#I have not stopped thinking about his college years...

[finelinemia]

BEST FRIEND’S DAD ❤️‍🔥

smut ! harry styles x reader

summary: For years now, you've found Mr. Styles, your best friend Sophie's father, quite attractive, to the point of getting wet just by looking at him. Everything changes one night, when he picks you and Sophie up from a party and you stay the night at his house.

word count: 5.2k

cw: smut, daddy issues, daddy kink, masturbation, oral sex, penetration, dirty talk, unprotective sex

author’s note: Hiii, this is my first smut so don't be too hard on me and I hope you like it a lot. I've never done something so "long" so I hope it lives up to expectations. Kisses and happy reading💋

[ dadrry! , dilfrry! ] +18

"Okay, and at tomorrow's meeting we could talk about the new clients we're bringing on," I say to Jeff through the computer screen as I watch him jot down the different things I'm saying in his notebook.

I took the afternoon off because Sophie, my 24-year-old daughter, is coming to my house for the weekend after spending the last week with her mother, and I want to take advantage of my time with her. She recently graduated from college and is about to leave for the United States for an internship, so the more time I can spend with her, the better.

I divorced her mother when Soph was 15. I remember that at first it was hard for her to adjust to her new life with separated parents and having to spend a different week with each one. But I guess everything works out in the end, and she's at her best, enjoying her last summer before leaving for another country far from us.

"You should also look over the paperwork I sent you for-" My words stopped when I heard the front door open, followed by laughter. "Just a minute, Jeff. I think Sophie's home." I took off my glasses and placed them on my desk, then turned to look at my study door. "Soph! Is that you?"

"Yes, Dad!" The door opens and Sophie pokes her head in. "Working hard?" she asks with a smile.

I smile "You could say, how was your day?"

She shrugs, "Hmm... well, we went to the beach." We? "Y/N is here."

Another head peeks through the door and my mouth goes dry. I've never thought about my daughter's friends that way before; after all, the age difference was a big enough deal to be thinking that way, but fuck, you were something completely different.

This all started when you and Sophie met in college. You were roommates, and eventually you became inseparable. You started coming over constantly, to sleep, eat, or just hang out. Seeing you here was already something totally normal for me. And at first, believe me, everything was fine, but then the glances started. The ones you think I don't notice. The way you swallow softly when you see me coming, or the way you bite your lip slightly when you see me in a slightly tighter shirt. A man can't see those things and not go crazy. And that's why every time I see you I go crazy, so crazy that sometimes I need to go to the bathroom to get my hard-on down and even masturbate to relax. You've become something I should stay away from.

I don't want to be misunderstood either. I've never done anything with you, never made the move, never even looked at you for more than three seconds because I don't know what would happen if we held eye contact longer than that. You think I haven't thought about what it would be like to lean you against the kitchen counter and eat your pussy while you moan my name and being heard throughout the house? But I'm a gentleman, and a gentleman has his limits.

"Dad, are you listening to me?" Sophie's voice interrupts my thoughts, and I shake my head. I look back at her. "Y/N's staying over because we're going to a party, okay?" A party?

"Sorry? A party? I thought we were going to spend the day together. I took the afternoon off so I could be with you." At this point in the film, I'm not surprised in the least. I know Sophie loves me, obviously, but she's a very sociable girl and is always surrounded by friends. She's almost never at home. I can at least be thankful she's responsible.

"I know, Dad, and we have all weekend to be together! But this party is going to be one of the best of the summer." She turns to look at you, asking you with her eyes to help her with this.

"Uh... yeah, it's going to be great. Almost everyone from college is going," you say, avoiding my eyes. Are you nervous already? I haven't even had to lift a finger.

"It's going to be legendary, Dad! We can't miss it, please, please." It still tickles me that Sophie keeps asking me for permission to do certain things. It's obvious she doesn't need it; she's 24 and about to leave for another country. But I guess she'll always be daddy's little girl.

I let out a sigh. "I guess I can wait one more day to be with my daughter..." Sophie starts jumping up and down before I can even finish the sentence. "I don't want you to be too late, and be responsible with your drinking. And with the men."

"Ah yes, the biggest problem today," you joke as Sophie continues jumping up and down. That makes me laugh more than it should.

"Oh! I'll see if I remembered to bring the dress from Mom's house." Sophie runs up the stairs to her room, leaving me alone with you.

"Hmm, talk to you on Monday, Jeff. Have a nice weekend." After Jeff says goodbye, I close the computer screen and look up at you. "So, how's your mom?" I ask, though I don't really care that much, your mother and I don't get along that well.; I just want to make conversation.

"Why? Are you interested in her?" you ask, leaning against the doorframe, tilting your head. I can't tell if you're serious or just joking.

I let out a small laugh as well, shaking my head slightly. Your story is quite different from Sophie's. You don't have divorced parents; your father left when you were five, but that story never leaves your mouth. Sophie told me a few months after she met you. I try not to bring it up when you're around because I know it's probably something that affects you quite a bit.

"Although your mother is quite an attractive woman, I'm not interested." I pick up the papers on the desk.

"She's fine. I think she's signed up for a cooking class. She's having the best years of her life, according to her." You glance down slightly, and that makes me tilt my head a little. "She deserves it, I suppose... after 20 years of raising a daughter alone, she needs to rest and have some fun."

The comment makes me purse my lips in disapproval. It's the first time you've spoken about the subject with me, and you seem somewhat upset, even though it's been years since then. I still don't understand how someone could abandon their daughter like that. You'll always be worried that she grew up without a father, and that will stay with her for the rest of her life.

"You look like her." My voice makes you lift your head from the floor. "Like your mother, I mean. You're both very attractive women." Did you really just say that, Harry?

You blush a little and swallow lightly. There it is…

"Thank you, Mr. Styles." you murmur.

“You know you can call me Harry, right?” I smirk.

"Yeah, I know, but it's weird calling you by your first name..." Well, I bet you'll moan it out loud.

"A lot of people are going to that party... you say?" I ask, leaning back in my chair.

"Yeah, we're planning on meeting up with our friends. Have a drink... hang out, you know, and then head home."

It's obvious that both you and my daughter want to hide what you're really going to do at those parties, but I guess you're both adults and it's none of my business, right?

"Hmm... I'm sure you both have a lot of guys after you." i murmur, and you tilt your head slightly. "Oh, I'm just asking. You know I care about Sophie."

"To Sophie, huh?" This time you're the one who lets out a smirk. “Yes, I suppose there will be some boys.”

"Hm... do you have a boyfriend?" Harry, shut your mouth before you regret it.

You shake your head. "Why? Are you interested?" I know you're joking, but I really want to say yes.

"Y/N! Come get ready! Time's running out!" Sophie yells from upstairs.

"Saved by the bell, I guess," you say, moving away from the door frame and turning toward the exit. "See you later, Harry."

I watch you sway your hips as you head for the stairs, and I let out a long sigh. Why the hell does my name have to sound so good on your lips? Fuck, on top of that, you were clearly hitting on me.

I open the computer again and start reviewing documents, trying to think of something other than my name on your lips, trying not to think about what it would sound like if you moaned it.

"Fuck-" I get up from the desk and walk to the bathroom, closing the door behind me.

I pull down my pants and boxers and lean with one hand against the wall, the other going straight to my cock without a second thought. Am I seriously jerking off thinking about my daughter's best friend?

I move my hand quickly as I throw my head back. My name on your lips keeps echoing in my head over and over again. I breathe raggedly as I increase the pace. If you've achieved this with just a word, I don't want to imagine what it would be like if you were touching me. If it were your hand right now giving me pleasure.

"Shit- shit, shit, shit..." I grab a piece of toilet paper, continuing to pump myself, and place it right on the tip, cumming on it almost instantly. "You're fucked..." I mutter to myself as I throw the paper into the toilet and flush. I wash my hands and face and head back out to my study, hoping I can work better this time.

•••

"If you need anything, just call me. If anything happens, please don't hesitate-" I say to Sophie as she finishes touching up her lipstick in the entryway mirror. "Sweetheart, are you listening? I can even go pick you up, okay? Wake me up if you have to."

"Dad, don't worry. We'll take a taxi back. Don't wait up, I know you." she gives me a look through the mirror. "We are going to have fun for a few hours and then we'll come back, okay?"

"Don't get into anyone's car, Sophie, please, especially if they've been drinking." I run my hand through my hair. I've always been pretty protective of her, but I still get rapid heartbeats every time she goes out partying.

"Believe me, Dad, there's no way I'm crazy about getting into anyone's car." She finishes applying lipstick and turns to me, but her gaze wanders to something behind me. "Oh my God, you're so hot!"

I turn subtly and our eyes meet. Remember the three-second rule, Harry. But then I glance down slightly at your dress. It's so fucking short, and tight, and red, and I need to get it off you asap.

I clear my throat and look away, returning my eyes to Sophie. "Well, have a good time, don't be back too late, and call me if-"

"If there's any problem. Yes, Dad, I know. Let's go. The taxi is waiting outside." She grabs her bag and opens the door, you following behind her.

"Goodbye, Harry," you say, maintaining eye contact with me, closing the door behind you.

"Fucking hell" I mutter to myself.

How do you expect me to behave after that? I couldn't even get to sleep. You went to a party full of college boys dressed like that and I'm not even thinking about my daughter getting drunk anymore. It's obvious you're going to attract a lot of attention tonight, and I can't help it. I'm not going to be there to stop it. I just can lie in bed and wait for this night to be over. Tomorrow you'll go home, and everything will be back to normal.

My phone starts ringing on the nightstand, and I frown. The clock marks three in the morning, and you don't usually get calls at this hour, unless it's your daughter calling you from a drunken state. Sure enough, when I grabbed my phone, the screen lit up with a picture of Sophie and her name. I picked it up after the third ring.

"Soph? Are you okay?" I ask while rubbing my eyes.

"Hi... it's Y/N." Your voice makes me sit up in bed. "Hey, I think you're going to have to come pick us up..."

"Did something happened to you?" I ask as I get out of bed and put on my slippers.

I can hear how you let out a sigh. "Sophie's had too much to drink... I can't even hold her. We're sitting on the sidewalk and she's practically unconscious."

"Fuck, Soph..." I run my hand over my face, trying to think clearly. "Okay, don't move. I'll be there as soon as I can. Send me the location, okay?" I hang up, throwing the phone on the bed and starting to get dressed. My phone rings again, this time with the location of the party. I finish putting on my sweatshirt and head down to the garage.

I get in the car and start it as quickly as I can. I don't even let the garage door open all the way before accelerate at full speed, leaving the house behind and heading toward your destination. The night my daughter had to prove to me she's responsible so she could leave for another country, she goes and screws up. And you haven't done anything to stop it.

I arrive at the house where the party is being held in less than 15 minutes and see you both sitting on the sidewalk, you with your arm around Sophie as she rests her head on your shoulder. If I weren't so pissed off, I'd actually think it was a cute scene.

I get out of the car and approach you. You raise your head to look at me. "How much has she had to drink?" I bend down to grab Sophie's head and try to get her to react. Her head is dead weight and her eyes are swollen.

"I think two drinks..." I look at you, not believing a word, "and maybe ten shots..."

"For God’s sake, and you let her do that?" I ask, frowning. "I thought you were more responsible."

"I wasn't paying attention, we separated for a moment, I was-" you cut off the sentence before you can say anything else.

"You were what?" I raise my eyebrow as a signal for you to continue talking.

"I was with someone else," you say simply.

"Oh, great. You were showing some college student how great that dress looks on you, weren't you?" I scoop Sophie up and head out to the car.

You follow me behind "I haven't even told you and you're already jumping to conclusions? I don't understand why you're so angry"

“Maybe because my daughter can’t stand up and instead of being with her and making sure she doesn’t do anything crazy, you’ve been making out with a boy.”

"Hey, Sophie isn't my responsibility. Yes, we came to the party together, and yes, she's my friend. But she said she'd be fine on her own and that I could leave without a problem, and she was surrounded by all our friends!" you reply, throwing your hands up in the air.

"Well, it seems your friends didn't give a shit that she could have ended up in the hospital!," he sighed, putting Sophie in the car. "Look, I want to take her home. You can stay with your friend if you want."

I see you roll your eyes. “Oh my god, that’s all you’ve got left with, right? What’s going on? are you jealous?”

I look at you in disbelief, "Jealous? me? For God's sake, you should listen to yourself for a moment. You could be my daughter."

"Exactly, I could be your daughter but you always look at me with those eyes and you don't stay looking at me for more than three seconds because you're afraid something will happen!" you say and I open my eyes wide. "Do you think I haven't noticed? You were drooling today when you saw me in this fucking dress. And now you're incriminating me more for being with someone than for not having paid attention to Sophie."

My jaw tightens and I can't look at you for a second longer. "Get in the car, Y/N."

“What?”

"Get in the fucking car. Now." Without another word, you get in the car, and I walk around it, climbing into the driver's seat.

The ride home was completely silent, aside from Sophie's babbling in the back seat. I check to see if she's okay through the rearview mirror; she's so out of it, it makes me even angrier. I shift my gaze to you and watch for a few seconds. You're staring out the window, completely ignoring me. Bad choice.

We arrive at my house and I put the car in the garage. Without saying a word, I get out and grab Sophie from the backseat. You get out slowly and watch me silently as I walk inside. You follow with small steps behind me and we go up the stairs to the bedrooms. I go into Sophie's and gently place her on the bed, turning her so she's on her side, in case she throws up and chokes and we don't have a bad time. When I'm sure she's okay, I turn around and see you waiting in the doorway. You obviously want to say something, but my face doesn't give you the opportunity to do so. I walk to the door, and you take a few steps back while I close it behind me, watching you silently for a few seconds. By my count, it's been more than three. Shit.

"Say it again," I say, approaching you. You take a few steps back and hit the wall.

"Say what again?" you murmur, looking up into my eyes. You look so vulnerable from here.

"You know what" I lean closer to your ear, brushing my lips against the thin skin. "That I'm jealous..."

I can feel you swallow and part your lips. "Are you?"

"Am I? Fuck..." I look down at your dress. "How could you wear that and let others look at you?" I look up into your eyes, which are burning with desire. "You know you've been only mine for a long time..."

My hands move to your legs and I begin to slowly raise them, pulling your dress up until it rests at your waist. You're wearing a red lingerie thong, and that drives me even further crazy.

"Who did you wear that for, huh?" My fingers play with the straps of your underwear. "Did you wear that for him... or for me?" I murmur, looking into your eyes.

You let out a light sigh, I've barely touched you and you're already going crazy "For you... always for you..."

That makes me smile and my fingers slowly slide the thong down your legs, and like a good girl you lift each foot for me so I can pull it all the way off.

"You learn quickly, very well." I take the piece of fabric in my hands and look at it. "Hm, just a few words and you're already wet?" I say, feeling the damp fabric between my fingers. "Fuck, I can't wait for my cock to be inside that pussy..."

I bring the fabric up to my nose and sniff it a little. "But... not so fast. I want to taste you first." That makes you let out a small moan, and I bring my index finger to my lips. "No, no, Sophie's on the other side of that door, she can't find out." I look back down at the thong. "Actually... I had a thought." My gaze returns to yours. "Open your mouth." It's more of a command than a request, and without hesitating for a second, you open your mouth. "Good girl..." I gently fold the piece of fabric and place it in your mouth. This makes you roll your eyes. “You like it? You like tasting yourself, hm?" You nod slightly, and I smile. "Good, be quiet, and Daddy will make you feel like you're on cloud nine, okay? Now it's my turn to taste you."

I bend down until my knees touch the floor and open your legs with my hands, giving me better accessibility and visual of your juices soaking your intimate area. I run a finger through your folds, and it makes you twitch, making me laugh. "So responsive, huh?" Your sounds are muffled by the piece of cloth in your mouth, but it's perfectly clear you're losing your mind. "You want my tongue in your pussy, right? In that tight, wet pussy... I'm sure it's so tight you won't even be able to take me all the way in." You move your hips toward me, letting me know you can't take it anymore. "Okay, okay, you're desperate, I get it... don't worry, sweetheart, I'm going to make you feel so good."

With nothing else to say, I sink my tongue into your folds and you let out a strangled cry. I manage to open your legs further and sink my mouth into you, savoring every inch. I pass over your clit and your legs tremble with pleasure. "Have I found your spot, sweetheart?" My mouth begins to work on it. I circle it with my tongue, sucking and applying pressure while holding you with one of my hands so you don't fall. With the other, I decide to move up the inside of your thighs to your pussy and without warning, I insert a finger, this makes you jump and grab onto my hair, sinking me deeper into you.

My finger moves at a fast pace as you throw your head back, if it weren't for the thong in your mouth I swear you'd be screaming right now. You're holding up well so I decide to slide another finger in, curling them inside you and making you cry out in pleasure. "Can you handle another one, sweetheart?" I murmur, looking slightly up. You look down at me and nod eagerly, so I don't wait another second to slide in a third finger. Fuck you're so tight my only thought now is how are you going to handle my cock.

I feel your walls start to clench around my fingers and decide to pick up the pace. "You're doing so good, hold on a little longer for me." I murmur before sinking my mouth back onto your clit, sucking on it vigorously. I run my tongue gently over it and then pull away, standing up while I still working on you with my hand. I continue to hold your hip with the other as I stand and look down at your eyes. "I wanna see your face when I make you cum, hm? Don't take your eyes off me." Your eyes are watery and full of lust, your moans echoing against the fabric of your thong. "Cum for Daddy, sweetheart."

My thumb joins the work, massaging your clit with good pressure and at a fast pace. You try to tilt your head back again, but I grab your hair with my other hand, making you look at me. "Eyes on me," I command as I slide my last finger in with difficulty, your walls tightening more.

Your legs start to shake, and the fabric can't suppress your sounds in any longer. Your eyes roll back into their sockets, and you can't hold it in anymore. You come hard, cumming into my hand, and I can't stop watching as you sob in pleasure. "Good girl..." I murmur as I continue pumping inside you, prolonging your orgasm as much as I can.

I catch you just as you're about to fall, putting an arm around your waist and holding you against me. I withdraw my fingers from inside you, and you let out a complain, making me laugh. I watch them for a moment, then look back at you, removing your thong from your mouth and replace it with my fingers. You close your mouth around and suck on them, tasting your juices. That makes me let out a little moan and i keep looking down at you, letting you take all the leftovers from my fingers.

"Come on, I'm not done with you yet." I take the fingers out of your mouth and grab your legs, throwing you over my shoulder and carrying you downstairs to the kitchen. I place you on the floor and push you towards the counter, making you lean over so your torso is on it. "You have no idea how many times I've pictured you here, bent over for me." I slide my hands over your ass and give it a squeeze, making you let out a little squeal. "Do you want my cock in your little pussy?" my hips come closer to your core, rubbing myself against you, making me moan. You nod quickly and I let out a small sigh. "The cat got your tongue, sweetheart? Words, I want words."

"Yes, please fuck me..." you murmur with your cheek on the counter, looking up at me with little eyes.

"Oh baby, I'm going to fuck you so good you won't even remember your name. I'm going to make you forget every fucking man who's ever been inside you, and your only memories will be of me..." my hands part your legs further, giving me a clear view of your pussy. My hard cock is straining against my pants, aching to be inside of you. I unbutton my pants and pull them and my boxers down to my feet. My cock is already at full strength and ready for action. I grab it with my hand while I continue to grab your ass with the other. Your juices run down your legs and it's the most beautiful scene I've ever seen in my life. "I don't want you to think about anyone else, just me... Who do you belong to, sweetheart?"

I run the tip through your folds and you let out a moan "To you... I belong to you... please..." you beg.

"Only I can fuck you, right?" I say, positioning the tip right at your entrance.

"Yes, only you, you're the only one for me, please Mr. Styles." you beg again and I smile.

"No, no, baby. What did I tell you to call me?" My hand squeezes your ass again and you jump a little.

"Harry... Harry—please," you moan, and I bite my lip at the sound of you. I knew I'd love the moment your lips moaned my name. I might even come just hearing you.

"Good girl… you sound so hot when you moan my name." Without warning, I thrust into you in one swift thrust, and you cry out, tears streaming down your cheeks. I raise my free hand to your mouth, covering it. "Remember Sophie's home... moan into my hand."

I begin to slowly move in and out of you, giving your pussy time to adjust to my length. You're so tight I'm afraid you might break at any moment, but you feel so good... fuck, I didn't even remember what this was like.

I increase the pace as our moans intertwine. The hand I had on your ass moves up inside your dress and I grab your breast, pinching your nipple with my fingers. My hand muffles your moans, and for a moment I don't care if anyone can hear us, so I withdraw it, letting you moan freely.

On top of that, you're the kind who likes to scream…

"You feel so good... so tight, so hot, and so wet, fuck, sweetheart, I could get used to this." I say between moans while I fuck you against the counter.

