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fuckyeahdindjarin · 1 year

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III ║ Edgestitch

Joel Miller x F!Reader

{ Part II: Threads | Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist }

Rating: M

Summary: You wear those jeans for Joel when you see him again at the baby shower at Tommy and Maria's - like he asked you to.

Warnings: Spicy thoughts but not explicit, sexual tension, sexual innuendos, flirting, mention of food and drink, some language, shy!reader, reader has a nickname related to her job, soft!Joel, no use of Y/N

Word count: 7k

Notes: It's here! This one was a long and winding road as I mentioned in Behind the Seams, I'm so relieved and excited when it all finally clicked and fell into place! I'm absolutely blown away by the love you guys have shown Joel and Pin so far, thank you, there's no greater motivation for a writer ❤️ I hope you guys enjoy the chapter!

‘Damnit, Lucy,’ you mutter under your breath, this close to stamping your foot and pouting at the door that refuses to lock up.

Lucy may be your best friend, but you’re not blind to the fact that she literally cannot be trusted to get anything done around the shop. It’s been two weeks since she promised to get the locksmith to come in, but here you are on Friday evening, wrestling with the key that refuses to turn the last quarter of an inch in the faulty lock.

‘Hey, Pin!’

Glancing over your shoulder, you force a wane smile at Tommy, who has his hands full with a cardboard box at the bottom of the stairs. ‘Need some help?’

‘Yes, please,’ you reply sheepishly.

You nod at the bottles of wine that clink delicately against one another as he sets them down. ‘Getting ready for the party on Sunday?’

Tommy steps up to the door and wriggles the key left and right experimentally. ‘Yeah, you comin’, right?’

‘Yes, with Lucy.’

‘Good, the more the merrier!’ He makes a face at the door lock, which is not cooperating with him either. ‘You should get someone to look at it. Probably time for a new one.’

‘Lucy was supposed to get Andrew to fix it, but you know Luce.’

Tommy yanks the door knob backwards hard as he twists the key. There’s a grunt of metal, and a triumphant aha! when it finally turns, the internal mechanisms of the lock sliding into place with a satisfying click.

You nearly fall onto your knees in relief. ‘Thank you so much, Tommy. You’re a lifesaver.’

He grins and deposits the key in your waiting palm. ‘You can ask Joel for help, you know. He’s handy with this kind of stuff.’

You blink, blindsided by the seemingly random mention of his brother - but his dimpled smile tells you otherwise.

His brother, who was so solid and broad under you on the studio floor, just a few days ago. His brother, who you can still feel pressed between your thighs, in your bed in the dead of night. His brother, who has taken up residence in your mind, waking or otherwise, since he sauntered out of your shop with that infuriatingly attractive confidence when he asked you to to wear those jeans for him again on Sunday.

Joel has existed solely and safely in the parameters of your workspace for the past fortnight and a half, with only Lucy bearing witness to whatever it is between the two of you. Having to suddenly deal with any mention of him outside of it, especially with that knowing arch of Tommy’s eyebrow, has you completely flustered. It doesn’t help that his eyes are uncannily like Joel’s, a gorgeous deep brown, expressive and sharp, though the mischief sits a lot closer to the surface in the former’s.

Mercifully, your brain unscrambles long enough for you to reach the conclusion that of course, Joel must have told Tommy that he invited you and Lucy. It’s their party, after all. Surely, he doesn’t know anything else -

Or does he?

You’ve been quiet for too long to say anything about it now, so you clumsily change the subject, stumbling over your words. ‘I, uh - I was just wondering what I could bring on Sunday?’

Tommy graciously lets you off the hook. ‘We’re a bit short on sweets, actually, if you bake.’

You latch on to that gratefully. ‘I do - what kind of cake were you thinking?’

‘Do you make a carrot cake?’

You perk up. ‘It’s my favourite!’

He flashes you a cheeky grin. ‘What a funny coincidence, it’s Joel’s as well - the only way to get carrots in him.’

Your pulse spikes with adrenaline at the unexpected tidbit Tommy drops in your lap, and you greedily squirrel that little fact away, slowly colouring in the Joel-shaped space in your head.

With a wink, Tommy bends down to pick up the wine. ‘See you in a couple of days, Pin!’

At least you have the decency to wait until he turns the corner - once he does, you sprint across the road to the Jackson Grocer’s and clear out their stock of carrots for the day.

There are many things about Jackson that throw Joel.

The plentitude after years of rations. The safety, which comes off more jarring than comforting.

But most of all, it’s the sounds. The kettle on the boil and the pop of the toaster in the morning when Ellie gets ready for school. Friendly chatter on the high street. Laughter. It still makes him jump when he hears playful shrieks in the neighbourhood playground, blood rushing in his ears and sending him halfway across the house for his rifle before he remembers where he is.

Where he is not.

It was always loud in the QZ. Loudspeakers blaring, alarms wailing, the indistinct hum of conversation and radio through paper thin walls in the slums at all hours of the day. And he was always listening - for danger, for trouble, and everything in between.

And then all that noise had blown up, literally, with the State House. With Tess.

Joel finds it hard to remember those first few days after leaving Boston behind. Mostly the raw cuts on his knuckles that wouldn’t heal and the ring in his right ear from the explosion, lingering like a pesky fly.

But he knows it was Ellie who broke that silence first. And once that door was kicked down -

‘Fuck no, dude!’

His face snaps up and he scowls across the lawn, the stern reprimand rolling off his tongue like second nature. ‘Ellie!’

She’s sitting with her friends, crowded around her most prized possession of the moment, a boombox she found in the thrift shop a couple of months ago and begged him to buy and fix up for her.

Not that she needed to do much begging, he caved far too easily. It plays a bit wonky - the bass too heavy - still, it does the trick.

The teenagers around her cower immediately, but she defiantly stands her ground. ‘What?’

‘Watch your language,’ he barks, no real bite behind it.

She rolls her eyes so hard her head falls back, and he has to press his lips together to not smile.

It helps him sleep better at night seeing Ellie fit right in - at least one of them has. She doesn’t hate going to school half as much as she pretends to, the routine of homework and chores anchoring her to small town life. She’s even volunteered to help out at the farm, spending most afternoons in the stables with the horses.

There are times when he wonders to which extent all this is a coping mechanism. But well, at least she’s coping.

And while Joel still hasn’t made up his mind about Jackson, its townsfolk seem to have unilaterally made theirs up about him. The wary whispers and watchful stares have given way to cautious gestures of acknowledgement, some even bold enough to throw a good morning in his general direction as he walks down the street.

They nod at him now as they file into the garden party, still keeping their distance, but not as much as he would’ve liked.

The expectant parents have gone all out for the occasion. Several tables are lined up end to end in the middle of the garden, filling up with potluck dishes as guests arrive. Tommy lords over the barbeque, the brisket having been smoking since dawn, with chicken, bacon and homemade sausages sizzling on the grill. Maria is in her element, flitting from well wisher to well wisher with a protective hand over her rounded belly, making sure everyone has a drink and a loaded plate in hand.

Joel hovers in no man’s land, dodging the crowds and sipping on beer that has long gone flat, trying to remember the last time he celebrated anything.

Well, he supposes dinner parties at Bill and Frank’s count, as far and few in between as they were. Not that they ever celebrated anything specific, per se - they didn’t need a reason beyond the fact that they were all still alive and kicking. Bill, bless his soul, did make a mean roast, and Frank used to host with enough flair for forty instead of four. Tess had a black dress she stowed away at the back of her closet for these parties, and a red one that she saved for the really special occasions -

A strong hand on his back jolts him forward and out of his thoughts, spilling lukewarm beer over his fingers.

‘Havin’ a good time, brother?’ asks Tommy jovially, cheeks stretched with joy.

‘I was just now,’ he grunts pointedly.

Tommy grins. ‘Lighten up, man. Get drunk, be merry! You’re gonna be an uncle.’

‘Don’t try to butter me up. I ain’t babysittin’ for you.’

Thumping his chest in mock hurt, he asks, ‘What about all those times I babysat Sarah, man?’

Joel gives him a long-suffering side stare. ‘Please. You used to hire that college chick ‘cross the street to babysit whenever you were supposed to. Then you’d hit on her all night long.’

Tommy chuckles. ‘Damn, your mind’s in better shape than I give you credit for, old man.’

He can’t help a smile. ‘But for all your devious plans to get into her babysitter’s pants, Sarah did love her Uncle Tommy.’

He goes quiet for a beat and takes a sip of his beer, his eyes softening. ‘I think about that girl every single day, y’know.’

Joel nods, staring into his own beer, and it suddenly strikes him that he’s missed the shape of her name on his lips. ‘I know.’

Tommy nudges him on the shoulder. ‘I can only hope my kid will love their Uncle Joel just as much.’

Eventually, he harrumphs, ‘If they do - I’ll think about the babysittin’.’

Tommy chortles just as the backdoor to the porch swings open with a loud creak.

Joel spots you easily, trailing one step behind Lucy. You’re holding onto a cake on a round wooden board like a security blanket, shoulders tense and eyes wide at the noise of the festivities. Spotting Maria, Lucy bounds down the stairs, leaving you hesitating at the landing, and -

You’re wearing the jeans he asked you to.

Something primal swells in the cavity of his chest, between his ribs - a pride that is distinctly male.

Tommy shouts, ‘Pin! Over here!’

Joel shifts on his feet, swallowing thickly as you approach. If your shy smile is anything to go by, he’s not the only one feeling the nerves.

His brother gives you a careful hug around the cake and plants a kiss on your cheek. When he steps aside, Joel hesitates, uneasy with having an audience, his palms suddenly clammy with indecision.

Does he… hug you? He can count on three fingers who he’s hugged for the past twenty years, and he’s sorely out of practice. A kiss is an option, but the way his eyes dart to your mouth, it’s dangerous even entertaining that thought -

Tommy elbows him in the ribs and puts him out of his misery. ‘Why don’t you kids catch up, I think the brisket’s burnin’. Have fun tonight!’

Joel can feel the tip of his ears turning red as he stands there with his drink, one hand shoved in his back pocket, not knowing how to do this. How to entertain. Clearing his throat, he stammers, ‘Uh - can I get you a drink or somethin’?’

You give him a small smile, lips moving in an answer too quiet to reach him over the music. Rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly, he admits, ‘Sorry, I can’t hear you. I’m uh - a bit deaf in my right ear.’

You look apologetic, speaking up, ‘I’m sorry - I didn’t know.’

With a shrug, he jokes, ‘It’s ok, I’m a bit broken all over.’

You pinch your lips, and he recoginses that face - he knows that you want to disagree with him. But you hold your tongue, skirting around him to his good ear, and he stoops to close the distance, even though he doesn’t need to.

Your breath brushes his ear. ‘I’d love a drink, but I want to put this cake away first.’

‘Yes, of course - sorry, don’t know where my manners went.’ He puts his unfinished beer away and takes the cake from you despite your protests. The potluck table is packed to the brim, so he gestures towards the house. ‘It might have to go into the kitchen for now.’

You follow him, side by side with one polite body width between you, past bands of neighbours and friends catching up, the fairy lights catching your eyes and the well-kept lawn crunching beneath your soles. Unsurprisingly, you feel the weight of curious stares on your back as you go - Joel is still very much a novelty around town. Neither of you speak until he holds open the backdoor for you to slip inside.

It’s quiet in the kitchen, the muted conversation outside a low hum through the double-glazed windows. The free-standing island is already chock full of all kinds of baked goods and pudding, and Joel has to move an actual jelly castle (which wriggles precariously) to free up space for your contribution.

Dusting his hands, Joel turns to you. ‘That carrot cake?’

You nod, keeping mum.

‘It’s my favourite.’

‘I know - Tommy told me,’ you confess with a bashful half-shrug.

His warm eyes crinkle at the corners. ‘Talkin’ about me behind my back, sweetheart?’

Your breath quickens at the sweetheart, and you wonder if the thrill of the nickname will ever wear thin. Emboldened, you tilt your head to one side and tease, ‘Why? You like the attention?’

A smirk on his lips, he steps into your space, the very proximity of him stealing the air from your lungs. ‘I might if you’re not careful.’

And there you are again - with nothing more than a dozen words exchanged and even more unsaid - on the brink of something, right where you left off on the workshop floor.

‘Wanna grab a bite to eat?’

Tucked away in an intimate corner of the back porch in a wicker chair, Joel surveys the party with a seriousness that is borderline comical.

The strategist in him clearly favours the higher ground the porch affords him so he can keep an eye on everyone and spot whoever approaches from a distance. His seat is an easy three steps to the door, an escape plan in his back pocket. For all his stillness, the intensity is unmistakable, if slightly out of place in a baby shower.

Two dirty plates licked clean are stacked on the coffee table between you, piled high with bones and leftover gravy, the delicious food sitting warm in your stomach.

‘They’re comin’ closer,’ Joel complains, taking a long gulp of his beer.

‘I guess they figure if I’m talking to you, it means that you don’t actually bite,’ you quip.

‘Will they back off if I make you cry?’

Your shoulders quake with a chuckle. ‘I think you’re too much of a gentleman to do that, Joel Miller.’

You’re taken aback by the flash of heat in his answering glance, as if there’s something he wants to say. But then, he changes his mind and leans back in his chair, one palm resting on his spread thighs, and he nods towards a couple standing close to the barbeque.

‘Who’s that over there? He lives on my street.’

‘That’s Andrew. He owns the only hot tub in Jackson.’

Joel splutters, ‘A hot tub?’

‘To be fair, it came with his house, but he managed to connect it to the water a few months ago.’

He snorts. ‘Not very communist of him to divert public resources for a private hot tub.’

‘Let’s just say Jackson is a commune with American characteristics,’ you say diplomatically.

He arches an eyebrow at you. ‘A cynic, sweetheart?’

You reply matter-of-factly, ‘We all know how communism ended.’

Fuck. He takes a swig of his beer and swallows hard. A woman after his own heart.

‘You want to keep him on your good side though. He’s really handy with electrics and the like.’

He shrugs. ‘So am I.’

You turn to him, surprised. ‘Oh?’

‘I was a contractor in another life.’

He notices your attention flicker to his hands, before you catch yourself and look away bashfully. ‘That’s good to know.’

‘You need things fixed?’ he asks, and promptly wants to kick himself for sounding so hopeful to be of service.

‘Here and there,’ you say with a dismissive wave. ‘It’s not important. It’ll hold up.’

He runs his tongue over his bottom lip thoughtfully. You have to work on asking for things, but it’s ok - he doesn’t push you. He files that away for later.

Glancing across the yard, he catches Ellie’s eye, who’s arching an inquisitive eyebrow and pointing straight at you with all the subtlety of a flying brick. He knows he should probably introduce you at some point, but he’s not ready to share your attention with someone else just yet, let alone the nosy teenage loudmouth.

Joel gives her a firm shake of the head, to which she responds with a disgruntled I’m watching you gesture.

Ignoring her for now - and knowing that he’ll pay for it later - he asks you, ‘And who’s that in the red dress?’

You crane your neck until you spot her. ‘Ah, that’s Patricia. She’s the dance teacher down at the school.’

‘Why’s she starin’ at me?’ he mutters.

You shoot him an amused grin. ‘Why, it looks like you’ve caught the fancy of our local femme fatale.’

He scoffs. ‘Should I be worried?’

‘Well, she’s been married and divorced three times since she arrived,’ you answer with a straight face. ‘The last one just disappeared. Never found his body.’

Joel stares at you in stunned silence, until you let out a poorly contained giggle. He grumbles, ‘Havin’ fun pullin’ my leg, sweetheart?’

‘Just a bit,’ you tease.

‘I liked you better when you were shy,’ he ribs.

You shrug. ‘Too late. You don’t scare me anymore.’

Glancing the other way, Joel sits up in alarm at the flutter of crimson fabric. ‘Shit, I think she’s comin’ this way.’

‘Time for carrot cake?’ you prompt.

He’s out of his chair quicker than you’d expect his knees would allow him to. ‘Let’s go, sweetheart.’

The state of the kitchen island stops you in your tracks, while Joel lets out a low whistle behind you. ‘Jackson really turned out for this party, huh?’

‘Well, your brother and sister-in-law are pretty popular around town,’ you quip.

You didn’t think it was possible, but every square inch of the kitchen island is now jam-packed with sugary confections, stacked on top of one another.

‘I can’t even find the bloody cake,’ you laugh, literally searching high and low as you skirt the parameter.

On the other side of the island, Joel tosses a dry good luck in your direction and puts the dirty plates and cutlery that he brought in into the sink with a clatter, turning on the hot water. You stutter to a stop opposite him, gawking at how his broad shoulders fill the frame of the window that sits in front of the sink, before your gaze inadvertently trails south - over the nip of his waist and the hem of his shirt skirting the back pockets of his jeans. You find yourself wishing he’d tucked the tails in.

Rooted to the spot, you watch him unbutton the cuffs on his flannel shirt and push up the sleeves to the crease of his elbows, baring his strong forearms. Your mouth goes dry despite the wine you’ve been sipping on all evening, peering at the sinewy muscles flexing and straining as he lathers the plates with an offhand familiarity, his thick fingers dwarfing the sponge in as he works the grease stains.

Making quick but thorough work of the washing up, Joel dries the plates and then runs the tea towel over his big hands and wrists, catching you staring as he turns around. If he knows you’ve been watching all along, he lets it slide. Tossing the towel to one side, heat prickles under your cheeks when he sidles up to you with the clean plates.

The sight of this man doing something as mundane as dishes really shouldn’t get you this hot and bothered.

‘Is that cream cheese?’ he asks conversationally with a nod at your cake, which you have found sitting on top of a tall plastic caddy, a chocolate cake inside.

Having to consciously unstick your tongue from the roof of your mouth, you’re surprised your voice doesn’t shake. ‘It’s not carrot cake without it.’

‘Where did you get the cream cheese? Never seen any ‘round town.’

Almost bashful, you admit, ‘I made it.’

His eyebrows shoot up. ‘You made cream cheese? How?’

‘It’s not that big a deal. It’s just milk, lemon and salt,’ you say, trying to downplay it. Your arms are definitely not aching from the hours of straining and beating and whipping.

‘And the walnuts?’ he asks.

‘Someone I know grows it,’ you say vaguely.

Joel hums doubtfully. ‘Ain’t seen any walnut trees in town.’

Biting your bottom lip, you can pinpoint the exact moment he figures it out, brows drawing together in a frown. ‘The only ones I’ve seen are outside the walls, ‘round the north side of the gates.’

Knowing for a fact that you’re a terrible liar, you don’t even try. You choose to ignore him, idly smoothing the frosting on top with a clean knife, trying not to flinch at the weight of his gaze on you.

‘Sweetheart, please tell me you didn’t go outside just to get walnuts for me.’

‘Not for you,’ you shoot back unconvincingly, flustered. ‘I made the cake for Tommy and Maria.’

Lies. You know it. He knows it.

His shoulders stiffen, the fabric of his shirt bunching with the movement. ‘You can’t just go outside like that, y’know, there could be infected ‘round -’

‘Joel, I’ve been living here for years, I know what I’m doing,’ you argue huffily, not expecting a lecture, of all things. ‘I’m not stupid.’

He shakes his head. ‘Ain’t what I’m sayin’, Pin -’

‘Just leave it, ok?’ you reply sharply and, signalling an end to the conversation, you slice into the cake with an aggressive stab - not noticing that it is hanging over the edge of the caddy below.

You squeak when it flips unceremoniously, and on pure impulse, you pitch forward to stop its upward trajectory, meeting it mid-air with an ominous splat.

‘Fuck!’

To his credit, Joel barely skips a beat, quickly but calmly grabbing hold of the cake board and pulling it off you, setting it down on the counter, while you gape in dismay at the damage done.

The side of the cake that made contact with you is smushed in, most of the thick frosting now painted all over your front, from your neck down to the lovely, thin cashmere top that Lucy picked out for you for the party.

You really hope there’s a big guy up there watching, because someone might as well enjoy this mortifying brand of comedy you keep dishing out around this man.

Two seconds more, and you’re pretty sure you would’ve burst into tears for lack of knowing what else to do - but without another word, Joel takes the lead, wrapping a firm hand around your wrist and pulling you out of the kitchen.

You gratefully let him.

It’s none of your business really, but it comforts you that Joel’s obviously here often enough to know his way around the house.

You glance around the dimly lit room where he deposited you on the edge of a neatly made bed, water trickling in the adjoining ensuite. When he returns, he has a small, wet towel in his hands. Towering over you, the low lights don’t quite reach his face, but you can see the way his gaze slips downwards, carefully, as if he’s afraid to startle you.

But he doesn’t - not even when he slides the crook of his fingers under your chin, tilting your face up and opening up your throat.

His lips twitch wryly. ‘What a waste of perfectly good cream cheese.’

Despite yourself, a laugh escapes you at the absurdity of the situation. ‘Must something always go wrong whenever we’re in the same room?’

The corner of his mouth teases a smile. ‘Never a dull moment with you, sweetheart.’

You smile back, but it falters when his eyes burn in a quiet but unmistakable smoulder.

‘May I?’

You’re not even sure what he’s asking. But he can ask you anything in that raspy, low baritone, and there will always only be one answer.

At your nod, Joel drags the tip of his index finger down the column of your neck, and your lips part when it glides over your windpipe - pressing just hard enough for you to feel the pressure - collecting the velvety frosting as it goes.

Then, holding your eyes, he sucks the cream cheese off his fingertip, a hum deep in his throat. ‘Delicious, sweetheart.’

You’re sitting down, but somehow, you still feel your knees give way at how he smacks his lips at the sugary aftertaste.

He looms closer, bending at the waist and for one moment of madness, you think he might lean down and lick your neck clean.

At the prospect of those plush lips and the burn of his silvered, patchy beard on your skin, your head tilts further back invitingly. His pupils dilate and his nostrils flare, like he’s picking up on what you’re thinking, and his eyes dip to your mouth.

But he doesn’t.

