#Bacon wc

[artaintfartwarriors]

Bacon and Eggs? Just read about these little babies

Yea!!! The goobers

[eggfeather]

eggs and bacon

[saffronscribbles]

[werethropy]

[night-patrol]

[letyachan]

135-136-137.

"Spike loves cats. We live with him."

-Eggs

[ephemeral-moth-archive]

[exocynraku]

OH AND transneutral Bacon or Eggs! :)

[sceletaflores]

HALF YOUR BRAIN JUST AIN’T THERE!

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｡𖦹°‧➵ PAIR: Joel Miller x babysitter!fem!reader

｡𖦹°‧➵ WC: 11k

｡𖦹°‧➵ CONTAINS: 18+ SMUT MDNI, no outbreak au, pov switching, trailer park joel awooga wooga, tommy miller appearance because daddy i love him, joel is kinda sleazy and pervy, large girthy age gap (53/early 20s), and it’s very much brought up, finding joel’s porn drawer because he’s vintage, reader is called jailbait like once, reader is also a little creep lmao, just two freaks coming together praise, masturbation, fingering, brief allusions of fisting, the BAREST hint of ass play, p in v, rough sex, riding, pussy pronouns, spanking, finger sucking (told you i can’t stop), erectile dysfunction? yeah we don’t know what that means in this house because that old man can fuck like he’s twenty, porn with too much fucking plot, no use of y/n.

｡𖦹°‧➵ NAT’S NOTE: i blame tommy gunn for this…and my period for rearing its ugly head and making me act like an animal. i don’t know i guess my brain is just fully rotted, but y’all’s are too so here’s a nice little gift from me to you, i’m lovingly placing this on your dash xoxo. this isn’t really based on manchild sorry for the false advertising babies, i just thought the lyric was super cute and it’s been stuck in my head so yeah here we are lmao. hope y’all love it, mwah!

｡𖦹°‧➵ NAT’S HEADPHONES: Manchild - Sabrina Carpenter

dividers by @cafekitsune & @saradika-graphics! plus the delicious icon from @iamasaddie!

joel miller needs a babysitter, you’re back in town…

Gruene hasn't changed much. Not really.

You're not sure how much different it'd be after only a couple years away, but still. Something in you had expected it to feel even smaller—like the way old t-shirts shrink in the wash when you’re not paying attention.

The air felt the same when you first stepped out of your beat up Chevy, heavy and humid like a wet mouth. The pavement in front of your house still burned the bottom of your shoes, and the cicadas were buzzing in the dry grass like they never stopped.

You left for college thinking you’d never come back. And yet, here you are. Spending summer back in your hometown, a little more than half a degree under your belt, flat broke, and bored to death.

Your room’s the same, maybe just a little smaller now that you’ve lived other places, slept in other beds. All the posters are still up, faded from the sun and curling at the corners. Your mom left your old tennis trophies on your dresser, like maybe she thought you’d want to see them. You don’t, not really. You appreciate the effort anyway, at least she didn’t turn it into a yoga room or a place to keep extra boxes and Christmas decorations.

You try not to spend too much time at home, even though you technically don’t have anywhere else to go. You kill time with long drives down the streets you memorized years ago, past beat up gas stations with sun bleached lotto signs and eighteen wheelers parked in the back.

You try your hand at some half-hearted job hunting at a few different places that promise to call but never do. And you sit in the back booth of an old diner where you and your friends used to sneak fries from abandoned tables and smoke paper wrapped joints in the alley out back.

Every place you go feels like a ghost town version of what you remember. Familiar, but all hollowed out.

“You know who might be looking for help?” Your mom says one morning, standing at the stove fussing over a pan of bacon. “Joel Miller, you remember him don’t you?”

You pause, your fork stuck hovering just above the plate. “Sarah’s dad?”

“Mhm. I ran into him at the market a couple weeks ago and we got to catching up. He’s needing to pick up some extra work, and it’s just him, you know. Sarah’s starting high school in the fall but he’s still not wanting to leave her on her own. He looked stressed, poor thing.”

You hum warily, pushing your eggs around your plate to distract from the way your stomach flutters.

Joel Miller.

You haven’t heard that name in years. Not since you stopped babysitting Sarah, not since you left. It has something low and guilty stirring somewhere deep inside you.

You shouldn’t be surprised that it’s floating back into your life like cigarette smoke—all pungent and sour and impossible to ignore. In a town of less than two thousand people, you were bound to circle around some old memories sooner or later. And Joel Miller was a big one.

Mr. Miller was a few years older than your mom, a single dad that lived with his daughter in the trailer park a few miles past the city limit. You met him when you were seventeen and trying to save as much as you could for college, when your puny part time job flipping burgers and serving ice cream cones wasn’t cutting it. 

He needed someone to pick up Sarah from school and watch her until he got home from work, you needed the extra money. It seemed like a perfect fit.

But Joel was always…different. He scooped you up off the gravel and carried you into his living room to bandage up your knee when you took a bad fall outside his trailer. He never ratted you out when he caught you smoking one of his Marlboros in his backyard after you put Sarah to bed one night. He drove you home when you got too drunk at a field party and couldn’t stomach the thought of calling your mom. 

You can still remember the way his truck smelled—gasoline, sunbaked leather, sawdust. 

He didn’t say much, just kept his gaze trained on the road as you watched him through glassy eyes while Johnny Cash floated through the cab. He looked back once, slow and quiet, like he was really thinking something over. 

It’s been a long time since you thought about that night, but the reminder of it resurfaces sharp and sudden, like a thumb pressed into a bruise.

Now, your mom’s pouring more coffee into your cup and saying his name like it’s no big deal, like she didn’t just drop a live wire into your lap. Like he didn’t take up way too much room in your seventeen year old imagination.

“You should go down there and talk to him sometime,” she says, casual. “It might be a good way to make some money while you look around for something else.”

You bite back a grimace, conflicted. “Isn’t Sarah old enough to stay home alone by now?”

Your mom shrugs like it doesn’t matter. “Maybe, but like I said Joel’s always been a little…anxious about leaving her on her own too many nights. She’s at that age, you know—boys, phones, lord knows what else.”

You frown, stabbing at your eggs. You only remember Sarah as the sweet little girl who’d beg to stay up and watch Disney with you, who was more interested in her Barbie dolls than any screen. You used to braid her hair while she did her times tables, let her wear some of your lip gloss when she begged.

You take a sip of coffee, the burn of it trickles down from your throat to settle somewhere deep in your chest. “You really think he’d hire me again?” 

Your mom shrugs again, plating the bacon. “I don’t see why not. Sarah always loved you, Joel too. He’s asked about you once or twice, said you were a real good girl. Very responsible and all that.”

You try not to laugh at that. 

Good girl. Responsible. Right.

You nod vaguely, standing to clear your plate into the trash even though it’s still half full. “Maybe,” you mutter. “I’ll think about it.”

Later that night, alone in your room, you find yourself scrolling through Facebook like an angsty teenager. 

You kicked your sheets off a while ago, cracked your window open to let in the cool breeze swirling outside. Crickets sing quietly in the background, only drowned out every once in a while by the sound of cars passing your street.

Joel’s profile is still public, but it’s sparsely updated. A new truck photo here, a blurry picture of Sarah’s eighth grade promotion there. She looks the same, maybe a little older. Her hair’s longer, but still curly as ever.

There’s no recent pictures of Joel anywhere. Not posted by him or any of his friends. You can’t tell if the feeling that blooms inside of you is disappointment or something else entirely.

You’re about to exit the app when finally, a tagged post catches your eye.

A post by an account with the name Henry B. attached to it. It’s just a grainy photo of someone’s backyard littered with wood pallets and stray tools, Joel standing in the middle of it all with a few other people you don’t recognize.

His account is tagged in the caption underneath. Big thanks to my buddy Joel Miller for the extra set of hands tonight. Saved our ass! It’s dated June 13, 2023.

You pause, your thumb hovering over the screen. So he’s still handy, you think distantly, chewing on your bottom lip.

You remember that much. There were always new projects cluttering the yard in front of his trailer. A crib for the expecting couple a few doors down, a rocking chair with ornate vines and flowers carved into the armrests, a soccer goal for Sarah to practice with when she started getting serious about it in the fifth grade.

You zoom in on the picture, just a little.

The angle’s weird and it’s overexposed as shit. Joel’s face is half shadowed by an old Longhorns baseball cap, but even still—there’s that jaw. That mouth. That same broad width of his shoulders you used to trace with your eyes when he’d lean on the doorframe after he got home from work. 

It’s still an older picture, and you can’t help but wonder how much he’s changed since.

You breathe through your nose, one long uninterrupted breath before you close the app and toss your phone face down on the mattress.

Joel Miller was handsome when you were in high school and stupid and still biting your nails. 

He was a late forty-something, tired around the eyes. Always in pair of ratty, stained jeans and those soft, worn down flannels with the sleeves rolled up. Sarah’s dad. The hot one, according to the girls at school. The divorced one, according to the snooty moms at the PTA. He was tall and strong, thick arms with dark hair dusted along veiny muscle. Big hands that were calloused and rough to the touch when he slipped you a couple folded twenties at the end of every night. 

You haven’t seen him since the summer after you graduated, but sometimes you still think about the way he used to look at you.

Like he shouldn’t.

Like he knew he shouldn’t, and did it anyway. 

You can still feel it. That heat, that weight. The way his eyes always lingered a little too long when you bent down to grab your homework off the coffee table. The way his voice got low and syrupy when he asked what you were doing that weekend.

You were young then, but now?

Now you’re not sure who you are, not entirely—but you know you’re not that same girl. You’ve lived. You’ve done things he couldn’t even guess at.

You’ve grown up. And you wonder if Joel would notice too.

You don’t plan on going. Not really.

The next day, your mom leaves a note taped to the fridge that says she’s out running errands and won’t be back until later. You stare at it for a while, then glance at the clock.

It’s barely noon.

You have nothing to do. No plans. No job. So you get into your boiling hot car, roll the windows down, and drive.

You’re not sure what makes you do it. 

Maybe it’s the antsy feeling that’s been worming around under your skin since you got here. Maybe it’s the way Joel’s name has been bouncing off all the corners of your mind like a moth against glass ever since your mom said it.

Either way, you find yourself veering onto a familiar exit off the highway, tires crunching under gravel until it turns to dirt when you pull into the same trailer park on the edge of town. The same one you spent most nights back in high school.

You sit in your car for a little longer than necessary, keys still in the ignition, engine ticking quietly as it cools.

The place hasn’t changed much either. Same sloped roof, same white paneling, same wind chimes clinking together on the porch. There’s a pair of muddy work boots by the steps, and your stomach knots.

You didn’t bother calling ahead. You don’t even know if he has the same number. You’re regretting that now.

You should leave. You really should. But you’re already pulling the car door open and stepping into the dry afternoon heat. The air’s thick again, the sun sitting high and mean in the sky. Your shirt sticks to the sweaty skin along your spine as you walk through the gate and up the short gravel path.

You hesitate at the foot of the stairs, clenching and unclenching your fists a couple times like that’ll magically relive all your nerves. You wonder, and almost hope, if Sarah will be the one to open the door. If she’ll even remember you.

Then, the screen door cracks open before you can knock.

Joel’s standing there. He looks the same as the last time you saw him.

“Well I’ll be damned,” he mutters, opening the door wider. He’s in jeans, barefoot, nothing but a tank top clinging to his chest, a dark patch blooming at the collar where it’s damp with sweat. “Look at you.” 

No, not the same.

Older. Broader, somehow. More worn in, like a favorite jacket that’s been well loved. His hair’s longer than you remember, messier. His beard is thicker too, dusted with more gray, and there’s a little more weight around his middle. But his eyes are just the same—dark, steady, and sharp in a way that makes you feel instantly, achingly seventeen again.

He looks you over once. Not quick. Real slow. Real deliberate. A single drag of his eyes from your flip flops to the shorts you maybe shouldn’t have worn. His gaze sticks when it reaches your chest, lingers there a beat too long before flicking back up to your mouth. And then, finally, your eyes.

You shift your weight, offering a small smile. “Hey, Mr. Miller.”

His eyes narrow, and there’s the ghost of a smirk pulling at his mouth. “Don’t start with that ‘Mr. Miller’ bullshit. You’re grown now.”

Your stomach tightens.

“I, uh...my mom said you might be looking for help,” you say, fighting the urge to squirm where you stand. “With Sarah, I mean.”

He leans against the doorframe, one hand gripping the wood above his head. The movement lifts his shirt just enough to show a strip of his stomach, a trail of dark hair disappearing under the waistband of his sweats. “She did, huh?”

You nod, still frozen in place at the bottom of the steps.

Joel lets the silence hang in the air, heavy and charged. Then he huffs a quiet breath through his nose—half amusement, half something else—and steps aside. “You comin’ in or what?” he asks, jerking his head impatiently, giving you another long, lazy once over. “Ain’t polite to keep an old man waitin’, kid.”

Your heart beats wildly against your ribcage, and with one last quick, steadying breath you hope Joel doesn’t notice, you climb the stairs.

Joel hadn’t expected to see you again. At the very least like this, showing up at his place in the middle of the day—standing at the bottom of his porch like a mirage in the heat, older and more grown in all the places a man like him shouldn’t be noticing. 

And sure as hell not in those shorts.

He watches you walk past him into the living room, slow and uncertain, that little sway in your hips you maybe don’t even mean to have. Or maybe you do.

Either way, it’s a goddamn sight.

Joel closes the door with a soft click, dragging a hand over his mouth like that’ll help wipe the look off his face. It doesn’t. The look of you—bare legged and smiling, sun kissed and back in his house after all this time—sticks to the inside of his skull like syrup. 

You look around the room with a small smile, eyes scanning the familiar furniture. Some of it’s new, some of it’s the same. Joel’s never been much for decorating. You pause in front of the bookshelf he built a few years back, Sarah’s old school pictures still sit in a few mismatched frames next to a couple of paperbacks.

He clears his throat, scratching at his beard so he has something to do with his hands as he walks to the kitchen. “You want somethin’ to drink? Water, iced tea? I think I got Coke in the fridge somewhere.”

“I’m good, thanks.” You follow slowly, looking younger somehow in the kitchen light. You rest your hip against the doorway, eyes watching him as he walks to the fridge. “I won’t stay long. I just figured I’d stop by real quick and see if you still needed some help.”

Joel pulls the fridge open anyway, grabbing a beer from the half empty six pack. He cracks the tab with a soft hiss and leans back against the counter. “Sarah’s mostly independent now. She don’t need a sitter like she used to, but I still get caught up workin’ late. Don’t like the idea of her bein’ here by herself too often. 'Specially not with some of the boys sniffin’ around lately.”

You laugh, soft and bright. “Well, I’ve got time,” you say, toying with a loose thread on your cutoffs. “I don’t know how much help you actually need, but my schedule’s pretty much open. I can do evenings, weekends, whatever you want.”

Joel has to bite back a grin. Whatever he wants. 

If you only knew the half of what he really wants.

Joel shifts his weight against the counter. “It wouldn’t be every night,” he says, shaking his head. “Just the evenings I pick up extra hours, or if I get called out for a job.”

You nod. “I can help. You don’t have to worry about paying me a whole lot. I’ll just be happy to keep busy.”

His mouth pulls into something that might be a smile. “I’ll pay you,” he says, almost gruff. “You’re doin’ me a favor.”

The silence that follows feels familiar. Not awkward—just full. A little tight around the edges. 

He’s always known how to talk to you, but now there’s something different to it. You’re not seventeen anymore. Not biting your lip and looking away when he catches your eye. You’re standing there calm as you please, looking straight at him, like you already know he’s thinking things he shouldn’t.

Joel watches you from across the kitchen, beer can sweating against his palm. The ceiling fan spins lazily overhead, stirring warm air that doesn’t help much with the heat climbing under his skin. You’re standing there across the way from him like nothing’s changed, like you never left. Like no time has passed at all.

Except that it has. And it shows.

“You still in school?” he asks, voice rougher than he means it to be.

You blink, head tilting to the left. “Yeah. I’m up in Chicago now, Northwestern.”

“Big shot,” Joel whistles low, nodding appreciatively. “That’s a ways away from here.”

You shake your head, smile small and bashful. “It is. It’s expensive as hell too, my scholarship’s the only reason I’m there.”

He makes a soft sound in his throat, impressed. “Smart girl.”

“I try.” You shrug, but there’s pride under it. “I’ve got one year left, usually I stay for the summer to try and make as much as I can in the city. I—I just needed a breather, I guess. Some time to figure shit out, you know?”

There’s something soft in your tone when you say it, an openness he didn’t expect, and maybe shouldn’t pry into. But part of him wants to. Always has.

“You don’t seem like the type that needs figurin’ out,” Joel says, voice a little quieter now. “Always thought you had your head on straight.”

Your smile flickers into something crooked, something secret. “That’s because you didn’t really know me.”

He chuckles, deep and rough. “No, sweetheart. I think I knew you just fine.”

Your eyes lock for a second too long after that, thick enough with heat and history to make the air feel heavier than it already is.

You look away first, your eyes flicking to the living room. “I, uh–sorry, do you mind if I use the bathroom?”

Joel gestures vaguely with his free hand. “Go ahead, you remember where it is.”

You push off the doorway with one last grateful smile and duck down the hallway, footsteps silent against the linoleum. Joel watches until you disappear around the corner, his gaze dipping low without shame.

He waits until he hears the click of the bathroom door shutting behind you to exhale a slow breath, setting his beer down on the counter harder than he has to.

Jesus Christ.

She’s not a girl anymore, he thinks to himself. And you’re not, you’re far fucking from it.

But that feeling, that ugly one churning deep down in Joel’s gut, it’s still there. It feels just as dangerous as it used to, maybe even worse now. All because of you. 

The look of your glossy lips forming around the words whatever he wants. The shape of your thighs, those damn shorts clinging to you like a second skin. The way you were looking at him, eyes all wide and shiny under his shitty kitchen light. 