I move further in, trying to get you to take my full length. You let out another moan and grab onto the counter. "That's it, baby, take all of me, you're doing so well."

I throw my head back as I manage to fit my entire length inside you. I let out a sigh, giving myself a few seconds to compose myself, and then I continue with a measured rhythm.

I start to increase the pace again, my thrusts getting harder and faster, driving you to your edge. Your moans are the most beautiful thing I've ever heard, and I need more. One of my hands is still on your breast, the other gripping you right where I want it. The sound of our bodies colliding can be heard throughout the kitchen, echoing off the walls. If Sophie wakes up now, we're dead.

"We shouldn't do this..." you moan and I laugh a little.

I lean down close to your ear and whisper, "Then ask me to stop." With this I give another harder thrust and you moan louder, gripping the counter tighter "That’s what I thought...”

I start to feel your walls tighten around me again and your moans start to get louder and louder. "You're so loud... too loud. But I like it, I want to hear you scream for me. Tell me how much you like it, sweetheart. Tell me no one has ever made you feel like this."

"No one... you're the only one." Your breathing is ragged, you gasp for air with every thrust I give you.

“That’s it, sweetheart, take my cock in that little pussy of yours.” The hand holding you in place grabs your hair and pulls it back as I increase my pace. I lean in slightly to kiss your neck, while my other hand continues to pinch your nipple.

You cry out in pleasure as I continue to move inside you, your walls squeezing my entire cock. "Are you close?" I whisper in your ear, and you nod slightly. "Then come for me, sweetheart. Soak my cock with your juice."

Your body tenses at my words, and your back arches with pleasure. Your legs tremble, but I manage to grip your hips with both hands to keep you from falling. You remain clutching the counter as you come for the second time, your juices running quickly down your legs, soaking my cock. You let out a loud moan and collapse onto the counter. I continue moving inside you, prolonging your ecstasy a little longer.

"Fuck—" A few seconds later, I notice I'm coming too, and I withdraw my cock from inside your pussy. I grab it with my right hand and pump it for a few more seconds, finally reaching orgasm and cumming on your back. "Damn."

I lean against you, breathing fast, trying to return to normal. I move my hand up to your face and brush back some strands of hair that are covering your eyes. "Are you okay, sweetheart?"

You just laugh, making me smile. Now is when I should feel bad, but quite the opposite. I've felt so fucking good that I want to do it again and again, I want to feel you again.

"Come on, let's see what you can do with your mouth besides scream..." I say, slapping you on the ass and making you stand up. This isn't even close to over yet.

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“Home sweet home”

No Outbreak!Joel x f!Reader

Joel’s Masterlist

Based on this request

Summary: After losing your home, you have no choice but to move in with your college best friend Sarah… and her ridiculously attractive dad, Joel Miller.

He does his best to keep his feelings at bay—until he catches his brother Tommy flirting with you, jealousy ignites something he can’t suppress anymore.

WC: 10k

Warning/Tags: smut, minors DNI, age gap (joel is 40ish, reader is 21), unprotected piv, oral (f!receiving), masturbation, dirty talk, creampie, aftercare, jealous joel, touch starved joel.

The message from your landlord came while you were scrubbing toothpaste out of your bathroom sink.

Building is getting sold. You have 30 days.

You stared at the screen, heart dropping. It wasn’t a prank. You called him in a panic, and he confirmed it—just as casually cruel as you remembered him being the day you signed the lease.

“You’ll get the paperwork this week. Nothing personal, sweetheart. Just business.”

It felt personal, even if it wasn’t. You’d worked your ass off to afford that shitty little studio near campus. And now? With finals looming and no savings to speak of, you were out of options.

Until Sarah Miller—your best friend, together in every class—called you ten minutes later with a plan.

“Move in with me and my dad.”

“Wait, what?”

“We’ve got space. You’ve seen the house. You’ll have your own room. Come on. It’s perfect.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Oh, come on, why not?”

“Did you even ask your dad first?”

“He won’t say no. Trust me.”

It was a nice house. You’d gone over for Thanksgiving last year when you couldn’t afford the plane ticket home. Suburban, warm, homey. The kind of place that smelled like cedar and lemon wood polish and fresh cornbread in the oven.

And Joel? Well. You didn’t know him well. But you remembered that deep Southern drawl and how he always seemed kind of quiet, brooding in a way that made it hard to tell if he hated having guests or just didn’t know what to say to twenty-year-old girls. Still, he’d pulled your chair out at the table, handed you a full plate, and insisted you take leftovers home.

He was the typical tough Texan dad with an arsenal of dad jokes, a garage full of tools, and arms like he’d never stopped working construction a day in his life. He’d raised her alone since she was little. He was protective. Gruff. A good man, by all accounts. But also a man. A very attractive, older man. And you didn’t trust yourself not to notice that.

You’d tried not to think about it too much at Thanksgiving—the way his voice dipped when he asked if you were warm enough, the way his hand brushed your lower back when he passed behind you at the sink.

You move in on a rainy Thursday, just after your last final. Your life packed in four boxes, two garbage bags, a battered backpack.

Sarah came bounding out the front door before you even reached the sidewalk.

“You made it! Jesus, you really packed light,” she said, grabbing the smallest box from your arms.

You shrugged. “Didn’t have much left after storage and panic donations. Thanks again for this, seriously.”

“Please. Dad’s thrilled. I mean, he grumbled at first, but he always grumbles. That’s how you know he cares.”

She carries one box up the porch steps, then kicks the door open like she owns the place. “Dad? You home?”

Joel appears in the hallway wearing a fitted Henley and jeans that fit too well for a man pushing fifty. His beard was speckled with gray, and the laugh lines around his eyes only made his scowl somehow more handsome. His sleeves are rolled up, dust on his hands like he’s been fixing something. He wipes them on a rag tucked into his back pocket and gives you a once-over, expression unreadable.

There’s a moment where time slows—not because anything dramatic happens, but because something in your chest clenches, tight and hot, when his eyes meet yours.

His gaze lingered on you for a second—just long enough to make your heart do something entirely inappropriate—and then he nodded.

“Thank you for letting me stay, Mr. Miller. I’m terribly sorry for the inconvenience, I’ll try my best not to disturb your routine.”

Joel, in his Texas attitude: “Ain’t no trouble at all, darlin’. Stay as long as you’d like.”

“It won’t be much, I promise. Just until I can get back on my feet and find a place.”

Joel nods. “No rush, darlin’. Got plenty of room here.” He glances at the boxes in your arms. “That all you got?”

You nod. “Uh-huh.”

“Alright. Sarah, show her the guest room. I’ll heat up some chili.”

You blink. “You don’t have to—”

He’s already walking toward the kitchen. “’Course I do. Can’t have y’all movin’ boxes on an empty stomach.”

Sarah grins at you like told you so and starts up the stairs.

The guest room is bigger than your entire studio apartment. Wood floors, clean sheets, a window seat overlooking the yard. It smells like cedar and laundry detergent and a hint of tobacco smoke that clings to Joel like an afterthought. A stack of neatly folded towels waits at the foot of the bed. It’s not fancy—but it feels intentional. Like someone actually cared about making the space comfortable.

You shower, change into soft cotton shorts and a shirt, and pad downstairs, still a little unsure of your place in all this.

Joel’s in the kitchen, ladling chili into bowls, his flannel sleeves rolled again to the elbows. His forearms are dusted with dark hair, corded with strength, and you swallow hard before looking away.

He moves like he’s always half-ready to lift something heavy, the quiet confidence of a man who’s used to being relied on. You wonder what his hands would feel like—not on you, not like that, just… in your hair. On your back. Tucking a blanket around your shoulders.

He doesn’t say much over dinner. Just listens while Sarah fills the silence, talking about professors and internships and how excited she is that you’re staying. He asks you a few questions, soft and low: how your finals went, if you need help finding work over the summer, whether you prefer coffee or tea in the morning.

Simple things. Domestic things.

But every time he speaks directly to you, your skin gets hot. It’s not what he says—it’s how. That quiet, steady drawl. The way he looks at you when you answer, really looks, like your words matter. Like you matter.

And it still makes something flutter low in your stomach, the way his eyes linger on you just a second too long when you talk.

You wonder if he notices the way you sit a little straighter when he enters the room. If he sees the way you steal glances at him when you think no one’s looking.

What you don’t know is—he does.

You settled in quickly. Joel wasn’t a talker—at least not in the mornings—but he wasn’t cold either. He made good coffee, offered rides if your class schedule lined up, and grunted his approval when you loaded the dishwasher “the right way.”

He moved around the kitchen in a way that was easy to fall into rhythm with. No unnecessary chatter, just the rustle of the newspaper, the soft clink of ceramic mugs, the smell of fresh coffee and toast. It was domestic in a way that caught you off guard—familiar, intimate, comforting.

You’d only been there three weeks, and already it felt like home. Which was dangerous. Because you were starting to look forward to seeing him more than you should.

It started small—the sound of his boots in the hallway, the low hum of him talking to himself as he worked in the garage, the way his T-shirts stretched over broad shoulders that definitely didn’t belong to a man his age. A glance too long. A laugh too soft. The way your stomach fluttered when Joel passed behind you at the kitchen counter and his hand brushed the small of your back—not even meaning to.

You’d feel the warmth of that touch long after it happened, seeping into your skin like heat from the sun. And even though you told yourself not to overthink it, that it didn’t mean anything, your body reacted all the same—tense, aware, expectant.

He was always polite. Courteous. A little gruff, sure, but that just made the softness underneath hit harder. You’d hear him in the mornings, humming low and tuneless while making coffee. You caught him once, reading a paperback novel on the porch, dog-eared and sun-bleached, his thumb absently rubbing the edge of the page. You wanted to sit down next to him. You didn’t.

He looked peaceful like that—legs stretched out, glasses slipping a little down his nose, the kind of man who lived in his own silence like it was armor. You hovered in the doorway too long that day, wondering what would happen if you broke it.

Joel wasn’t nosy.

Not in the way some folks were, at least. He minded his own damn business, kept to himself, didn’t ask questions unless he needed to. But lately—ever since you moved in—it was like the house had changed its shape.

It was the little things.

The way your laughter lilted through the hallways when Sarah showed you some dumb video. The smell of your shampoo curling out from the bathroom door in warm, steamy waves. Your shoes kicked off at the front door—small, scuffed, feminine—and your toothbrush next to his in the cup like it belonged there.

You weren’t doing anything inappropriate. You were polite, helpful, respectful. You always said thank you, always rinsed your dishes before putting them in the washer, always asked him how his day was. Hell, Sarah had brought home other friends before—ones who left dishes in the sink and hair in the drain. He hadn’t batted an eye.

But you?

You looked at him like he was something else entirely.

You didn’t mean to, he could tell. You didn’t flirt. You didn’t push boundaries. But sometimes, when you thought he wasn’t looking, your eyes lingered. Slid over his shoulders when he stretched his arms above his head. Dipped down to his hands when he was working in the yard. Stuck on his mouth when he took a sip of his beer after dinner.

And Joel noticed. God help him, he noticed.

But he didn’t do a damn thing.

Not even when you laughed at something Sarah said and threw your head back, that golden line of your throat catching the light. Not even when you wore those little cotton shorts that barely qualified as sleepwear, and brushed past him like you didn’t know what you were doing. Maybe you didn’t. Maybe you did.

He saw things. Not always directly, but enough to piece together the truth.

Like the way your eyes lingered when he handed you a plate, or how your voice got quieter when he came into the room. He’d catch your gaze in the reflection of the kitchen window, see the way you looked at him when you thought he wasn’t paying attention—not like a girl looking at her best friend’s dad, but like a woman looking at a man.

He tried not to think about it too much. It wasn’t right. Too many years, too many lines he shouldn’t cross. But Joel was still a man. And some things were hard to ignore.

He was older. Wiser. Should’ve been above even thinking about it. He didn’t entertain things that didn’t have roots. And this? This thing that simmered silently between you? It didn’t have roots. It was delicate, new, fleeting. Probably one-sided. Just a girl feeling grateful and safe under a roof that wasn’t falling apart.

Still.

He noticed.

Especially when he went out to hang laundry in the sun one Saturday, and there—damn near dead center of the clothesline—was a little scrap of fabric that stopped him cold.

Pink. Lacy. Your thong.

It swayed gently in the breeze like a whisper, like a secret only he was meant to see. The kind of thing no man in his position should be looking at—but God, it was hard not to. He felt the heat rise behind his ears, that deep, low ache settling behind his ribs like a warning bell.

He swallowed hard and looked away.

But not before he saw the way it fluttered lightly in the breeze, a tiny, taunting flag of temptation in the middle of his goddamn backyard.

He didn’t touch it. Didn’t move it. Just hung his own clean shirt a few pegs down and muttered to himself.

“Not your business, Miller.”

He knew he was in trouble when he couldn’t stop picturing it—you—folding those same little things in the laundry room, humming softly to yourself, maybe biting your lip while you read a text. Oblivious to the way you bent at the waist, the way your hair fell over your face, the way his eyes always found you no matter what room you were in.

He didn’t mean to stare. Didn’t want to.

But goddammit.

You were young. Smart. Kind. The kind of girl who brought home little bags of groceries without being asked, who laughed at his dumb jokes and called him “Mr. Miller” even though he told you not to. The kind of girl who still had the whole world ahead of her.

And Joel?

Joel was just a man trying to keep his eyes to himself.

Trying.

Trying not to picture things he had no right picturing. Not to wonder what you’d do if he ever reached out, just once, and touched your waist again on purpose. Not to imagine the taste of your laugh on his mouth or the feel of your thighs in his hands. But it was getting harder. Every day, it got harder.

One night, Sarah had gone out to the movies with some childhood friends — you decided to stay home. The house had grown still as you padded into the kitchen, wearing a pair of shorts so small they should have been illegal, and an oversized shirt.

He was nursing a beer at the table.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked, voice low.

You nodded, opening the fridge. “Too quiet.”

He watched you pull out a water bottle, the fridge light glowing against your skin. He tried not to let his eyes drift, but they did—bare legs, the edge of that damn thong visible beneath your waistband, like it was teasing him.

You caught him looking—but only for a second.

Neither of you said a word about it.

But the air felt thick. Too heavy for casual silence.

He cleared his throat. “That shirt’s a little big on you.”

You looked down, smiling faintly. “Didn’t have any clean ones left.”

There was a lull, quieter now. Comfortable, almost. Then he asked, “Sarah… she seein’ anybody?”

You blinked. “Like dating?”

He shrugged. “Just wonderin’. She doesn’t tell me much these days. Figured you’d know.”

You shook your head, setting your water down. “Not seriously, no. Some guy in one of her econ classes was trying to flirt with her, but she said he chewed with his mouth open and that was a dealbreaker.”

Joel snorted. “Good girl.”

You smiled. “Girl knows her worth.”

He nodded, eyes still fixed on the label of his beer bottle, turning it slowly between his fingers. “You got anybody back at school?”

The question landed softer than it should’ve. You watched him carefully, the way his shoulders stayed loose, but his voice had dropped just enough to make your heart beat a little faster.

You shook your head. “No one worth talking about.”

Joel looked up at you. Held your gaze.

“No one good enough?” he asked.

You shrugged. “They’re… I don’t know. Loud. Kind of cocky. They talk a big game and can barely hold a conversation. Or your attention.”

His jaw shifted like he was biting back a thought. “Boys your age are idiots,” he said finally. “They don’t know how to treat a woman right. Not yet.”

You let out a soft laugh. “That sounds like personal experience.”

His eyes flicked back to yours, steady, unreadable. “Somethin’ like that.”

The silence settled again—thicker now. Not awkward. Not quite.

You leaned against the counter, sipping your water, eyes flicking to his, soft and a little unsure.

“I’m not bothering you being here, am I, Mr. Miller?” you asked suddenly.

His brow furrowed. “Joel, please. And no, course not. Why would you think that?”

You shrugged, looking down. “You’ve been kinda… quiet lately.”

He hesitated.

Tell her the truth, or don’t?

That the silence was the only thing keeping him from saying something he shouldn’t. That he didn’t trust the way his voice might sound if he told you how pretty you looked when you were tired. That if he let himself talk too much, he might never stop.

“I’m just tired,” he said instead, and the lie sat heavy in the space between you.

You nodded slowly, but your expression didn’t quite believe him.

Joel watched you disappear back down the hallway, and when he heard your bedroom door click shut, he let out a long, quiet breath.

This was a bad idea.

All of it.

Letting you stay. Letting himself look. Letting himself feel. He’d kept his head down for years—just work, just routine, just doing right by Sarah. But now? Now, every second you were in the house chipped away at his resolve.

But when he closed his eyes, all he could see was pink lace swaying in the sun.

The spare room was cozy in a mismatched, homey way. The walls were painted a soft blue, the bedspread faded but clean, and an old acoustic guitar leaned in the corner like it had stories of its own. You were sitting cross-legged on the bed, while Sarah sprawled out in the doorway with a soda and a bag of chips, already halfway through her second story about her high school boyfriend getting chased off by Joel.

“I swear to God,” she said between crunches, “Dad answered the door holding a wrench. Like, deliberately. Just stood there cleaning it like he was in a mob movie. And Dustin? Gone. Out the driveway, full sprint. Never texted me again.”

You snorted. “Honestly, good for him. Sounds like your dad was just doing the Lord’s work.”

“Please. He was so dramatic. He didn’t even like Dustin. Said he looked like a ‘wet Q-tip with a bad attitude.’”

You laughed so hard you nearly choked.

Sarah grinned, then tilted her head, studying you. “I can’t believe you’re actually living here. Like, in my house. This is so weird.”

“Is it?”

“Kinda. You’re like, my person. And now you’re crashing with me and my dad. It’s like a weird sitcom. ‘Two girls, one grumpy Texan dad, chili every night.’”

You grinned, tossing a pair of socks into a drawer. “He’s not that grumpy.”

“Give it a week,” she said. “You haven’t seen him in lawn mode. Or ‘someone parked wrong in the street’ mode.”

“Still,” you said, casually — way too casually — “your dad’s kind of… hot.”

Sarah choked mid-sip and immediately started coughing.

You froze. Then winced. “…Oh my God.”

She held up a hand, wheezing and sputtering. “What. Did you just say?”

You covered your face with both hands. “Forget it. Forget I said anything. I—God, that slipped out. Jesus.”

She stared at you, open-mouthed, like you’d just confessed to a war crime.

“You think my dad is hot?”

You peeked at her through your fingers. “I said kind of!”

“That’s not better!”

You flopped back on the bed, groaning into the comforter. “I didn’t mean to say it out loud.”

“You meant it, though,” she accused, pointing the neck of her soda bottle at you. “That was some ‘I’ve-thought-about-this-in-the-shower’ kind of confession.”

You dragged a pillow over your face. “He’s just… rugged, okay? That whole strong, quiet, Southern thing? It’s a thing.”

“I really didnt want to know that you wanted to bang my dad!”

“I didn’t say I wanted to—”

“You didn’t not say it!”

You bit your lip to keep from laughing. “I’m just saying. The flannel. The beard. The arms. Your dad’s hot. Objectively.”

She blinked at you. “You cannot say that to me.”

You covered your face with both hands, half-laughing, half-dying inside. “I’m sorry. It just slipped out. Like verbal diarrhea.”

Sarah threw a pillow at you, but she was laughing now, loud and open-mouthed.

“You can’t say things like that while living under his roof!”

“I won’t!” you insisted. “It’s just between us. Totally harmless. I’ll keep it locked away.”

Sarah rolled her eyes. “You better. One slip and I’m kicking your ass out so fast your socks’ll still be inside.”

Saturdays were for repairs.

Joel had the garage door rolled halfway up, sunlight slanting in dusty golden lines across the concrete, sawdust clinging to the curl of his beard, oil on his jeans, and a socket wrench in his hand. His old Ford truck sat like a patient in surgery, hood propped open, the guts of the engine laid bare.

He didn’t hear the approaching footsteps until—

“Damn, big brother. Thought I’d find you inside, makin’ breakfast for your little college girl.”

Joel grunted and turned just enough to see Tommy leaning against the frame of the garage, arms crossed, sunglasses pushed up into that ever-confident smirk.

“Don’t start,” Joel muttered.

“Oh, I’m startin’,” Tommy said, pushing off the frame and strolling in. His boots scuffed the floor like he owned it, like he always did. “Sarah told me. Said you got some cute little roommate now. Friend from school. Needed a place to stay. All innocent and temporary-like.”

Joel wiped his hands on a rag, knuckles scraped raw, jaw tight.

“She’s Sarah’s friend. That’s it.”

Tommy raised an eyebrow. “Uh-huh.”

Joel shot him a look—sharp enough to cut, the kind that used to end bar fights before they began.

Tommy held up his hands in mock surrender, laughing. “Hey now, I ain’t judgin’.If I were you, I’d be prayin’ to God she accidentally walked in on me in the shower.”