You don’t even have time to be disappointed before Joel carefully gets down on one knee in front of you, one palm landing on the mattress next to your hip for balance. Knowing the state of his joints, you want to ask if he needs a pillow, but instead of your mouth, it’s your thighs that part to make room for him. His chest keeps them splayed open, and you can feel the steady rise and fall of his ribcage with each breath through the denim.

You try to focus on your own breathing as Joel presses the wet towel to your skin and mops up the sticky mess, his face set seriously as he cleans you up inch by inch. But all you can think about is how you can feel the imprint of his fingers through the thin fabric, and how the span of his hand can easily fit over the column of your throat -

You don’t realise you’re leaning into him until he draws back when he’s done, and you tip forward, chasing his touch. His knee groans as he stands up to his full height, and he nods towards the bathroom with a wait here in his eyes.

The water is scalding as Joel washes out the frosting from the towel, but he keeps his hands under the tap, longer than he needs to. Wringing it dry, he takes a moment, wet palms gripping the cold porcelain edge of the bathroom sink, shoulders hunched over as he tells himself to calm the fuck down.

Except, he is calm. He’s held back, even when you looked at him with such straightforward, honest want that has him grinding his teeth.

Thing is, he knows you would’ve let him nudge you backwards into the mattress and crowd you between his arms, switching places the two of you were in under your sewing desk in the workshop.

He knows you would’ve let him wrap your legs around his hips, sliding his palms up the back of your thighs in those skin tight jeans - the sight of which is enough to make his head spin - and he knows you would’ve let him nip, suck, lick the tangy buttercream off your very neck.

Not only would you have let him - you would’ve trusted him to do all those things to you.

That last realisation awakens something he’s not so sure he has a handle on. But he knows for a fact that with the whole of Jackson milling about downstairs, in the middle of his brother’s baby shower, is neither the place nor the time.

You’re where he left you when he steps back into the bedroom, your palms planted on the bed, your shoulders relaxed. The neckline of your blouse gapes loosely, teasing the soft skin of your cleavage.

Joel breaks the loaded silence with a bit of common sense. ‘You best get that top off and soak it in the bath before the stains really set in, sweetheart.’

You bite your lip hesitantly. ‘I - I don’t have anything to change into.’

‘You can have my shirt,’ he offers.

You sit up, attention piqued, when his hands move to the top of his flannel, thick fingers sliding each button out of the holes one by one. You know he’s just taking off his shirt, but you can’t help the way your jaw goes slack, watching shamelessly, the comforter twisting in your grip as you scrabble for something to hold onto.

Joel doesn’t understand why you’re looking at him like that, but it’s so flattering to watch you watch him, eyes hooded and your tongue darting out to wet your bottom lip, like he’s giving you a fucking strip tease or something.

Goddamn if it doesn’t go straight to his head.

A white undervest comes into view, inch by inch, as the shirt falls open, the thin fabric pulled taut at the seams over the broad stretch of his chest. When the last button is undone, he shrugs the shirt off with a smooth roll of his arms, and your jaw drops.

The undervest barely contains the bulk of him, and you’ll be damned if you know where to look first - the lean, solid line of his arms, or the effortless ripple of muscle in his shoulders - but it’s lower where your attention makes landing, and it takes you a second to realise why.

He’s not sucking in his tummy.

The swell of his abdomen sits above the top of his jeans, where the vest is neatly tucked in. You remember too well the brush of that soft strip of skin against the back of your hands when you were on your knees, cutting him out of his jeans; and then beneath you, straddling him under the sewing table.

While there’s an undercurrent of self-consciousness in the way he holds himself, conspicuously missing is the self-deprecation that drew your ire the day he walked into your shop with a broken zipper. A tentative confidence has taken its place, which is at the same time so endearingly vulnerable, as if your reaction to the little show he gave you just now isn’t enough to assure him of what you’re thinking.

Your fingers twitch, yearning to reach out and tug him in by the front of his jeans, to untuck that vest and push it up and off. You want to snake your hands around his waist, hold him to you by the small of his back, and starting with his tummy, kiss your way across the soft belly - maybe with a cheeky scrape of teeth - up to his firm chest, his strong neck and to his lips.

Or maybe, the calling southwards will win out. You’ll push him back to make room for yourself at his feet, nudging your way down his front with your nose, breathe him in, your hands finding his belt buckle and tugging it out of the loops instead. Never mind you've lost count of how many years it's been since you've wanted to do that, or if you remember how at all -

‘Pin.’

Your whole body jolts backwards when his voice pierces through your addled haze, low and raspy, snapping out of your sordid stupor almost grumpily - how rude of him to interrupt? - only to find him peering down at you with a lopsided smile.

‘Get changed, sweetheart. I’ll be right back.’

Leaving your top to soak in the sink, you pad back into the bedroom in just your bra, and you stare down at his shirt laid out neatly on top of the bed.

You press your palm over where his heart would be, the flannel still warm. For one indulgent moment, you pick up the shirt and hug it to you. It smells like him - the outdoors, a crisp spring day, with a whiff of the barbeque smoke from downstairs. You bury your nose into the soft fabric, eyes closed, imagining the weight and shape of him in it.

Even as you put your arms through the sleeves to button it up, you already know it will be hard giving it back. You leave the last three buttons undone and you’ve just tied up the too-long ends in a double knot when there’s a polite but firm knock on the door.

‘You decent?’

‘Yes.’

You hope your face doesn’t fall too obviously at the sight of Joel wearing a shirt again, probably one borrowed from Tommy. He leaves it unbuttoned though, which is small consolation. The air hums between you with stolen glances and words unsaid.

‘You wore those jeans for me,’ he says suddenly.

The for me rolls off his tongue coated in his delectable Southern drawl and a heady satisfaction.

You decide to be brave and shrug one shoulder in a show of attitude. ‘It was the only thing I didn’t have in the wash.’

His grin makes your heart swell. Stepping out of the open doorway, his eyes trailing heat where they linger over you, he says, ‘You look good in my shirt, sweetheart. Real good.’

You bite your lower lip at the compliment, replying shyly, ‘I like this look on you too.’

‘Used to be Tommy’s uniform during our contractor days,’ he reminiscences. ‘I’m just missing the utility belt.’

Oh. You actually find it offensive that the fleeting mention of something as banal as a utility belt should get you going like this. You try to palm off a non-committal hum, but your body betrays you with a strangled choking sound that gives you away.

Joel arches an eyebrow and closes the gap between you with three long, deliberate steps, one finger skimming where his shirt meets the waistband of your jeans. He teases with a smirk, ‘What’s that, sweetheart? This contractor look doin’ somethin’ for you?’

Your cheeks grow hot as both his palms latch boldly onto your hips, and you swear you can feel the burn of his fingertips through the denim, a moan gargling in your throat as your ability to form words abandons you.

‘That a yes?’ he prompts, hooking his thumbs through the belt loops in your jeans and tugging your body flush against his, his stubbled chin brushing the sensitive crook of your neck as he speaks into your ear.

‘Joel,’ you whine, which is the best you can do right now, grabbing onto the open flaps of his shirt just to stay upright.

You feel the rumble that goes through his chest under your palms when he purrs, smiling down at you, head cocked to one side with a playful condescension that’s going to be the end of you. ‘Yes, Pin?’

Your mouth opens, but you’ll never get to find out what you intended to say, because you hear it first - his right ear is to the door - the thunder of rubber soles on the stairs, and you're lucky you manage to stumble two steps back before a deafening (no pun intended), drawn-out call of his name follows.

‘JOOOOOOELLLL!’

Ellie crashes into the doorway with all the grace of a bull in a china shop, slightly out of breath like she’s been running all over the place searching for him, already in the middle of a sentence, as usual.

‘- also Maria says they’re doing a speech now and you’re not getting out of -’ she breaks off abruptly when she spots you, eyes wide and brows - all one and a half of them - reaching for her hairline. ‘Oh shiiiiiit.’

Running a tired hand down his face, Joel’s sigh sounds a lot like surrender. ‘Ellie, this is Pin. Pin, I’m sorry.’

You bite your lip to hold back a laugh at the resignation in his tone as the teenager wrinkles her nose. ‘Pin? That’s a weird name.’

‘Ellie!’

You smile. ‘It’s ok. Pin's just my nickname. I’m a seamstress at the Main Street Outfitters.’

Her face lights up excitedly, an open book if you’ve ever seen one. ‘No shit! I’ve been bugging Joel for a leather jacket for ages. Can I get one?’

‘Please,’ he interjects.

Ellie tucks in her chin and juts out her bottom lip at you. ‘Please?’

You demur. ‘Well, it depends on what you can trade in for it.’

‘My boombox!’ she volunteers without skipping a beat.

Joel scoffs. ‘Good to know those three weeks fixing that piece of junk for you was time well spent.'

‘Sorry, man, but I can’t wear a boombox can I?’ she argues.

Giving Joel an amused look, you come to his rescue. ‘I’m sorry, Ellie, but we only take clothes in exchange.’ At the way she deflates, you counteroffer, ‘Or, you can come work at the shop on Saturdays for the next couple of months. Lucy always needs help out front, and you get a staff discount.’

He turns to you, protesting, ‘That’s very kind, but it ain’t necessary -’

Ellie cuts in, rushing up to you to shake your hand before you can take it back. ‘Deal! When can I start?’

‘There’s no rush,’ you reply with a chuckle. ‘I’ll get back to you next week.’

Stepping back, Ellie winks, ‘So - let’s put a pin in it for now?’

Joel groans at the terrible pun. ‘Get outta here!’

She cackles, firing triumphant finger guns at you as she retreats. ‘What? Pin liked it, she laughed! You’re no fun old man!’

She then pauses by the door, her eyes narrowing as she zeroes in on something smeared on your jeans. ‘Wait - what’s that white stuff on your leg?’

‘It’s cream cheese, you little shit!’ Joel snaps as your ears burn in embarrassment. ‘Out!’

She scampers out of sight, but then reverses into view, sneakers squeaking. ‘ - Are you wearing Joel’s shirt?’

‘ELLIE!’

She throws her hands up. ‘Alright, I’m gone, I’m gone! See ya Pin!’

Joel is the very picture of an embarrassed dad, rubbing the back of his neck with a wince. ‘Sorry, she’s a handful.’

You grin, ‘She’s just a teenager.’

‘You can say that again.’

The quiet seems louder after Ellie, and you restlessly pick at the sleeves. Lifting your eyes shyly, it seems the moment has passed - but Joel has other ideas.

‘C’mere,’ he hums, drawing you close again with one hand on your waist, peering down at you through his lashes. ‘This ok?’

At your nod, he brushes his thumb on your bottom lip, catching the soft plump skin, and your tongue darts out to taste him, his eyes darkening.

‘Can I kiss you, sweetheart?’ he asks, voice hoarse.

It’s been years. Years since anyone has cared enough to kiss you, let alone cared enough to ask if they could. And it’s as if he knows - you don’t know if you’ve somehow given it away, or maybe it’s just him.

‘Yes, Joel.’

He coaxes you closer so that you’re pressed along the whole length of him. His big palms are warm and solid on the small of your back, holding you to him like he intends for you to have trouble standing after he’s done with you.

The tip of his nose bumps into your cheek, nudging its way across and down, and your eyes slide shut when his shaky exhale grazes your gently parted mouth. Your breath hitches at the sweet burn of his beard on your jaw, fingers grabbing onto the scruff of his neck when he finally, finally brushes his lips against yours.

For a man as hardened as Joel Miller, he sure kisses soft. He steals a whimper straight from your throat with nothing more than the clever angling of his lips, the slow drag of tongue on tongue, and a growl deep in his windpipe that you answer with your own moan.

You don’t even have the presence of mind to be embarrassed when your shins knock into his, breaking the kiss with a laugh as Joel hauls you up into his chest, looking very much pleased that he’s literally made your knees buckle.

‘Sorry,’ you squeak, beaming despite yourself.

‘You really know how to flatter a guy, sweetheart,’ he answers, his voice warming you like a smokey campfire, steadying by his hands on your hips.

‘We should probably go before Ellie comes back for us,’ you say reluctantly.

Joel huffs, ‘Ain’t gonna hear the end of it if she does.’

‘Something tells me you won’t be hearing the end of it tonight anyway,’ you tease.

He chucks you gently under the chin, his eyes soft. ‘Let’s go, sweetheart.’

‘You’ve made yourself scarce,’ remarks Lucy as she ambles up to you with a glass of wine running low. ‘Where you been, hon?’

‘Had some trouble with the cake,’ you answer vaguely.

‘Sure,’ she winks at you, unconvinced. ‘If we’re calling him that.’

Right on cue, Joel strides across the lawn with three plates to join you. ‘Thought you might want some of Pin’s carrot cake.’

‘Such a gentleman, Joel Miller,’ chirps Lucy, making what can only be described as a 'thirst face' at you when his back is turned to her.

‘Thanks, Joel,’ you smile at him, letting your fingers graze his deliberately when you take the plate from him.

Saluting you with a forkful of cake, he says, ‘Thank you for bakin’, sweetheart.’

You watch as his lips close around the fork, dragging the cake clean off the slots, cream cheese smearing the corner of his mouth. He frowns, as if in deep pain as he chews, Adam’s apple bobbing when he swallows.

‘Okay?’ you ask nervously, your slice still untouched.

‘Perfect,’ he declares, already having a second, bigger bite. Knowing he doesn’t have a superfluous bone in his body, your chest warms at his words.

‘Wait a second,’ Lucy interrupts, bringing up her plate to inspect it closely. ‘Why does the cake look all wonky?’

‘Don’t know what you’re talking about, Luce,’ you answer coolly, taking a bite yourself.

Humming around a mouthful of moist crumb, the sweet carrot balanced out by the tangy frosting, you meet Joel’s eyes in the soft glow of fairy lights, and he flashes you a conspiratorial smile that makes you grin.

More notes: On Ellie - I was so so nervous about writing our resident teenage badass. I hope I've done her justice, I certainly had a lot of fun writing her introduction to Pin! If you're interested in a detailed deep dive into my process writing this chapter, I do recommend you read the Behind the Seams for this part ❤️

I also went back and forth on the tone and style of this chapter a lot. I wasn’t happy with the way it read, probably still not 100% happy. I like the way Seams and Threads were written better, but the fact is that this chapter is a very different setting and narrative compared to the first two, so I’m trying to be too hard on myself.

So, I have some ideas for where the story will go from here, but nothing concrete. As I've mentioned, I see this fic as more of a loose-fit series, so there's no overarching plot per se, but there's definitely a lot of room for future episodes of these two - I mean, they haven't even done the deed yet 😉

Comments, asks and reblogs are greatly appreciated as always! Thank you so much for reading, I'm so excited to hear what you guys thought of this chapter 😘

#fuckyeahseams #seams iii #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x you #joel miller x reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x fem!reader #joel miller imagine #tlou fanfiction #the last of us fanfiction #pedro pascal character fic

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ixiot-ghostrebel · 9 months

Note

Hi! Finally able to request. I really enjoy your work!

Can you try a creator who use their power through music (like singing or playing instrument) in an Imposter-AU with the Archons? (The voice of the Creator is heard as the sound of nature like wind or water, though. No one knows their true voice)

Thank you so much.

🎄Merry Christmas🎄

Welcome @peaceindreams ! I'll see what I can do with Your Request :D

Also VERY LATE Merry Christmas—I'm writing this a few days after Christmas.

Archons Realize Reader is a MUSICIAN WOAHHH

To be honest, you were kinda just minding your business when the Archons found you and your ever-singing glory.

They SHOOKETH so good job! Let's nitpick at their reactions! >:)

(Warning: Might be OOC!)

Venti

Wisp boi HELLA SHOOKETH. But he also happi boi so good job!

Wants to hear your voice sing and not the wind just continues to gently smack his face. Don't get him wrong, he's probably the only one who can actually listen and understand and compute with what you're singing, but like he really wants to hear your actual voice. He thinks it'll be such a treat!

"Your Graceee...Is there a way to let these humble gods hear your voice? Pleaseee? This bard will make a ballad about it and the world shall start spewing about it right after!~ Hehe, it'll be a big hit, one as grand as your visage!"

He really wants to hear you sing now. Good luck explaining that you got no control over dis :)

Zhongli

GRANDPA ABSOLUTELY SHOOKETH. But he finds it pleasant to see that you're having fun and enjoying your time in Teyvat.

Unlike the airhead beside him, he cannot understand what you are singing, and he feels kinda disappointed that he can't enjoy it too. He would share the memory—

Ahem, anyways. Loves it, 100%. Bro's a huge supporter even though he legit has, like, zero comprehension of the situation. He's also giving Venti some bombasic side-eyes.

"Your Grace, please do not be pressured by this wind god. While it would be a stunning blessing, do NOT feel like you owe us anything." You know those memes where like, one person is forcing someone's head to bow while they bow to apologize to whoever got offended? Yeah, it's that one meme except it's Zhongli making Venti bow for his idiocy.

Grandpa wants to hear your voice fr this time, but bro's not gonna force it upon you. Grandpa will, nevertheless, share the memory over osmanthus wine, because "Osmanthus wine tastes the same as I—"

Raiden Ei, Raiden Ei...I honestly think she feels like she doesn't DESERVE to hear you sing. Like, she feels like she just intruded on your personal space and she crossed some sort of line.

But the wind's pleasant and all of the surrounding area is practically glowing as you sing. Your voice practically carries throughout the place, becoming the nature, the water, the wind, everything.

"Your Grace, you need not heed to the request at all. We are more blessed to be in your presence enough." As much as she's getting more and more used to the present times of Teyvat, she's still kinda stuck in her ways a little. She still thinks of you highly and does not let her beliefs falter.

She really doesn't think she deserves to hear your voice, but she is also very curious. Never wants to push though because she's old-school.

Puppet Shogun looking at this and going "This will be forever engraved in eternity" as Ei is shaking the Puppet Shogun by the shoulders like "NO, WE SHOULD NOT BE HEARING THIS WHAT KIND OF PROGRAM ARE YOU ON I DID NOT PROGRAM YOU LIKE THIS—"

All in all? Mental crisis! :D

Nahida

Cute god loves you! She loves how the flowers bloom, how the wind flows, how the water speaks—not even analogies can describe the amazingness of it all!

She's grinning so wide with such wholesome-wide eyes, like an actual child discovering music for the first time or smth ykwim? IT'S ADORABLE IS WHAT I'M TRYING TO SAY.

"Your Grace...is it possible if we could see this more? You don't have to, of course, but this is really amazing!" She's practically GLOWING with excitement and nervousness. While Nahida wants to hear you sing and see you enjoying your time, she doesn't want to push boundaries!

Safe to say, she'll support whatever your answer will be!

Furina

Girl's flabbergasted. She thinks she might have been sent to both celestia and hell because it was hard to compute whether she was trespassing or if she was being blessed.

Furina is utterly speechless to how your voice alone commands presence and power without even needing to try so hard. Anyone, absolutely anyone, can tell you are truly the Almighty Creator.

Though she's retired from being the Hydro Archon, she still has the slight dramatic flare she has had for 500 years. And she's got to say, she absolutely loved your performance!

"Your Grace, if I could humbly suggest a request on the behest of the follow archons beside me." Furina dramatically bows a little. "May we be humbled by your presence, and continue to gaze upon our unfathomed eyes of what a real god can truly do in the likes of the world? I'm sure this will bring many beautiful pieces of art—be it music, visual arts, dramatic arts, and so on!" Girlie doesn't realize she made a beautiful monologue about your singing on the spot, but one thing's for sure—she loves you and you singing, even if her ears can't understand it. It was still a beautiful piece.

After all, she was the All-Powerful Hydro Archon before she retired. She knows power and art when she sees it, and you bypass all forms of mortal concepts. You're practically her favorite musician!

Please grace her—I mean them—with your singing! It's too beautiful to miss!

Ghost Rebel Side Notes: I am SAD I couldn't finish this when it was still AROUND CHRISTMAS SOBBING, but I hope y'all like this post, though! Hopefully my next post won't take too long—but I'm not gonna say anything because rn I'm EATING those words up like it's for breakfast lol—I'll see you all next time :)

✦ Check out The Ghost Rebel’s Blog Description & Info Page to See if Their Mailbox is Open! ✦

#genshin impact sagau #genshin sagau #self aware genshin #genshin self aware #sagau x reader #sagau #sagau genshin #yandere sagau #genshin cult au #sagau brainrot #sagau cult au #yandere genshin x reader #sagau furina #sagau nahida #sagau ei #sagau zhongli #sagau venti #genshin x reader

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ceesimz · 5 months

Text

The Mountain Is You

Part 2 of 'Our Sun Is Setting'

Can confirm this part is much lighter than the first! I enjoyed writing this, I hope you like it :)

Barcelona. Once a place that felt like home to you, yet now as you clamber into the back of your taxi outside of the airport, it's the same but different.

Same sun, different warmth. Same air, different atmosphere. Same airport, different kind of departure.

Same person tying you down to this city, different dynamic.

If you thought a lot could change in two days, you had no idea what could happen in eighteen months. Turns out, a lot could change too, but thankfully for the sake of your sanity, the mental blows were not so big and not so frequent this time around. You doubt you would be in this situation now, back in the city you love, if it wasn't for your grandparents. They welcomed you with open arms and endless amounts of baked goods as soon as they caught wind of you coming home.

For the first month you stayed with them, most of that time was spent in the spare bedroom they made up for you, not quite holding the confidence or will power to do much else other than feel sorry for yourself. Some days you would walk their dog with them, other days you wouldn't leave the room. Some days you would do as many chores possible for them as a thank you, other days your Grandmother would sit beside you up against the headboard whilst you lay beside her as she read her book out loud, one hand gently running through your hair as she went. Some days you'd all laugh about shared memories of your Mother, other days you'd cry into each other's arms.

Something clicked inside you along the way though. One day you just woke up with a certain determination, and the look on your Grandfather's face as you wandered into the kitchen at 7am was enough to force a few giggles out of you before ushering him to join you on an early morning walk. That was when you voiced your new thoughts to him.

"I think I'm going to start applying for jobs again soon. You know, get out of your hair a little bit." You said to him, smiling when he tutted and wrapped an arm around your shoulders.

