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pascalissmoked · 1 month ago

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Sweeter Than Summer

Summary: It starts with helping Sarah. It ends with her dad looking at you like he can’t breathe without you. Soft smiles, stolen glances—until it’s not so soft anymore. Word Count: 8K Warnings: fluff, age gap (reader is 22 and joel is in his mid 30s), joel being the hot neighbor and a frienc od your dad's, tommy being a little shit to his older brother, team plotting from sarah and her uncle, blood (not gory though), joel not knowing how to take care of Sarah becoming a woman, food consumption, nervous!joel, texas!joel, no outbreak!joel, unprotected sex, A/N: I kinda let myself go with this one. But you can never have too much of dilf!joel anyway. I hope you enjoy xx

Sweat clung to your skin like a second layer, tracing hot trails from your neck to the hollow of your collarbone. Texas, in the dead of summer, had become less of a state and more of a furnace—an open-mouthed oven blasting dry, merciless heat at everything that dared to live in it. No breeze, no shade, not even the patchy ceiling fans in your father’s house could fight it off.

So you escaped to the only place with the illusion of relief: your old man’s rust-bitten Ford truck. The air conditioning groaned like an old man with bad knees, struggling to push out even a whisper of cold. Mostly, it just wheezed in competition with the faint melody of Avril Lavigne’s Complicated playing from a scratched-up CD.

That CD had been a gift from Sarah—the wild-hearted twelve-year-old next door with a halo of curls and a grin full of mischief. She’d handed it to you like it was treasure, wrapped in a scrap of pink paper with your name spelled in glitter pen. Babysitting her had started off as a favor, a quick yes when your father mentioned that Joel Miller—Sarah’s dad—needed someone to help out now and then. You’d barely met Joel, only knew that he worked with his hands, often gone at odd hours, and that he carried the kind of quiet sadness you didn’t ask questions about.

You were a high school senior back then, just counting days until freedom. But somehow, that little girl made you want to stay.

Your evenings slowly stitched themselves into a patchwork of Disney marathons, popcorn burned in the microwave, Sarah’s giggles echoing through the halls of the Miller house. She’d curl up beside you, head resting on your shoulder like a sleepy kitten, cookies half-eaten and forgotten on the table. She became something sacred—a bond, a heartbeat, the closest thing to a sister you’d ever have.

Even after you left for college, you kept coming back. Not out of duty, but because her tiny arms still wrapped around your waist when you walked through the door. Because her eyes still lit up like fireworks when you pressed play on The Little Mermaid. Because somehow, she had become your person.

You leaned back in the cracked leather seat, your legs sticking to it, the AC making a sad attempt at survival. You shut your eyes and let Avril’s voice carry you, half-lost in memory and heat-induced haze, until a sharp knock on the passenger window startled you.

Sarah.

She was grinning, as usual—her curls pulled into a wild ponytail, a Popsicle in one hand, and a look that said she was up to something.

You rolled the window down. “What’s up, bug?”

She climbed in before you could stop her, dragging a wave of hot air in with her. “Dad said we could go get ice cream if you’re up for driving.”

“Did he now?”

“Okay, I might’ve said you were bored and needed to get out. Same thing.”

You shook your head, biting back a smile. She shoved the melting Popsicle into your hand and snapped on her seatbelt with dramatic flair. “Let’s go. Before it gets hotter. I think I saw a squirrel burst into flames on the sidewalk.”

You laughed and turned the key in the ignition. The engine coughed to life, the truck rumbling beneath you like an old beast waking from a nap. You caught sight of Joel on the porch as you pulled away—arms crossed, watching with that unreadable expression he always wore. You gave him a two-fingered wave. He nodded once, and that was enough.

Sarah chattered all the way to the ice cream place, asking about college, about whether you had a boyfriend yet (she asked this every time), and whether she’d be tall enough to ride the big coasters at the state fair this year. You let her talk, let her words fill the space like music.

When you finally parked in front of the ice cream shop, the sun had started dipping low, turning the sky into a hazy peach-orange watercolor.

Inside, the cool air hit like salvation. Sarah ran to the counter, already debating between cotton candy and cookie dough. You trailed behind more slowly, letting the change in temperature settle over your skin like a blessing.

As you waited, your phone buzzed in your pocket. A message from your dad:

“Joel asked if you’ll be home later. Said he could use help with something at the house.”

You stared at the screen for a second longer than you needed to. Joel didn’t ask for help. Not unless he meant it.

“What’s wrong?” Sarah looked up from her ice cream conquest.

You smiled. “Nothing. Just your dad being mysterious.”

She rolled her eyes. “He’s always mysterious. He builds things all day and listens to music no one understands.”

“Sounds like someone I know,” you teased.

“I’m not mysterious,” she said, scooping her choice—cookie dough, of course—into a bowl. “I’m an open book.”

You paid for the treats and led her outside to a metal bench half in the shade. The breeze had picked up slightly. It carried the scent of pavement, crepe myrtles, and something else—something you couldn’t quite name. Something shifting.

The sun was beginning to slip behind the rooftops by the time you and Sarah returned to the Miller house, both of you sticky from melted ice cream and heat. The air had that golden hue of a Texas evening—dust motes glowing in the sunlight, cicadas beginning their slow song. The drive back from the ice cream shop had been quiet, but not in a bad way. Sarah had rolled the window down and was humming absently to herself between licks of her cone. You stole glances at her in the rearview mirror. She looked tired but content, her face a little flushed, her curls sticking to her temples.

You knew something had shifted. She’d been quieter than usual on the ride back, a little distracted. Not sad, just somewhere far off in her head. You didn’t push it. You’d learned a long time ago that Sarah always circled back in her own time.

When you pulled into the driveway, Joel was out front, leaning against the porch rail with his arms folded, like he’d been waiting. He looked up as the truck came to a stop, one brow lifting slightly in a kind of wordless check-in. You gave him a nod, just enough to say she’s okay.

Sarah climbed out of the truck slowly and stretched. “I’m gonna shower,” she mumbled, already heading toward the front door.

“You eat dinner?” Joel called after her.

“Ice cream counts!” she shouted back, disappearing into the house.

Joel huffed something like a laugh, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He scratched the back of his neck, eyes still on the screen door even after it swung shut behind her.

You shut the truck door and walked over to him. “Everything alright?”

He looked at you then, really looked. Not with panic, exactly, but something close. Hesitation. Worry. Maybe a little guilt.

“You got a minute?” he asked. “Need to run something by you.”

You nodded. “Yeah, sure.”

Joel gestured toward the backyard with a jerk of his chin. The porch boards creaked beneath his boots as you followed him through the kitchen and out the back door, into the thick, humid air. The sun was low now, bleeding orange across the fence line. Crickets had started up in the grass, and you could hear a neighbor’s sprinkler ticking faintly in the distance.

Joel didn’t speak for a while. He stood with his hands on his hips, staring out across the yard like it might offer him a script to read from. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and a little rough around the edges.

“Found somethin’ earlier,” he said. “In the bathroom. A, uh… towel. One of hers. Had blood on it…”

“Oh,” you said, gently. “Her period.”

He nodded, cheeks reddening, clearly trying to keep his voice level. “Yeah. That. She didn’t say a damn word to me. Just shoved a towel in the laundry like nothin’ happened and then asked if she could go out for ice cream. And I remembered… her mom used to—well, she always wanted something sweet on her bad days, so…”

You felt your chest warm. Not from the heat. From him. From this big, quiet man who looked like he could wrestle a bear but stood there now like a deer in headlights, wringing his hands over his little girl.

“She’s twelve,” he added, like that somehow made it more tragic. “I don’t… I didn’t grow up with sisters. Only Tommy. We were a disaster even on good days. I don’t know what to say, or how to—hell, I don’t even know what kind of… supplies she’s supposed to use.”

He fell quiet again, then sighed, long and slow. “I didn’t know who to call. I almost called Tommy, but you know, he’s as useless as I am when it comes to this kinda thing. So… I figured, maybe you’d know.”

There was something in the way he said it—maybe you’d know—that felt less like a request and more like a quiet surrender. Like this was his way of admitting he was scared, and he didn’t know how to say it out loud.

You stepped closer, your voice soft. “You did the right thing, Joel. Giving her space, getting her out of the house. That was smart.”

“She didn’t even tell me,” he muttered. “That’s what kills me. She used to come to me for everything. Now she’s just—dealing with it by herself. Like she had to.”

“She’s twelve,” you said gently. “She’s embarrassed. Doesn’t know how to talk about it. Maybe she’s scared you’ll think she’s different now.”

Joel blinked at that. “Why the hell would I think that?”

“Because that’s what girls worry about when they start this. That people will treat them differently. That their body’s changing and it makes things weird.”

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes were on the fence again. “Her mom used to say stuff like that. About how she hated how people treated her like she was fragile just ’cause she was bleeding.”

There was a rawness in his voice that hadn’t been there before. Not just nervousness—grief, too. That quiet, familiar ache of someone trying to parent without the other half of the puzzle.

“I’ll take her to the store tomorrow,” you said. “We’ll get her what she needs—pads, whatever she’s comfortable with. Maybe some tea. And chocolate. That always helps.”

Joel nodded slowly, like each word you said was another burden taken off his shoulders. “Thank you.”

You hesitated, then placed your hand lightly on his arm. “She’s not trying to shut you out. She’s just figuring it out in the only way she knows how.”

He looked at you then, really looked—tired, grateful, full of a quiet kind of worry that had nowhere to go.

“I feel like I’m messin’ it all up,” he admitted, so low you barely heard it.

“You’re not.”

“You sure?”

“I’ve never been more sure.”

A long silence settled between you. The kind that wasn’t awkward, just full. Full of the things left unsaid, of the weight of love and responsibility and the kind of fear that comes with being someone’s whole world.

Joel rubbed a hand over his face and huffed a short laugh. “You must think I’m pathetic.”

“I think you’re doing your best,” you said. “And that’s more than a lot of kids get.”

He let out a breath, slow and steady. Then, after a pause: “You’re good with her.”

“I love her,” you said. “She’s like a little sister to me.”

Joel looked at you again—something unreadable in his expression. Maybe surprise. Maybe something else.

“I’m real glad you’re still around,” he said quietly.

You smiled. “Me too.”

From inside the house, Sarah called out, “Are we watching a movie or what?”

Joel didn’t take his eyes off you, but there was something softer in them now. Something unguarded.

“I guess we’d better get in there,” he said.

“Yeah,” you said, letting your hand fall from his arm. “Before she starts without us.”

It was the first time you'd stayed this late at the Miller house. Usually, your evenings with Sarah ended around sunset—movie paused, cookies half-eaten, Joel pulling into the driveway with dust on his jeans and tired thanks in his eyes. But this time, things were different.

Sarah had asked you to stay. She’d clung to your arm, eyes wide and wheedling, and Joel, surprisingly, had said yes.

“I mean… if it’s no trouble,” he’d added, rubbing the back of his neck, trying not to meet your eyes.

You’d said it wasn’t. And you meant it.

Now, the three of you were gathered in the living room. The lights were dimmed, the TV humming with the opening credits of Holes. Sarah had insisted on it—“It’s a classic, don’t even argue”—and had spread every pillow and blanket she could find across the floor like a DIY fort.

She was nestled into the middle of it, legs tucked under her, one of Joel’s flannels hanging off her shoulders. You sat on the edge of the couch, nursing a soda, while Joel took the armchair, one ankle propped lazily over his knee.

The movie started, and for a while, it was all popcorn rustles and Sarah quoting her favorite lines before they even happened. Joel chuckled at her enthusiasm, and you found yourself watching them more than the movie—how Joel’s eyes softened every time Sarah laughed, how she leaned toward you like this was the most natural thing in the world.

Somewhere around the third lizard sighting, Sarah moved to sit on the couch between you and the armrest, leaning against your side like a sleepy cat. You didn’t even notice when her breathing evened out and her head rested on your arm.

Joel noticed though.

His voice came low, amused. “She out?”

You glanced down. “Dead to the world.”

“She’s like her mom that way. Could sleep through a tornado.”

It was the second time he’d mentioned her. His voice was gentle, a little distant, but not painful. Just remembering.

You both sat quietly for a while after that. The soft flicker of the movie lit his face in blues and golds. He looked… peaceful. More relaxed than you’d seen him at those neighborhood barbecues, where he always kept a beer in his hand and one eye on Sarah like he didn’t trust the world not to fall apart.

Now, she was here, asleep beside you. And you were here, beside her.

When the credits finally rolled, Joel stood up slowly, stretching with a soft groan.

“I’ll carry her,” he said, and you nodded.

He moved carefully, gently scooping her up in his arms. She stirred just enough to murmur your name and Joel’s, then went limp again against his chest.

You watched them disappear down the hallway, the quiet creak of her bedroom door closing like the final note in a lullaby.

When he returned, he found you curled up on the couch, clearly half-asleep yourself.

Joel stood there for a moment, just watching you.

He thought about waking you. He really did.

But then he sighed, rubbed a hand over his jaw, and muttered, “Alright then.”

A few minutes later, he was spreading a clean blanket over you in his room and stacking an extra pillow beside your head. He lingered there, eyes soft, before turning off the light and closing the door behind him.

The smell of coffee nudged you awake before sunlight did. For a few seconds, you lay still, half-dreaming, until the stiff cotton sheets and unfamiliar quiet reminded you—this wasn’t your bed. It was Joel's.

You blinked at the wooden beams above you, the smell of frying bacon drifting in through a barely-cracked door. Joel's room was neat but lived-in. The flannel shirt hanging off the bedpost, the guitar case by the closet, the worn boots by the door—it all felt very him.

You sat up slowly, pushing hair out of your face, squinting toward the hallway. It felt intimate in here. Like you were somewhere you weren't quite supposed to be. And yet, the warmth in your chest told a different story.

The floorboards creaked softly as you padded toward the kitchen, feet bare and cautious. Joel stood at the stove, t-shirt wrinkled, hair a little messier than usual. He was flipping bacon, one hand holding a spatula, the other nursing a coffee cup.

He turned when he heard you, and for just a second, there was something caught in his expression. Not surprise. Something softer.

"Mornin'," he said, voice low and a little scratchy.

"You gave me your bed?"

Joel shrugged, turning back to the stove. "You were out cold. Didn’t wanna wake you. Couch ain’t so bad."

You glanced over at the couch, then back at him. "That couch is shaped like a capital 'L'. No way your back's okay."

He smirked, sliding bacon onto a paper towel. "I'm tougher than I look."

You raised an eyebrow, settling onto a stool by the counter. "You mean grumpier."

Before Joel could reply, Sarah wandered in like a hurricane with the battery drained. She wore a hoodie zipped halfway and socks slipping down her heels. Her face was twisted in dramatic agony.

"It feels like a war zone in my gut," she moaned.

Joel tensed. "You need Tylenol? Heating pad?"

"I need ice cream," Sarah said. Then her eyes landed on you. "You're still here?"

You smiled. "Yep. Joel gave me his bed."

Sarah blinked. Then grinned like she’d just won a prize at the fair. "Ooooh."

Joel, behind her, quietly muttered, "Sarah."

She leaned in close to you like you were co-conspirators. "Did you sleep in, like, his bed? Like with the plaid sheets and the pillow that smells like sawdust and... man soap?"

You tried not to laugh. "That very one."

Sarah's eyes glittered. "I knew it! Dad always acts weird around you."

Joel nearly choked on his coffee. "Alright, that's enough. Go sit down."

Sarah plopped onto the couch, cradling a heating pad Joel must have already warmed up for her. Despite her cramps, she looked content. Radiant, even. You noticed her eyes drifting shut, the tiniest smile playing at her lips.

"We should probably go grab her a few things," you murmured to Joel.

He gave a quiet nod. "She said she used the last pad yesterday. I just... didn’t wanna get the wrong thing. Didn’t know there were fifty types."

You touched his arm lightly. "We’ll take care of it."

Just then, the back door creaked open with that familiar screech that only old hinges and a Miller brother could make.

"Hope I’m not too late for bacon," Tommy called, strolling in like he owned the place. He wore his Sunday-best version of casual: jeans, a button-up rolled to the elbows, and a grin that could get him out of any ticket.

Sarah brightened at the sound. "Uncle Tommy!"

"Hey, sweetheart," he beamed, ruffling her curls gently. "Heard you had a bit of a rough morning."

She held up a thumbs-up from under her blanket. "I’m surviving. Thanks to the ice cream and the guest star who stayed overnight."

Tommy's eyebrows shot up, and he turned to look at you, then Joel. "Guest star, huh?"

Joel stiffened where he stood. "She crashed after the movie. I gave her the bed."

Tommy leaned on the counter, eyes twinkling. "Your bed?"

Sarah giggled. "With the plaid sheets and the soap smell and everything!"

Joel let out a breath like he was trying not to combust. "Can y’all stop announcin' that to the whole neighborhood?"

Tommy laughed, clearly enjoying himself. "I’m just sayin’—breakfast smells like affection, and you’ve got your flannel lookin’ a little less grumpy today."

"She’s good with Sarah," Joel said gruffly, pouring another cup of coffee. "That’s all."

"Sure," Tommy said, nodding slowly. "And the way you’re hovering near her like a guard dog in flannel, that’s also ‘just good with Sarah’?" he whispered.

Joel shot him a warning glance, but Tommy only grinned wider.

"Uncle Tommy," Sarah said sweetly, suddenly conspiratorial, "do you think Dad has a crush?"

Joel nearly dropped his mug. You buried your face in your hands, laughing helplessly.

Tommy gasped theatrically. "Sarah! I think you might be right. Look at that blush—he’s turning redder than my truck!"

Joel groaned. "Jesus Christ, I should’ve stayed in bed."

"Too bad someone else was in it," Tommy teased.

Joel turned to you, his voice dry. "You wanna take her to the store now? Might be safer."

You, still laughing, nodded. "Before Sarah starts handing out wedding invitations."

Sarah waved a hand from the couch. "Too late, I already made a vision board."

Tommy threw his head back, howling. Joel just stared at the ceiling like it might open up and swallow him whole.

You grabbed your bag, still chuckling, and gestured to Sarah. "C’mon, let’s get you the fancy kind of pain relief. Maybe even a heating pad shaped like a llama."

Sarah sprang up with unexpected energy. "This is why you’re my favorite."

Joel muttered, "You weren’t sayin’ that when I was up at 2 a.m. gettin’ you ice water."

She kissed his cheek and skipped toward the door.

As the two of you left, you heard Tommy say behind you, "You know, I really am happy for you, big brother. But I’m gonna keep messin’ with you just the same."

Joel replied with a grunt, but his voice, softer now, said more than his words ever could.

He was grateful.

And he was in trouble.

The store's fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead as you and Sarah wandered down the aisle lined with shelves full of period products. The “feminine care” section was a riot of pastel colors, cryptic labels, and brands that somehow managed to sound both comforting and clinical.

Sarah stared up at them, arms crossed, mouth slightly open. "Okay, so... what's the difference between ultra-thin and ultra-thin with wings? Is it, like, flying powers?"

You snorted. "No flying powers, sadly. The wings just help keep things in place."

"Disappointing," she said with a sigh. "I was hoping for at least a little magic."

You crouched to scan the lower shelves. "Do you want the same kind you had last time, or do you wanna try something different?"

Sarah shrugged. "Whatever you think’s best. I trust your judgment. You’re clearly a seasoned professional."

You tossed a box into the basket. "The seasoned-est."

Sarah peeked up at you, slyly. "So... speaking of judgment."

You raised an eyebrow. "Uh-huh?"

"Do you like older guys?"

You blinked. "That’s... a jump."

She grinned, clearly proud of herself. "No it’s not. It’s an investigative segue."

You tried to stifle a laugh. "Sarah."

"What? I’m curious! You’re, like, a woman. With... grown-up tastes."

"You’re twelve."

"Exactly! I need mentorship."

You paused, holding a box of heating patches. "Is this about your dad again?"

"I mean, not entirely. But also: yes."

You gave her a look.

"I just think you two would be cute. You both make weirdly good pancakes. And when you were sleeping in his bed, I swear he was, like, standing in the hallway checking if you were still breathing. Like some kind of lumberjack angel."

You put the patches in the basket. "Lumberjack angel?"

"Don’t mock the poetry."

You walked toward the checkout, and she practically skipped after you despite the heating pad she clutched like a teddy bear.

"Okay but seriously—" she continued, lowering her voice dramatically, "—do you think he’s cute? Like, if he didn’t have the whole ‘dad’ thing going on?"

You sighed, amused. "Sarah, I’m not talking about your dad like that."

She smirked. "That means yes."

You gave her a mock glare as the cashier started scanning your items. Sarah, never missing a beat, leaned on the counter like she was discussing secret spy business.

"Also, Uncle Tommy said you could do better. I told him to hush. I think my dad is the best you’re gonna get."

"Wow. Brutal."

"I'm in pain. Let me live."

As you bagged everything up and started walking toward the exit, Sarah looped her arm through yours and leaned against you.

"Thanks for coming with me. It’s way less awkward with you. Dad would’ve had an existential crisis in the tampon aisle."

"I believe it."

"And also... thanks for not making this whole thing a big weird deal. I was really freaked out yesterday. Thought I was dying. You were cool about it."

You softened. "That’s what I’m here for."

She looked up at you, a little more serious now. "And I really hope you end up my stepmom. But, like, the hot kind."

You blinked. "SARAH."

She cackled. "What? Just planting seeds."

Outside, the sun was warm on your face. You shook your head, laughing as you loaded the bags into Joel’s truck.

And somewhere inside that little gremlin of a girl was the biggest heart you’d ever met. Even on her worst day, she was matchmaking and joking and holding your hand.

God help Joel.

He didn’t stand a chance.

The sun was angling low by the time you pulled back into the driveway, the kind of orange Texas glow that made everything look a little too golden and a little too unreal. Sarah was humming to herself in the passenger seat, clutching the drugstore bag like it held state secrets.

You climbed out of the truck, stretching, only to freeze halfway through.

Joel was out front, shirt sticking to his back in the heat, kneeling beside a crooked section of the fence. A small toolbox sat next to him, half-open, nails scattered in neat little rows. His shirt—dark blue and worn—was clinging to his frame in all the right places. Sleeves rolled up past his elbows. Forearms dusted in sawdust.

He looked up as you shut the car door, and for a moment, all you could do was blink.

“Hey,” he called, wiping the back of his hand across his forehead. “Y’all make it okay?”

Sarah jumped out of the truck and held up the bag. “We conquered the period aisle!” she declared, marching proudly inside.

Joel chuckled. “That so?” Then his eyes flicked to you, and something in them softened. “Thanks. For takin’ her.”

You nodded, but your voice caught somewhere in your throat. “Of course.”

He bent back down, hammer in hand, and you stood there a beat too long watching the muscles in his arm flex with each nail he drove in.

It’s just because of what Sarah said, you told yourself. That’s all. She put it in your head.

But that wasn’t entirely true. The man looked like a Calvin Klein ad shot in a lumber yard.

You forced yourself to turn toward the house before your brain made it worse.

Inside, Sarah was already curled up on the couch, heating pad in place, water bottle in hand, victorious and slightly smug.

Joel followed you in not long after, wiping his hands on a rag. He glanced at the clock, then at you.

“You hungry?” he asked. “I was gonna grill a few things for dinner. Nothin’ fancy.”

“Stay!” Sarah added immediately, perking up. “You helped today and you’re, like, family. Dad even makes real food when you’re here. It’s a rare event.”

Joel gave her a look but didn’t argue. His eyes landed on you again. “You’re welcome to. Honestly.”

You smiled. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

Joel grilled something—probably out of guilt for the frozen waffles breakfast. It smelled amazing. Burgers, seasoned fries, sliced watermelon, the works. You sat across from Sarah while Joel set everything out. Just as he was bringing over a dish of pickles, the back door swung open.

“Smells like a cookout for three, but I count four plates,” Tommy drawled, letting himself in like he always did. His jeans were too tight, shirt a little too fitted, like he was contractually obligated to flirt with the universe.

Joel gave him a side glance. “Don’t you have a house?”

“Sure do. But yours has food. And company.”

Tommy’s eyes slid to you, and his grin grew. “Well hey there.”

You smiled. “Hi, Tommy.”

Sarah rolled her eyes dramatically. “Don’t even, Uncle Tommy. She’s my best friend.”

Joel muttered, “God help me,” under his breath and passed you the ketchup.

Halfway through dinner, Tommy was in rare form. He elbowed Joel mid-bite. “So. When’s the last time you cooked like this for anyone?”

Joel didn’t look up. “Don’t start.”

“I’m just sayin’. I visit and get leftover chili. She visits and it’s gourmet.”

You were trying to hide your grin behind your water glass.

Tommy pointed his fork at you. “He always gets like this when you’re around. All tense and upright like he’s bein’ evaluated by the food network. You got the man sweating over burger seasoning.”

Joel groaned. “I swear to God, Tommy.”

Sarah giggled. “He did check the grill temp like, five times.”

You caught Joel’s eye. He looked exasperated, but his ears were red. Very red.

Tommy wasn’t done. “You know, Sarah’s got a good eye. She’s not wrong. This whole thing”—he gestured vaguely between you and Joel—“feels domestic.”

“Tommy,” Joel warned.

Sarah added, “We’re basically a sitcom now. One where the hot dad doesn’t know he’s in love.”

Joel dropped his head into his hands.

Tommy raised his glass. “To sitcoms. And slow burns.”

You didn’t know whether to laugh or run.

Joel caught your eye again. And this time, he didn’t look away.

It wasn’t a big party. That had never been your dad’s style. But the backyard looked sweet under the string lights he’d looped between trees, casting a soft gold hue over the old lawn chairs and the fold-out table covered in mismatched paper plates and bowls of chips. A CD player in the corner hummed the tunes of old country and early 2000s radio hits, the kind your dad thought “young people liked.”

You’d just turned 22. Most of your college friends were scattered across the state—too far to make it for a casual Sunday night cookout. So it was just a few neighbors, your dad manning the grill, and a soft breeze that hinted at the edge of summer’s peak.

