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sunfairyy · 16 days ago

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hey angels, i'm back! here is part 3!

i'm so sorry but i wont be doing a taglist because it gets so confusing!!! hope you understand

im so glad everyone is enjoying this series so far and i had so much fun writing it. part 1 and part 2 are here!

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

Joel woke the next morning already muttering under his breath, half-formed curses strung between his teeth as he sat on the edge of the bed and yanked his boots on with more force than necessary, like the act of getting dressed itself was an inconvenience, like the cold floorboards and the memory of what he’d said weren’t already chewing at his thoughts.

“This is stupid,” he grumbled to the empty room, rubbing a hand over his face, jaw still clenched from a restless night. “Ain’t nothin’ to fix.”

But still—he tugged his jacket on.

Still—he grabbed the folded cloth bundle off the counter, the one with the damn bread he made that morning even though he told himself it was just habit, just something to do with his hands.

And still—he left the house, boots crunching against gravel, the sky above streaked with soft clouds, pale light pouring through the breaks like the morning itself hadn’t quite decided what kind of day it wanted to be.

He didn’t know exactly what he was going to say. He never did.

But he walked anyway.

Down the worn trail between cabins, past the little wooden fence where Benji’s toys were still scattered in the dirt from yesterday’s visit, past the quiet murmur of townsfolk just beginning to stir.

His shoulders were hunched slightly against the cold, but his hands were steady, and his steps had that slow, stubborn rhythm—the kind he got when he was doing something he didn’t want to admit he cared about.

He knew where you’d be.

You always helped unload the greenhouse supply crates on Wednesdays, that gentle routine of yours as predictable as sunrise.

He imagined you there now, bent slightly at the waist, sleeves pushed up as you wiped your hands on your apron, maybe tucking that strand of hair behind your ear the way you always did when you were focused—so damn kind it irritated him, so soft he wanted to look away from it but never could.

And as he reached the edge of the garden path, his boots just shy of the gravel turn where your shadow flickered against the greenhouse wall, Joel took a breath that felt too tight in his chest, cleared his throat like he could clear the guilt right along with it, and prepared himself to do the one thing he hated more than almost anything else.

Try.

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

You didn’t see him at first—not until you turned, arms full of empty baskets, ready to head back toward the shed and put some space between you and the ache still lingering at the edge of your chest—and there he was.

Joel.

Standing awkwardly at the far end of the garden path, backlit by the pale morning sun, looking far too large for the little patch of earth beneath his boots, with a bundle clutched in his hands like he wasn’t sure whether he meant to offer it or throw it away.

His shoulders were stiff, like they hadn’t decided whether this was worth the embarrassment, and his mouth was set in that same unreadable line that had pushed you away the night before.

And your first instinct—stupid and human and wholly unprepared for this—was to turn.

To leave.

To slip out of reach before he could speak, before he could say something else that might finish what yesterday’s silence had started.

You mumbled something half-formed, barely audible—“I should—sorry, I didn’t realize—” and took one uncertain step backward, your gaze fixed somewhere near the dirt, anywhere but his eyes.

But his voice stopped you.

Low. Rough. The kind of quiet only a man like Joel could make sound like a command.

“You don’t gotta run.”

The words landed soft but heavy, like the earth had exhaled with him.

You froze, your fingers tightening around the handle of the basket, not out of fear—but out of that unbearable vulnerability, the kind that comes when someone you want to care has already proven they can hurt you.

He took one step forward, not enough to close the space, but enough to be noticed.

“I, uh…” he started, then paused, his eyes dropping to the bundle in his hands like maybe it could speak for him. “I made this. S’just bread.”

You looked up slowly, cautiously, as if any sudden movement might shatter the moment between you—and sure enough, in his hands was a folded cloth, still faintly steaming at the corners, the scent of rosemary and flour curling into the cold morning air like some kind of truce.

“I ain’t…” he tried again, then cleared his throat. “Ain’t good at talkin’. Or… at fixin’ shit I broke.”

There was a beat of silence, the kind that stretched long and uncertain but didn’t hurt the way it had the night before.

You stepped forward, just slightly, just enough to meet him in the middle, your voice smaller than usual but steady.

“Is this an apology?” you asked gently, a ghost of something like hope threading through your words.

Joel exhaled through his nose, eyes dropping to the ground, jaw tight.

“It’s bread,” he muttered.

You bit your lip, fighting a smile you hadn’t expected to feel.

“Okay,” you said, reaching out to take it from him, your fingers brushing his just slightly, like the contact didn’t mean anything and meant everything all at once. “I like bread.”

He nodded once, then again, like maybe twice would make it feel less like something important had just happened.

You stood there for a long moment, two people surrounded by garden beds and quiet things beginning to grow.

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

You two were back at yours now, the walk from the garden long enough for the silence to soften into something companionable, almost shy, like neither of you quite knew how you’d gotten here but both were willing to let the moment stretch a little longer just to see where it went.

Joel had never been to your house—not that there’d ever been a reason for him to be—and yet the second he stepped through the door, he felt like he was intruding on something tender and private and irrevocably you.

There were wildflowers tucked into jars on every windowsill, their petals curling toward the sun like they belonged in your palms; a pink throw blanket draped over the arm of the couch; a little ceramic dish shaped like a heart filled with gold rings and mismatched earrings by the sink; and the faint scent of rosewater and vanilla that hung in the air like a whisper of someone who believed—deep down, in spite of everything—that love was still something worth inviting in.

It was small, sweet, soft around the edges in a way Joel had never let his life become.

