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sceletaflores · 1 month ago

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HALF YOUR BRAIN JUST AIN’T THERE!

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

｡𖦹°‧➵ WC: 11k

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

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

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

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

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

Gruene hasn't changed much. Not really.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Joel Miller.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You try not to laugh at that.

Good girl. Responsible. Right.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You zoom in on the picture, just a little.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like he shouldn’t.

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

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

You were young then, but now?

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

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

You don’t plan on going. Not really.

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

It’s barely noon.

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

You’re not sure what makes you do it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No, not the same.

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

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

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

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

Your stomach tightens.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And sure as hell not in those shorts.

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

Either way, it’s a goddamn sight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Except that it has. And it shows.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jesus Christ.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Joel shuts the door a little too hard behind him.

He lets out a low whistle. “Damn.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You got no idea.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You smile, a warm fondness blooming in your chest.

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

Joel’s room.

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

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

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

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

11:53

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

That’s not an excuse, you know that.

You shouldn’t. You really shouldn’t.

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

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

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

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

The room smells like him.

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

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

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

Then your eyes land on the dresser.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You glance down at the caption under her photo.

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

A shiver rolls down your spine.

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

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

Measured.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t touch yourself right away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

To the thought of Joel finding you like this.

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

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

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

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

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

The gasp you let out is sharp.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you sleep better than you have in weeks.

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

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

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

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

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

You knock for a fourth time, less sure.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink. “Oh.”

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

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

“I must’ve missed it.”

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

He steps aside, holding the door open expectantly.

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

“Come inside.”

He says it low. Not a suggestion.

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

The door shuts behind you with a heavy click.

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

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

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

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

You frown. “Ask me what?”

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

"You go through my shit, baby?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I—Joel—”

“Don’t try lyin’ to me.”

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

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

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

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

Your voice shakes, quiet and small in the tension.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your knees nearly give. “Joel. Please—”

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

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

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

You nod, lips slack as your thighs tremble.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Joel sees. Joel knows.

And it’s all he needs to finally break.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Joel thrusts into you in one brutal push.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That’s it. It’s all you can take.

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

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

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

It’s filthy.

It’s obscene.

It’s exactly what you wanted.

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

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

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

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

You’d never make it to the door anyway.

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

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

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

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nysrevenge · 3 days ago

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My Little love Part 3

Other parts… Part 1, Part 2

Summary: Y/N and Stack share a soft, intimate morning filled with lingering tension and almost give in to temptation — until Mary unexpectedly shows up, ruining the moment. Her presence reopens old wounds, leaving Y/N torn between wanting Stack and remembering why she walked away.

Warning: Emotional tension, Past infidelity mentions, sexual tension, Toxic ex drama, Co-parenting struggles

The next morning, the house felt… full again.

Not loud. Not chaotic. Just full. Like someone had put your heart back in your chest and was holding it steady with both hands.

Stack had stayed.

He slept on the couch — his choice — after finally rocking Akari to sleep for almost an hour while you sat nearby, too drained to move but too scared to hope.

You watched him all night.

Watched the way he whispered her name like a prayer. Watched how carefully he adjusted her bonnet, like his hands knew she was fragile. Watched his guilt sit heavy on his face as he kissed her tiny forehead, whispering, “Daddy gon’ do better, princess. I swear.”

Now it was morning. Sunlight spilled into the living room. Akari was babbling on a play mat. You were half asleep on the recliner, bonnet still barely hanging on.

And Stack?

He was in your kitchen.

Cooking.

You blinked a few times to make sure you weren’t dreaming.

Pancakes. Scrambled eggs. Bacon and grit. Baby cereal. He was plating two adult plates and prepping Akari’s little silicone bowl like he’d done it before.

“Morning,” he said without turning.

You rubbed your eyes. “You cooking?”

“I said I was gon’ step up, right?”

He slid you a plate. It smelled like forgiveness. Or maybe just cinnamon and maple syrup. Either way, it warmed something in your chest.

“You ain’t gotta do all this.”

“I do, though,” he said, eyes finally meeting yours. “You been carrying her and this whole damn house on your back. I can’t undo what I did… but I can start showing up like I should’ve a long time ago.”

You nodded, silent.

Actions were louder than words. And he seemed to know that now.

The day moved slow.

You fed Akari while he cleaned bottles without being asked. He didn’t hover. Didn’t beg for attention. He was just… present. And weirdly, that hurt more than if he had begged.

Because you remembered this version of him. The Elias who rubbed your feet while you vented. Who texted you "you ate?" every day like clockwork. The one who used to lay in bed with his hand on your belly, whispering dreams to your unborn daughter.

You thought that man disappeared the moment Mary came around.

But maybe he’d just been buried beneath all his demons.

You sat across from him while Akari napped, sipping your tea.

“She still wakes up around 3 a.m.,” you said softly. “Then again around 6.”

“I got her tonight,” he answered, without hesitation.

You nodded again.

“Just so we’re clear,” you added, looking him dead in the eye. “This don’t mean we’re good.”

His jaw tightened, but he nodded too.

“I know.”

“You gotta prove it to me. To her. Not just with diapers and bottles. But with consistency. With healing. With growth.”

“I’m not here for a night,” he said. “I’m here for the long run. You’ll see.”

It was 3:17 a.m. when you woke up to her cries.

Before you could swing your legs over the bed, you heard his voice.

“It’s okay, baby girl… Daddy’s here…”

You stood in the hallway, just out of sight, watching him bounce Akari gently, singing low off-key lullabies, kissing her forehead between hums.

And then he said something that stuck.

“I know I messed up, but I swear I’m gon’ protect you from every hurt… even the ones I caused.”

Your throat tightened.

Because part of you still loved him.

Not the version that cheated. Not the one who broke your heart.

But the one in that room, holding your daughter like she was his whole reason to breathe.

Love wasn’t trust yet. Forgiveness wasn’t freedom yet. But for the first time in a long time, Y/N didn’t feel like she was doing this alone.

You woke up to warmth that didn’t belong to you.

A slow inhale. Familiar. Deep.

And then you felt it — a heavy arm stretched across your waist, his chest pressed to your back, the quiet rise and fall of his breathing syncing with yours like it never stopped.

You blinked fast, sitting up before your brain even finished waking.

Stack.

On the couch beside you.

Akari’s bottle half-finished on the coffee table, the TV still glowing from last night’s cartoon reruns.

You must’ve both knocked out during the late-night feeding.

Your legs were tangled with his. His hand was still wrapped around your hip like he’d been holding on for dear life in his sleep.

And the worst part?

It felt good.

Too good.

“Morning,” he murmured into your shoulder, eyes still closed, voice thick with sleep.

You eased away, clearing your throat. “That… wasn’t supposed to happen.”

He sat up too, rubbing his face. “I know.”

You both sat there for a moment. Quiet. Real.

“I forgot how easy it used to be… us,” he said.

You didn’t respond. Because you remembered it too.

Later that afternoon, Akari was napping again, and the vibe was softer. Warmer. You’d been laughing — for real — for the first time in weeks, standing in the kitchen while he told a story about Smoke trying to learn TikTok dances and damn near breaking his ankle.

You were mid-laugh, head tilted back, when you caught him staring.

Not just looking.

Staring.

Like he hadn’t had a full breath since the last time he saw you smile like that.

“Y/N…” he said low.

And before you could stop it, his hand reached for yours.

Fingers grazed skin. Eyes locked. The space between you melted.

He leaned in. Close. Inches.

Your heart pounded. Your lips parted.

But you turned your head.

Barely.

Just enough to make his breath hit your cheek instead.

“I can’t,” you sighed and whispered, chest rising fast. “Not like this. Not yet.”

He stepped back slowly. “Okay… I understand.”

But you both knew he wanted to finish what he started.

And maybe… you wanted it too.

It was almost evening when you heard the knock.

Not the gentle kind. Not Smoke’s steady rhythm. Not Annie’s soft tap.

This one was hard. Sharp. Impatient.

You opened the door — and there she stood.

Mary.

Tight red dress. Too much lip gloss. An attitude that didn’t belong in your neighborhood or on your porch.

Her eyes scanned you — bonnet on, hoodie, no makeup — and then glanced inside, where Stack had just walked into view, holding Akari.

“Well, well,” she said with a slick smirk. “Didn’t take long for y’all to play happy family again.”

Your stomach dropped.

Stack stepped forward fast, his voice hard. “What chu' doing here?”

“Oh, so now you ignoring my calls and playing house with your little babymama?” Mary snapped. “You got me all fucked up, Elias.”

You stepped in front of her before she could even think about crossing that threshold.

“Bitch you can get the fuck off my motherfucking porch with all that yelling shit.” you said calmly, coldly. “ Cause bitch we good over here.” you said circling your fingers as you were talking about yall and the house.

Mary looked you up and down. “You still wearing that damn ring like he ain’t slide in me while you was waddling around with his seed?”

Stack’s voice boomed before you could answer.

“Ight ni, Mary! You don’t come to my daughter’s house with that allat shit. You was never more than a mistake and quick fuck — stop actin’ like you meant something wan' nun more than a cum bag, some real quick and easy!”

Mary’s face cracked for a second. Her ego bruised.

“You gon’ regret this,” she hissed. “Both of y’all.”

She turned on her heel and stomped off.

You stood there frozen, heart pounding, fists clenched.

Stack moved behind you.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“She only came here ‘cause you opened the door once before,” you said flatly trying to calm down. “Don’t let her think she got a key.”

“I won’t. I promise.”

Akari started crying right then — like she felt the energy shift.

You rushed to her, but she was inconsolable. Snot bubbling, cheeks red, face scrunched with the kind of cry that had layers behind it.

You held her tight, bouncing. Whispering. “It’s okay, mama… I got you…”

But she wouldn’t calm.

And for the first time since Mary showed up — you felt overwhelmed again.

The tears welled up fast. You held Akari tighter, but you couldn’t stop the sob that broke from your chest.

Stack was there in an instant.

His arms wrapped around you both.

“I got y’all,” he whispered. “It’s okay. Let it out.”

You buried your face in his chest, crying against his shirt while Akari slowly quieted between you. "I don't know, it just feels as if I can't calm her down when your here. Like I'm not enough." you said truthfully, letting that out after feeling like that every time he's around. She seems like a true daddy's girl.

He rubbed your back. Rocked you both.

“I’m here. I ain’t going nowhere this time.”

Tags: @zenonsdreams @heyyimmisunderstood @deexoxomuah @christinabae @psych1scs @httpwwwhoney @secretisme4 @bxunyx @deel3st @cleo92bitch-i-am-old @universal-s1ut @kcundercover0 @decayingearf @bapelana @louvazura @aliszaaaaaaaa @raysogroovy @kenshisluvrgirl

#black reader #sinners x reader #elijah x reader #elijah smoke moore #michael b jordan #elias stack moore #stack sinners #stack #smoke and stack #stack moore #sinners 2025 #sinners

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livwritessometimes · 1 year ago

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F1 Uni Series: Intro Part 2

: Now that you know about ‘The Grid.’ Let us take a look at the other group in this series.

: All these people were randomly assigned to the same guide on the first day of Uni and ya rest is history

: Prev | Oscar’s Version

: Series Masterlist

: Main Masterlist

…

Y/n L/n

• Y/n L/n, claims to be the best thing that has every happened to F1 University

• Struggles to pay rent which is why she lives with Alex and Dylan (even though she has money to support her daily coffee obsession)

• Friends with Daniel and Pierre (she feels that Daniel is her spirit animal and she just tolerates Pierre)

Alexandra Saint Mleux

• Alexandra Saint Mleux, the classy Art History Major

• For her friends she is Alex, the kid who almost burned down her (Y/n and Dylan’s) apartment while trying to make popcorn

• She believes that she can read auras just because she went to a carnival as a kid and a psychic told her that she has ‘the gift’

Dylan O'Brien

• Dylan O’Brien, thinks he’s the only voice of reason in the group (he’s not)

• Likes to scare people by claiming he can hear voices in his head (Psychology major does that to a person)

• Had the fattest crush on peppa pig growing up (even though bacon is his favourite thing to eat)

Renee Rapp

• Renee Rapp, the actual voice of reason of this group (Mother in other words)

• As a kid she realised 2 things while watching Judge Judy: first she wants to be a lawyer and second that her love for Judy was more than just admiration

• Likes to believe that the rest of her group won’t be alive without her there (it’s true)

Chris Briney

• Christopher Briney, the clumsy nurse studying at F1 University

• Most of the time he has to use his knowledge on himself (boy trips on air istg)

• Has an apartment with Jordan but doesn’t know that it’s haunted

Francisca Cerqueira Gomez

• Francisca Cerqueira Gomez or Kika

• Her dream is to live like a rich soccer mom who drinks vodka from a flask during the game

• Believes she’s the next best fashion designer (she is) also has a secret beef with Lewis because they both want to have their collection win the end term runway project

Jordan Fisher

• Jordan Fisher, son of a famous businessman

• His dad wanted him to pursue business but Jordan was like nah and went for music instead

• He drowned as a child and his heart stopped for like 2 seconds and ever since then he claims that he can “see ghosts.” He also didn’t tell Chris (his roommate) that their house is haunted

…

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lokisprettygirl · 5 months ago

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Come As You Are (Eric Draven! Bill Skarsgard's Version x Female Reader) (18+) (Slight Au)

Read chapter 3 here

Chapter 4

Summary : The dam breaks when you get tired of being pushed away constantly.

Warning: 18+, smut later, Description of self harm, Eric is a past drug addict with suicidal tendencies, self harm, use of cuss words, description of claustrophobia, reader is in her early thirties, mention of sexual assault, death and murder, Consumption of alcohol and weed

“We got lamb chops on the specials today, is that something that interests you?” You asked politely, the customer in front of you was being extremely indecisive and has been for a good five minutes so you were just trying to help him out.

“What's the cheapest item on the menu?” he asked you, so you dragged your pen over the breakfast items.

“Just get me one of these” he said to you as he pointed towards eggs and bacon so you nodded and gave him a smile. “Would you like some french toast with that?” you asked him so he responded in negative “It will be on the house” you said politely.

“Then yes”

You smiled before you turned around to go put his order but then you saw Eric standing at the door of the diner, looking utterly confused and out of place, he had a dark grey hoodie on with black cargos, his hair seemed wet. No wonder he smelled so fine all the time, that man was showering every time he returned from one of his gigs.

After bringing the earlier gentleman's order you finally approached Eric.

“Hey Stalker” you said to him as you crossed your arms.

“I didn't know you worked here-” he said nonchalantly.

Lies.

You rolled your eyes before you grabbed his wrist and dragged him to the most isolated booth of the diner since you knew he didn't enjoy people.

“What would you like to have today sir” you asked him as you looked at him after he sat down hesitantly.

After that night Eric had been keeping his distance from you, or well, he was trying and failing miserably, but you were surprised to see him here because he had been avoiding you like a plague and that had you feeling a bit miffed with him, you shouldn't feel that way but after that night at the terrace you really thought you two were becoming friends, perhaps you had ruined it with the stunt you had pulled with his jacket.

“Waffles” He answered, not even looking at the menu so you wrote down his order.

“With or without whipped cream?”

“I don't do cream”

“Sir you are offensive” you said before you strutted away to the kitchen area. Your ass looked good in that blue waitress uniform.

He was expecting you to come back with his order since you did so for that man before but instead he saw Dina approaching him, that made him groan.

“Heyyy Ericccc…good afternoon” she greeted him with such excitement that he almost forgot how to be rude for a second.

“Hey.. uhh??” He looked at her as if he didn't remember her name so she smiled.

“Dina..we met at Y/n’s place remember?” She said as she leaned over him and then she lowered her voice so only he could hear her “You got us all high”

He raised his brows before he gave her a side smile, then he got back to his waffles. He didn't want to be so curt with her but he had no interest in your friend, mostly because she was your friend.

“That was some good shit, perhaps we can hit it up again sometimes huh? Maybe just me and you this time” She asked him as she placed her hand on his shoulder so he looked up at her.

“Didn't you like pass out after that and then puked all over her apartment?” He asked, his voice as disinterested as it could be so she rolled her eyes at him. He had been getting that alot today.

“Enjoy the waffles..asshole” she huffed as she turned around to leave him alone and he couldn't have been more thankful. He peeked his head out to see you attending other customers but everytime you caught his eye he looked away.

Half an hour later your shift had ended so you changed out of your uniform and as you stepped out of the diner Eric was right outside of the diner ..smoking his cigarette.

“Look who's still here” you said to him as you made your way towards him.

“That was nice of you to send your annoying friend to me by the way” he said, his eyes squinting because of the sun. So he was on the other side of that tangent huh, a squinter under the sun..

“Well she insisted, almost begged me, she is really taken with you” you answered him, Dina had a crush on him and she wanted to meet him again so you obliged even though you didn't want to.

“She wants to fuck me”

“Well you can fuck her if you want..i don't care”

You said to him as you walked past him, he didn't want to be seen with you like this so he walked the other way, however when you reached the building he was already in the elevator staring at you, keeping the door open so you could get in. What in the name of spiderman? Did he know a shortcut you didn't?

As you stepped inside the elevator he closed the grill..

“I am not going to fuck her” he said after a mere second of silence.

“Yeah why? You fuck everyone else” you chuckled even though you hated it everytime you saw a woman walking out of his apartment.

“Easy with the slut shaming”

“Just saying -”

“Y/n”

You turned to him as he said your name and stepped closer to him until he was backed into the wall of the elevator, there was a fire in your eyes that didn't go unnoticed by him.

“You can't ignore my existence for days and then come to my workplace and act like this” you said, your voice was fierce.

“Act like what?” he asked.

“You know what..don't play stupid, doesn't suit you” you turned around and opened the gate to walk out as your floor had arrived. His jaw clenched in anger at the tone of your voice, why couldn't you just understand that he was trying to keep you safe?

“Why are you so obsessed with me? Acting like a scorned girlfriend for what?” He asked as he followed you into your apartment. His words made you halt so you turned around to glare at him.

“Obsessed? I'm just trying to be your friend”

Not a lie but not the complete truth either.

You were definitely kinda sorta obsessed with him.

“Friend? What do I need a friend for in you? What could you even offer me as a friend? You're a fucking waitress living in this dump of a place..get off your high horse a little maybe” Your eyes immediately welled up as he said that, this has gotten more serious than it needed to be, you wrapped your arms around yourself as you looked away from him.

As soon as he saw that look on your face he regretted his words. You weren't even his and he was already making you cry.

“Y/n-”

“Just go ..I won't try..I won't do anything anymore..I'm sorry i bother you so much” your lips trembled and voice cracked as you spoke and that only made him feel even more like a jerk than he usually did. He truly hated himself at that moment. He wanted to crawl to you and beg on his knees to apologize for what he had said just so you would not look so sad and so hurt, just so you wouldn't look at him like that, but instead he turned around and slammed your door shut before he entered his apartment.

As he sat down in his bathtub that night he picked up a blade and ran it over from his forearm to his wrist. He knew he'd begin to heal immediately so he just wanted to feel some pain, something other than the empty void inside his heart.

This was for your own good, he had to keep that in mind. He'd only drag you down with him and you didn't deserve that.

He leaned his head down on the edge of the bathtub, soaking in his own blood that was as black as his soul now. After that conversation Eric avoided you as much as he could, you didn't approach him either, he saw you almost everyday but you didn't even look at him anymore and every time you ignored him he somehow felt worse than before, so much so that it was getting harder and harder for him to breathe anymore.

A few days later he entered the laundry room with his load when he saw you in there at the same time. Why were you so in sync with him all the time? He couldn't escape you even if he tried his hardest.