Joel exhaled hard through his nose, tossing the rag aside. A muscle in his jaw ticked. “She’s twenty, Tommy. I’m not prayin’ for anythin’.”

“Bullshit,” Tommy said, circling the truck and leaning close. His voice dropped, grin turning wolfish. “You think I don’t know that look? That tight-shouldered, jaw-clenched, eyes-averted ‘I’m definitely not starin’ at her tits’ look?”

Joel didn’t answer. Just picked up another wrench and bent back under the hood.

“Man, this is perfect. This is like every guy’s fantasy—having a sweet little thing livin’ under your roof.”

“Shut the hell up,” he muttered.

Tommy slapped his back. “C’mon. You’re not dead, man.”

Joel shot him a flat look. Deadpan, dangerous. “I ain’t touchin’ that, alright? She’s a goddamn kid. And a good one.”

“You do you, man. But let me know if Sarah has more college friends lookin’ for a place to stay. Got plenty of empty space in my bed.”

Joel gave him a warning glare that could’ve curdled milk. A low, guttural sound barely restrained in his throat.

Tommy held up both hands, grinning. “Can’t blame a guy for tryin’.”

That night Joel’d waited until he heard your door close. Waited until the house settled again. He stayed up late on purpose—he always did when the thoughts got bad. Tried to wear himself out with TV and whiskey and reruns of shows he wasn’t even watching.

But it didn’t help.

Not tonight.

His bedroom was dim, just moonlight through the blinds striping the bed in pale, prison-bar lines. He lay there in just his boxers, one arm behind his head, the other resting on his stomach.

He hadn’t touched himself in months. Maybe longer. Not seriously. Not like this.

He closed his eyes.

Usually he thought of nothing. Just the feeling. Just friction. Just need.

But tonight…

Tonight, without warning, he pictured you.

You—laughing in the kitchen, sleeves pushed up, water dripping off your wrists as you scrubbed a plate. You—bent over the dryer in those little shorts, stretching on your toes to reach the fabric softener. You—curled up on the couch in his flannel, bare thighs and sleepy eyes, so soft and unaware.

Joel’s breath hitched.

No.

He shouldn’t.

He shifted on the mattress, hand dragging lower—slow, hesitant, full of guilt. His palm pressed flat over the growing heat beneath his waistband, and he exhaled like it hurt. Because in some ways, it did.

This wasn’t a fantasy. Not really.

It was memory.

Real moments. Real sounds. The way you said his name when you asked for help reaching the tall shelves. The innocent way you’d smiled that first night when he offered you coffee and your fingers brushed his.

You weren’t trying to tempt him. You weren’t doing anything wrong.

And still—God help him—he was getting hard thinking about you.

He grunted softly, frustrated, but his hand was already slipping beneath the waistband of his boxers, fingers curling around his cock with a low, guttural sound he couldn’t bite back. Hard and heavy in his fist, the heat of it made him wince, like it shamed him to want this badly.

Eyes screwed shut, he tried to keep it vague—faceless, nameless. Just friction. Just relief. But his mind betrayed him.

He saw the way your panties peeked above your waistband when you bent over. The damp outline they sometimes left on your shorts. The little, unconscious noise you’d made that day you tripped and he caught you—his hands curling too tight around your waist, the soft give of your body against his. How your breath hitched when you looked up at him, close enough to kiss.

He was already too far gone.

He bit down hard on the inside of his cheek, groaning under his breath as his hand stroked again—long, slow, dragging his palm over the tip where precum slicked his skin. Not rough. Not fast. Just aching. Like he was trying to hold on to something he had no right to want. Like he wanted it to hurt a little.

Goddamn, he could almost hear it—your voice breaking as you moaned his name, breathy and begging. Could feel your thighs squeezing around him, back arching beneath him, nails raking down his shoulders. Your pussy clenching around him so tight he couldn’t breathe.

His fist moved faster now, hips flexing up into it, lost in it, drowning in the image of your face beneath him, mouth open, eyes glazed, whispering please, please, Joel

Don’t do this. Don’t think about her like that.

But he couldn’t stop.

Because when was the last time someone touched him? When was the last time someone looked at him the way you did, like he was more than a tired man with a worn-down heart and calloused hands?

He couldn’t stop thinking about your hand instead of his—smaller, softer, fingers wrapping around him with purpose. Curious, hungry. The way you’d look up at him while you did it, those eyes wide and dark, lips parted, so goddamn pretty.

But then his mind wandered lower, your mouth around him, soft and wet and warm, the plush slide of your lips over the tip. He imagined you licking up the precum first, sweet and teasing, just to watch him squirm. He imagined the sound you’d make when he hit the back of your throat, your fingers digging into his thighs as he groaned for you.

His hips lifted without him meaning to. The sheets bunched under his thighs, breath growing louder, faster, the pressure building.

And then—

From the hallway—a creak.

Joel froze. His pulse slammed in his throat. He held his breath.

Nothing followed. Just the house settling. Just pipes groaning. Just his own heartbeat, pounding loud in his ears.

He let go of himself, panting, hand still slick and shaking.

He hadn’t even finished.

But it felt like a confession anyway.

He rolled onto his side, ashamed and aching, like his skin didn’t quite fit right anymore. Jaw clenched so tight it hurt.

You deserved better than this. Better than a man who couldn’t stop thinking about you in the dark.

But Joel didn’t sleep that night.

Because now he’d let the thought in.

And it wasn’t going anywhere.

The backyard smelled like mesquite smoke and beer. Laughter floated up with the dusk, low and warm, curling into the branches of the old oak tree Joel had been meaning to trim.

The kind of laugh that hummed through the air like music, folding into the rustle of leaves overhead, the slow creak of porch steps under shifting weight. The sun had just dipped below the horizon, leaving behind a smear of gold and lavender in the sky, and the scent of meat on the grill mixed with citronella and cut grass.

It was one of those rare Texas evenings that made you forget the heat ever existed. The kind where neighbors came out of hiding, kids darted between legs, and old men leaned against porch railings, sipping cheap whiskey like it was the good stuff.

Joel had dragged out the grill, lit the citronella candles, and let Sarah handle the music. He wasn’t a party guy—but he’d hosted enough barbecues over the years to make it seem like second nature. Burgers. Beer. Music.

You were sitting near the edge of the porch in one of those fold-up chairs with the mesh cupholders, cradling a drink and laughing at something Sarah said.

The porch light hit your shoulders just right, casting a soft glow over your skin, catching the glint of your earrings as you tipped your head back to laugh. One foot tucked under your knee, the other tapping gently to the beat of the old country song Sarah had queued up.

And you looked good.

Too good. It hit him like a sucker punch every time he let his eyes linger too long. The way your hair was twisted up off your neck, leaving your throat bare. The delicate dip of your collarbone. The curve of your lips wrapped around the rim of your beer bottle, glossy and a little smudged. You didn’t look like you belonged on his porch—you looked like you belonged in a dream.

Joel had noticed the minute you walked out of the house, dress catching the breeze and clinging in the right places. Your legs crossed and bare, that little tilt of your head when you listened too closely.

You wore that white dress like it had been made for you. Thin straps. Tied at the waist. Flowing just enough to look innocent, but short enough to make his thoughts stray. Your skin was sun-kissed from the last weekend trip with Sarah, and Joel’s eyes kept betraying him—dragging down your thighs, your knees, the hem that danced along your mid-thigh every time the wind kicked up.

Then Tommy showed up.

Joel clocked the change immediately. Tommy didn’t even hide it. The way his smile lit up when he saw you, the way he pulled up a chair right next to yours without asking, cracking a fresh beer like he belonged there.

The bastard didn’t even pause. Just waltzed in like he’d been invited to flirt. Elbows out, grin wide, voice pitched just loud enough to draw you in. Joel saw the way you smiled back, polite, curious. The way you angled your body, legs still crossed but turned just enough to make room for Tommy. It lit a fire low in his chest. One he didn’t want to name.

Joel tried to ignore it.

He manned the grill like he was supposed to. Kept his head down. Tended to the burgers and ribs, tongs in hand, beer sweating beside him.

But every time he glanced up—

There was Tommy. Leaning close. Laughing louder. His knee brushing yours, his arm slung casually behind your chair. He was telling a story, waving his hands for emphasis, and you were looking at him like he was interesting. Like he was funny.

You were in that white dress with the tie at the waist—pretty, light, a little too short. Your hair was up. You were holding a beer bottle like you didn’t know what to do with it.

And Tommy was eating it up.

Soaking in your laugh like sunlight, leaning in every time you shifted, letting his knee stay pressed to yours like it was nothing. Like he could.

Joel’s jaw was grinding so tight he could feel it in his molars. He wasn’t your boyfriend. You were Sarah’s friend. A guest in his home. A girl in her twenties.

He had no claim on you.

But watching Tommy try to take his place? Watching his younger brother flash that same damn smile he used in high school to steal Joel’s crushes?

He stabbed the burger too hard, juice hissing into the flames. The smoke rose too fast, stinging his eyes. Or maybe that was the heat building behind them. Either way, he didn’t look up again until he heard you laugh. That sound again. Soft and sharp all at once. Right into Tommy’s chest.

“Easy there, cowboy,” Bill, his neighbor, muttered from beside him, nursing a beer. “Grill didn’t cheat on you.”

Joel didn’t respond.

Didn’t trust himself to speak. Could feel the words backing up in his throat like fire behind a dam. He swallowed them with a long pull of beer, jaw clenched so hard it hurt.

He couldn’t stop watching Tommy.

The way he smiled like it cost him nothing. Like there wasn’t a line between charm and audacity. Joel had always drawn that line. Tommy had never cared where it was.

His younger, easier, unmarried brother. Tan from too much sun. Smiling like he didn’t know the weight of anything. Carefree in a way Joel had never been—not even when he was Tommy’s age. Throwing out compliments like they cost him nothing, like you weren’t standing in Joel’s backyard with Joel’s beer in your hand, wearing that dress that already had his goddamn head spinning.

“You ever model before?” Tommy asked you, loud enough that Joel caught it even over the sizzle of meat on the grill. “Swear I’ve seen you in a magazine or somethin’.”

You laughed, ducked your head. “You’re ridiculous.”

That sound—your laugh—it landed like a punch to Joel’s ribs. Not because it was loud. Because it was real. Because it wasn’t the laugh you gave Joel when he muttered something dry and self-deprecating.

Joel didn’t realize how hard he was gripping the tongs until Bill nudged him again.

“Jesus, Joel. You’re gonna bend steel.”

He eased his fingers off the metal with effort, joints tight, jaw tighter. Didn’t like the way Tommy was looking at you. Didn’t like the way you were looking back.

And what scared him most—what twisted sharp in his gut—was how much he wanted to interrupt.

To go over there and say something. Anything. Put a hand on your hip. Call you sweetheart. Wrap an arm around you just to remind his brother that this wasn’t some neighborhood barbecue with a bunch of single girls. This was his house. And you were—

He didn’t even let the thought finish.

“…So I told the guy,” Tommy was saying, beer in hand, leaning one forearm on the porch post like he was settling in for the long haul, “if you’re gonna lie about catchin’ the fish, at least make it sound like you were in the same state. Ain’t nobody pulling a hundred-pound catfish outta Lake Travis.”

You laughed again—and Joel felt that one down to his goddamn bones.

“You’re full of it,” you said, grinning like Tommy was the funniest man you’d ever met.

“Nah,” Tommy shot back, flashing that boyish smile, the one Joel used to see melt girls in high school. “I’m full of charm. You’re just not used to Texas boys with real stories.”

“I don’t think you qualify as a boy anymore.”

“Oh?” His brows lifted. “But I qualify for something, right?”

Joel’s grip on the tongs tightened again. He wasn’t even looking at the grill anymore. Just standing there, motionless, trying not to glare at the way Tommy had turned a little more toward you—his body angled in that cocky stance, like he thought he was already winning you over. Like Joel wasn’t three feet away, feeling like his whole body was coiled with something ugly and hot.

He cleared his throat. Loudly.

Tommy glanced his way, casual as hell. “You good over there, big brother? Smoke ain’t gettin’ to your eyes, is it?”

Joel muttered, “Fine,” and flipped a burger that wasn’t ready.

You turned to Joel with a soft smile. “Smells amazing, by the way.”

He nodded, short. “Thanks.”

Just that. Two syllables. Because anything more and he was gonna say something he shouldn’t.

But Tommy didn’t let up.

“So, you ever go dancin’?” he asked, voice lower now, the kind of tone meant for secrets and flirtation. “You strike me as the kind that likes to lead.”

You raised a brow. “That a bad thing?”

“Oh, not at all,” Tommy said, leaning in like the rest of the world didn’t exist. “I like a girl who knows what she wants.”

Joel snapped the grill lid shut with enough force to rattle the tongs, then turned, voice sharp:

“Burgers’re done.”

Tommy didn’t flinch. Just grinned and tossed a wink your way. “See? The man’s got timin’.”

You took a step toward the food table, brushing past Joel with a polite “thank you,” your fingers grazing his—just a blink of contact, but it seared straight through him like a live wire.

Tommy stayed glued to your side as you both stepped away from the grill.

“So,” he said, tilting his beer toward you, “you been livin’ with my big brother long?”

Joel pretended not to listen. But his ears were trained on every word.

“A couple months,” you said, lifting your burger. “Sarah let me crash at her place when my lease got pulled.”

Tommy let out a low whistle. “Damn. Brave girl. Didn’t think Joel was good company for anyone under fifty.”

Joel turned slowly, voice dry. “Still right here.”

Tommy smirked, undeterred. “Relax, brother. I’m just saying—she deserves a little fun. I mean, you lettin’ her go out? See the town? Or you keepin’ her locked up like a princess in a tower?”

You laughed. And Joel could practically feel the heat climbing his neck.

“I go out,” you said, eyes bright, lips curved. “I just haven’t had a tour around the city yet.”

Tommy stepped in closer. “Well, lucky you. I’m available.”

Joel’s hand tightened around his beer bottle until the glass creaked. He took a long, slow sip, hoping the cold would cool the fire behind his ribs.

“Tommy,” he said at last, voice low and controlled, “you ever think of not flirtin’ with every woman who makes eye contact?”

You flushed—not embarrassed. Flattered. And Joel saw it. In the curve of your smile. The flicker of lashes. The little spark you didn’t even try to hide.

He was going to lose it.

Tommy leaned in one last time, voice dropping to a low hum, like a fucking dare:

“If you ever get tired of hangin’ around grumpy old men, sweetheart, you let me know. I’ll take real good care of you.”

Joel didn’t let you answer.

“Tommy,” he barked, “go grab more ice. Cooler’s low.”

Tommy blinked, then looked at Joel—and just for a second, the cocky routine slipped. That grin turned sharp. Knowing. Like he’d seen right through him.

He clapped Joel on the shoulder. “Sure thing, big brother.”

Joel watched him walk off, shoulders tense, pulse drumming, until he heard your voice beside him.

“You alright?” you asked, soft.

Joel exhaled through his nose. No. Not even a little.

But all he said was, “You hungry or what?”

You lifted your plate. “Starving.”

He nodded once, his eyes flicking down to the hem of your dress, the curve of your hip. Your hand resting there like it belonged. Like it wouldn’t kill him to touch it.

“Eat up,” he muttered. “Party’s just getting started.”

But in his head, Joel was already ending it. Because if he had to hear Tommy call you sweetheart one more time, he was gonna do something real stupid.

He found Tommy in the kitchen, dumping ice from the freezer into the cooler.

“The hell are you doin’?” Joel asked, voice already rough.

Tommy laughed. “Jesus, Joel. You’re wound tighter than barbed wire. You scared I’m gonna take her off your hands?”

Joel stepped in, slow. Controlled. Dangerous.

“I’m tellin’ you,” he said quietly, “cut it out.”

Tommy raised both hands. “Why? She’s grown. If she’s not interested, she can tell me herself.”

“That ain’t the point.”

Tommy leaned on the counter, smirking. “Jesus, Joel. She ain’t yours.”

Joel’s jaw clenched. “I didn’t say she was.”

“But you sure act like it.”

Silence. Long. Heavy. Joel looked past him, to the dark yard, like he could find calm in the quiet.

“You don’t know what you’re doin’. She ain’t—”

“Ain’t what? Old enough? Legal?” Tommy scoffed. “She’s grown, Joel. More than capable of flirtin’ back, far as I can tell.”

“She ain’t some girl for you to mess around with.”

Tommy narrowed his eyes. “But she’s okay for you, right? That what this is?”

Joel’s fists were clenched so tight now it hurt. Shoulders drawn up. Holding back everything.

“You’re losin’ your goddamn mind,” Tommy said softly. “And for what? You ain’t gonna touch her. You’d never let yourself. So why’re you actin’ like she’s yours?”

Joel turned away, dragging a hand down his face.

“She don’t want you.”

Tommy smirked. “Yeah? And what makes you so sure?”

Joel looked up, dead cold. “’Cause if she did, you wouldn’t be standin’ here right now.”

Tommy’s brows lifted. But his voice was calmer now.

“Look, I was just talkin’. She’s sweet. Pretty. Grown. Not seein’ anyone. What’s the harm?”

“The harm,” Joel hissed, “is that she’s Sarah’s friend. She’s stayin’ under my roof. And you’re out there talkin’ to her like she’s some bar girl you’re tryin’ to take home for the night.”

Tommy tilted his head. “She didn’t seem to mind.”

Joel’s hands curled into fists again. And that’s when Tommy saw it. Saw the heat under the surface. The tension. The want.

“…Shit,” he said slowly. “You like her.”

Joel didn’t answer.

Tommy laughed, low and stunned. “Damn. Joel.”

“Don’t start,” Joel warned, voice gravel.

“She’s young.”

“I know.”

“She’s Sarah’s age.”

“I know.”

“And she’s livin’ with you—”

“I ain’t doin’ anything.”

Tommy’s voice dropped. “But you want to.”

That silence was louder than anything.

Tommy let out a soft whistle. “Jesus Christ.”

Joel’s hands were shaking.

“It ain’t like that,” he said, but even he didn’t believe it.

“You sure?” Tommy asked. “’Cause the way you were lookin’ tonight? If I’d put a hand on her leg, I think you would’ve taken my head off.”

Joel’s jaw worked.

“Don’t.”

Tommy held up a hand. “Alright. I get it. You got your reasons. But if you don’t want anyone sniffin’ around her, Joel, you better figure out what the hell you’re doin’. ‘Cause she’s not gonna sit in your house forever waitin’ for you to stop starin’ and say somethin’.”

Joel said nothing. Just stood there, heart hammering, blood pounding behind his ribs.

Tommy’s voice softened as he turned toward the door.

“…She looked at you, too, you know.”

Joel’s head snapped up.

Tommy shrugged. “When she thought you weren’t lookin’. Girl’s not blind. And you sure as hell aren’t either.”

He walked out, whistling again, low and tuneless.

Joel stayed in the kitchen, fists still clenched, the sound of your laugh still echoing in his ears.

And he knew then—if he didn’t act soon, someone else would.

The last guest had left an hour ago.

The grill was cold, the lights on the back porch dimmed. The backyard—once buzzing with laughter and clinking bottles—was quiet now, save for the low chirp of cicadas and the hum of a box fan in the window.

Sarah had fallen asleep hours ago, tucked under her comforter with one of those tween magazines half-open on her chest.

But sleep didn’t come easy for you—not after the way the night had unraveled.

Not after the way Joel had watched you all evening like you were something he couldn’t touch—but wanted to. Badly.

You padded downstairs barefoot, drawn by the low glow seeping from the lounge and the sound of the TV murmuring softly. The wooden floor creaked under your feet as you turned the corner.

Joel was there.

Sitting on the couch, one arm slung along the backrest, half a beer still in his hand. The light from the TV flickered across his face, painting his features in silver and shadow. He looked tired—but not in a way that meant sleep. More like he was carrying the kind of weight sleep couldn’t shake loose.

He noticed you right away, his eyes flicking toward you and holding there.

“Can’t sleep?” he asked, voice low and rough.

You shook your head. “Too much in my head.”

He nodded, slow, like he understood exactly what you meant.

Joel reached down to the small cooler next to the couch, cracked it open, and pulled out another beer. He held it up to you.

You hesitated.

Then crossed the room and took it from his hand.

“Thanks,” you said, sinking into the opposite end of the couch. The beer was cold against your palm. “You okay?”

Joel’s jaw flexed. “Fine.”

“You don’t seem fine.”

He finally looked at you—and it hit him like a punch to the chest, how close you were. How pretty you looked in that damn dress. How warm your eyes were when they looked only at him.

“I’m just tired,” he said. But it came out too clipped, too tight.

His voice came quiet, a little rough. “Tommy’s just a flirt. He don’t mean half of what he says.”