And now he sat awkwardly at your tiny coffee table, a mug between his hands that read “love you, mean it” in swirling cursive, drinking coffee that was far too sweet, far too creamy, far too… you—and yet he didn’t complain, didn’t grimace, didn’t say a word.

He just sat there like a piece of furniture out of place, this broad, battle-worn man folded into your dainty, lavender-drenched kitchen like someone waiting for a punchline.

You watched him from across the table, cheeks warm with amusement, lashes fluttering as you stirred a second sugar cube into your own mug—your voice soft and curious when you finally spoke.

“So…” you said, cocking your head to the side just slightly, like you were trying to see if the light would hit him differently, “what made you change your mind?”

He didn’t answer right away—just sighed, long and low, like the breath had been sitting in his chest for years, waiting for the right moment to leave.

His thumb ran over the rim of the mug, slow and absent, eyes fixed on the table, not yours.

“I didn’t,” he muttered. “Not really.”

You blinked, heart skipping once, but said nothing.

Joel shifted slightly, his broad shoulders hunched in on themselves like he was trying to make himself smaller in a space too delicate to hold him.

“I just figured…” he continued, voice rough but quiet now, “if it meant you’d stop lookin’ at me like I kicked your damn puppy... I’d let you try.”

Your lips twitched, a laugh almost escaping—but it caught in your throat, tangled in something softer, something more fragile, because there was a flicker of something beneath his words. You could’ve pushed. Asked again. Called out the lie—because you knew Joel Miller didn’t change his mind for no reason, especially not about something as small and inconvenient as feelings. But instead, you let him sit in it. Let him keep his pride. Let him lie.

“Well,” you said, wrapping your hands around your mug and letting your thumb trace the rim the way he had, “I promise not to pair you with anyone who hates dogs.”

Joel huffed a low breath through his nose.

“Okay,” you said brightly, already shifting into your element, that familiar spark lighting up your features as you leaned forward and reached into the woven basket beside your chair.

Joel watched you warily as you unfolded your reading glasses—thin, gold-rimmed, delicate little things that perched on your nose like they belonged in a much gentler world.

And then—like magic, like some conjurer of hearts and chaos—you pulled a small, worn notebook from seemingly nowhere, its edges dog-eared, spine cracked, and corners filled with little stickers and loops of hearts, as if you couldn’t quite help decorating love wherever you touched it.

Joel blinked at the sight, his frown deepening.

“The hell is that?” he asked, suspicion laced thick in his voice, like you’d just pulled a grenade pin instead of a spiral-bound pastel journal.

You flipped it open with a satisfying little flutter of paper, your fingers brushing gently across the pages like they were sacred, until you landed on one in particular—a page that had clearly seen better days, with a name at the top that had been written in bold cursive, then scratched out, rewritten, circled, underlined, and scratched out again in a mess of exasperated swirls.

“It’s my matchmaking journal,” you said sweetly, tapping the page with your pen as if that explained everything.

Joel squinted. “Your what?”

“My matchmaking journal,” you repeated, pushing your glasses up your nose in that distracted, charming way of someone who was already too deep in thought. “It’s where I write down all my pairings, compatibility theories, failed first dates—oh, and moon sign clashes. That’s a big one.”

Joel just stared. At the journal. At you.

At his name, scratched out no less than three times.

And then back at you again.

“You’ve got moon signs in there?”

“Mhm.”

“And me.”

“Yes.”

“Scratched out.”

You blinked innocently. “You weren’t very cooperative.”

Joel leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, and let out a low, grumbled exhale—the kind that said this is ridiculous.

“You’re serious about this?”

“As a heart attack,” you said brightly, flipping the page and clicking your pen like a surgeon preparing for something far more dangerous than romance. “Now, let’s start.”

Joel muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like a prayer.

But he stayed.

And you smiled.

And maybe—just maybe—this was going to work.

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

You started off simple—careful not to spook him, not to dive too deep too fast. The page, faintly crinkled from how many times you'd opened it, bore his name in bold ink: Joel Miller, underlined twice, as if writing it down could make sense of him.

You chewed the end of your pen for a moment, eyelashes fluttering in thought before you began speaking aloud, mostly to yourself but loud enough that the grumpy man across from you could hear every word.

“Joel Miller,” you read softly, tilting your head. “Fifty-six years old… former contractor… current grumbler…”

Joel shot you a look. “What?”

You smiled sweetly, tapping your pen against your chin. “Nothing. Just jotting down your strengths.”

He raised a brow. “That’s a strength?”

You nodded, scribbling something else down. “You’re consistent. Consistency is a green flag.”

He scoffed. “That what passes for romance these days?”

“Oh, I never said you were romantic,” you hummed, flipping the page to one with a soft pink sticky note that read Miller, Joel – High risk / High reward? in your looping script. “But that’s what I’m here for. We build from the rubble.”

Joel looked like he might argue. Or leave. Or groan loud enough to shake the walls. But he didn't, the calloused pad of his thumb brushing along the handle of his mug, saying nothing.

“Okay,” you said brightly, flipping a fresh page in your notebook, pen poised like you were about to solve a case. “Let’s start with something easy. What are some of your hobbies?”

“I ain’t got hobbies,” he muttered, not even bothering to look up from the swirl of black coffee in his cup.

You frowned, nose scrunching slightly as you tapped the pen against the notebook. “That’s not true. Everyone has hobbies.”

“Not me,” he said again, firmer this time, like the topic was already closed.

You exhaled through your nose, more amused than frustrated, and scribbled something down anyway.