Mrs. Bonnie was also there and as soon as she saw him she muttered something under her breath so he decided to mess with her a bit.

“Hey I was wondering if you could help me get rid of these blood spots from this shirt? I used it in one of my daily satanic rituals and it's just not coming off” Eric said to her as he walked towards her with the bloodied shirt in his hand, she glared at him for a moment before she grabbed her clothes from the dryer, murmured a prayer under her breath and walked out as fast as she could.

You couldn't help but smile even though you wanted to hate his guts after that day. How dare he make you feel like shit about yourself as if you already didn't?

“She's old, you shouldn't mess with her like that” you said as you folded your freshly dried clothes. Your back was facing him so he turned around to look at you.

“Old or not..She's a self righteous bitch” he said as he took the washer next to you, that was just an excuse to stand close to you, he just wanted to see you smile once, he hadn't been able to sleep since that night. That look of hurt in your eyes bothered him deeply.

“Well ..So are you at times” you said to him so he chuckled.

“Okay fair enough..i deserve that”

You nodded as he said that.

“Y/n”

“What?”

“I'm sorry”

Well..Finally.

“No you're not” he let out an exasperated sigh as you said that.

“I am..i didn't mean what I said”

“Why else would you say it then?”

“Because I'm an asshole, you should know that by now”

“You definitely suck at apologising” you said to him as you grabbed your laundry basket, leaving him to ponder over this.

Later that night you heard a knock on your door, when you opened it you found a piece of paper on the floor, laid upon it was a red rose. You gulped as you looked at it before you bent down to pick them up.

When you opened the folded paper, your eyes widened, it was a sketch of you and him on the terrace that night, he had drawn it from memory.

‘I'm so sorry darling’ your eyes teared up as you read the words but that wasn't all that he had written. When you flipped the drawing there was more.

‘You have been nothing but kind to me since we met even though I have never really deserved it from you, since that day in the elevator when you tried to comfort me you have always been warm and welcoming and I don't understand why because your kindness is being wasted on an imbecile like me. I was projecting my issues on you that day and I'm so fucking sorry about it, i never wanted you to feel like you weren't good enough to be someone's friend. Forgive me if you can, the truth is I'm not good enough to be your friend, I would never be able to give you whatever it is that you're looking for from me, I'd only bring you pain and sorrow. Even if I want to be in your life, I can't sweetheart and I'm so sorry if I hurt you. Don't let me hurt you anymore”

As the tears rolled down your cheeks you brought the letter close to your lips, it smelled like him. It sounded like a goodbye letter, something a man would write when he never wanted to see you again but you couldn't have that.

You needed him to know how you were starting to feel about him.

You took a deep breath before you walked inside your apartment and placed the drawing and the flower on your coffee table because you never wanted to lose it. After contemplating for a moment you knocked on his door.

He was kind of expecting you to confront him about this because you really enjoyed confronting him, he knew you wouldn't just read all that shit and then not have anything to say about it.

He just wanted you to give up on him but he also needed you to not give up on him.

You crossed your arms as you looked at his shirtless form, you came here to have a serious conversation and not get distracted by his abs.

He walked inside his apartment, that was his way of inviting you in so you stepped in and closed the door.

“Eric”

“Y/n” he looked at you as he turned around, his eyes were teary

“What is it? Why do you ..uhhhh you said you didn't understand why I was being nice to you-”

“Kind..it's different” he interrupted you and that angered you further.

“Whatever..why do you need a reason for that? Why can't you just be normal about it? Why is this such a fight for you all the time?” you asked him and with every sentence you only stepped closer to him while he took a step away from you.

“Because I don't understand why a woman like you would want to be around me..you see the darkness in me and yet you're willing to be around me ..I just don't understand it” he answered you, his voice was gruff but also sort of whiny in an adorable manner.

“You don't have to understand anything”

“I do..you don't really know what you're getting yourself into here, I'm not a good man” you sighed as he said that. He sounded like a broken record. You couldn't help but rub your forehead in frustration.

“Okay answer me this..Are you in a gang or something?” he looked at you confused before he shook his head.

“No”

“Do you hurt children, innocent women and men or animals?” you asked again, making his jaw clench in frustration.

“No I don't hurt them on purpose” he answered.

“Okay ..Are you involved in human trafficking or sex trafficking” you asked him and he was just baffled, you were trying to gauge whatever he meant when he said he wasn't a good man..

“No” he answered, his voice was meak now.

“That's good enough for me .I don't care what you do out there or why you come home drenched in blood sometimes” he looked at you in complete disbelief as you said that, why did you want to ruin your life so much?

“You should care.. there are people after me who'd use you to get to me if they get even the slightest idea that I care about you” you couldn't help but smile even though the conversation was as serious as it could be.

“You care about me..i knew that”

“Hearing selectively are you?” he chuckled, the glare he sent your way was intense though.

“Yeah, what are you gonna do about it? I don't think you want to stay away from me as much as you pretend to do ..Sooo I'm going to be a friend to you whether you like it or not”

You said to him so he groaned audibly and very loudly before placing his head between his palms, then to your shock and surprise he collapsed on his knees and began to cry, he was panicking, he had the same look on his face as he did in the elevator that night.

He was so deeply touch starved and had been for five years now since she left him, not in a sexual way, he got plenty of that but none of it filled his vacant soul, he was tired and drained from fighting his demons all alone, having no one to share his thoughts with, having no one to care for him or love him, he was so terrified of being all alone when all he wanted was to be held, to be comforted and cherished every time he woke up from a nightmare. He just wanted someone to tell him that he wasn't alone and that he wasn't too hard to be around.

That there was still a part of him that wasn't too ugly to be loved.

“They'll hurt you..i can't let anyone hurt you” he spoke as he placed his palms down on the floor, he felt nauseous and weak all of a sudden, he felt as if he was on withdrawal even though he hadn't touched drugs in years.

When you couldn't watch him like that any longer you stepped towards him and got down on your knees before you cupped his cheeks and made him look at you, the kohl around his eyes had smudged because of his tears so you wiped it away before you kissed his forehead, his arms had immediately wrapped around your waist the moment he had felt your touch, then he pulled you closer to him and placed his head down on your chest to hold you like that.

“I'm sorry..I'm so sorry about what I said” he mumbled between his cries.

“Shhhhhh shhh it's ok..you're okay, everything is okay i promise”

You mumbled softly as your fingers ran over his scalp in soothing circles, your own tears threatened to come out but you controlled yourself, you knew he was broken in ways you couldn't even begin to imagine and you wanted to help him. You wanted to hold him and comfort him, he didn't have to be alone in this, you knew how it felt to be so alone, to have no one by your side, perhaps you could be it for him and if you were lucky perhaps he'd be there for you too.

He stayed like that in your arms until he couldn't cry anymore and as his sobs quieted down slowly you pressed a soft kiss on his temple, he then pulled his head up from your chest to look at you.

He couldn't believe that he had just sobbed like a baby in your arms, he was waiting for that utter sense of mortification you get after doing something so embarrassing to kick in but it didn't, could have been because of how you were looking at him. Always with those damn eyes. He didn't see judgement in them, not a flicker of it. What he saw was a degree of acceptance and he wasn't expecting that from anyone ever again.

You brought your sleeve up to wipe his face before you leaned into him to kiss his forehead again. God you were starting to realise how deep you were falling into this thing with him.

“Do you like pizza?” you asked him as you tilted your head so he sniffled once before he nodded.

Half an hour later you were on his couch stuffing your face with pepperoni pizza when you felt his eyes on you so you looked up at him, he was sitting at the other end of the couch.

“We don't have to talk in public you know..if you're worried about my safety” he chuckled as you said that. He found you all kinds of strange.

“You're not going to ask what I do?”

“You'll tell me when you want to..good friends are patient I heard, I'm learning the art of being patient”

He'd tell you now but you wouldn't believe him, you'd think he had his brain fried from all the drugs he had taken in his youth.

“Why are you like this?” he asked you, his voice was gentle.

“Like what?”

“So…. gentle and understanding..with me” he whispered the last two words as if he didn't want you to hear it.

“You bring it out of me..I'm not like this naturally” he smiled as he put his head down on the head of the couch. You were saying but he had seen you being kind to others, like that poor chap at the diner.

Safe to say, your relationship with him changed after that interaction, he wasn't trying to be mean to you anymore, he smiled often whenever you looked at him or bumped into him. You also invited him over for dinner every night which was becoming a routine.

He craved your presence, as much as he wanted to deny it, as much as he wanted to step back, he couldn't anymore, he craved your touch and he craved being around you.

Whenever you two watched a movie you'd often scoot closer to him and put your head down on his shoulder and god he'd be lying if he said that he didn't enjoy it. You always felt so warm around him, so fucking warm around his cold self, he was a dead man walking after all but you had somehow managed to make him feel alive.

“I love this part..” you said as you pointed towards the tv as if he wasn't watching the movie with you, which to be fair he wasn't. His mind was focused on the way you were holding onto his forearm, your fingers subconsciously caressing all the scars that were riddled on his skin.

Every time he glanced down at your interconnected hands and your fingers gently grazing over his skin his face felt hot, just the sight of you holding onto him like that sent his mind into overdrive. You were so touchy with him as if you couldn't stop yourself from doing so. He wasn't sure how long this friendship would remain just a friendship if you were going to act like this around him, his thoughts often haywired, at times he just wanted to throw you down on the same couch and have you in ways he shouldn't.

A few nights later he woke up from a nightmare again but to his surprise he didn't see Melody this time, he didn't see Chance or his horse, he didn't see his Mama either, but he saw you, dying, he couldn't really see who had hurt you but you seemed to be in so much pain before you stopped breathing, you looked at him the same way they all did when they died right in front of him, when he failed all those who loved him over and over again.

As soon as he awakened he knew he had to go check on you because he felt extremely restless, the nightmare didn't just feel like a bad dream, it felt like a bad omen.

When you opened the door you were in your pyjamas and tank top as per usual, your eyes seemed squinted from the deep sleep he had awakened you from.

“Everything okay?” You asked him softly, he seemed scared and sweaty all over, you could actually see the sweat dripping down from the dip of his neck to his sternum.

“Yeah I just…jesus I'm sorry” he felt awful waking you up like that, you were safe and that's all he wanted to make sure so he turned around to leave but then you grabbed his arm and pulled him inside your apartment.

“What is it?” You asked as you looked up at him so he just shook his head in response, he didn't want to look so weak again in front of you. “Nightmare?” You asked again so he nodded finally.

“Mmmm” you mumbled as you closed the door behind him, he was expecting plenty of questions from you that he most certainly didn't want to answer but to his surprise you just dragged him to your room and removed the cover from the bed so he could get in the bed.

Well this was new.

“Get in Eric..i have a shift in the morning” you mumbled, your voice groggy but soft, it didn't come from the place of annoyance because he had disturbed your sleep but because you wanted to keep him with you after he had a nightmare, he always needed a bit of tough loving because anything else made him feel like a burden and the last thing you wanted right now was for him to be alone with his thoughts.

Your arms wrapped around his waist as you pushed him into the bed before you joined him. He was still in a bit of a hazy trance, for a moment he felt as if he was still in a dream. A beautiful dream where his beautiful neighbour slash friend was cuddling him in bed.

After you turned the lights off your body completely pressed against him, the bed was too small but he hadn't felt this safe and comfortable in such a long time.

“Do you want to talk about it?” You asked him as you lifted your head up from his chest so he shook his head.

“No..go back to sleep darling..I'm sorry i woke you up” he mumbled softly as he pressed his head up to kiss your forehead as gently as he could.

“You can wake me up anytime Eric, you're worth losing sleep for”

And his eyes teared up at those words.

Was he though? Was he worth losing sleep for? He wasn't. How come you had no man in your life when you were like this? So pure, so gentle, so sweet, how come no good man in this god forsaken universe had taken the time to know you, to love you and to treat you the way you deserved to be treated? If he was any normal he'd have given you all of this tenfold in return but he wasn't normal anymore was he? He was a mess and he was going to make a mess of your life as well.

“Stop running your head and sleep” he heard your bossy voice in his ear and that made him smile.

Thoughts running in his head weren't so kind to him but thoughts running in your head at the moment about him were anything but unkind, he was in your bed, you were in his arms and you had never felt at such peace the way you did right now.

You knew that's now how he saw himself but he was so beautiful to you, the thought of him being completely alone after a nightmare broke your heart, and you had a feeling he always had excruciatingly painful nightmares because he had a tough life, a terrible life even, you didn't even know everything about him yet but you knew he didn't have any support growing up, you knew his father left him when he was six and that his mum died of drug overdose when he was twelve, you knew he had lost people he had loved dearly and you just wanted to be there for him, however he wanted you to be there for him. You were willing to be his secret if that's what he needed from you.

You didn't want to label whatever this was between you two, you didn't want to jinx it as you often did every time something good happened in your life. You just wanted to live like this forever even though you knew it wasn't really possible.

Forever was a myth after all and no man could ever be content just loving you and you only, especially not forever. Especially not a man like him who deserved so much more than just you.

😊😊😊😊😊😊😊😊😊😊😊😊😊😊

Note : Such Idiots

Taglist: @m-riaa @erebus-et-eigengrau @peachychyy

#eric draven x reader #eric draven x reader angst #eric draven x reader fluff #eric draven x reader smut #eric draven x female reader #bill skarsgard version #slight au

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naffeclipse · 6 months ago

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Hey, I'm making bagels right now, and it made me want to ask: what would the difference versions of the Bois (C.S, S.J, the polar crew, etc) favorite bagels, and how would they react if their YN made it for them? Also, I hope you're having a good day!

Bagel time

Cryptid Eclipse would think an egg bagel is pretty nifty and would scarf that bad boy down. If his little hunter made them an egg bagel, they would be delighted and keep expressing their gratitude over and over for the sweet gesture! Their heart takes such good care of the scary thing.

Detective Sun would prefer cinnamon raisin bagels while Detective Moon would be inclined towards blueberry bagels. If the vigilante appeared in their apartment one morning, making those delicious pastries, the boys would be suspicious that Y/N is going to bring up bad news or ask for something that is out of the question (but somehow gets granted regardless). Still, they would savor the unexpected visit before the vigilante pulls some kind of trick...

Mob Boss Eclipse would enjoy pumpernickel bagels with molasses—a strong flavor to pair with its dark and strong taste. If miraculous of miraculous, the vigilante made one for him, he would accept it graciously but offer his own gifts in return, like how they would never have to lift a finger if they came with him and they could dine on the very finest the city has to offer.

Orca Eclipse would love an asiago cheese bagel, preferrable in a sandwich form with protein like eggs, ham, and bacon. If the photographer presented him with such a divine meal, he would show his appreciation for the meal by devouring it entirely before their eyes before making sure he expresses acceptance and adoration for the gift—a very kind courting gesture indeed.

#i love these questions that is just: what's a character's favorite bagel?#banger question #sweet-mint #cryptid sightings #sleuth jesters #apex polarity

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lotanxiety · 2 years ago

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Ballsy

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Fem reader

Summary: Your alter ego does something you always dreamed of but never had the balls to do. Let’s just say it leads to something great😈

Warnings: Shower sex, SMUT, NSFW 18+, slight breading, oral (female receiving), praise

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You grew up a hunter and crossed paths with Sam and Dean ages ago. Since you were around their age, you guys hit it off well and stayed in touch over the years. Soon after the boys had moved into the bunker, you did another hunt with them and mentioned you didn’t have a permanent home either and they graciously offered for you to stay with them! It’s now been 8 months of living with Sam and Dean. For the most part, it’s all great despite your hopeless crush on the eldest brother. You and Sam were best friends, and you and Dean had a weird, complicated friendship. You could never read him. Sometimes he would be flirty with you, giving you hope that something could happen, but then he would bring a girl home from the bar, breaking your heart a little more each time.

For the past two weeks, however, Dean has been extra flirty with you. He enjoyed making you blush and making inappropriate jokes at the worst times to embarrass you. This morning at breakfast, you sat across from Dean. While you both ate bacon, he kept watchful eyes on your every movement and when you’d make eye contact, he would wink at you or raise his eyebrows up and down. It made you giggle. You particularly loved when Dean was in a flirty mood, soaking up any and all attention from him before it would be gone.

You were pacing the floor in your room, thinking about the advice Charlie had given you.

“Just pretend you’re someone else and make a move.” Charlie said earlier in the week.

“I can’t do that, what if he doesn’t feel the same. It would ruin the whole dynamic. I’d have to move out and then go back to crappy motels and eat diner food all the time and-“ you rambled on.

“Y/N, please. Dean has had eyes for you for like… ever. Why else would he flirt with you like that? You can do it, just create an alternate version of yourself. She can have a new name and all the personality traits you want to have.” Charlie said.

“I don’t know, this feels kind of dumb”

“Just do it. Introduce yourself to me as the new you.”

“…um hi my name is-“

“Oh absolutely not, more confidence. Say it like you’re the queen of LARPing” Charlie states.

You clear your throat and try to push away any resistance that you normally would have. Right now you’re not Y/N, you’re Tessa; a smart, sexy, confident chick who goes and gets what she wants. You switch into this alter ego as best as you can and confidently say with some sultry in your voice, “Hi Charlie, I’m Tessa.”

“Much better. You got this, just go for it!”

I can do this. I just have to go for it. No fear. Well lots of fear, but fake it til you make it, right? Walking out of your room, you head for Dean’s bedroom. As you near the door, your heart races. The sound of the shower comes to your attention. “Oh shoot, of course once I muster up the courage to do this, he’s in the shower” you whisper to yourself, rolling your eyes. Then a thought crosses your mind. What would Tessa do? Walk right in there and take what she wants. Am I actually going to do this?

You open the door and enter Dean’s room, heart beating so loudly you were sure it was audible for the whole bunker to hear. You come to the bathroom door and knock so quietly that Dean doesn’t hear you. You take the opportunity to pause and get into character. You knock a second time, this time he hears you.

“Who is it?” Dean calls out behind the sound of water hitting the floor.

“It’s me” you shout back.

“Y/N? Are you okay?” Dean asks from behind the door.

“Can I come in?” You ask. Despite wanting to walk in there, you obviously want to ask for consent.

“I- I’m kind of showering” Dean says thrown off by your question.

“I know” You retort back, lacing your voice with undertones.

Dean blinks under the running water, realizing what’s going on. “Come on in, sweetheart” he says. You open the door, trying to not let your fear show on your face, but the second you see his naked body dripping wet under the water, you’re sure your face falters. Without saying a word, you start stripping off your clothes. Dean watches in shock of the sight in front of him. Once your clothes are nothing but a pile in the floor, you stand in front of each other, both breathing kind of heavy but not saying a word.

“Y/N, what are you doing?” Dean asks cautiously.

“Making a move” you say more confident that you thought possible with a smirk on your face. You slowly close the gap between the two of you. Deans eyes are dark with lust.

“Are you sure this is something you want?” He says, his voice much deeper than before. You nod your head as you look at him with your doe eyes.

“Words, sweetheart” he urges.

“Yes” you say breathless, now an inch away from him. With that confirmation, he quickly closes the gap between you two. The kiss was needy, but soft however quickly grew hungry for more. Stepping more into the shower, the warm water runs down your back and Dean starts to push you back against the wall, lifting your leg to his hip with his hand.

Breaking apart only for air he says, “You have no idea how many times I’ve dreamed of this moment”. He lips make contact with your neck, trailing down to your collarbone as he tentatively paws at your boob. It’s all passion between you. 8 months of sexual tension all being released at once. His kisses move lower, as he starts sucking on one of your nipples, slowly lowering himself to his knees. His mouth follows this southbound patter until he lands on his knees in front of you.

