#I still need to fold this from a better piece of paper

[love-bucky-3000]

Date Night and Stage Lights (Bucky Barnes x Reader)

Prompt: You take Bucky to see a play for his birthday

WC ~2000

Warnings: none really, fluffy boyfriend bucky, very very slight angst, some comfort ig

a.n: i wrote this quickly so the end is rushed unfortunately but it was such a cute idea that i had to write it! this is mostly just cute fluffy boyfriend bucky vibes

share and enjoy!!

You had bought the tickets before you could second guess your decision. The tickets sat safely in your purse as you rode the subway to your Brooklyn apartment- the one you shared with Bucky. The tickets were for the play “Wizard of Oz”- a movie Bucky talked about seeing when it first came out. You had been talking about the new Wicked movies when Bucky had said he really enjoyed the film, even with all the “annoying” music (his words, not yours). When you saw that the theatre had a private booth for tonight, you jumped on the chance to buy the tickets.

The winter coat you wore was suffocating in the hot subway but it was needed in the chilly March air. Finally, the subway reached your spot and you hopped off, almost skipping up the stairs into the bustling New York streets. Bucky insisted that spending a quiet day with you would be enough for his birthday and you knew he struggled with crowds, but he was getting better! Yeah, he still scanned every business he went in for threats. Yeah, he still insists you stand to his right side, leaving his metal arm free to block any incoming attacks, but you knew he was trying. Trying for you. You thought the private booth in the theatre would help calm his nerves. You hummed happily to yourself as you climbed the stairs of the apartment building. You greeted Alpine, Bucky’s fluffy feline, as you entered the apartment.

You found Bucky sitting in his reading chair that sat in the back corner of the apartment, facing the New York skyline. “Hey, baby,” he said as he stood to greet you. Bucky met you in the middle of the living room in just a couple of strides and scooped you into his arms. He hugged you tightly, peppering kissing across your cheeks. You giggled and squirmed in his arms. “Buck! Put me down, I can’t breathe!” 

He laughed and set you back on your feet but kept his hands locked behind your back. Your own arms came up and you intertwined your fingers at his neck, playing with the strands of hair that had fallen out of his low pony tail. His lips found yours and you smiled into the soft kiss. You let him kiss you for a few more moments before Alpine’s loud cry reached your ears. You pulled away with a laugh and bent down to pick her up. “I’m sorry, Appie, did I not give you enough attention when I came home?” The cat purred as you scratched under her chin then saw a fly and jumped out of your arms to get it. 

Bucky shook his head at the cat and bent down to gather your purse that had fallen when he greeted you. “Oh, wait!” He paused, his hand halfway to setting the purse on the table, as he turned his questioning eyes back to you. You had a mischievous smile on your face as you dug through your purse. “Aha!” you exclaimed as you found the two pieces of paper. You handed them to Bucky with a smile. He cocked an eyebrow at you and took them, “I said no gifts.” 

“Come onnn, Bucky. It’s your birthday! We don’t have to go, but I thought you would like it.”

Bucky kept the look of disapproval on his face as he unfolded the paper. His eyes scanned the words. Your heart was beating rapidly. Bucky remained silent, his face neutral. “It was a spur of the moment purchase. We, um, don’t have to go. Of course, it’s up to you…” You trailed off your comments, seeing no change in his face. You decided to keep quiet, letting Bucky process the gift. You awkwardly shifted from foot to foot, wishing Alpine would come back to break the tension. 

The sound of the paper being folded again broke the silence. Bucky cleared his throat before speaking. “Doll, I… don’t know what to say…” You studied his face, not seeing anger. You saw more unease. You stepped up to him and placed your hand on his bicep and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “It’s okay, Buck, we don’t have to go, we-” Bucky cut you off with a shake of his head. The tickets were still clinched in his hands. He opened and closed his mouth, seemingly lost for words.

“It’s just… this was the last movie I took Rebecca to before I shipped off. I haven’t seen it since.” His voice was shaky while recalling the time with his baby sister. You know he missed her dearly, along with everything to do with his old life.

“Oh, Buck, I’m sorry. I didn’t know. We can do something else.” You gave his bicep another squeeze and stepped closer, bringing him into a hug. He accepted it and brought you closer, resting his cheek on the top of your head, breathing in the smell of your shampoo. He pulled back enough to rest his forehead against yours. “I wanna go. I just wasn’t expecting for it to bring back so many memories.” You smiled sadly up at him and gently kissed his lips. “It’s a private booth. I thought that would help stay away from the crowd,” you explained. He nodded. “That is very thoughtful. Thank you, doll.” 

“How about we get ready and get dinner before we get to the theatre?” you suggest Bucky’s favorite diner down the block from the apartment. He agreed and you both separated to get changed. As you got ready, Bucky told you how Becca loved musicals. He told you how he would pull overnight shifts at the docks to pay for tickets. Your heart equally broke at the memories and swelled at his love he had for his family. When you finished getting ready, Bucky left Alpine some food and threw her a quick “be good” which she flicked her tail at. 

On the way out the door, he gently wrapped a scarf around your neck and brought you into his side, trying to keep the wind from biting at you. You walked in step with him all the way to the diner, his cologne filling your senses. He opened the door for you and guided you to your favorite booth in the corner. As you went to sit in the booth seat opposite him, his hand reached out to gently pull you in the booth next to him. You sat down and scootched into his side and leaned up to kiss his cheek. A rosy flush crossed his face as he threw an arm over your shoulders to cuddle you in closer. He wasn’t the most comfortable with PDA, but he seemed to be in a good headspace, happy to show his appreciation for you.

“Can I get you anything different today?” The waitress, Darla, was an older woman who seemed to always be there when you and Bucky were. “Just the normal, Darla, thank you!” You said, and Darla took the order down on her notepad. 

“Actually, could you add a slice of that chocolate cake?” Bucky cut in before Darla could walk away. “Of course!” she replied and went off to drop the order at the kitchen window.

You playfully nudged Bucky with your elbow. “Sweet tooth today?” you joked. “Not as sweet as you,” Bucky replied. “That was absolutely horrible, Bucky!” you exclaimed through your laughter. He joined in on your laughing and nudged your nose with his, kissing you in the middle of a smile. You kissed back and parted shortly after, the smile remaining as you gazed up into his blue eyes. You rested your head on his shoulder and looked across his chest to the large window to his left, watching as people wandered in and out of stores. 

Bucky quietly thanked Darla as she brought your drinks but made no effort to move you from his shoulder, keeping his arm wrapped around you as his fingers drew random shapes along your upper arm. Despite the amount of people outside, the diner was nearly empty, leaving Bucky without the normal filling of dread that usually clouds him when there are unknown people coming and going. 

With the soft melody of old jazz tunes playing and the retro vibe of the diner, it wasn’t hard for Bucky to imagine what it would have been like to have you in this exact position almost 100 years earlier. He could imagine himself, the young, unbroken version, whisking you off to the dance hall after this meal. (He would have happily pulled a double shift at the docks to afford bringing you out to eat). Maybe instead of the dance hall, you would have gone with him to take Rebecca to the first showing of the play you were about to take him to. He glanced over at the empty seat on the other side of the booth, easily imagining Steve’s skinny body filling it. Bucky so desperately wished things were different, but at the same time, he would have never known you if they were. His nostalgic thoughts were interrupted with Darla bringing the plates of food by. Bucky lifted his arm as you raised up and thanked Darla. Darla gave you both a smile and left with an “Enjoy!”

Darla brought the piece of cake Bucky requested when she saw you were almost done with your burgers. You slid it closer and took the fork provided and held it up to Bucky’s mouth. His mouth stayed closed as he gave you a look that said “what the fuck are you doing”. You giggled and nudged his mouth with the fork, leaving behind a bit of frosting. You watched as Bucky went to lick it and watched as his face changed from annoyed (only playfully) to scheming. You cocked an eyebrow as he smirked. Bucky quickly leaned in and kissed your cheek, smearing the frosting there. You held back a squeal and looked at Bucky in disbelief as he laughed so hard his face was getting red. 

You joined in on the laughter as you put down the fork and reached for a napkin. Bucky took it from you as he took your chin between his thumb and index finger of his metal hand and gently wiped your cheek free of frosting with the other. He didn’t release your face once he was done, taking the time to memorize all your features. You blushed under his intense gaze. “Sorry, you’re just so cute.” You couldn’t reply as his mouth first kissed your nose then found yours again in a sweet kiss. “Come on, let's eat the cake before we’re late to the showing.” As much as you wanted to stay in your little bubble, the show was starting in just over an hour.  You and Bucky took turns with the fork, finishing the cake quickly. Bucky paid (not without fighting you all the way to the check out) and held out his elbow as you exited the dinner. You threaded your arm through his and started the walk to the theatre. 

It didn’t take long to get seated in your private booth. Bucky had unease pouring off of him despite being away from the crowd. Luckily, the seats were moveable and you pressed your chair into his and threaded your arm under his against to rest on his shoulder. He relaxed slightly and you kept your hand in his for the entire show, stroking your thumb across the back of his hand whenever you felt his tense. The play concluded and you and Bucky discussed the play all the way back to your apartment, where you were met with a very unhappy Alpine (she could see the bottom of her dry food bowl).  

[drachenfalter]

Last week, I decided I wanted to try and figure out how to fold a simple crocodile.

...

Well I failed on the 'simple' part, but I did fold an origami crocodile!

Still need to fold this from some nicer paper though, and there are a few more improvements I made while working on the Crease Pattern.

[animamii]

"Fushiguro, that's your girl?" One of Toji's block mates asks, eyeing one of the many pictures Toji had of you taped to the slate gray brick wall. It was a simple picture, your hair was wavy in this one, a cute dimply smile, lashes curled as you looked all natural. But god, were you still stunning. Toji looks up from the thing he was doing, sitting in the steel chair that was bolted down to the floor.

"Yup, that's my ol' lady," looking up at the picture he can't help but proudly smile. Toji's wall is covered in pictures. Of you, of Megumi. The whole family. Cute pictures you took with each other before he got locked up. It was his motivation to stay straight while being inside. To remind him of what's waiting for him when he gets out.

The block mate lets out a low whistle, nodding approvingly as he leans back against the cold wall. “Damn. She bad.” His celly's eyes roam over the pictures. Ones where you're dressed up all pretty, makeup done perfectly. Ones where you're wrapped around one of Toji's arms, looking up at him with all the adoration in the world. Even the ones that show just a little too much, which Toji keeps right next to where he lays his head.

Toji chuckles, shaking his head. “Watch it.” There’s no real threat in his voice, but there’s an edge of warning that makes the other guy hold his hands up in surrender.

“Ain’t mean no disrespect, Fushiguro,” he says, still looking at the pictures. “Just sayin’. You lucky.”

Toji doesn’t need to be told that. He already knows. It’s what gets him through the long nights, the endless hum of fluorescent lights, the hostility of the barbed wire that separates him from the outside. Knowing you're out there, waiting, is the only thing that keeps him from losing his damn mind.

He leans back against the desk he sits in front of, arms folding across his broad chest, eyes fixed on the pictures. His ol’ lady. His girl. His anchor in a life that never gave him much stability.

A slow smirk tugs at his lips. He can still hear your voice, that soft, teasing lilt whenever you’d call him by his full name just to mess with him. “Toji Fushiguro,” you’d say, dragging it out, pretending to scold him, even though your eyes always gave you away. He lived for those moments.

“Bet she writin’ you, huh?” the block mate asks. “You get letters?”

Toji nods. “Every week.” And he does. Neatly folded pages that smell like you, inked with words that remind him that he’s still human. That he’s still yours. That he still has something waiting for him beyond these walls. But god, does he miss you.

“Damn,” the block mate mutters, shaking his head in disbelief. “Every week? That’s real love right there.”

Toji just smirks again, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a folded piece of paper, edges worn from being opened and closed too many times. He doesn’t even need to read it again—he’s already memorized every damn word—but still, he unfolds it, running a calloused thumb over the handwriting. Your handwriting.

Hey, baby. I know you hate when I get all mushy, but I don’t care. I miss you. I miss you so much it drives me crazy sometimes. But I’ll wait. However long it takes, I’ll wait. You better be eating, staying out of trouble, and keeping that smart-ass mouth in check. (Okay, maybe not too much. You know I love that about you.)

Toji chuckles to himself, shaking his head. Yeah, you knew him too damn well.

Megumi misses you too, even if he acts all tough about it. You should’ve seen his face when I told him your letter came. He’s just like you, y’know? Won’t say how he really feels, but it’s all there in his eyes.

Toji swallows hard, jaw clenching. Megumi. His kid. Another reason for pushing through this hellhole. He pictures him—too serious for his own good, but with those same sharp blue eyes. His boy.

“Yo, Fushiguro,” another voice calls out, snapping him from his thoughts. One of the guards. “Mail just came in.”

Toji is already up before the guy even finishes his sentence, heart pounding just a little faster. The guard hands the baby pink envelope with a lazy flick of the wrist, and Toji snatches it up quick, already recognizing the familiar scrawl of his name across the front.

His block mate lets out a laugh. “Man, look at you. Actin’ like a kid on Christmas.” Toji was always stoic, kept to himself and never showed much emotion. But hey, you always brought it out of him and he wasn't gonna front or hold a facade when it came to how he felt about you.

Toji doesn’t respond. He just sits back down, thumbs sliding under the flap of the envelope, tearing it open like it’s the only thing keeping him breathing in this godforsaken place. The first thing that falls out is a polaroid. His breath catches. It’s you.

You're sitting by a window, sunlight spilling over your skin, that soft, gentle smile on your lips. His girl. His sweetheart. Looking at him like she sees something in him that even he has trouble believing in sometimes. And just like that, the walls of the prison don’t feel so damn suffocating. He’s got something to hold onto.

Toji runs a thumb over the polaroid, like he could somehow feel you through it. The picture is warm, soft, a stark contrast to the cold steel and concrete around him. He exhales through his nose, staring at it for a long moment before finally unfolding the letter.

Your words hit him like they always do—gentle, teasing, but full of something deeper. Something that reminds him why he’s still holding on.

Hey, baby. I hope you’re not making the guards’ lives too hard. (Who am I kidding? I know you are.) It’s been getting colder here. I keep stealing your hoodie, the one you always say is yours but smells like me now. Tough luck, Fushiguro, it’s mine until you come back and take it from me.

Toji smirks, shaking his head. She’s gonna pay for that one.

Megumi’s been doing good in school, but I had to threaten to ground him just to get him to eat something other than instant ramen. He’s stubborn, just like his old man.

His smirk fades a little. He can picture it—Megumi sitting at the dinner table, arms crossed, trying to act like he doesn’t care. Just like Toji used to. The guilt settles in his chest, heavy and unshakable. He just wishes he could be there. For the both of you.

We miss you. I miss you.

He stops, lingering on that line. Simple, but enough to send a slow ache through his ribs.

I don’t care how long it takes. You come back to me, Toji. We’re waiting.

Toji exhales sharply, pressing the paper between his fingers, his grip a little too tight.

“Damn,” his block mate mutters, watching him. “She really ridin’ for you, huh?”

Toji just nods. He doesn’t need to say anything. He folds the letter carefully, tucking it away with the others. Getting up, he sticks some tape of the back of the polaroid, putting it up next to the rest of the pictures. Then he leans back in his chair, looking up at the mosaic of pictures you send him.

Yeah. She’s waiting. And he sure as hell isn’t gonna let her down.

[maskedbyghost]

part 3 of Simon marrying another woman. tw: violence, mental health struggles, torture, mentions of death.

Your breath caught in your throat. Time seemed to slow as Simon raised the gun to his head, his hands steady on the trigger.

But your voice cut through the silence, even though it felt like you couldn’t move at all.

"Do it, then. If that’s really who you are."

His hand froze, the gun still on his temple.

His eyes snapped to yours filled with confusion. It seemed like you weren’t good at this.

You moved a bit forward, eyes locked on his. "But don’t pretend this is strength. Don’t act like this is the man who’s led us through hell and back. The man who doesn’t quit."

His grip tightened for a second, then stopped.

But you didn’t stop. "You think this is how it ends? You, sitting here while everything burns down around you? That’s not you, Simon. You fight. You endure. That’s who you are."

He still kept looking at you.

Another inch closer. "So go ahead. Pull the trigger. But if you do, you’re not the man I thought you were. Not the man who kept us alive when it mattered."

The gun trembled in his hand, lowering just a fraction.

Your voice was low that Price, who was still standing behind the two of you, barely even heard. "Or you can drop it. Stand up. And prove me right."

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

Then, the gun slipped from his grasp, landing with a thud on the floor.

Simon slumped back against the wall and you felt like you could finally breath again.  

You didn’t move closer. You didn’t offer comfort.

You just stared him down.

And that was enough. For now, at least.

A few days since that night things were quieter, but you could still feel the tension deep iside you. Simon had begged Price and you not to tell anyone what had happened—what he'd almost done. You still remember the panic in his eyes as he requested you both keep it between the three of you. Price had agreed, but only if Simon promised to see a psychologist.

The terms were set. Simon would keep up with the therapy, or he would retire early. But Simon didn’t resist; he knew it was his only chance to avoid the fallout, to start dealing with everything.

You hadn’t tried to talk to him much since that day. You gave him space. You knew it wasn’t your place anymore—not after everything. There were moments when you’d catch him in passing, but your gaze would quickly drop to the floor, avoiding the awkwardness that had settled between you both. He didn’t reach out either, not that you expected him to. Simon was good at keeping everything locked away, just like he had always done.

You saw him during briefings, his eyes weren’t the same anymore—not the man you once knew. But that was something he had to face on his own. You weren’t going to intrude. You couldn't.

And the thing that hurt the most? He still didn’t talk about her. You knew she wasn’t in the picture anymore, but he never said a word about their relationship, not to you or anyone else. He’d simply let it go, as if she had never been part of his life.

As if she didn’t ruin everything.

You didn’t ask. You couldn’t. Maybe it was better that way—both of you pretending like that chapter never existed. But, deep down, you knew better. You knew Simon had his reasons, and you didn’t need to hear them.

You didn’t expect anything from Simon anymore. You’d let go of that hope months ago. But you knew the team was watching, concerned. Soap had asked you about it a few times, always in his own way. He never pushed, but you could tell he saw what was happening, saw how it affected you. But none of them pushed. None of them knew what to say.

So you stayed back, kept your distance. If Simon wanted to get better, if he wanted to talk, you’d be there. But for now, you had to let him find his own way.

A few days later as you walked into your room, you tossed your gear aside and slumped into the chair at your desk. But something caught your eye, a small folded piece of paper sitting on your desk.

A letter.

With a deep breath, you picked it up, your fingers trembling as you unfolded it. The handwriting was unmistakable, Simon’s familiar handwriting filled the whole page. You felt a pang in your chest before you even read the first word, but you couldn’t stop yourself.

“I don’t know how to do this love, but I need to tell you. The therapist says I should, and I think I have to. You deserve to know the truth

It’s not easy to admit this, but I’ve been living a lie. She lied to me, twisted everything in my head, and I let her. She fed me so many things—things about you, about us, about my life—that I didn’t even know what was real anymore. I don’t know how to explain it, but I believed her. I believed everything she said. She was my childhood friend after all. I thought I was doing the right thing when I left you, when I walked away. Oh, what a fool I was.

The night I left... that fucking picture. She showed it to me. It looked real—too real. You and him. Another soldier from the squad. She said it was proof. Proof that you were with someone else, that I wasn’t the one for you. She made it seem like it was your betrayal. I was hurt, so damn hurt, and I couldn’t think clearly. I didn’t want to believe it, but I did. She had everything lined up, a story that made sense.

And then I left. I told myself I was doing the right thing. I thought I had to walk away, that maybe it was for the best. She was there for me. She comforted me, and I was angry, so angry. I didn’t want to be angry with you, but I couldn’t help it. I thought you’d done something you clearly hadn’t. And I couldn’t even tell you the reason. What a fucking idiot.

And then she kissed me. She kissed me first, and I didn’t stop her because I thought it was a way to move on. Maybe it was the only way to forget, to forget you and the happiest period of my life. And when she started saying we were dating, I let it happen. I thought maybe this was the right choice. Maybe she was the one I was supposed to be with.

Then came marriage. She kept talking about it, about us being a family. And for a while, I didn’t know what to think. I thought I should just go with it, that it was the only way to keep going forward. But I couldn’t bring myself to sleep with her. I told myself I needed time, maybe because she wasn’t you. It was never the same. I don’t know why, but I just couldn’t do it.

She understood at first. But then one night, she started giving me alcohol, glass after glass, trying to push me into something I wasn’t ready for. She thought if I was drunk enough, maybe I’d forget you. Maybe I’d forget all of it. We kissed that night, and in the middle of it, I said your name. Your name. I couldn’t stop myself. And that’s when the fights started. That’s when everything I’d been avoiding came crashing down.

Then, that day when Price found me in my office, someone came to me. Someone from the team. I never thought they would be the one to speak up, but they did. They told me the truth. About her. About that picture. It wasn’t real. She had it photoshopped. She hired him and made it look like you and that soldier were sleeping together.

And when she asked for more proof, she wanted him to photoshop something with you and Soap. She thought if I saw that, I’d really walk away from everything, from the team, from you. She wanted to tear us apart, and I couldn’t see it.

And then he told me the that she had been cheating on me. She had been with him the whole time, and she’d used the pictures to manipulate me. She wanted me gone from the team. She wanted me out of your life. And I lost it. I couldn’t take it anymore. I told her to pack her bags and leave. I told her it was over.

I konw don’t deserve your forgiveness, but I have to say it. I’ve been living a lie, and I hurt you because of it. I let her make me believe you betrayed me, and I walked away without ever giving you a chance to explain. I was wrong. I’ve spent months lost without you, and I know now that I can’t move on from you. I’d get on my knees for the rest of my life, begging for your forgiveness if that’s what it takes, because I know I don’t deserve it, but I’ll spend every day proving I’m worth it.

Please, love, tell me how to fix this, please let me love you and be a part of your world again.

Still yours,

Simon.”

Your heart felt like it had shattered and been pieced back together in the same breath. The betrayal, the lies, everything she had done—it wasn’t just him being reckless; it was her plan all along. She had played on his emotions, fed him exactly what he wanted to hear, and made him believe you’d betrayed him.

The man who had once been yours, and in so many ways still was, was telling you everything—his pain, his regret, his desire for you to be in his life again. But the past still lingered between you both.

You sat there for a long time, the letter crumpled in your hands, the weight of his words sinking in slowly. Simon had been lost, and you had been left behind in ways you couldn’t even fully understand yet.

What the hell are you supposed to do now?

You didn’t waste any more time. You folded the paper with shaky hands and made your way to Simon’s office.

The hallway was quiet as you approached the door, your footsteps louder than you wanted them to be. When you reached it, you didn’t hesitate. You pushed the door open, the creak of the hinges made Simon look up, his eyes meeting yours after many days.

He didn’t say anything, and neither did you at first. For a long moment, the two of you just stood there, looking at each other.

Finally, you broke it. “So, you’re begging now,” you said, your voice sharp, filled with all the anger and hurt you’d been carrying. “After everything. After you walked away without a single explanation!”

You couldn’t hold back any longer. The anger you’d kept buried for so long spilled out.

“You left me, Simon,” you said, your voice now shaking. “You left me without a single word. You let someone else twist your mind, made me out to be the villain in your life. All I ever did was love you, and you threw that away like it didn’t even matter.”

You could see the regret in his eyes, but it wasn’t enough. Not now.

“You don’t get to just come back and act like nothing happened! You don’t get to ask me to forgive you after all of this, after everything. How the hell do you think this works? You think you can just walk back in and everything will be fine? It doesn’t work that way, Simon!”

He didn’t interrupt you. He didn’t say a word. He just stood there, watching you, his eyes full of pain. He just took it, and it made you angrier.

“You ruined everything! You destroyed us!” Your hands balled into fists at your sides, and you paced in front of him. “And now you want me to believe you? To trust you again? To just let you back in like you didn’t break me? What do you want me to say, huh?”

Still, he didn’t speak. He just watched you with that same, haunted look, his jaw clenched.

And then, slowly, he started moving. It was almost too slow to notice at first, but you caught it—the way he stepped toward you, the way his feet seemed to drag across the floor.

Before you could say anything else, he was in front of you, kneeling down, slowly lowering himself onto the ground until he was on his knees. It made you freeze. For a moment, you thought you’d imagined it, but there he was, on the floor, looking up at you with nothing but regret in his eyes.

You blinked, caught off guard. “What the hell are you doing?” you demanded, your voice almost a whisper, still raw from the firestorm of words you’d thrown at him.

His head tilted down, and he didn’t flinch, didn’t hesitate. “I’m serious about begging,” Simon said, his voice soft. “I’ll do anything. I don’t care what it is.”

Your heart raced. This wasn’t what you expected. It wasn’t some desperate plea or just empty words. He was on his knees—literally on his knees—in front of you.

“I don’t deserve your forgiveness,” Simon continued, still looking up at you, his eyes full of an intensity you hadn’t seen in a long time. “But I can’t live with what I’ve done to you, not anymore. If it’s the only way to make things right, I’ll do it. I’ll beg. I’ll spend the rest of my life on my knees if that’s what it takes to prove I’m sorry.”

You stood there, staring at him, your chest tight. You’d never seen him like this. This wasn’t the Simon you knew. The man you’d loved, the man who had always been strong, never one to show vulnerability like this.

But here he was. On his knees, asking for a chance. And you didn’t know if you were ready to give it to him. Not yet. But with everything that he was saying, the sincerity in his eyes—it hit you harder than anything else.

You opened your mouth, but the words didn’t come right away. It felt like a lifetime before you finally spoke.

“Why?” It was all you could manage.

Simon’s gaze never wavered. “Because I don’t want to live in the lie anymore. I don’t want to be the man who hurt you. I want to fix it, if you’ll let me. I’m begging you. I’m sorry. I don’t know what else to say.”

And before you could speak, before you could even think, Simon’s hands reached out and grabbed at your legs. He pulled himself even closer, his face pressing against the fabric of your pants, his breath shaky against your skin.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, over and over, his voice breaking with each word. “I’m sorry. Please, I’m so sorry.”

He held on, his arms around your legs, his forehead pressed against you like he didn’t want to ever let go. The sight of him, once so strong, now so broken, made something inside you stir. You hadn’t expected this. This wasn’t the man you thought you knew.

“Si?” You said, your voice barely audible.

“I’ll do anything,” Simon muttered, his grip tightening. “I swear, I’ll do anything. Just... please, let me fix this. Let me make it right.”

He stayed there, kneeling, holding you, his words still coming in soft, broken whispers, and all you could feel was the weight of everything—everything he had done, everything he was asking, everything that had been broken between you two.

He just continued to apologize, and you stood there, staring down at him, unsure of what came next.

A few days later, the feelings between you and Simon had settled, at least for now. Things weren’t perfect, but they were different. You could talk again—really talk—without the anger clouding everything.

He was still Simon, the man who had been by your side for so long, but now there was space between you, a new kind of distance. Friends again, not lovers, but it was a start.

You found yourself standing in his office again as Simon worked through paperwork on his desk. The sound of the pen scratching against the paper filled the room as he glanced up at you.

“I’ve got the divorce papers ready,” Simon said, you could hear the exhaustion in his voice. “I’ll send them to Price, and he can take care of sending them to her.”

You nodded, thinking for a moment. “I’ll take them to Price myself,” you said. “I need to see him anyway.”

Simon looked at you, a slight nod of approval. “Alright. Thanks, love.”

“How about we grab a cup of coffee after? Just as friends,” Simon added, his voice still soft, hopeful.

You thought about it for a second, then gave him a small nod. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

He smiled, just a little. It wasn’t much, but it was real.

As you turned to leave, your hand reached for the divorce papers on Simon's desk. Simon didn’t stop you as you picked up the papers and walked out of the office, the sound of your footsteps echoing down the hallway.

But as you made your way down the corridor, instead of heading to Price’s office, you turned down a different hallway, towards the abandoned building on the other side of the base. It had been years since anyone had used it, but you knew it well enough.

The old building creaked as you descended the stairs, the air heavy with the musty smell of decay. You could hear the sound of your boots hitting the concrete floor as you entered the basement, the space cold and unwelcoming. But there, in the corner of the room, hanging from a noose, was the woman who had taken everything from you—The bitch.

Her body swayed slightly as you approached, the dim light casting long shadows over the room. You stopped just in front of her, the cold fury building inside you.

You grabbed her by the arm and pulled her down from the ceiling, letting her body fall to the floor with a thud. She was still warm, her fingers twitching slightly as you knelt beside her.

"You're going to sign something for me," you said, your voice cold, deadly. "With a hand that's still functional though... before I kill you."