Joel showed up just as your dad was tending to the barbeque, Sarah at his side, her curls bouncing in a way that made her look like she was floating toward you. She held out a card like it was a trophy.

“Happy birthday!” she beamed. “I made you a masterpiece.”

You laughed and took it carefully. The card was covered in glitter and tiny doodles: a birthday cake, a sparkly dinosaur wearing sunglasses, and a poorly drawn but heartfelt portrait of you, her, and Joel standing under a rainbow.

“I love it,” you said, genuinely. “I’m framing it.”

“Good,” she grinned. “It took me forty-five minutes and three glitter glue explosions.”

Behind her, Joel gave you a small smile. He was in a dark gray button-down rolled to the elbows and jeans that didn’t look new, but still somehow looked good. Really good. You’d never seen him dressed like this—like he tried, just a little. He was holding a six-pack of Shiner Bock and a small rectangular gift wrapped in brown paper and string.

"Happy birthday," he said, voice quieter. “Didn’t know what to get, so…”

He handed you the gift and scratched at the back of his neck.

You gave him a curious smile as you took it. “Should I open it now?”

He shrugged. “Up to you.”

You peeled back the paper. Inside was a well-worn copy of To Kill a Mockingbird. The corners were softened from age, and the inside cover had a note in Joel’s neat, deliberate handwriting:

“You mentioned this was your favorite once. Figured you should have a version that’s seen a few years too. —J”

For a moment, the backyard went quiet around you—music, chatter, all of it faded. You looked up and met his eyes. Warm. Kind. Embarrassed, maybe. But also something else. Like he saw you in a way that you hadn’t let yourself imagine too much.

“Thank you,” you said, and meant it more than he probably realized.

Sarah was watching the two of you with her arms crossed, smirking. “You two are so obvious.”

Joel cleared his throat and turned toward the food table. “Burgers should be ready soon.”

You followed, your cheeks flushed.

Later, after burgers and sides and Sarah’s overenthusiastic attempts to pin the tail on the inflatable donkey, which your dad found hilarious, the grill was cooling and the sky was a bruised violet. You were inside the kitchen, trying to find a knife that wasn’t dull to slice the birthday cake. Your dad had disappeared, muttering something about “checking the propane line,” which you were 99% sure was code for “giving you space.”

Joel came in behind you with a tray of empty cups. “Need a hand?”

You turned, knife in one hand, cake staring back at you. “Yeah. Unless you wanna watch me murder this thing.”

He smirked, stepping beside you. Close. His shoulder brushed yours as he reached for a stack of plates.

“What kind of cake is this, anyway?” he asked, leaning just enough to read the label on the box.

“Chocolate with strawberry filling. Sarah picked it out. Said it was ‘romantic birthday vibes.’”

Joel laughed softly. “That girl’s gonna run a matchmaking business one day.”

“She already is. We’re just her test subjects.”

You looked up to find him looking down, his eyes flicking to your mouth just for a second. Just a second—but it was enough to knock the air sideways in your lungs.

You turned back to the cake, hoping your hands weren’t shaking. You started to cut, and Joel leaned closer, one hand resting on the counter beside you.

“Need me to steady the plate?” he asked.

Your hands were a little clumsy, distracted by the warmth of him next to you. “Maybe. It’s a two-person job.”

He chuckled, and you could feel the laugh more than hear it—like it buzzed through the space between your arm and his.

Then—

“You guys are standing really close,” Sarah’s voice rang out behind you, making you jump. She was leaning on the doorframe with a smug little grin.

Joel jerked his hand away like he’d been caught stealing.

“I was helping,” he muttered.

“With cake?” Sarah raised an eyebrow.

“Cutting’s an art,” Joel said, deadpan, making her giggle.

You just shook your head and passed her a plate. She skipped off with her prize, leaving you and Joel blinking in the soft hum of the kitchen.

“Thanks,” you said after a beat. “For everything today.”

Joel nodded, still a little red around the ears. “Wasn’t much.”

“It was,” you said. “And the book… I mean it.”

He smiled, shy but genuine. “Glad you liked it.”

And then neither of you moved. The air hung between you like a stretched-out string.

Until Sarah called from outside, “We need cake now!”

Joel exhaled. “Duty calls.”

You followed him out, but something lingered behind in the kitchen—the warmth of him, the nearness, the feeling that this thing between you wasn’t just in your head anymore.

The backyard had emptied. The last of the neighbors had waved their goodbyes. The string lights were still glowing, bugs dancing lazily in their warmth. Your dad had gone to bed after mumbling something about “too many burgers, not enough bourbon,” and the house was quiet now — quiet in a way that left too much room for your thoughts.

You were in the kitchen rinsing out plates, the hem of your party dress damp from leaning too close to the sink, your hands wrinkled and smelling like lemon soap. There was half a chocolate-strawberry cake left, the one Sarah had insisted on, and somehow you couldn’t just toss it.

She would’ve protested. Loudly.

You dried your hands, boxed the leftover slices neatly, and stared at the little pink-and-brown cake box for longer than you needed to.

Your feet moved before you could talk yourself out of it.

It was pushing 10:30, but Joel’s porch light was still on, casting a dim halo around the faded welcome mat. You knocked lightly, the box balanced on your hip.

A few seconds passed. Then the door creaked open.

Joel stood there barefoot in gray sweatpants and a black T-shirt, looking tired in the way only dads could be — soft around the edges but still solid, still present. His hair was tousled, and he looked like he’d only just sat down for the night.

“Hey,” he said, surprised but not unhappy. “Everything alright?”

You held up the cake box like a peace offering. “Didn’t feel right keeping it. Sarah picked it. Thought she might want it.”

He stepped aside, motioning you in. “She would’ve. She’s at Tommy’s tonight, though. Asked to sleep over.”

You paused on the threshold, your heart thudding a little louder. “Oh.”

“Come on in,” Joel said gently. “You sure you’re okay?”

You nodded, stepping inside. The house smelled like clean laundry and cedar. Familiar and warm. Lived-in. You followed him into the kitchen and set the cake down on the counter.

Joel leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. “Long day?”

You smiled faintly. “Fun day. Weird, too. Turning twenty-two in your childhood backyard while your babysitting kid gives you love advice.”

Joel chuckled, eyes crinkling. “Yeah. She’s... somethin’.”

You leaned back on your elbows against the counter. The room was dim — just the small lamp over the sink on — and the silence was comfortable at first. But then it turned charged. He hadn’t moved. Neither had you.

Your gaze drifted. His jaw was stubbled, his hair slightly damp, like maybe he’d just taken a shower. He looked... good. More than good.

You caught him watching you back, just a second too long.

The moment thickened.

“I, uh,” you started, voice catching slightly. “I meant what I said earlier. About the book. It was... really thoughtful.”

Joel looked at you then — really looked — and whatever wall he’d been holding onto, the one made of age difference and neighborly boundaries and the awkwardness of being Sarah’s dad... it cracked.

He pushed off the doorway slowly, walked toward you, stopping just close enough to make your breath hitch.

“I’m glad you liked it,” he said softly.

The space between you was a livewire.

“I keep trying not to think about you like this,” you whispered, voice barely audible.

His jaw tightened — not in anger, but in restraint.

“Me too.”

You didn’t move. Neither did he.

Then — softly, carefully — Joel reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers brushed your cheek, lingered.

“You’re too young for me,” Joel said, the words barely more than a gravel-edged whisper.

You looked up at him, your chest tight, heart thudding in your throat. “I’m not a kid.”

His eyes darkened, like you’d struck a match in the middle of a dry field. He swallowed hard. “I know.”

The silence between you turned into something electric, something living. The only sound was the quiet hum of the fridge and your own uneven breathing.

Joel took a small step forward, just enough to close the last of the space. He stood so close you could see the flecks of gold in his eyes, the faint crease between his brows like he was warring with himself. His hand came up—slow, hesitant—and hovered near your face before he finally gave in and touched you. His thumb skimmed along your jaw, rough fingertips brushing the soft edge of your cheek.

“Been tryin’ real damn hard not to want this,” he said, voice ragged.

Your breath hitched. “Then stop trying.”

That was all it took.

He kissed you.

But it wasn’t soft. It wasn’t tentative. It was weeks, maybe even months of unspoken glances, quiet admiration, long nights with Sarah between you, laughter over coffee, shared space, and now, finally, just the two of you.

His mouth found yours like he’d already dreamed it. His hands were sure now, cupping your face, sliding into your hair, then down—down to your waist, your hips—pulling you flush against him. You made a quiet sound against his mouth and that undid something in him. He groaned, low in his throat, and kissed you deeper, lips parting, tongue brushing yours, slow and deliberate.

You didn’t realize you’d moved until your back hit the counter behind you. His hands braced on either side of you, caging you in but never pressing too hard. Just close. Just real.

You slid your fingers into his hair, damp from a shower or maybe just the heat of the night, tugging lightly. He leaned into your touch, one hand sliding beneath the hem of your shirt at your back—his palm hot against your skin, callused but careful. The contrast made your knees weaken.

When he finally pulled back, he didn’t move far. His forehead rested against yours, his breathing fast, uneven. You could feel his heart pounding through his chest, matching yours like a drumbeat in sync.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” he said again, but this time it sounded like a confession. A regret that wasn’t real.

“But you did,” you whispered, lips still tingling, hand still curled into his shirt like you couldn’t let him go just yet.

Joel’s eyes searched yours, something stormy flickering in their depths. “If you stay... if we do this... it ain’t casual for me. You understand that?”

You nodded slowly.

A beat passed. Then another.

His hand slid to your cheek again, and he kissed you once more—slower this time, a kind of reverence in it. His lips pressed to yours like he was trying to memorize the feel of you. Like he didn’t quite believe it was real.

When he pulled back again, there was a trace of a smile at the corner of his mouth. Tired. Hopeful. Hungry.

“You wanna stay?” he asked softly.

You looked at him, really looked. His bare feet on the kitchen floor. His hair mussed. That tiny crease between his brows. The way his eyes had gone soft, all guarded affection and barely restrained want.

“Yeah,” you said. “I do.”

Joel’s breath was still shallow when he stepped back just enough to look at you, like he was double-checking that you were still there, still real. You didn’t let go of him. Your fingers were still hooked into the front of his shirt, still pressing against the solid warmth of him.

His voice was quiet, low and careful. “If we go upstairs…”

“I know what I’m saying yes to,” you interrupted softly.

He hesitated, studying you like you were a question he’d never been brave enough to answer until now. But something in your face, in your voice, seemed to break whatever final restraint he was holding onto.

Joel nodded once.

Wordless, he took your hand.

The walk through the house was quiet, heavy with tension—not the awkward kind, but the kind that hummed in the air like a string pulled taut. Each step up the stairs felt like it carried weight. Anticipation. Choice.

His bedroom door creaked softly as he pushed it open.

In the dim lighting, it felt intimate. Lived-in but not messy. Clean but unpretentious. The scent of him lingered in the space—cedar soap and sawdust, fabric softener and something deeper, something unmistakably Joel.

He turned to face you in the doorway, fingers still twined with yours.

“You still okay?” he asked, voice rough, eyes searching yours like he was afraid to blink and miss something.

“Yes,” you whispered, breathless. “More than okay.”

Joel looked at you for a long moment. Then he leaned in and kissed you again — deeper this time, with more certainty, like the last of his resistance had slipped loose.

Your fingers slid into his hair, tugging gently, and he groaned softly against your mouth. He tasted like something rich and dark and slow. His hands roamed, reverent and careful, touching you like he was trying to learn you by feel — every curve, every sound you made under his fingertips.

When you gasped as his hand skimmed lower, he paused. “Tell me if you need me to stop,” he murmured into your skin.

You shook your head. “Don’t stop. Please, Joel.”

He kissed down your throat, down your chest, leaving a trail of warmth wherever his lips touched. Your back arched instinctively, your body aching to be closer. There was nothing rushed in the way he undressed you — every movement was measured, like he was unwrapping something he’d wanted for a long, long time but never thought he’d be allowed to have.

And when you were bare beneath him, laid out in the soft hush of his bedroom, you felt more seen — more wanted — than you ever had before.

“You’re so goddamn beautiful,” Joel murmured, his hand brushing along your waist, your hip, your thigh. “Don’t even know what you’re doin’ to me.”

You reached for him, found the hem of his shirt, and he let you lift it up and over his head. He was solid and warm and real beneath your palms, and when you kissed down his chest, he hissed through his teeth — a sound that made heat curl deep in your stomach.

The rest came off piece by piece — not rushed, but not slow either. Just… inevitable.

And then he was over you again, skin to skin, his weight pressing you into the mattress, grounding you. His nose brushed yours, like a silent request.

You cupped his cheek. “I want this. I want you.”

He kissed you again — not soft this time, but sure, open, claiming. His hand slipped under your thigh, lifted you to him, and you felt him press against you, heavy and warm.

You both gasped as your bodies joined — not all at once, but slowly, carefully, like you were fitting puzzle pieces together. Like your bodies already knew the rhythm even if the rest of you hadn’t caught up yet.

Joel’s breath stuttered as he sank fully into you, and for a moment, he just held there — his forehead against yours, both of you trembling, trying to hold on.

“Jesus,” he whispered. “You feel like heaven.”

You didn’t have the words to answer. Just the way your hands clung to him, the way your body opened for him, welcomed him in.

He moved slowly, deliberately — not just fucking you, but feeling you, like this meant something. Like he was afraid to miss it.

And you met him, movement for movement, every breath shared, every sound caught in the dark like a secret.

There was something tender in the way he whispered your name when you cried out his — something reverent, like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to have you like this. And when your body tightened around him, shuddered beneath him, he caught you through it, kissed your cheek, your mouth, your neck — whispered that you were perfect, that you were his.

He followed soon after, his voice breaking into a groan as he pressed as deep as he could, shaking with the force of it, with everything he’d been holding back.

When it was over, he didn’t move far. Just enough to roll you gently to your side and pull you close, your bodies still tangled together, still warm and slick with each other.

You felt him kiss your shoulder, then your neck. “You okay?” he asked again, voice softer than ever.

“Yeah,” you murmured. “Joel…”

He pulled you tighter. “I got you, baby. I got you.”

You tucked your face into the space between his neck and shoulder, listened to his heartbeat.

And that’s how you stayed — wrapped in warmth, in quiet, in something neither of you were ready to name, but both of you felt all the same.

A/N: Should i make a part two for this? Idk how i would continue it, so if you want drop some ideas in the comments. Thanks for reading hun xx

3K notes · View notes

pawstriez · 1 year ago

Text

☆ CLICK TO PLAY ! ➜ 450 DEGREES

YOUR LEVEL IS STARTING SOON . . .

level quest : pov ur neighbor is a firefighter, and you love a man in uniform . . just as much as he loves your chocolate chip cookies.

☆ — a message from the developer : hiii i missed uguys sm, i’m so glad to be back for realsies this time :p don’t mind any mistakes or errors & before you read — nsfw content up ahead so pretty please read these warnings !!! strangers to lovers !!! age gap alert ➜ toji is 35 and reader is 25, mentions of sexual themes such as oral, vaginal penetration, pet names such as : sweetheart, angel, baby ofc, princess, honey, etc. usage of sexual terms and usage of terms describing female anatomy, uses she/her pronouns. firefighter! toji x baker! blk fem! reader 333 — word count : 8.0K or 9.0K, i lost track LOL

“fuck . .”

toji cut the engine of his ford pickup and sat for a moment, eyes closed, letting the silence wash over him. every muscle ached with exhaustion, the double shift of 48 hours catching up to him. he couldn't remember the last time he'd slept in an actual bed instead of snatching a few hours on the lumpy firehouse couch in between calls.

sighing, he grabs his duffel from the passenger seat and levers himself out of the truck. as he turns toward the house, a flash of color across the street quickly catches his attention. his new neighbor — you, out puttering in your postage stamp front yard, wearing a tank top the same vivid coral as the geraniums you were watering and cut-off jean shorts that barely qualified as clothing to any old, bitter bastard.

he’d seen you before. many times. whether it was while leaving for an early session at the gym as you walked your puppy, or his moving day . . where he could barely order around gojo and geto, struggling to tell them where they should place certain boxes due to hearing your alluring giggle coming from the house next door, your curls flowing in the breeze as you gossiped over iced lemonade with mrs. johnson on her porch.

his thoughts are interrupted when you glance toward him, face lighting up with a friendly smile as you spotted him. “hi there! nice to finally see you in the flesh instead of just passin’ headlights at odd hours of the night.”

“sorry about that.” toji hoped his answering smile passed for normal and not serial-killer exhausted. “i’m toji, toji fushiguro. i jus’ moved in last month.”

“well m’ yn. welcome to the neighborhood!” you propped a hand on one cocked hip, thoughtlessly drawing his eye to the thickness of your legs that almost looked golden in the sun lighting.

jesus.

realizing he was staring, he jerks his gaze back to your face, feeling his neck heat up at the idea of you catching on. “thanks. s’ a nice area. quiet.”

“i like to think we're a pretty welcomin’ bunch. in fact . . .” you bite your lip, looking almost shy for a second. “i was plannin’ to do some baking later, as a housewarming gift for all the newbies. any requests? cookies, muffins, scones? i make a mean cinnamon roll too.”

an unexpected warmth kindled in toji’s chest at the kindness of the offer. even as his stomach rumbled in anticipation, he couldn't remember the last time someone had gone out of their way to do something nice for him. sadly, baked goods didn't really tend to hold up well on 24-hour shifts.

“that’s really sweet of you, thanks. i love a good chocolate chip cookie, but i’ll happily be your guinea pig for anything.”

“sounds like a plan.” you graced him with another one of those classic, southern hospitality miles. “i’ll surprise you. they’ll be over before you know it!”

“looking forward to it. i better let you get back to . .” he waves a hand vaguely at the riot of flowers on your lawn, colors and smells galore.

“oh, right. see you soon then. welcome home!” with a small wave, you bend to retrieve the watering can, giving him an unobstructed view of her perky ass in those obscenely small shorts.

strangling a groan, toji spun on his heel and double-timed it into the house before you caught him ogling you like a creep. so much for a quiet neighborhood, he thought ruefully as the door shut behind him. you were gonna’ be one hell of a distraction, though some traitorous part of him looked forward to the temptation. it’d been way too long since he'd been around a pretty girl. maybe that's what all this edginess was - his libido waking up and taking notice after a long dry spell.

well, he'd just have to keep any wayward urges in check. no matter how mouthwatering you looked in tiny cutoffs, you were practically a decade younger and a neighbor, at that. off limits. he’d accept your baked goods, enjoy a little innocent flirting, but anything more was out of the question.

resolved, he headed for the shower, already counting the minutes until he could taste whatever delights you were whipping up for him.

the next morning, toji was on his second cup of coffee, basking in the rare luxury of an empty day ahead with no responsibilities, when the doorbell chimed. he opened it to find you, juggling a huge wicker basket with an equally enormous smile. the sweet scent of sugar, vanilla and chocolate wafted out to tease his nostrils so blissfully, just like how your sheer presence teased . . . other parts of him.

“g’mornin’,” you chirped. “i come bearing gifts from the sugar fairy.”

“so i smell . .” his mouth waters as he relieves you of the basket and ushers you inside, noting how your flowered sundress set off your peaches-and-cream personality. no shorts today, but the dress was nearly as enticing as it grasped on to your curves. he wondered if your skin would taste as good as you smelled, then mentally slapped himself.

down boy.

“i hope you don't mind me just droppin’ by like this. i wanted to catch you before you got busy.” your smile faltered slightly as you glanced around the spartan space with its generic bachelor furniture and decided lack of personal touches. “if s’ not a good time . .”

toji set the basket on the coffee table and turned to her, hands raised in mock surrender. “you came to my house bearin’ gifts of dessert. trust me, it's never gonna’ be a bad time. i may actually make some sort of sugar delivery beacon to summon you in the future.”

your laugh sounded a little relieved. “aww cute, sounds like my kind of bat signal. i’ll have to get you a spotlight shaped like a cupcake.”

“make it a cookie and you've got yourself a deal.” he grinned at you. “can i interest you in some coffee to go with whatever magic you've got in there? smells incredible.”

“coffee would be great, thank you.”

he led the way into the kitchen, noting how you took in details like the depressing lack of clutter and decoration. the only personal items were a handful of framed photos stuck to the fridge - him and his siblings as kids, his parents' wedding portrait, shots of fishing trips with his buddies — one with snow-white hair and the other with black. it struck him how sterile the space was, more like a way station than a home.

you didn't comment on it, instead you just leaned a hip on the counter and watched him pour a darkened substance into a ‘worlds worst morning person’ mug. there’s a comforting silence as he catches a whiff of your light perfume over the powerful espresso aroma - something floral and citrusy. it suited you.

“i wasn't sure what kind of treats you'd like, so i made a sampler of my greatest hits,” you say brightly. at his gesture, you unpack the basket, setting containers and various utensils on the table. “okay so . . we’ve got triple chocolate chip cookies, blueberry muffins, apple cinnamon scones, and my famous brown butter cinnamon rolls.”

“good lord,” toji shook his head in awe. “you made all this yesterday? after we spoke? do you even sleep?”

you laugh and accept the steaming mug he offered. “who needs sleep when there's sugar? besides, baking relaxes me. i love seeing people enjoy my creations.”

as if on cue, his stomach rumbles loudly, and you bit your lip against a smile. “sounds like someone's ready for a taste test. don’t be shy . . dig in.”

toji didn't need to be told twice. he selected a cinnamon roll, still warm from the oven, and bit in with a moan that would've been beyond embarrassing if his mouth wasn't full of heaven. “shit . . think i jus’ found my religion.”

you giggled that giggle that’d been stuck in his head since the day he heard it. “the cinnamon rolls tend to inspire a cult-like devotion. you haven't even tried em’ with the cream cheese frosting yet.”

he halted with the pastry halfway to his mouth for another rapturous bite. “there’s frosting too?”

in answer, you pulled a container from the basket with a flourish. “i figured you could handle adding your own so it didn't get soggy.”

“you’re an angel.” he slathered a generous amount of fluffy white frosting on the roll, not even caring that he probably looked like an overexcited kid.

watching him take another blissful bite, you cradled your coffee mug in both hands. “soo . . what d’you do that keeps you gettin’ home at such odd hours? i promise m’ not stalking you, but it's a quiet street. hard not to notice the comings and goings.”

toji washed down the sticky-sweet mouthful with a swig of coffee. “i’m a firefighter. we work 24-hour shifts, so my schedule can be pretty unpredictable."

interest sparked in your eyes. “really? that’s so cool! i bet you have some amazing stories.”

“eh. a few,” he allowed. truthfully he tried not to dwell on some of the things he'd seen, the memories that still occasionally jolted him awake in a cold sweat during the night. “it’s rewarding work, but not exactly a picnic for the social life.”

you give him a sympathetic look over the rim of her mug. “i can imagine. is that why you moved? needed a fresh start?”

“somethin’ like that. the job costed me my marriage a couple years back. got tired of walkin’ around the old place alone, so i thought a change of scenery might do me good.”

change of scenery in deed. toji even went as far as to relocate to a different state after his divorce with his wife. even the landscaping around the city had become too much of a heartache. what was once a happy, sensual marriage quickly turned sour the moment toji began working more. the position as chief hadn’t sounded that horrible in his head, but if he knew he’d come home one night - the clock reading exactly 3:17 am, to an unrecognizable man fast asleep in his bed, naked next to his wife, that that position could’ve waited. could’ve been passed on.

there’s a silent second between you two, your face still, “i-im so sorry,” you say softly, and toji feels relief when he sees that your eyes were warm with understanding, free of the pity he'd come to dread whenever his divorce came up in any other conversation he’d have with someone who didn’t know him.

he shrugged. “it is what it is. we married too young, grew apart. my hours didn't help. no hard feelings though.” he mustered up a wry smile. “what about you? you’re a little young to be living the retired grandma life, baking up a storm in the 'burbs.”

you grin, allowing him to lighten the mood. “hey, hey, hey, this grandma can party with the best of em’! fyi, i stayed up past 10 last saturday watching bad girls club.”

toji clutches his chest in feigned shock. “damn, so scandalous! what was the special occasion?”

“all have you know . . i was trying to perfect a new macaron recipe. passionfruit with dark chocolate ganache. they’re a fickle mistress though - one minute too long in the oven and they're as dry as bones.”

“sounds like bakin’ is more than jus’ a hobby for you,” he observed.

you toy with your mug. “it’s my whole life, really. i’m in my second year of culinary school, specializing in pastry arts. when i graduate, i’m hoping to open my own bakery. somewhere people feel welcome and cared for. a safe space, i suppose.” he stares, and you duck your head with an embarrassed laugh. “sorry for the tangent . . it probably sounds so silly.”

“not at all.” toji found himself impressed by the passion and dedication evident in your voice. you had a dream and you were going after it. he remembered that feeling. before the reality of adulthood had started chipping away at his own youthful idealism.

he wanted to say something to encourage you, to protect that light shining in your eyes for as long as possible. “for what it's worth, i think you're gonna’ be amazing,” he told you seriously, holding your gaze. “if this morning’s haul is any indication, you'll have lines around the block.”

you shield your smiling face sweetly. “that’s kind of you to say. i appreciate the vote of confidence. speaking of . .” you hesitate, then forge ahead. “m’ actually working on developing an original signature recipe for my final. multiple components, flavors, textures. the works.”

“sounds ambitious,” he said, eyebrows raised. “what’d you have in mind?”

your eyes sparkle with enthusiasm at the question, the thought of genuine curiosity making your heart flutter. “deconstructed black forest cake. dark chocolate cake, kirsch-soaked cherries, vanilla bean whipped cream. i wanna’ play with it, update it. maybe turn it into a trifle or a parfait of some sort.”

toji was no culinary expert. hell - he didn’t even know what half of those things were, but even he could tell you were on to something special. “that’s incredible, yn. lemme’ guess - you need a guinea pig?”

you bite your lip nervously, smile turning impish. “i didn't wanna’ impose, but since you offered the other day . . how would you like to be my official taste-tester? i can't really pay you, but you'll get free rein to sample every variation.”

