’m not lying.” He replied softly with his eyes falling from your own to your lips then meeting your gaze once more. “Let me show you how honest I’m being.”

It wasn’t your smartest move, giving into him so effortlessly. He just made it so easy to believe anything that came out of his pretty mouth. It wouldn’t be the first time you fell for his tricks and unfortunately, something told you it wouldn’t be the last.

When your lips met, it was electric, sparking and hot. You weren’t sure if that was just what he’d always felt like or if it had just been months since he touched you last.

It didn’t take long before his fingers frantically tangled in your hair. You matched his energy, curling fists into the base of his bun. He stumbled you both back onto your couch with your lips glued to each other’s. The kiss was full of fire and pent-up tension.

You ended up with both knees on either side of his hips. Your lips landed on the spiderweb tattoo on his neck, immediately sucking at the ink. He let out a hiss at the intensity of your suction. Your hips swiveled over the bulge growing in his pants.

“Fuck.” He groaned and tugged at the hem of your dress, silently asking you to pull it off.

You detached from his neck briefly and yanked the sundress off your body tossing it on the floor. Before you could return to your spot on his neck, he grabbed your face to meet his lips again. It was messy with teeth clashing and hasty tongues fighting for dominance.

Your hands fumbled between your bodies to unzip his jeans to let him out. You wondered how he was even able to stay in his pants with his massive size when he was hard. You took him in one hand while the other stabilized you on his shoulder. He groaned into the kiss as you worked him in your hand.

His fingers curled tightly into your hair, “I need to fucking be inside you.” He all but growled.

You nodded quick and breathless, you needed just the same. You tugged away and spit multiple times onto his impressive size. It had been months since you’ve had him, there’s no way this wasn’t going to hurt.

You lifted on your knees, as much as you could, Nick helped by pushing your panties to the side and sliding his fingers up and down your folds.

“You’re so fucking wet for me.” His fingers dipped inside you, just a fingertip deep to gather some of your juices and used it to better coat your entrance. He paused and his brows furrowed a bit. With how full you felt with just one finger you could only imagine what he was thinking. “You’re going to need more prep than this for me.”

You whined, but you knew he was right. It had been so long since you’d taken him, and your cunt needed time to refamiliarize itself with his size.

Your hand never halted on his length, and it was obvious on his twisted features and his mouth slightly parted. No matter how angry you were at him, it didn’t take away from how pretty he looked when he was drunk off of you.

He pumped his finger slowly in and out of you just to set a pace before adding another. A small gasp fell from your lips at the addition and stilled all of your movements.

“Just relax baby,” He soothed, and you softened in his hold. “That’s it, let me take care of you.”

It was a weighty thing to ask of you, but your mind turned to mush the second his thumb found your clit, rubbing slow circles on it. Your eyes rolled back, and your chest gave way to him. “Fuck, Nick.” You muttered out pathetically.

“I missed you.”

-was the last thing you expected to hear from him in that moment, but you were so lost in euphoria that you couldn’t wrap your head around it. “Mmmhm.” You hummed as your eyes fluttered closed. “Missed you too, Nicky.”

You were absolute putty in his hands, he knew exactly how to work you into whatever he wanted. You were easily pliable to him, and in that moment, he was grateful for it. He placed a soft kiss to your collarbone, then another at the base of your neck. “Missed me how, angel? Tell me.” He whispered, his voice low and crackly.

Your jaw fell slack when he added a third finger but you were so worked up that it hadn’t been that difficult. It still burned but the pleasure he was supplying to your clit was overshadowing any pain.

“Use your words, princess. Let me hear how much you missed me.” He was practically begging you for any morsel you’d give him. He’d never admit it but he was desperate for you too. “Tell me baby, did you touch yourself thinking about me?”

Your head lulled to the side, cascading your hair over your shoulder. “Uh huh.” Was all you could muster.

“Mmm. Like this?” His fingers curled inside you, hitting that sweet spot that was rarely touched by you or anyone else.

You gasped at the feeling in tandem with his thumb on your clit. His fingers pulsed against the soft inner tissue in a rhythm that made your brain numb. It was a spot only he had ever really been able to reach, either with his fingers or his cock. He knew your body better than anyone else ever had and he was good at it.

A smirk played across his lips, evidently satisfied with your response. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

The warning of an orgasm burned in the pit of your tummy, filling it with tingling warmth. It must’ve been all over your face because he caught on quickly. “Oh, what’s wrong? Is my pretty girl going to cum already?” He spoke smoothly up your neck while his fingers increased their speed ever so slightly, just enough to tip you over the edge.

You abruptly grabbed hold of his shoulder, squeezing it with every bit of strength inside you as your orgasm washed over you. The euphoria began just below your navel then spread electricity across your skin. You felt it everywhere, down to your fingers and your toes.

He let out a satisfied chuckle against your throat, “That’s my girl.” He praised and held you as your body began to collapse against him. “It’s okay, I’ve got you.”

When you were finally spent is when he really came to life.

“Fuck I need to taste you.” He exhaled and as soon as you nodded, he snatched you, holding you with both hands securely below your ass. He was in a frenzy, like a shark that just smelled blood. “I want to taste all of you, every bit of mess you just made.”

He hastily carried you over to the bed across the room in your small apartment. He laid you gently, but impatiently, on the edge of the bed with his lips planted on yours.

You barely had time to miss his lips before his tongue latched onto your clit and his fingers returned to their place inside you. He brought you back down to just two fingers in order to give you a bit of reprieve.

Your mouth immediately created an ‘O’ shape with wide eyes at the skill of his tongue. “O-Oh.”

He ate you hungrily as if he hadn’t had pussy in weeks which historically, when he’s off on tours, was quite the opposite. He gave you no time to get caught up in your thoughts with the way his tongue slithered ‘S’ motions from your clit to your entrance, then taking his time at your throbbing bud. He lapped up every bit of your orgasm, not wanting to leave anything behind. The feeling bloomed a sparking heat from the pit of your core to the rest of your body and you silently cursed him for making you feel so good.