Grabbing your hips with his hands he looks up at you. “God- you are so fucking sexy” he says as he starts to kiss and nibble at your thighs, urging them apart. Your core is aching for any kind of contact. Dean pokes out his tongue between your wet folds, causing you to gasp at the contact. He gives you one last devilish smirk before he laps away at your sex. It throws you off guard, almost causing you to lose balance, but Dean steadies you with his hands never stopping his pace. His mouth latched onto your clit, sucking and biting. It doesn’t take very long before that coil winds up so tight and you release all over his face. He rides out your orgasm and then you pull him up to kiss him again. The kiss is different this time, almost more meaningful but still steamy. You open your mouth, allowing his tongue to graze over yours tasting yourself on him. You reach a hand in between you to palm his hard cock, causing the most pornographic groan from Dean into your mouth. Despite having just came, your core was practically crying for more. Wanting to return the favor for him, you started lowering yourself to your knees, as you still palmed him.

He quickly grabbed your arms. “Not this time, darlin. I want to feel you. Can I do that?” Dean asks.

“Yes please Dean, I need you.” You say standing upright again. Dean lined himself up with you and slowly pushed in, allowing you to adjust. You squeeze your eyes tight as the pain melts into pleasure.

“You can move now” you tell Dean and he does at a gruelingly slow pace. He starts speeding up as he kisses your lips again and rests his forehead against yours. The only sounds are of the water hitting the floor, the contact of your skin, and the heavy breaths and moans coming from the both of you. Dean reaches his hand down in between the two of you putting his thumb against your clit and making small circles. You’re sensitive from your last orgasm so you suck a breath in through your teeth and close your eyes.

“Please look at me, I want to watch you unravel on my cock. You look so beautiful like this” Dean praises. That familiar sensation builds and builds.

“That’s it. Cum for me. You can do it, uh huh. Good girl” Praise repeatedly falls from Deans lips as you orgasm for the second time, so much harder than before. The tightening of your cunt around Deans cock causes him to cum as well, spilling his juices into you. You both stay in that position for a moment, foreheads pressed together, taking deep breaths. Dean slowly pulls out of you and leans in for another kiss.

“We should’ve done that a long time ago” he says and you just chuckled. You two clean up by finishing up the shower together, Dean sweetly cleaning up your sex and washing your hair for you. Once you two get out, you both cuddle up on his bed.

“So, um… what caused you to be so bold?” Dean asked as you nuzzled your head into his shoulder.

“I don’t know, I guess I was just tired of you flirting with me but not making any real moves” You teased.

“Hey, those are my moves” Dean said defensively.

You two chatted some more, then fell asleep in each others arms watching old tv show re-runs.

The End.

#dean winchester #dean winchester fanfiction #dean winchester x reader #fanfic #sam winchester #supernatural #dean winchester smut #smut #praise k!nk #shower scene

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thelittletobsterthatcould · 8 months ago

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I’ve been trying to get better at wrong foods that Dwarrow would eat that isn’t just “spiced *insert meat here* with *type of bread* and *type of cheese*” so I have some thoughts:

Who’s to say they don’t like salads??? Maybe they do but are such haters that they automatically refuse to eat the elven salads??? Who’s also to say that the elves version of salads are pretty bland, with like lettuce/cabbage, cucumber, and some nuts with a ginger-y dressing or NO dressing?? Who’s to say that they aren’t more used to things like fruit salads or bean salads??? Who’s to say that elven food isn’t inherently more simple in flavor when they’re more used to complex flavors and salads?????

Like you’re gonna look me in the eyes and say Kili wouldn’t eat a salad with roasted corn, chickpeas, avocado, jalapeño, shallots, pepitas, and fresh basil??? With a nice creamy lemon pepper dressing???? Or that Fili doesn’t seem the type to enjoy a strawberry salad with spinach, toasted pecans, avocado and fresh mozzarella, with a nice balsamic dressing??? Or that Dwalin wouldn’t CRUSH a Bacon-cabbage panzanella?????? Maybe Thorin would enjoy a harvest salad and quick-pickled pomegranate seeds!!! Have you ever considered that maybe Dis loves a good Acorn squash salad with a Tahini vinaigrette????

#dwarves #the hobbit #tolkien #thorin oakenshield #tolkien elves #salads #Dwarven foods aren’t all mean cheese and bread guys #they’re just hashtag elf haters

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niallsstainedcoffeecup · 1 year ago

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A Scoop of Love

Y/N, a single mother, who no longer believes in love, meets the new ice cream shop owner, Harry Styles. Can she balance a new love, her ex-husband, and her daughter? Or will it all fall apart?

This is a new miniseries I'm working on. Let me know what you think, and if you would like to see anything in the future parts. Lots of love! Love either bloomed beautifully or withered wastefully. Y/N witnessed this first-hand with her parents’ marriage, then her own. Her parents loved one another, from sharing multiple morning kisses before leaving for work to drawing lavender bubble baths for one another after a rough day. She grew up surrounded by love, so naturally, she searched for and planned her true love. They would meet at a bookstore or in a university lecture, and then he would propose after three blissful years of dating. They would get married in the church her parents got married in, she would wear a modern version of her mother’s wedding dress, and there would be bouquets of beautiful pink peonies everywhere. However, a higher being glanced over her plans and laughed.

She met her husband at the first university party she attended. He was in his second year of university, and she was in her first year, but her dark humor and extensive music knowledge kept him entertained all night. They dated for an exciting year filled with morning kisses before she left for class and late-night conversations about their future, and then they were blessed with the news that she was pregnant.

Her parents rejoiced, but his parents forced him to propose. They were married in her parents’ garden, under a floral arch her mother designed, with very few guests because his parents did not want their friends to see the small bump under the maternity wedding dress that she despised. At twenty, she gave birth to their beautiful daughter, Daphne.

The couple attempted to raise their daughter together, but the morning kisses turned to cold glares, and conversations about the future transformed into hate-filled mutters about feeling trapped. A few weeks after their daughter’s third birthday, she divorced the man she planned to spend forever with. Her marriage devoured her hope for love. * * * * *

Oldies from the sixties and seventies flowed from the Bluetooth stereo and throughout the small kitchen. She flipped the sizzling bacon, plated the burning eggs, and buttered the steaming toast. Pausing the music, she listened for movement, like the sound of her daughter’s electric toothbrush or the squeak of those awful shoes her daughter’s school assigned as the required dress code. The sneaky eight-year-old was known for slipping back into bed after her mother returned to her busy morning schedule; however, they could not be late this morning. The bathroom door’s squeaky hinge informed her that Daphne just finished her morning routine and should appear in the kitchen soon. She chugged the remainder of the French vanilla coffee in an attempt to muster all possible energy.

Two bouncing ponytails hovered beside the wooden kitchen table and then descended until they disappeared with a giggle. “Did it look like I was walking downstairs? Daphne asked, hopping up the minute her mother chuckled at the illusion.

She nodded, wrapping her arms around her daughter’s small frame. “My little magician. Who taught you that?”

She knew the answer before she asked the question, recalling mornings when her ex-husband would send her into a fit of laughter by claiming he left the eggs downstairs and then descending behind the counter until he reappeared with two eggs in his hands. Late at night, she often wondered what happened to that man. Did she kill his spirit? Or did he reserve that side of himself for people he actually loved?

“Daddy. Will he pick me up after school?” She never knew how to answer these questions. She should have a solid answer, but her ex-husband loved creating excuses as to why he couldn’t watch their daughter during his scheduled weekends.

Instead, she replied by handing her daughter the breakfast plate. “You need to eat breakfast. We’ll leave in ten minutes.”

Daphne hopped onto the nearby stool, taking turns between eating breakfast and kicking her feet along with the music’s beat. Her mother rushed around the apartment, shoving expired library books into the young girl’s pink backpack. No matter what time her mother woke up, she was always in a hurry. She couldn’t remember a time when her mother wasn’t busy, even when they visited her grandparents, her mother took it upon herself to cook everyone dinner.

“Are you ready to start our Friday?” Y/N asked, helping the little girl into her black raincoat.

Daphne nodded, flashing her mother a wide, toothy grin before running down the quiet hallway. Shushing the eight-year-old and her heavy feet, she followed her daughter down the stairs and into the real world. She despised Fridays because Fridays looked like her, alone in the apartment with a Chinese delivery and a movie that she ignored in favor of thinking about where her life was headed. Her best friend, Christie, often suggested that they go out and find someone new, but she knew the love of her life wasn’t in a bar waiting for her. Romantic love skipped right over her, so years ago, she decided she would focus on the only love in her life, her daughter. * * * * *

A higher being loved irony, especially when leading her through life. Although her chances at true love were dashed when she signed the divorce papers, she spent the majority of her days photographing random couple’s wedding photos. Sure, she also photographed family portraits, fashion shoots, and other various photography projects, but many of her customers were couples in love.

Today, she was capturing the love between Peter and Samantha, a young couple who planned a Shakespearian wedding, so they dressed as Romeo and Juliet for the wedding invitation photos. She wondered whether Romeo and Juliet were couple goals because wasn’t the play criticizing the societal norms that killed the teens? Peter’s check told her to shut up and do what she did best–photograph the sweet couple. She had about thirty photos before her ex-husband’s ringtone startled everyone in the studio.

She sighed, waving over her assistant, “I’m sorry. Kira will provide you both with champagne while I answer this call.”

Kira poured the champagne for the happy couple, who reassured them they needed a break anyway. She walked away from the small group and farther into the studio’s storage room because her gut knew Tyler’s call was not about what he ate for lunch.

“Hello?” She prepared her heart for the excuse.

She heard shuffling on his end as if he wasn’t expecting her to answer his call. “Hey, I’m sorry to call you at work. How are you?” His deep, hypnotic voice shook with guilt.

The first time she heard that familiar shake in his voice, she thought she still made him nervous. However, she quickly learned that his voice shook when he was about to utter another lame excuse as to why he couldn’t be a father that weekend. She rolled her eyes because she did not have the time for this.

“Tyler, what is it this time?”

He sighed. “I need you to cover for me this weekend. Jo asked me to drive her to the doctor’s office, and she also planned a romantic weekend away.”

A low growl pulled her lips back into a snarl. “You can’t spend time with our daughter because you have to drive your girlfriend to the doctor? Can she not drive herself like an adult? Do you not understand how much Daphne misses you?”

“Listen, I didn’t call you for a lecture on parenting. We all can’t be perfect parents like you.” Tyler hissed, a tone she knew very well from their relationship.

The couple could argue about anything, from when the milk expired to why he never wanted to hold her hand anymore. The passion in their marriage centered around their hatred of one another until, one day, the arguments stopped, and a cold silence enveloped the couple. The heart of their marriage had shriveled up and died.

She chuckled bitterly, running her free hand through her hair. “I’m not asking you to be the perfect parent. I’m asking that you be there for our daughter, and you can’t even do that. Have fun with your girlfriend.”

Tyler ended the call without another word. Did he not respond because he knew she was right? She would break Daphne’s heart when she told her the news, but they would still have an amazing weekend because her daughter deserved it. Sighing, she regained her composure and returned to the lovely couple, whose love reminded her that love was still alive for everyone except her. * * * * *

“He canceled on Daphne again because Joanna needed an uber? Did you tell him to fuck off?” Christie complained as if she were the one who divorced Tyler.

Y/N chuckled, shaking her head. “No, I did tell him to fuck off in parent though. Does Joanna not understand that Daphne misses her father?”

“You mean the woman who ruined your marriage is trying to separate your daughter from her father?” Christie’s sarcasm usually made her laugh, but those words stilled her hand on the computer mouse.

The wedding photo she was editing once again mocked her situation. Her marriage wilted away for two years, but Joanna produced the final drought that destroyed every root and petal.

She recalled the day, replaying the moments as if they were scenes from a movie. She left early that morning, dropping Daphne off with her parents while she went shopping for her daughter’s birthday party. She purchased party hats detailed with a singing, independent princess and ordered two cakes decorated with the same princess and her quirky sidekick. Deciding to surprise her husband with a lunch date, she returned to their apartment, where she found her husband kissing another woman in their kitchen.

The cheating couple spun around toward her, and his only response came in the form of an apathetic mutter, "I thought you would be gone all day." They divorced a few weeks after that. She never cried because Joanna slept with her husband; she cried because the couple shared an emotional connection far deeper than what they ever had. The love in his eyes returned and sparkled brighter than she had ever seen, all for a woman he met five months ago. He found his soulmate, and it wasn’t her.

“Y/N? Hello? Did the call drop?” Christie’s frantic questions rescued her from the dark spiral she fell into.

She gasped, realizing she had fifteen minutes of editing time before she had to pick up Daphne from school. “Yeah, I guess this photo distracted me for a moment. I’m sorry. I’ll call you later.”

The problem with phone calls is that Christie couldn’t spot her friend’s distress. Her teeth gnawed on her bottom lip, her fingers picked at her fingernail polish, and her knee bounced erratically under her desk. The couple’s smile in the photo made her stomach churn with jealousy and sorrow. When would she find her soulmate? Could anyone love her? After downloading the images onto her thumb drive, she locked away the hideous feelings behind her studio’s glass doors and walked toward her sunshine. * * * * *

Daphne dried the hot tears from her cheeks, swallowing the sobs she wished her father could hear so he would cancel the plans that kept him from her. Her watery vision focused on the delicate rings decorating the hand holding her left hand, which provided the warmth and comfort needed to soothe her broken heart. Glancing up, she admired her mother's ever-present smile that never seemed to falter, especially when her father did not have time for her.

After her mother broke the news outside of the primary school, she wiped the tears from her daughter's damp cheeks and mentioned a surprise. Walking down the busy sidewalk, they slowed their pace once Y/N spotted the neon blue sign that read Dream Cones. Two months ago, Daphne returned from a friend's birthday party and raved about the delicious ice cream served. Today, Y/N saw the friend's mother at the school, and she asked for the ice cream shop's name to surprise her daughter. Her daughter's sparkling eyes and enthusiastic giggles revived her heart from her earlier conversation with Tyler and Christie.

“Surprise. Should we go inside?” She asked, already knowing the answer she would receive from her daughter.

Daphne nodded, gripping her mother’s hand with the strength of a hundred sugar-crazed children. Y/N might regret her decision later, like during their bedtime routine, but her daughter deserved a good childhood, and she would strive to provide her with that. As they entered the shop, a golden bell chimed loudly above their heads. “Welcome to Dream Cones.” The men and women cheered from behind the white marble counters. The warm, sugary scent of freshly baked waffle cones greeted their noses. Y/N's eyes flitted around the room, stopping briefly on the cerulean walls, the ornamental vanilla cone hung above the menu, and the wooden tables crowded with laughing families. Despite the conversations melding together into nonsensical noise, she could still pick up the soft pop music flowing through some unseen speaker.

Daphne seemed to speak the words she was thinking, “This place is cool.”

They approached the marble counter, reading the various ice cream labels, which featured unique names like lemonade over ice. She enjoyed the clever names; however, her eyes and stomach could not believe how fluffy and creamy each flavor looked.

“Mommy, will I like Sign of the Limes?” Chuckling at the amusing name, Y/N wondered whether the staff competed to create the unique names or the owner carefully curated each one.

“Yeah, do you want a cup or a cone?” The eight-year-old took a second to consider her options before ultimately choosing the waffle cone.

Y/N nodded, waiting until one of the women behind the counter asked for their order. She ordered the flavor Watermelon Sugar in a cup and Sign of the Limes in a cone for Daphne.

“Watermelon Sugar is my favorite flavor.” The cheerful worker commented, handing out the coral-colored ice cream. “Let me know how you like it.”

“Absolutely, I’m a sucker for anything watermelon flavored.” She giggled, agreeing with her customer that anything watermelon flavored was superior.

“Okay, your total is 23.96.”

Y/N's eyes widened, and she nearly gasped when she heard the price. She appreciated the artistic decor and the friendly workers; however, twelve-dollar ice cream was expensive for a single mother's budget. Smiling through the pain, she handed the woman her card.

“This is delicious. Can we have ice cream every Friday?” Daphne asked between mouthfuls.

Y/N giggled, wiping the messy corners of her daughter’s mouth with a napkin. “Of course.” She would find room in the budget for twelve-dollar ice cream as long as it made her daughter happy.

She stole a spoonful of ice cream from Daphne, which resulted in her daughter shooting her a playful glare, which she fixed by giving her a spoonful of her own ice cream as an equal trade. Between the two flavors, she could not decide which one she enjoyed the most. While she liked how the lime's zestiness did not overpower her palette, the watermelon found a balance between salty and sweet due to the salt crystals disguised as watermelon seeds. However, she knew one thing for sure, she loved the shop. After they finished their treats, they returned to the counter.

“Well, what is the verdict on Watermelon Sugar?” The woman asked, wiping the counters with a wet dishrag.

“Absolutely delicious,” she licked her lips. “Can you give our compliments to your boss?”

The woman nodded fervently, “Of course.” Then she paused, processing her idea before responding with a smirk. “Would you like to tell him yourself? He recently returned from a late meeting.”

Y/N shrugged, unsure about the possible interaction, but she recalled the numerous compliments she received from customers and agreed to the suggestion.

The worker walked away, disappearing behind a door labeled Employees Only. Y/N understood her compliments could brighten the owner's day; however, the longer the woman remained behind the door, the longer she had to overthink the future conversation. What if the owner did not care about her opinion and laughed in her face? What if the owner misunderstood and expected her to complain? Her worries eased once the door swung open, revealing the worker and a Greek God. The moment her eyes fell upon the curly-haired man with his lime-green sweater, her mouth ran dry.

“Hello, I'm the owner, Harry.” The man's low and slow tone melted her heart like ice cream on a summer day.

She smiled dreamily, “Hello, I'm Y/N, and this is my daughter, Daphne.”

Before she could produce a compliment, he turned and faced the little girl. “Hello Daphne, did you enjoy your ice cream?”

She watched in awe; not only did he acknowledge her daughter, but he also cared about her opinion. The girl's father rarely asked about her interests. She reminded herself not to idolize this stranger's kind gesture simply because her ex-husband lacked decent human qualities.

“Yes sir, my mommy bought me a lime cone. She said we could come back every Friday.” Daphne gushed, revealing their plan with a toothy grin.

Harry's smile widened, unveiling two crescent-shaped dimples that dented his cheeks. The man was perfect. “Awesome, you must have a cool mom.”

Daphne agreed, smiling proudly at her mother, who blinked back happy tears. Y/N cleared her throat, feeling slightly embarrassed that her daughter's compliment nearly brought her to tears.

“We appreciate you and your staff. Everyone is so kind, and the ice cream tastes wonderful.” She mumbled timidly.

His crystal green eyes found hers, sending chills down her spine at how they seemed to sparkle from the compliment. He reached up, placing his palms over his heart.

“Thank you. Our customers brighten our day, but compliments like these are the reason why we opened this place. What flavor did you try?”

“Watermelon sugar, and I think I’ll crave it until next Friday.” She giggled, shaking her head in shame over her sweet tooth.

Harry threw his head back, releasing an abrupt cackle that fluttered her heart. Her mind stuttered, questioning why her body was reacting to this man she met five minutes ago. Why did his beautiful laugh make her want to join in?

“Imagine how I must feel working here. I spend a majority of my day in my office because if I didn’t, I would have to reopen my gym membership.”

Now, it was her turn to laugh, a proper boisterous laugh, which she had not heard in quite a while. However, her ex-husband's cruel nature rang loudly in her head, reminding her not to be annoying. She quickly recovered, silencing her laugh and preparing an apology, but before she could speak, Harry settled her doubts and insecurities.

“You have a beautiful laugh.” He admired her melodic laugh.