Joel squinted across the table. “What’re you writin’?”

“Just… that your hobbies include cooking.”

“That ain’t a hobby,” he grunted, frown deepening.

“Yes it is,” you insisted sweetly, lips quirking as you glanced up at him. “And you’re good at it.”

He shifted slightly in his chair, the faintest twitch of discomfort in his jaw. Joel Miller was not a man used to compliments—at least, not the kind that came with soft smiles and genuine warmth. He grumbled something incoherent under his breath, but you caught the way his ears turned a delicate shade of pink, like embarrassment blooming just beneath the skin.

You smiled to yourself and closed the book gently. You met his eyes then—steady and warm—and tilted your head.

“Okay. How about we try this instead,” you said, voice softer now. “What do you look for in a partner?”

Joel’s sigh was long and heavy, dragged from somewhere deep in his chest like it hurt to even entertain the thought. He rubbed a hand down his face, fingers catching on the roughness of his stubble.

“I ain’t lookin’ for a partner,” he said finally, voice low, like he meant to end the conversation right there.

You exhaled softly and gave him a small, patient smile and said, “Joel. You said you’d do this. So if you’re going to—if you’re really going to—we might as well try.”

Joel just sat there in the soft golden quiet of your kitchen, shoulders hunched slightly forward, eyes fixed on the coffee in his mug like maybe it held a better answer than he could ever offer. The silence stretched for a moment too long, not tense exactly, but brittle.

“If it’s easier,” you offered gently, tilting your head, your voice that same calm lilt you used with nervous couples on their first matchmaking visit, “what kind of women did you used to date? You know… before all of this.”

He finally looked up, brows tugging together in a way that made the lines on his forehead deepen, like they’d been carved there by years of grief and sleepless nights. He squinted at you, skeptical. “You mean like… twenty years ago?”

You nodded, lashes fluttering once as you rested your chin in your hand, the pen still tucked between your fingers like you were ready to write down anything he might dare to say.

Joel exhaled, low and rough. “Jesus,” he muttered, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Ain’t thought about that in a long time.”

You stayed quiet, letting him take his time.

He gave a small shrug, eyes drifting toward the window. “Guess I used to go for women who didn’t take shit from me. Strong. Didn’t scare easy. Had their own lives, their own jobs… smart, too. I liked that.”

You smiled softly, already scribbling something in your notebook - something along the lines of - Looking for someone strong. Opinionated. Doesn’t back down. Smart. - Sally from the infirmary maybe???

He glanced at you, almost defensively. “That don’t mean I’m lookin’ for anyone now.”

“I know,” you said, that little smile still playing on your lips. “But it helps. Just paintin’ the picture.”

Joel grunted again—his signature form of communication, really—but it wasn’t the sharp kind anymore. More like a low, irritated rumble that said I’m only tolerating this because you made the coffee. He scratched at the side of his jaw, where the stubble had turned nearly silver, and narrowed his eyes at you as if you’d just asked him to solve advanced calculus.

“Okay,” you said, undeterred, pen poised above the notebook with a hopeful gleam in your eyes, “do you have any deal breakers? Like kids? Pets? A specific age range? Blondes? Brunettes? People who clap when the plane lands?”

That earned you a look. Flat, squinting, vaguely appalled.

“I ain’t orderin’ off a damn menu,” Joel muttered, leaning back in the tiny kitchen chair that looked about two seconds from surrendering under his weight. “This ain’t the goddamn Cheesecake Factory.”

You bit back a giggle, twirling the pen between your fingers. “So… no preference?”

He gave you a long, unimpressed stare. “My preference is peace and quiet.”

You gave him a look then—not judgmental, not pushy, just something warm and amused beneath your lashes, the kind of expression that made people feel safe enough to say things they didn’t mean to.

You tucked your pen behind your ear like you’d done this a hundred times before, and folded your hands in your lap, watching him with that unshakable patience he found both infuriating and disarming.

Joel exhaled through his nose, slow and rough, eyes dropping to his coffee as if it might offer him a way out.

The silence stretched between you for a beat, maybe two, and just when you thought he might clamp down entirely, he spoke—gruff, honest, voice low like he didn’t much care to hear it out loud.

“Someone kind,” he muttered. “Someone who doesn’t—doesn’t need me to be anything more than I am. Ain’t lookin’ to be fixed. Just… someone real. Good with quiet. Good with… mess.”

Your gaze softened, a small shift in your posture like you were trying to absorb the weight of what he’d said without frightening it back into hiding.

You didn’t say anything, didn’t tease, didn’t scribble it down like you had the other answers. You just looked at him, like maybe you understood the kind of ache he carried.

Joel cleared his throat then, uncomfortable with the silence, with your eyes on him like that. “But I still don’t want no one clappin’ when the plane lands. That’s just—hell no.”

You laughed, and it was light and musical and so very you, and for the first time since walking through your door, Joel didn’t feel like bolting.

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

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sunfairyy · 19 days ago

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what a cast

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sunfairyy · 22 days ago

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Hello, wonderful souls! 🤍🌍

I hope you're doing well. 🌿

Could you help me amplify my family's story and bring awareness to our struggle? 🙏🏻

💬 Please reblog my pinned post or consider donating just $5—your support could truly make a difference in saving lives amidst war and hardship.

Your kindness and voice matter more than you know. Thank you from the bottom of my heart! 🤍🌿

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sunfairyy · 22 days ago

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💄💋𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐒𝐜𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞💋💄

Pairing: Matt Murdock x Plus Size!Reader Word Count: 1.3k Summary: Foggy and Marci’s wedding is around the corner, and you just need to find a lipstick that won’t smear through food, dancing, or “rom-com climax” level vows. Matt’s the perfect test subject, and your kiss-stained canvas.