Her lips trembled, but she didn't say anything. She couldn’t. The pain and fear were clear in her eyes, but it was too late for her now. You knew what you had to do.

With a sigh, you reached for a pen. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be,” you whispered, ready to sign her fate.

-------------------------------------------

Once I click post now I'm running away. I'm scared haha

what do you guys think????

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[solvisun]

121224 ♥︎ drunk tsukishima kei and his insistence of asking you why you love him.

it's already close to midnight when your husband of two years ask you all of a sudden. he's warm, and hazy with alcohol. you're absentmindedly treading your fingers through his soft hair, the floral scent from his shampoo is irresistible. you inhale slowly and plant a small kiss on his scalp.

"why do you love me?" his head buried on the slope between your neck and shoulder, breath a little warm that tingles your skin as he sigh through his nose. you feel his hold on your hip tighten, palm smoothing the crease on your shorts as he travels down to your thighs, giving it a loving squeeze.

you resist the urge to laugh in amusement. you hear your clock from the nightstand tick faintly, the low hum of the ac ebbing and flowing in the silence. you think about the myriad of ways you could respond, yet in all of them, no amount of words will ever reach its essence. no matter how you say it, it will never be enough.

instead, you ask him back, voice low as if you’re whispering, "what's not to love about you?"

he grumbles, and you can almost imagine the little pout surfacing his pretty lips, “do you want me to barf at your sappiness?”

“i’m serious.” you say as you fight a smile.

“prove it.”

“sorry?”

he finally looks at you, a long pause with slow blinking, his hand leaves your thigh, reaches up to brush his knuckles against your cheeks. the ring on his ring finger feels cold against your warm face, light catches gold—are you talking about the ring, or his eyes? maybe both?

you’re a little tipsy yourself. you might as well just kiss him right now because your mouth always fails you to shape your love in the form of words. you’re not eloquent enough to mold a perfect sculpture of sentences, you’re not capable of holding onto a voice but it’s ironic how you’re able to carry a weight of a ton of actions—and you think, maybe he doesn’t need you to be perfect with words.

maybe he just needs you to say it, you love him for all that he is.

you capture his hand, locking your fingers through the gaps and kissing it while holding your stare. such beautiful golden brown who only ever looks at you like this. you don’t want to look away, you want to keep him forever, like he’s a promise you love to keep.

you feign a scoff, “fine. if you want specifics. i love you because you give me challenges, the ones that pisses me off in a good way, the ones that make me a better person, the ones that make me think differently.”

“i love how you argue with me about the smallest things, like which way the toilet paper roll should go, just because you know it gets a rise out of me. i love the way you silently leave the last piece of your favorite snack for me, even though you act like you don’t care.”

“i love that you fold the laundry so badly on purpose just to get out of doing it, and how you mutter ‘you’re welcome’ when i fix it.” you see the slightest of twitch of his brows. guilty.

you rest both your intertwined hand on your chest, hoping he can feel your beating organ.

“i love how you complain about the dishes but still wash the ones i ‘accidentally’ leave in the sink. i love how you steal the blankets at night but always drape them back over me when you think i’m asleep. i love how you sigh every time i forget my keys but still wait by the door to hand them to me, no matter how late i’m running.”

“i love how you can be so stubborn and sharp with your words, but you never let the day end without sitting next to me, even if it’s in silence, just to make sure we’re okay. i love how, after a fight, you pretend to not-so-subtly leave fresh fruit cuts on the counter or let me pick the movie, even though you hate my choices.”

“you choose horror all the time.” he comments without thinking, and you chuckle.

“i love that you can’t handle it. because you can’t help but cling to me after.”

at this point, your voice wavers slightly, the memories tugging at your chest. “i love that, even when we hurt each other, you always find a way to show me you care. you never say it outright, but it’s in the way you stay. you always stay, kei.”

your voice soften as you look at him, his golden eyes searching yours with a quiet vulnerability. “is that good enough of a reason, kei?”

he was quiet for a moment, his expression unreadable, before scoffing softly. “you’re so dramatic.”

right as he bury himself in your scent, lips on your neck that inevitably makes you shiver, you can see his ears turn red—and you think it’s the alcohol, but maybe it’s also because of your sappy shitty monologue. maybe its both.

your head feels lighter, a pleasant buzz on your veins and a thudding heart that can’t quiet itself, maybe you want the world to know just how much you love this man— and to make it even more sappier, he’s your world. it should be obvious by now.

you are dramatic. “hehe, that’s why we’re here. that’s why you love me.”

ever since you became his highschool sweetheart, you didn’t change as much. at least, to his eyes, you remain the love he’s always wanted.

and the things you do to him, for him. leaves him drunk with want. your name on his lips sits like a prayer, a letter of promises forever to keep—committed to keep.

the ends of his lips curl into the faintest smirk, his blush deepening as he muttered, “maybe.”

after a few quiet shifts in position, you both comfortably settle in each other’s arms for the night. he closes his eyes and yet, he can still see you in perfect resolution, as if there’s a screen behind his eyelids. replaying the memories with your words ringing his ears.

he remembers his first kiss with you before he falls to sleep. saw your eyes glossy and glowing, he never told you this but, he wanted to marry you by then. wants you to give him that look everyday, wants your beginnings and your tomorrows.

and—oh, he already has it. huh. wow, he still can’t believe you love him after all these years.

© SOLVISUN 2024. thank you for reading!

[adelliet]

Joel Miller x f!reader

NEW THERAPIST

Part 1 | Part 2

Summary: Joel’s therapist is very sick, and you’re new in town — since you’re licensed, you decided to step in as a replacement. Joel was hesitant at first, not one to open up to strangers easily, but when he finally gave it a try, he didn’t regret it.

Warnings: 18+, MDNI, age gap (Joel in his 50s, youre age is not mentioned, but it's legal!), anxiety, masturbation, verbal harassment, oral sex (m & f receiving), unprotected sex (piv), changing positions, praise kink, nicknames, strong language

A/n: Hi! I am not even trying to convince myself anymore to bealive that this isn't long asf. I really love to write a good plot yk, anyways if you have any ideas, suggestions, or anything else, feel free to text me. Also, I apologize for any grammar mistakes or phrases that might not make sense—English isn’t my first language :3 But I hope you enjoy the story! <3

Mastelist

It was late morning when Tommy stopped by Joel’s house. He knocked twice and then let himself in, as he always did — brothers didn’t need permission in Jackson. Joel was in the middle of buttoning up his flannel, looking freshly showered but not entirely awake. His hair was still damp, and he moved slowly, like every motion cost him something.

“Hey,” Tommy greeted, holding a folded piece of paper in one hand. “Got those patrol maps you wanted.”

Joel took them with a grunt, gave them a glance, then placed them on the kitchen counter without a word. He reached for his mug, sipped cold coffee, and grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair.

“I gotta go,” he mumbled, mostly to himself, slinging the jacket over his shoulder.

Tommy tilted his head. “Where you headin’?”

Joel hesitated, clearly not eager to elaborate. “…Therapy.”

That made Tommy pause. His brows lifted, confused. “Uh, you sure about that?”

Joel’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Yeah. Same time as always.”

Tommy gave him a strange look and shifted awkwardly. “Joel… She’s sick. Like, real sick. She stopped seein’ people. Some kinda respiratory thing — folks say she’s not comin’ back for a while.”

Joel froze. The keys in his hand stopped jingling. “What?”

“Yeah. Word’s goin’ around. They say at least three weeks, maybe more. I figured you heard.”

Joel shook his head slowly, frown deepening, jaw tightening. He looked like someone had pulled the ground out from under him — not that he’d ever admit that.

“I… didn’t,” he muttered, voice low and tight.

There was a long pause before Tommy scratched the back of his neck, pulling something from his pocket.

“Look, I know you don’t like this kinda thing,” Tommy said carefully, “but there’s someone new in town. Moved here a few weeks back. She’s licensed, she’s smart… young, yeah, but folks been sayin’ good things.”

Joel shot him a skeptical glance, the corners of his mouth twitching downward. “Young?”

“Not that young,” Tommy chuckled. “Just… younger than your usual shrink. But hey — she works from home, keeps things real low-key. Thought maybe it’d suit you.”

Joel didn’t respond, just stood there looking at the card Tommy handed him. A simple business card. No frills. Just a name, a soft-colored print, and an address.

Tommy caught the look in his brother’s eyes and backed off.

“Hey, just… think about it, alright? You ain’t gotta go. But don’t sit around and bottle this shit up either.”

Joel didn’t answer. He watched Tommy leave, the door clicking shut behind him, and then looked back at the card in his hand. He turned it over slowly between his fingers. Thought about throwing it away. Thought about the ache that hadn’t left his chest for months.

He sat down at the table. Stared at the wood grain. Rubbed his thumb over his temple. The silence in the house felt heavier than usual.

And he sat there. Thinking. For a long, long time.

Eventually, he ended up going.

Against his better judgment, against all the tight, thorny doubts clawing inside his mind, Joel found himself walking through Jackson’s quiet streets, shoulders hunched, head low like he was trying not to be seen. He already regretted it. Every step closer felt like one more chance to turn around and go the hell back home.

But he kept walking.

It wasn’t the idea of talking to someone that rattled him, not really. It was the idea of talking to you. Someone new. Someone who didn’t know his history, who hadn’t been there when his walls were higher than ever. He didn’t know what to expect… didn’t even know if you were going to be kind, or cold, or too damn young to understand any of what he carried.

But the worst part was how exposed he felt. Every glance from a neighbor, every quiet “hello” from someone passing by, it all made his skin crawl. Like they knew where he was headed. Like they were silently judging him for needing help. Of course, they weren’t. Nobody cared. But Joel’s anxiety didn’t exactly listen to logic.

He finally reached the address. The house looked… normal. Inviting, even. The kind of place you wouldn’t expect someone to open up their deepest, darkest shit inside. And maybe that’s what made it even harder.

Joel stared at the door for a moment, frozen mid-step. His hand hovered in the air, curled into a loose fist, just inches from knocking. But he didn’t move. He stood there like a damn statue, fighting himself all over again.

Just leave, his brain hissed. Just walk away. You’ve made it this long without this. You don’t need—

He exhaled. Loud and heavy, before he slowly, knocked.

He waited. At first, it was only a few seconds. But then those seconds stretched into something longer, heavier. Joel started to feel stupid - standing there like some lost teenager, like someone who knocked on the wrong goddamn door. Maybe you weren’t even home. Maybe this was all just a mistake. Hell, maybe you were home and just didn’t want to deal with some grumpy old bastard knocking on your door uninvited.

Joel exhaled sharply through his nose and stepped back. One foot already turned to go, hand dropping from the air like he’d imagined the whole thing.

And that’s when the door opened.

The soft click of the handle. The creak of the hinges. And then, you.

Joel stood there, rooted to the spot, eyes fixed on you like he’d forgotten how to breathe. You were smiling — that soft, sweet kind of smile that didn’t feel forced or polite, but real. You looked calm. Warm. And Joel? He was completely fucked.

His brain short-circuited. His first thought wasn’t “she looks young,” or “she looks kind.” No. His first thought was “she’s beautiful.” Not in the distant, poetic sense — no, not the kind of beauty you admire from afar and then walk away from. It was the kind of beauty that grabbed him by the throat and whispered, “You’re mine.”

His eyes flicked down for half a second, just a second, but that second was enough. The soft shape of your chest under that casual shirt. The subtle curve of your hips. The bare skin of your legs, the way your mouth moved as you said hello, lips plush and so fucking inviting it made his teeth clench.

And suddenly, his mind wasn’t where it should be. It was picturing things. Fast flashes. You underneath him. The way your voice might sound when it wasn’t professional — when it was breathless and messy and gasping his name. The way your hands might clutch at his shoulders. The way your body might arch, needy and open for him.

Jesus fucking Christ.

He blinked. Once. Twice. Forced himself to look you in the eyes. But even that wasn’t safe. There was a spark there, something intelligent, a little playful. You weren’t shy. And somehow, that was the most dangerous part.

He hadn’t said a single word. And he already knew he was in trouble.

You tilted your head a little, still holding the door open with one hand, the other tugging down the hem of your shirt instinctively. “…Sir?”

“Oh—shit, I’m sorry,” he muttered, voice low and rough like gravel. “I… I’m Joel. Joel Miller. Tommy gave me your card.”

You blinked. “Oh! Right. The therapy sessions?”

He gave a slow nod, rubbing the back of his neck, clearly a little embarrassed now. “Yeah. I wasn’t sure if I should come by but, uh… figured I’d give it a try.”

You stepped back and smiled, waving him in. “Come on in. You’re actually my first today.”

As he stepped past you into the warmth of the house, you noticed the way his gaze flicked briefly down to your outfit — an oversized t-shirt and a pair of short cotton shorts, your long warm fuzzy slippers making gentle scuffs against the floor as you moved.

It was freezing outside, but the heater was blasting and the tea was steeping, so this was your comfort zone. Still… not exactly professional.

You glanced down at yourself and laughed softly. “Sorry. I should’ve probably worn something more appropriate for a client…”

Joel looked up at you with something unreadable in his eyes — a twitch of amusement, maybe, or something darker, heavier.

“Nah,” he said simply, shaking his head. “It’s fine. Doesn’t bother me.”

You nodded and motioned toward the cozy living area just off the hallway. “You can go ahead and take a seat. Want anything to drink? Tea, coffee?”

Joel hesitated, then gave a small shrug. “Coffee’s good. If it’s not too much trouble.”

“Not at all,” you said, already padding off toward the kitchen. “Make yourself comfortable.”

He watched you disappear around the corner, the sound of the kettle starting up filling the silence behind him. As he settled onto the couch, his fingers brushing against the soft fabric of the throw pillow beside him, he let out a slow breath.

When the coffee was finally ready, you brought it over with a smile, carefully placing the pastel purple mug in front of him. “Here you go,” you said, the warmth of the mug almost making the room feel cozier. “I hope it’s to your liking.”

Joel gave a small, grateful smile, his hand brushing against yours for just a second as he took the mug. “Thanks. Smells good,” he muttered, his voice slightly raspy, as if the warmth of the coffee was just what he needed to break the cold barrier that had settled between the two of you.

You nodded and slipped into your chair, pulling your notepad and pen from your bag. The soft rustling of paper filled the air, your legs crossing comfortably as you got ready for the session. However, the moment you crossed your legs, Joel’s eyes flicked down, just for a second, but long enough for him to catch a glimpse of the soft juicy thights and-

His throat tightened a little, and before he knew it, he was coughing slightly, almost choking on the coffee he’d just taken a sip of. The damn thing went down the wrong way, and he couldn’t help but cough harshly, slamming the cup back down on the table, his face reddening with the embarrassment.

You laughed softly, leaning toward him. “Oh my god you okay?”

Joel cleared his throat, shaking his head, trying to recover his cool. “Y-Yeah, I’m fine.”

You gave him a reassueing smile, sensing his awkwardness but not letting it rattle you. “It’s alright, happens to the best of us.”

Once the tension had passed, you set your notepad in your lap and folded your hands over it, looking at him with a more professional air. “Alright, so… to start, I’m just going to ask you a few basic questions, just so I can get a better idea of where you’re coming from.”

He nodded, his gaze flicking to your face, trying to stay focused but still feeling that lingering heat from his earlier slip-up.

“Okay, so first off, tell me a little bit about yourself. I know you’re Joel… how old are you?”

“Fifty-six,” he answered, his voice low, but steady now. He had clearly gotten himself under control.

You scribbled that down, nodding. “Got it. And, uh… what about your family?”

Joel shifted uncomfortably in his seat. It was obvious that even though he was a man who’d seen more than most, talking about his family was still a sensitive subject. He hesitated before speaking, his voice dropping a little. “I have a brother… Tommy. He’s… important to me. Got a daughter too, Sarah. She’s… she’s gone now.”

You paused, noting the weight in his words. “I’m really sorry to hear that, Joel,” you said softly, your eyes meeting his in a quiet show of empathy. “That must be really hard.”

He gave a slight nod but didn’t say much more about it. You sensed he wasn’t ready to go deeper yet.

“So, what brings you to therapy today?” you asked, trying to steer the conversation gently back to the reason he was there. You hadn’t expected him to just unload everything all at once, but you hoped to start pulling out the layers, one by one.

Joel ran a hand through his hair and leaned back in his chair, his eyes darkening slightly. “Well… mostly just… I’ve been having trouble. With, uh… things. Life, y’know?” He shifted uncomfortably in his seat again. “It’s been hard. Haven’t really felt like I’ve had much control over… well, anything.”

You nodded, the silence between you feeling comfortable enough to allow him space without pressure. “That sounds difficult. But it’s good that you’re here. I know it’s not easy to take that first step.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment, just stared into his coffee, and you could feel the weight of his words hanging in the air. You made a mental note to keep the session light for now, to let him open up when he was ready. You could sense this wasn’t going to be a quick fix — that this was going to take time, patience, and a lot of trust.

The quiet moments that followed were filled with the warmth of the coffee and the soft sounds of your voice as you guided him through the session, making sure he felt heard and understood.

As you continued, you couldn’t help but feel a growing sense of connection with Joel — even if it was subtle. He wasn’t saying much, but the little gestures, the brief moments when his eyes lingered on you, the way his voice softened when he spoke about the hard things… it all made you realize that, maybe, this therapy thing was going to be a lot more complicated than you’d originally thought. And maybe, just maybe, there was something else simmering just beneath the surface.

Time had slipped by quietly, like the gentle ticking of an unseen clock. You hadn’t even realized how quickly the hour passed until there was a lull in the conversation—a natural pause that signaled the end.

Joel shifted on the couch, clearing his throat as if to bring himself back to the present. You offered him a small, warm smile as you closed your notepad and tucked your pen behind your ear. “That’ll be it for today,” you said softly. “Do you have a way to pay, or…?”

Joel looked at you for a second. And then, without a word, he reached into the pocket of his worn jacket and pulled out a small ziplock bag filled with a generous amount of dried weed. He held it out with a completely straight face, as if this was the most normal form of payment in the world.

You blinked once. Then twice. Your lips parted slightly in surprise as your brows lifted. “Seriously?” you asked, your voice somewhere between amusement and disbelief.

Joel didn’t flinch. “Well I suppose you don’t take cards,” he muttered, a hint of defensiveness laced with deadpan humor. “Figured this might do.”

You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head, but your hand reached forward anyway. “You realize this isn’t exactly standard practice,” you said, taking the bag from him between two fingers, the contact brief—but still electric.

“Neither is showin’ up to therapy in fuzzy slippers and shorts,” he shot back with a slow smirk.

Touché.

You tilted your head, smirking right back, but you didn’t reply. Instead, you walked over to your bag and casually dropped the weed inside, your movements slow, deliberate. When you turned back around, Joel was already watching you with that same look in his eyes—somewhere between curiosity and hunger.

“I guess we’re even,” you said quietly, your voice a little lower now, like it belonged in a different kind of conversation.

He didn’t answer, just stood there. Big. Still. Tense.

You walked him to the door, silence trailing after you both like a second presence. As you opened it, cold air swept in from outside, brushing over your skin, raising goosebumps on your thighs.

Joel didn’t step out immediately. He lingered, turning back to face you, eyes flicking over your face like he was memorizing something. Or maybe just trying to convince himself not to do something he’d regret.

“Thanks,” he said. His voice was soft now. Almost intimate.

You nodded. “Of course.”

The air felt tight. Like something had been said without actually being spoken.

And then he left. The door clicked shut, and you exhaled.

For a long moment, you didn’t move. You just stood there, the quiet of your home closing in around you, but your thoughts loud as hell.

Joel Miller had this… presence. Something raw, heavy, carved out of scars and silence. He was clearly complicated—guarded. But under all that gruffness, there was something else. Something that made you want to crack him open and see what was underneath.

And maybe that was exactly what scared you.

He was your client. And that alone should be enough to slam every door inside you shut. But your heart didn’t seem to get the memo. Because it was still beating hard. Still remembering the way his voice dipped low when he thanked you. The way his eyes flicked down your legs. The way his hand brushed yours when he handed over the weed.

You bit your lip, suddenly aware of how warm your skin felt. No. No, no. You couldn’t let yourself feel that. Not for him. Not now.

Still… the scent of his jacket lingered in the air. And so did the strange ache in your chest.

And deep down, where you wouldn’t even let the thought fully form, you wondered: What would happen… if those lines blurred?

The next day…

You were still adjusting. To Jackson. To the cold mornings and quiet streets. To the fact that life here, while safer than the world outside the gates, still pulsed with tension. People wore their grief like layers of clothing, and every client that knocked on your door carried more than just pain—they carried stories they didn’t know how to tell.

You were getting used to that, too.

The morning had been busy. Three clients before lunch, each one with their own shadows. You were sipping lukewarm tea, organizing your notes, when there was a knock at the door. You glanced at the clock. Not your usual appointment window. You opened the door.

And there he was.

Joel.

Again.

He looked the same, rough edges, tired eyes, that same guarded posture, but something about him felt… different. Softer, maybe. Or maybe you were different, now that you’d seen the way his eyes softened when he smiled. The way his voice dipped when he said your name.

This time, you were dressed more… professionally. A soft knit sweater that hugged your waist, black jeans, cozy socks. No shorts. No slippers. But his eyes still flicked over you in that same slow, burning way.

“Hi,” you said, smiling. “Didn’t expect you back so soon.”

He shifted his weight, cleared his throat. “Hope that’s not a problem.”

“No,” you said quickly, stepping aside. “Of course not. Come in.”

He walked past you with that heavy, confident step, and for a second—just a second—you let your eyes trace the shape of his back. The way his shoulders moved beneath the fabric of his shirt. The worn denim that clung to his legs a little too well.

You closed the door and followed him into the room. He didn’t sit right away. Just stood there, looking around like he was taking in your space again. He glanced at the small candle flickering on the shelf, the books stacked on your desk, the mug of tea you hadn’t finished.

He looked at you.

“You changed the slippers,” he murmured.

You laughed. “Figured I should look like a professional, at least once a week.”

Joel’s mouth twitched into something that almost resembled a smile. Almost.

Once he was seated, you grabbed your notebook and sat across from him, legs crossed at the knee—but not as carelessly as last time. Still, his eyes caught the movement. You felt it. That flicker of awareness. That quiet hum beneath the surface.

“So,” you started, clicking your pen open, “two sessions in two days… should I be flattered?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you. “Didn’t have much else to do,” he muttered.

You raised an eyebrow. “That doesn’t sound like a glowing review of my therapeutic technique.”

His lips curved slightly. “You’re better than you think.” Your cheeks warmed, and not from the candlelight.

As the session began, it felt… different. More open. Joel still spoke in fragments, in low tones and unfinished sentences, but he let himself be a little more present. He let you ask more. He even answered a few things without looking away.

You talked about routine. About Jackson. About Ellie, vaguely. About the cold. And somewhere in there, between the casual and the careful, you realized you liked having him there. You liked the sound of his voice when it got quiet. You liked the way he sat—arms loose, legs apart, so confidently in his own skin.

And you hated how aware you were of it.

You were his therapist.

But he was… him.

A man who looked at you like he wanted to figure you out just as badly as you wanted to peel away his walls.

You didn’t let your mind wander too far. But you’d be lying if you said you didn’t notice the way his gaze lingered on your hands. On your lips when you spoke. On the curve of your neck when you leaned over to write.

He wasn’t good at hiding that kind of thing.

And when the session ended, and he stood up again, the air felt heavier. Like something had built between you. Something you were both pretending not to feel.

He said goodbye quietly. Not rushed. Like he wanted to stay. You closed the door behind him. Pressed your back to it. And breathed. This was going to be harder than you thought.

He hadn’t planned it like this. He hadn’t planned on coming every goddamn day.

At first, he told himself it was just necessity. He needed the help. Needed someone to listen. Someone who wasn’t Tommy, who wasn’t Maria, who didn’t already have a whole image of who he was supposed to be.

But deep down, he knew. It wasn’t just about talking. It was about you.

Every morning, he woke up with that same battle inside his chest. Don’t go. She’s too young. She’s too good. You’re just another broken old man.

And yet, by noon, he was knocking on your door.

You never said no. Never even hinted that he was a bother. You smiled every time, led him inside, sat across from him with that soft, warm look that made the walls around him crack just a little more each session.

And somehow, after a week, you had more in your stash of supplies than half of Jackson.

Joel didn’t always have cash, or whatever passed for it these days, but he paid you with what he could. Bottles of whiskey. Extra ammo. A damn nice winter jacket one time.

He wasn’t sure if you actually needed all of it.

But you took it. You smiled. You made him feel like he wasn’t just a burden.

Today, when he knocked, you greeted him in a cozy-looking sweater, leggings, hair tied into bun but with a few strands loose around your face. Casual. Effortless. Dangerous.

He sat down, like he always did, heavy boots thudding against the floor.

He noticed, without meaning to, that he didn’t feel as stiff anymore. His arms weren’t crossed tightly over his chest. His jaw wasn’t clenched into stone.

You smiled, scribbling something into your notebook. “You’re getting more comfortable,” you said, almost like you were thinking out loud.

Joel grunted, not trusting himself to say much more. He knew he was softening around you. He just wasn’t sure if it was a good thing.

You started the session, asking him about his week, about Ellie, about the community. And then, you noticed it, something shifted in his expression. Something dark passed through his eyes.

“You okay?” you asked gently. Joel hesitated.

“It’s stupid,” he muttered finally, shaking his head.

“Nothing’s stupid,” you said. “If it’s bothering you, it matters.”

He leaned back, rubbing his palms over his jeans, a nervous habit he didn’t even realize he had.

“It’s just… ain’t easy. Bein’ around people. Even now. After everything. I keep thinkin’ I’m just gonna fuck it all up somehow.”

You nodded, your voice soft and steady. “That’s a very real fear.”

You let that sit for a moment. And then, before you could stop yourself, you asked:

“…Can I ask you something a little more personal?”

Joel’s eyes flicked up, guarded but curious.

“Sure,” he said gruffly.

You cleared your throat. Your fingers tightened just a little around your pen.

“How… how has everything affected your, uh… intimacy? Relationships? Sex life?”

The moment the word sex left your mouth, it was like you set off a bomb in the room.

Joel’s entire body stiffened. He blinked at you like he hadn’t heard right. Like you’d just punched him in the face.

And then, the images hit him so fast he barely had time to react. You. Bent over that little couch. Your soft sweater riding up your hips. His hands all over your skin. His mouth on your neck, your thighs, your—

Shit.

His face went red. His leg started bouncing uncontrollably. He scratched the back of his neck, shifted in his seat. He couldn’t even look at you.

You, meanwhile, tried to keep your face professional, casual—but inside, your stomach was flipping over itself. You had asked questions like that a hundred times before. But never like this. Never with him.

“Sorry if that’s too personal,” you said quickly, trying to save him. “It’s a common question in therapy. It’s important.”

Joel finally managed to clear his throat.

“No, it’s… it’s fine. Just caught me off guard, is all.”

His voice was lower now. Rougher. He still couldn’t meet your eyes. You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, trying to focus. Trying not to imagine what he had imagined when you said that word.

Joel shifted again, the denim of his jeans pulling uncomfortably tight against him. Jesus Christ. He needed to get out of here.

You gave him a way out, changing the subject, making a small note in your notebook without pushing him further. But the damage was done.

When the session ended, Joel stood up a little too quickly, mumbling a goodbye. You watched him go, heart pounding for reasons you didn’t want to admit. Joel barely made it down the steps before realizing he was fucking hard.

He cursed under his breath, tugging at his jacket, willing the blood to go somewhere else. Anywhere else. All because you had said one word. One word. And now, he was ruined.

He couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. Ever since he’d left your place, he’d been a fucking mess.

The cold air bit at his skin, the crunch of snow under his boots was deafening, but none of it registered. All he could see was you.

The way you’d looked at him when you asked that question. The way your tongue had peeked out just barely to wet your bottom lip. The way your legs had crossed, that slow, lazy move that had damn near stopped his heart.

He felt sick, alive, starving. Every thought in his head was of you—and half of them were so filthy, so wrong, he should’ve been struck down on the spot. Goddamn old man, get a grip. But he couldn’t.

He got home fast, faster than usual. Slammed the door behind him like he could shut the images out.

He tossed his coat onto the nearest chair, paced the room like a caged animal.

Coffee. Maybe coffee would help.

His hands were shaking as he fumbled with the kettle. He poured himself a cup, burned his tongue on the first sip, cursed under his breath.

But the warmth did nothing to calm the fire raging in his blood. Your voice kept replaying in his head.

Sex life. He pictured you whispering it. Moaning it. Screaming it. His cock twitched painfully against the seam of his jeans.

“Fuck,” he hissed.