You raised an eyebrow, taking a slow sip of your beer. “Huh. That sounded an awful lot like jealousy.”

Joel gave a short breath of a laugh—no humor in it. “Ain’t jealous.”

“You sure?” you teased. “’Cause you looked like you wanted to put him through the grill when he offered to show me his motorcycle.”

Joel’s gaze snapped to yours. “That bike’s a piece of shit.”

You smirked. “You didn’t say that earlier.”

“Didn’t feel like gettin’ into it.”

You tilted your head. “But you were mad?”

“No,” Joel muttered, voice low. “Not mad.”

You hesitated. “At me?”

His eyes met yours—dark, unreadable, like storm clouds heavy with something about to break.

“No,” he said. “Not at you.”

But the way he said it—low, rough, like gravel under bare feet—made your heart stutter.

You stepped closer.

“You didn’t like Tommy flirting with me.”

Joel’s eyes flicked to yours. He didn’t answer.

You didn’t push, not really—but you stood your ground. “You could’ve said something.”

He shook his head. “Didn’t have a right to.”

Your voice was quiet. “Do you want one?”

The silence stretched.

Joel didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t blink.

And you could feel the way the air between you changed—thickened, weighted, humming. Like the moment you speak too loud in a chapel. Like the moment before lightning splits the sky.

Then—

“You shouldn’t let Tommy flirt with you.”

That surprised you. “Why not?”

He looked at you now, really looked. Eyes dark and steady. “…Because he doesn’t know what to do with someone like you.”

The air stilled.

You couldn’t breathe for a second.

You licked your lips, your voice barely above a whisper. “And you do?”

Joel looked away. Tense. Like he was angry with himself for even letting that slip.

“It’s late,” he muttered. “You should get some sleep.”

“No.” You said firmly. “You don’t get to end the conversation like this.”

You asked again, voice softer now. “Do you know what to do with someone like me, Joel?”

His eyes were heavy on your face. Searching. Dark. And something burned behind them that he could barely hold back anymore.

“…Yeah. I do.”

Your breath caught.

“And what would you do?”

“I’d treat you so nice, darlin’,” he said, his voice like molasses, thick and warm and dangerous. “Like nobody had treated you before. A guy like Tommy likes easy, likes girls who want a good time. He’d just… touch you like he didn’t know what he was holdin’. That ain’t right.”

Joel stepped closer—just an inch. You felt the heat from him.

“But I shouldn’t,” he added, voice hoarse. “I shouldn’t want to. You’re young. You’re Sarah’s friend. You deserve someone who’s—who’s not me.”

You looked up at him, heart pounding. “I don’t want someone else.”

Joel exhaled hard. Like the words hit him in the chest.

“You’re not gonna be able to take it back if we cross this line,” he murmured. “You understand that?”

You nodded. “I’m not trying to take anything back.”

“I’m tryin’ to be a good man here,” he said, voice strained. “I’ve been real patient with you, baby. Real careful. And you—you keep lookin’ at me like that, sayin’ shit like that—and you don’t know what that’s doin’ to me.”

You leaned in just enough that your knee brushed his. “Then tell me,” you murmured. “Or better yet—show me.”

That was it.

The last thread snapped.

Joel grunted low in his throat—frustration, need, pure hunger—and then he had you.

His mouth crashed onto yours, rough and desperate and messy, like a man who’d been dreaming about this with his hand wrapped around himself for too damn long.

His kiss was all heat and punishment, his hands gripping your hips like he didn’t trust his own restraint.

He kissed like he wanted to crawl inside you, drink you down, fix something that had been broken for years.

You gasped into him. His hand tangled in your hair, another at your hip, gripping too tight, like he couldn’t believe you were real.

You could feel how hard he was already, how badly he wanted this, how long he’d been holding it back. All that restraint—gone.

He broke the kiss with a growl, pressed his forehead against yours, breathing hard.

“This is so fuckin’ wrong,” he panted.

“Feels right to me.”

Joel stared at you.

Then he kissed you again—harder. Dirtier. Tongue sliding into your mouth, hands gripping your waist like he was afraid you’d disappear if he didn’t hold tight.

This time, there was no hesitation. No pause. Just want. All of it.

The kiss slowed. His mouth dragging along your jaw, your neck, breathing you in, reverent and desperate all at once.

“I’ve been so fuckin’ lonely,” he muttered. “You don’t know what it’s like—wakin’ up and you’re here, walkin’ around in those little shorts, your panties hangin’ on the line like it ain’t nothin’—and I can’t touch you. Can’t even look at you the way I want to.”

You gasped as he pressed closer. His lips brushing the shell of your ear.

Joel growled again. Low. Possessive.

“Christ.”

And just like that, he scooped you up—thick arms banded tight around you like steel, lifting you like you weighed nothing—and carried you to his room.

The room was dim, lit only by the bedside lamp. Your body stretched out on his sheets—bare legs parted slightly, skin flushed and begging, eyes glassy and wide like you were already half-drunk on him. You looked like a dream. A wet dream. Like a fantasy he’d kept locked in his chest for too long.

Joel stood at the edge of the bed for a moment, just drinking you in.

“You have no idea,” he muttered, voice cracked, “how many fuckin’ nights I’ve pictured this.”

You smiled, soft and knowing. “Then stop picturing.”

His jaw clenched. That crooked smirk flickered across his face—but there was hunger underneath it. Hunger and something darker.

His hands went to his shirt, yanking it off in one swift movement.

Your breath hitched.

Joel wasn’t perfect—he was raw, rough-edged, built like he was carved from something older than the room you lay in. Wide chest, solid arms, scars that caught the light. Real. Male. Fucking beautiful.

His eyes dragged down your body like they couldn’t help themselves. Lingering on every inch. Your breasts. The curve of your thighs. He looked like he wanted to crawl inside you.

He was on you in a second.

Mouth hot and greedy against your throat. His stubble scraped and burned in the best way—trailing fire over your collarbone, down your chest, each kiss wetter than the last, lips dragging like he needed your taste to survive.

His hand slid up your thigh—slow, reverent, rough palm against soft skin—and when his fingers caught the hem of your dress, he froze.

“I ever tell you how fuckin’ beautiful you are?” he murmured.

You shook your head, breath shaky.

He smiled—just barely. A tiny curve, crooked, a little sad, like he couldn’t believe he got to say it out loud.

“You are,” he said, brushing his nose along your cheek. “Prettiest thing I’ve ever seen. Gonna ruin you for anyone else.”

He kissed you soft this time. Gentle. Like he didn’t want to rush a single second of this.

And then he wasn’t soft anymore.

He groaned low in his throat, that deep, broken sound like he was barely holding it together, hands dragging down the neckline of your dress until the fabric gave, slipping under his rough palms.

Then your tits bounced free—and he froze, like he’d just been knocked clean out of his body.

His eyes locked on them, dark and hungry, jaw slack with awe.

“Jesus,” he murmured, reverent and wrecked all at once. Like the sight of you was something holy and obscene.

He reached out, cupped your breast in one big, calloused hand, and you gasped at the heat of it. His thumb brushed over your nipple—slow, deliberate, circling until it peaked, hard and aching—and he groaned again, this time deeper, rougher, like he felt it in his spine.

“You’re so fuckin’ perfect,” he rasped, voice thick. “How the hell are you even real?”

Then his mouth was on you—hot, open, wet. He sucked your nipple into his mouth, tongue flicking over it, slow and filthy, while his other hand kneaded your other breast, squeezing just hard enough to make you gasp.

He sucked deep, then pulled off with a wet pop. Your nipple glistened, swollen from his mouth, and he just stared for a second—watching it twitch in the air like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to suck it again or bite.

“You don’t know what you do to me, baby,” he murmured, dragging his mouth down to the soft underside of your breast. “These fuckin’ tits—made for me. Gonna fuckin’ live here.”

Then he pressed them together, tongue darting between them, mouthing at your skin like he was claiming you with every lick.

His hand slipped under your dress—and when he felt how wet you were, he groaned deep in his chest.

“Baby…” he rasped. “You’re soaked.”

He slid his fingers through your slit—just barely—and when he felt how slick you were, his whole body jerked.

You bit your lip, hips shifting toward his touch.

“Joel,” you whined. “Please.”

He looked up at you. Smirked.

“So damn impatient,�� he murmured, dragging his mouth along your jaw, “these kids nowadays, always in a rush. Don’t know how to slow down and savor it.” His voice dropped, thick and dark with heat. “But you—you want it so bad you’re practically shakin’, huh, baby? Can’t wait to be full, can you?”

You nodded, breath catching.

Joel swore again—his voice cracked when he did it, like he just couldn’t believe it.

“You don’t fuckin’ know what that does to me.”

His fingers found your clit, rubbing slow but firm, just enough to make you arch and gasp, your thighs twitching as your eyes closed in pleasure.

“Uh-uh. Look at me,” he growled, low and commanding, fingers tightening just enough to keep your eyes on his. “Wanna see every damn second of you comin’ apart for me.”

You met his eyes—and the look he gave you nearly ruined you. Like he was drowning in you. Like he’d waited years to feel this, touch this, taste this.

His voice was thick and raw. “That’s right. You’re mine tonight, baby. Gonna fuckin’ show you what it means.”

You gasped as his fingers stroked slow and filthy over your clit, teasing, circling, just enough to make you arch up into his hand.

“Gonna take care of you,” he murmured. “Wanna make you feel good, darlin’. You deserve that.”

Then he slid down the bed—hands firm on your hips, tugging your dress up. Eyes locked to the flash of your panties. His hand skimmed the waistband, thumb dragging across the soft cotton.

“These the ones I saw hangin’ outside?” he rasped.

Your lips curled. “Maybe.”

Joel exhaled hard. His eyes darkened, jaw flexed.

He pulled them down, dragged them off your legs like he was unwrapping something precious—

And when he saw you—saw you—he just stopped.

Stared.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he muttered. “You’re perfect. You—you can’t be real.”

You tried to close your legs—suddenly shy—but his hands kept them open.

“No, baby,” Joel said. “You let me see.”

Then he leaned in and licked a slow, deliberate stripe up your cunt. His tongue was broad, hot, dragging through your folds like he wanted to taste every inch of you. And when it hit your clit, he groaned like it knocked the wind out of him.

He groaned like it knocked the wind out of him.

You cried out—hips jerking—but he held you firm.

“Sweetest fuckin’ pussy,” he breathed. He pressed his mouth there again, tongue flicking slow and filthy. “You taste like sin.”

And then he devoured you.

Sloppy, greedy, wet—sucking your clit like he meant to pull the soul out of you.

He moaned into your pussy like he was drunk on it — messy, loud, absolutely gone for the taste of you. He licked like a man possessed, mouth wet and greedy, groaning like he couldn’t get deep enough. His beard scratched your thighs raw, his tongue dragging through your slick like he’d been starved for days and finally got fed. He spit on you just to lap it back up, filthy and shameless, fucking you open with his tongue until your hips jerked and your thighs shook.

And when he wrapped his lips around your clit, sucking hard and slow, it was obscene — the sound, the pressure, the way he palmed his aching cock through his pants, he needed it just as bad. He didn’t care how sloppy it got. Didn’t care how ruined he looked. He was addicted, obsessed, devouring you like your pussy was the only thing that ever made him feel alive.

“Sweet little pussy,” he muttered, almost to himself. “Mine now, yeah?”

You nodded, head rolling back, eyes fluttering.

“All yours,” you moaned. “Please, Joel, more—”

He shoved his face between your legs like he was gonna drown there and be grateful for it. His tongue pushed deep inside you, slow and filthy, fucking you with slick, deliberate strokes that made your whole body twitch. He groaned like he could taste every second of how wet you were, how wrecked you were getting just for him.

His thumb pressed tight to your clit, rubbing hard, tight little circles that made your back arch off the bed. And when your hips tried to jerk away, overstimulated and desperate, his other hand gripped your thigh like a vice — fingers bruising, holding you right there, locked in place so he could keep devouring you, mess and all, like you were his favorite sin and he had no intention of stopping.

“You gonna cum for me, darlin’?” he murmured. “Gonna cum on my tongue like a good girl?”

You sobbed out a yes—high, desperate, helpless—and he didn’t stop ‘til you fell apart.

You shattered—back arching, legs locking around his head, hips rolling up into his mouth like your body wasn’t yours anymore.

You came hard—too hard—crying his name, grinding into his face as his tongue worked you through it, lapping up everything you gave him, humming like it was the best thing he’d ever tasted.

When he finally crawled back up over you, his lips were wet, beard sticky with your slick, eyes dark, wild, feral.

“You’re killin’ me,” he said, kissing your cheek. “Never wanted anyone like I want you.”

You reached for him. Pulled at his waistband. “Please.”

Joel hesitated.

“You sure?” he asked, voice rough.

You nodded. “Please. Joel.”

“You’re not… you ain’t a…” he rasped, breath shaky, eyes searching yours.

“A virgin?” you finished for him, a low, breathless laugh slipping past your lips. “God, no.”

“I, uh…” he swallowed hard. “I don’t have any condoms. You on the pill?”

“Yes,” you said simply, dragging your mouth along his jaw. Then you pulled back just enough to look him in the eye, your voice dropping. “It’s okay, Joel. I want to feel all of you.”

And that did it.

He shoved his pants down in a hurry, and his cock sprang free—thick, hard, flushed dark with need, glistening at the tip with precum. Your breath caught in your throat, mouth parting as your eyes dragged down over him.

“Fuck,” you whispered, pulse thudding in your ears. “You’re…”

Joel looked down at you, cheeks tinged pink, a crooked little smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah,” he rasped. “I know.”

Your gaze stayed locked on his cock, hunger written all over your face. “Huge,” you breathed, awe and arousal tangled in your voice.

Joel’s brow lifted, just a little smug. “You think you can take it?”

You nodded eagerly. He stroked himself once, twice, guiding the head against your entrance.

“You ready, baby?” he asked, voice soft now. “I’ll go slow. I swear. Wanna feel all of you.”

You nodded, legs parting wider, arms around his shoulders.

He pushed in slow—thick cock stretching you inch by inch, dragging a long, guttural moan from both your throats—and his head dropped to your shoulder, jaw clenched like he was in pain.

“Oh my god,” he rasped. “You feel like heaven, baby. How the fuck—how do you feel this good?”

You gasped, eyes flying wide as he pushed in—slow but relentless—stretching you open inch by inch. Your nails dug into his back, clutching at the thick muscle there, searching for something to hold onto as your body struggled to adjust around the sheer size of him.

He stopped. Gave you time. Pressed kisses to your throat.

“You okay?” he whispered.

You nodded, breathless. “Move.”

And he did.

He rocked into you slow, deep—every inch dragging against your walls, stretching you again and again—like he was trying to memorize the shape of you from the inside out. His breath came out in soft, filthy huffs as he dropped his mouth to your ear, kissed the shell of it, then began whispering the filthiest things he’d never dared say until tonight:

“How long you been wantin’ this?”

“You think about me when you’re alone, baby? Think about my hands?”

“Don’t hold back now. Wanna hear you.”

“God, you’re tight. So fuckin’ tight around me—feels like heaven.”

He pulled out almost all the way—just the head still inside, glistening, stretching you open—then slammed back in, slow but deep, right into that spot that made your breath stutter.

“Fuck,” he gasped. “You feel too good, baby. Can’t believe I waited this long…”

Your nails curled into the sheets, head thrown back. You were panting now, sweating, legs trembling from the effort of holding yourself open for him.

“Joel—please—”

That did something to him. The way you begged. His name, all soft and wrecked on your lips.

He gritted his teeth.

Then he grabbed you by the backs of your thighs and pushed your legs up, folding you open for him, pressing your knees back toward your chest.

“Hold ’em up,” he ordered, voice ragged and dark with need. “Yeah—that’s it. Just like that. Wanna see how deep I can get.”

And then he started to fuck you for real.

Deeper. Harder. Filthy. Relentless—each thrust punching a gasping moan from your throat. The angle had him hitting places that made your vision blur. The slap of his balls against your ass was wet and obscene, the bed groaning loud under the force of him, the headboard rattling against the wall.

He groaned low in his throat, watching the way your tits bounced with every thrust, the way your eyes glazed over as you took it, dripping around his cock, clenching so tight he could barely breathe.

“Been so long, baby.” he growled, “So goddamn long.”

You moaned under him, dizzy with it all—his voice, his body, the weight of him pressing you into the mattress, the way his cock hit so deep now you swore he could feel your heartbeat.

“And now I got you,” he grunted, snapping his hips into you. “Can’t believe I’m inside you,” he panted. “So goddamn pretty, so young, and I get to fuck you? You’re gonna ruin me.”

Your legs were shaking, arms weak, and Joel took over, gripping your thighs himself, holding them up so he could go deeper, grind into you harder, angle just right to wreck you from the inside out.

“Fuck,” he groaned, lips dragging over your jaw, your mouth, your ear. “Pussy so good, baby—swear to God, I’ll never want anyone else again. This is it. This is fuckin’ it.”

You were already close again—the pressure building fast, his name tumbling out of your mouth over and over.

He felt it — the way your walls fluttered around him, the way your breath hitched, that telltale tremble in your thighs. He growled low, deep in his chest, pressing in deeper, grinding his hips just right.

“Come on, baby. Wanna feel you cum on my cock. You can do it for me, yeah?”

And the way he said it, the weight in his voice, the thick pressure of him inside you, the heat rolling off his body, it unraveled you completely. You came so hard it shook you—cried out, clung to him, and he cursed, hips stuttering, fucking you through it, chasing his own release now.

His thrusts turned messy, erratic, like he was losing control—because he was. You whimpered, nails digging into his shoulders as he picked up the pace again, sweat slicking both of you as your bodies collided over and over.

“Where do you want it?” he panted. “Tell me, darlin’—can I cum inside you?”

“Please—please, yes—”

“Yeah? Gonna let me give you every drop?” His pace stuttered, breath catching. “Fuck—I’m gonna—shit—I’m—”

He slammed in deep—one final thrust, all the way to the hilt, hips grinding into yours, body shaking

And he came.

Hard.

Hot, thick spurts of cum filling you, spilling inside, leaking out around his cock as he groaned into your neck like it gutted him.

You were still trembling underneath him—boneless, ruined, thoroughly fucked, every nerve singing. Your body was flushed and filled and glowing, warmth blooming in your limbs, still pulsing in your core where he remained, thick and hot and buried deep. Joel hadn’t moved much. He was still inside you, still hovering above you like he was afraid you’d vanish if he let go.

And then, so gently it made your throat ache, he pressed a kiss to your forehead. Another to your cheek. Then your mouth—slow, soft, lingering, like a man drinking in salvation.

“Y’alright, baby?” he murmured, voice rough with gravel and sweetened with something like awe.

You nodded, your lashes fluttering as your eyes found his. “More than alright.”

Joel let out a quiet laugh, low and breathless. His shoulders finally softened, tension bleeding from his frame. He leaned down again and pressed a kiss to your collarbone—reverent, like worship, like the delicate skin there meant everything.

Then he pulled out—slowly, carefully, his eyes never leaving your face. You both gasped at the loss, a shared shiver rippling through you. He moved quickly after that, tugging the comforter up and over you, tucking you in like something breakable, his hand smoothing over your hip, then your belly, then back again—like he didn’t know how to stop touching you now that he’d started.

“Didn’t mean to go so hard,” he said quietly, his voice rasping. “Just… it’s been a long time. Felt so good. You felt so good.”

You turned your head, a sleepy smile tugging at your lips. “Joel, I wanted it. Wanted you.”

Something in his eyes shifted—like a storm easing, like guilt loosening its grip. He believed you. But still, he moved like a man trying to earn that belief, trying to prove he deserved the gift of you.

“Stay right there, darlin’,” he whispered, brushing his thumb over your cheek. “I’ll get a towel.”

You watched him go—bare, flushed, a little unsteady, walking into the bathroom with that wide, solid back and those scarred shoulders that you ached to trace again. A little older, a little weathered. But real. Solid. Yours.

Not like college boys. Not like the ones who never stayed, who’d fuck you and leave you sore and cold and wondering what you did wrong. Joel didn’t disappear. He didn’t roll over or reach for his phone or toss your underwear at you like a hint.

He took care of you.

He came back with a warm, damp cloth in one hand and a glass of water on the other. He cleaned you up with careful, practiced hands—gentle in a way that undid you, so quiet and focused it made your throat burn.

You parted your legs instinctively, and he didn’t stare, didn’t leer—just pressed a kiss to your knee as he carefully cleaned between your thighs, murmuring soft apologies when you flinched from the sensitivity.

“Sorry, baby. I know. Just a little more…”

He wiped you gently, reverently, then set the cloth aside and helped you sit up to drink.

“There we go,” he said softly, holding the glass to your lips. “Slow, now. Don’t gulp.”

When you finished, he set the glass down and climbed back into bed behind you, pulling you into his chest like he couldn’t wait another second.