When you glanced down you noticed that while he was bent eating you, his hand had been on his cock – gliding up and down swiftly and in rhythm with his fingers and tongue. You thought that might’ve been the hottest thing you’d ever seen, and you couldn’t keep your eyes off of the way he couldn’t not touch himself while eating you.

You let out a tiny moan at the sensation of his tongue against your swollen clit. But god did he feel good. It had to have been his extensive body count that made him good in bed and while you didn’t like thinking about it, you were surely grateful for it in the moment. His tongue expertly spun around your nub with various patterns. You couldn’t help but wiggle around at the stimulation to which he hooked his arms around your thighs and brought you to the edge of the bed. His knees met the wood floors, his tongue never once wavering. When he pulled your bud into his mouth with a suck you knew you wouldn’t last much longer.

You shook your head, while he felt amazing, you needed more. “I need your cock, Nick, please.” You begged, pathetically.

His lips curled into a smirk against your core, placing a soft kiss at your clit. “Whatever you wish, princess.”

Your heart swelled and your tummy swirled at the name, it was your favorite, and he knew it. You were convinced it was the best sound in the world when it fell from his lips.

He pressed kisses up until your mid torso before pulling away. You whined at the loss of contact, but you knew it was only for something better. You squirmed at the attention and parted your legs even further, wanting more.

“Look at you, all laid out for me.” He cooed, with his eyes wandering across your body trying to choose his favorite part of you. His fingers trailed up your thighs, taking his time to savor your skin. “Okay, now baby, take a deep breath for me, will you?”

You did as he instructed but your breath hitched in your throat as he slid his fingers inside you once more, this time adding a third finger again. It burned a bit, being stretched out that much, but you knew it had to be done in order to take him fully.

“Good girl.” He hummed as he began pumping his fingers in a slow pace. After some time familiarizing you with the span of his fingers, he decided he wanted to take it further. “Actually, can I have you a different way?”

You nodded, too fucked out to deny him of anything.

His hands were rough when he flipped you over onto your stomach. His pointer and ring fingers slid up, spreading your lips open to let the tip of his cock sit at your entrance. He leaned down to just beside the shell of your ear.

“I wanna hear how bad you want it.”

You let out a near guttural groan at the statement. You were clenching around nothing just at his proximity.

“Oh c’mon, I can feel how bad she wants me.”

“Please, please I need your fucking cock.” You begged.

He smirked against your skin, “Good girl.” His hips moved forward, slowly pushing himself into you. You could feel yourself parting around him painfully, even with the prep you did. Your hips stiffened up not quite remembering how to take him. He took his time, carefully moving deeper inside you.

“Now tell me baby,” He hummed, dipping his fingers down between you. His fingertips slid around his girth to feel where you and he became one. You wondered if he could feel the burn that he was causing. “Has anyone else touched this pretty pussy while I’ve been gone?”

The question caught you off guard, quite literally the last thing you ever thought he’d ask you in this situation. Your eyes instinctively wanted to widen but you squeezed them shut instead. Heat bloomed on your cheeks, but you hoped he didn’t notice.

“Oh, c’mon now, be honest.” He teased in a patronizing tone.

You swallowed all the saliva left in your mouth and pressed your lips shut tight. You knew you couldn’t lie to him, especially not in such a vulnerable position. The truth was that you tried any and everything to get him out of your mind - which landed you some vices in your time apart. You and Nick weren’t anything of substance, nothing official. You were sure Nick had to know since it had come up previously and he never seemed phased by it – you knew about his tour hookups, how would this be any different. Regardless, you had no idea why he was even bringing it up and wished he wouldn’t.

He didn’t seem to like your silent pause and halted his movements. “If you don’t answer I’ll stop.” He threatened.

You groaned in frustration and threw your head down into the mattress. “Fine, fine,” You spat out in defeat. “Yes. One.”

“Hmm.” He stretched out the noise to emphasize his disbelief. “I think you’re a poor liar.” His fingers grazed over your clit briefly, just to remind you what you were missing. “Don’t lie to me baby, you won’t like the outcome.”

You sighed, feeling defeated and helpless beneath him. “Two.” It was the honest truth. One of them he knew about, a long-time casual friends with benefits. The other, was a drunken mistake from the bar on a particularly lonely night.

He sheathed himself fully inside you, “Yeah I can tell.” He said in a pointed tone, and it caused your brows to furrow, wondering what exactly he meant by that. “Oh, don’t worry I don’t mean it that way.” His fingers trailed down your side to hook into your hip, pulling you flush against him. “I can tell by the way you’re trying to adjust to me.” His voice was smooth and deep. “Like your body got too comfortable with something less than me.” His hips shifted back just to fall back into you, hitting you right in the spot that made your stomach twist. It was painful but delicious, reminding you exactly why you’d made this mistake with him so many times. “Or is that what you prefer now?”

You shook your head quickly, you didn’t want anything other than him, you never had. As rocky as your relationship had been, Nick was always the one who owned your heart. It never for one second had been held by anyone other than him in the past couple years. It was sad how loyal you were to him when it was obvious that he never felt the same – at least not in a committed way. “No.” You breathed out. “I want you, Nick.” You looked over your shoulder to meet his eyes and they were filled with something that felt almost like jealousy, but you’d never known Nicholas to be jealous. He’d always been very fluid about your connection – always very clear about the openness of your relationship.

“Say it again.” He demanded while his hands held your hips in place as he slammed back into you in one swift move. His tip landed straight into your cervix, causing a jolt of pain up your spine.

“I want you, Nick.” You repeated with a strained voice.

He finally began a slow rhythm in and out of you, almost like a reward for listening to him. He reached forward and grasped your chin to get you to look back at him again. “Again.”

Your brows knitted at his request – it seemed almost cruel for him to have you repeat the obvious. “I want you.” You whispered. Tears began to well up in your eyes and you couldn’t tell if it was from your emotions or from the burn of him stretching you out. He squeezed your cheeks at the sight of your tears, silently asking you again. “I want you.” You squeaked out, trying to keep the tightness in your chest at bay. “I want you, I want you, I want you.” You repeated over and over, now letting tears flow freely down your cheeks. It bloomed an ache in your chest that you never wanted to feel in the middle of sex.