“where do i sign up?” he was only half joking. even if your creations turned out to be awful, which he highly doubted, any excuse to spend more time with you sounded like a win.

you laugh. “i think i can waive the usual application process on account of the fact that you're doing me a huge favor. plus, it means you won't be able to avoid me constantly showing up at your door to force-feed you desserts.”

“oh no. however will i cope.” he feigned a put-upon sigh.

you shot him a look of amused reproof as she packed up the empty containers. “try to contain your disappointment. i promise to space out surprise sugar bombings. wouldn’t wanna’ make you sick of me or my baking."

“i don’t really think i ever could . . to be honest,” he declared firmly. on impulse, he reaches out to still your fluttering hands with his own. your skin was so soft and warm, sending a tingle zipping up his arm. your breath pauses at the contact and your eyes flew to his, startled.

“i mean it,” he said, voice gone low and intent as he tries to infuse sincerity into every word. “i can't imagine ever getting tired of you. or your company.”

for a suspended moment you just stare at each other in silence. then you swallow, sounding a little breathless as you replied, “likewise. m’ really glad you moved in, toji.”

“me too,” he said roughly. and though he knew he shouldn't, that he was venturing into dangerous territory, he allowed himself to stroke the delicate bones of your wrist with his thumb. just once, to feel your shiver lightly in response. then he released you and stepped back, moving to hold the door open for you in unspoken signal.

“i’ll get out of your hair now,” you murmured as you gathered the empty basket with hands that trembled just slightly. “but i’ll see you soon? for taste testing purposes, of course.”

“absolutely,” he confirmed. “anytime. y’know where to find me.”

with a final nod and smile, you slipped out the door. he watched you go, admiring the sway of your hips, the bounce of your hair, already counting the minutes until he'd see you again.

you were gonna’ end him, so so sweetly too., he realized with a trace of fatalism.

but what a way to go, huh? death by cinnamon rolls.

the day of the first official tasting arrived, and toji found himself unaccountably nervous as he approached your door. he felt a like an awkward kid picking up his prom date, palms sweaty and heart knocking around his ribs. which was ridiculous. this wasn't a date. just two neighbors getting together to sample some sweets. totally casual.

never mind that he'd changed his shirt three times, vacillating between wanting to look nice for you and not wanting to seem like he was trying too hard. he’d finally settled on a plain black tee and his least disreputable pair of jeans, adding a hint of cologne as an afterthought.

now, standing on your stoop, he wished he'd brought something. flowers maybe — lillie’s like the ones in your garden, or perhaps wine. did people bring wine to taste testing sessions? probably not. you’d most likely think he was a presumptuous idiot.

shaking his head at his own weird bout of nerves, he raised his hand to knock. before his knuckles could connect, the door swung open to reveal you, looking adorably pretty and flustered. you were wearing a frilly pink apron over a gauzy white sundress scattered with tiny red cherries. your hair was bundled on top of your head in a haphazard knot, loose curls escaping to dance around your swelled cheeks. a dusting of cocoa powder streaked one of them.

“toji - oh, you’re right on time! m’ runnin’ a bit behind, so sorry. come on in.” you stepped back to let him enter and he caught a blend of tantalizing scents - rich chocolate, sweet cherries, warm vanilla, and underneath, the subtle floral musk that was purely you. it made his head swim and his stomach clench with a hunger that had absolutely nothing to do with the promise of dessert.

he followed you into the kitchen, blinking a bit as he took in the transformation. when he'd helped you carry in groceries a few days ago, the room had been tidy and quaint, with cheerful yellow walls and kitschy retro appliances. now every surface was strewn with baking detritus - bowls, whisks, spatulas, piping bags. the air was hazy with a fine mist of flour and powdered sugar, swirling in the slanting sunlight.

incongruously delicate paper doilies serving as placemats were scattered with miniature cakes, puddles of sauce, and billows of snowy cream. it looked like a fancy bakery had exploded all over the place.

“as you can see, i’ve been experimenting with a few different iterations of the concept,” you said with a small smile, waving a hand at the sugary chaos. “couldn’t settle on just one. i thought i’d get your input n’ then we could narrow it down together.”

“i’m at your service,” he told you gallantly, skating his gaze over the counter. “i’ll warn you though, my palate isn't exactly refined. you might end up with the bland 'it all tastes good' as feedback.”

you giggled. “i’ll take it. okay, let's start basic.” you gestured for him to take a seat at the flour-dusted table and set a plate in front of him. on it perched a generous slice of cake, glossy with ganache, accompanied by a scarlet swoosh of what he assumed was the cherry compote. a dollop of whipped cream, flecked with black speckles, completing the overall masterpiece look.

toji quickly picked up the fork and took a bite, closing his eyes to focus on the flavors. the cake was intensely chocolate, the ganache dark and silky. tart-sweet cherries burst on his tongue, balanced by the subtle fragrance of the vanilla-specked cream.

“damn,” he mumbled around the mouthful. “fuckin’ fantastic, yn.”

you beam, looking relieved. “yeah? the cake recipe took a while to get right. i wanted something more . . . complex than a standard chocolate cake, so i used black cocoa powder to really amp up the flavor. n’ i even added a little coffee to enhance the chocolate.”

“s’ a winner,” he assured you. “i dunno’ how you could improve on it, honestly.”

“oh i have a few ideas,” your smile turned mysterious. “you haven't seen anything yet.”

over the next hour, you walked him through several variations. chocolate cake layered with cherry compote and kirsch-soaked chocolate cake crumbs, topped with cocoa whipped cream. dark chocolate and cherry bread pudding drizzled with cherry coulis. chocolate panna cotta with drunken cherries and cherry gelée . . . and toji sampled them all, humming with pleasure while you watched him anxiously. your initial nerves seemed to melt away as you lost yourself in describing the ins and outs of each dish - the technical challenges, the way certain flavors complemented or contrasted, ideas for garnishes and plating.

he found himself captivated by your intensity, the way your whole being lit up when you talked about your craft. it was more than just a job or a hobby for you . . . it was a calling. he couldn't remember the last time he'd felt that kind of soul-deep passion for anything. couldn’t take his eyes off the way your slender hands sketched shapes in the air, punctuating your words. delicate, clever hands that created so much beauty.

“earth to toji,” teased, waving one of those mesmerizing hands in front of his face. “did i lose you? too much of a sugar crash?”

toji blinked and refocused on your amused expression, realizing he'd been caught woolgathering like an idiot. “sorry, just slipped into a brief dessert coma. what were you saying?”

“i was asking what you think of this last one. it’s the more . . . wildcard of the bunch.” you pushed a small glass toward him. it looked like a miniature trifle, with layers of cake and cream, a vivid cherry layer in the middle, and a fan of shaved chocolate on top.

he dug in and had to suppress an absolutely obscene moan. the combination was incredible - velvety smooth, creamy, rich, and fruity, with a kick from what had to be a generous glug of kirsch. sweet but not cloying, a sophisticated twist on a classic.

“i think we have a winner,” he managed, not even caring that his voice came out husky. “if you're going for adding a 'wow' factor, this is it.”

you stand on your tippy-toes, looking hopeful. “you think? i couldn't decide if it was too out there. verrines aren't exactly traditional black forrest cake material.”

“doesn’t matter. it’s a showstopper. interesting to look at, fun to eat, n’ the flavor is phenomenal.” he scraped the glass clean with his spoon, not wanting to waste a drop.

your smile could've lit up the city block. “thank you, toji. you don't know how much it means to me, you bein’ here. lettin’ me talk your ear off and stuff you with treats. it really . . helps a lot."

“believe me, it's my pleasure,” he said, returning her smile with one of his own. “i haven't had this much fun in . . i can't even remember how long. i like seein’ you in your element.”

you both just grin goofily at each other for a moment, the air feeling thicker. then you hopped up and began clearing the table, stacking dishes and bustling around the small space.

“y’know i feel bad, you feedin’ me all these goodies without me contributing anything,” toji said, rising to help. “at least lemme’ take you out for a meal that isn't 90% butter and sugar. you must be sick of cookin’, day in and day out.”

you slanted him a glance, tucking a stray curl behind one ear. “m’ not, actually. it never feels like a chore. but i . . wouldn't say no to dinner out. if you're sure you don't mind.”

mind? he’d been trying to come up with an excuse to spend more time with you, and here you were gift wrapping one for him. “i’d love to,” he said firmly. “s’ the least i can do. and i’d like to hear more about this final project of yours. when do you present it?”

“next month,” a shadow crossed your expressive face, there and gone in a blink. “m’ tryin’ not to think too much about it yet. one step at a time, y’know?”

he recognized that look. the flickering uncertainty, the hint of stage fright. he’d worn it himself, back before his first real fire. wanting so badly to prove himself, to show what he was made of, terrified of choking.

impulsively, he reached for your hand, halting her flitting movements. your fingers curled reflexively around his, warm and strong. “look at me . . . you got this. you’re a star, you're gonna’ impress the hell outta’ your professors.”

you swallowed hard, eyes searching his. looking for the belief you couldn't quite muster on your own. “i hope so. i want it so much, toji. this . . all of it. it’s all i’ve ever wanted.”

“then don't let fear hold you back,” he told you gently. “don’t doubt yourself. you have a gift, mama. i know m’ a dumb scrub who can barely tell a macaron from a macaroon, but even i can see that you were born for this shit.”

your hand squeezed his, almost painfully tight. from both the nickname rolling off his tongue so elegantly and the encouragement that you sometimes failed to receive from your closest peers. “thank you, seriously,” you whispered. “for believin’ in me, i guess. it means a lot to me . . .”

he squeezes back, thumb sweeping over your knuckles. he had a sudden, wild urge to haul your into his arms. to soothe the worry from your brow with his lips, to show you with his hands and body and breath how special you were. how much he'd come to care for you in such a short time.

but he couldn't. however strong the pull, however much he wanted to cross that line, he knew it would be a mistake. you weren’t for him, this shining woman with stardust in her eyes. and he was in no position to offer you anything real. he needed to remember that.

so he contented himself with a soft “anytime,” and released your hand, stepping back to a safer distance. “now, about that dinner. friday work for you?”

you blinked, then hitched your smile back into place. it wobbled a bit at the edges, but he pretended not to notice. “friday’s great. s’ a . . . plan.”

even through the awkwardness, the unspoken words clogging the air between you, a little thrill went through him. it’s a date, you’d almost said. and god help him, he wished it was — that’s why you settled on making plans to try the new, cozy italian restaurant that had opened downtown, the one you’d mentioned wanting to visit after a neighborhood watch meeting one night. it was intimate . . . romantic. toji walked home with a lightness in his step, an unfamiliar flutter in his gut. he was in trouble, he knew he was. you were trouble in ways he hadn't encountered before. you made him feel too much.

more than he ever had.

but he was in too deep to back out now. all he could do was try to keep a clear head, keep things casual and platonic. be your friend and supporter, nothing more. his life, his job . . there was no room for complications.

even if he was beginning to suspect it was already far too late.

the days leading up to friday passed in a blur of anticipation and nerves, though toji did his best to ignore both. ‘it isn’t a date. she’s not into you. this isnt a fuckin’ date . . .’ he reminded himself sternly, no matter how much his idiot heart wanted to pretend otherwise. just dinner between neighbors. a thank you for your tireless taste testing efforts. nothing to get all hot n’ bothered about.

so then why the fuck had he changed outfits half a dozen times before settling on the nicest button-down he owned and a new pair of dark wash jeans? why had he agonized over whether to bring flowers or wine or both . . again? this was so embarrassing. he was so embarrassing. he’d think being married once would've meant he had at least a little bit of game . . but nope - he had nothing.

taking a deep breath, he knocked on your door at precisely 7pm. when it swung open to reveal you, his lungs almost stopped in their tracks. you looked no less than stunning in a ruffled dress, in the pretty shade of baby-pink, your hair tumbling over your bare shoulders - half up, half down and bumped at the ends. a slim gold chain nestled in the hollow of your throat, shamefully drawing his eyes down to the swells of your titties.

“fuck . .” he said inanely, tongue suddenly clumsy in his mouth. “m’ so sorry. forgive me, i mean, you look . . absolutely amazing.”

a shy smile curved your lips, brightening your whole face up. “thanks . . so do you, toji.” your eyes skimmed over him appreciatively and he fought the urge to preen.

“o-oh, these are for you.” he thrusts the slightly wilted grocery store bouquet at you, wincing inwardly at his own awkwardness.

but you just smile, cradling the limp blooms like they were something so precious. “how sweet of you! i love daisies. lemme’ jus’ put these in some water and we can go.” you disappeared into the kitchen, leaving him to marvel at how such a simple gesture could delight you so thoroughly. damn, you were so lovely. inside and out.

the drive to the restaurant was filled with easy conversation interspersed with comfortable silences. toji let you be in control of the radio, secretly charmed by your off-key humming to the cheesy pop songs in rotation on your playlist. he could imagine countless nights like this, aimless drives with no destination in mind, just content to be in your company with no one to bother.

and dinner was a laughter-filled affair, trading bites of pasta and garlicky bread, arguing playfully over the merits of various desserts. you entertained him with customer service horror stories from your barista days, confessing your penchant for ‘accidentally’ giving rude patrons decaf.

in turn, toji found himself sharing more than he usually did - funny anecdotes about his buddies at the firehouse, his worries about his little sister starting college in the fall, even a bit about his dad. the words came without effort, drawn out by your natural warmth and empathy.

he couldn't remember the last time he'd enjoyed anyone's company so effortlessly.

when the check came, he wouldn't let you even reach for it. you rolled your eyes but allowed him to pay, primly informing him you were getting the next one. his stomach flipped at the unthinking promise of a next time.

you then lingered over coffee and dessert - the restaurant's version didn't even hold a candle to your black forest verrines, but you were too polite to say so - neither wanting the evening to end. toji watched you lick chocolate from your spoon, entranced by the tiny pink flash of your tongue. wishing he could lean in and taste the sweetness of your mouth. a pleasant shiver chased over his skin, heat simmering low in his belly. he’d never wanted anyone the way he wanted you - this maddening mix of tender and carnal, the urge to both protect and possess.

“mmm,” you purred appreciatively, pulling the spoon from your mouth with an obscene pop. “whoever said that chocolate isn’t better than sex clearly hadn't tasted chocolate like this.”

toji swallowed hard, adam's apple bobbing convulsively in his throat. “playin’ with fire are we?” he manages to rasp, fingers clenching around his mug.

you placed the spoon delicately on your empty plate, fingers lingering just long enough to draw his attention to their graceful dance. “who says i’m playin’, handsome?” you quip.

he was so fucked. so. totally. fucked.

afterwards, he walked you to your door, hands shoved deeply n’ awkwardly into his pockets to keep from doing something stupid like reaching for your hand. you then hovered on the stoop, the sultry summer night pressing in close.

“i had fun tonight,” you softly. in the light spilling from your living room window, your eyes were luminous. hopeful. “we should really do it again sometime.”

“we should,” he agreed, mouth dry. he couldn't look away from your face, tracing the delicate arch of your brows, the dark feathering of your lashes. you swayed closer, tipping your face up to his, and his heartbeat kicked into overdrive. god, you were killing him.

it took every ounce of willpower to step back, to force a chuckle past the ache in his chest. “well i should let you get your beauty sleep. early start tomorrow, right?” your smile faltered, a brief tightening around your eyes hinting at disappointment. he almost caved right then, almost said to hell with his reservations and dragged you into his arms the way he'd been dying to do all night.

but he couldn't. not when he had nothing more to offer you than heartache.

“right,” you murmured. “beauty sleep. so important for . . . baking.” you fumbled for your keys, not quite meeting his gaze. “i’ll see you round’ then.” he could only watch you retreat into the house, torn between relief at the bullet dodged and an overwhelming sense of loss.

wearily, he turned to go back to his own quiet home. he’d done the right thing. the smart thing. so why did it feel so damnably hollow?

avoidance was the order of the day after that near-miss. though it pained him, toji forced himself to keep some distance, to not make up flimsy excuses to show up on your doorstep at all hours of the night. no more dessert development sessions, no matter how much he craved the sight of you gushing and twirling over your latest creations. no more cute, little dinners with furtive hand holding under the table.

he threw himself into work with even more zeal than usual, pulling extra shifts and helping out with the neverending station chores. if the guys ribbed him about his sudden devotion to alphabetizing the equipment room or polishing the engine to a blinding shine, he shrugged it off. it was loads better than going home to an empty house haunted by what-ifs.

he ached to see you though. sometimes he'd catch a glimpse of you catering to your garden or heading off to the market, and his fingers would itch with the urge to go to you, to close the seemingly unbridgeable gap between you both with long strides and strong arms. more than once he'd picked up his phone to call you, thumb hesitating over your smiling face in his contacts until he cursed and tossed the phone aside.

it was for the best, he told himself firmly. you had your whole life ahead of you - school and internships, building your dream from the ground up. he’d only get in the way, bog you down with his everlasting issues and cynicism. he wouldn't, couldn't be the dead weight holding you back.

even if letting you go felt like tearing himself in half.

he should've known you wouldn't let him slink away so easily. that for all your sweetness, you were just as stubborn as he was. you’d never been one to give up on the things - or people - you wanted.

which bring us to now . . you ambushing him on his way home from a grueling 48-hour shift, looking unfairly pretty and indignant as you marched across the street to plant yourself in front of his truck. he barely bit back a groan, exhaustion and longing a potent cocktail in his bloodstream.

“hey, stranger,” you said archly, fine brows drawn together in a scowl. “long time no annoy.”

he cut the engine and climbed out, suddenly self-conscious about his unwashed, smoke-saturated state. “hi, yn. how’s it going?”

“ah, y’know. jus’ workin’ myself to the bone, trying to perfect this dessert that's only the culmination of my entire academic career thus far. while also attempting to figure out how i mysteriously pissed off my friend to the point of complete radio silence.” your arms crossed over your chest, a hint of hurt flickering in your eyes, “so yeah . . the usual.”

guilt lodged under his breastbone, sharp and corroding. he’d never meant to upset you, to make you think any of this was at all your fault. “shit, yn. i’m sorry . . i didn’t mean to ignore you, i’ve just been so -”

“busy . .” you finished for him, mouth flattening. “mhm, i’ve noticed. so busy you ignored all my calls n’ texts - missed our dinner the other night too. you’ve been practically living at the station lately.”

he grimaced, one hand scrubbing over his stubbled jaw. he’d never been any good with words, with making excuses. especially when faced with eyes that seemed to see right through his every defense, “you’re right. i’ve been avoiding you. but not because of anything you did. i jus’ . . needed some space to clear my head.”

your arms tightened, gaze dropping to the oil-stained pavement. “i thought we were having fun,” you said quietly. “gettin’ to know each other. but if i misread things, if i made you uncomfortable in any way i really am so sorr . . .”

“no.” he interrupted fiercely, taking an involuntary step closer. close enough to smell the light, citrusy scent of you, to see the faint mascara smudges of sleeplessness under your eyes. “you didn't misread anything, yn. these past weeks, spendin’ time with you . . . s’ been amazing. the most fun i’ve had in years, if i’m being honest.”

confusion clouded your expression. “then why?”

“because m’ a goddamn mess,” he bit out, the truth clawing its way up his throat. “because you’re brilliant, and you’re goin’ places . . n’ i wouldn’t be able to give you my time in the way that i know you more than deserve. i wanna smell muffins in the mornin’ . . not the smell of musty men and water hoses.”

he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose before sitting his stuff on the hood of his car, “i jus’,” he started, “i’ve done the dating thing, alright? the marriage thing too, y’know that. i jus’ . . i cant afford to lose another person in my life that i care about — not when i’ve come this far to prevent it n’ when they’re as sweet and pretty, and as kind as you.” you stand in silence, letting him vent, “i’m not perfect. m’ terrible at cooking, i sing in the shower, n’ on top of all that i fuckin’ snore like a grizzly bear. ya’ still want me now?”

you took a step forward, hand coming up to fist in the front of his t-shirt. he inhaled sharply at the sudden press of your soft curves against his hard planes, the way your gaze dropped to his mouth.

“yeah, you grumpy old fuck . . i still want you,” you whispered fiercely. “mess, snores and all.”

he softened as you pressed a kiss onto his cheek, gentle and warm with truce, “i have my own damn baggage. y’think thats stoppin’ me from goin’ after what i want? no. so jus’ stop bein’ such an asshole n’ kiss me alread - mmph!” — that was it. that was the straw that’d broken the camel’s back. with a muttered curse, his control had finally snapped. he hauled you flush against him, one arm banding around your waist as the other hand sank into your hair, cradling the back of your head. you made a soft, needy sound and surged up on tiptoe, sealing your mouth to his.

the first touch of your lips was electric, a livewire straight to his core. they were exactly as soft and sweet as he'd imagined, moving over his with an urgency that matched his own. he angled his head to slant his mouth more firmly over your, licking at the seam of your lips as you licked on the scar on his.

he swept his tongue into your mouth, stroking over yours, swallowing the low moan that vibrated in her throat. you tasted like peppermint and the vaguest hint of sugar, an addictive flavor he already knew he'd never get enough of. your arms twined around his neck, blunt nails scraping deliciously at his nape as you pressed impossibly closer.

dimly, he registered the whoops and catcalls of a passing group of neighbors, but he couldn't bring himself to care. let em’ gawk. the whole damn neighborhood could come out to watch and he still wouldn't be able to tear himself away from your sweetness.

he was a man possessed.

the kiss deepened, turning hot and hungry. toji backed you up against his front door, hands roaming greedily over your curves as he pressed the hard length of his body into your soft warmth. you made yet another sound into his mouth, lifting one leg to wrap around his hip, opening yourself up to him.

he tore his lips from yours only to trail open-mouthed kisses down the column of your throat, tasting the salt on your skin from the sweat of the hot summer sun. “fuck . . i want you,” he growled against your pulse point. “wanna’ touch you, taste you, feel you. if you’ll let me . . of course.”

“wow, such a gentlemen,” you gasped, hands scrabbling at his shoulders. “please fuckin’ do, toji.” patience fraying, he fumbled for his keys and somehow managed to get the door open without releasing you. you stumbled over the threshold, shedding clothes haphazardly between searing kisses - your flimsy blouse fluttering to the floor, followed by smoke stained his t-shirt.

toji walked you backwards down the hall to his bedroom, kicking the door shut before tossing you onto the bed. he followed you down, covering your entire frame with his own, reveling in the feel of all your bare skin finally against him. you were a vision in the spill of afternoon light, curls fanned across his pillow, pink lace bra and panties a tantalizing contrast to your brown skin.

he took a moment just to admire you, committing every detail to memory. the rapid rise and fall of your chest, the way your lips parted on shallow breaths. heavy-lidded eyes hazy with want and something deeper, more tender.

“been dreamin’ about you, princess. shit - you’re so gorgeous.” he rasped, nipping at your earlobe with each word, “so pretty, so beautiful, so smart.”

you shivered, fingernails raking over his shoulders, “nngh - c’mon stoppit, toji . .” growling low in his throat, he captured your lips in a nasty kiss, all teeth and tongue. large hands cupping your full titties, calloused thumbs rubbing your nipples into stiff peaks. and you arched into his touch with a moan, shameless in your pleasure.

“someone’s eager, hm?”

breaking the kiss, he began to work his way down your body, mapping every dip and curve with lips and teeth and tongue. he paid thorough attention to your titties, laving at the dark-brown nipples until you were panting and squirming beneath him.

“b-baby, please . .” you whimpered, fingers sinking into his hair to urge him lower.

he only chuckled darkly against your flesh. “patience, sweetheart. m’ not goin’ anywhere. let me love you.”

true to his word, he set about exploring you - kissing a meandering path down your ribs and belly, dipping his tongue into your navel just to hear you gasp. strong hands gripped your thighs, pushing them further and further apart so he could settle more comfortably between them.

hooking his fingers in your lacy panties, he dragged the scrap of fabric down your legs. “fuck yeah, look at you. so wet for me already. look at this pussy . .”

you mewled as he licked a broad stripe up your slit, circling your puffy clit with the tip of his tongue. he sealed his lips around the sensitive nub and sucked, fingers delving into your soaked entrance, curling to find that special spot inside you.

“o-ooh my god — yes!” your back bowed off the bed, a vibration spreading down your chest as he worked you higher. he paid close attention to your most tender skin, alternating between broad, flat licks and quick, targeted flicks. crooking his fingers just so, he rubbed and rubbed until he found — “ah f-fuck!” your g-spot, feeling your thighs start to tremble around his head.

“thas’ it, bunny - cum on my tongue. i wanna’ see it all, mama. c’mon, i know you can do it,” the filthy words combined with the relentless stimulation quite literally pushed you over the edge . . and you came with a sharp cry, gushing your juices all over his lips and chin. he groaned at the taste of you, lapping up every last drop, addicted already.

while you were still quivering and coming down from your high, toji fumbled blindly for the nightstand drawer. he managed to retrieve a condom without taking his eyes off of you. ripping open the packet with his teeth, he sat back on his knees to quickly sheath himself.

you took the opportunity to admire his body, running appreciative hands over his muscular chest and abdomen. he was all tanned skin and chiseled muscle, a sparse trail of dark hair pointing the way to his impressive erection. it jutted from a thatch of coarse curls, thick and flushed nearly purple, the bulbous head glistening with excitement.

wrapping your fingers around his rigid length, you stroked him base to tip, twisting your wrist on the upstroke so that the condom slips right back off. toji grunted, hips bucking into your touch as you rubbed your thumb over the leaking slit. you pause, your mouth watering as you begin to lower your head down. you press the side of your face against his thigh, peering up at him with batting lashes and a poked lip. your ass is arched - high in the air and wiggling as if you just wanted him to smack it.

that’s when you began slapping his heavy dick against your cheek, repeatedly, “so big, baby,” you whisper, now positioning your face to where his cock could sit right on top of it - “can i put it in m’mouth? please . .?”