He tried sitting. Tried distracting himself, staring at the fire crackling in the hearth. But his mind betrayed him—again and again. He saw you across from him, not in leggings and a sweater, but naked. Skin flushed, eyes heavy, mouth parted.

He imagined his hands on you, calloused fingers sliding up your thighs, teasing the soft, sensitive skin until you begged him—

Jesus fucking Christ.

He couldn’t take it anymore. Joel stood, breathing hard, palming the heavy bulge in his jeans. There was no dignity left. No sense in fighting it.

He staggered to his bedroom, barely managing to shove his jeans down over his hips. His cock sprang free, thick and aching and already leaking at the tip. He wrapped a rough hand around himself, the touch making him groan deep in his chest.

Head tilted back, eyes fluttering shut, he started stroking. Slow at first. Long, tight pulls, just enough to ease the pressure without giving in fully.

But the images kept flashing behind his eyes. You, straddling his lap, grinding down against him. You, hands twisted in his hair, guiding his mouth wherever you wanted it. You, whimpering his name. His strokes sped up.

His thighs tensed, muscles flexing. His hips jerked up into his hand, chasing the friction. He bit down hard on his lip to keep from making noise—but a few low, broken moans still escaped.

“Fuck… baby…” he growled into the empty room, voice wrecked.

The firelight flickered across his bare chest, highlighting the taut lines of muscle, the sheen of sweat breaking out across his skin. He squeezed tighter, pumping faster, chasing that edge.

His hand was rough, almost punishing, but he didn’t care. He deserved the pain. Deserved the shame. He thought about your soft, warm cunt wrapped around him. Thought about what you’d sound like when he finally pushed inside.

That did it.

Joel’s whole body seized up, a shudder ripped through him as he came, thick ropes spilling over his fist, down his knuckles, onto the floor.

“Goddamn—fuck—” he groaned, riding it out, hips jerking uncontrollably.

He sagged back against the bed, panting, heart hammering in his chest. For a moment, he just laid there. One arm thrown over his eyes. Breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps.

The guilt crept in almost immediately. He shouldn’t have done it. Not over you. Not over someone so kind. So pure.

But even as he wiped his hand on a rag and dragged his jeans back up, one thing was terrifyingly clear: He was fucked. And not just because he couldn’t get you out of his head. But because he didn’t want to.

Joel hadn’t even planned on coming to this stupid ‘party’. Truth be told, crowds weren’t his thing anymore—too many people, too many memories.

But Tommy had dragged him out, shoved a drink in his hand, and told him to at least pretend to be part of the community. So there he was, leaning against the wall with a half-empty glass of whiskey, feeling like a damn ghost watching life happen around him.

And then you walked in. Joel’s world fucking stoppe. You were dressed… Shit, he didn’t even have words for it. It wasn’t flashy or revealing. You weren’t even trying. But you were stunning. Soft and effortless and so goddamn beautiful it made his chest ache.

Joel swallowed hard, feeling that familiar pressure start building low in his gut. You spotted them, him and Tommy, and made your way over, a warm, shy smile lighting up your face.

“Hey,” you greeted, voice a little breathless from the cold outside. “I think we’ve met,” you said, nodding toward Tommy. “You welcomed me my first day.”

Tommy grinned wide, gave a little dramatic bow. “That’s me. Jackson’s official welcome wagon.”

You laughed and then turned to Joel.

“And of course,” you added, softer now, “I know Joel. From… work.”

Your eyes flicked to his and something charged the air between you. Joel stiffened. He managed a grunt that was supposed to be a greeting but sounded more like he was choking.

After a beat, too long to be normal, you excused yourself politely, weaving back into the crowd. Joel stared after you like a man who’d just watched salvation walk away.

Tommy elbowed him hard in the ribs.

“You blind, or just stupid?”

Joel blinked. “What?”

“She was lookin’ at you like you hung the damn moon, man,” Tommy said, incredulous. “Christ, Joel. She was bitin’ her lip, twiddlin’ her damn fingers, swayin’ like she was hopin’ you’d just throw her over your shoulder right then and there.”

Joel glared at him. “You’re full of shit.”

Tommy just laughed, slapped him on the back. “Keep tellin’ yourself that, old man.”

Joel tried to shake it off. Tried to act like his heart wasn’t beating out of his chest. But now he couldn’t stop watching you.

You joined a group of women near one of the tables, smiling, laughing, tucking your hair behind your ear in that way that made his gut twist painfully. Joel sipped his whiskey, pretending not to look.

Failing miserably.

He watched you laugh at something one of the women said, your head tilting back, that smile crinkling the corners of your eyes. He wanted to be the one making you laugh like that. Wanted to be the one you looked at with that kind of light in your eyes.

And then, a man joined your group. Joel’s stomach dropped. The guy was young, maybe early thirties. Tall. Smiling too damn wide at you. Joel’s jaw clenched so hard it hurt.

Every time you laughed at something that punk said, Joel’s blood boiled hotter. He gripped his glass tighter, fingers whitening around the rim. He should’ve looked away. Should’ve had some damn self-control. But he couldn’t.

Every move you made, every glance, every soft smile, was a hook digging deeper under his skin. And then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw it.

Across the room, at the bar, Ellie and Dina were getting harassed by some drunk asshole spitting slurs, sneering like a damn fool.

He stiffened, instincts firing before his brain even caught up. Ellie stepped toward the guy, pointing at that man, eyes blazing.

“The fuck did you just say?!” she snapped, voice sharp and cutting. Joel didn’t wait.

His body moved on pure muscle memory. He crossed the floor in a heartbeat, grabbing the guy by the collar and shoving him with brutal force—so hard the bastard hit the ground with a grunt.

The man glared up at Joel from the floor, his face twisted in anger. Joel stared him down, his voice low and lethal: “Get the hell outta here.”

The room was deathly silent now.

Maria helped the guy stand up from the floor, both of them disappearing into the crowd without another word.

Joel finally looked at Ellie. She was standing frozen, blinking like she couldn’t believe what had just happened.

“What the hell is wrong with you?!” she barked, voice loud enough to carry. Joel didn’t answer.

His jaw was locked tight, muscles ticking under his skin, and his fingers flexed helplessly at his sides.

“I don’t need your fucking help, Joel!”

The words hit harder than any punch. He looked around, saw the judgment, the confusion, and then his gaze locked on you.

You were standing frozen by the table, one hand over your mouth, wide-eyed. He hated the look on your face. Hated that he’d been the cause of it.

Joel dropped his eyes, shame burning hot under his skin.

“Right,” he muttered roughly, voice almost breaking, and without another word, he pushed through the crowd and disappeared into the cold night.

You couldn’t move for a second. Couldn’t even breathe.

The way Joel had looked at you, like he was breaking apart right in front of you. You whispered a quick apology to the group you were with and slipped out into the cold night after him, heart pounding in your chest.

You didn’t know what you were going to say. Didn’t even know if you could fix it. But you had to try. Because somehow, somewhere between those stolen glances and charged silences, Joel Miller had carved out a place inside you that you couldn’t ignore.

You hurried after him, boots crunching over the snow, your breath forming shaky clouds in the freezing air.

“Joel!” you called out, but he didn’t turn.

He just kept walking, his broad shoulders tense, hands stuffed deep in his jacket pockets.

You picked up your pace, heart pounding—not just from the cold—and finally, when you were close enough, you reached out and touched his shoulder.

Joel flinched. He stopped in his tracks and turned around sharply, his face hard, eyes stormy—

But the moment his gaze landed on you, his expression softened. The anger drained from his face like melting ice.

For a few long seconds, neither of you said a word. The world around you seemed to fall away, swallowed by the soft hiss of falling snow and your own uneven breathing.

Finally, you found your voice, small and uncertain:

“Are you… okay?”

Joel exhaled a heavy breath, visible in the cold, and gave a stiff nod. That was all he could manage.

You shuffled your boots awkwardly in the snow, feeling stupid, feeling young in a way you never had before.

Like your presence was supposed to fix something—but you had no idea how.

Still… just standing there next to him, it somehow made things a little less heavy. A little warmer, despite the biting air.

Joel looked at you again, his eyes flickering with something unreadable.

“You cold?” he asked, voice rough.

You shook your head quickly. He nodded once, lips pressing into a thin line. And then he said it, low and reluctant: “I should… head home.”

He was already turning away when your voice stopped him.

“Wait—”

You shifted nervously on your feet, then blurted out before you could second-guess yourself,

“Do you… want some company?”

The moment the words left your mouth, panic bloomed in your chest. Was that weird? Was that unprofessional? Was that even allowed?

Joel froze.

You could almost see the war playing out inside him—the instinct to say no, to stay distant, battling the overwhelming pull he felt toward you.

But in the end, he couldn’t tell you no. He just jerked his head slightly, beckoning you to follow.

Joel unlocked the door and stepped inside, holding it open for you. You slipped in, your fingers already fumbling to untie the soft jacket he’d once traded for his session.

Joel silently helped you, his calloused hands brushing against your arms as he slid the heavy fabric off your shoulders.

You shivered, definitley not from the cold.

The door closed behind you with a soft click, sealing you both inside a bubble of tense, humming silence. Joel cleared his throat, glancing at you awkwardly.

“Uh… coffee or tea?”

“Coffee,” you said quickly, needing something, anything, to do with your hands, your mind, your heart hammering against your ribs.

You sat down carefully at his small, worn kitchen table, feeling absurdly out of place.

The chair creaked under you, the faint smell of coffee and old wood wrapping around you like a too-tight blanket. Joel busied himself at the counter, his broad back facing you.

You watched the way his shoulders moved under his jacket, the way his fingers fumbled slightly with the coffee canister.

He wasn’t as steady as he wanted to seem. And neither were you. For the first time in your life as a therapist, you had no idea what to say.

No idea how to reach the man standing a few feet away without falling headfirst into something neither of you would be able to undo.

Joel was in hell. Not just because of tonight—though that alone had probably shattered what little trust Ellie still had in him, and would no doubt make him a target of whispers in Jackson for weeks—

But because you were here. Sitting in his kitchen. Looking at him with those wide, worried eyes that made him want to fall to his knees.

He clutched the edge of the counter tighter, knuckles whitening. If he made one wrong move, if he let himself feel too much—

He wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to stop. And he wasn’t sure he even wanted to.

Without saying a word, he grabbed two chipped mugs and poured coffee into each, the rich aroma filling the heavy silence between you.

Once he finished, he shrugged off his jacket, hanging it carefully on the hook right next to yours — so close, almost touching.

Only then did he return, walking back over to where you sat, still quiet, still unsure.

He handed you one of the mugs, and as you reached out to take it, your fingers brushed against his.

The contact was brief, feather-light, but it sent an electric jolt through your body — and clearly through his, too.

Both of you froze for a fraction of a second, your eyes locking, breath caught between you.

It was so quick, so subtle… but so undeniably there.

Joel cleared his throat lowly, trying to brush it off, and finally sat down opposite you, his large hands curling around his mug like it was his only lifeline to reality. The steam rose between you two, swirling in the cold air that seeped through the old house’s walls.

There was a long pause — neither of you seemed to know how to start — until suddenly, both of you spoke at the same time.

You stopped. He stopped.

An awkward, soft laugh escaped you, and Joel gave a small huff of amusement through his nose, the faintest ghost of a smile playing on his lips.

“You first,” Joel said eventually, nodding toward you, his voice gruff but surprisingly gentle, always the gentleman, even now.

You shifted slightly in your seat, taking a breath.

“I just… I just want you to know,” you started carefully, your fingers nervously tracing the handle of your mug, “that what you did back there? I get it. You were just trying to protect someone you care about. And… you shouldn’t feel bad for that.” Your voice was soft, earnest.

Joel let out a rough, disbelieving chuckle, shaking his head like he couldn’t even begin to accept your kindness.

“I fucked everythin’ up,” he muttered, voice low and cracked. “Don’t even know how to fix it now.”

Then, with a defeated sigh, Joel buried his face in his hands.

The sight made your chest ache — you had to physically stop yourself from reaching out, from covering his rough, work-worn hands with your own.

Not now. Not when he was so vulnerable. You couldn’t cross that line… not yet.

Your heart was pounding painfully against your ribs when you suddenly remembered something. You had brought a little “emergency” with you to the party, just in case, and it seemed like the perfect time for it now.

Without thinking too much, you jumped up from your chair, making Joel lift his head in slight surprise.

You fumbled through the pocket of your jacket, finally pulling out a small bag of weed with a victorious grin.

Joel quirked an eyebrow at you, the corners of his mouth twitching up in faint amusement.

“Seriously?” he asked, voice half incredulous, half fond, when he saw what you were holding.

You nodded enthusiastically, the grin not leaving your face. And for the first time that night, Joel genuinely smiled.

You ended up sitting closer together on the old, battered couch, sharing a joint, letting the slow haze of warmth and laughter ease the tension that had been suffocating both of you all evening.

The conversation flowed easier now, soft jokes and even softer glances exchanged between you two. Joel’s shoulders, always so rigid, finally started to relax. His laugh, low and raspy, filled the room in small bursts.

And you felt a kind of peace you hadn’t known you were missing. For a while, in that little pocket of time, it didn’t matter what had happened at the party. It didn’t matter how badly Joel thought he had ruined everything.

It was just the two of you. Just coffee-stained mugs cooling on the table. The laughter between you faded into a lingering quiet, warm and a little awkward, as if neither of you wanted to be the one to break it.

You leaned forward slightly, reaching for your cup, your fingers brushing the ceramic as you brought it to your lips for a small sip. The coffee had cooled a little, but the warmth still felt good in your hands.

As you set the cup back down, a few loose strands of hair slipped into your face. Before you could lift your hand to brush them away, Joel moved. Quietly, instinctively.

His fingers were rough, calloused from years of work, but the way he touched you was anything but.

He tucked the loose strands gently behind your ear, his knuckles barely grazing your cheek. Your eyes met. Locked.

The air between you turned electric, heavy and trembling like a taut string ready to snap.

Joel’s gaze flickered, your lips, your eyes, your lips again, his breathing shallow, heart thundering so loudly he was sure you could hear it. You didn’t move. Neither did he.

His hand lingered, sliding almost hesitantly down, until his palm was resting at the nape of your neck. Large, warm, protective.

Holding you there like he was afraid if he let go, you’d vanish. Your breath caught in your throat.

Joel swallowed hard. His thumb moved ever so slightly, brushing against your skin, the softest, slowest motion—intimate beyond words.

Every fiber of your being screamed for him to close the distance.

For a long moment, neither of you moved, suspended in that fragile space between hesitation and surrender.

And then, Joel leaned in. Slow, deliberate. His forehead almost touched yours. His nose just grazed your cheek. His breath, ragged, fanned over your lips.

He waited, giving you the chance to pull away. But you didn’t. You couldn’t.

And when your mouth met his, it was soft at first, trembling, full of all the things that had been left unsaid for far too long. It was barely a kiss. Joel’s lips just brushed yours, the softest ghost of a touch, as if he wasn’t sure if he had the right.

The moment he felt your slight intake of breath, your stunned stillness, he immediately pulled back.

His hand left your neck in a flash, and he leaned away, guilt flashing across his features.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, voice rough, almost pained, his eyes darting away.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t’ve—”

But you smiled. A slow, mischievous, almost dangerous curve of your lips. Maybe it was the weed, or maybe it was just him—but suddenly you felt bold. Hungry.

“You know,” you said, voice dropping into a teasing murmur, “in therapy, touch is supposed to be strictly off-limits.”

Your eyes glinted, a spark of wickedness dancing there. Joel blinked at you, completely thrown off by your shift, struggling to catch up.

“And yet,” you leaned in closer, your breath brushing against his jaw, “sometimes… rules are made to be broken, aren’t they, Mr. Miller?”

Before he could say anything, before he could ruin it with another apology, you kissed him.

Properly, this time. Your mouth pressed firmly to his, tasting him, demanding him.

Joel groaned against your lips, low and guttural, like something deep inside him finally snapped free.

His hands found your waist, strong fingers digging into your sides, desperate to feel more of you.

You moved instinctively, climbing into his lap, straddling him without even thinking, your thighs bracketing his hips.

The second your body settled over him, he let out another soft, broken sound, and you could feel him, already hard against you, hot and throbbing through his jeans.

You rocked your hips just a little, testing, and his hands clamped down harder, a silent plea for you to stop torturing him.

He was kissing you now like he couldn’t get enough—slow, then deep, then messily hungry, tongues tangling, teeth grazing.

His palms were everywhere: your back, your thighs, your waist, exploring every inch of you like he needed to memorize it.

You felt his heart pounding against your chest, matching your own racing pulse.

You were both half-wild already, and yet somehow still trying to hold on, trying not to fall into it too fast. But it was no use.

His salt-and-pepper beard scraped deliciously against your mouth, rough and warm, sending little sparks of heat down your spine every time he shifted closer.

You could feel the slight burn of it on your lips, your cheeks, even your jaw, and it made you crave more. More of him, more of this brutal tenderness he gave you without even thinking.

Joel wasn’t letting you breathe. He wasn’t letting you go. His big body caged you in, his strong hands gripping you like he was terrified you might slip away. But the truth was, you didn’t want to go anywhere. You wanted to drown in him.

The coffee still hung faintly in the air, mixing with the deep scent of Joel’s skin—warm, musky, and grounding.

Outside, the snow was falling harder, the soft hiss of it against the windows making everything inside feel even hotter, even heavier.

The world had faded away, leaving only the frantic beat of your hearts crashing together.

You whimpered against his mouth when he kissed you harder, rougher, desperate.

And you were already so wet, feeling the damp heat pooling between your thighs, your soaked panties sticking uncomfortably against you—but it only made you ache for him even more.

Both of you knew this was wrong. You knew there was still time to stop—to pull away, to breathe, to talk. But neither of you even considered it.

You were already too far gone, drunk on him, on the weed, on the days of tension finally snapping like a brittle thread.

Your hands tangled in his greying hair, pulling sharply when he bit at your lower lip, and Joel groaned—a deep, guttural sound that vibrated right through your core.

He shifted his grip from your face to your hips, hauling you closer against him, grinding your body against his aching hardness.

His palms slid lower, kneading your ass, fingers digging in possessively, making you shudder and moan against him.

Between ragged kisses, he muttered against your lips, voice rough and breaking apart:

“Goddamn… been waitin’ so fuckin’ long for this…”

Another kiss, deeper, hungrier.

“Dreamt about this… ‘bout you…”

Each word hit you like a lightning bolt, setting your whole body on fire.

You answered by kissing him even harder, almost feral now, desperate to feel every inch of him, every ounce of need he poured into you.

The air around you was humid and heavy, thick with the scent of coffee, weed, sweat, and snow-melt leaking from your clothes. It was suffocating in the best way. It smelled like Joel. It smelled like home. And you couldn’t take it anymore.

Your hips started moving on their own, grinding down against the hard bulge in Joel’s jeans. The friction made your head spin, sparks of unbearable pleasure shooting through your core with every slow roll of your body.

You whimpered into his mouth, feeling the way his whole body stiffened under you—and that was it.

That was all it took to make Joel snap.

A low, dangerous growl rumbled in his chest, and in the next second, he attacked your neck with a hunger that stole the breath from your lungs.

You cried out his name, loud, raw, desperate, your fingers clawing at the fabric of his shirt, digging into the strong muscles of his back.

He didn’t stop, he licked, sucked, bit into the tender skin of your neck like he was branding you, leaving dark, possessive marks that you were going to wear for days.

Your throat, your collarbone, even the top of your chest—he left no space untouched. And all the while, your hips never stopped moving.

Your body was chasing the friction shamelessly, rolling and grinding against him as Joel buried his face in your neck, groaning, losing his fucking mind over the way you felt on top of him.

The air around you turned even thicker, hotter, electrified with raw, animalistic want. Every breath you took was shaky, every sound you made was ripped straight from your chest.

When he finally tore himself away from your neck, both of you stared at each other—wild, disheveled, drowning in need. No words were spoken. They weren’t needed.

Your hands were trembling when you reached for the hem of his shirt, and Joel didn’t even hesitate.

He grabbed the back of it and yanked it over his head, tossing it somewhere across the room. The sight of his bare chest—broad, scarred, covered in coarse dark hair—made your knees weak.

You couldn’t stop yourself from reaching out, running your hands over his warm, hard skin, feeling the raw strength hidden underneath.

Joel hissed through his teeth when your palms slid over his ribs and up to his chest—but when you brushed your thumbs over his nipples, he growled, low and dangerous, and grabbed you again, desperate and rough.

Now it was his turn.

His fingers tugged at your clothes, fumbling with the buttons, the zippers, the seams—every new inch of bare skin he uncovered made the room spin faster, made his touch rougher, needier. Your shirt fell to the floor. Then your bra.

Joel’s calloused palms immediately covered your breasts, squeezing them, kneading them, making you whimper and arch into his touch.

His eyes were dark, hungry, absolutely wrecked as he stared at you like you were something holy and forbidden all at once.

Each piece of clothing that hit the floor made the air thicken even more, made the space between your bodies buzz like a live wire.

You could feel it with every trembling breath, every desperate glance—the terrifying, undeniable truth: there was no turning back now.

Joel couldn’t keep his hands off you anymore.

He slid his rough palms down your sides, gripping your hips with a strength that made your thighs tremble.

His mouth was all over you—lips, teeth, tongue—claiming every inch he could reach.

“You’re so fuckin’ beautiful,” he rasped against your skin, his voice low and reverent.

“Could stare at you all damn day… could spend the rest of my life touchin’ you.”

You whimpered at the sound of his praise, your entire body lighting up, clenching with desperate need.

Joel’s hands slid between your thighs and with a sharp tug, he ripped your panties apart like they were made of paper.

“Joel!” you gasped, looking down at the ruined fabric in horror.

“Those were expensive!”

He just chuckled darkly, tossing the torn lace somewhere behind him without a second thought.

“I’ll get ya a whole goddamn drawer full of ‘em,” he said, voice thick with hunger.

“Right now I need you more than I need my next fuckin’ breath.”

You barely had time to recover before he dove between your legs, leaving open-mouthed kisses up the inside of your thigh, growling against your skin.

Your hands fumbled with his belt, desperate, needing to feel all of him.

Joel helped you, cursing under his breath as he shrugged out of his jeans.

What you saw made your heart stutter.

The bulge straining against his underwear was massive. You froze for a second, mouth dry, staring up at him in awe. Joel noticed, of course, and that shit-eating grin he gave you almost made you combust on the spot.

“What’s the matter, darlin’?” he teased, voice full of wicked amusement.

“Didn’t expect me to be this big?”

You opened your mouth to answer, but no sound came out—only a needy whimper. Joel just laughed, low and cocky, and slid his underwear down.

And holy fuck—you weren’t sure if it was the weed still fogging your brain or just the sheer size of him, but the moment his thick, heavy cock sprang free, your mouth watered instantly.

Without even thinking, you slid off his lap and dropped to your knees between his legs. Joel’s eyes widened slightly, his chest heaving.

“Darlin'… you don’t have to—” he started, but you cut him off with a soft, hungry smile.

“I want to,” you whispered, voice wrecked with need, locking your gaze with his.

You wrapped your hand around his thick shaft, feeling how hot and heavy he was in your palm,

and then you leaned forward, flattening your tongue against the head and swirling it teasingly.

Joel cursed violently, his hands flying to your hair.

“Fuck, baby… that’s it… just like that,” he groaned, threading his fingers into your hair but letting you set the pace.

“Such a good fuckin’ girl for me… goddamn.”

You bobbed your head slowly at first, taking him deeper inch by inch, feeling the silky skin over the steel hardness underneath.

The salty taste of precum spread across your tongue, making your core clench even harder.

Joel’s thighs tensed on either side of you, his breathing turning ragged. “That’s it, sweetheart… look so pretty with your mouth full of me…”

You hummed around him, sending vibrations up his length, and Joel’s hips jerked involuntarily, forcing a deeper thrust into your mouth.

You moaned in response, the needy, desperate sound vibrating against his cock.

Joel’s fingers tightened in your hair, but he was still careful, letting you control how deep you took him.

The whole room was filled with obscene sounds-wet, messy, desperate. The way you sucked him, the way Joel’s ragged groans filled the heavy, hazy air. It was primal. Raw.

A need that had been building for what felt like a lifetime—and now it was all crashing down in this one electric, filthy moment.

Outside, you could barely hear the wind howling against the windows,

but inside, the only storm was the one raging between you two.

The smell of coffee, sex, and Joel’s own rugged scent filled your lungs with every gasping breath you took.

And Joel couldn’t stop looking at you, couldn’t stop moaning your name in that broken, reverent way that made you feel like the center of his whole goddamn universe.

Your lips wrapped tighter around Joel’s cock, feeling just how massive he really was. Your jaw ached slightly from the stretch, but you didn’t dare stop, didn’t want to stop.

The thick weight of him filled your mouth obscenely, the silky skin sliding against your tongue with every slow, deliberate pull of your lips. The taste of him was salty, heavy, and completely addictive.

Your hands slid up his thighs, feeling the way his muscles were tense, locked tight like he was struggling not to move. His skin was burning hot under your palms, every tiny twitch betraying how close he already was.

Joel was breathing harshly above you, his chest rising and falling in ragged bursts. He had one hand still tangled gently but firmly in your hair, letting you take the lead, but the other hand reached down, grabbing your wrist, squeezing it tightly as if to ground himself, to stop himself from losing control.

“Fuck, baby… so good… so fuckin’ good…” he hissed between clenched teeth.

You hollowed your cheeks and took him deeper, feeling the thick, pulsing vein along the underside of his cock drag against your tongue.He was impossibly hard, but his skin was velvety soft, warm, and alive in your mouth.

The weight of him made your lips stretch wide, drool beginning to spill from the corners of your mouth, dripping down your chin.

Joel groaned—deep, guttural—and threw his head back against the couch, the muscles in his neck straining as he fought the urge to buck his hips into your mouth.

But he couldn’t hold back completely.

Every so often, his hips jerked forward sharply, driving his cock deeper into your throat, and you gagged lightly around him, tears springing to your eyes.

“Shit—sorry, I—” he panted, voice breaking with restraint.

“Can’t fuckin’ help it… you feel too damn good…”

You whimpered around him, the vibrations making him curse again.

Your thighs rubbed together desperately, because the way Joel was falling apart for you was driving you insane. The aching, throbbing need between your legs was unbearable, slick dripping onto the floor beneath you, but you stayed focused, desperate to make him fall apart.

Joel’s hand in your hair tightened just slightly, not forcing, not controlling, but anchoring himself, like he needed you to keep him tethered to this moment.

His balls were heavy, full, drawn up tight against his body.

You could feel the way they shifted as he struggled to hold himself back, his whole body shuddering under your touch. His fingers caressed your wrist, a silent worship, almost trembling with how badly he wanted you.

Joel’s breathing grew heavier, rougher, more desperate by the second.

You could feel it in the way his thighs trembled under your palms, the way his hand in your hair tightened—not rough, but pleading, as if he was begging for release.

His cock twitched against your tongue, swelling even more impossibly thick as his whole body tensed.

“Fuck… gonna—” he gasped, the words tumbling out broken and raw.

You quickened your pace slightly, swirling your tongue around the sensitive head, and that was all it took. With a deep, guttural groan that seemed to tear itself straight from his chest, Joel came.

His hips jerked up uncontrollably, and thick, hot spurts of cum filled your mouth, salty and slightly bitter, coating your tongue and the back of your throat.

You moaned softly at the taste—musky, masculine, entirely him—and swallowed instinctively, wanting to take all of him in.

Joel cursed again, a low, broken “Jesus…” escaping his lips, his voice hoarse and wrecked.

His head fell back, exposing the strong line of his throat, his chest heaving with every ragged breath. Every muscle in his body was drawn tight, trembling under the intensity of his orgasm.

He kept one shaking hand tangled in your hair, the other gripping the edge of the couch so tightly his knuckles went white. You pulled back slowly, letting his softening cock slip from your lips with a lewd, wet sound.

A little bit of his release dripped from the corner of your mouth, and you wiped it away with the back of your hand, cheeks burning with heat and pride.

Your eyes met his, Joel’s were dark, wild, overwhelmed, and for a moment, neither of you spoke. The only sound was his heavy breathing and the distant hum of the night outside.

He reached for you blindly, pulling you up onto his lap, cradling you against his chest as if you were something fragile he needed to protect.

“You’re fuckin’ incredible,” he whispered against your hair, voice still shaky.

“So damn good…”

You nuzzled into him, heart pounding, still trembling yourself, not from fear or doubt, but from the raw, electric intensity of it all. You had made him come apart at the seams. You had him falling apart for you.