Suddenly, you felt him pull from you completely but before you got a chance to question it, he flipped you over onto your back. You were only vacant of him for a millisecond before he slid back into place between your legs. He hovered over you, his unraveled hair gathered onto one side of his head, brushing against your shoulder. “I don’t want you to ever question that again.”

“I never did.” You admitted embarrassingly quick. “What’s this about?” You questioned, wondering why you were having this conversation while he was still inside you. Though, he was never one to choose an appropriate time to talk about things.

“I missed you.” He repeated his statement from earlier that you were too fucked out to process. His voice was raspy with lust, but genuine. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

You blinked up at him and shook your head, not wanting to get caught up in his empty promises. “Can we just talk about this later?” Although, the moment had already been squandered for you.

“No.” He continued his slow and steady pace while his eyes were set on yours. “I mean it. I want this. I want us.”

Your eyes grew wide in disbelief. You’d never heard him sound so serious about anything, nonetheless about you. “You do?”

“I’ve been an idiot. All I wanted to do was come home to you.” He pressed his forehead against yours. “And the idea of someone else touching you makes me sick. I’m selfish. I want you all to myself. I want you to be mine.”

“I’ve always been yours, Nick.” You whispered with brows curved up in sincerity. Even with flings and vices your heart never beat for anyone else, you could never love another – no matter how stupid it made you look. You were stuck on him whether you liked it or not. You’d always been his even when he wasn’t yours, even when he wanted nothing to do with you.

His grey eyes shifted between your glossy eyes trying to read your honesty. He said nothing more before uniting your lips into the deepest kiss you’d ever felt. Love was a whisper lingering on your tongue, but you knew tonight wasn’t the night for that. Passion quickly spread from your heated kiss to the speed of his hips. His thrusts were fast and hard, though they weren’t fueled by a promise of an orgasm but rather by a need to show you exactly how he felt. Your entire body bounced against his rough repetitions, and it was overwhelming in the best way.

His head fell into your neck, his heavy breaths against your sensitive skin sent tingles across your body. “You’re taking me so well.” He muttered below your ear. His hand found your leg and ran his fingers beneath it, pulling it up from behind your knee and bending it towards you as far as it would allow. The new position spread you out even more and made sure you felt everything – the way the head of his cock embedded itself into your g-spot and the way your walls stretched around him. “Doesn’t that feel good baby, being so full?”

You let out a moan as your eyes rolled back. “Fuck yes.” It was the truth, no one ever filled you like he did.

“Uh-uh.” His hand grasped your cheeks. “Eyes on me.”

The sensations of everything were enough to fill your clit with buzzing need and you gasped when his thumb found it. Your eyes widened as he began rolling small circles into it in time with his quick pace.

“Oh-oh.” You stuttered out pathetically as you felt the knot in your stomach tighten, threatening to snap already.

“Take your time baby, there’s no rush.” He soothed but it only accelerated your already impending orgasm. Your fingers curled into his arms harshly, surely hard enough to leave half-moon imprints into his skin. “Oh, I know, I know.” He comforted.

That’s all it took to unravel you. Tingly warmth spread across your body, making every inch of you feel blissful. It was enough to temporarily blind your vision as you got lost in the immense pleasure that was overtaking your entire being.

“That’s it angel, just like that. I want all of it.” He said softly below your ear, but it was clear with the shakiness of his own voice that he was close too.

His speed became rapid and erratic as he sensed you reaching the height of your peak. “Fuck.” He murmured into your neck as he slammed his hips into yours faster than you could process. “Fuck I’m gonna cum.”

All you did in response was cross your legs around his waist to pull him in deeper. It didn’t take long for him to meet you in your climax. You felt his cock twitch and pulse inside of you followed by warmth pooling in the deepest part of you.

When the moment was over, Nick took his time, tenderly ensuring you were both clean and comfortable. Aftercare was something he never skipped, but tonight, he seemed especially patient and tender. Once he’d helped you into your favorite pajamas and made a warm cup of tea, he pulled you gently into his side.

“I’m sorry it took me so long.” he said, peering down at you with a sincerity that made your heart ache.

You gave him a small knowing nod, too spent to say more. Curled against his side, a quiet apprehension settled over you, memories of past mistakes lingered softly at the edges of your mind. He was the last person you should trust, but your heart couldn’t summon the strength to turn him away. So, you chose to believe in him once more, silently hoping this time would be different and that his words were true. As he held you tighter than ever, your choice felt right. Finally, he was yours, and you were his.

A/N; thank you so much for reading! I'd love to hear your thoughts<3

Taglist; @measuredingold @ladyveronikawrites @deathblacksmoke @iloveyoutodeathbutimdrowning

#bad omens fanfic #bad omens fanfiction #nicholas ruffilo fanfiction #nicholas ruffilo fanfic #nick ruffilo fanfic #nick ruffilo fic #nick ruffilo fanfiction #bad omens rpf #bad omens smut #nick ruffilo smut #nicholas ruffilo smut

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babymetaldoll · 1 month ago

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"Spencer Reid, inked" (Spencer Reid x tattoo artist!reader!)

Part of the "We are not gonna make it" writing challenge @aperrywilliams and I are hosting during October.

Event Masterlist - Main Masterlist

Summary: Spencer gets his first tattoo

Word count: 1.978

Warnings: None

I hated feeling like a cliché. But I was, at least at the moment. That’s what everybody would say if they knew I was going through a middle-age crisis. There was no other way to call it. I was well aware of the symptoms. I was already forty, single, reconsidering my job options and looking for a new career after almost twenty years working for the FBI.

And the worst symptoms of them all: I was about to get my first tattoo.

Yes, me. Spencer Walter Reid, germaphobe.

It hadn’t been an easy decision. God, it hadn’t been an easy year. Everything seemed so useless and pointless at a certain moment like I had wasted so much time overthinking, overanalyzing, over… everything. And I had forgotten one simple thing: living.