“You want the perfect lipstick for their big day, clearly a matter of national importance…” “And here I was thinking you were just looking for an excuse to kiss me over and over.”

It’s not just science. It’s love.

Prefer to read on ao3? Available on there too! https://archiveofourown.org/works/66037951

Divider by: @dollywons

“…Matty, are you sureeee you’re not getting bored of this yet?” you ask sweetly, focusing on your reflection in the tiny compact mirror while you swipe on another shade, there’s been so many already, you’ve already lost count.

The eighth or ninth, maybe?

Matt is seated on the couch right next to you, his suit jacket discarded, collar and tie loosened, his lips coated and smudged in different shades of red, pinks, berries, wines, and a few corals. Your sweet, kiss-stained canvas.

“I’m blind, not numb to your touch,” he replies, he’s barely managing not to smile, despite his face nearly in a swoon. “Carry on, Counselor.”

You climb back over, your soft, plus thighs straddling his lap without hesitation. His hands find your hips automatically.

“Ready?”

“For science,” he replies, straight-faced and serious.

You kiss him slowly and deliberately. Once. Twice. Three times for good measure. Then pull back with mock precision to inspect the damage.

You pout slightly, checking his lips, brushing your thumb along the corner.

“…ugh, seriously? It still transferred.” You sigh dramatically, grabbing a makeup wipe and removing that shade from your lips.

“Well, I think I’ve got a few more rounds in me,” he offers, he can’t keep the smirk off his face this time, though. “Purely for science and the sake of research.”

Your pout grows as you ask him softly, looking at his face and how it resembles a blotchy Valentine’s Day card, “and you’re sure I’m not wearing you out?” You start to slightly lean away, like you’ll climb out of his lap if he asks.

He can’t hide the slightly blissed out look on his face now as he replies, almost teasing, “I’m a very patient man…and besides, I’m not exactly suffering.”

A chuckle escapes your lips as you settle into his lap further without a second thought. It’s easy like this, natural. His hands move back to you with instinct, fingers resting warm and steady on your thighs this time.

“I just…” you hesitate, reaching for another tube and twisting it in your hand for a moment, “I wanna make sure it lasts, y’know? I’m gonna be eating, talking, dancing…crying especially. Marci said the vows were going to be and I quote “full rom-com climax” level of emotional.”

“You want the perfect lipstick for their big day, clearly a matter of national importance…” he pauses to chuckle before he adds, “And here I was, thinking you were just looking for an excuse to kiss me over and over.”

“…eh, well I suppose that too…”

He lets out a faux dramatic sigh, but his hands squeeze your thighs like he’s not planning to let you go, “…ah, the things I do for love…”

You roll your eyes playfully, picking the compact mirror up and replying softly, “Alright now, Courage, you know you love it, but I need you to hush and be still so I can apply this one clearly.”

He doesn’t deny it, doesn’t even try. Why would he? But he does listen and stays still for you.

You swipe on the next shade, a soft rose with a light, glittery sheen. Pretty and subtle. One that makes you feel…a little more polished. A little more “wedding guest” and a little less “melting in a reception tent in over 100-degree weather”.

Matt must sense the shift in your mood, though, because when you lean in, one of his hands moves up from your thigh and cards his fingers through your hair, and his voice is softer, “What’s going on up here, hm?”

You shrug but look at him with a fond expression, “…it’s stupid…”

He waits, doesn’t push. Just keeps the one hand on your thigh and the other in your hair, holding you like you belong there, because you both know you do. So, you continue with your thoughts.

“It’s just…well, lipstick draws attention to my mouth…and pictures last forever…and I don’t know, sometimes I feel like there’s a spotlight on all the things I’d rather people not be focused on, y’know?”

Matt’s brows lift slightly, and he moves his hand from your hair to brush his fingertips over your bottom lip. “Sometimes, I wish you could see yourself in the way that I sense you when I touch you,” he murmurs. “You’d never second-guess yourself again.”

Your breath hitches as you continue looking at him fondly, hearts would surely be in your eyes if this were a cartoon.

“This mouth?” he continues, brushing his thumb there now, so gently it makes you shiver. “Is my favorite thing to kiss. To listen to. To wake up next to. You have no idea how beautiful you are when you smile. And you are going to smile at that wedding…or else.”

You giggle a little as you blink back the sudden warmth behind your eyes. “You’re just saying that because you’re covered in my lip prints.”

“That may be true,” he concedes, grinning. “But it doesn't make me wrong.”

You lean down, kissing him again…much slower this time. Not in a rush for the sake of testing. Just a soft, thoughtful, and sweet kiss of affection.

When you pull back, there’s a faint smear. You sigh. “Ugh, still not transfer-proof.”

Matt shrugs, completely content. “I’ll endure.”

You laugh, reaching for the next tube and another makeup wipe. “Mhm, you’re such a trooper.”

Matt hums, tugging you closer without effort, both of his hands moving to be a gentle weight on your waist now. “For you? Always.”

Then he leans in, not for your lips this time, but lower, and presses his mouth softly to your jaw.

You feel a faint tackiness immediately.

“Wait—” you blink, drawing back a little, “Matt, did you just—?”

Matt tilts his head, lips still tinted with your last experiment, not even trying to hide the smug edge in his smile. “Might’ve left a little something of my own behind.”