"Don't be ridiculous. We're happier than we have been in a while now that you're with us, sunshine." He replied honestly, hugging you into his side.

"I know. I'm happy too, but I do want a job. What job, I'm not sure yet, but I'm going to start looking."

"You don't have to pressure yourself though, okay? If you change your mind at any point, that's perfectly fine. Just do it at your own pace. If you would like, you could print off your CV for me and Granny to hand in to places."

"That's fine, Grandad, you don't have to." You laughed lightly at his suggestion, bringing your hand up to cover his that rested on your shoulder. "Everything is online nowadays."

"Of course. That rules me and Gran out the question then, in terms of advice." He grumbled jokingly, though his classic, cheeky smile rests on his face. "Absolutely no help for you there, sweetheart."

"I didn't think there would be any anyway. I've seen Grandma use the microwave." The pair of you laugh at that, before it falls silent as you walk along the cliff-top coastline. The tone of the conversation shifts a bit when you speak again. "I think I'm also going to start seeing a therapist. You know, for everything that's happened."

"Okay, love. Whatever is best for you." And that's all the reassurance you needed.

The job hunt would forever be an aspect of life you despised. But, two months later, you had secured a job within the local area that you chose to walk to most days, a piece of advice from your new therapist that at first you hated but soon it was your favourite part of your daily routine. Apart from when it rained, obviously.

Things were going well though, surprisingly well, and it set in one evening as you sat in the back garden, watching your grandparents gardening, that the choice you made a few months prior was the right one.

You had managed to keep a certain Spaniard out of your mind for most of the time after that first month of being away from her, until one night you got a notification on your phone.

Spain win the FIFA World Cup after a 1-0 victory against England!

What was the right move now? Text her to congratulate her? Or is no contact best for the time being? Would texting her give her false hope? This was arguably the biggest achievement of her career, her whole life, but as a figure of the past, was it right to dredge everything back up again at such a joyful time?

Your hands faltered over your still cracked phone screen, unsure what to do in such an unusual situation. There was no handbook on what to do if your ex-girlfriend, who you're still in love with and who (hopefully) still loves you too, wins the biggest trophy of her career, nor could a google search be any assistance. And unfortunately, as perfect as they are, your grandparents that had been married for over fifty years now may not be any help either.

So, the only decision you could land on, no matter how much you didn't like it, was to leave it.

Until your finger slipped and liked her celebratory Instagram post later that night. You still followed each other on social media, too reluctant to get rid of that remaining bridge, but your Instagram had lain dormant ever since you had left. That meant you had some insight into Alexia's life post-breakup, guiltily indulging in a late night scroll every now and then which you found yourself in now, whilst she had no idea what you were up to or even if you were alive.

Well, at least she knew you were still here and you still cared for her. Could that be shown in one single social media interaction? You hoped so. Maybe that was a tad bit dramatic though. What else were you supposed to do?

You had the same reaction a year later as you watched Alexia captain her team to an unfortunate loss in the Olympics final. However, it was still a silver Olympic medal, and not many athletes could say they have one of those. A congratulatory text from you may have seemed like the start of a pity party though, so once again you opted out of it. Time and place and all that.

A year on and you were in a much better place, there were no two ways about it. Therapy was difficult, of course it was, but people were right when they say it's one of the best things to do for yourself. You don't think you'd ever been better. Subsequently, that led to an inevitable topic to come into discussion during one session.

"What do you think the... repercussions would be if I... went back to Barcelona?" You asked nervously, looking down at your hands as they fidgeted in your lap.

"It depends what you went to get out of it. Would you go for the city itself? Or for her?"

For some reason, in your sessions, your therapist hardly ever named Alexia. It was always 'her' or 'she', never her name. You figured it was so that you never shied away from the subject which was probably close to being the hardest to talk about, but you were too afraid to ask.

"Both." You answered initially. Your therapist stayed quiet of course, waiting for you to answer truthfully, something she again always did. "Her. Mostly."

"Do you think you're in the headspace for it? You've made so much progress since we first started, so you need to think if it'll aid the healing process or cause a regression."

"Well, she wasn't the problem in the first place. Everything she did for me was perfect, it was the relationship as a whole rather than her specifically. She was... she was perfect." You smiled sadly as you reminisced on your time with her. She really was perfect. "But I was the problem, I think. I was the one suppressing so much stuff and... when I was on my own compared to when I was with her, I was two completely different people. It was like light and day. She had a great effect on me, but I guess it's just figuring out if that was healthy or not. That difference in characters, in mindset."

"See? You've learnt so much from this already. Maybe you should just sit in front of a mirror and talk to yourself, you'd save a lot of money." Your therapist jokes, the pair of you laughing lightly. "So, let's get talking then. Let's figure this out."

And you did. You spent the rest of the session discussing whether it would be suitable for you to go back to Barcelona. The conclusion you came to was a very favourable one, one that made you nervously excited. But what would Alexia be like? Had she moved on? Would she still value you the same? Or would you be old news now? Only time could tell.

The only thing you knew was that it is so much darker after a light goes out than it would have been if it had never shone, and that was the case with Alexia. Perhaps your life wouldn't have been so flipped upside down if you hadn't had met her; such a sweet and loving soul, the purest and brighest light shining onto every dark crevice you'd ever hidden. You'd had a taste of her, and you'd be damned if you didn't at least try for her again. Alexia Putellas wasn't one to lose, and you'd been fortunate to have her in the first place. If it was a one time thing, maybe you'd have to come to terms with that being the case. But for now, getting to Barcelona was just the first step.

Your grandparents definitely approved of you going back, no matter how long for, whether it be one day or one month or perhaps forever. At some point in the past year you had opened up to them about Alexia and they were heartbroken for you. Of course they would be. Your hearts were one and the same. They were the biggest advocates in getting you to go back and see Alexia, and even if Alexia didn't want to see you, you were still going to go to Barcelona. You had friends there, you'd lived a whole life there for just over a year, you'd fallen in love with it before you'd even met Alexia, so regardless of her opinion (even if it did sting like hell) you're still going.

When you booked your flight there, with no return ticket just yet, your grandparents had cheered and dragged you up from the armchair to dance with them along to the music from their old radio. It was a core memory, absolutely, and you'd be lying if you said a part of you wasn't hoping to share this memory one day with Alexia.

However, the day came where you had to do the thing you'd been most afraid of. Contacting Alexia. It was an occasion that definitely called for an emergency video call with your therapist who was very pleased to meet your grandparents for the first time, albeit over Zoom, and the three of them offered any and all advice you'd take until you had carefully curated a text message to send to her.

You:

Hey Alexia, I hope you're doing well. Feel free to ignore this, but I'm coming back to Barcelona soon and I was wondering if you wanted to catch up? If you don't want to, I completely understand. It's been a while and we've both lived our lives without each other in it, so no pressure at all. Let me know if you're open to it. Take care x

Almost immediately, the message was read by her. And just as quickly, the typing icon came up. Safe to say, your grandparents were freaking out just as much as you were.

Alexia:

Wow, it is so good to hear from you. I'm doing well and I really hope things are much better for you. I've been dreaming of hearing from you since the moment you left. I absolutely want to see you again, I don't care how long it's been, so let me know when you're coming and I'll see you as soon as I can. Espero verte pronto, cuídate x

Any longer and your jaw would have been lodged into its place hanging wide open. She wanted to see you just as much as you wanted to see her. The feeling of relief that washed over you upon reading it was gone as quick as it arrived; instead, you were now filled with nerves. No, not nerves, butterflies.

And that's where you found yourself now, your taxi driver navigating the streets of Barcelona towards your hotel in mid-October. It was reaching the evening, so your plan was to start off the trip calmly with a walk around the city to re-familiarise yourself before sunset, then just order some room service for dinner. Simple, but the right way to start what would probably be a bit of a challenging trip mentally.

Despite the low-key nature of the day, you could hardly sleep later that night. There was only one reason, it was obvious. You and Alexia had plans to meet for lunch the next day after her training session. You can't recall an event in your life you had ever felt so excited for, you felt like a kid on Christmas Eve again. A few doubts trickled into your mind every now and then, but you'd grafted for too long now for petty worries to tear down the confidence you had built.

Of course you were eager to see the woman you loved again for the first time in eighteen months, but there was a bigger part of you that was desperate for her to see the progress you'd made. You were proud, and it had taken a lot to get to this point. You wanted to share your pride with her and show her the person you always knew you could be all along. All of your efforts, your hard-work, and your sacrifices had been worth it. You were right to feel proud. And after all, sacrifices were given that name for a reason.

When you did eventually fall asleep, it was with images of Alexia circling in your mind, hoping she still had a place in her heart for you and that she'd love you again for who you are now and not who you were.

Finally, finally, the time came to see Alexia again. You weren't really sure what to expect; it was a unique situation with exceptional circumstances, and you were trying desperately not to put too much pressure on the day. Yet, you were a despairingly hopeful person and the anticipation was almost overwhelming as you were getting ready.

Contact between you both had been little but often, topics never delving too deep which you were so glad about as you wanted to talk to her properly face to face. You had to, it's the least she deserved. Over text, anything could be easily misinterpreted and you weren't about to ruin your chance with words getting lost in translation. Phone calls and FaceTimes were out of the question too, and you were grateful that your individual desperation wasn't getting in the way of going about this the correctly. By no means were you a perfectionist, but there were some things in life that were far too important to be ruined by a lack of patience and all-consuming desire.

Once again, your new and probably your healthiest habit came into play as you decided to walk under the bright October weather to the place Alexia had chosen for the occasion. Neutral ground of course; meeting at her apartment or your hotel room wasn't appropriate... yet.

You arrived at the quaint, little restaurant first, a coincidence you were more thankful for than you'd admit, and you chose to seat yourself at a table off to the side. A bit of privacy from strangers could go a long way for a day like today, you figured. You didn't really want a bunch of strangers to witness the influx of emotions you'd no doubt go through when Alexia arrived.

Soon though, that became a case of if Alexia would arrive, because ten minutes passed since you had arrived practically on time and there was still no sign of the woman. And, rather naïvely, you hadn't planned for her to stand you up. You and your therapist had almost fully mentally prepared you for every other outcome except that one. She did have training beforehand, perhaps that had ran late. Still, your mind was slowly spiralling into overdrive with each second that passed.

Until she did arrive.

The bell over the door rang faintly through the room as it opened hastily, a frantic looking Alexia entering the restaurant. She was really here. Here, basically racing over to you whilst weaving through the tables and chairs and the light scattering of people. Here, still as breathtakingly beautiful as ever. Still Alexia.

She came to a stop in front of you, both of you stuck in a trance as if the world had stopped spinning solely for this moment right here. An anticipatory and contemplative silence settled as your eyes' tracked over every feature of the other, a refresh for the memory of the face you'd so dearly missed.

Alexia was the first to speak - a breathless whisper of your name as if she was in disbelief that you were right in front of her. It triggered something in you, because before you had even realised, you had jumped up from your chair and wrapped your arms tightly around her; a hug you had been dying for for longer than you'd admit. It took a few seconds for her to react but soon, Alexia enveloped you just as emphatically.

The embrace was paired with a few more whispered chants of your name from Alexia - in this moment, for her, it felt like the past months without you she had just been floating through her life, waking up everyday as if it were a chore more than anything. But now, in your arms, she felt alive again. The time without you had been worth it for this single moment here.

"Hey." You mumbled quietly into her neck, smiling uncontrollably when the taller woman squeezed you impossibly more in response.

"Hi." Her voice cracked ever so slightly as she spoke. "Hi."

"You already said that." You teased her lightly, meeting her gaze when she moved back to look at you properly. One of her hands came up to delicately cradle your cheek as if she was scared you would disintegrate at her touch. "Don't be so worried. I'm not going anywhere right now."

"You better not." Alexia murmured, her eyes boring down at you so deeply that it caused your breath to hitch in your throat. "I can't believe you're here."

You blushed at the intensity of her look, gesturing a hand down your body jokingly.

"Live in the flesh." You grinned cheekily, gasping slightly when she pulled you back into herself. "Ale."

"Say that again." She said so quietly you almost missed it.

"Alexia. Ale." You repeated, along with a light kiss to her cheek. She physically deflated in your arms, all the tension you didn't even realise was there dissipating immediately. You saying her name was like the last confirmation she needed that yes, you were actually here.

"I..." She started, leaning back and shaking her head whilst letting out a shaky breath. "I missed you. So much."

You smile and... almost instinctively lean in to kiss her - what were you doing?

"I missed you too." You replied, willing yourself to not ruin it, not now, not when you've made it so far. "I really did."

She returned a smile and reluctantly lets go of you in favour of finally taking a seat at the table. You sit across from her and realise that most of the tables were quite small and intimate, and if you had any remaining functional thought processes left that weren't all occupied by Alexia, you would have thought she'd chosen this restaurant for that specific feature. Your knees grazed against each other under the table and Alexia couldn't stop herself from travelling the small distance with her hands to grasp one of yours with both of hers.

"How are you?"

"Well, that's quite a question. Do you want the short answer or the long answer?" You answer humorously, Alexia shrugging.

"Whatever you want. Say it all or say nothing, I'm just glad to be in your company again." You can't help but swoon a little at her words. "But... I would really like it if you were honest with me. And open. Though I understand if not."

"I'm happy to tell you it all. You best have your listening ears on though." You say, delighted to hear her laugh.

"I do, I swear."

At that, you explain everything from start to finish. From the days you spent in bed, to the first therapy session you had, to the moment you opened up to your grandparents, all the way to the point where you made the decision to come back to Barcelona. The only slightly annoying and poorly timed interruption was from the waiter who asked for your orders, the pair of you quickly apologising and taking one glance at the menu before ordering the first thing that caught your eye.

She listened intently to every word you had to say, not afraid to ask a question every now and then whilst also respecting the privacy you still had every right to. Alexia didn't really feel like you absolutely owed her anything, she just wanted a little context to it all, a little closure and an update on your current state of mind. She just wanted you to be well, she just wanted you.

The whole time you spoke, she simply gazed at you with such a soft and earnest look in her eyes. With her presence that, despite all that time, still had the greatest effect on you paired with your newfound self, you were at peace here.

"You promise that you're better now?" She raises her hand up to you, waiting for you to link fingers with her to secure your truth. And this time, you weren't lying when you answered her.

"I'm so much better." You stated with a shy smile, and that statement felt like the final nail in the coffin to the whole journey you'd been on the past two years.

"You don't know how happy I am to hear that." Alexia revealed with a disbelieving shake of her head. You lift your shoulders in a dismissive shrug, glancing down at your joined hands in the centre of the table.

"Are you... are you angry at me?" You ask. You weren't perfect still, you still had doubts and insecurities.

"What would I be angry about?" Her nose scrunched up in genuine confusion.

"Any of it. All of it."

"Hey." She said, nudging your hand to try and gain your attention. You look up at her and blush a little. "Do I seem angry?" You ponder that for a moment, eyes searching her face, before shaking your head no. "Good, because I'm not. Not at all. What person would I be to react like that?"

"An asshole." You mumble, the pair of you breaking out into laughter after a second.

"I'm proud of you and happy for you. You..." Alexia sighs and pauses, wondering if it's the right time to say what she wanted to say. It's her turn to focus her attention on your hands as she mindlessly traced random shapes on the back of your hand with her finger. "This new version of you, I can see that you're less... weighed down by things. There is a different look in your eyes and though I can't quite describe it yet, I know it's a sign that you feel better and more at peace with yourself. That is all I could wish for, for the person I love."

Sorry, what was that?

"Uh, you sti- you still love me?" You stuttered. You just had to know.

"Yes. I do." Alexia confirms, a sheepish smile on her face. "I was being truthful before you left when I said that I'll always love you. Maybe I shouldn't have said this now. You don't have to love me still. I would... I would understand."

"No, Ale, what?" You shook your head at her and squeezed her hands tightly. "I love you. I'll always love you too. Why do you think I wouldn't love you?"

"Why would you think I wouldn't love you?" She hits back, resulting in you both laughing shyly. "It would have to be really crazy situations for me to not love you, chiqui."

"Was this not a crazy situation? Me dramatically fleeing the country out of nowhere?"

"No, and don't say it like that. You had every reason to leave, okay? I told you that when you left and I'll still tell you that now. I don't resent you for choosing yourself." Alexia argues firmly, bringing your hand up to her mouth so that she could kiss the back of it reassuringly. She halts for a moment, wondering if it's appropriate to do so, but judging by the redness of your cheeks she decides to go through with it. "I... just had a few doubts about this all, but now that you're here my mind has calmed down now."

"Are you okay?" You blurt out.

At the mention of herself, your concern immediately turned to Alexia and how she coped through all this. If you knew her as well as you thought you did, you had a feeling you knew what her immediate reaction would be.

"What do you mean?"

Exactly what you guessed.

"I haven't checked up on you yet. I want to know how you've been doing." You answer, shifting forward slightly so that you were closer to her.

"Why check up on me?" Alexia chuckles nervously.

"Because your girlfriend walked out on you and went off the grid for a year and a half. Forget about me right now, Ale, I want to know how you are."

She pauses looking at you, an internal battle going on behind her eyes that you're all too familiar with, until she sighs once more and her demeanour drops.

"Well, I was worried about you, firstly. Everyday I woke up you were the first thing I thought about and the last thing in my mind before I slept. I don't think you ever left my mind, not for long anyway. I wanted the best for you. And then I guess... I had a few selfish thoughts too. But as I said, you're here, and I don't need to think about them anymore." Alexia told you, a tight-lipped smile on her face. "I don't want to say them now, today is about you."

"No, Alexia, it's not. It's a day for both of us." You urge her to understand that it's okay for her to open up, that it's been a hard time for her too, but part of you knows you most likely won't get that out of her today.

"Amor, please. Let's do this another time, for now just focus on the positive. We can talk about me any other time, just not now, please." She begs with a pleading look in her eyes. "I am okay, I swear. You being here has solved everything, it's the truth."

"Promise you'll open up at some point soon?" It's your turn to hold your hand up for her to make a promise.

"As long as you stay long enough." She jokes, but it's clear to see there is some fear and insecurity there. She does link her finger with yours though, a sentiment that's never lost on you. "How long are you staying for?"

"That's the thing. I don't really have a return date yet." You admit, and the flash of hope in Alexia's eyes ignites a feeling of longing inside of you.

Forget timings and socially standardised timelines of falling in love or healing or whatever it was you were doing, you didn't care anymore. Why delay the inevitable process? You were in love with her and she was in love with you. Taking it slow was overrated anyway.

"What does that mean?" Alexia asks, her heart palpitating at the prospect of your answer.

"It means... anything, Ale. What do you want it to mean?"

Perhaps answering questions with another question wasn't the best habit you'd picked up from your therapist.

"You want the truth?" You nod instantly, your emotions already bubbling and she hasn't even said anything yet. "As long as you are ready for it, and you must swear to me that you are because I don't want to h-"

"Oh my god, just say it, please." You beg, eyes wide in hopeful anticipation, waiting for her to admit the thing you had yearned for all these months.

"I want you back in my life, permanently. I want to be your girlfriend again. No matter how long it takes, no matter how slow you decide to take things, the thing I've wished for all this time is to just be yours again, to have you as mine. I'll do anything to make that happen, I swear by it. You want me to throw stones at your hotel window? I'll do it. You want me to sneak onto your balcony in the middle of the night? I'll do that. You want me to stand outside your door with a loudspeaker and signs? I already have the speaker and words prepared. I'll even stand in the centre of Montjuïc at the next game and sing for you if you really want."

You laugh at every ridiculous idea of devotion that comes out of her mouth, eyes glossy with unshed tears. Except, this time, the tears aren't ones of sorrow or longing, they're tears of exultation and relief. Alexia had waited for you, all this time. There had been no one else for her and no matter how selfish it was, it's the best revelation you've ever had.

"I don't think the culers would be too happy about you singing." You teased, rolling your eyes at the smug and nonchalant shrug she gave.

"I don't care, because it wouldn't be for them, it would be for you." She smirks, leaning in closer. Your foreheads were mere inches about now, a fact neither of you could ignore.

"You sure you want me back?" You mumbled shyly. It was Alexia's turn to roll her eyes now as she fought back the temptation to kiss the doubt off of your lips.

"I want nothing more than I want you." She responded, sounding so sure of herself that it was intoxicatingly enticing.

"Even if it's long distance for a little while?"

"Even then." Alexia smiles, resting her arms on her elbows as she brought your joined hands up together to rest in between you both. She pressed her lips to your hands once more, eyes closed as she does so, before looking back into your eyes. "We will figure out the logistics another time. For now, all I know is that I have the love of my life back and I want to spend every second I can with her before she leaves."

"Love of your life, hm?" You whisper with a shy grin, Alexia grunting at how you teased her for her softness. It was something you'd always done, and she was grateful that that part of you hadn't changed. "Well, what do we do now?"

"I'm hoping that you will let me kiss you, finally."

"In here? With all these people?" There really weren't that many people in there, and the few that were wouldn't even take notice of the sickeningly sweet moment occuring.

"Sí. Déjame besarte, por favor." The sound of Alexia speaking Spanish was something you could never get over, it did things to you everytime. How could you deny her when she spoke like she did?

"I guess." You rolled your eyes and sighed dramatically as if it was such an inconvenience.

Alexia simply grinned and planted both her hands on your cheeks before surging forward to kiss you. However, she pauses for a moment, just taking in your appearance and letting out a huff of disbelieved laughter, then she finally presses her lips against yours. A quiet, muffled moan leaves your throat before you can stop it, and the sound of it causes Alexia to smirk smugly. Frustratingly, the stupid but irresistible thing made it aggravatingly difficult to kiss the life out of her like you so wanted to. The smirk was wiped off of Alexia's face the second you broke the kiss much sooner than she wanted to.

"What's wro-"

"I can't kiss you how I want to when you're grinning like a maniac, pendeja!" You groan, butting your forehead against hers to further emphasise your annoyance.

"Pobrecita bebé." Alexia pouts sarcastically at you whilst gently grasping your chin with her thumb and forefinger. That idiotic, childish grin soon forced its way back where it belongs, and you can't help but smile at the sight of it. "I can't help it, amor! What do you want me to do?"