Joel can’t help himself, he thinks back to a few years ago. You, curled up on his couch every night when he got home from a long build, looking so soft in the hazy glow of the TV. Barefoot and sleepy, blinking up at him in those skimpy little after school clothes you’d always throw on.

It was a vision, something to settle his aching bones.

He thinks about how he started looking forward to it, coming home to you. It was sick, he knew that much, the fucked up little game of house he played, projected onto you. An old man like him leering at you, thinking of you long after you’d left, waving sweetly from the window of your moms car.

Joel should’ve known better. Should’ve done better. But that never stopped him before, not when it came to you.

A knock at the door pulls him from his thoughts. Two quick raps, followed by a heavy creak.

“Joel?” Tommy’s voice fills the trailer before he can even move, loud in the quiet. “You home?”

Joel sighs, brows pinching together as he pushes off the counter. He didn’t even hear the damn truck pull up.

Tommy rounds the corner, sweaty and covered in dirt. He’s got a ratty bandanna hanging from his jean pocket, sleeves pulled up around his shoulders and a pair of aviators covering his eyes.

“You ever heard of callin’ before you just barge in on someone?” Joel doesn’t try to hide the annoyance in his tone, brow arched as he stares at his brother.

“Hello to you too, jackass.” Tommy just walks past him like he owns the place, opening up one of the cabinets above the sink. “You gettin’ memory loss already, old man? You said Saturday.”

“Yeah, well now ain’t a good time, Tommy.” Joel cuts his eyes to the hall, to the light bleeding out from under the bathroom door.

Tommy just snorts, still rifling through the cabinet. “Yeah right, you got a woman over or somethin’?”

Joel doesn’t answer, eyes still fixed on that thin sliver of light glowing under the bathroom door like it might give him away.

Tommy catches on, turns slow with a shit-eating grin already stretching across his face. “You do have someone here.”

Joel gives him a hard look, one that should tell him to shut the hell up—but Tommy only laughs, knowing.

“C’mon,” he drawls. “Didn’t know you were even seein’ anybody. You been holdin’ out on me?”

“It ain’t like that,” Joel mutters, too fast, too defensive.

Tommy tilts his head, chewing on that like a dog with a bone. “Huh. So she’s not yours then?”

Joel doesn’t get the chance to answer. Before he can shoot back with something mean enough to shut him up. From down the hall, the bathroom door opens with a quiet click, and then—

Then you're back, smoothing your hands down your thighs as you reappear around the corner, voice drifting back into the space.

“Jesus, that sink is still running freezing cold water? I nearly put my-oh…” You’re clearly caught off guard, your eyes catching on where Tommy stands in front of the sink. “Tommy?”

Joel watches it click in real time—your eyes lighting up with recognition, mouth parting into a surprised smile like you’ve just stumbled on an old friend. Which, in a way, you have. Tommy was around a lot back then. Backyard beers, watching football on the TV, leaning against Joel’s truck while you wrangled Sarah inside for dinner.

“Well shit,” Tommy says, slow and low, pulling his sunglasses down. “That isn’t the little babysitter, is it?”

You smile, sheepish and sweet, and Joel feels something sour twist in his gut. “It’s been a while.”

“Yeah.” Joel watches Tommy take a good long look at you just like the one he did, eyes wide as his gaze rakes from your head down to the bare skin of your legs and back up all over again. “No kiddin’.”

It makes the space behind Joel’s ribs burn with something hot and ugly, Tommy’s eyes on you. Shameless and obvious as all hell. He might just be the biggest hypocrite in the country for it, but he can’t find it in himself to care.

“I didn’t know you were back in town,” Tommy goes on, leaning in like he can’t help himself. “You home for the summer?”

“Yeah, just for the summer,” you say brightly. “I thought I’d see if Joel needed help with Sarah again.”

“Oh, I bet he does,” Tommy says, and Joel’s had about enough of this.

“We were just finishing up,” Joel cuts in, his voice sharp enough to slice through the air. “She was about to head out.”

You don’t seem to notice the tension, if you do, you ignore it with grace that makes it worse somehow.

Your eyes flick to him, and for a second, Joel thinks maybe you notice something’s off. But your smile is still easy. “Yeah, I should probably get going.”

Joel gives a short nod and steps toward you before Tommy can open his mouth again. “I’ll walk you out, honey.”

You look between the two brothers for a second longer, then nod and head back into the living room, Joel right behind you. The sound of Tommy’s boots are hot on his heels, following.

You bend down to swipe your keys off the coffee table, not by much, just enough for your shirt to ride up and your shorts to dip low. Joel nearly swallows his tongue at the sight of lace. Bright pink, thin. A pathetic little scrap of fabric clinging to either side of your hips.

Joel’s throat goes dry, heat rolling under his skin like a slow burn, thick and unrelenting. You straighten back up, smooth the hem of your shirt down, but the damage is done. He feels that familiar ache stirring low in his belly, his cock twitching with interest in his sweats.

He doesn’t look at Tommy, he doesn’t need to. The quiet crunch of a beer can bending under a tight grip is all he needs to know that he isn’t the only one taking that lace peeking out from under those damn shorts as a neon sign flashing all the wrong kinds of welcome.

Joel barely has enough wherewithal to drag his eyes up to your face when you turn back around—that sweet, oblivious smile still pulling at your lips.

“Okay.” Your fingers toy with your keys, the metal soft and jangling in your palm. “Ready.”

Joel gives you a short nod, jaw tight. He doesn’t trust himself to speak.

Tommy, of course, steps in the silence, voice syrupy. “Hey, don’t be a stranger, alright? Good seein’ you again, sweetheart.”

You glance over your shoulder, lips parting into a lazy little grin. “You too, Tommy.”

Joel holds the door open for you, watching the way the light hits your shoulders, the back of your thighs, the little shadow that dips right at the curve of your spine.

The cicadas are buzzing, your car parked half crooked along the curb. You walk slow, gravel crunching under your sandals. Joel stays beside you, hands shoved deep in his pockets. The sun’s lower now, soft gold spilling across the lawn.

You open the car door, pausing with your hand on it. “That was…fun.”

Joel nods, biting back a frown. “Yeah, sorry about him. Tommy hasn’t got much of a filter.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “It’s okay, I missed you guys.”

Joel’s heart kicks hard in his chest. He’s not sure what to do with that. 

“You know where to find us,” he says finally.

You nod, climbing into the car. The engine kicks up and the window rolls down.

“Thanks for the talk,” you say. “And the job, I’ll call you?”

Joel leans down a little, arms resting on the open window frame. You’re so close like this. Too close. He can smell the sweet perfume mixing with the bright tang of sweat on your skin.

“Of course,” he says, eyes flicking down to your lips. “I’ll be waiting.”

You smile. “It was nice seeing you, Joel.”

Joel watches you drive off, his reflection shrinking in your side mirror until he’s nothing but a speck in the dust your tires kick up.

He lets out another long breath, turning to walk up to steps. When he comes back inside, Tommy’s on the couch now, feet kicked up on Joel’s coffee table.

Joel shuts the door a little too hard behind him.

He lets out a low whistle. “Damn.”

“I told you,” Joel says, low and firm. “Now ain’t the time.”

Tommy’s grinning. “No shit it ain’t the time. Jesus, Joel. She’s what—twenty? Twenty one?”

“Somethin’ like that.” Joel says, arms crossed tightly over his chest.

“Oh, well never mind then, that makes it fine,” Tommy says, laughing. He cracks open the beer in his hand, taking a slow sip. “You’re outta your fuckin’ mind, you know that?”

Joel clenches his jaw, not bothering with an answer. His heavy silence speaks louder than any words could.

Tommy watches Joel closely, taking his silence for what it is and grinning wide enough to show off the sharp point of his canines. “She filled out real nice though, didn’t she?”

Joel shoots him a warning look, brows pinched together. “Don’t.”

Tommy holds his free hand up in surrender, but he’s still smirking. “All I’m sayin’ is—I remember when she was this pretty little thing runnin’ around here. Now—” He makes a vague gesture at his own chest. “—jailbait’s a whole lotta grown.”

Joel takes a step forward, hands clenched into fists at his side. “Watch your goddamn mouth.”

Tommy raises a brow, and the air goes real still between them for a beat. Joel knows his little brother—knows he’s testing the waters, seeing just how deep the river runs.

Joel shakes his eyes off him, walks to the kitchen and snatches his forgotten beer off the counter.

He hears Tommy chuckle again, more to himself than anything, his voice is louder so Joel can hear him. “You better watch yourself, man. That one? She’s trouble.”

Joel downs the rest of his beer in one long, bitter swallow, eyes peering out the window—locked on the road your car disappeared down. His voice, when it comes, is low and final.

“You got no idea.”

It’s almost too easy, falling back into the routine of it.

A few nights a week, just like before. Joel calls. You come over. The knock on the door doesn’t even feel necessary anymore, since Sarah already knows it’s you when she yanks it open and launches into talking before you’ve even stepped inside. 

You know where the snacks are. The remote. You know how to work the tricky thermostat and still have all the emergency contacts scrawled on a paper tacked to the fridge memorized.

It all comes back like muscle memory—like no time has passed at all. 

Sarah’s older now, a little more sarcastic. Witty and bolder in a way that surprises you sometimes, just enough edge in the way she talks to you that reminds you how much time has passed since you used to sit on the same couch and color. She’s brimming with the kind of secrets she’s aching to spill to someone she knows won’t tell her dad.

You’re still not quite a “grown-up” in her eyes, but you’re not a kid anymore either. You’re in that sweet spot—a cool older girl with her own car who lets her say things like shit and dickweed when Joel’s not around.

You’re not supposed to let her stay up this late, but you both pretend not to notice the clock. She’s curled up next to you on the couch, draped over the armrest only half watching the reruns you turned on with her chin propped on her palm.  

"Can I ask you something?” Sarah says suddenly, grinning. 

You narrow your eyes at her, mock suspicious. “You can, but I’m not promising I’ll answer.”

She laughs, kicking you gently with a socked foot. “Did you ever, like, sneak around when you were my age? Steal beer? Hook up with anyone?”

“Jesus, Sarah.” You raise your eyebrows, but she’s too amused to be embarrassed. You toss a throw pillow her way lazily. “You know your dad would kill me for answering that, right? He’d think I’m giving you ideas or something.”

“That’s not a no,” she sings, smirking.

“No comment.” You shake your head, smiling in spite of yourself. “I don’t need to give you any blackmail material to use on me later if I piss you off.”

“Please,” she huffs with a dramatic roll of her eyes. “I’d never narc on you like that. Besides, Dad still thinks I’m eight, I don’t even think he knows that I know what “hooking up” means.”

You laugh, shaking your head as you turn your attention back to the TV. “You’re his baby.” You shrug as a new episode of Daria starts. “It makes sense that he’s treating you like one.”

“Gross,” Sarah huffs again, letting her head fall back against the cushion to stare up at the ceiling. “He’s just so overprotective sometimes. I mean, I guess I get it but, come on? I’m basically in high school now, I’m not really a baby anymore.”

You glance over at her, and she isn’t. Not really. Not the gap toothed little girl who used to fall asleep on your shoulder watching Finding Nemo. She’s growing up in the kind of terrifying, beautiful way that makes your chest ache a little—already too smart for her own good.

She cracks her eyes open a bit, peering across the way at you. “Bet you noticed that when you were my age, right? When guys started looking at you differently.”

You blink. It���s not the words that shake you—it’s the timing. The way they hit, low and close to the bone. 

Because yeah, you did notice. You still do. Especially now. Especially here.

Before you can say anything, the alarm you set on your phone blares loudly, cutting through the quiet.

“Alright!” You push her feet off your lap and stand, happy for the distraction as you clap your hands together. “That’s curfew.”

Sarah groans, but she rolls off the couch with no argument and starts down the hall. 

You busy yourself with tidying up the living room as she brushes her teeth, pointedly ignoring the growing pit in your stomach. Her words ring in your ears like church bells, her voice tolling a little too close to something you’ve pointedly ignored since you got back. Something half buried and dangerous.

Bet you noticed that when you were my age, right? When guys started looking at you differently…

You breathe out slowly, shutting off the TV and dropping the remote onto the couch a little harder than necessary. You shouldn’t read into it. She didn’t mean anything by it. Just a kid mouthing off, reaching for connection, for understanding. 

But it rattles you more than you want to admit, especially here—especially in his house.

You swallow hard, clearing the dirty dishes off the coffee table and walking into the kitchen. You just won’t think about it anymore, it’s that easy.

You're just being ridiculous. Paranoid. That's all.

A little while later, you’re still tidying up.

The dishes are all done, washed and drying in the rack next to the sink. The living room looks better than when you got here. It’s damn near pristine. 

Sarah went to bed almost half an hour ago. You crane your head down the hallway as you fold an old blanket, her door is cracked open enough that you can see the light from her alarm clock shining in the dark. The soft sounds of waves drone quietly from her noise machine.

You smile, a warm fondness blooming in your chest.

That fuzzy feeling doesn’t last long, not when your eyes drift almost on their own, landing on Joel’s door. 

Joel’s room.

It’s cracked open too, just like Sarah’s, but there’s no light shining from inside. You keep folding the blanket, distracted. It’s not like you haven’t been in Joel’s room before, you have. Passing through it with clean loads of laundry or sneaking his phone charger from the plug near his nightstand when your phone died.

But you’d never gone in alone, and you’d never stayed long. Sarah was always hot on your heels, catching your wrist in her tiny hand to drag you back out—following you around like an overexcited puppy. Not to mention it was always in the light of day, never at a time like this. When the moon is shining high in the sky and the stars are scattered across vast velvety darkness like spilled sugar.

You drape the folded blanket along the arm of the couch, eyes still glued to the door. The cogs in your mind turn and turn, spitting out an idea that has your stomach clenching with something you can’t quite put your finger on.

You gnaw on your bottom lip anxiously, eyes cutting to the clock above the door.

11:53

Joel told he’d be a while tonight, before he left. He said they’d be short a man, that the job would drag on because of it.

That’s not an excuse, you know that.

You shouldn’t. You really shouldn’t.

Your feet are moving before your brain can catch up to how bad of an idea this really is.

Your steps are silent on the linoleum, barefeet not making a sound. The wood of his door is dark and shiny, cool against your hand when you lay your palm over it. You give Sarah’s room another sideways glance, you can see the shape of her beneath the covers. Sound asleep.

The door creaks when you push it open, just barely. The sound isn’t enough to scare you off, and you step inside. The carpet is plush under you, it silences your steps even more as you walk to the nightstand and flick the light on.

Your heart pounds against your ribs as you take it in. The messy, unmade state of Joel’s bed. The covers are thrown back, there’s a dip in the pillow where his head rests. The nightstand has a paperback open and laying face down, a pair of wiry reading glasses resting next to it.

The room smells like him. 

That scent that used to cling to you by accident when you were younger—clean cotton and cedar, a little motor oil and sweat, and whatever body wash he’s been using for years. It hits you all at once.

It has something stirring in your core, the familiarity of it. You look around some more, greedy eyes taking in every tiny detail you can. There’s a few paintings and framed pictures littering the walls. Pictures of Sarah, of Tommy, all kinds of different Texas landscapes. 

An old guitar rests on the wall across from you, you can see that it’s a little beat up even from where you’re standing. The glossy wood chipped and well loved.

Then your eyes land on the dresser.

It’s old, stained a light brown. You wonder distantly if he built it himself.

Your gaze catches on the top drawer, the pull handle worn with use.

Again, you know it’s wrong. That you’ve already crossed every line imaginable by just being in here, but you seem full to bursting with bad ideas tonight. 

You’re across the room with your fingers resting gently on the handle before you can even blink. Slowly, like something’s pulling you on a leash, you slide it open.

Socks. Boxers. Old, ratty belts. It’s nothing special, but heat climbs up the back of your neck all the same.

The next drawer has shirts, old band tees and fancier button downs that really should be hung up. You press your hand against one of them, feeling the starchy fabric beneath your skin.

The third drawer sticks a little, enough that you need to yank on it harder than the last two. It slides open with a dull thud. You wince, your eyes flicking to the door like Joel could be standing there, catching you rifling through his underwear like a sick little perv. 

The darkness of the hallway is all that greets you. Quiet, empty.

You take a steadying breath, but your hands don’t stop trembling as you tug it the rest of the way open.

You’re not sure exactly what you’re looking for, but then, you see it.

There, tucked toward the back under a couple old flannels, a small stack of magazines. 

Playboys. A couple Hustlers. From the look of them, they're mostly 90s, maybe early 2000s. It’s so vintage, so Joel. The covers are glossy, edges curled and worn. 

Your breath hitches. The heat between your legs is instant, sharp and impossible to ignore.

You pull one out, heart hammering, and flip it open carefully. Your eyes skim over picture after picture, some of the pages sticking together as you thumb through them. The scent of paper and dust and something faintly musky drifts up, and the centerfold you finally land on is obscene—posed, yes, but raw in a way that makes your thighs press together. 

Legs spread wide on a bearskin rug, pink mouth parted, full bush and glossy nipples.

She’s brunette, hair poofy and curled up to Jesus like they used those big old school rollers. Her eyes are the same color as yours, half lidded and covered in a sparkly blue shadow.

You glance down at the caption under her photo. 

“Turn-ons: Older men. The kind that know how to use their hands.”

A shiver rolls down your spine.

You should be laughing. Maybe grossed out. But instead—

Instead you imagine Joel, sitting in this room, flipping through these pages alone. Hand between his legs. That rough, big, calloused hand. Not fast, not frantic. No, you imagine him slow.

Measured.

Probably gritting his teeth, because he seems like the type who doesn’t let himself sound desperate even when he is. Grunting softly. Breathing hard. Coming into a tissue or his palm or maybe just letting it land on his stomach. Because there’s no one here to see. No one to touch him. Just him and the sound of paper turning.