“C’mere sweet girl,” he breathed, pulling you in tight.

You curled into him, soft and spent, your leg thrown over his hip, face tucked under his chin. His hands were slow, moving in lazy circles along your spine, sometimes dipping to cup your ass, then coming back up to your shoulder blades—like he was mapping you, remembering you with touch alone. When you sighed, he smiled against your hair.

“What about Sarah?”

“I’ll wake you up in the morning before she gets up,” He said. “You need anythin’? More water? A bath?”

You shook your head. “I’m good.”

Silence settled like fog—thick, warm, peaceful. His hand never stopped moving. He kept you close, kept touching you like a man afraid you’d disappear. Like a man who’d gone without softness for far too long.

“You always like this after?” you asked quietly, teasing.

“Like what?”

“So…gentle.”

He chuckled, rough and low in your ear. “Only with someone who deserves it.”

You smiled, eyes fluttering shut. “Glad you’re not twenty and selfish.”

“Yeah,” he said, voice full of amusement and something fonder. “Glad I’m not, too.”

He didn’t fall asleep. You felt it—the way his chest stayed tense under your cheek, the way his breathing was deep but too controlled. His mind was running, somewhere distant, somewhere dark.

But still, he stayed holding you. Arms tight. Body wrapped around yours like armor.

And then, when he thought you were asleep, you heard him whisper it:

“Mine now. God help me.”

You smiled into his skin.

Because you were.

So completely his.

A/N: Thank you so much for this request!! I loved the idea and I hope you liked the ending result🩷🫶🏻

Thank you as well to everyone reading this for your constant support to my fics, your kind words mean the world to me. You’re the best!!

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

[hedwig221b]

do you know of any cheerleader fics? either stiles, derek, or both of them being a cheerleader?

Hi! Here are a few ❤

cheer up, babe by graveltotempo, SpringlockedSpectre

He was the basketball captain. And he was a cheerleader. Can I make it any more clear? OR: Derek Hale thought he had his crush on Stiles Stilinski under control. And then Stiles decided to show up to school in a skirt.

Bring It On by marguerite_26

When the Beacon Hills lacrosse team made a bet with the Beacon Hills cheerleading squad, Stiles should have recognized the smirks on the girls' faces and stopped the whole thing right there.

Maybe We Could Dance by In_Over_My_Head

"Stiles, get over here!” Flailing, he spun on his heel, searching for Lydia. He knew it was her who yelled, would know that voice anywhere. Seeing her standing in the center of the quad with a bunch of other cheerleaders, he took a deep breath before heading her way. High school had been a series of embarrassing boners and stuttered words when it came to her. College wasn’t much better, minus the boner issue that he’d gotten under control…mostly. Around halfway through his junior year of high school, he’d realized that the random boners that he attributed to just being a teenager were actually because of the hot guys in his classes. Like in high school, Lydia was still surrounded by pretty people, both male and female, so whatever it was that was about to happen would have a very attractive audience. Hopefully, he could get away quickly before he made too much of an ass of himself.

Chemistry of Some Kind

"I don’t like him,” Derek growled, ignoring Isaac’s disbelieving scoff. “I just think he has no right being so loud and what the hell is up with the outfit?” Erica shot him an obvious look, gesturing down at her own. Derek rolled his eyes. “That’s different.” “Is it?” Isaac asked mildly, attention fixed on the orange he was trying and failing to peel. “Or is it because whenever you catch the sight of Stilinski in a crop top on the court, you trip over your own feet and lose the ball?”

i'd let you had i known it (why don't you say so?) by somepeoplearewild

Derek is a cheerleader. Stiles is a cheerleader. Stiles demands to have the option to wear the same uniform as the girls and ropes Derek into it for solidarity.

2, 4, 6, 8, Who's Gunna Get The Date? by rebekahdarian

The five times a cheerleader asked Derek out on a date, and the one time he said yes.

Three cheers for Stiles's dick! by TheBeastsWrite (orphan_account)

Derek just looks so good in his Cheerleading outfit, Stiles can’t help but slip into the changing room before Derek’s practice and have his wicked way with his boyfriend. (Also I’m gonna say Derek looks like canon young!derek in this because that twink would look damn good in a skirt let’s be real here.)

[masterlist link]

[satossential]

the things he never stopped doing.

warnings: nanami is a widower, age gap for no reason, fluff and angst and hurt and comfort.

when you start dating nanami, you don’t think too hard about the gifts.

you’re twenty-three, fresh into your first job out of college, and dating someone twelve years older who dresses like he belongs on the cover of a noir novel. so when he brings you expensive pastries from obscure bakeries, or quietly upgrades your worn-out coat to something far more elegant (just “happened” to see it and thought of you), you just smile, kiss his cheek, and say thank you.

you’re not used to being spoiled like this. it’s sweet. a little overwhelming sometimes, but never in a way that makes you feel less. never transactional. nanami gives like it’s second nature. like he doesn’t even think twice about pouring himself into someone else’s comfort.

it takes time—months of steady, soft intimacy—for you to see it more clearly.

you notice it one rainy evening, when you crash at his apartment after a long shift. your clothes are soaked and sticking to your skin, and without a word, nanami has a towel in your hands and a bath running in minutes. the lavender soap he stocks in his guest bathroom is your favorite, even though you never told him that. he’s already set out your preferred shampoo. there’s a new set of fluffy slippers waiting by the door.

and you pause.

when you step out, warm and cocooned in comfort, you find him folding your damp clothes by the washer like it’s the most ordinary thing. he looks up when he hears your footsteps, and gives you a tired, affectionate smile.

“feel better?” he asks, like he didn’t just turn his home into a haven for you.

you nod. “yeah. thank you, kento.”

he doesn’t say you’re welcome. he never does. he just nods, like of course he would. like it’s the most natural thing in the world to care for someone like this.

you sit with that for a while.

a few days later, you’re helping him clean out an old drawer in his study, and you find a little velvet box tucked beneath some papers. you open it out of innocent curiosity. inside is a pendant. simple. gold. beautiful. but clearly untouched. brand new.

when he sees you holding it, his breath stills.

he walks over quietly. his eyes flicker down to the pendant, and then to you.

“…i bought that for her birthday,” he says, voice low. steady. “she passed before i could give it to her.”

you feel the words settle into the air, heavy and careful.

he doesn’t cry. doesn’t wince. but there’s something raw in the way he looks at the necklace, and something gentler still in the way he looks at you.

“i’m sorry,” you whisper.

he shakes his head. “don’t be.”

you don’t ask questions, not that night. but afterward—after you lie awake in his bed and watch his chest rise and fall beside you—you start to see the pattern.

he gives like a man who never got to give enough.

not because he didn’t try. but because life stole the chance from him.

the slippers. the bath. the gifts. the groceries delivered to your door when you have a bad day. the way he watches over you on crosswalks, or reminds you to eat before a long meeting.

they’re all acts of love. quiet. thoughtful. and sometimes, haunted by the shape of what he lost.

but never once do they feel like replacements.

nanami never calls you by her name. never compares your cooking to hers or mentions her in ways that make you feel like a shadow in someone else’s story. no—when he looks at you, he sees you. his expression is always full of quiet awe, like he can’t quite believe he gets to love again.

still, when he holds you, sometimes there’s this aching kind of reverence in his touch. like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. like he’s holding time itself in his hands and doesn’t know how to stop it from slipping through.

one night, when you’re curled against his chest, you trace small circles on his arm and whisper, “you loved her a lot.”

he exhales, his breath warm on your forehead. “i did.”

you hesitate. “do you ever… feel guilty? loving me too?”

there’s a pause. then his arms tighten slightly around you.

“yes,” he admits. “sometimes.”

you don’t shrink away. you don’t flinch. you just nod. because love is complicated. grief even more so.

“but not because you aren’t worth loving,” he adds, quietly. “because part of me still wishes she were here too.”

you press your face into his chest and feel his heartbeat against your cheek.

“i don’t mind,” you say, “if she’s still part of you.”

he kisses the top of your head.

“thank you,” he murmurs. “for not making me choose between the past and the present.”

you smile, small and sleepy. “you don’t have to. i already know i’m your future.”

and he holds you tighter, like he believes it too.

because he does.

because he’s learning that grief and love can exist in the same breath.

and you, with your patient warmth and kind eyes—you’re teaching him that giving doesn’t have to mean making up for what he lost. sometimes, it’s just what love looks like, moving forward.

[salemrph]

The taste of apple and pomegranate

Ch. 4 Inspiration and jealousy

Nav: Ch. 1 / Ch. 2 / Ch. 3 / Ch. 4 / Ch. 5 (coming soon) // AO3

Summary: You just wanted to survive university, not fall for either of them—let alone both. Two handsome idiots who somehow made your apartment their second home. You, Sylus, and Caleb were supposed to be just friends. So why does everything feel like their is more going on?

Character: Sylus x f!reader x Caleb // Tara, Rafayel // AU - College, Student

Genre: romantic, fluff, intimacy, sexual content, humor, friends to lovers, poliamore, slow burn

Word count: 3k | Reading Time: 12 min | AO3

Tag list: @thechaoticarchivist @peacedreamer14 @blessdunrest @strwberriiblnde @plzdonutpercieveme @sylusqt @sakuraneko-sakupanda-chan @peacedreamer14 @escapeis @plzdonutpercieveme @blorbohunter @yuurisfavblog

Ch. 4 Inspiration and jealousy

The night was fun. Rafayel had ended up laughing at your rather direct way of getting rid of those girls, his soft chuckles echoing even over the thrum of the club. As you were about to leave, he handed you a minimalist business card, with the name of his studio on it. Which was quite confusing; was he doing a move, or was it a genuinely clever invitation for a platonic studio visit? You brushed it off. You didn't need to overthink it. 

The next day, with a nice head pulsing hangover, you were recounting the highlights of night with Tara, who was absolutely over the moon that you'd met Rafayel. There was nothing better than after a good party, ordering pizza, having some ice cream and watching easy-going romantic movies. And if the tiredness of the last few hours was too overwhelming, going back to sleep until nightfall sounded like a great Friday plan.

“Y/N,” she shrieked, practically vibrating with excitement. The high-pitched sound of her voice made you groan in pain. “He's the new hot student-slash-mentor! You know, the one who has the whole art department going crazy?” Tara takes out her phone, and goes through her instagram. Pointing out all the comments under a cover picture of a modern art magazine. 

“OMG, he is art!’ 

“Marry me, Rafayel!”

“Is he even real?!’ I can’t believe it!”

Tara quickly gets up when she finishes the last chocolate chip cookie. She wipes her hands on the loose T-shirt she's wearing. You don't have the energy for this. What on earth did she drink last night that left her without even a hint of a hangover?

She started dramatically rifling through your closet, pulling out everything she thought was cute. “You have to go see him. Like this weekend.”

“Why are you so excited about him?” you asked, leaning against the doorframe, amused about the slightly wild behavior of your friend and her sudden obsession.

Tara spun around, putting her hands on your shoulders, her gaze intensely serious. "Rafayel is famous, super famous in the art scene! He's the newcomer of the year!"

You gently shrugged her hands off. “Tara, I'm not into the pink press. I don't care if he's famous or not. He just seems like a good guy. We could be friends.”

“Friends?” She scoffed, turning back to your wardrobe with renewed vigor. “You were practically crying the other about not getting enough sexy time, and now…” she stopped mid sentence. She stopped mid-sentence, her head snapping up, eyes narrowed into a very deep, suspicious expression. “Don't tell me you did it with…?”

“What? When? We left together, don’t you remember?” you protested, already shaking your head. 

“I wasn't talking about Rafayel… or did you do it with him also?” 

You massage your eyes, trying to block out the vivid memory of your vibrator, the audio and how satisfied you'd been after coming while thinking about…  well, you knew who. A fresh wave of heat rushed to your cheeks. 

“Tara” you whine. 

“Okay, okay. Then not. A shame, really.” She went back to sorting through your clothes, humming.

──────────

With that chaotic send-off from Tara, you found yourself standing in front of the door of Rafayel's studio on sunday. A knot of nervousness tightened in your stomach; this was an unannounced visit, and you suddenly felt a little silly for showing up. You couldn’t even text him to check since only the address was written on the business card. You weren't entirely sure if he would even be here. It was a bit of a trek from your place, situated in a more industrial zone where galleries and big-name artists had found their home. The studio was nestled on one side of the river, offering a truly beautiful sight, especially now that the sun was low, making the water sparkle with a thousand tiny diamonds.

The door was slightly ajar, a sliver of light spilling out onto the pavement. Strange, you thought, pushing it open a little further.

Big white curtains fluttered gently in the open windows, catching the last golden rays of the setting sun. The smell of paint was intense, a rich, earthy scent that filled the air. “Hello?” you called out, stepping further inside.

The studio was vast, even more so than you'd imagined from the street. Canvases of all sizes leaned against walls, some finished, others clearly mid-creation, splattered with vibrant colors. Sculptures draped in white sheets stood as silent sentinels. 

You found him in front of a massive canvas, utterly lost in his work. He was barefoot, his light fabric blue pants and simple, fluttery white shirt splattered with vibrant streaks of paint, a living embodiment of his art. His brow was furrowed in deep concentration, a brush held delicately in his hand, his gaze fixed on the evolving masterpiece. He was so deeply immersed, he didn't even seem to notice you.

You stood there for a moment, unsure what to do, before clearing your throat to make your presence known again. He lifted a hand, a single finger raised.

“No talking,” he mumbled. “You're scaring my inspiration away.”

You press your lips together. The silence stretched for another minute before he sighed, a sound of deep, artistic exasperation. “Nevermind, it's gone.” He kept his back to you, moving to a utility sink to clean the remaining paint off his brush. “The studio is closed. If you’re a reporter, then talk to Thomas. I don't have time.”

You blinked, a bit confused. 

“I'm sorry for coming without calling,” you said, your voice a little quieter than before. “I just wanted to say hi, but if you’re busy, it’s fine. I can leave.”

Rafayel finally turned, his eyes still distant with artistic focus, meeting yours. The surprise that flickered there was brief, quickly replaced by recognition and that familiar, soft smile. “Oh, it's you. Even better. Now have someone to blame... If Thomas asks, it's your fault.”

You blinked, utterly baffled. Thomas? Who the hell is Thomas?

“My fault? What did I do?”

Rafayel finally put down his brush, running a hand through his paint-splattered hair. He looked genuinely weary, his artistic focus clearly broken. “You broke the spell. The flow, the inspiration. It's gone.” He gestured vaguely at the canvas, as if something invisible had just vanished from it. “And you, Miss Bodyguard, are to blame.”

“Why me? And I just said that because those girls were borderline assaulting you!” you protested, gesturing to your rather average build.

He waved a dismissive hand, a faint smirk playing on his lips. “You did a great job. I could need someone to keep... disturbances off my canvas.” He leaned against an easel, suddenly looking less like an ethereal artist and more like a tired, still impossibly handsome man. “Anyway, since you're my new bodyguard…”

“I haven’t agree to that.” you cut in, crossing your arms.

“Puh-lease. That's only the details. And since I'm a good employer, I will help you with your struggles.”

“And what exactly makes you think I have problems?” A slow, easy smile spread across his face.

"Oh, didn't you mention something about a cursed dating life? That sounds like a struggle to me... Or at least, a good conversation and some advice from a new friend.” He grinned, clearly enjoying your flustered reaction. You should stop drinking.

“Why would you help me? You don't know me.” 

“Mostly because I’m bored,” Rafayel declared, twirling a paintbrush between his fingers “but also… I adore drama.”

You rolled your eyes completely, a small huff escaping your lips. This guy... He was already making you feel exposed and seen in a way that was both unnerving and, surprisingly, a little freeing. Maybe, just maybe, it would be a good idea to bring this incredibly charming stranger into the chaotic mess that was your love life. You barely knew him, but they always said it was easier to talk to strangers about your problems than to someone you knew. You didn't want to feel judged, and while you knew Tara supported you in everything, a more neutral opinion, detached from your established history, might actually help you untangle some of your current mental blocks. And hey, maybe you two would actually become good friends? He seemed easygoing, and you certainly needed more of that in your life.

You squinted at him, amused despite yourself. “Okay, fine,” you said, a reluctant smile breaking through. “So, what’s the catch? What do I have to do in return for this… noble employment?” 

“You will be the model for a new series for my art classes. You have a… particular kind of energy.” You raised an eyebrow, but he steamrolled ahead. “It’s a project about emotion. A raw exploration of humanity, angst, and unpolished chaos. Vulnerability, expression, a brush with your inner tempest.” 

You narrowed your eyes. “Is that an insult or a compliment?”

“Is a compliment” he brushes his forehead straight casually, “I can pay you, if that’s the hang-up.”

“It’s not about the money…” you said quickly, shaking your head. That wasn’t it at all. “It was just… a bizarre request.” And unexpectedly flattering. 

“Perfect. Then we try it next week. If it’s not for you, we’ll pretend it never happened. I’ll even pretend we never met unless I need help lifting canvases or buying art supplies.”

What mess have you gotten yourself into now? You glanced down at his palm, then back at his waiting face.

“Deal,” you said, shaking his hand.

You ended up chilling with Rafayel for a bit longer, just chatting as the late afternoon light streamed into his studio. It was surprisingly easy to be around him. His quirky metaphors, dramatic hand gestures, and paint-splattered clothes just made everything feel lighter. You guys talked about your classes, weird dreams you'd had, and even your favorite cartoons from when you were kids. He'd listen with his chin propped on his hand, eyes wide like every random thing you said was totally fascinating. It was… honestly, pretty chill. Like, surprisingly chill.

──────────

The café was the kind of warm that made you want to stay longer than you should—light music curling from the overhead speakers, the smell of espresso and cinnamon rolls hanging in the air. Your iced caramel latte rested between your palms, condensation dripping down the plastic like nervous sweat.

Caleb sat beside you, hunched slightly over his tablet. He looked half-focused, half-bored, on the long PDF he needed to read until tomorrow. Across the table, Sylus stirred his black coffee, barely glancing up from his screen. 

Being with these two in a café was always a spectacle. From customers to employees, they subtly corrected their posture, smoothed their clothes, and generally tried to appear flawless before passing by your table. You'd gotten so used to the stares that you'd simply started making an Excel sheet, tracking the number of girls asking for their number, laughs, and glances directed at your table (all of which you noticed). It was mostly out of boredom, and to have a graphic to rub in their faces at some point, hoping it would finally get them to find a girlfriend; or a hookup, or a one-night stand; and leave you alone.

Girlfriend...? Again, that annoying chest pain.

You were mid-sip, straw caught between your teeth, chowing on it, when a voice practically danced into the space. You blinked up, startled, just in time to see him stride through the front door—dark coat flaring slightly behind him, two mismatched earrings catching the light, that same lazy grin curling his lips. And before you could even get a word out, he was already pulling you into a hug.

“Miss Bodyguard, my sweet darling.”

It was effortless, as you were some long-lost friend instead of someone he'd just met. His scent, something fresh and citric that somehow reminded you of the ocean, wrapped around you as his arms did the same.

You barely had time to glance at Caleb and Sylus across the table. Caleb had a half-eaten croissant paused in mid-air, his brows lifted in slow, dawning disbelief. Sylus’s fingers tensed slightly around the handle of his cup, gaze sharpening under his lashes. Rafayel didn’t spare either of them a glance.

“Perfect timing,” he said, stepping back just enough to meet your eyes. “I’m heading to the studio. Thought I’d start my little muse-hunting trial.”

“Oh… now? I’m still—” You stammered, gesturing vaguely at your half-finished drink, a rush of confusion and slight panic bubbling up.

“Uh-ah, cutie.” He gently pressed a finger to your lips, a playful smirk touching his mouth. “Inspiration is fleeting. You have to catch it when it shows up. So now is the moment. Come on.” His hand drifted from your lips to your arm, a light, insistent pressure.

“But—” Your glance flicked back to the table, to your half-finished drink, to your friends' perfectly still, unreadable faces watching the entire exchange. Caleb had finally lowered his croissant. Sylus just removed his glasses and shoved his hand in his pocket. Uhh… he was pissed. 

Caleb and Sylus, somehow managing to look both imposing and utterly out of place, had invited themselves along. You’d tried, really tried to dissuade them. Told them it was just a quiet session, no need to crash it. You even gave Rafayel a few not-so-subtle signals behind their backs, wide eyes and small shakes of your head. He only smiled as he tilted his head with a simple “Why not?” and welcomed them in. 

You knew exactly why. You’d grumbled just last week about your "two guard dogs" always hovering, always interfering. Maybe he just wanted to see what would happen when you placed three unpredictable elements in the same confined space. Whatever his reasons were, the air in the studio, already filled with the scent of paint, was practically vibrating with your nervousness on edge. 

And that’s how you ended up here.