"Be normal and not do that stupid smirk!"

"Oh, perdóname, I'm sorry I'm so happy that I have you back!" Alexia exclaims, arguing solely to rile you up. What people didn't know about this layered Catalan is that she loved bickering with you or just annoying you in general. You didn't realise quite how much you missed it until this moment now.

"I swear to god, stop being so infuriating and just get o-"

And get on with it she did. You couldn't even finish your sentence before she silenced you in one of the best ways you could think of. And god bless the poor waiter who just wanted to do his job, because when he came to give you your meals, the sight he walked up to was somewhat less than PG. The young guy, who honestly looked no older than 18, cleared his throat louder than normal and the pair of you jumped a mile apart at the unexpected presence. Alexia had to grip the edge of the table to prevent her chair from tipping back, trying desperately to disguise her embarrassment with a tight-lipped smile and rambled thanks to the boy, all the whilst you had to stifle what would be a very loud belly laugh.

"Calláte, that was your fault." Alexia hushed out, her eyes scanning the room to figure out if anyone else had just witnessed that monstrosity. Meanwhile, your face was now bright red due to the laughter threatening to escape out from behind your palm that covered your mouth. It was Alexia's fault really, the shot burst of laughter that barrelled out of you, because she kicked you in the shin as she sipped from the water that had been dropped off at some point during the afternoon. "Dios mío, what is wrong with you!?"

"Sorry, sorry, I'm sorry." You choked out. You took a page from Alexia's book and drank some of your water. As you did, you noticed that Alexia's face wasn't contorted to one of irritation, it was the face she did when she was trying to suppress the overwhelming amount of joy she felt. As someone who was so keen to convey a certain persona, it was one you'd seen a few times since you'd known her, and this was perhaps your favourite look of hers. "I think you'll find it was your awkwardness that was at fault, Ale."

"Yeah, yeah. Eat your food, idiota."

There were periods of peaceful silence as you ate, some conversation here and there, but despite all that has and hasn't been said so far, it felt like there wasn't anything that needed to be uttered. You were both content to enjoy each other's presence again, your eyes meeting every other moment as you ate which resulted in you both blushing and laughing like lovesick teenagers.

It really was tooth-rottingly sweet, and though the dynamic wasn't all too different than it was before, there was solace found in the knowledge that a lot of things had been changed for the better. The prospect of it all was exhilarating, a new path for you both to walk together, and for you there were no longer question marks looming over every part of your life.

The main thing that hadn't changed too much for you, a thing you were relieved about, was the way Alexia made you feel. It was the same as it used to be, except about a million times better. There wasn't so much guilt or gloom that was masked by Alexia, it was all genuine and you already knew that feeling would bleed into your everyday life with her around.

"You said you told your grandparents about me?" Alexia wondered, sitting back in her chair with her hands linked over her stomach.

"I did. They said if this goes well, I have to bring back Barça shirts for them." You revealed with a smile, Alexia chuckling.

"I can organise that for them. As well as tickets to a game if they'd like."

"Alright, Miss Marketing." You roll your eyes at her offer, pausing to take a sip from your half-full glass. "We get it, you love your club. You don't have to spread the message like a missionary."

"I have to win them over some way." Alexia laughs, before her face turns a little more serious and you have a feeling you know what she's about to bring up. "What about your... Dad?"

"Haven't spoken to him since the day I left." You answer, eyes focused on the tracks your finger left behind on the condensation of the glass as it ran around the curve of it. "No idea what he's doing or where he is. Just know that he's alive and that's all I have the energy to care about."

"That's good for you, amor. He doesn't deserve you."

"I know that." You smile genuinely at her, and that's another one of her worries she had for you erased. "I think, out of anyone, my therapist is the one you must give tickets to."

"Mm, yes. I must meet this magical woman one day, I owe my life to her." That charming smirk is back on her face, and you blush at that as well as the sentiment she holds in her words.

"I don't want this meal to end." You mumble in a disheartened voice, reaching your hand across the small gap between you both to grasp one of the hands on her stomach.

"It... it doesn't have to, amor." Alexia starts, catching your attention as you look up to meet her eyes. "You could come over to my apartment. It's been a while since you've been there. The indentation on my balcony chair has left, I think you need to reinstate it."

You roll your eyes at her humour, a soft smile on your face at the laugh she gives at her own jokes. You do think the offer over though - is it too soon? Maybe, but if this counted as a first date, milestones were out the window considering you'd already confessed your love for each other. Did time and patience count when it came to re-conciliating a relationship? Screw it, who cares.

"I'd be happy to come over, Ale. If you want that."

"Are you sure? Because I would love that, except I don't want to rush you or ruin anything if we move too fast."

"Fuck that. I know what I want now and that's you. Who cares what is too fast. I've delayed our relationship once already, I'm not doing that again."

She stares at you from across the table and if it was possible, you'd say her pupils were the shape of a heart with the look she fixed you with. Then she was standing out of nowhere, shrugging her jacket back on whilst you watched her, completely confused, until she held her hand out for you.

"Let's go, ay?" She hums, wiggling her fingers to urge you to move. "No wasting time, you said."

You jut your tongue into your cheek, heart fluttering at her forwardness, and gather your own coat before taking her hand. She presses a soft kiss to your cheek before guiding you towards the exit with a hand on your lower back, a notion she's always done and one you'll always adore.

Silently, she leads you to her car that's parked around the corner and watches with a shy but proud smile as you climb into the passenger side of the car. With every little thing you did, whether that was humming contently as you ate your food or smiling at her absentmindedly every time she spoke, or even just blinking and breathing, she realised she could never verbalise the love she held for you because she'd never experienced it before in her life, ever. Not with pets, not with friends, not with her family. It was otherworldly, unexplainable, and though she wasn't religious, her devotion to you was just as close to that.

Again, there is just light, scattered chatter as she drives you back to one of your favourite places in the world, and once more she guides you to the elevator with her palm pressed to your back. As you stand in the lift, shoulder to shoulder, there are modestly triumphant smiles on your faces, a wordless shared notion sitting between you that everything was worth it in the end. Even if it took a journey and a half to get there, the climb was always worth it for the view at the top.

"What would you like to do now?" Alexia asks as she unlocks her door and allows you to step in before her.

"Uh, can we chill on the balcony? You know it's my favourite spot." You reply with a grin, and Alexia somehow knew you were going to say that, almost as if she's heard those words leave your mouth maybe a few hundred times in the past.

"Of course. You go ahead, I'll get us some drinks."

You nod and walk through to her bedroom, one thing standing out to you; everything is exactly the same as it was before. That comforts you impossibly more than you yourself could ever understand. Future therapy topic?

However, there is one thing that jumps out at you. You walk over to where it stands on Alexia's dresser and pick it up, holding the object in your hand with a smile on your face.

"Ale, why do you have my favourite perfume here? I never once brought it to your apartment." You shout to where she was in the kitchen, no doubt her cheeks a bright pink colour at the fact she'd been caught out.

"Because I bought some, after you left." She replied, and you giggle to yourself at the ever so slightly embarrassed tone that creeps through.

"Liked the smell, did you?"

"Mm. Something like that." She grumbled.

You grin and place it down, heading over to the sliding door adjacent to her bed and opening it. The air that hits you and the sight that greets you causes a wave of familiarity to wash over you, one that you welcome straight away. You take a deep breath and bask in the feeling, leaning on the railing as your eyes raked over the view you adored.

A few minutes later and you hear Alexia walking out behind you, first placing the drinks on the small side table before joining you at the edge. She wraps an arm loosely around your waist and rests her chin on your shoulder, admiring the view of the city that was literally right on her doorstep.

"I missed this view." You break the silence first, voicing what Alexia already knew.

"I missed you." She murmurs, turning to press a kiss to your shoulder when she notices something. "Ah, I knew you never gave that back."

Delicately, she runs her index finger along the necklace that sat around your neck which she had gifted you way back when, quietly delighted to see you still wearing it. And it also aided her in not feeling so embarrassed about the earlier incident where you had found the perfume she bought in memory of you.

"Yeah, sorry about that." You mumble sheepishly, shivering when Alexia chuckles into your neck where her lips soon leave a kiss.

"No, I like that you still have it."

You hum in acknowledgement, content to stay here in the arms of your girlfriend as the locals carried on with the hustle and bustle of city life below you.

"This was my favourite thing about your apartment." You state a little while later, leaning your head against Alexia's.

"I remember." You feel her say it more than you hear it, before a thought clearly captures her attention as she stands up fully, still with her arm around you. "You could come here, uh... full time, you know?"

"You mean move in with you?" It's not the most surprising thing you'd heard from her in all honesty, but it was still a bit of a shock to the system.

"If you'd like. I know I would be happy with that."

"I would too, but... I think that maybe does cross the line of 'too soon' though." You reply with an apologetic smile, but Alexia understands instantly, of course she does.

"That's okay." She comments, one more kiss to your shoulder. "Do you think you'll ever come back to live here again? Barcelona, I mean."

With this city before you, this woman holding you and loving you so gently, and the sea and the sky merging into one in the far distance, you think that maybe life can be simple after all. That starts and ends with Alexia.

"I think it's only a matter of time."

#alexia putellas x reader #woso x reader #alexia putellas #alexia putellas one shot #alexia putellas imagine #woso #Spotify

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joosthead · 19 days

Text

finally // beautiful stranger || j.k. f!reader

WARNING #1: explicit real person fiction ahead, dni if below 18. dni if anti-rpf

WARNING #2: explicit rpf/real person fiction content ahead. read at your own risk. dni if anti rpf, dni or read ahead if you simply don’t like rpf lol

₊˚⊹⋆ part 3/prequel to normal au — this is a standalone fic but here’s part 1 and 2 if you want a little lore down the line : ). or if you’ve already read p1&2–this is how normal au joost and reader meet :3. set in december 2019.

₊˚⊹⋆ reader: f!reader. notfamous!reader. normal au a.k.a. reader has an office job and attends university. reader is not from nl

₊˚⊹⋆ word count: 11k (exactly !! :3)

₊˚⊹⋆ cw: smut (strangers to…lovers?, f&m!receiving oral, eating it through panties, protected piv), smoking, drinking. mentions of violence. reader and joost are kind of dicks to each other + pouty and annoying but dw it's ok bc theyre cute. unironic use of the word yolo. reader is apprehensive about receiving oral—references being self-conscious because it’s been a while. unironic ome robert during sex : ( teehee op does not drink or club sorry for inaccuracy

WARNING #3: rpf ahead—don't like it, don't read it. do not repost this on any other platform, screenshots or text alike. do not click ahead if you don’t want to read rpf. do not interact if you are below 18. how to block tags/words on tumblr.

₊˚⊹⋆ track(s) of the fic: “finally // beautiful stranger” by halsey :'')

₊˚⊹⋆ junote: plushies!!! thank you for your patience and the love on normal au :''') i absolutely adore this au and i'm so glad to know you guys do too!! much more to come ;)))) honestly this isn't extensively edited i was just so excited to drop it : 3 thank you so so much to @howisjoostfanfictionforfree and @killerlookz for hearing me out on my decisions on how to place this in the normal au verse >-< I SO APPRECIATE YOU GUYS!! <3333

₊˚⊹⋆ translation: "Zo mooi, liefje, ik heb zoveel geluk." - "So beautiful, I'm so lucky." / "Je smaakt zo lekker, ik vind het geweldig." - "You taste so good, I love it."

18+ only — explicit rpf content ahead, minors dni, anti rpf dni. 4th and final warning!

You should’ve brought a jacket.

If you were someone else, you’d have blamed it all on your roommates, their insistence that since your shared townhome was “only a few blocks away” from the club you were going to and “the snow isn’t even that bad” and “see it’s not even that cold” convincing you that an extra layer wasn’t needed. You’re you though, and you’re bearing the entire brunt of your regret as you trudge through the sleet covered footpath, the snow shoveled to the side and yet still not enough to keep the wetness off of your strappy heeled feet.

Why didn’t you bring a jacket? Why is it so cold in the Netherlands? Why did you move here for university? Why did you even sign up for that many courses this term, and why did the weather have to be like this right after you took your last final?

When will it end? Never, you think, but at the very least—tonight you get to party. After trudging through a kilometer of snow, of course, your roommates trudging right in front of you and suffering just the same. The snow that falls melts as soon as it hits the ground, your skin, dampening your hair and chilling you with the wind that whistles past.

Maybe you shouldn’t have even gone—but you promised that you’d loosen up after how hard you’d been going at work and school. Either way, you wouldn’t pass up the chance to meet your roommate, Ruby’s…Ruby’s boy-thing, an up and coming music producer with big eyes and a soft voice stage-named Tantu; and you wouldn’t pass up seeing Alanis, too, an acquaintance of your other roommate, Marina, turned your own friend.

It’s okay. Before you even know it (feels like an eternity), you’re through the line and through the threshold of the club (after getting squished and cut in front of and annoyed), and now you stand in front of the bar, trying (and failing) to get the bartender’s attention.

The club is packed to the gills with people—it is a raucous Friday night, and it’s been months since you’ve been in a place so full of people that wasn’t a library, a lecture hall, or some work event you had to attend. Still, though, it feels natural getting back into the groove of things, holding hands with Ruby as she leads you through the dance floor, checking on Marina behind you before she leaves to find Alanis.

The cold you were blanketed with outside is no more, not even close now that you’re slipping in between and through grinding bodies and flashing lights, the background music to your night a thumping beat you’ll feel in your bones tomorrow and a fast rapping Dutch voice over it. It’s overstimulating in a good way, you think, much preferred over the overstimulation of your packed schedule—you'll have a few weeks of this before it all starts again, and you're happy to be here at the end of it all.

Eventually you make it to the bar. Someone stepped on your foot on the way there, you lost sight of Marina, you have to adjust your little black dress constantly—whatever. Ruby’s boy thing is unmistakable, giant blue eyes and typical dad cap, and he stands at the bar with three shots waiting for you both.

“You must be Ruby’s other roommate!” he yells over the music and you nod, smiling at him as Ruby goes to hug him around the waist, giggling as she does.

You prop your elbow up on the bar for support—god, these shoes suck—and yell back, “You’re Teun? Is this your song?”

“This is my friend’s song, actually, Joost!” He looks around for a bit before giving Ruby a smile; her excitement is contagious owing to the fact that she’s almost never so animated, like she’s bouncing on her heels with her movement. “He’s supposed to be here tonight, I think he’s late.”

“Joost?” you yell, and he nods—you nod back in approval. Very pop, very gabber (if you’ve judged the subculture correctly in the 2 years being here), very loud, but you like it.

“He’s a really cool guy, I promise!” Ruby says, giggling even more and sharing a mischievous look with Tantu that you’re not sure means something.

“Mmm, sure,” you smile, scrunching your nose. You have a feeling that Joost, whoever he is, will become someone important later on in the night, but you put him on the back of your mind as you pick up your shot glass alongside the two of them and down it—you expect it to burn on the way down, seeming like some kind of vodka, but it’s smooth and sweet, only slightly burning. “Thanks Tantu,” you say, holding your hand up for a high five which he reciprocates, laughing.

“You’ll like Joost, I think,” he nods, and you cock an eyebrow.

“Are you trying to set me up with someone?”

“You need something to distract you from all your work, babe,” Ruby says, taking your hand and squeezing it. “Hopefully expensive vodka will loosen you up a bit.”

Rolling your eyes, you sigh, “I didn’t ask for a distraction.” Work and school are already difficult enough to juggle as is, let alone your abysmal social life only kept alive by Ruby and Marina’s wide circle of friendly, eccentric creatives. You’d rather just keep your circle small, keep your head down and focus, but your friends always have things up their sleeves.

Ruby orders 3 Bacardi colas for your small group and turns back to you. “We’re gifting you one, okay?”

You shake it off, focusing more on the lovely rum and cola once it comes into your possession. Sipping at it, you follow Ruby and Tantu onto the dance floor, the bustling crowd jostling you around as you teeter on your heels, keep your purse close to your body, and try to keep your drink from spilling.

Truthfully, the purse (the purse!!!) is one of your most prized possessions—you don’t think yourself too materialistic, but scoring a 90s Dior saddlebag for less than a thousand euros, with your first big paycheck… you reason that that’s more than enough to get you to be materialistic.

You cover it with your arm as best as you can as you try and follow Ruby’s pretty lion’s mane of brown curls, turning to make sure you’re still there every once in a while but mostly just hanging onto Tantu’s hand—you don’t mind third wheeling when Ruby’s being so cute, a side of her you've never seen before.

The three of you make it to the heart of the crowd, running into Alanis and Marina and picking them up along the way, the thrumming beat of some early 00s song until it transitions to something so hyperpop your eardrums might rupture.

You mouth the lyrics, bright lights shining into your eyes, your dancing constricted by being way too close for comfort with a bunch of drunk and sweaty strangers, but. You’re trying. That’s for sure.

Marina’s hands snake around your waist as you sway together to the music, eyes closed and letting the alcohol get to you; you would go back to the bar and get another drink if it wouldn’t be such a damn hassle to do so.

You’re enjoying every single moment, the time passing by in a blur of dancing people and loud voices and sweaty bodies—you’re almost in a haze, all you’d need is a drunk cigarette to make this night perfect, but then Marina lets go of you, and you get disoriented. So many lights, so many people, not enough of your people.

You get elbowed in the back by someone and it takes you out of your trance completely. You look back in annoyance, the culprit being a tall blonde guy with douchey sunglasses who’s whooping and hollering with a friend who looks just as rambunctious as he is. Scowling, you turn back to where Ruby and Marina are, speaking/yelling with Tantu and Alanis, somehow several feet away, but then you stumble over your feet, and the guy behind you stumbles into you, and you feel a cold liquid run down your arm, your side, all over your dress.

Shocked (and frankly, about to cry) you look down at your now dripping arms, your purse and the stains on it obvious even now in the dim club light. A mixture of anger and pure disdain for the guy behind you comes over you as he turns around—what the fuck!!! Almost four months of utter bullshit at work and university and this is what happens to you the night you get back.

“Fuck, I’m sorry, I’ll pay for it, just find me later!” he yells, looking down at you, turning back to his friends and laughing, and you practically gasp in shock with how rude he’s being. Can’t even give you the time to make things right now, what makes him think you’ll trust him enough to leave it later?

You tap on his shoulder, making him turn his attention back to you. He’s wearing earphones for some reason, and the big sunglasses really are so douchey. You’re normally not so judgmental—but he ruined your night. “Are you fucking serious? Sorry doesn’t cut it—this is vintage,” you shout, pointing at your poor purse. “And you’re a fucking asshole!”

“Oh, it’s vintage?” he scoffs, and you—you want to punch him in his smug face. You can’t even look him in the eye, his stupid sunglasses blocking your vision of him, but you know that you’re glaring holes through him.

Any night else, you would’ve left it alone, probably. At the very least, get a yell in; at the very least, get his info and give him an angry text the next morning. Tonight, though, you have nothing to lose and a chip on your shoulder. You get up closer to him, in his face as best as you can with the height difference and the close quarters.

“You wanna take this outside? You can yell where I can actually hear it, my music’s playing too loud!” he smirks, tapping on his stupid earphone, then pointing to the ceiling as the music keeps playing around you, as the people around you still keep dancing and hollering. He starts moving away from you, and you catch a glimpse of all of your friends—the puzzled stares from Ruby, Marina, Alanis, the concerned expression in Tantu’s eyes. You can't pretend to care about what you look like at the moment, except that’s all you care about at the moment. Your once perfect black dress, your mint-condition bag.

You bring your purse up to your nose—fucking Baco, not even a clear drink that you can get out relatively easily. Maybe if you’d just brought a jacket, you wouldn’t have a Bacardi cola spilled all over everything and ruining your life. You forgot how intense you are when you’re tipsy.

You follow behind him, practically stomping—you notice that people are parting for you more than they did in the beginning, and it’s likely because of the anger just radiating off of you in waves as you fume. Every once in a while, he turns and sees if you're still following…of course you are. You're not going to let him off the hook that easily. Any of your other friends would handwave it and just go back to partying. You’ve got an agenda, though.

When you make it out of the club, jostling through what feels like a million people, you're a bit sobered up and it’s so late—it’s so cold. In the lamppost light, you see he’s much taller than you, wearing a heavy jacket and a wrinkled white button-up underneath it, baggy jeans with writing over the crotch. He looks exactly what you’d expect. “I already said I’d pay for your things,” he says, taking a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket and offering you one, which you take as you roll your eyes halfway to the back of your head. “You have a stick up your ass.”

You take the cigarette between your fingers, bring it up to your mouth and he cups the end, holding the flame of his lighter to it—it sparks, and you take a long pull before sighing, “It’s gotten me much farther places than you, I know that for sure.” A smile teases on his lips, and you can't help but smile back, your anger already melting away like the snow on the ground. The two of you walk a little ways down, trying to get away from the loud clubbers and failing. It’s peak business right now; you couldn't escape them together even if you tried.

In your head, you tell yourself that it’s because of the nicotine, the smoke in your lungs, but you have to be real with yourself. Whoever the asshole who ruined your night was, whether he was a friend of a friend or the soundtrack to this club—he has pretty blue eyes and a prettier smile, and you…you are weak. And sobering up and realizing that making a scene was a bit embarrassing.

“Yeah?” he asks, and you nod, proudly, smugly, because you'd earned the right to after the way your life has been the past few months. “Sure it has.” Mood ruined again. You walked straight into that.

Again, you roll your eyes. “I'm not here to try and convince you of my accomplishments.”

“‘Accomplishments’,” he says, lighting up his own cigarette. “So accomplished but you didn’t bring a coat for this weather. Smart.”

This makes you realize just how freezing you are, one of your arms hugged close to your body for what little warmth you can muster from it—your dress is quite short, not to mention damp from this guy’s Bacardi cola spilled all over it, and you’re feeling the consequences. Goosebumps line your skin all over, the breath that leaves your mouth is not only smoke but the cold condensation in the chilly air, and you shake your head.

“I didn’t think I’d have to come out here and yell at you, but here we are.”