You shut the magazine too fast. Slide it back in place, heart pounding.

Before you can push the drawer closed, your eyes catch on one of the flannels that covered Joel’s little secret.

It’s an old one—soft looking, broken in, a faded green and black. You should put it back, lay it down exactly where you found it so there’s nothing even hinting at you digging around in places you shouldn’t.

Instead, your hand closes around it, and without letting yourself think too long, you hold it up to your nose.

God. It smells like him. Like his detergent, like summer sweat and wood and something faintly smokey. Warm and safe and so damn inappropriate in every possible way.

It’s too much, it’s not enough. It’s obscene.

You can’t help yourself, you push the rest of the flannels back over the magazines, but the one in your hand gets tucked under your arm.

You don’t even try to justify it. You don’t even look back.

You don’t touch yourself right away.

You wait. You ride the buzz all the way home. Eat a popsicle standing barefoot in your kitchen, flannel in a heap on the counter like a loaded gun. You pretend to forget about it. You go about your night like normal. Shower. Brush your teeth.

Then you’re in bed and it’s just there. Laying on your mattress.

You unfold it. Run your fingers over the soft, worn fabric. You should feel guilty. You do, but that doesn’t stop you from pressing it to your nose and inhaling a deep lungful. You crawl into bed, tearing your shirt off and kicking your shorts down your legs all at once.

You lay back against your sheets, flannel still clutched in your hands. You rub it along your chest, over your peaked nipples, down your stomach. Rubbing Joel’s scent into your skin like it’s your own personal brand.

Your free hand slides down your body, down the lacy fabric of your panties. You’re already wet. You’ve been wet since the minute you opened that drawer.

You close your eyes, fingertips teasing along the wet expanse of your pussy as you let your mind go there—

To the thought of Joel finding you like this.

His flannel draped over your face. Your hand between your thighs.

Would he be mad? Would he punish you for it?

Would he take it back? Rip it out of your hands?

Or would he make you put it on—just so he could see you wear it while he ruined you?

You want to come like this. Wrapped up in something of his. Want to ruin yourself in it. You dip your fingers into your underwear and finally—finally—brush them over your clit.

The gasp you let out is sharp.

It’s not just his cologne. It’s his scent. That hot-skin smell that clings to the inside of his hats and his truck and his work boots. It’s Joel, soaked into the fabric like he’s holding you down.

You rub slow circles over your clit, hips twitching. You can’t stop picturing him. Not just his face, but the sounds he’d make. The weight of his body over yours. The way his voice would rasp against your ear if he caught you doing this.

“Dirty fuckin’ girl, so desperate you’re gettin’ off with my dirty laundry?”

You slide two fingers inside yourself and gasp, mouth falling open. You imagine his hands instead. Rough, thick, calloused. Bigger than yours. Slower. Crueler.

“Oh fuck, Joel—” you whisper without thinking, the name catching on your teeth like a sin.

You come hard, pressing the flannel to your face, thighs trembling, biting down on soft cotton as you ride it out. It rolls through you in hot waves. Shame, lust, guilt, need—all tangled up.

When it’s over, you lie there panting, the room silent except for your heartbeat in your ears. You relax your jaw, the flannel falling from between your lips, fabric soaked with your spit.

You drift off with it clutched to your chest. Still wet between your legs. Still aching. Still imagining what he’d do if he ever found out.

And you sleep better than you have in weeks.

You don’t think anything of it when you see Joel’s truck parked in front of the trailer. It’s not out of the ordinary, he’s almost always there to make sure you get in safe before he leaves.

You climb the creaky steps and knock like usual. Three little raps, your knuckles against the thin aluminum of Joel’s door, already shifting your weight to the side as you wait for Sarah to yank it open and start catching you up on all the latest gossip from her last summer soccer practice.

Only—it doesn't swing open. Not right away.

You frown, Sarah’s usually opened the door before you can even raise your fist to knock again. It’s only then that you notice how quiet it is. 

No music thumping out from her window, no light flicked on in her room. No hum of the TV playing. No voice yelling “Just a second!” from down the hall. Just the light hanging above your head buzzing faintly and the dull thud of your knuckles against the door.

You knock for a fourth time, less sure.

A few more seconds go by. One, two, three, four. 

You count all the way to ten before the door creaks open, the screen with it. Joel fills the frame, one shoulder leaning against it. The light floods out from behind him, a warm yellow glow spilling into the dark and haloing around his broad shoulders. 

He’s not dressed in work clothes, just an old grey short sleeve and a pair of jeans that ride dangerously low on his hips—a beer bottle held loosely in his left hand. He doesn’t even have shoes on.

You’re hit with a violent wash of déjà vu, your traitorous mind thinking back to the first day you saw him again. 

“Hey,” you say as casually as you can, shifting on your feet. You peer around him into the living room. Empty. “Where’s Sarah?”

Joel doesn’t move, head tilting as he watches you. “She’s stayin’ over at a friends.”

You blink. “Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh.” The corner of Joel’s mouth raises slightly, it’s not quite a smirk, but it’s close. “I texted. You didn’t check your phone?”

You shake your head slowly, but you can’t help the way your brows furrow. You had checked it, right before you left your house, like you awake do. No calls. No texts.

“I must’ve missed it.”

Joel gives you a lazy once over, eyes dragging down your front like a slow lick. “Huh,” he says, but it’s far away. “Guess you might as well come in anyway, wouldn’t want you to waste your time comin’ out here for nothin’.” 

He steps aside, holding the door open expectantly. 

“It’s fine, really.” You laugh, but it’s awkward. “I can just go—”

“Come inside.”

He says it low. Not a suggestion.

You hesitate for half a second, nerves suddenly scraping just beneath your skin. But you step in anyway, brushing past him into the cool dimness of the trailer, the familiar scent of cedar, beer, and Joel hitting your nose all at once. 

The door shuts behind you with a heavy click.

Joel walks past you, sets his beer down on the coffee table before his eyes find yours again. You can see his face better in the light of the living room, his eyes are hard. Dark in a way you haven’t seen in a long time. It has your stomach clenching tightly, the sour edge of alarm churning with arousal inside you.

“It’s good you’re here. We oughta talk.”

You open your mouth, then shut it. His tone is strange—off—but not angry. Amused, almost. You wring your hands behind your back anxiously. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” he says, voice low, rough, “I been meanin’ to ask you somethin’. Just been waitin’ for the right time.”

You frown. “Ask me what?”

Joel drags the silence out. He watches you try not to squirm, mouth tilted in another half smirk. 

"You go through my shit, baby?"

Your heart trips three times over in your chest, stomach dropping down to your feet. “I—what?”

Joel huffs hard out his nose, that smug smirk spreads. It’s all teeth now, feral and amused. “Did I stutter?”

You’re shaking now, hands trembling in time with the frantic beat of your pulse. “I just thought—I didn’t think you—”

Joel clicks his tongue, cutting you off. “Yeah that’s the problem, ain’t it? You didn’t think.” He takes one slow step toward you, eyes locked on yours, heavy and dark and hot enough to burn.

“It’s real funny,” he says offhandedly, too casual—like you’re talking about this week’s forecast. “There’s only a few people who’ve been in and outta here lately. And I know Tommy ain’t the one riflin’ through my drawers, takin’ shit that doesn't belong to him. I ain’t dumb, baby.”

Your mouth opens and closes desperately, mind racing to say anything. To lie, to defend yourself, to beg for forgiveness. Nothing comes out. Your throat works around nothing, and your hands are clenched so tightly behind your back they’re going numb.

Joel just hums. A low, throaty sound that vibrates down your spine. His fingers curl under the hem of your shirt, lifting it slightly, just enough to show the little strip of skin above your shorts. “You touch yourself in it?”

The question punches the air from your lungs. You don’t need to ask him what it is.

“I—Joel—”

“Don’t try lyin’ to me.”

Your face burns. You can’t bring yourself to nod, let alone speak. You don’t have to. 

Joel laughs—dark and low, like he already knows the answer. He trails his hand along the skin of your stomach, his touch featherlight. You can’t hide the shiver that wracks through you, goosebumps pebbling along your skin.

His hand falls away, only so he can drop down onto the couch behind him. Legs wide, thighs spread, jeans tugging tight across them as he leans back like he’s settling in for a show. His voice is pure gravel. “Go on, then. Show me what you did.”

You just stand there. Eyes wide. “What?” 

Your voice shakes, quiet and small in the tension. 

Joel shakes his head, sighing like he’s dealing with a stubborn child. He hooks one finger in the waistband of your shorts, tugging. You move without thinking, stepping into the space between his spread thighs.

“See, I don’t wanna have to ask you again, baby. So, are you gonna show me?” he says slowly, his touch dipping low enough to brush over the lacy edge of your panties. “Or am I gonna have to make you?”

Your breath catches in your throat, heat flooding your body in less than a second. “Joel—”

He cocks a brow. “What’s wrong, sweet thing? You were bold enough to sneak into my room, go through my drawers, take what don’t belong to you. Don’t get shy now.”

You feel it then—that impossible to ignore, deep, slick throb between your legs. Shame and heat twisting up your insides. Your whole being pulses with heat, phantom flames lapping over your skin.

You don’t know if you’re more humiliated or turned on—your body doesn’t seem to care either way. Joel hasn’t taken his eyes off you.

There’s no way out of this. And you’re not even sure if you want one.

You bite your lip, cheeks burning as your fingers trail down your belly, under your shorts and down between your thighs. Already wet. Slick with the shame of it, slick with how bad you want him watching you.

Joel swats your hip, not hard enough to sting. Just enough to make you feel it. “No ma’am, none of that shit. Shorts off.”

You freeze, your hand still buried under the waistband, your pulse thudding in your ears like a war drum. Apparently, you don’t move fast enough, not for him, and Joel’s already leaning forward, hands on your hips as he yanks them down himself—your shorts and panties in one brutal tug.

“Fuckin’ brat,” he mutters, almost to himself, dragging the fabric down your thighs and letting it pool at your ankles.

Your breath hitches as he sits back again, arms draped lazily over the back of the couch, dark eyes fixed on the wet heat between your thighs like he’s starving.

You step out of your clothes, naked from the waist down, cheeks burning, heart beating so hard it’s making you lightheaded.

Joel tips his chin toward the floor. “Go on.”

Your stomach flips. You’re sure he can see it, the way your chest heaves, nipples pressing hard into the thin fabric of your top. Your hand drifts between your legs again, slow and shaky. Joel’s eyes follow every motion. Every tremble.

Your middle finger dips down and slides through your folds, slow. You let out a shaky breath. You brush over your clit, and twitch, hips jerking without meaning to.

“That’s it.” Joel nods, his hands clenched into fists. “See how easy it was, sugar? Feel’s good, doesn't it?”

“Yes,” you whisper, your voice threadbare. You’re rubbing yourself faster now, pressure building fast. “It feels so good, Joel.”

Joel groans at his name falling from your lips. “I bet it does. Bet you fucked your fingers into that tight little cunt while smellin’ me on the collar of that damn shirt. You nasty little thing.”

You nod, barely, lips parted as you circle your clit again, breath hitching on contact.

“I should spank your ass red for that,” he growls. “Should bend you over my lap like a fuckin’ child. You need discipline, don’t you?”

Your knees nearly give. “Joel. Please—”

He cuts you off again, gesturing lazily to where your hand disappears between your thighs. “Open her up. Let me see.”

You press two fingers between your folds, spreading them apart so he can see your glistening pussy, sticky and swollen from just a few strokes.

“Goddamn,” Joel groans, reaching down to adjust the thick shape of his cock hard under his jeans. “She’s fuckin’ drippin’. That for me, baby?”

You nod, lips slack as your thighs tremble.

“Yeah,” he drawls, stretching the word like out taffy between his teeth. “That’s real pretty.”

You moan at that. Loud and desperate. Your touch dip that much lower to push one finger inside. Then another, like you just can’t help yourself. You’re so wet there’s no resistance, your pussy welcoming them in like it’s done this a hundred times thinking of him. Slick drips down your thighs, shining under the light of the lamp.

Joel licks his lips slowly, deliberately. “Look at that.” He leans forward, pupils wide and dark as an oil spill. “Just a little rub like that, a little stretch and you’re already makin’ a mess.”

You whimper, hips rocking against your hand. “Joel, I—”

“Give yourself another finger. Show me how you take it”

You grind down onto your own fingers, mouth slack with soft moans that breathe to life before you can muffle them. You press in a third finger. The stretch burns, but you don’t stop. You’re panting now, skin dewy, hips jerking forward to meet your hand. Joel watches like a man starved.

He grins, smug and handsome and infuriating. “Yeah, three feels nice don’t it, honey?” He reaches out, his hand sliding up your thigh in one slow motion, lazy and unhurried through the slick. “Bet you could take my whole fuckin’ fist if you wanted it real bad.”

A pathetic little whine fills the air, more of a mewl than anything. It takes you a second to realize you’re the one making the noise, so desperate and gone from the tiniest amount of touch. It makes your walls clamp down harder around your fingers.

Joel sees. Joel knows.

And it’s all he needs to finally break.

“Come here,” he growls suddenly, jerking his head impatiently.

You scramble over, straddling him, bare thighs spread over his denim clad ones. Joel undoes his belt with one hand, the clink of the metal making your pulse trip. He pulls himself out of his soaked boxers, hard and straining, the rosy head drooling precome onto his shirt when it slaps up to rest against his stomach.

Your mouth falls open at the sight of it, flushed and big. Bigger than you’ve ever seen, outside of guilty late night porn searches. 

Joel chuckles darkly, taking himself in his hand. He strokes himself slowly, twisting his wrist over the head. “You think you can take all this?” he taunts meanly, dragging the tip through your folds, wetting himself with your slick. “You’re just a baby, sweetheart. You think you can handle this dick?”

You moan as he rubs himself over your sensitive clit, warm and wet. Your hips twitch down, desperate for more. Your pussy clenches around nothing, overwhelmingly empty.

He slaps your ass, hard. He kneads the tender skin in his rough hand after, dragging out the sting. “How old am I? Tell me, honey. Say it.”

You gasp, eyes screwing shut in embarrassment. “Fifty–ah! Fifty three,” you breathe, not looking Joel in the eye as you say it.

You can’t, not with the humiliation coursing through your veins like pure kerosine. It’s white hot, burning so bright, but it’s still not enough to stop your pussy from dripping sticky all over his cock like a broken faucet.

“Damn right,” he growls. “Old enough to be your fuckin’ daddy.”

Joel thrusts into you in one brutal push.

You scream. Your nails dig into his shoulders hard enough that you feel the thin material of his shirt straining under it. The stretch feels like it’s tearing you in two, like your fingers didn’t do anything to prepare you for his cock carving a place for itself inside you.

Joel kisses you, sucks the noise right off your tongue. He tastes like beer, like sweat and salt and something that’s only him. You moan into his mouth, your fingers threading into the soft hair curling at the nape of his neck.

He pulls back, a string of spit connecting your lips until it bends and breaks under the weight of gravity. “Come on, darlin’.” He slaps your ass again—once, twice—and you squeal, the burn sharp and perfect. “You wanted to fuck me so bad you couldn’t keep those thievin’ hands to yourself, huh? Well now’s your chance. Fuck me, give it to me good.”

You don’t ease into it, too worked to even think about starting slow.

You bounce on his lap like you’re possessed, thighs slapping, slick drenching his jeans. Joel groans with every roll of your hips, low and drawn out. He lets his head fall back against the couch, the tan column of his throat on display.

“Been waitin’ for this,” he pants. “Since the day you showed back up. Actin’ all grown. Look at you now. Cryin’ on my cock.”

You’re drooling. Dizzy. Brain turned to static as you ride him, his hands gripping your hips so tight you know you’ll bruise.

“You’re so fuckin’ tight,” he growls, raising his head to watch you. “This pussy wasn’t made for boys your age. Needs a man to stretch it out. To ruin it.”

You whine, your pussy tightening around the throbbing length of his cock. Joel notices, of course he does.

His hands grip your ass, urging your hips up and down faster. “You like that, sweet thing? You like lettin’ an old man fuck you raw like this?”

“Yes,” you whine, tears burning at your water line. “I love it, want you to come inside me so bad Joel, fuck-”

“I know, baby.” Joel kisses your cheek, softly. Too soft, too tender. “You ain’t ever gonna want some college boy after this. You’re gonna be thinkin’ about how Mr. Miller fucked you open better than they could.”

Your moan is muffled by his fingers pushing between your slack lips, filling your mouth. You whine at the taste of yourself coating his skin, sucking obediently as he presses them down on your tongue.

“Gonna make you mine,” he pants. “Mine. No more sneakin’ around, no more stealin’ my shit—you want something, you ask for it like a big girl, and I’ll fuckin’ give it to you.”

You shake your head, babbling around his fingers. “Yes—yes, only you. I’m yours—”

You can feel your orgasm building deep in your belly, the coil of pleasure tightening and tightening until it threatens to snap.

Joel rips his fingers from your mouth with a dark growl, reaching back down to grip your ass again. He spreads you open, the cool air making you gasp. One finger, wet with your own spit, rubs over your rim. 

He doesn’t push in—just teases, circling, pressing, tugging—enough to make you clench and cry out as he starts pounding up into you. His hips lifting off the couch and filling the room with the loud noise of skin on skin as his balls slap against your ass with every thrust. Your pussy squelching around him with dirty, wet noises would make your ears burn if you weren’t so far gone already.

“You gonna let me play with this too?” he murmurs, lips brushing against your. “You lettin’ me train this hole next?”

That’s it. It’s all you can take.

You shatter with a scream, pussy squeezing so tight it makes Joel snarl and buck wildly up into you. He grabs your ass, choking out a strained string of  “fuck, fuck, fuck—”

He curses, pulls you down hard onto his cock one last time as he spills inside you, so deep you swear you feel it behind your ribs. His head drops to your shoulder, breath ragged as he comes and comes. 