Caleb was already tugging off his hoodie and eyeing the studio like it might bite him; and Sylus, who looked like he’d rather die than touch anything not polished mahogany or silk, but was already unbuttoning his jacket. They're staying.

You took a deep breath, trying to calm the nervous flutter in your chest.

Rafayel explained the plan with the casual flair of someone describing a whimsical dream.

“It’s a five-day set,” he said, fingers dancing in the air like brushstrokes. “Two hours each session. Same pose, same lighting. The goal is to capture evolution through stillness.” He gestured dramatically to the center of the studio, where an elevated platform stood, draped in warm, neutral fabrics. The background was painted in muted tones, half-finished canvases propped against walls, the scent of turpentine and linseed oil hanging in the air.

You stepped closer, eyeing the stage. It looked like something between a therapist's couch and a sacrificial altar. At least you wouldn't have to die for this.

“I want you to choose a pose,” Rafayel said, stepping beside you. “Something familiar. Something your body does when you feel overwhelmed or when you’re lost in high emotion. Maybe the way you sit when you cry. Or when you’re angry. Or just… when the world feels too heavy.”

You blinked, caught off-guard by the intimacy of the request. “So… not something aesthetic.”

“God, no.” He grinned. “I don’t do commercial. The posture should be something your body returns to when no one’s looking.”

You nodded slowly, your gaze drifting to the platform again. Yeah. This was going to get… personal.

Rafayel clapped his hands once, like he was wrapping up a lecture. “Oh! And one last thing—” He turned back toward you with that maddeningly serene smile. “Take off your clothes.”

You blinked. “I’m sorry—what?” Caleb choked on his water.

He tilted his head, utterly unbothered. “Clothes. Off. Not all the way, just…enough to see some skin.”

You stared at him, mouth slightly open, trying to process. In the corner, Sylus made a soft tsk sound.

Rafayel, entirely unfazed, waved a hand toward a screen at the back of the room. “There’s a curtain over there. Change into whatever makes you feel exposed enough to be interesting—but safe enough to stay over the 5 days.”

“Can’t we do…?

“This is the trail, cutie. If you can’t strip in front of me or your two friends, then probably you won’t do it with 10 strangers in the room. Your choice.” 

You paused halfway to the curtain, fingers curled nervously around the edge.

Caleb glanced between you and the platform. “Pips… do you really want to do this?” You froze for a beat, your heart hammering somewhere near your throat. Your eyes met his, steady despite the quickened beat of your heart. 

“I’m not judging. I just…” His brows pinched together like the words were caught somewhere deep. “I don’t want you to do something just because you feel like you have to prove anything.” You saw the worry behind the smile he was trying to wear.

“You should leave if you’re feeling uncomfortable,” you said gently.

His jaw tensed, like he wanted to protest but couldn’t find the right words. Then Sylus let out a breath through his nose, stepping closer with that ever-calm composure.

“If she wants to do this, we can’t stop her,” he said pragmatically. “And I’ll stay. For support. Kitten…” You turned to look at Sylus. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, a flicker of something softer passing behind his eyes. “You need to be aware that this room’s going to be full. Students. Strangers. Eyes. Having another set of eyes you trust? Might help you stay grounded.”

You swallowed. You gave them both a nod. “I can handle it.”

Sylus’ lips curved, almost proud. Caleb muttered, “Then I’m staying too,” and crossed his arms, grumbling something about needing to supervise the supervision.

Rafayel, meanwhile, had already begun adjusting the lighting. “Adorable,” he sang under his breath. “We’re going to have so much fun.”

Release every 1-2 week

Nav: Ch. 1 / Ch. 2 / Ch. 3 / Ch. 4 / Ch. 5 (coming soon)

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[ssweeterthanfiction]

Orbit

college!finnick odair x fem!reader content warnings: fluff, ANGST summary: you meet your estranged best friend in college after 4 years. wc: 3k

previous part | masterlist. | part six

You weren’t sure when it started to shift.

When hanging out with Finnick stopped feeling like something familiar and easy and started feeling…heavier. Not in a bad way. Just…weighted. Like something fragile but precious that you didn’t quite know how to carry anymore.

The two of you were lying on the campus quad, a rare patch of green tucked between lecture halls and dorms. It was late afternoon—just before golden hour—and the sun was low and warm against your skin, painting everything in that almost-too-perfect glow. Finnick had peeled off his hoodie and bunched it under his head, sprawled beside you with his arm flopped dramatically over his eyes.

You, on the other hand, were watching the clouds drift by and pretending like your chest wasn’t full of words you were too afraid to say.

“It’s unfair,” he said suddenly, voice muffled. “That clouds get to do that. Just… float. Be nothing. Think nothing.”

You smiled faintly. “You want to be a cloud?”

“I want to not have homework,” he said, lifting his arm just enough to peek at you. His grin was lazy and sun-drowsy. “And deadlines. And discussion posts. And professors who apparently forget we’re human beings.”

You turned your head to look at him. He looked golden. Literally glowing. His hair catching the light. His skin bronzed and soft. You hated how good he looked without trying. You hated how, lately, you’d started noticing just how often he made you smile. How often you caught yourself looking for him on campus. How often you heard your heart skip for no real reason.

“I thought you liked your marine bio class,” you teased.

“I do,” he said. “But my English lit professor is the devil incarnate. I haven’t even started the reading for this week.”

“I have,” you offered, trying to sound casual.

“Of course you have. You’re you.”

He said it like it was obvious. Like it was something he admired. You felt your face warm and quickly looked back at the sky, hoping the sun could hide the way your cheeks flushed.

There was a lull. Comfortable. Familiar.

You heard him shift beside you—felt his shoulder bump yours lightly—and then his voice, softer this time. “You know what I miss?”

You glanced at him.

“Your old room,” he said with a laugh. “It smelled like vanilla and old books. And you had that dumb little bookshelf shaped like an owl.”

“It wasn’t dumb,” you said, mock offended. “And you broke it.”

“I tripped over your shoes,” he defended. “Not my fault.”

“You still owe me a new one.”

He nudged your shoulder again. “I’ll get you an owl bookshelf when we’re thirty and rich.”

You rolled your eyes, but it didn’t stop the grin tugging at your lips.

The breeze shifted. You could smell the coming fall on the air—leaves and something crisp, something changing. And for a moment, you wished you could freeze this. Stay here. Just like this. With him. Safe in the space between what you were and what you could be.

But nothing ever stayed like this, did it?

Finnick turned his head, and his gaze landed on yours. “You’re quiet.”

You hesitated. “Just thinking.”

“About?”

You swallowed. The truth sat just behind your teeth.

You.

But you smiled instead. “About what I’m going to wear to that party this weekend.”

He chuckled, oblivious, and nodded toward the fading sky. “Wear something comfortable, you look nice in anything.”

You didn’t answer. Not really. Just smiled again and tucked the moment away—pressed it into the corners of your heart like a dried flower.

Something to remember.

Something that would probably hurt later.

Finnick had that look on his face again—half-squinting up at the sky, half-lost in thought, like he was drifting somewhere just out of reach. You wondered how often he did that. Drifted. And if he ever thought about you while he did.

“You know,” he said eventually, “I thought about you a lot. In high school.”

The words startled you a little. Enough that you turned your head fully to face him. He was still looking up, voice light, like he hadn’t just dropped something that made your heart thud unevenly.

“Really?”

He nodded. “Yeah. Like…whenever something stupid happened, I’d think, ‘She would’ve made fun of this so hard.’ Or if something good happened, I’d wish I could tell you. I don’t know. It was weird not having you there.”

You didn’t know what to say to that.

Your fingers curled into the grass. “I used to check your Instagram stories like…every other day.”

That made him look at you.

“You did?”

You nodded, suddenly shy under his gaze. “I don’t know why. Habit, I guess. Or maybe hope.”

He didn’t say anything right away. Just looked at you. You couldn’t read the expression on his face—soft and quiet and something else beneath it, something tender and sad.

“I missed you,” he said after a beat.

And it made your chest ache.

You looked back at the sky so you wouldn’t say something stupid. Like I missed you more. Like I never stopped missing you. Like I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with these feelings now.

Instead, you breathed in slowly. Let the moment stretch and settle between you.

“What were you like in high school?” you asked, gently steering the conversation somewhere lighter.

Finnick laughed. “Worse than I am now.”

“That’s not possible.”

“Oh, it’s very possible. I think peaked sophomore year.”

“Everyone peaks sophomore year,” you said. “That’s the rule.”

“I don’t think I had rules,” he said with a crooked grin. “I kind of just… existed. Talked too loud. Forgot my textbooks constantly. You would’ve hated it.”

“I wouldn’t have,” you said before thinking.

He turned to you again.

You added, a little quieter, “I think I would’ve liked seeing you like that.”

That smile he gave you—it wasn’t his usual grin. It was smaller, slower, like he was tucking it away inside himself. “What about you? High school you?”

You groaned. “A mess. I was still trying to figure out who I was. I think I tried to be everything at once.”

“You’ve always known who you are,” he said easily.

You blinked at him. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know,” he shrugged. “You’ve always had that…certainty. Even when we were kids. Like you always knew what mattered.”

You looked at him for a long moment, unsure how to respond to something so unexpectedly kind.

Instead, you said softly, “I don’t feel very certain lately.”

Finnick’s voice matched yours. “Me either.”

And just like that, you weren’t two kids sprawled in the grass anymore. You were older now. Not quite strangers, not quite what you used to be.

Somewhere in the in-between.

Somewhere where your hands didn’t quite reach—but wanted to.

He let out a slow breath and flopped his head to the side again, so he was looking at you upside-down. “Hey.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m really glad you go here.”

You smiled. “Me too.”

The breeze shifted a little, stirring the edge of Finnick’s shirt sleeve against your arm. Neither of you moved away.

He was quiet for a beat too long.

Then... “Did you ever—” He cleared his throat. “I mean…in high school… did you date anyone?”

The question came out soft, unsure. Like he didn’t really want the answer, but needed to know anyway.

You looked over at him, eyebrows lifting. “No. Not really.”

His gaze flicked toward you, curious but careful. “Not really?”

You shrugged, picking at the grass near your elbow. “There were a couple people I talked to, I guess. But nothing serious. I think I always talked myself out of it before it got there.”

Finnick nodded slowly, but didn’t say anything.

“And you?” you asked, already knowing the answer. “You dated someone. Right? What was her name…”

You trailed off as his mouth twisted just slightly.

“I remember seeing her in your stories,” you added more gently.

He let out a slow breath. “Yeah. Annie.”

You nodded. “She was pretty.”

“She was,” he said, almost absently. “We met junior year. She was in my AP bio class. We dated for, like, a year and a half.”

A small silence followed.

You didn’t want to press, but the quiet felt like a question begging to be answered. And then he answered it, quietly.

“She was great. Smart. Funny. We… didn’t end badly or anything. It just stopped feeling right. I think we both kind of knew.”

You nodded again, slower this time. "Where does she go to school?”

“She goes to Capitol State. We haven’t talked in a while.”

You didn’t really know what to say to that, so you just hummed softly and tucked your chin on your knees, still facing him.

“I always wondered what it would’ve been like if I’d just… texted. Called. Something.”

Finnick looked at you for a long moment, the light catching in his eyes like the sun flaring through leaves.

“Me too.”

It wasn’t loud. It didn’t have to be.

You looked down at your hands, heart thudding somewhere uneven again.

You wondered what would’ve happened if either of you had reached out sooner. If you would’ve found your way back to each other earlier. If maybe… this wouldn’t feel so fragile now.

But instead of saying any of that, you nudged his foot with yours and said, “We were stupid kids.”

“Still are,” he replied, smiling.

And for a second, it almost didn’t hurt to be this close to him.

It had started as a study night. Or at least that’s what you both claimed when you met in the library again, slipping into the same corner nook as last time—tucked between a wall of classics and the rustle of autumn wind outside.

The lights overhead were warm. Dimmed. You were curled into the arm of a beanbag again, this time with a stack of notes and a highlighter that had long since been abandoned in favor of talking.

Soft talking. Lazy talking. The kind of talking that only happened when time didn't feel real.

Finnick sat across from you, legs stretched out, his socked foot nudging yours lightly every few minutes like a metronome.

“I still don’t understand how you hated math and science,” he said, leaning back against the bookshelf. “That’s like...most of school.”

“I didn’t hate them,” you said. “I just didn’t love them.”

“Okay, but I helped you with almost every assignment in eighth grade.”

“And I helped you with literally every essay. Fair trade.”

He grinned. “You did write my entire To Kill a Mockingbird paper.”

“I just edited it!”

“You rewrote the conclusion.”

“Because you ended it with ‘Boo Radley was cool.’”

Finnick let out a breath of laughter, head tipping back slightly as it echoed against the wooden shelves. “God. We were such idiots.”

You smiled, letting yourself watch him for a moment. His cheeks were a little flushed from the warmth of the room, his hair soft around his face, eyes still sparkling from the memory.

You wanted to freeze-frame the moment. Press it between two pages like a leaf and keep it forever.

And maybe he noticed the way you were looking at him—because he stopped smiling, but didn’t look away.

“What?” he asked, voice lower now. Less playful. Less loud.

You shook your head slowly. “Nothing.”

But your heartbeat was saying everything.

There was a stretch of stillness where neither of you spoke. Just the ambient hum of the overhead lights and the distant murmur of other students beyond the aisle.

Then Finnick’s voice came, soft. “It’s been nice…hanging out with you again.”

“Yeah,” you whispered. “It really has.”

You wanted to say more.

You wanted to ask him if he felt it too—that weightless, dizzy kind of warmth that only showed up when you were with someone who knew you before the world told you who you had to be.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you leaned your head to the side and let it rest gently against his knee.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Just let out a quiet sigh and gently shifted so your head fit more comfortably.

The night felt heavy. Not bad. Just...full.

You stood in front of the mirror, brushing your fingers over the soft fabric of your top — something simple, something you didn’t overthink. But you still looked yourself over again, like maybe the version of you in the mirror would have answers.

Music from the apartment next door thumped lightly through the wall, as if the night itself was warming up.

Your dresser was cluttered—makeup, hair ties, a few old Polaroids, a half-full water bottle from two nights ago. But your eyes landed on one thing: the tiny box tucked behind a jar of pens and forgotten bobby pins.

You reached for it slowly.

The necklace was still the same.

A silver chain, delicate but strong. The moon pendant glinted under the dorm room light—a soft crescent, simple and familiar, like a sigh you forgot you were holding.

You hadn’t worn it since middle school. Not really. It had stayed at the bottom of drawers, tucked into memory boxes, hidden like a secret you weren’t ready to share with the person you were trying to become.

But tonight, your fingers unclasped the chain.

You hooked it around your neck.

And when it settled against your collarbone, it felt like something— not quite closure, not quite a beginning. Just something.

You didn’t tell yourself it meant anything.

You didn’t tell yourself you were doing it because of Finnick.

But you were.

Because he had been everywhere lately. In your classes. In your routines. In your thoughts.

You’d spent the last few days circling closer, like gravity was pulling you back into orbit. He made you laugh, still remembered the weirdest things about you, still looked at you like you were you.

And that was terrifying.

Because you didn’t know how he felt. Because you were starting to know how you felt.

A knock at the door jolted you.

Your roommate’s voice called out, “You ready?”

You gave one last look in the mirror. Brushed your fingers over the moon, now resting softly against your heart.

“Yeah,” you said, grabbing your bag. “Let’s go.”

The air outside was thick and hot, the kind that clung to your skin even as the sun dipped low and shadows stretched long across the pavement.

Campus was alive.

Music drifted from open windows. Laughter echoed from stairwells. The occasional shout or whoop from a group of upperclassmen bounced off the buildings like sparks. Streetlights flickered on, glowing gold in the blueing dusk.

You walked beside your roommate, your steps light but your stomach fluttery. The closer you got to the party, the more your thoughts tangled.

You hadn’t even asked Finnick if he’d be there tonight. He hadn’t mentioned it again, but you assumed. Hoped.

Part of you wished you’d texted to check. Part of you liked not knowing.

The party was in a house just off campus. Lights blinked from the windows, and the thud of bass grew louder as you approached—not just music, but that unmistakable pulse of a party. A rhythm you’d only half missed.

You followed your roommate up the front steps and through the door, which was propped open with a plastic traffic cone.

Inside, it was already buzzing.

People packed into the main room, red Solo cups in hand, someone DJing from a phone connected to a speaker on the kitchen counter. The floor thrummed under your feet. Fairy lights crisscrossed the ceiling, casting a low, golden haze over everything—like starlight filtered through beer and bravado.

You didn’t drink much, but someone handed you a cup anyway. You held it loosely, letting the condensation slip between your fingers as you and your roommate edged through the crowd.

You were smiling. Nervous. Expectant.

Scanning faces. Hoping for his.

You found yourself glancing down at your necklace—just for a second. The crescent moon sat still and silent against your collarbone.

And something about it grounded you.

Because tonight you weren’t just some girl walking into a party. You were you. The girl who once built pillow forts with Finnick Odair. The girl who believed in books and magic and moonlight.

The girl who might be falling for her best friend all over again.

You walked through the party a bit more, moving between sweaty bodies as you made your way to a more open area.

And then you saw him.

Across the room, half-shadowed by the dim party lights and framed by swaying silhouettes of laughing strangers — there he was.

Finnick.

He was leaning against the wall near the kitchen, cup in hand, talking to someone. Smiling. The light caught in his hair, all gold and warmth and summer. He looked so familiar and so far away all at once.

Your breath caught—not in panic, not yet. It was that rush. The kind that prickled at your skin and sent a flutter up your throat.

You hadn’t realized you were waiting to see him until that moment. Until your heart did that.

You didn’t even hesitate—your feet carried you forward, weaving through bodies and clusters of conversation. The crowd blurred around the edges.

He hadn’t seen you yet. You were maybe ten feet away. Closer.

And then—

He leaned forward.

And kissed her.

It wasn’t just a peck. It wasn’t a mistake.

Her hands were on his shoulders. His fingers tangled in the back of her hair.

You stopped walking.

Just—stopped.

Everything else kept moving. The music, the lights, the party. But not you.

The cup in your hand felt suddenly too full. Your fingers were ice. Your stomach, gone.

You blinked. Once. Twice.

Maybe it wasn’t what you thought. Maybe—

But no.

You saw the way his lips lingered. The way she smiled against his mouth. The way he didn’t pull away.

Your chest folded in on itself.

You took one step back. Then another.

And you turned.

You didn’t remember how you made it out of the apartment. Just that the night air hit your face like a slap. That the moon overhead looked dull and cold.

And that you were stupid for thinking the sun had been shining for you.