So now at forty years old, I want to start living. And one thing I always imagined I would do but never really thought I could do was get a tattoo.

Garcia recommended a shop in town. She is the only one who knows I’m planning to do this because a part of me is very embarrassed to share my crisis with my friends. I know they wouldn’t make fun of me, but it’s not something I wanna bring up in any conversation, except for Pen. She is one of my closest friends and I know she would never judge me, or make fun of my insecurities. Actually, when I told her my plans, she even asked if I wanted her to tag along and support me.

- “Thank you, Garcia. But I think this is something I wanna do alone.”

- “I get it, boy genius. Just know that I will be a phone call away in case you need me.”

The tattoo shop she recommended isn’t very busy when I walk in, and a little belle announces my arrival.

- “Hey! Do you have an appointment?”- a guy asks from the desk and I hesitantly walk over. I’m starting to second-guess this whole plan. Me? Getting a tattoo? Really?

- “Hi, yes. I talked with (Y/N) on the phone.”

- “(Y/N)!”- the guy yells- “Your eleven am is here!”

- “I’ll be right there!”

Garcia said this girl is the best tattoo artist she knows and that she is very soft and gentle, which is exactly what I think I need if I’m getting my first tattoo. Right, I don’t even know what I wanna get. I think I should have thought about that before booking this appointment. Maybe I’m gonna waste this woman’s time today and she will do a bad tattoo as revenge. I should probably just leave.

- “Hey! Spencer, right?”- I hear my name and turn around. But no words come out of my lips ‘cos I was sure I was leaving a second ago, but now… now I should really start talking.

- “Yes, I’m Spencer. Hi!”- I wave awkwardly as she stares at me with a big smile.

- “Nice to meet you, can I get you anything? Coffee? water?”

- “Thank you, I’m good.”- she walks over to a couch and invites me to sit with her. Garcia didn’t mention the tattoo artist she recommended me was so beautiful and I’m feeling more nervous now than I was when I first got here. And I was considerably nervous a few minutes ago already.

- “Tell me, why is it that you decided to get a tattoo?”- she looks at me, waiting for an answer, and all I can give her is the truth.

- “I never considered getting a tattoo until a few days ago. You could call it a middle-aged crisis.”- I chuckle and she smiles at me, which somehow helps me feel calmer.

- “I don’t think I ever considered it before, but now somehow, it just makes sense.”

- “I don’t consider any crisis a bad thing. Each one is like a reality check that we should pay attention to. I think it’s a way life has to keep us on track of what we should be doing instead of what we think we should do. Does that make any sense?”

I nod and smile at her reply ‘cos it’s a beautiful way to look at a crisis. When you are uncomfortable, you should pay attention and make the changes you need to make. Maybe a tattoo won’t change my life, but it feels like a way to become the man I want to be instead of who I thought I should be.

- “And do you have an idea of what you want to be your first tattoo?

- “Uh. Not really”- I look at my hands, embarrassed to deal with my honest truth. But she just chuckles and continues asking.

- “Not a single idea? There must be something revolving in that mind.”- I raise my eyes and meet hers, and I know I’m blushing, which is embarrassing.- “What do you like?”

- “I like books”- my nerdy answer makes her eyes shine. Maybe she likes reading as well.

- “A favorite one?”

- “War and Peace”

- “A Tolstoi fan, I think I can work on that. Sounds good?”- I nod, smiling.

- “Yeah. Definitely.”

- “Great! So give me a few minutes to draw a few options. Where do you want your tattoo?”

- “I was thinking in my forearm.”

- “Great choice! That area is low on nerve endings and bone, so it'll be less painful than other areas with thinner skin.”- she looks so excited to share that info I don’t wanna tell her I already knew it, and that is the reason I chose that placement.

- “Are you sure I can’t get you anything to drink while you wait?”- (Y/N) stands up and looks at me expectantly.

- “I’m good, thank you.”

- “Ok, wait here. I’ll be back in a sec.”

- “Ok Spencer. Ready?”- I’m sitting on (Y/N) chair. My arm rests on a clean sterile bench covered in plastic. She took the time to clean everything in front of me, probably to assure me everything was taken care of before a needle was in sight.

- “Ready.”- I reply and take a deep breath, trying not to move. But most of all, trying not to shake.

- “I’m gonna make a short line first, so you can feel how the pain is, ok?”- I just nod and she smiles one more time. - “Stay still.”

My eyes are glued to her hands as she carefully traces a small line on my arm and as soon as she is done, she looks at me, expectantly.

- “How did that feel?”

- “It was good”- I answer and look at the line, now drawn forever on my skin.

- “Not as painful as you imagined?”

- “Not painful at all”

- “Great! Let's continue then.”

I find the process of getting a tattoo relaxing, somehow. Here I am, unable to move for a very long time, forced to talk with a stranger. A beautiful stranger that is, in fact, the nicest woman I’ve met. And though none of that could ever be relaxing to me, she is so good at small talk, she is making me talk the entire time, not overthinking anything.

- “So, you’ve been with the FBI for over fifteen years?”

- “Basically my entire life.”

- “Did you always envision yourself being a Fed?”

I don’t know if I wanna answer that. Mostly, I don’t know how to deal with that subject at the moment. So I clear my cough and she gets it right away.

- “We don’t have to talk about that. You could tell me what is it about War and Peace that gets you so much.”

- “I don’t know. Honestly, I haven’t read a book I didn’t like. Never.”

- “And I have the feeling you read a lot.”

She never looks at me, her eyes are always on my arm as she draws on my skin. But I look at her, analyzing her features and the way her eyebrows are constantly frowning in concentration.

- “Why?”

- “‘Cause books were the first thing that came to your mind when I asked you what you like.”- she answers and chuckles.- “You have no idea what people answer to that question.”

- “Surprise me. What’s the weirdest answer you’ve gotten?”- she smiles as she gives the question a little thinking.

- “I don’t wanna judge! I mean, we all have different lives and tastes and picks… and we have been touched by different things in life… However, it’s always weird when people tell me their favorite thing in the whole world is Homer Simpson.”