“yn you don’t have to -”

“i want to.”

toji looked down at you once more, the look of want in your eyes . . . how could he resist?

he gently grabs the side of your neck, firm but not firm enough to cause pain, his other hand curling around the base of his cock as he whispered, “open wide. tongue out,” biting his lip as he braces himself for the sensation of your mouth wrapped around him.

that’s when your wet tongue dances out tentatively, tracing the ridge of his head before retreating back to safety inside your mouth. it was clear that you were just as lust filled as him. toji could feel himself pulsing with need as you took him in deeper and deeper, a low groan escaping him, “shit, doll - got it all to fit . . good girl.” your hands gripped his hips tightly, nails digging into his skin as you bobbed your head up and down. toji swore he could fall in love with the simple, yet beautifully disgusting sound of your throat — gawk, gulp, gawk! ugh, they were such disgusting noises - some gagging here, some moaning there, but he couldn’t have asked for anything better. you were slobbing, spitting, and choking on his dick and the only thing getting in your way from taking him whole was the fact that his size was still fairly new to you.

“sss’ ooh fuck - b-baby . . yn -” he hisses, both your eyes and his rolling to the back of your heads as you continue to gulp him down, spit trickling down to your tits as they jiggled to the rhythm of your mouth. each and every glide against your tongue was starting to overpower him, and before he knew it, if you didn’t stop he was bout’ to —

“cum . . m’gonna cum! m’fuckin’ cumming - asshhit . .” he groaned, eyes tightly closing as you continued to deepthroat him the best you could, “don’t stop, keep suck - y-yes . .” it was a hassle - a big one, but the taste of him warm cum painting your throat felt like a sweet reward.

almost sweeter than your baked goods.

whining and still aching to suck on him some more, toji pulls you off in fear of shaking more than he already was — and the sight of you with his cum dripping out of your mouth only did the complete opposite.

“uh, well then . . how’d i do?” you say shyly, as if you hadn’t just completely slutted out your mouth for your next door neighbor.

a surprised bark of laughter escaped him even as his cock jerked at you eagerly. “don’t exile me, but that mouth . . shit, might be better than your cookies. not gonna’ lie, sweetheart . .” toji growled, and you pout as he’s prowling back over you. you then watch him slowly, his fingers unexpectedly plunging back into your pussy as he scoops some of your wetness onto the pad of them before pulling them back out. he fists the base and tip of himself, smothering his cock in your juices as lubricant as he teases your entrance with a few pats n’ nudges. fuckin’ tease. he kept on until you were angrily swatting his chest to put the damn thing in already.

who could blame your lust? after all . . you’d been dreaming about it for weeks now.

yet again, he snags another rubber, strokes a little, and once he’s in, “oh s-shit that pussy's tight, baby . .” he’s in. you moaned in tandem, dick snuggling into your tight walls inch by excruciating inch. you were warm and wet and perfect around him, gripping him like a silken vise. it was magical, just like you - but the look on your face . . oh that look, almost seemed like you wanted to be broken. with your arms above your head, your titties swaying against your chest and your whines now hoarse n' pleading — he kinda wanted to break you too.

toji started with slow, deep strokes, mindful of your tightness and his considerable girth. he didn't want to hurt you, wanted to savor every clench and flutter around his aching cock. wanted this to last, to burn this moment into his brain forever.

“f-feel so fuckin' good wrapped around me,” he gritted out, hips rolling in a lazy figure eight that had you keening. “y’so wet, honey . . dick feel that good?”

“toji,” you whimpered brokenly, fingernails scoring down his flexing back. “more, please . . need it harder . .”

and how could he deny you anything when you begged so sweetly? bracing his weight on his forearms, he obliged, snapping his hips forward with more force. the headboard started to thump against the wall, the mattress creaking beneath your writhing bodies.

“like that, baby? hm?” he panted against your throat, sweat beading at his temples as he drove into you again and again, his cock damn near slipping out of you from the slippery speed. “this what you need? me splittin' this pretty pussy open?”

“yes d-daddy . . ” you wailed, back arching like a drawn bow. your cunt was fluttering around him, a telltale sign of your impending orgasm. “aah - don't stop, don’t stop, m'so close!”

“shh, i got you,” he promised, shifting the angle of his hips to grind against your clit with every thrust. “gonna’ make this pussy sing for me, gonna’ wring the cum outta’ you 'til you're shakin' on me. you want that?” his filthy words seemed to be your undoing because suddenly you were clenching down on him like a vice, a sharp cry tearing from your throat as you thrashed beneath him. your release gushed hot and slick around his pistoning length, drenching his groin and thighs with sweetness.

“f-fuck yeah,” toji choked out, his own rhythm faltering as your rippling walls threatened to milk him dry. “good girl, sweetheart, cream on this dick, lemme’ feel you.” he managed a handful more erratic thrusts before his own orgasm crashed into him like a freight train. he buried himself to the hilt and stilled, a hoarse shout muffled into your sweat damped shoulder as he spilled himself into the condom. his cock jerked and twitched with every pulse, vision nearly whiting out with the force of it.

for long moments, you both just shook and gasped, clinging to each other as aftershocks rolled through your bodies. toji's heart was thundering so hard he was sure you could feel it through his sweat-slick chest. he'd never come so hard in his life, never felt so utterly shattered and remade.

you made a soft, satisfied sound as he carefully withdrew from your heat, rolling to the side to dispose of the condom with a quick knot. then he was gathering you close again, palm smoothing up your spine as you burrowed into him with a sigh.

“shit,” you eventually mumbled into the heated skin of his throat. “that was . . .”

“ . . fuckin' heavenly,” he finished roughly, a laugh rumbling in his chest as he felt your answering huff of amusement. “m’ sorry i uh . . came so fast. i don’t usually -”

“did you just apologize to me because my pussy is good?” you teased, dragging your nose along the edge of his stubbled jaw. he could feel the curve of your smile, the unabashed joy, and it settled something deep within him. soothed the ragged pieces he'd thought long broken.

“damn straight,” he agreed, arms tightening around you possessively. “i can die a happy man now.”

“well, you're not allowed to die on me now, toji. you're stuck with me. escape if you can.”

“mm, is that right,” he nuzzled into your hair, breathing in the scent of you - all warm woman and satisfaction.

“mhmm. you're not getting rid of me easily. i still have so many desserts to force on you, so many early morning baking sessions to drag you into . .”

he laughed outright at that, at the sheer exuberance in your voice. “promises, promises.”

“oh i always keep my promises, mister. which reminds me . .” you pushed up on an elbow, eyes sparkling with mischief and something deeper. something that snatched the breath from his lungs. “i seem to remember you saying something about round two . .”

“did i? care to refresh my memory?” he growled, even as he was already rolling you beneath him again, mouth seeking yours. you then feel his palm colliding with your ass in a gentle spank. “what am i gonna’ do with you?”

“everything.” you breathed against his lips, a vow. “anything. i want you, toji. want everything with you.” and fuck, what could he say to that? what could he do but kiss you like a promise, a prayer, and proceed to show you just how much he wanted that too? wanted to give you everything, anything, all he had to offer?

he'd never been a man of many words. but this - loving you with hands and mouth and body, breaking you apart and putting you back together again and again until you were both sweat-soaked and shaking . . this he could do. this he would do for the rest of his life if you'd let him.

“you’ve got me.”

and from the joyous half-sob of his name as he sank back into your pussy, the way your body opened for him like a flower to the sun, he had a feeling you just might too.

there would be time for more words later - time for confessions and plans and mapping out a future he'd never even let himself dream of before. time to make good on promises whispered into heated skin, to build something real and lasting brick by brick. but for now, in the honeyed afternoon light with your legs wrapped around his waist and your heart in his hands . . let himself get lost. let himself drown in sensation and emotion, in this miraculous woman he didn't deserve but who'd chosen him anyway.

from lost to found, in the space of a heartbeat. and all because an angel in a garden had smiled at him across a sunny street and offered up a little piece of heaven. he'd never know what he'd done to deserve you, or this second chance. but he'd spend the rest of his days earning this gift, cherishing it.

cherishing you.

that was a promise. and like his beautiful girl . . toji fushiguro always kept his promises.

©️ SATORUBI - please do not copy, translate, or modify my work without my approval ! thank you for playing . . the challenge has only just begun.

#🎀 — www.satorubiwrites/games !#AHHHHH WE HERE #papa toji i luv him #toji x fem! reader #toji x female reader #toji x black reader #toji x black y/n #toji smut #jjk x fem! reader #jjk x poc!reader

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manifestobackshot · 1 month ago

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REPO REAPER — JAKE SIM

As a repossession agent, you’ve dealt with trouble of all sorts—anger, frustration, desperation—you’ve seen it all.

…Or so you thought, until you met trouble personified—Jake Sim. Though he misses his car’s cash payments by months at a time, perhaps he can arrange a different type of payment.

PAIRING: jake x afab reader

WORDCOUNT: 3.5k

TAGS: smut, porn… what plot?, outdoor sex, semi-public sex, oral (fem-receiving), unprotected sex, creampie, pretty filthy im sorry

A/N: it came to me in a dream. that’s all.

The street was quiet except for the low rumble of your tow truck’s engine as you pulled up to the shitty apartment complex, illuminated solely by the streetlights. 2012 Ford Focus. Owner: Jake Sim. The car was in decent shape—surprising, considering how far behind he was on payments.

You popped the trunk of your tow truck and hopped out, the heavy weight of your steel-toe boots hitting the ground with a thud. The leather of your repo gloves creaked as you flexed your fingers. You stretched, preparing to get this job done and over with. This part never got old—the thrill of the hunt, the satisfaction of reclaiming what was owed.

You hopped out and got to work hooking up the rear axle. You were seconds away from lifting it when the front door of the unit swung open.

"Hey, hey, hey—hold up!"

A guy stumbled out, barefoot and wearing nothing but a white tank and low-slung sweatpants that clung to his hips in a way that should’ve been illegal. His dark hair was tousled like he’d just rolled out of bed, and his grin was all trouble.

"You Jake Sim?" you asked, not stopping your work.

"Yeah, that’s me." He sauntered over, running a hand through his hair like he was in a damn commercial. You took note of his demeanor, confident… with a little something else, though you couldn’t quite put your finger on it.

"Listen, I know I’m behind, but I’ve got a way better way to settle this debt,” he said, relaxing his stance with a sense of smugness that only the boldest of men would deliver. Trouble was practically a part of your job description, and you knew that, but you hadn’t met trouble like this before.

You let your eyes wander and rolled them upon letting your gaze fall. This guy. "We’ve given plenty of notices and more than enough lenience, so unless you’ve got three months of cash in those sweatpants, your car’s getting towed.”

He leaned against the side of your truck, close enough that you caught the scent of his cologne—something warm and stupidly expensive for a guy who couldn’t pay his car note.

"See, that’s the thing," he said, voice dropping to a sinful purr. "I don’t have cash. But I do have skills." His fingers brushed your wrist. "And I’m very good at… negotiating."

For a second, you questioned what he meant by negotiating. But who are you kidding, this type of desperation is lame. Why would you lose your composure over a man like this?

You snorted. "You think I repo cars for favors?"

Jake smirked. "I think you’ve never had an offer like mine."

“...And what would that be?”

Before you could react, his hands were on your waist, pressing you back against the tow truck. His body was all hard muscle and heat, and—fuck—he knew exactly how to move.

Jake’s gaze was entirely focused on you, persistent and hot, shifting from your eyes, to your lips, and back again. Through his lashes, he held eye contact as he bit his lip, tilting his head as a smirk reappeared on his lips.

Though Jake was the one who should have been showing desperation in search of mercy regarding his car, you found yourself in that position instead. Of course, only you would you be face-to-face with some accent-wielding, sweatpants-slinging personification of temptation. Your body writhed under his touch, taking you down from a repossession agent with some sense of authority to Jake Sim’s playtoy, just for the evening.

"You let me keep my car," he murmured against your ear, "and I’ll make sure you don’t regret it."

Your breath hitched. This was unprofessional.

This was against company policy.

Fuck. This was working.

You shoved him back—weakly. "One time thing," you said, trying to sound stern. "And if you’re bad at this, I’m taking the car and your dignity."

Jake’s grin turned wolfish. "Oh, baby. I never disappoint."

You yanked the hook free from his Focus.

The moment the tow hook clattered to the pavement, Jake’s hands were on you again, his grip firm as he backed you up against the truck. His mouth crashed against yours before you could protest—not that you wanted to. The kiss was hot, demanding, his tongue sliding against yours with a confidence that made your knees weak.

He tasted like mint and something darker, something addictive. His fingers tangled in your hair, tilting your head back as he deepened the kiss, his other hand sliding down to grip your hip. You could feel the hard press of him against your thigh, the way his sweatpants did nothing to hide how much he wanted this.

Between the cool exterior of the tow truck and Jake’s warmth, you softly arched in response to the kiss. You could feel the skin above his waistband, tacky—sticky, even—with his sweat, as his tank rode up as he prioritized keeping you under him. He knows what he wants, and he knows how to get it. His hand moved away from your hip as he hooked his finger in the denim loop around your waistband, gently pulling your hips towards his own, softly moaning against you upon feeling the pressure.

“Fuck,” you gasped when he finally pulled back, lips swollen. “You don’t waste time, do you?”

Jake smirked, dragging his thumb over your bottom lip, careful to not break the focused gaze he laid upon you. “Not when I know what I want.” His voice was rough, his eyes dark with hunger. “And right now? I want you bent over the hood of my car.”

Your pulse spiked. This was reckless. Stupid. And yet, the heat pooling low in your stomach drowned out any rational thought.

“Not your car if this isn’t worth my time.”

“You know it’ll be, so behave.”

You let him spin you around, the cold metal of the Focus biting into your palms as he pressed against you from behind. Jake was unforgiving, putting the weight of his body against you.

His hands slid under your shirt, calloused fingers skimming up your stomach to your chest, teasing until you arched into his touch. He hovered his fingertips across your skin, making you writhe under him, aching for more. You moaned, feeling the soft drag of his fingers on your torso as he leaned into you, breath hot on your nape.

“That’s it,” he growled, mouth hot on your neck. “Let me hear you.”

His fingers flicked over your nipples, pinching just enough to make you whimper. You could feel his cock grinding against your ass, the friction maddening even through layers of clothing.

“Jake—”

“Tell me what you want, love,” he murmured, one hand sliding down to undo your belt with practiced ease. “Tell me, and it’s yours.”

You swallowed hard. “I want you to fuck me. Right here.”

His laugh was dark, sinful. “Knew you’d see things my way.”

In seconds, your pants were around your thighs as you stood embarrassingly eager to feel his touch again. Your hair stuck to your forehead, hot and sweaty from the encounter, as Jake placed his hand on your lower back, as to force a deeper arch from you.

“Please,” you pleaded, aching for more of him.

“Be patient,” he breathed, repositioning you against his vehicle. He moved his hand from your lower back to place both hands on your hips, squeezing the flesh of your ass, with his touch coming so dangerously close to your aching core—where you needed him most.

With one hand spreading you, Jake used his other to press his fingers into you, working you open with rough, eager strokes. You tensed around him, whimpering with every stroke that nearly molded your body to the contours of his knuckles. His fingers moved with intention—passionate, hot, and undying. The calloused tips of his fingers stroked inside you, building tension inside your already desperate core. You bit your lip to stifle a moan as he curled them just right, your hips rocking back against his hand.

“So wet for me already,” he murmured, nipping at your ear. “You been thinking about this since you saw me?”

You didn’t answer—couldn’t, not when he replaced his fingers with the thick head of his cock, teasing your entrance before pushing in with one slow, deliberate thrust, replacing your ache with a searing stretch.

“Fuck—!” Your nails scraped against the car’s paint as he filled you, stretching you in the best way. The drag of his cock as he slipped deeper into you left your mouth agape—gasping with every inch. He didn’t give you time to adjust, setting a punishing pace from the start, each snap of his hips driving you harder into the hood. He kept his rhythm as he used a free hand to push his tank all the way up, exposing his skin to the evening air.

“That’s it, take it,” he grunted, one hand gripping your hip, the other fisting in your hair. “You feel fucking perfect.”

He forced your body into a deeper arch, harsh as he forced your head back, pulling on your hair. His damp, calloused fingers were rough, gripping and digging into the flesh of your hip as he continued to pound into you, whimpering as he hit the apex of his thrusts.

The sound of skin slapping skin mixed with your ragged moans, the street still empty but feeling dangerously exposed. It only made it hotter—the risk, the way his breath hitched every time you clenched around him.

He indulged in the sight before him, taking in the way you involuntarily drove your hips back to meet him halfway. He saw—no, felt—the desperation and need in the way you fucked him right back, bending and curving your body to make him reach deeper, closer. Watching himself disappear inside you with every stroke and thrust of his pelvis made him groan, almost whimper, as he felt the ache within you coming to fruition. The sensation of you gripping around his cock, as if to milk him dry, from his base rolling all the way to his tip, forced his bottom lip between his teeth.

Jake released your locks from his grasp—placing both hands on either side of your hips with bruising force—to direct his focus on tearing into you, so deliciously deep that you’d do whatever he’d ask of you. He worked the soft flesh of your ass, using the demanding press of his thumbs to spread you, allowing himself to fuck into you deeper. He hissed, desperate fervor apparent as you pulled him in, forcing him to bottom out against your cervix.

“You like taking me, baby?” he asked, to which you could only whimper in response.

Jake removed one hand from your hip, raising it before striking down on your ass, causing you to clench around him again. He slid his hand, calloused and cold, up the small of your back and towards the nape of your neck. Jake leaned in, pressing his hips impossibly deep against your womb, maneuvering his hand around to your mouth, putting one thumb behind your bottom row of teeth to pull your head back, forcing an agonizing—yet pleasuring—arch in your spine.

“Answer me,” he growled, anticipating more than a lame whimper this time.

“I’m—”

“Use your words.”

“—Close,” you panted, the coil in your stomach tightening. “Jake, I’m—”

He swore, his thrusts turning erratic. “Come for me,” he demanded. “Let me feel it.”

His fingers found your clit, rubbing tight circles just as he angled his hips to hit that spot inside you. The roughness of his fingers stroked and pressed against you—pace and force increasing—filling you with intensely growing tension. Your vision whited out as you shattered, his name a broken cry on your lips, twitching around him as to coax him into following suit. He followed right after, burying himself deep with a groan, his teeth sinking into your shoulder as he spilled inside you.

For a moment, the only sound was your heavy breathing, the weight of him pressed against your back. Then Jake pulled out with a satisfied sigh, careful to not make too much of a mess, before turning you to face him. His smirk was downright smug.

“So,” he said, thumb brushing your swollen lips. “We good on that debt?”

You shoved him weakly, but you were already reaching for your belt. “One time thing,” you reminded him.

Jake’s fingers traced the curve of your hip, his touch possessive even now. His smirk deepened as he watched you fumble with your belt, his gaze dark with amusement and something far hungrier.

“One time thing,” he repeated, voice rough, dragging his knuckles down your stomach, “if you say so.”

The bank’s notice was glaringly clear: Final Warning – Repossession Authorized.

You sighed, crumpling the paper in your fist. Jake fucking Sim. Of course he hadn’t paid. Of course they were sending you back.

The memory of last month—his hands, his mouth, the way he’d bent you over the hood of his goddamn Focus—flashed hot behind your eyelids. You’d told yourself it was a one-time thing. A mistake. But the way your pulse kicked up as you pulled onto his street said otherwise.

His car was parked in the same spot, gleaming under the dim streetlight like a taunt. You killed the engine, gripping the steering wheel until your knuckles ached. Professional. Just do your job.

And professional you were, working swiftly in the quiet veil of the unassuming evening. Just procedure, you thought, everything’s normal this time.

You were halfway through hooking the tow when his accented, familiar voice cut through the dark.

“Back so soon, sweetheart?”

Jake leaned against the porch railing, shirtless this time, sweatpants hanging low on his hips once again, teasing you with a peek of his adonis belt. Even in the shadows, you could see the smirk.

“You’re three months behind,” you snapped, refusing to let your eyes drop lower than his collarbone another time. “Bank wants the car. Again.”

He pushed off the railing, strolling toward you like he had all the time in the world. “Funny. I was just thinking about you.”

Your breath hitched as he stepped into your space, the heat of him searing even through the night air. Jake’s mere presence reignited the pit of fire in your core, his stare scorchingly intimidating. His fingers brushed yours where they still clutched the tow chain.

“You gonna take what’s mine again?” His voice was gravel, rough enough to make your thighs press together, seeking pressure.

“Car’s not yours,” you responded, trembling and nervous from being in this familiar setting with a familiar face once more.

Jake progressed in your direction, closing in on you. “Are you here just to take from me, or?”

“Or what?”

“...Or you wanna negotiate?”

You swallowed hard. “There’s nothing to negotiate.”

Jake’s laugh was dark. “Bullshit.”

Then his hands were on your waist, spinning you until your back hit the car’s door, a familiar ache following. His mouth crashed into yours, all teeth and tongue, his hips pinning you in place. You gasped, fingers twisting in his hair as he bit your lip hard enough to sting.

“You give in so easy,” he said, breathless between hungry kisses, “I like that.” His body was hot, the slight sheen of sweat glistening under the dim streetlight. He was close enough to press against you, the sensation of his sticky skin against yours breaking any remaining composure or dignity you had remaining. His appetite for you was evident in the way he possessively held your waist, bringing your body closer to his as if to claim you as his.

“Missed this,” he growled against your mouth, one hand sliding down to hike your leg over his hip. “Missed how fucking desperate you get for me.”

You should’ve shoved him off. Should’ve just towed the car and left. But his palm was already cupping you through your pants, his thumb pressing just there, and—

“Fuck,” you whimpered, arching into his touch.

Jake chuckled, low and wicked. “That’s the plan.”

Before you could protest, he dropped to his knees, reminding you that you couldn’t even if you wanted to. Your breath caught as his fingers first hooked into your belt loops, forcing you closer to him with nearly enough strength to rip them off. He unhooked his fingers to close the gap by swiftly reaching for the waistband of your pants, yanking them down with your panties in one rough pull. The night air kissed your bare skin, but it was nothing compared to the heat of his breath between your legs.

“Jake—!”

His tongue dragged through your folds, slow and filthy, and your head thudded back against the car. His eyes were shut, brows knitted together as if to keep his composure—which was the last thing that could be true of him at that moment. He groaned like he was the one getting off, his hands selfishly gripping your thighs to keep you open as he licked into you like a man starving.

“Taste even better than I remembered,” he muttered, before sealing his mouth over your clit and sucking.

Your knees buckled. His arm hooked around your hips, holding you up as he devoured you, his tongue circling, flicking, driving you toward the edge with ruthless precision. Jake traced his tongue around your clit, pressure firm and unrelenting. His kisses to your core had intent, greedy as if he’s been without you for years.

Your taste on his tongue was intoxicating, driving him further into madness as he delved deeper into you, devouring you in every sense of the word. He squeezed his eyes shut tighter, drunken in the flavor of you. Relishing every ounce of stress and frustration—most of which was his fault—made him wish you’d have a shitty day everyday, just so he can taste it on you. Jake held you closer, squeezing you to bring you closer to his face, to taste your sweat.

You tugged at his hair, torn between pushing him away and grinding into his face. Every pull of his locks elicited a whimper from him, prompting him to nearly give himself lockjaw with the way he ravaged you. The sight was deliciously alluring, Jake’s face buried between your thighs, his mouth latched on your core as he pushed against the force of you pulling his hair. His brows stayed furrowed, twitching as his cheeks hollowed before diving back into you, more desperate and frenzied every time.

“Gonna come already?” he taunted, pulling back just enough to watch you squirm. “That all you got?”

An aching moan—no words—is all you mustered as his nose rubbed against your clit again, allowing you to grind against him as he fervently made a mess of you. The auditory blend of lewd squelches, Jake’s whimpers, your gasps, and his mouth against your cunt was impossibly perverse, lust permeating every stroke of his tongue. You could hear your wetness by the lewd sounds coming from him, lapping, sucking, at your core with both desperation and control.

You whimpered, hips jerking. “Jake—”

Jake’s attention wavered for a second, taking in how pretty you looked with his mouth on you. He pulled back again, paying special attention to the way your mouth hung open and eyes fluttered shut at the sensation of his mouth. With a smirk, he heard you whine at the sudden absence of his mouth, he took special care to support and stabilize you against the car. He pried your thighs open, savoring your amazed gasp, as he spit on your cunt, diving back into your core to indulge in—to taste—the sin he loved so much.

His tongue was inside you, curling just right, making you involuntarily gasp in reaction. The sight was obscene—pornographic, even—as he mouth-fucked you so deep that you could see stars. Dazed with pleasure, you shattered with a cry, your fingers fisting in his hair as pleasure ripped through you. He didn’t let up, licking you through it until you were shaking, oversensitive and gasping.

Only then did he pull away, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he stood. His smirk was downright sinful.

“Now,” he said, crowding you against the car again, his erection pressing into your stomach, “you wanna talk about that payment plan, or is the third time the charm?”

You were fucked. In every sense of the word.

(And you definitely weren’t towing his car tonight.)

#enhypen smut #jake sim smut #jake smut #sim jaeyun smut #enhypen x reader #jake x reader

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darylbrainrot · 3 months ago

Text

HEARTTHROB-

CHAPTER 1: Feeding Starving Influencers (2.4k words)

a/n: i messed up the date on the second ss, its supposed to be January 15

JANUARY 15— 1:51 PM

You were currently sitting in your office, doing nothing but trying to brainstorm some new ideas on what to post for your youtube. You have been feeling a bit burnt out, feeling as if every single unique idea has oozed out of your brain and formed a puddle of mush at the bottom of your feet. Uninspired, dull, and discouraged were some simple adjectives to put into perspective of your current feelings.

It felt as if your thoughts were the same as watching paint dry; boring, repetitive, and expected. Sighing, you grabbed your phone to scroll on whatever social media you want to pick to at least give yourself a sort of a brain break. That was until you noticed a new notification on your phone.

You felt nervous weirdly enough. This would be your first time even agreeing to collaborate with someone else and it's an all time new for you. You and Quen have been following each other for quite some time. You guys never texted, only comments left on each other posts was the farthest you've ever done. Even though this was an all-time new for you, pushing and challenging boundaries, you felt kinda glad this chance landed itself on your lap.