It feels endless, spurt after spurt of hot spend flooding your walls until it’s forced to leak back out along the fever hot skin of his cock, slipping down his balls to drip onto the couch.

It’s filthy.

It’s obscene.

It’s exactly what you wanted.

You both lean into each other, breathless and spent as you come down. Sweat drips down your back, rolling down your spine as your hands stay buried in his hair.

Joel strokes your thigh lazily, still inside you, watching the mess drip down where you’re spread open around him.

“You’re stayin’ the night,” he says simply.

You can’t fight the tiny, secret smile you press against the sweaty skin of his throat as you nod wordlessly, thighs still shaking violently around his hips.

You’d never make it to the door anyway.

MINI NAT'S NOTE: what's so funny to me about this is that i didn't realize how much i actually missed writing for joel until i took a little mini break to work on my other frankie and harry fics like it’s so dramatic truly, but baby we’re so back! back and hopefully pissing off the joel age gap haters!

shoutouts to baby rylea for giving me the flannel idea cause this fic might have been lost without it. it was rescued from being just another abandoned wip and instead turned into a literal monster which was never supposed to happen but uh that's chill i guess…two fics over 10k words in one month? that’s literally unheard of over here. ALSO my first venture into ass play to spite @ebodebo and @yuenity sooo that’s fun. i love them both really LMAO

once again it's four a.m because i just can't function like a normal person. thank you to femme bot by charli xcx, pink red bull, and ofc my geeky bar for letting me power through and finish this mess. okay i'm done now sorry for talking so much, i just love yapping to you guys :(( thank you so much for reading, love you!

[cumironi]

ONE TOO MANY : GOJO SATORU, GETO SUGURU

the first time you have an argument with your two boyfriends is because they've been ignoring you for weeks, so you return the favor.

wc. 4,3k | m.list | part. 2

warning. boyfriends! satosugu, angst to fluff (kinda), petnames, light arguments, silent treatment, and idk.

as you sit on the couch, the dim light of the living room casting long shadows across the room, you glance at the clock. it's late—much later than usual for geto and gojo to be coming home. a knot of worry tightens in your chest, but you push it aside. you know their work can be demanding, but you miss them.

the door finally creaks open, and your heart leaps as geto and gojo step inside. but something feels off. their usual smiles are absent, their shoulders slumped with exhaustion. geto barely acknowledges you with a nod, and gojo doesn't even glance your way, heading straight to the kitchen to grab a drink.

“hey...” you begin softly, but your voice trails off as they move around the room like you're not even there. geto drops his bag by the door and heads for the stairs, clearly ready to crash in bed without a word. gojo's usually bright eyes are dull, and when he finally looks at you, it's with a tired expression that makes your heart sink.

“i’m just... really tired,” gojo mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck as he avoids your gaze.

you feel a wave of frustration and hurt rise within you. they’ve had long days before, but they’ve never been so dismissive. you stand up, crossing your arms, trying to figure out what to say, how to break through whatever barrier has suddenly sprung up between you. “baby... what's going on?” you ask, your voice laced with concern.

geto pauses at the base of the stairs, sighing deeply, “just... give us some space, okay? we’ve had a rough day.”

his words hit you harder than they should, and you’re left standing there, feeling more alone than ever as they head off to bed without another word. the room feels colder, emptier, and you’re left wondering if it’s something you did, or if there’s something they’re not telling you.

the next morning you wake up to the smell of coffee and the soft sound of music coming from the kitchen. your stomach does a flip, a hint of excitement mixing with lingering unease. you slide out of bed and pad down the stairs, your heart rate picking up as you near the kitchen.

the sight that greets you is unexpected. geto and gojo stand side by side, their back to you as they putter in the kitchen. gojo's tall form easily dominates the space, his shoulders broader than you remembered. geto's hair is ruffled, still messy from sleep, and it's a stark contrast to his usually composed appearance. they haven't noticed you yet, engrossed in their task as they move around each other in a synchronized dance.

you lean against the doorway, watching them for a moment. gojo's slender fingers skillfully flip pancakes, and geto hums along to the music playing softly in the background, a spatula in his hand as he tends to the bacon.

it's a scene so domestic and natural, yet it feels surreal given their cold demeanor from last night. it's as if they're trying to pretend yesterday never happened, to go back to normalcy. geto suddenly looks up, catching your gaze. his expression turns serious, his dark eyes locking onto yours. gojo continues cooking, his back still to you, but you can almost feel the tension radiating from him.

“you're up,” geto comments, his voice neutral.

you clear your throat, trying to keep your tone light, “yeah, the coffee smell woke me up.”

“coffee's almost done,” gojo says without turning around, his voice lacking its usual playful edge. an awkward silence settles over the room, thick and stifling.

you watch as they continue to cook, each movement precise and calculated. no small talk, no casual touches or laughter like you're used to. gojo plates the pancakes and bacon, setting them on the table, before finally turning to face you. his normally bright eyes are cool and detached.

“breakfast is ready,” he mutters, breaking the silence.

you swallow the lump in your throat, feeling the distance between you growing wider with every passing moment. the breakfast they've prepared looks delicious, but sitting down to eat together feels like an impossible feat given the current atmosphere.

you shift your weight, feeling the knot in your stomach tighten further. the air in the kitchen is charged, and the earlier domestic scene has been shattered. geto turns back to the stove, his shoulders tense as he tends to the food. gojo continues flipping pancakes, his movements more rigid than normal.

“so...” you begin, your voice breaking the silence, “about last night—”

“don't,” geto interrupts, his voice firm. “can we just not do this right now?”

his blunt response hangs in the air, and you're taken aback by his abruptness. you feel your frustration and confusion mounting, but before you can say anything, gojo puts down the spatula, his voice laced with irritation.

“yeah, maybe we should just focus on the food,” he says, avoiding your gaze. the room falls into an awkward silence again, only the sound of cooking filling the air. you can feel the tension building, the unspoken words and emotions hanging heavily between you.

you look at them for a second, just staring without saying a words and they can see how quickly your expression change to cold as clear as the day. you swallow hard, the words you want to say sticking in your throat. instead, you just nod, barely meeting his eyes as you mumble, “okay.” your voice comes out small, almost defeated, as you focus on the floor.

even as you agree to let it go, the hurt gnaws at you. you want to bridge the gap, to reach out to them, but the coldness in their demeanor keeps you at arm’s length. the silence stretches on, and you’re left feeling more alone than ever, standing just a few feet away from the two people you thought you were closest to.

the meal is eaten in a heavy, uncomfortable silence. neither geto nor gojo make an effort to talk like they usually do, their eyes focused on their food. gojo's movements are mechanical, while geto's gaze keeps shifting towards you, his expression a mixture of guilt and determination to keep his distance.

as you finish eating, they quickly rise, busying themselves with cleaning up, still avoiding any meaningful eye contact with you.

as satoru reaches for your plate, you finally speak up, your voice firmer than you expected, “don’t.” he freezes for a moment, his hand hovering over your plate. you can feel his gaze on you, but you don’t look up. “i’ll do it myself,” you add, your tone making it clear that this isn’t up for debate.

geto looks up, his eyes flicking between you and gojo as if silently trying to communicate. gojo seems ready to argue, his jaw clenching, but geto subtly shakes his head, a silent warning. a beat of tense silence passes before gojo reluctantly pulls back his hand, a flash of something that looks like hurt in his eyes. he mumbles something under his breath that you don't quite catch.

pushing down the knot of emotions threatening to choke you, you stand up from the table and walk towards the sink where geto is still standing, his presence a heavy weight in the small space. without looking at him, you ask, your voice edged with coldness, “are you done?”

geto nods, his expression unreadable as he steps back slightly. there’s a moment where you consider softening your tone, but the way they’ve been treating you today and days before hardens your resolve.

“then move,” you say, your voice cutting through the silence like a blade. if they want to treat you like this, then you’re not going to just sit there and take it. you’ve given them space, tried to be patient, but their coldness is more than you can handle right now.

geto hesitates, a flash of something—guilt, perhaps—crossing his face before he steps aside, giving you room to move past him. you take your plate to the sink, the cool metal under your fingers grounding you as you begin to rinse it off, your movements sharp, deliberate.

as you stand there, the sound of running water filling the silence, you can feel their eyes on you, the weight of their unspoken words pressing down on your shoulders. but you don’t turn around. if they want to push you away, you won’t beg them to stay close. not tonight, not anymore.

geto remains where he stands, watching you silently, while gojo leans against the counter, his arms crossed, his gaze fixed on you as well. the minutes pass in a tense silence, the sound of the water and the clinking of dishes the only noise. you can feel their eyes on you, their gazes burning into your skin, but you keep your focus on the task at hand, refusing to break.

geto finally breaks the silence, his voice soft, but with an edge of determination, “can we talk?”

you pause for a moment, letting his request hang in the air. a bitter scoff escapes your lips as you turn off the water, feeling a surge of irony wash over you. you turn to face him, your expression hard as you look between geto and satoru. “oh, now you wanna talk?” you ask, your voice laced with mockery. “when i wanted to talk, you both shut me out. but now that i’m doing the same, suddenly it’s time for a conversation?”

there’s a biting edge to your words, a reflection of the hurt and frustration that’s been building up inside you all weeks. you don’t bother hiding it, letting them feel a fraction of what you’ve been feeling. if they want to push you away, then they’ll have to deal with the consequences.

geto falters, his expression flitting momentarily to gojo, before returning to you, his eyes reflecting a mix of regret and stubbornness. gojo doesn’t say anything, his jaw set, but you can sense the tension radiating from him as well.

“i know,” geto starts, his voice a bit shaky, “i know we’re being unfair. we owe you an explanation. we just…” he trails off, his gaze breaking yours as he glances at gojo again, almost seeking validation. gojo remains silent, his face stoic, but his eyes betray a flicker of internal struggle.

they both shift uncomfortably under your sharp words, gojo’s gaze darting away and geto’s expression darkening. their discomfort only adds fuel to your indignation.

“yeah, it’s funny how that works, isn’t it?” you continue, your voice dripping with sarcasm. “you ignore me for weeks and then suddenly want to talk when i’m finally done playing your little game. well, too bad. i’m done playing along,” you turn the water off and walk away to your shared bedroom.

gojo’s hand shoots out, grabbing your wrist before you can step away. the suddenness of his action catches you off guard, his grip tight but not aggressive. “wait,” he says, his voice low, his eyes searching yours.

geto steps towards you, his expression a mix of guilt and determination, “please.”

the desperation in their voices is unmistakable, and it’s the first sign of vulnerability they’ve shown all weeks. it’s enough to make you hesitate, to feel a flicker of reluctance. but you stood on your grounds— trying to stood on your ground. “i have works to do,” you mumble before push his hand away.

the past few days have been a blur, a mixture of long hours and late nights. you've been coming home later and later, deliberately avoiding going to bed with them, choosing instead to crash on the couch, wrapped in a blanket of silence and exhaustion. it’s not just the late nights—it’s the subtle shift in your routine, the way you’ve distanced yourself, mirroring the coldness they showed you that night. you’re not even sure if they’ve noticed, but it’s become your own form of silent rebellion, a way to protect yourself.

tonight is no different. when you finally walk through the door, it’s nearly one in the morning, your body heavy with fatigue. you’re expecting the house to be dark and quiet, but as you step into the kitchen, the soft light catches your attention. they’re both there, geto and gojo, standing near the stove, the faint smell of food lingering in the air.

gojo looks up first, his expression serious but tinged with something you can’t quite place. geto follows, his gaze steady as he watches you enter. “can we talk?” gojo asks, his voice more gentle than it’s been in days.

you hesitate, your hand tightening around the strap of your bag. “talk about what?” you reply, your voice is neutral, guarded. geto steps closer, concern etched into his features. “we heard you’ve started taking missions again,” he says quietly, the words heavy with implication. “why?”

you feel a flicker of something—anger, maybe, or frustration. they ignored you, pushed you away, and now they want to question your choices? it feels like a cruel twist of fate.

“why not?” you shoot back, dropping your bag onto the counter with a soft thud. “i figured if you two can focus on work and shut me out, then maybe i should do the same. why waste time waiting around?”

gojo's expression hardens at your answer, a shadow passing over his features. geto’s eyes flick between you both, his expression pained. “we’re not shutting you out,” gojo insists, his voice strained, “we’re just..”

“busy,” geto finishes, his gaze dropping to the floor.

the kitchen falls into thick silence, the tension stretching the air between you all. gojo leans against the counter, his arms crossed, while geto stands in the middle, his hands in his pockets, his shoulders tense.

you feel the pressure of their gazes on you, waiting for some reaction, some sign of understanding or forgiveness. but instead, you simply shrug your shoulders, your expression carefully neutral. “okay,” you mutter, the word simple but loaded with a cold indifference that makes their attempts at explanation feel small.

gojo shifts his weight, clearly frustrated by your continued coldness. his jaw clenches. geto tries a different angle, his voice soft. “we've been worried about you being out there alone.”

your eyes flicker back to his, and a flash of irritation passes through them. “alone?” you echo, a bitter edge to your tone. “really? you guys have been MIA for weeks, but now you're worried about me being alone?” the absurdity of the situation hits you, and a mocking laugh bubbles up, escaping in a few harsh chuckles. “you guys are unbelievable,” you say, the laughter carrying a mix of disbelief and hurt.

the laughter seems to take them by surprise, their faces reflecting a mix of guilt and confusion. the mocking tone of your voice stings, cutting through their attempts at reconciliation with a sharp edge.

gojo's jaw tenses, his hand clenching into a fist.

geto winces at the sound of your laughter, his eyes downcast. “i know it looks bad,” he murmurs, his voice almost pitiful.

“looks bad?” you repeat, your voice raises an octave, anger leaking into your words. “that's a nice way to put it. you two have been distant for weeks, acting like i don't even exist. then suddenly you're here, in the kitchen, when you know most nights i get home late.”

you step forward, your eyes narrowing as you gesture towards them. “were you waiting for me?” you ask, your voice quiet but seething with anger. “were you hoping to catch me in a weak moment, when i'm tired and vulnerable, so you could have this little heart-to-heart and feel better about yourselves?”

they both take a step back, looking taken aback by your sudden aggression. gojo's expression is a mix of guilt and defensiveness, while geto's eyes widen at the accusation. you take a deep breath, letting the anger ebb away just enough to speak. “i don't have time for this,” you say, letting out a sigh, “i only came home to get my things because my flight leaves in two hours. i’ve got a mission abroad for a week.”

the reality of your departure hangs in the air, the urgency in your voice making it clear that this conversation will have to wait. you turn, starting to gather your things, feeling the weight of their eyes on you as you move. the distance between you all feels like an insurmountable chasm, but for now, you have to focus on what’s ahead.

geto's eyes widen in surprise, while gojo's face pales. “wait—” they both speak at the same time, their voices filled with a mix of shock and desperation. geto quickly regains his composure, stepping forward, his arm reaching out. “hold on a second,” he says, his voice urgent, “you can't just leave—” gojo cuts in, his expression a mix of guilt and worry. “you’re not seriously going alone, are you?”

you brush off geto's arm, continuing to gather your things. “i don't have a choice,” you reply, your voice firm. “the higher-ups assigned me to the mission. i have to go.” gojo steps in front of you, his eyes meeting yours, a hint of pleading in them. “can we at least talk about this?” he asks, his voice quiet.

you pause, hesitating for a moment before shaking your head. “there’s nothing to talk about. my flight leaves soon, and i have to get ready.”

you can see the hurt in their eyes, the realization of your words sinking in. they hadn’t been there for you, and now they expected you to stay? to wait around for a conversation you didn’t think they even wanted to have?

gojo runs a hand through his hair, his expression frustrated. “what if something happens to you out there?” he says, his voice low and tense. geto steps forward, his eyes on yours, his voice pleading. “you can’t just leave things like this.” the desperation in their voices is a stark contrast to the coldness you’ve been experiencing these past few days. but it’s too little, too late.

your hands pause for a moment, your heart rate increasing at their reactions. you had wanted a reaction, but this intense concern was not what you had expected. you look back at them, your expression carefully nonchalant, despite the flurry of emotions swirling inside you.

“why not?” you asked, your voice betraying none of your inner turmoil. “you two are the ones who have been busy and distant. if you've got your own priorities, then why can't i have mine?”

gojo lets out a frustrated exhale, his hands clenching into fists by his sides. “that's not fair,” he mutters, his voice strained. geto looks torn, his eyes flickering between you and gojo. “just because we've been preoccupied doesn’t mean we don’t care.” the guilt in his voice is evident, mirroring the guilt you’ve been feeling. but you push it aside, trying to maintain the facade of indifference.

you let out a heavy sigh and sit down, looking up at them with a weary expression. “then what's fair, satoru?” you ask, your voice is steady but tinged with frustration. “tell me. i’ve been waiting for you two for days, weeks even. when i don’t wait around and i finally start doing things for myself, that’s not fair?”

the question hangs in the air, the weight of it pressing down on all of you. the silence that follows is thick with unresolved feelings, leaving the three of you standing on the edge of understanding, yet unable to bridge the gap between you.

gojo's gaze drops to the floor, his jaw clenching as if he’s struggling with his own emotions. geto's eyes flit between you both, his expression pained as he takes in your words. there's a moment of heavy silence before gojo finally speaks up, his voice low and laced with something you can’t quite place.

“you're right,” he admits, his eyes lifting to meet yours. “we've been shitty. we’ve been distant, ignoring you, making you feel like we don’t care.” geto nods in agreement, his eyes meeting yours as well. “we messed up,” he adds, his voice soft. “we've been dealing with some things and we shut you out.”

gojo runs a hand through his hair again, his gaze darting away and then back to yours. “we didn't mean to hurt you,” he says, his voice quiet but sincere, “we just... we weren't thinking.” the weight of their words hangs heavily in the air, and you feel a pang of sadness at their regret. “but you did hurt me,” you reply softly, your voice carrying a trace of vulnerability.

they both flinch at your words, their expressions flickering with guilt and remorse. gojo lets out a heavy sigh, his hands clenching into fists.