She ducked her head, hiding her sheepish grin from him. Daphne's eyes traveled back and forth from the curly-haired stranger to her bashful mother. The interaction made her question why her mother and father never laughed or smiled around one another. Did her mother like this man more than her father? Daphne hummed, examining the man further, deciding whether or not she liked him, and since she liked the lamb on his sweater, she decided the man was okay to talk with her mother. However, she needed to leave soon to change out of her uncomfortable shoes.

“Mommy, my feet hurt.”

Daphne's whines reminded Y/N, that as a mother, she should not flirt with random men. She didn’t have time for a relationship and should focus all her efforts on her daughter. Cooing, she lifted the exhausted little girl up into her arms.

��Well, I hope to see you two soon. Daphne, next time try the Lucky Charms ice cream." Harry suggested, waving goodbye to the mother and daughter.

Daphne created a mental note to try the suggested flavor next time. However, she doubted her father would bring her next Friday, so she hoped her mother might bring her back before then. Y/N wondered whether she could return to the ice cream shop. Her heart rejoiced from the attention like a middle schooler who received a note from their secret admirer. However, she could not allow this infatuation to blossom into anything else. She would return because Daphne loved the ice cream, but she would not flirt with the handsome man. * * * * *

Red paint bled through the thin paper and mixed into the watery blue paint, coloring the princess's hair a violent purple. The plastic paint brush fell against the kitchen counter at the familiar sound of jingling keys unlocking the apartment door. The little girl raced toward the door that swung open to reveal her mother’s beaming smile.

“Mommy, I missed you.” Daphne confessed, jumping into her mother’s loving embrace.

Holding her daughter tight, Y/N chuckled and dropped her purse onto the nearby table. “I missed you too, Nugget. Where is your Aunt Christie?”

“She’s cooking dinner in the kitchen before you think I abandoned your daughter.” Christie shouted from the kitchen, making the mother and daughter giggle.

When setting her daughter down, she spotted a bright red paint stain on the girl’s uniform, which transferred onto her blazer. Pressing her palm against her forehead, she hoped Christie bought washable paint so she wouldn’t have to purchase another uniform blouse for Daphne.

“Mommy, come and look at my painting.” Her daughter grabbed her hands, leading her toward the kitchen, and with that simple gesture, her worries about stained clothes washed away.

While some might consider the painting grotesque due to the amount of red paint coating the cartoon princess’s body, she admired the art as if Van Gogh completed the masterpiece himself. She grabbed a yellow alphabet magnet from one of the kitchen’s drawers and hung the art on the fridge.

While the little girl danced with joy, Christie announced, “Watch out world. A new artist has entered the scene, and her name is Daphne.”

Since last Friday, Y/N noticed how Daphne rarely cried over Tyler’s absence, and she finished the wedding photos without any more pity parties. Choosing to ignore her previous stressors, she found herself singing and laughing more often. Eventually, she knew Christie would ask about her sudden change in mood, and the question came during dinner.

"You two seem happier. What happened? Did Daphne pour sugar in your cereal?" Christie wondered, earning a giggle from her niece.

Daphne responded first, answering the questions through a mouthful of broccoli. "No, do you remember when Andrew had delicious ice cream at his birthday party? Mommy took me to that ice cream shop, and I ate an entire scoop."

Christie’s brown eyes widened in pretend shock. “An entire scoop by yourself? Are you sure your Mommy didn’t help you?”

She nodded as if she were convincing her Aunt of something unbelievable. "I did because it tastes like your key-lime pie, but next time, I'm going to try the Lucky Charms flavor because Mr. Harry told me to. I like Mr. Harry. He made Mommy laugh."

At the mention of Harry's name, Y/N ducked her head down like a teenager avoiding an awkward conversation with her mother. Taking an interest in the vegan meatloaf on her plate sounded better than making eye contact with her nosy best friend. However, once Christie cleared her throat, she knew she could not escape the inevitable questioning. Glancing up, she found herself face-to-face with Christie's smirk.

“Who is Harry?” Those three words manifested a swarm of butterflies in her stomach.

She attempted to shrug nonchalantly to convince her best friend that he was not important, but her robotic movements unveiled her nerves about the subject.

“He owns the ice cream shop. We complimented the shop, and he thanked us.”

Christie knew her best friend better than anyone else, and the slight sparkle in her eyes told her all she needed to know. Y/N finally found a man worthy enough to develop a crush on. This time, she hoped she wouldn't ignore her feelings and allow herself to find happiness.

“Is this Harry attractive?” Y/N squeaked at the straightforward question, which only made Christie laugh loud and long.

Munching on the lumpy mashed potatoes, Daphne watched the women talk about Harry. She noticed how her mother wore the same smile from Friday, the smile showed more teeth, unlike the tight-lip grin she sported around Daphne's father. Her grandmother wore a similar smile when she told her granddaughter the story of how she met her grandfather. Was this what adults call love? Shouldn't her mother love her father?

Y/N took a sip from her glass of red wine before responding, “He could be a Gucci model.”

Christie hissed as if she burnt her hand on something hot. “You caught the attention of a Gucci model, and you didn’t ask him to father your children?”

Y/N gasped, reaching across the table to lightly slap her friend's arm. "Daphne is in the room." She grumbled, shaking her head with embarrassment.

Christie frowned, deciding it best to change the subject. They could discuss the possible Gucci model at a later date when her niece was not around.

Instead, she turned toward the little girl and asked, "Babe, did you tell your mom about music class?"

Daphne gasped, falling into an animated story about how Ms. Lee assigned her the role of drummer in the class band. Y/N hung on every word, but her mind and ears groaned at the mental image of her parents surprising Daphne with her very own drum kit. After that story, they all took turns telling stories from their day until their plates were empty. At the end of the night, Christie hugged them goodbye and informed Y/N that she would call tomorrow for more details about Harry. Once she shut the door, Daphne asked the question that had been on her mind since dinner.

“Do you love Daddy?”

Y/N froze, gaping at her daughter like a fish out of water. Tonight must have been the night for shocking questions because every question caught her off guard. How should she answer? Should she call Tyler before she answers? Her heart uttered the words, just be honest with her.

“I do love your father, but not in the same way that grandma loves grandpa. I want your father to be happy and healthy, but we stopped being in love a long time ago.” She hoped the questions would end there, but her daughter was as curious as her mother.

“Why?”

She hummed, kneeling so she could look into her daughter’s eyes. “Well, your father and I were very young when we met, and we did not know who we were as people. During our marriage, we both changed and realized that we were better off as friends than husband and wife. I’m sure your father is happy we ended our marriage because he found Joanna, and she makes him happy.”

While Daphne nodded, Y/N could see her mind trying to process the information before coming to the conclusion, “I’m glad that Daddy is happy, but I want you to be happy too.”

Tears blurred the woman’s vision, and she choked through a heartbreaking sob. How could her daughter not see that she was one of the few people who brought her happiness? She shook her head, cupping her daughter’s cheeks. “Baby, you make me the happiest mom in the world. Now, how about we cuddle and watch some cartoons before bed?”

“Yes, can we watch my favorite show?” Daphne asked, bouncing with excitement.

“Of course.” Standing up, she walked into the living room with her daughter by her side. Watching the silly cartoon, they forgot about the heavy conversation and enjoyed each other’s company. Y/N would answer Christie’s questions tomorrow, but today’s conversation with Daphne reminded her that her family was more important than a handsome man. * * * * *

The bright sun peeked out behind the dreary clouds, drying the murky puddles from the sidewalks and streets. Birds flew from the damp branches, lightening the solemn mood with cheerful chirps and songs. People fled from their busy schedules to spend a few moments outside, enjoying the sights, sounds, and smells of nature.

Since her next client booked a later appointment, she decided to eat lunch at the nearby park. The fork poked at the roasted brussel sprouts while she watched the crowds of people around her, from the family of three setting up a picnic to the lovely couple sharing a lunch before their offices called.

There were moments when her parents dropped all worries and duties to escape into nature for a few days, like the weekend her parents planned an impromptu camping trip because the deadlines became too much, so instead, they taught her how to build a fire and enjoy the music of the critters. She carried that sentiment into her life, finding moments throughout the week to feel the fresh air on her skin. However, her buzzing phone interrupted her second of silent gratitude.

Sighing, she answered the call despite knowing what it would bring. “Hello?”

“Hey, I need a favor. Before you lecture me about the importance of parenting, just know that I will pick up Daphne, but my boss scheduled an emergency afternoon evening. We probably won’t get out until six, so can you watch her until then? I would ask Joanna, but her boss double-booked her.” With wide eyes, she pulled the phone from her ear to double-check that the man speaking with her was her ex-husband.

This man would rather spend time with his daughter than create an excuse to skip out on his fatherly duties. Typically, she could hear the annoyance in his voice as if having a child were a burden. While her heart soared at the possibility that her daughter might finally have a father who took an interest in her life, her mind questioned and created reasons why he suddenly cared about their daughter.

“Of course, should I feed her dinner? Or do you and Joanna have dinner plans?” She asked, thinking of how long it had been since she and Tyler had a civil co-parenting conversation.

He hummed in thought for a second before deciding, “We can feed her. Wait, I almost forgot, could we keep her until Monday?”

Her heart stuttered when she thought about spending the entire weekend away from her daughter. She could not recall the last time she spent more than a few hours, let alone a day, without her. Also, she worried about her ex-husband's fatherly nature. Sure, she wanted him to spend time with their daughter, but she worried that he would not successfully prepare her for a school day.

His reassurance broke her reluctant silence. “Y/N, you can trust me. I have a few pairs of her school uniform, I know her schedule, and I will walk her to the front gates. I can even update you. Please, let me keep her for the weekend.”

She sighed, rubbing her temples with her free hand. “Fine, but promise me that you will call me if anything goes wrong.”

Tyler chuckled, shocking her even more because she hadn’t heard that delightful sound in so long. “I promise. Joanna and I planned a Sunday dinner with my parents, and they asked if they could see Daphne, complaining that they haven’t seen her since her birthday party.”

Rolling her eyes, she exhaled the irritation growing in her chest. Her relationship with Tyler's parents was rocky. During their first meeting, they wooed her with luxury cars and expensive food, which differed from the lifestyle she grew up with.

However, once she announced her pregnancy, his parents uninvited her to their events and took to uttering hateful comments about their future granddaughter. Everything about the situation threatened their social status in the gated community. The cruel comments ceased the moment they laid their eyes on the beautiful baby, and instead, they turned their cold glares and vicious whispers toward Y/N.

They criticized her parenting skills and provided unwarranted advice on how to raise a polite young lady. Despite their hostility, Y/N sent frequent updates and planned weekends for them to visit, so their comment to Tyler irked her. If they had not seen Daphne since her birthday party, it was because they chose not to.

“When will your parents stop being so charming? Daphne will be excited to see her grandparents.”

Tyler laughed sarcastically, understanding the trouble his parents caused everyone. “I’m glad that someone will be happy to see them. Well, I better finish these reports. I’ll see you tonight.”

Ending the call, she sat, shocked that they discussed their daughter without starting an argument. Throughout the years, she could count on one hand the amount of civil co-parenting conversations they had. She wondered how long this civility would last and if her advice about being a better father finally permeated his mind. She shook her head, deciding to focus on the positive rather than overthink the conversation until she found a reason to spoil it. If she was on after-school duty, then she and Daphne could stop by Dreams Cones, which meant she might run into Harry again. She leaned her head back, thanking the sun for blessing everyone. * * * * *

Children gathered around the marble counters to speculate about the new ice cream flavor, teenagers borrowed board games from a bookshelf to rid themselves of the pressures from school, and parents claimed tables to discuss upcoming weekend plans.

Daphne sprinted toward the crowd, ignoring her mother’s stern reminder that people do not run indoors. The magenta-colored ice cream gained everyone's attention because, unlike the other flavors, this new sweet treat lacked a name. Instead, someone had scribbled three question marks onto the paper card taped to the glass display.

Harry chose unique names for the other flavors, so she wondered why he hadn't done the same for this one. Perhaps he needed to workshop the name some more, but his excitement insisted that he could not keep the flavor from his customers any longer. Maybe he chose a name but taped the wrong placard to the display.

Breaking her focus from the mystery container, she looked up, expecting to find the grinning woman from their last visit; however, she found herself face to face with the owner’s irresistible dimpled grin. All the air from her lungs became trapped in her throat, and her heart tried beating out of her chest and into his beautiful hands.

“Y/N, I'm happy to see that you and Daphne returned.” The sincerity in his voice made her heart flutter wildly. Despite the numerous customers he met daily, he remembered their names and actually sounded happy to see them. She wondered whether or not this man was real.

Locking away her bothersome emotions, she responded rationally and calmly. “Thank you. I haven’t stopped thinking about you.” Well, she tried.

Harry's eyebrows shot up, but once the initial shock cleared, he didn't seem disgusted by her comment. Instead, his warm smile shifted into a smug grin as if her slip-up intrigued him. While he handled the situation with grace, she prayed for the ground to open up and swallow her whole. She pictured some higher being cackling at her as she shook her head fervently.

“I'm sorry. I meant to say I haven't stopped thinking about your ice cream. I promise I'm not trying to hit on you." Her mind begged her mouth to shut up. She didn't want him to think she didn't find him attractive. "Not that you aren't incredibly handsome."

Processing the conversation, she groaned and dragged a palm down her face. At that moment, she decided someone could die from embarrassment. She recalled when she could speak normally with people she found attractive, but her skills must be rusty from their lack of use.

An amused chuckle flittered past his rosy lips as he crossed his arms across his chest, clearly enjoying the sight of her squirming and scrambling to correct herself. “Thank you, I needed that today. I woke up feeling unsure about myself. Would it be inappropriate to say that you look beautiful?”

“It's not, thank you.” She mumbled, biting back a bashful grin.

For a moment, she basked in his sweet words, allowing her heart to soar with excitement because he thought she was beautiful. Would she replay this conversation before she fell asleep tonight? Yes, she would repeat his words and alter the situation so that it ends with them on a romantic date. Her dreams were the only space she could be selfish and chase after the life she wanted.

Daphne watched the shy couple flirt with one another, stopping her staring only once to wave and smile at Harry when he looked at her. Thanks to her friends, she realized that her mother might have a crush on the curly-haired man.

During recess, she told Ziva and Andrew about the situation, and they informed her that her mother like-liked Harry. However, Ziva raised an important question, did Daphne want a new father? She didn't know. She never questioned her parent's relationship because her earlier memories always featured her father's girlfriend. Did she wonder why her parents weren't in love like Ziva or Andrew's parents? Yes, but if her father could be happy with Joanna, then her mother deserved happiness too. She was hesitant to replace her father with Harry, but she would accept him because he made her mom happy.

“Hi Daphne, how are you?” He asked, returning her wave.

“I’m excited because I get to spend the weekend with my dad and Joanna.” She announced through a toothy smile.

He glanced at Y/N, scanning her face for negative emotions before returning his attention to the little girl. “I hope you have an excellent time with them. Did you want to surprise your father with a cup of our ice cream?”

She shook her head while her mother answered his question. “Although my ex-husband loves surprises, he despises anything sweet.”

Then Daphne added some vital information, “He’s also allergic to milk.”

Harry chuckled, nodding slowly. “Well, that’s too bad, but at least you can still enjoy ice cream. What flavors will you two be trying today?”

Daphne found herself in a predicament. The Lucky Charm ice cream promised colorful marshmallows and cavity-causing sweetness, but the mystery flavor guaranteed excitement and amazement. What flavor did her mother want? Could she convince her to order the new flavor while she stuck with the safest option? Before Daphne could decide, her mother eased all of her stress.

“I might try the new flavor.” His dimpled grin reappeared at her response.

He nodded once before bouncing toward the purple treat, his head bobbing side-to-side with each step. Elation radiated from his heart and soul, eliminating anyone's sour mood in a two-mile radius. Y/N and Daphne shared an amused look and a giggle before following the man. The short distance between them allowed Y/N to peek at his outfit for the day, which consisted of navy blue dress pants, a pastel blue striped dress shirt (which he folded at the elbow, a look she found herself drooling over), and a sweater vest with white sheep dotted over it. She should hire him as her stylist since her closet consisted of worn shirts and blazers for work.

“Recently, I created a new ice cream flavor, but I struggled with the naming process. I wrote down multiple unoriginal names. Until I had an idea to let my customers choose the new name. If you order the ice cream, you will also receive a slip of paper to write down your idea and drop it in the box by the door. In two weeks, the staff and I will choose our favorite suggestion, and the winner will receive free ice cream for a month.” Once Harry finished his announcement, she realized a crowd of curious customers had gathered around them. Perhaps she should have paid attention to the contest rules instead of watching his rosy lips curve around each word.

“How fun and creative. Can I have one scoop of the mystery flavor in a cup, and a–” she paused, realizing she hadn’t asked Daphne what flavor she wanted.

Luckily, he heard the lull in her speech and jumped in where she left off, “Daphne, what flavor would you like?”

“Lucky Charms in a cone.” Daphne's anxious heart rested easy because now she could taste both flavors without the risk of wasting her Friday treat on an icky treat.

Before scooping the sweet treat, he readjusted his sleeves, pushing the starchy material further up his arm. Y/N couldn't help but admire the concentrated crinkle between his eyebrows as he created the perfect scoop. Her knees even went weak when his pink tongue poked out to swipe over his bottom lip. Why did this man have such a powerful effect on her? Was she really that lonely? Her mind reminded her heart that true love did not exist, and her feelings were caused by a chemical reaction.

“Here you go, love. Be careful, the cone is a bit messy.” He mumbled, handing her their order. While reaching for the cone, her fingers brushed against his soft hands, sending her heart into a frenzy. What did her brain know about love?

Before Harry could ring up the two scoops, two teenagers shouted their orders at him. He appeared hesitant, stuck between helping these new customers and continuing his conversation with them. However, he chose the former in an attempt to ease the customers’ scowls. Another cheerful staff member informed Y/N that he could finish where his boss left off, and although she doubted that, she followed him to the register.

“What does the flavor remind you of?” She asked, processing the tangy yet fruity flavors dancing along her tongue. Did she taste blueberry or blackberry? When was the last time she ate a blackberry?

Her daughter hummed, tapping the spoon’s handle against her chin. “Christmas.”

Confusion halted all other thoughts about the flavor. Instead, she chuckled lightly, raising an eyebrow. “Christmas? Why?”

The little girl shrugged, delving into her well-thought-out response, “Every Christmas morning, Grandma surprises us with blueberry muffins, and when I taste this, I miss Christmas and Grandma.”

In parenthood, there were many moments when a child might say something sweet, which not only made the parent proud of the small person they were raising but also brought tears to their eyes. She rubbed the corners of her eyes, catching any stray tears from rolling down her cheeks. When she missed her parents, she would replay memories of Christmas mornings in her mind because they radiated love and happiness, and now, she learned that her daughter also cherished those moments.

“Well, we should suggest the name, Christmas morning.” A gleeful giggle bubbled past Daphne's lips as she watched her mom write down the name on the slip of paper. “Should we leave? Your father should be at the apartment soon.”

Daphne nodded, sliding off the chair. “I can’t wait to see Daddy. Do you think he’ll take me to the zoo?”

While her daughter bombarded her with questions about the weekend, Y/N glanced over at Harry, wondering whether she should say goodbye; however, his furrowed brows and the crowded counter convinced her to walk away. Dropping the paper slip into the box by the door, she answered a few of her daughter’s twenty questions. She ignored the painful tug in her heart caused by the thought that she wouldn’t see Harry until next Friday.