New opportunities dont come by every day, so you had to take this one.

Even though you don't know her, you can clearly tell she's a genuine person. Through this short interaction, you already felt so much better.

JANUARY 17— 7:30 AM

Today was the day you are going over Quen's to film for her youtube. You were excited and anxious at the same time. Quen sent you her address a bit ago after you both agreed on a time for you to get there. She lived around 2 hours max away from you, so you decided to leave a bit early to beat traffic. You both had decided to meet at 10:40 am as it was a good time for you and Quen.

Grabbing your keys, jacket, bag, and whatever necessities needed, you left your apartment and started heading towards your car. You started your car, hearing your engine roar into power, as you sat in the driver's seat. You had a Nissan 350z, one of your dream cars from youth that you were able to buy at a good price a couple years back. It had a black glossy exterior shining brightly and a matching black and red interior. Though you had one of your dream cars, your true dream car was a 1965 Ford Mustang.

Getting comfortable in your seat, you connect your phone to the aux to start playing your spotify playlist. The first song that came up was dive in by pierce the veil, one of your favorite songs. Singing along, you finally pulled out of the parking lot and headed your way toward Quen's address.

Traffic was quite forgiving today, as surprising as it is. It was a decently long drive but you felt glad that there was no heavy traffic on your way to Quen. Glad that you slept a bit longer yesterday, you were nearing her house and you can already tell its gorgeous.

it was a modern house, still, you can see Quen's personality seeping through.

Sending her a quick message about your arrival, you quickly found an empty parking space and parked. Grabbing your items, you made your way to her house.

It was cute, with pretty greenery outside, giving the house some personality. Your heart was beating rapidly, and you felt your nerves at an all-time max even though you knew that Quen was a nice and chill person. You felt your hands get clammy so you quickly wiped your hands on your pants. But as soon as you reached her doorstep, the door flew right open.

She yelled your name with a huge grin, quickly catching you in a hug.

"HEYYY! You're literally so much more gorgeous in person that I think I'm already in love with you", Quen said

You laugh, your smile matching hers "I think I should get on one knee already, I already love you."

You both laugh, she quickly moves out of the way and welcomes you in. The inside of her house was cute, with some nice vintage furniture and random pops of color here and there that highlighted her personality. There were silly pictures on the walls of her with friends or family, each sharing a big smile on their face. Seeing those photos puts a smile on your face.

"So, our set is all ready, I have all the cameras and audio prepared with the kitchen already set up with everything we need to cook. Do you want to start right now or do you want to relax for a bit, I know that you mentioned your car ride was pretty long." She said, moving her hands as she spoke. It seemed that was a habit of hers.

"I'm fine with recording right away" She nodded as she made her way to the kitchen with you following behind.

Once you made it to the kitchen, you saw how big it was. It was huge with white walls, wooden shelves with plants, and an assortment of tiny and cute decorations on them, the shelves were a nice shade of light gray that complemented well with the marble countertops. The ingredients needed lied on the countertops ready for use and the rest of the room was filled with cameras, lights, microphones, and people.

"Okay, so everything is set up as I said, my crews are here to make sure the audio is working and they're making sure the camera is good and shit." She was pointing at her crew and naming them, with them waving at you and you waving back with a smile.

Nodding, she continued, "We can start in 5, I'll do the intro and introduce you and what we're gonna do and will continue from there. You feeling alright? I know its your first collab and I would feel hella anxious if I was you right now."

"Okay that sounds good but yeah I feel a bit anxious right now, but I'll feel better as we film though, thanks for checking in." She nods, signaling her crew to get ready for filming as they all start their checking on the filming gear.

As soon as you knew it, 5 minutes had passed and filming started.

Quen positions herself in the middle of the kitchen island, arms stretched out. The person with the camera zoomed in into her as she began speaking, "Hey guys, welcome to this next episode of feeding starving celebrities, and today's guest is... Pierce the y/n!!!!" She yelled excitedly, with a huge smile on her face.

She raised her hands, signaling for the camera to pan to you. You smiled at her, your smile matching hers as you waved at the camera.

"hi"

"Okay so while she trying to act nonchalant, today I have a fat stack of questions to ask her while we make her favorite dishes. Any guesses on what were making?" She turned to you, waiting for your response.

"Umm... based on what ingredients are out, are we making sopes maybe? Hmmm, maybe agua de horchata too?" Your face was curious, hands on hips as you took a look at the variety of ingredients covering her marble counters.

"Okay, I see you!! You basically got it right but were also making jericallas, I know you're from Guadalajara and that's a very popular dessert there and you mentioned it as your favorite before. Sooo, that will be the menu for today! Lets hope and pray we don't burn down the kitchen!"

"Damn, you really did pull a Nardwuar on me, am I in one of his interviews?? Cut the cameras." You grin, successfully feeling less nervous.

She laughs, "Anyways, let's not expose my secrets. So we're gonna start with the sopes. I have the the masa, beans, meat, lettuce, cheese, and the cream." Nodding in confirmation, she continues.

"SO, step one, we mix the masa harina with salt and water," She says, grabbing the Maseca corn flour from behind her as well with the salt. "According to my directions, not really mine but from this website but let's pretend it's my recipe, we need 2 cups masa harina, 1/4 teaspoon salt, and 1 1/4 cups of water."

As Quen goes to fill a measuring cup with the needed amount of water, you grab a bowl big enough to mix the ingredients and start to pour out the needed measures of both the salt and flour. Pouring them into the bowl, Quen comes back with the needed water.

"Okay, so now, we pour the water in and mix with our hands. Do you wanna do that or do I do it?" She asks you.

"I got it, can you pour the water in though?"

She nods, pouring half of the water into the bowl so you can start mixing. Slowly, it starts becoming into the dough as Quen pours the rest into it. As you continue to mix it, you see Quen reach for her questions.

"So y/n, question numero uno is - wait actually its not really a question more of a statement. Anyways...", she looks into the second camera, giving it a mischievous glance that you didn't notice. "Look at this photo for me and tell me what you think about it. Does it trigger any feelings or memories?"

As you glance up from the bowl, Quen shows you the big notecard with her question written on it, but instead of a question, there's a photo.

"Oh my god" your jaw drops, "how the fuck did you find my middle school graduation photo. Dude... I swear to god do I need to put myself under witness protection, like I'm fearing for my life right now how did you actually find that. This is like lost footage." You start looking around as if you were being watched to further add to your bit.

Quen laughs loudly, doubling over as she shows the camera your middle school graduation photo. You had a heavy side bang, a terrible sense of fashion as if you just walked out of hot topic and Spencer at the same time, and heavy eyeliner.

"Dude, like seriously, I don't know how I was allowed to walk out of my house looking like that. I still feel the eyeliner in my eyes from the amount of times I messed up my eyeliner and ended up poking my eyes."

"STOP, you do NOT look that bad queen, man, have you seen how I looked like when I was doing Vine?" You laugh along with Quen, still wondering how she even got that photo.

"Dude this is actually insane, I was expecting some icebreaker type of questions but instead we just dove straight into it??? Oh my god. This is making me nervous for the rest of my questions."

The rest of the time goes on well, Quen asks some questions here and there while you both continue making the sopes. It was going pretty good, you started to cook the beans to place onto the cooked sopes while Quen started to work on the agua de horchata.

As you finished heating up the beans while Quen was talking to you, she suddenly cut herself off her sentence.

"You know what song has been stuck in my head as of recently?" You hum, asking her to continue as you started to spread the beans on each sope. "You know the song with Jorjiana and GloRilla? ILBB2?"

"Yeah, I've heard of it"

"So, the part thats stuck in my head is the one that goes like" Quen clears her throat, "They say shooters shoot... Duke Dennis, whats up with you?"

Before you can reply, she hits you with another line.

"SO WHO YOU TRYNNA SHOOT AT? WHOS YOUR YOUTUBE CRUSH??" She squeals, showing off her card with her question reading "who’s your youtube crush", pride evident on her face at how smoothly she was able to ask this.

Most people wouldve dodged the question, claiming it to be too risky for them to answer or either they were too scared to answer it. They would've played it cool, given a safe answer.

But you? You doubled down.

So, with all the confidence you could muster, you leaned over the kitchen counter, looking deadstraight into the camera in font of you, and said, "Hamzah, whats up with you?"

Quen lost her mind, squealing as she look at you in disbelief.

She yelled your name, "HAMZAH? As in hamzahthefantastic? The guy who's a part of slushy noobz?" Her eyes were wide as you nodded to her question.

"Girl I strive to be as bold as you, but as much as I strive to be as bold as you, I pray for you as well cause damn, may those fan girls not release their wrath on you."

"Anyways, back on topic, how do you know about Hamzah?" Quen asks you as she starts to drain the horchata she made in the blender into a pitcher, making sure to strain it.

You were finishing up the toppings on each sope, veggies, Oaxaca cheese, and crema. "I've seen some clips of both Martin and Hamzah on tik tok. I like them both, they're funny and seem like genuine people. I've seen Hamzah though and just thought he was cute, especially when he wasn't bald but he's still cute without hair." You shrug as Quen laughs.

The rest of the video goes well, you both finished making the sopes and horchata and moved on to making the jericallas which were simple enough and easier with two people. Quen kept on asking you questions with you answered them, you both were a good duo.

Laughs and screams were shared between you both as you conversed, your face hurt with how much you were smiling all throughout the hour and more of filming.

You finally finished making all the food and tried it together. It was really good in your opinion and Quens. Finally filming the outro and everything needed, at around 12:50 you were done with filming and cleaning up everything.

Since it was still bright out, you and Quen decided to hang out since both of your schedules were empty. It was a great night, full of laughter and meaningful conversations. Your bond with Quen was strong and you were glad you accepted her collaboration.

You had gotten home at 7:46 PM, finally worn out with all the action that you just headed straight into the shower and took a very deserved hot shower. You successfully ended your day at 10:26 PM and decided to treat yourself to early sleep.

PREVIOUS | SERIES LIST | FORWARD

taglist *ੈ✩‧₊˚- @marixoa @vivianne666 @amoreemiaa @emilyloves5243 @lunascerebro @prettylittlevampire12 @urthem00n @a1exaaaa

#smau #emo reader #mexican reader #hamzah x reader #slushy noobz #darylbrainrot works #hamzahthefantastic #hamzah fic #hamzah imagines #hamzah x y/n

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darlingdaisyfarm · 7 months ago

Text

It’s a hot summer day and you’re not prepared for what you find when you step outside the Shack.

suggestive, fem reader

The Mystery Shack feels like it’s punishing you for even existing today. . . every room drenched in a warmth so oppressive it makes your skin stick to itself. The fans are useless in this oven.

You’re irritable, sweaty, and worst of all, alone. The usual bickering, the faint sound of tools or Stan’s TV rambling on in the background, none of it’s here. The Shack feels wrong without them.

“Stan? Ford?”

You’d checked everywhere, no Ford hunched over in his lab, no Stan napping on his recliner. You’re about to give up, maybe lay down and suffer quietly, when you catch that— clang, clang, the unmistakable sound of metal on metal, and muffled voices.

Curious, you step outside, and the second you do the sun hits like a slap. Bright, blinding, merciless. You shield your eyes with one hand, squinting through the glare, and. . . oh. Here they are.

Stan and Ford. Both of them. Shirtless. Bent over the Stanmobile. Sweaty, dirty, all covered in oil.

Stan’s at the front, hunched over the engine, his belly jiggles slightly as he leans in, his broad shoulders gleaming in the sunlight, muscles shifting and flexing as he tightens something with a wrench. Sweat rolls down his hairy chest.

Ford stands off to the side, frowning at a toolbox, his scarred six-fingered hands carefully sorting through its contents. His frame is a bit leaner, but just as distracting. Scars crisscross his torso, telling stories you’d kill to hear. There’s a smear of oil across his chest, and when he finally looks up, letting out a tired sigh from heat, the sweat trailing down his neck to his collarbone you forget how to fucking breathe.

And now you’re just standing there. Staring. No, ogling.

Stan’s the first to notice, of course. He’s always the first to notice.

“Well, well, look who’s decided to grace us with their presence,” he calls as he straightens up, wiping his hands on a grease-stained rag. “ya just gonna stand there and watch, sweetheart? or ya wanna lend a hand?”

You choke, physically choke, because he’s grinning now and fuck, that look should be illegal.

Ford glances over, his brow furrowed in mild concern when he notices you. “Are you all right? You shouldn’t be standing out here in this heat, it’s dangerous without proper hydration.”

Stan rolls his eyes, tossing the rag over his shoulder. “Oh, give it a rest, Sixer. She’s fine. Though, if you are feelin’ faint, sweetheart, I’d be happy to catch ya. Or hold ya. Or. . . well, I can think of a few other ways to keep you steady.”

Your stomach flips, legs feel like jelly. Stan’s eyes are raking over you, not subtle in the slightest, and. . . Ford gaze lingers, too.

“Prolonged exposure to the sun can lead to heatstroke and—”

“Would you quit it with the lecture, genius?”

You don’t answer. You can’t, you just let them both argue. It’s actually good they do, at least they won’t notice how pathetic you look right now as you drink them in, every bead of sweat, every flex and shift of muscle. All you can think about is what it’d feel like to touch them, to let your fingers trace the scars on Ford’s chest, to feel the heat radiating from Stan’s skin.

You imagine Stan leaning against the car, beckoning you closer with that cocky grin. “C’mere, sweetheart, why don’t you put those pretty little hands to good use?”

Ford would step behind you, letting his hands slide over your shoulders, down your arms, breathing in your ear. “Relax, darling, we’ll just make you feel good.” as he plants tender kisses on your neck.

Stan’s fingers trailing down the curve of your waist as you lock your eyes with him, while Ford pays attention to your skin, kissing every inch of it. “you’re just dyin’ to feel us, huh? that pretty pussy of yours must be drippin.”

Then Ford’s hand on your chin, tilting your head to meet his gaze, the silent act of possession, jealousy. “Look at me,” which would sound like a fucking command. “Don’t look away. I need you to see everything we're going to do to you.”

Your thighs press together, but it’s no use. You’re fucked.

“Earth to dollface!” Stan’s voice pulls you back, and you realise he’s stepped closer, his grin widening as he catches the glazed look in your eyes. “what’s goin’ on in that pretty little head of yours, huh? thinkin’ ‘bout somethin’ naughty?”

“Stanley, enough.”

“Nah, you can’t tell me you don’t see it. She’s practically beggin’ us to bend her over right here.”

Your mouth opens to protest, but nothing comes out because Stan is right, always fucking right, god, Ford, why cant you understand.

Ford finally steps in, landing his hand on Stan’s shoulder as he pulls him back slightly. “Stop that, it’s ignorant,” he says to his brother, but when he looks at you, his expression and tone changes into something warmer, caring. “You should sit down. Let us get you some water.”

“Oh, don’t act so high and mighty, poindexter, when yourself been starin’ at her like she’s dessert. Don’t think I didn’t notice.”

You want to die. Or melt into the ground. Or god maybe let them both actually ruin you, because. . . the way they’re looking at you right now?

#gravity falls x reader #gravity falls x you #x reader #gravity falls #gravity falls smut #ford pines x reader #ford pines smut #stan pines x reader #stan pines smut #stan pines x you #stanley pines x you #stanley pines smut #ford pines x you #stanford pines x you #stanford pines x reader #gravity falls fanfiction

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vamptizm · 1 month ago

Text

SNOOZE — p. bueckers vi.

pairing: paige bueckers x soraya mensima (oc)

synopsis: rookie paige bueckers enters the league with confidence, charm, and a bad habit of gravitating toward things she shouldn’t want— like soraya mensima, the wings’ respected star and reluctant heartbreaker. soraya’s been here longer, knows better, and refuses to let lines blur... even as paige keeps rewriting them with every smile.

warnings: slight angst. nothing else i think.

word count: 6225

note: i know i took my sweet time… so sorry… but hey y’all better actually like and reblog ts since you’ve been asking for me and threatening me like ANIMALS (jk)

masterlist

♯┆taglist (open) .ᐟ ★ @brenwritesss @bueckersbitch @ekisokay @sierrale8ne @ohmybueckers @pboogerswbb @yailtsv @lilpaigeyherbo @prettygirl-gabi @mariahthealchemist @avvwritesstufff @vintagebueckers @naeswrrldd @thaatdigitaldiary

The days that followed the preseason game against the Aces passed like molasses. Thick with tension, unspoken words, and the residue of a night neither of them could erase—no matter how hard Soraya tried.

She hadn’t spoken to Paige since that night. Not really. Not after Paige had shown up at her hotel room, eyes stormy with need and confusion, not after Soraya had pushed her far away. Soraya could still feel the weight of those words sitting heavy in her chest. A mistake. She’d meant them when she said it. Or at least she’d tried to.

The silence after had been brutal.

It wasn’t just awkward now, it was charged. And that charge, that tightrope of volatile energy, was exactly what Soraya didn’t trust herself with. So she pulled back.

Hard.

The first step? Cutting out the most intimate inconvenience. Rides to and from practice.

Her old car had been sitting at the shop for weeks, and after getting a final call about the cost of repairs, she’d barely blinked before deciding it wasn’t worth the hassle. She had the money. NIL deals during her college years, quite a few good endorsements, and smart savings had left her more than stable. She didn’t need to keep driving around an old car out of sentimentality. That was old Soraya, too attached to the familiar, too scared to let go.

The new her needed something that matched the version she wanted to be. Untouchable, sharp and unfazed.

So she walked into a dealership two mornings later and drove out with a sleek, matte dark green Ford Mustang GT5. The engine purred beneath her hands like it belonged to her. Fast. Beautiful. Built to outrun things.

It suited her.

But she still couldn’t quite bring herself to face Paige directly.

Instead, she handed the news off to Dijonai, muttering something about not wanting drama, not wanting to give mixed signals. "Just let her know I don’t need the rides anymore," she said flatly, eyes fixed on the floor of the locker room as she laced up her shoes.

Dijonai raised a brow but didn’t push. “Alright. I’ll tell her.”

When Paige got the message, standing by her locker with her bag slung over one shoulder after Soraya had already left, she went still. The words hit a place inside her that was already sore and raw.

“Oh,” she said, voice tight. “Cool. Makes sense.”

She nodded like it didn’t matter, like it wasn’t a slap in the face. Like she hadn’t secretly waited to feel needed again. Like she hadn’t hoped for one more silent drive with Soraya sitting beside her, moody and quiet, maybe, but present.

She doesn’t want to be around you, Paige reminded herself. She made that clear.

Still, the image of Soraya behind the wheel of that gorgeous car, wind teasing her hair, eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses, lips parted around a straw or a smirk. God. It haunted her.

The distance between them only stretched wider in the days after. At practice, Soraya barely looked her way unless it was during drills. On court, they were seamless, electric. Off court? It was like Paige didn’t exist.

And yet, every time she glanced up, she found Soraya already looking. Only for a second. Just long enough to feel it like a spark behind the ribs.

Then she'd turn away. But Paige felt it. Every time. And it was starting to drive her insane.

She didn’t let the disappointment show. Didn’t let it register anywhere but in the pit of her stomach, where it tightened like a cramp she refused to acknowledge.

She was Paige Bueckers. Calm. Composed. A rookie in the W, carrying the weight of expectations with her usual quiet grace. People had always talked about her like she was inevitable. Her game. Her presence. Her poise. She had girls lining up for a chance to be close. She was not supposed to be distracted. Not by someone she barely knew. Not by a teammate. Not by her.

And yet… here she was.

Checking the parking lot before every practice. Watching for the flash of matte green. Wondering what song Soraya was playing. Who she was thinking about. If she ever looked over and thought about that night. The one Paige couldn’t stop replaying, no matter how hard she tried.

It pissed her off. Not because she didn’t care, but because she cared too much, when she knew better.

This was supposed to be her season. Her career. Her focus. And yet, all it took was a quiet look, a cold shoulder, a memory that burned hotter than it should’ve—and suddenly Soraya was in her head again, uninvited and immovable.

She hated it.

But she couldn't stop it.

The next days were blurred.

Practice, film, weight room, media, repeat. The second preseason game against the Toyota Antelopes had come and gone—another checkmark on the calendar, a win in the books. The team looked sharp, energized, ready. The coaching staff was optimistic. Reporters were already crafting headlines about the Wings’ potential chemistry, their balance of veterans and fresh legs, the fire humming just beneath the surface, waiting for more fuel until it’d burn down the other teams.

And yet, beneath all that buzz, Soraya felt like she was unraveling.

Not visibly. Not obviously. That was never her way. On court she was still locked in, sharp passes and quick reads, knockdown threes from the corner pocket. The moment the ball was in her hands, she came alive. But once the drills were over, once the lights dimmed and the structure dissolved into silence, something in her dimmed too.

She was quieter than usual. Not that she was ever the loud one, but even her normal, dry one liners had gone missing. She lingered behind at practice, always the last to leave the locker room. Her headphones were in more than out. Even Dijonai couldn’t get much more than a “nah, I’m good” when she offered to hang after practice.

By the time the regular season opener hovered less than 24 hours away, it was becoming noticeable.

She told herself it was nerves. Told the others the same, when anyone asked. Just the usual preseason jitters, nothing to worry about. Everyone got a little on edge before the first official tip. It was believable.

And yet the dread in her chest felt nothing like nerves.

It was heavier. Denser. Less like static and more like pressure, pressing behind her ribs, building with every hour. Not quite fear, not quite sadness. Something tangled in between.

Soraya knew what it was, even if she refused to say it aloud. Even if she’d avoided watching the footage her assistant coach sent her of their first regular season opponent.

And that was the real reason her sleep had been light. Why her palms wouldn’t stop sweating. Why she hadn’t been able to finish a full meal in nearly two days, appetite evaporating as soon as she sat down.

The gym echoed with the rhythmic squeak of sneakers against polished hardwood, the dull thump of basketballs hitting the court, and the low murmur of teammates exchanging morning banter. Soraya moved through it all like a ghost—silent, focused, already dressed down in her black practice shorts and navy Dallas Wings tee. Her braids were pulled back, expression unreadable. She wasn’t there to socialize. Not today. Not ever, really.

She headed straight for Chris, who stood near the scorers' table, clipboard in hand, tracking player rotations before drills officially started.

"Coach," she said, voice low but firm. “What’s the fine looking like?”

Chris barely looked up. “For the T?”

She nodded once.

“Already handled.”

Soraya blinked. “What do you mean, ‘handled’?”

Chris flipped a page on his clipboard, shrugged. “Paid. You're good.”

The answer was too easy. Too vague. Soraya wasn’t the type to let details slip past her. “By who?”

“Don’t know,” he said with a casual whistle between his teeth. “Didn’t come from payroll. Someone paid it directly. Now go warm up, I need you sharp today.”

And just like that, the conversation was over. He blew the whistle, summoning the team into lines. Soraya didn’t move immediately. Her brows drew in as she watched him walk off, a hollow tightening blooming behind her ribs.

Who the hell would pay her fine?

It wasn’t cheap, two hundred, maybe a little more. And she could name on one hand the people with both the spare money and inclination to do something like that for her. Dijonai? Maybe. But even that felt off. Her best friend would've at least mentioned it—or made a joke out of it.

And that left one other possibility.

Soraya didn’t want to give the thought weight, didn’t want to let it curl into something more than passing curiosity, but as the team broke into pairs for drills and she heard Chris call out, “Bueckers, Mensima, you’re up first,” it became impossible to ignore.

Of course.

Fate had a cruel sense of humor.

Practice went on like normal. On the surface, at least. Soraya and Paige moved fluidly through passing sequences, pick-and-roll drills, and shooting reps like they weren’t at odds. Their chemistry on court was undeniable—clean, practiced, electric—but the silence between them was deafening. Every glance was loaded. Every accidental touch burned.

Still, the question gnawed at her, sharper with each drill. Until finally, during a water break, Soraya caught sight of her across the gym.

Paige stood near the far bench, a towel slung over the back of her neck, scrolling through her phone like nothing in the world could bother her. Lips wrapped around the mouth of her water bottle, cheeks faintly pink from exertion, strands of blonde hair curling at the edges of her temple. She looked disgustingly at ease.

Soraya’s jaw flexed.

She didn't want to walk over there. She didn’t want to give Paige the satisfaction, didn’t want to seem like she cared. But the question had rooted itself in her brain like a splinter, and she knew she wouldn’t be able to let it go unless she asked.

So she did.

Crossing the gym, ignoring the way her stomach clenched with every step, Soraya stopped just short of her and spoke without preamble. “Did you pay my fine?”

Paige didn’t flinch, didn’t even stop typing. She simply lowered the water bottle, barely glanced up, and replied in the flattest tone imaginable, “Yup.”

That was it.

Yup

Soraya felt her fingers twitch at her sides. “I didn’t ask you to do that,” she said, her voice tighter now, less measured. The irritation was starting to bleed through. She hated feeling indebted. Hated more that it was Paige who did it.

This time, Paige did look at her. Just for a second. Cool blue eyes meeting hers, unreadable. “And I didn’t ask you to play the hero for me.”

The words hit harder than Soraya expected.

Her breath caught, but only for a fraction of a second. “Wasn’t for you.”

A small, derisive snort slipped past Paige’s lips. She didn’t argue, didn’t fight it. Just gave a humorless smirk and said, “Sure.”

Then she turned and walked away.

Soraya stayed there, frozen in place. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears, her jaw clenched so tight it ached. She should’ve been angry. She was angry—at Paige’s arrogance, at her own stupidity, at how something so simple had already left her off balance again.

And yet, beneath the frustration, that same unbearable warmth lingered. The memory of Paige’s hands, her mouth, the way she looked at her—the same way she used to look at basketballs, at gold medals, like they were everything she ever wanted.

Soraya shut it down.

There was practice to finish.

And feelings had no place here. Not that there were any.

Soraya couldn’t go home.

The silence in that place was too loud. The air too still. The walls too thick, too suffocating when her thoughts started spiraling. It wasn’t even late when practice had ended, but the second she stepped inside her apartment and closed the door behind her, she felt it creeping in again—that familiar gnawing at her chest, the ache that came with memories she thought she’d already buried.