“we know,” he mutters, his voice almost a whisper. geto steps closer, his eyes filled with a mix of hurt and understanding. “we were idiots,” he says, his voice filled with remorse, “we didn't realize how much we were hurting you until you started spending less time with us.”

you take a deep breath as you stand to leave, the unspoken emotions and unresolved tension still linger between you. “i need to go. ijichi is waiting for me,” you say, the words firm but carrying an undertone of sadness.

you pause at the door, looking back at them. “we can talk when i get home,” you add, offering a faint, weary smile before stepping out. the door closes behind you, leaving them with the weight of your words and the promise of a future conversation.

they both watch you leave, their expressions a mixture of guilt, sorrow and a hint of hope. gojo's shoulders slump as you close the door behind you, while geto lets out a sigh, his eyes still fixed on the empty space where you were just a moment ago.

the apartment feels strangely quiet without you, the weight of the conversation still lingering in the air. they both know they have a lot to make up for, but for now, they wait, anxiously anticipating your return.

a week has passed, and the tension has only built as they waited for your return. when you finally come home, the sight that greets you in the living room is striking. geto and gojo are there, their expressions a mix of exhaustion and desperation. they look worn, their usual composure replaced by a sense of helplessness, as though the time apart has taken a visible toll on them.

they both rise as you enter, their eyes searching your face, a mix of hope and apprehension in their gazes. it’s clear they’ve been counting the days, each passing moment stretching into a painful reminder of their mistakes and your absence.

“hey,” you greet them with a small, tentative smile.

the room is thick with unspoken words and emotions. geto and gojo exchange a glance, their expressions softening slightly at your presence. they both take in your appearance, their eyes roving over you as if checking for any sign of injury from your recent mission. their shoulders relax somewhat, relieved that you're relatively unharmed.

gojo is the first to speak, his voice low and hoarse, as if he hasn't used it much these past few days. “you're back,” he murmurs, his eyes fixed on yours. geto stands behind him, his arms crossed as if holding back his own mixture of relief and anxiety. “how was the mission?” he asks, his voice a soft counterpoint to the tense silence.

you nod, your smile fading slightly as you respond. “the mission went well,” you say, your voice calm but carrying a hint of fatigue. geto uncrosses his arms, his posture relaxing a bit, while gojo’s shoulders seem to ease from their tightness. the tension in the room begins to shift, making way for the conversation and reconciliation that have been waiting for this moment.

you nod in response, your heart feeling the weight of the moment. “yeah, we can talk,” you say, but the words feel inadequate for what you’re really craving. “but could you hug me? i feel like i’m going to lose my mind if i don’t get a hug from you right now.”

gojo doesn't need to be told twice. he immediately steps forward, wrapping his arms around you in a tight grip, pulling you into his chest, his embrace so strong it almost lifts you off the ground. he buries his face in your hair, his breath shaky against your skin. “god, i missed you so much,” he murmurs, the words muffled against you.

geto hesitates for a moment, watching gojo's embrace. the sight of it makes his chest ache, a pang of jealousy mixed with guilt. but then, as if unable to resist, he steps closer, his arms wrapping around you from behind, his front pressed against your back. his embrace is gentler than gojo's, but no less heartfelt. he buries his face in the crook of your neck, his breath warm against your skin.

you let out a deep sigh of relief as they wrap their arms around you. the warmth and closeness of their embrace offer a sense of comfort that you've been missing. the tension that’s built up over the past week starts to dissolve, replaced by the soothing reassurance of their presence. in this moment, the words and explanations can wait as you simply allow yourself to be held and to feel that things might start to mend.

they both hold you tight, their arms firm against you. their hold is almost possessive, as if they're afraid you're going to slip away. they don't say anything, their only response a mix of soft breathing and the occasional whispered murmur of your name.

after a few moments, gojo pulls back slightly, just enough to look at you. his blue eyes roam over your face, taking in every detail as if he hadn't seen you in years. his voice is hoarse when he speaks, filled with a mixture of remorse and vulnerability. “can we sit?” you nod, a small but weary smile crossing your face. “yeah, let’s sit,” you agree, feeling the weight of the past week begin to lift just a little as you prepare to talk and hopefully begin to heal together.

they both guide you to the couch, with gojo sitting beside you while geto takes the armchair across from the two of you. as you settle into the cushions, their eyes follow your every move, as if afraid you might disappear again at any moment.

the room is silent for a moment, the only sound coming from the gentle ticking of the clock on the wall. gojo seems a bit unsure where to start, his eyes flickering between you and geto. geto takes the initiative, his eyes staying fixed on you. “we owe you an explanation,” he says, his voice soft but filled with regret. “we understand why you’re angry at us, and we’re sorry.”

gojo fidgets beside you, his gaze dropping briefly to his hands in his lap before he forces himself to look at you again. “we were caught up in some things,” he says, his voice low and almost ashamed. “and we shouldn’t have shut you out like we did.”

geto nods, his eyes never leaving your face. “we were idiots, plain and simple,” he admits, his voice filled with remorse. “we didn’t realize how much we were hurting you until you started distancing yourself from us. seeing you leave, not knowing if you were okay or not, it was one of the worst things we’ve ever experienced.”

you listen quietly, your fingers absently playing with the hem of your skirt. their words, while sincere, do little to erase the hurt you still feel from the past week. the pain lingers, a reminder of the distance and isolation you felt.

they both notice your distant expression, the silence in the room growing heavier. gojo’s hand clenches into a fist by his side, his eyes pained as he watches you fiddle with your skirt. geto’s eyes flicker to gojo for a moment before refocusing on you. he seems to struggle for words, his expression filled with regret. “can you look at us?” he says softly, his voice carrying a hint of pleading.

you slowly lift your gaze, meeting their eyes. the hurt is still there, but you try to convey a sense of willingness to listen and understand. “i’m here,” you say quietly, your voice steady despite the lingering pain. “i’m listening.”

gojo's hand reaches out, almost involuntarily, to take yours, his fingers intertwining with yours, as if seeking some physical connection to ground him. his grip is gentle but firm, a plea for forgiveness and understanding in his touch.

geto's eyes flicker between your faces, his expression taut. “we’ve been careless,” he says, his voice thick with remorse. “we’ve been too lost in other things and we didn’t pay enough attention to you. and that was wrong of us.”

as geto speaks, his remorse is evident in his voice, you take a deep breath. “you’ve been ignoring me for weeks,” you say, your voice steady but tinged with the hurt you've been holding onto. “it wasn’t just about not paying enough attention. it felt like you didn’t care at all, and that really hurt.”

they both flinch at your words, their expressions crumpling with guilt. gojo’s grip on your hand tightens, his eyes dark with remorse, while geto nods slowly, his gaze dropping to the floor before meeting yours again.

“we didn’t mean to make you feel like we didn’t care,” geto says softly, his voice filled with regret. “we were just…” he trails off, struggling to articulate the weight of their actions.

gojo steps in, his voice strained. “we were dealing with some stuff, and we didn’t handle it well. there were ongoing issues with the higher-ups, never-ending missions, and the stress of yuuta and yuji’s executions. the pressure from the school and everything else just piled up, and we let it affect how we treated you.”

the added context helps to explain their actions, but it doesn’t completely erase the pain. the burden of their responsibilities and the way they’ve neglected you come into clearer focus, but the healing process will take time and effort from all sides.

you take a deep breath, your voice steady despite the lingering hurt. “i know you were dealing with a lot,” you say quietly. “i’m dealing with the same stuff—higher-ups, never-ending missions, everything that comes with it. but that doesn’t mean it was okay for you to shut me out.”

you squeeze gojo's hand gently, the firmness of your grip reflecting your resolve. “i understand that you were overwhelmed, but it didn’t excuse how you treated me. i needed you, and instead, i felt abandoned.” the words hang in the air, leaving room for reflection and a path towards healing.

they both hang their heads, their expressions marked by remorse. gojo's grip on your hand tightens, as if begging you to understand. geto’s eyes avoid yours, his guilt palpable. they both know you’re right, their previous justifications sounding hollow now.

gojo sighs heavily, his voice soft but firm. “we know we screwed up,” he says, his eyes meeting yours again. “and we're sorry. we truly are. we shouldn't have let our issues affect how we treated you. you deserve better than what we've given you.”

you take a deep breath, your voice trembling as you begin to speak. “i tried to take fewer missions because i know you both were worried. i wanted to be around more, to show you that I care. but every night... every night, when i’m in bed between you two, you turn your backs on me.”

your tears start to blur your vision, and you struggle to keep your composure. “no matter which side i turn, all i see is your backs. it felt like you were shutting me out, like I was invisible to you. i feel like i have nowhere to go, and feel more alone.”

the emotion in your voice is raw, and the tears that spill down your cheeks only deepen the weight of what you’re expressing. the room fills with the sound of your quiet sobs, adding a poignant layer to the shared moment of vulnerability.

their eyes widen as you continue, their expressions turning pained as you lay bare the depths of your hurt. gojo's grip on your hand turns almost crushing as he listens to your words, his heart clenching as he hears the anguish in your voice.

geto's face is pale, his throat bobbing as he swallows, the sight of your tears a physical manifestation of the pain they've caused. gojo's voice is rough, his eyes fixed on yours. “we didn’t think you felt that way,” he says, his voice hoarse. “we’re sorry. we were idiots.”

gojo’s other hand reaches up, cupping your cheek gently, his thumb wiping away some of your tears. “please don’t cry,” he mumbles, his voice cracking as he watches you cry. geto sits up straighter, his eyes fixed on your tear-stained face. “we’ll fix this,” he promises, his voice filled with resolve.

gojo nods, his eyes soft as they roam over your face. “please, just let us make it up to you,” he says quietly, his hand still holding your cheek.

you take a shuddering breath, your voice wavering but firm. “you know how it was at home before i came to jujutsu high. i was always walking on eggshells every day. i don’t want to feel that way with you two. i love you both so much, and it hurts to feel like i’m just an afterthought.” the weight of your words hangs in the air, a poignant reminder of your vulnerability and the deep emotional connection you share.

you look at them with a mix of sadness and fear, your voice trembling. “and i feel so scared because i’ve started to think that maybe I should leave. i don’t want to, but the way things have been... it makes me wonder if staying is just going to hurt more.” the admission is heavy, your fear of leaving mingling with the pain of feeling disconnected. It’s a vulnerable moment, revealing the depth of your uncertainty and the impact their actions have had on you.

their eyes widen at your words, their expressions changing from guilt to fear. gojo’s hand tightens on your cheek, his eyes turning desperate, while geto’s hands clench into fists in his lap. gojo’s voice is strained, his eyes searching yours. “please don’t talk like that,” he murmurs, his tone pleading. “please don’t even think about leaving.”

geto scoots to the edge of the armchair, his eyes filled with a mixture of fear and desperation. “you don’t have to go. we can fix this, just stay.”

they know, from the moment you first got met each other and you told them they were going to go down in history as the world’s biggest idiots instead of swoon over them, that you’re not the type of person to be a pushover. they’ve always admired how you refuse to let anyone disrespect you or treat you as less than you deserve. from the beginning, they understood that once someone starts treating you badly, you’re ready to leave—no matter how much you love them—because your self-respect has always been paramount.

and now, as you stand before them, telling them that if leaving is what it takes to keep yourself at peace, you’ll take that chance and face the consequences, they can feel the weight of that truth. their admiration for your strength has always been part of what they love about you, but now that very strength threatens to take you away from them.

the fear in their eyes deepens, a reflection of the realization that they’ve pushed you to the edge, and they know you won’t hesitate to step away if it means preserving your sense of self-worth.

they sit in stunned silence for a few moments, the weight of your words sinking in. they know you well enough to know that when you say you'll leave, you'll follow through. the thought of losing you, of losing what they have, is too painful to bear.

geto breaks the silence first, his voice soft but filled with an edge of desperation. “you don’t have to leave. we can fix this.” gojo nods frantically, his hand on your cheek holding you more firmly now. “please, don’t talk about leaving,” he murmurs, his eyes pleading.

you take a deep breath, feeling the tension in the room as they hold onto you, their desperation clear. “i did think about leaving,” you admit, your voice is soft but steady. “but it was just for a second because i can’t bear the thought of living without you two. i love you both too much, and that’s why i’m here, willing to talk.”

their grip on you tightens slightly, a mix of relief and guilt washing over their faces. geto’s shoulders relax a little, and gojo’s eyes soften as he hears your words. “i don’t want to lose you,” you continue, “but i need to know that things are going to change. i need to feel like i matter to you as much as you matter to me.”

they both nod slowly, understanding the seriousness of the situation. their hands remain firmly on you, desperate to maintain whatever connection they still have with you.

gojo’s eyes are filled with remorse, his voice soft. “you matter to us,” he says quietly, “so much more than you ever realize. we’ve been idiots. we took you for granted, and we didn’t give you the attention and care you deserve. that ends now.”

geto nods, his expression taut. “we’ll do better,” he says firmly, his voice filled with determination.

they both hold onto you tightly, as if trying to convey the depth of their feelings through touch alone. gojo’s eyes are fixed on yours, his expression filled with remorse. “we’ve been so focused on our own problems that we neglected you,” he mutters, his voice soft. “that won’t happen again. we swear it.”

geto nods in agreement, his hand reaching out to hold your other cheek softly. “we were stupid,” he says bluntly. “we didn’t realize how much we were hurting you until you were almost gone.”

you intertwine your hands with theirs, holding onto them firmly as you look into their eyes. “i’m not going to apologize for how i acted this past week,” you say, your voice calm but resolute. “i was just trying to give you a taste of your own medicine, to make you feel the effects of your actions. but that doesn’t change the fact that i love you both so much.”

they both nod, their eyes dropping to your intertwined hands. they know you're right, that you don't owe them any apologies. they have hurt you, and they know it's up to them to make amends.

gojo speaks first, his voice soft but firm. “we don’t expect you to apologize,” he says, his thumb lightly caressing your cheek. “we deserve what we got. you had every right to react the way you did.”

geto nods in agreement, his hand squeezing yours gently. “we were selfish, careless,” he murmurs. “we’re sorry.” you smile softly at them, feeling the weight of their remorse in the way they hold onto you. “i don’t mind you prioritizing your work,” you say gently, your fingers tightening around theirs. “you’re the strongest jujutsu sorcerers, and people rely on you. it’s your responsibility, and i understand that. i just don’t want you to turn your backs on me again.”

their expressions reflect the truth of your words. they know the demands of their profession, and they know they'll always be expected to prioritize their work. but they also know they messed up by neglecting you in the process.

gojo’s eyes stay fixed on yours, his voice low. “we won’t let that happen again,” he promises, his hand gently squeezing your cheek. “we’re going to find a way to balance our responsibilities and give you the attention you deserve.”

you lean your side against gojo's chest, feeling the warmth and strength of his body. with your hands still intertwined with theirs on your lap, you look up at them, your voice gentle but firm. “please, just talk to me when you’re feeling down or overwhelmed or anything,” you ask, your eyes searching theirs for understanding. “i’m here for you, and i want to help. but i can’t if you shut me out.”

gojo wraps his arm around you as you lean against him, his eyes softening as he listens to your words. geto nods in agreement, his grip on your hand gentle but firm.

gojo’s voice is soft, filled with a hint of guilt. “we know,” he says quietly. “we were wrong to shut you out. we promise we’ll communicate better from now on.” geto’s expression is taut but sincere. “we’ll talk to you when we’re struggling, and we’ll make sure you’re still a priority.”

you smile softly at them, a sense of relief washing over you as you feel the sincerity in their words. “thank you,” you say, your voice filled with gratitude. “thank you for trying to sort things out instead of just letting it be.”

they both look at you, their eyes filled with a mix of guilt and love. gojo’s arm tightens around you, holding you closer to him, while geto's hand gently caresses your hand in his. gojo nods, his expression firm. “you’re too important to us to let things fall apart like this.”

geto's voice is soft but determined. “we’ll do whatever it takes to make it right again.”

they sit with you in a comfortable silence for a few moments, the air filled with a mixture of relief and unspoken emotions. gojo's hold on you remains firm, his broad chest firm and warm against your side, while geto's hand gently intertwines your fingers with his.

finally, gojo speaks, his voice soft. “can you promise us something?”

you hum softly in response, your curiosity piqued by gojo’s gentle tone. you glance up at him, waiting for what he has to say, still feeling the warmth of their touch grounding you.

gojo's eyes meet yours, his gaze unusually serious. “promise us that you won’t shut us out either,” he says quietly. geto nods in agreement, his hand squeezing yours gently. “we want to know when you’re not okay,” he adds, his voice firm but gentle. “we don’t want a repeat of this week. we don’t want you to feel like you have nowhere to go.”

you nod softly, feeling the sincerity in their words. “okay,” you whisper, your voice barely above a breath. the promise settles between you all, a silent understanding that things will be different moving forward. the weight of the past week begins to lift, replaced by a sense of renewed connection.

they both nod at your response, a visible relief washed over them. gojo's grip on you tightens again, his arm holding you even closer to him, while geto's hand gently caresses your fingers in his.

they both watch you for a few moments, their gazes filled with a mixture of love and newfound determination. they can feel the shift in the air between you, and finally, gojo speaks again, his voice quiet.