You grab the compact mirror again and look at your reflection. Sure enough: a warm rose-pink kiss mark, right beneath your cheekbone, like a stamp. A quiet little claim.

You glance back at him, cheeks warming. “That wasn’t part of the test.”

“No,” he says, his thumb ghosting along the edge of the mark. “That one was just for me.”

The air between you softens, full of things unsaid but understood.

Then—

“Matt? You home?”

You freeze.

Matt doesn’t.

He lifts his voice, deadpan. “Living room. Don’t mind the science.”

You make a soft, mortified sound and go to reach for the nearest makeup wipe, but it’s too late—Foggy steps into view and immediately short-circuits.

He stops. Stares. Eyes take in everything: the lipsticks scattered like crime scene evidence, your position in Matt’s lap, his entire face covered in various shades, and the clear smear of a fresh kiss on your jaw.

“Oh,” Foggy says flatly. “So, we’re doing this now, huh?”

Matt lifts a hand in greeting, not even flinching, he almost looks proud to have your prints all over him. “Hey, man. Testing long-wear lipstick durability. It’s for the wedding.”

You groan. “Matt.”

“Hey, it’s science,” Matt says. “Very serious business.”

Foggy gestures vaguely toward you. “Did she win, or are you both just... permanently stained now?”

“I’m not sure,” Matt says thoughtfully. “But I think I like this one best.”

You swat his chest with the back of your hand, trying to suppress your laughter as Foggy turns to leave.

“Oh, and Marci says no reds unless they’re bulletproof,” Foggy calls over his shoulder. “Something about reception napkins and revenge.”

The front door shuts behind him.

You exhale a dramatic sigh, your head resting against Matt’s shoulder. “He’s never gonna let this go.”

“He’s gonna bring it up in his best man speech,” Matt agrees, kissing the top of your head.

You lean back just enough to meet his smile, your voice a little softer now. “I think I found my favorite shade after all.”

His grin widens. “Yeah?”

You nod and press one last, perfect kiss to the corner of his mouth.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・✫

If you’re wondering, yes, she wore the glittery rose shade to the wedding! And yes, Matt looked smug the entire time! 💞

I got inspired by the pictured Archie comics scene! 💖

✨Hope you enjoyed! Likes, reblogs, and comments are always welcome!✨

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sunfairyy · 22 days ago

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I HOPE EVERY OVERTHINKER LOVER GIRL FINDS HER LOVEY DOVEY GENTLEMAN WHO IS NEVER BUSY FOR HER

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sunfairyy · 25 days ago

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In Jackson, you’re the town’s accidental matchmaker—known for fixing hearts you’ve never held. But when Joel Miller becomes your next project, you realize you might’ve been saving all your love for him.

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

You weren’t a matchmaker.

Not by profession, not by study, not by any title that held weight in the world before it broke. There were no business cards tucked in your coat pocket, no laminated flyers advertising your services. Just a heart that loved love, a habit of noticing, and a hopeful little instinct that pulsed like a secret in your chest.

Still—ask around Jackson, and you’d find a different story. A soft one. Told with a smile, the shake of a head, and always some variation of, “That girl? She’s got stardust in her blood. Wild little thing. Got a sixth sense for soulmates.”

It had all begun one slow golden afternoon, the kind that drifted like a lullaby, sunlight spilling lazy and low through the windows of the dining hall. You were curled into your usual spot by the window—wrapped in a knitted cardigan, fingers curled around a chipped pink mug that smelled faintly of cinnamon tea. The world outside felt momentarily calm, like even the chaos had stopped to stretch its limbs and rest awhile.

Next to you sat your best friend—June, darling June—soft-eyed and sharp-tongued, with a mind like a fox and a heart like spun sugar. She was poking listlessly at something on her tray when you nudged her elbow, your voice low and dreamy.

“What about him?” you asked, your chin tilted ever-so-slightly toward the food line.

June blinked, then followed your gaze. “Who?”

“Him,” you murmured again.

Third in line. Holding a tin plate, standing quiet and unassuming. Broad shoulders tucked inward like he’d forgotten how to carry himself wide. A shadow of dark curls kissed the nape of his neck, tousled in the way that made your chest ache. His skin was sun-warmed and golden-brown from patrols, and there was a delicate old scar slicing through the upper curve of his lip—just enough to make him look like someone who'd lived, someone who’d earned softness. You’d heard his name once—Nick, maybe. Or something close. It didn’t matter.

You shrugged, a little smirk playing at the corners of your mouth. “He’s thirty-four. Single. Tommy says he’s reliable. Good with his hands.”

June blinked. “And?”

You took a sip of your lukewarm tea, savoring the quiet sweetness. “And he’s hot.”

June let out a laugh so genuine it made her shoulders shake and her tray clatter just slightly. “You’re impossible.”

But she looked again.

And she didn’t stop.

Three months later, they were married under a tangle of twinkling lights strung haphazardly between the greenhouse beams—fragile and glowing, like stars tangled in vines. Prairie flowers had been scattered at their feet, the petals soft and fragrant beneath June’s boots. There was no priest, no altar, no pews—just the people they loved, a sky the color of lavender milk, and the hush of evening air curling through the willows.

You’d sat in the front row, dressed in something pale and floaty, your lap full of rose petals and your lashes sticky with tears. You looked like a girl in a fairytale, and for once, you felt like one too.

When June kissed her husband, you tossed petals into the air like confetti, laughing through your weeping, glowing like a lantern lit from within.