“How much is your dress? Your purse? I'll send you the money and more for your trouble.”

“I can't just replace vintage,” you fuss, looking down at your outfit. Your purse was once pink and white and Dior-monogrammed—now it is a muddy brown. Still Dior-monogrammed, but uglier. You never thought yourself a fusser—maybe this season of your life has changed you more than you thought. “I got this at a thrift in Berlin, you know how hard that is these days?”

A heavy weight gets put upon your shoulders; his jacket that he places around them wafts the smell of expensive men’s cologne and smoke. You look at him, incredulous; he gives you a quick glance, then averts his gaze. “You're shaking like a dog,” he says, taking a puff from his cig. “You need it more than I do.”

“Thanks,” you nod, and he gives you an acknowledging hum. “You don't have to. I was an asshole to you and you give me your jacket.”

“Don't apologize for something that was my fault.”

“It was both our fault.”

The night is silent as it can be—not silent at all with clubbers streaming in and out, the music and the talking leaking to the outside. The two of you are a bit farther away from all the people—everyone is walking the other way to another club or bar to continue their outings.

“Do you want to sit down? We can exchange info and stuff here. Your shoes look uncomfortable.”

Now that you’re warm, you realize another thing: your feet are aching tired from the dancing, the minutes of stomping after him. The curb in front of you is damp from the snow, but his jacket is so big on you that it can cover your ass—it’s not like you have much else to lose with this outfit, anyways. You sit and he settles down next to you. The sky is a deep purple canvas marred by light pollution, yet you can still see a few stars. Same stars here, same stars back home.

Another realization: you’re sitting in a foreign country, in almost silence next to some stranger, smoking a cigarette, wearing his jacket after calling him a dickhead and after he’s implied that you’re some airhead.

Maybe you're just boring (you're not), but life has never taken you to a place like this before.

To the side, he stubs out his cigarette, and you take a better look at him. Pink creeps up his neck, and when he turns back, you see how vibrantly rosy his cheeks are. If you're seeing it right, his eyes are a little heavy lidded, probably as a result from all of the alcohol. He has a beauty mark underneath his lip, and his lips are just as pink as his cheeks as he brings another cigarette to his mouth. “Do you want another? Or do you just want to keep staring?” His voice is playful, enough so that you bite your tongue for the quip back.

“I shouldn't. I’m trying to quit, anyway,” you say, still breathing yours in. He nods and you notice that you can actually see his eyes now—no douchey sunglasses, or whatever you called them in your head back there. “Why aren't you wearing your glasses anymore? The ones you wore inside?”

“I don't need to wear them now that the lights aren’t crazy. It gets very overstimulating in there, the glasses help.”

“I assume your earphones are for the same reason?” You point at his dangling white earphone, and he nods. “I should try that. Maybe it’ll stop me from yelling at strangers.”

“Maybe it will help you, too. Want to listen?”

He offers it to you, tonight’s symbolic olive branch, and you take it. “Sure,” but you take it out of your ear almost as soon as you put it in, the music extremely loud and blaring. “How do you not lose your hearing?”

“I’ll lose it anyway—YOLO,” he says, shrugging, and amuses you how serious he seems saying it. “YOLO” is a fitting mantra for him. “I'm a performer, anyway, so—YOLO! Accelerate the process.” The music turns down considerably; if you're hearing it right, it sounds like Flemish dad rock, something you'd hear on the radio if you grew up here.

“YOLO, I guess,” you laugh, and he nods like he’s proud of you, laughing himself. It sounds more like a bark, voice now raspy because of the cigarettes, because of the cold, but it sounds nice. “You’re a performer? What have I seen you in, then?” His appearance is so distinctive—hair so bright it almost glows, eyes reflecting an icy grey from the dark of the footpath in front of you. His style is even more distinctive, all Supreme and Bathing Ape and hype beast brands you’ve never heard of.

But it is Amsterdam. Curly blonde haired, blue eyed hype beasts are a dime a dozen here. You’ve probably seen him around somewhere, it seems like even your roommates know him pretty well through their scene of creatives—but you can’t seem to connect him to anyone you’ve ever watched or heard before.

“Let me pull up my music for you.”

“Soundcloud rapper?” you tease.

“Adjacent.”

He takes his phone out of his jeans pocket, and you peer over his shoulder, watching as he scrolls through a different playlist. He looks back at you, smiles, looks at your lips then back up at your eyes—it takes a little out of you to keep from rolling your eyes, it takes a lot out of you to keep your composure when he does it. Ugh. “I don’t know what to play you,” he admits, turning back to his phone. “Feels like you’re just going to mess with me when I do.”

“I'll try not to. Can't promise anything, though.”

You put your hand on his shoulder—he feels warm, sturdy, and he’s taking way too long to pick a song out of the apparently many he has under his name.

Finally, he clicks on a title and it begins playing; 1 second in, you say, “Skip,” just to fuck with him, and it works well—he looks back at you, mouth agape and eyes wide, expression so earnestly incredulous you have to laugh. Your faces are closer than they have been the entire night, but you can't even focus on that as you laugh. “Skip?!” he exclaims, getting closer to you, all up in your face.

“Yeah, skip,” you giggle, nodding exaggeratedly as you lean into him like he just did to you. He’s so close, and he grins at you as your noses come close to brushing.

“This is the first song of mine I’ve played the entire time, and you want to skip it.”

Obviously, it isn't actually a skip for you—”Ome Robert,” a really fun song about…sucking dick? Being a god? Either way, it’s incredibly catchy and well produced, but you don’t want to let him know that just yet. “Yeah, I wanna skip it. You’ve gotta have better than this.”

“I work hard on this song, I release it myself, it goes platinum in the Netherlands, I make it to impress beautiful strangers at the club just like you—and you want to skip it. All that work, what did it even get me?”

Beautiful. This counts as a win. “I admire your work ethic and I think it’s so commendable that you set up a record label for you and your friends—but it’s a skip, I’m sorry to say.” You shrug, putting your hands in the coat pockets once you stub your cig out. The air is so cold—honestly, you worry for him, his disheveled white button-up the only thing shielding him from the weather now that he’s given you his coat.

“Tell that to everyone in the club, you saw it back there. You probably even danced to it, too.”

“Did you have to pay the DJ to get him to play your song?”

“No, we’ve been friends for years.”

“Ah, so it’s nepotism. I see,” you state proudly, and he groans.

“Nepotism? I will let you know, I established a record label myself. Fully independent, no nepotism.”

Though Joost’s tone is annoyed, there’s nothing but an amused grin on his face; you smile back, “Is he signed to your label?” He nods, and there, just as easy, you have another piece of ammo. “Ah, so he’s kissing up to the boss.”

“You—“ he starts, eyebrows furrowing, then stops, shaking his head at you. “I've been talking to you for an hour and I don’t even know your name.”

“We’ve been busy.”

You offer your name and he repeats it, question mark at the end. You nod and he smiles bigger, if that’s even possible. In the streetlight, his eyes shine, long blonde eyelashes almost covering them. “We’re supposed to meet, did you know that?”

“Really?”

“I’m Joost. Friend of Tantu and Alanis. They said they wanted me to meet…their friend’s friend? If you are that. Friend’s roommate?”

“What a way to meet.” You didn’t think this would be the Joost that Tantu was talking about at the bar, fiery yet sweet making loud and proud music you’d never heard before.

“We made great first impressions on each other, I think. You are unforgettable.”

“Mine worse than yours,” you sigh, and Joost hands you his cigarette to smoke the final few puffs. You take it even though you should quit, even though you told him you’re quitting, your lipstick staining the butt.

“We can put it behind us, yeah?” he says, holding his hand out for you to shake. “Friends?”

“Acquaintances, for now,” you tease, but shake his hand anyway. “Fuck, dude, your hand is so cold.” Your brows furrow in concern as you squeeze his hand, surprisingly freezing, surprisingly soft save for a few callouses.

Joost laughs smaller than you’ve heard him all night, your hands practically in his lap; his cheeks are glowing pink with how long you’ve been out here—your cheeks are warm, but likely not for the same reason.

“Acquaintances? Don’t play hard to get.” On instinct, you wrap your other hand around Joost’s in an attempt to warm it. “Your hands are so warm, I appreciate you for trying,” Joost remarks. “Very small, too, Christ.”

“Oldest trick in the book, Joost, my god,” you laugh, exasperated, yet still, you let him move your hands so they're flat against each other, palms touching. He holds your wrist gently so he can line your hands up; his fingers are much longer and thicker than yours, and the sight brings warmth to your cheeks—it shouldn’t have the effect it does on you, but it does.

“It’s working, isn’t it?”

You bring his hand into the coat pocket with yours—it worked enough for you to now willingly share this tiny pocket, that’s for sure. “It’s working,” you say softly, averting your gaze now that you both know that whatever it is is something that’s felt mutually. “Do you do this with every pretty stranger you meet in the club?”

If Joost is a performer like he says he is, a big time independent record label owner like he says he is—there’s sure to be a line of people out the door, or at least a few groupies or someone. Someone in that club who recognized those songs, recognized the mop of blonde hair sitting in front of you now. Over several failed situationships and romps with people this side of Europe, you learned: there is always someone. Someone who’s less busy, less distracted, more interested.

You know you fit the bill for the interested part, at least—less busy is something you’ll be for a short time, less distracted…well, you have your full attention on him right now, don’t you? It’s been so long since you’ve done something like this, maybe you’re just feening for an excuse to check your own boxes for him, maybe you want to do this for the sake of the line out the door or the groupies.

Or maybe he’s just Joost. Whoever Joost is, considering you just met him. And maybe you just want him to keep holding your hand, or talk to you more, show you more of his music or go back home with you, slip into your bed, stay until the morning.

“I can't say I have. I’ve never had a conversation like this with anyone, really, so it wouldn’t even be worth it if I did,” Joost says. Your faces are close again—you would bridge the gap if you just let yourself, but you can’t; you can only muster the courage to let your noses brush against each other, only the courage to smile. “Can I kiss you?”

It seems, he’s checked your boxes for you.

“Are you fucking crazy?” you scoff, though you lean in at the same time. Joost leans back when you do, teasing grin upon his lips, and you furrow your brows, shaking your head. “Don’t play hard to get,” you mumble as he untangles your fingers in your coat pocket, takes your face in his cold and gentle hands and presses his lips to yours.

He tastes like cigarette smoke; his Bacardi cola on your dress and your shoes, and now the taste on your tongue; he tastes like smiling into a kiss with a pretty stranger, the way you both do now.

Joost kisses like he’s scared to broach you, like it’s the first time he’s been delicate in a while—you kiss like you’re hungry for him, because you are, not a single care about your lipstick on his face or the people walking past or the fact that he’s a stranger. His hand slips under your coat, gripping your hip as you pull him closer by the lapel; you beckon him to kiss you harder when you let him lick into your mouth and you lick back.

It’s your turn to pull back, come up for air; Joost chases you when you leave, hand running down your body as you go to stand up, a soft little, “what no” leaving his mouth when you do. The look on his face—his face!!! Fuck.—is so cute, big wide eyes and hand on the back of your thigh. You cup his face (is this too tender?), rub your thumb at the edge of his lips where your lipstick has smudged in an attempt to clean it off. Turning his head, he kisses your palm, and your breath catches in your throat.

Wordlessly, he gets up, stands next to you. “What the fuckkkk!!!” he whisper yells, gesturing wildly, and the street echoes the sentiment back. “What are we doing?”

“I don’t know,” you say, laughing, and then stumbling because he’s gotten you in his arms again, kissing you, stumbling with you back against the brick wall of the building behind you as he laughs into your mouth to your whining between giggles about how he almost made you trip.

Caged between his arms, you wrap yours around his neck so you can get up higher to kiss him—“I don’t regret spilling my drink on you at all,” Joost mumbles when you kiss his chin, nip at his jaw, go down to suck at his pulse point and nip at it too. “Can I touch you like this?” he whispers, and you nod as he brings his hands down to your ass, presses you harder against the wall, grinds against you as you kiss him breathless again.

When Joost pulls away, you know—you’ve got him wrapped around your finger. Breathing almost heavy, pink lips dropped open, face more serious than he’s been the entire night and scanning your features in a way that is truly disarming—you don't want to admit it, but Joost has got you wrapped around his finger, too.

A group of people from the club pass behind—you hear a few whispers of, “Is dat Joost?” and a few wolf whistles. Someone gives him a few congratulatory claps on the shoulder which he cringes at, giving you an apologetic smile. “Don’t listen to them.” Once more, he kisses you.

“Your place?” he breathes, and you sputter for a response. This is going a bit too well. Your silence seems to speak for you, but really, you're just thinking about if your room is clean, if your everything shower was enough, if you’re ready to do this with him. “Too much?” he winces, giving you a weak smile, and you shake your head.

“No, no, my place is fine—my roommates might be home, though.”

“I can be quiet.”

“Somehow, I don’t think that’s true.”

“It’s a half-truth.”

“I’ll take that.”

—

After a kilometre walk the direction of your house chock full of giggles and pauses to keep kissing against brick walls, dark store fronts, alley entrances, you finally make it back to your house.

You hurry up the icy steps to your townhome, taking Joost by the hand as he trips his way up the flight. “Schat,” he breathes, and the pet name makes your heart skip a beat, “My house was closer the other direction.”

“You suggested my place, Joost,” you laugh as you unlock your door and step in your warm foyer—you wave him in, kicking your heels off and stepping onto the cold wood floor as he does the same with his shoes.

Closing the door behind you, you listen for a beat…voices. The walls are so thin here, you’re unsure if the sounds come from your next door neighbours or your potentially home roommates. Either way, you bring a finger to your lips, telling him to be quiet. In his normal voice, he says, “I’ll be quiet,” and you laugh together at his volume—neither of your roommates would care, but the teasing you'll receive tomorrow if they knew it was Joost you were bringing home…endless.

“Come, now,” you say, taking Joost’s hand and leading him up your steps, down the hallway to your room.

Your home is tiny and cozy and lived in—the three of you have worked very hard to make this feel like a household instead of just a shared living situation, frames lining the walls of your antics and travels together, baby pictures from home, posters of music artists and movies that one or all of you like. Joost lags behind you trying to look at them, but you just pull him along. Waiting any longer feels like a travesty.

Once you get down the hallway, open and close your door, you push him up against your door and kiss him again to his surprise, your teeth clacking together from his smile and your enthusiasm. “You want me that bad, huh?” he teases, and you roll your eyes.

The answer is yes, but you’re not going to let him know that yet.

You room is as tiny as the rest of the house, a queen bed in the middle with off-white sheets, a desk on the far side, a dresser with a mirror when you walk in.

“I don’t do things like this very often,” you mumble, fumbling with his angular belt buckle between your fingers, the cold metal of it and the jagged edges of the plate spelling “ALBINO” in a stylized font.

“Me neither,” Joost breathes as he tries to help you, but ends up fumbling with it, too. “Holy fuck, if I knew this would be so hard to take off, I wouldn’t have worn it.”

“Cool belt, nonetheless,” you say, and he kisses you thanks.

“It’s the name of my album,” Joost beams as he finally gets it unclasped, pulling it through his belt loops. You undo his button, unzip the zipper, he does the rest, clumsily pulling down his pants slightly. “We should listen to it.”

“Later.” From here, as you palm him over his underwear, feel his length through it, you can tell—he’s big. “You should’ve told me you were hiding this back there, maybe I wouldn’t have argued with you as much.”

“I was afraid you would’ve clutched your pearls if I did, schat, the way you yelled at me.”

“You would be right,” you agree, knowing you would’ve probably thrown a drink in his face if he made some remark about his dick size to you in the midst of your argument. “But if you told me, we probably wouldn’t have sat out there for so long.”

“I wouldn’t have given up that conversation for the world.”

From anyone else, these words would be hyperbole; strangely, from Joost, they feel true. it feels like you know him already, and he knows you. Perhaps it’s the result of having such a circle of a venn diagram of friends and acquaintances. Perhaps you did know him from a different time and you just forgot.

“Me neither,” you agree softly, smiling into the kiss you give him as you reach into his boxers and wrap your hand around his hard cock. He’s just as thick as you thought.

“Fuck,” Joost breathes into your mouth already, and you watch him and his face contort in pleasure as you jerk him lazily in his underwear just for the added sensation of the fabric rubbing against him. Gazing at your lips, eyebrows furrowing, chest moving up and down and breathing heavy, he says softly, “I haven’t done this in…a year? A year and a half? So please, have mercy on me.”

“Go home with someone? Me too.” You figure that it makes sense—any fling he has is probably on the road, in hotel rooms, anywhere but home. You're not exactly welcoming guests on Friday nights either, but you’re holed up in it 24/7.

“No, I mean—any of it. I don't do casual often, at all, really.”

You scoff lightheartedly, “Yeah, sure.”

“I’m serious,” Joost smiles as you take his length out of his boxers and get on your knees, the plush carpet cushioning you.

You don’t do one night stands and you certainly don’t do them with self proclaimed “performers,” yet here you are.

Now in front of you, his cock in your hand, you make complete peace with your decision, and it’s easy to do so.

He is so pretty—all pale, the tip a delicate rosy pink and leaking wet, a vein running along the underside. It’s nestled in a thicket of lightly trimmed dark blonde hair; you give him a few pumps, running your thumb over the head for some lubrication when you do.

“Won't listen to my music, but you’ll do this, ridiculous,” Joost says quietly, hand on your cheek as you look up at him through your eyelashes.

“You’re still on that? Big ego, shocker.”

“Obviously not a shock, you’re holding it.”

In shock at his audacity, you gasp dramatically. “Don’t get cocky, now. You still needed to beg me for streams earlier.”

You give a kiss on the pink tip, salty precum coating your lips. A perfect moment passes when you look back up at him—he rolls his head back in pleasure, a quieted moan slipping past his lips at your tongue finally on him, just one lick to the slit but enough to get him a little louder.

His cock twitches in your hand, and you grin, kitten licks to his shaft, “Too much?”

Joost says breathlessly, “I think my knees will buckle sometime tonight, schat,” and you beam up at him.

“That’s a big compliment,” you purr, taking the head of his cock into your mouth and sucking lightly, which earns a strangled groan for you, a curse under his breath. With every bob of your head, you take a tiny bit more, about half—you're ambitious, but who can blame you when Joost is so pretty? Struggling to keep it together, his stomach muscles jumping and twitching with every hollowing of your cheeks, every drag of your tongue along the underside of his shaft.

Joost’s hand comes up to the back of your head, just resting there gently as you swallow down his cock, dripping spit on your chin; it hits the back of your throat and you almost gag, having to pull back and pump him a few times, the shiny head now a deeper pink.

“You like it that much, hm?” he says, moving your hair out of your eyes as you lick a stripe along the underside.

“When you make those sounds—yeah, I do.” You lap at a bead of precum dripping from his slit, and it makes him hiss; it makes him groan even more when you pop the head into your mouth and suck again.

Involuntarily, he thrusts just a little in your mouth—”Can I do this?” Joost asks, and you nod around him. He’s gentle when he starts, and you prepare to take more of him by breathing through your nose.

He makes these little thrusts into your mouth that make your eyes water, shallow as you suck around him, steady with one hand on your head. With every thrust into your open mouth, he breathes heavier, his pretty lips are dropped open. Spit pools at the sides of your mouth; one long seat into your throat, followed by another, and you gag around him, making him groan loudly. “Holy shit, schat,” Joost breathes, and you feel accomplished. “Enough of that, I think I’ll cum.”

With his hand, Joost wipes your spit from your chin gently; brings you up to meet him for a sloppy kiss, which you smile into as he reaches around to your dress zipper, pulls it down a few inches, rough fingertips against your soft back. You start undoing the buttons of his button-up for him, fumbling just as you did earlier with his belt. For some reason, you can't find it in yourself to slow down around him.

The zipper catches and you miss a button on the way down, both of you entirely too distracted by kissing like it’s a competition, like you want to eat each other—thankfully, you get all of them undone, and so you run your hands down Joost’s chest covered in hair, his happy trail, back down to his cock again. It makes him falter as he brings down your zipper but he manages to do it, fingers light as a feather running down your spine, nudging your dress down.

Erratic and wild as the man in front of you, your heart beats a million miles an hour, your hands in his hair as he pulls down your dress completely and it crumples onto the floor.

Joost pulls back, a string of spit connecting your lips, pupils blown out and wide as he scans your body, your breasts and your pebbling nipples. You move your arms in front of them, avoiding his gaze. “Don’t be shy,” he laughs softly, “I don’t know if you’ve noticed—“ he moves your hand over his heart—it beats as fast as yours, and you give him a small smile. “I’m nervous, too.” A kiss that seems to calm your nerves. “Can’t believe someone pretty as you would take me home.”

He rubs your back, and already you feel comforted—how is this the same guy who spilled his drink all over you? “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Do you forget how your dress is still very sticky because of yours truly?”

You laugh together as he kisses your cheek, the side of your mouth, then kisses your lips slow and achingly gentle, licking into your mouth and rolling your nipple gently between his two fingers, his other hand cupping your cheek. He drags his tattooed knuckles down the curve of your breast, making your breath catch in your throat, a small whine falling from your mouth when he runs them down your stomach, fingertips down over the lacy black fabric of your thong, down more and teasing at your covered clit.

“Get on the bed,” Joost murmurs, and you practically scramble to it before he stops you with a loose grip around your wrist. “Woah, woah, woah.” With a puzzled expression, you turn back to him. “We can’t have them watching, what?” he says, gesturing at your bed. Staring back at you with gigantic embroidered blue eyes: three of your cat plushies placed upon your pillows from earlier when you made your bed. You weren’t exactly planning on guests tonight. “Blasphemous, no? They can look out the window.” Scooting behind you and to the bed, Joost scoops up the three, climbing over it to your desk facing outside. The moonlight streams in through your curtains as he sits them in a line and turns them around. “Much better.”