“can we ask you something?”

gojo smiles faintly, the sight of your smile melting away some of the tension in his own face. he glances at geto, who nods slightly, before returning his attention to you. “can we sleep with you tonight?” he asks, his voice soft and sincere. “we miss you.”

you playfully roll your eyes, a smile tugging at your lips. “of course,” you say softly, “i miss you too.”

they both exhale a sigh of relief, their expressions relaxing instantly. gojo’s arm squeezes you again, his body pressing against you firmly. geto’s grip on your fingers tightens slightly as his eyes linger on your face.

gojo’s voice is low, the relief clear in every syllable. “thank god,” he mutters, his voice heavy but filled with something soft and sincere.

geto nods slightly, his eyes meeting gojo’s for a moment before he turns his gaze back to you. “we missed holding you,” he says quietly, his voice equally as sincere. you look at geto, noticing the lingering guilt in his eyes. geto’s gaze meets yours, his eyes reflecting the lingering guilt. “come here,” you say softly. when you tell him to come closer, he moves to kneel between your legs, his expression still marked by regret.

as you slip his long hair behind his ear, your touch is gentle and reassuring. “you shouldn’t be so hard on yourself,” you say softly, your voice filled with understanding. “i know you care deeply, and that’s why this hurts. but you’re not alone in this.”

geto's shoulders slump at your words, the weight of his guilt visibly lessening. his eyes stay fixed on yours, the regret in them slowly being replaced by a soft vulnerability.

he leans into your touch, his head tilting slightly involuntarily at the touch of your fingers to his hair. “i know,” he mutters, his voice still heavy with guilt. “i just wish i hadn't let it get this bad.” geto’s voice is soft, the regret and guilt audible in it. “i just… i just can’t forgive myself for causing you pain,” he murmurs, his voice strained.

you give him a reassuring smile, your voice gentle. “i’m not in pain anymore, so you can stop feeling guilty,” you say softly. “we’ve talked things out, and we’re moving forward. it’s okay to let go of that guilt now. we’re okay.”

geto’s eyes search yours, the guilt still visible but diminishing by the second. he nods slowly, his expression taut but hopeful. he speaks softly, his voice still laced slightly with regret. “i know. but i just… it’s hard to shake this feeling, you know? it’s like a knot in my chest that won’t loosen.”

you lean down and gently kiss his chest, then move to his neck and jaw, your touch tender and soothing. each kiss is a silent reassurance, conveying that you're okay now and that you're not mad at him anymore. your actions are meant to comfort and ease the lingering regret he feels, showing him through your touch that things are healing.

his breath hitches at the feel of your lips on his chest, his body tensing for a brief moment before melting into your touch. each press of your lips sends waves of comfort through him, the knot in his chest loosening with every gentle kiss.

he wraps his arms around your back, pulling you closer, his grip tight and unyielding. when your lips reach his jaw, he tilts his head to give you better access, his eyes fluttering shut. you pull away slightly, your hands still resting gently on his shoulders. you look into his eyes with a soft, reassuring gaze. “don’t feel guilty anymore,” you say gently. “we’re okay. let go of that weight you’re carrying. we’re moving forward together.”

his eyes open slowly, meeting yours. the guilt in his eyes has lessened even more, replaced by a deep vulnerability and newfound trust. he nods slowly, his hands gently pulling you even closer to him.

he leans his forehead against yours, his voice soft and sincere. “i’m trying, i promise,” he murmurs. “i’m trying to let it go. it’s just… it’s just hard, sometimes.”

“shut up, stop it,” you softly murmur. you gently move your hands from his shoulders to his neck, guiding him closer. “come here,” you whisper softly, pulling him towards you until your lips touch his.

he smiles faintly at your soft command, his body willingly moved closer to yours. he doesn’t protest when you gently pull him closer, his eyes closing instinctively as your lips meet his.

the kiss starts slow and hesitant, his body tense against yours as if he’s expecting you to pull away at any second. but gradually, his lips soften, the tension in his body melting away as he surrenders to the tender connection. as geto continues to lean towards you, your back gently presses against gojo’s firm chest. gojo's arms instinctively wrap around you from behind, his presence a comforting anchor as you and geto share a tender kiss. the closeness between all three of you creates a cocoon of warmth and reassurance.

[cheriedivine]

𝐀𝐩𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐜𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫

chapter I | next

꩜ synopsis: you’re best friends. just best friends. except when she lingers a little too long at your door. except when she calls you her favorite, and it doesn’t feel like a joke. except when her fingers graze yours and neither of you pull away. except when you start to wonder if she’s wondering, too…

꩜ Pairing: Ellie Williams x fem reader (no use of y/n)

꩜ CW: swearing, weed, creepy guy, slightly suggestive, tension (if u squint).

꩜ WC: 4.9K

꩜ A/N: okayyy soooo, i’m starting a new series, it will be a slow burn so bear with me. Im excited for this and all the yearning to come woohooooo! just your typical loser lesbians who are best friends and there’s tension but they don’t know it yet alright…

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How can we tell something is complicated? Is it because the easy way isn’t available, or because we crave the possibility of more?

Life is full of complex things like the human brain or death or love. Especially love.

The line between love and codependency is blurry, if it even exists. Do we cling to the people we love because we need them or because we don’t know who we are without them?

Still, love is more than need. It's more than survival.

Of course the easy way is not to feel.

But then again. What’s the point of life without love?

Without being consumed by it? Without being absorbed?

Ellie always felt like love wasn’t meant for her. Yeah sure she had been in a few relationships in the past, casual summer flings, but nothing that got too serious. The moment someone wanted to put a label on her she was out the door.

Maybe she was doomed from the start, sentenced to suffer in loneliness for the rest of her life. Maybe it was karma for all the shit her ancestors had done.

Or maybe... she was just twenty-one, and spiraling.

But then she met you.

Her best friend. Her whole world.

You brought sunshine into her life like it was nothing. Like it was easy.

She smiled more. Went out more. God. She even made stupid jokes just to hear you laugh. Saying you made Ellie’s life better was an understatement.

How it started?

It was a casual Thursday. Ellie was tired, the kind of tired that settled deep in her bones. She’d been up since 5 a.m., chasing the sunrise for an early shoot, and stayed late at the studio the night before, hunched over rolls of film, watching images slowly come to life. Now, all she could think about was the couple she’d photographed that morning. Mid-twenties, freshly engaged, smiling like they had the rest of their lives mapped out. Some people had it all figured out, she thought. Settled. Steady. Meanwhile, she was here…at her usual breakfast spot, an old fashioned diner, squinting at her laptop, scrolling through photo edits with aching eyes. Her camera bag sat beside her on the booth seat, worn and stickered to hell. Savage Starlight, Sleater Kinney, a faded rainbow sticker that had started peeling at the corners.

She yawned into her tea, hood up, headphones loosely slung around her neck, when someone placed a plate down in front of her. chocolate chip pancakes, soft scrambled eggs and bacon, her usual.

Ellie blinked up, and you were standing there, wiping your hands on a dish towel tucked into your apron. Your eyes flicked toward the camera case.

“Savage Starlight,” you nodded at the sticker. “God tier taste.”

Ellie froze for a second, then smirked. “You read that?”

“Duh,” you said like it was obvious. “Issue 8 ruined me emotionally for weeks.”

That pulled a laugh out of her, the first real one she’d had all morning. “Same. Still not over that ending.”

You smiled, shifting your weight to one foot, clearly not in a rush to leave. “Cool camera, by the way.”

“Thanks, she’s my baby” she said, suddenly aware of how wrecked she must look. Messy bun barely held up, camera strap indenting her neck. “—I’m Ellie, by the way.” She stuck her hand out, immediately second guessing it.

Was that too old fashioned? Joel really was rubbing off on her.

“I know. I take your order every other Thursday.” you said, shaking her hand.

She blinked, embarrassed. “Right. Sorry. Early mornings kinda melt my brain.”

“No worries,” you grinned, and Ellie noticed the little pin on your apron. A tiny, pixelated spaceship with your name on it, stupid stupid stupid. she thought to herself for not noticing it earlier.

And since that moment, something shifted. It wasn’t anything loud or life altering, not some cheesy movie moment with music swelling in the background. But it was something. A small click, like a puzzle piece sliding into place.

Ellie became obsessed with you, in a way that she needed to be around you or her day wouldn’t be complete, she needed to hear your voice, your laugh, you calling her stupid for a dad joke she made, she just needed you, her best friend.

From then on, Ellie started showing up more often, not just on Thursdays anymore. Sometimes it was Tuesdays. Sometimes Saturdays, right before the lunch rush. She claimed it was for the pancakes, and not the terrible service (she earned herself a playful smack on the head for that). She’d sit at her usual corner booth, camera bag by her side, flipping through photo previews on her laptop, waiting for your shift to end.

Ellie would usually show up with the latest issue of Savage Starlight, sliding it across the counter like some sort of sacred offering. It became an inside joke your “weekly trade deal,” she'd say. In return, you’d draw ridiculous little faces into her pancakes with extra chocolate chips, crooked grins, wonky eyes, sometimes a very unflattering interpretation of Joel. She thought it was hilarious.

You’d complain about the usual chaos, the rude customers, shit tips, kids treating the floor like their personal warzone. Ellie would listen between mouthfuls of bacon, eyes gleaming.

“Sounds like you need a cig break,” she’d propose, already halfway out of the booth.

And that’s how most of your breaks ended up. At the back of the diner, sharing a cigarette with your best friend, the smoke curling into lazy spirals between your fingers. Who would’ve thought the best thing to come out of this job would be the quiet girl who used to sit in the corner booth alone, camera gear spilling across the table and making it a logistical nightmare to serve her food?

You ducked behind the counter, catching your co-worker scribbling down an order on a pad.

“Taking five,” you whispered into her ear, already slipping off your apron and tossing it over the stool.

Ellie was waiting by the door, cigarette hanging from her lips, hands in her pockets, grinning like an idiot. Moments like these, quiet, in company of you, were the highlight of her day.

The metal door creaked behind you as you stepped out into the alley, greeted by the smell of old grease, cigarette smoke, and freedom.

“You have no idea how much I despise this uniform,” you groaned, tugging at the stiff collar of your work shirt like it personally offended you. “Why do they make us wear these stupid skirts and hats?”

Ellie chuckled, flicking the lighter and shielding the flame with her hand. “You look cute, very… militant barista chic”

You gave her a flat look. “It’s a literal open invitation for creepy dudes to stare”

“In that case I’ll beat them to death with my camera tripod” she said around the cigarette, grinning as she passed it to you. “I would like to see you try honestly.”

You took a drag, leaning your back against the brick wall, bumping your shoulder into hers lightly. “I’m just saying, Hooters uniform has more coverage than this… thing.”

Ellie nodded solemnly. “Oh yeah? Are you a Hooters expert now?”

You snorted, passing the cigarette back. “Certainly more than you. I wish I could just spend time with you in your stinky little studio instead of serving Ice lattes to Karens”

Ellie blinked, a flicker of something crossing her face, but she masked it quickly with a laugh. “Obviously. I’m way prettier.”

“Thats certainly one way to put it.”

“Rude.”

You both stood there for a while in comfortable silence, trading the cigarette and small complaints about the day, until your five minutes were definitely more like ten and your co-worker cracked open the back door to glare at you.

Ellie just winked and mouthed bitch. She checked her phone, winced, then let out a dramatic sigh like the world was ending. “Shit. I’ve got a shoot in twenty minutes.”

You blew out a stream of smoke. “Ugh, fine. Go be artsy and productive or whatever.”

“I will. Gotta make the girls look ethereal in a field of flowers or something,” she joked, already stubbing the cigarette out on the wall and stuffing it into an empty Altoids tin she kept just for that purpose.

You rolled your eyes. “Tell them to pose like they're not better looking than me or I’m gonna have a problem.”

Ellie gave you a look, smirking as she slung her camera bag over her shoulder. “Don’t worry, you’re the muse.”

You flushed but covered it with a sarcastic bow. “Obviously. Anyway, I’m stuck in hell for two more hours, but I’ll text you after. You still down for the movies tonight?”

“Dina threatened me if I bail. Jesse’s picking the movie, though, so get ready to watch something with car chases and unnecessary explosions.”

You groaned. “He has the worst taste. I swear if it’s another Fast and Furious sequel I’m leaving.”

Ellie laughed and started backing down the alley, walking backwards. “You say that every time and yet you stay. For the family.”

You threw your apron at her. She dodged it.

“Text me when you're done,” she called out before disappearing around the corner, entering her beat up truck.

Back inside, the rest of your shift crawled by in a blur of clinking mugs, whiny toddlers, and low tip customers, but it was easier to survive knowing you had a movie night waiting, with your best friends, and Ellie sitting next to you in the dark, probably whispering dumb commentary in your ear the whole time.

You smiled to yourself as you cleared a table. Just two more hours.

The field was nice. Golden hour kind of nice, warm light slicing through the tall grass. Ellie adjusted the settings on her camera, peeking through the viewfinder at the group of girls twirling in their flowy pastel dresses, laughing like they were in a Greta Gerwig film.

“Alright, ladies, pretend you like each other!” she called out, grinning.

They laughed and did that overly exaggerated cutesy pose thing, arms slung around each other, a couple fake-kissing cheeks. Ellie snapped the shots effortlessly, stepping around them with practiced ease. Her brain clicked into auto-pilot when she was shooting. Light, angles, timing. The rest of the world faded at the click of the camera.

Except for one of them.

Cat.

Bridesmaid number three. Mid-20s, pretty, clearly knew it, and knew how to work a camera. She'd been giving Ellie a look since they started, the kind with too much eye contact and a little too much lower lip biting.

"Should I hold the bouquet like this?" Cat asked sweetly, lifting it chest-level and tilting her head just enough to make it obvious.

Ellie didn’t skip a beat, snapping the shot. “Sure…unless you’re auditioning for a rom-com in which case, maybe tilt it a little more—yeah, that’s the angle. Nailed it.”

The girls laughed and whooped like they were in a music video.

Cat winked at her. “You’re kinda funny, camera girl.”

Ellie smirked but didn’t look up from her camera. “Only kinda?”

The flirting kept bouncing like that for a bit. Harmless, surface-level, the way Ellie always played it when she wasn’t invested, just bored. She never let it get too deep, not like with you. After wrapping the shoot and handing off her card to the bride, Ellie was stuffing her camera into her bag when Cat came up to her, twirling a piece of her hair between her fingers like she practiced that in the mirror.

“Hey,” she said, kind of sing-songy. “You should give me your number. You know, in case I wanna book you for something… personal.”

Ellie bit back a grin, already zipping her bag. “Oh, totally. Here—”

She grabbed a pen from her tote and scribbled a number on the back of a coffee receipt. Not hers, obviously. Some random number she made up.

Cat took it, all flirty and hopeful, and Ellie gave her a small salute before heading toward her truck.

As soon as she was out of sight, she cracked up to herself, shaking her head.

“Yeah, good luck with that one.”

She wasn’t mean. Just... not interested. Not in Cat. Not in anyone lately.

Only person she actually wanted to hear from was probably just clocking out of that stupid diner, peeling off that stupid uniform and texting her with some dumb meme or a rant about someone leaving syrup on the counter.

She checked her phone.

No text yet.

She leaned against the side of her truck, thumb tapping lazily against the metal, waiting. Like clockwork, her phone buzzed in her back pocket. A text from you.

It was a photo. Your middle finger proudly raised beside your diner uniform, crumpled and defeated on your bed. “im out. pick me up at 6?”

Ellie chuckled, typing back: “Only if ur wearing the uniform.”

Your response came quick: middle finger emoji.

Still grinning, she climbed into her truck and headed to her studio (which, technically, was also her apartment…but calling it the studio made it feel a little more like she had her shit together). She was planning on washing off the day and changing into something comfortable for movie night at Dina’s.

Meanwhile, back at your place, you kicked off your shoes the second you walked in. Your roommate wasn’t home, probably still stuck at work, so you shot her a quick text letting her know you’d be out late. You peeled off your uniform, and threw on your robe before texting Ellie again, “home. u picking me up at 6 right?”

You stepped into the shower, determined to scrub off the smell of burnt bacon and sticky syrup, letting the steam pull the exhaustion out of your bones. Afterward, you got caught up scrolling on your phone, time slipping past unnoticed… until there was a sharp knock on your door.

“Shit,” you muttered. Then louder, “HOLD ON, I’M COMING!”

Still wrapped in your towel, you darted to the front door and flung it open. Ellie blinked, caught off guard. Her eyes flicked over your towel-wrapped frame a second too long, before she quickly covered her grin with a hand, trying (and failing) to play it cool.

“I am so, so sorry,” you said, pulling the towel tighter around yourself, suddenly feeling too exposed. too self conscious. “I got distracted and totally lost track of time.”

Ellie raised her eyebrows, but her voice stayed teasing. “You sure you’re not trying to seduce me?”

You rolled your eyes. “Ten minutes. Swear.”

You vanished down the hallway. Ellie flopped onto the couch, pulling out her phone and texting the group chat: running late but grabbing snacks first. don’t start without us.

She shifted to get more comfortable, and caught a glimpse through the crack in your bedroom door. Two inches. Practically nothing. Not on purpose… right?

You were slipping on a hoodie, back turned, still in just your bra and pants. Ellie’s face flushed instantly. She snapped her head away like the door had personally scolded her. “Jesus Christ,” she muttered, burying her face in her hands. “Fuckin’ creep.”

Before her spiraling could get worse, you emerged from your room, hoodie on, tugging on your shoes.

“Okay,” you said, grabbing your keys and swinging the door open. “Let’s go.”

Ellie followed, still flustered, and absolutely not ready to unpack any of what just happened.

The sky was starting to turn soft and purple as Ellie pulled out of your complex’s parking lot, her tattooed arm flexing, hand grasping lazily on the wheel, the other fiddling with the volume knob. Some old indie playlist was shuffling through the speakers. Ellie music, as you called it. You leaned back in your seat, hair still a little damp from the shower, hoodie sleeves pulled halfway over your hands.

“So?” you said, glancing at her. “How was the rest of your very glamorous day?”

Ellie let out a snort. “Oh, you know. Just got aggressively flirted with by someone named Cat.”

Your head turned so fast it nearly cracked. “Cat?”

“Bridesmaid number three. Said I looked like I’d be good with a camera and my hands.” Ellie smirked.

You groaned, but came out more like a failed laugh. “Ew. Who says that?”