And god, it made the pulsing ache between your thighs almost unbearable. Joel’s hands slid slowly up and down your back, steadying himself as much as you. But you could already feel it: the way his body was starting to react again, the slow, inevitable reignition of need simmering between you both.

He wasn’t done, and neither were you.

Still perched in Joel’s lap, your breathless laughter barely settled from what you just did, you leaned in closer, your lips brushing the shell of his ear.

And in your softest, filthiest voice, you whispered, “You know…I’ve had a lot of clients, but none of them ever came this fast before, Mr. Miller.”

The moment the words left your mouth, you felt Joel’s whole body stiffen under you, like you’d lit a fuse. A low, almost animalistic growl rumbled deep in his chest.

Without a word, Joel flipped you over in one fluid, controlled movement, so now he was the one kneeling in front of you on the couch.

You gasped, startled, but before you could even think to say anything, Joel shot you a dark, wicked smirk — the kind of look that said you were absolutely, completely fucked — and grabbed your thighs, spreading them wide apart.

You barely had time to suck in a breath before Joel ducked down and devoured you. His tongue was hot and messy and desperate, lapping at your soaked core like he’d been starving for you for years.

The first stroke of his tongue up your slit made your entire body jerk, a strangled, broken moan ripping from your throat.

He groaned against you, the vibrations making your head fall back against the couch, your fingers immediately flying into his hair, grabbing at the silver-streaked strands in pure desperation.

Joel was relentless. His mouth was everywhere—licking, sucking, teasing your clit with maddening circles before sliding lower to dip into your entrance, tasting the very core of you.

You were already dripping, wetness coating his lips, his beard glistening under the soft, golden light of the room. He didn’t care. He wanted it messy. He wanted all of you.

Your thighs trembled uncontrollably around his head, but Joel only growled and pulled you even closer, locking his arms around your hips so you couldn’t get away. As if you’d ever want to.

The texture of his tongue was perfect—slightly rough, silky, impossibly skilled as he switched between broad strokes and tight, focused flicks. Your clit was throbbing, every nerve ending on fire, your whole body arching into his mouth.

Joel muttered filthy praises against your pussy between strokes, things like, “Taste so fuckin’ sweet, darlin',” and “Could stay down here forever,” each word sending a new rush of heat through your blood.

You sobbed his name, voice high and cracked, hips grinding helplessly against his mouth as the pressure inside you coiled tighter and tighter.

Joel felt it, he knew you were close, and with a smug, satisfied hum, he slipped two thick fingers inside your fluttering hole, crooking them just right to hit that sweet, devastating spot.

The combination of his fingers stroking inside you and his mouth sucking mercilessly at your clit had you unraveling, fast.

Your body locked up, muscles spasming uncontrollably, a wild, broken cry tearing out of you as you came harder than you ever had in your life.

Joel didn’t stop, not through your shudders, not through your gasps, he licked and kissed you through every wave of your orgasm, savoring every last drop of your release.

Your wetness coated his chin, his lips, dripping messily onto the couch, onto his hands, but he didn’t fucking care.

You collapsed against the cushions, panting, utterly wrecked, your whole body still twitching from aftershocks.

He lifted his head from between your thighs, his lips glistening with you, and in his eyes burned that unbelievably dark, proud look.

He kept caressing your inner thighs for a moment longer, tracing slow, soothing circles with his fingertips to ease you through the lingering waves of pleasure.

Then he leaned closer and murmured in a rough, praising voice:

“Good girl… You did so fuckin’ good for me, sweetheart.”

Your body almost trembled at his words — but both of you knew this was far from over.

Joel gave you a moment to catch your breath, his heavy breathing matching yours in the thick, charged air between you. You were glistening with sweat, skin flushed and trembling slightly, but to him, you were the most breathtaking thing he’d ever seen. His cock, still painfully hard and throbbing, twitched at the sight of you spread out on the couch — all messy and ruined because of him.

He couldn’t wait any longer.

With a deep, desperate grunt, Joel climbed onto the couch, his strong hands sliding under you effortlessly. He shifted your body with ease, guiding you until you were lying flat beneath him. His massive frame hovered above, shadowing you completely, and for a moment, you just stared at each other.

Your glassy, tear-filled eyes met his — his were dark, wild, predatory. Like a starving wolf finally facing the meal he’d been denied for far too long. His broad chest heaved with each ragged breath, muscles taut with restraint.

Before moving further, Joel lowered his head slightly and gave you a subtle nod, silently asking for permission. And with a shy, eager little nod back, you gave it to him.

Joel lined himself up, his thick cock rubbing against your slick folds, and slowly began to push in.

The stretch was intense — he was so damn big that your walls fought to accommodate him, making you hiss sharply through your clenched teeth. Your nails instinctively dug into the hard planes of his back, leaving angry red scratches in their wake, but Joel only groaned at the feeling. He welcomed it. He wanted it. Proof of how good he was making you feel.

He paused for a moment, his forehead pressing against yours, whispering a low, gravelly:

“Breathe… I got you…”

Then, with a deep, primal growl, Joel pushed the rest of the way in, bottoming out inside you.

You whimpered at the sudden fullness, your thighs trembling against his hips, but fuck — the feeling of being completely stretched around him, the heavy weight of him deep inside you, was absolutely addictive.

Joel pressed a tender kiss to your sweaty forehead, a shaky attempt to comfort you, to ground you.

And then, he started to move.

Slow, deep thrusts at first. He wanted you to feel everything — every ridge, every pulsing vein of his thick cock dragging along your sensitive walls.

Each push knocked soft, helpless little whimpers from your throat. Each pull left you feeling devastatingly empty, only for him to fill you up again — harder, deeper, more desperate each time.

Joel kept one hand anchored firmly on your hip, the other sliding up to intertwine with your fingers above your head, pinning you down in the most delicious way.

His lips brushed your temple, whispering words between ragged breaths:

“So tight for me… made just for me, ain’t ya, sweet girl?”

Your mind was a whirlwind — your heart pounding so loudly you could barely hear anything else, your body trembling under the relentless, steady rhythm Joel set.

The sounds between you were filthy: the wet slap of skin against skin, the soft creak of the couch under your shifting bodies, and the desperate, broken moans that neither of you could hold back anymore.

Outside, the night was quiet, the cool breeze whispering against the windows — but inside, the heat between you burned hotter than anything else.

A pulsing tension coiled tighter and tighter in your belly, fueled by Joel’s low growls and the constant, overwhelming friction of him dragging against your most sensitive spots.

He noticed it, of course he did — he could feel your walls fluttering around him, trying to pull him even deeper, to keep him inside forever.

Your second orgasm hit you like a violent, breathtaking wave.

It was louder this time, messier — a raw, guttural scream of Joel’s name tearing from your throat as your body seized and spasmed uncontrollably around him.

The world tilted violently, your vision swimming with stars, a sharp ringing filling your ears.

Your entire body was on fire, but at the same time — cold shivers raced down your spine, leaving you trembling and gasping for air like you’d been dragged under a riptide.

Your nails clawed desperately at Joel’s broad shoulders, leaving red, angry marks in your wake as your orgasm wracked through you.

Joel cursed under his breath, the sound low and almost desperate, as he drove into you a few more brutal, stuttering thrusts.

Then, with a deep, broken groan torn straight from his chest, he buried himself deep inside you one last time, and came hard.

His hips jerked against yours, pushing as deep as he could go while thick, hot pulses of his cum flooded your clenching core.

He couldn’t hold back, filling you up so completely it almost hurt, his whole body trembling with the force of his release.

A strangled, guttural version of your name spilled from his lips as he collapsed forward slightly, pressing his forehead to yours, breathing heavily through his nose.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

The world around you was nothing but your heartbeats hammering violently against each other’s skin, the room spinning slightly from the exertion — and from the lingering haze of the weed you’d both smoked earlier.

Joel finally shifted, gently easing out of you, and a messy mix of both of your releases immediately began to leak from between your legs, dripping onto the couch cushions below.

He hissed softly at the oversensitivity but didn’t move far — instead, he gathered you carefully into his arms, pulling you close against his sweaty, trembling chest.

You both collapsed back onto the couch — or what was left of it — tangled together, naked, sticky, sweaty, completely and utterly exhausted.

Joel wasn’t young anymore, and after what felt like an eternity without this kind of raw, consuming sex — it was hitting him hard.

You, overwhelmed from the double orgasm and the intense intimacy, could barely keep your eyes open.

Your head spun lazily, your body still twitching slightly in the aftermath, and the only thing grounding you was the heavy, protective weight of Joel wrapped around you.

There was a slow, sticky warmth still dripping between your legs — the mixture of your own release and Joel’s seed slowly seeping out — but you were both too far gone to care.

Joel’s cock, still slightly leaking, twitched weakly against your thigh as he finally gave in to sleep. You let yourself drift off too, tucked safely in his arms, surrounded by his scent, by the overwhelming sense of safety and belonging that you hadn’t even realized you were craving this badly.

The first thing that woke you up were the warm beams of sunlight slicing through the window, landing right across your closed eyelids.

You groaned softly, stretching out your sore, heavy limbs under the covers — and that’s when you realized…

You were in a bed. Under a blanket wearing a shirt. Your fingers brushed the fabric instinctively, recognizing the slightly worn, soft cotton and — unmistakably — Joel’s scent.

Earthy, musky, with that sharp trace of woodsmoke clinging to him like a second skin. It was his shirt, no doubt. Confused and groggy, you sat up, looking around in slow, cautious movements.

How the hell had you gotten here? As you pieced the memories together, it hit you all at once — like a slap across the face. The night before.

Joel.

The sex.

The weed.

You had slept with your client. Your older, rugged client you’d only known for about a week. You had slept with a man old enough to be your father. And you had gotten high as fuck with him beforehand.

Guilt and panic churned violently inside your gut, making your hands tremble as you dropped your face into your palms, groaning miserably.

What the fuck had you done?

But after a few moments of spiraling self-hatred, you forced yourself to pull it together. You needed your clothes. You needed to leave.

You stood up carefully, the oversized shirt barely covering the tops of your thighs, and looked around the room. Your clothes were nowhere in sight.

Your heart pounded painfully against your ribs as you tiptoed toward the door. The moment you opened them, the smell hit you. The rich, bitter coffee and Joel.

You froze for a moment before cautiously moving closer to the kitchen.

Joel was there, bustling around, wearing a loose, comfortable T-shirt and jeans, sleeves pushed up, the muscles in his forearms flexing with each small movement.

When he heard the door creak, he immediately turned around, his whole face lighting up with a soft, easy smile.

“Morning,” he drawled, his voice still deliciously rough from sleep.

He gestured to the chair across from him at the small kitchen table.

“Come sit’.”

You hesitated for a split second — your mind still a chaotic mess — but eventually shuffled over and sat down awkwardly.

You were honestly stunned.

Not just because of everything that had happened… But because Joel was still here. He hadn’t run off. He hadn’t left you alone, confused, and abandoned. He stayed. He even made coffee.

The conversation started light, typical morning chatter. He asked how you slept, if you were hungry, if you wanted sugar in your coffee…No mention of last night. No mention of the sex.

Just that soft, lazy morning vibe like you were… normal.

You sipped the rich, hot coffee, smiling shyly at him across the table, and he smiled right back, warm and genuine.

Your eyes eventually flicked to the worn leather watch strapped around his wrist, noticing the bullet hole scar near the band, and then panic suddenly punched you in the gut again.

What time was it? You had work!

You shot up from your chair, mumbling frantically about needing to get dressed, about being late — but Joel just chuckled under his breath, calm as ever.

“Relax,” he said, voice low and reassuring.

“I called Tommy. Told him you’re takin’ the day off. He let all your clients know. You’re good.”

You stared at him, stunned, not quite believing it.

But the way he said it, so confident, so casually protective, eventually made you sink back down into your seat, your heart still racing but slowly beginning to calm. You sipped your coffee again, feeling his steady gaze on you.

The silence that followed was… thick. Not hostile, not cold, just full. Only the quiet clink of a coffee cup being set down or the occasional creak of the wooden chair broke through it.

You both avoided each other’s eyes for a while. It was awkward, in the worst possible way. Because you knew. You knew you couldn’t just ignore last night forever.

So eventually, as a professional, as someone who understood the weight of unspoken tension, you broke the silence. Your voice was low, careful.

“About… last night—”

Joel looked up sharply and lifted a hand, stopping you gently but firmly.

“I get it,” he said, his voice calm, steady.

“We were both high. It just sorta… happened.”

You nodded once, lips pressing into a tight, almost guilty line. He wasn’t wrong. But he wasn’t exactly right either. The quiet returned for a moment, a little softer this time. Then you cleared your throat.

“Uh… Do you happen to know where my clothes ended up?”

Joel nodded, a low breath left through his nose before he stood up.

“Yeah, I got ‘em.”

He disappeared into the hallway and returned a moment later with your neatly folded clothes. You stood up, took them slowly, your fingers brushing his as you did.

You didn’t look him in the eyes, but you felt his gaze, heavy and lingering, sliding over you like he hadn’t just seen you bare and shaking under him a few hours ago. Then he spoke again, voice softer now.

“Look… if you’re still okay with it, I’d like to keep meetin’. I mean, professionally. I think it’s… helpin’.”

You finally looked at him — really looked at him. There was something behind his words. Something uncertain. But also hopeful.

You nodded, lips curling just barely.

“Sure. We can keep meeting.”

He gave the smallest, almost imperceptible smile. Like something inside him had unclenched.

You turned and headed toward the guest room to change, feeling the heat of his gaze on your back the whole way.

And the irony wasn’t lost on you, how you now moved through this house wearing his scent, still sticky between your thighs, pretending like this was normal.

Like you hadn’t just let him tear you apart with his mouth, his hands, his— You stopped. Breathed. Got dressed.

When you finally came out, dressed, hair tied up, a little more composed, Joel was leaning against the counter, sipping his coffee. The silence between you stretched heavy, charged with everything that had happened the night before, and everything neither of you had said yet.

You cleared your throat softly and said, “Well… I guess I should probably go.”

Joel didn’t respond at first. But the way his expression shifted, just slightly, told you everything. Surprise, a flicker of disappointment… maybe even hurt. Like he’d expected you to stay, to share this morning with him. But he didn’t try to stop you. He understood. Maybe you both were still processing what the hell last night even meant.

He simply nodded and walked with you, until you reached the front door. He opened it for you, stepping aside.

You stopped in the doorway, hesitating. Then you turned your head just slightly and said with a soft, knowing smile, “Just so you know… I wasn’t that high.”

Joel froze. You didn’t wait for a response — you just walked off, the sunlight catching your hair as you disappeared down the street.

Joel stood there for a second, the echo of your words still ringing in the air like a shot. Then he let out a low chuckle, shook his head in disbelief, and muttered to himself,

“Goddamn woman…”

Hiii, thank you so much for reading!

I hope you guys enjoyed it! If you have any suggestions, don’t hesitate to let me know! I’d also be super happy for any feedback; whether it’s a reblog, comment, like, or even a follow.

Have a nice day!

LOVE YA🌸💗

[sematarygirls]

⠀    ⠀⠀♯┆marshgirl!reader x rafe ⏤ part i.ㅤ ۪ ୧

ᰋ. ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎“ i asked my father if he believed in ghosts; he told me he would be one someday ,, ‎‎ ‎ ‎ : ‎‎ ‎ ‎IN WHICH . . . rafe bets that he can befriend the weird girl who resides in the marsh.   ─── ⊹ᡣ𐭩₊⋆🌾

THE CYPRUS BRANCHES swayed in the gentle breeze of the early morning, mist still clinging low to the murky water and roots of the trees. The air was thick with the earthy scent of damp soil and natural decomposition of material as well as the sickly sweet smell of crushed wildflowers under your feet.

You moved through the marsh like you were born from it— maybe you were—with quick, precise steps that avoided stray tree roots, sticks, rocks, and the occasional small animal. Your skirt swished at your ankles, wetted with fresh mud as you returned home from your morning scavenge of all the fascinating things nature had to offer.

Your lonely little cabin where you resided with your father was tucked away from the roads and civilization. He often told you that the world was dangerous, and it would eat a girl like you alive, so it was better to stay in the marsh where it was safe.

He'd never quite explained your way of life. You knew you were different, not like the other kids your age, but you didn't understand why, and whenever you dared ask, he would get agitated, asking you who put those thoughts into your head.

Maybe it was paranoia, a fear of what others were capable of, a fear of being out of control. Maybe it was grief, the loss of your mother so achingly deep that all he could do was run away and disappear.

Or maybe he was hiding something from you, from the world. Maybe the real reason for keeping you isolated had nothing to do with keeping you safe but rather, protecting whatever secrets he had buried in the marsh so long ago.

As you approached, you heard the familiar song of your handmade windchimes—made from animal bones, shards of glass, and rusty metals you had collected—and the piercing creaking of the old rocking chair that sat on the porch and moved with the wind. It was comforting. It was the sound of home.

"Daddy?" You called softly, pushing the creaky wooden door open and pausing to take your muddy boots off and set them down outside to keep from tracking mud inside before venturing into the house to retrieve this month's grocery list.

Once a month, on the last day of the month, you were permitted to go into town to stock up on groceries for the coming weeks. It had been a ritual like clockwork since you were thirteen. Though at that age you weren't technically allowed to be driving, your father insisted upon it anyway.

Padding further inside, your feet instinctively avoiding the spots in the floorboards that stuck up or had exposed nail heads, you found your father sitting in his worn, leather chair, knife in hand as he whittled something out of wood. "Back already?" He asked, glancing up at you. His gaze was always sharp and scrutinizing like he expected to catch you in a lie, and his voice was deep and rough, his vocal cords like rocks that had been weathered by a stream.

You nodded, the scent of burning wood from the fireplace mingling in the air with the smell of dried herbs and fresh flowers and infiltrating your senses. Your eyes followed his motions as he scraped the knife against the wood with slow, deliberate strokes, the sound of him humming in acknowledgement reaching your ears.

After a beat of silence, he sighed heavily, looking up at you with that piercing gaze as he set his knife down on the table, a little harsher than intended. "Remember the rules," he said firmly, his tone warning as he reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. "Get what we need and come straight home. No lingering or talking to strangers," he reminded you, like he always did despite you having done this dozens of times.

"Yes, sir," you replied softly with an obedient nod, reaching for the paper in his outstretched hand. He held it firmly for a moment, not letting you take it as he searched your eyes, as if he could pull the truth from your bones. Clearly, he decided you were telling the truth about obeying his strict rules because he loosened his grip, allowing the paper to slip from his fingers.

You slipped the paper into your bag—the same one you'd used to collect your trinkets—and turned on your heels, heading back to the front door. You swiped your dad's keys from the table by the door before closing it behind you, paying no mind to the screeching that would have made anyone else wince.

Slipping on your boots and trudging down the crumbling wooden steps, you noticed a shift of atmosphere; you always did when you were leaving. The wind seemed to blow a little harder, whistling to catch your attention as you started your father's rusty old truck and put it in reverse to make your way toward the road. In response, a nearby crow cawed loudly, causing a few others to follow.

The marsh didn't like when you went into town.

Neither did you.

The drive was always unsettling and left a pit in your stomach as the trees grew few and farther between and more houses came into view, eventually giving way to buildings crowded together and pavement instead of greenery.

You pulled into the parking lot, the truck's engine rattling as you put the car into park. People stared before you even got out of the car; they always did.

Stepping out, you felt the weight of eyes upon you, hushed whispers following you as you walked with your head held high. You didn't mind them. You always figured they were just curious, as you were about them.

Across the street, Rafe, Topper, and Kelce were exiting a high-end clothing store when they caught sight of you. "Holy shit, country cryptic incoming," Topper smirked, nudging Rafe and nodding to your form retreating into the grocery store.

"Bro, I swear she only crawls out of the swamp, like, once a year," Kelce said, following Topper's motion. They kept walking down the street, farther and farther away, but their conversation stayed centered around you.

"What do you think she's buying? Eye of newt? Frog legs?" Topper snickered, finding himself incredibly funny.

"She's gonna hear you two talking shit and hex you," Rafe quipped, smirking as he pushed his sunglasses up his nose. "Yknow, make your dicks shrivel up in your sleep."

"I'm not sure Topper's can get any smaller," Kelce snorted.

Topper shoved Kelce with an indignant scoff. "Shut the fuck up, man, not cool."

Rafe grinned, his gaze flickering back to the doors you'd just disappeared through. It was rare to see you in town, so rare that it became a spectacle. People would wait for your inevitable return and tell tales, most of them bullshit, about what they'd allegedly seen you do or heard you say when they encountered you.

A thought occurred to him that had him smirking. "What do you say we make this a little more interesting?" He proposed, making Topper and Kelce quit their bickering over dick sizes and look over at him with pinched brows.

"What do you mean?" They asked, almost in unison, their curiosity undoubtedly piqued.

"I think we should talk to her, see what her deal is, yknow. I don't think anyone in this town has actually ever heard her say more than, what, three words?" Rafe grinned, like he had just said something revolutionary.

The two boys looked at each other before bursting out laughing. "There's no way she'll talk to us, let alone you."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Rafe scowled, his face growing hot. He didn't appreciate being challenged.

"It means you're the biggest asshole I know," Kelce rolled his eyes, always one to tell it like it was. He wasn't as much a lapdog as Topper was. "You're like the last person she'll want to talk to."

"Girls talk to me all the time," Rafe defended, gritting his teeth at the insult.

"Yeah," Topper snorted. "When they're trying to fuck you. Not when they're, yknow, feral." He bared his teeth and made a clawing motion for emphasis.

Rafe was determined to prove them wrong. Nothing made him more willing to do something than when someone told him he couldn't. "Fine then, let's make a bet."

Kelce raised a brow. "A bet?"

"What kind of bet?" Topper asked.

Rafe’s grin stretched wider, cocky and self-assured. “I bet I can get her to talk to me. Not just talk, but, like… really talk. Get her to like me, maybe even fall for me."

Kelce and Topper exchanged glances, their skepticism evident. "You think you can make her fall for you?" Topper scoffed. "Dude, she's probably never even talked to a guy before."

"Exactly," Rafe smirked, already having decided that this would be a piece of cake to pull off. All he had to do was turn up the Cameron charm, and she'd fall to her knees. "That just makes it easier."

Kelce snorted. "Or it makes it fucking impossible. She lives in a swamp, bro. She probably doesn't even know what flirting is."

"That's the fun part," Rafe shrugged with a cocky grin, adjusting his sunglasses as he glanced toward the grocery store doors again. "She won’t even see it coming."

"Alright," Kelce shrugged, deciding this would be the easiest money he ever made. "You're on. If you can't get her to fall for you in a month, you owe us big time." Topper nodded in agreement.

And just like that, the deal was made. Rafe had one month to woo you into going on a real date with him, out in town where he would be able to prove to Kelce and Topper that he was every bit the man he claimed to be and that no woman was resistant to his charm, all of this completely unbeknownst to you.

                         ୭ৎ

author's notes .ᐟ   this is definitely not my best work. i really like the beginning, but i am terrible at dialogue and being descriptive when people are talking. i hope you enjoyed it anyway !! this will be a series, but i will take misc requests for marshgirl!reader and rafe at any stage of their relationship <33 also i didn't edit this because i'm tired, so if you see any mistakes, please lmk !!

tags .ᐟ   @starkeysprincess / @cometmultiverse / @all4l0vee / @kissesfrmriri / @bradshawed / @rafeslittleangel / @bakugouswaif / @fakedhearts / @avada-kedavra-bitch-187 /

[heliosunny]

Steam beneath the surface

Veritas Ratio x Reader

You never understood what you did to make him hate you. First day of class and Dr. Ratio already had it out for you.

“Since no one is volunteering” he said flatly, “you’ll answer, Y/N.”

Again.

That made three times today.

The others chuckled under their breath, some with pity, some with that cruel glee that came from not being the one in the crosshairs. You sat stiffly at your desk, mind racing as you tried to recall whatever abstract theory he was droning about just seconds ago. You muttered a passable answer. He tilted his head—barely.

“Acceptable,” he murmured. “If we’re grading on mercy.”

What was his problem?

Because what you didn’t know -what none of his students knew- was that when the sun dipped and the academic world clocked out, Ratio worked another job. Not for the money, of course. No, he worked at the bathhouse in the old part of town. The quiet, traditional kind.

> One Week Before the Semester <

You had just passed the bathhouse's old stone gate, scrolling your phone, barely glancing at the sign outside. There was something vaguely elegant about the place, but you were just cutting through to shave a few minutes off your walk home.

You didn’t even notice the man in the open hallway.

“Don’t use your phone around here” came his voice.

You didn’t hear him. Your music was too loud.

He stood still, watching your retreating back, a shadow stretching behind him in the lantern light.

You hadn’t meant to trespass into his sanctuary.

But you had.

> Present <

“Y/N!” Dr. Ratio called from the front of the classroom, barely glancing up from the papers he was sorting. “Stay after class. We need to discuss your participation.”

A few classmates ooh’d quietly. This was the third time this week.

You gathered your things slowly, annoyed but trying not to show it. You hadn’t even done anything wrong. But Dr. Ratio had zeroed in on you from day one. Always picking you for questions, assigning you "extra practice" making snide comments about your "disengaged energy."

“Tell me, Y/N,” he said, setting down his pen and folding his hands on the desk, “do you enjoy underperforming, or is this a performance art piece I should grade more generously?”

“I’m not underperforming.”

“You’re not present,” he said. “Mentally, emotionally, or otherwise.”

You frowned. “I think you’re reading way too much into this.”

“Oh, I always read too much into things,” he murmured, “It’s how I stay ahead.”

“I’m assigning you weekly reports. On everything we cover. Typed. Double length.”

“What? Why?”

“To help you focus. And because I said so.”

You clenched your jaw. “Isn’t that excessive?”

“Excess,” he said, “is what’s required when prevention is the goal.”

You stared at him, baffled.

> Later That Week – The Bathhouse <

You were tired. Between the surprise reports, Ratio’s constant hovering, and whatever personal vendetta he seemed to have against your existence, you needed a reset. And where better than the bathhouse you passed by so often?

It was quiet that evening, just like before. The air inside was warm, damp, and heavy with the scent of wood and herbal steam. You slipped off your shoes, dropped some coins into the slot, and entered the changing room without a second thought.

A cold splash suddenly hit your side.

You gasped, twisting sharply as water soaked the edge of your clothes. A wooden bucket clattered against the tile, still dripping.

“What the hell—?”

“Oh,” came a voice you knew too well, “it’s you.”

There he was. Wearing a simple yukata tied at the waist, sleeves rolled up, a mop leaning against the wall beside him. His damp hair clung slightly to his forehead.

“You… work here?”

He didn’t answer immediately.

“I clean,” he said simply. “Among other things.”

“You splashed me.”

“I was cleaning,” he repeated, his tone was everything but apologetic.

“…Right.”

You turned slightly, intending to just continue whatever you were doing, maybe pretend none of this happened.

But Ratio’s voice followed you like a hook behind the ribs.

“Planning to tell anyone?”

“What?”

“About seeing me here.”

You scoffed, frowning. “Why would I care?”

You finished your soak in the mineral bath, tension slowly easing from your shoulders. The brief exchange with Ratio still lingered in your mind but you pushed it aside. He was just your teacher. Weird, maybe even a little paranoid—but harmless.

You dried off, changed, and left, humming to yourself.

It wasn’t until you got home that you realized your headphones were gone.

> The Next Morning – Faculty Office <

You tapped on the frame of the open door. Ratio’s office was dark except for the natural light pouring through the blinds, slanting across piles of paper. And there, sitting right on the edge of his desk, were your headphones.

He looked up from a stack of graded essays. “You’re early.”

“I left those at the bathhouse,” you said, trying to sound neutral. “Can I have them back?”

“I’m holding them for observation” he said.

You blinked. “They’re just headphones.”

“Which is what I would say, too, if I were trying to convince someone they weren’t bugged.”

“…What?”

He set his pen down slowly, folding his hands in front of him. “You think very little of my intelligence, if you assume I’d overlook the possibility of surveillance.”

You stared. “They're literally from a convenience store—”

“Low-budget cover. Clever. But not clever enough.”

You opened your mouth, then closed it. You couldn’t be rude. He was your teacher.

So you just sat there.

That’s it, you thought later that day. He asked for it.

You started small.

Chalk balanced on the door.

He caught it.

Switched the sugar in his office drawer with salt.

He sipped his coffee, adjusted his glasses, and said, “My tolerance for bitterness must be improving.”

You tried slipping a fake notice into his inbox about a mandatory dress code violation.

He didn’t even react, just circled the typo in red ink and pinned it to the board labeled “AMATEUR ATTEMPTS” with your handwriting copied underneath.

It was infuriating.