I try not to burst out laughing, but it’s nearly impossible. (Y/N) takes the needle just in time before I start roaring with laughter.

Honestly, I don’t remember when was the last time I laughed that hard. It’s refreshing. Relaxing. Encouraging. I don’t know if it’s the whole tattoo experience or (Y/N)’s company, but I can’t recall feeling this alive and happy in a very long time.

It’s disappointing when she tells me she is done. She applies a gel on my freshly tattooed skin and invites me to check it in the mirror. And I don’t know how something like this can actually happen, but that’s the moment it actually hits me. I got a tattoo. It’s there, forever in my front arm.

Spencer Reid inked.

- “Alright, Dr. Reid.”- she says as she finishes placing a plastic patch on my tattoo.- “Keep this covered for the next 12 hours, then you take it out and wash it with baby soap and apply this cream every eight hours or when it starts to itch.”

I take the box and smile at her as she looks at my arm for one last time before looking directly into my eyes. It makes my heart skip a beat immediately, and I don’t know

- “Thank you so much.”- I manage to reply.

- “Not a problem. Technically, it’s my job, though you made it extra nice today, so thank you.”

I don’t know what to answer to that, so I just chuckle and blush. She stares at me in silence as well, but it’s not awkward, it’s… tense? But in a nice way. In a very unknown way as well. I am not familiar with this kind of situation. Or, at least, I don’t think I’m good at dealing with them.

- “So… Considering this is your first tattoo, and that I am a very professional tattoo artist, I’m gonna give you my number, so in case of any random question or doubt, you can reach me.”- the way her lips turn into a cute and sweet smile at the end of her little speech hints she is not just saying it to be nice. And I like it.

- “That’s very thoughtful. I appreciate it.”- I offer her my phone and she writes her number on it.- “I’m gonna ring you, so you can save mine.”

- “That’s great.”- and she is beaming.

- “Can I call you even if I don’t have questions about my tattoo?”

- “Sure, I can help with music rants if you ever need to talk about that, somehow I’ve also collected a lot of info about nineties trash TV and cult documentaries.”- I chuckle at the selection of subjects and nod.

- “Why cults?”

- “I’m not sure, I guess you never know when you might need a new asset at work… that doesn't make any sense.”

- “No, but I’ll take it. It’s not the weirdest answer related to cults I’ve gotten.”

- “Do I wanna know?”

- “Maybe over coffee?”

- “Pick me up at seven?”- I nod and she smiles one more.- “Good. I’ll see you later then.”

As I walk out of the tattoo shop I feel like a cliché again. I’m in my midlife crisis, I got my first tattoo, and somehow, I feel like a brand new person. I think I like myself a little more after doing this. I don’t think I’ll regret getting this ink done.

#criminal minds #spencer reid #babymetaldoll writes #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fluff #criminal minds fanfiction

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faithisyours · 6 months ago

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Something to Tell

Azriel x Ace Fem!reader

Summary: You and Azriel are recently mated. You decide to take things slow, but you have something personal to tell Az.

Warnings: coming out, fluff

Word Count: 965

A/N: Sup y’all. Sorry I’ve been absent, a lot of shit happened. Anyways, I really just wrote this one for me. I think the topic of asexuality is really left out of this book series and fandom, understandably so, but I think it would be an interesting subject to discuss, so I’m here to fulfill my own wishes. Given the lore and rules around mates, I don't even know if this could be considered a thing, but I’m gonna try my hardest to make it a thing for my ace baddies out there. IDK if I’m gonna make this a series or not (probably won’t), but maybe see how people like it before making decisions. If you don’t like it, you don’t have to tell me. As always, minors gtfo. Adults, you enjoy!

You’re just finishing up bottling an allergy tonic for your neighbor’s son when the door to your apothecary opens, the bell above ringing out. You know exactly who it is, and you are simultaneously filled with dread and relief. Azriel, your freshly bonded mate, walks into the back room where you are working, his big Illarian boots creaking the floorboards wherever he steps. When you look up to greet him he gives you a soft smile, a smile you return.

You’ve known Azriel for a little over a year now, ever since Mor begged him to come pick up her sleeping tonic from you because she had been busy. But the bond haden’t snapped for either of you until roughly a month ago, when you were out drinking at Rita’s with the inner circle, per Nesta’s invite. Over the years you had grown close with the inner circle, specifically Mor and Nesta. What had started out as small talk when they came to pick up a tonic had blossomed into a beautiful friendship.

But the last thing in the world you had wanted to happen was to form a bond with someone, especially someone as good and sweet and caring as Azriel. Sure, he is beautiful, you of all people can see that, but the physical attraction stops there, like it always does. Emotionally you two are very compatible, sharing similar interests in books, music, and dancing. After the bond had snapped you both decided to take things slowly, moreso for your sake than his. Every day you grow more and more in love with him; you’re just terrified to see the disappointment and confusion in his eyes after you tell him you’re ace.

“Almost ready to go, Love?” Azriel asks, his eyes following the skilled movements of your hands.

“Almost done,” you respond, screwing the cap and writing the label onto the bottle quickly. You buss your wok table, putting away ingredients and empty bottles. You look over everything twice more, checking for anything out of place, but also as a means to stall. You are dreading this conversation.

“Looks good, Love. Want me to grab your coat?” You turn to him, a small smile on your lips, and grab his hand, gently cradling it in yours.

“Actually… Can I talk to you for a minute before we leave? I need to tell you something.”

“Ya, of course,” he squeezes your hand gently, reassuringly. “What’s up?” You take a deep breath and guide him to sit in one of the chairs at your work table, then pull one towards yourself so you're sitting in front of him. You take both his hands in yours. You don’t make eye contact but instead stare at your hands intertwined.

“There’s something I need to tell you about myself and I need you to listen and let me explain before you say anything,” you look up to see him nodding, a look of concern and confusion on his face. The knot in your stomach is twisting. Your anxiety is through the roof, but you take a deep, albeit shaky, breath to steady yourself.