Reigning in her emotions, she reminded herself that she did not have time to date. Also, why would Harry want to date a single mother? She pictured him dating a beautiful, up-and-coming model who spent her free time ending world hunger. He belonged with someone as wonderful as he was and who did not have as much baggage as she did. Thankfully, Daphne pulled her mother from another spiral with a hilarious joke about cows and movies. Laughter dissolved her stress as she wrapped an arm around her daughter’s shoulders, bringing her ball of sunshine closer so that her gray clouds might float away. * * * * *

Neon-pink lights illuminated the dark room while trendy music blared from a nearby speaker. Draping a feathery boa around her shoulders, an optimistic university student discussed her dreams about the future. She imagined exploring unknown locations, tasting world cuisine, meeting new people, and falling in love with strangers. She might even find her soulmate on a beach in Greece. While the camera captured the young woman's beauty, Y/N listened intently as if this girl were her daughter. Through a warm smile, she showed her support for the young woman and her aspirations because they reminded her of the goals she made before meeting Tyler. However, she hoped no one derailed this woman from achieving her dreams.

“Scrolling through the photos, the woman gasped. “Wow, you made me look beautiful.” She whispered in awe, selecting the perfect one for her birthday Instagram post.

Y/N chuckled, returning the extra props to the storage room. Since her next appointment was after lunch, she would reorganize the items once the customer left. Easy days, like today, were great because they allowed her to catch up on simple tasks she kept putting off. If she bribed her assistant, Kira, into helping, they might be able to leave earlier for lunch.

“Remember, the camera captures the art. You were always beautiful. I hope you have an excellent birthday.”

The young woman pouted her lips and cupped her chest. “Thank you. Can I give you a hug?”

The woman briefly hugged Y/N, then spun around and walked out as if she were on her next mission, but not without almost bumping into Kira at the door.

“She’s in a hurry,” Kira mumbled, glancing back at the young woman getting into her Uber ride.

Y/N grinned. "It's her birthday, so she scheduled a self-love day. What did you bring me?" She asked, eyeing the two plastic cups filled with iced coffee.

Growing up, she despised coffee and coffee-flavored products. However, once she gave birth to Daphne, her body craved the extra energy, juggling between university classes and a newborn baby. As long as she flavored the drink with creams and syrups, she could find the strength within to swallow the liquid. Now, her body could not function without an ounce of coffee coursing through her veins.

“I ordered two brown sugar coffees with oat milk. Have we tried that one?” Her assistant asked, handing her the cold drink.

Every week, they ordered a drink they hadn’t tried before, but she also didn’t remember trying this drink, so it had to be new. She shook her head, sipping the caffeinated beverage, immediately tasting the harsh, bitter coffee notes rather than the sugary sweetness she was used to. She couldn’t disappoint her assistant, who appeared to love the drink by the speed at which she was drinking it, so she hummed and nodded her head as if the drink impressed her.

“Thank you. It's delicious, but I miss my usual order." She lied partially because she did miss her favorite caramel-flavored coffee, but she did not enjoy the new drink.

“I'm glad we tried something new,” Kira admitted before glancing at the crowded storage room. “Do you need help reorganizing the props?”

She nodded. “If we finish early enough, we can have a long lunch.”

“Sure thing.” Kira followed her toward the room, pausing the moment she remembered the last-minute appointment she had not added to her boss's calendar. “Wait, I scheduled an eleven o’clock appointment. The client’s name is Gemma Styles. She and her brother want to surprise their mother with a sibling portrait.”

“Okay, that sounds easy enough.” She mumbled, loading a few props into her arms. “Will you stay at the front desk and wait for them?”

While tidying the storage room, Y/N thought about Daphne and the weekend. Tyler's parenting skills surprised her. He planned a zoo visit, sent her photos of Daphne with the flamingos, and called her every night so their daughter could say goodnight. He hadn’t been a present parent for two years, but she couldn’t be happier that something or someone finally woke that side of him up.

Her only complaint involved the lack of information about yesterday’s dinner with his parents. When she asked about his parents, he avoided the subject, which meant they either criticized his parenting skills or hers, but curiosity bubbled within. What did they say? If it was about her, did he stand up for her? Was it about Joanna? She hoped Daphne could answer these questions when she picked her up from school.

“Welcome to Artistic Lens. My name is Kira. How may I help you?” Kira’s question announced the arrival of her afternoon clients. “Hello, I’m Harry. This is my sister Gemma.” Her ears perked up the moment she heard his angelic voice.

Her hands paused their movements while her mind raised questions. Was Harry actually in her studio? Did he know she owned this space? Is that why he chose this location? Wiping the sweat from her palms onto her jeans, she ignored the questions distracting her from moving. She cleared her throat, reminding herself to remain professional because he was her client first and potential crush second. She could not afford another slip-up like the last time they spoke.

She spotted his curly locks first, then his floral sweater, which featured an array of bright colors like turquoise and sunflower yellow. Gemma, his sister, wore a floral dress that contained similar colors to her brother's outfit. The siblings shared characteristics, such as their astounding beauty and cheek dimples. She wondered if they had tried modeling. She could picture them walking the runway in Gucci, Bode, and other big-name designers.

“Hello, I'm Y/N, and I'm the photographer.” She plastered her best customer service grin onto her face to appear unbothered.

When he heard her voice, Harry experienced four distinct emotions: confusion, realization, happiness, and lastly, embarrassment. A sheepish grin unraveled across his face while his eyes met hers once before glancing around the room. She smiled at his sister, chalking up his shy behavior as his reaction to seeing her outside the ice cream parlor, like a student seeing their teacher out in the wild. However, Kira and Gemma witnessed the interaction, leading his sister to embarrass him further.

“It’s lovely to meet you. Harry, didn’t you just tell me about a woman named Y/N, who you found very—” Harry’s eyes widened, and his hands covered his sister’s mouth before she could finish her sentence.

While Gemma shoved her brother away, Kira and Y/N shared an amused look. He huffed, fixing his posture and rolling his eyes. Y/N giggled, finding the entire situation sweet and flattering because, according to his sister, Harry talked about her.

“Harry and I have met. My daughter and I love his ice cream shop. Now, tell me about your vision.”

She moved the conversation forward and away from their flirty friendship, watching his shoulders deflate and his dimpled grin return as if he could finally relax.

“Our mom always complains that we never take pictures together anymore, so we planned on surprising her with photos of us.” Gemma explained, obviously taking charge of the surprise.

Y/N nodded, motioning toward her camera and the backdrops. “Great, we can get started over there. Kira, will you bring us the wooden bench from the storage room?” While her assistant disappeared to the storage room, she positioned the Styles siblings in front of the gray backdrop.

Before beginning the photoshoot, she checked the lighting, flipped through the camera settings, and examined their outfits. Harry paired his bright sweater with beige pants, and Gemma tied a pink scarf around her neck to match the peonies on her brother's top. She feared the light colors might wash out the siblings; however, the camera captured their beauty and radiating glow.

“You both look amazing. I selected your first pose, but feel free to move and pose as you like. I want the photos to look natural rather than two perfectly still models.” She explained, snapping a few test shots.

Kira returned shortly with the bench, placing the item beside the backdrop. "Should I turn on your playlist?"

She nodded, “Sure, unless Gemma or Harry, do you want to play a certain playlist?” Lifting her head from the camera, she saw Harry shaking his head.

“No, you should play your music. People find my music taste—” He paused, rummaging through his mind for the correct word to describe his music, but Gemma responded for her brother before he could even stop her, “Eclectic.”

“Yes, so please, play whatever you like.” His eager smile contained a level of excitement that she found endearing, almost as if he truly wanted to learn what music she loved.

Shuffling the playlist, she smiled when her favorite singer crooned through the speaker.

“I love this song,” Harry confessed, bopping his head to the beat.

“Me too. Don't you want to sing along?” She asked, humming with the love-sick singer.

She pictured a life where she and her spouse would listen to this music while cooking dinner. A life where they would sing along, off-key, of course, while chopping vegetables. Her spouse would grab Daphne's hands and dance with her around the kitchen. She would capture these important moments with her camera. A room overflowing with love and laughter.

Lately, these daydreams featured a curly-haired, green-eyed man. His hands would grip her hips, spinning her around and away from the cutting board while he hummed some romantic song. They would waltz around the kitchen, discussing their days in hushed whispers. Eventually, he would let her finish dinner while he helped Daphne with schoolwork. During these moments, she believed someone as handsome as Harry could love her.

Gemma chuckled, shaking her head while finding a new pose. “You don’t want me to sing. Unlike Harry, some of us weren’t born with an amazing voice. Did you know he was in a band?”

Her head shot up from the camera as she blinked the shock away. Harry, feeling sheepish again, twiddled his thumbs while she stared at him in awe. “First, who cares if we suck at singing? We should sing along anyway. Second, you were in a band? Please tell me more.”

While dragging his fingers through his hair, a nervous chuckle fumbled past his rosy lips. “When I was fourteen, me and my mates decided to start a band. Our parents and friends hired us for local events, but the band barely survived two years.”

“During his university years, he performed solo at pubs.” Gemma added, smiling proudly at her brother.

Y/N smiled through her shock. During their university years, she and Tyler spent many weekends at pubs, and now, she wondered if she and Harry were ever in the same room. However, she thinks she would have remembered his angelic voice and alluring presence.

“Well, I think that’s amazing. You are quite the catch, Harry.” She winked, bringing back his dimpled grin.

Continuing the photoshoot, Y/N focused on backdrops, props, and poses. Everyone fell into a comfortable silence, only speaking when Gemma mentioned a topic she planned on discussing on her podcast. During these moments, Y/N agreed with her positive attitudes and views. She could see Gemma joining her and Christie for Sunday brunch, where they could gossip and laugh over mimosas. Should she befriend the sister of the man she was crushing on? Her eyes washed over him, admiring the sparkle in his green eyes and the two tattooed swallows on his chest. She paused. When did this gentle, shy man get two tattoos? Were there more?

“You have a tattoo.” What should have been a question came out as a statement, one that made Harry scan his body as if searching for which tattoo might be on display, which only answered her question that there must be more than the two on his chest, then with a furrowed brow and worried eyes, he made eye contact with her intrigued ones.

He cleared his throat before speaking up. “Yeah, I have multiple tattoos. During uni, my mate bought a tattoo gun, which resulted in many stupid tattoos, but I don’t regret them. They remind me of a different time.”

While listening to his explanation, her heart fluttered. “That’s incredibly sweet. I want a tattoo, but I’m terrified of needles. I nearly fainted when the nurses gave me the epidural for Daphne’s birth.” Her confession made the siblings chuckle.

“I was like that during my first tattoo, but now, I'm a pro. If you really want one, I could come with you to keep you company." He stuttered through the end of the sentence as if his mind processed what his mouth said. “Unless you want to bring anyone else who isn’t a complete stranger to you.” He rambled, trying to fix his earlier statement.

She shook her head with an amused giggle. “Harry, you aren’t a complete stranger. I’m very touched by your offer, and if I ever decide to get a tattoo, you will be the first person I call.”

He sighed with relief, dropping his shoulders down from his ears. Gemma observed the interaction, noting her brother's unusual behavior. Throughout her life, she witnessed Harry's confidence first-hand. From the moment he could talk, he loved being the center of attention, and his charming attitude introduced him to more relationships than she could remember. She recalled a time when he tripped over a rug, ripped his pants, and still received a phone number from the person he was chatting up. His confidence carried him through life, and she had never seen it falter until she watched her brother flirt with the photographer.

“Okay, we are all done. I think your mother will love these.” Y/N bragged because although she captured the magic, she couldn’t have done it without Gemma and Harry’s natural beauty and warmth.

“Thank you so much.” Gemma giggled with excitement, wrapping her arms around the photographer’s body.

Y/N chuckled, returning the comforting hug. She spotted Harry’s warm smile over Gemma’s shoulder, which served as his “thank you” for the photographs and for entertaining his sister. The smile resembled that of a loving boyfriend, happy that his girlfriend impressed his family. Her stomach clenched with butterflies at the idea of Harry as her boyfriend.

She pulled away from the hug, dropping her gaze from him. “Once I edit the photos, I’ll send them to you. Should I have any questions, is the number on file a good one to reach you at?”

Gemma nodded, then hummed as if a thought just struck her. “Well, I probably won’t answer if I’m in an interview.” She turned toward her brother with a mischievous grin, revealing her intentions. “You should give her your number too. You answer the phone more than I do.”

He nodded once, scribbling his number onto the contact sheet Kira provided them. Y/N could sense his annoyance with Gemma's constant embarrassing comments, so she planned to make the rest of the interaction fast and painless. She handed Kira the sheet, which they would file later, and then faced the siblings.

“Great, I hope you two have an excellent day.” Y/N smiled.

Harry mumbled a “you too” under his breath, shuffling toward the glass door, unlike his sister, who had one more plan up her sleeves. “Wait, have you eaten lunch? Harry and I would love to treat you to lunch as a thank you.”

Y/N’s breath hitched in her throat, her mind racing with every reason why she should not accept the invitation. Harry noticed the hesitation in her eyes, which landed on his, and searched for any sign that he did not want her to join them, but all she found was a warm welcome.

“You should come. I’d love to get to know you more.” He spoke up, running a hand through his hair.

Y/N nodded, matching his dazed grin. “Well, I’m never one to turn down a free lunch. I would love to join you.”

#mine #harry styles #harry styles fanfic #harry styles fanfiction #one direction #new series

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stargazedwinchester · 1 year ago

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Womanhood | Dean

Summary: Dean helps to comfort you during your time of the month, without much experience about periods, he tries his best.

This is a little different to the actual request, I hope that’s okay! I’ve tried my best to replicate it though :) Let me know if you want Sam’s/Cas’s version too!

Based off of this request here, thanks!!

Word count: 1,134

Warnings: some swearing, not loads!

♱⁺. ⋆˙✧⋆✧˙⋆⊹.♱

This morning, you woke up with the most unbearable pain, cramps that felt like your appendix had ruptured. You groan in pain, hoping it would subside soon. You clutch your belly and slowly get out of bed. Your alarm clock flashes 7:39am, and you let your head fall. “I love when I have no sleep,” you mumble to yourself, letting out a huff. Looking behind you, Dean isn’t passed out, snoring so loud it would’ve probably woke you up anyway. You hold your belly and walk out toward the kitchen.

“Morning,” you grumble, and Dean turns around from the stove. His face lit up seeing you at the doorframe, your hair a mess and in one of his spare Star Wars t-shirts and your own pyjama shorts. “Someone’s looking rough.” He jokes, noticing you’re not smiling back. “Aw honey, what’s wrong?” He asks, his smile quickly fading. The smell of breakfast hovers over you, like it’s mocking your morning sickness. “I think I’m coming on my period today…” you say, and Dean turns round to face you, letting the eggs and bacon sizzle quietly on the stove. Toast pings out of the toaster at the same time. “Are you sure you’ll be okay for today’s hunt? If you’re in pain, I’m sure Sammy and I will handle it fine.” He genuinely looks concerned, as if you haven’t had plenty of periods before. It hurt like hell, sure, but you could manage just fine. Along with the fact that periods can make you super emotional and/or angry, you were certain it could come in handy when killing a couple of monsters.

“I’ll be fine Dean, honestly. I want to come with you both.” You smile, leaning over the counter top. Dean nods in agreement. “It’s always fun having you around. If you change your mind just let us know, okay?” He shoots you a quick grin before turning back to the stove, plating up your breakfast. “Where’s Sam?” You question, usually he’s already by the table reading his favourite book or getting ready to go out for his morning jog. “I think he went for a shower, I’m not sure.” Dean spins round and passes you a plate with 2 slices of toast, egg, bacon and hash browns. “Wow, this looks really good, Dean. Thank you.” You smile warmly at him, and he returns the gesture.

♱⁺. ⋆˙✧⋆✧˙⋆⊹.♱

Your rapid breathing causes you to hunch over and rest your hands on your thighs, you take a deep breath. “God damn…” you say, looking up at Sam, who’s right in front of you. “What a kill!” You chuckle to yourself, wiping your hair out of your face. You stand up, giving Sam a high-five. “Good job, Y/N. It’s like you don’t need our help.”

“I know, right? I’m just that go-“ “Y/N! Watch out!” Sam cocks his gun and tries to shove you out of the way, a sudden loud bang shocks you as you feel something sharp pierce your skin abruptly. You fall over, Dean rushing to your side. “I’ll cover you, Dean, make sure she’s okay!” Sam quickly checks back at you, noticing blood is pouring out of our calf.

“Fuck. Y/N, are you okay? Does it hurt?” He panics, shuffling over to apply pressure on your leg. He rummages in his pocket for a handkerchief and immediately applies it to your wound, he rushes to whip his belt off and tie it tight enough around your leg to hopefully stop the bleeding. You can practically see the fear in his eyes, and you laugh quietly.

“What’s so funny, huh? Almost dying?” His hands shake, trying to keep the pressure on your leg at all times.

“I’m not gonna die, Dean. It’s just a gunshot. Stop worrying,”

You place your hand on his, and he gazes at you with so much worry. His gorgeous hunter green eyes comfort you, even though he’s feeling the complete opposite. You pull your hand up to his face and caress his cheek, he finally shows some sign of calming down. It’s like his whole body relaxes by just your touch. “I’ve honestly felt worse.” You joke, slowly moving your body to sit up. You wince, feeling cramp in both of your abdomen and your leg. “Help me get up,” you say, and Dean pulls you up, anchoring you from underneath, your arm draped behind his back. “Let’s get you home.” He says, catching his eye on Sam, making his way back inside.

♱⁺. ⋆˙✧⋆✧˙⋆⊹.♱

It had been a few hours since you arrived back at the bunker, you lay across the sofa, clasping your belly as the cramps still hadn't subsided. Your leg, however, had been patched up neatly by Sam, and were given some painkillers for it. It didn't seem to work that well.

"How're you feeling?" Dean pats your foot, walking past the sofa to perch himself on the very little space left on the armrest. "I feel like I've been shot in two different areas," You try to joke, but it only makes Dean glare at you, waiting for a real answer.

"Could you get me some period pads, or tampons, please? Either work," You state, trying to sit up. "Uh, yeah, I can do that. What... size?" Dean looks puzzled, which only makes you smile. "Regular, Dean. Get the ones with wings."

Dean stands up and gathers his thoughts. "Pads with wings. Tampons with wings. Got it. I think." He places his hands on his hips and looks to the ground, then to you. He smiles lovingly. "I'll be right back." He says, before grabbing his flannel and exiting the door.

♱⁺. ⋆˙✧⋆✧˙⋆⊹.♱

An hour or so had gone by, and you hadn't moved from the sofa. your cramps have worsened to the point of also giving you a headache. You hear the door open, then close. Dean's back from the store, and he's got a white carrier bag full of items. "I'm back," He chuckles, "Got you a few things." He walks up to the sofa, laying the bag on the coffee table next to you. "Oh, Dean, you didn't have to..." You trail, as he takes out chocolate, a small teddy bear with a t-shirt that reads 'Get Well Soon' with a small red heart underneath it. He had also bought you the pads that you had asked for, aspirin, fresh bandages for your leg and a small bunch of red roses.

Your smile gleamed as your eyes met his. "You really didn't have to." Your voice almost a whisper, and he moves closer to you. "I know, but I wanted to." He smiles, leaning in to give you a quick kiss.

"Thank you." You say, reaching your hand up to the nape of his neck, pulling him in for one more.

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janeyseymour · 1 year ago

Text

Mamma Mia

a song fic based on the song Mamma Mia by ABBA with my own version of the song attached :)

WC: ~1.45k

I’ve been cheated by you since I don’t know when. So I made up my mind, it must come to end.

Melissa Schemmenti has been in your life for quite some time. And now looking back on everything, she’s been cheating you out of a lot of things. So, you’ve made up your mind: you have to cut her off.