Despite his personality, or maybe because of it, Dr. Ratio had a strange pull in the school. Students tried to flirt with him, constantly.

None of it landed.

He never entertained it beyond a dry “I’d advise focusing on graduating before fantasizing.”

But the weirdest part?

They liked that.

And he wasn’t the only one.

There was another teacher, Aventurine, who always hovered close to Ratio’s orbit.

They were opposites, but close.

Rumor had it they shared lunch daily.

Students’ attempts to flirt or get attention were met with condescending amusement. Like watching children play pretend.

> Two Weeks Later <

You stopped going to the bathhouse.

Whatever peace it once gave you had been ruined.

The idea of seeing him in that setting again made your stomach twist. Curse him. Curse his cryptic attitude and his obsession with making you the center of everything. You hoped his numbers dropped now that you were gone.

Your focus shifted. With all the extra reports he assigned, you didn’t have much choice. Pages and pages of analysis, summaries, theories—Ratio turned your free time into a footnote. But strangely… after a while… he stopped.

He stopped assigning you extra work.

It was like the storm had passed.

Maybe he realized he overdid it. Maybe he was wrong, and too prideful to admit it out loud. Either way, you weren’t about to ask.

Fine. Let him go back to whatever twisted little schemes he cooked up in his free time.

You ignored him.

You reminded yourself—he’s just a teacher.

That afternoon, your grandma sent you out with a neat list folded in half. Groceries: soy sauce, tofu, green onions, some sweet buns she liked. You took the usual shortcut through the shopping street.

As you exited the small bakery, plastic bag in hand, you heard laughter.

Your eyes flicked toward the source instinctively.

There he was, standing under the warm glow of an old lamp post, speaking with a small group of bathhouse guests—well-dressed, older types who clearly respected him. He wore his casual yukata again.

He smiled at something one of them said.

And then—his eyes caught yours.

He soon looked away.

You stood there for a beat longer than you should’ve, then kept walking. Your feet hit the pavement faster now. You didn't look back.

You returned home in silence.

But the entire way, you felt the heat of his gaze pressed against your back, even though he wasn’t following.

----

It was just a quiet Saturday afternoon. You were upstairs, scrolling through your phone while half-listening to music.

Then you heard voices. The first one is your grandma's.

You frowned, sitting up. You didn’t remember her saying anyone was coming over.

You stood at the top of the stairs, then froze.

Him. In your house.

Your first instinct was to retreat. Maybe out the window. Maybe fake illness. Anything but dealing with this. But it was too late. Your grandma called out sweetly, “Why didn’t you tell me your teacher was visiting, dear? You should’ve warned me so I could prepare tea!”

You descended slowly, blinking in disbelief. “I didn’t know he was coming…”

Ratio sat on the floor cushion.

He gave a faint, respectful bow. “Apologies for the sudden visit. I was nearby delivering materials to another household. I figured I’d return this before it got forgotten.”

He held up your headphones.

You stepped forward hesitantly. “You could’ve just… given them to me at school.”

“Some things are better returned in a proper setting.”

What the hell did that mean? You took them quickly. Your fingers brushed his. His skin was colder than expected.

Your grandma kept talking, but you barely registered it. All you could think of was the way he looked at you.

Like he was dissecting something.

After a quick chat and polite exchange, he excused himself and asked if he could speak with you 'briefly outside.'

You obliged, unsure why.

“You stopped showing up.”

“…To the bathhouse? It’s not like we had a standing appointment.”

"No. But you didn’t even say goodbye."

You scoffed. "Why would I?"

"Fair." His tone didn’t change, but something in his stare sharpened. "Just thought you’d be more consistent."

Then he stepped away with a nod, as if this was perfectly normal behavior.

-----

You couldn’t stop thinking about it.

What was he trying to prove?

You lost track of time during his lecture. Your notes trailed off into nonsense halfway through the second blackboard.

“Y/N” he called, not even turning from his writing.

You snapped to attention.

A piece of chalk whizzed past your head.

“Focus” he said, still facing the board.

Later that week, you were sent to deliver a stack of paperwork—probably punishment for not dodging Ratio’s chalk faster the day before. You balanced the forms carefully as you navigated the quiet hallway.

The door to Ratio’s office was already ajar.

You knocked lightly and stepped in, only to freeze mid-step.

A student stood in front of his desk, clearly flustered, holding out a small envelope, probably spritzed with perfume if the scent in the air meant anything.

Dammit. You walked in on a confession.

“…I’ve admired you since last semester. I—I just thought you should know.”

He reached for a stamp. Pressed it onto a document without lifting his eyes.

“Admiration is not the same as understanding,” he said. “Please redirect your energy toward something measurable—like improving your test scores.”

The student’s expression crumbled.

You slowly backed up, trying to pretend you were not there, not part of this disaster. But his eyes flicked toward you in the same moment the student turned to leave.

You quickly approached his desk, dumped the paperwork, and muttered, “Delivery.”

Ratio’s voice followed as you turned to leave. “Do try to watch your step.”

“Huh?”

Your foot hit a small box.

You yelped as your balance vanished, but you didn’t land on the floor.

Your hands gripped his sleeves.

Well that was...

Then a laugh echoed behind you.

“Ohhh, what’s this now?”

You turned, and there stood Aventurine, leaning in the doorway. His grin said everything.

“I leave for five minutes and you’re already catching students in your arms?” Aventurine teased, striding in with a swagger that made you want to melt into the floor. “Is this what the paperwork’s hiding these days?”

Ratio gave him a withering look. “It’s your toy box.”

“Crafting kit,” Aventurine corrected, reaching for the package you’d tripped on. “Limited edition. Very important.”

You stepped away from Ratio quickly, brushing off your sleeves. “I didn’t see anything. I’m going.”

But Aventurine wasn’t done.

“Oh, no no.” He stopped you from leaving, facing Ratio with a wider grin. “I never thought you’d fall before me. You owe me dinner if you make it official, you know.”

Ratio simply returned to stamping papers.

You fled before either of them could say another word.

You cursed every god that ever existed when you saw Aventurine.

Leaning against your school gate with the same smirk, the same posture, the same glint in his eyes that had always meant trouble. You knew that smirk.

He used to live next door to you. You used to babysit his pet.

And now he was a teacher.

Worse, he remembered everything.

“Hey, neighbor. Or is it ex-neighbor?” he greeted, sliding into step beside you as if he hadn’t been absent from your life for years. “You know, I’ve been thinking—I should drop by again sometime. Say hi to your grandma. Maybe dig up that photo album she keeps. You remember the one with the duck pajamas?”

You glared. “That was ten years ago.”

He winked. “And yet, timeless.”

From that day forward, he never left you alone. Probably, just probably, he was trying to get anything from you that could be used against Ratio.

Between classes. After school. Even during lunch, he’d somehow “run into you.” Ruffling your hair. Poking your cheek and saying things like, “Still as pouty as ever.”

And of course, always right in front of Ratio.

He didn’t say anything at first.

When Aventurine appeared beside you, Dr. Ratio’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly.

To avoid anything that would happen out of his control.

He’d call on you to run some errands.

That day you stayed after class, Ratio set a new boundary.

“Do you enjoy his company?” Ratio asked suddenly.

“Huh?”

“You know who. He seems to be around you quite a bit.”

“We’ve known each other for a while. He’s just teasing.”

“Is that all it takes to make you smile like that?”

“…Excuse me?”

He didn’t clarify. “Just an observation.”

He dismissed you with a wave.

But the truth is, he’d underestimated you. He couldn't sleep that night, thinking back everything he has ever done.

At first, he thought you were a troublemaker.

Well he hates people figuring out his second job and all.

And you somehow kept showing up in this peaceful life of his.

But now?

He’d grown used to your presence.

No.

Maybe if he stop worrying over such things, his life will be just like before.

Yes, that's it.

-----

You swore you’d never come back here.

And yet, here you were. Because your grandma had that look in her eye. The “I want to relax, and I’m dragging you with me” kind of look. You couldn’t say no, not after everything she’s done for you. So while she headed off for a soak, you wandered near the refreshment corner, cracking open a cold bottle of milk and parking yourself on a stool by the fogged-up window.

And then he walked in.

His hair was still damp, slightly messy like he’d just run a hand through it. The robe hung loose, gaping just enough to show a glimpse of toned collarbones and a frame that looked more like a personal trainer’s than a teacher’s. A towel was draped over one shoulder, but unlike the rest of us, flushed and scrambling after practice, he looked completely unbothered.

You looked. Just a flicker of attention, half a second longer than you meant to.

He noticed. His foot hovered mid-step. Then that slow tilt of his head, eyes locking onto yours with quiet, amused precision. Like he’d been waiting for it.

“Staring at others in public isn’t polite, you know.”

“I wasn’t—!”

“You were. I wonder, should I assign you a reflection paper on boundaries and professionalism?”

You glared, taking another sip of milk just to avoid speaking. You couldn’t argue. Not here. Not in front of your grandma, who was somewhere behind the sliding doors and would not tolerate “talking back to adults.”

A voice cut through the air.

“There you are!”

You both turned at the same time.

A woman, clearly a guest, approached with an air of flirtation so thick it made your teeth ache. She didn’t even glance your way, too busy pressing into Ratio’s space, her fingers grazing his arm like she had every right to.

“Oh, you’re so tense,” she purred, tracing a line down his bicep. “Do you work out? Or is it just natural…?”

His jaw tightened. He didn’t move, but he didn’t return the gesture either. You couldn't watch another second of this trainwreck. The pawing, the baby-talk voice - fucking disgusting. She might as well have started licking him right there in public.

“That’s enough,” you said sharply, stepping between them. “You’re making him uncomfortable.”

The woman blinked, as if noticing you for the first time. Her lip curled.

“And who are you?”

Ratio’s voice cut clean through the tension.

“We’re in a relationship.”

Your stomach dropped, like -what the hell? but you recovered fast. “Security, actually.” 

You snatched the towel off Ratio’s shoulder and dunked it in the nearby basin. “And you’re harassing guests.”

The woman barely had time to shriek before you flicked a wall of water straight at her. “The fuck—?”

“Bathhouse rules.” You wrung out the towel with a sharp twist. “Now move.”

Ratio watched, impassive, as she scrambled back, makeup running. “You—you—” She finally stomped off, slippers slapping like a drowned cat retreating.

You tossed the towel back at Ratio. “In a relationship? Seriously?”

He caught it without blinking. "It was the first thing that came to mind."

"Wow." You wiped your hands on your pants, grinning. "You suck at chasing women away, huh?"

"And you're exceptionally good at it. I should assign extra credit. A 5,000-word essay on conflict de-escalation techniques, perhaps?"

"You wouldn't."

"3,000 words. Due Monday."

"I yield!" You threw your hands up. "Next time I'll just let her climb you like a jungle gym!"

----

You started dreaming of him.

Not his voice. Not his face.

Just… him. Specifically: Professor Ratio shirtless in the bathhouse steam, towel hanging dangerously loose, water sliding down those unfairly sculpted shoulders like even physics was simping.

You’d wake up pissed.

Why him? Why your brain��s insistence on rendering him in 4K detail?

But dreams don’t negotiate.

Last Tuesday, you dreamed he hugged you, except it was less hug and more biceps chokehold. You tapped out. He didn’t let go. You woke up wheezing into your pillow, half-convinced you could still smell his cologne.

Then came the bad one: Ratio waiting in a dark classroom, idly curling a 50lb dumbbell. "You’ve been skipping lectures" he said, smiling. "Let’s… discuss your attendance." You ran, then woke up as the dumbbell whooshed toward your face.

You tried to ignore it at school. You really did.

But then the tiniest things started catching your attention.

Like how he always wore his shirt buttoned perfectly, until he was too distracted grading to notice one undone near his collarbone.

Or the way his sleeves rolled up just enough when he leaned over a desk.

The line of his throat when he tilted his head.

It got harder to hate him.

----

The exam period hit Ratio like a freight train.

You barely saw him on campus anymore, just fleeting glimpses of his back as he vanished into faculty meetings, or the ominous click of his office door locking mid-conversation with the dean. Rumor was he’d taken over grading three departments’ worth of papers after a colleague quit.

Which made it infuriating that he somehow still worked more shifts at the bathhouse.

You caught him one evening, as he scrubbed the mineral stains from the soaking pools. His hair was a mess, his knuckles red from hot water.

“Staring is rude.”

You jerked your gaze up. Ratio hadn’t even turned around.

“I wasn’t— You look like hell.”

“Eloquent.” He wrung out his rag. “If you’re here to complain about your exam score, I finished grading those at 4 AM. My patience is—”

“I’m here to help.”

Ratio finally turned around.

“Help, huh?”

“You’re clearly drowning.” You snatched the spare apron off the hook. “So here’s the deal: I work your bathhouse shifts. You get to sleep for once. And in exchange…”

You paused. He waited.

“You stop failing people for breathing wrong in class.”

Ratio’s expression didn’t change. “No.”

“And,” you barreled on, “you teach me how to get—” You gestured vaguely at all of him.

“…A doctorate?”

“That!” You pointed accusingly. “That right there is why no one likes you!”

Ratio exhaled through his nose. For a terrifying second, you thought he might actually laugh. Instead, he tossed you the rag.

“Terms amended: You assist, I consider curbing fail rates. The rest is delusional.”

“You literally look like a Renaissance statue.”

“And you,” he said, stepping past you to grab a bucket, “have the work ethic of a napping cat.”

You grinned. “So we’re agreed?”

Ratio didn’t answer. But when you showed up the next day, he’d left an extra uniform out.

---

Aventurine’s entrance was about as subtle as a firework in a library.

One moment, you were elbow-deep in soapy water, scrubbing at a stubborn stain on the bathhouse tiles. The next, a familiar voice purred directly into your ear

“Well, well. If it isn’t my favorite little workaholic.”

You jumped, sending suds flying—straight into the face of your childhood menace-turned-unwelcome-admirer. Aventurine blinked, water dripping from his unfairly long lashes. Then, slowly, he grinned.

“Missed me that much, huh?”

“I missed the days when you moved away.” you shot back, wiping your hands on your apron.

Aventurine just laughed, leaning against the counter like he owned the place. “Heard you were playing bathhouse attendant now. Had to see it for myself.” His gaze flicked over your uniform.

You were about to retort when the temperature in the room dropped.

“The standard bathing time,” came a voice like iced tea, “is thirty minutes.”

“Professor! Didn’t know you moonlighted as a lifeguard.”

“Twenty-five minutes” 

Aventurine opened his mouth.

“Twenty.”

“Oh-ho? Someone’s territorial—”

“Fifteen.”

Aventurine, wisely, threw his hands up and sauntered off—but not before winking at you. “Save me the hot spring next time, yeah?”

The second he vanished, Ratio exhaled through his nose. “That is your neighbor? You sure he didn't escape from any prison or mental hospital?”

“Regrettably.”

“He’s banned from the cedar baths.”

“We don’t have cedar baths.”

Ratio didn’t smile. But the way he nudged the hot water valve just a little hotter as Aventurine yelped in the distance? That was something.

----

Ratio had insisted you stop working at the bathhouse. "Your academics take priority" he’d said, as if he hadn’t been the one drowning you in extra assignments before.

You obeyed, what else could you do.

"Ohhhhhh~ He’s into you!" Aventurine declared like a self-proclaimed romance expert. "But the man’s emotionally constipated. So! We help."

You eyed the fake love letter in his hands. "What is that?"

"This is strategy! You ‘confess.’ We reveal it’s a joke. He gets mad—which means he cares—then boom! Clarity!"

"Or he fails me."

"Risk versus reward, sweetheart." He grinned. "Besides, when have my plans ever backfired?"

Every time. But you still agreed.

You waited until after school, as you slipped into Ratio’s office. "You’re late for your club."

"I—" You shoved the letter at him. "I have something to say."

Ratio’s expression didn’t change as he read. But his grip creased the paper.

"This is… Unprofessional."

"But do you—"

The door slammed open.

"GOTCHA!" Aventurine crowed, phone out to film the whole thing. "Ohhh, Professor~! You should’ve seen your face—"

Ratio stood.

"Out."

Aventurine blinked. "Huh?"

"Get. Out. Now."

Aventurine fled. You didn’t.

Ratio didn’t look at you. "You too."

-----

You tried everything. Morning greetings, putting his favorite drink on his desk, volunteering to grade papers,.. Nothing works.

Even Aventurine, now banned from your texts, had the decency to look guilty. "Okay, maybe I underestimated how petty he could be."

You gave up.

When your grandma invited you to the bathhouse, you begged off. "Not feeling it today."

She eyed you. "You’ve been moping like a kicked puppy."

"I’m fine."

She went there on her own.

The bathhouse storage room door creaked open. "Young man? Could you help an old woman with these buckets?"

Ratio looked up from his inventory logs to your grandmother struggling with two overfilled water pails. As he took the buckets from her, she squinted up at his face in the dim light.

"Well now," she chuckled, "I know you. You're that strict professor from the university." Her eyes twinkled with sudden recognition. "The one who's got my grandchild moping around like a wet chick these past weeks."

Ratio nearly dropped the buckets. "I—"

"Ah, ah." She waved a finger. "No need for teacher talk here. This is bathhouse business." Taking one bucket back, she gestured for him to follow. "Come, come. These won't carry themselves."

As they walked, she continued as if discussing the weather: "You know, when I was young, there was a boy who fancied me something terrible. Handsome as sunrise, dumb as a post." She laughed at Ratio's expression. "Oh yes! He once stood outside my window for three hours holding a turnip because he heard I liked soup."

Ratio opened his mouth, then closed it. The grandmother hummed as they set the buckets by the soaking pools.

"Took me years to realize - men either say too much or nothing at all." She fixed Ratio with a knowing look. "The smart ones are worst for it. Think they need perfect words when really..." She patted his arm. "Even a turnip would do."

Ratio stared at the rising steam. "It's... complicated."

"Is it?" She tilted her head. "Or have you just been thinking so hard you forgot to feel?" With that, she shuffled off.

That night, your phone buzzed.

UNKNOWN NUMBER: Your grandmother is terrifying.

You sat up. 

UNKNOWN NUMBER: Meet me at the bathhouse. 8 PM.

YOU: Are you going to yell at me again?

RATIO: No.

RATIO: I’m bringing tea.

You arrived at the bathhouse to find Ratio already there, two steaming cups of tea set neatly on the counter. He didn’t look up when you entered, but his shoulders tensed—just slightly.

"You came" he said, as if he hadn’t been the one to text you.

"You asked"

Finally, Ratio exhaled. "Your grandmother is… persuasive."

You snorted. "She threatened you or something?"

He pushed one of the cups toward you. "Drink. I brewed it the way you like"

"You remember that?"

"I remember many things. Including how… unfairly I acted."

You sipped the tea. It was perfect. "Yeah, well. Aventurine’s the one who should be apologizing, not you."

"He will. Extensively."

"I overreacted," he admitted, staring into his cup. "Because the idea of you… pretending to care for me was…"

"It was a stupid prank. But you ignored me for days. You don’t get to be the wounded party here."

"You’re right."

"And if you had just talked to me instead of sulking—"

"I know." He finally met your eyes. "But I did care. That’s the problem."

"I hated how much it mattered," he continued "And then you—"

"I what?"

"Nothing.."

"If you’d just talked to me instead of being a drama queen, maybe we could’ve figured this out sooner."

"So what now?"

The door slammed open.

"DON’T HIT ME I BROUGHT SNACKS—" Aventurine skidded to a halt, arms full of convenience store bags, eyes darting between you and Ratio. "…Oh."

You raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"Ohhh." He grinned, "You two made up."

"Get out."

"Nope! I’m here to apologize." Aventurine dropped the snacks on the counter with a flourish. "And also to witness whatever this is."

You sighed. "We’re talking. Like adults."

"Boring." He ripped open a bag of chips. "But fine. I’ll be your emotional support menace."

And for the first time in days, you both sighed in unison.

-----

You could tell were the inspiration came from.

[letoasai]

Will work for food ~ part 2

Part 1 - Master list

Tim was anxious which wasn’t an emotion he often put into use. Even on a bad day he was calculating, overly prepared, and usually ran on caffeine. He was a young genius and a hell of a detective, but nerves probably didn’t care about his resume or personality quirks. 

He rubbed his thumb against the folded piece of paper kept hidden in his pocket. He’d examined it in the batcave but it held no clues of note. It was just a normal sheet of paper, and the ink could have been a pen from any local corner store. No DNA. No fingerprints. All the same, he kept it out of sight in public. 

Tim had been antsy about summoning Phantom, mostly because he felt like he was disrespectfully late. When he’d first laid eyes on the living form of the Ghost King, he’d felt a familiar ache. Neglect. He didn’t know if the king had neglected himself, or if the blame lay at someone else's feet, but he just couldn’t stand it. 

He’d offered food and company in an instant, the words popping out of his mouth before he could think them through. Despite that, he didn’t regret the offer. He could have done without the teasing from his siblings and teammates, but he didn’t regret the offer once. 

His only remorse was with the clean up efforts. The Infinite creature, Vortex, had left quite the destruction in his wake. Even with many extended members of the League assisting with clean up, it took ages. Search and rescues were active and humanitarian groups had arrived to offer aid but some things couldn’t be done in a weekend. 

The bats returning to Gotham didn’t offer much in the way of a break either. A Scarecrow outbreak with his fear toxin. Three different gangs in the middle of a turf war. A weapons smuggling ring being uncovered… It was one thing after another for a minute. 

When all was said and done it had been nearly two months before Tim had the opportunity to keep his promise. He was in his civvies, standing at the mouth of an alleyway across from a little italian place that looked cheap but was actually the best tasting, most authentic italian place in all of Gotham. Little hole in the wall places often were the best. 

The problem now was his ability to overthink things. Would he summon the king in a glow of green that would light up the street like a beacon? Would he arrive in his ghostly form, crown hovering above his hooded head? 

Phantom looked human enough but was he? Did he come from Earth originally? There were plenty of aliens that looked human. It would be rude to assume… 

What name did he use? Did he need to go full title? Why didn’t he ask more questions when he had the chance?

“King Phantom.” Tim muttered, deciding to just go for it. He still clutched the paper sigil out of sight. “Uh, Ghost King Phantom. King of the Infinite Realm. Um… Or was it High King…” 

“Just Phantom is fine.” 

Tim tensed, all of his hair standing on end at the voice directly behind him in the alley. He hadn’t made a sound but he needed to actively work to exhale and turn around to face his guest. There had been zero indication of his arrival, and he was thankfully, in his living form. 

He was in jeans and an over sized hoodie. Tim could just barely make out a faded NASA written in the front. That was a point in the direction of him possibly being a human from Earth. He wore shoes this time, beat up looking kicks that had seen better days. His hood was also drawn over his head, likely to hide his bony appearance. Tim did spy the tail of his braid over his shoulder though, his hair black to further prove he was in his living form. 

“You…scared the hell out of me.” Tim said, smiling after another hard exhale. “I am sorry it took so long, your Highness.” 

“Phantom.” He corrected, looking around the street and taking it all in. Tim could clock him making note of the turns down the street and the buildings with fire escapes even with his hood up. People just had certain body language when casing an area. “I figured it would be a while, if you summoned me at all. I was not going to hold you to a whim, Red Robin.” 

“I said i would…” Tim muttered. “Uh, it’s Tim, out of uniform. If you don’t mind.” 

“Tim.” He repeated. That softness to his voice remained, and honestly, Tim liked the cadence of it. He liked it as much as he was sure he never wanted to hear Phantom raise his voice. “I understand.” He hesitated only a beat. “You can call me Danny. Phantom is probably a silly thing to call someone in a city like this.” 

“Not if it’s your name.” 

“Danny is okay.” He said, and for whatever reason, Tim noticed now how he kept his hands in his pockets, likely to hide them too. Frail, skeletal looking hands would just frighten some people. “Food? For a favor?” 

“No favor involved. I invited you out.” Tim said. “I mean, maybe we can chat about stuff but you aren’t obligated to answer or anything.” 

Phantom…Danny nodded, shuffling for a moment and looking around again. The height of the buildings seemed to be a mild interest of his. “Where are we eating?” 

“Well, if you like Italian, we’re walking across the street.” He thought pasta and breads would be both filling and flavorful. It would also be something easily packed up for Danny to take with him. 

“I’ll eat anything.” Danny informed him. “I have no preferences after all this time.” He hesitated. “Or maybe i need to rediscover them, but anything will be fine.” 

“Let’s… let’s go then.” Tim said, walking with Danny at his side. He’d made a reservation which wasn’t strictly necessary at such a small place but it gave him the option of reserving a corner table to offer them a little more privacy. 

They walked in, the hostess greeting them with a smile before leading them to their table and leaving them with bread, water, and menus. There were a few other full tables but it wasn’t packed the way it would be in the evening. 

Danny kept his hood up, but it was Gotham and no one questioned the decision. They just left him in peace to not start a conflict with someone who wasn’t causing any trouble. He also kept his hands out of sight until the hostess had left. He sipped the water once and broke off only a little piece of the bread. He buttered it and ate on it while flipping open the menu. 

Tim didn’t know if he was reading the English or Italian parts of the menu but it didn’t matter. Being fluent in reading an Earth language was another check mark for this being his place of origin. 

“Can i…” Tim hummed, keeping in mind that he was speaking with royalty and act a little less like Bruce interrogating a suspect. “Can i ask a couple questions?” 

Danny looked up at him, Tim only barely able to make out some of his features passed the unnatural shadows his hood provided. “Sure.” 

Tim smiled, not even bothering with the menu since he knew what he was getting. “You’re the King of a realm, but was Earth your place of origin?” 

“Yes, but not this Earth.” 

Dimensions! Tim filed that away for later. “You can travel to any of them?” 

“Within reason. Yes. I’m old, but not that old yet. Only eight or nine decades.” He tore another small piece of bread to eat. Tim assumed he was pacing himself. “They call me a baby Ancient still.” 

“That’s cool…” Tim muttered. “Are there many other Earths?” 

“The answer to that would never satisfy you.” Danny said softly. “Trust me. I am the Ancient of Space and i’m hardly satisfied with it.” 

There was a new fact for Tim to latch on. “What’s the-” He stopped when the waitress appeared. Both of them ordered, and Tim was certain he’d end up ordering more halfway through the meal so Danny could take more home with him.  

When the menus were taken and the waitress left again, Tim continued. “What’s the difference between being an Ancient of Space and being the Ghost King.” 

“When i died, or half died, it was my fate to one day become the Ancient of Space. I am that regardless. I won the title of Ghost King.” 

Tim dragged a hand down his face. “That’s…. Endlessly fascinating. I have so many questions.” He didn’t even know how to touch ‘half died’ yet. 

Danny hummed once and fiddled with the end of his braid. “Do i get to ask questions too?” 

“Of course.” 

Danny leaned forward, sipping at his water again. “This Earth has super heroes. That’s interesting. Mine didn’t. How long have you been a hero?” 

Tim nodded, figuring that would be the direction the questions would have wandered towards. They were far enough away from everyone in the restaurant that he didn’t worry about being heard. The music playing in the background also helped a great deal. 

“Hero might be a debate depending on who you ask. In Gotham we’re considered vigilanties. I first suited up at thirteen but it was really more like fourteen after a great deal of training.” 

Danny was quiet for a moment. “And how old are you now? I have trouble telling ages these days…” 

“Eighteen.” Tim said. 

“Young.” Danny muttered. “I was young too. Fourteen when i became the bridge. Sixteen before i really understood what it meant.” 

“The bridge?” 

“Balance. The living and the dead.” 

Tim huffed softly. “You wear a lot of hats, don’t you?”  

Danny made a quiet noise, and it took Tim a beat longer than normal to realize he was laughing. “I do, i wish i didn’t most of the time. It’s fine though.” 

“Just fine?” Tim asked after a beat. He knew a little about expectations and high standards that could weigh you down–both his own standards and other peoples. 

Danny nodded, one of his hands resting on the other. “I’ve seen things. Good things. Bad things. Things that will never happen. Things that have. It’s better i have certain powers because i have no desire to use them.” 

Aah. Tim understood that. “People who want too much power are dangerous.” 

“Exactly.” 

“The power of ruling an entire realm…” 

“Exactly.” 

Tim heaved a sigh. “Damn.” Maybe he should ask something less intense. “Did you enjoy the food we gave you last time? It was just some fast food but there was some worry it wasn’t good enough.” 

“It was great.” Danny said and he sounded sincere. “Nostalgic. It took me a few days to eat all of it. I know the Infinite Realm’s reputation, and it is a warranted reputation, but i’m… hard to offend. Little things are just little things.” 

“I’ll put them at ease then.” 

Danny was quiet for a moment, the silence not an oppressive one. “What is the difference between a hero and a vigilante?” 