[yiiiiiiiikes25]

hobbyism, intimacy, working it out on the page

some old school longform blogging about process & product & how it really can be that serious, with all the indulgence that implies

i can’t stop thinking about siken’s new afterword for the twentieth anniversary edition of crush, which opens with a fever dream: louise gluck calling to say “we’ll publish it as is, of course, but i have notes if you’d like to consider them.” @whatimages is in my texts commiserating about how we’d sell plural organs for twelve hours of clear-eyed line edits at a kitchen table, and from gluck, for god’s fucking sake. and yes, yes. obviously the nobel of it all. right. what siken’s done in the afterword, though, has i think a longer and rarer shadow than meet-your-hero wish fulfillment. like i said, i can’t stop thinking about it, and these days my focus is about four seconds wide, so i want to pay attention for a while.

i’m not a poet, or haven’t been since college; i’m not a widely beloved and revered literary figure, though any minute now fitzcarraldo will cold call me about publishing my raven boys fanfiction. what i am is someone procrastinating their hp wireless piece (which at current pace will be ready for the 2027 fest) by any means necessary. my inability to engage meaningfully with an entirely voluntary and ostensibly rewarding hobby, with few stakes and fewer parameters, fills me with a pretty incandescent rage: why can’t i do this? the inside of that question is: what’s it even for?    

here is siken’s answer to why he writes. it’s a poet’s answer, a literary figure’s. i’m not sure the “we” includes me, but let’s start here and work forwards.

siken’s work—the thrust of his labors with gluck—reaches for a confessionalist ideal of total vulnerability and honesty: so that the poems may be useful, so that the lesson or the gift he leaves on the table serves the reader, he faces the fact of himself and offers us an unswerving intimacy. 

i think some version of this is correct across genres and art forms. the work that means the most grows out of an artist’s most human, most intent, most feeling place, however that ultimately manifests in the piece; we can feel that quality and intensity as an audience, can sniff it out. maybe that’s a little mystical. siken would say even mastery without passion or courage produces “polished but lifeless” art, though, or the version of siken i’m projecting onto would. maybe he’d say passion and courage are necessary conditions for true mastery. probably he’d say it with less pretension. my buddy @letteredlettered calls this ‘putting your pussy into it’; i agree with her belief that this is the entire point of making art. what is a figurative pussy if not the most human, most intent, most feeling place a body has. putting your pussy into it is an intimate act. 

at any rate fic is storytelling, and web weaving, and often therefore confessional even when it's not explicitly so. in short i buy siken's room as the 'why' of a lot of art.

some additional context for my next point: it’s been a tough couple years, during which i’ve asked the question of “why can’t i do this” across almost every category of my life, along with “what’s it even for.” fanfiction and fandom as a hobby feel to me like something of a regression in the face of this difficulty; i’m retreating to something that was a safe part of my childhood and squeezing as much meaning out of it as i can. like almost all of my fixations, it’ll probably pass. in the meantime, i feel no small amount of shame about it: returning to YA generally; returning to harry potter in particular with all its cultural baggage; taking my hobby of writing emotionally elaborate intertextual porn for seven perverts on the internet incredibly, incredibly seriously. why can't i be goofy engaging in this goofy activity? why can’t i handle an activity with more innate rigor, more gravitas, more discipline? why can’t my hobby be weightlifting, or the history of constitutional law, or, jesus christ, writing original anything? (i would never dream of judging other people’s hobbies or fandom engagement this way, possibly with the exception of disney adults, and the reason for the former double standard is because if i’m compassionate, nonjudgmental, and understanding to myself the way i’m compassionate, nonjudgmental, and understanding to other people, i am no longer the specialest princess in all the land. simple.) 

but fic is art with training wheels, right? not just the scaffold of writing an intertext with existing IP, but community—a built-in audience, fellow writers with your preoccupations and tastes and kinks, people willing to go to the mat with you and your work. (fic is also simply a reason to yap, with everything that yapping can engender. fic has immeasurably enriched my twenty-year friendship with @or-dhuilleag, for instance, and brought me @flightspathfic and @garagepaperback, without whom i’m not sure i’d have made it through this midlife nadir.) 

one thing peculiar to the art of a beloved, revered, or widely read/viewed/experienced artist: 

siken earns the above platitude with the full force and grace of his afterword, which explores at length how his readers have transformed the meaning of his work in the twenty years since crush was first published. i think most fanworks by virtue of their niche intent & footprint, along with the ongoing conversation that comments etc make possible, are actually shared custody between author and reader—certainly unlike tradpub, fanworks can be tweaked and reworked by sneaking into the ao3 editor in the wee hours and fixing a sentence here and there. i’m sure other writers have different relationships to their work, but for me, at least, i feel intensely proprietary about mine. maybe in part because we are wandering together into a third person’s existing world & characters, i’m sharing my writing with you, not giving it to you. i would argue the former is more intimate than the latter.

one of the many pleasures of a friendship with @letteredlettered is her insight into what it’s meant to be read at scale—i can’t track down a pull quote in discord, and i’m sure she’ll correct me if i’m putting words into her mouth, but the gist is that there’s correlation between popularity and being pedestaled such that it’s no longer easy or inviting to be a part of fandom community. i wonder if the inflection point is around the scale at which people started treating her work with more entitlement than consideration.

what siken points to here is the question of who it’s for—whom it’s for. did it really never belong to him? arguing with louise at her kitchen table, had he already given it away to the reader?

(additional reading: compare siken’s take on crush with sufjan’s on carrie & lowell, wherein the full transfer of custody to the listener is because sufjan found the album to be a profound failure on his own terms even if it succeeded for the listener—“Maybe that's what's so frustrating about this record for me, is that I could see and feel and hear the evidence of my effort, and trying to make sense of it musically and structurally and narratively. But I knew deep down inside that I was dealing with something that was unresolvable, and that the final tapestry of the album was never really going to be a stand-in for my relationship with my mom. And that's OK. You kind of have to just live with the chaos of it. I don't want to disparage; I don't want to sound like I don't like this album. I think I want to disassociate from it. It ultimately has nothing to do with me anymore. The music is yours.")

--

what did it mean to siken, for gluck to meet his debut collection like this?

in the last few years, disappearing from my real life into the bowels of ao3, i have read probably fifty million words of fic (emotionally elaborate porn was only maybe forty-five million of it); almost to the exclusion of any other fundamental theme, we write obsessively, repetitively, and compulsively about intimacy. how and why to be close. how to allow it; how to earn it; how to risk it; how to tiptoe toward it, abandon it, reignite it, revel in it. it possesses us. for my money, the above passage is the most intimate thing i have ever read. his debut? a third of the book? twelve fucking hours as mother and son at her kitchen table?

this is what siken wanted us to know about this book that he believes belongs to us. the rest of the afterword guards his privacy closely, but this he wanted us to hear: that he brought it to a brilliant woman and she made it a taut new thing, made it nothing but the core of itself. that they did it together. it's pedigree, sure, but it's also the only new thing he told us about what wasn't on the page, for a poet who made a platform of the death of the author:

i think he told us a precious story, sharing this. what strange and sacred work they did. i get romantic about poets, i don't know. here, look at the whole setup:

look how they have sized each other up--"it was louise gluck," then "this was someone i could work with." "it was not the best in the pile...i kept thinking about yours, so i knew it had to be the one." and then finding, in person, that they are each a familiar size to the other, a familiar shape. look how seriously they take each other, finding the other worth the work. their measured esteem correctly and productively colluding.

i just fucking love editing, not that you'd really know from how this stream of consciousness wanders. i love it past it being the way to crystallize draft slop into meaning, i mean. i think it's the core of the intimacy that i find so shocking and exuberant in this hobby. my preoccupation is intimacy--maybe my whole hobby is intimacy. i open the doors of my google doc and let someone see me trying and failing, let them help me try again. it's an antidote to shame. it's an exchange of authority and power, it's showing them the half-cooked output of my brain and feeling their fingers muck around in there. help me fix my little story i dumped my entire heart and ass into! let's fight about it!

and lemme see what you're working on, lemme see how your language works, lemme listen so, so carefully for the core of what you're trying to tell me and whittle you back till it's all i can hear. lemme show you i'm worth the work. somebody come help me with that mixed metaphor. maybe part of the shame-antidote is because we're sinking all this effort into gay wandboys fisting. so indulgent! craft, baby. ambition, mastery, ardor. i mean god bless to everyone just vibing out, i'm often jealous.

look at siken shepherding us along here. my point ultimately--it’s not not kink. it lives close to the same place in my brain: being edited is the incandescent reward for the slog of drafting, which i truly despise. it's the well-lit kitchen table where someone i trust and fear drives me, hour over patient hour, towards a truer version of myself. i want them to carve me down to what is beautiful and necessary. i’m starved for it; i want it even before i put a single word on the page; i want to sit next to my friends and build every story from scratch with their attention and care and opinions on an iv line from their aorta to mine. can original writing have a process like this? can any other hobby? i am sincerely asking, because my interest in harry potter and draco malfoy absolutely has an expiration date. assume for the purposes of this question that an mfa is out of scope, you fucking perverts.

loop back to the why of writing. my fanfiction isn't going to be deathless literature: it does something else for me, right here, right now. siken writes to tell us, "i was in this room once. it is a difficult room. i left this on the table for you. i hope it helps." picture him in the difficult room. picture him at the table, reading aloud, his hands spreading the pages across the wood. picture gluck beside him, his brilliant twelve-hour mother, interrupting, arguing, helping. her attitude, his wire frames, winnowing down a third of his book. do you know more now about intimacy? is the room as difficult?

which is all to say: i'm writing something that’s due in a couple weeks. it’s one more story about why to be close. i want it to mean something. it means a lot to me, and i want it to mean something to you. i wrote this, too; i wrote it alone, but if you’re here at the end, i want to talk about it with you. tell me how i can make it better. tell me how we can make each other better.

[eveningspirit]

This little story is so far removed from The Pitt canon, that I don't even know if I should post it on AO3. Maybe later?

It's "Inconsistencies 'verse", so it's disabled Frank Langdon story. And it's also Shendon. Because my brain is apparently not immune to propaganda.

Also, it doesn't have a title. Yet. It's about 1200 words. John Shen PoV, first year pre-med.

.#

John has a boyfriend back home. They’ve been together since freshman year of high school, since they sat in that closet together, for three hours, listening to footsteps and screams and gunshots.

They sometimes laugh about it. How they survived a literal closet, so they were never in the closet about their feelings and their relationship. Rest of the town be damned.

John doesn’t have many friends. Actually, he only has one true friend. His boyfriend, Tony. They live—or lived, John has moved out and he’s not going back—in a traditional neighborhood of a middle-sized town, in the northern mid-west. Most kids at their school frowned upon an openly—brazenly—gay teenage couple. But he and Tony helped each other survive. Such experience bonds people for life.

Except, Tony is back home now, and John is here, in Pittsburgh.

Tony didn’t want John to go. Tony had low SAT score and average GPA. He wasn’t really interested in college at all, and John’s ambitions to apply for combined BA/MD programs sometimes made him laugh and other times made him angry.

Sometimes John wanted to give up his ambitions. And sometimes he didn’t.

John’s parents though, especially his Mother, would not let him quit, ever. She would scream at him in Chinese, if he got a B+ in AP Bio or Chem, so he wouldn’t even think about sharing his occasional doubts with her. She was a physical therapist herself. His Dad, when John once wondered out loud if, maybe, he would follow in her footsteps, gave him a long look and asked if he would tell Mom himself, or if this was a request for Dad to tell Mom in his stead. John only shook his head and went back upstairs to learn for his SATs.

So, John is in college now. He shares dorm room with Matthew, but they don’t talk a lot. Matthew has third girlfriend in as many weeks.

Tony stopped picking up John’s calls last week.

John likes his courses though, they keep him occupied and he’s not thinking about Tony not picking up his calls. He asked his younger brother, if everything is okay with Tony, because for a moment there, he was scared something happened. But nothing happened. Danny swung by the workshop where Tony worked and saw him fixing a green Chrysler. John doesn’t want to think what it means, that Tony doesn’t pick his calls.

Organic Chemistry is a good reason to think about something else. To think about hydrocarbons—alkanes, alkenes and alkynes—and their saturation, for example.

Maybe John should have stayed home?

No. He has moved out and he’s not coming back to their medium sized town in the northern mid-west. He’s going to learn all the properties of aliphatic and aromatic and heterocyclic compounds and all the bones of the wrist and even ways to solve triangles. And astronomy, if he has to. He’s going to become a doctor, like his Mother wants. Like he wants. And Tony…

Maybe Tony will accept it?

John looks at his phone under his desk, but there are no new messages.

The teacher finishes his lecture, thanks the class and says, “See you next Tuesday.” Then he adds. “Oh, hey, you, the kid in the wheelchair?”

The class falls silent as all thirty-plus students stop packing their books for a moment and stare. At the teacher first, then at the kid in the wheelchair.

John has seen him before. Thin, big head, chin dimple. He doesn’t know the guy’s name but it’s hard not to notice the one guy in a wheelchair on the campus. He’s in a room on the first floor, near the entrance, in the same dorm as John. Everyone knows that.

“Could you stay a moment?” the teacher finishes, like he hasn’t noticed the class’s consternation.

It must be awkward to be singled out like that.

The guy in the wheelchair doesn’t seem phased, though.

“Sure, sir. What’s this about?”

The teacher rises his head. He’s been packing his bag too. “I want to talk to you,” he replies. Clearly, he planned to talk to the guy in the wheelchair one-on-one. Once the rest of the class will have left.

The class is strangely slow leaving though. Like they all know.

“You can talk,” says the guy in the wheelchair.

The teacher rises his eyes again, looks at all the other students, who look at him in return.

“Uh,” the teacher is at least a little disconcerted. “I think it’s better if we talk alone,” he clarifies his position.

The guy in the wheelchair casts a glance at the people standing the closest. His roommate, another guy and a couple girls. They all nod. Neither of them even started packing.

“It’s okay. You can talk now,” the guy in the wheelchair says.

“Look,” The teacher appears more bugged, impatient even, than humbled. “I only want to make it easier for you.” John wonders how it will all turn out. Only a few students have left the class. Some hang around near the door. The four nearest to the guy stand their ground. So do some others all over the classroom. Including John. The teacher looks at them. He’s a little angry now. “Alright then.” He slaps his backpack closed. “I wanted to spare you humiliation, but if this is what you want. Are you aware that this is a pre-med track Organic Chemistry course?”

“Yes,” the guy replies with a straight face.

“As in, for future medical school students.”

“Yes. That’s why I’m in this class.”

The teacher sighs. “Listen. You’re probably smart, right? You may have had great test scores and, hell, what do I know, perhaps a perfect essay. But medicine is not a theoretical science. It’s practice.” He pauses, like what he said is supposed to be a clear and obvious argument.

John watches the guy in the—no, he can’t think about him as the guy in the wheelchair. He wishes he knew his name. The guy with a chin dimple. That’s better. Gonna be good enough for now. He watches the guy with a chin dimple with curiosity bordering on excitement.

The guy with a chin dimple nods. “I know,” he says. “Is that what you wanted to tell me?” he asks.

Like. Say what you’re implying, Mr. Teacher. John looks at the teacher and he smiles internally.

The teacher angles his head. “No. I wanted to tell you that you can’t practice medicine in a wheelchair,” he spells it out.

And. Ouch. Well. He’s not wrong, John thinks and he wishes he was. He wishes there was a way for a man who had clearly overcome a lot of obstacles already, to be able to overcome this too, but reality is brutal.

John looks at Chin Dimple and… is that pity, he’s feeling? Shit.

But Chin Dimple is not fazed. “That’s okay,” he says and his voice carries in the silent classroom. “Because I’m going to be walking in three years.”

Wow.

That’s impressive!

John wants to applaud Chin Dimple, but he stays silent, like the rest of the class.

The teacher is speechless. Chin Dimple turns his chair around and wheels out of the classroom, followed by his four friends and then, the rest of the students. They are all smirking and quietly commenting with things like, “way he told him,” or “what an asshole!”.

And John?

John thinks he may have fallen in love. A little bit.

.#

Thank you for reading.

Don't tell me if you didn't like it? *hides*

[marrsago]

•─────•°•❀•°•─────•

Satoru Gojo “Salt in the wound”.

It was the beginning of summer and you had just got out of college for the break you were tired of having that same old boring summer routine that you have every year so you set out for vacation off to the Bahamas’s and you can already imagine it. laying out in the sun having the ocean waves crash against your body finally being able to relax and not worry about an upcoming exam, you couldn’t wait to arrive to the island.

when you finally arrive to the island and unload off of the plane you take a big breath in and feel a weight lift off your shoulders. an hour after unpacking at the hotel you look out the window at the perfect view of the beach something you had your eyes set on since you’ve set foot on the ground you had your plans set on going to the beach the next morning and nothing was going to stop that.

and so when you woke up that next morning to the sun peeking through your curtains, you jumped out of bed put on your bathing suit and grabbed your beach bag heading out the door.

you laid your beach towel out in the sand and rubbed sunscreen into your legs and arms before running off into the water and letting yourself float along the waves.

while you were floating in the water without a thought in the world, the ocean decided to have another idea for you and carried him towards you like some type of cruel, perfect accident.

that blue eyed perfect boy,, Satoru Gojo

you bumped into him and he turned around towards you sunglasses slightly tilted and a grinned plaster across his face,,a grin that felt like the start of something dangerous.

“i’m sorry bout that.” you blurted out and swam back to shore drying yourself off and deciding to sunbathe instead, but then next thing you know, you see out of the corner of your eye a white haired boy plop down right next to you in the sand, you didn’t tell him to leave immediately.

“you look like someone waiting for something,” he said, not even looking at you, just watching the ocean waves crash into one another.

you blinked,, taken aback and wrinkled your brows in response “what exactly do you think i’m waiting for?”

he turned his head then, lips quirking into this stupid smile you’ve never seen before. “Me, obviously.”

and damn it, you laughed

────────────────

those weeks you spent with him after that day felt stolen. the kind of time that felt like it shouldn’t have been allowed to exist in the first place. You and Gojo would stay out late, walking down the beach barefoot, your arms brushing ever so slightly and your hearts daring a little too much at times.

He would buy you ice cream, you would push him into the water. he would kiss you in a hidden cove, a kiss so deep and passionate that it felt like the world was ending, and maybe—maybe in a way it was.

but neither of you would ever say what would come after.

because you knew. you both did.

the summer was slowly coming towards an end and you two had other places to get back home to. Gojo having to get back to Tokyo, Japan with all of his friends and family there and you, you were just passing by for the break.

on the last night, he held your face in the palm of his hands like you were some kind of lost treasure he didn’t want to let go of.

“if i could go with you,” he whispered, forehead resting against yours, “you know i would.”

you nodded. and said nothing. biting your bottom lip holding back tears.

he kissed you once more—slow,soft, like a memory

and then the next morning, he was gone.

no note, no goodbye. just the indentation in the pillow beside you and the scent of salt on your skin that didn’t wash off for days.

you never saw him again.

but sometimes, years later, when you’re down here at the islands visiting once more. you find yourself near the ocean, hoping and thinking you’ll see him again. a flash of white hair. laughter carried in the wind. and your heart will squeeze, like it never learned how to forget.

and somewhere, maybe across the world, Gojo looks at the sea and wonders if you still think about him like he still thinks about you.

You do.

You always do.

And you always will.

•─────•°•❀•°•─────•

✎ my second story!!! thank you guys so much for the feedback on the last one i’ve been feeling so much more comfortable writing now and it’s like the ideas keep coming into my head and i gotta write them down immediately!! again let me know what you guys think about this one<3

[crazylittlejester]

I wanted to ask, how exactly did MM Wild ‘make War homeless’ (assuming it wasn’t actually his fault and really he just blames himself)? Did War think it was his fault at any point in time?

Also, where did War live while he was homeless? Was it at a friend’s house or?

it was in no way LEGITIMATELY Wild’s fault, like War doesn’t blame Wild or really even see the connection, it’s just kind of one of those things where Wild set off a chain reaction of events by deciding to do something and one thing led to another and Wild feels like he’s partially responsible. He has very complicated feelings about it because yes his best friend lost a place to live but also War got out of a bad situation and started healing so

The context behind this is that War had just set a world record and won gold at the biggest skating event in the world and then abruptly quit, and then the news about what happened to him with Cia being his coach came out and War was just not having a great time and he wasn’t doing well and he was pretty vulnerable. And his boyfriend at the time took extreme advantage of that. War lived in the dorms during the school year because as soon as he was old enough and able to, he left his mom’s apartment and didn’t turn back, and he was trying to get a plan together for where to live over the summer but everything was an absolute mess and he was so overwhelmed and he was eighteen years old and it was just a lot for him to handle so his boyfriend at the time invited him to come live with him. War didn’t sign a lease, he didn’t pay for that apartment at all, and his bf held that over his head

Being so overwhelmed with dealing with legal shit with Cia and final exams and end of the year bullshit and being in an all around bad situation, War got really depressed and lost a lot of energy and his bf got a bit controlling and War BARELY left that apartment to go hang out with his friends. Like he stopped talking to everyone because his bf kinda made him, and unfortunately a lot of his friends didn’t really pick up that that was weird because War is always so busy and it’s normal to not really hear from him for days at a time. Like he was unable to make friends in middle school because he had no free time, in high school Twi and Sky really only saw him in class because that boy would wake up skate go to school skate go to bed repeat, and Sky only saw him more frequently that first year of college because they lived in a dorm together

Wild, however, knew how big of a blow losing skating was for War. He went through losing it, and he knew that skating was EVERYTHING to his friend and that War must not have been coping well with losing it and he figured THATS why he’d been so quiet (which WAS partially true). So he basically informed War that he’d be coming and getting him and then dragged him out of the apartment and they ended up going to the rink. Wild didn’t really PLAN that, he’d just meant to see War and support him so War had to get rental skates because he wasn’t prepared to bring his own, but that was his first time back on the ice since everything had blown up in his face and after that War started going himself back to the rink and he started skating again. And his bf at the time was PISSED because the less depressed and horrible War was feeling, the more he got back to his usual self, the harder he became for his bf to control. And his bf didn’t like not being able to guilt War into doing shit by holding things over his head and got really angry that War was feeling better and starting to call him out on his bullshit because if War could REALIZE he was being treated poorly then he wouldn’t do what his bf wanted. He got mad that War started hanging out with Wild again and he’d try to beat War down again by accusing him of cheating on him or by trying to turn him against Wild but it literally didn’t work

War put up with a LOT more than he should’ve because he did realize that he couldn’t exactly go anywhere else. He didn’t have a job at that point, he was still part of the ballet company he’s been trained in since he was like three, but that wasn’t enough of an income source for him to afford rent for an apartment in the major city that he lived in and he also was going to be living in the dorms in the fall and getting an apartment for two months wasn’t really an option for him so he decided to just stay and put up with everything until august. Or at least that was the plan until he and his bf got into a huge argument and he slapped War so hard he fell on his ass and when Milo, War’s cat, came running over to him he got kicked out of the way. And it does unfortunately say a lot about how War thinks of himself that HE was willing to put up with that treatment towards himself, but the second he watched his bf be mean to his cat he grabbed his shit and left