“Mel, I just can’t do this anymore!” you tell her, tears in your eyes.

“What do you mean you can’t do it anymore! You’ve cheated me out of so much, and it’s been going on since… since I don’t know when. So, I made up my mind… we have to split.”

“You always say that,” she rolls her eyes.

“But… I mean it this time,” you whisper. “Please leave.”

Look at me now, will I ever learn? I don’t know how, but I suddenly lose control. There’s a fire within my soul.

It’s been a few weeks now, and you’re just… brokenhearted. You miss everything about her. Yes, she’s hurt you in the past, but nothing matters when she makes you happy.

After a few drinks, the liquid courage takes over, and you lose control. You have to text her. There’s just a fire within your soul that is begging you to go back to the fiery redhead that haunts your dreams. She answers, telling you to be over at her place as soon as you can. She sends you a picture of herself, a glass of wine in hand as she waits for you.

Just one look and I can hear a bell ring. One more look and I forget everything.

You glance at the picture, and the alarms are going off in your head about how this is a bad idea- how you shouldn’t go back to her. Not after everything she’s put you through and after everything that you’ve been denied of because of her.

But then you look at the picture again, and… all of those thoughts go out the window. You slip on your shoes and start your walk. You’re not sober enough to drive.

Mamma mia, here I go again. My, my, how can I resist you? Mamma mia, does it show again? My, my, just how much I’ve missed you.

As you walk, you start to sober up, and think to yourself. Here you go again, to fall into the arms of the woman who has left you hurting so many times before. You almost turn around, but then she sends you another picture, asking where you are. You don’t know how to resist that.

When you knock on her door, she opens it almost immediately. Her lips are on yours almost instantly, and you can taste the cherry wine that she’s been drinking. You soak it in as much as you can before pulling apart.

Your eyes give you away, and you know it’s showing just how much you’ve missed her.

You spend that night with Melissa in her bed.

Yes, I’ve been brokenhearted, blue since the day we parted. Why, why, did I ever let you go? Mamma mia, now I really know- my, my, I could never let you go.

The next morning, you wake up naked in the redhead’s bed and in her arms, content. You’re no longer heartbroken and upset. You wake up feeling much better than you were the previous night when all you had done was wish she was sitting next to you. And you know you could never let go over her. Not again. You know that you’re right where you’re supposed to be. But the two of you both know that you definitely need to talk about this whole on and off game that you’ve been playing lately. It’s just not healthy.

So, you settle on her couch once she’s made breakfast and poured coffee.

I’ve been angry and sad about things that you do.

“I just… you know how I feel when you flirt with other people to get free things,” you whisper. “And I’ve told you that.”

“Y/N, I’m a teacher. I have to do what I have to do to get by, and if flirting with the idiot vending machine man is what I have to do, I’ll do it.”

“And you know how I feel when you brush off the idea of settling down and getting married.”

“And I’ve told you before that we can settle down, but I ain’t getting married again, hun,” Melissa tells you as she takes a bite of her bacon. “It’s just not in the cards for me.”

“It doesn’t matter to you that that’s not what I want?”

“I already compromised by telling you that we could move in together and all that shit-”

“See, right there. All that shit,” you bite out. “It’s not shit to me. I love you, and I don’t know why you act like our love is some bullshit. It hurts.”

“I’m sorry, hun. I’ll try to be more considerate of your feelings,” she promises as she lays a gentle hand over yours.

It’s a promise that you’ve heard before, and while you doubt she’ll keep word… one can dream.

I can’t count all the times that I’ve told you we’re through. And when you go, when you slam the door. I think you know that you won’t be away too long. You know that I’m not that strong.

You haven’t even been dating again for another week before you’re kicking her out of your place. You shout at her that this is the last time she’ll hear from you. But as she slams the door, you hear her grumble something.

“You and I both know that you’re not strong enough to stay away from me for too long.”

Just one look and I can hear a bell ring. One more look and I forget everything.

You’re out at the bars with your friend when you see her walk in, red hair curled beautifully and her outfit perfectly accentuating the curves that she was gifted.

“Stop,” your best friend scolds you when she follows your gaze. “She’s the whole reason we’re out tonight in the first place- to forget about her.”

You shake your head to get out of the trance Melissa has you in. But as much as you try, she always pulls you back in. You take one more look at her, and you forget it all- you know she’ll end up at your place once your friend has decided that she’s had enough and heads home for the night. That, or you’ll end up pinned to her bed like you usually do on nights where you reconcile.

Mamma mia, here I go again. My, my, how can I resist you? Mamma Mia, does it show again? My, my, just how much I’ve missed you?

The night continues on, you and your friend dancing and singing your hearts out, until she’s decided that she’s had enough for the night. She calls an Uber, and she climbs into it as she gives you her parting words.

“I swear to God, Y/N, do not end up back in bed with Melissa tonight,” she slurs out as she closes the door.

You roll your eyes and head back into the bar. The redhead is waiting at the door for you- of course she is.

Drunk enough to not care, but sober enough to know what you’re doing, you kiss her.

“Can’t resist me?” Melissa teases.

You roll your eyes and kiss her again as you start to dance on her. “What do you think?”

“I think you missed me,” she smirks. “I can see it in your eyes.”

“I think you should buy me a drink,” you smile at her cheekily.

“As long as you come home with me tonight.”

You do.

Yes, I’ve been brokenhearted, blue since the day we parted. Why, why, did I ever let you go? Mamma mia, now I really know. My, my, I could never let you go.

You wake up in her arms again, and you know that while you were supposed to be at the bar mending your broken heart last night, you made the decision to come back to her. As she’s asleep next to you, holding onto you tightly, you wonder again why you ever let her go.

And you know that for as many times as this vicious cycle of being in an on again, off again relationship will continue, you could never let her go.

You just hope that one day, the two of you get your shit together and you stay together. It probably won’t happen, but you can hope and dream.

#melissa schemmenti fanfiction #melissa schemmenti fanfic #melissa schemmenti x you #melissa schemmenti x reader #melissa schemmenti #abbott elementary fanfic #abbott elementary fanfiction #abbott elementary

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bl-bracket · 8 months ago

Text

Ok so I'm still in the process of making round 1 (got all the back end stuff done, just need to make the actual polls which can take a couple hours) but I've had yet ANOTHER idea for a kind of bl gimmick blog thing that I wanted to share

So have y'all heard of 6 Degrees of Separation? basically it's a whole concept of every person in the world being connected through 6 degrees of separation max (so a knows b who knows c who knows d etc). But then there was also a spin off that I remember hearing about a while back called 6 Degrees of Kevin Bacon, where it was the claim that Kevin Bacon had worked with everyone in Hollywood within max 6 movies (so Kevin was in movie a which also featured actor z who was also in movie b which featured director y who was also in movie c etc). There was even a website

The idea is then to create a version of this for Thai dramas, cause like there is a ton of cast overlap in the ql world at least, and I feel like you can connect a lot of Thai dramas together within 6 degrees.

My original thought was like connecting it by dramas. So for example going from like Kinnporsche to Fish Upon the Sky and trying to find the most direct line of connection between the two shows. The other idea is to just connect it between actors themselves. So like Tor Thanapob to Jeff Satur.

What would this information accomplish? not much but it's fun for me to look up and cool to see how connected everything is

Anyways I already play this game a lot with myself when I need to search up stuff on mdl. Sometimes when I'm already on the page of a Thai drama, I hop around to try to get to the next one by doing this.

The idea then would be a blog where I would show the connections. I could randomize some but people could also request for me to find the connections between two dramas or actors.

The reason why I'd keep it to just Thai dramas is that other country's qls don't tend to draw from the same pool of actors as much, so it would require navigating through a lot of stuff blindly on my end. It could be done, but would require someone more familiar with that country's dramas/movies at large and not just their ql stuff (which is what I mainly know).

anyways does anyone else find this conceptually interesting or am I just alone in a sea of my particular brand of autism lol

#not a poll

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grayhyacinth · 10 months ago

Text

A Tea Party

Is this another Gravity Falls fan fic?! I've been hooked on Gravity Falls (again). Anyways, enjoy something fun!

Links: ao3, tumblr, masterlist

“One order of our hotcakes! Coming right up!” you call out with a wide smile, effortlessly weaving between tables and customers. The Greasy’s Diner is packed to the brim, the clatter of cutlery and hum of conversation creating a symphony of Friday evening energy. The smell of sizzling bacon and freshly brewed coffee fills the air, mingling with the sweet scent of syrup as you glide past a table where a stack of pancakes is being devoured by a group of teenagers.

The diner itself, a quaint train car labeled "Gravity Falls 1883," is a relic of the town’s history, and tonight, it’s alive with the warmth and nostalgia of simpler times. The worn leather booths are filled with families and friends enjoying classic American comfort food—hamburgers, pancakes, biscuits and gravy, soda, and milkshakes, all made to satisfy both hunger and soul.

Lazy Susan, the heart and soul of the diner, oversees everything with her usual charm, her one perpetually closed eye giving her an endearing, slightly mysterious air. She’s been running this place for as long as anyone can remember, and her infectious laughter can be heard even over the din of the crowded room.

“Hey!” you shout over the noise as you approach the open window to the kitchen. “Got another ticket for ya!” You bend down a metal wire to pin the slip of paper, letting it snap back up with a satisfying twang.

“Thanks, (Y/n)!” The chef, whose name you’ve yet to recall, shoots you a playful finger gun, his other hand expertly flipping an omelet on the stove. The kitchen is a sensory overload of sizzling fats, bubbling sauces, and the constant rhythm of plates being prepped and passed out.

“No problem, dude,” you reply, smirking as you return the finger gun, before making your way back to Lazy Susan. The older woman is deep in conversation with a couple at the counter, their discussion sprinkled with the latest gossip from Gravity Falls. You catch snippets of their chatter—a local kid has gone missing, and the only clue left behind is a tiny red shoe fit for a doll.

You roll your eyes internally. Probably just some runaway who ruined the carpet with too much of playable slime, you think, stifling a grin. Parents can be scarier than any of the weird creatures around here.

“Hey there, ladies!”

Your attention snaps to the front door just as you reach for a glass to prep another milkshake. A grizzled old man saunters in, his hand raised high in a wave that’s a little too enthusiastic for someone his age. He’s got two kids in tow, and his black suit, with the missing fez, oozes with charisma—or at least, his version of it.

The boy, who you quickly recognize as Dipper, follows behind, rubbing his elbow, clearly embarrassed by the old man’s antics. The girl, Mabel, matches her great-uncle’s energy, waving confidently at the diner patrons as they find an empty booth.

You set down the rag and milkshake glass, grabbing three menus instead. The large red letters reading "Greasy’s Diner" stand out on the covers, framed by retro designs that scream classic Americana.

As you approach the booth, you paste on your best customer-pleasing smile. “Evening, Stan!” you say brightly, handing him a menu before turning to the twins. “How are you, Mabel?” You purposely ignore Dipper, even going as far as handing his menu to Mabel.

Dipper’s mood shifts the moment he spots you. He straightens up, as if caught off guard by your presence. “(Y/N)—” he start.

Mabel, ever the bubbly one, beats him to it. “(Y/n)! You’re working today!”

You smile back, genuinely pleased to see her. “Yep. Friday nights are usually the busiest. Wouldn’t want to miss out on the money.”

Stan cuts in with a wide grin, his voice booming across the diner. "Why, I like my money like I like my pancakes! Stacked high and never touched by anyone but me!" He chuckles, clearly pleased with his joke, and then adds, “Only I know how to properly appreciate a good stack!”

You laugh, though it’s a bit forced, but you appreciate the effort. He’s still a paying customer, you remind yourself, though you can’t help but find some amusement in his antics. “So, a stack of fresh, hot pancakes for you, then?”

“You betcha!” Stan says, swinging his arm proudly.

You turn your attention to the twins, holding your notepad ready. “And what about you two?” you ask, curiosity lacing your voice as you wait for their orders.

Dipper glances up at you, his confidence returning just a bit. “I’ll have the, uh… the usual,” he says, trying to sound nonchalant, but there’s a hint of something in his voice.

Mabel beams, clearly more interested in the interaction between you and her brother than the menu. Her eyes darts between the two of you. “I’ll have the biggest milkshake you can make!” she chirps, her eyes sparkling with excitement.

As you jot down the orders, you can’t help but notice the way Dipper’s gaze lingers on you, almost as if he’s trying to figure you out. There’s something different in the air tonight—an unspoken tension that’s annoying.

Walking away, you pin the order slip to the metal wire with a little more force than necessary, the clatter echoes in the busy diner. You try to shake off the strange feeling lingering from Dipper’s gaze, but it nags at you. What’s his problem, anyway?

It’s not the first time Dipper’s actions have left you feeling sidelined. You can’t help but remember the countless instances where his obsession with solving mysteries and spending time with Grunkle Ford took precedence over his promises to you. One memory, in particular, stands out:

A few weeks ago, you, Dipper, and Mabel had planned a simple day out together—nothing special, just some time to hang out, grab ice cream, and maybe catch a movie. It was supposed to be a break from all the supernatural chaos that constantly surrounded Gravity Falls.

But then, just as you were about to head out, Dipper received a call from Grunkle Ford. There was some new anomaly that needed investigating, and in an instant, Dipper’s focus shifted entirely. “I’m really sorry, but Ford needs me for this,” he had said, already halfway out the door before you could respond. “We’ll hang out later, I promise!”

“Later” never came. Dipper had spent the entire day with Ford, lost in whatever mystery they were unraveling. You wouldn’t even had mind his behavior, if he bothered to invite you!

You had tried to brush it off, telling yourself that Dipper didn’t mean any harm, that he just got caught up in the moment. But it wasn’t the first time this had happened. There were other days, other plans that had fallen because of some mystery that he had to solve with Ford. And it wasn’t just the cancellations. Even when you did something thoughtful for him—like covering for him during one of his late-night research sessions or helping him decode a cryptic passage in the journal—he rarely seemed to acknowledge it. There were no thanks, no gestures to return the favor. It was as if he took your support for granted.

Over time, those small slights and unfulfilled promises built up, leaving you feeling more like a convenient sidekick than a true partner in his adventures. You had your own interests, your own life, but it often felt like Dipper only noticed you when it served his latest quest.

You huffed loudly, to no one in particular, and busied yourself by filling up three glasses with water and ice, but your mind keeps drifting back to Dipper. Maybe he’s just trying to get under your skin, like usual. You roll your eyes at the thought, but the annoyance doesn’t fade.

“How’s the shift, sweetie?” An older man beckons you over, his warm smile instantly putting you at ease.

You return the smile, walking over to him with a friendly nod. You place the cups on a round silver tray, the ice clinking gently in the glass cups. “It’s busy, but that’s how I like it. How about you? How’s your evening going?”

The man chuckles, adjusting his cap. His finger laces around a mug of dark fizz, soda you presume. He brings it to his lips for a sip. “Oh, just fine. I’ve been coming to this diner since before you were born, I reckon. Always a pleasure to see a new face behind the counter. You’re doing a great job, kid.”

You laugh softly, leaning on the counter as you chat with him. “Well, thanks! I’m just trying to keep up with the pace around here. Greasy’s is a pretty lively spot.”

As you continue your pleasant conversation, you notice the older man’s eyes light up as he talks about his favorite memories of the diner. You find yourself genuinely enjoying the exchange, smiling and laughing as the workday stress melts away.

However, unbeknownst to you, Dipper’s expression darkens as he watches you and the older man chatting. He’s hands are clenched a little too tightly, and his jaw is set in a way that’s impossible to ignore.

Just as the older man begins telling a story, you hear a commotion coming from the booth where Dipper and his family are seated. Mabel is leaning across the table, whispering something to Stan with a mischievous grin. Her brother glances at them, his eyes narrowing slightly, and suddenly, you have the distinct feeling they’re plotting something.

Your suspicion is confirmed when Mabel raises her hand, calling you over. “(Y/n)! Can we get some extra napkins? I think we’re gonna need them!”

You raise an eyebrow, but nod, grabbing a handful of napkins from the dispenser and the round tray of ice cold water. As you approach their table, you notice Stan looking far too innocent, while Dipper avoids eye contact altogether, staring intently at the salt shaker as if it holds the secrets of the universe.

“Here you go,” you say, handing the napkins to Mabel. She beams up at you, but there’s a glint in her eye that makes you hesitate. You smoothly slide the cups of water to each customer. Something’s definitely up.

You glance at Stan, who’s grinning behind his menu, clearly trying to suppress a laugh. The con-man is a walking prankster, and with Mabel involved, there’s no telling what they’ve cooked up. Dipper finally peeks up at you, his cheeks slightly flushed, but he quickly looks away again when he catches your gaze

“Thanks, (Y/n)! You’re the best,” Mabel chirps, her tone a little too sweet. Before you can respond, she "accidentally" knocks over her cup of water, sending a cascade of ice cubes and liquid spilling across the table—right onto Dipper’s lap.

Dipper jumps up with a startled yelp, grabbing the napkins to frantically blot at the spreading wet patch on his pants. “Mabel!” he hisses, his face turning a deep shade of red.

“Oh no! Dipper, I’m so sorry!” Mabel exclaims, though the grin tugging at her lips betrays her true feelings.

Stan bursts out laughing, slapping the table with delight. “That’s my girl! Good one, Mabel!”

You bite your lip, trying not to laugh, but the sight of Dipper, usually so composed and serious, flailing around like that is too much. A snort escapes before you can stop it.

“Oh, so you think this is funny, huh?” Dipper snaps, glaring at you, but there’s no real anger in his voice—just frustration mixed with embarrassment.

“Maybe a little,” you tease, crossing your arms and raising an eyebrow. “Need some help, or do you got this?”

Dipper’s eyes narrow as he grabs a handful of napkins, blotting at the mess. “I’m fine, thanks,” he mutters, though the wet stain on his shirt suggests otherwise.

Mabel, still giggling, tries to cover for her brother. “Come on, Dipper, it’s not that bad. Besides, maybe (Y/n) can help you clean up. You know, since she’s so good at her job.”

You’re about to retort when Stan cuts in, still chuckling. “Yeah, yeah. And maybe after that, you two can work out all that weird tension between ya. It’s like watching a soap opera in here!”

Your cheeks heat up, and you shoot Stan a glare, but he just leans back, completely oblivious to how uncomfortable his comment made you feel. Dipper, on the other hand, looks like he wants to crawl under the table and disappear.

Trying to regain your composure, you grab a clean towel from the counter and toss it to Dipper. “Here, use this. And next time, try not to wear your drink.”

Dipper catches the towel, his expression softening slightly as he mumbles, “Thanks.”

You nod, turning to leave, but not before catching a glimpse of the small, appreciative smile he’s trying to hide.

As the evening continues, you find yourself busy with the usual rush of orders, but your mind keeps drifting back to the incident with Dipper. You can’t quite shake the image of his flustered expression or the way his eyes softened when he thanked you. It’s confusing and… uncomfortable? You couldn’t quite place a finger on it.

You glance over at the Pines family every now and then, noticing how Mabel happily slurps her confetti milkshake, chattering animatedly about a theater show she wants to see, while Stan devours his stack of pancakes. Dipper, on the other hand, seems quiet. He’s eating his burger, but his gaze occasionally flickers toward you, as if he’s lost in thought.

When the dinner rush finally starts to wind down, you take a moment to catch your breath, leaning against the counter. The atmosphere in the diner has mellowed out, with fewer customers and the soft hum of the radio becoming more apparent. You’re just about to head back to the kitchen when you notice Dipper standing up from the booth, his eyes scanning the diner before they land on you.