“How people perceive us, i guess. Superman will always be seen as a hero. Wholesome and valiant and all that. Things in Gotham are altogether… shadier. Being a vigilante isn’t exactly legal and while we have our boundaries, we break the law all the time.” Tim said. They covered their own tracks well but it was fortunate that no one looked too closely at their activities. 

It didn’t bother Tim when he knew his reasons were still good. 

Danny made a thoughtful kind of noise. “I’m willing to bet Superman’s business isn’t purely legal either. This seems like a nice Earth though, despite whatever troubles you have.” 

“Some hero work is sanctioned by the government so it’s a fine line. Any of it could be argued.” Tim explained, and that was something Danny seemed to find fascinating. 

They paused their conversation again when the waitress appeared with their food, and Tim put in a second order for them to take when they left. The eyes Tim could feel on him told him that Danny already knew what they were for. 

He could hear Danny softly inhale and exhale as he looked at the plate in front of him that came accompanied with salad. He likely wouldn’t be able to eat even a fraction of it but the way he looked at it…. made Tim realize that he could see Danny’s face more clearly. The shadows that obscured his face from his hood had receded. He was still gaunt, but he eyed the food with so much joy. 

The first bite of –non fast food– food nearly seemed to overwhelm him in a good way. 

“You know,” Tim swung hard to change subjects. “We can do a bit of a food tour every time i summon you for lunch. Pizza. Chinese. Barbeque. There’s a great taco truck. We could get something homemade.” 

“You cook?” 

“Haa. No.” Tim said seriously. “But Al… my grandpa is an amazing cook and he seemed to think trading food for world saving services was very sensible but he was appalled that we offered you cheap fries and burgers. He’d honestly love to cook for you.” 

Danny smiled, this shy little look that shouldn’t have fit someone with the title of Ghost King but it sure fit Danny. “That could be nice. Decent home cooked meals are kind of mythological to me.” 

Tim nodded once, and knew better than to ask directly. “I didn’t have a very cuddly upbringing either. There was a lot of take-out involved.” 

“Your food ever come back to life and try to eat you instead?” Danny asked and Tim just stared. 

“I can’t…tell if that’s a real question or if you’re messing with me.” 

Danny smiled and was that a hint of fangs? “Dead serious.” 

Time groaned. “No, no you are a king. You are not making puns.” 

“Thinking i’m too mature for puns is a grave mistake.” Danny said without hesitation. 

“Noo.” Tim groaned, lips upturned into a smile. His brothers could never know about this. Dick would start a pun off and Jason’s morbid sense of humor about his own death…. Ugh, it would be bad. 

It did bring up the interesting question of Danny’s age. He said he’d been alive for decades but how did he mature. Was he still a teenager? Did he age slowly? Asking not only sounded like a bad idea, but Raven and Zatanna had both made sure he knew it was a question to not ask. 

They chatted, they ate, or well, Tim ate. Danny ate a bite every few minutes and looked thrilled about it but he was slowing down. Tim was looking forward to Danny being able to eat more with every visit. 

He flagged down the waitress, gesturing for a box and got a thumbs up in return. 

“You can take it with you.” Tim said when Danny was giving him a look. “It might be a couple days before i can call you again and this way you’ll have enough to eat every day.” 

“I can’t deny that.” Danny said. “You don’t have to keep summoning me.”

“I promised you lunches.” Tim said firmly. “And you said it yourself, you should eat more and spend more time in a living realm. You may as well take advantage of being summoned for food.” 

“Hm…” Danny played with the end of his braid again. “You do make a compelling argument. It’s nice to talk to someone without it being preceded by a brawl.” 

Tim stared, “What?” 

Danny just looked amused. “I’ll explain to you etiquette in the Infinite Realm sometime.” 

“Yeah?” 

The waitress returned with boxes for Danny to pack up his meal and the empty dishes were whisked away to make more room on the table while they waited for their to-go orders. 

They were almost startled when a second waitress reappeared with a few little dishes before they could begin speaking again. Everything was set in the middle of the table, presumably for them to share. There was a piece of white peach tart, a bowl of strawberry gelato, and a slice of frozen chocolate chip meringata. 

“Um…” Tim blinked. “We didn’t-”

The waitress chuckled. “It was ordered for you by another patron. Please enjoy.” She set down another set of utensils for them and walked away. 

Danny made a small sound in his throat. “Well i was full but how could i say no to a couple more bites…” 

“Wait.” Tim said, gaze subtly shifting around the room. Maybe he was trained to be paranoid, but it usually served him well. What he found almost instantly had his eye twitching. 

Not even halfway across the room sat a poorly disgusted Dick wearing large sunglasses, a fedora, and the world's least convincing mustache. When he saw Tim looking and grinned and raised his own wine glass. 

“I gotta kill my brother…” 

Danny sputtered out a laugh, so genuinely amused that Tim could definitely see his fangs as he laughed.

“That would make him my problem.” Danny pointed out, reaching for a spoon to try the gelato first. 

“I’m not seeing your point.” Tim said, delighted by Danny’s teasing. It was a rookie mistake to think one of his siblings wouldn’t find out about this. An absolute blunder that he hadn’t noticed Dick walking in after them at all. He’d never live it down. 

“Guess i’ll have to be more careful next time.” He added. 

Danny hummed again and seemed to have a fondness for the cold dessert. “I could always invite you to my realm sometime.” 

“Cool.” Tim said instantly. Ha, let them try to follow him then…

[vingtetunmars]

Stevie Doesn't Know...

Pairing: Eddie Munson x F!Reader

Summary: Things between you and Eddie start to deepen—what began as something small and secret grows into something real. Between hidden moments, shared smiles, and stolen time, you both find something neither of you expected: happiness.

part 1

Tags: Reader is Steve’s twin sister, roughly takes place between season 2 and season 3, SFW, overall fluff, established relationship, secret relationship, insecure Eddie Munson, Eddie Munson is a sweetheart, Reader is a sweetheart, they're just soft for each other your honor. No mentions of Y/N.

A/N: Here it is! the continuation. Honestly writing fanfics turns out to be so fun. If you have any requests, suggestions, or thoughts, feel free to send me a message. Reblogs are appreciated. Please do not steal or cross-post it on another platform without asking. Thank you.

Word Count: 3k

masterlist

Dating Eddie Munson wasn’t like anything you expected.

It was better.

It wasn’t candlelit dinners or school hallway hand-holding. It was late-night walks behind the football field, shared fries in his van, long drives with the windows down and his mixtapes blasting through your bones. It was laughter that felt real, and stolen kisses in parking lots, and the way he said your name like it wasn’t just something to call you—but something to hold.

It was yours.

You hadn’t told anyone.

Not because you were ashamed—never that. But because once you said it out loud, once people knew, it wouldn’t be just yours anymore. It would become a thing to talk about, to ask questions about. It would stop being quiet and soft and secret and would turn into something loud and watched.

So you kept it on the down low. Just for now.

You met up after school when no one was looking. You kissed behind bookshelves and shared knowing glances in hallways. He picked you up two blocks away from your house just to be safe. You stole moments between responsibilities like you were rationing joy.

And in those moments, he was everything.

But sometimes—just sometimes—he would pull away from a kiss too soon, eyes cast down, like he was remembering something he’d promised himself not to forget.

“I still don’t get why you even want to be with me,” he muttered once, lying next to you in the back of his van, his fingers tangled with yours.

“What do you mean?”

He was staring at the ceiling of the van like it had answers written in the rust.

“I mean…” He hesitated. “You’re you. And I’m—”

“Eddie,” you said gently, reaching for his hand. “You’re you too. That’s the whole point.”

He looked at you then, wary and amazed all at once. Like part of him still didn’t believe he was allowed this.

You squeezed his fingers. “I don’t want you to be anything else.”

His eyes softened. “You sure you didn’t hit your head?”

That earned a laugh. And then a kiss.

Sometimes he still needed reminding.

That first month felt like a dream you didn’t want to wake up from.

He brought you little trinkets from thrift stores—ugly keychains and weird pins he thought you’d laugh at. You slipped them into your pencil case or coat pocket, just to keep something of him close during the day.

You brought him snacks from your locker and left doodles tucked into the back of his D&D folders. Things like “roll for a kiss” and little sketches of devils making out with elves. He kept every single one.

You weren’t together all the time, but when you were—it was like the world got quieter.

It wasn’t always smooth. You still had to lie to Steve sometimes. Pretend you were doing student council stuff when you were really in Eddie’s van, listening to Metallica and eating gas station candy. You still had to act normal when you passed Eddie in the hallway, even when your chest ached to touch him.

──⭒─⭑─⭒────⭒─⭑─⭒──

You found a stray piece of paper inside your locker.

The paper was folded in half, hastily shoved into your locker like the sender was in a rush or trying not to be seen. You glanced around before opening it, even though the hallway was mostly empty.

Scrawled in messy, slanted handwriting:

“Closet by the science wing. 3rd period. I got five minutes.

—E”

You smiled instantly, cheeks heating before you could help it.

You slipped the note into your pocket like it was contraband and made your way down the hall.

The old utility closet was tucked between two classrooms no one paid attention to. Mop buckets. Stale air. Cleaning supplies and dust. Definitely not on the official tour of Hawkins High.

You barely had time to knock before the door opened and you were pulled inside by a familiar pair of hands.

“Eddie—”

He kissed you before you could finish, mouth hot and a little reckless, like he’d been waiting all day for this exact five-minute window.

You grinned into it, your hands already finding the collar of his jacket as your back hit the wall.

“Hi,” you mumbled breathlessly when he pulled back for air.

“Hi,” he said, eyes wild and grinning. “You came.”

“You told me to.”

“Yeah, but I figured you were too good for shady janitor closets during school hours.”

“You’re lucky I like you no matter what,” you teased.

“Luck doesn’t even cover it,” he muttered, kissing you again.

You let yourself get pulled back in, the two of you tangled up between mops and shelves and the faint smell of bleach. His hands slid under the hem of your sweater, fingertips grazing the edge of your waistband, and you let out a tiny laugh against his lips.

“Eds,” you whispered, trying to keep your voice down, “we have class.”

“Five more minutes,” he murmured, already trailing kisses along your jaw.

“You said that five minutes ago.”

“I lied.”

You giggled, smacking his chest lightly before resting your forehead against his. “If I get caught skipping calculus for you, I’m gonna fail my perfect attendance streak.”

“Worth it.”

He kissed you again, slower this time. Softer.

You melted for a second, just one.

Then you gently pushed him back by the shoulders, eyes crinkling with a smile. “We’re gonna get caught.”

“I’ll take the blame,” he said, hands still on your waist. “Say I lured you in with promises of forbidden love and stolen Fruit Roll-Ups.”

You rolled your eyes, laughing again as you straightened your shirt. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, you keep showing up.”

“Guess I’m impossible too.”

He opened the door just a crack, peeking out. “Coast is clear.”

You leaned up, pecked him once more on the cheek. “See you after school?”

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

And just like that, you slipped back into the hallway, pulse still racing and lips still tingling, blending in with the rest of the world like nothing had happened.

Nobody noticed. And that made it even sweeter.

──⭒─⭑─⭒────⭒─⭑─⭒──

The Harrington house was quiet, The kind that only felt quieter because the house was too big and too empty, and the only sounds came from the soft clinking of cutlery and the low hum of the radio in the background.

Just you and Steve at the table. A rare sit-down dinner between siblings that hadn’t been microwaved at separate times.

He finally spoke after a beat of silence.

“You’ve been very suspicious lately.”

You looked up, mouth full. “What?”

“You heard me.”

You chewed slowly, narrowed your eyes at him. “Suspicious how?”

He gestured vaguely with his fork. “You’ve been disappearing a lot. Like… ghosting at weird times. Coming home late. Whispering on the phone. You never used to whisper.”

You tried to keep your face neutral. “Student council stuff.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Student council cannot be that busy.”

You shrugged, grabbing your water. “It is when the senior prom budget gets cut in half and everyone suddenly forgets how to behave like functioning humans during meetings.”

Steve leaned back in his chair, still eyeing you like he was trying to crack a code. “You sure that’s all it is?”

“Yes, Steven.”

He squinted at you.

You took a deliberately long sip of water.

Finally, he sighed and gave you a little smirk. “Okay. Fine. But if I find out you’re running a secret gambling ring behind the school gym or joining a cult, I’m telling Mom.”

You grinned. “Cool. I’ll make sure to invite you to the next blood sacrifice.”

Steve chuckled, shaking his head as he stabbed another bite of pasta. “You're lucky I love you.”

You smiled into your bowl. “Yeah, yeah. I know.”

He let it go after that, turning the conversation to his never-ending battle with job applications and his growing theory that the dryer was eating his socks again.

──⭒─⭑─⭒────⭒─⭑─⭒──

You knocked twice on the faded door of the Munson trailer before pushing it open just a crack, letting yourself in like you had a few times before.

“Hey, Eds? it’s me,” you called softly, peeking around.

The inside of the trailer smelled like coffee and cigarettes, with a faint trace of bacon from the morning. It was small — tight-knit in the way that made every sound bounce off the walls — but warm. Lived in. Worn, but loved. Mismatched furniture. Faded carpet. A pile of old TV Guides next to the recliner.

And from that recliner, Uncle Wayne looked up, smiling with his eyes before he even spoke.

“There’s our girl,” he said gruffly, reaching for the remote to lower the volume. “Come on in.”

You stepped inside, clutching the sleeves of your jacket like a polite little kid meeting the principal. You’d been here twice before, always for brief hellos and quick pick-ups. But every time, you still felt a little nervous. This wasn’t just anyone. This was Wayne — the man who raised Eddie.

“Hi, Mr. Munson,” you said, polite and a little too formal.

Wayne gave you a long, amused look over the rim of his mug. “Didn’t we go over this already? It’s Wayne.”

“Right. Sorry. Wayne.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Can’t believe a nice, polite girl like you ended up with someone like him.”

From down the hall, Eddie’s voice echoed.

“Hey! I heard that!”

You laughed, cheeks warm, and Wayne gave you a knowing nod as he stood up to head toward the kitchen.

“You kids go on,” he said. “I’m headed to bed soon anyway. Gotta be at the plant by six.”

“Sweet dreams, Wayne,” you said, genuinely.

“Thanks, sweetheart.”

Eddie met you halfway down the narrow hallway, his hair half-tied back, his usual band tee and ripped jeans on like he’d just rolled out of bed. He gave you a crooked grin, eyes softening the moment he saw you.

“You’re so polite to him, it’s almost weird,” he said, voice low as he tugged you into his room.

“He’s weird,” you whispered back. “In a cool, intimidating way.”

Eddie snorted. “He once fell asleep standing up in the kitchen and claimed it was meditation.”

The door clicked shut behind you, and suddenly the world went quiet again.

His room was exactly what you'd expect — posters of bands, some D&D maps tacked to the walls, piles of cassettes and dice on the dresser, a messy bed with the same plaid blanket you always teased him about. It smelled like incense and laundry detergent, and faintly like him.

Your shoulders dropped the second the door closed. Like they always did here.

You flopped down onto the bed, letting out a long sigh. “It’s cozy in here.”

“It’s a disaster.”

“It’s you,” you said, grinning up at him.

Eddie climbed in beside you, propping himself up on one elbow as he looked down at you.

“Wayne likes you,” he said, a little too casually.

You raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“He wouldn’t say it. But if he didn’t, I’d know.”

You smiled, brushing your fingers over his. “Good. ’Cause I kinda like you, too.”

He smirked. “That right?”

Before you could answer, he leaned down and kissed you — slow, easy, comfortable.

Just the way you liked it here.

──⭒─⭑─⭒────⭒─⭑─⭒──

Eddie lay on his bed, arms behind his head, eyes on the ceiling, though he wasn’t really looking at anything. The lamp in the corner cast a warm golden haze across the room, but the softest light came from his chest — or at least, that’s how it felt.

She’d been here a few hours ago. Left her chapstick on his nightstand. Cherry. He kept glancing at it like it might disappear.

It still didn’t make sense sometimes. That she chose him.

Steve Harrington’s sister.

He’d spent half of high school trying to dodge guys like Harrington, the basketball clique, the parties, the fake-smile hierarchy of Hawkins High. And she was part of that world — at least, on paper. Perfect grades. Popular enough to be seen. Always polished, always put together.

But somehow, under all that, she wasn’t them.

She was her. Just… kind. Smart without being a show-off. Funny in a way that caught him off guard. She didn’t flinch when he ranted about Dio or got sidetracked talking about campaign arcs. She listened. She actually listened.

And she liked him.

God, that was the part that kept tripping him up.

Because yeah, he’d had flings before. But this? This wasn’t a fling. This was her crawling into his bed after a crap day and just lying there, curled into him like his presence meant peace. This was him caring enough to wipe off the grease smudge from her cheek without making a joke about it.

She made him feel… like he was allowed to be soft.

But still — the world wouldn’t get it. Not yet.

And maybe, just maybe, he liked that this was theirs alone.

──⭒─⭑─⭒────⭒─⭑─⭒──

The cafeteria buzzed with its usual chaos. Trays clattered, the jocks were too loud, and the mashed potatoes looked like someone forgot what seasoning was.

Eddie plopped down at the Hellfire table, late as usual, a smirk already on his face.

“Apologies, gentlemen,” he said, dramatically sweeping his jacket behind him like a cape. “I was detained by... secret society business.”

Gareth rolled his eyes. “You mean you were smoking out by the dumpsters again?”

“Maybe,” Eddie said, popping a grape into his mouth. “Maybe not.”

Jeff squinted at him. “You’re acting weird.”

Eddie froze mid-bite. “Define weird.”

“Like... I don’t know,” Gareth said, leaning in. “You’re humming.”

“I hum.”

“Not Van Halen ballads,” Jeff added. “Also, you showed up to lunch on time two days in a row.”

“And you said ‘please’ to Ms. O’Donnell in chem,” Doug said, pointing an accusatory finger.

Eddie tried to shrug it off. “So I’ve matured.”

“No,” Jeff said flatly. “You’re smiling. Like, not your ‘I just told a dirty joke in my head’ smile. Like, soft. Puppy dog soft.”

Eddie rolled his eyes, trying not to actually smile — which only made it worse.

“Okay, alright,” he said, grabbing his soda. “Maybe I’m just in a good mood.”

“Good mood?” Gareth echoed. “What, did you finally get your hands on that Iron Maiden bootleg?”

“Or maybe,” Doug said slowly, “maybe Munson’s got a crush.”

Eddie nearly choked on his drink.

“Crush?! On who?” he scoffed, coughing through it. “I’m uncrushable.”

Gareth narrowed his eyes. “Then why do you disappear for twenty minutes between third and fourth period? And don’t say it’s the bathroom. You don’t come back smelling like the bathroom.”

Eddie leaned back, looking way too casual.

“Gentlemen,” he said. “You wound me with your lack of trust.”

“Just saying,” Jeff muttered. “If you start writing poetry, we’re staging an intervention.”

──⭒─⭑─⭒────⭒─⭑─⭒──

Leaves rustled lazily overhead as you leaned back on the threadbare flannel blanket Eddie had spread on the grass. The little clearing by Lover’s Lake was technically off school property, which made it perfect — private, quiet, and far from any curious eyes.

Eddie sat cross-legged beside you, nervously watching your face as you took a bite from the sandwich he’d made.

You chewed carefully. And slowly.

“…Is that—jam and…cheese?”

“Okay—okay, look.” Eddie held his hands up defensively. “I was aiming for sophisticated. Sweet and salty, right? Like those expensive charcu—charcoo—whatever boards.”

You tried to keep your face straight. “It’s not terrible.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You’re lying.”

You grinned. “No, seriously. It’s edible.”

He fell back dramatically onto the blanket. “I knew I should’ve just gone with peanut butter.”

You set the half-eaten sandwich down and leaned over him, hair falling around your face as you hovered above. “You tried,” you said softly. “You planned all this. You packed a lunch, picked a spot, stole this blanket from your uncle—”

“Borrowed,” he corrected from the ground.

“—and didn’t even forget napkins. That’s a win.”

He glanced at you from beneath a tangle of curls, expression softening. “You really don’t mind?”

“Eddie,” you said, voice quiet now. “This is the kindest thing anyone’s done for me in… I don’t even know how long. I’m not just happy about the food, or the blanket, or this dumb sandwich. I’m happy with you.”

His eyes flickered. “You mean that?”

You nodded. “Yeah. You’re the only person who sees me for more than my name, or my grades, or being Steve’s sister. And you don’t treat me like I’m porcelain.”

“You’re not,” he said immediately. “You’re steel under all that sugar.”

Your heart caught on the compliment. You didn’t reply — just lowered yourself beside him, your fingers brushing his as the wind stirred the trees.

For a long while, neither of you spoke.

Then, Eddie murmured, “I think about you all the time. And not just, like, the way a teenage guy usually thinks about a girl. I think about how you laugh when you’re trying not to. How you always line up your pencils. How you tilt your head when you’re listening to something you care about.”

You turned your head toward him, surprised.

“I just…” he trailed off, unsure how to land the plane. “I like you. A lot.”

You smiled, eyes glinting in the sunlight. “I like you too, Munson.”

He nudged your knee. “Even though I’m bad at sandwiches?”

“Especially because you’re bad at sandwiches.”

You both broke into laughter, letting it roll through the trees and across the lake, untethered and light.

You were just two people — lying in the sun, hearts on your sleeves, perfectly happy.

──⭒─⭑─⭒────⭒─⭑─⭒──

On Saturday night—or Sunday morning—a knock on your window came at 12:42 a.m.

Three soft taps — your signal.

You shot upright in bed, brushing hair from your face as you crept to the window, already biting back a grin. And sure enough, there he was. Perched in the oak tree just outside your second-story bedroom, clinging to the branch like some dramatic, smirking forest goblin.

“Rapunzel,” Eddie stage-whispered, grinning through the leaves. “Let down your—oh shit, wait, you don’t have hair that long.”

“You’re going to break your neck,” you hissed back, trying not to laugh as you unlocked the window.

He wobbled theatrically, then swung a leg across, hoisting himself onto the ledge before tumbling—gracelessly—into your room with a thud. You grabbed his arm to keep him from knocking over your nightstand.

“Shh! My brother’s literally down the hall!”

Eddie straightened with a cheeky grin. “Then I’m right on time.”

You gave him a look but couldn’t hide your smile. His hair was windblown, he smelled faintly like motor oil and incense, and he was still wearing his battered denim jacket over pajama pants with tiny skulls on them.

“God,” you muttered, crossing your arms as you stepped back. “So this is how Nancy felt.”

Eddie blinked. “What?”

You shook your head, laughing. “Never mind.”

The room settled into a warm quiet, the kind that only happened after midnight when the world felt softer. You both sat cross-legged on your bed, knees touching, his fingers absently tracing the hem of your blanket.

“Didn’t think I’d see you tonight,” you said.

“Neither did I,” he admitted. “Just… couldn’t sleep. Thought maybe if I saw you, I’d remember how to breathe again.”

You stared at him, heart tumbling.

And before you could think better of it, you whispered, “I actually have something for you.”

His eyes lit up. “A gift? For me? You shouldn’t have.”

“I mean it’s not huge, don’t get excited,” you said quickly, reaching for your desk drawer. “I found it at that thrift store by Elm, the one with the spooky mannequin that always stares at me.”

He leaned in, curious.

You pulled out a small cloth pouch and pressed it into his palm.

He opened it slowly — revealing a chunky silver ring with a deep red stone in the center. Worn and slightly scuffed, but unmistakably him.

Eddie blinked. “This is… sick.”

“I thought so too,” you said, brushing your hair behind your ear. “You have, like, twenty already, but I figured one more wouldn’t hurt.”

He stared at the ring for a beat, then at you. “You saw this and thought of me.”

You nodded, suddenly shy.

“I love it,” he said, sliding it onto his index finger. “Now I’m up to twenty-one, which is obviously a magic number.”

But before either of you could bask in the sweetness, a voice cut through the hall.

“Hey, you still awake?” Steve’s voice.

You both froze.

“Shit—” you hissed, grabbing Eddie by the wrist.

He was already halfway to the closet, no questions asked.

You shoved open the door, pushed him in, and slammed it shut just as your bedroom door creaked open.

Steve poked his head in, eyes squinting. “Why are your lights still on?”

You turned, innocent smile activated. “Couldn’t sleep. Reading.”

Steve raised a brow. “Without a book?”

“I just finished one. I was… reflecting.”

He stepped in, suspicious. “You’ve been acting weird again.”

You crossed your arms, hoping he couldn’t hear your heart pounding. “It’s 1 a.m., Steve. Everyone acts weird at 1 a.m.”

He sniffed the air.

You held your breath.

“I swear it smells like smoke in here.”

“I burned a candle earlier,” you lied smoothly.

He stared a second longer, then backed out slowly.

“Get some sleep,” he said.

“Yeah. Goodnight.”

The door clicked shut.

You waited ten seconds before yanking open the closet. Eddie stumbled out, trying not to laugh, hair tousled and eyes wide.

“Okay,” he whispered, grinning. “I love you, but I’m never doing that again.”

You grinned, grabbing his jacket and pulling him in for a kiss.

“You love me?”

He froze, then broke into a smile. “Well… yeah. Obviously.”

You kissed him again — breathless, giddy, and still full of adrenaline — knowing that somehow, all the sneaking around was worth it.

Part 1

[hischiershoe]

─── SECRET SANTA

─── QUINN HUGHES X FEM!READER

[ Word count ] 1.7k

[ Summary ] With a little help from your friends, you and Quinn finally realize that it was all a big misunderstanding.

[ Warnings ] Not really any, I don’t think. Not proofread.

Ficmas masterlist

When you drew Quinn’s name in the Secret Santa drawing, you couldn’t help but feel a surge of panic wash over you. Of all of the pieces of paper in Brock’s hat, you just had to pick the one person that you harbored a teeny crush on. From the moment you met Quinn last year, you were drawn to him, but you knew the sentiment would never be returned, so you tried to keep your distance from him as much as you possibly could. Now, you were forced into buying him a gift and the last thing you wanted to do was get him something he didn’t like. The thought alone made you want to throw up. 

With the help of Brock and Bella, you managed to find something that they said Quinn was sure to enjoy, and you’d be lying if you said you weren't insanely excited for him to open it. He’d been raving about this one particular book, telling anyone who would listen that he’d been on the hunt for it for the last few months, but he always came up empty in his search. Somehow, you managed to find a first-edition copy of the book at the bookstore down the street from your apartment, and you snagged it without hesitation.

By the time everyone was sat in a circle around Brock’s dining room table with their gifts in front of them, you were feeling far more anxious than you thought you would be. Despite your friend's reassurance that Quinn was going to love his gift, you couldn’t help but wonder if he still wanted the book as much as he said he did. Or maybe he’d already gotten it and you were going to have to see the disappointment on his face when he opened it up. You don’t think you candle that kind of reaction from anyone, let alone Quinn. 

It was almost Quinn’s turn to open his gift, and you had nearly chewed a hole in your bottom lip from the nerves. Bella kept trying to distract you with passing comments or talking about how cool the other gifts were, but it only worked for a fleeting moment before it came rushing back to you in sickening waves.

“Your turn, Quinn,” Petey announced from next to him.

You can’t hear what he mumbles to his friend, but the second he starts to tear into the paper, you can’t hear anything except for the sound of blood pounding in your ears. Your hands were clasped together in your lap, relentlessly squeezing each a other as you held your breath when he pulled the book out of the shredded gift wrap. 

“Holy shit,” He breathes out, staring down at the book in awe. Almost as if he didn’t really believe what he was holding.

“What is it,” Tyler calls out, leaning forward to get a better look.

“It’s that book he’s been wanting,” Petey juts his lip out in subtle astonishment.

“It’s a first edition of the book I’ve been wanting,” Quinn corrects, carefully glancing around the room to gauge everyone’s reactions in an attempt to see if he can figure out who it was.

He catches your gaze for a brief moment, but you’re quick to drop your eyes to your lap. Your stomach was already twisting itself into knots and your heart felt like it was going to burst out of your chest. You didn’t need the added effect from his stare on top of everything else.

You had successfully managed to avoid meeting Quinn’s gaze by the time it was finally your turn, and now you could distract yourself with the realization that everyone was going to be looking at you. You picked up the small box that you had placed in front of you, taking quick note of the way it was wrapped like your brother had done it. You slipped your finger under the fold in the paper, carefully tearing it back to reveal a black, labelless jewelry box. 

“Oh my god,” You gasped when you flipped the lid open, your other hand flying to your mouth and tears lining your eyes. 

Sitting inside the box was a pair of earrings that looked almost identical to a pair you had lost last year. You were a wreck when you realized they were gone because they had once belonged to your grandmother, and they were the only thing you had left of her. Taped to the top of the box was a small piece of paper with a note scribbled on it: ‘I know nothing can ever replace the others, but I saw these and thought of you.’