“Okay. I don’t really know how to go about saying this so I’m just gonna say it. I’m asexual, which means I form little to no sexual attraction, in my case none at all, to anyone. Which means the likelihood of me wanting to have sex with you is basically zero. I know it’s kind of a thing for mates to do it all the time, and so I thought since I am the way I am that I would never form a bond with anyone, but I guess I was wrong. And I know you're probably thinking, “well, didn’t the bond snapping make you feel anything like that?” and the answer would be no. Umm…I guess I just want to add and say that I’m not broken, and that life will be a little different with me, and that I know my boundaries, but I’m also willing to try things with you because I love you and trust you… And this doesn’t mean I don't find you attractive, because I do, I think you're really pretty, but it's more in a ‘I want to paint you’ sort of way instead of an ‘I want to fuck you’ sort of way. And I’m rambling so I’m going to stop now.”

Your leg is bouncing up and down, gaze still glued to your entwined hand. A beat of silence passes, and then he squeezes your hands, which in turn makes you look up at him. His eyes are full of understanding and love, emotions you were not expecting to see. You exhale the breath you didn’t realize you were holding, feeling some of your anxiety fade away.

“You think I’m pretty?” he asks, a cheeky grin plastered on his face. You roll your eyes at him, the last of your anxiety washing away. He stands and pulls you up to do the same. He releases one of your hands, using his to brush a rouge strand of hair behind your ear, then pulls you into a tight embrace. You’re taken off guard, but you melt into him, breathing in his crisp, piny scent.

“Thank you for telling me,” he squeezes you tighter. “And I know you said life will be different with you and I want to let you know I wouldn’t have it any other way. I love you, and I know we can work through any problems we may face. You are perfect. Cauldron boil me if I ever so much as think to change a single thing about you.”

And with that, he releases you from his embrace, you wipe the few tears that had welled at his words, and you go home.

#acotar #azriel fanfiction #azriel fluff #azriel x reader #ace pride #fluff #acotar fic #azriel shadowsinger #fanfiction

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inthefallofasparrow · 2 months ago

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CORRESPONDENCE 1031 – THIRD QUADRANT 6 > NEVADA CENTRAL DISPATCH ~092338 RE: ASSESSMENT REPORT - Officer Yuki de Witt

OFFICER’S NOTES: 3Q6 is one of the more efficient quadrants within the Mining Division. All of Sectors 5 through 9 have consistently run at full or double quota for the last season. CIRCUMSTANTIAL: Successful liaison with 3Q6 Board of Captains (Cpt. SPIEGEL, absent) regarding the sudden death of Unit 23 Cpt. SILTSMEAR from 4Q6. Decision pending. Further info required. INCIDENT REPORT: n/a WORKER MORALE: Moderate

~RESPONSE: Received (211)

DIGGING CORPS - LOG 081/- Hey. I know you’ll never read this, but I guess I don’t need you to. Was only supposed to stay a few days, write up my assessment for Dispatch and then leave, but then one of the captains in a neighboring quadrant fucking died. Nothing nefarious mind you, just dust pneumonia. Certainly, more paperwork than it was worth. Sounds like a lot of weird shit’s been going on over there, so one of the captains went over to assist with the transitional period, and I agreed to stay here at Third Q6 to cover until he could be replaced. That was over a month ago now, and I miss the fucking sun! Never thought I’d say that. Had a few reservations about being stuck underground this long as the only woman for miles in any direction, but so far, apart from the odd leer in the mess hall, I have remained “unharassed”. The worst of it would be one particularly cantankerous geezer called Ira Trask, Foreman of 9C, who insisted on addressing me by my first name until I referred him to the NCD handbook on worksite professionalism, and he relented. I assumed he just wanted to be friendly so I'd help get him promoted, but now I think it was something deeper, more sad and nostalgic. There’s a lock on my door at least, and being exceptionally tall seems to give them second thoughts. But as you’d imagine, height’s not generally an advantage in tight, enclosed spaces with low ceilings. Most shovelmen develop a stooped physique during their time in the corps. Fucked if I’m gonna stay that long.

Yuk

DIGGING CORPS – LOG 94/- Decided if I have to be stuck down here in Satan’s ass crack, twiddling my thumbs, I might as well spend the time processing some individual Worker Profiles. The shovelmen generally alternate between reticent, awkward, sullen or befuddled by the concept of being personally assessed, but if me doing their interview gets them a few minutes to slack off their shifts, they’re happy enough for the distraction. Foreman Trask is displeased by the interruption, but he is welcome to sit on it.

Names seem to be taboo here. I know all the workers’ names of course, because it’s on their file, but that really freaks them out and there’s no point in using them. Share anything of your backstory with your fellow shovelmen, anything that they can tie back to you, and that’s a power they now hold over you. It's like some kind of deep occult shit, but for fucking miners. Everyone gets a new name here, bestowed upon you by your peers. And you only get that so you can tell whose shovel you’re holding.

Met a greenie from Unit 9A named Theodore today. The others call him ‘Mouse’ which he seems to prefer. Whether it’s for his demeanor, his silky brown hair, or, I don’t know, maybe he just likes cheese, he won’t answer to anything else despite having only been here two months. I asked him and a few others what they knew about the late Captain from 4Q6. Common sentiment seems to be that he was mad as a balloon.

Yuk

DIGGING CORPS - LOG 113/- Had a dream about the swing mom never built us. The big tire swing that wasn’t in the apple orchard. I know you don’t remember it, because, well, it never existed, but I feel like I’ve mentioned it before. Anyway, in the dream, I was swinging in the orchard at night time. And the sky was so pitch black, because there weren’t any stars at all. Just a void. Like, the dream was set after the sun had just died, and there was nothing left. Or maybe it wasn’t night. Maybe the orchard was inside a cave. It doesn’t matter. So, the swing was just a regular car tire, but then as I swung higher, I looked down and it was suddenly bigger. Stretching out to the size of a tractor tire. Or something off a monster truck. Then, I swung higher, and the tire grew again, too big for any actual vehicle, and now I could easily fit inside the trough of the tire itself and lie in it like a big hammock. But I couldn’t do that, because the trough was full of apples. Hundreds of these squishy brown apples in various states of decay. And the apples were growing too. Larger and larger, bustling and toppling over each other until they were the size of bowling balls, and then beach balls, and I was sort of half-drowning, half-swimming in these apples. And then I realized. They weren’t growing. I was shrinking. So, I climbed inside of an apple where the pip should be, because I knew deep down that was the logical place to go to die, and then I woke up. I’m pretty sure I know what it means, even if you don’t.