“She did. With full confidence. Honestly? Kinda impressive.”

You narrowed your eyes at her. “Tell me you didn’t flirt back.”

“I mean, a little. For the bit.”

You gasped dramatically, pressing a hand to your chest. “You’re shameless.”

“Hey—she asked for my number, I panicked and gave her Joel’s landline. So I think I redeemed myself.”

That made you burst out laughing, and gave you a weird sense of relief. “Oh my god, imagine her calling and Joel picking up.”

“‘Hello, Miller residence.’ And then just click.”

You were still giggling when you turned toward the window. “You’re evil.”

Ellie looked over at you for a second too long, a crooked smile tugging at her mouth. “You’re just jealous.”

You scoffed. “Jealous of Cat? Please. I wear a dumb visor and serve bacon to men named Dennis who tip in nickels.”

“That’s hot.”

You rolled your eyes. “My shift was hell. I had a kid throw a hashbrown at me and scream because I gave him the wrong syrup. Like. What syrup could he possibly need at age four? It’s all just sugar.”

“Future criminal behavior,” Ellie said. “I would’ve drop-kicked him.”

“Oh believe me, I considered it. But then I remembered I’m trying not to go to jail this year.”

“Personal growth,” she nodded solemnly.

There was a comfortable silence after that. The kind that didn’t feel like it needed to be filled. The kind you only got with someone who knew you well enough to not need noise. But still, Ellie spoke again, a little quieter this time.

“Hey,” she said, eyes on the road, voice soft. “We still have to get those snacks.”

You turned your head, smiling without really meaning to. “7-Eleven stop?.”

“7-Eleven it is.”

The buzz of fluorescent lights and the faint hum of the refrigerator coolers welcomed you as the door to the 7-Eleven swung open with a mechanical chime. Ellie held it open for you with a sarcastic bow. “After you.”

You rolled your eyes smiling. “Wow. So chivalrous. All for a bag of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos.”

“What can I say?” she shrugged, grabbing a plastic basket. “I’m a provider.”

You split up for a second, Ellie going straight to the drinks section while you scanned the candy aisle, already filling your arms with too many options. Gummy worms. A Kit Kat. Those sour blue raspberry straws Ellie claimed she hated but somehow always ended up buying.

You were just about to decide between a regular-sized Snickers or the obnoxiously large King Size when a voice behind you broke the silence.

“Damn,” the guy said, eyeing you up like you were on sale. “If I was your man, I’d never let you out the house looking that good.”

You didn’t even turn to look at him at first, just dropped a pack of sour candy into your basket.

“If you were my man,” you said, glancing over with a tight smile, “I’d move states and change my name.”

He scoffed. “Damn, you don’t gotta be a bitch about it—”

“—And you gotta be stupid enough to not take a hint” Ellie appeared behind you, sliding an arm around your shoulders with a lazy grin, completely playing into the moment.

The guy blinked, probably about to say something else, until Ellie looked at him, really looked at him and whatever speech he had left drained from his face. He turned and walked off without another word.

“You find the sour blue raspberry straws?” she asked casually, like nothing had happened.

You nodded, leaning into her like it was muscle memory. “Yep.”

Something always shifted in Ellie when guys like that got too close. She didn’t make a scene, didn’t have to, but her jaw would clench just a little, her voice would drop, and suddenly she wasn’t just your best friend. She was your shield, your protector. And no one got to talk to you like that when she was around.

Once he was out of earshot, you burst out laughing, nearly dropping your armful of snacks. “Babe is new”

“It felt right,” Ellie said, grinning. “And also hilarious. You should’ve seen his face.”

You were still laughing as you dumped your haul on the counter. “Thanks for the save, my prince charming.”

“Anytime,” she said, tossing a couple of sodas beside your loot. “Protecting you from weird dudes is in my contract.”

“Oh yeah?” you raised a brow. “Where’s this contract?”

“In my head,” she said.

You shook your head, still smiling. “We should make it a real thing. Ellie Williams: official candy mule and creepy guy repellant.”

“I prefer the term bodyguard,” she said, pulling out her wallet. “But yeah. Works for me.”

Dina’s apartment smelled like buttery popcorn, weed, and that vaguely sweet candle she always left burning on her windowsill, something with a name like Midnight Fig or Velvet Moon. The TV was already on when you walked in, credits of some old romcom playing, Jesse sitting cross-legged on the floor, halfway through a bag of gummy worms.

“You’re late,” Dina called from the kitchen, not even looking up as she stirred something in a pot. “Movie night rule number one: punctuality. Rule number two: bring snacks. Did you guys bring snacks?”

“We were on time,” Ellie said, kicking the door closed behind her. “But somebody forgot I was picking them up.”

You shot her a look. “I was in the shower. I told you to pick me up at six, not barge in at six.”

“Oh my god,” Jesse muttered. “Just make out already.”

“Shut up,” both you and Ellie snapped at the same time. Jesse loved to poke the bear when it came to you two, claiming it was funny how flustered you both got.

That only made him grin wider.

You dropped onto the couch with a dramatic sigh, pulling a throw blanket over your legs and tossing a bag of hot cheeto chips onto the coffee table. “There. Snacks.”

Ellie flopped down beside you, her thigh barely brushing yours. Not enough to say anything, not enough to move away—but enough to notice. She leaned back, hands behind her head.

“So,” Dina said, walking over with a bowl of something that looked suspiciously like boxed mac and cheese. “Ellie, how’d your shoot go? You flirt with any bridesmaids?”

You groaned. “Don’t encourage her.”

Ellie smirked. “Told you already. Bridesmaid number three. She winked at me and called me ‘camera girl.’”

Dina wheezed. “Wait. Wait. Did she give you her number?”

“She asked for mine,” Ellie corrected, proudly. “I gave her Joel’s landline.”

“Are you trying to get disowned?” Jesse asked, taking a handful of popcorn.

“I’m trying to avoid drama with a woman named Cat,” Ellie said, dead serious.

You shook your head, “You’re impossible.”

Dina squinted between you two, then looked at Jesse. “Tell me they’re not already dating.”

“Not yet,” Jesse said, popping a gummy into his mouth. “But they will be. I give it, like, three months. Maybe two if there’s a karaoke night.”

You threw a pillow at his head. Ellie snorted and leaned closer, her arm grazing yours again.

“Anyway,” Dina said, tossing a remote into Jesse’s lap, “are we watching Jennifer’s Body or are we letting Jesse pick another sad man movie again?”

“Jennifer’s Body,” you and Ellie said at the same time.

The night rolled on. Full of bad jokes, half-eaten snacks, and shared glances neither of you really knew how to deal with yet.

Not tension, exactly. Not yet. But something.

The movie had long since faded into background noise, replaced by gossip and stolen bites of popcorn. Jesse and Ellie kept chucking snacks at each other like overgrown children, until Dina groaned from the armchair, "You idiots are cleaning all this shit up. Y’all are like toddlers when you're together."

They both laughed, Jesse flinging a pillow in her direction, which, of course, kicked off a full-on war. You were winning. Striking Ellie with a pillow like your life depended on it, until she fought back three times harder, knocking you onto the couch and sending the whole group into hysterics.

This was your group. The best friends you ever had.

You’d all met not long after you and Ellie did. Jesse and Ellie were practically siblings, bonded since childhood, while you’d known Dina since high school—trauma-bonded over shitty exes and academic burnout. She knew you like the palm of her handl You definitely were an incredibly different group of humans, but it’s what made things more genuine with y’all.

You and Ellie had a secret running bet about Jesse and Dina. After one drunken party makeout they swore never happened, they’d been in full denial mode, sneaking glances and pretending it meant nothing.

Ellie bet $20 and a month of free rides that they'd never admit it. You, being the romantic, countered with a month of free pancakes and $10 that they would.

(Not that they needed to know about it.)

A blunt or two made its way around, leaving everyone pleasantly buzzed, limbs heavy, laughter echoing off the walls. Jesse and Ellie were laid out flat on the floor. You sprawled on the couch with Dina nestled between your legs, her back to your chest. It was warm, hazy, perfect.

You glanced at your phone. 2:57 a.m. Saturday. No work tomorrow, thank god. You’d definitely get fired for showing up this stoned.

Your fingers idly played with Dina’s hair while she giggled at nothing. Jesse and Ellie were arguing about something in the background, their voices fuzzy through the weed fog. Eventually, Dina stretched and yawned, announcing she was going to bed.

“If anyone’s crashing, cool. Just don’t open the windows and don’t trip balls in my apartment,” she mumbled.

Jesse followed behind, only to get a very loud, “GET OUT OF MY ROOM, I’M NOT HIGH ENOUGH FOR THIS.” He retreated to the guest room in defeat.

Ellie dropped down on the couch next to you, head tipped back, eyes glossy.

"You don't have an early photoshoot with your kittycat tomorrow?" you teased, glancing at her sideways.

"You wish. I might as well just cave and give her my real number," she said with a lazy grin.

“And forget about me?” you said, bumping her shoulder.

"You know I would never."

"Oh, I know. Im just fucking with you" you smirked.

“Oh yeah?,” she shrugged, grin widening. “I think you would like that.”

“You’re an asshole.”

“Your favorite one.”

“I think that’s why we’re best friends.”

“Yeah, you’re my best-best-best-friend-ever-in-the-world,” she said, slurring it like a spell. “But shh, don’t tell Jesse. Sensitive guy.”

She held a finger to her lips like she was sharing an FBI top-secret, you laughed, shaking your head.

Shortly after that, you dozed off on the couch, your head resting on her shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world. She could smell your shampoo, faintly sweet, and the ever-present scent of maple syrup that always clung to you no matter what. Like it was just… yours. Branded in her brain.

Your thigh was warm against hers, and yeah—it wasn’t weird. You were always like this. Close. Safe.

But then Ellie’s mind flicked back to your apartment. That two-inch crack in the door. The sliver of skin, the bra strap, your back. She’d looked. Not on purpose…but she’d looked. The weed was fucking with her head.

Her chest tightened. Was that weird? Creepy?

But best friends think about stuff like that sometimes… right? Like, it wasn’t a big deal to know your friend was hot, and protecting her from creepy guys knowing you’d treat her so much better In a normal, totally non-weird, completely platonic way. Right?

She tilted her head slightly, watching you breathe, peaceful and soft beside her. Her brain finally quieted.

You were her best friend.

And that would always be enough.

Right?

[warrior-cats-rewritten]

Minor Characters for Tree's Roots

I'm not gonna name the bunch of kittypets/everkits, there really isn't much point and I guarantee there are far too many. Also, The Sisters are now a bigger group because having 12 members at a time ain't great.

Moonlight's prior litters - 5 mollies, and 4 toms.

The mollies: Cinder (Gray molly who left to be a Rogue with her mate. Litter 1), Sky (Tortoiseshell molly who became a kittypet. Litter 1), Tempest (seen. Litter 2), Marigold (Golden tabby trans molly. Litter 2), and Mist (White molly who, sadly, was stillborn. Litter 3)

The toms: Beetle (Gray and black tom, still alive and wandering. Litter 1), Bee (Yellow and black tabby trans tom, he left after he transitioned to wander but is now a kittypet. Litter 2), Web (Gray and white tom who passed as a kit and can be seen by Needleclaw. Litter 2) and Thrush (Small brown tabby tom with a white belly, he left on his wander but has passed from sickness. Litter 3.)

Furze's litter, 2 mollies and a tom - Snapdragon, the oldest molly, a ginger tabby with a white belly and blue eyes. Milkweed, a white molly with green eyes and black spots. Sand, a ginger tom with pale yellow eyes who left for his wander but died soon after from a dog attack.

Thin gray tom rogue - Spindle, he and the brown tabby are mates.

Brown tabby molly rogue with sharp claws - Stripes. She and Spindle later have kits who join The Kin later on...

The tom that the Sisters allowed to stay longer only to take as a bad Omen when something bad happened - That tom is Pancakes! Eggs and Bacon's dad! He was Cloud's nephew, the only survivor of his own birth, and all Cloud had left of her beloved little sister. Moonlight demanded he be cast out after the starvation, which wasn't actually his fault.

[mariasont]

hot to the touch

you were fully prepared to tease aaron mercilessly while he grills, but one small burn has him play caretaker. maybe injuries aren't so bad after all

pairing: aaron hotchner x bimbo!reader warnings: suggestive content, minor injury (burn), sexual tension, sudden marriage fantasies triggered by men with tongs prompt: here! wc: 0.7k

You nod at all the right times (or maybe the wrong times, you wouldn’t know), while Aaron says something about charcoal ratios or burner placement, details that seem very important to him, and impossible for your brain to retain when he’s looking like that. One hand rests near his mouth, thumb grazing his lower lip like he’s posing for the cover of Men Who Know Things and Also Ruin Your Panties. His shirt clings to his chest with a damp little wrinkle, and you’re hit with the overwhelming urge to drop to your knees and just… take a little detour. Chest to navel, navel to belt.

He drags his forearm across his brow, smearing a dark streak just above his temple — soot, grease, or possibly some chemical compound the government invented in a lab to make men full of pure, unfiltered sex appeal. 

“Hold still,” you say quickly, already yanking your tank top up and blotting the edge of the mark with a careful hand. “Got a little something, handsome.”

He doesn’t respond, just stares, all squinty and broody and clearly seconds away from kissing you into next week, right here, in the presence of God and team members while the tongs dangle uselessly from his hand and your body leans just a little too close. Maybe you were meant to be a lake wife. Maybe you were born to wear flannel and make babies with a man who smells like hickory smoke and bourbon. Maybe you need to price out outdoor furniture. And double strollers.

“Sweetheart,” he says, one hand ghosting toward your waist.  “Careful. The grill’s hot.”

You bat your lashes. “I’m fully aware of hot things in my immediate vicinity.”

“That’s not  —”

“One burns food. One burns through thongs.” 

He lets out the kind of breath that sounds like it’s been fighting to escape for an hour. “You want dinner, or do you want me to drop everything and bend you over the nearest surface?”

“...Both?”

He doesn’t justify that with a response, just catches your wrist, kisses it once then tugs you in front of him, slotting you between his arms.

“Okay,” he says against your ear, “burger watch. You look pretty. You keep me company. Talk to me about anything but your thong and warn me if I get too distracted and set something on fire.”

“Are you objectifying me right now, Agent Hotchner?”

“Constantly.”

“So obsessed with me. It’s cute.”

His tongs hover mid-air for a second too long before he clears his throat and shifts a patty to the cooler side of the grill. “You make it difficult to do anything else.”

You open your mouth to hit him with something dramatic, probably “well I make it hard for most men” because you are who you are and he deserves to suffer, but apparently, the universe thinks you’re getting a little too cocky.

Your hand, moving of its own volition like a traitorous limb, finds the grill's edge and suddenly your palm is sizzling like cheap diner bacon at three in the morning. It takes one Mississippi, two Mississippi for your brain to connect sizzling flesh to actual pain. 

“Oh,”  you squeak.

“Shit,” Aaron breathes, already grabbing your wrist, tugging you toward the kitchen.

The skin at the base of your palm is already turning pink, angry and glossy. You stare at it as Aaron moves. He flips on the faucet, cold water blasting as he angles your wrist under it, thumb pressing gently to the back of your hand to keep it steady.

“Surface burn. Small area. Base of the palm’s got padding, you’re lucky,” he says, almost to himself. “Not deep. Should heal clean.”

“So no amputation?”

“No amputation,” he confirms, half-laughing as he leans in and presses a kiss to your forehead. “Though you do seem committed to testing my blood pressure.”

And oh, isn’t that a delightful thought — you, single-handedly responsible for the downfall of Aaron Hotchner’s otherwise perfect cardiovascular health. You’d probably feel guilty i it didn’t thrill you just a bit.

“See? This is what happens when you distract me with your face. I get hurt. And then you get stressed. It’s a dangerous cycle, Aaron.”

“I’ll take that under advisement.”

You tilt your head toward him, lashes still damp from the steam, mouth pulled into a soft pout. “In the meantime, I think you should take responsibility and kiss me until I forget I was ever injured.”

He chuckles under his breath, already reaching for the burn cream. “Somehow I don’t think that’s what the CDC recommends.”

Yet, despite his skepticism, he’s already leaning in, breaking every known regulation in existence, just for you.

join me at the lake for my 5k event!

maria's red, white and bau masterlist

[theonottsbxtch]

A SUNDAY KIND OF LOVE | OP81

an: i think i've hurt you lot for a good hot minute, so here is some fluff of my beloved.

wc: 2.3k

synopsis: sundays were race day, but not all of them were. some of them were time for oscar to enjoy time with his little family.

WHEN OSCAR WOKE THAT MORNING, the other side of the bed was empty. Still warm, but empty. He lingered for a moment, letting the golden morning light seep through the pale curtains and spill across the room. The silence was gentle, save for the distant trill of birdsong outside. Stretching languidly, he felt the stiffness in his muscles ease, the last remnants of sleep melting away.

Then he heard it—the faint strains of music drifting from the kitchen. A smile ghosted across his lips. He already knew the scene that awaited him.

His gaze swept the room as he reached for a pair of sweatpants. In the dim light, his foot caught on a forgotten toy, drawing a soft wince before he chuckled, shaking his head. With an easy grace, he pulled on his grey sweats and made his way to the door, anticipation curling warm in his chest.

"Ma chérie, qu'est-ce que je t'ai dit à propos de la télévision? Papa dort, baisse-la," her voice floated through the apartment, light and teasing. Darling what did I tell you about the tv? Dad is sleeping, turn it down

As he stepped into the living room, the volume dipped, and the first thing he saw was Louanne, cross-legged on the floor, remote in hand, utterly transfixed. Last week’s race flickered across the screen, her tiny fingers pressing buttons with intent curiosity.

Then, his gaze found her.