He hesitates, looking like he’s about to say something, but then he glances at Mabel and Stan, who are still engrossed in their meals. With a deep breath, Dipper makes his way over to you.

“Hey, (Y/n),” Dipper greets you, leaning against the counter. His hands are fidgeting with themselves. “So, have you heard the latest rumors about the missing kid?”

You raise an eyebrow. “You mean the one about the abducted children and the tiny red shoe they found at the latest crime scene?”

Dipper nods. “Yeah, that’s the one. I was actually going to check it out tonight. You know, see if I can figure out what’s really going on.” He pulls out a journal with the number three, flipping to a page. He flips it around and brings it up to your face. “You see, Ford and I took a sample from the scene and we think it has to do with this…”

You glance at the page in the journal, which features a cute drawing of a Victorian style doll with a pair of cartoonish eyes. “The doll: ‘Polly?’ What’s that supposed to be?”

Dipper leans in, his expression serious. “The story goes that Polly was once a beloved toy of a child who went missing years ago. Since then, she’s been wandering the town seeking lonely children to kidnap, hoping that one of them will love her.”

You raise an eyebrow. “And how exactly does she lure these kids?”

Dipper continues, his voice low. “It’s said that Polly’s presence is accompanied by a soft, haunting melody that only children can hear. She creates illusions of a warm, inviting home and plays with them until they trust her. Once they’re close enough, she tries to entice them to follow her and stay with her forever.” He clears his throat and notes quickly, “Though, Grunkle Ford never actually saw Polly. He only heard rumors and descriptions of her from other creatures he’s encounter.”

Scoffing, you place a hand on your hips and take a step back. You try to keep your tone casual, but a hint of sarcasm slips through. “Polly sounds like something straight out of a horror movie, Dipper. Who knows, maybe those monsters actually lied to Ford? Maybe she doesn’t even exist.”

Dipper’s voice raises in annoyance. He’s taken aback by your unbelief. “It might sound like a cliché, but the evidence we’ve found aligns with the description.” He points exaggerately at the image of the doll. “The missing children reports suggest something unusual is going on. If there’s even a chance that Polly is involved, we need to deal with it.”

You rolled your eyes, your frustration bubbling to the surface. “Who’s we? You didn’t need me then, so why do you need me now?”

Your words carry a sharp edge, and Dipper flinches slightly, clearly catching the reference to that time he stood you and Mabel up for monster hunting with Grunkle Ford.

Dipper’s eyes narrow slightly, but he doesn’t back down. “I know I ditched you, but this is different. This is about doing what we can to protect people. Don’t you want to protect Gravity Falls?” He waves a hand around at your customers. Their happy faces pangs your heart.

“There is no we in this, Pines,” you snap, shaking your head as you let out a loud, frustrated sigh. Pinching the bridge of your nose, you try to keep your irritation in check. “Look, I have enough on my plate as it is. I don’t want to get involved in another one of your mystery adventures.” You glance away, making your frustration obvious. “Why don’t you go ask Ford?”

Dipper shifts uncomfortably, his resolve wavering for just a moment before he steels himself. “Ford’s busy with his own stuff, and—look, I know it sounds crazy, but you’ve got a knack for handling these situations,” he insists, his voice firm but pleading. “I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think you could help.”

You scoff, crossing your arms and refusing to look at him. “Oh, so now you need me? Where was that when you ditched us for Ford last time?”

Dipper’s face tightens, but he doesn’t back down. “I messed up then, I get it. But this isn’t about the past. It’s about what’s happening right now. We’re dealing with something dangerous, and I need someone I can count on. I need you.”

His words hang in the air, and for a moment, you can see the sincerity in his eyes—the same eyes that had once dismissed your insecurities about your friendship as unpredictable and unnecessary. It’s infuriating how he can just flip the script when it suits him, but there’s something about the way he’s looking at you now that gives you pause.

You let out a heavy breath, still reluctant but sensing the gravity of the situation. “Fine,” you mutter, half-annoyed, half-concerned. “But don’t think this means I’ve forgiven you. And if we end up in another life-threatening situation, you’re on your own, got it?”

Dipper nods, his expression softening with relief. “Got it. And… thanks. I won’t let you down this time. I’ll meet you at the house where the last kid was abducted at midnight”

You roll your eyes, but the slight dip in your guard shows that maybe, just maybe, you’re willing to give him one last chance. You walk away from the counter, feeling the weight of the evening ahead pressing down on you. The clock’s hands tick around the circle, and midnight approaches with relentless inevitability. You’ve already wrapped up your shift at Greasy’s Diner, and now, at home, you’re preparing a backpack filled with adventuring tools: a flashlight, a multi-tool, and a first aid kit. You double-lace your shoes, mentally preparing for whatever challenges the night might bring. The last thing you want is to be caught unprepared.

You glance up at the wall clock; it reads 11:40 PM. A deep dread settles in the pit of your stomach. This was the last thing you wanted to be doing today. With a resigned sigh, you throw on a thick jacket, feeling its weight as a reminder of the cold night ahead. You flick off the lights and check to make sure everything is in order.

Your aunt and uncle, exhausted from the day, had fallen asleep hours earlier. Their snoring from the bedroom reassures you that they’re not likely to wake up anytime soon. You quietly slip out of the house, making sure the door is securely locked behind you.

Outside, the chill of the night air bites at your cheeks as you pull the hood of your jacket up and shove your hands deep into your pockets. The quiet of the neighborhood is both eerie and comforting. The streetlights cast long shadows, and the only sounds are the distant hum of late-night traffic and the occasional rustle of wind through the trees.

You approach a rustic home made entirely of wood, from its walls to its rooftop. It’s wrapped with yellow tape from police officers, warning you to keep out of the crime scene. Beside the home is an old, beat-up vehicle parked in front of a small garage. The paint on the car is scratched and damaged, indicating it’s well-loved. On the small lawn was a pink plastic flamingo. A pair of sunglasses sat on top of it’s large beak.

You wait by the picket fence, hoping the neighbors won’t notice you loitering around. Glancing up at the stars, you notice they twinkle brightly, as if calling out to you.

Finally, Dipper arrives, huffing and puffing as he catches his breath. “You ready?”

You nod, pushing aside your lingering dread. “Yeah, let’s get this over with.”

You follow him as he leads the way, your footsteps crunching softly on the gravel path. Dipper ducks beneath the yellow tape, and then holds it higher to allow you to follow suit. The house is old and weather-beaten, with overgrown weeds encroaching on the yard. The dim light from a single streetlamp flickers erratically, casting eerie shadows.

Dipper stops near the front porch and pulls out a small flashlight, its beam cutting through the darkness. “We’ll start by checking here. Polly might have left more then just a red shoe behind.” He cracks open the slightly ajar door, it creaks loudly, notifying you of his rusted hinges.

As you both begin your search, the air grows colder, and the silence becomes almost deafening. The occasional creak of the house seems unnaturally loud. You move cautiously, scanning the area for anything out of place.

You approach a pile of toys in the living room, noticing some are faded and worn, while others are oddly pristine. “Hey, Dipper!” You call out to him. As he approaches, you knelt down and pick up plastic toy horse. “It’s like they’ve been left here for a while.

Dipper crouches down and examines them more closely. “Polly might use them to lure children, making it seem like she’s offering friendship.”

Your eyes fall on a small, delicate music box among the toys. Its paint is chipped, but it’s still intact. “This music box could be important. Do you think it’s connected?”

Dipper picks up the music box, turning it over in his hands. “Maybe. The journal mentioned a haunting melody. If this is what Polly uses, it could help.” He tilts it to one side, noticing a handle sticking out of the container. The brown haired boy begins cranking it, slowly and firmly until a melody begins playing.

You and Dipper stand frozen, recognizing the song. The music box’s tune lingering in the air, its hauntingly beautiful melody now accompanied by a ghostly, girlish voice singing softly in your minds. The eerie lyrics resonate with an unsettling charm:

Twinkle, twinkle, little star, follow me, we won’t go far. In the woods where shadows play, come with me, we’ll laugh and sway.

Skip and hop, the night is bright, in the dark, we’ll find delight. Close your eyes, and hear the tune, magic whispers, come real soon.

Twinkle, twinkle, stay with me, in this land of mystery. Through the night, and past the trees, let’s discover what there’s to see.

A shiver runs down your spine, and you glance nervously at Dipper, your throat tightening as a thick lump of fear settles in. “D-Did you hear that?” you whisper, your voice trembling.

Dipper’s face pales as he nods slowly, his eyes wide with apprehension. “Yeah, I heard it. It’s like the song is trying to reach out to us.” He takes a deep breath, trying to steady his nerves. His expression is resolute. “Let’s follow the melody.”

You shake your head, vehemently disagreeing with the person you thought was bravely foolish. “Look,” you took a step back and put your hands palm facing towards him. “I’m done with whatever this is. Ghosts? Monsters? Fine. But haunted dolls? Absolutely not. You and your endless mystery adventures can take a hike.” You jab your thumb back toward the door, making it crystal clear that this isn’t your cup of tea.

Dipper’s eyes narrow, his face hardening with determination. “I get that you’re scared, but this isn’t the time to back out. We’ve already started, and if we don’t follow the melody, we might miss a chance to stop whatever Polly’s planning.”

You cross your arms, scowling. “You think you’re so brave, don’t you? Always jumping into the unknown without thinking things through. Maybe you’re used to getting yourself into these messes, but I’ve got my own limits.”

Dipper takes a step closer, his tone sharp. “This isn’t about being brave or foolish. It’s about saving children before they all die.”

You glare at him, frustration clouding your judgement, developing your words into something more raw, more painful. “That’s all you care about, isn’t it? The adventure. The thrill. You’ve never once stopped to think about how this affects the people around you.”

Dipper’s taken aback, his expression faltering for a split second before he quickly recovers. “That’s not true. I care about—”

“About what? About saving the day? About being the hero?” You cut him off, your voice trembling with the weight of everything you’ve been holding back. “But what about me, Dipper? What about the fact that every time you drag us into one of your mysteries, we’re the ones who have to pick up the mess? You don’t even care that I’m scared out of my mind right now.”

Dipper opens his mouth to argue, but no words come out. He looks at you, really looks at you, and for a moment, you think he might finally understand. But then he shakes his head, his eyes show a lack of emotion, of empathy. “I do care, but it’s not about what we want or how we feel. It’s about doing what’s right.”

Your heart sinks, the finality of his words hitting you like a punch to the gut. “Of course,” you say bitterly, turning away from him. “It’s always about solving the mystery.”

Dipper reaches out, as if he wants to say something more, but you step back, avoiding his touch. The silence between you is heavy, filled with everything that’s been left unsaid.

You clench your fists, feeling a mix of anger and something else you can’t quite name. “Fine. But don’t expect me to follow blindly. If we’re doing this, you better have a plan that doesn’t involve us ending up as Polly’s next victims.”

The boy swallows his words, and turns away. “No problem,” Dipper says sarcastically, waving a hand dismissively as he heads towards the back door, the music box in hand. “Follow me. I bet I know where this thing is leading us.”

You both trudge through the dark woods, your flashlights cutting through the shadows that dance ominously on the tree trunks. Dipper had tossed the music box to you, instructing you to wind it up repeatedly. Despite the incessant, irritating melody, there’s something oddly soothing about it, a small comfort amid the tension.

“So,” you call out, peering over Dipper’s shoulder, “where exactly are we headed?”

Dipper is focused on journal 3, which he’s holding with a purple flashlight. The light reveals hidden text, and a small drawing in the corner, depicting field of flowers and a tea party, surrounded by doodles of stars.

He glances at you. “We’re trying to find this.” He points to the vague, almost insignificant drawing. “The rumors claim that Polly in a clearing by a lake.”

“…and you know where this is… how?” you ask, skeptically.

“Intuition,” Dipper replies with a shrug, as if it’s obvious. “But mainly because the music box is guiding us. It’s like a beacon. Without it, we’d be stumbling around blindly.”

You pause in step. Your eyes widen in disbelief. “So, you’re telling me that if we wander around randomly in the forest, we’ll eventually find Polly?”

“That’s the plan!” Dipper grins, looking both confident and a bit foolish.

You scowl, feeling a mix of irritation and reluctant admiration. “Great. So we’re just hoping the music box is as good as you think it is. I suppose if we end up lost or worse, we can thank your ‘intuition’ for it.”

Dipper’s grin falters slightly, but he maintains his proud expression. “We’re in this together now. Just keep winding the music box. We’ll find our way.”

You mutter under your breath, but your grip on the music box tightens. Despite your irritation, you’re almost envious of his lack of doubt. As you both push deeper into the forest, the night seems to close in around you, the eerie melody from the music box being the only grounding normalcy.

Finally, you notice the peaks of flowers emerging from the ground, growing more abundant as you approach. Beyond them, a clearing beside a lake comes into view. Then, your eyes fell onto the tea party that was described in the book.

What catches you off guard is the sight of an elaborate setting, a scene that would ordinarily evoke quaint charm but now strikes you as profoundly unsettling. The long table, set with intricate lace tablecloths, is laden with porcelain teapots, delicate cups, and an array of pastries that seem untouched, as if waiting for guests who will never arrive.

Seated around the table are numerous stuffed animals, each dressed in pastel-colored dresses and suits that shimmer softly in the moonlight. They sport tiny hats and monocles, their glassy eyes reflecting the dim glow of the shining stars. The stuffed animals are arranged as if in the middle of an animated conversation, their poses frozen mid-action—a teddy bear holding a teacup; a bunny poised with a strawberry, glazed scone; a dog with a red bowtie sitting politely; and a duck in a dapper suit, all seemingly caught in a moment of eternal tea-time.

Pastel balloons are tied to the backs of the chairs, their soft, muted colors creating a deceptive air of festivity. The balloons sway gently with the breeze, casting playful shadows that flicker across the scene. The entire setup exudes an air of mock merriment.

However, the true horror reveals itself as you take in the sight of the missing children sitting in between each stuffed animal They are sprawled around the table in a disturbingly serene manner. Their bodies positioned as though they had simply fallen asleep amidst the party. Their heads hang limply to the side, faces expressionless, and their mouths slightly ajar. Not a single noise escaped them as their pale faces barely take in a breath of air. Their clothes, once vibrant with life, now look out of place amidst the cheerful pastel decor.

The air is heavy with an unsettling stillness, and the soft, haunting melody from the music box persists, filling the silence. The children’s passive forms etch themselves into your mind, a haunting image that you know will stay with you.

Your breath hitches. You take a step back, your foot crushing a delicate poppy. “I-I don’t think—” Panic surges up your throat, choking off your breath and words. The sight is overwhelming, and you struggle to process it.

Dipper turns around and looks at you. You can see the frustration in his expression, the way his jaw tightens as he glares at you. “Are you seriously going to bail now?” he snaps, his voice edged with impatience. “We’ve always gotten through everything because we stick together. And now you’re just going to walk away?”

His words cut through the fog of your fear, anchoring you to the present. You glance up at him, seeing the earnest resolve in his eyes. But the sight behind him—the children, so unnaturally still—won’t leave your mind. “Do you see that?! What could your plan possibly do against—” You gesture wildly at the scene, your voice trembling with a mix of fear and disbelief. “That?!”

Dipper’s face hardens as he hears your hesitation, and there’s a flash of anger in his eyes. “You think I don’t get it? This is terrifying. But you’re the one person I thought I could count on, and you’re leaving on me when I need you the most?”

His words sting, and you can feel the weight of his disappointment pressing down on you. The sight of the children, so disturbingly still, tugs at your resolve. Your breath hitches again, the overwhelming situation pulling you in different directions.

“You think I don’t understand?” you counter, your voice shaking with fear and frustration. “This is too much! You’re acting like I’m just supposed to—”

Before you can finish, Dipper interrupts, his tone softer but still firm. “Look, I know I’ve messed up. I’ve said and done some things I shouldn’t have. But right now, we need each other.” He ends, confidently.

It’s so dismissive that it leaves you wide eyed in disbelief. He actually doesn’t care about you.

With a heavy sigh, you finally relent. “Okay, okay,” Feeling the weight of the situation and his words, you place two hands up in mock surrender. “Whatever. I’ll stay.”

Dipper’s face softens slightly, though the tension remains. Without another word, he begins walking up to the clearing. The faint glow of his flashlight dances ahead, casting flickering shadows on the walls. You follow closely behind.

As you approach the long table, your eyes are drawn to a striking figure perched at the head of the table. There, on top of a tall, ornate stool, sits a stunning Victorian doll, commanding the center of attention. Her golden blonde curls are meticulously arranged, cascading down her back. Atop her head is a baby pink bonnet with an elaborate lace trim, secured with matching ribbons that flutter gently in the breeze, as if beckoning you closer.

The gown is a soft pastel shade—baby pink—adding to its ethereal charm. The bodice of the dress is fitted, accentuating the doll's delicate form, and features a high lace, white collar that frames her porcelain neck with intricate patterns. At the center was a bright blue broach.

The skirt of the dress featured multiple layers of fabric. The top layer of the skirt is adorned with delicate lace trim, which falls in soft, scalloped edges, and is decorated with tiny rosettes. The hem of the skirt is finished with a delicate lace ruffle, giving it a dreamy, almost fairytale quality.

On her feet were a pair of lace socks. One foot had an accompanying red shoe. The other was missing it.

You look at Dipper, who is also frozen, his eyes wide with uncertainty. Before he can speak, a loud, shrill voice interrupts.

“Uninvited guests!” The voice echoes through the clearing, causing both of you to jump.

Your gaze snaps to the source of the voice. You scan the attendees—stuffed animals and the motionless children—before your eyes settle on the doll. Her beautiful porcelain face, pale and delicate, displays two rosy cheeks and a soft, closed smile. Her eyes are shut tight, but a chill runs down your spine as you wonder—did she just... speak?

The voice carries a singsong quality as it continues. “Welcome to my party, but you’re terribly late! The fun is about to begin, and I do hate to wait.” The doll’s arm raises slightly, her hand perpetually open. Though she cannot truly point, the gesture directs your attention toward two chairs set at the far end of the table. These chairs, ornately decorated, are clearly intended for the guests of honor—chairs that seem to beckon with a chilling invitation.

The air grows colder, and the haunting melody from the music box had long since muted in place. The doll’s gaze remains fixed ahead, her closed eyes concealing whatever dark intentions lie behind them.

“You’re just in time for tea,” the doll continues, “So come and sit, don’t let it be.”

Dipper shifts his weight from one foot to another. He glances at you, and then says. “O-Oh um, we’re not here—”

You interrupt him, your voice laced with urgency. “Sure! Don’t mind if we do!” You grab his arm and yank him along, leaning in close to his ear. One hand shields his ear from the doll’s sight as you whisper harshly, “We have to play along. Don’t make it angry, Dipper. The last thing we need is for that thing to think we’re party crashers.”

Dipper’s eyes widen in realization, and he nods vigorously. “Okay. Sure. That sounds good.” He gives three uncertain confirmations.

You both approach the ornate chairs at the head of the table, their plush, pastel-colored cushions inviting and deceptively comforting. As you sit, the cushions mold around you, cradling your weight with a softness that feels almost too soothing, as if coaxing you to relax.

The doll’s face remains fixed in its serene smile, her closed eyes seemingly gleaming with satisfaction. Her hand drops back down to her side, and instead, a white teapot adorned with pink bows rises from the table, hovering gently in the air.

With a whimsical lilt in her voice, the doll says, “I do hope you’re hungry, for tea and cake we’ve got. But before we begin, a little joke—don’t you think that’s a lot?”

She pauses, as if waiting for a response, then continues with a playful tone, “Why did the teacup frown and pout? It lost its sugar and cream, without a doubt!”