“Much better,” you repeat, laughing. On your now clear bed, you lie back and lean over. Opening the lower drawer on your nightstand, you rummage around for the box of condoms you know is somewhere in here but is covered by notepads, extra pens, random pouches filled with indeterminate belongings. Under a folder filled with paperwork and old assignments, you find the box, opened but largely untouched except for one used for a 4th date Hinge guy from months and months ago who didn’t even make you cum.

You dig the box out and hold it out to him. Settling between your legs, Joost says, “Not yet,” taking it out of your hands and placing it on the nightstand. “I want to taste you, schat, I’ve been wanting to all night.”

…Eating it already? You’ve declared that Joost is ran through, but you find yourself caring less and less with how enthusiastic he is. Still, though, there’s a part of you that’s apprehensive about letting him see all of you so soon.

“Joost,” you blush, closing your legs. He moves them so he can see your face, and your cheeks grow hotter as you reason, “We just met.”

“And?” Tilting his head to the side, Joost scoffs. “We’re already naked in your bed, schat.”

He makes a good point, but still…you’ve never had anyone offer to do it on the first link. “I don’t know…You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

“You just put my dick in your mouth, it’s only fair I do something in return.” Just a little, you part your legs for him; slowly, he takes a place between them, gaze disarming as he comes to lie on his stomach and rests his cheek on your thigh, giving it a chaste kiss. So convincing, but you don’t really need to be convinced, do you? “I will make it worth your while, baby.”

Soft mewls come out of you inadvertently when Joost noses at your inner thigh, sucks at the sensitive skin. “We could just move on—that is perfectly fine, too. But I could give you even more of a good time if we do this.”

“You talk big game, Joost,” you laugh. With his age and strange tattoos and his bleach-damaged hair and his expensive attire, you expect Joost to be bad at…all of it, really, but he’s only subverted your expectations tonight without having the chance to fully even touch you yet.

“I wouldn’t do so if I couldn’t prove it to you.” Joost presses a chaste kiss over your panties, over your clit, and somehow, your heart ups gears, beating unsteadily. “And if I didn’t want it so bad,” he adds in a low voice. Completely different from the smiling, pink-nosed boy you saw in him earlier, Joost is hungry for you, the look in his eyes telling you everything you need to know about the veracity of his words. “If you don’t want me to see, I’ll close my eyes—for now, we can just do this.”

Whoever had him last must have trained him well.

Lathing his tongue over you, Joost spreads his spit over the cloth of your thong, soaking the fabric even more than it already is as he holds your gaze. One arm is hooked around your thigh; the other hand, you’re not entirely sure, but judging from how heavy he’s breathing, how desperate he looks as he eats you out over your panties, the movement of his arm—he’s touching himself, and you wonder if he can feel how much more wet you become at the idea that he is.

A few hours ago, thought yourself unshakeable in the face of him—now you’re a squirming puddle in his hands.

“We don’t have to if you don’t want to—but I promise—“ Joost says, big blue eyes shining at you, hands now clasped together as if he’s begging for it—you figure that he is begging for it, technically, and who are you to deny him the opportunity? “Do you really not want it?” Though he’s giving you an out, he sounds so resigned, and it makes you smile a little.

From the sidewalk, your front steps, the threshold of your room, you wanted Joost badly; wanted him even after considering all the outcomes of this: a waste of a free night, or an hour or two with an overconfident and underperforming boaster before you shoo him away, or a sweet but egotistical rapper in your tidy bedroom putting plushies on top of your university textbooks and leaving his clothing on your floor.

Despite yourself, you want him. The confirmation that he wants you just as badly, too—the air in your room is charged with electricity, warm and stuffy almost even with the cold outside. You haven’t felt something so strong in forever, too distracted by work and school and life to really care about your body’s needs, even less so what it wanted.

Joost is exactly what you want.

“No, no, please,” you breathe, already lowering the side of your thong. “I want you, please, Joost.”

The confidence feels more like giving permission to yourself to be so vulnerable with Joost. No one has seen you this intimately in months (feels like years) and definitely not after such short time together.

“Okay, schat. Okay,” Joost says, pressing one last kiss over your underwear before helping you pull it off. When you kick it off somewhere on the ground next to the bed, he screws his eyes shut dramatically, and you laugh.

“You can open your eyes, you know?”

“Hey, I said I would keep them closed for you, I’m not going to break my promise.” He shakes his head, moving forward to kiss…somewhere, you’re not really sure, but it ends up being the junction between your leg and your center, which tickles you.

“Break it, I don’t care.”

“If you say so.” Joost shrugs, then opens his eyes. Already, it’s as if he’s trying to study you, and it makes you want to hide. Against your better judgment, you open your legs wider for him to have more room, and he gives you a small grin. “Zo mooi, liefje, ik heb zoveel geluk,” Joost says softly, one tentative lick up your seam that makes you shudder. Your cheeks feel warm with how reactive you are to him. Synapses overloaded with his skillful tongue teasing at your clit through your lips, parting them slightly with his fingers—you don't even have it in you to translate what he said to English in your head. “Je smaakt zo lekker, ik vind het geweldig,” he groans, laying his tongue flat against the bud, lapping at it a few times, smacking his lips loudly against you.

He wraps his lips around your clit, making you moan loudly at how good it feels; you tug at his sweaty blonde hair, and he laughs, he laughs with his mouth on your pussy, and the vibrations of his deep voice make you go crazy. Already, you feel your climax about to approach—in the whirlwind of your busy life, you had no time at all for any self-love, and you guess that your heightened sensitivity is a direct result of that.

Or maybe Joost is just that good.

You watch Joost as he devours you slowly, eyes trained on yours and unflinching, arms hooked around your plush thighs and holding you down—even if you wanted to, you couldn’t get away from him.

When he reaches his right arm up to paw at your breast, you can’t help but notice—“You—is that Crazy Frog?” Crazy Frog tattoo?!?! On his forearm of all places?!?! Who exactly are you sleeping with? You are entirely and endlessly entertained and intrigued by the stranger you’ve picked up tonight.

“You know Crazy Frog?!” Joost exclaims, pulling back from you with a pop that makes you moan, lips glistening as he sits up a tiny bit.

“Yes, I know Crazy Frog, Joost.” You laugh, amused if not a little puzzled at the notion that Crazy Frog could be some niche reference for anyone who’s used Youtube in the last 15 years or born before 2003.

“I thought you would be too fancy to know him, I’m glad you aren’t.”

“I may have a stick up my ass, but that doesn’t mean I live under a rock.”

“Great,” Joost smiles, climbing up over you to give you a quick kiss before you gasp at two of his fingers circling your clit. “Then we will get along just fine.” Kiss to your cheek, and he’s back on you again.

The pause in stimulation makes you more sensitive, somehow, and when he immediately sucks your clit hard, it punches the air out of your lungs—you clench your thighs around his ears, but it just makes him suck harder. In the matter of a minute, your orgasm is coaxed out of you by Joost and his wonderful mouth, your moans no longer quiet and subdued; you have to cover your mouth with your hands, but it’s no use when he keeps licking your swollen clit on your comedown, every stroke of his tongue bringing intense waves of pleasure surging through you, making you sob out his name like your neighbours won’t have it memorized by the time tomorrow comes.

Joost pulls away from your pussy slightly when you finally release all of the tension in your thighs, your body, letting your vice grip on his blonde hair go. Every part of you feels like jelly as you try to catch your breath, sweat on your brow, the pulse between your legs strong and steady as a result of the beautiful man lying between them.

“You want another?” Joost asks, wiping his mouth, then giving you a wet kiss on your overstimulated clit that makes you curse his name to his raucous laughter. “I can give you another, I could do this forever if you asked.”

“No, no need, that’s very much enough, thank you,” you say, shaking your head. If you could stand not to have him inside you for one more minute, you’d take him up on his offer. “That was too good.”

“Dank je wel,” he grins, then kisses you, your own flavour on his lips and his on yours.

“Graag gedaan,” you giggle in your crappy accent and he kisses you again.

“Wowww, fluent. Very impressive, schat.” Joost nods, giving you a small round of applause, and you roll your eyes but pull him in for another kiss anyway. He moves to sit down so you sit on top of him—his cock is still hard as it was before, a small wet spot on your sheets next to you from where he laid down.

The feeling he gives you, it’s inexplicable—all those days writing reports and essays, brainstorming and editing, thousands and thousands of words upon paper, and Joost has rendered you speechless in mere hours. No sound between you—no jabs, no complaints or thinly veiled flirty insults, just your shared breaths in your bedroom, just the dull shuffle of your now messed up comforter against your sheets as you reach over and rip off a condom from the sleeve, the box falling over and onto the floor.

For once, you don’t quite care; you only care about ripping the wrapper, taking it out, pinching the tip of the condom, rolling it down his hard cock as you kiss him open-mouthed and thoughtless.

“All fours,” Joost whispers, and you let yourself follow his lead after so long having to be in complete control of your life. It feels good being with him, feels good when he places your legs far apart and you settle on your elbows, back arching. You’re so exposed like this—you almost flinch when he dips his fingers into your dripping folds. You turn your head to look back, let him see you and your face as he teases your clit. “Who would have thought?”

“Thought what?” you breathe, wiggling your ass back against his hand.

“Nothing to say? No teasing?”

“I’ve done my teasing.” You already knew Joost’s hands were big—but when he wraps them around your hips and pulls you to him gently, the size of them is stark, so warm and gripping you tightly. He comes closer behind you, his thighs behind your ass, dragging the tip of his cock through your slit with a groan. “Joost,” you sigh in a small voice, so overcome by your need for him. “Please, I need you, please fuck me.”

“Since you asked so nicely.”

With a few more swipes of his cock through your wetness, a few circles of the head against your clit that make arousal pool in your stomach and between your legs, he finally inches it inside of you just a little.

He’s going so slow, and you—you've never been so impatient in your life. You slide back for him, loud moans coming from the two of you at the fast stimulation, his cock dragging against your walls as you take him deeper. “Oh my god,” you whisper as he eases more of himself into you, then leans over you, chest pressed against your sweat-sheened back and a hand snaking around to knead your tits.

“‘Ik ben een god,’ I guess,” Joost says into your ear with a laugh, and you can't help but laugh too, even with all the ego dripping from quoting his own song calling him a god while he’s fully inside of you.

“Don't flatter yourself.”

“I don’t have to flatter myself,” he says, and the grin in his voice is absolutely diabolical; he says it with a hard thrust into you, which you moan at, the way his cock hits your spot so amazingly, your eyes almost roll back into your head. Every nerve in your body is electric, so many months without use, without stimulation, Joost is a shock to your system. “You do it enough for me.”

You practically hide your face in the sheets as he falls into a rhythm thrusting into you at an angle so deep inside you could cry—you would never let Joost have that satisfaction, though, so you bite your lip and revel in the pleasure. Every steady seat of his cock inside you, every single breathy moan that falls from his mouth, every whispered murmur of your name accompanied by his hands roaming your back.

The sticky slap of his balls against your clit, the wet sound coming from your pussy so filthy it could take you out of this dizzying haze. Really, it sends you in deeper, burying you in it the way he’s burying himself inside of you.

“Fuuuck,” you drag out as you grip your sheets for any leverage, eyebrows furrowing with his hands gripping tightly on your hips to bring you back onto his cock. “Joost, like that.” The pace he's set for you both is aggravatingly perfect—you think you might want it forever.

“You sound so pretty saying my name like that, baby, do it again.”

“Joost,” you mewl, eyebrows scrunching that you’re letting him have what he wants. You start to say it again, but as you do—he sinks into you so quickly, so hard, then starts sliding out of you so slow you let out a strangled sob. You can’t say anything else when he continues fucking into you, only letting out stifled sighs with every movement.

“So much to say earlier, now look at you. It’s okay, I know it’s good, liefje,” he says softly.

“So good,” you murmur, the drag of his thick cock in and out of your pussy bringing you almost to the edge as you collapse your torso onto the bed, so exhausted with the endless dopamine hit you’ve managed to score with Joost—almost to the edge until he ceases his movements completely as he’s fully inside you.

“Schat,” Joost breathes, and you turn around and pout at him, completely (and justifiably) annoyed at the stoppage of his wonderful hips.

“Fuck you, why'd you stop?” you ask, propping yourself back up on your elbows and shaking your head.

Joost leans over you, lips on the nape of your neck, so you turn your head. “Fuck you,” he says, and you kiss him as he laughs. He’s so full of it—You’re so full of him, a comfortable pressure inside of you and snug against your spot. “You need me to hold you up? You can lie down if you want, schat, maybe it will feel even better.”

“Yeah, hold me up.” At your wish, he stands you both up on your knees as he supports your stomach; one hand wrapped around your waist and the other snaking down, down between your legs.

You’re sure that this will collapse you once more—you don’t mind. He resumes thrusting into you, breathing into your neck, kissing your shoulder. The wet slaps of skin against skin, the sighs and the breaths and his raspy voice in your ear when he finally touches your sensitive clit alongside the firm movements of his hips. “Let it out, lieverd, I know,” Joost murmurs into your neck as you sob in pleasure; there isn’t a single second of reprieve he gives you, not even slowing the circles he’s making on your sloppy clit.

You don't have it in yourself to argue; not against the ego or his wandering hands and his voice you’d deem condescending if you were still arguing on the stoop in front of the bar earlier—Joost is right, it is good, and this angle he has thrusting up into you is mind blowing, even as the rhythm becomes irregular and disjointed as he kisses and bites the side of your neck.

Your heart beats ever faster, the knot in your stomach tightens and tightens with every languid and messy thrust inside of you. You reach behind yourself to hold onto Joost around his shoulders, gripping his hair as you bring him in for a rough kiss, all teeth and carnality—you were so composed, once upon a time. He’s given you every reason to forget that.

“Oh, fuck, schatje,” he mumbles into your mouth. You pull back to look at Joost in his glory—he’s even prettier like this, messy and sweaty, patches of pink all along his cheeks and neck, eyes focused and almost stern. “My hand is cramping,” he says, and you laugh when he adds quickly, “And you also feel amazing, but also my hand is cramping.”

“Keep going, I'm almost there,” you say, and he obeys, still rubbing your clit, your wetness smearing on your pussy and his hand. “Do it for me, Joost, you feel so good,” you breathe, and he nods, kissing you deeply—it hits you before you even register it, takes you off guard when you climax and you have to pull back from him to moan his name, looking him in the eye when you do.

You’re never this loud—it’s very vulnerable realizing how much he’s coaxed out of you, Joost watching intently, soft smile upon his lips at your clenching pussy around him as the waves of your orgasm come through you, practically leg shaking.

He kisses you quiet again; kisses you until it’s his turn, thrusting sloppily into you, the overstimulation stinging, but so good still.

He whimpers your name, and you contemplate asking him to give you another orgasm; he whimpers again into your neck, just a soft vocalization against the still filthy sounds of the final few thrusts he can give you as he cums, the warmth you can feel through the condom flooding your pussy.

When he stills, Joost places his forehead against yours, and you breathe together in silence—if you didn’t know any better, you’d think the two of you have been with each other for years.

“I’m really surprised I lasted that long, schat,” Joost breathes, and you laugh, watching his face as he grins at you

“I’m surprised, too,” you tease, giving him one last kiss and untangling yourself from him; he’s still inside you, softening with every passing moment. When he slips out of you, you hiss—it feels empty, how sad.

“Hey, mean.” You flop down on your bed, completely spent, sweaty, still wet between your legs and watching as he takes off the condom, ties it off, and throws it in your waste bin. “I showed you a good time, didn’t I?”

“I’m not sure,” you tease when Joost comes back to sit next to you, putting his underwear back on with an annoyed rolling of eyes. “Maybe you’ll have to show me one next time?”

“Next time, huh?” he smiles, slipping his shirt on from the pile on the floor, starting to button it up. “Ehh, I’ll think about it,” he says, and you slap him lightly on the shoulder.

“You’re a dick, Joost.” Joost cackles as you barrage him with a bunch of weak punches to his shoulder and back, getting your revenge for the dress and your purse, for him being a rapper and a fuckboy and the giver of the best dicking down of your life. You try not to let it kill your vibe—it likely will later, but for now, you can just be silly about it.

“Where’s your bathroom?”

“The door next to mine.”

Closing your eyes, you lie back on your bed, half expecting him to just dip, hoping he’s not that much of a fuckboy. But a few minutes pass, and there’s a soft knock to your door, and Joost steps gently into your room again with a glass of water and a washcloth in his hands.

“Did you think I would just leave?” Joost asks, coming around to your side of the bed and handing you the glass. “Glassie water!” he says in a singsong voice, and you look at him puzzled as you thank him. “You’ll understand when you listen to my music more.”

“‘When…’” you laugh as he gives you an offended look and nudges your legs open. The washcloth is cold when he places it on your skin and you wince, shaking off his apologies about the water’s temperature because it’s sweet that he’d even do this in the first place.

As Joost cleans you up, delicate and gentle as ever, he says softly, “I will send you whatever money it takes to clean your purse, I will give you my number, and I’ll send you my schedule for the next month. Okay?”

“Schedule? You sure it’s not filled with other strangers from the club?”

“It’s not, I swear. You’re going to come to one of my festival shows this month, and you're going to like it.” Joost leans in and you expect a kiss for some reason, but he just takes the glass from your hand and drinks from it himself. A free festival pass doesn't sound so bad. “Ruby and Marina are back. I said hi.”

“Oh god,” you laugh, covering your face. “What’d they say?”

“They were surprised you took me home, but apparently they won a bet with Tantu, so—we did something good, I think!”

“You think?”

“I know!” You laugh at his…everything, really, sinking down in your comfy bed, realizing how heavy your eyelids are, realizing that you still haven't even exchanged numbers or last names. Does it matter this far in? “I think I should get going, schat. The sun is rising.”

In the middle of his sentence, you practically drift off into slumber, pulling your covers over your bare body. “It’s cold, stay.” You pat at the spot next to you. “But not for too long.”

thank you so much for reading! likes, comments, reblogs always so so appreciated <3 : ) askbox hereeee - juno

#joost klein smut #joost klein x reader #joost x reader #joost x you #joost #joost smut #joost fanfiction #joost klein #joost klein fanfiction #juno's fics #juno's smut #normal au

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luveline · 2 years

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Jade, my beloved!! <3

What about reader going over to Eddie's trailer and Roan starts clinging to reader, and Eddie tries to apologize but reader absolutely does not mind at all and happily carries Roan around? (The way you write kiddos is so sweet😭)

omg YES thank you . girl dad Eddie forever <3 | fem!reader

You and Eddie (and Roan, his mirror image daughter) have been on one date.

It's not easy getting to know someone when they bring their baby but you'd figured it was the only reasonable option. He's gonna have her for the rest of his life and you wouldn't have it any other way besides, so you'd told him to bring her and you'd stuffed her full of chocolate cake. You'd wanted her to like you.

You might've done too good a job.

Eddie called you after the date — the next morning, to your delighted surprise — and told you how much fun he had. How he'd love to see you again. You'd enough butterflies to lose your mind and told him absolutely, yes, but what day's good for you?

So your next date is a week away. You're eager to see him again. You're excited to see his daughter, too, because she'd been lovely and sweet, quiet though she'd certainly known how to throw a tantrum.

Eddie calls you two days after the first phone call and says, "Listen, do you want to come over for dinner?"

"Now?"

"If you're not busy."

So here you are. Standing outside of his trailer home in Forest Hills Trailer Park with a teddy bear in one hand and a bottle of sparkling cider in the other, nervously shifting from foot to foot and wondering if maybe you should've brought wine. Or beer. But no, right? He has a baby. Kind of.

You knock and wait. There's scrambling feet, obviously smaller footsteps pittering over the floor and then a bang against the door. You flinch and wait.

"Hello?" you call.

"Oh, shit," someone says from further away. "I'm coming!"

"Shit," a little voice echoes.

"No!" Eddie calls, horrified.

Quick footsteps. The deadbolt slides free and the door opens.

Eddie's shepherded Roan behind him just enough to let you in. "You can't say that, babe. It's a bad word," he tells her, face hidden behind a sheet of messy curls.

Roan doesn't take any notice of him. She's stopped dead behind him in an actual princess dress. Tiny clip on earrings hang from her small earlobes and her dark curls are pulled up into dainty pig tails. Her lips part and expose the pink of tongue and all her pearly baby teeth, and then she screams.

"Yes!" she says, and throws herself at you.

Her arms wrap around your legs and her face rubs into your thighs. When you don't hug back she looks up at you with wide brown eyes, all her dad's, and blinks.

"Baby, you can't-" Eddie sighs and scrubs a hand across his jaw. "I'm sorry," he apologises.

You hold out the teddy bear and the cider and he takes both on instinct. Hands free, you lean down to give Roan a tentative hug.

"Hi, princess. I'm happy to see you too, and in your lovely dress! You look so pretty," you baby-talk, bubbly and light and very, very enamoured by the warmth of her small body clutching your thighs.

"She- I said you were coming and she told me she had to wear the princess dress," Eddie explains.

You turn your attention from your cuddle and find him as handsome as you'd left him last Thursday. He's dressed not nearly as fancy as he had been, though this feels more him. A band t-shirt, a pair of black jeans. His tattoos play stark over the length of his arms.

This is more like it.

"Yeah? Good, she should wear it. She's pretty as any princess I've seen."

Eddie tries to separate your clinger so he can shut the door but Roan adamantly refuses it.

"Up," she says, hands grabbing.

"Roan, Y/N doesn't want to-"

"Up please!"

You don't have a clue how to pick up a toddler so you squat down. Roan wraps her arms around your neck and squeals with happiness as you stand. The tulle of her skirt is scratchy under your palms.

"You really don't have to," Eddie says. He sounds worried.

You meet his eyes and try to adjust your hold until she's comfortable as you say, "Hey, it's okay. If it's okay with you?"

He's still for a moment.

"Yeah. Yeah, it's okay," he says softly.

You smile until he smiles back.

Roan pulls away from your neck to touch your neck. You shiver at her cold hands and rub up the length of her back. "Are you cold?" you fret.

"She just had an ice pop."

You raise your eyebrows at him. Dipping your head toward your shoulder, you fix your knowing gaze on Roan. "Is that so? What flavour do you like? No, let me guess..." You take in the purple at the corner of her mouth and beam. "Grape yeah? I like grape too. You have good taste."