Yuk

DIGGING CORPS – LOG 115/- Random insights gleaned from Unit 9 Review a.k.a. ‘Operation: Peanut Gallery’:

Shovelman ‘Wiles’ - Appears to be the closest thing Sector 9 has to a medic. At least, he says he knows how to saw a man’s leg off without killing him, which is good enough here apparently. I didn’t ask for specifics. There is a constant film of dust covering his glasses, which he seems unaware of.

Shovelman ‘Twoshort’- Tried to convince me it’s common practice for the men to eat handfuls of dirt as a snack, given it’s more nutritious than whatever they were being served in the mess hall. I offered to immediately lodge a formal complaint with Captain Spiegel and the Food Prep team on his behalf, and he backpedaled comically fast, and then tripped on his way out because his foot was asleep.

Shovelman ‘Basher’ – Built like a shuttle truck and functionally deaf after an incident with a stick of dynamite last year. Uses a form of abridged sign language that he and a few others in his unit invented specifically for him. Extremely introverted at first until Wiles came to interpret for me, then he wouldn't shut up.

Shovelman ‘Blessed’ - Recently discovered an injured bat, which he has taken it upon himself to nurse back to health against NCD regulation 58N. He also appears to be deathly allergic to said bat, as his face and hands had swollen incredibly within minutes of handling the thing. A persistent sneezing has overtaken him, but apparently that’s normal and unrelated to the bat. Also allergic to dirt?

Regardless, get me the fuck out of here. Yuk

#digging corps #Third Quadrant 6 #unreality

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writerslittlelibrary · 11 months ago

Text

Parties are not that fun

masterlist

summary: when you and Wanda go to a party, you get a little more tipsy than you’re supposed to. luckily, your moms are there to rescue you

pairing: Blackhill x daughter reader, Wanda x reader

warnings: mentions of drugging, alcohol, underage drinking

genre: fluff, angst

words: 1992

a/n: I got a request to write a Wanda x Blackhill daughter reader, and I absolutely loved it, so here it is :) (reader and Wanda are like 16/17)

(to the anon that requested it, I hope you like it 🫶)

You do not have my permission to repost, copy or translate my work

|——————————— ⴵ ———————————|

You told your moms you were going to a party. They told you and Wanda it was okay to go. They certainly knew there was gonna be alcohol, right?

Immediately after entering the big house, you were overwhelmed with the amount of people, the loud music, and the loud talking and screaming. You held Wanda’s hand tightly as she dragged you through the crowd, walking towards the kitchen.

You weren’t much of a party animal, but Wanda liked going to parties, so for once, you said yes when she asked you to join her. Oh how you regretted that decision now…

After Wanda fixed you two a glass of some mixed alcohol, you were cautious before drinking it. You had never really drank before. Sure, your moms allowed you to taste their wines and other drinks, but besides a small sip, you never really had alcohol.

You didn’t care much for it, but you wanted Wanda to enjoy herself, and you wanted to enjoy this party for her.

And so, without much more thoughts, you drunk what Wanda had given you, hoping it would help you relax in the busy house.

The party went on for a while. After having your first drink, you decided to switch to soda. Wanda had told you not to drink for her enjoyment, and told you to stick to what you wanted. You smiled and explained to her how you didn’t feel like drinking, and she immediately took your cup from you, went to the kitchen, and came back bringing you a glass of your favourite soda.

You smiled and happily took sips from your soda, standing in some hallway of the house.

Wanda had gone to the bathroom, and you happily waited for her outside the door, as the bathroom was located in a calmer place of the house.

There weren’t a lot of people, but there were a few stragglers here and there. A girl throwing up in a plant pot, and a few other girls sitting with her and stroking her back.

There was also a guy, who surprise surprise, walked up to you.

“What’s a pretty girl like you doing alone at a party like this?” he asked you, standing way to close for comfort.

“I’m not alone,” you told him, keeping your answer short and your voice sharp. He just laughed and leaned his head closer.

“How about we go upstairs, have some fun?” he asked you, placing his hand on your arm.

You immediately took a step back, pushing his arm away. “I’m not interested, get the fuck away from me!” you told him, yet he just chuckled again.

“Sure baby, whatever you say,” he simply said, turning around and walking back into the crowd.

You felt your skin crawl, and you were absolutely disgusted. All you wanted to do was go home. To be wrapped in your favourite blanket with your stuffed animals and your favourite show, cuddling with Wanda.

You gulped down the last few sips from your soda, throwing the cup in a trashcan and crossing your arms.

You were upset, and you were planning on telling Wanda you wanted to leave after she finished in the bathroom.

However, after a few seconds, you felt dizzy, and you extended your arm to lean on the wall. Your head was turning, and you vision was spotty. You didn’t drink, right?

Why did you feel so disoriented?

You grabbed your head with your other hand, letting your body lean closer to the wall for support.

Someone came up to you again, putting his hand on your shoulder.

“You okay?” you heard him ask. His voice sounded weird. It was fake concern, you knew that, but it was laced with something else. Bad intentions?

Whatever. You couldn’t trust your brain right now.

You simply nodded, letting your entire body lean against the wall as you slowly slipped down it, into a sitting position.

“Let me help you,” the voice said, and he grabbed your upper arm as he pulled you to stand.

Your head was screaming at you, but you couldn’t identify any of it. You couldn’t hear your own thoughts, yet you heard everything. You could hear your heart beating, and the ringing of the music in your ears.

Stairs? When did you walk towards the stairs?

Why were you going upstairs? Were you walking by yourself? No. Someone was pulling you by your arm. Was it Wanda? Why were you going upstairs? You didn’t want to go upstairs, right?

You let your body drop on the middle of the stairs, groaning as you supported your head in your hands.