The eerie laughter that follows is almost mechanical, as if it’s been rehearsed. The stuffed animals begin to jiggle and bounce in their seats. It’s as if the stuffed animals are performing a grim, choreographed routine, their movements and laughter meticulously timed. Their glassy eyes seem to twinkle with an artificial delight, their stitched smiles stretching wider as they moved merrily.

You exchange a tense glance with Dipper, the bizarre nature of the scene amplifying your unease. You offer a stiff chuckle, which Dipper mirrors, attempting to blend in with the strange atmosphere.

Instantly, the laughter ceases, as if it were a switch that had been flipped. The sudden silence is nerve-racking, making your stiffened smile feel even more out of place.

The teapot glides across the table, its movements smooth and deliberate. It pauses in front of your and Dipper’s tea cups, the spout extending as it begins to pour a dark liquid. The steam curling from the cups carries a faintly burnt scent, mingling with the underlying bitterness.

The teapot sets itself down softly onto a lace doily, the porcelain clinking gently. You observe the tea as it settles in the cups, the dark liquid swirling slightly with the motion.

Her mechanical, yet oddly enchanting voice chimes in. “Would you like some milk or sugar in your tea? Or perhaps both, to make it sweet and neat?” Her eyes remains closed, her head was set straight, neither looking or tilting to observe the both of you.

The jar of sugar cubes and the small pitcher filled with milk lift gracefully into the air, floating over toward you with an almost magical precision. The doll’s eyes remain closed, but her posture is expectant, as if eagerly awaiting your choice.

Dipper glances at the hovering items, then at the doll. “Um… neither?” he says hesitantly. The doll’s serene smile twitches at the edges, her head tilting slightly to the side in a manner that seems almost disappointed.

A moment passes. One long moment.

You can almost feel the shift in atmosphere, a cold weight settling over you as you realize the doll’s displeasure. To avoid any further ire, you swallow hard and stammer, “S-Sugar… please.” You quickly add, “Thank you,” hoping to placate the doll and salvage the situation.

Polly’s smile smoothly returns to its original, serene curve. She straightens her head back to its normal position, her posture relaxing as if satisfied with your response.

"How many sugar cubes shall I add?" Polly inquires, her shrill voice directs its attention towards you. "Just one? Or two? Or perhaps more—make sure to choose with care, for sweetness brings delight or despair."

Her hand, though rigid and fixed, seems to gesture towards the jar of sugar cubes with an almost imperceptible twitch, as if hinting at the gravity of your decision. She giggles, enjoying her jokes.

“T-Two is fine,” you squeak out, your voice trembling with fear.

Two sugar cubes, lifted by a silver spoon, float gracefully from the jar and tumble into your tea, where they dissolve into the dark liquid with a soft hiss. The milk and sugar set themselves back on their respective lace doilies with a gentle flutter.

An oppressive silence falls over the clearing. The stars above shine brightly, but their light only amplifies the eerie stillness of the field—no insects buzz, no rustling from hidden creatures. Just an unsettling quiet.

“Drink,” Polly demands, her voice now stripped of its rhyming whimsy. The sudden shift in tone sends a chill down your spine. Your gaze flits between Dipper, the doll, and your cup of tea, the weight of Polly’s command pressing down on you as you reluctantly prepare to sip.

As you lift the cup to your lips, your hand trembling, Dipper suddenly springs to his feet.

“Actually um,” Dipper begins, his voice slightly wavering but attempting to sound confident, “we’re not here to play. We wanted to ask you a question.” He glances over at you, visibly relieved that the focus has shifted off the tea, but his satisfaction quickly fades as he sees the dread in your eyes.

Polly’s eyes suddenly snap open. They are a startlingly bright blue, the same shade as the broach on her dress. Her gaze locks onto Dipper, the intensity of her stare making you squirm.

Polly's grin remains fixed, her lips curling slightly as she begins to speak in a sing-song.

“Questions and answers, the game we play, but you must sip your tea before you sway. Ask away if you dare to pry, but remember, there’s no going back once you try.”

Her eyes twinkle with a hint of mischief as she continues.

“Words have power, as you’ll soon see, one sip and you’ll uncover what’s meant to be. But if you refuse, there’s a price to pay, and the answers you seek may slip away.”

Dipper swallows hard, his resolve wavering under Polly’s relentless gaze. “We’re just trying to find out what happened to the missing kids. Can you help us?”

Polly’s smile widens, her eyes never leaving Dipper. “Ah, the missing ones, so close to our hearts, But to learn their fate, the tea must start. Sip and reveal what lies beneath, or face the consequences of your disbelief.”

“Dipper!” You lean over your chair, grabbing at his vest with a tight grip. The fabric bunches up in your hand as you tug him closer. “We have to play along,” you insist, your voice a low, urgent hiss. The frustration in your tone seems to only aggravate him further, and he shakes off your hand with a scowl.

“No way!” he hisses back, his voice laced with panic. “We don’t know what’s in that thing!”

You turn your attention back to the tea cup, its dark liquid swirling ominously. The fear of what’s inside is unnerves you, but drinking it is the only way to get Polly to cooperate. With a determined breath, you lift the cup and lock eyes with Polly, who’s watching you intently. “If I drink this, will you cooperate with us?” you ask, trying to keep your voice steady despite the lump in your throat.

Polly’s eyes lock onto yours with an unnerving intensity as she considers your offer. The eerie, porcelain doll remains perfectly still, her unsettling smile never wavering.

“Ah, a brave soul, how rare to see,” she begins, her voice lilting in a rhythmic, almost melodic tone. “A sip from the cup, and questions shall be free.”

You breath out, almost sighing. With a final, resolute glance at Dipper, who watches with anxiety, you lift the cup to your lips. The liquid inside is dark and opaque, its aroma bitter and uninviting. Polly’s gaze follows every movement with a sinister patience.

You take a long sip of the black tea. The liquid is shockingly hot and has a taste that is both earthy and bitter, lingering on your tongue. You swallow, feeling the warmth spread through your chest.

Polly remains fixed on you, her eyes unblinking and intensely focused. Her smile doesn’t waver as you put the cup back down on the table

“Well done,” the doll tilts its head, pleased by your action. “You’ve proven you’re willing to play. Now, tell me what you seek, and I’ll give you a chance to speak.”

You opened your mouth and began, “How do we convince you to give us the missing children?”

The Victorian doll stands up her short legs seems to balance her on top of the stool. “Tell me why you seek to save the children from their dream. For here with me, they are content and serene. They dream of love, their hearts entwined, with parents and loved ones, all perfectly aligned.”

“Because,” you stood up as well, uncomfortable with how indominable she appeared. “They need to return to their actual parents who miss them!”

Polly’s eyes, now bright and gleaming, open wider. Her voice, though sweet, carries a hint of sorrow. “But you see,” she replies in a sing-song tone, “Their parents left them lonely, left them on their own. Deprived of the love and the attention they craved, so I whisked them away to a world they’d be saved.”

It was impossible to argue with her, you realized. She saw herself as an angel of saving grace for the lonely children of Gravity Falls. Nothing was going to change that. “What… will happen to them if they stay with you…?” You pause between each word as your voice grew into a dim whisper.

Polly’s porcelain smile remains, but her voice turns colder. “If they stay with me, dear, they’ll slumber here, sweet and dear. Their bodies will wither, and their spirits will fade, while I keep them close in the shade.” A chill runs down your spine as Polly’s words become clearer. Her serene face seems almost mocking as she continues. “They’ll dream of a world where they’re never alone, but time will pass and their bodies will moan. When their forms decay and their lives come to end, I’ll gently lay them where the waters blend.”

You and Dipper exchange worried glances as you take in the sight of the lake behind Polly. The realization hits you: beneath that calm surface, the lake likely holds the bodies of missing children of the past. A cold shiver runs down your spine. What has Dipper dragged you into?

Dipper seems to be formulating a plan, his eyes darting around the scene. He turns to you, urgency in his voice. “I need you to distract her while I find a way to defeat Polly. Can you do that?”

You stare at him, disbelief etched across your face. “Distract her?! How could I possibly—”

Before you can finish, Dipper suddenly tips over his teacup, sending its contents spilling onto the grass. The handle of the delicate cup cracks off and clatters to the ground. “Oops!” he exclaims with exaggerated nonchalance. “Can you handle that for me, (Y/n)?”

Your jaw drops as Dipper swiftly ducks beneath the table, vanishing from Polly's sight. The doll's gaze remains fixated on the spilled tea, her smile widening into an unsettling crescent. She murmurs something under her breath.

“Haha, w-what was that?” you stammer, taking an uncertain step away from the table.

Despite her facial muscles being unable to move, you can sense her eyes narrowing with displeasure.

Trying to buy time, you feign a cheerful demeanor. “Oh, Polly! Look at that mess! Isn’t it just the most amusing accident?” You wave your arms dramatically, hoping to divert her attention as Dipper figures out how to defeat her.

Polly finally responds after a pause. Her head snapping up to stare at you. “Oh, such a clumsy little thing, Making spills and causing a fling! But entertain me if you please, before I chase you to the trees!”

She begins to rise from her chair, her movements smooth yet unnervingly quick. You back away nervously, trying to keep her attention focused on you as she starts to follow you around the table and towards the lake.

With each step you take, Polly’s laughter rings out, a chilling melody that echoes across the clearing. She floats with an almost unnatural grace, her gaze fixed on you as you weave through the field, her intentions clear.

As you lead Polly in a wild chase, your heart pounds with anxiety. You approach the lake and then turn around to face her, you glance behind you into the murky depths below. Well, it seems like you have no where else to run. Just when you think you might be cornered, you see Dipper darting from beneath the table, clutching Polly’s red shoe and the music box.

He skids to a halt near the edge of the clearing, holding up the shoe and the box. “Polly!” he shouts, his voice carrying a mix of urgency and determination. “Your shoe is a key to this whole mess! And the music box—let’s see if it can bring your little party to an end!”

He quickly turns the handle on the music box and starts to play the haunting melody. The sound fills the air, and it appears as though the stars are drawing closer. Polly’s expression shifts from curiosity to agitation as she stops in her tracks, her eyes widening.

“You think a tune will save your day?” she shrieks, her voice cracking with frustration. “It’s not enough to keep me at bay!”

But Dipper’s plan is already in motion. And he yells, “(Y/N)! Get her!”

Realization sets in and your body moves before you’re ready. You lunge forward and grip the head of the doll pulling it towards you into an unyielding chokehold.

“What’s next?!” You gruff out, trying to keep a firm hold of the protesting doll as it tries to squirm out of your grasp.

He runs to you and holds up Polly’s red shoe, revealing a hidden compartment inside. He pulls out a shimmering, ornate key and waves it in front of her. “This key.” He announces triumphantly, “If you wind it into the keyhole in her back, she’ll stop moving as the spirit trapped inside will finally release.”

He quickly hands you the key, his hands trembling slightly from the adrenaline. You manage to pry open Polly’s back, revealing a small, ornate keyhole hidden beneath her delicate dress. With a deep breath, you carefully insert the key and start turning it.

As you wind the key, Polly’s movements become more sluggish. Her eyes, once wide with rage, begin to lose their focus, her form flickering as if struggling to maintain its shape.

“Keep going!” Dipper urges, his voice barely audible over the fading music. “You’re doing great!”

With each turn of the key, Polly’s protests grow weaker. Her once-terrifying grin softens, and her movements become more erratic. Finally, with a final, decisive click, the key reaches its limit. Polly’s body suddenly goes limp in your arms, her disturbing blue eyes still wide open.

A profound silence falls over the clearing as Polly begins to disintegrate into ash, leaving only her head behind. You and Dipper release the creepy objects, allowing it to gently fall into the grass.

Dipper steps forward, his face displays relief and exhaustion. “We did it,” he says, his voice filled with weary satisfaction. “Let’s get out of here before anything else happens.” He starts to walk away, his focus on the path ahead.

A moment passes.

When he notices the silence stretching longer than expected and doesn’t hear your footsteps following, he stops and turns around. His eyes search for you, and his heart skips a beat when he finally spots you standing still near the remnants of the broken tea party.

“(Y/n)…?” Dipper calls out, his voice tinged with concern.

You stand there, unmoving, a vacant expression on your face. Your eyes, usually full of life, are now glazed over, and a sinister smile curls your lips. Dipper’s stomach drops as he takes in the sight.

“You’re—” he begins, but his voice falters. The realization hits him like a cold wave. “No, no, no. This can’t be happening.”

He rushes back to your side, shaking you gently. “(Y/n), can you hear me? Snap out of it!”

But the smile on your face remains unnaturally wide, and your eyes stay fixed in a haunting stare. “Welcome to the party,” you say in a voice that’s not quite your own, echoing Polly’s eerie tone. “You’re the next guest of honor.”

Dipper’s heart races as he searches for a solution. He frantically looks around, his mind racing through every clue and piece of information he has. “No, this isn’t right,” he mutters to himself. “There has to be something…”

His gaze lands on the remnants of the doll and the now-silent music box. The realization strikes him again—Polly’s spirit might have latched onto you in a final act of revenge.

“Okay, think!” Dipper says, more to himself than anyone. “The key worked for Polly, so maybe there’s something left we can use.”

He runs away to frantically searches through the debris, his hands moving with urgency. As he works, he remembers the music box and its intricate mechanisms. With a desperate hope, he pries open the music box, hoping to find something that might help.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice cracking with guilt. “I should’ve been more careful. I should’ve—”

Walking slowly, deliberately towards the boy, you observe him carefully. Your voice is distorted as you respond in a manner that drew from the neglected depression caused by Dipper. “Left behind, I’ve grown so cold, now with this doll, my heart’s been sold.” You shake your head, trying to separate the sing-song voice from your own. “I told you, Dipper. I’m not a tool you can use whenever it’s convenient.” It’s barely above a whisper.

He finally looks at you. Really looks at you. The dawning realization hits him like a cold wave crashing over him. He understands now: this was all his doing. The doll had called out to lonely children, those who felt abandoned and neglected. It wasn’t just a matter of curiosity or adventure; it was a matter of deep, personal connection. The spirit that inhabited the doll had latched onto it because of its own loneliness when its original owner vanished. And now, that same spirit has attached itself to you.

Dipper’s heart races as he confronts the gravity of the situation. He stands, his palms slick with sweat, and he wipes them nervously against his vest. His eyes are filled with a mixture regret and desperation. “(Y/n),” he begins, his voice trembling slightly, “I... I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize... I didn’t see how my actions would lead to this. I thought I was just solving a mystery…”

You fail to reply, your expression a mask of hollow understanding. You tilt your head slightly, as if considering his words but not truly grasping them. The eerie calmness in your demeanor sends a shiver down Dipper’s spine. His hands tremble as he reaches out to you, the weight of his guilt and fear heavy in his heart.

With a deep breath, Dipper envelops you in a hug. You’re stiff against his body, and he’s stiffly hugging you back. His hands are placed awkwardly on your back, as if he’s unsure of where to place them. You can feel his heartbeat accelerating, each thud resonating with the frantic urgency in his chest. His face is flushed red, and the tips of his ears are crimson, revealing the depth of his feelings for you.

Yet, Dipper shrugs past his shyness and confronts you. His voice softens, and you can see the struggle in his eyes as he continues. “Look,” he says, his tone more earnest than before, “I know I can be a pain sometimes, and I know I’ve always let you down. I even say things that I regret. But… I…” He hesitates, taking a deep breath as if gathering the courage to finally say what’s been on his mind. “I’m sorry for calling you unpredictable. I’m sorry for calling your feelings unnecessary. I’m sorry for only seeking you out when it’s convenient for me.”

He pulls away slightly to look at you with sincerity, his voice almost breaking as he continues. “I never meant to make you feel like you didn’t matter, like your thoughts and feelings were less important than mine. I got so wrapped up in the mysteries and trying to prove myself that I forgot how much you’ve been there for me, even when I didn’t deserve it.”

He squeezes your body, a silent plea for you to believe him. “I don’t want you to feel like you’re just another part of the adventure. You’re more than that. You’re… important to me, in ways that go beyond all this craziness. I need you here, not just because of what we’re facing, but because… I need you.”

You struggle against the spirit's influence, your mind a battleground of despair and defiance. The doll’s voice echoes in your head, a cruel reminder of your loneliness and Dipper’s perceived neglect. You fight to hold onto your own thoughts, pushing back against the overwhelming darkness.

“I need you. We have a ton of bizarre mysteries to solve, and… well, I’m gonna need your expert opinion on the best milkshake flavors at Greasy’s Diner. And believe me, that's a crucial job.” He lets a hand go to cup your face gently. His thumb brushing against a tear that leaks from the corner of your eye. “So, how about it? Stay with me and I promise to bring you the most ridiculous milkshake combinations we can think of. Deal?”

With a surge of willpower, you manage to break through the spirit’s hold. You feel the pressure in your mind lift, the cold grip loosening as you regain control. A final burst of energy helps you push the spirit out, and you gasp for air, your chest heaving.

As the last remnants of the spirit dissipate, you collapse into Dipper’s embrace. You both fall, tumbling onto the fluffy grass. Your arms tremble slightly, and your breathing is ragged. Slowly, you wrap your arms around him, the hug coming out as an awkward yet sincere gesture. Dipper’s arms tighten around you, his grip warm and reassuring.

“Seriously?” You murmur into his shoulder, your voice still shaky. “I’m never messing with the supernatural again, Dipping Sauce.”

Dipper chuckles into your arms, his eyes softening with relief. He’s still flushed, but there’s a tender, grateful smile on his face. “Yeah… me either.” His voice filled with earnest emotion. “At least, not alone. Not without you.” He pauses. “And you’re important. More than you know.”

The two of you stayed lying in the grass under the stars for a while longer, the night air cool and calm. His embrace was comforting in comparison to the terror you just went through. Eventually, without saying a word, you both silently agreed it was time to head back to civilization.

The walk to your house was peaceful, Dipper’s hand gripping yours tightly, as if reassuring himself you were still there beside him.

When you reached your doorstep, you turned to him with a soft smile. “See you in the morning, Dipper,” you said, leaning in to place a quick kiss on his cheek.

His face lit up in a deep blush as he instinctively covered the spot where your lips had touched. “Y-Yeah, see you tomorrow, (Y/n),” he stammered, coughing awkwardly to hide his embarrassment.

You chuckled, finding his shy reaction utterly endearing. Turning to head inside, you were almost through the door when you heard his voice again.

“(Y/n)?”

You paused, hand still on the doorknob, turning just enough to see him standing there, his eyes earnest and filled with something unspoken. “What is it, Dipper?”

He hesitated for a moment before giving you a sheepish grin. “You think we could meet up at Greasy’s tomorrow? I’ve been working on this idea for the coolest milkshake ever, but… well, you’re the milkshake master, so…”

Your heart warmed at the thought, and you smiled. “Of course. I wouldn’t want you ruining my reputation with a bad milkshake experiment.”

He laughed, the tension easing between you. “Deal. Let’s create the best milkshake Gravity Falls has ever seen.”

With one last grin, you gave him a wave and stepped inside. But then, he says something else.

“(Y/n)?”

You full turn around this time and face him. “Dipper?”

Dipper stared at you for a long moment, his eyes distant, as if lost in thought. You could see the wheels turning in his head, like he was on the verge of saying something more. But then, he shook his head gently, a small, almost defeated smile tugging at his lips.

"Nothing. Good night, (Y/n)," he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

You paused, sensing there was something deeper lingering just beneath the surface. Part of you wanted to urge him to speak, to let out whatever was weighing on him. But for now, you let it be, trusting that whatever it was, Dipper would tell you when he was ready.

"Good night, Dipper," you said warmly before turning and slipping into your home, leaving him standing on the porch.

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