And after that, the name stuck. Maybe it was Tommy who said it first. Maybe it was that old woman with the stubborn chickens and a soft spot for gossip. Whoever it was, the nickname clung to you with the sweetness of spun sugar and a hint of mischief: “The Cupid of Wyoming.”

Cheesy? Sure.

But it felt like glitter in the air. Like a compliment dipped in honey. Like something real and soft and quietly magical.

Like something earned.

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

After June and Nick, it was as if something inside you had been quietly set into motion—some hidden, unspoken gift you’d never reached for, now fluttering awake like the soft flicker of candlelight in your chest.

You hadn’t planned it. Hadn’t studied it. You simply felt it, the way one might feel the weather shift or the hush before snow. A new tenderness unfolding—sudden, sure, and full of light.

Soon, people began to find you.

They came with shy grins and hearts held like offerings, turning to you with something raw in their eyes. In the stables, while you were brushing down a chestnut mare. In the infirmary, during slow afternoons spent organizing bandages. In the dining hall, interrupting your spoonful of stew with nervous laughter and the same quiet hope: “Do you think maybe… you could help me find someone?”

And each time, you smiled. Beamed, really.

Because no matter who they were—men, women, young, old, guarded, grieving—it always came down to the same fragile thing. No matter the bruises the world had left behind, no matter the losses or the loneliness, they all still wanted love.

They still believed in it.

And that—that—made your heart bloom with something holy. Not just because they trusted you with something so intimate. But because you understood that ache in its entirety. You knew what it meant to want someone’s name to be the first thing you whispered in the morning. You had once known love deeply, fully, sweetly—before the world had fallen apart and taken him with it.

You had worn a ring. Gold and simple. Promised to a man whose laughter still echoed in your memory like wind chimes on a summer porch. You’d tasted a forever once, had your hands warmed by it, your future shaped by it.

And then it was gone.

So now, when they came to you wide-eyed and soft-spoken, asking for something beautiful in the middle of all this ruin, you said yes. You always said yes.

Because you believed they deserved it, all of them. Because once upon a time, so did you.

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

Maria’s voice drifted beside you, gentle and rhythmic, like the clinking of teacups or the way wind rustles through linen curtains. She was recounting something about greenhouse repairs—something to do with a busted water pipe and a nosy hen that wouldn’t leave her tomatoes alone—but your focus had shifted, utterly and irreversibly, to the bundle curled in your arms.

Benji.

Only six months old, but already a perfect symphony of his parents—Maria’s honey-brown eyes, Tommy’s sleepy smile, a patch of hair that refused to settle no matter how often Maria tried to smooth it. His cheeks were impossibly soft, like clouds that had decided to stay earthbound, and his laughter—light and sudden—poured from him like music whenever you made a silly face.

So you kept doing it. Wriggling your nose. Puffing out your cheeks. Whispering little nonsense stories into the shell of his ear just to hear that laugh again. It was pure, high, and joy-soaked. It made your chest feel warm and floaty, like rosewater fizzing in your lungs.

Across the room, Tommy dropped into the armchair with a tired grunt and an easy smirk curling at his mouth. He leaned forward, forearms resting on his knees, his gaze soft but mischievous.

“So,” Tommy drawled, his voice rich with amusement, a lazy smirk tugging at his mouth, “how’s it going, Dr. Love?”

Maria laughed softly beside you, that warm, tinkling kind of laugh that said she’d heard this joke before and still found it charming.

You didn’t lift your gaze—just kept your arms gently cradled around Benji’s warm little body, thumb moving in lazy circles over the embroidered moon stitched into his onesie. He was drifting, lids heavy, cheeks rosy with that particular kind of peace only babies seem to know. You smiled, small and sleepy. “It’s going alright.”

“That so?” Tommy asked, leaning back into the couch with a low sigh, boots scuffed and arms folded. There was mischief dancing at the edges of his voice. “What’s the count now—how many babies named after you? Three? Four?”

“Tommy,” Maria chided gently, the warning softened by amusement as she reached over to adjust Benji’s sock, her hand brushing against yours.

He raised both palms in mock surrender, that same crooked grin pulling at his mouth. “What? I think it’s sweet. Little tribute to Jackson’s patron saint of matchmaking.”

You shot him a look, head tilting with a knowing smirk. “You don’t believe in any of it.”

“I do,” he said easily, stretching out one leg and resting his boot on the rug. “I’m just not a hopeless romantic like you.”

You raised a brow—slow, pointed—before glancing at Maria, then back at Benji, tucked against your chest like something sacred. The look said it all: And what do you call this, then?

Tommy caught it, his grin faltering just slightly as he let out a breath, scratching the back of his neck. “I mean… I think love’s beautiful. I do. Same as you. I just don’t think it shows up for everyone.”

Tommy went on, voice lower now. “I know that’s a little bleak. But not everyone gets a perfect fit. Sometimes it don’t work. And I guess I just… don’t want you thinkin’ it’s your job to make it happen every time.”

You watched him closely, the weight in his tone landing soft but true.

“I’ve seen the way you look at people,” Tommy said, his voice quiet now, steady, softened at the edges like something worn smooth by time. “Like you see somethin’ more than the rest of us do. Like you already know what they need before they do.”

He paused, watching you with a gaze that felt heavier than before—gentle, but full of truth.

“But you ain’t a miracle worker, sweetheart. And the first time it don’t go the way you hoped…” His words trailed off, then came back quieter. “I just don’t wanna see you lose that light you’ve got.”

You exhaled, a little laugh pressed into your chest, though it didn’t quite reach your lips. “Thanks, Tommy.”