He tried to live in his car for a bit, but he felt horrible about doing that to his cats so he asked Twilight to watch them for him by driving them to the ranch and basically giving them to him and then he tried to figure something out on his own because War genuinely has a very hard time asking for help. He was neglected as a kid and he’s USED to figuring out his issues alone, like he was the one taking care of his feeding tube at 13 and when it got infected he dealt with that too, hes had to make meals for himself since he’s been tall enough to reach shit in the fridge and see over the counters, he used to walk through the city alone to and from middle and high school. he really really struggles to ask for help, hes very stubborn and independent. And when people point out that he’s struggling he has an explosive reaction and shuts down and refuses help because he gets defensive. So when Twi, Time, and Malon, who are neither stupid nor blind, realized that War was living out of his car, they Slowly and very carefully started being like “OMG MOVIE NIGHT aw man its three in the morning we stayed up sooooo late aw shucks you might as well spend the night” until eventually War just stayed with them

and the ranch was good for War because he didn’t have to feel guilty about just staying in their home doing nothing, because Malon would ask for his help around the ranch doing work and he’d do it gladly. they appreciated the extra help, War felt like he was useful, War got a roof over his head, War got his cats back, it was a good deal

Sky had a lot of personal shit going on that summer but when it was possible Twi would go get him and drive him out to the ranch to spend a weekend (its just an hour and forty five minutes from Sky’s parents place to the ranch, and nearly four hours of driving in one day is a lot). He felt horrible (and so did Twi and all of War’s friends) for not noticing how shitty of a situation War was stuck in, but War unfortunately hid it pretty well. And they didn’t realize War had NO intention of going back to his mom’s, so they didn’t realize without the dorms War had no where to go

and this is why Sky proposed he and War get an apartment after spending their second year in the dorms again. And then they were like “well why don’t we get one with Twi too” because driving from school to the ranch and back every single day WAS starting to drive Twi insane but he hadn’t wanted to live in the dorms. So the summer after that second year they got the apartment, and that’s where they still live

And this is the first time in War’s entire life that he’s had his own room. He lived in a one bedroom apartment with his mom because that was all they could afford (he had his own BED he just didn’t have his own space), then he lived in a dorm room with Sky and that place was so cramped they could high five each other without getting out of bed, then he lived with his bf which was also a one bedroom apartment, and then the ranch he shared a room with Twi (which he was incredibly grateful to have). But this apartment is the first time he’s ever had his own room and his own space and a lock on a door that he can shut. He even has his own bathroom!! He can decorate the space how HE wants and when he gets overwhelmed he has his own nice cozy area to curl up in, and his cats are there too. being able to have this apartment has been good for him in a LOT of ways

but yeah he doesn’t blame wild AT ALL, wild got him out of a bad situation and helped him feel like a person again and now he’s doing really good for the most part. he’s surrounded by people he loves and he’s on his way to getting healthier and he has his beloved creatures who are both happy and healthy as well

[deardaichi]

012. grudges, growth, and you — yaku morisuke.

wc: 0.6k cw: gn!reader. enemies to lovers <3 a/n: i've never particularly favored yaku, but this makes me like him a little more haha <3 i hope you enjoy! requested by @rumik09 and @solvisun

you’ve known yaku since you were six, and you’ve wanted to throw a dodgeball at his face since approximately the second week.

he called you a cheater during p.e. and you spent the rest of elementary school making his life mildly inconvenient. swapping his indoor shoes. hiding his pencil case. once, in fifth grade, you signed him up for the school play and gave him the role of “talking tree #3.” he never forgave you.

in return, he told your entire class you had a crush on the music teacher.

by middle school, your war had quieted into occasional eye-rolls and passive-aggressive comments.

by high school, it had become something stranger.

“you’re short,” you tell him in second year.

“you’re loud,” he snaps back.

you share a math class. he borrows your notes once when he’s sick and grumbles out a “thanks” like it burns his throat.

you shrug. “you’d do the same.”

he stares at you like you’ve said something deeply offensive.

“i wouldn’t,” he mutters.

but next week, when you’re out with a fever, he drops off your homework at your front gate without saying anything.

you find out because your mom tells you a “tiny blonde boy with a very serious face” came by.

you text him: that was weirdly nice of you.

he replies: shut up or i’ll take it back.

in third year, he becomes someone you text when you can’t sleep.

not often. just… sometimes.

on nights when the pressure feels too loud or your brain won’t shut up. you don’t say anything serious. just little things.

what if we all just dropped out and became frogs.

he replies three minutes later: you wouldn’t survive the winter. frogs don’t have heaters.

you laugh into your pillow and think maybe this thing between you isn’t war anymore.

you end up at the same college.

not on purpose.

just luck. or bad luck. depending on the day.

you spot him across campus during orientation and your heart does something weird.

you don’t say hi.

he does.

“oh great,” he mutters, falling into step beside you like it’s inevitable. “you again.”

you grin. “missed me?”

“like a cavity.”

but his smile lingers a little too long.

you grow into something real slowly.

too slowly, maybe.

he makes tea for you when you’re up late studying. never coffee. he says it makes your hands shake.

you throw a pillow at him once for memorizing your class schedule. he throws it back and adds a blanket over your shoulders before leaving your dorm.

neither of you says the word for it.

not until third year.

you’re on the floor of his apartment, surrounded by snack wrappers and overdue assignments. you’ve been laughing for twenty minutes about a terrible movie.

your face hurts. your stomach aches.

he’s looking at you with this expression like he can’t believe you’re real.

you stop laughing.

he doesn’t.

“what,” you say, suspicious.

“nothing,” he says, but his ears go pink.

you sit up. “what?”

he sighs. presses a hand to his face.

“i used to hate you,” he mumbles.

“i know.”

“like, really hate you.”

“yeah. you made that clear.”

he glances at you. then away.

“i don’t anymore.”

you go quiet.

“okay,” you say finally.

“okay,” he repeats.

you stare at each other.

then you say it.

not dramatic. not heavy. not a confession.

just honest.

“i don’t hate you either.”

his face breaks into something unsure and bright and so very yaku.

and when he leans in, you don’t flinch.

you kiss like you’re still unsure what to call this thing between you.

but it’s soft. and a little clumsy. and warm.

after, he doesn’t say anything.

taglist (open. ask to be added <3): @tangerinelovr @oligbia @megapteraurelia @iwantfoodpleasebuymefood

© everything here is written with care — please don’t repost, copy, or alter my work without permission.

[charliegyrth]

Charlie Gyrth's Stories - May 2025

Here's a guide to everything I published in May 2025. Here are my stories for March and April. You can also buy my ebooks if you're interested.

If the title is red, that means it's based off a story suggestion from one of my readers. Feel free to request more stories, everybody! (There's a slight disclaimer at the bottom of this post.)

Scooter My athletic husband Scooter is always rushing around campus. For Christmas, I give him a scooter to make his life easier, completely unaware that his newly sedentary lifestyle will change his body completely. (extreme weight gain, mobility issues)

King Kong and the Blob In my very first fantasy story, a gay couple buy cursed figurines from a Halloween shop, causing their bodies to start changing in very different ways. (fat gain, muscle gain, hair growth, hair loss, romance, magic)

Fattening the Actor Chad McDowell is an A-list actor known for his perfect body. He hires his old high school friend to help him gain weight for a role, and, well... he gets enormous. (weight gain, stuffing, feeding)

Fat Felix Tries Ozempic I love my husband's fat body, but when he decides to go on a weight loss drug, I support his decision. As he loses weight, I overeat to process my feelings. (weight loss, weight gain, role reversal, romance)

You Peaked in High School My high school bully goes to my college. He starts the year with the perfect jock body, but once he realizes that being a dick won't make him popular in college, everything about him changes, including his body. (extreme weight gain, feeding, sex, role reversal)

Chicken Shack Fatties My coworker is gorgeous and really mean. After openly insulting our obese customer, I give him some advice about his attitude. He changes after that, but not in the way I expect. (extreme weight gain)

Final Destination: Obesity Five fit gay friends see their lives change forever when one of them has a premonition that they're all going to die unless they make themselves fat. (extreme weight gain, romance)

Fat Farm Boys A fit gay couple inherit a farm. They have to live there, but they don't need to do any work. They quickly learn that rural living has major consequences to their bodies. (extreme weight gain, immobility, feeding)

Hangry A man comes home angry from work every day. It causes so much stress for his stay-at-home husband that he decides he needs something to alleviate his hangriness. And that "something" is food. (extreme weight gain, feeding, romance)

Back from the Oil Rig My boyfriend spent half a year working on an oil rig. While he was gone, I got a little chubby from stress-eating. I feel self-conscious before he arrives, but I really shouldn't have. He's grown a lot more than me. (romance, belly worship)

Search History A man googles pictures of fat men for an art project. His boyfriend sees the search history and completely misinterprets things. He starts gaining to please his partner, unlocking a kink that neither knew they had. (extreme weight gain, romance)

Unrecognizably Fat The nephew of a drug kingpin is on the run from his family and the police. With the help of his boyfriend, he gains a huge amount of weight to change his appearance forever. (extreme weight gain, romance)

Three Roommates A gay couple move into my dorm room. They seem pretty chill, but I don't understand why one of them is always feeding the other. Should I join in? (extreme weight gain, throuple, feeding, belly worship)

I'm Too Fat for My In-Laws 1 2 My boyfriend's parents make fun of my weight, and he doesn't stand up for me! I angrily break up with him. He'll do anything to win me back, including gaining a few pounds himself. (weight gain, romance)

Fat Blind Date 1 2 I go on a blind date with an extremely obese man. Even though we hit it off, I freak out and leave. I can't stop thinking about him, though. Maybe I'll start living life the way he does. (weight gain, encouragement, romance, stuffing)

Fat Camp Reunion 1 2 I go back to my childhood camp for our ten-year reunion and see that all my old friends are now unbelievably obese. What happened to them? And why are they shocked that I'm not? (extreme weight gain, stuffing).

Hey, Chubs! 1 2 I'm by far the skinniest guy in my friend group. I go to a pool party, but everyone treats me like I'm morbidly obese. Is this a joke? Or does everyone see me differently than I see myself? (extreme weight gain, stuffing, sex, romance)

Giving In 1 2 My boyfriend wants us to get fat. I'm not into it, but I agree to "give in" to a more relaxed lifestyle, choosing to only do things that bring me joy. This decision changes both our lives completely. (extreme weight gain, stuffing, romance)

Speedos 1 2 I'm a competitive swimmer. My boyfriend convinces me to relax my diet during the off-season, but things get completely out of control. I don't think I'll ever swim again. (extreme weight gain, stuffing, tight clothes)

Fat Passengers 1 2 3 On a journey across space, my cryo-tube malfunctions and I'm forced to spend six years with another fellow passenger. Our romance blossoms, but the only way to pass the time is eating and feeding each other. (extreme weight gain, sci-fi, immobility, feeding)

My Former Best Friend 1 2 3 4 5 My childhood best friend turned into my biggest bully in high school. I haven't seen him in years, until he shows up at my doorstep desperate for a place to stay. Determined to make amends, he starts eating everything I tell him to. (extreme weight gain, humiliation, romance, tight clothes)

As always, thanks so much for reading! Let me know which stories you liked or disliked and I'll keep your feedback in mind for my future stories!

And I want to give a big shout-out to everyone who's sending me story requests. It's taking me a while to get to all of them, but I'm trying. However, I want to remind everyone that I stay away from non-consensual gaining, so if your story request involves a character forcing another character to get fat against his will, I'm probably not going to write it (unless I find a way to spin your idea in a more positive direction).

And that's it! You're awesome!

[valenteal]

You’re absolutely right that it was a deliberate decision made by the writers. But contrary to what the majority of the fandom believes, I don’t think they made that decision because they thought Caspian and Maddie “belonged together” or something sappy like that. They made the decision because they needed to give Maddie her reasoning for becoming God, and well, Caspian was right there about to sacrifice himself, and losing him but ending up having his child seems traumatic. And they were stupid teens, it’s not that far fetched.

Like, with the way it turned out I would say that the relationship was never meant to be more than a plot motivating device, which is why it didn’t get much screen time. They were together romantically for all of five seconds, and yeah that was a major catalyst for the rest of the show and also the beginning of the show, but it wasn’t exactly healthy or inspiring… Maddie literally went crazy with the grief and Caspian never really even had time to process his feelings for her.

I don’t think the people defending the ship are creeps themselves, more likely they’re teenagers and young adults who remember what it’s like to have a crush that was just the wrong side of age appropriate and like the fantasy that the hot college dude who helped with the school play in freshman year could also be interested in them. Or at least that’s what I hope. Who could say. I’m sure a lot of people just don’t think about it too hard and don’t know what to say when confronted with the facts. Facts like, yes, this is objectively illegal and never would’ve worked out if they had more normal lives and Ellen (and all the other adults) would definitely have put a stop to it if she’d known while it was going on and not just comforting her daughter in the aftermath.

Just… don’t judge people so quickly and vehemently for something like shipping a canon ship. It’s very different to like a ship between two fictional characters who see one another as equals, and being a predator who makes excuses to actively pursue a relationship with someone below the age of consent.

Bruh why are so many Madspian shippers on my fyp

*Read my entire main post, i have added screenshots of sources to prove the age gap and that its legally non consensual*

😭

I hate that ship with every bone in my body yall r literally romanticizing a relationship with an ADULT and someone UNDER THE AGE OF CONSENT

You’re literally condoning statutory 🍇 , 16 is the age of consent and theres no romeo juliet laws in norway

If you seriously condone this shit i beg you please block me i dont want to see your PDF fan art on my fyp

Never in my life have I seen a proship so popular jesus christ

Edit: there was a whole thing in some reblogs of this post with some misunderstandings so im just gonna clear some stuff up here

Yes maddie is under the age of consent, here are plenty of screenshots to back that up. If you genuinely thought that she wasn’t, its alright I’m not hating on you but she is under the age of consent and it IS statutory 🍇. (Also legally only the norway one applies but even if it happened in california it wouldnt matter) the middle school ss it to prove that other characters, or at least *caspian* definitely view her as younger, she is a freshman at the start of the show.

[valiant-portabella-pirkko]

I think probably the biggest irony of Ruju being such a notorious college bully is that if he ever saw any other asura picking on his usual targets, he'd go after them with NO hesitation. He claimed it was because they're 'infringing on his territory,' but that didn't really explain him going out of his way to retrieve and return stolen items, intervene when someone is being ganged up on in a fight (comparing the attacking group to skritt to boot) and even keep a strangely protective eye on those that are injured or otherwise can't fight back.

In many ways it made him sort of a 'lesser evil,' the type who might cause his fair share of grief but was comparatively harmless; Ruju's original goal was to imitate the worst of the worst after all, not to actually become them. But it certainly had to send some mixed signals, that's for sure--

... Ruju also tended to go strangely easy on anyone who helped with his homework. His usual go-to might've been trying to get others to do it for him, but what he really needed was a tutor. He just wasn't willing to admit that since it's what got him bullied most when he was younger. 👍

[introspectivememories]

please put your reasonings in the tags!!!! esp if you pick the last one

[cagenewman]

That's actually why you married me, is because you knew that getting into bed with a carpenter and construction worker would mean that you'd get a nice house of the deal, huh? Ignoring the fact that we lived in that little suburban house for a while and I'm pretty sure you would have lived in cardboard boxes with me if I asked you to. That's besides the point. But for what it's worth, I think you've always been something, whether you were living in that tiny apartment and working two jobs, or now that you're starting a new career and happily married. You've always had something. Just had to wait for the right moment to tap into it. A corgi… I mean, I feel like I would be a major hypocrite if I tried to say no, I sort of came with ducks, chickens, a dog and a cat already attached, so as long as you feel like we're up for the responsibility, go for it. Just make sure they're good with kids and other animals, maybe they'd have one up at the shelter? I'm obviously very 'adopt don't shop' about the animals, I think dad instilled that in us with all the strays we ended up taking in. It'll be weird, though, when he does go to college. You know, getting used to having him around and adding another kid -- and then another kid -- to the house only to have him turn around and head off for college is going to rock the boat a little bit, but I think that makes it an even better thing that Rosalyn and Cienna get along as well as they do, it'll make it easier when her brother isn't here in the house. He will, I trust him. I'm just going to let him feel it out, tell me what he wants to do. I went right into the work force after high school, and I might regret it for personal, Cordelia-shaped reasons, but I don't regret it in terms of wishing I'd done something else, so he'll figure it out. The thing with Colton, and moms is just… it's complicated because of his mom. Not that he thinks of her as his mom, I don't even know if he thinks of her at all. When he thinks about a mother figure that makes him dinner and tells him goodnight and helps him with girlfriend advice, he thinks of you, period. But I've promised myself that when he turns eighteen, I'll give him that box in the closet. The one that has all the letters and cards and little gifts that she's sent through the years. Which, admittedly, there haven't been a lot of in the past few years, last I knew, she had another kid and things just … stopped coming in. Guess the third one's the charm when it comes to forgetting your first born. We'll talk to him. Figure out what he wants, he's old enough that he can trust us to trust him, you know? I do not have a foot fetish! It was an example since we were already talking about shoes, thank you -- I could have said that your bra is a fuck-me-bra, or your ponytail holder is a fuck-me-scruncii, but I didn't think fast enough. I love you from your head to your toes, but I can honestly, safely say that your feet will not be coming anywhere near me unless it's you trying to warm them up in the middle of the night, you have my word. I have to run to keep my calf muscles, have you seen those babies lately? Jesus. Still keeping my good ole thunder thighs, though, I think that's just genetics. Lumberjack genetics. But we can take it easy, and maybe throw in some yoga or pilates to go more your style, too, I'm give and take. … I -- what? Hold on, the girls I understand, but the boys wanted stuffed animal keychains? Do you mean that the boys wanted them for their girlfriends and they're being sweet, or are you telling me that I should go out and buy them footie pajamas tomorrow and ask if they want to watch Bluey with me and the girls? Also, you're insane. I love you, but you're insane.

No, I definitely didn't think that five years ago I'd be anywhere like this. If anything, back then, I was just hoping that in five years I'd be out of that apartment I was originally living in maybe a slightly nicer one. Instead I'm a mom of four, two teenagers and two little girls who keep us on our toes daily talking about college decisions. If someone had told me that was going to be my life, all of this, and that I was going to make something of myself more than working two part-time jobs I would have said you were crazy. Life works out when we least expect it sometimes. Speaking of the farm, know we're trying for a baby and everything but I can't lie, I would really love to get a puppy -- a Corgi to be exact. So, if one day I come home with a little burnt potato, you didn't see anything. There's no doubt that he's going to know he's loved no matter where he goes, plus there'll be a lot of text messages, phone calls, Facetimes, care packages, and visits. Him going to college won't really change anything aside from the face that he isn't physically here during the school term. Think whatever decision Colton makes, he'll make a smart one. He's a very smart kid, and he's going to do things that are the best for him too, even if I do think he should at least do a couple college courses, I don't want him to miss out on it and regret it years later. Good thing is there's even more time with Colton before any decisions have to be made, let's do this one kid at a time. Think it depends on the situation, in a serious situation they're not going to take the time to look into all the paperwork, and as much as I would love to see Rafael go head to head with someone attempting to deny me access -- and let's be honest, if someone attempted to deny me access to any of my children think I may be more scary than Rafael any day. Know I may not have birthed him, or even been there to raise him through those first years, but I've known and loved Colton from the moment he's become apart of my life and he's my son. No one is going to tell me different. I want whatever will make him happy, whatever legalities that is. Only you could make socks seem like they'd be a sexy thing, but I'm starting to think you've got a foot fetish and if you talk about your mouth coming anywhere near my toes you're permanently banned and put at a five foot distance at all times. With the kids either asleep or off in their rooms, I wouldn't mind sitting down on the back porch and just enjoying the peace and quiet, if you want to grab us something to drink -- dealers choice of what we're having. I do want to stay healthy when this happens, but running? I'll consider it even it's not really my thing mainly because I'm going to need to stay in shape in some way. Feel like this is the perfect time to also warn you about some packages coming in. Colton and Shawn were watching Tik Tok with the girls and apparently there's this huge thing right now, called Labubus and the girls saw them and have been asking for them for days. Which, did you know, you can't just go to any old store and buy them? No, you have to attempt to get them from very specific places online and people are absolutely ravages in the amount they're buying and I've been fighting for hours to get TWO of them only to find out that Shawn and Colton also want these little monster creature keychain stuffed animals. Which means I got desperate and panic bought two full boxes of six, so when we have fourteen mini monsters running around the house it absolutely wasn't my fault.