She didn’t bother changing out of her practice clothes. Just tossed a different shirt over her head, grabbed her keys, and left. She needed movement. Distraction. Chaos. Something to drown out the noise inside her own head.

So she drove. With the windows rolled down, letting the wind whip through the cabin as she sped through the city. First to her favorite café for a cold matcha that she barely tasted. Then to the little gelato place tucked between two shops, ordering a double scoop of pistachio she didn't finish. She stopped by an old bookstore she used to visit during her rookie year and browsed without buying anything. Wandered through a thrift store, then found herself at a trendy axe throwing place, pretending that the loud music and even louder laughter around her didn’t make her feel more alone than she already was.

By the time the sky had begun to fade into hues of lavender and gold, she was in Garland, parked in front of an empty playground she’d unintentionally passed and turned back around for. Something about it felt a little cinematic—quiet, tucked away, untouched.

She sat on one of the swings, her body heavy but her mind racing. The sun was melting into the horizon now, casting streaks of orange and purple across the clouds, bleeding into the blue that darkened with every passing second. Her legs rocked gently, the old swing creaking beneath her as she moved, half lost in the rhythm, half desperate to escape the storm behind her eyes.

She tried not to think of it all. Tried not to think about the game tomorrow. About what it meant. About who she might see again.

It shouldn't be bothering her—not after all this time. Not after all these years. Not when she'd rebuilt herself from the ground up. But it was. God, it was. And she hated herself for it.

She pulled out her phone and took a couple photos of the sky, even though she knew they wouldn’t do it justice. Then, almost instinctively, she opened her messages. Dijonai had texted her again. Something lighthearted, something sweet, trying to make her laugh. Soraya smiled faintly, but didn’t reply.

Instead, she shoved her phone into the back pocket of her sweats, forgetting to lock the screen.

A minute or so passed, the swing shifting in lazy motions beneath her. Then came the faint buzz against her lower back, soft and barely there, but enough to pull her out of her daze. She pulled the phone out, confused, and held it to her ear when she noticed the ongoing call.

“Hello?”

“Finally. What the fuck, Soraya? Why would you call me and not say a word?”

Her heart stopped.

That voice—it struck something deep. Familiar, unmistakable. A voice she hadn’t heard in more than monosyllables all week. A voice she’d almost convinced herself she didn’t miss hearing.

“I didn’t call you,” Soraya replied, a little too quickly. Her tone was flat, carefully neutral, but it carried a tremble if you listened closely. “Must’ve been a butt dial or something.”

There was a pause. Soraya could hear Paige breathing, could feel her hesitation.

Then, “Are you drunk?”

The question caught her off guard. “What? No.” Her brows pinched together. “I’m sober.”

“You sure?”

“Yes, Bueckers,” she said, sharper now, exhaling slowly as she rubbed her palm over her chilled forearm. “I’m sure.”

Another long silence. Then Paige again, softer this time, like she wasn’t sure if she was allowed to ask. “Where are you?”

The question shouldn’t have mattered, but something about the way she asked it made Soraya’s chest tighten. She almost lied. Almost told her to mind her business, hung up, put more distance between them like she’d promised herself she would.

But Paige's voice… there was something unguarded about it. Something tentative. Something that made her stay.

“Some playground in Garland,” Soraya finally answered, her voice low, trying to sound unaffected. “Was just... killing time.”

Another pause. Paige didn’t reply right away, and Soraya could picture her now—lips pressed together, trying to play it cool even though she was probably gripping her phone tighter than she meant to.

“It’s dark out,” Paige said eventually. Still calm, still even toned, but underneath it was something else. Something closer to concern.

“Yeah. I noticed.”

“You’re out there alone?”

Soraya shrugged, even though Paige couldn’t see her. “It’s not a big deal.”

“It kind of is.”

That made Soraya pause. The words were simple, but they landed heavier than they should have. She bit the inside of her cheek, eyes drifting to the last fading line of sun as it disappeared behind the trees.

“I’m fine,” she murmured. “Just didn’t feel like being at home.”

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me,” Paige replied gently. “I just… I think you should head back. It’s getting late.”

That tone—so measured, so casual—it nearly fooled Soraya. But not quite.

She hated how that did something to her.

“Yeah. I was about to,” she lied, standing slowly and dusting off her hands, pretending like she hadn’t been planning on staying until the stars came out.

There was another stretch of silence on the line, the air now filled only with the faint hum of traffic in the distance and the distant chatter of cicadas.

Neither of them said what they really wanted to say. ‘Are you okay?’ ‘Do you miss me?’ ‘Why does it still feel like this?’

Instead, Paige cleared her throat softly. “Get home safe.”

Soraya let out a quiet breath. “I will.”

And then, for just a moment, she hesitated before ending the call, not wanting to let go of the only warmth she'd felt all day. But she pressed the red button anyway.

The screen went black.

She slid the phone into her pocket and walked toward her car under the darkening sky. For the first time in days, her head was a little quieter.

The drive home was a blur of neon lights, long stretches of highway, and bass-thumping music so loud it rattled her windows. Soraya didn’t care. The volume wasn’t for enjoyment, it was survival. Every beat, every lyric, every thunderous crash of sound was another wall built to keep her own thoughts out.

She gripped the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles ached, veins standing out across her hands like tension made visible. Her jaw was clenched, brows drawn together, eyes fixed ahead, but not really seeing. She was still stuck back there—on that swing, under the sunset, with Paige’s voice lingering in her ear like a ghost she hadn’t asked for.

She didn’t know why it was affecting her so much. Why this, of all things, had cracked another thing open inside her, as if whatever she was currently fighting against, wasn’t enough. It wasn’t like they hadn’t spoken in weeks. It wasn’t like she cared that much. So what the hell was wrong with her?

“Get over it.” she muttered aloud to herself as she pulled into her spot and cut the engine.

But even as the engine died, the storm didn’t.

The silence that followed was deafening, so she moved quickly. Grabbed her bag, locked the doors, and climbed the stairs to her apartment two at a time, like rushing through it would somehow spare her from the weight pressing into her chest.

The second she got inside, she flicked on the lights, tossed her keys somewhere on the kitchen counter, and kicked her shoes off with little care for where they landed. Her shirt came next, flung over the back of a chair, her body now chilled from the evening air but still overheated from the mental war she’d been losing all day.

When she finally collapsed into bed, the ceiling stared back at her, blank and cold and offering no comfort. She rolled to her side, dragging her comforter over her legs, phone still in her hand.

She didn’t want to check it. Didn’t want to invite anything else into her head tonight.

But the screen lit up anyway. One message.

Bueckers: did u get home safe?

It wasn’t a long text. Wasn’t poetic. No punctuation beyond the question mark. No capitalization. So plainly Paige. So casually worded, like it didn’t mean much at all.

Soraya stared at it for a while, the glow of her phone soft against the shadows of her bedroom. She reread it three, four, five times over, fingers hovering above the screen like she wasn’t sure how to respond—or if she even should.

She considered liking it. Just tapping the little thumbs up and being done with it.

But something inside her moved before she could second guess herself.

pretty ice queen: yes.

Simple and distant, but a reply nonetheless.

She didn’t wait for a response. Didn’t even stay to see if the message would get marked as read. She locked her phone and shoved it under her pillow, rolling onto her back with a long, shaky exhale.

The room was still. Too still. Her thoughts began to creep back in almost immediately, uninvited and relentless. She squeezed her eyes shut, tried to slow her breathing, tried to convince herself that everything was fine. That it was just another night before another game.

But she couldn’t shake the tension sitting heavy in her limbs. Couldn’t shake the sound of Paige’s voice from earlier, the concern buried beneath her guarded tone. Couldn’t shake the fact that something about tomorrow felt less like a game and more like a reckoning.

Sleep, when it finally came, didn’t come gently.

And when it did, it came with dreams she wouldn’t remember but would feel like bruises the next morning.

The next morning crept in slower than usual, sunlight slicing through her half open blinds in streaks of pale gold. Soraya stirred beneath the covers, her body aching in that strange way anxiety sometimes left behind, as if dread had settled in her bones overnight and decided to stay.

But she was calmer than the day before. Not okay, not light, but emptied. Like she'd spent the whole previous day wrestling with the weight of her nerves until her body couldn’t carry them anymore. There was nothing left to fight, nothing left to panic about. Just the quiet before the storm.

Acceptance was the only thing that remained. She still didn’t want to face what today held. But she couldn’t undo the schedule. Couldn’t avoid the inevitable.

So she laid in bed for hours, scrolling through her phone, watching the ceiling shift colors as the sun moved across the sky. The stillness didn’t comfort her, but it didn’t scare her like it used to either. It just was.

Eventually, she dragged herself up, moved through her apartment like muscle memory, and got ready. Hair. Light makeup. Her signature jewelry. She didn’t feel like showing up, but she would look like she did.

Dressing for the tunnel walk had always been one of her small joys. One of the few game day traditions she clung to, something that allowed her to feel like herself for a few brief minutes before the noise of the arena swallowed her whole. The cameras, the lights, the crowd—none of it mattered as long as her outfit hit.

Today’s was a little louder than usual. A little more dramatic. A denim halter vest, cropped and hugging her torso just right. A short denim skirt, the waist cinched in with a wide brown belt. Brown heeled cowboy boots that added a good two inches to her already long legs. And, of course, a brown cowboy hat to top it all off.

Texas in a fit. Sharp and soft. Fashionable and dangerous.

And yet, as Soraya stepped out of the car and entered the College Park Center, she felt hollow inside. She heard the sound of cameras clicking before she even reached the mouth of the tunnel. Felt the eyes on her, the quiet murmurs, the usual anticipation that came with her arrival.

She knew she looked good. She knew this outfit would hit every highlight reel, every fashion Instagram and sideline post. But none of it reached her.

She walked, head held high, boots clicking against the concrete floor in a steady rhythm. Her face was stone. No smile, no smirk, no spark in her eyes like usual. She didn’t wave to the staff standing off to the side. Didn’t throw a wink toward the media crew. Just kept walking, shoulders back, chin lifted, as if her armor was stitched into the denim she wore.

She passed the first camera, gave it a small, mechanical nod. A gesture more out of muscle memory than engagement. And then she kept walking, disappearing down the tunnel without another glance, her expression unreadable.

This was her stage, her ritual. But today, it didn’t feel like hers at all.

The locker room hummed with energy, a current of excitement running through the space as the team geared up in their pregame practice clothes. Sneakers squeaked against the polished floor, laughter bounced between walls, and music played softly in the background. A hype playlist looping through the speakers, half drowned by the chorus of voices and half zipped duffle bags. It was a familiar chaos, comforting to most.

But not to Soraya. At least not today.

She sat in her chair, her posture perfectly straight, eyes fixed on her reflection in the long mirror lining one of the locker room walls. She could still hear the music, still hear her teammates hyping each other up, but it all felt far away and muted, like she was listening to everything from underwater.

Her fingers moved with mechanical precision, adjusting her ponytail, tugging it just tight enough to ground herself. Then came the translucent powder, dusting gently over her cheekbones, her forehead, her nose. Lock it in. Set the mask. Don’t let it slip.

Dinonai was beside her, her locker stationed conveniently close, something Soraya was more grateful for now than ever. The older woman kept glancing at her, brow slightly furrowed as she slipped on her practice jersey and tied her own hair up.

“You good?” she finally asked under her breath, low enough not to catch anyone else’s attention.

“Yeah.” The lie was effortless. Practiced. Like brushing her teeth. “Just tired.”

Dijonai didn’t buy it for a second, but didn’t push—she already knew. The blonde just nodded, as if to say ‘okay’, and went back to getting ready. But her eyes didn’t stray far.

As they made their way down the tunnel toward the court, Soraya could feel her heartbeat intensifying with every step. She rolled her shoulders back, cracked her knuckles, tried to center herself.

‘You’re okay. You’re safe. You’ve done the work. You’re not who you were. She can’t touch you now.’

But the mantra felt thin. Like it wasn’t made for this kind of storm.

The moment her foot touched the edge of the court, something in her tightened.

She blinked into the stadium’s lights, the vibrant noise of the arena beginning to swell, and scanned the floor instinctively. Her stomach was already in knots, but it wasn’t until her eyes landed on her that everything inside her dropped.

It was as if time folded in on itself.

Leah Katz.

The name alone hadn’t hurt in a long time. The memory had dulled over the years like old bruises fading from purple to yellow. But seeing her again—seeing the exact line of her jaw, the piercing blue eyes, the unmistakable height and that slicked back blonde ponytail—was like reopening an old wound with a single glance.

Dijonai must’ve seen it. Must’ve felt the way Soraya froze beside her, the subtle flinch in her stance, the way her breath caught too quickly. She reached down without saying a word and took her hand, grounding her. Their fingers linked and she gave it a firm, anchoring squeeze. It didn’t fix it, didn’t erase anything, but it helped keep Soraya on the floor.

And yet, even as Soraya tried to steel herself, tried to return to the composed, unreadable player she’d trained herself to be, the two teams were already gathering near midcourt for their pregame greetings.

It was a ritual, small talk, handshakes, light laughter. A sense of camaraderie before the competition kicked in. Soraya kept her expression flat, her nods minimal, her words nonexistent. Everyone knew she wasn’t the bubbly type. She didn’t hug, didn’t linger, didn’t pretend. They were used to it.

But Leah wasn’t.

She drifted by Soraya at just the right moment, close enough that the scent of her perfume—a faint, expensive floral reached her nose and that alone made Soraya’s feel ill.

“You look good,” Leah murmured, almost offhanded. Then a wink, quick and casual, as if it meant nothing.

Soraya froze, every nerve in her body lighting up like a match had been struck down her spine. She’d forgotten her voice. That smooth, practiced tone. That calculated calm. The trace of a londoner accent curling around each syllable. Hearing it again, so close, so familiar, was like touching a scar that still hadn't faded under her skin.

It brought nausea.

And rage.

She said nothing. Couldn’t. Her body tensed, jaw tight, eyes fixed on a spot just over Leah’s shoulder as Dijonai tugged her away, their joined hands still clasped. Just move. Just get away. Just breathe.

But Paige noticed.

Standing on the outskirts of the huddle, stretching and chatting idly with another teammate, her eyes had drifted to Soraya just in time to catch the interaction—what little of it there was. She didn’t catch the words, but she caught the flicker of discomfort, the unnatural stiffness in Soraya’s body. The way her shoulders, usually squared and proud, subtly curled inward like she was trying to make herself smaller.

And Leah Katz. That name had floated past Paige's awareness once or twice over the years. Few highlight reels, overseas buzz, a few murmured conversations she never cared enough to finish.

At first, Paige chalked it up to nerves.

It wasn’t exactly unusual. First game of the season, a packed College Park Center, fresh off training camp, with half the team still adjusting to the league’s pace. Everyone had something weighing on them. Maybe it was stress. Maybe it was the cuts earlier in the week—Mai and Madison waived last minute. Maybe it was that Soraya didn’t want to be here to begin with.

Or maybe… it was because of her.

She hated that her mind even went there.

But now, watching Soraya from across the court during warmups, Paige knew it wasn’t any of those things. At least, not just those.

There was something different about the way Soraya moved. Jerky, too fast, too sharp. Her body looked like it was trying to outrun something her mind hadn’t caught up to yet. Paige watched her miss three jumpers in a row. Three. Soraya never missed three in a row. Not in warmups. Not without looking like she was about to throw the ball into the stands out of frustration.

She cursed under her breath after each shot, not caring who heard her. And even from twenty feet away, Paige could see it. The tension in her shoulders, the twitch in her jaw, the way she shook her hand out like it wasn’t just her aim that was off but her entire body.

It wasn’t nerves. It was something else. Something deeper.

Paige grabbed a ball and started her own drille, but her eyes kept drifting. She told herself to stop looking, Soraya had made it very clear where they stood. But concern wasn’t a switch she could flip off, not when it was her. Not when she looked like that.

She went up for a layup and landed hard, barely registering the motion. Her eyes immediately flicked to the other end of the court again, drawn like a magnet.

Then she saw her.

Blonde. Tall. Lynx warmup jacket draped over her. And unmistakably watching Soraya.

Paige froze for a second. She didn’t mean to, didn’t want to, but she couldn’t ignore the way that woman’s eyes kept cutting toward Soraya like she had a right to look at her. Like she knew her.

It wasn’t just curiosity. It wasn’t scouting.

It was something else. Familiar. Intimate. And unwanted.

Paige’s jaw clenched. Her palms burned. She bounced the ball once, twice, too hard, letting it smack the hardwood before catching it again. She knew she shouldn’t care. Not about Soraya. Not after everything. But the blonde kept looking over—subtle but persistent. And Soraya hadn’t even glanced back once.

That told Paige more than she needed to know.

It wasn’t a flirtation. It wasn’t nostalgia.

It was fear.

And suddenly, Paige didn’t want to play anymore. She wanted answers. She wanted that woman off the court. She wanted Soraya to stop pretending she was fine when it was clear she wasn’t.

The Wings were holding their own. Barely.

It was a constant back and forth, each time they clawed up a two point lead, the Lynx would rip it away within a possession or two. It wasn’t a bad game by any means. Just… not enough. Not sharp enough. Not her.

Paige had only seen Soraya play a handful of times, two preseason games, a few scrimmages, on the screen of her iPad. But she already knew enough to know this wasn’t it.

This wasn’t the Soraya Mensima she’d been warned about. The one that had mercilessly snatched a championship away from her. The one who drew defenders like blood in water, the one who never backed down from contact or let herself get outpaced. This version was hesitant, distracted. Her offense was clunky, rushed. Her defense worse.

And then it happened during the second quarter. Soraya was guarding Leah. Or at least, she was supposed to be.

Leah cut baseline, slipped through a screen, and laid the ball in uncontested. Soraya hadn’t even moved to contest it, she’d just watched her. Like her feet had been stuck to the hardwood. Like touching Leah in any way would burn her.

Paige clenched her jaw as the whistle blew and halftime rolled around.

She got roped into a short interview near the tunnel, giving rehearsed lines about adjustments and staying locked in. But all the while, her eyes followed Soraya.

She was trailing behind the team, slower than usual. Unfocused.

So the second the cameras were off, Paige handed the mic back and cut across the tunnel, weaving past staff and players until she caught up.

Paige reached forward and caught her arm.

“What the fuck—let—” Soraya twisted, startled, her voice already defensive, until she saw who it was. Her expression shifted, but not to relief. Just less tight. Less guarded.

Paige tugged her further into a quieter corner of the tunnel, her voice low but sharp. “Why are you playing like you’ve never been on a court before?”

Soraya blinked. The line hit harder than it probably should’ve. Her brow furrowed, eyes narrowing like a scolded child. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” Paige said. “What’s going on with you?”

Her grip was still on Soraya’s arm, though loose enough to break. She didn’t know what she was doing—this wasn’t her. Not the Paige people expected. But she was pissed. Concerned. Both, maybe.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Soraya snapped, pulling her arm free. “Sorry I’m not playing to your standards, I guess.”

Paige didn’t flinch. She should’ve. But she didn’t.

“Well you’re selling the game,” she shot back. “So stop eye fucking that Katz girl and fix it.”

Silence.

The moment the words left her mouth, she wished she could rewind time. Take them back. Bury them. Anything.

Because the look Soraya gave her—it wasn’t just hurt. It was disgust and betrayal.

Like Paige had peeled back a scar that hadn’t fully healed and poked it for sport.

A sick twist churned in Soraya’s gut. Her shoulders went rigid, lips pressed into a thin line. Eye fucking? She could barely even breathe around Leah, let alone look at her. And now this girl who she’d met less than a month ago was accusing her of shit she had no idea about?

She didn’t speak. Didn’t yell. Didn’t give Paige the satisfaction of a retort.

She just turned and walked.

Down the tunnel, towards the locker room. Shoulders high, spine stiff, but with something undeniably wounded in the way her steps slowed the further she got.

Paige stayed behind, frozen in place, her mouth parted like she wanted to say something—anything—but couldn’t.

She ran a hand down her face, then through her hair, dragging her fingers along her scalp like she could scrape the guilt off. Her jaw clenched hard enough to hurt.

She didn’t know if it was worry. Or competitiveness. Or burning jealousy. Or the fact that she hated seeing Soraya let anyone take her power away.

But whatever it was, she’d just made it worse. So much worse.

extended taglist 🐆 — @thelightknight21 @private-but-not-a-secret @angryflowerwitch @jieysiee @angelliicc @paigebaby5 @ttytttt-gndgnvbm @syraxbigfanfr @forward1212 @niya500 @wosolipa @enchantingesme @everyonewatchesuconnwbb @ksimsplayer @hggbiijj @pupbistro

#⇢ ˗ˏˋ vamptizm writes ࿐ྂ #snooze ᯓᡣ𐭩 #paige bueckers #paige bueckers x oc #paige bueckers fic #paige bueckers fanfiction #paige bueckers x female oc #paige bueckers x reader #dallas wings #uconn wbb #wnba x oc

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joicecubes · 9 months ago

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okay likeee i know we all shit on stan and ford for being petty as hell during weirdmageddon (stan just hold his damn hand. ford WHY did you feel the need to correct his grammar.) but also? i have always felt like stan was so justified in wanting a thank you. like to the point where i also get pissed at ford for withholding any sort of genuine gratitude for so long.

do i get why he did? absolutely. in fact, it’s like, a super well-written conflict between them and reflects both of their mindsets perfectly. when you really think about ford’s point of view, you realize he still believes stan intentionally sabotaged his future in high school, was the reason he spent 30 years dimension-hopping, blatantly ignored ALL of his warnings about how dangerous it was to start the portal up again, and (albeit accidentally) brought him back when ford was finally about to defeat bill cipher. yeah! he has every right to pissy! i would be too!!

but like, all that said, it just makes me SO sad for stan. he went to such great lengths to bring ford back. he spent all 30 of those years learning sciences and engineering he could never have imagined understanding as the “stupid twin.” he faked his own DEATH. his entire life was a lie for DECADES. and we brush that off because stan has always been a liar and a conman but how much of that was due to his circumstances? being on the streets at 17 doing whatever the hell he had to for enough money to eat, and then losing his brother and desperately needing to pay fords mortgage so he could stay and work to bring him back… stan was so dedicated for so many years, did literally whatever he had to, stan pledged his life to righting his wrongs and saving his brother, and the man he did all of this for has nothing to say to him. “be out of my house by the end of the summer. give me my life back. and no, i won’t say thank you.”

its no wonder stan is petty bro!!! that feels like such a betrayal! i did so much for you and you can’t even give me a single thank you? you have to uproot my life for a second time? my god, at this point i cant even blame him for refusing to hold his hand even if it WAS to save the world. sometimes you’ve gotta be a petty bitch!!

#cubes yapping #im such a stan apologist im sorry #hes perfect and can do no wrong in my eyes #aside from his laundry list of various obscure crimes haha ignore that #gravity falls #stanley pines #stan pines #grunkle stan #stanford pines #ford pines #stan twins #stan and ford #stangst?#analysis

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gweelczz · 2 months ago

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“Roots and Remedies pt. 2”

Elias ‘Stack’ Moore x reader (Honey)

Genre: fluff with a bit of action

Warnings: guns, people getting shot. Stack says the N word.

Summary: this here is part two to my original post I’ll have it linked below, Stack returns to Honey as promised but that’s all you get!

A/N: comment if you want to be tagged and please comment in general! I want to know y’all’s thoughts

The night fell thick and mean over the Delta, swallowin’ the last of the sunset until all that was left was the low hum of cicadas and the churn of gravel under fast rollin’ tires.

Stack sat behind the wheel of the dusty black ’32 Ford Coupe, one hand heavy on the steering wheel, the other settlin’ low across his chest, feelin’ the weight of the mojo bag Honey had tied ’round his neck.

It was tucked deep under his vest, hidden beneath the sharp black suit he wore, but he could feel it — warm against his skin, like a heartbeat that wasn’t his own.

Smoke sat shotgun, legs kicked wide, a toothpick hangin’ lazy from the corner of his mouth. His own mojo bag sat hidden under his vest too, the weight of it sittin’ right against his chest like a quiet shield.

He twisted one of Honey’s oil bottles between his fingers, starin’ at it, thumb rubbin’ over the smooth glass.

“You reckon this’ll keep the Devil off us?” Smoke asked low, voice like a shovel diggin’ into dry dirt.

Stack didn’t take his eyes off the road, dark and empty stretchin’ ahead of ‘em like the end of the world.

His jaw flexed tight, voice steady as stone.

“Yeah,” he said. “Ain’t nothin’ Honey do I don’t believe in. Not one damn thing.”

Smoke huffed a dry laugh, shakin’ his head, but it wasn’t in mockery — more like he was respectin’ it.

“You whipped bad,” he muttered.

Stack cracked a slow grin, the kind that didn’t touch his eyes. “Damn right. I stand by my woman. Always will.”

The Ford bumped hard over a pothole, the suspension groanin’. Stack tightened his grip on the wheel, the other hand brushin’ the little bag under his vest again like it was a lifeline.

He could still smell Honey’s skin — sweet like brown sugar and woodsmoke — lingerin’ on his collar, clingin’ to him like a second soul.

He had to come back to her. Had to.

Out the corner of his eye, he saw Smoke tuck the bottle into his inside pocket, the toothpick snappin’ clean between his teeth. Both of ‘em were strapped, iron heavy against their waists, but it wasn’t just steel they were countin’ on tonight.

It was Honey’s faith.

Honey’s hands.

Honey’s voice prayin’ ‘em home.

Ahead, the headlights cut across a beaten-up sign, barely hangin’ from one chain: Old Mill Road.

Stack flicked the headlights off. They rolled forward in darkness now, slow and quiet.

“You ready?” Stack asked, voice low, almost a growl.

Smoke pulled his pistol out slow, checkin’ the clip with a little click that sounded loud in the thick night air.

“Been ready,” he said. “Let’s get it done.”

Stack drove another quarter mile, heart hammerin’ harder with every turn of the tires. He could feel the weight of the night pressin’ down on ‘em, the air thick like syrup. Feel somethin’ wrong stirrin’ in the black trees that lined the sides of the road.