"Can I get you a drink?" Eddie asks, wielding the apple cider.

Talking to Roan is a piece of cake. Talking to her dad is nowhere near as easy. You feel like you're in school again as he watches you, your lips curving into a funny excuse for a smile.

"Please."

He disappears to the kitchenette. You press Roan's chest to yours and search their living room for details, curious and hungry to know more about them. They've got a thousand things, not a lick of space between toys, so many toys, pinks and purples like a wave carpeting the floor.

There's a small square table painted pink outfitted by saucers and teacups. There are three chairs, two pink and plastic and one a wooden drum stool, and at each sits a teddy bear.

"Having a party?" you ask.

Roan nods at you. "A tea party."

"A tea party!" you echo, impressed by her neat pronunciation. She's precious when she isn't on her knees screaming.

"For Teddy," she says.

"Yeah? Which one's Teddy?"

She turns to the table and points at the pink bear with a missing ear.

"Why don't you finish your tea party, Roan?" Eddie asks, then says to you, quieter, "You can put her down if you want to."

You take that as a You should put her down now and start to bend. Roan wraps her arms around your neck and clings, knees digging into your sides.

"No," she moans miserably.

"Baby," Eddie starts.

"No," she says again, meaner. You swoop her back up toward your chest, worried she'll start crying.

You feel awkward because it's obvious Eddie is embarrassed by her showing off. She starts to whine loudly and he gets worse, sending you an apologetic look as he approaches.

You can hear the apple cider sparkling away in the glasses in his hands, he talks to her that gently. "Roan, Y/N can't hold you all night, baby. She wants a drink. You don't like carrying Teddy all day, do you?"

Roan cries.

"It's really okay. I don't mind, I promise," you say.

The 'I promise,' comes out ridiculous. Too warm. Too genuine.

Eddie beams at you, almost haphazard. "Okay, awesome, because she's about to go nuclear and I don't think we'll survive it."

"Does she scream?"

"Full nine yards, slaps her hands on the floor, rolls around."

You gasp. "No! No way, do you really show off like that?" you ask her sympathetically. "I can't believe you'd ever do something like that, you're such a sweetheart. Is your daddy telling me lies?" You stroke down her cheek until she laughs, tickled. "He's lying, isn't he?"

"If you stick around long enough you'll see."

You don't flinch. "I can't wait."

Roan giggles wildly as you tickle down into the crease of her neck. You laugh in response, completely infected by her joy.

"She has a really lovely laugh," you praise.

"She's not the only one," Eddie says seriously.

You meet his gaze over her bunches and wrinkle your nose at him when he winks.

He's a real charmer when he wants to be. You're just dying to be charmed.

more eddie and roan

#eddie munson x reader fluff #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson fanfic #stranger things x reader #stranger things fic #stranger things #eddie munson x fem!reader #fem!reader #dad!eddie munson #eddie and roan

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mandowifey · 1 year

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What kind of father figure behaviours would Miguel have?? I’m thinking protective af

Oh boy oh boy oh boy BUCKLE UP.

Father!Miguel O'Hara Headcannons

Warnings: ANGST, SO MUCH ANGST, Mentions of child loss, death, violence, this is canon Miguel, reader can give birth but is not gendered. Mentions of trauma, depression, bad brain times. He's a broken man, yknow?

× × ×

First and foremost, Miguel is scared.

This is a man who had lost it all twice. He had watched his child die. He had lapsed so terribly into himself that he was able to rationalize stepping into another man's life and pretending to be him. He isn't right minded, he's broken and hurting.

All that self blame and doubt chokes him sometimes.

He hurts, constantly.

When you tell him you're pregnant, everything goes still. Fatherhood is something that had always been just outside of his grasp, and now it was here right in front of him. He doesn't fill with light, or smile and laugh, but he does look at you like he's seeing a ghost. There is fear in his eyes, not of you or the baby, but himself.

Because what if he fucks this up again?

Miguel can not stand the idea of opening himself to that pain. He already shoulders that guilt every day, rewatching videos of himself with his daughter. Can he even find room in his heart for another child? He almost feels like it is a betrayal, that he was never a good man to begin with if he were so willing to move on.

When your face drops and your eyes brim with tears, he pulls out of it.

One of Miguel's best abilities is being strong for others. He can be what you need right now, and he will.

Cue the absolute nightmare of expecting his child.

Aside from you being sick, Miguel worries, constantly.

The man can hardly focus on his work. He always asks one of the doctors to go check on you or have you in contact with him. Just because you're pregnant doesn't mean the multiverse loses its importance. But god is he distracted.

"Have you been eating enough?"

"Taking your vitamins?"

"How much water have you had?"

It'd be cute if you didn't know better.

You know how much he has lost and you know that he is petrified of losing you both too. Not to mention you are certain he feels undeserving of another chance, especially after destroying an innocent alternate universe.

The way he looks at you tells you everything; he thinks you are made of glass. Something fragile that could break any moment. While you try to assure him that isn't the case, he still worries.

Once you start showing, it's over.

He is constantly caressing your stomach, holding you close, breathing you in. He thinks you smell so good pregnant. Miguel loves to feel your belly, cooing to you about how good you look carrying his child. You don't doubt for a second he loves you.

Miguel is protective, most assuredly. When you want to go walking around the base or go grab snacks he is on you like a shadow. Always watching, always protecting. He makes sure the other spider folk don't bump you, and offers to carry you when you mention your feet swelling.

God, he'd love to feed you. Checking on you constantly if you're hungry, offering to run and grab any cravings you ask for.

When you get further along, he likes to talk to the baby. Speaking in Spanish occasionally but mostly asking if they are giving you trouble.

"They are gonna have my attitude, I know it."

Oh boy, when the baby comes?

Ohhhh boy.

First off it is a way bigger deal than it has to be.

That man would be in the middle of a job and get a ring on his watch.

"JESS, I GOTTA GO."

And she looks at him in time to watch him clawing back into a portal.

Him running full speed, throwing himself against walls and scratching down them to get to your room faster.

His mask withdrawing to show messy hair and wide brown eyes, coming to your side and taking your hand.

"I'm here, Im here." As he kisses into your damp hair.

You get to surprise him, twice.

He didn't know the sex, and didn't know you were having two.

When he see's his daughters for the first time, his eyes leak. The smile on his face stretches miles, his arms open as he cradles them into him. Oh he'd be melting.

You'd never seen him cry, but that day he does.

He's so proud of you, telling you how well you did and how much he loves you.

"Okay Miguel, gotta let me hold one." You laugh.

He's inseparable from you. Looking at those babies with such love and surprise, unable to believe that he was a father, again.

When you fall asleep with the girls tucked in your arms, he stays up and pets your hair.

And he promises himself that this time it will be different.

Your babies would be HELLA protected.

Good god, he is like a hawk with those girls.

Always watching, always making sure they were safe. He'd have eyes on them constantly.

Miguel is a good man at heart, and now he wants to make things right. He'd dedicate as much time to your family as possible, asking Jessica to stand in for him as often as possible (until she herself has her child).

He'd want to teach them to be like him. One of your daughters can stick to walls, and the other has tiny claws like he does. You enjoy lounging on the couch while he climbs the walls with the girls giggling after him.

Your family is beautiful, blissful. He protects all three of you.

And while sometimes you have to hold him at night and assure him that its okay to move on, he knows he's doing his best. He wraps you in his arms and looks at the baby monitor screen, watching the girls sleep. He begins to doze as you pet his hair, assuring him they were just fine.

Miguel would fall asleep against you, head tucked in your neck and strong arms locked around you.

And he would believe it was okay to forgive himself.

#miguel o'hara headcanons #miguel o'hara x you #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara headcanon #across the spiderverse #spiderman 2099 #spiderman across the spiderverse #oscar isaac #miguel ohara #miguel o'hara fanfiction #atsv miguel #miguel spiderman #spiderman x reader #spider man x reader #spider man 2099 #spider man: across the spider verse

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jeeaark · 5 months

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in a timeline where the illithid invasion never happen, a world where the absolute never existed, what would greygold's life be like? or maybe even lae'zel's? a world where they stumble upon each other without all the destruction around them.

The funny thing is.

Without squids trying to ruin their life, Greygold would have never discovered the power of friendship

Worse even, they'd still be a dispassionate lone ranger with questionable bird ethics surviving the wilderness and living off raw eggs like a weirdo.

Meanwhile, Lae'zel is still a Vlaakith devotee and if they stumble upon each other without a plot to drive them to work together and get to know each other... Bad things would happen! Someone would probably die. Most likely Greygold. But! Lets say. A plot did happen.

Buckle up buckaroos. This train thought went off the rails enough that I had to draw pics. Faster than writing out a 13k+ fic (for me anyway).

Let's say Greygold got the 'steal the githyanki egg ' job from Esther. Let's say they succeeded in sneaking in and out without too much of a fuss (mostly involving cat familiar distractions). And something Unfortunate happens before Greygold could complete the quest, leaving Greygold with an egg that eventually hatches:

And the githyanki child is not your average run-of-the-mill space lad either (Who loves eating raw eggs now too. It's fine. Builds character. Probably) But uh yeah, that whoosh accidentally cosmos-signaled all the githyankis and Vlaakith to which she reacts with a 'Wtf? Did anybody just get Prince of the Comet vibes from that? With a "I love egg" aftertaste? No? Just me? Hrm.... I do currently have a lot of free time on my hands....Fetch me that child. I want to study him like a bug. I'm suddenly feeling... Creatively ambitious with a side case of nefarious today. Might bury an old big secret if that kid is replacement-viable.' Thus search patrols investigate-

And never return.

After the first surprise patrol disaster, Greygold has been putting their danger ranger skills to good use via setting up counter-ambushes for all the constant surprise attacks. Classic "who is hunting who?" ordeal.

Nonetheless, there is more of them than there is of Greygold, so they resort to hiding in the Underdark after realizing the githyankis don't have dark vision and it's more environmentally dangerous than the surface. It is also a fun learning experience for the kid. Search patrols continue to never return. Until-

Lae'zel can't help but notice her mission orders do not add up and her rationality has a mighty need to make sense of it before solving problems with immediate hostility. Meanwhile this has been Greygold's first super tiny dose of kindness involving people interactions in years. Instant crush. Chase Shenanigans Ensue. Until child makes their first hunting trap. Instead of catching food, Lae'zel is captured. It also turns out the over-the-top trap involves sinking sand and a nest of Ankhegs (giant burrowing man-eating bugs). Greygold tries to help Lae'zel. For Reasons.

Something akin to mutual respect is formed. Stuck working together. Get to know each other. Discuss contradictions with mission. Verdigris worms his way into Lae'zel's heart (as much as she loathes his name). Escape the Ankheg nest which had terribly escalated because a giant fire ant invasion decided to overrun the ankheg nest at the same time.

Everyone is covered in bug guts after this.

Something something bond over experience enough to trust and listen to each other's opinions. Short Rest. Negotiate. Discuss plans to investigate Da Truth together. Shenanigans Ensue. Then Bad Shenanigans Ensue. Argument Ensues, resulting in Lae'zel Splitting Off. Verdigris disagrees with this approach and chases Lae'zel in order to bring back. Unanticipated Ambush happens at most inopportune moment. Greygold is Captured.

But they escape. Not before confronting Vlaakith's projection and discovering her plans and secrets thanks to one extremely curious Verdigrisgold (Verdi for short omg so long) with ridiculous super psionic powers.

And then they coincidentally interwovenly meet/save/recruit their bg3 companions anyway because there are no mindflayer abduction to stall certain ill-fated situations from happening to certain Companions-to-be and I need for them to be OKAY. So. Greygold discovers the power of friendship again. But is also now co-parenting a fate-of-the-githyanki-freedom child with Ex-Vlaakith-devotee Lae'zel. How's that for an AU timeline?

#What the hell do I even tag this as #bg3 spoilers #I GUESS ???????#lae'zel #Greygold #Bg3 AU #The only reason Greygold even knows that what Verdigris is is because of their craftsman background.#Originally was GreenGold. But. Easy Weed Joke.#Somehow. The Emperor is also involved -Somehow-#I am now suddenly realizing that I accidentally made up a mandalorian AU.... HRM. Still a fun thought.

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jymwahuwu · 2 months

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tis i! wingweaver anon again back from the livestream with a vengeance XD.

https://honkai-star-rail.fandom.com/wiki/Transcript_of_Ten-Lords_Commission_Interrogation_With_the_Wingweaver_Xili

but i found this transcript and i realized that some wingweavers have come under the watch of the luofu. imagine a wingweaver reader from xili's clan being left behind on this strange ship. maybe you'd known xili as well, something of a mother to you perhaps, or a rather stern aunt.

even so, you are a proud little thing with your own biases and you are not fond of the xianzhou at all. but you're not one who specializes in any combat or military genius ( perhaps you are a labourer or servant class? ) so you cannot stir up trouble or run your mouth. you can no longer fly either because of the strict watch placed upon you and your clansmen, and you must content yourself with working odd jobs for a living with people who dislike you in equal measure.

but then there is a strange white haired man who comes and meets you sometimes. he likes pulling on your wings and feeding into your curious mind with stories and yummy food. and you can't say you're not impressed by him, xianzhou native or not. maybe at some point you slowly shed away that anger because it's so exhausting.

jing yuan had grown to have his own guilty pleasures, with your company exclusive to him and no one else. you're bright eyes, a little snarky, a little witty and you're such an adorable little birdie to him. surely he's allowed to be selfish, yes? and seeing you soften up and let him hold you, press soft kisses down your neck, he has an air of smug satisfaction.

but now you're trying to be civil with other people? he can't help but feel that bite of possessiveness. perhaps you've been a bit too brave in that regard, a bad little bird who has wandered too close to the bars of her cage.

he coaxes you to his home, to the coziness of his room when he finds out you're slowly going into heat. there were clear orders given to you and your clan that you were not allowed to proliferate...but really now, that was with each other, yes? you should be fine with him? and your mind and instincts do see jing yuan as a good mate. he is strong and he's proven a good companion, so you're more than happy to present yourself to him.

jing yuan does not stop till every bit of you if full with his seed. you'll bear his children soon enough and he's giddy at the thought, keeping you locked up for him to fuss, spoil and fuck. you could try to run but you learn rather quick that he's terribly good at finding you.

soon enough you do slowly give up a little and have him touch you all over, on your belly and breasts, cooing. he's so soft and kind to you and he keeps this nest you've made nice and warm. maybe you did belong here in the end, just for him. so you stay, with his ribbon tied round your neck like a pretty collar.

Thank you wingweaver anon, I absolutely love this series!! This sounds so cute <3<3

tw: dub-con/non-con, forced breeding, bird's estrus, harassment

As you were working part-time and waving your wings, attracting curious attention from the people of Xianzhou, Jing Yuan was also attracted. He's always loved furry and adorable things - kittens, puppies, birds - and now, you, with wings and feathers falling to the ground? Real wings? His heart seemed to be tickled by your feathers. Maybe this is the cuteness attack. The general couldn't help but tug at your wings, which were softer than velvet.

You screamed softly, stepped back, and turned to look at him, your shy blood rushing to your ears and heating up. "Sir, please don't touch other people's wings at will!" Jing Yuan apologized casually, "I'm sorry, I'm just curious about your wings. Are you-" The words stopped. He realizes what planet you are from. You are an enemy being monitored by Xianzhou. A little bird in captivity. So he took time to come to your place of work almost every day. Stories, tips, sweet words. There's no point in getting angry at him, you feel like an ungrateful brat - considering he is Xianzhou's general and allows you guys limited freedom here.

Some occasional display of bird habits is also nice. It felt so good to him. Jing Yuan tentatively picked up some shiny necklaces and shook them in front of you, not missing your eyes lighting up (but then, you looked away and snorted).

Some Xianzhou people, as well as your kind, want to pursue you. You are so popular, you just didn’t notice it. Most people want birdie girls like you. Chirpy, smart, sharp and cute. Jing Yuan decided to take the initiative. He was convinced that given you a chance you would fly to a safe and comfortable nest. He can provide one. On the day when you were particularly grumpy and showing off your feathers, he slowly lured you into the general's palace. Under the influence of estrus (or do you just like him? You don't know.), you can't help but stare at his broad shoulders and chest, suspecting that those are so warm and sure to keep you safe and comfortable. He's huge, too.

There were soft chains on your hands, and you were being penetrated and creampied, the feathers then scattered on his bed. It was a bed specially purchased by Jing Yuan to simulate the space and environment of a nest. "…Jing Yuan-" With the high-speed and deep thrusting frequency, you tried to form words other than moaning. "Maybe-maybe that's enough? I-I'm going back to the nest-" His hands lifted both of your thighs up. And that giggle. The cock presses deeper against your cervix. "No, you're not pregnant yet."

"Pregnant?" You opened your mouth and widened your eyes, but your reproductive instinct inspired you, and you unconsciously wrapped your body tighter around his cock, milking him. He closed his eyes in enjoyment. You rolled your eyes, "mm ah-!"

"Yes. I'm going to be the father of the baby birds," he announced during the creampie.

#yandere hsr #yandere honkai star rail #yandere jing yuan #yandere hsr x reader #yandere jing yuan x reader #honkai x reader #honkai star rail x reader #honkai star rail x you

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little-miss-dilf-lover · 4 months

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Hey gal just read rose tinted view and absolutely need more sweet wife and tangerine please but with more of tan in it can just imagine this stone cold hearted killer and this sweet gem of a woman with their newborn baby a nice sunny day in the park or something and tan is spotted by an ex enemy or something and all the ex enemy can think of is how someone so kind and sweet and doted on tan and their baby can be with someone like tangerine and tan being all protective of his wife and new born when she’s inviting this stranger ( his ex enemy maybe ladybug ) to join them and letting said stranger hold their newborn daughter 🥺🥺🥺

hi baby!! omg this is perfect and super cute!! thanks for requesting, hope you like it💌

link for rose-tinted view if anyone’s interested

SWEET WIFE, SWEET LIFE.

dad tangerine x fem!reader — fluff

word count. 651

Warm and sunny days naturally called for a quaint picnic in the park - you and your little family sat upon a blanket under a tree, containers of fresh fruit and snacks littered across. Your newborn baby girl, Mandy, on her back in the middle, surrounded by the pots.

Tangerine was on his side, head propped up on his elbow til he suddenly sits up - the motion almost abrupt.

"What?" you ask, following your husband's eyeline. "What is it?"

"Keep your head down," he mutters. "Don't look— oh, great. He's coming over."

"Who is he? Do you know him?" you question, turning away from the approaching man to meet the displeased look on Tangerine's face.

"Met him on a job— right twat," he shakes his head, moving closer to his daughter as if he was trying to protect her.

"Tokyo one?" you ask.

He hums, the noise short, more like a 'humph'.

"Not interested," Tangerine grunts, holding his hand out to the man - not wanting him to come closer.

"Abducting families now?" the man quips, looking between you and your baby.

"No, now fuck off," Tangerine replies, eyes narrowing.

You flash him a soft, scolding glare before turning to look at the man. "Excuse my husband," you laugh faintly, patting the blanket for the man to sit. "You met on the Tokyo assignment, right? It's Ladybug?"

"Yeah," he nods, taking a seat on the blanket. "We worked together."

"No, we didn't. And what do you think you're doing?" Tangerine snarks, staring Ladybug down.

You lightly tap your husband's knee, silently reassuring him.

"Your husband has a terrible temper," Ladybug chuckles, helping himself to the bag of nuts. "Tried to kill me a couple times, too."

You cover your baby's ears and turn to face Tan. "You tried to kill him?" you whisper, scolding him.

"He tried to kill me too," he protests, glaring down his acquaintance. "The bastard shot me in the shoulder, remember?"

"I've forgiven him," Ladybug says, turning to look at you, holding a hand over his heart. "Resentment isn't good for the soul. I've moved on. I've put Tokyo behind me. Barry— my therapist, helped me process all—"

"Enough about your fuckin' therapist," Tangerine interrupts. He turns to look at you, eyes silently pleading you for help. "Seriously, I can't listen to him talk about Barry again. I will lose it. Darlin', I will lose it."

"Okay, okay," you coo, squeezing your lover's knee. "How about some sandwiches?" you ask, looking between the guys - trying to ease the apparent tension.

And just as you're about to reach for the cooler, Mandy makes a soft, sniffled-like cry, both you and Tan immediately reaching to comfort her. Your daughter putting a hold on the animosity between old rivals.

"Do you mind?" Ladybug questions, reaching for your newborn. "I'm great with babies."

You feel Tangerine stiffen upon his questioning, his reluctance as clear as day. But you give him an assuring tap, softly smiling as you nod - trying to comfort him as you scoop up your baby. You place her into Ladybug's cradled arms, brushing over her soft cheek as you pull away.

"Oh, she's perfect," Ladybug whispers, looking down at your daughter. "She has this beautiful energy about her— I can feel it. It's incredible."

You lean into Tangerine's shoulder, slipping your hand into his and bringing it to your face - pressing a kiss into the back of it. He's hesitant, but finally, he gives in —even just a little bit— resting his head atop yours. He's still alert and protective of his daughter but retreats slightly as he watches his baby - keeping his mouth closed to soak in the moment.

Ladybug looks up and glances between you and Tangerine. "You're blessed, man. I don't know how you pulled it off," he chuckles, looking back down to your daughter. "You have a beautiful family."

I changed it so tan didn’t get shot in the throat, did the shoulder instead. im like god, holding the multiverse and alternate storylines in my hands

#tangerine #tangerine x reader #dad tangerine #tangerine fluff #tangerine bullet train

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nolita-fairytale · 1 year

Text

comfort & chaos (carmy berzatto x fem!reader) chapter one: october 2019

summary: the five times carmen berzatto fell in love with you a little and the one time he finally told you: carmy, the recently promoted chef du cuisine at the best restaurant in the world, has no idea what he's in for when he accidentally spills his drink on the recently hired patissiere. (prequel to make my heart surrender)

warnings: swearing, no use of y/n, she/her pronouns, drinking & smoking, suggestive language. eventual smut.

word count: 4.5k

listen to: dover beach part 2 - baby queen | alaska - maggie rogers | less than i do - the band camino | 2 / 14 - the band camino

a/n: i'm back back back again! this is six part series will be a snapshot of carmy x reader's relationship in nyc that span across a three year period. i'm really looking forward to writing their friendship & so much repressed sexual tension it's not even funny. this is the first story i've published without it being almost or fully written so updates will maybe be more sporadic this time.