He nodded, offering a half-smile full of worn-in affection. “That’s alright, darlin’. Just sayin’. Not everyone gets a happy ending.”

The words hung in the air like dust in sunlight—quiet, suspended, and somehow… wrong. Not cruel. Not careless. But wrong in the way that makes your pulse thrum and your spine stiffen, like something in your bones rising up to argue.

Because sure, you weren’t naïve. You knew people lost the ones they loved. You knew some waited forever, and others lived lifetimes without that soft place to land. You knew grief. You weren’t foolish.

But you also believed—deep in that wild little heart of yours—that if someone tried, if they were brave, if they had a little help, then love could be found. Even after all this. Even here.

Tommy must’ve seen the flicker on your face, because he barked out a sudden laugh. “Shit. What’d I say now?”

You shook your head, trying to tamp down the heat rising in your chest. “Nothing,” you muttered, gaze dropping back to Benji, who was beginning to stir, one tiny fist curling near your heart.

Tommy chuckled again, leaned forward, elbows on knees. “Nah, I know that look. You’re plottin’ somethin’. That little fire’s startin’ to burn.”

You gave him a half-hearted glare, your lips twitching despite yourself. “Am not.”

“Sure you’re not,” he teased, then softened. “Tell you what,” he said, his tone dipping low, like he was offering something important. “I’ll make you a deal.”

You raised a brow, cautious and curious all at once. “A deal?”

He nodded once. “You really believe in all this love-for-everyone business? That there’s somebody for anyone?”

“I do.”

“Alright then,” he said, sitting back like he’d just laid a card on the table. “You find him someone—and I’ll believe it, too.”

Your breath caught just slightly. “Him?”

Tommy jerked his chin toward the hallway—toward the sound of heavy boots and that familiar slow gait.

You didn’t have to ask.

Joel.

Of course.

You blinked, heart skipping in that strange, traitorous way it sometimes did when he was near but hadn’t spoken yet. “You want me to find Joel Miller a soulmate?”

Tommy grinned. “Yep. Find that man a good woman, and I’ll admit I was wrong.”

Maria, who had been silent for a while now, gave you a look over her tea—half warning, half wonder.

And you?

You looked toward the hallway, toward the man who didn’t believe in soft things but moved like he carried the weight of every love he’d ever lost.

And suddenly, you weren’t sure if you’d just accepted a challenge…

…or opened a door you wouldn’t know how to close.

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

Eeeekkk this was so much fun to write!!! I was fully possessed by the spirit of The Materialists and had to get this out of my system IMMEDIATELY 😭💘 I really hope you all enjoyed reading it as much as I adored writing it!! Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist—I'd love to keep you in the loop for more soft chaos and yearning 😚💌🌸

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sunfairyy · 26 days ago

Text

Picture to Burn

Tommy Miller x Fem!Reader, Handsome Mystery man (in tags) x Fem!Reader

Summary: After getting ghosted by Tommy Miller, you're in the market for a new man. The perfect hunting grounds? The loud, overcrowded dive bar, of course.

Warnings: Language. Reader's age isn't stated, but is legal to drink in the U.S.

Inspired by Taylor Swift's Picture to Burn.

Word Count: 1.6k

Austin, Texas

To be blunt, you hated Tommy Miller.

From his deep southern drawl and dark curly hair to the brown leather cowboy boots he always wore, you hated him more than anything else on this planet.

Of course, it wasn’t always like this.

You’d met him one night at the Travis County Summer festival under the neon lights of the funnel cake stand. He’d charmed you, made you laugh about how over priced the food was and then proceeded to buy you a twelve dollar funnel cake and a coke to wash it all down. Then, he proceeded to slip his number into your back pocket of your jean shorts, giving you a wink to go with it. Three days later you were laughing over a margarita while he sipped at a beer at the local Olive Garden.

Then came a two month whirlwind of nothing but Tommy Miller. You spent so much time with him, you barely saw your own family, always rushing to kiss your mom and dad goodbye in the living room before happily skipping out to the old red pickup your handsome boyfriend drove.

It all seemed perfect, long country drives with the windows down and the radio turned up, Tommy’s hand resting on your thigh as you talked his ears off about anything and everything.

Of course nothing good ever lasts forever and one day he just ghosted you. Poof! It was like he didn’t even exist at all and you’d made him up entirely. You waited longingly at the phone, staring at it like you could force it to ring. Then, you’d lay in bed, wrapped up in your misery as you shoved down another bite of your favortie ice cream. Eventually, your mom get fed up with her child moping around the house like the slugs that lived in the garden out back and sent you out for a girls night with friends.

“He’s a boring old redneck heartbreaker! There’s plenty of fish in the sea!”

“Remember how you hated when he wouldn’t let you drive his truck? That thing is like 20 years old and he wouldn’t even let you sit in the drivers seat!”

You sniff and nod, disgesting your friends words as you lean against the bar top. You did hate that stupid old pickup truck Tommy drove around, swearing that you couldn’t drive it for fear of you wrecking it.

“We should totally burn those pictures you have on your wall of him! Bet your dad would even light a campfire for us if we told him, he hates Tommy.”

Your friend was right, your dad did hate Tommy for dissapearing from your life. In fact, you were sure that if Tommy showed up on your front porch, your dad would be chasing him off the property, shotgun in hand.

“Enough moping around! You need a rebound. Which is why, I took some liberties and got in contact with the hottest guy ever and invited him here.”

Your friend motions to the crowded bar around the three of you, her hand patting your back with a wide smile.

“But, aren’t you a lesbian?” Your other friend blurts out, the drinks making her bolder and chatty.