He thought about Honey — about her standin’ there in the lantern light, wrappin’ her love and her faith around him like a shield nobody could see but him.

I’m comin’ back to you, he swore in his gut. Ain’t nothin’ on God’s green earth gonna keep me from you.

He pulled the Ford off the road, killin’ the engine. The world dropped into silence so heavy it rang in his ears.

Stack adjusted his vest, makin’ sure the little bag stayed close to his heart, then nodded once at Smoke.

The two of ‘em stepped out into the thick Mississippi dark, suits sharp, boots hittin’ the gravel light and mean, guns low at their sides.

Somewhere ahead, past the fields and into the trees, a fire flickered dirty orange. Voices rose — mean, wild, the kinda sounds that promised blood.

Stack touched the mojo bag one more time through his shirt, a silent thank you to Honey.

And with nothin’ but her prayer, a pistol, and the weight of love stitched into a small cloth bag —

he and Smoke walked straight into the dark.

The fire flickered dirty orange, throwin’ wild shadows across the trees, makin’ the rough faces around it look even meaner, uglier.

They was laughin’ over bottles, coins jinglin’, pockets fat — thinkin’ they was clean away.

“Stack and Smoke ain’t nothin’ but a ghost story them juke joints tell,” one of ’em said, laughin’ drunk. “Ain’t no twins comin’ for us.”

The others hooted, boots kicked up on crates, heads thrown back easy. They didn’t even hear the car creep up.

Stack and Smoke came in like wolves cut from the night itself — suits black, hats pulled low, steel glintin’ under the firelight.

“You see ‘em yet?” one fool laughed, slappin’ his knee.

“I see money in my damn pocket,” another said, pullin’ a thick roll out and wavin’ it.

Smoke and Stack stepped up slow, silent, ‘til the fools caught the smell of somethin’ off — death, gun oil, and somethin’ older they couldn’t name.

One of the men, an older one with a scar down his face, squinted through the smoke, face drainin’ of color.

He staggered back a step, his voice crackin’.

“Stack?” he croaked. “That you?”

Stack’s mouth curled into a grin colder than the grave.

He tipped his hat up just enough for the fire to catch his hard brown eyes.

“Nah nigga, It’s Jim Crow” he said, voice low and dead calm.

Before the man could even think about breathin’ again —

BANG.

Smoke shot him clean through the thigh, the bastard droppin’ to the dirt screamin’ and cussin’.

Smoke cocked the hammer back again slow, his voice rollin’ out smooth as molasses.

“Can’t let you think you got over on the twins,” he drawled, lazy and mean, before firin’ off another shot — this time plantin’ one square in the man’s ass.

The whole camp exploded into chaos.

Bottles shattered, crates overturned. Two men tried to scramble for the woods but Stack and Smoke moved like the devil was ridin’ their backs — shootin’ low, cuttin’ off every escape.

Stack moved like a shadow, pistol barkin’ fire and thunder, his coat flarin’ behind him. He dropped one man with a shot to the leg, another with a sharp crack across the face with the butt of his gun.

Smoke laughed low and rough, grabbin’ one by the collar and slammin’ him face-first into a tree before puttin’ a bullet in the dirt by his ear.

“You think this a game?” he snarled, voice heavy with the Mississippi night. “Ain’t no comin’ back from crossin’ the SmokeStack twins.”

The last fool stood frozen by the fire, hands raised, piss runnin’ down his pants.

Stack stalked forward slow, gun loose in his hand, the firelight catchin’ the mojo bag hangin’ just under his shirt, burnin’ bright against the black.

“Drop it,” Stack said.

The man fumbled whatever he had — a knife, a pistol, didn’t matter — onto the dirt.

“You owe a debt,” Stack said, steppin’ closer, voice quiet, full of promise. “And down here, debts get paid in one of two ways — money… or blood.”

The man whimpered, noddin’ so hard his hat flew off.

Smoke stepped up, cockin’ his pistol again real slow.

Stack didn’t look away from the man’s face, his own stone cold.

“You got one shot to live, boy,” Stack said, thumbin’ his hat down low again.

“Make it good.”

The man fumbled a fat wad of crumpled bills out of his coat, hands shakin’ so bad the money scattered like leaves in the wind.

Stack didn’t flinch. He let the man drop to his knees, scramblin’ to gather it all back up, blubberin’ like a baby.

“Please,” the fool gasped, blood runnin’ down his leg from where Smoke’s bullet had kissed him. “Please, Stack — I paid, I paid! Don’t kill me!”

Smoke watched him with a flat, bored look, then glanced over at Stack.

“You want me to finish him?” he asked, thumb hoverin’ casual over the hammer of his pistol.

Stack looked down at the man — broke, bleedin’, piss-soaked — and shook his head slow.

“Nah,” Stack said, voice low. “Ain’t no honor in kickin’ a dog when it’s already layin’ in the dirt.”

Smoke shrugged, slidin’ his pistol back into his holster. He reached into his pocket and peeled off a few bills from the roll they’d just collected.

He dropped it onto the man’s chest with a flick of his wrist.

“Get patched up,” Smoke said, voice cool and hard. “Next time, remember whose name you try to play with.”

The man nodded so hard it looked like his neck would snap, clutchin’ the bloodstained money to his chest like a lifeline.

Stack turned on his heel without another word.

Smoke followed, boots crunchin’ gravel, heads low as they disappeared back into the thick black of the Delta night.

⸻

The old Ford Coupe growled down the dirt road, kickin’ up dust under the full moon.

Inside, the air was tight but easy — business handled, debts paid.

Smoke drove, quiet but hummin’ low to himself, while Stack leaned back, hat tipped low over his brow, Honey’s scent still tucked into the folds of his collar, stronger than any perfume in the world.

The mojo bags still hung warm against their chests, beatin’ steady like two small hearts of their own.

When they pulled up in front of Stack’s place, the porch light was burnin’ soft and golden, like a lantern in a storm.

And there she was —

Honey.

Standin’ on the porch, arms folded, that deep headwrap wrapped proud around her crown, her dark skin glintin’ like polished onyx under the light.

Cognac eyes wide, fillin’ with relief the second she laid ’em on him.

Stack climbed out slow, boots hittin’ the ground, breath catchin’ in his throat just seein’ her.

“You whole?” Honey called, voice thick with worry.

“Whole as the day I was born,” Stack rumbled, tippin’ his hat back and flashin’ that rare grin just for her.

Honey didn’t wait — she flew down the steps and right into his arms, wrappin’ him up tight.

Stack held her even tighter, buryin’ his face in the crook of her neck, breathin’ her in like salvation.

Smoke leaned over the car door, smirkin’ at the sight.

“I’m out,” he drawled. “Annie waitin’ on me.”

Stack lifted his hand in a lazy farewell, not even lookin’ away from Honey.

Smoke peeled off into the night, taillights disappearin’ into the dark, leavin’ Stack and Honey alone under the hum of the summer night.

⸻

Inside, the kitchen was warm and low-lit, the smell of cornbread and fried ham still lingerin’ in the air from earlier.

Stack stood there starin’ at her, hands heavy at his sides, hat in one hand, heart in the other.

Honey busied herself at the stove, fussin’ over a kettle, but kept stealin’ glances at him, the kind that said she was checkin’ for new wounds he might be hidin’.

Stack took a slow step forward.

Then another.

His voice came low and sure, the same way it did when he promised himself he’d come back to her.

“Honey,” he said.

She turned, kettle forgotten in her hands.

He set the hat down on the table, took her hands in his — big and calloused around her small soft ones — and dropped to one knee right there on the worn kitchen floor.

Honey gasped, her free hand flyin’ to her mouth, eyes wide and shinin’ in the dim light.

Stack looked up at her, not a bit of doubt in his face.

“I’m tired of wastin’ time,” he said, voice rough, heavy. “Ain’t no tomorrow promised to men like me. But tonight, while my heart still beats in my chest… I’m askin’ you.”

He swallowed, grip tightenin’ just a little.

“Marry me, Honey. Let me be the man that keeps you safe. Keeps you loved.”

The kettle whined soft and high behind them.

Honey’s breath hitched.

Her lips parted —

eyes glossy, heart poundin’ so loud she swore he could hear it —

and right before she spoke —

Previous Chapter Next Chapter

Taglist: @kxllanxtdoor @marley1773 @notapradagurl7 @depressedandhornyfl @reci1996 @kaylaahisthebestest-

#stack sinners #smoke sinners #sinners film #sinners fanfiction #sinners #elijah smoke moore #smoke x black!reader #smoke x black!fem!reader #smoke x reader #smokestack twins #smoke and stack

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kaybugga · 6 months ago

Text

Katsuki Bakugo x Wife!Reader

December 23rd:

Katsuki Bakugo x Wife!Reader

Note: Use of (Y/N) + Newly weds

“What if we made our actual house!?” “Hell no, that's stupid.”

TW: Swearing

WC: 1.2k

・┆✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ┆・

“(Y/N)! Time to go, we're gonna be late!”

Katsuki calls From downstairs. For some context, you're going to Mina and Ejiro's house to hangout before everyone starts going out on missions again. Tonight was, and will be the only night your whole friend group can take off for a while. You're planning to make Gingerbread houses, watch movies, drink hot cocoa, and exchange presents.

“Coming!”

You call from your bedroom before stepping out and closing the door. By the time you're at the front door, he's in his black Ford F150 Raptor with the engine Running and his playlist Blasting out the open windows.

You roll your eyes with a grin before walking over and getting into the passenger seat with a small huff.

“Need a hand, princess?”

Katsuki says with a shit-eating grin while you send him a half-assed glare.

“No, I'm just fine On my own.”

You counter while buckling in and he begins to back out of the driveway, his arm slung over your seat.

Upon arrival, you notice you're not the only couple in matching pajamas. Kyoka and Denki are in pajama pants with polar bears and white hoodies. Eijiro and Mina are in Batman Hello-Kitty pants with pink long sleeve shirts. You and Katsuki are in red and black plaid pants with black shirts.

“Hey y'all!”

You excitedly say while walking towards your bestfriends while Enjiro and Denki start up a conversation with Katsuki.

“So, how're you, Mrs.Bakugo?”

Mina chirps while dragging out your new last name.

“Yeah, how's it feel to finally take the Bakugo name? Feel angry 24/7 yet?”

Jiro chuckles while giving you a hug, Which you happily accept. Mina joins in the hug, which makes you smile.

“No, you absolutely cannot make our house a pile of rubble. It's a Gingerbread house, not Gingerbread house rubble.”

You say, smacking his hand lightly, earning a small scowl. You playfully roll your eyes as you reach for white frosting, in order to decorate the house before putting it together. . . As one would, right? Apparently that's wrong.

“Nope, I'm doing that. Can't trust you to make it not look like shit. Pick out the candy or somethin’.”

Katsuki said, sliding all the Gingerbread house pieces toward him, and away from you; turns out Kirishima’s ‘genius’ idea to make this a competition wasn't so ‘genius’ after all.

“Denks-!”

Jiro panics as Denki’s elbow misses their house by mere inches. Kirishima and Mina are so concentrated they don't even notice what has happened, causing you to snicker to yourself before going back to the candy selection.

“Kats! What if we made our actual house!?”

You suggest excitedly as you show him green gumdrops that could work perfectly as the bushes in your front yard.

“Hell no, that's stupid.”

He protests while carefully putting the Gingerbread walls together with white frosting that looks upsettingly neat.

“Whatever. . .”

You groan, picking out some pretzel sticks to use as a path up to the front door. You stick one in your mouth, leaving the salt treat hanging from between your lips. You set down little piles of candy you could use for decorations, and can't help but notice the way Katsuki Eyes your lips.

You raise a brow at him before he grabs your chin and leans in to take his own bite of the pretzel, his lips brushing against your own for a split second. You sit there wide-eyed as he smirks at you with hidden intent. Nobody else noticed what he had done, but you sure as hell don't regret him doing it.

Hoping that blush isn't too visible on your face, you pass him a small bowl with little red ball sprinkles before glancing at his face. His brows are furrowed in concentration while his tongue is peeking out from between his lips.

Noticing how concentrated he is on the larger details, you secretly grab a few green gumdrops, lining the yard with them. Every few seconds, you glance over at him, trying to hold in the goofy smile hiding behind your lips.

“The hell are you doing? If you want shit lining the house, use those.”

He says while pointing to a bowl of green and red candies that probably taste like diabetes. You bite back a frown at your failed attempt to add secret little details from your own house and try to think of more subtle details. You could casually suggest. Your mailbox would be a good idea, but you would probably need Katsuki to help you, so that’s a no.

Instead, you think of the arches by your doorstep. Katsuki is absolutely loaded with money and refused to, in his words, get some small, shitty house that doesn't have room for future plans.

You reach for a small unopened box of candy canes striped with vibrant greens and reds, pulling out a few and dumping the rest out into an empty bowl. You hold back a giggle as Eijiro sneakily takes one, unwrapping it and sticking it in his mouth. Rolling your eyes at the action, you place two of the candy canes next to Katsuki, clearly suggesting that he use them.

He nods lightly and begins to form icicles along the edge of the roof, which you have to admit is quite a smart idea. Noticing black licorice, you can't help but imagine it as a chimney. You show it to Katsuki with a grin.

“Hey! What If we use this as a chimney?”

You suggest with a cheery tone, holding a few of said licorice and he gives you a smirk.

“Hey, so you do have good ideas in there.”

He teases, flicking your forehead. You know he's teasing you, and completely unaware of the glare he's receiving from Mina.

“What!? She's got great ideas in there!”

Mina says with a bit of sass and lightly hits him on the head, her yellow eyes narrowed into the glare only a mother could muster. Scary.

“Get the hell off me, Raccoon eyes! It was a joke, she knows she's smart and I wouldn't have married some damn idiot!”

You bite back a chuckle at the look Katsuki has on his face. He's clearly not mad, and there's hints of adoration and love sparkled into his dangerous red eyes.You smile when he looks over to you without a hint of Annoyance or anger, and a pinch of wonder of how he landed someone so wonderful.

“Aww, Kats.”

You say, leaning your head on his shoulder. His face flushes as he hunches back over to continue building the house. So adorable. You grab the licorice, arranging it to make a cute little chimney on top of the house.

“Ta-da!”

You nudge Katsuki, gesturing to your little chimney, which sits at an awkward angle. He laughs, a genuine, sweet one, and adjusts it carefully. Now all you two need to add is a door. Easy.

You grab a piece of gingerbread, carefully outlining a door and breaking it out. Handing it to Katsuki, you grab a bunch of mini candies. He carefully frosts the top of it, and sticks it to the front of the house. You lean in, rimming the little door with the candies.

“Alright, we’re finished!”

You say, leaning back and stretching. Katsuki does the same, wrapping one arm around you and pulling you closer.

“Ya’ know what? We rocked this.”

He said with a small chuckle as he presses A kiss to your head. He pulls out his phone and snaps a photo of your house made from pure hard work.

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memoiresofaneternaldreamer · 4 months ago

Text

Drive-By

Pairing: The Fool! I.N x Mechanic/Streetracer! F.Reader

Themes: Smut | One-Night-Stand | Strangers/Enemies to ? | Crime Syndicate AU

Wordcount: 3.1K

Playlist: ‘Drive’ - Charlotte Cardin

Smut Warnings: Explicit sexual acts - Car sex - Public sex (no getting caught!) - Hair pulling - Fingering - Quickie - Dirty talk - Slight degrading - Unprotected intercourse (Reader is implied to be on the pill)

This story is intended for an adult audience only. Minors do not interact.

Your father never expected much from you when it came to the garage. Not because he didn’t love you—no, you were his little girl, his pride and joy. But he was a fourth-generation mechanic, the last in a long line of grease-stained hands and roaring engines. When your mother had given birth to you, he had sighed, resigned to the idea that the family trade would die with him. After all, cars weren’t for little girls.

And yet, at ten years old, you had proved him so very wrong.

You still remember the moment you first stepped into the garage, the scent of motor oil thick in the air, the clatter of tools ringing like music. Your father had barely looked up from under the hood of an old Chevy, expecting you to run back into the house where your mother would teach you more ‘suitable’ hobbies. But instead of looking overwhelmed or out of place, your eyes locked onto something in the back, hidden beneath a dusty tarp—an old, neglected 1972 Ford Maverick, painted in a faded shade of Sky Blue.

It had been love at first sight.

The moment you pulled back the tarp, your fate was sealed. The Maverick wasn’t just any car. It was yours, even if you didn’t own it yet. Your fingers traced the rusted edges, the worn-down paint, and the cracked leather of the seats. It was beaten down, discarded, but you could see something no one else could. Beneath the grime, the Maverick was waiting for someone to bring it back to life. And that someone was you.

From that day on, there was no keeping you out of the garage.

You spent every spare second by your father’s side, watching, learning, mimicking. At first, he was hesitant—watching you warily, waiting for the moment you’d get bored and walk away. But you never did. You soaked up everything he showed you, from carburettors to crankshafts. By the time you were twelve, you knew your way around an engine better than most of his employees. By fifteen, you had taken apart and rebuilt the Maverick twice over.

Your father had stopped doubting you by then.

At eighteen, you graduated as a fully certified mechanic, top of your class, and returned home to the garage that had built you. The old men who once laughed at your father for having a daughter instead of a son now came to you for advice. You earned your place in the shop, and by twenty-one, you weren’t just another mechanic—you were the best damn one in town.

And you weren’t alone.

Your closest friends from high school—Jaehyuk, Keeho, and Heesung—had stuck by your side, each finding their place in the garage. Heesung, who had been hired by your father as an apprentice two years before you graduated, was the one to introduce you to the world of illegal street racing in the first place.

As your ex-boyfriend, now turned trusted tuner, he was the one responsible for ensuring your car ran smoother than anyone else’s. He had always had a knack for engines, but he had an even better one for pushing limits. It had been Heesung who had first taken you to your first race, who had put you behind the wheel and told you to drive. And that night, when you crossed the finish line first, something inside you had shifted. Along the way came Jaehyuk and Keeho. Dubbing themselves your “biggest fanboys”, they had taken it upon themselves to make you famous in the underground racing world. They handled your image, your brand, and your bets. They made sure everyone knew your name.

You weren’t just a mechanic. You were a racer. And in the underground circuits, you were untouchable.

But you didn’t know yet that someone else had been watching.

Friday night. Race night.

The sun was barely dipping past the skyline when you wiped your hands clean of grease, stepping back to admire the lime green Ford Shelby Mustang sitting pretty in the garage. Another job well done. The roar of the engine had purred to perfection under your hands, and now all that was left was the real thrill of the night—the race.

You tossed the dirty rag onto the workbench and made your way toward your office, where you already knew you’d find your three idiots hunched over your desk. The sight made you smirk before you even walked in. As expected, Jaehyuk was scrolling through race stats, Keeho was practically vibrating with energy, and Heesung leaned against the desk, his arms crossed as he studied the numbers.

Jaehyuk is the first to look up, his face splitting into a grin. “Boss is here. Took you long enough.”

Keeho, ever the animated one, dramatically throws his hands up. “We were starting to think you ditched us.”

Heesung just smirks. “She wouldn’t ditch us. She loves us too much.”

You roll your eyes, leaning against the desk. “What’s the rundown for tonight?”

Heesung let out a small chuckle but got straight to the point, as usual. “Stats are looking good. The only real contender tonight is Beomgyu. He’s still fast, still dangerous.” His tone darkened. “But you know it’s not just him anymore, is it?”

You sighed, rolling your shoulders before dropping into your chair. “The Syndicate.”

There was an unspoken weight in the air whenever their name came up. You weren’t afraid of Beomgyu. He might have been someone you used to call a friend, but that was before the Syndicate got their claws into him. Now? He raced for them, won for them—or lost, depending on where their money landed. And lately, ever since you joined the circuit, his losing streak had stretched far longer than he intended.

Jaehyuk tapped the desk. “Word on the street is the Syndicate isn’t happy about it. Their golden boy keeps taking Ls and making them lose money.”

Keeho hummed. “And they don’t like losing money.”

You lean back in your chair, unfazed. “I win my races fair and square. Beomgyu can cry about it all he wants.”

Heesung chuckles. “That’s our girl”

The rendezvous point for tonight’s race was just outside the city, near an abandoned electrical plant. As always, the night pulsed with anticipation. Engines revved, neon lights glowed off polished metal, and the electric hum of competition crackled in the air. The usual crowd was here—familiar faces, loud voices, the scent of burning rubber thick in the air.

You pulled up in your usual spot, the cherry red 1999 Nissan Skyline gleaming under the streetlights. As soon as you stepped out, a few locals came to greet you, all eager to see if you’d continue your winning streak. You made small talk, indulging their praise, but your eyes kept scanning the lot.

And that’s when you saw it.

A matte black Mazda RX-7 parked just a little away from the main crowd.

Your gaze narrowed slightly. Unfamiliar cars weren’t unusual, but this one? It wasn’t just the car—it was the presence it carried. Something about it screamed trouble. You lean over to Keeho, lowering your voice. “Who’s that?”

Keeho follows your gaze and frowns. “No clue. First time seeing it.”

That alone is unusual. Keeho knows everyone.

And then, as if on cue, the driver stepped out.

Your breath caught for a fraction of a second. The man who emerged from the RX-7 moved with an air of confidence, his presence magnetic. He was tall, lean muscle wrapped in leather pants and a form-fitting muscle tee, topped with a dark jacket that only added to his effortless allure. His jet-black hair was tousled in that perfect, just-messed-enough way, and when his sharp eyes met yours, there was an unmistakable glint of amusement.

Trouble, your instincts whispered.

He walked toward you, slow and deliberate, his gaze flickering over your car before returning to you. The way he smirked, like he already knew something you didn’t, made your fingers twitch.

“So you’re the one everyone’s been talking about.”

His voice was smooth, dangerously so. You tilted your head, crossing your arms. “Depends who’s talking.”

He took another step closer, like he enjoyed testing boundaries. “Pretty much everyone. Hard to ignore a racer who keeps shutting down the competition.”

You studied him. “And you are?”

“Jeongin.” He smiled, slow and teasing. “Nice to finally meet you.”

Something about the way he said it made it sound like he already knew more than he was letting on.

You weren’t sure if you liked that.

“What’s your game, Jeongin?”

His smirk widened, and he glanced at your car again, then back to you. “A race.”

You arched a brow. “That’s it?”

“Not quite.” He stepped even closer, his voice lowering, making sure no one else could hear. “Let’s make it interesting.”

You didn’t react outwardly, but you could feel the shift in energy. “Oh?”

His eyes gleamed with something wicked. “If I win, you suck me off.”

Your breath hitched, but you didn’t let your expression falter. His confidence was brazen, the challenge in his tone clear.

You scoffed, but before you could retort, he leaned in slightly, dropping his voice to something even more suggestive. “If you win, though, I go down on you.”

Your pulse spiked, but you refused to let him see it. Instead, you tilted your head, giving him a slow, assessing once-over. “Confident, aren’t you?”

He grinned, completely unashamed. “I think you’re hot. And judging by the way your pupils just dilated, you think the same of me.”

Damn him.

You let out a small laugh, shaking your head. “You’re insane.”

“That a no?” He was watching you closely now, waiting.

In that moment you have no idea what compelled you to answer him. Future you will blame it on 'temporary insanity’. But present you? Well, she doesn’t back down so easily.

You met his gaze head-on, then extended your hand. “Fine. You’re on.”

His grip was firm, his skin warm against yours. “Can’t wait to see how this turns out.”

Neither could you.

Your fingers flex around the wheel, your heart pounding in sync with the roar of the engine. Your car thrums beneath you, coiled and ready to launch forward at the drop of the flag. A few feet away, the matte black Mazda RX-7 sits in wait, its driver exuding the same still confidence, a predator waiting for the right moment to strike.

Jaehyuk and Keeho are at the sidelines, whipping up a storm of bets, hyping up your name with full confidence. “Our girl’s got this! Put your money where your mouth is!” Their voices rise over the crowd, their faith in you unshaken. But Heesung? Heesung leans against your open window, his usual sharp gaze scanning the RX-7 before flicking back to you.

“I don’t know what that car’s packing under the hood,” he murmurs, voice low enough for only you to hear, “but listen—keep an eye on how he takes the turns. If he’s running a heavier engine, he’s gonna struggle in the tighter sections. This track’s got a couple of tricky bends, so use them.”

You nod, rolling your shoulders, grounding yourself. “Got it.”

He doesn’t move right away, gaze flicking between you and Jeongin. His unease is subtle, but you know him well enough to notice. He finally steps back, giving you space, but not without a final warning. “Be smart about this.”

You glance over at Jeongin. His gaze is already on you. As the race marshal raises their hands, he mouths something. It’s deliberate, slow, meant just for you.

“Let’s go, baby.”

Your blood heats at the cocky provocation, but there’s no time to react—the flag drops, and the world narrows down to the track.

The race is a brutal battle of skill and instinct.

Neither of you gives an inch. You’re neck and neck, each pushing the limits of your machines and yourselves. The wind rushes past, the neon lights of the city a blur as you manoeuvre through the track. Your tyres kiss the asphalt dangerously, each turn taken with calculated precision.

Jeongin isn’t just some flashy newcomer. He’s good—really good. But you’re better. Or at least, you should be. Every move you make, he counters. Every gap you find, he closes. It’s as if he knows your driving style inside and out, predicting your decisions before you even make them.

Frustration claws at you, but you shove it down, focusing on the race. The final lap looms, the finish line in sight. You push the Skyline to its absolute limit, feeling the chassis vibrate with effort, the tyres gripping for everything they’re worth.

The RX-7 surges beside you.

You gun it.

But when the line rushes beneath your wheels, the results flash in glaring neon:

A tie.

Disbelief slams into you. A tie? A tie?

Adrenaline still racing, you don’t slow down—not immediately. You keep driving, pushing past the crowd, away from the scene. You need air. You need space. You need something to release the frustration curling hot in your gut. But, of course, Jeongin follows.

The two of you don’t stop until you reach a secluded parking lot on the other side of the plant. The engine’s hum lingers even after you cut the ignition.