October 2019

“i was hoping somehow we'd end up together, outside, past midnight, and smoking cigarettes. the wallpaper inside my brain is decorated with your face. i'm lonely for you only, and i'm trying to convince you that i'm something you could love.” – dover beach (pt 2)

He hates you.

You’re absolutely sure of it.

You can see it in the way his body stiffens as you walk by – in the way he hasn’t stopped sending you long, piercing glares across the kitchen – in just how bright red his face turns when you catch him doing it.

And for what? For being excellent? For being good enough to get a job after staging that one night?

Fuck that, you think to yourself.

You find Carmen Berzatto infuriating, and it begins to dawn on you that you may have had one too many gin cocktails to stomach the fact that you have to be here tonight.

Here, at his promotion party.

Here, at this stupid fucking bar that you hate.

Here, because he’s sort of everyone’s boss now… and it’s something you’re just going to have to live with.

It hadn’t come as much of a surprise. There’d been talk of a leadership change (and Carmy filling the CDC position) when you had first started working here, but having a head’s up didn’t really help you now. You just hadn’t pictured having to go out for drinks to celebrate the man that seemed like he could barely stand being in the same room as you. But your friend Liz, one of the chef de parties at the restaurant, had insisted you come with, since she hadn’t wanted to go alone. You understood why you both had to go, so you’d invited your other best friend to help the both of you get through.

You thank your lucky stars that your direct report is the head pastry chef and not Carmy. Using your boss as a buffer, you had used every excuse in the book to avoid interacting with him.

Sure, he was brilliant.

Sure, he was a wunderkind who had just gotten back from a three month stage at noma right before he was hired here.

Sure, he was kind of a total asshole.

“Fuck that, man! C’mon. Just one shot. It’s your big night, motherfucker!” Nate calls out, practically shoving a shot into Carmy’s hand.

“Oh, I- uh, I’m good, man,” Carmy stutters, trying to find an excuse not to take the shot.

Truthfully, he hates shots… and he’s not much of a vodka drinker either.

He’s just not in the mood to get hammered either, his thoughts consumed with tomorrow, his first day as chef du cuisine, going perfectly.

You watch the uncomfortable interaction, almost feeling bad for the guy. Nate and the most recently promoted sous, Tim, are trying their best to corral Carmy into taking the shot as you walk by. You can see the uncomfortable look on Carmy’s face as he declines Nate’s offer for a second time.

In fact, he seems like a different person tonight. He’s… boyishly awkward, almost, and you wonder if he’s maybe not so great in social situations. As you pass by, drink in hand, you hear a cacophony of sound. Carmy’s trying his best to dodge his friends’ next attempt, and before you know it, Nate’s practically pushing him towards Tim, sending Carmy backwards, tumbling right into you.

You feel the wet liquid of your gin and tonic, along with the shot of vodka that’s flown out of Carmy’s hand spill all over your shirt. The shot glass shatters as it hits the floor, and the sobering feeling of ice cold liquid soaking through your shirt causes you to shriek.

“Shit! What the fuck, Carmy!” you yell, angrily, as you push him off of you.

At this point, you could care less that he’s everyone’s new boss, and the drama of it all has caught the attention of almost all of the other restaurant staff that have come out tonight. Your friends rush towards you, searching for as many napkins as they can grab.

“Fffffuck,” is all he says back and you can’t believe he’s yelling at you right now. You watch as his face changes quickly, from angry, to thoroughly shocked as he begins to stammer through an apology.

“I-. I’m sorry I-. I didn’t mean to-.”

He scrambles to help you, with one cocktail napkin as you push him away, your friends rushing to your side.

“No! I don’t want your help,” you grit through a clenched jaw.

“Shit, your shirt is ruined… C’mon,” Liz says, as she ushers you away shooting a glare in Carmy’s direction.

“Damn, man. You could just ask her out,” you can hear Nate say, even though you’re too preoccupied with examining the damage of your totally soaked through t-shirt.

So much for a chill evening.

“Oh shut up, Nate,” Maya snaps at the sous. “Let’s get you cleaned up.” You nod, following her as she leads you away towards the bathroom.

Back at the bar, Liz is trying her best to remedy the situation, trying her best to clean up the mess you left behind. She watches Carmy closely, trying to figure out whether she’s going to pay for this tomorrow. But instead of being angry, he just seems embarrassed… remorseful, even. There’s a small part of her that feels bad for the guy as it becomes clearer that he may just not be great in social situations.

As soon as you get to the single-room bathroom, you're swearing loudly and stripping off your shirt. It’s completely see through and you know you’re going to smell like a distillery until you can get home to shower.

“I told you. He hates me,” you pout, examining your reflection in the mirror, a scowl glued to your face. You dap a few dry paper towels across your chest.

“I think it was just an accident, sweetie,” Maya says, sympathetically, as she tries her best to console you.

“Yeah, I know,” you admit in defeat.

As much as you’d like to blame this on him, you know it wasn’t his fault.

“Sorry I asked you to come tonight. If I knew it would be this much drama-,” you begin, before being promptly cut off.

“Oh no, I’m all here for this drama,” she laughs, causing you to shake your head and lighten up a little about the situation.

As angry as you’d like to be with Carmy, you know that the truth of the matter is that he hadn’t meant to spill his drink all over you. You should be mad at Nate and Tim… but it just feels easier to be mad at Carmy considering.

“Incoming!” you hear a voice say as Liz arrives. In her hands, she holds what looks like a white t-shirt, neatly folded up, that she hands to you. “Anyone in need of dry clothes?”

“Oh thank god,” you sigh with relief, glady taking it.

“Good on you for having an extra,” Maya says.

“Well, it’s a restaurant. You never know when you’re gonna need a change of clothes,” Liz shrugs, a glimmer in her eyes that Maya notices, as she says it. You find it a little strange that she seems to be watching you for a reaction, but you brush off the look she sends you, as you slide the dry t-shirt over your head.

The t-shirt isn’t much bigger than an oversized fit you’d buy for yourself – which makes sense because Liz is a bit taller than you. The cotton fabric hangs loosely over your form as your eyes flicker over to your completely soaked through shirt that lays crumpled up on the bathroom sink.

“Well, ladies. We did our best,” you resign yourself, as you notice your still-very-wet bra begin soaking through the white t-shirt.

“C’mon. Let’s see if we can get some more paper towels. Or uh.. See if the kitchen has a towel we can use,” Liz says, nodding her head towards the door.

“We’ll be right back,” Maya reassures you, empathy in her eyes.

You watch as Liz follows her, leaving you alone in the bathroom.

It doesn’t take long for the door to the bathroom to swing open again, which surprises you. You gasp as soon as you see who's come through the door, and you’re crossing your arms over your chest which may only make the wet bra, white t-shirt ordeal even worse. A very flustered Carmy stands in the doorway, his mouth hanging open as if he hadn’t expected you to be in here.

“There’s uh… someone in here,” you scoff, unable to hide the irritation in the sound of your voice. You hug your arms closer to yourself, almost as if to cover yourself up.

“No I-, yeah, I know I just-,” he stammers, his eyes shifting to the floor. He feels like he’s walked in on something he shouldn’t have, and he can feel all the blood rushing to his face, instantly regretting his decision not to knock first.

“I actually, uh… I came to apologize,” he manages to get out, his words quiet. He says it as if there’s an unintentional question mark at the end of his sentence. You can see the way he runs his eyes back and forth, trailing over the fancy floor tile, searching for the right words.

“I didn’t mean to- I just-. Sorry…”

His demeanor surprises you. At work, Carmy’s this confident, commandeering, talented chef, but tonight, he seems anything but.

Nervous. Shy. Like a fish out of water, even.

You take a breath, trying your best to relax.

You can feel some of your guard coming down as you begin to accept he really hadn’t meant to spill his drink on you. But you’re not eager to forget the fact that he’s been kind of an asshole to you since you started working here. Unsure of how to respond, you give literal effort to replying with a:

“It’s fine. Thanks.”

He knows you don’t mean it.

In fact, he can hear how painful it is for you to get out those words.

You wait for him to leave, but Carmy continues to stand in the bathroom with you, awkwardly. But he doesn’t say anything, so you figure that the least you can do is deflect a little with humor.

“I’ll uh-, invoice you for the therapy session,” you say, trying to eliminate any malice in your tone so that he knows you’re joking. “Walking home in a wet shirt on the streets of NYC is gonna be… fun.”

“Oh uh…” he trails off, his face turning a darker shade of red.

“I’m kidding,” you state, searching his face for any kind of expression.

This man is impossible to read, you think to yourself.

His eyes are still glued to the floor as he begins to move, mumbling something you can’t quite hear in response to your failed joke. Carmy slides out of the denim jacket he’s wearing, before taking hold of it, extending an arm out to you.

“Sorry um-. Here,” he says nervously, and it’s the first time he’s allowed his eyes to meet yours. “You can uh-. You can wear this. For your walk home.”

Well, that wasn’t what you were expecting.

And had his eyes always been that blue?

Your face softens.

You take the jacket hesitantly, holding it in your hands. This time you mean it when you say:

“Thanks.”

“Least I could do,” he shrugs, daring to meet your eyes with his again.

You slip the jacket over your shoulders as the two of you stand a few feet apart. The air feels thick, and at this point, you’re not sure how to feel. Even though your bra has continued to soak through the white t-shirt, the way his denim jacket feels wrapped around your shoulders feels like an added layer of protection.

“After uh-. You know I-,” he stumbles through.

“Yeah. No I uh-. Thanks, again,” you repeat, cutting him off.

Might as well put the poor guy out of his misery.

“Anyways, I’ll make sure to get this back to you,” you interject, your voice much more reassuring this time.

“Yeah,” he nods.

You swear you can almost see the corner of his lips turn up, but you’ve never really seen him smile, so it’s not like you have much to compare it to. Carmy excuses himself, and you watch as he leaves, genuinely grateful for the peace offering.

The way that Carmy’s jacket hangs heavily around your shoulders makes you wonder if it’s real denim. You notice that it smells like him too: a faint scent of cigarettes, Old Spice deodorant, whatever scented laundry detergent he uses that feels familiar.

You and Carmy don’t speak again, save for a few short exchanges at work, but he’s been on your mind. Your interaction the other night had left an impression on you – albeit a strange one – and you’re not sure why you haven’t returned his jacket yet.

It’s not till a few days later that you speak again, leaving another strange impression on you. You head into the walk-in to get a few quarts of heavy cream and as you pull the door open, you find a flustered Carmy standing there. He’s got his hands on his hips and eyes glued to the floor with an exasperated look on his face as he watches the plastic storage containers he’s just thrown clamor across the floor. You gasp, shocked by the loud sounds, and Carmy knows he’s not alone.

As he turns to you with a glare on his face, you notice that Carmy’s eyes are puffy, his cheeks flushed red, and he looks sick as a dog.

His eyes are wide with embarrassment for a moment, before returning to their normal, stoic focus, hardened by a less than positive interaction with the exec chef.

“Sorry,” he mutters, uncomfortably. He gestures towards the storage containers on the floor, before running a hand through his neatly slicked back hair.

“It’s uh, you’re good, chef,” you say, trying your best to put your wall of professionalism up.

You had witnessed the demeaning encounter from the exec chef – everyone had. It had been impossible not to. He’d practically breathed down Carmy’s neck, taunting him for his lack of focus today, that he’s a little bitch for letting allergies get to him.

To say that the man was emotionally abusive would be an understatement.

You should leave – turn and go, and pretend that this never happened – that you’d seen nothing. But instead, you stay.

“You good, chef?” you ask softly, a hint of concern in your voice.

He sniffles again, the searing headache that robs him of his focus only burning brighter after what just happened.

“Yeah, no. I’m fine,” he snaps, refusing to look at you.

You wait for him to say something more, only he doesn’t. You can see he’s not feeling well and that he must be feeling worse after his metaphorical public stoning in the town square. He’s not sure what the hell it is you’re waiting for, and he just needs another fucking second to himself.

“Why are you still here?” he grits through teeth, his eyes fixed to the floor.

You open your mouth to say something, but you’re honestly not sure why you’re still in the walk-in with him either.

Maybe because you know that the exec chef is a total monster.

That he shouldn’t have talked to Carmy like that.

That you can understand why he’d be upset.

“Chef!” he says, raising his voice a little louder and flinging his hands towards the door. “Will you just-?”

You nod, a feeling of embarrassment filling your chest, as you realize he wants you to leave. You hurry out of the walk-in, closing the door behind you as you escape, your heavy cream quart containers in hand.

“You good?” Liz asks, as soon as she sees you come out of the walk-in. She’s passing by to bring a few deli containers over to the dish station.

“What?” you ask back in surprise, unaware that you look visibly shaken up.

“You look… flustered is all,” she points out.

“Oh. Yeah. I just uh-, Carmy’s in there. Throwing a fit. He just uh… snapped at me is all. But what’s new?” you reply, trying your best to shake it off.

She rolls her eyes in response, “Yeah, he can be like that. Thank your lucky stars that you don’t have to work under him.”

You let out an annoyed exhale. It’s a funny feeling – one that leaves you a little confused: one minute he’s this chivalrous guy that’s handing you his jacket to wear home and the next he’s practically tearing your head off to get out of the walk-in. You can’t quite figure him out. He’s so hot and cold, you’re not sure what to expect from him anymore.

As you and Liz are about to part ways, you remember that you have to give her back her borrowed shirt.

“Oh!” you say, calling her attention before she returns to her station.

“I have your shirt, by the way,” you say. “From the other night.”

“Oh,” she says, her eyes lighting up. “Okay weird timing considering he’s being such an asshole today but uh…. Yeah. The shirt’s... not mine. I forgot to tell you.”

You send her a puzzled look as she shrugs.

“I didn’t think you’d take it if I told you but… it’s Carmy’s. He pulled it out of his bag when he spilled the drink on you,” she informs, waiting to gauge your reaction.

“What do you mean?” you ask.

“You were so mad at him that I just figured-, it doesn't matter. He pulled it out of his bag to give to you. I think he felt really fucking bad, babe,” she interjects, revealing the truth.

Well now you’re really fucking confused.

And after your little interaction with him in the walk-in, there’s no way you’re going to bring it up to him today.

“Oh. Yeah um, got it,” you reply, feeling even more confused than when you started the day.

You show up to work the next day with the t-shirt and his jacket tucked into a canvas tote bag you plan on giving to Carmy. You’d decided to wait till you had them both, and you’re also hoping that he’s in a better mood today.

Only, Carmy’s not here today.

“Yeah, he’s out sick. Looks like those allergies turned out to be a nasty head cold,” your general manager had informed you when you’d asked about where Carmy was. “Looks like Tim’s filling in today for him.”

“Got it. Thanks, Kate” you’d replied.

Later on your mid-shift break, you’d then mustered up all the courage possible to ask if anyone had checked in on Carmy. Kate, your GM, had answered no, and had been more than happy to give you his address so that you could do so. You’re not sure why you feel like it’s the right thing to do, but between his act of kindness at the bar, and his outburst in the walk-in yesterday, you figure it wouldn’t hurt to show him a little kindness. Not that you feel like you owe him or anything.

Maybe you just want to give him his clothes back and be done with it.

Maybe you’re also deeply confused about who the hell Carmen Berzatto really is.

Maybe the mystery of it intrigues you a little more than you’d like to admit.

Dinner service flies by quickly – a string of non-stop orders helps the time go faster. Carmy’s apartment is on your way home, so it’s a no-brainer to make the trip. You stop on your way at a deli nearby, picking up a quart of matzo ball soup, before heading over to his apartment.

When you get there, you knock on the door three times, anxiety beginning to flood you.

What if he thinks this is totally creepy – that you just got his address from the general manager? What if he thinks you’re stalking him? What if he hates the fact that you’re even there in the first place?

You wonder if you should just leave the soup at the door and run as fast as you can so that, by the time he answers the door, you’re gone.

Just as you’re bending down to place the quart container down by his door, the door swings open to reveal a very congested Carmy. His curls seem wilder than normal as he looks genuinely surprised to see you crouching in the hall of his apartment.

“Hi!” you practically shout, taken off guard as you rise to your feet.

“Yo,” he says, blinking a few times to make sure he’s not dreaming. “What’s uh-, what’s going on?”

It’s weird – seeing Carmy outside of the restaurant, outside of his chef whites. His usually slicked back, out-of-his-face hair falls in the messiest most unruly curls around his face in a way that's surprisingly unkempt. He’s… almost human-like.

“This is for you,” is all you manage to say, handing him the quart container.

“Uh… thanks,” he trails off, taking it and checking out the matzo ball soup.

You’re not sure where to begin, how to explain why the hell you’re here, so you just start talking.

“I uh… your place was on the way home,” you begin. “I hope it’s okay but I got your address from Kate. I actually used to go to this deli all the time when I was a kid with my parents and I forgot that it was in your neighborhood so I just figured that I should pick something up on the way over since I heard you were sick and uh-.”

Carmy shoots you a look and he almost looks amused.

“... I’m rambling, aren’t I?” you ask, a light blush running across your cheeks.

“Yeah,” he nods, a dry laugh following.

You wait a beat, collecting yourself. You’re not sure why this is so weird, but it’s so weird.

“I came by because…” you start, digging through your canvas tote bag that’s draped across your right shoulder. “... I wanted to return these to you.”

You hold out the jacket and t-shirt folded up together to Carmy, his eyes following them.

“Liz told me that the shirt was yours too. I just-, I know we don’t always… that you don’t-, I don’t know what I’m trying to say. I know it’s kind of weird at work sometimes but… I guess I just wanted to say thank you. For these. Hence the soup,” you finally explain.

“No problem,” Carmy nods, taking them in his empty hand, before disappearing momentarily to place them somewhere inside of his apartment.

You’re only a little disappointed by his short response, yet you’re not sure you expected anything else. He returns only seconds later.

“It’s uh-, Cool jacket,” you say. You can’t tell whether you’re making small talk or just saying something out of discomfort, but it seems to pique Carmy’s interest.

“It actually reminds me of the denim jacket that John Lennon used to wear ”

“You know denim?” he asks, and you could swear that you see his eyes light up for a moment.

“No, but I know music,” you reply.

“Uh I mean. Yeah. It is…” he says, with a nod, a hint of excitement in the words that follow. “Not the actual one he wore but… it’s a 1950s selvedge Wrangler. Just like Lennon.”

So he wasn’t just a fine-dining robot.

“Wow I didn’t know you were into all that,” you say, feeling some of the tension between the two of you melt. “Denim, I mean.”

“Something I picked up from my brother, I guess,” he shrugs, shyly.

“That’s funny,” you chuckle.

“Hm?” he hums in response.

“Just… the thought of you having a brother,” you clarify, jokingly. “Thought you were like… grown in a lab at noma or something.”

And Carmy almost smiles, you think.

“Nope. Just Chicago,” he replies, enjoying the act of sharing something with you.

“Ahhh,” you sound, following it up with another small laugh. “Well, I’ll let you get some rest. Enjoy the soup.”

“Yeah, uh. Thanks for this,” he says, holding up the brown bag.

“Of course,” you reply, turning to go.

But you don’t go yet, not ready to let go of the momentary connection you’ve built with Carmy

"You know it doesn’t have to be like this,” you say, turning back to him. He's staring at you, just like he does in the kitchen. It’s another long, languid look that makes you realize that maybe they haven’t been hate-glares after all.

“We don't have to do this... start over every time we see each other.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you agree with a nod. “I mean, I've already worn your clothes so… it’s a rather… intimate thing for us to just be strangers….”

He listens attentively.

"We could… coworkers… friends, even,” you suggest, hesitantly.

“Me and you?” he asks, a puzzled look on his face. You’re not sure if he’s surprised by what you’ve said, or if he’s about to laugh in your face.

“If you want,” you nod in response.

He waits a beat, and you watch his facial expressions soften a little as he finally says, “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

You smile at him, the man you thought hated you, wants to be friends with you. You get a wicked idea, letting out a chuckle before continuing.

“Great. There’s just one thing,” you begin playfully.

You can’t help yourself.

“Hm?” he hums.

“It’s just… I haven’t made my mind up about you. So you should consider this your trial period, buddy,” you tease.

He lets out a dry laugh, “Like a stage?”

Of course it’s all kitchen-related for him.

You laugh in response, “Yeah, like a stage.”

“Heard, chef.”

“Goodnight, Carmy.”

Carmy’s never had someone joke with him so sweetly. Between his family and, well, Richie… it’s always been callous humor and insults thrown back and forth lovingly. This feels… different: lighter.

As he watches you walk away, he looks down at the deli quart container that he holds in his hand. He’s never had anyone take care of him before – not like this – someone who wasn’t Sugar or Mikey, and certainly not his Mom. Not like this. Not without asking for anything in return. He can’t seem to identify the warm feeling that rushes through him, and wonders, for a moment, if this is what it feels like to fall in love.

Not that he’s ever experienced that either.

By Saturday, he’s back to work and feeling much better (the soup definitely helps, he decides) but it’s not for another week that he musters up the courage to ask you what you’re doing between lunch and dinner service.

“Chef!” he calls out to you as you’re cleaning up your station.

“Yeah, what’s up?” you reply.

It’s not like you’ve been all buddy-buddy and friendly over the last week, but you’ve at least stopped thinking that he hates you. Sure you’ve decided to be friends, but it’s not like you’d expected wildly different behavior.

“You uh… wanna grab a cup of coffee? On the break, I mean,” he asks, his blue eyes seeming… more brilliant than you’ve ever noticed.

“I owe you one. You know. For the soup.”

You smile, “Yeah. I’d uh-, I’d like that.”

“Yeah?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

read: chapter two

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