She moved with quiet elegance, lost in the rhythm of the morning. One of his shirts hung loosely over her frame, sleeves rolled to her elbows, while a pair of his boxers—cinched at the waist with a hairband—became makeshift shorts. She hummed absently to the music as she stirred something in a pan, utterly absorbed in the simple, unhurried art of breakfast. The rich scent of coffee and crisping bacon curled through the air, embracing him in its warmth.

For a moment, he simply watched, leaning against the doorframe, drinking in the quiet perfection of it all.

This was his world. His own little haven.

Pushing off the frame, he crossed the room, his heart full.

"Good morning, beautiful," he murmured, his voice steeped in affection.

She turned, a smile unfolding across her face like the first bloom of spring. "Morning, sleepyhead. Breakfast won’t be long. Did you sleep well?"

"Perfectly," he murmured, stepping closer to press a lingering kiss to her forehead. "Even better now that I’m here with you two."

Louanne’s delighted voice broke through, her face alight with excitement. "Papa! Did you see Uncle Lan overtake Tonton Charles? Il gagne!"

Oscar chuckled, "I saw, sweetheart. I was there. Maybe we can watch the rest together after breakfast."

He said nothing more as he stepped behind his wife, wrapping his arms around her waist, pressing his face into the curve of her neck. Her warmth, her scent—everything about her felt like home.

"The more French you speak to her," he murmured, lips grazing her jaw, "the harder it gets for me to keep up."

She laughed softly, shifting the mixing bowl in her hands as she finished the crepe batter. "You’ll thank me when she’s fluent in two languages."

And in that quiet kitchen, wrapped in the scent of coffee and the sound of their daughter's quiet giggles, Oscar thought—he already did.

As she whisked the batter, Oscar’s eyes drifted to her hands, his brow creasing as he noticed the absence of her wedding ring. A quiet frown settled on his face.

“Where’s your ring?” His voice was gentle, though laced with curiosity. She could be forgetful at times, but she had worn that ring for years—it was as much a part of her as the laughter in her voice.

She barely glanced up, nodding towards the sofa where their daughter lay cocooned in a blanket, mischief written across her small, delicate features.

“Ask that little bandit over there. Daylight robbery.”

A laugh rumbled from Oscar’s chest as he stepped away, crossing the room towards Louanne, who grinned up at him with an impish twinkle in her eyes.

"Alright, little thief," he drawled, crouching beside her. "Where did you hide Maman’s ring?"

Louanne giggled, tucking the remote beneath her chin as if guarding a great secret. "It's a mystery, Papa!"

Oscar hummed, rubbing his chin in mock contemplation. "Then I suppose I’ll have to unleash my world-class detective skills."

Before she could wriggle away, his fingers found her sides, tickling her until she dissolved into breathless laughter. She squirmed and shrieked, limbs flailing, her delighted giggles filling the room.

It didn’t take long for her resolve to crumble.

Gasping between fits of laughter, she shoved at his chest, surrendering with a breathless, "Mister Monsieur has it!"

Oscar pulled back, his grin triumphant as he turned towards the well-loved teddy bear propped against the television. Sure enough, nestled in the front pocket of its little jumpsuit, a familiar golden band gleamed in the soft morning light.

"You can’t keep this, sweetheart," he murmured, retrieving the ring with a gentle shake of his head.

“But she can’t cook with it! She’ll—she’ll…” Louanne paused, brows knitting together in concentration. Oscar knew this look—when words danced just beyond her grasp, flickering between the two languages woven into her life.

“Ruin it!” she finally burst out, proud of herself.

“Well done," Oscar praised, ruffling her hair. "But I promise you, the ring will be just fine."

Louanne didn’t look entirely convinced, but after a thoughtful pause, she nodded solemnly. With the ring safely in hand, Oscar made his way back to the kitchen, where his wife was pouring smooth ribbons of batter onto the hot pan.

“It’s awfully quiet,” he remarked, leaning against the counter. “Where’s the other one?”

“With his uncle,” she replied, laughter in her voice. “He woke me at six this morning.”

Oscar sighed, already sensing where this was going. “Which uncle?”

She hesitated. That was all he needed.

“No," he groaned, closing his eyes. "Don’t say Lando. Please don’t tell me he’s taken him surfing again.”

The sheepish smile on her lips was answer enough.

Instead of offering sympathy, she simply shot him a knowing glance before nudging his shoulder and turning back to the stove. "Now you know how I feel every time you put that one over there in a kart."

Oscar scoffed, hopping onto the counter and reaching for a crispy strip of bacon before she could swat his hand away. "But she wants to!"

“She’s still so young!"

“She could be a world champion!” he countered, ever the dreamer.

“She’s seven, Oscar.”

“I started at seven, and I turned out perfectly fine!”

She arched a brow, unimpressed. “That’s up for debate. Ruben is eleven, and Lando’s been taking him surfing since he was six.”

Oscar pressed a hand to his chest as if wounded. "You cut me deep, my love."

She rolled her eyes, but the corners of her mouth twitched. “Just promise me you’ll keep an eye on her. She’s our little daredevil.”

“I promise,” he said softly, reaching for her hand. Carefully, he slid the ring back onto her finger, pressing a gentle kiss to her knuckles. “And I’ll make sure Lando returns our Ruben in one piece, too.”

She laughed, shaking her head as she flipped a crepe with effortless ease, catching it with her bare hands before placing it onto the waiting stack.

“We make quite the team, don’t we?” she mused.

“The best,” Oscar agreed, watching her with a fond smile.

For a moment, the world slowed. Etta Jones’ A Sunday Kind of Love curled through the air, rich and smooth, wrapping the kitchen in nostalgia. The two of them moved in tandem—him gathering plates and cutlery, her plating up breakfast—a quiet dance they had performed a hundred times before.

Then, the moment shattered.

The front door swung open, followed by the unmistakable sound of hurried footsteps.

“That board better be on the balcony!” she called, not looking up from the crepes.

A pause. A guilty shuffle. Then the distinct scrape of something heavy being dragged. A thud from the balcony confirmed her suspicions before the footsteps resumed.

A few seconds later, Ruben appeared, sandy-haired and grinning, still slightly damp from the sea.

“Bonjour, Maman,” he greeted, pressing a kiss to her cheek. "Salut, Papa," he added, repeating the gesture with Oscar.

Oscar ruffled his hair. "Morning, champ! Ready for your competition?"

“Yup!” Ruben beamed, the ‘p’ popping. “Are we going for lunch before?”

Before Oscar could answer, his wife’s gaze flickered to their son’s hands.

“Va te laver les mains.”

Without complaint, Ruben headed straight for the sink, washing away the remnants of salt and sand while humming a carefree tune.

She placed the last of the breakfast dishes on the counter, taking her usual seat at the far end, leaving the middle seats for the children. Oscar exhaled, glancing around the room—the warmth of the morning light spilling through the window, the quiet clatter of plates, the laughter bubbling just beneath the surface.

Chaos, love, and the promise of a beautiful day.

His world, in its perfect imperfection.

“Maman, my trainer told me to tell you they found one of your old awards. Do you want it?” Ruben announced, hopping onto his seat at the breakfast table. His energy was infectious, filling the morning with a renewed sense of excitement.

Oscar followed close behind, carrying a drowsy Louanne in his arms. He gently settled her into the chair beside her brother before taking his own seat.

“You might as well take it,” Oscar said, reaching for his coffee. “I’ve been saying we need a new cabinet in the other room. I’m running out of space for my helmets.”

She chuckled, shaking her head in amusement. “You’d think after forty-seven of them, it’d be enough, no?” she teased, her eyes twinkling. “Maybe we can finally organise that memorabilia corner you keep talking about.”

Ruben’s face lit up. “Can we put some of my trophies there too, Maman? It can be our family wall of fame!”

“Of course, mon cher,” she said, her heart warming at his enthusiasm. “But first, let’s eat. We’ve got a busy day ahead.”

“Can I put my karting one there?” Louanne piped up, carefully picking strawberries from her plate with tiny fingers. “The one Papa made for me?”

“Yes, Lou, of course we can,” she replied, sending her daughter a fond smile. “It would look perfect next to Rue’s, wouldn’t it, Oscar?”

Her husband, mid-chew, nodded, swallowing before he spoke. “Absolutely,” he agreed, reaching over to ruffle both children’s hair. “My little high-performance athletes.”

Breakfast continued in the usual lively rhythm of a family morning—the clatter of cutlery, bursts of laughter, and the rich aroma of coffee mingling with freshly cooked crepes. The children ate eagerly, already plotting out their grand display of awards.

“Maman’s should go in the middle,” Ruben suggested, practically bouncing in his seat. “It’s the biggest one! After Papa's World Championship!”

“And mine right next to it!” Louanne chimed in, clapping her hands together. “So everyone can see it!”

Oscar chuckled, reaching for his wife’s hand across the table. “Looks like we’ve got some redecorating to do this weekend,” he said, giving her fingers a gentle squeeze.

She smiled, warmth spreading through her chest. “Sounds like a plan,” she agreed. “A family project.”

As the children continued chatting excitedly, she and Oscar exchanged a knowing look. Their love wasn’t just in grand gestures or milestones—it was in these small moments. The shared glances, the teasing, the unspoken understanding between them.

“Alright, kiddos,” Oscar announced, standing and stretching. “Time to get ready. Ruben, don’t forget your backpack, and Lou, let’s find your shoes.”

The children scampered off, still brimming with energy. She and Oscar remained behind, clearing the table in quiet companionship. As she rinsed the last plate, she felt his arms wrap around her from behind, his chin resting on her shoulder.

“You know,” he murmured, his voice low and affectionate, “I love these mornings with you.”

She leaned back into him, closing her eyes for a moment. “Me too,” she whispered. “It’s the little things that make life so special.”

Oscar turned her gently to face him, his eyes filled with that same unwavering adoration. “And it’s these moments that I’ll remember forever,” he said softly before pressing a tender kiss to her lips.

The kiss was sweet, unhurried—a reminder of all the years, the laughter, the life they had built together.

A small voice shattered the quiet.

“Maman! Papa! We’re ready!” Louanne’s call rang from the hallway.

She laughed, squeezing Oscar’s hand before pulling away. “Let’s get out of these pyjamas first,” she said, heading towards their room.

They almost tripped over a stray toy on the way—much like Oscar had earlier—earning a small chuckle from them both. She slipped into her favourite dress, while he threw on his usual jeans and a comfortable shirt. As she brushed her hair, her gaze lingered on the framed photos atop their dresser—snapshots of birthdays, races, quiet Sundays like this one.

Oscar stepped beside her, catching her gaze. “We’ve come a long way, haven’t we?” His voice held the weight of years spent side by side.

She nodded, a fond smile curving her lips. “We really have.” Her expression turned mischievous. “From you giving me attitude at school because you thought you were right about our schedule.”

Oscar groaned, running a hand through his hair. “I’d just moved from Australia—cut me some slack. Besides,” he added, grinning as he tugged her closer, “look what it got us.”

She rolled her eyes but didn’t protest.

Hand in hand, they made their way back to the living room, where Ruben was attempting to tie Louanne’s laces while balancing both their bags on his back. A small snort escaped her lips at the sight.

“Alright, let’s go,” she said, tossing the car keys to Oscar.

The four of them stepped out into the golden morning light, ready to embrace the day. As she watched Ruben and Louanne skip ahead, hands clasped together, a deep sense of gratitude settled in her chest.

This—this was everything.

Her family, with all their chaos and love, was her greatest treasure. And with Oscar by her side, it was only getting better.

the end.

taglist: @dying-inside-but-its-classy @n0vazsq @ihtscuddlesbeeetchx3 @dozyisdead @number-0-iz @curseofhecate @lilorose25 @iamred-iamyellow @iimplicitt @carlossainzapologist

[hanniesbrat]

wake up, sunshine | c.sc

somno + breeding kink with seungcheol

pairing: choi seungcheol x reader

genre: smut, est. relationship

wc: ~1.2k (again… not proofread)

synopsis: morning sex w seungcheol and yall lowkey want babies but you also don’t (rn).

!other kinktober fics!

a/n: 11am on the due date… HELP you guys please i know this is MID as FUCK!! i have zero motivation right now for this, but i wanted to put something out. i’ll come back one day w a better cheol fic to make up for this tiny thing ): also there’s a lot of “fuck”s in this idk… what happened. oh and one last thing…

SM SUPPORTS BULLYING!

it was just past 7am. the crisp fall breeze whispered through the bedroom window, nipping seungcheol on his shoulder. his eyes fluttered open as he rolled over onto his back. he stared at the ceiling for a couple seconds before looking to his right side where you were still lying fast asleep. a soft smile crept onto his face as he watched your peaceful form rise and fall with each breath. he reached his arm out to tuck your hair that had fallen in your face, behind your ear. he shifted onto his side to admire you more comfortably, never growing bored of this hobby. uninterrupted, getting to stare at the beauty in front of him that he was lucky enough to call “mine”.

unless you had an early shift, seungcheol was always awake before you. always exhausted from work, you loved to milk your sleep for all it was worth, whereas your boyfriend would prefer to start his days early. you’d normally wake up an hour after him to the smell of bacon permeating the air in your room.

however, this morning was different.

“fuck,” he mumbled under his breath, nowhere near loud enough to wake you. something about the way your nose had a slight pink tint from the open window, the way your hair was draped beautifully behind you, and the way he could catch a glimpse of your chest down the top of the comforter had his cock trying to break free from his boxers. you looked… devine. in your sleep, you rolled onto your back, and seungcheol took it as an opportunity to get some early breakfast.

he couldn’t help himself. he ducked under the covers, moving himself in between your legs. even in pitch blackness, he knew your body like the back of his hand. he effortlessly moved his arms under your thighs, lifting them over his shoulders, holding them tightly. he gave your inner thighs a couple soft kisses before kitten licking your clit. gentle enough to not startle you, but the feeling so blissful nonetheless, you start shifting your hips slightly under his hold. seungcheol smiled against your core before using an arm to lift the comforter up to see your angelic face already looking down at him. “wake up, sunshine,” he cooed before taking your clit into his mouth, still maintaining eye contact. you gasped at the sudden warmth, in contrast to your now cold, exposed skin. “ch-cheol, what’re you doing?” you giggled out. you don’t even remember falling asleep fully naked but, whatever. you’re currently glad you did.

“having an appetizer before breakfast,” he stated very matter of fact. “i woke up extra hungry, i guess,” he shrugged with a tender smile on his face.

you giggled again before running your fingers through his hair, tugging lightly on the strands to hint that you wanted his face up here with yours, and (even tho his tongue was magic) something else between your legs. your boyfriend couldn’t help his sweet nature, though. as he crawled on top of you, eyes locked on yours, he whispered, “you have the prettiest eyes baby,” before attacking your lips with his. when he pulled away you smiled, “imagine if we made little me’s… ya know… my eyes and stuff…” he chuckled at your flushed cheeks and flustered demeanor. were you trying sweet talk him? dirty talk him? your half-asleep brain had no idea, but he knew exactly what you were getting at.

he hummed before kissing your forehead, then your cheek, then your jaw, and then your neck... he lingered there, leaving tender, wet kisses on your skin. the softness of it all slowly sending you back off into your dreams. “cheol…” you whispered, almost completely asleep. seungcheol pulled away from your neck, once again hovering over you. he smiled at your sleepy face. knowing that he was soothing your body so well that he’d sent you back to sleep was making his cock swell up with even more need. he loved taking care of you in every way. he lived for it. he craved your happiness. when you were satisfied, so was he.

he reached his hand down to grab his cock from his boxers, inhaling sharply at the contact. he rubbed his tip lightly up and down your entrance, smearing a mix of your slick and his spit all over your cunt. he pushed himself inside of you with a low, quiet groan in hopes to not disturb you too much. you squirmed a bit, definitely not asleep, but still too tired and relaxed to open your eyes. “mmmph cheol…”

seungcheol sluggishly started thrusting in and out of you, his hand moving up to cup your face. “are you awake yet, sunshine?” he breathed. “uh uh,” you whimpered, smiling softly with your eyes still closed. “gotta fuck you awake then hm?” he smirked before picking up his pace. you moaned out at his increased determination to get you both off out of nowhere. in no time, seungcheol’s hips were snapping into yours and he was demanding you to look him in the eyes as he wrecked you from the inside out. his voice started to raise in pitch. “do you feel me in there, love? f-feel me all in your stomach hm? god~ -m gonna fill you up with my cum yeah?” he panted, resting his forehead on yours. “y-yes p-please cheol, please… breed me” you pleaded, fully awake at this point. seungcheol’s hips stuttered. he had to stop himself. “fuuuck,” he growled at your words. he started thrusting in and out of you again, far more brutal than before. “such a good girl. so g-good begging for me to breed you huh? p-pump you full of my cum? fuck~” he panted out, chasing his high. you were right behind him, the knot in your tummy ready to snap at any moment. “ch-cheol i’m gonna cum,” you cried out, screwing your eyes shut, arching your back. you crying his name, pressing your tits up against him… he was done for. “fuck~” he moaned out pushing his cock all the way inside you, filling you up completely.

morning showers weren’t your thing, but you had no choice this morning. you and cheol were both a mess.

“so,” cheol started from inside the kitchen, grabbing you a plate of food. your eyes admiringly watching him cross over to the dining table where you were. “you want babies hm?” he asked in a teasing tone. you chuckled grabbing the plate from him, then he sat with his. “i mean yeah one day… not now, though,” you poked at a piece of scrambled egg with your fork before bringing it to your mouth. “that’s too bad..” cheol jokingly sighed. “too bad?” you raised an eyebrow. “yeah… i don’t know i got like… a warm fuzzy feeling over the thought of little yous running around.” you beamed at his words. “that’s called a paternal instinct,” you giggled, then you continued, “and i’m glad you have one.” you reached over the table patting him on his head.

tag list: @skzooluvr @jenoslutie @map0fthes0ul7 @unlikelysublimekryptonite @goblynnrockz @actuallynarii @glttrlix @iluvhoshi

[exocynraku]

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