You’re out of the car in seconds, slamming the door shut as you whirl on him.

“You cheated.”

He leans against the hood of his RX-7, arms crossed, impossibly relaxed. That damn smirk hasn’t left his face. “You wound me, baby. No faith in my skills?”

You throw up your hands, exasperated. “There’s no way you were that in sync with me. Either you knew exactly how I drive, or you had some kind of trick up your sleeve.”

Jeongin just watches you, his amusement never faltering. The way he tilts his head, eyes running over you, makes you feel like he’s peeling back layers you didn’t even know you had. “Or maybe,” he drawls, “we’re just that in sync.”

Your frustration sparks hotter. You move closer, nearly toe to toe with him, fists curling as your breath grows heavier. But he—he is nothing but cool, calm, collected. Then, with almost no effort, he shifts forward, crowding into your space, and suddenly, you’re spun in place, your back now facing his car, his hands bracketing you in place with a firm grip on your hips.

“You know what this means, right?” His voice is lower now, threading through the night air like something dangerous. “We both have to collect on our bet.”

Your breath catches. His proximity is intoxicating, his scent, his warmth, the sheer confidence radiating off him. But before you can snap back with something sharp, his lips crash against yours.

It’s fire.

It’s reckless, all-consuming.

You lose yourself in it, in him, in the heat pooling low in your stomach as he grips your hips and pulls you flush against him, pressing your ass against his hood. Soon enough, neither of you are thinking about the race anymore.

There’s nothing romantic or even remotely coordinated about the affair. The adrenaline from the race coupled with your frustration at not winning leaves you a kind of wanton, desperate thing. Like an animal scratching at their cage to be freed. Jeongin, you note, is dealing with it much the same way. His lips have long since abandoned yours, instead choosing to trail a heated path down your neck, biting and sucking harshly on the exposed skin. One of your hands tangles in his hair at that, tugging at the strands as you feel each pinch of his teeth sinking into your skin. Your other hand is busy taking off his jacket, desperately struggling with the fabric and Jeongin’s own wandering hands.

He roughly gropes your chest, squeezing one of your breasts in his right hand, and pinching the stiffening nipple through the fabric of your bra and shirt. You let out a soft ‘hmmm’ at his ministrations, his touch slowly but surely setting you into overdrive. His left hand wanders under your skirt, roughly groping your ass before pulling your body even closer to his. Your skirt involuntarily hikes up at the movement, and your clothed core comes in contact with his hardness. Feeling the length of him so close to your centre, only a few layers of clothing separating you, you let out a soft moan.

He’s big.

A new rush of excitement fills you at the thought, and your body reacts to it. As Jeongin delivers the first, experimental trust, the friction is enough to pull a moan out of you both. “Fuck…” He whispers hoarsely against your neck, repeating the action. At this rate, the wetness pooling in your panties is growing uncomfortable, the ache in your centre pulsing to be filled by something. Someone.

You’ve never done this before. One-night stands have never been your cup of tea. But you have to admit that doing this, so out in the open with someone who was a stranger not even thirty minutes ago, is exhilarating.

Your hands leave their place in his hair to migrate to his pants, his jacket finally landing on the floor behind him. Your fingers shake slightly in anticipation as you undo his button and fly, the gentle pressure of your fingers against his hardness making him shudder. Jeongin, in return, roughly grabs the stockings you are wearing, his fingers easily rip the fabric apart at the apex of your thighs. You can’t help but let out a shocked gasp at his actions, but Jeongin is quick to shut you up, his mouth crashing against yours in another heated kiss.

You lose yourself in the kiss; his tongue fighting for dominance with yours, lips smashing against each other, teeth nipping at the plump flesh. It takes you a moment to register the feeling of Jeongin’s fingers pulling your panties to the side until your core is fully exposed and the wind gently brushes against your glistening folds.

At the first gentle flick of his thumb against your clit, your body shivers. “Oh…” You moan softly. Jeongin’s fingers move lower, passing through your folds before pressing against your entrance, gathering the moisture there. “Fuck, baby…” He groans out teasingly, his eyes searching yours. “Already soaking wet for me and I haven’t even properly touched you yet?” His fingers take the path back up to your clit, stroking and rubbing more purposefully now. “Yes…Fuck.” You can’t help but moan out again as you reach out to grab his biceps. The combination of his filthy words, his intense, unwavering gaze and his long fingers rubbing you just right, quickly tightens the coil inside you.

When his fingers retract from your clit, you don’t have time to complain before he quickly plunges two of them into your sopping hole, making you cry out instead. “Oh, God… Jeongin”. The sudden intrusion, although not at all unwelcome, makes you shudder, hips rolling involuntarily for more friction. Jeongin notices, of course, a satisfied smirk grazing his lips as he grounds out “Oh you’re a desperate little thing, aren’t you baby?” as he delivers another, more forceful thrust of his fingers. You moan out in reply, already at a loss for words.

He leans closer to you, finally breaking eye contact as he whispers hotly in your ear: “Don’t worry baby, I’ll get you off.” And he delivers. His thumb reclaims its earlier position on your clit as his two fingers continue their assault on your walls. It’s almost embarrassing how fast you feel yourself climbing towards a peak, your body writhing and shaking in pleasure. “I’m close…” you mewl out, desperate for Jeongin to get you there. Your core spasms around his fingers and he grits out at the tightness, “I can feel it… You wanna come, baby?” He goads. You shake your head violently. Yes. You do.

And then he stops.

In one swift movement, he removes his hand from your core altogether, the feeling of loss nearly enough to make you sob. “What the…” you let out breathlessly, your mind scrambling to figure out what the hell is going on. Jeongin just looks at you smugly, palming his dick over his pants with the hand that had just been inside of your cunt not even seconds ago. You open your mouth, half a mind to start screaming at him, but Jeongin successfully shuts you up again by grabbing your face and pulling you into another kiss.

You, however, are still very much frustrated from the almost orgasm, and pull away. Jeongin just pulls you back, a hand now tangling in your hair to keep your mouth firmly pressed against his. As you try and push him off you again, he tightens his hold on your hair, his fingers roughly grabbing the strands. The prickle of pain that shoots from your scalp through your spine is so delicious, that a groan slips out of you.

Jeongin wastes no time.

With one hand, he finally frees his aching cock from the confines of his pants.

As he grabs your hip roughly with his free hand, you feel his tip at your entrance, prodding, gathering your wetness before gliding up and catching your clit and you silently brace yourself. But nothing could have prepared you for it. Jeongin finally enters you with one, harsh thrust, bottoming out easily. The feeling is overwhelming, bordering on painful. You’re just so full. Jeongin and you groan out simultaneously at the feeling, your walls gripping him like a vice, sucking him impossibly deeper. He leans down to lowly whisper in your ear: “The only way I’ll let you come tonight is on my cock, baby.” Before gently sucking your earlobe into his mouth, gently nibbling the flesh: “And only when I tell you to.”

He starts up a brutal pace. It’s fast, hard and messy. Your hands brace behind you on the hood, muscles straining to not fall back. He’s hitting the spot that has you seeing stars over and over as he bites your neck and shoulder with low, needy grunts. Every wanton moan you release makes him go harder, deeper. Every rough touch brings you closer to that dangerous peak. “Fuck, you like that don’t you baby? I can feel your juices leaking out.” He grunts through gritted teeth. You moan again in reply, your voice sounding hollow, as if it’s not your own, when you reply; “Jeongin… Fuck… It’s so deep.”

“Oh, I know… You wanna come, baby?” He mutters. You nod feverishly, losing yourself (and your dignity) to the pleasure he brings. His thrusts don’t lose their pace as he brings one hand down towards your clit, rubbing your nub in violent circles. Your core starts to spasm around him as your moans become more frequent, and Jeongin knows you’re close.

He makes eye contact with you again, before he says the thing that finally drives you over the edge: “Come for me baby, show me how you take it.” As if on cue, a tsunami washes over you, threatening to drown you, and you let out a scream as you come. The sight of you coming is enrapturing, and Jeongin loses himself in the feeling. It doesn’t take him long before he’s coming as well, your pussy gripping him tighter than before, milking him for all he’s worth. He lets go with a guttural moan, cursing “Fuck…” over and over like a prayer.

It’s only after it’s over, after your breaths even out and reality settles back in, that Jeongin starts buttoning his pants back up with that same unbothered ease. He moves like a man with all the time in the world.

You fix your skirt as you jump off the hood, trying hard to ignore your ripped stockings, or the remnants of his cum seeping out of you and into your underwear.

You jerk your gaze up to Jeongin, who is now already stepping back into his car, smirk firmly in place. He rolls down his window and lilts smugly: “See you around, baby.”

The RX-7 growls to life, and before you can react, he’s moving, tyres screeching against the pavement as he disappears into the night.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see him throw something out of his window, and you go over to pick it up.

You glance down at it, a smooth matte black card with swirling gold designs lying on the pavement.

The second you turn it around in your palm, you read the letters as a cold realization slithers down your spine.

The Fool.

You stare at the card, heart pounding. The Fool—the youngest, the reckless one, the wildcard.

And just like that, it all makes sense.

You had just slept with someone from the Syndicate.

A/N: This has been a long time in the making. I’ve put it off for too long, dealing with a lot of personal stuff, but I’m in a good place now and finally thought it was the right time to post the first chapter of this series. I’m really proud of it, hope you are too. 💟

Send me your thoughts - feedback/fangirling is always welcome.

(Collage created by me. Credits to owners of the pictures taken from Pinterest)

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otsalezu · 2 months ago

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College Cat AU Sneak Peak

This is just chapter one! These chapters are gonna be shorter than the Crashing Down ones, as this is mostly a fun side fic based off of @dark-lord-of-awesomeness Cat Stan AU! Okay chapter below the cut cuz its pretty long

Fiddleford Hadron McGucket, who was raised a proper Christian boy, knew all sorts of things about demons. He grew up hearing stories and urban legends about them and being taught to never trust anything that seemed like one. He wasn’t, however, told that they would come in the form of his college campus’ honorary mascot.

It had all started during the first few weeks of his and Ford’s second year at Backupsmore. Fiddleford had been heading towards his engineering class when, with a start, he realized he’d forgotten his thermos of coffee. He’d cursed a bit, checking his watch and deciding that it was worth the risk of being a little late. The professor, a fellow Southerner with a similar passion for the subject, loved him enough to excuse the odd tardiness. He hadn’t thought much of the rustling that came from the dorm, thinking that Ford had simply also forgotten something. When he neared the door, he’d thought his first prediction was correct. The man going through his desk had Ford’s face and curls. However, that was where the resemblance ended. Stubble lined his worn face, and glasses didn’t rest upon his crooked and obviously previously broken nose. His hair was long and matted, splayed around his shoulders in a greasy mullet. The clothes that hung off of him were too casual and threadbare to be from Ford’s closet. And the final discovery, the one that hammered home the wrongness for Fiddleford, were the man’s hands. Five fingers each, he noted with horror, as the man picked up his driver’s license and snorted.

“Heh. Diddlefuck Hard-on McSuckit.”

Despite the situation, Fiddleford made an offended noise. Jokes about his name were nothing new, but hearing a stranger who’d broken into his dorm make them must have been the final straw. The figure turned towards him, cursed loudly, and then…disappeared? No, he hadn’t disappeared. He’d simply changed. Where the man had once stood was now Nikola, the campus cat. In its mouth was the driver’s license, which dropped to the floor as the cat made a run for the door. Fiddleford quickly scooped him up, before remembering the situation and dropping him again like a hot coal.

“You! Just what in the hell are you?!”

“It’s a cat, F. Are you feeling alright?”

Ford pushed past him, and the cat quickly escaped as he did. The two men were left alone in the room to survey the mess on the desk.

“Moses, did a bomb go off in here?”

“I–the cat–you were–”

“Really? The cat? You’re telling me Nikola opened these drawers and took out all the papers?”

“He was a man!”

Ford gave him a cautious side-eye,

“Are you…?”

“God dammit Ford, I’m not high!”

“...Whatever you say. Don’t you have a class?”

“Don’t you?”

“The professor was sick, and I heard yelling. Which was apparently you terrorizing Nikola. What’s your excuse?”

“I’m…”

Fiddleford rubbed his head. Had he really just hallucinated the whole thing? The mess on the desk could have been a prank, and sleep had been scarce lately. It was more likely he was seeing things than the campus cat being a shapeshifting Ford look-alike.

“I’m not feelin’ too good.”

“Clearly. Do you need anything?”

“Nah, don’t worry about it. Probably just a migraine.”

“Alright. I’m headed off to the library.”

And that had been the end of that, or so he’d thought. Seeing “Nikola” around campus—especially their dorm—became a common occurrence for him. Going through their things, eating unattended leftovers in the cafeteria, lurking around the local cafes. The man would grin at him and wave, before being replaced by that familiar shaggy brown cat. This was frustrating enough. He was never able to get a camera out fast enough to take a picture, and the man always seemed to stay far from Ford. In human form, that was. Ford adored the hellspawn in cat form, often letting the cat sit on his shoulders or lap during study sessions. Sure, Nikola may have been the campus cat, but most people thought he belonged to Ford. It was a fair assumption, the way the cat always made a beeline for him.

Now, about four months into the year, Fiddleford was running out of ideas. Nikola and Ford seemed to only get more fond of each other, which was making Fiddleford’s job of subtly protecting Ford from the demon harder than ever. He’d started by keeping around a rosary…which disappeared from his nightstand the next day and appeared around the neck of the man. He’d laughed—laughed!—and mouthed a smug “thanks”, before turning back into the cat. He doubted he’d be able to catch the cat for an exorcism, not that he wanted to touch it at all. Any indication he gave to Ford that the cat may be dangerous was met with incredulity and a lighthearted jab about the first day Fiddleford had seen it shift. He was really, truly, at the end of his rope. He had begun absentmindedly sketching the design for a holy water spraying robot when Ford burst in, grinning.

“Fidds, what do you know about anomalies?”

#stanley pines #gravity falls #gravity falls au #gravity falls fanfiction #stanford pines #fiddleford mcgucket #cat stan #cat stan au

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junkpuppet225 · 2 months ago

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This came to me yesterday after hearing a song. It’s random, set after the series finale while Daryl’s on his journey to find himself but also pre-apocalypse flash back. Similar to things I’ve written before but what can I say I do what I want. Smut! DarylxFem!Reader. Underage (barely, both are seventeen and consenting). Language. Hazardously proof read and quickly written. I hope you enjoy! ✌🏼

~~~

Fear

Daryl’s heart hammers hard in his chest, eyes wide with calloused palms raised in that familiar sign of surrender. The sudden adrenaline coursing through his veins has nothing to do with the shotgun pointed at his face and everything to do with the memory of pushing his dad’s Ford a half mile down the trailer parks dirt road.

He waited for Will Dixon to pass out with a beer in his hand before plucking the keys from his shirt pocket and making his way silently to the worn driveway in front of the shack they called home. He was a pro at slipping the truck into neutral and backing it onto the dirt road, even better at pushing it away from the trailer to where you stood with that amazing smile that lit his fucking soul on fire.

Three years of grand theft auto and he never once got caught but damn if every glance he stole, every gaze into your enchanting eyes didn’t ruin him for anyone else.

“Old man got started late.” Daryl mutters when you lift yourself into the truck beside him - watching him crank the engine to put as much space between you and the trailer park as possible. If your dad ever realizes you’re sneaking out with a Dixon in the middle of the night he’ll kill you both. He’s threatened it before.

“It’s okay. I wasn’t waitin’ long.” You assure with that thousand watt smile that brings on his own along with a flush of pink that crawls up the back of his neck. He allows himself one quick glance your way then glues his eyes to the dark road ahead while you sit in awkward silence picking at your nail polish.

Everything changed between you when Daryl walked up to your shared bus stop this morning empty handed and unable to look you in the eye. That was normal - he never carried any books and eye contact wasn’t really his thing but on this odd Friday morning he didn’t stop a foot away with his head hanging like usual - he kept walking until he was sinking a rough hand into your hair and pulling you to his mouth. This morning he kissed you for the first time ever and it’s left a strange, desperate feeling blooming in your chest.

Daryl bounces down the deserted street, tossing you both around the cab of the truck as he turns off the beaten path to the familiar clearing where the crickets and the frogs are the only sounds. That and the hammering of your heart against your chest. You lift your eyes quickly, studying his profile as he tightens his grip on the steering wheel with one hand and brushes the other over his jaw - meeting your gaze for a split second before dropping it quickly.

“What?”

The word is barely audible, a rumbling in his throat as he sits up straighter failing to not look at you. When your eyes meet this time he doesn’t look away.

“You kissed me this morning.” It’s not a question, more of a confused statement that has him slowing to a stop in the middle of the forest. Daryl doesn’t make you any comment as he puts the truck in park and sits back in the drivers seat without a word.

“Why?” You whisper bringing your attention back to your now ruined nails. He has no idea what to say - how to explain how the sun peeked through the tree line this morning making your eyes almost glow as he watched you chew your bottom lip. Or the smile you gave him when your eyes finally met. It broke something inside of him and the only thing he could think about was kissing you - the thought of your lips on his consuming his very being as he mustered up all of his courage to do just that. It’s left a strange, desperate feeling blooming in his chest.

“Jus’…, wanted to. I… don’t know.”

You drag in a deep inhale of air to get the next few words out as Daryl dares another glance your way. “Do y-you want to… do it again?” You watch his entire body go rigid, eyes falling to your parted lips as he brings his own between his teeth. A habit he’s picked up from years of subtle watching while your attention is elsewhere. When he doesn’t answer you let your eyes fall to your lap and pray the earth will open up and swallow you whole.

“Y-yeah. I want to.”

Daryl’s words are so quiet you almost miss them - your breath catching in your throat as he idly leans closer to you. There’s suddenly no air in the cab of the truck and your heart is reaching a critical speed in your chest. “Do ya want to?” All you can manage is the slight nod of your head as you watch his hand lift from his lap, cupping the back of your neck as he brings you to his waiting mouth pressing your lips together much like he did this morning except this time the school bus doesn’t start up the graveled road and rip him from your grasp.

His lips are warm and surprisingly soft, moving against yours for a moment before he pulls away just enough to take in a needed breath. “W-was that okay?” His deep voice fills the cab causing your eyes to startle open as you whisper yes against his lips and lean into him again, daring to open yourself up to him and brush your tongue against his. The groan that rumbles in his chest boosts your confidence enough to let you touch him, running your fingers along the tight muscles of his shoulders before sinking into the hair at the nape of his neck.

He rewards you with another deep groan, his own hand tightening in the back of your hair as the other grips at your waist to pull you closer. The feel of his tongue against yours and the heat radiating from his body has your head spinning as you all but climb into his lap to get closer.

“Is this okay?” You whisper against his mouth - breathing in his quick and nervous puffs of air, heat prickling at his neck as it runs along his jaw and up his cheeks - unable to look you in the eye once again. His dick is painfully hard in his jeans and there’s no guarantee he won’t blow his load the second you sit down but that’s just a risk he’s going to have to take because denying you in this second would rip his soul from his body. “Y-yeah…” He tries to clear the desire from his rough voice - failing miserably as he adds “…s’okay…” before gripping your hips to bring you down to his lap.

You sink your hands into his hair and kiss him desperately, filling his mouth with your slow tongue while he digs his fingers into your skin leaving bruises in his wake. The feel of you on him - rutting your hips against his cock has him leaning you against the steering wheel to chase your kiss - honking the horn as a giggle that sounds like heaven on earth escapes you.

“Shit…, sorry—-.” You kiss him again, stealing his words as his hands roam your body - sliding up your stomach to caress soft skin as you work your hips against his. You’re driving him crazy and he’s not sure how much more he can take, groaning into your kiss as you grind against him.

You feel like you’re on fire - burning desperately for him as Daryl runs his calloused thumbs along your ribs daring to caress the edge of your bra as he pulls away from you once again and whispers your name like a prayer. He takes his hands from under your shirt and places a rough palm to your cheek as you search blue eyes - chest heaving with desire while he looks at you like he’s seeing you for the first time. “Yer gonna…,” He drops your gaze - holding your face with strong hands, afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go. “…gonna make me cum if ya keep that up.”

You feel your own blush heat your face as you whisper an apology and stop moving against him, pulling air into your spent lungs as he hangs his head - sinking his fingers into soft hair. “Daryl?” You watch his arms tense, the thick cords straining against his skin as a rush of air passes between you and he meets your hooded eyes. “Y-yeah?”

You let your fingers trail down his chest trying to keep your hips as still as possible while leaning closer to him - your mouths inches apart. He looks like a man starved, letting his gaze fall to your parted lips. “Do you want to have sex?” You swear you watch his heart stop - eyes glazing over as he takes in your words and a deep, ragged breath.

Has a seventeen year old guy ever said no to that question?

He’s only thought about having sex with you every waking moment since he became a teenager. “Do you?” He grunts - searching your eyes for the truth. It doesn’t matter what he wants - if you’re not ready then this stops now. “As long as it’s with you.” You assure him as you watch his eyes close in desperation, blowing the air from his lungs at the thought of being inside you. “T-that ain’t a yes.”

Another hiss of pleasure passes between you with your answer. “Yes Daryl.” You whisper against his ear bringing a primal growl from deep inside of him as his arms wrap around you - maneuvering inside the tight cab until you’re on your back and he’s kissing you desperately - sinking his body into yours as his hand moves up your leg and into the pleated skirt around your waist - resting his forehead against yours as his eyes close tightly. He has to be able to feel your heart beating against his own chest as he caresses the inside of your thigh and groans from the desperate sounds escaping you.

His fingers hesitate - shaky breaths bringing your eyes together. “Y-ya sure?”

You’ve seen Daryl face a hundred beatings in his lifetime - watched him grab up venomous snakes and chase packs of vicious coyotes out of your yard without faltering but looking at him now as his thumb idly brushes against the center of your soaked panties - he’s terrified.

“Touch me.” You sink your finger’s into the back of his hair as his mouth finds yours while continuing to hesitate between your thighs making you squirm. “P-please Daryl.” His head falls, dark hair tickling your throat as he mumbles a string of profanity against your collar bone before finally slipping inside the soft material and running his fingers along your slit. “…holy shit…” A soft cry rushes from your lungs as your body jerks with his touch, arms wrapping around him as his weight sinks further into your body.

“Are ya o-okay?” Daryl whispers against your throat, sinking another finger inside of you with his own desperate groan. “Y-yeah, don’t stop - please.” It’s Daryl’s turn to rut his aching cock against your thigh while he pumps unsure fingers into you slowly, afraid he’ll somehow hurt you as your body begins to tremble from his touch. “…ya sure you’re okay?”

“Mmmhm.” Stars dot your vision as his fingers slow causing a different groan to fall from your lips as he pushes himself up on his arms to look at you - your name rushing from his lungs as you take his belt in your hands and pull leather from metal quickly. A moment later his throbbing cock is in your hand - heart racing as you brush your thumb over the slick head to pump him in your fist, bringing a groan from deep in his chest.

“…f-fuck…, I ain’t gonna last ten seconds inside of you.” He warns with a grunt as you smile up at him bringing a flood of emotion into his chest. He’s never seen anything more beautiful than you in his entire life. All of the quiet sunsets he’s watched deep in these woods while nursing wounds inflicted by his dad have nothing on the shy smile you’re giving him now.

Daryl leans over you to rummage inside the glove box while you run your hand along his cock slowly, bringing a quiet whimper to his lips. This is going to be over before it even gets started. You lay your head back on the seat and watch him pull a condom from the open box he stole from Merle’s sock drawer letting your hand fall away as he fumbles with the packaging - nearly dropping the damn thing twice before it’s open and sliding over him. If there’s one thing him and Merle can agree on it’s that they should never procreate. The last thing this world needs is another Dixon.

When your eyes finally meet his are still full of fear, heat rising into his cheeks again as you touch his hips and assure him it’s okay - pulling him down to you as his mouth finds yours and he kisses you slowly, savoring every inch of your mouth as his cock twitches against your soaked center causing his heart to nearly stop.

“Y-ya sure you want to do this?” He whispers against your lips as you nod, holding your breath while he grasps the base of his cock - pushing inside of you slowly.

The sound that leaves his throat is like nothing you’ve ever heard before, it sends a thrill to your very core as you place your hands to his throat and nod again - silently encouraging him to keep going as he gives you another slow inch. The groans that leave his lungs are incoherent - garbled curse words barely audible as you watch his eyes close with pleasure, strong arms nearly giving out once he’s filled you completely.

“…y-ya okay?” Daryl asks, burying his face in the bend of your shoulder as you nod - your own eyes closing tightly as he begins to move. “Ya gotta breathe.” He whispers as you drag needed air into your lungs and allow the moan you’ve been suppressing to rumble between you. All you can comprehend is the feel of him inside of you - his shallow thrusts that fuel the fire spreading through your body. “…tell me yer okay..” He pleads against your throat as another soft moan escapes you - clinging to him with your nails digging into his skin. “I’m o-okay…” You gasp as he thrusts harder. “…feels so good Daryl..”

It’s his turn to nod, deep grumbles of pleasure filling your ear as he moves - gripping your hip with one hand while the other sinks into your hair and he locks his blue eyes with yours. Lifting your face to his - demanding his tongue with yours - he thrust into you deeper, causing his pace to slip as a rush of pleasure brings on his release and he groans into your mouth.

“…s-shit…” Daryl hangs his head, emptying himself into the condom as you look up at him in wonder. “Shit.” He repeats pulling out of you quickly as he tries to drag air into his lungs. “M’sorry…, that was too fast…” His worried gaze avoids yours as your fingers brush against his jaw forcing him to look at you.

“It was perfect.” You whisper, raking your nails into the back of his damp hair as he laughs nervously, shaking his head at the thought. The black eye Merle gifted him the next day when he found his empty box of rubbers would forever go down as the best day of his life.

Every second he got to spend with you was etched in his memory - some days it was the only thing that kept him going. Now you’re standing before a ghost - staring into familiar blue eyes with a shot gun raised in warning, a knowing smile spreading across your face as you realize you recognize the trace of fear in his gaze.

~~~

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