Someone else was there. Who was there? Who was touching you?

He was saying things. He was trying to get you up, to go upstairs and have fun. You weren’t having fun. You wanted Wanda. You wanted your mom and mama.

Suddenly you heard a voice coming from downstairs.

Was that Wanda? Was that what Wanda sounded like? Why couldn’t your remember? Why wasn’t your brain working? Wanda?

You heard some yelling, and then you heard a body drop on the floor. You saw someone crouching down in front of you. It was a flash of brown-reddish hair. She was talking to you, but what was she saying?

She pulled you to your feet, letting your body lean against her as she helped you down the stairs, and out the front door. She was warm. You liked leaning into her.

She helped you to sit down on the curb, reaching into her pocket and getting out her phone, immediately calling Natasha.

“Wanda?” she heard Natasha’s voice come from the phone.

“I need you to pick us up. Something’s wrong with y/n,” Wanda quickly said, stroking your back as you leaned forwards, seemingly about to throw up.

You gagged a few times before releasing a deep breath, a few coughs, and you leaned back into Wanda again.

“We’re on the way. Is she okay?” Natasha asked as she jumped up from the couch, grabbing her keys as Maria followed suit, pulling on her boots and following Natasha to the car.

Maria got in the driver’s seat, not even waiting for Natasha to put on her seatbelt before she was driving. She could hear the conversation, and she was desperate to get to you as fast as possible.

Natasha stayed on the phone with Wanda, reassuring her that they were on the way, that it wasn’t her fault, and that it was going to be okay.

Natasha and Maria were at the house in under ten minutes, stopping the car right in front of you two.

Natasha jumped out the car, crouching down in front of you and grabbing your head in her hands. You head swung around, putting your full support on Natasha’s hands as you mumbled something, letting your head drop.

Maria was next to Natasha in a second, instead talking to Wanda, asking her what happened.

Mama? When did mama get here? Where were you? Why was mom talking to Wanda? Weren’t you at home?

You felt a kiss being placed on your forehead, and then you felt two fingers open your eyelids, looking at your eyes. Natasha noticed they were huge, and you were definitely under the influence of some strong drugs.

“How much did you two drink?” Natasha calmly asked Wanda, slowly helping you to a standing position.

“Barely anything, and y/n had like half a drink before she switched to soda!” Wanda exclaimed, panic running through her body.

“It’s okay, everything’s gonna be okay,” Maria calmly stated as she ran her hand over Wanda’s back, trying to help her stay calm as they walked to the car, Natasha helping you sit down, sitting herself in the backseat as well.

Maria opened the door for Wanda on the other side, letting her sit in the backseat with you in the middle.

She went back to the drivers seat, starting the car and slowly driving away from the house, careful not to hit any drunk teenagers.

“Do we have to drive to the hospital?” Maria asked, checking in the mirror to look at Natasha, then at you.

Natasha shook her head, stroking your hair from your face while you entire body was slumped against her.

“She was definitely drugged, but she just need to sleep it off,” Natasha stated as she kissed your head, letting her hand gently stroke your back.

“Mammmm… mamaaaa… mamamm,” you mumbled as your eyes closed.

“It’s okay baby, I’m here,” Natasha softly said, placing a kiss on your forehead.

Wanda looked over, a terrified expression on her face.

“It’s my fault. I left her alone. I shouldn’t have left-” before she could finish, Natasha interrupted her.

“It wasn’t your fault, Wanda. You couldn’t have changed whatever happened. Something was put in her drink, you couldn’t have prevented that,” she stated as she reached her hand over the Wanda, gently stroking her arm.

Wanda nodded, tears on her face as she watched your slumped body.

“She just needs to sleep it off,” Natasha confirmed, and Wanda nodded again as she reached her hand over to you, gently stroking your thigh.

You let out a hum of content, smiling slightly your head moved upwards.

“It’s okay baby,” Natasha said, gently pushing your head to lay on her shoulder.

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

After getting home, and getting you into bed, Natasha laid beside you.

They explained to Wanda that someone needed to keep an eye on you to make sure you wouldn’t puke and choke to death, and so, Wanda ended up sleeping in the guest room.

She didn’t mind. She needed some time to think, and cry, about what happened. She was so scared for you. She doesn’t even want to think about what would have happened it she didn’t get there in time. If she didn’t find you on the stairs. If you would’ve made it to a bedroom…

She shook the thoughts away quickly, quietly crying herself to sleep.

With you and Natasha it didn’t go so great either. You had already thrown up twice, and even though Natasha had put a bucket next to the bed, you were apparently very intent on getting some next to the bucket, twice…

After cleaning it up, Natasha made sure to put you in a sideways position.

She crawled into the bed next to you, stroking your hair as she watched you sleep. Natasha herself was pretty disturbed from what had happened.

She too couldn’t get the thoughts out of her mind of what would’ve happened had Wanda not gotten there in time.

She barely slept that night, terrified of what could happen to you. She only slept a few hours, making sure to keep her eye on you and making sure you were okay every time she woke up. It was an exhausting nights for everyone, except apparently you, as you slept like a baby.

You mumbled a bit in your sleep, but besides that, you seemed to be doing okay.

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

The next morning you woke up with a terrible headache and no recollection of what happened the night before. After it was explained, you had to keep reassuring Wanda it wasn’t her fault, as she kept apologising.

You also declared you would not be going to any parties any time soon, pretty over the whole party thing, even before you were drugged.

Natasha laughed as she told you that was the most comforting idea for both Maria and her.

You spend the rest of the day on the couch, cuddled up with Wanda while you watched a few movies. Natasha and Maria made sure to cater to your every needs, making sure you drank enough water and ate enough foods as your body slowly recovered.

You faded in and out of sleep the entire day, but it was fine, cause you were safe, and the people you loved most, were right there with you.

Permanent tags: @marvelnatasha12346 @lesbionion @nova-kyle @darkstar225 @saraaahsstuff @marvelwomenarehot0 @screechcat @iheartjohansson @simp-erformarvelwomen @swaqcenix @karmasgxrl

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