“Pssh” She waves her off, “Trust me, this guy is hot. Hot enough that even I can tell he’s every straight girl’s dream...and probably every gay man's. Anyway, I met him after I rear-ended his car out on I-53.”

You roll your eyes and groan, “You invited a man whose car you hit to a bar to what? Charm my pants off?”

“If a one-night stand is what you want, I’m sure he’d be down for that. He looked like he definitely fuc—”

You cut her off with a gasp, eyes fixed on the other patrons of the bar. Just a few feet away, Tommy Miller was leaning across the bar, ordering a drink with that boyish grin of his. They follow your wide gaze, instantly recongizing you from the little polaroids you kept pinned up on the cork board in your room

“You got to fucking kidding me.”

“I’ll kill him, hold my purse.”

You grab both of your friends by the arm before they can jump a man that probably has a good 60 pounds on both of them, “Stay. Put.”

The three of you watch closely as Tommy is handed his order, two drinks in his hand as he spins around to hand one of them to a girl, one with pretty brown hair, all dolled up in a nice face of makeup and a cute outfit. Just a few weeks ago that had been you. A pit opens up in your stomach not because you’re jealous of the girl, it’s not her fault the fucker who was smiling at her was a piece of shit. Oh you were so going to rip him apart before this night was over.

“Oh my god! He’s here!” Your friend gasps, smacking your arm a bit too hard as the lumbering figure of a guy, or well, man, walks in.

She waves and he nods, weaving around the other patrons as she slowly makes his way towards you.

“You didn’t tell me you invited a fucking mountain man to this!” You groan

The mystery man was as handsome as your friend said. A nice green flannel that was rolled up to his sleeves and dark blue jeans to match. A beard adorned his face and his hair was a perfect mess of curls and what looked like a hint of greys. He was certainly older than you but fuck, he was really hot.

“Oh please, don’t act like you’re not into him.”

Just as the stranger reaches you your friends conveniently disappear into the bar, abandoning you on your stool. Christ you hopped they weren’t going to run off and kill Tommy. That was your job afterall.

“So you’re the heartbroken girl m’ supposed to cheer up tonight.” The flannel clad stranger says smoothly as he slides onto the stool beside you.

“Guilty.” You hum, sipping at your long island ice tea, “Sorry about my friend, she said you rear-ended you.”

He waves you off, “My truck didn’t even have a scratch, that little car of hers though…dunno what she called it but it’s probably totaled.”

“The car’s name is Barry.” You laugh, “Barry the Beetle. That car was an actual shitshow on wheels, your truck did it a favor.”

“Yeah Barry is out the pasture.” The guy jokes a nice smile adorning his face

You’re about to ask him his name but the bartender interrupts and your mystery man orders a rum and coke.

“How’s the long island?” He asks

“Not bad, kinda watered down now.” You say honestly, staring at the condensation thats slipped down the glass and onto the bar top.

“Let be buy you a new one then. Pretty girl like you deserves a fresh drink.”

Before you can stop him, he’s ordering you your drink, and the bartender is placing it in front of you, a pretty red straw sticking out of the top.

“So, tell me about this guy that broke your heart. Must be a fuckin’ idiot leaving a sweet thing like you.” He hums, sipping his drink

Before you can help yourself you’re spilling everything about Tommy. Telling this stranger about how perfect everything had been before you’d been ghosted, not a word in the wind since.

A low whistle escapes the man next to you, “Whatta piece o’ shit. What was his name again? Y’said it at the beginning but I didn’t catch it.”

“His name is Tommy.” You huff in annoyance at just the thought of him.

The man nods, “Young guy I presume.”

You nod sadly sipping at the fresh drink. He was right a fresh one was better than your half water one.

“Figured. Younger guys, they don’t know how t’ treat girls like you. Bet your daddy is real pissed with this guy.”

“You have no idea.” You laugh, “I’m pretty sure he’ll shoot him down if he ever sees him again.”

“Wouldn’t blame him. I’d do the same if I had a daughter.”

You flirt the night away with this man, Your friend was right, another guy was just what you needed to get Tommy out of your system. And this guy? Or well man, was something else. He practically exuded the term southern charm. And Jesus was he the definition of eye candy. Tanned skinned and muscular forearms, broad shoulders that brushed yours when he leaned in to hear you a bit better over the loud music that had started playing.

“Ah shit,” He suddenly says, “Forgot to give you m’ name, what kinda gentleman am I, sweetheart?”

You laugh, leaning in closer, “It’s fine. Well not fine, tell me or I might think you’re secretly an axe murderer.”

“Not an axe murderer.” He chuckles, a deep sound leaving his pretty lips, “My name is—”

“Joel?”

You whirl around, your brain seething at the fact that he’d interrupt your evening. You’re ready to rip into him, really give you a piece of your mind and then maybe invite this handsome man beside you for ice cream.

“What tha’ hell are you doin’ here?” Your mystery man asks gruffly, “Thought you’d be at your home.”

Tommy scoffs, “Could say the same thing about you. But I think the real question here is for her.”

Two pairs of eyes turn to you as the men look at you. You’re confused as you look at both of them, not understanding what Tommy was trying to say. Your prospective new man also looks confused as Tommy speaks again,

“Why the fuck are you going out with my brother?”

Oh. Shit.

Part two???

@freythecrazyfae @keseqna I offer you both, new Joel content from me.

When I wrote this a few days ago, I had no idea Taylor was going to buy back all her own music. The timing of this is truly impeccable. I feel like a fortune teller.

More Tommy and Joel Here

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