“Next year, we should have a price limit. They’re making me look bad,” You hear someone playfully retort, followed by a round of laughter.

Your fingers delicately ghost over the jewelry, memories of your childhood flashing in your mind before you begin to take guesses as to who could’ve given you such a meaningful gift. There were only a few people in the house who knew about the whole ordeal that had occurred, but the handwriting told you that it wasn’t any of the girls. It was most definitely a guy's handwriting, you just weren’t sure whose. 

“Okay, everyone,” Brock loudly spoke, “I’m not really sure how this is going to work because I didn’t really think it through, but go to whoever you bought for!”

Your heart sank to your stomach as you glanced towards Bella, who had a knowing smile on her face before she left you to find Ariela, and panic filled your veins all over again. The world began to spin around you, your breathing labored as you rubbed your palms against your thighs while you internally yelled at yourself to get up. However, your thoughts were interrupted by the sound of someone clearing their throat in front of you.

Snapping your gaze up, you found Quinn standing in front of you with his book tucked under his arm and his hands in his pockets. He had a small smile on his face, and he looked just as, if not more, nervous as you were. You took a shaky breath, returning his smile with one of your own as you stayed frozen in your seat. 

“So, I drew your name,” He awkwardly started, clearing his throat as he rocked on his feet, “I don’t know if you saw the note, but I want you to know that I know they won’t replace what you lost. I saw them when I was in LA and thought of you so–”

“Wait,” You interjected, leaving the box on the table as you rose to your feet, “Quinn, you were in LA last month. Before we even drew names.”

“Uh, yeah,” He nervously rubbed at the back of his neck, “I know. I didn’t know how to give it to you since you don’t really like me all that much. But I was happy I got your name so I could finally give them to you.”

“What do you mean,” You knit your brows together in confusion, briefly catching Brock’s wandering eyes before you found Quinn’s gaze again, “That isn’t true. I like you.” Probably a little too much. 

“You do,” Quinn draws out, tone disbelieving and hesitant, “You don’t talk to me much when we’re around each other, so I thought you didn’t.”

“I didn’t think you’d want to talk to me,” You weakly admit, looking everywhere but at him as you nonchalantly shrug your shoulders and chew on your bottom lip. 

“Hey,” Quinn gently calls out, grabbing your elbow to get you to look at him, “Why wouldn’t I want to talk to you?”

He was holding your stare so intensely that it made a shiver run down your spine and your heart thud in your chest. Your eyes were wide and pliant, soaking up his every word and movement like you always did before, but this time he was right in front of you. Looking right through the thin veil of indifference you tried to keep up around him at all times. 

“Don’t know,” You bashfully mumble, taking a deep breath before forcing yourself to continue, “I was worried you wouldn’t like me.”

“Well, I do,” He rushes out, slightly cringing out how desperate it sounded, “I do like you. I actually like you a lot.”

You visibly perk up at his words, and you have to fight off the smile tugging at your lips as he steps towards you. Your awareness of watchful eyes dwindles as Quinn crowds your space, his fingertips trailing down your arm to delicately take your hand in his own as your body shudders under his touch. Everyone was watching and you both knew that, but neither of you cared in the moment.

“You like me? A lot,” You test, letting him nervously toy with your fingers.

“I do,” He assures you before he clears his throat, “I’m not very good at this whole thing. My brothers are the smooth talkers, but I do like you a lot, and I was wondering if you’d want to go out sometime? On a date? With me?”

“I’d love to,” You shamelessly blurt out, not bothering to hide your giddy smile any longer, “I’d love to go on a date with you, Quinn.”

Quinn lets out a puff of air, sighing in relief as he lets his shoulder relax and you can’t help but tease him for his dramatics. He playfully points his eyes at you before he asks if you want to join the others in the living room, which you reluctantly agree with. Now that you knew Quinn miraculously felt the same way you did, you wanted to spend the rest of the evening wrapped up in talking to him, but you reminded yourself that there was time for that down the road. On your date. 

“By the way, thank you for the earrings.  I really love them. They’re probably the most thoughtful gift I’ve ever gotten. Also, I was your Secret Santa, too,” You finally told him as you settled on the couch beside him. 

“Really? How’d we manage that,” He chuckles, throwing his arm over the cushion behind you. 

“I think I might have an idea…”

[mysticalcrowntyrant]

Yandere Cop x Reader (part two)

Part one

You didn’t sleep that night.

You sat in the same room after he was gone, staring at the chair where he’d been. Blood still soaked into the rag in the bowl. The ropes lay coiled like dead snakes at your feet. You kept replaying the moment he slipped through the window in your head, over and over. The look he gave you before vanishing into the night. He hadn’t said goodbye like a man expecting not to see you again.

He’d said it like a promise.

You should’ve cleaned up. You should’ve burned the rag, tied the ropes back up to make it look like he’d fought and escaped—but you didn’t. You just sat there.

When your father came back an hour later, he didn’t even glance at you.

“Cleanup’s coming,” he muttered, tossing a burner phone into the sink. “Get out of the way.”

You moved without a word, stepped out of the room and shut the door behind you.

The next few days passed in a haze of tension. No sirens. No search parties. No mention of a wounded cop crawling his way out of your father’s grip. Your father seemed convinced the man had bled out somewhere in the dark.

You didn’t correct him.

Not because you were loyal.

Because a part of you… wanted to believe the cop was still out there.

And you couldn’t figure out why.

-------

The safehouse was cold. Abandoned now, supposedly burned. Your father didn’t like leaving behind traceable places, but he’d needed it in a hurry and used it anyway.

You came back because something was drawing you here. You told yourself it was to make sure there were no fingerprints. No evidence. But when you slipped in through the back, you walked straight to the room where you’d last seen him.

The chair was gone.

The blood wasn’t.

Still stained into the floorboards, soaked deep into the grain.

You stood in the doorway for a long time.

“You came back.”

You froze.

The voice came from the shadows behind you.

You turned, heart skipping.

He stood in the far corner of the room—half-lit by the moonlight spilling in through the window he’d escaped from. His jacket was different. Clean. His hair was combed back. But his shoulder was still bandaged, the makeshift sling barely holding. And his eyes—

His eyes were the same.

You took a step back instinctively.

He didn’t move.

“You should be gone,” you whispered. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“I tried,” he said quietly. “I really did.”

His voice was calm.

“I got halfway out of the city,” he continued. “Made it to a gas station. Paid a guy to stitch me up. Stole some clean clothes. But I kept thinking…”

He took a slow step forward.

“I kept thinking about your hands shaking.”

You swallowed, suddenly cold all over.

“You’re bleeding,” you said instead, nodding at the stain blooming through the bandage.

He smiled faintly. “Not enough to kill me.”

Another step closer.

“You need to leave,” you said, but your voice cracked. “If my dad finds out—”

“He won’t,” he said. “I made sure no one followed me. I’ve been… watching.”

“Watching?”

He nodded once. No shame.

“I had to make sure you were safe.”

Your breath caught. “From what?”

His head tilted.

“From him. From this life. From what it’s doing to you.”

You took a shaky step back. He stepped forward in time with you.

“I’m not your problem,” you said.

“You’re wrong,” he whispered. “You saved my life. That makes you my responsibility now.”

“That’s not how it works—”

“It is to me.”

You stared at him, heart pounding.

He moved closer. His expression shifted—something softer, something broken just under the surface. But it twisted, too, like he liked the idea of being broken for you.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he admitted, voice low. “You haunt me. The way you looked at me. The way your hands shook while you tried to save me and pretend you didn’t care.”

“You don’t know me.”

“I do. I know you better than they ever will.”

He reached into his jacket—slowly. You tensed. But when his hand came out, he was holding a folded piece of paper. Your breath hitched when he handed it to you.

“I found this in the safehouse,” he said. “Your name. I know it now.”

You didn’t open the paper. Your hand closed around it like it might burn.

“You should’ve stayed gone,” you whispered.

He smiled again. Not a full smile. Just enough to show you he wasn’t afraid.

“You didn’t want me to.”

And the worst part?

He was right.

He moved toward the window again, this time backwards—watching you the whole time like he thought you might vanish if he blinked. Before slipping out, he murmured something that chilled you to the bone:

“I’m not going to let them have you.”

Then he was gone.

And for the second time, you were left standing alone in the dark, wondering what the hell you’d just let into your life.

This wasn’t over.

Not even close.

Masterlist

Tag:

@magicaldestinyharmony

[shaiyasstuff]

always & forever | zayne | sequel

synopsis : Zayne has loved you, from the day he met you in high school when he was seventeen, all the way to the present where he finds that you are still the person he silently fell for through stolen glances in the hallway, and laughter between study sessions. content : FLUFF, zayne x non-mc!reader, non-cannon!au, just fluff, and fluff, and more fluff

A year later, almost to the day, the airport was just as busy as he remembered—people rushing past in every direction, voices overlapping, luggage wheels humming against the floor.

But Zayne stood still, right by the same glass panel where he’d last seen you disappear.

His hands were in his coat pockets, heart steady but fast. Not nervous. Just ready.

The arrival gate opened.

Passengers trickled through—some alone, some greeted with flowers, laughter, open arms.

And then, there you were.

You stepped out, scanning the crowd with that same quiet, searching look.

Your scarf was the same soft white, your hair pulled back loosely, strands escaping from the travel. A tired smile touched your lips—until your eyes found him.

And then, it bloomed.

You dropped your carry-on without a second thought, feet moving before your mind could catch up.

Zayne was already stepping forward, meeting you halfway, his composure unraveling with every stride.

You crashed into him without hesitation, arms winding around his waist as his own wrapped tightly around your shoulders. You didn’t speak at first. You didn’t have to.

But when you finally pulled back, you were breathless, eyes shining.

“You waited,” you whispered, smiling like you already knew the answer.

Zayne cupped your cheek, gaze soft, full.

“I told you I would.”

—•

The car ride home was quiet in the way soft rain is quiet—gentle, soothing, filled with everything unsaid that didn’t need to be spoken yet.

Zayne glanced over at you from the driver’s seat now and then, as if still making sure you were real.

You sat with your legs tucked slightly toward him, one hand resting on the folded edge of your coat, the other fidgeting with a piece of paper in your lap.

There was a faint glow in your cheeks, maybe from the excitement, or the cold that still clung to your skin.

He couldn’t tell.

He just knew it made you look radiant.

You turned to him, smile already tugging at your lips as you unfolded the paper in your hands.

“I have something to show you,” you said, barely containing your grin.

Zayne raised a brow, amused. “You didn’t smuggle Swiss chocolate through customs, did you?”

You laughed, the sound light and familiar, before holding out the document toward him. “Better.”

When he looked over, a pause stretched between you. In your hands was a crisp certificate, the seal shining faintly in the light from the dashboard.

At the top, his eyes caught the words, Swiss National Board of Nursing – International Qualification Approval.

Below that, in bold letters, your name.

“I can officially work as a nurse in Akso Hospital,” you said, eyes sparkling as you watched him for his reaction. “I got the approval two weeks ago. I didn’t want to tell you until I was here.”

Zayne blinked, then looked over at you again, expression unreadable—at first.

Then slowly, his lips curved into the softest smile, the kind that reached his eyes.

“You’re serious?”

You nodded eagerly. “Completely.”

For a long moment, he didn’t say anything.

He just looked at you like you were something he never thought he’d be allowed to have again—something he was terrified to blink away.

Then, still gripping the steering wheel, he exhaled a quiet breath and let it out, slow and steady.

“I’m proud of you,” he murmured, his voice thick with something deeper than surprise. “But I’m also really glad I don’t have to wait another year.”

You laughed again, eyes misty now, pressing your hand lightly over his on the gearshift.

“You don’t,” you said. “I’m home, Zayne. For good.”

The words hit him harder than he expected. He didn’t say anything for a second, just stared at your hand over his, the way your fingers curled against his like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And in that moment—in the hush of the car, in the warm glow between heartbeats—he realized he wouldn’t have to keep waiting anymore.

You were home.

And everything was finally beginning.

When you reached your apartment, the evening light was spilling in through the windows, soft and golden, casting everything in a warm glow.

Zayne helped carry your suitcase inside, the wheels bumping gently over the threshold like a welcome back.

You slipped off your coat and stretched with a quiet sigh, looking around the space that had waited patiently for you—dustless, untouched, still exactly the way you’d left it.

Zayne watched you from the doorway, then wordlessly moved to help unpack.

He opened your suitcase and began folding your clothes into the drawers, careful, methodical, like he’d done it before—like he’d been waiting for the chance to do it again.

“You didn’t have to,” you said with a soft smile, leaning against the kitchen counter.

“I wanted to,” he replied simply, glancing at you over his shoulder.

When the last item was put away, he stood beside you, taking in the room as if it were his first time seeing it all over again—with you in it.

You nudged his shoulder gently. “Feels like I never left.”

Zayne looked at you, something unspoken lingering in his gaze.

“Maybe now,” he said quietly, “you never will.”

—•

Dinner was at a quiet bistro tucked into the corner of the city—intimate, with low lighting and soft jazz humming in the background.

Zayne had chosen it carefully, remembering how you once mentioned liking places that felt hidden from the world.

You were seated across from him, chin propped in your palm as you browsed the menu, eyes scanning lazily.

The candlelight flickered between you, casting golden highlights in your hair and soft shadows across your cheeks.

Zayne smiled behind the rim of his glass. “You’re stalling. You always take forever to choose.”

You grinned, not looking up. “It’s not stalling. It’s called savoring the options.”

He chuckled. “You say that every time. And every time, you still order mushroom risotto.”

You laughed at that, eyes crinkling. “Well, some things never change.”

He shook his head with a fond smile. “Apparently not.”

As the food arrived and the plates were set down between you, conversation flowed easily—like it hadn’t been a year apart, like time hadn’t dared to touch whatever had always existed between the two of you.

You told him about your internship in Switzerland, the long shifts, the mountain views, the nights when you felt a little too far from everything familiar.

He listened intently, quietly, never interrupting—just absorbing.

“I missed this,” you said softly at one point, pushing your plate aside as you sat back. “Talking like this. Being with you.”

His gaze lingered on you for a second longer than necessary, fingers resting lightly on the base of his glass.

The lighting kissed your skin, your laughter still echoing faintly in his mind.

“You’re… breathtaking,” he murmured, the words slipping out before he could stop them.

Your brows lifted, surprised—but then you smiled, slow and radiant, before you giggled.

It wasn’t just any laugh. It was your laugh—bright and musical, bubbling up like it had been waiting for the right moment.

Zayne blinked, stunned for a beat. Then, embarrassed, he glanced away, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I didn’t mean to say that out loud,” he muttered under his breath.

You leaned forward slightly, still smiling. “No, but I’m glad you did.”

He looked back at you, his composure settling again, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Guess I’m out of practice.”

“With compliments?” you teased.

“With pretending I’m not completely in love with you,” he returned, so smoothly you almost missed the weight of it.

Your eyes softened, your laughter quieting into something gentler.

And in that moment, with the city humming just outside the windows, Zayne reached across the table and laced his fingers through yours—solid, steady, sure.

It wasn’t a beginning.

It was a continuation.

Of everything he had waited for.

Of everything you were ready to give.

—•

The night air greeted you both as you stepped out of the bistro, the hush of the city settling gently around you.

Streetlights cast soft pools of gold on the pavement, and distant car horns echoed faintly through the quiet.

You slipped your arm through Zayne’s without a word, still feeling the warmth of his hand lingering from when he’d held yours across the dinner table.

The world felt slower, like time had folded just for the two of you.

Your laugh from earlier—when he’d called you breathtaking without meaning to—still echoed faintly between you, sweet and unforgettable.

Zayne hadn’t said much after that, but you could feel something in him stirring, waiting.

He was quieter now, thoughtful, the kind of quiet that meant his mind was full of something he hadn’t yet said.

The two of you walked slowly, the city lights flickering in reflections on puddles, your boots crunching softly in the snow with each step.

“Y/N,” he said suddenly, voice low, eyes focused ahead before turning to you.

You looked at him, brows lifting slightly at the change in his tone.

He slowed, then stopped, and you followed, standing beneath the golden halo of a streetlamp. His hands slid into his pockets, shoulders rising with a breath before he turned to face you fully.

“I want to be yours,” he said simply. “Officially. Not just in the way I look at you when you’re not watching, or the way I remember every little thing you love. I want to be your boyfriend—not just someone from your past, but your now. Your future.”

Your breath hitched, lips parting slightly. The night felt still around you, like even the wind was waiting.

Then slowly, you smiled.

Soft and sure.

“I thought you’d never ask,” you whispered, the emotion in your voice barely contained.

Zayne smiled, finally, like the weight he’d carried for years had lifted all at once.

“Then let me ask properly,” he said, reaching for your hand, holding it with both of his like it was something fragile and precious. “Will you be mine, Y/N?”

You nodded, eyes glistening as you stepped into him, wrapping your arms gently around his waist.

“I’ve always been yours,” you murmured.

And there, under the streetlamp’s soft glow and the quiet hush of a city that suddenly felt a little smaller, Zayne leaned down and kissed you—slowly, reverently—as if he was finally claiming something he had long ago given his heart to.

—•

The morning you started at Akso Hospital, the halls buzzed with the usual energy—doctors in white coats moving with precision, nurses shuffling charts, the faint beeping of monitors creating a familiar rhythm.

But for Zayne, everything felt a little different.

He stood by the reception desk, flipping absently through a clipboard, though his mind wasn’t on the files.

He looked up just as the elevator doors opened—and there you were.

Dressed in soft blue scrubs, hair pulled back neatly, your ID badge clipped just below your shoulder.

You looked slightly nervous, but when your eyes met his, you smiled—and the nerves seemed to melt away.

“You showed up,” he teased gently, stepping toward you.

“I said I would,” you replied with a playful tilt of your head. “Besides, someone important vouched for me.”

Zayne smirked. “That someone must have good taste.”

You rolled your eyes, but the fondness in your expression was undeniable. He handed you your orientation packet, brushing his fingers briefly over yours.

“You’ll be shadowing in the cardiac wing,” he said, his voice softening. “I may or may not have requested that.”

Your eyes widened slightly. “So I’ll be working with you?”

He gave a small, almost shy nod. “If you’re okay with that.”

You smiled, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.”

And just like that, the two of you walked side by side down the hallway—this time not as a doctor and a new nurse, but as two hearts finally beating in sync, ready to start this next chapter together.

The day moved quickly, as most days at Akso Hospital did—check-ins, rounds, paperwork, quiet emergencies brewing behind drawn curtains.

Yet somehow, in the rush of it all, there was always time for you and him.

Zayne found himself looking for you without even realizing it—glancing down the hallway as he scribbled notes, catching a glimpse of your ponytail disappearing around a corner.

He passed by the nurses’ station more often than necessary, lingering just long enough to see you smile at a patient or tuck a chart under your arm.

He told himself it was coincidence.

It wasn’t.

You caught him once—mid-stare, eyes soft, a faint smile curling at his lips before he quickly looked away, pretending to review something on his tablet.

You tried not to grin too obviously as you turned back to your tasks, but your cheeks were warm, and your heart beat just a little faster.

Later that day, you passed him in the hallway, brushing shoulders as you moved in opposite directions.

You didn’t speak—just exchanged a glance.

A brief flicker of something sweet and secret.

His fingers brushed yours in the narrow space between you.

Neither of you turned around.

But both of you smiled.

—•

The apartment was dim, lit only by the faint glow of the city bleeding in through the windows.

You let the door shut behind you with a quiet click, and for a moment, you stood still in the silence, allowing yourself the rare luxury of just being.

Then, with a soft sigh, you peeled off your coat, dropped your bag by the door, and walked straight to the couch, where you collapsed with a dramatic groan.

The cushions welcomed you like an old friend, swallowing your weight, and you sank in deeper, limbs stretching in every direction like a marionette finally cut from its strings.

Seven hours.

Seven hours of constant movement, of voices calling your name, of patient questions, medication charts, IV lines, and walking back and forth between rooms that all blurred together by the end of it.

It was your first real day shadowing in the cardiac wing, and while it had been fulfilling, it was also overwhelming.

There were moments when you’d doubted yourself, second-guessed the smallest things.

But through it all, you had stayed steady.

And now, you were bone-deep exhausted.

You let your head roll against the armrest, staring at the ceiling with unfocused eyes as the silence of your apartment wrapped around you like a heavy blanket.

You could still hear the beeping of monitors in the back of your mind, still feel the ache in your calves and the tight pull between your shoulders.

Just as your eyes began to drift shut, your phone buzzed on the coffee table.

You didn’t move at first, but then the screen lit up with a name that made your heart stir despite your exhaustion.

Zayne.

You reached for it with a tired arm and answered with a soft, “Hey.”

His voice came through the speaker, deep and warm, like something familiar and safe. “Hey. You sound half-asleep already.”

You let out a breathy laugh, eyes still closed. “Feels like I haven’t sat down in a year.”

“I figured.” There was a smile in his voice. “First full day in cardiac is no joke. I remember mine. I couldn’t feel my feet for two days.”

“I honestly don’t know how you do this every day,” you mumbled. “I’m impressed. And slightly concerned.”

Zayne chuckled. “It gets easier. Not lighter, but… you get stronger. You already looked like you belonged.”

You smiled, the corners of your mouth tugging upward despite the weariness clinging to your body. “Stalking me already, Dr. Zayne?”

“Just… making sure you were okay,” he said, not denying it.

You shifted onto your side, curling slightly into the couch, the phone cradled to your ear. “It was a lot today. But I’m glad I’m there. And I’m glad it’s with you.”

“I’m proud of you,” he said after a beat, his voice quieter now. “I know today was hard, but I also know how stubborn you are. You’re going to be incredible.”

Your throat tightened slightly, a warmth rising in your chest that had nothing to do with the blanket you hadn’t yet pulled over yourself. “Thank you… really. I didn’t know how much I needed to hear that until now.”

“I figured,” he murmured. “I could tell you were holding it together for everyone else.”

You let the silence stretch, comfortable now, as if the space between you was no longer just distance but something tender—shared.

“I wish you were here,” you admitted suddenly, your voice barely above a whisper.

“I wish I was too,” he replied without hesitation. “Do you want me to come over?”

You smiled, eyes fluttering shut once more. “Not tonight. You’ll make me forget I’m tired.”

He laughed softly, the sound like music. “Then I’ll be there tomorrow.”

You hummed in agreement, your voice already fading as sleep crept in. “Okay. Tomorrow.”

“Sleep well, Y/N.”

“Goodnight, Zayne.”

And even though your body ached and your eyes were heavy, your heart felt light—as if somehow, with just a phone call, he’d reminded you of everything you were working toward. And that you wouldn’t have to face it alone.

—•

Soon, the two of you fell into an easy rhythm—one that felt so natural it was hard to believe it hadn’t always been this way.

Weeks passed like pages turning in a well-loved book.

Stolen glances in the hospital hallways, brief touches as you passed each other charts, knowing smiles shared across the nurses’ station when no one else was looking.

And on nights when your schedules aligned, Zayne would end up at your apartment, sleeves rolled up as he helped you cook something simple, or sitting beside you on the couch with your legs draped over his lap and his fingers absentmindedly tracing circles on your skin.

Though he never said it aloud, you knew—Zayne started requesting days off more often.

It was subtle, carefully spaced out to avoid suspicion, but you noticed.

He always seemed to be free when you were.

Always just… there.

You never teased him for it.

You liked that he never said it, that his affection came quietly, through gestures and presence instead of declarations.

Spring arrived gently, softening the sharp edges of the city.

And on one of your shared days off, you both sat outside a small café tucked into a quiet street, the kind of place with wooden chairs and ivy climbing the windows.

You sipped on something sweet, sunlight warming your skin as people passed by in soft murmurs and laughter.

Zayne sat across from you, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, flipping through the corner of the menu more out of habit than need.

You watched him for a moment, smiling to yourself, before asking softly, “Have you ever wondered what would’ve happened if we both confessed earlier?”

Zayne looked up at you, a faint, wistful smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

The sunlight filtered through the leaves above, casting soft patterns across his face.

“I suppose it would’ve saved me from the heartbreak of ten years,” he replied, his voice quiet, laced with a kind of gentle honesty that made your chest tighten.

You blinked, surprised by how easily he said it—not bitter, not dramatic, just… true.

Your fingers curled around your cup, warmth seeping into your palms as you held his gaze.

“I didn’t know,” you said softly. “Back then, I really didn’t.”

Zayne nodded, eyes drifting to the people passing by, as if watching the memories walk along with them. “I didn’t know how to say it. You always felt just out of reach.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then he looked at you again, something warmer in his gaze now. “But maybe… it had to happen this way. Maybe if I’d told you back then, we wouldn’t be here now.”

You smiled faintly, heart full. “And here feels right.”

He reached across the table, his fingers brushing yours, and for a long moment, neither of you said anything.

Because the past had been full of almosts.

But now?

Now was yours.

—•

It was summer when Zayne proposed.

The air was thick with warmth and golden light, cicadas humming in the distance, and the scent of freshly cut grass lingering in the breeze.

The kind of evening that made the world feel suspended—soft around the edges, slow with memory.

He’d asked his old friend—the same one who’d once nudged him forward on that chilly winter night, the one who’d smirked and said, “She’s single now, if you still wanna try”—to help him gather everyone from your old school.

The idea was simple, a casual get-together.

Nothing extravagant.

Just old classmates catching up.

You’d missed the last reunion, after all, and he knew how much a part of your heart still lived in those days.

The ones before life swept you both away.

You didn’t suspect a thing.

The gathering was held in the park near your old school—the same one you’d studied in, laughed in, grown up in. There were picnic blankets, folding tables, and the familiar echo of voices that had once filled locker-lined hallways.

Friends hugged you, shared stories, pulled you into conversations you didn’t know you’d missed so much.

Zayne stayed close, always watching, always smiling. Waiting.

Waiting for the moment.

And it was there, just as the sun dipped low and painted everything in gold, that he stood before you—nervous, but steady.

The air seemed to hush, the noise dimming like the world itself knew something important was about to happen.

You turned, confused at first when everyone grew quiet. And then you saw him.

Standing in the middle of the crowd, holding a small box, eyes full of everything he’d ever felt for you.

“Y/N,” he began, voice carrying despite the quiet. “I met you as a boy who couldn’t speak what he felt. And I’m standing here now, as a man who has never been more certain of anything in his life.”

The world fell still.

And your heart raced to meet his.

Tears gathered in your eyes before you could stop them, your breath catching as you looked at him—Zayne, standing there amidst a quiet summer crowd, the late sunlight cutting soft shadows across his face.

He wasn’t one for grand displays. He didn’t kneel.

He didn’t make a show of it.

He just stood there, steady and sure, holding the small box in one hand, his other loosely at his side.

Calm, as always—but his eyes gave him away.

There was something unguarded in them, something raw and real, just for you.

“Say yes?” he said quietly, his voice low, thoughtful, almost like a confession.

His head tilted slightly, his tone gentle, almost careful—as if asking for something precious he wasn’t sure he deserved.

And somehow, that made it hit even harder.

Because this wasn’t a performance.

It was him.

Stripped down to honesty.

The emotions swelled in your chest as you nodded, tears slipping silently down your cheeks. “Yes,” you whispered, your voice barely holding steady. “Of course.”

A cheer erupted behind you as your old classmates clapped and laughed, but you barely heard them.

Your world had narrowed to just him—Zayne, who was now stepping forward, slipping the ring onto your finger with hands that had once held so much back and now held nothing but love.

Then, quietly, he pulled you into his arms, his chin resting against your temple, his hold grounding—like he’d been waiting years to finally exhale.

“About time,” he murmured.

And you smiled through your tears, your heart full.

“Yes,” you whispered again. “You’re here now. That’s all that matters.”

masterlist

[loafysainz]

Valentine's Day | CS 55

carlos sainz x fem!reader

warn: smut, 18+, cosplay, fluff

happy belated valentine day!!! I hope you like it!!!

It was Valentine's Day, and Y/N had something fun planned for Carlos. A little game, just to keep things interesting. Sitting on the couch, she held up two folded pieces of paper, a mischievous smile playing on her lips.

“Alright, Mr. Sainz,” she teased, wiggling the papers in front of him. “You get to pick one. Your fate for the night lies in your hands.”

Carlos narrowed his eyes, already suspicious. “What’s the catch?”

"No catch," Y/N hums, "but I will say… one of these is your favorite thing ever."

Carlos’ grin widens. That piques his interest. He loves games, especially when Y/N is the one making the rules. So, with zero hesitation, he picks a paper and unfolds it dramatically. His eyes scan the words for a split second before his entire face lights up like a damn Christmas tree.

"Erotic massage?" He reads out loud, voice practically dripping in excitement. Then he looks up at her, eyes sparkling.

“NO WAY.” Carlos shot up from his couch so fast it scraped against the floor. “EROTIC MASSAGE? BABE, ARE YOU FOR REAL?”

Carlos didn’t even try to hide his excitement. “I LOVE THIS GAME. I LOVE VALENTINE’S DAY. I LOVE YOU.”

Y/N barely held in her laughter, watching him short-circuit from sheer joy.

Then, before Y/N could react, he darted over to her side of the table, grabbed her waist, and buried his face in her neck.

“Carlos—” She shrieked between laughs as he inhaled deeply, arms wrapping around her like he was trying to merge their souls.

“Mmm.” He let out a dramatic sigh. “I knew you smelled like love.”

She smacked his arm, trying to push him off. “You’re such a weirdo.”

“A weirdo who’s about to get the massage of his life,” he shot back, finally pulling away, though his hands lingered on her waist.

“Wait… what was the other option?”

“Romantic dinner at a fancy restaurant.”

Carlos blinked. “Pfft.” Then he grinned, practically giddy. “I won. This is a jackpot.”

“Now…” His lips curled into a smirk. “You need to get ready. And you better look sexy.”

YN crossed her arms, pretending to be unimpressed. "Wow. I feel so respected right now."

Carlos held both hands up innocently. "Hey, I’m just saying! You’re the professional here, I’m just the lucky customer. But carinõ I suggest it. Strongly." He winked before heading to the bathroom, already humming a happy little tune under his breath.

****

Carlos emerged from the bathroom, fresh from his shower, wrapped in a fluffy white bathrobe. He was expecting Y/N to be waiting for him, but he wasn't expecting this.

His brain? Instantly fried.

There she was—standing near the bed, dressed in the outfit. The kind that should be illegal because holy hell.

Carlos stopped mid-step, jaw going slack.

No words. Just pure, unfiltered admiration. His eyes dragged over every inch of her, taking in the way the fabric hugged her body, the way her curves were on full display.

He swallowed hard. “Babe.”

Y/N tilted her head, amused. “Yeah?”

“You look…” He let out a slow breath, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe it. “Unreal. Like, actually not real. Are you real or its just a dream?”

She smirked, walking toward him with slow, teasing steps. “You like?”

Carlos just nodded, his gaze never leaving her. Then, suddenly—

Smack.

Y/N let out a small gasp as Carlos landed a firm slap on her ass, the sound sharp in the quiet room.

“Carlos!” She shot him a glare, but he was grinning—and before she could step away, his hand grabbed her ass, giving it a firm squeeze.

“Mmm,” he hummed, looking way too pleased with himself. “Yeah. Yeah. This is gonna be a great Valentine’s Day.”

Y/N swatted his hand away, her face slightly heated. “Behave.”

Carlos just smirked. “No promises.”

Still grinning, he moved toward the bed and flopped down dramatically, spreading his arms. “Alright, Miss Masseuse. Time for my treatment.”

Y/N rolled her eyes but played along, stepping closer. “You need to take off your robe.”

Carlos, still lying back, smirked up at her. “I’m the customer, right?”

“Yeah?”

His smirk deepened. “Then shouldn’t you be the one taking this off?” He tugged at the edge of his robe, eyes gleaming with mischief.

Y/N sighed. “You’re such a menace.”

Carlos reached for her wrist, pulling her closer until she was practically straddling him. His fingers trailed over her skin, his touch warm and slow. “And you love it.”

****

A quick glance of his naughty gaze runs down Y/N's gorgeous body, then his long legs step onto the bed, quickly changing his mobile phone mode to do not disturb.

When Y/N helps him to take off his bathrobe, his big dick isn't fully erected, but it's already quite hard. With just a little touch or kiss, that fat shaft will be fully hard.

Carlos lifts Y/N chin with his finger, then uses it to gently crush her lips.

"Are you ready?"

"I am."

Her knees sank into the hollow of the mattress as he mounted her. Carlos positioned himself in the centre, on his back. He folded his arms under his head.

YN picked up the bottle of sweet almond oil that she often used to massage her husband, and Carlos used to massage Y/N.

Carlos looked at Y/N with admiration in his eyes. Y/N always knows the massage techniques and pressure that Carlos prefers. Not wanting to waste any more time, Y/N started from his calves.

Carlos' calves were hard and muscular—his entire body had muscles that were evenly toned. If it's too soft, Y/N knows he can't feel the benefits. Y/N had to be smart to manage her energy. Usually, Carlos praised the skill of his wife's hands in relaxing his muscles.

Carlos gently strokes Y/N thighs as her gentle hands begin to rise to his waist and stomach—Y/N pretends not to notice Carlos' pre-ejaculated cock.

Without Y/N knowing, Carlos yanked off the back ribbon of her clothes. Her bare boobs were bouncing right in front of his eyes. Carlos, already super turned on, remembered something he wanted to try.

"Use your feet, carinõ."

"Hmm? Are you sure?" Y/N asked, tilting her head.

"Yeah. Let's try something new."

Y/N scooted a bit closer, still holding onto Carlos's thighs. Then, carefully and a bit nervously, she pressed her feet against his rock-hard dick.

"Nghh, fuck. That's good, carinõ."

"hmm?"

"It feels really good, baby."

Slowly, Y/N started playing with Carlos's dick with her soft feet. Well, she started enjoying it too.

Carlos's wild moans, his messy face lost in pleasure, and his begging for Y/N to keep going got her all hyped up.

"You've awakened something in me, Y/N."

"Mmmh," you moaned, licking your lips, also enjoying the sensation of Carlos's dick between your feet.

Carlos's pre-cum dripped down his shaft, slightly lubricating your movements. It tickled. Y/N should have been able to control herself a bit. But Carlos's sensual groans made her so horny, her pussy was already wet.

"You're wet, hmm? Your juices are soaking my thighs."

"Y-yeah, Carlos. Hngh."

"Suck me, now."

Y/N let go of her foot grip and moved to suck Carlos's dick. Her husband, breathing heavily with his chest rising and falling fast, was just as excited as Y/N. Her skilled fingers matched the veins popping out on his cock.

"Get my cock up, Y/N. You're so eager to get fucked, aren't you?"

"Aaa, Carlos!" Y/N's face turned red and hot. Carlos was too good at reading her.

"Look, who's the one who started it, who can't wait."

Carlos pulled his wife's hand. "Come and claim your prize."

btw I'm not really good at making warnings, so let me know if I'm missing anything! thank you! 🤍

[elliewrites77]

Uncle!Sukuna Part 7

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 6.5, 7

masterlist

Uncle!Sukuna who stood in front of Yuji, who was standing with his small hand on his chin like he was analyzing an important sample. Sukuna rolled his eyes at the sight, a small smirk on his lips.

Yuji hummed, looking at Sukuna's chosen outfit closely. Sukuna already knew he looked good, his suit crisp and perfect. He hadn't even asked for his nephews' opinion, but as the boy stood there looking, he couldn't deny he was waiting to hear Yujis thoughts.

"What is it, brat?" He grumbled, fidgeting because of how long the kid stayed silent.

"Is this the best you can do? Choso says miss y/n is going to dress up real nice." Yuji replied, looking up at his tall uncle.

Sukuna huffs, fixing his sleeves as he looks away from Yuji and back to the mirror. His brow furrowed as he looked at himself again, wondering if he did look as good as he knew you would. He had told you it was a fancy place and to dress up to fit it. But now that Yuji had said something, he could feel himself start to doubt if "his best" was really enough.

"Oh! I know what you need!" Yuji suddenly said, quickly rushing past Sukuna and out of the bedroom. Sukuna watched the doorway as he waited for him to return, brow raised in curiosity when he heard rushed movement from Yuji's room. He quickly came running back, a small white flower in his hand. Sukuna is confused, wondering how he planned to use that as well as where he even got it. It was slightly squished, but still whole and pretty.

Yuji pulls Sukunas arm, indicating that he wanted him to bend down. Sukuna does so, silently crouching till he was more even to Yujis height. The boy grins as he tucks the stem of the flower into the chest pocket of Sukunas fitted blood-red suit jacket. He pulls back once the flower is in place, his grin growing as he looks at his work. Yuji was clearly pleased with the result. Sukuna simply looks down at the flower which contrasted completely with his dark clothing. It stood out, but wasn't bad looking per say. When he glanced up to Yuji again, the proud grin on the brats face was enough of a reason to keep it there.

Sukuna sighs, feigning annoyance as he stands. He straightens out his clothes again before looking down at Yuji.

"Better?"

"The best!"

❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥

You stood in front of your bedroom mirror, once again analyzing your makeup. You were nervous, Sukuna had said it was a fancier place, and you had chosen your best dress, and spent almost two hours perfecting your makeup. But still, you were worried that something wasn't perfect. You tried telling yourself it was just 2nd date nerves, but that didn't help much to actually help you feel better.

With 30 minutes left before Sukuna was going to come to your door to collect you, you were starting to panic just a little. You even contemplated redoing your makeup but knew you would have no time. So instead, you paced your living room, silently telling yourself positive things to help. It wasn't until you saw a small gift box on your kitchen island, just out of the corner of your eye, that your attention actually moved to something other than your worries.

You moved to it, confused because it hadn't been there before Choso left, the last time you were in the kitchen. You opened it, brows raising when you see a beautiful necklace with a pendant that looked to be a red rose. There was a small paper folded underneath it that you opened first.

For your date. Mr. Sukuna is cool. Love Cho.

You smiled at the words, loving how thoughtful your son was. You knew there's no way he could've gotten a piece of jewelry like this without help, but you figured you could ask him later about that, when he was home. For now, you took the necklace out and put it around your neck, moving your hair out of the way to latch it. Once it was on, you moved to look at yourself in a hallway mirror, your heart warming when you see how good it looks in contrast to your white dress. It was beautiful.

It was also exactly what you needed in order to ease your nerves. No longer feeling like something was missing or imperfect, you spent the last bit of time making sure you had everything you'd need and that the house was locked up.

❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥

Sukuna was already crossing the street to your house before Toji could fully drive away with his nephew. He gave himself a moment to take a breath, calming his nerves before knocking on your door. He hears the sound of your heels on your floor, feeling his heart pick up as he hears you get closer to the door. He unknowingly holds his breath when you open the door, feeling speechless (again) as he takes in your appearance. You look radiant, even more so than usual. Sukuna released a breath, giving you a smirk that you returned with a smile.

"Hello, beautiful." He spoke, his gruff voice giving you butterflies. He grabs your hand as you greet him and step out, shutting your front door behind you. Giving your hand a kiss, he waits for you to lock up before leading you to his car, opening your door for you.

Once the two of you are on the way to your destination, which is still unknown to you, the ride is pretty quiet. The silence between you is peaceful, nice. It feels natural and easy, which is a relief to both of you.

Sukuna is silently going over his plans for the evening, wanting to make sure everything went smoothly. He didn't want to rush things, knowing you hadn't been in a relationship since Choso's father, and he himself hadn't felt this way about someone before in his life, so he wanted to take things slow. He wanted this to work out, whatever this was.

You were thinking about how the evening would go as well. Last time, it ended with a kiss - one you still thought about - and you couldn't help but wonder if tonight would be the same. Not that you would be against something...more...happening, but the idea still made you nervous. You knew there was something between the two of you, knew that whatever it was had developed faster than any other relationship you've been in, but you had reservations about moving too quickly. It had been so long since you even considered being in a relationship, and the last one you were in had been a horrible one. And being a mother, you knew you couldn't rush into things no matter how strongly you felt about Sukuna. You felt like he had been in your life for much longer than he has, but you had to remind yourself that it had only been a few months. So while you liked him, a lot, and you wanted to let whatever was between you two grow, you knew slow and steady would be the best route to take with the pink-haired man.

❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥

"Please tell me you kicked them out? That's just ridiculous." You said, covering your mouth as you laughed. Sukuna took a sip of his drink across from you, smirking.

"Nah, I just let them fight. Got the crowd pretty excited, and it was free entertainment. Plus I wasn't gonna be the one to clean up the blood." He said with a chuckle. Despite the mention of blood and his comfortability with violence, you weren't perturbed. You simply chuckled with him, shaking your head in amusement.

You both had been at the fancy restaurant for hours already. After you ate dinner, neither of you wanted to leave, so you ordered a dessert to share and continued to talk. Despite seeing each other pretty much every day, and spending most of your time together, conversation came easy, and neither of you ran out of stuff to talk about. He had plenty of stories being the owner and bartender of a bar, though he tried to avoid mentioning the more gruesome ones. You had stories too, of parents you've had to deal with during your time as a vice principal, memorable students, and of amusing memories with Choso. Time slipped away from you both as you swapped stories, laughing so hard at times that you got looks from other customers. Sukunas booming (and rare) laugh gave you goosebumps every time it filled the room.

As the dessert slowly disappeared from the plate, so did the customers from the restaurant. More and more tables emptied out, and you noticed the looks from the employees as they passed by to clean them. It made you glance at the time, your eyes widening when you see how late it was. Sukuna noticed, glancing at the time as well. You two then agreed that it was time to leave. The check was quickly delivered, as if the staff were on stand-by waiting for Sukuna to request it. He wouldn't even let you see the total, narrowing his eyes at you when you even suggested paying for your part.

His hand landed on your back as you walked out of the restaurant, the valet already waiting with his car at the front. In the car, his hand took place in yours. You glanced at him from the corner of your eye, seeing the slightest tint of pink on his ears. You smiled, looking to your side window to hide it.

As you looked out of the window, you started to see raindrops slowly appear. A little confused, since the weather hadn't predicted rain, you looked forward. It started to rain harder, quickly going from a trickle to a steady stream of rain. Sukuna had to turn his wipers on, grumbling in annoyance at the unexpected storm. He was glad you weren't too far from home, since it was difficult to see in the dark through the rain.

As soon as he pulled into your driveway, he grabs the blanket he keeps in his car for you, before getting out and running over to your side, holding the blanket over his head. He opens the door, using the makeshift 'umbrella' to keep you from getting wet as you quickly get out. You both run up to your door, quickly unlocking it and rushing inside. You shiver at the temperature difference, happy to be in the warm house. Thanks to Sukuna, most of you was still dry, but all of you was cold.

You turn on your hallway light, rubbing your arms. Sukuna takes off his suit jacket, the back of it having gotten soaked.

"I can put that in the dryer, give you some clothes to wear too." You offer, feeling bad that he took on most of the rain just to keep you dry. He just nodded at you, taking off his shoes. You walk away, going to your room. Rummaging through your drawers, you manage to find an old, large pair of sweats and a button up. You change your own clothes before going back out, putting on warmer, more comfortable clothes.

Sukuna doesn't say much when you hand him the clothes, mumbling a thanks before going in to your guest bathroom and changing. When he's done, he goes back to the living room to find you, now barefaced and hair down, on a phone call. He doesn't interrupt, simply sitting next to you and leaning his head back.

"Okay baby, I'll see you tomorrow. Be good for your aunt. I love you, Cho." You speak softly into the phone, a smile on your lips that Sukuna has quickly become addicted to seeing.

You hang up, putting your phone away as you turn to look at him.

"That the brat?" He askes, his voice low and tired. You nod with a small chuckle. "Thought you were an only child?"

At his words, you look away, smile fading slightly. You look a bit embarrassed and uncomfortable, which makes Sukuna open his mouth to reassure you that you don't have to say anything if you don't want to. You speak before he can.

"I am...he's with his paternal aunt." You mumble, picking at a loose thread on your pants.

Sukuna raises a brow, surprised to learn that any of Choso's paternal family is still in his life. You notice his curiosity.

"She's nothing like his father. Or the rest of his family, really. She loves Choso, and she's been there for me through so much." You explain. Sukuna listens, nodding slightly to show you he was. "After I had Choso, I cut his father's family off completely, but I couldn't do that to her. Not that I could get rid of her anyway, she's a stubborn one." You joked lightly, making Sukuna smirk a bit.

He can see you're uncomfortable, not used to talking about Choso's father or related people very often. Sukuna knew little about the man, not that you owed him (or anyone) any information. He couldn't deny that he was curious, but he wouldn't push. Instead, his hand moves to grab yours, connecting them and resting them in your lap.

"M'glad you have her then." He says, making you smile softly. You squeeze his hand.

"So am I." You look down at his painted nails, playing with his large fingers a bit. "She travels a lot, so when she comes around, she tries to take time to spend with Choso. He loves it, ends up talking about everything they got up to for a week." You say. You feel awkward, not sure what to say so you just allow your mouth to move, feeling that's better than silence.

Sukuna hums in acknowledgement, smirking because he can tell you're about to start rambling because you feel awkward. He's amused by it, your yapping being one of his favorite things, but he doesn't want you to feel uncomfortable. So he simply tugs your hand, pulling you into him and using his other to cup your jaw. Your eyes widen slightly, and you can feel your breathing get a little shallow at the proximity. His thumb rubs against your cheek as he takes a second to just admire you, his eyes running across your face.

"Beautiful." He practically whispers, talking to himself more than you. His words, as well as the look in his eyes make you feel giddy and shy at the same time. You can't think of a thing to say, too flustered by how soft he was being. He doesn't let the silence linger though, pulling you closer to kip your lips gently.

Instantly, you melt into him, eyes fluttering closed as your heart beat raises (to an unhealthy level, you're sure). You hand moves to his chest, for stability or just to touch him you aren't sure, but neither of you care. The kiss is long and soft, but when he pulls away so that you can both breath, you see the look in his eyes that tells you one isn't enough. You can barely react before he pulls you back, his hand releasing yours to move to your waist, pulling you impossibly closer. This one is far more passionate, more desperate as if he had been waiting forever to feel you like this. To him, it felt like he had been waiting forever.

Sukuna adjusted your position, not breaking the kiss as he moved to lie down on your couch, pulling you to lay on top of him. His hands hold you gently, tongues moving against one another's in a passionate dance. Your hands grip his shoulders, holding on as if you'd wake up from this fantastic dream if you were to let go. Because surely something as simple as a kiss could only feel so good in a dream.

Eventually, due to the unfortunate human need for air, you both pull away, panting. His eyes open, staring at your flushed appearance and the way your lips are parted. He feels your heart beat against his chest, beating at a speed that he's sure matches his own. It's silent for a moment, only the sounds of you both panting filling the living room. But then you smile, bright and bashful, dropping your head to rest against his chest. He smiles too, the type of smile that's unfamiliar on his face, uncomfortable for his bones to adjust to at first. He kisses your hair, arms wrapping around you to hold you better, closer. Neither of you speak, content with holding each other for a little longer. You listen to the sound of his heart, while he listens to the sound of your breathing.

If this was a dream, neither of you ever wanted to wake up.

❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥

You wake up to the smell of bacon, the sound of pans and things being moved around coming from your kitchen a few feet away. It takes a moment for your mind to catch up, slowly remembering the events from the night before.

You had fallen asleep in Sukuna, which explains why you were on the couch still. It seems he had woken up first, somehow getting out from underneath you to sneak away.

After stretching a bit and rubbing your eyes, you slowly stand. Glancing out the front window, you can see that it's still early, likely around 7. You don't bother looking for your phone, just making your way towards the noise and surprisingly delicious smell.

You pause though, when you see the bare back of the tattooed, pink hair man that already occupies your mind. You are hypnotized by that way his muscles move as he cooks, his tan skin somehow looking rough and smooth at the same time. You could watch him for hours you're sure, but unfortunately your show is interrupted when he turns around to grab something, noticing you.

Sukuna smirks when he sees you, watching you blink as if to wake yourself from a trance. He puts down the container he was holding, moving towards you smoothly. Grabbing your waist, he kisses you sweetly.

"'Morning baby." He says, his gruff voice and the pet name making you shiver.

Sukuna pulls away, going back towards the stove. You can see now that he was making eggs and bacon, probably one of the few things he knew how to make.

"Morning. You didn't have to make breakfast." You say, moving to stand by the counter next to him.

"Yeah well it looked like you might be asleep for a while, and I wasn't exactly willing to starve myself just so you could keep drooling on me." He smirks at you as he teases, making you scoff and narrow your eyes at him.

"I was not drooling." You insist. Sukuna chuckles, shaking his head.

"Sure you weren't."

You smack his arm gently, making his smirk grow. Rolling your eyes playfully, you don't bother giving another reply. You grab a strip of bacon that's done, taking a bite. You hadn't realized how hungry you were until you took a bite, your stomach rumbling as a sign for more. Sukuna chuckles again.

"It's almost done, if you wanna go ahead and grab some plates." He says. You do so, grabbing two plates and some utensils for you both. "And the brat called, well his aunt. Said an emergency came up with work so she has to bring Choso home a few hours early. They should be here by noon." He informed.

"Oh, thank you. I didn't even hear my phone ring." You say, looking around for the device. It was either in here or the living room.

Sukuna sees you searching, nodding to the counter behind you. Your phone is on the charger, making you smile at how thoughtful he was. He didn't have to do that, didn't have to answer the phone call either, and he didn't have to make breakfast. But he did, and even something so small made you giddy.

You check your phone, responding to some messages and checking your email while Sukuna finishes up, making your plate before his own. Then as you sit side-by-side at your kitchen table, talking about the day's plans and such, you can't help but realize how badly you want everyday to be like this. Of course the inclusion of Choso and Yuji would make it a hundred times better, but still. The idea of spending every morning with Sukuna like this, sharing kisses and flirty remarks, especially if the two boys were running around your house like usual, it made your chest feel lighter, happier.

You could only hope every day would be like that eventually (soon), and unknown to you, Sukuna hoped the same.

❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥

am i happy with this? not entirely. do i have the energy/time to rewrite it more than i have already? not at all.

i'm not sure if it's just my lack of motivation recently, or how busy i am with life stuff, or what. But i've been working on this part for a while, and idk why but no matter how much i rewrite it, i'm just not entirely satisfied with it. i can't explain why, but I do hope it's not actually complete shit.

so please tell me what you think! despite my feelings on it, i do hope you guys like it, and if you don't please lmk. I want to improve and feedback/constructive criticism always helps :) if there's something wrong with the pacing, the dialogue, wording, literally anything, pls feel free to let me know your thoughts.

thank you to everyone who's read this story, and any of my other works. i appreciate each and every person who's taken the time to comment, like, reblog. I hope you all know how much your support means to me <3

barely proofread

i hope everyone has a wonderful day! ✨

[stunie]

TIMELESS! ❤︎ — Umemiya Hajime x f!reader ﾉ Sfw ﾉ Established relationship ﾉ Submission for @17020’s ORQUÍDEAS event ^ ^ ﾉ 1.3K

IGUAL QUE UN ÁNGEL — To love is to adore, to be vulnerable, and devoted. To him, you're just like an angel, loving him purely and unconditionally. He's eternally grateful for your presence, making him feel as if he's God's favorite.

Summary: Umemiya just wants to surprise you with origami flowers.

“What are you doing?” Kotoha peers over at Umemiya from behind the counter, broom in one hand and the other resting lightly on her hip.

It didn’t take her very long to take note of the pile of crumpled paper surrounding him slowly accumulating throughout the night, but he doesn’t seem to pay it any mind even when the fan blows a couple sheets onto his lap.

Umemiya’s still hunched over the counter, calloused fingers working to diligently fold the tiny sliver of paper back onto itself as he hums a gentle tune. “..Ah!” He finally takes notice of her after she’s moved directly in front of him, “I’m trying to make a flower.”

Her first thought is to question why he’s chosen to do origami at Pothos fifteen minutes before closing, but she closes her mouth as soon as her eyes catch onto the redness of his fingers. If he wasn’t so focused, she’s sure he would feel the sting in an instant.

Although he doesn’t seem to care very much about that right now.

“You should take breaks too, you know,” she leans over the counter with a heavy sigh. “Need some help?”

His eyebrows raise a bit at the offer, and he’s quick to start nodding only a second after. “I want to surprise her,” his eyes visibly soften at the thought, “but I’m not sure how to make them look better.”

“Give it to me.”

She doesn’t bother trying to hide the smile that starts to tug at her lips when he reaches forward to drop a new piece of paper into her hand. His fingers are shaky, swollen red at the tips and she wonders how he’s even able to control them so well in such a state.

He’s really fallen hard for you.

“Don’t worry. Watch me,” she says through a grin, “it’s easy once you get the hang of it.”

“Is it?”

He’s practically bouncing in his seat, watching closely as she tucks a stray bit of hair behind her ear before she’s slowly moving to fold the paper, his eyebrows furrowed as he tries his best to commit the process to memory. “Be gentle when you shape the petals. Like this… and that’s it. See? It’s not so bad.”

“That’s no fair. You made it look so easy.”

Kotoha lets out a gentle sigh before glancing at her broom again. Usually she’d be finishing up by now…

“Wait— don’t leave yet. Watch me make the next one…please?”

She doesn’t have it in her to make him leave. “..Fine.”

Umemiya takes in a sharp inhale before he’s shakily taking another piece in his hands, cheek puffing out as he tries to replicate Kotoha’s flower. He just wants to make it pretty for you. Making you a paper bouquet wasn’t just some random idea that popped into his mind one day. He had been thinking about how to make you smile a little harder for a couple days now, and this seemed perfect.

He just hopes he can do it right for you.

It’s been almost one year since he’s picked up this routine of giving you a flower every time he sees you. They’re never the same either. On some days, he gives you one singular flower that he thought looked prettier than the others. On another day, he decides to give you a full bouquet that’s decorated with ribbons and bows.

The smile you always give him in response never gets old no matter how many times he sees it. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get entirely used to it either. There’s really only one issue, and it’s the fact that he absolutely hates to see your precious smile falter when you remember that flowers can’t live for eternity.

Every part of him wishes he had the power to change that for you.

“Haji..” your voice sounds beautiful even when it’s just a memory playing out in his head, “I’m a little sad. One of the petals fell off today— and I’m taking really good care of it too. I just wish the flowers you give me could last forever, you know?”

Maybe his paper flowers could make you smile for just a little longer. Even if it was only one second longer— he’s sure it would be worth it.

“Like this?” Umemiya raises his flower up, the paper wrinkled and crooked from making a couple wrong folds, but the shape looks almost identical to the one she made. “Mhm,” Kotoha smiles at him, “you got it.”

He loses track of how much longer he spends at Pothos after that. Time seems to fly by as soon when he starts to get better at folding, and at some point- he forgets the concept of time entirely. It’s so natural for him to get lost in the moment once he starts thinking of you again.

He thinks about what you might be doing right now. He wonders how you’ll react to his bouquet, and his face breaks out into a deep blush when the thought of you missing him comes to mind.

Kotoha doesn’t think she’s seen him this happy in a long time.

The scratches on his fingers don’t sting anymore when he finally gets to see his hard work pay off. It’s early in the morning— the first rays of sunlight illuminating your face perfectly, and you really look like an angel standing in front of him.

Your face lights up as soon as he offers it to you, his fingers brushing against your own when you bring your hands together to gingerly cup the gift. You hold it like it’s made of glass. You always hold him like he’s made of glass too.

“Haji… this is for me?” He feels his heart skip a beat when he hears his name roll off your tongue, and it starts beating a little faster once you glance at him again. He never really got used to your gaze either. “You made these?”

You bring them closer to your face to inspect each petal, and he can’t hide the sheepish smile he gives you at the sound of your cheerful voice. “How pretty! They must have taken you a while, huh? So detailed.”

It takes you a little more time to finally notice the wrinkles on them, and then the realization finally hits you. “Wait.. this really must have taken you a while. Haji… let me see your hands.”

He tenses.

“Ah, don’t worry about that!” Umemiya is quick to give you a dismissive wave of his hands, frantically moving them back and forth— but he freezes in place as soon as your fingers wrap around one of his wrists.

He falls completely silent when your brows furrow a bit, taking in the sight of bandages and scratches littering each and every one of his fingers. They look swollen too.

“The bandages make them look a little worse… doesn’t it? I know. But don’t you worry! I can’t feel a thing. Not one thing-”

He forgets how the concept of time works again the second he feels your lips ghost along his fingertips. It’s gentle. You’re always this gentle with him, and he starts to think the world might be treating him a little too kindly. What good deed did he do to warrant someone like you falling for him?

You kiss each finger. Slowly.

His cheeks heat up more at this, and he’s suddenly aware of just how loud his heart sounds when it pounds against his chest like this. He doesn’t even realize that his mouth has fallen open into a surprised ‘o’ until you start laughing at him. Your laugh is soft too.

“Thank you, Haji. I love you.” You smile at him, and he swears for the thousandth time that day that he’d rather die than fail to protect that angelic smile he’s fallen so hard for.

dividers by @cafekitsune <3 how cute !!!